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Description
Actual assignment for English: Pretend you are a Science-Fiction Author. Create a creature and draw it.

...EE-HEE-HEE *is totally super-happy about this*

So... I decided to draw something macabre. Because creepy-zombie-robo-dragons are fuuuunnn...

EDIT: Wrote up a weird prosey description thingy, because I was supposed to for class.

Golems: simple, pseudo-intellegent machines, animate, but not alive. Basic amalgamations of clay and metal and science. Golems were designed to be mindess, mechanical… following any order they are given without tiring or objecting.

With the Geardragon, something went wrong.

There is a reason golems are made of metal. Metal isn’t aware, and metal doesn’t remember.
There is a reason golems aren’t made of bone. The problem with bone is that bone was once alive. And bone remembers. Bone remembers that form defines function, and that function defines form, and that it had a form and a function and life. And, if you re-animate it, bone will remember, and bone will act, and bone will try to live.
The problem with mixing metal and bone and movement is that now-dead and never-alive are quite different, and do not mix.

And with the Geardragon, something went wrong.

It was born, if you can call it that, in a laboratory far outside a large city. The name of the city doesn’t matter; it has long since crumbled. The bones of a dead dragon, new, fresh, stinking, with bits of dry, putrid meat and tendon still clinging to the skeleton, stood, assembled and articulated in the middle of the floor. It was a gruesome thing: rank and rottenly organic flesh and cold, dangerous steel plating. Its parents, its creators, crowded around it, hooking wires and running tubes of complicated chemicals.
One of them threw the switch.

The Geardragon moved.

The first thing it knew was pain. It was unnatural, again-living bones and newly-living iron straining and warring and burning. It screamed, and the sound was horrible and metallic and oh too alive, metal on metal, an animal in fatal pain. Wild, sickly green light flared in empty eye sockets, energy slamming up and down the organicartifical parody of a body.
It was made to kill and the metal knew how to kill; it was in pain, and the bones remembered pain. And the energy and the pain and the killing power all converged in the empty, echoing skull and something went click and the light stopped flaing and concentrated in the eye sockets.

The Geardragon stopped screaming and lunged.

Description
Actual assignment for English: Pretend you are a Science-Fiction Author. Create a creature and draw it.

...EE-HEE-HEE *is totally super-happy about this*

So... I decided to draw something macabre. Because creepy-zombie-robo-dragons are fuuuunnn...

EDIT: Wrote up a weird prosey description thingy, because I was supposed to for class.

Golems: simple, pseudo-intellegent machines, animate, but not alive. Basic amalgamations of clay and metal and science. Golems were designed to be mindess, mechanical… following any order they are given without tiring or objecting.

With the Geardragon, something went wrong.

There is a reason golems are made of metal. Metal isn’t aware, and metal doesn’t remember.
There is a reason golems aren’t made of bone. The problem with bone is that bone was once alive. And bone remembers. Bone remembers that form defines function, and that function defines form, and that it had a form and a function and life. And, if you re-animate it, bone will remember, and bone will act, and bone will try to live.
The problem with mixing metal and bone and movement is that now-dead and never-alive are quite different, and do not mix.

And with the Geardragon, something went wrong.

It was born, if you can call it that, in a laboratory far outside a large city. The name of the city doesn’t matter; it has long since crumbled. The bones of a dead dragon, new, fresh, stinking, with bits of dry, putrid meat and tendon still clinging to the skeleton, stood, assembled and articulated in the middle of the floor. It was a gruesome thing: rank and rottenly organic flesh and cold, dangerous steel plating. Its parents, its creators, crowded around it, hooking wires and running tubes of complicated chemicals.
One of them threw the switch.

The Geardragon moved.

The first thing it knew was pain. It was unnatural, again-living bones and newly-living iron straining and warring and burning. It screamed, and the sound was horrible and metallic and oh too alive, metal on metal, an animal in fatal pain. Wild, sickly green light flared in empty eye sockets, energy slamming up and down the organicartifical parody of a body.
It was made to kill and the metal knew how to kill; it was in pain, and the bones remembered pain. And the energy and the pain and the killing power all converged in the empty, echoing skull and something went click and the light stopped flaing and concentrated in the eye sockets.

The Geardragon stopped screaming and lunged.