This was my entry for the rusamezine and yes I forgot the glasses and was not in time to add them ( it would be unfair to finish after the time).
Since the fanzine is almost done I decided to post.
So… enjoy my crappy art.
I was just thinking and getting a feel of these two after so many months without drawing shit but I think they got cute!Ah I have 3 pieces to do and they will be digital of course but I needed to brainstorm… So…Crappy photo of crappy drawing of rusame…I need to work on the heigh difference though…
“Commodore,” Logain says, voice strained, when he barges into your cabin. “We have a problem.”
“What now?” you ask, setting down your books and papers. Accounting put off once again, ugh. When you finally get around to it, it’ll give you a migraine.
“Your sister is out of the kitchen.”
You are astounded, and your face can’t decide between glaring and gaping open-mouthed in shock. “Logain, I expected better from you,” you manage. “First of all that smacks of sexist and she’s not the scullery–”
“No,” Logain insists before you can continue. “She’s out of the kitchen and distracting m– people. The crew.”
The blush rising in your first mate’s cheeks indicate you aren’t likely to get anything more intelligible out of him, either due to anger or embarrassment or some other Luicitanian thing you fail to grasp. With a short sigh, you go out on deck to wrangle your twin.
It’s not hard to find her, as everyone stares toward the upper deck. Her hair is unbraided, blowing about in the wind, and you understand very quickly why Logain said she was distracting. Compared to how she normally dresses, she's practically naked and wearing some tiny top with a cutaway that you’re absolutely one hundred percent sure she didn’t buy on her own. It’s equal odds the thing is on loan from Evie or Calisto, skin-tight pants and all.
As usual when you’re out of your depth with your sister, you reach through your father’s ring and telepathically implore him for advice, complete with mental images. For a horrifically long moment, all you get back is laughter.
“Leah,” you say, straining for authority and feeling mostly like you’ve achieved stressed-older-brother. She looks at you, the picture of innocence. “I may or may not have told Dad what you’re wearing.”
Her eyes widen, then she looks down her body in confusion. “What’s wrong?” Her voice has a warble of distress.
You nobly decide to omit mentioning Dad’s laughing. You have the feeling it was mostly at you, anyway. “He says quit showing off and also you’re grounded.”