#i really like this one i think :3

[holdmecloser-gandydancer]

@blupjeansweek May 30th: Bones

Note: please be aware this particular piece deals with character death and extended observations on human decomposition

Humidity hangs heavy in the air as the river lazily moseys by. The sky’s marred by a bloated cloud full of discontent. All life in the area seems to have better things to do than bask in the dark, sunless afternoon. Certainly, the lich floating by doesn’t help with their unease.

He’s been growing fonder and fonder of the slow life, living on the edges of civilization. Fewer people interrogating him on what kind of discord he plans to sow. (None. He’s just a lich. Leave him alone). However, he grows weary of seeing only the few hundred feet of the cave he’s taken to calling home. There’s only so long he can study his tomes; his whole life was devoted to the pursuit of knowledge, to becoming an accomplished wizard. The preeminent necromantic scholar. A lich.

What all the writings fail to mention is what you’re meant to do after. He was so consumed by seeing if he could do it that he failed to have a plan for when he did. He supposes he never really expected to succeed. He supposes now he ought to keep testing and honing his power.

He prefers taking walks in the sun-dappled woods.

On days like this, he can almost feel the wind on his skin.

What he can definitely feel is this odd pull downriver. It’s been creeping on him like kudzu all morning; gently at first, but now all encompassing. It’s hard to describe, this pull. The best he can liken it to is how the first tome that held information about becoming a lich felt in his hand. Like whatever it is he discovers at this source will fundamentally change his life.

Preposterous.

But can it really hurt to follow this pull? Not like his calendar is overflowing with appointments.

So he does. For some hours, it feels as though he’s just wandering aimlessly through the woods; maybe that’s what he’s doing, chasing some phantom sensation. But he has to believe that it’s something more than that. He’s got an awful lot staked on the strength of his belief now, might as well test it.

-

He becomes less sure of himself the closer he gets. If he were corporeal, he’s certain his feet wouldn’t let him go any further. There’s some kind of tangible pressure on his chest, as though some unseen force is trying to keep him at bay. The unseen force beckoning him forward is stronger.

And so he continues his pursuit of the unknown.

But as he comes upon a pond that the river feeds into, he’s convinced he was better off ignorant.

Back by the treeline, he sees something at the far end of the pond, floating on the glassy surface. His stomach twists; it looks like a dead swan. Beautiful creatures. He’s not sure that he’s ever seen one this close.

He’s at the edge of the pond when he realizes his mistake. Floating serenely on the pond’s surface is a pallid corpse.

If he doesn’t look too closely, it isn’t a corpse. Could just be a sunbather. But no. No.

He has half a mind to turn back immediately. But that damned force that has been dragging him here all day won’t let him leave that easy.

He can’t leave her there to the elements. Gods only know what kind of creatures lay below the surface, ready to make a meal out of her. He supposes that’s the circle of life, but he can’t be party to that. His mother raised him better than that.

It’s with a great deal of effort that he gets her to shore. Clever spellwork only slightly improves the ordeal; he’s trying to be delicate, as well. No, she can’t feel a bump or scrape now, but shouldn’t we all be given some softness in death?

Maybe becoming a lich has also turned him into a loon. But she’s out of the pond, laying waterlogged on the bank. After a moment’s hesitation, he gathers a handful of orange and blue and pink flowers growing in small clumps near the water and places them around her.

This whole thing feels perverse. He doesn’t know her. He knows nothing about her. But it feels important, not letting her go unacknowledged in death.

So he sits near the bank beside this unknown corpse. He makes several false starts at a speech, but decides that he ought not to.

He sits beside this unknown corpse for so long that time goes a little soupy. He’s not sure where this kind of unflinching duty to sit sentinel at her side has come from, but he’s hardly the type to question.

It’s after a few days that her hair appears to fall out in clumps.

And a few days more when she’s a myriad of colors not unlike the flowers Barry set beside her.

And more days and more days and more days until Barry is no longer sitting next to a pallid corpse or an exquisite garden or decay, but a collection of pale bones.

He’s staring again, he’s certain. The smattering of bones look like inkblots to him. A ladder here, still a damned swan there, a fiddle here still.

Because it’s remarkable how easy it is to go from breastbone to fiddle. Perhaps you’ve never considered.

Barry had certainly never considered that.

There’s a first time for everything, though.

-

There’s something to be said about wanting to remain a student forever. We all like to believe ourselves to be great students of the world, never tiring of learning.

That’s all well and good when learning botany or woodworking or poetry.

Less good when you're a student of death magic.

He likes to think he was normal once, though when you devote all your time to ghastly rituals with ghoulish components, you likely relinquish your right to normalcy.

However normal he was once doesn’t matter, now that he’s staring peculiar in the eye. Rather, the neck. And the body. And other fiddle pieces.

He’s crafted a fiddle from the hair and breastbone and other bones of that poor woman. Which sounds exquisitely bad just saying it outright. But it’s part of the bylaws of lichdom, collecting and creating macabre memorabilia.

He’s certain that this takes the cake and not just for the sheer fact of what it is.

This fiddle he has crafted is cursed.

That’s impolite. Cursed probably isn’t the correct adjective. Barry knows he’s no great violinist, however he doesn’t believe that a lack of skill is the source of his unease regarding the instrument he has created.

This fiddle he has crafted only plays a single song.

He’s tried little lullabies his mother used to sing to him, catchy earworms he’s heard bards perform in taverns, depressing funeral dirges. Nothing sticks. Everything is this dreadful song that sounds like the howling wind and pouring rain.

This fiddle he has crafted sings a mournful song of how she died.

The song is slow and haunting, it tells tale of a man she and her brother traveled with and trusted for over a year. Their trust was misplaced. They all worked odd jobs together. Evidently his plan was to poison them both and escape with all their money and belongings, but his plan didn’t quite work the way he planned.

This fiddle he has crafted was overcome with grief at the loss of her brother.

She did all she could to make him well. To bring him back. And it was all in vain. The traveling companion long gone, she simply wailed and wailed until her heart gave out. Her wail still rides the wind. Her tears fell like rain.

This fiddle he has crafted succumbed to a broken heart.

This fiddle he has crafted has unfinished business.

This fiddle he has crafted will only sing a single song.

-

It takes time to acquire all the necessary components.

Each night, before his facsimile of sleep, Barry plays the fiddle. And each night the fiddle repeats its mournful refrain of the dreadful wind and rain.

And one night, when each and every ritual requirement is met, his fiddle is no more.

On that night, he meets an elf named Lup.

He listens to her story, a reprise of a now familiar tune.

On this night, he makes a promise to her. A promise to help restore her brother.

And it is a promise he intends to keep.

[sclappin]

Man whose definition of "monster" is extremely flexible.

[lazylittledragon]

and what if they got married. what then

[kenchann]

teased 🎃⚡

[ryssbelle]

Drew a bunch of Marinettes in a bunch of different artists styles it was a lot of fun!!

Artists who's styles I mimicked: @buggachat @hamsternamedmarinette @ladybeug @sabertoothwalrus and @anna-scribbles all epic artists 🤟😎

[puppyeared]

basement guys

[triona-tribblescore]

TW// Abuse implication

Thinking about possible Vox and Angel's interactions and how they'd go down. Theres such a unique mix of hatred to each other and common ground with their different experiences with Valentino, has me thinking.

Also just want to clarify I love Vox's character a LOT but ofc obv don't sympathise with him or think he is any way shape or form a decent individual, cant with stupid toxic dumbass x

AND IF YOU SEE ANY MISTAKES OR TYPOS NO YOU DONT- (i was so tired when drawing it forgive me TwT)

[girlwiththegreenhat]

team fortress 2 finally getting rid of the bots after 5 years

work on the team fortress 2 comic continuing after 7+ years

half life 3 development looking more likely than ever with legitimate code, file, and voicework leaks referencing a new non-VR single-player game from valve featuring a HEV suit wearing protagonist and Xen creatures and concepts

shoutout to the valve fan that found the genie lamp. you a real one

[heartorbit]

figure skating set right now please. thanks

[wombrion]

1) your art is phenomenal and marshmallowy it makes my day when you post!

2) I’m unsure if you are still taking request but if you are in a dilly dallying mood I would <3 to see some of the Chainsaw man characters in your style? I feel like your shape language would translate onto their design really well🤎🤎

you fool............i drew em a zillion years ago

[arsenicflame]

Bonus round! Do you use a queue tag?

[cutiesigh]

❤️🖤🩷

Wuthering Waves has taken over all of my free time recently, so here's a sketch of Scar!Ren I originally shared in da 14DWY Discord!!

[lazylittledragon]

dedicating a whole page of my flash book to the special boy <33

[soosoosoup]

snowzone

[floccinaucinihilipilificationa]

Hey hey hey may 31th anon! How's 2024 going? ☆ヾ(*´▽｀)ﾉ This year I have for you a leaked Sherlock season 5 image. Thinking of you!! And everyone!!

[inkskinned]

he says i hate everyone except you and that is addictive and that is kind of romantic and beautiful because you're young and you're kind of a sarcastic asshole too and you don't like bad boys, per say, but you don't really like good ones either. and you like that you were the exception, it felt like winning.

except life is not a romance book, and he was kind of being honest. he doesn't learn to be nice to your friends. he only tolerates your family. you have to beg him to come with you to birthday parties, he complains the whole time. you want to go on a date but - people are often there, wherever you're going. he's just so angry. about everything, is the thing. in the romance book, doesn't he eventually soften? can't you teach him, through your own sense of whimsy and comfort?

at first - you know introverts often need smaller friend groups, and honestly, you're fine staying at home too. you like the small, tidy life you occupy. you're not going to punish him for his personality type.

except: he really does hate everyone but you. which means he doesn't get along with his therapist. which means he has no one to talk to except for you. which means you take care of him constantly, since he otherwise has no one. which means you sometimes have to apologize for him. which means he keeps you home from seeing your friends because he hates them. you're the single exception.

about a decade from this experience, you'll type into google: how to know if a relationship is codependent.

he wraps an arm around you. i hate everyone except you. these days, you're learning what he's actually confessing is i have very little practice being kind.