The Daedric prince whose sphere is the Hunt, the Sport of Daedra, the Great Game, and the Chase; he is known as the Huntsman and the Father of Manbeasts. Hircine created the various lycanthropic diseases which transform mortals into beasts and is, therefore, the guardian of were-creatures. The Hunting Grounds are the realms of Hircine in his plane of Oblivion. Being seemingly endless, the plane features puzzling rooms and mazes inhabited by vicious creatures such as bears, wolves, werecreatures, and Daedra.
Wow more redesigns because I haven’t redesigned these guys already :0
But I have good reason this time! I decided I’m going to make Purgatory part if their world/story, since they already have the whole paranormal theme going on already. I honestly don’t know I didn’t originally make him part of the story but oh well. Now he’s basically taking the place of Death (he was a character I had for one of the covers I made a while ago, might use that design for something else) and his thing is basically constantly trying to get Vinnie to Purgatory.
Anyway, hope you guys enjoy the new designs and have a good night! I think I’m also going to try to post some fan art tonight (I said I was going to do some Bone stuff, but I may have seen a certain movie today…), so stay tuned!
I will be truthful, I have never had a player choose to devote themselves to the dark-arts … in-game, obviously. Well, and out of game. Usually they avoid the venerable school with a distance rivaled only by that given to inconspicuous props upon pedestals in wide, empty dungeon rooms. Perhaps its a dislike of suiting the stereotypical (yet badass) summoner of souls and entrapper of the dead, perhaps its a desire to pursue a more immediately rewarding school such as evocation or illusion. I say bah-humbug to this. If someone wishes to play in my game and hang out in haunted graveyards, chanting ‘til the pale moon sinks beneath the horizon, then I say good on you, pal.
Here are some enticing items to tempt the pure and incorruptible over into the blackest fifth and rotten waste, where mortal pleasures and obsessions are diseases to be cured through the sacrifice and suffering of the pursuit of true knowledge. Unlock that fascination, surrender to the whispers, take our hand and join us beneath the cloaking shadows of the dungeon walls.
Hooded-Cowl of the Antler
A warm and well-made cowl which tussles and dances in the midnight winds. A beautiful inner of amber weave gleams like torchlight under the absorbing darkness of the exterior; empty as sorrow, lonely as a blackened tide washing over barren shores of ancient bones and tattered flotsam. The collar ties loop together over the chest around an iron ring, and the hood obscures face and eye from any passing observer. The wearer, upon command, can pull forth from the speechless depths of the earth a great, prideful stag of ashen bone and gleaming frost. It howls out onto the wilderness and slowly lowers its head toward its master, offering a ride upon its icy spine. The stag can run as fast as any horse, living or dead, and can outrun a jackal pack over open ground. It leaves behind a path of frigid air, with pebbles and stones lathered in peeling cold for hours beyond its passing. Those unfortunate enough to cross this trail risk having their blood lock in their veins as they idly step through its trail.
This decoration is a rotten, gnarled length of thick rope, tied around the wearer’s neck with a clubbish knot hanging below the chin. The trailing fibers are frayed and sliced to wire-thin strings. This necklace, or sorts, is worn by those who have survived executions and certain death through one means or quite another. The gallows aren’t suited for them, and many executioners recognise such a symbol; one of an untouchable status. This man should be dead. Whilst the Gift is adorned, the wearer doesn’t require food, water, nor even air to survive. They live on through the worst that life can throw at them, and much beyond that.
The Motley blade is a tidy-little throat slicer. Its a short, silver blade, barely an inch long, secured upon an ivory grip. Its sheath is that of a simple, black leather with a crude zig-zag stitching around its opening. When the Motley dagger earns its name and separates a man from his life with an abrupt, yet precise, infliction, that same body that dropped not two seconds ago jolts back to its feet at his killer’s side. Most guards have seen a murder in their time, so corpses scares them little. Some have even witnessed petty undead, so a shambling body upon its twisted ankles and bloated joints is nothing to panic over. But none had seen the smiles that the Motley carver grows over its victim’s lifeless mugs. Certainly none had heard the screams of the dead men inside as they watched in horror, helplessly passive as they see their own, empty forms stride forth towards friend and fellow alike with a feral madness burning in their bloodshot, and crow-pecked eyes.
These arrows are made of human bone. Their feathered ends are human hairs, the shaft is a carved femur, and the head is a incisor tooth, carved to a needle’s edge. They feel heavy to hold in mortal hands, like all of the goodness in the world and your head bleeds out onto the floor as you level it upon your pale palm. The munition is said to be made exclusively from the skeletons of priests and paladins from wherever they may be found. No-other would do, clearly. For when you test the wrath of the divine you may as well go full-in. Why not desecrate the holy dead? That query becomes difficult to dispute once the arrow meets a target. The arrow stings like a wasp swarm, digging out the skin, itching the blood like the veins are full of sandpaper. Then the victim’s bones begin to creak like heavy timbers under a sea storm, bending and twisting in horrific pain. Then they splinter and fracture through skin like porcupine quills as the bones begin to pull themselves out of their flesh.
Pipes of the Grave
A lonely city-bard may perchance these wooden pipes of birch and green leather in a lonely shop window on a lonely street they have never once walked. The shop-keep promises through yellowed teeth and dry lips that the instrument is as perfect as a true-lover’s kiss, bringing true emotion to any tale told with heartful passion and intent: a memorable performance if there would ever be one. The bard may yet further be intrigued at the low price, and may further yet buy them with a smile gleaming with the thought of gold and silver coins aplenty. The performances that she plays will sing like mountain cries and wail with forlorn hopes, echoing through every generation’s ears, bringing both youth and elders alike to rapturous applause. The crowd is crying, only not in joy. They scatter like woodlice as the lush grasses of the city park grounds split open into raw dirt and clawing fingers, as the generations lost before join in on the celebrations, tearing their rotten hulks up from the ancient graveyards buried and forgotten below. His performance ceases, and the dead collapse into piles of bone. She discards the instrument, destroys it perhaps, and she returns to her original flute. Unfortunately, once the Pipes have been played, the curse it contracts is not so easily gotten rid of, and the dead will rise wherever she sings.
I’ve been making bone knives for the first time in well over a year; I prepared ten of them over the weekend, and I’ll be spending the next several days completing and listing them all. This one is Forest Guardian; it’s made from red stag antler with a curve that lends itself especially well to a left-handed carry, and a beautiful, sustainably harvested myrtle wood blade. You can find out more about Forest Guardian here on Etsy.
PS - reblogs are greatly appreciated; they’re how we artists get more exposure for our hard work! Thank you :)
I thought back, remembering Anna Kuya’s voice in the dormitories late at night. “They were white deer, magical creatures that appeared only at twilight.”
“They’re no more magical than we are. But they are ancient and very powerful.” “They’re real?” I asked incredulously.[…] “Kings and Darklings have been searching for Morozova’s herd for centuries. My hunters claim they’ve seen signs of them, though they’ve never seen the creatures themselves.” "And you believe them?”
His slate-colored gaze was cool and steady. “My men don’t lie to me.” […] Several white bodies emerged from the trees, their graceful necks bent to nibble at the grasses on the edge of the snowy glade. In the middle of Morozova’s herd stood a massive white stag. He looked at us with great dark eyes, his silvery antlers gleaming in the half light.
I can´t believe I did it again! I hope you guys won´t get bored because here is Alina again. It is already the third time I drew her and I am so sorry that she always look different. (I am not counting the thousand sketches I also did)
morrigan sits next to the despondent elf, a good arms-length away.
“there there,” she says. “i admit i cannot fathom why you would want him to show you affection of any sort – ”
zevran sniffles loudly. “he is strong and ferocious in one moment, and sweet and tender in the next. i have never known such a creature! can you not see?”
gingerly, morrigan pats zevran’s shoulder. he immediately flings his arms around her and buries his face in the cloth of her robe.
“you know these fereldans better than i, no? bestow on me your advice, i beg you.” his words are somewhat muffled by morrigan’s feathers.
morrigan huffs and tries to dislodge him. “by the blight itself, he is a dog! perhaps try a bone, or a bit of meat. or,” she adds under her breath, “talk to alistair, who seems quite familiar enough with canine preferences.”
“a bone!” all trace of despair is gone. “you are a gift to this world, my dear shapeshifter.” zevran kisses her hand (which she immediately wipes on the grass) and bounds off to awaken the warden’s sleeping mabari, plucking a stag bone from the supper pot as he goes.