#twin tip markers

[gemstarb]

[revasserium]

college fencer!zoro headcanons; not nsfw but a bit risque below the cut, fem!reader, in the same universe as death before decaf, prev fic knowledge not required but helpful. enjoy ;)

college fencer!zoro who is just as shit at studying as you’d always expected, falls asleep in any class that doesn’t have to do with sports and food (though you were truly shocked at how many subjects your uni has that do involve either one or the other), but comes with you to every single one of robin’s academic decathlon contests, just because he knows its important to you.

college fencer!zoro who tugs off his shirt the first time you bury your face in his pillow to complain about the upcoming anatomy quiz, smirking when you blink up at him, cheeks dusting pink, a question in your eyes as he lets out a protracted sigh, glancing away with, “well — you’ve got a live model right here so…”

college fencer!zoro who realizes he’s bitten off way more than he can chew when you press him down onto the tiny twin bed, a trio of colored skin-safe markers in hand, your eyes glinting in the dull light of his feeble dorm lamp, tracing a delicate finger along each muscle group before reciting the name and function out loud and labeling the name on his bare skin; he tries not to think about the softness of your thighs as they straddle his waist, or the way the curve of your ass shifts just above where a gnawing tightness is gathering between his legs.

college fencer!zoro who spends the rest of the night forcing you to name the different muscle groups in your upper thigh while he traces them over with his tongue.

college fencer!zoro who glowers at anyone who tries to partner with you in practical applications, even when you roll your eyes and tell him that you’re supposed to be learning about how to treat a variety of body types — not just him; who pins you with a look and asks, completely seriously, who the fuck else you think you’ll be treating for the rest of your sports medicine career, who, when you ask him what he means, only cocks his head and says, “as if i’d let you touch anyone else.” before stalking away.

college fencer!zoro who never lets you out of his sight at frat parties, sticks close even if he’s drunk enough to laugh at someone else’s jokes, who makes a habit of grazing the tips of his fingers along the bend of your waist just to remind of you of his presence, who only grins when the rest of the fencing team teases about being secretly whipped, responding with, “yeah, and?” in such a casual tone that no one else dares to say anything else about it; who tells you that jealousy looks good on you whenever you pout at him talking to another girl, but will let you talk to other guys so long as you know you’ll feel it in the way he sinks his teeth into the skin of your neck later on that night.

college fencer!zoro who calls you when he’s five minutes late to your date, admitting that he’d gotten lost somehow on the campus that both of you have been frequenting for the past three years; who grumbles an apology when you finally find him clear across campus, in the entire opposite direction, and you’ve definitely missed your reservations, but still insists on going on a date anyways; who laces his fingers between yours and lets you pull him into a shop with pink walls and too many neon signs and the fruitiest cocktails he’s ever tasted, but who will still smile sweet and wide as you look over the menu with contented, eager eyes, because your happiness has always been more important to him than any missed reservation.

college fencer!zoro who, in the midnight dark, shifts to pull you into his chest and murmur into your hair, “stay with me…” to which you reply with a sleepy, “yeah… ‘m not going anywhere…” and him, “good. cause forever’s a long time and i don’t plan on spending it alone.”

[malenjoyer]

Helloooo, what kind of brand of art supplies do you use for markers and pens/color pencils?

For my last traditional piece with superman, I used

- Tombow brush tip markers (it’s very nice for coloring but i don’t know if it’s good for building color. I mostly do flat colors. It doesn’t dry up as fast to me which is preferable as someone who forgets to draw traditionally for months)

- touch mark twin marker, rectangular tip (good for covering large areas, not great for building color. It’s colors are very strong for the blue one I used. You only need one layer of color. It bleeds onto the back. Strong smell of alcohol)

-Aqua Pen Graphix, brush tip. mostly because they had a lot of bright color options that I haven’t seen before and survived since high school somehow.

-Faber castell Pitt artist pen bullet nib set (mostly because I ran out of black pens. It’s dark and works like a very small tip marker. I can’t tell the difference between Pigma nib pens yet)

I don’t have much experience with color pencils aside from prismacolor ones in school.

I like the softer ones but let me just say I don’t have $130 for a whole set so I use what I get (random stuff)

My personal preference is Tombow, Pigma. I’m a brush guy. Everything else, I’m not that picky. I used to write my notes in crayola marker in high school so I can work with budget stuff. Copic markers are also good. Those are the most popular recommended markers but I will always have a lingering wound from not being able to afford the sets like #thecoolkids. Best bet is go to one of those fancy art stores like Blick arts and try to see if you like how it feels.

[wickedwitchofthesouth]

New gen Harry Potter headcanons because I'm waiting for my laundry to dry and I'm bored:

Astoria malfoy is from Japan, so scorpius is wasian but still somehow comes out with that malfoy-blonde hair and blue eyes colour pallet, despite still having very Japanese features just like his mother

Carmen and Marco zabini are twins. Carmen is the older one, and she's a total no-nonsense baddie. Marco, on the other hand, is the very embodiment of a golden retriever boy.

Carmen does Marcos hair because he's horrible at taking care of it, and she learned how to braid at the age of 7.

Albus thinks he looks nothing like Harry, and he actually prides himself on being his father's complete opposite [he's actually the only potter kid that looks like an exact carbon copy of Harry]

The potters speak urdu at home, James Lily and Albus call Harry Baba and ginny muma. I'd like to think Harry- After graduating, probably had a phase where he was immensely involved in learning about his desi heritage. I feel like he probably even travelled to Pakistan a couple of times to reconnect with his culture. But I also feel like he felt more like a third culture kid sort of connection to it. The UK was still his home, and he didn't think that would ever change. He still tried, though. He learned the language and tried to teach it to his children so they wouldn't feel as alienated from their ethnicity as he probably did. Ginny learned urdu alongside him, partially because she just wanted to encourage him.

When scorpius was little he would often find himself talking to the portrait of his uncle regulus that his grandma had put up after the war. Uncle reggie , as he liked to be called, was scorpius' favourite old family memeber.

Harry always introduces Teddy as his oldest son.

Albus is exceptional at potions. He's also very talented in quidditch, the only thing is he doesn't really like playing.

James on the other hand is a total jock. I'm talking Oliver Wood level dedication to the craft of quidditch.

Lily luna is the embodiment of that scene from good omens season two of the little girl going "And I'm jemaimah! I made this pot!!"

Fred II likes to go by freddie, and him and James II are practically James and sirius 2.0. It drives McGonagall crazy.

Carmen and Marco make everyone believe they have twin telepathy as a prank one day, but now they have to keep up the bit because it's too late to drop it.

Scorpius has a pet ferret and he named it bunny. He was 6 and he thought it would be funny.

When scor was a kid he would colour in dracos dark mark with felt tip markers and scribble all over his arm and go "there now it's pretty". One day draco walked into a tattoo parlour with a scribbled mess on his arm and told the artist to make his sons art work permanent. Draco still has the mark but now its sporting all sorts squiggles and shapes in every colour imaginable. Scorpius thinks its embarrassing because that was definitely not one of his more finer works but draco finds comfort in the way his life's biggest regret becomes just a little more bareable because of Scorpius' childish innocence.

Draco is dad of the year. Harry on the other hand... is still trying to get there.

That's all thanks for coming to ny Ted talk

[the-state-of-georgia-official]

i got bored, decided to make a smoothie bowl for dinner:

with washable twin tip felt markers for dessert /sillyj

[ncfan-1]

I have pondered a long time the question of just what it is that makes both Sol and Qimir both immediately want Osha upon seeing her, whereas Mae is discarded the moment Osha comes into focus. I think I have finally hit upon an answer, one I’ve hesitated to share because I was afraid people would think I was saying it to slight Osha when I’m not, but here it is. I think the answer lies in Osha’s willingness to assimilate, versus Mae’s unwillingness to assimilate.

What is it that makes Sol recoil from Mae on the night of the Ascension, and narrow his focus to be concerned only for Osha’s well-being, even though, if he really does consider the coven to be as sinister as he seems to, he ought to still think that both of these girls could be in danger? It’s when he sees the mark on Mae’s forehead that she has received as consequence of having undergone the Ascension, the physical marker of her belonging with her coven and her unwillingness to assimilate to the dominant paradigm of Force-wielding in the galaxy. He says of her that she “has been marked by dark magic,” and his attitude very much seems to be that she was tainted by this dark magic. He immediately concludes that the marked sister is safe with her family while the unmarked sister is not, even though he has no idea to what end Mae was marked, and Osha wasn’t.

It is Mae, all of eight years old, and not Osha, who is put on the spot about her marginalized culture by a pair of adult outsiders with “notions”, without one of the adults of her own community present. Mae is allowed to lie her way through her cognitive test unchallenged. Sol and Indara both know that Mae is lying during that test—Sol saw her using the Force twice; he knows perfectly well that she’s Force-sensitive—but Sol never encourages her to tell the truth, never shows any real, deep concern for her well-being, even though Mae takes the test first, even though it’s Mae’s behavior and not Osha’s that first tips him off that the twins have been told to lie. He’s Othered her. He’s dismissed her from the place in his heart where concern lives. It’s only after Sol thinks that he’s killed Mae that she seems to become important to him again, dwelling in the place in his heart where guilt lives, a frozen memory that he can perhaps forget had accepted a different way of life than the life he lives, a frozen memory that he can perhaps forget he did such a serious disservice to, even before he dropped her.

As for Qimir, I’ll admit, I have long held him in contempt for his “Mae was only interested in revenge,” because it exposes that Qimir never made much of an effort to get to know Mae, no matter how long he was acquainted with her. To the audience, it’s obvious that Mae wanted the companionship of her family more than she ever wanted revenge, because of her willingness to abandon her pursuit of revenge/justice against the Jedi who killed her family when she discovers that Osha, one of her family, is still alive. But let’s assume that Qimir is speaking truthfully when he assumes that Mae was only interested in revenge, and if we do, I wonder if this isn’t an expression of something else.

Qimir does not identify himself as a Sith, saying only that the Jedi would probably name him as such. But we know that there is an implied connection between him and Darth Plagueis, which most likely leaves him Sith-adjacent; the fact that he prompts Mae to recite the first line of the Sith Code in Episode 2 suggests as much. And we know that Qimir was once a Jedi. So, we have Jedi and Sith in Qimir’s background, the two ideologies that take turns as the dominant Force-wielding paradigms in the galaxy. And what is Mae, exactly?

Mae, who when she goes out to track down the Jedi who killed her family, wears clothing and armor that is as close a replication of traditional dress in her community as she seems able to approximate. Mae, who when she needs a poison to offer to Torbin, insists on using bunta, a poison native to Brendok, a poison that she used in her daily life for hunting during the winter, when she would hunt with her family. Mae, who wants to make damn sure that the Jedi she’s hunting down know who it is who’s coming after them, and why. What is Mae, exactly? Whatever tradition of Force-wielding she might currently be utilizing, she very clearly still identifies with the witches of Brendok.

The thing of it is, it’s not as though Mae hasn’t already made a huge compromise while training with Qimir, in that she was willing to accept his tutelage at all. The show doesn’t dwell on it, but electing to accept Jedi-adjacent training cannot possibly have been a decision she made lightly, or easily, whatever Qimir says about Mae having agreed to it “immediately.” To accept training in the tradition of the people who killed her family cannot possibly have been something she agreed to because she was eager for it for its own sake—she can only have agreed to it out of devotion to the family she lost, because she saw no other way to become strong enough to seek justice for them.

A huge compromise, and apparently not enough for Qimir. What’s the difference between Osha and Mae to Qimir? Qimir seems instantly fascinated with Osha. Even before Mae prepares to desert him, he seems to have almost completely lost interest in her, because Osha’s turned up. Why is that? We know that he treats Osha with honesty, whereas he has been consistently deceitful to Mae since they first met. We know that he approaches Osha with sympathy, whereas his treatment of Mae was such that she regarded him with no affection or respect, only with fear and implied resentment.

Qimir’s stated motivation is that he wants freedom from the Jedi, who say that someone like him “can’t exist.” That sure does sound familiar, doesn’t it? From Mae’s point of view, that’s exactly what happened to her and her family. Members of the dominant Force-wielding ideology in the galaxy came to her homeworld, trespassed into the home of her marginalized community, and killed her entire family, with her and her sister as the only survivors. But Qimir never made an attempt to reach out to her on the basis of this huge piece of shared ground between them. He was instead deceitful, made her fear him, and eventually wrote her off as “only being interested in revenge.”

What’s the difference between Osha and Mae to Qimir? Why does he treat Osha so differently?

Well, Osha was once a Jedi, too, like Qimir. And Qimir may regard that as far more genuine a stretch of common ground than Mae having spent sixteen years believing herself to be the sole survivor of a ideologically-motivated massacre of her people by Jedi who decided that they couldn’t exist. He can empathize with Osha’s circumstances, but finds nothing in Mae’s to empathize with. Instead, he looks at Mae, Mae who still identifies strongly with her marginalized community, and Others her just as much as Sol did. “You’re not like me, and you never will be.” He writes off her devotion to her family as simple revenge-obsession, and makes no effort to understand.

Osha is far more malleable to the dominant ideologies than Mae is, far more willing to assimilate. If The Acolyte hadn’t been cancelled, I think we would have seen her forced to reckon with her heritage eventually; the fact that she instinctively uses Force Magic when she has Qimir’s helmet on is a strong sign of that. But she is willing to leave her family and become a Jedi, and implied later to be willing to adhere to Qimir’s ideas of what a Dark Sider should be, and receives positive responses as a result. Whereas Mae refuses to assimilate more than is absolutely necessary for her own survival, identifies strongly with her marginalized community even after all of them are dead, and is left on the outside of everything as a result.

[sentofight]

MUSE BODY LANGUAGE

Einar Vilho

DEFENSIVENESS : arms crossed on chest // crossing legs // fist-like gestures // pointing index finger // karate chops // stiffening of shoulders // tense posture // curling of lip // baring of teeth

REFLECTIVE : hand-to-face gestures // head tilted // stroking chin // peering over glasses // taking glasses off — cleaning // putting earpiece of glasses in mouth // pipe smoker gestures // putting hand to the bridge of the nose // pursed lips // knitted brows

SUSPICION : arms crossed // sideways glance // touching or rubbing nose // rubbing eyes // hands resting on weapon // brows raising // lips pressing into a thin line // strict, unwavering eye contact // wrinkling of nose

OPENNESS & COOPERATION : open hands // upper body in sprinters position // leaning in closely // sitting on the edge of a chair // hand-to-face gestures // unbuttoned coat // tilted head // slacked shoulders // droopy/relaxed posture // feet pointed outward // palms flat and facing outward

CONFIDENCE : hands behind back // hands on lapels of coat // steepled hands // baring teeth in a grin // rolling shoulders // tipping head back but maintaining eye contact // chest puffed up // shoulders back // arms folded just above navel

INSECURITY & ANXIETY : chewing pen or pencil // rubbing thumb over opposite thumb // biting fingernails // hands in pockets // elbow bent // closed gestures // clearing throat // “ whew ” sound // picking or pinching flesh // fidgeting in chair // hand covering mouth whilst speaking // poor eye contact // tugging at pants whilst seated // jingling money in pockets // tugging at ear // perspiring hands // playing with hair // swaying // playing with pointer / marker // smacking lips // sighing // rocking on balls of feet // flexing fingers sporadically

FRUSTRATION : short breaths // “ tsk ” sounds // tightly-clenched hands // fist-like gestures // pointing index finger // running hand through hair // rubbing back of neck // snarling // revealing teeth / grimacing // sharp-eyed glowers with notable tension in the brows // shoulders back, head up - defensive posturing // clenching of jaw / grinding teeth // nostrils flaring // heavy exhales

tagged by: @unshackled-instinct (sankyuuu)

tagging: @dcviated (wywy?), @psychcdelica , @pieman1112 , @isaaccecilbryant , @kinships (setu!) , @apotelesmati (elli or xavier? or za twins????) , @foolshoujo , @amalanexus (honks at amon), @flovverworks (or gran~), @riftdancer (shane!!!!!!!!) , @juwul , and u~ steal it with style

[the-dalseum-duet]

in dalseum angst and fluff are synonymous

obligatory “partipicant in the conversation that inspired this” tag: @svwhssftr

lots of things I have been thinking about just thrown into one big mess here. noeul sang the man that you are. I want to chop him up in a meat grinder and see what comes out (affectionate?)

also idk what possesses me when I write kai but it isn’t me who writes what he says. I think he actually possesses me

“You want a blue one?” Noeul rummaged through the plastic bin of various markers between him and Crow. All shades of the rainbow were scattered around his crushed velvet duvet. Before he could find one, Crow had already uncapped one with his tiny, nimble hands. 

“I got it,” Crow mumbled, attempting to hold Noeul’s arm in place as he intently scribbled within the lines of his Twin Fantasy tattoo. 

“You got it,” Noeul repeated. “Do you know what this tattoo is?” 

Crow shook his head, eyes transfixed on the tip of his marker. 

“It’s one of my favorite albums. You know, I think you’d like it. I’ll put it on for us.” 

Noeul snaked his arm away from Crow’s grasp to reach into the record bin beside his bed. He flicked through his collection before removing the vinyl from its sleeve and placing it on his record player. He briefly considered if playing “Sober to Death” was a good choice in front of his toddler, but decided the song itself was fine. He lined up the grooves before setting the needle. 

“This one’s my favorite song from the album,” he explained as he resettled into his bed. Crow simply nodded as he continued coloring. 

Noeul’s eyelids became heavy as he stared at his dark ceiling and stretched out his legs. For once, the world wasn’t closing in on him. Under the dull lamplight beside his bed, everything was okay. If only for a minute, everything was okay. 

He turned his head to the side against his pillow and watched as Crow began to color the wings of his moth tattoo. He knew the colors by heart: yellow, brown, and black. Noeul still wasn’t sure about the sensation of his own eyes— his father’s eyes— staring back at him. They weren’t clouded by scorn or disdain or any other rage that plagued generations of the Sang family yet. They were blank and entirely focused on coloring a bug. Noeul almost smiled but found himself half-scoffing. 

“Hey bitch,” Kai yawned as he swung open Noeul’s door by pressing his entire weight against it. “Did you remember not to eat any dairy today?” 

Noeul’s eyes widened as he rapidly glanced between Kai and his hyperfixated child. “A warning would have been nice.” 

“I thought Sonnet had her tonight.” Kai crossed his arms. 

“They had a busy day. Marie fell right asleep, but she wasn’t interested in that.” Noeul ruffled the top of Crow’s hair. “I’m letting her wear herself out.” 

“So, there won’t be any…” 

“Not tonight.” 

“You’re so lame,” Kai whined. “Actually doing shit with your kid. Why are you trying to be a good father?”

“Crow’s a good kid. She needs someone good to take care of her, at least sometimes.” 

“Hi, Kai,” Crow quietly said, his big dark eyes locking with Kai’s for a split second. 

“She knows my name!” Kai exclaimed, his tune quickly changing. He took a spot across from him and crossed his legs. 

“She really doesn’t talk much,” Noeul said. “You should be honored.” 

“I’m so honored,” Kai said, grabbing a black marker from the bin.

“I’m kind of worried,” Noeul explained. “Marie’s nearly speaking in full sentences in Khmer. Crow’s picking up a little bit of Korean, but she barely speaks at all. Even in English.” 

“That’s okay.” Kai started drawing on an empty patch of skin on Noeul’s arm. “Someone in this damn Palace needs to be quiet on occasion.” 

“Sara’s been dogging on me to get her tested,” Noeul said, “because Blaire was on the spectrum or whatever, so there’s a chance that she is. I don’t understand why it’s such a big deal, though. A diagnosis won’t change anything.” 

“She’s chill,” Kai said, nodding. “I don’t care what she is. I fuck with her. I don’t fuck with most kids, but she’s cool.”

“Maybe word that differently.”

“You know what I mean.”

“What are you drawing on my arm?” Noeul tilted his head to inspect Kai’s masterpiece. 

“It’s abstract,” Kai explained. By “abstract,” Kai meant a crudely drawn penis. 

“Very classy,” Noeul flatly said. 

“It takes years of practice to get it that symmetrical.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” Noeul rolled his eyes. 

“Wait, is this Car Seat Headrest?” Kai craned his neck to inspect the record playing. 

“I was explaining my tattoo,” Noeul said. “You have to teach ‘em young.” 

“I’ve never met a baby who liked Car Seat Headrest.”

“I don’t think she’s feeling it. She’s more of a Tears for Fears fan.” 

“Ooh, Tears for Fears?” Kai said. “Crow, what’s your favorite song?” 

“Rule the World,” Crow answered, a few of the consonants misshapen. 

“Damn,” Kai sighed. “Noeul, your baby’s a poser. Can’t even say the whole title.” 

“Let her have her moment,” Noeul said, playfully elbowing Kai. 

“She’s knocking herself out over there.” Kai nodded to the rainbow vomit that had covered Noeul’s tattoos, courtesy of Crow. 

“Oh, she loves this,” Noeul said. “She’s pretty good at drawing, too. Put anything she can draw with in front of her, and she’s going to do this for hours on end.”

Kai almost spoke, but he just tilted his head and grinned. 

“Magwi, tell him about what you’re coloring,” Noeul whispered, pointing at his moth tattoo. 

“A death’s head hawkmoth,” Crow said, pointing at it with the tip of his marker. Kai raised his eyebrows.

“Which ones do you like the best?” Noeul asked.

“The centipede,” Crow continued, “and I like the skulls.” 

His words were far from well-pronounced, but Kai could still piece them together. He rested his head on one of his fists. 

“Isn’t she something?” Noeul widely smiled, shaking his head to ruffle out his overgrown mullet. Kai had never seen him smile like that before. 

“I’ve never seen you like this,” Kai said, almost smiling. 

“Like what?” 

“I didn’t think you were capable of love,” Kai explained. “I just assumed you hated everything that wasn’t—“

Kai briefly narrowed his eyes at Crow before clearing his throat. “—carnal pleasure. I haven’t seen you this excited since we were dumb kids doing illegal shit.” 

“I don’t know, man,” Noeul said. “It’s kind of embarrassing to talk about, but this kind of shit changes you. I thought I was going to fuck everything up, but here we are.” 

“Do you like being a dad?” Kai slowly asked. “I just never pegged you as the kind of person who would.”

“Hated it at first. Now, I wouldn’t trade her for the world.” Noeul rested his forehead up against Crow’s, and he scrunched his little nose and giggled. 

Kai sighed. “You have to stop doing this, man.”

“What do you mean?”

“Being a better person. I forget you’re not all ‘Bend over, faggot-‘“

“Kai!”

“What?”

“She picks up on words crazy easy. She doesn’t even call me ‘dad’ or anything; she just calls me ‘Noeul’ because that’s what Sara calls me.”

“More like ‘screams at you,’” Kai mumbled. 

“She started saying ‘precious’ in a British accent because that’s what Gale calls her. She picks the weirdest words to cling to. I don’t think a slur is an appropriate choice.”

“It would be funny as hell, though. We don’t even know if she can reclaim that or not.” 

“I’m sure you would find it hilarious,” Noeul sighed. 

“But still, I had a point. She’s melting a soft spot in that fuckin’ ice-cold soul somewhere inside you.”

“Yeah, I think some of that nasty Southern charm is genetic. It’s hard not to fall into that trap when it’s framed as a kid who’ll listen to me talk about my pretentious music taste.” 

“Yeah, she gets it from me.” 

Noeul blinked. “What?” 

“She does. Did you forget that she’s mine?”

Kai devilishly grinned as Noeul nearly slammed his face into a pillow. 

“Now is not the time for one of your dumbass bits,” Noeul groaned. 

“What do you mean? This isn’t a bit. Of course, you wouldn’t remember because you didn’t show up to the birth of your own child. Fuckin’ whore.” 

Kai was almost afraid he struck a nerve with that one, but Noeul’s unimpressed expression eased Kai’s fear. 

“If you wanted me to knock you up, you could have just asked,” Noeul sneered. Kai’s jaw nearly hit the bed. 

“That’s enough.” Kai shook his finger as he pointed at Noeul. “I had all those organs removed as soon as I could. You know why?”

“Enlighten me.”

“Because you’re a freak who says shit like that and means it!”

“So you’re the only person around here who’s allowed to make jokes?”

“My jokes are funny. You’re not funny, Noeul. You’re insane.” 

“But here you are, in my bedroom in the middle of the night again and again.”

“Yeah, because I have to check in on my poor baby. My poor autistic baby.” 

“Kai, that isn’t funny!” Noeul laughed. 

“You’re laughing. It clearly was funny.” 

“Kai, you need to leave.” 

“What, am I not allowed to visit my daughter? My disabled daughter? God, you’re so ableist, man. I don’t want to split custody anymore.” 

“Take that to The Court. You’ll end up just like Blaire.”

Kai stopped laughing. “Noeul, we just went over you trying to be funny.” 

“That one was funny!”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“And you pretending to be the mother of my child is funny?” 

“You wouldn’t know. You weren’t there when she was born.” 

“You just said you had your uterus removed.”

“Yeah, because she took it with her.”

“Huh?”

“She got hungry. Late-night snack. Thought she would take it with her after she was born.”

“I don’t think that’s how that works.”

“It most certainly is how that works. See, she remembers. Crow, you remember eating my uterus.” 

Crow blankly stared at Kai. Kai subtly nodded his head, and Crow followed his actions. 

Kai cackled and clasped his hands together as Noeul pressed his fingers into his temples. 

“See, she knows! She knows I’m her mother.”

“Kai, I need to sleep. Get out of here.” 

“I’ve had my fun tonight. If I didn’t get to fuck you, at least I got to fuck with your baby.”

“Please stop wording it like that.”

“Bye, Crow!” Kai blew a sarcastic kiss before dramatically exiting the bedroom. Noeul glanced over at his son, and Crow was peacefully resting against one of the satin pillows. 

“I need to invite him over more often if he wears you out that fast,” Noeul whispered, leaning over to kiss his forehead. He collected the markers before admiring the colorful display strewn across his arms and removing the vinyl from his record player. 

If he had anything, he had Crow in all of his wonderful, weird glory. He knew a long night of sleep would be waiting for them after he dimmed the lamplight. 

[live-from-flaturn]

Act 5, Scene 1

KimChay, post-breakup character study featuring Macbeth references.

approx. 500 words

Kim could feel the burn of those eyes on the back of his neck like twin brands. The sensation of being watched made every hair on his arms and along the base of his scalp stand on end. His nerves jangled beneath his skin, further from his control than he preferred.

"Why don't you call me anymore, P'Kim?"

The guileless excitement that filled Chay's voice whenever he answered one of Kim's calls never failed to get Kim praying for heavenly retribution. But he hadn't called Chay in over a week. Hadn't texted him, either.

"What have I done wrong, Phi? Don't you still like me?"

The burning intensified. His hands clenched hard enough to crack the plastic casing of his cheap felt-tip marker. Behind the gaudy painting Kinn had commissioned for him (and Khun) last Christmas was a small rectangular photo pinned against cork.

Porchay Kittisawat's photo.

His... (mentee? murder suspect? stalker? stalking victim? muse? fanboy? crush? potential boyfriend?) Chay.

Kim knew how to make snap-decisions. He could maneuver himself away from most dangers and keep those around him from stumbling too close to the fire; but he couldn't do shit for Chay. The poor kid was in over his head, now.

And Kim had... Kim said...

"Why did you leave, P'Kim?"

"Why?" Kim whispered.

He stared down at the red ink splattered across his palm for a long, silent moment - Out, damned spot! out, I say! - before he shook the pieces of sticky, ruined plastic into a nearby garbage can. Those wide amber eyes hadn't stopped haunting him, waking or sleeping. Chay was everywhere. The laughter of a stranger, the busker with a cheap guitar, the girl who sold flowers near the temple doors...

"Why did I do that?!"

What, will these hands ne'er be clean?

Kim stood suddenly and spun on his heel. He flung the painting aside with a loud thud and ripped Chay's picture from beneath its round black pin. Those eyes, those fucking eyes! Kim didn't know whether to scream or cry or burst into song. He hadn't felt like this, hadn't felt in so long.

Anger and fear ruled his childhood. Anxiety and ambition ruled him now, and whatever they touched went up in smoke. He couldn't lose Chay like that. Not ever. And yet...

"He needed me. Needed Porsche. Needed someone to keep him from falling between the cracks and we failed him. Fuck!"

What's done cannot be undone.

"Why didn't I fucking stay?"

[awesomesauce2929]

I got new twin tip markers today so I attempted to draw my tumblr icon, I can’t wait to redo this again in 6 months time to improve myself and my drawing skills in general.

(The eyes were unfortunately could not be done due to having the wrong colour (Violet instead of Lilac) and shape)

[jwinsorart]

Day 6 of lettering advent. I always need a grey to add shadows to my brush lettering or subtle highlighting on a journal spread. This one is great because I can use the fine tip or the chisel tip.

Lettering advent calendar by @lettersandlattesllc

🖋 @writechofficial Twin Plus Marker

📜 @maruman.usa Mnemosyne Grid

[theo-in-the-toaster]

Sanders Sides sketchbook headcanons (3/6) Roman

Roman has a hardcover sketchbook with a maroon leather cover. It’s 8.5” x 11”, bound on the long side. The paper seems to be different for each page, depending what he wants to use it for. All the pages open perfectly flat so he can do full 17” x 11” spreads. 

He uses all mediums, including but not limited to: graphite, colored pencils, alcohol markers, brush tip pens, acrylic paint, oil paint, watercolors, crayon, oil pastels, charcoal, chalk pastels, gouache, and pan pastels

Lots of art of Nico. Like so much. 

Roman actually draws just as much “dark” stuff as his twin.

His art style leans towards stylized or abstract instead of realism.

He loves showing off his art, always willing to get some praise for it.

Logan Patton Roman Remus Janus Virgil

[duck-in-a-spaceship]

say it back

More House M.D. fanfic! This time with ~chapters~ Also, this is mostly pre-written, so I should update pretty regularly. It's just four chapters, but if anyone wants to be tagged in future updates, lmk

Summary: What if when House tells Wilson he loves him, Wilson says it back?

Well, naturally they turn to humor until “I love you”, “I love you too” becomes the most convoluted, gayest inside joke ever. And then of course they realize they mean it.

Word Count: 2373

Warnings: Near-death experience

Next>>

+++

Chapter 1: Diagnosing the Afterlife

House is dead.

Well, alright, he probably isn’t, but he’s definitely on his way there.

And, in a way, that was his goal, so… hooray for him. If he ends up not-dead, he’ll have to host a celebration. A celebration where he proves that the afterlife, right before it collapses into nothingness, is just his office painted in a stark white.

Every pen, every picture, every fiber of carpet has had its color sucked away. Little details, grooves on the wood and dust on his knick knacks, have been consumed by the startling lack of color. Static, the one exception in the room, fizzles on House’s computer.

Outside of his office there’s true nothingness. A void of white shines on the other side of every window, every stupid pane of glass that surrounds him. If House’s body gives up, it’s easy to imagine me might end up walking out the glass doors and disintegrating into nothing.

It’s a tempting offer, if he thinks about it for too long, so House decides not to entertain it.

Instead, he pushes himself to his feet with his cane (it’s an action of habit, he notes; no pain burns in his leg) and crosses the room to his whiteboard.

“Alright team.” House addresses no one, uncaps the marker with a flourish. “Differential, go.”

“It’s not cancer. If it was, we wouldn’t be seeing-”

“No, not the patient.” In big, messy letters, House titles the board ‘Afterlife’. He taps the marker against the writing, turning around to face his suddenly materialized crew. Every single one of his potential employees is crammed into that room, shoulder-to-shoulder, knee-to-knee. One of the twins is sitting on the other's lap. If he looks at Big Love out of the corner of his eye, he starts to phase into Kutner. Not enough room in purgatory, apparently, for everyone to exist without physics breaking down. It was Cutthroat Bitch that felt the need to start giving him the wrong differential, and House points an accusatory marker her way. “You’re lucky that wasn’t actually you saying that, otherwise you’d be fired.”

She has the skill to look confused and offended at the same time. “That’s our patient. Who else are we supposed to be…?”

House turns back to his whiteboard.

“Right now, there’s not much I can do to help Toto and crippled Dorothy, and since none of you are real-” ‘White nothingness’, ‘Physics breakdown’ and ‘Familiar scenery’ are all added to the list as symptoms. “-there’s nothing you can do either.” The tip of his cane slams onto the ground to punctuate his point. It passes right through Taub’s foot. “Come on people! Differential!”

“You’re dead.” It’s Thirteen that pipes up that time, and House mentally fires her too.

“No I’m not. I’m almost dead. I’m on the tightrope with death, and the next person that says something stupid is going to be pushing me off.” Forget euphoria, forget the most ‘intense thing he’s ever done’, House’s version of almost dying was just a more migraine-inducing taste of reality.

“You’re having a near-death experience,” Taub corrects.

“Obvious, but not incorrect,” House grants him. “So, if this is near-death, then what’s that?” The tip of his cane moves up, through Taub, and points out the glass door into the shining abyss.

“That’s Wilson.”

“What?” House turns his head. Wilson is standing at the entrance to his office, the glass door to death still swinging closed behind him. He looks more real than anything House has seen since he stuck a knife into a socket. The applicants disappear. “Are you happy?” Wilson asks. He steps further into the room, bringing the gravitational pull of reality with him. Color flows into House’s office, shadows deepening every time Wilson’s foot hits the ground, details filling out where House hadn’t even noticed they were missing.

House blinks, and he’s suddenly seated at his desk, one foot propped up like it’s the most natural thing in the world, his cane mid-twirl in his hand. The only evidence that the past several minutes happened at all is the whiteboard still titled ‘Afterlife’, and the unnatural white still shining in from outside.

House fumbles with his cane, and it slips out of his fingers.

“Well?” Wilson demands. “Are you happy with yourself? Did you get your answer?”

“Well I was going to, if you hadn’t interrupted my differential.”

Wilson rolls his eyes. “Oh please, you were practically holding Taub’s hand. You already had your answer.” He leans down and picks up House’s cane, offering it to him by the handle. House drums his fingers on the desk, ignoring the gesture.

“Sure, but it’s more fun if you let them figure it out too. Sharing is caring, that’s what I always say.”

“House, take your damn cane.”

Well, it would be rude to turn down such a polite request. House snatches his cane from Wilson’s grip, and slams it into his foot.

“Ow! What the hell is wrong with you?!”

Huh, real enough to feel pain, even. Take that, Taub. “This is the land of near-death,” House announces.

“Was that really necessary?”

Wilson’s question goes unanswered. “And that-” House once again points towards the white void that shines outside his windows. “-is death. All that nothingness. No God, no long-lost family members, no paradise, no heaven or hell. Just nothing.”

“And do you feel better now, with your proof that every dying patient clinging onto a little bit of hope is a moron?”

“Oh for sure, real weight off my shoulders. They’ll be thrilled to hear the news.” Pain runs up and down his leg like wires carrying electricity. It feels like his foot fell asleep, and now it’s waking up again, lighting his nerves on fire. House rubs one hand over the muscles, trying to relieve some of the tension, but it only makes him realize the pain is not limited to his leg. It burns in his hand as well, tingling in the palm and spreading out to sizzle in his fingers.

“Of course! What dying person doesn’t want their final comfort taken away?” Wilson is prattling on. “You should tell them their existence was meaningless next. That’ll really… Are you okay?”

“Well, I’m about to start living again, which is annoying.”

Wilson sighs, a comfortingly familiar sound. “Better than the alternative, at least.”

“We could just compromise. No dying, no living, I’ll just stay here. Become the new Coma Guy that my replacement can use as a table for his sandwiches.”

“Why would you want to stay here? I mean, no cases to solve, no Cuddy to torture, no team to play games with. You’d hate it here. It’s nothingness, it’s banal, it’s everything you try so hard to avoid.”

“Well the lack of pain has been nice. Besides, you’re still here for me to torture. I’d have you.”

Wilson shakes his head, briefly looking up at the ceiling before his eyes settle back on House. The pain in his leg is reaching reality-levels of excruciation, and the pain everywhere else is catching up fast. It makes it hard to focus, when Wilson walks around House’s desk, when he leans down so their faces are nearly touching.

He looks like he’s about to say something. He doesn’t, so House thinks about taking up the mantle instead. There’s something to be said here, he knows that. It’s what that eludes him.

Then again, maybe there isn’t something to say, because all the sudden, Wilson is kissing him.

House’s brain has run over time again. It skipped the part where Wilson settled on his lap, stuttered over the seconds where he placed one hand on House’s cheek, ignored the moment where he moved his other to House’s leg.

They must have happened, because they are happening, but the connective tissue is gone.

House decides it’s not really worth questioning, not at the moment at least.

Imagining kissing Wilson isn’t something House has liked to make a hobby of, but if he had ever given it a shot, he probably would’ve come up with something like this. Something with soft lips, with overeager zeal, with just enough gentleness to make House want more.

After a moment, a moment too long and a moment too soon, Wilson pulls away. House doesn’t know what to do but stare up at him in shock. He’s pretty sure he’s dying, now, but he doesn’t know how to say that, either.

Wilson sighs, pulling his hand away from House’s cheek. House tries to stop him, tries to grab onto his lingering fingers, but he must grab onto his sleeve instead, his hand closing on soft fabric. One of his ears is ringing, pulsating in what sounds like high-pitched beeps.

Wilson shakes his head, at least, he probably shakes his head. It’s getting a little hard to see, through the blinding white suddenly shining through the windows.

“You’re an idiot.”

It takes a moment for those words to sink in. More accurately, it takes a moment for House to realize that Wilson has said them out loud, that the brightness he’s squinting into is not a white void, but simply the hospital’s lights shining above him, that he’s not sitting at his desk, but in a bed. God it’s bright.

“You nearly killed yourself,” Wilson continues, as if they weren’t just having an entirely different conversation, an entirely different scene.

House blinks. Wilson is dressed differently, a simple dark green shirt instead of the lab coat he was just wearing, but other than that, he’s identical to the pseudo-Wilson House was just talking to, down to his expression: frustration mixed with annoyance mixed with concern. “That was the whole idea,” House points out.

“You wanted to kill youself?”

“I wanted to nearly kill myself,” House corrects. Wilson just stares, incredulous, the concern in his expression multiplying. Which is ridiculous. He should be relieved, all things considered. Trying to nearly kill himself was much better than the alternative.

House looks away. “Is he… better?” He has bigger things to worry about than Wilson’s concern. He can’t let this experiment have been for nothing.

Wilson just shakes his head, defeated. “No, but he doesn’t have cancer. We think it might be eosinophilic pneumonia. Maybe you didn’t want to die-” Oh great, he’s back on this and he hasn’t even answered the question. “-but you didn’t care if you lived.”

“You insisted that I needed to see for myself.”

Wilson pushes away from the stand, takes a couple steps to the side. Another admission of defeat.

“Was he discharged?” House presses.

“No, he’s dying.” Wilson comes to his bedside, turning to face him. “You’ve already had two near death experiences.”

“Not that guy.” Why does everyone think House wants to talk about his patient? “The- the guy in the car accident. With the knife. I… I need to talk to him.”

“He… died almost an hour ago.” Wilson says it like it’s obvious, like he’s confused why House would even be asking. “Apparently it’s bad to electrocute yourself within days of suffering massive internal injuries.”

Goddamnit. House presses his head against his pillow, closing his eyes. The one person he might like to talk to right now, have questions for, is dead.

“Why did you need to talk to him?” House doesn’t give Wilson an answer. What the hell is he supposed to say? I diagnosed the afterlife in my office? You were there? We made out at my desk? “Did you see something?” Wilson presses, and if House was just a little less rational, he would’ve swore that Wilson knew, somehow. Knew what he had seen, had been there, even.

“Eosinophilic pneumonia.” House opens his eyes, staring up at the ceiling. It’s easier, currently, than looking at Wilson. The old, dirty tiles are a strange comfort. The blinding lights are all-too familiar.

“House? What did you see?” Wilson asks. House doesn’t need to look at his face to know he’s switched to full-blown concern; it’s practically leaking out of his vocal chords. Can’t be healthy, really, having that much care for another human being.

“Nothing,” House answers on instinct. He looks over at Wilson. “Whose idea was that?”

“Brennan. Nothing you don’t want to talk about it, or nothing-?”

“Which one’s Brennan?” House cuts him off, and they’re back to their old dance, two conversations fighting for dominance. “Is he the ridiculously old guy?”

“House, you gotta talk about this.”

“If it’s aggressive enough, it might have gotten past the steroids.” House flexes his burnt hand, testing how far he can push the pain. “Start him on cyclophosphamide.”

“I already did.” Regret taints Wilson’s voice, although House isn’t exactly sure what he’s regretting. Encouraging him to try and get a taste of the afterlife? Not being able to convince House to open up about what he saw? Becoming friends with him in the first place? “Just looking at you hurts,” he continues, grabbing the clipboard from the side of House’s bed. “I’m gonna order up some extra pain meds.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.” It takes Wilson a moment, it seems, to process what he’s just said. His pen slows on the paper before stopping completely, cutting whatever he was writing off short. “I mean- ah. Well you… you know what I mean.” He starts writing again, like that will somehow do away with the pink that has spread across his cheeks.

“Do I?” House tilts his head to the side, like he’s really considering the question, like it’s really something that needs his consideration. “Honestly, I’m not sure I do. Care to elaborate?”

“You’re an ass.” Wilson glares at him, but the effect is entirely ruined by how completely flustered he is.

“And yet, you love me.”

“You said you love me too!” He gestures with the clipboard, brandishing it at House like a weapon. “I can’t-” He cuts himself off with a sigh. “I’ll come back later to make sure you haven’t found some new way to kill youself.”

“I’ll miss every second you’re away, darling!”

“Goodbye House!” The glass door clangs shuts behind him.

House smiles, looking back up to the dirtied tile and bright lights. Maybe his little brush with death wasn’t such a waste after all.

[etes-secrecy-post]

Hi, before I explain my post, I want to say something important.

• What you see my blog has become a major overhaul. And despite the changes, I decided that my 2nd account will be now my artwork blog with a secret twist.

⚠️NEW RULE! (W/ BIGGER TEXT!)⚠️

⚠️ SO PLEASE DO NOT SHARE MY 2nd ACCOUNT TO EVERYONE! THIS SECRECY BLOG OF MINE IS FOR CLOSES FRIENDS ONLY!⚠️

• AND FOR MY CLOSES FRIENDS, DON’T REBLOG IT. INSTEAD, JUST COPY MY LINK AND PASTE IT ON YOUR TUMBLR POST! JUST BE SURE THE IMAGE WILL BE REMOVED AND THE ONLY LEFT WAS THE TEXT.

⚠️ SHARING LINKS, LIKE POSTS, REBLOG POSTS, STEALING MY SNAPSHOT PHOTOS/RECORDED VIDEOS/ARTWORKS (a.k.a. ART THIEVES) OR PLAGIARIZING FROM UNKNOWN TUMBLR STRANGERS WILL IMMEDIATELY BE BLOCKED, RIGHT AWAY!⚠️

😡 WHATEVER YOU DO, DO NOT EVER LIKED & REBLOG MY SECRET POST! THIS IS FOR MY SECRET FRIENDS ONLY, NOT YOU! 😡

Okay? Capiche? Make sense? Good, now back to the post…↓

#Onthisday: Jun 10th, 2012

Title: Spot AGE-1 Normal

I have a ton of traditional drawings that relate on Cuteness Mecha in Gundam AGE armors without noting the armaments & features. So, I'm about to give it anyway with my 2012 sketch version of Spot AGE-1 Normal.

• This here is the armored AGE-1 used by Spot Speedster, of which was came from the "Legendary Savior" called "The Gundam" [CLICK ME! #!]. The AGE-1 was crafted masterpiece by the Asuno Family, and they follow up with the AGE-2 (for Gumball) & AGE-3/FX armors (for Chowder). Like future AGE armors, the AGE-1 uses the "AGE Device" [CLICK ME! #2] a memory device that will access the armor. Although, it did not effect their age progression, human/anthro or otherwise. It also has "Wear System" crafted by the "Age Builder" [CLICK ME! #3], which also crafted several arsenals for the armor AGE trio. As for the AGE-1's Wear System, it can switch from Normal to other forms like the "Titus", "Spallow", "Razor", "Glansa", etc...

Spot AGE-1 Normal Came from the: AGE-1 Gundam AGE-1 Normal

Armament(s):

• DODS Rifle The basic long ranged armament of the AGE-1 Normal. The DODS Rifle was created by the AGE system after the Genoace's Beam Spray Gun. The DODS Rifle spins the beam it fires like a powerful drill, generating enough force to destroy enemy mobile suits in a single shot. The DODS rifle has a limited number of shots, enough to keep a running battle going for some time but eventually repeated use without resupply will render the weapon empty. The DODS Rifle can be stored on rear waist armor when not in use. The rifle has two configurations, a one-handed mode where the barrel is rotated so that the secondary grip is pointing downwards, and a two-handed mode where the barrel is rotated so that the secondary grip is horizontally aligned. The latter mode allows for higher precision when shooting. The word DODS is an acronym that means "Drill-Orbital Discharge System".

• Beam Saber/Dagger Stored in the AGE-1's side skirt armor are a pair of beam sabers. The beam sabers can adjust their length for different combat situations and are also strong enough to pierce and destroy enemy mobile suits with ease. One can be used as a reserve weapon, or both can be used simultaneously in a twin sword fashion.

• Shield The AGE-1's defensive armament. It is made much thicker and sturdier than the Genoace's shield.

• Beam Spray Gun A weapon originally used by the Genoace. Despite being a beam weapon, the Beam Spray Gun is not powerful enough to damage the armor of mobile suits. The shots of the Beam Spray Gun are about as powerful as a tank shell.

• Marker Shot A pistol-like weapon with non-lethal ammo used during the mock battle.

• Beam Rolling Lance The Beam Rolling Lance is a pole weapon with a rolling beam cutter on its tip. With it, the AGE-1 can slice down Vagan suits far better than regular beam sabers.

Special Feature(s):

• AGE System The AGE System is the Special OS for the AGE-1 (AGE-2, AGE-3 & AGE-FX) engineered by the lineage of the Asuno family. It researches the evolution of living beings by digitizing the mysteries surrounding it and collects battle data to customize itself, grows alongside the Cuteness Mecha member and is customized and used exclusively by the AGE armor users. The only way for this system to be used and the AGE Armor to mobilize is by using the AGE Device. After the rollout of its successor, AGE-2, AGE-1 was taken to the Earth Federation's headquarters, Big Ring so that it can be modified to not require the AGE System anymore.

• Wear System The arms (including shoulder armor) and legs of the AGE-1 are detachable, which allows alternate sets of limbs or "wears" to be attached. In conjunction with the AGE Builder, this allows the AGE System to dramatically change the overall performance of the unit by analyzing combat data and fabricating new wear parts to adapt to new situations or enemies. Later, the AMEMBO support craft was built to deliver the wear parts to AGE-1 during battle, saving it from having to return to its mothership/base for the exchange of wear parts.

Spot Speedster - created by ME! Armor (Mobile Suit Gundam AGE) - Gundam Series © SUNRISE, Sotsu

[rhinoclip]

what art supplies do you use? :)

Well I personally use any and all whenever I want to have a little bit of fun. It’s always good to experiment. :)

For my digital art on this account though, I work on Procreate on an IPad with an Apple Pencil. The brushes I use are Technical Pen for line art and flat colors, Derwent or HB Pencil for sketching, Flat Brush for any rendering or non-cell shading, and sometimes Lightpen for highlights. For any cheaper alternative, MediBang Paint is free and the app I started out with.

If you see me post any future realistic digital art, thats on Art Set and done with their Oil Paint brush.

For my traditional fanart, I work with any sketchbook I can find, but usually Articka or Strathmore Colored Pencil. For lineart, I either use a Hedgehog Touch pen from my local bookstore or a Pilot 0.5mm black felt tip pen (depends on how well my day is going.) I either sketch with any mechanical pencil you can find at Walmart or a Prismacolor Scholar colored pencil. I like to use the colored pencil because sometimes markers can pick up any unerased pencil, and if the pencil is gray it will look very muddy. For coloring, I use and recommend COPIC Sketch markers and Studio Series’ Artist’s Markers. I also sometimes use Kingart Twin-Tip Brush Pens, but not as often since I prefer alcohol-based markers instead of water-based. And for any detailing, highlighting, or bordering, I use and heavily recommend POSCA Medium Point markers for any details, highlights, or borders since they are very opaque and long-lasting.

Thanks for asking!

[anteaterisland]

Update! of All My GW2 Blorbos

These are my beloved GW2 Toons! Details and Close-up's below.

(Left) Grima The Blind.

Norn Revenant. When she was a child, she was possessed by a ghost, and has basically been an old woman her whole life, but recently she became traumatically dispossessed and is finding herself existing as a young woman without ever having been a child. She keeps trying to find herself (literally) by searching for her ghost, the one that got away, and keeps being only shallow host to various wisps who dont stick around. Lost.

(Right)Mouse The Pleasant. 

Mouse the Pleasant is an orphan, a human foundling. Her parents were killed in an accident, and when some good-doers searched the wagon crash site for the source of the crying, it took them quite a while to find her because she, precocious mesmer than she was, had gone invisible. It’s what kept her safe. 

She was raised in a bar, and learned very young that being sweet and nice and cute and letting people pinch her cheeks got her good tips. As a result, she grew up into the most pleasant, perfect, soft, squishable woman you’ve ever seen. 

At a certain point she decided that coming from nothing, with no knowledge of her past, meant she had nothing to lose, and started to up her game with a long con. She would sneak into fancy parties with illusory wealth and charm the nobles of divinity's reach, developing a persona of incredible class, eventually completely infiltrating the elusive club of the elite. She is the belle of every ball. She’s a whispers lightbringer and works with Countess Anise. 

Everyone who knows her loves her. And no one would ever suspect such an absolute sweatheart of being a vicious, manipulative witch. 

And if by sheer chance, she ever happened to run across Ratthew the Vile, why she wouldn’t think to give vermin like him a second glance. And without a second glance why, she’d probably never see that they have identical purple eyes. She lost her family far too young to remember she once had a twin.

(Left) Grenth Boy

Grenth Boy, (legal name redacted) is a human necromancer, and is only 17 years old. He was adopted by a noble family after he was orphaned as a newborn. His father named him after himself, and was very controlling, just the worst kind of rich asshole who treats his kid like an extension of himself, a doll on a shelf that only needs to say a few lines if you pull the string. 

When he finds his birth parents' graves it’s a transformative experience for him. The epitaphs on cold stone are the warmest parental experience of his life. Love for him sent across time, carved on a grave. Warmth and good wishes. They died before they could name him, but because he was born under the sign of Grenth, they called him their Grenth Boy. 

And he thinks to himself these death markers are the most beautiful things he’s ever seen. That this is who he was before his adoptive father tried to turn him into a clone of himself, when he was loved and free. He wishes he could have been raised by the gravestones, they would have been kinder to him.

On that day our boy decided, clearly and firmly, actually fuck being (redacted) jr. I’d rather be anyone else, I’d rather be no one than keep your name. I’d rather have never been named at all then named after you. 

And he runs away from home. There is only one peice of identity left to him, one place to go. The Temple of Grenth. But unfortunately, despite his new devotion, his father’s influence is a powerful obstacle, and the Priests there are too afraid to take him in as an acolyte. His noble father is convinced he will tire eventually of living on the streets and come home. 

But Grenth Boy doesn’t. He lives in an alleyway behind the temple, teaching himself to summon ghosts. His hair turns white and lank and his eyes begin to glow, as he develops his natural talent for necromancy and his deep spiritual love for Grenth. Never well-adjusted socially, his love of death and living happily in the gutter only further unnerve people. They say : “Stay out of that alley, it’s where that awful Grenth Boy lives.”

Wolfgang Lachrymohs, a noble whom Grenth Boy knows mostly by reputation, though they shared the same larger social circle before Grenth Boy left home, comes upon him one day. And upon being re-introduced to him as “Grenth Boy” says: “I cannot call you that. There must be something we can do.” And pulls some strings to at least have the boy be *acknowledged* by the temple. The priests knock up a little ceremony with some candles and vows as a half-measure, and Grenth Boy officially becomes a Votary of Grenth. Wolfgang will be the only person to ever actually call him that. Wolfgang is Grenth Boy’s hero. 

Grenth Boy is optimistic, naive, and an exceptional if slightly disturbing grief counselor. He is a devout man, who loves no ritual more than the last rights, but loves also caring and healing those on the brink of death. His ability to wield Grenth’s power in combat means he becomes the hero of shamoor, then eventually joining the priory and later the pact. His favorite place in the world is the Godslost Swamp, where he was recruited into the Priory. But he never forgets his dream of becoming a true Priest of Grenth. 

“Death is a blessing I mercifully bestow upon my enemies, and selfishly deny my friends.” - Grenth Boy

He’s also 5’2” and thin as a rake. 

(Right) Kiotvi Wildblood

A Norn Theif. Sansa’s half-brother by way of her father. He is a poacher and a woodsman who finds himself so awkward as to be unable to function properly in society, and so lives alone. He has a homestead in the Janthir Wilds and is an exquisite craftsman, he carved his sister’s bow for her. He lives a quiet life, utterly uninterested in heroics, unlike his sister.

(Left) Sansa “Stormwalker” Eirsdottir

The Commander’s Right Hand

A norn ranger, daughter of Eir Stegalkin. Sansa was raised by her father with little contact with her legendary hero mother. Her Father is a very noble, delicate man, and Sansa has very refined manners. Her norn peers thought she would become a skald like her Father, not a hunter like Eir. They should've known better, when she tamed a wolf. In her youth she ran messages between army camps and no blizzard nor thunder would stop her, earning her the epithet of Stormwalker. 

When she came of age she pursued legendary status with a fury. When she learned her mother was going to the Great Hunt, she decided to go as well, to prove to her mother that she had what it took to follow in her footsteps. With a wolf and bow at her side and her long red hair she was a vision, Eir Stegalkin come again. 

The strength of the Wolf is the Pack, and it is this wisdom that brings Sansa to create the Pact, collecting agents from every order to band them together to defeat the Elder Dragons. But as a member of the V(igil, she cannot be Pact Marshall, and Traheane is chosen instead. And again she is passed over, as Trahearne chooses Chlora Phylia the Sylvari to be Pact Commander. She takes the slights well though, and vows to help in any way she can. She is valiant and diligent in her support of the Pact Commander, Chlora Phylia. So enterprising and effective, many people get confused and think she actually is the Commander. 

This time is the closest relationship she’s ever had with her mother, and she is making Eir proud, which fills her with joy. She defends Eir to Zojja, forming a bitter rivalry. But When Sansa meets Braham Eirsson, a man she never knew existed, her own brother, she realizes her mother never told her of her brother, and beyond that, Eir never speaks to Sansa like a daughter, only as a soldier.

(Right) Chlora Phylia

The Commander.

A young sylvari, birthed from the pale tree less than a year before being made Commander of the pact, due to her close relationship with Marshal Trahearne. Early in her life she was recruited to the nightmare court, and stayed for some time, but when she was tasked with whipping the Verdant Hounds to turn them into nightmares she found she could not bear it. She escaped with a pup and returned to the pale tree, but the Nightmare is not so easily thwarted. 

Chlora Phylia wields a Strange Greatsword to focus her mesmeric power, a remnant from her days in the Nightmare Court. But she is spurred into violence by it's corruption. It unsettles those around her, she's the creepiest sort of mesmer. She blindfolds her eyes in combat, so how does she see... it must be her mesmeric clones, surely it could not be with that great twitching eye...

She is bitterly jealous of Trahearne, not for the post of Marshall, but for the Pale Tree’s favor. It was he whom she granted Caladbolg after Chlora quested to recover it for her people. Her own nightmarish sword stokes the fires of her coveting. She leans heavily on her dear friend, Sansa Eirsdottir, Founder of the Pact, to keep her sanity, and protect her image. The pressures of command and the nightmare are tearing her apart, but she wants to remain Trahearne's second at all costs, to become worthy of Caladbolg someday and The Pale Tree's favor. Or else take it from his corpse, but that's only in her nightmares. Right?

(Left) Lady Brassica

Lady Brassica is Chlora Phylia’s younger sister. Younger by about a month. 

Chlora Phylia was born to kill Zhaitan, to be the tip of the spear, her wild hunt is to fight for the sylvari and kill the pale tree’s enemies. She is Trahearne’s dear friend and the Commander of the Pact. 

Lady Brassica was born to kill Zhaitan, to be the tip of the spear, her wild hunt is to fight for the sylvari and kill the pale tree’s enemies. She is absolutely no one. 

Just after Chlora Phylia was born she was inducted into the nightmare court and the pale tree believed her lost. She birthed a back-up plan. The perfect soldier, strong, moral, beloved. Lady Brassica is the epitome of a knight, the platonic ideal of chivalry. Her first few missions were stunning triumphs, including against the hated nightmare court. 

Then Chlora Phylia broke free from the nightmare court. She returned to the pale tree’s favor as a double agent. She recovered Caladbolg and fought at Claw Island. 

And Lady Brassica had no more purpose.

(Right) Catalytic Curfuffle

An Asura Elementalist, is a young Asura with learning disabilities. ADD and Dyscalculia to name a few. She tried very hard to be a good Asura and learn advanced mathematics and Robotics in school but from a young age she showed no talent, no genius. She would throw explosive temper tantrums. She ran away from home and ended up being adopted by Rytlock and forming her own Warband. She fights her battles with raw firepower, literally.

(Left) Old Man Blep

An Asura Engineer. He works in construction maintenance in Rata Sum. He has two grown daughters, one biological, an asura elementalist firecracker named Catalytic Curfuffle. And one adopted, a Charr engineer named Marrow Antoinette. He and his ex-wife raised them together as an experiment in Nature vs Nurture, they wanted to determine if Charr were naturally aggressive or it was learned behavior. 

Marrow Antoinette grew up to be the sweetest, gentlest, smartest Charr anyone had ever met. She is a model asura, building tiny golem circuits with the greatest of delicacy and the tips of her claws. Her white fur is kept fastidiously clean, and she wouldn’t hurt a fly. 

However, the entire question of whether this was indeed nurture prevailing is made inconclusive, because their biological daughter flunked out of school and ran away from home in frothing rage. Just before she left she accused both her parents of treating their children as unethical science experiments instead of family. 

Over the years, Old Man Blep took this deeper and deeper to heart. He would have long arguments with his then wife about it, who did not agree that they had done anything wrong, culminating in their divorce. 

His ex-wife was a star architect in Rata Sum and helped build it’s most spectacular buildings. She’s made a permanent mark on the world and the history of the asura, her name literally carved into the floating foundations. Old Man Blep spends his days in the bowels of the city, fitting himself into acute angles of the pyramid, cleaning up broken tiles and fixing magnetic pipes with a big rusty wrench and a chisel. No one will remember him or his work, but he takes what small measure of pride from it as he can. He keeps the city from falling out of the sky. 

Old Man Blep is an old, very sad man, who believes his true life’s work, his family, was ruined by his own hand. His only goal is to do whatever it takes to make his daughters feel loved, even if it means respecting their wishes and keeping his distance from Catalytic Curfuffle for the rest of his life.

(Right) Marrow Antoinette

A Charr Guardian, was found as a Kitten and adopted by an Asura couple with a newborn as a questionably ethical experimental test subject into the question of Nature versus Nurture. She is everything her sister isn't: quiet, clever, polite, and proud. She can build any Golem you need and program it twice as fast. She powders and pomades her hair very tall as a symbol of her refinement. Her parents couldn't be prouder of her, as a daughter or a test subject. It's a shame all their theories about nurture prevailing are disproved by their other daughter…