BYOB

Summer fun's nearly done and now the first dilemma of homeownership hits us squarely:

OVEN or BALLPIT?

Dainty dish.

"The king is in his counting house, counting house, counting out. Counting."

Now inextricably linked to King Haggard. But a thousand and a half unicorns breaking themselves against the shore was a little much for one lone sharpee. I couldn't even capture four and twenty.

Give pause.

A background nymph that survived the Great Purge of August '09.

The old heave-ho.

One of the most lasting, but also one of the few that doesn't end with the phrase "happily ever after". They simply ride off in a carriage and the prince is reunited with an adoring servant--with whom he has a warmer exchange than anything said to his new wife. Though, with a backside still aching from cruel mishandling, he can hardly be blamed.

Le Garvs.

Maeverton.

Adz.

Complete Blank.

More King Cole. And, yes, those fiddles are lacking parts. One could call it laziness, but I prefer to think of it as an inspired omission--in the vein of "Sir Orfeo". The fey aren't known for their inventiveness, so a row of fairy fiddlers aping their human counterparts on rough toy instruments seems to ring true. "There's none so (bare) as can compare with King Cole and his fiddlers three."

Along those lines, been watching a lot of Folklore gameplay lately and the amount of musical pilfering is pretty shocking. The train music from Spirited Away. The Going to Berlin ("there's more to the diary than just the map") music from Last Crusade. Always in Fairy, always on a very tiny loop. So, again the question arises--clever intent or just plain sloth?

Drink up.

Old King Cole was a thirsty old soul, touched him with some water and he puckered up for more. No wringing or squeezing was going to drain those greedy cheeks, so I stretched him on the rack instead and bled him dry of color. Cole, he was an abiding old soul--his tune's a little paler now, but still ripples round with laughter.

Grandma would be proud.

Burn of the week:

In the midst of drawing a "smoke dragon" for ten year-old Matthew--"Now I see why you have such a big eraser".

Lost Bots.

Marly.

The Armored Hound, aka The Red Steed.

Terror of the Lakes

Scourge of all Warrens.

Herald of Sailing Vessels.

Seeker of the Far-flung Wilson.

He Who Sits for None.

The canvas can do miracles.

Trying out some new paper. Looser weave, lighter weight. Prone to warping, but the darker tint saved me a good half day of laying down multiple sienna washes. We'll see how we go. Either way, I'm fine traveling the crooked miles.

Proper.

My sixpence is on the crooked mouse.

Rowr.

More fodder for the lake kiddies.

Go away.

It's raining, it's pouring.

The old man is snoring.

Bumped his head,

And he went to bed.

And he couldn't get up in the morning.

In honor of our fitful summer. And an entreaty to old sluggard Helios to take two aspirin, shake off the hangover, and harness the team.

Buzzing.

She made us lasagna. Then she sat on the couch, propped up her nyloned feet, and set to the business of filling every last nook and cranny with conversation.

Silence is golden...

...enjoy the silence.

Food for thought.

If all the world were apple pie,

And all the seas were ink,

And all the trees were bread and cheese,

What would we have to drink?

Old Mother Goose

Stained toes and strained bows. And sticky fingers, too. And gods that would rather consume than compose.

Stalf.

Bringing mayhem, carnage, curses of the undead, and birthday wishes.

Aim.

CREEPY CUPID!!!

MainMonsters

I'm going to be a guest illustrator on a ten-year old's monster blog. And if you've got anything to say about, you can direct all criticism to the blade wielding wildebeest up yon.

Sport.

Technically, we live in what used to be an Old Wood. Though I suppose, technically, everyone does. But the reminders are of the more immediate sort. We have some bold bunnies and one shy skunk. There's a tut-tutting groundhog that's currently suing for his hours in the backyard. I saw a small rabbit get hoisted by a crow into the tops of the trees, wailing all the way. All in broad daylight.

And the Little Folk are more than just fringe folk here. They're vague approximations, to be sure; come tumbling out of memory in a mess of cobbled features, ragdoll limbs, and tiny pedestrian tricks. But they've a knack for the oldest and best, and every morning my hair tangles a bit more, and every night they have their way with the attic door.