#marshlights

[marshlightspodcast]

Marsh Lights E15 - Blood Money

Once a man of great wealth, a divorce has reduced Ernie to homelessness and he's desperate for a way out. He witnesses a vile murder that turns things to his advantage. 

  Music by Myuu. 

It's time to head out to the marsh for a story. Check out this episode!

[smokeclan-oc]

Dawnspot - pale ginger tom with white patches

Family: Cloudleg (father), Speckfluff (mother), Streamshine (sister), Thistleear (brother) Gender / Sexuality: tom / pansexual Personality: fierce fighter, loud about his opinions, cranky Backstory: Dawnspot was an incredible hunter and fighter in his youth. After a falcon swooped at him in a tree and he tumbled down, passed out from his injuries, Dawnspot hit the ground beside his apprentice Marshpaw, unconscious. When Dawnspot woke he had limited vision, and memory problems.  Refusing to move to the elders den, when Dawnspot is having a good day they will let him sleep in the warriors den, but he’s often confined to the medicine cat den if the clan can help it.  Unpermitted to leave the camp alone, nor actively participate in clan duties, on Dawnspots good days he remembers he’s a senior warrior and will aid in apprentice training. On his bad days when he can’t quite figure out where he is and what’s going on, he will travel with the medicine cat to gather herbs or care for the clan.  Dawnspot is obviously frustrated, wanting to hunt and help his clan. On some days he will sneak out and try to hunt, but more often than not he ends up walking around confused, unable to remember where he is or what’s going on. It feels like he’s never been out of camp before and everything scares him. On those days a patrol will often find Dawnspot cautiously walking around lost.  Ideal Partner: the med cat, the elder warrior who had high hopes for him, a fellow warrior who trained alongside Dawnspot that feels sad that he can’t be the warrior he wants to be, med cat apprentice who babysits him lol  Position | Clan: Warrior | Whisperclan

Marshlight - dark brown tom with some tabby stripes

Family: Cedarclaw (father), Jayheart (mother), Oakthorn (brother), Peachfur (sister), Hawklight (nephew) Gender / Sexuality: Tom / bisexual Personality: faithful, warm, inviting, good teacher, super kind Backstory: Marshlight was obviously scarred when he watched his mentor tumble from the sky, seriously injured. When his mentor reassignment took too long, it gave Marshpaw time to look inward on himself. He felt so helpless when Dawnspot had fallen, not even knowing what to do. He panicked and ran, looking for help. He wanted to do better. Marshpaw wanted to become a medicine cat.  Only a few days after his personal revelation, elder medicine cat Meadowbreath of Thrushclan came into camp. She spoke to the medicine cat and then approached warrior apprentice Marshpaw. Meadowbreath had a sign from Starclan, they were obvious in their message; after the meadow stretches a bright marsh. Marshpaw was meant to be the next Thrushclan medicine cat.  Eager at the chance to make no cat feel as hopeless as he did, Marshpaw took the position and soon after had earned his medicine cat name. On occasion he will try to visit Dawnspot, but his mentor doesn’t always remember him, or the fact he’s Thrushclans medicine cat.  When in his new home, Marshlight not only is an excellent energetic medicine cat, he also takes time to train apprentices on the basics. No apprentice will see another cat bleeding and panic. He also very openly allows the apprentices to ask him faith questions, as he had to find his becoming a medicine cat Ideal Partner: the first warrior to accept marsh into thrush, or an apprentice he trained beside, or a warrior from whisper he trained beside before leaving Position | Clan: Medicine Cat Apprentice | Thrushclan

Owlflight - pale brown tom with tabby markings

Family: Mousebite (father, deceased), Pearblossom (mother, deceased), Ratbite (brother) Gender / Sexuality: tom / questioning Personality: sweet, warm, eager, skilled, on the quieter side, fluffy and loves cuddles, loves to cuddle his fellow fluffy best friend Backstory: Mentored by the tom who took over the deputy position upon Halfwhiskers gruesome death, Owlflight remembers holding silent vigil with his father and his mentor when he was only a kit. Now a full grown warrior, and new to the deputy position, Owlflight knows he wouldnt be where he is today without his best friend Jaggedhawk. They are the wonder duo. When paired together hunting, they do exceptionally well, and when leading a patrol, they trust each other and work with ease as if they can read each others mind.  Owlflight is pretty sure he might be into his best friend, which is making Owlflight realize he might be gay. Absolutely tragic, since he has no clue how to flirt, let alone with other toms.  Ideal Partner: maybe the token only other gay guy, or maybe someone who is recently out and can help owl feel safe coming out, or someone totes down to be his dirty little secret,, or someone take the place of Jaggedhawk? Position | Clan: Warrior | Thrushclan

Springflame - pale orange tabby tom

Family: Leafleap (father), Dawnleg (mother), Cloverbrair (sister) Gender / Sexuality: tom / bisexual Personality: energetic, loyal, trusting, airheaded, forgetful, impatient, tries way too hard Backstory: Energetic young warrior, given as an apprentice to a warrior who was the son of a killer, Springflame never questioned his mentors loyalty to the clan. He adores his mentor, and has respect for all warriors. At the same time, Springflame can be a little… airheaded. He often wont listen to direction very well, and tasks given to him are often relayed by his mentor, who is patient and helps Springflame stay on task. With the same boundless energy as an apprentice, Springflame is eager to prove himself as a capable warrior. His performance reflects on his mentor as well, and he wants it to be a good reflection. Sometimes proving himself earns him trouble, or a new injury, more than one he’s skidded into brambles, or fallen over rocks eagerly chasing prey.  Spingflame is a popular young tom too, despite his shortcomings. He’s handsome, with a pretty unique pelt to the Thrushclan marsh. He’s flustered when he gets romantic attention, usually wanting to divert attention from him when it happens. Not that he’s not interested, he just doesnt know what to do, definitely showing his lack of experience in that area.  Ideal Partner: someone equally as energetic, someone who is awk as hell abt romance too, maybe an older warrior who admires him, or someone who trained alongside him, or a bff of his mentor Position | Clan: Warrior | Thrushclan 

[daisychainsandbowties]

Is there anything more beautiful and tragic than Lilith’s self-destructive longing to be loved?

i wrote a little something for this. a little bit of davy jones au

/// lullabies in salt

Lilith sings to her, sometimes, when the ship becomes a ghost and all of her crew are just specks of watery light. They move through the rigging, each one turning into what they really are.

Or what they long to be – Lilith has never been certain of this as she stands alone among them all, watching as eels curl around ropes dangling unattended, as crabs wander the deck with their claws scraping softly on soft wood.

Jellyfish strung like floating lanterns up above as thought trying to replace the night sky.

Her crew, to whom she is not gentle, and yet here they are in their simplest form; their wishful thinking that endures to this depth and makes light for her where there should be none. She has watched their bodies change, like hers, over the years.

(there is no need to admit to herself that she has lost count of them)

They are always so astonishingly alive in the beginning, and of course Lilith is just a ghoul to them. She has to be. Pacing by day in her coat that always drips cold water, her swords lending weight to her hips where flesh and fat and all her girlish ends of her have faded away.

She’s seen how they look at her – eyes bloodshot, gleaming in the candles her crew carry with them onto the wreckage of ships. Lilith wonders each time if this makes for a better ending, as she paces in front of the survivors where they kneel in their shallow saltwater graves, variously bloodied and always on the edge of death.

Her crew, who have all made the same poor choices, whisper that it is. Better.

“Why?” she asks them, her voice moving like water over sand.

Her crew, who she thinks of as beautiful because what else to think or to feel about them? Their faces cracked open by barnacles and occupied by every crawling thing that lives inside the ocean. A girl of seventeen (dead) who did not endure the crossing from England; her eyes replaced by the broad caps of jellyfish, who looked up from her whalebone dice and said, “It’s better to have a choice, I think.”

Even now, she is shy, though the sea has reclaimed all of her girlishness. Her forearms are chitin and her teeth are coral, and even as Lilith stood by, waiting for her to summon her voice again, a tiny krill crawled out of her left ear and settled on the lobe like an earring.

The girl touched it, smiling, as though a pretty boy (or another pretty girl, Lilith supposes) had set it there with bare hands. “I wasn’t ready to be dead,” she told Lilith, quiet but fierce, “And I don’t regret this.”

“You will.”

As the ship falls, passing out of sight of sunlight, Lilith searches for the marshlight of that girl in the strung-shadows, in the ghosts. There are a few she suspects.

One, a dolphin turning loops around the mainmast. It is the pink kind that live out somewhere on the continent west of Europe – oh, Lilith can’t remember the names they put on maps. What she remembers, from the queer knowing of things that is her deathbed companion, is that this creature is a freshwater thing and does not belong here.

Its shape climbs and climbs, into the crow’s nest, and then the ship shudders. They are done descending.

The light vanishes.

Lilith steps away from the wheel, fingers unsticking reluctantly from the barnacle-choked wood. Maybe there is no wood left at all, she realises, taking in the twitching mass of creatures that have consumed every inch of what was once a clean and solid shape.

(what has she done to them?)

Her memory is cloth eaten by moths, and all of this is probably her fault, but she cannot remember why.

Sometimes, when she falls asleep (at last. Always at last) with the ship’s organ falling silent around her, she dreams of a rainswept shore. Scrawny palm trees and dried seaweed strewn along the sand.

Kneeling there like one of the flotsam she fetches out of the sea, face uptilted to taste the rain, to feel it run between her teeth. One last taste before her trembling hand raises something that makes her fist ache. She is shirtless in her dream, lurid in the shine off of drenched skin. Her scars all laid bare for that ruined island to see.

(did she burn them out of their little church on the hillside. did she paint the parish bell with blood and turn the neat little houses to cinders. did she-)

Perhaps the island was deserted when she came, rowing away from the Dutchman in the longboat with her crew watching in their silent way. Arms flung over the railings, hands fiddling with bits of wood or scraps of leather.

She went to where they could not witness her and stripped down. Laying her coat over a fallen tree and leaving her shirt as a smear of white on the sand, weighted by rain. She kept her pants (she has others) and knelt, placing every last letter into the box. A handful of flowers long turned dry and delicate as she shielded them from the rain, snapping the lid shut to protect them.

Turning instead to a smaller chest, all filigreed in the shape of sea creatures. Lilith didn’t make it herself. In the way of things, the ocean brought it to her in the ruins of a dying ship. It knows her mind and what she intends, and there is only a little mockery in the gifting of a chest.

(a locker)

 Sailors, among all types of men, are good at poetry because they see so little of it.

And so much.  

Lilith has seen so much and she remembers certain things with clarity like crystal – warped, but unashamed. Carrying light somewhere, if not where it needs to go, if not exactly all the way to the eye of the beholder.

She remembers kneeling, naked, and something in her hand (terrible) and tears tracking toward her mouth to make the freshwater taste of rain vanish. It was a knife, she thinks, that left hard welts in the flesh of her hand and made her bruise for days.

Her palm a cup of bluegrey turning green, turning yellow, turning on her as she walked unsteadily through the ship.

(and lilith is no fool)

She knows what she’s missing, and few besides her know that it is difficult to walk without a heartbeat – that there’s a rhythm to it. Stumbling like a drunk for days with the ship all run dry of rum.

“When do we make port?”

Her crew, as things crawled up on the deck.

They were afraid at first to become more like the sea, lashing out so she tipped more than one eviscerated body over the railing in that first week. Bodies weighted like anchors to their doom, since they could not sleep without serving her.

(she came back, later, and found them in their shallow graves alongside hidden reefs or close to islands they used to visit in passing, just to lay on the beaches and drink)

“Sorry captain.” Voices almost vanished into seawater and the soft rolling of waves across the ocean floor. “Glad you came back for me.”

(what else could she do? this is all her fault)

 It was cheating, but Lilith made deals and traded favours with other ships to get them supplies. “I’m a ghost, if anyone asks,” she’d tell their captains, who were always variously afraid of her. “Speak of this at all of your own volition and I will send her to find you.”

“Who?”

Only the daring ones asked, and sadly Lilith liked the daring ones. Their smiles and how their fingers lingered on her cold wet hands, fascinated instead of repulsed – give it time.

A hunger to them as they stepped a little closer – they met on her ship, and in their eyes it was because she preferred it this way, and not because her ship would not allow her to leave. “Who will you send?”

She’d smile, like a girl who did not need to keep secrets, “The sea.”

It was close enough to the truth. Lilith does not remember anything of how it came to this, but she sourced paint, canvas, charcoals and paper and anything her crew might need to remember for her. All of her kindest acts have been out of fear.

In their stumbling and then better and then beautiful attempts at painting, or sketching, Lilith has seen the bottom of the ocean as it changes over years. The crawl of objects along the ocean floor as the waves return. They are more loyal than the rest of the world together.

Sometimes she would be stupid and end up in her cabin with one of these odd little artists – her crew which is a collective and also individual. Individuals.

They were like anyone else to fuck – messy, and good, and quiet afterwards, tracing the mark of her own sword on some crewmember’s stomach.

Of course she is not so much of a fool as to say, “Who did this to you?” even in jest, but she wonders.

Who did this?

It doesn’t feel like her, but she remembers and it was and she left markings on her map at each place where she sent a panicked body over the railing.

All of them were right as they came at her with cutlass, saber, chunks of rotting wood.

“You did this to us.”

(and she did. she did)

It is not punishment enough, she knows, to have watched them change, one by one. Bodies she knew – fucked, cooked for, defended with her own – turned to bodies she only recognises because she never looked away. Afraid to blink, sometimes.

She gave them paper and paint so that they could remember, and there is a little booklet in the dry-store of her crew before, or halfway through. Her crew slowly undone as the Dutchman turns and turns around the ocean like a tiger in a cage.

And she is not brave enough to remember why she did it to them.

Lilith has no interest in drawing things, or putting smears of colour down to try, try, try and represent what happened to her. Lilith is a liar, and that should make her an artist too, but she takes what she has and puts it onto piano keys.

Happy, in the end, to remember little beyond her own naked chest. Nothing but a beach, a knife, a bloody shape in her hand.

(still beating)

It has been like this forever. Lilith with lichen growing out of her hairline and glassy teeth growing under the veins in her wrists. As a child she read about Moray eels and their teeth, and as usual her dreams have come back to infect her.

She is sick with longing, disfigured by it, and sometimes she wakes up with her arms bloody and soaking her bedsheets. Prongs of a glasslike substance sticking out of her wrists – and it is terrifying, but Lilith cannot die.

(and ‘cannot’ is a terrible thing, even when it is about death)

Tonight the ocean is calm and nothing has died, so Lilith moved through her crew. Oh, they are quiet sometimes especially when the stars come out. Night so clear you can feel it reaching for you.

Their voices all around her and their hands reaching out, sliding off her slick skin. Lilith, their fresh-drowned corpse, with new shapes sprouting now from her jawline. Following it all the way home into her mouth.

She loves their hands. She loves them.

The new ones as yet unbroken by the slow crawl of time, with their human faces. Almost, now, she finds their eyes unnerving – all simple shades of brown or blue or black or hazel or grey. There is so much weather in these living-dead things. So much of land.

As the sun fell she moved through them, listening, composing something in her head that sounded already as though it would be a sad song. She is good with only two emotions in music.

Anger, and this strange melancholy that falls over her crew when there are no bodies to collect. No limbs floating in the water and no blood in the seafoam.

No sharks.

“Let’s go down”

                                                      “Lilith”

                       “Captain”

    “Let’s go down”

Lilith has seen more of the ocean than anyone alive. Her body is spyglass, map, compass, and complicated in all the ways that saltwater is. There are no clean deaths out here.

Only drownings.

She took them down, waves rushing up the length of the ship to swallow their bodies one by one and how they floated for a while as the crushing took hold. Their bodies ignored it, and Lilith felt only the familiar ache in her wrists.

Here, at least, she cannot drip water onto the deck beneath her like a poor excuse for a heartbeat. Her crew were, at first, themselves.

She hates to find them beautiful, but there’s a helplessness to it; to Lilith and her long acquaintance with the sea.

I miss you.

The thought stepped out like a ghost to frighten her, and Lilith flinched against the wheel, but she did not let it go. Beach, knife, rainwater, and a bead of sharp pain somewhere on her chest.

Sand, blood, and the water catching up to catch her, and drinking it down.

“Are you thirsty, Lil?” (a voice she does not know)

Her crew are beautiful. They are the ocean and they are her and they float so perfectly as the ship descends, dragging their shapes out of sight. Light-swallowed and turning into light as they unravel.

(she will not describe them)

Only their ghosts, strung up into blurry wavelengths as the depths settle like an absent heartbeat around her. Quiet as her grave.

Lilith waits.

Her ship is lost now, barnacles loose in the water around her as they try to flee. (where? there is nowhere to go)

Catching one, she turns it over, watching as featherlike cirri tease from its tip, combing the water even now for food. It is not afraid of her, or it would have retreated into its shell, and Lilith lets its tiny appendages tease over her fingertips. There is plenty to eat on her skin.

She sets it on her forearm, feeling it secrete onto her skin, burrowing down among fine hairs and into flesh. There is a momentary bloom of blood in the water and then Lilith turns her attention out toward the ocean, to where a shape lurks now on the edge of seeing.

“Hello darling,” Lilith whispers, and a kraken’s arm punctures out of absolute darkness, easing toward her like a tongue parting lips, parting water. Easy as a knife parting flesh, carving out space for a ghost.

It moves through her crew, who scatter like wavelengths of light (that is all they are for now) from its path. The barnacle, newly apart of Lilith, quivers against her bones.

The arm stops, extended, a few inches from Lilith where she stands just shy of the ship’s wheel. It is cold at this depth, but Lilith cannot feel that any more than she can feel sunlight on her skin or the taste of food in her mouth.

She reaches out with her left hand so as not to scare the barnacle (who knows its place in the grand scheme even if Lilith does not) and lets the very tip of that unfathomable arm reach forward, curling all around her.

Her kraken hums and Lilith feels the reverberation of it mostly in her chest where there is plenty of room. She steps forward and the arms curls and curls – and Lilith is always dripping water but this creature is wet and she can feel it for once.

Lilith closes her eyes, feels her feet lift away from the deck and she is free, finally, of all that wood and tar, of a million nails and a thousand tiny chips in once-beautiful wood. She feels her barnacle rush toward the inside of her elbow where it burrows into the vein, opening her wide.

A blood trail follows them through the water as the kraken brings her close, away until the ship is just a mirage. Its mouth opens to show her rows of pretty teeth. Lilith has one on a leather cord around her neck, gifted accidentally by a shipwreck she visited one.

“Liar. A shipwreck you made.” (says a voice she does not know)

Its breath is only warmth here as the kraken lazes at this depth, letting faint currents shift her from side to side. They are still far from the bottom of the ocean, but this dark is preternatural anyway. This place hardly even exists.

Lilith, who has been granted space to move in the safety of the kraken’s grip, runs her hand over the suckers on its arm. It tastes her blood.

“Have you been well, dear one?” She asks this through the murk so her voice does not really travel, but the kraken hears her. She feels it twirling her lightly in place, humming more serenely as they dance farther from the ship, together.

Lilith kisses its wet flesh and looks toward her creature, her kraken, her ocean. “It is all I have, to hear that.”

It sends a small shockwave through the water in response – enough to make the barnacle shiver where it sits sipping at Lilith’s blood.

“Do you want me to sing for you?” Lilith spreads her palm over what passes for a kraken’s hand, sliding her fingers fully around the thinnest part, the very tip of its arm.

There’s a plea in its voiceless rhythm as the kraken twists in the water. There is so much of it that Lilith cannot follow every arm to its ending. Her creature is vast and it swallows the ocean around them. Everything, instead, is her.

(they are the same thing)

(ocean and kraken. ocean and girl)

Lilith sings.

[ritualcaster]

I wanted to run though all the stuff we don't know about objectified.

All of it.

Apocalypse guide:

Starsheet - onset advance, what are all three variants

What is ID: gestalt

Who is ID: symbiote - who's been talking to wagyu through the hive cores - what did they mean by "rocks" and "machines"

Concept art

Who is "Wristwatch" and why is he gone

Turtleshells Journal

Whereabout's for all the characters mentioned in present time

Who the 4 "?" Characters are

Morrigan, just the whole character really.

What are the lawless kings up to / how will they be used in the story

Whats happening in the other countries, and are they working to help the rings (or, why did they abandon them)

Who controls the dread tides

Character refs (I can't belive this needs a section)

The blacked out text in Ghost Peppers ref

Gums scar[s] (basically just "cherry")

From here onward, It's plot speculation, and the sections are labeled after characters rather than the website elements.

CITRUS

Parents / the full story of the flashback in "Venatics"

Why is he like some kind of fucked up vampire

What is his relation to Morrigan

Spool

He's just some guy.

No questions here.

Razor

What happened to the rest of her pack

Her relation to Warhammer (if any?)

Mushroom

Related to "PILOBOLUS" from the story in "Stranded", but how

What happened to Cattail (Fully considering that he probably died of course)

Wheres Mushrooms mother (Mentioned and shown in turtleshells journal) And Is she the relation to "Pilobus"

Why is the entire district empty?

Dynamite

Not much about his past can be used for plot

No questions

Brandy + Minty

Maple syrup (at fort blanket, mainly what happened to her if relevant to plot)

"The old stories from Ankh" - the first had plot relevance with mushroom, if there are more i expect similar things.

There's little depth in their past, namely just their time in marshlight.

Fossil

Her past with Push

Health problems with being a defect object (hinted at in "babs'" ref sheet, confirmed in qna)

Why she checked Painkillers eyes

The water thing she has (its quite possible its just because shes part gator, but i feel something deeper than that)

Painkiller

From marshlight, but we have literally no idea about their past other than that.

Theres no material for questions.

Dragonscale

Past in Demon's diner (namely with the lawless king she half-mentioned in "control")

Ghost pepper being and actual ghost (???)

Wagyu

How did he retain control? And why?

Who's trying to talk to him? And why?

Comet

What's with all the crow foreshadowing? (Probably Morrigan again)

Whats the full story with her 'version' of starsheet [Snowsheet? Onset advance?]

Gum

The story of her exes (all 7 of them)

The scar from "Cherry" (already mentioned this one but i'm curious)

Basically her entire past, (with multiple lawless kings?)

Overarching plot / Parasites

How will three-spines evolve and affect characters?

Who created the parasites, and why?

Where, is everyone? (Cattail, pushpin, turtleshell, everyone in middle ring, the lawless kings, characters from gums past.)

How is starsheet going to affect nearly half the characters, especially the onset advance variants.

If i remember right, in the qna, chester mentioned he had "special quirks" planned for every character. - [Everything that will be in the 'Everything else' category in the apocalypse guide.]

The the next late stage event

___________________________________________

Ok, i mentioned a few things twice, but i think thats all my questions right now.

All i can hope is that i'm asking the right ones.

[hexxalite-hecate]

I don’t know why because there is absolutely no lore in any of the games to support this (in fact quite the opposite), but somewhere along the line I decided that mages in Dragon Age all have different coloured flames, they can’t choose or control or change it, it just is. And I’d already subconsciously assigned most of the characters their colour.

Amaranthe Amell - lapis blue with a heart of iridescent pearl (because she’s God’s favourite princess)

Neria Surana – bright sunny butter yellow

Morrigan – deep gold with a dark amethyst halo

Jowan – pale silver-green marshlight

Anders – umber with a heart of crimson

Wynne – powder-blue, translucent like glass

Connor – jade green

Lanaya – pale daffodil yellow with a grass-green halo

Velanna – sullen orange like glowing embers

Finn – pretty normal looking, but gets a glint of emerald at the centre if he’s super excited about something

Hawke – blood red. Just blood red

Bethany – soft violet

Merrill – scarlet fading into coral

Dorian – rich magenta with royal purple flashes

Vivienne – pastel lavender

Solas – smoke grey with a blinding white halo, hurts the eyes

I have no idea why I did this but it’s my inescapable headcanon now. Feel free to comment if you have a different vision, or a character I didn’t mention, or your own Warden/Hawke/Inquisitor/OC!

[amberr-r]

hi hrlelo here is me rambling on about my ii/objectified au

everything in the story is basically the same except for microphone and taco, who still have a slight dislike of eachother as they team up to recover soap (fuzzball) and pickle (sharps, in this au taco and pickle arent together, yet when pickle died taco still had a feeling to recover him??)

anyways so basically

test tube - spool

fan - citrus

lightbulb - dynamite

paintbrush - mushroom

balloon - brandy

nickel - minty

bot - sugarcube

razor - microphone

gum - taco

fossil - oj

painkiller - paper

dragonscale - (ghost) bow (her group is baseball, knife, yinyang [seperated])

comet - either candle or tissues, maybe suitcase??

wagyu - apple (shes both rotting and has the infection)

fuzzball is soap,, gin is probably trophy? ? ghost (dragonscale’s wife) is marshmallow

might have to revamp the whole storyline of objectified a bit for this to work but whatever!!!!!

also lightbulb might be a cheetah and not a jaguar, still deciding

oj’s partner in marshlight (i forgot their name or who they were supposed to be) is salt

some doodles (somewhat concept)

i lovw creaturified mic🙏🏼🙏🏼🙏🏼🙏🏼godbless

[mermaidenmystic]

Marshlighter by Ashly Lovett Illustrator AshlyLovett.com

[xx-marshadow-xx]

Type changed marshadows! Marshlight, (ghost/fairy) and Marshgrass (ghost/grass)

[vagabond-space-rock]

hatsune leeku

Ooh i’ve heard of her!

Never been to the concerts though, too loud, too many people, and i’m not in Marshlight Port.

[ashlylovett]

More process work for the “Marshlighter” for Hit Point Press. #chalkpastel on paper and then digital color. @hitpointpress https://www.instagram.com/p/CjEtbmnrgoo/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[shamelesslymkp]

note to self: venn diagram of gaslighting, smooth-sharking, and idk, unending rashomon effect or marshlighting or some other descriptor

gaslighting & marshlighting = pervasive

gaslighting & smooth-sharking = varying degrees of cruel (gaslighting always, s-sharking sometimes)

marshlighting & s-sharking = no intent to fuck up someone's sense of reality

all 3 = pretty damn similar effect

[smokeclan-oc]

Maplecloud - fluffy cream tom with rich brown points

Family: Sycamorefang (father), Hickoryseed (mother), Tangleroot (brother) Gender / Sexuality: tom / demisexual  Personality: sweet, in love with love, truly loves his clan, the goodest boy, loves to help, literally never inconvenienced  Backstory: Maplecloud was an apprentice when he was in love with his denmate, Briarpaw. Briarpaw was the medicine cat apprentice. They were hopelessly in love, knowing they couldnt become mates. Still, Maplepaw would offer to help collect herbs, and tested Briarpaw so she always knew answers when their medicine cat passed. So Maplepaw knew a lot about what it took to be a medicine cat. When Briarpaw fell sick and died, Maplepaw was inconsolable. All he did was train, and sleep. When he had the energy, he would ask the medicine cat if he could help. Something about collecting borage, or wrapping up poppy seeds in dock leaves, reminded him of Briarpaw. Helped keep her memory alive.  After successfully completing his warrior training, Maplepaw’s mentor asked him honestly, does he want his warrior name, or his medicine cat name? Maplepaw realized he could keep Briarpaw’s memory alive by becoming the medicine cat. Taking over his loved ones position, Maplepaw became Maplecloud, and he is so happy to help. Genuinely loves his job, and always tries to embody the love that him and Briarpaw had for each other.. Ideal Partner: a warrior apprentice who trained beside him, the person who was his and briar’s third awe you two get close when your third dies, and you become a good warrior and maple becomes a med cat. Awe. Imagine if you  became a leader just so you could share tongues with briar again because maple does going to the crystal caves Position | Clan: Medicine Cat | Thrushclan

Frondwhisker - pale cream long haired tom

Family: Cozyburrow (mother), long list of siblings and half siblings Gender / Sexuality: Tom / Demisexual Personality: fatherly, warm, loves kits, super helpful, never seems inconvenienced by your request, ever, really genuine, turned things around, learning to be happy go lucky again even tho his mate and unborn litter are dead. Backstory: After the death of his pregnant mate at the paws of a badger, Frondwhisker was devastated for a while. The queens would do their best to bring the Tom back up, and only the medicine cat asking for an extra set of paws to aid in a knitting, did Frondwhisker feel alive again. Watching new life be brought into the clan filled him with a light he had lost since his mate’s death. He was asked by the medicine cat if he could hang around the den and help, so it was no surprise when he ended up making the trip to the crystal cave to become a medicine cat.  Since he got his first vision of his mate, Frondwhisker has been an incredible, kind medicine cat. With no interest in finding another mate, he’s a big sweetheart who sees the whole clan as his kin. He’s a good listener, and always has a soft spot for younger kits. You’ll be surprised to hear that Frondwhisker can mimic the purr that mothers make to their kits. Ideal Partner: his dead mate fr thats it Position | Clan: Medicine Cat Apprentice | Thrushclan

Quartzpool - sleek dark cream/tan tom with piercing frosty blue eyes

Family: Cloverbud (mother), Riverpath (brother), Mossbelly (sister) Gender / Sexuality:  tom / gay Personality: honest, hippie, loves nature, lines his nest with feathers Backstory: Quartzpool always wanted to be a medicine cat. As a kit, he was first made a warrior apprentice until the medicine cat received a sign. Marshlight could see the drive the young apprentice had, and after having a confirmation from Starclan, accepted then Quartzpaw as his apprentice. Quartzpool is a swift worker, his lithe body helping him weave through the undergrowth of Thrushclan’s forest to find his sacred herbs.  Quartzpool has a strong admiration for nature, and Starclan. He can be a bit blunt, but he’s never one to sugarcoat something. He is honest with his patients and clanmates, but sometimes he can be a little too honest. Quartzpool finds himself giving commentary when nothing has been asked of him. Ideal Partner: someone who is bitchy and loves it when quartz gets going on a rant or smth, maybe a patient who was a strong boi warrior who got hurt and now has a savior complex Position | Clan: Medicine Cat | Thrushclan

[marshlightspodcast]

Marsh Lights E14 - Osiris Children's Hospital

Tragedy strikes when little Trinity Anderson needs a heart transplant. A children's hospital swoops down promising "alternative treatment" with a very high rate of success.  The price, however, isn't covered by any insurance known to man. 

It's time to head out to the marsh for a story. Check out this episode!

[vasylissa]

'Marsh Lights' the last illustration I painted for @infinite.painter in #infinitepainterapp on my iPad Pro 2017. Looks friendly? Marsh Lights were tricky, wanderers lost in the woods at night believed they see a camp fire and follow them stright into the marshes. This girl could be a rusałka (water demon from Slavic mythology), a siren or just a girl. Would you try to get nearer to chat, or just get out of there? . . . #infinitepainter #rusalka #marshlights #ipadproartists #ipadproillustration #kamilastankiewicz #polskailustracja #polishillustration (w: Białe Błota) https://www.instagram.com/p/COVCuemDDRT/?igshid=19w2g3o6jd78i

[aslanvlad]

Su’s hair shone under the moon like an alluring marshlight. The waves created by your movement hit Su’s stomach and she crinkled her nose as if she’d been tickled. The air you exhaled felt warm, almost like the heat of a fire. The trembling stopped. Su’s arms wrapped around you, pulling you towards her… 🌊

@ftf-appreciationweek

[bougiebutchbitch]

Writing softe healing scenes after all that Dove Death, and just...

Caleb keeps casting one handed, weaving patterns of amber light through the air. But he snaps the opposite pair of fingers, and – poof.

Frumpkin catapults into existence, a metre in front of Yasha. Coat the colour of a flame-tip, tiny pink nose, marshlight green eyes.

Yasha spooks. Unsurprising. Settles quickly though, as Frumpkin picks a delicate path through her snake-pit of shadows. He saunters right up to her, casual as you like, as though he doesn’t notice the effect of the Necrotic Shroud: that oppressive crush of fear that spikes your amygdala, pumps your muscles full of adrenaline, your lungs full of lead.

Beau doesn’t know why she’s surprised. Aren’t all cats too curious for their own good?

Frumpkin bonks his head on Yasha’s bare calf, where it pokes from the edge of her shawl. Yasha stares, so he bonks again, more insistently. Then again, then again. Then prrrrps and starts noogieing his little wedge-shaped skull against her shin, rubbing with both cheeks.

Beau cracks something that feels worryingly close to a grin. It grows when Yasha double-blinks her creepy, tar-black eyes. Moving in increments – freezing every few seconds, as if Frumpkin might startle – she reaches out from under the shawl and gives Frumpkin’s ears the gentlest pet.

He prrrrrps with increased enthusiasm and walks forward, under her palm, so she can stroke the entire length of his back.

“Ja,” says Caleb. “That will do nicely.”

Y’all...

🥺

sometimes the murder-angel just needs a kitty...