#they are a sweet shy person who has trouble speaking. what makes them monstrous is stuff like growing giant fangs when they eat.

[giantkillerjack]

Non-verbal folks, if you have a moment to spare, can you please share with me some things you would like to see (or not see) in a non-verbal character in a comic?

I wish to know as much as I can about writing non-verbal characters, as there will be several in my graphic novel. I am and will continue to do my own research, but any tidbit of general or specific input is greatly appreciated!! ^_^

I will add some detail about the character I am making for a side project right now, in case that helps:

So far, I know this character will be a food artist, likely a non-binary femme, East Asian, a hot fat person, bisexual, autistic, kind-hearted, and a user of at least some sign language.

They are one of many romantic interests for the main character in this series, and they will end up happily getting together with the main character (along with pretty much all the other romantic interests in a big big polycule)!

It is a very light-hearted horror-comedy in the style of a cooking manga/harem anime/school otome game. All the characters go to a ridiculously specific cooking college that offers majors like Dinner Theater.

This person is majoring in Art at their cooking college, and they create beautiful edible creations!

(Also, they are an adult, and they will NOT be infantilized by the narrative! They do NOT become verbal in the narrative, nor is this a goal they wish to pursue. They are accepted and accomodated as they are!!!)

I am a physically disabled autistic person, but I am verbal, and so I care very much about hearing firsthand what non-verbal people wish to see in a character that makes them feel proud and seen!

Thank you in advance for any signal boosts, comments, and advice!!! 🙏🙏🙏

[commanderthalys]

tell me about ro'wynne!

ANON YOUVE MADE MY DAY :D !!!!

You are getting a ramble as a treat and because I love her dearly 😌

Originally Ro was a warcraft oc of mine, she was a night elf Druid that over time got corrupted by N’Zoth via a long process that I won’t go into here but yeah, she had an existence prior to gw2 and she’s the only one of my blorbos so far who has.

In gw2, Ro’wynne is my sylvari firstborn of the Pale Tree. She had an incredibly strong dream connection that lets her basically send feelings and speak to people through the dream. However before she awoke this dream connection was so strong that she unknowingly delved deep enough into the dream that she touched mordremoth, who in turn planted a little seed in her brain that slowly wormed its way into her thoughts until she thought its commands were her own, but it didn’t affect her until later in life.

When she awoke she kept her strong dream connection, and saw herself as the protector of her fellow firstborn. She loved all of them dearly (except Faolain sorry she tried), especially Kahendins, her brother, and Wynne, her unrequited love. As tragedy after tragedy hit the first of the sylvari Ro became increasingly fearful of the world and isolated herself emotionally (she was already very shy and had a hard time communicating unless it was through the dream) becoming a distant and intimidating figure who tirelessly trained to protect the remaining sylvari. She only left the grove a few times in her life pre HoT and all of those times were to rescue sylvari who needed her (the secondborn and Tiachren).

During the attack on the Pale Tree by mordremoth, Ro fled with the other mordrem, influenced by the elder dragon to seek him out. He twisted her into one of her champions, giving her a monstrous form but making sure that she was still recognizable as the once noble protector of the Grove. He also twisted her perception of what was happening, and she believed that by converting sylvari to mordrem she was healing her poor people, and she became known as a formidable enemy to the pact. Using her intense dream connection to overwhelm sylvari and turn them, as well as her new strength and speed made her a force to be reckoned with. She was never killed, and once mordremoth died she fell into a deep hibernation that lasted a year, where her body tried to go back to its old form and heal.

Eventually she woke up in an almost trancelike state and purely on instinct started heading to the grove, by the time she was near populated areas of Caledon she was conscious and began remembering the horrible things she had done, and with her dream connection restored on waking up again, local sylvari could sense a serious distress and found her wandering in the woods. Aife and Niamh came to see if the rumors of their sister being alive were true, and when they found her she begged them for a quick death. Seeing her as Ro’wynne again and not a mordrem, they decided to take her back since she was to weak/upset to hurt them.

Over a long period of time she reunited with all of the firstborn, moved in with her brother Kahendins and made peace with the Pale Tree, and years later she’s in a much better place and helps tend to saplings. She has some rough days physically due to the pain of her awkward mordrem body, but she’s learned to live again and tries her best. Ro’s always been a person who loves deeply but had trouble expressing that, and it took all of that to have her start reaching out more. She’s very sweet and often can be found in the quiet hidden corners of the grove working on anything that keeps her hands busy (she especially enjoys baking making jam, and gardening among them!). She still tries to help out where she can but her role has changed from a fighter to more of a healer with time. She’s my beloved and I love her very much…

[dokuhebi]

❛ kings die, realms fall, but magic endures. ❜

THE WITCHER 3 PROMPTS // @snakereign Everything in this world is different to them. From the wood making up tables, bookshelves and furnishings, to the materials making blankets, clothing and curtains. Born from bushes, trees and animals the serpent has simply never seen before. But despite how foreign everything here is, it is they themself who remains the exotic and misplaced one. The outlander. If they had felt hunted in their old world - and how constantly tracked down like a witch they were - this new realm offered countless more enemies to contend with. Fools who wanted them for power, spare parts in wizard like potions, or zoology. While being formidable and immortal certainly aids them in staying safe, they know better than to take on a world of enemies. They had done it once before, and although they ought to consider themself lucky to have come out alive of that war, they had learnt some hard lessons. One was never too powerful to need friends. It was their luck that they had found the company of someone with similar interests and passions, someone who did not shy away from their more ferocious side, but did not treat them like some animal either. A man who could see them for what they were, a mixture of many, a multifaceted leviathan who could bring harm or fortune to those smart enough to use them wisely. And how Voldemort proved to be smart enough, perhaps even too smart for their liking. It was rare they had to stay on guard, yet be too sweet-talked and ensnared to remind themself of that. He knew how to offer them enough information to keep them around, but never so much that he outlived his use to them. He kept himself a few steps ahead, and they are both aware and complacent with this. He’s made too compelling an argument with that silver tongue of his, to ever have them drifting or losing interest. So they wait for him, even when he disappears on his own agenda. Knowing better than to ask him where he has been when he returns. Had he wanted them to know, surely they would have been granted the right to accompany him. After all, even the most vicious dogs swore loyalty to those who kept them well fed. And the young man knew precisely how to sate their appetite. The doors quiet groan is what alerts them to the fact that he has returned. As the sun starts to sink low enough to be engulfed by the horizon. Vanishing in brilliant oranges and reds, painting the room in vivid saffrons. Such colours catch upon the vipers porcelain skin, flesh white as snow now used as a canvas under the suns fleeting rays. Warm hues faintly reflected where their night kimono slips lazily down their shoulder. Ivory arms, collar and legs bared to gentle but flame like colours panting their figure. Perched on the stone window arch, gazing down from their godlike view at the forests hundreds of feet below. Not timid of the fall, but admiring the height. Admiring the newness, truly reborn in this moment, when they gaze at things they have never seen before. Their fingers had been idly combing through raven black hair, until eager eyes move instead to the sound of his return. He is greeted instantly by their light smile, one that so quickly loses its tenderness when the edges of fangs can be seen. They slip gracefully from the windowsill they had been seated at, to meet him at his side. To scan his eyes and body for anything that may signal trouble. Whether he had run in to any, they don’t know. They do know however, that if he had, he had handled it as usual, and returned to them unscathed. “I did as you asked,” they say, a tome left upon the desk. What knowledge lies within the weighted book they do not know, they can not decipher its meaning despite being fully capable of reading it. Too inexperienced in this world to understand the gibberish of spells, foreign creatures, lands and names. But he had asked for it, so they had provided. In full anticipation to have their efforts rewarded, and having exercised all the patience they had within themself simply waiting for his return, “will you show it me then? One of the forbidden curses those lesser wizards keep muttering about?” They live for these lessons, thrive under his instruction, his tutoring. Magic is a power that is not within their veins, much like the muggles of this world. Yet unlike those muggles, they are not completely without something special, the chakra they harbor enabling them to produce attacks monstrous in its own regards, something so very similar to witchcraft. They follow him to the small coffee table, finding their seat beside him on the couch, listening to each word from his mouth and watching the artifact he draws out. A wand. And they watch next as the little demonstration begins, as his simple command has the summoned snake, courtesy of Orochimaru, suddenly wrapped under mind control. It is so effortless, so tasteful, so immediate. While the conjured snake is a loyal companion to Orochimaru, and would do their bidding without question, it now has lost all ability to do just that. Imperio. Far more sophisticated than the mind control those in the vipers realm are capable of. They are in awe instantly, enamored by the demonstrated power, enamored by how he makes it look second nature. How within a moment of his attention, with a single breathed command, this venomous and lethal summon is his new play thing. Golden eyes shift to the man when he speaks, inquisitive eyes following his every movement. “Magic... I imagine such a word is interchangeable with power, is it not?” they reply, leaning against him now, giving in to their tactile nature. They watch the snake innocently obey each command, as they rest their head against Tom’s shoulder. Too comfortable perhaps, around the charming man. A man who has even lulled the infamously distrustful serpent in to deeming him their home, their place of refuge. Not because they mistake his power as anything less than it is, but because they are hellbent on surrounding themself with any and all power - if not from their own sylphlike body, then instead they would content themself being beside his. They draw their hand lightly down to run their fingertips over his wand, to feel the texture curiously, an elegant motion before their hand brushes over his arm a moment to be gathered back to their person, “... the magic of this world, can it be mine?” With their summon finally having its free will returned, the reptile makes its way over to the two humans. Ever so complacent with what had happened, seeing no difference in the requested duty of killing on command, or being puppeted a moment. A bronze body lazily slips away from the small table it had been perched on, sliding instead to creep up the coach and languidly lace itself around and over the laps of the wizard and shinobi. Their hand moves to brush over its scaled body next, “there are those born without magic in this realm, I have seen them. Have none ever tried to get it regardless? Have any ever succeeded?” A more cunning smile replaces their previous one now, as they lift their head from his shoulder ever so slightly, to instead correct a tassel of dark brown hair, “you shall mark the first king to never die, and be the founder of a realm indomitable,” they say, golden eyes meeting his umber pair, ensnared instantly by the intelligence so clearly living there, their gaze against his the contrast of the pale yellow moon meeting the midnight sky, “for as long as I am permitted at your side,  I will make it so, and you will want for nothing my dear Lord,” they place a hand to his shoulder now to get to their feet, to saunter across the room and fix them both a drink, even the alcohol a rather differing taste here for them. They lean on the table a moment to watch him, to inspect his reactions before offering him his drink and a more tamed smile.  “I do hope I have sworn myself to a generous king.”

[wordsintheatmosphere]

Research

Series: Persona 5 Pairing: Akira/Mishima Rating: G Summary:

Akira invites Mishima out for their first date, but it completely sails over Mishima’s head.

Tags: no spoilers, canon setting, fluff

He gets a text from Akira on a clear Sunday afternoon, asking if they could spend the day together.

Mishima’s first thought is that maybe this is a date—they are dating, aren’t they?  Akira did ask a week ago but he can’t remember what sort of answer he gave back then, it was all so overwhelming—before remembering that Akira probably has something more important in mind. It’s the first time Akira has ever texted him first, so whatever it could be must be serious. He checks the message again, sends a question asking about what he’s needed for, but there is no reply. Important, he thinks, something he can’t tell me. So it is about the Phantom Thieves.

He laughs at himself for feeling a little disappointed, for wanting more instead of offering his unconditional help. This is part of his duty to the Phantom Thieves as their PR manager, after all, and so he shouldn’t complain. He pulls on the closest clothes he can find lying about his room and leaves. It's a nice day outside and the trains aren't too crowded today, so he reaches his destination without trouble.

When he sees Akira, he stops for a moment. It’s not that Akira doesn’t always look nice, but today he is dressed in clothes that Mishima has never seen him wear before. They seem almost new, and Akira looks like a different person. He feels compelled to double check, but Akira notices his stare and straightens. Yes, this is definitely Akira, and he is definitely waiting for him.

“You look nice,” is the first thing out of Mishima’s mouth, and Akira smiles and absently runs his hand on the back of his neck. All of a sudden Mishima feels self-conscious of the clothes he’d just thrown on without thought—his shirt has a small stain from last night’s dinner, and he didn’t exactly pick a matching jacket. He looks himself over and wonders where exactly Akira is taking him that needs such nice clothes, and if he has somehow already screwed it up.

“Sorry, I didn’t see your message. I was having trouble picking something to wear,” Akira says, and before Mishima has the time to fully regret his clothing choices, he continues. “There’s just somewhere I want to take you.”

He braces himself for whatever comes next, stained shirt and all, but the place Akira takes him is to a parfait store.

The shop smells sweet and there are girls and couples everywhere, lost in their own conversations. It’s definitely not a usual place for guys to go to, and Mishima is keenly aware of how much the two of them stand out. He freezes at the door at first, wondering if Akira has made a mistake, but Akira urges him in. There are a million questions buzzing in his mind as they are seated, and the only thing that will make any degree of sense is that they must be staking out for someone, or something.

“What are we looking for again?” he whispers to Akira as a menu is handed to him, and Akira blinks before answering.

“A parfait?”

Ah, so research on parfaits. Mishima has no idea how this is supposed to help the Phantom Thieves, but he is in no position to question him. In that case, he thinks, feeling a little better now, this is something even he could help with. He has a fondness for sweets, after all.

He eagerly scans the brightly coloured pictures of the store’s specialty parfaits, and soon his stomach is sinking at the prices beside each photo. He can barely afford the cheapest parfait, never mind the fancier ones. “Akira, I—I don’t think I brought enough money.”

“Don’t worry,” Akira answers without missing a beat, “I’ll be paying.”

“You can afford this?” Mishima raises his eyebrows in disbelief, pointing to the menu to make his point. Akira only crosses his arms and smiles, and Mishima decides not to ask where a Phantom Thief gets money. As he examines the menu, the self-conscious tension in his stomach melts away. This may not be a date, he decides, but there are benefits for helping out the Phantom Thieves at a place like this.

“Have you made up your mind?” Akira asks after a while, but all the parfaits look equally good and he is having a hard time deciding. As if anticipating this, Akira smiles and points at the back of the menu. “If not, how about this one?”

Akira shows Mishima a photo of a fancy parfait, crowned with a row of chocolate biscuit sticks, layered with about five flavours of ice cream and topped generously with jeweled fruit. It’s clearly not a regular parfait that Mishima can ever afford, but he stares at it with such transfixed amazement that Akira chuckles.

“Then it’s decided,” he says, and waves to a waitress, but Mishima snaps his head up to stop him.

“W-wait, I can’t—this is too much—are you sure?” The words tumble out of him in a confused mess because it’s the first time he’s ever been treated so nicely, and the unfamiliar kindness disorients him. This isn’t normal, he shouldn’t be accepting this much, but Akira smiles at him and somehow just the sight of it soothes the panic in his stomach.

“I want to. I’m the one who invited you here, after all.”

There isn’t anything to say to that, so the waitress takes their order. At first Mishima is surprised when Akira only orders the fancy parfait for him and nothing else for himself, but then the waitress carries their parfait over. It’s huge, comes the first thought, and then right after, it’s a couples parfait.

He gapes at the monstrous and yet beautiful sculpture of pure, sugary art in front of him, and the presence of the parfait draws the eyes of everyone around them. His cheeks immediately burn at the attention, but Akira doesn’t look the least bit concerned. With an encouraging smile, Akira picks up his spoon.

“You first,” he says, and Mishima now gapes at him.

“This is—Akira, this is a parfait for couples,” he hisses, and Akira’s smile only widens.

“I know.”

So that’s why Akira didn’t order for himself. Feeling a little foolish and a bit like he has just fallen for a prank, Mishima numbly picks up his spoon too. He is keenly aware of the curious stares and amused whispers around them, and Akira’s composure makes him envious. He could never feel comfortable with this amount of attention on him. For the sake of the Phantom Thieves, he bravely tells himself, because otherwise he’d rather disappear through the floor.

It’s a little awkward to share such a giant parfait, but with each heavenly bite Mishima loses his reservations. It helps that Akira is by his side, completely ignorant of the attention around them and only focusing on their conversation. Ah well, Mishima thinks as he enjoys the taste of the ice cream melting in his mouth, there’s no way he could ever buy something like this on his own. He might as well enjoy the moment.

Finishing the parfait takes a long time, and it is dark when they finally head to the station. Full and in utter bliss from the parfait, Mishima laughs under his breath.

“That was wonderful. Thanks for inviting me.” He rubs his arm, feeling strangely bashful, and Akira falters a little. Just as Akira steps closer to him, Mishima continues. “And uh, I know this was for research, but this felt almost like a date.”

Akira freezes at that, and the strange expression on his face tells Mishima that he has messed up. “Oh,” he says quickly, heat crawling up his neck, “oh, I mean, of course not. Haha…I just—you know—hope you got what you needed.”

His words trail off into pathetic silence, but strangely enough Akira doesn’t seem angry. If anything, he seems a little confused as he fusses with his fringe. When he finally speaks, his words are slow and careful. “Research? Mishima, that’s…well, I meant this to be a date.”

“W-what?!” Mishima raises his voice in surprise, and the passersby turn to look but he is too shocked to care. “But—I thought—”

Before he can finish his sentence, everything clicks into place—the nice clothes, the couples parfait, how close Akira is standing to him right now. All of these signs should’ve been obvious to anyone else, but it’s the first time anyone has shown interest in him and he has learned to brush off his hopes as wishful thinking. It’s frustrating how little he really knows, but at the same time there is a small glow of warmth mixed in with the embarrassment he feels. This is a date. This is a date, because Akira likes him.

Akira laughs beside him, warm and unaffected. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault that you misunderstood. I’ll be clearer next time.”

His fingers brush against Mishima’s lightly, and they feel cool to the touch. The two of them are close enough to hide their hands from wandering eyes, but it’s the affection that heats Mishima’s skin. “Hey,” Akira says, his voice low and quiet and meant only for the two of them, “do you mind if I call you Yuuki?”

The suddenness of the question throws Mishima off-guard, and it takes him a few seconds to fully process that this is the first time he has ever heard Akira use his first name. “Oh,” he breathes, and his heart feels stuck in his throat from all the words he wants to say, “Uh, sure. Yeah, of course.”

“Great. Okay.” Akira releases his breath, and it suddenly occurs to Mishima that the taller boy might be nervous too. He dismisses the thought immediately, but the light of the station reveals a faint tint on Akira’s cheeks. The realization strikes him as strange; someone as brave as Akira, who bore the weight of all the curious stares in the café without looking the slightest bit perturbed, is feeling shy too—around him, the most unassuming guy of all.

Akira’s fingers slip away as they reach the train gates. “I’ll see you later, Yuuki?” He says, and the sound of his name makes their date today feel a little more real. This time Mishima doesn’t bother hiding his smile.

“Of course. See you later.”

When Akira disappears into the crowd, Mishima takes out his phone. His smile is so wide and giddy that he’s sure it’s creepy to everyone else, but his heart is singing too loudly for him to care. With the feel of Akira’s fingers still on his own, he types out a message.

And next time, Akira, tell me it’s a date.