Anya "Pro-union" Alford
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ragbun.bsky.social
Anya "Pro-union" Alford
@ragbun.bsky.social
16 followers 58 following 31 posts
Artist, paladin, druid, general craft enjoyer and game nerd✨️
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ragbun.bsky.social
I don't speak any Mandarin or Cantonese, or any Chinese dialect, but their enthusiasm needs no translation. Sometimes I can even understand the advice they're giving ⭐
June 27, 2025 at 11:40 PM
Reposted by Anya "Pro-union" Alford
symonheilogu.bsky.social
Congrats!
Thank you for the art share
January 23, 2025 at 11:46 PM
Reposted by Anya "Pro-union" Alford
bleaksqueak.bsky.social
You did it!!! Congratulations 🐀🎉🐀🎉

I got critters and comics and lads that may as well be critters
January 23, 2025 at 11:42 PM
Reposted by Anya "Pro-union" Alford
crossroadart.bsky.social
Here we go!

I’m Bear, a fantasy illustrator often found drawing a squire badly riding a centaur & a henchman dealing with his werewolf boss.

Also I’m not a ghost host, I will repost if u follow the rules (alts & repost other artists), but I try to space out repost & may take awhile to comment.
Theo and Miles were doomed by a fried egg, and in a way this is an illustration of that egg. Its brown shell cracked open and dropping out of its opaque center falls two sunny orange young men in their early twenties; they are the hue of an egg yolk in every sense including their clothes. From within a glossy glop of descending albumen they reach for each other because they know if they hold onto each other they won’t break. Miles, a young man in his early 20’s with a slender figure and a handsome face, tumbles lowest, his hips and legs rolling over his chest, his long hair trailing up from his fall and his expression wide eyed, ready and hopeful in the face of Theo, whose forearm he has gripped just above Theo’s various bracelets. In turn Theo, also a young man in his twenties with a strong compact body, a soft torso and blunt squarish face, looks down at Miles with an expression of sureness, haste and of course his ever present edge of annoyance. His grip on Miles arm is firm while he too falls, and though there is nothing they can do about of their evident demise, Theo’s body language does not suggest he is unaccustomed to the fall, and is positioned like a surfer that has just been thrown from his board before being heavily dumped into a folding wave. In fact neither of them appear to be especially panicked, though the stress of their situation is not absent. Whatever happens will happen, but it will happen to them together (an unfortunately dim silver lining in the scheme of things). The egg shell itself has a faded red stamp on it. The stamp reads, ‘The Henchmen’s Guide. Prologue.’ This is the title of the book series and the chapter that condemned these two young men to their villainous werewolf boss, Sloan. Though a rain splattered windscreen a terrible woman stands in a dark, vast, near empty parking lot. From the waist up she is in shadow and below that she is illuminated in the headlights. She has pallid skin, an untamed mane of black hair whipping in the wind and wears a black knee length coat, a pair of dark shades and black knee high boots. Her stance is casual and patient, breathing a cloud of vapour while one hand sits in her pocket. A pair of windscreen wipers pulse across the visage of her.  She is looking directly into the car at the young man in the back seat who is reflected in the rearview mirror. He is wearing a pink hoodie and sees his miserable fate in her. The top half of his face is in shadow, while the bottom half of his face is lit with the warmth of street lights that cast the shadows of rain drops onto his cheek and nose. He is defiant, but he is also scared. Columns of trees, stripped of their leave and dark from the damp, stand between the gently falling snow in the silence of the forest. A stream flows slowly as a growing sheet of ice solidifies its banks and the carpet of snow is only broken by a few blades of grass and sticks that themselves are getting buried in the fresh falling flakes. In the eerie serenity a pair of black boots stride through the snow. They belong to the god of the short days, whose reign as the Holly King is now, in the heart of winter. His attire, unsurprisingly, is entirely black. Black trousers, black surcoat, black cloak. The scabbard of the sword his pale hand rests on is black, as is the belt which holds it. Detail is lost in the layers of the shade, making so much of the deity a wondering shadow. The belt it’s self, however, is fastened around the silver corset of the kings waist, whose overlayed holly leaf engravings matches those of the sword, the gods gorget (the silver armour around his collarbone and neck), and the metal clasps securing the snow dusted cloak and furs to the gods shoulders. As the king walks, his long fastened hair, trails in the wind behind him, catching flakes of ice that appear to add more salt to his already stark pepper, and frost both his silver coronet of holly leaves and his his antlers, completing their resemblance to the sentry like trees around him. A warm glow of light breaks through the sparse canopy and rays, fragmented by branches, fall onto the King. It illuminates his pale angular features and he turns his stoic face and white eyed gaze to look up at it. In the radiance a small wren glides down to him with intention to perch in the deity’s antlers. The god doesn’t break his stride or wait for the company to land, but you could almost imagine the very edge of a smile in the corner on his mouth, before it vanishes like a snowflake on his cheek. A bay centaur with the unbridled enthusiasm of an uncle, gleefully galloping across a flowery meadow under a blue sky. His arms are wide and his mouth is open is a joyous cry to the vast open plains. On his back a squire hugs the centaurs waist and is holding on for dear life. The squire wears a small bit of chainmail over his shoulders, a blue cowl with the hood down, a cape, a red and blue surcoat over a pale grey thinny padded gambeson, trousers and boots. He is not a good rider. He is scared of horses and knows you should never ride centaurs regardless of what the centaur says. But there is no arguing with Rowan and absolutely no stopping him when he’s like this.
January 23, 2025 at 10:49 PM
ragbun.bsky.social
Also I see at least 3 things to fix, but hnnnnnnnnnnh it's already sent 🙃🙃🙃
December 11, 2024 at 11:52 PM
ragbun.bsky.social
Maybe we're not talking to the right people
December 9, 2024 at 3:14 AM