I am all in a sea of wonders

HAPPY HALLOWE-*gunshot*

they are idiots but they are his idiots and he (and i) love them =w= 

(Little mid-timeskip scene with Perona, Zoro, and Mihawk:)

The castle was beautiful, but empty. And quiet. So, so quiet, aaaaalllllllllll the time. Perona had never been able to stand the quiet.

To fill the space, she sang. She wasn't the best at it, but it was better than talking to herself all the time, she thought. Plus, it was comforting, in a way.

Mihawk was typically apathetic about her singing. But Zoro, being the good and proper pirate that he was, often added his voice to hers.

Smallest of the harpy folk, the Least Harpy is only the size of a large wren, and will often join small songbirds in mobbing larger birds such as hawks. They prefer to make their homes in woodland edges and have been known to trade shiny objects with local crows.

(In my ongoing “I guess now I want to paint again” mood, I seem to be speedrunning all the subjects I used to paint over the years. Not sure if I’m trying to see if I’m better now, or if I’m trying to remember what I found compelling or what exactly is going on. Maybe I’m just updating all those paintings in my brain. Weird little bird dudes, check.)

"Dad?" Kira's voice filtered through the mindless haze of Edgin's cursing as he weeded the garden.

"Yeah, hon?" he replied distractedly. The mint was starting to take over, and while its leaves made a nice tea, there was only so much they could harvest at a time. He tried to calculate how much he could rip out without going overboard.

"I want to be a rogue."

Edgin's hands stilled on a clump of roots. He stared at the dirt underneath his fingernails. "Okay," he finally said, hearing himself from a distance.

"What?"

"Okay," he repeated. Thoughts surfaced one after another in his mind. He didn't put words to any of them. You're too young. We don't have to steal to get by anymore. I'm a horrible influence. Your mom would hate me.

"I thought..." She trailed off. "You're not mad?"

Edgin finally looked up. She stood just outside the garden, hovering behind the gate as if to keep a barrier between them. Her hands twisted in the fabric of her dress. It was getting short on her—she'd grown recently.

"Do you want me to be?" he asked mildly. "I don't know what you want me to say, honey." He couldn't say what he actually thought. He'd promised honesty, but...

"It's just... Uncle Forge..." Even now, she still called him that, and Edgin winced every time. A habit of two years was going to be hard to break.

Or, as his mind liked to remind him late at night when he should be sleeping, maybe she didn't want to break it. Maybe she wished he were her dad instead. What good was Edgin, failure of a man, compared to a life in Neverwinter Castle? A life she could never go back to, once he'd come along and stirred up a bunch of shit.

"What about him?" Edgin asked, turning back to the vegetables. As he pulled up carrots he imagined it was Forge's guts he was pulling out.

"I'm not doing it to be like him," she said in a rush. "I don't want to be like him."

Ha, Edgin thought savagely. Shaped in your image my ASS. "Well, good, because he's rotting in prison."

"That's not what I mean!" she said, but she was hiding a smile. "I just meant, I'm not following anyone. It's what I want to do."

"Well, you don't need my permission." As much as he hated it, he'd missed two years of her life; she was nearly grown, now. Another year or so and she'd be old enough to take on an apprenticeship, even though it seemed like yesterday he could fit her tiny swaddled body in the crook of one arm.

"You don't like it." She'd caught him out, and he froze.

Then he brushed the dirt from his hands and stood, his knees cracking loudly in protest. Gods, he was so old. To prove to himself he still could, he hopped over the fence to join her outside the garden.

"You're right, I don't like it. I don't like that you grew up while I wasn't there to see. I don't like that we never had the option of an honest living. I don't like that your mom would hate me for doing this to you." He reached out and pulled her into a hug. "But I like you, no matter what. If you think that becoming a rogue is what's right for you, then do it. Don't ever change yourself just because you think someone will love you better for it."

"That's so sappy," she said, but her face was buried in his shirt and he knew she was hiding tears.

"I'm a bard. It comes with the job description."

"Good thing I'm not becoming a bard then." He broke the hug and pushed her away in mock disgust as she laughed.

"I take it all back, you're a disgrace of a daughter. I'm sending you to bardic college until you learn some respect."

She laughed again, a beautiful sound. He vowed, not for the first time, to do everything in his power to make sure she never stopped.

Some designs I made for an Arthurian Brokeback Mountain AU (comic set to post soon :> keep an eye out)

art tag // commission info // design notes on patreon

Derry Girls x The Perks of being a Wallflower

my little greywaren drawings pt. 1

pls don’t repost

The novel is too dense for a start — she loses interest about every couple of paragraphs. The thickness of the book intimidates her too, even if she would never admit to it. More importantly, she has already skimmed over some of it and, while she is immediately taken by Anna, she cannot figure out why so much of the novel seems to be about the very mundane and dreary Levin. The story is about high-society scandal, surely, not about the measly farmhands.

It’s Beatrice who told her that she must read it; phrased exactly in that way, like an obligation rather than an option. There are plenty of things in life that Esmé feels she must do, even at only seventeen. These are all things that will help her to be, or to get, something else afterwards. But spending weeks struggling over Tolstoy’s heaving, protracted text doesn’t seem to be connected to any further goal. At least, not in a way that Beatrice has been able to define to her satisfaction.

Beatrice seems to know nothing about obligation anyway, most of the time. When she is not on stage or at an event, she wanders around in her comfortable clothes, bobbled with wear on the sleeves, with her hair uncared for in a bouncy cloud around her, fresh-faced and in those unforgivable brown boots, as if nobody can see her.

As a little girl, sitting in his office when he came back home, Esmé’s father told her that she was going to grow up to be beautiful, clever, and rich, and that this combination would unlock all the doors in the world. Her mother, he said, had only ever mastered one of the three at any time, and that’s why she remained trapped behind hers, oscillating wildly between begging back his affection and screaming bloody murder in one of her pathetic jealous rages.

He was right, but Esmé knows that these are not things you simply become, one-and-done exercises that can be achieved and then set aside as trophies. She will have his wealth, but money is easy to lose. She has her mother’s face, but there is more to beauty — and the perception of it — than can ever be genetic. And she is clever, yes, but she will continue to be so by keeping up with things as they change around her. She can already read. There is nothing to learn in a nine-hundred page book written years ago by a man who chose to die with nothing.

By doing all of these things, purposefully and continuously, she will be powerful and important. Someone told her recently that Tolstoy thought the pursuit of power was corrupting. This is yet more evidence that she will not agree with the point of his long-winded book, whatever it might be.

And yet Beatrice preaches at her about learning as a goal in and of itself, with her undone hair and in her old cardigan, the ochre-yellow of which has not been in for nearly a year. She squanders the money she was born to, propping up old libraries, and lives like she will be powerful and important and remembered regardless.

She knows already that there is no point in trying to explain this to Beatrice, who is a poor listener and will not understand anyway. She is sitting across from her now in her comical cardigan, cross-legged next to the fireplace, intending to read the first thirty or so pages along with her in an effort to pique her interest in continuing on alone.

There is a temptation, with the brightness in her smile and the tenderness of her fingers on the pages, to sit back and comfortably listen to her, if only for the pleasure of it. There are a million or more worse ways to spend an evening than listening to Beatrice read, especially something that she is clearly passionate about. But that would be giving in.

Esmé tries to convince her that they might instead do something worthwhile and leave the book for later — perhaps they could go to the new gallery opening, or to dinner, somewhere fashionable where they might meet people worth knowing. But Beatrice dismisses those options, patiently opening her own heavy cloth-backed version of the pointless tome for her on the correct page. And that’s when it strikes her, with a long look at the crackling fireplace to their right, that there is an obvious way to make herself understood, conclusively and decisively.

random lemony headcanon that is also a hector headcanon (the event of lemony getting it in hector’s perspective can be read here):

in hector’s kidnapping recruitment, vfd also took a suitcase. inside the suitcase, is a bullfighter suit made by hector’s mother, a seamstress who made the suit as her magnum opus. vfd didn’t know what to do with it, for well…they already had a bullfighter suit in production for the disguise kit. rather redundant to have two. so, they elected to put it into storage.

many years later, lemony and hector were at a storage facility one day to collect one thing for decoration, and instead came out with something else. lemony upon seeing the suit thought it was in good condition. however, he wanted to know if it was in actual good condition (re: wearable). and lemony wanted hector being the one to wear it. after all, hector is the suit rightful owner. however, hector didn’t felt comfortable, mainly because he felt that he wouldn’t be able to wear it (for he was taller and a bit thicker than his father, who had worn the suit before and it had fit perfectly).

lemony in quick thinking decided to wear it himself.

looking in the mirror, lemony felt a sense of enjoyment, and couldn’t help but admire himself despite the suit being old and worn once before by hector’s father, lemony felt other. it felt new, something never worn before. the way the jacket and vest and pants are comfortable, the way the socks and flat shoes fit and the way the red and gold colors matched…

lemony selfishly wished it was his. needless to say, lemony got a shock when hector announced he was going to gift lemony the suit.

lemony didn’t want to take something of such sentimental value. the suit is the only thing hector had left of his parents (mainly his mother). lemony didn’t want hector to lose such connect. however, hector was persistent, being certain the suit was meant for lemony. lemony made one last chance to get hector to change his mind, saying he (lemony) may never wear it again.

hector’s persistence was strong. he told lemony maybe so, but if he does wear it again, it’ll be as if he never worn it before.

lemony at this point decided to give up, realizing hector was set in his decision. lemony kept the suit inside the suitcase, taking it out a few times to make sure it was still in good condition, but never wearing it.

at least until he needed to be at a certain masquerade ball.

so i had a GREAT idea last night

a short comic adapted from this scene of Le Mort d’Arthur

god, after ten million years I finally finished this. I drew the initial rough layouts for this MONTHS ago and only got around to actually drawing/inking/lettering it this week. so many lines were drawn in this undertaking.

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the Queen bee baby

pray that you may be left on your own

x

Sbg group photo but it’s like that one Friends promotional picture hold on let me find it

@lsnicket @pocketneophyte @olivia-calidamn SOMEONE DRAW THIS

ok mess sketch but:

Zainspirowane tym postem (i komentarzami i tagami pod nim) o koncepcie na Polskie seriale lgbtq w stylu Tajlandzkich produkcji : D

a quiet moment somewhere between dinadan and palomides. palomides’ reply is in reference to catullus 85! (I hate and I love. Why I do this, perhaps you ask / I know not, but I feel it happening and I am tortured)

[the version without the text!]

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I love the idea of Lemony becoming an even more popular topic of gossip after he leaves Stain'd.

People talked about him since he came to town -- the way the crime rate shot up the day he arrived, how he was seen all beaten, how no one knows anything about his past.

After the night on the train, this increases tenfold. There are rumors that he summoned the Bombinating Beast. There are rumors that he killed a man.

The residents of Stain'd were more than happy to share their gossip with the newcomers after the town rose again from Cleo's formula, and their misinterpretations led to several theories.

By asoue era, most people have forgotten about him entirely. Still, "Snicket" is another way of saying "unlucky" in Stain'd-by-the-Sea.