A mark on your forehead identifies the god you must worship to stay alive, usually by joining its local church or temple. Your mark is unknown, meaning an old, forgotten god sponsored you. To survive, you must either find an old temple to worship at, or do the arduous task of building a new one
Nobody in your small coastal village has ever seen the Godmark that you were born with. It’s a dark russet sequence of criss-crossing lines, with a vertical arrowhead on the left and a circle on the right, just over where your brow meets your temple. Some of the traders who come down from the mountain say it looks like one of the scripts used in the hinterlands, but not a language that any of them recognize.
“If she’s got the temperament for it, she should try her luck inland,” they advise. “No point her starting a temple here if she’d find her people elsewhere, with a little searching.”
At first, your parents are reluctant to send you away. Though you’re well-behaved and diligent in your chores, you’re a sickly child with no God to worship. And besides, you’ve always been the dreamy type–inclined to lose track of time watching the path of rain droplets chasing down the window, or the fronds of an anemone as it sways in a rock pool.
Instead, they send you to the temple of the Storm to learn all you’ll need for your own God. You are happy there, for a time: making up beds and serving food to the castaways who pass through, keeping vigil at the lighthouse, burning incense and praying with the loyal widows and orphans of the drowned.
One such widow, an old, old lady, touches the mark on your forehead. “I recognise those letters. We wrote this way in the town where I grew up, way off past the mountains.”
Your heartbeat quickens. “What does it say!?”
She squints, eyes engulfed by wrinkles and hidden behind smudged glass. “A… Ar… Oh, I can’t remember how to speak it. I left before I learnt my letters properly. There was a war, you know. But I remember,” she says, mistily, “the most beautiful pink and white flowers used to grow, on the borders of the wheat fields…”
You try to ask more questions, but remembering the war distresses her, and so you speak of other things. When she’s drifted off to sleep, you get to your feet, go home and tell your parents: you are leaving in search of your God.
I went down a rabbit hole this summer researching romance novel covers and painting fanart in this style and
this is an EXTREMELY fun style to work in, and also
many of the most iconic romance novel covers you’re probably picturing when you think “classic painted romance novel cover” were produced by one prolific, masterful artist
Her name was Elaine Duillo, and she had a long and extremely productive career spanning from the mid 60’s to her retirement in 2003. She worked mainly in acrylics.
She did illustration work in other genres as well, but she really found her niche in romance novels. She pretty much redefined the aesthetic conventions of the genre, popularizing male models and male nudity and sexualizing men to cater to the female gaze in a way that simply wasn’t the norm before her work. You know Fabio? she’s the one who started using him as a model, and essentially launched his career. And honestly, just look at her work:
When you need to work in an atmosphere where a stray spark could cause an explosion, you switch out your steel tools for copper alloys since it conducts heat much better and thus won’t spark easy.