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Description
Art and concept by

Roland Featherstone
A fitting name for a sky hopper, to say the least, although he never was too fond of the 'stone' bit. He let his dusty, red hair grow long because he couldn't be bothered to cut it. As a result, he often found his dull, gray-blue eyes obscured by clumps of it while he was tinkering with some bit of machinery or another. This often lead the easily irritated teenager to haphazardly tuck it behind his ear, where it would remain for anywhere between a few minutes and several seconds before finding it's way back into his face.

Roland's grease-streaked face now grimaced in pain as he finally reatached his prosthetic leg. He'd been working on it all day, and finally - he thought - the new hydraulic shock absorbers were ready for a test run. He loaded a fresh canister of compressed air into the small compartment under the calf, and stood up. It always felt strange to him - as if he were standing on one leg, and kneeling on a flat surface at the same time. He'd had the prosthetic since his father made it for him at six years old after the accident, but even in the past nine years he could never spend a day without having to acknowledge it by cleaning it, or fixing it, or changing the canister, or even just looking in the mirror like he was at this very moment. He queried to himself about why he always wore shorts, and came to the same conclusion he always did: Less material, means less expensive.

It was bad enough that almost all the money he ever made from his meager share of the bounty went to keeping the damn thing working, but he had to look at it too. As if it simply wouldn't let him forget.

He easily slipped his mother's worn leather sword belt, which was by far too wide for his twig-like frame, around his waist and buckled it in the custom hole he'd had to make, tucking the long, loose end back under itself. The blade itself rested comfortably inside it's hide home, the hilt kept meticulously clean - much unlike his face or his clothing, which was at this point more patchwork than original material anyways. This blade had served three generations of his family, originally crafted by Roland's great grandfather who was supposedly an alchemist (although Roland was loathe to believe it) to be unbreakable. Despite his young age, the scrawny little brat had tested the myth in combat several times, and so far it had come out without a scratch, unlike it's wielder, who now sported a large bandage on his right cheek. What had they called it again? Tie ... to ... something mixed with steel - a magic metal in any case - he didn't care so much as long as it cut what he swung it at.

To be continued.... NEXT > [link]

Description
Art and concept by

Roland Featherstone
A fitting name for a sky hopper, to say the least, although he never was too fond of the 'stone' bit. He let his dusty, red hair grow long because he couldn't be bothered to cut it. As a result, he often found his dull, gray-blue eyes obscured by clumps of it while he was tinkering with some bit of machinery or another. This often lead the easily irritated teenager to haphazardly tuck it behind his ear, where it would remain for anywhere between a few minutes and several seconds before finding it's way back into his face.

Roland's grease-streaked face now grimaced in pain as he finally reatached his prosthetic leg. He'd been working on it all day, and finally - he thought - the new hydraulic shock absorbers were ready for a test run. He loaded a fresh canister of compressed air into the small compartment under the calf, and stood up. It always felt strange to him - as if he were standing on one leg, and kneeling on a flat surface at the same time. He'd had the prosthetic since his father made it for him at six years old after the accident, but even in the past nine years he could never spend a day without having to acknowledge it by cleaning it, or fixing it, or changing the canister, or even just looking in the mirror like he was at this very moment. He queried to himself about why he always wore shorts, and came to the same conclusion he always did: Less material, means less expensive.

It was bad enough that almost all the money he ever made from his meager share of the bounty went to keeping the damn thing working, but he had to look at it too. As if it simply wouldn't let him forget.

He easily slipped his mother's worn leather sword belt, which was by far too wide for his twig-like frame, around his waist and buckled it in the custom hole he'd had to make, tucking the long, loose end back under itself. The blade itself rested comfortably inside it's hide home, the hilt kept meticulously clean - much unlike his face or his clothing, which was at this point more patchwork than original material anyways. This blade had served three generations of his family, originally crafted by Roland's great grandfather who was supposedly an alchemist (although Roland was loathe to believe it) to be unbreakable. Despite his young age, the scrawny little brat had tested the myth in combat several times, and so far it had come out without a scratch, unlike it's wielder, who now sported a large bandage on his right cheek. What had they called it again? Tie ... to ... something mixed with steel - a magic metal in any case - he didn't care so much as long as it cut what he swung it at.

To be continued.... NEXT > [link]