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May 22 2018


Archive Restored Ringhot-You're Going Down Bitch

‘Archive Restored Ringhot: You’re Going Down Bitch – Fistic KO’.  Render by: Ringhot.  (11)
This is the full title as the DA title block doesn’t have enough slots for all the words.

Boxer fella (Sports) by Ehsartem <!-- ^TTT --> <!-- TTT$ -->

So, what’s going on here?

Simply, and dramatically this:
The older GrayHaired fistfighter has just rendered her younger BlondeHaired rival unconscious.  
She is ‘In Deed’ going down, and will be in a deep sleep before her body crashes onto the canvas covered floor of the boxing ring.
All this occurred because the older fistfighter is literally fighting to keep her man, and the younger Blonde rival is fighting to take him away from her.  And the occurrence has just been concluded.  The Blonde has lost both the fight and any chance of winning the wife’s husband.
The older wife has just destroyed that reality.  When her younger interloper regains consciousness she’ll first feel a throbbing pain to the side of her face, but it will not be as deep nor as long lasting as the humiliation of losing to an older woman, as well as the loss of the man she was fighting for.

Consequently the wife wanted to get this over as soon as possible because she knew she would run out of gas much sooner than her younger opponent.  So she planned to slam a couple of blows to her rival’s pooch and the pain to the woman’s soft underbelly would drop her protective fists.  And it worked.  
She would both ‘Seize The Day’ as well as seizing the opportunity by slamming that roundhouse left to the side of the Blonde’s jaw – Delivering a fight ending knockout blow rack her lower body.

The French have the definitive expression for this knockout of a punch: ‘Coup De Grâce’.
There are several definitions for this term, and as concerns the picture at the top of this lengthy tome is quite funny in its understatement of the situation for the about to be defeated Blonde:  ‘An action or event that serves as the culmination of a bad or deteriorating situation’.  Well, that Blonde’s deteriorating situation is just about to be concluded via her landing flat on her back onto the canvas of a boxing gym’s boxing ring’s floor.  
The accepted, and ‘In Deed’ definitive deadly term is: ‘A final blow or shot given to kill a wounded person or animal.’  In this case it need not go that far.  However that bare fist has gone far enough.
In delivering that punch to her face, as it was 'In Deed' the decisive ‘Coup De Grâce’ blow which ended both the fight and the Blonde’s quest to take away the husband of the Grayhair wife.

Moving on:
This is a long lost, but now recovered ‘Ringhot’ render.
Here's the background.  A few years ago a DA Main Site was created and titled: 'Ringhot'.  It specialized in older women, in their late 30's, to their mid 40's who fought each other in rather brutal fistfights.  The reason they would put their faces and bodies on the line to beat the stuffing out of their female rivals is moot.  What was important is the artist created some of the most astonishing, and action filled renders ever seen on DA.  I saved 6 of these pictures and started to upload them with write-ups.  However, I wasn't fast enough with my uploads because shortly thereafter he (I'm assuming it's a he) shut down his entire DA Main Site.  He/she yanked every one of those astonishing renders from his site and they were gone.  I mean without a trace.
I continued to upload what were left in my computer's memory, and in my writeups pleaded for those who had possibly saved some of those images in their computer memories to extract them and send to me.  

One did, and here it is.  He also asked that I not reveal his identity, nor his DA Site, and of course I will honor his request.  This one I know is a ‘He’.    
In the beginning, to be a bit biblical, when I started to upload those early renders I went to the ringhot DA Notes section and asked permission to upload those pictures.  I was given permission to do so, and as such commenced to do writeups and displays of the artwork.  
Since I already received the initial permission to upload any, or all, of ringhot's renders, I have determined that the artist would not be miffed if a few of his early splendid action filled works were made visual.  

Since there are no 'DA Artists Comments' available to describe what was in the artist's mind during this current 'Act Of Creation', here is what I perceive:

Full Title: ‘Archive Restored Ringhot: You’re Going Down Bitch – Fistic KO’.  
"What I see happening is the older GrayHaired fistfighter has just power punched her younger BlondeHaired rival in the jaw and she is dropping to the canvas covered boxing ring floor.
At this instant she has delivered the ‘Coup De Grâce’ blow which will end both the fight and the Blonde’s quest to take away the husband of the Grayhair wife.
In the twin sports of wrestling and boxing there is an expression called: ‘All The Marbles’, which means ‘Winner Takes All’ – Literally.
What I have perceived is these two have agreed to rent a boxing ring after closing hours from the manager of a boxing gym, in order to decide who will win ‘All The Marbles’.  In this case the marbles is the adulterer husband.  
The wife has demanded, what is euphemistically called: ‘Satisfaction’ from the Blonde usurper. In actuality it means a challenge to a duel.  Although in these modern times the challenger’s ‘Satisfaction’ is not meant as the death of the challenged, it nevertheless will be fought with bare fists against bare skin until one has been so pained that she has to give up or is rendered unconscious.  
It will be: ‘Carnal’.  
Now carnal means: ‘Of the flesh’, and can be subdivided into: ‘Carnal Knowledge’ – Which is sexual; and ‘Carnal Attack’ – Which is an attack upon the flesh.  The carnal knowledge has already occurred –Perhaps often, while the next, and final iteration of carnal will be a brutal attack upon each other’s flesh – This time singular in its outcome.

And here is the conclusion.  

Since no title was included when this picture was sent to me I felt I had to create a title that would give a modicum of description to what was happening.  The following is the reasoning for this title;
Starting with:  'Archive', because it will go into the folder which will serve as the archive of all the 'Femmma' and 'Ringhot' renders.
Next is: 'Restored, because this picture has been brought to life for all to see. Resurrected, so to speak.  
After that who did it:  'Ringhot', was the name of the DA Site.
Following with what’s happening: ‘You’re Going Down Bitch’.  That she is, and is – Meaning: ‘Down’ and ‘Bitch’.  
Concluding with her current dilemma and ultimate ending: ‘KO’.  The initials standing for: KnockOut.

The question can arise: What was the Blonde thinking which got her into this situation of being overmatched and heading toward fistic disaster.  She had youth on her side?  Was it pride?  Was it lust?
Seems it was all these, but there was something else.  A more sinister 'Else'.
And the Greeks have a word for it and it is: ‘Hubris’.  Simply, hubris is an excess of confidence.  But it can be more than that.  The ancient Greeks defined it as: ‘Excessive pride, violating the bounds set for humans by the Greek Gods.  And hubris was always punished by those Gods’.  

Thomas Wolfe wrote about hubris in a boxer.  And the following is apropos to the Blonde specifically, and boxers in general:  

‘Like an ignorant young fighter who, having never been hurt, having never tested the full strength of an immense and merciless power, having never been stung by the bitter asp of defeat, having never been made wary by a blow of incredible, unrealizable force, and who thinks in his insolence and pride that he is the measure of all things and will be triumphant in every conflict, so, now, it seemed to him he had been overtaken by disaster, and was fairly, fatally engulfed in an abyss of ruin he had not foreseen.’

Thomas Wolfe; ‘The Web And The Rock’.

What one of the greatest American writers of all time, Thomas Wolfe, wrote in that one sentence (he had a tendency to go on like that) is apropos for the Blonde.
She did not know how it would end but the youth of her hubris would ordain her to eventually be either end down on her knees, or their body flat on the boxing ring canvas – And be engulfed in an abyss of ruin she had not foreseen. This defeated fighter may be conscious of her loss, brought down to their knees by such pain that the will to continue has been pounded out of her, or sprawled out on the canvas, unconscious of her humiliating defeat.
How do I know that? In this render is the end of a fistic struggle, and the artist makes clear that this will be his intent. What is so tantalizing about this work of superb art is the artist gives no hint of how badly it will end artistically?  But end it will, and we’ll just have to wait and see (to literally see) on the direction his whim takes us as concerns what can be a most brutal ending.

However, the artistic horror is Ringhot never did a follow on picture showing its conclusion.

But he did leave a few other punchouts, and here are some examples of those superb renders by Ringhot:
Here is the visual link to a picture I titled: ‘Archive Ringhot: Setup For Her Money Shot - Female FistFighters’:  LINK:  

Mature Content

Archive:Setup For Her Money Shot-FistFighters by drewhammond
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Here is the visual link to a picture I titled: 'Archive: Avatar - Cunt Maulings DA Group Folder – CombativeWomen DA Group’:  LINK:  

Mature Content

Archive:Avatar-Cunt Maulings DA Group Folder by drewhammond
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Here is the visual link to a picture I titled: ‘Archive Restored Ringhot: Timber – Nobody’s Home KO Punch’: LINK:

Mature Content

Archive Restored Ringhot:Timber-Nobody's Home KO by drewhammond
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Last, but not least, as the cliché goes - Here is the reasoning for an Avatar of a folder of this artist's works:
In my DA Main Site: ‘drewhammond’ I have a number of folders, and as such each folder will have a full size avatar as its logo.
Each of these folders is an ‘Archive’ of a specific cluster of ‘Themed Artwork’ or the works of a specific artist.  As such I’ve decided to set up another ‘Archive’ which will feature a folder on my DA Main Site titled: ‘Archive:  Best Of Femmma And Ringhot DA Folder’.
I’ve talked to the artist, Max Posen, about this folder and he gave me his okay to proceed with this.
Now, when selecting an avatar for a folder it has to be the best of the best because it will represent all of the other renders clustered in that folder.  That is why I have chosen this one as the ‘Avatar’ to represent the best art work of this artist who has a DA Main Site he calls:  ‘Femmma’.
I consider this work as an epic masterpiece in that it represents both the imagination in the POV (Point Of View) and attention to detail (On a grand scale) that Max brings to all his works.

This astonishing picture is a combination of stunning female beauty and physical power as both fighters have been pounding away at each other in the grim brutality of a female fistic ‘Fight To The Finish’ – Literally.  And the carnage is about to end, via one last punch.  The harsh aspect of the Negress boxer is she has pounded her Caucasian opponent to her knees, and has now grabbed her by the hair and yanked her head backwards, fully exposing her chin to a cocked and ready right arm, which is about to be released – Propelling that right fist in a fight ending uppercut to that vulnerable chin.
It was that catfight instinct in women, be they young or old, to grab the hair of a rival, and in the doing exposing the portion of the face that is most vulnerable to a knockout punch – The chin.  This action shows the quintessential ‘Feminine Mystique’ that women bring to the noble sport of fistic boxing.
As such, this unique feminine aspect into the brutality of female boxing is what sealed the deal on my choosing this render as the avatar.
Here is the visual link to that avatar:  LINK:  

Mature Content

Avatar:Best Of Femmma And Ringhot DA Folder by drewhammond
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'Nuff said.

For now, anyway.

Newton's -Emote- Cradle by Caoimhemotes <!-- ^TTT --> <!-- TTT$ -->

for him.

Lancey Lance
I love him so freaking much >:3 fight me if you don't 
it's impossible not to love this angel <3
I'm running out of names for my drawings...i like being cliche with the titles

Favourite Ships Adopts : OTA OPEN

        These are OFFER TO ADOPTS. There is no set price, but the AB is 50 points for each pony. If you AB, I will create a full reference sheet for your character, with a cutie mark, color scheme on the side, fullbody and description.

Any lookalike characters are 100% coincidental. I will not change the design if they resemble yours as it was not intentional. Sorry for the inconvenience. 

Top row, left to right

Fluttershy X Big Mac - OPEN 

-She is strong like her father 
- She inheritate her hair colour from her grandma 
- She doesn't like animals espacially bunnies because she is allergic to them.

Trixie X Maud Pie - Open  

- She is very confident 
- She like to read books
- She is getting along with her parents 

Big Mac X Marble Pie - Open 

- He is very hardworking 
- He works on Rock's farm 
- A very shy pony 

Bases by 


Inside the Palais Garnier

Palais Garnier, Paris, France

Old Companions: Part 1

" Well. Isn't it nice to see an old friend. " 

[ A new one panel comic thing I'm doing, though in the future I may ad a few panels together but I'm not sure yet. Hope you enjoy. ]

Art by me :devhomschoolcraftizzy: 
Devon belongs to me :devhomschoolcraftizzy: 
Brain /The hoodied figure belongs to marble hornets. 

Ichabod Crowley Chapter 1

                Ichabod Crowley stepped from the shower, his skin scalded and red, a sensation he barely registered, even when he had stood under the broiling stream of the shower head. The moist chill of the tiled floor, the damp heat of the mirror as he wiped away the steam that had fogged along its glassy surface, all of it, a far away sensation, a dull itch to his numb dead flesh. As he looked to his reflection, his fingers lightly caressed the stitches that ran along his neck, the only part of him that was still sensitive, the only part that felt true pain, before tracing downward, along the silver chain to the red phylactery which rested in the cusp of his collarbone. He clutched the glass vial hard, for a moment he considered breaking it, but let go, and with a sigh, looked to his reflection.

                His skin was impossibly pale, though that was nothing new, even before his resurrection he had been a book worm, more comfortable in the library than cavorting in the mud with the other boys. His sister and his mother would often tease him over his reclusive nature, telling him that perhaps he may find a wife in one of his storybooks. He’d never developed much muscle, in fact his bones were practically visible on his chest and along his rail thin arms. This was something he’d seen every day, but still, the dark bruise, a massive hand print across his chest, caused him to flinch, the pain and memory attached to it forever stinging like a fresh wound. Squeezing his eyes shut against the images forced upon him by the mere sight of it, he toweled his hair, parting it down the middle with his bare hands, only taking true care to pull his bangs down over his forehead to hide the tiny red horns which had sprouted there all those years ago.

                Pulling on a blue turtleneck and a pair of black trousers, he wandered out into the halls, his footsteps echoing off of the marble floor while he passed a cadre of statues, griffons and dire wolves. Crowley Manor, as his father so amusingly called it, was hardly a mansion, not grand, nor regal, it was just a large house, three bedroom, two bath, a third floor that was essentially an overlarge attic, a basement of course, and a circular tower someone had added onto the east end, which encompassed his only favored place left in this structure, the library. It must look rather Gothic, he often mused, sitting alone atop its hill, looking down on the quiet little town slumbering below. Since his birth, this place had been his home, but he held no sympathy for it any longer, and recent years come to view it as more of a prison, the only place in this sad dismal world where he was wanted, where he belonged. Even so, he couldn’t help smiling as the scent of French Toast slowly filled the halls.

                Drawn by the smell, he made his way towards the kitchen and found Margaret busily shuffling about, her loose hair almost a wave of crimson fire, following in her trail as she wafted across the room and back again, grabbing onions for the omelet she was making, vanilla and cinnamon for the French Toast, red pepper for the sausage, frying in the third skillet. Ichabod watched her work, admiring her focus and practiced skill as he enjoyed the collection of scents wafting towards him from the stove. She noticed him at last, sliding the food onto a pair of plates and greeted him with a smile.

“Good morning Ichabod,” she beamed and he nodded in return, “Will you be joining us?” she wondered, glancing towards his stitches, though covered by the high rough of his sweater, “I could perhaps make you a coffee or a flavored milk?”

“No,” he responded evenly, “It’s fine,” then looked around, the table was already set with an empty glass and silverware, “And where is father this morning.”

“Ahem,” Margaret blushed heavily, “Um, still asleep when last I left him.”

“Right,” Ichabod turned away nervously, “Well tell him I will be in the study if he wishes to find me.”

“Oh you’re damn right I do,” his father, Victor, a short plump little man, currently wrapped in a soft purple bathrobe that was hanging open around his swollen gut, “You used up all the hot water!”

                While Margaret looked away, self-consciously avoiding looking at her lovers nudity, Ichabod let out a disgusted sigh.

“Could you please try to cover yourself?”

“Oh what? Like you’ve never seen-HEY!” he screamed out loud as his son had already left the room, “Don’t you walk away from me when I’m talking to you!”

                The boy continued towards the library, his father thundering in his wake.

“You know I like to take a shower when I wake up, why can’t you just give me the consideration…”

“Because you usually wake up at noon!” Ichabod snapped, “There would have been plenty of hot water by then.”

“Don’t you give me that half-assed excuse! In case you’ve forgotten I happen to be in charge of this…”

“Really?” Ichabod stopped in his tracks and turned to face the man, “And who paid for the water bill last month?”

“Pfft, when you weren’t wasting money on your book fetish…”

“And Margaret has been paying the electric and the taxes for years now, at least I contribute you fat worthless lech!”

“Hmph,” Victor fell back a bit, folding his arms, “You know I ate glass for you kids, you could at least show a little respect.”

“If you’d really done it for altruistic reasons, you wouldn’t keep bringing it up every five minutes,” he brushed his father off.

                Watching his son walk away, Victor snarled and clasped his hands together effecting a high pitched girls voice.

“Oh, but big brother,” he said mockingly, and Ichabod froze, twitching slightly as his hands clenched into fists, “Why are you so mean…”

“Stop it,” he warned.

“You are so very cruel,” his voice became teary and broke with a simile of barely restrained emotion,  “Why are you so mean to me?!”

                Without thinking, Ichabod lashed out, striking his father across the face, the blow set the old man spinning in place before leaving him in a heap on the floor, but the boy was not satisfied and grabbed hold of his father’s robe to lift him off the floor.

“How dare you, how…” but he paused, seeing the glazed over look in his father’s eyes, and the pink glow behind them.

“Ow…” he moaned in a little girl’s voice once again, but this time softer, more real as his hand languidly drifted up to the bruise on the side of his head, “That hurts…”

“Lizzie?” he pulled away and covered his eyes, “Lizzie could you please cover your self.”

“Hmm? Oh my…” she quickly made to close the flaps of her robe, “I’m so sorry, is that why you hit papa this time?”


“…Did he do the voice again?” Victor raised an eyebrow as she spoke through him.

“Yes,” Ichabod turned away towards the view from their living room window and the rolling hills that lay beyond the town, “Margaret made French Toast, you should go eat it before it gets cold.”

“Really? Yes!” she hopped up and went skipping off towards the kitchen.

                This was the other thing, he thought to himself, the other reason his precious sister trapped inside that disgusting lech.

                He stood at the window for a long time, waiting for his temper to cool a bit before heading for the library again. Ichabod had made it to the entrance when the phone rang behind him and he slumped against the door frame, letting his head rest against the polished wood before turning around again to pick the receiver out of its cradle.

“Crowley residence,” he spoke dully into the phone.

“Hello?” a woman’s voice whimpered, “I-I was told…y-you gave me a card and said I should call.”

“Ah, if you’ll excuse me a moment,” he lay the phone down on the coffee table and quickly hurried into the study, amidst the pile of books on his old weathered desk he pulled out a journal labeled ‘Ten Years’ and came back to phone.

“Please…please,” the woman begged on the other end of the line, “I’m seeing them, the things you warned me about, the Hellhounds…”

“Stay calm ma’am,” he spoke evenly, “Now, would you mind telling your name?”

“Healia Morgan,” she said with a shaky voice.

“Miss Morgan…” Ichabod repeated, thumbing through his notes, finally arriving on the right page, “Yes, I believe I have you here, you requested my services ten years and eight months ago, have you moved in that time? If so I’ll be needing an address ma’am.”

“What? Um-mm, of, of course, I live on Old Plymouth road, east, just past Castle Rock, the house is a two story colonial with a blue roof.”

“Blue roof,” he repeated, jotting down the notes, then setting down the pen he spoke directly into the phone with a clipped tone, “Now ma’am, what I want you to do is go to the store and see if you can buy some rock salt, arrange that in a thick line in front of your doors and windows, is your daughter still living with you?”

“Y-yes, is that a problem?”

“No, what you’ll need to do is clear a space roughly ten feet around, make a thick circle with the salt, draw another circle within it, use chalk or lipstick, whatever you have, write the words ‘God is love’ and draw a pentacle, a five point star that touches the edges of the circle, can you remember all that?”

“Yes,” she spoke more confidently.

“Good, and once you’ve done that, place a chair within the circle, and your daughter on that chair, and ma’am, make certain you do not disturb the marking in any way when you do this.”

“And this will protect me-us, this will save us?”

“No, but it will hold them off until my arrival, do I need to repeat any of my advice?”

“No sir.”

“Very good, then take a deep breath and do as I have told you, I will try to arrive by nightfall, I will see you then ma’am.”

                He took a steadying breath himself as he placed the receiver back in its cradle, so much for a day of study. Looking up, he saw Margaret standing at the other end of the room, fussing with a hair tie and already in her work uniform, a pink floral vest used by the local gardening supply store.

“Another job?” she wondered, pulling the purple ribbon out of her mouth to finish the lattice she often used to pull her hair back.

“Hm,” he nodded, “And I don’t suppose I could borrow the car?”

“Out to Castle Rock?” Margaret strolled forward to read his recent notes in the journal, “Not a chance, best to take Toulon if you want to go that far.”

“As you say,” he bowed his head to her, “I have to go get changed.”

“Right, your work clothes,” she mocked at his retreating back, “Don’t forget your duct tape!”



STOCK_Yellow Marble Texture

You must credit me and/or link to the original

Send me a link as well. I like to see how it is being used :) (Smile)


The Marble Hornets fandom likes to forget about Jessica but she deserves more love.

Marble Sketch Page

For commission page ^^
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