#unconcerned sketches | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

camgirlkaminari · 1 year

Text

several thoughts about the new years 2023 sketch that i CANNOT stop having:

he's getting hornier. he's been getting hornier on main the closer we get to the end of the series. everyone scroll his twitter back to 2021 and you will see there is an abrupt spike in horny art around august of that year. horny on main about literally all his own ocs and unapologetic about it

horikoshi has DEFINITELY been looking at all the bunnyboi deku fanart over the last 8 years

the previous two points lead me to conclude that the fandom has been picking up what he's putting down this whole time. shameless deku supremacy bunnyboi deku supremacy etc etc

also thinking maybe deku's steel toed thigh highs were an aesthetic choice and not entirely necessary for support reasons. thotty deku supremacy etc

hori really fleshes out his characters with these sketches it seems very clear to me that ochaco was bribed with free food for this event & kirishima didn't have to be bribed with ANYTHING he's just happy to be here, very on brand

thanks bud i WASNT thinking about their balls but NOW i am

that being said: release the balls cut horikoshi. i KNOW you have a secret balls-in drawing. im a 'do-it-for-the-bit' artist, i know theres a secret bit art folder i just KNOW it

and you KNOW he also did a bunnyboi katsuki sketch. hes a freaque he simply would not let that go undrawn

do you guys think katsuki feels left out. do you think he's mad he missed the memo. where are his eyes pointed, mirko? or ochaco? is he jealous. does he have fomo

katsuki adhd king

it is SO funny of hori to make mirko have to wear clothes while the rest of them wear her costume. so cruel. so inhumane. get dressed idiot

shouto said 👁️👄👁️ as usual absolute comedy king

#i NEED everyone to understand that aince day one deku has never had a single body negative thought in his LIFE #its so apparent to me that this weirdo either has incredibly high self esteem OR he simply cannot perceive his own body as a tangible thing #im just saying. very few of my friends would have been ao unconcerned about bein shirtless in front of their peers and yet #this little guy has been running around half naked since the third episode #but NOT in a kirishima or bakugou way #in a 'ive never thought about my appearance beyond being a plain looking guy in my LIFE' kind of way #hes not showing off his gains hes just. not self conscious #fascinating character absolute chad of an mc #which begs the question: why does he wear the arm brace. is it solely for joint support?#because he doesnt seem to worry abt his other scars. so is he just being medically cautious????????#obsessed with him i want to dissect him like a bug #also re:hori getting hornier. he really is equal opportunity horny. like YEAH the girls are being objectified.#but look what he did to kamui woods from day one. he didnt have to define all might's dick so thoroughly and yet #and now hes baby girlifying his amab mc you LOVE to see it #anyway #evil words #horikoshi sketches #bnha

75 notes · View notes

theunconcernedembalmer · 1 year

Text

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 // Part 4.5 // Part 5 //

I was going to draw anniversary aesop but I also wanted to finish this part of the comic and I'm finally done with this wheezes

#aesop carl #identity v #joseph desaulnier #victor grantz #identity v embalmer #identity v photographer #identity v postman #unconcerned comic #modern ghost au #i have a one week break from work. im gonna draw as much as i can #i say break but im p sure im. supposed to be doing some work. preparing n shit #anyway this has been a wip for the longest time. i only had enough energy to get past all this like. after months #i have some sketches of anniversary sop. i just gotta finish them so theyre a little more presentable for posting HAHAHAHA #chemist sop. with a cat. its all i ever wanted. lies down #anyway dont look too hard at the backgrounds i could not give any more shits about it #if u know vaguely where they are then my job is done. peace out

25 notes · View notes

lemissingmask · 9 months

Text

[ID: Dark red sketch of Hardison and Eliot sitting at a table together. Hardison is leaning forward on the table with his arms crossed, looking over at Eliot. Eliot, who had a beer and a whisky in front of him, is sitting back in his chair and looking uneasily back at Hardison. end ID]

Not happy with how this turned out, but I wanted some art to accompany a prompt fill ficlet, and had little time to refine either. There, enough making excuses for myself 😂 Ficlet below the cut and on ao3. It's set just after The Big Bang Job before the crew heads back to Boston, but after all their bomb disarming etc. shenanigans are done for the day.

Eliot had his back to the wall.

Not right up against it. Just close enough to make it impossible for anyone to sneak around or behind him, and positioned to give himself an unobstructed view of most of the hotel bar. And, most importantly, clear sight lines to the elevator and door - the only two ways into the room, and to his crew. Parker and Hardison were sitting close beside each other at the bar, Nate and Sophie were sitting opposite each other at a smaller table, all four people and the areas around them visible to him. Damien Moreau might have fled to San Lorenzo, but that didn't mean they were out of danger. He had reach far beyond what anyone, including Nate, appreciated, and he was far, far more dangerous than the others seemed to comprehend.

Right now, they were all unharmed, and seemed outwardly unaffected by the events of the past few days.

That could very easily not have been the case.

Eliot knew he should have taken his shot at Moreau before Nate got this close. Taken their target out before anyone was in danger.

He could have done it, too.

Today had proved to Eliot that he was still the man he had once been. Still capable of killing swiftly and efficiently, and without a fraction of a second's hesitation.

The elevator doors opened. Eliot watched intently, ready to move if anything about the occupants seemed threatening. But it was just a group of tourists, laughing together, pretty drunk already, and without the least hint of danger about them.

But Hardison had stood up almost at the same time. If he was going back up to his room, that would be a problem. Eliot would have to decide where to situate himself, make a calculation regarding the potential dangers. Isolated in a room versus in a public area with witnesses. One location easier to access but harder to achieve an unseen execution, the other more difficult to reach, but private.

Eliot would wait for privacy or a packed, bustling, environment to carry out a single target hit. This bar was neither of those things. Unless you could get poison subtly into a drink, it was a poor choice of location to carry out a hit. A professional hitter would choose the hotel room or an empty hallway or elevator en route to the room.

Which gave him the decision - if Hardison chose to go up to his room alone, Eliot would follow. Protect the more likely point of attack.

But Hardison wasn't going back to his room.

He was walking over and taking a seat beside Eliot, and he hadn’t brought his drink with him, so he was coming over to say something specific, not just to sit and talk.

Which was good.

Eliot didn’t feel like talking.

He felt frayed.

The ache in his back, his hands, and his knees that his hasty cold shower on returning had done nothing to soothe. The much worse pain from all the memories seeing Moreau brought back. Seeing his men, seeing the man who had taken his place as Moreau’s personal lapdog, and feeling an infuriating hostility because some part of his mind still felt that was his position.

Eliot sat back in his chair so he could see Hardison without losing his view of the rest of the room.

He tried to appear unconcerned, indifferent. Hardison didn’t know what he had done, and he wanted it to stay that way. He didn’t need to know that Eliot could still feel the weight of the guns in his hands, and that he could still smell blood and smoke and fire.

The hacker didn’t say anything for a while. He had come over for a reason, but he was struggling to get to it.

Eliot didn’t push.

He was too tired for that.

“Why’d you take me with you?” Hardison asked at last, “To meet with Moreau. You coulda handled it yourself. Did handle it yourself. And you would’ve been able to keep lying to us about you knowing Moreau.”

That last was said with an anger that was justified and understandable, but that point was one thing Eliot had no apology for.

He didn’t regret not telling them about his connection to Moreau, not one bit. If he had said something to them, Nate would have used it. Would’ve found a way to exploit that connection, go at Moreau more directly, and he would have destroyed them.

But Hardison should be angry. Eliot had put him in danger, done exactly the opposite of his job. And, worst of all, he had done it for selfish reasons. For pathetic reasons. Because he was too afraid to go alone.

“Eliot?”

Hardison’s voice had softened. He sounded concerned, and he was looking intently at Eliot, examining him.

Could he see the smoke still on his skin, gunshot residue on his hands even though he had washed them repeatedly since returning?

“Hey man, look-“

“I shouldn’t have taken you,” Eliot cut him off, “I put you in danger…”

The sentence dissipated, his mind a confusion of what he should say, what he wanted to say, and the truth.

He’d never have let Hardison drown. He’d been counting the seconds, knew how long he had before he would have to save him, but that didn't justify putting him in that situation in the first place.

“So why did you?”

The gentleness of Hardison’s voice was wrong. It would be easier if he was angry. That was the least Eliot deserved for what he had done.

But even when Eliot failed to answer, his voice was just as trusting, willing to understand, “It would’ve been the same outcome whether or not I was there, so just tell me why.”

“It wouldn’t. Have been the same,” Eliot replied, “If you’d not come.”

Hardison waited, silently asking Eliot to continue.

The hitter looked up, just briefly, met Hardison's gaze, “I'd have killed ‘im.”

“Atherton?” Hardison shook his head in disbelief or disagreement, but Eliot cut him off before he could conjure some argument that framed Eliot as anything other than the killer he was.

“Moreau.”

The two guards at the elevator first so they couldn't follow and take his back. Eliot had already mapped it out when he approached them that day. How he would snap one’s neck, using him as a shield until he had a chance to get to the other. It would only have taken a couple of seconds.

Then he’d have taken their guns, felt the familiar weight of a weapon he had dismissed so long ago, and gone down to the basement.

The gunfight would have been messy, but he would have the element of surprise and cover from the pillars near the door.

He could do it. He knew he could. He’d done it before.

He’d done worse.

But he would have killed Moreau’s men, killed Moreau himself, without any hesitation or conscious thought, acting on training and experience and the instinct to survive.

Maybe he would get shot a couple of times in the process. Maybe he would get killed. But he would have killed Moreau so he could never get near to, could never hurt, the people he cared about.

“Then I’m glad I did come with you,” Hardison said at last, "Like Sophie said, that's not who you are anymore."

Eliot wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or cry. The blood of fourteen men was still fresh on his hands, the scent of fire and iron still cling to his skin and hair.

He is that man. He always would be. There was no escaping that devil, and it terrified him more than any bad guy, any army, and torture or brutal execution ever could.

“Yeah, I am” Eliot said quietly, speaking into his beer as he raised it to his lips seconds after Hardison had left him, returned to Parker, and said something that had the thief looking briefly, but intently, over towards him.

Of all the crew, she probably already knew, even if she didn't know she knew. She probably saw what Eliot had done in some part of his expression, and she somehow understood that, no matter what the others said, Eliot was still a killer. He was always going to be a killer, and he needed to be that for them.

He had given into his fear of that part of himself, and Hardison had suffered for it.

It was a mistake he would never make again.

#leverage #the big bang job #alec hardison #eliot spencer

97 notes · View notes

orionsangel86 · 11 months

Text

Subtext Glorious Subtext! A Dreamling on Netflix analysis in The Sandman - Part 4

1689

It is an impressive thing to have hope when all seems hopeless.

A shorter analysis for this century because it is a much shorter scene. Like with the other centuries, the main focus here is on the tone.

It is in the acting choices and direction which draw attention to just how far Dream and Hob’s relationship has already developed - mostly on Dreams side in this particular century.

There is this layer of heavy melancholy over the entire scene. When Ferdy delivers his lines here he makes you feel the weight of the last 80 years of pain and torment. He is clearly heartbroken over losing Eleanor and Robin, but it is Dream’s reactions that really emphasise the pain.

He is clearly so sad for Hob. His eyes are glossy with unshed tears (though tbh, Tom Sturridge’s glossy eyes are basically consistent throughout the whole show). Throughout the scene, as Hob tells Dream how his last hundred years have gone, each time the camera cuts to Dream's reaction it zooms in slightly. With Hob, the camera set up remains steady other than his final surprising response, but the zoom in on Dream conveys how he feels each of the revelations, indicating how finally Hob is having an impact on him.

The tone in the show is serious and somber as both Dream and the audience feel the weight of all Hob has gone through. There is no humour here, not while he tells his tale of woe. But in the Audible audiobook, Hob is a drunk at this point. Slurring his dialogue and unconcerned about his manners, and he doesn’t exactly come across as sorrowful. Dream as well seems less sympthatic with him and more just wanting to know if he is finally going to seek death. The line is delivered with astonishment and almost encouragement to get Hob to say yes: “Do you not seek the respite of death?”

Whereas Show!Dream goes for sympathy and appears genuinely upset himself at the expectation that this is it.

"So do you still wish to live?"

Tom Sturridge delivers this line with baited breath. You can practically see it in the gif above. He expects the answer to be no, but he says it with such tenderness. The second line isn’t there. There is no encouragement in his delivery. It’s clear he wants Hob to say yes, even though he expects the answer to be no. Tom’s micro expressions are phenomenal.

When Hob surprises him by confirming he has so much to live for, he lets out a short breath, and smiles subtly, clearly impressed. There is an implication that it is this moment that made Dream change his mind about Hob. He gives him his undivided attention from now on.

In a new addition not in the comics, we see another man sketching their meeting, which will prove to be important in the next century. We hear Hob tell Dream "Now can we order because I'm about to eat the fucking table". Unlike with all other meetings so far, this is the first time we have cut away leaving Dream and Hob together to continue their date. Whilst the comics also leave the 1689 meeting after Hob has stated he still wants to live, the show makes it clear that Dream stayed with him. We don't know what took place, but this marks the first "fanfiction gap" the show has given us. It prompts the audience to fill in the gap and wonder how the rest of the meeting went.

Which, when taking the 1789 meeting into consideration, is certainly a curious thought. How did they leave things in 1689 to make them appear so comfortable with each other in 1789? Comfortable enough that they exchange sly glances at each other, flirt, and defend one another in a scene so loaded with sexual tension it has been giffed more than any other moment in the entire Sandman series.

But that's for my next analysis! See you over in part 5!

#dreamling #dreamling meta #the sandman #sandman meta #dreamling week #dreamling week 2023 #dream of the endless #hob gadling #sandman comic spoilers

56 notes · View notes

myechoecho · 3 months

Text

Rewatching W: Two Worlds

ep 5

It was absolutely heartbreaking to see Cheol find the comic books and realize his entire life is there. He sits there and reads his life story from the beginning (this was also a neat way to give us some more background on Cheol's life and some details on the prosecutor). He has to relive everything. After he is just defeated. When the bookstore employee tells him that the series has been a best seller for 5 years, all he can do is laugh. The pain of his existence is nothing more than entertainment to millions.

He goes to Yeon Joo, and even through his turmoil is able to smile and flirt with her. I like that he’s able to say that he regrets pushing her for the answers. He never expected anything like his. He’s grateful to her – her consideration and her protection. He genuinely thanks her.

Their roles are reversed - she wants him to stay with her because he has no money, house or id. He’s incredibly touched. He kisses her, and this the first real kiss they share. She is still his key, and now his only light.

Cheol, of course, cannot stay put. He goes to see Sung Moo. Going through his house incredibly only causes more trauma for him. He sees the planning boards, the character models, the sketches. He finds out that Yeon Joo is Sung Moo’s daughter and while he is hurt by this, he is not angry with her all.

In betweeen this we get the fight in the operating room between Yeon Joo and the Professor, which makes me laugh. It’s a bit of lightness in a heavy episode. Yeon Joo, the shipper vis the Professor, the anti. As someone who has shipped multiple couples since childhood, and has had some anti ships, this highly amused me as it felt very familiar.

The confrontation between Cheol and Sung Moo amazing. I forgot that Cheol had actually dragged Sung Moo in first. Even though Cheol is a living breathing person in that world, he stabs chooses to stab Cheol. Cheol manages to stab him but is not injured. It makes even more sense why how Cheol knew he could shoot Yoon Joo without her getting hurt.

The flashback shows a young Yeon Joo, drawing to escape her parents argument and we see what looks like an early version of Cheol

Cheol lays it all out for Sung Moo – he’s rightfully furious. Sung Moo is a miserable man, terrible husband, father and an alcoholic (I think his drinking only got worse through years).

Now Cheol says Sung Moo made Cheol the opposite of himself, but that's only really true post the attempted suicide. Up to that point his life was even more miserable than Sung Moo's. As for the suicide plot, Cheol points out the misery porn comic was the only thing Sung Moo felt he had control over. Sung Moo may not be able to commit suicide but he could make Choel do it. It’s interestingthat Cheol didn’t realize that it was not Sung Moo who saved him; Cheol saved hinmself.

I have some sympathy for Sung Moo here. Drawings changing on their own making him think he as crazy, his friends laughing at him and dismissing him, he’s an alcoholic. He does want to endure for Yeon Joo. The money he makes he wants for Yeon Joo (though he stole her character).

Cheol has the gun pointed on Sung Moo but he is unconcerned. He's deliberately cruel to Cheol. He taunts Cheol to shoot him because he, confident that his character set up is absolute and Cheol won’t deviate. It is not in his character to shoot an old man. Yeon Joo, who has been listening this entire time, KNOWS that Cheol would shoot if provoked enough.

Cheol is willing to go back to the original planned ending but it Sung Moo says it won’t work because Cheol has to understand to accept it (part of his character set up). Again, Cheol is perfectly happy going back as long as he knows who murdered his family.

The final blow is when Sung Moo reveals that there was not culprit - it was just a setup. He didn’t ever plan to let Cheol find out who it was so he didn’t need to know the identity of the killer nor did he care. I do call BS on his explanation. The hero is made when the crime isn’t solved? Ummm what?? If you are a good enough writer, the story doesn’t have to end with finding the culprit. Even disregarding that – most stories DO come to an end and finding the culprit would be a natural ending. God, how unsatisfying as a reader to have a beloved main character just get killed off for no good reason, ending the story without resolving any of the ongoing plot lines.

For Cheol, his family was real. His trauma was real. His pain and endless suffering was real because he lived it. It was not just something that Sung Moo drew.

Cheol is able to show mercy and simply asks Sung Moo to find another way. But Sung Moo can’t leave it alone. He taunts Cheol again. Cheol is HIS creation and his character set up means he won't shoot. This is what finally breaks Cheol and he shoots Sung Moo.

Sung Moo was so arrogant that he forgot the reason they became entangled is because Cheol refused to die. He’s been deviating from his determination for years.

Still have zero issues with Cheol shooting him here. He's in a highly traumatized stated and Sung Moo has tried to kill him multiple times. If I'm remembering right, even Yeon Joo didn't have much of problem with it.

#w two worlds #kdrama

13 notes · View notes

creativeafterdark · 9 months

Text

Journey to the West Chapter 5!

@journeythroughjourneytothewest

I'm actually on time lol! SO! Here are my sketches for this chapter.

Our lovely Great Sage enjoying some peaches (I tried drawing him in his Havoc in Heaven attire but I forgot the hat like a dummy)

Wukong was very not happy to find he wasn't invited. Going back to the Havoc in Heaven cartoon, I remember the Maidens being much ruder but I didn't get that feeling reading the chapter. I mean, still rude he wasn't invited despite him being given a position (no matter how empty it was).

I find it funny how everyone is like "he'll cause trouble" when the only reason he causes trouble is because of HOW THEY TREAT HIM. Says a lot about how they view beings "lesser than them".

Had to draw Ba and Beng saying this quote. I do love how Wukong chimes back with essentially "Blood or not, you all are my home". It's really sweet.

When going over who was captured, I noticed they didn't mention anything about the Macaque Spirit King. So I personally headcanon that they and Wukong talk about what to do about their allies (and likely some of the sworn brothers) getting captured.

Part of me thinks Wukong was acting unconcerned as a way to give comfort to his monkeys, but he was actually worried. They may not be monkeys, but those captured were still like family to him.

As a bonus: Macaque Spirit King saying good bye to their adopted little brother.

And then they didn't.

I may make separate posts for my headcanons on what the Six Eared Macaque is doing during the years before the journey. We'll see how that goes.

#sketch #journeythroughjourneytothewest #jttw macaque spirit king #jttw six eared macaque #jttw sun wukong #jttw x mythology #kinda #journey to the west

22 notes · View notes

ghostonly · 2 years

Text

If I could give one piece of advice to young, teen artists, it wouldn't be about what to do better or what to avoid in their drawing practice, it would be this:

Get in the habit of putting the date on your sketchbook page when you're done with it.

If you do one drawing per page, you know what date you drew it. If you do many doodles per page, you know you did them between that date and the date on the last page.

It may all be easy to know off the top of your head right now, but ten years from now - yes, it's a long time but, by god, it will pass - you will wonder when exactly you drew that drawing.

If I could give a second piece of advice, it would be to never fully destroy a drawing that you actually put effort into. Doodles, sure. If you don't care about them, didn't put any real effort into them, whatever. But, if you sat down and put care and effort into a drawing - even a little bit - keep it. If you have too many notebooks, keep only the special hardcopies and scan the ones that don't matter as much.

If you're like me as a teenager, and you go into your art once every year or so and look through it all, you might get tired of it Once a year seems infrequent when you're 15. That same feeling of infrequency will require 3 years when you're 25. A year will seem like nothing.

So, when you get to the point where you're tired of seeing these same drawings over and over and judging yourself for your lower skill level, when you're tempted to delete the scans or toss out the originals, do not.

If they're hardcopies you're tempted to get rid of, scan them. If they're digital, simply make a folder called "The Vault" and send them there to die temporarily. You can pretend they're gone and quit looking at the same drawings you don't like much anymore. But, after ten years, when you're longing for the physical evidence that you were once a child, once less skilled than you are now, once more naive than you are now, they will be there, waiting for you.

25 may feel like an eternity from now, but when it arrives, 15 will feel like an eternity behind you. Don't let those early works that you poured hours of your days into slip away into the unforgiving void of time.

They matter. Your history matters.

It might not feel like it in the present, but nothing ever does. A boring old dining chair from 1700 might have been an unconcerning thing to leave in the shed to rot when it was 1700 but, in decent condition now, would be worth hundreds or thousands of dollars.

Monetary value may not come into it when it's a pencil sketch from junior high, but when you're older, you will become a collector of your own history, scraping up everything you can find like an auction-goer spending their whole paycheck on a fancy, handmade chair they feel compelled to save from the forgetfulness of human memory.

308 notes · View notes

infernally-fond · 1 month

Text

I keep getting these tragic/beautiful edits of fuckin' Dark Souls on tiktok, and one of them left me with an itch to sketch out a post-BG3 moment in Cania for Pallas. It's poncy and reads like I've been listening to FromSoftware character dialogue on loop because I have.

Raph is only mentioned, so I'm a little hesitant to tag this with him. So, fair warning, his presence is minimal.

——-

Deep below the citadel, on off hours, one could see the condemned souls unwinding from the miserable toil of mining deeper still into the frozen depths.

Their overseers, a set of fearsome pit fiends with whips of hellfire, had returned to the surface the precise moment their shifts ended. Whatever hunger stirred in them for the wails at the end of a cracked whip did not outcompete the drudgery of supervising such work. And so, the souls too rested.

Mephistopheles' paranoia did not yet extend to the souls of laborers. Unaware of it though they were, the laborers spent every night with an unparalleled freedom to coexist in each other’s company.

Pallas visited the Mepistarian mines with some regularity, long since familiar with the mineshaft that lead down into the excavation. She was cloaked in old furs that shimmered behind a gauze-thin aura of hellfire to endure the cold. Hellfire burned a cold white, casting inhospitable starkness into the ice. Without it, there would be no light at all.

The laborers had no use for fire - no need for warmth, no need for light.

Pallas gingerly lowered to sit some thirty paces from the bulk of their resting forms, pulling her knees to her chest and watching them with a gentle curiosity.

Mortal souls were fascinating things - perhaps more similar to the recently subdued illithid hivemind than living mortals. They shimmered in cool colors, something like tarnished copper. The newer souls held their shapes better, more consistently. They squabbled amongst each other, occasionally finding the energy to physically fight when free of the fiends’ supervision.

Something seemed to happen over time to change the souls condemned to the sub-city mines. Whatever manner of cruelty resided in the souls lured to the Cold Lord’s promises, sunless centuries immersed in the presence of each other would buffet them into something almost lovely. A strange descriptor, but…

Those with the longest tenure drew softer figures, edges implied and often shifting - a reimagining of self. They would hold form enough to work when the overseers lashed at them with hellfire, but when resting they softened once more, eager to drop a mask of burdensome solidity.

Pallas had seen a litter of pups outside Baldur's Gate, warm and round-bellied, curled up between each other that reminded her of the scene ahead.

The fraying souls mingled in affectionate twirls together. Not quite a pile - it was more elegant, more artful than that. Like a lazy dance, perhaps. Like watching wind slowly direct a smattering of leaves into a loose coil, always just on the edge of dispersing.

They spoke to each other in voices unconcerned with identity. Vaguely feminine or masculine, vaguely old or young, some swinging between affectation mid-word.

Shifting voices murmured gently to each other, twined into one thing, issuing benedictions of "be safe" to each other, to itself - this one thing they made. It was foreign to bear witness to such softness in this or any plane.

Impressions of hands stroked impressions of temples; a pair of arms curled over what seemed, for a moment, the soft curves of shoulders.

Watching with a waning focus, Pallas wondered if the truer nature of mortality was before her, if some profound distinction would be easily parsed from the visual by someone wise. Halsin might have commented on the connectedness that underlies everything. Gale might have speculated on the specifics of the merging. ("How many arms do you count? I've spotted at least s- oh, seven now.")

Maybe her companions’ echoes of presence had left impressions like a microcosm of the merging before her well within her own mind. An imagined insistence for safety, received and given in an even cadence.

"Do stay safe."

The voice, impossible to categorize on any spectrum of mortal description spoke just beside her shoulder. Startling as the proximity should have been, she felt the words as if they were gentle touches down the crown of her head.

Pallas parroted the words clumsily, strangely certain this was what was appropriate.

The spirit, softened at the edges, almost transitory across moments, affected some quality that implied an emotional warmth. It suffused the rigid boundary of self asserted by her living soul. It settled at her side, unmoving, at ease.

The murmuring dance of souls before her synchronized in a song with such precision as to suggest the presence of a conductor. The singing was always lovely. It's what drew her down here time and again.

No one voice was particularly ethereal - it wasn’t a bard’s talent on display. It was connectedness. Each of the component souls sung in a series of dearly remembered voices simultaneously. To hear it was to bear witness to choruses of families - blood and chosen - across time.

The Canian fiends didn’t sing like this. They sang, of course- but their hymns were demonstrations of technical mastery of the performer, written to exalt the domineering qualities of the subject. The High Cantor’s voice was clear and clarifying as ice cold water, impossible to replicate, objectively beautiful. But, even so, hymns for the Cold Lord’s pleasure were sterile accolades.

Impossibly different (better - an inner voice whispered) were the twining chorus of treasured voices lacing together into something that would wring tears from any mortal to hear it.

A curl of satisfaction tightened in her chest. Pallas privately enjoyed finding pride in the distinction between herself and the fiends around her. Maybe the cambions, vicious as their treatment had primed them to be, mourned the wrong loss.

“We’re unlike them,” Pallas whispered resolutely, chasing the bitter joy of her conclusion as she proudly overlooked the twining selves performance. “They’re repressed shells. They live devoid of beauty outside of pointless, showy intricacy. They don’t even sing properly.”

The form before her smiled without a face to do so. It knocked gently against her shoulder with an impression of a humanoid form, unbothered by the thin veil of hellfire. When they touched she felt its fondness expressed in something akin to temperature.

“Everything that sings, sings properly,” the soul chided, smoothing over each spike of irritability expressed in the flicker of hellfire with more of that fond warmth.

Pallas accepted the correction silently, never moving her eyes from the ongoing dance. The true danger of this place was combating the compulsion to fall asleep to the gentle chorus. Skilled as she was, Pallas couldn’t maintain the hellfire through sleep.

Perhaps to fight off the sleep or dismiss another burgeoning wave of formless yearning, Pallas pondered the High Cantor’s songs once more. Perhaps they weren’t all militant ballads. And then, there was Raphael, of course. He -

She shook her head as if to physically dislodge the thought. Still, a fragment of memory flashed- his distinctive, idle humming just under his breath as he shifted papers in his exorbitant lodgings in Wyrmm’s Crossing. Casual, improvised. (Unfit.)

Pallas wondered how such a thing could be branded into her hindbrain, as immediately recognizable as the pull of hellfire. And then hadn't she seen him bent over a journal, consumed with intensity, quill flicking so quickly as to render the penmanship unsalvageable?

That didn't make sense. It dashed across the distinction Raphael himself would assert-

“Be safe, friend.”

The formless soul beside her lengthened in shape, as if to mimic rising to a stand. She leaned into the parting wash of fond warmth before it parted from her to join with the others, a new chorus of voices added to the song. Among the additions, it weaved in the recalled fragment of that absent hum, forever integrating some distant shadow of Raphael with the formless inertia of whatever this tangle of mortal souls had become.

#bg3 raphael #raphael bg3 #pallas blurb #alas!

4 notes · View notes

redratt · 1 year

Text

i got motivated from that molly picture and actually sketched up her sire, Gulo who isn't too fleshed out, really, beyond having inherited the Bratovich revenant bunch that Molly is from. Gulo probably has a fairly small pack, and is more than likely on one of the more distant paths, almost entirely unconcerned with the typical Tzimisce ideas of self. she can unhinge her jaw like a snake and all of her modifications are entirely because she thinks they're practical. other than that i still need to put thought into her and flesh her out more. i've got that and her name lol

#tzimisce #wodsquad #vamily #vampire the masquerade #clan tzimisce #monster woman #character illustration #sabbat #sabbat vampire #teeth #fangs

11 notes · View notes

solar-pxwered · 11 months

Note

“Wait Trish…. You want me to be your fashion model AND your personal body guard while you travel around as a fashion designer?” (//She can pick whomever she says this to)

Trish paused the careful attention she was giving her sketching, a new design coming together in her mind that she was transferring to paper, and looked up at Rowan with an unconcerned expression.

"That is what I said, yes." She tapped at her cheek with the eraser end of the pencil and smiled a winning smile. "You wouldn't want me to go off all over the world alone, would you? Don't worry, Giorno will pay you well for your time, I'm sure."

Clearly, she was very used to getting what she wanted. She would certainly have preferred Narancia, but he was one of Giorno's elite guards, he had no time to gallivant across the world with her.

#Soft As Diamond || Trish #bxtsence #{{ Good luck Rowan...maybe you'll actually have FUN if you try xD }}

3 notes · View notes

technomancer-01 · 1 year

Text

Saturday Mornin Soulsborne || Church of Marika

Saturday Mornin Soulsborne || 2nd Church of Marika

"Queen Marika is the vessel of the Elden Ring, carrier of its vision. A god, in truth. But after the Elden Ring's shattering, she was imprisoned in the Erdtree.”

Ooh boy in between pens running out of ink, a hangover, solo shift, and just not enough time to do my usual workflow, I managed to work up the motivation to do at least one sketch based on @soulsbornephotographer ‘s shots. This is the 2nd Church of Marika near the Altus Plateau, where a statue of a serene and unconcerned Marika stands while her demigod children fight each other for the Elden Ring’s control.

Next week is Bloodborne in Wonderland, and after that one Blaidd based on someone else’s request : ).

IG: technomancer_01

Twitter: Technomancer_01

#drawing #inktober #charcoal #bloodborne #dark souls #sketchbook #soulsborne #dark academia #sketch #Marika #elden ring #eldenring #elden ring Marika #elden ring Malenia #goddess

5 notes · View notes

theunconcernedembalmer · 1 year

Text

Testing doodles on my new iPad yeehaw

#aesop carl #identity v #identity v embalmer #idv the embalmer #joseph n victor r there too ig #this changes everything. where do i even begin #unconcerned art #i realize the only reason why my digital art looks so different from my very messy traditional sketches #is cos digital requires precise hand eye coordination #which takes a lot more energy than just. drawing straight on paper #or in this case an ipad screen #this is how my sketchbooks all look like. doodles n unfunny commentary on the side #anyway im gonna be drawing on my ipad for a while cos im out of town for a week and a half #idk if i can do the next part of the comic on my ipad cos of this #especially since my comics have really extremely very clean lines #this is the furthest thing from clean lines #expect chaos ++

38 notes · View notes

sccdoflight · 1 year

Text

@cogitovineyard

IT was too much, really.

To have everything ripped away from him -- to be ripped away from Carmen's his work -- Ayin felt hollowed-out, displaced and alone, hyper-aware of the change in his situation and how powerless he was before it all. The powerlessness was a weight in his bones that reminded him of floating bodies and blood under fingernails and eyes closing for the last time, and he had nowhere to tuck himself away from it all, nothing besides investigation of his newfound circumstances to keep him from sitting in his own misery.

So investigate he did -- huddled into his lab coat, he lost himself on the streets rather quickly, unconcerned with where he headed. The changing architecture was enough to captivate him, at least for a moment -- and where did such a large city get its power, anyway? Everything felt a bit off to him -- the kind of man far too acquainted with the idea that some must suffer so others can thrive. A few places of note he recorded on some scratch paper he'd found in the housing provided for him -- things to keep in mind, to re-investigate, to distract himself.

The crowds became overbearing, and he was hardly renowned for his stamina. He retreated to sit on a bench, idly taking in the passerby, pencil sketching the arches of towering buildings, noting in angles and materials. What else could he do? The weight was sinking in again, someone stranded in the ocean without a ship, and he resisted the urge to curl in on himself -- he forced his head upwards, instead, glazed-over gaze skimming the pedestrians as if he were likely to see a familiar face to help him alleviate his grief.

(As if his isolation wasn't by design.)

A glimpse of red caught his eyes, then -- framed by brown hair, a white coat, a glimmer of something desperate and yearned for. He would like to have been able to say he jumped to his feet -- but he'd gotten far too used to his vision playing these cruel tricks, his pain manifest.

He didn't lower his gaze, still, stubborn to a fault -- their eyes met -- and he forgot how to breathe.

#[ ic. / non event ]#cogitovineyard. 001

4 notes · View notes

enasallavellan · 2 years

Text

Chapter 187

Varric and Cole arrive at the Duke's Estate and they attempt to use the amulet on Cole. When it doesn't work, the group agrees to head out to see what Cole was drawn to.

It had been hours since the artist had begun testing colors. He had the original sketch in front of him and was mixing paints furiously, holding smears of paint up to her before either applying a bit to the drawing or muttering and remixing it. Luckily, this didn't require quite as much stillness as posing, but it seemed he wanted thousands of different shades to match every color he used.

"Lady Inquisitor." He sighed, "Your hair is lovely and it will be my crowning achievement, but it will also be the death of me."

She smiled a bit at that, "It is… stubborn."

"And matching red hair is the job given to sinful artists in the void - more difficult than any other." His eyes narrowed at the smudge of red he had mixed on his canvas, seeming very offended by its existence.

"Is it really that hard?" Enasal asked.

Solas chuckled from his chair, "Ma'ashalan, the dear artist is quite right."

"...Huh." She said, "I thought it would be easier-"

"Um, I'm sorry to interrupt!." Toussaint rushed over to the group at a straight run, quite unlike any noble Enasal had ever seen, "But your, ah… how do you say, how do you say, Maker, how did I forget the word-"

"Cole and Varric!" Enasal chirped, getting up without a single thought, "Take me to them!"

"Oh, yes - right, of course!"

Enasal turned to the painter, "I'm sorry, I'll be right back!" and took off without waiting for a response, Annason and Solas at her heels. Varric was sitting in a chair with his brow furrowed, while Cole paced around the room, clearly agitated. He didn't seem to realize they had entered, blind to them through all his nerves. Enasal slowed to a stop and held out her arms, "There's my da'isha."

Without his usual hesitation, Cole ran to her and hugged him with shaking arms.

Varric laughed, "Well, look at you, Seastorm."

She smiled a bit and pulled away, touching Cole's cheek, "It's okay, we have it. You don't have to be afraid anymore."

"Where?" He demanded, his hat nearly flying off as he turned his head this way and that.

Enasal reached up and gently squeezed his shoulder, "Take a deep breath."

He complied, closing his eyes.

"Okay, now unclench your fists."

He took another breath ad shook his hands out.

"Good." She looked over her shoulder at Annason, "Could you go ask the Duke to get the amulet for us?"

"Of course, my friend! Have strength, sweet Cole!"

Varric chuckled, "The Kid has killed how many people, and you two are all about how sweet he is?"

"Oh, we've all killed people." She said with a dismissive wave.

Cole's agitation had returned, and he started pacing again. Enasal looked over at Varric, who was leaning back in the cushioned chair. To anyone who didn't know him, he seemed very unconcerned. But she could tell he was worried - the slightest crease at his nose, the slow tapping of his middle finger on his knee. "Has he been this nervous the whole time?"

"Oh yeah, Kid's been out of his mind." He motioned her over, saying in a low voice, "We had a run-in with someone he seemed to recognize. Don't know what it was all about, but he got all muttery and tried to get stabby."

"Stabby?"

He nodded, "Yeah, had to practically drag him away. Couldn't get much out of him that wasn't his usual gibberish."

Enasal looked back at Cole, eyes wide with worry, "I'll see if I can get anything out of him once we have the amulet. He should be calmer, then."

After a few more tense moments, Annason returned with the Duke. Toussaint's eyes darted from one person to the next as he trembled out a nervous greeting, "I have the amulet - that is, I just got it from my collection and, well, it had a bit of dust on it, but I was careful to clean it off - the Lady Inquisitor cannot -"

"Thank you, Duke Toussaint." Enasal interrupted him, taking it and looking over it. It wasn't as grand as she thought it would be. A little smaller than her hand, it had a wooden back overlaid with some sort of metal design. It seemed to be silver, but she supposed it could be any other metal. She felt Cole staring at her, and she held it out to him. He snatched it away, looking over it and shaking his head, "What do I do with it?"

Enasal caught Annason's eye, flicking her eyes to the Duke.

Annason smiled and clapped her hands together, "Your Lordship, if it's not too much trouble would you be able to show me that lovely lake? Enasal and I can see it from our window, but the cold was a bit too much for us." She waved her hand toward the others, "I'm afraid Cole's friend is very shy."

He jerked away a bit before nodding, "Oh, yes, of course! I hardly mind at - will the Inquisition guards come along?" He rapidly shook his head, waving his hands around in a panic, "Not that I have any objections to such a thing, but I didn't - It would be very inappropriate and, that is to say-"

Annason grinned and started out, waving him towards her, "Come, come! While there is still daylight."

Enasal raised her eyebrows at her and mouthed, At two o'clock?

Annason ignored her, badgering the Duke until he reluctantly followed her.

"May I?" Solas asked. He ran his fingers over the surface, looking from every angle, "I see, it will be simple enough." He handed it to him, "Pin it to your clothes, I charge it with magic, and you should be protected."

Cole snatched it and started to fumble with the catch, but Enasal's hand shot out to stop him, "Solas, you're sure this won't hurt Cole?"

"Have faith, Enasal." He said with a slight laugh, "I will not harm your da'isha."

Enasal sighed and took her hand away from the amulet. "Ready, Cole?"

His knuckles were white as he clutched it, "They can't make me a monster."

Solas' voice was soft and calm, "Alright. No need to be afraid."

His hands shook as he tried to open the pin, and Enasal finally did it for him, "I don't want you to poke yourself." She said, "There."

Solas nodded and returned his gaze to Cole, "Are you ready?"

Cole nodded silently.

He held his hand up and closed his eyes. At first, nothing happened - but slowly, it began to glow a soft white. Then with no warning, the glow turned into a blinding flash and Cole cried out in pain, yanking it off and letting it drop to the ground.

"Shit, Chuckles, what are you doing to the poor kid?"

"Something's blocking the enchantment." He picked the amulet, frowning at it.

"Maybe?" Varric laughed, "Just maybe it isn't working because he's not a demon? Or even a spirit?" He clapped Cole on the shoulder, "After all, he's gotten less weird creepy spirit lately. Now he's just…"

Cole looked down at him in silence.

"Kind of a weird kid."

Enasal lit up, "He has been living as a human for a long time - and Varric Is right, he's been more grounded lately!"

With an exasperated sigh, Solas shook his head, "Regardless of Cole's special circumstances, he remains a spirit."

"Yes. A spirit." Varric chuckled, "With a human body. And a human voice. And-"

"Can force people to forget him?" Solas asked, "See the hurt in their minds?"

Cole went between them, "I don't matter!" His voice had a tremor to it, "Just lock away the parts of me that someone else could knot together to make me follow!"

Enasal took his hands, hugging him. His eyes were more watery than usual, and he rubbed at them. "Deep breaths."

"Enasal's right." Solas held out the amulet for him, "Focus on the amulet. Tell me what you feel."

Cole took a small step away and shook his head.

"It's okay, da'isha." Enasal said, taking it from Soals, "See? If Solas doesn't put magic in it, it won't do anything - it won't hurt you again."

He reached out, hesitating a bit. With a deep breath, he finally took it, a shudder going through him as he touched it. "Warm… warm, soft blanket cover, but - but it catches tears." His voice cracked again, "I'm the wrong shape…" As though hearing a noise, he snapped his neck around.

"What is it?" Solas asked anxiously.

Cole slowly turned to Varric, "That man."

Varric jerked his thumb behind him, "The one we saw on the way over here?"

He was pacing again, words falling out so quickly and disjointed that they ran together. With a shuddering gasp, he crouched on the ground, head buried between his knees. Enasal rushed over, kneeling by him and rubbing his back, "Breathe, da'isha, breathe." She took a deep, slow breath until Cole finally followed her lead. "Don't worry, da'isha." She said when his shaking had calmed, "We'll find out what's wrong, and we'll fix it, okay?"

He nodded but didn't say anything.

"Alright, Kid." Varric said, "Think you could take us to him?"

Cole stood, eyes on the floor.

"Okay." Varric reached up and lightly grabbed his arm, giving it a shake, "We'll go as soon as we can, okay?"

"Will you come with me?" Cole asked, looking between them all, "All of you?"

Varric nodded, "Sure, Kid."

Enasal nodded, "Okay, let me get out of this dress." She held out her hand, "Da'isha, can you come with me and make sure nobody comes into my room while I change?"

He took her hand and nodded. Enasal squeezed it once before looking between the two Inquisition gaurds, "Can you please give my apologies to Duke Toussaint? There's an emergency that needs to be attended to, but we'll be back by tomorrow, I promise." She snapped her fingers, "Let Annason know, too."

With a salute, one of the guards left.

"Thank you, come on, da'isha."

The moment she left, Varric crossed his arms over his chest, "Alright, Chuckles, I get it, you like spirits. But he came into this world to be a person. Let him be one."

"This is not some… fanciful story, child of the Stone." Solas said in a clipped tone, "We cannot change our nature by wishing."

Varric smirked, "You don't think? So Seastorm is still the same shaking and crying little elf we first met? Where every hurdle means it's time to cry and won't let either of us out of her sight without completely panicking?"

Solas frowned, "That's hardly the same thing."

"Well." He said with a shrug, "I think you can."

Solas was suddenly very interested in the amulet again, "However we deal with the problem, we will need to keep a close eye on Cole. He seems very volatile right now."

"Leave that to Seastorm." He chuckled, "My girl's got it under control."

Read the full fic from the beginning at my A03 here!

If you’re willing and able, feel free to donate to my ko-fi or drop a tip in the jar to help me afford my many medications to keep the crazy at bay!

#Enasal Lavellan #fanfiction #dragon age fanfiction #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #dragon age fic #dai #dai fanfic #dai fanfiction #enasal tethras #inquisitor lavellan #Annason Garett #Annason #Solas #Solas the liar #Varric #varric tethras #Cole

3 notes · View notes