Art Sales

Ooh. I need time to gather more funds first. I'll wait for the next round. Thank you again for the previous order. ^^

@VoxxVoleur

No problem! Thanks very much again!

@PunchingSolas [b]Dragon (link):[/b] [url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=35841390] [img]http://flightrising.com/rendern/350/358414/35841390_350.png[/img] [/url] [b]Character creation?[/b] I have a general theme [b]If you have a theme:[/b] Soren is a novel writer! Specifically a Fantasy writer! He spends hours in his studio simply writing. [b]How many words:[/b] 500w [b]Other Specifications:[/b] Soren is adopted, taken in by the Clan's Cleric, Perseus and his mate Ilmarinen, so they're not his parents, but were considered family. Their jobs, which are to deal with exaltion and other deity based stuff, affected his writing preferences.

[center] [img]https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/vtojky74yf4px2i/ok.png[/img] [url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=36412380] [img]http://flightrising.com/rendern/350/364124/36412380_350.png[/img] [/url] [center][Font=Lucida Console][size=5]Vorazun[/size][/font][/center] [size=2] She belonged to a body of steel and silver. A body shimmering and immobile, perched upon a rack to stare longingly at the passing crowds. Vorazun did not ever know she would envy the passersby. She was one of them, once. Her rigid, metal prison made no room for weeping, merely speculation and lament. Solitude gripped the hilt harder than any warrior could muster. Vorazun longed to feel the stretch of wings cutting the air, the rush of wind up her nose, her eyes narrowing as she flitted through the sky. She ached to curl her fingers around a fresh loaf of bread. Such simple things she had taken for granted, as once pleasant memories of her former life melted like slick ichor, sticking to her flesh. The nymph’s jarring laughter and Vorazun’s wide eyes watching the world dim and her body contort. The sound of her bones creaking to accommodate her new body. She rested upon the fallen leaves half obscured. Her squeezed, heaving chest bending the solid metal with each panicked breath. Though she felt herself shriek, she recalled no sound. The canopy far above her hissed with each push of the wind, and Vorazun was forced to watch the shifting green hues turn blue with night and pink with morning. She felt the itching crawl of insects travelling over her still body. Where she once would have brushed them away, she lay forced to allow them to wander. The days warmed her metallic flesh and the nights stole such comfort back. Vorazun was brought back to reality by the interruption of voices chattering nearby. Curious inquiries as to her worth, the jingling of coin and gems set up onto the scraped wooden counter. Vorazun kept a gaze on them and watched them eye her back with uncertainty. They would often complain of something otherworldly keeping a wary gaze upon them. Greed often overtook sense, the possibility of selling Vorazun for far more than they purchased her for began to pull the strings of theory in their heads. With few short words, she was sold and taken once again. She vanished. Her body too heavy for the string in which she had been fastened. The wanderer’s airborne body too high to retrieve her, she plummeted until she felt the smash of the world upon her, metal ringing but unbroken. The land swam into her vision and she began to breathe, steel husk groaning with its expansion. The wind drifted sweeter than in the marketplace, rang softer than the forest in which her curse consumed her. For a moment, she thought she had been dropped into the afterlife. She could not imagine a land so pleasant being one of her own habitation. Vorazun heard the distant laughter of the young, watching bamboo shoots bow before the breeze, her gaze turning to vacantly peer at the sky, the remnants of clouds slithering white against the endless blue expanse. Vorazun wanted to weep. She burned to feel the grass brush upon her fingertips, to rest her head upon the ground and utter a laugh at the ticklish whistle of the birds. Where her heart would have leapt for joy at the chirping chuckles of others like her, it sunk heavy and burdened with envy. Her hateful, brokenhearted soul writhed with spite. She could do nothing else, but lay in wait to be dragged away again. [center]@Sentenza[/center] [center][img]https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/fgdn0eg85s3xj8k/oki.png[/img][/center] --- Here you are! Sorry for the wait, hope you enjoy! Many thanks again!

@Sentenza

It was really fun, so no worries! I think it's the first time I've ever seen such a thing, aha! I was definitely impressed! But I'm glad you like it, and many thanks again!

[center] [img]https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/vtojky74yf4px2i/ok.png[/img] [url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=36457928] [img]http://flightrising.com/rendern/350/364580/36457928_350.png[/img] [/url] [center][Font=Lucida Console][size=5]Sheikah[/size][/font][/center] [size=2] Sheikah came to the world but a mere thing. Soft and malleable in the hands of those more capable. And so it was that her father called to her to take from him the undertaking he vowed to complete. Over the years she learned, as he, the history of her father’s war against Majora. He provided the best to train her until she came into her own powers. Powers that would prove salient to stopping Majora’s conquest. She was trained harder still, the days merging into a shifting blur of training dummies and the ringing pain of her arms rippling with spellworking. She would create again what Majora sought to destroy. Her father theorised battle with her at the centre. Her powers clashing with Majora’s own would be enough for him to strike the killing blow. Her importance drilled into her with each start to her day of training. But by the deities themselves, she was exhausted. Though she held the power of her father, she clutched with weak, futile fingers. Her father’s endless persistence of her importance left her vacant and apathetic. Sheikah grew disillusioned with fighting. Her limbs ached and her bones creaked with overuse. She could do nothing but appease the wishes of her father. All but one. Tacchino was the bane of Sheikah’s father’s life. A distraction, a nuisance, something to pry his daughter’s interest from her duty. A filthy common insect beneath his daughter. The more he pulled her away, the faster she would return. She marvelled at how he created. How things can be made without magic, beyond a purpose, beyond battle. Her interest returned to her tired, worn body, scrambling to cling to the love reciprocated. She felt the feeling invade her thoughts until she could no longer bear to steal fleeting glances. Her taboo courtship began behind her father’s wary glower, prompting Tacchino to woo her and and receive affection in return. Her father’s prophesied vision slid from view, the name ‘Majora’ rung hollow and quiet compared to the howl of Tacchino’s name against her heart. The world swung from Sheikah’s heavy shoulders, but Tacchino lightened it. Whilst she prepared for a battle she held little true desire in, she allowed her mind to drift away. Her father’s voice haunted her battles, her training marred by thought as her father’s plan lingered ever closer to her. The mocking laughter of a man Sheikah did not love as he coiled around her and kept her from Tacchino. Promises of a life better lived by his side than that of a ‘worthless peasant’. And though her father preferred the nobility of this callous and black-hearted man over one of genuine love, Sheikah took to seeing Tacchino under the privacy of darkness. She wielded the power of creation. Within her body rested the raw power to bring Majora spiralling down from the peaks of his madness. Her magical ability a weapon to be utilised by her duty-bound father to bring Majora to death’s gnarled fingers. And yet her heart did not swell with pride, but grew heavy with misery. [center]@CreamGravy[/center] [center][img]https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/fgdn0eg85s3xj8k/oki.png[/img][/center] --- Here you are! Sorry for the wait, hope you enjoy! Many thanks again!!

[center] [img]https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/vtojky74yf4px2i/ok.png[/img] [url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=24375238] [img]http://flightrising.com/rendern/350/243753/24375238_350.png[/img] [/url] [center][Font=Lucida Console][size=5]Gwydion[/size][/font][/center] [size=2] He believed in the power of a story. He fell enamoured with tales, with bends and twists and adventures to the furthest corners of the world, perhaps beyond. The glory of victory, the misery of loss. How enchanting he believed it was to be able to manipulate the mind. Gwydion did not craft stories to cause harm nor fright. He weaved thought and emotion to expose those he believed were worthy enough to hear them. No creature with a cynical heart could let themselves be free to wonder. With every pluck of his lute, the story began. Each strum brought forth a syllable, a tale of clashing swords and wars waged and won. Deliberate delays in speech and slow tempo to rise. Gwydion made the battle breathe life into the eyes of those who listened. He smiled, lost in the story. He became the hero, the villain, the lover and the forgotten. Names that slipped from a silken tongue to slither into the warm air and stick in the hearts of his audience. Beside him stood his sister, who played the parts given. The pair became a blur of music and language, the climax of the story met with a long, loud note held in the throat of Gwydion’s powerful voice, the remainder of the story left to dwindle at its ending. He left the enraptured crowd hungry for more. He could not oblige them so quickly, keen to have them pulling for shows to come. Inspiration struck him most in the morning. Sat upon his favourite branch atop his favourite tree to watch the sun’s kiss touch the sky and drown it in hues of gold and pink. He pushed golden nib to parchment and scrawled senseless lexis until his wrist ached and he fell into his worlds once again. Visions of falling through a world made entirely on his own. Trees dyed in deep blues and towering, pools of purple water to wash him far away. Crowns of bones atop his head and a castle to defend. Gwydion would bother Gazardiel almost as soon as the chronicler awakened. He begged the sleep-laden historian for accounts. Eyes that brimmed with curious love brightened to watch the other chatter. And soon he began to blend in history with fantasy. Trees with limbs and swords to aid in the conquests fought by those who once trod the same land as he. He need not for true magic like his sister implied she had. He need nothing of alchemy, of enchantment, for every word that used his breath became a spell, every note sung and played a potion crafted atop the finest alchemy table. His stories burst forth a sweet necromancy, reviving those lost to time, history made living with its throbbing veins and heart cupped in loving hands and sung to. And while his sister acted, while the world ground to a slow crawl, he offered the audience the twists and turns that made them gasp, and an ending to make them cheer. For a moment in time, he was allowed to forget all but his story. He believed in the power of a story. [center]@Vanq[/center] [center][img]https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/fgdn0eg85s3xj8k/oki.png[/img][/center] [center] [img]https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/vtojky74yf4px2i/ok.png[/img] [url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=27197980] [img]http://flightrising.com/rendern/350/271980/27197980_350.png[/img] [/url] [center][Font=Lucida Console][size=5]Taliesa[/size][/font][/center] [size=2] She walked a fine, bending line between reality and illusion. Magic and sleight of hand, how far boundaries could be pushed. Her brother’s soothing voice accompanied her act, donning robes, fabric moving ethereal and as a spectre. Her silhouette shifted, and she became a beast. Fanged and gnashing teeth clamping, she roared at the audience. The story became a part of her. From the beast became an army, the shriek of marching armour, all within her robes, lights and shadows shimmering. Speculation grew to contemplate whether she held magic or not. It was a question she masterfully avoided when asked, though the idea of containing something her brother did not led her to tease it over him, though he often seemed unfazed. Taliesa adored the villains. In mere moments she became a towering demon, with a cackle thunderous and cruel, skulls snatched in sharp claws and snarling at the invisible hero. She enjoyed the complexity of history, of those who pressed on despite the dubious nature of their actions. Those who truly believed they were doing evil deeds for the good of others. She felt herself take comfort in them. She wondered if they knew of their villainy. Taliesa pondered if anyone truly knew themselves and their flaws so personally, and envied those who seemed to possess a semblance of self awareness. Taliesa relied on the comfort of dusk. The world slumbered so peacefully, the sun lowering to rest. The moon lapped at the sky and bled its rich blue and black to smother the light, the stars shimmering far above her. Taliesa allowed herself to be small, under the peaceful watch of the moon. Her jewellery glowed and her gaze dropped down to her journal. Her fingers clung to her charcoal and she scratched the parchment paper. She drew. Looming monsters and trodden villages, flowers blooming in the wreckage. Hope among destruction. She admired those stories most of all. Despite all of the broken, damaged things, something beautiful may still yet thrive. She likened the idea to her and her brother. Memories dark and spiteful, melting with the integration into the new clan. She did not enjoy crowds as her brother did. She spent her time far from them when not performing, bothering Gazardiel, who would turn in exasperation and comment on how similarly she behaved to her brother. But she never asked of him the same things. Instead, she half demanded he tell her of history’s hidden evils. As he complied, she would open her journal and scribble small doodles, feeling his words start to drift into the pictures. Lines once rigid became languid and lax, seeing herself in the images, tall and frightening. With hissing screams of war and an army behind her. She was the younger sister no longer, but a beast without burden, accompanied by the songs of her evil deeds. Taliesa pondered if one day she would be great enough for her brother to sing of her. Taliesa wondered what side of the story he would make her. [center]@Vanq[/center] [center][img]https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/fgdn0eg85s3xj8k/oki.png[/img][/center] --- Here you are!! Sorry for the wait, hope you enjoy! Thanks again very much!!

@PunchingSolas

[loud obnoxious screeching]

I love it! :D Thanks so much as per usual!