Art Style Research — F A U V I S M E

Lines of grey ch 2

The humanoid monster kept walking, running almost, trying to lead the lost girl out from the mess of the void and anti-void. The creature, blades black as the void sticking from its back, and two orbs of the anti-void in place for its eyes, ran from the grey lines between into a brown forest, not a leaf of green to bless its canopy. “Hey! Wait! Where are you going! You haven’t told me anything yet!” The girl ran, calling after the strangely fast broken creature as it disappeared into the backdrop of the brown forest. The girl paused, stopping at the border between the brown forest and the lines between the voids. She strained and peering at the brown mass of decay and rot, looking and searching for the black blades hewn from the void stabbed in the creatures back, or for the two white orbs pulled from the light of the anti-void. At last she found them, the blades hung in mid air, as the white orbs stared back at her. A cursed butterfly of death she ran after it, the blades of void fluttering through the air as its eyes of white glowed and cast shadows on the trees that couldn’t be seen through the brown of the decaying forest. The girl ran and ran after them, following their light as she traversed the maddeningly blank of this forest. The butterfly flew, casting the shadows on the tree, and still the girl ran, touching each tree the butterfly shone upon; her hands picking up spots of the brown ick upon her hands and shoes. Finally she ran out of the forest, onto a  grey background. Large hewn stones invisible against the greys and marbled browns of the rock. The girl stuck out like a flower upon fresh fallen white snow, espoused, raptured, cast upon a place she did not belong. The brown of the forest and the grey of the lines having been tracked along her path by her shoes as she walked carefully and slowly through the stones, glimpses of the butterfly sitting on a red rock making it to her eyes through the grey of the stones. With every stone she touched a little mark of brown was left, her trail being followed by the creatures of the back drop. She could only here them, foot steps, paw steps, the warnings this place mercifully gave to those in danger. She begin to move faster, her steps varied and spread, her path muzzled and marked, mixing into the painted grey of the rocks. Still she made her way to the clearing where the butterfly sat, finally finding herself there, she raised her voice. “Alright, enough running, things are following me now, what is it you need me to know?” She called to the butterfly, its ethereal form fluttering on the rock. “You’ve already learned all you need, your doing it right now, marking the path forward, marking the way ahead. Your feet, odd they may be, pick up the paint of other lands, and leave it behind you when you step. Your hands, delicate and useless as they are, pick up and move the paints of the lands as you move from object to object. You do everything that I could have ever asked of you.” She stuttered, faltering. Her legs giving out beneath her, panic screaming in her mind. A rock, cracks next to her, crumbling and failing to hold itself. She reached over, to the stone. A blue blade, standing there perfectly for her to take. Shakily she raised a hand, taking the blade in her hand. Its blue paint staining her hand over the brown and grey she had unknowingly marked it with. She heard the foot print of a creature of grey right behind her, and swung, striking the creature a deep mark with the bright blue painted blade. Swinging it in front of her she ran into the grey rock stone lands around her, cutting any stone she ran into in half with that mythical blade. Leaving marks of blue, brown, grey, black, and white where every she swung, stepped, and rested upon. Running, just running now. She had come upon a grass green land, a bright blue sky above and a green grass like turf beneath her she kept running. The creatures of grey did not follow here as she did, standing alone now, she scanned the blue for any semblance of an objective. There was nothing now, the grey stone lands were far behind her now, and the decaying brown forest had left her before that. The butterfly and its blade wing, and gleaming eyes did not follow her when she left, instead it stayed and sat till she supposed it sated its wish to sit upon the red stone. So sat she did too, waiting, watching the horizon of unchanging sky blue. “Marking the path forward huh… Alright, then that’s what I’ll do. There’s got to be some sort of intelligent creature around here, a society of those rat things or a people of the butterflies. Either way, I don’t feel like being lost into this green and become one of those creatures that was chasing me.” She stood up, seeing the multi-colored path she left behind her, and began to walk in the same direction, walking away from her own laced path. Leaving steps like walking stones behind her, as she was finding her way to the edge of the green, where a small cottage of yellow sat in that color and shade. A single yellow mark upon the green grass and blue sky. —- —- —- Hey everyone! Here you go! Hope you all like it! Have a good day everyone! Please leave a comment if you have any suggestions for later submissions!

We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for.

DEAD POETS SOCIETY (1989) dir. Peter Weir

Me_irl

Dimple & Ritsu mess up and try to recover, taken from the second Mob Psycho 100 stage play (context)

Full play now available!

reblog if ur blog is anti-nazi

if ur a nazi or neo-nazi or support nazi ideologies let this be a fucking harsh message that ur not welcome on this blog and I hope you get socked in the face

Hey did you know I keep a google drive folder with linguistics and language books  that I try to update regularly 

I want to be a rock.

Like, rocks have it so easy. Just stay there; relax, let moss grow over your rough texture. I want to let nature swallow me in its attempts to make everything beautiful.

Heres a viktor drawing i was trying to do a s t u dy on arcane's artstyle lowkey failed i think??? Idk. But viktor's gr8.

good things will happen 🧿

things that are meant to be will fall into place 🧿

The 1997 SpongeBob (sorry, Sponge Boy) Bible has been made public.