#I just wanted to draw error with wings

[p1nk-dem0n]

A creature

[owlfacenightkit]

Angel of Death

[espionn]

Fly, Little Bird

i suppose this counts as my contribution to the stp drawing challenge!

honestly the apotheosis was never my personal favorite route, i've always been more of a witch/beast fan, but sometimes inspiration comes from unlikely places! i realized, watching the scene where she throws the long quiet into the tear in reality, how cool that shot must look from a 3rd-person view, so i decided to bring it to life myself.

a little more about the process for anyone interested:

i expected the hands to be a pain and they were. you can probably tell where i gave up in certain places. but ultimately at this scale they're just a bunch of noodles with a few bumps at the ends so they didn't take too terribly long, it was just a bit tedious.

what might have actually taken longer was the background. i really wanted to recreate the bg of the long quiet and damn was that a process. what you're seeing actually has several layers and it took a while to get something i was happy with, but i think it was worth it.

the shading on apotheosis herself actually wasn't that bad considering i did it all on one layer. limiting yourself to a few tones can do wonders

that green beam of light, meanwhile, was an asshole to draw and took a lot of trial and error. i think the end result serves its purpose, but it's probably the thing i'd most want to tweak in the future.

i'm super happy with the end result though, it's pretty much exactly what i hoped for and i did the whole thing in only a couple hours. im particularly happy with apotheosis's face, the background, and the long quiet's wings. might do more stp stuff soon who knows!

[mechncheese]

your designs are so peak! dyou think youd be willing to share some of your process for how you develop the looks you make?

Sure thing ! I'll take you on a journey into my mind's eye

Long text post ahead in case anyone's interested in my designing process

I start off with references-- lots of references. I pull inspiration from more than one iteration for a character ! For Brainstorm specifically I took the most inspiration from IDW Brainstorm with aspects from G1 like his darker/greener color.

Red Alert's darker color palette is also based on the TFA design with heavy IDW influence. First Aid's little doctor's coat was inspired by the Bayverse Crosshair's coat. Ratchet's design is based on his Prime, G1, IDW, and Cyberverse iterations but I took the most inspiration from his Prime design (I think Prime Ratchet is also my favorite Ratchet so I might be biased)

Before I begin designing anything, I map out the character's silhouette, it gives me a feel for the shapes I want and how they'd stand out in a lineup. Here's Wheeljack for an example.

Then I start the first draft/sketch. I just draw on top of the silhouette and adjust as I go, I'm mostly going based on what feels right to me.

Since a lot of the bots I was working with had White and Red color palettes I had to use different accent colors to break it up and I wanted to emphasize their shape language. I try to keep things from blurring together too much. I also used various off-white colors (it's very subtle) and different shades of red.

I also pull inspiration from figurines/model kits from gundams specifically-- honestly I do this mostly for the legs, I struggle a lot with making the legs look right so I look at Gundam legs for references on knee articulations and the ankles.

a lot of it is trial and error and it usually takes me more than one attempt before finalizing a design. Let me show you the monster that is my first Brainstorm attempt.

Good fucking god I have no idea what the hell I was thinking, literally the first thing I said to myself as I was finishing this was "Oh my god he is UGLY, I cannot keep him like that" he was not working out so I went back to the drawing board and worked small.

Here was my second draft of Brainstorm, I was thinking about his personality as I was working on him which I think helped a lot. Chaotically natured, I incorporated a lot of sharp shapes and I darkened his color palette to a sea green to let the red and yellow/orange accents stand out. It also emphasizes his more sinister personality while the broad yellow-accented shoulders paired with the extra red accents kind of give him this "show-off" and "full of himself" vibe.

My previous mistake was that the blue was far too bright and the orange and red were just clashing too much. Also his wings being flat against his back just did not fit him. I think I was too afraid to break to mold with Brainstorm-- Like there was this line between "This is not Brainstorm enough" or "This is too far from being Brainstorm" and then I remembered his very wise words

Then I just started to get adventurous and experimental and bam, we have Science AU Brainstorm. The major takeaway from this is don't be afraid to get wild with your designs.

In contrast, Since Prowl and Brainstorm will be seen around each other a lot, I kept Prowl's design less flashy and his palette limited, pulling heavily from IDW Prowl. It also fits his personality, he's much more serious and orderly. So when they're seen in the same drawing, there's this nice design compliment between Brainstorm and Prowl.

Another oopsies I did was initial First Aid attempt where I made his accent color orange for some reason. It looked really bad and I ended up changing it to blue which worked a lot better.

But yeah ! That's my general design process ! Play around, have fun and don't be afraid to get experimental and try some new things for designs !

[salemlinnet]

hey everyone!

a few news items right before we start up chapter 5. firstly i just wanna say thanks to everyone who follows my comics, it's been a pleasure as always. i've been keeping a longer buffer on patreon than usual, mostly for my mental health. publishing takes a lot of energy and i've really felt it necessary to just focus on production for a few weeks. at this point, patrons have seen most of chapter 5, there's only one more scene and about a page to be drawn. the quiet has been nice, i've caught up on a lot of house keeping, though i'm obviously very excited to present it! and on house keeping,

DOMESTICATED IS NOW LIVE AT IT'S NEW HOME!

to not go into the boring details (the old domain got trapped between to hosting sites in the middle of a buyout), it's not hosted at cod-domesticated.com (rip custom url you will be missed) it will instead be hosted at salemlinnet.com/domesticated (now you live at my house like you're my son why didn't i think of this sooner). if you find any errors in the pages i am so sorry i just formatted so many buttons TTuTT it would be super helpful to me if folks could report any specific buttons that don't work if it's convenient, it's been beta tested by the discord (thank you guys so much) but i'm just a dunce and i can't be trusted so there might be errors.

the simons are all wearing a little beret this chapter is my third point of business, i am losing it over the ghost beret. oh and the devil may care is up to chapter 18, will be chapter 19 within a few days. page 21 is out for patrons.

finally, to the people lurking for thistle and spade. i've wanted to say for some time, i'm really grateful that you've stuck around while i've been too sick to work on a bigger project. if you were here to see me start production for and then pull ghost #1, the story behind it is that i sort of suddenly learned i wouldn't always be as sick as i was, that i didn't have to rush anything, and that i could produce thistle and spade in chronological order with a bit of patience. that left me with no smaller project to draw and release in the mean time, except, see, i really like this game, call of duty. i was still on bed rest when i started domesticated, and with a ton of physical therapy i've been able to draw longer and longer hours. it's trained me up to be a better comic artist than i ever was before. it's grown into a sturdier project at the same pace. it's so unlike thistle and spade, whose chapters were written and edited over years and planned to every gesture and expression. i'm just winging it with domesticated, i'm usually rewriting massive swaths of dialogue as i sketch the scenes out, i just keep throwing out ideas until it's something i'm excited to draw and present as my imaginary "what happened outside of the games" day dream land. it's reminded me what i love so much about story telling and comics. it's made me excited to see thistle and spade go live again down the road. but first i have to rebuild its website too TTuTT

all right i'll see everyone pretty soon! thanks for hanging around as usual!

[meanbossart]

Oh boy, VaM is kind of a trial and error experience LOL I couldn't really show you how to use the interface and stuff without a whole video or something, but it's not THAT difficult to get a hang of if you just give yourself a day or two to play around, not to mention the number of tutorials you find out there. Luckily, if you only want to use it as a reference software that makes the process far easier (to this day I have no idea how to animate on that thing, since that's not what I use it for)

As for how I use it, it's pretty self explanatory - if there's a complicated pose I want to draw but I'm either having trouble with it, or just want to double-check angles/anatomy, I will use it as a resource! I use for most of my "proper" pieces (y'know, the nicer looking ones) and every once in a while for my silly comics if I'm having trouble with a pose.

Lets use this drawing for example (the character on top of DU drow belongs to @namespara )

I don't draw a lot of mud-wrestling (shocking, I know) but I had an idea of the kind of pose I wanted them to be in. So the very first thing I did was make a rough sketch of what I was envisioning:

I often do a rough sketch first, even If I know I'm going to be pulling the program up because A) It's less tedious than adjusting the models over and over again until I pick a pose and B) because sometimes I'll decide I don't need the reference, after all, and so that's 30 minutes I'll have spared myself of playing around on the software.

Now, this is a pretty complicated pose! It's in a weird angle and the bodies are making contact in ways I'm not used to depicting, so I did choose to whip out VaM for this one. I went into the program and after some messing around, I flopped my little dolls together like this:

Now something really cool about VaM is that you can completely customize your models, and if you have the patience, I would definitely encourage you to do so! Obviously, you don't have to make picture perfect replicas of every single character you have, but as you can see here I have made a DU drow "decoy" to help me better understand some of his features when I draw him: he has a strong brow, a short nose, a square jawline - these are all going to look a very specific way from certain angles, and I might not always be sure of how to draw it right! So it's useful to have models that bear SOME semblance to the character so you can better understand how different viewpoints will affect their bone structure and mass.

Also thank fucking god for the elf-ear slider. Figuring out how to draw those shits from certain angles was a huge pain in the ass when I started drawing DnD races.

So, with the reference in hand, I go over the sketch again:

Now you may notice that I don't stick to the reference 100%. There's three reasons for this:

posing on VaM is tedious as hell. You can get something incredibly natural looking and picture-perfect to reference from if you wish, but it's going to take you hours to do. So, for the most part I just slap guys together until the results are "close enough" and use that.

In my opinion, you should always aim to ENHANCE your reference material, not replicate it exactly!

While VaM is a PRETTY DANG GOOD source of anatomical reference, it isn't perfect, I often supplement it with further reference from real life resources or make tweaks based on my own knowledge where I catch it falling short (and, antithetical to what I just said, I sometimes fuck the anatomy up further on purpose if I think it looks better that way LOL it's all jazz baby).

Then lines, color, yada yada. I don't have a tutorial on that and I don't think I could make one, because my process is chaotic as hell, but I do at times use Virt-a-mate as loose reference for lighting too when coloring - waaaaayyyy less so however, because that process is even more tedious and I feel like I often get better results by just winging it. It is a feature of the program though, and I'm sure it would be helpful for someone who has a difficult time visualizing lights and shadows. I only started using this program a few months ago, so I happened to already have a pretty good understanding of that kind of thing and just don't personally feel like I get much out of that particular mechanic.

Here's a few other examples of pieces that I made reference for (WARNING: Suggestive)

Now, for the question many of you may want to ask:

"Can I trace this junk?"

And to that, I say: Buddy, you can do whatever the hell you want with the reference material you created.

However,

If your goal is to learn and improve your art, and to recreate realistic proportions and anatomy from memory, tracing won't help you.

Developing your own style, your muscle memory, and personal technique will all be hindered by choosing to trace instead of drawing from observation, so I would encourage against it. Hell - even when tracing is employed as a technique, it's usually by high-skill realism & concept artists who are looking to either cut some corners, save time, or just double-check their own proportions in order to improve further - if you try tracing as a beginner, you will most definitely find the result to still look stiff and "off".

So trust me, there is so much more to be gained from drawing from observation. Make note of tangents, compare proportions, use all the elements of the picture to dictate where and how things should go - it will be a far more rewarding experience.

Hopefully this has been helpful! VaM is a really cheap program (you get it on the guys' patreon for I think 8 dollars, just google it!) and it's definitely been worth my money as an artist since I found it. Learning to use it can be a little intimidating at first glance, but as I said above you only really need a day plus one or two tutorials to get a hang of the interface.

A fair warning though, IT IS A SOFTWARE MADE FOR VIRTUAL SEX/ADULT ANIMATION So when looking it up expect to see a some spicy content.

[togegiri]

✎ᝰ ❛ THIS SWEETNESS IS JUST MADE FOR YOU ❜ — yuuta okkotsu. toge inumaki. megumi fushiguro. yuuji itadori.

౨ৎ⋆˚｡⋆ content. The many woe's of being inlove is valentines day, so what kind of sweet treat do they make for you?

₊˚⊹ ᰔ warnings. gender neutral reader. you/your and they/them pronouns is used. (name) will be used. petnames is used (my love - yuuta , darling - megumi , my sunflower - yuuji). tooth rottening fluff.

note. kind off early for valentines day but I wanted to write it anyways! happy early valentines day people <33

— THE PREPARED TYPE. 乙骨憂太 | okkotsu yuuta

[ "happy valentines day (name), here you go, usually girls give out the chocolates but I wanted to do the giving! I didn't want to buy just chocolates so I made chocolate chip cookies! I hope you love them my love.. y- you don't mind if I call you my love right?" ]

A gentleman to the boot. A week before valentines he has already been planning on what to get for you. He wanted to give you something meaningful that you'll love. Thus the idea of baking cookies came in.

A chocolate chip cookie to be exact. Although he doesn't know baking that much, he asked for his friends' help, pandas, toge, maki. Although when he asks for their help all he gets is “I don't know how to bake,” or “bonito flakes” in toge's language.��

Thus he opted to get baking lessons which was worth it because he learned how to bake cakes, and different types of desserts that he can surprise you for any occasion.

While in the baking lessons he was a little slow but the teacher didn't mind at all. He had to apologize a lot due to the small clumsy mistakes he does but nonetheless he was able to learn through his mistakes.

He gifts you the chocolate chip cookie with a white paper bag and light pink ribbons and laces. He tried his best to make the packaging look adorable which ended up to be cute and great! 

He also bought you some pink tulips. The day of the valentines day he was worried you wont like the cookies he baked or worse your allergic to something in the cookie. So he had to ask in advance if your allergic to anything before he gave it to you.

When he gave the cutely packaged cookies and the tulips he gave you an awkward smile. As you feel your body feel hot as he blushed a little seeing you take the cutely packaged gift and the pink tulips.

“Oh uh… umm since you said you dont have any allergies h- here! happy valentines,” he gives it to you as he awkwardly chuckles feeling pink dust forming in his cheek. Slowly you take the cutely packaged sweet treat, “I hope you love it how much I loved making it for you.”

“thank you yuuta,” you smiled, giving him a small peck in the kiss, making his eyes widen. His whole face covered with his blush, “your welcome my love,” he gave you a kiss back. Yuuta feels as if his mouth has been overfilled with the sweetness of the chocolates as he looks at you. He truly is a lovesick fool isn't he?

— THE AWKWARD TYPE. 狗巻棘 | inumaki toge 

[ “uhh… k- kelp… tuna tuna,” ] 

He's a hopeless romantic. Although quite awkward as I'd like to think when he's in love, he'll love hard to the point he feels nervous and shy around them. He had to take three shopping trips in three whole days because he feels as if the things he bought are not too worthy for you.

Unlike yuuta he just followed a youtube tutorial and winged it the day before valentine. It was a lot of trial and error. Yes he woke up panda just to force panda to try the first failure of his creation.

Panda thought he was poisoning him after eating all of his onigiri. Yes the cursed corpse puked it out after. Toge has to be up all night to make those chocolate soufflés for you. The ending was a messy kitchen, a panda who looks like he's about to enter heaven and see Jesus, and a perfectly done chocolate soufflés.

He wrapped it in a minimalistic way, a red wrapper and a pink ribbon on the chocolate soufflés and made a small cute note on it drawing a chibi of yourself and him holding hands. 

He hopes the chocolate soufflés were to your liking and the love letter reaches through your heart. He'll hide under his collar once you get the gifts he has given you. He wants to run away, kiss you, or give you a kiss then run away after! 

In short he doesn't know what to do and just short circuits but tries his best to stay where he is as you took his declaration of love.

As you take the valentines gift you smile at him seeing the love letter attached to the wrapped treats. He blushed a little trying to hide his face with his collar as you read the letter he wrote.

Dear (name),

I love you, I know I can say it aloud like anybody can. I do hope my actions can speak through the words I badly wanna say. I love you dearly. 

You smile at him, bringing him to a hug. The cursed speech user's eyes widen at this as he awkwardly hugs you back putting his head on your shoulder feeling his whole face hot and embarrassed. “I love you too toge!” He nodded his head as he hugged you tightly making you giggle hugging him back tightly. 

Words may not be said but actions are much louder to toge's love for you. 

— THE COOL HEADED TYPE. 伏黒恵 | fushiguro megumi 

[ “I hope this isn't much, I hope you aren't disappointed, I'm not much of a flower type of guy but I hope this love letter will suffice, happy valentines day d-.. ahem! darling..” ] 

He knows how to bake and is a perfect boyfriend at this point. Although he's quite stoic and a private person you loved him nonetheless. As for valentines day presents he already planned them in advance.

He personally doesn't like giving flowers but prefers to give you a love letter or love notes. He made some chocolate truffles for you but when gojo saw him baking he immediately annoyed megumi to let him join baking which he denied multiple times.

Gojo ended up eating some of the truffles as megumi forced him out of the kitchen. The way he decorated the packaging was a simplistic style. A cute pink wrapper with red ribbons decorating it. As he gave it to you, same with the cutely decorated letter scented with his favorite perfume.

Particularly he wasn't embarrassed more on the nervous side, afterall he value what your likes and dislikes and wants the best for you. 

“Tell me if you don't like it, I'm gonna remake the one you like, okay?” he says making you chuckle as you take the gifts he gave for you, “silly megumi, I'd eat it even if I'm allergic to it if it came from you,” 

The raven haired male chuckles, “stop being an idiot I would never let you eat something you're allergic too,” you grin as he gives you a small peck in the cheek as you hugged him close. 

— THE SUNSHINE TYPE. 虎杖悠仁 | itadori yuuji

[ “I got you tons of things, if I'm being truthful I almost forgot about it so I kinda panicked and bought lots of things! I hope you like what I get for you, my sunflower!” ] 

He almost forgot about it until nobara asked what he'll get for you. His eyes widened as he looked at nobara in panic as the brunette girl looked at him in defeat. He forced the girl to help him as nobara fighted for her life to not be in yuuji's shit. 

Ended up helping him in the end as they looked around a patissier shop where he ended up buying brownies for you. He also requested for the workers to wrap it in a super duper cute way! pink wrapper, red ribbons, with white frills, and cute heart designs on it.

He also bought you a cute hello kitty plushie, a bouquet rose and a letter. Yuuji Itadori is going all out for this because he felt guilty and almost forgot about it. He will say it to you too once he gives his presents to you. Apologizing, looking like a kicked puppy.

You chuckled as you let it go, making the boy grin and pepper you with kisses.

“I’m still sorry I almost forgot about it…” yuuji whined hugging you close nuzzling his head onto your shoulder making you chuckle, “it's fine, I still love you yuuji, I don't mind if you forgot about it,” the pink haired male pouts. “That's not good, if I forget any event I'm gonna be angry at myself for that because I want to shower you with all my love.”

“You already do those yuuji, everyday you shower me with your love,”

“that's true I still want you to know I love you with every anniversary, valentines day, birthday, christmas—”

“yeah, yeah, I got it yuuji,” 

He chuckles, hugging you closer, loving the warmth you two make.

“Good!” 

[p0rk-guts]

"Pork you literally posted Charlie a few days ago why are you so Hazbin obsessed rn-" ssshhhhshhsshhs.h........ anyway

VAGGIE REDESIGN! And I changed her name also bc I'm jus like everyone else fr. Meet Verbena :)

BREAKDOWN BELOW!👇🏾+ Exorcist uniform redesign :3

Starting with her name this time. Back when she was still a sinner apparently she was Salvadorian and since she's (apparently?) not a former human at all I decided to take a small creative liberty with her decent and made her Venezualan instead. SOUTH AMERICUH❗❗✊🏾 I'm pretty sure Verbena flowers are native to South America so that's where the name comes from.

Onto the design! I don't have much to say abt her design honestly. It's not egregious, but it doesn't really speak to me either. It looks like simple formal wear or uniform with some strange meaningless accessories attached. And those weird itty bitty shoes that look like they're part of her thigh highs... I'm starting to think all the characters's shoes were a last minute afterthought. All and all it tells us nothing about her character. The hair wings are cool tho so I did steal those

Also the whole deal with her eye is strange to me. Why Is the floating X there??? It's a real physical part of the world, other people can see it. Do pink X's always float over angel wounds? If her arm got chopped off would an X float over it? Was it like. A fucking curse visual placed by Lute as a constant reminder of her disloyalty? Why did Carmilla point out it was an obvious marker for her being an angel???? My brain can't fathom why it's canonically attached to her wound. If she was a sinner I'd kinda understand but. Yeah idk. Weird

Also her missing eye does not look like an empty socket it looks like a purple circle was sticker pasted on to her face. It's very flat. How did we go from this

to this

(IT'S EVEN OVERLAPPING ONTO HER NOSE IN THIS SCREENSHOT WHAT IS THAT THING.)

Anyway. I made her hair resemble Polyphemus moth wings because 1. They have eye looking spots and angels are all eyes and 2. Well. Polyphemus has 1 eye. So . 💀

Her overall coloring however is inspired by a Promethea moth. I could say it's because Prometheus defied the gods and Verbena did a similar thing but the real reason is I made a spelling error while initially looking for a Polyphemus moth reference 💀 but hey they both have eye spots! And Iike their coloring for her way better

I also redesigned the exorcist uniform for her redesign bc I wanted her outfit to have reminiscent elements from it.

I gave way less time to the uniform designs, but I still had some main details I wanted to adress. I don't like how they have no armor save for their helmets. Their arm and leg pieces are made of some flexible material that tears easily. It's not giving soldier it's giving soldier costume from party city. The devil like horns are also confusing to see on an angel and the paradoxical design is never addressed. They can be evil and look imposing, but the horns just seem kinda nonsensically on the nose to show how evil they are. At least to me.

In my designs I gave them actual metal armor on their bodies so you can easily tell they're soldiers and it makes sense for them to battle in armor anyway. I also gave them more light "angelic" colors with gold details bc I wanna use gold as a symbol of angelic nature in my rewrite. I wanted their masks to show completely static expressions with wide grins to show how unnerving they are and to allude to the idea that everyone is happy in heaven, and they're all happy to do what they do.

Verbena's belt and shoulder pads draw visual similarities to the pauldrons and mid section pieces in my new exorcist uniforms to draw a connection between her and her past. The Blazer draping behind her back is also supposed to mimic the visual of folded wings. I also tried to do this with all the gold details in her design. The big hoops and belt we're 80's inspired because I decided to follow how in one of her old designs she died in the 60's (even had the big hoops and everything). In my rewrite exorcists are all former humans but I'll get into that later. Also she's got an eye patch now! Just. A normal one.

Charlie is still taller than Verbena just like in the original and idk how tall Vaggie Is exactly but Verbena is like 5'5 while Charlie is 5'11. Verbena's also got more muscle on her bc unless their muscle mass is hidden magically or they don't gain muscle for stupid dumb idiot lore reasons all the exorcists look way too slim to be military grade soldiers but what do I know

I combined a lot of pointy shapes with boxy shapes bc— more similarly to her pilot self— she can be volatile and fierce but also grounded and impassive. I added the slits to her skirt so she can be a sexy formal lady who can still comfortably throw a few kicks, and the heels— well. Idk I feel like she could slay in heels! She definitely doesn't wear em all the time but yeah. Chunky heels. I like them they're cute. Also she's got her little name tag on bc she takes Charlie's job for her SERIOUSLY! she's uh. Idk what is she. A bellhop? General security/protection? Either way she's locked in.

I imagine she had white irises like Adam and Lute along with brighter more saturated and heavenly colors in her hair (color picked from the Polyphemus moth) that turned darker and more harsh after the fall (color picked from the Promethea moth). Really visualizing her emo phase /j

Also I think the little eyes in her hair can emote with her. In the final design the line kinda makes an eyelid and it'd match her eyelid's movements. Sillay

Alright that's a wrap on my Vaggie redesign! No bonus sketches this time bc they're within the texts! Who knows what I'll do next. Who I will deface. I sure don't. I think I might rename Charlie so there's that. Anywhozies hope you like her <3

[muzetrigger]

Nevermore Theory: It’s not about “The Tell-Tale Heart”

Okay, it’s time for another Friday night rant.

Recently, I’ve been coming across some excellent thoughts and predictions about Season 2, so now I’m ready to throw own my hat in the Nevermore Theory ring.

In Nevermore, almost every character is based off of one of Poe’s works. Lenore is from the poem “Lenore”, Morella is from the short story “Morella”, Prospero is from “The Masque of Red Death”, etc. There are also some characters that draw on more than one of Poe’s works, most notably Duke who takes inspiration from “The Cask of Amontillado” (Fortunato) and “The Duc de L’Omellete” (Duke).

Now, Annabel Lee is obviously based on the poem “Annabel Lee”, which the webcomic even opens with, but @moxiepower2 and @takescrackseriously have also made the connection between Annabel Lee and “The Tell-Tale Heart” and theorized that Annabel might also be a dual-themed character like Duke. I personally find that reading very convincing too!

(I mean c’mon, her spectre has a giant heart-shaped hole in it, the logo for the WEBTOON is beating heart with wings, it’s one of Poe’s most famous works, so on and so forth.)

But today, I’m going to stick my neck out and say, it’s NOT about “The Tell-Tale Heart” (at least not entirely. Annabel Lee could be based on even more than two works!).

I think Annabel Lee’s character points to another of Poe’s stories that lines up really well with the direction of Nevermore as a whole:

That’s right, it’s time to talk about “The Pit and the Pendulum”.

First, I’m going to need to explain this leap in logic, because it’s definitely not as clear as Annabel’s heart motif. Let’s start with the visuals.

Yes, Annabel Lee and Nevermore in general have a strong heart motif, but isn’t it a little odd that Annabel’s heart isn’t totally empty?

It’s a great visual focus for her character design, but that shape is awfully familiar, and it swings around an awful lot like a pendulum, doesn’t it?

And we know that Annabel (as an actual ghost-type spectre) can control the pendulum.

AND Annabel Lee gives the pendulum back to Lenore, with a lock of her hair tied around it, literally binding herself to the tool.

That’s… an awful lot of interaction with an item that is unrelated to her inspiration poem AND has served exactly zero purpose in the story so far. There HAS to be a reason Red and Flynn keep bringing this damn thing up because they play the long con with their foreshadowing (Dirt on Ada’s hands, Annabel Lee’s panic attack, Lenore taking Annabel’s blot, the gun having no bullets at the very beginning of the webcomic).

So now, I want to delve further into the actual text of “The Pit and the Pendulum” because it mirrors a lot what we’ve seen so far in season 1 and could be a good start for predicting what comes next in season 2!

For those who haven’t read “The Pit and the Pendulum” it follows an unnamed narrator who has been arrested by the Spanish Inquisition, pronounced guilty to some crime (it could have been anything, that’s just how the Inquisition rolls), and is subjected to all kinds of unusual torture methods before being rescued by the French army.

What I find so interesting about this story though is that its structure loosely matches the trials that the Deans have set up at Nevermore Academy.

For instance after swooning at his sentencing, the narrator wakes up in a pitch-black room and tries to figure out the shape of his prison by making a circuit. He finds that it’s around a hundred paces, but because of the “many angles in the wall” he can “form no guess at the shape of the vault”. In reality however, the room is perfectly square and only half the number of steps in circuit.

How did the narrator make such a big error in estimating the size of the room? Because he passed out right after missing the marker he had been using to keep track of his location, thus making two laps instead of one.

Now let’s compare it with the first obstacle for Nevermore students, the Labyrinth. Students are thrust into the maze without any knowledge of how to manifest (Annabel only knowing how to because of the Deans making a surprise appearance in class). So metaphorically, they’re also in the dark, and as Lenore and Duke find out as soon as they enter the maze, the labyrinth’s geometry also seems to shift.

Most convincingly (in my opinion), Lenore also looses track of herself during the Dementophobia trial, just like how the Pendulum narrator faints, which is one of the main reasons the misfit trio almost fail.

That near failure also mimics what happens next in the short story, the narrator trips and narrowly avoids falling into a giant pit (hence the title).

That really ticks off the Spanish Inquisition, just like how Lenore pisses off the Deans by surviving, and so the Inquisition does what it does best, and devises a new torture method. This time, the narrator awakens to find himself strapped down to a plank and gazing up at a figure of Kronos, only instead of Father Time wielding a scythe, he’s wielding a massive bladed pendulum (there’s the second half of the title, you’re welcome).

I find this image very telling because it’s supposed to relay the message that the narrator’s death is inevitable. You can’t fight the passage of time, and it doesn’t get less subtle than the god of time killing you with a clock part.

Similarly, ringing the bell in the widow’s watch is supposed to be an impossible task, meant mainly to give the students who have manifested a chance to flex their powers. The Deans admit as much:

But back to the short story, the narrator doesn’t exactly realize his predicament at first. He just thinks it’s kind of an interesting change of scenery and he’s more worried about the fact that his captors have provided him with “meat pungently seasoned” and no water to quench his thirst, which he figures is the real torture method. Oh and the rats. They’re pretty scary too, especially when it occurs to him that he’s definitely not the first person to be shoved in this room, and those rats have to have been eating something.

Eventually, he does notice the pendulum slowly lowering and spends the next *checks notes* 9 paragraphs alternating between despair, apathy, and frenzy. (There’s actually quite a lot to dissect here with regards to Nevermore’s treatment of madness, but let’s save that for later.)

Then he gets a bright idea and rubs spicy meat all over his bonds with the one free arm the Inquisition left him to presumably eat said meat.

Why does he do this?

To entice the rats into eating his bonds, of course! He has to play dead for a bit, and also let rats crawl all over him, but it works and our narrator escapes after a few cuts.

Okay, now let’s take a look at the parallels to that trial in Nevermore. I’ve already gone over the comparison to the bell ringing class as a kind of Sisyphean task, but Lenore also almost gets eaten by Prospero’s rats:

She also succeeds because the people, who are supposed to be her enemies, help her, just like how the rats aid the narrator in escaping. Did I just compare Ada, Pluto, Morella, and Annabel Lee to rats? Yes. Yes, I did.

But I’m going to specifically single out Annabel Lee in this case because Lenore also has to play dead in order to ring the bell. Specifically she pretends to give in to Annabel’s “Kiss of Death”.

So both Lenore and the narrator are momentarily successful after reports of their death are greatly exaggerated.

Then they have the crushing realization that they’re still trapped. Then narrator in the dungeons of Toledo, and Lenore with…

(Minor aside, this is some phenomenal scene work.)

And now the final trial (for our hapless narrator at least). The Inquisition, having been denied their sliced prisoner sandwich, decide to roast him alive instead. You see, the metal walls of the cell can actually be heated up, oh and also they can flatten themselves by pulling the corners apart like a collapsing square.

So the narrator has two choices. Death by being burned alive, or death by falling into the pit at the center of room (remember that detail? It’s still the same room).

To put it in Nevermore terms, Lenore can either test her luck with the Deans OR:

This guy :)

Now, do I think the Deans created The Wild Hunt? No, and I would be very interested in if the Stag turns out to be related to Theo in some way, but I bet the Deans purposefully invited The Wild Hunt into the Academy in order to corral them back into obedience/kill off the troublemakers. (Or maybe they were just bored, who knows?)

NOW FOR THE ACTUAL THEORY PART (How in the world did it take so long to get here? I only have a paragraph left in the short story to use for theory crafting!)

”The Pit and the Pendulum” ends with the narrator being saved literally as he is falling into the eponymous pit by General Lasalle of the French army. That doesn’t make sense because Lasalle wasn’t in the Battle of Toledo where the story takes place, but anachronisms are incredibly prevalent in Nevermore. Pretty much every character comes from a different time and place than the others, most prominently Eulalie, who is probably Japanese and probably died in WWII (though who knows, maybe she was a proto-weeb and died in the firebombings of Dresden).

My theory is that similarly, the main cast is going to be saved by a third party who intervenes during the Hunt. Then, the narrative is going to shift away from Nevermore Academy and towards the afterlife at large. We’ve gotten plenty of hints about the outside, particularly towards the end of Season 1, so I don’t think it’s that unlikely, and if I may make a second literary connection, Nevermore is kind of like the Hunger Games.

Wait! Let me explain.

You have a group of kids/young adults fighting in a premade arena designed by antagonistic game makers where only one of them can come out alive. Generic? Yes? But looking at the Hunger Games Trilogy’s structure, we start with the Hunger Games, get a variation in the Quarter Quell, and then abandon the games to explore a broader scope of the world.

Now, I have the utmost faith in Red and Flynn’s ability to keep the dark academia setting fresh, but the path of least resistance might be getting out of the classroom.

It’s a weak and vague theory, that I don’t even really subscribe to myself, but I thought I should follow the short story to its end at least.

But if I don’t believe in my theory, why did I bother spending the last two hours writing this post?

Well, one, I really like pointing out the parallels between Poe’s work and Nevermore. It’s clear that Red and Flynn put so SO much effort into Nevermore and I genuinely think getting to be in on all those details enhances the reading experience.

But two, do you remember how I started this post?

That’s right, talking about Annabel Lee.

I’ve been doing a lot of comparison between Lenore and the actual text of “The Pit and Pendulum” but I want to show you this illustration of the short story by Harry Clarke:

Does that outfit remind you of anything? Maybe…

Now, Clarke drew the above piece nearly 80 years after “The Pit and the Pendulum” was first published, but considering how prominent this illustration is for the short story, I bet Red and Flynn studied it when writing Nevermore, and I find that really intriguing considering where they chose to reuse the outfit.

There are ribbons all over Nevermore (everyone with a ponytail has one to tie up their hair, Ada uses hers to set Lenore’s broken fingers), but the motif of being bound by ribbons occurs when the narrative is invoking ideas of madness and memory, specifically for Annabel.

And would you look at that. “The Pit and the Pendulum” brings up both of those ideas together: “the madness of a memory which busies itself among forbidden things.”

That’s the last line of the third paragraph, and it’s exactly what Annabel is doing in the bathtub, recalling taboo memories of Lenore.

Plus, this passage happens as the narrator is trying to recover from a swoon, and what do you know? There’s only one character in Nevermore who swooned in season one: Annabel Lee.

Okay? So? Nevermore already has a lot of parallels to this damn story, and I’ve spent the entire post point them out for crying out loud.

But! Poe is very specific about how we recover from a swoon:

“In the return to life from the swoon there are two stages; first, that of the sense of mental or spiritual; secondly, that of the sense of physical, existence. It seems probable that if, upon reaching the second stage, we could recall the impressions of the first, we should find these impressions eloquent in memories of the gulf beyond.” (Emphasis added)

Again, doesn’t that sound familiar? Throughout season 1, the main cast have all been slowly recovering their memories and thus unlocking their spectres which represent fragments of their true selves and desires.

So here’s my actual theory: in the past, Nevermore Academy was used by lost souls to recover their “mental and spiritual” identities, before they reclaimed their “physical existence” at the light beyond the grounds in order to “return to life”.

More importantly, I think the final arc of Nevermore (or epilogue I guess is more likely?) will take place in the mortal world and be about the cast “[recalling] the impressions of [their mental or spiritual senses” (ie. their time at Nevermore Academy) post-second stage, thus completing Poe’s perfect recovery.

Reincarnation isn’t Nevermore’s endgame.

Maybe they have to leave their spectres behind at Nevermore Academy like in the “Theo is the Stag” theory and the final act is about them reclaiming their personas stands spectres to fight against the Deans, or maybe we’re going to go Kimi no Na wa and just get them running into each other and remembering (which would be lame) or Annabel being the only one who remembers and gradually hiking across the globe to find the others (which would be a very cool reversal given how Lenore is usually the one trying to form genuine connections [we’re starting to see some promising Prospero-Annabel friendship development though!] but now we’re also getting into fanfic territory).

Personally, my happy ending at the moment would be Annabel and Lenore teaming up, kicking the Deans out, and reestablishing Nevermore Academy as a sojourn for reincarnating spirits. That way we don’t have to go through reincarnation drama (again) and everyone who sticks around can just chill out and lead peaceful (after)lives or be teachers and show newcomers how to awaken their spectres. But again, fanfic territory.

Wow, that was a whole lot of text that didn’t really amount to an actual theory, but I hope you guys enjoyed reading it?

TLDR if you didn’t: Nevermore season 1 is actually a sapphic rewrite of “The Pit and the Pendulum”, the Deans are the Spanish Inquisition, and the Nevermore’s endgame is going to take place in the mortal world after reincarnation.

Also, I have no spine like Ada and don’t have any conviction in my theories lmao

[sunnydayaoe]

hi resident bird special interest haver and fan of shapes and colors here i am so obsessed with our art and designs its crazy i've just been staring entranced at your blog all night. would it be okay to doodle those wing au designs im lterally just hypnotized by them

sure. here are some more clear design things for the au I THINK your talking about? not really wing au, more angel AU, so a lot of the wings are purposefully unrealistic, or don't really correlate with real world birds.

[generally error [Butcher] is a northern jacana mixed with a shrike of some sort, ink [Song] is a non-specific hummingbird, and dream [Daydream] and nightmare [Nightterror] are both non-specific pigeons, with inverted wing colorations.]

[Nightterror has more broken fucked up wings, compared to the first image of him. Daydreams wings are purposely very fucked up and oversized, not preened and misaligned, dull colors, neither of them are able to fly. Second design of Song is more accurate.]

This is a diffrent au you might be speaking of? Rufous hummingbird ink, Common cuckoo fresh and wallcreeper error. Dream and Nightmare would just be rock doves or perhaps mourning doves. something soft and sweet like that

most of this art is pretty low effort wing/bird art, so if you want to see me actually drawing birds check out my bird centered sideblog @shittybirdart. I don't have the motivation to make real art all that much, so I don't post too often haha

also would prefer if I was @ ed and credited when/ if you post :-]

[whatswrongwithblue]

Okay, so Charlie and Vaggie the day Vaggie got her wings back. Charlie was holding back when she said they looks nice, Charlie thought they looked really fucking nice. Can you have Vaggie teach Charlie how to preen her feathers? Or even Charlie playing with them and finding the nice spots? and then kiss and other stuff I'm nervous asking for more so soon.

also hamster gif as a payment.

I apologize that this took me so very long to write up. All I can say is writer's block is a bitch and I hope you like it! Also not beta'd so I apologize for any errors.

WINGS

Vaggie threw herself onto the bed face first and groaned into the pillow.

Everything hurt. She’d forgotten in her years since falling just how many muscles were used in flying and she had been training non stop since getting her wings back in order to prepare for the upcoming battle against Heaven’s exterminators . . . and Adam.

Only she may have pushed herself a little too hard that afternoon and was now paying the price. Overworked muscles from her neck, shoulders, back, and even down in her buttocks screamed in protest that she hadn’t warmed up properly, definitely hadn’t cooled down properly, and now she had a lovely build up of lactic acid and micro tears in all the supporting muscles for her wingspan.

She knew it was a bad idea to lay down in the state she was in but she was too exhausted and shakey to even make it to the bath that Charlie had drawn for her. She could smell the lavender in the Epsom salt diffusing through the air out of the open bathroom doorway, tempting her and drawing her into its welcoming warmth, but when she tried to move again, all she managed was another groan before slumping back into bed.

“Vaggie,” Charlie soft voice said from beside her, drawing her girlfriend’s name out with a disappointed sigh. “You don’t have to push yourself so hard.”

Vaggie mumbled a reply into the pillow.

“What?” Charlie asked with a giggle.

“I do if we want to win,” Vaggie repeated.

Charlie sighed again.

“We wont win if you injure yourself before the battle even begins.”

“Uuuuuuggggghhh,” Vaggie complained and slumped into the pillows again, her wings splayed pathetically out to her sides and limp.

“Okay, if you wont get up and go take a bath, I’ll just have to figure out some other way to help you!” Charlie stood and clapped her hands together, before taking off into the bathroom, leaving Vaggie to wallow in her misery and pain.

A minute later, Vaggie heard something being sat down onto the nightstand next to her and then she was unceremoniously being hoisted up into a sitting position. She tried to slouch forward into Charlie’s arms but Charlie pushed her away and began pulling up her shirt.

“Whoa there, little lady,” Vaggie said with a tired chuckle. “I don’t think I’m up for that right now.”

Charlie blushed before she composed herself and puffed out her chest, placing a hand over her breast and turning her nose up as if offended. When she responded, she had a fake, hotty and snobby tone to her voice.

“Please. I am much more  sophisticated when I am in the mood for amorous activities.”

“Okay, then,” Vaggie said with an amused grin, “what are you doing trying to take off my shirt?”

“I want to give you a massage! Duh!”

“Do you . . . know how to massage wings?” Vaggie asked, trying not to sound skeptical.

“There’s never a better time to learn a new skill than the present!” Charlie replied with her usual enthusiasm and Vaggie rolled her eyes, though she was, as always, amused by her girlfriend’s antics.

“I guess,” she reluctantly agreed  and let Charlie finish undressing her until she was down to her bra and underwear and began placing warmed up oils along her skin.    

Charlie began along Vaggie’s spine, right between her wings and shoulder blades, alternating small soothing cirlces and long strokes along the sides of her vertebra. A quiet lull came over them as Charlie moved her way down Vaggie’s back, lingering just at the base of her spine before moving back up and applying deep pressured strokes with her palm along Vaggie’s ribs.

It was torture.

And it was heaven.

Vaggie felt all her overworked muscles finally beginning to relax and although the pain wasn’t completely  gone and she knew she would still feel sore in the morning, she was already feeling an incredible amount of relief.

Then Charlie slipped her hands underneath the bottom of Vaggie’s underwear and began applying the same sweet, deep pressure to her muscles there and Vaggie felt a whole new kind of heat spreading through her body.

“Uh . . . Charlie?”

“What? You said ‘even my ass hurts’ before you flopped onto the bed. I’m just trying to help,” Charlie answered, but Vaggie could hear the mischievousness in her voice.

Charlie lingered in that zone for far longer than she had Vaggie’s back, making it clear it wasn’t just a simple massage at this point before she worked her way back up along Vaggie’s spine, hands as innocent as ever.

Until she  touched Vaggie’s wings.

With gentle pressure, Charlie’s fingers worked the upper ridge of muscle that ran along the top of Vaggie’s wings, especially at the base where they connected with her body. Vaggie bit her lip, hiding her face in the pillows, embarrassed at how easily her body was responding to touch in that area. No one had ever touched her wings like this before, so she had no idea it was such an erogenous zone.

Charlie’s fingers ghosted over the first bend in the ridge, her fingertips just lightly brushing over the feathers there, and Vaggie’s whole body shuddered.

“Oh, these are sensitive?” Charlie teased but her voice was low and sultry.

Vaggie didn’t respond verbally, just gave an almost imperceptible nod of her head and let Charlie continue to work her magic.

Charlie repeated her pattern from the beginning; down along her spine, back up and along her ribs, back down to her glutes, and then finishing off at her wings. This went on for 3 more cycles until Vaggie was flushed and desperate for more.

She felt two fingers pressing between the apex of her thighs and Vaggie eagerly lifted her hips up, giving Charlie easier and unabashed access to her core. Charlie worked her there with as much attentive tenderness as she had shown every other piece of Vaggie’s anatomy, only slipping her fingers underneath the now soaked piece of cotton when Vaggie had begun to moan and push her hips into Charlie’s touch.  

Charlie slipped two fingers inside Vaggie’s tight and warm depths, curling them down and stroking the most sensitive point of her walls as her thumb reached lower and worked circles around her clit. With her free hand, Charlie slowly rubbed upwards along Vaggie’s spine, teasing along the feathery edges where her wings joined to her back.

Vaggie whimpered and Charlie felt her sopping heat clench tighter around her fingers, almost there, her nervous system flirting with a climax, and Charlie purposefully kept her pace slow and gentle, leaving her right beneath that pinnacle of pleasure.

“Charlie, please,” Vaggie cried, her face flushed and buried sideways into her pillow.

With those two little words, Charlie gave in and ran her fingertips along the upper edge of Vaggie’s left wing, letting her touch dance along that bend halfway down that seemed to be the most reactive to touch. Vaggie gasped and Charlie curled her fingers tighter around Vaggie’s core, increasing her pace and pressure both inside and out.

Vaggie’s back bowed as she cried out, all of her once relaxed muscles now tensed as her orgasm crashed over her; a tsumani of pleasure that seemed to continue on and on, until it finally receded, along with Charlie’s touch, leaving Vaggie a melted puddle of sweat and trembling muscles.

But miraculously, it seemed all the pain and stiffness from her workout was gone, washed away by the flood of hormones and her girlfriend’s talented hands.

“Well, that’s one way to do a cool down,” Charlie said, and though her face was still turned into the pillows, Vaggie could hear the smirk in the blonde’s tone.

“I . . . yeah,” Vaggie sighed, unable to come up with a smart response.

“Okay,” Charlie chuckled, “c’mon you.” Before Vaggie knew it, she was being pulled up by her arm and dragged out of bed, though her shaking legs barely held her up. “Time for that bath. And maybe you can teach me how to preen those feathers of yours.”

Vaggie’s face heated up all over again at the thought of Charlie having her hands on her wings for the rest of the night.  

[lizzyflowers]

I saw that one meme with DS!Nightmare and DS!Dream's faces slapped on pregnant women and it was really cursed, but it got me thinking.. what if it had lore...(aka real)? Something consumed right then and there at that moment and i went to the drawing app(procreate)... now i present you them but with a baby, p.s. this is super self-indulgent Also, this was also inadvertently caused by @1ka0oo when she made a drawing of DS!Nightmare and DS!Dream married lol (on twitter, since it's not posted on Tumblr, her twitter is @ashi_ashily. Go follow her!)(I personally apologise to my mutuals for having to see this but this is the person u followed):

Take what you will from this, the second picture with DS!Nightmare on the bottom right corner is from another timeline. But the other pictures are just him and Dream from the current timeline. Basically, what would happen if they just got married after they reconciled and began to get close.. Well, close enough that they got a baby now. No i will not explain myself, i don't know how my brain works either. More ramblings underneath:

What are the other's reactions to this? Ink is somewhat surprised, Cross is happy for Nightmare but at the same time wants to kill Dream, Error is just happy for them, Blue is... not surprised at all lol. Dream gets teased and bashed a lot by Cross and Error (most of the bashing comes from Cross) and Ink is just trying to process the information given to him right now (probably has a few existential crisis's because wow his boss has a child now does this change anything or what, he was not expecting this, first the marriage now the baby, what's happening anymore). Blue was kind of just waiting for it to happen, he's still somewhat banned from the castle but drops by here and there to talk to Nightmare and congratulate him or bother Dream. Dream immediately kicks Blue out whenever he sees him. Error probably knits clothes for the baby and Cross is going to be the best uncle/second-parent-figure that kid ever has. Random HC (Headcannon): Dream's wings are made of light right? I think that they'd get a flame like appearance to them when he gets incredibly upset or angry or just unstable. And if you're wondering how Nightmare got pregnant, uhhh, he's trans, but also magic, yeah. Nightmare hates everything and everyone because he's tired, he's grumpy and if Blue doesn't shut up he's going to kill him right then and there. He opts for more simpler clothing because he's too tired to clothe himself properly, and maybe he steals Dream's clothes or maybe just anyone's clothes because he just doesn't care at that point... Dream is more irritable but still patient, just very sleep deprived, more than usual anyway. Probably constantly worries about Nightmare and the baby, Nightmare feels a bit smothered by Dream's overprotectiveness but honestly just too tired to care. Oh yeah, that guy that Dream killed in the second drawing? I was originally going to expand on that with Nightmare arguing with Dream because Dream promised he wouldn't kill anyone or execute criminals anymore, but that happened impulsively so yeah..

This is super self-indulgent, i just like imagining them in post-reconciliation scenarios and what would happen if certain situations occurred. I just really like situations where it's just very domestic, or very painful and they're just trying to make do with it and heal from it.

[Fun Fact: It's my first time ever drawing DS! Cross, Error, Ink and Blue so i kinda had trouble figuring out how i wanted to draw them.. In the end i settled for something simple with a few minor changes, not that it's noticeable though]

[fumifooms]

hey i have a lore discussion for ya. so. basilisk chapter: laios is like 'wow monsters that are a mix of multiple animals are so cool! i used to have this fake monster that had all these cool attributes. but i've realized now that i'm older that it's better if a chimera only has two or three animals, instead of a bunch.' however, the Ultimate Monster has about 12 animals in it. and because chilchuck says 'i thought he grew out of this', it's clearly not a continuity error. 1/2

So. Do you think this Ultimate Monster transformation was influenced by the Winged Lion, and it's evidence that the Winged Lion was specifically preying on the fantasies of laios when he was a kid dreaming about being a monster? i've never seen anyone talk about how odd it is that despite laios saying 'chimeras are better if it's just one or two monsters', he still likes his Ultimate Monster design, and even adds the third head to it during the story. 2/2

You’re right that this is a layered topic, but no I don’t think it’s a fantasy he only had as a kid that the WL had to dig for. Below we have a EverydayHeroes Scans glossary page plus the final chimera sketch. As you said, the third head is added during the story. "That scylla sure was cool, let’s add a wolf head in there." Something which he has to note down before going to fight the Winged Lion.

Notice the emphasis on "cool". I think the familiar chapter is the other major relevant bit for this plot thread. It shows us with no ambiguity that Laios does care about aesthetics. It shows us that he can build a monster through logic and be reasonable about it, but he’s also not immune from getting carried away.

Ultimately, it’s still Marcille who builds the perfect familiar that succeeds for the situation, and Laios undermines it for its looks before seeing it in action. Marcille here ALSO mentions how he ‘should have grown out of this phase’.

So yes I mean, I think it’s clear that Laios’ fantasy is a fantasy, it’s not rational or logical or even something good that would work out, and even he knows that. Kind of like how when the winged lion showed him visions of a golden kingdom he reigned over during the succubus-induced dream he ended up saying "yeah… Things wouldn’t be so simple". The winged lion draws from deep seated desires, wether or not the person knows it’s stupid or that they shouldn’t, morally or otherwise, doesn’t matter. The winged lion is brute forcing through enticement for them to cave in. I don’t think Laios thinks becoming a monster would be all that he’s hoped for rationally, especially after seeing the whole chimera Falin situation. It’s like people irl saying they’d like to be a housecat and lounge all day; it’s a fantasy but not something that would really work out, as most people can acknowledge while nevertheless still keeping that pleasant daydream. The winged lion calls it out too! "If you’d wanted to be another kind of monster instead of animal, you’d be invincible right now". His preference for chimeras itself is a matter of taste and not practicality. It’s not well thought out, it’s a craving. Laios wanting to be a chimera is a soup mix of comfort fantasy and childhood coping mechanism and special interest hobby and idealization, and more.

And!!! That’s the point! What saves the world, how Laios saves the world, isn’t a flawless plan! What saves the world is Laios’ most authentic most flawedly human desires, ones he couldn’t control or repress. It’s the weird interest that everyone shamed and denigrated, his uniqueness and feeling of disconnect towards humans, that ultimately saves humanity. Because he genuinely desired becoming a monster, genuinely had that hungry curious nature in the deepest corner of his soul.

The Winged Lion doesn’t work through thoughts and the brain but through wants that are more primal, in your guts, in your heart. It doesn’t seek to checkmate you through logic, it wants you to surrender yourself willingly through manipulating your wants, your weaknesses, your emotions.

It’s like Laios’ curse at the end too, and even the succubus. If Laios were to rationally go through these desires-based trials, it’d reflect his actual wants, instead of just desires and cravings: the curse would have been that Falin can’t be revived, and his most alluring form would have been Falin safe. Dunmeshi in this way is kind of about the struggle of rising above our animality and these deep seated desires that go against productivity and what we actually want, like say, always feeling physically hungry even if you’ve eaten more than enough and knowing you should stop there. Like, it’s why we’re talking about allure and enticement.

Like aughhhh!! Why Laios got to eat desires is because he genuinely wanted to see how it tasted so bad, it wouldn’t have been granted by the lion if it wasn’t something he truly desired, like <3 it’s not something he could have simply strategized he needed to genuinely want it. It wasn’t the plan. It wasn’t plan A or B or C.

Laios my favorite fucked up cinnamon roll who saves the world through his authentic selfish desires

But no I don’t think Winged Lion was preying on his kid fantasies as much as like. The remnants of it that are still there and repressed in him. Kinda like how Marcille’s desire is also about childhood trauma, but if it’d been processed better it might have been different. I do feel like irl we carry a lot of stuff with us that was shaped in our childhoods, often some level of unhealthy and irrational that we have to kinda work through and be like ok that’s enough of that let’s be serious now. And yeah! Yeah. You’re very right that his chimera is strongly associated with his childhood desires though. It’s just that these desires really do stick, and sometimes they can overtake logic, wether or not you’re an adult and wether or not you have a demon on your shoulder telling you to let yourself be tempted.

So yes! Laios knows that a chimera with fewer animals is logically better, but a True Heart’s Desire isn’t always rational or good and his heart yearns for the Rule of Cool.

It’s, again, like the succubi! Laios is interesting for this because the thing with succubi is that they freeze people: they make the prey freeze and not want to resist/run away, but they don’t make it reciprocate either. They don’t- they don’t usually have to reason with them and be like "no i swear we’re totally real <3". Like no one in the party thinks there’s any chance of hot naked blonde women, general Hareus or Izu’s mom actually walking out of the darkness in the dungeon, especially since they were already on guard and knew succubi were going to attack. But with Laios it was more complex than that. And I think it’s way less "oh haha yeah what you’re saying makes so much sense" and more "I want to believe this is real so for a lack of a better reaction I’m just going to not do anything, maybe just maybe it might be". Again it’s enticement, it appeals to your desires. Again it doesn’t operate on a rational level, and that makes sense because the succubi are monsters who seek to trigger your fight or flight or freeze instinct and make it land on freeze; it doesn’t operate on a rational level but a deep seated one that seeks to shortcircuit logic and better instincts. And part of that was Laios’ succubus going "oh your party members have 4 heads each!!!! Ain’t that cool!!!" like, his desire for chimeras and many headed monsters is so not rooted on a logical level.

It’s a silly fantasy. He thinks several heads are cool and he wants them, like the familiar he makes with Marcille. He chooses aesthetic over practicality becahse he wants to try and believe it’ll work out so bad, and truly I can’t blame him.

[thishazbinamistake]

Howdy!

I am here to talk about Viv's horrible character designs.

From an animator perspective, they suck.

Here's why

1. The characters have way too much detail

For animation, more lines equal more work. You're going to be drawing them over and over, and it just creates more stress and work for the animators.

For example, I took one of the most egregious designs in HB (Beelzebub) and simplified it to be animation friendly.

(Can't send it here but I'll probably make a post about it or something.)

2. There's too much of 1 color

WHY IS THERE SO MUCH RED??

Especially since they're in a primarily red background, they don't stand out AT ALL.

Like how am I supposed to see them if they blend in to the background??

3. I have no idea what half of them are supposed to be

Charlie is based off a doll?

Alastor is based off of a deer?

Katie Killjoy is based off of a praying mantis?

Angel Dust is based off of a spider?

Beelzebub is supposed to be well... Beelzebub?

When designing characters, they need to be clear on what they're supposed to be! And no, explaining it on Twitter does not count.

4. The animation reference sheets are garbage

No wonder there's so much animation errors. There's no facial expression sheets, lip sync guide, nothing. It's just a 4 angle turnaround sheet where the character is in complex poses all the time.

If you Google Lackadaisy's animation reference sheets and then look at HB's, it's like night and day.

I'm more than willing to send some examples (along with the edit I did) if you want

So yeah, what are your thoughts?

These are all great points! I think you summed up the main problems very well, but I'll elaborate on each of them. I'm no expert at character design or animation by any means, but I'll do my best to explain my points!

First of all, like you said, the character designs are way too complicated. Anyone who knows even the slightest amount about animation knows you want to simplify and streamline your designs as much as possible to make it easier on the animators. Vivzie is way too obsessed with her Deviantart OC lookin'-ass character designs to actually do this, even though it would seriously help to make the animation process way faster and easier. Beelzebub is seriously the best (or worst?) example of this.

I feel so bad for the poor souls who had to animate this. There are just way too many moving parts here, from her multiple arms, her wings, her markings, to her freaking lava lamp hair and tail?? It's just awful. And so many of Viv's designs suffer this problem, I could go on and on.

Like, I think it actually is a nice looking design, as a still image. Maybe not for the demon Beelzebub, but as a general furry OC, I think she's cute. But that's beside the point. I would love to see your redesign of her!

Next, the RED. So, most of the characters we see in Helluva Boss are red-skinned imps, which has been a common depiction of demons for centuries. One big problem I have is that there's little contrast in these designs. Let's look at our three main imps.

Aside from some white and yellow highlights, they're all mostly red and black. Their color palettes aren't distinct in the slightest! And, I mean, come on. Red accessories against what's almost the exact same shade of red skin? Really? It just doesn't look good. A little contrast here and there goes a long way, like... maybe make Moxxie's bowtie blue? Or Blitz's pendant green? I don't know, anything to help each character stand out, and help give them more visual intrigue.

It doesn't help that most of the backgrounds are primarily shades of red, too. Here's a few screenshots I found that really show this problem.

Look at all that fucking red. Like you said, there's such little color variation that the characters blend into the background. Now, to be fair, I did specifically choose these screenshots because I think they really highlight the problem, but this really is what so much of the show looks like. Granted, we do have a bit more variety in the different rings of Hell, each with their own main color, but this is still too much red, considering how much the color comprises the main characters' designs.

Next, like you said, Vivzie is really bad at making characters actually look like the things they're supposed to look like. Let's take Alastor as an example!

Oh boy! More red and black. So, Alastor here is supposed to be a deer. What's the first physical characteristic that comes to mind when you think of a deer?

Yeah, those big, impressive antlers! So... where are his? Oh, they're those tiny little forks on his head that are almost entirely obscured by his stupid emo hair. Like, come on! Giving him bigger antlers would have made him look so much cooler and more intimidating, and it would have been a great focal point for his design! It's such a missed opportunity. (I know he has bigger antlers in his scarier "demon" form, but you still could have made these a little more impressive.) And don't even get me started on those ears... they look more like fox ears or something. Like you said, a good design shouldn't need to be explained through supplementary material. We should be able to tell what a character is supposed to be just from looking at them!

Another great example is Angel Dust, who, despite being a spider, lacks so many distinct features we associate with spiders! He only has six legs instead of eight, he doesn't have pedipalps or chelicerae, and he also lacks that big old spider booty, which I think is such a missed opportunity, considering he is supposed to be in the sex industry. He isn't even remotely shaped like a spider, he looks more like a fuzzy stick bug or something.

Part of me feels like Viv is too afraid to make her characters look unique, so she just goes with the same, skinny humanoid design for just about everything. It's such a shame, because I really do think she is a talented artist who can make some really interesting designs. But then again, she also gave us Beelzebub, so... maybe not.

As for the reference sheets, maybe I wasn't looking hard enough but I couldn't find any official ones for the main characters, so if you could send those my way I would appreciate it! Though it honestly wouldn't surprise me if they were bad. I did look up Lackadaisy's and found them pretty easily and...

This is so freaking comprehensive and detailed, it's incredible! Look at all those poses and facial expressions!

Comparing Vivzie's works to Tracy's feels kind of unfair, since Tracy has been working on Lackadaisy for 17 years, and it really shows. This is leaps and bounds above Helluva Boss and Hazbin Hotel in quality. Rocky's design is tight; it's detailed, but not overly complicated. There isn't an obnoxious overuse of highly saturated colors, and there's such nice contrast between his fur, his eyes, suit, and tie, making his design very nice to look at. You can also tell so much about his personality and the world he lives in just from his appearance. It's such a good design, and Rocky is just one example from Lackadaisy! All of Tracy's designs are memorable and stand out from one another, unlike so many of Vivzie's characters, whose designs honestly feel interchangable.

So much thought and care has gone into Lackadaisy, and I seriously cannot wait for the full series, as well as all the other amazing indie animated series that have been coming out recently. It's sad that Helluva Boss is seen as the pinnacle of indie animation, when there are so many other series out there that are just.. better! Lackadaisy, obviously, but we've also got Digital Circus, Murder Drones, Monkey Wrench, and so many others that deserve way more appreciation than what Helluva Boss receives. And that's just from an art direction standpoint, we aren't even talking about writing. That's a whole other can of worms.

All of that being said, it's obvious that a ton of love and hard work went into Helluva Boss, and I hold absolutely nothing against the animators and artists at Spindlehorse. These poor design choices are a hallmark of Vivzie's art style, and they're simply working with what they've got. There is such wasted potential here because it feels like Vivzie is too afraid to step outside her comfort zone and design something that isn't a brightly colored, sharp-toothed twink, or skinny anthro wolf girl.

Anyways, that about wraps up my thoughts. Thanks for the ask, this was fun to delve into! And again, I'd be very interested in seeing you post your redesigns! 👀

[littledeathdove]

There are a few things cute about Mother Miranda. Her crows are cute, how she looks when she is spaced out/looking up at Lady Dimitrescu, and the fact she can draw very well. But there is a specific thing I feel that is cute about Miranda even though we never see it in the game.

This thing is how excited she must get when she makes little or major progress in bringing back her daughter through the mold. Just imagine with me, alright?

Mother Miranda looking over her notes on the mold, files of experiments that failed, and notes over experiments that had some effect that hadn’t occurred before in previous experiments. Her head in her hands as she tries to find any possible errors she made, things she did that lead to more success in experiments, anything.

She has forgone the priestess look she wears around the village, the mask that covers most of her emotions and expressions is long gone also. Her face is laced with exhaustion even though she doesn’t have the basic need to sleep like humans have due to the mold. Miranda isn’t tired in a way that she wants to sleep, she is tired of this. The failed experiments, her being stuck right after she thought she made a success in her research, the damned fact she still doesn’t have her child in her hands. All of it is starting to eat away at the energy and hope that she still has.

Miranda's hands suddenly balls into fists as she lifts herself off the wooden chair she has been sitting in for hours, resisting the urge to throw the damn table across the lab. Pacing around, her hands now on her hips, Miranda breathing heavies out of frustration building into anger inside of her. Miranda hasn’t felt this stuck in her research in so long and she doesn’t miss the feeling at all.

It doesn’t take long for Miranda to find herself sitting on the floor, unshed tears boarding her eyes. Miranda usually would insult herself when she found herself in this type of state, reminding herself how tears don’t help at all. But at this moment she couldn’t think of anything due to the amount of flashbacks she was experiencing. Eva’s laughter was music in Miranda's mind, one that the older woman couldn’t help but love and hate at the same time.

It’s all nonstop in Miranda’s mind until suddenly everything stops. Miranda's mind is as blank as a white canvas for a moment, and Miranda doesn’t try to mess up the canvas by thinking of anything. It is like that for a couple of minutes as Miranda's tears finally start to fall and her hands are shaking all without her knowing.

Then it happens, an imagine is suddenly painted on the canvas. Miranda immediately recognized what the imagine was it is notebook where she wrote about three specific experiments that were overall failures but brought some success.

Find it, look through it

A voice mumbled so softly inside of Miranda’s head that it was lucky the blonde woman even caught the words. Miranda doesn’t immediately listen letting herself soak in her sorrows some more. But when she does finally dust herself off and gets up to grab the notebook it truly proves to bring great results.

Her eyes slowly brighten more and more as she realizes a piece of information she had forgotten about is located in this very notebook. It wasn’t just any piece of information though it made all three of the experiments successful in their own right. Wings now puffing up from the feeling of realization and even happiness.

She just made another break through.

—————

Basically am saying that Miranda’s reactions when she makes breakthroughs in her research would be adorable. Honestly, that woman only ever gets happy when it’s about Eva so making amazing breaks though would have her smiling and all.

Wrote most of this like a month ago so it likely doesn’t make sense but I hope y’all get what am saying.

[fandomstatewrites]

— IGNITUS

pairing: sauron | annatar x narien (original elven female character)

summary: after the fall of eregion, narien flees with sauron, finding brief repose in a mountainside. they both must decide what to do with the blooming alliance between them.

warnings: mention of nudity, lowkey weird vibes from sauron, angst, wound + wound care

word count: 6.8k

author's note: this has absolutely no plot lol. i wanted to just write whatever came to my head so I gave myself a blank doc and said go crazy. maybe it will eventually turn into something more structured but alas. also narien and her people are my own creation and i did my best to build them within the realms of the canon. if you want to learn more about her check out my art account @nataliabdraws this was not beta read and may contain errors

The Misty Mountains rise before them like jagged teeth, snow caught in the ridges, in the deep furrows of ancient stone. Narien's breath comes short in the thin air, crystalizing in front of her face. Her fingers, though wrapped in wool and leather, have long since gone numb where they grip the wyvern's reins. The creature's wings beat a steady rhythm against the bitter wind, each movement drawing them closer to their destination. Far now from the burning wreckage of Eregion.

The Deceiver is a weight at her back, pressing close enough that she can feel the unnatural heat of him even through her cloak and armor. Close enough that when she chances a glance over her shoulder, she can see how the shadows pool beneath his eyes, how they gather in the hollows of his face. There is something hungry in his expression—something that makes her think of wolves in winter, lean and patient.

"Where are you taking us?"

His mouth is fever-hot against her neck when he speaks, and she can feel the shape of his teeth behind his lips. The urge to bare her throat wars with the instinct to pull away. She does neither.

"Not much farther," she manages, voice steady despite the tremor in her chest. Despite how the air seems to thicken around them, pressing down like storm clouds, like the weight of his attention focused solely on her.

The sound he makes is neither human nor beast—a low vibration that she feels more than hears, traveling up her spine. Satisfaction, perhaps. Or anticipation.

When the pillars come into view, Narien's breath catches. They rise from the mountainside like the remains of something once-holy, now desecrated. Rain and wind have left their mark in deep gouges, in twisted shapes. The entrance they frame is black as pitch, a mouth opened wide in the grey stone. Waiting.

The impact of Angruin's landing shudders through stone and bone alike. Narien's dismount is less graceful than intended—her legs lock beneath her, muscles screaming from hours astride. 

The cold here bites deeper, settling into her bones, clinging to the marrow like a starving thing. She can’t quite swallow the sound that escapes her—half pain, half exhaustion. The mountain swallows it, unmoved by her weakness.

When Sauron slides down from the wyvern’s back, something is wrong in the way he moves. His limbs shift too smoothly, each motion practiced, precise, almost unnatural. He pauses, his gaze resting on Angruin with an intent that borders on childlike fascination. For just a moment, she glimpses something beneath the mask—a hint of wonder, perhaps joy, before it sinks back into shadow.

His gaze finds her, and the weight of it pulls the air from her lungs.

The wind does not simply blow here—it keens, high and hollow, a sound like grief made manifest. It plucks at their cloaks with greedy fingers, scattering loose stone into the endless dark of the chasm below. The shadows gather thick in the doorway, viscous as old blood, beckoning them closer with promises that taste of ash and defiance.

"What... is this place?"

Inside, the mountain's chill presses against Narien's bones, seeping through wool and leather until her teeth ache with it. Her words emerge as mist in the stale air: "Erair’s Hold." She can feel him listening, the weight of his attention heavy on her neck. "My uncle carved these halls. A monk's devotion made flesh in stone."

The corridors swallow their footsteps, hungry for the sound of life after so much silence. Narien's fingertips brush the wall—rough stone worn smooth by countless hands before hers, each touch a prayer or plea long forgotten.

When the passage opens, the darkness is absolute. Like being swallowed. Guttering torches cast more shadow than light, their flames cowering in their sconces as though they know what manner of creature walks among them. The pillars that rise into the gloom above are twisted things, corrupted by time or something worse—she cannot bear to look at them directly.

"And what gods," he says, inquisitive, "demanded such devoted emptiness?"

The statues watch them pass with blind eyes, their faces worn to nothing by centuries of mountain wind. Once they might have been kings, or saints, or demons. Now they are only stone, bearing silent witness to this new sacrilege.

"I know not," she whispers, though the words catch in her throat like thorns. The air here is thick with age and endings, pressing down until each breath feels like theft. As though the mountain itself rejects their presence, knowing what they bring into this sacred place. What they will take from it.

Each pulse of pain in her side brings memory: blood-slick grass in Eregion, the singing flight of arrows, the moment steel found flesh. The spear has become her crutch, though pride keeps her from admitting how much of her weight it truly bears.

 "A refuge," she says, the words thick in her throat. Her uncle's faith seems distant now, fragile as spring ice. Sacred spaces. As if anything could remain untouched by what stalks these halls.

The wound makes each step a fresh torment. Black spots dance at the edges of her vision, and she can feel wetness seeping through her bandages—blood or something worse. Her strength bleeds away like water through cupped hands, impossible to hold. Soon the stone itself will have to catch her.

Better here, she thinks with bitter humor, than tumbling from Angruin's back into the void.

"I need to tend to myself." Her voice sounds hollow. He remains perfectly still in the cavern's mouth, a dark shape cut from darker night. Only his eyes move, following her with an intensity that makes her skin prickle with animal awareness. Like being watched by something ancient and patient. Something that has all the time in the world to wait.

"Stay if you wish." The words catch in her throat when she meets his gaze. "Or find your own refuge."

She turns away before he can answer, but she can still feel the weight of his attention like hands pressed to bare skin. Like ownership. Like hunger.

The darkness swallows her whole.

2.

Smoke knows him. It curls around his form like a devoted pet, seeking the spaces between his fingers, the hollow of his throat. Sauron breathes it in, letting ash coat his tongue, settle in his lungs. Victory tastes like this—bitter and sweet at once, familiar as an old lover's touch. How fitting that destruction drapes itself over him like a second skin, like something earned. Once, he had drawn fire from nothing, bent the world's bones to his will with barely a thought. Now the evidence of ruin clings to him, desperate, as though afraid he might try to wash it clean.

But why would he? Eregion laid broken beneath his feet, ground to dust and scattered like seeds that will grow nothing but grief. Just as it should be.

Blood has dried his robes stiff as armor, crackling with each movement. An inconvenience, nothing more—this flesh is merely borrowed anyway, a vessel to contain what cannot truly be contained. Soot works its way beneath his skin like prophecy, like promise, even as the wind tries uselessly to sweep it away. As if he could be made pure again.

And then there is Narien.

She wears battle's aftermath like a crown, all savage grace and unspent fury. Grime and blood paint her skin in patterns that please him—war-marks that speak of efficiency, of brutality barely leashed. Her eyes catch torchlight like a beast's, reflecting something wild and hungry back at him. Something he recognizes.

Something in him stirs watching her move through her domain—the way she commands both beast and blade with such easy grace. Admiration would be too simple a word for what he feels. Too mortal. No, she is more like a particularly fascinating specimen, the way she cuts through her enemies without hesitation, the way power sits so naturally on her shoulders.

He might keep her, he thinks. For now.

The thought brings a particular satisfaction he chooses not to examine. Like Galadriel had been, all righteous fury and blazing light, believing herself his equal. His mouth curves remembering that defiance, how sweetly it had crumbled in the end. Even stars can be devoured, given time.

The leather pouch finds his fingers like an old lover's touch. Inside, the rings wait with patient hunger—each one a perfect trap, destiny shaped in metal and stone. His touch has already darkened the leather, the way everything he handles eventually stains.

His thoughts turn to Narien despite himself.

Queen of the dragonlords, they name her. Queen. The word tastes unfinished on his tongue, waiting to be remade. She carries authority well enough—that particular way she has of bending others to her will with nothing but a glance. But he wonders what she might become with proper guidance. If she would accept his gifts with grateful hands, or if some trace of older power might make her... resistant.

The possibility pleases him more than it should.

Time enough to shape her properly. After all, corruption is sweetest when it comes slowly, drop by careful drop.

Until even queens learn to yield.

A ring would sit pretty on her finger. He imagines how the corruption would spread—slow at first, sweet as honey in wine, until she belonged to him entirely. Though perhaps—and this thought warms him more—she might resist. His little queen, proving herself worth the effort of breaking properly. If nothing else, she promises better entertainment than the pathetic creatures who call themselves her allies.

She's vanished while his mind wandered, but he can still feel where she's been, like heat lingering on skin. Blood marks her path across stone—bright drops scattered like rubies. His eyes narrow at the sight. She hadn't seemed badly wounded in their flight, but then, Narien hoards her weaknesses close as dragon-gold. Pride makes her foolish that way.

Something dark coils beneath his ribs. If she thinks to run now, when he still has need of her, when her part in his design remains unfinished—well. His plans cannot afford such... rebellion.

The leather pouch burns against his palm, rings pressing sharp through fabric. He tucks them away with careful fingers that betray none of the hunger building in his chest. No. She will not slip from his grasp so easily. She's far too precious for that.

Her defiance kindles something ancient in him. Something that remembers exactly how to teach such lessons.

He follows her blood like thread through shadow. Like tracking some wild thing that hasn't learned it's already his.

After all, everything here belongs to him.

She'll understand soon enough.

The Hold remembers its own antiquity—dust thick as sin coating his tongue, cobwebs trembling at his passing like old prophecies waiting to be fulfilled. He pays little mind to the decay. His attention fixes solely on the blood trail leading him forward, each drop still wet enough to catch what little light remains. How quaint, that she thinks to hide from him here.

The chamber opens before him with an exhale of stale air. A bed drowned in shadow, its linens gray as burial cloth. Her spear watches him pass with its dragon-eyes, abandoned like everything else she's left behind.

For a moment, silence stretches tight as a bowstring.

Then—

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

He follows the sound, each step careful, deliberate, savoring the strange intimacy of the moment. Behind an old oak wardrobe, tucked into the rock itself, he finds it—an alcove with a bath carved straight from the mountain stone. Steam rises in soft, twisting wisps, curling and vanishing into the still, stale air. Her clothes lie in a blood-streaked heap at the foot of the bath, abandoned, half-forgotten, in a state of disarray. 

Narien sits curled in water gone pink with her own essence, knees drawn to chest like some half-feral thing. Wine-dark hair spills loose, catching what little light remains until it burns like ember-glow against pale skin. 

She doesn't notice him yet. Too lost in whatever fury keeps her spine so straight, her jaw so tight. He finds himself oddly pleased by the sight—this strange, savage creature wearing anger like a crown. There's something almost... endearing about her attempt at dignity, even now.

He stays in the doorway, content to watch. To study how she holds herself together with nothing but spite and will, glaring at stone as if it might crumble under her gaze alone. Such delicious defiance in every line of her body, even as blood seeps steadily from her wounds.

The gash in her arm weeps steady crimson, each drop a small sacrifice to the bathwater below. He follows its path with ancient eyes—the way it winds over her chest, between her breasts, dispersing into pink-tinged water like wine into clear spirit. Her body tells stories in its scars, a history written in flesh. So young, to wear violence like fine jewelry.

He can taste the copper-sweet scent of her blood in the air, mixing with steam until it coats his tongue like memories of older wars, older wounds. The tension in her shoulders speaks volumes—some deeper hurt than mere flesh, some weight that presses against her bones until they threaten to crack beneath it.

"Narien?"

Her name falls from his lips—gentle but unmistakably a command. She takes too long to find his gaze, lost somewhere in that peculiar mortal tendency toward introspection. When she does look, her eyes are dark as wells, pupils blown wide with something that isn't quite pain.

How fascinating, to watch her fragment so quietly.

The war has carved pieces from her, yes, but it's the loss that interests him more—the way it sits beneath her skin like a fever. Eregion's victory carries a price she hasn't finished paying, one that writes itself in the fine lines of her face, in the careful way she holds herself together.

"Narien?"

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Her blood keeps time between them, steady as a heartbeat. Something old and hungry stirs in him at her continued silence—he is unused to being denied attention, especially by creatures who should know better. He moves forward with careful intent, each step measured until he towers over her bath, close enough to catch the heat rising from her skin.

Still she looks through him, past him, at something he cannot see. Her stillness is almost perfect, save for the steady seep of red that paints the water in spreading rings.

His eyes trace the path of her blood, the vibrant streak against her pale skin. Her lips part slightly, just enough to suggest a whisper waiting to escape, but nothing comes—only the relentless drip, drip, drip echoing in the still air.

Without a word, Sauron reaches for the rag draped over the rim of the tub, his fingers curling around it. He dips it into the water, watching the fabric darken as it soaks up her blood. Slowly, he drags the cloth along her arm, wiping away the crimson with meticulous, deliberate strokes, the heat stinging his fingertips. Narien flinches—a small, involuntary jerk of her elbow—but she doesn’t pull away.

When the blood is finally gone, wiped clean from her skin, he leans in closer, his fingers reaching out to brush lightly against the wound. The contact is delicate—a mere touch, but enough to send a jolt of pain through her, enough to make her eyes snap to his with sudden, startled awareness. For a moment, her dark gaze locks with his, pupils blown wide, her expression caught somewhere between shock and suspicion.

With a faint, almost imperceptible shift of his fingers, the wound begins to close. Shadows stir at the edges of his touch, knitting her flesh together with an unseen thread, pulling the skin tight and whole as if it had never been torn. The injury vanishes, erased by a power older than the mountains that cradle them, a power as subtle as it is terrifying.

He expects relief in her eyes, perhaps even gratitude. For most, the sight of such healing, the sudden absence of pain, would have elicited thanks, or at the very least, a softening of the gaze. But when he looks up, he finds nothing of the sort.

She stares at him with eyes gone dark as wells, terror written in every line of her face. Not the meek fear of mortals faced with power beyond their ken—no, this is older. Primal. The kind of recognition that lives in blood and bone, passed down through generations since the First Age.

"Get away!"

Her voice cracks like ice in spring, high and sharp and desperate. Water surges over the bath's edges as she recoils, the sound of it against stone echoing like broken bells. Each breath comes quick and shallow—not the measured control of elvish grace, but something raw and animal that pleases him despite himself.

He remains still, letting her panic fill the space between them. How fascinating, to see her stripped of that careful pride, that cultivated strength. Here, bare of armor and pretense, she is almost... delicate. He hadn't meant to frighten her quite like this, but the knowledge settles sweet as honey in his chest.

The bloodied cloth drops from his fingers with deliberate care. Such a small thing to break her composure so completely—but she watches it fall as though it carries all the weight of prophecy, all the terrible truth of what he is beneath this borrowed flesh. Her chest heaves with each breath, tears cutting clean tracks down sharp cheekbones.

"Narien."

He shapes her name carefully, lets it carry just enough command to remind her what she is, what she was before terror took root. He has no interest in offering comfort—but there are other ways to gentle wild things when necessary.

Still that haunted look remains, that bone-deep recognition that speaks of memories older than forests. How unexpected, these tears on her proud face. This trembling in limbs made for war. Has he truly reached past her carefully constructed walls so easily?

“Begone! Leave me!” Her voice splinters on the brittle command, high and sharp, cracking like a blade against stone. She throws it at him, but the words scatter, hollow, hanging in the air with no weight behind them. It’s fear speaking—raw and cracked—not the queen of dragonlords. 

For one indulgent moment, he considers disobeying, a test to see if any trace remains of the woman who had once fixed him with a glare aflame with fury and pride. Instead, he lets the silence press between them, savoring how her defiance falters, fraying beneath the heat of his gaze.

This—this is not Narien. Narien is fierce, proud, unbreakable; she does not retreat, does not tremble. The sight before him unsettles him, worms beneath his skin in a way he cannot quite name. His mind twists around the image of her—her blood diffusing like ink in water, the tremor in her fingers as she gripped the edge of the tub. She has faced death, she has weathered storms that would break any other. Yet here she stands, shrinking from him, eyes wide with a terror that clings too close to her skin, fragile as frost.

For the briefest moment, he hesitates. Uncertainty coils within him, unwelcome and unfamiliar, stirring something he cannot name. He does not know what to do with this fractured, fearful creature that glares back at him with eyes both desperate and defiant. He does not understand this sudden collapse, this breach in her carefully maintained armor, or why panic blooms from her like smoke. Had he miscalculated so disastrously? What had cracked her open like this, this queen who ought to wear her wounds like a crown, who had spilled blood at his side? Why now does she pull away from the hand that could steady her.

Perhaps it’s the realization of her own fragility—the understanding, finally sinking in, that her pride and strength mean little when the body fractures. Or perhaps it’s the weight of her failures pressing too hard, deep enough to crack that self-made armor she clings to so stubbornly. Or perhaps, he muses with the faintest smirk, it’s the sheer contrast that unnerves her—her blood, her pain laid bare in the steam, while he stands unscathed, untouched, as if nothing in this world could lay a finger on him if it tried.

He rises slowly, unfolding to his full height with a languid, deliberate ease. This moment unsettles him, he admits. Her disorder, the chaos of her brokenness creeping into his presence, feels like an unwanted guest in the carefully ordered halls of his mind. Her fear lingers in the air, thick and tainted, and for the first time in an age, something in this world dares to move just beyond his control. He knows only that it cannot linger.

Whatever this is—this fracture in her—it must end.

Without another word, he steps back, letting the quiet pull her brokenness away like a severed thread. 

And he leaves.

3.

The bathwater has gone cold, though Narien barely notices through the tremors wracking her frame. 

Strange, how silence can press against skin like a physical thing, how it fills lungs with each breath until even thinking becomes an effort. Her thoughts move thick as sap, dragging themselves through her mind as though weighted with lead.

The water around her has turned to dirt-dark soup, blood and earth painting patterns she doesn't care to interpret. Iron coats her tongue, familiar as home, as victory—but this taste speaks only of defeat.

Her fingers find the place where his power touched her.

The skin lies smooth now, perfect as new-fallen snow. As if the wound had never existed, had never bled her essence into his keeping. But the memory of his touch lingers like frost—precise and gentle in a way that makes her stomach turn. His fingers had been unexpectedly soft against her flesh, like the first kiss of a blade before it bites deep.

She hadn't meant to bare her teeth at him like some wild thing. Hadn't intended for those jagged words to tear themselves from her throat, each one raw as a fresh wound. She can't even remember what she said—only remembers how it felt, like swallowing broken glass, like screaming into void.

The water ripples with her shivers. Or perhaps it's laughter. After all, what is there to do when you realize the monster wearing a friend's face has just shown you its teeth?

But she cannot forget the terror that had flashed through her like lightning, quick and blinding, the moment he touched her. It was irrational—dog-like, as she bitterly thinks now—and yet it had been real, the kind of terror that seizes the body before the mind can make sense of it. That sudden spark of fear, so foreign to her, still burns at the edges of her consciousness, refusing to be snuffed out.

The water runs cold, fingers pressed to the unblemished skin of her forearm. The unmarred flesh mocks her—pristine and perfect where moments ago blood had welled dark and thick from the gash. She presses harder, as if she could conjure back the wound through will alone, restore the honest pain of it. But there is only smooth skin beneath her touch, only the persistent memory of his fingers there, gentle and sure.

She hadn't meant to let him so close. Hadn't meant to give him the satisfaction of seeing her hunched and bleeding, hadn't meant to feed that hungry light in his eyes when he reached for her arm. The wound had sealed beneath his touch like wax melting backwards, flesh knitting whole in a heartbeat. Her gorge had risen at the sight—not at the healing itself, but at the intimacy of it. The presumption.

The room feels too small now, the walls pressing in as her thoughts circle, and she can’t shake the feeling that Sauron, even after leaving, is still here, lingering in the air, watching her unravel.

The bathwater drains with a wet, gasping sound—like something dying, watching the clouded water spiral away. Blood and dirt disappear down the gullet of stone, but the memory of his touch remains, stubborn as a bruise beneath her skin. Narien fills the bath again, hardly waiting for the steam to rise before she's working the soap between her palms, scrubbing at her flesh as if she might scour away more than just the battle's remains. As if she might wash away the crawling sensation of flesh knitting whole beneath his fingers, the way her body had betrayed her by accepting his aid so readily.

It takes three attempts to rise—her body protesting with each movement, her limbs slow, heavy, reluctant to obey. The exhaustion settles in her bones, thick and unyielding, as though each muscle has turned to stone. She towels off quickly, her motions mechanical, almost detached, and wraps herself in a soft pale gown and  midnight grey over robe she finds in the wardrobe, the fabric soft and worn, as though it’s been waiting for centuries to be touched again. She runs her fingers over the material absentmindedly, wondering how long it has sat there, forgotten, gathering dust in this decaying fortress. It smells faintly of age, of disuse—of a place that once thrived, now lost to time and neglect.

Pulling her cloak tighter for warmth, she grabs her spear and steps out into the corridor. The hall is empty, dim, the light barely enough to cast shadows, but at least the air is fresher here, not thick with the stagnant dampness of the bath. She pads along the cold stone floor, her footsteps soft, but the silence is so absolute that even the smallest sound seems to echo, bouncing off the walls in a ghostly whisper. 

The fortress holds its silence like an old secret, and Narien finds herself counting heartbeats, breaths, the soft whisper of cloth against skin—each sound unnaturally loud in spaces meant for armies. No servants hurry through these halls, no guards stand watch. Even the dust seems to pause in its endless falling, as though waiting for permission to settle.

The walls remember greater days. Now they lean inward like dying things, their strength turned brittle as old bone. She pulls her cloak tighter, though the chill that follows her has little to do with cold.

Since the bath, he has played at shadows—there and gone, like trying to catch smoke between fingers. But his presence fills every corner of this place, thick as incense, patient as stone. The weight of it presses against her skin, against her thoughts, until she can taste it on her tongue.

When she finds him, he's arranged himself with careful precision behind a scarred table—every fold of his robes exactly where it should be, as though even fabric knows better than to defy him. His hair catches torchlight like spun gold, while she still wears battle's grime beneath her skin. The contrast pleases him, she thinks. This evidence of how unlike they are.

A scroll sprawls across the table's surface, its edges curling with age. His fingers drift across ancient words with casual possession, as though everything here exists solely for his touch.

"Have a good bath?"

The question falls sweet as honey from his mouth. He doesn't bother looking up from his staged disinterest. Narien narrows her eyes at him, the irritation flaring hotter now, her fingers tightening around the edge of her cloak. There is no warmth in his tone, no concern, no acknowledgment of the vulnerability she had shown in the bath—in her panic. Only this mocking, this dismissal, as if her struggles, her pain, were nothing more than a momentary inconvenience to him, a passing amusement.

"I could have done without being interrupted by you." The words come steady despite the water's chill seeping into her bones, despite how her body aches with battle-memory and lost blood.

She shouldn't provoke him. Not when exhaustion makes her limbs feel like lead, not when she can barely hold her head up. But something in her refuses to yield, even now—especially now—with his eyes on her skin.

"It is nothing I have not seen before," he says, voice rich with that particular casualness that makes her teeth ache. As though her nakedness were some quaint thing to be observed and dismissed. As though she were another curiosity in his collection of ancient things.

His indifference burns worse than the wounds. Something hot and dangerous coils in her belly, tasting like copper, like pride.

Heat floods her cheeks, a deep flush that she knows betrays her anger. It rises fast, hot, and sudden, and she is sure she must look as red as her hair now, her temper unraveling in her chest like fire. Without thinking, without hesitation, she leans her spear against the table with a loud, deliberate CLANK, the metal tip of the weapon clinking sharply against the stone floor—a declaration of her distaste. 

"You have a curious knack for forging alliances, I do not need your care." 

Her gaze holds steady, unwavering, piercing through his composure with a silent demand—as though, if she only stares long enough, she might unearth whatever lies beneath that smooth, practiced mask. Yet the Maia meets her gaze without a flicker, his expression molded into an unsettling calm, observing her with the cool, idle interest of a scientist studying a specimen: something curious, yet ultimately trivial.

"Perhaps not," he murmurs, his voice soft, laced with a shadow of private amusement. "And yet, here you are. Seeking me out once more."

Her lips tighten, a flash of irritation sparking behind her eyes. She reins in the impulse, her voice emerging in a measured, deliberate tone. "Mind yourself. I am the one who offers you shelter and I am the one who can take it away." 

He lifts his hands, palms outward in a placating gesture, though the smile that tugs at his mouth is knife-thin, predatory. “Forgive me. A careless choice of words.” 

The sound she makes is all spite and steel, bitter enough to cut. She lets quiet fill the space between them, feeling the weight of it settle in her chest expanding until she is forced to expel it. "I have an offer for you." 

The deceiver’s lips split, wolfish. “Indulge me,”

She does: “Come the dawn, I will leave. I offer to take you wherever in this middle earth you wish to be delivered and we go our own ways.”

“Or?”

“You return with me to Aldrast—as a guest.”

This pulls his spine straight. “A curious proposal. Might I know the terms of this… offer?” 

It seemed nothing in this world came without clauses. Narien knew as much. She drew her own.

“At Aldrast, you are under my rule as Queen. No chaos shall be sewn amongst my people. No bloodshed.”

She watches as the offer turns in his mind, like dark tides shifting behind those eyes. A muscle flickers in his jaw, his expression unreadable until he finally nods, relenting.

"Very well. I will go with you."

Narien tempers her small victory with a curt nod, her fingers closing around the haft of her spear where it rests. The weight of it is reassuring, grounding her. “We will meet at dawn,” she says, her tone clipped, businesslike.

Without another glance, she turns on her heel, the spear tapping softly against the stone floor as she leaves him behind. "Goodnight."

-

Sleep refuses to find Narien. She lies in the moth-eaten bed, staring up at the weathered canopy above. The faded green fabric has a sickly hue, as though someone had died in these very sheets and, with twisted decency, allowed themselves to be buried beneath the earth. The blankets itch against her skin, the pillows are misshapen, and the mattress beneath her feels more like stone than anything meant for rest. Even the faint, cloying scent of age and disuse unsettles her. How long had this room been abandoned? How many visitors had once laid in this bed?

Narien’s fingers absently pick at the embroidery on the pillow clutched to her chest, the threads unraveling beneath her nails. She rolls the offer she made to Sauron over in her mind, the words heavy, clinging to her thoughts like damp fog. Inviting him into her home—into Aldrast—was not a decision she had ever imagined herself making. But the truth is clear enough: the Elves are untouchable without his help. He now commands an army of Uruks, a force she needs. There’s no point in lying to herself. The alliance between them isn’t born of trust or choice—it’s a necessity.

If Sauron poses a threat to her, to her people, she will handle it. She must. She would keep him contained—at least, she would try. Yet beneath the surface, something hums inside her, not quite fear, not quite anger—something akin to excitement. The thrill of ambitions she had long since buried, the kind she told herself were out of reach. There had always been reasons, hadn’t there? Her husband, her son, the fragile threads of duty that kept her from clawing at the desires festering beneath her skin since exile.

But now, with Sauron’s power so near, she feels it again—that itch—the one that had waited all along. If it was a monster the Elves had seen in her all those years ago, perhaps a monster was what she would become.

—

Morning breaks with a cruelty that feels personal, the sky a brittle blue, as if made to shatter. The cold sinks its teeth into Narien’s skin, sharp as any blade, leaving only the sting behind. Her breath clouds in front of her, thick and fleeting, a ghost in the dawn—a reminder she is still here, still breathing.

The sun rises slowly, hesitant, its light creeping over the horizon as if unwilling to chase away the night. The scent of wet stone lingers, mingling with the dampness of old earth, the memory of last night’s rain refusing to let go. Narien pulls on her war-stained clothes, the fabric stiff with dried blood and grime. The weight of it all presses down on her, but she wears it like regalia.

Her fingers split the tangled waves of her wine-red hair, combing out the knots with methodical care. The heavy mane falls back as she ties it with a worn strip of leather, the braid settling down her spine. She has always worn it long—always—and its weight is a comfort, a small piece of herself she still knows.

Her hand finds the spear, the cool metal grounding her, stilling the faint tremors that linger in her limbs. The sanctuary looms ahead, a dark hollow against the cloud-choked mountains. Far below, shrouded in mist, lies the Gap of Rohan—and beyond that, home. But here, high above the world, there is only the fortress, the wind slicing through the silence, and the weight of what is to come.

Sauron stands in the archway, black and gold robes whipping violently in the wind. His hair, like spun gold, catches the dawn, turning into molten fire under the light. He waits, unmoving, until her footsteps draw near. His gaze finds hers, sharp as the morning chill, already calculating the distance she has traveled, the weight of every step.

“Did you sleep?”

“Well enough.” Narien adjusts the scabbard on her hip. His eyes are on her, reading her, seeing too much. She wonders how much of her restless night he already knows.

“Good.”

“And you?”

He shrugs, the movement lazy, almost indifferent. “It’s not something I require.”

Of course not.

“Your beast will not settle,” Sauron murmurs, his voice roughened by an edge of irritation, the kind that seeps through despite his best attempts to conceal it. His gaze drifts towards the horizon, narrowing, as if the answers he sought lay somewhere beyond the world's edge. For a moment, the calm facade wavers, the ancient patience of a Maia, cracking. Overhead, a bellow rolls through the sky, low and resonant—a defiant challenge that thrums against the quiet dawn.

“It has been restless all night.”

Beast. The word digs beneath Narien's skin, raw and barbed, leaving behind a sting that burns. Her jaw tightens, a cold fire simmering low, kindled by the insult. Her response, when it comes, is sharper than she intends:  “She is not a beast.”

Sauron’s gaze shifts back to her, slow, deliberate. Dark eyes hold hers, probing, a hint of something that could be amusement or disdain. He presses, every syllable chosen to push, to test. “What else would you call it?”

“She is family.”

The conviction in her voice allows no room for debate. There is nothing left for him to say. Narien moves before he can think of something to provoke her further, two fingers lifted to her lips. Her whistle slices through the air, keen and commanding, echoing off the rock walls and cutting through the cold like a stone skipping across water. Silence, for a breath, and then—a deep rumble answers, unfurling across the sky like a promise made of thunder. The beat of wings follows, powerful and rhythmic, the sky’s own pulse.

The wyvern bursts through the layer of cloud, her scales a dark silver, shimmering beneath the first touch of sunlight. She is radiant, her roar splitting the air, a sound that shakes the earth beneath Narien’s feet, dislodging stones that tumble down the mountainside.

“Angruin,” Narien calls, her voice steady, a note of command mingled with something softer—something almost like reverence. The wyvern’s beady black eyes meet hers, bright and fierce, and Angruin shakes herself, the great wings folding in as she descends, shedding the sky’s weight as if it were nothing. She is not as large as her dragon kin, not as thorny or colorful, but her presence is every bit as formidable, something out of an old tale, something forged from myth.

Angruin strides forward, her steps deliberate, her movements carrying a grace that belies her size. The air shifts, the scent of rain and stone thickening as her bulk fills the cavern. Sauron’s gaze follows the wyvern, his expression a mask, cold and impassive. There is no awe, no flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes, just that same unreadable stillness.

“At ease,” Narien murmurs in Nareni, her voice softer now. 

The great wyvern settles onto the stone, her vast wings folding with a rustle of leathery sinew, the sharp talons of her hind feet clicking softly against the rock as she shifts her weight. Her eyes, molten silver, never leave Sauron. Wary and unblinking, the spines along her back ripple as her muscles coil with tension, a living current beneath her gleaming scales. The saddle on her back, crafted from thick leather and reinforced with iron and polished steel, looks both battle-worn and indomitable, fitted for the creature it adorned.

It is her hand that steadies first against Angruin's neck, fingers finding the familiar ridges of scale and bone.

"Behave," whispers Narien and the wyvern's muscles coil beneath her palm like storm clouds gathering.

The beast's growl starts low, trapped and thunderous; but when Narien's eyes find Sauron where he stands among the weathered stones, his form remains edgeless, drawn in shades of shadow and smoke. Angruin's tail—thick as ancient heartwood, twice as merciless—cracks against the mountain face, and suddenly there are pebbles raining down like tears of stone, each one marking the seconds of their shared hesitation.

Something raw trembles in the space between predators. The wyvern watches him as wolves watch their own kind—all leashed violence and barely-contained knowing, silver eyes tracking each minute shift of his form. Her wariness bleeds into Narien's awareness even as muscle memory guides her up, the motion of mounting carved so deep within her bones that her body moves without thought. The leather beneath her thighs whispers its history: here where they first learned trust, there where they earned it, each scar and smoothed patch telling of leagues flown together.

She reaches down to the Maia—just as she had that day above Eregion, when smoke had painted the world in shades of ending—something flickers across his face, quick as summer lightning, gone before she can name it. His hand finds hers, and she pulls.

He settles behind her, and the ancient saddle creaks beneath their combined weight. His presence burns through leather and steel and all her careful distance until she can feel the steady rhythm of his breathing matching hers, beat for treacherous beat.

Angruin turns with a tug of Narien's hand, each step a percussion against stone. When they leap, the earth releases its greedy hold and sky rushes in to claim them, the world softening at its edges until freedom tastes sharp as newly-forged steel on her tongue.

In that space between heartbeats, between ground and clouds, Narien allows herself to forget everything but wind-song and wing-beat.

that's part one! Hope you enjoyed! I have a part two I'm working on where we discover Aldrast.