Ok, I lied, I have more Overwatch things I need to draw now. After a run of playing Zenyatta and getting hung out to dry a lil too much, I started doodling sassy Zenyatta. And now I have too many fun ideas to stop, I want to do a lot of these, I am only partially sorry. Also Ascendant is my favorite skin of his so that’s what I’m running with.
I need to stop drawing and coloring while I’m super sleepy. Everything is funnier in that state ahahhaha.
Why is Pidge upset? Lance tried to squish one of the alien furballs to see if they squeaked. Pidge not amused. Guess which one Lance tried to squish.
The little aliens that Pidge encounters are so cute, I wonder if one is going to tag along with Pidge for fun. The way I drew them makes it seem someone stuck them in a washer and put too much fabric softener (and some look paranoid too lmao).
This is taking AGES!! And painting it will take even longer (ಥ﹏ಥ)But I’ll do it for the best kids （๑✧∀✧๑）
If they think I’m going to believe that sad tale that Noctis was the only who attended the Carnival, they’re dead wrong. They all went, had a blast, and avoided each other. Waaaaaiiit… I’m writing FanFics now? While I’m at it, Iris is a beast Chocobo racer, gets it from the audacious AF driving skills she learned from Gladio. ((He’s too reckless that’s why they don’t let him drive the Regalia, but is very good at driving under pressure xP))
Pink Chocobo shirt for Iris, and Black Chocobo shirt for Gladio. There’s loads more colors too. I need to stop putting off drawing the tattoos (⋟﹏⋞)
Sooooo… Am I going to finish this or what? I spent WAY too much time on that Square Enix Cafe logo ;-;
So I just learned what a “closed specie” is. And I got to say. What. The. Hell. Can’t stop laughing now. So instead of paying artists to draw your oc, artists pay you. Sounds like one of those lame “In Soviet Russia” jokes. ………………………………………….. So I just had to make one
Called them Curlyhorns because horns. And they are curly. 3rd horn for da magikz. Too much magikz make it (horn) fly away, but not too far. Some of them learned how to use it as a ranged weapon and poke far away stuff. Also magic wings made of magic. Amoun of legs: 5-6. Can run at 100mph, but who needs running when you can fly. Probably. Butt feathers for showing off It glows (all good ocs glow) Has no mouth, but still can talk. With it’s mind. Creepy af if you don’t expect it Has a size of a small american car. And just as ugly You prabably can ride it. If yo want that is. Their personality depends on their eye color (that’s how it works in cartoons, right?) Will sell for your soul, like… 1 DA point maybe? But donut steel it. It’s copyrighted, parts of it are copyrighted and even color schemes are. So you can’t design your OCs based on this. No no no. NUUUUUUUUUUUUU. Unless you paid a whole 1 da point that is, then it’s ok.
Design turned out a bit less parody like than I expected, but I guess that’ll do Seriously tho, if you still didn’t understand that it’s a parody, it is
what would have happened if Kimblee hadn’t stopped Pride from possessing Ed?? IT WOULD HAVE LOOKED REALLY COOL…I’ve been wanting to draw Prideward basically since I finished reading the manga so here’s my first idea/sketch for that!! it needs More but I’m not sure what it needs More of
(@ anyone who sees this and wants to draw their own Prideward: FEEL FREE TO DO IT AND PLEASE SHOW ME BC I WANNA SEE EVERYONE’S)
In the Jedi Temple, on the night of Order 66, a nameless Padawan finally understands the purpose of his existence.
(also known as I have been reading far too much Vader fanfic these past few days and I needed to write something for the quiet heroes of the Temple during Operation Knightfall)
The padawan pauses in his step as he senses the newborn monster draw closer.
One of the dozen harried younglings he has been attempting to herd towards an access vent half a level away voices a query in a hushed whisper.
“Why have we stopped?” Twelve pairs of wide, worried eyes stare up at him.
“Shhh,” the padawan says quietly, pressing a finger to his lips. He glances over his shoulder again, braid swinging. The braid behind his ear is not stubby, but it is not long, either - it whispers over his shoulder with the slightest of touches as he turns his head.
The monster slides closer, an obsidian furnace in the Force, newly-stoked and ravenous in its hunger for air and life alike. It is still a few levels away, barely.
The padawan settles his young, war-trained gaze on the even younger eyes that look expectantly up at him.
No, not up at him. His braid.
In the absence of a clan master to guide them, the word of a junior padawan is given the same authority.
The initiates’ Force-signatures are furled tightly inwards, in an instinctive shroud of self-preservation. Perhaps it is good - they do not seem to sense the wall of oncoming wrath.
The padawan smiles gently down at them, and they hurry on, down the flickering corridors, even as the heat from the black flames begin to flicker at padawan’s cloak-hem.
The fire is coming, but the little group moves quickly, with the silent pad-pad of clan-trained feet. The padawan almost believes they will make it in time.
They are two corridors away when he knows they will not.
He flinches in place.
The fire whips towards their direction, like a dragon tasting the scent of prey in the air. The light, tranquil Force-plane of the Temple screeches in agony as it is rent apart at the monster’s passage.
The padawan had heard the rumours, a few minutes ago when the attack had started.
That Anakin Skywalker had fallen to the Sith.
But there is no time for shocked horror, not now.
He kneels and speaks urgently to the eldest of the group. “Go. It’s just ahead and to the right. You can’t miss it. Climb down, get out, and find a change of clothes somewhere. I will find you if I can.”
The Nautolan child scrutinises him with opaque carmine eyes. “You’re lying,” she says, succinctly.
The padawan manages a grin. He cannot find words to reply.
The children bow deeply to him, and sprint off.
In the silence of the long corridor, the padawan pivots in place, unclips his lightsaber, and waits.
Three thudding heartbeats, and the monster is here.
The Force is flash-frozen in sable ink. For a moment, it is as though the air itself has been polluted; the wave of shadow seems to seep down the long length of the hallway and down his quickening lungs.
The padawan stares at Anakin Skywalker’s yellow eyes, and reaches into the Force. The Light whispers to him, and he understands. Finally, and completely.
Four years in the Temple before he was handed his first lightsaber; eight years as an initiate, one as a padawan; months on the battlefield, being trained by master and troopers alike, affectionately dubbed “The Little Commander” by his well-loved troops-
-All of it had been for one purpose, and one purpose only:
To be able to last fifteen seconds in battle against Anakin Skywalker, the new scion of the Sith.
Fifteen seconds is enough. The last of the younglings will be in the shaft by then.
The padawan does not waver. He activates his lightsaber - green, like his master’s kind, wise eyes. Those eyes are already dull and glassed-over, he knows. He sensed her death, star-systems and light-years away, the moment the first attack hammered against the Temple doors.
Anakin Skywalker halts three paces away, and stares down at him with eyes of complete and utter lack of emotion.
The Sith does not tell him to move.
It makes sense. The only path before him now is death.
As the silver hilt clenched in black-gloved fingers begins to rise, the padawan wonders for a moment if the Negotiator has survived, even if the Hero With No Fear is no more.
He hopes the Force will be with Master Kenobi, as it will be with the younglings.
Yellow eyes, wreathed in flame.
The padawan activates his lightsaber, and dives forward with a raw-throated yell. The emerald light from his plasma blade washes him with the colour of a forest in Spring, like far-away Endor under bright moonlight.
In the end, he lasts more than fifteen seconds.
He lasts a whole minute.
He has done his master proud.
There is no dea-
The Force. Forever.
Aaaaand I think that’s my daily angst-quota fulfilled. I’ve cross-posted this to my ff.net account as well. Feel free to reblog and leave a comment in your tags! Thanks for reading as always.
I used to sign all my drawings and paintings when I was younger. 8 year old me signed everything as soon as she learned artists did such a thing. It gave my work legitimacy, weight and importance.
I stopped it pretty much all together once I left school to study illustration. Everything I did had only temporary value. I just needed a scan or a print. I didn’t sell it. I was learning. Draw one thing. Start another. Don’t stop. Putting too much importance on a piece, being too afraid to finish it and to just move on was not an option. Draw, draw, draw, learn, learn, learn. Every piece was just a stepping stone to another one. It’s one of the reasons I had a high output during those years and why I got better very fast. Not getting hung up on failures. Not letting ‘it’s not perfect + career changing’ stop me. Just start another one.
I know artist angst is a thing. Nowadays drawing and art making is one of the things I feel least insecure in. I can always trust that I will get better as long as I work on my craft. It’s inevitable.
It’ll never be perfect. Some pieces will be better than others. Doesn’t mean the weaker ones are shit. Just means they’re weaker and that I’m not quite there yet.
I probably never will be. As long as I keep drawing I will get better, though. It’s comforting.
I only started selling artworks this year. Since I usually finish them digitally most originals are just part of a process for me, not the finished piece, so it surprised me that people were interested.
Another surprise was the amount of people wondering about my missing signature. I got asked whether I don’t like the pieces.
I do. But what I value more and what I am proud of is where they have brought me and the skill I developed through them.
I’m starting to sign my artworks again, though.
I feel like others need weight and importance and legitimacy.
I need the drawing and learning and forwards. Forwards. Forwards.