#it has been so dark and grey here i can't do traditional art | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gleppy · 5 months ago

Note

Hi sheep! Its StrawberryWritezz! I have a few questions for you

1. How do you feel about fanart? :0

2. In relation to art question, can you describe what N and Uzi look like for reference?

3. Whats your writing process?

1. i LOVE fan art! i've gotten a couple of pieces of fan art inspired by tiny angels already and i've been absolutely floored by it every time. you honestly don't even have to ever ask my permission to make art inspired by my fics, all i ask is that if you're posting it somewhere you include a link to the fic.

2. nolan: 6'2, white, same curly hair as he has in canon but more of a pale blond than straight-up white, amber eyes, heart-shaped face, muscular (he's not like, ripped, but he ain't scrawny either)

uzi: 4'11, asian (japanese/mongolian), olive skin, also the same hair colour/style she has in the show, grey eyes (but a very dark grey, like, almost black), round face, freckles, blonde eyebrows (she bleaches them), slim body type. it's also mentioned a few times in the fic that she's heavily pierced and tattooed, so here's specifically what i imagine her to have -

piercings:

left eyebrow

right side of nose

septum ring

snake bites

tongue

she has a lot of piercings on her ears too but i haven't thought specifically about what she'd have so just take some creative liberties with that i guess

she used to have her nipples & belly button done too but unless you're drawing her naked it isn't really relevant lmao

tattoos:

octopus on left shoulder/upper arm

gothic cathedral sleeve on right upper arm

vampire bat across chest

laser gun on lower stomach

constellations on the top of her foot (specifically the ones for cancer, sagittarius, capricorn, and gemini - yes this will make sense later. she also gets more constellations on her other foot at some point)

deftones "white pony" album cover on forearm

a crow somewhere (i'm thinking right below the octopus maybe)

patchwork sleeve on her thigh of caps from various anime/manga she likes (eg. serial experiments lain, oyasumi punpun, neon genesis evangelion, & junji ito's uzumaki, to name a few)

the date of her and n’s wedding anniversary on her left ring finger

a really ugly poorly done stick n poke of a skull and crossbones on her wrist that she did in high school but has never gotten removed or covered up despite how shitty it is because she sees it as a part of her that tells a story

at some point after her daughter is born (since pregnant women can't get tattooed) she gets an american traditional style portrait of her late tarantula on her shoulder blade. she also gets a tattoo for her daughter buuuuut i can't say what specifically it is because #spoilerz

she probably has way more, these are just the ones i've put thought into, however most of these would probably be a complete bitch to draw so if you wanna give her different tattoos or even forgo the tattoos entirely i would not be mad LOL. n and uzi's marriage in my fic is so funny to me... a goth baddie and the most normal guy ever

3. this is a pretty vague question haha but i'll try and give a generalized answer. the number one rule i have for myself (and the biggest piece of advice i can give to other writers) is to only write when i feel like writing. the reason i've been able to update tiny angels as frequently as i have (idgaf what anyone says, 100k words in 3 months on top of grad school and a job is damn productive) is because it's a fic i feel excited about and have a lot of ideas for. on average i'm able to post a new chapter within 2-5 days, but there's also been a few incidents where it's taken me a week or two. when this happens, it doesn't always mean i've been too busy to write, it usually means i either A) didn't know what i wanted to write or B) didn't feel like writing. or both.

if i feel excited about writing something (and this could be anything, from fanfic to essays for school - yes i am that nerd who gets genuinely excited to write essays), i will shit it out in no time at all. i see a lot of posts by other fic writers about being excited to write only to then open and stare at a blank google doc for hours on end, and i can sympathize with this to an extent but can't relate to it at all, because if i'm looking forward to getting my next chapter out there, the words will literally just flow from my fingertips and onto the document. sounds cliché, but it's true. if i'm forcing myself to write when i don't actually want to, then i'm putting out something that's less than the best work i can do. at the risk of sounding selfish and ungrateful, i'd much rather keep my readers frustratedly waiting for a new chapter and have it turn out great than deliver a lackluster, mediocre chapter just because people got tired of waiting. think of it this way: if you wake up early enough in the morning, you'll have time to make yourself a nutritious, filling, and tasty breakfast. bacon cooked to perfection, eggs prepared whatever way you like them, a stack of fluffy pancakes doused in maple syrup, a bowl of fresh fruit, coffee with just the right amount of milk and sugar (or tea if that's what you prefer, or freshly squeezed orange juice if caffeine's not your thing). if you wake up late, you'll throw a slice of bread in the toaster, slap some butter on it, scarf it down and head out to work, school, or wherever it is you need to be. both options are edible, sure, but one probably sounds much more enjoyable than the other, right?

something else i do is never coming up with an excuse not to write, even if i'm in a situation where i'm typically not "supposed" to be writing. as creatives, we can't control when or where inspiration hits, and if we don't log our ideas immediately, they can leave us just as quickly as they came to us. i have these little mini-notebooks that i bring with me everywhere along with pens, so that if inspiration strikes when i don't have access to a computer, i can just physically scribble down whatever i'm thinking and transfer it to a google doc later. this especially comes in handy when i'm at work - i don't think i'm exaggerating when i say probably about half of tiny angels was written while i was on the clock, LOL.

also: i never don't proof read. proof reading is helpful for not only catching grammar, spelling, punctuation, and continuity mistakes, but making sure i'm effectively conveying whatever it is i want to convey. i can't tell you the amount of times i've re-read a chapter before publishing it and decided to throw in an extra sentence or even just an extra word because even the finest of details can make a HUGE difference in impact. it also helps me to realize if i've repeated the same word too many times in a single chapter - for example, before publishing chapter 18, i read through it and noticed that i had used the word "completely" about 5 or 6 times. so i went back and swapped out some of those instances of the word for a different word with the same meaning - something like "utterly," "definitely," "totally," "entirely," etc. now, the word "completely" only appears twice within the chapter (and it's within the same sentence, which is intentional). a varied vocabulary is so, so important!

on that note: DESCRIPTIVE LANGUAGE. SIMILES. METAPHORS. these things are your best friends. use them, but don't over-use them. not every single sentence of your fic needs to be poetic prose, there's no shame in the occasional simple "He sighs." or "She shrugs." but a total lack of poetic language isn't going to make your story memorable and it sure as hell isn't going to evoke strong emotions in your readers (which is exactly what you're trying to do as a writer). for example, take this short paragraph from chapter 18:

Jade's eyebrows twitch up briefly and her eyes flash with something that almost looks like anger, as if she can't believe her brother would dare to challenge her like this. But just as quickly as it appeared, the indignation in her expression evaporates, her face frosting over with indifference instead.

now imagine if i had written this instead:

Jade briefly looks angry, but her face quickly becomes indifferent instead.

both betray more or less the same thing - that jade is mad at nolan, but is pretending not to be by pulling a poker face. however, the first one is much more immersive, and actually gives the reader an accurate glimpse into how jade is feeling during this moment. every word i've written here was carefully cherrypicked to make a statement about jade's character. "flash", for example. what else flashes? lightning flashes. ambulance & police lights flash. flashing indicates danger. the indignation in her expression doesn't just "go away," it "evaporates." evaporation is the process of a liquid turning into a gas. gases can be toxic. jade is toxic to nolan. her face doesn't just become indifferent, it "frosts over." frost occurs in the coldest months of winter, when temperatures reach below freezing. jade's personality can absolutely be described as cold. she assumes an unfriendly, emotionless demeanour here to conceal her true feeling, which is anger - thus, the word "frost" is appropriate. that post about how "the author just meant that the curtains were blue" couldn't be further from the truth - every word that went into this line had at least some layer of intent behind it.

that was a really fucking long winded answer. i'm sorry. tldr: write whenever you feel like writing but ONLY when you feel like writing, proof read, try to avoid repetition, use poetic devices but don't abuse them.

oh, and lighting either a scented candle or some incense while i write. i have no clue why it helps, but it does. 👍

#me: i don't really know how to answer this question but i'll try! (writes an entire essay)#this is a regular thing i do btw #if you ever ask me a very open ended question like this prepare to hear me yap because i am nothing if not a fucking yapper #btw for future reference i prefer to just be called my name in lieu of variants of my username! but i'm not mad dw #answered #writing tips #as you grow so do i #strawberristarzz

8 notes · View notes

shredsandpatches · 5 years ago

Note

POV for the writing meme? Thank you!!

Since you didn’t specify, since I was thinking of doing this anyway for the fun of it, and since it’s her 654th birthday today, here’s a pov flip of Richard and Anne’s first meeting from the novelthing. (The original is here)

The fire in Anne's solar is crackling enthusiastically, and yet she can't quite shake the chill she's had ever since she landed in England, even wrapped in furs that are almost as heavy as the imaginary layer of wool that seems to have been wrapped around her head. Her throat is scratchy and she's been sniffling all day—the perfect state in which to meet her husband-to-be. As if she isn't plain and dull enough.

She is grateful—she is so grateful that King Richard was willing to accept her with no dowry, indeed, at his own cost. Sir Simon Burley, who helped negotiate the marriage, spoke of the King with great fondness: he is also his tutor and indeed seems to think of him as a father would, for King Richard's father had died some years before. Anne's own father, before he died, had been considering marrying her to the son of the Margrave of Meissen, whom she had met once, when she was twelve and he was eight and spent a lot of what had passed for the conversation picking his nose. King Richard is her own age, and almost certainly does not pick his nose. If Sir Simon is to be believed, he is tall and beautiful and loves art and poetry, and he is as brave as his late father; this summer he had faced a mob of rebels, riding into their midst even as some of them fired arrows, and had calmed their anger and led them out of the city. He sounds like everything a king should be. Anne herself has impeccable bloodlines, she knows, and she has been rigorously educated; she knows she can do the work of a queen, but that of a wife? She isn't especially beautiful or interesting. She is eager to see Richard, but how can she help but disappoint him?

He's coming to meet her this afternoon. His uncle, the Duke of Lancaster, said he had arrived last night, but wanted to let her rest from her travels. She's grateful to him for that, as well. "He'll be in disguise, officially," Lancaster had said, "although I don't think you'll have much trouble recognizing him. Don't pretend you don't, but don't make it too obvious that you do."

She's turning that advice over in her head with a copy of Boethius in her lap—not that she's in the mood for reading Latin, but she's not in the mood for stories of virgin martyrs, not when about to meet her (brave, beautiful, art-loving) fiancé—when someone behind her who had certainly not been in the room before clears their throat and says, in strangely-accented French, "My lady?" and she nearly drops the book on the floor because oh God he's here. She sets it aside instead and rises to her feet, her heart pounding as she turns to face her future husband for the first time.

And he is breathtaking—tall and slender, with golden curls and grey eyes; he even has freckles, which ladies generally try to avoid getting but they suit him perfectly. Even in the simple dark green gown he's wearing, he holds himself regally. He's so tall she wonders how she'll ever be able to kiss him, because he's going to be her husband and she'll be allowed to kiss him, to lie with him, to bear his children, and her knees almost turn to water at that thought and she nearly falls over as she curtsies hastily, and probably very sloppily.

"My lord," she says, and it's hard because her mouth is now completely dry. "I did not hear you come in."

"It's all right," King Richard says, smiling—oh God, he's smiling at her. He's even more beautiful when he smiles. At her. Anne can't see any disappointment in his face at all. It's hard to breathe because she's fighting a sudden impulse to giggle, but then he bows to her and takes off his hat. "I'm supposed to be in disguise anyway," he says, straightening up. "It's something of a tradition—I don't know, maybe they do it in Bohemia too?"

Anne doesn't actually know if they do this in Bohemia. Her mother didn't mention that it was something that would happen, and she doesn't remember when Wenceslaus got married, as she had scarcely been more than a baby and her brother and sister-in-law had only been children themselves—as far as Anne can remember, they've always been married.

"It would never work, my lord," she says, rather than answering directly and admitting she doesn't know. "You carry yourself like a king."

Richard grins down at her, and as she raises her eyes to meet his she sends up a fervent prayer that he'll never stop smiling at her like that, as long as they both live. "I should hope so," he says. "And you don't need to call me ‘my lord.' We are going to be married, after all."

"Of course," Anne says. "Richard," she adds, and the feeling of just his name, no titles or "my lord," feels so intimate she can't resist smiling back at him. His cheeks flush a beautiful rosy pink and as he lifts her hand to his lips Anne can feel her own cheeks growing hot, and when his lips touch her skin it makes her toes curl.

"I'm sorry to have interrupted your prayers," he says.

"You didn't," she says. When he releases her hand, she picks up the book and gives it to him. "It's Boethius, actually." She bites her lip. "I know that sounds grim."

"I hope you haven't had cause to seek out Lady Philosophy," Richard says, and he's looking at her so closely now, and his grey eyes are wide and worried. "You weren't crying before, were you? I thought I heard—"

He's as nervous as she is, Anne realizes, and he is so beautiful and charming, what reason does he have? She has known him for only a few minutes, and she can't imagine anyone not liking him.

"Oh, no, my lord—Richard," she says, lingering on his name—her husband's name, soon enough. "I have had no cause to complain—except for the weather, I suppose, but no one is to blame for that. Although I am afraid I have caught a chill," she adds. She'd almost forgotten she was feeling ill. "I must look awful."

"Don't think anything of it," Richard says, leading her back to the bench by the fire and sitting down beside her. "Do you feel very bad? We must warm you up." His hand is on her shoulder now, and he says, "Do you mind?" and she can only shake her head, but it's enough: he wraps an arm around her, holding her close to his side, and after a brief moment of uncertainty she leans against him and the firm strength of his body, despite his slender build, makes her feel safe in a way she hadn't known she'd been missing. She can imagine sitting with him like this, snug beside the fire, years and years from now when they are both old, or a year or two from now, holding their first child, and that leads her to think again about how they will be making that child and her face heats up again.

"You are very kind," she says. "I thought I would never be warm again, when I first arrived."

Richard laughs, although it's gentle. "England isn't very friendly in winter," he says. "I wish I could make the road easier for you. You should see it in spring, though. I mean, you will. I think you'll love it."

"I am sure I will," Anne says, smiling. "I had never realized before that being on dry land was something I should be grateful for."

"Was your trip very difficult?" Richard says. "They told me about the ship. I'm glad you're safe."

Anne tries not to think too much about the ship. She had been cold and seasick the whole way, and it had rained and snowed in turn. Sir Simon had told her how beautiful the white shores of England were when they came into view, but in the weather that greeted her arrival they had been little more than a slightly paler smudge against a grey horizon. The boats had barely reached the shore when a sudden wind arose and the ships dashed against each other; she had shivered and wept and clung to Agnes and Margaret until the noise had died down and the last pieces of wreckage had sunk beneath the waves. No one, at least, was hurt, as they had all disembarked by then, but it had felt so final: she would never see her homeland again.

"To tell you the truth," she says, "I was more afraid I would die on the way over. Even after the French fleet let us pass—I had never been so sick in my life. Whenever I miss Bohemia, I can at least remind myself that I will never have to set foot on a ship again."

"I wish I'd thought of that when I came here from France," Richard says. "I was born there, you know. It was a long time ago, though, so I wasn't old enough to think of it."

"Do you still miss France, sometimes?" Anne asks. "I hear it is very beautiful there. I have never been south of Calais, but my father always spoke highly of it." He would be spinning in his tomb in St. Vitus Cathedral, Anne thinks, if he had known that the French had planned to kidnap her en route to England; she shudders to think what they had meant to do with her, until the French king had intervened personally, but only, he had hastened to add, because Anne was his cousin.

"Sometimes," Richard says. "Mostly when my uncles and the council are being terrible. I mean—I don't really remember it that well, just…bits and pieces, I suppose. I was only four years old when we came to England, and what I remember most is that the weather was a lot like this, and that my father got sick afterwards." He shakes his head. "I'm sorry, this is terribly grim, isn't it? I shouldn't go on like this, not when I've only just met you."

Anne smiles, as it's not as though she'd been thinking especially cheerful thoughts at that precise moment. "I do understand," she says, covering his hand with her own, feeling his skin against hers—a much happier thing to think about. "Not in the same way, exactly, but—I do know about terrible councils, at least. My father was a king, and my brother. It is not that I know what it feels like, only that—I have seen it. A little."

"You know," Richard says, "my father fought against your father, at Crécy. And your grandfather—my father thought he was the bravest man he'd ever known. My mother said so. He took up his badge after the battle, even." Anne tries not to sigh out loud as Richard withdraws his arm where it rests around her shoulders, but then he retrieves his hat and unpins the badge on it, pressing it into her hand: an ostrich feather bearing the banner inscribed "ICH DIEN." I serve. "I brought you one."

Anne smiles again. "My family puts ostrich feathers on everything. I mean—not real ones, anymore, they are expensive, just in heraldry," she adds, biting her lip. For a moment, she's embarrassed—why would she mention that now, when things were going so well?—and then she realizes, it's because she feels safe talking to Richard about serious things. She offers the badge to him again; he'd said he brought it for her, but it's best to be prudent about things like this, and she is rewarded for it when he covers her hand with his own so that her fingers curl over it and smiles, making her cheeks warm yet again. "My father hoped that I would marry you," she says. "He sent letters to England before he died. He told me all about your father—how he was scarcely more than a boy, but that he fought as bravely as any man, and that the son of such a man must be as worthy a husband as the daughter of an emperor could hope for." She smiles at him again, thinking about how gallant Richard must have been during the recent revolt. She can almost picture him atop his horse, his golden curls glinting in the sun, and the crowd parting before him. "Your ambassadors were still in Prague when news of the revolt reached us, you know. They told me how brave you had been and how much like your father you were."

Richard's cheeks redden, and he lowers his eyes. "I only did what needed to be done," he says.

"They said you rode into a hail of arrows."

"It wasn't a hail of arrows," Richard says. "Maybe one or two."

"I cannot imagine how frightening it must have been," Anne says. She's still got hold of his hand and she squeezes it tightly. Of course it was frightening—it only sounds like something out of a romance when you weren't there for it.

"I don't actually remember being afraid," Richard says. "I suppose I must have been—I'm afraid when I think of it now—but it's more that when I think about what could have happened…" He swallows hard. "I don't really know how to tell you about it," he says. "I haven't talked about it much before, with people who weren't there, and it's more that what happened afterward was—well, it was also very bad. Much worse, in some ways."

"I am sorry," Anne says, lowering her eyes. She wants to wrap her arms around him, to hold him close and tell him it will all be all right, but she doesn't know if that would be appropriate, yet. "The last thing I want is to make you unhappy."

"You haven't," Richard promises. "It's something I want you to know about, just—it's something I'm still trying to work out, in my head." He's looking at her closely again, and to her surprise, Anne doesn't feel the urge to giggle, not when they're talking about something serious, or to hide her face. "I mean, it's all to do with the kind of king I want to be—maybe having you here will help."

"I will do what I can," Anne says, "to be worthy of your great kindness, and of the great price you've paid to bring me here. It is uncommonly generous, to accept a queen who brings no dowry. Even if the Pope requests it."

Richard frowns. "Your brother told you about that?"

"He did not have to," Anne says, and then Richard is smiling again.

"I don't need to marry for money," he says. "I have plenty of it. You're going to be my queen. And I do want to make you happy, Anne, very much."

He takes her hands again and raises them both to his lips, kissing each of them in turn, and now her cheeks are blazing again. She raises her eyes to his face—they are close enough that she could count the freckles on his nose, that she could kiss each one of them. They are close enough that she could kiss his lips, if she wanted to—and she does want to, if it wouldn't be too forward. Richard lowers both of their hands, and then he's leaning in like he is going to kiss her; she tilts her chin upwards and her eyes close and almost before she realizes it his mouth touches hers and she gasps a little against his lips as her hand finds the back of his neck and his fingers are in her hair, which is going to ruin her plait but she doesn't care even a little bit.

She doesn't want to pull away but in the end they both have to, because it's hard to breathe. Richard has a sort of dreamy look on his face that makes Anne want to lean back in and kiss him again but there's a pounding feeling behind her eyes and her nose and ears itch and before she can stop herself she's just sneezed on her future husband.

"I am so sorry!" she cries, wiping her hands on her skirt before burying her face in them, trying not to cry. Her face is burning, not just her cheeks but her forehead and her ears and the back of her neck. Maybe she's getting a fever. Maybe she has the plague and will die of that before she dies of embarrassment because she's ruined everything. That isn't fair though. If she had the plague Richard would get it too, and he shouldn't have to die of the plague just because she's stupid.

And then Richard is touching her again—his hand is resting on her shoulder, and his voice is kind as he says, "Don't worry about it." Anne sniffles and swallows hard before looking up, and, because God is merciful, he's even smiling. "This cold wet weather is terrible for phlegm, you know," he says. "I'll have someone bring you some hippocras or piment, that ought to help." He lowers his voice conspiratorially. "After all, we have to get you on the mend soon, since you'll be staying with my uncle John. He's not the warmest person I've ever met. Now, if it were my uncle Thomas, he definitely has a choleric temperament, and that would theoretically make you feel better, except then you'd have to put up with him…"

Anne has met a great many older and high-ranking Englishmen over the last few days, of varying temperaments, and the Duke of Lancaster is by far the chilliest. Baron de la Pole had warned her about him; he had said that Lancaster was still disappointed that his nephew was king instead of him, and although Lancaster had been unfailingly courteous, Anne can see what he meant: something about his bearing reminds her of her father. She doesn't think she's met Thomas though, and if she has she doesn't remember: there are clearly a number of choleric temperaments about.

"…and I'm probably making you wonder what you've gotten yourself into, aren't I," he says. "I promise it won't be as bad as all that. John has calmed down a lot since the revolt, and Thomas can't abide most people but he's always nice to pretty girls. So's John, really."

Pretty girls. She's just kissed Richard and then sneezed on him and now he's calling her pretty and grinning at her and Anne can't help giggling. "They have both been very kind to me," she says.

"Well, you are a pretty girl," Richard says, and he giggles back at her. "It will be nice to have one around. I might actually get things done."

Anne looks down at her lap. Surely he isn't teasing her, but—she knows she isn't an especially pretty girl. "You are just saying that because we are getting married," she says, smiling a little. Maybe he'll say she's pretty again.

"Why shouldn't I think my wife is a pretty girl?" Richard says.

Anne has no answer to that. Maybe he does mean it. "Well," she says, "if you think so, I will not object."

Richard laughs. "That's all I can ask," he says.

#fic #first next last meme #richard ii #anne of bohemia #anne of bohemia is my forever girl #the novelthing #(sorta)#otp: my derlyng is a bundel of myrre to me #harry-leroy

21 notes · View notes

ahmedmootaz · 5 years ago

Text

Ta-da! Betch'a didn't see that coming! How do you do, folks? I'm back once again, this time with a drawing? No, not the one on the right! Listen, that was just a failed attempt, alright?!

No, but seriously, here's my not-so-quick sketch of Poe DeSpell, since I've been yammering on and on about him these days. Since I'm totally unbiased, I'll give my opinion on this chef-d'œuvre: I had lots of fun working on it. It's been a while since I tried drawing a character from my imagination, though I took inspiration from the various wonderful artistes here.

I always imagined Poe as this strange combination of stylish and non-caring really about his appearance. He wears absolutely phenomenal clothing, but he wouldn't care if he was caught wearing socks with sandals, either. He's a bit old-fashioned, but what can one do when Magic makes them live longer than usual? I'd intended to further decorate his coat, one of my favorite clothing articles to draw as of yet, though I feared I might end up destroying his entire look and make him look far less threatening. I wanted to originally make this a great-coat, but it came out as it did, and didn't look half-bad. This is also one of my first pieces where I tried making the air play with the clothing, though minor, I think it came out pretty well. He, of course, uses Magic to protect his tail feathers against the air. Totally not because I didn't know how to animate them. Shut up.

Consider this his field-uniform. A traditional shirt with old-fashioned pants, complete with a greenish-grey and some stripes. I tried mixing the hat which he dons in 1987-Ducktales and the traditional black-and-white wizard hat for the sake of maintaining a bit of a menacing form. I admit, the eyes and the eye-brows made him look more neutral/calm than neutral/threatening, but I can always correct that later. The shoes were also one of my favorite bits; Poe DeSpell is a fancy duck. He doesn't walk around bare-foot, unlike Magica, who has not time for these things. I tried designing a paddle-shaped shoe, trying to create a fancy-shoe feeling,though that only worked when his legs were facing sideways, otherwise it seemed odd. Also, credit to my family for having helped my out finalize the design. The beak is a bit odd, I can't really make up my mind on what the the dots on it are supposed to mean, but given the art-style of 2017!Ducktales, one can imagine them to be mustaches, rather than a nose. But in general, I really like him.

So, Poe DeSpell. A powerful sorcerer, master of deception, Subjugator Of The Dark Arts, and lover of Ducktor Who. A nerd who loves his sister a bit too much for her liking, but then again, anything from him is a bit too much to her liking. While at first glance he seems more relaxed, logical and reasonable than his sister, and to extent, it's true, once he loses it, he's an absolute maniac who'll stop at nothing to get what he wants, even if it costs him his life. He does truly love Magica as her brother, and aides her in her several quests across the world. Though not as much of a master when it comes to alchemy and Shadow-Magic, the Ursuper Of Intmidating Titles Made On Spot is much more endowed in physical sides of Magic, such as regeneration, weapon handling, and manipulation of objects, including your neck bones. Not really well endowed in any other branches of Magic, though he dabbled in more extreme sides of Magic and, more importantly, can handle the untold knowledge of driving cars.

A much more pragmatic fellow, he doesn't use cruelty as a means to villainy, but rather, villainy to reach cruelty. In other, less confusing words, he's not evil because he's cruel; he's cruel because he's evil. It's a life-style for him, something that makes life a bit funner, since his plans almost always consist of "Why don't we shoot our enemies with twenty bullets in the brain, Magica?". He goes through with her plans, mostly because he doesn't really care and that, in theory, his sister's plans are well-planned...they're just a bit too convoluted.

I hope you like this, everyone!

#ducktales 2017 #poe de spell #magica de spell #ducktales #headcanon #I know this annoys some people for good reason #But hey Headcannons are fun

15 notes · View notes