#statue curse

[heybiji]

[fantastic-nonsense]

"Inej is the mom fri—" *loud incorrect buzzer noise* Wrong. You are looking for Matthias Helvar.

[astronomodome]

I love skizz I really do but something I’ve noticed while watching his streams is that like. How do I put this. Whenever he’s focusing he has the most Serious expression on his face. 0 percent smile which of course is his right but it does activate my Is Dad Mad At Me response sometimes

[momotonescreaming]

Magic's been restricted in Hawkins for decades. Not by any law, or enforcement of the city guard, but by the fearful nature of man. Rumours of curses and spells, fear of the unknown - it has people scared.

And scared people lash out.

So people stopped doing magic in Hawkins. People stopped doing magic visibly, in Hawkins. They keep it behind closed doors, locked up tight.

Eddie dabbles in it. Small things. Good luck charms, cleaning spells, minor wards to keep the rain from leaking through the thatched roof of his and Wayne's hut. Nothing big, just some things he got passed down from his uncle, from his family way down south. He's thought about more, seeing how far his magic can extend - but he's not the witch, the demon that people think he is.

He doubts that the townsfolk have anything to base their suspicions on. They just don't like him or the Munson name. Him and Wayne are the ones who get the blame, but he knows there's powerful players in Hawkins. Powerful magic that's been at work a long, long time.

Eddie might not be the best mage, the best witch, but he's always been good at feeling magic.

And there's a small courtyard on the outskirts of town that reeks of magic. The strong shit too, been there for a very long time, put down by very powerful people.

Other people don't notice, it's a good courting spot - or so people say. Large trees, bushes covered in flowers, a nice cobbled path, with a large fountain in the middle. It's picturesque, romantic. And atop the fountain, is a statue.

A statue of a boy, or a young man, or however you want to put it. He's handsome, devastatingly so, with a square jaw and muscled arms. A wreath of laurels resting atop his perfectly swooped hair, and an elegant toga like robe draped across his body.

He's posed delicately, but in a way that does not hide his masculinity.

The garden always perfectly kept, always tidy, never any vermin, and no one is ever seen maintaining it. The statue never cracks, never fades, never dirties. He is always perfectly encapsulated in marble. Shining white.

Eddie is a little bit obsessed. There's not a lot to do in Hawkins, and the magic in the courtyard is alluring. It's tricky, encircled and entwined into itself - into the world around it. It's a puzzle, and Eddie wants to figure it out.

So he goes to the courtyard when he knows no one else will be there, and he makes sure to bring a notebook. Write down what he sees, what he feels.

He can feel the sun on his shoulders, the breeze gently ruffling his hair, the birds singing in the trees. Bees flitting from flower to flower, there's a stream trickling somewhere near.

The statue shines in the middle, drawing the eye.

It's perfect. Almost too perfect. Designed by man, and not by nature, perfect.

So Eddie pulls off his boots, rolls up his trousers, and wades into the fountain. Standing on the wishing coins people have tossed in. But he ignores them, of course, and heads to the statue. The more he concentrates, the closer he gets, the more he can tell that this, him, is the centre of all the magic.

The perfect statue.

Eddie can see the nailbeds in his fingers, the moles that dot his skin, the pores on his face, the lashes on his eyes. Perfect. He gets even closer, takes a deep breath, and focuses his magic. The more he looks, the more he listens, the more Eddie can feel the magic encircling the courtyard.

He swears he can hear a heart beating inside the statue's chest.

[ashinaisshin]

Arriving at Anor Londo

[ratwithhands]

Read right to left (Manga Formant) I actually have a lot more sketches of Kokushibo but this is only one that works without any context. I'll try to post more of him soon but I've somehow stuck myself into writing like 4 different AUs at the same time so it's gonna be slow 👁👁💦

Also bonus doodle from today:

[ilariel]

The Abbot and Vasilka as Pygmalion and Galatea

[aspiringnexu]

The real reason Batman adopts so many children is because the Batkids are playing Middle Child Hot Potatoe. With every subsequent adoption, the Batkid who bears the Middle Child Curse changes.

[royaltea000]

Just like in a dream

[szaryherbatnik]

I got possessed again

[moonlight-stalker]

# Dcu x Dp 142

In the center of Gotham there stood two unique and strange statues.

One of the statues was of a humanoid man that stood up straight at 5 feet 8 inches both of his hands resting on the top of a sword that was in front of him. He wears a cape that was sculpted to look like there is fur on the edges a chain holds the cape in place, where the chain meets the cape there is a human-looking skull on both sides. His head is slightly tilted down so if you stood a couple of feet away he would be looking at you, he has a soft open smile on his face if you look closely enough you can see he has fangs. His hair looked as though it was floating, on top of his head sat a crown, he had pointy ears the hands that rested on top of the sword had nails that looked like claws. He wears a bodysuit baggy pants and what looks like combat boots, on the center of his bodysuit there is a D with a P inside symbol.

At his feet lays the other statue, a big Rottweiler. The dog came up to his hip while lying down and was at least 7 feet long, his head was by the man's hip and his body was curled behind the man's legs. The dog had his mouth open partially with his tongue hanging out you could see his teeth when looking at him the dog's head was looking at the same spot that the man's head was looking at. The dog wore a collar with spikes at the front there was a tag that had the name Cujo and on the back of the tag the same symbol that was on the man's bodysuit. One of the dog's paws was resting on top of an actual dog toy made of rubber.

They both are on a stone pedestal that is about 3 feet tall and 6 feet wide the pedestal is decorated with symbols of death and protection. You can find other humanoids sculpted into the pedestal and over time people have noticed that you can also find the Bats and Birds symbols on the front of the pedestal and in the corners you can find symbols that represent the rogues.

The statue had both precious gemstones and metals decorating it. The statue of the dog had the least, the dog's eyes are made of rubies the claws are made of obsidian. The spikes on the collar seemed to be an actual metal, in between each spike a star sapphire sits. Under each spike, a small chain is attached and connects to the next spike.

The man had much more, his eyes were made of Alexandrite stones but changed from Emerald to Sapphire and they changed at random. His freckles are a combination of Opal stone and Moonstone that are spread across his cheeks and nose, and his claws and sword are made of obsidian. The cape outside of the cape has small silver spots, and on the inside, there are many different gemstones that are decorated to look like stars in the sky. Crown is made of a combination of Amazonite and Malachite and is decorated with Ammolite, papagoite, shattuckite, and star sapphire. Bracelets are made of Azurite with grandidierite, he has Paraiba tourmaline earrings with one star sapphire earrings hanging from his right ear. He has three rings one made of Garnet, the second one is made of Grandidierite, and the last one is made of Jeremejevite. On his left hand, there are some cracks that disappear underneath the sleeves of his bodysuit and appear again on his left cheek the cracks seem to be filled with emerald ( the bats know it's not emerald it's crystallized LaArus water ) it is like a kintsugi.

Several things make these two statues very unique

1. No known history there is nothing about who made the status or why they were placed there

2. Destroy or steal no matter how many times people try to blow up the statues or smash them no damage can be done, and no one can remove any of the gemstones that are on them. The person would also become sick or be injured after trying

3. Can't be Recorded or take pictures it's difficult to get clear pictures and videos unless they're from an older model

4. No one can buy or take them many wealthy people have tried to buy the statues and take them but every time that's happened the machines and cars that were there to move them were shut down and the person who tried to buy them would get extremely sick and be haunted by nightmares, night terrors and paralysis.

5. Crused and blessed as mentioned before people would get sick be injured get nightmares, night terrors, and/or paralysis. People that stand in a 15 feet radius of the status can't get infected by any of the gass that are release and people that are already infected by them are inside the radius will get cured, and has also protected people from getting attacked inside the circle .

[viralarcadian]

the rest of the djinn to go along w that scorch I did because i could not rest until i made one for each element

in order: echo, shade, gasp

[pinkrose05]

Sungenti & Robinhill would go on the most terse double dates in history. That's it that's the post.

[wings-of-ink]

Hey everyone, I'm still here!

Just thought I'd say hello! I haven't been able to get to asks much lately, but I'll be going through them as I can in the next few days. I've been busy writing the last bits for Chapter 3, which I've redone like twice...and also most of Chapter 4! I also took some me-time to read for fun and to relax because I literally threw my back out by stretching... -_-

I have decided to, yet again, break up the chapter. This way, chapter 4 gets to you quicker, and each of the main ROs sort of gets their own chapter where they're introduced! There's a good chunk of chapter 4 that is just "stuff happening," so it ended up being pretty long (at least I feel it is). I'm about to a point where the path the MC takes can split slightly, and it makes for a good spot to leave off and begin chapter 5.

I think that's all for now! Hope you all are doing well! ^_^

[ehlnofay]

One day – as far-off as a century, as near as tomorrow – it will all be a grand old story.

The stories will speak of a handful of champions, rushing headlong against time and logic to save the world; the last Blades, the last Septim, and his hanger-on Hero, carving a bloody path to the Temple doors. The stories will tell of skies like burned blood, of fire and ash and uncountable legions of monsters – hundreds, thousands, millions, the quantity rising with each telling – the city streets cracked and quaking, every civilian locked up in their homes and businesses and praying for deliverance. The stories will tell of the appearance of Dagon, red-hot and roiling, a gory perversion of the sun; they’ll tell that when all seemed lost, Martin Septim sacrificed himself in a blaze of glory, calling down the avatar of Akatosh and casting Dagon and his ilk back whence he came. They’ll tell that the golden dragon threw back its head and roared, and the sky cleared and brightened at its word; they’ll tell how it petrified in place, a magnificent pillar of stone, a sacrosanct statue. A site of pilgrimage. A shrine, to the grace and glory of the gods, and the bravery and benevolence of the last Emperor, the best of men.

It will be a good story. All splendour and triumph, a bittersweet victory right out of the epics; the pages closed, the crisis done, the world saved in as golden a resolution as could be asked for. It doesn’t get better than this, a perfect saviour, a hallowed end.

What the stories won’t tell is how, under clear skies and sunlight, the Hero of Kvatch falls at the statue’s marbled feet and howls like the world is still ending.

“You fucking coward,” Pax is screaming, as best as she can. Her mouth tastes like smoke. Her voice is hoarse. “Stupid worm, fucking – selfish bastard – what’s wrong with you?”

His head is swimming, a bit; he shouldn’t have tried to stand, but he – but – he’s dragged himself up to the dais, just about, and managed to sprawl himself over the edge, a snail’s trail of blood smeared along the floor behind him. The copper tang of it is strong in his nostrils. The statue stands, proud and silent, one marble claw dug into the cracked stone of the rostrum. His whole body is beginning to ache – just because of a stupid stab wound in his side, he’d swear he’s had worse, it’s not that bad, it’s not that bad. His throat burns. He isn’t crying. He isn’t.

The sky is so fucking blue.

“What’s wrong with you?” he demands, again, and brings the heel of his hand thudding against the clawed foot hard enough that he feels the impact down his arm, through his blurry head. “Why would you – piece of shit – sorry spit-gill – I thought –”

None of their thoughts will go through to the end. “I thought,” Pax says again, and she’s not crying, and it hurts so much it’s looped back around to not hurting, and it’s all getting fuzzy at the edges, all the world narrowed down to this and this and this and all fucking hell she’d rather be anywhere, anything else. The statue is cold. Her throat is scraped raw. “Come back,” she’s begging without quite meaning to, “come back,” and she drives her palm into the stone again, and the pain sets her reeling.

And all hell, the sky is so blue; the statue enormous; and here they are, at its feet, vision blurring, staring up at its cold marble face. It’s so fucking tall, so proud, face tipped up towards the new-appeared sun, away from them.

“How could you?” Pax says, and then they can’t even see it anymore, blood unspooling from them like skeins of madder-dyed thread. Red has never been their favourite colour. The shape of the dragon, glowing like the sun, is fixed forever on the backs of their eyelids; gold, they think, is worse. The world is detached and floating about them. They taste smoke and then bile. Stone digs fierce into their spine.

It burned like the sun, the dragon; like all the divine light of Aetherius come to earth just to sear the moisture from her eyes. Where it clawed Mehrunes Dagon, his blood boiled; when it screamed, the world moulded itself to its call. Pax hadn’t known what was happening, while it happened; sure as shit doesn’t know now. What they do know is that he’s gone. What they do know is that the dragon didn’t look at them once. They don’t taste ash on their breath, now; just fear, stagnant, sour, blood jangling bitter in their veins and seeping out to soak their gambeson.

It doesn’t hurt, anymore, there’s just this spreading, vague numbness. It doesn’t feel like their body. It’s just a thing they’re putting on. Their ears are still ringing from the crashing-in of the Temple, but there’s a faint buzzing of noise outside. They might be dying. They can’t be assed to get up.

Skeeving asshole. They’re getting blood on the dragon’s immaculate feet. The hollow sounds of voices feels distant. Could well be worse.

Then, “… a healer, here!” they hear, much closer than anything else had been before, paired with the faraway thudding of the door, and “Pax. Pax! It’s – where’s –” and there’s hands on him, a cautious manipulation of his neck, a shifting of his legs. Pressure on his sternum, and then his stomach, and a pained grunt slips out of his mouth, bound up with a slurred curse.

“Stay calm,” says an unfamiliar voice, soft and steady. “I’m just accessing the wound.”

“Go away,” Pax says, or tries to say, but his voice is whispering-hoarse and the dragon looms in the dark even still. He could open his eyes, but what would be the point?

The hands stay on him even when he bucks, holding him steady; they whisper over the stab in her gut, pulling at the drying blood, mumbling words that she can’t be fucking bothered to listen to, one voice known to her already, one voice not; pressure again on the injury, and they try, half-heartedly, to breathe out a swear – and then light, copper-bright, behind their eyelids, and burning heat, and pain pain pain eclipsing all else as something inside them wrenches back into working order, and then their eyes are open and the sky is blue and they are very fucking aware, thank you.

Pax sits up, fast enough to send the world dizzily whirling, and shoves the mage-medic away from them.

“Piss off,” he says – and it’s still hoarse, smoke-throated and scraped raw, but there’s more bite to it this time, more sound. The strange hands fall away from his side, and he looks down. His gambeson is hanging open, cords untied, the emblem of the wolf split clean down the middle. His undershirt is rucked up around his chest, too, so much of his skin is bared to the clear, bright air; all to get to the wound tucked just under their ribs. It’s an underwhelming thing – smaller than they would’ve thought, a thin short slash like a very red mouth has opened itself up in their gut. It’s stopped dribbling quite so much blood, gone scabby with rough healing, though the stuff is still smeared all over their skin, damn near enough to bathe in. It’s barely anything, really. They’re barely even hurt.

“I’m not done,” says the mage-medic, all stern. The wound itches, the taste of hasty magic gone sour in the back of their throat with all the rest of it. “I might have to find my suturing needle. It isn’t too bad, but it can’t be healed all at once.”

“Piss off,” Pax repeats – and all fucking hell it hurts, and he’s sitting up against the statue, legs lolling. He’s dizzy. He ignores it.

Ocato – his fine clothes sooty, face tight as a wound-up spring – says, “Calm down, please – he’s a skilled healer, he knows what he’s doing.” His eyes keep skipping around the room like he’s searching for another enemy lurking hidden in the shadows. “What happened? Where’s the Emperor?”

Ah – not an enemy, then.

Pax tastes bile.

“Not very quick on the uptake, are you?” she says, elbow braced against the statue’s massive marble claws (she hates touching it, she hates it, she hates it, she wants to set it crumbling apart, she doesn’t want to let anyone else touch it ever again). She can’t stop leaning because then she might topple back down again. Fuck, she needs to keep her head on straight – or lose it altogether, whichever happens faster. Her fingers feel cold. “How’re you going to run an Empire when you’re this fucking clueless?”

Ocato looks them in the face; his brow, high and slanted in that way elves have, furrows. “You’re hurt,” he says, in a tone like he expects Pax to argue with him. “Martin Septim–”

“Can’t you see him?” Pax demands, tone torn in half and uglier than they’ve ever heard it before, and they slam the back of their hand against the stone for echoing emphasis. (They want to shatter all the bones in their knuckles, break every piece in their hand one by one, like wishbones. They want it bloody and bruising. They want to scratch its polished-smooth surface until their fingernails tear. They want – they want – they want –)

Ocato, the Empire’s de facto leader, says, “Ah.”

In his plummy robes, all fruit-rich and stained with ash, he looks very stark against the Temple’s cracked marble floors.

“The Avatar,” he says. “If – the Amulet – joined blood of kings and gods –”

“Ocato,” says Pax, leaning heavy against the statue’s hateful foot, “shut up.” Their voice is bowstring-taut; he looks at them, his eyes too golden to meet. His mouth twists. They tip their head back against the stone, glaring up at the chips of blue sky shown in the crater where the roof once was, and try hard to ignore the tugging ache hooked behind their ribs.

It really fucking hurts. Worse than it did before, maybe, like some gauzy veil has been ripped from it. A veil has been ripped from the world. All the colours are too-bright, hideous. Pax breathes, because there’s no alternative, and waits for the pain to ebb.

(It doesn’t, really.)

“The Gates are sealed,” Ocato says, slowly, and he’s looking at her again, she can see out of the edge of her eye. “We will speak later. I’ll have you put up in the Palace until you’re healed. Ah – Quintus, does –”

“As long as she doesn’t go back into shock,” says the mage-medic, busily flipping through some kind of supply bag at his belt, “her odds are good. Lost blood, but I don’t think anything important was too damaged – get a proper examination, all I did was give her a second wind. Stitches, rest, fluids should do it, with luck.”

“Can she stand?”

“Can or should are –”

“Shut the fuck up,” Pax snaps, “I’m right here.” Her back pressed against the cold marble of the statue, her plait half-loose and knotted, filled with ash. The sky is so fucking blue. It hurts like hell – if the healer took her out of shock, then shit, she wishes he’d put her back in. She can see in too much detail. She can feel the skin, damp and ragged and angry. She presses the heel of her hand to the injury; her palm is crusted with dust, tacky with the same half-dried blood streaked over the floors.

Ocato, in the edges of her vision, shifts, all a blur of rich clothes and sympathetic eyes and solemn voice turned soft like he’s talking to an easily spooked horse. “I know.”

The mage-medic clucks his tongue. “Let me take another look first,” he says, and takes a step forward –

Pax kicks out at him before he even gets close. “Don’t fucking touch me!”

“Pax,” says Ocato – and why, why the fuck is the Empire’s de facto leader here, now, babying them like a whimpering little puppy instead of anywhere fucking else, why is he bothering to talk to them all patronising soft, why does he care? They’ve barely fucking met – talked twice, if you can call either of those times talking. Is it because they’re the Hero of Kvatch? Is this what they’ve earned – a bit of leeway as they throw a tantrum, bleeding out at the marble feet of that stupid bloody statue? Ocato looks so fucking tired; Pax wants to hit him in the nose. “You need care.”

“I need –” and Pax chokes it off in a puff of air. The statue looms behind them. There’s blood on the floors. (Traitor liar coward come back come back I hate you come down I’ll knock your fucking teeth in stupid selfish fraud come BACK. LOOK AT ME.)

Pax closes his eyes.

“My gratitude,” Ocato says, “ – our gratitude for what you’ve done cannot be overstated. The Crisis if over. The gates are sealed. Mehrunes Dagon and his ilk can never threaten Tamriel again.”

The knobs of Pax’s braid are pressing uncomfortably against their scalp. They can hear footsteps, coming closer. They don’t respond.

“It’s a great shame we had to pay such a price,” Ocato says, and Pax would fucking love to know who’s we here, “but it’s done. Dagon is defeated. We’ve won.” He’s much too close, now; his voice pitches softer. “Martin – is dead. But he died an Emperor – and a hero to rival Tiber Septim.”

Pax shoves him.

It’s a good fucking shove – knocks him right to the ground, his elbow hitting the marble with a painfully audible crack, Pax standing over him, shirt rucked up, their handprint on his shoulder marked in blood. “You useless, prattling jackass!” they spit, hoarse, and deal a swift, savage kick to his side. “How dare you act like this is a victory! It should have been me!”

Then their head swims, and they’re sitting again on the edge of the dais, palm pressed to their side, the sweaty cloth of their gambeson pushed half off their shoulder and its cord biting into their hand. The mage-medic is kneeling over Ocato, who still lies, stunned; Pax can’t see his eyes, now, but they remember them, brassy with shocked fear. Their bow is off by the wall where they left it. Pax’s palms are sticky with blood. The sky is so fucking blue. No matter how hard she rages the dragon won’t look down at them.

By the time the mage-medic has helped Ocato up, they’re gone. The Kvatch guard gambeson remains, smoke-smelling and crusted with blood, left like an offering at the statue’s feet. The Hero of Kvatch is never seen again.

[phoenixcatch7]

Reading loz/lu fics and it's just so interesting how wide the spectrum is of their personalities.

Sometimes it's got an in universe reason (different past (usually gender or species change), recent or ongoing traumatic events, a spectacularly bad first meeting), but sometimes (often) the characters are just... Weirdly angsty or peppy, there's no in between!

And I'm beginning to think less people have played more than one game than I thought XD.

Not that it's anyone's fault! One game is more than enough to be part of it all, and loz is exclusive to Nintendo consoles - and all the older stuff is frustratingly hard to get hold of. Heck, I'm still looking for wind waker, and that was really popular! And then you have to play it! They're not small games!!

But could people writing wild please ease off just a tiiiiiny bit so he can be a semi functional member of society pretty please XD? He's just as much a polite boy as any other member of the chain! He won't even run in shops! He can't attack npcs! He talks to every single person he's ever seen and remembers every single name. Yes, he's three quarters woodland creature with a hefty amount of trauma but he's also a fashionista who managed to avoid accidentally taking sides in a mayoral election and that's not easy!