#dusk campaign

[azaisya]

Another new campaign npc I can’t talk about! I feel like the use of red here makes him look v evil but he’s not. He almost had indigo accents instead, but one of my players picked the indigo god for their patron god and I wanted to pick the opposite god for this guy so the red god it was

[seadeepywrites]

stardust in the wind

Character: Reed Menetia (NPC) Words: 2415 tw: death, grief

After all these years, Reed recognizes her goddess’ influence in her dreams. When she opens her eyes to find herself standing in an endless field, twilight settling like indigo silk across a vast expanse of sky — she merely smiles. 

It is warm here, and the wind whispers across her skin with a familiar gentle touch. Reed tucks her hands inside the sleeves of her robe, noting with some amusement that it is the long green outfit she wears on ceremonial occasions. It is stitched along the hem with intricate golden embroidery, and it is one of her finest possessions. 

“This must be important,” she says to the sky, to the grass, to the breeze. “Last time I dreamt like this, you had me still in my sleep shirt.”

Melora doesn’t answer her directly, which isn’t terribly surprising. Reed can be patient. She closes her eyes, enjoying the balmy weather, and trusts in her goddess to make clear the reason for this vision eventually. 

In a minute, or an hour, or perhaps no time at all, Reed becomes aware that there is someone standing in front of her. It feels the same as entering a room with a sleeping patient, knowing their presence in the way it changes the silence, rather than hearing anything in particular. 

When she opens her eyes again, Reed is looking at the face of a friend. 

“Oh,” she says softly. Not because she isn’t glad to see them, but because she hasn’t the faintest idea what their presence in her dream might mean.

Whist smiles slightly, tilting their head in a quizzical gesture.

“It’s nice to see you,” Reed says, a bit hastily. “I just — didn’t expect you here.”

Whist might love the forest with the same ardor that Reed does — albeit in a more practical, less mystical way — but they have never seemed to Reed like a dedicated devotee of the divine. If they are here, it suggests a new and unexpected chapter in the story of Reed’s and Whist���s hometown. 

Whist looks around. “Uh,” they say. “Where is ‘here,’ exactly?”

Tipping her head back, Reed gazes at the sky. There is no sun, only wisps of clouds that streak pale over the purple expanse. 

“It’s a dream-place. We’re dreaming.”

"You might be dreaming," Whist says with a shrug. "I don't think that I am."

"And why is that?" Reed says, curious.

In the exact same casual tone, Whist says, "Because I'm dead."

Reed stares at them for a moment, dismay catching in her throat. "What?"

"I'm dead," Whist repeats without affect. "We went to find Darcy, but then the guy that probably kidnapped her showed up with a bunch of people, and they killed me." 

Reed wishes, for a few desperate seconds, that she weren't so sure of the truth of this vision. It would have been easier to believe this a nightmare, the inane imaginings of a sleeping mind.

"I think they got Gravel too," Whist adds as an afterthought. "Though I couldn't really see too well at that point."

"I'll..." Reed swallows hard. "I'll tell your father for you. Whist... I'm so sorry."

"I don't know why you're apologizing. You're not the one who killed me."

That brings a smile to Reed's face, even amid the devastation that drums its thunderous rhythm on her breastbone. It really is a very Whist-like thing to say.

"It just means I'm sad to hear that," Reed says. Tries to fill her voice to the brim with warmth, like offering a steaming mug of tea. "You're a friend of mine, and it hurts to think that I'll never see you again."

"Yeah. All right." Whist gnaws at their lip with their sharp little teeth. "I get that, I think." They pause. "I thought being dead meant going to the afterlife, or not being anywhere anymore, or something. So why am I here? In your dream?"

"Maybe Melora has a purpose for you still," Reed says, with a faint but non-negligible trace of hope. "Maybe it's not the end for you yet."

"Hmm." Whist does not sound convinced.

"May I give you a hug?"

"Uh, sure."

Reed steps forward, half-expecting Whist to pass like fog through her embrace. Whist does not accept hugs very often — a preference that stems from their general dislike of being touched — but it does happen occasionally, and in her dream, hugging Whist feels exactly the same as Reed remembers. Their leather armor creaks as she squeezes them, and the lithe lines of their body are solid and reassuring. They even hug back, a little stiffly.

When Reed withdraws, she uses the sleeve of her fancy robe to wipe away a few tears. Her throat aches with the dull agony of oncoming grief, and all her limbs are heavy as lead. She takes a few deep breaths, trying to savor the sweet summer scent that hangs in the air, hoping that she can inhale enough of it to erode the stone-heavy heart in her chest.

Is it Reed's imagination, or has the twilit sky darkened by a few shades? She had thought of it as a serene and dusky blue earlier, but now it more closely resembles the violet of a deep bruise. Almost the color of Whist's skin, actually. Reed stares upwards, wondering if night is approaching here the way it would in the waking world, even with no sun to slip below the horizon.

In the darkest part of the sky, a scatter of stars catches her eye. They twinkle like a handful of crushed diamonds, silvery and scintillating, or like tiny flecks of white paint on purple canvas.

Or, Reed realizes, like the opalescent freckles sprinkled across the bridge of Whist's nose and cheekbones. She looks sharply at Whist, the specter of suspicion starting to coalesce inside her.

"What?" Whist asks. "What is it?"

With no pupils or irises, Whist's pearl-white eyes resemble nothing so much as two fragments of the waxing moon — Reed has idly considered this thought many times over the years. Now she can only watch, half-hypnotized, as their sheen brightens into a steady glow. The light beaming from Whist's eyes is very much like moonlight, in the sense that it shines without illuminating. Gleams without blinding the viewer.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

Reed doesn't know what to say. Under her care, Whist had regularly cast Cure Wounds on their broken leg, in an attempt to ease the pain and speed along the healing process. In other words, Reed knows what Whist's magic looks like — a purple shimmer that glints like sunlight on satin as it ripples down their arms and out through their hands.

Reed knows what Whist's magic looks like, and this isn't it.

She says, "Do you feel any different? Right now, at this exact moment?"

Whist blinks, the twin bits of moon winking out for a fraction of a second. "Uh, I'm dead. And hanging out in someone else's dream. I don't really know what that's supposed to feel like."

Reed steps towards them, intending to examine Whist's face more closely, but the vibration that thrums through her renders that inspection unnecessary. Entering into Whist's personal space is like a boulder crumbling to join a landslide — like Whist is one of those celestial bodies that Darcy's always talking about, and Reed has fallen into elliptical orbit around them. It's magic that moves the breath through Reed's lungs in this moment and pulls at her muscles, shaping her like clay. More importantly, the hand crafting it is one she recognizes.

Reed gasps as the sensation crests inside her, foaming like the long arch of an ocean wave. As it breaks, she stumbles, only distantly registering the strong hands that catch at her elbow and her shoulder to steady her.

"I get it," Reed says indistinctly. "Whist, I get it now."

"I think you should probably sit down." Whist's face swims into view in front of Reed, wavering through several feet of rippling water. "You're, uh, not making any sense."

"No, I'm..." Reed trails off, gripping Whist's forearm with all her strength. "She brought you here. She's... given..."

"Reed? Come on, get it together."

Whist gives Reed a little shake, which is surprisingly helpful in slowing the way this dream-world spins around her. Reed straightens up, standing on her own two feet, and Whist snaps back into focus. Their eyes and their freckles still glow as brightly as miniature comets, leaving white streaks across Reed's vision.

"That's better," Whist says. "I don't think you should die until I've had a chance to scout out the situation a little bit first. So you'll know what to expect."

Chuckling weakly, Reed folds her hands back into her robes and regains her previous composure. Whist floats nearby, much closer than convention dictates platonic friends should stand, but it's difficult to be too concerned about something like that, considering the circumstances.

"I appreciate it," Reed says. "That's very thoughtful of you."

Whist shrugs.

The air has cooled somewhat, and the buzzing of insects heralds oncoming evening. It is a peculiar sound — loud enough to be noticeable, but muted such that she cannot pick out any one chirp from the cacophony. More the idea of what insects should sound like than any particular bug's melody. The oddity of it tips the corner of Reed’s mouth up in a half-smile.

“I know why you’re here,” she tells Whist, then pauses. “But there’s no guarantee that either of us are going to remember this conversation. You know how dreams can come and go.”

“I can’t remember much of anything right now,” Whist says. “Because I’m—”

“I know.” Reed’s smile grows wider, warmer. “But I have a feeling that might not be true for much longer.”

Whist squints at her. "What do you mean?"

Reed takes a moment to answer them, considering her words carefully. "You know how you can feel a storm coming, sometimes? Everything goes still and the air gets all heavy?"

"Yes."

"It's like that. Something's coming, and the world around us is shifting."

"But is the something good or bad?" Whist asks with a frown.

"There are many things that are neither," Reed says. "I only know that for your piece in it... any chance you might have to walk this plane again... I hope you take it. Because I greatly prefer a world with you in it."

"Oh. Thank you."

Reed looks to the sky again, apprehensive about the dusk approaching even when she knows she shouldn't be. Night, after all, is only a different flavor of Melora's domain — all the crepuscular and nocturnal creatures that lurk under cover of darkness belong to her too, as do their various murky and mysterious affairs. Reed wonders if perhaps her anxiety is a side effect of living her life at the border of the Duskwood, where twilight signifies imminent danger, as well as fey mischief that can be malicious as often as it is harmless.

"It's okay," Whist says, touching Reed's elbow again. "If there's anything else here, I'll protect you."

Whist's other hand goes to their hip, where their quiver is normally strapped. Reed is absolutely certain that when Whist appeared here, they did so unarmed. Yet in this moment, Whist's fingers brush against a forest of feathered arrow-shafts. When they take their hand from Reed's elbow, they are holding the dark, smooth wood of an intricately carved longbow. It fits in their grip like a tree trunk wrapped in vines — symbiotic and perfectly, breathtakingly natural.

"I know you will," Reed says gently. She moves to stand just behind Whist's shoulder, so that their faces are both turned towards the shadows that stain the underbelly of the sky. 

"Is it weird," Whist asks, "that I died like my mom did, fighting things that came out of the Duskwood, but I'm not even a little afraid?"

"I don't think it's weird at all."

"Or maybe I am afraid, but..." Whist shrugs. "I'm going to do whatever I can. And either that will be good enough, or it won't be."

Reed would take Whist's hand, but they need it for their longbow — and they have never been as tactile as Reed is, and might dislike the gesture.

Instead, Reed draws in another lungful of imaginary air and murmurs, "May the gods bless you and your bravery, Whist Duskhunter. We need more people like you."

Whist doesn't smile, but they blink their pearly eyes at her in a manner reminiscent of a cat's sleepy affection, and Reed gets the idea.

The daylight is fleeing this dream-field now with exceptional speed, tugging the smothering blanket of twilight into the places it vacates. Whist is loose-limbed and alert, pivoting slowly as they search for the danger that chitters in the corners of awareness.

Perhaps Whist's confidence is contagious. All Reed can think, as darkness claims the two of them, is that she hopes she remembers what she's learned here: both the loss, and the hope that's tempered it.

***

Reed awakes wildly disoriented. The black-velvet night that swallowed down the last dregs of her dream was so vivid, yet it is pale dawn light that filters through her gauzy curtains and splashes specks of sunlight across the floorboards. She sits up in bed, the quilt tangled around her, and scrubs at her eyes until her vision scintillates in patterns of red and blue.

She remembers a field, and the presence of a friend. The rest is already fading, in the intangible way that dreams always do — but even as the details escape her grasp, Reed retains the impression that she has witnessed something important. She might not be able to explain the exact origin of the bruising sadness that pools in her abdomen, but she believes it nonetheless. She might not understand why the sight of her green robe hanging on its hook in the corner suddenly provokes in her the burgeoning weight of responsibility, but it does.

After all these years, Reed knows that her goddess will guide her in ineffable ways along mysterious paths, and all she has to do is relax and pay close attention. Reed will remember what she needs to remember when the time comes, and until then?

She sets her bare feet on the floor and she stands up. She washes, and dresses, and goes forth to serve the town of Graycott.

Her grief once had a name, and now it doesn't, but it will again. Reed can be patient.

[evast]

“Dusk hit on me” world ending words, screaming crying throwing up

[vanhelsingapologist]

pardon me, baby, but who’s the mystery girl?

—

disappeared for a millennia and decided to draw my lost cause to ease me back into art. Emilia… though ye be but a backup character… the woman that you are… Kubrick stare them all, girl..

[marvelousbelladonna]

“Are you [Imogen] and Laudna a thing?” -Yu

“A thing?” -Imogen

“Like romantically entangled” -Yu

They are now!

[paranormaljones]

so i have my first official dnd character now

his name is Dusk and he's a silly little caracal-inspired tabaxi bard cowboy guy okay i have to go to sleep now bye

[nellasbookplanet]

I just caught up with ep 63 and I'm fucking vibrating. The difference of the Bor'dor reveal and the Dusk reveal! Dusk spending their entire time with the party stirring up drama, once caught out still openly provoking and trying to find an angle to straight up kill Fearne's parents, and the party still struggling to find every reason to let them go, let them live. And Dusk never gave a shit. Why would they! They were a fey assassin! And still the Hells fought and argued for them and let them walk away despite openly remaining a threat.

And then we get Bor'dor, wet paper tissue of a man, tragic backstory up to the gills, genuinely spending time to bond with them, having his little practice session with them being his proudest moment, sharing vulnerabilities. And though he drew first blood, he did it trying to run away, not kill! He did it having seen these people murder his friends and drag their dead bodies out of the hole! He was helpless on the ground, all but begging them to end him because he saw no reason to keep going! There was enough turmoil and doubt in him that he could probably have been deradicalized! He hated them but he loved them too!

And had this been early campaign, in all likelihood they would have let him live. But this is a Bell's Hells who have already been betrayed once by an ally, who lost Eshteross to the Ruby Vanguard, who lost half the fucking party to the Ruby Vanguard, who went on a grueling journey to get Laudna back, who struggled and struggled and still failed to stop Ludinus and ended up separated and scared and not knowing whether the world is about to end or not, whether their friends are alive or not.

And they were done. They did not fight for him. This is war. Were Dusk to show back up now, I doubt they’d survive the encounter.

[yumethefrostypanda]

Lieutenant Riley

Ghost

[mossbone]

So like obviously it was Delilah who first told Laudna "Ashton is a child. He doesn't deserve the shard. You should kill him." But I think the reason Laudna latched onto that concept so hard is because it's the only way to not outright defy Delilah that keeps Ashton safe. Because unlike her warlock patron, she doesn't kill children. She likes children. Children should be kept safe.

Fighting Delilah is exhausting and she is scared of her. Scared of being taken physically over by her, like the airship, or having her powers taken away......or her life. So she has to play a careful game, and feed her powerful objects, and dance when Delilah pulls her strings, and if she plays along in just the right ways maybe she won't be forced when it counts the most.

If Ashton is a child, she can keep him safe. He didn't betray them in a calculated move, he just made a mistake. A mistake she can help him learn from. So he doesn't have to end up like Bor'dor...right? Right, Delilah? Do you promise? I'll play along. I'll prove you right. Look, I made him a doll.

[saintastaeroth]

It was my 100th Curse of Strahd Session today!

In the milestone of this accomplishment someone managed to call Strahd Pookie and they finally got to Viktra's Submarine under Lake Zarovich.

[azaisya]

Another new campaign NPC that I can’t talk about bc three of my players follow me here. He’s got a big cat :3

[seadeepywrites]

your only rivers run cold

Character: Nanael-Soren Wardfell (NPC) Words: 2026 tw: possession, mention of fantasy racism

It is just past dawn when the tiefling enters the taproom. This is good — although she was not outside to witness it, the pale sunlight that flooded over the horizon has given Nanael new strength. She has channeled that strength into exercising tighter control over Soren's body, stifling the echoes of his anger and distress beneath the overwhelm of her presence. Yesterday's incident cannot be allowed to recur, for any number of reasons.

Nanael does not blame the tiefling for the brief twitch of displeasure that crosses their face when they catch sight of Nanael, who sits upright and relaxed in one of the inn's carved wooden booths. The face that Nanael wears was there when the tiefling died the first time, and was probably sneering in triumph at their suffering, if Nanael knows Soren at all — which she does, every breath and bone of him.

"The others are still sleeping," Nanael says with Soren's voice, pitching it to carry without raising it to a shout.

The tiefling frowns and squints up at the ceiling, as if they can wake the other members of their party with only a thought. Nanael could, but that's not the point.

"I guess I should wait down here," the tiefling then says reluctantly. They eye another table, clearly considering sitting across the room from Nanael-Soren and settling into semi-hostile silence until somebody else shows up.

It won't do. Not if Nanael hopes to stay with this party for any length of time, which she does. She needs to stitch shut this tear before it can widen, not just for the party's sake but for her own. She had never heard the multiple beings inside Geordie's head speak in unison before yesterday, and it doesn't bode well for her if all three of them are willing to leap to the tiefling's defense so enthusiastically.

"Whist," she says, waving one pale hand.

Nanael speaks the name partly as a reminder to herself, to fix the tiefling more firmly in her mind as a person and not a wavering concept of liminality. She knows the party doesn't know much about what has happened to Whist as a result of their two deaths. She suspects Whist themself may not know too much about it either.

Whist grimaces, but does cross the taproom to slide onto the bench opposite her. They unshoulder their quiver as they do, propping it up against the table within easy reach. It's the new magical one that the party gifted them in Dawsbury — Nanael notes this, and smiles faintly.

"What do you want?" the tiefling asks. It's difficult to tell with no pupils, but Nanael thinks they are avoiding eye contact. More difficult still to say if this is a symptom of their general social ineptitude or an aversion to Nanael-Soren's face specifically.

"I don't want anything in particular," Nanael replies pleasantly. "I just thought we might have time to chat while the rest of the party continues their well-earned rest."

"I don't like chatting," says Whist. They glare at her. "And I don't like you either."

Nanael makes a small noise of amusement, unable to help herself. "Heavens, you are blunt, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Yet I'm sure it's occurred to you," Nanael says, still in that same mild tone, "that the party of adventurers you travel with has great need of my skills and abilities."

"I don't know about 'great' need."

"If it weren't for me," Nanael says, allowing her tone to sharpen ever so slightly, "all of them but the wizard would be dead in the wilderness surrounding Dawsbury. Yourself included."

She lets Whist chew on that for a few seconds. Whist's irritation is obvious, but eventually they nod.

"That's true," they admit, with more grace than Nanael really expected from them. "You've been very helpful to them. To us."

"It's what I'm here for."

"Yeah, that's what bothers me." Whist does look at Nanael now, and it removes any earlier doubt about eye contact — their gaze is a presence all in itself, like the faint sting of moonlight on her skin.

Nanael represses a shiver, knowing the tiefling would misinterpret it. What they are to each other is far more than merely another instance of the mundane racism that Whist has surely experienced in this backwards little town.

"Is it the fact that I must use Soren's body to do my work here on the Material Plane?" Nanael asks, leaning forward to quell the urge to lean away. "I can understand why you might be wary, after all the evil he's wrought."

"Honestly?" Whist says, as if they can ever be anything but. "That's not really it. I mean, it was a little freaky yesterday when you sort of blinked out for a second, but the party killed him once. They could do it again, if they needed to."

"So it's me that you have an issue with," Nanael says quietly, as if this is a revelation to her. As if she didn't predict this little dilemma days ago, before she'd even Raised the first of the party from the dead.

Whist takes a moment to think about their answer, which surprises Nanael a little.

"Yeah," they say. "I guess it is."

"That's unfortunate." Nanael purses her lips, reveling in how easy it is to puppet Soren's body into the appearance of disappointment. "I don't see any real reason for us to be at odds with each other. We both want many of the same things."

Whist tilts their head. "I don't think we do," they say slowly. "Or if we do, we want them in different ways."

"I'm not sure I understand," Nanael says, although she does.

"It's been really bothering me," Whist says, "that you brought back Geordie and Gunther and Glove and me from the dead for free. You didn't even use diamonds to do it."

Nanael gives a dismissive little shrug. "There's no cost to doing what comes naturally to a being such as myself."

"That's not true," Whist snaps, then hesitates. Their every emotion is so visible on their white-freckled face — sharp disagreement in the corners of their mouth, followed immediately by anxious uncertainty.

"I don't think that's true," they say, less confidently. "I don't know why. That's just... what it feels like."

Nanael could very easily explain the root of the philosophical quandary Whist is experiencing, but she sees no value in reinforcing a structure she eventually plans to tear down.

"I have been channeling these powers for far longer than you have, dreamwalker," she says gently. "Perhaps you should trust that I do, on some level, know what I'm doing."

Whist says, "What?"

Knowing perfectly well which part of that statement confused them, Nanael says nothing and lets Whist frown their way through a series of small revelations.

Whist lifts their own hands, staring at their palms with something akin to dismay. "But I can't do any of that stuff," they say. "I can't raise the dead or anything. I mean, I can heal, but that's... that's my ranger magic."

"The gift you are discovering in yourself is far from conventional," Nanael agrees. "I cannot predict how it will manifest, any more than I could have predicted how this cohabitation with my aasimar would play out."

"Cohabitation? Is that what you call it?"

For the first time in this conversation, Nanael's composure wavers. It's not because of Whist's question as much as the hatred that boils up inside her, sudden and violent and malevolent. The hatred isn't hers, of course, but it seethes inside her body like it is, clenching her muscles and choking off her next carefully crafted sentence.

And Whist sees Nanael falter — those pearlescent white eyes watch her, unblinking, as she clamps down on the remnants of Soren's free will even harder. Nanael's vision blurs briefly — a sure sign that Soren can see out of his own mismatched irises again, even if there's nothing he can do about what he perceives.

"I have done what I must," Nanael says, a bit hoarsely, as she regains control of herself again. "I will continue to do so, for as long as it takes."

"If he lets you," Whist says. For once, Nanael has no idea what they are thinking as they say it.

She shakes her head, banishing the possibility. "I am a force for good," she says, and means it. "I won't let the frailty of a single mortal being's intentions get in the way of my higher purpose."

"And what purpose is that?" Whist asks. "Because you haven't been giving Gunther or anyone an answer to that when they've asked you." They pause. "It's frustrating them, so I know it's not just me missing something."

Nanael takes her time to find the right words. She may not owe Whist an explanation for all the mysteries they are now part of, but she owes them this much.

"I serve the sun," she says, but continues past that declaration, knowing it won't be enough. "The force of life, of growth, of waking — whatever you want to call it."

Whist doesn't interrupt, so she keeps talking.

"That's what Soren was supposed to be, you know. Guided by a deva since birth, granted divine sorceries to serve us here on the Material Plane. He was supposed to make things better."

"He didn't want to do that," Whist says. An unnecessary addendum, since they are both well aware of the fact.

"He did not," Nanael confirms, and beneath the burden of her sorrow she can sense a flicker of Soren's anger. Defiant even beyond death, her little aasimar.

"The rift at the heart of the Duskwood is between the Mortal Plane and the Feywild, but it strengthens magic of many kinds by its very existence." Nanael raises her eyebrows. "The pair of dark elves we encountered in Dawsbury were hoping to capitalize on the power it generates, and they will hardly be the last to attempt such a thing."

Whist shudders. It could be from their memories of Dawsbury, or from dread of the rift, or from something else entirely.

Nanael ignores that, for now. "My connection to Soren allowed me to bring life back to his body — and to displace his consciousness, as you have already seen. It seemed like a pity, letting him lie there in that forest for eternity, when there was something I could do about it." Her voice, melodic and feminine, is becoming more forceful as she speaks, overpowering the natural sound of Soren's voice issuing from his actual vocal cords. "After all the damage Soren has done, it seems fitting, too, that he be forced to make amends for it all. Don't you agree?"

"I don't know," Whist says, as flatly as ever. "I'm not sure if it works that way. If it should work that way."

"Isn't that the balance you're looking for?" Nanael ventures, treading closer to the doctrine that Whist does not consciously understand but has referenced several times already in this conversation. "I'm here to help — especially for the people that Soren has harmed."

"I don't know," Whist repeats.

It seems like they might say something more, like Nanael's overwhelming assurance in her mission has finally swayed them, and Nanael waits eagerly to hear their rejoinder. It is so easy to find a foothold in someone as transparent as this tiefling, and to scatter the seeds of doubt across the fertile ground of their ignorance.

Nanael can sense that she is making headway — she spots the furrow between Whist’s eyebrows, the restless tapping of their fingers on the tabletop  — but any further progress will have to wait, because it is now that they both hear an ungainly tread on the stairs, and a slightly off-key voice humming a scrap of a folk song.

Whist brightens immediately. "That's Geordie," they say, apparently genuinely glad to see him despite his scary new eyes and longer-running issues with identity and insanity.

Nanael brings a smile to Soren's face as Geordie stumbles into view, and offers him a polite, "Good morning."

And it is, Nanael thinks. Or it will be. She is almost certain of it.

[evast]

Wouldn’t it be messed up if I drew the “is she your favorite” scene before I drew the “I can’t tell if it’s alright or not anymore” scene

[vanhelsingapologist]

“There is nothing left to love, and it takes its toll.”

This is an OLD Rahadin in my old coloring style. I’ve seen it circulating a bit on other sites so I figured I’d claim parenthood before I saw it again.

[marvelousbelladonna]

Laudna’s really out here getting hit on by all the guests

Imogen, come and get your girl

[mystic-mauve]

He came to me in a vision in the middle of the night