#bishopinblue

means a lot coming from another cool skelly ♥ let's bonk heads

Descend into the darkness where HE waits and murder him. 

I might make this as part of a wider art study page [ I'm a little out of practise but I'm happy that I'm getting back into it ] featuring mostly Kinger && Caine in this au but !

Amnesia The Dark Descent AU !!! by @bishopinblue / @bone-pile-rp && myself

So Kinger's in place of Daniel . Of course Amnesiac who is slowly uncovering his own gruesome past . Queenie's spirit essentially is a moth within the lantern . Like how in the game where you need to find tinder boxes or oil to keep things lit that's her life line essentially . HOWEVER if those run out then Kinger will sacrifice a piece of his cross to keep it lit . Which may end in him completely losing his cross . It's symbolic of him losing more of himself for the sake of keeping her lit but also a denunciation of faith . On theme with Kinger in Mildenhall manor since this where this au is set .

Caine is a mix of the main monsters in the game && Alexander . Though with our twist for our headcanons for Kinger && Caine which is that Kinger created Caine && it's a Frankenstein's monster kinda deal where Caine is actively seeking Kinger out as he perceives him to be his light .

𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐋𝐁𝐎𝐗 𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒: 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐍𝐈𝐍' 𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃ⵑ

Clown outfit meme! Send a clown + a character to draw in that outfit!

|| This one was cute to doodle him in! :D ||

( 💥 ― Send '💭' for a drabble of one of my muse's memories. Can be the past or the present. Or, send '👁‍🗨' for a sneak peek drabble of my muse's future! / @bishopinblue ).

     𝐒𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐡, he couldn't help but grow bored at the much slower passage of time in this place. Guido could feel the boredom claw at his bones, to which he barely managed to suppress a yawn though it left him teary-eyed. His hands were holding onto the edge of the smooth polished wood, swinging his legs a little before he abruptly stops at being reprimanded quietly by his mother who sat next to him, on his other side was his father looking at the front. There was a subtle flinch, and he promptly moved his hands to rest on his lap, thumbs circling one another as he raised his gaze to actually attempt to pay attention to what was taking place before him.

     A voice echoed within the confides of the Church, an old priest with a loud and imposing tone was making everyone focus on his preaching, but the brunette was just a well-dressed kid hoping for it all to end and head home. It wasn't like back there things were any different, Guido could argue they were even worse the figure of authority changed, and the verbal beating shifted into physical.

     At least, once they left, he would get to play outside his house. He wasn't particularly good as a player in soccer but he made an excellent goalkeeper, playing with the neighborhood kids was way better than rotting in this place. He closed his eyes, and raised his hands in a praying motion regardless of his thoughts being fare away. God had never listened to him, this Sunday would be no different.

Take him far away from here, to a place he belongs. Let a guide reach for his hand, and pull him up to land on his feet. To be guided into the path of the living, despite the price of his selfish desire of acceptance.

.

.

.

     𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬, 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭, 𝐨𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥-𝐤𝐞𝐩𝐭 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞 as if he weren't the one to visit often, pulling out the weeds and washing the headstone with utmost care. He had one knee propped onto the ground, his right-hand busy with the wet cloth that had started to stain with dirt from windy days. It read clearly : Bruno Bucciarati ( 1980 2001 ). Beloved by many, may you rest in peace until we meet again in God's realm.

     His hand faltered for a moment, the description had been chosen by him since he was the only one that knew him better than Giorno and Trish. Mista could argue that Fugo would have been a better fit, alas life hadn't allowed the albino to witness the fisherman son's downfall. His mouth opened for a moment, then closed. What came out, however, was barely above a plead, a whisper that the wind would carry far away.

     ❝ Say, Bucciarati... If I don't forgive you, will you try to make amends? ❞.

     There was no answer for him, Mista's jaw clenched and he felt his chest tighten as he bit his bottom lip before he let out a shaky sigh, then, he moved to clean the grave next to his. After all, Bruno Bucciarati had been buried next to his father.

     They had each other now. Death wouldn't be so unkind as to break apart such wonderful bond twice, even with the wicked twists that fate had brought onto the unfortunate pair.

Yes, death would allow them to rest, for all they had known while living was to work.

     Once again, Mista washed the cloth in the bucket with water and soap he brought, then started to gently clean it with the respect he deserved.