Part 1 of 2 for another beefy commission, this time Grindor for @fire-fxrged ; final piece is pending!

oozey mess
YOU ARE THE REASON

blake kathryn

tannertan36
we're not kids anymore.

@theartofmadeline
Today's Document
Jules of Nature
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
RMH

pixel skylines
Sweet Seals For You, Always

Origami Around
Mike Driver
One Nice Bug Per Day

Kaledo Art

titsay
KIROKAZE

let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open

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@fire-fxrged
Part 1 of 2 for another beefy commission, this time Grindor for @fire-fxrged ; final piece is pending!

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“Who are you, and where do you come from, may I ask?”
Argh—
Alright, alright. Reboot, recompose and...
Become an immovable object.
"HI."
Pardon him. His eyesight is not very good and he is something like 40 feet taller than this mech. He must bend dooooown to stare at him.
"Have we ... met?"
Ah. Another one of those ones, hopelessly entangled in a conflict of mice and men.
There is something about this one, though. A stench. A powerful fetid stink of none other than the blood of Unicron Himself. This one is positively soaked in it.
Interesting.
What the—
Hello!

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Come out, come out, wherever you are...
@fire-fxrged
Granted Vicar was quite pleased to be leaving the confines of the temple, he loathed flying. However, he wasn't going to argue about a mission trip. He'd taken a micro dose to quell his nerves - it was the very minimum he could take without being carried aboard the ship. And the mech was by no means a prophet, but he had foreseen what had just transpired before they left the tarmac.
His optics fluttered online, the thick smell of smoke and burnt circuitry strangling his intake. He quickly undid his harness and dashed to the pilot. Optics still wide in terror, it was a moment frozen in time. The priest softly said a prayer and lidded the mech's optics, a piercing pain searing through his helm. The taste of his own energon tinged his lips, and a slender digit soon wandered to the deep gash - the sticky warmth of a fresh wound leaking his own life-force. Queue the choking on the thick smoke. Looking at the wreckage, it was a miracle the priest had survived. He could only hope that some sort of distress beacon had been engaged upon the crash.
Carefully, the Vicar freed himself from the carnage, reciting one last incantation for the fallen. This was absolutely the last time he'd agree to go anywhere by air, and that was a promise.
His joints buckled beneath him, and he let out a soft gasp as he staggered - finding his footing on a harsh terrain. Where was he? This was hardly a proximal distance to their intended destination, and his surroundings unlike anything he'd ever seen.
The priest had two nervous habits. One was to flitter his digits upon his pious marking, the other to fidget with a strand of polished rose quartz prayer beads he'd been gifted on a mission. He retrieved the beads from his subspace and donned the necklace, energon stained digits nervously toying with the highly polished stones. He prayed for protection and began to wander - hoping against hope to run across a good Samaritan, though given the desolate landscape, he highly doubted it.
It is not entirely uncommon for shuttles and the like to fly overhead. But they are always so high, miles above the ground as they sail beyond to better places, that Grindor simply ignores them. They are irrelevant, earning no more than a passing glance as the Herald goes about his business.
What is not common, however, is such a shuttle to be flying so low. And not even flying, really. The smoke billowing from blown engines suggests it's on more of a crashing trajectory.
The titan watches as the ship screams overhead, listening for the eventual sound of the impact, but it never comes. The thing was still high enough, and going fast enough, that it likely did not hit the ground until the foothills that rest at the base of the Mullite mountains. Tsk tsk. Not a good place to land. To the north, the slow and steady rise of mighty peaks, desolate and sharp, silica snow covering black ferrous ground more and more as the cliffs and palisades jut into the atmosphere. The peaks could not even be seen for the swirling, angry clouds that surround them.
To the south, starting small and very quickly growing dense, the Wylde Wood. Standing tall in the bitter mist lies an endless maze of forest, comprised of ferrous trees large enough, and old enough, to dwarf even the most giant of mechanicals. For hundreds of thousands of years this area has remained untouched -- Cybertronians avoid it for its intensely harsh climate and entire lack of anything remotely resembling civilization. The nearest city?
Kaon.
And not even they tended to wade this far north.
He's followed the scent of molten plastics, burning fuel, and disturbed ground. Being a patient beast, he walked the entire way, following his sensitive olfactory sense until even his poor eyesight could spot the wreckage. Hmmm. The local wildlife has fled, glasswing birds hiding in the trees and draindeer cowering deeper in the wood. And so he approaches, so see what there is to see.
His footsteps are impossibly heavy as he rounds the burning husk of ship, and suddenly, sixty-feet and who knows how many countless tons are staring with ethereal intensity at Vicar.
Steam billows from Grindor's vents. His voice is so deep as to be felt in one's bones.
"Lost, little one?"
Grindor! In all of his Unicronian corrupted glory. It took a few weeks of planning, sketching out the composition and tests but here he is, unleashing the full extent of his herald powers. A big thank you to @fire-fxrged for this AWESOME commission- you always have the best ideas!
Click the image for HD! This image is a big boi this time.
Buy me a drink? It keeps me able to create! ( X )
What does your heart look like?
molten lava and charred flesh
Your heart burned so fiercely that it burnt itself out, leaving horrible scars in its wake; scars inside your chest and on the hands of those who touched you, the hearts of anyone who got close enough to connect to yours. The person you are now is no longer recognizable, burnt up by your own anger and passion and love. The injuries can never be fully erased, but they can be soothed with time and trust and forgiveness.
Part 1 of 2 for another beefy commission, this time Grindor for @fire-fxrged ; final piece is pending!

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Someone is speaking of him.
Rouses.
Eugh, he smells new people.
If they stay out of his territory, they should be fine. If they don't, he may eat them.
He is a Herald, after all.
@servusendura
He very much agrees.
The titan will nod back, knowing a fellow chaos-slave when he senses one. This one is from a different world, and most often -- in Grindor's vast experience, at least --multiversal Heralds tread carefully around one another.
He finds it incredibly unfortunate that Heralds of other Unicrons end up smelling like literal death.

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HE IS A HERALD AND HE IS NOT MORTAL.
GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER.
TF OC commission for @momos-trolls !