#yipppeeeee!!!

unOrdinary turned 10 today!! (back when Webtoon used to update at 12 am EST anyway)

Thank you for the tags, @alliskit, @dramatiquechipmunk, and @anacdoce!!

Sharing a bit for Chapter 23! It's done, I want to post it early- this Saturday- but that depends on how much free time I have 💀Wish me luck!!

The absence of the sun is like a heavy weight upon Astarion’s shoulders. The dark tears at his skin, snags in his hair. It whispers to him to join them in the depths of their obscurity, through the crevasses in the ground as gnarled vines stretch and try to trip him up and ensnare him. All the while, the one thing keeping him going is getting to some kind of refuge- to Moonrise, if that’s all that’s left. To the source of this affliction, and whatever information lies in wait, anything to take advantage of and free him from his master. He doesn’t think about Ofelia at all. He doesn’t think about her shouting at the old wizard who had appeared and stabilized Gale’s orb- enough that it would be able to detonate at will. The prospect was strangely alarming, not at all as satisfying as he would have expected. Astarion doesn’t like Gale. Abhors the blabbermouth, even. But a twisting feeling of unease lingered in his limbs after the display she’d put on. Perhaps because that emotion wasn’t directed at him. Or for his benefit. Whatever the reason, he doesn’t think of Ofelia. He doesn’t think about her shouting at Shadowheart- since when were those two not close? He remembers the cleric’s cutting remark outside his tent only a night ago, and how quiet it had rendered Ofelia. Or how dazed she’d been coming back to camp, a strange sword clutched in her hands and the scent of her blood, dripping down her forearm as she stumbled into her tent. He doesn’t think about the way the scent of it clung to his nostrils and pulled him into a restless trance where all he could do was try and find it, seeking it out with his sight rendered to nothing but giggling phantoms flitting elusive outside of his periphery. He doesn’t think about how thirsty he is, again. Wanting so badly to sate it that he can’t help but eye the injury on her right arm where the crossbow bolt had sliced her open, the shadow’s trying to descend into the torn flesh as her blood weeps into her sleeve. He doesn’t think about her finding the two bodies near the entrance to the Shadowlands, clad in clothing that looked like the kind she wears to sleep, or the look of pure nothingness swirling in her pupils. Empty, hollow, broken. A shell of the bright, smiling face he recalls each time he closes his eyes.

Inspired by a fic I’m writing :]

Undertale September day 2!! Fun fact, this is actually the first time I've ever drawn asriel properly!