Artist's Comments
Scene from my NWN2 fan fiction The Black Canary, illustrated:
Casavir’s lip swelled with blood, and he wiped it away with a gloved hand, casting aside his hammer to brandish only his stiletto. He trod slowly, excruciatingly, towards the fallen knight crumpled on the ground, entreating courteously, “Stand, Sir Nevalle, and defend the honor of her Ladyship Emissary.” He fumbled for the hilt of his blade, but it was well out of his grasp. Snarling, he endeavored to crawl towards it, shambling on his knees. The closer he inched towards the weapon, the nearer the paladin approached. Nevalle clamored to his feet, and with an abrupt shout of misery, tumbled to the ground. His leg had been shattered by the blow of Casavir’s hammer; no measure of determination would forego his inability to stand on it. Desperately reaching for his sword, he snatched it by the blade, reeling it in and staining it with his blood. Propping himself up on the blade, he huffed frantic gulps of air. He had lost the duel, and his life- and Axarthys’s- would be forfeit. He wheezed, “Take my life, Casavir, but do not indict her Ladyship on charges I would surrender mine to discredit.” “I do not in the least doubt you, Nevalle,” Casavir swore, the regret thick in his tone. He rested the tip of his knife on the knight’s cheek, frowning with the sincerest of sorrow in his gaze, “But her Ladyship Emissary has torn a love and my child from me, and I cannot allow her plague of this world to continue. I am sorry that you named yourself her champion. Today… today you should know death, as the rite of the duel clearly states.” Nevalle turned his face towards his sword, cutting open his cheek on Casavir’s knife. As he swung his arm out to knock the stiletto out of the paladin’s hand, Casavir caught the knight’s wrist, and lugged him to his feet, offering his shoulder to lean on. He said, “Enough death has come of this for Neverwinter to lose one its finest knights, and my closest brother in arms.” As he guided Nevalle towards the dais, a stampede of footsteps rushed towards them. Casavir lowered the knight to rest against the steps before the throne, and descended them to arrive in the company of his wife Sisserou and the medium, Alice. Their faces were pink with heat and their breaths thin with running. Sisserou glanced at the wounded knight, growling with an exhale, and gasped in frustration and fear, “I suppose you were too occupied smashing the bones out of Sir Nevalle’s body with that damned hammer to remember that oh, yes! The Saintrowe child is dead. Her head was found on the altar of Tyr, and now the demon shall hunt us down the moment she knows of it. Casavir-“ “Sisserou, calm down. I know, remember?” he said, “We are not, and cannot be considered, guilty. Now, please help me-” Sisserou interjected with a shriek between breaths, throwing her arms in gesture towards the knight, “You’re going to rationalize to a demon that her child was brutally murdered but you had no part of it, because instead you were beating the entrails out of her champion, and that I was slogging around the temple of Tyr suspiciously? May I congratulate you on your brilliance? Bar the damn door or something!” Casavir darted past her, tugging on the iron gates and locking them into place. Alice followed, chanting quiet words that the paladin could only understand as a protection charm against demons. Casavir turned back, dashing to his wife as a cloud of white ectoplasm churned in the air above the gate. A black, silken mass fell from it, and when it landed, materialized into the form of Axarthys sin Saintrowe. Draped in fabric as dark and gossamer as shadow, she crept forth. Her shoulders were hunched, tense, and her bodily movements did not remotely resemble any human gesticulation. She reached up, removing the black plate of armor that covered the lower portion of her face. The demon wept blood in place of tears. “We are even now, Casavir,” she hissed, her voice stripped of its melody for the raw cruelty of its demonic rasp. Nevalle released a sob of agony, the utter inhumanity of her slit-pupil gaze unbearable. The demon slinked towards them, her arms bent out of their sockets, and her steps deliberate and indistinct, as if she walked and glided in tandem. The room grew cold, the air heavy with her presence. “Tyr, pray for us,” Alice whispered. - TOTAL TIME TO FINISH: 8-10+ hrs MEDIUMS: Just one, named Alice  Kidding, kidding. PhotoProX2.Backdrops are in-game screenshots; only the OCs are mine to claim  Bases by:     |
Details
October 22, 2008
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Comments
I love the detail.
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OH THE DRAMA!
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"You can't be a real country unless you have a beer and an airline - it helps if you have some kind of a football team, or some nuclear weapons, but at the very least you need a beer."
~ Frank Zappa
Such a shock. Nevalle drama usually has something to do with a bad hair day or a broken fingernail
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"You can't be a real country unless you have a beer and an airline - it helps if you have some kind of a football team, or some nuclear weapons, but at the very least you need a beer."
~ Frank Zappa
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"This is True Love. You think it happens every day?"
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