I've been admiring your art, while consistently struggling myself to keep Sora and Riku's faces consistent...whether that's bc of emotion or angle or how soft their features are, I'm not sure. You'd think that after 2 decades of looking at these characters I could draw them properly.
Can I ask what facial features you think makes them distinct?
*RUBS MY HANDS TOGETHER* This is the best question you could have asked me and I am frankly STOKED to answer it (even if it took me a hot minute). It's something I've personally made notes of and have thought about a lot, SO! You came to the right dude.
For starters, it helps that Sora and Riku were made to be complementary. Riku was specifically designed counterbalance to Sora (as stated by Nomura in the KH1 Ultimania Gallery comments) and is something they’ve continued to lean into over the years. So thankfully it’s really easy to single their features out when compared to each other, specifically.
To boot, I have a lot of fun trying to boil down designs into an easily recognizable visual language just in general. Developing visual shorthand for a character, boiling them down to their bare essentials, etc. How low can we go? It’s a fun exercise and great for strengthening silhouettes!
And from what I’ve found, to put it simply;
Sora is Round. Riku is Angular.
Where Sora is short, Riku is Long!
Like this;
Simple, right? You can tell which is which? Just zhuzh it up a little and you’ve got the boys!
Perfect.
While these are very simple examples, reducing them down and still being able to readily tell who is who even as little circles is the point! It let’s you know what to focus on as you shift from little caricatures to more detailed drawings at any level. And you’ll see how much these simple little rules/identifiers carry all the way thru!
Let’s start with their faces;
Round vs Angular.
Soft vs Sharp.
Sora’s cheeks are more prominent and rounded, sloping lower on the face and pinching in to a smaller round, pointed chin. It makes his head look more round and short! His Jaw is also softer, less defined, which is an easy way to make somebody look youthful. (this is a tip I learned from tf2 actually?? lmao)
He’s got a bit of that baby face!
With Riku, his cheek bones peak higher up and cut in cleanly down to a more prominent chin. This leaves a lot of space for his jaw which can make his head seem taller. It also affords his features more space which can serve to make someone look “more mature”. His jawline is also sharper and more defined, cutting inward compared to sora’s outwards slope.
He’s just a handsome guy!
But it doesn’t stop there!
When it comes to their noses, I really like to lean in to the little things.
With Sora, I like to accentuate the upturn (hence the accent lines) but his nose is shorter and more rounded with a prominent tip pointing up and out. Some might call this a pixie nose
Riku’s is broad and straight (haha) and one of my favorite features of his. It’s a strong shnoz, longer than Sora’s and with a flat bridge. A detail of which I’ve always really liked and make sure to include. Gives it that strong handsome look.
I’m sure you’re getting the idea, but every feature follows these rules! Short and Long! Round and Sharp!
The eyebrows are something I feel always go missed, so I wanted to bring them up specifically.
Riku’s eyebrows are longer and have a high arch to them as they wrap around his brow.
Sora’s are short and much thicker towards the bridge before quickly tapering out.
You can see this along with their eyeshape a lot more clearly on their models.
(Sora’s eyebrows are my favorite i love em I think they’re just the cutest thing. Really adds to his expressions, especially his pouts.)
What’s fun is that these are all things I’ve observed in official material in one way or another (namely Nomura’s art, the 3d models tend to round things out more.)
Once you know what to look for, it’s easy to spot their consistent features. I’ve grabbed some fun examples;
Sora: upturned nose, round cheeks pinched in to a pointed chin, rounded jaw
Riku: Harder jaw, prominent chin, straight nose
You can see here how the curve of riku’s jaw goes in towards the face as sora’s goes out.
Riku: The Nose even more clearly, chin pointing out, and though mostly covered, you can see that strong jaw.
Sora: the same as above, really, but it’s consistent. Who says you can’t draw characters facing slightly to the left for a living.
You’re starting to see a pattern I’m sure.
And here you can see the flat bridge on riku’s straight ass nose! A flat of which Sora doesn’t have by comparison.
You can also see here the different points their cheeks turn in, Sora’s being notably lower than Riku’s.
Anyway, you get my point!
For a generalized ending statement;
Riku is always drawn with harder, yet graceful masculine features. He’s both very handsome and beautiful, wow. Package deal.
Sora has a more boyish cheekiness. He’s got a baby face he’ll probably never outgrow along with other “cute” features. His can be a harder balance to strike, he’s cute but he’s also a dashing young man, a little charmer!
Focus in on those details n just remember compared to each other;
Round vs Angular
Short vs Long
Soft vs Sharp
They’re complimentary opposites, both in concept AND design!
I love it!
I hope this was sufficient, kind anon. Good luck to everyone and I hope to see more strong Riku noses in the future.
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inktober #17: ornament
fandom: the magicians
characters/pairings: this is a mosaic fic bc i'm a SAD SAPPY BITCH
rating: t
“Green,” Quentin says, again.
“If it turns out the answer was ‘the spirit of Christmas’ all along,” Eliot says thoughtfully, slotting yet another green tile into F9, “I might actually, completely lose my shit.”
It’s Q’s pattern, so he’s the one up in the chair today, wrapped in a quilt and with their workbook flopped open in his lap. He leans up just enough to poke Eliot between the shoulderblades with the stick they use for orchestrating, the one that Eliot picked up on a whim years ago, and that Q has since shaped and smoothed into something actually useful.
“Shut up,” he says, all warmth. “It’s fun.” And then he says again, like Eliot even needs the guidance at this point: “Green.”
Christmas is a new thing. It’s Q’s new thing. And Quentin isn’t, like, a Christmas person, one of those people who prostrate themselves beneath red and green coffee cups and the one Mariah Carey song they know; he’d never even mentioned it before, in all the years they’ve already been here. But he mentioned it this year. Picked a day out and everything.
(“I just,” he’d mumbled into Eliot’s chest when he first floated the idea, late at night and unable to sleep, “I keep thinking about how when I was a kid, my dad—”
And Eliot doesn’t get it, but… he gets it. So: Christmas.)
They leave the last tile— a bright yellow one that goes right at the center of the star atop Q’s angular, geometric Christmas tree— for Teddy. He comes barreling out of the house on wobbly, excitable legs, Arielle hot on his heels, and Eliot has to catch him around the middle before he face plants right onto the puzzle.
“No,” he wails when Eliot tries to hand him the tile, months-deep already into his whirlwind toddler romance with the N-O word. “I wanna do it!”
He’s incandescently proud of himself when he’s able to squat down on his own and pick it up with both hands, his grin wide and toothy, so... really, Eliot’s the stupid one here.
“Alright,” Q coaches gently, one arm already wound around Arielle's waist like a weird, renaissance-y Christmas card. “Remember, just be careful— there you go.”
The tile slots in. Teddy pats around the edges of it like, presumably, he’s seen them do before, his little face screwed up in concentration.
Nothing happens, thank god.
Teddy doesn’t understand enough about the Mosaic to be disappointed by it. It’s only done what, from his perspective, it’s always done: nothing. So he tips his head back to look at them with that same bright, shining grin, and— honestly, Eliot barely remembers the last time he was disappointed by the Mosaic, either.
He flops dramatically back onto the tiles anyway, because Teddy still finds that shriek-laughingly hilarious, for some reason. He flops, too, fully starfished, one little boot making full-force contact with the side of Eliot's head.
“We’ll get a tree like this one today,” Q says, ever the voice of forward momentum. “Someone has to put the star on top. Who do you think it should be, Ted?”
Teddy shoots to his feet. “Me! I’ll do it!”
His hair is sticking up all over in the back. Eliot sits up enough to smooth it down for him. “You?” He lifts his chin and wrinkles his nose. Teddy scrunches his whole face back at him. “But you’re so short. How will you even reach?”
“I’m not!” He goes up on his tiptoes, arms stretched high over his head. “I can do it!”
Eliot leans back on one arm, rubs his chin, draws his thoughtful hum out, the whole nine yards. Teddy doesn’t waver for a second, hangs on to his determined eye contact, mouth set and fingers wiggling. In his periphery, Eliot can see Q rolling his eyes and Arielle hiding her smile into his temple.
Eliot snaps his fingers. “Ah. I see. How about—” and then he lunges forward to scoop Teddy up by the armpits.
Teddy shrieks again, this time right up against Eliot's ear. Which, whatever, he wasn't planning on winning any awards in long-distance listening any time soon. Teddy's just the right size now for Eliot to plop him on his shoulders, big enough and aware enough to keep himself steady without Eliot having to readjust his center of gravity every two seconds— which means he'll be way too big by this time next year, probably.
Demonstrably so, he twists his hands into Eliot's hair like the goddamn world is ending.
“See?” he crows, all his excitement kicking out through his legs. “I can do it! Daddy, I can do it!”
Q is smiling, sparkling like the whole fucking sky opened up and dumped every star in existence straight into the creases of his dimples. “You sure can, buddy.”
“Fine,” Eliot allows, catching Teddy's tiny, destructive feet in both hands, “but I get to hide the pickle.”
Arielle, who only hears the double-entendre, snorts indelicately into her hand. Teddy, who only hears the ridiculous combination of sounds that make up the word pickle, cracks up all over again.
Quentin, in his gold-star, stern-Dad-voice, says, “Eliot.”
“It’s only fair,” Eliot answers. “I did the legwork to get one, and, yes, it was exactly as tedious and impossible as it sounds. I deserve it.”
“What?” Arielle laughs, which he expects.
“What?” Quentin says at the same time, completely serious, which he doesn't.
“The ornament?” He’s getting the same blank, confused look, so he can’t help himself when he says, “Wait, what did you think I meant?”
“Eliot,” Q says again, decidedly less stern this time.
The thing with the pickle ornament is, it turns out, not as ubiquitous as Eliot assumed it was. He ends up having to explain it, which is— fine. Teddy’s excited, and Arielle thinks it’s cute, so they’ll do it. Simple. It should be validating, because it really was a pain in the ass, trying to find-slash-construct an ornament that would work.
On the other hand, he also kind of wishes he hadn’t bothered.
“We never did anything like that when I was a kid,” Quentin says, once Teddy has scurried back inside. It’s his affected-casual voice, the one he uses when he’s trying to make a point but doesn’t want to seem like he is.
“It’s really not that complicated, Q,” Eliot tells him. “But if you need help, you know I’m always happy to demonstrate.”
A wry, slanted little smile blooms across his face. “No, jackass.” And then it curls back in on itself again, quick as it came. He steps close, bumps their shoulders, tangles their arms, their elbows, their fingers. “I just, um. I’m pretty sure that makes it your tradition, El.”
Oh.
Eliot thinks it’s a weird way to frame it. Tradition is what Quentin is doing: letting the legacy of his family live on while his family isn’t here to participate. Eliot just… has a few semi-okay memories of tearing up a Christmas tree with his very Midwestern number of little cousins, and assumed everyone else did, too.
He says, “I guess.”
Q is peering up at him, searching his face. “I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about that,” he says, when Eliot doesn’t say anything else. “If it’s... weird, or bad, then—”
“Pretty sure that ship has sailed, Q. I can tell you from experience that if that child doesn’t find a pickle by this time tomorrow, we’ll have goddamn armageddon on our hands.”
“Sure, but...”
But... what?
The pickle ornament he found isn't really a pickle. It's a western marshlands long radish. They grow for months in muck and swamp slime, and they’re an absolute bitch to cook right; simmer them too hot, or for too long, and they get awfully, nastily bitter, bad enough to spoil a whole stew.
Teddy’s the only one in the family who likes them, because Teddy’s only ever eaten them after Eliot finally got the recipe right.
“It’s okay,” he decides, right that second. He tugs Q against him, tucks his worried, furrowed brow under his chin. “It really is. It’s— good. I think.”
“You think,” Quentin echoes, softly amused, but all his tense muscles go looser, just a bit. Just enough.
“Almost certain,” Eliot tells him. “Like, at least sixty percent. Minimum.” He closes his eyes, touches his lips just to the edge of Q’s hairline, and manages, softly, “Promise.”
He’s been doing this a long time. He’s spent years, decades, whatever, just— taking all the broken, sharp-edged pieces that came tumbling out of Whiteland back in the summer of 2010, and turning them into something new. Something different. Something his.
His stupid radish ornament. His queer little family. His shrieking, beaming son. His backwards, bizarre, beautiful mess of a life.
As far as traditions go, Eliot thinks he could do worse.
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