#lance inkwell

[brokehorrorfan]

Mondo has released its remaining poster inventory from Monsterpalooza online.

An American Werewolf in London Poster by Jérôme "Trëz" Oudot is a 24x36 screen print, limited to 185, for $80. Creature from the Black Lagoon by Attack Peter is a 14x18 screen print, limited to 165, for $40. M3GAN by Shin-ichi Sakamoto is an 18x24 foil screen print, limited to 215, for $65.

Killer Klowns from Outer Space by Lance Inkwell is a 24x36 screen print, limited to 185, for $80. Army of Darkness by Matt Stikker is a 24x36 screen print, limited to 165, for $80. The Toxic Avenger by James Bousema is a 24x36 screen print, limited to 215, for $80.

[countesschocula]

Art by Lance Inkwell

[empiireans]

mini artblock, did some style explorations using tearesa to combat it

referenced the cuphead works of lance inkwell and shawn dickinson

[talonabraxas]

October Greetings! 🎃 Lance Inkwell

[actual-bill-potts]

This fic is dedicated to @eilinelsghost <3

Frankie, you are a beautiful writer, a talented artist, a skilled poet, a creative genius, and above all an incredibly kind, caring, and brilliant human. Thank for being a wonderful friend, a patient confidante, an awesome person to brainstorm with, and of course the number one Finrod/Balan appreciator. I hope this piece brings you a little joy today.

Finrod massaged the skin about his eyes, trying to ease some of the hot tightness. Wearily he worked his fingers under his lanyafinderíë, painstakingly woven two nights past for holding court, loosening the twisted strands. It did not help much with the sense of great weights hanging upon his skull, nor the pressure behind his eyes; but it was some little relief.

He tried again to focus on the parchment before him. A report from the outskirts of Nargothrond, detailing a new trade agreement with the Green-Elves who dwelt there. He ought to have responded to it more than a day past, but court had been - trying - and he had not had a moment to himself till now. He dipped his quill into the inkwell and set the point to the page.

To Lúthedir, he began.

Thank you for the detailed missi

Another stab of pain lanced through his head and the pen skittered across the page, leaving behind a thick slash of black.

Finrod stared at it a moment, fighting the near-overpowering urge to rip the paper to shreds with his teeth. Slowly he pushed it to the side - it would be useful for scrap later, if nothing else - and pulled out a fresh sheet. He blinked slowly, trying again to focus on composing a message -

There was a knock on the door.

"Come!" he called, drawing his lips back in what he hoped was a reasonable approximation of a smile, patting at his hair. He hoped he did not look as if a bird had nested atop his head, but rather suspected he did. Ah well, hopefully whatever petitioner this was would be -

Balan opened the door, smiling, and Finrod’s whirling thoughts stilled for a moment as he took in Balan’s grey eyes, the smile-lines, the rough softness of his beard. Then the pain in his head rattled to another crescendo and he winced, closing his eyes.

"Are you well?" Balan asked, concern evident in his voice and in the gentleness of the brush of his mind against Finrod’s own. Finrod heard his steady footsteps cross from the door and around his desk; he forced his eyes open. Where had Balan gone? He had just been there -

Ah. The intent reached him a moment before the action as broad warm hands landed on his shoulders. Finrod tipped his head back, feeling the heaviness of the lanyafindi shift with it, and leaned against Balan. His spouse looked down upon him with a mixture of amusement and concern.

"Are you well?" he repeated, fingers gently working their way from Finrod’s shoulders up to his neck.

"Yes - just tired," Finrod responded, mustering a faint smile.

"I suspect understatement is at play here," Balan said. His hands were very warm at the base of Finrod’s skull; Finrod felt as fragile as an eggshell, cradled in a nest. "I have not seen you for nearly four days."

Finrod closed his eyes, remorse crawling through him. Their time was so limited already. "I am sorry," he said. "It was just -"

Balan’s smile turned sad. "That child," he said. "I know, and you should not apologize. Nargothrond had need of her king."

"Yes," Finrod said tiredly. A young child, one of the few they had, had been badly injured. A terrible accident, of the sort that could never have happened in Valinor: a great tree, weakened by a storm, falling at the wrong moment. The father crushed attempting to protect his daughter; the mother incoherent with grief and shared pain; the child in a restless sleep from which none could wake her, limbs mangled.

All the skill of the great singers of Nargothrond had been needed to keep her fëa from fleeing in fright as the healers labored to mend her body; and Finrod had Sung nearly a day entire before little Ithriel was pronounced out of danger. Then there were the questions: how could such a thing have happened in their realm? What could be done to protect the other children? And, of course, the ever-present, uneasy reminder of how thoroughly the Valar had withdrawn from them, and how far Morgoth’s arm could stretch.

So Finrod had crowned himself in lanyafindi and in silver, and gone out to hold court. There had been so many worried petitioners that Finrod had not slept all that night nor the next; but finally the stream of anxious questions and grieving Elves had slowed to a trickle, and Finrod had retired to his study in an attempt to keep up with all the business of a realm that had continued to run, injured child or no.

Balan tugged on one of the tucked-in ends of hair gently: a silent question. Finrod hesitated, then nodded. His head was - so heavy.

Balan’s fingers worked their way into the intricate weave of gold, untwining the strands as he went. A section of hair came free, and Finrod sighed in relief.

"You ought to come back to our quarters," Balan said, leaning over him to brush a kiss to his forehead. "You are tired - and you feel cold."

"But there is so much to do," Finrod protested, then squeezed his eyes shut as his temples throbbed. He gestured to his desk. "All these should have been answered days ago. There are Elves waiting for word from our council -"

"They," Balan said firmly, "like you, are highly intelligent, insultingly skilled beings. Whatever it is that they are missing, or asking about, I am sure they will be able to find an answer for in the interim while you sleep."

Another woven section of hair fell free; Balan’s fingers gently stroked his scalp, running his hands through the long strands before moving to the next part.

"But I -" Finrod began again, thinking of the haunted eyes of his people. The still body of a fatherless child.

He had led them here, out of a land where no child had ever been harmed, and he could not forsake them.

He blinked away treacherous burning tears. "I just -" he tried again.

"I know," Balan said again. "I know. But you are in pain, and tired. Come to bed with me, Nóm," he added teasingly.

He did know, Finrod thought. How many children had died in the long wanderings of the Atani? How many had succumbed to illness, injury, old age under Balan’s watch?

"How do you bear it?" he said aloud. "So much death, in times of peace!"

Balan’s hands left Finrod’s hair - still half-pinned up - and grasped his wrists lightly, thumbs stroking the soft skin below the palms, arms draped over Finrod’s shoulder, nose buried in the loose gold strands he had freed. "You grasp tightly to joy," he said, "and you rest when you can. Come with me."

Finrod closed his eyes, enfolded in warmth. "You are sure?" he said aloud.

"Findaráto," Balan said gravely, "you yourself are not Nargothrond. You cannot always efface yourself for the sake of your people. If you do you will no longer be Finrod - and that would be a great loss."

"Would it?" Finrod said, thinking of a weeping mother.

Balan kissed his head gently. "Yes," he said. He stepped back - Finrod sighed at the loss of warmth - and extended his hand. "Trust me."

"I do," said Finrod, and rose at last to follow his husband.

[anton-mcghoul]

Return of the Living Dead by Utomaru

The Lost Boys by Matt Ryan Tobin

Killer Klowns from Outer Space by Lance Inkwell

The Texas Chainsaw Massacre by Graham Humphreys

[sirbluescreen-pincervere]

Pincervere Compendium: Sing Lancers

(Note: Last one of these for a while. I really want to start ch2 now that things have wound down. Anyhow...)

The Colony of Inkwell formally established its first air cavalry right around the earlier cycles of the Awakened Era. A treaty was established when some of the first butterfly nomadic tribes first made contact with Inkwell. They would later be incorporated into the Inkwell guard as its own special forces unit known as, Sing Lancers.

The name due to the shrill and deafening vibrations that were emitted from their lances in contact from wind and high speeds they produced when flying. The sound served two purposes. One, to stun a target once honed in on. Two, a major fear factor knowing a Sing Lancer wasn’t too far. Luckily their armor is equipped to shield them from it, after much trial and error.

Though today not many see the purpose to continue the lance-based tradition, seeing as Sing Lancers have become far more effective since adopting blacksand-based projectile weapons. And have instead compromised to carrying elongated sabers in resemblance to a tool that made the skies scream.

*Note: The Sing Lancer pictured here is from the Age of Giants.

**Note: Note: Yes I would use a more current image, Ruben, but that would miss the point of the description here, wouldn’t it?!

[doughmansland70]

Lance Inkwell

[jedivoodoochile]

Twin Peaks fan art por Lance Inkwell.

[theblotsays]

Monsterpalooza 2024 Exclusive Killer Klowns From Outer Space Screen Print by Lance Inkwell x Mondo

Mondo is heading to Monsterpalooza 2024 (the convention’s 15th anniversary) this weekend in Pasadena, CA where they will be releasing a ton of exclusive vinyl figures and prints. Check out this fun Monsterpalooza 2024 Exclusive Killer Klowns From Outer Space alternative movie poster by artist Lance Inkwell. It is a 24”x36” hand numbered screen print. Limited to just 250 pieces, this con exclusive will be available for purchase at Mondo’s Monsterpalooza Booth Nosferatu 402-404 for $80. http://dlvr.it/T81vVy

[fancytrinkets]

Memento Mori

Tav dies. Astarion reacts. Two times: Vampire Ascendant and vampire spawn. (I wrote this because I love that these two divergent paths exist for Astarion. And this is the general direction where I see them each going.)

Anger was one word for it — the wrong word.

Why not try again?

What Astarion felt went so much deeper. He was seething with murderous outrage. He was slamming doors shut behind him, yanking open the drawers and cabinets of his desk, and sitting down. He was smashing the quill into its inkwell and fiercely attempting to write.

A letter was required of him, after all. Wasn't that how it worked in circumstances such as these? Words needed to be put in their place.

Astarion filled the page with scathing insults, born of his own insightful mind and his superior aptitude for every endeavor when compared to the lesser men who served him. But this morning he had been betrayed by a spawn whose loyalty and devotion he deserved. Attesting to Tav's misdeeds in writing was not enough to cool his wrath. How could it be?

Astarion's hands were shaking. His quill, tightly clenched between two fingers, dripped ink until the page was splattered. But it didn't matter. As hastily as he'd sat down to write, Astarion now threw up his hands and decided upon the opposite. There would be no letters, no couriers bound for the broadsheet press, no printed announcements or proclamations. The dustpan full of bone ash that sat on his desk would be disposed of without honor or ceremony.

Tav had died — disintegrated, never to be revived — and no one would hear of it. No one would know.

Astarion looked up from his ruined attempt at a scathing obituary letter. For a dizzying moment, the room in which he sat seemed different — contorted and changed — as though the lights had dimmed and his furnishings were absent, replaced by Cazador's grim and gaudy old things. He rubbed his eyes and the illusion disappeared. The study was his own again, with its sunlit windows, friendly sofas, and brightly painted walls.

Grief did strange things to a person, or so Astarion had heard. Not that he was grieving, of course. He was simply off kilter for a moment, and swiftly adjusting to the unexpected circumstances.

Tav had been doing so well lately. The sullen moods had all but disappeared. Conversations had been almost pleasant. There were fewer unfounded accusations, and much less wallowing in tired self-pity. Notably, it had been more than a year since he'd last tried to hurt himself. In all that time he'd been steadily earning back Astarion's trust — and the privileges that came with it.

But no. It had all been a ruse, hadn't it?

Astarion's only fault was that he'd been too trusting. Tav had been selfish, short-sighted, and deceptive. The palace was better off without him.

Astarion stood up. What he needed was a short walk to the ballroom. There, he would sit on his throne, a reminder of his power and influence, and he'd allow his rage to subside as he decided upon a plan to acquire a new and better consort. Tav had been a relic of the past, too sharp and unpleasant for building a happy life here. What Astarion truly needed was someone young and guileless and beautiful, someone who loved the world and valued their place within it.

He'd have to host a ball, of course, and invite all the handsomest noble houses to come with their marriagable daughters and sons. If they asked about his former consort, he'd tell them that the relationship had ended and Tav had left.

It wasn't a lie; after all, it was the truth from a certain perspective.

Could a corpse feel happy? At peace? Well pleased with the life it had left behind?

Astarion didn't think the dead could feel anything. But Tav's face looked so serene, so relaxed — not tensed and wincing from the pain that had lanced through his insides for the last two years of his illness.

"I know an awful lot about necromancy," Astarion said, still holding Tav's hand, then gently squeezing it. The warmth of his life hadn't left yet. "Shall we try to bring you back, old man?"

Astarion had tears in his eyes, but then he chuckled and wiped them with the back of his hand.

"No, don't give me that look; I was only joking! You've earned your rest."

Tav couldn't hear him, or speak in reply, but that didn't stop Astarion from continuing the conversation between them — one that had begun so many years ago, and changed both their lives for the better. He understood, of course, that Tav was dead and gone. But grief did strange things to a person. And what was this if not the deepest well of grief he'd ever known?

An ocean of it, more like.

He sat with Tav, in vigil, until the corpse grew stiff and cold. And then he got up, went to his desk in the study and began to write three letters — one to Halsin, one to Shadowheart, and one to Gale, whose short human lifespan had been extended through magical study. These three companions from the Nautiloid and the Grove — from all those daring escapades against the Absolute more than a century ago — had outlived Tav.

Astarion needed to see them again. He needed their joy and their memories, and a chance to be with them in their pain. Perhaps they'd look at him and notice the subtle signs of aging that had crept into his features since last they'd met. He'd explain it all as he sat outside with them in the sunlight and shared a light summer meal.

"Tav refused to die until we'd deciphered the notes we'd found and worked out the cure. Thanks to him, I'm not a vampire spawn any longer."

And if they didn't fully grasp the significance, he'd have to spell it out for them.

"That means I'm mortal, you idiots! I'll follow him someday. I'll die and perhaps I'll get to join him."

Astarion would laugh with them. He'd remind these dear friends how much Tav had loved them. And if they tried to deflect their feelings or look away from their grief, he wouldn't let them do it. He'd learned years ago how little that helped.

(link to read, comment, bookmark etc on ao3: Memento Mori)

[countesschocula]

Artwork by Lance Inkwell

[scurybooween]

Jack-O’-Lanterns 🖤

Lance Inkwell

[thefrightchoice]

Lance Inkwell

[cubanbeardman]

Cuphead by Lance Inkwell

[princessmacedon]

Where the gift of permission drew light to her face, the gentle reciprocity bid it bloom; there was something always hung about the good ser's brow that had made her wonder if he might turn the gift away. Nothing ungentle, of course -- of course! If anything, he had always felt kind to her -- but rather a sort of seriousness, the earnest sort, she thought, that might find the ribbon a frivolity or an impediment in the here and now, where they walked and were not written. --yet she had only wondered, and never truly worried, hadn't she? The sight of him with lance and ribbon held aloft was still freshly drawn from the inkwell of her memory, writ by a hand that had never expected what it made would be something to raise so high.

"Of course not, Ser!" The very idea it could inconvenience her bubbled to laughter in her chest, a curious sort of joy. "Hee hee... It would actually make me really happy!" A murmured thank you accompanied her settling into the proffered seat, ankles crossed and tucked beneath as she settled the basket in her lap. "And the tea sounds yummy, too! But only if it doesn't inconvenience you, of course...heeheehee!"

A harmless, gentle teasing if ever there was one, though if it somehow should prove not to be, surely her beaming smile would mitigate something of its bite. Fingers danced over spools of thread, digging further down to unearth lengths of ribbon in other colors. With Cookie as her witness (and his halter did bear witness), she had made sure to come prepared.

"Oh, but is it alright if I ask you a few questions? Just at the start! I want to make sure I make an even better ribbon for you this time!"

@liegebound

apples to apples