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"Sir, Mum! Did you just come from the stronghold?! Did you see what happened?" The breathless journalist pegged the pair down-- too panick'd to make note of the fact he was speaking to two very literal jesters clad in viciously abnormal attire; One standing nigh nine feet in stature, curled forward in order to merely maintain normalcy.

Nevermind the ivory pallor of his skin, nor his rows of hideously malformed teeth. And gods save you mentioning his natural "L'eau du old lady's handbag", blessedly occluded by the stark mire of burning wood and sulfur.

"Act cool, act cool, luv." He gurgled underbreath, lips peeling back in an attempt at a disarming smile, becoming more akin to an arm-removing smile. His enormous, clawed grip coming to rest endearingly over his partner-in-crime's shoulder "Well... you see, old chap--"

The lass, a harsh juxtaposition to the undead jester, bright, fiery, and wild-eyed. Throwing her stance wide with pride and poignantly directing an accusatory finger straight to her ghoulish counterpart's gawking, plastered visage.

"Oh, Parliament? That was us!"

Fawkes may have exhumed the physical meatmatter of his greyed, old brain centuries prior, but it didn't stop him from having to process what had just been said with the same tact and celerity as an obese hamster powering a telephone line, transmitting the encyclopedic definition of "boned."








"... Sh#&."
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An absolutely amazing piece from , originally a sketch which I coloured and hashed a mishmash of a BG for.

This depicts a scene from 's old campaign involving themes of undeath, eldritch horror, political intrigue and world wars.

Fawkes is my Darakhul bard. A malformed jester who was once an elf, subjected to maddening torture and transformative mutilation in order to become an ideal manservant.

The girl in question is the PC of a close friend of mine, Alessa, a ringblade-fighter and close love to the giggling corpse.