#ink pot

From the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art

手抜きイラスト集

That’s all very well and good, but the meeting is not until tonight, and I have notes to prepare; you nearly knocked over my ink pot. I prefer that you go be gay elsewhere until then.

My dark canvas, Dotted by white, Of sparkling love. Warmth within, Smothering kin, Cradling the cold, Saving the babe. Burned, Scarred, Broken, Never. Violet curls, Gentle hands, Welcoming, Bestowing. Following, Guiding constellations, Slivers, Smiling condolences. Her brush, a stroke,  Mixing silver, my pigment, Beauty, your portrait.

The man of blood-red eyes and jet-black horns drags his fingers down his face, their talon-like nails drawing flowing blood, causing his face to begin to painfully shift, the generic features of a human with sky-blue eyes and dirtied brown hair taking form over his own. Devoid of his usual outfit, he leaves his wand and an enamel-covered eye on the bedside table. Methodically he begins to dress himself, a ratty tunic and trousers clinging to his skin as he grabs hold of a sledgehammer that’s leaned against the stone walls of what makes the appearance of his bedroom. Then, he steps outside into the frozen, windswept clifftop, looking back to see the door, encapsulated by shadow, disappear into nothingness, leaving the stone wall it was planted upon as it once was. Following the path previously scouted, he makes rather loud travel, banging the hammer against the walls every few steps, heading deeper within the mountain via pitch-black tunnels. Soon, the sounds of muffled crying and quiet wailing begin to reach his ears, loud enough to warrant the man to stop. They instinctively straighten their clothes and lower themselves to sit against the wall.  Their face contorts, a painful itch behind their eyes that silently urges them on, their grip tightening around the handle. Four false starts, before the sledgehammer swings down onto his left leg, just below the knee. And then again, and again, until he feels his bone unequivocally shatter in two. His pained screams and shouts for help drown out the voices beyond, light footsteps quickly echoing towards him. A short, hunchbacked woman slowly creeps into view, her light-yellow eyes peeking across the tunnel, in search, undoubtedly for the man. The dark-purple skin and gnarled, ram-like horns of the woman remind him of himself, the half-revelation being overturned by the creature’s attention focusing in on him.  His pained begs for help are answered by her as she eases closer, an off-putting, wide smile grows across her face as she whispers words of power towards him. Lethargy creeps in, and he allows it for a time, everything fading to black. His eyes dart open, a sharp inhale through gritted teeth as his broken leg fights to be felt. His surroundings begin to come into focus with roughly eight humanoid figures seen clumped tightly together against a wall, varying degrees of gauntness plastered along all of their faces, a number of open and probably infected wounds among their bodies.  Beyond the metal bars that spell their imprisonment, stands the woman that found him, alongside two other women of damningly-similar look, whilst a gaunt man struggles to stay standing beside them, barely keeping a grip on a rusted dagger. They all surround a stone plinth, a body splayed upon it, blood oozing from the barely-breathing woman. They speak collectively to the man, hints of “kill” and “freedom” reaching the imprisoned group, terrified looks shared among them. The dagger hits the stone floor, an attempt to escape quickly being cut short as the sharp nails of one of the women tears out the man’s throat. They snarl among each other in a guttural language he recognises, their attention and presence shifting to other aspects of the cavern. To a large, half-drawn ritual circle, drawn in blood. Silently, the man scratches at his hand, a number of splinters from his prior escapade sticking into his skin. Instead of pulling them free, he begins to push them deeper, hints of blood seeping up into his palm.  He picks his moments whilst his captors are busy, slowly dragging himself closer to the huddled mess of cowering people. Their nervous faces fill with fear as he approaches, their quietness clearly out of learning of what happens to the ones that make a sound. He stains his thumb in the blood pooling in his palm, carefully beginning to draw a ritual circle of his own, finalising it with his bloodied palm pushing into the stone. Effortlessly, it gives way, shadows beginning to lick at the barely-visible outline of a doorway. He continues to push through, his arm angling slightly, soon coming into contact with wood, blind searching eventually netting him the two objects he desired, slowly pulling them back through. In his bloodied palm, sits his wand, and an enamel-covered eye. “When I give you the signal, I want you all to head inside there.” He whispers to his fellow captives as he gestures to the doorway of shadow, coming more into focus but for a moment. “You’ll know it when you see it.” He tacks on, half-convinced they won’t even move once given the chance. Ignoring the thought of any of the potential louts, he drags himself back to where he came to, his grip tightening around each object, one in each hand. He holds the eye between this thumb and a finger, giving a curt nod to the terrified people. He mouths “three... two... one...” towards them, before applying pressure to the eye, feeling it crack, and shatter.  In that instant, all three women scream in pain, desperately pawing at their eyes as their vision flees. The prisoners all jump in surprise, frozen in fear as the man stares them down. “GO!” He yells at them, causing them to jump again, yet at least this time it seems to have urged them to move, uneasily pressing into what appears to be a solid stone wall, before falling beyond, the doorway closing on its own as all but him leave the cell. The women shout to each other in confusion, and he’d like to think, in fear. Two slowly begin ease towards the slowly-emptying cell, bumping into plinths and tripping over discarded corpses. The man swaps the wand to his dominant hand, staring down to his broken leg. With a mind of its own, it snaps painfully back into place, small tendrils of flesh trying to fix the unfixable.  He struggles to stand, trying his best to focus his weight on his good leg as he inanely flicks the wand in his hand, taking in each woman’s position. The one in the back, all alone. Accompanied by borrowed words of power, his other hand reaches forward and points to a spot right beside the lone lady, and in the blink of an eye, he stands in that spot.  He flicks the wand again, this time with purpose, that sends four minuscule specks of purple energy into the back of her neck, the unassuming energy throwing them into the wall, their skull audibly cracking at the impact. Quickly, his attention shifts to the duo, dominating words leave his lips and begin to worm into their ears. Their bodies begin to lock up, trapping their consciousness inside as he quickly closes the distance on foot and plants the end of the wand squarely against one of their chests, feeling the energy that releases crush her ribcage inward. The same treatment is quickly applied to the remaining one, pushing the wand through their chest in the same motion as if it was a blade.  He clears his throat, spitting out blood that’s not his own as he waits for the adrenaline to die down. He kneels down to the most recent corpse, his hand prying apart the buckled ribcage, feeling the surprising ice-cold insides of the creature that lived but seconds ago. Soon, his hand finds something overtly solid, and requiring leverage, he pulls free a deep-red stone, in the rough shape of a heart. After a few minutes of rummaging through piles of mess and collecting objects that had been stolen by the coven, he shatters the stone surface that houses an incomplete sacrificial circle. Afterwards, another speck of energy blows open the metal bars, slowly squeezing through to come into contact with the stone wall, a whisper urging it to come back into view.  Stepping through, he returns to his seeming bedroom, where the once prisoners were offered a safe haven. And yet, he’s the only person within. An itch creeps back in behind his eyes, forcing him to move his attention to the bedside table he had previously left and retrieved the two objects.  Sitting where there once was nothing, is a crystal ball, inset onto a metal stand, decorated by the design of eight, terror-stricken faces.

“It’s our birthright.” She whispers, reassuringly. “That doesn’t make it any less daunting.” He replies, quietly. “I know.” A woman of sharp features and pointed ears walks arm in arm with another of similar look, their almost lifeless grey skin a sharp contrast to her vibrant warmth. The forest bustles with curt activity, men, women, and children, making their way across treetops connected by wooden rope bridges, few noticing the pair, and fewer still watching them pass below. Whispers spreading among the leaves. “Chin up. Those little butterflies inside won’t last long once we’re there.” “They’ll be staring, and judging.” “And cheering, all the same.”  The calming warmth of summer follows her steps, a dandelion tucked gently into her lively scarlet hair, with a wide smile. The man’s muffled white cornrows are disturbed every few minutes by his nervous hands, whilst a pale-pink begonia sits on his ear. The sparse attention to the pair slowly grows, eyes of people and animals alike moving to follow them, and their path. “And just think! We’ll be with all the others!” She continues, tightening her grip. “But what if we’re not as good as them?” “You’re plenty good enough, brother. I know this, and so do you!” The canopy overhead begins to taper off, the forests that encase the pair growing thinner, soon disappearing entirely. Strong winds blow against their backs, the flat path spurring into an inclining hill. The man struggles, yet the woman’s arm stays curled in his, pulling him upward whenever he falters. A trek that seems like it will last forever abruptly ends, finding themselves upon the zenith; a sheer clifftop. Below, the groves of their home span further than their sight, the pair towering above all.  Above all, but one. In the far distance, stands the thick trunk of their goal, an awe-inspiring tree both in its imposing height, reaching far beyond the clouds, and in its roots, spanning further than anyone could know. “You don’t have to be scared. I’m here, with you.” “And what about when you’re not? When we’re apart?” She laughs quietly, moving to hold his hand. “Blood of my blood, I promise, we will never be.” The wind picks up, urging the twins onward. Down and through the verdant lush of the forests, through the onlooking eyes of its inhabitants, and to the base of the tree in which their hearts beat for. The begonia and dandelion are stolen by the wind, floating away, together.

A woman of elvish-descent, their age hard to pinpoint considering, stands solemnly by a small cracked tombstone. Her dark-violet hair sits tied up in a firm ponytail, a break from its usual job of obfuscating her deeply scarred face. Her fingers linked behind her back, softly scratching at the scarred skin of her palms as she reads the name bestowed to the plot, over and over again. For a moment, her eyes wander to the moon above, full and vibrant, with a confidently-bright moonbow surrounding it. The silver ring wrapped around her finger vibrates softly, an engraving depicting the sight above. Kneeling, her palms press into the abandoned surface just below the engraved name, the dirtied and broken tombstone beginning to shift and blur in her sight. Seconds pass, before coming back into focus, clean, and whole. Her palms meet, feeling smooth unburdened skin press together. The moonbow begins to flicker, disappearing. Instead of following its call, the woman stays by the grave, a prayer muttered under her breath. “Revar eath'she, salen quarlani'har.”

She sits cross-legged on the edge of her bed, a heavy throw lays draped over her lap, happily welcoming the warmth into her somewhat chilly room, despite the already closed windows. She quietly fiddles with the soft yarn for several minutes, plagued with indecision. Eventually, an unconscious confirmation is made signalled by her hands reaching to the bedside table, counting down to the third drawer and sliding it open. Her fingers carefully drag along several carvings decorating a long, thin wooden case, before grabbing it. Below it, a small wooden box with similar carvings is taken, placing both at her side. Placing the case in her lap, she carefully lifts the lid and hesitantly removes the two wooden knitting needles from the velvet-adorned inside. She flips the case closed and puts both aside, adjusting her posture slightly before taking the other box and opening it. Unceremoniously, she grabs hold of a thin strand of yarn from inside, without so much as having to find it.   Without hesitation, she quickly sets a random spot on the yarn as her starting point, making a loop and feeding the yarn through, before setting it onto the left needle and tightening the knot. Afterwards, she clenches the free end of the strand into her left palm with her fingers, moving her thumb to hook in from behind, and feeds the needle from below up into the loop. Her other hand takes the yarn coming from the box and wraps it around from the back of the needle, above the loop held in shape by her thumb. She pulls the yarn down, and with her thumb, she pulls the loop over the top of the needle and tightens it.  A breath, before doing it again and again. At times, a momentary mistake is remedied by seemingly nothing, a soft vibrating coming from the needles each time. After about a minute of repeating, she finds herself at the end of the yarn. A few moments pass before her delicate voice whispers “Ptenn siamtlem” into the air, beginning to feel the weight of the needles just barely shift, the numerous stitches slowly coming undone.  She adjusts the throw, and starts anew.