#ailisisuliart

From my DA page. 

              The dead souls rose below her, fluttering like fog over the trees. Alistreena stroked the feathers of the owl perched on her hand. It screeched, impatient. Her hand went through the bird--her time was short. She opened her hand, the owl flapping out into the sky, moonlight gilding his wings. 

              She leaned back, skull thunking against the tree trunk. Silver eyes closed as she sunk to the ground to wait for her companion to return with the first batch of the souls she required for the coming year. 

From my DA page. 

                The desert wind whispered, hot and dead, a weight nearly as oppressive as the old man blocking her path. Her companions were outside the tent, all of them forced to their knees at gunpoint. "Now, Miss Davison, just hand over the book and head back to England like a proper lady. Egypt is no place for pretty little things like you." The old man smiled, the expression slimy and cold. Thick glasses obscured pale eyes.  

                "It's Doctor Davison, Mr. Forde," she corrected tersely. "And you'll have my notes when the rest of the scientific community does." Her hand tightened on the bound notebook in her hand. Mr. Forde sighed, gesturing. The sounds of guns cocking cracked through the heavy air, the native workers shouting in alarm.  

                "Let's not make this difficult, Miss Davison. The book, or their lives." Her eyes narrowed as her lips thinned. The book wavered as it lowered into his hand. Reluctantly, she released it. Mr. Forde passed to a young man on his left, American by the accent she'd heard on their last visit. 

                "The leg, Boris," Forde ordered. The gunshot cracked through the heat of the Saharan desert, echoing. Naomi grabbed her pistol from her work table, crying out in pain as his cane came down on her hands. His lips were at her ear. "I told you, Egypt is no place for girls like you. Pleasure doing business with you, Miss Davison." He released her, turning on his heel. The three men he'd brought with him followed, two walking backwards with their weapons trained on her and her people. 

                "You will not get away with this!" she shouted, injured hand to her chest. He did not pause. 

From my DA page. 

               Atet wandered the halls of her tomb, sandals whispering on the stones. The dust on the stones told her how long she'd been sleeping--centuries if she had to guess. A thousand years, maybe. She touched the wall on her right, fingers tracing the symmetrical cuts. 

From my DA page.

             Igel wandered the paths around her family's home, the old well surrounded by beautiful gardens. Frogs were everywhere. Igel was certain that one day, one would talk to her like Grandpa had her Grandma. 

             Each day she walked and played in the gardens, stopping to make flower crowns and to talk to the frogs. None talked, but that never stopped her. Today was no different. 

            She knelt. "Morning, mister frog. Your spots are really pretty. Are you getting enough to eat? I could see if we can find more food if you aren't." The frog blinked eyes at her. 

By request from weatheredclown on my deviantart.

Five Facts about the Jedi Master: 

Rean's an unorthodox Jedi.  She was twice stripped of her rank in the Jedi Order, reduced from master to knight.

Despite being an expert in lightsaber combat she refuses to use it in battle, igniting her blade only in training.

She is fond of children and would often find excuses to return to the Jedi Temple on Tython to care for younglings.

Her eye color is the result of spending five years of exile living in near pitch black hunting sith spawn.

Rean has a taste for brandy made on Dromund Kaas and would cultivate relationships with smugglers for the occasional bottle.

Info here: https://ailisisuli.tumblr.com/commisions

I will do nsfw, but I will not illustrate non-consensual, “map”-related desires, or vore/heavy gore. 

If you aren’t certain if I’ll do something, shoot me a message or an ask!