May I ask what do you use to draw and what pens do you use? Your art is truly beautiful and id like to know how to improve my own art, if you have any tips that is.
first of all THANKMK YOU and I use clip studio paint, these are what i use the most!
i hope this isn't too messy to read LOL
as for art tips, here are some bits and tips just based on my experience (sorry ive got a lot to say)
An artist I really look up to once said becoming good at art is learning to systemize your processes - i didn't really understand it at first but now i think nothing captures it more succinctly than this
Experiment!!! don't worry about "not sticking to your style"; experimenting IS how you will develop a style by finding what you like and don't like
This is gonna sound cliche but don’t be discouraged if you are not satisfied with your art; it means you are improving and you have critical vision just that your art muscles hadnt caught up
Draw as much as you can! I've been doing digital art for ~5-6 years but for almost 4 of those years i was just moping around and drawing about once a month - to this day i still regret wasting so much time 😭😭
Adding on to that, find something that will motivate you to draw as much as you can/ gives you confidence. for me it was actively participating in fandoms and having supportive friends; drawing consistently won't be as useful if you are not actively aiming to become better
that said everyone’s learning process with art is unique and honestly i still have a long long way to go myself LOL hope this helps!!!!good luck n have fun!!!!!!!
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(AC wip) The Savage Price of Piety
it's desmond's deathday and i wrote like. 9,000 more words to this wip (first two parts here) last week and i want to brag about it, so happy deathday you wet bastard
(mostly gen but with a surprise rarepair, time travel/reincarnation, found family, william miles’ a+ parenting, accidental subterfuge, desmond goes by miles mostly, inspired by study of flight by @esamastation but with a twist!, only somewhat historically accurate swears by which i mean probably not at all but leonardo had some Opinions alright)
have some (three) chronological but scattered bits of scenes
“Oh,” Claudia says as soon as she opens the door, seeing Ezio’s rather wretched expression, “you’ve figured it out, then.”
“You could have told me,” he growls, following her into the entryway and closing the door behind himself.
Claudia scoffs, spinning on heel to lead the way further into the building for the kitchens. “I had one conversation with the boy, brother, I was hardly sure of it myself. Wait,” she halts and points a finger at him accusingly, “how did you figure it out?”
Ezio, quite graciously he thinks, ignores the subtle insult to his intelligence. Sighing, he pushes back his hood before their mother sees him with it on indoors, and runs a hand over his beard. “I had Leonardo visit.”
Claudia’s face slackens, before twisting into a rage that has Ezio stepping away warily.
But she punches the wall instead of her brother, a shouted “Gods damn it!” echoing in the narrow space. Then she spins on her heel and hollers further into the residential part of the bordello, “Mother! We forgot about Leonardo!”
Horrified by his sister and concerned for his mother’s current mental state, Ezio reaches out to put a hand on Claudia’s arm, but he doesn’t get the chance before Maria de' Auditore is shouting right back, “God damn it!”
Grumbling, Claudia stomps down the hall and leaves a very confused Ezio hurrying to follow; she ignores all his pleas for explanation until she’s stomped into the kitchen, where their mother is pouring two very large glasses of wine, with very little water to cut down the potency. She passes one to Claudia silently, and then they both drink, though luckily they aren’t attempting to down it all at once.
“I can’t believe we forgot the Maestro,” their mother mutters to herself as she comes over to kiss Ezio on both cheeks, before shoving the still mostly-full glass into his hands.
“Forgot him for what?” Ezio wants to know, clutching the glass like a mother clutches a babe.
“To test if Miles really is an Auditore.” It’s said so flippantly, like it doesn’t affect Claudia at all, but she also collapses into one of two chairs at the little tea table under the largest window. Their mother takes the other, massaging her forehead and looking like she’s grieving their family all over again.
It occurs to Ezio, as he moves to stand next to the table, that she probably is.
--
“It’s all up to you now, Seventeen.”
Desmond opens his eyes to the dark of the dormitory, faint moonlight cutting over the floor between his bed and Nino’s, and he can’t bring himself to move — even to roll off his arm that is very much still asleep.
Clay still haunts him.
Five hundred fucking years, and his current twenty-four besides, and that fucker still won’t leave him alone. If Desmond were not so familiar with what an actual Bleed feels like, he’d almost think Clay is stuck in his brain the same way as his ancestors. Thank fuck he stopped Bleeding Ezio’s memories and feelings, while still retaining much of the training.
Fuck, time travel is so weird.
Or, reincarnation? He’s not sure of much, but he’s sure he was dead, he’s sure he burned, and he’s sure that though his 15th century mother had affectionately called him [redacted], his name is Desmond Miles.
Or just Miles, he supposes. Sue him, he panicked when Adele first approached him, and the best aliases are ones you know you’ll respond to, right? If only he’d have had the forethought to divorce himself from his... future family’s surname.
It sounds different enough with an Italian accent that it hasn’t caused any problems, yet. Like making him flinch. Or snapping that he hasn’t been a Miles since he was sixteen.
Granted, he still has no idea what he would go by instead. Altaïr and Conner would feel weird, while Sef or Darim are just a bit on the nose, and does he look like an Edward? Malik, maybe. His grandmother here, now, is actually from the Levant, so his skin is certainly dark enough that people wouldn’t be surprised by the name.
Except that feels almost akin to naming himself Leonardo.
--
So instead, Leonardo spends every spare moment with his best friend, sometimes to brainstorm, sometimes to simply be there for him. It’s during one of these visits, he and Ezio once again observing the youngest assassins in the training ring, that he hears Miles laugh for the first time, and it’s as if ice water has been poured directly into his veins.
Oh fuck. Oh Saints, oh Holy Father, oh fuck.
“Leonardo?” Ezio asks quietly, head tilted towards him in concern, but Leonardo ignores him to stumble for the bannister to lean over it and stare down at Miles learning a little jig from Tullio, laughing all the while.
He had only heard it once, truth be told, and it had been Salaí that had caused it, but even three years later, Leonardo remembers the laugh of Rodrigo Borgia’s sinister little shadow.
Below, Miles doesn’t stop smiling, but his golden brown gaze yanks up towards Leonardo as if knowing his thoughts are about him. His eyes narrow, then widen slightly in realisation, and then he winces and looks away, which is all the confirmation Leonardo needs.
Turning around, Leonardo grabs a confused Ezio by the arm and drags him from the training room, ignoring his protests until they find the nearest empty room.
“Leonardo, what—?”
“Romulus.”
-
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one of the biggest reasons why alfred is so smiley, goofy, happy-go-lucky, devil-may-care during the 19th through 21st centuries, (besides deciding since before 1776 that he was going to be completely contrarian to arthur in his outlooks) is that he’s been through the wringer for the past hundred years already. give the guy a break!
spending your formative years (or the country equivalent of a ‘childhood’, anyway) educating yourself deeply on politics, fighting for independence, then fighting again to keep your nation together, and then trying to expand throughout the rest of the continent, while dealing with crazy winters and starvation and swathes of diseases… well.
alfred grew up with the expectation of perfection under england, and even after becoming free he still had to raise himself by the bootstraps. help create a government with his people, for his people, and hope and pray to whatever deity was out there that america could survive. and those first 100 years certainly were not sunshine and rainbows — pictures of alfred’s youth show everything except smiles. he wears melancholy expressions that don’t suit his face.
battling for your place on the world stage is hard enough, but to become a self-made, global superpower on top of it? alfred grows in spades, and by the time the industrial revolution comes around, and his house is the most bustling on the entire planet, and the gold rush comes and goes— that constant work and isolationism has paid off. he loosens up a little. he can smile now. relax a little! eat in excess knowing there will always be food on the table.
that’s when he finally gets to live out the years of childlike ease he never truly got to indulge in: to laugh and be merry without a care in the world. momentary ill spell during the great depression aside, the great wars later only solidify america’s place as the strongest in the world. the other countries wouldn’t dare admit it, but alfred’s self-proclaimed epithet of ‘hero’ is not without cause and reason, and not without hard proof. (and besides, he deserves a little gloating after all this time, doesn’t he?)
ivan had threatened his status in the hierarchy for a while there, and 45 years of foolhardy, workaholic america stepped out of the shadows again. but again, alfred surpasses the literal and proverbial soviet wall. and this time it isn’t just the world he has in his palms, but outer space, too — he has the moon and the stars and a damn space station.
finally, on top— finally, he doesn’t have to battle tooth and nail just to survive. instead, maybe he’ll set a whoopie cushion on françois’ chair at the next meeting, or order everything off the mcdonald’s menu tonight just ‘cause he can, or maybe even get matt to film him doing some outrageously ridiculous parkour—
that’s the beauty of it: it’s enjoyable to let go, act as immature and carefree as you want, knowing you’re at the top of the food chain. the others have gotten used to boy scout america, to the silly superhero alfred — they’ve definitely forgotten how scary and smart and cutthroat and frankly bloodthirsty he is when he gets serious. the america that lies asleep beneath the surface, the sleeping dog that you’d better hope you don’t wake up.
and, hell— his people chose him. his people left the other nations for him. left their homelands to stay at his house. that’s a testament to the unshakeable empire he’s built up, right? the others should be following his lead.
so he’ll act as he pleases, screw all the manners and customs and old-world european way of doing things — the freedom-loving rebel bastard that he still is, deep down.
al’s earned it, after all!
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