Mood: The Vibe When You Have A Really Cool And Tragic Character, But No Artistic Talent, Writing Skill,

Mood: The vibe when you have a really cool and tragic character, but no artistic talent, writing skill, or money for commissions.

You knew it was only a matter of time before the time came.

They came for you while you were walking home from work. Threw a bag over your head, slapped cuffs on your wrists, and threw you into the back of a van. The ride is bumpy and fast; one of them has a foot wedged against your side to hold you down on the floor. It hurts, but you know that complaining won't change a thing.

The ride is over eventually. They haul you up. You're tossed over someone's thick, beefy shoulder and taken somewhere. Inside, based on the crunch of gravel giving way to the slap of shoes against wood.

You are roughly plopped down into a chair, and the bag is finally removed. You've been placed in a nicely furnished office. It's dimly lit by light slanting in through a blind-covered window. It gives the room a dusky atmosphere and obscured nearly everything. Before you is the vague block of a desk, and behind it, the blob of a chair.

You remember this office.

This is where you had to beg for more time to pay back your loan. It was humiliating, but it worked. It won't work this time. Your heart begins to pound, because you know why you're here.

Time is up.

The chair creaks loudly as it turns around. A chill runs down your spine as a hand reaches out to click on the desk lamp. The light blinds you for a moment, and as you blink and squint your eyes, you see white-gloved fingers tapping an impatient rhythm on the desk. Your gaze trails up the arm, past the crooked mustache and large nose, to the cold, merciless eyes that was staring into your very soul.

It's him. Waluigi.

The Waa-father.

Latsu Villeforte, maker of beautiful dresses and causer of 70% of her stepmother's headaches.

I've been obsessing over this particular character of mine for weeks so prepare for lots of info dumping about her and all related stuff.

Made in LoveNikki

Gierra, the Wolf

An automaton built to lead an army of other automatons, until the day she was put in stasis for routine maintenance. When she next awoke, three centuries had passed, and her home lay in overgrown ruins around her.

She had been awakened by a band of explorers, all of whom were promptly slaughtered for trespassing. She found another of her kind still intact and revived her as well, and the two would guard the ruined city-state for a decade, massacring anyone foolish enough to attempt plundering it for riches. During one such attempted theft, an underground chamber was revealed, the dusty air choking the thieves long enough for Gierra to dispatch them. Within the chamber, she found only a mask depicting a beautiful woman's face, the eyes obscured by silver cobwebs. Rather than return the mask to its display case, Gierra decided to keep it with her. Something compelled her to keep it close.

Gierra began to have thoughts. Not directives from long-dead rulers, not logical conclusions based on machine learning, but thoughts. She wondered about the world beyond the city-state's crumbling walls. Was the world outside still ruled by wise old women? Do they still worship the goddesses in the proper manner?

One day... Gierra simply left. Abandoned her duty, abandoned her comrade, abandoned the only home she'd ever had. Beyond the walls was a vast jungle, full of life. Beyond the jungle lay other cities, brimming with people. So much noise and color was nearly overwhelming after so many years surrounded by dust and greenery.

Then she began to notice things that undercut the dazzling display of this new world. Old women were left sick and shivering in alleyways. Women were forced to wear constricting, heavy clothing that covered every inch of their bodies and hair. Girls were forbidden to run and play with boys. Young women were leered at while they cowered away. Everywhere, men carried swords and ran shops and enjoyed themselves with working women and alcohol.

The first time Gierra encountered a man beating his wife, she was so appalled that she broke into the house and ripped the man apart. To her surprise, the woman began to scream in terror, calling for help, and Gierra was chased out of town by soldiers attempting to arrest her. She did not understand why the woman feared her, when Gierra had just saved her from such unjust abuse.

It was now that the mask began to whisper to her. It informed her that the female-dominated ways of her old life were long past, and men had taken over, subjugating women so thoroughly that they couldn't fathom being able to fight back. The mask revealed to her that this new world was full of such societies, where women suffered and died at the hands of men. The news infuriated Gierra.

From that day forward, she vowed to use her strength to protect women whenever she could. While her physical limitations meant that not all could be saved, perhaps her efforts could spark others to do the same.

Gierra donned the mask, allowing the whispering voice to guide her, and she began her crusade.

Merciana was a patient person. As a noble and a woman, patience was a requirement for survival in the cutthroat world of upper society. She prided herself on her patience and on her ability to maintain a polite, demure facade no matter the massive annoyance she faced.

But Latsu? The child had made it her life's mission to push every button the woman had. For fifteen years, her stepdaughter had made every waking moment a chore. For fifteen years, Merciana was forced to live with the constant reminder of her inadequacy. It roamed the halls of her home. It ate her food; slept in a room on the same hall as her; demanded attention from her daughter and husband.

Her husband... Merciana could barely remember a time when she loved the man. It felt simultaneously like eons ago and just yesterday that she was a child herself, swept up in the beautiful promises of a glamorous wedding and a dignified life. He had been poor back then. Son of a baker, apprentice of a merchant, barely three steps above destitute. But, oh, he was so handsome... Merciana's family was firmly middle-class, and Nanny often took her to the general store where he worked. They were the same age. He whispered in her ear that she was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.

Merciana often wondered how many girls he'd said such things to. How many before her? How many after her?

Mother and Father would never have agreed to her marriage to such a poor boy... But Mother died of fever when Merciana was fourteen. When she was sixteen, Father was mauled during a sport hunt, and died of poisoned blood. Merciana's elder brother oversaw her care for four more years, and he was far more lenient about her marriage.

Merciana became engaged to Ferdinand when they were seventeen. Then her brother died, and the two were wed a week after Merciana's twentieth birthday.

People whispered disapprovingly, of course. They married too young--they were not engaged for long enough. A proper lady should be engaged at fifteen, then married at twenty-five. A proper lady should marry equal or above her station. A proper lady this, a proper lady that. Merciana had hated the whispering and staring.

Ferdinand blessed her with a baby after three years of trying and failing. He wanted a girl; she couldn't care less if it was a boy or girl. Carmana was born, and they both rejoiced. Merciana loved her baby with every ounce of her being. Carmana was precious, beautiful, perfect...

Merciana loved her baby so much that she failed to notice how distant her husband was becoming. He became absorbed in his work, expanding their family's influence and wealth, pouring every waking second into his work. What few moments he took for himself, he dedicated to drinking. With drinking came women. With women came more moments away from work. With more moments, more drink, more women, more moments...

She knew about it, of course. She may have been involved in caring for her baby, but Merciana was no fool. She knew what was happening, but it still stung when he rejected her martial advances in favor of barmaids and working girls. She begged him for another child, but he steadfastly refused. Too busy, he always said. Not enough time for another baby.

Then Latsu showed up.

A priestess came to their door early one day, a baby in one arm, a note in her other hand. The baby was Ferdinand's, given up because the mother refused to keep her. Ferdinand took the baby in, gave her a name, and oversaw her care himself. Where Carmana's care was Merciana's domain, Latsu was solely her father's responsibility. Merciana agreed it was for the best. Why should she care for--or about--the product of her once-beloved husband's foolish behavior?

He did not even know the mother's name.

Merciana couldn't care less.

The child would not be her problem.

Tried my hand at drawing again. It's been years since I had the inspiration to draw, but I was really feeling it yesterday. I did cheat a little by tracing over the general shape of an anime girl in a drawing how-to book I have, but the outfit, hair, and eye details are my doing.

I started by referencing the picture I traced to refine the details, then used inkpens for the outline. I smudged the eye a little but it's fine, I'm fine, I'm not mad about it. The hands turned out better than I expected.

Colored with colored pencils and shaded with graphite. Smudged the eye some more, but IT'S FINE.

The coloration was tough because the paper was kinda grainy, and I didn't wanna push too hard on the pencils. Overall I'm pretty happy with how she looks. It took a couple days from start to finish, but it was a lot of fun. Turns out art is fun, who could have guessed?