Good Omens Art Novels & Stories

At the same time, they were the cream of the crop in their respective areas. "Ambrose, I didn't expect that you'd be able to procure a real artwork produced by Callis, the Saint of Brush. To think that it's also a painting featuring the God of Wisdom, too! You really are amazing!" Winston exclaimed in surprise. Everyone knew that Callis painted everything, though he was a master in painting anything related to the Bardoran Order, the supernatural elements involving spirits and deities, as well as humanoid characters. One could say that this painting of the God of Wisdom was one of Callis' masterpieces. It was definitely a piece of priceless artwork.

Damien’s fingers flexed against the table, frustration bleeding into his stance. "You manipulated them," he accused, voice edged with anger. Selene smiled slowly. "I gave them better options." His breathing deepened. "You think you can take this from me? You think my wolves will follow you?" Darius leaned forward slightly, amusement flickering in his sharp blue gaze. "They already are," he murmured. Selene pushed a document across the table—legal transfers, ownership rights, every contract signed, sealed, binding. Damien scanned the papers, his jaw tightening as realization settled into his bones.

As always no one cared about the wolfless omega! “Help!” “Help!” I screamed at the top of my lungs but it was a mere whisper. Suddenly Cynthia appeared in front of me holding my three babies, two girls and a boy. “My baby, you killed my baby girl! She was innocent. Why did you do that?” I wept bitterly, stretching my hands towards her. Instead, an evil shriek filled the forest, “You worthless omega, say goodbye to your twins!!” Two loud blasts filled the air! I looked up to see blood gushing from Davis and Davina’s skull. Kian just stood by the side chuckling.

Vessa hummed lightly through her nose as if considering that answer from several different angles before setting the flower back down. Then she picked up the portrait. The charcoal had faded slightly over time, especially near the corners where my fingers had touched it too often. Three figures stood together beneath rough shading that might have been trees or clouds depending on how long you looked at it. A man. A woman. A little girl standing proudly between them with her hair falling loose around her shoulders. The first time I saw it after the absorption, I spent nearly an hour staring

Someone else makes the old ward-sign against evil—thumb and forefinger crossed over the heart. Torren steps down from the crate. He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t need to. He points to a rough table near the central fire where two soldiers are already at work. Parchment. Charcoal. Ink mixed from soot and spit. Wanted posters. The artist is no master—quick, crude strokes—but the likeness is unmistakable. Snow-white hair spilling from a hood. Sharp blue eyes that seem to pierce even on flat parchment. A child’s face, small and solemn, framed by the storm-gray cloak. Beneath the sketch, in block letters scratched deep:

Flying buttresses and spires, finely detailed gilded molding, large rectangular mirrors framed in obsidian. It is a work of art, and it was all because of me. Anyone who was of worth was at my party, lavishing me with the praise I so richly deserved, was born to receive. Are we the nobility, not the divine rulers of the rest of the wolves? The omegas that have forgotten themselves? Become domesticated in their subservience to the Goddesses? The Great Deserter, O Fenrirwulf, had understood how the Gods feared us. Shackled us.

Lifting her hand, Belinda pressed her fingers to the rough colors strewn about the canvas, staring up at a face so eerily similar to her own, that she saw herself in it. But it couldn't be her. The lips of the woman in the painting were curved upwards, but it was nothing like the cold smile that never reached the eyes, which seemed to be all Belinda could manage. The painter had captured the twinkle in the silver eyes, and joy in her facial features. This woman appeared genuinely happy; unlike Belinda, she truly smiled.

"Both the drawings and the idea. Why are you so different than everyone else here? It's confusing. I really believe you don't want to hurt me. You might. But you don't want to." "Ah, my small friend, art is pain. You will not enjoy the process of being marked. Unless you do, of course. Some no-furs love the burn of the needles. I suppose we shall see what side you fall on soon enough." Ink began to prep a handheld machine, attaching pieces and checking it by pressing a button that made it hum softly. "Since you are one of Persiana's small gods, it is safe to assume that you do not have a bond, correct? Not even with this Hades that you obviously like?"

Otis' POV: She dismissed me and I immediately dashed towards the direction of the kitchen to prepare Alpha Damien's lunch but I saw something that brought my feet to a sudden halt. A wall of paintings… paintings of about seven different men each possessing red eyes and the symbol of the crescent moon on the left side of their chest that seems to illuminate light. “Who could they be?” The last painting caught my attention and all I could see was a striking resemblance between him and the man from the training ground.

This might mean nothing to others, but those of lycanthrope blood know that the Omega symbol for the Greek God Ares implies war. “What the fuck?! Who is declaring war on the Five?” I exclaim with a hammering heart and wide eyes as I turn to Kai, but he simply crosses his arms and points to the ceiling. When I look up, I see what he means, and instead of wondering how the fuck they came into this club and killed a Volkov pup to do all this, I feel my entire body light up with fury. A skull adorned with a crown of daggers and eight spears encircling it, and next to it was a maiden skull with a crown of roses holding a sword in a skeletal hand.