Blaine Awash

An entry for this contest - [link] - of my original character, Blaine, who possesses the power of the phoenix hidden deep within him. I had already started a basic sketch of this piece wen I saw the contest, and decided tat a self-imposed challenge and outside due date would be the best way to finish it through!

Drawn also in honor of a gift from PI user Decima ([link] - all hexes are taken from there except for the skin and the tinted edges). Another posting - [link]

This took hours and hours, multiple sessions, and my wrists are super tired. It's a mix of styles, and an experiment with different textures and brushes. I forced myself to use a hard brush almost the entire time and didn't allow myself to smudge the hair. Done all in one layer! Except for a brief move where I had to copy his mouth from the cropped image because I had screwed it up. (And now edited for black lines and skin tone. )

The background symbolizes his power and how it was drained away from him. This left him in this strange form, unaware of his true potential, only the very basics of his identity. He recovered it later on. Also, this is when Icarion got a tattoo. It doesn't actually look like the one here. Also, piece of trivia - this is the second time in his existence in which Icarion's eye color was hidden, and the only time when he was alive.

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He released the handle of the blade with a practiced snap of his wrist, his eyes fixed on the gnarled tree roots between his toes. Thud. He drew another from the bandages around his arms, the steel as thin as paper, and threw it again. Thud. The hem of his cloak shifted at the edge of his vision as the wind bean to pick up. Blaine had been standing there for hours, practicing the same mindless motions. He could feel the steady stare at his back, watching for his return. He knew exactly were the god was waiting for him - by the hearth, the ashes crumbling into a fine silver dust as he waited.

He pressed his lips together and went to retrieve the knives from the impaled tree; the bark was cool and slick beneath his fingers. It was a sign that the mists would soon come, and, with the approach of the evening, usher him inside the grey walls. He stared at dark wood, unwilling and unmoving, as if he would rather wait out the seasons than take one step away. The thought of touching a place were there had once been living flame sickened him, and he didn't know why.

----

With his inner fire seemingly stripped away, the incarnation of the Phoenix is forced to take on a new identity, very much alone and to all appearances human. The memories of his time among the immortals of the great sky-city are dim, only flickering into brilliance for a few moments when he studies the tattered book of memories that he carries with him, the key to one day returning home. All of the pages are blank. The only individual who knows the truth of his nature is a trickster god, the one Blaine followed to the university of the witches in the north. Their presence has some mysterious purpose, but Blaine often finds himself at a loss at what exactly that would be.

He speaks with an accent that is as nondescript as possible but plausibly could be of British origin. He doesn't use many colloquialisms or dramatic changes of inflection in his tone. He rarely smiles - and when he does, he doesn't show his teeth. He appears to be young, sixteen or seventeen years by a human standard. The shadows beneath his eyes disagree, as does the weighted, weary slump of his shoulders. He hides his scars beneath black linen bandages wrapped around his arms and legs, and hidden further beneath his long shirts and trousers. His boots look as if they once belonged to someone much larger. He wears an old fashioned cloak instead of the usual winter clothing, as if he would be more comfortable in a different period of time.

He cannot perform workings like the witches, or weave charms, or summon spirits. His hand forms letters in a strange, angular fashion, as if they were formerly accustomed to using a different alphabet. He doesn't seem to have a clear class schedule, but often the heads of the covens will draw him aside and speak with him in private. Most professors and students find their eyes glazing over when they happen to pass over where he is standing. When queried, he answers by rote, without thinking or caring about the words, as if someone else were whispering the answers in his ears. Too, he is never seen without his delinquent friend, who would prefer to lay out in the courtyards, catching some last vestige of autumn sunlight, than attend any lectures.

During the day, he can often be found sparring with one of the witches in the gardens, or practicing with his throwing knives for hours against a tree by the pond. At night, he sits by the hearth, often until dawn. He dreads sleep because of the awful nightmares that he knows will come, and which he never quite remembers.

(11/23/12 Updated again with more character information.)

(01/10/12 Updated with critique requested. I don't really expect anything here - I know I see so many flaws in this myself, but I am curious to hear any thoughts on the style and whether the character is too jarring against the background, and just, in general on textures. This was my first time really trying anything like this, and I hope to improve in the future! And remember to be less masochistic and use layers properly like a good little artist.)