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Maquinaria poster 2

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Ok, another poster for my imaginary film. I tried to add a catchy tagline, but I couldn't think of anything not corny.

[link] (the dvd cover, I explain more things there)

[link] (1st poster)

In this one, I used:
Textures by *nighty-stock, more textures from =NEOkeitaro, book ornaments from ~Leichnam and the drawing of the city was made by me. Not specifically for this work, it just fits here.
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630x900px 836.31 KB
© 2008 - 2024 Nissun
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russiantea87's avatar
here's the story...if you're interested in illustrating it.

Niphalheim:
(*nee-full-heim*)
The Boulevard of Broken
Dreams



























“Warn your warmth to turn away; Here it’s December everyday” AFI

“For what you did to me: what I’ll do to you: you get what everyone else gets…you get a lifetime” My Chemical Romance

“The world is a vampire” Smashing Pumpkins

“In my darkest hour; I hold secret flames” Smashing Pumpkins

“We are made, from, the sharpest things you say” My Chemical Romance

“Get away from me! I hold your life in my hands. I can kill you! I can end your life! This is your life, dream-sneak.” The Sandman

“If life is just a joke, then why aren’t we laughing” My Chemical Romance

















(inspirations: Maquinaria, The City of Lost Children, Once upon a time in mexico, The Black Parade, Three Cheers for sweet revenge, Lies for the Liars, December Underground, and Final Fantasy Seven






To: mom and dad, for tolerance: Kyle, for reading: Carson, for listening endlessly: Gerard, for being like-minded about the vampires: David Havok, for the metaphor that was so relevant: The Foo fighters: Paramore: Papa roach: Rise against the machine: The Donnas: The Clash: Three doors down: Linkin Park: Frank Sinatra: Ray Charles: Tony Bennet: Elvis Presley:

Neil Gaiman, Tsugami Ohba, Hiromu Arakawa, Nobuhiro Watsuki, Masashi Kishimoto, Grant Morrison, Christy Lijewski, Stan Lee,

Hiyao Miyazaki, Fritzlang, Cauron, Guilermo Del Toro, Warren Beaty, Ridley Scott, Spielberg:

James Jean, Tim Burton, Jean-Pierre Juenet, Bernini

And the Doom Patrol







“Rather than be a mere sheep led to the slaughter; to be discerned by an unfeeling god of justice, I shall remain One of the many, in Death’s House of Wolves,”
Hai Sitzfuhrer Grinsen in an address to his beloved Beatrix and Mara

“If they will to be burned, then for a mercy let me burn them all,”
Kami Tiyau, Internal Quandary resolved I think, a chronic catalogue of debates for the members of the Kreishin Riht

“As good as anything else, our unheard screams will fuel the misery machine; and that’s a promise from the ages, Bleach” Jak Grinsen on the eve of Carnivale du Zin

“My art is War”Sitzfuhrer Grinsen in summary of the utilization of haastjutsu
“Life is but a dream for those who are dead,”
Shatei Mal-kai Masamura

“If we can’t save the soldier then let’s save the pissing battle ground for the next lad!, ‘xcuse me!” Col. Rufus Kugel, a pub rally in Briggston centre-gard

“Well…It takes something incredibly stupid to allow for someone incredibly smart to occur. Only here the thing’s reverse and this guy’s the loon.”
Tean Turksi, an inward response to Rufus Kugel’s policy of regressional warfare











Preface


Bullet for my Butterfly


Heidis, 1st Upper City district, Keiner
The Heidis general police precinct,
flr 16, Chief Commissioner Swith’s office
image music: gattaca theme, ‘ghost of you’mcr

Trembling slips of tears rolled from his cheeks. He gasped, swallowing in the wet from his still soaking face. Two floors below the police commisioner’s office, sprinklers continued to drown the downstairs homicide department of the Haydis police station. The blood wallowed and slipped down the built in drains, like the policmen Tean’d disposed of readily. Removed.

The convulsions, which had till recently subsided, clawed and pulled at his insides. The hazards of this temporary alleviation had been most definetly worthwhile.
But, now, his body tore him new sores of pain: as her eyes spluttered with helpless, tender panic.
Tean’s pupils shivered with his body’s pulsating fluctuations of frantic panic, clenching hysteria, and sheer mortification. He clutched and held her closer still.
These shocking emotions infested every passing air mingled with gun smoke.
This moment, in his spasming arms, she was carefully dying.
Gored and pulpish though she was from the bullet, still he embraced her withering soul in the cradle of his drenched arms. The lights gasped evermore in the keyhole of Juna’s eyes. Deluging him, the cataracts of grief bled from his eyes: Tean struggled, indecisive whether to hold Juna only closer or to repulse the terrifying moment now passed. A frantic disgust threatened him that to embrace her, his passionate aid, would only be to embrace and therefore except the decision which led to her destruction.
Juna had graciously made that same choice that he could not avoid himself from making. Despite his rage against its unfairness.
Ripping and stabbing more painfully than ever, the shaking seizure converged over his body. Tean gritted his teeth with anguish before thrashing her dying face into the bosom of his despair, almost crushing her diminishing existence in its last exhalations of breath.
The gesture was so morbidly pathetic. His drenched hair inclined toward her face as she cried silently; like chilled recollections of pleasant moments, they brushed her lips and eyes, almost tickling her nose. Juna piteously shivered, infantile in her agony, her fingers searching, making contact with his cheek.
As more life silently abandoned Juna’s body, her fingers slid heavily away from Tean’s face, reposing on the remains of her blood-deluged chest with a delicate but reluctant finality. A shameful desperation rankled over her brain’s after thoughts, like a molester behind the corner; juna ignored, the steady, consuming ache of pain draining her of concern. Persistent, she stared pitilessly into his forgiving, grieved face.
The pangs of the eitr slithering through his veins groped and dragged the comfort from the insides of his eyelids. His stumbling incredulity poured his attention into the awful pallor of her face.
Juna’s lips were depleted of sparking allure, in exchange for her final convictions as he, Tean, had ferociously aimed his Laudo revolver between her breasts; bursting through her main arteries; shattering and spattering her spinal column over the wall in front of him like gross shrapnel.

A silhouette of bitter deconstruction, Riggs whimpered and gurgled in the background. Tean couldn’t even feel enough to be enraged anymore, the room was cold and vividly mortifying.

Mayor Riggs of the Haydis city district moaned again. Despite the initial impact of the bullet’s collision with Juna’s chest it had burst through and spat out of the back of her back, and, consequentially, into his.
Panting her last pathetic breath, she died.
Static arched and snapped over the electric ceiling lamps, the scene went black.
A roar of breathless torment racked his throat, pushing desperately from his lungs, pouring into the fathomless emptiness in his head.


























Ch 1
Thursday 26th of July,
Bethany, Keiner
Descanso Blvd., tenement rm #210

Indecision Incision


The blaze of the ebbing sunlight glared in the antique windows of his aparment. Despite the garish blood-let of red passion over the sky, the city-district of Bethany, Keiner, the whole city-isle for that matter, was drowned in the frigid rains of summer.
Constantly the rains dragged and pulled at the walls and the buildings and the people, eroding the ancestral refinery of the city.

The close-net purse clinked awkwardly by his feet, nearly cutting him prematurely with its contents. His shivering hands pulsed with mortification at the awful necessity of this weekly chore. The pain, pinning down his body like a butterfly’s corpse, insisted, lusting for satiation. Tean grabbed for the purse, curling it into a lethal clot in his aching fist. He began to move for the doorway.
His toes curled anxiously, frigid in the crawling cold seeping into the tenement flat, the sun outside his window sufficiently snuffed out like a brilliant candle.
A bottle of electric spirits, almost ineffective in heightening his abandonment of yearned civility, rolled solemnly as he kicked his way over the wooden floor of his apartment. Clutter flying up in front of his eyes and toppled back to the floor in his wake. The bottle consumed its course on the century-debauched floor with a mindless idle avarice: spinning wildily from Tean’s aggravation the bottle stared at his retreating back.
Local juvenile-rank police officer, Tien “Tean” Turksi opened the door of his apartment and stumbled down the landing to the corroded embrace of the corner shower. The structure was an open affair, the starved curtain wrenched and pawned off somewhere probably.

Negotiating the conspiracy of razor blades clicking inside, Tean managed to extract one, in spite of his mounting nerves. His fingers cradled it between the calloused middle of his for and middle fingers..
The ache persisted, hungry past any show of ignorance he could prop up.
By consequence of the pangs ripping his innards, magnifying his sinuous mass, too much to bear, Tean ignored the repulsed shock as he stripped his pants away. He peeled off his shirt, drenched in a cold sweat.
His clothes dropped by his ankles as people passed the corner for the stairway; and he could drink in the agony of their dubious, disgusted eyes as they stared at his nudity. Nevertheless a sink did not exist in his apartment, and he couldn’t manage cohabitating with the smell. The public shower would have to do it.

With one hand he turned the corroded handle of the shower to hot.
Flickering chills over his resolutely anxious face, the shower sputtered and flickered down drops and then a stream of water.
He ensued to burry the blade into his lower abdomen.

Wincing, his fingers pushed the blade’s steady climb from his navel to his rib cage. He groaned inwardly, his teeth bared invisibly against the new pain.
Almost just after the blood began to seep and course from his stomach, twining down his pant leg and falling from his thick calves, his flesh began to snap animatedly, writhing and groping for the separated skin. Thin tendrils of epidermis quivered above the surface of his stomach, quietly lashing down, gripping the cut with intricate organic stitches. The flesh molded and congened, creeping over itself as the body prepared supplementary skin for the wound.
Pooling together the stitches converged and closed the cut into his body. With an abrupt influx of tight discomfort the skin snapped back to normal.
Tean gasped, pushing the blade upward, goring into and through the thick of his chest, exposing the sternum as he forced it in deeper. The blade snaped; unperturbed, he supplied himself with another one. His face was a testament of tired solemnity. Red cataracts openly trickled down the clenched imaculature of his stomach, past his privates and plick to the floor. His knees shivered visibly, his body had no warmth to provide Tean in its bald state.
With the exception of his head, Tean was naturally hairless.

He almost reveled in the comfort that his ache would for now dissipate, so he cut harder, more intensely. Tean’s insides writhed and congened to mend the wounds. They hastily groped and gathered after the cuts he’d left behind. The blade crawled up to his clavicle and then see sawed over the bone, exposing it.
He sighed…no more intrusions from the traffic: his display had achieved that level of general disgust, even in Bethany.
Startled suddenly by a grizzled intolerance permeating from the stairs he jerked and turned, then retreated, keeping his back firmly turned away. His hands fumbled briefly as he stroked and pushed away the blood and waters down his bodyy.

Tean’s scream raked his throat’s innards, ripping from his over-stretched mouth.The double banded leather straps, supressing his body, tore and wore against the raw skin of his wrist. Spluttering desperately with venerated panic the unclogged tubes clotted and pushed the viscous remnants and recently inserted donations of blood downwards into his needle pierced artery….Her face contorted with hopeless frustration against the chronic malady, Juna reflexively unsnapped the pinching rubber cord around the crook of her arm. She reattached another ounce of blood to the I.V., staring unceasingly as his muscles convulsed and swallowed, literally swallowed after themselves. The nutrition in her blood she supposed was the only explanation for the halting, violent subsidation of his muscle-seizure; every sinew was somehow being satisfied, placated.
Juna’s lagoon eyes gazed into his presen face, trembling with the naked cold, staring imploringly at the ceiling, his jaw locked voluntarily tight.
She did not appreciate the recollection of that moment in the improvised E.R. in their apartment now.


Juna stared at the melancholy blood parading so luxuriantly down his legs with nothing less than cold terse disgust: her lips puckered ominously. Nestled between two fingers she allowed the groceries to make a thunk as the heavy meats for her and her roommate to fall to the floor.
They stared at each other from the landing and the corner six and a half feet away. Juna’s temporally blind vision roared as the throbbing surges of desperation and chronic-bitterness silently and visibly washed over her, emanating ferociously from Tean’s blood.
Even the substance she could discern radiating on the floor gave vibrations that inwardly upset her.
Persistent, defiant of her lack of empathy, Tean absentmindedly permitted the sawing to continue: but even his body halted its grotesque regeneration in light of her obvious disdain.

“Think yuh somethin’ noble tough guy, makin’ punch there for all tuh see?” she intoned coldy.
They blinked and stared. Slightly exasperated, and embarrassed, eventually Tean shrugged:
“…I’m somethin’ though ain’t I?”
Her too small boots clunked over to him with calculated but threatening delicacy: “Yeah, somethin’. Somethin’ that’s nothin’ worth bein’ worth it.”
“But you admit I’m somethin’.”
Reluctantly, under her vacant but hurt stare he slowly flicked the handle to off with a smack of the back of his hand. She could feel from the intensity and the disconcerting prickled of her nerves that she was beside him. Feeling after the towel with she knew he always suspended on the curtain pole she jerked it loose and immediately twined its threadbare cloth between her fingers. Tean was so grateful she couldn’t see past his emotions.
She could hardly suppress the cackle. Turning her head the other way from his face Juna cheeks colored from the sight she couldn’t bare to feel: though with her metaphysical sight such a gesture was useless and stupid, it made her feel more…not perverted.
In kind, she was especially relieved he couldn’t realize her emotions: so concerned with his desperate yearning for freedom from the chronic-agongy his body imposed.
Rolling her eyes, Juna huffed a derisive snort. “I’ll say this…sometimes I wish you was less of somethin’:”She lashed the towel into his eyes and he held back the scream; her wrist flicked and the towel finished fluttering into his arms. “Haul all or yer bloodied arse into this place we got, right now! And you will be gored most erroneously,” Juna added firmly,

“And you will be stuck like a butterfly, Prissy McWussypuss” she affirmed as she clunked away. “for I, I am an upset goil who shall not be denied her catharsisissis.”
“Thought you’d already had one o’ those... like last Tuesday.”
“Ignorant chickenhead, you shall be dealt a new lump readily. Prepare yourself, and yer mind too.” The door clicked defly shut.

Water and blood trailed and plicked away, sucking down the weathered drain of the shower.
The towel aggressively attacked his bald pant leg. Tean whipped the moist towl over his shoulder, and then constricted it austerely to his waist.









(called indecision incision due to the source of Tean’s eitr pangs; his internal conflict between vengeance and revenge)



Ch. The Crowworm


Thursday, 26th of july--6th of August
Inspiration: Helena and ghost of you

Ingested in thorns, the battlefield basked in the awful quietude of his dull restless stare. The burning embers were vivid red among the black replacing the whites of Grinsen’s eyes. His fingers throttled the hilt of the Zang Rasuaf, Moonraizer, tighter than before.
Some moldering, some smoldering, the corpses of his past personas were piled and strewn over the field; thorns wrapping and permeating the dead bodies with beastial animation. Snow continued to drift. He made steam with his breathings.

A clatter of trappings and the furious flutter screamed at his back, dismissed by the memetic terror pouring in silent, violent gusts over the Mor, Grinsen de Damon.

His head pulled itself up into agonized suspension, his countenance gnarled, haggard, aged, and spattered in blood. Grinsen stared at her, mortified, more than he’d ever been; a truly desperate, rabid, manic panic convulsing and consuming his body as he drank in her wrath.
Her ragged trappings whipped and snapped imperiously. Intolerant of her Son as she stood over him. In a dress expressly calculated to flare the wonderful swell of her breast ,and garlandthe crushed petite composition of her waist, it exaggerated her terrible but awesome gravity. Lustrous, her eyes flinted with bored severity, her full lips creased luxuriously into a sneer
She cherished a gas can to her bosom, a vetruvian star branded on its countenance as she nursed it visibly. Barb wires smoked and cindered around her skirts like wreaths of infamy. Golden were the eyes in her unforgiving skull.
She spoke but one word from her tongue ever. Solely this did she express:
“Shameful…”

On his knees, buried in the thorns of the wintrous, abysmal battle field, he watched her appear. His arms impotent, terrified eyes aquiver with frigid desperation, he raised his right hand for her.

“I had her…and, and your son had a bride….. Mother.” He swallowed, barely able to compose his voice for the fear, “I had made myself happy--- for the Monody!, for you! All for you! he shouted desperately, quelching his own child-like exasperation, “...I tried and I tried to__”
Even so she turned her back. Her frazzled and matted affair of red tresses appraised him with masticating disgust. Her form faded and snapped alive again, several feel away , her body stiff as she walked. The gasmask hardly creaked, floating to and away from her pallid complexion.

“M…mother” his voice quivered, grieved, terrified.
“Shameful” the wraith women hissed without speaking, “…shameful…”: a child crept into the dismal departure, forged from the mist and somber airs. It too dismissed him. She had fiery red hair.
“…mother…;please…tell me!…”
“He’s no son of mine” she lilted harshly.
“Mother Fau! “ he roared hoarsely, “Say what you want!”
”Shameful…” both the Mother and the red-haired child uttered.

“….” He was alone, “Why won’t she just say…”
Grinsen knelt, enveloped in his grief so long forestalled and ignored. The snow quietly comsumed him; his chest shivered, miserable. Suddenly, he gasped: the freezing slide of forged steel slithered in his scalp, drifting casually to his ear, and then held itself pressed to his neck. He closed his eyes, restless with misery. Scaramouche glistened with morbid vivacity, so thirsty for violence, the moonraizer poised to shore off Grinsen’s head.
I’ve betrayed her so far I can’t seem to stand on my own anymore…
With a piteous depression of his chest, he plummeted into the frigid ice then below his knees: in the clutching waters he struggled without certainty. The ice had soldered itself and he banged at the opaque surface of the ice as he writhed underneath that suffocating water. Drowning, his lungs embraced the coursing sensation of surrender.

Thrumming silently, a hiss of expended gas released the sealing mechanism of the industrial sepulcher. The fushin Betrugen patiently distilled its liquid preservatives, storing the the excess sentimental catalysts, recycling them for further masochistic indulgence. The needles wheedled animatedly from his flesh, their allowance of meta-amphetamines choked and retracted, as the needles retreated back into their respective outlets. Only the heads of the sealed needles remained to testify of the depth of his monody.

The euphoric affect of his sensual reminiscence of Orianna, her breathless instinct for imperious romance: her tentative as he plunged her into a menagerie of awful terror and wonder and excitement: of her delicate countenance between his calloused fingers___ now with every exhalation of his breath deeper into memory, he kept constantly plummeting into a deluge of wintrous despair and oblivion.
The vision turned to ash and numbing frost in his hopeless addicted fingers.

The cardiograhm monitor that had been so vividly alive, dropped flat to a drowsy lull as he blinked intolerantly at the wash of deep green bathing his body from the machine’s cortex: the machine continued to beep, almost indistinguishable amid the cacophony of machinery so prevalent in the stale air of the basement facility.

A squat, gnarled Eurasian man scratched assessments and dialysis on his daily catalogue for the fushin betrugen’s progress. Quite abruptly the taste of a bluntly impatient stare and the imposing figure of a man caught his attention out of the corner of his eyes.
“It seems the sentiment has been expended for this time…we are agreed on the previous stipulations I presume, Vincent”
Grinsen blinked, sighing into himself, his face soggy from the bitter dependence and resenting the Jamin’s matter-o-fact simplicity about the whole affair with this machine.
With somber capitulation he nodded.
“You must accumulate more for to perpetuate the experience.” The Jamin alchemist/metaphysicist engrossed himself with a ragged, hungry grin. “I’ll expound…kill again, if you’d be so kind”

Least of all..least of anything I can do: I’ll keep the promise… a little.
That means I’ll only claim those too jack ass to stay alive: and that means the vampires.