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Inktober day3: “Marrow”
Made for Cryptid Valley
Hunter’s Journal, Entry #1: The Bonewalker.
These skittish cryptids have a hard exterior shell made from bone. I have yet to find out if they find these shells or wether or not they are born with them. Either way the rest of them is fragile, warm, and has a hard spongey texture. It has a slight reddish hue which I could not convey with my limited supplies. They wander the woods and typically avoid human activity, but sometimes the curious critters will hide behind trees and observe humans. While I have never seen one attack someone, I’m sure these beasts still are evil, even if they are not an active threat. They make for easy game, the non shell part of them can be used for medicinal purposes, and their shell makes for great building materials. Things made with their shell tend to be stronger than steel, and are easy to combine with other cryptids parts for magical properties.
Fuck you *canadians your fletcher*
He was going to be American, but then because I fletched out the location of the story and mt. Robson is a very pretty mountain with nice valleys that fit my criteria perfectly, he’s Canadian now.
Chaotic Worlds! Lore and Characters!
https://toyhou.se/~world/169792.chaotic-worlds
All characters, world lore, and more will be found here! If you have questions for ic or ooc feel free to send here or there!! It's been a lot of fun to organize it all onto there!! I highly suggest it!
SORTA COVER THINGY FOR A WEBCOMIC MY BF AND I WANT TO MAKE IDK IFK IDK
Oh my god y’all look at this meme my gf made 😭
**TADC EPISODE 2 SPOILERS**
(OC) Gummigoo asks who Steve Jobs is
I want to start publishing creative works to sites like ao3, but i don't know what tags i should use for original works?? does anyone possibly know a few tags to use?
Upon the moon
Winged
Work #3 | copyright to saturnfairycat
Author's Note: this is one of my biggest works. I really hope you enjoy this one. This is inspired by the Obsession poem series. Debrief: Word count: 1694 Warnings: gore, horror, death, sensitive topics.
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Winged
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'Do you see her flying?'
Is all of a brusque rhetoric opine. Even the blind could descry such a figure.
Biblically meticulous angels are a frightening, foreign perception for the faint of heart. But a feminine adolescent human with ivory, coriaceous wings? A sight for sore eyes, a sight to behold. Uncorrupted and innocent, dove-like as a symbol of societal freedom and peace. A pleaser designed by birth to conjure movement and enthrallment for the ravenous. A perishable's dream bride, adorned with white like untouched snow on the first night of winter.
Kings have egos. Compelled to order and empower by any means necessary. Vestal subjects have pride. Their crest adorned with white is comparable to celestial tears. Combatants have glory, taking— saving— risking lives by ineludible ordinance. And evil? All they have is revenge.
Scarlet wounds, blood vessels ripped apart unseemly by brute force. A perfect canvas, stained and poisoned by acid rain. Tainted with colour, her dress subsumes the surrounding ichor from the broken statue. If it wasn't for the gore giving away the depiction of clay and adroitness, she would've been a Renaissance angel built to be worshipped like the holiness structure itself. The venerable church has been home to the slain of sin, the keeper of the sorrow and celebration of nuptials. Its outer walls creak and moan at the sounds of howling winds, angered at the sight inside the chambers of salvation. High ceilings may have constructed envy to those whose house is neither grand nor tall enough to withhold such metaphorical heights of a ceiling— likewise a telling of the staircase to the heavens above.
The beams are indestructible by delineation, holding the shouldering weight of the god's misfortune of reckless decision-making. Howbeit, ladders like vines on great oak trees enable worshippers to maintain the tidiness of the “humble” estate; the beams are wide enough to dance to the opera choir singing, whose dedication to the ones living in the unbothered clouds. For someone to climb up the vines to reach the tallest branches on the great oak is a possibility within a thousand coin flips, though ought to question the means behind such a purpose is certain. Revenge is a rather peculiar sin, anyone could imagine it as such. The drive behind it is sorrowful to the do-er, but judgement day does not care for the iniquitous.
Revenge creates motivation, determination is effectual. To train like a knight, one can easily carry a dead weight on their cracked shoulders up the staircase to heaven. To study with pride, one would know what people see as their true saviours— their delusional hallucinatory of an angel. How to dress, how to please. White and lacy as a wedding dress, pure and lush as a celibate.
The victim?
How curious, the devil pondered. Perhaps a pleaser at heart? As such:
A devoted woman to her word, a persona whose love for the weak and vulnerable is overpowering. Like spiked wine, a goblet filled with luxurious liquid gold— misleading from its appearance— a perfect femme fatale. Its insides tell its truth, how we're all the same within— an inescapable peracute. But who said to drink it? Use it for self delectation? What a poor magnificent object, she doesn't want to be mere treasure. She is the perfect vestal subject, what more could you want? Perhaps she is more fitting as a villain, always seeking more. Greedy, much?
Yes, a perfect sacrifice indeed. An impeccable example of the ambition of a “devil”'s revenge. A church can have followers, so a mere cult can be concordant. While the title of being a cult is a fragment of exaggeration, the apostles will work well in such a plan. They, the misfortunate, seek the pained for comfort… paltry sympathy can only do so much, however. But it's only just sufficient enough. Manipulation? How insulting. Ultimately, it is up to those who seek change to take heed. Hide fleetingly, pretend to associate with everyone just like in the old days. The crowd knows when to act.
Evil can kill, there is nothing else to it. Have you ever wondered how it feels to bathe in virgin blood? It's disappointing, such fuss for it is foolish. The only real kick was the twisted face of telling. That face alone is a blank, pitiful canvas turned into the definition of art itself. Oh, you could paint a thousand frescoes with such an expression. It doesn't disturn her prepossessing features, but it does make her look older. Such complicated, big emotions shouldn't even be within reach for such a young fawn. In another life, surely her underlying intelligence would serve others more than just being a lap to cry on, but in this taken existence— her sheltered mind breaks from the sudden intensity of trahison des clercs. This isn't what her story was supposed to be in her eyes. Ah, regrettable unfortunate. ‘Not favoured by fortune, was she?’, the fallen angel cruelly smirked at the thought.
The evisceration was excessively long. The risk of blood ruining the white was too prodigious, though such fastidious concerns were needless in the end— her neck provided enough liquid genealogy, painting the front of her dress crimson. The colour of hell, of sin. The tainted heaven, the poisoned goblet. Her wings were made from dove feathers, plucked with attention to detail— a maiden in a meadow, choosing and picking the best of flowers could not compare. The bone structure of the wings was genius, specific bones were chosen from certain organisms to create a grand juxtaposition from angel to bird. Sticking each chosen feather to the structure was tedious, but a hyper-fixed maniac does not sway from such work. Inspired by the Winged Victory of Samothrace, the wings belong on her back. But her impressive bone anatomy is in the way...
...with the scapulae removed, the wings fitted with such grace and ease. Death has blessed her with paleness, such colour is the reminiscence of a statue. But her wasted life must be highlighted, must be remembered. Just like all those Renaissance angel paintings, after all— that is the only perception of angels that people will embrace.
It is always about beauty and selflessness, never should one ought to become a fallen one.
Tough to touch, the rope that scratched up skin with small amounts of friction has proven to be practical. A satirical necklace for her elegant neck— tied down to halt the escape of her soul to the sky above. Wings may have been granted, but freedom of flying is not an option. But one as kind and saving as her needs a taster of such, the vines are no competition of strength with her figure in the devil's grasp. The perception of the stairway to heaven is certainly a sight of lush imagination, except the beams are thrilling as a ballroom for the bride-to-be and the avenger. Humming, content with glee; evil looks down to the church below, to where the mighty cross stands at the front of the sect.
Their creation is more impressive, without the use of a single nail. Prideful, the striking idea of overshadowing the lord himself is great. Tying the knot where evil saw fit, the weeping angel longed for the higher stakes before being pushed down, down to her fate. For a second, the wings may have tried to lift the dead and fly up— but the crushing weight of sorrow brought both down with a crack of bone. Her neck crooked, leaning to the left with no resting place for her head, she floats in front of her lord. Her feet swayed slightly, still savouring the dance from before as blood dripped from her blue-hue toes. Such pale eyes never saw the light of the sun again without the stained church glass praying through.
***
The morning prayers, on time as usual for another hour of adored hope from the public. The doors opened, creaking and moaning its warning. The crowd is loud, chatting and laughing with optimistic cravings for their future. A future that she will never see. The crowd silences, and the cessation of movement brings shock and dread to the hearts of his lord's worshippers. She hangs in front of their eyes from afar, suppressed into death. It was when her guts came with a sickening "splat" onto the ground beneath her feet from her tedious exoneration that broke the silence. It was heaven's gift to them, the insides that paint the truth of the world… which they did not accept. There was then shrieking– some are praying, some have become sick– while the followers, the actors— they chanted at the sacrifice, sang with glee.
All was in chaos until he, the evil, the devil himself— slid down from the oak ladder. One of his sinful hands still grasped at the ladder as his heels clicked onto the cool, stone-tiled floor. Some of his leeching zealots pointed at him, eager to know his final motive.
Why such a plan? Why such a sacrifice?
Sick revenge for mortals that need to be taught a lesson.
Would they finally get it? Would they finally understand the suffering?
No.
They never do. They never pay attention until it’s too late.
Gritting his teeth while his jaw clenches at the strike of realisation, he turns away from the selfish sinners. Has all his cruelty to her been all for nothing? His free, bloody hand carries a singular candle— which he tosses at the corpse. She lights up in flames, her laced dress burning into black ash as it climbs up her strained body. He looks in awe at his doing, the followers are shaken to their core. The thrown candle had crashed onto a parallel wall from directly hitting the “effigy”, miraculously causing arson, thus setting fire to the church itself. All his cruelty to her will not be all for nothing. The church doors slam shut behind the crowd, beckoning them in. As the house of holiness burns up to hell’s temperatures— he, who has been staring at her the whole time, finally questions the followers and himself:
'Do you see her flying?'
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Tw: Bright colours.
Hey! Back from the procrastination that is me and drew another thing. Prob gonna info dump about this on here haha.
WTF THIS IS SO GOOD? I-
So… mini comic test
trying to make an og thing inspired on good omens
While I don't have time for a Hogwarts Legacy story, I want to tell you about my personal project. Grey Valley is a comic about teenagers, with Lisa and Alice as the main characters. They are visiting their grandmother for the vacations and their summer promised to be as boring as possible. If it weren't for one dark night when a knocking sounded… KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK! All chapters are now available to read on Google Play https://play.google.com/store/apps/details?id=com.coxickcomics.greyvalley Or on ichio https://iren-kharab.itch.io/ The prologue is completely free so you can decide if you like the story.
New chapters on webtoon ✨
( music in the video from Steven Universe)
Drawing a cute devil in the terrible heat. Fun fact: All the action in the comic takes place in 4 days, I drew the comic for 5 years…. Check out my Grey Valley webtoon page for some refreshing summer chapters.
World building is addictive and forever the bane of actually completing an original story, even one that starts simple 😭.
I find myself making a correspondence table... AGAIN!
Another art comp except this time: girls! Yay! Most of the sketches or drawings I do like this usually turn out quite nice so I had a hard time picking which to present.(Some of these are a couple moths old)
Every single last one of them are characters I have created so...
1: If you steal them without permission I will not be pleased...
2. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
GAY FAERIES
The 6 photos in the middle are all of a new character of mine, Amanita, I love drawing her(as you can tell)-
The bottom and top photos are just two random ones
A family portrait for my OC’s :’3
Olive Felis(Hush, I was 10 when I made her) and her pretty boy husband, Elias, with their kid, Caleb.