#innerdeamons

Thoughts? #drawing #sketchbook #comic #illustration #art #thinking #thoughts #innerdeamons #demonhand https://www.instagram.com/p/B5-gBdLp8nk/?igshid=1rtakqadqlv2x

Sometimes I question myself. My feelings. My thoughts. How I feel towards other people, certain people, and myself. I have come to a conclusion: I legitimately do not give a flying fuck about most things. I just can’t care for shit anymore, including people and my own inner deamons. I’m feeling changes happen right under my feet. I’m seeing myself change, as well as others. Maybe growth isn’t so bad. Maybe it’s time to get away after this long. Maybe it’s time I start I new things. For me, no one else.

Lost in a world of his own emotion. His blade flashing against his enemy, each slash bringing feelings of passion or sadness or fear or jealousy, the deamons wearing his face snarling and slashing at him. He bore no shield, no barrier could defend him from the assualt of his soul. His horse ploughing through the hordes of quivvering and stammering creatures, he reached a lull in the battle, a natural pocket of stability and ease, a ring of sparse ground around him. On the opposite side of the circle, facing him astride a horse of midnight black stood a knight, bedecked in coal black armour, filligreed with delecate gold scroll work. From this distance he should not be able to read them, but somehow the golden words writhed across the armour, embedding flaming lexis into the forefront of his mind. Flaying his soul. Listing his sins. This knight bore a reflection of his chivalry that insighted his deepest, darkest desires. He saluted the knight, lifting his blade up across his face, received the same reply from the dark knight, and kicked his horse into a gallop.

His armour was cold in the mid-morning mist, condensation slowly dripping from the plates. His horse's breath steaming in the air, it's nostrils flaring as it clodded the damp ground with it's hoof, head rising and falling with anxiety. Before them stood hordes of the enemy, screaming horrors of passion and depravity with faces recognisably his own but twisted and morphed into mockery. Hair plastered against his gaunt face, sticking with sweat to the skin around his eye, he brushed it aside and, clearing his head, raised the steel helmet over his brow. Encompassing the feature of one that had fought so long. The eye slits of his helm obstructing his vision, narrowing it so he focused on the enemy in front. From the back of his mount he could hear the jingle of armour and harness, he knew his brothers were beside him, facing the same foes as him, seeing their faces impressed apon the deamonic foe. Grasping his reins. Drawing his sword. Raising his voice and blade to the sky. "BROTHERS..FELLOW KNIGHTS. FORWARD!"