#verdana

Чем я чёрт возьми занимаюсь?

hellooo do you know what these fonts are? i need to put something very silly on this car

The Twingo logo is probably custom. The other text is in Verdana (1996) [Fonts In Use · Identifont].

She was barely six when her clan abandoned her.

The words were always so foreign. She hadn’t even been old enough to learn the language, nor to have a name. She had always been sickly—especially before him. Her clan saw her as weak. They dropped her in the nearest town and went off toward the north.

At first, her immune system helped her. It made things manageable. She spent the summer and fall watering the pretty tree and the flowers she had found. That was all she knew. She watered people’s flowers for a quick buck—one copper here or there, maybe more. She tried, at one point, to sell simple flowers, at least until she stumbled upon a garden tucked away behind the local church.

Stumbling into it, it looked like an oasis. Lush trees. Soft flowers. But a patch of death struck her as abnormal. She dug around, trying to find the problem, and when she did, she found carrots, corn, cucumbers—long since forgotten. That’s how she got her vegetables. She ate them straight, dirt and all.

Meat was a different story.

She had always been sneaky, so she started stealing. First it was scraps from dogs, always whispering an apology as she ran. Then it graduated to stealing meat from the common folk. Eventually, she got bold enough to steal directly from shops, sneaking into the church at night to steal bread and scraps of cloth—just enough to cover her ever-freezing figure. She was driven to steal by her constantly empty stomach.

At this point, she was mute. She had no language. Just an image of what her people were supposed to look like: large drooping ears, green skin, buggy eyes—swamp green in color. Lanky limbs. She always chose an image she thought she was supposed to have, tweaking it every night so she looked more like the common folk. It made her more accepted, and kept them guessing.

At least, until it started getting cold.

She got so sick that winter. With the plants dead, the garden barren, she was starving. She crawled to the big tree in the center of town, curling up in its roots. It was the only cover as the first snow began to fall. The roots were exposed—deep enough that she could squeeze into them without being found. At least during the day.

But she’d grown lazy in her sickness. She had already decided she was as weak as her clan had told her—the reason they’d left her alone in this town. She closed her eyes, ready for the tree to claim her as nutrients, to bloom brighter next year.

That’s when she heard it.

A deep voice, passing. She’d heard many before, but this one was too close. It was warm. Welcoming. Then a second voice appeared—louder, screaming into her head. They talked about what to do about the griffins. She didn’t know what those were, but she listened until the loud voice receded, likely going elsewhere.

She only felt the one set of footsteps remain.

She froze until they paused—right at her rabbit hole, it seemed.

She grabbed the nearest stick, ready to lash out.

“Small one?”

The words barely registered. She’d learned just enough Common to give simple answers, but none came. She curled tighter into the tree until she felt a hand on her calf. She lashed out—the only thing she could do—as she felt herself being pulled free. Her stick fell aside. She clawed at the dirt, trying to hold herself in place, until her body popped free and the cold hit her skin.

She yelped. No words—just venomous noises and hisses. She had no true language, after all.

But the man—blue in color—did not seem fazed.

In fact, he almost seemed endeared by the little creature fighting so hard despite being so clearly sick. He smiled. A soft smile, one that almost made her trust him. Almost.

She was held out like a snake, just in case she tried to bite. He dragged her toward the building she knew—the church. She lashed out again, swinging side to side to no avail. He pulled her up the stairs and into a room.

With a flash of admiral blue, she was frozen in place.

“Stay here,” his voice finally said.

She couldn’t move. Even the comfort felt like needle pricks, almost physically painful. She constantly tried to break whatever spell trapped her in the bed. Eventually, though, she crashed when the chill subsided. Her face softened as she slept.

Finally, Divium could heal her. And get her clean.

He checked on her often, bringing soups and bread. Before she knew it, she felt better—looked it too. Eventually, he rescinded the spell that kept her in bed, though he kept a lock on her door. He knew how flighty she was, and it was for her own safety.

Slowly, throughout the winter, her eyes took on a stormy blue color. With him being the only person she ever saw, the change was noticeable. It wasn’t a perfect match, but it grew closer every day.

He began to “forget” to lock the door. She explored—finding books, picture books especially. She couldn’t read yet, but the images helped. When spring finally arrived, he let her out.

She was seven by then, having turned near the end of winter.

She was happy to go, but his kindness hadn’t gone unnoticed. She took on a more permanent role tending the plants around town. Though she earned only a few silvers, she eventually began returning to the church, slipping into the back while the man who helped her preached about the Tempesta.

She found something that worked.

She returned to the garden behind the church. Under her care, it bloomed again. She slept there, beside the plants. Sometimes she woke to clean clothes, bread, or vegetables before her own had come into bloom. She accepted them.

She couldn’t thank him—at least not with words.

Instead, she left flowers at the church door. Sometimes a simple poultice.

“Flosculus,” he called her when he managed to catch her.

Words came slowly. By the next summer: “Yes.” “No.” “Pretty.” “Bad.” “Sad.” “Munny.”

He began pulling her into his lessons, helping her after sermons. Just Common, for now. He found she enjoyed learning—especially languages—and that she excelled at botany.

The town bloomed, and so did she.

She began calling herself “Flo.”

It didn’t take long before she became a full resident of the church, taking Divium’s last name and moving into one of the empty rooms once she could hold conversations. He gave her a plant—lemon balm. She called it Melissa.

The years moved forward. Always forward.

She accompanied him to the castle for blessings, where she learned animals had an affinity for her. She clung to Divium until she found the library. There, she learned the loud voice from years ago belonged to Magnus—the king—who raised griffons. She named a juvenile one “Stormchaser” around the time she turned eight.

She learned Goblinese—what should have been her native tongue. Divium learned it for her, then taught her himself. She felt safe enough to call Divium “Father.” She called Magnus that too—despite his many corrections.

By thirteen, she knew five languages and handled all the church’s floral work. Her wages went back into the church. Her eyes now matched Divium’s Almost Exactly. She Changed her hair to a uniform blue Over the years, leaving a soft dove-white streak to remember Magnus, who had taught her to ride a griffon.

By sixteen, she knew seven languages. By eighteen, she received a sending stone from the king. By twenty, she was a world-class botanist.with 10 Languages Memorized

Ahí tienes una interesantísima charla de Matthew Carter en la que habla de su oficio, la tipografía, su aspecto tecnológico y la necesidad de transformación.