The ceremonial armor itched, George decided. It fit too tight around the ears and almost bumped into his eyelids. He gripped his spear uncomfortably as he worked his way across the plain towards the mountain caves beyond. He still had to make his way through the coral forests ahead.
A sudden pressure froze him. He held his breath and tried to sink as low as possible, an impossibility it seemed in this outlandish getup. Only the tiniest of bubbles escaped. Straining his senses he tried to listen, smell, look, feel everything at once. Something was wrong.
Another pressure wave rolled over him and he finally caught sight of its source. From this side he could only see a single baleful eye as the dragon lazily coasted overhead in the distance. He knew how far away it must be but even at a distance he could clearly make out its horn and jagged back and enormous tail. And there on the nearest limb, at least as long as eight knights laid lengthwise, was the scar it had gained from their last encounter.
He reflected on the rest of his dead fellowship. There had been a hundred of them. And only he remained. He couldn’t go back. He dared not. Forward then. To hunt the beast in its lair and hope that unlike legend it would sleep or at least just go dormant long enough for one suicidal attempt.
One desperate prayer of a dream.
A deep sigh and then he propelled himself forward. To meet his destiny.
I started drawing this picture with the Saint’s ears. Then the rest kind of fell out. I figured out what his quest was when I drew his eyes and realized that he was staring at something. Then tada. St. George.
I’m really proud of this sketch. I don’t draw as pretty as she does in my mind. Her art is much smoother and neater but this picture is I think the closest I’ve come to being as neat as hers. And I really like it.
Wordsremember 