#Self esteem boosts and all that.

[lothricknightgirl]

Abyss

A WIP prologue of a fic I'm hoping to post someday. I'm putting it here so I can get some early feedback for revisions, and also because I like watching numbers tick up.

Yes, before you ask, it is a shipgirl fic for Kantai Collection. Yes, it's also a Dishonored crossover.

:>

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The sun rose over Dunwall’s bay. 

Atop the high white walls of the aristocratic quarter, two did sit and converse.

“Do they not unnerve you?”

A scoff.

Bellowed low did the mournful calls of a wounded whale echo across the water, sunlight glinting off the blood-sullied ships calling their fair port home.

A sigh.

“Of course.”

They turned their eyes away from the bay, and the victorious hunting horns sounded.

Crimson splattered against decks as the cheers of many working men went up into the air, the scent of salt and the stench of iron pervading through the air. 

The whaling trawlers stood still on the water, towering over the smaller boats in the docks, waves slowly lapping up against the sides of their looming steel hulls, as ichor from their crew’s latest prey dripped, dripped, dripped down onto their decks, flowing down the sides like a macabre curtain. 

Gore pooled into the bay, and it was whaling season in Dunwall again.

Deckhands whistled as crates and blubber were hauled ashore, bosun’s ear-bleeders and wounded animal calls drifting across the port, interjoining into a discordant chorus of ship’s horns and voices high over low as the bustle of the returning hunt began.

“Voids, just lookit the size of ‘er! We’re eatin’ good tonight lads!”

Eyes roved out over the water, stormy grey and gazing off into places elsewhere.

“Can barely believe it myself I say, she’s nearly bigger’n me bloody house! What a beauty of a beast.”

Smoke drifted into the air from a pipe, attached to a pair of cracked lips hidden behind a scruffy ill-maintained beard.

“Daniels, keep yer mitts off the crates! If I find even a piece o’ that blubber missin’, I’ll take my cut outta yer hide, you good-fer-nothin’ yellow liver!”

Calloused and bloody hands gripped the railing at the bow of a ship, the limbs they were attached to hidden by a black wind-weathered overcoat, whale-leather exterior shining under the heavy gaze of the sun. 

“You keep yer hands away from that Bessie or I’ll have words with you at the end of my gun, you salt-ridden dogs! Away, away with ye, to yer posts!”

Captain Gregor Hobson of the Red Lady’s Hymn sighed, raking a hand backwards through his hair, whale-oil pale with a meager speckling of grey here and there. 

“Oi, Claggard! Ease up on ‘em, no reason to get so worked up this early when we’ve just brought in a haul like this.”

His voice was tired and exasperated, smokey and slow like a cask of fine liquor, or a trail of burning gunpowder leading to an ammunition storage, depending on his mood that day.

The first mate stood pinned in place, before quickly nodding and scarpering off without a word, not without one final glare at the smug deckhands.

“And fer the rest of you, if I find even so much as a hand's width of that blubber missing, I’ll feed you to it. Get back to work, the lot o’ you!” He turned, and the crew took to their stations with all the speed of a man being chased into hell without so much as a backglance.

“Blimey, he’s terrifyin’.”

“Aye. He was a sarge, fer the navy. Tyvia, I think. Sunk near a dozen ships himself and ate a man’s heart out on the deck during the wars, from what I heard tell of.”

“Malarkey, the both of you. He’s an old sea-dog, nothin’ more, nothin’ less. Just keep yer hands away from the whales if you want to keep ‘em. He’s ruddy well good with that sword, and I don’t fancy losin’ any more fingers than I already have.”

Hobson scoffed, turning his pipe over the port with a good thunk against the rail for good measure, reflective mood soured as a heavy frown worked its way onto his sea-wizened face. 

“Excuse me.”

He cast an eye over his shoulder.

Another sigh, barely suppressed as the frown dropped from his face like a slick trout.

A thin man stood behind him, face pointier than a shark’s with twice the teeth to match, eyes narrowed down to dagger points and holding a watch in his hands, impatiently checking the time and tapping his foot.

A shining brass badge pinned to his vest shone in the rays

“Mornin’, Harbormaster. What can I do you for this fine day?” He greeted, turning and leaning back against the railing nonchalantly, tipping his hat up. 

The Master looked down his nose from his head’s perch upon his far too spindly body with a sneer.

“Yes, yes, good morning and all that, we hardly have time for pleasantries. State your name and import, I have important places to be and this isn’t one of them.”

His voice was a mixture between coarse grating sand between his ears and a poor imitation of a noble’s nasal dulcet tones.

Hobson only narrowly kept from rolling his eyes at the behavior. Slap a new accent on, think you’re taller’n everybody else and suddenly you’re the talk of the Tower. 

Still, as much as it grated, the Harbormaster was a rung above him in this twisted labyrinth of a society, so he played along for appearances sake. 

“Of course, of course, wouldn’t want to keep you, I’m sure you’ve got some very important things to be doin’. Just follow me and we can be done with it right quick,” he assured, tone falser than his bosun’s teeth, smiling wide like a whale waiting for its next prey to wander into its maw.

The Master’s head inclined, chest puffing out, though he straightened himself out before it could become too obvious, glancing about none too obviously.

Hobson pretended he didn’t see it, whistling a jaunt as he guided the man away and down to the hold, past the whale strung up in the crane above them. 

Hook, line and sinker with these types, every time, like leadin’ a rat to bread.

An hour later found the man off of his ship, wandering away with his hands stuffed into his pockets, probably to bugger whatever poor sod he set his eyes on next that was within his reach.

The Red Lady’s Hymn sailed for no company, and no sponsor. 

To a man like the Harbormaster, it would’ve been easy prey for an ego boost, bossing about independent sailors on their own ships from the safety of his position, conversely to the myriad of trawlers moored in the bay marked as Royal Hunters, the biggest group of sailing shills this side of the continent. 

Hobson watched until the slimy eel disappeared into the throng of sailors before turning back out across the bay, blowing out a long exhausted heave, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands to rid them of the salt’s sting. 

The Hymn hummed under his hands, engines whining with electrical power under the strain of the immense creature above the deck, groaning as blood sluggishly dripped from harpoon wounds along its flank. 

“I know girl, I know. Just one more good haul and you can rest,” he whispered, waiting for the humming to settle before striding off towards the bridge, barking orders to the crew as the church bells further inlands began to toll.

Below the deck, buried deep within the guts of the hulking steel beast of a ship, was the Hymn’s twin hearts, glowing as the whale-oil within churned and sparked with arcane energy, rusted screws rattling in their places as the engineers did their best to sooth the beleaguered machines. 

The Red Lady’s Hymn was ancient, by modern day whaling trawler standards. 

It wouldn’t be out of the question for Anton Sokolov to have walked the Hymn’s deck himself when it was just WT-032, the last of the Driscol class ships, marking the beginning of a new line as the trawlers were further refined.

Three crews had manned the decks of the Hymn in her time, and all but one of them had met grisly fates at sea at the hands of beasts unnamed and unknown. 

And yet, every time, the Hymn had sailed back into Dunwall to do her duty as always, towed in by tugs, or, in the incident that earned her the moniker of Red Lady’s Hymn, by the tides themselves. 

It had been a foggy morning then, all those years ago, bitter winter come to lay its weary bones into the bay as ice crept around the shores, and WT-032 had been missing at sea for three weeks. 

The Watch had all but given up on it by the beginning of the second week, and the only ones still looking for it in any capacity were sailors wary of happening upon its wreck. 

Then, in the waning days of the Month of High Cold, a ship had sailed into port, sluggishly maneuvering into dock until her hull had ran aground the shore with an awful shrieking noise, almost touching the nearest house with her prow until she rasped to a stop, barely a finger’s width away from shattering its window. 

The Harbormaster then, a crabby old man with little to say beyond poison to spit at younger folk, had come running out of his hovel with his face twisted into an angry rictus and shouted for the captain of the vessel to step onto shore, then abruptly fell silent. 

The hull loomed over him, red ichor drip, drip, dripping out of her scuppers and onto his face, filling his nostrils with the heavy cloying scent of iron as it dribbled down his chin. 

The carcass of a whale still hung above the abandoned vessel, bereft of all life as it slowly shifted in the wind, sending creaks rattling down the cranes holding it aloft. 

Blood congealed into the cold oak of the deck, spattered about in great pools and littered with splinters, some planks sticking out like jagged teeth, and others split in two, like the steps of a mighty giant had sundered them apart. 

No matter where the Watch had searched, after the calls had gone up, no crew were to be found, corpses or otherwise.

It was like they had been plucked from the decks by the hands of the void itself, leaving it to drift away on the winds, pulled along by the tides like a lost child by the hand of a mother.

That day, in the cold of Dunwall’s winter, the dock-goers had gathered and listened as the vessel’s engines sang, like a ghostly siren’s chorus, solemn and pained as it strained to keep itself going on what little fuel it had left.

The sailors would drift home that morning, minds elsewhere and attention paid to places far away as the song echoed across the waves, the blood drip, drip, dripping off of her deck and into the bay, seemingly never drying no matter how long it stained the decks, or so they say.

WT-032 earned the moniker Red Lady’s Hymn that day, for the color of her crimson shawl and the notes of her sorrowful song. 

As much of an curse as she was a blessing, she was truly a terrible and wonderful thing to see over the horizon, hull bloodied with whale-gore more often than not, her song whispering across the waves as the silhouette of a mighty beast caught in her crane wavered against the setting of the sun beneath the sea, like wet paint running down a canvas. 

As the moon came up over Gristol and colored the ocean in a ghostly pale blue, the Red Lady’s Hymn set out for her next hunt, skies cloudless overhead and waves calm beneath her hull.

Captain Gregor kept a watchful eye over the sea, hands steady on the wheel as a quiet tune carried over the deck in chorus with the humming of the Hymn’s heart. 

He turned slightly, away from the windows, just enough for the glow of the moon to leave the corner of his vision, grasping for the lighter in his pocket and deftly lighting the pipe perched precariously on the wooden surface beside him, lifting it to his mouth and turning back to face the deck.

He stilled.

It was quiet. 

He leaned slightly over, casting his gaze about for his crew and finding nothing but air. 

His heart slowed as his eyes narrowed, setting the pipe down. 

He thumbed open the lock on the furthest right window, before calling out in a clear voice, “Boys, how’re the seas lookin’?”

The only answer was the waves, gently lapping against the Hymn’s hull, song eerily silent. 

Unnerved, he called again, voice unsure, to no avail. 

His eyes narrowed further, and his hands itched for his sword.

Turning on the spot, slowing the ship and leaving the wheelhouse, he opened the bulkhead and stepped out into the cool night air, breezeless and still.

Closing the heavy cast door behind him, he strided down the steps, whale-leather boots click, clack, clicking against the deck.

Two paces.

No sign of anybody.

His heart beat faster, like a war drum thudding in his ears. 

Four paces. 

“Boys?” He yelled, cupping his hands around his mouth. 

No answer.

Six paces.

His back was nearly against the aft’s railing now, the Hymn’s heart still quiet beneath his feet, his voice echoing across the waves. 

Eight paces. 

The Hymn sang. 

One, low, haunting note, like the death-call of a whale in her last throes, reverberating in his chest as it froze like ice, heart dropping like lead into his gut as it crescendoed, louder, louder, the engine’s whining almost reaching an unearthly wail, before- 

Death, yawning wide open, like a cavernous maw, a black and cold abyss.

A hat hit the deck without a sound, a scream evaporating into the air, never making it out of his mouth as more than a rattling gasp. 

When the dawn rose over Dunwall’s bay once more, and the hunt once again returned victorious to the bay only to find its waves silent and songless, the Red Lady’s Hymn was not there to greet it.

______________________________________________________________

Abyss

noun.

A deep or seemingly bottomless cavern.

“A rope led down into the abyss.”

______________________________________________________________

[loverboy-havocboy]

Gonna bite (lovingly) you for making me wanna cry over smol, soft Boost/Sinker. How dare you. - Ghost.

okok what i meant to say was - oh no, i'm sorry 🥺😔 @nooneherebutusghosts

well, since you're biting me anyway, here's about 400 words of the unfinished story of their first kiss 😘

Boost can't take this anymore. Maybe things will change and maybe it won't work, but he has to believe - he has to believe - that he'll always have Sinker, in some way. So, just this once, for the first time since his parents died, he allows himself to seize the moment. 

“Shut up, Sinker,” he says. He grabs his friend by the jacket, pulls him in closer, and he just- he kisses him. 

And Sinker kisses him back. 

It's clumsy - unskilled and uncoordinated - but neither of them know better, and neither of them care. For a moment, Boost is just a normal teenager and the most extraordinary thing about his life is that he's having his first kiss. 

Until Sinker lays a hand over his right cheek, over the two jagged scars that cut across it, and suddenly he's the weird, angry kid again with the dead parents and the grotesque scars, and he flinches away, jerking out of Sinker's space.

Out of their kiss.

And Sinker.. Sinker gives him this kicked puppy look, and he can feel it this time - Boost can actually feel his heart breaking.

He's ruined it, like he knew he would. 

This is why he didn't try. It's why he's pretended for so long not to notice the way Sinker glances at his lips sometimes, or blushes when they're changing, or lets his fingertips trace hearts over Boost's skin after he's sure he's fallen asleep. 

Because not only has he taken Sinker's first kiss and ruined it, when he deserved so much better, he's ruined their friendship, too. 

“That didn't count,” Sinker whispers. 

Boost squeezes his eyes shut tight, feeling the words like a slap to his face, like a bucket of ice over his head. 

It didn't even count. 

“N'eparavu takisit,” he mumbles miserably, unable to look at his friend. 

“No, Boost, shut up. That didn't count - this one does.”

He feels the warmth of Sinker's palm next to his cheek but it doesn't touch this time. He waits for it, but it doesn't come. When Boost opens his eyes, Sinker is still looking at him, but his expression has melted into something so painfully gentle, and he starts to lean back in.  

Boost swallows roughly, suddenly finding it very hard to breathe. 

Sinker's going to kiss him again. 

[map-of-obsessions]

I could never orphan my fics, even the ones that aren't very good, because every now and then I'll get an email with a comment like this and it just makes it all worth it

[lickthatbattery]

i need to go to gay clubs more often last night was the most i've ever been checked out by strangers

[poke-poke-poke]

If your ‘rival’ loses a fight on live tv and then is roped into officially becoming the next fairy gym leader, i think you’re allowed to laugh at him a little.  as a treat :]

(original sketch under read more-)

i just wanted Hop to make fun of Bede a little :] 

[theonetruegnome]

Trivia time again!

Just a short one this time to please you, my little meeples. I'm having a bit of writer's block, but I don't wanna disappoint, so we're just doing some trivia today. Thanks to my beautiful friends @funny-critter-blog, @smilingcrittersthingig and @daydreamer36 for helping me come up with these, listening to my ideas, or just for putting up with my inane drivel and stupid banter. Cheers guys! So, let's begin:

Leah's favourite food is candy, especially hard candy or anything fruity. Once Callum gave her a 10kg bag of boiled sweets for her birthday and she pretty much got a contact-sugar-high. When the others went 'round to visit about a week later, her room was covered from floor to ceiling in sticky sweet shards and the bag of sweets was mysteriously missing.

Sunny has an incredible singing voice and loves to sing, though she's very shy and secretive about it. Most of the time, she only really hums or sings under her breath while doing chores, and if anybody tries complimenting her or joining in, she instantly freezes up.

Conk never learnt to ride a bike, and he insists he never will. He's mainly afraid of falling asleep at the handles and crashing. The others insist it wouldn't happen, but the evidence from prior events, such as when they had a tug o' war or went rock-climbing, is pretty damning.

The only person who can rival Munch in being upside down is Sunny, though she can only do it on an empty stomach. Otherwise she gets very nauseous and usually ends up spewing. Because of this, Munch only just barely beats her, as he will immediately right himself to check on her.

Dandy and Eli once had a months long prank war, during which they managed to catch every single one of the shifted critters in the crossfire. Everything from buckets over doorways to one memorable prank where Dandy accidentally stained Leah's cardigan and got yelled at by Sunny and Munch when they saw Callum Cuddling the saddened bear. Despite this and many more scoldings, the two remained locked in their mortal mockery melee. The others had grown tired of having to deal with the constant pranks played against them, so they decided to get the two back. Munch dug a big hole, Conk disguised it with flimsy sticks, leaves and rotten boards, and Sunny set up a tripwire mechanism. Callum convinced the two to follow him to the place where the trap lay, while Mana enchanted the covered hole to look entirely normal. Both inevitably fell in and suddenly found themselves covered in a mix of jam and feathers coming up to their chests, made all the worse by the sounds of Leah's camera clicking away. Sunny said they'd keep doing things like this to them if they didn't stop and make up. Leah even said she'd publish the photos online to humiliate them more(She was lying!). Of course, the two immediately made up and apologised, earning their freedom from the hole.

Sunny still has the last remaining picture that the others didn't destroy of Eli and Dandy after their tarring jamming and feathering, as she thinks it's funny and could be a useful deterrent if they try to start another prank war.

Right, I can't think of anything else that isn't incredibly dull and or over three novels in length, so we're ending this here. I'll try and stay to a consistent schedule, but no promises, ok?

Also new lore tomorrow maybe-

[wilting-fl0wer]

ok soooo, i've been kinda thinking about this today and wanted to ask this in relation with my most recent post (that for some reason isn't showing up in the iwatex tags😮‍💨): shooooooould i make like a series thingy with all the romancable characters in that type of outfit? like posting a piece once every week or two? yes? no? i'm mostly asking since i kinda want something to draw on the side while finishing up some remaining art requests (which are being worked on, dw)

[weezerlvr228]

flippin boobahs!

[dawntheduckrb]

Fuming rn :3

[fedoraspooky]

I wonder how the Celestial* type Charlie is doing.

*apparently that's what they are calling the all in one type in Pokemon now*

Idk, he's probably killin it at intergalactic smash bros tournaments.

[definitelynotshouting]

your literary vocabulary is scrumptious, i will be taking it (it has me googling lots but its very worth it (i was not aware gooseflesh was a word))

you can pick it up in 2-5 business days <3 /j

WJXBKWDNAKDKSND 💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥 GODS THE GOOSEFLESH BIT IS SO FUNNY ITS TRULY JUST ME BEING TOO PRETENTIOUS TO SAY GOOSEBUMPS..... or gods forbid goosepimples.....😭😭😭😭😭😭

Im honestly so glad people seem to like my vocab??? My writing style has become something very very distinct over the years and like . Your honor i love the fancee words..... i love how they look with my synesthesia 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 a lot of my writing is just focused very specifically on both musical rhythm in the way that its read (which makes it REALLY satisfying for me to read out loud to other people) and how the words LOOK on the page, both colour and texture-wise from my pov. Its fun to literally be painting with words :]

Actually its been such a huge relief that people have been so kind about the complex terminology i put in my writing-- its something i used to worry about a lot, in terms of accessibility and reading immersion, and if it was just. Too much in general??? But honestly, ive gotten so attached to this writing style, and im too much of a fan of being esoteric to try and change it.... im happiest when i get to throw in big words and paint very specific images with them :]]] and the fact that people keep commenting on it in such positive ways is just very nice and validating for me, which is a huge bonus :DDD

[critterofthenight]

it's so scary that there isn't a narrative irl that would keep us from fucking up too bad

[diari0deglierrori]

Me: I HATE maths

Me when I understand how maths works again: omg I LOVE maths so much!! My bestie, my girl, my life, pe quanno nun ce staije, my city, my weed, I am one with numbers etc

[xamaxenta]

I love it when Ace cosplayers catwalk

[labetalol]

like i realize that whole experience was ultimately fun and i shouldn't taint it by acting sad that what happened was exactly what i thought would happen. like i knew he was going to drop me as soon as possible so why be sad when i can be happy i at least had the chance to make out with a super awesome older doctor like that is honestly my dream...!

[featureenvyproductions]

Every time I'm tempted to shit on myself for not writing the World's Most Perfect Story I will just remind myself of things that happened in star wars movies