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ÖPPNA SPJÄLL :: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wwCX_ywSqFc&t=2894s :: CW FLASHING LIGHTS
Probably the most involved illustration to date for my personal setting “Sanctum” of the Sword together with the Hand, her superior, at work to kill some remains of the First God at the immutable behest of the New Gods. I’ll definitely not be making something this detailed again anytime soon…
The rising wind brings the stench of rotting meat, and the rustling leaves on the trees seem to speak in tongues known to none.
All the lifeless astral metal and polymer of her left hand rapidly tighten around the grip of the weapon. In the blink of an eye, its bisected barrel phases into physical reality from nowhere, levitating in the air and following each and every move made by the grip. Yet, only air fills the empty space in between, and if one were to look closely, the barrel ever so slightly quivers in the air, bursting at the seams with dissipating energy.
The Manifold Lance is not just any weapon. If fired, it shall raze everything ahead in a straight line. Anything around that straight line is still to be scorched earth for years to come.
Raised at a target, the Lance becomes an extension of the Sword, much herself a weapon wielded by powers that be of otherworldly origin.
In the depths of the forest ahead, a rotting presence has taken hold that is to be expunged for eternity, permeating the putrid air and winding roots themselves. Even in undeath, it is a foe strong enough to destroy this current physical form of herself - and much more, if she were to not intervene. As such is her duty.
Her inhuman senses notice something shifting behind her just out of sight.
The Hand must have slipped into reality herself from the Alcove, having seen the Sword drawing the Manifold Lance and demanding her personal presence. Against the echoing roars of boundless agony emanating from the dark woods, she seems awfully calm and collected as she elegantly floats over the cursed soil of the forest – presumably because she is not the one who has to do the dirty work. She leans over the Sword’s shoulder to have a look herself into the darkness of the forest’s depths.
“You have already made our enemy quite angry, haven’t you? If you do not annihilate it quickly now, I will most certainly have to put a new body back together for you. Again.”
“… You know I make every shot count.” The Sword notices her nose is bleeding, and swiftly wipes it off with the back of her armored hand. Having already taken a few hits must have done some damage. “I do not miss.”
“Pah! If you are so certain. With a stubborn Sword like you I might as well be talking to the void. Just remember that the last times you still lost your whole arm because of the recoil, and even then – “
“I will manage.” Instead of talking any further, she instead opts to steady her aim into the dense thicket of the forest. The prospect of losing her arm before continuing a fight does not seem to concern her.
Grumbling to herself, the Hand lets go of the Sword’s shoulders and retreats back into the Alcove without any further words, as the presence from the woods drags itself ever closer to the Sword. Whatever would transpire here shall be her mess to clean up eventually.
The sky itself, faintly seen through the treetops, seems to bleed from festering flesh wounds that were torn open eons ago…
Probably the most involved illustration to date for my personal setting “Sanctum” of the Sword together with the Hand, her superior, at work to kill some remains of the First God at the immutable behest of the New Gods. I’ll definitely not be making something this detailed again anytime soon…
The rising wind brings the stench of rotting meat, and the rustling leaves on the trees seem to speak in tongues known to none.
All the lifeless astral metal and polymer of her left hand rapidly tighten around the grip of the weapon. In the blink of an eye, its bisected barrel phases into physical reality from nowhere, levitating in the air and following each and every move made by the grip. Yet, only air fills the empty space in between, and if one were to look closely, the barrel ever so slightly quivers in the air, bursting at the seams with dissipating energy.
The Manifold Lance is not just any weapon. If fired, it shall raze everything ahead in a straight line. Anything around that straight line is still to be scorched earth for years to come.
Raised at a target, the Lance becomes an extension of the Sword, much herself a weapon wielded by powers that be of otherworldly origin.
In the depths of the forest ahead, a rotting presence has taken hold that is to be expunged for eternity, permeating the putrid air and winding roots themselves. Even in undeath, it is a foe strong enough to destroy this current physical form of herself - and much more, if she were to not intervene. As such is her duty.
Her inhuman senses notice something shifting behind her just out of sight.
The Hand must have slipped into reality herself from the Alcove, having seen the Sword drawing the Manifold Lance and demanding her personal presence. Against the echoing roars of boundless agony emanating from the dark woods, she seems awfully calm and collected as she elegantly floats over the cursed soil of the forest – presumably because she is not the one who has to do the dirty work. She leans over the Sword’s shoulder to have a look herself into the darkness of the forest’s depths.
“You have already made our enemy quite angry, haven’t you? If you do not annihilate it quickly now, I will most certainly have to put a new body back together for you. Again.”
“… You know I make every shot count.” The Sword notices her nose is bleeding, and swiftly wipes it off with the back of her armored hand. Having already taken a few hits must have done some damage. “I do not miss.”
“Pah! If you are so certain. With a stubborn Sword like you I might as well be talking to the void. Just remember that the last times you still lost your whole arm because of the recoil, and even then – “
“I will manage.” Instead of talking any further, she instead opts to steady her aim into the dense thicket of the forest. The prospect of losing her arm before continuing a fight does not seem to concern her.
Grumbling to herself, the Hand lets go of the Sword’s shoulders and retreats back into the Alcove without any further words, as the presence from the woods drags itself ever closer to the Sword. Whatever would transpire here shall be her mess to clean up eventually.
The sky itself, faintly seen through the treetops, seems to bleed from festering flesh wounds that were torn open eons ago…
Category Artwork (Digital) / Scenery
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File Size 903 kB
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