Lucky_Duckyyy's Art Drawer

You have been on the road for ages.

Aimless, your trusty and dinged up camper van has taken you down countless roads, leading you to your next muse. Too antsy to stay in one place and too avoidant to cling onto any one person for long no matter how much you like them.

In the end, it's just you and your art. Something none understood.

Nature is wonderful; even its man-made aspects all eventually return to earth. Dilapidated buildings, forgotten towns, and untouched valleys frozen in time all intrigue your paintbrush. There is beauty in everything, no matter how elegant or macabre, and you long to capture every moment you come across on canvas.

So when you spotted a towering grey, blocky figure in the distance as you were cruising through a beautiful crackling cliff side road hanging over the calm ocean, you knew you had to make a pit stop at the very least to capture all of these unique views.

From a distance it seemed like a stone fort, worn down and visibly damaged, utterly destroyed to an unlivable extent even from your view  beyond the forest its hill is surrounded by. It intrigues you, but what should you capture first? The nature around is just as lovely and will be great practice before you tackle the large building.

As you think such things however, the clear blue sky that was overhead suddenly faded in rolling dark clouds as if they were hiding behind the blanket of calm, revealing crackles of lighting and undertones of green, foreboding in nature's own warning.

A warning you did not heed, thriving at the view. It weaves a story to you, the sight of a sad and lonesome, crumbling castle. Who else but you will ever come across it and listen to its tale?

The beating of your heart thumps in your chest, urging you to forget all else and rush to the scene with impulsive delight.

As your vehicle makes an attempt to off road towards the historical site, the sloshing of waves you leave behind grows intense, the water level rising remarkably fast up to the cliff you were just driving upon.

Heavy rain starts to beat at the metal roof, only feeding the water you now are forced to escape; the thick and green sludge seemingly chasing your van. Once you start rolling uphill, the rushing liquid is unable to continue chasing you.

Luckily for you, there was unmistakably a large trail leading up to the fort for your van to take, a winding clearing of trees and the presence of gravel leaving behind silent history. Overgrown was the path and everything surrounding it, yet nature itself must have intended for you to find its hidden story, keeping anything troublesome out of the way so that you may park your mobile home right outside of the castle.

With its size? It is most definitely a castle, plopped in the middle of nowhere.

Even through the heavy blasts of wind and the eerie darkness brought forth from the cloud cover, the building stands high and wide, yet irreparably damaged from what must have been either war or a natural catastrophe.

The imposing wall’s height alone implies an outrageous amount of floors, yet enough jagged edges and blown open holes are proof enough to show that the upper floors have long caved in. Muck and vines coat the entirety of the building, windows grown over, and pinned flags long degraded. The large, imposing, arched front wooden doors barely seem to be attached to its hinges, the wood having rotted, splintered, and wettened into a mushy green and black.

Your heart spared itself the effort of beating for a minute, caught at the unreal sight. Coming across enchanting abandoned locations is not new to your adventure, but one so ancient and regal has escaped your capture.

You WILL paint such a view, once the weather decidably clears that is. But… The rain might not be able to stop you from painting the interior.

Latching your folded easel to your back with straps, you carry it, your paints, and a small canvas out of your van and rush through the uncaring front door. It's as if the building yawns at your entrance, years of dust kicking up at each swing of your legs through the entryway. It smells of mildew and stillwater, an underlying stench of nature but sterile in its own way without the smell of decay.

Choosing the first room to freeze on canvas is the hardest choice for you to make, as the more you walk the more you see things that capture your breath. A sizable collection of hung animal trophies mismatched and toppled, an endless dining room housing a long table with forgotten spilled chairs, spiralling hallways filled with stained glass windows depicting different stories of a reoccurring black sun, all hushed by nature's envious vines. You've retrieved a small pocket book you always have on hand to thumbnail each and every sight that calls to you, pinning the framing of these contenders for your paintbrush.

Portraits of previous moments in time are hung obsessively along every wall you come across, each one a detail in your drawings, yet all have been molded over and withered, paints chipped and flaked off or washed out entirely. The secrets of their depictions are long gone.

All but one.

You must have come across a chapel section of some sort – not too surprising with the age of this building. Pews line the walls, forming a straight and holy pathway up towards a small staircase, the elevated section half-circled and flooring empty of what you come to expect with religious sites. Instead, all that it holds is a single painting rivaling the size of your camper van, muddied and waterlogged, paint chipping at random intervals.

Yet somehow, the painting remains legible compared to any other.

It depicts this very Castle – though the building’s image has melted and dripped down the canvas – surrounded by woods, skies, and ever rising waves, all tarnished by the presence of mold and soaked up water, causing the paints to discolor to assortments of blacks and greens.

That is not what holds your attention though, no. It is the omnipresent figure between it all.

Its paint appears to have been tampered with, parts of the image purposely scrapped off, flaking at each edge, and even stabbed – a vertical seam distorting the figure's right eye. Despite all the wear the artwork has, somehow this purposely tarnished character remains the least damaged by nature, the exposed canvas areas not even hinting at mold or discoloration.

The figure itself is tall with a benevolent smile and an uncut left yellow eye, half lidded but sharp. It's reminiscent of the black sun you've seen repeatedly, face black and haloed with sharp spikes, an orange veil weaved between each protrusion until the ends dangle, tied off with silver charms depicting the various inhabitants of the sky. The regal robe is black and framed in many ways with orange and blue. It's baggy, layered, and hangs off its lithe form, only two loose but long sleeves hiding multiple arms within. It is covered in silver ornaments, dangling from its neck and down its arms.

The creature is not depicted as doing anything besides existing, its mere presence meant to be acknowledged above all else, large and centered in the painting.

Surely, to the original inhabitants, this was their God.

“A shame, isn't it?”

An echoing, masculine voice rings through your head, popping your ears. You cannot pinpoint where it originates, yet somehow it feels as if the earth tremors beneath you with its impossible sound.

“This place, my painting, it all used to be perfect. Unfortunately, for so long my abode has been vacated. Forgotten. Abandoned. It doesn't feel fair, does it?”

No, it doesn't, yet you can't help but admire the beauty of the loss in itself.

“Go on. Look closer.”

You still do not find the owner of the voice but instinctually you listen. There's squelches and splashes at your feet as you walk along the carpeted path towards the depiction, the puddling of green murky water along the floor having originally escaped your original assessment as you were caught with the painting before you.

Stepping atop the elevated stage, you spy artistic instruments littered below the tapestry, even a knife covered in dried paint, each tool seemingly used upon this very canvas. You itch to hold them.

“Look upon my face and tell me what you see.”

Somehow, you manage to deem that the voice is referring to the painted character before you, your eyes flitting about its form, trying to make sense of the thin neck and the sharp and segmented arms. Its expression is uncanny, as if it would be frozen forever in such a way. Somehow, it reminds you not of nature, but something man-made.

“You remind me of animatronics that I've seen in many explorations, typically themed humanoids made of metal. Reminiscent of a permanent smile and unblinking expression… But it's dumb of me to think so. Why would a machine be depicted as a God from the past? From an era where no such concept would have even been thought of?”

“Ah…” The murmur becomes real, no longer ringing and shaking your very existence. Instead, it bases itself in reality as a hand follows its breathy departure, landing its entire palm upon your shoulder from behind before slipping off like slime.

“It's a more grounded observation than any other. I for one appreciate a realistic touch, over being an under-thought figure of unknown anatomy.”

You can't help but turn towards the voice, eyes wide at the towering figure. He is exactly as depicted in the image, though with minor differences you can't help but stare at. Unlike the image’s undefined black, his neck appears ribbed and metallic, and the hands at his side seem segmented similarly to said animatronics you compared him to. His right eye is still cut through very literally, a large vertical V shaped cut out of his face completely missing, allowing you to look through his round and flat head. His inside is pure black, but his exterior would imply that he was robotic and full of wires.

The most notable thing however is how he looks painted with oils frozen in time. Chips and scapes ever present on his form, interrupting the otherwise seamless black. Any bright sheen is even a dollop painted on himself, a figure not grounded in any reality but paint.

Are you going crazy?

His paint seems to drip ever so slightly as your thoughts come and go. He stands ever vigilant, unmoving from the same pose he is captured in.

“It's alright to be confused, small one. I do not wish to confound you or hurt you, rather ask for your assistance. I have seen your dawdling around my abode, sketching away and immortalizing every room in its accurately depressive state. If not for that, your canvas and supplies would have given you away. You are an artist, are you not?”

Even the thought of speaking to such an imposing and mind warping figure has your throat clogged, shut tight. Not wanting to gain his ire, you nod hurriedly.

“Riveting. Then I shall propose a mutually beneficial deal, one that I implore you to accept. Restore my keep to its former glory, and I shall keep you housed, fed, and bestow all that you desire as long as you stay.”

“...All that I desire?” You squeeze through your dry throat.

“People, animals, riches, luxuries; anything you paint, I can bring to life and make it as real as the dirt we all stand upon.”

You don't desire for much, so his promises themselves do not intrigue you. Yet, the idea of your paintings taking a form of life catches your breath.

“And… How will I be able to restore your home? I am only one person, one who doesn't know a thing about construction.”

The tall, dark figure’s smile twitches the smallest bit upwards. He looks more stable than ever before, solid in almost every way.

“Why, by simply painting its form. Interior and exterior. Roof to floor. Design whatever ornaments to litter about and bring you comfort if it will please you.”

To deny your interest would be a great lie. You already would have painted the castle in all its current glory for your own amusement and preservation of history, and now you're being invited to paint it, not only for your own sake but for another's.

The added benefits of this God’s abilities is just a bonus for you in reality, at least keeping you from having to interact with other people in order to eat or fill up on gas. Maybe you'll even be able to sleep on a large bed again without paying a cent. Never will you need to pay for paints again!

Ever increasing your willingness to accept his terms with every thought, you extend your hand, happy to provide not only for yourself but for this wondrous God.

“I would love nothing more but to paint your home as glorious as it is, and once was.”

You expect a beaming smile and a return shake of the hand, finding that as soon as you felt such a way, the god did just that. A sharp grin stretching from cheek to cheek, a dilated yellow eye pinned to your form. Despite his overwhelming size, his hand enveloping yours was gentle and he allowed you to lead the handshake.

He's cold to the touch, but textured and real.

“The pleasure is all mine, dearly divined. One day, after you have proven yourself, I will allow you to recapture my form in its true glory. Replacing this utterly decrepit and deformed monstrosity of a painting.” He waves at the painting with a middle arm, as if shooing it away – rather animated compared to its stiffness prior.

“Don't say that!” You squawk. “It's still a rather helpful depiction of you, and especially with its flaws, it's mesmerizing to look at all the same.”

The god flinches at your words, a wide eyed gaze painted on his face.

“Ahem… Very well. Awfully bold of you, but I can understand it's an artist’s need for preservation. You may keep it once you do your part, but I still ask for it to be replaced.”

His compliance and shocked expression has the tension in the meat of your shoulders finally falling. Every nerve in your body is tingling at the prospects, excited to start and perhaps further amaze your lone audience.

“I'll keep you to that,” You bounce on your heels impatiently. “May I know the name of the one I'll be immortalizing one day?”

He straightens himself, bowing his hands to clasp together in front of him. There's not even a hint of amusement when he talks.

“What do you think it is?”

Without question, you stare and squint at him, taking in every detail in needing to guess his name lest you offend him. The thoughts of a black sun and all the sky imagery upon him and in the widows you've passed leads you to very limited ideas. You stick with the one that sounds the best.

“To me, you feel like an Eclipse. When the sun goes black from the moon covering its line of sight.”

The god is frozen in form until you finish, a smile shifting like an apparition – nothing to blazing bright in mere seconds. His body does not move an inch.

“Eclipse… My dear divine, you have done well already.”

You feel yourself shaking with glee, a smile to match his upon your face, proud of yourself for being correct.

Black and White Version:

Sketches:

(I was having too much fun drawing robot anatomy and had to erase it for the final drawing ITS FINE ITS OKAY I'M OKAY--)

Blasting these two with tags don't mind me--

@rosescarletful @monsteractiasluna @rosescarletful @monsteractiasluna @rosescarletful @monsteractiasluna @rosescarletful @monsteractiasluna @rosescarletful @monsteractiasluna @rosescarletful @monsteractiasluna @rosescarletful @monsteractiasluna @rosescarletful @monsteractiasluna @rosescarletful @monsteractiasluna @rosescarletful @monsteractiasluna @rosescarletful @monsteractiasluna @rosescarletful @monsteractiasluna @rosescarletful @monsteractiasluna @rosescarletful @monsteractiasluna @rosescarletful @monsteractiasluna @rosescarletful @monsteractiasluna @rosescarletful @monsteractiasluna @rosescarletful @monsteractiasluna

Sunlight blinds you often, in the oversaturated colors that threaten to burn the corneas of your eyes every which way you turn. But your batter's colors are a subdued, muted yellow at contrast to the overwhelming, forced color.

He was something once. It was twisted, gnarled into something unrecognizable, but you can still see what was meant to be. Sometimes, if the light hits him right, you can even see the bright yellows he used to be.

The bat swings into a specter hard enough to splatter it all over the wall. Dust covers his uniform and face plate with little preamble - it's no long the shock it used to be. His colors mute again. The joint in his elbows creak with the excessive pressure.

A gap widens between the two of you. Gone is the kind animatronic that pulled you out of danger. You feel like a burden to drag along now.

"Sunny?" This is the third time you've called. Your feet ache from the miles you have walked in this factory.

You're ignored in favor of the scream and pop of a big headed specter dying from Alpha's ring. The carnage lies around you in piles and piles of dust.

"Stop." He ignores you again, taking a running start at a rather small specter. Its...sprinting away from him. Crying. For a moment, the being seems blurry, forming the shape of an Elsen, but the bat simply cleaves it in two. You must just be...seeing things.

"Stop!" Your shout rings the hallway, stopping Sun dead in his tracks in a half lunge. All three add ons return to him, facing you. Suddenly, you feel as if hundreds of eyes are watching you, but that's impossible. "Stop it. That's enough. They're not hurting you." Not a single one of these had lunged at him. The worst they did is. Stand in his way.

The Batter turns his face plate sideways to eye you. Then his foot, then the rest of his body in a graceless swing much unlike him. There's a strange look in his eyes, swinging the bat to lie across the back of his shoulders. You don't like how you're having a hard time seeing his face.

"But we've come so far?" The most you can see with his face in shadow are the glow of his eyes. "What are you going to do, player?" A collar seems to tighten around you neck. There's nothing you really can do.