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sciencevsart
Call us Science.
Artist | Hobbyist | Traditional Art
Malaysia




Banner by :iconsolidmars: after we won :iconinsomniaplague:'s contest. Do check out their wonderful pages.

Hello. Thanks for visiting, even if it is by accident.

We like Warhammer 40,000, video games, Dragon Nest, anime, original characters and some other stuff. Traditional art is our mainstay, but we're dabbling in the digital realm as well. Also some writing and poetry, because why not.

Sometimes we say things we don't mean. Please forgive us.

We don't know anyone on Deviantart in real life. Then again, real life doesn't have as many friends.

I just know it by 1FoxyladyDisconnected Stamp by SparklyDest'Notes make me feel special' stamp by Synfull

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Life can be hard. End it well.

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Commissions

Black and White Pen/Pencil Drawings
DarkMinster versus Commissar Fangirl by sciencevsart
Vangar Shriek - Wrath by sciencevsart
Look At All The Fucks I Give by sciencevsart
Eight-Ball - Anger Management by sciencevsart
Aikobo by sciencevsart
Darkminster - Power by sciencevsart
Dibs on drawing science fiction characters.

You get a free hug if it's an epic battle scene. Me likey epic battle scenes. Give me as many details as possible, and I will endeavour to make it.

Also, no one has ever considered my stuff good enough to pay for, ever, so you get the dubious honour of being the first. Which you won't, because there's no one reading this anyway.

Activity


Somnolus Ascendant by sciencevsart
Somnolus Ascendant
Rework of this guy, now more badass than ever. Sorry for the lack of detailing ;_; in this RP, he is supposed to be under-equipped and all. Less purity seals, less ammo packs, no mono-molecular combat knife, no Mechanicus scanners.

Still kicking all the ass, though.
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Surprise Motherfuckers by sciencevsart
Surprise Motherfuckers
Done for an RP! Old Somnolus is back and EVEN MORE PISSED OFF THAN BEFORE!


See more at:
thealfalegion.proboards.com/
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Science by sciencevsart
Science
One of the many forays into the style of anime. 

If only it was accurate.

Disclaimer: May vary from real life. Avoid contact with eyes. Avoid prolonged exposure to sunlight. Avoid extreme temperatures and store in a cool, humid place. May require maintenance in the form of chocolate and video games. If sudden reaction resembling tantrums or mood swings, obtain medication and/or safety blanket. If condition persists, consult nearest mental health professional. Batteries not included.
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Warhammer 40,000 - Six Impossible Things by sciencevsart
Warhammer 40,000 - Six Impossible Things
++Ever drifting down the stream — Lingering in the golden gleam ++

++Life, what is it but a dream?++


'You should learn not to make personal remarks,' Sara said with some severity; 'it's very rude.'

The Magos twitched and raised his head at this, and Sara thought she saw a flicker of lights in the shadow that was his head; but all he said was, ++Why is a raven like a writing-desk?++

'What is a raven?' thought Sara. 'Anyway, at least he's reacting — I think I can guess that,' she added aloud.

'Do you mean that you think know what the answer is?' said Katie.

'Yup,' said Sara.

'Then you should say what you mean,' Katie went on, raising an eyebrow.

'I do,' Sara hastily replied; 'at least — at least I mean what I say — that's the same thing, you know.'

++No, it's not, apprentice++ said the Magos. ++You might just as well say that "I see what I eat" is the same thing as "I eat what I see"++

'You might just as well say,' added Doma reluctantly, 'that "I like what I get" is the same thing as "I get what I like".'

'You might just as well say,' whispered Kyra, whose soft, quiet smile never faded, 'that "I breathe when I sleep" is the same thing as "I sleep when I breathe".'

++Most of you do, though++ said the Magos, and here the conversation dropped, and the party sat silent for a minute, while Sara tried to figure out what ravens were.





For :icongazzz477: and :iconjoeofthemasks:

Story copied nearly word-for-word from Through the Looking-Glass, a wonderful story that everyone with a fondness for nonsense must read.

Below, left to right: Sara, Katie and Plato the servo-skull, Kyra, Doma, and the Tech-Magos 85.

Above: Ally


In the grim darkness of the far future, there is only the best butter, you know.

:iconsinclairsabsolution:
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Day 187: Wandering about the wastes. A land full of parched earth, broken promises and forgotten dreams. Vultures swirl about my head, waiting for a feast, croaking their mournful song about the inevitability of entropy. Entropy... all things, all matter in the universe falls to it. Heat, light, matter, aspirations, spirit. All destined for darkness and nothingness. As the relentless sun burns my skin off, I curse the lives, the obligations, and the responsibilities of us, as humans bound by oppressive rules, fall prey to. I await here in this forsaken world every day, waiting, waiting, waiting never-endingly. There are no more tears to weep, no more gods to pray to, no more voice to scream with. There is nothing but the will to scrawl, and scrawl I do.

The bare soil, sucked clean of life by scorching heat, crumbles to dust under my stylus. It is but a scavenged bone of a long-dead beast, perhaps even a human, but its death, at the very least, has given me some solace. With this brittle tool I begin my work.

Stories, born from unknown places within my mind, spring forth. There is no one to see them. No one to laugh at their foolish optimism, no raised eyebrows or politely-phrased criticism, no corrections of its thirst-distorted spelling. Stories about fallen lords, forgotten heroes, false charms; tales of greatness and nobility, of boundless cruelty, of the mundane lives of the billions and billions of humans going through a cycle, gone in a flash, with nothing but a whispered song and sometimes not even that. As I write, the stories are become longer and longer and longer. Sentences become paragraphs. Names become lineages and essays become novels, their pages strewn haphazardly across cracked earth. There is no limit but the horizon and the afternoon eye. After a period of time, I stand on bloodless legs to trek forward, all the way to the beginning of my journey, to begin a new page somehow determined by a voice. It could be the vultures'. I do not know. It is a strange certainty that I move on to a new story, a new chapter, streaked across the land divided by invisible lines.

Night does not fall. It never falls in this place. Here, there is nothing but a sizzling miasma of daze, blurring my vision as if the ground itself was cooking, which it does to my feet. I ignore the pain. Write. Write. Write. Dream. Dream. Dream. Imagine. Imagine. Imagine. With those things repeated ad infinitum in my senseless head, the agonies of peeling skin and scabbed wounds are delayed - perhaps until there is no strength left in my dying hands, no more life-blood to blurt out my brains final, chaotic thoughts, I will keep writing. It is my personal rapture, a drug-induced high, an escape from the torture of waiting, waiting, waiting.

More stories pour from my eyes and ears, swirling into unknowable shapes around my broken wrists, forming the words laid out on the dusty earth. Are these hallucinations? No, they are real, almost as real as the faces around me, laughing, crying, singing, cursing and mumbling to themselves. Half-remembered faces dredged up from the wastelands of memory. They tickle the back of my mind with old folktales and tired, happy nights of words. Songs of life and love and pain and horrible deaths; their mouths move silently and loudly at the same time, words in languages I never knew I knew vomit forth and through my arms and fingers and stylus. The bone in my palm vibrates from the sheer volume of stories being forced through it. Patience, I say. Patience, for your time will come. They do not stop. The heat obliterates the last notion of sensation within my hand. They are still not stopping. There are many more of them just swimming about, waiting for their turn to be imprinted upon the soil.

It feels like aeons have passed. What is an aeon? Is it a legitimate unit of time-measurement, like a year, a day, a second? It is not important. What is important is that no spot of land in this lonely land be uncovered with text. I keep writing. Sad stories, now. Stories about lost love and, again, death. There is no shortage of death in this world. Grief makes us, builds us like clay. As if in agreement, the stylus cracks off at the end, making it shorter than it already was to begin with. Ignore. The faces snicker as one. Ignore. There is no time to be lost. The sun is not moving, but the clock within us does not care for suns or planets or galaxies, only time.

Sad stories seem to have a lot of rain in them. That would probably be an improvement here in this barren hole. Rain brings darkness and water, associated with tears, mourning, and the blotting out of joy. Strangely enough, some of us like rain. It is cool and windy and washes away the sins of the earth, clearing the air for a new beginning. Sad stories are hard to imagine on a sunny, bright day, with birds chirping and breezes laughing. Is a vulture a bird? They caw a little in response. Evidently, they do not seem to rest as well. Perhaps they are flying in shifts, with a different set taking over the previous few to go and rest somewhere far off in the distance. There are no mountains, no dead trees, no rocks, only me and this bone and a land of madness-induced text.

Is it possible to write a funny story here, in this desolate world? I try. The faces coalesce and laugh, not at the bad humour, but at my pathetic attempts at it. Not working. I keep trying. Why erase the past when one can write the future? And the future is about silliness, fun, misunderstandings, stupidity in the face of seriousness, like being stranded in the middle of an empty, lifeless hell. There is something inherently funny about being on the verge of losing one's mind, and that is only visible after actually losing said mind. You don't understand these jokes, I tell the faces. They are too sophisticated for you. Only highly-educated folks will get it, like pigeons and bumblebees and certain subspecies of fish. None of which are here. The vultures are too high to read it. Or are they? Perhaps they are scanning my stories from above, judging them by literary quality and wit? Or are they just waiting for me to drop dead, so that my desiccated bones will become the next unfortunate's stylus?

It is adventure time. Distant lands, unknown worlds, new peoples of a thousand new planets, wonders and horrors threatening to overcome the limits of human sanity. Characters have names, lives, loves, hatreds, secrets, prejudices - they take it wherever they go and inevitably thread over to each other's lives. Glorious adventure! The dangers of verdant forests, boiling gas-worlds, oxygenless lands, suspicious natives, treasures worth a fortune, civilisations buried beneath extinction-level events. Beautiful histories of planets we will never know! If one world, ours, could contain billions upon billions of stories of those who lived and have ever lived and will live, imagine what a thousand, a hundred thousand, ten hundred thousand worlds have to offer! Are they staring at us right now through their telescopes, waiting for light from our age to reach them just as we await the light bouncing off their worlds to reach ours? Are they now only seeing life begin its tentative steps on our planet? The evolution of our race? Or maybe even the formation of the planet from the broken cores of dead suns? There is no end to the infinite abyss that is the universe.

Just as... just as there is no end to this land of broken dreams.

It is done.

The stylus falls. My hand is a wreck of flesh and bone, torn to mangled pieces. I do not feel it yet, lost in the unbridled joy of my work, complete.

The land is an endless expanse of words. Stories, hundred and hundreds of them, scattered across it in uneven sections; acres of lives, fields of history, plateaus of origin. There is not a visible inch not dominated by the streams of imagination. The faces have gone, having disgorged their fill and abandoned me to die before this masterpiece, I daresay. Truly, it will never be surpassed. Even the sun, shining down upon - 

Wait. The sun. I look up and fall agape in horror. 

The vultures have gone. The sun as well, hidden behind thick veils of clouds as black as a human heart. They move swiftly and surely over my treasured land of stories. No! No, no, no, no, no! As the grey shadows slide over my precious words, my dying voice hisses free, screeching its defiance uselessly at the heavens. No! It cannot end like this. My life, spent on this land, only to be washed away? Did my writing of the rains cause it to come, like a self-fulfilling prophecy of old tragedy? What great sins have I committed? What sadistic god did this? A low thunderclap fills my shattering heart with dread and realisation: I brought this upon myself, coming here to this place, waiting for hope that would never come, using the last dregs of my life to toil on a land that hated me with all its heart. I fall to my knees and feel them break. 

Water falls softly at first, pattering the ground and darkening it with drops of dew, but it was only the beginning. No, cruel fate did not do things halfway. It comes out of the blue, crashing down upon the soil; I cannot bear to look at the mud, the slush destroying my writing, all the effort and toil gone in a drawn-out instant of torment. As if in glee, the rain pours even harder down onto the land, turning the barren dust into a blasted hellscape of wet dirt that moved like the tide, flowing past my destroyed legs. The water fills, but does not invigorate, my body and gives me tears to weep, voice to holler, and pain to feel again. All the wounds on my body reopen and I vaguely feel the warm blood leaking through punctured scabs, rinsed clean away by the merciless fall. 

My eyes open after what seems like an eternity. The land is cleared of any trace of my work, my great work, my life and dreams and hopes and fears, all gone. All the stories of countless different people, of innumerable worlds and universes of fantasy and reality, spread across the limitless imagination of a mind, all gone. The faces laugh and laugh and laugh. The rain keeps coming, turning the ground into a livid mess of roiling mud. It does not end. It will never end. There is no hope here, no sliver of light in the darkness. Why did I return? Why did I come to this place? Why did this happen to me? Why? Why? Why? Death is preferable to this. Peaceful. Unknowing. I collapse forward, the side of my face both welcoming and abhorring the sucking wetness pulling at its skin. The pain overcomes everything else. Black dots, only some of them being dirt, fill my vision like paper being burned slowly over an open flame. There is nothing but pain here. Pain, so much of it, both outside and inside, hot and cold, alive and dead. It is better to die. To die is to escape, to be free of the shackles and misery of living. To lay down and die in the cold rain, surrounded by the wet ashes of your life's work, to drown in an all-consuming mire of increasingly hungry sludge: it is a small comfort, to know I will never feel such pain again. My bones will lay here, unknown, forever.

I welcome it with joy.













Day 188: Wandering about the wastes. A land full of parched earth, broken promises and forgotten dreams. Vultures swirl about my head, waiting for a feast, croaking their mournful song about the inevitability of entropy. Entropy... all things, all matter in the universe falls to it. Heat, light, matter, aspirations, spirit. All destined for darkness and nothingness. As the relentless sun burns my skin off, I curse the lives, the obligations, and the responsibilities of us, as humans bound by oppressive rules, fall prey to. I await here in this forsaken world every day, waiting, waiting, waiting never-endingly. There are no more tears to weep, no more gods to pray to, no more voice to scream with. There is nothing but the will to scrawl, and scrawl I do.
Lucid Dream No. 1: Bone
The result.

There is nothing.
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:iconrecklesscharge:
RecklessCharge Featured By Owner Dec 9, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Happy birthday, hope all goes your way today
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:iconsciencevsart:
sciencevsart Featured By Owner Dec 10, 2014  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
It didn't, but screw that. 

Thank you.
Reply
:icongazzz477:
gazzz477 Featured By Owner Dec 9, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Happy birthday man, hope you have a great one
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:iconsciencevsart:
sciencevsart Featured By Owner Dec 9, 2014  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Danke~
Reply
:icongazzz477:
gazzz477 Featured By Owner Dec 9, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
No problem man
Reply
:icon8ryuu8:
8Ryuu8 Featured By Owner Dec 9, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Hey, science! I wish you very happy birthday and tons of inspiration and motivation for your future works!
Let this year be even more awesome than the previous!! :heart: 
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:iconsciencevsart:
sciencevsart Featured By Owner Dec 9, 2014  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Hopefully~

Miss you and your dragons, though~
Reply
:iconsallar47:
Sallar47 Featured By Owner Dec 9, 2014  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Happy Birthdayy! Bear Emoticon 
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:iconsciencevsart:
sciencevsart Featured By Owner Dec 9, 2014  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Oooohhh, you're alive~

Thank you~
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:iconsallar47:
Sallar47 Featured By Owner Dec 10, 2014  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Hahah I ammm but only barely! 
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:iconsciencevsart:
sciencevsart Featured By Owner Dec 10, 2014  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Do you need.... a boost?
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(1 Reply)
:iconpanda-prodigy:
Panda-Prodigy Featured By Owner Dec 9, 2014  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Happy birthday~
Reply
:iconsciencevsart:
sciencevsart Featured By Owner Dec 9, 2014  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Arigato, senpai~

must make a gift for senpai
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:iconpanda-prodigy:
Panda-Prodigy Featured By Owner Dec 10, 2014  Hobbyist Digital Artist
dawwww, you dont need to. =D
:iconyuihugplz:
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:iconworldoftanks:
WorldofTanks Featured By Owner Dec 9, 2014
Happy Birthday :) 
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