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AkiraAkira sits at one end of a long sofa, leaning against the arm. The furniture is antique and of high quality, varnished to dark brown to complement the earthy colours of the cushioned back and seat. The intricate designs of both wood and fabric reveal the creator's passion for their work, their attention to detail and love of their craft. The delicate beauty of the piece hints at hidden strengths. A table of a similar style stands next to the sofa and Akira's elbow rests upon it, her hand held close to her cheek, fingers almost touching her face. She is slim and of average height, her auburn hair caught back and piled high in a Georgian style that gives her soft, gentle features a slightly angular look, enhancing her elegance and allure. The tight fitting bodice of her dress is brown and the neckline sweeps low. Her left shoulder and both arms are also bare, revealing lightly tanned and smooth skin. One hand rests in her lap among the liquid folds of her skirt, the vibrant oranges, reds and yellows of the material shimmering together like the rising sun pooling over shadowed hills. Her expression is one of intense curiosity and more than a little intrigue. In stark contrast to the autumn colours in the candlelit room, her eyes are very blue and she watches the artist with a faint, almost playful smile. It seems at any moment she will laugh and dance from view, as if paused only for the instant the artist needs to capture her essence. In that instant, those eyes pierce the canvas. They look beyond the
confines of the picture, seeking and then studying everything they
behold, yet all the while revealing a flash of pain buried deep inside
long ago, brought to the surface fleetingly to mingle with an
unyielding determination.
AriadneAriadne is standing in a corridor of the oldest part of the Castle, tall and willowy, wearing red and black, an elegant, if somewhat old-fashioned dress with a round neckline embroided with gold and long sleeves flowing down to the ground. Her dark, heavy hair cascades upon her shoulders, framing the smooth features of her face, underlining her slender neck, unadorned by any jewelry. There is a hint of awkwardness in her posture, her back too stiff, her hands nervously held in her lap, as if she wasn't used to pose. Curiously, the artist has taken efforts to picture her embarassment, somewhat at her disavantage, but Merlin, as one can recognize his seal at the bottom of the card, has been known to play this sort of malicious joke in the past. Yet he didn't manage, or wasn't willing to extinguish the
sensuality in her face, the passion barely contained under her gauche
poise, the smile that almost seems to show upon her lips. Her eyes
look straight at the artist, warm and curious, full of untold
promises, and maybe the slightest innuendo of mockery, and whoever
holds the Trump is left with the eerie impression to intrude in the
intimate face-to-face between the model and the artist, painted for
posterity on the pasteboard of the card.
BrennusA tall young man, handsome clean-shaven, his blue eyes hold a
daredevil gleam, his skin tone pale, almost anaemic, his hair light
brown shoulder length tied away at back. Smiling, his teeth are very
white and even, he stands in an en Gard stance; sabre in hand, red
filigree visible along the blade. Dressed in a pair of tight fitting
black trousers, red piping at the seam, black boots, highly polished,
and a fencing tunic, quartered in black and red, a black shirt
beneath.
ConallDescription Coming Soon...
Laughing BoyAs drawn by Laughing BoyA matte silver theatrical harlequin-style mask, smiling openly. The
eyes and mouth are black. It is set alone on a white background with a
red border. (This is in fact the back of any of Laughing Boy's Trumps
- his personal Trumps are identical from front to back - with only the
front side a functional image, of course.) If the Trump were a
standard deck of playing cards, Laughing Boy would be the Joker.
Laughing Boy stands next to an easel in the main studio in his city residence. It is a summer afternoon, and some sunbeams filter in through the windows. One sunbeam glitters and gleams off his right shoulder, as his right hand is raised to his chin. His stance is relaxed and contemplative, and his face is directed towards the canvas. He has a small and rather fine paintbrush in his left hand, and he has paused in midstroke. He is a short and thin man, not even six feet in height. He is entirely covered in a matte silver metal, with gleaming
chrome edges delineating major muscle groups and joints. There are a
few points of brightness along these borders, and they are a little
blurry - as if moving along these highly polished veins. He does not
wear any garments, and his stance reveals that he has no reason to be
modest. While his form is male, his pelvis is smooth and unblemished
by any feature. Indeed, about the only significant detail of his
'skin' is that it forms into simple silver boots at the feet. But the
most haunting feature is his face - or rather, his lack of one. Where
most people keep their faces, Laughing Boy is adorned with a simple
steel-silver mask, one of a smiling harlequin - similar to that seen
on a theater company's emblems. It is almost garish in its precision
and immobility. The mouth is permanently open, as are the eyes. The
mouth reveals naught but blackness, and the eyes have the faintest
flicker of light coming from within - what color, if any, is
impossible to determine. The outrageously form-fitting nature of the
metal and the scale of Laughing Boy's limbs suggests that the metal is
not armor - it is skin, or more.
MordredHe stands outdoors; from the size of the Ivory Tower far off in the distance and the trees much closer yet still behind him, he is at the outskirts of his Vineyard. Further evidence of this can be seen in the small table to one side, upon it a bunch of deep red-purple grapes, a large wedge of cheese with a knife stuck into it, and of course, a glass of blood-red wine. Chances are very good it is of his own personal vintage, 'Sange Real', or 'Blood Royal', in the language of a province of Shadow Erde where fine wines are grown. The sky above appears cloudless and the day is bright, though the sun must be behind a cloud, for the quality of light upon him is 'shadowed' slightly. His garb is that of the Court, his colors his own; soft boots and
hose, a loose long-sleeved blouse with a high-collared button-down
sleeveless over-tunic, all in red, crimson, yellow and gold –
with a splash of deep sea-blue. One of his ubiquitous gloves has been
removed, and the open palm of the bared hand has been slashed across
with what is either an oversized dagger or an undersized short sword
that he holds in the other This is matched by the blood rising up in small droplets from his
self-inflicted wound, to coalesce a few inches above his palm into a
writhing moebius of flame. If it has a purpose other than to fascinate
and perhaps awe the observer, it doesn't show. Pale, almost
translucent skin is offset by penetrating emerald eyes and orange-red
hair that is so bright it seems about to burst into flame. The man's
features are chiseled, save for a somewhat broad and slightly snub
nose, sporting a faint dusting of freckles, but the center-piece and
focal point of his face is the twisted half-smile it bears.
Is he hiding something? Does he know something the viewer and his
unseen but assumed audience are all unaware of? Is he about to do
something unexpected? Amusing? Dangerous? All of the above? Or perhaps
he just wants someone to think so. He does look the sort that would do
that just to amuse himself at another's expense. His gaze is directly
at the viewer, as if he can see them, seeing him, seeing them...
RolandRoland stands in the foreground holding Y'Geseth, a single bladed Viking style ax with a long handle, in front of him. Even though the impression is that it is cold, Roland's plain tunic is sleeveless and his massive arms are bare. An etching can be seen on the ax head but it is difficult to discern what it is exactly. The hood of his green cloak is thrown back and his shaggy red/blond mane his falling down about his broad shoulders. In comparison, his beard is relatively neat as one can see his mouth opened in what, at first, appears to be a smile. If it is a grin, it is a threatening one that makes his face appear animalistic and wild. Or maybe he is simply growling... His ice blue eyes shine and, although not challenging, they appear to be watchful. It almost seems that there is something hidden behind those observant eyes. Humor, knowledge, sadness, a secret, it is hard to say but it implies that there may be more to Roland then what appears on the card. In the background a full moon is rising over a misty forest. It is
bathing everything in a pale blue light. The light makes details hard
to make out such as where Roland's cloak ends and the forest
begins. The lighting also gives the head of his ax an odd sheen that
seems to be the same color as his eyes.
 MerekHis long legs are draped over the right arm of his chair in an overly causal manner. He does not seem to notice the artist at all, and one gets the impression of great tension from the furniture and background. Only the figure of Merek appears relaxed in the drawing, causing him to almost leap out of the trump. His light brown hair is hardly styled, but its natural curl gives the young man an impish charm. His head rests upon the left arm of the oversized, ornate, chair - his dark blue eyes stare upward at a blue jewel that he is holding up in his left hand. The light reflecting off of the jewel causes his entire hand to be cast in a light blue shadow. A secretive smile decorates his face, as if he was replaying a dark joke in his mind. He is dressed casually in a loose fitting white tunic - the top buttons undone - and tighter dark green pants. Brown riding boots adorn his feet. His physique is lean, and well muscled. The only flaw in otherwise perfectly crafted body is a slightly crooked nose - probably a break that healed poorly. Rather than detracting from his beauty, the nose actually brings more charm to him. A skinny gray cat lies sleeping at the foot of his chair, and a long rapier hangs loosely from his right hip, dangling down from the chair. Merek's right arm hangs loosely down, with his hand, adorned with a brass ring, stroking the head of the resting cat. |