|07-17-2008, 06:50 PM||#11|
Join Date: Sep 2007
Can we get some Artist characters in the modern era style already? Great stuff, your writing really blows me away. Will this ever be in graphic novel form or even a TV series or movie?
|07-17-2008, 10:06 PM||#12|
Join Date: Feb 2008
|07-18-2008, 10:42 PM||#13|
Join Date: Feb 2008
Camera isn't working, pics up asap.
|07-18-2008, 10:54 PM||#14|
Join Date: Jan 2007
There's a lot to be said for using simple software like Powerpoint if want to play around with the idea of a comic.
As a guy hoping to put his take of the whole Cobra-la nonsense on paper one day, I can certainly appreciate a person who has taken the time to make his dream come together. Keep up the good work.
Tales of the Dead Eleven:
--How is it that I'm wearing a grey undershirt... but my bellybutton lint is still blue?
|07-18-2008, 11:01 PM||#15|
Join Date: May 2008
Location: Northeastern, Pennsylvania
Keep working on it.
|07-19-2008, 02:36 AM||#16|
Join Date: Mar 2008
Thanks for sharing your cool stuff!
|07-20-2008, 08:30 PM||#17|
Join Date: Feb 2008
I can't get the camera to work right now, but I'm posting something very SECRET regarding the whole story. In this "quick, rough draft", I wrote how the vigilante's origins are finally revealed by an unsuspecting source.
The body guard fell to the ground with a thud. The Artist calmly walked over the motionless body. He gave it a light kick, judging by the movement of said body guard, he was still alive, but he wouldn’t be waking up for quite a while.
The nameless guard wore a helmet that was practically a metal dome. Two stripes of silver decorated the grey head piece, going from the two sinister eyeholes to merging into a point on the back. His grey outfit was highlighted by purple boots, gloves and armor that covered the top of his torso and adhered spikes to his shoulders. Two pairs of positively vile looking daggers were held on this belt. The Artist had easily beaten the silent guard before he could even bring out the seemingly decorative weapons.
“First Jimmy the Eskimo, and now this loser? Seriously, Two Lips, where do you get these guys? Some kind of catalog?” the vigilante asked as he made his way to the cowering Two Lips. Valerie emerged from her hiding-spot in the doorway to quietly and carefully follow the renowned hero. She stopped just behind him when he did.
“I-I-I-I… I don’t know… This guy just came to me, offered to be an enforcer. He did good work, kicked ass, I thought he’d be better-”
“Than me?” the Artist laughed. He wasn’t cocky by any means, but he was aware his skill was almost unsurpassed. And a wet paper-bag would have put up more of a fight than that guy had. “Trust me, Big Daddy, you need a more thorough application process.” the Artist said, removing his sword from it’s place on his back. He made a show of looking at the blade, ignoring the now-sweating mob boss. Behind him, Valerie was giving Two Lips a look that would kill kittens.
I like kittens.
“Why, fatty? Why’d you do it?” she asked, tears starting to appear in her rage-filled eyes.
“Why, what? I haven’t done anything-”
“Innocent men don’t buy body guards, no matter how inept they are,” the Artist explained, pointing his left thumb behind him. “So talk, before I take care of your slurring-” he continued, pointing the ninjata directly at the mobster’s fat lips. “Like I promised.”
The Artist smiled.
“Okay, okay!” the mobster broke. “I went back to drugs, I’m sorry! The Columbians didn’t take no for an answer, and either I played ball or they’d kill me! Spikey over there offered to protect me, so I took him up on it, ‘case they decided they didn’t even need me. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but you have to believe me-”
“NO you disgusting bastard, why did you kill my brother?” Valerie yelled, only stopping from attacking the defeated mobster when the Artist put up his arm to block her path. “And why frame him?”
The Artist expected many things from Two Lips at that point. Any number of statements or expressions, or combinations of both. Hate. Guilt. Spite. Rage. Desperation. Fear. Even satisfaction. What he got wasn’t any of those, or anything he would have expected in a number of years.
“What? Me? I never-”
The Artist grabbed him by the collar and pulled him close. Well, as close as he can get with that stomach. He held the sword so that the tip was sitting on Two Lips’ bottom lip. I’m gonna have to wash this thing. “The truth, Lips. Why’d you do it? How?”
“I wouldn’t! Not after the Kovacs, I wouldn’t mess with you!” The mobster was almost sobbing, afraid the hero would run out of his patience. The Artist seriously wished he could follow through with the threat that was being implied between them, but knew he never could.
“Spill it, Lips. Or I’ll spill you, all over the floor. What’s your game?” the Artist demanded.
Any possible protests Two Lips might have had were cut short. A dagger practically appeared in the mobster’s forehead. Two Lips’ face twisted into shock, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. It only took a moment for his body to slump out of the Artist’s hands.
The Artist turned around, getting between Valerie and the rising body guard in one solid movement. When the formerly silent body guard spoke, it was with an other-worldly echo and metallic voice. It was the most chilling thing the Artist had ever heard.
“It’s not his game, ninja. It’s mine.”
The former body guard held up his remaining dagger in his left hand, casually running his fingers over the blade with his free right. The man lowered his gaze to the blade in his hand, not looking at the pair in front of him, and made no movement towards or away from the Artist.
“I don’t understand,” Valerie said, trying to comprehend the betrayal she had just witnessed. The Artist glared.
“So tell me, metal head, just who would you be?” he said, just as confused as his reporter friend.
“Now, that’s not how we play the game. I wouldn’t want to show my hand, now would I? Not that it would hardly matter, would it-” He raised his gaze to the ninja.
The Artist’s eyes narrowed.
“Who’s Darren? I don’t understand-” Valerie started.
The new threat laughed, the metallic echo causing Valerie to cringe. “Has he not told you, Ms. Summers? After all, you spend so much time together, and there is obviously something more to your relationship; a reporter, sitting on a personal knowledge of the biggest mystery in town, and not mentioning a word? You see, that’s what made your brother the target.
“But even after all of this, you still haven’t told her anything about yourself, Darren? How utterly rude. Tell me, Ms. Summers, aren’t you curious to who he is? Where he’s from? Or perhaps why he leaves those simplistic yet deep marks wherever he goes? Has he truly not told you any of it?“ The room was silent. “No? Allow me to do it for you then.”
“Shut your mouth, freak. Val, don’t listen-” the Artist tried.
“This man’s real name is Darren Vincent. He’s 23 years old, Caucasian. Black hair, blue eyes. He was married to a woman named Naomi. They met when they were in middle school, started dating almost right away. Never had a serious argument up till when they got out of high school, which found the two young lovers getting married. They had a daughter almost immediately. The two named her Darlene Noelle. Cute little girl.”
“Say another word and I’ll gut your-”
“Four years later, Mr. Vincent was involved in a martial arts tournament. He was undefeated the previous three years, and his family came to cheer him on to his fourth consecutive championship. Unfortunately, in a random act of fate, police tried to break up a gun running operation a few blocks away. The resulting chase found a few of the gang bangers flee into the hotel, where they were staying.”
“Enough.” the Artist said. His voice wasn’t nearly as forceful as he wanted it to be. Valerie was stunned silent.
“The world is cruel. Not wanting anyone to warn police as to where they had fled, the gunmen attacked the surprised man first, who, as I understand it, faded into unconsciousness watching his wife and daughter be killed, pleading for their lives. How tragic,”
“My God,” Val gasped, her hands covering her mouth. She found herself staring at the back of the vigilante’s head, despite the man in the helmet that proceeded to tell her everything.
“A year later, and we find ourselves here, in the audience of a broken man who is doing nothing more than reaching for a pathetic, dying life-”
“SHUT YOUR MOUTH YOU SON-OF-A-” the Artist started, but was unable to contain himself. He charged at the calm villain, sword raised to quite possibly cut him in two (no, don’t kill, can’t kill, why can’t I stop, who is this-), but his attack was knocked easily to the side, and with both his hands on the hilt of his sword, the Artist found himself wide open.
The mysterious new threat stabbed his dagger into the Artist’s right thigh. The ninja grunted sharply in pain, but before he could react, he was punched and then back-handed by his helmeted opponent. The last blow knocked him onto his back. Valerie was there at his side instantly, trying to pick him up.
“Now, despite how rude your interruption was, I will be kind enough to answer your questions. I framed you for the death of Alex Summers, not because I wanted you out of the picture, not because I wanted the police to chase you, but for the same reason I have told you all of this, Ms. Summers.”
The mysterious man clasped his hands behind his back and headed towards the door out of the room, stopping theatrically before exiting.
“I did it to prove that I could. And if you must have a name to call me, I am Darkhand, the hand that moves the pieces. This game is over, but so many more are just beginning.”
Darkhand disappeared into the darkness past the doorway, but his words trailed behind him into the room. “Do get better soon, Artist. You have so much potential, after all. Don’t let me down.”
Valerie and the Artist sat there in the room, silent for the longest time, until, at last, she spoke.
“You gonna be okay?” she asked, putting his arm around her shoulder and helping to lift him up and supporting his weight as he kept his right leg raised above the ground.
“He didn’t hit anything vital, and I’m more than certain that was on purpose.” he growled, not acknowledging the true meaning behind her question. He removed the dagger from his leg and put his free hand on it to staunch the bleeding. The wound wasn’t that bad. This Darkhand fellow had known what he was doing all along.
The Artist stared at the weapon in his hand for the longest time, his thoughts drifting to everything that had transpired over the last couple of years. And he knew he had finally been defeated.
And he had lost, in so many ways.
|07-20-2008, 09:05 PM||#18|
Join Date: Sep 2007
Location: Austin, TX
Awesome! Keep posting them. Have you done any artwork/sketches for this story? If so please post, i would love to see the Artist or Darkhand.
|07-20-2008, 09:19 PM||#19|
Join Date: Feb 2008
Well, the Artist and Darkhand have numerous pictures in the photobucket link, but so far, a friend drew a VERY bad pic of the Artist. I'll try to track it down. A certain customizer here on the thread is working with me on making 25th figures. I did some very crude Hero Machine stuff that I'll post in the next couple of days. Word of warning; Concussions are not fun.
|07-21-2008, 04:42 PM||#20|
Join Date: Feb 2008
Artist Hero Makers
We have the current versions of the Artist, Darkhand (I had to improvise his chest armor and cybernetic right arm, what with the claw and all), Diabolic, Myth and Hydra. More to come.
Last edited by Snake Eyes-Joe Ninja; 12-09-2008 at 09:37 PM..
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