It’s been a while since I’ve drawn with pencils on paper. The second pic shows the process. Traditional drawing with minimal digital enhancements.
Actually, when I was drawing this portrait, I was thinking about him not being dressed in a typical white uniform, but rather in a kind of festive attire for cultural events on Thalass.
***
One of the rare evenings of rest is taking place within the Citadel.
Not a loud celebration of music, alcohol, and crowds, but a tradition of an intellectual civilization. Officers, scientists, artists, and philosophers gather beneath the white domes of Thalass. Some discuss new terraforming projects and the future of distant colonies. Others debate the nature of consciousness, quantum physics, ethics, and artificial intelligence. Nearby, guests exchange impressions of a new exhibition where science and art have become indistinguishable from one another. Quiet classical music drifts through the halls.
Here, celebration is not noise or spectacle. It is the expression of a civilization that values knowledge, culture, poetry, and the human mind.
Richard Galahad, Commander of Thalass, stands among them.
Respected as a pilot, strategist, and leader, he is valued for something far rarer than talent: integrity. In a world shaped by ambition, power, and political interests, he remains guided by conscience, empathy, and a sincere desire to do what is right.
Yet beneath his composed exterior lies a thoughtful and sensitive soul. He listens more than he speaks. He observes. Reflects. Questions.
For a moment, Richard has drifted away from the conversation around him.
Perhaps he is already composing a new poem in his thoughts.
There is no tomorrow, nor yesterday—only a fragile line
Between what has departed and what has yet to be.
We reach out a hand, and the delicate fabric of time
Briefly reveals itself beneath our fingertips.
Yet it slips away like water through the hand:
Impossible to keep, conceal, or place upon a shelf.
The past is already a shadow. The future a distant dream
That has not yet set foot upon the road of the world.
So make peace with longing: time cannot be held.
The sorrow is not in its brevity.
The truth is that the waters continue to flow,
Needing neither witness, prayer, nor rite.
And perhaps there is a quiet courage hidden there:
To watch one moment yield gently to the next,
And find, within the endless movement of the river,
Not weakness—but grace.




























