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If you are looking to hire any freelancer beware of one that goes by the name shin500 . He is awful to work with. I posted an ad for freelance concept art and he applied. I assumed he would be professional to work with judging from his portfolio but wow I was wrong. The guy not only didnt create the character I specifically told him to create he gave me some old stock art he had laying around and charged me 50.00usd for it on top of that. Everything about this guy is manipulative and unethical. Trust me do not ever commission this guy.
Beautiful despair ( revenge is my sanctuary ) short story part sample.
Chapter One
In the dark, against the cold stone of the jail cell, Myrlo Minshura awaited for the right moment to come out. He was 19, and while his physical appearance was normally slender and waifish, (a trait shared by nearly all of his elven brethren) with light brown skin, elongated fingers and toes and thin, membrane-lined ears that tapered to a point, his current appearance was quite different.
His current appearance was that of a standard Caladorian male, the kind that sailed the freighter ships and entered Capital City by the droves, drinking and whoring and fighting. He was barely spared a glance walking throughout the streets and into taverns. If he had dropped the illusion and done the same in his elven appearance he would have been stared at, spit on and refused service in those same taverns.
Humans. Disgusting creatures. He hated these small-minded beings with no magic and so little regard for the world around them that they dug huge holes into the ground, mining precious metals and ore. They had arrived some 2000 years ago through a portal from their home world and bred like insects, covering the land with their stinking, sprawling cities, building houses and hunting the game.
At first they had only stayed in their little area but little by little they forged great swords and shields out of the metals that they dug. Giant armies of humans bearing a cross – the symbol of some Goddess from their world – converting the native species of the land who would worship their Goddess and read from their “Holy tablets” and killing those who refused to abandon the old Gods.
That was how he had ended up in Capital City, a lone elf from the Netherlands, walking through their stinking city and drinking their weak ale. He had been in school, his last year of Welshek – Magical Education in the Netherlands – when the armies had surrounded his village. They had entered and begin slaughtering the men, raping the women, chaining the children and using them for slavery. He hid in the basement of the school along with a group of other students and when the armies had moved on, his friends, family and neighbors chained like common dogs in the back of wagons, he had stumbled out into his burning village to look for his family. But there was nothing left of his home.
His mother, Illya, a gentle, loving creature who would call to the winged insects of the field and they would land on her hands like she was a fragrant floral. She was raped in their kitchen and her head was bashed in by a hearthstone.
His father, Storwyn, a gatherer that had never killed anything more vicious than the rats that sometimes found their way into the house, had been beheaded by a dull weapon, and the look of pain, horror and unbelief on his face had frozen there at the moment of death.
His brothers, Ulis and Heris, his sister Vanya and all of his cousins, had all been taken by the humans as slaves. Myrlo stared around at the house he had once known, at the lute that he had learned to play almost as soon as he could walk, at the art that he had been making with mixed pigments since he was old enough to hold a brush, and at the remains of his family, and felt a small, burning fire ignite somewhere deep inside.
The humans would pay. They would pay for their savage ways. They would pay for their crimes. He would see to it.
That’s how he ended up in this jail cell in Capital City. He had always been talented at illusion magic, more than anyone else in his village, and it was easy to see a passing face and make it his own. Then he had tried to steal a plate of food from a local inn, but inexperience had caused him to be caught and two passing town guards had chained him up and hauled him to this jail cell.
Now he was stuck. The manacles on his wrists stayed tight, no matter what illusion he projected. He was no good at transfiguration and disguising himself as someone with arms thin enough to slip out of the manacles had no effect. They were around his real wrists and he had no way to pull them out.
He was starting to panic. He had no idea what these humans did to thieves but he imagined that it was nothing good and if he somehow let the illusion fade or they discovered his true identity, he wouldn’t be flogged or fined, he would be put to death.