Overwatch Artwork Novels & Stories

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:

Further in the way, rows of four men are on each side. A large man is standing at the end of the way caused by a knee height plateau. His back turned towards the convoy. Dressed in the same dark blue uniform as others, the man is having a silvery scabbard attached to his left side. A black spear is standing to his right. Hinted by the hooves clattering, the man turns towards the convoy. Unlike others he is not wearing a helmet, his lower face is covered in dark black beards only left in place now revealing an evil smile.

ETHAN POV I growl under my breath as Miranda tenses and practically curls against my side in fear. The wolves challenging Andrew are covered in tattoos, but not the art I am used to seeing. The images printed on their flesh are meant to install fear. The poor excuses for artwork depict women being violated and men being tortured or killed. Two of them have their hit list tattooed on their chest. "Alpha King, thank you for taking the time to come to the South pack," Andrew says interrupting my thoughts as I approach him in the field they have chosen to fight in.

“Rest. You’ll need your strength for the Blackmoor board meeting.” I watched the door click shut and immediately moved to my desk. I grabbed my charcoal pencils and my sketching tablet. My mind wasn't on pack wars or mating bonds—it was on the sharp lines of hockey jerseys and the branding of the Blackmoor Wolves. I sketched until my fingers went numb, pouring every ounce of the betrayal I felt into the aggressive, dark designs of the team’s new armor. The portfolio was finished within the week. I sent it to Apex Syndicate, the elite design firm that handled the visual identity of the Mafia-league hockey teams.

I have too much fun reminding her no one roots for the Lions, even if she did win them off a bet with Ben during her pre-college days. I'd rather skip this art show all together, but Trey has demanded my presence. The artist's entire display is composed of images from Dragons Reborn. He said it's an honor to be there. I was thinking more along the lines of copyright infringement, but now that we've sold the game I guess it's someone else's problem. Thank God for that.

*Jaedon’s POV* “You’re saying war?” My best friend and Beta, Peter Normandy raised his eyebrows at me. Peter and I had met when we were children. Our pack, Snow Creek, had taken over his own pack Everforest. Now, the remaining joined us and pledged their loyalty. It hasn’t been a terrible thing for them though. We didn’t have to kill anyone. Their Alpha had been sick and the sickness was spreading. He asked us to take over the healthy of their pack so it wouldn’t have to die off. Our Alpha at the time obliged.

"Otherwise, even in death, I won't close my eyes. My soul will return to the Moon Temple and curse you!" Looking at his grandfather's aged face and resolute eyes, Ethan finally broke down and wept, letting out a desolate wolf howl. He knew that he and Ivy were truly over. Two years later. Paris. A solo art exhibition titled "Awakening" was being held. The protagonist of the exhibition was an up-and-coming werewolf artist named "Aurora." In the center of the exhibition hall hung a massive painting: Rebirth Under the Moon. Unlike traditional melancholic art, the white wolf in this painting ran freely under vast swathes of moonlight. Its silver-white fur looked like burning white flames, full o

I said locking the bitterness I felt in a box and locking it up in the deepest part in my Brain. "But you and I, we're a team now. The strongest team. Okay?" He nodded slowly before he smiled "Can we still show him my art project if he comes home?" "Of course," I said, though I doubted Xenois would return before Ollie's bedtime. He never did. I helped Ollie set up his art project on the kitchen table—it was a picture of our pack territory made with clay, twigs, and painted rocks. He'd worked on it for days, as he diligently added werewolves one by one to represent his family.

Waverly glared at his arm, which was covered in numerous tattoos, forming a sleeve, with the Crimson Shadow sigil placed in the centre. He pulled out a sketch pad and then a pack of pencils. "I heard you like drawing and since Sawyer's been so busy with the Lunar Eclipse coming up next month, I thought I'd bring you by some entertainment." He stretched out his hand, showing a tattoo of a wolf, with its tail wrapping around each of his fingers. Waverly slowly met him in the middle and took the book and pencils. "Thanks…" she said curiously. Even though she was weary of the man in front of her, it had felt like forever since she had scratched the surface of a new sheet of paper.

His hair was wet, and he had nothing but boxers on. I had a vivid view of his tattoos. Adorning his back was a fierce-looking wolf, jaws agape and poised to seize its prey. On his chest, a heart ensnared in thorny vines bled profusely, the tendrils winding their way to a blossoming rose, seemingly coloured by the lifeblood drawn from the heart. Positioned on the left side of his chest was a strikingly fierce yet captivating eagle. Additional intricate designs adorned his arms, crafted with bold strokes of black ink. The well-defined muscles accentuated the synergy between his movements and the artistic lines. I found myself pondering about the talented artist behind these captivating creatio