#pseudo medieval art

[la-belle-histoire]

Guinevere and Iseult: Cartoon for Stained Glass, William Morris. 1862.

[bibliotheksbewohnerin]

the Baldur's Gate brain rot worm is real, there's ✨illuminated✨ fanart happening and everything

[mock-arts]

Cover art for @shiftyarchfey’s fic for the bingyuanminibang (on twt).

Check it out on ao3! (Also on ao3: this art)

Help! I’m Being Abducted by the Demon King!

Shen Yuan has a peaceful life. Ever since leaving the castle, its rules and hypocrisies, he could allow himself to forget what could have been. His brother is after all the famous knight in shining armor and he merely the librarian. But once demons start invading, that life too is over. What are you supposed to do if you are being abducted by a powerful demon king? Read him stories apparently.

Bookworm Shen Yuan x Demon King Luo Binghe in a pseudo-medieval AU, dragons and knights galore!

Shen Jiu and Shen Yuan Qingqiu are Not the Same Person, Knights, Dragon | Dragon Monsters, Background Relationships, Naughty goats aka just normal goats, minor ocs to fill out a farming village, Slightly oblivious Shen Yuan, Shen Jiu as an overprotective brother, Neither Bingge nor Bingmei but something in between, What happens if he has Shen Jiu as a Knight to squire under but also refuge in a library, story ends in monsterfucking

(Currently rated M, though rating will increase in later chapters)

[thetownsendsw]

Today marks the premier of #Pathfinder’s Triumph of the Tusk Adventure Path, so I’d like to take a moment to discuss a relevant topic near and dear to my heart.

ORCS!

While Tolkien was drawing on some linguistic antecedents, Orcs in fantasy originate from The Hobbit & Lord of the Rings, where they’re brutish soldiers of various forces of evil.

Initially lacking redeeming quality, Orcs have become a darling of pop culture, their thuggish nature explored from many angles across TTRPGs, video games, comics, novels, and more.

Now, when you picture an Orc, you no doubt imagine something akin to the Warcraft or Warhammer franchises: statuesque, green skinned humanoids with protruding underbites and looming tusks, often locked into a primitive, itinerant lifestyle, eschewing technology beyond what they pillage from other races.

Interestingly, none of this is in Tolkien.

In Tolkien, “Orc” was essentially another word for “Goblin,” or perhaps unusually large Goblins. Far from statuesque, Gollum (a (former?) Hobbit) could easily be confused for one. The Uruk-hai, a new, stronger Orcish offshoot were described as Orcish in appearance but only as tall as a Man, not taller.

Tolkien’s Orcs are described as deformed, but nothing as specific as green skin or tusks is specifically mentioned (Tolkien saved in-depth sensory detail for trees, and occasionally beards).

Far from being savages, Tolkien’s Orcs were–in his grand Romanticist narrative–stand-ins for industrialization. They were destroying the forests to build grand weapons of war, and soot-covered Mordor evoked the smokestacks of 19th century london.

In many ways the conflict of LotR can be interpreted as Tolkien pitting the noble myths and tales he studied up against his real experiences in WWI.

(the thought amuses me of a firmly medieval fantasy setting, except when we zoom in on the Orcish Badlands they’re all shelling each other from the trenches)

But while none of these traits are in Tolkien, there is a source where they are central.

The Green Martians, or Tharks, first appeared in A Princess of Mars by Edgar Rice Burroughs, published in All-Story Magazine from Feb-July 1912, well before any of the kids Tolkien decided to tell a fairy tale to were born.

The Tharks are described as 15 foot tall nomadic savages, favoring mighty beasts and weapons salvaged from the more civilized races of Barsoom. They have green skin and tusks, as well as six limbs (interestingly, the middle limbs are described as functional as either crude arms or secondary legs, but art always just depicts four arms)

Culturally, the Tharks are clearly meant as extensions of the Apache raiders encountered in the early chapters of the book set in Arizona; i.e. some California ranch-owner’s idea of wasteland savages. Nomadic, inhuman raiders redeemable only when breaching their primitive traditions.

The parallels are almost uncanny, and I’ll admit I’m honestly not sure where the crossover occurs. Early editions of D&D–another driver of fantasy trends–depict orcs as pig-people, which is probably how tusks became so iconic. They later added gray skin, which persisted officially until the current edition.

Somewhere between there in ‘74 and Warhammer in the early 80s is when the pseudo-Barsoom look took over in broader culture, and at this point there’s no getting around it. Even the more recent Tolkien film adaptations can’t entirely escape the expectation of modern Orcishness.

Turning back the clock a bit, Tolkien notably was never entirely sure where Orcs came from. His first idea was that they were molded from clay by Morgoth, a dark mirror to Adam, but being a Catholic at heart, he disliked the idea of Evil being a creative force.

He flip-flopped for the rest of his life, whether Orcs were corrupted men/elves/hobbits, uplifted beasts, even (according to one post I saw) soulless bodies remotely piloted by demons. He could never quite square the need for unfailingly evil mooks with his own feelings on Good & Evil.

Personally, I find particular resonance in the parallel between what D&D used to call an “always chaotic evil” race and the very Catholic concept of Original Sin. Was Tolkien merely dancing around the idea that the Orcs only needed to be Saved?

I can’t say what Tolkien would think of modern Orcs, either their merging with an earlier, American space alien, or our attempts to humanize what was supposed to be fundamentally inhuman. But I think his insecurity speaks to the same source as our fascination.

Who among us hasn’t struggled with what it means to be good? Or to be evil? And if we are made to be evil, what does it mean to strive against that purpose or to surrender to it? Can we abandon the precepts of predestiny? Or do we reject that they were ever there?

Stare deeply into that Jungian shadow and tell me…

Is it green? And do you want it to be?

[inlandempir]

post on one of the dev forums for disco elysium, titled "THE BENEFITS OF A MODERN FANTASY WORLD". text version beneath the cut

There's been a lot of art and tech talk so far, it's all kinda dry or saccharine. I think it's time to juice it up by throwing in a proper essay.

THE BENEFITS OF A MODERN FANTASY WORLD

The world of No Truce! (we do have a proper name for it, but we’re shy) is not what you’d call “a generic genre world”. It is not pseudo-medieval stasis, as Forgotten Realms was, nor is it Fallout’s campy barbarism with guns. It is also not a Harry Potter/Batman/vampire fantasy world, which is basically “our world with a secret/special world within it”. Neither is it the tech-obsessed ‘punks’ of steam and cyber. It’s a modern fantasy world, a fantasy world in its modernity, which roughly corresponds to the middle part of our XXth century. Now that kind of thing opens up an array of new possibilities. It is a world with a promise of non-staticness, meaning, things appear undecided — they could go one way or the other. It is close enough to our own world for things to have meaning in it, it is a proper frame in which to explore themes relevant to our own society such as bigotry, power relations, politics, bureaucratic apparati, geopolitical relations, philosophy, ideology, religion et cetera. A pseudo-medieval world is not a proper frame for truly exploring themes of, for example, sexuality, for it lacks 1) a proper concept of sexuality, 2) an actual idea of societal progress and 3) a clear ideological dominant, which would be the place where values come from. All you can do in a static, societally unstructured world is give out-of-place shoutouts to present day communities for cheap popularity (“this is exactly my sexual orientation, how did they know?!”).

We find the ideological dominant missing because the western world is traditionally culturally critical of ideological dominants – critical of both state and religion. Anyhow, a classic fantasy world would feature two main ideologies – the “good” and the “evil”, of which the former is selfless and compassionate, but the other one is selfish and cruel. The attempts to overcome that have given us the Grittywelt – a world in which everyone is an asshole and pessimism rules the day. Unsurprisingly, Grittywelt is also static as hell and meaningful change is foreclosed from it. It is a “protection from false hopes”. As such, it is heavily unrealistic. Much more realistic would be people living in super gritty conditions, but not looking the part, that is, not really noticing the abnormal harshness of their conditions, because they don’t have much to compare them to, and being hopeful towards the next day, because surprise! This is how you do it. Survive, I mean. Being depressed is a luxury. In a way, I’d say we’re trying to create the obverse of the Grittywelt – a world in which everyone is empathizable, sort of a hero of their own story.

The modern era is also a fitting vessel for anachronisms – do we not have actual cyborg limbs and donkey-pulled carts operating in the same world at the modern era? Capitalism can also contain little feudalisms in a way, in which a single man or single family controls the entire economy of a town or a village and profits from it. And at the same time, it can also contain little socialist utopias, scientist villages, in which everything is provided by the State. Aside from being a basic feature of reality (anachronism is nothing more than time failing to fit the stereotype about it), it is also a lovable creative tool, allowing for a plethora of what-if-scenarios. Imagine a modern world, only without television; imagine a modern world in which there never was a global war, imagine a world in which fossil fuels are less available. Now, if you will, imagine one which has forgotten its antiquity, and one, in which there is not just water between the continents, but something worse as well — an anti-reality mass we call “pale” (also more on that later). Now imagine one, which has a legitimate and operative “religion of history” in place, which seeks for people it deems special enough to be the “vessel of progress”. (This is not an alternate history thing, by the way. An alternate history takes place in our world quite recognizably and has no more than one divergence point from history as it happened.)

One might ask, why would we not create an even more modern world, if we wanted to maximise our possibilities? Well one of the answers is that it would have destroyed the necessary element of escapism, another is that we cannot create a good alternate Information Era because we ourselves fail to understand the Information Era (More precicely, we have the information era in its infancy and it works via radio relays). We are too close to it and it is too new to understand it, it is “in progress”. The third reason would be that technology is not a fascinating subject for modern science fiction. It’s become a natural part of our reality. We don’t believe it’s going to save us anymore – it has failed to deliver for too long. I am of the belief that the themes of science fiction today are societal, political and psychological (one could maybe add aesthetical to it, for we also love the world for its beauty). All fantastic or sci-fi elements are means for best exploring those themes.

I have filled my page. That’s all for the time being. Thank you for reading.

Martin Luiga Writer

[rotworld]

28: Cold-Blooded

art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises

you've known for years that your best friend nor comes from the most dangerous and prominent dragon crime family in town. you've never worried about it too much, but you probably should have.

->original work. explicit; contains non-con, graphic descriptions of violence, manipulation, murder, feral behavior, possessive behavior.

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Red flag number one: Nor shows up at your door two hours before the party. There’s a pair of plastic drycleaning bags slung over his shoulder and he’s dragging a suitcase behind him. You don’t want to let him in but he does that thing you knew he’d do with his big, pretty tourmaline eyes and the saddest, most pathetic pout like a kitten begging to be rescued from a storm drain, and you cave. He waltzes right in like he owns the place and makes a beeline for your bedroom.

“This should be everything,” he says, laying the drycleaning bags out on your bed before he kneels to get the suitcase open. “Yours is on the left. Go ahead and start putting it on, I’ll help you with the ties in a second.” 

“You’re kidding.” You very pointedly don’t get a response. “You said this was a normal party.”

“It is normal,” he insists. “For me.” 

The zipper shrieks apart and he spreads the suitcase open across the floor. There’s an antique wooden box inside that smells faintly of floral perfume, the surface carved with intricate looping symbols that wouldn’t look out of place along the borders of a medieval tapestry. The hinges creak when Nor opens it. Small decorative jars of colorful glass and gold filigree sit in red velvet. There are brushes clasped by leather straps to the inside of the lid, ranging from broad, puffball bristles to very fine points. 

“What does that mean?”

Nor looks up with a pleading expression. “I’ll handle everything, okay? That’s why I brought all this stuff. And I’ll be next to you the whole time, I swear, I don’t even want to go to this stupid thing but my dad won’t get off my ass about it. We’ll just hang out in the corner, eat some food, and slip out when nobody’s paying attention.”

“This is a family thing?” He nods pitifully. How can a dragon, in human skin or otherwise, look so much like a scolded puppy? “Don’t just spring this stuff on me. I would’ve gone if you told me from the start, you don’t have to lie.” It wouldn’t be the first formal event you’ve saved him from and it probably won’t be the last. So why is he being so cagey about it? You pick up the drycleaning bag set aside for you and frown. “Nor,” you say slowly. “What is this?”

He grins, showing off a mouthful of daggers. “It’s your outfit,” he says, knowing damn well that’s not what you meant.

Red flag number two:the “clothes” are a tangle of sashes and scarves that will show far more than they cover. You peel off the plastic and run the material over your fingers. It’s nice for sure, really nice. Each sash is made of sleek black fabric that’s velvety smooth but lightweight and flowing, decorated with embroidery in intricate geometric patterns. The stitching is luminescent and changes color when you look at it from different angles, shimmering in a prismatic cycle from red to blue as you slide it across your palm.

“What kind of party is this, exactly?” you ask. 

“Dinner party with lots of standing around pretending to be important. You know, the usual.”

This certainly doesn’t look usual to you but you lose your train of thought when Nor suddenly undresses without warning or shame. He exhales slowly, pushing stark white hair out of his face and flexing the muscles in his back. 

A line of jagged bone like a miniature mountain ridge juts from his spine, bloodlessly piercing a thin membrane of pseudo-skin. You can see his wings trying to form, an unsettling squirming in the flesh of his shoulders, but he keeps them tucked away for now. His tail snakes out at the very bottom, a lithe rope of solid muscle with stiff thorny protrusions along the top. What used to be a pair of little rounded nubs have grown into snaking upturned horns, brown and rough like tree bark. Skin hardens in glinting patches along his back and down his sides. Nor’s scales are gold and nacreous silver. Seeing him shifted, whether half or whole, always steals your breath.

“I don’t love this either,” he says, his tail flicking irritably. “But it is what it is.” You’re surprised that there’s an identical outfit in the other bag. He puts it on with practiced ease, knowing exactly how and where to loop and tuck and tie each sash. The result is an elegant, form-fitting garment criss-crosses his body that accentuates rather than conceals. His chest is framed with black stripes over and under it, the scales of his hips on display in the gaps left at his sides. Long panels dangle in front of and behind his legs. There’s a strategically spaced gap left for his tail.

Looking him over, you realize it’s not quite the same outfit. His is plain. The sashes are undecorated, lacking any pattern or embroidery. 

“Did you mix these up?” you ask him.

He looks at you, head tilted and pupils narrowed into long slits. “No?” he says, sounding confused. “This one’s for family and that one’s for a, uh…guest. We really need to get started on yours, by the way. We’ve got like a thousand pieces of jewelry to put on each and then I have to do the ceremonial markings.” He gestures at the bottles and brushes. You haven’t even done anything and you’re already feeling overwhelmed.

“Maybe this isn’t a good idea. I don’t want to embarrass you. Shouldn’t you bring someone, uh…I dunno, prettier?” 

“Don’t ever say that again.” Your heart leaps into your throat when Nor lunges at you. You stumble back, pinned to the edge of your bed when he plants his hands down on either side of you. His eyes are wide and he’s baring his teeth, practically snarling at you. “What does that even mean, ‘embarrass me?’ You’re perfect. If I wanted someone else, I would’ve asked someone else. I want you—” You’re both startled by the sound of his claws ripping through your sheets and mattress. He backs off immediately, tail drooping and claws clutched against his chest like he doesn’t trust them. “I want you to come,” he says sheepishly. “There’s lots of people I could ask, but you’re…special. You always have been.” 

It makes you roll your eyes when he says stuff like that. It’s not that Nor is never sincere, but his reputation as a heartbreaker is legendary. He was a menace in high school and you’ve heard through the grapevine that he hasn’t changed much since, still a pretty face with a silver tongue and habit of never calling back. The two of you were a romcom waiting to happen—a rich boy who never heard the word “no” in his life and the only kid who wouldn’t kiss his ass, but things never went that way. You were the only constant in a rotating roster of fairweather friends who liked his family’s money and lovers he couldn’t be bothered to keep, the only one he’s ever asked to keep him company at these stiff family get-togethers.

You hold up the sash again, grimacing. “How do you know this’ll even fit me?” 

“Magic,” Nor says, waving his hand dismissively. “Now come on, hurry up and try it on.” His tail swats your leg when you don’t move fast enough.

It’s not like there’s nothing there. There always has been. Simmering just under the surface, there’s this tension you’re both afraid to acknowledge out loud. Nor insists that you get changed in front of him and watches just a bit too intently when you undress. He stands behind you when he ties the sashes in place, his chest pressed against your back and his breath blowing softly against your ear. He stretches the fabric from your waist to your shoulder and runs his hand over it, smoothing his palm over your skin. You offer to hand him the next one but instead he bends over you, forcing you to bend with him, and reaches for it himself.

You can feel him against your back. His pectorals, the firm, lithe muscle of his abdomen, his cock nestled between your thighs with only the fabric of the sash keeping it from twitching against your skin. He’s cool to the touch but he gets warmer the longer he’s pressed against you, absorbing your body heat. “Nor?” you say, your voice quivering with—nerves? Anticipation? Do you want him to stop or do you wish he’d keep going?

“Yeah?” he says, low and husky. He tilts you back upright and keeps working like nothing happened, stretching the next sash across your body. You shiver when he secures a tie at your neck, the tips of his claws softly grazing your throat. “What? Did you want to ask me something?” The tip of his tail coils loosely around your ankle. 

“Do I get a coat, at least? I’m freezing.” 

He snorts. “Don’t you remember what these are like? It’s a dragon party. You can bring one, but you won’t need it when we get there.”

Nor’s touch still lingers and sometimes grazes somewhere sensitive, but there’s some distance that wasn’t there before. He talks while he gets you ready, reminiscing on all the trouble you used to get up to together at these parties—more accurately, all the trouble he’d get into and you’d witness. Tearing holes in the tablecloths and knocking over very expensive floral arrangements with his tail, sneaking off to the kitchens and begging the chef to make you both an early dessert. She always did. You’re not the only one that sad, soggy cat look works on. 

The ceremonial markings take almost an hour all by themselves but Nor is surprisingly focused and patient when he wants to be. The symbols he draws are small and complicated. You can’t see what he puts on your forehead or neck but the small shapes he draws on your arms and legs are repeating, interlocking shapes, something like broad, flattened diamonds. Scales, you realize. They’re a scale pattern—Nor’s scale pattern. 

The brush tickles when it grazes your stomach. Nor teases you for squirming but he behaves for the most part. You try not to think about why that disappoints you so much. Tucked into a zipper compartment on the other side of the suitcase is a small fortune in gold chains, bangles, rings and necklaces. You don’t want any but Nor insists. “Going to be a little awkward to drive in all this,” you say.

“No worries,” he says. “Dad sent his driver.” 

You’re in the backseat of red flag number three for a drive that is both excruciatingly long and far too brief. The driver is wearing a suit and tie. He calls Nor “sir” and opens the door for you, then doesn’t say another word. It’s late and everything is shadow beyond the headlights and the faint glow of the moon on a winding country road. Nor wants to make conversation but you’re too unnerved to offer more than one-word answers and sounds of acknowledgement. “It’s like a business thing, but also just a fun thing,” he says, trying and failing to put your mind at ease. “A bunch of family friends come over and everyone catches up. We’re nosy. It’s a cultural thing. You’re supposed to announce anything new you’ve got going on, like if you’re going on a trip or getting mated.” 

“Do you have anything to announce?” you ask.

His hand rests on your thigh, thumb tracing the dried scale patterns he drew on your skin. He doesn’t answer. 

Nor’s father lives atop a hill at the edge of town. To call it a house or even a mansion is like calling the ocean “a bit of water.” The sprawling estate has a forest for a yard, complete with a tranquil lake where Nor used to swim as a boy, the water glittering on his scales like morning dew. The home itself is best described as a castle, a three-story complex of gray stone spires. The car pulls into a circle drive with a fountain in the center. Soft orange candle light flickers behind the curtains, not on the first or third floor but exclusively on the second. 

To your horror, Nor’s father is standing outside. He watches the car pull up with a scowl on his face, waiting beneath the arched entryway. He’s dressed like you and Nor but his sashes are far more numerous and extravagant, draped like a robe over his frighteningly tall figure. 

“Am I supposed to be here?” you whisper. “Why is he glaring at me?” You shrink back when the driver opens the door but Nor puts a hand on your shoulder and pushes gently. 

“Yes, you’re supposed to be here. And he’s not glaring at you, he’s glaring at me,” Nor says. He follows you out and grabs your hand, wrapping his fingers around yours. “It’s fine,” he insists gently. “Don’t worry, okay? Just trust me. I’m going to take care of everything.” 

You want to ask him what the hell that’s supposed to mean but you never get the chance because his father walks over. Druezaghrath never makes himself more than half-human. He looms over both of you, amber eyes flicking back and forth in black sclera. His scales are gold and his horns are much larger than Nor’s, but they arch straight back instead of curling up like his son’s. 

“You’re nearly late, Norlathellios,” he rumbles.

Nor cranes his neck and looks his father in the eye without flinching. “Can’t be late to my own fucking announcement,” he says. “What’re you gonna do? Start without me?” 

Druezaghrath narrows his eyes and smoke trickles from his nostrils. His tail thrashes, striking the concrete behind him hard enough to shatter it. His gaze flicks to you when you flinch at the sound and you avert your eyes. “Save your defiance. You have a challenger.”

“Fine.” Nor squeezes your hand. You don’t want to follow him when he starts moving. You dig your heels in. Something is wrong here, about all of this. Nor looks back at you with that sad expression but it doesn’t work this time. “Come on,” he says, tugging your hand a little harder. “I told you, it’s fine.” 

“Go inside,” Druezaghrath says. “We’ll join you shortly.” 

Your stomach lurches in panic. This is so much worse. Nor doesn’t want to go but he glances up at the cold stone and flickering windows with a solemn expression. “They’re already scared,” he says. “Go easy.” 

“Nor?” you say, your voice pitched in terror. He lets go of your hand. You try to reach for him but Druezaghrath’s large, coarse claws close around your forearm and drag you to a stop. “Nor, wait!”

He does, but only for a second. He looks back and his smile is bittersweet. “Sorry about all this. You’ll get it, when it’s over. It’ll make sense. And maybe you’ll…” He doesn’t finish the thought. His gaze flicks up to his father looming over you and he takes a deep breath. Then he turns on his heel, sashes fluttering, and disappears through the front doors. You try to follow him and don’t make it even one step, Druezaghrath’s grip on your arm tightening to painful, bruising pressure. 

“I need you to understand something,” he says. He turns you around and you see his eyes glinting like a predator’s in the dark. “If you run, I’ll catch you. You won’t get anywhere close to the property line. You don’t want to waste my time like that, and you need to save your strength. Nor has been looking forward to this.” His grip shifts down and he holds up your wrist, examining the ceremonial markings. “I really should’ve seen this coming,” he muses. “He was always so particular about you.” Your trembling makes him exhale sharply in amusement. “He didn’t tell you a single thing about what’s happening tonight, did he? That boy…” 

A whimper slips out when he starts moving and pulls you with him, far stronger than Nor and completely unconcerned with how much you fight and struggle. He drags you through a foyer so dark you can’t see your hand in front of your face, then up a carpeted flight of stairs. 

“My son has requested an audience to witness his mating announcement,” he explains, ignoring your pleas and protests and begging. “Some say he’s too young. I was well into my second century before I considered such a thing. There are concerns that a mate at this age might affect his decision making and negatively impact the family business. He must prove two things tonight: that he is capable, and that you are compatible. It sounds like the first test is already underway.” 

You don’t know what he means until you hear something in the distance, too muffled at first to make out. Something falling? Something hitting something? Candles flicker in wall sconces, lighting a long hall to a pair of wooden doors cracked ajar. You hear a low, rumbling growl like the grinding of stone and then a much shriller animal sound of distress that makes your blood run cold. Something crunches and splatters. Something hisses and wheezes, flailing against the hard stone floor. 

Druezaghrath approaches the doors first. He nudges them open, peering inside. You don’t want to look. Now everything you hear is wet—the slick sound of sharpness parting flesh, liquid spilling, soft things squeezed and crushed until they burst. “Is he…okay?” you whisper. Druezaghrath looks at you like you grew a second head. You don’t know why you’re asking, either. You don’t want to be here. You’re scared out of your mind. But the idea of him getting hurt, of those awful noises coming from him, makes the horror unbearable. “Nor, is he—he’s fighting someone, isn’t he? Is he hurt?” 

Nor’s father tilts his head, looking at you as though spotting something he finds interesting, maybe even appealing, for the first time. His grip on your arm loosens, his thumb rubbing gently at the bruises he left behind. “Your mate is strong,” he says with quiet pride. “I hope to see you match that strength.” He pushes both doors open and throws you forward. 

You might’ve caught yourself if the floor wasn’t wet. You land badly on your hip and shoulder and everything stings for a moment, the room out of focus. It’s red. You know that much. And it’s no mystery what all the red is because the acrid, metallic stench of it fills your nose. A circle of candles, mostly melted into puddles of wax, delineates what must have been the dueling grounds because the blood only rarely trespasses that boundary.There are people here—dragons, a crowd of them, gathered at a distance. They stand beyond the reach of the light so all you can make out are towering silhouettes and glinting eyes. 

No one speaks. Maybe this kind of announcement needs no words. Maybe Nor’s face says it all. You see him in the center of the carnage, skin and robes drenched in clinging gore and viscera. A body twitches on the ground at his feet, more than half-dragon and covered in scales. It’s disemboweled, an unraveled loop of entrails cooling beside a horrific gaping wound in its belly. It was clawed open. You can see everything inside from the curled bars of a ribcage to colorful organs. Nor holds a severed wing in his fist, clutching shattered, jagged bone and scrunched cartilage oozing blood between his fingers. The other wing lies on the floor, shredded and limp like a torn sail.

The sound of you slipping and falling attracts his attention. His pupils are blown wide and for a moment, you wonder if he even sees you. If he’s so lost in bloodlust that he’ll attack you next. You flinch when he drops the wing. It lands with a heavy, squelching thud, tattered membranes leaking fresh puddles of blood. He kneels, gathering you in his arms with his staggering inhuman strength, lifting you up and standing in the same fluid motion. 

“This is my mate,” he tells the others. The cold sharpness of his voice makes him sound like his father. He pauses a moment, his eyes scanning the crowd. Looking for dissent, maybe. For someone else to tell him he’s too young to have what he wants. No one does. He lets out a breath that rumbles like a growl, exhaling smoke. “Then it’s settled,” he says quietly. He starts moving. Not towards the crowd or the door, but to the center of the circle of candles. To the corpse of whoever he just killed. You call his name but he doesn’t hear you. Maybe he doesn’t care. He’s already come this far and nothing’s going to stop him now. Certainly not you. 

Nor sets you down gently. The gesture is ruined by the disgusting sounds of the organs puddled under you. You’re sitting in it. There’s blood and muscle and jutting bone and vein-streaked offal everywhere. It smears over your ceremonial markings and stains your sashes, turning the embroidery bright red. Nor kneels in the same mess. He reaches out and cups your face with his filthy, gore-covered hands. He kisses your forehead with bloodstained lips, then your cheeks, and then just briefly, chastely, on the mouth. 

“I love you,” he says. “I’m so sorry.” 

You struggle when he climbs on top of you. You don’t care how it looks or what it might mean to the people watching, if it ruins the whole announcement. You don’t want this. But Druezaghrath was right—his son is strong. You had no idea because he’s never used that strength against you before. He doesn’t care that you flail and kick at him. He flips you over and pins you down with one hand, forcing you flat against the sticky floor. His claws shred your sashes with such perfect precision that he never scratches your skin. 

You get loose when he tries to line himself up with your entrance. You don’t get far before he’s on you again, dragging you back into position with labored breaths. It suddenly hits you that he just killed someone—just fought someone to the death in the time it took his father to walk you up the stairs—and he’s still faster than you. Still able to force you back down and nudge your legs apart. You hear him moan quietly and the slick sounds of his fist working his cock before the tip starts prodding at you. You whimper and he shushes you.

“I know, baby. I’ll try to make it quick,” he murmurs. He lays himself over your back and you’re completely trapped. Was he always this much heavier than you? Or did he always hold back when you play-wrestled as kids? He moves his hips slowly at first, testing the waters. He pays attention to the noises you make. He doesn’t stop, no matter how much you sob, but he listens intently to how your breathing hitches as his thick tip spreads you open. He’s gentle. He’s going so, so slowly. It’s almost worse than if he were rough. There’s no pretending this is something else. It’s him, it’s Nor, as sweet as he’s always been to you. This unspoken thing lurking between you is suddenly dragged up into the light and it hurts to look at.

You’ve always wanted him but not like this.

Nor thrusts his hips and more of his length sinks into your body. He’s big. The stretch stings but he’s got a hand tucked under you and slipping between your thighs, fingers carefully working your sex. “You’re so tight,” he whispers against your ear, kissing and licking the lobe. “I know you’re scared, but it’s all gonna be okay. I’ve got you. Just feel this.” Every shock of pleasure makes your head spin. You don’t want to enjoy this, but Nor learns your body in a matter of minutes. He searches for the places that make whimper in a different way and then he teases them mercilessly. 

One hand stays between your legs, dexterous fingers stroking with just the right amount of pleasure to make your hips buck against him. The other wanders, lingering anywhere sensitive. He never stops fucking you. He’s pumping his hips now, sinking deeper and thrusting harder. Your hands slip on the floor in search of something to hold onto, something to anchor you. All you find is the dead dragon and everything that should be inside it piled outside, making a sound of mindless distress when you grab onto something that’s still pulsating. None of Nor’s sweet nothings soothe you but he doesn’t stop trying. His voice is a constant heated murmur, only interrupted when he pauses to kiss and suck at your neck. 

“You’re doing so good, baby. So, so good. I want you to cum for me. Can you do that?” 

You can’t. You don’t want to. Not here, not in front of all these people—is Druezaghrath here? Watching this? You feel sick. You can’t. But Nor doesn’t let up. He mouths at your pulse, strokes you harder, fucks you faster. You’re moving and you didn’t even realize it, didn’t mean for your body to move against his fingers and back into his thrusts. He pushes your legs even further apart and then he really starts rutting. The sound of flesh slapping flesh, your hips meeting, his balls slapping your ass as he hilts himself inside you over and over again, fills your ears.

“Cum for me,” he begs you. “Baby, please. Cum on my cock. Doesn’t it feel good? I’ve been practicing for this—for you. It’s okay to like this. Just let go.” 

Practicing, he said. Is that what all of that was before? All those furious ex-partners, all those sobbing confessions, all those angry late night calls and texts that made him turn his phone off and go back to pretending he was cuddled up against you in a totally platonic way? Just practice for the person he really wanted? 

“I love you,” he murmurs. You hate that it makes you tighten around him. “You like it when I say that? I’ll say it as many times as you want for the rest of our lives. I love you, baby. Fuck, I love you so much…” He keeps saying it, keeps whispering his devotion until the sounds mean nothing. Eventually, it happens. You don’t want it to but he nips at your neck and grinds his cock deep inside you, and you scream. It’s the worst and best orgasm of your life. Nor drags it out as long as he can, fucking you through your shuddering gasps and whimpers until you’re limp underneath him. He pulls out but your relief is short-lived. 

He turns you over onto your back. You barely recognize him. His eyes are different. Wilder. Glazed in pleasure. The blood has dried to his skin, dark red smears on his chin, his chest, his arms. His gaze rakes your body and then he’s reaching for you again, lining his cock up with your aching entrance again. 

“Almost done, baby,” he rasps. “Just a little more. Just gotta make me cum and it’s over. Don’t think, okay? Don’t think about anything. Just feel me. Feel this.” You can’t. You try to tell him that but your voice is hoarse and weak. You let out a strangled whine when he pushes into you again. He tells you he loves you again. He apologizes again. He kisses you with ferocious hunger and your legs wrap around his waist. He moans against your mouth, a hand stroking your thigh. 

You cum before he does, back arching, arms wrapped around him. Nor keeps saying just a little more, just a little more, praise and promises. Eventually, you take his advice without even meaning to and stop thinking about anything at all.

[turndecassette2]

random, but would you consider making a chart/guide to yours ocs? I've been following your art for years but feel like I still don't really know your characters. I'd be very curious to know more about them and who's who

god I feel using the word 'OC' is like, an appropriation of fandom culture ha ha. as in I have a p dumb approach to writing & I don't think that much abt characters aside from like their goals and feelings in the context of whatever story they're part of if that makes sense?

(a very dark part of my soul wishes there was a m. john harrison critique of world-building essay (which I only partially agree with but found helpful at the time after online fantasy writing advise paralysed me with the feeling I needed to understand medieval economics & agriculture before writing about dragons or w/e) but for like. you don't need to know a person's favourite colour, 'love language' etc before writing about them. & I've seen a lot of ppl online building pseudo-fandoms before producing actual works & then if/when they do it's written as like fanfic of itself w the assumption the reader wants charming banter, character trauma dumping etc w/o a story & context to make you care? anyway end rant. not giving examples everyone is trying their best I think & again I'm a weirdo & not the target audience for anything)

...anyways I should do character sheets for Iica & the nameless wanderer those are prob the closest thing I have rn. or the hell pit ppl but since I haven't properly gotten started on that it's still very vague

[talonabraxas]

Zadakiel, Archangel of Jupiter ♃ Talon Abraxas

Zadkiel, the Archangel of Jupiter, is one you may not have heard of before. Unlike Michael or Gabriel, his images don't often adorn the walls of art museums or stained glass windows. But among all the Planetary Angels, his name gives the most suggestive evidence that there's a long tradition linking angels and planets.

In Hebrew, the name for the planet Jupiter is "Zedek," which translates as "righteousness." Righteousness conveys the sense that one has been "justified by God" -- something that has integrity, is true, or in alignment with the cosmic pattern. One who is righteous can see clearly, and is therefore able to act with justice and mercy, as well as to reveal the truth or prophesy. These happen to be some of the oldest associations with the astrological Jupiter.

Angel names often end with the suffix -el, which simply means "of God." There's a tradition of appending -el to other terms to signify the angel associated with the word. Consequently, in Hebrew the angel of righteousness, or the angel of Jupiter, would be called "Zedek-iel"

Zedekiel, or Zadkiel, or one of its various spellings, is found mentioned in some of the earliest references to angels. The earliest Christian compilation of the seven archangels, written in the 5th Century by Pseudo-Dionysius in his Celestial Hierarchy, incudes Zadkiel among their number, as does Pope Gregory's list from the 6th century (spelled either Sachiel or Zachariel.) In his 12th-century writings, the great Spanish-Arabic scholar and scientist Averroës (Ibn Rushd) named Zadkiel/Sachiel the archangel of Jupiter, a tradition that was copied by authors in later Medieval and Renaissance magic and angelology.

As an angel of mercy, some Talmudic texts claim that Zadkiel is the unnamed angel who stays Abraham's hand, preventing him from sacrificing his son Issaac. (Because of this Zadkiel is sometimes shown holding a dagger.)

Given his association with Jupiter, it's not uncommon for New Age authors to associate Sachiel with rituals of abundance and prosperity. The modern astrological sense of Jupiter is a bit like the planetary Santa Claus, the jolly generous giver of gifts. That's not too far off, if you remember that Santa "knows when you are naughty or nice," and gave gifts accordingly.

The Archangel Zadkiel brings abundance and prosperity when we are acting with justice, fairness, and generosity ourselves. He teaches that when we are in right relationship with the cosmic order, our needs will be met. Or, if we have a need or a lack, as the Archangel of mercy, Zadkiel will aid in our efforts to obtain what we seek when we ask for his assistance. Zadkiel also brings us luck, when we are doing our best, and forgiveness, when we've fallen short of the mark, in order to start again.

As the Archangel of Jupiter, an auspicious time to make request to aid from Zadkiel is Thursday, Jupiter's day.

[studentofetherium]

the reason why delicious in dungeon is "subtle autistic rep" is because this is a pseudo-medieval setting and characters talking about such a modern concept would be tonally jarring, but a lot of english art focusing on neurodivesity readily accepts such atonality, and thus that's what people have come to expect

[presidenthades]

Since you did a modern/au fashion on Velargirls, I wanted to ask you if you could do the historical (like actual timeline) version of it, you said you collect pics of clothes, both historical and modern that you can imagine them wearing. I know Jace often wears Sunfyre’s palette, Joff wears mostly red and black Targ colors and Luce is in Velaryon colors. But perhaps their signature styles or some pics of what you imagine them wearing would be nice like you did it with the modern!au version! If you'd rather not do this one, that's completely alr! I just wanted some pictures of their clothing to imagine the dresses they would wear when I read the books.

Disclaimer: GOT/HOTD is a pseudo medieval setting, so not everything about the fashion I choose is 100% accurate to the Western European medieval era.

I took a lot of cues from the official GOT costumes book, where the designer talks about how she was inspired by clothing from places like Japan. I also like Bernadette Banner’s video explaining how in GOT (or the earlier seasons at least), costuming tried to be historically accurate according to the rules of its own universe, not ours.

HOTD has different costume designers than GOT. I have a very amateur interest in historical fashion, but it seems to me that GOT was a bit more exploratory with its fashion (like Cersei’s kimono dresses) while HOTD generally tries to stick closer to more Western European medieval styles (with exceptions, like Aemond’s Hugo Boss coat). So I have a headcanon that in the 170 years between HOTD and GOT, more and more Essosi fashions come to Westeros, which leads to the changes that we see between the two shows.

In my series, these fashion trends are sped up quicker than in canon. One of Jace’s goals is to be a cultural icon at court, so her fashion choices (which are heavily influenced by Rhaena, who spent her childhood in Pentos) spread among the other highborn ladies.

Jace’s wedding gown is based off Margaery’s purple wedding gown, with some differences, e.g. gold color scheme.

Jace’s wraparound dress that she wears to the feast announcing the pregnancy is based on Cersei’s early season dresses.

Other outfits that give me Jace vibes:

Luce is tricky because most days at Dragonstone and Driftmark, she’s stomping around in really plain dresses that she can get messy. But at public events and in KL, she has to dress according to her station. Maybe some of her gowns are secretly pants underneath.

(Dany’s Qarth dress is by far my favorite reference photo for Luce’s outfits when I get art of her.)

Joff, to nobody’s surprise, is the most Targ-coded in regards to her wardrobe. I tend to reference Rhaenyra’s outfits for Joff’s. Joff is definitely hoping to inherit Rhaenyra’s clothes one day.

[phantasmiafxndom]

Out of all the animes you’ve watch what ones are your favorites

...you know what, you get the serious answer. I used to track my anime watching, so out of the 450+ completed ones on my list, here are some of my top recommendations! (In terms of quality, more so than what I've spent the most time dwelling on.)

. . .

One Piece — I haven't technically watched all of this one, but after falling back into the fandom after an 8-ish year break, I really can't understate the quality. One Piece's story is amazing, and I'm consistently impressed by the author's characters/worldbuilding.

Dominion Tank Police (1988) — I have FEELINGS about the villain in this one... Overall, 80s sci-fi vibes mix with themes of ethical responsibility and societal peacekeeping, and the "don't you just want to go apeshit? :)" protagonist (who's also extremely aromantic-coded) is a hilarious, yet wonderfully earnest little menace!

Kyousougiga — I've been rewatching this one recently, and the sheer detail in every scene is STUNNING. I keep having to pause to mentally scream about the symbolism, and tbh, knowing the plot from my original watch is only improving the experience.

Tekkon Kinkreet — This one's a movie, not a series, but SKLJKHS IT HAUNTS ME. Absolutely chilling, by the time the big plot twists roll around... Beyond that, the overall aesthetic/vibe is impeccable, and the exaggerated, messy art style only adds to that.

Kemonozume — Monster/human forbidden romance with stunning art and a great soundtrack. The plot started out a bit confusing, but all of the scattered story elements came together nicely in the end!

The Tatami Galaxy — The "get your shit together and start enjoying your life" anime. It's plenty good as just a story, but I got some excellent life lessons out of it too. Solid mix of comedy, drama, and charismatic-yet-extremely-bizarre characters interacting.

Monster — Excellent slow-paced, psychological horror packed with ethical dilemmas, traumatic backstories, and so many Extremely Depressed Men. In other words, there's a very good reason why Johan Liebert used to end up on so many "best anime villains" lists.

Paranoia Agent — I have nothing but praise for Satoshi Kon's work, in general, and Paranoia Agent has been my favorite of the ones I've seen so far. Compared to his movies, it really benefits from the extra space for plot development, and the big emotional twist hits hard.

Revolutionary Girl Utena — A true classic. <3 There are enough tumblr essays about this tragic yuri masterpiece that I won't go into detail myself, but yes, it's every bit as good as you've heard.

Black Lagoon: Roberta's Blood Trail — The entire Black Lagoon series is excellent, but Roberta is my special girl. Unfortunately, the OAV adaption compresses the manga's version of her arc pretty heavily (and the altered ending is kind of dumb), but I still have to recommend it. Babygirl's breakdown is a REAL mess kjshghs

Claymore — Excellent pseudo-medieval fantasy with badass female characters, lots of body horror, and top-tier monster design. The manga is MUCH better than the anime after a certain point, however.

Kuuchuu Buranko — An episodic series about an eccentric psychiatrist interacting with his troubled patients. The mixed-media animation style and bizarre characters are what sold it for me, along with the exploration of mental health through storytelling tropes.

Cannon Fodder — An artistic short movie that's twenty minutes of aesthetic experience and fascinating worldbuilding implications. I love the vibe, and the "one, long horizontal frame" style is neat.

Flowers of Evil — The art style. The VIBES. The whole thing is incredibly eerie and off-putting, with a plot that's pretty much: "congrats! two shitty teenagers are tearing each other's lives apart!".

[la-belle-histoire]

Ophelia, Alexandre Cabanel. 1883.

[dandelionjack]

re: the post below. fantasy vs reality

a discussion in the notes got me thinking about the recent trend (perhaps not the right word, maybe “tendency”) of communist/marxist bloggers on here, especially those concerned with decolonisation (as we all should be), to blanket-condemn all media which “romanticises” pirates, cowboys, knights, outlaws, and other “historical” (in quotes because, let’s be real, it’s more legend than history when we talk about the modern portrayal of these lifestyles) morally dubious yet immensely alluring occupations. there’s been this discourse spreading: the idea that somehow indulging in art which presents these figures in a generally positive or fun light is the same as being uncritical of manifest-destiny expansionism (i.e. the notion of the ‘wild west’ and an ‘untamed frontier’ is colonial), christian imperialism (since knights participated in the crusades) or even an apologist of the slave trade (because some pirates engaged in it).

to which i say, plainly, bollocks. if you’re 16 or younger, your critical thinking faculties are an untrained muscle, your media analysis capacity not yet switched-on, then yeah, you’re allowed to be susceptible to the inability to distinguish between what’s cool in fiction and what’s permissible in reality. any older than that, i start getting doubts. i question the frankly patronising notion that an adult with a basic understanding of history and politics is incapable of recognising when something fictional doesn’t map one-on-one onto the modern world, whether that be the mechanics of a story, the interactions between characters, the beliefs and goals which drive them, or the social mores and cultural norms (hierarchy of gender, race, nobility etc) which they accept as fact.

you should be able to hold (more than) two truths in your head simultaneously. you should be able to cheer when the knight pulls the sword from the stone and reclaims his long-denied royal heritage to become a well earned leader, and, at the same time, recognise that we live in the 21st century where monarchy is a long-obsolete, unjust and inhumane system of government. same as you’d readily accept that somebody in a novel can cast a spell, but you wouldn’t believe that a real guy could set a tree alight with his mind.

all fiction is fantasy because we don’t live in history. yeah, we have sources, but they’re not perfect. even the author attempting to be as accurate as possible will inevitably sneak in some tiny anachronisms, even if in language alone. medieval europe didn’t have potatoes. you will find potato stew boiling in every tavern in the fantasy pseudo-german towns your protagonists take a rest stop in. that’s fine. that’s normal. pirates in reality were mostly cruel hardened criminals with no respect for human life, which is why they gladly partook in slavery as well as pillaging and looting, anything for profit. pirates in a show can be kind, considerate, a rag-tag team of outcasts and freedom fighters with views that most correspond with modern anarchism. as long as you know the difference, as long as you’re not pretending that this fantasy is how historical events actually happened, it’s fine. you’re good. go watch your bridgertons.

make sure to stay prudent and always tell the difference, though. never ever fall into the trap of wanting to ‘retvrn’, and that goes towards ever cottagecore homesteader. let fiction remain fiction, and work to better the world.

[doublydaring]

can you explain the michael psychosomatic kittens curse to me please it's been bothering me for upwards of a week

it would be an honor. it's kind of a long story but luckily I'm at work.

1. I was drawing pictures of Mike and Peter on zoom with my bestest friend Cal and I was drawing their beautiful 70s long hair as I am wont to do. A thought occurred in my head that the color of their hairs together would make a beautiful tortoiseshell cat. This prompted me to say aloud: "They would have beautiful kittens." Which of course raised questions. I wasn't even really thinking about kitten pregnancy at this point I was just thinking about their hair. But kitten pregnancy sprung forth none the less.

2. The household has been on kind of a Phyllis kick lately because I have a 73 slide long PowerPoint on the Monkees that I have been workshopping into a sort of combination stand up comedy/performance art piece. Our second focus group (the cast of rocky horror) said that they liked it but wanted more interpersonal drama. So I added Peter and Davy's fight and a "wife timeline" so we've been thinking about Monkee wives and I recently read Mike's book and Phyllis I think we can all agree is one of the most interesting and under-examined people in the whole Monkee cluster fuck.

3. So Mike is pregnant with Kittens. Because he and Peter would have beautiful kittens. And we all agree that being pregnant would be a good thing for Mike Nesmith. On a physical level it would suit him but also from a sort of pseudo feminist perspective where he is forced to take on the burden of """"womanhood"""" we feel it could help to facilitate understanding to what he's putting these women through.

4. So it becomes sort of body horror, where he is forced to confront the physical and emotional labor that he has been foisting on Phyllis and then neglecting her but in becoming pregnant he understands her and their relationship blossoms. We decide that Phyllis sort of has a mental break and convinces herself that she's going to trick Mike into thinking he's pregnant so that he understands just for a moment what she's going through. We try to come up with ways you could try to convince a man he is pregnant (this is difficult).

5. We realize we have lost the kitten plot. But Riley (who has been here the whole time because we share a room but I didn't want to introduce to many characters into this) has been taking a class on monsters and the monstrous and there is this medieval medical belief called "the maternal imagination" which is basically the idea that if you are pregnant and get scared by a mouse your baby will be born mouselike. Or if you are looking at a picture of a man who is not your husband while you conceive a baby the baby will look like the man in the picture, not it's actual father. It's a very interesting sort of belief.

6. So we decide that Mike stumbles upon a sick kitten one day and brings it home and is positively doting. Phyllis and his real life children remain secondary. He's about work and this fucking kitten. And so of course it becomes the object of Phyllis’s ire. And she hates that right? Because it's a sick and tiny kitten. And really she should hate Mike (but she cannot hate Mike this is a fundamental truth of her character). But she decides that she can make him understand. By making him think he's pregnant. And she goes to bed that night and has a dream that she gives birth to kittens.

7. Of course this is totally delusional he's never going to think he's pregnant but weirdly, he starts to ... act pregnant? In ways that she would have absolutely no control over. He's got that glow and he's gaining weight and most of all he's happy and is spending a lot more time at home hanging around. And she starts to get all doting excited husband on him. And their relationship is a lot more tenable now that their roles have subtly shifted. Because she is the responsible one right? But previously she'd have to defer to him and he had to perform this masculine patriarch role and neither of them are brave enough to challenge it but they both feel wrong fulfilling those roles. This is just right. But it's also very fucking wrong. Because Mike is pregnant??? And it's getting pretty undeniable. It is also clear that whatever is in there is not a baby. Phyllis has had babies and this is four little squirmy things. And so eventually Mike has kittens and it is not clarified how physically this happens but it does and it fixes him.

Sorry. I know this is pretty much batshit insane but it is the story.

[merrydearest]

Can you tell us more about poppy au?? Like how this world works or how is the other characters of fnaf sb are here??

I swear I haven't forgotten this au or been ignoring this ask, i just have been obsessed with the new wow expac and also figuring out how to answer this

my knowledge of fnaf lore isn't the greatest, i watched the movie and i listen to @sinnabee talk abt it, but i'm not exactly a wiki on it and im kinda avoiding going on a wiki dive bc then i start getting way too loyal to lore to do aus oops

but the main concept of it is that Afton is the king's inventor, and he's made some animatronics to entertain the king and his court (this is freddy and the band). but he's Obsessed with Poppy (who is a lady in the court, the daughter of Duke Steelwall, who is the general/commander of the king's army) and so he builds her two animatronics as a gift to her (technically they are jesters for the king, but they are for poppy, who is actually terrified of them but is too polite to tell afton that some of his inventions are scary). unfortunately he puts so much of his obsession with poppy and need to possess her into building sun and moon that thru dark magic, they come to life/become independent in a way that the other animatronics aren't. and they are just as obsessed with poppy as afton is :)

sun and moon aren't under afton's control (tho afton is not exactly advertising that he's lost control of two of his creations), and are trying to protect poppy from him. not that their intentions are the most pure of heart either

(ramblings abt the world under the cut)

the world is a rather generic pseudo-medieval fantasy world, not particularly specific to a general time. poppy's silhouettes are more inspired by early-mid 1600s (western european) fashion, but the colors are more loosely regency rules (early 1800s). Poppy is always wearing pastels, with little to no jewel tones, since jewel tones/deeper colors would be inappropriate for an unwed lady (but married women and widows are a bit freer with being able to wear deeper colors).

then just bc i love symbolism, when she's drawn with afton, she's entirely in pastels, where she's perfectly a lady (she's well behaved with no interest in afton, who is not of a status where he has a chance to marry a duke's daughter). but with sun and moon, there's going to be deeper colors, because she's not a perfect lady around them. there's a bit of corruption happening, she does feel desire toward them that isn't appropriate for her. sun and moon are pretty much entirely in darker/brighter colors bc they will be the ones to corrupt her

but it isn't all regency rules, for example it's perfectly fine that she wears her hair down, she just has to keep it covered (obvs not entirely covered tho, if you look at the art).

there is magic, which i'm still kinda figuring out the rules for/how prevalent it is (i kinda make shit up as i go along and adjust accordingly to make things make sense). but at the very least there is a very taboo dark magic that afton uses.

i'm unsure how/if i want to incorporate afton's kids, while i have the overall plot figured out, there's some side characters im unsure abt

[themailedfist-blog]

Pulptober 23rd - Hero With a Harem - Garrett, P.I.

There's barely an installment of the Garrett series that doesn't involve him getting into bed with the lady of the hour. Sometimes multiple times in the same book, which frequently causes him a good deal of trouble. (a brief aside, the covers are by Tim Hildebrandt but they, in the grand tradition of fantasy paperback art, do not at all resemble the actual stories. Garrett himself is described within as dressing similarly to everyone else in his medieval fantasy milieu, and not like a transplanted Philip Marlowe. If this rant is familiar it's because I did it last time I used the Garrett series. Definitely still read 'em, they're really fun hard-boiled fantasy detective fiction, just don't expect the weird pseudo-isekai the covers promise)