FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, FULL-VIEW PLZKTHNX0rZ!!!1

I don't usually post my schoolwork, mostly because I don't much like any of it, but I think I'd like to share this one, if I may ^_^

For our Traditional Animation class, we were assigned to create a character, which we would then create a macquette (clay model) of for use as reference in the upcoming walk cycle assignment. This is what I came up with, my version of the Loch Ness monster. Och, I felt it was expected of me

In any case, I'm fairly happy with it, though I must address a few flaws: I realise the Braveheart facepaint does not include a white stripe and that that area is left blank, but Ness's complxion is so dark, it really wouldn't work to have just his skin showing through. The tartan is also all wrong. I'd intended to replicate the MacGregor clan tartan, alas, I've painted a good lot of this in the wee hours of the morning, a timeframe in which my little brain is quite subject to poopiness. We'll just pretend it's a generic, non-specific tartan, shall we? Lastly, the question of holding the bagpipes is addressed in the story below. I modeled it that way because the pipes simply didn't work in front, over the shoulder where they should be. They wouldn't fit. Alas, I was forced to poisition them behind his arm.

Many thanks to Clint and Jack for the generous donation of the chain, as well as the wire with which to make the armature. Couldn't have done it without you, lads ^_^ ::huggs::

Interesting bit of trivia; The only well-lit place in our flat with a blank white wall for a background is our tiny matchbox of a kitchen, so I had to hunker down on my stomach on the kitchen floor (which is quite grody, as you can probably tell) to photograph him. Many thanks also to Tiff for the use of your digital camera ^_^ ::huggs as well::

. . . Ah yes, and our character also has to have a story behind him/her/it. This is what I wrote for class:

Young Master Ness MacLoch, a fantastical reptilian was born and raised in the wilds of Inverness in the Scottish Highlands. His kind prefers the shelter of the wooded wilderness and is mostly an aquatic sort, preferring to reside and dwell within dashing distance of water.

He, himself was a rebellious laddie from the start and despite discouragement from his peace-loving vegan for a father and his gentle mother who enjoys the blissful quiet of her weekly knitting circle, he developed a fighter’s spirit and a keenness for the bagpipes. His species is naturally equipped with a massive lung capacity for the deep diving they engage in to procure food, and Ness quickly realised that he was naturally equipped for piping and was determined to see this potential lived up to.

In his early teens, Ness quickly grew bored with his pastoral existence. One day, he packed up his pipes, took to the lake and embarked upon a long quest. Southward bound, he hoped to reach England in order to give Margaret Thatcher a piece of his mind.

However noble and heroic his efforts, Ness is not without his flaws. Adjacent with his lust for adventure lies a store of arrogance and haste. He is self-taught on the bagpipes, having refused the help of a teacher and while he can play well enough, he never learned the correct way of holding them. In addition, he believes he is too good for maps and that the greatness in his destiny will lead him. This was especially evident in his most memorable appearance where he arrived at Fort Augustus, thinking he had reached England. The collective jaw of everyone present dropped in a moment of perfect drama as Ness emerged from the water, sporting the tartan and war paint of his ancestry and leading an army of his kindred, playing, “Blue Bonnets Over The Border.”

Today, Ness’s existence is shrouded in mystery. Some say that his pigheadedness lead him all the way out to the ocean where he still remains to this day, hopelessly lost at sea.. Another rumour persists that he actually made it to his destination in secret, keeping a low profile. One alleged witness claims to have seen him concealing himself with a trenchcoat, only to cast his disguise off and charge at Thatcher’s door like a battering ram with a mighty battle cry of “Russell Harty!” Or perhaps he has converted to a much quieter existence, as one Amelia Nesbitt, 60, of Wales claims (she suspects him and his fellows of attempting to infiltrate her WI* meetings on more than one occasion).

We will continue to follow his story and keep you posted as sightings continue.

*For non-UKers, the WI is the Women's Institute, which is basically a little club of sorts for the older womenfolk. Knitting, jumble sales, recipe-swappage, and basically the British equivalent of Tupperware parties