Bloody Painter Fanart Novels & Stories

To be honest, Harvey feels a little sorry for those who love Lionel's drawing and painting style when this treasure of Samson's can never be displayed before their eyes. However, if they knew that the artist was a thousand-year-old vampire, surely no one would want to own or admire his masterpiece. These typical red and yellow paintings will make them think of human blood, not romantic, nostalgic autumn. - Oh, did you draw yourself and Lucasta? – Harvey stepped forward, tilting his neck to look at the painting of a couple hanging on the wall. - No, I drew her, and she drew me. There was a hint of sadness in that answer. Although it was only fleeting, Harvey still easily recognized it.

she snapped, “I need to get back the shop before the boss has my head. Is this about the Bloody Barbies again?” Bloody Barbie was the nickname Maria gave to the murders ever since she’d gotten involved as a suspect. It was an apt name. Each crime scene that had been investigated was painted red with each victim’s blood, and in each one there would be a bloody doll left behind (though, not exactly a Barbie), no less than three feet away from the body.

It was a painting with a line of red paint smeared across it. The red paint was coated so thickly that it dripped down the entire painting like blood. It was a scary sight to behold. The original painting was of a happy family. Their smiles seemed outright creepy due to the red pain. Yvonne was indeed frightened by the painting. Chills ran down her back. She knew this was Mark expressing his hatred. All these years, this bloody family was all Mark could see.

He was the same height as Damien with a pitch-black hair and bright blue eyes, he had the kind of face that could have been on magazine covers or on a Most Wanted poster for the FBI. "It's about time," he muttered, dropping onto the chair next to Lana's. "There's coffee in the pot. Mugs in the cupboard next to the sink. Go ahead and pour yourself some," I said, glancing over my shoulder and offering a smile. "If you take cream, it's in the fridge. Sugar in that little jar on the table." "Thanks." He grabbed a mug, poured the coffee. No cream or sugar. Just black. He obviously needed it as much as Damien seemed to.

The origins of most of these paintings could be tracked easily. There was "Cottage of the West", painted by Daryn Talbott, one of the four greatest artists of the Monclair era. Then, there were Zenith Howard's creations, including "The Ten Bamboos", "Great Compendium of Life", and "Scroll of Injustice".

There is still one corner left. Perhaps this blank is meant to remind her that life isn't flawless and that there will always be flaws. Ada Wood throws brush and spray paint on the ground before lying down and staring at the blue sky. Originally, her world could not only be gray but also red. The brilliant red of her blood is the color of her life. This is the only artwork with color in it. Unlike the previous gray painting, this one is extremely bright and appears to be out of place. "You know what? For the first time, I realize how lovely the red of blood is."

Noah promised, then left the penthouse with Tyler behind him. "We are ready boss." the bodyguard informed, bowing as he waited for the next line of instructions from his master. The boss was still standing and observing a gruesome painting that he had worked on himself a few months ago with a smile on his face. The painting which depicted the death of a whole family at the hands of a little boy laid in a thick frame, decorating the dark wall. "Lead the way." Ash Grey ordered and walked behind the bodyguard in a backward motion. When he reached the doorway, he finally tore his gaze away from the painting and started to hum a fast beat with his mouth as he walked.

Jon mumbled. "And that undisclosed buyer is me," said Dante smiling widely, his sharp teeth glistening in the dim room. "Let's see if you can guess who painted the next one." Dante walked eagerly to the next painting, his cane tapping on the wooden floor like a one-legged giant insect. He likewise turned on the pin lights and the painting exploded in colors of bright red and burnt sienna. "This painting is something I really like. Tell me what you think?" The second painting showed a half-naked man with eyes opened wide as if in a crazed state. In his hand was something that looked like a severed human arm while blood was seen dripping from his mouth. He appeared to be in a desert and faint

The groom mounting the bride on a throne of corpses. My hand moved faster than my mind. I dipped the brush deeper, harder, tearing at the canvas like I was cutting flesh. I mixed the reds and blacks until they bled together, thick and viscous. The eyes I painted stared back, wide and lifeless. The flowers were rotting. The sky dripped gore. A massacre. And I smiled. They wanted a masterpiece? I’d give them one they’d never forget.

A painting. It hung on the wall, framed in dark wood carved with spirals I didn’t recognize. It was large and not particularly attractive in any way, but something about it pulled me in. For some reason something about it made me feel like I was staring at something forbidden. The colors were dull, yet the image was clear enough. It was a forest under moonlight. Wolves standing at the edge of a cliff. All painted in shades of gray and black, except for one strange thing—blood red streaks across the sky, like claws tearing it open. Then around them, it looked like it was raining blood, like drops of blood falling from the sky instead of water. And then there was a cave, directly facing the cl