#someone took days drawing inking coloring drafting writing this thing

[snottertooder]

Can Jason put Bruce into a jigsaw trap everytime anyone rememberes the events of Batman and Robin (2011) #20

[morimakesfanart]

Sindria's Prophet #13

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12]

[AO3]

((edited because I figured out to add some more history facts that I think are important))

~POV Sinbad~

"The Kou Empire, huh?"

"That is going to make things risky."

With all of the Generals caught up with what happened in Balbadd, they needed to start planning for King Sinbad's trip to the Kou Empire, as well as catching him up with everything that had happened in Sindria while he was gone.

"LadY YamuRAI H AA AA A" A yell came from the hallway accompanied by the sounds of running.

((Sinbad is hidden on the left. There's a hint of him poking out.))

A panting magician gave apologies for disturbing their meeting and ran to the head of Sindria's magicians. "I wish I knew you were here so I didn't search the tower first~" Then he started explaining about some magical proof. Most of his words sounded like gibberish to the rest, but it was clear that he had made some kind of break though.

Yam jumped out of her seat. "How did you finally figure it out?! Who figured it out?!" She whipped her head to her King, "Sorry your majesty," and then looked back to the other magician.

"It was the work of the Prophet!” the magician answered. "We were talking about her illness and she pulled out scrolls that- you just have to read them for yourself!”

Mori had said that she had written other scrolls before she started coping down Fate. This must have been what she was working on.

Both magicians bowed out to go test out this new information. Before they could leave, Sinbad ended the meeting; there was no way he was going to wait to learn what other information Mori had blessed them with. Ja'far followed as did a few of the other Generals.

When they got into the court yard, the doctors that had been sent to take care of Mori were already pushing their supply cart back to their main building. The magician that had stayed behind spotted them and raised two scrolls up triumphantly. "She let me take the scrolls!"

---

News of the scrolls written by a Prophet spread throughout the Black Libra Tower within an hour. Yamuraiha and the doctors explained their significance to King Sinbad.

If even a fraction of the theories in the scrolls proved true it would completely changed their understanding of how illnesses work. If Mori wasn't sick she would undoubtedly be swarmed with questions and demands for proof. According to the magicians, nothing in the scrolls went against any known information. Instead, they gave explanations to why certain things that had been attempted in the past had failed. What she wrote about 'cells' was what really caught the eyes of the white magicians and doctors. As an example, according to Mori's writing there were blood types and most couldn't mix; that would explain why most past attempts at blood transfusions had failed.

The 2nd scroll showed a break down of even smaller particles, and how the structures of different particles made up everything. This was going to bring alchemic magic to a whole new era. Sure, such things would most likely be limited to high magicians, group efforts, and the Magi, but it looked possible now. A lot of common magic of the current day took extreme amounts of magoi in the past because they hadn't found the right formula yet. Mori's writing -if true- could easily be used as a guide to finding the right order of commands for many spells.

And even more than that, Mori had said that she had even more information to share; she had just ran out of scrolls and ink.

Mori's presence in Sindria, and everything that went with it were Fate and the Rukh's guidance. King Sinbad could see it -the future he wanted.

---

~POV Mori~

In Sindria's Palace there is a Great Bell. It is rung during celebrations, and to signify the King returning home like it did earlier that day, but it's main use was to ring every 2 hours to tell everyone the time since clocks weren't invented yet. So even though I was a sick person trying to rest during the day, I was woken up by the Great Bell every 2 hours... which of course is also situated right on top of the guest tower.

For obvious reasons, I was awake again.

I wish I knew how the others responded to the scrolls. I really wanted to know Yam's opinion most. Those scrolls basically gave away the secret to Yunan's signature alchemy magic.

I still had the first scroll I had worked on -the one on the science behind blimps-, and the last science scroll I had started. That one was on DNA, and reproductive systems. It was the last one I started in Balbadd. I hadn't started working on it until sunrise on my 2nd sleepless night and it showed; there were missing words everywhere, many incomplete sentences, and I couldn't stay in topic.

These mistakes were too great to fix with an ink knife. Editing was going be super annoying and time consuming since I couldn't work digitally. I'd have to physically cut up the first draft to put everything in the right order before making the next one.

Wait- Did this world have scissors???

Back home the first evolution of shears that could be labeled as scissors was in Roman barber shops in the last hundred years or so before Rome fell. China would spontaneous also create something akin to scissors not long after. Reim and the Kou Empire seemed to line up with Rome and ancient China for the most part, so I tend to use them to place the time period, but the dress Princess Dunya wears is centuries off and throws all historical accuracy questions out the window. Rome was long gone by the time boning was added to women's undergarments, and that dress had all the signs of boned corsetry.

Fuck it. I'll ask for scissors and if they don't have them I'll just invent them myself. I had been drafting professionally for the past 4 years. That may have been for microelectronics, but it uses all the same skills; I could do this. I needed to get a ruler -or at least a straight edge- and a drafting compass which they probably have based on the look of maps in the series, and pencils, or at least colored inks if they had them. I probably needed to reinvent the French curve(stencil tool used in art & drafting)...

Since I was struggling to fall back asleep I moved to the table and pulled out my test scroll. It was full of random marks and some of my early drawing attempts that I used to practice with the dip pen -it's also where I wrote down the dreams from the Rukh. I'd write the list of things I needed, rip the section out of the scroll, and pass the list to someone who could get me what I was asking for. I added some living necessities too like sleep wear and a comb.

The maids that came to give me dinner, and next dose of medicine were not pleased that I wasn't in bed -I was an important guest who was sick after all. And I wasn't pleased to have to drink more of that bitter medicine, but we can't have nice things all the time, now can we?

My voices was strained but I managed to communicate enough. I gave them my list, and laundry (the clothes I wore on the boat) before they left. They'd get me the things the next day. I was instructed to sleep until someone brings me breakfast the next day... which is what I was going to do anyway since the sun was practically gone. I might be a bit of a workaholic but I'm not going to let myself pull an accidental all-nighter when I know I'm still sick. I'm far more self aware than that.

And besides, the Great Bell didn't ring at night.

---

Maids brought my breakfast (& meds) the next morning and let me know that my clothes would be cleaned and dry by the end of the day. I guess they didn't use magic for everything.

They also gave me all of the drafting and inking supplies I asked for except for scissors. In one of the omakes Sinbad was shown cutting his hair with a knife as a part of his normal grooming. I had hoped he was just old fashioned.

For the greater good and the future of my own hair care, I drafted up detailed designs for a few different types of basic scissors. They wouldn't look fancy, but hopefully I had put enough of a detailed explanation on everything for the smith to figure out what I was asking. Steel wasn't developed until the middle ages and some of the counties of this world matched that so I hoped

that God and anime were on my side. I really wanted scissors that would be a good quality.

And if that didn't work I'd just have to get used to using knives and bladed rollers like a regular person.

The Great Bell rung for 10 am. There were at least another 2 hours before someone would show up, to give lunch, that I could ask to take my draft for the scissors to a black Smith.

I should be resting as a sick person. I should be more exhausted and in pain as a sick person. What was making me recover this quickly?

I still didn't feel like laying back down, so I decided to start drafting up the materials and equipment for proving everything I had written in the scrolls I gave the previous day.

Globally, micro-organisms, viruses, and bacteria were not really accept or proved until the late 1800's. Since Magi seems to take place some time around our 100AD-1300, and Yunan hinting at chemical compounds was seen as shocking by Yam, I knew that my bio scrolls were probably causing an uproar in the Black Libra Tower. I refused to use actual people or wait for an outbreak to prove it like how it happened in history -like how John Snow proved it when finding the cause of cholera outbreaks in 1848 and 1854 England. No, I needed to show how to prove these things in a lab, and to do that I was going to need to explain how to keep samples and invent a way to see microorganisms.

First was for a glass petri dish and other containers for samples. I'd need at least 3 -preferably more. I know glass works have been around since BC, and that this world had glass windows in some scenes, but I worried about the quality of the glass contaminating the experiments. I was going to have to boil them beforehand to sterilize them anyway.

Gosh I wish I had access to nonporous, air tight containers, and a temperature controlled environment. The heat and humidity of Sindria could easily mess everything up.

Wait... I suddenly remembered a scene from the Magnostadt arc when they showed how a sample was being stored. They already had good enough glass. I knew there were magic bio experiments but I had no idea how they worked.

With the realization that I was getting ahead myself, I switched to writing about how to use the scientific method to test for germs. It was basically the bread in a bag test to teach young children about germs but with petri dishes. I also wrote about how to analyze samples with a microscope to see micro organisms so I was going to have to figure that out next.

Lunch came as the perfect break.

Just thinking about reinventing this thing made me nervous. I knew magnifying glasses existed in ancient Rome, but they would be nothing like what I was used to. I had to explain how light moves and made multiple diagrams showing how concave and convex lenses affect light as well as the material of the lens. I ended up also showing how to make a telescope even though I knew Yam already had one.

Magicians were the only ones shown with glasses. Maybe now the rest of the world could have them too.

4 o'clock came and so did 3 doctors and a magician. It was less than yesterday, but still more than necessary to treat or analyze one person. I only recognized one of the doctors from the previous day. All of the new faces looked nervous. None of them looked young by any measure, so I really doubted this was their first time treating someone.

They weren't happy to see me at the table and made me return to my bed -their loss.

The doctor from the previous day was the one doing most of the talking. "Your recovery is amazing. You will most likely be better in another 3 days at this rate if not sooner. It's practically a miracle."

I smiled. "It's pretty shocking for me too." As long as I spoke quietly and kept my comments short, I found I could talk again for a bit.

The doctor was silent for a moment before changing the subject. "I know you need rest, but would you be willing to answer a few questions about those scrolls from yesterday?

The 3 other men looked expectant. This was why they were here.

"I don't mind as long as you don't make me talk too much."

Then came the question I was expecting since I had first made the scrolls. "I know you are a Prophet and the information came from your visions but is there any way you can prove what you wrote?"

I pointed to the table with the scroll I had started earlier. "I can't prove it with the current equipment I have, so I've been drafting up the needed equipment and processes for proving it."

They all turned to look at where I was pointing.

I added, "It's not done, but you're welcome to read what I have so far."

I was thanked as they went to the table they had called me away from when they entered.

'He called it 'visions?' Really?' I had to ask Sinbad later what he was telling his people about me so I could keep the story straight.

The magician confirmed for the others what I wrote about light bending. There was magic to do that, but not everyone is a magician. I had just invented a way for non-magicians to bend light.

Just wait until I show them a prism that can split light into colors. Or teach them how light is perceived in the eye. Or even better, show them the double slit experiment that proves that light is a particle not just a wave... Did they know light was a wave yet?

"Lady Prophet."

I was pulled out of my thoughts.

"You said this isn't finished and there is plenty of space in this scroll for more, but would you let us take this back to the tower so we can get started?"

I wanted to say 'no.' I was still coming up with things to add to it, but I also knew that holding things back because I wanted to save paper was a fool's game. Besides, I could always add more to it later.

I nodded and they thanked me before making me promise not to leave my bed. They were grateful for this new scroll but not at the expense of my health -they were doctors after all.

And then they left.

It was probably about 5pm if my internal clock was on schedule, so I had about an hour before the next ring of the Bell.

Even if I wasn't a man of my word, I would have lost the motivation to work with my current project taken from me while I was still in the middle of making it.

So, I did the thing I grew up doing when I was bedridden from illness: I looked out the window. From the bed I could only see the tops of the buildings on the other side of the courtyard. The Tower that was just poking in from the left had to be the Black Libra Tower.

The waves in Sindria were calmer yet stronger than those in Balbadd. It was probably due to Sinbad's influence. He brought stability and security to his people. I could understand why so many chose to follow him or ally with him. But I knew where all this would lead. As he obtains more power and influence he will stop being able to see himself from the pedestal that he and everyone else put him on; his greed will make him blind to the wants and needs of others, and like a middle aged parent that isn't ready for their child to leave the nest he will take out his frustration on the world that was moving on without him. When Sinbad dies at the end of the manga, Drakon realizes that they all put too much on Sinbad's shoulders.

To change Fate, I was going to have to make sure I never put him on that pedestal nor rely on him for much. And I was going to have to convince the 8 Generals to do the same -or at least to start pulling more of the weight.

The 6 o'clock Bell came faster than I expected, as well as my dinner not long after. They brought my clean laundry, a sleeping gown, and some other common clothes and things for my convenience.

I would have preferred something much shorter for the night gown since I hate having a lot of extra fabric around my legs when I already have blankets. I was not going to risk being walked in on by doctors or whoever when sleeping naked, so I would make do for now.

There was no way King Sinbad wasn't going to reward me for those scrolls. If it was some kind of treasure I'd sell it and buy a new wardrobe for myself that actually suited me, and if the reward was a request then I would ask that he pay for everything directly.

The light coming in my windows changed, and I watched my 2nd sunset in Sindria.

When Sinbad found this island 10 years ago, he completely terraformed it. He didn't get rid of all of the vegetation that was here, but he did break down one of the sides to allow for easier access by boat. The side he carved out faced northish towards all of the other known countries, so no boat would have a reason to circle the island. It was a decision that would benefit the merchants and make it easier to defend.

It also meant that my windows faced west, so I could watch the Sun set every day. I couldn't help but see that as a blessing and a curse. Sure not getting the sunrise meant I'd need to put more effort into

waking up in the morning but that wasn't the part I was worried about.

See- The thing is... I have synesthesia (having 2 or more senses overlapping). I see sounds, letters, and numbers as colors and textures. I have it mild enough that I can normally block it out so it's not too distracting (thank God because music is a main stim), but sometimes I'll hear something and get overwhelmed by how it looks.

Each letter and number is a color. So every voice can make every color, but language, pitch, tone, and accent all affect the colors and textures I see from a person's voice like a filter. There have definitely been some people that I struggled to give my full attention to when I first met them because I was entranced by how their voice looked. The more I hear a person's voice the more I'm able to move its visuals to the background so I can focus -desensitizing myself to it.

Luckily, Sinbad's voice is normally not so distracting that I stop paying attention. Since it's like a merger of every voice actor I've heard play him (All the characters I had met so far were like this.) I'm already desensitized. The similarities across all of the VAs meant that his voice looked like a sunset -full of deep purples and magentas, and bright reds, peach, and gold, and with a smooth and flowing texture like painting in acrylic with a wet brush -like a painting of the last moments of a sunset.

His voice was as pretty as he was.

I hadn't actually gotten to see or hear him for a whole day. But I'd get to look at his voice's equivalent every day while living under his protection.

It was frustrating to admit -I barely knew him as a real person- yet I couldn't deny that I missed him. I feel asleep watching the sun set.

((I wasn't going to write about my synesthesia, but this is my fanfic and I thought it might be fun to reference the colors peoples voices make when the characters talk. I'm not going to paint every VA and head cannon, but I will describe them as I go. Ja'far's Japanese and English VAs have voices that look very different so finding the middle ground is proving tricky.

Also, anyone who noticed that the purple I see in Sinbad's voice is the same as the purple I've been using for the illustrations and comics is super smart and cool.))

[thewolfmanslayer]

Honestly the amount of people who say artists and writers should do stuff for free, or try to rip them off on comissions still royally piss me off.

I think the worst part of it is the entitlement, I dont want to make this too much about generations but a lot of commissioners are millenial/Gen z's who grew up on the "steal and pirate everything" mentality, take everything that you can because no one else is going to hand it to you. which I can get behind, when you are screwing over MULTI BILLION DOLLAR COMPANIES. NOT THE STRUGGLING ARTISTS AND WRITERS who are trying to keep food on the table as desperately as you probably are!

It's simple, you wouldn't walk into a restaurant, order food and tell the server "sorry I don't have any money, but I've got like a few thousand followers on social media, I can get your name out there, get the restaurant some exposure" NO! They don't need "exposure" they need you to pay the damn bill!

On top of that, most of these artists and writers ALREADY HAVE FOLLOWINGS. They already have thousands of people following them, waiting for the chance to get a commission, who are willing to pay for said commission, they don't need "exposure" when they're already out there! He'll even the artists and writers with a few hundred don't need it, they'll get more followers as time goes by, their skill alone will see to it.

And what is with people trying to get free art and writing? It's not going to work! You can't harass someone until they cave, trust me, you'll be long since blocked before you even have the opportunity. I don't do comissions, online anyways, but my own friends and family, people who actually know me STILL PAY ME whenever they ask for me to do art for them because they KNOW it takes TIME AND EFFORT.

How many times do we need to have this discussion???? Like when is it going to finally click that people who need to pay their bills just as much as you do AREN'T going to do this shit for free!?

Here's the thing about art and writing, that you've heard a billion times but still aren't getting; IT. TAKES. TIME. AND. EFFORT. TO. GET. DONE. the art isn't going to magically appear and the writing isn't going to suddenly write itself, if either were so convenient YOU WOULDNT BE ASKING AN ARTIST OR WRITER IN THE FIRST PLACE!

Look at that, you see that? The first picture I did back in 2012-13, the picture beside it? I did that TWO YEARS AGO. I didn't suddenly know exactly what to do, or had anything close to a god given talent for drawing (I'm not that talented). The first picture WAS THE ABSOLUTE BEST I COULD DO AT THE TIME THAT I MADE IT. In the time between these two drawings I admittedly took a break from art, but then I got back into it four years ago. EVEN STILL that was four YEARS of starting over from the basics, relearning everything, learning new things, wanting to actually improve my art.

Which, guess what, DID NOT HAPPEN OVER NIGHT. It was HOURS UPON HOURS of my limited free time as an adult drawing over and over and over and over again, every single goddamn day to get to the point that I was able to make that redraw look as good as it does in comparison. He'll, my art now puts them both to shame! Because I spent the time improving my quality!!

Now look at these artists doing comissions, they've probably put EVEN MORE of their time to get that good! They've put in LITERAL YEARS of sweat, blood, tears, frustrations and dedicated hardwork. Some did the same as me, self teaching and lots of practice, others probably had to go to school, which definitely wasn't cheap. But all of us put in that time and effort TO REACH THESE POINTS. Of being better artists, developing our styles, getting faster at drawing.

And maybe you think that this is super easy, right? That I or every other artist can just fire some art off and boom its good and done in like an hour?

FUCK. NO.

Even now it takes me several hours a day OVER MANY DAYS to make something exceptionally good! It doesn't matter how good an artist is, it still. Takes. Time.

Maybe the issue is that you don't understand how much actually goes into art, let me break it down for you, the steps that most people follow to finish ONE drawing.

-Rough draft: general character outline, get a feel for what I want to draw.

-Rough sketch: I start doing a bit of pencil to start filling in details like mouth, nose, eyes, hair, clothes. Ect.

-Penciling: I go over the rough sketch and clean everything up, maybe do some editing, this is when you can start making out all the details.

-Ink: I trace over the finished pencil with a pen tool and actually have the line art, everything looks clean, presentable, it actually looks like a character now. I'll spend time editing this and possibly redoing the inking many times over to get to a point where I like it.

-Flat color: I decide on which colors to use for skin tone, clothes accessories. Ect.

-Shading/highlights: I figure out where my light source is and how strong it is, I then apply the correct amount of lighting and shadows to the color to give it depth, I also have determine the texture of skin, clothes and accessories to make everything look real and natural.

-Blending: I smooth out the shading and highlights so that it looks more natural and isn't too hard (noticeable difference between color) so that it looks as natural as possible.

-Finish: I go over last minute details, finish any editing or corrections that need to be done. Once it's good I call it a day.

Each process is longer in length then the previous, with the exception of the final editing (as long as everything looks good) and even the rough draft can take some time. Over all this is SEVERAL HOURS of work for a SINGLE DRAWING.

So is it sinking in yet? How much is put into doing even a single character drawing? God forbid if its done with background. This isn't a "scratch a pen around and be done with it in ten minutes" kinda deal, no, this is SEVERAL HOURS OF SOMEONES LIFE BEING PUT INTO THIS

And if you still have the AUDACITY to try and wrangle free art from an artist then there's no helping you, you're just a selfish piece of shit, no question and I want nothing to do with you.

Someone might say "But I got free art/writing from.-" look I don't give a shit if someone did something for you THAT ONE TIME, these other artists and writers? Totally seperate and different people. You're one freebie experience does not, and should not apply to other artists and writers.

"But what if I really want this commission but don't have the money right now?" Well, that's tough shit. Save up and properly commission them when you can, it's not their problem.

"But what if I'm in a really bad financial situation and really want it?" That sucks, and I'm sorry, but again, not their problem. Chances are this is their only source of income and they need to make money so that they don't end up in a similar situation.

"They have a gift! They should share it!" What kind of cheap ass- LOOK, just because someone is talented or really good at something does not automatically obligate them to do anything for total strangers in anyway shape or form. These are living, breathing people, the same as you. They need to eat, they need to pay rent/mortgages, they need to pay vet bills, send their kids to college, do their taxes and everything else that YOU YOURSELF need to do. Asking anyone to spend their time doing something for free, when that something is how THEY ARE SURVIVING is beyond asinine. Not only that, this obviously isn't a hobby to them, it is very clearly THEIR JOB. Would you want to do a job where you didn't get paid at all? Doing a shit ton of work for absolutely nothing? No? Didn't think so.

"It shouldn't be about the money!" Well unfortunately, as with almost every other job, it is. We live in a world where we desperately need to make money in order to survive. That's the painful fact of the matter. If money never had to be an issue ever again then this would be a very different story. But it's not, plain and simple as can be.

Look, these people are just like you, artists and writers who are just trying to get by in a shitty ass world, using the one thing they have that let's them have an income. Leave them be, don't try and trick them, guilt them, or cuss them out when you don't get your way. Either properly comission or leave them the hell alone, plain and simple.

[komatsunana]

The Chronicles of Exandria: The Mighty Nein I

And so I do what I did the last 2 times for the Vox Machina Chronicles of Exandria books, which you can read [here] and [here].

These posts by no means contain all of the information in these books, but plenty of what would most interest other fans.  This is by no means a replacement for actually seeing the book.

My best guess on up to where this book spoils is episode 46.  Anyone who has not watched passed 46 can read this without spoilers outside of vague references that don’t really matter.

First and foremost, as usual, the artistry is the most important part of the book. All of the lovely fan-created art work is even more beautiful in ink than on screen. This I promise you.

As has been noted by other people who have received the book, it is written as though it was transcribed by Beau’s journals by the Cobalt Soul.  Some unnamed writer(s) from the Cobalt Reserve from Tal’Dorei have written all parts that are not excerpts from Beau’s journals.  There are edits by Zeenoth, which indicate that the book is not a final draft.  Zeenoth is not impressed by their work.

The books’ foreword is a dedication to critters.  I won’t transcribe all of it but it ends, “As always, we are richer for your company.  For truly, what good are stories unless they can be shared?”

Unlike the Vox Machina ones, which started with pages dedicated to Vox Machina and their adventures first before branching out for guest and NPCs, this one’s table of contents shows that everything is scattered.

The first section is dedicated to the Storyteller - accompanied by art of Matt as “The Storyteller.”   An excerpt follows below:

“A story walks the land through the songs and tales of those who are touched by its heart.  And then one day, long after all the players within have met the Matron, a story will be told for the very last time.  Unless, by the Grace of the Storyteller, we are let to it. [...]  Through Ioun’s blessing we make his favorite children immortal.  You hold one of them in your hands even now.  Wake it carefully.”

Thoreau contacted the Cobalt Soul immediately after Beau’s first arrest - presumably the one with Tori.  As the monks took Beau away, Thoreau referred to her as “his misfortune.”  It is also noted in the margins that Thoreau is a good friend to the Archive.

Unlike the rest of the M9 and characters, there are no excerpts about Beau herself from her journal... Because obviously she doesn’t need to take notes in herself.  However the Cobalt Soul write their own notes about her and her reputation in the Cobalt Soul and note... more than a few times that Zeenoth thinks she is aggressive, stubborn, and quick to judge and anger and as a result they can’t put a lot of stock into her notes on other people.  However, Dairon was right to put their trust in her because her insight in invaluable and is quick to call out injustice.

Beau’s note taking is exceptional - and color-coded.

Beau’s first notes about Molly is that he is “not that bright, definitely drunk, completely full of shit, and not nearly as good of a liar as he thinks he is.  His outfit is loud, far louder than the man himself.”  His coat contains iconography from at least half a dozen gods.  Beau also noted that Molly’s swords were interesting to which the footnotes immediately made note that Molly’s swords were just swords.  Beau thought, in her first impression of him, that he might be on the run from a family of Warlocks.

The librarians decided to omit all of Molly’s earlier lies that he told Beau and the group about his background, and instead only described the climbing out of the grave and only able to say “Empty” story.  He had scars and 9 red eye tattoos on him at the time.  

There are sketches of the tattoo in full, after Molly had added to it, but it’s noted by Beau that part of the tattoo is covered by Molly’s hair.  Looking at the sketch, it is implied there are more tattoos on his scalp, rather than just the length covering it.

For Molly’s story of climbing out of the grave to be true, it means that Molly relearned to speak both Common and Infernal, learned to perform his skills and duties with the Carnival, covered his eye tattoos with additional, elaborate tattoos, befriended Yasha, and discovered his innate magic ability to use his blood to infuse his weapons with magic.

Beau had made a list of every book she knew Caleb had on his person or expressed interest in.  This includes the erotic books and the 2 spellbooks. 

On the spellbooks, Beau says she isn’t sure about them. One she knows is a spellbook, but she’s not sure on the other as he never opens it.  She wonders if it is a journal of some kind.

There is a page on Beau’s notes in the first arc with the Fletching and Moondrop Carnival - notes about the victim and all her possible suspects of which it is everyone that is part of the carnival.  All of them have a strike through their name, indicating she had eliminated each of them as a suspect at one point, including Kylre.  

Among the notes she has, my favorites are that Beau thinks that everyone in the circus hates each other, never trust a clown (about Desmond), and that everyone has a title such as Molly “The Ice-Spinner” and Yasha “The Brute.”  Beau also notes Yasha as being human.

Outside of Beau’s notes, the best information to be found about Shakästa “Hush” is from an anonymous book from Deastock titled “Heroic Deeds of the Golden Grin.”  It is because of Beau’s notes that Hush is confirmed to be real, not a myth, once and for all.

Because of how cool Shakästa was with his cool bird, Beau notes “I gotta get a bird.”  So we have him to thank for Professor Thaddeus.

Unknown what deity Shakästa draws power from.

Known members of the Tombtakers:

Lucien Nonagon (Molly)

Cree: currently employed by the Gentleman.  Blood powers like Molly’s.

[A name which as been severely crossed out but looks like it says Tyffinl]:  Currently said to be in Nogvurot.

Otis and Zoran:  Still at large, whereabouts unknown

Jurrell:  Deceased

Some lady spellcaster from Rexxentrum 

The Myriad is currently gaining footholds in Tal’dorei as well.  There is also a written notation by Zeenoth to cross reference the Myriad activity with the Tombtakers, indicating that he believes that the Tombtakers and the Myriad might be connected.

Cobalt Soul theorizes that the blood Cree claims the Gentleman took from the M9 to track them might be a new form of blood-based mutagenetic tracking.

Beau’s first impression of Nott and Caleb’s relationship was that Nott heaped praise on him and that there might be some sort of blood debt or magic going on.

Beau’s early theory on Caleb was that he was hiding from a criminal employer and had done a high-level theft.  She made note to watch if he attempted to side-step certain kinds of work.

Everything about Caleb sounded like bad news to Beau, but because he stuck around to get her out of jail Beau comes to the conclusion that that’s endearing.

Beau has made an observation that Caleb was searching for some kind of information in a book, related to transmutation.  She wonders if bartering to get him into the Cobalt Soul library will get her into his good graces, though she hopes he won’t find out that the library is technically open to all if you ask nicely.

There is an entry (in Beau’s second journal, it should be noted) were several pages were ripped out about Caleb.  This indicates that Beau had written down Caleb’s backstory of killing his parents but she, Caleb, or someone else had ripped it out before it got into the hands of the Cobalt Soul.  The Cobalt Soul draws the conclusion that Caleb is connected to organized crime.  They are also unable to find anyone born with the name Caleb Widogast in the Empire and they believe it to be an alias.

There are written notations that say that at least one of the ripped out pages were recovered, in which Beau describes the night Caleb told her and Nott about killing his parents.  Both mentions of Trent Ikathon’s name were crossed out until illegible.  Beau was unconvinced that Caleb’s memories after killing his parents aren’t still jumbled (rather than missing).

Fun fact!  All of the Caleb illustrations in his art section all either have fire or Frumpkin in them.  Because when you boil down Caleb to his essentials that’s all I’m saying.

The strangest thing about the M9, as far as the Cobalt Soul is concerned,  is that they have a goblin among their party.

Beau also wonders if Nott’s relationship with Caleb isn’t also out of love or blind loyalty.  Upon finding out that Nott feels like the parental figure (rather than the other way around, as Beau had assumed) Beau wonders what it is that Nott wants Caleb to be stronger for... Revenge? Or to change herself.

Beau notes that while Nott might have named herself so to call herself not brave, Beau thinks she is pretty brave.  She describes Nott diving into the water for Fjord’s arc twice (even if she complained the entire time) and Nott saving Jester from the blue dragon which “absolutely saved Jester’s life.”  Nott is very focused on everyone remaining together as a team.  Beau believes that while Nott’s loyalty to Caleb has not lessened, her loyalty to the rest of the party has extended to them all.

“I think we might all be her kids now.  It’s kind of sweet, in a really weird way.”

Zeenoth is extremely salty their junior drew lots of buttons instead of researching the crossbow Nott got from Hupperdook.

A list of all phrases that Beau noted in her journals that Kiri had learned in her time with them.

Welcome to the Mighty Nein!

I am Kiri!

Yes, I am very sweet.

It’s sharp.

Ooh, I’m a captain.

Where do babies come from?

Fire! Fire! Fire! Fire!

If it bleeds, we can kill it.

I killed people!

Get into trouble!

She’s probably a good egg.

Go fuck yourself.

Zeenoth is VERY upset about the word fuck and wants that entry removed.

Beau thinks Calianna is too polite.

Cobalt Soul believes there is at least one other bowl like the one Calianna destroyed with the M9.

Beau hopes they don’t pick up any more stragglers, as she thinks it is getting crowded.

Cobalt Soul theorizes about why Keg had a four o’clock shadow rather than a proper Dwarven beard, wondering if she wasn’t forced to shave.  This indicates that beards are normal on female dwarves.

Beau thinks Shady Creek Run is so called because it’s full of shady criminals, but the Cobalt Soul notes that Shady Creek Run has a creek that is in near constant shade in the abundant pine trees.

On Molly’s death Beau says:

“Fuck.   That went horribly.  We lost Molly, and I don’t know what to do. [This part is crossed out: Maybe if I had-] I’m trying my best to stay objective.”

Beau also crosses out “I’m starting to like her” about Keg, and replaces it with “She’s fine, I guess.”

On Nila Beau says: “She said something really nice about Molly.  How in her clan, someones spirit never leave you.  They return to nature, and are forever by your side.  I don’t know if I believe it, but I like the thought.”

Beau wants her own “lucky smell bag” that’ll make decisions for her.

The Blooming Grove was built post-Calamity.

Beau’s first impressions of Caduceus is that he is both grounded and flighty.

Because Caduceus hasn’t eaten meat or alcohol in the time she’s known him, she thinks he’s got to have some sort of vice.

Because of Beau’s talk with Caduceus after killing the blue dragon, Beau remarks that she likes her edge and doesn’t want to lose it and go soft. But maybe it is a better, more efficient way of doing things by being there for the M9. “Gross.”

There is a note in the margins telling the editor to contact Archivist Demid (AKA the guy studying the moons) for information on the Dust family.  This indicates that he may have some special information.

Because of Jester’s defacing every town she visits, the Cobalt Soul has been able to track the M9′s movements.

The Cobalt Soul’s 2 working theories on the Traveler is that he’s a smaller/younger deity either from folk tales about a cloaked figure that either rewards or punishes heroes with a ironic twist OR a god of vandalism.

Zeenoth notes that if the Traveler IS a god of vandalism... they may have a secret follower in their ranks because of all the smut doodles in their books lately. Which of course Jester probably drew.

Beau says that as Jester told the group about her prank causing her to have to flee from Nicodranas she was full of her usual bubbliness... But was starting to see that there was underlying sadness in Jester.

Beau has known Jester has had a thing for Fjord since they first met, but after she got Tusk Love it became full-blown infatuation.

“Fjord seems super oblivious, though, which isn’t surprising for a man who occasionally wakes up covered in seawater and confusion.”

Beau stands by her and Jester’s purchase of the owl and blink dog, but she wonders how long the weasel is going to last in their line of work.

Beau wonders if it’s weird to be attracted to your friend’s mom and comes to the conclusion it is so she’ll back off... But the Ruby is smoking hot.

Beau can also see why people who want to release and evil god for Avantika. Not that she would. “She’s hot, but come on.”

No really new information on The Plank King is revealed in his section, but quite a bit is crossed out until illegible.  This could detail what connection to the Cobalt Soul he has, but was redacted.

The Cobalt claims that while the M9 titled a leader, Fjord often took that position.

Beau is making direct reports on Fjord to the Cobalt Soul and his connection to Uk’otoa.  In her latest report, she says that they’ve bought some time until their next trip to the sea............

Waiting for the rest of the M9 to come out of the Happy Fun Ball, after fighting the blue dragon, are among the rest worst few minutes of Beau’s life.

Beau believed Twiggy that she killed the blue dragon, in part because Caduceus believed her.

Beau accidentally writes “cute and dry” instead of “cut and dried” about Yasha’s background.

“For someone dressed in greys, who carries herself like a dark cloud, Yasha sure seems drawn to color and light. I wonder where it stems from.”

On Yasha being tested by the Stormlord by the “man made of lightning” the Cobalt Soul says it is not uncommon for the Stormlord to test his disciples through acts of physical, mental, or spiritual exertion.

The final notes by Zeenoth indicates that whoever wrote the book (outside of edits from Zeenoth himself and excerpts from Beau’s journals) were by someone from Tal’dorei.  Who might it be? Someone we know?

[sengenweek]

SenGen Week: Day 04 (Correction)

Day 04: January 01

Soulmate au / first date/meeting

-'-

Title: Colorfools.

-'-

A/N: You can see every color, except for the color of your soulmate's eyes. Once you see the eyes of your soulmate, you can finally see the color that has never been available for your sight.

-'-

He was lonely, and had nothing better to do that day, so he'd gone to a nice coffee shop downtown just to kill some time outside his house. Being indoors all the time was getting to his nerves. The coffee shop was a nice place, decorated with whites and browns in a second floor, and a big window with view to the outside, but the view was plagued with people and cars; nothing interesting to see. He opened a notebook containing drafts for his next book, as his drink and snack arrived, he was already engrossed in his writing and thanked the waiter absently.

He wrote and scratched several lines, using at least three of his pages when he decided to leave his pencil aside to take a sip of his coffee, looking once more to the window as he munched on a donut. And he noticed something, someone who looked briefly upwards and Gen got a glimpse of their eyes. Their eyes. A color he'd never seen before, a beautiful and mesmerizing shade enlightened by the sunlight. And as soon as the person –a boy, a teen?– had glanced up, his eyes went back to the floor, leaving Gen to observe a very strange mop of hair that stuck up. He was with two other people, a tall young man, and a girl with long hair, but Gen barely paid them any mind, he was stuck on the other teen, the one with odd hairstyle, and such beautiful eyes. He was about to get up from his seat and run to him, run to catch him. But as soon as Gen had seen him, the crowd had engulfed him.

Red. He knew what the color he'd never been able to see was called. Red. Gen saw it, again, in the traffic lights, in the neon signs of Tokyo, in the package of his favorite drink, Cola. Red. In the cover of his notebook, in the ink of his pen, in the drawings of his deck of cards. Gen saw red, the color that was missing from his life; and he loved it. He loved the color that painted his soulmate's eyes. And he regretted the fact that he may never see this person again, may never even hear his voice.

-'-

The girls at school –as well as some boys– seemed to have gained an interest in someone named Asagiri Gen, a sort of magician. One day, one of his classmates read aloud a quiz from one of his 'psicology' books, and Senkuu quickly disregarded it's value, and decided it wasn't really worth the effort to read more from it, so he didn't even looked at it.

That afternoon when the rest of his classmates as well as Taiju and Yuzuriha had left the classroom, he noticed his classmate had left the aforementioned book in there, so he took it to put it away and return it the next day, he lifted the book and saw it's cover which portrayed Asagiri Gen himself in the front. Asagiri Gen. A magician. A 'writer'. The complete opposite of him. He saw the deep blue of his eyes. He saw it in the night sky, in his father's tie, in the sea, in the wallpaper of his computer, in his jeans. He saw the color he'd never seen before, and got excited –happy, even–. So he thanked Asagiri Gen for putting his face in his trashy book, and left it at that. There was no need for Senkuu to do anything else about this.

And that was a filthy lie, because he tamed his hair down, wore a hat and glasses to attend one of his shows, he sat on the back row, hidden. Asagiri Gen's magic show was no big thing, he used every old trick in the book with a little personal twist. His smile was big and false. Like his show, Asagiri Gen seemed to be an act. Senkuu wondered what he'd be like in reality. So every now and again, he would read one of his trashy books, aimed towards the public to produce sales, and once or twice, assisted to his shows. Never once did he make contact.

-'-

'AD 5738, April 1st'

Whoever carved that was totally insane. Whoever carved that, had kept track of time while being petrified. Whoever carved that, was awesome. And Shishio Tsukasa feared this person. This Ishigami Senkuu person had to be someone worth knowing. He was hopeful to find him alive, despite having heard Tsukasa say he'd killed him with his own hands. He was quickly despached to go find the village of primitive people and the smell of ramen invaded Gen's nostrils.

'Ishigami Senkuu must have lived, then' was his first thought.

He snuck around the people and snatched a bowl, being his usual confident self even as he got surrounded by three of them, aiming very sharp spears –and knives– at him.

"I thought I'd seen your face somewhere before, Asagiri Gen"

He turns to look at the one he can only asume, is Ishigami Senkuu, and his heart beats so wildly in his ribcage he'd swear it would burst it open. He only ever saw them once, he only ever saw him once, but Gen would recognize that shade of scarlet, that weird mop of hair, anywhere. It took all of his self-control to keep his façade. The young man didn't seem fazed at all, he put Gen to work and got information out of him, not that he was going to keep it a secret anyhow.

"All I have to do is make a false report. 'It was only a primitive village.' 'Senkuu is dead.' With that, I can save you, Senkuu-chan"

'^I can save you^ I don't want you to die'

He hoped Senkuu had gotten the message, since he didn't show any reaction to seeing him. And Gen knew he'd never mistake his soulmate.

'But. Soulmate or not, you're amazing, and I want you to live.'

-'-

He didn't know if Gen was avoiding the subject on purpose, but he supposed it wasn't good to just dodge the situation forever. The matter of being soulmates had to be adressed eventually.

"Senkuu-chan~!" Ah, yes, speaking of the devil.

He turns to look at Gen, smiling brightly, the scar on his cheek making his grin far more devious than it should be.

"What are you doing up so late at night?" he questions.

"I could ask you the same, Gen"

"Insomnia~! Your turn~!"

"Stargazing" he grins.

"You like the stars?"

"Yeah, they're a good way to know your location, and the time at night. Although, after so many years, they shifted in their place. They're not where I remember them being"

"Everything has changed" he mumbles nostalgic.

"It's not so bad. With consistent and sustained effort we can bring it back to being more or less where everything was. It'll take years, perhaps even decades, though"

"Ah, yes. You'll work everyone to exhaustion"

"You damn right, I will" he beams.

Gen can only sigh, a tiny smile tugging on his lips.

-'-

An observatory. Gen really surprised him this time. 'He must've remembered when we spoke of the stars' he mused. He really should speak to him now, he knew jackshit about these kinda feelings, but he was sure this was more than just a gift for his birthday, the words the mentalist spoke were far too much of a hint.

As if being summoned by his thoughts –again– the mentalist burst throught the entrance on the floor elegance in his movements.

"Stargazing?" he asked.

"Yes and no. I'm trying to find where the stars are now"

There's a map on the floor, notes and constellations drawn into it. Gen takes a sit right next to him.

"And how is that going?"

"My hand hurts from scribbling so much" he sighes.

The mentalist takes his right hand gingerly, tracing circles and triangles and squares into his open palm, lips pursed –almost pouting–, inspecting it as if it were an antient text.

"Don't tell me you read palms too, mentalist" he jokes.

"Why, yes I do~!" Gen answers gaze never leaving his hand.

"Oh really? And what does my future say?"

"You have a tewible luck. As always"

"Mmm"

Senkuu changes the position of their hands, now he's the one tracing figures on Gen's palm, making him chuckle.

"What does my future say, Senkuu-chan~?" he asks amused.

"It says... You will be kissed shortly"

"Eh? Kissed?"

Senkuu leaned –eyes open– and placed a chaste kiss on Gen's lips. And Gen looks cute when he gets paralized and blushing, his eyes three times larger than a moment ago.

"Thank you, for my birthday present. And for the color blue. It's beautiful"

Gen tries to speak a few times, but he only manages to look like a fish, so he gives up, and buries his face on his sleeved hands.

"Never seen you so flustered before. How cute" Senkuu chuckles.

"You're so mean~!" he pouts.

"Sorry. But it seemed like we avoided the subject for too long"

He spreads his fingers, letting only one bright iris to be discerned.

"I suppose you're right" he agrees. "You knew since the modern days who I was"

"I saw your face in one of your trashy books"

"Heh. I saw you once from inside a coffee shop"

"Really?"

"Yes. It was only a fleeting moment when you looked up" he explained sheepishly. "I wanted to go after you then, but you got lost in the crowd. I think you were with Taiju-chan and Yuzuriha-chan"

"Heh, I probably was"

"I like it. Red, I mean"

"I wonder if everyone just loves the color they'd never seen before"

"Probably most people do" he smiles, finally revealing his face.

And Senkuu takes the chance to steal another kiss. This time Gen responds, draping his arms on Senkuu's neck, the other pulls Gen closer by his waist.

Scarlet and cobalt meet, they suit each other quite beautifully.

-'-

A/N: So, I posted day one again for mistake. Kids, don't go operating heavy machinery when you're sleep deprived, just sayin', ya could get something wrong. Also on:

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13464121/4/SenGen-Week-2019-2020

[suicidalcatz]

DOG DAYS ARE OVER : CHAP 5

AN: Hello frens! Are you having a nice sunday? In this chapter we exchange some texts. But also we make fun of Josh just because. In the next chapter, things get complicated between the three of you... I hope you’ll like it. Please feel free to comment or send me prompts!

Pairing : Jake Kiszka x Reader

Genre : College AU

Previous parts : Prologue ; Chap 1 ; Chap 2 ; Chap 3 ; Chap 4

Masterlist : here

Chapter five : New number, who dis ?

Packing never made me feel weird before. It was friday afternoon so a majority of students were going home or, like me, to their parents' place for the week end. Most of the time I'd stay in my dorm with Mandy because we had so much homework there was no point coming home at all. I already knew for a fact that I'll be locked up in my room all week end painting, drawing, and cutting paper, but I promised I'd see them since it has been a while. My parents' cooking and comfy house usually made me impatient but not this time. I knew the boys were staying on campus because they lived far away, and it gave me mixed feelings. Part of me longed for Jake, and the feeling of his touch on my wrist was still so vivid I sometimes got the impression his hand was still here. On the other hand, he and Josh were big family guys, and seeing them missing their home so much while I was reluctant to see mine made me feel like a spoiled brat. That's why instead of calling to tell my parents I wasn't coming home this week end either, I went home to enjoy every bit of it.

My mom had already made my favorite dish, and dad was excitedly chatting about this new movie  he saw on tv the other day. It felt good, I could allow myself to relax a little, take a bath, hang out with some friends for an hour or two after finishing an assignment.

Sitting at my desk, I dropped the pen and stretched my back, falling back onto the chair and looking at my work. I did good this week, so the teacher didn't make me redo any of my assignments, which was very fortunate because I still had a flyer design to create. I unfolded that one Jake gave to me and took a look at all the infos, preparing a draft of my first idea. Why they didn't let the Illustration department do the visual com design was a mystery. By the look of it I bet it was the Music and Architecture dudes who made it. There was a bunch of band names thrown in the middle, what looked like a pixelled stock image of a Santa hat in a corner, « with beer ! » in a really ugly comic bubble in another, and the worst was that they though Comic Sans was an acceptable font choice. Unbelievable. That's why we can't let Architecture dudes do anything.

Creating a decent design took me a solid two hours, which was way faster than I planned. Getting up, I studied it from a distance, looking for flaws. It wasn't the best I could've done but it was pretty cool and not printed with neon yellow paper. For now, I'll rest my head for a bit and see if I can sketch the few more ideas I came up with later on. Feeling proud of my work, I took a picture to send it to Jake. It was dark and quiet outside, and one glance at the clock confirmed my thoughts on how late it was already. Biting my lower lip, I struggled. Maybe he was sleeping.

I never texted him since he gave me his number. I mean he gave it to me so we could talk about the flyers, right ? I would've been uneasy using it for another reason. Pondering whether of not I should maybe wake him up, I started pacing in my room, tidying and touching things, stuff I did when I was nervous. My arm still had some black marker on it, faded shapes and symbols vaguely resembling numbers, like an old letter with smudged ink and discolored paper. At first I didn't wanted to wash it off. Mandy and I got so excited by it we cheered together right after school, and classmates seemed intrigued by it. The cold weather didn't allow me to show too much skin so it could look like a tattoo, or a hot guy gave me his number (which was technically true). It could look like I just wrote it myself, but it was totally lame so I didn't want to think about it. Although I really enjoyed that empowering feeling of being someone's interest, at least a little, I scrubbed it hard the same evening. I didn't know if Josh was aware of it and couldn't raise suspicion in case he wasn't. It looked like we were doing something bad, and maybe we were, I had no clue. Guys had that weird rule regarding friends dating brothers and according to Netflix romcoms I was walking on thin fucking ice so I wasn't taking any risks. To be honest I don't think Josh would mind us talking but Jake seemed like a secretive guys so if he told Josh then I'll talk about it and otherwise, I won't. I'll just go with the flow and follow his lead on this, it was safer.

It was almost 2AM when I sent the pic and left my room to get a nice cup of tea/coffee after all these efforts. By the time I got back I had one new message.

« Hi to you too »

I felt my heart jump a little when I saw his name at the top of the screen, and his first text made me smile. I got so pumped by all these design ideas that I forgot to tell him it was me. The picture made it clear enough, though, but maybe it was a bit rude of me. Taking a sip of hot tea/coffee before putting the mug on the night table, I sat on the bed, eyes still on my phone, thinking of an answer. It took me maybe too long because I kept on rereading it to be sure I wouldn't embarrass myself with a typo.

« Hi, sorry. So what do you think ? »

The phone was threwn on the blankets and I turned on the tv to make me think of something else than his future reply. Saying that I was confident would be half-true. The design was good or so I thought so, but then again tastes were all too subjectives and art was tricky. He had all the right to hate it, I wouldn't take it personally (well at least not a hundred percent...). Idly watching a re-run of some old sitcom, I continued to quietly empty my cup and switch channels without really paying attention when I heard my phone buzz and let everything down to grab it.

« I got to admit you were right, our flyers sucked, this one looks fantastic »

And maybe my cheeks started turning pink. Compliments on my art meant a lot, more than those on my personnality or physic. It was really rewarding to have someone enjoy something you created from your own hands. It felt better than any other flattery, so the reply came naturally.

« I'm so glad you like it. I had a few more ideas in stock just in case »

His next message came so fast this time that I didn't even put down my phone yet when I felt it vibrate in my palm.

« Thank you for this, I really appreciate it. I'll owe you one. »

His sweet personality made a smile spread across my face. I took the flyer in my hand again, studying it. The number of bands playing this day was surprisingly high. Some of them I knew because I either heard people talk about it, or knew the guys playing. One especially because they kept rehearsing their rap lyrics in the dorms for everybody to enjoy, which I didn't since they started loudly singing at three in the morning and ignored all my complaints about the noise of their boombox. But most of the bands, no, I didn't know. I continued watching intently the names of the bands playing as if I'll have an epiphany and guess which was Jake's. Giving up, I took my phone again to tap.

« Don't sweat it, I'm glad to help. So... which one are you... ? »

Again, the reply was faster than the first texts we exchanged, despite the late hour.

« You mean the band ? Guess you'll have to come and find out »

I raised an amused eyebrow at this. Getting cocky, aren't we ?

« Alright then, Mister Mysterious, I'll wait and see. »

« You won't regret it. », replied Jake, and for some reason my face started heating up again.

We didn't speak for several minutes, I didn't know what to say now that the topic was closed, and I had nothing to add to it. Switching channels and drinking tea/coffee didn't gave me much help either, at this hour it was either old re-runs, or tv shopping. My eyes looked at the digital alarm clock, and it was almost three in the morning. That's how I knew what to write next.

« I just thought about it, but didn't I wake you up ? »

He was fast as ever again this time, probably wide awake and without anything to do.

« No, don't worry. Rehearsing with my brothers. I'm taking a break until Sam and Josh stop arguing and find a compromise for the new song. Our friend Danny's being the peace keeper once again, I left him alone on the battlefield and went out for a smoke. »

The war metaphor made me chuckle lightly, causing my imagination to run wild. The thought went through my mind that I couldn't believe they would argue, but since they were brothers it was normal I guess, even if they seemed pretty close. Close enough to form a band together at least. I never saw Josh angry, but he had a very vivid temperament, so it wasn't really much of a surprise either. My mind wandered a bit, and I briefly wondered how Jake looked in a heated argument. Probably hot, but also intimidating. He had that kind of quiet aura that seemed like it could become suddenly agitated, like a spotless watercourse that got troubled by the rain or rocks that ricocheted on it. I couldn't explain it, but it was how my limited knowledge of him perceived it.

My phone buzzed again, and this time it was a picture that made me snort in the ugliest way possible. It was a very unflattering close up of a moody and clearly unamused Josh who looked like he was in the middle of scolding Jake for doing whatever he did that got him upset. More of it  came, one after the other, for my greatest amusement, and by looking at them in order I could see his actions and movements, like a flipbook of ugly pictures of an angry Josh wearing a colorful dyed t shirt and ample pants that I assumed were his pajamas. The last one got me shaking with laughter, poor Josh looked awful, in a middle of what I assumed was a menacing speech for Jake to stop his bullshit, with an eye half closed and his mouth stuck the weirdest twist of the lips humanly possible. I saved this one as blackmail material, might be helpful in the future.

I didn't even know what to respond to that, they all radiated such chaotic energy it was splendid. Jake was quicker, and sent me a text this time, saying Josh threw his slipper at his face and that he was lucky he hadn't had the tambourine in his hands at that moment.

« I guess rehearsal is over for today, hopefully they'll make up their minds about the song tomorrow. Thanks again for the flyers, see you on monday, we'll print them. »

I never knew I'd be that impatient to go back to school before meeting him.

[ayellowbirds]

Pre-senting, here upon this very first night of November, elsewise known as National Novel-Writing Month, the sequel to Cypora’s Guide to Becoming an Evil Queen! A tall tale centered upon the not-so sinister destiny of an autistic trans girl in a world of high fantasy based upon both Jewish and North American folklore and legends.

Here we are! The first 1817 or so words, a bit earlier than planned, because I reached a stopping point and need to rest after a nervous day at work. The text is below the Read More, but first, a reminder: NaNoWriMo is a big undertaking, and it will mean a lot to have some support and encouragement. How can you do that?

Keep your eye on the Cypora’s Guide to Cementing Your Rule as an Evil Queen tag on my blog. Story updates and thoughts will be posted there.

Look back at the tag for the original story, here; the posts from last year of the original, un-edited draft of the story can be found about halfway down this page.

Tell me about your favorite characters from the story—or draw them, if you like! You can find visual references in the art tag, or look at the stuff that inspires me, visually, in the inspiration tag.

Sign up as a patron on my Patreon

Make a one-time donation via Paypal...

...or by Ko-Fi, if you prefer!

Got any questions about Cypora’s Guide, the characters, or the setting? Feel free to send them to me!

And now;

30th day of the month of Vernary, the year 5647 CC

Alícha de Matos sat in a corner, staring into a cup of coffee that was long past even being counted as lukewarm, much less hot. She’d arrived in the small café in the “city” of Berry Hill when it opened in the morning, as she had done every morning since the end of the sabbath. Three days of making the gesture of ordering an overpriced mug, three days of waiting and watching.

By now, she had memorized every small detail of the café, from the mismatched chairs and tables, to the aging broadsheets and posters nailed to the walls from the days of the revolution, before she was born. Caricatures of the Icarian Empire and its leadership as monsters more grotesque than any she’d faced in the depths of a dungeon, and bold illustrations of revolutionary leaders in now faded colors. On the wall beside her, the red mane of Velvela had turned a sort of orangey-pink, like lox left out a little too long.

She was starting to think that the word she’d put out had been a waste of time, and the advertisements a waste of money. In a larger community, she’d have just hit up the local adventuring guilds, but Berry Hill was too small, too rural to even have a guild office run out of someone’s house or in the back of a shop.

Someone less familiar with adventurers—say, a wealthy citizen seeking to hire a swordswoman, spellcaster, or shootist to slay some monsters—might have assumed that a tavern, saloon, or bar would be the place to go to find them. And sure, that would be the case if you wanted to hire someone who had already won treasure and was happy to spend it on overpriced brandy.

But an actual adventurer looking for others like herself? Well, Alícha knew that the place to start was anywhere that served coffee or tea. She looked out at the crowd over a mug that she had only bothered to sip from when the café owner started to look sour at her, and tried to judge the current small crowd.

The first type coffeehouses attracted were ordinary people of the land looking for a kosher indulgence. Second were foreigners, visitors from outside the former Icarian Empire who were curious about what life was like now that the Icosans were either dead or gone. These showed up because of the third type: former revolutionaries, and those of like mind. The common sentiment was that the revolution started over a hot cup of dark roast, though Alícha was sure that café owners were the ones who popularized the idea. Whatever the truth of it, late nights of planning and strategic meetings over brown-stained maps had created a lifelong coffee habit, and the revolutionary generation and their children had proven the best thing for the business.

That generation was key. When the revolution—really, a great many small revolutions, rebellions, and insurgencies that happened to roughly coincide—achieved lasting victory, many of those at the forefront turned to seeking out treasures hidden away in the labyrinths and fortresses created by the Dungeon System. The most noble* claimed they were trying to liberate centuries of stolen wealth and property.

This café did not attract the most noble adventurers, but she hoped it would at least attract a few. Alícha looked out over those seated, standing at the counter, or loitering near the entrance, where a golem in a sandwich-board sign hawked extra-cheap cups of the weakest brew the café offered, a mix of leftovers and chicory root.

A western-looking woman in a lilac headscarf near the counter, haggling over exchange rates; most likely a foreigner passing through. Berry Hill might be a speck of dirt on the map, but it was a speck on the side of a major road, and travelers from afar often passed through. Other probable foreigners included the trio in fine black garb heavily decorated with colorful beadwork and copper, probably far-easterners† of the type who had brought coffee to the people of the land in the first place.

Seated further back was a woman who had been just as much a regular at the café as Alícha herself; all delicate features and the softness of a pampered lifestyle, with long blonde hair that curled beneath a red scarf in the way that suggested deliberate alteration rather than natural growth. Her green eyes met Alícha’s, and her expression hardened. A snob who thought herself trendy and important.

Among the lingerers out front, there was a more promising figure, who had something of the look of a lumberjack of the northwoods. Well, a lumberjack if clothed by someone who had forgotten when to stop knitting or weaving. Red plaid not as a shirt, but a robe that reached near enough to the ground that its ends were frayed and mud-stained, paired with a tuque that extended so far that Alícha thought it might have been originally intended as a thigh-length stocking for a giantess, rather than a hat.

The promising part was none of this, but the too-long sword strapped to the figure’s back by way of a bandolier that also lashed a very large bag to their hip. When they moved, Alícha saw what looked at that distance like an unusually large assortment of membership badges from adventuring unions and guilds. As the person turned to enter the café proper and come into better view, this was confirmed. The flannel of their shirt-robe parted to reveal faded blue trousers reinforced with old-fashioned plates of armor, and boots that were either gray-brown or else far too encrusted with mud to make their real color visible.

They made their way through the cafe, casting wide smiles that showed too few teeth, with several of those that remained well-chipped. Alícha could not guess at their gender from their appearance, though she supposed that it wasn’t proper to make that kind of assumption in the first place. She’d dealt with that enough in her childhood.

The likely adventurer reached into a pocket, and pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper, and shook it out, then looked around the café.

“Hey, uh,” they said in far louder a voice than was needed for the small coffeehouse interior or the volume of conversation therein, taking a sip of coffee from a cup at an abandoned table before continuing, “anyone know anything about this here ad looking for adventurers and such as?”

They were met with brief glances and a few expressions of contempt, but Alícha raised a hand and waved to herself.

The cracked grin returned, and the newcomer sat down heavily on the chair opposite Alícha without turning it around the proper way. A good thing, too, with the size of the sword on their back, which Alícha hoped they could actually use. This close, they did look to have the muscles for it, but many a new adventurer grabbed the biggest and scariest weapon they could without consideration for how to actually fight with it.

“Oh hey, you’re scrappy looking and suchlike,” they said as they scooted the chair closer. “Name’s Broke, on account of my pop had a bad sense of taste for a feller named Moneymaker. I’m here about the advertisement, likewise I said.”

Alícha boggled for a moment. “Your name,” she began, and hesitated, “is ‘Broke Moneymaker’?”

“Sure as a skunk is striped,” Broke replied, passing Alícha a card‡. “Excepting those as has spots.”

The card was not a typical business-card; in fact, it was a playing-card with text hand-written over the back in surprisingly precise and bold ink. Broke tapped a deck of other cards back into place in a box, while Alícha took a closer look.

BROKE A. MONEYMAKER

Ze/Zir

PRO-FESSIONAL ADVENTURER, BODYGUARD,

BOOK-KEEPER,

SWORD-SWINGER AND INK-SLINGER

“SUMS AND CRITTERS A SPECIALTY”

“I’m afraid I don’t have a card, myself,” Alícha said, offering a handshake. “My name is Alícha de Matos, of Martıkoy.”

She recalled the format of the card, and added, “she, and her.”

“Proper excellent and good to meet you, Miss de Matos,” Broke replied, returning the offered hand. Ze had some sort of curious tube or hose wrapped around zir wrist, with the rest continuing further up zir sleeve. “Say, wait a minute or less. Ain’t you the Alícha such as some people been calling ‘the Breaker’, on account of what you done to dungeons?”

“Is that what they’ve been calling me?” Alícha sighed, and fussed with her eyepatch. “I suppose I’ve been doing things on my own for too long.”

“That’d be whatfor you made this bill of advertisement?” Broke guessed, waggling the paper. It was not the only one Alícha had paid to have posted, or else she might have been uncomfortable with Broke so casually keeping it to zirself.

“Yes, it is,” Alícha said, patting the paper down flat on the table and stopping the crinkling noise it made. “I’ve realized there are reasons I should involve myself in the adventuring community more, and either join, or if necessary, form a party.”

“Well that sounds reasonable,” Broke replied, the grin returning. Alícha wondered just how much sugar the strange-speaking androgyne ate on a regular basis. “One presumes such terms and conditions for party formation as are de-fault across most unions and guilds?”

She shrugged. “As I said, I’ve not been very involved in the community. We can go over what I had in mind, and I would welcome suggestions.”

Alícha and Broke started to discuss the fine contractual details of forming an adventuring party, including division of resources and starting finances as well as shares of any treasure, even pausing so that Broke could order zirself a proper cup of coffee on Alícha’s coin. In spite of the oddities of zir speech, Alícha quickly realized that ze had a mind for details that gave truth to zir card. Considering that canniness, Alícha made a point to keep quiet on exactly the reasons she wanted to get a closer look at the adventuring community. Her recent defeat seemed spurred by a hatred of adventurers not only by monsters, but humans as well. If there was reason for ordinary people to mistrust adventurers, it might be that there was corruption in the community. Getting more involved might be risky, but she needed to find out for herself.

She was focused enough on this and the discussion, that she didn’t notice the close attention the pampered blonde paid her or Broke.

* Or at least, those who most ardently insisted on their nobility. 

† Said “far-easterners” referred to themselves as being from the west, which was generally confusing for everyone involved, requiring the matter to be ignored during discussions. This led to a lot of circuitous avoidance of giving directions, especially difficult in planning trade routes.

‡ The Knave of Swords, in this case. 

[shadowdianne]

 I want to acknowledge a group of amazing girls because not doing it could be considered a crime.

For the past few months I’ve been… I don’t really want to use the word “struggle” because I don’t feel that’s been the case but I’ve been definetely be doubting of myself and my writing skills, my ability to tell a story and that be engaging and enjoyable. Funny thing is that all of that happened in the middle of me writing Metallic Ink, my intake of the SQ Supernova. That’s why I’ve been almost non-seen for the couple of weeks, almost solely writing and posting while still doubting myself and thinking if I just should quit altogether.

Which could be a solution but a really important part of me is, fundamentally, a writer. Perhaps not a published one -and I perhaps will never be- but still someone that loves writing so much that’s become a core reason of who I am. In the middle of this, while complaining and moaning and feeling that I wasn’t going to be able to make it, this amazing group of people heard me, listened to me and cheered me up whenever I felt that I was going to end up not doing the BigBang. However, they didn’t only do that and, without me knowing it, they created this for me to see their intakes of my crazy idea that Metallic Ink really is.

Moodboards, cookies, fics, art and makeup inspiration… yesterday I cried and today I want to do it once again because of what they did, how they managed to use some of their time into putting into visuals what my mind had created several months ago. They wanted to surprise me and they did because they only had the very small outline of the story I had given then back those months ago. Knowing my love of steam, retro and cyberpunk they created something I’m still speechless for.

Thank you doesn’t begin to cover half of it; I think that’s a pretty common feeling of not feeling that your stories aren’t really worth a damn, that you can’t really write. We all feel like this sometimes; what they did was made me remember that whereas fear is good to make you want to go forward not being able to think “perhaps I don’t suck” is something as important as the previous statement.

They all are artists on their own way, they all have rich, amazing minds I couldn’t even began to describe and they took that time, those loose ideas, to create something else. For me.

As I said, not thanking you properly would be a crime. (The ones that aren’t direct links it’s because I’ve used their twitter @)

So thank you @misslane1981 @eliamuffin, @brittanysnieve, @pauavalon  @summerwinesip, @napfreak, @chispanaranjosa, Macka @meridacabreada @merykinder, @SheilaLunaArt @laars15

Thank you for the poster, Irene, you are still The SQ artist, thank you Elia for the -I’m sure- delicious cookies, thank you Noe, for the spot on moodboards, thank you Pau for your ability to see details between the lines, thank you Marta for your wicked sense of humor, thank you, Lidia, for that elegancy that, to this day, I firmly believe no one has, thank you, Andrea, for that art that’s something forgotten but still important. You look fantastic. Thank you, Macka, for that humor, for those hidden smiles, thank you Merida, for exploiting a scene that was much bigger on the original draft and rewriting it in a way I would have never thought it could be possible. Raven hugs at you. Thank you, Maria, for the drawing, you have a very distinct style, full of softness, and you deserve everything and more. Thank you, Sheila, for that breathtaking art, colors and detail. Thank you, Lorena, for your vision.

And thank you my love @king-prom for this. I wasn’t easy, I know, I’m more often than not a terrible, awful hoarder of words who can’t see a thing good on themselves. Thank you for sharing with me a world you don’t understand but still adore on me. Thank you for being there.

And to the ones that may be still reading this check all of them out; they are amazing people with a heart of gold and whereas I may be or may be not a horrible writer (xd) they are incredible on what they do.

[mondeskinder]

The Choice - Min Yoongi Fanfiction

Chapter 3

Black ink stained a wrinkly white sheet of paper as my hand held onto the cheap pen, knowing that I’d fall, sink further into the nebulous depths of my mind if I let go now. Time, a non-existent measurement created by humans to structure the intricate thing called life, constantly passed without me noticing; it was only when a delicate hand ruffled through my already messy hair that the flow of words spilling onto the page got cut off. I looked up, a light growing in my chest as my eyes observed the soft features they’d missed so much. “Hey.” A warm smile made her look pretty altough it emphasized the dark circles under her shimmering button eyes. “You look tired”, I assessed, unable to hide a worried tone in my voice. She just shrugged it off, carefully sitting down on the squeaking stool and letting out a relieved sigh, eyes closed. The frequent visits had become a habit, I’d lost the modesty to look away so I continued my stare as the black dots framed with smoothly swung lashes that formed her eyes met mine. A giggle escaped her mouth. “Don’t tell me I look tired, panda.” I knew it wasn’t that funny, nevertheless I couldn’t keep the corners of my mouth from rising. “I already told you, it’s my specialty.” “Your specialty is overworking yourself.” The room got quiet, dusty air containing a slight tension as I leaned back onto my chair, running my fingers through my hair to cover up my discomfiture. She’d often told me how much she disliked me spending so much time at the studio, saying things like ‘Do you even remember what sunshine is?’ or ‘You’ll die in your mid-thirties if you continue torturing your body like this’ - it’d always been laughed off but today something seemed different. Neither of us laughed, her expression was unusually serious. “For how long have you not left this room?” “I think it’s been 4 hours.” She doubtingly raised an eyebrow. “What? I had to pee.” “Then how long have you not left this building?” I gulped. “I don’t know.” That was a lie; I was totally aware that it had been several days by now but I’d rather tell her that I have no clue than actually having her know that. “You need to get out of here.” As soon as the familiar tone of determination appeared, this time in combination with her arms crossing in front of her chest, I knew I wouldn’t be able to discourage her of that decision; nevertheless I tried. “Y/N, you know that we can’t leave the building together. My agency doesn’t want preventable rumors to spread that could ruin my chance to debut.” “You don’t have to leave the building to go outside.” I frowned in confusion, trying to find a hidden answer in her expression but failing. “What do you mean by that?” She tried to surpress a grin as she stood up, reaching for my hand and excitedly pulling me outside the tiny office. Taken aback by the sudden action, I was only able to grab my jacket and the unfinished page off my desk before the both of us abandoned my second home, leaving behind a brightly shining computer screen, beats slighty escaping the buzzing headphones, the light still burning; my mind was too flooded with other things to care about the electricity bill. ~ “Close your eyes.” “Y/N, I know we’re going onto the roof why should I-” “Close your eyes!” A sigh of frustration escaped my mouth as I gave in; I sincerely disliked having to trust someone other than myself but if it was needed to make her smile, I was willing to pay the price. My already pounding heart accelerated as the darkness swallowed my sight, causing my grip of her petite hand to tighten indiscernibly. “Don’t open them until I say so”, she whispered, the soothing sound of her voice somehow comforting my rumbling anxiety. The strong breeze of icy air piercing into my cheeks hit me unexpectedly; I flinched, just to hear her amused giggle shortly after. She gently led me outside, making sure I wouldn’t catch a glimpse of the view yet. My lungs gratefully welcomed the unfamiliar fresh air I inhaled with long breaths, allowing the cold to awaken my numb senses. I noticed my racing heartbeat, my skin tingling from her touch, a jolly smile that I’d been unaware of until now; I brushed it aside as being overwhelmed. Ultimately the both of us stopped. “You can look now.” Immediatly my lids snapped back, I wanted to regain my sight as quickly as possible. The two of us stood close to the edge of the tall building’s rooftop, witnessing a view of Seoul’s streets from a different angle. Thousands of vibrantly coloured lights mixed under the clear midnight blue of the night sky, traffic tirelessly finding it’s way through the city, different kinds of music and beats banishing the oppressing silence of sleep. My breath faltered. This display of livelyness and progress was exactly what I’d hoped for when coming to Seoul; I’d already given up, feeling too small on the bottom of the grey abyss of skyscrapers to continue searching and now - just like that - she’d helped me find it. “Beautiful, right?” My gaze let go of the artistic picture in front of me, getting caught up in the piece of art to my left; almond eyes reflecting the colorful brights, hair in the shade of freshly brewed coffee framing the elegant features, pale skin drawing rosy dots onto soft cheeks, graceful lips glowing in a sublte pink. A tender smile sneaked onto my face. “Yes. Very beautiful.” Silence began to surround us, who were both lost in thoughts; I recognized her body leaning against mine to fight the cold making her shiver. After a while I managed to escape my head, travelling back to reality only to recognize we were now sharing my jacket, my arm protectively resting around her shoulders. We were aware of the unusually intimate situation, though neither of us wanted to move. “Y/N..” “Hmm?” I could feel her silky voice vibrating against my chest. “Thank you.” A chuckle released small white puffs into the air. “For what?” “Just.. For being a part of my life.” There was so much I wanted to say but nothing wanted to exit my mind to actually be formed into real, spoken words. Thank you for giving me hope. Thank you for giving me strength. Thank you for letting me see the world through your eyes. Thank you for allowing me to be myself without doubting that you’ll stay. Thank you for being who you are. Thank you for making me happy. “Don’t get cheesy.” “I mean it.” “Don’t be grateful too early, you still owe me money.” Unable to contain our laughter, the incident quickly got forgotten. She gently moved out of my grip, I only reluctantly let go of her, and stared into the sky, acting like she was looking through binoculars. “What are you doing?”, I frowned in confusion. “If you look up and form your hands into tunnels like this, you can see the stars!” “What?” “Do it!” So I did. Staring up into the night sky through tunnel hands and looking at the stars for the first time in a long time. Tiny spots of lightness on the black velvet carpet, some of them glistening mysteriously, others forming constellations which names I’d long forgotten. “Do you see these three? That’s Orion’s belt. And that over there is a part of the Great Bear.” “Where did you learn this stuff?” “I’m just interested in stars and that stuff.” Another wave of shivers let her teeth chatter. “It’s freezing! Let’s go inside.” She’d already taken my hand, about to pull me towards the heavy metal door through which we’d originally entered the rooftop when the words I’d wanted to keep hidden the most somehow found their way to my lips. “I like you.” Both of us froze, equally surprised. “I-I..” Anxiety tossed my thoughts around, causing them to stumble, fall and being overrun by doubts, fears, regret. “Yoongi..” “I’m sorry. Please forget about this. Let’s go inside.” It took two hasty steps for the crumpled up paper to fall out of a pocket of my jacket; I hurriedly reached for it, but she was faster. “Y/N, don’t..” Too late, she’d already unfolded the sheet, her eyes quickly moving along the lines, absorbing my draft. Even though I’d only written it once, I was still able to recall what had earlier been spilled onto the page:

My feet are torn, but you keep me running My mind is tired, but you keep me hopeful There’s nowhere to rest, but you give me strength A reason to dream, a reason to live

Why can’t I protect you, who is so precious From all the things I know too well I see the hidden pain glistening in your eyes But why can’t I be the one to expel it

You look at me Unable to see My pounding heart How you make me feel

Why can’t you recognize my facade Why can’t you figure out the masquerade Why am I not allowed to show you my true self Too afraid you’ll run away

“When did you write this?” “Earlier today.. Look, let’s just forget this, okay? Please?” She didn’t react, though let me pull her back inside, back into my studio, back into the past, where none of this had happened. Our following conversations seemed insecure and shallow, causing her to leave only an hour after she’d arrived. As soon as the door fell in it’s lock behind her, I buried my face in my hands, embarassed, hurt, angry. I took the paper ball out of my pocket, ready to catch a last glimpse of it before tearing it into pieces when I noticed something off. Tiny words had been added underneath in a messy handwriting. I won’t run away, I promise. CONTINUE READING..

[kestrel-of-herran]

Hello! I really love your poetry and I was wondering if you had any advice or tips for when it comes to writing poetry/starting to write poetry?

Hello!

First of all, thank you so much for reading my poetry and thanks for asking!!!

I hope you’re in the mood for reading, because this is gonna be l o n g.

STEP ONE: GETTING STARTED

 - The first thing you should do if you want to start writing, or just start doing it on a regular basis, is to get inspired. And I don’t mean sitting around, waiting for the muse to come visit you. Inspiration comes not from having extraordinary things happen to you, but from always trying to discover something interesting and unusual about your immediate surroundings. Inspiration comes from thinking. Watch your thoughts. Describe the things you see in your mind, ask yourself what feelings and thoughts they evoke in you, and why that might be. Keep your brain muscles fit - draw connections between objects that are not usually regarded as similar, concentrate on the details, invent stories in your head on your way - it’s would also make your alone time much more interesting!

 - Get to know yourself. Poetry is an excellent way to examine your feelings and accept yourself as the person you are. It’s also a way to take control back from your emotions when they seem overwhelming and scary. Don’t shy away from your feelings - get to the core of each emotion! The moment you understand why you feel the way you do, you’ll be able to cope with it and find a way to feel better! :)

 - Find connections between your feelings and the world around you. Now that you know how you feel and why, think about the things that have made an impression on you recently, and match them to your current thoughts! The more you think about your ideas, the more different points of view you regard them from, the deeper you will explore into them and the better you will understand them!

STEP TWO: GETTING IT RIGHT

 - Take notes. It might sound tempting to store your visions only in your memory, but trust me, memory has an attitude of its own, and can be suprisingly single-minded and stubborn sometimes. You know how when you suddenly recall something you realize that in a moment you weren’t aware of that thing ever happening? If you want to develop your ideas, you have to keep them ordered. The best advice I can offer is to make a notebook or simply a file in your phone where you can write your thoughts down in plain text, when you’re particularly satisfied with them.That will allow you to go back to them as often as you like, and draw inspiration from them whenever you need it!

 - Read. Vocabulary is the most important thing in poetry (imho), especially if you want to write in rhyme. Getting to know the language is even more important if you’re not writing in your mother tongue (as I am), so don’t hesitate to learn these new words - but don’t hang on to each one! Sort the new words that are most common and learn them, because using uncommon words can be frustrating for the reader (more on that later). Make sure you understand the context of the words you’re using, so as to not convey the wrong meaning!

Example 1:

Don’t tell meFor spoken words, they fumbleAnd fall to the groundWrite it down.

Don’t play meFor sung words, they waverAnd lose in the soundWrite it down.

As you can see, the word fumble should be replaced with tumble so the right meaning will be conveyed. Always check the words you’re using, especially if you just added them to your vocabulary!

STEP THREE: GET TO WRITING

 - Write it down. It doesn’t matter in what form - uneven rhyme, blank verse, or even plain text - the most important thing is to get your ideas ordered. Once you figure out what you want to write about, the rest comes easily!

Example 2:

oh, I would whisk you awaysend you on a missioncount down the thingsto make you beat for

and I’d shoo you awaywhen you came back faithfullyand scold you forbeing a fickle heart

thank God I finallyopened up my rib cageand you, my bruised, my loverrested in my own chest

Now, this is a very rough draft that, of course, is what I would have called absolute trash had I not concidered it as the mere spine on which to place the bones and flesh of my actual poem! It as a very common mistake, so don’t make it! If there is a law to writing, it is do not delete anything. You never know when you can turn a failed verse into a materpiece!

- Plan. Planning is a writer’s best friend. Think about the structure you want to use, focus on the begining and the end - these should be your strongest points! Speaking of structure, that’s one very helpful device - a mirror frame or a refrain would help you organize your poem around a phrase/motif, and make your writing more coherent and your thought process easier to follow. Remember, the reader doesn’t know your way of thinking, and can’t always get adjusted to it unless you help them a little!

Example 3:

Oh, why don’t you wander,My little fickle heart?There’s a rose-bud– there’s a thunderWhy not settle for that?

“Roses stung me, thunder burned me,”Said the little fickle heart.“So I stole a petal and a flash,Won’t you let me now come back?”

Oh, but what of wonder,My little fickle heart?Worlds await you– words will mend youWhy not settle for that?

“Words enslaved me, worlds forsakeme,When their magic had worn out.But I brought a paper and a pen,Won’t you let me back again?”

Ah, you’re so ungrateful,My little fickle heart!Life will bend you– I’ll betray youWhy d'you settle for that?

“‘Long as you would let me restBruised and bleeding in your chest,‘Tis but all I’ll ever ask,”Said the little fickle heart.

Now this is the beautiful poem that came out of that messy draft! :D

- Forget the thesaurus. Draw your words from memory and not from a dictionary, unless you want your writing to turn into an incoprehensible mess of complicated words whose meaning even you don’t remember

Example 4:

The ink of my soul got blurred under yourfingertipsThe solidness of my bones went fluidThe width of my gaze narrowed down to your faceIn the hole between my lungs your heart found a place

Our words lost their outlines in the sweetest ofsighsAnd light and shade colorizedWe put liquefied stars in each other’s eyesBut the universe expands and gravity took our hands

It tore through our lungs and our united breathsgot burnedDesecrated our dreams and our starlight refracted in tearsSat like morbid growth on the tips of our tonguesWhispered blood in our ears ‘till we choked on the feeling

And acid rain fell from the atmosphereOur hearts beat brokenly for no-one to hearFingerprints we left faded from our handsThank God we’re sane again

(I have absolutely no idea what desecrate means :D)

- Revise. The key to editing is to put as much distance between yourself and the work you’re editing as you can. If you try to edit as soon as you finish, you will most likely find little to none faults in your poem (the euphoria of finishing a piece plays a big part); but you will find that in a couple of weeks you’re able to look at your work on a critical level, acknowledge it’s strong points and correct it’s weak ones. Don’t forget to add punctuation - its appropriate use will influence the reading speed make longer works more easy to read!

- Reimagine your old work. Change the meaning of your old poems in a way that is more relevant to you now - that’s a quick way to exersize and to use the structure of an old piece you like but don’t consider good enough for public

Example 5:

Autumn rainIt’s a shameThat you’re somewhereAnd it’s not Paris

Sort of retroSort of well-knownThat you’re somewhereAnd it’s not Paris

I wear your hatI think of thatThat you’re somewhereAnd it’s not Paris

I blow a kissI wish you wishedYou weren’t somewhereThat wasn’t Paris

Example 6:

Autumn rainIt’s a shameThat you’re somewhereAnd it’s not Paris

Sort of retroSort of well-knownAnother affairAnd it’s not Paris

Your letter’s lateAnd your glass of champagneIs getting you somewhereAnd it’s not Paris

But when the mud’s goneI’ll be your widowYou won’t be sparedAnd it will be Paris

(footnote: The Widow is another term for The Guillotine)

- Do warm ups. Allow yourself to write several mediocre pieces before you start writing with thought. Take your time! A four-liner might take five miuntes, but a long, complicated poem could take more than an hour. Remember, the more you think about it, the closer you’ll get to perfecting it!

STEP FOUR: GET FEEDBACK

- Ask your friends, family and teachers to read your work and express their opinon on it. Sharing can be really intimidating, but the way to improve is to get someone else’s view on your writing. There is a large number of poetry websites where you can get feedback quickly, but its quality might not be good. Therefore, asking someone who knows you personally is the most effective way to get relevant feedback. Don’t be afraid that you’re a “burden” to people in asking them to spend some time on your poetry - most people are delighted that you’re seeking their guidance and will take the task very seriously. Also, it’s really motivatng - you never know when your trash won’t turn out to be somebody’s treasure! :)

- Most of all, keep writing. No matter if you do it once a day or once a month, your writing can only develop if you work on it. Even writing fanfiction in your head can make a difference! And never ever give up on your dreams, no matter how “impossible” they look - I wrote song lyrics for 3 years, completing more than 300 pieces of original text and melody, and even though I never got one of them performed on stage or recorded, all of the word inventing, grammar rules ignoring and cliches got me really familiar with rhyme and rhythm. Break the rules all you like - it will only make you better acquianted with them!

KEEP MAKING YOUR ART. THE WORLD NEEDS IT.

[swooncraft]

Thoughts Into a Void-Art & Depression

This is me... organizing things for myself to get back into the swing of things. It’s a little disjointed, but it.. writing things out like this, reflecting, always helps me. It’s not sad and woe is me like.

Taking any time to share a thought and having the power of the internet to spread that to numerous people is amazing.

There’s a disconnect for me somewhere along the line. The platforms I use, while some are made for stories and comics and others aren’t, there’s just something inherently frustrating about spooling out one large cohesive sum. Not just as a reader, I assure you it’s frustrating as a creator too.

When I first learned people make and share their own comics online I was floored. I’d been writing stories and making doodles with them all my life. Ten years ago I shared my first page to the internet. Here it is.

I love realism with a hint of magic or sci-fi, and maybe you can blame Temix for that, but I realized something about that single page; “Why was it only one?” I asked on the forums how people on that site go about posting to make sure people were keeping up and remembering what was happening between posts. My art was crude (for being a young self taught teen artist), but very well intended; and it took me twelve goddamn hours to complete over the course of a week.

A lot of what people said was to have a schedule, people who like your story/art will stick around and remember. I heard a few people agree that webcomics had more dedicated fans, because you posted once or twice a week they would spend a little more time looking at the available pages.

That didn’t seem.. Right to me. I did the same with real comics and manga. If I liked it, once I was done I’d look back through the art... And how could posting a page at a time be beneficial to anyone? One could show consistency and integrity in a schedule with a several page post once a month or one full chapter every several weeks. It boggled me.

I kept drawing though, because I didn’t have several pages to share at a time. I tried my best to post once a week. I worked 50 hours as a manager at the time, so the ten hours I was spending on these pages was a huge investment. After a year I burned myself out...

Part of it was that I didn’t have the artistic skill to depict the things I wanted to do in that old project. Part of it was that it was gaining steam and had something like 30 people following and anticipating it. Part of it was my lack of planning, and still being a little new to storytelling on the scale the project needed...

So, I didn’t draw for months after I hit that wall. It.. was rough. We’ve all got issues, and mine and my inability to get back on my feet back then made me very volatile to myself.

Temix had just gotten out of art school and tried convincing me to draw a bit. I doodled, because she knew how to approach me about it and make it something I couldn’t back down from.

Sooner than later I dreamt about a zombie apocalypse and Deadgirl & Sue were born. With a lot of help and shaping by Temix.

The mission was ‘fuck art, tell the story.’ And that worked fine for a few months and several pages. I didn’t set deadlines for myself, and I didn’t care when I drew two right hands...

Even though this one haunts me to this day.. Anyway, fall of 2010 became summer 2011 and I was reeling internally about this non-schedule and art and story. So I stopped again. But I didn’t kick myself too hard about it because unlike my first comic, no one was paying attention to DG&Sue.

I’d been writing a lot anyway, and was feeling really good about the growth I was making there. I’m ‘good’ at art, I’m ‘okay’ at singing, but since I floundered on story years prior I learned and felt that that was were I shined. Just putting words on a page. I still mostly agree with those sentiments. Maybe now I’m a ‘little better’ at art, and ‘decent’ at singing, but I’m still a star at storycraft.

It was 2013 when I got back on track to finish that single first chapter of DG&Sue. I’d spent the previous 8 months writing a novel. I had the premise for the story in my mind for a few years so I wrote. I learned a lot and crafted something that.. Is really rough and raw, but it’s something I’m still very proud of..

So that fall I finished the second draft, Edited it all myself (though it still probly has plenty of grammatical and spelling errors) and reread it a hundred times to make sure it was only what it needed to be... And submitted it to several agencies. While waiting for replies I finished the last handful of pages for the first chapter of DG&Sue.

it was done. Not only did I write a 65k novel, I finished a comic. It wasn’t completely over, I left it a little open in case I wanted to bring the characters back. For a while though, Juliet and Sue got to rest in peace.

Meanwhile.. Let me be honest. The agents... Who the fuck am I? I’m a hack that flails against a keyboard screaming endlessly into the void; “NOTICE ME, BUT PLEASE DONT LET ME NOTICE THAT YOU NOTICE ME SO I DONT GET OVERWHELMED.”

All of the agents rejected me.

I wasn’t expecting to wow all of them.. I thought one might want to see the whole novel and tell me it could work if I changed something major about it. But none of them-Some of them in their emails back were offended that I submitted my query to them.

That really fucked me up. See, earlier THAT year I hit rock bottom as an alcoholic. Writing that novel helped me stop drinking. And after all of the months and long nights I spent refining that story the best I could to be rejected... I couldn’t kid myself though. None of my friends would even read it. So, I reiterate; screaming endlessly into the void; “NOTICE ME, BUT PLEASE DONT LET ME NOTI-” And I felt really dry. I couldn’t just not do anything about those feeling, but I couldn’t resort to liquor and video games weren’t taking the edge off...

So, to quote a great book, “I felt like destroying something beautiful.” Created a nice new little OC... And sent her through some good old fashioned Lovecraftian horror to fucking break her the way I felt broken inside. It beats being a no life drunkard, and it’s better then shooting up a school or suicide.. The first draft was a short story outline. And I thought, ‘It might be nice to do this as a comic.. to try using.. photoshop like Temix keeps suggesting. I’ll practice colors while I destroy this poor girl. I’ll become intimate with yellows like I became intimate with tones while drawing DG&Sue. And I’ll make Lovecraft my own like I made Priest, and Way, and Palahnuik my own.’

And this release of my feelings...

I decided to do it right. It was scheduled. And made sure it had an ending I could reach. It was a shining yellow light in deep blotchy darkness, Ink was more well received then I ever imagined it would be.

So, I toyed with expanding it while it was being finished. Picked up the threads I left for DG&Sue hoping.. Thinking that if I were working on a rotating schedule, that I wouldn’t get bored, that a new thing to work on every few months would keep me challenged... That I wouldn’t get overwhelmed... and stop.

I wasn’t wrong.

I haven’t missed an update in close to three years now. Sometimes I forget to post at one place or another, but the pages are available somewhere.

Over those years I expanded to several internet mediums... Swoonsphere of course, The Duck where I first started at, DeviantArt, Imgur, Pixiv, Tapastic, and I was directed to upload on Tumblr too, even though it doesn’t lend itself to webcomics...

Between Imgur, Pixiv, and Tapastic, being the only places I do bulk page uploads, I see terrible, but consistent growth every time I post on Tapastic (the other two there’s views, but not a lot of following). Which brings me back to something someone asked me recently, and what I started this and my webcomic career with.

Why don’t I post batches on Tumblr? On most sites?

I considered it. But everything is generally bite sized and easily consumable on these types of sites. That’s why I’ve been more stressed out lately. I’m not hoping that people will follow my Tumblr, because it’s not my... place. It’s not the right platform for what I do. I can only hope that people will see a fragment of a story, or decent art, or decent colors, or interesting tags and click the links to my website where it’s easier to read. I don’t make money off of Swoonsphere, the ads on it are usually blocked or disabled anyway because there’s no traffic. So.. Is it bad practice to hope someone will open a new tab to take a closer look while they’re scrolling through their Tumblr feed?

You know? Like I said.. screaming endlessly into the void; “NOTICE ME BUT PLE-” I don’t know how to market my comics. I dont expect people to come around for my art streams, and I dont expect people to be wowed by my ‘finished’ art. I just want people to read my stories and want to know what the next step is for the characters, or tell me what they think, or ask me why things went the way they did.

Personally I think my stories are a little cheesy and tropey, but have some unique things, and if nothing else, have characters that you can root for.

But I’m tired.. And feel myself after 30 months burning out. Because like my novel no one’s actually read what I’ve done even though it’s readily available for simple viewing. If it’s something wrong with Swoonsphere, I could direct people to the Duck or Tapastic. I post everywhere, and the sum of readers after all this time is hilariously low.

I’m not stopping yet. But I am frustrated, and disheartened.

[classywastelandbread-blog]

Moving Color - Vers. 2

Version 2 I have saved of another story I found in an old collection of short stories from college. 

Maybe the assignment was to write two versions of the same story or maybe I had two drafts after critique from the first writing/reading of it. Eh.

Getting the tattoo had seemed like a good idea at the time. Everything about it seemed all right. Maybe when the artist gave her very deep discounts (50% off for the Grand Opening sale, and an additional 50% off if she wanted him to use the GhostInk) she should have been skeptical. Or maybe when the artist, a kind if not terrifying man with scars across his face and an elaborate sleeve tattoo of a demonic skull with sunken eyes, offered her the GhostInk and its attached discount and took her word on understanding the risks of it. She had felt pressured, the artist had said that it was the newest, “hippest” thing and everyone had one, and she had told him that of course she knew what it was, brushed it off as if she had heard about it before and knew about it before walking into the shop.

Perhaps, most of all, she should have been at least a little suspicious when the tattoo parlor had seemed to appear in the space of a day. She had found it on the way home from school. The sign - and the enormous hummingbird attached to it - drew her in. Maybe she should have been more cautious, questioned her decision to walk inside, especially since she swore that she saw the hummingbird on the sign wink at her.

Ignoring all of this, three hours later, with a red, swollen ankle and a new tattoo, Gladys limped home. She hid herself in her room and with excitement peeled the saran-wrap the artist had wrapped it in. The little hummingbird seemed almost real, as if it was about to fly off her skin at any moment. Gently running her fingers over the seemingly iridescent feathers, she thought she felt it shiver beneath her hand as a real bird would. “I think I’ll call you Loki,” she murmured to it as she limped to the sink to wash her new tattoo. “It seems like a good name.”

That night she hid Loki from her parents and diligently cleaned and lotioned her new friend as the artist had instructed. As night fell and it got darker, Loki seemed to glow brighter. When it came time for Gladys to go to sleep, she realized that Loki had moved. She could have sworn that his wings had been extended upwards as if reaching for the sky but now they were angled downwards as if he had beat his wings.

“Just my imagination,” she muttered to herself as she slipped under the covers. “Too much math can do that.”

Throughout the night she thought she felt a tickling sensation in her leg and when she woke up because of it, she brushed it off as phantom pain. “It’s all in my head,” she mumbled to herself as she rolled over. “I’m just thinking of the needle again.”

In the morning as she was cleaning and lotioning the tattoo once more, she saw that Loki’s wings were once more facing upwards as they had been when she got the tattoo. But she was sure that he had been an inch or to lower on her leg the night before.

“Apparently I can’t even remember where I got my fucking tattoo,” she grumbled to herself as she got ready. By the time she was pulling on her socks, Loki seemed to have moved again. “Whatever,” she grumbled to herself as she covered the tattoo.

At school she resisted the urge to show it off. It wasn’t healed just yet so the skin was still red and raw around the tattoo and that wasn’t pretty. She had to be patient, wait until it was healed and she could show off Loki in his full glory. Until then he had to be a secret. A beautiful secret that she held close to her heart.

In the middle of the day she excused herself to go clean and lotion the tattoo. Once more, she noticed that Loki’s wings were more down than she recalled. “I’m just driving myself crazy with this,” she muttered and snapped a picture of the tattoo with her phone. Tucking the phone back in her pocket and rolling her sock up, she left the bathroom and returned to class.

Throughout the day, whenever she thought that Loki moved, she snapped a picture. “At this rate I can have my own photo album of the same fucking tattoo,” she muttered to herself. “But at least it’s something nice to look at.” By the end of the day she had to restrain herself from looking at Loki or taking a picture of him. Her fingers itched to roll down her sock and show the tattoo off, but her skin was still red and swollen and she wanted the shock value and the raw jealousy at seeing something so breathtakingly beautiful in full effect. Swelling would ruin it.

When she got home from school, she sat on her bed and pulled her phone out. “Let’s see how crazy I’ve been today.” she said, bringing up the pictures of her tattoo she took. Gladys pulled up the first one and waited impatiently for it to load. Bit by bit the picture appeared and she screamed, flinging her phone across the room.

Loki’s wings were folded to his sides and his body had turned until it was facing the camera. Iridescent feathers were ruffled and his eyes glowed red with supernatural light.

“Just my imagination,” she said, laughing nervously. “It’s just a tattoo.” Picking up her phone, she scrolled through the pictures with shaky hands. In all of them Loki was staring at the camera, feathers ruffled. His eyes glowed brighter in each picture. Shaking, she put her phone down on the table and screamed. Loki had moved, all right. He had moved all the way up to her hand and his long beak rested on her thumb. “Oh hey there,” she said shakily.

Loki turned his head to her, eyes morphing into something monstrous. Gladys closed her eyes and draped her other hand over Loki, ignoring the terrified shaking in both hands. “I’m just seeing things,” she said, voice wavering. “This is all in my mind. This isn’t real.” she looked down at her hands on the desk, one draped over the other and whimpered. “This isn’t real,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut again. “This isn’t real,” she insisted to herself and before she lost her courage, she laid both hands out on the desk and looked down and cried out in relief. Loki wasn’t there. He hadn’t been, of course. That would just be crazy. Tattoos don’t move.

But the whole situation had shaken her. She opened her laptop and typed “GhostInk” into Google. The only results she found were for magic books and a Blue GhostInk airbrush tattoo parlor. When she typed in “GhostInk tattoo”, she found only articles about the book from the first search as well as a blog written by a tattoo artist. There wasn’t nothing about tattoo ink and of course nothing about a moving tattoo. On a whim, when she searched “Haunted Tattoo”, she only found a shop in London and stories about a haunted tattoo shop, not a haunted tattoo itself.

With a sigh, she pushed herself away from the desk. “This is ridiculous,” she said, rubbing her face as she stood. “Loki isn’t haunted. I just proved that. It was all in my head.”

Oh, I assure you, I’m very real. A voice whispered and she clapped her hands over her mouth to keep from screaming. Whirling, she found no one in the room with her.

“Great. Now I’m hearing things.”

You only wish you were. The voice whispered back and staring at the mirror, she found Loki on her neck, but it was a twisted, distorted creature instead of the beautiful hummingbird she had asked the artist for. Its freakishly long talons were extended and its warped and twisted head more resembled a plague mask with rows of fangs than the needle-thin beak it had been. Its flaming eyes dripped dark blood.

Gladys whined in terror as Loki’s grotesque mouth grinned.

“What happened to you?” Carrie hissed to her as she walked into school. “You’re a mess.”

Gladys shook her head, gripping her arms tightly across her chest. Her hair was messy and unkept and her eye makeup was smudged and running as if she had been crying. “Make it stop, Carrie,” she whispered and worried, her friend came closer, wrapping an arm around her shaking shoulders. “Please just make it stop.”

This had gone on for too long. Gladys had been looking worse and worse over the past week or so and Carrie was getting very worried about her. Drawing her out of the hall, Carrie forced Gladys to sit and held her hand. “Make what stop, Gladys?”

“Make him stop,” Gladys pleaded. “Make him stop.”

Squeezing her hands, Carrie knelt in front of her friend. “Who? Make who stop what?”

“He tells me such horrible things. He whispers in my ear all the things he’s done,” Gladys sobbed. “He won’t let me sleep, he won’t stop talking. And when I sleep he shows me what he’s saying and what he’d do to everyone I know, everyone I ever saw in my life.”

Carrie rocked back on her heels and studied Gladys. “Who, Gladys? Who? Give me a name, give me something I can use.” Gladys’ lips remained tightly sealed and she shook her head so hard that Carrie was worried that she’d give herself whiplash. “We need to tell the police, get a restraining order. This isn’t healthy.”

“You don’t understand!” Gladys wailed, covering her ears with her hands. “I can’t get a restraining order! It won’t do anything!”

“But it’s a start,” Carrie insisted. “Who is it?”

Gladys grabbed her hands and squeezed so hard that Carrie gasped. She gulped when she saw how red and crazed Gladys’s eyes were, like one who was demon-possessed. “Not who. What.” She licked her lips and her eyes darted around as if worried someone would overhear. “My tattoo. It’s alive. He’s alive. And he tells me things. He moves and he whispers things in my ears and he says these terrible things to me.” She was gathering momentum now and Carrie was growing increasingly worried about her friend who was squeezing her hands even tighter now. “He shows me too. He shows me the things he’s done and the things he’ll do to you and mom and everyone I know and love and I know he’ll do it if he can but he can’t. He wants me to do it but I can’t, I can’t do that, those things he showed me, I can’t Carrie, and he says he’ll torture me but I just can’t do it. I can feel him now, Carrie, I can fucking feel him moving around on and in me and I can feel him in my mind and in my eyes and moving around my body.” She stopped suddenly but her eyes remained wide and crazed and her eyes squeezed Carrie’s hands so tightly that her friend felt bruises begin to form. “He’s moving.”

“What tattoo?” Carrie asked, forcing herself to sound calm and rational. She didn’t want Gladys to panic and bolt, she needed help.

Gladys took a shaky breath and told her the whole story. How she had seen the tattoo parlor, gone in, met the really nice artist who was also a little scary and gotten a huge discount on the tattoo. “I tried to go back,” she told Carrie. “I tried, it wasn’t there!” she shook their joined hands in her panicked frustration. “It was just an empty building.” Gladys sobbed.

Pulling her up, Carrie looped an arm around Gladys’s waist and ignoring her half-hearted struggling, she led her best friend to the nurse’s office. They left Glady’s alone in the examination room while they spoke in the nurse’s office where they could see if Gladys tried to leave.

Gladys, the voice called and Gladys whimpered, curling up in her cot and slapping her hands over her ears. Gladys, the voice called again and she shivered, feeling Loki moving around on her skin. It felt like rolling a marble over her skin and it traveled along her spine to her neck. She felt him burning there. Now Gladys, remember what we talked about.

She shook her head, whimpering as tears dripped down her face. “I didn’t do anything!”

Oh, Gladys, Loki purred to her. But you did, didn’t you? You talked about me.

“No!” Gladys insisted. “No!”

No good of himself does a listener hear…

Gladys looked around the office in panic, hoping to find something to distract herself from him. Some way to escape. “I swear, Loki, I swear!”

...speak of the devil…

She felt him moving again, rolling along her neck, along her cheek like a disgusting caress, and then on to her hand. Removing her hand from her ear, she looked at Loki and moaned at the sight of the demonic hummingbird grinning at her.

...and he shall appear.

Carrie and Nurse Margaret came running when they heard her screams and screamed themselves when they saw the pencil she had stabbed her hand with. As they watched in numb shock, she wrenched it out of her skin and with another blood-curdling scream stabbed herself once more in the hand. Carrie slumped to the floor, suddenly dizzy while Nurse Margaret and her assistant, who had come running at the screams, held Gladys down by her arms, treated her wounds, and called her parents to pick her up.

Gladys held her bandaged hand to her chest and closed her eyes. She hadn’t heard from Loki in a while, not since she had stabbed her hand. On the way home with her parents, Loki had taunted her uselessness and fear until she had grabbed a knife in the kitchen and tried to slice the skin off her forearm - where he was when they got home. She had succeeded too, in slicing off a good portion of her skin and him and now only his grinning beak and the tip of a tattered feather remained.

Of course, no one believed her when she had told them what really happened. Her parents were furious that she had gotten a tattoo and that she had been so stupid about the shop. But this bout of apparent insanity could not be overlooked and they took her to the local mental hospital. No one believed her when she insisted that she wasn’t crazy, but then again, everyone says that.

She leaned back on her cot with a sigh, kicking her feet up. “It’s not so bad here, I guess.”

I quite like it here, Loki said from the door. He smiled when she screamed and blood dripped from his grinning mouth, full of overlapping teeth. It stained the floor as he walked toward Gladys, who was frozen in horror on her cot. No longer was he a hummingbird tattoo, now he was a tangible thing, a demon with a gore-filled mouth and flaming eyes. Except that with no one else to play with...I guess I’ll just have to make do with you.

Carrie missed Gladys, but being in the loony bin would be good for her. Something was obviously not right with her and she knew they’d sort her out. But as much as she missed Gladys, she completely forgot about her friend when she saw the little tattoo parlor. She was sure that earlier that morning it had been an empty street corner, but then again, she was preoccupied with missing Gladys that she probably didn’t even notice.

Something about it - and its seemingly spontaneous appearance - drew her in, made her more curious about it. The sign above the door read BLAK KAT TATS and next to it was a very sassy-looking black cat with big golden eyes. As she watched, it seemed to wink at her.

“Just my imagination,” she murmured distractedly and before she could think of a good reason why, she opened the door to the shop. The startling lack of a bell shocked her but the artist seemed to know that she was there regardless. Maybe he had seen the motion of the door as it opened and looked up to see what it was.

The man smiled, highlighting the tight scars on his face and as he offered a hand for her to shake, Carrie noticed the intricate tattoo sleeve he had of a demonic skull with sunken eyes. “Welcome to Blak Kat,” he said as he took her hand. “Can I interest you in a tattoo?” when she opened her mouth, he held up his other hand. “We have two great deals right now. 50% off on all tattoos for the Grand Opening and all that and you can get an additional 50% off if you want me to use the GhostInk.”

Carrie smiled, somehow feeling drawn to getting a tattoo. Maybe a black cat, like the one on the sign? It seemed sassy, and just her style. She noticed the second tattoo on the artist’s neck as he bent to pick up his sketch pad from the chair he had been working in. It was a hummingbird, so vibrant and colorful she was momentarily surprised, its wings arching upward as if reaching for the sky.

It was ridiculous, crazy even, but she swore that she saw the hummingbird briefly turn its head to her and wink.