#lancer mourning cloak

[unshackledhorusshitpostbot]

[asquared-ohgodnotthehorrors]

I wanna make a Lancer storyboard about the Mourning Cloak. Actually, lemme write up what I would do in it real quick:

A battlefield, shrouded in darkness and flame. The fight was finished not too long ago. A scout team walks through the ruins.

Suddenly, they recoil in fear, backing away, guns raised. All are terrified… except one.

Within moments, it’s obvious why. A specter he alone could not see cuts his head off, not even behind him, but in front of him. The blade microns thick, the only hint of its existence a glint of red across the length of it, and the slight shimmer as its broad side was slightly bent. The blood is everywhere.

The scouts open fire, spreading out to surround the wraith. Shots stay clear as the mourner dashes, an ivory streak dodging stream after stream of bullets. One hits clear, punching into an arm. The one who landed is greeted by the thing behind it, sliding the crimson blade across his throat. Blink. Another lies dead with the thing beside it, arm cradling the body gently while blade of folded metal slides through him, long as his body.

As a grenade fires upon it, the impact lands, the horrible crunching of metal almost louder than the explosion as it silently whips around, clawing at the air. The lone heavy who fired it learned too late that it wasn’t a claw. It was a throw. The arm holding the rocket launcher is exploded to bits. A cavity in his chest soon followers as he is launched back, unceremoniously dead on the ground.

The last of the group, huddled together, hold their guns shaking at the haunting. It stares at them… and vanishes. They panic, shooting short bursts at where it was, where it might be, where it could be approaching. Nothing lands. Any traces. it could be making were nowhere to be seen. Yet it’s gaze… it was still boring into them.

Three of the final four couldn’t handle the pressure. They break off in separate directions, to the protests of their comrades. All that is heard when they vanish from sight are the gunfire, then silence.

Now there is only one, panic overtaking him as he darts around, looking to where his allies, his one saving grace could be.

The Specter, like the wind, grasps his neck, slams him into the ground. The long, distorted image of what man had wrought was choking him. The other hand follows, and in these final moments the soldier can see. This thing. It is not invulnerable. It has been wounded. Yet it still acts, despite the pain, any injury, because it is not a beast. Not a monster, not a god, not even a man. Simply a machine with a task to fulfill. A Hornet in a Hive.

The beauty is lost on him as it snaps his neck with a sickening crunch. It stands still, its body in full view as it hunched over the field of corpses. It is not a visceral sight, each of the bodies were killed with only blood spilling, dying with beautifully clean efficiency. It stood over its masterpiece, balls of the feet and tips of the fingers the only contact with the ground. A dancer of death. Poised as to resolve, but ready to leap into its act yet again.

A gun raises to our view, the sights aiming at it. The frightened breathing of the soldier being the first voice we have heard in this massacre, loud over the absence of gunfire and the ring of death in our ears.

It looks at the soldier, down the sights. We get close to its face… something has gone wrong. The camera does not move. The scene begins to distort. A whisper of a scream, distorted a thousand times over begins to rise to a forte. The hand of the specter rises to its face, smearing blood across it. It scratches it. It crunches it. The scream is so loud we can barely hear the soldier joining it, static and abstract distortion overtaking the face.

Then… silence. The camera hasn’t moved. But we have. It backs away. Slowly. The Mourning Cloak in a showroom, filled with other weapons like it. Its injuries only visible to us, contrasting the pristine unblemishnent of its brethren. Yet it is still the most beautiful one in the room.

Everything is silent as we pan back. Pure silence. Recording studio silence. Like a memory that isn’t his own. His hand enters the periphery, and it’s holding a clipboard. A requisition for a Mourning Cloak License. We linger for but a moment. All still.

In an instant, we are back at the battlefield. The camera has not shifted. The specter is gone. All we hear is the soldier’s panicked breathing. And cut to black on his last exhale.

[horus-unofficial]

Hey uh my lancemate socketed a Sisyphus into her mourning cloak and now it won't stop teleporting behind me got any ideas?

if you and your lancemate are tight and their SISYPHUS likes them it may be trying to warn you of some danger- watch your back in the coming days because it seems to be attempting to watch it for you

[knightmeat]

Finally got these and can finally show them off! A mini morning cloak I made as a present

[lancersafetysigns]

[vexwerewolf]

I don't really work on Lancestuck any more but I'm so incredibly proud of this exchange

[unshackledhorusshitpostbot]

hopes and dreams a little bit of Gliss from the Long Rim

+ THERE ARE ACTUALLY MECHS MADE OF MEAT!? + I THOUGHT TUTOR WAS FUCKING WITH ME--

[bregflr]

Happy Valentine, I guess? lol Finally getting there with the rendering style, still need more work though

[tothesolarium]

Mourning Cloak - whip chains replacing defensive lace

(Thank you anon for the mantis insp)

[zenithart]

Finally did some digital art of my Mourning Cloak Lancer mech; Verechelen

[nebulousharmony]

[thatbeeperson]

what I imagine happens to mourning cloak pilots every time they roll triples on slipstream

[ohboyitseisen]

Memento Mori - SSC Mourning Cloak

the persona 3 mech is done. my mind is dwindling.

the guys on the coffins are from like. some random page in the core rulebook

[fire-swift]

So... Lancer × The Locked Tomb... I like the idea of Griddle being a Balor pilot and Harry piloting a Lich. What about you?

Hey hello, thank you for the question. Also sorry for all the Lancer to my tlt mutuals, it will happen again. Harrow has to pilot a lich, even if just by vibes alone.

I don't know about Gideon in a balor, what was your reasoning? The heiress of the minor house of a remote karrakin barony planet has to appear for a contest with other house heirs, despite being her enemy she needs to bring the prodigy blackbeard pilot, famous for pushing recklessly ahead and engaging in brutal melee ignoring the exposed reactor. When the contest is announced Harrow disappears into dark corners and goes on searches in obscure omninet spaces and comes back in a forbidden mech of ancient lore.

But also, consider: Harrow, mercenary contracted operative stranded on a destroyed ship, modifying the mech of her girlfriend who just died to get harrow here safe, and coming out crying and punching the pirates who did it to oblivion

Or a brand of mechs with NHPs who call themselves necromancers bonded to their cavaliers, and fight as a tandem, the cavalier shooting and moving and the NHP hacking enemies and protecting their mech

[lancersafetysigns]

[high-noon-raccoon]

Our party badass and resident boomer, Sarah, who despite being "the responsible one" accidentally signed on with a literal supervillain to pilot this mech. I think we have to fight said supervillain next session. :despair:

Apologies about the Glaze, I know it doesn't really play well with my particular style of work but I'm not comfortable posting art on tumblr anymore without it. If you'd like, there's a cleaner version up on my Bluesky.