#paradactyl

Anyway, I had a lot of fun doing this small sketchy comic! Kept working on it even though things kept pilling on such as commissions, work, and family stuff, I just really liked working on it :D There’s still a chance for an epilogue but other than that I think it’s good to end it on here before I get lost in it lol I have a few other mini comic ideas I want to get into, likely with other characters as well! One of which I’m planning to post the sketches as I go and then actually finalise them eventually, that one will be focusing on Flame and Jay with a small cameo of Leo— I don’t think I’ve really brought him up before

Also as an extra: I’ve been drawing Oscar as a kid for the longest time ever, so when I was doing the Winter Comes Fast comic, it was kinda hard not to make him look like a kid as he’s a teen when it takes place I had no reference to him as a teen either, I was just playing it by ear haha The thought was coming back when I was making this comic again, so I made him like I usually sketch him as a kid next to the other one to compare and I don’t think I need to worry that much anymore XD I will say that it did feel weird to make his younger self make that expression, but fun anyway

Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.

The glow faded, circular dials shifting from a warm white to a deep blue as the sound of a star dying (in A Minor) took NVPR’s place. Stiles jittered his fingers against his palm, torn between clinging on to the light, any light, some kind of light, and the resonating screeching in his teeth.

After a third screaming throb to the bone marrow the answer was xfgjdg! OFF! OFF!!, and the abandoned radio tower plunged back into not-quite darkness, interspersed with pockets of malevolently meandering mist.

Stiles glanced at the staircase. 

It wasn't like he didn’t know where he was, or even who'd put him there (even though ‘who’ was more like an abstract concept, and couldn't entirely be said to encompass names, faces, or biological designations). The Sheriff’s Secret Police were so unsecret that everyone knew how they worked, though no-one, not even Stiles, could tell you how that was -- and his dad was the Sheriff.

Well, at the very least, he was one of the Sheriffs.

(Stiles had never actually seen his dad’s work, or his dad work, but since he left every morning from the upstairs window, carried away by a blue helicopter, Stiles was fairly sure that was what he did.)

He was a lot surer of that than whatever it was he was supposed to have done. He’d been here for hours, woken up in a storage closet on the 7th floor, and every staircase from 3 on down kept making distant growling sounds, like they were echoing the hunger-pangs of a monster deep within. That, or trying to burp. The first few times Stiles had tried luring it to one stairwell and bolting down another, at the loss of one chemistry text book and a shoe, the growling hadn't been fooled. The overwhelming sense of teeth scrabbling at his ankles had chased him back up again, and since he’d had a couple of Snickers left in his bag, Stiles hadn’t worked up the adequate starvation necessary to try again.