#death imagery

[zkyeline]

Good morning Elysium, today I bring you the sequel to the Rad Cop animatic… COMRADE Cop animatic.

[lordoftablecloths]

In which the Town is left orphaned.

27: Hell

I think, in the worst possible end of all of their routes, they all die in their own special way. As morbidly hilarious that sounds, it's fitting. Explanation/headcanons under cut

So, first, Daniil: He jumps off the Polyhedron. This could be for a number of reasons. Mainly being that he feels that he has nothing left for him, particularly in reference to Thanatica. All his life work destroyed, so even if he does deal with this damned town, he has nothing to show for it. He comes to the decision as rationally as a man like him could. He weighs out his other options, realizes that he would find no particular satisfaction in them, so once the meeting in the cathedral is over, he climbs to the top of the Polyhedron and simply lets himself fall. Perhaps he remembers Eva, or perhaps he wanted to, like her, add something to such a hallowed piece of architecture.

Artemy (and Clara) are relatively simpler: He dies either in the fight with Oyun or dies to his "trials."

Clara in some way or another succumbs to the earth. I don't completely know how this would work out story-wise, but it felt like thematically. Do note that I haven't finished her route yet, haha.

anyway, this took fucking forever to finish, so despite having said I was going to do one more pathofest after this, i dont think i have the life in me to do so, ,, it was going to be for the prompt "our home" but i really want to work on and just do other stuff, NAMELY goretober !!!!

also scream fortress

i love you pathologic but i want to be free

[circusballoon]

Unknown Grave

I'm still working on @darlnyan's ISaT-ober prompt list every day in my sketchbook. It's.. it's mostly Loop and Siffrin because I'm predictible and love them.

This one was inspired by "Emptiness" (I couldn't think of a title with that in it though)

Anyway I think about Loop calling themself a ghost and the tree their grave a bit, and wanted to channel that because... it felt right to me for a feeling of emptiness. Also tried to make their chest star seem like a hole but I have no idea if that communicated

[emiuli]

Hello

[dead-man-stimming]

The Corruption

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[tanuki-kimono]

Hi! First off your blog is such an important resource for me in kimono patterns, thank you for keeping it! Secondly, a question. What patterns are associated with death? I know of spider lilies, and pure black kimono accessories for funeral wear, but otherwise not much else. I suspect that kind of pattern would be more of a novelty item print than an estabilished and used pattern.

Hi and thanks for your kinds words! Off the top of my head, they are several patterns associated with death, mostly linked to Buddhism.

Tbh, mourning attire for women are for me more an affair of colors (black/muted) and discreet not-celebratory patterns (it also depends of ones means). Novelty "death-themed"patterns are more and more present in modern kimono, yet you can also find "traditional" ones - even if they are on the rarer side.

Formal mourning garb, as you note, asks for mofuku (black kimono and obi with a few white accessories). Obi usually have very traditional woven ground patterns - for example ryuusui (running water) which kinda symbolize "the flow of life".

For the Buddhist anniversary of one's death and rememberance services, ladies would (when they can afford it) go from all black to half-mourning dress in muted colors like dull greys or ashen purple. For such occasions, you can find Buddhist patterns like sutra (Heart sutra especially), lotus flowers, gorintô (stylized stupa), etc.

More seasonal items could reference Buddhist Obon (festival of the dead) or Higan (more especially autumn equinox Shûbun), but such patterns for very specific events are on the rarer side, and more a matter of taste and style.

Patterns can include higanbana (spider lilies) for Higan, and for Obon: lanterns, cucumber or eggplant "spirit horse", hozuki (ground cherry), nod to Kyoto’s Daimonji kanji, or memento mori-themed motifs (like skeletons, nozarashi or graveplates).

As a step further into morbid imagery, another pattern which can sometimes be found, especially on men juban or haori lining, are decaying corpses (referencing Buddhist meditation on kusôzu or "nine stages of decay"). This was a subject in Japanese art, you can find an example here (cw: corpse depiction).

Hinting at Buddhist concept of impermanence and search for enlightment, Hell courtesan (jigoku dayû) with uchikake coats depicting hellish torments could also enter the death patterns category. Same goes for Buddhist hell imagery of Hell king Enma, or Hell guardians Gozu and Mezu (I believe I saw them on men juban/haori linings + on netsuke).

Finally, because we are talking of death, have a look at this super unsual and puzzling kimono depicting butsunehan (death of Buddha). Becky Mitsui's article is a wild ride xD

[thegirlwholikesstims]

the end

with death imagery stims

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divider by @elryisia

[conflitdecanard]

Gobril 2023 part 2 !

Prompt list of gobril 2023

Day 11: Musical Goblin

Day 12: Child Goblin

Day 13: Hungry Goblin

Day 14: Romantic Goblin

Day 15: Bugbear

Day 16: Pyro Goblin

( I have nothing in queue and I’m extremely tired/sleep a lot so I dunno if I will finish it, that’s why I post a short one - Also for day 17 I did two pics instead of one ^^” )

[mackerel08]

21.09.14

[bea-beast2007]

[higher-noon-art]

Another edition to the soul eater au! Introducing Eri as a baby shinigami... kind of ;)

[evildadstims]

Took some pics in the cemetery today. @monkie-deej edited it. 'Babyland' section of the graveyard, for newborns that had passed.

[sphinxstalker]

How many licks to the center of my tootsie corpse? the worms will find me a delicious confectionary, when they find the Love. when the janitorial staff come to breach my sweet flesh they come upon it lifelike. i grieve to think about it despite no funeral. as if the Love will have no where to go, when you give it no hospice in life. and all i feel is the grief and the grief and the grief. curling up in my long dead ribs , Love curls its tail over its paws and waits for you.

[jamesandnina6389]

Artists Masamune Shirow/Tavitaniko

[a-scary-lack-of-common-sense]

Stanley wasn't sure if he was supposed to be dead. He wasn't all too sure if he was supposed to be alive, either.

He was... somewhere. He didn't know where exactly, but it didn't matter. Nothing really seemed to matter all that much in this strange place. Compared to the unfathomable expanse of nothingness that surrounded him, everything else practically paled in comparison. Still, Stanley felt as though this all-consuming abyss that kept him prisoner within its dark maw deserved a name; at the very least, a title. Yet, it didn't feel right to call this place anything. Death too egregious, and Life too extroadinary; either terms felt far too extreme to his liking. There was nothing particularly hideous nor amazing about where he was. He was simply somewhere in-between.

For as long as he could remember, Stanley's world was just that. This somewhere; this in-between of not quite Death and not quite Life. This empty, greedy abyss that seemed to swallow him whole, stretched as far as the eye could see in every direction. There was no sky, no ground, no anything; only the daunting dakness engulfing his every senses and leaving him horribly, hopelessly blank.

That wasn't all there was to it, however. This... somewhere, it was more than just a lifeless void.

Stanley wasn't sure if he could find the right words to properly describe it. He didn't think he could ever come to fully understand the feeling himself, but. Somehow, the abyss felt... hungry. Unimaginably, insatiably, and unbearably hungry.

The hunger seemed to eat away at Stanley, tearing off pieces of him chunk by chunk, piece by piece. With every blink, another part of himself seemed to disappear into the ravenous darkness around him. The void never took much at once, only pieces; nigh imperceptible impossibly tiny crumbs of what made him- so little that they should have hardly mattered in the grand scheme of things. But Stanley noticed. He noticed every particle, every atom that was taken away from him by this greedy hunger. The darkness was eating him; digesting him.

It was as though hunger was all that mattered in this somewhere, this stomach; the world itself a single immense digestive system. He could practically feel the void's biting hunger pangs reverberate through his bones. It was so hungry, so hungry.

The dark ate him slowly, ripping him apart from inside out and outside in. It took his flesh first; stealing away the muscles and fat beneath the skin, leaving behind nothing but meager skin stretched over bone. Sometimes, not even his bones were given the luxury of being spared, and he would find himself with an odd dip in his side where the abyss had taken a rib or two; or with half his face lopsidedly sagging into a limp mess with no muscles, fat, nor eye socket to properly hold up the skin of his face onto his skull.

The hunger took without mercy, without order nor preference. It ate anything, everything, as long it helped abate the forever stabbing, starving desperation that painfully twisted and tore at its non-existent stomach. It never really was satisfied.

It got worse when it started eating his memories.

Stanley despised the thought of losing more of himself than simply his physical body to this greedy void. However, what terrified him far more than the notion that this insatiable hunger could breach even his mind, was the fact that he couldn't remember which memories it took.

Stanley couldn't remember much; before the darkness; before the endless hunger. He liked to imagine, though, of what he could have been before. He'd probably had a warm home, warmer than the cold, cold abyss. He'd probably had a loving family. Probably. He couldn't remember.

Everything turned unsure when his own mind started failing on him. Stanley tried to cling to what little he knew. He had his name held tight in his iron clad grip, repeating it to himself like a mantra. He would try and keep track of time, but it was all in vain. Time didn't seem to matter in the face of hunger. Perhaps it had been years since Stanley's arrival; hundred, maybe even thousands. Or, perhaps it had only been a few days, weeks, months. Stan once had a fleeting, terrifying thought that maybe Time too was already victim to the darkness' insatiable hunger.

However, as much as Stan could forget his past, his identity, and life, perhaps the most tragic loss to him greater than anything else was the memory of Him.

He was important to Stanley. He couldn't remember why, but he was. There was nothing of Him left in his memories. No face, no name; not even why He mattered to him in the first place. All he knew was that the loss of Him had struck him with such profound heartache and sorrow that it had left him weeping helplessly for so long, unable to move and rooted in one spot for days, weeks, years. He couldn't remember how long.

Stan was only snapped out of his comatose stupor by His hand.

It was all that was left of Him, other than the knowledge of His past existence. It was warm, a glowing red hand that pulsed almost reassuringly within Stanley's own, its long six digits curled tightly and firmly around his hand, never once faltering in its grip. He couldn't remember a time when he didn't have it. He's had it clutched within his own cold, rough palms like a lifeline since forever; every step he took and every move he made done hand in hand with Him.

Desperately, frantically, he held onto His hand, never once letting it go. Losing the hand meant losing Him for good, and he wasn't sure if he would be able to cope with the consequences of that all alone.

However, ocasionally, even the the comforting presence of His hand was unable to keep his mind anchroed for too long, and Stanley would lose track of his memories. Plagued by odd laspes of utter emptiness, Stanley would suddenly forget. His own name, his face, everything he knew and remembered would slip withut warning between his fingers like sand; streaming down, down, down and getting lost in the gaping mouth of the void below him. He would wander aimlessly with no real destination in mind, simply roaming somwhere, anywhere.

He would come across all sorts of sights during these odd episodes of his. He'd crossed paths with hundreds upon thousands of partically decomposed remnants of once living, breathing organisms; All of them endeniably, for the lack of better words: dead. He'd walked past entire forests; enormous clusters of tall pine trees completely uprooted and floating in a massive mass of rotting leaves and half digested bark. He'd walked past countless animals, big and small, all in various stages of digestion. Animals always seemed to rot away faster than anything else, and Stanley wasn't so sure what that meant for him.

Once, Stan had somehow even found his way before the destroyed remains of a universe.

It was dead. There was no other way to describe the state it was in. He hadn't even known it was possible for entire universes to simply... die. Stolen away from its rightful place in the starry night sky.

The scene was everything he'd thought impossible to take place in this all-consuming abyss. It was extroadinary. A veritable bursting cacophany of light and heat. It was as though the universe's explosion had been paused at just the right moment, frozen in time at the very moment of its heat death. Its particles flickered, undulating softly and shifting ever so slightly like looking through a warped window. If Stanley stood still enough, and listened closely, he thought he could even hear the softest sound of the shattered screams of the broken remains of the universe ringing silently in the air. It was as ethereal as it was haunting.

The thought of the unimaginable power required to be able annihilate entire universes just like that... It scared Stan.

Stanley may not be sure of anything anymore, but as he watched the debris swirl gently in the blinding epicenter of the shattered universe from afar, he knew with a certainty that he didn't think he possessed anymore, that he did not belong here.

Part 1/2

[dead-man-stimming]

The Flesh

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