Art Break - The Bridge

I'm no master artist, not by a long-shot. My actual training in practical drawing only began a little over three years ago.

I entered a school with basically nothing to show for artistic talent and had to slog through the mud with the rest of the class. Anatomy, gesture, perspective, all the greats all the oldies. I like to think it was better that way, I always play games on Hard mode first anyways.

I've got a basic grasp of Photoshop, and I'm actually beginning to have a little bit of fun with it. So, in the spirit of posting things just for people to see, I'll start putting up some more art work - rough or not.


My first experiment, this time around, is trying to capture a scene from something I've written. I'm normally terrible at drawing from my mind, but if I can pull off something passable - awesome.

So, here we have the beginning of the fight on the bridge. I'm not sure if I like the rough perspective of the bridge (and I do me rough), I may just take it out entirely and focus on the character...we'll see.

 Super rough forms still, working on the sword for fun, and trying out new brushes.

 

Here I'm just working on a representation of what someone would be wearing under armor, a kind of quiltesque material came to mind. I'm not sure I'm ok with how it looks with the new additions..but I'll be picking it up again soon.

The Respite

He was being moved again.

Strong hands slowly pulled him down what looked like a small stone alley-way. Their traversal was horrifyingly conspicuous. His steel boots and leg guards dragged the ground producing a hair raising squeal. His companion, so far the only person that hadn't tried to stop his heart from beating, clanked about noisily. He had apparently chosen the cumbersome armor over risking a variety of stab wounds.

“You had better be an ally,” he heard the figure above him say, he sounded tired, “otherwise I'm going to feel very foolish about this later.”

He attempted a response, his dry cracked lips fumbled to produce a sound, but failed. Darkness rose up again, pulling him down.

Noise. Loud clamoring noise. His eyes drifted open weakly. An armored figure stood before him, he hoped this was the same man who had dragged him away from the bridge, a longsword in his hands. He said something loudly and relaxed his grip, allowing the point of the blade to drop towards the ground. His left hand lifted, exposing his palm indicating that he meant no harm. He pointed back to the barely conscious form on the ground, and said something else.

Who is he talking t-

His vision cleared slightly, they were inside. A figure moved in the background, drawing closer to the armored man slowly. The room was a mess, a stained pile of straw occupied one of the far corners of the room, broken containers (carrying the sickly sweet smell of rotten food) lay scattered about the floor.

Sweat rolled down his forehead, his skin was on fire. Fever.

The new figured moved past his guardian, sinking to a knee next to him. Through his blurred vision he could only make out a face carved to leather by long years of hard living, there was concern in the deep set coal black eyes however – he took joy in this fact and let his eyes close once more.

“How did you get here?” The old man said, straining slightly upon standing. He carried a weathered wooden staff upon which he rested most of his weight. He turned his gaze to the armored man.

He looked more than a little confused. His mop of unkempt black hair was matted to his face with sweat. He was tall, and stronger than his wounded companion by the look of him. That silver armor must have been hell to move about in, even without dragging someone.

“I don't know. There was the bridge...and before that, nothing.” He raised his hands to his face, sweeping sweat and hair out of his vision. Two green eyes peered out from deep-set sockets. “By the time I had any sort of actual physical bearing,” he gestured to his unconscious companion, “I had missed the events that lead up to his current state.”

The old man nodded, three slow bobs of his head. The dark skin of his bald head was wrinkled, a horrifying pink hued scar ran down the left side of his head ending where the top of his left ear should have begun.

“You should rest, that armor won't do you any good in here,” he tottered across the filthy room to a dark wooden box. Silently, the larger man began to shrug out of his gear. He propped the longsword up against the wall, near the door. As each heavy piece fell to the ground a gasp of relief escaped him.

“Try to get your friend onto one of the straw pallets, we don't have much time.” He said as he knelt down to the rectangular box. He lifted the lid carefully, producing bound linen bandages and a mixture of other medical supplies. Behind him he heard the his now unarmored guest laying his companion down on one of the rough straw beds.

“Rather convenient that you have those supplies.” The large man spoke cautiously. “Do you even know how to help him?” If the old man heard him he made no indication of acknowledging his statement. His gaze drifted to the strange wooden chest, and back to the old man.

The weathered cane clacked across the floor as the strange old man moved to tend the wounds of the unconscious man. His mouth tightened, the injuries were extensive and the fever was getting worse by the minute. He laid out the jumble of equipment on the bed and peered backwards.

“This is going to take some time. Make yourself at home – though I wouldn't go outside.” His head jerked towards the battered wooden door, now barred from the inside. The longsword no longer resting against the door frame. His attention was fully focused on the man lying before him.

He lifted the bloody tunic, an angry red gash ran across the man's ribcage. He produced a small needle, deftly threading an almost invisible string through the eye. “You're friend is going to be thankful he was unconscious for this if he awakens.” He set to work stitching the wound closed.

“My name is Ward, you?” He spoke without looking backwards, he talked mainly to ease his nerves. He was only self-trained in these matters after-all. His guest did not answer immediately.

“I..don't know. I can't remember anything, except for the events of today.” He leaned carefully on a rotten barrel, testing it's ability to hold up his weight. “I woke up, in full armor on a bridge. I could hear a disturbance at the far end, but couldn't make out what was happening in time to help.” He crossed his arms, satisfied with the barrel's load bearing strength. He eyed the old man cautiously.

The stooped old man worked tirelessly. Hes boney arms flitted about the prone form closing cuts, dabbing linen bandages with a strange mixture he had produced in a wide based glass bottle from the chest. The smell of the tincture was pungent, it filled the room with burning vapors that made his lungs ache.

“Do not worry, the tincture is helpful. The smell is...off-putting but the results could keep your friend from being pulled away from us by his fever.” He stretched his arms over his head, his joints popped in a symphony of arthritic barks. “With rest, a very large amount mind you, he may survive.”

He toiled on for a few more hours, finally using a damp cloth to dab at the fingernail scratches on the man's face – attempting to draw out any infection with the solution dabbed onto the rag.

“How have you managed to live here for so long?” He had not heard the other man speak in so long that he nearly jumped, he had been absorbed in his work. “Where is everyone?” He resumed cleaning the superficial wounds.

“Rest assured, I am not the only person living here.” Sarcasm crept into his voice. 

 

“And just exactly, where is here.” The man spoke from behind him.

“You, my friend, are standing in the servant's quarters of The Bulwark. The strongest fortress ever constructed by human hands. Built to shield the world from the great evils that stalk it during these times. Or couldn't you tell?” His tone took on an angry desperate air. “All of our building, preparing, recruiting, and training could not save us.” His hands dropped to his sides for a brief moment, blood crusted over his fingernails. “We are forsaken here, The Bulwark is no longer safe, things have gone...wrong.” He wiped his hands on a loose bandage and continued his work.

“What do you mean wrong?” Curiosity crept into his new companion's voice.

“For example, you asked earlier how I had survived here for so long.” He raised a bony hand and pointed to the dark chest laying in the corner of the room. “I brought that with me from a neighboring town many years ago. All it contained were my few sets of clothes and some traveling money. That was until things changed.”

Silence crept through the room for a brief moment, he could feel the man behind him burning with questions.

“Go ahead, open it.”

He applied a salve to the wounded man's cheek with the hopes of it bringing the swelling down. Behind him he heard footsteps make their wary way towards the chest. The man knelt and opened the box, the old hinges creaking as they always had.

“What do you see inside?”

“Everything,” the man's startled voice said from behind him, a sort of glee permeated his tone, “everything we need.” The old man stopped working. He heard the man draw something out of the box quietly. “What did you say your name was old man?”

“Ward, my name is-” the dagger buried itself deep in his right side, he gasped in agony. “Why..”

“I don't have a name,” the man twisted the knife, balancing Ward with his left hand, careful to not let him pitch forward onto his unconscious ally, “but Ward will do just fine.” He drew the dagger he had found in the box out of the old man, spun him around, and thrust it deep into his chest.

The Fight

He did not hesitate.

With a muffled grunt he began a limping run towards the three men. The tip of the sword clanked to the ground, it was too heavy to carry in both hands and move at speed. The notched sword carved a thin trench through the old wood of the bridge as he dragged it behind him, his right arm ached fiercely under the weight of the blade.

The three men stood their ground.

Two more steps.

Tears coursed down his face with each step of his wounded leg, the embedded wooden spike tearing through the muscle of his thigh.

One more step.

The two men holding short blades, they looked more like rusty farm tools, raised their weapons. The third held the blood soaked ruined blade he had retrieved earlier, gibbering to his allies. They glanced at him and stepped backwards, the cackling man approached alone.

He had counted correctly. With one final lunging step (on his good leg) he pulled himself into range of his first enemy. He let go of the sword, steadying himself. It crashed to the ground loudly, his assailant stopped short – confused.

He reached out with his plated hands, grasping the man by the back of neck. He cried out in fury and pain, whipping his left leg backwards – the wound wept dark blood. He pulled at the head of his attacker yanking it down, his leg careened forward thigh first. The exposed chunk of wood punched easily into the mans head, he jerked madly for a few seconds and fell limp, blade clunking to the floor.

The pain in his leg faded for a brief moment, he felt victorious. 

 

 Steel slid across the right side of his ribcage.

“No..” He jerked to left as quickly as he could.

The blade thrust forward, tearing through his undergarments and slicing a deep wound in his side. He screamed and sank to a knee, clutching the wound. He heard foot steps approaching from his other side.

Metal whistled through the air, but found no connection. He had dropped to the ground, anticipating the wild strike of his foe. In his hand he now clutched the sword again, he adjusted his grip quickly.

The crazed man had over committed to his swing and was still regaining his balance. This was not to be.

He pushed himself to his knees and lashed out with the sword. The man toppled over, garbling a horrifying scream, his left knee sheared across the top. Blood boiled from his leg, he twitched on the ground moaning. The sword had slipped from his grip at the end of the swing – clanking uselessly over the edge of the bridge spinning into the unknown.

One more.

His final problem, for the moment, seized him from the right. His arms wrapped around him like links of iron chain despite their apparent frailty. He grunted and struggled, twisting furiously and even lifting the crazed figure off of the ground and spinning him around. He soon began to tire.

Foolish.

He couldn't catch his breath. His vision faded from vibrant color to misty gray and white. The arms remained cinched around him, squeezing viciously. He couldn't achieve the leverage necessary to strike out with his elbow. The man began laughing, a raspy blood filled cackle. 

 

“Tired?” The grip released. He pitched to the ground, his swollen cheek landing on the splintery wood. The pain normally would have been a cause for great distress.

I'm going to die.

His mind raced. He could find no foothold, no memories of a long life lived in happiness, no warm familiar faces to see him off to wherever he was about to go. No memory at all. Nothing.

A sharp blow struck him in the ribcage, aimed at his wound. He cried out and crumpled into the fetal position, blood oozed between his clenched teeth.

“DO IT!” He screamed between gasps. Blood and spittle flew through the air, spattering the man's feet. “What are you WAITING FO-” he looked up, the man was gazing across the bridge with a strange look on his face. The ferocity drained from his eyes.

He took the opportunity to scoot away as quietly as he could, following his attacker's gaze.

“Impossible.”

At the far end of the drawbridge, amongst the piles of cracked lumber a body rose. Clad in silver armor, scratched but impressive nonetheless. The figure slumped to the ground, unable to rise. The crazed man was still staring.

No more.

He pounced at the man's legs, a startled cry broke the air. They crashed to the ground. Before the man could react he had seized his right hand which still clutched the strange short blade, and slammed it onto the ground. The grip did not loosen.

Light and sound exploded on the left side of his head as he was dealt a blow by the man below him, he shook his head sweeping away the strange shapes drifting through his vision. He seized the hand and began prying at fingers. The man screamed.

“LET.”

He pulled at an index finger, the digit twisted and snapped.

“IT.”

The man was howling, punching madly at his face and back. He gripped the mans thumb and wrenched it to the right.

“GO!” The sound of a ripe twig snapping echoed through the air. The blade thudded to the ground. The man screamed, holding his maimed hand within his left guarding the ruined fingers. He kicked out with his legs weakly.

The scabby feet dragged across his bloodied tunic, attempting to push him back feebly. He didn't care.

“Hello..?” Echoed from across the bridge. The voice was hard to understand.

He grasped one of the kicking feet and dragged the man towards him. The heel of the other foot jabbed him in the side, a grimace of pain arched across his face. He tugged on the mans leg harder. He was close now.

He seized the stained tunic (woolen after all) and pulled, bringing the howling man to a sitting position. He clenched his metal clad right hand and fired it into the man's throat. Shock exploded in the man's bulging eyes, he crashed to the ground surrounded by air he couldn't breathe.

He kicked the struggling man away from him, the frantic light in his eyes dying slowly as the oxygen burned out of his system.

He let himself lean over and eventually fall to his unwounded side. The world was pain. He started to drift away from consciousness only to be shaken awake a few moments later. A man stood over him, but something was different.

In between the blasts of pain within his skull he could barely make out his outline. He knelt over him dressed in a similar black under-tunic.

“The armor..,” he coughed weakly, “was heavy.”

The man uttered something muffled, it didn't matter. A deep spinning blackness had come to take him away from the pain. He welcomed it.

The Bridge

 I have returned! I'm going to be using this space as I usually do, though hopefully with more updates. I'll be posting up some short stories I write, and perhaps art to accompany them once I'm less rusty at Photoshop.

What follows is the beginning of one poor fellow's journey.

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“Where am I?” The world around him spun in drunken circles. His eyes refused to make sense of what they saw, he slammed them shut. He attempted to raise his hands, but failed. They were heavy, far heavier than they should be. In fact his whole body felt pinned to the ground under some inexorable weight.

“Hello?” Only the sound of his own voice returned, weak and full of confusion. His eyes slowly began to clear, illuminating his surroundings. “How..?”

 In front him a resplendent fortress stood, bathed in sunlight filtering through the gaps in the clouds casting it in a divine light. The bright stone shimmered as if bathed in gold. As far as he could tell he currently rested on an over-used drawbridge. The splintery wood around him was torn up in places, exposing glimpses into a heart-wrenching drop below.

Piles of scattered lumber stood in various places along the bridge, perhaps it had been under repair. If it needed to be fixed, where were the carpenters? As if to answer his question, at the far end of the bridge the sound of clattering wood shattered the silence.

He attempted to raise his hands again, his arms burned with exertion – armor. Black cloth covered his arms, cinched to plates of scratched steel lining the length of his body. He pushed himself forward mightily, the armor creaked loudly. The noise from the end of the bridge seemed to grow closer. Someone was coming, finally.

A groan issued from the approaching sound. Relief was suddenly and violently replaced by fear. He needed to stand up.

CLACK-CLACK-CLACK.

More wooden beams crashed to the ground, the groaning became clearer.

Get up.

CLACK-CLACK-CLACK.

NOW.

He pressed his palms into the ground and drew his knees up to his chest, hoping to find his footing quickly. The effort was nearly impossible. He pressed with all of his might, his body raising slowly off of the drawbridge, creaking loudly all the while. As he stood his balance forsook him, he tottered backwards crashing into a stone wall. The sound of metal screeching against stone rent the air. Inset within the wall was a monstrous wooden door, barricaded.

No way back.

The crashing ahead of him had stopped. Ice ran through his veins.

“H..Hello?” He cast his eyes to the ground, there was nothing within arms reach. He returned his gaze to the bridge. A man stood there, or something resembling a man. His skin was dark red, etched with scabs and a myriad of cuts. A constant moan escaped his mouth, rising and falling in pitch at random. His breath came in ragged gasps.

A loop of frayed rope wound around his body, securing his only piece of clothing (a horribly stained sheet of gray cloth with holes hastily cut for arms and legs) to his skeletal form. His eyes burned with something unnatural. Fever perhaps? In his hand he held a broken blade, sheared off neatly near the hilt, but still sharp. Rust coated the destroyed blade, the hand gripping it looked blistered and infected. The man took a step forward, a grin spread across his face causing a few of the scabs surrounding his mouth to weep dark trails of blood.
 

He pushed himself away from the wall, finally able to maintain balance. His legs felt leaden, his body hunched over underneath the foreign armor. He could barely lift his arms. He had to get out of it. His fingers scrambled over strange buckles, loosening straps and tugging on leather strips. His chest plate fell away, he gasped in relief.

The strange man was only a few feet away, but he had slowed down – a look of curiosity briefly flickered through his eyes.

He seized his assailant's pause and knelt down, attempting to free his legs from the steel greaves keeping him immobile – eventually they too crashed to the ground. He pulled the simple metal gauntlets off of his hands and stepped out of his heavy metal boots. He stood, unarmored finally.

The strange man snarled, his approach quickened.

He stumbled to the right in hopes of finding a way to defend himself, he quickly lost his balance and went sprawling into a nearby pile of lumber, he cried out in pain upon his elbow meeting a metal surface. A jagged cut sliced angrily up from the tip of his elbow, dripping blood on the ground below. He knocked aside the wood and gasped.

A man (or woman perhaps) in armor very similar, if not identical to his own, lay there. Dusty bones filled the armor, the chest piece had been hacked and stabbed at by a blunted blade. More importantly, next to the body lay a notched sword. The blade was about four feet long and worn, but more than sharp enough. The leather hilt had all but worn away. He seized the blade and spun, facing the monstrosity approaching him.

A terrified shriek escaped him, the man was already upon him uttering an unintelligible string of words - his blade held high over his head.

KILL HIM.

The ease at which the thought entered his mind would trouble him soon, but not now. He gripped the notched longsword with both hands and raised it over his head horizontally. The small blunted blade crashed into his own, his arms bucked in protest, he collapsed to a knee. A red scabrous leg entered his vision before he could react, he felt loose flesh pull away from the knee that struck him in the right side of his face.

Light exploded into his vision, he numbly felt the sword drop from his hands. He pitched to the ground, catching himself on his hands. Spikes of wood drove into the palms of his hands, raising pinpricks of blood. He could feel the man above him reading another swing, he rolled to the left with all of his strength.

Dull steel met the wood of the bridge, the man roared in anger – his blade was stuck.

Now.

He pushed himself to his feet and charged the man, pulling his right shoulder in close, barreling towards his foe. The thin man crumpled under the assault, crashing to the ground snarling. A long nailed hand clawed at his face, he batted it away with his own delivering a savage blow with his right hand to the strange man below him. His fist smashed the few remaining teeth in the man's mouth to pieces, but he snarled on. His strength was not giving out. He raised his hand for another blow.

A lightning bolt of pain ripped through his leg. The man had seized a large chunk of loose bridge and jammed it into his right thigh, blood poured from the wound causing him to roll off of the man.

The two regained their bearings, the mad man wiped at his mouth with a boney hand smearing a dark trail of blood across his face. He stood slowly, swaying slightly.

Leave the goddamned splinter.

Sweat coursed down his face, the man was already standing, approaching him bare handed. He fell back onto his hands, scrabbling backwards. As he moved his hand brushed across a metal object, the broken blade. He snatched it frantically, attempting to find a grip.

The man fell upon him.

Fingernails dug into his shoulders, he could feel the hot breath of the man on his neck his teeth snapping at his flesh. He drove up with his left knee, air blasted out of the man's lungs but his grip was iron. With his left hand he seized the man by the throat, simultaneously squeezing and pushing him away as hard as he could manage.

The furious look in his eyes was gone, replaced by a soulless lust for death. He attained the grip necessary on the blunted blade. With one final exertion he dealt the man a thundering blow to the side of his head with his left hand, he toppled off to the right clutching his ear.

He wasted no time. He gripped the blade and dove onto his tormentor. A long nailed hand swiped at his face again, missing by mere inches. Another hand rose, he knocked it aside, inching up with his knees pinning down the struggling man. He lifted the blade and rotated it, aiming the sheared end at his opponent. He drove down once without hesitation, the short blade tore through the ragged cloth into the man's chest.

A dark river of blood gushed from his mouth. He kept struggling, his crushed mess of teeth clacking wildly. He raised the sword again.

It had taken seven stabs to stop his ceaseless thrashing. Blood coated his hands and most of his legs. The dark chunk of wood protruding from his thigh burned. He carefully wrapped his right hand around the intruding fragment and was immediately rebuffed by mind-rending pain.

Blood ran freely from scratches on his right cheek, his shoulders bled from where the man had penetrated his skin with his nails. His face had begun to swell where he had accepted the man's knee, he couldn't see through his right eye after a few more minutes.

He laid down carefully, catching his breath. Sharp bolts of pain played throughout his body.

What now?

He sat up slowly, clutching the continually swelling side of his face. At the far end of the drawbridge, past the mess his friend had made on his way to brutally murder him, was the entrance to the sprawling fortress he had admired earlier. That door looked barred as well, but the small sentry stations on either side stood with their doors hanging open.

Without placing too much weight on his wounded leg, he stood and limped over to the pile of armor he had discarded. No more chances. His hands were ripped and torn from the confrontation, his feet composed of what mostly felt like shards of ancient wood. He shrugged back into the metal arm guards feeling the weight immediately sap what little of his strength remained. The gauntlets slid perfectly onto his hands, as if they were forged for him alone. The weight may have been great, but he felt slightly better for the protection.

Next he buckled on the heavy metal greaves and foot-wear. Any more pieces would render him unable to move around with coordination.

One more thing.

He limped towards where the fight had begun and seized the old longsword from the floor of the bridge. He turned it in his hands attempting to get used to the weight. The blade was badly damaged, even chipped in some places.

Better than nothing.

He took a steadying breath and turned to begin the walk down the long drawbridge towards the castle.

Three men stood there, their scab covered bodies only hidden by shifting gray rags wrapped about them in rope. Two held actual blades this time, one pried the severed sword from his dead comrade and joined his allies.

“Alright you bastards.” 

He strengthened his grip on the old blade.