Zonorhc

CHAPTER NINE: Insanity's End The Madhouse was one of the few places in the infinite caverns of Pandemonium where the shrieking winds that tore through the plane could be avoided. Vriskath had taken the plugs out of his ears, and Emma had done likewise as they entered the sprawling city, built within a huge spherical cavern and lining all its walls, floors and ceilings - which were all the same thing; the usage of the terms were more for comfort and were wholly dependent on individual perspective, though naming one side of the city the "ceiling" when mere minutes ago it was the "floor" only lessened the confusion about the design of the place. It had taken both of them a while to become used to Pandemonium's gravity, which treated the nearest surface as the floor, and once they had accustomed themselves, they had found travel much easier as they were no longer as disoriented when gales would send them reeling to the walls which would then become the floor. Smaller tunnels became their highways, allowing them to use the tiny space which nullified the walls' gravity to shoot through at incredible speeds. They had reached the Madhouse sooner than Vriskath had expected to, though time was not much of a certainty in the dark caverns. Emma had been relieved at entering the Bleaker city, having light again to see by and having full use of her voice and hearing, all things denied her by the pitch-black, shrieking tunnels. Now, too, there was the hope of finding the portal that would take them away from this awful place. Vriskath accompanied her through dim, quiet streets, led by a withered old githzerai Bleaker who had been assigned to guide them through the city to their portal. The old, sallow-skinned man at first reminded Vriskath of Zegonz from the Styx Oarsman in Sigil, though a few minutes of walking behind him dispelled that resemblance. He had not even introduced himself, being silent for the entire trip. The only sounds Vriskath could hear were soft, muffled sobs from within some of the windows of the buildings they passed, and the distant howl of Pandemonium's winds. "Why are they crying?" Emma asked as they passed another building whose occupant was weeping. Vriskath shrugged. "They're Bleakers. It's what they do." Seeing that the answer was inadequate for her, he added, "Well, their faction's screed revolves around this idea that there's no point to anything. A lot of 'em spend their lives caring for other people 'cause it gives 'em a purpose. Attendin' to other people's needs, more like, 'cause they ain't supposed ta care about anythin'. After a while, they slip into somethin' like depression, and they shut 'emselves away. Next thing ye know, they've gone barmy and start talkin' all sorts o' things, and then they get locked away by their fellow Bleakers into an asylum, usually th' Gatehouse in Sigil, but here as well. Then th' younger 'uns look after th' ones who've lost their minds, and th' cycle continues." Emma said nothing but frowned. "It is sad, I know," said a raspy voice ahead of them. It was the old githzerai. "But there is no point to our own lives anyway, so we try to lessen the pain of others who do not know or no longer know that their existence is meaningless." "That's not a very good way of looking at things," said Emma. "They're still sad, you know. Listen to them. They're crying." "They are no longer sad or unhappy. They just are." "They're sad. I can feel it. How can you be sure that they aren't?" "Because it is what we believe," replied the Bleaker before becoming silent once more. "Leave 'em be," said Vriskath. "They believe what they believe, and ye believe what ye believe. An' they do take care o' the others, 'cause no-one else'll take 'em in. They don't even get any thanks fer their effort, but they do it anyway until it's their turn ta sit in a cell and waste away, 'cause it ain't like there's any point ta doin' anythin' else." Emma bit her lip, and was quiet as she ran the ideas through her mind. The streets of the Madhouse were quiet, and the wind sighed through them like the ghost of something which was mighty once before. They took a turn, and Emma turned to Vriskath once more. "You were supposed to kill my father, weren't you?" Her tone was even, and her eyes did not show any anger. Vriskath was taken aback by the directness as well as the fact that she knew. "Who told ye? Or how'd ye find out?" "I... heard it. From you. Well, your thoughts." Damn. "Ye read minds? Ye never told me that before. Why'd ye hide it?" "We lived in Acheron, remember," she said, "and it isn't a good thing to be different. As for not telling you, well, I didn't think you needed to know. I needed time to think things over as well, especially after I found out why you came to us in the first place. Don't worry about explaining, I know your reasons." Vriskath bit his lip. "Don't feel guilty. You wouldn't do it for one reason or another, and I'm thankful for that. It's very noble." "Don't worry about it, I guess," he said finally. "Just... I'm not comfortable about anyone lookin' into my head, so can ye tell me when ye're doin' it? So I know, I mean." Emma laughed, such an alien sound to this place that it echoed through the entire cavern in crisp, sweet notes. "Of course not, Vriskath! That would take the fun out of it! By the way, some of your thoughts are very flattering." Vriskath blushed. Their guide was silent. * * * The Arborean portal was a door on one side of a large, gloomy plaza. It was a simple wooden affair, with a pitted stone archway carved with simple floral designs. An elf used to live there, said their guide, but he disappeared one day without anyone ever finding out where he went. Shortly after, the attendants of the Madhouse discovered that the door was a portal, with the key being a single joyful thought. For obvious reasons, nobody had activated it for a long time. The attendants gave the door a wide berth most of the time, seeing as there was no point in going there. There was, however, a robed and hooded figure in the doorway, watching them approach. For one reason or another, whoever or whatever it was made Vriskath very uneasy. His skin [puncture]ed uncomfortably, and he found his hand going to the hilt of his sword without even knowing why. Emma next to him seemed to tense as well, though their guide was the same as ever, stooped and silent. The figure in the robe laughed, a manic cackle that tore into Vriskath's mind and left harsh echoes hanging in the air. It was suddenly becoming very cold, though there was no trace of a wind. Emma gripped his arm, and her hand felt clammy. Their guide stopped before the figure. "These people wish to pass through," said their guide in his raspy voice. "Please step out of the doorway so they can use it." The figure laughed in reply. A chill passed through Vriskath's spine, and Emma's grip tightened. "No," said a voice from within the hood. The figure laughed again. "I insist," said their guide, "please allow them to pass." The robed figure giggled, and suddenly Vriskath found himself pushing Emma aside and to the flagstones as a wave of force tore through the air from the thing within the hood. He looked up to see their guide slump to the ground in a heap, his withered old head crushed to a pulp. Emma screamed and scrambled away. Vriskath leapt to his feet and readied himself as the robed figure drew a sword from within the folds of his garment. The thing laughed again as it stepped over the dead githzerai. "Who are ye? What are ye?" Vriskath demanded. "Why're ye doin' this?" The thing replied with a deeper laugh. "I am Kalhazar. Thy friend the boatman is dead. Thy friend the boatman is dead. This woman's mind, I shall feast upon. Feast upon." He lowered his hood. Ultroloth. Damn. "Ye won't get her. She'll get ta where she's goin' no matter what." "On the contrary!" giggled Kalhazar, advancing. "Contrary!" The ultroloth pounced, and Vriskath stepped left, slipping his blade out of its sheathe as Kalhazar passed him. The yugoloth dodged with alarming speed, stopping mid stride and flipping over Vriskath's head with a rustle of robes. The tiefling spun, drawing up his blade and barely blocking a cut that would have severed his leg. He disengaged and stepped back, blade at the ready. The yugoloth pressed the attack once more, lunging at his abdomen. He parried it upwards and riposted with both hands on the hilt. The daemon snapped his sword back, forcing Vriskath's blade down before sliding along the fort̮̩̉̉ with a thrust at the tiefling's right shoulder. Vriskath ducked and leaned left as the sword flicked sideways to take his head off, and sent the ultroloth reeling with a snap kick to the chest. He leapt to his feet and readied himself again. Emma was standing beside the doorway. "Get yerself outta here!" he called to her. "I'll follow ye if I can - ye know th' key, go!" "But," she stammered, "I can't leave you here!" "Go! I'll follow ye!" "No!" Vriskath's reply was cut off by the ultroloth's renewed offensive, forcing him to parry and disengage. Suddenly, a blast of force slammed into him, sending him sprawling across the flagstones, his sword clattering to a halt beside him. Grabbing the hilt and rolling to his feet, he shouted, "Do it! Now!" before leaping aside and attempting a slash at the ultroloth, who ducked under his blade and lunged. He sidestepped a beat too late, and the daemon's blade drew a burning line of pain along his side. He stumbled backwards, drawing in a hissed breath as blood seeped out of the cut. A green light flashed behind him for a moment, and he smiled. The girl had gone. "How dare you deny me?" shrieked the ultroloth, opal eyes blazing. "Deny me my prize!" Vriskath grimaced with pain and sheathed his blade. He readied himself as the ultroloth advanced, then lashed out, his blade sliding out of its scabbard with ease and whistling through the air towards Kalhazar. The daemon ducked under the attack once more, and Vriskath spun with his blade, catching the ultroloth in the face with a boot before facing him once more and advancing with a lunge, forcing the grounded yugoloth to roll to the side before leaping to his feet and making a counterattack. Vriskath dodged the blow with ease and flicked his blade upwards and to the right, rending flesh from the ultroloth's chest. He stepped back and took his blade left, parrying a clumsy attack and riposting, taking the yugoloth in the arm before being hurled backward by another blast of force. "Surrender, mortal!" cackled Kalhazar. "Surrender!" His eyes blazed. Vriskath said nothing and attacked once more, feinting with a thrust left and disengaging as Kalhazar moved to parry, then slashing at the exposed arm. The daemon shrieked in pain and his eyes burned with rage as his arm fell to the flagstones and his sword clattered away. His black blood oozed out of the stump and hissed on the stones, erupting in puffs of smoke as it struck the cold ground. Vriskath pressed his advantage as the daemon's eyes blazed with painful intensity, striking home from right shoulder to left hip, taking the ultroloth apart as it unleashed its entire mind on him. The tiefling's vision burned red and his ears were filled with the sound of a thousand mouths crying in pain. His mind burned with the heat of a Baatezu furnace, and he barely registered striking the cold flagstones as he slipped into unconsciousness.

Because survival techniques TOTALLY have a preference. Idiot.

He almost has to be from that sort of bone structure. Possibly Korean or northern Chinese/Korean mix.

It's a good sketch, however I think you don't need to define the nose so much on his left side (our right). Let the angle do that for you. And yes, the eyes are too close together.

If you're placing things at random then removing them if they don't look good, then you're consciously controlling composition. If, however, you're like one of the grunge "artists" on this board and you just brush at random to make a cookie-cutter render-on-brushed-background, then you're hardly making art at all. Surrealists don't just apply things at random. There IS conscious effort behind the apparent "random" placement of features. What you're saying about random placement is equitable to saying that poets who write in free verse break lines at random and put no thought into what words they use where. Of course not, which is obviously why people pay attention to composition and the fact that the word itself even applies to art. Please. That just screams "composition" to me. Regimented pattern? I thought we were talking about a creative skill here, where people are CREATIVE rather than being strongly regimented. Regimented patterns in "art" are what you find in cookie-cutter grunge pieces, not in consciously composed work. The better artists in this forum are those that compose their art rather than just throwing things together at random. Look at the good pixel artists. They compose. Landscape artists? They compose. Photomanipulators? Hell yes, they compose. They do what they do consciously, even if the original idea came into their head at random.

Do you want it coloured? What size does Runehq allow? Can you post reference pictures? Do you want it to be ABSOLUTELY accurate to Runescape? Cheers.

Do movie critics have to be able to make excellent movies? No? Well, get out of this discussion, you half-literate sod. The thing with art in my opinion is that things have to be placed consciously to look good. This just doesn't happen in a lot of things that people on this board post.

Certain faiths may deem it blasphemy. In today's politically-correct society, you must always be on guard for these things. A lot of people do not share your views, and may as a result complain about what you consider to be "humorous" or "harmless". In no way am I advocating the views of those opposed to this topic, nor the views presented in this topic. Coincidentally, posting an image with such a controversial topic may be considered trolling.

I don't know, but I suspect it has something to do with "they", and how they are controlling the world. "They" will come for you too one day. Be ready for them. Your words have been deemed heresy by the Inquisition. You and your immediate surroundings have been declared agents of Chaos and consequently excommunicatus traitorus. Stand by for exterminatus. The Emperor protects. The Emperor is all.

Note "conscious production", which is why I hardly consider most abstract pieces or any sort of grunge as art. A lot of that stuff is really just random, half-arsed brushing. Props to the people who actually compose their art, though.

It's like when people say that D&D players are more likely to commit suicide and engage in criminal activities, both of which are unfounded statements without statistics to support them, whereas the actual situation is, in fact, the opposite. As for people who download music and such... hey, I can't for the life of me remember the last time I or any of the people I associate with (99% of whom also download music) shoplifted or "cheated" in anything.

I'm a flautist. :P Reading sheet music is pretty much compulsory for me. Most recent pieces under my belt were Jupiter, Bringer of Jollity (from The Planets, Gustav Holst) and The Lord of the Dance (Ronan Hardiman). There's a bunch more of other things I've played in orchestra and concert band, but I really can't be bothered typing up five years' worth of music.

Zing!

Typical. The only reason you want to learn to use this program is because you can use it to make money from sub-decent art. Use Google, you lazy slob. And learn to type.

Try adding some scarring and pitting on the armour. Blood spatters won't hurt, either. Probably put a few decapitated Eldar in the background, too...

I like the idea, since it's not the usual cookie-cutter "OMG I R PWN LUKE AT MAI DRAG STOOFZ ADN BARROWZ!!!!11!". If you worked on shading a little bit and toned down all the bright colours, it'll turn out a lot better. Try giving his legs a little bend at the knees to make his falling action more convincing. At this viewing range, you don't have to worry so much about anatomical proportions, but it still helps to work on them. Work on the water a little more, add some whitecaps and such further out to sea. Keep it up.

You copied and pasted a picture of Vincent, rendered clouds on 255,0,0/0,0,0 and then added some uninspired text and slapped an outer glow on, along with some poorly done shadows. I'm sorry, but that's far too basic and doesn't even look good.

It has a surprising amount of NO PLOT and stupid weapon concepts. Like a katana with two adjacent blades. And six giant butterknives all socketed within each other. Don't mention the terrible version of Bahamut that they used. Other than that, yeah, it was pretty good. Vincent was awesome and Yuffie was cute. I'm done.

I meant that you could try and make him look more mobile rather than just standing still. Makes it a lot more realistic. He's a smart warrior and realised that a plume is nigh onto useless, even dangerous, to have on a helmet meant for combat.

He's got two right hands... Don't show the abs through armour, even if it's just embossing. It really doesn't look as good as people think. The visor's height would mean that his eyes are too far up his face. The head on the axe should be attached through the haft, not over. Also, make the haft a little thicker, it looks like it'd snap. Maybe give the character a slight lean to make him look like he's charging instead of just standing there taking a swing.

Forget the PC. Hop over to your nearest hobby store and ask about D&D. Or get Dragonshard. Pick up Dawn of War while you're at it.

Ah, yes. Ronan Hardiman - The Lord of the Dance. It's a must-hear.

CHAPTER EIGHT: The Shore of Madness Vriskath nodded to starboard. "We're bein' followed." The marraenoloth's skull turned slowly to cast its red gaze to where the tiefling pointed. Its hood rustled slightly in the chill air as it turned back to Vriskath. "Yes. They have pursued us for a while now." Vriskath sat back into the stern of the skiff, conscious of Emma dozing beside him. He did not know any reason for him to be hunted by anything along this stretch of the Lower Planes, much less the Styx. Granted, they may only be predatory fiends or whatever else stalks the banks for food, but they would have abandoned their pursuit long ago if that was the case. He had not noticed them earlier, as the low mist over the river had concealed them for some time - he had found it useless to try and keep track of days and nights, for there was a perpetual gloom along the infernal river. They were still surrounded by Oinos' muted greys, however, and he judged that they would soon shift into Carceri, then the Abyss before reaching their destination of Pandemonium. "Why are you doing this, Vriskath?" asked the marraenoloth, indicating Emma with a nod of his skull. His hollow, echoing voice was muffled slightly by the opressive greenish mist. Vriskath shrugged. "I don't know. Why'd ye ask?" "Because it is not your nature to perform any services without an expected reward. It is doubtful that this one would render any coin to you at the end of your journey." "I was hired ta kill her father," replied Vriskath, turning his gaze back to the riverbank, his eyes uselessly trying to pierce the mist. "I would'a done it, ye know. Only if I didn't find out he wasn't guilty o' any o' th' things I was gonna kill him for, or that he had a daughter who deserved to be in a better place than Avalas." The marraenoloth turned to follow his gaze with a soft, muted rustle of cloth. He was silent for a moment, then, "I see." "What?" "It is of no matter now," said the fiend, shaking his head as if to wave away the question as he poled the skiff further down the river. "It only occured to me that you may have risen a little further from your mercenary ways. Mercy, is it? Beware, Vriskath. Mercy can be a dangerous thing, so speaks one who knows." "I don't doubt that. Why bring it up?" "I raise the issue because you are already in somewhat of a situation as a result of your mercy. I do not believe that I need to remind you that you are sitting in a marraenoloth's skiff, floating down the Styx and being pursued by fiends for a reason you are unaware of, all for the sake of taking a young human from one side of the Great Wheel to the other." Vriskath glanced at Emma, then back at the shrouded banks. "Well, maybe I'm doin' it to stay out o' Sigil fer a while. Ulmshans'll have me penned into th' dead-book if I come back anytime soon." If the marraenoloth though that answer inadequate, he hid it well. He was silent for a while as he tirelessly raised and lowered his pole, the skiff gliding silently through the foul water of the Styx. The mist gradually thinned out, becoming lighter as the terrain shifted from Oinos to Orthrys, Carceri's first. A spot of green here and there, then suddenly a mass of muted browns and greens as they entered the buzzing swamplands of Orthrys. Shadowy shapes still moved along the bank, undoubtedly in patient pursuit of the skiff. Orthrys' ambient red glow covered the entire scene like a film, and the thin mist did little to mute it. Emma had risen, surprised at first at the change of scenery but remaining quiet. She looked to port for a while, though Vriskath noticed her glance at him from time to time. She did not bear the blank, ashen expression of those affected by the Waste's despair, which Vriskath took to be a stroke of luck. Most humans would have entered a suicidal depression long ago. The marraenoloth gave her a passing glance as she watched the brackish water. He turned his attention to the shadows on the bank. "Why do you suppose they are pursuing you?" he asked Vriskath, who shrugged. "Wouldn't know, and wouldn't care ta find out. Fiends're fiends." The skeletal boatman seemed to ignore his answer. "Orthrys passes quickly this time. The First of the Abyss draws near." Emma peered into the mists ahead, but could see nothing that indicated a planar shift. "Don't look ahead," Vriskath told her. "It's not s'posed to be seen. Just wait fer th' land to change around ye." Emma nodded. * * * The marraenoloth pulled in to shore barely an hour after the reds and browns of the Abyss' First shifted to the echoing, windswept tunnels of Pandesmos, Pandemonium's First. It was pitch black in the small cavern, and Vriskath led Emma off the marraenoloth's skiff. She would not be able to see in the dark, he knew, so it fell to him to lead the way. He drew out two sets of earplugs and put them on himself and Emma, so that neither would be permanently deafened by the screaming wind. Their clothes whipped around them as the gales swept through the cavern. The marraenoloth remained on his skiff. Make for the Madhouse, he said in Vriskath's mind. The Bleak Cabal still maintain it, and their doors reach across the Planes. Your pursuers lag behind, but they will breach the planar boundary very soon. Remove your plugs from time to time, and follow the voices in the winds. Use the small tunnels whenever you can, and remember that down is towards the nearest surface. "Thanks," Vriskath shouted back to the boatman as he adjusted his katana on his belt. "Watch the Spire, cutter." The marraenoloth bowed as far as its bones and the wind would allow it. Watch the- its thought flickered out as it was thrown from its boat onto the smooth cavern floor, its pole dropping into the murky Styx. Malice erupted in a palpable wave from the other side of the river, now little more than a trickle of water as it ended in Pandesmos. The thought of the thing pushed against them like a gigantic fist, and they were thrown back against the wind. The marraenoloth struggled to his feet. They come. Run. "No!" shouted Vriskath, drawing his sword. Emma gripped his left hand harder. The marraenoloth stepped towards the unseen enemy and planted his feet. Run, Vriskath. Keep your charge safe. Vriskath advanced a step, steadying himself against the wind. He held his sword at the ready. On your honour, Vriskath! the marraenoloth's thought lanced into his mind. The skeletal fiend sounded almost frantic. The tiefling gave the boatman a despairing look, and he answered with a bleak dimming of his eyes. That's it, Vriskath thought. He had to keep Emma safe. Sheathing his sword, he turned and ran with the girl into the windswept depths of Pandesmos. * * * Kalhazar the Vile, scourge of mortals, bane of life and harbinger of destruction among his many titles, sneered at the skeletal form of the marraenoloth before him. His sword was lighter in his hand than ever, and only vaguely did he note the passage of his nycaloth subordinates from the opposite bank of the Styx. The ones who were snared and dragged into the depths of the infernal river by whatever it was that dwelt beneath the waters, those were the useless ones he did not care to have under his command. The cold, howling winds of Pandesmos tore at his robes, but Kalhazar did not care. He fixed his glowing, opalescent stare on the defiant boat fiend before him, and his disdainful laugh tore through the gales. "Why stand, O infernal boatman? Why defy the will of one who is thy superior? Why shame thyself in defence of mortals?" He spat the word, his voice splitting the wind. Why waste your breath when you can use your mind, glorious ultroloth? Did you expend yourself in that one thrust? Insolence! The marraenoloth dared speak to him as such. Him! Kalhazar the Vile, reaper of countless souls, commander of still more, whose name brought fear into the hearts of demons! His eyes narrowed into flaming slits. "Address me as such, wilt thou, boatman?" demanded Kalhazar, rending the shrieking zephyrs asunder. "Thy mind shall suffer!" The marraenoloth crumpled to his knees, steadied himself and rose again, cold defiance in the burning red pits of his eyes. You are yet young, ultroloth. "Young as the planes themselves! Thy will be shattered, nameless one! May thy next form know its place!" Again the marraenoloth fell and rose, the light of his eyes now searing through the wind-battered darkness. I am far older than you, ultroloth. I know of things that would drive you mad. I care not for your petty tricks of the mind, for age has brought upon me wisdom enough to manifest my will, and it is my will that you do not pursue those mortals. "Nameless! Thy will is nothing to me! See how thy body falls, nameless one!" But the marraenoloth did not fall. The nycaloths shrank back into their wings as the skeletal boatman's eyes blazed. Nameless? I am Zalsharkhan the Twice-Betrayed, yet here I stand, and here I scorn thy name, ultroloth! His thought shrieked above the winds, and Kalhazar's black heart writhed for but a moment. "Thy defiance brings thy destruction, filth!" Their minds clashed then, the dreadful power of young Kalhazar's and the tempered steel of Zalsharkhan's. The cavern shrieked even as the wind stopped. Kalhazar buckled under the measured strength of the marraenoloth. This could not be! An ultroloth could never be bested by a marraenoloth! Kalhazar disengaged his mind and rushed forward with his sword. Age does not temper flesh, he knew. Zalsharkhan blasted at the ultroloth's path, rending great gashes into the rock with the force of his will alone. Kalhazar leapt over each blast, speeding for the skeletal daemon through the air of Pandesmos, which seemed to be still only for the sake of one battle. He lunged, and his blade slipped easily into the marraenoloth's robe. It ground to a halt. His iridescent glare met with the taller marraenoloth's, whose eyes burned in the emotionless skull of his face as he wrenched the blade aside with one hand, the other thrusting upwards to strike Kalhazar. The ultroloth leaped to the side to avoid the blow, and caught his sword as he skidded to a halt before leaping at the marraenoloth once more. The boatman took his sword in hand once more, and again flung both weapon and wielder towards the Styx, where terrified nycaloths huddled in their wings like grotesque gargoyles on the shore. Once more did Kalhazar lunge at Zalsharkhan, and the attack was swift. The blade struck home into the flesh that no longer existed, and the skeletal daemon trapped him close, forcing their eyes to meet as he stumbled backwards into the Styx. Zalsharkhan's mind tore at Kalhazar's, and the older daemon forced all his power as a lance into the ultroloth, boring into the seething mass of power with a [bleep]e of unspeakable knowledge and memories. Kalhazar's mind howled in pain as it was ripped asunder, lashing out like a wild beast at the nycaloths, who were slain by that single outburst of power from their commander. The blaze banked in Zalsharkhan's eyes as his arms relaxed and he slid from the ultroloth's sword into the river. The last embers in his sockets were glad as he sank into the memory-draining waters of the Styx. For him, it had been a long eternity, and it was time to begin anew. For Kalhazar on the bank, it was victory. He did not realise the price until the shrieking winds of madness returned. His mind cleared, and nothing was left in the marraenoloth's wake but tatters. He sank to his knees, his sword clattering out of his hand onto the rocky cavern floor. Nothing in his mind but shreds of sanity, nothing to hold them together. The fire of power rekindled once more, and those shreds were burned away. Kalhazar took his sword and stood, opal eyes gleaming with madness. He did not even notice the bodies of the nycaloths about him as he thre his head back in laughter. His laughter clawed through the wind. * * * Vriskath ran on.

That was Tenchi, I believe. I think there's far too much commercialism happening on these media boards these days, which is why I haven't made a sig for anyone besides myself since early this year.

Whoops. I realised that the perspective on his right leg wasn't exactly right, so I changed that.