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Caffinated-Pinecone — Introducing Feywill to Acorn

#acorn #character #dapple #dappled #dappledgrey #dapplegrey #dnd #draft #drafthorse #dragons #drawing #dungeons #elf #grey #horse #horsedrawing #horses #kevyn #oc #paladin #pony #silverbark #dndoc #feywill #achruhn #dndcharacter #dungeonsanddragons
Published: 2021-05-22 21:24:57 +0000 UTC; Views: 835; Favourites: 26; Downloads: 0
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Description My roommate really likes horses, so I've been exposed to more horses than usual and I'm starting to really enjoy their company.
So I decided to get my DnD character a horse.
This is Kevyn introducing his new pony to the fey horse god, Achruhn. (But NEVER use a fey creature's real name casually. We call him Acorn.)
When Kevyn was a young knight-in-training, he came to the ailing fey spirit's aid and now Acorn owes him big time. He promised to come to Kevyn's aid when he needs it, but Kevyn hasn't summoned him yet because WHAT could POSSIBLY be important enough to ask a FEY GOD for HELP
...besides introducing him to your new horse
and maybe offering him some earthly delights like apples and sugar

I like Kevyn's new armor. It suits him better than his old set.

Artist notes:
Took me 2 days
This is my first time REALLY trying to draw horses, so I think it turned out really well considering that they were basically dogs in the first sketch (then I realized I was allowed to use reference lol)

pretend Feywill is the right size for Kevyn to ride

AND If you're interested in the 'meeting Acorn' backstory, here are those:
Kevyn and Acorn the Fey Spirit (Pt. 1) You all remember the part about my village being wiped out by the plague, we don’t have to go over that again. But I was only a sprig of an elf at that time, not even in the double digits, and I had lost everyone I knew and everything I’d owned (after they burned the village for sanitary reasons), and I really didn’t know anything of value besides how to sew up busted seams and tidbits about the local flora and fauna. I wandered the woods for a few days until I found another small village where I offered up my help in exchange for a place to live and something to eat. But I was listless, purposeless, lost in the world. I had little to offer the town and they had little to offer me. I had to move on. So I hitched a ride on a produce cart that was headed in the direction of Midborne, the kingdom built into the side of a docile, but still unsettlingly active, volcano. I’d never been in a big city. It was like a forest made of people and stone, and the ruckus was near constant. It was overwhelming to say the least, but it quickly grew on me. I explored the enormous city for several days, living on the streets. The people were much less kind here than in my village, weary, suspicious, and probably not completely trustworthy. But I survived on the pity of the few who simultaneously had coin to spare and the kindness to offer it up. The kingdom already had a tailor, quite a few actually, and my skill wasn’t overly impressive, so I applied as an apprentice at a quaint little shop near the edge of town. I worked there for a while, but I was unhappy. Every day was the same, and the thankless work wasn’t fulfilling. I told myself I should be grateful I was no longer on the streets, but I missed the warmth of community and the purpose of working towards something. One morning, while I was at the market by the farms just within the outer wall, I witnessed a bandit raid. They’d hopped the wall and had farmer on the ground, pounding him into the dirt, when in rushed the castle guard’s mounted battalion. I’d seen them standing around, keeping peace in the city, but this time I got to see them in action. Cries louder than the hoof beats beneath them, powerful biceps under shining silver armor, halberds raised and poised to strike, protecting the kingdom from threats such as these. It was a little overkill for a simple bandit raid, but I was awestruck. I’d found my purpose. My days of standing helplessly and watching innocents lost to the powers that be were over. Still only about 8 years old, I couldn’t apply to be a page yet (an official knight in training), but they admired my persistence and ambition, so they gave me a place to stay in the barracks an trained me unofficially. I say ‘trained’, but to be completely honest it was closer to servitude. I remember some vague excuse about hardening me emotionally and strengthening my character through servant’s work that specifically targeted my deep-seated fear of the unsanitary; cleaning the loo and the jail cells, the medical bay, that kind of thing. It was pretty traumatic, I think. I don’t remember. I’ve blocked most of it out. But the lure of knighthood kept me at it, and they said my persistence would be rewarded on my 10th birthday when I ascended to the page rank. Finally, the day arrived, and they took me on my first mission, the initiation test, they said. The forest outside the walls had been deemed unsafe since long before the day I arrived. Apparently hunters and travelers had been going missing out there for years, but recently there had been an uptick in the number of people who did not return from their venture into the depths. Only recently had a troop returned with news of why. Great beasts, they said. I assumed rabid wolves or bears, at the worst. I would have never been able to handle that myself, but I was put on a team with six of the court’s most able-bodied knights and I was honored to stand among them. So equipped with clunky armor and boots that barely fit, I followed our unit deep into the woods. My only instructions were to not die. I was planning on doing that, already, but the encouragement was appreciated. I could feel the blanket of magic that forests naturally have grow unusually thick as we continued on. Being raised as a wood elf, you learn to pick up on that kind of thing. I used to have a capacity for fey magic, which isn’t uncommon for Elven children, but I gradually lost it as I grew older. Elves started out in the fey realm, you know. That must have been incredible. Sometimes I wonder why our ancestors left.
  Kevyn and Acorn the Fey Spirit (pt. 2)Following the directions given to us by the previous battalion, we eventually made it to a clearing- and stopped short. The magic was heavy here, and it had that familiar chilly, sweet scent that follows the fey. Like fresh fruit and cold, morning air. It was comforting yet unsettling because of the sheer potency of it. The trees around the edges of the clearing were bent at unusual angles, roots unearthed and dirt upturned, the tragic aftermath of plants called to do the bidding of a thankless mage who left them upturned afterwards. Signs of an incredible struggle. Deep gouges in the earth, logs and boulders shattered. My attention was drawn to the center of the clearing where the ground was scorched into a glowing ring of runes, holding captive a large white creature curled up in the middle. I was horrified. This was no common bear or rabid wolf, and you’d have to have your magic sealed to miss that. Although I suppose humans have never been very bright. From this realm or any other, anything inhuman is a beast to them. It’s a pity their capacity for understanding is so narrow. An ounce of forethought would probably prevent things like this from happening.We cautiously approached the ring and they warned me not to break the circle or it would kill us all. I stood quietly, transfixed, as they whooped and boasted about finally having the chance to rid the woods of something so vile. I paced around the ring, trying to figure out what it was. It was definitely fey, but it wasn’t a small tree spirit and those were the only kind I had encountered up until that point. It looked like a large horse, but its edges were fuzzy and difficult to identify, shimmering and shifting into transparency as if made of mist. Its mane and tail didn’t appear to be made of hair, and they were, the hair was so fine that it moved in waves instead of in strands. The creature didn’t appear wounded, as far as I could tell, just exhausted, but even in this state I could feel that it held more magic than I could process in a lifetime. They say you should never look a fey creature in the eye. Just a glance and you open your soul up to their inspection- you let them in. Granted, this process goes both ways, but a fey’s soul is usually far more ancient and complex than ours, so we’re rarely a threat during a soul gaze. But I was young and I didn’t quite understand the gravity of the risk it poses to the weaker of the two if the stronger means harm. I crouched by its head, wrestling with the controversy of the situation, trying to assess if this creature was naturally dangerous or if it was lashing out for another reason, when its eyes shot open. I didn’t have time to look away. Its magic washed over me and I felt the enormity of its consciousness brush up against mine, locked in gaze with its large, tired, grey blue eyes. It slowly raised its head to my level, the end of its long mane still pooled on the ground, and its consciousness questioned me. Not through words or movement, but as a gentle concept, as one would convey through a head tipped slightly to the side. I hadn’t needed to reply, for at that moment this faerie saw all I was and all I had ever been. My intentions, my fears and beliefs, the very core of myself. And in reflection, I caught a glimpse of the recent past seen through those tired eyes. Exploring a rift into our plane from the fae realm, struggling to find a way back, friends lost to poaching, being so, so far from home. The struggle here in this clearing, the draining power of the runes, the misunderstanding and hurt, and the fear of what was to come next. It looked away, abruptly snapping the connection and I was left alone with my own thoughts again. The sudden void around my consciousness was like the chill you feel when a blanket is whisked off your lap on a cold winter morning. It took me a moment to recover, but once I did, I circled back around and tried to explain to the knights what had happened, and urged them to look it in the eyes to understand. They laughed and spat at the ground, telling me that if I wanted to ascend to the next rank, I had to commit the unthinkable. They handed me the enchanted blade and gave me a shove towards the rune circle. For the safety of society they said. For honor. But there was nothing honorable about this, and there was nothing in the world that was worth slaying this creature. I turned on them, swinging with all the might my frail arms could muster, and the sword simply glanced off one of the men’s armored thigh. A sickly 10 year old wood elf with a big knife, tripping over his own boots and pushing the bucket of a helmet out of his eyes, facing off with six of the kingdom’s strongest men. Lets say the odds were less than favorable. But I could not take back what I’d just done… not that I really wanted to, anyway. The men drew their weapons, eyebrows furrowed at the audacity of the scrawny whelp before them and took a step towards me. Instinctively, I took a few steps back, and paused as their eyes grew wide with fear. My heel was nearly touching the edge of the circle. I glanced at the horse spirit behind me, its muscles tense, poised, ready. I figured I was going to die anyway, so I slammed my foot down onto the runes, scuffing out a line or two, and the white light inside them flickered and went out. The moment the magic fell, the horse spirit sprung from its prison and pounded the ground, hurdling towards the men. They shouted in horror and retreated, but in the end, only one survived long enough to escape the clearing. The glade fell silent, and all that could be heard were traumatized boot scuffs retreating into the distance. I stood, alone, in the center of the glade, and the gaze of the creature shifted back to me. It was much taller than I was. Maybe the size of a large draft horse, its mane and tail cascading to the ground like a misty arctic stream. Its entire coat was a shifting ethereal white besides the piercing contrast of the blood seeping up the long fur around its hooves. I shouldn’t have been afraid, for I’d seen its intentions; the same fate was not to befall myself. Yet I could not help but grow pale at the sight of those powerful shoulders forcing down hooves the size of salad plates to crush through armor as if it were merely a crispy leaf.I dropped the sword and raised my hands, submissively, unsure of how to proceed in this kid of situation. The horse turned and approached me, hooves gently maneuvering around what little plant life remained on the scorched earth. Where its hooves had been, patches of moss remained. I was honestly expecting it to leave after it was freed, and the fact that it was now coming towards me was enough for me to lose my breakfast out of anxiety. I didn’t, luckily. Boy would that have been a rotten first impression. It stopped in front of me, lowered its head, and offered up its consciousness, a little more gently this time, as if asking permission. I reached forward with my own and silently noted its injuries, feeling them as if they were my own. Saying the spirit had a ‘voice’ would be inaccurate; it felt more like a concentrated stream of thought that conveyed meaning, and could be translated into words if need be, but was unnecessary in the intimate space of the mind. He, I realized, informed me that he could not offer me his service through a life debt of sorts, because this world was not his own and he grew weaker by the day. But he assured me I would be repaid for my actions, and offered me something far more valuable than all the gold in a dragon’s horde- his name. Your expression didn’t change, you clearly don’t understand the significance of this. I’m not referring to a your title given at birth, that is given freely as a greeting and isn’t worth much at all besides getting someone’s attention. That is the name of your body. He gave me his true name. The label that represents the entirety of one’s essence. Everything has one. Trees, grass, birds, wizards, even the very ground we stand on. Understanding that name and being able to speak it, allows one to call upon that essence. Druids use it to mold the earth into new shapes, and clerics use it to command the path of light and open pathways of communication through space. But creatures of consciousness guard their names carefully, and rightfully so. People have died protecting each others’ names, lest they fall into the hands of those with wicked intention. But perhaps because I had only lived a few years, and hadn’t yet developed the jaded edge of adulthood, the spirit decided I was worthy of such a gift. The sound rang clearly in my mind. It sounded a bit like acorn but with a guttural inflection on the first part and the R in the wrong place. The spirit found humor in this revelation and allowed me to call him that when not using his true name directly. I tried to offer my true name back, but I did not know it yet. Some never discover theirs. But Acorn declined anyway, and reminded me that this was a gift in response to sparing his life, and he would not accept anything more. Before he left, he assured me that if I needed him badly, I could draw forth his essence through his name from any realm, and he would stand by me. I acknowledged this and expressed my understanding of the few circumstances worthy of invoking his name. He flicked his tail in farewell before vanishing into the lush, dark undergrowth, leaving a trail of thick moss in his wake. Years went by and I never called on his essence. I never really needed to. I mean yes there were battles where I feared my life, but I felt I needn’t bother him with something to trivial. Over time, I forgot his name, as one does with information you never use. Perhaps irresponsible on my part, but losing it to memory is safer than losing a written version.But the other night I woke up with the shape of the word on my tongue and the scent of fresh fruit lingering in the cool morning air.… or what was left of my tongue, anyway. Recently Devin cut off the tip of it and gave it to a preposterously rude Dwarven woman as fare to ride her caravan. I’m still sore about that....
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