Kosum Kreations

Kosum Kreations Exploring Kreativity through abstract, fun, horror, and peace. Abstract concepts merge into surreal scenes.
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Dark corners reveal chilling tales of horror, and serene moments offer peaceful beauty. Hope You All Enjoy!
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Antoine WarringBloodline KnockoutAntoine Warring, a Brooklyn-born street fighter, uncovers a ring of elite match-fixers ...
04/11/2025

Antoine Warring

Bloodline Knockout

Antoine Warring, a Brooklyn-born street fighter, uncovers a ring of elite match-fixers running New York’s underground bouts and takes their ledger as proof.
He assembles a lean crew—Lena the medic, Reggie the thief, Maya the soundhack, Hector the ex-cop—and they run quick, surgical strikes: lift evidence, hijack feeds, and expose staged losses to the city.
Cornered and betrayed, Antoine turns the final spectacle—an opulent, televised showdown—into a trap, trading scripted blows for raw skill and a knockout that collapses the elites’ empire.
The ledger burns their power, fighters organize for fair pay, and Antoine walks back to his block with his name intact and the streets a little freer.

The Architechs The Mecha-Gods were the first engineers of reality—colossal beings of obsidian alloy and living circuitr...
04/11/2025

The Architechs

The Mecha-Gods were the first engineers of reality—colossal beings of obsidian alloy and living circuitry, their eyes burning like twin suns. With stars as torchlights, they coded nebulae, assembled galaxies, and wired multiverses into being.

But even they were not eternal. Their creations decayed, yet the Architects endured, haunted by the collapse of their own designs. When their frames finally fractured, they uploaded their schematics of essence into chosen vessels—mortal descendants who became living blueprints of divinity.

Thus, the cosmos advances: each reborn Architect a fusion of ancestor and machine, carrying the memory of creation forward into new futures.

Demon Warrior Grawgu Montik👑 Grawgu Montik, King of MazgurtaineThe Eastern plains of Mazgurtaine were a wasteland of cra...
04/11/2025

Demon Warrior Grawgu Montik

👑 Grawgu Montik, King of Mazgurtaine

The Eastern plains of Mazgurtaine were a wasteland of cracked obsidian and rivers that bled fire. For centuries, warlords ruled there, each more brutal than the last, until the name Grawgu Montik was carved into the stone of fear itself.

Grawgu was no ordinary demon. His armor was hammered from titan bone, his blade quenched in the molten screams of the conquered. He fought not for lords, but for the promise of dominion. When the tyrant of the plains mocked him as a hound, Grawgu answered with challenge.

Their battle raged for seven nights, shaking the cliffs and blackening the skies. On the eighth dawn—an omen unseen in Mazgurtaine for a thousand years—the tyrant’s head hung from Grawgu’s spear. The legions fell silent, then bent their knees.

Seated upon a throne of basalt and ash, Grawgu’s voice thundered across the underworld:

"I am no servant of fate. I am its executioner."

From that day forward, the Eastern plains burned brighter, ruled by the iron will of the Demon King who had seized eternity with his own hands.

Bakomb #7: The Abandoned OneThe Red Shield Clan was feared across the Nine Systems, its warriors stripped of names and ...
04/11/2025

Bakomb #7: The Abandoned One

The Red Shield Clan was feared across the Nine Systems, its warriors stripped of names and bound only by numbers and the planets they were stolen from. Korrin #3, a blade-dancer from the drowned citadels of Korrin. Veyra #12, a sniper whose eyes were sharpened by the twin moons of her desert world. Solith #19, a brute forged in the gravity wells of Solith. Each number was a weapon, each planet a scar.

But Bakomb #7 was different. He was not stolen—he was raised from infancy within the clan, molded as their experiment in loyalty. With no memory of another life, the clan was his only family. And when they abandoned him after the Siege of Drosmir, the wound cut deeper than any blade.

Now he hunts them.

On Korrin, he shattered #3’s crimson blade in the flooded ruins.

On Veyra, he silenced #12 beneath the red moons.

On Solith, he waits for #19, knowing the brute’s strength will test the limits of his vengeance.

Each kill is not triumph but torment, for with every brother he slays, he erases another fragment of the only kin he ever knew. Yet his vow remains unbroken: the Red Shield will fall, number by number, until none remain.

And when the last shield is shattered, only Bakomb #7 will stand—nameless, abandoned, and unclaimed by any world.

David Leaves A Memory The alley was silent except for the drip of rain from rusted gutters. David stepped from the shado...
04/11/2025

David Leaves A Memory

The alley was silent except for the drip of rain from rusted gutters. David stepped from the shadows, his face lit by the glow of a passing car—two crucifixes scarred into his skin, a sermon etched in flesh.

The man he’d been sent to see trembled, words caught in his throat. David didn’t shout, didn’t threaten. He leaned close, voice low, steady as scripture:

“Messages fade when spoken. Scars don’t.”

The blade whispered once, quick and precise. Not to kill—never to kill. Just enough to leave a mark, a memory. The man gasped, clutching his face, knowing he’d carry the message forever.

David turned away, coat collar high, vanishing into the rain. No family claimed him, no oath bound him. He was the message itself—walking proof that pain remembers.

🩸 Vixtor the ImpalerVixtor was once a sculptor of iron and bone. Now he carves flesh.His mask—pierced with sharpened iro...
04/11/2025

🩸 Vixtor the Impaler

Vixtor was once a sculptor of iron and bone. Now he carves flesh.

His mask—pierced with sharpened iron through each cheek—never comes off. It’s part of him, a shrine to pain. He believes impaling is sacred. A form of expression. A way to preserve beauty in agony.

He stalks the quiet, choosing bodies like canvases. Dancers, athletes, anyone with symmetry. He impales with precision—through clavicle, spine, jaw—arranging them into twisted tableaus that mimic ritual, ballet, or mourning.

No one escapes. No one interrupts the art.

And when the fog rolls in, Vixtor walks again. The iron never cools.

Nia Tala's Awakening Nia Tala grew up pulled between her father’s African American roots and her Apache grandmother’s de...
03/11/2025

Nia Tala's Awakening

Nia Tala grew up pulled between her father’s African American roots and her Apache grandmother’s desert teachings. One night beneath a harvest moon, a wolf emerged from the shadows. Its howl rose into the night, but layered beneath it she heard the deep rhythm of drums—the same heartbeat she had known in her father’s songs and family gatherings.

In that moment, she saw both lineages converge: the wolf as her Apache spirit animal, and the drumbeat within it as her African American guardian spirit. The two were not separate—they were one protector, carrying the strength of both her peoples.

From then on, Nia Tala walked whole: wolf-blooded, drum-hearted, her purpose clear.

03/11/2025

The Architechs
Back story coming soon

*Last Related Halloween Image*Madam Curveill
03/11/2025

*Last Related Halloween Image*

Madam Curveill

Dark Magicians
03/11/2025

Dark Magicians

Peaceful 🙏🏿
03/11/2025

Peaceful 🙏🏿

Vicious Flamingo
03/11/2025

Vicious Flamingo

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