#rendered some sketches i had sitting around

[hiding-in-the-vault]

omg its Roulette!Dream

[hairmetal666]

Eddie's at a party, lunch box in tow, and he's making a fucking killing.

He sets up shop in the crowded kitchen, but that doesn't stop him from spotting King Steve in the living room. Harrington's face is still fucked up from the fight with Hargrove, and he's tipping a cup almost vertically into his mouth. He's not too surprised when--the next time he spots the jock--he has a can of beer in each fist.

More customers flood up to him, and he can't help but be a little grateful for the distraction. Harrington is one unrequited crush he just can't kick.

Lunch box cleaned out, Eddie heads outside for a smoke. He's fishing his cigarettes out of his jacket pocket when he hears a snuffling sort of shuffle that sends his heart racing.

He edges forward, just enough to make out the heap of a person half-heartedly sitting up against the house. A person in fitted blue jeans, tight polo, and Member's Only jacket; swoop of chestnut hair catching in the flash of fire from Eddie's Zippo.

"Harrington?"

The guy startles, stability wavering, eyes blinking too much. "Munson?"

"You alright, man?" He asks, though he can already tell that Steve is most definitely not.

Steve shrugs. "Why do you care?" It's not mean, sounds genuinely curious.

Eddie gets it. He has no reason on earth to show concern about King Steve. In answer, he taps his boot against Steve's sneaker, giving him a small smile. "Not sure. But I'm here, so..."

"Just needed some air. Clear my head."

"How much have you had to drink?" Eddie asks.

"One or two,"

"Dozen?"

Steve laughs. "You're funny. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"I've heard," Eddie says, can't help but laugh a little too. "Wanna talk about what's going on?"

Eddie thinks that'll be a "no," but then: "Nancy dumped me."

"Yeah, big news."

"Ugh, people are talking about it?" Steve whines. It's really cute and Eddie hates himself for noticing. Hates himself more when Steve loses his balance, tips onto Eddie's shoulder, and Eddie doesn't tip him back.

Eddie can tell that Steve isn't fully with him anymore. He's a little afraid to leave the guy alone, so Eddie talks about the latest Hellfire campaign. Sober Steve Harrington probably has no idea what dnd is, but the drunk version is kind of a rapt audience.

He's just explaining about owlbears when Steve's voice, soft and sad, says "I just want someone to love me, you know?"

The admission renders Eddie speechless for a second, his chest fucking aching for the jock. He says "Oh, Stevie," knows he sounds too sad, is sure of it when Steve's nose wrinkles (it's cute; it's so fucking cute. Eddie hates himself for noticing).

Before he can backtrack, Steve slumps over, body going limp as he passes out. "Jesus H Christ," Eddie barks.

With a heavy sigh, and way too much fondness, Eddie stands. "Let's get you home, sweetheart."

He gathers Harrington up in his arms--dude is heavy--and carries him around to his van.

---

Steve wakes up, head throbbing and tongue fuzzy, with no idea how he got home and into bed. Can't really recall anything after he stumbled outside, aside from talking to Eddie Munson. But maybe that was a dream? Either way, he's home, not really any worse for wear. It's enough to let him forget all about it; what's one drunken party in a life full of them?

That Wednesday, he opens his locker after the final bell, and a Hershey bar falls out. He picks it up, flipping it over to see a note on the foil wrapping, "thought you might need something sweet to cheer you up." It's not signed, and Steve slips it into his backpack, knowing he's got a silly smile on his handsome face.

The little gifts continue to show up once or twice a week. Candy, plastic vending machine toys, sketches of the school grounds, caricatures of classmates and teachers. Sometimes they even come with a note in handwriting he doesn't recognize.

Along with the little treats, he starts seeing Eddie Munson kind of everywhere. And it's not like Steve hadn't seen him before--guy was hard to miss--but he was never around this often. Wasn't around this often and he and Steve had never shared a smile, a quick bob of the head, a quiet hello.

It isn't long before they're talking. Nothing much, nothing serious. Complaining about teachers, about classmates; sharing weekend plans. Only now Steve can't pretend to not notice the way Eddie dimples up when he smiles, the subtle muscles that bunch under the sleeves of his Hellfire Club shirt, the long litheness of his legs. Steve knows he's attracted to other guys, it's just that he didn't realize he'd be attracted to Eddie.

The gifts keep coming. Once, he opens his locker to find a plastic ring fashioned into a golden crown and a note that says, "made me think of you, Stevie." There's something about the "Stevie" that catches deep in his brain, but he can't make it connect to anything.

A few months later, Steve opens his locker and pulls out a drawing. This one--it's of him. He's gazing out into space in a way that managers to be dreamy and wistful. The Steve in the drawing is lovely, and it makes something clench deep in his gut, that someone sees him like this.

Steve tries to be more aware of the people in his surroundings, to figure out who his admirer is. He's not very good at it, even as more sketches of him--all depicting him as a gorgeous, ethereal thing he definitely isn't--show up in his locker. Especially when, so often these days, the person he sees the most is Eddie.

---

The presents in his locker continue into April, and would probably last until the end of the school year, but Steve's got a migraine starting. He keeps aspirin in his locker, gets a hall pass out of English to get some.

When he reaches his locker, though, someone is already there, with the door open. Someone in ripped black jeans, heavy black boots, a black leather jacket, and patch covered denim vest.

"Munson?" He asks. His heart beats so hard it reverberates in his ears, making it hard to hear.

Eddie jumps back, hands fluttering, face flushing bright red. "Ste--Harrington! I--uh--," he's backing up, his hands held out from his body, like he's pushing Steve away even though they aren't touching.

"Were you--?" Steve tries to ask, but the words won't quite come. There's familiar warmth low in his stomach, a twisting that has nothing to do with his impending migraine.

"I wasn't doing anything, I swear," Eddie says. He's breathing hard, eyes too bright, and Steve thinks he might be about to cry, but then the metalhead is turning away, starting to run.

"Eddie, wait!" Steve calls, chasing after him without much thought. "Please!"

Eddie doesn't stop until after they've crashed out one of the side exits, are alone outside.

"It was you? Leaving the--?"

Eddie nods, presses his hands to his eyes. "Sorry, I'm sorry, Harrington. I just--"

"Don't be sorry," Steve begs. "It's been--I liked it."

"Even now that you know they're coming from the freak?" Eddie spits. He still hides his face behind his hands.

"It's sort of been the best part of my year, if I'm being honest."

Only now does the metalhead remove his hands, blink back at Steve, dark eyes wide with shock. "Really?"

"Yeah. It made me feel-- important, I guess? Like, maybe someone saw me as something more than King Steve."

Eddie smiles now, looks down at the pavement. "I just didn't want you to think that you weren't--" he stops then, presses his mouth tight.

"Didn't want me to think what?"

"That you weren't loved, Stevie."

The statement hangs between them, Eddie's face pinking again, as the words wrap their way around Steve's heart. Loved. That he's loved. It clenches at every part of him, and he surrounds himself with the truth of it, what all those little presents were saying without words.

"Eddie, I--" he's overwhelmed by the gesture, the meaning, the reciprocal buzz in his chest, because Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson, loves him, and this fact is turning Steve's world on it's head in the best way.

"I'm sorry, Steve, really. Please don't hate me, or--or--"

"It means so much to me," Steve says, his voice a little broken. He reaches a hand out, slow, telegraphing the movement. "Can I?" He whispers.

Eddie nods, and Steve strokes the skin of his face with his thumb. "Thank you."

The metalhead nods, leaning into Steve's touch, they shift close, until their foreheads meet, until they share the same air. They stand that way for a while, long enough that they hear the bell ringing, and only then does Steve break their quiet. "Eds?"

"Yeah, Stevie?"

"You wanna hangout some time?"

Eddie laughs. "Yeah. I really, really do, sweetheart."

[steftastan]

Carian Stroll

“Tell Blaidd, and Iji…I love them.”

Before this piece, I had been wanting for a long time to create my own piece of Elden Ring fanart featuring Ranni. I had tried several sketches unsuccessfully, just wasn’t particularly feeling the ideas I had sketched up until that point.

One day of usual internet scrolling, I stumbled upon this gorgeous piece of art by Shimomura Kanzan.

I knew immediately I wanted to do something like this for my Elden Ring fanart. In fact, if you look at this piece, there is tons of inspiration that I drew from the original artwork, such as the style of the yellow leaves and the main subject matter being a prominent silhouette of the brightest value, placed at approximately the bottom third of the image.

The main character is cleverly shrouded amidst various layers of trees and foliage, giving us the impression that we're peeking into candid moment of their life. In the case of the fox, we caught it during a mid-day snack. In the case of Ranni and her party, we caught them in a leisurely stroll, while Iji outfits the dreaded Fingercreepers with their iconic rings.

I wasn't sure if I wanted to capture a happy moment, but Ranni goes as far as to ask us to deliver to Iji and Blaidd the message that she loves them dearly as her quest draws near its end. I would imagine they all must have had fun moments together as a family. Hey, maybe even the hands liked to be around them?

The process

I started this on my iPad using the procreate app. Sadly the full process is not captured on video, as I switched to Photoshop for the rendering phase of the illustration. This video is a fun window into my chaotic process and how I iterate on the fly on the same canvas. I probably wouldn't do that in a professional setting where you often need to have color keys and iterations to be reviewed and analyzed. I like to I cut myself some slack when doing personal art to keep things fun.

Trying and failing some more

This illustration was not a straightforward path. I haven’t been very diligent about personal art, and at some point I started deviating too much from my reference by adding too many levels of depth to the background and suffocating the piece. I got into a weird loop where I would randomly open the PSD, play around with the values, pushing Iji to the back, then bringing him back, cranking all the levers on Ranni, etc., decide it would look horrible, then begrudgingly determine I’d never complete this image and go on with my life.

As artists we likely have unfinished work sitting everywhere, be it in our sketchbooks, canvases, or hard drives. But it’s a different kind of sting when you feel like you can’t even nail the fundamentals.

Anyway, so a couple weeks ago, I decided to give it another go, but this time I would get rid of all the unnecessary stuff, even stuff that I had been trying to render for ages. I would not hold on to anything, I would try and recapture what drew me to Kanzan's beautiful painting to begin with.

After it became a matter of pushing and pulling pixels until the image was finished!

That’s about it. I didn’t go crazy in depth but lately I’ve been enjoying reading into artists’ processes and I’d be remiss to not share my own thought process also.

Thank you for viewing!

[valoisfulcanellideux]

These Stones Remember - cover reveal

A few days ago I posted the full title and cover reveal for my upcoming Pixlriffs-centric (Copper King & Phantom Assassin) story, A Tale of Two Devotions. That beautiful artwork was commissioned from the amazing Sabira | @floweroflaurelin and at the end of the post I mentioned that I had one other commission currently sitting with them.

Well, that commission is now complete, and ready to share with you.

It's the cover for my 178,000-word fic These Stones Remember, and I'll admit that seeing this final image got me feeling incredibly emotional. There may or may not have been tears shed. There were. Oh heck, there were.

So here it is:

I spent almost a year of my life writing These Stones Remember, and Sabira has more than done justice to these characters and this world. The Copper King, Onorait Paix al-Lareiff. His 2,000-year-old present-day version, Pix al-Lareiff. His devoted and faithful Chaperone, Mhenheli al-Q'isaraf. His adorable little soul companion kitty, Malin. And the Vigil and the Statue, and so many other tiny little details that you probably won't even realise have been inserted into the illustration unless you've read the story.

To say that I'm thrilled with this cover would be the understatement of the year. (I know this year is still young, so let's include last year, too!) It was a delight to work with Sabira, and to see the in-progress sketches and eventually this final render, with the beautiful hand typography for the title.

And, if the cover has piqued your interest but you've not yet read the story? Welp, here's a taxi to some sweeping ancient history :)

"The past changes a little every time we retell it." A wandering scholar and his ethereal companion find a long-abandoned treasure. At first glance he thinks has simply stumbled upon a ruined ancient capital, filled with the promise of incredible archaeological treasures and riven through with the history of a long-dead civilisation. But when he wakes up one day and finds the city has come alive around him, its people bowing to him as though they know and respect him, he has unknowingly begun a journey toward redemption for a terrible mistake he made two thousand years ago.

[hummingbee-o0o]

5 times Armand interrupts Daniel's online interviews +1 time Daniel gets his revenge

He sets up on the coffee table, sticking a few hardbacks under the laptop to give it more height, gets out his tabletop mic and the ring light Armand bought him after the first time Daniel did an interview from home and Armand looked at his apparently lighting-deficient setup like he’d just decided to go skinny-dipping in the Hudson river with a fresh paper cut on his dick.

(Daniel had to draw the line when Armand started looking up professional photography studio equipment and measuring the room for shoot-through umbrellas.)

He’s just dragging the power cord to the outlet when Armand breezes in, and no, there’s no other verb for it — he walks like some ethereal creature, dressed all in black, a long, flowy type of hoodie evoking a cloak. The cotton workout bottoms are skin-tight around his calves. Daniel misses the socket three times before he finally sticks the plug in it. Which is not metaphorical or Freudian at all.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he says, getting up and walking over to where Armand is digging through some papers on the bookcase.

“Mm,” Armand says, leaning appreciatively into Daniel’s kiss, but then he’s back to his excavations. “Beloved, have you seen the sketches I was making last month?”

Daniel looks around, trying not to feel automatically guilty just because he’s the slob in their relationship and has a long and documented history of shoving shit into random places when he’s trying to clear out a working space. Innocent until proven guilty and all that.

“Uh, which ones?”

Armand pulls out a magazine holder and flips through the papers there with lightning speed.

“It was a Saturday? We were sitting here, watching the television. I had my drawing clipboard, you were yelling at the interviewer to ask follow-up questions instead of moving on. The sketches were an A3 format, but I folded them in half and put them away somewhere. It was a social media allegory rendered with mannequins — you called it a creep-a-palooza?”

“Oh, that stuff, yeah.” Daniel points. “Bottom shelf over there.”

(read the whole thing on AO3)

[wasyago]

how did u get so good at composition:3 did u like to draw background all the time or it came to be after practice how long does one piece usually take:333

hehe well, thank you first of all. second of all... um both? practice yes, no one gets it on the first time. and just. i dont know? doing it over and over again and trying new things and experimenting, seeing what works, what doesn't, where the background is needed and not.

i remember i heard a lot of artists around me saying that they didn't like or couldn't draw backgrounds, and for some reason i decided that im not gonna be like other girls and learn to do it. and i uhhh.... just started? drawing backgrounds? i was trying, and watching tutorials on youtube, and seeing how other people did it and eventually it got easier? i can say that i definitely enjoyed figuring out how to do it, struggling to get the perspective and composition right. like, it was hard but i had a lot of fun doing it, so it felt natural and just like, normal art progression? it didn't feel like i was going out of my way to draw backgrounds, i just did it when i felt like it?

at some point i joined a character ask, you know, when people ask questions and you draw the character answering. and i decided that im gonna draw a background for each answer instead of it being a character on a blank background. and doing this, like, specifically trying to draw backgrounds and tell a story with them, and doing it regularly and coherently, it helped me progress a lot. like, i started with a character sitting on a couch in a room, and then it got better and better, multiple rooms, multiple angles of the same room, different locations and images. it helped me a ton. just, figuring out when you need a background, when its rather i did something simple for one frame and focused on the other instead, where the character needs to be positioned, etc.

i can say i didn't do a lot of proper studies, and if i did maybe it would've been helpful... i only drew things that were in my head, with characters that i liked, with imaginary locations and stuff. never really drew from photos... we did go on plein-airs, or whatever they're called, when i was in art school, so drawing backgrounds from real life probably also helped a little, but i can't remember anything about it so it didn't do as much.

i looked at a lot of art from cool artists and expanded my visual library, i analyzed their art trying to figure out why i like it and how to make my art have the same kind of feeling. and i still do! sometimes something just takes over me and i scroll pinterest for 3 hours looking at pretty art and going to artists' profiles and saving art and using it as inspiration later. and it helps! a lot!

i dont know where this post is going ummm. i guess if you want to learn to draw something, just like, start. scrap it if you don't like it and try again, have fun, don't get attached. and uhh, i felt a little nostalgic so here are some of my pieces that i did throughout the years. definitely feels like i got better at it recently, but there's still a lot of room for improvement

oh and for your second question. one piece takes about ummmm... more than a thousand episodes, thats 20 minutes times 1000 devided by 60 devided by 24... we're looking at about 14+ days of non stop watching?

no but for real. i dont really keep track of time when im drawing, uhh. plus depending on the complexity... my recent jrwi drawings are sketches, so they took maybe one or two hours max. something rendered uhhh, maybe 5 hours? if i don't finish it in one day the chances of this drawing ever getting done are super low, soo yeah

[spacey-xannabelle]

Fateful Encounter...

Last month, at around April 10th, I decided to revisit an old project I started months prior which was to polish up a test sketch of a comic page about Lucy encountering Lumi in the dreamspace. And after slowly making progress on this, I'm finally finished with this!

I'm gonna leave some artist notes under the read more, but overall I'm super proud of how this turned out!! This is pretty much my first serious attempt at making comics in general so this has been a very interesting learning experience!

Artist notes: So this is what the original sketch for this whole thing was. It was just me scribbling out a scene I had in my head for Startrails that I wanted to put on paper:

This I'd say was made around 2020-2021 ish. At the time, I didn't really do much with it. Until several months ago, I thought of trying to redraw this page and expand upon it.

But my first attempt at doing this didn't quite lead anywhere. I barely got through the thumbnailing process and just gave up bc I lost motivation (and life/work stuff was Happening so yea I had to put this aside as I figured stuff out). Here's the first draft of the thumbnails:

It was just two pages at the time and was pretty simple. I left this project sitting in my files for a while until I one day just, started binging videos from Thestarfishface on YouTube, primarily her webcomic guide videos. And I decided I'd give this project another go.

It was here where I began making a second draft of the thumbnails and this was what I had to work with:

I wanted to experiment with the panels and get funky with the compositions this time around. The 2 page draft expanded to a 3 page thing. But I thought it would've been better if I added one more page at the end with Lucy waking up as a conclusion to wrap this whole thing together.

And in the middle of working on page 3, my friend had suggested to do a an impact frame page, which I hadn't considered during the thumbnailing, so 4 pages became 5. And this was the result!

I posted the pages as I finished them onto my deviantart so that's where a lot of my thoughts were journaled as I went along dfjsdh. To summarize my ramblings there, this project was a very fun (and a bit frustrating) learning experience! I'm hoping to keep practicing and improving my workflow, and hopefully one day make Startrails a full fledged webcomic :')

Additional ramblings:

The structure that Lucy finds Lumi in is inspired by an orrery.

For page 5, I initially didn't plan for much dialogue but as I drew it, it felt just a liiiitle bit empty, so I kinda just threw in some dialogue for Mira. But bc I was already in the inking process (and I just wanted to have this project completed), I didn't redo the page to even include Mira in it. So Mira's just out of frame sdfjskdh. If I had more time and energy to keep this up, I'd have made a revision of the page so I could include her.

This experience has taught me that I could seriously work on my rendering process a bit more, and that my layer management is just atrocious sdkfjksdfh

This has also taught me that while Medibang has the tools needed for me to draw these pages just fine, it also lacks some stuff that I personally need if I were to do a longer project like this. So I'll be experimenting with CSP next!

The dialogue throughout this whole thing wasn't all that planned out- I really just stuck close to what the initial doodle had which probably wasn't the best idea bc I just have like, 2 pages of Lucy's awkward sounding dialogue aaaa. I might do something a bit more dialogue heavy to help improve this skill next time.

Anyway, thank you for reading through my 1 am ramblings on this little project of mine shdkjhks

[odyssean-flower]

i need your opinions...

working on the promised bonus chapter for the winding path of fate, but it's getting surprisingly long (of course it is) so i just want to know if i should keep it at the same length or shorten it

i just want to know if you guys actually want to read it

it's 2.5k words right now (which isn't a lot for some people, i know), but i keep wondering if i should cut a lot of the preamble out

Here's the whole thing below the cut

Neuvillette didn’t like summer. He found the hot sun and dry air stifling and uncomfortable. If he could have it his way, he would spend the season in a dark, cool, underwater cave somewhere, where the sunlight would be filtered through gallons and gallons of dense, refreshing, soothing water. Of course, it was the season most beloved by the citizens of Fontaine, so he kept his opinion to himself.  

That was why on this bright, sunny afternoon, he was currently sitting in the dining room, safely behind a window. There was a cup filled with spring water from Mondstadt in his hand and a stack of the day’s newspapers on the dining table. Everything was at his disposal for whiling the hours away in peaceful tranquility. 

However, the newspapers remained untouched, and the contents of his cup had only decreased an infinitesimal amount since he filled it half an hour ago.  

Perhaps it was because all his attention was focused on you, who was currently working outside in the front yard. 

Half an hour ago, you announced to him and the housekeeper Marie you were going to make your daily observations for the sunflowers and went outside with a notebook and pencil in hand. Half an hour ago, he also decided to sit for a while in the kitchen, which had a large window with a good view of the front yard. It was pleasantly cool there as well. 

Neuvillette watched as you carefully jotted down measurements in your notebook after measuring the stems of the plants. He watched as you made sketches while muttering to yourself, though he couldn’t make out your words no matter how much he strained his ears. He watched as you rubbed the small leaves between your fingers. He watched (and nearly rose out of his seat) when you yelped and jumped away when you noticed a bee buzzing near your face. He watched as you tucked errant strands of hair behind your ear, only to have your efforts rendered useless when a sudden breeze would blow your haor against your cheek. 

It had been two weeks since you planted the seeds. Similar to what he was doing now, Neuvillette had watched as you puzzled over where to plant them and how many to plant, and then watched as you and Marie dug the holes for the seeds. He offered to help, but you turned him down, saying that you didn’t want him to get dirt on his fine clothes and hair and that there was no way you were going to let the Iudex dig around in the dirt. He wanted to ask why it was okay for you to get dirt on your clothes and say that he had no compunctions about getting messy, especially if it was for your sake, but you were so adamant in your refusal that he had no choice but to back down. 

After the seeds were planted, you began this routine of diligently noting down measurements and personal observations every day, rain or shine. You told him that you had done a similar activity with the young students back in your hometown and found it quite enjoyable to watch something grow from a seed to a full-grown plant. 

He could relate. As someone who had watched over humanity for hundreds of years, there was something moving, even inspiring, about seeing small settlements transforming into large towns, or mere ideas developing into life-altering inventions.  

But still…must you do this in the heat? Neuvillette understood that this was considered mild for Fontainian summers, but wouldn’t it be far more comfortable to do your observations in the evening when it was cooler and darker? Then, I could propose to join her. I’m sure she would let me then. 

You had agreed to his request once. Then promptly ushered him back into the house after ten minutes. It had been a particularly sweltering day. According to you, the expression on his face had been “so heartrending that I can’t bear to look at it any longer.” 

It was then that you frowned up at the sun before turning in the direction of the house. Neuvillette quickly picked up a newspaper and opened it. His eyes landed on an article about a recent performance at the opera house. The words slipped through his mind like slithering eels.  

The door opened. “Just going to get my hat,” you said as you walked into the house. Neuvillette hummed in response, peering at you over the top of the newspaper. You went upstairs to your room. Neuvillette could hear the soft but solid thumping of your feet overhead as you walked around before they descended the stairs once more.  

He had never realized until now how quiet his house was until you moved in. It wasn’t as though you were overtly loud or chatty, but before your arrival, his house had been as silent as a tomb most of the time. His housekeeper, aware of his preferences, only spoke the bare minimum to him and kept out of his way, and he almost never had guests over (the Melusines being an exception). The silence had always been a welcome reprieve to him. After a grueling day at court, it was just what he needed. 

But these new sounds weren’t so obstructive, he found. The sharp intake of breath whenever a particularly interesting passage in a book was read. The sound of a door being closed quietly after wishing each other good night. The clinking of tableware at a shared dining table.  

Yes, they weren’t obstructive. In fact, he was steadily learning that there was a difference between quietness and utter silence. And he was realizing just which of the two who preferred.  

You briskly walked past the dining room before stopping and backing up. You poked your head around the door. “I’ll be done with the front yard soon,” you informed him with a straight face. 

“Ah...okay,” Neuvillette nodded. His forefinger tapped on the edge of the newspaper. 

“Just so you know,” you said, then headed outside again. You put on the hat and resumed your work.  

He supposed the sun was the reason you were wearing that hat. He himself had no strong opinion on them, except for the knowledge that most of the ones he tried made him look faintly ridiculous. He was aware that they were popular among the fashionable ladies and gentlemen in the Court of Fontaine, popularized by Furina’s well-publicized love for them. He was familiar with the ordinance passed a few years ago that limited the heights of the hats in the opera house, on account of the complaints that they obstructed the view greatly. He liked the one you wore for your wedding. 

But right now, he couldn’t say that he was terribly fond of them. 

They certainly do obstruct the view greatly, he thought, unconsciously frowning as the floppy brim of the hat obscured your eyes.  

The lavender bow tied around the crown of the hat caught his eye. He had seen this hat before and was sure that the ribbon had been green, the color of new spring shoots. Why did you change it? Because of the change in seasons?  He heard from the Melusines that it was a recent trend among young ladies to decorate their hats with ribbons, lace, flowers, and other accessories to match the season. The thought of you carefully choosing between ribbons of different hues with the same serious look on your face when you were choosing where to plant the sunflower seeds brought a small smile unbidden to his lips. 

Just then, you turned your head in his direction. He hurriedly turned back to the newspaper. For some reason, his heart was beating a little faster than before. 

Neuvillette was aware that there were certain tenets of human etiquette that one must follow, lest one be branded as an eccentric. Not staring at people was one of the most fundamental ones. He himself had been guilty of it on many occasions when he first came to the Court of Fontaine. As he became more accustomed to human society, he learned to stop doing it, but it appeared that he was falling back into his old habits when it came to you. 

He hadn’t the slightest idea why. It wasn’t as though you were doing anything strange. In fact, you were a perfectly ordinary woman. True, there were times when you would say something out of the blue or do something so unexpected that he was left agonizing over your every word and gesture, trying to glean clues that would explain why you would smile at him sometimes but sometimes not, and attempting to figure out how to replicate what he did... 

You were like a puzzle box that contained precious treasure. He didn’t know what that treasure was, or what he would do with it should he obtain it, but it didn’t matter. He wanted it. 

Would my brethren laugh at me if they saw how much a mere human has affected me, he wondered. Of course, they would have mocked him long ago for his fascination with humanity. 

Neuvillette was roused out of his thoughts by a knock on the window. You were standing there, looking directly at him. He stood up from his chair and moved to the window until the only thing separating the two of you was the glass pane. 

“Monsieur Neuvillette,” you said. You sounded like one of the Maison Gestion clerks reporting to him. “I’m going to the backyard now.” 

“All right. But there is no need for you to report your every movement to me, Madame.” 

“But I’m saying this for your benefit, sir. Since you like watching me so much.” 

That was all you said before you turned around and walked to the back of the house.  

Neuvillette was left standing there with his eyes slightly widened and a flush creeping up from his neck.  

He heard a soft cough from behind him and turned around. Marie was standing there, her mouth pressed together tightly. She was holding a large bowl of watermelon diced into cubes. 

“I was going to give this to Madame...but I think you would be more suited for the task, Monsieur,” she said, holding out the bowl to him. 

He thanked her and briskly walked to the veranda doors. His mind was racing, trying to figure out how to apologize to you. You didn’t seem angry—it was quite possible that you were teasing him, which was something you were beginning to do more recently. But it was better to be safe than sorry. 

He opened the doors and was met with a wall of heat. He grimaced but stepped outside. He sat down on the veranda seat and placed the bowl on the small glass table in front of him. At least there was shade here. He crossed his legs, then thought better of it. It looked too casual.  

He heard your footsteps coming around to the garden and stood up. You still weren’t smiling when you saw him, only looking at him with that piercing gaze. His heart sank. Were you that angry at him?  

“Madame,” he quickly said when you approached him. “I offer my sincerest apologies for watching you. You must have felt terribly awkward. I know that it’s rude behavior towards a lady such as you. I promise to never do it again.” 

You looked at him for a moment. Neuvillette tried to read your eyes but gleaned nothing. You then moved your gaze to the bowl on the table. “Oh, watermelon!” you exclaimed, clapping your hands together. “Let me go wash my hands.” 

You went back into the house through the veranda doors. Neuvillette remained standing where he was. He was now sure that you were furious at him. The droning of the cicadas couldn’t drown out his heartbeat thumping in his ears. Perhaps he should take his leave, as you wouldn’t want to see him. And yet, he remained rooted to the spot. 

You came back after a few minutes and sat yourself down, then reached for a watermelon cube. You closed your eyes and tilted your head back slightly. “This is really good watermelon,” you said. Then, you opened your eyes and looked up at him. “You should sit down, sir.” 

He sat down, trying to avert his gaze. He had to readjust his position when he realized that he had sat down on his hair. You were tactfully looking away as he did so. “I must once again apolo—” 

“I heard you the first time,” you interrupted him. “I accept it.” 

“Ah,” Neuvillette blinked as he felt a heavy weight lift from his being. “Thank you very much.” His throat was suddenly parched. He reached for a watermelon cube and put it in his mouth. The refreshing sweetness was very pleasant indeed. 

“I do find it a bit unnerving when I look in the window and see a white figure staring back at me,” you said after swallowing another piece of watermelon. “It’s like something out of a horror novel.” 

“My...my apologies,” he said. Your words stung him a bit (did he truly look that unsettling?), but they were well-deserved. 

The next words that came out of your mouth surprised him. “I’ll start doing my observations later in the day, when it’s cooler,” you said, resting your chin in your hands. “I think it’s better for the both of us that way.” 

“Are you saying...” Could this possibly be an invitation?  

“Well...it occurred to me that I really didn’t have any right to tell you what you can or can’t do in your house,” you looked to the side slightly, as though embarrassed. “If you truly want to accompany me outside in the heat, then feel free to do so. I just don’t want to force you to do unpleasant things when you don’t need to, so I’ll accommodate you.” 

Always so considerate...I wish she would be less so, he thought with a rush of emotions. He would have to decipher them later, because you were speaking again. 

“I don’t quite understand why you’re so interested in watching me. It can’t be terribly interesting.” 

“On the contrary, I find it fascinating to watch you at work,” Neuvillette put all his sincerity into those words. “You’re very meticulous. The sunflowers are sure to be brilliant when they bloom under your care.” 

“I sure hope so. It was a lot of work digging all those holes,” you said, giving him a look. Another thing he found endearingly frustrating: you were terrible at receiving compliments. “But I think most of the credit should go to the good soil and the rain that fell for the past few weeks. The very timely rains, I might add.” 

“Oh?” he kept his tone neutral. “Timely rains?” 

“Mm-hmm,” you tilted your head to the side, looking up at the sky. The fruit juices on your lips glistened in the sun. He was almost disappointed when you dabbed at your mouth with a handkerchief. “It’s interesting that it started raining so much just after I planted the last seed.” 

“Indeed, although it could also be a coincidence. One can never predict the weather exactly.” 

[theoneandonlylu]

I made the sketch for this a while ago, but then I let it sit for a while cause I didn't exactly know how I wanted to finish it. I could just slap some messy scribbly color on it as is, but I had stuff on the backside of both pages and my markers would've bled right through and wrecked that stuff. It also felt important enough to do a full render with clean lineart and smooth color, but idk lately full renders like that have felt kinda daunting and not as fun as it used to be. (Also my marker paper wasn't the right size and it would've ruined the composition lol) I think somewhere along the way, all that cleanness and smoothness sort of turned into perfectionism, which really goes against my whole personality and attitude about literally everything else lmao. I've never been a neat and organized and perfectionistic person EVER. But this messy colored sketching thing is really fun the whole way through. Sketching was always my favorite part of the process anyway. SOOOOO what I ended up doing with this was copying my sketch onto some tracing paper, and then transferring it onto a different page that didn't have stuff on the back or the page and then colored that. Plus that means I still have the original uncolored sketch in case I want to rework it later. I'd thought this might make a nice wrap-around cover if The Watcher was a physical book - you could fold it in half and slap a title over Grzzt's head haha. I'm lowkey rambling now so ANYWAYS, hope ya like it!

[tpher]

how do you make your oc screencap edits?? i also have a td oc and i dont really know where to start 😭

ok so!!! i use firealpaca which is just my usual drawing program. so i'll keep using it as a reference for my steps but of course im sure whatever similar program u use should have similar features

i'll be long winded for funsies as usual 💕

FINDING YOUR SCREENSHOTS

the key to decent td edits is to flat out trace screenshots whenever possible. stock pics will do, but of course itll be a lot more fun and less obvious if u use a screenshot from the show and put it into your new context

in terms of making your ocs, you will likely have to do what someone once called "frankensteining" your pics. this is where you use pics of other characters for their specific features and put them together since your oc doesnt have official screenshots to trace. this also absolutely comes in handy w canon characters! maybe you have a pose but u need them to be sitting. so try to stitch together two different pics to get what u need

it will look very scary but just trust the process. here is a random example i made using a dawn screenshot (where i removed the background), gwens eyes and eyebrows, and kittys hair

the sketching part is semi-optional. if you think you can freehand the lineart then go ahead but i assume your oc wont be a complete copy of something found in canon and therefore you will have to draw the newer/different features (such as the hair or the outfit) at least a little bit. and sometimes when i frankenstein the pics, my brain gets all overwhelmed so sketching makes me feel better jfbdjdnd

(in terms of my own oc, i screwed myself over bc his body type is so unique i gotta freehand it like all the time 😭

you can see i traced his head from his render (ALWAYS DO THIS BTW!!! TRACE CONSTANTLY), but then the body was freehanded using a canon pic as reference because tracing the pic wouldve been inaccurate)

THE LINEART

yes the iconic td thick, sharp, flat lineart. i achieve this by using a normal pen tool, turning off the pen pressure, and then turning up my pen stability to 40-60 (very high). you could use a curve tool if that works for you! but i would suggest against that for ALL of it bc the tool just wont respond well to rly drastic curves and such

the pen size varies on the pic. if the characters are close-up, itll likely be a bigger one. and then the characters' little details and facial features are usually a slightly but definitely noticeable smaller size. for the most part, ive had the bigger pen size at 13 while the details are around 9. or big size 10 and smaller size 7.

heres my technique:

as u can see, all of my lines go a bit too far. this is so that when im done drawing them, i can go back in and slowly erase where they meet and get them all sharp and pointy. this is just how i personally do it lmao. when it comes to facial features and other stuff that doesnt connect to anything, just get a close look at your reference to see how thick or how thin the edges get and do ur best to erase the edges to the point where they should be

THE COLORING

not much to it! the bucket tool is the best way to go. again just get a good look at your references just in case any parts have the lineart also colored in

THE BACKGROUND

you can find some generic td background pics on google or u could get them from the show and try to erase any character in the way lmao. if ur recreating something like, say, a dunc/ney scene w a different ship, then its very tedious but youll have to do your best to erase the canon characters and piece the background back together.

i like using the smudge tool a lot for this!!! just kinda pulling whats already there towards the characters. to save time, put your drawing visible on a top layer as you do this so that you dont have to edit the ENTIRE background, just what you need

THE RENDERING

ok so heres a big one imo. after youre done, youre gonna have to fuck up the quality at least a little. well not that u HAVE to but like..... to match the standard quality of a td screenshot? ive never seen a td screenshot in perfect hd quality outside of stock art. so u could blur ur drawing just a little bit. maybe add in the teeniest bit of chromatic aberration (just set it to 1 or -1). not ALL of them together but u do whatever u gotta do

my personal favorite is blurring just a little and then saving it as a jpeg (around 65-80%) so that its pretty crunchy and looks all the more real

obviously not a NECESSARY step but just something to point out. especially if ur background isnt the best quality so the characters have to match it

this one from yesterday i didnt even redraw topher bc i was lazy and he looks fine enough. i just put danny onto the pic to cover the other character. so i blurred danny a little bit and then saved it in a pretty low quality so that they match one another. look at those pixels. that crunch.

SO THE TLDR IS just trace and copy your references as close as possible. if you cant find a reference for your character, try finding another character w something close enough

[sobeautifullyobsessed]

Of Magic, Miracles, and Moonlight

a Stephen Strange x OFC Romance

genre: pre-Infinity War, slow burn romance, older man/younger woman, teacher/student to friends to lovers characters: Stephen Strange, Wong, Teyla of Hadeeth (OFC), Moraine of Hadeeth (OC), additional OCs as Kamar-Taj staff rating: general audience to begin with, later chapters will contain 18+ material

Ch.One | Ch.Two | Ch.Three | Ch.Four | Ch.Five | Ch.Six

Chapter Seven (ANGST, wherein Stephen experiences a guilt induced nightmare)

Stephen had suggested that they return to the Sanctum, hoping to allow Teyla a chance to process all that had happened, and to begin to grieve.  She had declined, her eyes brimming with determination and an eagerness to share with him, her happiest memories of her father.  He watched her move about the flat, while telling him a series of stories in a sort of stream of consciousness--leading him to realize that this was how she chose to mourn.  Eventually, she came to sit beside him on the sofa, her focus on showing him the contents of several photo albums encompassing the time she’d spent living with her dad.

In the quiet moments in between, Stephen sensed how desperately she was trying to fend off her heartbreak.  He hurt for her, but remained patient for the moment she might trust him enough to ask for what she needed.

As dusk colored the sky outside, Teyla located those pieces of her father’s work which he had saved for her, covered loosely in several layers of muslin cloth, waiting for her hand to reveal.  Worn and weary as she was, she found the fortitude to hang on just a while longer—though with each piece she unveiled, Stephen noted her tears remained barely in check

First there was a thick sketchbook that Charles had kept during the years that Teyla lived with him.  Much of its content was concerned with Teyla herself; studies of her at the breakfast table or amidst a pile of schoolbooks; sketches of her laughing, or at play; even a few which caught her sleeping--all of them created with a father’s loving eye.  Stephen enjoyed seeing this younger version of Teyla, imagining the daily joy she had brought to her father’s life.

There was a softly romantic portrait of Moraine in the nude, which Teyla explained had been painted early in their courtship; that the Artist was head over heels for his model was evident in every brushstroke.  A second painting depicted Moraine in the fertile bloom of pregnancy; set against the night sky, framed against an open window of a smaller apartment of decades ago, she was clothed in a translucent ivory nightgown, her hands resting protectively upon her protruding belly.  Stephen found it nothing short of breathtaking; a magnificently rendered image of womanhood in its unassailable glory, and beautiful with understated sensuality.

“You like this one,” Teyla observed quietly, but clearly proud of her father’s handiwork.

Stephen let out a low whistle, “This piece is amazing, Teyla. Your dad was a talented artist.”

Her voice caught a moment, but she readily agreed.

Two sculptures sat draped in linen slip cloths, lined with tyvek for extra protection from moisture; Teyla uncovered them reverently to reveal a bust of her mother—looking like some Grecian goddess—while the other captured Moraine with a wee Teyla.  Though made of marble, the piece was alive with their family bond, as mother bent low, cupping her daughter’s hands in her own, allowing both to study a small winged creature (Stephen’s mind insisted it was some sort of Hadeethan butterfly) which rested upon Teyla’s open palm.  “Fantastic,” he murmured.

“That he was,” she agreed, with a plaintive finality that voiced her sorrow.  A large, rectangular shape rested beneath the remaining storage cloth.  Teyla gasped as she slid the cloth away.  “I have…I have never seen this one…”  She bowed her head to hide the tears she could no longer hold at bay. 

Stephen draped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close.  She shivered against him. “He must have done this after I left Earth.  I wish…” Teyla sobbed, “I wish that I had known.”

This painting was unquestionably the finest of the works that Charles had set aside for his daughter.  A crowning achievement.  Teyla gazed wide-eyed at them from the canvas, her truth beautifully captured; the small curve of her smile, the soft fall of her hair, the unassuming kindness that lived in the depths of her doe-eyes.  She rested her chin against her palm, her hand angled so that the rich purple stone of her mood ring was visible.  She looked happy—and as though she knew the secret to happiness and would share it freely if only the viewer could awaken her image to speak aloud.  Walter Charles had painted the quiet miracle that had brought him fulfillment as no other soul in the world ever had, in a language that articulated his heart as no written or spoken word ever could.

Surely Teyla understood the image for all it had meant to her father.  She breathed hard several times, then made a desperate, strangled sound, before nestling her face in the crook of Stephen’s neck.   

The bitter taste of remorse filled his mouth, and Stephen’s hands flared with fresh spikes of pain, as he considered the talented hands that had created this striking portrait of a beloved daughter.  An artist’s hands that might have been given more time to share his talents with the world, if only a ‘hot-shot genius doctor’ had actually cared about the patients that had sought his help. The painting seemed infused with the soft light of her gentle spirit, imbued with all the love her father held for her.  An exceptional creation—and I failed the man without a second look back.

“I’m so sorry, Teyla,” he whispered, “So, so sorry.  I’d give anything to make this right…”

She was shaking her head against his words, “Please, Doctor, please just take me from this place.  I cannot bear this pain inside my heart.  I feel my father as though he is near, yet I will never hear his voice or feel the comfort of his embrace again.” 

“Of course,” he assured her, “Whatever you need, honey.”  He released her as gently as he could, to conjure a portal back to the sanctuary of Bleecker Street.

Understandably, Teyla had no appetite, but at Stephen’s stern insistence, she ate a little yogurt, and a few slices of mango, before retiring to the small room he directed her to for the night.  Though her body’s clock was still set to Kathmandu time—where it was early afternoon--he had a hunch he could coax her into some healing sleep.  Failing that, he would employ a small sandman spell, though that turned out to be unnecessary.

Feeling both the weight of his responsibility as her mentor, and the gnawing guilt that he might’ve made a difference in the quality and length of her father’s final days, Stephen sat at Teyla’s bedside, watching over her a while.  Watching as her breathing evened out and the lines of her body softened, knowing she had found the sort of solace—for a time—that he’d been unable to give her.  When satisfied she rested easy, he headed to his own room, planning to immerse himself in study, certain the peace of sleep would elude him—which was precisely as he deserved.

It was that same old dream again, but with a wicked twist.  He dreamed it far less frequently these days, and if he took the time to analyze just why, Stephen would realize it was because he had finally shed much of the guilt which he had carried for more than half a lifetime.  Accepting that he bore full responsibility for his horrific accident, facing his demons in the aftermath, and recognizing that his medical career had never been of one of true service to others, had been a struggle that rivaled the constant physical challenges presented by his ruined hands.  Only the enlightenment that had come to him with his studies in the mystic arts had enabled him to accept the truth about himself, humbling him and inspiring him to be a better man than ever in his life.

His dream-self stood—as he always did--on the shore of one of the smaller Fremont Lakes, drinking a can of Coors, laughing with his friends, and flirting with the prettiest of his sister’s high school classmates.  He was only weeks away from beginning freshman year, and Stephen had been thinking that a little fling with Chloe Butler might be the perfect way to end the summer before heading off to study medicine at Creighton University.  His sister Donna had swum out toward the the center of the lake, headed for the swim platform to bask in the afternoon sun—swimming as effortlessly as she’d done at least a hundred times before, and he frankly wasn’t paying much attention. He should have been; if he had been, he might have reached her minutes sooner, reached her in time to keep her from going under that last time.

In reality, he’d only heard her call his name once, but in the dreams, her frightened voice always carried across the water to him, repeatedly calling for help, calling his name, begging him to save her.  When he realized she was in trouble, he’d shucked off his scuffed leather boat shoes, the first of the young men on the narrow strip of beach to dive in, swimming frantically in her direction.  He was never to know for certain what had put her in distress; without a full autopsy (their mother couldn’t bear the thought of one), the best explanation they’d been given was a seizure of sorts, or something as innocuous as an ill-timed cramp.  And though his lungs burned with his effort to reach her, Stephen was still a dozen yards away when Donna sank below the surface with heartbreaking finality. 

In his dream, he relived again his frantic search for her in the dark depths of the lake, finally finding her, bringing her to shore, and breaking down after he was unable to resuscitate her.  But this time, instead of waking sweat-soaked and heart hammering the insistent beat of his failure and his guilt, the nightmare continued.  Though she was long dead and buried, Donna was there, in the flower of eternal youth, riding passenger with him in his Lamborghini Huracan.  You failed me, Stephen, she intoned, her eyes flashing with bitter accusation; you were my older brother and you were supposed to look out for me, but you failed miserably; and as the rain began to pound the windshield, she questioned him without remorse:  how many others did you fail in your egotistical short sightedness?   

Stephen faced her, helpless to change the past, knowing his own fate was already sealed; in moments would come the crash and his car would hurtle off the road, breaking his hands beyond repair, robbing him of the life he’d worked so single-mindedly to establish for himself.  You failed me, Stephen, she repeated, as you always fail the ones in greatest need…and just before the collision, Donna’s face transformed, and she was Teyla, but not angry--only sad, her indictments delivered quietly, regretfully, with a tenderness that matched her spirit in the waking world.  You failed him, Stephen Strange; a better man might have saved my father.  Somehow her words stung even more, for the gentle way in which she delivered them.  You were ever selfish, and blind to the needs of others, so perhaps there is some justice in your fate, after all.  And then she was gone, as his car spun and spun, and the pain was excruciating, and he knew in that moment that he deserved the pain, he deserved to have his old life ripped away…and if he spent a hundred years expunging his guilt through selfless service, he could never erase the misery, the loss, the deaths, of those he’d failed.  His dear, doomed sister.  Walter Charles, and those patients, who, like him, were not challenge enough to merit his valuable time and attention.  And now, his gentle Teyla…

“Stephen”.  Softly, yet urgently, spoken. “Stephen, you must awaken.”  A concerned, familiar voice, summoning him away from his pain and self-recrimination.  Pulling him from the depths of his dream.  A hand—her hand--upon his shoulder, soft but insistent, lightly shaking him back to consciousness.

“Teyla,” he murmured, still caught in the nightmare.  He needed to tell her.  Wanted to, but that would only bring her pain.  “Teyla…”

“Yes, I am here,” she answered, “I am here, Stephen.  Open your eyes.  See me beside you and know that all is well.”

His eyes fluttered open, unable to focus at first, and his heart was pounding, just as it always did in the wake of that nightmare.  Her hand on his cheek was soft and cool, her face hovering above his quietly merciful, the ends of her hair just brushing his skin. Teyla of Hadeeth.  How was she here, sympathetic as she tried to soothe him, the embodiment of clemency when he deserved only her scorn?  “Teyla?” he whispered, wondering if she was just the remains of his dream, and would vanish like mist if he dared to trust she was real.

“Yes, Stephen,” she answered patiently, “Leave those painful memories behind.  You must not torment yourself so.” Despite the grief he knew dwelled in her heart, her focus seemed to be solely on comforting him.  

“I was dreaming,” he rasped, feeling he ought to explain, and hoping he didn’t appear as weak as he felt.

“I know,” she told him, the calm of her voice and in her touch beginning to banish the anguish that had enveloped him.  “I dreamt as well, Stephen.  I saw enough to know, and I felt your distress, and now I am here because you are more than worthy of mercy—but such mercy must begin with yourself.”  She laid a hand over his heart, and an unexpected warmth spread through his chest.

Amazed at her perception, Stephen searched her eyes, reading her sincerity, unbelieving that redemption could be so easily gained.  He shook his head to clear away the vestiges of his nightmare, sitting up against the headboard.  He laid his hand atop hers, swearing he could feel the beautiful life force that inhabited her slender form.  “Teyla,” he confessed, “If you knew the truth, you might not be so generous…”

Her eyes told him before she spoke, that she was well aware of the part he’d played in her father’s story. “I already know all that I need to know, Stephen.”  His given name upon her lips, spoken without a hint of her usual formality, was a balm against his shame.  “You have paid a heavy penance for your past mistakes; you need punish yourself no longer.”

Stephen breathed deeply and closed his eyes, feeling entirely unworthy of the absolution she was offering.  “Do you understand, Teyla?  Your own father…”

She cupped a hand against his cheek, silencing him with a wise, sweet smile.  “I assure you, Stephen—I understand it all…and I promise you that you are not the man you were in those days.”  He opened his eyes, finding only compassion in her own.  “You have become your best self, through trial and pain.  I swear that you are now the man you were destined to become…but you must forgive yourself--for that will finally free you from this burden of guilt that weighs upon you so.”

Though awestruck by her heart’s true generosity, Stephen suddenly felt tired enough to sleep for a week.  “Yes,” she smiled, relieved on his behalf, “You must rest a while now, and come the day this darkness will fade to naught.”  Come morning he would wonder too, if she’d worked some gentle magic by simple touch alone. 

At her prompting, Stephen slid back down onto his pillow, allowing her to tuck the blanket around him.  He caught her hand in his before she stood up to leave; she didn’t seem surprised.  “You are most welcome, Stephen Strange,” she told him, then headed to his door.

“Just tell me this,” he said, a ghost of his usual cheekiness restored, so that she turned back to him from the doorway, “How are you so young, and yet so wise, Teyla of Hadeeth?”

She raised a brow—quite insouciantly—and he saw in her a bit of Moraine’s regal bearing, as she proudly replied, “I am both my mother’s daughter, and my father’s child as well.  I dare to believe that the best of both of them have found their union in me.”  Teyla gave a little shrug, and left the room—though the surprising smile she left upon Stephen’s face lasted long enough to see him into a more peaceful sleep of his own.  

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buy me a coffee?☕

[mewmus]

This room filled with various animation references may be rather modern for Meg, but she seems to have made herself quite at home~!

. Been sitting on this as an unfinished sketch for a long time, but was struggling to move forward with it as I really wanted to do a good job rendering the best skunk around

I finally had the motivation with all the recent cartoon stuff I've been doing to give this some colour and let it see the light of day!

[bvannn]

Weekly Update November 15, 2024

I’m in a real bad spot again, everything I’ve been trying keeps going wrong, but i did get some art stuff done.

I tried writing some shorter songs on a whim with some 16 bit soundfonts and i think they came out pretty well. Add 3 more to the ‘songs i finished but can’t release yet’ pile. Also made some midis for two more vocal parts, one for a cover (FF), one for an original (LF), both of which have finished instrumentals. Started tuning FF, am going to try some of the new strategies i tested a few weeks ago. Another vocal original, BATB, that I’ve been on and off working on is probably done? I think? I finished mixing the vocal part, another one for the pile. Also fixed a random glitch that would sometimes happen where an instrument would randomly play a phantom note that didn���t exist in the midi part at the very start of a song, which was causing issue with three songs. Also re-edited Blow Off Steam, since the mixing was fucking awful idk what was wrong with me to think that would be passable. I’ll release it on YouTube once I have motivation to open my computer. I really need to just sit down and draw some cover art but every time i try everything in my life keeps going wrong I’m cursed i swear. It’s fine it’ll get done eventually, i started on one of them this week and so far it looks good. I thumbnailed some more that also look fine. I just need life to cut me a break so i can draw. I just want a break. One break.

I tried working on the comic this week too, got about half of page 12 inked. The comic looks great and is fun to read through and i love how it’s coming out but again every time I try to work on it bad things happen to me that get in the way. I want to give a deadline and say ‘oh, it’ll be done on (x date)’ but I can’t. I don’t know what’s going to happen. Maybe today I’ll go look at tapas and see how things are over there, since I can’t really work on anything. I haven’t really thought about how I’d go about releasing the damn thing once it is finished other than ‘probably not webtoon, I’ve never heard anyone say anything positive about webtoon’.

I made storyboards/thumbnails for another animation project, smaller one for one of the smaller unreleased songs I’m sitting on. I looked into after effects again and it should be able to do some of the effects I thought I was going to need to learn blender for, which is great because I don’t want to mess with blender yet. There’s a certain character who I’ve only really drawn a couple times because I wanted her to have a really unique visual style, so once I have myself together I’d like to try drawing her and rendering her with the new tricks I learned in after effects, but again things need to get better first, and that’s unlikely.

Last bit of hope for progress next week would be the epithet erased TTRPG. I finished off the first tileset I had done and actually sat down to turn it into some maps, and it works really well. Ended up watching through the original anime campaign a bit further too, which inspired me to get some statblocks done and some character minis sketched. Also completely rewrote stage 6 for the second time but I think this time it’ll stick. A couple more NPC ideas have been floating around for that and I might post a mini once I have more. Again I’m hesitant to post anything visual for that, since my plan is currently to turn the campaign into a prewritten module for other people to run, release the module for free so everyone can play, and then release the optional maps and minis as a paid package, so I can make a bit from my work but also make the system more accessible to people for free. The fifth anniversary streams are this weekend, including one that is set to cover the updated system book, hopefully that should give me the motivation to get going, and then if that goes well that should give me motivation for my other projects. Everything I’m doing is intertwined with each other and with my mood, so if nothing else bad happens I should be getting better, but again there’s still a couple things that can go wrong and they certainly will because I’m not allowed to have anything.

Sorry again for how gloomy this post has been, everything seems to be going wrong but I’m going to keep trying. I might be slow again for a while but that’s fine, that’s why I loaded up my queue with old art. Thank you everyone for sticking through it, and I’m glad you guys have been enjoying the old art. I shuffled the queue so some of it isn’t as old as others, but even so a good number of you are seeing pieces for the first time. I really hope I’ll have something big to show soon!

[sleepless-in-southlands]

Walking on Sunshine

Ao3

Summary: Now that Luke knows he has carry-overs, what better way to spend his time than trying to figure out just what they are? Content: Crackfic in a series of crackfics, meant to be 100% angst free but oops!; accidents, sigils, flying, hijinks, potatoes banter, go ahead try and guess what you're about to read, go on guess Ship: Lucky Jumbo (Mumbo Jumbo/Luke Carder) Note: Part seven of Lucky Jumbo

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Using the kind of precision that only came with doing the same thing far too many times, Luke oh-so-carefully rounded out the inner swirl on the wing design he had been repeatedly drawing far too many times. The thirty other potatoes he had scattered on the table in front of him had nearly identical symbols sketched on each of them, some with multiple, some in other colours. None yet had done what he wanted them to do, but he had a good feeling about this one.

(It was, coincidentally, the exact same good feeling he had had about all the other non-reactive potato-drawings as well.)

Since learning about his carry-overs, at the beseechment of Mumbo and for the sake of his own curiosity, Luke had invested himself in experimenting with different creations and experiences, trying to determine what he had and hadn’t brought over with him from his old world.

His tests had yet to show much success.

He hadn’t suddenly developed any of the diseases that made the other hermits look at him in horror when he described them. The sun no longer had any significant effect on him as far as he could tell- no sunburn, no heat exhaustion, no tanning- even if he stood about in it, unprotected, all day long. His various mushroom recipes had yet to produce anything even slightly psychedelic, and Hermitcraft apples lacked the seeds for him to try and make cyanide out of.

It hadn’t all been for naught, though. Luke had discovered some things. His attempt to boil potatoes had resulted in the creation of ‘potions of survival,’ which neither improved nor worsened a player’s health and hunger. It didn’t prevent injury, but it did stop the natural decay that came with starvation and sprinting.

(“-I think it’s because potatoes are supposed to be the one perfect survival food. You know, the ‘if you could eat one food for the rest of your life, what would it be?’ cheat answer. All the necessary proteins and vitamins and stuff, but not really nutritious to only eat forever.”

“Vitamins?”

“Right, you guys don’t have those. Or food groups. How do I explain this… ok, imagine you have a dozen different hunger bars, and you have to balance all of them, without seeing them, and while avoiding the secret evil hunger bars too.”

“What?”)

And he learned that he was still capable of drowning, although Mumbo assured him that all hermits could drown, which rendered both Luke’s test and conclusion moot. It also rendered Mumbo distressed, because Luke was distressed, because there was nothing comforting about sitting underwater while testing your ability to wet-drown while squids continued to accidentally dry-drown around you.

Outside of those few discoveries, however, Luke’s efforts had largely been for naught. Hermitcraft lacked a lot of things he had once had, while simultaneously containing a seemingly endless amount of things that Luke had never heard of before. It was hard to experiment with what he didn’t have, and he wasn’t exceptionally keen on messing around too much with what he didn’t know.

And that had given Luke an idea.

After all, messing around with what he didn’t know was exactly how Luke had ended up in Hermitcraft in the first place. Inscryption had gotten him- er- forcefully removed from his old life, yes, but he was fairly certain that it was what had transported him to his new one. So if he could have carry-overs from his world… why couldn’t he have some from Inscryption as well?

It was a terrifying thought. When Luke first realized it was a possibility, he had spent the rest of the day locked up in his mock recording studio, trying to decide how likely such a thing was, if he had seen any signs of it being a reality before then. He hadn’t, not to the best of his knowledge, but with how long it had taken him to realize he had any carry-overs, it wasn’t the complete reassurance he had been hoping for.

But if Xisuma said the only way to figure out Luke’s carry-overs was through trial and error, then Luke could never really be sure either way without testing.

Granted, he wasn’t going to try and test everything like he had been with sunburn and drowning. But Inscryption hadn’t all been sacrifice and mind-games and slowly growing inescapable insanity. If he could replicate something a bit safer from the game, he would be able to determine if he had carried any of its code into Hermitcraft with him. If he hadn’t, no more need to worry about it. If he had… well, he’d get Mumbo to build that bridge when he got to it.

Hence the airborne sigil in the potatoes.

Three dozen or so attempts had yet to produce any result, which Luke figured most people would take as a good enough sign that Inscryption and its rules hadn’t followed him into Hermitcraft. But Luke needed to be absolutely, completely, one hundred percent certain, and if that meant turning a full stack of Mumbo’s potatoes into an oddly repetitive art project, then so be it.

With care not to let any drippings mar the potato skin, Luke pulled back the stick he had been using as his drawing utensil, the tip of it sharpened for precision and dipped in squid ink. The sigil was perfect, the edges on the inner swirl sharp where the ones on its three feathers were rounded off. Although he had no exact reference to compare it to, it matched his memories of the sigil to a T, to the point where he could almost see the pale green glow of Magnificus’s stolen paint hovering over his drawing, a grisly afterimage of the original symbol. It was as close to accurate as Luke could ever hope to get it.

And yet, the potato did not fly.

Feeling the same mixed sense of defeat and relief he had gotten after each other potato also remained grounded, Luke tossed it onto the table with the rest of the lot. As much as he didn’t actually want his efforts to all be for naught, the growing evidence that he didn’t have any Inscryption carry-overs was reassuring.

After staring at his pile of dud-spuds for a moment, Luke pushed himself away from the table, standing up and stretching his arms over his head. While he did fully intend to test the drawing on every one of the sixty-four potatoes Mumbo had leant him, there was only so long Luke could do so in one sitting before starting to feel like he was inviting in the Inscryption madness himself. He left the pile of doodled-on vegetables and various writing implements on the table as he headed for his house’s front door, making his way outside and into the fresh air.

Given the usual state of things, Boatem wasn’t too lively. Grian was nearby, messing with an odd assortment of blocks (if Luke had to wager a guess, it probably had something to do with colour palettes), but other than him Luke couldn’t see any of the company’s members, suggesting most were either tinkering with interiors or out interacting with non-Boatem-ers. Pranking was always a possibility as well, but if Boatem was up to anything major Luke was sure he would’ve been pulled in on it.

His guess was proven right for at least one hermit when a few minutes later, as Luke was doing his best to stop seeing the same three-feathered wing pattern in every other block, the door to one of the houses a bit down the way from his on Mumbo’s mountain opened. The redstoner himself emerged, walking out backwards as he shoved carpet into his pocket, clearly trying to get a good idea of how the building’s interior now looked with whatever changes he had made.

Mumbo’s distraction made it very easy for Luke to lovingly sneak up on him, standing a few spaces behind him and taking his own glance inside before speaking up. “Looking good, but I think it could use a little something more.”

Mumbo startled as though Luke had set off an end crystal behind him, which didn’t say as much as Luke felt it should. “Luke! You can’t surprise a hermit like that!”

“I think I just did.”

For his humor, Luke got (lightly) shoved. “I thought you were busy with your potatoes.”

“I am,” Luke acknowledged, casting a glance at his house, “but I needed a break.”

“And you felt the best use of that break was to scare me witless?”

“That seems a bit dramatic, seeing as I wasn’t even trying to blow you up or shove you into the abyss.”

“Those are pranks, very different situation.”

“Would you have preferred I said hello with a sword, then?”

“That’s hardly creative.”

“But it is dangerous, which seems to be the more important factor here.”

“Not every prank is dangerous, just… a good deal of them.” Clearly aware that he was losing his side of the debate, Mumbo wisely switched topics. “What have the potatoes done that you need a break from them?”

Luke let the obvious subject change slide, if only to grab at the chance to bemoan the current state of his own project. “They haven’t done anything, and that’s the problem.”

“Are you expecting them to do something?”

“Yes, I-”

“Are you aware that, here, in Hermitcraft, potatoes do nothing but grow and taste delicious?”

Luke huffed, doing his best to seem annoyed while Mumbo laughed at his own comedy bit. “Yes, I am. And I know that you knew I did too.”

“Well, it’s hard to be sure. Your potatoes had ‘vitamins’ in them. Who knows what they could get up to with those.”

“I told you-”

“Yes, yes, the secret hunger bars and the chewy cavemen. I don’t actually need- nor want- a refresher.” Mumbo waved his hand, as if that alone could remove the existence of the concepts. “Really, though, what are you expecting? Have you been trying to make them do something?”

“In a sense.” Luke replied vaguely. He had done his best to avoid directly telling Mumbo what he hoped to achieve with his potato project ever since he had asked for the necessary materials, not wanting to freak him out (or get his hopes up) over something Luke wasn’t sure would work. “But they’re being uncooperative.”

Mumbo hadn’t pushed Luke to go beyond non-answers at any point, but Luke could tell he wanted to. Not that Luke could blame him for that. “Anything I can do to help?”

“Last I checked, you’re not the one with the messed up code. For you, the potatoes will always be vitamin-free.”

“It’s for the best.” Mumbo said, as if he was the one who had made the decision to not personally carry-over things that weren’t even his to carry. “But I meant more if you wanted to discuss it, see if you can talk your way through what’s going wrong.”

“Well I know what’s going wrong, I think. Just not how to fix it.”

“What’s the problem?”

Luke hesitated, trying to decide how best to phrase the issue. “It’s… a drawing.”

“A drawing?”

“Yeah. It’s a- a special symbol. Supposed to have an effect on the object it’s drawn on. But it’s not working.” Luke sighed. “I don’t really have any references for it here, so I’m only sketching from memory, but it doesn’t seem inaccurate. Probably means it’s not something I carried over with me, but it’s hard to be sure.”

Mumbo tilted his head slightly. “Is it like an enchantment? Typically those need to be activated before they work.”

“They’re actually pretty similar, yeah.” Luke admitted, briefly thinking through the different events and rituals that had been used to imbue his cards with the different sigils’ powers. “Maybe I don’t have what I would need to activate them here.”

“What do you need to activate them?”

Sacrifice. Magic paint. Death. Robobucks. “...Nothing I can get here.”

Again, Mumbo accepted the barely-an-answer response. “That could be it, then. Unless you are drawing it wrong. Is it a particularly complicated symbol?”

“Not really. At this point, I could draw it in my sleep.”

Mumbo hummed. "Can I see how you've been drawing it?"

Luke waved in the direction of his house. "I left all my examples behind, otherwise I'd show you."

"Can't you go grab one?"

"I told you, I'm on break."

Mumbo rolled his eyes in amusement. “I’m sure I have a potato on hand that you can draw on here, then.”

“I also left my drawing supplies in my house. And I will also not be fetching them.”

“You’re making it rather hard to help you.”

“You’re not being creative enough with your suggestions.”

“Art is not one of my strong suits.” Mumbo cast a side-glance at the interior of the house they were standing beside, reaching out and shutting the door as he did so. “I don’t have to be creative about it.”

“You could be.” Luke said, just for the sake of it. “But fine, fine, I’ll find a solution all on my own.”

Mumbo leaned against the now-shut door, crossing his arms. Their bantering was pointless, and more than a little stupid, but Luke knew Mumbo enjoyed it as much as he did. “One that doesn’t involve walking back to your house in any capacity, I take it?”

“Clearly not. I can’t walk on my break.”

“But you walked over here.”

“Not necessarily. Seeing as you didn’t notice my approach, it could have been in any manner of ways.” Luke half-answered, faking thoughtfulness. “For all you know, I could have jumped the distance, or teleported, or-”

“Flown?”

“Cruel, Mumbo. That’s cruel.” Mumbo’s expression was as close as it could get to a shit-eating grin, given his moustache was doing all the work for the grin. “But that does give me an idea.”

“Instead of walking to get the supplies, you’ll fly?”

“Why would I? I have everything I need right here.” Luke moved to join Mumbo against the door, facing the redstoner. He held up a hand, pointer finger extended. “My finger… and your moustache.”

Mumbo, who had somehow always dealt with nonsense much better than Luke, merely chuckled in bemusement. “Should I be concerned for my moustache’s safety?”

“No more than you usually are.” Luke reached forward, swiping a finger through Mumbo’s moustache in the path of a vaguely curved line. The hair somewhat parted as he went, leaving an impression of the arc. “I’ll draw the symbol right here.”

“I can’t quite see it from there.”

“Quiet, you’ll ruin my work.”

Despite the fact that he was correct, and Luke’s plan wouldn’t actually be of any help with showing him the sigil, Mumbo dutifully didn’t say another word, quietly watching Luke instead. Luke, for his part, felt as though they were once again in their weeks of fake not-dating, looking for any excuse to be close in a totally, completely normal, non-romantic way. If anyone else from Boatem opted to pass by them at that moment, they’d get made fun of as much as they would’ve back then, too.

“Any guesses as to what the symbol looks like?” Luke asked as he zig-zagged in the tips of the wing.

“A lot of squiggly lines?”

“That’s not very nice. I’m putting my best effort into this, Mumbo, I’d appreciate your respect.” It was a blatant lie to claim Luke’s current work was a good effort, much less his best, given how wonky his line work was (he blamed the canvas), but Mumbo didn’t need to know that. “And I thought I told you not to speak.”

Mumbo gave Luke a look that almost could have been classified as a glare if one ignored how terribly fond it was. Luke grinned in response, right as he finished off the symbol with a half-hearted swirl.

And that was when everything went to shit.

The joke Luke had been preparing- something about how now Mumbo could look at the symbol, gosh, wasn’t that helpful- died on his tongue as the sigil, the messy sigil that only bared a passing resemblance to the one he had been trying to replicate, flashed yellow in Mumbo’s moustache. Panic flared automatically, followed in a microsecond by denial’s reassurances- that couldn’t have been what Luke thought it was, just a trick of the light, mind games, nothing real.

And then the panic came right back as Mumbo’s moustache started to grow.

It took Mumbo a moment to notice what was happening, picking up on Luke’s distress first. He looked as though he were going to say something, but before he could, the edges of his moustache were growing past the sides of his cheeks, getting wider and bushier from the center of his face outwards. The sudden additional weight sent him toppling forward, barely managing to grab Luke’s shoulders before he fell over entirely. Automatically, Luke’s hands came up to hold Mumbo’s arms, trying to stabilize him.

“Uh, Luke?” Mumbo’s voice was light, but slightly shaky. “What’s happening?”

“I- I don’t know.” Luke admitted, pulling back enough to watch as Mumbo’s moustache continued to grow. Was rapid-hair-growth a side effect of airborne? It was technically possible, since Luke had never actually seen the sigil applied to anything that had hair. Was that how Leshy had gotten so overgrown with plants? They were kind of like his hair.

But that didn’t seem right. The hair wasn’t just growing in general, it was strictly going outwards to the sides, as though trying to maintain its shape. And despite how far off Mumbo’s face it had gotten (it had already grown further out than Mumbo’s arms could stretch), the moustache wasn’t drooping at all, like a rod had been put through it to keep it in place. On the bottom of the moustache, the hair had started to bunch up in an odd way, forming three bumps on each side of Mumbo’s face.

…Three bumps. Fuck.

Mumbo’s wings-turned-moustache started to flap as soon as Luke had made the connection, startling a shout from Mumbo. Luke tightened his grip, trying to prevent the sigil from doing what it was meant to do, but it was a losing battle. It made absolutely no aerodynamic nor logical sense, how wings made of facial hair were able to lift a grown man from a single connection spot of a strip of skin underneath where a nose should be, but Inscryption had never made any sense either. Luke was slowing the process by anchoring Mumbo, but even his feet were starting to lift from the ground.

“Luke?!” Mumbo was completely off the ground when he next spoke, sounding upset but not pained, and Luke took a small relief in the fact that whatever was happening, at the very least, didn’t seem to be hurting him. It was also good that he could still speak, although it did jarringly remind Luke that he still had absolutely no clue what the exacts of Mumbo’s mouth situation were. “Is this what the symbol’s supposed to do?!”

“It’s- kinda? It’s supposed to elevate you but not like this!” Luke’s hands were slowly slipping down the sleeves of Mumbo’s suit, and he bit back a curse. “I swear, it wasn’t working on the potatoes- I don’t know what’s changed!”

“I’ll be happy to work that out with you as soon as my moustache isn’t trying to carry me into the sun!”

“Alright, alright, I’ll-” Mumbo’s moustache wings flapped particularly hard, and Luke stumbled as he lost hold of Mumbo and hit the dirt, “-shoot.”

Mumbo, luckily, managed to grab onto the edge of the house they were next to, but his hand placement was awkward at best, and Luke could tell it wouldn’t be long til the wings were winning out once more. Mumbo seemed to know this too, fingers pressing as close as they possibly could to the roof. “Why did you let go?!”

“I didn’t mean to!” Luke shoved his hands into his pockets, grateful for how his tiny elytra immediately pressed against his palm even if he still didn’t understand ‘inventory.’ He started shrugging on the artificial wings as he went to retrieve his fireworks as well. “Your moustache has a mind of its own!” “It didn’t a minute ago!”

Only singeing his fingers a bit, Luke joined Mumbo at his current height after overshooting him by a little (a lot), drifting past him as he tried to find a way to help the situation. His elytra was more like a glider than actual wings- it couldn’t keep him level in one position for very long, especially given Luke still royally sucked at using it- so he wasn’t able to stay beside Mumbo for very long at a time. Even if he could, he wasn’t sure what he would do. The airborne sigil was obviously too strong for Luke alone to hold Mumbo down, and as was he’d be lucky if he managed to grab Mumbo without also body-slamming him away from the one handhold he still had.

“How long do you think you can hold on for?” Luke half-shouted at Mumbo as he soared past him once more, beginning to sink beneath Mumbo’s level. He didn’t want to risk setting off another firework quite yet. “If I set down to get help, will you fly away the moment I turn my back?”

As Luke spoke, one of Mumbo’s hands slipped off the edge of the roof, the now free half of his body getting tugged up as soon as it did, leaving him with only one anchoring point. Mumbo chuckled nervously, doing his best to look at Luke despite their contrasting positions. “It seems I’ll be flying away whether your back is turned or not!”

“Point taken.” Luke directed himself towards the ground, doing his best not to crash into it as he did so. His first idea as to who to get was Xisuma, but he had no clue where the admin- or nearly any other hermit- currently was, which consequently meant he didn’t know how long it would take them to arrive.

A quick check, however, showed Luke that Grian was still where he had been ten minutes ago, staring intently at a line of blocks.

“Grian!” Predictably, Luke messed up his landing, taking pride in the fact he managed to not fall over as he stumbled over his own feet. When he next took his eyes off the ground, he found Grian had heard his call, turning away from his work to look in Luke’s direction. “Help!”

Luke’s incredibly concise request was met with little other than a confused head tilt from Grian. To expand on his point, Luke frantically waved his arms in Mumbo’s direction, hoping Grian would be able to work out the situation from there.

He did not. “Use your communicator!”

It took Luke a moment of his own to figure out what Grian thought was going on, putting the pieces together when he looked back at where he had just been gesturing. To his chagrin, he found that Mumbo had lost his other handhold on the house and was quickly floating away, likely appearing to Grian as though Mumbo was flying of his own volition and Luke was only looking to get a message passed.

Ignoring the fact that he could also send Grian a communicator message to explain the situation, Luke yelled back, “He’s not wearing an elytra!”

It was hard to read Grian's expression (eyes) from so far away, but Luke didn't think he was imagining the way the builder squinted at him, even more confused, before he looked once again in Mumbo's direction. Luke was also fairly sure he didn't imagine the moment Grian realized what was wrong.

 "Is that his moustache!?" Grian asked rhetorically, sounding much more amused by the situation than Luke had expected. He was in the air barely a second after, having moved so fast Luke hadn't even noticed him set off a firework. Given Mumbo was actively disappearing into the sky, Luke appreciated the speed. 

Luke promptly followed suit, finding that by the time he reached them, Grian was already at Mumbo's level, holding his arm to keep him from flying any higher. Grian’s wings were flapping hard, a blur of red-yellow-blue as he worked to keep Mumbo in place.

“Was your moustache not glorious enough already for you, Mumbo?” Grian teased cheerfully, laughing at Mumbo’s half-hearted glare in return.

“In Mumbo’s defense, this is my fault.” Luke did his best to keep his glide in a tight circle around Grian and Mumbo. “And in my defense, it was an accident.”

“A rabbit foot stew kind of accident, or a poppy tea kind of accident?”

“My mistakes have categories now?!”

“They always have.” Grian joked with a laugh, ignoring Luke’s indignance as he went on, “But I meant, is it a Hermitcraft thing you don’t understand, or a you-thing that Hermitcraft doesn’t understand?”

Luke blinked. “Are moustache wings a Hermitcraft thing?”

“No! No they are not!” Mumbo replied before Grian could, twisting his hand around so that he could hold one of Grian’s arms as well.

“Just checking.” Grian said, heavily tongue-in-cheek, but he adjusted his own grip on Mumbo to be a bit more secure. “It’s going to take me a bit to get Mumbo back to earth with how hard his moustache’s fighting me.”

“Want me to help?” Luke offered, although he still didn’t trust himself to not accidentally slam into Mumbo and send him off into the ether.

Understandably, Grian didn’t seem to trust him either. “Sorry Luke, but I saw how well you landed. Probably better to leave this to me. Unless Mumbo wants a chance to test how far his new wings will take him-”

Mumbo was increasingly looking like a cat clinging to a tree branch for dear life. “Grian.”

“What, do you not trust Luke to get you safely to the ground?”

“I trust Luke! But his flying skills…”

“Hurtful… but smart.” Luke circled Grian and Mumbo once more. “I’ll touch down and try to set something up for when you two land.”

“See if you can find a lead.” Grian suggested as he kicked at the air, tilting backwards as he started to slowly pull Mumbo down. “We can tie it to Mumbo’s ankle, fly him like a kite ‘til we get this all figured out.”

“I’m glad you can find this funny.”

“I don’t find it funny at all, Mumbo. I think it’s hilarious.”

Luke left Mumbo and Grian to their back-and-forth, grateful they were distracted enough they likely didn’t notice him eat shit in lieu of a landing. He brushed himself off as he got to his feet, shucking off his elytra as he started towards his house. After Luke decided he did want to keep the skeleton horses from the unfortunate lighting-skeleton attack, Mumbo had helped him stock up on everything one needed for the keeping of undead livestock, leads included, and he had a pile of them sitting in one of his storage chests.

Of course, on the way to his storage area, Luke had to pass his pile of art project potatoes. They were still exactly as he had left them, completely grounded, no signs that so much as one of them had suddenly activated like Mumbo’s moustache had.

With nothing else to think about as he started shifting through his horse-stuff chest, Luke’s thoughts turned to the question that Mumbo’s plight had created: why had the airborne sigil worked on Mumbo’s moustache, but not any of Luke’s potatoes? His drawings were detailed, as accurate as he could possibly get, and the potatoes were a much more reasonable size to start flying- the sigil he had traced into Mumbo’s moustache was crude, a shadow of what it should actually look like, and yet it had worked so well it was able to lift two people at once.

Luke idly shoved a lead and a spare fence post into his pocket. His memories of Inscryption were ones he typically tried to avoid focusing on, but as he made his way back outside he ran through everything he could think of that was related to sigils. They were mostly the domain of the Scrybes, not the players- it wasn’t like Luke was ever personally imbuing the cards with magical life.

The Scrybes weren’t the only ones who could work with the sigils though, were they? The Mycologists didn’t create sigils, but they could fuse their cards in such a way as to double their effect. There was someone else too, but the name seemed to be out of Luke’s grasp, flitting about on the edges of his memory.

Luke put the thought aside as he found himself once again in front of the building Mumbo had been clinging to only minutes ago. He and Grian were nearly to the ground, and Luke quickly busied himself with putting down the fence post and tying one half of the rope around it.

“Toss me the other end, once you can.” Grian was carefully hovering himself and Mumbo slightly above Luke’s head, likely getting as close to the dirt as Grian felt he could without hitting anything. He still had one hand holding onto Mumbo tightly, while he held his other out, waiting for the lead. Mumbo, for his part, had Grian in a vice grip, and Luke wouldn’t be surprised if that was due to more mischief from Grian.

Luke half-handed, half-threw the free end of the rope to Grian, who thankfully managed to catch it on the first try. Mindful of the precarious situation they were in, Grian managed to wrap the lead somewhat around Mumbo’s midsection, goading Mumbo into helping him tie it.

“I’m not that big of a spoon.” Was Mumbo’s immediate response when Grian asked him to let go for a moment and check the strength of the knot. “Can’t you do it yourself?”

“I could, I could.” Grian acknowledged as he rolled the lead between his fingers. “But then the knot might not be strong enough. And we wouldn’t have any way of checking other than me letting you go and seeing what happens. Which, now that I say it aloud, sounds like an excellent plan, let me-”

Mumbo snatched the rope out of Grian’s hand before he had the chance to finish the thought. “Let go of me, and the only part of your base left standing will be the back of it.”

Grian chuckled, the picture of untrustworthiness even as he switched to holding onto Mumbo with both hands. “No need to threaten, Mumbo, I’ve got you.”

True to his word, Grian waited until Mumbo had securely triple-knotted the lead around himself, wrapping it around one arm a couple of times as an extra precaution. Only then did Grian hesitantly release Mumbo, hovering and at ready to re-grab him if the lead broke. Thankfully, it didn’t, and Grian gracefully joined Luke on the ground while Mumbo used the rope to slowly pull himself downwards.

“Now that Mumbo’s not going to disappear into the sunset,” Grian folded his wings over his back, Luke having learned over time he was one of the hermits who never really put his elytra away, “can I ask what potion caused this? And does it only work on moustaches?”

“It’s not a potion.” Luke replied as he helped Mumbo in his efforts, tugging him down close enough to the fence post he was able to latch onto it. “And I don’t even know why it’s working in the first place. It wasn’t working on the potatoes.”

“Potatoes?”

“I was using them as test subjects.” Luke frowned at Mumbo’s glorious moustache wings, as if once again seeing them up close would provide him with the answer he needed regarding their existence, before glancing towards Grian. “None of them started to fly. Why did Mumbo?”

If Grian was capable of frowning, Luke was sure he would. “Does this usually work on potatoes?”

“Or moustaches?” Mumbo tacked on.

“I’m… not really sure. I’ve only ever seen it work on cards.”

“Did you try it on any cards?”

“No.”

Luke’s response was a second too fast, but Grian thankfully didn’t comment. “Maybe it just doesn’t work on potatoes, then.”

“I was a potato!”

“But I never was.” Grian tsked, shaking his head. “This is why you don’t steal souls.”

“We had a contract!”

“I don’t think potatoes are the defining difference with this.” Luke interjected, before Mumbo and Grian’s all too familiar soul sharing-borrowing-stealing argument could escalate past the contract stage. He still didn’t understand ninety percent of what the argument was even about, and he intended to keep it that way. “Or moustaches.”

Luckily, Mumbo’s moustache wings were still a greater distraction than anything else, and Mumbo and Grian abandoned their debate. “Well… you said this was like an enchantment. Did you do something different with the activation?”

Luke half-leaned on the fence post Mumbo was clinging to, trying to think through if he had accidentally muttered an incantation at some point with Mumbo that he hadn’t when working on the potatoes. None of the Scrybes had ever used one, to the best of his knowledge. And the Mycologists had used a hacksaw, not wordplay. “Not that I know of.”

“How did you apply the enchantment?”

“I used dye to paint it on the potatoes.” Luke answered Grian, looking back at Mumbo. He still couldn’t remember who the other sigil-manipulating character was, but it was starting to feel like an itch, like something he was right on the verge of getting. “For Mumbo, I, uh…”

“He traced it in my moustache.” Mumbo finished for Luke when he trailed off.

“Young love.” Grian said teasingly, although Luke only half-heard him. He was distracted, staring at the fence post he had been leaning on. Staring at the wood.

In Inscryption, sigils almost exclusively appeared on cards, but those cards were created only by the Scrybes. That was the whole point of the base game- only the Scrybes, with their tools, could create cards. The Mycologists could manipulate the cards, but not make their own, not really. If you wanted to imbue a card with the power of a sigil as a player, you needed a totem.

And if you needed a totem, you needed to see the Woodcarver.

The moment Luke remembered the name, his head started to hurt, but he ignored the pain in favour of following his realization to its full conclusion. His potato drawings hadn’t worked because he wasn’t Magnificus, wasn’t Grimora. He didn’t have a magic paintbrush or quill. But that was for drawings.

Inscryption. Inscription. Inscribed.

Without saying anything, Luke took a quick step back from the fence post, garnering confused looks from both Mumbo and Grian as he pulled one of the many potatoes he hadn’t yet drawn on out of his pocket. Luke dug into the skin of the potato with his fingernails, not worrying about precision or accuracy as he carved the airborne sigil into it. The resulting symbol was messy, and terrible, and had the two hermits looking at him like he had gone mad.

But the sigil still flashed yellow.

Just as with Mumbo, it only took a second for the sigil’s effect to set in, the strips of potato skin and flesh to the sides of the etching peeling away from the body and growing into potato wings as Luke watched. He let go of the vegetable as soon as its wings started to flap, the potato immediately launching into the sky with wild abandon.

“I see you’ve figured it out.” Grian’s eyes were on the potato, tracking its ascent. “The trick was-”

“Carving.” Luke cut him off. His hands were shaking, ever so slightly. “The difference- it had to be carved.”

“You were carving my moustache?!”

Luke tore his gaze away from the flying potato, turning to look at Mumbo instead. Despite himself, he couldn’t help but laugh at the exaggerated distress in his expression.

“Carving might be… might be a bit dramatic of a term for it.” Luke amended, forcing a calmness into his voice he didn’t entirely feel. He moved back to Mumbo’s side, crouching down in front of him, squinting at his moustache. After a moment, he spotted where he had originally marked the symbol. “Hold still.”

“I’ll try.” Mumbo said, his moustache wings flapping in protest. Careful to not accidentally jab him in the face while he was at it, Luke tousled the section of Mumbo’s moustache that had the sigil, effectively removing it.

Near instantly, the moustache wings stopped in place as though they had been frozen, causing Mumbo to abruptly drop fully to the earth. They began to shrink as well, reversing the process that had created them in the first place. By the time Luke had shifted to sit beside Mumbo, checking to make sure he was alright, his moustache had fully reverted to its original form, albeit not as well-maintained as it usually was.

Mumbo’s hands flew up to his face, patting down his moustache as if confirming it truly was back to normal. Once he had determined all was well, Mumbo let out a breath, slumping against Luke’s side in a more dramatic manner than was entirely necessary. “Oh, thank End.”

Luke wrapped his arm around Mumbo's shoulders, offering support while also taking some for himself. "Mumbo, I can't apologize enough for- for all that."

"Don't apologize!" Grian spoke before Mumbo could, sounding excited. "This is the best thing you've carried over yet! Think of the opportunities this offers Boatem incorporated! And all at the very minor cost of nearly losing Mumbo to the sun."

"That's it. Luke, put wings on Grian's house."

"Yes, please, prove my point."

Luke huffed a laugh. "I'm not sending anything else flying today." He turned towards Mumbo, who was heatlessly glaring at Grian. "Are you okay?"

“Oh, I’m fine.” Mumbo patted his moustache another time, as if illustrating his point. “And you don’t need to apologize- accidents happen all the time.”

“This isn’t really your typical ‘accident.’” Luke pointed out before sighing, more fond than exasperated. “Not that anyone here knows what that even means.”

“We pride ourselves on that.” Mumbo joked. “Besides, once I got past the shock of it all, it was a bit fun. Spoiled by the fear of flying so high I’d have to starve to death to return to the surface, but still fun.”

Luke decided that, coming from someone whose hobbies included pushing coworkers into the void and working directly with quasi-radiation-dust, only being somewhat put off by the possibility of dying in space was a fairly tame statement. It was also one he had no good response for. “Regardless, I promise not to test any more sigils on you, supposedly working or not.”

“No more on Mumbo, alright, but what about-”

“I’m not testing sigils on any hermits.”

“Not hermits then!” Grian pivoted without a second of hesitation. “But what about inanimate objects? As long as you can carve into it, it’ll fly, right? Imagine, Boatem’s newest advertising campaign- an army of flying boats, taking over the server!”

“Won’t they just fly into the sky?”

“Not if we weigh them down properly!”

Luke let the focus of the conversation shift away from him, Mumbo and Grian debating logistics of how to best utilize the symbol they didn’t even know the name of despite how the discovery had gone. After all, to them, there was no difference between this carry-over and one of Luke’s potion ones.

Tilting his head back, Luke watched the airborne potato disappear into the clear blue sky and tried to think of anything other than an old woman and her proffered totems.

~

As far as Luke could tell, the unfortunate incident of moustache wings hadn’t had any lasting effect on Mumbo, outside of him worrying over his moustache’s appearance slightly more than usual. He had been carefully brushing out and styling it for at least ten minutes, time Luke had spent sitting on his bed and waiting for Mumbo to finish up so they could go to sleep.

When Luke had eventually returned to his art project potatoes, Mumbo had tagged along, just to see what the sigil actually looked like, before returning to the interior design work he had been busy with before Luke sent him sky-high. He had been detailing the work to Luke for about as long as he had been messing with his moustache, although Luke admittedly hadn’t been paying perfect attention to it all.

Unlike the one who had actually been in a position of danger because of it, the sigil business was still sitting heavy on Luke’s mind. Or, better put, the implications of it were.

“Mumbo?” Luke felt bad for cutting Mumbo off, but he had something he needed to say before they went to bed, and he didn’t want to try and broach it after the lights had been put out.

Mumbo clearly took no offense to the interruption, turning cheerily towards Luke as he put his comb away. “Yes?”

At that- Mumbo’s ease, how unbothered he was- Luke nearly lost his nerve. He didn’t actually want to talk about what he had to talk about. He had chosen Hermitcraft, and Boatem, and Mumbo over his past, with the intention of leaving one part of it completely behind. Speaking it aloud in his new life felt like it would break something, as though merely mentioning it would summon it to him.

But actions spoke louder than words, and the actions of the day had screamed the one thing Luke had been trying to avoid. It wasn’t a matter of keeping it out any longer, and it didn’t feel right that Luke was the only one who fully understood what Mumbo’s moustache wings meant in the grand scheme of his carry-overs.

“I… there’s something I need to tell you.” Luke said haltingly. “About… the sigil.”

Picking up on the (rather obvious) distress in Luke’s tone, Mumbo moved to settle on the bed next to him, concerned. “What about it?”

“It- it has to do with where I came from. And how I got here.”

"We don't have to talk about any of that unless you want to." Mumbo reminded him, since Luke was certain absolutely nothing about the way he was approaching the conversation made it seem like it was one he wanted to have. "I'm completely fine, I promise. And Grian's excited about the flying symbol, but if you don't ever want to use it again now that you know it works, he won't push. None of Boatem will."

"It's not just about the sigil." Luke clarified, although he did appreciate Mumbo's reassurances, although he'd be happy to drop the subject there and never return to it. "And it's not about wanting to talk about it, it's- I need to."

"I only want to talk about it if you do."

Luke huffed in lighthearted exasperation as his own words were thrown back in his face. He doubted there was any way he could convincingly argue this is different. "If I say I want to, will you believe me?"

"Not in the slightest." Mumbo reached over, taking one of Luke's hands and holding it in his. "You're shaking, love.”

“Barely.” Mumbo affixed Luke with a look. “Alright, alright. Maybe I don’t want to talk about all of it. But… I won’t feel right if I don’t tell you some of it now.”

“Well, if you want to,” Mumbo stressed each word, leaving the backdoor for Luke to escape the conversation wide open, “I’ll listen to it. However much you want to tell me.”

Luke nodded, taking a deep breath, steeling himself. Hermitcraft wasn’t going to deteriorate around him, no matter what he said next. The past was still past, even if he spoke it aloud. Mumbo squeezed his hand, comforting, and Luke let out the breath.

“I want to tell you about Inscryption.”

[remidyal]

End of Year Game - Writer's Edition

Pick out five different passages you wrote this year that you really like and share them, saying as much or as little as you want about what you like about them. This is a chance to show off! You can reblog this or start your own post, up to you.

All mine are going to be from D20 fics - 1, 3, and 5 are FH fics, but 2 is ASO and 4 is Never After and both of those contain spoilers so watch out if you're not yet seen them.

First, from Twelve Hours, it's Aelwyn learning completely the wrong lesson from the experience:

Aelwyn looked over, tears in her eyes.  "...Aah.  Adaine.  It's fine.  I've learned.. I've learned a lot of really important things, these past few years.  About how important it is to have others helping you, and about how much I might have hurt.. you and others.  And I am sorry for that.  I do love you.  But most importantly, I've learned... I've learned from Arthur Aguefort that if you're a powerful enough wizard and you have enough wards on your house, you can get away with any number of crimes and the government can't really stop you."

Adaine made at least a half-hearted attempt at a counterspell of the Teleport that followed - none of the others had gotten that far in wizarding - but Aelwyn was ready with a counterspell back of her own, and maybe it really was for the best.  They had the information they needed, and they had Ostentatia's palimpsest, and if Aelwyn wanted to find somewhere to hide from Kalvaxus other than a jail cell, that did seem fair enough in exchange.

Next up, from Gallivant's End, the initial two paragraphs which I think do a really nice job of setting up the interior conflict the piece is about:

Being deep underwater and finding a current that leads you swiftly and perfectly to where you need to get to, Riva for short, did not even know the name of the ship they had hopped onto, nor the two before that since leaving the Wurst.  It was information that could easily be found, of course, plucked from the minds of any of those on the ship around them, but all they really wanted to know was whether they were headed in the right general direction to get to home eventually, and they were.

Gallivant had been lovely, of course, and by the end full of love, and in fact the only person of the crew that Riva could no longer be certain they fully loved was themself.

Third, from Locate Creatures, Riz and Penny interrogating a responsible adult, showing my usual level of respect for Gilear:

"I do not have your money, as I have...  Oh.  Riz.  It's you."  Gilear said, sitting up.  "Is there something that you require, or have I offended you in some way?"

"We need to know who this is and what their address is right now, and if anyone asks why you gave out an address you can say it was at gunpoint."  Riz said, Penny adding "And knifepoint!" from behind, holding the sketch out with one hand and her knife with the other.

"Aah.  Yes.  I do recognize this student.  I trust you have a good reason for this, Riz?  Do I need to talk to your mother again?"  Gilear said, and Riz shook his head.

"No, it's just a kidnapping case.  We'll have it resolved first thing in the morning, I promise.  Just get me the address." 

Four, from Glass, Cinderella preparing to do what she wants and doesn't want to do:

Unfortunately, they weren't as fast as they could have been.  A bare twenty seconds after they'd gotten started on the ritual, the doors behind them had opened, the six of Rosamund's group with their own seventh impossibly in the form of the Baba Yaga bursting through them, and Cinderella felt ill to the very core of her soul.  She had convinced herself that she would be able to do Rosamund the kindness of an ending she was unaware was coming, wherever the girl and her group had retreated to, and yet...

She raised a javelin in salute to her sister of the Crown, before shutting the visor of her armor that would render herself completely unseen.  She could put Sleeping Beauty to rest, one last time.

How much it hurt her to do would not matter.  The End drew near.  Cinderella would make certain of that.

Last, from Missing, a completely wild paragraph in a completely crazy stretch of choices from our protagonist Aelwyn:

Aelwyn swerved, scraping against a car with a horrifying sound, yanking the wheel to and froe and trying to save it, and there was an awful noise from the tires, and...  she definitely didn't have control, now, and the time had come to abandon this plan.

Moments before the police car plowed into the side of a building, Aelwyn Misty Stepped out of it and thirty feet away, dropping the Disguise Self as well - it was close to expiring anyway - and just hurrying along towards the docks on foot, trying to ignore the screaming and sirens behind her.  She couldn't do anything about those now; hopefully nobody was hurt, but the important thing was to not get caught.

[mercurygray]

also *slides a big hefty tip over the bar* melody with band au! dick and Joan like I need more of it

He had a good idea she'd be alone.

Everyone else had hit the town for a night of parties and adoring fans, but Joan was still here in the back of her trailer, long legs folded onto the long bench seat and a burnt orange caftan hanging loose around her shoulders, a notebook in her lap.

She looked up when he knocked on the wall, trying not to startle her. "Mr. Winters. Shouldn't you be out on the town with everyone else?"

"Came to …see how you were doing," he offered, taking a further step inside, hands in his pockets.

Joan scoffed and sat up a little straighter. "How I'm doing? I'm the reigning goddess of rock and roll. What do I care about one stupid groupie who's screwing my boyfriend?"

There she was - the face for the press corps, Joan Warren the Ice Queen, the Goddess on the Hill. Dick almost smiled and pressed on. "But how are you doing?"

She looked at him and her shoulders softened a little, some of the ice queen slipping away. "I think you're the first person to actually want the answer to that question."

Yeah, that tracked. Everyone else would have been worried about the tour and a million other huge things that…really didn't matter. "I'll admit, it's a little self-centered. If we stop the tour I'm out of a job. But I like…like playing with you all. It's a good group. And I just -" he paused. "I hope you're all right. That you're taking care of yourself."

"Thank you, Mr. Winters." She looked genuinely grateful. "And I'm…I'm doing fine."

"You could call me Dick, you know," He offered, with a shrug. "Everyone else does."

"Dick, then." She glanced out the window and down at her notebook. "Stay a while, if you like. You can move those papers, they're not important."

He nodded and took a look at the pile on the bench seat near her - a few papers flew out and fluttered to the floor as he tried to move the stack - faces and eyes, all rendered in stunning detail in pencil. "I don't think I knew you were an artist."

Joan nodded. "That's what I was studying, before we got picked up by the label. Still do it sometimes to help calm down, in between writing songs."

"May I?" She didn't seem to be hiding it, the way people hid things they were ashamed of, so he allowed himself a look, paging through sketch after sketch - people lounging on a lawn, various band members at their instruments. "They're really good." He held one up so she could see it. "This looks exactly like Harry."

She shrugged it off, but there was something in that smile - the same smile she'd done when they'd topped the charts, or sold out a stadium. Pride. Well, why shouldn't she be? The talent was honestly earned. "Harry's easy, I've been drawing him forever. Be a challenge to do someone I don't see every day."

"Do me, then." She looked tenative, and he decided to press his luck. "Rumor has it you like challenges."

She grinned at that, flipping over a page in her sketchbook to a clean sheet and rearranging herself on the couch. "All right, then. Turn towards the window. And sit - no, don't move, just like you were before. Leaning."

He did as he was told, moving his arm to the ledge, tilting his head until she liked his profile. The light back here was soft, a nice compliment to the smell of incense. There were lots of pictures back here, he realized - of Joan and Marj, Joan and Harry, hell, even Joan and Kurt, high up on a wall. Her tribe, he realized. All the people who tell her she's not alone. That she's someone beyond what the producers and the fan mags say.

He realized having her stare at him in silence was getting to him. "So, is it like songwriting? Or -"

"Drawing? No. Song's got…parts to it, melody and lyrics and a bass line. A sketch is - always the whole. You can do a part of it wrong, but - no one can come in and fix your sketch, the way a song can be fixed. A sketch is always your own, and no one else's." She glanced back up at him. "Here, wait, you moved."

She set her pad down and got on her knees to reach forward and turned his face towards her. For a moment her hand lingered on his jaw. He couldn't help himself - he turned his face towards her hand and kissed her fingers. The next thing he knew she was astride his lap kissing him, pushing him back down across the bench seat, her caftan floating around them like a cloud, and his whole body was electric, like he were a guitar she were playing a solo on, her hips rubbing against his jeans. His hands were full of her shoulders, of her back, of her ass, and she was kissing his neck just long enough for him to murmur Joanie.

And just like that, she stopped, and stared down at him, breathing heavily, eyes aflame. "Why are you making this easy?" What do you really want, her eyes asked. Just to say you fucked Joan Warren in her tour van - make another notch on a bedpost somewhere?

He didn't really have an answer, in the moment. There were too many good ones. He settled for the one that made him angriest. "Kurt deserves to be cheated on." He deserves to be dumped, actually, but I know I'm not that big of a prize. Because I like you, and I want you, if I don't deserve you either. "I'm nobody," he said, quietly. "Just a guy with a guitar. Who'd believe me?"

It's nothing, he wanted to say, this is nothing, just two people having fun, but that felt like a lie, and she didn't deserve more of those. You deserve to be happy - to not feel alone. You deserve to be loved.