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Okay, nothing to get too worked up about Dawn. This is just your first informant meet. You haven’t even been a staff reporter at the Rose Tribune six months, and already you got yourself transferred onto the investigative team. No big deal. You were splashing in disruptive puddles since your school days at the Ivy Ridge Academy for Girls. From there, you began making waves after achieving the highly coveted internship at the Rose Tribune, much to the chagrin and no shortage of jealousy of your classmates, including an envy that could rival your emerald eyes. That last bit referred to your long-term frenemy, Hannah Hoxley. Hannah’s father ran the biggest Bank in town, and she did not take kindly to coming in second place. Gosh, you remember the first day you stepped onto the campus, and suddenly Hannah became the second richest girl at Ivy Ridge. Still, the two of you managed to form a friendship, if a bit off beat, and in the non traditional sense.

The sound of an empty metal can being kicked across concrete snaps you from your revelries. What was that!? Calm down, Dawn. Calm down. Just a metal can. No need to freak out. It’s just your nerves. Your nerves. It’s true, you are electric with excitement. Your first informant. You are working on a story that is investigating corruption on the docks. There is evidence that a smuggling ring is importing counterfeit merchandise, passing itself off as high end brand names. The contraband is said to be arriving in undocumented shipping containers. Your informant claimed they had information that would help you identify which containers housed the counterfeit merchandise.

It’s small time, but it’s your small time. You are eager to catch the eye of Rose Tribune editor, Mr O’Neil for the right reasons. The gruff heavyset bear of a man is well known for his stormy temper, and you have convinced your young self that your path to fighting for truth and justice lies through his tornado alley. If you can just get him to notice that you can solve cases, even little ones like this, you’ll be on your way to becoming the star reporter for the Rose Tribune! You shake your head, molten blonde locks of hair tousling across your slender shoulders. The only thing that you’ve gotten Mr O’Neil to notice thus far was unsightly runs in your pantyhose during the morning meetings!

Face flushing with remembered scoldings and workplace humiliation, you rub your hands up and down the arms of your crisp and tailored, blue office shirt. Stomping your feet in your expensive designer heels, you try to will a little circulation through your poor frigid toes. The matching short skirt that goes with your suit covers insufficient real estate of your thighs, and your legs are laughably covered in an impossibly impractical pair of sheer barely black pantyhose. The chill in the air cuts through the gossamer fabric as easily as pale daylight exposes the smoky creaminess of your smooth legs beneath.

“Brrrrr....” you mutter to yourself, teeth involuntarily spasming in a little chatter. You wish now you hadn’t left your jacket, the one that’s tailored and matches the skirt, draped over the passenger seat of your green Jaguar. Why of all places, did your informant want to meet here? It’s a musty, chilly, and all together creepy abandoned warehouse near the shipping district. You understand the desire to be discreet, but this is just ridiculous. It will take you three cups of hot tea, two hours in front of the fire, followed by another hour soaking in a simmering bath to get the cold out of your fragile bones. Oh, and a large glass of wine. Don’t forget the wine.

Who knows? Maybe this is just the type of place that you meet informants? You don’t really know. You are kind of new at this sort of thing. And you were a little desperate. You bite your lip remembering how you must have sounded on the phone when speaking to your cryptically secretive informant. You already know that you sound like a child on the phone, and you must admit, you don’t come across as the most physically dominant presence in person either. Another twinge of self consciousness. You were too eager to agree to whatever conditions the informant set, anything to meet, anything for the precious intel he could provide. How could you not? You needed this information. This could be your big break! After this, Mr O’Neil would be clapping you on the back in the morning meeting! Imagining that brings the mixture of a dreamy smile to your fantasising face and a cringe as you realize you don’t have the body frame to support that level of “socially accepted physically aggressive male congratulations” Better to endure that, than a scandalous scolding about your pantyhose, chided Dawn, to herself with a grimace.

Regardless, here she was. This rundown, forgotten, warehouse, home now to nothing more than brittle dead leaves, brackish puddles, cracked concrete, cobwebs, and a healthy portion of rusty pipes. Where is this guy? Dawn thought to herself with a twinge of impatience. Checking her phone for the tenth time, curious if she missed some message, but knowing the answer was no different than it was ten seconds ago. It was the drafty cold. It had a way of speeding up impatience, and a general sense of isolating vulnerability. Dawn renewed the vigor in which she rubbed up and down the sides of her arms. She even crouched down and gave her long slender legs a healthy massaging caress, the silky nylon of her pantyhose was cool to the touch. “I’m sorry girls,” she frowned, affectionately apologizing to her poor legs for the lack of preparedness and mistreatment. “Just hang in there, at least until we are back at the mansion,” she murmured, asking just a little bit more out of them, the promise of that luxuriously decadent pampering that would follow.

Another rattle of a kicked metal can, the scratch of friction on gritty concrete, the cocktail of both heard and felt footsteps vibrating the ground. The same ground that perched her dainty and impractical designer heels. “Hmmm, what was that? Is someone there? Hel--” but Dawn could not finish her vocalized timidity. She was only half turned before she sensed, saw, and felt the impact of the blow to the back of her head.

“Nnnnnggggghhhhh!!!” the anguished and pathetic moan came from her lips. More like it was forced from her lips. Her body pushing it out in an anguished ball of surprise, misunderstanding, and pain. Dawn Meadow’s slender body crumpled beneath the sudden attack, barely covered knees dropping painfully to the ground, rough concrete biting into the nylon and the soft pink flesh hiding beneath. She wavered there for a moment, her body and gravity exchanging a back and forth, back and forth as to which way this lovely lithe tower was going to fall. Her hands, God bless them, were trying to keep up with the negotiation, ready to be there when she needed them. But somehow they were writing checks they couldn’t cash. And by the time the negotiations between her body and gravity broke down, she toppled, and her hands were nowhere near the right place. The result? Her preciously pampered porcelain cheek, now a rosy red from the chill, splashed down in an oily puddle of old… something, and unyielding, the fierce concrete below the surface. It hurt. Goodness did it hurt, but Dawn Meadows was spared the sensation in the moment. Rather, she was spared the awareness of the pain. She took a severe blow to the back of her head, followed by the bite in her knees, and finished off with the smack of concrete to her fragile cheek bone.

Her well manicured fingertips scratched around the pavement, her heels dragged along with incoherent intent. These were all twitches, body reactions, more than conscious thoughts. Her long blonde ponytail settled in the puddle soaking up the murk, fading the luxury of her luster. Dawn’s soft red lips parted in shallow breaths as gagging rivulets of the brackish puddle flowed into her open mouth. Not enough to endanger… just enough to degradingly taste.

She sensed the vague and far away feeling of hands riffling over her body in a hurried and uninhibited way. Dawn moaned in need, but if the hands were listening, they weren’t responding to her meek whimpers for help. Just as quickly as the hands searched her body, she felt the vibrations in the ground of the footsteps pounding away from her, accented by the splashing of the murky puddle across her body, face, and hair.

It seems Miss Meadows got her first lesson in Meeting Informants 101. A girl of Dawn Meadows’... type, would do well to be more careful about the perils that she places herself in when it comes to chasing her scoops. She showed up with bright green eyes ready to meet her first official informant, crack the case, and take that first step to becoming the star reporter of the Rose Tribune, out there in the great big night sky over New York City. Instead, she served herself up as a slender blonde fool of a girl, vulnerably tottering on high heels, with the most sensible thing that could be said about her entire outfit were the control tops on her pantyhose (which is a stretch!) Instead, she got duped by her supposed informant. Duped and mugged. That’s right, he got her phone, her purse, please oh God, don’t let him have gotten the Jag! She didn’t get the intel on the rogue shipping containers or the contraband counterfeit merchandise they held within. She did get a terrible bonk to the back of the head, which would leave a lump to go along with a bruised cheek and that stylish black eye. Concrete has a way of doing that to a girl!

Dawn could really do with that cozy pampering back at the mansion about now, but it might have to wait. First, she’s gotta wait for some kind citizen to find her fallen form, or bleary eyed, come to. Whichever comes first, it’s going to hurt like hell. Better grab a bag of frozen green peas to go with the rest of your plans tonight, Dawn!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Well now, how about a few moments in the shoes of a rookie Dawn Meadows? I thought it would be nice to explore her naive approach to meeting her first informant in her (stumbling) trajectory toward becoming that famed star reporter of the Rose Tribune.

While I created and post-worked this render, I would like to take the time to thank the same anonymous artist who has brought the comic book style treatment to Dawn Meadows, and more recently, Becky Carter. That artist performed a final pass of post-work, adding a level of detail and polish to this render that I am entirely grateful and wowed by.

I hope everyone enjoys the story and render. As always, thanks!

(This picture was made in Daz Studio 4.12 and postwork in Adobe Photoshop CS2)

Description

Okay, nothing to get too worked up about Dawn. This is just your first informant meet. You haven’t even been a staff reporter at the Rose Tribune six months, and already you got yourself transferred onto the investigative team. No big deal. You were splashing in disruptive puddles since your school days at the Ivy Ridge Academy for Girls. From there, you began making waves after achieving the highly coveted internship at the Rose Tribune, much to the chagrin and no shortage of jealousy of your classmates, including an envy that could rival your emerald eyes. That last bit referred to your long-term frenemy, Hannah Hoxley. Hannah’s father ran the biggest Bank in town, and she did not take kindly to coming in second place. Gosh, you remember the first day you stepped onto the campus, and suddenly Hannah became the second richest girl at Ivy Ridge. Still, the two of you managed to form a friendship, if a bit off beat, and in the non traditional sense.

The sound of an empty metal can being kicked across concrete snaps you from your revelries. What was that!? Calm down, Dawn. Calm down. Just a metal can. No need to freak out. It’s just your nerves. Your nerves. It’s true, you are electric with excitement. Your first informant. You are working on a story that is investigating corruption on the docks. There is evidence that a smuggling ring is importing counterfeit merchandise, passing itself off as high end brand names. The contraband is said to be arriving in undocumented shipping containers. Your informant claimed they had information that would help you identify which containers housed the counterfeit merchandise.

It’s small time, but it’s your small time. You are eager to catch the eye of Rose Tribune editor, Mr O’Neil for the right reasons. The gruff heavyset bear of a man is well known for his stormy temper, and you have convinced your young self that your path to fighting for truth and justice lies through his tornado alley. If you can just get him to notice that you can solve cases, even little ones like this, you’ll be on your way to becoming the star reporter for the Rose Tribune! You shake your head, molten blonde locks of hair tousling across your slender shoulders. The only thing that you’ve gotten Mr O’Neil to notice thus far was unsightly runs in your pantyhose during the morning meetings!

Face flushing with remembered scoldings and workplace humiliation, you rub your hands up and down the arms of your crisp and tailored, blue office shirt. Stomping your feet in your expensive designer heels, you try to will a little circulation through your poor frigid toes. The matching short skirt that goes with your suit covers insufficient real estate of your thighs, and your legs are laughably covered in an impossibly impractical pair of sheer barely black pantyhose. The chill in the air cuts through the gossamer fabric as easily as pale daylight exposes the smoky creaminess of your smooth legs beneath.

“Brrrrr....” you mutter to yourself, teeth involuntarily spasming in a little chatter. You wish now you hadn’t left your jacket, the one that’s tailored and matches the skirt, draped over the passenger seat of your green Jaguar. Why of all places, did your informant want to meet here? It’s a musty, chilly, and all together creepy abandoned warehouse near the shipping district. You understand the desire to be discreet, but this is just ridiculous. It will take you three cups of hot tea, two hours in front of the fire, followed by another hour soaking in a simmering bath to get the cold out of your fragile bones. Oh, and a large glass of wine. Don’t forget the wine.

Who knows? Maybe this is just the type of place that you meet informants? You don’t really know. You are kind of new at this sort of thing. And you were a little desperate. You bite your lip remembering how you must have sounded on the phone when speaking to your cryptically secretive informant. You already know that you sound like a child on the phone, and you must admit, you don’t come across as the most physically dominant presence in person either. Another twinge of self consciousness. You were too eager to agree to whatever conditions the informant set, anything to meet, anything for the precious intel he could provide. How could you not? You needed this information. This could be your big break! After this, Mr O’Neil would be clapping you on the back in the morning meeting! Imagining that brings the mixture of a dreamy smile to your fantasising face and a cringe as you realize you don’t have the body frame to support that level of “socially accepted physically aggressive male congratulations” Better to endure that, than a scandalous scolding about your pantyhose, chided Dawn, to herself with a grimace.

Regardless, here she was. This rundown, forgotten, warehouse, home now to nothing more than brittle dead leaves, brackish puddles, cracked concrete, cobwebs, and a healthy portion of rusty pipes. Where is this guy? Dawn thought to herself with a twinge of impatience. Checking her phone for the tenth time, curious if she missed some message, but knowing the answer was no different than it was ten seconds ago. It was the drafty cold. It had a way of speeding up impatience, and a general sense of isolating vulnerability. Dawn renewed the vigor in which she rubbed up and down the sides of her arms. She even crouched down and gave her long slender legs a healthy massaging caress, the silky nylon of her pantyhose was cool to the touch. “I’m sorry girls,” she frowned, affectionately apologizing to her poor legs for the lack of preparedness and mistreatment. “Just hang in there, at least until we are back at the mansion,” she murmured, asking just a little bit more out of them, the promise of that luxuriously decadent pampering that would follow.

Another rattle of a kicked metal can, the scratch of friction on gritty concrete, the cocktail of both heard and felt footsteps vibrating the ground. The same ground that perched her dainty and impractical designer heels. “Hmmm, what was that? Is someone there? Hel--” but Dawn could not finish her vocalized timidity. She was only half turned before she sensed, saw, and felt the impact of the blow to the back of her head.

“Nnnnnggggghhhhh!!!” the anguished and pathetic moan came from her lips. More like it was forced from her lips. Her body pushing it out in an anguished ball of surprise, misunderstanding, and pain. Dawn Meadow’s slender body crumpled beneath the sudden attack, barely covered knees dropping painfully to the ground, rough concrete biting into the nylon and the soft pink flesh hiding beneath. She wavered there for a moment, her body and gravity exchanging a back and forth, back and forth as to which way this lovely lithe tower was going to fall. Her hands, God bless them, were trying to keep up with the negotiation, ready to be there when she needed them. But somehow they were writing checks they couldn’t cash. And by the time the negotiations between her body and gravity broke down, she toppled, and her hands were nowhere near the right place. The result? Her preciously pampered porcelain cheek, now a rosy red from the chill, splashed down in an oily puddle of old… something, and unyielding, the fierce concrete below the surface. It hurt. Goodness did it hurt, but Dawn Meadows was spared the sensation in the moment. Rather, she was spared the awareness of the pain. She took a severe blow to the back of her head, followed by the bite in her knees, and finished off with the smack of concrete to her fragile cheek bone.

Her well manicured fingertips scratched around the pavement, her heels dragged along with incoherent intent. These were all twitches, body reactions, more than conscious thoughts. Her long blonde ponytail settled in the puddle soaking up the murk, fading the luxury of her luster. Dawn’s soft red lips parted in shallow breaths as gagging rivulets of the brackish puddle flowed into her open mouth. Not enough to endanger… just enough to degradingly taste.

She sensed the vague and far away feeling of hands riffling over her body in a hurried and uninhibited way. Dawn moaned in need, but if the hands were listening, they weren’t responding to her meek whimpers for help. Just as quickly as the hands searched her body, she felt the vibrations in the ground of the footsteps pounding away from her, accented by the splashing of the murky puddle across her body, face, and hair.

It seems Miss Meadows got her first lesson in Meeting Informants 101. A girl of Dawn Meadows’... type, would do well to be more careful about the perils that she places herself in when it comes to chasing her scoops. She showed up with bright green eyes ready to meet her first official informant, crack the case, and take that first step to becoming the star reporter of the Rose Tribune, out there in the great big night sky over New York City. Instead, she served herself up as a slender blonde fool of a girl, vulnerably tottering on high heels, with the most sensible thing that could be said about her entire outfit were the control tops on her pantyhose (which is a stretch!) Instead, she got duped by her supposed informant. Duped and mugged. That’s right, he got her phone, her purse, please oh God, don’t let him have gotten the Jag! She didn’t get the intel on the rogue shipping containers or the contraband counterfeit merchandise they held within. She did get a terrible bonk to the back of the head, which would leave a lump to go along with a bruised cheek and that stylish black eye. Concrete has a way of doing that to a girl!

Dawn could really do with that cozy pampering back at the mansion about now, but it might have to wait. First, she’s gotta wait for some kind citizen to find her fallen form, or bleary eyed, come to. Whichever comes first, it’s going to hurt like hell. Better grab a bag of frozen green peas to go with the rest of your plans tonight, Dawn!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Well now, how about a few moments in the shoes of a rookie Dawn Meadows? I thought it would be nice to explore her naive approach to meeting her first informant in her (stumbling) trajectory toward becoming that famed star reporter of the Rose Tribune.

While I created and post-worked this render, I would like to take the time to thank the same anonymous artist who has brought the comic book style treatment to Dawn Meadows, and more recently, Becky Carter. That artist performed a final pass of post-work, adding a level of detail and polish to this render that I am entirely grateful and wowed by.

I hope everyone enjoys the story and render. As always, thanks!

(This picture was made in Daz Studio 4.12 and postwork in Adobe Photoshop CS2)