The race of Mulephein Prior - original digital art creations.

Trepidation in all it's human vulnerability rippled around the boys as hope winked out of existence, for two sets of gold fire grew closer from the shadows before them. Beastly, looming figures moved from obscurity into intimidating definition. The two beings were nearly seven feet tall, their statures broad and thick, clad in black as the darkness they emerged from. The skin was a misty ivory, an almost scabrous texture set taught over the strong, sharp angles of the face. What would have appeared human had been intentionally distorted. Their bodies were landscapes of deep, intricate scars, carved about in swirling ridges like mountains around translucent lakes of unmarred flesh; artful in it's atrocity, and refractive against the moonlight. The fire at the core of their eyes was blood that pulsed with every measured heartbeat, shrinking in and bursting out like little breaths against a golden lake. The silence was theirs, owning every inch of the night as they reveled in the terrifying glory of their true forms. This was a presence only a privilege to the dying. - Introductions to the Mulephein. 

A 17 year-old Amalynne at the beach in Santa Barbara, CA.

It was a mindless tumble beneath the water, the waves undulating and kicking up foamy ribbons as Deimos let his body limply ride the current in. There was something pleasurable, easy about letting the sea take control sometimes, as though he could release the puppet strings on his own life for a moment and let go. A bright morning sun blinded him when he regained control of his limbs, pushing up through the curls of breaking water. The tide was ebbing back, the blue-green shoals called away from the crescent sandy bay. Some would have thought the water cold, a brisk chattering chill, but Deimos was accustomed, coveting the lonely beach. These were his moments, they had been as long as his memory had served him. The lads knew to leave him alone in the early hours. He could be cold, unresponsive and wait for you to leave. It was the kind of feeling as though you'd intruded on lovers and where therefore awkwardly forced to escape. He would often be asked what he thought about in his time alone, but only a shrug would suffice as he'd mutter, "nothing." This was true. He thought of nothing, felt nothing, because here he didn't have to... here he was at peace with nothing but the lingering smell of sea salt and the crashes of the waves, endlessly tumbling, moved by an invisible force. 

Sometimes he considered that he was jealous of things that were not burdened by choice, waves that lapped because they did, and for no other reason, lifeless things that moved without knowing. How strange it was to be born into this world with so much weighing on choice... and yet Deimos felt no part of the world at all, only part of the spec he had created with the Company. It was always hard to leave those mornings, push out of the water and damply traipse back onto the cool sand, because it meant that he had to choose. I'm sure you don't consider your days so thoughtfully as Deimos chose to. I'm sure, however, that he would have argued that you'd never known the cruelty of absolute freedom. After every morning on the bay, the weight of seven other lives laden his chest, and without questioning his purpose, would devote his mind to their survival. He was a machine of necessity, a sixteen-year-old statue with rigid rules for existence, and all he wanted at the end of the day was to survive, sustain. It wasn't simple by any measure and no one had charged him with the burden but himself, but not matter how easy things got over time, Deimos calculated, faced choice and decided. Drowning would be easy, but every morning he chose not to.*  


-First ever piece for the character Deimos/Demon written in my teens, can you taste the angst? 

Digital Art piece submit to me after a reader character description request.