Gee, I dunno. DA doesn't do what you do best. Still haven't found a way to upload music. But then, I'm a cartoonist, and I don't look very hard for things like that.
If you have the files posted, you can simply post a portrait and then a link to an area where people can listen to it in the description of the portrait. Cross-linking to stuff on FA might be acceptable, but a bit unethical. Youtube should be just fine, though.
--
"Time flies like the wind. Fruit flies like bananas."
Well, originally I remember wanting a piece for Jewel Vixens that was heavy on funk and jazz, but seeing as how your strengths seem to be in a more symphonic realm with a bit of a new age bent, I did have another idea. In exchange I'd gladly draw and color an illustration for you, if there's something you're looking for.
I've been working off and on on a strategy game concept and/or comic called "Armies of Alden", and I think it would be special to support it with an anthem or a march of sorts. The setting of the story is somewhat dark, so the music should reflect the sort of uncertainty, tension, and excitement of battle. If you need details or a sample of writing to capture the right atmosphere of the story, please let me know.
--
"Time flies like the wind. Fruit flies like bananas."
Awesome. Sounds right up my alley. As for wanting something in return, maybe just something posey with Fox and his shades... I'll need to think about it.
But sure, if you can point me with some references, then I can build up an "image" for the soundtrack ^_^
Here you go- for your reading leisure... it's a bit long, at two pages typed, single-spaced, size 12.
Excerpt from "Arctic Front"
A palpable fear ran through the lines, and through every soldier’s veins. Wolves at the door, everywhere and nowhere at once, ran through the abyss of the snowy woods, their choices cunning, their targets exact. Every minute proffered a fireball, a burnt offering to the sky, carefully timed raids on our precious anti tank positions. The northern front was open, and bleeding. The storm packs had come.
Our own canines went out in response to these raids, as reprisal, only to be blasted to bits and scattered by camouflaged Ursos battle tanks, their musteline crews recklessly chattering away at our front lines with machine guns and cannons, piercing the darkness. Forced to retreat, the storm packs, with their cleavers and their heavy rifles cut them down in the confusion. The wind was at our backs, drifting right into the noses of the enemy in front of us, who could surely smell our fear, our inexperience. The one thing they couldn’t smell, however, was our geography.
“Hey! Ammo!”, a voice called out in the darkness, the crackle of gravel beneath, a moving vehicle.
“Here, for the M.G.,” the voice called, I extended my paws, felt the weight of a box, worked my fingers across a belt of ammunition.
“But we need magazines, for rifles. We’ve got all of 90 shots per trooper, we need more!”
“Take it, bud, it’s what I’ve got. I’ll make another round. Good luck.”
I hadn’t noticed it, but the truck had stopped for me. The crackle sounded again, the same call for ammo, its faint tail lights coursing down the mountain highway.
After finding a machine gunner in the chaos and the darkness, and depositing the ammunition, I sniffed my way back to my field den, sought the scents of my squad mates. Our defensive position was along our main supply route, hastily gouged into the hillside that formed the foundation of the highway. A steep grade led up to the roadside, with even steeper terrain to either side, providing an ideal choke point. So much, however, was still unclear. We had no knowledge of our troop strength, no idea what damage we’d inflicted on the enemy, or what their order of battle was. All we knew was that they were coming, that they had tanks, and that we didn’t.
More footsteps, this time from the woods. Like machines, we pointed our rifles into the sound, careful not to jab each other with our two-foot long bayonets. There was distinct canine panting; wolves. Were they ours, or theirs?
“Flea!”
“Bag!” A breathless voice responded. We lowered our weaposn.
“Maker, oh maker! Get us out of here!”
“Hey, you got rifle mags?” I called out to the retreating troops.
“Kenal, take my whole rig, it’s just weighing me down!”
“Thanks.”
“Here, more for ya,” another voice.
“Thank you.”
“One more.”
“Thanks. Hey, that’s plenty, take the rest to our CP, just down the line to your right.”
“Will do. Hey, you guys had better get out of here, they’re gonna kill us all, just run!”
“Just get to the rear, we’ll have a crack at ‘em.”
“Who are you guys, anyway?”
“1102nd Arctic rifle regiment, Company C Vulpine.”
“Maker, you’re just foxes? You’re standing up to their wolves and bears?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Lunatics!”
“Yeah, I guess you could say that. Run along, now.”
The trooper took off into the woods. Some of the retreating soldiers set down on our defensive line, others simply moved through. The sporadic shooting grew again, this time into a rolling battle. Shouting pierced the woods, and every fox in the company had their ears on end, eyes wide open, peering into the woods through the sights of their assault rifles. Soldiers continued to stream out of the woods at a full pace, then the stream stopped.
“Foxes! We won’t get a warning! No artillery, no paraflare! As soon as you see movement down there, you shoot!” a sergeant in another field den shouted. My squad mate and I poked out heads out of our little foxhole, our white faces concealing the earthen mound by our dugout. We opened the musette bags from the allied soldiers, dumping ammunition at our feet and ration tins, just in case the battle lasted long enough for us to need them. Our ears searched the darkness, but the wind stayed in favor of the enemy, giving them time to scent us out.
The biting cold of the late winter night started seeping through to my fingers, but I kept a steady aim, listening more than looking, searching more than aiming. The stillness and tension allowed the cold to creep in under my coat, a shiver creeping up my spine and making my legs into jelly. I shuffled a bit and the cold temporarily skulked off.
Then, a low shuffle in the woods, an occasional ‘uff-puff-puff’, perhaps fifty yards ahead of us. We all knew they were there, but we simply couldn’t see them, the sky conspiring against us with no moon and no starlight. As they crept closer, they grew careless, breaking into a shuffle, making themselves clearly audible, but they still weren’t visible! We were ready to break, to open fire, until the order came.
“Strobe grenades, now! Throw ‘em!”
Almost instinctively, every man down the line who had an ultraviolet strobe grenade primed and lobbed it down the hill. The resultant flashes of ultraviolet light would expose the eyes of every prowler as they moved, providing excellent targets at the expense of exposing our own positions, but now was different than before. We had the high ground, and unlike other troops, we knew how and where to dig in.
“Contact! Post four! Post four!”
Down the line about fifty yards, the Ursidanian line had gotten so close to our own that they were just a quick burst away, but in an instant, every rifle in the company fired in their direction, eliminating one of their platoons in a matter of seconds. The wolves went on the warpath now, charging openly, weapons firing erratically, grenades in the air. Their resounding battle cry sent a chill down our spines, only confirming what we saw with our own eyes: hundreds upon hundreds of blinking yellow eyes, stretching out into the abyss of the woods before us.
--
"Time flies like the wind. Fruit flies like bananas."
Signing on :P
Devious Comments
--
Don't Listen... Feel.
--
"Time flies like the wind. Fruit flies like bananas."
--
"Time flies like the wind. Fruit flies like bananas."
--
Don't Listen... Feel.
I've been working off and on on a strategy game concept and/or comic called "Armies of Alden", and I think it would be special to support it with an anthem or a march of sorts. The setting of the story is somewhat dark, so the music should reflect the sort of uncertainty, tension, and excitement of battle. If you need details or a sample of writing to capture the right atmosphere of the story, please let me know.
--
"Time flies like the wind. Fruit flies like bananas."
But sure, if you can point me with some references, then I can build up an "image" for the soundtrack ^_^
--
Don't Listen... Feel.
Excerpt from "Arctic Front"
A palpable fear ran through the lines, and through every soldier’s veins. Wolves at the door, everywhere and nowhere at once, ran through the abyss of the snowy woods, their choices cunning, their targets exact. Every minute proffered a fireball, a burnt offering to the sky, carefully timed raids on our precious anti tank positions. The northern front was open, and bleeding. The storm packs had come.
Our own canines went out in response to these raids, as reprisal, only to be blasted to bits and scattered by camouflaged Ursos battle tanks, their musteline crews recklessly chattering away at our front lines with machine guns and cannons, piercing the darkness. Forced to retreat, the storm packs, with their cleavers and their heavy rifles cut them down in the confusion. The wind was at our backs, drifting right into the noses of the enemy in front of us, who could surely smell our fear, our inexperience. The one thing they couldn’t smell, however, was our geography.
“Hey! Ammo!”, a voice called out in the darkness, the crackle of gravel beneath, a moving vehicle.
“Here, for the M.G.,” the voice called, I extended my paws, felt the weight of a box, worked my fingers across a belt of ammunition.
“But we need magazines, for rifles. We’ve got all of 90 shots per trooper, we need more!”
“Take it, bud, it’s what I’ve got. I’ll make another round. Good luck.”
I hadn’t noticed it, but the truck had stopped for me. The crackle sounded again, the same call for ammo, its faint tail lights coursing down the mountain highway.
After finding a machine gunner in the chaos and the darkness, and depositing the ammunition, I sniffed my way back to my field den, sought the scents of my squad mates. Our defensive position was along our main supply route, hastily gouged into the hillside that formed the foundation of the highway. A steep grade led up to the roadside, with even steeper terrain to either side, providing an ideal choke point. So much, however, was still unclear. We had no knowledge of our troop strength, no idea what damage we’d inflicted on the enemy, or what their order of battle was. All we knew was that they were coming, that they had tanks, and that we didn’t.
More footsteps, this time from the woods. Like machines, we pointed our rifles into the sound, careful not to jab each other with our two-foot long bayonets. There was distinct canine panting; wolves. Were they ours, or theirs?
“Flea!”
“Bag!” A breathless voice responded. We lowered our weaposn.
“Maker, oh maker! Get us out of here!”
“Hey, you got rifle mags?” I called out to the retreating troops.
“Kenal, take my whole rig, it’s just weighing me down!”
“Thanks.”
“Here, more for ya,” another voice.
“Thank you.”
“One more.”
“Thanks. Hey, that’s plenty, take the rest to our CP, just down the line to your right.”
“Will do. Hey, you guys had better get out of here, they’re gonna kill us all, just run!”
“Just get to the rear, we’ll have a crack at ‘em.”
“Who are you guys, anyway?”
“1102nd Arctic rifle regiment, Company C Vulpine.”
“Maker, you’re just foxes? You’re standing up to their wolves and bears?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Lunatics!”
“Yeah, I guess you could say that. Run along, now.”
The trooper took off into the woods. Some of the retreating soldiers set down on our defensive line, others simply moved through. The sporadic shooting grew again, this time into a rolling battle. Shouting pierced the woods, and every fox in the company had their ears on end, eyes wide open, peering into the woods through the sights of their assault rifles. Soldiers continued to stream out of the woods at a full pace, then the stream stopped.
“Foxes! We won’t get a warning! No artillery, no paraflare! As soon as you see movement down there, you shoot!” a sergeant in another field den shouted. My squad mate and I poked out heads out of our little foxhole, our white faces concealing the earthen mound by our dugout. We opened the musette bags from the allied soldiers, dumping ammunition at our feet and ration tins, just in case the battle lasted long enough for us to need them. Our ears searched the darkness, but the wind stayed in favor of the enemy, giving them time to scent us out.
The biting cold of the late winter night started seeping through to my fingers, but I kept a steady aim, listening more than looking, searching more than aiming. The stillness and tension allowed the cold to creep in under my coat, a shiver creeping up my spine and making my legs into jelly. I shuffled a bit and the cold temporarily skulked off.
Then, a low shuffle in the woods, an occasional ‘
“Strobe grenades, now! Throw ‘em!”
Almost instinctively, every man down the line who had an ultraviolet strobe grenade primed and lobbed it down the hill. The resultant flashes of ultraviolet light would expose the eyes of every prowler as they moved, providing excellent targets at the expense of exposing our own positions, but now was different than before. We had the high ground, and unlike other troops, we knew how and where to dig in.
“Contact! Post four! Post four!”
Down the line about fifty yards, the Ursidanian line had gotten so close to our own that they were just a quick burst away, but in an instant, every rifle in the company fired in their direction, eliminating one of their platoons in a matter of seconds. The wolves went on the warpath now, charging openly, weapons firing erratically, grenades in the air. Their resounding battle cry sent a chill down our spines, only confirming what we saw with our own eyes: hundreds upon hundreds of blinking yellow eyes, stretching out into the abyss of the woods before us.
--
"Time flies like the wind. Fruit flies like bananas."
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