Lask's art blog, for the purpose of entertaining friends. Mainly original characters with rare instances of written pieces. NSFW. Gore, tears and occasional teratophilia when I find the time.
It's very quiet here, but feel free to ask questions if you have any.

Some sketches I’ve neglected to post, mostly just references and attempted refs for future ocs I guess

Some elves doing lame stuff


An unsettled feeling digging deeper into the marrow of your bones, the basis of an unknown terror you have been feeding for decades. A paradox of your being you cannot begin to understand, an insatiable desire to…
To what?
There is something gnawing at you as you lay there with your rigid back pressed into the hardened soil. A colony of insects has chosen to infiltrate your body, cautiously, silently. Eating you from the inside out, using your flesh as the walls of their hive, they live off of your slow deterioration.
You do not know.
The endless black sky looms over you, the vastness of it tugs at your worn leather, your torn clothes, your pale eyes. There isn’t much to think about while staring into the deep pit of perpetual slate.
You aren’t bothered, to be honest.
Not by this at least, it’s been a while since you /haven’t/ felt a leering apprehension towards your actual feelings. You exhale roughly, don’t lie, you’re pouting. Sitting there in a amnesic state of redundancy, are you bored? Of what, almost dying?
You turn onto your side.
Tearing away from the sky’s blank stare as you tuck your arm behind your head in an attempt to comfort yourself. What do you need to be comforted from? You close your eyes and rub the lids restlessly, a slight groan escaping your tightened throat. Everyone loses their minds at some point, at least everyone who does what you do. You aren’t crazy.
Would you know if you were?
Stop. Stop doing this, this conscious thing, it’s fucking stupid. You aren’t smart enough to do it productively when your only goal is to avoid the questions you ask yourself. Shifting your legs up closer to your chest you grip the sides of your head and curl closer into yourself, but quickly unfurl from the position as you continue to squirm.
The sharp crackling pulls you from your own head, the licking flames and chewing embers feast upon the small pile of wood you gathered. The smoke stains the dark background of the woods as you sit up and stare into the fire.
The warmth runs across your skin, filling in the sunken scars scattered along your face and arms. Preterition, just for that moment. There’s a bliss in embedding yourself into every individual moment, thinking ahead eats away at the trust you have in your instincts. Like the fire before you consumes the kindling, the current warmth it provides will continue to dwindle until it dies out.
What are you doing here?
Waiting for a client, no, waiting for Caiten.
Are you really though? Why else would you be in these woods?
You mean the same woods, the ones outside of the city. The city you stayed in for so long despite the constant urge to leave it behind, something you took for granted before meeting…
Who are you trying forget?
It doesn’t matter. With your elbows pressed into your knees you rest your chin on your hands, you can feel the skin underneath the wrapped cloth of your right arm tighten and grind against the seared muscle, pinching the nerves roughly. You wince, but you do not change the position of your arm. It keeps you in the moment.
You’re tired.
You’re desperate for something to push away your thoughts, all of them, anything. This isn’t new, but this isn’t coping either. Is there something specific?
Your family, your father, your fire. The drow. The snake.
Your hands run across your face, covering the anger etched onto your flesh as you groan into your palms. You’ve lost track of the days since his disappearance, his abandonment? You really have no idea what the fuck to call it and, even though you once trusted that there was a reason behind many if not all of his actions, you really want to convince yourself it isn’t worth the time you’ve been wasting trying to figure it out. People leave, most of the time it has nothing to do with you.
There’s no reason to think about him now, you certainly took your sweet time letting it all sink in. He could be long dead, not even a corpse remaining, and with that thought your chest tightens but you shift your attention over to the distant sounds beginning to echo from the direction of the tall pines before you.
“All by yourself?” the naga’s voice is low, rhetorically patronizing as he steps from the woods. His beaten leather bags hang loosely from his shoulders and around his waist, glints of silver and steel can be seen from the depths of them. Golden eyes peer down at you, slit pupils tighten upon the recognition of discomfort in your face.
He enjoys it.
You don’t respond, instead, you pull your own pack from behind you and reach into its gaping stomach. The heavy metal coins brush against your fingers, tempting and cold, you grasp at a handful. Caiten quietly takes a seat next to you. While you trump him in height he outsizes you impressively, the bulk of his body seemingly consuming the space around it as he so often consumes all your fucking cash. Again his eyes are burning into you, taunting you for a response. He parts his lips as his split tongue briefly slides along them. Disgusting. You are certain that without the blood that binds you to this serpent one of you would have killed the other by now.
“You’re awfully quiet, Israfil” he breathes, “-not even a snide comment?”
“I know how little you take this seriously but I’d like to get it over with” You finally respond, once his eyes pull from you and onto the pile of gold strewn across your palm you drop it back into the bag.
“Is that all for me? So sweet of you” Caiten hisses before a slight twitch, as if a switch had been pulled in his mind. His tongue flicks from his mouth again ever so slightly, and then it hits him.
You look away from his sneering face.
“I get it, this is pretty close to that city you loved so much, more so, the elf who occupied it. Is that why you seem so tense? That’s adorable” his tone is light and yet it plunges knives deep into your stomach.
You growl, a spark igniting the short fuse of your aggression, “Are you going to do your job or not?” you ask bluntly. Standing to your feet and pulling the bag away from Caiten, you see him jump slightly at the chance of losing money.
He bites his lip, “Alright, I’ll stop pointing out your pathetic flaws and abandonment issues, just brief me on what it is you want done”
You slowly sit back down, crossing your legs and tossing the bag to Caiten.

Other iscribble pics ft. my not fallen angel named Nakir

B&W iscribble pics that have been piling up

I’m finally going to take the time to explain the circumstances revolving around Israfil’s future runes/etc since I haven’t written in a while. Taking more time to think this through has changed some of what I may have originally said, but I’d rather it be more realistic when pertaining to Israfil’s personality and habits. Really, Iz would make a terrible protagonist due to his lack of emotional dynamics (as would most of my ocs). Although he does learn over time, it’s very limited; relating more towards his practice/career and how to better his income. Without Roiben around, Israfil most likely, and unknowingly, continues to ensue in increasingly reckless behavior. He has always focused more on the present than its results for the future, which almost always ends with a variation of individuals hating his guts.
Israfil has had little professional training when it comes to the use of magic, as he was exiled before the age Arenamcas are taught the natural magic they use (they focus greatly on self-oriented anatomical magic, consciously being in control of temperature and other bodily functions. Arenamcas also use variations that have to do with healing/harming themselves/others and some basic elemental magic).
Israfil learned rune magic from Caiten, who has been using it for decades, but with little precautions towards the likely harm done. It’s really blood magic, which is the base of the runes used and the reason why they have to carve the sigil into their flesh for it to have any affect. Their style of rune magic isn’t practiced commonly, a majority of the signs are from dead languages and inherited a harmful nature that can backfire on the host if used/written incorrectly. There is also the danger of a sign ceasing to work if the area it’s carved into is cut or injured in some way that breaks the seal between rune and host. Over time, Israfil began to get the sigils tattooed onto his body when it came to more complex signs.
Although he considered using the void summoning sigil on himself, as Caiten did, he was told numerous times the repercussions were worse than the desired security. Israfil wasn’t responsible for the rune carved below his ribcage, but he still chose to use it despite that increasing his risk of violently fucking exploding. It was etched into his side along with less usable scars as punishment for slaying a way more intimidating elf’s pet (his name is Reyhelm and I’ll draw him one day). He now uses it to keep his more expensive long swords as well as less common weapons and whatever item he is transporting to a client at the time.
The transference sigil under his eye was used to imprint the runes onto his iris in an attempt to lessen the chance of it being broken. The runes provide Israfil with an immunity to visual hallucination/illusion magic including any stronger glamours, being that it’s only on one eye as oppose to two he can also briefly see the true face of demons and lesser angels.
The purification seal above his elbow prevented his arm from rotting off because of a bite he obtained from a creature referred to as a king komodo dragon, although they share no similarities aside from their infectious bite. The scarring was caused by the sigil basically boiling his flesh from the inside, but the rot is only inhibited. If the seal is broken it will continue to spread and eventually kill him. Israfil keeps his arm covered in a layer of cloth and bandages at all times because of the amount of pain exposing his skin to the air causes.
The other significantly strong sigil he has is a regenerative rune which increases the rate his wounds heal, although it takes a significant amount of energy. Depending on the size and severity of the wound, Israfil wouldn’t be very active during the healing process but because of this rune he can heal major wounds in a few weeks. It works best on wounds obtained by sword or any natural weapon, but wounds gained from magic don’t heal as easily.

I’ve got an ashtray for a heart
I’ve got a trashcan for a mouth
I’ve got a smile for your dad
I’ve got a feeling about you
I’ve got a question for,
I know that in the end,
We’re gonna go to hell
Are you bad?
I am, I am, I am
I’ve got an ashtray for a heart
You’ve got a trashcan for a mouth
I’ve got a boy, he’s full of holes
I’ve got a feeling about you
I’ve got a question for,
I know that in the end,
We’re gonna go to hell.
Are you bad?
I am, I am, I am
Damage done
Come down
Clean you out
Come around
Damage done
Turn it around
Clean you out

sora12212 said: gives ya kisses come by ma famille mon petit lapin

Merci u ^ u„,



Some other things I forgot to post that aren’t actually related.