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Literature
SR:A Origins -- Lobott: Seedling
The thrum of buzzing wings fills the air as a needle-like beak makes its way for the welcoming cup of a little red flower. The hummingbird is a piece of jewelry come to life; its body glittering emerald, its throat a vibrant ruby, its wings a silvery blur.
Lobott Notmorgan watches intently as the hummingbird approaches the lone blossom on his arm. The slightest twitch could startle the little bird away, and indeed a being of flesh and blood would have found it impossible to stay so very still.
Lobott, however, is a golem, hewn from clay and given life with an earth-spark drawn from the Chaos Sea. Living plants cover his head and torso and sprout from his limbs, but he himself needs neither food nor breath. Altogether handy when observing a tiny and skittish creature.
The bird takes a little sip and hovers in place, seeming satisfied, so Lobott lets his eyes wander back to his work. The clothesline, stretching between two thick tree trunks by the edge of the clearing, is nearly full. Th
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Literature
SR:A Origins -- Orion: Lone Wolf
White.
All the world is swirling white
The icy wind whips flurries of snow back and forth, up and around, endless and indifferent. It whirls beneath a half-lit sky of steel-grey clouds. It howls over the snow-cloaked crests and ridges of the land, sucking spirals of fresh-fallen powder in its wake. It chills all it touches, and here upon the Aerghan wastes, it touches everything.
Soft as it is, the powdery, snow hardly even whispers when cloven hooves plough through it. The minotaurs, in turn, are barely slowed by the drifts around their legs as they march steadily onward, as enduring as the land itself.
Nostha walks in front. Scars large and small, straight and crooked show beneath the black of his wind-blown fur, speaking of fights without number, fights entered and won. Clan rings of carved bone and beaten bronze decorate his mighty horns, and a necklace of teeth and claws rattles softly against his muscled chest. He does not flinch as the blizzard sinks its icy fangs into him anew,
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Literature
I See Myself In You - A Legend of Korra oneshot
The bandit charges her with a snarl on his lips, arm cocked in a crude, clumsy imitation of the Omashu style. She could easily dodge or block the small boulder he's preparing to lob, but such theatrics aren't worth the time or effort. Thwip, thwip, go her steel bands, and the unshaven man is toppled off his feet with a shout, suddenly bound hand and foot. A pouchful of gleaming coins, pilfered from her people, spills out onto the dusty tan earth as the boulder crashes off to the side.
Kuvira ignores the bandit, just as she ignores the money. Her troops can take care of the cleaning up. She is needed at the fight.
Sure enough, a new wave of outlaws already approaches. Having seen their accomplice so easily defeated, they are on the alert, fanning out and attempting to surround her. It does not matter. These are common crooks, nothing more: poorly organized rabble, with tactics and fighting styles as unrefined as the earth they bend. Kuvira is a sharpened sickle, and like s
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Alone by EonOrteaShadowmaster Alone :iconeonorteashadowmaster:EonOrteaShadowmaster 2 2 Winter Light by EonOrteaShadowmaster Winter Light :iconeonorteashadowmaster:EonOrteaShadowmaster 11 4 Raweru's Azuran Warder - Colored by EonOrteaShadowmaster Raweru's Azuran Warder - Colored :iconeonorteashadowmaster:EonOrteaShadowmaster 2 0 dAsymmetry by EonOrteaShadowmaster dAsymmetry :iconeonorteashadowmaster:EonOrteaShadowmaster 1 1 Etheria by EonOrteaShadowmaster Etheria :iconeonorteashadowmaster:EonOrteaShadowmaster 8 4 Aurora by EonOrteaShadowmaster Aurora :iconeonorteashadowmaster:EonOrteaShadowmaster 16 8 Summer Dragon by EonOrteaShadowmaster Summer Dragon :iconeonorteashadowmaster:EonOrteaShadowmaster 12 6
Literature
Speculative Screenplay - Dulce et Decorum Est
EXT. – OPEN FRENCH TERRAIN - DUSK
CAMERA on the muddy earth.  A soldier’s boot comes abruptly into view, splashing into the mud.  It leaves at a walking place, followed by another one.  The third foot to enter frame isn’t even wearing a boot.
PAN SLOWLY across the sight of MORGAN’S COMPANY, on the march across the drizzly, darkened terrain.  The men are all in a miserable state.  They are disheveled, unshaven and dirt-smeared.  Uniforms are torn and muddy, and some men are missing helmets or boots.  They trudge bowed over, almost stumbling through the sludge.  The look on everyone’s face is that of blank fatigue and despair.
A coughing fit sounds out here and there, and a few soldiers murmur what could either be curses or prayers.  The only other sound is the splat of boots on mud.

MORGAN’S VO
Nobody thought of winning anymore.  There were no more songs about marching into Berlin.  There were
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Literature
Commision: MLP OC Knight Profiles

Luminous
The Knight Commander of the Dawn Order and Lord Regent of the Misty Isle, Sir Luminous is one of the most powerful and respected ponies in the Equestrian northeast.  He is an extremely serious and quiet stallion, devoted almost absolutely to his duty as a knight.  He does, however, show warmth towards the younger knights of his Order, and towards the young Princess, his charge.
Bio:
As a colt, Luminous was left an orphan by the dragon Conflagrus' infamous rampage.  He was rescued and taken in by Sir Dauntless Stormwing, then-Knight Commander of the Dawn Order, becoming the legendary knight's squire and receiving his knighthood from the Misty King himself.  After Sir Dauntless' death, Luminous' star only continued to rise, and despite his youth, he was soon named Knight Commander.  As his career progressed, he grew closer and closer to the Royal Family.  At the King's deathbed, he was named
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Ancient Draconic Font by EonOrteaShadowmaster Ancient Draconic Font :iconeonorteashadowmaster:EonOrteaShadowmaster 2 0 WolfBite's Portrait Frame by EonOrteaShadowmaster WolfBite's Portrait Frame :iconeonorteashadowmaster:EonOrteaShadowmaster 2 3
Literature
The Bandit and the Hell-Hound
The people of England have many legends to tell.  Some are about the Fair Folk, beautiful, untrustworthy, but occasionally generous.  Some are about the noble knights of old, the fearsome monsters they defeated, and the good people they defended.  And some, told only on the deepest, darkest nights, speak of Black Shuck.
Black Shuck is a dog, but he is a dog like no other.  Black is his pelt, red are his eyes, and he stands as tall as a cow, though no cow ever had such razor claws and wicked fangs.  He appears in the dark of the night, seeking the wicked at heart to hunt them down. Some say he was the hound of Odin, king of the old gods.  Others call him spawn of Satan, the Devil himself.  All agree, though, that he is a beast to be treated with fear and respect.  Should you come to face his stare, find the courage to meet it.  Never attack him.  Never turn your back and flee.  Then, perhaps, will you live to see another sunrise.  Perhaps...

One autumn night when the moon was ful
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Literature
Kora: Safe
CRACK!
With a sharp, sizzling report, a bolt of amber aether crashed into Naline's shield, its force making the transparent green membrane shiver and ripple.  The lean, silvery-haired warrior-mage braced herself against the impact, grunting as the shock wave shot up her outstretched arm.
As the spell's residual sparks showered the stone floor, Naline was already sweeping her free arm around, sending a whirling disk of emerald-colored energy scything at her opponent.  Letting out a shout, stocky Zyell flung himself forwards and down, rolling over the dark stones as the magical assault passed overhead.  Coming up to a kneeling position, the muscular Etvor man brought his arm up, casting his own shield just in time to deflect a second blast.  Keeping up the swift pace, Zyell countered with a chaos strike, which Naline could only avoid with a rather undignified half-leap, half-twirl to the side.
As the cone of rippling air shot harmlessly past
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World-Building, Character-Making and Story-Shaping Consulting
Assistance in brainstorming, shaping a world for your story, shaping a character, and more.  I'd be happy to contribute!
Commissioned writing (per deviation)
Have an idea you'd like to put to words? A story you'd like to see come to life? Ask me!

I specialize in fantasy and science fiction, but am by no means limited to it.  Sexuality and other mature subjects are fine by me.  Crude porn is not.
Translations (English-Dutch and Dutch-English)
For my fellow Dutch deviants who wish to expand their literary demographic, or for the people who (for whatever reason) want their work translated into Dutch, my services are available.  I am a native speaker of both languages, and am capable with language in general.

Price is per deviation translated.  The translation of non-dA text is also negotiable.
Proofreading (per deviation)
I can analyze and (if needed) correct/improve spelling, word choice, grammar, punctuation marks, etc.  Basically, ask me if you feel your literature needs a bit of polishing.

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EonOrteaShadowmaster's Profile Picture
EonOrteaShadowmaster

Artist | Student | Literature
Netherlands
Kaltxì, hoi, guten Tag, bonjour: In short, greetings, deviant. Welcome to the world of the Shadowmaster. Why the name? I'm rather partial to darkness, to the mysterious. Darkness is not evil, it is merely different.
Magic seems to have become my middle name. The world of enchantment, of fantasy, of the mysterious and magnificent, is one of my favorite places to be.
I am here to appreciate the wonderful world of art and to present my own creations to it. Here's hoping my own drawings and literature will be appreciated.

Want something written? My (digital) writer's quill is available...

I like creating characters based on real people. It's a habit of mine to ask my friends and family what kind of fantasy character they'd like to be. Got an interesting OC in mind? Perhaps we could create something...
Interests
Got myself tagged by this little joker --> :iconlord0maximus:  (Thanks a lot, buddy.)

Pokemon Randomizer: randompokemon.com/
 
should already be on the proper settings. 
Only one Pokemon per question. 
Tag one or more person when you
're finished.  (Oy.)

This Pokémon is you:

Mightyena
A dark-type hyena-dog?  Oooh, yeah!

1. This Pokémon is your best friend:


Torterra
My best friend is a walking hilltop. Oh, I'm going to be hitching a ride or two...

2. This Pokémon is your boss that you need to impress for a promotion:


Serperior
Has a "piercing glare".  *Boss disapproval intensifies*

3. This Pokémon is your partner for your science project:

Bellossom
Frankly, I don't think a leaf-dress is the best thing to wear in a lab. On the other hand, probably fun to work with.

4. This Pokémon is looking for every way possible to murder you:


Frogadier
"Can scale a 2,000-foot tower in one minute."  Uh-oh...

5. This Pokémon is your mother-in-law:

Staryu
...what.

6. This Pokémon is your boyfriend/girlfriend:


Sharpedo
...now how the hell...

7. This Pokémon is your ex:



Accelgor
I repeat: How the hell?!

8. This Pokémon stalks you every waking moment:

Hariyama
You know, stalking generally entails staying out of sight. (And seriously, how do I keep attracting scary, glaring Pokémon?)

9. This Pokémon likes to snuggle with you:

Wailmer
I can't help but see a logistical problem here.

10. This Pokémon ate all your cheesecake:


Fennekin
I'd be mad, but it's kind of impossible in the face of such cuteness.


11. This Pokémon is what you felt in your bed last night:

Garbodor
...

Right.  I'm getting a new bed. And possibly a new house.

12. This Pokémon banged your mom:

Cresselia
All things considered, this could have turned out a lot worse.  (Although the fact that they are 100% female raises an interesting question...)

13. This Pokémon will do anything to try and get in your pants:

Klink
Well, they're not gonna succeed!

14. This Pokémon died by your own hands:


Diancie
I... I... I had no choice.

15. This Pokémon is your loyal companion for life:

Forretress
Considering the pokémon I need to worry about, another living tank in my life seems like a good idea.

16. This Pokémon reads you bed time stories:


Beautifly
Cool!  Watching the pretty wings seems like a bonus, too.

17. This Pokémon is your loving pet:

Frogadier
Ah. My pet is trying to murder me.  Goody.

18. This Pokémon is your creepy dentist:


Furret
First off, how on earth does it hold the instruments?

20. This Pokémon is what you found in your basement when you moved into your new house:

Starly
Poor thing.  I let it out immediately.

21. This Pokémon watches you sleep:

Spinarak
...

Thankfully, that story about swallowing spiders in your sleep is a myth.

22. This Pokémon is your guardian angel:


Flaaffy
As long as I can cuddle with it, this is fine by me!

23. This Pokémon won't rest untill it has a lock of your hair to cherish forever:


Yveltal
YOU CAN HAVE IT! YOU CAN HAVE IT! :sprint:

24. This Pokémon will be there for you when you need it:

Gardevoir
"...can sense when its Trainer is in danger, and will use its psychic power to distort dimensions and create a small black hole to protect its Trainer."  This is a genuine comfort.

25. These Pokémon want to form a band with you (generate 3 here):


LilligantVolcanionLedyba
Sooo, vocals/dancing, percussion and... whatever a ball-handed ladybug can play.  This could be fun!

(Edit: I have just learned that Volcanion is completely and utterly mythical and does not truly exist. Huh.)


I hereby tag :icondoomvargg:.  Your turn, sis!

Activity


The thrum of buzzing wings fills the air as a needle-like beak makes its way for the welcoming cup of a little red flower. The hummingbird is a piece of jewelry come to life; its body glittering emerald, its throat a vibrant ruby, its wings a silvery blur.


Lobott Notmorgan watches intently as the hummingbird approaches the lone blossom on his arm. The slightest twitch could startle the little bird away, and indeed a being of flesh and blood would have found it impossible to stay so very still.


Lobott, however, is a golem, hewn from clay and given life with an earth-spark drawn from the Chaos Sea. Living plants cover his head and torso and sprout from his limbs, but he himself needs neither food nor breath. Altogether handy when observing a tiny and skittish creature.


The bird takes a little sip and hovers in place, seeming satisfied, so Lobott lets his eyes wander back to his work. The clothesline, stretching between two thick tree trunks by the edge of the clearing, is nearly full. The afternoon sunlight shines merrily on the arrangement of clothing: an old grey tunic, green pants patched over time and again, and of course, Linus’s lucky socks. Here, deep in the woods of Athania, the summer sun has left the air thick and humid. The fabric will no doubt take all day to dry properly. That does not matter, though. Lobott is not one to hurry.


“Hurry, Lobott! Fetch the medicine bag!”


Startled, Lobott looks up, sending the hummingbird zipping away between the branches. His attention, however, is on the dwarf emerging from behind the briar patch.


Linus Notmorgan fits the phrase “As old as the hills,” like few do. The hill dwarf’s rough yet gentle features are tanned and wrinkled like well-worn leather. His grey beard – long, though thinning – and bushy eyebrows frame eyes the color of looming thunderheads, though Lobott has yet to meet the storm capable of merry twinkling. The druid leans heavily on his plain wooden staff as he makes his way to the clearing.


He is also bleeding from several fresh slashes across his arm and side.


Immediately, Lobott drops his nearly empty wicker basket and hastens off to the den. Nestled between the roots of the enormous willow that stands at one end of the clearing, the little deerhide shelter serves both as Linus’s sleeping place and as a spot for storing his supplies. It is the latter that Lobott is headed for; specifically, the drawstring bag containing cloth bandages, root of sage and mandrake and other healer’s items. Finding it tucked away beside Linus’s old axe, he hurries back to his master as fast as his thick clay limbs can carry him.


“Master, you are hurt,” he says in concern.


“Why, so I am,” Linus replies with a cheerfulness that stands at stark odds with his appearance. He gratefully accepts Lobott’s supporting arm, allowing the golem to guide him towards the smooth little boulder that serves as his customary seat. “Mph. Thank you, lad. That upstart Treorisurr was causing a stir again, so I had to teach her a lesson. Doesn’t she know deer are very shy and sensitive animals?”


“I fear her concerns are not for the local wildlife, Master,” answers Lobott.


“Well, that’s her loss,” Linus states in his customary matter-of-fact manner. He lets out a dry chuckle, but quickly sobers. “And everyone else’s, for that matter. Time’s doing her a greater kindness than it is me, that’s for sure. Won’t be long before she starts making some real trouble.” Personally, Lobott considers clawing up an old druid to be quite troublesome enough, but Linus is already going on, just as he always does.


“There’s just so much to learn from nature, from the world around us, and she, well…” – he puffs out his cheeks, letting out a slow breath – “she refuses to see any of it. I love nature, have I mentioned that?”


“You have, Master,” answers Lobott, just as he always does. He helps Linus ease himself into a sitting position, then takes out a tiny stone mortar and pestle from the bag and starts mashing up some mandrake root. Green dragons are venomous creatures, and it is better to be safe than sorry.


“Oh, but those deer- I’m glad I could calm them down,” says Linus, helpfully undoing his tunic with his good hand. “They were in all states, fearing for their lives because of that scaled child- Yow!” He winces when the golem applies some fresh mandrake paste to the worst of the cuts. “Och, I’ll need me a smoke when you’re done, sure as sunset.”


Lobott nods silently in agreement. When the paste runs out, he takes out the roll of bandages and sets to work binding the wounds. Treorisurr’s claw marks are long and none too shallow, and the dull white cloth quickly stains crimson. The cuts could be worse, but Lobott knows that they will form impressive additions to his master’s already considerable collection of scars. The lines criss-crossing his weathered skin are testament to the dwarf’s firm belief that magical healing – which would close the wounds and leave the skin as new – is something for emergencies only. “After all,” as he would always say, “what if I need to clear the local watering hole, or a pack of blights shows their faces? Can’t very well take them on properly if I’ve spent all my juice on curing the odd scratch, now can I?”


Right now, however, Linus is musing on about Treorisurr again. “She did quite a number on me, you know? Growing up, like I said, and she’s doing it fast. I swear by the Sacred Grove, last time she stepped out of line, her claws didn’t sting nearly as much. Oof!” Lobott pulls tight another bandage. “Where’s the hurry, I ask you? The girl’s got centuries left on her! Mm, maybe I am just growing old. But!” – he holds up one finger – “It’ll take more than that to bring down this old bear, just you see.”


Lobott does see, but the incident has set his thoughts down an uncomfortable path nonetheless. He remains silent for a while, working efficiently at patching up the remaining cuts. For all the steadiness of the golem’s clay-hewn features, though, Linus knows him too well, and Lobott can feel that his master has noticed something is troubling him. Still, he lets Lobott gather his thoughts in peace, just as they always do. Some things cannot be rushed.


“Master,” Lobott finally speaks up. “What happens if you die?”


“Simple, my boy,” answers the dwarf without missing a beat. “When you die, your soul goes for a ride on old Maulos.” He accompanies his lecture with a bobbing hand, miming a journey on horseback. “He takes you his Hall, high in the frozen north somewhere and judges you. You know, if you’ve told the truth and kept your oaths… been a good person. That sort of thing. And if he approves, he gives you a ride to the Beyond.” Linus casts a critical eye to the sky. “Could swear I’ve told you that at least once. Either way, I think it’s going to rain tomorrow. I love rain, did I ever mention that?”


“You have, Master,” the golem replies with complete sincerity. “But that is not what I mean. What happens if you die, specifically?”


“What, me?” Linus’s bushy gray eyebrows shoot up like twin startled squirrels. “Treori hasn’t done that bad a number on me, lad! Besides, I’ve got you caring for me, and I’d like to think I taught you well.” He claps his creation reassuringly on his loamy shoulder. “No, no, I’ll be fine in the morning, just you wait!” He winces, the movement appearing to have tugged at one of his injuries. “Though I will be a little sore, I’ll grant.”


“That is also not what I mean, Master.” A final knot in the final bandage, and Lobott is finished. He draws the medicine bag shut. “What happens when you die? Not now, but when you do?”


Linus takes the time to blink a few times. “What do you mean, my boy?” His jolliness has faded away a little, like a flower starting to wilt.


“What happens to the forest without you? To the animals, and Treorisurr?” Lobott hesitates. “What happens to me?”


“Oh,” Linus says simply. “That.”


For a moment, the camp is silent. The only sound is the rustle of leaves and the distant chirping of birds. The light filtering through the treetops is taking on a golden hue. Evening will be coming soon, Lobott realizes absently. He should be getting the fire ready soon. The laundry isn’t quite finished, either.


Finally, Linus breaks the silence. “Lobott,” he says. “I think I’ll be having that smoke now. Could you be so kind as to fetch me that bag of pipe-weed Adon gave me? The dark stuff.”


When Linus has stuffed his old clay pipe, lit it with a murmured word and taken his first puffs of ghost-grey smoke, he sits back and sighs. “What will happen to you, you say…” He sits up, fixing Lobott with a look from his bright old eyes. “Well, I’d say it depends on you, of course.” Linus speaks with a far calmer tone than before, and he seems older, wiser. It is his thoughtful voice, the one he uses only seldom. “What will you do, Lobott? Will you continue watching over this place?”


“Of course, Master,” Lobott answers without a second thought. “I will do as you have taught me.” How could he do any different? He was shaped here, taught here. And besides, who will watch over the woods if he does not?


“Well, then, nothing much will change. It would be you tending to the forest, taking care of the animals… Knocking sense into the odd dragon,” he adds with a wry grin, then takes another pull from his pipe. “I have faith you can take my place, lad. But, perhaps…”


“But what?” Lobott asks in uncertain anticipation. “Is there another solution?”


Linus seems to mull it over. He looks almost mournful, Lobott realizes, and he feels a twinge of guilt at saddening his old master so.


“It wouldn’t be doing right by you, keeping you here,” the dwarf says finally.


“I do not understand, Master. It is very right for me to be here.”


A ghost of the old twinkle appears in Linus’s eye. “Oh, sure as Mother Dastreuse herself, we’re doing these woods right. But,” – he raises his pipe, rather than his finger – “they weren’t doing too badly before I got here, either. The forest is old as the Realms themselves, and she’ll do as she’ll do. The plants and the plant-eaters and the eaters of plant-eaters…


“But you,” he interrupts himself, and sighs a haze of smoke. “You’ve barely gotten started.”


Lobott has existed for several decades now, and he makes to tell his master, but Linus is already mumbling again, fishing around in one of his belt pouches. Triumphantly, he withdraws a sprig of blue-black elderberries.


“Now, take the trees with their fruits. Don’t worry, I’m getting somewhere with this, don’t worry.” Laying aside his pipe, he plucks a single berry from its stem, rolling it between his fingertips. “In the span of things, you haven’t lived long yet, and you’ve spent all that time with your maker. All considered, you’re just a seedling.” He pops it into his mouth, then retrieves his pipe. “Now, trees, they don’t grow right next to the trees that seeded them; it would be a mess, and muck with their growth besides. So, pine cones fling their seeds, and berries like this get eaten, then…” he trails off, making a vague gesture.


“Do you mean that I should be flung or get eaten, Master?” Lobott asks, cocking his head. If that is indeed what he means, this could be difficult.


Linus splutters and nearly spits out his pipe. “What?” he brings out along with a cloud of smoke. “No, no, that was a metaphor!”


Lobott nods. He had expected as much, but it is always best to make sure.


Linus, on the other hand, shakes his head. “Mph. My fault; should have seen that coming. A bit too colorful a metaphor.” He pauses in thought, then his eyes take on that familiar twinkle again. “Hah, that would be a sight, though. Can you imagine?” he says, pointing the stem of his pipe at Lobott. “You, traveling the world in the belly of a beast? Hohoho, but we’d have to find one big enough!” With each of his chuckles, another tiny puff of smoke drifts into the night.


Lobott does not find the thought of being devoured particularly funny, but Master Linus seems to be enjoying himself, so he does not say anything.


Linus seems to shake himself awake. “Ahum, but we’re losing the trail here. The point is, it could be that you find yourself happy as can be, tending to this glade or one just like it. You know, tending to the herds, scolding the odd fool who’s setting fire to the bushes, all that.


“But it could be that there is something out there that calls to you just as surely as the woods here did for me. It might be a place, it might be a person, it might be, hoho,” – he draws himself up, assuming an exaggeratedly grandiose expression – “some great and noble cause. But you won’t know that unless you take the time to find it. And time, well… That’s something you have on your clay hands more than most anyone around here.”


Lobott abruptly feels as if he is standing on some great precipice, with nothing but the swirling wind to keep him steady. He says nothing, but Linus seems to take note of his apprentice’s discomfort.


“Freedom’s nothing to be taken lightly, is it? It’s huge, terrifying…”


“This is not reassuring, Master,” Lobott protests, and Linus lets out a gentle chuckle.


“I know, I know, but I have faith in you, Lobott. You’re strong and sturdy and if I may say so myself, I’ve taught you well.” He wags a finger. “The teachings of the druids have plenty of uses out there. Taking the middle road, give all sides a chance…” he trails off, then puffs a sharp little smoke ring. “And if things get out of hand, not being afraid to get your hands a little dirty.


“Besides, I’m not done for quite yet! No need to make your decision anytime soon. And, when the time does come, you can always come back here if the land of lords and roads and sharp-toothed things isn’t to your liking.


Lobott ponders this, absently stroking his leafy beard just like Linus does his hairy one. The cliff is still there, in his mind, but perhaps – perhaps – there is a path down to the green woods beyond.


“You could be right, Master,” he finally decides. “It is frightening, but I admit I am curious as to what I may find. Above all, though, I will strive to make you proud.”


“Oh, Lobott…” Linus Notmorgan sighs. His grey eyes are misty now, and as full of warmth as a father looking at his infant son. “You truly are something special. Did I ever mention that?”


After a moment, he snaps his fingers and murmurs a word. A tiny gray cloud appears over the palm of his hand, pouring illusory rain. “Now then. Best get those clothes inside by tonight. I love me a rainstorm, but wet socks are another thing entirely.”


 -----


It is three years later when Lobott Notmorgan finally sets out from the nameless grove. His pack is light, for he needs neither food nor shelter, but Linus’s old axe hangs from a loop on its side. (“Just in case,” as his master would say.) He holds his elm-wood staff, well-worn from years of use, firmly in his hand. Linus’s lucky socks sway a little in the breeze as he makes his way down the old game trail.


Behind him, to one side of the clearing, the single sprout that will become an elderberry tree stands proud atop a mound of fresh-turned earth.


A hummingbird flits over Lobott’s head as he sets off into the great expanse that is the Realm of Athania. It is time to spread and grow.

SR:A Origins -- Lobott: Seedling
Seven Realms: Awakening is the delightful, monstrous project I've been working on for over a year now. Well, me, and six friends. SR:A is a Dungeons and Dragons campaign that I'm running, telling the story of six brave adventurers from all corners of the world, brought together by fate and getting in way over their heads.

The Origins series, as the name implies, is a gathering of character shorts, exploring the player characters' backgrounds before they were brought together in Caladale.

Seedling focuses on Lobott, the overgrown clay golem druid who serves the party as healer, herbalist and general voice of reason. He's played by the fine :icondeluxeloy: Deluxeloy. Character portrait by the esteemed :iconneprezi: Neprezi.


Jump to:

Orion: eonorteashadowmaster.deviantart.com/art/SR-A-Origins-Orion-Lone-Wolf-645119768
Lobott: Here!
Crowe: Coming soon...
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White.


All the world is swirling white


The icy wind whips flurries of snow back and forth, up and around, endless and indifferent. It whirls beneath a half-lit sky of steel-grey clouds. It howls over the snow-cloaked crests and ridges of the land, sucking spirals of fresh-fallen powder in its wake. It chills all it touches, and here upon the Aerghan wastes, it touches everything.


Soft as it is, the powdery, snow hardly even whispers when cloven hooves plough through it. The minotaurs, in turn, are barely slowed by the drifts around their legs as they march steadily onward, as enduring as the land itself.


Nostha walks in front. Scars large and small, straight and crooked show beneath the black of his wind-blown fur, speaking of fights without number, fights entered and won. Clan rings of carved bone and beaten bronze decorate his mighty horns, and a necklace of teeth and claws rattles softly against his muscled chest. He does not flinch as the blizzard sinks its icy fangs into him anew, for he has seen its like before, and he shall endure this one too.


Dothran follows in the veteran’s wake. His rings are fewer and his scars are sparser, but his horns and spear are sharp and sturdy. The Great Mother’s blood flows hot through his veins, and unlike stony Nostha he grins in silent challenge at the storm, daring it to do worse. All the same, he is on the alert, looking back and forth for signs of prey.


In the rear walks Orion. He is full-grown but young, and his rings are few, but he too endures. He too is a warrior, a hunter, a minotaur of the Whitewind clan. He will not fail.


Their journey is dangerous, unforgiving, miserable, but it is necessary. Eight days now has this storm covered the land. It blew in from the black-fanged mountains of the north, almost half a season early. The clan knows how to deal with the harshness of winter, but this is too much, too soon. The stocks of roots and mosses and meat have shrunken, dangerously so. The clan must have more food, and quickly, and so the Elders have sent hunters and gatherers out into the white and the cold.


Nostha, who has seen a hundred hunts and more, leads his hunters toward the red-earth hills, the edge of Whitewind lands, where prey-herds will no doubt be sheltering. He follows the buried trail without hesitation, without doubt, without slowing. Even as the sun vanishes unseen behind the horizon, they move on, their dark-sight lighting the path in their eyes with shades of ghostly gray. However, the need for shelter and rest is something not even a veteran minotaur can ignore.


Orion does not spot their destination until they are nearly upon it. Through the gloom and the snowfall, he can make out the jumble of great gray rocks sticking from the white-coated earth. They are huge, smooth, and their lichen-splotched sides are free of all but the most stubborn of snowflakes. More importantly, where two of them support a flat, slab-like rock, they form a hollow. It is almost a cave.


It will do.


The hunters are silent as they set up their camp in the hollow. They are not soft, hornless bare-skins, babbling all day and night. They know what they must do, and they will do it. They stretch a bear-fur before the mouth of their shelter, keeping back the howling wind, and build a small fire of dried dung and tinder-twigs. It is more for warmth than anything else; the dried meat they chew needs no cooking.


When they are finished, Orion and Dothran spread out their furs to catch their rest. Nostha, who has the first watch, gazes impassively at the rippling bear skin, one finger tracing the outline of his mighty war-axe’s blade. Orion looks at the embers of the low-burning fire, hoping he will sleep soundly this time.


Despite the fur and fire, the cold has sunken into his flesh when Nostha wakes him. It clings unpleasantly to his body, and Orion snorts in displeasure, rubbing his forearms roughly to return a little warmth to him. The fire is little more than glowing coals now, and he decides to feed it a little more fuel. There is enough for that; they will surely kill their prey tomorrow.


Nostha settles down and falls asleep with remarkable swiftness. Soon, Orion is left alone with the rumbling snores of his clansfolk and the whoosh of the never-ending storm. Without moon or stars to judge by, and with the fire so much smaller than normal, it is difficult to tell how quickly the night passes. The world has shrunken to the borders of their little cavern. Orion occupies himself with thoughts of the hunt. He will take down an elk himself, he decides. He will show that he belongs with the clan.


As the time comes for Dothran to take his watch, Orion realizes there has been a change. The wind has died down; not entirely, but enough to bring an eerie sort of calm. And in this half-quiet, he hears something else. The soft, panting whine of a beast.


They are not alone.


Instantly, Orion is jolted alert. He scrambles to his hooves, snatching up his war-axe from where it had been lying beside him, and turns to the back of the cave, where the faint sound is coming from. Slowly, he steps forth, ducking his head to keep from scraping his horns against the stone above. Beasts can be dangerous, whether they are prey or rivals. An animal here could mean extra food, but it could also mean a fight. Orion is not worried. He can fight.


Perhaps, even, killing this beast could earn him some respect in the eyes of the clan.


The hollow is bigger here than it looked from the entrance. A bulge of rock blends with the rear wall, hiding a smooth-edged opening just barely large enough to fit through. Axe at the ready, Orion turns the corner and looks inside.


He stops short.


There, standing alone in the tiny cave, is a wolf.


The creature holds its head low, ears lying flat along its neck, and it growls at the intruding minotaur with bared fangs. Dark-sight is colorless, but Orion can see a faint, deep-blue glow in its eyes. Its coat is a mottled white and grey, almost the exact color of the heap of snow behind it.


No, not snow. Another wolf. A wolf that, when it was alive, would have stood almost shoulder to shoulder with Nostha. Now, though, it lies motionless on the rough stone, the dark wounds in its side frozen and bloodless.


Orion stands very still. He has heard the Elders tell of beasts like this. Winter-wolves, monstrous creatures that emerge from the snows like ghosts, slaying their prey with teeth and claws and freezing breath. For all their fury, they are also cunning; cunning enough, it is said, to speak.


A winter-wolf is a rival-beast like no other, who will kill clansfolk and prey alike. By the clan laws, they must be fought and slain. A danger like them, a challenger like them, cannot be allowed to live.


And yet Orion does not raise his axe, does not move in for the kill. The cub he sees before him, half-grown and clearly weakened, does not look like a legendary rival-beast. It looks hurt. It looks lonely. It looks…


Orion feels strange. There is an odd twisting in his chest, around his heart. Suddenly, his axe seems very heavy. The wolf-cub still has its teeth bared and hackles raised, but has stopped growling. It looks at Orion with those blue eyes, and the minotaur can just barely hear a piteous little whine. Through the wolf’s thick coat, he can see the curve of its ribs, pushing in and out with every slow breath. Food. It needs food. Orion has food.


Before he realizes what he is doing, he has turned around. In his pack beside the fire, he still has some jerky left. It is not much, but if they catch their prey tomorrow, it will be enough.


“What was that?”


Orion freezes in his tracks. By the last flickering remains of the fire, Dothran sits awake. Orion feels a strange jolt of… fear? Not for himself, though clansfolk like Dothran have made him feel that before. No, it is for the wolf. Dothran will slay a rival-beast without hesitation.


But it is the clan’s laws. Why shouldn’t he.


He shouldn’t. He can’t.


It is almost as if someone else is speaking in Orion’s place. “I thought I heard something. It is nothing.”


Dothran snorts dismissively, and his lips curl into a sneer. “I heard growling,” he answers. “That is not nothing. You lie, weakling.” Orion’s heart plummets as the hunter rises and takes up his spear. His head is filled with the swirling white of the snowstorm.


Dothran walks up and seizes the paralyzed Orion by one horn, pulling him roughly out of the way. “If you will not kill it, I will.”


Orion hears the wolf-cub’s growling start again, sees Dothran raise his sharp-pointed spear and-


No!


Orion slams his body against Dothran’s. Caught off-guard, the elder minotaur staggers and crashes into the rear wall. It is Dothran’s sheer surprise that lets Orion take hold of his waist and heave him out of the way.


Run!” he shouts at the wolf-cub. “Go, now!” For an agonizingly long moment, the wolf just stands there, glowing eyes boring into Orion’s own. Then, with almost startling speed, it dashes past them and slips beneath the bear-skin, vanishing into the night. A surge of stupid relief washes over Orion. It is followed a moment later by an explosion of pain.


Dothran’s fist strikes his jaw like a hammer blow. Orion staggers back, trying to brace himself, but his opponent is too fast. Roaring in incoherent rage, Dothran seizes Orion by the waist and drives him back into the unforgiving stone. He jerks back his head, and Orion can just barely twist to one side to avoid being impaled on the furious minotaur’s horns. He swings with a punch of his own, but Dothran catches his fist before it’s gone halfway, then slams a knee into Orion’s unprotected stomach.


Orion collapses in a haze of pain, the breath blasted from his lungs. He manages to heave in a gasp of air, only to lose it immediately when a sharp-hooved kick takes him full in the ribs. He looks up through tear-blurred eyes to see Dothran seizing his fallen spear, the promise of death written in the snarl on his face.


“Enough!” Nostha’s roar is like a clap of thunder. Dothran stops short. He is still breathing heavily, but his respect for the veteran hunter is greater than even his rage. Somehow, Orion has the presence of his mind to take the opportunity and get up.


“Tell me,” says Nostha, eyes as cold and unkind as the snowstorm outside, “why do you fight?”


Nostha snarls, “It is Orion. He found a wolf in here and was too weak to kill it. He would not let me kill it!” Spittle flies from the hunter’s lips. “He is vhauragh!


Orion is almost surprised at how little the dreadful word means to him suddenly. He does not care about Whitewind’s laws. He does not care about Whitewind. He barely cares how Nostha’s gaze directs itself at him like a pair of spears. He is alone now. Perhaps he should always have been alone.


“Yes,” he declares before Nostha can say anything. “Yes, I saved the wolf. It was… it was right.”


Dothran’s growl rattles through his chest. He adjusts his grip on his spear, exclaiming, “Then we should kill him now!”


“No,” snarls Nostha. Dothran, surprised, backs down. Nostha goes on, fixing Orion with a look of disdain. “It is the law. We do not fight on hunts, even against vharaugh.”


“But he must-”


“He will be punished,” Nostha interrupts. “It is the law.” He turns to face Orion completely, axe in one hand, the carved bear fang of his necklace in the other. “You, Orion, are a weakling. You have shown this. And now, you have betrayed us. You are vharaugh and have no place with Whitewind.” The words come thudding down like axe blows upon ironwood. Nostha points at the cave entrance. “Go, Clanless Orion. Go, drop your rings and leave these lands. Go and die.”


Still curiously numb, Orion reaches up and loosens the carved ring from his horn. It makes a hollow clatter as it falls to the ground. Small. Meaningless. He backs away, pausing just long enough to take up his pack and axe. He takes up his sleeping-fur, too, but does not pack it; his clansfolk would not have the patience for that.


No, not his clansfolk.


Not anymore.


The biting cold washes over him as he steps out of the little cave. He barely notices. His jaw and back ache from Dothran’s fearsome blows. That, too, he barely notices. He pays no mind to where he is going; only to the paw prints still fresh in the snow.


After what might have been half a night and might have been only a meal-time, he arrives at a small copse of trees. The branches of the pines swish and sway in the wind, but their trunks grant some small protection from the storm. The wolf-cub’s trail has almost vanished. He cannot follow it anymore, not tonight.


He does, however, lay aside some strips of jerky as he nestles himself against the icy, rough tree trunk. From one lone wolf to another.

SR:A Origins -- Orion: Lone Wolf
Seven Realms: Awakening is the delightful, monstrous project I've been working on for over a year now. Well, me, and six friends. SR:A is a Dungeons and Dragons campaign that I'm running, telling the story of six brave adventurers from all corners of the world, brought together by fate and getting in way over their heads.

The Origins series, as the name implies, is a gathering of character shorts, exploring the player characters' backgrounds before they were brought together in Caladale.

Lone Wolf focuses on Orion, the massive, destructive minotaur barbarian from the frozen plains of Aerghun played by the great :icongenius1995: Genius1995. Character portrait by the esteemed :iconneprezi: Neprezi.

Also found on AO3: archiveofourown.org/works/8524…

See my blog for more SR material: mysral.tumblr.com/tagged/seven…

Jump to:

Orion: Here!
Lobott: eonorteashadowmaster.deviantart.com/art/SR-A-Origins-Lobott-Seedling-649382253
Crowe: Coming soon...
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:iconbear48:
bear48 Featured By Owner Jan 13, 2016  Professional

:wow: Llama jump by Droneguard :headbang: :llama: :headbang: Llama jump by Droneguard :wow:



Bye Emoticon by Weapons-Expert-Cool Thank you for the Llama :llama:



Llama jump by Droneguard :squee: :squee: :wow: :squee: :squee: Llama jump by Droneguard


If a coconut falling from an 80 foot tree is traveling at about 50 MPH when it hits the ground please give me a shorter tree
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:iconevi-blackmor:
Evi-blackmor Featured By Owner Jan 1, 2016
thank for the lama :3
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:iconjarn-argence:
Jarn-Argence Featured By Owner Dec 31, 2015  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Thanks for the Fav. Really means a lot to me.
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:iconeonorteashadowmaster:
EonOrteaShadowmaster Featured By Owner Jan 1, 2016  Student Writer
You're welcome!
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:iconmagalinrafaela:
MagalinRafaela Featured By Owner Dec 31, 2015
Thanks for the llama!!!!:D
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:icondashcharlesroseth:
DashCharlesRoseTH Featured By Owner May 8, 2015  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Llama Thanks Button by 0-Hedgehog8Limited-0
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:iconfluttersparkledo:
FLUTTERSPARKLEDO Featured By Owner Dec 7, 2014  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Hi! I'm The First Santa Llama!

I'm known as, Santa llama!
I pick out random deviants to do Santa Llama
Using the llama giving game as my sleigh, I give out llama's and leave a message! 
looks like you got a lucky llama from Santa llama!
santa monkey->Llama Emoji-06 (Depress) [V1] -> Christmas ver.2  -> deviantART Deviant's channel-> Then drops of llama-> Deviant sees messagethe feels -> llama climbs out of the bagLlama Emoji-58 (Up and Down) [V3] ->deviant=Oh My Gawd -> llama=Llama Emoji-66 (Orly) [V3] 
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:iconhimekanoda:
himekanoda Featured By Owner Oct 6, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Boo!! hihi.
hey check this :
docs.google.com/document/d/1WD…

I updated it.
what do u think?
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:iconeonorteashadowmaster:
EonOrteaShadowmaster Featured By Owner Oct 6, 2014  Student Writer
Useful!  What about options based on stats during the game?  Say, an extra dialogue option, or one of the characters reacts differently to a particular situation, if their relationship score is high enough?
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:iconhimekanoda:
himekanoda Featured By Owner Oct 6, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Hmmm. good idea! <3
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