A comic about Sam and Max being trans guys, taking place at Sam's old job as a stewardess before he transitioned. Being that it's Sam & Max, weird ridiculous hijinks ensure.
So... After two years of working on this on and off, it's finished! I had posted pages as I was making them on here before but those posts are no longer on my blog- I actually redid most of the pages with new jokes and panels, and fixed a lot. I'm really proud of how far this has come. :)
Please reblog if you can if you like it, so more can see it! It'd mean so much! Thank you. <3
i must have blacked out at this part from having to watch carmy/claire excessive scenes but they literally PUT sydney in the “girlfriend” montage??????
and then showed a close up on her heart tatt with three swords?
this is some kind of standalone idea. the original version was much more goofy, crassus was going to cover up pompey's mouth and say, 'no, no. he's got a point. let him speak,' and then pompey was going to bite his hand and say, 'you're not even supposed to BE here.'
then I read a review about a staging of julius caesar that sounded like it got REALLY mean (because it involved improv since it seemed like the intention was supposed to be interactive with the audience) and decided to add some teeth into it.
(also yes, I broke the 180 rule. it’s fine. usually I try to include panels that show characters walking around when I do that, but this comic was a standalone, so instead pretend that I’m spinning the theoretical cameraman around on an office chair or something. or that the camera is a ghost.)
also because titling something Carrion Eater and then NOT having it get a little mean and nasty in the dialogue seemed. like a waste.
eventually, I'll figure out a design for lucullus that I like, I keep wanting to draw other characters when I draw him, so he might need a new hairstyle.
ONWARDS! this is playing off of this scene
To this Lucullus retorted that Pompey was going forth to fight an image and shadow of war, following his custom of alighting, like a lazy carrion-bird, on bodies that others had killed, and tearing to pieces the scattered remnants of wars. For it was in this way that he had appropriated to himself the victories over Sertorius, Lepidus, and the followers of Spartacus, although they had actually been won by Metellus, Catulus, and Crassus. Therefore it was no wonder that he was trying to usurp the glory of the Pontic and Armenian wars, a man who contrived to thrust himself in some way or other into the honour of a triumph for defeating runaway slaves.
Plutarch, Pompey 31
the romans are fightingggggg 🍿🍿🍿
finally, the painting panel is taken from Giovanni Battista Tiepolo's The Triumph of Marius (through the Met's Open Access/Public Domain use policy etc)
She’s been away five days and will be away two more.
He sneezes again, curses under his breath about it and gazes out the window for an uncertain time. It’s raining still, and bitterly cold. The flowers she’d left on the sill are starting to fade. Wintry sleet falls steadily, constantly, and he has a thousand things he’s supposed to do and he’s not doing a damn one of them, his focus both scattered and singular as he claims a tissue from the box by the flowers.
He wipes his nose firmly and recalls her placing the bouquet just so, fresh and vibrant, smiling at him so pleased with her arrangement of it all, her arms around him in soft devoted embrace. The ghost of her touch caresses him in memory; the image brings a suffusing warmth, and he loses himself to its comforting spectre.
For a moment, at least.
He sniffles, chilled despite the hearthfire’s radiant heat, and an ominous shiver runs through him. A catch in his throat follows, barbed and wicked. He frowns at it, shakes his head in an irritated, unspoken refutation of what it might imply. Any further acknowledgement of coming down with something is pushed as firmly from his thoughts as he can; he can’t be sick. It’s not going to…
Hh-HH…
It’s not… *snf!* Not going to happen. He won’t allow it. He won’t… *SNF!* It’s not…
His breath sharpcatches and all thoughts crumble capitulated to urgent, desperate sensation.
“HHTSSCH-uu! Hh-TSSSCH-uu! Ah, gods.” With a wetly insistent series of sniffles, he takes yet another tissue and, after a moment of consideration, another for good measure. Another.
h-how do you ever finish any of your work? genuine question because you seem to be productive despite your agreste syndrome and I need to learn your ways. but also how do you ever finish any of your work
unclear. last night i stayed up and finished a report worth 25% of my grade at about 5am, arrived on time for my 9am lecture, and spent about half of it zoned out while thinking about seventeen year old emilie agreste. and i was one of the most active participants in the class discussion