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Annnnnd now's when I admit I'm still getting used to having a side blog and don't always check where I'm posting stuff. Whoops.

WIP WEDNESDAY

With Brute's prologue published the next big step for me is to make a final read through of the main story's script. Once that's settled I'll be setting up a Kickstarter to try to hit the funding I need to illustrate chapter one. But all that's for another day. In the meantime here's a peek at the script as I edit. (Please forgive the screenshots' format - I'd capped them to work on Instagram 😅)

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The first real frost of the year this morning.

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There can only be one

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meanwhile in the audience...

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Stop this is amazing haha

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If you're looking for some handmade, customized holiday gifts for your favorite table top gamer - just saying. 👀

Early Holiday Sale

Now through December 3rd, get 25% off your total when you spend $50 or more on any items in my Etsy shop.

Shipping is always free on orders over $35.

Happy early Holidays, everyone!

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I've got plans to start using individual mini bricks in my builds rather than trying to carve in a brickwork pattern to my mediums. I've seen others do the same and the results always look beautifully realistic. The only downside?

Cutting so. Many. Tiny. Bricks.

My Proxxon is absolutely earning its keep right now. 😅

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Goblin camp themed scaffolding

Made by goblins who clearly don't care much for workplace safety. Despite their looks these pieces are all quite sturdy, and will give a fun, slapdash feel to any goblin camp your wayward players happen to stumble upon. They can be used individually or stacked on top of one another for an extra bit of heedless peril and annoying goblin archery.

Check them out on my Etsy shop.

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Some sneak peek looks at the concept art for the main trio of Brute's prologue. Clockwise top to bottom we have Vic, Adam and ... Someone. 🤔

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I'm beyond thrilled to announce that the prologue to my comic, Brute, is now live! All fifteen pages are posted and free to read on tapas. I also have started a Patreon for the story, in the hopes that I'll be able to fund the illustration of the main script in a consistent, timely manner. If modern, paranormal fantasy with a dash of suspense and life choices which promise to turn into strained familial relationships is your thing (or maybe if you just want to read a story about Sasquatch) I would love to have you give Brute a read!

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A post shared by Allisia MacDonald (@nat.20.crafting)

My most ambitious build to date - The Swamp Witch's Hut. There are things I'd do differently now, but I can still say I'm quite proud of it. 😊

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Trying to get back into the habit of using Tumblr (again) while having not had a chance to play Veilguard yet like

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I'm beyond thrilled to announce that the prologue to my comic, Brute, is now live! All fifteen pages are posted and free to read on tapas. I also have started a Patreon for the story, in the hopes that I'll be able to fund the illustration of the main script in a consistent, timely manner. If modern, paranormal fantasy with a dash of suspense and life choices which promise to turn into strained familial relationships is your thing (or maybe if you just want to read a story about Sasquatch) I would love to have you give Brute a read!

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Bookshelves for the smol and bookshelves for the tol

And some bonus large ones I didn't have time to take nicer pics of before they sold 😅

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I'm beyond thrilled to announce that the prologue to my comic, Brute, is now live! All fifteen pages are posted and free to read on tapas. I also have started a Patreon for the story, in the hopes that I'll be able to fund the illustration of the main script in a consistent, timely manner. If modern, paranormal fantasy with a dash of suspense and life choices which promise to turn into strained familial relationships is your thing (or maybe if you just want to read a story about Sasquatch) I would love to have you give Brute a read!

[scribbledquillz]

I'm beyond thrilled to announce that the prologue to my comic, Brute, is now live! All fifteen pages are posted and free to read on tapas. I also have started a Patreon for the story, in the hopes that I'll be able to fund the illustration of the main script in a consistent, timely manner. If modern, paranormal fantasy with a dash of suspense and life choices which promise to turn into strained familial relationships is your thing (or maybe if you just want to read a story about Sasquatch) I would love to have you give Brute a read!

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👀👀👀 ship prompts you say???

Could I ask for the lovers, the devil or the moon for Wen and Rev? Pleeeeease?

Well, only if it's you asking <3

For "the devil (unrequited love)," in which Revka hems Arianwen's wedding dress:

Forget Me Not

(F!Warden x F!Warden | 1,114 Words | No Warnings)

"Tomorrow we meet the same then, dearest? May I take your hand in mine? Mere friends are we, – well, friends the merest Keep much that I resign:" -Robert Browning, "The Lost Mistress"

It had been a fine enough wedding gown by Cyrion’s estimation, for all that it was an inch and a half too short. 

It was a far sight nicer than the ones Arianwen had seen mothers and brothers and grandmothers working on through other windows in the alienage. None of the embroidery was very detailed, but it was just fine for a dress she didn’t want to wear. A dress she wouldn’t wear, if she had the choice. 

She hadn’t had choices for a very long time. 

“Ah!” Revka said at her feet. 

Wen held very still in response when she otherwise might have flinched. 

“Alright?” she asked. Revka peered down at her fingertip, where a bead of red blood bloomed. 

“Fine,” she muttered. 

For her part, Wen’s dearest friend seemed as enthused about the wedding as Wen was. It was difficult to see why. It wasn’t as if anything would really change afterward. Nothing ever changed here, and it never would. They both knew that. 

“You don’t have to—” Wen began for the hundredth time, but Revka cut her off.

“Course I do,” she muttered. “Think I won’t help fix this mess?”

Below, the soft snap of breaking thread. Revka popped her finger into her mouth and unrolled the hem of the dress with her other hand. 

“Let you go ‘fore everyone with your ankles bare?” she went on several moments later. “Won’t do it. Turn.” 

Wen turned carefully on the chair, slowing when it wobbled. Revka sniffled. 

“Is your finger alright?” Wen asked. 

“Quit moving,” Revka snapped. Her voice sounded thick. Wen, who’d half-turned to look at her, faced forward again. 

“Finger’s fine.”

“Alright,” Wen said. Her fingers curled in on themselves, but loosened before they could make a fist.

“Can fix it,” Revka said, and sniffled again. Her fingertips brushed against Wen’s ankle, warm and then gone. “I can.” 

“Alright,” Wen said. She wanted to climb off the chair and take off the stupid dress and go back to their little hiding place. She wanted to have never heard of this dreadful arranged marriage. She wanted to fix whatever hurt had been done to Revka. 

But—Wen knew—she’d always been better at breaking things than she’d ever been at fixing them. That task had always fallen to Rev.

Instead of doing any of the things she’d rather do, she stood very still with her hands loose at her sides and pretended she didn’t notice the tears her friend refused to cry. 

|

In the lamplight hours later, Revka bent over pale cream fabric and felt the ache in her wounded finger every time she passed the needle through the thick, fine cloth. 

Sewing was her trade. These days, it as mostly fine embroidery—she’d shown her talent for it enough that the simpler work was usually handed off to others. Her own clothes bore little signs of this: forget-me-nots (always forget-me-nots, bright blue as the sky and twice as kind) obscuring tears and holes in the worn fabric, thin lines of whatever color she’d had on hand joining worn sections of her socks. 

If she checked Arianwen’s tunic (Arianwen slept on the bed behind her, where she’d dozed off halfway through a sentence; Revka couldn’t bear to look at her now and certainly wouldn’t be checking her tunic anytime soon), she would have found her own handiwork there, too. Wen favored thistles. Always had, sharp girl with her sharp teeth and her bloody knuckles. It had never surprised Revka that she liked a sharp flower, too. A wounding thing, however pretty it was, that pricked you back for picking it.

There was a little row of silk thistles embroidered around the collar of the tunic Wen wore now. Revka had put them there last winter as a Satinalia gift. It had taken weeks of bending over the cloth just like she was now, stealing hours after she left the tailor’s shop and before she was forced to bed or fell asleep on her work. Every morning, she’d woken with sore fingertips and a proud thrill in her chest whenever she’d looked at them. 

Wen would never know, she supposed (would never know now, surely; would be marrying someone else within the week), but she’d set every stitch into the fabric with her whole heart in her fingertips. She’d long since been forced to admit that what she felt had grown into something far wilder and messier than simple, unburdened friendship. It had burst through its bounds and grown into something that stung and hurt her when she stretched her hands for it. 

Like thistle, she thought, and made another stitch into the hem of the wedding gown. Her forefinger still ached. There was a little red dot where she’d stabbed it before. A visible wound, that, but the rest of the mess was as hidden as she could make it. The room was already beginning to lighten with dawn. Red-rimmed eyes could be called tiredness, could be from working late over a candle.  Surely even Arianwen would think so, and nobody knew her better in the world. 

It was almost done now. Hemming the gown had been easy as anything, but the embroidery had taken far longer. Only a half hour more and it would be—would be finished. 

Revka paused then, stretching her aching hands. A neat line of thistle wove in and out of itself along the hem, hiding the faint line where the old hem had been. It was pretty. Wen would like it, probably. She wouldn’t climb the dais to her wedding in an unadorned gown. If she’d been able to bring herself to stop there, Revka could have been proud of the work. 

The front hem of the dress was not facing her now. She’d been done with that for hours, actually. She ran an aching fingertip over the line of embroidery she held instead, tracing the flower petal by petal. 

There was a line of thistle carefully embroidered on the hem of Arianwen’s wedding gown. Below, inside the fabric where it would brush against Wen’s ankles, was a mirrored line of flowers. If they’d been lined up on the same face of the fabric, the flowers would have twined around each other without end. Instead, forget-me-nots made lonely loops on the inside of the hem. 

A droplet fell to the fabric, darkening the blue. Revka sniffled, dashed the tears away with the back of her hand, and turned the fabric in her hands once more. 

Almost done. Three flowers more, maybe four. And then—and then it would be finished. 

She lifted her needle to the candlelight, blinked until she could see clearly again, and turned back to her task.