Scrapyard Art Print
Smoke and brick, wood and sweat, fire and metal; Al couldn’t help but smell and smile as the duo made their way through Scrapyard’s bustling streets. The roads themselves were paved with metal. Countless nuts, bolts, screws, and parts all lost, dropped, and stomped flat into the dirt like cobblestones. If Riverwood was a tangle of vines wrapping up and around the Realwood Forest, Scrapyard was a patch of moss, creeping and clinging flat against the stones in the shadow of Daisy’s Mountains.
A clustered shantytown of brown shops and homes, each as unique as their individual owners. Some several stories high with beautifully odd architecture and intricately angled rooftops, shingled with black and gray solar panels. While others could be two large pieces of corrugated sheet metal, leaning haphazardly against one another. In a world where you only own what you can build, Al liked to think Scrapyard embodied that best.
Few thoughts were as awesome to Al as: People built this place. Every nail and screw in every plank and beam, deliberately crafted and placed with the purpose of creating a home. A home where the bright eyed and fuzzy faced can tinker and craft and invent freely. Use good ideas to transform bad memories into a slightly better world. Or at least one slightly more prime.
Less like a factory and more like a fireplace, the village was filled with shooting sparks and puffs of smoke. A symphony of hammers pinged, panged, and pounded through all hours of the day. Countless chimneys cast a cozy gray canvas over the village. Even the clouds are man made.
Meeko loved to run through the crowds, dodging carts full of metal, pulled by bodies full of odor. Weaving through the leather booted legs of Limb Smiths and Grub Farmers, trading food for tools, work for work. A trail of startled and delighted faces always marked Meeko’s path.
‘Bright eyed and fuzzy faced’ Sarah liked to call Scrapyard’s everyone. Metal limbed mechanics, smiths, and engineers alike. Hundreds of botsthetic arms and legs hauling piles of scrapped rusted robots back to their forges and benches to tinker with their hopes and dreams. Mustache wielding, pipe puffing, First War refugees, journeyed from far and wide in search of new hands and a new home. And Bali gave them both.
Al’s eyes followed the human trail all the way to Scrapyard’s scrapyard, a mountain of robot husks looming over the northern hills. An unfathomably large pile of both immense pain and endless opportunity. “One of the few places on Aureum where the past and the future meet,” Daisy once said. Al squinted at the twisted pile. As often as the thought crossed his mind, he measured to see if the mountain had shrunk by even an inch from the endless flow of give and take.
“They took your hands, now take them back!” Exclaimed a quote on the metal muraled walls surrounding the mountain. Embossed with First War scenes of the glories and horrors of men against machines, they told the tale of Scrapyard’s origins. Each scene fading into the next, from Hilltop’s Horde, The Stand at Julia, all the way through Bali’s Fist and the founding of Scrapyard. Al’s Favorite scene was near the end; A man who had lost his arm, standing at the peak of the pile of dead robots, triumphantly raising a robot’s arm above his head, while an army cheers below.
They took your hands, now take them back.
Minus the many children, maybe three in ten people had all four of their original limbs. The rest were branded with botsthetic replacements, a generous gift from Scrapyard’s grumpy and gracious founder.
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A Fine Art Giclee Print on Hahnemühle Photorag paper! The closest digital art can ever get to being painted directly on canvas!
Dimensions: Sized to fit within a 13in x 19in frame
W - 13 in
H - 18.9 in
———————————————————————————————————————————————
Digitally Painted by Nolan Lu
Smoke and brick, wood and sweat, fire and metal; Al couldn’t help but smell and smile as the duo made their way through Scrapyard’s bustling streets. The roads themselves were paved with metal. Countless nuts, bolts, screws, and parts all lost, dropped, and stomped flat into the dirt like cobblestones. If Riverwood was a tangle of vines wrapping up and around the Realwood Forest, Scrapyard was a patch of moss, creeping and clinging flat against the stones in the shadow of Daisy’s Mountains.
A clustered shantytown of brown shops and homes, each as unique as their individual owners. Some several stories high with beautifully odd architecture and intricately angled rooftops, shingled with black and gray solar panels. While others could be two large pieces of corrugated sheet metal, leaning haphazardly against one another. In a world where you only own what you can build, Al liked to think Scrapyard embodied that best.
Few thoughts were as awesome to Al as: People built this place. Every nail and screw in every plank and beam, deliberately crafted and placed with the purpose of creating a home. A home where the bright eyed and fuzzy faced can tinker and craft and invent freely. Use good ideas to transform bad memories into a slightly better world. Or at least one slightly more prime.
Less like a factory and more like a fireplace, the village was filled with shooting sparks and puffs of smoke. A symphony of hammers pinged, panged, and pounded through all hours of the day. Countless chimneys cast a cozy gray canvas over the village. Even the clouds are man made.
Meeko loved to run through the crowds, dodging carts full of metal, pulled by bodies full of odor. Weaving through the leather booted legs of Limb Smiths and Grub Farmers, trading food for tools, work for work. A trail of startled and delighted faces always marked Meeko’s path.
‘Bright eyed and fuzzy faced’ Sarah liked to call Scrapyard’s everyone. Metal limbed mechanics, smiths, and engineers alike. Hundreds of botsthetic arms and legs hauling piles of scrapped rusted robots back to their forges and benches to tinker with their hopes and dreams. Mustache wielding, pipe puffing, First War refugees, journeyed from far and wide in search of new hands and a new home. And Bali gave them both.
Al’s eyes followed the human trail all the way to Scrapyard’s scrapyard, a mountain of robot husks looming over the northern hills. An unfathomably large pile of both immense pain and endless opportunity. “One of the few places on Aureum where the past and the future meet,” Daisy once said. Al squinted at the twisted pile. As often as the thought crossed his mind, he measured to see if the mountain had shrunk by even an inch from the endless flow of give and take.
“They took your hands, now take them back!” Exclaimed a quote on the metal muraled walls surrounding the mountain. Embossed with First War scenes of the glories and horrors of men against machines, they told the tale of Scrapyard’s origins. Each scene fading into the next, from Hilltop’s Horde, The Stand at Julia, all the way through Bali’s Fist and the founding of Scrapyard. Al’s Favorite scene was near the end; A man who had lost his arm, standing at the peak of the pile of dead robots, triumphantly raising a robot’s arm above his head, while an army cheers below.
They took your hands, now take them back.
Minus the many children, maybe three in ten people had all four of their original limbs. The rest were branded with botsthetic replacements, a generous gift from Scrapyard’s grumpy and gracious founder.
———————————————————————————————————————————————
A Fine Art Giclee Print on Hahnemühle Photorag paper! The closest digital art can ever get to being painted directly on canvas!
Dimensions: Sized to fit within a 13in x 19in frame
W - 13 in
H - 18.9 in
———————————————————————————————————————————————
Digitally Painted by Nolan Lu
