One day wasn’t nearly enough time to get this where I wanted it so I fixed it.
Now that it’s been awarded. I never remember to take good pics. #amtgard #grandduke #larp
Amtgard awards made for Polaris’ 2019 MAME event.
Silly Amtgard things because that’s what I’ve been working on mostly. Not great pictures because I always forget. A belt favor and throwie combo for a Winterveil themed event.
The Shiverpeaks
>This story is set in the Guild Wars 2 universe and draws heavily from the game (location names and inspiration for some of the events), lore (races and culture), and novels (Destiny’s Edge, Sea of Sorrows, Ghosts of Ascalon). Characters and events, however, are my own creation. I guess that makes this some kind of fanfic. I officially do that now, then.
The wind howled in from the far off peaks in the distance bringing a soft snow into the dim evening light. From their direction came the near silent buffeting of powdery white wings soaring low over the ground below the treeline. Through the white flakes emerged; blackened talons closed around the glove with the scrunch of soft leather, the bird was pulled closer, close enough that white breath gasped over the white form. A bare hand raised to the coal black beak of it and plucked from it a scrap of tan fabric. Fluidly the scrap fanned–moved to activate the olfactories. The cologne of man pierced through the cold, the smell of…human.
Screamers
The desert can be a lonely, quiet place. Nothing to greet you but the soft whisper of shifting sands in the wind. If you listen long enough the whispers sound like words. This was Yowli’s favorite thing to do. You could often find him at the peak of a dune listening and watching. If he could he would sit in the dunes all day listening and watching the sky. His grandmother would never let him, though. Like every other day the whisper of sands slowly turned into the yowls of his grandmother calling to him.
She was a spry old thing. Most elders would retire from activity at her age. Like Juwa’s grandmother. She had grown so aged her hands were balls of knuckles so swollen you could hardly see the fingers and her vision had long gone, the cataracts clouding her eyes to a pure white that not even her pupils shown through but she would still knit. Yowli never knew how she did it, but despite her shortcomings she still knit the most perfect shawls and blankets. Not even a stitch missed or out of place. And she had the best stories. His favorite were the ones about the screamers; big black shapes that screamed as they crossed the sky.









