Watercolour crayon, crayon, fineliner and acrylic paint... . . . . . .. ... . ... .. ... . .. ... .. ............ . ... . . The tree is weary crying for some help, its roots are drowning and the taps on full pelt. Its head cant speak the evil, hear the evil, see it. Whilst its occupiers point the fingers at each other and dont even believe it... .. ... . .... . .. .
Another half-assed attempt at doing SOMETHING "underground- like". Meh. Magic marker on sketchbook paper. (I still like the name, though.) Late 70's...
(Gel Fineliner on A5 paper) One of the age-old responses from dog-owners: “He won't bite you” along with “He's good with children.”
He's a dog, and like all dogs, they're bred from wolves. Given half the chance they'd revert back to their natural pack instinct. The only reason they don't is that they see you as the pack leader who regularly feeds and pampers them.
“Oh, my little darling isn't like that!” I hear you say, as if you're talking about a child. “He gives me kisses by licking my face. It's his way of saying how much he loves me.”
He licks his balls and arsehole with that tongue, so what's he really saying there?
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This is a version of the coffee with more coloring. It wasn't until I was already finished that I noticed that I made the top of the cup too round. Oh well.
Meatz, the chubby and his unnamed human companion. Brought before the evil necromancer queen of the war faeres. Their fate is that of the other captives in this time of war. They are sent into the slave pits to work and die.
