you would never have thought

You just tried to touch her tail

Their Stories

"Hey young man. This is not the closest way to the Bulgewater County. You better choose the west road of the Wisteria Crossroad."
"Oh look at this thick skin. Everybody's waiting for their turn and now you want to get buried in such nice place far far away?
Hey, you better go to my grave plot. It's much closer and so beautifu..."
"I heard your goddamned hometown story for hundreds of times that my ossicles almost worn out, ma'am.
Why don't we just shut up for this painful journey? You can have some talks with the devils after burial."
"Your sister's pelvis was so huge that even three baby skulls could go through the hole."
"That bastard is talking shit again. I heard he was mental and still barking like a dog even after brain fluid dried out."
"My jaw! Where is my jaw! I can't eat without my jaw!"
"His jaw was gone sucking dragon dick."
"This rude boy is ignoring me again! I told you Bulgewater County is not this way..."

----------------------------------

They Talk Too Much

"I told you not to go this way."
"Hey lad. Your fighting stance is awkward as hell."
"Your mama's tit was so huge that her ribs were bent."
"He's so nice as always. Drop me off here."
"We're dead! We're all dead. All because of that stupid gravekeeper!"
"Where is my jaw?"
"When I was young, I found no monsters as ugly as this one."

-----------------------------

They Still Talk

"Amazing, lad! Transforming our remains into spirit form, what a magic!"
"If I didn't know you, i would have thought that you were trying to kill us all! I know this sort of sorcery, and they use this spell to destroy the undeads."
"Your mama's spine is so bent that you can use it in math class as protractor."
"Good to be together as always. It's hard to find nice lad like this fellow these days."
"Where is my jaw? I can't find my jaw!"
"Huh! You call this a magic! Back in my days..."
"Hey young man, do you even hear me?"

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Take Them Please

"Mortal. I ask you to yield one of those heads."
"I can't."
"You cherish life of the deads more than yours? How touching."
"No really. I can't."

------------------------------

Put Your Hand on My Shoulder

"Hey young lad. You're just passing by that poor giant's body and you call yourself a gravekeeper?"
"Knock it off you bloody dotard."
"Haha! We heard you talking back to our word! Today's a special day!"

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The Protectors

I hear dead people.
And they never fxxking shut up.

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Dead Men Tell A Lot of Tales

"That's a mighty fine necromancy, summoning the dead severed arm!"
"And he didn't raise us from dead with such skill."
"Where is my jaw."
"If we knew he could do that we would've never apologized him."
"I mean, it's pretty absurd to blame us for dragging monster's attention by our chatter. It's monster that cut off his arm, not us."

--------------------------------

Manga Style Necromancy

"Fight with me."
"Wait, we never agreed that."
"I will never forget you."
"I said we never agreed that."
"SOUL CRUSHER."
"You motherf-."

------------------------------

"Your Move, Old Man."

"Look at that ruddy bastard grabbing old man's head."
"Where is my jaw."
"Back in my days, even rudest of all showed respect to the elders.
Kids these days ignore the aged men and their wisdom.
Back in my days, no one would've allowed this to happen.
The kings had to get off their horse to salute me on the road."
"When yer mom rolled on the pen with the pigs."
"Where is my fxxking jaw, you bloody ruffians."

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Necro-man

Even though the sword is broken dead, I can call its soul back.
Arm is the most basic type of shield.
My revived arm will be a shield.
This is my necromancy.

------------------------------

Starved Pistol of Diliworth

Starved Pistol of Diliworth.
One of the haunted relics made by infamous weapon inventor Godin Elwiv of Eldrian two centuries ago.
The soul of people who were killed by him is stored inside.
Danger Rank High. Never touch.
P.S. My dear pupil who never ever read nor listen to my words.
I leave this postscript for I thought you would've ignore that warning.
At least don't fire this pistol twice.
The chance of it taking user's soul increases geometrically on the second fire.

------------------------------

Hellblade

"Old man. Sword."
"Arfwgerraworf"

--------------------------------

You Must Fly

"Damn, I'm terribly sorry lady.
This is what my necromancy do.
Look at my arm. Revived in strange form of my true nature.
I guess your soul looks like a fish, swimming freely in the air.
At least you can fly instead of having normal leg oh what the hell am I talking about. I'm really...
Oh... Uh... I guess you like it.
Thank you."

-----------------------------------

One is Gone

My masters, all six of them, told me not to talk to the deads.
The deads never come back to life. That's undeniable truth. The truth that people left behind want to deny so much.
The soul of the dead leaves this world over the curtain of our realm forever.
What we call ghost is just an embodiment of remaining thought, emotion, or memory of the deads.
That's why they cannot talk normally, always want though need nothing, and stick to something obstinately.
It is difficult to remove them peacefully unless you follow certain rules and process originated from the deceased.
The deads are not the ones you knew.
Now I can understand why they taught me that over and over again.
It is obvious how I'll react to the false hallucination of my masters when they pass away.

Копирасты таки выпили наше любимое видео с ютуба.

She had fought alongside Eldrad in battles and debated his cause in counselling Chambers across the galaxy, but never before had she been welcomed into his sanctum. The Opener of the Seventh Way hated the feeling that she was privileged in some way, that this act was a recognition of her status and importance. Even so, she could not help but feel she had been allowed to look upon something few others could, so she took the opportunity to examine her surroundings in some detail, memorising every piece of furniture and ornament, every artwork, in the hopes of deciphering meaning from them later.  

The farseer’s tastes were eclectic – if one was too polite to say random, gauche and prolific. At least, such was Yvraine’s initial thought as she sat on a long couch, the trail of her immaculately tailored Commorraghan court dress heaped around her. She was reminded of the throne rooms of archons that had tried to woo her – romantically and politically – laden with trophies of conquests and subjugations, declarations of power and prestige.  

Except that Eldrad barely glanced at them. And his displays, such as they were, had been confined to a set of three chambers that would barely qualify as an archon’s cloakroom. In fact, it was the lack of space, except for the high-vaulted ceilings customary in aeldari architecture, that reinforced the meandering, unkempt nature of the collection.  

‘It is just…’ began Eldrad, sensing Yvraine’s thoughts as her eyes roamed the room. He searched for a suitable aeldari word and found nothing that quite fitted and so settled for one of the few perfect human words instead. ‘Stuff.’

Yvraine realised immediately what he meant. These were not heirlooms or trophies, treasured possessions or valued research materials. They were cultural accretions. The accumulation of a life that had spanned five generations of his people. They had been placed with no consideration at all, simply fitted into whatever space had seemed right at the time, and never given a second thought.  

He had not even spared them the mental effort of how to discard them.   

She stood and gracefully paced to the adjoining chamber for a better view, her long gown sweeping across the red floor tiles. Alorynis looked up from his position on the back of a couch, one eye open, and then settled again, uninterested in her exploration.   

The room beyond the archway was almost full with miscellany from a hundred different cultures across a dozen races. Most of it was piled like the spoil heap of a museum, the effluvia of fashions, trends, fads and philosophies as old as Ulthwé itself.  

‘Why?’ She did not turn as she asked the question. ‘What is the point of having so much…stuff?’  

‘Badges of allegiance. Patronage of artists. Objects of psychic​ significance I used to trace the fates. Bequeathed artefacts. Ambassadorial bribes. Grave goods. The gifts of suitors. Items absent-mindedly left by visitors. Borrowed objects, equally forgotten.’ The farseer shrugged, his heavy robes barely moving with the gesture. Yvraine caught a tiny flutter of pain, of ancient aching in the body and soul, attuned to his mood and thoughts through their mutual contact with Ynnead. ‘I have another tower, a dozen rooms filled with such detritus of my long life.’

‘I forget how old you are,’ said Yvraine. She sat down again, flicking open her fan in the manner of a kabalite courtier. She regarded the seer over the serrated edge, her smirk hidden. ‘How very old you are.’  

‘Old enough to know better than trade quips with the likes of you,’ replied Eldrad, humour in his voice.

 [Excerpt | Rise of the Ynnari:Ghost Warrior]

Never Gonna Give You Up

Аннотация от автора:

I’ve pretty much given up on this one so I don’t think it will ever be finished. But I wanted to share it with other fans somewhere anyway, so here seems like the right place.
This is my re-draw of the final panel of the British comic Deathworld expanded to a full page Marvel comics style, typical last page thing.
When I was young I always wanted to see my two favorite comic artists--Ian Akin and Brian Garvey--handle Doctor Who monsters in their style. Since that never happened here’s my version of how it would go.
Note: This is not a rip-off of specific panels or drawings; it is me drawing in their style. This is intended as an affectionate, respectful tribute to them.
“Huh? Who and who? I’ve never heard of them!” I hear you say. They are only one of the best drawing duos who ever worked for Marvel (and sundry other comic companies). They are only the two artists responsible for getting me to go gaga over comics in the first place! Their art spoke to me and inspired me in a way no other comic artist had ‘till then. Their brush and pen work is what cemented black and white pen-and-ink art as the thing for me.
I greedily soaked up all their pages like a madman, trying to learn their every technique. I wanted to draw just like them. My inspirations have expanded since then, obviously, but I never lost my adoration of their art.
The best part of drawing Doctor Who monsters in comic-cartoon style is they can be as flexible and mobile as you want them to be, unlike the series’ costumes. You can have expressive Ice Warriors with flexible expressive faces.
Note: these are comic-style Cybermen so they look completely different from their television versions, and yes, they have body language. In the all the years they appeared in the British comics until fan artists took over, they always had body language.
The letters for “…the Cybermen!” dialogue is the Transformers typeface. I thought it worked for them and never considered anything else.
The jagged line thing in the bottom foreground is supposed to be a close-up of a big rock. Except it didn’t look like a big rock, it just looked like someone messing around with brush marks. So I’m leaving it blank. This is one of the reasons I gave up on the whole thing.

Never Gonna Give You Up