#mossy-kit

[polkadotpatterson]

For the ask game:

For Dot + Workman: 4 (in general types or specific shows, 12, and/or 25 (🥺) 

And then also and/or Salt coven for 15, and/or 37 bc now I'm thinking of salt movie night

4. Their favorite show to watch together?

I'm gonna be real I am perpetually bad at knowing what media any characters would like. I could see them both enjoying documentaries tbh? That's my vague answer lol

12. Who prefers calling to texting (& vice versa)?

I think when Dot was away in the Core and Dallas they tried to call each other whenever possible so they could properly talk!

...and now I'm thinking, what if Dot's fingers aren't particularly compatible with phone touchscreens, so they have to make a lot of extra effort to text either bc they have to wrestle with the screen, or bc they had to get an ancient nokia or something similar with buttons, and texting that way is its own kind of struggle. so, calling!

25. (a lil sappy, but..) What do they like about each other?

ough... I think the main thing has always been that they just Get Each Other in ways that other people can't. They both have that love of the sport and that great synchronicity when they play together, and they understand what it's like to be irrevocably changed by it in more ways than most players, to have their old lives stripped away and have their bodies made into something unfamiliar. and they help each other deal with that and work through it! it's good to have someone around who just understands you. kindred spirits. you know how it is

Beyond that, Dot likes that Workman is just such a warm person, someone who brightens up the room and makes them smile, makes them feel more at ease in any situation. Workman likes all the little things about Dot that the blessing tried to hide but couldn't, like their sense of humour and their devotion to their team, and of course how good they are with Beasley and how Workman can trust that Dot is the right person to take care of him when they're not around :')

SALT COVEN MOVIE NIGHT!!! this is such a fun concept. has everyone read the salt? read the salt

15. Who's the first to cry during movies that don't seem sad?

I think this definitely depends on the movie! Like, they can't watch anything with ocean scenes in it when SomeThing is around bc it gets upset and bad things happen when it gets upset!!! I think Dian would probably cry at some things in movies. Yado will cry at cute animal scenes. Phoenecia might cry a bit at a scene that reminded her too much of her old life and then she'd have to insist that this isn't crying, it's the new Moisturization Ducts that she gave herself, they're very efficient

37. Who wanted to see Oppenheimer; who Barbie? Did they switch opinions after?

I feel like this is a bit harder for me to answer when I still haven't seen either of them, but here's my best attempt at sorting them:

Team Barbie: Dian, Yado, Jenkins, Elodie, Carson (edit: KEVIN I forgot about Kevin)

Team Oppenheimer: Mehr, Austin, Weston, Phoenicia, Minh, SomeThing

Really doesn't care about any of this: Milo

I know Elodie and Minh aren't part of the coven (and technically neither is Carson) but I think this is funnier if it's Team Movie Night Double Feature and Elodie is happy to go bc yay team bonding! and meanwhile Minh is like what is the secret plan, why are you dragging me out here for this, is this an ominous threat about how you're building your own atomic salt bomb or what??? he's not having a good time

[cryinginblaseball]

🖍🤔 for the ask game :)

Oh, hello, I didn't see you there.

🖍Post Any sentence from your wip

Quinn dreamt about fire, curling beautifully into space, klaxons singing all around her.

🤔What’s a story you’d love to write but haven’t even started yet?

I really want to work more on EPCLOT but I haven't had the time! But it's a fun idea that I love and I get to hurt our players :3

Thanks for the ask, buddy!

[waveridden]

Okay I hadn't heard there was shadows Khulan Sagaba lore 👀 if you wanted to expand I'd love to hear it :)

AHSDKLFHSF YES i was literally on a plane when khulan fell or else i would've been invading y'all's spaces and kicking down doors to discuss her. i love her. this is all illegal lore from a project i didn't finish... yet

khulan is a professional violinist from manila and has played violin for basically her whole life

she has lived in the philippines her whole life and would've gladly stayed there except a lot of the Big Professional Opportunities for performances and recording in the us and the uk

specifically she has a professional reputation for being a really great last-minute musician for concerts and recordings: if you pay her well, she can learn your second violin part within a day

so it's on one of these business trips that she ends up in san francisco, and she doesn't have much else to do so she ends up on a tinder date with ryuji because... like literally what else is there to do.

and you know the rest: they end up on the breath mints

khulan is a total mess like she's very disorganized and unstructured (ryuji is the opposite imo. yes this is a problem) but she's also very focused and smart when she wants to be

has an anxiety disorder probably and is also wildly traumatized by literally dying

i think she is really close with @queen-eevee's james boy. two guys who don't know how to live a life in the shadows. what do you mean we don't have jobs

really loves being in active play now but very very very homesick. she's really close with her family it's hard to be so far

ryuji can transform into a human when khulan is nearby and neither of them really know what to do about that

i think she has a reckless streak in the new era. you don't get blessed by a rogue umpire if you don't do something to get their attention. like in a "teammates are laughing nervously because khulan what the hell" way

she hasn't gotten to play music as much lately and she misses it

[my-t4t-romance]

cons of taking a stage makeup class: I am the only adult there besides the teacher. the teacher is playing taylor swift. several of the other students are swifties. I got laughed at when I compared one of the pictures on the teacher's inspo board to gerard way circa 2004

pros of taking a stage makeup class: I had a really fun time and made friends with a fellow queer disabled person! also

do not use these images without crediting me (tagging me is preferred but linking is fine too. I do not currently have any regularly-used platforms other than tumblr).

[goofyahhkins]

☆< domestic cat care kit ^^!! 

☆< requested by no one!!

cat paw game thingy

calico cat squishy

new doh cat

black cat plush

cat paw eraser

Swedish fish

fish plush

pusheen squishy

cat paw pop it

[apileofmoss]

why does tumblr say i have 700 followers

[nightly-ruse]

I’m so emotionally attached to my cattails save right now like it makes me so happy. My cat Wisteria and her wifey Alisa just being cute. Their den is decorated in flowers and shells. Fireflies lighting up the pathways and the back cavity where they plan to eventually have kits running around in. I just adore them so much.

[jayietheriverwarrior]

She opened her eyes. Daylight dazzled her.

“You’re awake!” Mothwing gasped beside her.

The air was cold, the light harsh. Frostpaw began to make out Mothwing’s “face. Behind her trembling mentor, she saw Sunbeam and Duskfur and Mistpaw. They were all here. She struggled to lift her head and saw Nightheart and Graypaw and, crowding the entrance, Nightsky and Minnowtail. Outside, her clanmates were jostling to see in. Their eyes were fixed on her, wide and shining with joy as she looked back at them. Her heart skipped a beat. They were waiting for me. They wanted me to come back. The realization filled Frostpaw with an emotion so strong, her throat tightened. She couldn’t speak. She felt a rough tongue lapping her head.

“Don’t rush to sit up.” Mothwing was washing her like a queen washing her kit. She sat back, her eyes bright with joy. “Take as much time as you need. We’re just glad you’re with us again.”

Frostpaw was suddenly aware of how weak she felt, but the deathly heaviness had gone. And she was hungry. Then she saw Tree.

The SkyClan tom was outside, blinking at her from among her Clanmates. “You heard the singing.” He pushed his way into the den. “It brought you back.”

“I was in StarClan,” she told him breathlessly. “Then I heard voices. They carried me here.”

“I’ve seen the Sisters do it,” he told her. “I wondered if it would work for you, so I fetched everyone I could think of. All the she-cats who love you.”

Frostpaw looked around once more at the faces of her Clanmates, and at Nightheart and Sunbeam. They really were shining with love for her. Her heart quickened. For the first time in moons, she didn’t feel alone.

I can't tell you how many hours I've spent tweaking the lighting and color filters on this. It's been multiple days of the drawing itself being done and just doing countless tweaking. I'm still not happy with it but I'm just. Done. I'm proud of how the poses and shading on the cats turned out and the composition of the piece, and I'm sure I'll be happier with it in a few months looking back on it, but right now I'm just. Blah.

Frostpaw is of course in the nest with a slathering of cobwebs over her throat wound, Mothwing is licking her head while Duskfur is leaning over her. Then in the middle row we have from left to right Sunbeam, Mistpaw, Tree, Nightheart, and Graypaw, then in the front on the left is Nightsky, then Icewing in the very corner of the image, with Minnowtail (who needs a new ref sheet but the new TEQ kiddies will probably get theirs first) just behind her.

The RiverClan medicine den is described as under a thorn bush overhanging a stream between two mossy rocks, with a stretch of pebbles in front of the den, and herbs hidden behind reeds within the den, so I tried to show all of that accurately.

[jasperthehatchet]

I upgraded my altiods tin sewing kit! (More details are in the image ID)

I added more needles, safety pins, thread, and a sharp pair of thread scissors just small enough to fit inside the tin. There's usually two needle threaders in here but one is in use atm. And there's enough stuff inside to fit perfectly so that the lid can close all the way and nothing slides around so that's nice

I am gonna post my little altiods tin emergency chronic pain/migraine kit within the next few days as well so keep an eye out for that if you're intrested

[ID: various pictures of a metal altoids tin, about 3.5 inches by 2 inches, with sewing supplies inside. A little bag of silver safety pins, varying colors of thread on 5 small spools, more colors of thread wrapped around two small rolls of paper and inside a small plastic bag, a folded piece of paper measuring tape, a small pair of orange thread scissors, a needle threader, and some buttons inside a little bag. There are varying sizes and types of sewing needles that are stuck in a small rectangular piece of green felt that fits on top of everything inside the tin. It has sharps, darning needles, embroidery needles and one curved needle.

The colors of thread included are: light pink, a muted rusty orange, white, a few shades of light brown and off white all wrapped around one piece of rolled paper. The other paper rool has more vibrant saturated colors including red, blue, yellow, dark green, and orange. The little bag had extra recycled pieces of thread i salvaged from other projects that are long enough to still be used. And the colors on the 5 small spools are black, dark mossy warm green, dark brown, light brown and white. End ID]

[badsongpetey]

Lance talks Hunk into going with him to find a secret waterfall deep in the forest, rumored for it’s pure, clear water. As they walk thru the dense foliage, Hunk stammers, “They say it’s… haunted.” Lance scoffs, “That only means we’ll have the place to ourselves!”

After hours of hiking, just when they're about to give up and admit the waterfall was some kind of wilderness myth, the trees part and before them is something out of a movie.A gentle waterfall splashes down a mossy, flower-covered cliff side into a pool of water so clear and pure, that if it weren't for the sunlight sparkling off the surface, it wouldn't even be visible.

Lance crows, triumphant, and tossing off his shirt and shoes wastes no time cannon balling into the center of the pool.

"Lance!!" Hunk shouts when Lance resurfaces, "We need to test it first!"

Lance huffs and throws his arms in the air, splashing Hunk. "Dude! My MAN! Look at this, it's pristine! And fucking WARM! Must be some hot spring. GET IN HERE!"

"NOT until I test it. YOU might not mind spending the night barfing up a lung from some weird secret waterfall bug, but I do." Hunk sighs and removes his pack, crouching down to rifle through it to find his test kit.

Lance huffs again, but resigns himself to letting Hunk be Hunk, and tips to float on his back in the buoyant water. Closing his eyes he thinks this is the perfect reward for all that hiking, it's possibly the most relaxed he's ever been in his life.

That is until, "LANCE!!" Hunk whisper-shouts at him.

Lance cracks open one eye to look over at his friend. "Don't need to shout, right here."

"Lance, who's that??" Hunk visibly blanches as he points to something behind Lance.

"Har har, very funny, stop stalling..." Lance mutters as he spins to find himself nose to nose with... something...

[rotworld]

2: Spare Parts

art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises

it seems like you end up stuck next to the same unsettling doll maker every year you attend the sheralothian festival of the arts. if you didn't know any better—if you didn't know him so well—you might assume it was just coincidence.

original work. suggestive but not explicit; contains extremely ambiguous consent, implied/briefly mentioned gore, dollification, fantasy plague.

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It’s no easy feat to reach Laurel Grove from the capital. The road is rough and pitted, hateful to wagon wheels. It twists through the mountains and descends into the treacherous fog of the Mistwalk Valley. Bandits, emboldened by newly thawed trade negotiations and a glut of incautious, overencumbered merchants, stalk the spaces between the trees. From caravan to campsite, a flock of apprentices have zealously guarded your crates of precious cargo. You’re tired, all of you, eager for beds, blankets and a proper meal, but also restless with anticipation. At the Sheralothian Festival of the Arts, you’ll make more money for your workshop in a few days than you will for the rest of the year, attracting new patrons and securing new contracts. 

The first of your apprentices to spot the sparkle of magic hollers in unabashed delight. The tapestry is a seamless weave of physical and metaphysical components, a shimmery material that blooms with sweet-smelling flowers in the daylight and sparkles luminescent beneath the moon. These adornments wrap around the trunks of trees and dangle from the canopy in thin ribbons, forming a path that guides you across bridges formed of mossy, gargantuan tree trunks and through leaf-canopy shaded streets. Laurel Grove, the Evergreen City, gradually unfolds all around you, not carved into the forest but melding with it.

One of your apprentices rushes off to secure a room at Fiora Falls, an inn tucked behind a waterfall. Another finds boarding for the horses. The rest follow you to the meadow fairgrounds where a ring of tents, stalls and tables has sprung up in a wide circle. You are late arrivals, having traveled further than most. Your fellow artists and craftsmen are happy to see you, exchanging embraces and well-wishes. A space has been saved for you not far from the meadow’s entrance. The apprentices get the crates open, setting up shelves, tables and a canopy. The display on your left belongs to Veta, a woodcarver from the south. She has amber eyes and thickly muscled arms littered with old scars. She waves when she sees you. On your right—

“There, there, darling. Don’t be nervous.” 

You freeze. All of your joy and excitement withers and dies because on your right is Medraut. 

You consider leaving. You shouldn’t. Can’t, really. But the thought occurs to you. Packing up, turning around, and making the long journey home without a single sale. You take a deep breath and let it out slowly. No. He won’t ruin this for you. You focus on helping the apprentices, unpacking fresh flowers, minerals and round jars packed full of colorful dust. Your pigments are the finest in Sheralothia. They’re on temple ceilings and canvases hung in palace halls, staining the palettes of the world’s most renowned painters.

Greta, one of the newer apprentices, glances around in awe at the works of leatherworkers, glassblowers and luthiers from distant lands. Inevitably, her gaze is drawn to Medraut and his eclectic display: heavy tomes. Bows and ribbons. Syringes. Small bowls of cosmetic pigments. Cloudy vials of condensed magic in both smooth liquid and thick ichor. Sewing kits. Everything is arranged around a life-size doll at the front and center, sitting stiffly upright with stocking-clad legs dangling off the edge of the table. It’s undeniably beautiful. Dressed in an asymmetric frilly ensemble, its dainty hands are folded one over the other in its lap, nails neatly trimmed and painted. It has a listless expression, lips pursed and painted orchid purple, neither smiling nor frowning. Glassy lavender eyes are accentuated by long lashes and dabs of glittering blush on the cheeks, half-lidded gaze staring at nothing in particular. 

“Hush now,” Medraut murmurs. He tucks a stray lock of hair back into place, looping it behind the shell of the doll’s ear. He caresses its face with the back of his hand in slow, soft strokes, the way one touches a lover. “Yes, I know. You dislike the spotlight. But you’re perfect.”

“Greta,” you say sternly. She flinches, scurrying back to your side with a sheepish expression. “Guests will be arriving at any moment and we’re not finished setting up. Let’s not get distracted just yet.” 

“Of course!” she stammers. You offer a smile to reassure her when she rejoins the other apprentices, sifting through pigments and materials to find the most eye-catching objects worthy of display. She’s soon drawn into a gossip huddle with the others, voices lowered, nervous glances thrown around. You don’t stop them. Better she hears it now, however twisted by hearsay and urban legend, than later. You try to focus on preparing for the start of the festival but you keep stealing glimpses at the neighboring tables. 

Medraut is deceptively delicate-looking, willowy with bony fingers and slender wrists. He’s cut his hair since the last time you saw him. Shoulder-length now, no longer spilling halfway down his back. He still favors the lavish fashions of the nobility; white silk, billowing sleeves, an obsidian brooch affixed to a lace jabot. Everything he does is graceful and deliberate, from the simple act of movement to the precise way he handles the goods arranged in front of him. He keeps returning to the doll, fussing over it, smoothing out creases in its clothing and refluffing drooping bows. Each time, his hand lingers. A squeeze of the shoulder. A stroke of the hair. A slow slide of the palm against the hollow of the throat, unabashed lust in his eyes.

Not unlike the doll, there is an uncanny, ageless quality to his features, a lack of anything that could easily identify him as young or old. That’s just how it is with mages. He could be thirty or three hundred. There’s no way to tell just by looking. You hear the apprentices discussing it. Trading rumors and throwing out guesses. His portrait hangs in the Hall of Gratitude in Twillisp Castle, his smile forever enshrined along with the other advisors King Kirgar maintained during his reign several centuries ago.

“You’re pulling my leg!” Greta hisses. “He can’t be that old!”

The others insist, “He might be even older.”

“He’s from Ithyr, you know. Some of the oldest mages in the world live there.” 

“Lived, anyway.” 

“Oh,” Greta says, her eyes wide. “Ithyr? To the west? Isn’t that where…” 

“Yes. I think that’s why he’s…like that.” 

You share a table. Tall, long and draped with black cloth, this flimsy barrier is all that stands between the two of you. Medraut has already placed a few odds and ends on the side closest to him. Combs and hairbrushes. Perfume bottles. An assortment of scalpels in different sizes, spread out on a velvet cloth. You gather a few of the larger, more inelegant minerals you haven’t had the chance to cut and grind into fine powder, lining them up down the center of the table. You try to do this quietly but Medraut turns the moment you place the first stone. He approaches the table, his smile widening. 

“Medraut,” you greet him curtly.

“My dear friend,” he says, the same sensual murmur he spoke into the doll’s ear rolling off his tongue. The slow, undisguised wandering of his gaze up and down your body makes you uneasy. His eyes are stark silver in pools of black sclera like twin moons, the pupils somewhat misshapen; common in survivors of arcanapox. “It seems I have the pleasure of your company again this year.”

You hum in acknowledgement. “I wonder how that keeps happening.” 

He tilts his head, glancing at something behind you. You step to the side to block his line of sight and he chuckles softly. “Hm. Bloodshot eyes. Unsteady gait. Shaky hands. You work your poor apprentices hard but you work yourself hardest of all. Would you like to sit down? I brought a chair.” 

You place the last stone more heavily than you need to, slamming it down at the end of the table. “You don’t cross this line,” you tell him. “You stay on your side and I stay on mine.” 

“Now, now. There’s no need for all that. But if it will put your mind at ease…” He shrugs, leaning against his half of the table with his arms crossed in front of his chest. “Really, do you think so poorly of me? Your apprentices are precious, but I’d never steal one away. No matter how lovely they’d look in something other than those dreary robes and aprons you’re all so fond of.” 

“I’m glad to hear that,” you say, utterly unconvinced. 

The slow trickle of the festival’s first guests thankfully diverts his attention. Medraut’s display draws in many curious onlookers and he’s all too happy to explain the history of Ithyrian dollmaking. He comes out from behind the table to stand beside the doll, demonstrating its posable limbs with gentle, coaxing touches. You shouldn’t watch. You have plenty to do. But you keep looking. Keep glancing over and finding him increasingly shameless. Running his hands through the doll’s hair. Stroking its arm. Kneeling once to tighten the laces of its boots and sliding his palm up and down the curve of one long, ball-jointed leg. Up and down. Up and down. Slipping beneath the fluttering edge of its skirt…

You get a few potential customers, too, excitedly chattering patrons of the arts looking for fresh new pigments to supply their preferred painters. A few recognize you from previous years. One particularly discerning man asks if a particular jar of dark dust is used in the creation of “mourning blue,” a rich color becoming increasingly popular in the frescoes of the capital. You’re still not accustomed to being recognized like this, approached with awe and praise. Your whole world is the workshop, turning rocks and plants into colors worthy of royal portraits. 

One of your apprentices demonstrates a technique with mortar and pestle, dropping a fistful of flower petals into the bowl. The others stand towards the back and whisper amongst themselves, furtive glances aimed at Medraut. 

“How bad was it?” 

“Oh, it was dreadful. Haven’t you seen The Death of the Deathless?”

“Gods, that awful thing? I couldn’t bear to look at it!”

“Shhh!”

Silence. You can feel them staring at your back for a moment before the whispers start again, even quieter now.

“It’s true. Our teacher was there when it happened. They apprenticed in Ithyr.”

“They were there? How did they survive?” 

“Arcanapox only kills mages. Still, it makes us pretty sick, too. That’s why they have that tremor in their hands."

“Of all things, they painted that?”

“When you see something so awful, you make sense of it however you can.” 

“Eyes like hot wax. Eugh.” 

“But that was a long time ago, wasn’t it?”

“Mages don’t handle death well. It’s too strange to them.”

“So that’s why…?” 

“Yes, to help them grieve.”

“No, that’s just how it started. What they do now, it’s…well, it’s certainly not the same.”  

A finely dressed man in a striped, high-collared doublet approaches Medraut’s table with a broad smile. They know each other. Medraut’s face lights up and they greet each other with half-bows, left hands flicking to the side as though to cast a minor spell; a mage greeting. They speak in hushed but excited tones and you should not be eavesdropping, should not care what they have to say to each other. You rearrange the pigments, sorting them alphabetically. You can’t help yourself. You glance over at them again.

The doll is staring at you.

You nearly drop the jar you’re holding, fumbling with the lid. It hasn’t moved at all except for its head, turned towards you. You swallow nervously, bending to pick up the lid of the jar. The doll’s eyes lower, then follow you back up when you stand. You look away, heart pounding. 

“How long did it take?” you hear the man ask, sounding awed.

Medraut laughs softly. “Quite some time, but I enjoy the process. This one especially.” 

You look at the dirt beneath your feet. The dangling tablecloth. The line of stones. Medraut’s beautiful hand sliding beneath the doll’s arm. Cupping its elbow. Stroking its wrist with his thumb. Sliding their palms together, lacing his fingers with its stiff ones. His face is flushed and his smile is the sort born of fevered delirium, a man dreaming of something impossibly sweet. 

“He’s stunning. Simply breathtaking. And the eyes…”

“A fresh set,” Medraut assures him. “I used the portrait you left with me for reference. A perfect match, isn’t it?”

“Yes. This is everything we wanted and more, Medraut. I can’t thank you enough.” The other man grasps the doll’s hand and brings it to his lips, kissing each finger reverently. “Everything is as it always should have been.”

“As it will forever be,” Medraut says, quiet and solemn. For a moment, neither of them speak. They bow their heads, eyes shut tightly as though willing away an unpleasant memory. Medraut snaps out of it first. He clears his throat, his smile returning. “Let me bring you the case.” 

‘The case’ is a large, wheeled box with a handle at the top. The exterior is polished leather, while the inside is ruched white velvet. Like a display case, you think. Like a bed. Like a coffin. Medraut picks up the doll like it weighs nothing and carefully sets it inside, arranging it on its side in a fetal curl. Stray ribbons and folds of fabric are tucked in. One last kiss is pressed to its forehead. The case closes, zipped and latched and locked shut with a key Medraut passes to the man. You can’t look away as he leaves, watching the case rattle through the dirt and grass and far away, vanishing beyond the meadow. You think about it all day. You’ll probably have nightmares about it.

Sunset signals the end of the festival’s first day. You’re exhausted, eager to get off your feet. When did you eat last? You dismissed the apprentices for lunch in turns and they offered to bring you something. Offered, but you said no. Too frazzled by all the people to eat, all the talking you had to do. A sudden wave of dizziness sends you stumbling, careening right into your own display.

Strong, beautiful hands catch you. You are held against silk ruffles. A warm chest. A quickening heartbeat. Medraut lowers you gently to the ground, cradling your head in his lap. The world is blurry but you can tell he isn’t smiling anymore. He wipes the sweat from your brow.

“Teacher!” You hear Greta and the others, your apprentices frantic and wailing. Medraut keeps them at a distance, barks at them not to crowd around you. You rarely hear him so sharp-tongued and terse. He tells them where to find a healer, sends them off for food and water. You breathe shakily, feeling worse than you realized. Medraut shushes you, his thumb catching a tear at the corner of your eye.

“My dear friend,” he whispers. 

“Put me down.” You try to squirm away from him but you don’t get far. Medraut turns you over, burying your face against his shirt. “Medraut, I’m serious.” 

“You need me,” he says. His voice quivers slightly. “You need me, and you long to be cared for. Treated like a precious, delicate thing. Here I am, my dearest one. Let me take care of you for just a moment.” He rubs your back, pressing his fingertips into muscles you didn’t realize were sore. You don’t mean to relax against him. You want to fight, to push him away, but he hums an old song you haven’t heard in decades and you remember damp summer evenings in Ithyr. The hiss of the ocean and the caw of seabirds. The chalky scent of magic pigment, the way it fizzled on your fingers. Stargazing on your back in a field, your hand joined with another. How you looked at the sky but he only looked at you, spellbound. 

“Do they still hurt?” you ask him. 

“My eyes?” he says. You nod weakly. “No, dear. Not for a long time.” He strokes your head, gentle, sliding pets that make you feel like young and impulsive again. “I wish you would come to Ithyr again. Stay this time. Do you remember that seat in the bay window? You would sit there for hours with your canvas, watching the tide come and go. You would sit there, so very still.” You shake your head and it’s a lie. Denial and avoidance. Of course you remember. “I want to see you there again,” Medraut whispers, stroking along your spine. “In the sunrise. In the moonlight. As you always should have been, forever.” 

That’s how they find you when the apprentices return, still in Medraut’s embrace. Curled up like a sick child crying for relief, wrinkling his shirt with your grasping hands. Only when the healer comes do you manage to pull yourself away. Medraut lets go of you slowly, one finger at a time. You assure him repeatedly you’ll be fine, you’ll be fine, you’ll be fine. You see him helping your apprentices pack up the pigments, their looks of wary acceptance, leaving his own section abandoned. There is a large box underneath one of his tables. A leather case, shut tight but unlatched. Empty, then. No doll inside. His personal mage seal is stamped on the side. 

It’s the same one he brings every time, year after year. Empty, save for desperate dreams and wishes that this time will be different than all the others. That you will finally say yes.

[polkadotpatterson]

Ooh what about ship bingo for [redacted] and [redacted]. As a treat :)

I mean I think we can say that one of them is Spears Nolan so people are slightly less completely confused by this, so here's spears and his secret gf lol

[cryinginblaseball]

😈 & ✨️ for the ask game! :)

😈 Has there been a point in a story where you did something just to be playfully mean to your readers? I think the closest I've ever done to that was PolkaDot Patterson Enters The Vault, aimed specifically at @polkadotpatterson. They had said they were worried that York Silk would get swapped out of the Vault for PolkaDot Patterson. I instantly had an idea, banged out a draft in an hour and a half, and sent it to them with the message "Are you ready for PAIN?" To be fair, I say exactly what happens in the title >:3

✨ Give you and your writing a compliment. Go on now. You know you deserve it. ��� I already answered this one here! But, uh... I think I've really improved since my first fic back in august 2020?

Thanks, blestie!

[frogs-crackcorner]

Choose your own story: Fae edition

Welcome to Choose Your Own Story, where I set the scene and you write the story!

It's been centuries since the fae and mortal world's combined. Most humans had died during the great war. Those that survived were seen as lowly creatures or animals, many became slaves. Those that didn't were sold as pets to the wealthy fae. Humans became increasingly more rare. This is how you find yourself surrounded by four, rather intimidating, fae generals. The king decided to reward their hard work by gifting you to them.

The fiercest and leader among them was Price. A broad, sturdy man with a thick beard and bits of mossy green dotting his skin. He was said to be a monster on the battlefield. He could bend and command the earth to his will. Rocks would break and explode, vines would decimate enemy armies. He was truly the best of them all.

Next in command was Ghost. He was tall, hulking mass of muscle. A large gash in his cheek hung open revealing his molars and his body was covered in scars and wounds that never seemed to fully heal. It must be part of his magic because liquid never spilled out of his mouth as he drank. Ghost was the commander of death. Sudden and silent, his power of disease wiped out armies without a single arrow fired.

After Ghost came Gaz. Gaz was a charming, slender fae. With dark skin and bright eyes, it was hard to suspect him as being a formidable warrior. He was known to be able to drown a thousand men without anyone ever seeing a drop of water. His power of water was also highly regarded for supplying fresh water to exhausted soldiers.

Last up was Mactavish. A muscular man with a wild Mohawk and fiery eyes. He was the wild card. His power of fire was known to get out of hand on occasion. He had an obsession with explosions and destruction, he seemed to thrive in the chaos. He was unwavering, unpredictable, and undefeated.

As ruthless as these men were, they knew how fragile mortals could be. They made sure to get plenty of enrichment for you. Any activity you wanted to do they made it happen. Sewing kits. Bowling pins. Acrylic paints. Swings. Soccer balls. Any hobby you decided to try they made sure you had everything you needed. They built a library for you in the house. Put a garden in the backyard. You practically had your own little zoo with the amount of animals they got you.

They also made sure to give you plenty of tasks to do. A list of tricks that all humans should know. How to sweep. How to wash a dish. How to get dressed. How to feed themselves .The list goes on. Every fae that owns a human should know how much work they are. Humans are not as developed or cultured as the fae are, every fae knows that to be fact.

Sure, they can be a little demeaning at times but you were used to that. It's how every fae treated you and some were down right cruel. But you knew these four were well intentioned albeit a little misguided. They really did care for you. The high class society they had grown up in had taught them that humans were low life forms that should be cared for similar to house pets. Humans were things to own and show off.

You were taught the same. Your whole purpose in life was to be owned. To be a good pet. You had been sent to school at the age of 13 to be taught how to be a pet. But deep down, you knew you wanted more. You were smart. You could do so much more than be a party trick. Deep down, you didn't want to be just a pet.

Now you have a choice to make

[shardssystem]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let's spread the self-love 💞

Luckily, I have written at least five things! <sigh of relief>

In no particular order:

Once Was Lost - The start of it all. I still “enjoy” the feeling that the inevitable approach to the gallows gives.

To Tame A Tiger - We are all miss Blaseball, RIV, and all that. I wasn’t as active as I would’ve liked, but I’m still proud of this piece, and how it gives a bit of character to an underrepresented player.

Future Past - While Once Was Lost is the start of things, this is where a little of the meat of the story starts coming into play.

Pulling Loose The Threads - Escalation is the name of the game here, and shows a solid link to the established canon, which I’m always wary about doing.

Holiday In Eorzea - Not just a Dead Kennedys reference! This is easily the most ambitious thing I’ve written to date, and it’s far from over. The sad thing in my mind is that it comes after a lot of other parts that are yet to be written. But sometimes, stories have their time and demand it.

Thanks for the ask, @brasideios! I’ll leave the floor open for anyone else who would like, but I’d like to hear from @kosmosxipo , @mossy-kit, and @cyndakip - Talk some Spit!

[theworldbrewery]

1d8 places to camp in the woods

Under the spreading limbs of a gigantic elm beside the road. Many a traveler has camped here, each adding their name to carvings in the elm’s bark. A small lean-to shed stands stocked with dry firewood, and a large fire-pit has been lined with stones over the years.

In a secluded glade, inhabited by a herd of whitetail deer. The deer are unusually docile and unafraid of people. At the center of the glade there is a single block of granite, carved into the shape of a rounded idol. At night, fireflies congregate around the idol.

Beside a babbling brook, with a mossy wooden footbridge passing over it. The brook is teeming with fish, and a forgotten fishing pole is still wedged between two slats in the bridge. After a heavy rain, the water rises to cover the footbridge.

Within a small, stone roadside sanctuary. The sanctuary’s statues and walls are crumbling with age and overgrown with ivy. A colony of feral cats has made it their home. The oldest, a one-eyed tuxedo cat, greets all who enter her domain.

The still-standing but abandoned barn beside the burned remnants of a woodcutter’s cabin. A crude wooden memorial shrine is built there to honor those who perished in the fire; a bundle of withered weeds is tucked into the shrine as an offering to any restless souls left behind.

On the shore of a placid lake. Mists drift gently across its surface, and in the dark of night, a quiet song rises from amidst the cattails. In the gray hours before daybreak, a common loon calls out mournfully and fixes any approaching creature with the accusing stare of its red eye.

In a clearing ringed with quaking aspens. When freezing-cold breezes blow through in the night, the aspen leaves rattle, reminding travelers of a hushed warning, but high above, the stars shine brighter than ever before. A watchful owl hoots throughout the evening, but gives the camp a wide berth.

At the base of a waterfall, which spills down a rocky cascade before vanishing into a pothole in the stone. The water does not appear to resurface. It seems a message has been carved into the stone above the pothole, but the message has been worn away by the water. The rocky campsite is split in two by a massive toppled spruce; within its hollow trunk is a nesting pine marten and her kits.