#wcsmp smajor

[owllooker]

New Supreme Witch design! I didn't expect to love WitchCraft Smp as much as I did!

[joifee]

Barely Alive

some necromancer scott for my frustrated heart not gonna lie wanted to draw him for a while now

[stars-and-spice]

Witches you don’t want to mess with

[salty-lemonss]

When the necromantic witch turns into a lich

[exiledsundew]

I know it’s been a bit since the smp ended, but I really had to make this piece digital.

[peppered-moths]

so i may be digging a little too deep at this point, but, uh;

i was looking up origins of the name Milo, just to see if there was any obvious meaning behind it, y'know? anyways. one of the possible origins is the Ancient Greek word milos, which means yew-flower.

obviously i was like. huh. what's a yew flower? so i looked it up. it's the flower that grows on yew trees. great. awesome job, me (/s)

my next thought was it is a flower though, what if there's some symbolism or something? surprise!

yew represents death and resurrection, though it can also mean eternal life. (also, yew is said to be a tree that can drive away evil. hm. nothing remotely symbolic there, huh?)

just some food for thought.

[ohkelpart]

A familiar looking nightmare

[kayaks00n]

truth or dare

[daisy-mooon]

[blanksandwich]

rip to those fan theories i guess

[studioschibi]

Doodle of The Necromantic Witch 🧟

[manghoe-art]

cant stop wont stop thinking about them

[stars-and-spice]

Cleo bringing Eloise into her and Scott's coven has the same energy as someone bringing home a stray cat without asking their housemate about it, and the housemate does not get along with pets but they and the cat just have to put up with each other.

[salty-lemonss]

Witchcraft smp has me held by the throat still, so here's an animatic for you all

[exiledsundew]

For the requests, how about Witchcraft SMP Cleo and Scott hanging out? They were such an iconic duo there. I miss my overpowered buddies...

I love them so much. Byfar the best SMP ever.

Thanks for the request!

(Ignore the hand Cleo is using to hold the cup, lineart on traditional is so hard)

[peppered-moths]

six-petaled promise

scott doesn't use salt in his cooking anymore. it all tastes horribly bland. he's never been the best cook anyways.

he had been the one who did that for them. scott still can't say his name, except when he wakes up, calling out for a life long gone.

he misses it. it feels... painfully obvious, to say the least. there had been a future where he didn't have to claw for power, to vie for even a chance of living beyond the competition, and he misses it. he misses thunderstorms. he misses fresh-baked bread. he misses lilies, white, six-petaled. he misses... god, he misses life.

so yes. maybe he is crazy. maybe that's what the others say about him, along with the fact that he's cold and heartless and dead, on the inside and outside both.

(and, well. the heartless part isn't strictly untrue. he has feelings. but, well. necromancy has its ups and downs. there is always a new sacrifice to make.)

scott doesn't use salt in his cooking anymore. he can't remember the last time he ate something for the sake of enjoying it. everything is sustenance, fuel to push onwards.

he has to win. no matter the cost. he knows he's not the only one- he sees the constant blue tinge of pris' face, the way she breathes air like it's not quite natural anymore. he's watched joey, manic, fever higher than any normal person should be able to survive, throwing himself into a block of ice for some relief. he's listened to shelby cry storms at the death of a bee, seen the fresh lightning burns on her hands.

yes. they all lose something. it makes it worth it. it doesn't make it fair. power is power, at the end of the day.

scott pretends that the lichen crawling up his fingers is simply a result of too much magic at one time. that it will go away, slip back down his wrists without a trace. he would make scott scrub it off. scott will do it when he's back.

scott doesn't use salt in his cooking anymore. it burns his tongue, his throat. his arms are mottled with pale scars. oh, the sacrifices he makes for him. it doesn't matter; they'll adapt. they always do.

how does it feel to be a real witch? a real lich? cleo laughs at him. he doesn't think they're actually laughing at him. her eyes are distant, far away as ever. she glows now, in the dark, the lichen budding on her skin.

pinocchio, pinocchio, a real boy at last, they muse, steepling their hands in front of them. tell me, why do you still dance to their puppet strings?

scott doesn't understand. he doesn't understand so many things. that's why he has to practice. he has to get better. be the best.

cleo looks away from him. she looks-

(at you. she looks at you. don't do this to him. it isn't fair. nothing is fair. learn to live with it.)

scott blinks. nothing has happened. nothing has changed. it has always been like this.

go home, scott.

there's no home left to go back to. he says it, nonchalant. if he had a heart, it would be beating in his chest. nevertheless.

then go anywhere.

scott doesn't use salt in his cooking anymore. scott doesn't cook anymore.

(when does the question turn from who am i without you? to who am i at all? where is the line? how do you learn how to stop, to just let go? i don't think any of us know.)

the earth hums beneath his feet. he can feel death, old bones rattling, waiting. there is a graveyard twenty minutes' walk from his house.

there are two graves side by side at an abandoned home. scott thinks there ought to have been a third. he thinks he ought to have carved their names on their graves, let them be remembered. milo. maxwell. really, he ought to have done a lot of things.

(he is the corpse and he is the vulture circling overhead and he is the mycelia beneath and he is and he is and he is-)

he is all that is left.

scott doesn't use salt in his cooking anymore.