Unsuspecting Thing

Process Diary

Two of my species in one frame, and neither of them knows about the other. The Ravolisk is the big one, curled into a C against the pale stone, dark purple body with that serrated blue crest running the length of its back and spilling off the end into something that flows more than it ends. It has four small eyes and all four of them are yellow and open. That is the important part: the Ravolisk does not fly. It has no wing in this drawing and it never will — it glides, which is a different animal entirely. A glide is a decision made once and then lived with, and everything about the way it holds itself against the wall says it is waiting on the right height. The Havier above it is the unsuspecting thing of the title: greyer, smaller, striped, ears up, fangs out for no reason, tail hanging over the ledge like it owns the place. It has not looked down. The dark closes in at the top and bottom of the frame so the rock stays the only lit thing in the world, and off to the right there is one burnt-orange sliver of something else — another wall, another ledge, another creature maybe. I drew the Ravolisk first and gave it every advantage: size, teeth it does not need to show, and eyes that do not close. Then I put the small one above it and let it be careless, because the piece is not about the predator. It is about the ten seconds before anything happens, which is the only part of the hunt that is ever kind.