FFM 29: AbsolutionStripped of arms and armour, shackled to the floor, the prisoner still manages to look proud.FFM 29: Absolution by KreepingSpawn
“Chaplain,” he says respectfully, nodding a greeting to Shallum. His voice is profoundly deep, resonant and coarse.
Shallum critiques the prisoner from head to toe. “The crusades have not been kind, World Eater.” His voice is clipped by the vox augmitter in the grille of his skull-faced helmet.
Steel-plated teeth glint in the prisoner’s nasty smile. “Each scar a warrior wears is a badge of honour, chaplain,” he says.
“And the tattoos?” Shallum says, not even trying to hide his disgust. The World Eater’s skin is blanketed in blue-black ink.
The World Eater barks a laugh. He turns his head to show the Angel Sanguine the mark on his left cheek; a heraldic animal, rampant. “This is the only tattoo a needle painted on my flesh,” he sa
FFM 28: SubmarineA bale of sea turtles drifts across the face of the moon, their shadows chasing along the sandy bottom.FFM 28: Submarine by KreepingSpawn
The octopus next door is entertaining in his garden again.
FFM 27: InnovationSati presses her temples in an effort to stave off the impending migrane. “You don’t understand,” she says. “It’s not cut and dry. It’s not black and white.”FFM 27: Innovation by KreepingSpawn
“It is that way to the department,” Hadley says. “We invest in specific outcomes. You proposed a project: you deliver on it, you get funded; you don’t deliver, you don’t get paid.”
“But all the innovations we’ve made-”
“Are not what the investors signed on for. If you cannot give them what they paid for, the deal is off.”
“This is what real science looks like!” Sati says, fighting to retain composure. “We come up with the idea, we develop a plan to get there, but we take all available routes to get there. And maybe we discover a whole new map in the process. But you don’t throw that map away because it’s not your
FFM 25: Cream, No SugarMakela pours the tea. “I’m disappointed,” she says.FFM 25: Cream, No Sugar by KreepingSpawn
Khain bows his ugly head. “My argument was not well formulated, I admit. I got excited. I was not careful with my words.”
“Cream?” she says. “Sugar?”
“Cream, no sugar, please.”
Makela returns the pot to the tray, takes up the little pitcher, and tips a goodly dose of cream into Kain’s cup. She drops one cube into her own cup and stirs it widershins with slow strokes, adds cream, and watches the milky cloud billow up through the dark red tea.
“You must learn to control yourself,” she says mildly.
“Yes, m’lady.” He nods, keeping his eyes downcast.
“Drink your tea.”
The tent is quiet for a time, the only sounds the desert wind rippling the canvas, the occassional clink of cups
FFM 24: Trophy HunterSo it comes to this.FFM 24: Trophy Hunter by KreepingSpawn
The king, wounded, hounded, murdered within sight of his safe realm.
His queens uncertain.
His children living on borrowed time.
What new king may rise here?
Beloved, named, and known, and watched by all the world.
Will he end the same,
butchered in his prime for whim and vanity?
May this trophy haunt you for all your days,
and may those days be many and long.
The king is dead. Long live the king.
FFM 23: Late “Brace for realspace reversion,” a calm mechanical voice calls throughout the ship. “Brace. Brace. Brace.”FFM 23: Late by KreepingSpawn
Eyal startles, backs up a pace, lifts his head like a dog questing for a scent on the breeze.
The ship groans and shudders as it knifes from the raw warp into realspace. The sudden feeling of release is staggering. A pressure he hadn’t realized was weighing down on him suddenly vanishes. The scratching, niggling irritation at the back of his mind is suddenly gone.
He sprints for the bridge.
Braed meets him just outside the blast doors. “Captain Eyal,” he greets the World Eater, saluting fist to heart.
“Captain Braed.” Eyal returns the gesture. He is shaking with anticipation.
“There is blood on your axe, captain,” Braed says.
The World Eater looks down at the chainax
FFM 22: RemedyWe were tired, hungry, cold. So we drank pure starlight. So we went to bed under a blanket of snow.FFM 22: Remedy by KreepingSpawn
FFM 21: Angel FallsShe tumbles down the sky, her voyage aborted before it has hardly begun.FFM 21: Angel Falls by KreepingSpawn
“No,” Kitta hisses, and charges forward to intercept her fall.
The bright golden shape twists and darts like a moth. But the narrowbats are there to meet her at every turn.
She flashes to earth with a distant thump. Kitta flinches and breaks into a sprint, raising her bow and letting arrows fly as fast as she can knock and draw. Narrowbats screech and wheel, a few thump down, transfixed.
“Nova!” Kitta cries, stumbling to a stop near the fallen herald. She keeps her latest arrow aimed at the dark, swirling bat flock, the bow drawn back to her ear. She spots the leader – a bigger, darker narrowbat, with a red tag fastened on its back, and shoots it neatly.
Disorganized, the rest of the flock disperse.
Satisfied of their safety for the moment, Kitta turns to the angel.
FFM 20: MessengerExhaustion threatens to drag him from the saddle. Damhnait sidesteps to stay under him as he sways. He pats the Warlander’s powerful neck in gratitude.FFM 20: Messenger by KreepingSpawn
He might have an hour, he estimates, gaguing his progress by the sun.
He glances ahead, chosing his next landmark. That big tree, with the naked crown, he can ride that far.
Before he has made it halfway, his eyelids droop and he sways again. This time Damhnait has to shuffle and turn to keep him on her broad back. He knots his fingers into her mane. If he falls he will not get up again.
The blasted tree drifts closer. He feels feverish. Not surprising really.
This time he actually loses a minute before his chin hits his breastplate and he starts alert again. He shakes his head, blinking, and looks up.
The tree is gone. No. He’s passed it. Good, because it means he’s made progress, but bad because it means
FFM 2015: We are the deadIt is 5:15 and the Angels have gone, leaving unholy contrails of light behind them as they ascend into the atmosphere, gleaming like blackened sunshine.FFM 2015: We are the dead by The-Inkling
Driving down Boulevard with the top down, we have a clear view of the spectacle, and Ziggy is sitting in the back of the car, head thrown back to the sky as she laughs like a maniac.
Seven days until the exodus begins, and all of humanity is in syzygy, consumed with the upsurge of feeling that has accompanied the new angels of promise and their stories of a better future. We’re still jazzing on stardust from the night before, but even without that cosmic buzz there’s something in the air, and I keep forgetting how close we came to just ending it all.
The impending end of the world tends to drive people a little crazy, and out of our whole gang only Jareth looks indifferent, the self-appointed Buddha of suburbia, cool and enigmatic as ever.
I can’t even explain how we got here, but I pity the fool I was five years ago.
FFM 2015: Jackson and the KidAn announcement in pidgin Cantonese rang out over the intercom, and Jackson flinched, startled by the sudden noise. The PTSD still overtook him sometimes, making him freeze at random noises, lights, movements in his peripheral vision, as though every sudden event were a precursor to an explosion. After three months he was still getting used to it. The ageing sickness they called it, bones dessicating inside of you, as you fell apart from the inside out, and yet the worst part was that his mind was deserting him as well. It was making a fool of him. The paranoia, the fear, the lack of memory. He had never imagined he would end up dying like this.FFM 2015: Jackson and the Kid by The-Inkling
The landscape outside the lev-train was a blasted wasteland, a fitting counterpoint to his mood, the sky above rendered a sickly green from the gasses. By all accounts it had been beautiful once; just another casualty in the war for territory around the Trans-American. They were perfectly safe in the train of course, sheltered by 200 metres of
Sapporo CANvas ContestCombine the past and present to reimagine the essence of Sapporo! Sapporo and DeviantArt challenge you to create an original piece of art using or featuring the Sapporo can that combines elements of both classic and modern Japan. Three winners will receive $1,500 USD and various prizes! With Sapporo’s strong ties to both the art world and their Japanese roots, your artistic options are endless!Sapporo CANvas Contest by madizzlee
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Contest extended!Contest extended! by Owl-House
Looks like you guys enjoying your summer! But we are happy for you and do not judge!
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|"It is not the critic who counts: not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again… if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who knew neither victory nor defeat." ~ Theodore Roosevelt|
FFM 2015 Day 2 Challenge: Slayer of DragonsThey decided to wage battle in the old library at the back of the house, safely out of reach of cook’s watchful eye.
The large silver serving platter functioned nicely as a makeshift shield, and Father’s old walking stick was appropriated for a sword. Not the ideal weaponry for a prospective cadet of the Royal Dirigible Corps, but Jonathan was nothing if not imaginative.
Things became rather complicated when Charlotte refused to be relegated to the role of damsel in distress, and insisted on using a pair of candlesticks as makeshift weapons. And then Baby Penelope realised they were up to something and demanded that she also be included in the game, so Jonathan told her she could be the Dragon, and proceeded to leap about her with walking stick and platter in hand, pretending to slay her with the sort of single-minded enthusiasm that only small boys could muster.
Somewhat predictably, Penelope promptly burst into tears and they were forced to fetch Nanny to calm her
Where Sunshine Cannot FollowIn the mornings, he kisses his husband and his wife goodbye, takes his briefcase and his lunch, and goes to work. He remembers their warmth as he waits for the bus. He knows they will be waiting for him when he returns, each with a hug and a kiss for him, and their smiles will break down the clouds just as they always do, and he will be happy.
He spends his lunch hours pacing the roof, begging himself not to let himself fall.