#the concept of lying
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THE ART OF SILENT HILL 2 - James Sunderland Concept Art
#silent hill#silent hill 2#silent hill 2 remake#concept art#horror game#horror#game#james sunderland#mary sunderland#mary shepherd sunderland#maria#maria silent hill#silent hill maria#eddie dombrowski#angela orosco#laura#silent hill laura#laura silent hill#lying figure#mannequin#silent hill monsters#pyramid head#abstract daddy#mandarin
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oh to be a living reminder of your mistakes, the encapsulation of memories so fragmented the only ones that remain are that of recent memory and those that stand out to you negatively; where there is no comfort found in knowing the closest nickname you know of is “liar”
#joey rambling#what is up w/ shit parents telling that lying will make you go to hell#like why can't you be straightforward about it#shit amplifies the fear children feel when they do lie and sometimes those types of shit parents will only enforce that type of thing with#the concept of lying#like#cringe fr#i think i don't make sense anymore since i'm sleepy but#you can guess it#shouting at children to shut up or telling them that lying will make you to go to hell or thinking that teasing is the same as not being#straightforward in giving an answer a child needs like where can i find x? and they answer ask the dog and chuckle as if it's the#funniest thing ever to them unknowing of the effect it'll have on a child which only makes them distrust the person or parent who said that#and even moreso when they do it multiple times and react the same when i try to get an answer to a reasonable question like where's x-#-what's happening?#and the answer i get ask the dog how about u ask your infant sibling#god i am so sick of these type of shit answers#it only gives me more questions and headaches trying to figure out what's happening
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i do my lil dancy dance
#my art#osomatsu san#ichimatsu#yanagida#yanaichi#<- sidenote i feel so shy posting ship art for some reason like NOOO no one can know...#but its whatever. lets dance the night away before im incarcerated on the yaoi charges#also yana's shirt is a reference to his namesake playing for the softbank hawks 🔥 i know nothing of baseball#except for my uncle lying about playing for the mets#but the uniforms are very cute.#OKAY LAST THING. leftmost pose was referenced from the hesowars art book concept art 😁 i just thought it was a cute pose...#i still need to work on my style imitation. but im getting better i think
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the theerapanyakul kids: how close are you with each other?
loan’s kinnporsche 2nd anniversary: favourite familial relationship: the theerapanyakul kids (insp: ½+½)
#kpanniversary2024#vegas theerapanyakul#macau theerapanyakul#kinnporsche#kinnporsche the series#tankhun theerapanyakul#kim theerapanyakul#kinn theerapanyakul#kp2anniversary#kpts#kp#loan.blr#loan.gif#loan.kp#yes this is also minor family focused (with a dash of kinnvegas fascination). that is thanks to who i am as a person.#in all honesty kinnvegas and vegasmacau are my fav platonic relationships of the shows. both so scrunchy!#imagine if you will that its macau recounting all the relationships. cause obviously vegas has a much more complicated relationship to him#that macau would perceive. but then again macau prolly sees some of the shit vegas has to shoulder for him.#but to macau vegas will always be his bestest friend.#this post is very deep if you think about it (i say. lying.)#im kidding ofc but i do kinda like the concept. you could argue with certain assessment of mine but generally the categories felt fitting#anyways. this is late but if im correct its allowed and im doing this thing where im being patient with myself.#also this is my second proper gifset and i dont think i get coloring. i vaguely understand what should happen but like.#i dont think i see what i should. i dont get colors. so these are just. idk. hopefully just a tad more vibrant and not too off color.#so. is this good? not really. but im practicing gif making! and i only get confused by ps like once an hour.
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older designs for my specialest guy
#you actually could pay me to watch boruto the payment is reviving any of madara-obito-itachi in a cheap fan service moment. itd work on me 👍#neji hyuga#hyuga neji#art#fanart#naruto#2024#i think konoha would love to project the will of fire shit onto neji after what he did. ya know. trying to give your life 'for the village'#in that way hed probs have a lot of respect from others but respect has never been enough when your life still isnt yours 😛#the pessimism would likely take a bit to return to him but it Would return hes just like. less interpersonally volatile#the realization you had two whole very public meltdowns and no one that matters cared will do that to you#anywayfor the happy ending one. i think while neji is always going to be a little bit bitchy hes bound to soften up a lot when he's not#under constant stress and has to micromanage his every thought#i like to think that if he were allowed to hed grow into a very outwardly warm person. sunflower :)#and my general opinions of neji and boruto are:#1. yes it is a blessing to not be made to be straight married#2. however consider: what if i wanted to see neji be a dad. i dont care for romantic njten but i do not hate it. it would be acceptable#when i think abt this guy in boruto hes chronically single but still.talking about what CANON could be. it would be acceptable#3. yes hiashi shouldve gotten his ass killed in the war but i would be lying if i said the awful family reunions#are not fun as a concept#are they fun on purpose? no#but the rule is: A situation can suck if it sucks on purpose#and 4. i know about the time travel episode i have mixed feelings on it.#anyway no hate if you like boruto i like being hyperbolic for fun but its just anime. the kids seem cute#but if any other hyuga-brained person ever wants to get unimaginably angry you should also watch the hiashi birthday episode of boruto#thats my special recommendation from me to you
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"Hot Hancock" mods that make him look more human than ghoul make me physically recoil in disgust every time I see them pop up in my tiktok feed
#i saw someone saying its bc he looked more human in his concept art. but he didnt even have lips and was still crispy as hell in the concept#so theyre LYING to hide that theyre COWARDS#anyways ghoulfucker 4ever#vinny rambles#fallout 4#john hancock
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some doodles
#i meant to put the balor one in the previous post but i forgor 😭its in a diff file from the sketch dump i was coloring in so it just didnt#exist in my mind at all. i felt like smth was missing as i was posting it but i couldnt place what hlep#adeline and eiland have been driving me insane lately. expect more of them. probably.#dont minf the last two guys. some concepts for future farms 😋 (pls mind them im crazy abt all my farmers even if they technically dont -#exist yet. pls ask abt them or smth pls im nroaml i can be nroma l i prommy)#fields of mistria#fom balor#sona#im gonna start tagging that i think.#fom eiland#fom adeline#fom elsie#fom farmer#my art#guys can i just say that im so happy that balor is silver n not gold cus otherwise i would have to confront a part of me im not proud of#we shouldnt talk abt it but like yeah jjust know i like his silver and his whole deal#have such a softspot n bias for characters who dont settle anywhere. who never lay down their roots or whatever. who keep their past secret#like oughh hes hitting so many marks#i like hawthorne a lot. hes more developed in my head. and also i like his dead look and hair bows. i have so many ideas abt him man it hur#i promised myself i wouldnt make a new save file til i reached y2 w rory but apperantly errols bday is cursed bc the game has frozen twice#sorry if you read all of these tags. go to my askbox w fom stuff or smth. ask abt my farmers plsplspls pl s jk haha unless. maybe even#gimme drawing reqs for fom in general. ok tyvm ly sorry for yapping. its what i do best
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The Nobleman or 양반 (yangban): The smiling face represents the bluff and composure that an aristocrat is often known to have. The chin is a separate piece from the top of the mask, and the actors can lean forward and back to make the mask smile or frown as needed.
This monk who abandons his doctrines, or 취발이 (chwibari): Chwibari was originally a monk, but he had no intention of joining the monastic order, so he came down to the world and wanders. Represented with a forehead full of wrinkles and spots.
The widow or, 부네 (Punae/bune): represented to be a widow, or a kisaeng ( a woman who sang, danced, or played an instrument to provide entertainment for company at a drinking party), or a mistress of the Yangban. She has a very small mouth, round cheeks and forehead- giving a general look of happiness good-humor.
#skz#stray kids#skzedit#bystay#obligatory i am no expert take it with a grain of salt blah blah#theres no changbin bc you cant see the mask clearly and no hyunjin because as best I can figure his mask is a General/high ranking official#but most of those are modern productions and dont have any real descriptions or anything.#these plays were made to mock the upper classes so the nobleman is p much always treated like a fool or bastard lol#also these all change depending on the location- so like the chwibari is usually a negative portrayal of a monk who drinks and parties#and isnt very... monk-ly lets say- but then theres a story where he saves his lover from a lecherous monk and they get married so 🤷♀️#he wasnt a monk that iteration though or he abandoned his studies ?#and then the widow/concubine varies from sympathetic young widow to a kinda femme fatale who seduces the nobleman/scholars#Will any of this play into the concept? probably not. they dont really commit to concepts lbr#but still! it was interesting to look into and the masks are pretty to boot so this was fun :)#it'd be cool if they did a mask dance. i always loved thunderous for the traditional elements so i hope that happens#also YEAH a korean seungmin girl saying she was sad the foreign fans wouldnt get the significance bc she wants to see 'secondary art'#did inspire this (of course i'd wanna know why he was the only one given a womans mask dont act surprised)#bc im pretty sure i know what she means by secondary art and LMAO#i see right through you.... and into myself maybe#long post
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huge fan of lucanis’ “if i could... i want... forgive me. i’m not certain what i wish to say” line if you go see him after the almost kiss because it sounds SO stilted that he has one hundred percent been drafting this sentence in his mind for hours. and yet this is all he achieves. mind boggling
#veilguard spoilers#i always think about this line in my concept for ‘rook and lucanis have to share a room most of the game so he can sleep’#i think it would be REALLY good said after awkwardly silently getting ready for the night#just after the lights go out so he doesn’t have to look at rook when he says it#and they leave the response so long (if they respond at all) that he’s not even sure they were awake to hear it#THAT i think is the ideal context for this one#oh maybe they pretend to be asleep but he’s an assassin he can hear from their breathing that they’re not#but how could he call them out. what right would he have. so theyre just lying there. both awake. and yearning. like idiots
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NINGNING | ARMAGEDDON MV TEASER IMAGES
#ningning#ning yizhuo#aespa#4aespa#aespainc#femadolsedit#femadolsnet#eritual#vivitual#ninqztual#lookwwill#useroro#heyteo#analook#tuserflora#001#i'm literally lying on the floor dry heaving over how GAGGED i am over these#horror concept beloved hellooooooo#1st and 3rd pic ... insane#tried to make them look more eery i hope i succeeded#henna edits!
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so what if there's an obvious 3 seconds where a kiss should have been? they framed heterosexual marriage as tragedy
#jeongnyeon they will never make another show like you#barely a man in sight and when they're here they're evil forces tearing women apart from each other? TELEVISION#and sometimes.... the visceral absence of a kiss is gayer.#i'm lying to cope but the scene gave me feelings about the concept that i dont think ive ever experienced before.#jeongnyeon
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I am currently watching mebius,Mirai is soo cuteee
He doesn't even understand human can lie...
#local space cat doesnt understand concept of lying report says#come here mirai ill give you kare#ultraman#ultraman mebius#mirai hibino#my art
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@doodle-ate-my-homework YOU GET ME. also thank you for the well wishes <3 here's that guy
#duck shuffler#buck ruffler#requests#i hope including it like this looks normal my diy request format#i technically had a super rough concept for this lying around before the 25th but i was so set on giving up on it. this request saved him#i love playing around thank you for telling me to draw this fool. i know how to do that somewhat#eyestrain#my art
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My friend made some girlfriends and I wanted to draw them-
#LYS ALWAYS HAS SUCH FUN CHARACTER CONCEPTS!!!#In this house we support a tiny monster hunter and her big buff blacksmith wife#your honor I think I just like...........making comics-#comics#littlemisslokii#lokiiart#monster hunters#monster hunting girlfriends#THEY HAVE NAMES NOW#argent#robin
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"What Grows on the Oak," 2024.
it's the time of year, once more, for an original spooky story!
The oak trees lie across the hills like low smoke, soft and near, and the road dips down into the valley, as inviting as any road has ever been, but the girl on the bench of the buggy on the hilltop makes no move to follow it.
Rose looks out down the road and over the hills, and taps her fingers beside her on the bench. It’s a quiet enough afternoon that there’s little other sound but the high thin sound of insects, and the wind in the long grass, and Rose’s fingers, tapping. The horse, still in harness, looks up and flicks its ear, as if in protest at the sound, and Rose sighs and forces her hand still.
There is a girl in the nearest tree, Rose notices — the fact of it is idly categorized, without true interest. All the same, the light is catching in her hair, dashing shadows over her face as she sits draped across the curve of a branch, and Rose cannot look away from her.
The Fosters, at whose door Rose waits, have no daughter — no children but the one still-toddling son, who Rose remembers as a colicky, twitchy boy. Besides, this girl looks nothing like Mr Foster and his wife, for her hair stands out about her head like a bundle of mistletoe, pale as sun-worn wood. She is, perhaps, their hired girl. Rose is struck by envy, suddenly, that the Fosters’ hired girl had the time to shinny up a tree in the last light of evening, and still would be paid for her work…
Rose sighs, leaning her chin on her hand. Perhaps it is enough for her to be her father’s driver, and to have bed and board in his house — perhaps some day there will be money for school again, in San Francisco or even out east. And perhaps it is not enough, and perhaps there will not ever be.
“Hello, doctor’s driver,” says a voice at Rose’s elbow. Rose yelps in surprise, then turns. It is the girl with the mistletoe hair — dry moss hair — hair like a cloudy day in August.
“No, you’re his daughter, are you not?” asks the Fosters’ hired girl, and Rose nods. “Miss del Llano, that’d make you.”
“Just Rose, please.” She’ll be Miss some other day — not now, in her too-short skirts and with her plait hanging over her shoulder.
“May I come up?” asks the girl.
“Surely,” says Rose, and the girl has swung herself into Rose’s father’s accustomed seat in a fluttering of pale skirts.
“Your father is the doctor — what does he do here? “He is a leech, then? A bloodletter?”
“Don’t be silly, he’s not medieval!”
“Hm-mm, I shall believe you when you prove it me,” says the girl, laughing, and leans her chin on her hand to make herself Rose’s mirror. Side by side they sit for a while, and the dark gathers in across the hills until oaks and grassland alike are made one mass of shadow. Somewhere in the trees beyond the road, a horned owl utters its deep, melancholy cry out into the dusk.
“If ghosts had telephones, I should think they’d sound rather like that,” says Rose, the early chill of after-sunset driving her quite easily to a morbid sort of cheer.
“How the times change,” says the girl, with an odd, but not entirely unhappy, look in her eyes. “No, my dear; ghosts use the same telephones as you and I, as you well know.” Rose does not know, well or otherwise, much at all about ghosts, so she nods, and feels a little more of the girl’s weight settle on her shoulder.
“You have very cold hands,” says Rose, and the girl from the oak tree smiles and taps at Rose’s cheek with clammy fingers.
“I always have, I’m afraid.”
“It’s no bother, really.” And so they sit and watch the sky, the falling-dusk and the distant fog that creeps over the hills, until there’s light, sharp as a door opening.
Rose turns, and it is only Dr del Llano, leaving his patient with his hat in his hand. She turns back, and the Fosters’ hired girl is gone.
“How is Mrs. Foster,” Rose asks, without any particular feeling in her voice, and her father shakes his head in reply. But the road down into the valley, where lies the town, is before them, and Rose is pleased enough at the journeying that she asks no further questions.
It’s in the hills and on the road that Rose meets, again, with the oak tree girl, the mistletoe girl, the girl with hands like marble in the shade. Once again, Rose is waiting for her father while he attends a patient, and, lazing in the sun, Rose has pushed the sleeves of her shirtwaist up to her elbows.
And then the girl is there again, with her shock of cobweb hair moving, ever so faintly, in a breeze that doesn’t seem to reach as far as the buggy-seat.
“Hello, my pretty-lovely,” says the girl, putting her hand out to the horse still in its traces. Though usually affectionate, the horse puts back its ears and pulls its head away.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into her,” says Rose, half-laughing. “Save your sweet words for someone who wants them, all the same.”
“Has she a name, then?”
“Other than Morgan, for what she is? Not at all,” Rose replies. Neither she nor her father have ever thought of one, for all that they’re fond of the hardworking little mare. “And have you a name, then?” For she’s remembered, now, that her oak-tree girl had never told her of it.
“I’m called Saro,” says the girl, and again swings herself up beside Rose. “What does your father do here, my Rose?”
“Oh, I oughtn’t say,” and Saro looks back at her with a stare of please? and Rose laughs and says anyway. She shouldn’t gossip, but she leans in close anyway, and whispers that “Old Man Lucas has got the clap, and him a widower these ten years!” Saro’s mouth twitches at the corners — she can’t hide her laugh for long, and it bursts, bright, out from her.
“I shall tell, I shall tell!” says she, and Rose coughs on her own laugh with a still-merry “Don’t!”
“You’ll have to catch me and make me, first!” and Saro leaps down from the buggy and runs, her skirts, her hair a flash of white in the golden-dry grass. And Rose, her spirits raised beyond what a grown girl such as herself should permit, follows. She’s less fleet-footed than Saro, earthbound still, stumbling on furrows in the land, catching her heels in ground-squirrel burrows.
Saro, she’s sure, is holding back for her benefit — letting herself be caught. And Rose does catch her, knocking her off her feet and into the grass. Saro’s laughing-merry still, her hair stuck full of grass-seed and foxtails. Close-to, Rose can see the freckles that dapple her cheeks and nose, the squint of her dark eyes when she smiles. Saro flicks Rose’s cheek, the snap of her fingers like a prickle of frost, and Rose lies there in the dusty field, entirely lost.
But Saro’s on her feet again before Rose can blink, before Rose can reach out to her, and Rose is standing, blinking in the sunlight, stumbling back to the buggy as she dusts bits of dry grass from her skirt. She buttons the sleeves of her shirtwaist again, the cuffs of which don’t quite come to her wrists anymore, and laughs when her father hands her up into her seat like a lady.
“The best whip I ever had,” he says, perfectly straight-faced.
“Gee-up!” says Rose, holding the reins in one hand and imagining herself perched atop a stagecoach. But even for all her imaginings, she’s as good a driver as her father says, and draws the horse into a gentle trot to see them home. It’s hill and dale down into the valley, hill and dale again like a song, and in the inner slopes lie trees in amid the dust-golden grasses of summer. Beneath the sparse, spreading branches, it is suddenly cooler, then warmer again, as the horse steps evenly onward and back into the sun.
“That’s mistletoe, you know,” says Dr del Llano, as he’s said a thousand times before, and points up at the gray-green mass that clings among the summer-sparse branches of an oak.
“Isn’t that for Christmastime?” asks Rose.
“It’s an odd thing we bring it in for the Nativity,” muses her father, still looking back at the tree as they pass it by. “Poison, that — and it chokes the life out of the oak tree, too. Not a kindly thing, mistletoe, but we hang it up with the flor de Nochebuena all the same…”
He doesn’t speak after that, but sings instead, an out-of-season hymn of sons newborn and deaths already foretold. If the verse telling of tombs ought to be grim, Dr del Llano doesn’t make it so, and so the story of gloom and gravity is nothing but a blithe eventuality, predicted all light-hearted by a man very certain of the truth of it.
Mrs. Foster dies soon after. Rose sits in the church as the priest says the first of the masses for her, the first of seven that her widower has paid for. She waits at the door while her father makes conversation — how she wishes he would hurry up! But the doctor in his black coat and the priest in his cassock are two crows alike, and so she is there in the doorway until her father says ‘good-by, Padre’ and comes to join her. Rose hardly has the time to shut her hymnal closed over the catalog tucked inside before he bustles past her, eager now to be on his way.
“Damned quiet place now that the mine’s shut up,” he says on the walk home, and Rose nods, though she does not remember the mine-town as her father does. She knows that there is no more coal to be had here and no more sand, and that with the mine has gone much of her father’s custom. Without black-lung and burns and broken bones, there is far less for a doctor to do in these hills.
But there is no other doctor than Juan Soto del Llano, with his limping step and his rosary about his neck and his rattletrap of a horse-drawn buggy with his only daughter to drive it, so he goes on as he has, and mends up broken bones and offers fever-cures to farmers and their wives, and to the valley townsfolk nearer home.
Henry Freeman is twenty-two, the bright young son of a new-money farmer. He is sickening for something, he is grey-faced and cold and his eyes do not focus.
Dr del Llano is at his door with hat in hand — money passes from the elder Mr. Freeman’s worn hand into his, and the doctor closes the older man’s hand over the coins. Out on the bench of the buggy, Rose scoffs and shakes her head. The fog-touched night is cold even through her coat, and she shivers involuntarily.
“He oughn’t to do such things,” she says, to no one but herself. But all the same, Rose turns her head, and Saro is there beside her, smiling.
“What oughtn’t he do?” asks Saro, with the questioning merriment in her voice that Rose has come to like so well.
“He doesn’t ask for payment, when it’s hill sickness,” and, seeing Saro’s quirk of the mouth, the way the question lurks in her well-dark eyes, Rose continues. “Father doesn’t know what it is, still, and he can’t mend it. It cannot be consumption, for it doesn’t settle in the lungs, but all the same — it is as if something is drawing out the life from them, every one.”
“So your Henry Freeman shall die, then,” says Saro, blunt.
“Don’t—“ says Rose, and stops, cold. “Who are you?” she asks, and looks Saro in the eyes, the brown of them so dark that Rose can barely find her own reflection. And the girl with the mistletoe hair reaches out, and pulls her hand across the golden curve of the hill as if she is stroking the grass that lies like dry cowhide on the ground.
“You know my name, doctor’s daughter, is that not enough?”
“Saro—“ Footsteps, and Rose’s head turns without her willing it. Doctor del Llano still has his sleeves rolled up, the edges wet from scrubbing. He doesn’t let them down again as he drags on his coat, hauling himself up to the buggy-seat as if held down by a great weight.
“Father—“ says Rose, and looks to Saro beside her, but even as she turns back, Saro is gone again.
“I’ll not talk of it,” he says, and hauls his bag into the buggy. It might well weigh as much as all the world. Rose huffs, and pulls her arms against her chest, and sets them on the road again.
And so it goes, over and over again — the Misses Hayward, unmarried, a few years older than Rose herself — Martin Foster, only three — the widow Ruiz, whose husband died down the mine before Rose was born. All of them greying, cold, dying quick. There is sickness in the hills, and it is sickness that the doctor cannot cure, and Rose — Rose finds that she barely cares. She stands in the church, once more, at Lillie Hayward’s funeral, and cannot look at the coffin, but only turns her head to search for wild light hair among the townsfolk in the pews.
But Saro doesn’t come to town; that’s not the place for her, Rose knows. How could she stay anywhere else but where the wind drags the points of oak leaves down the sky, where the tall grass parts under her hands like water?
So life goes on as it did before — the spiders building their webs across the age-grey clapboards of the doctor’s house by the old mine, the oak leaves stuck by their prickling edges to the drying wash, Rose’s father singing softly in his parents’ Spanish as he stocks his black bag at his desk in the front-room.
Rose leans against the desk, chipping at the varnish with her fingernails. In concession to the afternoon heat, the eastward window is flung open, and the thinnest breeze flicks at the pages of the last Sears catalog laid idly within her reach. She has begun to resent the sun — she closes her eyes, hunting darkness for darkness’s sake, and thinks of Saro in her white skirts, standing candle-slender in the dusk between the hills, Saro’s hands that are always cold, pressed softly against Rose’s face, her neck, her chest.
Telephone, its jangling sound sharp in the late-summer quiet — her father’s soft noises of questioning and assent — the practiced movements of putting harness to the horse. But for all that the interruption is sharp, there’s a pleased rise in Rose’s heart nonetheless, for if she is lucky, she will see Saro on the road.
She reins in the horse when her father tells her so, and hands him his bag as he jumps from the buggy — once he’s gone, Rose allows herself a secret smile. It’s early in the evening now, with the light all golden, her father’s horse with its dark mane a-gleaming in the last of the sun. Rose has a flask of coffee with her, brewed black as her father’s coat. She drinks most of it, hot and bitter, never mind that it had been meant to be shared. It doesn’t keep her awake — she drowses, head on her arms, and feels a breeze like soft hands stroke along her neck.
Today she has a headache. Her face is hot, even with her collar unbuttoned and her hat laid aside in her father’s seat. The day is warm, and the air tastes of dust, hot and dry in Rose’s throat. Saro’s hand on her cheek is as sweet and cold as anything Rose has ever snuck from the ice-house. Saro’s mouth against her neck is a cool draught.
“My dear sweet Rose,” says Saro, quiet, with only the barest hint of her usual merriment. “You’ve been ever so patient, even while I took my time with others.”
“Mm,” says Rose, and lets the weight of her body press up against Saro’s cold frame. Perhaps — perhaps that cold could leach the heavy heat from her head, the feverish blur from her eyes.
Saro’s fingers are at the buttons of Rose’s shirtwaist, now, the full breadth of her hand an ice-print on Rose’s chest. Saro from the oak tree, Saro with her hair like mistletoe. The hills rise golden around them, the wind rushing in Rose’s ears without touching her skin.
“May I?”
“Please,” says Rose, at the last, and lets Saro draw away the last of her living warmth.
#em writes stuff#oc time again hehe#oak savanna vampire#AND LO! AS PROMISED! EM HALLOWEEN STORY 3!#in the tradition of the very first round of em halloween story this is written for benjhawkins and pentecostwaite's spooky season challenge#except that. this took Two Years whoops.#(this was supposed to be last year's but it wasn't Working so I finished rat piper instead)#bit of attribution for the header-image -- 3/4 are from the california academy of sciences#(and public domain as part of the uc berkeley calphotos project! yay!)#and the fourth is of some relatives of mine (my gram's cousins iirc; and to put it as she would) 'standing there like the grapes of wrath'#some of the concepts of the story itself are also based on the experiences of some relatives (not those ones though)#[lying on the floor] CALIFORNIAAAA
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repping the splatlands, it's
DEEP CUT! (FORMLINE)
(Sticker sheet available)
#formline art#telekitnetic art#splatoon 3#deep cut#big man#shiver#frye#i've been so excited for these design concepts for ages!!! I'm so glad I got to make them!!!#here are the Boys (honorary)#I love each of them equally (lying)#also these might end up being on a sticker sheet in the future :) look forward to it
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