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Sometimes I forget to actually draw my OCs like... Interacting. Which sucks because they have some pretty fun conversations/situations so I might make a few comics and doodles soon! (If I'm not too desperately burnt out)

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Soup Can

Fingeltagic clutched at the edge of the metal sink basin as the Soup Can around him rattled and shook, the short Krakun very nearly swallowing his toothbrush while the flimsy ‘space station’ around him vibrated like all the dead gods were about to break loose. Hastily spitting into the pitted bowl, he let the brush drop unheeded from his lips, foam lathered on his lips while his claws dug into the once-padded deckwork, tearing entirely novel grooves into the already abused floor. Sweet, oxygen rich compromise air flooded into the tiny head compartment as brute strength compelled the willful doors open, throwing them flush with their housings in a sleet of microscopic rust particulates.

Once, when there were slaves around to watch him, he’d have moved stately through the cramped corridors on his way to the command room. Now he scrambled through the low gravity environment of the Soup Can like an animal, shoving off of bulkheads and pipes where his claws sunk through the corroding wall-padding, leaving almost comedic bursts of foam insulation behind himself, the white foam illuminated blood-purple by orbiting warning lights. Any and all klaxons had long since been silenced.

Practically bouncing off the command room door with an impact which sent tingling quivers of pain down his spine, the blotchy green krakun slung himself into the command cradle, hissing in unsuppressed pain. What was the point of pretending it didn’t hurt, anyway? He was alone. Magnification plates slid over exterior cameras, whirring to life while damage reports flooded in through several dozen different screens, some of them physically torn from their usual stations and re-positioned around his cradle so that they could actually serve their intended purpose without relying on non-existent slaves to tell him what they were seeing.

He huffed at the large, purple outline of the communications tower, shoving that particular monitor aside. When had that been new? A hundred years ago? Two? He’d never bothered to replace the mast after the seventh iteration met its end under a relentless scouring of long-range laser barrages. It wasn’t like KrakunTec command had been sending anything important for the last thousand years anyway. Just the usual automated wellness and prosperity/moral packages, reminding him how many thousands of Golds his Honorable service would insure be waiting back in an empire Fingeltagic was pretty sure didn’t even exist any more.

But it had been even longer since the last supply ship brought new provisions, slaves, and sulfur for the failing atmo-scrubbers. He’d have traded every last one of those possibly-worthless Golds for a decent meal. Even a bad meal. Just something which wasn’t gray, tasteless goo grown from fungus. Not that it mattered what he wanted.

Out here, on the edge of known space, nothing mattered really.

The Soup Can, this cramped, claustrophobic excuse for a battle-station, this rickety rust bucket with a propensity for failing when he needed it most, had been his whole world for four thousand, four hundred and forty one years. He’d been in this station, silently spying on Liotec, when the war pitched over into a bloodbath, and he’d been in here when command stopped talking about all the battles they were winning and started talking about the battles they’d won. He’d been in this station while the slaves died slowly of population failure, and he’d be in here when he too eventually succumbed to old age, vacuum, or something worse.

And now That Bastard was throwing rocks at him again.

Fingeltagic didn’t actually know what the Liotec battle-station commander’s name was. Or if he was even a Lio. Or if he was a he. Or even the same person. There was a lot Fingeltagic didn’t know about the other station, honestly. But he did know whoever was in charge over there was a Bastard with a capital B.

Purely out of habit, the blotty green Krakun checked the boarding hooks button (which was as purple as it had been the day the Soup Can went online) and huffed. He’d have traded all his Golds to go over there and give whomever the fuck it was in charge of that sorry excuse for a station a piece of his mind.

Another rock impacted the hull, shaking Fingeltagic’s teeth in his head and his body in the command chair, alarms blaring silently into the sickeningly sweet-smelling air. Working quickly, dispatching drones to repair the effected area, the krakun began scanning the starry sky for more incoming projectiles, physical and energy weapons warming up on the outside of the Soup Can, smoothly unhooking themselves from protected cradles and stowed firing positions.

While that was happening Fingeltagic turned one very special scope, of his own design, toward the no-krakuns-land between the hilariously distant Liotec station and his own, searching despite knowing exactly where his target was. Ah, right there, exactly where it should have been; The source of all this noise and excitement. A fragmented sheet of metal, now with several others welded onto it around the edge to make room, super-fine markings from a hundred thousand lasers scarring the dusty dull surface.

Communication with the enemy in any way, shape, or form was forbidden. Colluding with Liotec agents would have been grounds for charges of treason, among other things, with prompt dismissal via decompression his only reward for trying. Clearing no-krakuns-land of debris, however, was not.

“That Bastard.” Fingeltagic growled deep in his throat, voice horse and soft from disuse. A new mark had been etched into the plate while he was sleeping, and just like that, his most advantageous tile had been taken, flipped to the opponents side without so much as a please or thank you. And on today of all days.

Around him, screens slowly turned from purple to green, repairs completed. The damage had been to the slave quarters mostly, according to the drones, and those had been disused for longer than he cared to think about. And, yes, every one of those rocks, as rude a reminder of his turn to play as they had been, were heavy in sulfur and water. He’d breath easy again, for another few days at least.

“That Bastard.” The krakun chuffed softly, watching the drones drag the rocks down toward the recycler while he settled in to considered his turn. “He remembered it was today.”

Fingeltagic was alone. But at least he wasn’t lonely.

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posted a month ago on my Patreon and Ko-fi, original text post by @inkskinned can be found here 💗

✅ you are welcome to: crop the images for banners/pfps (with credit); create voice overs w/o AI

❌ you may not: repost to other platforms w/o permission; create voice overs with AI; create NFTs

get early access to new comics: patreon, ko-fi || get your fursona assigned by me || browse older Tumblr Comics

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One page RPG idea: Horrible Creatures. You are a horrible creature, created for the sole purpose of appeasing the gods on behalf of sinners. You are blameless, sinless, horrible and humble, and whenever your masters want some divine luck, they poke you with a stick until you clasp your grubby mitts and pray for their salvation.

Tonight, you've escaped.

Make three stats of your own choosing, and make them pitiable, then add +3, +2, or +1 to one of them, without repeating a number. Any other check you make is at -2.

You begin with 1d4+2 Hopes. Write down what they are. Whenever you fail a check, you lose one Hope. If you run out of Hopes, you suddenly realize that this whole escape plan is doomed and return, weeping, to your cell.

To make a check, roll 1d6, adding any relevant skill, or negatives. If the result is 6 or more, you succeed! You get the outcome you desired. Anything under 6 is a failure, you don't get what you desire. If a 6 is rolled on the die, you feel a surge of Hope! Pick another pitiable creature and share your hopes for the future with them, restoring one of their Hopes, if they have lost one.

GMing Horrible Creature:

You are GOD, or at least, one of them. Roll (Player count d6s)+(2xPlayer count) at the start of the session. This is how many checks the creatures must make before they escape. If, at any point, one of the creatures makes you laugh, cry, gasp, or otherwise show emotion, you must give them an extra d6, which should immediately be added to their next check. You have shown them your face, and it in favor.

The Creatures are horrible, disfigured, and abominable. To leave the safety of their cages would mean, if not immediate, than certain death at the hands of the sinful, despicable monsters outside. Even if they survive, nothing but a short, brutal life awaits them. No other rule or wishful thinking supersedes this. Their survival depends on your ability to keep a straight face. Even if they don't escape in the end, the Hopes they hold on their attempts are worth more than freedom ever could be. Do not let these sad, horrible creatures die.

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Btw, this is how conservatives keep getting to claim that trans people are a new thing no one has ever heard, because our history and existences have continually been erased or obscured systematically through out history.

The most famous example was 92 years when the Nazis raided the library of the Institut für Sexualwissenschaft, the medical practice where the term transsexual was first coined and the first gender affirming surgery was performed in in 1931.

What did the Nazis do after raiding the library on May 6th, 1933? You may be familiar with these images

It is happening again.

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"The trannies should be able to piss in whatever toilet they want and change their bodies however they want. Why is it my business if some chick has a dick or a guy has a pie? I'm not a trannie or a fag so I don't care, just give 'em the medicine they need."

"This is an LGBT safe space. Of COURSE I fully support individuals who identify as transgender and their right to self-determination! I just think that transitioning is a very serious choice and should be heavily regulated. And there could be a lot of harm in exposing cis children to such topics, so we should be really careful about when it is appropriate to mention trans issues or have too much trans visibility."

One of the above statements is Problematic and the other is slightly annoying. If we disagree on which is which then working together for a better future is going to get really fucking difficult.

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Fun concept I've started working on

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Instead of getting bigger as they get more powerful, dragons get smaller and more concentrated.

The dragon the size of a castle? Harmless. Tiny. The one the size of a pigeon? It's going to level the city.

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Seraphic Bounty Hunter and Local Muscle

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hope is a skill

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does anyone wanna hold hands until we feel a little braver

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developing your ocs is 50% waiting for bursts of divine inspiration like an oracle sleeping next the vapours seeping from fissures in the temple floor and 50% stalking them in your mind relentlessly like a persistence predator until they tire out enough for you to get close and scamper away with the bloody scraps of "eye colour: brown" and "dislikes: people who think they're funny" clutched in your mouth like a hunting trophy

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i dont see why i cant start a trend, so here goes. lets try to build back our attention spans. lets try to focus on just one thing for as long as possible. lets not watch those "asmr for people with adhd" videos where they fuck up adhd folks even worse. lets resist the urge to reach for our phones when watching a movie. lets read the articles we reblog, even when theyre boring. i know its hard, i have adhd too, but its worth it. i also know that this hard work doesnt always seem super impressive to other people, so id love for yall to tell me in the tags or replies if youve done something, no matter how small, for your attention span. you deserve to feel like youve taken back some of what social media has ripped from you

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The fall was short, but brutal. Something in Nalka’s chest crackled in protest as she slapped meatily down in the mud at the bottom of the cistern, her chin catching on the hard, stacked-stone wall while the rest of her crumpled into the filth, splattering silt up the sides of the hole.

Gasping in pain, stunned, she lay at the bottom while laughter, harsh and cruel, echoed down from above, chasing the baking sun down into the relative cool. With a start, wrenching her head out of the mud, the dragoness sank her dulled claws into the stone, frantically scrabbling at the walls, tearing at the immobile stone while desperation bubbled up inside of her, released through a keening, panicked wail which rose the long distance to the top like steam.

His wide hat throwing unmistakable shadows down the hole, the sheriff knelt at the edge, some twenty feet above, and smiled his false wooden smile, “Getting comfortable? See, usually we’d have a thief like you hanged from the neck.” He made a gesture like someone was wringing his neck, to the adulation of the crowd. “Can’t do that though, what with the empire frowns on killing you *beasts*” He spit, long and yellow, into the hole, forcing the trapped dragoness to press herself against the cool stonework to avoid the stinking phlegm while he continued, gloating, “But I told you, we’ve got a special punishment for your type around here.”

“I not steal!” Nalka screamed, rage at the indignation overwhelming her terror, overpowering her weak grasp of the local tongue, “I pay! Thieving bastard!” The swearing was the easy part.

But the sheriff continued, her rage as important as the impotent mewling of the sheep these farmers valued so much. The horrible man unrolled what, as far as she could tell against the hollow glow of the setting sun, was a scroll. Peering at it for a moment, he eventually seemed to decide that he had as much a grasp over the content of the vellum as he was going to get and opened his mouth, letting the dramatic pause hang in the air before he spake.

“Dragon, for the crime of stealing, to wit, one sheep: black, one bolt of cloth: grey, and half a loaf of bread, I hereby sentence you to this pit as punishment. As your crimes are theft, you shall remain here till such time you are able pay back the debt you have accumulated.”

The roar of the crowd, all twenty people who’d bothered to show up and watch some of the more burly boys in the village wrestle a wingless dragon into a large hole, drowned out whatever was said next. Or perhaps the sheriff had stopped speaking but kept his lips moving for the look of the thing. Nalka wouldn’t have put it past the horrible man to do, if only for the boost it would give his ego.

A gloved hand was held up for silence, and eventually it was had.

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i have a strong unexplainable motherly feeling towards mew

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Posting the Soliph so I have em saved another place online, commissioned from armpitcore420 on twitter. I asked him to just take his own creative liberties and ended up getting some of the most gorgeous aliens I've ever seen