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Launcelot with this sword shall slay the man that in the world he loved best, that shall be Sir Gawaine.

handing your man the sword he will one day kill you with ~*just arthurian things*~

march to camelot prompt #5: love

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Indubitably 🧐

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FOUND family??? you think i just found them like this??? babes this is FORGED family. Me & the bros were scrap metal in a junkyard (very valuable, very sharp, very dangerous, uncared for) and we GOT IN THE FUCKING FIRE TOGETHER. WE did this. we said I AM NOT LEAVING YOU and melted into each other for better or for worse (it’s for better) and we are A FUNCTIONAL UNIT now. DO NOT SEPARATE. BATTERIES FUCKING INCLUDED. FOUND family my ass, we built this non-nuclear family unit from the ground up, don’t devalue this!!! it was is and will be a labour of love!!!

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Bernard Hill

1944 - 2024

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Tonight, we remember one who lent his enormous talent to telling the story we have all come to love. Hail, the victorious dead!

May the Simbelmynë cover his tomb as it did the tomb of the one he so accurately portrayed.

Bernard Hill Dec 17, 1944 - May 5, 2024

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!!!!!!!

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#I had a stuffed zebra (appropriately named Stripes) #one of my first sewing projects was trying to mend the holes worn in his hooves #(it was not pretty)

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Happy 32nd birthday to my sibling @awesomepaste who requested Boromir and Faramir being happy for their birthday present. And why shouldn't they get to be happy?

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New travel posters for my recent obsession. 

Update: Now available on Redbubble and Etsy!

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Holy Week, or, Watch as I Grow Closer to Writing a Queer Passion Retelling with Each Passing Day

#idk what it is #but every year the lead up to Easter does this to me #maybe this will be the year I finally do it #just the queerest possible retelling of the passion

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made a uquiz

#I fucking love Shakespeare #but also OUCH #uncomfortably seen as Benvolio

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A fantasy book where many characters have dramatic High Fantasy epithets, but for incredibly non-dramatic reasons.

An adventurer known as The Herald of Dawn, but it's because she tends to wake up naturally at 4 or 5 am and every single fucking time wakes up the whole damn camp before sunrise by banging pots and pans together while making herself breakfast.

A nobleman known as The Lord of Shadows, but it's because his land is shaded from all sides by cliffs and mountains and all the other nobility are roasting this guy for not being able to grow or farm anything on his shitty, shady, no-sunshine-having estates.

A courtesan known as The Emerald of [location], but it's because the county she was born in is known for manufacturing forged jewels and gemstones, and so far she is the fakest pretty thing to ever come from there.

An assassin known as The Kiss of Death, but it's because he has somehow acquired every single known and documented STD in his mouth.

The Dark Huntress, named so to distinguish her from The Blonde Huntress.

A prince known as The Raven Prince, but it's because he's autistic and can and WILL tell you everything that is known about ravens, for five hours straight.

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My latest cartoon for New Scientist.

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The Pevensies are foreign when they return home.

The streets no longer know them. They do not seem to fit in their own bodies as they stroll the cobbles, Lucy’s hand tucked carefully into Peter’s, Edmund trailing watchfully behind Susan like a shadow. Their eyes are sharp, their smiles crooked, and those who see them cross to the opposite side of the road, afraid of the ancient gleam they see reflected back at them that does not belong in the eyes of a child.

Water murmurs to Lucy when she flits past, and lamplight follows her wherever she goes, even in broad daylight when the lamps are unlit. Their flames sputter into existence when she walks by, flickering at her in a way that seems to whisper I know you. Lucy looks at them with feral teeth and smiles, and vines twist from the cobbles at her feet. She laughs like a wild thing, eyes glowing, but a moment later she blinks and it is gone. Her feet hardly seem to touch the ground at all as she darts through the alleys.

The sky is clearer when Peter walks the streets, clouds vanishing like they were never there at all. His eyes are too much like a lion’s, struck through with gold and filled with a brooding fierceness, yet he laughs as he twirls Lucy around, and claps Edmund on the back as they share a stupid joke, and smiles with Susan when she tells him of the bow she plans to carve. He is all warmth and friendliness, but there is something about his eyes. There is something about all of their eyes.

The sun caresses Susan as she moves about, and she is graceful, too graceful, her hair seeming to be alive of its own accord as she steps lightly along the streets. Her skin is pale like ice, and sometimes her gaze appears almost silver as she stands by the river, gazing into its depths with a distant, siren-cold smile. She is gentle, but her fingers look a little too long sometimes. Her laugh is a little too unsettling.

Trees lean towards Edmund when he walks past, branches scraping his clothing, leaves showering around him. Books and journals and pages covered in notes perpetually fill his arms, spilling from his grasp but never quite falling. His voice is even-keeled, quiet, but there is something wild about it, something unhinged. He speaks of things none have ever heard before, dark hair falling into his eyes, mouth unsmiling and hands perfectly still, and for a moment he seems to be someone else, fangs beneath his lips, dirt on his tongue. He tilts his head just a little too far, sometimes.

The Pevensies are foreign when they return home. They do not fit their bodies. They do not fit the streets. People who encounter them cross to the other side of the road to avoid them, terrified of the oldness they see in the children’s faces. Such depth does not belong in the gaze of a child.

And yet four sets of eyes, ancient and deep and flickering like candlelight, stare out from the children’s faces, and their smiles are sharp, too sharp. Their laughter is a little too wild as they walk, the oldest and youngest hand-in-hand, the middle children trailing each other like shadows.

There is something about those children’s eyes.

There is something about those children.

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