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hi! i'm hope (it/they). i'm a writer and cartoonist and i love stuff that is colorful, expressive and weird! you can see my portfolio here. my reblogs/art sharing blog is @fghniki-reblogs.
thank you for all the likes & reblogs—any and all support is always appreciated! if you have some spare cash, you may buy me a coffee on ko-fi or get yourself a print on inprnt. commissions are currently closed.
i'm okay with people reposting & using my art for profile pictures & such—no need to ask :) credit is appreciated but not required.
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In the past, unknowable: a powerful longing; a pollen heart calling out; a soul travelling through branches and leaves.
In the past, hidden: she spread her seed, and so she created the vines and the stone and the bugs and her loyal guardian, her Seth.
In the past, obscured: a life with others; training with a pin and a shield, a once-in-a-lifetime talent; and still—a feeling of otherness, like he came from a different land.
In the past, a moment lasting until the end of the earth: she caresses his head as he lays in her lap, voice soft, “All lost come to me, eventually—my branches and roots reach even the most distant lives… You, too, a shape of a life, now unlost with me. A protector for others, to help the world grow, to help more shapes find their place.” The exact words don't make sense, but the meaning seeps into his shell and his soul. He is to guard, to protect, to remember; forever, eternally.
In the present:
The scenery around the shrine has not changed in years, it feels like, even if Seth knows that the branches have only reached further and further throughout the long years near the lake, that the moss has been hiding the solid rock and roots have grown over bug-made structures.
But the world still feels still and silent, he himself a part of an unmoving landscape.
“So what? You are to sit here all eternity?” Lace asks, legs crossed as she sits on the path in front of him. “Does that fate not drive you mad?”
She seems genuinely confused—mildly infuriated with his contentness, even—but he has nothing to say. He will do what he must, until he can’t anymore.
In the past:
He wakes up—is born—beside a lake. Still water caresses his ankles as he rises to his feet and looks around. The gorgeous branches and vines run through the cave of his birthplace.
There are bodies here, but he doesn’t know who they belong to, and he doesn’t find himself unnerved by them. A pin lies next to him. The path ahead is dangerous, he quickly deduces from the quakes, so he takes it. It fits in his claw like it belongs there.
In the present:
Pharloom is being rebuilt. With the black threads and the quakes gone, the life returns to normal, and Seth is slowly learning what that is: waking up in the mornings, hunting and foraging, teaching little ones whatever he can however best he can, watching over the even littler ones, drinking brew with Grishkin and Varga, training with Vog. Days are filled with motion and new things and love—and it’s strange, fleas were friendly and nice but they didn’t like outsiders, even the kind ones like Hornet. What did they see in him?
Fleamaster Mooshka gifts him a cloak that resembles a flea’s wings, and then it never leaves Seth’s shoulders. The weight on his back is both a sign of belonging and a strangely familiar comfort.
When Hornet sees him with the cloak on, she calls him ‘a proper flea’. The journey to Fleatopia is a dangerous one, even now, so Seth does not hold a grudge about her visiting so rarely. When she does, it’s an event—she’s swarmed by the littles, showered with questions and praises by adults, given little trinkets and gifts. Seth does not have to give much of his own, but Hornet does not mind it, instead asking him to duel her.
It’s strange. He doesn’t like fighting, he doesn’t think, but he always obliges her, and she always bests him—until, one day, he refuses the request. To his surprise, she only tilts her head a little: “Why?”
“I would like to only raise my pin when there is a good reason to,” says Seth. The unspoken is: wielding his weapon makes him a little bit sick, the same way seeing one of the little ones hurt makes him sick. But the words won’t come out, the same way the memories of his learnings won’t come out.
Hornet doesn’t mind his refusal. It’s strange how kind she is to him.
“In this way, you’re much like a little one yourself, Seth,” Grishkin tells him once, “To find so many things strange—that’s something the older of us lose the knack for doing.”
Seth shakes his head. “The more I learn of the world and its workings, the more it surprises me: the way most of it seems improper, even to the bugs that make it so. And still the world goes on.”
“And still the world goes on indeed, har har!” Grishkin laughs, “But nothing bad about the world being strange, m-mm? Miracles are what keep us going, after all.”
Seth agrees. In the end, he does like a good miracle.
Once upon a time, there was a princess, trapped in a tall, tall tower, expertly hidden in a place so dark and nasty, no one would think to look there. The princess was a lonely thing, yearning for a mother, a father, but never getting either of them—instead, she was cursed with a responsibility for the kingdom that would never accept her as her own and where no one could understand her, or stick by her side.
Once upon a time, there was a knight, born and raised to protect their kingdom from a cruel and inevitable fate. The knight was a lonely thing, yearning for a mother, a father, but never getting either of them—instead, they were cursed with a responsibility for the kingdom they never belonged in and disallowed from understanding anybody, or sticking by anybody's side.
Once upon a time, there was a princess, trapped in a tall, tall tower, hidden in plain sight. They were chained with armor and orders; and yet, they were weak like a child as they stood guard at the grave of a kingdom long gone.
Once upon a time, there was a knight, born and raised to protect a ruined kingdom from scavengers. She wore no armor and looked like a mere child to most; and yet, she was as deadly as a seasoned warrior, and she stood guard at the graves of a mother that was never there and a father that had cursed her.
Once upon a time, there was a princess. She'd look at the knight's statue, and wonder about what could have been.
Once upon a time, there was a knight. They held the princess, once, when they were very young and she was very little, and they were not to wonder anything.
Once upon a time, there was a princess. They wore beautiful garments and were displayed in the palace like the most precious prize.
Once upon a time, there was a knight. She cared not for tradition and rules her father carried, and yet she knew her own worth.
Once upon a time, there was a princess. Once upon a time, there was a knight. And their names were:
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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The last day before Divorcesteal Season 2's finale shall be marked by the marriage ceremony between Emma @cymae-mesa and Hope @sunsail!
And yes, EVERYONE is invited! Even if you're not whitelisted on the server, you can watch at twitch.tv/cymaemesa or twitch.tv/sunsailmc. We'd love to see you there!
(P.S. And stay tuned for (potentially) a very special guest 😉)
It’s very small, Pale King notes as he takes the child from Herrah’s arms. Much smaller than any of the vessels have ever been. Much more fragile, too—its body is all soft meat and softer fur.
“Is it healthy?” he asks, scratching its head. It coos softly in response.
“Yes,” Herrah the Beast nods.
Pale King could smash her child’s head right now, if he so desired. Herrah, however, is at ease, both in posture and movements. She seems satisfied.
"Very well," he says, and hands the spiderling back with the same care he would handle his own child.
We raised US$495.12 this fundraising period and have donated US$500 to the Antarctic and Southern Ocean Coalition! Thank you to everyone who supported this project, contributors, buyers, and others alike. We couldn’t do this without you. 💙
The zine will remain up for purchase and all proceeds donated as part of next year’s fundraising. You can grab a digital copy of any of our zines for as little as $2 through Itch.io: https://polarlightszine.itch.io
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
(made as part of the @voicesfortheblade event. thank you shlook for your generosity! <3)
Agency in the Fighting Pit
The battlefield is empty, for the moment. Techno wants to press his back against a wall, slide down and take a breather—but there’s nothing but ash and rubble around him, so instead he turns away and runs. The voices still chant as he does so, but quieten down once they realize how he doesn’t answer them, how his body is shivering. The calls for blood and death subside, soon leaving only the gentlest of whispers.
Are you okay?
He looks down at his hooves, covered in blood.
Is he?
Purgatory is hell. Their children are missing, and they’re turned against each other, and it’s like fifteen years have never passed.
Purgatory is a blessing. It’s rejuvenating, makes him feel whole again—in some twisted way, it makes him feel himself, a figure from someone’s nightmare, a dangerous criminal you’d rather leave behind on an abandoned island than deal with.
And so, he tears through his friends with a chainsaw, enjoys the screams of fear and indignation, enjoys the look on Pac’s face when he gets him cornered.
“Cellbit,” he says, as if trying to warn him. Instead of listening, Cellbit slams him into the wall.
But the thing is, he does like having friends. He likes sitting with someone in front of the fire, drinking tea, discussing books. When he thinks back to the Antarctic, it’s not the battlefields that he pictures—it’s the quiet evenings with Phil, the dreamy afternoons with Sophie.
But Sophie is gone—left behind, by the two of them, and Phil... Phil may have been his best friend, but he was also the Angel of Death, the chaos incarnate. Between the two of them, he was the one to enjoy the smell and taste of blood the most.
So here, in Techno’s cabin in the middle of the snow desert, there was no way to get around this introspection. The drowned must save themselves.
Cellbit has Pac pressed against the wall. He’s digging nails into familiar skin. It smells of prison.
“Cellbit,” Pac pleads, not unlike before, but with a more desperate edge to it, like he doesn’t enjoy it, “please—”
He doesn't get a choice to step away. Fit digs a pickaxe into his skull and Cellbit stumbles on his feet before falling down. He can see Fit and Pac embracing, just before he dies.
He wakes up at their shitty hideout, unsatisfied. He huffs as he sneaks a hand under his shirt and digs a palm into his stomach. His hunger might be reset, but that doesn’t mean that he wants a familiar smell any less—
“Do you, though?” someone asks. Cellbit almost jumps as he springs to his feet and turns around.
There’s a shadow near the far wall of the cave, where the darkness meets light. It’s definitely a humanoid (but definitely not human—the head is... weird, maybe a dog?), and broad-shouldered and tall at that. The physique reminds him of Fit, but this is definitely not him: he can see the glowing transparency of a cloak and a fur collar.
This wasn’t far from the first time he experienced hallucinations. This was the first one to actually talk to him, though.
“What do you know?” Cellbit grumbles as he turns away and drags himself to the nearby chest to get himself back on his feet.
“More than you,” annoyingly, the shadow’s voice follows him as if it was standing right behind him, impossible to ignore. “...If you continue dying so much, you’ll lose too many points.”
Cellbit thins his lips. As if he doesn’t know that.
“Here’s a deal for you. I’ll help your team win, and in return, you’ll listen to a proposition of mine.”
At that, Cellbit drops the carrots he’s been picking, and turns around. “What?”
“Do you have a name?”
“You can call me The Blade.”
With the Blade’s mind in his, his weapon moves with no remorse or pause—thought transformed into action, the purest of expressions. It’s what he’s dreamed of doing at night.
And yet—
The kills are clean, quick. There’s no more blood than strictly necessary, no trying to dig in deep enough to find the bone. The Blade is strangely detached from what it’s doing, and Cellbit doesn’t quite understand it.
He doesn’t ask, though. When the two of them (he) drag themself (himself) back into the base, he has a dreamless sleep.
On the third day of their alliance, Cellbit runs into Bagi. She takes off the moment their eyes meet, and Cellbit runs after her, not stopping to consider what he’s doing despite the Blade gawking in his ear. The two of them dash across the sands and towards a [mountain enclave thingy idk], with Bagi jumping over a blade of light and landing a few feet apart from him. Cellbit is about to jump after her when the sun hits his skin.
It burns. Cellbit yelps and stumbles back into the shadow. When he fishes out his communicator, he sees that the sun now burns. He swears under his breath, and then looks up at Bagi, who is breathing heavily, one jump away from him. Behind Cellbit there are only exposed sands, so he relaxes against the cool wall, and the two of them sit there. Silent—until Bagi says: “I’m not giving up on you, you know.”
Cellbit barks out a laugh. “Do you tell that to all the serial killers you meet?”
“You become what you want to be,” Bagi says.
“No one wants to be a murderer,” he barks back at her. “You just become one.”
Bagi hums thoughtfully. “Well, that’s true, but we humans have agency. If you don’t want to do something, just don’t do it.” Her face softens. “I know I’m oversimplifying this, but I know you... maybe not you-you, but the you that’s piloting your body, your mind and sense of self—I know it like I know myself, which is pretty well; both of us are clever, and we don’t exactly lack self-awareness. The question is how we use this self-awareness, and whether we use it at all.”
Cellbit wants to punch her so hard her teeth fall out. He wants to tear her pretty hair out. He wants to dig a knife into her skull, pull it out it and see—
On the fourth day of their alliance, Cellbit is curled up in the corner of the base, flexing fingers with dry blood under the nails. The Blade sits opposite of the fire, solemn and quiet. It then says, “It was your sister.”
Cellbit shakes his head. “But I don’t remember her, and she only remembers someone that doesn’t exist anymore.” He shuts his eyes. He imagines Richarlyson in front of him. Then he imagines himself wringing his fingers into the messy hair, twisting them, and–
He opens his eyes with a gasp. The Blade is still there, unyielding, even though he knows that it saw what he saw. Cellbit curls his fingers. He feels like a child lying in the barracks again, a soldier with no memory. “The glass is shattered,” he whispers. “There’s nothing left.”
The Blade hums. “Well, have you considered using some glue?”
“It’s not gonna be the same.”
“And who says it has to be?” The Blade leans a little bit closer. “Your son loves you. Not the long-lost brother or a ruthless murderer—you, the mystery solver, the good husband and father. You just need to glue the shards together so that you don’t accidentally get him cut.”
Cellbit closes his eyes. He imagines the cracks on his skin mended with gold, like a vase repaired by a kintsugi craftsman.
“Staying like this is the easier thing to do,” the Blade offers.
On the fifth day of their alliance, he grabs Bagi’s hand before she can fall into the ravine.
On the second day back home, he sneaks away from his friends, but the familiar motion has unfamiliar subtext to it—for once, he’s surrounded by blue skies and the most beautiful flowers he’s ever seen, not by shabby alleys or by the cold stars.
He takes his time to walk to the altar rather than warp to it. The potato crops [] in the wind, and Cellbit lets out a shaky breath as he allows himself to stretch his shoulders and let the [] be blown away.
At the altar, he sits down and places the basket next to him. He takes out some cheese breads, chicken pastéis, apples, bananas, some grapes and a bottle of wine. He sets it all down on the ofrenda and fiddles with the placement a bit until he decides that there’s only so much deliberation he could do.
He lights a few and then folds his hands, feeling awkward. He didn’t know if he was raised religious, but even if he was, he lost his faith a long time ago. Still, he calms his mind and tries to focus his inner gratitude towards his goal, like Philza advised him to.
I hope you're well, wherever you are.
On a bright winter day, Technoblade brings home freshly chopped logs. When he approaches the house, he is surrounded by a pack of friendly dogs, all excited to see him. Inside, a yet unopened gift box awaits him, and he uses the logs he’d just gotten to start up the furnace. Their book club has a meeting later this evening, and he wants to make something special for their meal. The voices are happy to see him happy, and there is no smell of blood.
