Home is where your Discworld books are

Reworking this charcoal sketch a little before I finally set it aside. This piece is full of lessons, frustrations, grief, hope and most of all my love of creating.

The marks made in the drawing tell a story, showing my creative journey and how I’ve had to adapt my drawing style to chronic pain from EDS and acute tendinitis in my drawing hand.

I’m still figuring things out, physiotherapy is ongoing but I know I’ll always find a way to draw even if it takes a little longer

If you can correctly identify what type of dog Zorro is, you get a prize*

Ara-pride-mas in the works!!! 🏳️‍⚧️ 🏳️‍🌈🎏

This, too, is a trashed bathroom; young queer people living through hell and having precious little control over their circumstances or the world in which they exist can affect something by using the language of social justice as a cudgel on their would-be allies, as well as getting a brief feeling of power over someone else by doing it.

The air in her lungs seeks to bite her. It rakes with frozen claws and blighted teeth. It stings. She has no time to reflect on the familiarity of the stones beneath her feet, nor the echoes of memory that paints the scene of strife around her. A large gate, secure and stately now bent in at the irons. A tavern, wreathed in smoke where once only music and drunken revelry prevailed. She pays no mind as the place she once called home is torn apart at the grasping hands of Darkspawn. She does not let herself see it. All she can do is run.

There is humming in his ears. A subtle song, sweet like honeyed poison. It calls to him, to Devotion, but he refuses to hear it. Around him, Skyhold is falling. He thinks to himself, bitterly, that maybe he never should have taken this job. He did not want to die on foreign soil. Amidst the Blightsong and battle din, he nearly forgets why he had come. Why he stays, still. He is reminded only in the silence of the dead by his feet, and the promise that the silence will spread. That it might reach his clan, his family, until the sound of youthful laughter dies and only the humming remains. The song screams to fill his ear, shifting to something bright with lute strings, but he shuts it out. He does not let himself listen. The only option left is to fight.

The battle is hungry and consumes all. It blinds the sight of the wary. It deafens the ears of the patient. In among the throngs of bodies and swords and death, two lovers pass as strangers to each other. They do not see. They do not hear.

A very wonderful commission from the great @wolfs-dawn and @oxygenforthewicked, with the captions written by Ed herself! Thank you so much for trusting me with this idea. It's been such a blast working on it! 🫶

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