#joveson

[the-chaotic-christian]

Smalls really is just out here running on coffee and his desire to fight death itself before admitting his feelings for Heather, isn't he, and no one's gonna stop him

[meadow-roses]

poor man

[no-one-can-save-you-now12]

What? My favorite green ember character? Oh DON'T EVEN. Here's my list (not in order because I dont have an order)

Smalls

Helmer

Picket

Kyle

Jo

Captain Moonlight

Cole

Weezie

Heather

Lord Ramnor

Wilfred

(don't ask, I know it's a lot)

[bear-the-flame]

I really need to know who the rest of Jupiter's children are, pls

[jupitersmalls]

“ Oh, I hail from the land of Terralain, “ Kyle said with a wink. “ Home of the long-lost Whitson Stone and birthplace of wonder and unity.”

aaaa i made this so long ago but i finished rereading green ember to my mom and i had forgotten some of my favorite interactions with kyle(n) ! honestly, he’s one of my favorite characters, so i tried to draw one of his scenes >_< backgrounds aren’t my favorite to do, but i hope this is okay!

[squishidoodles]

When you doodle random stuff while listening to music

[april-musings]

🎶"Never leave you ALL AlOoone!"🎶

I just can't draw rabbits, I guess smh :(

[meadow-roses]

brave heart beating with hope and loyalty and gentle hands ready to serve

[the-chaotic-christian]

Here, Have Some Green Ember Memes

Featuring my OC, Evan! For context, he's Smalls immediate older brother (they're irish twins).

Smalls: Can you cut me some slack, Heather? I’m sort of in love. Heather: I’m sorry, but that’s really not my problem. Smalls: I’m in love with you. Heather: *blushes* Oh. That brings me in the loop a little.

Naylen: Time for plan G. Kylen: Don’t you mean plan B? Naylen: No, we tried plan B a long time ago. I had to skip over plan C due to technical difficulties. Kylen: What about plan D? Naylen: Plan D was that desperate disguise attempt half an hour ago. Kylen: What about plan E? Naylen: I’m hoping not to use it. Smalls dies in plan E. Kylen: I like plan E. Smalls: I'm right here.

Kylen: No, this is not a mess. You know what I consider a mess? Naylen: Your life? Kylen: I- well yes, but-

Bleston: LOWERCASE LETTERS ARE FOR THE LOWER CLA--! Ian: And here we have a capitalist. Oh look another OC- Jupiter: Did you just- Wilfred: Let us all take a moment to appreciate that all of human history, human language, and the universe itself aligned to make this joke possible.

Evan: Change is inedible. Smalls: .......Don’t you mean inevitable? Evan, spitting out a bunch of pennies: No, I really didn’t.

Frye: Don’t go picking a fight with me. I could make your life difficult. Smalls, sarcastically: Wow. I wonder what it’d be like to have a difficult life.

Evan: All right, Smalls, that’s it, you’re grounded! I found a rap album hiding under your bed and it was the clean version. I didn’t raise you to be such a nerd! Smalls: I’m not even your kid-

Wilfred: So Evan and Smalls. Wilfred: According to this, you two are being accused of: Armed Robbery, Vandalism, Alcohol Abuse, Grand Theft… Evan: We had a bad day. Wilfred: And… MURDER?! Smalls: It was a pretty bad day…

[the-chaotic-christian]

More tge memes

Smalls: If you kill a killer, the number of killers in the world remains the same.

Kylen, with his mouth full: Kill two.

Evan: Smalls, I am respecting your privacy by knocking.

Evan: But I am also asserting my authority as your older brother by coming in whether you want me to or not.

Picket: What was it like being raised by Uncle Wilfred.

Smalls: I asked for some water once while he was mad at me. Then he brought me a glass of ice and said ‘wait’.

Smalls: Do you remember the time I drank my first coffee?

Asher: Yes, you laughed at the littlest thing until 2 A.M. Then you cried for an hour straight. We thought you’d gone insane.

Smalls, on his fifth cup of coffee in one hour: Good times.

Smalls: When have I ever done anything rash?

Heather: I have a list. It’s color-coded, cross-referenced, and alphabetical.

[the-chaotic-christian]

Ember's Blood: Chapter 1, The Capital

Part 2

There are tunnels underneath the Black Gap, though nearly all are blocked or discovered now. This last one would put them out about four miles from Half-moon ridge, a system of caves and tunnels used frequently by travelers.

It’s the melting season, and many areas would become flooded as snow melts from the mountains and sends a surge of water rippling through the river system. Most put off their traveling until afterwards, but Smalls and Wilfred go right through it. Ironically, travel is safer now because no one else will.

The tunnels are cramped, dark, and wet, a combination Smalls decides is never pleasant no matter the context.

Smalls knows it’s odd, but he’s never liked being underground. It’s a dislike that’s a borderline fear- an extremely strange fear for a rabbit. He hates feeling trapped or stuck. He doesn’t even like being indoors. Too much like suffocating. But it’s necessary to cross the black gap.

The Black Gap is a dangerous stretch of burned land. Morbin Blackhawk had decimated the capital and then humiliated Smalls’ people further by tearing down their greatest strength; he’d burned the wood. Just thinking about it infuriates Smalls. Even as a child, he’d seethed and chafed underneath Morbin’s authority, muttering threats of poisoning and death that Wilfred had silenced in order to keep him alive. Most twelve-year-olds were interested in baseball or fairytales. Smalls had been interested in learning every way possible to kill a person.

His dedication to his training is what got him through Daggler’s insane training programs, through the nightmarish court, through losing brother after brother and sister after sister. Learning to turn off his feelings has saved his life on more than one occasion. It scares him, sometimes, how easily and unemotionally he can do incredibly hard things-how easy it is for him to fight and kill, now. It’s made him a good soldier, though. An even better assassin.

Feeling things is dangerous during a war.

But a part of him is tired of only feeling anger and emptiness.

Part of him wants a real reason to keep going-not just fable phantoms he’s half convinced don’t exist. Part of him doesn’t want to keep going anyways.

But…..he will. Because he doesn’t know how to stop.

“What time is it?” Smalls asks after a while.

Wilfred pauses a moment, then sighs, “I don’t have the foggiest clue. My best guess is somewhere in-between one and two in the morning.”

Smalls nods. Then hears a distinct, sudden boom.

[the-chaotic-christian]

Ember's Blood, Chapter 1: The Capital

Part 1

“Wait here.”

Smalls looks up, surprised out of his bad mood. He doesn’t want to be here, in this overcrowded, dirty city, devoid of any sort of happiness. They had passed two corpses on their way in, and the main square (which they had barely peeked at, they’re not trying to get killed) still smelled of soot and burnt flesh from the day’s executions. No one is out; it’s far past curfew. It makes Smalls uneasy.

“How come?” He asks.

“Because Mr. Jemison won’t appreciate you knocking any of his glasswork over.” Wilfred replies, tone light but hand on his sword. His eyes flick briefly towards Smalls, then back to the shop they’re standing in front of. It’s decrepit and illy cared for, like most buildings in the First Warren. It offers little to look at; Smalls doubts anyone would choose it for a networking base on purpose.

“I wouldn’t knock it over.” Smalls protests, rolling his eyes. Unlike most rabbits of fifteen years, Smalls has the capability to stay quiet and unnoticeable, only making himself known when necessary and slipping into the shadows when it’s not. He’d been trained to do so.

So it’s odd when Wilfred forgets that.

But this isn’t the first time he’s pulled something like this, and it’s growing increasingly annoying. Wilfred’s been acting absurd for weeks now. After the arrival of a letter that had visibly upset him, Wilfred became strangely withdrawn and increasingly quiet. Smalls had even gone so far as sneaking to discover what was in the note; but had been caught to his chagrin. Wilfred hadn’t even lectured him much; not like he usually did.

“We have to go to the capital.” He’d said.

“Why?” Smalls asked, not keen on the idea.

“Trust me.” Had been Wilfred’s only reply.

And a fairly stupid one, in Smalls’ opinion. But he hadn’t bothered pushing. Wilfred wouldn’t crack.

“I’m going inside.” Wilfred interrupts his thoughts, hand trained on his sword, acting as if he hadn’t heard Smalls’ earlier statement.

“Keep watch. If there’s even a hint of trouble-”

“Signal. Yes, I know. I’m not twelve anymore, Wilfred.” Smalls reminds him. I’m nearly sixteen.

Wilfred relaxes slightly, the muscles in the hand clenching tightly around the handle of his sword loosening.

“You’re right. I should trust you. But be careful. There’re wolves on the prowl.” And with that cheerful reminder, he disappears into the dark shop. The building on a whole looks very empty and abandoned to Smalls, and he grimaces, annoyed at being kept in the dark-literally. He begins to pace, hand on the hilt of his sword. The reminder of their enemy sets him on edge, and he wishes more than anything to not be where he is.

Smalls hates The First Warren. The old capital is a crumbling decay and ruined because of the violent occupation. The wall’s being reinforced and finished, and eventually all in-and-out access to the place would be nonexistent. Based on their current information, that ‘eventually’ will become a reality within the next week or so. Smalls and Wilfred need to be gone by then, long, long gone. I’ll go insane if we stay here much longer, He thinks, glaring at the cobbled ground. He sighs and directs his gaze up.

Clouds are gathering above, blocking out the pale sickle moon. Smalls can see raptors circling high up, waiting (and probably hoping) to find someone out past curfew. Smalls knows they can see immensely far and hopes the dark back-road and towering buildings around him will protect against their sight.

Smalls fiddles with his sword pommel, tempted to draw it simply to feel safer. Footsteps approach, the swing of a door and Smalls squints in the darkness to make out the form of Wilfred. His sword is drawn.

“What was that about?” He asks, hoping for a legitimate answer this time around. Wilfred has a bad habit of withholding vital information until the very last possible moment before Smalls needs to know it.

“Some intel.” Wilfred replies vaguely, swinging his pack onto his shoulders in one clean movement and re-sheathing his sword. Wilfred takes off at a fast pace, annoying Smalls. He knows I’m shorter, why can’t I get a break? He jogs to catch up with him.

“What kind of intel?” He questions.

“I’ll tell you in the morning. Are you in a rush, lad?” Wilfred’s pointed look is as-pointedly ignored by Smalls. But he does admit;

“I don’t like it here….It’s……all wrong.”

Wilfred sighs. “I agree. This place isn’t what it should be, the occupation has knarled it into something demented and evil.”

Smalls’ fists involuntarily clench.

He longs to act, longs to restore what’s been lost. But….he’s seen the results of hasty action. And he remembers watching the riots and protests as a child. His mind also unhappily supplies images of the day awful Lord Falcowit had put an end to it all.

“It won’t always be this way.” Wilfred adds.

“I hope so.” Smalls replies, trying not to sound too despondent. He’s tempted to add more, preferably some backhanded, passive-aggressive jab at Wilfred’s frustrating secrecy. But Wilfred apparently can read minds, because the look he gives Smalls is enough to sway him from acting on his inclinations.

“Where are we sleeping tonight?” He asks instead.

“Not in the city.”

“I thought we were staying on for a few more days.” Wilfred shakes his head. “No, we’ll leave tonight.” His tone shifts slightly, and Smalls glances at him, sensing the difference. What is going on? The question’s been rattling around inside his head for weeks now, and he has too little information to answer it.

“Oh, and this is for you.” Wilfred hands Smalls a thin stack of letters, bound together with twine.

“Evan?” Smalls questions, unable to read the address due to the darkness.

“That’s who I assumed.”

I haven’t got anyone else who would write to me, Smalls muses. Evan’s his older brother by a year. They’d spent much of their childhood together and had stayed in touch consistently ever since they’d been split after the massacre. Smalls slips the letters in his pack.

“Where are we going to stop?”

“Where do you think is best?”

“That depends. Which direction are we trying to go?”

“Northwest.”

Smalls considers for a moment. “We’d have to get across the black gap tonight.”

“Yes.”

“And we can’t go to the citadels, yet.”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“But the tunnels aren’t completely blocked, correct?”

“Yes.” They stop walking.

“Half-moon would work.” Smalls decides at last. “It’s bound to be empty this time of year.”

“Five miles out.” Wilfred muses. “And at least a two-mile dead run, up and down, over debris and other obstacles. You up for that?”

For the first time since entering the city, Smalls grins. “Always.”

[the-chaotic-christian]

Candle in the Wind

Heather was used to not being able to sleep, she’d been an insomniac since she was a little child. But in Akolan, it seemed almost as if the city would not let her sleep. Yes, she’d slept before, a necessity for her wounds to heal, but now that they mostly were, it was like a switch had flipped and her mind was no longer producing melatonin.

            So she’d crept quietly down to the living room, where the last dying embers of the fire flickered and threw shadows against the walls. She hadn’t wanted to disturb her parents for a second night, much less after the news of Jacks’ selection to be sent to Morbin’s table as a grotesque meal for his warlords.

            And by now, Heather was more than used to handling her pain alone.

            She was the older sister, after all, and among her responsibilities to be a perpetual worrier and rule instigator was the keeping of her emotions and hurts to herself. Yes, she talked about Smalls, but not because she was looking to share her pain with others. She remembered and spread his story because it deserved to be told, and he deserved to be remembered.

            Her gaze dropped from the fire to the sketchbook open in her lap. It wasn’t her’s. It was Smalls’. He’d shown it to her, blushing, once, but had been called away in the middle of doing so, leaving the little book with her. She’d meant to return it, but had forgotten and he’d never asked. She hadn’t even realized she still had it until she discovered it at the bottom of her satchel earlier that night when searching for a bit of ink she vaguely remembered throwing into it several weeks before.

            She’d told him they were good, because they were.

            “Not very.” He’d replied. “I’ve never learned formally. But I always found drawing better than speaking when Wilfred and I were moving around, and there was only so long I could spend reading without it being too much.”

            “Aren’t you the one always telling me I shouldn’t be afraid of my gifts?” Heather remembered asking.

            “It’s hardly a gift, Heather.”

            “Then why did you show it to me?”

            “I-”

            And that was the moment he had been called away. She softly turned the pages, as if they were made of leaves of gold, tracing the outlines of the figures Smalls had traced with a pencil months or years before. Many of the sketches were of unfamiliar figures, likely rabbits he encountered before meeting her, but some she recognized.

            There was even one of Dr. Zeiger, with a note printed neatly in the corner-

            The red spectacles are the thing that really get me.

            The next page was one of Helmer, and the writing read,

            There’s a difference between liking one’s own company and being Helmer. I wish people understood that.

            That one made her laugh.

            But the most surprising one was the roughly sketched picture of Kylen, and the note under that one was far less amusing than the two previous.

            I don’t like him. I’m not sure why, but something doesn’t seem quite right. And no-it’s not like Evan keeps saying, because I’m jealous. There’s something larger going on, and Kyle is the eye the storm is swirling around. I just wish I knew which storm it was.

            Heather gazed at the drawing for a moment, then turned the page so quickly she nearly ripped it. And what she found on the next leaf-close to the end of the book, truly-took her aback.

            It was a sketch of her.

            I don’t think I did her justice-she’s much, much prettier in real life. But I suspect I’ll be going away soon, and this at least will remind me of her.

            I wish I’m braver.

            Heather’s eyes closed. Her hand slipped out of the sketchbook, and it closed. Silent tears began to pool in her eyes, and she reached up to scrub them away out of habit.

            And she was just-there was so much. Heather was angry and heartbroken, and scared. Angry because his bravery was what got him killed, what stole him from her when if he’d just gone to anyone else-

            And she was heartbroken because he was gone, and never coming back. Because even though he was reckless, even though he could be equally as foolish as Evan at times, she still loved him. And she’d wanted-still wanted-a life with him, desperately. And she knew that he’d wanted the same thing, and had almost said as much before.

            And the fear-that came from a fear of letting go, a fear of forgetting. She didn’t-couldn’t-forget Smalls yet. Not yet.

            “Heather, dear, why are you awake?”

            Heather jerked, and the sketchbook fell to the floor. Sween crossed the room, picked it up, and handed it back to her.

            “Oh, I-I couldn’t sleep.” Heather replied, taking back the sketchbook.

            “It’s two in the morning, Heather.”

            Heather looked away. “I know, Mother. I couldn’t sleep.”

            “Well, I don’t think you’ll sleep better sitting up. How come you can’t sleep?”

            Heather did not want to tell her. This felt private, sacred, in a sense. Her and Smalls’ love had been so quiet, almost unspoken, but not quite. And she wasn’t sure if she was quite ready to share this part of it, the pain that came with it. Her mother already looked bogged down enough with other worries, and Heather’s didn’t need to be pitched onto the top of that pile.

            Sween sat down by the hearth. “You can tell me, Heather.” She said gently.

            “Not about this.” Heather replied, fingers finding their way to her pendant necklace.

            Sween was quiet for a moment, and then she sighed softly. “You’ve grown much over the last two years, Heather, because I remember a time when you told me everything. But you’ve seen war now, and that does force one to grow up a little beyond their time.”

            “It forced Smalls to.” Heather murmured softly. Smalls hadn’t wanted to tell her everything about the First Warren, but she’d slowly pieced together the story from things he told her, until she had a nearly full picture. And it was an ugly one. Smalls’ childhood had been ripe with disease, trammels, and tyranny, and, though Wilfred often joked about how dark Smalls could be sometimes, but Heather didn’t blame him.

            “So, is this about the prince?” Sween asked.

            Heather didn’t reply immediately.

            “Heather, I can’t help if you won’t talk to me.”

            “You can’t help.” Heather said finally. She didn’t mean it cruelly; it was the truth. Her mother hadn’t known Smalls since he was a baby.

            “Then I won’t. I’ll listen.” Sween replied. “You’re like your father in that respect, Heather, you need things to be said for you to be able to let them go.”

            Tears finally began to spill down Heather’s cheeks. “But I don’t want to let him go, Mother.” She whispered. “I can’t, not yet. Maybe not ever.”

            Sween said nothing, only nodded.

            “He promised he wouldn’t try anything reckless.” She continued, tone turning bitter. “He promised he’d listen to Uncle Wilfred. But he didn’t and now he’s dead and I don’t know what to do.” A sob choked her, and she rubbed furiously at the tears crawling down her face.

            Wordlessly, Sween got up and walked over, hugging her gently.

            Heather took a shaky breath, burying her face in her mother’s embrace.

            “He promised he’d come back. He promised.” She whispered.

            “I know, I know.” Sween replied, rubbing her back. “I know.”

            “But he didn’t and I’m so angry-” Her sentence was cut off by another sob.

            “Be angry then, Heather, be angry at those who took him away from you. Be angry and let it fuel your fight. But don’t turn bitter, my dear. Bitterness is what tore Garten from this family and cut him off from what was true and right.”

            “I’m so sick of feeling this way. It’s been only a week, but it feels like a lifetime.” Her voice shook painfully, and her broken arm ached. “It’s not fair.”

            “No, it isn’t.” Sween agreed. “It isn’t.” She sighed. “I’m tired of seeing young boys go to war and come back scarred, or not come back at all. War is poison, Heather, it is the culmination of all that is awful and hateful. We trick ourselves into believing that it is glorious so that we are not so afraid of it, but it is a sickness.”

            “I think I’ve caught it.” Heather whispered.

            “I think most of us have.” Sween agreed. “But though war isn’t glorious, it can be noble. And the way the prince died is the height of nobleness, fighting for those who can’t even lift their hands to defend themselves. He died in the name of freedom, my dear, in the name of a future where we live free.”

            “I know.” Heather paused. “But I miss him. More than anything, I miss him. I didn’t know a person could grieve like this.”

            “It’s a hollow, terrible ache.” Sween agreed.

            A long silence.

            “You can go to bed, mother, if you want.” Heather said, pulling away from her mother’s embrace.

            “Are you okay?”

            “For now.” Heather replied. And she was, mostly. Her heart still hurt, but she could weather it.

[meadow-roses]

Rabbits with Swords + Jo Shanks

who we all know rarely ever uses a sword 😂

[meadow-roses]

Emma is just great ;o; 

[meadow-roses]

Character concept doodles with Emma. I realized every time I drew her she looked different so I had to fix that lol

The Green Ember belongs to S. D. Smith and the Story Warren, this is fanart. :)