#no ugly bright orange horns directing your eyes away from the face

[p2iimon]

i love fish

[phorgstuck]

[ID: A completely black image with the words “here’s the thing.” on it in purple. End ID.]

[ID: A digital drawing in a simple, lineless style of a troll from Homestuck from the neck up looking away with an unhappy expression. She has long black hair with a violet streak in the bangs, fins, and horns that curve out and then in again. Violet text to her left says “I can’t do anything right,” End ID.] (All further images are digital drawings in a lineless style.) 

[ID: The same image as before, but now the troll has shorter hair (chin-length) and the text says “I can’t do anything right, try as I absolutely totally might.” End ID.]

[ID: A drawing of a troll looking directly at the camera. She has dark gray facepaint covering half her face and with a swirly pattern where it stops, long black hair, and horns that curve backwards. The same face is repeated behind her, slightly faded and with white eyes. Purple text at the top and bottom of the image says “The bones are melting, the skeleton is ash”. End ID.] 

[ID: A drawing of a troll looking down with a happy expression. They have short fluffy black hair, horns that curl forward, and are wearing a blue shirt, although we can’t see past their shoulders. Black splatters are scattered across the lower half of the image, in a way that indicated the troll is looking in the direction of the splatters. Blue text says “the clavicle detaches and falls with a deafening crash.” End ID.]

[ID: The same troll as before, but now they look angry and are pointing at something off-camera. Blue text says “And I’m not your protagonist”. End ID.]

[ID: The troll with the violet in her hair from the first pictures is now shown again, with her hand on her cheek, looking thoughtful and unhappy. Violet text above her reads in parentheses “I’m not even my own.” End ID.]

[ID: A close-up of a troll’s face. Their horns go straight out and then curve up, and their hair is a short bob. Their mouth is open and their eyes have been replaced with the Void symbol, which looks like a spiral without the center. A pattern of static and blocks of color has been overlaid to give a glitching effect. Blue text at the top and bottom of the picture reads “I don’t know anything/I don’t even know what I don’t know.” End ID.]

[ID: A series of beige and light green lines indicate the shape of trees. Green text at the bottom of the picture reads “and if you look outside you’ll see disintegrating trees”, but the “disintegrating trees” has an echo effect to it. End ID.]

[ID: A purposely pixelated image of a small troll standing in front of a green background. Due to the pixels, the only details shown are a black shirt, gray pants, and short hair. Red text at the bottom reads “the artificial way the sunlight bounces off the waxy leaves”. End ID.]

[ID: A drawing of a troll standing with her hands held together in front of her. She is wearing a gray hoodie with a pink pocket, black pants, and fuchsia shoes. Her hair is about elbow-length, she has fins, and her horns curve towards each other and are decorated with gold circlets that are linked together. She has splatters of gold on her pants, hoodie, and shoes, and looks upset. Fuchsia text at the top reads “My heart catches on every thorn”. End ID.]

[ID: A drawing of a troll with horns that loop and short, messy hair smiling and looking forward. She’s wearing a purple jacket and is holding the hands of another troll, who we can only see the head of. The other troll has gold blood on them and has four horns which are curvy and black hair that covers their eyes. Stairs are outlined behind the first troll, and fuchsia text reads “You’re already halfway out the door.” End ID.]

[ID: The fuchsia troll is now looking away. Fuchsia text reads “And I have never looked so old.” End ID.]

[ID: The drawing of the troll in the purple jacket again. She is now also looking away and not smiling. Red text at the top of the image reads “and i have never been so cold”. End ID.]

[ID: A drawing showing the fuchsia troll and the one in the purple jacket facing each other in profile, not showing any of their faces. The troll in the jacket is shown to be dragging the body of another troll with four horns, a white coat, black shirt, black shoes and gray pants. There’s gold spots going from the fuchsia troll to the other two. Text fading from fuchsia to red at the top says “and it is 85 degrees.” Gold text with a drippy effect at the bottom says “I don’t know what I need.” End ID.]

[ID: A black background with a wheel of images on it. The images, going counterclockwise from the left, are a gold spiral, a teal circle with three squiggly lines extending from it, a stylized pair of wings in brown, two blue horizontal wavy lines, two vertical red wavy lines, a stylized jade green sun, a purple gear, a olive heart, a stylized fuchsia angry face, a dark blue line with three more lines extending down from it, a simplified violet skull, and a blue spiral without a middle. End ID.]

[ID: A close up of a cup of tea sitting on a bunch of gray rectangles with wavy lines coming off of it indicating steam. Blue text above it reads “There’s lukewarm mango sweet hibiscus tea” End ID.]

[ID: A drawing of a completely gray person lying on their back staring up. They have two blue antennae which form diamond shapes and a yellow stripe across their face and three gray marks on the stripe, indicating eyes. A very large orange cat is partially shown off to one side. Dark blue text at the top reads “on the hot garbage pile in which i fucking sleep”. End ID.]

[ID: A drawing of the troll with four horns, a white coat, and a black shirt, standing upright with their hands to their head and an angry expression. The place where eyes would normally be drawing is a blur of pink and bright blue, and bright pink and blue scribbles are drawn all around them. Gold text says “The walls are empty/It’s so ugly/I could burn the whole place down.” End ID.]

[ID: The troll with horns that go out and then curve up and a black bob is looking offscreen with a concerned expression. Behind them is a blue gradient and spots of blue are going across the picture. Blue text at the bottom says “It wouldn’t catch, cause all the posters are on their way to my hometown.” End ID.]

[ID: A close up of the troll with four horns. Their tongue is sticking out. Their hair covers their eyes, but a faint blue and pink glow is shown coming out from underneath it. They are surrounded by pink hearts and gold stars, some of which have bright pink or blue x’s through them. Gold text reads “And I am not your protagonist.” End ID.]

[ID: A troll with horns that curl forward, a black bob, and an orange scarf is touching a feather quill to a piece of paper. A thick yellow swirl is coming out of the paper and fading to white behind them. Brown text in the white reads “(I’m not even my own...)” End ID.]

[ID: A drawing of a troll sitting on a rooftop. The drawing is from far away, so there’s few details, but the troll is wearing a teal hat with earflaps. Teal text reads “I don’t know anything, I don’t even know, what I don’t know.” End ID.]

[ID: Black lines indicate trees with leaves falling. Gray lines of various shades are all around the black lines, giving it a blurry or shaky effect. Blue text at the top reads “And if you look outside you’ll see, disintegrating trees.” End ID.] 

[ID: A picture of a leaf with several overlays and edits to make it appear glitchy. Green text reads “The artificial way the sunlight bounces off the glitching leaves”. End ID.]

[ID: A picture of a troll crying olive tears as they hold out a necklace with a silver heart pendant in front of them. Their teeth are pointy and we can’t see their horns. A pink glow comes from the silver heart. Green text reads “My wet heart catches on every thorn.” End ID.]

[ID: A troll in a purple dress with long black hair and horns that wave backwards is smiling with a sad expression as they reach up to words. Their eyes are fading to white. Their hand is covered in purple and is touching purple words on a door that read “youre already halfway out the door.” End ID.] 

[ID: The drawing is divided into three parts vertically. The first shows a close up of a troll frowning. Their eyes are obscured and the background underneath their face is blue. Blue text above them says “And I’m so” and fuchsia text below them says “tiny.” The second shows a troll’s face with their eyes obscured smiling widely. The background is purple. Purple text above reads “And so” and red text below reads “old”. The third is a face with blue and pink x’s in place of eyes and a slightly open mouth. The background is blue. White ext over the face reads “and god it’s never been so cold.” (god is in green.) Gold text below reads “cold”. End ID.]

[ID: A black background with “And it is 85 degrees” in white. End ID.]

[ID: A black background. The text “I don’t know what I need” in a gradient of colors is in the middle, surrounded by hands. The hands are as follows, clockwise from left; a gray hand pointing, a red hand reaching down, streaked with gold, a fuchsia hand with gold splatters in a fist, an olive hand forming half a heart, a violet hand with black fingernails, a blue hand fading into black, a teal hand giving a thumbs up, a purple hand pointing, a green hand with a glitchy effect, a blue hand and a gold hand touching each other (the gold hand has bright blue and pink lines around it), and a brown hand that is covered in slashes of black and gray. End ID.]

PHEW this took me uhhhh literal months?? but here it is! the official Phrogstuck Lyricstuck to Sweet Hibiscus Tea by Penelope Scott!!

[ravenvsfox]

rockband chapter 5 babey 😈🤘🏻

Neil tilts a record out of the stacks, and the sun catches the sleek surface and shows him his reflection.

“You’re not even in the right section,” Kevin calls. He’s two rows away flipping through rock-punk CDs, looking exhilarated when they fall towards him like dominoes.

The whole store is no bigger than a spacious bedroom, and the shop front is all boxy windows, letting in honeycombs of late-afternoon light. Kevin’s never looked so relaxed, dragging his fingers along the spines of albums, inspecting the equipment behind the till, smiling and chatting with the owner.

“There is no right section,” he mutters, sliding the album back into its slot. “It’s all music.”

“Right,” Kevin says. Neil glances up and finds him unexpectedly close, mouth pursed reluctantly with amusement. “Except we’re not here for all music.”

“What are we actually here for again?” Neil asks, distracted. He can see Andrew waiting outside with his back to them and his arms crossed, serious and stock-still as a bodyguard.

“Inspiration.”

Neil watches Kevin’s face. The crease that’s usually between his brows is only suggestion now, a slouchy, un-tensed line. He’s tolerable like this, Neil thinks, almost impressive, choosing music to feed his creativity.

“You love it here,” Neil accuses. “This is a vacation for you.”

Kevin scoffs. “Like you’re not the same.”

Neil shrugs. There’s an upright piano on the wall and he wants to squeeze the keys in his hands like fingers in a crowd. The sound of voices and tires on asphalt from outside spreads like frosting over the crumbling drumbeat from the stereo. The rusting brown of the wallpaper behind the counter looks almost orange with the full force of the sun on it.

He could live and die in a place like this, head down, hands full of bright new music and dark classics, never in silence, never alone.

"Come look at this,” Kevin says. Neil follows him to the far corner of the shop where there are picked-over alternative CDs and peeling tape labels. He plucks an album from the stack and wiggles it at Neil. “Old school Ausreißer.”

Neil squints at the cover art. “You look like a bad metal band.” The original four are caught in the middle of a set, dressed in all black under a red spotlight, mid-howl. The word Ausreißer is so stylized that it’s almost illegible.

Kevin rolls his eyes and puts the CD back in its slot. “Things change. When we found you you looked like you were on day ten of a bender.”

“I can go back to that, if it’s the look you’re going for. Wouldn’t want to stand out in a band full of junkies and burnouts.”

“Funny,” Kevin says flatly. “Just bring that smart mouth to song writing.” He gathers his little stack of music and a clear box of sturdy picks, and drops them on the front counter to be checked out.

Neil hesitates, swaddled in the darkest, warmest corner of the store, reluctant to splash back out into the cold. He can already see how it will play out: Andrew’s silence and Kevin’s focus, the way they take up so much of the sidewalk that Neil has to fall in behind them or walk in the gutter, the drive home like a never-ending commute to nowhere at all.

He’s listless without a stage, and Kevin won’t let him forget that he’s not a natural born songwriter. He’s waiting for inspiration like that second raindrop after you swear you felt the first one.

His eyes wander and catch on a lurid red flier stapled to the bulletin board above the stacks, and he does a double-take. Foxes. Township Auditorium. Friday, January 25th.

“Dan’s group is playing this Friday?” Neil wonders aloud, and Kevin looks at him over his shoulder, handing bills off to the cashier.

“Oh yeah, the Township gig. I think they’re hanging out in town for a week or so, too.”

“We should go.” He thinks of the way the girls had laughed about their public personas and plastic recognition. He wants to hear them for real, as magnetic and driven as they were at Abby’s, assuring him that they do pop like he’s never heard in his life.

“Waste of time,” Kevin says, accepting his bag with one of his frozen, ken doll smiles and making towards the exit.

“We’re not touring right now,” Neil argues, catching up. “We can take two hours off from the new album.”

“We can,” Kevin says, “but we shouldn’t.”

“And yet you find the time to drink six hours a day.”

“The creative process looks different on everyone,” he grits. They push out into the sunlight and Andrew looks vaguely in their direction, his face chapped from the wind.

“Great. Mine looks like going to local concerts and supporting our label, and you know full fucking well that Wymack would agree with me.” They start walking, Neil leading them in a frantic triangle down main street. Andrew doesn’t ask or care about what they’re arguing over, which is why Neil tells him, “I want to go to the Foxes concert on Friday.”

“Then go,” he says. He’d been chain-smoking while Neil and Kevin were in the shop, and he looks irritable and sick. His pallor has been almost bruised lately, like something’s wringing him out and leaving marks behind.

Neil flips Kevin off and walks further ahead of the group, buoyed by the opportunity to be part of an audience again. He loves the silky anonymity and sway of the crowd almost as much as being doused in lights and held up by a mic stand.

Kevin’s still talking about accountability and wasted talent, but he’s lost his audience.

Neil reaches the van first, parallel parked at a wicked angle. He waits for the muted click of the unlock button, then climbs into the passenger seat. There’s a parking ticket folded over the windshield wipers and Andrew sets them going so that it flutters down onto the street.

“It’s not going to be the same in the crowd as it is onstage,” Kevin says calmly from the backseat.

Neil turns his head. “I know.”

“The fans know who you are now, and I’m not sure you’re ready for what that actually looks like.”

“I’m pretty good at blending in,” Neil says, eyes narrowed.

“You’re not,” Andrew says, pulling jerkily out of the spot without looking and nearly catching a hyundai by the nose. “You’re loud.” Car horns blare on all sides like a chorus of agreement.

“You draw attention,” Kevin agrees grimly. “I’d rather you stick it out in the studio where you can’t get into trouble. And Wymack would agree with me about that.”

Neil watches pedestrians swarm and cars criss-cross beyond the window. “So what, I join a band and now I’m on full-time house arrest?”

“Shouldn’t you be used to keeping your head down, runaway?” Andrew taunts. His hands flash as he makes a left turn, ink spelling yes over no over yes. Neil gives him a look.

“You’re not talking about staying on the move, you’re talking about hiding. And in my experience, your problems catch up with you when you sit and wait for them to go away.”

“I’m not talking about your fucked up past,” Kevin says irritably. “If you want to stumble into the nearest concert, you can, but if you misrepresent us or pull some stupid shit to distract from the set, Wymack will kick your ass. If Dan doesn’t get there first.”

“Don’t worry Kevin,” Andrew says, glancing away from the road to fix Neil with a cool, knowing look. “He has winning impulse control. Right Neil?”

Neil clenches his teeth and ignores him. “I realize that you don’t trust me, but I need you to understand that I don’t care. I’m not going to stay in the cage until you figure out if you’re ready to unlock it or not. I’m not going to live that way anymore.”

“You’re on a team now, and you have to care,” Kevin argues.

Neil scoffs. “Tell that to Andrew.”

Kevin looks pained. “He’s—“

“What? An exception? I’d love to know why I’m held to a higher standard than the person with concealed weapons and an unreliable drug dependency,” Neil says, fuming. Andrew pumps the brakes so that Neil topples forward into the dashboard, then he’s thrown back again when they accelerate. He grips the headrest and seethes, “you’re fucking psychotic.”

“You—“ Kevin starts.

“Kevin,” Andrew says, toneless, barely there, and Kevin stops short. Neil recognizes that easy power, that tongue-biting obedience.

They collapse into strained silence, Andrew looking infuriatingly tranquil, the air around Kevin vibrating with how badly he wants to speak.

Neil thinks about the corner of the music store and that old album, an Ausreißer from back when Neil was still lost in between hotel rooms, when his mother was alive, and she could change the course of his life with just the tips of her fingers. He thinks, things can be so easy and so ugly at the same time.

They get out at Palmetto, Neil wrenching doors closed behind him, trying to feel like he has a raft to himself for once, like he’s not always sharing, feeling for someone else’s shifting weight.

Nicky’s spread between two chairs when he gets to the studio, and Neil’s relieved to see the easy smile on his face. It fractures when he gets a good look at him.

“Oh no. Was it unbearable? I thought music shopping would mellow Kevin out, at least.”

“It was fine,” Neil says, rolling a chair towards the table where they left all of their notes and stray music. He sweeps everything off the table, feeling a vindictive shock when it all settles on the floor; every dangling idea, stagnating chord progression, and experimental piece of garbage.

“Yeah, you seem fine,” Nicky says sarcastically.

“Better,” Neil says, rummaging in the heaps of wasted work until his hand closes around a discarded pen. “I’m inspired.”

_____

The dye burns cold on his scalp. He paints the wispy place above his ears, and tucks it up into the rest of the gummy mess. There’s a dark streak on the porcelain of the sink, and he rubs it with one gloved finger.

Someone knocks at the door, and Neil reaches behind himself to open it. There’s a beat, and a flutter of movement, and then his eyes meet Andrew’s in the mirror. 

“Brown,” Andrew remarks.

“You wanted me to tone it down,” Neil says, focusing on smothering his auburn roots and pointedly ignoring the rest of his reflection.

“Don’t put Kevin’s words in my mouth.”

Neil meets his eyes again. “What do you want?”

Andrew doesn’t reply for a long moment, and then he starts to peel down his armbands. It’s like watching a snake shed its skin, and Neil’s so startled to see it happening that he turns around to watch him directly.

He’s expecting the thatch of scars, but it still knocks the wind out of him to see them, tender pinks and whites that nudge all the way up to the ink on his wrists and hands.

Andrew plucks the brush out of Neil’s limp hand and scoops up a mound of colour that looks black in the weak light.

“Head down.”

Neil complies, chin towards his chest, and feels Andrew smooth the dye from just below his ear up into the coil of loose, wet hair. He can feel the damp heat from Andrew’s bare wrists, smothered for most of the day.

“Who put you in a cage?” Andrew asks, and the hair on Neil’s neck stands up.

“What—“

“You said: I’m not going to stay in the cage until you figure out if you’re ready to unlock it. I’m not going to live that way anymore.” He says it robotically, like an automated recording.

“I know what I said,” Neil snaps, starting to look up, but Andrew grips his neck and steers his head down again.

“Then you should be able to explain what you meant. Without lying to me.”

Andrew’s initiating one of their trades, he realizes, baring a secret and nodding at Neil do to the same. He closes his eyes, flinching when the brush makes sudden contact with his neck.

“My mother.” It’s an easier answer than the reality--a web of injustice too thick to see through. A childhood spent escaping from one cell block to another. 

The brush stops midway through a glide towards his hairline. “She hurt you?” Andrew asks, low.

“It’s not that simple.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You know better than anyone that protecting someone can get bloody. Our circumstances weren’t--they were never good enough for us to have a decent relationship. But she kept us moving.”

A bare hand curls in his hair, and Neil’s eyes open. His breath catches when he recognizes the hateful look on Andrew’s face.

“Did she hit you, yes or no?”

Neil swallows thickly, trying to focus on the feeling of Andrew’s hand against his scalp. “Yes.” The hand tightens painfully. “But she’s dead now. My parents are dead.” He doesn’t know what drives him to say such a hasty, partial truth, like it has any bearing on the way it felt to be forced to the ground and pinned until his arm broke. Death gets rid of the person, not the memory. 

Andrew’s hand drops altogether. He moves into the space at Neil’s side, hip to hip, and rinses his hand under the tap. “If she was beating you, she wasn’t protecting you.”

“You don’t understand what people are capable of when they’re struggling to survive.”

Andrew steps slowly and lethally into Neil’s space. “Yes, I do,” he says, nearly whispering. Neil’s eyes hitch down to his destroyed wrists. 

He nods, and Andrew backs off. He feels a strange, remote disappointment watching him move away, like climbing out of a roller coaster and watching it take off without him.

“We’re not keeping you locked up,” Andrew says. “We do not own you.”

Neil shakes his head a little, running a hand over his hair under the guise of checking for dry patches, trying to reclaim the tingling, grounding feeling of Andrew’s fingers.

“Contractually, you do.”

“You’re with us,” Andrew says, “until the second someone abuses your contract, then you leave. We both know you could outrun me if you really wanted to.”

“Maybe,” Neil says, on the blunt edge of a smile. “But you might be able to outlast me.”

Andrew looks at him in the mirror for a long while. “You’re disgustingly stubborn,” he says. “And dense. I wouldn’t count on my ability to put up with you for that long.”

Neil shrugs. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. I won’t leave. We have a deal.”

“I just told you—“

“Not the contract. You and I have a deal. And I’m not ready to give it up,” Neil says, and he means it. The tenuous promise of protection, the give and take, the lure of the stage. He’s only grown more and more obsessed with the whole thing.

Andrew wavers. He reaches for his discarded armbands, and takes his time rolling them back up. Neil feels a painful rush of recognition at seeing his scars swallowed up, and he reaches out impulsively to hold him by the wrist. Andrew’s fingers are still ruddy with dye.

“This isn’t a cage. You’re nothing like—it’s nothing like my mother.”

At Abby’s, he’d told Andrew he reminded him of home, the most nightmarish insult he could lay his hands upon. And for a jarring second, Andrew’s commanding relationship with the band had looked like the dynamic between himself and his mother, ceaseless authority meeting senseless devotion. He’s been stupid enough to mistake Andrew’s promises for Mary Hatford’s threats.

At length, Andrew tugs, and Neil lets go of him.

Long after he’s gone, and Neil’s hair is washed out and limp, wet brown, he can still feel the raised scars underneath the fabric of the armband, and beneath that, a curiously rabbiting pulse.

______

And “monster” does not begin

to cover bolts and stitches in my skin

sinew held with safety pins

but you made me

the creature not the man, right?

but this lab coat’s fitting pretty tight

and if you’re living out of spite

are you a person or a feeling,

and would it hurt to look at you directly?

gunshots speak louder than words

but the warning shots you heard

don’t work for people who’d prefer

to die than to live on their knees--

“It needs workshopping,” Kevin says, tossing the notebook onto the coffee table.

“I think it’s great, Neil,” Nicky says. “The Frankenstein stuff is cool, our fans eat that shit up.”

Neil shrugs, and he gathers his notes back up from the table, out of reach from prying eyes. They’re assembled in a loose square in the living room, with Andrew at the window, a cigarette burning delicately between two fingers.

“You call yourselves the monsters so— I don’t know.”

“It works,” Kevin sniffs. “They’ll get it. They’ll like it.” It’s a more generous response than he was expecting, and he knows it’s the most approval Kevin can bring himself to show. “How soon can you match it musically?” he asks Andrew.

“I already have a melody,” Neil interrupts. He stands, walks over to the keyboard Kevin insists they always keep on hand, and presses the ‘on’ button. “It’s not very complex,” he says, walking his right hand over a couple of keys until the power catches up and the notes start to voice.

He plays the song through once, low arpeggiated chords and a sustained, high tenor line. He sings when he can’t help it, crooning until it gets too high to sing softly.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Andrew’s fingers drumming against the windowsill.

“You’re right,” Aaron says when it’s finished. “It’s not very complex.”

“Downer,” Nicky accuses. “It’s just keys right now, we can amp it up.”

“Is it worth it?” Aaron complains.

“Yes,” Andrew says, leaning over to put his cigarette out in the ashtray balanced on the arm of the couch. They all look at him expectantly, and he gets up, grabs the music directly out of Neil’s hands, and disappears into his room with it.

“Well that’s a good sign,” Nicky says, bemused. “Guess we’re going to that concert, Neil.” When Kevin opens his mouth to protest, Nicky says, “Wymack signed off on it. Plus we’re making headway on the b-side tracks, and Andrew’s actually working.”

“I’m not going,” Kevin says, crossing his arms.

“Me neither,” Aaron says. “Allison will have our balls if we pull focus from her.”

“So we won’t,” Nicky says. He ropes Neil in by the shoulder and tousles his newly dark hair. “No one will even know we’re there.”

______

Later, Nicky sends Neil to ask for the car keys, and he finds himself standing in the dusk outside Andrew’s room, delaying the inevitable confrontation.

Andrew comes out before he can knock, wearing boots and a black baseball cap, keys clenched in his fist. They nearly collide, and Neil staggers back a step. 

“You’re coming with us?” he asks dumbly.

“You and Nicky can’t be trusted alone,” he says. It’s an insult, but it hits Neil like warm water from a shower-head, like relief.

“Did Kevin ask you to do this?” Neil asks, but Andrew ignores him, brushing past into the living room, then the entryway. Nicky pushes off from the back of the couch where he’s been waiting, looking back and forth between the two of them nervously.

“We’re all going?”

“Apparently,” Neil replies.

“Cool. Weird. Shotgun.”

“Neil’s sitting in the front,” Andrew says, cranking the screen door open.

“Family really means, like, nothing to you when Neil’s around—“ Nicky’s saying as he follows Andrew out into the night.

Neil breathes out, lacing his shoes and listening to Nicky chatter circles around Andrew, who is steady and silent, already fixed in the driver’s seat.

He’s been picturing the Foxes concert as that same ambiguous darkness from before he joined the band, skulking in the back of bars and hoping to be caught. Now he imagines Andrew and Nicky propping him up like brackets, a drink he actually paid for, the hair-raising knowledge of what it feels like on the other side of the performance.

Wind shivers through the front door and underneath Neil’s collar. He jams his hands into his jacket pockets—the leather already stiff and unyielding from the cold—squares his shoulders, and opens the door.

______

They’re smuggled in through a door backstage, already late. Nicky clings to Neil’s sleeve so tightly that it pulls down over his hand. 

Renee comes to greet them, as unnervingly pleasant as the last time he’d seen her. Neil keeps expecting her even-keeled demeanour to clash against Andrew’s like icebergs meeting, but they only seem to thaw around one another. 

Andrew greets her, and she knocks her knuckles into his hand and smiles.

“I’m glad you guys came. Don’t tell her I told you, but Allison’s raring to show off.”

“I bet she is, competitive bitch,” Nicky says good-naturedly. “All you foxes are such a handful.”

Renee seems to be considering whether or not he’s joking when Dan appears at her elbow. “Walk in the park compared to your lot,” she says, smiling sharply. Her eyes flit to Neil and she softens. “Still doing okay, Neil?”

“She means, have we ruined your life,” Andrew says in German.

“Quick, tell her how saintly we are,” Nicky says.

“And lie?” Neil asks in exaggerated German, as if scandalized. “I’m fine,” he says to Dan. “Excited to see a Foxes set.” 

It’s a bigger venue than he’s used to, and the energy is intimidating, people whisking past them and calling instructions to one another.

Her smile quirks, and she lets her arm drape around Renee’s neck. “We’ll try our best to impress, then. As usual.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Nicky says. “You’re a big deal, we get it. Don’t you have warm-ups to do?”

Dan snorts. “Time off is making you a little mean, Hemmick. You better watch him, monster.”

Andrew stares blankly back at her, and Nicky says, “you try living with Kevin 24 hours a day and tell me how personable you’re feeling.”

Dan winces. “Point.” Someone ducks close and whispers in her ear, and her face flickers through several shades of confusion and annoyance. “Okay, shit. One of Allison’s pegs came loose and her tuning is all over the place. Sound check’s in five, and Matt’s on the wrong side of drunk, but um. The show must go on, I guess.”

Renee ducks out from under Dan’s arm, excusing herself, and Dan squeezes Neil’s shoulder in parting. “See you out there. Try not to get into trouble.”

“Yeah right,” Nicky says, and she aims a kick at his shin. He falls back a step, laughing, as she jogs after Renee. “Hey, rock and roll, Dan,” he calls. “Or whatever it is you guys do.”

He’s still beaming when he loops his arm with Neil’s and steers them towards the door. Neil looks anxiously back at Andrew, but he’s a step behind them as usual.

They wait for a lull in passersby, and then they’re out in the thick of the crowd, pushing conspicuously from the front of the stage to the side of the room. Eyes linger on them and narrow, and his throat starts to constrict until he feels Andrew’s hand thread into the shirt under his jacket, keeping him tethered.

Nicky can’t resist dancing a little to the opener, as obvious as they already are, and he bobs through the aisles, shooting furtive looks back at Neil to see if he’s enjoying himself. The band on stage is too high energy for their low energy song, jumping and twisting to a half-time rhythm. 

Andrew’s hand tightens at the small of his back, and Neil glances back to see him eyeing the thrashing drummer with distaste.

“I thought you didn’t care about technique,” Neil tells him over the music, and Andrew tears his eyes away. He’s frowning, and Neil relishes that off-guard little furrow of emotion.

“I don’t,” Andrew says, “I also don’t listen to bad music if I can help it.”

“Guess we must be pretty good, then,” Neil says.

“I didn’t say that.”

“No,” Neil agrees. “You didn’t.” He knows that it’s true, though. Somewhere past the layers and layers of bandages that Andrew wears, there must be raw flesh. It’s just that Neil can’t tell if he’s healing or rotting underneath it all.

They come to a stop close to the stairs up into the stands, and Nicky gestures at an empty patch halfway up. Most of the crowd is standing already, chaotic, but they climb up into the mess and find their seats, Nicky on the inside and Andrew in the aisle, with Neil sandwiched in-between.

“Our fans are louder,” Nicky leans over to say smugly.

“That’s because they’re trying to keep up with you,” Neil says. “Decibel for decibel.”

“Fuck you,” Nicky laughs. His eyes are bright, and he grips the seat in front of him to get the leverage to see through the masses.

They ride the energy of the crowd to the end of the song, and then the group is hollering goodbyes and filing offstage, and people start to sit down or escape to concession. Nicky relaxes back into his seat and pinches Neil for his opinion.

“I don’t think we missed much,” Neil says.

Nicky shrugs. “Yeah, but we were like that once. You got to skip Ausreißer’s adolescence, Neil, you lucky shit. It was not pretty.”

“Kevin showed me your first album,” he tells him.

“Oh, Jesus,” Nicky groans. “Those were dark times. I used to wear leather biker gloves on stage, like a tool.” He rustles in his inner jacket pocket and produces his flask. “Drink to forget?”

Andrew reaches across to pluck it from his hand before anyone can drink. He unscrews the cap and points it at Nicky. “I know you’re already fucked, Nicky.”

He scoffs, making a messy grab for it that Andrew dodges. “Hardly.”

Andrew swallows a generous shots worth, then passes the flask to Neil. This is familiar by now, sharing space and booze and drugs as a means to an end. They get drunk like they’re grappling down a cliff-face together, connected by rope.

Neil hesitates. There are strangers on all sides and the sick smell of sweat and beer in the air, but there’s something about his back to the wall and a concert ahead that he trusts. This is how he spent the years after his mother’s death, anonymous and drunk, losing control in measured doses like taking medication.

He drinks, the mouthpiece still wet from Andrew’s mouth, and screws his face up at the tartness of the flavour—a salty, lemony vodka. Nicky tries to steal the flask halfway through his sip, so Neil pushes him away by the face.

He and Andrew share the rest of the liquor, and he puts the back of his hand to his face to feel it warming up. It’s a relief, to feel his edges shaved off. It’s like he’s less defined this way, less likely to be recognized.

Stagehands are fiddling with amps onstage and taping wires down, and the buzz of the crowd is suddenly deafening.

“What’s the deal with Renee?” he hears himself asking.

“What d’you mean?” Nicky asks.

“You like her,” Neil guesses, jabbing Andrew with the base of the flask to get his attention. “But she’s nothing like you.”

“She’s one of us,” Andrew says.

“But she’s not, though,” Neil says, half-frustrated and half gawking at his own lack of composure. He wants his curiosity back inside where it can fester and wonder in circles and die. “I thought Wymack only took in strays. Charity cases.”

“You have met her twice,” Andrew says coldly. “How well do you think you can judge a person’s character in that time?”

“Pretty well,” Neil says grimly. He thinks of the cross around her neck and the prim lace of her collar, attention-grabbing hair offset by dark, serious eyes. He saw Matt’s track marks and Allison’s rage before Dan had even whispered their stories to him, but he can’t read anything on sweet, prim Renee.

“Lucky she doesn’t care what anyone thinks,” Nicky interjects. “She’s waiting to be judged by God, I think. Everyone else’s opinions are just… noise.”

He can’t imagine anyone who was really like them believing in God like that, but he bites his tongue.

“Little orphan Neil Josten gets in some trouble and he thinks he knows what rock bottom looks like,” Andrew muses, and Neil’s stomach sinks. “You haven’t even hit it yet.” He looks unfocused, and it occurs to Neil that he might have taken something before they left.

“You’re right,” Neil says. “But you promised that you’d be there when I do,” he reminds him. 

“What the fuck does that mean?” Nicky asks. “Neil?”

“Neil?” someone else says, and Neil looks over to see a woman and a couple of scruffy looking dudes frozen halfway up the stairs. His eyes drop to the shortest of the two, who’s wearing elbow-length armbands identical to Andrew’s. “Andrew! Nicky! Oh my god,” he says.

Nicky puts on a winning smile. “Hey!”

“I can’t believe you’re here—like, for real, there were rumours, but—oh my god— “

“He’s completely obsessed with you,” the woman gushes.

“Katie,” he hisses, and his friend shakes him good-naturedly by the shoulders.

“He’s afraid to say it, but—“

“Fuck off—“

“—every single album—“

“That’s very cute,” Nicky interrupts, cocking a flirtatious grin at the guy who’s holding his own cheeks, dismayed.

“We couldn’t believe you were just, like, changing your sound completely,” the taller guy says. “But Neil, man, I see why they’d take a chance for a voice like yours. It’s sick, dude.”

“Thanks,” Neil says stiffly.

“He’s not used to being recognized, yet,” Nicky says apologetically. “You’re taking his fan virginity.”

They titter, and the woman says, “we’re honoured.” She nudges her friend and widens her eyes meaningfully.

“We can’t really hang out though, sorry guys. Low profile tonight,” Nicky says. His smile is less believable by the second.

“Totally,” they chorus.

“I just quickly want to say, Andrew,” the first guy starts, breathless. “I know you get this all the time, but your lyrics saved my life. I couldn’t believe someone understood me like that, and—and you’re my--you inspire--I mean. I’m sorry, I’m so tongue-tied, I—“

“I didn’t write them for you,” Andrew says. 

The fan’s face crumples. Nicky looks at Neil, panicked, and then he forces a loud, incongruous laugh.

“Wow, good one,” Nicky says. “He doesn’t mean it, obviously.”

“Don’t I?” Andrew says.

“We appreciate it,” Neil interrupts. “But we can’t talk anymore.“

“Right, sorry, I’m so—“

They urge one another up the stairs, apologizing and thanking them, the one guy looking on the verge of tears through the bars of his friends’ arms, until they disappear up to the next level of seats.

“You could’ve pretended to be human,” Nicky hisses as soon as they’re gone.

“They call us monsters,” Andrew says. “What do they expect?” 

Nicky groans. “Please can we have fun, and not ruin anyone else’s night, especially our fans? People are gonna egg our car.”

Neil’s stomach squirms, and he crosses his arms over it. There could be well-meaning, invasive people like that everywhere, and now he’s tipsy and angry and stuck.

The house lights go down a few minutes later, and the whole crowd sucks in a collective breath before they plunge headfirst into cheering.

Neil’s arms loosen. Nicky stands up at his side, hooting, and everyone follows suit, craning towards the stage, wanting to be the first thing the band sees.

Dan comes out first, waving with both hands, and Matt follows, winking at the crowd and sliding his guitar over his head. Allison and Renee emerge from either side of the stage, Allison towering in high heels and glowing under the lights. Renee’s hair is wild, and her face is different, tongue caught in her teeth, almost cocky.

They fit behind their instruments like joints cracking into place, and they play their first chord in perfect unison, all of them operating different parts of the same body.

The crowd roars their approval. Neil sits upright. He’s surprised to feel Andrew standing up beside him, stepping into the aisle to watch. He follows without thinking.

The jangling, bopping drum line doesn’t wait for the strings to catch up, and Renee doesn’t need to watch to see that they’re following her. Her wrists are supple, and she’s lost to the music like she’s been playing for hours and not seconds.

The room goes up in flames when Dan starts singing, like the fans are all hungry, dry wood, and she’s a spark. She works the microphone free from its stand and starts running with it.

“Fucking excellent, right,” Nicky shouts, and Neil nods, mesmerized. The crowd moves together even separated by sections and rows of seats. 

It’s nothing like an Ausreißer concert, where boiling blood turns into wine, and everyone turns their desperate faces up to the stage like they’re waiting to be healed. Foxes sing like they’re in love and they fought for it. 

Neil can admit that they’re as musically proficient as the monsters, too, making up for lack of technical flair with a complete understanding of their sound.

Matt smiles dopily down at his guitar and then at Dan, like he can’t decide which deserves his attention more. When she floats towards him, he gets springy with it, teasing her with guitar licks, carving shapes into her oaky voice. Allison’s hand goes protectively to her tuning pegs whenever she has a break in the music, but her bass is rich and in tune.

They do an old-fashioned crescendo like it’s a classical piece, and Dan is almost conducting, hitting the air when Renee smashes the cymbals, gesturing for more when Allison starts a slippery solo, so fast that she laughs and tosses her hair, exhilarated.

Neil makes a hurt noise that gets swallowed in the din, but Andrew looks at him anyway. Neil looks back, studying his wide black pupils and wondering why he only bothers to pay attention when he’s stoned.

He remembers the wide eyes of the kid with the armbands, the agony of his disappointment, and he forces himself to look back out at the band.

One song finishes and another climbs on its back. People move and mill out of their seats towards the stage. He feels like he’s seeing double, like he’s watching a long pilgrimage that’s somehow been condensed or played back.

The first break in the music, Dan laughs her way out of the song, takes a swig of wine, and says “how was that?” into the mic, pointing out towards the place where the monsters are standing. Nicky puts two fingers to his mouth and whistles.

Her stage presence is unparalleled. She’s funny and a little hard on her audience, begging them to sing louder, drive her offstage if they can. Neil can see why she’s in charge, unofficially. She paces circles around the stage like she’s boosting morale. She barely needs the microphone to be heard.

They topple back into their set without warning, a trust fall of a count-in where Renee bangs out a few warning shots and everyone’s hands fly to their instruments.

Somewhere in the thicket of fans, Neil hears someone call, “Andrew!” He sees an incongruous flash, turned towards the audience and not the stage.

“Nicky, Nicky Hemmick! Nicky, over here—“

“Andrew,” Neil starts.

“We love you, Neil,” someone screams.

“Don’t—“

Neil’s jostled down a stair, and Andrew yanks him back up.

“Ignore them,” Andrew says viciously.

“Yeah,” Nicky agrees, but he’s clearly rattled. “What are they gonna do?”

Neil struggles to get his bearings. A few of them are still shouting, recording them with their phones or fighting their way through the crowd towards them. Nicky motions for them to stop, but a few people get close enough to beg for autographs or snap blurry photos of themselves with the band members in the background. He wonders if it was the fans from before, upset enough to tip off the whole crowd to their seat numbers. 

“Bet you didn’t think we were this famous, huh?” Nicky jokes nervously. 

Andrew has no problem with shoving people away, and Nicky frantically apologizes as many times as he can before he just starts shaking his head. Neil is forced painfully into Nicky’s side, and he can hear people in their row restlessly asking what’s going on.

Most of the audience is oblivious, still focused on Foxes’ raucous energy, but the three of them are surrounded for another ten minutes before people start to get frustrated enough to give up. The rest of them are shoulder-tapped by security, and the throng dwindles to nothing.

“You okay?” Nicky asks. Neil nods, but when he blinks he can still see pinholes of light from camera flashes. He knows that the photos will end up online where anyone can see him as he is right now, and they can guess at his habits or zero in on his location if they want to.

He’s been reckless for a long time, but standing pooled in stage lights feels entirely, chokingly different from wading down into the crowd and feeling the attention slither around him like seaweed.

Andrew crushes a hand to the back of his neck, and Neil inhales all at once.

“Kinda ironic that crowds freak you out so much when you sing for one every night,” Nicky says. He’s standing half in front of Neil, eclipsing the concert still unfolding in the background.

“It’s not the crowd.” Neil shakes his head to clear it. “It’s—they all know who I am.”

‘They think they do,” Nicky corrects firmly, fingers curling into Neil’s arms. The harpy tattoo peers out from under his sheer sleeve, a monster in a veil.

“They want to,” Andrew says, gaze tossed out to the back of the venue. His face is so blank and washed out under the lights that it’s like it’s been chemically stripped of colour. “You’ve caught their attention.”

Neil pulls free from Nicky’s arms and sits heavily in his seat. “I don’t want it.”

“You might not have a choice,” Nicky says, sitting next to him, smothering the distance Neil keeps trying and failing to cultivate.

“You always have a choice,” Andrew says, and when Neil looks up at him, he’s holding out his right hand with its painted yes. Neil accepts it gingerly, and Andrew drags him to his feet.

They watch the rest of the concert from backstage.

Andrew sits propped up on an amp, and Nicky alternates between trying to get the band’s attention from the wings, and mimicking Matt’s solos with vigorous air guitar. Neil suspects he’s trying to get him to laugh.

Neil has enough distance now to feel stupid about locking up during such a minor incident and proving Kevin right. The crowd has already forgotten them, or never knew they were there. The show goes on. 

They’re coming up on their encore performance when Neil feels a buzzing at his hip. 

He fishes an unfamiliar cellphone out of his pocket and stares uncomprehendingly at the message lingering on screen, sent from a number he doesn’t recognize.

A neat little ’60’ and nothing else.

[sepiadice]

Art Direction of Tabletop RPGs

Dungeons and Dragons is good at being Dungeons and Dragons.

That shouldn't be a controversial opinion, and it's not worded as one, yet I have one friend who derisively labels it as a war game, and another friend who believes D&D is all you need in regards to TRPGs. These two are from distinct eras of my life, and have never met.[1]

My moderate view is such: Dungeons and Dragons is good. It's not the ultimate system, but if you want a western fantasy built on the framework of Tolkien, Fifth Edition is the way to go. You could use a different system, in theory, but no other system has the same reach and stability. Everyone knows D&D, which is valuable.

Its combat and mechanics are a good balance of grit and function, and it's mostly teachable. My friend's 'wargaming' derision is because he believes it doesn't support role-playing well. Something about the guy who wrote Dungeon World saying if it's not in the rules, it’s not in the game.[2] But I've always felt that D&D makes the right decision in not bogging it down with structure and dictating the 'correct' way to role-play.

However, if you want to do anything else (Sci-fi, non-european fantasy, superheroes, Slice of Life), best case scenario the seams will creak in the attempt. D&D is good at being D&D, and that's the limit.

I appreciate D&D. I'll play D&D, happily!

There's a reason I bristle when “DM” is used as the generic term.

That said, I've always had a sort of tonal disconnect when I play D&D, and it's because of the art.

Fair warning, what follows is a lot of personal interpretations and vague mumbling trying to relay a point. I’m not actually an authority on anything.

(Dungeons & Dragons owned by Wizard of the Coast . Image sourced from Wikipedia)

Dungeons and Dragons does not have pretty art. It’s technically well done, and far from ugly, but it’s not actually inspiring. Above we have the cover of the Player’s Handbook, the first thing most new players see. Setting aside that the focus of the cover art for what should be the book about Player Characters is a giant monster man[4], the cover is very orange. The actual people are composed of muted, neutral colors, and the background is vague and out of focus.

It’s not really conveying an air of fantastic worlds and larger-than-life characters (giant wearing a dragon skeleton aside). It coveys oppression, monotony, and “realism”.

(Pathfidner owned by Paizo. Image sourced from Wikipedia)

Pathfinder’s core rulebook, on the other hand, is colorful. Look at that big, bright dragon![5] Sensibly dressed Fighter Man’s brown clothes are still bright enough to pop him out from the green-grey dungeon background[6], and Fantastic Sorceress’s red dress is also bright and helps frame the Fighter as her hand glows with magic.

While both covers feature a woman with an orb of magic, D&D’s cover shows magic as contained and lighting a small space, while Pathfinder’s magic is big and trailing, hinting at movement.

Actually, D&D’s mage girl doesn’t have a cohesive movement. Is she falling from above? Jumping in from the left? Where is she going? It doesn’t really follow in a meaningful way.

Anyways: color. Yes, yes, I know the plague of brown and and muted tones is a much whined about criticism, and it might seem odd from someone calling himself SepiaDice, but neutral tones have their place; usually as background and supporting other colors to pop more.

Besides, Sepia has a noble history in film, the brown range isn’t a common image color, and Sepia is fun to say.[7]

Color choice is very important. Bright colors draw the eye and make visuals more distinctive. Bright colors also denote and bring energy to things. Dull colors are used for locations meant to be calm and sedate. If you want the characters and locations to seem fun and full of life, you fill it with bright colors.

Everything breaths, adventure can strike at anytime!

Dull colors, and it’s hibernation. People are around, but they don’t seem to enjoy it.

But let’s turn to the visual storytelling: what does each cover tell you about life in their setting?

D&D: lots of posing to look fancy, but there’s no real sense of energy. Jumpy Magerson’s weird Megaman hop has been mentioned, of course. The Giant has a look of dull surprise as he drops Jumpy Magerson,[8] as he holds a sword in the non-active hand. Foreground fencer man is wide open, holding his own foil up and away from where it might accidentally jab anyone. The locations is… orange? Looks like there might be lava geysers?

Patherfinder: A dragon roars at its enemies! Teeth bared, tongue coiled, tendons on display! Wings unfurled to make it seem larger! The fighter is yelling back at the dragon, his weapons mid-swing! Shoulder forwards to defend the rest of the body! The Sorceress is holding a firm stance as she casts a spell that crackles with arcane energy!

Pathfinder’s cover tells a story of epic combat, fizzly magic, and energy. D&D’s cover tells a story of two adventurers existing in a space also occupied by a giant.

Now, both of these systems have the same ancestry, as Pathfinder is an iteration on D&D 3.5.[9] But one sparks more joy when I look at it.

But let’s do another case study. I’ll need an audience volunteer, and my brother’s the only person immediately on hand.

I’m going to make him list three qualities of goblins real quick:

Green

Wimpy

Sneaky

Awesome. Don’t know if the green text translated, but those are what he wrote. Give him a hand!

So, with those three traits in mind, let’s look at a goblin picture from D&D Beyond:

(Owned by Wizards of the Coast. Source here)

Like, you can’t say D&D doesn’t call that a goblin, it’s literally on the goblin page.

This guy is yellow. He’s built like a four foot tall WWE Wrestler. He’s defending with his advancing arm as he rears up to smack ya!

(Okay, “Sneaky” is a hard one to argue.)

Moving on, what does Pathfinder call a Goblin:

(Owned by Paizo. Source here)

Look at this charming miscreant! Green. Big ole head. Good mix of of ugly and oddly adorable. Probably two feet tall, and happens to want your two feet, please, but you could step on him if you’d like.

He also looks like a Gremlin

(An adorable little chaos monster owned by Warner Brothers. Source)

Point is, Pathfinder’s more cartoony take on the classic monster feels more in the spirit of the thing. Every time I see one of those goofy faces, I feel like I’m in for an enjoyable time.

Bringing us back around to the point of this essay: the art direction of D&D bogs down my theater of the mind. The art in the rulebooks don’t inspire creativity or fantastic visions. It inspires… dull, lifeless people walking through dirt roads flanked by dead grass.

I don’t enjoy looking at D&D’s art. Relatedly, I don’t like looking at the art of Magic: the Gathering, whose style I can’t help by see in every D&D sourcebook cover I see. Neither game invokes an inviting world, but utilitarian ones that exist to give quick, forgettable visual flair to represent mechanical card effects.

To save making this long essay even longer and unfocused, I’ll save talk of actual ‘canon’ lore for another time.[10]

So why do I, a semi-professional funny man and sad dreamer who can’t actually draw, want to talk about rulebook art?

Well, I’ve always felt a disconnect when I play D&D. I make the characters, I roll the dice, I attempt to role-play, but I’ve always had an emotional gap between me and the character I’m playing. I like the concept, but when I use my theater of the mind, the character feels stiff and divorced from everything. Kind of like the 5th Edition rulebook.

Then I saw this:

(Source tweet. All of this artist’s work is great and I wish I could hire them.)

This half-elf showed up on my twitter timeline, and my first thought was ‘How come my characters don’t look like that?’

Soon followed by ‘Why couldn’t they?’

Then I completed the trilogy with ‘Why haven’t I imagined my characters in a style appealing to me?’

As I was deep into contemplating what sort of aesthetic I consider my “brand”,[11] it was entering a mind primed to start overanalyzing.

So, how do I imagine my characters? In the neighborhood of the D&D art, if I have  firm concept. Micah Krane always was mentally nebulous to me, just kinda being a generic half-elf dude. Trix (who was created for the brightly colored Pathfinder) is green-haired and wears a tail coat, but otherwise is also normal looking in my mind’s eye. In the last two D&D campaigns, Tybalt was also vague in appearance, and Teddi had Goat horns, but those were meant to stand out on a generic rogue character.[13]

But you know what I’ve never put on a character I’ve played? Glasses.

I hope that those who read my various media reviews[14] don’t need this overly explained, but I like glasses. I, myself, don’t wear glasses, but I find them to be great accessories in character design. Frames the eyes, come in a variety of shapes, adds bit of extra visual interest. I always point out Meganekkos and pay them extra attention.[15] I really, really like girls with glasses.

But I’ve never made one. Because there’s no cute design in D&D rulebooks. Just a range of handsome people to ugly halflings.[16]

That is the effect of art design in a system. It sets tone, expectations, and aesthetic for the players. It’s so ingrained that everytime I see art of players’ characters that break the standard, it always takes me aback. It’s inspiring to see artists who manage to divorce D&D the game from D&D the art.

I want to imagine fun, personally appealing characters. But the subtle direction of the insert art as I look through to rulebook, or the provided character portraits of D&D Beyond does not suggest things I like to see. It infects the mind, and leaves specific molds. People in practical, mundane clothes, walking down drab, uninteresting roads.

It’s the same lack of escapism that makes Western (Video Game) RPGs super unappealing to me.[17] Dark Souls, Elder Scrolls, Bioshock don’t look like fun places to be, they look tiring and full of splintery furniture waiting to do 1d4 nonlethal damage.

So I have to talk about anime now.

My mother was staying at my home a little while ago, and I turned on My Roommate is a Cat. This prompted her ask me about what about anime was appealing. I couldn’t form a competent answer for the question at the time, but it’s had time to churn in my head.

Anime is a good middle ground between cartoon and realism. It can broach deeper topics and more mature storytelling than children’s cartoons,[18] without sacrificing a light visual tone and fantastic imagery. Also, the fact that it’s produced by a non-American, non-European culture lends a degree of separation with cultural expectations and tropes. Enhances Escapism.

Luckily, in (very) recent years, after generations of exchanging video games and animation back and forth, Japanese Tabletop RPGs are starting to join in on the fun.

Which means I can look at Ryuutama.

(Image copied from DriveThruRPG. Brought over the pacific by Kotodama Heavy Industries. Buy this book.)

I love this system.

Watercolor art direction. Layout evokes a spellbook. Two Characters and a Dog take the focus on the cover, while the road signs and tiny shrine in the background invoke the emphasis on travel and wonder.

The interior art?

(Taken off the Ryuutama (english) website. Buy this book.)

Well, that makes the game just look like fun. Cartoony characters fighting cat goblins. Conflict, but it doesn’t make life feel like a constant struggle. A world I wish to inhabit. There’s also more detailed images of dragons and other world-establishing pictures mixed in to give the art range, but it’s this sort of charming that makes Ryuutama the first rulebook I actually sat and read cover to cover.[19] It’s a good system I already reviewed. Buy this PDF, maybe they’ll reprint the physical book.

Anyways, I’ll admit, the art’s a little too simple for D&D. Perfect for Ryuutama, and the end of the scale I want my mental image to be, but overshoots the sweet spot. And it’s difficult enough to find players for the much more popular 5e, so Ryuutama exclusivity would grind my playtime to zero.

Still, Ryuutama does a great job of setting it’s light, fantastic tone, where D&D has failed me. The art direction of the books, and years of exposure and defaulting to what I assume D&D should look for establishes a mental habit that’s hard to break. Wizards of the Coast has drowned nerd spaces with its particular kind of art, especially with MtG plastered all over hobby stores, deck boxes, dice, playmats, and even D&D sourcebooks.

That’s not even accounting for fanworks and the speculative fiction art in online spaces.

So what do I want to look like? Were I blessed with talent or with patient to actually learn to draw well, what would I be referencing?

What about what set my expectations of fantasy years before IndigoDice invited me to that fateful Traveller game?

(Screen cap of Tales of Vesperia grabbed from here.)

Well, okay, what I’m actually thinking about is Tales of Symphonia, but Vesperia’s graphics are kinda what nostalgia tells me Symphonia tooked like, as opposed to what it actually looks like.[20]

Look at that verdant town! Warm lighting, bright characters, leaves growing to depict life. A hotel built into a tree. This is a fantasy world that is unashamed about life thriving.

Forget solarpunk. This is my aesthetic.

As for the party members…

(Okay, Judith’s a little gratuitous, but The Definitive Edition lets me put her in a suit, and she’s awesome. Art stolen from here.)

Oddly enough, as far as JRPG outfits go, these are pretty tame with details.[21] Mostly bright, popping colors, even Yuri’s dark clothes are done in such a way to not feel grim and edgy, hints of personality, and I just enjoy looking at them.

The Tales series as a whole does a good job of taking European fantasy and applying Japanese whimsy to the design. Also yukatas. Every member looks like the hero of their own story, while still being part of a cohesive whole.

Which is, you know, the ideal way to operate as a TRPG party.

So, what’s the take away?

Artists, keep being creative. Pull inspiration in from things besides the rulebooks and Critical Role. Look at the other things you love and bring visual flare and whimsy to your art. Then share it. Ignite the passions of those of us who can’t do the draw-good thing.

Players, play with the tropes. I love doing it narratively and mechanically. My favorite rogue is still my neutral good stage magician who would never do a crime. Explore what’s possible in the freeform world of tabletop games, both in play and your Theater of the Mind.

Game designers, branch out with the art. And stop using Powered by the Apocalypse as a crutch.[22]

Hope this long ramble was enjoyable and cohesive. If you want more of this, my other works, and maybe to allow me to make an actual play podcast, consider supporting me through Patreon or Ko-fi.

Until next time, may your dice make things interesting.

[1] Though I would love to read a transcript of the two discussing it. It'd be a fun debate. [2] I don't like Powered by the Apocalypse for precisely this reason. Every actual play I've heard with the system has players talking about their characters in the abstract, because they're just pressing the buttons on their character sheet.[3] [3] I maybe should do a breakdown of PbtA one day. [4] Which is pretty poor direction. Do an epic group shot of characters battling a horde around them. [5] None of the D&D core books has a dragon on the cover. Come on, that should’ve been a gimme! [6] Similar note as footnote 5. [7] Also CornflowerBlueDice is too long to be catchy. [8] I figured it out! [9] I haven’t looked at at Pathfinder’s forthcoming second edition. Fifth Edition reclaimed it’s throne as The ubiquitous system after fourth lost its footing, so I don’t think there’s much point. [10] TL;DR: I ignore it. [11] Pulp Fantasy is too mundane. Steampunk is too victorian-y. Sci-fi fractals into so much. Solarpunk has appeal, but isn’t quite right.[12] [12] Haven’t really found the term. [13] Let’s not examine that I put more thought into female character design than male for the moment. [14] Which you should. Validate my efforts! [15] And desperately pray it’s considered innocent enough of a fetish that I don’t have to stop. [16] Never liked halflings. Gnomes are fine. Halflings, in art, have always been off-putting and malformed. [17] That and the emphasis of character customization kneecapping the Player Character’s narrative involvement. Can’t give them a personality if that’s the end user’s job! [18] Even Avatar: The Last Airbender felt like it had to sneak the narrative depth it achieved past corporate. [19] I do need to give it a reread, though. Relearn the system. [20] It still looks good, especially the environment, but the characters are kind of… leaning towards chibi. [21] This, specifically, is why I chose to highlight Vesperia over Rune Factory. [22] Technically nothing to do with this essay, but I can’t stress this point enough.

[kairoskrp]

                                       — On the wicked wings of time, thy kingdom comes

Meet [ Choi Minsu ]

He is a [ twenty-four] year old  [ contract killer & artist ] currently residing in [ nanjin duplex, #405]. Visit and greet  him today!

Personality: 

Sol Minsu is a tricky man to figure out. On one hand, he is as energetic as a puppy and as clumsy as a giant on rollerskates. On another, he can become deceiving and as malevolent as the devil himself. He carries with him a shady aura, one that seems to radiate suspicion and makes people feel stuffy and inconstant. His honeyed words seem to draw those unwary to him, where he sets his trap and waits for it to be sprung. However, this is merely to those he does not trust or he himself is suspicious about, as he holds a completely different persona to those that are truly his friends. His sass and cleverness truly sets him apart from others, and the same goes for his friends. He is not a people-pleaser, and does not identify himself with a specific “crowd”, however, he he finds himself interested in you much more than usual you can expect a caring Minsu who will quite literally treat you like the royalty you are.

Spirit: Alecto (one of the three Furies)

Power: Fear Embodiment

VIsually Minsu’s eyes will become a dark, almost blood red with no sclera present, and his veins become extremely visible and turn a dark red around his neck, arms, and head.

Is able to sort of “sense” a target’s fears and take on that embodiment, using it to his advantage

Is a form of a mental power, although it’s hard for him to pinpoint a direct image of what the victim’s fears are

Is sort of like spidey-sense, where spiderman can “feel” something coming at him but won’t know it until he actually turns and sees it, but in Minsu’s case it’s when he actually turns into it

While in another form he can take on that image’s specific abilities and such, but on a slightly lesser scale

Also, he cannot verbally communicate with anyone when in a non-humanoid state and must rely on actions

If he isn’t focusing enough or if he becomes extremely emotional, his body might accidentally take on a fear without warning, causing possible harm to someone he didn’t mean for it to

As a sort of last resort, and only in the most dire circumstances, he is able to become a sort of cluster of energy which, at the same time, “reads” the fears of everyone in the surrounding area and manipulates itself into mentally exhibiting that fear to an extreme level

The reason why this is a last-resort, is because anyone in the vicinity of Minsu while he does this (anything in visual range) will most-likely die from the mental toll it takes on the victim. Also, Minsu will end up unconscious, or maybe even dead himself, as he is physically and mentally pushing his life force out of his body and using it for destructive means.

Biography:

TW: Extreme violence, heavy gore, heavy blood, themes of insanity, themes of parental abuse

i. Picasso

The room is filled with drawings, from the grey rug to the ceiling filled with glowing stars. Posters of movies, books, and famous art have become the wallpaper, with there being no sign of the former teal walls behind. There is no sign of toys or books in the room, no sign of the mess a 5 year-old Minsu should have made. Instead, there is only a pristine white bed, bedside chests filled with tools and brushes, and large easels covered in paint. Drawings that could be considered a level that of a young adult was compared to “child’s play” by Minsu’s mother, who always made sure that there was never an empty easel, never a blank page, never a painting not sold. It could be said that his “bedroom” was more of a full-time workspace. The rest of the house was no different, with his artwork being displayed in every corner and crevice available in the 5-story mansion. A few years ago, his mother had been living in a middle-class neighborhood and had two jobs, now, the family (consisting of Minsu and his mother) were living high above the upper class stature and the income was solely based off of the money made from Minsu’s artwork. His mother was comfortable and in some terms, lazy, living off of the “gravy train” her son was too young and naive to notice.

ii. Van Goh

It’s quiet the car ride home with the tension in the air growing more apparent by the minute. Minsu’s mother’s hands grip the steering wheel tightly as she jerks it left and right in an unconventional manner. Her eyes are hazy and her lips are pulled up into a mindless snarl, her gaze trained on the 12-year old sitting in the backseat. Minsu knows she’s too drunk to be driving, but the swelling bruise on his left cheek is enough to warn him about the dangers of getting in her way, so he sits with his hands placed lightly in his lap and his eyes empty and staring at the floor. Years of mental and physical torture have left him unresponsive to his mother’s harsh responses, causing him to block out all white noise associated with her.

“You’re an abomination, you know that?” She spits, looking more like the devil than a woman to him. The elegant burgundy dress and the pinstripe suit the two wear are more of a masquerade of the troubles faced at home, a veil to cover up the ugliness inside Minsu’s mother. “A shame to the family, that’s what you are. Might as well have been off with your father if this is how you repay me….” She mutters the last part but subconsciously Minsu perks up a bit. He’s never met his father, a man of low stature and wealth who disappeared soon after he was born, leaving his wife and son alone.

“Did you hear m-” And before she can finish there’s the sound of a horn echoing, the shattering of glass, the screams as his mother is sent through the front window of the car, her body flying through the air before slamming onto the asphalt road, sliding a bit until coming to a complete stop. Minsu’s eyes are shut as his entire world is quite literally rocked, head squeezed between his knees as he feels the seat belt being ripped from him and the cool night air as he too is flung from the car. He hits the ground with a sickening crack, but when he opens his eyes he realizes he is alive, and breathing, although everything is spinning.

He remembers the colors, vivid and bright as he slowly pushes himself up to gaze at the mangled body of his mother not too far from him. His face is emotionless as his eyes travel over the visible bones pushed through brazened skin, the spilled organs across the road, the small twitching of her hand as it lay limp and bent awkwardly in the air. Her face no longer looks like a face, instead to him it resembles the crushed pulp of an orange. He is emotionless when the paramedics arrive, he is emotionless when he is tugged into the arms of a police officer, he is emotionless as he is whisked away in an ambulance to the emergency room although his lips are glued shut in the event of what has happened.

And Minsu learns something that day that stays with him for the rest of his life:

Karma is one hell of a creative bitch

iii. Monet

Minsu is lucky- now 17 years old, he had made enough money when he was younger to still stay in his mansion, although with a caretaker and tutors to help guide him. Now, he has made an impressive name for himself, known for works of art displayed all over the country and beyond. His insightful past seems to hold no weight on him as he paints with brush strokes that of a master, and a keen eye capable of picking out the tiniest and most obscure detail that inconspicuously would change entire painting.

However, not all was happy, dandy, said and done.

As with many celebrities- or rather figures of high idolization -Minsu must keep a persona reserved for the public and one for more personal times. To the outside world, he is a figure of perfection, of simplicity, and seems to model the very well-known statues he makes. He is gentle as dove, but as merciless as a bloodthirsty tiger when it comes to his business, and if anyone were to question veiled incidents….

There is a side to him that many don’t see, where the mind of a madman reigns over his kingdom with fits of rage and destruction. Enticement comes in the form of nightmares and panic attacks, where Minsu locks himself away with dread and sadness, where sobs of terror and screams of a broken mind echo through his studio. Where those that might feel sorry for him disappear like ghosts, and Minsu is left to pick up the pieces of the glory he has built.

His physicality may be that of a man, but his mind is that of the devil.

iiii. Vinci

Minsu is 22 years old when he breaks, finally, and in one sudden and terrifying instance that spirals him further down into the rabbit hole.

Criticism, in Minsu’s mind, is the tool used by insufficient beings to further spread false influence over those who would be classified as better than them. Malicious gazes and harsh words confirm this belief when he meets with these “critics”, one by one being visited by the artist under the guise of simply wanting to show off his artwork in hopes of having a changed review. Whispers in Minsu’s ear the night before had pushed him to this deed. A woman, unseen yet heard clearly through the fog of dreams and nightmares. It’s this voice that plants the seed of his madness, acting only as a guide in his endeavors and beyond with him the vessel of her deeds.

Fear, is their creed. Fear, shines in their eyes as Minsu wields a weapon known not to any mortal but all too-well coveted by the gods. Fear, is the power flowing through his veins as he takes on the form of some unimaginable creatures only fathomable in the deepest recesses of the mind. Fear, fills their cries as Minsu cuts them down one by one, hidden by the darkness of their homes and businesses. He knows not what he is, only that he is a force of terror that can only be found in nightmares and under the bed of a child at night.

A few of them are killed, the rest are found without any physical wounds, but their mind is broken completely. Slurred words and violent outbursts confirm what psychologists think- something happened that traumatized them bad enough to put them into this animalistic state.

No one knows who did it, they say. They find dog hairs, blood with the dna of crocodiles, and the claw marks of an undisclosed creature but no human dna, they say. They tried searching for a culprit but it looks like the cases will be closed, they say.

And no one can see the complacent smirk on Minsu’s face as he sits, watching the tv with luxury filling the world around him. No one can see how the wheels in his mind are turning, twisting, creating a plan that can only be as malevolent as the last.

He sits, thinking about his life and what has led up to this moment. Thoughts sift in and out of his head, before one particular one causes his smile to grow and his attention to become more focused on the future ahead.

The art of killing in enamoring, so why not make it something more?

[moorezako]

Purple Sky Part 2

Eventually the lizards draw to a halt, stopping at the edge of what looked like a thickly polluted river. The current looked strong, and there was no clear bridge or pathway across.

“God I hate these things.” Rowina groaned, “but this means we’re close to the start point, I heard there’s a marked tree just on the other side of this river, and that we can climb to the first point from there. You listening Brailin?”

Brailin hadn’t grown up around many rivers or things of that nature, in his village they mostly collected water from the rain and only when desperate would venture to one of the streams nearby. But regardless of his shaky knowledge of water, Brailin was certain that rivers should never be quite that muddy. The river in front of him was not only so thick he could not see an inch below the surface, but it was also such a rich brown. And that smell, he could swear it reminded him of…

“Chocolate. You really never been out of Rockdale? I crossed one not two days out from your village.”

The memory hit him immediately. A wealthy moustache twirling man venturing from an Eastern city, Brailin remembered how he had saved the man from a carnivorous plant and in return the man had given him a bar of what he called ‘chocolate’. He had made it last almost a whole week, sneaking bites every now and then. It was a taste unlike anything he’d experienced in Rockdale. In front of him was a near infinite supply of the thing he’d dreamt of since he was a boy.

        Brailin made a mad dash for the river bed, emptying his flask as he ran, preparing to gorge himself on fine liquid. The rock connected with his head and he tripped, going down hard. Rubbing the back of his head Brailin whipped around to face his aggressor. Rowina stood there with a look of mild indignation, a slight smirk creeping onto her face.

“What are you doing?” She spoke as if addressing a small child, “you can’t drink from the river it’s poisonous. Get up, we need to keep moving, there are all manner of things in there just waiting for some poor sap like yourself.”

Somewhat dazed and disgruntled, Brailin side-eyed the river.

“Right, so how exactly are we planning on getting over here again?”

“See those mounds protruding from the current there? Where the rivers flow shifts slightly and you can see a spotted greeny yellowy pattern?”

Brailin peered over the river, it was almost impossible to spot from this angle but he thought he could make out what she was talking about.

“Well those are a special type of toadstool that grow beneath the surface of the river. They can generally support a pretty substantial weight and these lizards are pretty good at jumping between them. All we’ve got to do is point them in the right direction and pray to whatever god you believe in we don’t fall off. Sound good?”

Good was not a word Brailin would use to describe, strapping himself to volatile lizard and being hurled from toadstool to toadstool across a monster infested death river, but as he tilted his head skyward, and saw the collection of dazzling purple mountain ranges above, he felt a new sense of determination sweep over him. Brailin nodded.

“Good because that’s the only way we’ve got.”

          The two prepared themselves for the crossing, harnessing each other together with several metres rope incase one of them fell in.

“Ok Brailin, because I’ve done this a few times already, I’m going to go first and you’re going to follow my lead, staying one platform behind at all times, got it?”

Brailin nodded, but he was barely listening, something had caught his eye. In the distance, back the way they’d come, was a pair of lizards not unlike their own. This was not uncommon to find other travelers on the yellow path, however something was off. These two were different, he knew it. One of them was a hulking man, easily a couple foot taller than himself. His face represented that of a humanoid bull, a brutish nose, beaded eyes and fearsome horns. He was unmistakably a minotaur. The other figure was miniscule in comparison, a slender frame and cloaked in a black garb similar to Rowina however not an inch of skin was visible on this shrouded individual. They were approaching at a remarkably fast pace.

“Brailin are you listening to me?”

Brailin’s attention snapped back to Rowina.

“Look.”

Rowina turned her gaze over to the pair just in time to see the Minotaur draw an axe from behind his back large enough to pass for a giants letter opener.

“Follow me and whatever happens don’t stop for a goddamn second.”

Leaving her steed behind, Rowina took a sprinting leap towards a spot on the river and skidded to a stop, grabbing the side of the floating schroom. Brailin didn’t need to be told twice, past fears dwarfed by the size of that axe, he took a running jump and landed heavily behind Rowina. Again she jumped and once more he followed suit. Jump, land, repeat. They were about 10 meters from the shore line when their pursuers closed in on the riverbed. We had enough of a head start at this point, we just need to get to the other side and then maybe we can disappear and lose them in the jungle, he thought.

          The next jump was a lot larger than the previous ones, and the target was much less forgiving. He steeled himself, and jumped. He could tell he was off from the moment his feet left the ground, he felt his torso and lower body splash into the thick brown liquid as his arms scrambled to grab onto the platform. Rowina was already landing on the next platform, however his short jump jerked her backwards. As she fell Rowina managed to flick out one of her many knives and by stabbing into the toadstools surface she was able cement a hold on her platform.

           Brailin’s imagination went into overdrive, picturing that giant axe splitting his head or some unimaginable horror from the depths chomping down on his legs and dragging him under. Spurred on by the taste of sweat, chocolate and fear, Brailin dug his fingers into the squishy surface and hauled himself to safety. His momentary triumph was quickly drowned out by the low growl of his gargantuan follower,

“That was a close one little man. You never know what could be lurking down there.” The minotaur had just landed with a splash on the toadstool one behind Brailin’s.

“Your chief was quite insistent we return you alive if possible, he was worried for your safety wasn’t he Lucas.” Now closer, the one called ‘Lucas’ was more visible. Beneath his hood was a deathly pale face, etched with visceral runes and a cruel smile.

“You know he’s lucky we showed up when we did because I don’t think ol Brailin here was going to be returning with his precious artifact anytime soon, do you?”

Lucas shook his head, eye’s drilling into Brailin’s. Brailin turned his gaze behind him, the jump to the next platform was even further than the one he just made.

“You know I hate to disappoint an old chief but I think we’re going to have to take that artifact of his for ourself to sell to someone a little more lucrative-”

Before he can finish the sentence, an arrow darts past Brailin and strikes into the minotaur shoulder, forcing him to  grunt in pain through gritted teeth.

Rowina stands several meters back, bow raised, “the next one is going to be further north unless you back away now.” She spoke calmly but with a snarl to her voice. Brailin, seeing his opportunity, prepared to make a  jump for it. Unfortunately as he did so a green mist coiled around him and he felt every muscle in his body seize up. He was helpless as the minotaur launched from his pad and landed with a smack behind Brailin. He was wrenched into the air and held in front of the minotaur with one hand, pointed at Rowina. He could see the fear and agitation starting to encroach on Rowina’s demeanor.

“Now drop the bow, and bring over the artifact, or else poor elfy boy hear meets an unfortunately grisly end.”

As he spoke, the current sped along, beneath Brailin’s still paralysed frame.

“What’s it going to be girl? Lover boy, or your precious trinket. Bounty hunter to bounty hunter.”

The sound of the current, while moments ago had been calm, was now deafening. The heat of the sun was like a hot knife against her back and her skin itched with an ugly nervous sweat. Brailin’s eye’s flicked to her left, and she let the arrow fly.

          The green mist evaporated as quickly as it had come as Lucas felt an arrow rip through his kneecap. Brailin felt every nerve in his body switch back online and a red hot fire coursed through his veins as his eyes glowed a bright orange. Flipping himself around, Brailin lept into the air, slamming both his feet into the wall of muscle that had held him in its grasp. As his feet made contact, Brailin let loose a devastating torrent of flames that engulfed the minotaur and sent him reeling backwards, slipping into the sticky depths. At the same time, Brailin was hurled through the air like a missile,slamming hard into the next platform and skidding to a halt at Rowina’s side. The minotaur scrambled for a hold on the slippery surface, managing to dig his fingers in at the last second. But his relief was short lived as from the murky depths something of a child's nightmares rose. The large minotaur was almost completely engulfed by a set of colossal jaws sporting teeth the size of scimitars. An orange orb of an eye blinked vertically as a startling array of tentacles wrapped itself around its prey and dragged the beast into the awaiting maw. A moment passed, the current settled, and Rowena and Brailin each let out a sigh of relief. The pair had made it, and high above them, a utopia awaited.

*****

The trek upwards was an arduous one to say the least. They climbed from floating rock to floating rock, following the ropes laid out by those who had journeyed before them and been lucky enough to make it. Eventually they too had made it, and the end of their journey was within their grasp. They could soon see buildings that could only belong to the people who lived here. But something was off. For one there was not nearly as many buildings as they had expected and the ground they climbed across was not a magnificent purple as it looked from the ground, but a cold stone grey. Despite this however, there was no mistaking that the view was in fact, utterly remarkable. They could see kilometers in every direction. Sparkling blue lakes, the brilliant greens of the jungle. They could even see the colossal Greatschroom they had passed under on their way there.

“Good thing neither of us is afraid of heights.” Brailin said as they walked across their fourth rickety rope bridge, a startling void beneath them. Rowina was quiet

           Finally they arrived at the main area of the ‘city’. Their arrival was met with cautionary stares from the people living there. Frail children darted from building to building, dressed in tattered clothing. The buildings, they could now see, were mostly in ruins, left dilapidated by Time’s cruel hand. They walked silently as they took things in, the misty air, the frightened children, the colourless uncared for landscape.

“Rowina, what’s going on, what has happened here?”

Rowina didn’t say anything, she kept her head down and continued to walk towards the centre of the town, Brailin in tow.

“Rowina.” His tone was stern and he was no longer walking in her stead. “I’m serious. This isn’t a Utopia,” he let out a humourless laugh, “it’s not even a city. So why don’t you tell me what the hell is going on.” Years of disillusioned promises filled his voice.

Rowina sighed, “follow me, and I will show you.”

Tired, frustrated and angry, Brailin reluctantly followed. She lead him to a stone door carved into the mountain in the centre of town. She took a key from a necklace she’d been wearing and placed it into the door. With a mechanical click, the door opened and Brailin was beckoned inside. Rowina had lit a lantern and together they ventured deep into the floating mountain. As they walked Brailin could make out ancient symbols carved into the walls, to archaic to read. Eventually, he could make out a faint glow coming from the distance. Until that glow was just as bright as Rowina’s torch, and the two emerged into a large circular room, at the centre of which protruded a large purple crystal, glowing with a supernatural energy.

“Enough Rowina, you need to tell me exactly what is going on or I walk back the way I came right now.”

“You don’t need to yell, I’m going to tell you everything.” She took a deep breath.

“First off, Purple Sky isn’t real. At least the idea of Purple Sky that hopeful idiots such yourself dream about, isn’t real. Purple Sky was the forgotten dream of a brilliant madman. A man with so much power, that he was able to warp entire landscapes to his own twisted idea of what made fantastical. But you’re right, this isn’t a Utopia, for the people who live here it’s nothing but a nightmare. I’m sure in the beginning it was fine, when they had people to venture to the surface and hunt for them, but as their population dwindles… They have no food, barely any water. For god’ sake they’re living off of what birds they can trap up here. And all so that people on the ground can have something pretty to look at and dream of a more exciting life outside their dreary, boring village. Meanwhile I dreamed of getting the hell off this floating rock.”

Brailin was silent, staring at her as she unraveled everything that had been swamping her mind since she began her journey.

“Right now, we are sitting at the heart of Purple Sky. That ‘trinket’ I stole from your village is part two of a two part off switch.” She removed two shards of differently coloured crystals, one red and the other blue. Her hand outstretched, offering the red shard to Brailin.

“I need two people to stop this thing.”

For a moment there was nothing but an eery silence so thick you could cut it with a knife. Then Brailin spoke.

“This Is... Insane. You ask me to help you turn off a floating city, endangering who knows how many lives up here and on the surface, without even knowing what’ll happen and this was what you wanted me here for this entire time.”

“Yes.”

Brailin narrowed his eyes.

“How can I trust you.”

“You can’t.”

*****

In the town of Rockdale, a child wakes up, crying for his mother. The rainbow trees tremor and shake and the mother holds the child in her arms, lying as she tells him there’s nothing to worry about when of course she has no idea.

In the city of Yellowseed an elderly shop keep curses as a tremor causes a beloved earn to crash to the floor, ashes spilling across his leather shoes.

In Cherryton a young girl prays as she feels the vibrations beneath her feet. Her prayer quickly changes to one of concern for her father, whom she knows to be out hunting boar in the wilderness.

And deep in the jungle, a grown man cries as he sees the heavens themselves crash to earth. He falls to his knees and sobs into the ground. His tears splash softly to earth, and as they do, they fall upon toadstools not of yellow or gold, but a soft stone grey.

So that’s it, my first foray into the world of Daymare, hope you guys liked it. I know a lot was left unexplained but I’ll be sure to develop things further in the future.