Sketches (April.19.2010)

Julian Kain & Sable Astraveras
(Julian trial 1 -with Sable foreground-)

--My first attempt at drawing Sarah's OC. We buffed out his design together last Sunday at STC and I've been trying ever since. T_T

He could smell the fires from miles away; the flash of light, the screeches alerted him to the sudden, pacing danger he could feel clump in his throat.
The Nosferatu, the Courtesans, the humans stayed away. The fire was sudden and strange with only falling debris causing damage, and his deep eyes scanned the destruction and the people with clenched tension. Anybody sane enough stayed away; Julian leapt ahead.

Where was she? It must have been her. His innards twisted inside of him with dread, knowing full well that fire meant something happened to the Astraveras family.

And there, so far, so small, he saw her.

As fast as he could, he careened off of the tower of the building he gripped, face paler than it could ever be. She was wandering with blood streaming down from her throat, tears running down her cheeks, her hair in wild disarray. The little girl was shaking with pain, and he could smell the fire on her, in her. And her wings, oh her beautiful, jade-gossamer wings, they were black and crumbling away as soot from her tiny, tiny body, as if they had been burnt away.

She uttered a terrified cry when she saw him; he saw a flash of sharp, sharp teeth. She clawed at her shoulders, clawed at her face, fell on her knees and shook. He realized, too late, breathing in the scent of blood cloaking her, that almost all of it was Marissa's.

Julian's heart broke. "Isabella," he breathed, slowly edging closer. "Sable Astraveras, do you recognize me? I'm Mariss-- I'm your Mommy's friend. Remember me?"

"Uncle Julian," she moaned, but her voice was strange to him. It sounded like it was hoarse from hours of screaming, scratchy like broken glass. He saw the crusted wound on her neck, the strange dilating of her eyes, how thin she suddenly became. "Julian-- my mommy, she..."

He hurried to her without waiting another second. The little girl--shivering, frightened, changed--let him hoist her up, let him rub her back and hold her close, let him whisper worthless comforts as she wept.

They are close in my heart

She missed him more than she could bear, at times.
Some days she could almost hear his voice in the wind, and she'd stare into the bright blindness of the sun, as if she could catch a glimpse of his missing face. A scent or a voice, a word or a swish of cloth would bring a vivid image of him to her mind, and then she would be lost to the neediness in her.
His death brought a dark tirednes to her, one that brought worried faye to her side.
"Our little keeper is breaking," she overheard them whispering, and she wondered if she was as alright as she tried to be.
(She wanted him there, wanted him to call her name: Colleen, Kairiun, anything. She wanted him so terribly that she was amazed the words didn't burst out of her sore lips.)
"Mama?"
Ceru's voice snapped her out of her thoughts, and she looked at him. For a moment, she looked like she didn't know him, and it chilled the little boy to the bone.
"Oh," she breathed, and he let her hold him tightly as she began to cry.

December 22nd, 2009.
♣

Lalé couldn't understand why the stranger in his house made him want to weep.
Ever since the lady--she was his age, but he felt otherwise, arrived at his house with a cryptic word and timid child, every glance at her made him want to cry, or gather her in his arms
What was wrong with him? He had never felt so emotionally unstable in his life. He wanted to run to her every time they were fifty feet near each other, and the very thought drove him up a wall.
You're turning into a dog, he thought in disgust. You'll scare her away with the way you always stare.
And her smile. Good god.
Ceru felt it, too. The boy would watch him, face unreadable, every time that Lalé found himself gazing at Colleen. He felt strung.
"Lalé?"
Speak of the devil. He turned to face her, suddenly beside him.
"Yes?"
"Are you alright?" Her dewey eyes caught his, dark and sweet.
"Yeah..." he murmured. She placed a hand on him, and he prayed for self-control as her uncannily familiar scent envelopped him.

December 24th, 2009.
♣

Valor stared blankly at the dark-suited man after his fingers left the piano keys. He sat there with a dignified, resolute look.
The man--Lalé, was it? His song broke Valor's heart. Something tender and yearning about the sorrow behind it was beyond anything he had ever heard.
"You..." he breathed, "are amazing."
He thanked him in a soft voice, eyes downcast.
"Who... wrote that?"
"I did."
The man's answer stunned him more. Lalé closed his eyes, as if going to a distant place, falling silent.
"Ah, do you mind," Valor swallowed after a moment of silence, "telling me what you wrote it for?"
(It was such a beautiful song. Who wouldn't be compelled to ask?)
"My lover," came his quiet reply. "She... was my everything. She was killed."
By my foolishness, he thought.
It wasn't a surprise, but Valor was shaken by his tone, nonetheless. "...I'm so sorry..."
Lalé smiled. The man felt strangely at peace, speaking of her to a stranger. "Do not be. It was long, long ago."
The next choice wasn't necessary to think over. Valor stood, putting down the audition board with a definite click.
"You're hired."

December 24th, 2009.
♣

Introduction

So I decided to start (another) blog. My first one is still used, and completely unknown for my random teenaged angst-induced terror :) I created this at 6:45 PM on April 19th, 2010, procrastinating from the trinomial math comic (HAHA I'm going to remember that one), English mythology, and French literature circles.

De Temps Inconnu.

I like it. Wasn't my first choice. I wanted to call it "And then". :) Because that leave so much to the imagination, no? Then I put "now and then", and I translated it to "Time to Time"--and then that was taken. So I put it as "Of unknown time", but I liked it better en Francais. Mais c'est la vie; il y a des choses que les gens ne pouvent pas choisir.

This is going to be updated at unknown times

This blog will contain mostly sketches, photo bits, snippets of writing, fond and cruel memories, and French practice.

Maybe someday I can look back on this without that fear of confronting my past. Look at me, all nostalgic. They say that if you are nostalgic as a child, it means you never had a childhood.

...Hmm.

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I have a "memo" function on my cell phone.

This function is largely unused except to write 1000-character long story snippets, which I try desperately to squish into that tiny space, punctuation and all. Some have been edited for better word flow. I have only included a few, here.

Some others spoil the story :) You will know if they are cellphone ramblings if it is marked with a ♣ at the end. It's a clover, not a spade. Why clover? I don't know. I just like clovers :)

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I'm a sketchy kind of person...

Most of the time I upload sketches, and little pieces of designs. They are not worth putting on DA. So I put them here. :) Sketches are obvious. It may come with a story snippet.

Some sketches end up as great deviations. Who knows?

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I feel things. A lot.

If I can remember to reduce as much whiny teen angst as I can for me to bear reading through childhood stupidity when I'm older, then it's not worth reading, is it?

Something that really pisses me off will indeed end up here. Mostly art related, though. Here goes to trying...

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I write more than just on my cellphone.

I write things in books, too. Maybe I'll upload those when I have time. :) It's easy to keep it in a blog so I can have this data forever. Isn't that fantastic?

I've lost so many stories to viruses that my heart's broken into fine ash. Maybe this'll help vacuum it up so I can build my next heart.

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J'essaierai d'écrire enfrançais pour quelques entrées.

Je n'ai pas une bonne raisonne. Je voulais seulement de practiquer le français, temp en temps. Dans les six ans que j'ai appris français, je ne me sens pas comme j'ai amélioré beaucoup... c'est dommage!

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Here's to a new time.