Un peu de jeu de rôle ? 🎲🐰🦄

Fiche de personage "On Mighty Thews"

#JdR #JeuDeRôle #OnMightyThews #Conan #MédiévalFantasy ... https://www.linkedin.com/posts/gabriel-chandesris_fiche-de-personage-on-mighty-thews-activity-7397246375878475776-3s1f

Author Spotlight: Arden Powell

Arden Powell (they/them) is a queer indie author and illustrator whose books include The Faerie Hounds of York, the Flos Magicae series, and their short story collection, The Carnelian King and Other Stories. A nebulous entity, they live with a senior rescue hound and an exorbitant number of houseplants, and enjoy the company of both.

Author Links:

Bluesky: @ardenpowell.bsky.social

Website: ardenpowell.mailerpage.io
Itch Shop: ardenpowell.itch.io

Patreon: patreon.com/ArdenPowell
Chapter 1 of The Black Knight Saga Webserial (free public post): patreon.com/posts/ch-1-sir-black-112293087

Let’s talk about your latest release, Flesh and Bone. This one is a short, standalone mm horror-romance novella set in the Canadian Wild West of 1889. What inspired you to write this story in this setting & time period?

I haven’t written a western before, and I’m always drawn to new settings. Westerns are so evocative in their sense of time and place, and they lend themselves to horror and romanticism equally well. I wanted to set it before the 1900s to keep it from feeling too reachable.

After introducing the real-life Canadian outlaw Sam Kelly, that narrowed the period to before his career took off in the 1890s.

The Canadian setting wasn’t originally planned. I had written the beginning and some of the climax, then set it aside for a few years. Returning to it at the end of 2024 in the mood to work on a horror story (for some mysterious reason), I decided to set it in Canada as a result of an unprecedented flare of patriotism (again, for some mysterious reason).

There was no reason not to set it in Canada when our prairie provinces are part of the historical Wild West. Going forward, I plan to set more of my stories in Canada unless I have a compelling reason to believe that the story would work better elsewhere.

Tell us about your MCs – introduce us to Everett and Marshall, and let us know what to expect from their dynamic! 

Everett and Marshall are childhood best friends who grew up together. As a teenager, Everett came to work on Marshall’s daddy’s cattle ranch, and now as adults, they spend their days together on the range. Everett is reserved, fond of Whitman and Shakespeare, while Marshall is more outgoing and sure of himself. They are both gay, though Everett is keeping that a very closely guarded secret.

Marshall is discreet about his own liaisons, but he is infinitely more comfortable in his own skin, while Everett is afraid of his own desires.

The events of Flesh and Bone commence following a moonlit tryst, which they each regret for vastly different reasons; Marshall is quietly pining for more, while Everett is convinced their encounter woke a devil that is now stalking them for their sins.

Despite their differing attitudes towards their own sexuality and each other’s expression of it, they would absolutely die for each other. And that commitment is being put to the test.

What can you tell us about Canadian werewolf lore, and the wider lore you drew on for this story?

As far as Canadian werewolf lore goes, I think we (and I mean the white settlers) mostly just carried the European traditions over rather than originate our own. I avoided any deliberate allusions to Native American mythology, as I don’t feel that’s my place to explore.

One could draw parallels between the monster in Flesh and Bone and the w*nd*go; that’s not intentional, but maybe unavoidable when talking about hungry supernatural beings of North America.

The werewolf in my story was actually inspired by a horror movie called The Curse (2021), in which the monster is cut open to reveal the cursed human trapped inside. The movie itself was neither good nor bad enough to recommend, but that specific image stayed with me.

I wanted to use my werewolf not just as a metaphor—werewolves traditionally make great metaphors for lots of things, like puberty or violence or sexual urges—but as a very literal manifestation of shame: specifically, internalized homophobia.

Flesh and Bone is less an exploration of any specific folklore than it is a character study, and what the werewolf represents to this one particular man.

How did you use Gothic tropes and create a Gothic space from the Canadian landscape for this novella?

There are three Gothic settings that I love most: haunted houses, the Deep South, and desolate wilderness.

Flesh and Bone falls into the latter camp, and Canada has so much wilderness.

The isolation of the 19th-century Prairies, far removed from any settlement, lends itself beautifully to both horror and to the sublime.

Travelling with nothing but their cattle and horses for company, in the middle of the night with no light but the campfire and the moon overhead, cowboys could spend days or weeks on the range without any human contact except each other.

Adding the survival-horror element of the monster and a grievous injury, on top of already watching for wild animals, outlaws, or a bad turn in the weather, immediately makes the setting claustrophobic and deadly.

The story could have done away with the supernatural elements altogether and felt much the same.

My monster isn’t any deadlier than a grizzly bear attack in the Alberta foothills, and Everett’s paranoia about its nature being that of the devil could be attributed to his fever combined with his internalized homophobia. The landscape felt really effortlessly Gothic, as if it was just waiting for me to set my story there.

What are the main themes in Flesh and Bone, and how did these come about – were they planned or organic as you drafted?

Flesh and Bone’s theme is one of guilt, shame, and self-loathing. Writing an historical gay romance leaves an obvious open door for the exploration of homophobia, either culturally or internalized, which I’ve touched on in my other Gothic books as well. I knew going in that, no matter the horror, the romance required a happy ending, though Marshall and Everett have to go through hell to earn it.

If Everett was to get his romance, he had to overcome his shame surrounding his sexuality first. He also had to overcome a werewolf. Because it’s such a short novella—a novelette, technically, though no one really uses that term—I combined his internal struggle and his external antagonist, resulting in this ragged, relentless beast born of his own body and worst impulses. It felt very organic, though I hope it looks meticulously planned. The shorter the story, the less likely I am to outline it beforehand, and the more organically it comes together in early drafting.

What are your favourite reader responses to this novella so far?

I’m touched by the readers who have commented on the tenderness of the romance, which I was worried would get buried under the body horror and content warnings. I’m very glad people are connecting to the romance, and that it’s not being overpowered by the horror aspects. It ends in hope and healing, and I want readers, especially queer readers, to have that right now.

Like This? Try These:

#authorInterview #authorSpotlight #gothicHorror #medievalFantasy #swordAndSorcery #theBlackKnightSaga #webSerial

When the dead refuse to stay buried, the living have no choice but to fight.”
Artwork made for a friend’s D&D campaign ⚔️🩸

#dnd #dnd5e #dndart #dndillustration #dndcharacter #dndoc #dndcommunity #fantasyart #tabletopgames #medievalfantasy #necromancer #vampire #undead #battleart #commissionartist #artcommission #MedievalStyle #medievaltimes #medievalweapons #war

Read my Steampunk Horror Story “Work”

Ant and Fig knew they’d seen everything at least once before, even if it was always nailed, sealed, and hammered into a wooden crate. The two men had been employed at the piers together for six years. They knew a highway of treasure had passed beneath their fingertips and gloves as they lifted, twisted, pulled, pried, and wrenched boxes off the various boats. The two men lived in Largo, a large merchant town nestled against a green shore of velvet hills. All goods, items, relics, trinkets, ornaments, antiques, or objects being sent to the country first passed through this idyllic seaside town where wind chimes constantly played on patio windows. Both men were constantly busy. It was a good thing. Time passed quicker. 

They hated their jobs. 

Ant and Fig looked like each other. They were pale, greasy, and rough looking. Each wore a pair of overalls with rips in the knees. Each wore a red bandana to soak up sweat and keep the sea salt out of their eyes. Both smoked. If you watched them carefully, the claws of smoke creeping out of their lips and nose were identical as well. The only difference between the two of them was their size. Ant was shorter. Fig was taller. People always asked if they were brothers.

Neither cared enough to correct them.

Ant and Fig had been in Nibeah their entire lives. It was an elegant looking city with stone buildings and cobblestone streets. Windmills with bellies of gears turned between shadows and sunlight. Quiet bridges over canals and windows of stained glass echoed laughter and singing in the streets. There was money in the town thanks to the constant merchants running their wares across the water and sky. There was also an airship dock, so the winds were noisy with the groaning propellers of zeppelins and their whistles.

Ant and Fig were stuck working late on the northern docks. The night shift was difficult to work. The water was one long sheet of ink in the gloom, with just the boat and lights to serve as beacons for their eyes. It was the end of fall, where the air was slowly getting turned over by a frosty dial. The lines of wooden steps, planks, and pillars were iced in random spots. If you slipped and fell into the water, the night sky would make you think you’re caught between two oblivions. 

Ant and Fig worked in a small shack on the edge of the pier poking out into the deep. It had been a quiet night. They were reading newspapers and letting a few cigarettes wither at their lips. They didn’t talk. They knew the same things. They thought the same things. What was the point in speaking? All that mattered was them hearing the foghorn of the lighthouse sound. They could find that siren’s song in their sleep if they had to.

It was close to 3:00 am when they finally got a ship crawling into the harbor on the still, dark waves. The sounds of the city were quiet. There were no blacksmiths hammering, gears twisting, or street performers summoning laughs and whistles on the boardwalks. The air smelt of cinnamon and yeast as the bakers made their first bout of delicacies in the few orange squares illuminated against a backdrop of black windows. A horn blew further up the docks. Ant and Fig opened the door of the dock house and walked onto the narrow pier, which jutted like a knife into the lapping water. A barge with a flat face and long wheelhouse was approaching them. A solitary lantern dangled from a post on its bow. The rest of the ship was empty of any light or movement. The ship looked abandoned. 

“Is that a riverboat? What’s it doing here?” Ant said. 

“Your guess is as good as mine. It’s an old one too, doesn’t even have railings along the hull,” Fig said. He pointed a large hand at the flat nose of the ship. It was no doubt a vessel for hauling sand or some piled material, but this ship was empty of any crumbled mountain. Ant turned and walked back to the dock house and lit a red lantern. It was a signal for the horse and wagon to make the trek down to them. 

“Well, I hope they don’t have a ton of cargo, I mean it must all be inside the hull,” Ant said. Fig threw a pair of thick ropes onto the deck of the boat and jumped down. Something was rancid on the ship. The odor grew heavier the closer you got to the wheelhouse. Fig got a heavy whiff of it. 

“You’re going to wake them up this time. I did it last time. I don’t like doing it,” Ant said, jumping aboard and lighting a smoke. 

“Fine, let’s just wait for the horses to get here,” Fig said.

Eventually an older man with a long cloud for a beard walked towards them smoking a pipe beneath a black hat. His name was Rufus, and he was the stable master for the docks. He’d known Ant and Fig their entire lives. 

“Horses won’t come down here for some reason, something’s got them spooked. They even tried to jump in the water,” Rufus said. 

“Well, that’s bad, how are we going to get the goods off? We’ll have to wait until morning,” Ant said. 

“Have you boys even talked to the captain yet? Maybe they don’t even have anything and just need to park,” Rufus said.

“It stinks. It stinks badly,” Fig replied. 

“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time we’ve gotten stinky wares onto the docks. You boys better talk to someone onboard and get this straightened out,” Rufus said.

It took a few minutes for Fig to work up the courage to knock on the round door of the flat building stretched across the empty deck. It was cold and hollow against his rough hand. A scratching sound echoed inside the cabin. It made Fig jump back a second and steady his hand on the round doorknob, which was grimy brown from salt and rust.

“Hello? Anybody in there? You just reached Nibeah. You’re at the northern pier. Come on out so we can get you checked-in,” Fig said. A wave jostled the boat upwards. The ocean was trying to warn him.

“Hello? I’m going to come inside. I just work for the docks.” Fig turned the handle. It took some strength. Dust had frozen the bulkhead in place. Fig pushed on the door with his shoulder. After a few seconds it popped open. Fig fell into the room, banging his knee on the floor.

“You, you guys better get down here. Get down here now!” Fig screamed, crawling backwards like a crab onto the bow. Ant sprinted down the deck and lifted his friend up by the armpits. The door stared back at them. The lantern was turned on its side and threw some light into the cabin. Ant slowly approached the door and used his foot to steady the wobbling light. Ant lifted it up above his head with a gasp. The entire cabin was etched in dried blood. Benches, tables, ropes, fishing gear, bunks, bulkheads, the floor, even the candles locked into their fixtures were covered in this crimson smear. It was as if a giant vein had run the length of the building, then been split in one wild slash. 

“What, what happened? Where is everyone?” Ant said.

Then it moved.

There was a hiss like a cat, but with more muscle and mass. It wasn’t until the form dashed between both men out the doorway that they could decipher any details. All they could see was some sort of fluid body with slimy skin. The shape’s arms were exaggerated and dragging on the floor, which was ripped apart thanks to the bits of gray bone spiking out of its shimmering flesh. Its head was that of an octopus. It had silver tentacles for hair, along with two red eyes with pulsating flaps. Its mouth looked human. A cloak, a satchel with a pair of books, and some legs with shredded pants hung off its rubbery body. 

Before either man could turn to look at each other in amazement, the creature jumped off the deck and onto the dock in a few snarling bounds. Rufus, who was standing in the center of its path, could barely turn before the monster’s long arms slashed outwards splitting his torso from his legs like wire through clay. There was a wet plopping of tissue. His body thrashed around as his upper-half tried to attach to his lower-half. His howling scream made the nightstand still until shock got the better of him and he went eternally silent.

“Get back!” A voice said. It came from above the deck on the wheelhouse roof. There was a man standing there in the moonlight. He was tall, thin, with unblemished skin and sandy brown hair cut into a bowl. He was wearing some sort of priest’s outfit, with a white collar and dark raincoat with baggy sleeves and enormous hood. His entire outfit appeared to change colors in the rolling night. He didn’t want to be seen completely. In his right hand was an enormous silver gun with a wide barrel and gears poking out of its chambers. It had a pearl handle, which curled into the stranger’s sleeve. 

He raised the weapon into the air and clicked the trigger. Light thrashed the darkness in bits of sparks and fire. A blue flare curled into the sky above the dock and burst above it like a dying star. The creature froze and snarled backwards. It was already halfway towards the shore.

“You stay put!” The man yelled.

He was off the roof and onto the line of wooden planks before Ant or Fig could speak. He moved as a piece of the night, like the creature did. 

“Watch out! Stay back!” He yelled. He loaded a few golden bullets into his gun with his sleeve. There was another hiss. The fiend had turned back towards the man. It swung its shadowy tendril of an arm at him. At the end of it, the bones had formed into a crude hammer. The man spun his coat over his right shoulder and braced for the impact. The cloth suddenly hardened into a golden shield. The bone and magic collided, throwing metallic thunder into the air and tossing the sea into a one-second tempest.

Ant and Fig were both knocked off their feet. 

“Come on! Come on!” The man yelled. He pulled his shield away from the living brick. The monster’s coil snapped back. The air cackled to it. The man fired twice from his pistol. The monster jumped, sending both shots into empty air. It twirled violently and severed its own arm throwing the organic flail through the air. The man once again threw his coat up and smashed into the missile. The impact shattered the dock. Shrapnel cut the air. Some of them hit Ant and Fig, who were frozen in awe.

It wasn’t every day that monsters and gods threw fire at each other.

The creature dashed further from the man. The attack was to distract him and slow him down. The man hunched over and coughed up some blood. It looked unreal in the dim and dark of the moon and torchlight. He shook his head and took to one knee. He leveled the gun at the shape. The monster was approaching the buildings at the end of the pier. A small crowd had gathered to watch the ruckus. The flare had woken them up.

“Goddammit!” The man said with a wheeze. He hit a red gear planted alongside the oblong chamber of his firearm. Fire cut the air in a perfect line. A beam of white light opened from the atoms around the barrel and engulfed the dock. It narrowed as it spread in a fine, sharp laser. It struck the abomination in the back of its head. The momentum from the blast tossed its body into the water and onto the dock in inky chunks. 

“Got it,” the man said. He collapsed onto his stomach. 

Ant and Fig didn’t move. Fig was holding Ant by the shoulders. They were practically hugging one another. They were about to speak when the man wheezed and slowly stood up. He pulled the hood over his young face and stretched out beneath his coat. A few bones and joints cackled. He’d been hurt before. 

“What do you guys do?” he asked in an older voice. It was bold and rough. It didn’t match the softness of his youthful appearance.

“What, what?” Ant said. 

“Did you not hear me? What do you guys do for a living?” He shook the gun free of the water that had sprayed during the fight. 

“We, uh, work on the docks,” Ant said. 

“I realize that. But what do you do? What does your job entail?” 

A few people screamed at the other end of the dock. The monster’s rubbery parts were trying to reconnect. The man sighed. He would have to burn the leftovers.

“We move boxes. We unload them and load them. That’s it,” Fig said.

The man lifted his gun and looked down the square sight jutting out from the still steaming nozzle. He sighed and started walking towards the monster’s sour and ambitious remains.

“That sounds nice,” he said.

#blogging #books #darkFantasy #darkfantasy #epicFantasy #fantasy #fantasyBlog #fantasyFiction #fiction #gothicFantasy #grimdark #horror #horrorFantasy #indieAuthor #magicalRealism #medievalFantasy #monsters #newChapter #novels #ongoingStory #onlineNovel #readOnline #reading #steampunk #storySeries #supernaturalFiction #webFiction #weeklyStory #writing

Happy Halloween! Enjoy my Horror Story “Demonland”

He’d tracked it across the entire countryside. It wasn’t easy. He could only find its footsteps at night when there was enough moonlight breaking through the clouds. A luminescent rip in a bag of grain. When he first started hunting them, he could read their prints along trees, roads, houses, pillars, castles, and even kings and queens as they slept. Recently, they had gotten better at hiding them. They weren’t overtly unique compared to other tracks. They looked like horse-marks, only narrower, as if their feet had been stretched in some bestial torture chamber.

The thing he was hunting was the laughter in the well, the shadow in the lantern light, and the devilry scratched in every underworld text.

The trail ended in a city on the edge of the continent where the sea met a mile-long stretch of docks and piers. It was called Largo. It was a mix of medieval and modern machines. Steam powered trains dissected the city in bridges and tunnels. They constantly spit exhaust into the sky in mechanical puffs. Large mansions, with glowing stain-glass windows gobbled-up the streets. Every homeowner wanted their wealth to rival a cathedral.

This opulent merchant town was a great host for this parasite to burrow into. Money and superficiality were the perfect breeding ground for this monster. The hunter didn’t even have to wait for night to know it was here.

He’d been hunting them for the last ten years. When he was child, he was taken into the mountains by some elders. They showed him how to fire a silver bullet into the nozzle of a wine bottle. They showed him how to recognize their demon teeth dangling out from the sea of faces in a busy marketplace. But most of all, the training in the highlands prepared him to kill humans, since they were almost always made to be puppets.

The hunter was tall, blond, and blue-eyed. He wore a black ministry robe to avoid being mugged on the highways. His gun, an oversized pistol with a small steam engine built onto the handle, was tucked beneath his robes. His bullets needed the steam-burst velocity to hit his prey, which could run up the side of a building and leap across the roof in just three blinks of the eye.

It was during the day when he arrived in Largo.

The sky and air had the crisp coolness of being next to the sea. You could taste salt around you and in the clouds. Largo was a remarkably clean city, with hundreds of ordinances and curfews to keep the cobblestones free of people and things. When he arrived in the city, he immediately went to the pub to eavesdrop. After a few hours feigning one pint of ale, he heard rumors of a little girl, the daughter of a famous art dealer, who was so talented at painting she could make anything in the world look beautiful.

He knew where his prey would be.

The girl and her family lived in the largest house in Largo. It was a high point on the brown, shingled horizon. When he arrived at the home in the afternoon, he knocked on the door with the metal tip of his gun. It echoed throughout the house. Nobody answered. The windows were dark and almost dusty. No servants had been around in some time. After a few more minutes, he picked the lock and shuffled inside. 

The house was freezing, a byproduct of his prey. There were no candles, torches, lights, or mirrors in the home. Every giant room was stale and cobweb friendly.

After hours of looking, he noticed some light peeking out of the basement door at the back of the kitchen. He clicked the safety on his gun. The latch was supposed to be silent, but the cold air made it snap. Something heavy shifted in the basement.

He pushed the door open with his left hand. He had a slight quiver to it. Despite the years of hunting, he was still nervous when in the belly of the monster. The stairway stretched ahead of him with a single lantern beaming. A curled and captured sun. He shuffled down the stairs quietly; making sure his boots weren’t colliding with the lips of the steps. 

He walked and walked. 

Each time he thought he reached the bottom of the stairs and corresponding door; they’d spread out again in a plunging tunnel. The light wouldn’t change either. It was locked in this illusion. He sighed. The trap was triggered. It already knew he was here. He pulled out his silencer, a small steel barrel with secret language etched on it and tightened it around his muzzle. He fired one burst into the evading door. It split open. A chunk of phantasmal ice. Threads spilled out, along with a black mist. He protected his face with his sleeve and sat back down. In a few seconds, the real door appeared. A bit of blood beneath a scab.

He smiled to himself.

Beyond the door was a hallway with pictures along it. Lanterns divided each picture. On the other end of the hallway was an orchestra of growls and snorts. Two shapes were scurrying and running into each other. They were on chains, which were spiked and blood wet. The metal snapped with tension as the two forms sensed his presence. He fired once, dropping the first face in the gloom. The other creature crawled onto the wall like a cockroach. It dived at him. He fell back avoiding the charge, throwing the figure over him. Claws and teeth thrashed for his face. He closed his eyes and thought of the mountains. The rocky air stopped him from panicking as his nose and lip split-in-two. He fired his gun into the space above his chest. 

The misshapen tornado went still.

He coughed blood and stood over the two forms. The lanterns started to die behind him. There were voices in the pictures. He heard music playing, and a little girl laughing. He wiped his face. They were the girl’s parents, he was sure. They’d been skinned and remade, only with strips of string instead of veins running through their bodies. Their faces were rotted. Clothes mixed with skin. They were half-finished dolls.

He couldn’t look at them for too long.

The hunter did not want to waste any more time. The traps and obstacles were mounting. He charged down the hallway. The various paintings of different landscapes along the walls came alive in waves, bolts, fires, and winds. A splash of water knocked him off his feet. Lightning scorched his shoulder in a curled bolt. Fire burnt hair along his neck. Gales blistered his eyes in random, invisible walls.

How many traps had it left for him? What was so important? What was it protecting?

After a few more painful moments he was through the hallway door. It opened to a massive studio, with a vast window looking out onto the water behind the city. A giant stage, armored with art supplies and sketches sprawled across the room. At one end of it, a little blond girl with a red beret painted furiously over a man-sized canvas. The girl didn’t even notice him. She was filthy and thin. On the other end of the stage, was his prey.

It looked like a man, especially with the gray hood and cloak hanging over its broad form. The cloth was pulled tight. There were spikes and miscellaneous points behind it. The monster was hunched over, thanks to its hoofs and inverted knees. Its face was pale and long. A curtain of fangs dangled from a wide grin. It had two red eyes narrowed out over where its nose would be. 

They had no eyelids.

He pointed his gun at it. The girl didn’t turn around. She was too afraid to look anywhere.

“Can it wait, human?” A voice in the room spoke. It was a low and deep devil-echo. It spoke telepathically. It had too many teeth to manipulate a tongue.

“Why?” he replied, squinting one eye at the demon.

The creature shrugged its hideous body.

“Because even I would like to look beautiful,” it said.

It is TRADITION that I share Demonland on Halloween. I have been doing this on and off for years. This is one of my favorite stories, and it fits the mood of the holiday effortlessly. I love sharing it. Demonland is from my collection of short stories Monsters, Monsters, Everywhere. Everything about this story is very much me as a storyteller. Monsters in situations with emotional complexity and human motivations. Yup, that is me alright.

#author #blogging #books #darkFantasy #darkfantasy #epicFantasy #fantasy #fantasyBlog #fantasyFiction #fiction #gothicFantasy #grimdark #horror #horrorFantasy #indieAuthor #magicalRealism #medievalFantasy #monsters #newChapter #novels #ongoingStory #onlineNovel #patrickWMarsh #readOnline #reading #shortStory #steampunk #storySeries #supernaturalFiction #supportIndieWriters #webFiction #weeklyStory #writing

vilko_yote Inktober 2025
Mot du jour 24: "rowdy / tapageur"

Qu'est-ce qui est le plus important chez un cheval ?
Le poivre !

#inktober2025 #inktober2025rowdy #rowdy
#tapageur #inktoberrowdy
#inktober2025tapageur #inktober2025day24 #inktoberday24 #gobelin #gobelins
#inktoberchallenge
#dessin #horror #dessinalencre #inkdrawing #illustration #drawing #sketchbook #portrait
#heroicfantasy #rpg #roleplayinggames
#dand #darkfantasy #jeuxderôle #donjonetdragon
#medievalfantasy #kaboom #game #dragon

Revenant & fantômes

Vignette de nos aventures en que vous pouvez retrouver sur la chaîne YT de @Nebal
avec @HotwineF & @CeliaCha #jdr #medievalfantasy #fantasyart #strahd #dnd #dndartist #dndart #ravenloft #barovia #ghost #revenant #creaturedesign

« THOU SHALL NOT PASS ! », c. XIVth

Unknown artist
Brave knight protecting a damsel from a giant snail attack
Marginalia illumination from unknown book, probably XIVth century

#vintagefantasyart #fantasyart #fantasyillustration #MedievalFantasy #GiantSnails #Marginalia #MedievalIllumination

« The Snails Attack », c. 1310

Unknown artist
Grotesque knight being attacked by two giant snails, from "The Queen Mary Psalter"
England, 1310-1320, Royal MS 2 B VII, f. 148r

#vintagefantasyart #fantasyart #fantasyillustration #QueenMaryPsalter #MedievalFantasy #GiantSnails #Marginalia #MedievalIllumination

« The Knight and His Companions », 1994

by Darrell K. Sweet (American illustrator, 1934-2011)
Also known as "Knight on Horse" #P1 Promo Card in FPG Darrell K. Sweet Fantasy Art Trading Cards, 1994

#vintagefantasyart #fantasyart #fantasyillustration #DarrellKSweet #Knight #TradingCards #MedievalFantasy