#they just aren't accurate enough

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Portrait pains

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[serpentface]

Here's what typical vestment for The Odomache looks like.

The pelt of the lion that was originally sacrificed and worn raw for her incarnation is retained throughout the years of service, preserved and fashioned into a headdress and cape (obscuring a helmet). This can get dreadfully hot in the summer but no one ever said that being a hollowed out pathway for God's spirit was easy.

The body is always obscured near completely, barring the hands, feet, and parts of the face (philosophically, these are the body's least vulnerable parts as its modes of Action, though this is in large part a practicality). This is partially a matter of psychological enforcement that this person is not Just a human, and partly a matter of protecting the part of God's living spirit that's in a wholly human body. Conceptually, the Odomache Enables tremendous power rather than being intrinsically powerful in of herself, so all manners of protecting the metaphysically vulnerable human body are of tantamount importance in her case.

The complete obscuring of any identifiable feminine form is also notably important to the underlying philosophies and biases involved. It is necessary that she is female, a condition ascribed a unique malleability to change and transformation (for good or harm), but the act of female/non-male sex and gender assignment also serves to uphold an underclass in a patriarchy that she By Necessity must be distanced from. This extends beyond the masculinized social and dress performance of Odonii to a masculinized social performance with dress that utterly obscures any part of the body that could be gendered, and dress that is not gendered in of itself (women do wear less revealing clothing than men and skirts of similar length, but the act of Fully covering the body in this form exists outside of the bounds of gendered dress).

[[It should be noted that on a historical level, this role is largely a descendant of a variety of 'celibate and/or masculinized female religious authority' figures in pre/proto-Wardi societies stretching back centuries, rather than an emergent property of contemporary religion and philosophy. This is an adaptation of older roles and worldviews to securely fit the contemporary zeitgeist, and that's part of why many aspects of this role Superficially clashes with said zeitgeist.]]

The relatively undecorated white cloak and robes in comparison to culturally favored displays of color and opulence further emphasizes a sense of the Odomache's separation from humanity. The Wardi image of God is not a human lord, but rather the world itself and the functions of the world distilled into the forms of animals. Human hierarchies exist Within God rather than God having a place within human hierarchies, so in this philosophy it's natural for this particular person of high authority to not closely resemble a Human Authority.

This is still ultimately a human body existing at the top end of a human hierarchy (and in the dimension of religious thought, it a human body holding aspects of God most specifically concerned with maintaining concepts of 'right' civilization and hierarchy), so public-facing garb like this will still include a few mundane trappings of lordship such as this fancy gold khattanocuy displaying an image of an enemy being trampled by the Face Odomache as the guardian lion. Purely ceremonial garb for the Odomache hides the body in its entirety beneath the white cloak and forgoes all decoration save for the obligatory weaponry.

A sword and dagger is worn at all times as a matter of being the ultimate physical bastion of her society's military might, and she is always accompanied by a retinue of 'lieutenants' (Extremely elite servants/squires) who carry whatever other elements of her perpetual armament are not currently in use. These weapons are Completely ceremonial in nature (to the point that they're made or plated with gold rather than anything like, durable) and there is absolutely zero expectation that the Odomache will ever directly engage in combat (the times this has happened historically have been when things have gone horribly wrong).

Her face is usually masked in public, though this is not a strict necessity of the role and is forgone for some ceremonial purposes. On these occasion, it's standard to paint the face red to still partly obscure human features in the same fashion of battlefield Odonii. As the color of blood, it positively evokes bodily vitality and strength, the living spirit of the world itself and the mode of connection to God (and will also be reminiscent of the rite of incarnation during which she is Actually covered in blood)

[inkyucu]

Recently found out that Dandy's old design had socks and now I love the idea of dandy with sock puppets and socks. Also a tail because I said so

Also Astro, because he's silly and I love him

[bannock-freak]

i dont remember if its supported in canon but i like the idea of victor being a sweets fiend largely because of this promotional image

where victor is 100% more focused on that cake as opposed to his beautiful husband who is

uh

not.

[uncanny-tranny]

It's just... odd to me, I suppose, going from "what is in my pants is completely irrelevant to most anybody else's life" to the expectation that you must be completely open, essentially, about what is in your pants.

I think a lot of people understand the general idea of why it's bad decorum to demand people offer explanations for private information like this, but they don't analyze exactly why it's bad besides, "asking directly is just rude" and not "asking in any way still enforces the often violent nature of gender and sex, and putting people in the 'right box' is a part of that violence."

It's especially odd when seeing other trans people enforcing the idea that "what's in your pants?" is a genuine, good-faith basis for interacting with others.

[kittyoverlord]

Never Stop Blowing up is populated with groups that like making animal noises. No particular reason... nothing to do with the man who created the universe... nosiree...

Jacob's evil laugh is phenomenal also.

[sparkbreeze]

trick or treat :0!!

handing you a humble frog yeek

[gerbiloftriumph]

Lost and Found (ao3):

Grandpa’s story of the goblin caves started out familiarly enough, but as he spoke, the story started to twist and change. New friends, new conversations, and new ways to use old items transformed the tale, and the young king discovered new ways to be brave in the dark tunnels beneath Daventry.

(4/?)

~*~

The cure-all was heavy in Graham’s hands. He examined it carefully. A little potion, an unassuming design, but it could do so much. He had to pray to all the stars above that no one else would get sick down here, since there was just a single dose. He had to get them all out before it went wrong. Well. Wronger. Er. More wrong. He rubbed his forehead, feeling a crease in the skin where the heavy crown sat.

Nothing for it. Decisions had to be made, had been made for him by circumstance. He walked to the Feys, clutching that bottle like it was life itself. And, as far as he could tell, it kind of was.

Bramble was moaning, clinging to Wente’s hand. “Can morning sickness last all day?” she asked, and she curled in on herself, mumbling, “Self hug. Self hug. Arghh, self hug!”

Wente rubbed her shoulders, his eyes glassy, and he glanced up at Graham. “We’re in a very bad place, Graham. I’m scared for her. If I had the strength, I’d rip these bars apart just to steal her a nibble. Please help her. I don’t...I don’t think she’ll make it another day.”

Graham held out the potion. “For Bramble. I think it’ll help.”

Wente took the cure-all with reverence. “Bramble, sweetling, a gift! From King Graham!” He helped her sit up, ever so slightly, just so she could drink. “That’s great, Nutmeg” he said fondly, rubbing circles on her back as she breathed. “Take it easy now.”

“What was that?” Bramble asked, her gasps relaxing into natural breathing. “It tasted so sweet, like honey.”

“Nothing’s so sweet as you, Gumdrop. How are you feeling?”

“Instantly better!” She swung her feet over the side of the cot. “I think I should stand,” she said. “I’ve been lying down for so long, I need a stretch.”

“Easy, easy,” Wente said, taking her arm. “Okay? Okay! Your color is so much better, baked bread instead of raw. Oh, dumpling!” He embraced her tightly.

Graham smiled as the bakers approached, holding hands. But Bramble hesitated, getting a good look at him for the first time. “Come closer,” she said, and she reached out between the bars, gently touching Graham’s jawline. He flinched back instinctively—he bore a smattering of purpling bruises along his cheek and jaw, blows from goblins during the initial capture, and blows from being tackled for all kinds of other reasons. Like not cleaning fast enough. Or watching salamanders. Or just...existing, really. “Majesty, these don’t look nice.”

“They’re fine. I’m fine,” he said, with as stiff and regal a bearing as he thought a king ought to have. At least she couldn’t see the other tender marks hidden beneath his clothes. Especially along his legs. His own weight against rough goblin hands during those upside-down shakedowns, ow. “You’re much more important. Better?”

“Even down in this pit of despair, I find hope. Bless you, Graham,” Bramble said.

“I don’t have anything I can give you, Majesty, but you’ve saved my family today.” Wente firmly shook Graham’s hand in lieu of a hug, since the bars still stood between them.  

“I don’t need anything in return, Wente.”

“No, no, there must be something...” he fumbled in his pockets, then pressed a single gold coin in Graham’s hand. “Here.”

“But, Wente—” Graham knew how desperately the Feys always counted their coins.

“I have no use for gold down here. Unless that’s chocolate. Is it a chocolate coin? I didn’t mean to give you a chocolate one.”

“No, no. It’s real.” And brand new, Graham realized, turning it over in his fingers. Freshly minted and shining. With his profile on it. He ran his finger across his own little golden nose, across the tiny imitation of the crown on his head. He swallowed hard, then jammed it deep in his pocket, unable to look at it further. Whisper mumbled something sleepily in his cloak.

“Well, either way, she’s definitely on the rise, thanks to you. When I’m outta here, I’ll give you a proper hug, too. It’s the yeast I can do.” Wente’s hand found Bramble’s again and squeezed it.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Graham said.

Bramble leaned against her husband. “You didn’t find an oil fryer in any of these cells, did you?” she asked, smiling shyly. “I should be eating for two, but I’m afraid I’m eating for none. I’m doing better, but Wente, we have to get out of here. It’s not good for the baby.”

“Hey, you once told me I could never trust a skinny baker, so I’m going to keep you in your most trustworthy state. I’m just coming up with ideas now. I promise, we’ll be out of here as soon as I can manage it. I just need to, uh. Do some things.”

Bramble nodded. “At the very least, if you can find some wood and flour, we can use this furnace to bake some simple prison sweetycakes for our fellow prisoners, and you too, of course.”

“I don’t need anything.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Bramble said. “You’re so thin you could turn sideways and disappear, if you’ll forgive my crude observation, Majesty. I can’t imagine you’re holding up, either.”

“I’m still feeling good,” Graham lied.

“Mmm. Well. Either way. Thanks, Your Majesty.”

“You don’t need to call me that, you know,” Graham said. “Just Graham is fine.”

“Of course, Majesty,” Bramble said.

“I thought you were just going to leave us here,” Wente said. “Even with our extra little bun. I’m glad you’re still a compassionate fellow, Sire. You’re still doing you, and I couldn’t be more grateful. Thank you. Now.” He turned back to his wife, his mustache bright and high. “Lay your head down, Bramble. You need rest. Healthy, good rest, this time.”

“Oh, Buttercup, I’m all right. You don’t need to fuss.”

“It’s true. I’m a worrier. Come on, let’s lie down. Ooh, speaking of worrying, I hope we didn’t leave the oven on.”

“Wente, it’s fine.”

“I’m sure it is, sweet potato.”

“Carrot cake.”

“Cinnamon sugar.”

Graham left quietly while the bakers whispered pet names at each other.

~*~

“This bed might be my final resting place. Good thing I’m a stickler for thread count.”

“Don’t say that, Amaya.”

“Here lies the body of Amaya Blackstone. May she rest in Egyptian cotton sheets.”

“Come on, please.”

“Then get me outta here, kid.”

“I’m working on it.”

“What do you still need?”

“Honestly? I don’t know.” Graham sat back against the cell bars, his back to her, watching the goblin guards in the room. They ignored him. “So much. Food. A way to get everyone out of their cells safely. Food. A way out of the prison safely. Food. A way up to the surface safely. A different hat.” He pulled his crown off and set it on the ground near his feet. He curled over his knees, glaring at it, and he felt his eyes prickling with frustration. “It’s probably that hat’s fault. Whisper thinks so. Which means it’s my fault. Gods, it’s my fault.” He pressed his face against his knees, trembling.

“Oh, no, is Twinkle Toes down here, too?”

“Don’t sound so annoyed.” His voice, spoken to his knees, was muffled. He chose not to mention Whisper was actively snoring in his pocket.  

He felt Amaya sit down behind him, her back to his, bars between them. “Look, Graham, I’m not saying this wouldn’t have happened if you weren’t king. But, it could have. These little hoarders have been taking my stuff for years. You wouldn’t believe how much I’ve lost to them.”

He snorted. “Yeah, is this a prison, or a museum?”

“Someone needs to have an intervention with these hoarders,” Amaya agreed. “Unfortunately, they failed to hoard all the food. Look, kid, we have no time for emotions. But. Because it’s you, I guess maybe we should. Because you’re, ergh, emotional. So, I mean, like…no, stop trying to turn around, don’t look at me while I’m talking about this, stop it, Graham.” She punched his shoulder hard, and Graham turned back again.

Wente didn’t believe I was going to help them. Did he think I lost my compassion when I became king? Did I? Have I? What is this hat doing to me? His face, ohstars, his expression. He really thought I was going to give up on them, that I’d changed.

And what if there had been multiple people sick? With only one bottle of cure-all? What would I have done? Who am I to choose? Does this crown give me that right? Do I want that?

(“As an adventurer, I was great at taking quests. As a king, I struggled at giving orders. What if I made the wrong choice? What if I led the kingdom astray? What if I lost another friend to that dragon?”)

Graham said nothing, but he reached into his pocket and withdrew the coin, flipping it over and over in his hands. The Daventry royal crest on one side. His profile on the other. Twirling it over his knuckles, a trick his sister had taught him so long ago.

“I’m just trying to make the right decisions,” he mumbled. “How can you ever decide what to do?” Especially when the choices felt so important. Did wearing the crown mean he had to make choices he didn’t want to make?

(Grandpa looked sadly at his little mirror self, curled up and feeling so alone, despite Amaya’s warm presence. “But taking too long to choose something was hardly better than choosing nothing.”)

“Indecision and indigestion’ll both make you sick.”

“Pff, thanks.”

“What’s that thing you always say? This is a puzzle, work it out, or something? You just gotta lay out the pieces and find out what you’ve got, step by step, and focus on what’s in front of you. One step at a time. One choice at a time. It’s gonna suck, and you’re gonna doubt every move you make. And others might doubt you, too. Think you’re not doing what they need you to do, and get mad and impatient. But you gotta commit to your plan. And, more than that, you don’t have to do anything alone. You can ask for help.

“But you gotta take it one step at a time, first. When something’s this big, overwhelming, focus small. We’ll deal with the big mushy feely fault stuff later, okay?”

She sat up. “Speaking of mushy stuff, would you stop staring at me?” she snapped at one of the goblins, who was standing close to the two of them. Not listening to what they were talking about, but cooing over Amaya. “I’m not interested.”

“What’s he after?” Graham asked, pulling his crown back on. He hoped his voice didn’t sound as shaky as he felt.

“They seem to be drawn to me. I wish I could make it stop. Go away! We are not friends! Go see Wente if you want a hug!”

“Aside from the goblin, I, uh. Thanks, Amaya. It’s…easy to get lost in here.”

“I’d make a great advisor, you know.”

“I’ll keep that under advisement.”

“Give me your crown so I can throw it at you.”

(“I was wondering if I would see a rock break through her shell,” Grandpa said, as he and Gwendolyn watched the little mirror Amaya swat at the goblin outside her cell. She couldn’t quite reach; he kept skipping back a pace, then approaching again. He made little heart shapes at her with his claws, and she groaned, rolling her eyes. “I know I probably shouldn’t have just stood there watching that goblin try to woo Amaya, but I just couldn’t help myself.”

“I remember that from the first time you told this story a couple days ago,” Gwendolyn said. “I don’t think we need to go over it again.”

“Well, then, my little biscuit, I can skip it if you like. Now, what happened next…ah, yes, it was near the end of the day. Amaya had just reminded me that I didn’t have all the answers, but I had found great friends who would help me find them. But I couldn’t lose one of my friends to the goblins. I had to find a place to hide Whisper. Could you imagine if he tipped out of my pockets while the goblins were searching me?”)

Graham returned to the upper levels, which seemed to have fewer goblins, to find a place for Whisper. With their combined strength, they were able to push some weighted levers, giving them earlier access to some hidden rooms, including a very lovely mushroom garden, which took Graham’s breath away.

Every species of fungus Graham could imagine grew in that space, and many more that he had never thought to imagine. They glowed faintly in a huge array of colors. Even roses bloomed, in a cultivated pot. So many fairy tales required a single perfect red rose, Graham wasn’t surprised that they were here. Just surprised that they were able to grow. Someone cared a lot for that little collection of roses.

“Whisper is quite fond of this room!”

“It does seem safe,” Graham agreed. “Lots of places to hide if you need to. Oh, but, what about food? I can’t imagine these are edible.” He waved vaguely at the towering fungi.

“Don’t worry about Whisper! Whisper goes on frequent fast days, to keep this trim physique! Besides, Whisper doubts you have any special energy drink powder in your pockets.” He posed dramatically amongst the mushrooms. “You worry about yourself and the others. In the meantime, Whisper awaits your command!” He got distracted looking at the roses. “Oooh, look at those. Whisper wonders if the lovely Miss Amaya would like…hmm….”

Graham had one more thing to do before the end of the day, and it involved Amaya, a sword hilt with a frying pan attached to it, and a hapless goblin’s face.

“Oooh, shank you very much, Graham,” Amaya said, looking at the sword-pan combo. Then, she turned to the goblin that had been flirting with her all day, screamed, “My name is Amaya Blackstone! You stole my mattress! Prepare to die!” and thumped the goblin over the head with the frying pan with a loud twangy ring.

He scooped up another coin the goblin had been holding (two in hand, four more to go for his black market prize) before being scooped up himself by a goblin. He was dragged back to his room and flung against the far wall, bouncing off a protruding pipe and earning another bruise. He was yelled at in goblinese, presumably for starting a fight in Amaya’s cell. The little goblin kept pointing and standing with his hands on his hips, which might have looked threatening if he wasn’t so short.

Graham suffered the indignity of another upside-down shakedown, clinging to the crown with both hands so it wouldn’t fall off and dent as goblins held his legs and shook him wildly. But while the crown was safe, the shovel clanged out of his pocket. He winced—he’d forgotten about it entirely. The goblins dropped him and grabbed at the shovel, perhaps assuming he could use it to dig his way out. Never mind how long that would take against bare rock, but still. They hurried away, shovel in their hands, and Graham clutched the bars on his door as he watched them disappear into darkness.

Still. That meant they hadn’t noticed anything else he’d been carrying. Perhaps none of it would have caught their eye, perhaps it would have. Fake magic beans, Whisper’s portraits, Acorn’s flowers, plant growth potion, coins…sure, it was mostly junk, but it was all he had, and that made it a treasure trove.

“All right,” he said to the salamanders, trying to force confidence into his voice. He rubbed his side and his new bruise distractedly. “Newton, I think we’ve done good today. I think we should rest up.” He glanced at his little camp bed, which had another salamander on the pillow. “I know, Sally! We were super-productive, right?” He ran a finger over the magic beans, which glittered especially brightly in salamander light, and yawned hugely. “Well. I probably shouldn’t keep talking to the newts. I guess I’ll go to bed.”

[itsahotminuteinbetween]

small doodle animation practice while my wifi was down featuring my ocs and sun fnaf (I think I made the frame-rate too fast...)-smear frames are super fun and now my favorite thing to draw ever

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

rereading the worst scene I have ever written in my entire life and why did harrison have to drag lonan so hard here:

The sound of Lonan’s voice is like crashing into a concrete wall.

[byanyan]

"your flaw is that you aren't kind enough to yourself. every living being deserves grace and dignity, and that includes you."

[ from lcy ! who def said it in mandarin and his baby sis wendy translated sdfsdkf LMAO ]

point out a flaw of byan'sㅤㅤ∘ ˚ ( accepting )

ㅤof all their many, many flaws which one could choose from to point out, that is not one they're expecting to hear, and it stops byan in their tracks. startled, they blink owlishly at wendy, then shift their gaze back to chényǔ.

ㅤㅤ" what? "ㅤvoice heated, if also carrying a hint of alarm, an anger flares inside their chest before they even really know why.

because it makes them sound pathetic, they think; makes them sound weak.

more than likely, however, it's because it hits too close to home. it's because he's right, and because him saying such a thing means he's noticed it. means he's seen right through them. means that they've been perceived on a deep and accurate level, a concept they find terrifying — they hide their insecurities beneath their bravado as a form of protection, after all. someone taking note of such a thing is dangerous.

ㅤ—and yet... even as a weakness has been pinpointed and displayed out in the open... he's being nice about it instead of using it to tear them down. what the fuck. nothing about this is right. nothing about this is okay. caught off guard by the remark and uncertain of how to react to it as they are, their fight or flight instincts are beginning to kick in.

ㅤㅤ" that's the stupidest fuckin' thing i've ever heard. "ㅤthe teen snaps out through bared teeth with more force than they intend, and they do it almost too quickly. aware in the next second that they surely sound suspiciously defensive, a warmth flushes their cheeks and they curl their hands into tight fists.ㅤ" have you met me? i'm perfect an' i fuckin' know it. everyone else knows i know it, too — 'cept you, apparently. tch. 'yOu ArEn'T kInD eNoUgH tO yOuRsElF,' what kinda weakass bullshit... "

[firelord-frowny]

<3 <3 obviously one of the highlights of my visit to the national aquarium the other day was the reptiles <3 <3 specifically the snakes, SPECIFICALLY the death adder omgggg.

there is something so??????????? magical???????????? about being able to put your face just inches away from something that, if it were to bite you, would definitely kill you.

like, to have a thin lil pane of glass be all that keeps a small but very deadly beast from being able to end my life????????????

amazing.

[2pen2wildfire]

My favourite thing

i feel strongly about this

[agent-jaselin]

I made Martin, Tim, Sasha, Jon, and Gerry in FFxiv. Will I ever play any of them? yeah probably not but they exist anyway XD

[hershelwidget]

Wildest crossover in the world is going on (I have Ace Attorney, Splatoon, and Star Wars content on my dash all at once rn) and I'm sitting on the edge of my seat waiting to see what happens next

[sassypotatoe1]

It's also because they want to control who gets help more. A social program has requirements to apply and benefit, sure, and they're not exactly perfect or generally accessible, but at least they legally shouldn't discriminate on the basis of race, sex, sexuality and disability. A charity however has complete free rein AND gets a tax kickback, while social programs only benefit the beneficiaries directly financially.

When someone says they believe there should be more charities and less social programs you can bet your entire life savings that they don't mean they wish aid was more accessible, they mean they want to control who receives it based on whether they believe the recipient is deserving, and they want to benefit from it too. I know they mean this because someone who wants aid to be more accessible and less regulated by the government doesn't advocate against social programs, they advocate for improving them.