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Rammtwo's art dumping ground

[transgressorsruin]

AO3 Stuff (some of it too hot for Tumblr)

Grandes Études in Power (the comic)

Promises in Blood: The Assassin Chronicles (Part 1)

Promises in Blood: The Assassin Chronicles (Part 2)

Promises in Blood: The Assassin Chronicles (Part 3)

Promises in Blood: The Assassin Chronicles (Part 4)

Metalocalypse: WIS5 (What If Season 5)

Leylines (Dark Knight Fingal x Mordour smut)

Verdant (Dark Knight Fingal x Mordour smut 2 - Electric Boogaloo)

False Flags (Jackie Chan Adventures comic)

[which-ocs]

Which OC will fuck you up in the name of the moon?

[transgressorsruin]

Fingal Unchained (Part 5)

With the weapon grasped in both hands he swung it high above the kneeling druid - and a split second later there was a clatter as the head flew from the rotted handle, clattering loudly across the stone floor and spinning under the banquet table. In a flash, Fingal was on his feet again and with a howl of rage surged forward towards his opponent who was caught between fight and flight. The force of Fingal’s assault carried them to the doorway, where they teetered perilously for a split second before plunging down the stairwell into the waiting darkness.

There followed a series of muffled thumps as flesh and bone collided with the worn limestone stairs. The final impact with the floor below sent several fat-bodied spiders scuttling to the safety of the shadows as the interlopers landed sprawling in the dust and cobwebs. 

When the world finally stopped spinning Fingal cautiously twitched his limbs to check they were all still attached. Beneath him was Mordour, having narrowly avoided being disembowelled by the druid’s horns during their descent. He was motionless, apparently struck unconscious as they fell. As the pair lay sternum to sternum a heavy silence descended, punctuated only by the distant lapping of waves as the tide rolled in, gradually swallowing up the estuary below. 

Fingal could feel the slow rise and fall of his enemy’s chest against his own. His eyes were inexorably drawn to the shoulder bearing his toothmarks. The wound wasn’t deep but stood out livid against Mordour’s sallow skin, and he was filled with a perverse sense of pride as he recognised the imprint of his own incisors on the exposed flesh. Inch by inch he drew closer until he could run his tongue over the warm skin, and as the salty tang of blood coated his tongue he realised this was the second time he’d tasted the sorcerer, the first being the fateful afternoon where he’d been coerced into performing that unspeakable act… 

The anger was beginning to rise again, and with it something else stirred at the edge of his subconscious. Those distant, perplexing memories of watching his elders cavorting amongst the standing stones in the moonlight. The pale, dancing figures, their naked bodies swaying closer and closer to each other, limbs entwining, all of it finally culminating in a hedonistic orgy amongst the grass and bracken. He could feel himself becoming aroused. Dreams provoked by those memories had haunted his sleep for as long as he could remember - yet he had never participated. By the time he came of age the commune had been dispersed, and those wild, erotic rituals would remain his only as a child's glimpse through the dark.

And now his enemy lay at his mercy.

He gazed down at the defenceless figure below him. The rites of a bygone age would be his to enact at last - but not here. Not in the clammy darkness surrounded by the decaying relics of a forgotten dynasty. He clambered to his feet. They needed to be somewhere out in the open, under the sky, high up… He could feel a breeze blowing down the stairs at the other end of the corridor and realised they must lead to a way out. He knelt down and hefted the sorcerer over his shoulder like a hunter with his kill. Mordour was a dead weight yet Fingal found he could rise effortlessly and hauled his unconscious foe, limbs dangling, up the stairs, along a passage and through an ancient wooden door hanging off one of its hinges. The courtyard beyond looked out over the flat estuary plains, now a watery panorama beneath the rising tide. At its centre stood a weathered stone sundial, its face blank as the moon swallowed up the last of the sun.

Time itself seemed to have ground to a halt as Fingal dragged his prize over to this makeshift altar.

[transgressorsruin]

It's been a bit quiet around here of late, huh? The next instalment of Fingal Unchained is coming together slowly but I'm currently under a barrage of niggly little tasks from both work and home and it's been hard to get into 'The Zone' with all these distractions. While I was moving house back in March I'd have long car rides to let my mind wander but now I need to focus in order to stay afloat. 

I wish I had a desolate fortress of my own to retreat to for a while... at least I have tomorrow off :)

[transgressorsruin]

Fingal Unchained (Part 4)

He knew what he had to do. Beggar gave a warning squeak but it was too late - Fingal melted away before his eyes, slipping through the web-way of dimensions to seek out his old adversary. 

The hunt was on. 

Somewhere deep within the crumbling hallways of Blackwater Fortress the web-like curtain of reality warped slightly, then silently parted as a horned figure emerged. Guided by his newly heightened senses, Fingal prowled through the low-roofed corridors like a bloodhound. His footsteps echoed off rough stone walls bearing fragments of a bygone age - rusted shields, crude, heavy swords, tattered banners emblazoned with the arms of a long-forgotten dynasty...

At last the hallway opened out into a banquet hall. The unearthly light of the eclipse cast a greenish hue over a long, low table and the remains of a dozen hunting trophies which lined the walls - dessicated heads of deer, boar and bears leered down at him, their jaws eternally locked in silent snarls.  And there, skulking by one of the glassless windows, was his quarry. 

‘Who’s there?’ Mordour peered into the deepening shadows cloaking the approaching druid. ‘Fingal? Is that you? What have you done to yourself?’

In reply Fingal raised his right hand, and blue sparks crackled and arced between his fingertips. The sorcerer eyed him uncertainly. 

‘Get out of here you old fool, I’m in no mood for games.’ 

‘I have come here… to punish you.’

His voice was terrible, sounding for all the world as though it had issued from the throat of one of the beasts leering down sightlessly at them from the wall.

The sparks intensified until they coalesced into an orb of raw magic and with a flick of his wrist Fingal hurled it at his opponent. With a quick sidestep Mordour dodged and there was a blinding flash as the magical missile smashed into the behind him, showering them both with fragments of ancient stone and flaming scraps of moth-eaten tapestry. 

‘If it’s a fight you want, I’ll give you one alright.’ 

Mordour advanced threateningly as he held his hand out, fingers splayed, but Fingal’s keen ears had detected a note of apprehension in his voice. He had suspected the sorcerer would be weakened in the semi-darkness of the eclipse, and could sense his foe was struggling to channel enough magic to launch a retaliatory strike. The newly awakened predatory urges simmering within suddenly rose to a fever-pitch. He charged across the flagstones, throwing himself on the bewildered sorcerer with a bestial roar. Mordour stumbled backwards, arms instinctively raised to shield his face as he fought to defend himself from the frenzied attack. He gave a yelp as the druid’s teeth buried themselves in his shoulder, having missed his throat by inches. A second later they were on the floor, thrashing in a tangle of robes, limbs and arcane curses until Mordour managed to dislodge his assailant with an hard shove and roll clear. Fingal heard him recite a brief incantation and then felt his limbs becoming leaden and unresponsive. He tried to haul himself to his feet but sank back down, unable to rise from where he’d fallen.

Mordour surveyed his incapacitated foe, one hand clapped over his exposed shoulder where Fingal’s teeth had torn his robes. The shock of the assault was rapidly transforming into cold, churning anger. Clearly the druid had gone berserk and attempted to transform himself into one of those ridiculous Pagan deities of his in order to seek revenge after their last encounter. He suspected the eclipse had something to do with it, but in his weakened state wasn’t inclined to linger and find out more. As Fingal lay stunned on the floor, he began to cautiously edge towards the dark stairwell on the opposite side of the hall, each step provoking a sharp jolt from his wounded shoulder, matching the pain of his battered pride. Just as he reached the doorway he heard a guttural chuckle issue from where Fingal lay, and suddenly the desire for retribution overrode all thoughts of self preservation. 

Fingal dragged himself into a crouching position as his strength began to return. The numbness faded, to be replaced by dull, throbbing pain radiating from his over-exerted muscles and yet the exhilaration of battle was sending firecrackers up and down his spine, his face twisting into a savage snarl of glee. Through the roar of blood pounding in his ears was a scraping sound and he opened his eyes just in time to see Mordour wrest an ancient battle mace from its mounting and turn back towards the druid, his mouth set in a grim, determined line. 

‘I couldn't let you get the better of me, with or without magic. I'm going to make you regret the very first day our paths crossed.’ He said, menace dripping from every word. 

With the weapon grasped in both hands he swung it high above the kneeling druid - and a split second later there was a clatter as the head flew from the rotted handle, clattering loudly across the stone floor and spinning under the banquet table. In a flash, Fingal was on his feet again and with a howl of rage surged forward towards his opponent who was caught between fight and flight. The force of Fingal’s assault carried them to the doorway, where they teetered perilously for a split second before plunging down the stairwell into the waiting darkness.

[transgressorsruin]

After languishing in the Unfilterable category for weeks, Dark Knight (UK TV 2000) is now a canonical AO3 tag!!

With a grand total of two works, both by me, but at least it’s now more visible?

Some poor sap is probably going to be very disappointed when they dive into it expecting juicy Ivanhoe X Rebecca fics but it’s like Sorry, you’re getting those nasty old wizards that you don't care about hatefucking each other in a variety of historical settings. Here's a sparkler.

[rammtwo]

I have like five meetings today so I drew this to cheer myself up...

[transgressorsruin]

Fingal Unchained (Part 3)

Already he could feel a slight light-headedness as the moon’s presence began to obstruct the steady stream of magical energy from which he drew the majority of his power. Disorientated, alone on the desolate planes without his magic, he was vulnerable and he knew it. The eclipse would only last a couple of hours but he intended to spend them in the safety of the uninhabited fortress. 

As the skies above Sherwood Forest began to darken, Fingal folded the scroll he’d been scrutinising on his bench. It depicted the heavens as an astrological wheel, with various constellations surrounding the sun and the moon engaged in an intricate dance. Arcane symbols represented a complex, multi-faceted calendar but to Fingal’s eyes their message was undeniable - the day of the eclipse had arrived. The cosmic balance between the sun and moon was tipping, and the land would be bathed in a surge of lunar magic.

He passed the scroll from one hand to the other agitatedly as he watched the shifting light filter down through a chink in the roof. Recently he'd found himself haunted by the garbled memories of the last time, memories he’d fought hard to suppress lest they completely consumed him - the maddening, insatiable hunger, the thrill of the hunt, figures fleeing in shadowy twilight, that one, long, blood-curling scream… But this time he’d be prepared. 

Beggar was sniffing at a tincture of Valerian root waiting on a nearby shelf. 

‘That’s not for you, my friend.’ 

His voice was deeper, gruffer than normal. The rat gave him a suspicious look, then hopped down and scuttled into the shadows, where he watched the druid, crouching ready to flee. 

The fading light played over his expression of grim resolve. He had considered over barricading himself in his dwelling, a willing prisoner in his own home until the eclipse had passed, but decided against it. He had fought the forces of darkness countless times, and he’d be damned if he - one of the last hermit druids, master of self-mastery, keeper of the ancient wisdom - would allow himself to succumb to any corrupting influence. 

Outside, the usual activity of the forest stood still as its inhabitants sensed the heightening swell of lunar magic. 

His hands were beginning to tremble, he saw the knuckles bulging like grapes, and the fingernails lengthening. His forehead suddenly exploded with pain and he clutched at his temples before quickly withdrawing his bloodstained fingers in disgust as they touched the rough, boney horns that now protruded from his skull in demonic symmetry against a swathe of hair darkened with unnatural vitality.

The familiar hunger began to flood back. An all-consuming, bestial urge to devour, to ravage, to defile… he began to pace back and forth, grappling with impulses that threatened to overwhelm him, the vial of soothing Valerian long forgotten. Before his unfocused gaze swam a myriad of pinpoints of white light in all directions - the steady glow of the souls of all the living things around him, and they called to him. A faint glow beyond the horizon marked the location of the village on the edge of forest - the village that, if he struck again in this state, would lead to deadly reprisals.

Then something else caught his eye, away to the distant South East, directly below the blackening sun - a soul that shone with a different iridescence, a strange, pulsating energy that he recognised as belonging to another magic caster. He instantly knew who it was. A low growl crept up in his throat as more carefully-suppressed memories began to claw their way into his consciousness. The cruel, piercing black eyes, the callous laughter as he was humiliated and degraded not once but twice, the taste in his mouth that he could never forget…

He knew what he had to do. Beggar gave a warning squeak but it was too late - Fingal melted away before his eyes, slipping through the web-way of dimensions to seek out his old adversary. 

The hunt was on. 

[transgressorsruin]

To do (some day): draw this scene but with DK characters

(Source: Britain at its finest https://www.reddit.com/r/AccidentalRenaissance/comments/7nfolj/britain_at_its_finest/ )

[rammtwo]

Omggg im in love with the way you drew Dr Rockzo I would kill for you to draw him more

D-D-DOCTOR ROCKSO LOVES YOU TOO, BUH-BABY!

[rammtwo]

Hello bro. As the edgar jomfru guy youd think id request Edgar but not so fast. I request Lavona Succuboso.. i guess doing something cool or sexy.

(But if you want to include edgar too i wouldnt mind…)

Thanks bro

@hocuscroakus Of course! Please enjoy this Lavona and her dakimakura :)

Thanks for the request!

[transgressorsruin]

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[rammtwo]

Today's offering is yet more Rocksassin guff pulled from the annals (heh) of 2015 Tumblr:

Promises in Blood: The Assassin Chronicles (Part 4) - first three chapters 'cos it's a biggie (heh)

[transgressorsruin]

The trap is set but now I'm probably going to take a little break from Medieval England for a few days and focus on getting the next (20 page in length!) Rocksassin fic edited and AO3-ready - or at least the first half, as it really feels like a two-parter.

This should give me a little extra breathing space to figure out exactly what's going to happen when the Moon devours the Sun ;)

[transgressorsruin]

Fingal Unchained (Part 2)

Their armour, once such a vital means of protection, now became a deadly weight, dragging its wearers down to the foul blackened depths. Hundreds of lives were lost on that fateful day, and it was now regarded locally as a forsaken place to be avoided by all.

All, that is, except for one man…

Mordour was roving this way and that between the reeds. He’d absented himself from Prince John’s court on the pretence of business elsewhere but, truth be told, the presence of the Templars made him distinctively uneasy. He had painful memories of his last run-in with these self-proclaimed Holy Warriors (and the very genuine holy relics they sometimes bore) and decided to make himself scarce for the duration of their stay, so now exploring what was essentially an unconsecrated burial ground seemed like as good a use of the time as any other. 

In the distance on a raised mound stood the dilapidated Blackwater Fortress. It had once been a Saxon outpost, a bastion of defence against Viking invaders but since the disastrous battle its occupants had deserted, never to return. It made the perfect retreat for the sorcerer when he wanted to lay low.    

As he walked, Mordour watched the translucent white crystals gleaming in his outstretched hand with fascination. They were pure Vivicite, an unstable compound with the same exact composition of elements as the human body, bound into a crystalline form by magic. The souls of the dead - especially those who died in violent or unnatural circumstances - are prone to wander the Earth if the proper rites of passage have not been performed. Invisible to the human eye they seek a vessel to inhabit, and are drawn inexorably to Vivicite. Once entrapped they are unable to escape, and the resulting ‘Soul Stones’ make invaluable bargaining chips when dealing with dark entities. As he looked on, one of the crystals flashed briefly as a soul was drawn in and then subsided to a steady glow. 

As the morning wore on he started to notice an eerie silence descending across the planes. The wind which stirred the reeds had dropped and calls of the sea birds had died away. With a growing sense of unease, Mordour noticed the hazy morning sun had taken on a pallid, unearthly quality. He glanced upwards, and what he saw sent a chill down his spine. The white orb of the sun was no longer a perfect circle, a section of the right-hand side appeared to be missing. He cursed under his breath - he’d known a solar eclipse was due soon, but today of all days? 

Already he could feel a slight light-headedness as the moon’s presence began to obstruct the steady stream of magical energy from which he drew the majority of his power. Alone and disorientated on the desolate planes, without his magic he was vulnerable and he knew it. The eclipse would only last a couple of hours but he intended to spend them in the safety of the uninhabited fortress. 

Author's notes

The brush with the Templars that I refered to happens during the season 2 episode Kha, where De Greel and his cronies use a holy relic to coerce Mordour into assisting them with resurrecting a dead Egyptian Pharaoh.

I'm planning a Magic Overflow post to explain the pseudo-science but in short, holy relics emit an energy similar to magic and the two interfere with each other and agitate any nearby matter (similar to the way microwaves do with water). Therefore our long-suffering sorcerer who has magic literally running through his veins essentially gets cooked from the inside out. Lovely!

[transgressorsruin]

We've talked about Dark Fingal, now I really want to try drawing a Light Mordour based on one of my favourite old Warhammer models...

[transgressorsruin]

And... done! I'm not sure how I feel about this design but it was a nice way to while away an hour or so.

[transgressorsruin]

We've talked about Dark Fingal, now I really want to try drawing a Light Mordour based on one of my favourite old Warhammer models...