#kinginyellow

story and character design belongs to WifiesWasTaken aka wifies

Oh how I love ARGs

I also love how fkn goofy Avery is. Derek uses the zombie to notice the shulkers above him and solves the puzzle, and Avery just fucking eats the zombie and breaks through netherite with his bare fucking hands.

And today, our new creature is from Chambers King in yellow book. This character made its presence known and is now quite common in the Eldrich realm of monsters and other entities :-)

This is an Eldrich creature illustration for my upcoming Dnd supplement. This cool design was created once again by the great sculptor @george_tsougkouzidis and I did the artwork based on his sculpture.Watercolor on A4 paper. I aimed to bring out a kind of rocky / bony texture for the body. I wanted to keep the yellow dominant while keeping some touches or red and brown for the inner flesh.

Why of course I snuck his Yellowness in here aswell :D

Considering Mhyrr also made him the Sans of Eldertale he fit in here conviently well.

Those who've seen his character sheet know better than to just see a harmless old skeleton in tattered robes. His Majesty is so much larger - and so much more menacing….

---- This year once again we are using the Creeptober Prompts, proudly presented by @creep-tober ---- --- Wanna support your humble artist? ---

In Limoux, O best beloved, in the Languedoc, Mardi Gras is no single night of revelry—it stretches across months, a slow-matched masquerade where the Pierrots dance and a Carnival King awaits his final fire.

Each weekend, bands lead the crowds through Les Fécos, their masked faces painted in caricature and mischief, playing the same ancient tune over and over, until the music feels like part of the air itself. And on the last night, beneath the chiming bells and flickering torches, the festival reaches its peak—when masks mean everything, and unmasking might mean even more.

Camille Rousseau told herself she did not believe in fate.

She had come to Limoux on a whim, her latest half-planned stop in a wandering life of unfinished stories and unclaimed roots. A Quebecoise with a French grandmother she barely remembered, she passed well enough—until she didn’t. It was never quite right, the way she spoke the language, drank the wine, watched instead of belonged.

And then she saw the Yellow Mask.

At first, he was just another Fécos, swaying to the endless melody of Mardi Grass, moving through the laughter and confetti. But he did not jest, nor mock, nor call out to the crowd. His mask was plain, pale silk—too smooth, too soft, like a veil stretched over something that did not need to breathe.

He moved ahead of her, just beyond reach.

She followed.

Through narrow alleys, past lantern-lit squares, the world warped with wine and music, yet he remained steady. She thought she lost him near the bridge, but then he was there again, waiting beneath the ancient stone arch.

The bells struck midnight.

He turned.

And in a voice too clear, too hollow, he said:

"Camilla: You, my Camilla! You, my Camilla!"

Her breath hitched. The square was silent now, the music gone.

"You, monsieur, should unmask," she whispered.

A pause.

And then, a smile beneath the silk.

"I wear no mask."