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Description
Sold.

Black pen. Elf with tribal tattoos.

Deserving of a small story I wrote:

And in the dark of the books and scrolls, scriptures and notes, I found myself lost; trapped under a sea of brilliant stars, of a darkness the like of a shimmering crystal. It was the dark that nurtures the wet moss under old pine trees, the darkness at the deep of cold pools and slow rivers, the darkness of the hushing night; the moon clouded away and the sky forfeit but for a few sparkling stars. And in that dark I found them whispering my name, sometimes toothless, sometimes with their rows of sharpened wonders; jaws of pearly white. Their eyes were black, lined by flashes of light; their eyes were wonderfully bright, clothed in smooth silk. Sometimes they would be of the smallest possible size; others of their kind were immensely tall and oddly slender, like young trees. Their voices were terrifying, screeching, yet tenderly sweet. When they spoke to me and when they spoke amongst themselves; what difference was there? I was always being coated in vocal honey; in the cloudiest, sickeningly sugary stuff. But none of this was horrifying, none of this was the reason my soul crept away from me. It was the touch of their hands, the hold of their fingers upon my skin; I could feel my own body corroding. It was the touch of immortals, impostors, the touch of impure guile and endless promises of love, love and gold and diamonds and and...fairies and fae-folk and all the torturous stories of their kind. They gave them all to me. Every single word and juicy morsel of lore. Everything I ever wanted to know. And in return I vowed to paint their portraits. Forever.

Description
Sold.

Black pen. Elf with tribal tattoos.

Deserving of a small story I wrote:

And in the dark of the books and scrolls, scriptures and notes, I found myself lost; trapped under a sea of brilliant stars, of a darkness the like of a shimmering crystal. It was the dark that nurtures the wet moss under old pine trees, the darkness at the deep of cold pools and slow rivers, the darkness of the hushing night; the moon clouded away and the sky forfeit but for a few sparkling stars. And in that dark I found them whispering my name, sometimes toothless, sometimes with their rows of sharpened wonders; jaws of pearly white. Their eyes were black, lined by flashes of light; their eyes were wonderfully bright, clothed in smooth silk. Sometimes they would be of the smallest possible size; others of their kind were immensely tall and oddly slender, like young trees. Their voices were terrifying, screeching, yet tenderly sweet. When they spoke to me and when they spoke amongst themselves; what difference was there? I was always being coated in vocal honey; in the cloudiest, sickeningly sugary stuff. But none of this was horrifying, none of this was the reason my soul crept away from me. It was the touch of their hands, the hold of their fingers upon my skin; I could feel my own body corroding. It was the touch of immortals, impostors, the touch of impure guile and endless promises of love, love and gold and diamonds and and...fairies and fae-folk and all the torturous stories of their kind. They gave them all to me. Every single word and juicy morsel of lore. Everything I ever wanted to know. And in return I vowed to paint their portraits. Forever.