#described corpses

[leiazher]

There were many foolish kings and queens in the world, and a greater amount of foolish knights serving them.

Snarl wasn't very creatively named, he wasn't creatively raised either, nor given any creative outlet. But he'd gazed at clouds and stars since he was allowed out of his mother's cave. He'd watched rivers, oceans, and lakes ever since he could fly. And when he'd flown far enough, and high enough, he watched the snow capped peaks of the mountains.

Humans didn't venture far north, and those who did seldom returned. It was the snow, the cold, the unforgiving tundra and glacier that took them, crevasses, and avalanches triggered by those who knew no better.

Snarl had learned to fly over the snow, silent as a shadow, to make sure he didn't disturb the precarious snow cover.

His parents hadn't been creative. That didn't mean he wasn't.

Flame was a dragon's breath, flame was defense and offense, flame was bright and flashy, as a dragon should be. It was the heat of the sun and the flow of lava from deep within.

But ice burned just as harshly. Ice could kill just as well. Snarl could breathe fire, of course he could. But fire was too warm before it felt like cold. Ice, snow, freezing rain, was cold long before it became scalding.

A dragon's nature was such that it'd twist to wherever they settled, infinitely adaptable and always perfectly suited for their environment. Snarl had settled in those snow capped peaks. He didn't bother with a cave to shelter him, he built his castle on his own. He didn't bother with gold for a hoard, no, he took what the mountain had claimed, and he turned it into creativity, into art.

The lost child who died before the wolves could get to her, the mother who'd gone searching and succumbed to the pack, now repaired with Snarl's ice. His halls were filled with corpses, frozen in their last moments, in respite, serenity. Stags and wolves and bears, hares and foxes and birds. And humans.

His halls were filled with art.

Sculptors did not only work in stone, after all. Ice could also be carved, and if the shape was already visible in the cold, the carving took less time, leaving more time to appreciate the result.

Snarl's hoard was one of dead things. Not death, no, he hadn't killed any of those creatures. He'd merely collected them, the mountain was still their icy grave, but rather than being preserved in the snow, they were given place of honor in Snarl's hoard.

The king did not see it that way. The king whose sorceress had scried on Snarl's lair.

Ill prepared knights started trying to reach him, and he collected those too. Their impractical armor, their too dull blades, all of it, encased in ice and frozen in time. They were beautiful.

Every piece in Snarl's hoard was beautiful, even the mauled and disfigured. They were all so beautiful.

It took years for the first knight to successfully reach Snarl's castle of ice, the poor man was nearly frozen solid, hypothermic and sluggish, and Snarl could offer him no lasting warmth, so he ushered him in, sat him down against a pillar and positioned him just so. Then he waited for the beautiful knight to die before he added him to his hoard.

He placed him next to the mother and child, they'd have made a good family if they'd lived in the right time and place. Alas.

Another knight came, this one with a page. Snarl let them into his castle, both of them too cold and tired to speak, and he said no word to them, he doubted they had anything interesting to say. He waited for the cold to claim them, and it did, as it always did, as it always would.

He placed them next to a majestic bear who'd never woken from hibernation.

The day came when a knight arrived, alive, warm, alive.

Snarl looked him over, he was wearing something that shielded him properly, and no useless armor to weigh him down and leech his warmth. Snarl purred as he cocked his head.

"Do you like it?" The knight asked. "It's inflammable." He smirked. Snarl turned his head to take a better look at the odd clothing. "Impressive." He allowed, because it was, it was genius. "It also renders me immune to the cold." The knight said haughtily. "That explains why you live." Snarl nodded, it was wise for the knight to shield himself against that which had taken so many lives.

"The king wants you dead, I aim to please." The knight said, ignoring Snarl's comment. "Will you fight, or will you lay down and die? You have no power here." The knight smiled wide, nasty, too sure of himself. "Mm, getting cocky is a sure way to get killed." Snarl said, he peeled his lips back in an imitation of a smile, and stood. "Dragons don't only breathe fire." He said. "Nor do they only breathe ice." Snarl smiled wide. "Some dragons don't need to breathe at all. And some dragons can breathe life."

-

Snarl hoarded art, he added to his hoard whenever he found a corpse on his mountain, he maintained it, cherished it, and if he wished it, he could bring it to life, bring it to his fang and claw and let it march in his name.

He collected lives lived, lives lost, he collected potential, heartache, joy, and all of what made the living live.

And one day, when his hoard was big enough, he'd call it down the mountain, and he'd take what was his, a kingdom, a crown, a queen.

He'd be revered, as was his due, he'd be worshiped, as was his right, and he'd be loved, as was his desire. He'd bring life back to all who'd been lost, and they would cherish him.

They all would.

They all would.

There was no doubt in Snarl's mind, he was strong, he was mighty, magnificent, and glorious. And he would be loved, by those who died, by those who lived, and by those who never stopped living. He'd breathe, and he'd be hailed a god. As was his purpose.

They'd see soon enough, that dragons didn't only rely on flame, or ice, or water. They'd see that nothing burned more fierce than survival.

“Foolish dragon!” Proclaimed the knight. “My armor renders me immune to your flames!” “Foolish knight!” Sneered the dragon. “Not all dragons spit fire!”

[cirrus-grey]

TMA 122:

Statement of uh, uh, Lorell St. John regarding, uh... zombies. Original statement given 1st February, 2015. Recording by Jonathan Sims. The Archivist.

TMA 53:

My biggest concern right now is whatever creature Mr. Heller encountered down there. It was 56 years ago, but if it’s still alive, I should be careful. What was it? A guardian of some sort? Or perhaps… perhaps… it too was once an Archivist.

TMAGP 26:

It was holding a tape recorder to Mr. Jarrod’s mouth, like it was trying to catch his dying words.

“Who are you?” I asked it.

“An Archivist,” it replied.

I know many people have already pointed out that [ERROR] could be the same kind of being that was under Alexandria, but this phrasing in particular is making me certain of it. A living, breathing, active Archivist like Jon is "the" - the one and only, the main focus of the Eye. The ones that linger after their Archives are forgotten - not alive, not dead, but somewhere in between - are just "an". One of many, still holding the title - still powerful - but far less human.

There are a ton of other parallels between the two that are making me so curious what our Alexandria guy got up to between - potentially - being released by Mr. Heller and finding its way to the Panopticon: basement Archive, the main building/library is burned down on top of it, it remains locked down there until some unsuspecting explorer unintentionally gives it the key... I wonder if there was an [ERROR] drifting around in the TMA world too, hunting people with a quill and parchment rather than a tape...

.

.

.

(Celia's phrasing is also very telling as to what she's been expecting to find.

TMAGP 26:

"No, I mean, something isn't right.… The External, the Archivist, it’s not acting how I would have expected..."

No, it's certainly not acting how the Archivist would. An Archivist, on the other hand...)

[lorddoodle]

my sister and i, they dropped our living husks into tanks and stole our bodies, silenced our cries and claimed it was for the greater good.

bonus line art because i like it :]

[serpentface]

This was going to be a panel of a little comic but I got too invested in drawing minute background details so, here.

[dailyloopdeloop]

DAY 71: shy

[nb-n0v4]

Rewatched the 2004 Phantom of the Opera bc I remembered it existed but I spent like the whole movie getting increasingly dismayed over how normal Erik looked so I decided to draw a more, eh, lore accurate version? at least according to his description in the novel

[saintbleeding]

[ID: Digital art of Dr Samuel Webber from The Magnus Protocol. He is a white man with dirty brown hair, portrayed from the neck up, clutching his face in his hands and smiling serenely. On the right, his flesh is mostly intact, though there are spots of dried and congealing blood where buds and flowers of sweet jasmine have grown through the skin, and a yellow slime mould grows on the back of his hand. On the left, his skull is entirely clean, and the flesh of his hand has almost rotted away. There are more jasmine buds and blades of the grass beneath him grow through his nasal cavity. Beside his skull is a small patch of black trumpet mushrooms. There is warm light filtering across his face. End ID.]

pfffft i definitely Did Not accidentally post this for ten minutes yesterday. lying

anyone else feeling really normal about this one

[sorreltail]

JOURNEY

“[…]we were hunting near the greenleaf Twolegplace. We could start there.” […] “We’ll start by heading in that direction.” […] Heading out into the territory, […] she had no idea where the deep, shadowy place she had seen in her vision might be. […] as they turned toward the greenleaf Twolegplace. […] the place in her vision had seemed wilder and more desolate than anything to do with Twolegs. Though I thought I heard Twoleg voices in the distance, she reminded herself. That might mean we’re heading in the right direction. Frostpaw led her patrol along the edge of the lake until they had almost reached the halfbridge. […] There had been no sign of the lake in her vision, so the obvious choice was to veer away from the waterside toward the RiverClan border that ran for many fox-lengths alongside the first dens of the Twolegplace. […] But as Frostpaw headed for the border, […] The ground was almost flat near the lake, but as the patrol moved farther from it, the slope rapidly grew steeper.

SITE

Reaching the ridge, Frostpaw realized that she stood on the brink of a ravine, with ferns and bushes rooted in a rocky cliff. At the bottom was a winding path of sharp stones; Frostpaw guessed that in rainy weather there might be a small stream, but for now the rocks were dry. […] Frostpaw’s fur prickled as she gazed down into the ravine […] This was a shadowy place, just like the one Leopardstar had spoken of. And it was near the place where her mother had told her the patrol had been hunting. […] the warriors spread out along the top of the cliff,[…] Splashtail gave the cliff a doubtful look. “We could break our necks.” “No, it’ll be fine,” Gorseclaw told him. “I’ve hunted here before. When the stream is running, it’s a good place for prey. And I know a way down. Follow me.” A few tail-lengths along the top of the ravine, a narrow path led down among the rocks, zigzagging across the face of the cliff. […] Frostpaw plodded along the dry streambed, her pads soon feeling sore from the sharp stones. […] Ahead of Frostpaw the ravine narrowed, the cliffs on either side drawing together into an impassable barrier.

BODY

The white tom was standing at the top of a tumble of rocks. When the stream was flowing, they would have formed a waterfall. He was staring downward; panting up to his side, Frostpaw followed his gaze. Stretched out at the bottom of the rocks was Reedwhisker’s body. […] his head was at a strange angle, as if his neck was broken. […] Slowly Frostpaw began picking her way down the tumble of rocks toward Reedwhisker’s unmoving body. […] Finally Frostpaw made it to the bottom of the rocks and padded up to Reedwhisker’s body. The black tom was lying with his limbs splayed out; his eyes were filmed over and his teeth set as if he were growling at an enemy. When Frostpaw stretched out a tentative paw and touched his shoulder, he was stiff and cold. […] “Look at those scrapes along his back. That’s where he must have hit the sharp rocks as he fell.” Frostpaw looked more closely, and saw several scratches running the length of Reedwhisker’s spine, where the fur had been torn away to expose the flesh beneath. The scrapes had bled, though the blood was dry now. “That looks almost like a badger’s claws,” she mused. “Nonsense, that’s nothing like a badger,” Curlfeather meowed. “The fall must have killed him.”

[luck-of-the-drawings]

FOR A BEAT OF HEART, THE BREATH IS SHOT. AND WITHIN A BREATH, THE HEART IS CAUGHT. THE PIPES ARE BURSTING, UNDER GREAT STRESS, BOLTS TORN ASUNDER, MAKING A MESS. A FINAL COUGH, A FINAL RETCH, A GOREY SLOUGH, CLAIMED BY WRETCH.

[hanzajesthanza]

(Adam Dudaczyk) The fact that vampires drink blood to get that *meaningful hand-neck gesture* - you made that up? (Andrzej Sapkowski) Yes, I didn't model myself on anyone here, I don't know anyone who wrote before me about the fact that vampires drink blood not to satisfy their hunger, but to satisfy their thirst for… entertainment. Texts: the guys sent me to get blood, I was flying drunk… The fun was great.

as i reread this i couldn't stop thinking of this meme

[thesmollestsnek]

Today in the snek rambles about random fandom things, we have: Danny’s age! Specifically, how he ages long-term, seeing as he half-died at fourteen.

Now, a lot of the fics I see that age Danny up in some way have his human body aging, either normally or occasionally at a slower rate, and his ghost form naturally changing to mimic that. Almost as common are the fics where Danny’s human form ages while his ghost form stays at the age he died. And don’t get me wrong, there’s a lot of fun to be had with both those options. I’ve seen some great fics playing with both those concepts.

…But yknow what I haven’t seen?

A fic where Danny’s ghost form is the one that ages, while his human form stays the same. Think about it, a ghost’s form is malleable, and doesn’t necessarily reflect what a person originally looked like so much as what they think they should be. This is almost alway the explanation given for Danny’s ghost form aging with him, when a fic writer decides to go that route. Ghost forms are malleable, it makes perfect sense for Danny’s Phantom form to be capable of aging, so long as Danny believes that it should be.

…but you wanna know what isn’t so malleable? A human body. And for all that Danny’s still alive, he’s also dead, and while the show seems to portray Danny and Phantom as two separate halves with little to no bleedover, fanon seems to prefer having the boundaries between death and life in one Danny Phantom be much blurrier. As do I. Danny is a human who is dead, just as Phantom is a ghost who is alive. Both and neither at the same time. And while living humans age, dead ones don’t.

So. When Danny walked into the portal, he died. And regardless of how you want to argue semantics of resurrection and was there a brief period of time when he was only dead and he was also alive when he left the portal, he did die and a part of him stayed dead. Meaning that, by some definitions, his human body can be considered a corpse. And corpses don’t age.

Just, imagine the potential angst there, of Danny realizing, a year or two or three after the accident that no, he’s not just a late bloomer. He’s just. Not. Aging. And never will again, at least as a human. How long did it take him to recognize that fact? …how long did it take for him to realize that he can never seamlessly blend into human society again? His Phantom form is obviously not human, and his human one will never make it past fourteen.

…But then, his ghost form is still aging, it never stopped even after he noticed that the two forms no longer look the same. Even after he accepts that Danny Fenton will never make it past fourteen. There’s a part of him that recognizes that he’s still alive and that he should be aging, so Phantom grows up even though Fenton never will.

Which, if you’re inclined to keep piling on the angst, can also serve to isolate him from ghost society. A being of change trying to fit into a community of people who will forever stay the same. Preserved exactly as they were at their time of death. Except for Danny. Who’s still the odd one out, even in death. A ghost who’s growing up and a human who’ll forever remain a child.

…

Orrrr if you’re not in the mood for soul-crushing angst, you can also use this concept for fun and hijinks. Age Danny up a couple decades, plop him into any world with other superheroes, and watch the identity shenanigans take over. I’m especially fond of this being done with the Justice League, because he’s basically a reverse Captain Marvel. Imagine, the League finds out that their adult coworker is actually a small child masquerading as a grownass man through the power of a magically aged-up superhero form and a lot of bullshit. They see that when Billy Batson is in his civilian/human form he returns to his actual age. And then they see phantom, another coworker who, when not in the form they use for heroics, physically turns into a child. And so they go “we got this, no further clarification needed.” (Spoiler alert: they do not, in fact, got this).

[cent-scratchnsniff]

here together

[the-pudding-is-a-lie]

Today I finished another artpiece to go with my fierce corpse Jiang Cheng AU. :D

Sketch can be found here - fic can be read here.

[image ID: A fully coloured digital drawing of Jiang Cheng from MDZS/The Untamed portrayed as a fierce corpse. He is standing in the rain. Water is running from his forehead down over his eye and cheek, making it unclear if he might be crying or if it's just the rain. He is wearing his clothes so that the right side is covering the left to accentuate his status as fierce corpse. End ID. More detailed image description in alt text.]

[daemon-in-my-head]

I'll never be over Sally calling her own son a dreadful child or saying she should've ended him before he was even born. I don't give a single flying fuck about the crimes he's committed (at least in this context). Nobody should talk about their child like that. And you know this absolutely vile woman probably told him this and much worse shit straight to his face. She said all that shit to a small kid that was presumably still innocent at that point. Aka, she most likely told her child it would be better if he were dead. Aka, she told her kid to kill himself. A FUCKING CHILD. And thx to the Belladonna lying around in their kitchen, I'm still convinced she tried to kill Gortash once he came back.

'Sold him cuz they needed money' my ass. You made your own kid, the person you were supposed to protect, pay for your own fuck ups and debts and mistakes and send him straight to hell. LITERALLY. FOR SOMETHING HE HAD NO FAULT IN. AND THEN THIS THING HAD THE AUDACITY TO TRY ND KILL HIM.

The absolute hatred and disgust I have for this fictional woman. I despise Bhaals A+ parenting, but this woman is worse than the fucking lord of murder. Imagine being more loathsome than an evil deity whose whole bit is goddamm murder and death. I swear to fucking god-

[xolboragainandagain]

Cavalcade of Corpse chapter five spoilers!

Tada didn't use whiteboard fox this time, I really wanted to draw a scene from this fic but I wanted to try something less serious out because I don't usually use fire alpaca to draw, now that I'm more confident in it I wanna draw another scene in this fic Please read Cavalcade Of Corpses by @zillasafe if you're interested in any of this, it's really cool!!

(Also I realized way WAY too late that in my first fanart for the fic I somehow managed to forget where Layton's bite mark was despite having just reread the first chapter more than once I thought it was on his arm instead of his palm?? was so have a random moment from the fic to make up for it LOL)

[rununcal]

Some Banbans from last night for my motivation, but I thought I’d put them here too!