#adsom writing

[antaripirate]

maxim maresh, red london father of all time

[purplebass]

Watch Holland and Kell completely misunderstand the meaning of the word shipping

(profile pics credit: @/lasq.draws on IG)

[starsailores]

stop scrolling.

imagine kell having dimples, and nobody but lila and rhy know it, and lila doesn't really think much of it. until she gets a little too tipsy, and makes him laugh just to kiss them, and if he lets himself smile a little more readily around her because it brings them both joy.

continue scrolling.

[ravencromwell]

Fuck, just had a hell of a Holland realization, which everyone else probably realized years ago but indulge my horror: The Danes have their stone statue garden of traitors. And the only thing we've ever seen in WL that can turn people to stone is As Staro. The command Holland used to kill his fucking brother. The idea of him having to replicate that kill over and over with the traitors the Danes wanted to make sharpest examples of, and then walk past those kills every fucking day? I have nothing else to say except it's a fucking crime Holland didn't get the same sort of triumphant, bloody fight against the Danes Lila got against the earth mage who tried to kill her in the tournament, because to say he deserved it so much more is the flimsiest possible understatement.

[holland-vosijk-antari]

I've been thinking about how white london probably has different kinds of physical affection to red and grey, I can't imagine hugging being common among people who are casual friends like it is in a lot of places here (I'm talking from the pov of someone from an area not too far away from real london so i get that this isnt the case everywhere lol) hugging requires a certain trust that the person you are hugging is doing anything nefarious with their hands - like stabbing you in the back for instance... so i like to think that in white london where trust is about as thin on the ground as magic, hugging is a massive declaration of trust in which you may as well tell the other you love them.

on an additional note it makes me wonder about what affections would be commonplace, would a kiss on the cheek be a more common greeting to someone you care for? would people give a short bow as a greeting towards an acquaintance? (both things very common in many places in this world too so not exactly strange?) or are people simply all-or-nothing with their affections, giving all their affection to one or two people who have their absolute trust and not showing any at all otherwise?

when it comes to greeting a stranger i was taught in my martial arts classes to introduce myself with both hands visible and to shake hands with both of my hands as a sign of respect within the culture so i wonder if that kind of action would be common in makt - dont hide your hands when trying to gain someones trust or they will think you are hiding something...

[mercurialskiies]

while i procrastinate on designing kell as a dragon, i’ve made the small concepts that will eventually be expanded upon for lila and rhy

granted these are only headshots and i still have to do their bodies and figure out more design potential there, but the idea is that lila has a lot more sharper edges (thin jaw, longer snout, and a lot more of a lithe frame) while rhy has a stockiness to him (slightly shorter than what i design for kell, but stronger and more balanced bc of his lack of wings).

don’t worry

one day i will deliver

but for now, i offer you these

[melodywritesstuff]

For the fic ask, 2, 29, 33, and 40? :)

Ooh thanks for the ask! 😊

2. Anything that you'd like to write but feel like you're unable to? Something longer than a one-shot- maybe even my own book! So far I've only ever written short stories that focus more on characters than plot, but some day I'd like to take on something on a bigger scale!

29. What's the hardest thing about writing? I tend to find dialogue difficult. Multiple pages of internal monologue? Love it. A few words said out loud? Send help. 😂

33. Give your writing a compliment. Oh man. I think a lot of creators and artists struggle with this, and I'm no exception, but I've often been proud of how my writing flows, if that makes sense? The way it moves between complex sentences and simple ones, long and short paragraphs, so that it has a sort of rhythm. (At least it does in my head 🙈).

40. Write a 9-word fic. Rhy knew anoshe meant solace. It was not enough.

[lithugraph]

writing patterns

rules: share the first line of your last ten published works or as many as you are able and see if there are any patterns!

Tagged by @doomspiral thank ya, dear!

There was no possibility of sleep.

The sound of heavy feet tromping down the office corridor could be heard seconds after the soft chime of Tauras’ new email alert.

The first thing Gilbert Maria Beilschmidt did, upon returning home from war, was sleep.

“That’s all you’re bringing?” Toris’ brow dipped skeptically.

The sickly sweet smell of flowers hit his nose the moment he stepped through the door.

The cat was a smoke-gray scrawny thing with wiry fur and a voice to match. 

Toris hated dinner parties. 

When Roderich awoke that morning to the sound of banging, followed by a few choice swears, he immediately thought they were being robbed.

You see the white truck parked outside.

The last time Austria sees her is in the summer.

tagging: @puella-peanut, @rinn-e, @nyhne, @dahlia-scribbles, @makwandis, @a-study-in-dante, @fisularae and whoever else sees this and wants to do it! No pressure, as always.

[muffinworry]

I'm terribly late in seeing this, so if you're no longer in the mood for prompts, pls cheerfully ignore :) But I had to send you Maraschino cherries for the ADSOM character of your choice b/c well. you wrote the "fruit that started a war" fic with If Cut Deep Down the Middle, and I had to know what on earth you would do with more fruit inspiration ;)

This is such a lovely ask, thank you! You and @pinkcupboardwitch actually both sent the same one and well, it's not quite maraschino, but I hope it will do.

A Cherry When It's Blooming Has No Stone

Weak sunshine kisses the pale stones of the castle walls. A wooden door opens silently into what had once been the kitchen garden. Two sparrows, bathing in the dust, suddenly take flight as the little girl appears. Nasi is hurrying this morning, swinging a basket as she walks across the brownish grass. This morning she rushes through her usual hellos.

“Can’t stop and talk, my lord, my lady. You understand.”

The stone faces look at her calmly. Sir Longnose is growing a patch of moss over an ear, and Nasi makes a mental note to give him special attention next time she’s scrubbing them. The Mirror Maiden still holds water in her cupped marble hand; the sparrows will like that. Nasi nods respectfully to her left and right as she passes. The oldest statue, the one whose face is so worn down that it’s impossible to make out any features except for a mouth twisted in pain, she just calls Old King, and she gives him a wide berth.

It's not a long walk, not if you go directly. Nasi, from force of long habit, flits from shadow to shadow, pausing to listen between each. Not that the servants bother her, but sometimes they’ll turn to watch her with their empty eyes, and that always makes her feel itchy between her shoulder blades. The king and queen are busy this morning, she’d already made sure of that. As for their knight, the one they call their pet, well, she doesn’t know where the man is, but she doesn’t fear him in the same way. The children in the city might, but they’re just Kosik children after all. They don’t know the palace the way Nasi does.

At the end of the sculpture garden is a low stone wall, built long ago to keep out deer, not soldiers. Nasi swings her basket over the crumbling rocks, then scrambles up, inelegantly. There’s a tearing sound as her skirt catches, and she says a rude word, more for the pleasure of saying it out loud than from real annoyance. She’ll mend it later. She’s good with a needle: it’s the reason she’s been allowed to stay in the castle. Every morning she braids the queen’s hair into a pale coronet, and stitches gems among the plaits. Nasi’s own braid hangs down her back with a tiny bell on the ribbon at its end. The queen doesn’t like it when people move too quietly around her. Nasi used to think it would be nice to be the queen, to have fine foods and pretty clothes and people bowing in the streets to her. Of course that was back when she was little.

The tree is waiting for her in what must have been an ornamental garden once. A dry fountain, its basin cracked and filled with dead leaves, stands at the heart of a network of looping gravel paths. Bramble and ivy cover the rotting trellises where roses once stood. And in the heart of it all is Nasi’s Tree. Businesslike, she examines the netting draped over it before carefully pulling it back. And there are the cherries, ready and waiting.

She pops one in her mouth and makes a face. Small and sour, but it will do. Not the kind of cherries that belong in cakes, but these can be carefully hoarded in sweet syrup for the long winters. She starts filling the basket, nibbling occasionally, until she’s picked all the ripe ones. She carefully replaces the net she’d knitted in the winter, when she’d first wondered if she could coax a handful of fruit from the old tree. A cloud over the sun makes her start and look around. She’s spent too long on her task; the king and queen will be home soon.

Climbing back down over the wall is awkward with the full basket, but she manages. As she straightens up and turns to the path, Nasi collides with someone. Cherries go rolling as she loses her balance. She yelps in surprise as a big hand catches her shoulder.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Holland says, his voice flat as always.

Nasi stares at him, then at the fruit on the ground.

“That took me all morning,” she wails, and to her embarrassment, bursts into sobs.

The Antari sighs. “Hush,” he says, “they’re back now, and you don’t want to disturb them.” Then, as she can’t seem to stop crying, he bends down and picks up a double cherry. “Here. They’re not damaged.”

“Oh,” gasps Nasi, taking it. “Like jewels.” She hangs the cherries from her braid by their joined stem. She admires her work, twirling it in red-stained fingers. “I’m a queen now!”

For a moment Holland looks almost queasy, but he says nothing. The two of them hunt through the grass for the glowing red fruit.

“Thank you,” Nasi says breathlessly, when her basket is full again.

Holland nods. “I’ll want a few of those in syrup, for my tea,” is all he says. Then, very gently, he uses the corner of his cloak to wipe the red juices from her face. “Better not let her see you like that,” he adds. “They’d eat them all, if they knew.”

Nasi nods seriously and unhooks the cherry from her braid. Then, with a flashing grin, she presses it into his hand and skips off to the kitchens.

Holland looks back at the garden. For a moment, he sees it as it must have been four hundred years ago. Splashing fountains where musicians played for courtiers, fragrant bowers where lords and ladies stole kisses under the roses. Children, perhaps many generations of children, scolded for climbing the fruit trees in their best clothing. A tree that today had yielded perhaps its last crop for the little girl he’d once saved.

The double cherry is sharp on his tongue as he walks back to the castle.

[typingwithmyhandstied]

The essays I could write on V.E. Schwab books that will never be written will always be loved by me.

[antaripirate]

everyone shut up i’m busy thinking about lila lying awake on the spire thinking about kell

meanwhile he’s sitting in his old ass chair back in london thinking about her. pair of fucking idiots.

[purplebass]

Kell and Lila are around married couples in the two places where they mostly are in tftop. There is Rhy and Alucard at the palace and Vasry and Raya on the ship. They may not be officially married. Their matching black rings aren't engagement rings in the typical sense. But they have been living together for seven years already and they are in a domestic partnership and just thinking about this got me giggling and kicking my feet

[starsailores]

girl help i can feel the bones hyperfixation coming back

[ravencromwell]

Headcanons for either or both of the Dane twins?

Going beneath a cut, because somehow this turned into 3k of Astrid stream-of-consciousness musings on ruling her city, bracketed with Holland's disgusted dead-pan snark.

The very worst thing, Holland thinks in the bleakest moments, is that the Danes aren't the worst rulers Makt has ever had.

***

Athos alone probably would be. He is the lord of infinite, fruitless defiance, and if the city wants to give him such gifts as rebellion, who is he to say no? He will simply fight them all as entertainment between bouts of indulging his insatiable curiosity about artifacts. Emerging victorious would soothe his terror that everyone lost the throne eventually even if it left the city in ruins and more corpses than living people.

But if Athos is lord of defiance, Astrid is lady of small mercies.

From the moment the old man was dead, Astrid knows she will show none of his faux love and camaraderie to her subjects. They might love her in return, and those who love a queen want to see it reflected back, need her words of praise for their devotion no matter how they prattle simple service will suffice.

Such displays are tedious, love reserved for Athos alone.

But gratitude? Gratitude has its uses.

She and her brother want to leave their mark on this world (and its people). If her brother's little stone is as strong as they believe, one day folk privileged to suffer beneath their blades may show their scars with pride and whisper what a gift they were given by Makt's saviors.

If they do not, well. More fool them.

But in the meantime, even an Antari cannot hold off a hundred angry citizens, if they decided to mob. And sometimes, the Danes satiation requires a few missing loved ones. And inevitably, discontented souls decide there must be new blood. In especially unfortunate moments, those close to traitors have chosen to mewl about her brother's punishments and must be put down in their turn.

Her beloved Athos never understood how the body forgets pain. Men and women drink. They promise themselves the blood they saw running in the gutter was not as red as all that. Besides, it will not happen to them. To live in this city is to become deaf to screams, even your own.

Look at her brother's pretty thing. How many times has Athos made him scream? (Enough it's added a permanent, graveled edge to his voice, Antari or no.) And still she and Athos catch those glimpses of defiant hatred that are almost better than the blood for her twin.

Profound appreciation, by contrast? Thankful obligation at holding a living, breathing child, where a month ago there was dying skin and bones? That will make a man hesitate before joining a revolution.

Appreciation may even bind the Antari better than the spell of which Athos is so proud.

'Obey and protect my sister' Athos always says when he won't be close to repeat an unheeded command.

Still, she has seen how he can resist myriad precautions binding every joint and muscle and bone ! Athos's will. Seen the foolish delays, misinterpretations. Seen him dare, if Athos' words are closer to suggestions ignore them outright, force her brother to the clearest possible command. She suspects he can withstand even better as Athos' proximity fades.

Wasted breaths are risk, when blood is in the balance. Fortunately, she is no fool, wrapping herself in enough amulets calling him to her aid is rarely necessary. He rides beside her to prove that even the Dane with slightly less black in her veins can easily control their demon.

But at almost every sign of threat, he moves unprompted. Not because he fears her brother's retribution, not because the seal compels. He comes too swiftly for either of those. Holland Vosijk comes because he knows if she died, he would never throw alms to the city that hates him. No subsidized wheat; Athos would love watching the men and women he trains to ride behind them—never beside, no one is given enough knowledge to stand as equal to they two—into Arnes—divide the city into wedges and make the people under their control scrabble and beg.

When she first saw the stacks and stacks of carefully labeled payments to spell-crafters and curse-makers, she'd thought none of Athos' experiments would be needed. The old man had found a way to open the doors, and now he was dead, and they could simply ride into Arnes and snatch the glory.

But a magical payment for each farmer to feed the city as a whole, rather than their chosen hoard, wasn't the worst idea. And Astrid would happily put the dead's ideas to fine use.

She graciously allows the pretty former knight over-see it, so long as he remembers the queen is always watching.

(Though when speaking of food and goods of all kinds, it is her brother who shines in trade. His tactic is so very simple. So very effective. A merchant enters the throne room. Athos informs them what they will bring to the city. Should they complain or protest, he does not even deign to blink. Merely says: "Unbutton your shirt." And while the merchant is gawping and spluttering, the Antari bears his Seal.

"Do you know what this is?" her brother asks, gently.

By the time he has demonstrated the Seal to his satisfaction—such a thorough tutor to the less accomplished, her twin— the question of whether the merchant's trade might improve under Athos' control does not need asking.

Once, Athos slipped a request for a woman's first-born into a contract revision and she signed without even looking, so desperate to flee from the throne before she had matching runes. She even dutifully paraded the child to the castle six months later. Athos had no interest now she behaved so well, but Astrid found gratitude at keeping her child made her a most excellent spy. within the city.)

And then there are the sick. Perhaps the Antari would be allowed his little preoccupation if her brother ruled alone, assuming the family were desperate enough to contribute a person to his servants' ranks. But even mindless, there's something in his guards that hungers to live, ducking blades and attacks on instincts most would swear puppets could not have. He rarely needs replacement.

On those occasions a petitioner dares bring the ill to their attention, Astrid takes whatever their pathetic tribute is. With gloves, of course, because assassins lurk everywhere. Takes the faded, wilted flowers and oddly shaped rocks with the tiniest bit of color lurking in stone veins from the children—so many are children, young and unscarred enough to believe facing the twins and their demon is a price gladly paid even as those they keep alive will likely betray them eventually.

Adults, when they come, bring carefully knitted blankets and finely spun clothes. Once, there were even the most lovely hair combs, made of some creature's shell far from the south the woman called a tortoise. Why she would surrender them for a squalling brat who has years and years to die while she has nothing else to barter, Astrid cannot guess. But she passed the combs to Albiz, her brother's favorite among the spell-working salon, to check for curses and let Holland do his work.

There are not many such petitioners, but every one will go back into the city and whisper of the queen's mercy, how she always stood between them and the demon, and when it was done, their friend or child or lover was alive. Whispers that will still other's discontent.

She keeps almost all those talismans, unless something catches her brother's fancy. Carves spells into the stones, wraps herself in the blankets, wears the finely made trousers.

Though she has little use for wilted posies. "Keep them," she says gently, savoring Holland's second flickering of desperate relief at being handed a token not steeped in blood.

Funny, how he is even responsible for Astrid's proudest creation, though he disdains her falcons. The complement to her brother's court of favored scholars and magicians. Where her brother's is equally spread between men and women, barely any of her falcons are men. Men are so terribly squeamish about having their bodies borrowed. And all her falcons wear a possession charm, so she may see any part of the city through their eyes whenever she wishes.

She could simply force her will, toss a charm over any likely-looking neck. But she wants keen servants, who will willingly call her attention to matters of interest. Made hungry enough from being overlooked they have the grit to never utter a word of complaint when she enters them abruptly. To never fight when she raises their hands or opens their mouths. To fall upon her prey in whatever manner she requires and ask no questions.

The obedience Athos must bind, given freely.

In return, they shall never starve, never offer their measly tributes to free family from pain, never serve anyone's will but she and Athos.

Years later, the keenest ferocity of them all, her magicless, intrepid Gudrun, under the thumb of a father who craved a drudge incapable of disobedience until she went to the market and ran to rumors of Astrid's glove, nets her flower boy. Whispers the most ridiculous, delightful story about forbidden letters and a knight-turned hound's vices that sees Astrid smiling even days later as she prepares to fully possess a prince. Whispers it with the sweet conviction she must have displayed to her father before Astrid murmurred he could not touch her. To do all the things she must have dreamed. (He learned then a knife could make even a magicless woman a man's greatest terror and Gudrun snarled in delight.) Whispers until the Antari falls to her talons, while Astrid watches from half a city away.

What she wants is easy. What she will call them does not come to her until after Holland's third visit to Arnes, feeling her brother's hand squeeze hers in delight at the wonders of this red city. Both their fingers ache pleasantly from expressing such delight at the hours-long recitation, as they have each time her brother told the Antari to 'account for each moment in the Red City'.

The prey-vulnerable Red Royals must think they are predators, dawdling with their letters, letting 'Master Holland' wander the city while they mull their answers, thinking themselves so safe with their doors. She would mock them more, save their complacency makes for beautiful tales.

Later, he will learn to speak of Arnesian wonders in a monotone as though they were fool enough to believe the city left him any less awestruck than they. But in these early days, even he cannot help closing his eyes at the thought of the fat, juicy rabbits a hunting party carried with them. Or perhaps it is the juice running in rivulets across her brother's fingers and lips as he savors the last few bites of apple. So sweet, that juice, when he had pressed it to her lips for the first bite. She had laughed until her sides ached, spun him about the throne room. She would offer her brother a bite of her own pasty—what a marvelous idea, to tell his pretty thing he must fetch back two things he had enjoyed most for them—but even three trips in, she knew his tastes ran to sweet and savory, not the burn that accompanied her meat and vegetables.

"Did you like it because it burned, pretty thing? Because everything in their world should carry the burn of their betrayal?" she had asked, hours ago, and relished the hiss of breath when he forced the Seal to jerk his head in affirmation.

"Even as you could not help wanting the sweet," Athos had laughed, graciously smearing some of the juice in a lingering kiss at the corner of the Antari's mouth. She could see the red shine of it still. Will he clean it away the second he is alone, or be unable to resist the last taste of sweetness even as he hates himself for it? she wondered, and then the Antari's voice cracked, and Athos gestured that he might fill one of the glasses beside the water pitcher and she exhaled her disappointment.

"We will scry his room and see what he does another day," Athos whispered, and of course he too had wondered if his pretty thing could resist temptation.

"The leader had a bird on his arm," the Antari continued barely a moment later, setting the emptied glass on the table and before he was done explaining how such a fierce thing rested so easily for bits of meat, she was striding to Athos' scrying basin, pulling Holland behind. "Clever, pretty thing, seeing what I need. Falcons."

Such beautiful ferocities, and she tried to touch the feathers even as she knew she would only ripple the water. "As Tosal," her brother said softly, pressing against her back and she blinked.

"Mhmm?"

"He will go back tonight and bring you one with As Tosal. It will make the bird still and silent, but not turn it to stone."

"Was it your favorite, when you made him demonstrate all his mysterious tricks to the salon?"

"You know me so well. We will send him jingling with compulsion coins and they will be none the wiser."

"It isn't a fruit I can have forgotten in a pocket if something goes wrong."

"Then you will not let it go awry, Holland. Do you think a week's silence on his return would make him more or less inclined to state the obvious. It is so very dull."

"More, to spite you. It is what comes of wanting a pet who bites. Athos, come here." She held her mad, foolhardy brother, who would weave a plan in an instant and risk all his great discoveries to bring her something marvelous without her even needing to ask, close to her chest. "The pretty thing is not wrong. Besides, I do not need a falcon, love, only their design. For my court. Can he-"

"Of course. Tell us the rest of the trip later. For now-"

"Holland-" This once, for bringing her such a gift, she will grant his name, since he has so little liking for her sobriquet, "Find the best silver smith in the city. A falcon, in flight. On a chain, small enough to slip beneath a shirt. Bring a finished one for approval by lunch tomorrow."

It was midnight, he would have to roust the Shal's leader from a warm bed to find a smith he would also disturb, he was tired. If the Antari thought any of these things, he did not say them, simply turned on his heel and left.

***

In the next seven years, Holland Vosijk can count, with fingers to spare, those Astrid Dane invites to her glove who flee the invitation. (Athos always let his magicians come grovelling, but Astrid's falcons were always keen-eared for new recruits) Perhaps it is his worst delusion, thinking they, too, see how much blood runs at the margins of a people who, if not content, are at least not especially restless.

There is fountains worth from the one hundred eighty-two killed by the Danes personally, and his sixty-four. The blood of fools who ran their mouths too freely to the innocuous-looking barmaid or shopkeeper or grandmother before a little silver charm emerged. Blood of crows know how many drunk by Athos' magicians for power.

When forced to collaborate or unearth magic, he can most easily hold his control near lady Albiz, who makes the job no crueler than necessary, heeds advice, and returns her dead to their people or buries them herself. And she still snuffed out two Maktahns the day she swanned into Athos' service. He will not forget that because she grants an ounce of respect.

Two lives she'd taken, that were merely one crime, on one day of two thousand five hundred fifty-five. Still full of all that blood, she'd strolled into morning court in a ragged tunic and skirt, pupils glassy from the sudden torrent of magic into a body that knew only a trickle.

Like Alox.

Fifteen and cocksure with it like him, too.

"I heard there was a place here for those who could take it. I'll be your best magician if you'll let me take enough. I'm tired of running dry."

There had always been people not even the king's knight could stop, no matter how it choked him to admit it. He could have wandered the streets, never sleeping, and still not stopped all the blood being shed. And sometimes. Sometimes, they had something Vor needed and he turned a blind eye and Holland fled to Arnes to be in a world where kings didn't have to allow atrocities for the greater good. Until the ache to smell ash and steel and the fear Vortalis was dead in his absence swamped the rage and tugged him home.

But Vortalis would never have leaned in and inhaled the blood clinging to her like a bouquet, licked the red from the corner of her mouth, mirth echoing off the walls until Holland's head throbbed when she moved like a desperate, striking snake to try for a kiss. As though he'd let it be stolen back from his tongue. Would never have said, for all to hear: "Defiant little thing, aren't you? You're the third most beautiful person I've seen all month."

How many lives might be saved, if Albiz and worse weren't infesting the city? How many slum magicians had killed some unwitting neighbor, watching them preen and knowing Athos and Astrid Dane would never care, so long as they were not challenged as the greatest sorcerers of the land?

Deluded or no, it is those few refusals Astrid grumbled over and insisted he keep an eye on ("If they dare not serve, they must have plans of their own. Look harder, pretty thing, and you'll find the rot they're tangled in.") he seeks when he returns for kingship. Hopes their refusal meant more than a disdain for fancy jewelry. Because Athos and Astrid Dane aren't the worst rulers Makt had, but he will be better by far.

[holland-vosijk-antari]

i was just reading kell's pov in acol where he goes down to see holland in the cells, how he feels hollands eyes scraping against his own, and back in adsom where its described as two stones sparking together. not only does that make me want to go insane, it also makes me wonder if holland feels that too or if its just kell? its not mentioned as far as i can remember in any of hollands pov and not even in their first meeting flashback. the absence of it from holland's pov is a bit of a shame really though it does suggest that its just kell and the effect holland has on him... its also mentioned briefly when lila gets her antari prosthetic eye (in the sense that kell feels glad that he can look her in the eyes without that friction) which makes me wonder, if lila had both eyes would there be that sparking sensation between her and kell? would it not as their black eyes are on the same side? why would that sensation be only due to the presence of the marked eye? it's clear that kell and lila DO have a connection but then again so would most people who went through what they did together (especially as kell is quite dramatic about what he cares about). it would just be a shame to have this connection between antari be a real thing and it not be developed past a couple of brief mentions one of which to enhance a ship. the antari could be endlessly more strange so it's a shame that, even when bonded with the rings, they are essentially just very powerful magic users and not something altogether else...

[mercurialskiies]

Alright everyone, I have finally delivered, and honestly? I think Lila may have cooked so hard that I might have to redesign Kell. But today, I present to you all: Lila Bard in dragon form

Lila's concept as a whole was essentially a sharper, leaner, longer design than Kell. Her entire design is meant to be sharp edges and spikes, so I tried incorporating that into her design as best I could. She's supposed to be small and nimble, befitting of Lila who relies on that as a thief. You'll also notice she has black-ish brindle markings along her back and face, because I wanted something else that could make her design less flat (that might get changed to a stone gray later, but who knows).

Her horns come from her mask worn in the Essen Tasch, which is significantly longer than the rest of her face, it feels like.

And because I made the rest of her pointed and sharp, I didn't think I needed to include any knives on her (seeing as the spikes on her body could pass for sharp weapons), but I did decide to attach a knife to her tail, giving her an offensive weapon to wield. It would have felt wrong to not give her at least one.

I also included her beside Kell as a reference, which I will probably use myself if I ever make art of them this way.