We finished this new piece for  Caervec, it is a collaborative idea - featuring Ing, our Sualokin character, and Yin, Caervec's sahash. This art is not a canon line of the Yin's story (which is good for Yin!), it was just a 'what if' kind of thing. But Caervec wrote a dark, spooky text for it anyway... and you can find it below!
PS
Another art with this characters: https://www.furaffinity.net/view/26862873/

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This is some part of Douhai. It has to be. Like a nightmare I can't wake up from...
Worse came to worst, it seems. I don't know how, but that thing found us. It was indescribable what came of us after that. They're gone, they're all gone, I'm certain of it. Dead before we could think, and for some reason I can't understand, I'm still here. Still alive. Why? Spirited away to some strange and irredeemable place, a place I can't help but feel should not exist. The boughs of a tree, leaves surrounding everything, the winding bare branches like roads that lead...nowhere? "Your clothes won't do at all, so tacky and in such poor taste." I'm given some attire that seem reminiscent of Latorian fashion. At first I hesitate, but he doesn't let that last. By the end of the day I was wearing his preferred colors. Was it a day? I can no longer tell. I have come to learn his name: "Ing". He tells me he's been waiting a long time to have a friend such as me over for a visit. Since then, I feel as if I have been among the walking dead. There is no reason to this place, I am left wandering around when he isn't immediately 'attending' me, and I am terrified of what I see here. There does not seem to be any natural entrance or exit, only endless circles of branches that twist together. No ladder. No stairwell. Nothing. I can barely find the edges of the paths and when I look down I see nothing but mist. There is little concept of time here, but if my body is to be trusted -and I am not so certain it is anymore- I have fallen asleep perhaps a little more than a half-a-dozen times since I was brought here. I know not how long, but this is all I have to go on.
Every so often -I dare not say night, for the sun neither shines nor sets here- he seats me here at this table, forcing me to eat whatever this...awful stuff is. The first time I refused him. And I was amazed he let me go about my way -to nowhere, of course. The next time he was not so lenient. There were threats of an unwholesome sort, leveled against me, and I was starving by then, so I conceded. And the first few meals made me feel sick to my very core, a kind of illness no one should feel. Something is wrong. I can't eat any more. I should never have eaten any. I made a mistake. Where am I? And when I began to refuse, the lacerations began. The next time I turned away the 'food' he nearly crushed my ribcage. I fought him, but what can I do? Going for the eyes did nothing but crack those eerie lenses, those leering eyeglasses. I wish I could have done more. I remember his claws sinking into my palms as he wrestled me back to the table...so much pain, more than it should have been. "Don't be so rude," he says to me. "I do all this work cooking you a fine dinner and you don't eat a bite of it? You make a terrible house guest." A house guest. I feel more like a pet, some mangey animal dragged in for amusement. He offers me a drink, served in traditional Ayelahain carafes -he seems to have a sense for my country's fashions, for nearly all the food is similarly served, and I am deeply disturbed by his knowledge and forethought on this- and, dubiously, I take a draught of it. I haven't had water for some time, and I feel parched. But what I taste is no such refreshment. Something tacky, almost tar-like. Thick. Coppery. Blood. There's no doubt. But it's darker than any blood I've ever seen. Cloying, it takes everything in my power not to vomit as I shove the thing back into his hands. I can't take any more of this! Why am I not dead?
"Such disrespect, I won't tolerate it, drink and eat, understand?" I swat the blood-soaked hands that hold the still-writhing morsel towards me and he seems to have a crack in his patience, much to my dismay. That tail of his is much stronger than it appears -which is formidable in it's own right, I may add- and it nearly wrenches my arm from its socket as he removes the offending limb from his path. "It won't do at all. I insist you try it. Besides, you're ruining your clothes with all this blood, tsk, tsk." Something feels worse since the drink. Like my insides are bleeding, twisted up, and torn apart. Then I see it, my own blood. The old blood on his hands is red, vibrant, it's normal. But what's dripping from my own hands is wrong. Very wrong. It's not the crimson it should be, but black with only a tinge of the scarlet that it was not long ago, seeping like some kind of ink. What is this? This has to be Douhai. A nightmare. Please, let me wake up.

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Art, Ing and Shang-La setting © Lingrimm
Original Designer: Lingrimm (Yin)
Yin himself and the beautiful story © Caervec

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