A quick picture, but more finished, for once. Plus, digital! My sketchblog has seriously been lacking those lately.

Have 2 more older works, done in a similar style:

Labels: _art, c: kit scythe, c: methis, verse: etherworld

Labels: _art, _fanart, c: hyuuga hinata, c: kit scythe, c: lucas caine devisser, c: methis, fandom: naruto, verse: errerrin, verse: etherworld

This is a commission. Anand as a ninja.

Labels: c: ethan blade, c: kit scythe, c: laila ace, c: meniru, c: methis, verse: errerrin, verse: etherworld

Labels: _art, _fanart, c: haruno sakura, c: hyuuga neji, c: ise, c: kit scythe, c: laila ace, c: methis, c: sai, c: uchiha sasuke, c: uzumaki naruto, fandom: naruto, p: sai/naruto, p: sasuke/naruto

Labels: _art, c: charon fury, c: kit scythe, c: laila ace, c: lucas caine devisser, c: methis, c: naizeth grief, verse: errerrin

I hate uploading traditional art, actually. Scanning everything is a pain in the ass. x:

Labels: _art, _fanart, c: ise, c: kit scythe, c: laila ace, c: methis, c: uchiha sasuke, c: uzumaki naruto, fandom: naruto, verse: errerrin

Slice of life, sort of. Methis is just so--practical. I was looking forward to writing an exciting fight scene, but as it happens, Methis is the sort of warrior who wouldn't do well in action movies because he'd kill all his opponents off too fast, and then everyone in the audience would be all what happened? and wishing for a slow-motion replay.

-

Work

Methis hated surprises. As a mercenary, he'd come to understand that they were usually unpleasant.

This surprise was five feet tall, hulking, with four-inch claws that Methis noted only because he had to very suddenly dodge them. He dropped his shoulders and rolled--to the left, because that way he didn't have an arm getting in the way.

It was only in stories that the monsters of the wood would viciously attacking unsuspecting travellers. People didn't make for good prey.

This one, though.

Hm.

The man in the village had blabbered about beast and gray before he died--rather messily, as people tended not to function once their guts were outside of their body. Maybe--this, whatever it was, was it. It certainly seemed beastly enough.

Maybe. It wasn't enough of a definitive answer to make Methis particularly want to kill the thing. He was a mercenary, not the altruistic killer of any poor creature born ugly enough to make humans twitch with suspicion.

Besides, it was injured.

Methis leaned on his spear, studying the thing. Not five feet at all, he gathered, but taller. It hunched like a taller human might. There were ears on what was probably a head, and the mangled stump of what might have been a tail. Methis sniffed, and smelled burnt fur and the faint hint of ceywood.

In the back of his mind, a voice suspiciously like Ise's told him the uses of ceywood: As a ward, against others of harmful intent, if burnt correctly. It was otherwise a poor wood for building, and too kind to fashion into tools or weapons.

Finally, the thing turned around. Methis saw the gray eyes and thought, ah, that is my prey alright, and this time when the creature lunged Methis easily drew back his arm and threw.

Then he dodged, because an object in motion will not suddenly stop just because its eye and brain has been impaled on a well-thrown spear.

There was a thud, heavy and suitably dramatic. Methis brushed the dirt from his pants, rolling his shoulder absently. You had to put everything behind a good throw, and Methis hadn't had time to set his form properly. He'd nearly dislocated his arm. It twinged.

He still wasn't used to fighting with just one arm. It was a bitter thought. Methis turned around and kicked at the creature until it turned around.

He grasped the spear and wriggled it until it finally slid free with a slick, wet sound. Not all of it, though; the tip, and a good foot of wood, was still embedded. Methis lacked the patience to work it free, and the spear was ruined, anyway. A quick glance up told him the sun was getting ready to fall. He'd been hunting the whole day, and now that he was about to return to the village--and to Ise--his body was reminding him that he hadn't eaten.

First, though, he had to see if he could drag this mass of flesh back.

He bent, slid his torso under as if he were preparing to wear the thing like a massive, deformed cloak. Then he hefted, grunting as he took on its weight.

Two hundred pounds at least. Maybe more. Probably more, Methis thought, and staggered slightly.

Because of certain... sacrifices Methis had made, this was not an impossible weight for him to carry. That did not make it pleasant. Methis grunted again as he shrugged, trying to settle the weight of the beast better across his back. Then he set off for the village.

Food, he thought as the sun set. Then Ise. And then he would ask for his payment--2,500 ryun. And they would move on, to find more work.

Labels: _fiction, c: ise, c: methis, verse: etherworld

This was super fun :D I like Methis because he's the only character I have whom I draw somewhat consistently.

Labels: _art, c: methis, verse: etherworld

I've actually been writing, um, a lot these past few months. But I haven't actually been finishing anything. Yes, I fail.

Below is something I might finish up for the lit-mag. |:

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in a name

--are her last words. Then the world spins wildly; Mire spends the last two dozen seconds of her life as a decapitated head. She dies with her eyes still open.

There is a brief moment of disconnect. When Mire stands up again, she is a spirit. The crowd is a roaring, screaming creature, thrown into blissfully wild glee because of her death. The sun is low enough that the shadows spread themselves long and thin over the arena stage. Mire's body is lying on its side, arms loosely folded against the chest, the knees bent and the ankles crossed.

Mire-the-spirit steps over it dispassionately and watches as her opponent hoists her former head high above him. He stands as still and quiet as Mire's recently vacated body, the furor of the crowd washing thick and viscous over him. He wears the victory like a cloak as he strides out of the arena, the head of Mire's body still swinging from one hand. Later it will be displayed in front of one of the arena's main entrances. Her body will be used as bait for starved animals, and the crowd will cheer as loud as they do now.

There is a place where all spirits go, located at the center of all the worlds. It has a thousand-thousand names in as many tongues. Mire opens her mouth, tries to form the shape of it in her own language. When she cannot, she realizes it is because she has forgotten.

Because it has no name, it does not exist to her. Therefore she cannot go. But there is a name she remembers, burned fresh into her mind like a firebrand. Mire turns and walks. She passes through the iron grill that separates the arena from its underworld, into the tunnels that hold starving beasts and desperate gladiators and broken slaves.

And, as well, the man who killed her.

Labels: _fiction, c: methis, verse: etherworld

This started off as a sketch, and then I started coloring it, and then suddenly an entire hour passed. :x I love drawing Methis, I never have to figure out what his right arm's up to, since he doesn't have one.

Did anyone see the new Final Fantasy XIII trailer? I'm so excited! It's so pretty and sci-fi ♥

Labels: _art, c: methis, verse: etherworld

324 words. (Why are my drabbles always around 300 words? Huh.) This one probably won't make any sense without any context, all of which unfortunately resides in my head. Sorry!

Also, yay for pretentious musical titles.

Discursive Repetition

Lucas is dreaming again. He's standing on the street, wind at his cheeks and hands, the road stone-cold against his bare feet. He's staring at Methis' back.

"Please don't leave," he begs, and feels eight years old again, clutching at the impossible and watching his mother leave.

This is how he knows he's dreaming: Methis turns around, and looks long and hard at Lucas, and doesn't leave. "Al right," he acquiesces.

Lucas wakes up. It's seven and the alarm is screaming in his ear. It's been eight days since Methis left, and it's absurdly unfair that the world is rolling on, that he has an essay due today and a party to attend this Friday, that no one but Lucas cares that Methis is gone.

Methis burst into his life and changed it utterly, tore it out by its roots and flung everything upside down. Now he's gone, except the foundations Methis tore are still broken. The roots don't fit anymore.

Lucas gets up. His backpack sits at the foot of his bed, homework sticking out and rumpled by the weight of his MP3 player.

He goes to school.

-

That night, he dreams again. It's yet another permutation of that night: on the street, cold and barefoot, and he's begging.

Only this time, before he can speak, Methis says: "You really should stop doing this."

Methis doesn't turn around. He doesn't go back. And this is how Lucas knows he isn't dreaming. Except if this isn't a dream, then what is it?

"You shouldn't have left," Lucas retorts, stubborn as always.

"I had to," Methis says. It's almost an apology. "Ise is waiting for me."

"I'm waiting for you," Lucas says, but this time, he doesn't beg as Methis starts walking, each step taking him just that much further. Lucas watches him disappear, and then he wakes up. It's seven, and the alarm's going off. It's been nine days since Methis left. The world keeps turning, and Lucas goes to school.

Labels: _fiction, c: lucas caine devisser, c: methis, verse: etherworld

621 words. I'm sorry for abusing colons, and I'm sorry it's so rough and weird. And I'm sorry Ise's thoughts are so... twisty. x:

Tales Of

It's dark, and the world is suspended on that filigree-thin thread between yesterday and tomorrow. Methis lies fire-hot against Ise, his left arm pillowing her head and neck. She feels the stump of his right brush against her shoulder and entertains the familiar, usual flash of guilt, but such feelings are becoming quieter now. Not less potent, but more strangely unfelt, like a burn against scarred skin.

Methis is still awake. Ise can tell by the way he's breathing, lightly deep and careful, and by the strangely lax quality of his limbs. Awake, Methis is always ready to battle.

She shifts slightly, the sound as loud as rattling wheels against the silence of the night. Because it's dark, she lets her fingers become eyes, running them up the firm planes of his chest to rough lips. She feels a subtle line running from the side of his mouth to his cheek. It's invisible to the eye but not to the touch. "What happened?"

Because Methis never talks unless he is completely sure of his words, long moments pass before he answers. Meanwhile Ise rubs a thumb over that scar, an apologetic caress.

"It's an old knife-wound," Methis murmurs at last.

Ise nods. Her hand moves from his face down to his chest. Because she's tended to many of his wounds, and because of their love-making, she is more familiar with the scars here. But she's suddenly surprised by just how many there are. No matter how many of his injuries she heals, she always forgets that Methis isn't invincible. He's always seemed the ideal warrior, a proud silhouette in the fading sun, a figure existing as a deadly spectre on the battlefield; the newly missing arm only emphasizes the image: He may no longer be whole, but he still stands far above the rest, reducing them to corpses at his feet.

But, ah, here is proof of his mortality. The reminder makes Ise's heart clench. She should not have fallen in love with a warrior. They fall so easily, really. As a healer, she should know that.

Or maybe, Ise thinks, the scars are proof of his vitality. They're past and prophecy, each and every one of them, saying: This is how he has survived, and this is how he will continue to survive.

"This?" Ise asks, fingers resting on a thicker scar, its texture uneven, an unnatural circle on his shoulder.

The reply is almost immediate this time. "Magic, from a sorcerer named Trystan who commanded beams of heat."

Ise finds a flat line across his stomach. When she inquires, he says, "A bandit I was hired to hunt down impaled me."

The gash from shoulder to waist she's always wondered about: "It's a rather standard scar, from a sword."

A zig-zag scar just under his arm: "A madwoman who attacked the lord I was acting as bodyguard for."

The scar on his hip: "Another old knife-wound."

On his thigh: "A spear."

Immediately after, he says, "Why are you asking these questions, Ise?"

Ise's hand ceases its questing. "I don't know," she admits. "Perhaps I'm just curious."

She can't see his face, but she can imagine his expression. Confused, maybe, eyebrows pushed together. Or slightly exasperated, even, eyes rolled up slightly, mouth stretched into a line.

Or maybe amused, judging by his next words: "I don't think the night lasts long enough for you to be curious about every one of them."

"Ah," Ise says. "Do you truly have that many?"

"No," Methis says, and then: "But some have stories longer than others."

"I wouldn't mind listening," she replies. "

The silence comes back as the last of her whispers die away, inviting in again the night. And then Methis says: "Very well, then," and starts to speak.

Labels: _fiction, c: ise, c: methis, p: methis/ise, verse: etherworld

Labels: _art, c: methis, verse: etherworld

Today we have a young Methis. Yes, when he was a kid he had long hair. I guess he cut it off because it gets in the way during fights.

You know, of all my characters, Methis is probably the best warrior. Even if he does lose an arm later on, he's still strong. Having claws probably helps, too.

Labels: _art, c: methis, verse: etherworld

It's Methis. Just because.

Labels: _art, c: methis, verse: etherworld

Methis is the ~star~ of this post. Etherworld verse.

Labels: c: ise, c: lucas caine devisser, c: methis, verse: etherworld