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nostalgiachan · 10 months

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What's this? Two art posts in one day? Bah gawd. Yes, it's 100 OC Challenge Time!

But yes, since I already cleaned up these images for that group image I posted, it's time for the individual images, the OG designs from 2010, and character descriptions below the cut.

#57: Illus Artemida Idea: Arrogant elven archer Story: Dragon Tavern

Of course, my second Mountain Kingdoms squad wasn't going to go without a Moon Elf representative, so I rolled up the other Moon Elf class - because Moon Elves and Dwarves have two specific classes each - the Ranger.

Illus, like most of the Seekers, got most of his development with his first redesign in 2017. In particular, I built his design around two inspirations: Kenpachi Zaraki from Bleach and the uniforms of the Mongolian State Honor Guard. Illus had always been a bit flamboyantly designed, and I decided to make that a character gimmick. Basically, Illus is an incredibly talented Ranger and he knows it. Though he's fairly mild of temperament and doesn't tend to verbally boast, he so thoroughly believes in his skills that he wears brightly colored clothes, puts shiny crystal beads in his hair, wears loud and heavy silver bangles, and has sleigh bells dangling from his torso and tied to his ankles; in his words, "You will see me coming. You will hear me coming. You will not stop me."

Also his arm being that long isn't an anatomy fuck-up, Moon Elves are just lanky.

#58: Darja Handrukkari Idea: Dwarven berserker...or should I say, beerserker huehuahueahu Story: Dragon Tavern

When I was making the Seekers, I figured it was high time I stopped being a coward and made a dwarf. Like the Moon Elves, there are two classes specifically for dwarves: Dwarven Earth Sage and Dwarven Berzerker.

Since this squad was missing a melee fighter, Berzerker was the only choice. Unlike the Moon Elves, the Dwarves are still rather a WIP when it comes to lore overhauling. I'd considered having them be created literally from the earth, but uh...I didn't realize that was already a Tolkien thing. Darja herself, unfortunately, is equally a WIP; like most Berzerkers, she's a violently heavy drinker, which makes her a more fearless and unpredictable fighter, and she's rather stubborn and short-tempered.

#59: Faid Innamorata Idea: Puppeteer and Pierrot stan (derogatory) Story: Dragon Tavern

Faid (pronounced "fade") is one of the three characters out of the Seekers who happened to win the development lottery and get a little more thought put into her backstory. In the beginning, she was essentially Tira from Soulcalibur, except replace the ring blade with two life-sized puppets. In Dragon Tavern, Dark Puppeteers are a class that puppets various salvaged body parts, and they're noted to go a bit batty thanks to all the concentration required to puppet larger hordes of parts, but I thought "Fuck that, I want her to have full marionettes because killer dolls are cool." Her particular madness was essentially cribbed from Tira's Jolly and Gloomy modes; when she did small-scale puppet shows, she'd be jolly, and when controlling her full puppets in battle, she'd be gloomy.

And then years later, I tossed that. I kept the puppets and the madness, but the new backstory is as follows:

When Faid was at the dawn of puberty, she was a massive fan of one Pierrot Douleur; she'd go to as many of his performances as she could, bought multiple copies of his wax cylinders (because she'd inevitably wear one out, so she needed backups), and even took up puppeteering in the hopes that she could one day go on tour with him. And then three years later, he fell off the face of the earth. As far as anyone knew, he'd gone out beyond the borders of the Deadlands to "find inspiration". It would be another six years before Faid would actually find out what happened to him - or, more specifically, that the Gate Council would put out a reward for his capture.

In that time, Faid had become skilled enough in puppetry that she could control two life-sized puppets, a masculine doll named Silvio and a feminine doll named Vittoria.

However, she'd pushed herself far too hard far too quickly in trying to get that skilled, and between the stress of training and the general havoc of adolescent hormones over the years, she was already approaching the deep end. By the time she heads out into the world and joins up with two compatriots, the Death Knight Lusine and the Bone Lord Sirno, she's begun to see her puppets as living beings - when she's not in her right mind, she believes she's in love with Silvio and that Vittoria is conspiring to steal him from her. Over the course of the story, it grows so bad that she violently abuses Vittoria, and plans to make Silvio into a "real boy" - by building him a body out of corpse parts. When she confirms that Pierrot's still alive, her plan changes slightly - she'll either convince him to come away with her, or Silvio's real boy body will be Pierrot's.

#60: Lusine Awaria Idea: The Most Dyingest Death Knight Ever Story: Dragon Tavern

I promise that's not Geralt. When I first drew Lusine in 2016 (after procrastinating on designing him for six or so years because I sucked at drawing heavy armor and horses), I accidentally made him look a bit like Geralt face-wise. With this redesign, I decided to lean into it more and directly reference a popular Geralt cosplayer because I thought it would be funny to have a guy who looks like your typical post-Geralt grizzled fantasy man, but who 100% sucks at his job.

See, if there was anything Lusine came to be known for as I played him, it was dying. I want to say he died in battle more than any other character I have, which is baffling considering he's a heavily-armored death wizard on a mighty steed. So, I made that the defining feature of his character.

Death Knights are essentially undead paladins; through a particularly complicated and resource-intensive ritual, a candidate for knighthood is trapped in a state of undeath. They're not completely immortal, as eventually the magic keeping them from passing through the Death Gate completely will wane, but until that time, they can only be temporarily killed . They're supposed to present a middle ground between the magic-oriented Necromancers and the melee-oriented Bone Lords, what with their combination of sword and sorcery.

But then there's Lusine. While Death Knight candidates are typically chosen from among the most elite soldiers of the Deadlands, and Lusine was presumably one of them, something must have changed once he underwent the ritual. Perhaps the process severely dulled his combat prowess and magical capabilities, perhaps he was suddenly possessed by a spirit with ill intent, or perhaps he was never actually a capable soldier at all.

Whatever the cause, the truth of the matter is that Lusine has died more than any Death Knight in history. Creatures big and small, magic wielders of all kinds, sentient being and automaton alike, all have at one time or another laid waste to this man. And yet, for all of his constant failure, he always manages to fail upwards. He'll get disemboweled six ways from Sunday and lose a limb or four, but somehow, he always wins the day. Surely, if the Gate Council could see the embarrassing displays Lusine put on in combat, they'd undo the ritual and put the man right through the Death Gate immediately.

Well, lucky him, he works alone so there's only the results to speak for him. Yet, despite his ability to fail upwards, Lusine feels that eventually, someone's going to actually catch wind of what a fuck-up he is and it'll all be over. So, when word is sent out about the Seekers, he jumps at the chance to get the hell out of the Deadlands for a while; perhaps by going out into the wider world, he can finally get his shit together and become an actually competent Death Knight.

#my art #100 oc challenge #original characters #dragon tavern #fantasy art #traditional art #lore dump

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envihellbender · 9 months

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The Powers as serial killer avatars? :3c

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Characters: (OCs) Noor Essa, Darja Bič, Aubrey Marsh, Meyer Brody, Roxen Vilatte, Nina Kova / Hazel de la Croix, Devyn Fraser, Bertrand Hardie, Milo de Verley, Jamie Barrett, Aidan McKennon, Sara Bayat, Cora McKenna, Rhiannon Powell,

Content: buried alive, germophobia, fear of the dark, parental abuse, murder, factory farms, arson, suicide, drowning, dolls,

The Buried

Noor Essa is a runaway who lives in the Sahara desert. They are known to the people of Cairo, although considered something of a myth. It is known people go missing, but it is often debated as to whether that is a serial killer, a mystical figure who hides in the tombs, animals, or simply exposure to the elements.

Most refer to them as a graverobber which is not entirely accurate, whilst they encase themselves in the pyramids and tombs they feel most at peace in they never actually take anything from within them. They are horrified at that prospect, they were raised to worship the dead and always find peace amongst them.

Their victims are often historians, thieves, and tourists who’ve gotten lost in the desert. They only come out at night because the daytime is too hot and dangerous in the Sahara. They kill for food, and also bury them by the tomb they currently live in as a tribute to the corpse who is sharing their home with them.

The Corruption

Darja Bič was meticulously clean, everything in her lab was sterilised several times over. That included herself, her skin was permanently a sore pink from how often she’d scrubbed at it. Ever since she’d became apart of the Corruption and those insects had begun to follow her, those worms … it had gotten worse. She was determined to be clean. Healthy. Including the victims she captured.

She wore medical gloves and a mask the entire time she touched them outside of her lab. Her breath was starting to grow short and shaken from the damp that had collected behind the medically certified mask, and her hands grew cracked, easily cut open and often infected. She always came up behind her victim, walking with her coat zipped up to the top and her hood up. She was unapproachable but seemingly harmless, until she injected them in the neck.

It was disease she was fascinated with, she simply despised the worms she had to step on five thousand times a day. She’d always been scared of them bastards and now they were everywhere. Her victims were strapped to her table screaming into their gag and pulling on their steel restraints. Today, she was going inject the handsome young man, with a combination of measles, typhoid, and anthrax.

The Dark

Aubrey Marsh was fourteen when it started. They suppose it was because their father had locked them in the cellar, they always did enjoy the dark so it hardly seemed like the punishment it was supposed to be. Their bedroom was down there now, the mattress in the floor next to the dripping water from the old, creaking boiler. The liquid became darker every day. They didn’t plan on killing their father, but after he’d killed their mother and left the corpse to rot down there with them it seemed only fair. When the creature came to them in the Dark, a promise to take care of them and help kill their father was all too enticing.

When their father came down one day, with a dog dish full of food and a bottle of water, the light switch wouldn’t turn on. He cursed, yelling at Aubrey asking what they’d done now. He should have noticed that it wasn’t the standard dark, it was pure blackness. He should have felt the two thin hands shove him down the stairs, but he didn’t. He hit the stone floor at the bottom without knowing a single thing. Aubrey stood over his corpse, and kicked him in the head. They didn’t think about their mother before they left, the one they’d killed him for.

Aubrey enjoyed dark, damp places, and began living in abandoned factories. Thankfully there were a lot of them on the outskirts of Bradford. Enough that they could stay in them for months at a time, seeing their fair few urban explorers, photographers, and occasional ghost hunters. Aubrey had fun following them, watching them grow anxious as they made their surroundings darker and darker, and had silhouettes follow them around. Leading them to the tall, wooden stairs, barely registering the small thin hands that pushed them.

The Desolation

Meyer Brody had been an arsonist for a long time before the Desolation came to him. It started when he was eight with old mattresses that people abandoned under the flyover. He’d become fixated and snorted with laughter if there happened to be a rodent sleeping in one. He didn’t watch or torture it really, is how he saw it, he was observing the flames. The death of an animal was just a coincidence. It would normally run away, still alight. He soon got bored of this however, graduating to burning down bushes and trees. He found his favourite part was going to them days later to see how they had been completely, and utterly destroyed. That became his new fascination, the flames had grown boring… now it was seeing something be turned to ashes.

It was after his third stint in juvie that he escalated. He was finally home, age sixteen, and his mother was ranting at him for how he was throwing his life away. This time it was her disapproval about how he’d refused to go to Temple with her, but let it go enough to go by herself. She said if his father was alive today he’d know what to do with him. That’s what gave Meyer the idea to go to his father’s graveside that evening, after his mother had locked the door. He snuck out through his bedroom window, and picked the lock to the shed, pulling out some of his fathers old things. A shovel and pick axe. He ended up walking instead of taking his bike.

His original plan was to dig up his father and set alight to the body, but when he saw a group of irritating boys from school there he couldn’t help but feel anger running through his chest. They saw him, shouted antisemitic slurs and called him a freak, as they always did. He wasn’t really thinking when he picked up his shovel, nor when he smacked each one over and over again. The one who tried to run away he didn’t hit quite so cleanly, the metal sliced through his temples, and his shovel slammed through his victim’s skull.

He piled them all in an open grave of his own creation, and of course he set them alight. It became a tradition after that, he’d find people, anyone would do, and watch them burn to death. He wasn’t sure when the Desolation came to him, he supposed it was when he met Jude, and when she introduced him to Agnes. He didn’t have quite the same devotion to her that Jude did, all he could think about was how he’d appreciate what Agnes had far, far more than she did.

The End

Roxen Vilatte could often be found in the corner of the Sweetwater brewery, despite the fact he never ordered a drink no one told him to leave or even paid him any mind. He sat there with a book and a chess set - an ancient, battered thing. People didn’t look at him twice, they either didn’t think anything was odd about this or they simply found him too frightening to ask. The only time anyone spoke to him was to challenge him to a game of chess, he’d smirk and agree, his voice a thick Louisiana drawl. He’d roll up the sleeves of his red plaid shirt and watch his opponent intently, always choosing black. He won, of course. The player would always leave him pale and shaking, as if they’d looked into the face of the devil himself. Strangely enough, not a single one managed to live until the end of the week.

Was Roxen killing them? Certainly. Well. In a sense. You see, they killed themselves he always said. They chose the chess game, they should have known from the strange carvings on the side of the board there was something odd about it. He never forced anyone to play, or even approached anyone for a game. He always waited for them to come to him. The fact he was more clear and inviting to a certain type of person and forgotten by others was a strange coincidence. The fact they all were killed from suicides, despite none having any history of mental illness or suicidal thoughts prior to this was also an odd little connection. Nothing to do with him, of course.

One day, a tall, thin young man with a thatch of red hair and bright green eyes came in, sitting opposite Roxen. He was somewhat known in the town as the strange boy in the old farmhouse who lived with his grandmother. He wasn’t old enough to drink yet but that didn’t stop the bar from serving him a good whiskey and coke. He sipped at it as he sat down challenging Roxen to a game, immediately Roxen did not like the young man. For one thing, he hadn’t chosen to appeal to him - he simply… approached. For another, he was smug, and that was infuriating to Roxen. He accepted the offer against his better judgement, and they played for hours. By the time the what had been the mid afternoon sun had set, the young man proudly declared checkmate - the first one to ever beat Roxen. As he stood astounded, staring at the board the young man simply said: “well, guess I gone an’ escaped death today.”

The Eye

Few knew of Nina Kova, the Dutch immigrant living in Paris, but her professional alias of Madame Hazel La Croix was known all over mainland Europe in the right circles. Her shop was on the river Seine, and came to life at night. Large neon lights declared precisely who she was to anyone who would pass: MADAME HAZEL LA CROIX’S MAGICAL EMPORIUM. Underneath it declared her as a psychic medium who offered one-to-one sessions, groups, performances, and seances, as well as expensive and specialised store of everything from new age to occult to witchcraft related tems. Customers often came from all over Europe, and sometimes further afield, to see her, or buy her stock. She refused interviews and any filmed performances, which increased her credibility to many.

The reason for Hazel’s esteem was how accurate everything she said was. Many sceptics tried to go to catch her out, but they couldn’t deny that when her eyes switched from their soft brown to a bright green and she asked if you had a grandfather named Manuel who died of a stroke and used to take you walking in Per Lachaise cemetery with his dog… it was hard to dispute. Every time she asked a question she had a smirk on her lips as she stared directly into your soul. She knew precisely how accurate what she was saying was. She knew. Sceptics would try to deny it on occasion but they’d splutter and she’d sigh, asking if they could please be honest.

Despite her fame, that did not mean she stopped her hobby she’d developed from childhood. It started with her mother, she’d pretend to give her messages from their dead father, through automatic writing and knocks in the walls. Her mother believed it and quickly Hazel found herself being displayed to leering adults who’d poke and prod and ask intrusive questions. They were happy to use her as a party trick, and despite her hating the whole ordeal she learned to use it to her advantage. Her mother would charge obscene amounts of money, and Hazel tormented her with horrible messages from her father. “He” said how she was a monster who he never loved, how he was having affairs throughout their entire marriage, that she should atone through acts that greatly benefited her daughter. When her mother has been driven mad, Hazel grew bored and decided to have her father declare she should hang herself. Hazel found she could be extremely persuasive, and she never quite understood why. She giggled as she saw her mother hanging. So naturally when she was gifted with the Eye, there was only one thing to do.

The Flesh

People didn’t expect Devyn Fraser to be a vegetarian, they were a chef at a high end restaurant that regularly served meals like veal and foie gras, how on earth could they be? They had a simple answer for that, everyone who eats meat or harms an animal would get what was coming to them. They said with a smirk as the smell of duck and steak filled the restaurant. They’d then laugh, as if it was a joke, setting the everyone around them at ease. As if they weren’t sizing up the man who’d ordered a bloody steak, who joked he wanted it still alive. Or the woman who asked for veal without batting an eyelid. They wouldn’t be eating at the restaurant again, not that they knew it when they left happy and full. Sometimes laughing with their friends or partner. They didn’t see the tall, chubby cook who was watching them intently - already having asked for the customers payment information.

Devyn enjoyed making their victims suffer the way the animals they had a part in killing suffered. The domain of the Flesh was a factory farm after all, and they enjoyed bringing them through the torment until they got bored of the new meat. A customer who ordered the veal, in this case a tall, willowy woman with a button nose and smug expression, was locked in a dark room. It was so small she couldn’t sit up comfortably, she’d been stripped to just her underwear, fed only lard and water through tubes that were pressed through the wall into her mouth. She couldn’t scream, her throat was too dry for that, all she could do was wait and think. She was completely alone with her thoughts, waiting to die, just like the animal she ate.

Those who are the steak got a similar death, in this case a stout man with curly brown hair and a crooked jaw. He awoke completely naked squeezed in a cage with other men like him, he attempted to speak with them but they looked at him with glassy expressions and only spoke in low grunts. Once a day an attendant, a tall, misshapen man, appeared. His torso was bumpy in some places and also oddly thin and lacking any muscle definition in others, his arms and legs had too many joints and bulged out at the wrist and ankles. He injected them all with a strange cocktail of medications, based on the way their chests grew and muscles depleted it seemed to be some form of hormones. Their troughs were filled with slop, and Devyn only came to see them when they walked them to the abattoir, asking if they enjoyed their last meal. They did work very hard on it after all.

The Hunt

Bertrand Hardie arranged the Hunt every year, and it was always quite the success. The attendees were those devoted to his same patron, regardless of whether they were avatars, agents, or his old friends. The Hunt was based on a tradition his great grandfather had created, of taking his friends and those of his class on a gigantic hunting trip once a year. The difference was that they traditionally hunted animals - foxes, rabbits, badgers, moles, and the like. Upon being chosen to become apart of the Hunt Bertrand had took in his stride, he was delighted by the prospect even. It also gave him an idea, the annual Hardie Family Hunt would he reborn, it had last taken place until a few years before Bertrand’s father’s health had declined. After the man’s death and Bertrand’s rebirth it seemed right to bring it back. Only this time, there would be one crucial difference. The prey, game, or whatever you like to call them were people.

The victims were collected in the months leading up to it - often they were captured from the streets, hiking in the highlands, or anywhere else stragglers tended to hang out. It would rarely be Bertrand, he obviously did not lower himself to talk to them directly before he started the game. The agents who picked up the game were charming, offering a kind ear, and in a lot of cases a warm meal and a place to sleep. In Aberdeen itself it was harder, they were more streetwise and on watch there. People actually looked out for each other. That was a problem. It was the outlying towns were no one blinked when a homeless twenty something disappeared. Between the time they were caught and the Hunt, the agents brought them back to the holding cells, as Bertrand called them. In reality it was a large country manor, and each prey was looked inside one of the bedrooms, they were well furnished enough with en-suite bathrooms… but having to ask for help with the slightest thing, such as how they kept the hot water and electricity off unless they requested it. And they needed a good reason.

Bertrand stood on the outskirts of the mountain, the one owned by the Hardie family with manned barriers around the edges to make sure no one escaped. He wore a smart tartan flat cap, a large coat, and held a obscenely sized shot gun. As the Hunt took over his body, his nose and chin grew into something representing a snout, his teeth sharper, and his eyes narrowed. His body grew taller and his muscles developed. He didn’t wait for the beginning of the game to be announced, as soon as he caught the sent of the first human, he ran, fixated and unblinking on the path he needed to take. The game has been released all over the mountain, and now it was their job to find them.

The Lonely

Milo De Verley was a handsome young man, which was not harmed by his soft French accent and thick blonde eyelashes. His eyes were the shade of caramel, and his curls made him look almost angelic. So when he showed up at the house of a victim, claiming to be a long lost nephew, cousin, or perhaps the son of a dear friend, it was hard to accuse the man of lying. He had always fallen upon hard times, and desperately needed a family member or friend. He was polite and threw in a good story which painted him as the victim, and the target as a possible hero. People were eager to help him, and Milo had a type.

His victims all fit the following standards: lived alone, had friends or family visit less than once a month, divorced or widowed, no pets, and a generous income. The latter was the most important for the beginning of his plan. Somehow, when he spoke of barely being able to afford the hotel he was staying in, he’d get talked into spending the night at his target’s. He was family after all (or as good as.) He’d cook them breakfast as a thank you, what a charming boy he wasl. He did all their shopping to let them know he was grateful. In fact, with all his help they barely needed anyone outside their home at all. Soon they became dependent solely on him, they helped Milo, and now he’s as helping them, keeping them drugged and pliant.

When the victims were found, Milo played the teary eyed loved one so well. He seemed heartbroken, going on how they were all he had and the same was true the other way around. None of the deaths were treated as suspicious… which is strange, since every single one of them had an obscenely high level of arsenic in their blood.

The Slaughter

Kutlay Androu’s Battle & Glitch was a rare find these days, so when Jamie Barrett found it in Mega-Bytes, his local retro video game café/shop, he was convinced it was a fake. He remembered the story from his childhood in the nineties, it was all they talked about at St Joseph’s Primary School for a few months and he’d always been fascinated by the story. He didn’t actually know anyone who bought the game, but he saw the advert on TV. The premise was quite simple, it was a fighting game that seemed similar to Streets of Rage but you took advantage of ‘glitches’ in the game to attack your enemies. This could be causing them to be thrown up in the air with their limbs flying off, or zooming through them and causing them to explode. He remembered excitedly discussing it with his friends and begging his parents for the game. They insisted that he’d get it him for Christmas but by then every copy had been recalled from the shelves. Jamie decided whether this game was fake or not, for £6.50 he could take the risk.

The story of the game was that it had been found in the possession of six different mass murders. Jamie remembered them, and they all definitely happened. There was Erin Dunn - a fifteen year old in Dundee who killed eight civilians and six police officers with a hammer from her dad’s tool shed. She was a quiet, studious girl who never raised her voice, she’d never even got into a fight or argument with anyone. She had a good group of friends, a happy middle class home… no one could figure out what would cause her to snap. Then Robbie Turner from Inverness who took an axe to his work colleagues. One day he was a happy go lucky project manager, next he came in and slashed them to bits. The other one Jamie remembered was Breagha Lynch, when they found her at supermarket she stacked shelves at she was sat in her manager’s chair wearing his skin. Normally, this sort of thing would get dismissed as hysteria, but the fact each one played the game for three days straight before each attack seemed too much of a coincidence to ignore. From what the families’ of the killers said, this game hypnotised them for three days. On the third day, they got up as normal, and they had an extreme, intense anger. Erin trashed her living room before storming out of the house, Robbie threw his computer across the room before going on the attack, Breagha was seen chewing on a colleagues arm she’d ripped from their body. Whether it was the cause or not, the games were recalled.

Jamie was practically giddy as he set up his old mega drive, he’d sent a picture of it to a couple of his old school friends. Lyall responded with a few laughing emojis and adding that he better have an axe in hand. Austin on the other hand seemed less amused by it, after an hour or so he replied with a message begging Jamie not to play it. He assumed Austin was joking, but was a little perturbed by how serious he seemed. He decided to ignore it for now, instead setting up his new game. He sat on his floor cross-legged with a large packet of Doritos, grinning from ear to ear as the intro played. It seemed fairly standard, a muscular pixelated protagonist who couldn’t stand still and was surrounded by streets and blood splatters. When the name filled the screen there was a huge crack on the screen that was filled with static and jagged colours that then morphed into the word ‘Glitch’.

After two days, Austin MacKay - an old friend of Jamie’s - was sent an odd text message from him. Simply: “Do you think the Pied Piper had bagpipes?” He wasn’t sure how to respond, so decided to leave it. Another day later was even more peculiar, it was then he received: “it would’ve been funnier if Robbie Turner had played Golden Axe instead”. Austin wanted to phone the police then, but he didn’t have anything to go on other than an urban legend and a couple of strange text messages. Perhaps if he had have done, he thought for a long time afterwards, maybe Jamie wouldn’t driven his car through that shopping mall, driving through as many people as he possibly could.

The Spiral

Aidan McKennon enjoyed people thinking he was a faerie, he supposed it made sense - he grew up Ballymote and whilst it’s not that they believed in faeries exactly… It was that they didn’t test them just in case, and when Aidan became a strange, distorted being of fear… perhaps ‘faerie’ was the closest word most people could think of to describe something like him. Before he changed, he was five foot three, his long black curls went past his shoulders and he’d spent since the first day of his puberty fifteen years trying to hide his breasts and hips. When the Spiral took him, or rather when he happily and willingly ran through the doorway, knowing it would take him from his miserable, isolating life, he did it so that he could grow six inches, flatten his chest, and deepen his voice. Of course his limbs stretched even further, his fingers, arms, and legs. His hands were distorted, his blue eyes had become pits of black, and his hair more like an oil filled mass. Almost like the illustrations of the fae he’d seen, and he fully intended to use this to his advantage.

Aidan wandered around the foggy hills and mountains of County Sligo, tricking walkers and ramblers, and helping them get lost. He’d appeared as mirages, tempting them as a way out, a friendly face, but disappearing causing them to become even more lost in the wilderness. He’d sometimes talk to them, his voice could be a charming lilting tone, or it could be a menacing, angry growl. He switched between the two depending on what the situation called for. He could grow, and shrink. When he was cut or hurt, his wounds leaked moss, and healed over with mushrooms. When he walked, it was as if his legs were tree branches, spindly and rooting themselves into the ground. When it came to the stormy days, with heavy rain and dense fog, he didn’t bother trying to maintain his more human shape, instead he let the rain take care of his leaves and grass that grew in the crooks and folds of his body.

The fear of those lost in the countryside did keep Aidan sated, but every now and then he needed more. It was quite simple, he’d lead a curious tourist to a ring of mushrooms he’d planted - a “faerie ring” they were too stupid to ignore. They’d sometimes take photos, often step inside, and when they did that’s when Aidan would strike. He’d cause them to feel like they were being dragged into the grass beneath them. They’d willingly given themselves to him, and as a result he’d take them to his labyrinth. He’d sit above it, usually hanging upside down and swinging in the railing. He enjoyed watching his Minotaur follow them through it, and observing as they slowly realised the victims were trapped eternally.

The Stranger

Sara Bayat whistled as she put the finishing touches on the dress she was making for her new doll. The template she had drawn was based on the photograph of her mother back in Mashhad when she was a teenage girl. It reached her feet, the fabric a navy blue with gold and silver stars sewn into it. Her hijab was a beautiful silk, a navy that blended into her dress. She spoke to her sewing machine about how good of a job it was doing.

She put the finishing touches on the beautiful blonde curls made of real human hair on the wig she was putting together for the doll. Ever since she first came into contact with Nikola Orsinov she’d had the ability to breathe life into her toys. However, now she didn’t want to speak to people. She just wanted dolls. So there was an obvious, clear solution. She just had to make more dolls. The wig she was creating was based on another photograph on her notice board, a photo of Ingrid Burgman from Casablanca. She learned to make dolls from her mother, her grandparents own a nice little store in Mashhad. A toy store where they made nearly all of the products themselves, Sara had only seen it in photos - like everything in Mashhad. A strange city full of strangers who’s faces only stood out to her form colourful photographs. They weren’t real. None of them were real.

Sara stood proudly in front of her new doll, it was a few inches shorter than she was and slimmer. Sara carefully sewed on the doll’s wig, slapping her when she moved and cried too much. Sara would prick her doll in the scalp with every stitch, seemingly indifferent to the blood that dripped down her neck. Sara kissed her doll’s forehead, humming to herself as she thought of how well this one would fit in with all the others. Her army’s of dolls that would slowly be apart of Nikola’s circus alongside her mannequins.

The Vast

Cora McKenna had another photo printed in National Geographic. She’d gotten to the point where she stopped caring much - it was the fifteenth now after all - but she was particularly proud of this one. Her work had already been creating buzz in the art world, she specialised in underwater photography and had a knack for finding unique spaces. They said her work created a terrifying sense of open, unending dread. A sheer vastness unthinkable by the human mind. This photo had been marvellous, glorious, the best experience of her entire life.

It was deep sea diving in the North Sea with her then girlfriend Shona. Cora had been disappointed with how much Shona had struggled with diving, she complained the whole way there despite knowing how important it was to Cora. When she got there, she insisted she didn’t want to do it, Cora had to practically force her into the diving suit. She was tempted just to push her in, but she knew that would never work. Instead Cora gave her an ultimatum, she can be on the boat alone or come with her. Cora was very careful to highlight all of the things that could possibly go wrong on the boat, causing Shona to make the sensible decision.

Cora was glad she couldn’t hear Shona as she clumsily swam after her. She could sense her unease and anxiety, and was sure she would be complaining the entire time. Still, there was something satisfying and enthralling about how terrified Shona was behind her. Cora couldn’t explain how she knew where to go, her gut dragged her there. It dragged her down into the cave and through the tunnel. Shona tried to tap her many times to signal to her she was concerned but Cora ignored her. Eventually they reached the cavern, where Cora got her photograph.

When she looked up, she couldn’t even see the sky, and she swore that when she turned around the cave had disappeared too. All she was was the glorious empty sea, a gorgeous free landscape of pure water. She closed her eyes and let her limbs hang there as she saved moon ured it, ignoring Shona tugging on her arm. When Cora opened her eyes she saw them, a mass of moon jellyfish beneath her feet. One rose up in front of her eyes, a lone jellyfish against the empty void of sea. She took a glorious photo, the jellyfish barely a foot in front of her face with the mass of water behind her. When she turned round, expecting to see Shona’s excitement instead she was crying, rambling something as if she forgot Cora couldn’t hear her. She sighed and did what she always had to do, she grabbed Shona’s oxygen tube and yanked it out. Smirking as she saw Shona struggle, confusion and betrayal in her eyes as Cora saw her process that she was going to die alone in a gigantic sea of nothingness. Her body would be stuck there forever. When Shona drifted off Cora sighed, this was the eighth girl she’d brought here. It was a shame no one appreciated it like she did.

The Web

Rhiannon Powell was very good at her job, she worked for her local church in Beaumaris and volunteered for the mental health hotline. She was easily the most asked for whenever anyone had a request, the young woman worked the night shift mostly, and did so without expecting a single thing in return. She had a bright smile, blonde hair tied back in a sensible ponytail and wore jeans and a blouse every day. She was often alone, meaning when she was actually there she had the power to do and say whatever she liked. The Chaplin trusted her to do her best, and after all, so many of their callers asked for Rhiannon personally, as she’d helped them before. Of course, he wasn’t wrong… He simply didn’t realise that what Rhiannon considered her best wasn’t quite what he predicted.

The brilliance of the phone line is that it was completely anonymous, if the caller wished to tell the operator their name that was fine but meant Rhiannon suddenly was not interested in them. If they didn’t have a name, no identifying features then they were the perfect prey. She would always start of the same way, a bright “hello, love, how can I help?” She had a way of setting the customer at ease, after a few moments of small talks and getting down to the real problem Rhiannon would say something along the lines of: “Well, if you really want your partner to understand how you’re feeling perhaps you need to show them. A few scratches on the wrist is easy to ignore, you half conscious in a bath tub of your own blood is much more difficult.” In her sweet voice it sounded gentle, encouraging, and as if it was coming from their mother.

She always kept up with each of the suicides, she felt a string of her web pull her towards each person she spoke to. Sometimes she visited those who were still alive, she nipped in for a cup of tea and add a cheery “well, since your still alive you can’t have been feeling that bad. Thank goodness.” Knowing full well it will send them into a spiral of self doubt. She gave advice about taking care of knives to keep them sharp, the best medications to take for overdosing, and a few affirmations to repeat about how selfless and pure suicide was. She had managed to help 220 callers commit suicide after all, and she was still adamant to keep adding to that total and not let any of them escape her.

#envi writes #the Magnus archives #tma the buried #tma the corruption #tma the dark #tma the desolation #tma the end #tma the eye #tma the flesh #tma the hunt #tma the lonely #tma the slaughter #tma the spiral #tma the stranger #tma the vast #tma the web

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wolftheidioticfan · 3 years

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doodles from yesterday bc I’m trynna get good pfps for them all on toyhouse.

Darja is my fave here tbh...if you’re cold she’s cold...let the kanokko in...

#my art #salties fan ocs #tank wandaba (saltie fc)#bune (saltie fc)#Darja kanokko (saltie fc)#I promise on my life I draw other things other than little funky orbs I'm sorry

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ooops-i-arted · 4 years

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All the major OCs from No Prison Can Hold.

Species featured are Mirialan, Sarkhai, Falleen, and Zabrak.

#Tolli's first name is 'sunshine' in esperanto bc he's a good bean #no prison can hold #baby yoda #the mandalorian #oc #ensign tolli #general narro #darja #captain niam

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anotherviewaesthetics · 6 years

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Не хочу писать красивые описания, вот эстетика на мою Дашеньку

#aesthetics #aesthetic #oc #ocs #my oc #my ocs #original character #original characters #darja #darja helensandorial #русский пост #русский tumblr #русский тамблер #текст #эстетика #эстетично #ориджиналы #русский блог

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vellichorwrites · 6 years

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wip: WINDWARD - character: DARJA VAIL FAMILY TEMPLATE

** note: their fathers aren’t important. they’re not part of the story. all you need to know right now is they all have different fathers. also if you recognize her brother’s name from an earlier post, know he is, in fact, the same person. also -- he’s a dick. **

tag list under the cut (ask to be added/removed!!!) [i’m sorry you guys are getting tagged in so many things today. i just have been doing these instead of writing]:

@kallantrieswriting @cherish-writes @nnovawrites

#writeblr #wip: windward #oc: darja vail #* mine

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sor-vette · 2 years

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Hello Darja! First and more important, I hope you're doing great, hope you're feeling content and nice <3

NOW, is there a limit to the prompts we can use? If not, I'd love one with Jae and the reader, (because miss him and need more interactions with her) using these: “You always make that face when you’ve done something wrong, so what did you do? / “I can’t be mad at you.” / “I can’t believe you did this for me.”

You haven't even written it yet, but I already know I'm going to love it because I enjoy everything you do hahaha

Hello, hello! Good to hear from you! I've got a couple of days free so I am happy rn :) I originally had planned, one prompt per request but eh, let's do multiple :) hope you don't mind that I used your ask as the base format for the drabble :? I'm not quite sure how many people will enjoy this, because it's mostly two OC's....and therefore extremely specified but Jae deserves some love so here it goes :)) hope it's to your liking ♡

Racoons in the Office

• type: Jae x reader (+Jin x reader) • w/c: 1.5k

• part of: "Life of 27" drabble series set in "The Curious Move-In to Apartment 27"

• set: right after "On Middle Grounds"

• tagging: @pinkcherrybombs; @introlxv (sorry, babes, I'm going to annoy you forever)

a/n: when you see a bunch of text written without spaces it means Jae is nagging really, really fast

You sip the fermented drink with a long and cautious face, puke a little bit in your mouth and then melt into the desk. There's not a place that doesn't hurt.

"I said have a good evening not get a liver failure," Jae grumbles, running all over the office. It's empty and quiet on Saturday afternoon. A space for you both to work in peace or vomit in peace as was the case today.

"It was a drinking game..." you try to explain lamely but once Jae has launched into mother hen mode which is scarily reminiscent of Jin though more softly spoken, there's no stopping him.

"How old are you? Two years senior and you bow to peer pressure! Why did you keep drinking? Stop drinking! There's water, should have drunk that!"

"Many people-"

"There's water!" Jae insists, fetching a pillow (?) and tucking it underneath your throbbing temples. You only left the safety of the apartment because once the guys got the wind of Mark, who was he and what happened, the worry had exploded, nearly lopping your head with it. Who would have guessed the same tirade would continue here.

"Yes but-"

"alcoholisnotgoodforyourhealth-"

"Okay."

"andyoushouldbemoremindfulofyourhealthyou'vegotsomanypeoplewhocareforyou-"

"Okay."

"Are you even listening to me?"

You raise your head and for the first time and squint in his general direction. Jae was standing in the light of the torturous sun, one hand on his hip and worried expression etched deep into his otherwise youthful face. Your eyes drift downward, to the truly horrendous Moomin sweater he had adorned.

"Don't be mad at me," is all you ask.

Jae sighs.

"I can't be mad at you," he pouts. "It is a scientific impossibility. But really is it that hard to drink in moderation?"

"You snort in a coffee with eight shots of espresso," you remind him sagely, tucking your head away back into the shadows and Jae becomes but an omnipresent, nagging voice drifting endlessly like a horde of mosquitos.

That puts a halter in his mouth if but for a second.

"Yes, but that's me! Who cares about me?"

"I do," you narrow him down. "I care. Besides which what are you even doing here?"

He blushes.

"Nothing."

He's not even red. More like...purple. Eyes shifting left and right, while his legs bounce around with anxiety he appears very much like a puppy caught in front of a chewed slipper, hoping that if he won't make eye contact, it will all disappear.

"You're making the face."

"What face?" he gives you the widest, most scandalized eyes in the universe.

"The face," you clarify with emphasis. It helps exactly no one. "You always make that face when you’ve done something wrong, so what did you do?"

"It's not that it's wrong...." he laughs nervously wringing his hands and then slumps forward. "I wanted to tell HR that it was me who got Erik mad so they wouldn't write a note in your ledger."

You snort.

"A note. What do you think it is - a school?" Laughing was a no-go. It made you only sicker. "Also you're doing no such thing."

He splutters with indignance.

"I will," when you flinch he lowers his tone to a whisper once again. "Yes, I will do it. Don't even try to stop me."

"You have already been stopped," you whine. "You're under my protection, that's one. I have beef with everyone here, that's two. I've given up on my career, that's three. So all in all, they pencil this incident into already my known reputation of being an outcast and we're done. Besides, if not for Eric's little outburst we wouldn't have our own office."

Jae tugs your head upwards, pressing a bottle of water to your lips. Though it feels slightly insulting as though you're a frail Victorian patient dying of tuberculosis, the water is cool and fresh and soothes the horrible scratching in your throat.

"What office?" he asks, once you're done.

"Our own office," you slump into the chair, shivering slightly. Never mind never drinking again, you won't even look at alcohol ever again. You'll promise pretty please on any deities shrine to be forever obedient if this nausea would cease. "Others are making you uncomfortable, so I fired up a bunch of e-mails and they allowed us to use the folder room."

You avoid telling the slight detail that 99% of that success lied in the fact that no one wanted to be even in a five-meter radius of Jae launching into one of his long rants, hence granting the proposal of isolation a rather widespread approval. He didn't need to know that.

"...it's a cupboard," Jae faintly remarks and you would shrug if not for the fear of projectile vomiting all over this carpet. It'd be a bitch to clean.

"Tomato, tomato," you reply casually but then the sound of crying forces you to focus. Jae was standing, water bottle in hand with what was clearly light tears running down his cheeks.

"No...please, don't cry," you try to comfort him lamely but you're also rooted to the spot. And extremely awkward.

"People always have wanted something from me," he wiped at his face. "So this has been the first case of someone...picking on me. I've never been forced to hear someone say shit about my ADHD."

He was probably upset that you did this - treat him as a kid in need of saving. You messed up again.

"Jae, I-"

"Thank you!"

Thank you?

He runs to your chair and practically tries to meld his body into yours, enveloping you in a jittery hug. You clamp your jaw shut to avoid any incidents.

"Thank you so much. I can't believe you did this for me," he chokes.

"Did what?" Jin's voice suddenly asks. He looks just as green as you, swaying from left to right. It was even a surprise he was able to stand up. Jae immediately unwraps himself.

"We're going to get our own space," you explain warily. You hope they won't find but it's a loser's expectancy at this point. At least it wasn't Namjoon. You were only half confident to say that he wouldn't just chuck Jae out of the window should he run his mouth too much. And run he did.

"You, guys," he points at Jin accusingly. "You care for her right? What kind of men are you to allow her to drink herself to this state?! No, gentlemen, thissimplywillnotdo.doyoualsoallowhertosleepwithanopenwindow?shecomesinsnifflingeverytwodaysandthisisnotthetimetocatchacold,isaidno,notooverdrinkingnotosleepingwithanopenwindownotohavingacold!healthispreciousyouknow-"

Jin's eyes are hidden behind hefty sunglasses but despite it, the scowl is quite visible.

"Child -"

"CHILD?!"

"- me...I'm too sick to listen...to listen you. Honey?"

In your weak state, you don't even bat an eyelash at the term.

"Yeah?"

"Let's go home."

Home. That does sound wonderful. But if the saying was right then home was not a place, it was people. And home meant both the arrangement of clownery that was BTS and very much a strange coloured Moomin that was Jae. Quite the dwelling that was.

"You know I care for you," you glance at Jin and he nods, briefly touching his stomach as if barely not hurling. "And I also care for Jae. So, please, if you could just tolerate each other, that would make me happy."

Though they don't admit this to you, your happiness was their main and common priority and as such when the taxi arrives to take you home, guided by Jin's embrace, Jae is also there. You'll have to come clean about Mark. Not later, in a distant, unreachable future, but right now and to everyone. But somehow it feels less scary. Despite still throwing daggers at each other, Jae and Jin remain passive, one belting off the taxi driver's ear about safe and steady driving and one, pressing chaste, comforting kisses to your forehead. Jin's fingers trace small circles on the small of your back and you fall prey to their trance, nuzzling boneless into his neck.

"You're going to be okay," he mutters and you can't differentiate whether he means it physically as in you're going to survive this car ride, or emotionally - that you could tell them the truth and won't be judged for it. "Everything's going... okay."

"Just don't bully Jae, okay," you plead, soft and pathetic and Jin's heart bleeds. "He's my friend."

Jin side-glances at the blue-haired weirdo. He may not like the kid but he did care for you and, to Jin, that was an agreeable quality.

"We won't bully him" he promises, biting away the ending of "too much".

When Jae, Jin and you slide out of the taxi, all green-tinted and wobbly, you turn to look back at him. Namjoon stands in the window like some sort of ominous giant. Jae's lips press into a thin line at the sight but he quickly wipes it away.

"You know, I can't believe you're doing this for me," you echo his words with a faint smile as Jimin rushes out to help you up the stairs. Now you definitely feel like a frail Victorian patient dying of tuberculosis.

"The things I do for my best friend," he grumbles miserably.

#jin x reader #bts drabble #jin x you #jin x y/n #bts poly au #ot7 x reader #ot7 x you #ot7 x y/n

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