Island Of The Slaughtered Fanart Mga Nobela at Kwento

"Grandma, the sponsored student, Xena, sold my island. "Orion and Scott forged a psychiatric report to send me to a psychiatric hospital and silently have me killed..."

After a moment of hesitation, she pulled away the curtains and gasped in shock with a step backward. It was a horror Calligraphy with a woman cutting off her own throat with a child. Isabella found the calligraphy painful and terrible at the same time. The artist had made the calligraphy so lively that she could literally imagine what was happening. Inside the Calligraphy, a woman with baby in her arms was cutting off her throat. A group of people with machine guns were surrounding her. Her eyes looked fierce as if she had no remorse for taking her own life. Isabella breathed heavily to observe everything more deeply. She noticed a group of wolves distance away from the woman in that calligr

His cool voice and reasons made her roll her eyes. “Or you can’t swim?” She questioned a potential fact. She didn't care much about the issue that he said someone had chosen this island as a holiday destination for him. She was more interested in knowing he hadn’t gone for a swim despite being on an island. “Of course, I can swim. I even won some medals in school back then” Yeah, Whatever. “Or are you afraid of sharks?” “The statistics of shark attacks in this area for the past hundred years is zero, I have checked.” The answer made her roll her eyes again.

It reminded me of last night with Lena on the beach when the sea began to glow. Cash let go of my hand and I began to look around and noticed the colorful drawings on the cave walls. Stepping closer to them, I realized that it was the story of our people and how they came to this island. The first picture was of our people swimming following a female, which I assume was their Queen. The second picture was of them all on dry land, and I knew it had to be Boracay as it depicted vast luscious land and beautiful native flowers, I saw earlier today that Cash told me about. The third picture had me stopped in front of it as I took in the doglike creatures in the background and it dawned on me that

She saw herself standing at the highest point of the island, screaming as the ground gave way beneath her feet. Elise jerked her hand back with a gasp and nearly fell. Ryn caught her by the arm, steadying her. Her heart hammered. “The island drowns.” Ryn stared at her. “What did you see?” She swallowed hard. “Black waves. Not the sea as we know it. Something deeper. Older.” The crimson light intensified. Pain flared across her forearms. She hissed and pulled her sleeves back. The markings appeared as if burned into her skin. Not scars. Not wounds. Symbols. They glowed faintly, etched in silver and shadow, curling along her arms and collarbone in patterns that made her stomach twist.

I couldn’t. The strokes came out violent. I painted a throne first. Then I painted myself on it. Not standing behind. Not kneeling. I was sitting on the throne. My chest heaved as I dragged the brush again, harder this time. Beside the throne, I painted a woman, Isla. Her body lay twisted at the foot of power, a dagger buried deep in her chest, red bleeding into the floor, into the legs of the throne itself. My breath came out broken, almost feral.

Paralyzed, he falls to the ground drooling from his mouth which spills between the cracks of the floor. Salavanta gets up from the old, ragged bed and stretches her naked body with the gun still in hand. The way she is built is that of a goddess covered in ink like a black and white canvas masterly painted to resemble the portrait of divinity, rage, and absolution. Her back is a full ink carving itched within her skin. The image of such depicts a silhouette of a reaper but instead of bones and a skull, the shadow embraces a trunk from a squid with dark looming eyes. The tentacles from the sea creature wrap around a rotting, wooden scythe. Down at the base of the ink and along her ridged lowe

Clara noticed driftwood charms above the doors, hanging like wards, and a thin line of salt across the windowsills. “She said something’s watching her,” Tessa explained. “From the sea. She wakes up screaming. Sometimes sleepwalks to the water.” Clara and Ashani exchanged glances. They knew the signs. Isla sat in a corner near the fireplace, crayons scattered around her. She was drawing something—again and again—the same image, distorted slightly each time: a great black tree rising from the ocean, its roots made of tentacles, its branches of bone. Ashani knelt beside her. “That’s beautiful,” she said gently. “What’s its name?”

Behind it was a mural. Jenna went still. It depicted people—outsiders—kneeling, bound, surrounded by warriors. Above them, a massive figure painted in black consumed a human figure. The next panel was even worse: bones scattered ceremonially at an altar, painted a deep red. Her pulse hammered. This island has seen many before us. None left alive. She forced a breath into her lungs. Not me. Not my people. Across the clearing, warriors sharpened bone blades against stones. Others painted their faces with patterns Jenna had already learned to recognize—spirals for hunters, streaks for fighters, solid black for executioners.