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Was driving with my grandmother and in broken English she says “no eyes… no nose… no face. Don’t trust.” To which I looked around wildly in search of this omen of ill portend.
As a little girl, Elodie never dreamed of being a mermaid like so many of her peers. She was afraid of deep water and sharks, always sticking to the shallows or the beach itself. How could she have known her eventual fate? On vacation swimming over a reef she wasn’t comfortable around, with coworkers she didn’t even really like, she’s bitten by something she can’t describe. What follows is a more hellish week of her life than she could have ever anticipated even in her worst nightmares. Itching, scale like rashes. Strange developments of webbed flesh. Slowly drying out, no matter how much she drank or bathed. The dreams of so many others became her horrible reality in a harrowing fight for her life. The loss of her job, her apartment, her legs.
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tagged a while ago by @handsignals and @thedas-finest, thank you both!!
leave it to me to spend a ridiculous amount of time on a joke art project 😭 but of course this tag game gave me ideas and i had to see them through (with varying degrees of effort, graphic design is my burden) so here's my silly spin on it <3 a concept for a wanted poster that ivenci might commission some time after lleyth gets exiled from antiva for their failed vigilante side hustle 😔
gentle tagging @rsenak @flowersforthemachines @veil-song @blightedcrow @beachhotdog @muqington @rookinthecrownest aaand anyone else who wants to do it! (and i'll link mouse's post here for the original template!)
okay, got carried away and wrote a little scene for felix. content warning for mentions of blood and violence, though nothing overly graphic. the rest of the fic + my no pressure original works tag list is below cut! please see my pinned post if you would like to be added to the list.
felix, a man with a past to hide, has settled in treviso, making a living as an artisan perfume maker. a common place mishap while working late one night triggers a memory he would prefer to forget.
He is always careful, but only the Maker is allowed perfection.
The glass of the dropper must have been cooled too quickly and turned brittle, or handled too roughly in it's journey from the kiln to his hands. An unseen fault line had fractured under the careful pressure of his fingers, and a dozen shards had clattered musically to the workbench below. A single sliver, barely able to be seen in the low candlelight, had worked it's way into Felix's thumb.
He makes a sound, not in pain, but in frustration. "Putain," he says, and the familiar sounds of his native tongue and accent are as much a comfort as they are a risk. Stupid, even in the solitude of his rooms.
Careful, but not perfect.
The metallic tang of the extract was strong, though not as sharp and fresh as it would be once he was done. Metal was a difficult scent to capture, and needed to be worn on the skin to achieve it's true notes. It was good that he had only wasted a few drops, and not the whole (very expensive) bottle. Throwing a clean cotton towel over the mess, he moves to his feet to find a set of tweezers.
Leaning against the single window— he hadn't wanted too much sun, the light could easily twist an extract from something pleasant to wholly unusable— he uses the glow of the lanterns down on the street to find the glint and gleam of the glass edge. It's simple work to remove the glass, and it is with the same slow and careful precision that he would use himself that a single drop of blood wells up from the cut, and begins to slide down the pad of his thumb.
He watches it with idle interest, and wonders if blood and steel would be something that he could offer to the Crows that chose to be more like peacocks, flashing their house brands and wearing their numerous knives and tools of the trade proudly on their belts. They were easily parted from their money with the lure of exclusive and experimental.
Blood and steel.
Blood and steel.
Blood and steel, that is what his senses were drowning in. He could taste the blood in his mouth, the sweet, sticky copper of it refreshed with each wet breath that he drew. He could feel the steel, run through his gut and ripping up his chest.
Unmercifully, his awareness widened.
His nose burned with the sharp, acrid scent of sweat. In his ears, the grunting effort of his killer mixed with his own labored breathing. He could not see beyond a blinding white nothingness, though the edges of his vision were slowly turning black, like how parchment set to a candle flame would slowly burn in toward the middle of itself.
Pain was something he knew, something he understood.
How could there be any understanding in this?
"Enough," he says out loud, slapping his palm flat against the wall. His thumb gives a protesting sting.
He is in Antiva. He is in his apartment, a modest set of rooms above an equally modest store front. Clawing at the latch of his window, he throws it open, desperate for air that isn't filled with scent of swords.
The streets of Treviso are in full bloom. The city rarely slept, and certainly not on a warm spring night like this one. Friends and lovers talked and sang while drinking wine, or coffee, or celebrating the end of winter with the last of their stores of limoncello. The lanterns and candles that lined the streets cast everything in gold. If he were a painter, instead of alchemist, the night market would most certainly be his muse. Folding his arms to lean on the sill of his window, he breathes it all in.
A small knot of revelers gather at his shop window below. He had carefully selected each bottle, pretty and delicate glass things that weren't suitable to actually hold perfume. They rested artfully on folded silks and amongst dried flowers and a scattered assortment of ephemera that had nothing at all to do with his work, but looked nice in the display.
By chance, or fate, one of the group glances up and sees him leaning out of his window. He cannot make out their face, in the playful shadows cast by the lanterns, but the wave they give is unmistakably cheerful, and it is enough to pull him away from the dregs of the unwanted memory. He waves back, and calls out to them that they should return tomorrow, at a respectable hour. They all laugh, and send up a chorus of promises to return as they drift away on the current of the night.
"Enough," he says again, after they are gone. And this time, it is true.
I love that four different people on my feed scheduled this joyous person to reblog by 8am on June 1. I look forward to seeing this a dozen more times today.
veilguard mermaids! i'm a little bit late cus i forgot that i wanted to draw all of them as mermaids and remembered about it uuh yesterday. but anyway i like how they all turned out!
and a lil thingie for giggles. real life sizes version (taash 15 m and harding 20 cm)
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the realization that the unhealthy trait you’ve given your favorite oc for funsies is actually something you unintentionally do is like watching a five year old innocently and perfectly mimic your bad habits
older lotr illustrations sometimes depict éowyn wearing ridiculously small armour. apart from the problem general sexualisation of the only female character (who really does anything), there’s another hilarious thought:
éowyn pretended to be dernhelm, a man. to fit in, she must have worn men’s armor. so the armor in the illustrations is normal for rohirrim.
therefore, all the rohirrim rode to war just like that:
there’s a thundering sound in the distance as the rohirrim ride into war but rather than hoofbeats it’s the collective sound of all their cheeks clapping
Frank Frazetta was the reason He-Man was designed like that; the producers conduct a study to see what art appeal the most to children, and Frank’s work came out on top in popularity. So everyone in He-Man is dressed the way they are directly because of Frazetta.
Ah, it has been too long since I have seen the no pants post on my dash. And yes, this is a rare case where it wasn’t some sexist nonsense but an egalitarian No Pants Agenda.
“I am definitely an ass man. It blows my mind. Talk about simple shapes. Two very simplistic curves. It’s so dumb, but they are fascinating as hell. It’s more than that. It’s the way the rest of the anatomy ties into that area — incredible beauty”
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Lucanis was deeply focused on chopping garlic, the knife in his hand moving almost automatically, when he heard the back door opening. At first he barely registered it, but the familiar sound of heels rhythmically hitting the tiled floor brought the shadow of a smile to his lips.
The hour was past 1am, and he knew there was no one else who'd appear in Ombra's kitchen this late. He didn't look up, despite registering the flash of deep red silk through the corner of his eye.
Instead he put the knife down, walked out to the bar and picked up a bottle of Antivan House Wine and a glass. Back in the kitchen, he uncorked the bottle with practiced precision before pouring her favorite wine into the waiting glass and passed it to the woman now graciously sitting on the counter next to where he had been working.
