I'm Atlas, and welcome to my art!

Here you’ll find a growing collection of fantasy oil paintings featuring woodland critters, each with stories to tell. Thanks for stopping by! Feel free to browse the gallery, and check back soon.

Clover the Rabbit
With a satchel full of crumbs and a head full of songs, Clover set out just after lunch, when the sun was warm and the world looked especially friendly. He’d never been beyond the edge of the meadow, but that hardly seemed important. He was sure a knight simply needed to showing up with a smile and a tune. Tucked under one arm was the inherited instrument he’d strummed in the flowers for years, and he hoped its songs might earn him some glory, or at least a few friends. The road ahead was long and a little hilly, but Clover hummed as he tuned the strings, certain that somewhere, just over the next hill, his heroic song was about to start.

Bramble the Racoon
Deep in the Winter hush of the forest, Bramble moved like a shadow, her satchel clutched close. Inside, wrapped in barkcloth and sealed with a thorn, was something she had rescued, or stolen, depending on who you asked. She didn’t dare stop to check if she was being followed. The trees whispered above, the underbrush tugged at her cloak, but she pressed on, guided by desperation and the weight of what she carried.
Then, just as the wind stilled, she heard an icy twig snap behind her. It was too heavy for a squirrel, too soft for a rabbit. Without hesitation, she slipped her paw to her belt and drew her sword…

Fern the Otter
At the pools of the sacred falls, where mist clung to the stones like rain, Fern sat on the temple steps. The elder priests had said that water taught patience, that its strength flowed through all things, even him. He spent his days in quiet meditation, weaving simple healing charms from petals and dew drops, while listening to the rhythm of the world through the rushing of the falls. But sometimes, when the mists below shifted, Fern would glance down the long stone steps leading away from the temple and wonder. When the time came to leave, to walk into the woods and help those in need, would his magic be enough? Would he be enough? For now, he only closed his eyes, breathed in the mist, and tried to believe that patience was his strength.

Elmer the Squirrel

Perched on a high branch overlooking the village nestled at the edge of the lake, Elmer traced the rooftops with their eyes, bow held in deft paws. They had always kept watch from afar, silent and unseen, guarding the village like their ancestors before them. It was an important duty, but it came with a quiet loneliness that choked around their heart like ivy. Today, though, something in the breeze seemed different. It carried playful laughter, the scent of sweet spice, and... music?

Elmer’s paws itched to descend, to join the laughter instead of merely watching it. The forest hummed in answer, tugging them down, toward friends they had never dared to seek. Heart thumping, tail flicking nervously, Elmer knew the climb down would change everything. Maybe that was exactly what they needed.

Quibble the Frog

Quibble spent his days perched on a rock in the heart of the pond, listening patiently to the woodland residents who came with their questions and worries. A squirrel fretted over a missing nut, a hedgehog shaken by a wayward quill. Quibble offered calm advice and thoughtful croaks that eased their minds and clarified their problems. As he considered the nature of clarity and clam, his gaze drifted to the bubbles summoned around him. Each one caught a fragment of the world: sun, sky, water, past, and present, all twisting and bending them into a fleeting, perfect globe. Quibble wondered at how everything could be held so briefly, and yet so completely, in something so fragile... How perspectives could shift... How reflections could hold truth.

A sudden rustle startled him. A young mouse peered anxiously from behind him, eyes wide, waiting for counsel, and Quibble’s thoughts floated back to the moment, ready once more to listen.

Marigold the Finch

With the dawn still pink on the horizon, Marigold beat her small wings against the morning air, a magic staff glowing faintly in her grip. It had been a gift from her wise friend Quibble, who saw the restlessness in her and promised it would carry her further than the orchards and shrubs of home. The staff’s magic let her tug at the sky itself, pulling the winds to her feathers, guiding the currents beneath her flight. Every finch in her family had circled the same hills for generations, but Marigold’s heart ached for more. The clouds answered her call as she climbed higher, and the wind wrapped around her like a friend. With every flap of her wings, she knew she was chasing adventure and today, she would fly farther than any of her kin had ever dreamed.

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