Category Archives: DAZ Studio

A Picnic in Hyde Park (from Turn of Midnight Waters)

July 1926. After an eventful night hunting angels in the streets of Woolloomooloo, the party took repose with a picnic in Hyde Park, opposite the Australia Museum, ‘neath huge, multi-trunked fig trees. There they planned strategy for the nights ahead.

Hyde Park Picnic

Based on a true story. DAZ Studio and Photoshop. Ah, those Morton Bay figs…

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Artists Ball 1926 (from Turn of Midnight Waters)

artistball 25 july

Back working on Turn of Midnight Waters after a year of intense work commitments – the end is in sight. DAZ Studio and Photoshop.

Artists Ball Sydney 1926: get your tickets now,  it will be a night you will never forget.

Felicity Davis (The Investigators #5)

Felicity Davis
Felicity Davis, Research Xenologist: As a field agent, Felicity’s weapon of choice is a selective neurotoxin aerosol, but if it comes down to the crunch, she knows how to improvise.

An occasional series of Cthulhu investigators, Daz Studio and Photoshop.

Images of Pavis

Imaginings of past acquaintances on the streets of New Pavis. DAZ Studio and Photoshop.
coins

gris

gris5

wolf

paviswoman

hunter

Dangerford Death Song

m-humakti

Humakti warrior. DAZ Studio and Photoshop. Click for full-size image.

Dangerford Death Song

They were not.

Too silent to be real, they appeared—eleven gaunt and empty warriors—out of the fog-cloaked gors at dawn. Black cloaked, blood-banded, they sought the fyrd fight, the game of iron.

Halting but a spear-throw from our fires, the sword-troop stood motionless as sentries raised our sleeping camp.

Black-cloaked, horse-crowned, lacking in armour. Kin-less ones, their clan markings faded and pale. Death-hungry.

Humakti.

Our spearthane hefted his great ash and bellowed a challenge.

The answer came on the world’s breath from nine ragged throats. A song, a summoning, gentle and in an ancient mode, as if uttered by maids calling kin to a wedding.

The sundered ones began their advance with slow and measured step, singing their swords. Each held a blood-band, iron-black and high of hilt, gleaming against the dawn with blueish unlight. They came not as a shieldwall, but as blood brides, arrayed in three open columns, their order wyrded by lot. Three firsts would fight till felled, then one behind would step to take their place. Their feet were wrapped in rune-pocked leather: there would be no healing.

This was not mercenary work, this was death song.

We raised shields. Wall-holders we, fyrd-strong, our band some six hands in number, and none a stranger to the emnity of edges.

The foe advanced. The spearthane weighed our wyrd, gave voice to thunder.

Wind-born, storm-swift, we fled for the safety of the trees.