hopefully done with this piece!
(commission via email)
Commission for bamfbugboy (who is wonderful and excellent!)
(I am always available for commissions; just check my commissions page)
Ahji’dar, my cathar bby on TOR.
Quick block-out for Ahji’s final RP look. I had to change her style a lot due to ingame outfit restrictions :(
I posted the sketch a few days ago…and yeah it looks completely different. Anyway, Aric Jorgan from SWtor.
Paypal commissions are open http://capricornicis.deviantart.com/journal/Paypal-Commissions-359433109
woot woot commission pieces hehehe WHOOPS
finishes sketch day after commission is sent
doesnt finish piece until two weeks later
god i am a Butt i am so sorry, friend, asdfghjm i’m p-terrible im sorry i hope this is even Okay half the reason i took so long was i was sitting on it because it Didn’t Look Quite Right to me :/ something still looks really off and i dont really like it and so i hope You at least do wah
Welcome to “when the fuck did I even draw that?” round “who the fuck is even keeping track anymore”
hi bugboy~
Apparently dogs are canon in the Star Wars universe.
“I was hiding under your porch because I love you.”
I’ve been watching too much BSG, but I do have a good question inspired by the marathoning.
Do your characters have call-signs? Not necessarily nicknames or aliases, but more along the lines of keeping com channel confidentiality, like members of Military squads have them. Also, if there’s a story to its origin, I’m curious.
![His fingers drum against the arm of the leather chair as he stares down at the clear yet filled syringe resting on the windowpane. The blinding, haunting lights of Nar Shaddaa bring color to the otherwise clear liquid as neon advertisements blink and glow outside the apartment’s window.
Nearly four years sober—is it worth it?
[[MORE]]
Something snaps inside of his head, a tiny neuron fires at the wrong pace, sends the wrong message, and suddenly he can’t take it anymore. In almost a flash he rolls up his shirt’s sleeve, makes a fist, and presses his index and middle finger to the apex of his arm, searching for a vein like old times. When it’s found, it isn’t relief that washes over him, but need, an urgent, feverish need for everything he’s carrying on his shoulders to fade away. Yet his feet stop at the precipice, however shaky the foundation, and he grabs the capped syringe off of the window’s ledge to hold it as carefully as possible, but his fingers tremble.
What contains more courage? To resist the urge and continue on, or to overcome hesitation and take a step over the edge?
It’s wretched to draw parallels from his time prior to becoming a user and his time sober with Imperial Intelligence; both eras of his life filled with so much confusion, anxiety, and yet not pain, but instead despondence. There was nothing, no pain, no emotion, only apathy towards remaining alive. Blurred days, blurred evenings—no purpose then, no purpose now. Expendable. Becoming an addict had created a paradox: he didn’t want to kill himself any longer, but using practically entailed slowly letting himself die.
The difference lay in apathy. This time, he refuses to become one of the drowned members of Imperial Intelligence, of society in general, a forgotten face buried in a mass grave of those who too were expendable. He can’t take his own life—he’s too cowardly to do it afterall—and though this won’t save him, it’ll help him tread water. His eyes spot the old track marks on his arm, he licks his parched lips, and then the decision’s made—there’s no shame in accepting defeat, of waving the white flag and retreating before the enemy descends.
Volucris lifts the needle and injects it in a moment of pinching pain and then relief as the drug pleasantly consumes his bloodstream, numbing every fiber, every cell, every muscle as it races through his body. When it reaches his head, warmth spreads from the base of his skull, making him feel light-headed, and he closes his eyes, slouches backward against the chair, and the spent needle slips out of his limp hand, shattering upon impact to the solid ground.](http://24.media.tumblr.com/44fde2ebda71bf2d243301803e2f05ab/tumblr_mmyvla85so1qf4nrbo1_500.jpg)
His fingers drum against the arm of the leather chair as he stares down at the clear yet filled syringe resting on the windowpane. The blinding, haunting lights of Nar Shaddaa bring color to the otherwise clear liquid as neon advertisements blink and glow outside the apartment’s window.
Nearly four years sober—is it worth it?
Bigger version of the GIF I made randomly today.
some old art
a while back at the end of a really significant story for my swtor rp i thought up this entire AU “bad end” story line
long story short after her
beaufavorite star ship captain is slain she ends up finally snapping and losing her mind. a lot of people end up dying until she’s finally put down like a rabid dog by none other than her old masterthat may or may not be the captain’s skull…..
“Do you have a minute? I just wanted to mention that you’re looking very handsome today.”
“Ah… no more or less than usual. But thank you. For the, um, compliment.”
Wherever you are that’s home to me
ZATRHAN YOU CLEARLY NEED TO GET SOME BETTER SHOES
THE FORCE CAN’T SAVE YOU FROM HYPOTHERMIA
