Archive for April, 2009

Pretty Pictures: Mysterious Mysteries

30 Apr

Hey, kidlings, guess what time it is?

That’s right! It’s Be Irritatingly Coy About a Future Project time! My favorite part of the week, and a balanced part of this nutritious breakfast.

Alright, I’m going to wrap this up fast, because that last sentence proves that fatigue has pushed my free-associative banter right on over to the slippery side. Suffice it to say, I’m resuming work on a story I began long ago with a friend, you might or might not ever see it, and here’s some concept art I did when I was pushing around ideas.

Oh, and in case you’re curious, I found this old pic of the WoW Rutskarn and a mechanical squirrel while I was digging through my old folders:

Baron: If I don’t e-mail you within a few days, remind me to.


Ghost of the Machine, Part 5

29 Apr

Brahne hadn’t worked with others very often. At most, he’d had advisors, backup, assistants—never an actual full-fledged partner. Maybe that was why he was struggling with the impulse to walk out there and beat Carrent down with his own damn mission document.

Instead, after trying his best to get into a focused state, he found a relatively bright area of light and flipped the document open to page one.
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Bonus Post: Chocolate Hammer Steam Group, Go!

27 Apr

Go join it, dammit.


From Breakfast to Hell, Part 2

27 Apr

The café was a little bit nicer than the roadside stand where Vatsy and Bruno usually ate, but that wasn’t exactly difficult to accomplish. The café’s roof may have been riddled with holes, the floor might have been grimy and sticky, and the lighting levels might have been hovering just above “root cellar”, but at least one could identify the meat in the dish—or, at the very least, suppose that it had come from a source besides an alley or a rat trap.

The two of them tucked in with gusto, and it was a few minutes before Vatsy’s mouth was empty enough for him to speak.

“I have to say, Bruno, I’m overjoyed by this development. Finally, at long last, my work is appreciated!” Vatsy shuddered happily, forking another mouthful into his jaws. “And if this sort of salary keeps up, well, that would be an excellent side effect. Really, now, with the exception of the assassination attempt, this has been one of the most pleasant mornings in recent memory!” Vatsy glanced at the change resting on his tray, counting it out mentally. “Why, we’ve barely put a dent in the money they gave us, and we’ve had it for almost half an hour!” Vatsy shoveled in another mouthful, chewing it as he eyed the cash contemplatively. “Do you think we should pay our rent, Bruno? For old time’s sake?”

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Character Creation 8: A Long and Free-Flowing Ramble

26 Apr

Alright, braindump mode ON.

So, the scientist character needs a damn name already. How about…Kyrette Mascone. Yeah, sure, it works. Moving on.

Earlier, I mentioned that I thought a fairly rich background would suit the character, but I actually think a middle-class upbringing would be better. I’ve already decided that I want her to be self-reliant, and having a rich past would probably make this streak a little more implausible. Kyrette paid for her own education, never had anything handed to her, and learned the importance of hard work and study.

Let’s say she was born in one of the core cities. Her family managed to make ends meet, live a decently comfortable life, and generally stay out of trouble. Kyrette was doted on by her parents, but was nevertheless encouraged to take initiative and do things for herself. In this way, she quickly became reliant on herself, eager to solve her own problems and follow her own ideas.
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The Week to Come

25 Apr

Welcome to another glorious blog-standard week here at Chocolate Hammer–a little bit of this, a little bit of that (so long as both this and that are fiction), a dash of metafiction, a brief art attack, and a delivery on a botched release date.

Last week, the post referred to as “Rocks Fall, Everybody Dies” did not go up as planned. This is because I had thought it a small, one-two-bam kind of mid-week post, when in fact it has to be a bit longer for me to do it justice. Anyway, that’s coming up this week.

Also coming up this week:

  • A Brief History of Whatsherface
  • Here’s the Breakfast
  • Walkin’ da Streets
  • Probably Some More Goddamn Faces

Fun Fact for the Week: In the Not-At-All-A-Republic of Rutskarnia, the national pastime is Ad Hominem Assault.


More Visual Explorations of My Psyche

24 Apr

Okay, I actually have a leg up on this one, as far as Pretty Pictures go.

I know what it is. I even know what inspired it. Now, I just need to figure out why I actually drew it.

Now, um, this is…clearly…an image with great. Significance. Um. Yeah. The deep message, encoded in this piece, is…that…

…nobody…doesn’t…like balloons? I guess?


Pretty Pictures, Part 1

23 Apr

Alright, so I have an image that refuses to come out looking right. I’ll keep plugging away.

In the meantime, help yourself to some of my photoshop scraps. Like these…these, uh…

…wow. That’s, uh. That’s not creepy. At all. Yeah.

…I’m just gonna…go…

(What the &#@% kind of mood was I in?)


Ghost of the Machine, Part 4

22 Apr

The room was small, cramped, stiflingly hot and choked with dust. A single tiny window let in some light, but little in the way of breeze or fresh air. Most of the room was occupied by a pair of cheap, worn cots, probably infested with insect life, and a squat wooden dresser that looked rotted to the core.

Brahne took the cot on the right, dropping his bag at his feet, wiping fresh sweat from his forehead. Carrent dropped his backpack onto the other bed. He unbuckled it, rummaging through industrially.

Brahne coughed slightly, breaking the silence. “Alright. We’re alone. Fill me in.”

Carrent chuckled bitterly, pulling a stout wooden rod from his satchel. It had a sort of handle, wrapped in cord, and was made of a dark and dull wood that Brahne didn’t recognize.

When Carrent didn’t respond, Brahne straightened, irritated. “Listen, Nadest, I didn’t exactly pick this mission. I didn’t know the least damn thing about it until all of four hours ago. So why don’t you stop sulking and get me up to speed?”
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From Breakfast to Hell, Part One

20 Apr

It was barely morning. A chilly, whispering breeze wafted through the gaping hole in the office wall, ruffling the frayed edges of the rotted wallpaper. The battered desk, filthy typewriter, glittering junk and twin armchairs of the office were illuminated only faintly by the grey morning sun, as if the light itself were reluctant to enter the squalid room.

Still, it was enough light to awaken Bruno for his morning rounds.

He pulled himself off of his armchair, stretching his limbs as he slid onto the cluttered floor. A quick, mildly groggy glance around the room affirmed that the situation was perfectly normal. The door was still securely locked; that the lock was made of pewter and the doorway was, regardless, kept in the doorframe only by friction and habit was a minor detail. Some of the food wrappers and scraps on the floor were starting to fall behind their acceptable sanitation threshold, which was roughly defined as any item that needed thick gloves and/or fire to properly deal with. Vatsy was still asleep, bony feline body curled up in the pit of his armchair, worn top hat fallen over his eyes. He murmured softly in his sleep, occasionally twitching one of his claws in a groggy pantomime of typing.

In general, the room looked something like an early, defective bomb shelter prototype, currently occupied by a family of landfills and their pet freak of nature. Bruno took a deep breath, unconsciously filtering out the stench of garbage, horrible hygiene, and cheap ink. Home sweet rathole, as it were.

Idly, Bruno approached the typewriter. A half-finished page sat nestled in its grasp, filled with words that Bruno might have taken interest in, were he literate. If the sketches that were scattered around the typewriter were any indication, it could be inferred that the story was about a short man with two heads and a submachine gun. Bruno felt a mild, quiet rush of reassurance. Vatsy seemed to have already forgotten about reporting “real stories”; his brief, brilliant blaze of clarity, already a month behind them, had faded away almost completely. Somehow, it seemed better that way.

As quietly as possible, not wanting to disturb his companion, Bruno padded over to the cratered wall. He glanced down at the streets below, breathing in the (comparatively) fresh air. A handful of drifters, curled up beneath torn rags, settled into whatever alcoves they could find to avoid the worst of the wind. Scraps of garbage fluttered and danced in the breeze, sticking against the crumbling alcoves and splintered benches lined up on the sidewalk. Most of it was food wrappers, or torn advertisements—however, a few copies of the last Writer’s Guild World Newsletter were present, delicate illustrations and fine serifed text flitting regally about the squalor.

Bruno probably would have lingered for a few minutes, enjoying the divine serenity of the tranquil morning air, if the door hadn’t then been blasted onto the floor with hurricane force.
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