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I like it very much, with the exception of one detail. It's not startlingly original, but it is well done. The light is dramatic, but n...

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Literature
The Revenge of Gilgamesh
The revenge of Gilgamesh
The gods were so sure that they had won. Gilgamesh, great king of Uruk, had tried to defy them, and he had been crushed. His lover was dead and remained so, and he himself had trudged back to his capital in weary defeat, frustrated at every turn in his search for the secret of immortality. Sooner or later, probably more sooner than later, the mighty king of Uruk would be dust. The gods had made their point. Immortality was theirs, and theirs alone.
A few weeks after the great king returned to his capital, he went forth alone, in the very early morning, to the east gate of the city. He carried with him only a small cloth bag with something heavy inside. His step was light again; the guards wondered if he were starting out on another journey. In a manner of speaking, he told them, smiling. They did not dare ask him any other questions, which saddened Gilgamesh for a moment. He had so much to say now.
The king went only a few hundred meters from t
:icondongzhongshu:dongzhongshu
:icondongzhongshu:dongzhongshu 4 2
2015-02-10 00008 by dongzhongshu 2015-02-10 00008 :icondongzhongshu:dongzhongshu 12 2 see what I've become by dongzhongshu see what I've become :icondongzhongshu:dongzhongshu 14 2 All The Tomorrows In The World by dongzhongshu
Mature content
All The Tomorrows In The World :icondongzhongshu:dongzhongshu 8 1
The Poacher by dongzhongshu
Mature content
The Poacher :icondongzhongshu:dongzhongshu 7 0
Still Alive by dongzhongshu
Mature content
Still Alive :icondongzhongshu:dongzhongshu 6 2
Sunlight And Ruins by dongzhongshu
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Sunlight And Ruins :icondongzhongshu:dongzhongshu 5 1
The Penitent's Tale by dongzhongshu
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The Penitent's Tale :icondongzhongshu:dongzhongshu 6 0
The Vampire's Tale by dongzhongshu The Vampire's Tale :icondongzhongshu:dongzhongshu 14 5 The Scavenger's Tale by dongzhongshu The Scavenger's Tale :icondongzhongshu:dongzhongshu 7 5 I take you with me by dongzhongshu
Mature content
I take you with me :icondongzhongshu:dongzhongshu 4 2
Literature
Nightfire Ch. 1
We sat down on stools in the command tent for my cohort, on either side of the map table. He was a mage from the far south, he had told me, a Summoner who had specialized in the Art from his youth and now taught it to students at the College of All Arts in the capital. I know just enough of the Arts to realize from his office that he was well-connected and well-trusted: all Summoners are. Among the Arts, Summoning has always been considered the most powerful and dangerous, the secret of secrets, but so difficult that its greatest adepts are hard-put to produce consistent results. As the old joke goes, the difference between a cook and a Summoner is that a cook will lose his job if the chicken doesn't appear on time.
I looked at him for a moment without speaking; he looked back. After a moment, he dropped his gaze to the rough surface of the makeshift desk that separated us and gave an almost imperceptible shrug. I suppose he expected me to snap at him, demand his exact business, call h
:icondongzhongshu:dongzhongshu
:icondongzhongshu:dongzhongshu 4 2
Literature
Rough Justice 2: The Pigeonshit Option
Monday evening, 21:11 hours
"Slightly more comfortably trapped, but still trapped," Zoey muttered. "Isn't there any way out of here at all?"
"Must be some way," Louis replied. "After all, they left."
"Yeah, down the elevator that doesn't work any longer. Or the stairs with the metal doors that appear to be completely bullet and blast proof." Zoey slumped into a high-backed black leather chair, momentarily defeated. She leaned back tentatively, "Nice chairs anyway. Our tax money at work."
"So's the bomb," Bill interjected. Sitting around the polished conference table, the three of them looked like the board of directors of a company that had had one too many class-action lawsuits and had just learned it was facing an IRS audit.
They had found a metal hatch in the roof after only a few moments' search, but it had only gone one floor further down, into the part of the topmost floor that had not been open to them when they were fighting their way up here. To the
:icondongzhongshu:dongzhongshu
:icondongzhongshu:dongzhongshu 4 5
Literature
Frank and Productive Talks
Frank and Productive Talks
(part of a much longer story)
Dean worked fast. Yesterday's pile of debris had already been replaced by a neat wood-framed frontpiece with real glass panes, reflecting the new architectural style that stressed light and transparency, now that people had less worry of bombs or bullets shattering their windows. It didn't quite fit with the ghoul ambiance, though. Elaine found herself wondering once again at what might have motivated Dean's apparent career change. From the limelight into the shadows? Not like him at all.
She walked in without knocking, again, past the Protectron still patiently standing guard, and sat down. Pointedly ignoring Dean behind his desk for the time being, she produced the same device she had used earlier to call in the delivery team, and exchanged a few sentences with it. Dean gave an apprehensive glance toward his new windows, but they remained gleaming and inviolate in the morning sun.
Elaine closed her device with a snap. "I
:icondongzhongshu:dongzhongshu
:icondongzhongshu:dongzhongshu 5 3
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Activity


Northbound

 

The grace of a god seems harsh to mortal minds; sheep feel a shepherd’s care as idle cruelty. To be all-knowing is above all to know when no mercy is to be had. (Teachings of the Saints, “Saint Evanleih.”)


Out of the blue star of the leyfocus, expecting fire, the body’s mute memory cringing at the expected flame; the shudder and void of here forced to become there, and then the shock of icy darkness and the choking grip of the sea around her throat. Shaking free of unseen fronds toward light shining dim through a broken roof, the shimmer of the moon above her, realizing the passage had partially failed, stripping her of all baggage, even clothing, a snow-pale nakedness breaking the surface and splashing wildly, never much of a swimmer at the best of times, water-scrambling to cling to slippery ledges and draw herself up. There was nothing there but the ragged stone of an ancient wall, barnacle-sharp above the waves, barely enough room to heave up and collapse, squeezing eyes shut, coughing and feverish; and then exhaustion overcame her and she curled up and lost consciousness, safe for the moment at the highest point of the ruin, a moonlit streak in the night against the gleaming grey stone.

Years later, she would rediscover the remains of that ancient leyfocus, originally built on an island off the coast, but abandoned for centuries as the sea rose and the land subsided until finally it was submerged. She saw then how lucky she’d been; if it had been high tide when she made her passage, she would surely have drowned. She must have been rescued before the water rose again, though of that she could remember nothing, thank the gods.

Days passed. She would never find out exactly how many. When she woke from her fever, thin and trembling, she found herself on a cot in a single-room hut. The hut was empty otherwise, except for a few pieces of furniture, light shining through a door open just a crack, the windows curtained. It was daytime, but the silence was absolute, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves as a breeze passed.


Irileth called out, but no one answered. Her fever was gone, but she still felt very weak. She tried to get up, but could only roll off the cot and onto the floor, landing on hands and knees. Someone had clothed her in a loose shift, but her feet were bare. It took several attempts before she could stand without the room pivoting gently around her. When she was quite sure that she could walk without falling, she carefully made her way over to the door and pushed it open.

Here would be the people who had saved her life, she thought as she stepped out, looking cautiously around her. Why are they so quiet? The hut faced onto an open, grassy area. Several paces away, a girl, perhaps seven or eight years old, lay with her arms around the neck of a shaggy brown dog. Then the stench hit Irileth, and she began to choke.


The girl was a corpse, her eye sockets alive with maggots. The dog was dead, its stomach bloated and its legs sticking out grotesquely. A cloud of flies danced around them

There were about thirty huts in the village, which was at the head of a small inlet where boats still floated at the docks. Nets were still spread out to dry, but the catch had rotted and the dock stank too badly to approach. Every one of the people was dead. Most of them had died indoors. Irileth didn’t enter any of the huts. She called at the doors of each one, but only the flies answered. In the end, because of the stink, she took what clothes and food and other necessities she lacked from the two or three huts that were empty of death.


Finally, she went back to the hut where she had woken that morning. Walking around it, she saw that wood and brush had been stacked against the backs and sides. There was a barrel; she pried the top off, and found tar. She shuddered. Had they tried to deal with the death she had brought by burning the source of infection, her? The disease had been too fast for them. Or perhaps they simply hadn’t had the heart to light her pyre in the end, to burn the one person who might still be breathing the next day.

She set the hut on fire herself. It seemed the best way to say goodbye, somehow. I’m sorry. I didn’t know this would happen. Then she left, walking up the main road, away from the sea, feeling like Death’s herald taking possession of her realm. She was light-headed, and perhaps this kept her from going mad. It felt no worse, and no more real, than a nightmare.


It was a lovely summer evening. She met no one living, and saw no more dead. But she passed houses by the side of the road that buzzed with flies, and near these, she walked quickly, her eyes turned away.

That night, she slept in yet another empty house, one that seemed to have been a store. She found a map that showed a town or city ahead, the writing on it in a language close enough to her own to understand. Surely, if there were enough people, some might have survived. There was paper in the house too, and pens. Reflexively, as soon as she had settled in and taken care of her immediate needs, she spread out a sheet of paper and drew the Sigil of the Throne, whose protective powers were without parallel, the High Priest had told her. He’d been right, she said to herself. He just hadn’t known what the price would be.


Lying in her borrowed bed that night, the Sigil tucked into a breast pocket in the pretty yellow blouse she had taken from someone never to be known but undoubtedly dead, her mind at peace or perhaps simply battered into submission, she thought to herself, Is this what was supposed to happen? They won’t be overloading the leynet if none of them are alive to use it. That was always one answer, wasn’t it? Go there and kill them all. We didn’t think of it because we aren’t gods.

I thank the gods that I am not a god.

Then she fell asleep, and slept until midmorning.

  • Listening to: "Wings of Kynareth" (Oblivion OST)
  • Reading: Snow White Learns Witchcraft (Goss; stories+poems)
  • Watching: The occasional YouTube
  • Playing: ESO, Oblivion
  • Eating: Pizza
  • Drinking: Blueberry juice
It would be useless to just send a message to Irileth to set off. Elseth could thrall a messenger bird easily enough, but the priests would catch up with Irileth in a few hours if she went on foot by road, and she wasn’t trained or capable of evading pursuit. And it was too late to go back in person to escort her.

However…. if she hurried her plans a bit, and immediately forwarded Irileth the formal invitation to associate with House l’Tell, sending it by raven, Irileth would become a vassal of the House the instant she put her signature to the document, and hence untouchable. It was a basic and universally accepted rule that Houses commanded and disciplined their own members, unless overruled by the royal court, and this latter never happened except in cases of flagrant and notorious misbehavior. Irileth’s possession of House status would warn anyone trying to interfere that she was under protection, and that any attempt to detain her would be treated as an insult to the honor and dignity of House l’Tell.

It took most of the rest of the night to find message tubes and the special thin parchment that fit inside them, to write and certify the documents and a letter of instructions to Irileth, to cast a Seal spell on them so that they could not be tampered with after Irileth signed them, and finally to first locate and then placate her raven, who was not at all pleased at having to carry two message tubes instead of one again, at top speed over a considerable distance, especially after Elseth added her House ring to the load. The ring, an intricate piece with silver snakes curling around vines, set with green stones, was more ornate than a low-ranking vassal would customarily wear, but not to the point it violated ritual norms. What it did do, and the reason why Elseth included it, was to immediately identify the wearer as connected with the House, in case things came to a face to face confrontation

“I know,” she said to the disgruntled bird. “You look as silly as a child’s toy in the market with all those shiny things hanging off you. I’m sorry, but it’s necessary. After Irileth reaches Sentinel, you can have the next month off; I’ll switch to using the owl. And if you do like the ring that much, I’ll find you another one for your nest.”

She carried the bird to the ramparts and launched it into the air, closing her eyes and carefully withdrawing to a quiet corner of its mind, leaving it to its own devices rather than the fussy and counterproductive micromanaging some Handlers indulged in. She would miss the raven; the owl was too conspicuous, easier to spot and remember, and it didn’t like flying long distances during the day; but part of the trick of being a Handler was to learn to respect the feelings of your thralls. People and gods thought, but everything living felt. It was easy to forget that.
  • Listening to: Melting snow
  • Reading: Death (Gaiman; graphic novel collection)
  • Watching: The occasional YouTube
  • Playing: ESO, Oblivion
  • Eating: Rice and fish
  • Drinking: Hong Kong milk tea

deviantID

dongzhongshu
G. A.
Canada
This became rather overgrown, so I have pruned it. I don't have the heart to remove the two poems at the end, though.

DA is primarily a site for visual artists, and so I don't spend much time here any more. I can't draw worth a damn. Most of my new stuff now appears first on my fanfiction.net site, which is linked below. If and when I get a sufficient number of illustrations done, I'll set the whole thing up into Skyrim-style type and post it here again as an Acrobat file.

However, DA does retain one advantage in that it will accept (albeit reluctantly) .pdf files. This means that I will still be posting finished works here, if they contain graphics or unusual typography.


Over the local stations, one by one,
Announcers list disasters like dark poems
That always happen in the skull of winter.
But once again the storm has passed us by:
Lovely and moderate, the snow lies down
While shouting children hurry back to play,
And scarved and smiling citizens once more
Sweep down their easy paths of pride and welcome.

And what else might we do? Let us be truthful.
Two counties north the storm has taken lives.
Two counties north, to us, is far away, -
A land of trees, a wing upon a map,
A wild place never visited, - so we
Forget with ease each far mortality.

Peacefully from our frozen yards we watch
Our children running on the mild white hills.
This is the landscape that we understand, -
And till the principle of things takes root,
How shall examples move us from our calm?
I do not say that it is not a fault.
I only say, except as we have loved,
All news arrives as from a distant land.


Mary Oliver, "Beyond the Snow Belt."




This land like a mirror turns you inward
And you become a forest in a furtive lake;
The dark pines of your mind reach downward,
You dream in the green of your time,
Your memory is a row of sinking pines.

Explorer, you tell yourself this is not what you came for
Although it is good here, and green;
You had meant to move with a kind of largeness,
You had planned a heavy grace, an anguished dream.

But the dark pines of your mind dip deeper
And you are sinking, sinking, sleeper
In an elementary world;
There is something down there and you want it told.


Gwendolyn MacEwen, "Dark Pines Under Water," The Shadow Maker (1972)

.
.

Current Residence: South Vancouver


Favourite genre of music: None. My playlists would drive an analyst insane. They go all the way from Tanya Tucker singing "Delta Dawn" to the Scary Bitches with "Piss on your grave," to "Blackheart" and "For the Win" by 2 Steps from Hell, to "Sleep while I drive" and "I take you with me" by Melissa Etheridge, to.... well, ask me tomorrow.

Favourite style of art: Symbolist; Decadant; Art Nouveau

Operating System: Windows 7/Mac System X Lion/Mac iOS

Shell of choice: 90 mm.

Wallpaper of choice: I prefer paint....

Skin of choice: My lady's ;)

Favourite cartoon character: Chihiro/Sen

Personal Quote: When we are no longer children, we are already dead. (Constantin Brancusi)
Interests

Northbound

 

The grace of a god seems harsh to mortal minds; sheep feel a shepherd’s care as idle cruelty. To be all-knowing is above all to know when no mercy is to be had. (Teachings of the Saints, “Saint Evanleih.”)


Out of the blue star of the leyfocus, expecting fire, the body’s mute memory cringing at the expected flame; the shudder and void of here forced to become there, and then the shock of icy darkness and the choking grip of the sea around her throat. Shaking free of unseen fronds toward light shining dim through a broken roof, the shimmer of the moon above her, realizing the passage had partially failed, stripping her of all baggage, even clothing, a snow-pale nakedness breaking the surface and splashing wildly, never much of a swimmer at the best of times, water-scrambling to cling to slippery ledges and draw herself up. There was nothing there but the ragged stone of an ancient wall, barnacle-sharp above the waves, barely enough room to heave up and collapse, squeezing eyes shut, coughing and feverish; and then exhaustion overcame her and she curled up and lost consciousness, safe for the moment at the highest point of the ruin, a moonlit streak in the night against the gleaming grey stone.

Years later, she would rediscover the remains of that ancient leyfocus, originally built on an island off the coast, but abandoned for centuries as the sea rose and the land subsided until finally it was submerged. She saw then how lucky she’d been; if it had been high tide when she made her passage, she would surely have drowned. She must have been rescued before the water rose again, though of that she could remember nothing, thank the gods.

Days passed. She would never find out exactly how many. When she woke from her fever, thin and trembling, she found herself on a cot in a single-room hut. The hut was empty otherwise, except for a few pieces of furniture, light shining through a door open just a crack, the windows curtained. It was daytime, but the silence was absolute, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves as a breeze passed.


Irileth called out, but no one answered. Her fever was gone, but she still felt very weak. She tried to get up, but could only roll off the cot and onto the floor, landing on hands and knees. Someone had clothed her in a loose shift, but her feet were bare. It took several attempts before she could stand without the room pivoting gently around her. When she was quite sure that she could walk without falling, she carefully made her way over to the door and pushed it open.

Here would be the people who had saved her life, she thought as she stepped out, looking cautiously around her. Why are they so quiet? The hut faced onto an open, grassy area. Several paces away, a girl, perhaps seven or eight years old, lay with her arms around the neck of a shaggy brown dog. Then the stench hit Irileth, and she began to choke.


The girl was a corpse, her eye sockets alive with maggots. The dog was dead, its stomach bloated and its legs sticking out grotesquely. A cloud of flies danced around them

There were about thirty huts in the village, which was at the head of a small inlet where boats still floated at the docks. Nets were still spread out to dry, but the catch had rotted and the dock stank too badly to approach. Every one of the people was dead. Most of them had died indoors. Irileth didn’t enter any of the huts. She called at the doors of each one, but only the flies answered. In the end, because of the stink, she took what clothes and food and other necessities she lacked from the two or three huts that were empty of death.


Finally, she went back to the hut where she had woken that morning. Walking around it, she saw that wood and brush had been stacked against the backs and sides. There was a barrel; she pried the top off, and found tar. She shuddered. Had they tried to deal with the death she had brought by burning the source of infection, her? The disease had been too fast for them. Or perhaps they simply hadn’t had the heart to light her pyre in the end, to burn the one person who might still be breathing the next day.

She set the hut on fire herself. It seemed the best way to say goodbye, somehow. I’m sorry. I didn’t know this would happen. Then she left, walking up the main road, away from the sea, feeling like Death’s herald taking possession of her realm. She was light-headed, and perhaps this kept her from going mad. It felt no worse, and no more real, than a nightmare.


It was a lovely summer evening. She met no one living, and saw no more dead. But she passed houses by the side of the road that buzzed with flies, and near these, she walked quickly, her eyes turned away.

That night, she slept in yet another empty house, one that seemed to have been a store. She found a map that showed a town or city ahead, the writing on it in a language close enough to her own to understand. Surely, if there were enough people, some might have survived. There was paper in the house too, and pens. Reflexively, as soon as she had settled in and taken care of her immediate needs, she spread out a sheet of paper and drew the Sigil of the Throne, whose protective powers were without parallel, the High Priest had told her. He’d been right, she said to herself. He just hadn’t known what the price would be.


Lying in her borrowed bed that night, the Sigil tucked into a breast pocket in the pretty yellow blouse she had taken from someone never to be known but undoubtedly dead, her mind at peace or perhaps simply battered into submission, she thought to herself, Is this what was supposed to happen? They won’t be overloading the leynet if none of them are alive to use it. That was always one answer, wasn’t it? Go there and kill them all. We didn’t think of it because we aren’t gods.

I thank the gods that I am not a god.

Then she fell asleep, and slept until midmorning.

  • Listening to: "Wings of Kynareth" (Oblivion OST)
  • Reading: Snow White Learns Witchcraft (Goss; stories+poems)
  • Watching: The occasional YouTube
  • Playing: ESO, Oblivion
  • Eating: Pizza
  • Drinking: Blueberry juice

Comments


Add a Comment:
 
:iconkhov97:
Khov97 Featured By Owner May 23, 2018  Professional Traditional Artist
thank  [F2U] Grey Rolling Eye Heart 
Reply
:icondongzhongshu:
dongzhongshu Featured By Owner May 23, 2018
My pleasure!
Reply
:iconkhov97:
Khov97 Featured By Owner Jun 5, 2018  Professional Traditional Artist
Fox emoji - hearts 
Reply
:iconimoonwishes:
iMoonwishes Featured By Owner Mar 4, 2017
Hi, can you give some points please? if you don't like what i say , i am sorry so much
Reply
:icondongzhongshu:
dongzhongshu Featured By Owner Feb 20, 2019
Oh, don't worry, I just look at my comments very rarely, lol.
Reply
:icondrawpal-art:
Drawpal-Art Featured By Owner May 21, 2016   Traditional Artist
Have a great day! :)
Reply
:iconjusstneedoh:
JUSSTNEEDoh Featured By Owner Mar 19, 2016
Hello , can you give me some points pls??? if you don't like what i say , i am sorry so much =( (Sad) 
Reply
:iconkellycreepypasta:
KellyCreepypasta Featured By Owner Mar 15, 2016  Hobbyist General Artist
Hello Dear ! I hope you had a great day, or that you're having a great day, and that you're doing well ! :D
I was wondering if maybe, if I could ask you, with all my apologize if it bother you, that I could borrow you 20 points (or more if you feel generous ! :giggle:) to make a surprise present to one of my best friend ! :happybounce:
If yes, thank you so much !
If no, you don't need to reply, but thank you for taking the time to read this message ! :w00t:

Bye !
Reply
:icontabi-tsu:
tabi-tsu Featured By Owner Feb 27, 2016  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
hello~! <3
Thanks a lot for the cake~! ;w;
Reply
:icondongzhongshu:
dongzhongshu Featured By Owner Mar 4, 2016
You're welcome!
Reply
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