Contest Entry: FFXIV Heavensward Contest

This'll be the first time I enter an art contest.

As expected I'm nervous. Though slim, one still hopes and tries. Simple though the prompt was, I feel I've learned plenty. Still haven't fully transitioned into the border-less style, but I've compromised some with colored lines instead.

Despite all attempts at sportsmanship, I find myself fervently hoping for the prize that will be gifted to the top 5 pieces judged: The FFXIV: A Realm Reborn, The Art of Eorzea.

Signed by the director no less.

I cannot express just how eager I am to prie open the the cover and take in the concept art, for there is much to learn and study from even the guidelines, if not more so, than the full piece itself.

The artist in me admires the work and details that have been worked into the game I so enjoy. The submission date is only a couple days away, I hope I make it.

It's not finished yet, but it's coming along nicely, if I do say so myself.

Snippets and Stories: (WtI) Dog Day Shorts - Soft and Fluffy

Shyloris had been many things, and she remembered all of them. An alchemist who studied at the Malarkurious Parline Academy, a prestigious and wonderful school it had been. The daughter of a wealthy entrepreneur, an office worker, an instructor at a daycare, a soldier and guard who toiled at the Great Walls, a runaway from the Salem Witch Trials, a salvager of old wreckage as had been common across the veil, the list was endless.

Happy times!

All of the lives she lived, she treasured in memory. And in every one, she would bring back a memory-piece, that held, in whatever life she lived, of dearest sentimental value.

At least once per lifetime she made a point of visiting that one place. Buried in the hollow trunk of an ancient gnarled oak tree, it's roots twisted and rough, but an amazing hiding spot nonetheless.

And so it had been that day that she, for she had been female that previous life, took to the tree, bag in hand and a cozy maroon scarf around his neck. 

Shyloris could not have anticipated what came next. Not in the experience of a thousand lifetimes.

The timelocked child had made it to the grove, past the unnaturally large dandelions that signaled his passage into the veil.

It was there that she met him.

Snippets and Stories: (WtI) Dog Day Shorts - Matcha Latte

Shyloris sat in the alcove, legs drawn up to his chest to cradle the sketchbook as he watched the streams of sunlight flittering through the brisk morning and dewy grass.

A few yards away there strung a blown glass bird feeder, from which several crepuscular birds were finishing, and the diurnals just arriving.

"Life is the art of drawing without an eraser." -John W. Garder

Shyloris lifted a dusky green mug from it's coaster and smiled as he caught whiff of the still steaming creamy green fluid.

"I’m bad, and that’s good."

It had the soft bittersweet flavor typical to matcha, and the botanist relished in its nostalgic taste.

"I will never be good, and that’s not bad."

He worried his lip and stared beyond the cloud of steam. Life is like a game, he mused.

"You have to learn the rules of the game."

Snippets and Stories: (WtI) Dog Day Shorts - The Typewriter

The Typewriter: Snippets and Stories

The Typewriter is a short story that falls a touch on the serious side. It reflects the maturation and loss of the absolute faith that only children can so blindly follow as one grows and goes through the "up"s and "down"s of life. Just a snippet and look into how I'm spinning the yarn for this story.

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Synopsis: A story short of a boy who sneaks into his father's study to admire the antique typewriter. He reminisces upon an old fable of its seemingly indestructible nature, having survived several misfortunes and catastrophes that the family had undergone. Yet just as it had miraculously survived many a disaster, it was deemed likewise useless as anything more than a decoration, for it could function to type as well as it could fly. There were other aspects such that it differed from the typical typewriter, like the parchment roll that lacked an insert for fresh paper, looped on a perpetual roll.

Staring at the typewriter, the youth notices a small keyhole, and holds up the metal key hung on a looped string of leather. A family heirloom. On a whim, as if beckoned by more than a child's curiosity, he inserts the key into the slot -a perfect fit-, and turns the key without resistance. The machine whirs and clicks, and to his amazement, begins typing a singular message:

Greetings, Master Curse. It is a pleasure to serve you.

BOP 4: Love is in the Air

In an lush green meadow of a color reminiscent of a the fleeting Spring season, was a house, small and quaint. From a red chimney rose a plume of smoke that carried with it an aroma of slow roasting meat.

Before it was a sinuous path of large stepping stones that was framed on either side by river rock and bordered by fruit trees and herbs. It trailed up up to a shaded patio where a large chair swing stood, swaying softly with the passing zephyr.

As he turned he saw her. 

A petite figure yet with a healthy earthy appearance. Her brilliant brown hair glimmered with the rays as she twirled, the drawstrings of her mauve jacket swinging as she did. On the front was a gold threaded dandelion

She smiled and the sunlight too, seemed to echo with her laughter.

BOP 3: Despair

Silvanus sat rigidly beside the gurney, brow furrowed and shoulders tense. A hand clasping his shoulderbag, the other on his arm as his fingers found their way to the sleeve.

doot doot doot do-

The monotonous drone of the EKG monitor filled the sterile room.

His knuckles were white from how hard he was gripping his arm, The floor was white. The sheets were white. The walls were white. Even the curtains were white. Everything was too white.

BOP 2: On the Offensive

He clutched the pistol in perspiring hands, nervously fingering the safety lock.

Silvanus had never seen, let alone hold, a real gun, and its weight felt far greater than the mere 5 lb. the engraved label had claimed it to be. 

In his ears he heard the thump of his pulse and the painful clench in his chest. Breathlessly he slid to the ground, knees wobbly and hands shaking with adrenaline as he strained to hear something -anything- in the deathly silence. 

As if the nighttime visibility wasn't bad enough, a light fog had settled over the city, blanketing the landscape in an mist. Despite the lack of wind, the fog swirled and twisted, ghosting around the streetlamps, wisps curling under their light.

Still he heard nothing, and he shivered lightly. The night was neither hot, nor chilly, yet he felt cold inside as hot prickles ttickled his skin. 

Then, out of nowhere a gunshot rang out, near deafening as it broke the stillness of the night. 

A gasp escaped him and he shrank back, pushing deeper into the corner where he had jammed himself into.

A sob threatened to bubble out, but he forced it down. Igneus and Forswua were out there. Forswua had been the first to notice the footsteps, and their continued presence trailing them all the way from the party. 

With a knocking of shoulders, the stoic twin had nonchalantly grunted a warning to Iggy and the two together had casually, but with all due haste, donned on their respectful Blitz Gear while shoving a G-lock pistol into Sil's hands. 

The recent reports of prowlers and student attacks, likely having some root in the recent riots and political upsetting, had resulted in the allowance for students to carry their Strife Allocaters off school grounds.  

As the footsteps trailed behind the trio even as they winded past several empty streets, not unusual given the late hour, Iggy had leaned down and whispered to Sil, "Lay low, and don't come out no matter what, okay? One of us will come for you."

And just like that, on the next turn he had, in one smooth and fluid push, been nonchalantly shoved into an alleyway as Iggy and Forswua continued on, carrying on a facade of smalltalk as they did. 

He heard more than saw them quicken their pace and likewise did their lurker. They were luring the danger away from him, baiting their pursuer far from the physically compromised redhead.

Like a helpless fawn hid, still as death, while the mother doe risked her own life to draw away the would be predators.

He shut his eyes tightly as the excessive adrenaline fatigued his muscles and made him both light headed and short of breath.

Silvanus tried to even out his breathing even as choked gasps forced their way out, fear driven tears pricking at the corner of his eyes and panic flooding his senses as images of mutilation and blood from the recent media played like a broken film behind the darkened screen of his lids. 

He was hiding like the useless whelp he was.

One of his flatmates could be bleeding out on the pavement and here he was barely able to even hide properly.