#colorled

[moonshinenum]

Snow day:

Hank Jr got caught in the middle of the blizzard. But Hank jr was having a bad day after he lost his job and then hearing about his twin brother quill closing off for no reason. But there was hope since he went to a 70s dinner theme to stay inside for a while after his car stopped working in the middle of the snow. Hank Jr was about to sit down until he saw his father and mother at the dinner and he decided to sit down with them and chat for a while since his father knew something was wrong and his mother knew it had dealt something with quill.

But at least he vents everything to his parents and that night he was happy he came across his parents in time and his father helped out to fix his car.

Side note:

I drew this on my switch last night on colorlives. I used to be active on that website for a while now but I decided to come back to colorlives. I really love how they updated the program and I miss having fun post my art there as well.

Do not remove my watermark

Do not repost my art anywhere

[mtoastl]

3 things I’ve made on Color Live on the Nintendo Switch.

[meadowofarabbit]

CoLoR-LeS Data 10 is OUT!

Zeohyr's experiences in the Knights of Amrin is really eating away at them, but there is light at the end, hopefully.

Read CoLoR-LeS From the beginning:

[clownhavoc]

I do not support the poppy playtime creators but I really like bunzo I love the silly little bunny babbit :]c

(Also my teacher gave me twist up crayons which are fun to use so I used them for this drawing)

[xxxairheadedangelxxx]

so my last escapades of changing my hair color has been onbliterating said hair bco f my own hubris

so that fact Im stuck w a dark autumn red when I wanna go pink so theoretically it would be so easy to do bc it lifting warm will help my end result

but knowing if I put a SINGLE drop of bleach near my head right now i will lose the poor little scraplings i have left

is physically painful

at least i dont hate myself w red hair in the first place so like its a tolerable color while I let her rest and recooperate but STILL

[autobahnmp3]

idk why but b&w drawings make my brain go brr in the best way

[chopinski-official]

Chopin's Funeral

By Benita Eisler

Funeral at La Madeleine, 1868

On a sparkling Paris morning, Tuesday, October 30, 1849, crowds poured into the square in front of the Church of the Madeleine. The occasion was the funeral of Frédéric Chopin, and for it, the entire facade of the great neoclassical temple had been draped in swags of black velvet centred with a cartouche bearing the silver-embroidered initials FC. 

Admission was by invitation only: Between three thousand and four thousand had received the black-bordered cards. Observing the square with its crush of carriages, the liveried grooms and sleek horses, the throngs converging on the porch, Hector Berlioz reported that "the whole of artistic and aristocratic Paris was there." But another who surveyed the crowd, the music critic for the Times of London, suspected that of the four thousand who filled the pews, a large number had been admitted just before noon, strangers to the dead man, mere bystanders even, "many of whom, perhaps, had never heard of him." 

Facades of La Madeleine, 1840-70

If death is a mirror of life, Chopin's funeral reflected all the disjunctions of his brief existence. The most private of artists, his genius was mourned in a public event worthy of a head of state. Canonized as "angelic," a Shelleyan "poet of the keyboard," Chopin seemed to personify romanticism, and before he was buried, its myths had already embalmed him: a short and tragic life; an heroic role as Polish patriot and exile; doomed lover of the century's most notorious woman; and finally, his death from consumption, that killer of youth, beauty, genius, and of courtesans foolish enough to fall in love. 

Chopin's Last Chords by Józef Męcina-Krzesz

In reality, he was the least romantic of artists. While the generation that had come of age just before his own in France, including the Olympian Victor Hugo, had defined romanticism as a holy war of the "moderns" (themselves) against the "ancients" (their literary elders), setting off riots in theaters to make their point, Chopin clung to the past. His musical touchstones were Haydn, Mozart-but especially Bach. He harbored doubts about Beethoven's lapses of taste, was incurious about the music of Schubert, and generally contemptuous of his other contemporaries: Schumann, Berlioz, and Liszt, towards whom his feelings were further tangled by rivalrous friendship. In art, he preferred the marmoreal neoclassicism of Ingres and his followers to the radical inventions in color and form of his friend Delacroix. Socially and politically, he was still more conservative. 

The same aristocratic circles that had embraced Chopin the child prodigy in Warsaw were waiting to welcome the twenty-one-year-old sensation of Paris. Chopin arrived in France in 1831. One year before, revolution had replaced the Bourbon Restoration with the Orleanists swept in by Louis Philippe and his July monarchy. It was still a world of fixed hierarchies: of titles, birth, and breeding, buoyed by a flood tide of fresh money coined by the financiers and industrialists whose entertainments outshone the Sun King in splendor, if not in style. Chopin made some friends among the professional middle class-a less grand banker or diplomat, a few fellow musicians. He had a horror of "the People" as a force of upheaval or even change (which he dreaded in any form), and he was suspicious of those who championed their cause. He was appalled by that quintessentially romantic belief, whose most ardent proponent was George Sand, that art must serve the cause of social justice-or, indeed, any other cause except itself. 

Like many who have thrived as "exceptions," propelled by talent from modest origins to a place among the privileged, Chopin was repelled by marginality: by poor Poles, by Jews, by the ill-dressed and ill-mannered, by coarseness or slovenliness, in art or life. 

Chopin’s hand and death mask

Most likenesses of the composer suggest that he was far from handsome. He had pale, colorless hair, a thin, hooked nose, a pursey mouth, and rabbity, lashless eyes. In these images, Chopin bears only a glancing resemblance to his famous portrait by Delacroix-the portrait of romantic genius itself, with his tousled chestnut mane and burning inward gaze. Chopin's famous dandyism, then, must be understood as another labor of creation, like his music an imperious quest for perfection. The dandy enlists distinction-in dress, speech, manners-along with distance, to create a masterpiece: himself. 

What appeared to many-then and now-as the snobbery of a provincial, self-invented aristocrat and aesthete, had deeper sources. Chopin needed the reassurance that a fixed social order provides. Dependent and childlike in many ways, he clung to the security of protective institutions-the monarchy, the Church, and the family-which defined themselves proudly as patriarchal, stern but loving fathers keeping watch over children, dedicated to exalting an ideal past and to keeping present chaos at bay. 

Two years and only two public concerts after his arrival in Paris, Chopin ranked among those few artists who moved in every circle that counted. Ignoring protocol, older, established musicians called upon him. He was a fixture at the grandest houses, where, arriving in his own carriage, he was welcomed as a lionized guest who never failed to charm and amuse; if he could be prevailed upon to perform, he hypnotized every listener. The musically knowledgeable drew close to the piano to study the wizardry of his technique and his famous inventions in fingering, third finger crossing the fourth, that made his impossibly difficult compositions appear effortless. Fellow exiles heard laments for a homeland in the languorous rubato of the mazurkas, with their heart-catching drop from major to minor keys, but the mood of elegy was as often shattered by discordant salvos of unleashed rage. Even those guests whose attendance was simply an occasion to wear the new diamonds, to remark casually at the bourse that the reception last evening at Baron James's had been more than usually delightful, stayed well past midnight, straining to hear the final note, when the pianist, pale and exhausted, rose wearily to take his bow. It was uncanny how Chopin's music spoke so intimately to their most private, long-buried thoughts and memories, evoking childhood happiness and lost love; innocent, nobler selves trampled by the harsh rules of life. 

Seventeen years later, he died, destitute, in an apartment paid for by friends at the most fashionable address in the most expensive quarter of Paris.

A drawing by T. Kwiatkowski of Frederic Chopin on his deathbed, 1849

Now, at the funeral, emissaries from the world of music were outnumbered by mourners from the ranks of the rich and titled. The Polish émigré aristocracy and its French counterpart among the old noblesse were in turn outshone by new money: bankers and speculators whose wives and daughters had also been among Chopin's pupils. Certain of the fashionable, one reporter noted, appeared indecorously attired in brilliant colors, glittering with jewels. 

While the crowd filed through the portal, the closed casket was carried from the sanctuary and placed under an elaborate catafalque ("utterly pretentious," in the view of Paris's leading music critic) at the transept. Chopin's embalmed body had lain in the crypt for almost two weeks since his death on October 17, aged thirty-nine. His dying had been long and terrible, the disease that killed him still not diagnosed with certainty: tuberculosis of the larynx, cystic fibrosis, mitral stenosis, or a rare viral infection? 

Interior of La Madeleine, 1845.

With a dandy's discipline, in his final agony of slow suffocation, Chopin had planned the musical program whose principal offering was to be a performance of Mozart's Requiem. Unknown to the dying man, women were not permitted to sing in the city's parish churches; it had taken days of pleading on the part of Chopin's most powerful friends before a special dispensation was issued by the Archbishop of Paris. The decree allowed female participation provided it remained invisible; thus the women singers, including Chopin's friend Pauline Viardot among the featured soloists, were hidden from view behind a black velvet curtain. 

As the mourners took their places, the organist played the funeral march from Chopin's own Sonata in B-flat Minor. Then, the choir of the Paris Conservatory sounded the opening notes of the Requiem's Introitus, followed by the first solo — "Te decet hymnus, Deus," Viardot sang, her glorious mezzo-soprano soaring above the chorus and orchestra. Then, voices and instruments were stilled while the priest chanted the High Mass for the Dead.

Modern day interior of La Madeleine

The pallbearers emerged from their pews. Two princes, Adam and Alexandre Czartoryski, represented the community of Polish exiles. The painter Eugène Delacroix mourned the friend he had both loved and revered, calling him "the truest artist among us." From the world of music, the composer Giacomo Meyerbeer, decorations glinting against his dark mourning attire, appeared the personification of success. He had been the merest acquaintance, but Chopin, passionate for opera, had been a fan, like millions of others who had made Meyerbeer a rich man. In contrast, cellist and composer Auguste Franchomme was known to few. But the modest, scholarly professor at the Conservatory had been the inspiration for the only music Chopin would ever write for an instrument other than the piano. Franchomme was followed by a collaborator of another kind, Camille Pleyel, manufacturer of the pianos that Chopin, more than any other composer who ever lived, had made the instrument of genius. 

Shouldering the massive coffin, the six men moved up the nave to the sounds of the organ playing Chopin's Preludes in E Minor and B Minor. Many of those now leaving had heard the composer play these pieces-his favorites-in their own houses, in the salons of friends, or in Pleyel's concert rooms. The familiar notes on the somber instrument spoke of the voice they would never hear again, and they wept. 

Sick Chopin at Piano. Illustration on postcard by A. Serkowicz

Outside the church, the mourners gathered around the corbillard, the wagon hearse particular to Paris. Drawn by black plumed horses, it aroused shivers of dread, but also of excitement: Parisians loved a funeral. By this time, most of the mourners had dispersed; Chopin had forbidden any graveside ceremony. With the exception of the pallbearers, freed now of their burden, those who remained were women. They surrounded the small figure of the composer's older sister, Ludwika, summoned from Warsaw by the dying man at the end of June. "Please come, if you can," he had begged, even if she had to borrow the money, of which, he, alas, had none to advance. "Apply for a passport immediately," he urged, and lest he should sound like his familiar hypochrondriacal self, he invoked the advice of others close to him and concerned for his health who had agreed that no medicine would help him as much as the sight of his sister. At the same time, he tried to deny the urgency of his condition. "I don't know myself why I yearn to see Ludwika," he wrote, with a wan coyness, to the rest of the family. "It's like those whims of pregnant women." 

Ludwika Chopin

Chopin might have spent the last twenty years in the most emancipated company of Paris, but it was still natural to him to ask permission of his brother-in-law for Ludwika to make the journey: "A wife must obey her husband," he wrote. "Thus, I am asking you as the husband to accompany your spouse." With the intervention of the czar's ambassador to France, whose wife was Polish, the endless passport process was hastened and Ludwika, accompanied by her husband, Józef Kalasanty Jedrzejewciz, and fifteen-year-old daughter, arrived in Paris in August. But the grumpy Kalasanty returned to Poland in September; it was only Chopin's sister and his little niece Louisette who remained with him to the end. 

Another young mourner, Adolf Gutmann, thirty years old, was one of Chopin's few pupils training to be a professional musician. Others, including pianists said to be just as talented, could not have performed by virtue of birth; they were women and aristocrats of title or wealth; indeed, the most gifted of all Chopin's students was a princess, Marcelina Czartoryska, who had walked to the cemetery accompanied by Countess Delfina Potocka. Sumptuously beautiful of face and body, her golden hair as bewitching as her soprano voice, Delfina, long separated from her husband, was so prodigal with her sexual favors that she had been crowned "the Great Sinner"-no small distinction in the Paris of the July Monarchy. Chopin was rumored to have been one of her many lovers. She had rushed to Paris from her villa in Nice at the news that he was dying. With only hours to live, he had begged Delfina to play and sing for him. A piano was moved to the open door of his bedroom. But the sounds of the voice so dear to him or the music she played or sang caused spasms of choking and he motioned for her to stop. 

Death of Chopin by Félix-Joseph Barrias. Showing Potocka singing to Chopin.

Sending their carriages ahead, the Polish noblewomen walked the distance, east along the grand boulevards, skirting the slums of Paris to Père Lachaise Cemetery. Others, arriving earlier in hired cabs, stood waiting by the open grave: a brawny red-haired sculptor, Auguste Clésinger, and his young wife, Solange, daughter of George Sand. Clésinger had been summoned to the dying man's bedside to mold the death mask, but the resulting likeness-bald head, drooping eyes, mouth contorted by agonized efforts to breathe-was rejected by the horrified Ludwika. Working swiftly, the sculptor had applied another layer of wet plaster, which, after removal, he reworked, smoothing away all evidence of struggle and pain until the dead man's features were composed into an expression of Christian peace. Clésinger's reward was the commission for a funerary monument, and he now surveyed the site where his marble tribute, featuring a Muse holding a lyre, would rise above a small oval profile of the composer. 

Chopin’s Grave, All Souls’ Day.

Towering over the Clésingers, Ludwika, the priest, the Polish nobles, and the pallbearers was the angular figure of Miss Jane Stirling, a Scottish heiress, Chopin's pupil and patroness, who had supported the composer in the last year of his life. It was Stirling who had paid the bill for the funeral-five thousand pounds-of which two thousand were spent on the orchestra and chorus alone. 

In the silence ordained by the dead man, his coffin was lowered. The mourners pressed closer together for a last look. But they also seemed to close ranks, filling an empty place among them.

[rodrevart]

I just wanted to try out some Promarkers colorling and some inking.

[atomicfoolorkillthemidols]

A drawing I made on colors 3d... On my 3ds. Really happy that the drawing is high quality when you download it from the colorlive website 🫃

[moonshinenum]

Alright this was my first time drawing Kurt but the foot bothers me so much. Since it was the base I was using in colorlives.

Kurt is saving Bren from attacks

[xryosakeyx]

Gonna go finish colorling the rest of this later :P

[call-me-copycat]

Making a vampire oc. Could you give me a color for his aesthetic (probably also his hair colorl)

Oh, that sounds interesting! I tried finding some color palettes online that I thought reminded me of vampires (mainly dark colors with probably a tiny splash of color), so I hope these help! ୧(`꒳´* )ว𓈒𓏸

I made all of these from images that I found in my gallery, I know you said just to choose a color, so I'm sorry if this is a bit much >⁠.⁠<

If I'm being honest, when I think of vampires I think of darker, cooler colors - like black and brighter purple. I hope this helps, and I really appreciate you asking me! Please have a lovely day! ୧꒰*´꒳`*꒱૭✧

[amphiptere-art]

Did this stream. A lot of my streams are either going to be in the mornings or in the late afternoons. Although I will note I did not know of the adherent static that was apparently being produced. So sorry for the awful noise.

[ridiasfangirlings]

Title: Lovely, Dark and Warm (7/15)

Fandom: K Project

External: AO3

Pairings: Sarumi

Ratings/Warnings: M

Summary: Totsuka Tatara was dead, Homra was certain of that. But rumors persisted, that he had been seen wandering the alleys of Shizume, with blood on his shirt and a mouth hanging open.

In retrospect, that was how every zombie apocalypse started, after all.

Notes: ...I swear I was going to use a more regular posting schedule, I really was.

Even as he ran through the darkness Kusanagi had a sinking feeling in his heart, as if he was already certain what they were going to find.

His phone had rang once and hung up before he could answer. It was Totsuka’s number though, and Anna had come downstairs with a face deathly pale and a shattered marble in her hand.

Totsuka…this better be a prank. Somehow he knew it, though. Totsuka wouldn’t play this sort of prank, not on Anna at least.

“Totsuka-san!” Yata’s shout rang out from the rooftop above and Kusanagi steeled himself as he finished climbing the fire escape, knowing what he would find.

—Or didn’t find. Yata was crouched alone on the rooftop in front of a pool of blood, turning a camcorder in his hands.

“Kusanagi-san.” Yata’s voice sounded thick, as if he was speaking through water. “Y-you think…he could be….maybe he’s just hurt? And someone got him to the hospital. Or…”

“I don’t know.” Kusanagi put a hand on Yata’s shoulder and gently took the camcorder from him. Kusanagi’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses and he nudged Yata to his feet. “But I bet this can tell us.”

—

Three nights later, after Homra had already begun their search for the so-called ‘Colorless King,’ was when the rumors started.

Totsuka Tatara had been seen, wandering through the backstreets and alleyways of Shizume, in clothes covered in blood.

---

“Have a seat, all of you.”

Yata scowled darkly at the Blue King as he was ushered into the room. After Munakata had shown up outside the rest of Scepter 4 had quickly surrounded him and the others and they had been herded like sheep back into Scepter 4’s underground headquarters. This time, however, he hadn’t been taken into a holding cell. Instead Munakata led them into what seemed to be an enormous conference room. Munakata settled himself at the head of a wide rectangular table, gesturing for the other four following him to sit. Yata made a ‘hmph’ noise in his throat, just to show he wasn’t happy about any of this, and threw himself haphazardly into the nearest chair.

He glanced back as the other three following him entered the room. Kuroh was stone-faced, hands white on his sword and not looking at anyone but Munakata as he settled into a chair, his back ramrod-straight. Shiro peered in nervously and sat down in a spot as far away from Yata as possible. Yata glared at him just to let him know that Yata hadn’t forgotten the score they had to settle. Neko hissed at him as she plopped down next to Shiro and pushed her chair close, grabbing tightly to his arm.

Lieutenant Awashima followed them in, accompanied by two more Scepter 4 members who were carrying the still-unconscious Fushimi. They laid him gently in an empty chair and Awashima issued a few quick orders to her subordinates before moving to stand behind Munakata.

Saruhiko… Yata’s eyes rested on his former friend. Fushimi had shown no sign of waking ever since he’d been injured but from what Yata could see he remained miraculously unharmed. The wound on his chest had healed with barely a scar.

“Um….?” Shiro raised a hand nervously. “Can I ask what’s happening, please?”

“Of course,” Munakata said pleasantly. “Allow to me introduce myself. My name in Munakata Reisi, the Blue King. And you are?”

“I-Isana Yashiro,” Shiro said weakly. Neko clutched him a bit harder and he put a hand around her shoulders. “Ah, and this is Neko.”

“A Strain,” Munakata said shrewdly, eyes glinting behind his glasses. He turned to look at Kuroh. “And you?”

“Yatogami Kuroh.” Kuroh stood and bowed. “My master was Miwa Ichigen, the Colorless King. He entrusted me with this message that I am to deliver to you.” Kuroh reached into his pack and held out a rolled-up scroll. Munakata gestured for Awashima to bring it to him.

“Miwa Ichigen…” Munakata said thoughtfully, eyes sweeping briefly over the contents of the scroll before stowing it away inside his coat. “That man’s power was precognition, was it not?”

“My master was able to see many things that I cannot,” Kuroh said shortly. His body tensed slightly. “Upon his death, he entreated me to make my way to this city, in hopes of mitigating the disaster that has befallen it. He also ordered me to seek out his successor, and if necessary to slay him with my own hands.” Kuroh’s eyes darted over to Shiro, who seemed to shrink back, and Kuroh’s hands tightened shakily over his sword.

“Then, Isana Yashiro-kun, you are the Colorless King?” Munakata shifted his gaze to Shiro, who waved his hands wildly.

“No, no!” Shiro insisted. “It’s all a big misunderstanding!”

“Then you did not murder Totsuka Tatara?” As Munakata spoke the name Yata stiffened angrily.

“No!” Shiro said quickly. He suddenly seemed to deflate slightly, staring down at his hands. “At least….I don’t think so. I-I don’t have any memories, so…”

“Shiro didn’t kill anyone!” Neko insisted. “Shiro is a good person! He wouldn’t kill anybody!”

“Oh? You have no memories?” Munakata leaned forward. “Then, Isana-kun, you truly do not know if you did or did not commit this murder?”

“I…I guess not.” Shiro gave a weak laugh and looked up at Kuroh, who tensed noticeably. “Are you going to kill me now?”

“There will be no need for that,” Munakata stated. He pressed a button and a screen suddenly appeared in the middle of the table. It showed an image of a tall, familiar-looking building.

“That’s—” Yata started and then stopped, remembering where he was.

“Mihashira Tower. Sanctuary of the Timeless Palace, and the Gold King,” Munakata confirmed, nodding. “Also the last known location of the Red King, Suoh Mikoto. And the hiding place of the Dresden Slate.” He looked over at Shiro, ignoring the others. “Do you know what that is?”

“Kuroh-kun told me a little,” Shiro said. “It’s…some kind of magical stone, right? That gives power to Kings?”

“Essentially.” Munakata pressed another button and the image changed again, to the picture of a man. Yata’s heart clenched as he recognized who it was. “This is Totsuka Tatara. A member of the Red clan, presumed murdered on the evening of December 7th. His body was never found, not even by the rest of his clan.” Munakata’s eyes slid briefly to Yata and then shifted back to Shiro as he pressed a button again, changing the image to that of a large airship. “That night, this airship — the Himmelreich, domain of the first and Silver King — crashed into the top floor of Mihashira Tower. What transpired there, no one knows. However, three days later, reports surfaced of Totsuka Tatara sighted wandering through Shizume City’s red light district. Shortly after these sightings occurred, they were followed by the first reports of a strange virus sweeping through the city, killing its victims and transforming them into inhuman monsters. Undead.”

“Zombies,” Yata snorted, because if there was on thing he was sick of it was this ‘undead’ bullshit. Zombies were zombies, after all.

“Zombies,” Munakata agreed, smiling in a way that made Yata wish he hadn’t spoken up. “It was not long after that the city became overrun. Many citizens attempted to escape but were stopped by a mysterious unseen barrier that has arisen around the entire city.” He glanced over at Kuroh. “You are aware of it, I presume?”

“I had difficulty entering the city due to it,” Kuroh confirmed. “I was able to trace its weakest point to the water surrounding Ashinaka High School.”

“Indeed,” Munakata said. “Scepter 4 has done extensive research on the barrier. I faced it myself, to see if it would bend under the pressure of a King. But when I approached it, I was able to realize something — that barrier was created by a power much like my own. No….it may in fact be my own. The Dresden Slate has been behaving in strange ways ever since that night of Totsuka Tatara’s murder and even my own powers have been unreliable.”

“Sir!” Awashima spoke up worriedly and Munakata held up a hand to silence her.

“I imagine you already know this?” Munakata’s gaze slid to Yata, who nodded.

“Y-yeah. My powers have been kinda on and off for a long time. Even Mikoto-san said…” Yata trailed off.

“In light of this, I have formed an interesting theory,” Munakata said. “Initially, I believed that the man in the video obtained by Homra — the man claiming to be the Colorless King — was able to, after committing the murder of Totsuka Tatara, somehow wrest control of the Himmelreich away from the Silver King. Once in charge of the airship, he was then able to assault the impenetrable fortress of the Gold King. At that point, he gained control of the Dresden Slate and something in the reaction of powers caused the undead — my apologies, zombie — outbreak in Shizume City. I expected that he was still hiding in that tower, letting his powers grow as the other Kings fall, one by one.” He turned his gaze back to Shiro. “So as I believe you can imagine, your presence here interests me greatly, Isana-kun.”

“But—but I’m not a King,” Shiro said. “I mean, I don’t remember being one, but…but still, Kings have great powers, right? Even without my memories, I think I would know if I had that.”

“But you do have powers, do you not?” Munakata glanced over at Fushimi’s prone form. “You are able to heal.”

“Only the damage done by zombies,” Shiro said. “And there are lots of people with strange powers in this place, aren’t there? Neko can make illusions, and she’s not a King either.” Shiro glanced at her and smiled thinly. “At least, I don’t think.”

“Yes, Strains,” Munakata agreed. “But it is a strange power, is it not, the ability to heal only what has been wounded by a zombie? This makes it all the more likely that you do indeed have some connection to the situation that is occurring here.” Munakata suddenly stood and walked over to where Fushimi lay. “Isana-kun, if you would please step this way?”

Shiro leaned his umbrella against his chair before giving Neko a quick look and pat on the head as he stood and went over to Munakata. Munakata was kneeling beside Fushimi, unwrapping the bandages from Fushimi’s left arm.

“Isana-kun. Do you think your powers could heal this?”

Yata leaned over to look at what Munakata was gesturing to. His eyes fell upon the wound and he felt fire course through him.

“You fucking bastard!” Yata spat out, jumping to his feet. “That’s—that’s a—”

“A zombie bite,” Munakata agreed, unruffled. “Sustained a month ago in a fight above.”

“You asshole…” Yata grit his teeth. “The fuck kind of King are you, letting your men get hurt! Saruhiko—Saruhiko could’ve been—”

“Are you concerned? Even when he has betrayed you?” Munakata’s tone was calm and Yata sat back down angrily.

“I-I don’t care,” he muttered darkly. “I just..don’t like guys who don’t take care of their own people, that’s all.” He paused as Munakata’s words suddenly sunk in. “Wait, a month ago? But—”

“Normally a wound such as this is fatal within a few hours,” Munakata said. He laid a hand over the wound and Yata could see a flash of blue emanating from his palm. “We were unable to formulate a cure from this. However, I have found that my power can help stave off the infection, for a time at least. As you can see, it has been growing worse.” Munakata ran a hand along Fushimi’s arm and Yata could see graying flesh and a wicked line of red slowly creeping its way up the entire arm. Munakata looked up at Shiro. “Well, Isana-kun? Can your powers heal a wound like this?”

“I-I’ve never tried,” Shiro admitted. “Not one this old, that’s been this way for so long…”

“Then perhaps you should try.”

Shiro swallowed nervously, casting a furtive glance around the room. Neko was leaning over the back of her chair, eyes bright as she stared at him. Shiro gave her a small wave, took a deep breath, and reached for Fushimi’s arm.

Silver light poured from his palm as he held it above the wound. Shiro winced slightly as the light grew hotter and brighter, then steeled himself and pressed his hand closer to the injury. The light reflected off Munakata’s glasses as the Blue King leaned forward, making a small sound of interest in his throat.

Slowly the skin began to knit back together, redness fading, color returning to the skin that had gone gray. At last there was only a small scar on pale white skin and Shiro fell back on his heels, panting slightly.

“Did it work?” Yata leaned forward to look closer despite himself.

“It appears so.” Munakata ran a hand along the unbroken skin. There was no sign of injury or infection. Suddenly Fushimi began to stir, sitting up with a groan.

“Ugh…Captain?” Fushimi gave Munakata a wary look and roughly pulled his arm away. Belatedly he seemed to realize that the bandage and the wound were both gone, and he looked down at his torn bloodstained shirt.

“Welcome back, Fushimi-kun.” Munakata smiled at him and Fushimi looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and hesitant suspicion. Munakata ignored him and immediately turned his attention back to Shiro. “Well done, Isana-kun. Do you feel any residual pain, Fushimi-kun?”

“I’m fine,” Fushimi said shortly, still staring at his arm as if it belonged to someone else. There was movement by the door as another Scepter 4 member peered in. Awashima walked over and spoke briefly with the newcomer in hushed tones. He handed her something and she brought it over to Fushimi.

“A change of clothes, Fushimi-kun.” She dropped the clothes into his lap and then switched her gaze to Munakata, bowing briefly. “Please excuse me for a moment.” Munakata nodded his assent and she left the room.

“You may sit now, Isana-kun,” Munakata gestured for Shiro to regain his seat as he stood and went back to his own spot at the head of the table. “Fushimi-kun, if you would stay here for a moment? I would like to hear from you as well.”

“Right, right.” Fushimi gave him a cold look and then began to remove his torn shirt. Yata found his eyes immediately drawn to the burned mess of skin on Fushimi’s chest, barely able to make out the smudged remains of the Homra tattoo. Fushimi caught his eye and glared, turning so that his back was to the table.

“So…does that mean I’m the Colorless King?” Shiro ventured weakly.

“That is indeed the question.” Munakata leaned a hand on his chin and then pressed another button on his console, returning the image to Mihashira Tower. “The powers of Kings are interesting things. They all manifest in separate ways depending on the color and all are granted by the Dresden Slate. When manifested in their fullest form, the Sword of Damocles will appear in the sky above the King. The Colorless King, however, is an something of an anomaly. A ‘joker,’ if you will. His power will manifest in different ways with each King. As I said before, the previous Colorless King had the power of precognition, yet even he was able to grant offensive powers to his clansmen. Is that not correct, Yatogami-kun?”

“That is true,” Kuroh said. “The powers given to me by my master were nowhere near as grand as his own.” He paused, considering. “So you believe Isana Yashiro to be a clansman of the Colorless King, perhaps? The clansman of a King whose powers have been set to evil in this city?” As he spoke he hands tightened on his sword again and Shiro looked down.

“Perhaps.” Munakata appeared to be about to say something more when Awashima appeared at the door.

“Excuse me, sir. I believe you need to see this.” She walked swiftly over to him and handed him a sheet of paper. Munakata took it from her and his eyes swept quickly over it, a slow smile forming on his face.

“I see.” He looked back up at the company, laying the paper on the desk. “It appears we have at last received some interesting news. Yata Misaki.” Yata stiffened as Munakata spoke his name and Fushimi’s gaze slid coldly over to him from where he was leaning against the far wall. “You accompanied Suoh Mikoto when the Red Clan attacked the Gold King’s stronghold. You entered the building with your King, yet managed to escape alone. However, you have no memory as to how, correct?”

“Yeah, so?” Yata crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Why the hell do you Blues keep asking about that?”

“As I have said before, I believe the key to saving this city lies in that building,” Munakata said. “When the plague overran this city and the main headquarters of Scepter 4 was destroyed, we were still able to maintain most of our systems in this emergency bunker. This network of information includes cameras scattered all around the city. As you may suspect, that is how we were able to locate your position some months ago.”

“W-wait, months?” Yata glanced quickly at Fushimi, who looked away.

“We chose to leave you be for some time, to be certain if you were truly alone,” Munakata continued. “But to return to the matter at hand. These cameras comprise a vast network that crosses all of Shizume City. There are only a handful of places we are unable to access — Ashinaka High School, for example, is beyond our borders. And one of our largest blind spots is the area directly surrounding Mihashira Tower.” He gestured to the image of the building hovering in front of them. “In order to defeat the King hiding in this tower — whichever King he may be, Silver, Gold, Colorless — we must first find a way in. All attempts at sending spies to this area have failed. Additionally, even Fushimi-kun has been unable to hack into the building’s systems in order to obtain a copy of its schematics. Without any way to research our enemy, we are doomed to failure. I had hoped that by capturing you we would be able to find a hint as to how we might enter the building. If you were able to exit the building safely, it is possible that the same method may be used as an entrance. However, in the absence of receiving answers from you, we have been searching for a different method.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Yata muttered.

“Kushina Anna. Her powers can see in places that even I cannot.”

“Anna?” Yata’s eyes widened. “That’s why you had Saru asking me where she was!” He snorted. “Like I would tell you assholes even if I knew. I’m not letting you use Anna as your pawn.”

“Oh? But you have no idea of her current location, do you?” Munakata said and Yata stiffened, irritated. Munakata pushed the papers closer to Yata. “Our search has been ongoing for some time. Recently, however, we seem to have reached a breakthrough. A beacon, encoded, transmitting through telephone frequency sent to Bar Homra.” Munakata smiled serenely. “We have, of course, been tapping the phone for some time.” Yata glared at him again and Munakata let it slide right off of him, as if Yata’s anger couldn’t so much as knock a hair out of place. Munakata gestured for Awashima to continue.

“After several days of work, we have located the source of the signal,” Awashima said. “We have narrowed it down to an apartment complex along the southern boulevard. We believe the originator to be Kusanagi Izumo.”

“Kusanagi-san?” Yata sat bolt upright in his chair. “You found Kusanagi-san?”

“From what we have decoded, we believe Kushina Anna to be accompanying him,” Munakata said. “If we can retrieve her, we may at last be able to begin our operation to retake this city.”

Yata fell back in his seat, barely hearing the Blue King’s words.

Kusanagi-san is alive. He felt a shiver run through his body. Anna too. Maybe even Kamamoto. They’re alive. I’m not— I’m not the last one of us, right? They’re still alive.

“Naturally we will need to send a team to retrieve them—” Munakata was cut off abruptly by the shrill keen of a warning siren as red light flooded the room. There was the sound like a muffled explosion and the room shook, rubble raining down from the ceiling. Fushimi immediately pushed off the wall, hand going to his sword.

“Sir!” The door opened and several Scepter 4 members all but fell inside. “At the main entrance, there’s--”

The screen on the desk suddenly sputtered and the image of Mihashira Tower changed, showing the familiar interior of the subway tunnels they were located in. Standing in front of the metal door was a girl, clearly dead, her neck half severed and her head hanging at odd angles. There was a fox mask covering her face, and Munakata made a small noise of recognition that made everyone glance at him. Beside her was an enormous zombie Strain pounding on the metal doorway. Everywhere its fists hit a small explosion formed, creating dents in the doorway. Behind her were the blurry silhouettes of hundreds of zombies, barely able to move in the cramped confines of the tunnel.

“Is this thing on?” the girl muttered, tapping at the camera she had apparently somehow hacked over. Her voice sounded odd, as if it wasn’t really coming from her, and her body was moving jerkily like a poorly-made puppet. “Hello, Blues! You can call me a messenger of the one and only King, the Colorless King! And just so you know, my orders here are to bring my team inside and kill every last one of you unless you do what I say.” She twirled around on one foot, laughing. “Hand over the Silver King, or everybody dies!”

She laughed as another explosion went off behind her, and then the screen went blank.

[rodrevart]

I just wanted to try out some Promarkers colorling and some inking. It was a bit hard to get Wendys red but brownish hair.

[sweetooths-blog]

colorls