Salt the Wound

Doodle with Bejel annoying Mala after a show (as usual). Here is some more story featuring this pair:

Bejel had come to Hell-Hole with a plan. She’d been a fixture in the Bay Area’s thrash scene for years, her name whispered in reverent tones among those who knew talent when they saw it. When she claimed her lead-guitarist role in the band, she’d offered to audition professional bassists and drummers, contacts forged in smoky venues and late-night jams. However, she had underestimated the forces set against Oroya, the band’s outspoken frontwoman. Her reputation was a black mark, a scarlet letter that ensured no self-respecting musician would touch Hell-Hole without risking their own career. Enter Mala: untrained, untested, a blank slate with no connections to lose and no peers to shun her. Her one positive, in Bejel's mind, being she had a large home isolated enough to accommodate Hell-Hole's intense practice sessions. She was, in a twisted way, the band’s salvation, her inexperience a shield against the industry’s scorn. She was along for the ride and she wore her indifference like armor.

Their hostility was no secret. From the moment Bejel stormed into the band, she and Mala were fire and gasoline. Bandmates didn’t bother mediating; fans egged it on. The tension was palpable, a living thing that pulsed through every rehearsal, every gig. It boiled over one infamous night, under a sky heavy with heat, an outdoor stage slick with sweat and spilled beer as Hell-Hole covered Static X's 'Wisconsin Death Trip'. Bejel, her already thin patience frayed to a thread, lashed out mid-song, her boot swinging at Mala’s legs as she snarled about missed notes and unmet standards. Mala, pushed to her breaking point, didn’t hesitate. She shoved Bejel to the warped wooden floor and drove a boot into her ribs. The crowd roared in approval. Bejel, sprawled on the stage, attempted to hide the pain with laughter. She clutched her ribs for the rest of the set, her grin never faltering. Demons, after all, healed faster than humans, their bruises fading like smoke. But grudges? Those lingered, and Mala’s burned eternal.

Logic said their dysfunction should’ve torn Hell-Hole apart, scattered its pieces to the wind like ash. Logic didn’t account for the alchemy of such polar opposites. Bejel and Mala’s hatred fueled the band’s sound, gave it teeth. Every guttural scream that tore from Mala’s throat, every “accidental” shove on stage, every taunting middle finger was real. Hell-Hole didn’t just play angry; they were anger incarnate. The audience devoured it, their own fury feeding the band’s in an endless, vicious cycle.

*In addition to the usual weekly line-art and color art, I will be including bonus sketches! These sketches are just a bit of fun/practice and (probably) won't progress past the sketch stage. *