#Puffin stuff

[shadowthief78]

Baby goats!!

[hometoursandotherstuff]

[haveyoureadthispoem-poll]

"’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe."

Read it here | Reblog for a larger sample size!

[ruderubicante]

I've been banned from healing in any and all circumstances.

[through-fire-and-flame]

[ i do not know how i got so lucky with my writing partners

y'all are just so, so incredible ]

[shdwtouch]

also I'm really bad at naming my pals (and my pokemon, and my animals in planet zoo tbh) so if you like this post I'll name a pal after you and/or you muse(s). I'll even send you a pic of them and share their traits and what nonsense they get up to if you want. also I promise I'm a good partner and don't abuse my pals, I run a pretty chill and forgiving base.

[swordluck]

ooc . You know what? Anri deserves more girlfriends.

[confessthysiins]

old doodles for ozzy's ds3 verse

[austerulous]

I thought I was in a place to be here again, but I’m really not. I’ll be working on replies / asks in the background, but uninstalling the app and staying away from the dash. Take care of yourselves. ♡

[bopernstien]

this one was unreasonably fun AND frustrating! ehhehe

[shadowthief78]

[hometoursandotherstuff]

[littleoneamanda]

Joy

I struggle a lot with the water😅 But I'm pretty happy how it turned out in the end.

[chronal-anomaly]

kinda wild how Overwatch just kept recruiting essentially children huh

[aquatic-batt]

okay I swear I’m gonna try to draw and post something today

[lockawayknight]

@austerulous said:

“Do you know of the acreage you hold in my heart?”

Soft-spoken words disturbed the quiet, a gentle affront to the deathly company they kept. The only souls that drew breath in this makeshift graveyard, they sat side-by-side, hip to hip, Anri’s head at home on Creighton’s shoulder, snow-white tresses mingling and bleeding with pale blonde. How warm they were, how full of blood, as they huddled in the grim shadow of the cathedral.

“I have something for you.” Careful rummaging in a leather pouch produced the gift. It nestled in the well of Anri’s palm as she presented it, shining in a shade of cyan reminiscent of summer waters. A prism stone, luminescent and inappreciable, it had warmed her pocket through the ages, kept her company through more graves than she could count.

“It is my last one. My first too, incidentally. A gift from Horace, back when we were children.” A whimsical and sentimental keepsake, one that few would see the value in. Creighton would understand though, she was certain. Creighton would treasure it.

“I should like for you to always have a little light. To know that I love you, and that I will carry these tender feelings beyond the veil of true death.” How sweetly their fingers brushed, as Anri deposited the glinting pebble into her friend’s dear hands. It had been a curse to live this long, but there was a gift in meeting him. Gratitude bruised her aching heart.

Surrounded by moss-draped tombstones, the consecrated earth stippled with meadow saxifrages and cuckoo flowers – and with the bones of beloved-by-one children crumbling beneath their boots – Anri pressed a lingering kiss to Creighton’s pale, mottled cheek.

There are very few things in the world that carry more weight than the sound of Horace’s name on Anri’s lips, or the importance of their friendship bearing its beauty within her bleeding breast. Creighton knows this well, and immediately understands the depth of the ocean that dives deep within the pale stone that is placed into his palm. He knows this…

And it breaks him like a wooden arrow against a dragon’s hide.

Indeed, he’s so in awe of the gift’s every silent meaning — his breath and beating blood holding each other, choking, by the throat, ‘til neither lungs nor heart can catch any air — that he almost misses the softness of his dear friend’s lips as they grace the scattered freckles beneath his eyes. But the warmth is hard to ignore. Like a church candle’s gentle flame being held to his dappled cheek.

“Anri, you…” He has no words. He cradles the stone in the palm of his hand as one would cradle a fragile duckling, or the egg it had hatched from, knowing full well that something so beautiful deserves a much more tender hand to rest within. One like Anri’s. One like a saint’s. One so, so unlike Creighton’s. “This… I’m…”

Truly, though, what is there to say? A “thank you” would be nothing but a breeze against the stronghold of her love. A hug is too forward, he thinks, from his bearlike arms, and his scarred and split lips are unworthy of feeling her skin with a returned kiss. His words would be gawky as a pauper to her beauty’s porcelain princess. And so, he is left there, dumb as a doe and just as anxiously, innocently wide-eyed as his mailled fingers flex around the glowing stone.

A century passes, it seems, before he finally inhales the frostbitten air.

Gods, how he wishes he could pull his heart from his chest and hand it to her as one would a wedding ring.

But because he cannot…

…

Creighton swallows hard, and he doesn’t need to think twice when a very, very strong feeling begins to pluck his heart’s harp strings. “I, ah…” Pause. “…I got somethin’ for y’ too.”

His free hand moves to reach beneath his cloak.

Once upon a time, there was a lonely harpy who lived in the dunes. Not in a parable sort of way — very, very truly. And she had a very special friend.

Of course, it was Creighton. A much younger, much more volatile — could you imagine? — version of the now-Finger, gruff and gritty, vulgar and venomous, but always eager to chat with his feathered friend about the ups and downs of their lives — the churning of the sands, literal and metaphorical, and the way the spiders spun their webs. Creighton was confident and calm in the knowing that she would hold him to her black-downed breast during the times when he had nowhere else to go, even if her avian ears were unable to fully comprehend the reasons why he cried; and she, too, could flutter to his door when she craved a type of murder different than that which stained her customers’ swords. She was a comfort to him; and, indeed, he was to her. And she had a peculiar way of showing her love.

Her crow’s covetous brain treasured all things smooth and shiny, and Creighton would often find trinkets and curios left on his doorstep. Oh, how his to-be husband would snicker at the rubbish, amused by the knight’s closeness to the she-bird, his foxlike fingers studying the curves of beast bones and broken porcelain faces.

But to Creighton, each one was a treasure.

As was she.

Time passed, and bones turned to dust, and dolls’ eyes shattered into shards, and feathers disappeared into the unforgiving winds of a world left to crumble. Every gift. Every memento. Even the harpy herself.

But one treasure remained.

And it is heavy in the pouch that hangs from Creighton’s belt.

Creighton is not a man made of eloquence — poetry has never once fallen from his lips. He speaks in grunts and groans and cussing and curtness. His language is one of beastmen. He has no way to articulate this story of friendship, fondness, and forced separation that swaddles the small object he wraps his fingers around. He hasn’t the first clue how to explain the heart, soul, and sentimentality of what he pulls from his pocket. And, were it to be a gift given to anyone else, he might even feel silly for assuming the other would think the thing as anything more than a simple relic — something to sell, or to trade, or to use in a pinch.

But as he places the radiant lifegem in Anri’s palm — the golden, gorgeous gem, still sparkling with the souls of warriors past, and just as too-humanly warm — and he raises his eyes to meet hers, he knows she will read the words within them, and understand.

“Gift from an old friend,” he manages through the lump in his throat. “I’m, ah… If I get t’carry some a’ your light an’ love, then I think you oughta be able to carry a bit a’ mine. I can’t always be there t’protect the ones I care about, y’know. But, ah… at least with this, you’ll always ‘ave a bit a’ extra help if somethin’ ‘appens.”

The smile he offers seems almost… sad.

But only because he wishes he could do more.

As he releases his hold on the lifegem, the prism stone finds itself at home in the now-empty space in his pocket. And so, once again, he feels his friends’ love radiate through him like a sip of warm tea.

He’s always been bad at I-love-you-toos.