A Bunch Of Misc. Doodles. Some Is Me Trying To Figure Out How To Draw A Lamb, Some Is Drawings Of D&D

Thinking about lambs, whose culture was joyous and loud and vibrant. Lambs who had a dance for everything and a song to match. Lambs whose caravans could be heard marching melodies across the planes. Lambs for who even a combat was done in step to a waltz.

Thinking about The Lamb, who only knows the mourning songs. The Lamb, who only remembers the dances that require a blade in their hands. The Lamb who whispers sad melodies as they walk hostile lands. The Lamb whose only connection to their lost people is in the way they would spill blood.

The Lamb who sings and dances anyway, because while everything else may be gone, they still have this.

My Warrior of Light in his ARR summoner fit. We love Brayflox Longstop for that fancy early game gear

Lots of people depict ascension to godhood in cult of the lamb as a horrifyingly dehumanizing thing. There are some cases where the lamb completely loses themselves or even becomes something more akin to a force of nature rather than a person. This is often foiled very well with Narinder learning how to be a person and enjoy the world around him. It results in the potential for a very interesting plot where the lamb is doomed by the narrative while Narinder can be saved by it. It does beg the question however:

What if they say no? What if they decide the story doesn't get to end that way? What if they break divinity over their knee and pull their still-beating happy ending from the open chest of the narrative? What if they never stop fighting for that life they never got to have, even if it is against the very thing that saved and enabled it? A narrative that seeks to doom them against a lamb too willful and stubborn to let that happen.

Art Blast!!

Today is my birthday and I decided to make some sketches as a gift for the people who continue to feed my hyperfixation with cotl (and especially narilamb)

I've been working on this for the last two months while doing homework and somehow this was what pushed me to keep going, so thank you all :)

Long post notice

@acis-arts

@anuphim

@arsonistmoth

@asmodeauxx

@aubeezz

@aveloka-draws

@aychama

@ballad-of-the-lamb

@bamsara

@calamaricollie

@caramelldansenu

@chocosnowflake0

@circuscountdowns

@coffincrows

@deltamb3r

@dogiperson

@fanged-cotl

@ghosts-and-glory

@happymoxxy

@i-eat-deodorant

@lambment

@maybmila

Second part right away...

(I'm only now realizing how many I did)

Adventuring duo that's an artificer and their little wizard child whose first instinct when encountering a problem is to set it on fire and any implication that this is not the correct solution is taken as a challenge.

A few reference sketches I've done for a potential cotl AU. We will see if anything comes of it, but these will probably change drastically if I continue to draw them. Still, it's neat and I put more work into it than I probably should have.

A quick question for the group, how old do you believe this man is? Trick question, not even he remembers. An odd thing to be sure, considering his mental faculties remain entirely intact. We could speculate on the rumors surrounding this man, such as his odd familiarity with ancient constructs, or the strange tools he is rumored to employ, but we shall instead focus on what we do know.

His name is Hephaestus. No surname given. He is intelligent, and he is dangerous. Already dozens of our number are dead by his hand. Engage with caution, and do not allow him to retaliate.

-Transcript of a briefing given in an abandoned Onyx Dragon headquarters, found alongside a sketch of the subject. The building was burned and this is part of what little could be recovered.

He worries.

He will never admit it, but he worries.

When Narinder wakes, the storm has passed.

He’s lying alone beneath the wagon. The canvas and the earth beneath it is damp, but somehow the tempest came and went without Narinder getting soaked to the bone. Water drips down from the wagon’s sides. He shimmies carefully from beneath it, taking care not to smear mud all over himself in the process. His shoulder, neck, and back all complain about the conditions with a chorus of aches. Narinder hisses under his breath and stretches, rolling his aching shoulder until something pops satisfyingly.

The noise draws Hamal’s attention. They’re sitting at a freshly built fire with their gun in hand. It’s unloaded, six bullets sitting on the ground in a small pile beside them. A rag is in their free hand, stained by some kind of oil.

“Hey there,” they say. “Sleep well?”

Narinder rubs the back of his neck. “Well, I slept.”

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