ARE YOU A FAMOUS PERSON

ARE YOU THE REASON WHY MY WING DRAWING IS GETTING ATTENTION

WHAT THE FUCK

(if you are a famous person, can you tell people to go look at my other art, like the vampire and schism arc stuff)

-@its-target-official (on main)

…I wouldn’t know about “famous.” Some folks know my writing work from Star Trek, or from the Young Wizards or LGBTQ-centered Middle Kingdoms universes.

I reblogged this, though. (And one of your posts was in the thread.)

Because for artists (and writers, too!), reblogging is the lifeblood of this place. That’s part of the reason I do so much of it.

So if people would kindly go look at your other art too, that’d be fantastic!

And meanwhile, folks: please reblog artists. Likes just lie there, and do nothing for the artist’s visibility (or their work’s). Reblogs travel.

So help an artist’s work on its way!

…Please & thank you. 😄

Author’s note: Hoist the Colors may eventually inspire fiction. Most likely will and I’ll gladly write it. But right now, it’s a role-playing game setting with what I hope is an interesting take and look at an “Alternate History” of Earth. It isn’t really “steampunk”, though I can see how someone would get that impression. For me, it’s more a “gaslamp fantasy” set on Earth of 1722 in all it’s historical mess… that I’ve stirred up even more!

So, with that said, I thought I’d cover the playable species and cultures players will have to choose from. Here we have the morasu!

Some people that arrived from Otherworld wanted to blend old with the new. A fresh start. But there are those that wanted to reshape the world in their image, no matter the cost…

Professor Isolde Trelawny, Historian at the Royal Institute of Otherworld Studies

Crossing’s Fall brought many species to Earth from Otherworld against their will. Some, such as the thayans, were quick to offer an open hand to the Earth’s nations with mixed results. Others, like grimlings, kept to themselves as much as they could. But then there was the morasu, who met humanity with a sharp, naked blade.

The morasu are a formidable species known for their militaristic cultures and dogmatic social traditions. Originating from the Tir Yovat Empire on the continent of Zafra in Otherworld, they were legendary for their aggressive ethos and pursuit of order. Many historians and scholars suspect that these traits, and the morasu themselves, inspired the dark and complex myths among human cultures in the past.

But the Crossing’s Fall disaster spared nothing. The mountainous terrain of Zafra fell to Earth, split to pieces and a shadow of its former glory. Now, the bulk of the continent lies in the Pacific Ocean to the east of Japan, while smaller fragments are scattered from Greenland to South America.

In most Otherworld cultures, morasu are called ‘nightclaws’, a derogatory nod to their raven-like features. Humans use a different insulting term. They call them ‘stormbirds’, partly because of their unpredictable temper.

After Crossing’s Fall, while many refugees looked to rebuild or find new opportunities, the morasu sought conquest. They looked to establish their own brand of order on what they saw as a primitive, chaotic world.

Dark Mirror of Humanity

They look frail, but so does a razor…

Professor Isolde Trelawny, Historian at the Royal Institute of Otherworld Studies

Morasu are humanoid but are the least human-looking of all the Otherworld refugees. They stand as tall as an average human but are often thinner, with a unique blend of human and animal-like features.

They are a bipedal species with the physical characteristics of both humans and ravens. Glossy black feathers cover their body, except for pearl-gray scaly skin on their legs and face. On their head, those features are entwined with long black or silver hair they often wear in a topknot or long braids.

Their black feathers aren’t just for looks. They serve as natural weather protection and grow the longest along their arms, like wing feathers. While they’re incapable of true flight, morasu can glide when leaping from high places. Buildings or the crow’s nest of a ship work best. They also posses a raven-like tail, complete with more midnight black feathers.

Last would be their face. Despite their raven characteristics, morasu have a human-shaped face. It’s thin, with no beak, but has the same pearly gray scaled skin. They have sharply pointed ears and solid black eyes that are particular to their ancestry.

For the rest about the morasu, see the link above!

Taglist: @thelaughingstag

Author’s note: Hoist the Colors may eventually inspire fiction. Most likely will and I’ll gladly write it. But right now, it’s a role-playing game setting with what I hope is an interesting take and look at an “Alternate History” of Earth. It isn’t really “steampunk”, though I can see how someone would get that impression. For me, it’s more a “gaslamp fantasy” set on Earth of 1722 in all it’s historical mess… that I’ve stirred up even more!

So, with that said, I thought I’d cover the playable species and cultures players will have to choose from. Here we have the Grimlings!

Grimlings

Profound and rooted as living stone, yet resolute as worked metal. They are the calm to the Otherworld storm of cultures and people…

Professor Isolde Trelawny, Historian at the Royal Institute of Otherworld Studies

Grimlings are another of the species that arrived on Earth after the Crossing’s Fall disaster. Short but stout, grimlings are a mix of familiar human mannerisms and a calm, all too logical view of life. A pragmatic approach that is often considered a soothing balm in a dramatic world after Crossing’s Fall.

To outsiders, grimlings are often considered a plain-spoken people. Ones that are not known to mince words on any topic. They often shoulder work with a mild good humor and face the task head on. Willing to do what’s needed to solve the problem, or craft what’s needed. They aren’t rash and never rush in without a plan. But they are the first to admit that actions speak louder than words, especially with a person’s character.

Their blunt nature and traditions has sparked many debates concerning grimlings and ancient human myths. Many believe that grimlings were the inspiration for many myths around the world. For some, grimlings have a strong resemblance to craft-minded dwarves, gnomes, or even Neanderthals. Elsewhere, some say grimlings are more like the myth of boggarts or even the koropokkur from the Ainu people in Japan.

Cautious Appearance

After the Crossing’s Fall event, grimlings were one of the last species to make themselves known to humans. Unlike the rest from Otherworld, they suspected what caused the disaster. A theory, if correct, shouldn’t ever be discussed in public.

So, prudent as ever, grimling leaders decided to wait until the time was right, and the world was more prepared. Stay quiet and hidden until the initial shock of Crossing’s Fall wore off. They understood the trauma humans were going through. Adding to it would only make things worse. Life, however, isn’t always that kind or clean.

One of the more conquest-minded morasu Tomias, or noble houses, broke the grimling silence for them.

Tomia Vargoth staged an attack on the fishing village of Ogden Cove near St. John’s, Newfoundland. The intent was to capture the town before moving north to St. John’s, wiping out or driving off any human along the way. What the morasu didn’t know was that a new grimling town was in their path of conquest.

The grimlings could have kept silent. Stayed hidden until the invasion passed over them. But they refused to leave the humans at the mercy of Tomia Vargoth’s soldiers. Without a second thought, Maudra Irongran led the grimling townsfolk into Ogden Cove with a warning about the coming invasion. Along with that, they brought food, strategy, and ample strong backs to help.

Once the dust settled, the damage was done on all sides. Tomia Vargoth’s dreams of conquest went up in smoke. Both the fishing village and nearby grimling town were in ruins. Worst of all, the grimling policy of secrecy had shattered like so much glass. The ‘forgefolk’ had been exposed to the world, despite the grimling people’s best efforts. But, to this day, most grimlings agree it was the right thing to do.

There is a lot more that covers their cultures, cultural names, and so much more! If you’re curious, see the link above or take the jump here! Grimlings in Hoist the Colors!

Taglist: @thelaughingstag

Suddenly struck with a need to explain to you how boat pronouns work (I work in the marine industry).

When you're talking about the design of the boat, you say "it".

When the boat is still being built, your say "it".

When the boat is nearing completion, you can say "it" or "she".

When the boat is floating in the water you probably say "she", unless there is still a lot of work to be done (e.g. no engine yet) then you say "it".

When the boat is officially launched and operating, you say "she". If you continue to say "it" at this point you are not incorrect but suspiciously untraditional. You are not playing the game.

If you are referring to a boat you don't really know anything about you may say "it" ("there's a big boat, it's coming this way"). But if you know its name, it's probably "she" ("there's the Waverley, she's on her way to Greenock").

If you are talking about boats in general, you say "it" ("when a boat is hit by a wave it heels over")

If you speak about a boat in complimentary terms, it's "she" ("she's a grand boat"). If you are being disparaging it may be it, but not necessarily ("it's as ugly as sin", "she's a grotty old tub").

If she has a boy's name, she's still she. "Boy James", "King Edward", "Sir David Attenborough"? The pronoun is she.

If it's a dumb barge (no engine), you say it. But if it's a rowing boat (no engine), you say she.

I hope this has cleared things up so that you may not be in danger of misgendering floating objects.

Passing on a little morning motivation to my fellow writers and creators out there.

New cherry blossom buddies to motivate you! 🌸

Chibird store | Positive pin club | Instagram

Let's build a cretchure

Author’s note: Hoist the Colors may eventually inspire fiction. Most likely will and I’ll gladly write it. But right now, it’s a role-playing game setting with what I hope is an interesting take and look at an “Alternate History” of Earth. It isn’t really “steampunk”, though I can see how someone would get that impression. For me, it’s more a “gaslamp fantasy” set on Earth of 1722 in all it’s historical mess… that I’ve stirred up even more!

So, with that said, I thought I’d cover the playable species and cultures players will have to choose from. Starting with the Thayans. So if you’re interested in worldbuilding for a setting, enjoy!

Thayans

They’re a people of magic, mystery and determination.

Professor Isolde Trelawny, Historian at the Royal Institute of Otherworld Studies

Thayans are one of the many species that appeared after the Crossing’s Fall disaster. A charismatic folk of tight-knit communities, they hail from Afalon Isle in the mid-Atlantic, southwest of the Azores. The same island that crashed to Earth after the Otherworld shattered.

At first, they remained hidden, but not for long. Thayans, or ‘pixies’, were the first Otherworld survivors to make themselves known to the world. They were also the first to be displaced by the Mid-Atlantic War that erupted after Afalon’s arrival.

Thayan refugees fled the war and scattered to far lands. Some settled in Ireland, others in the Caribbean. Some landed on the North American shores of the League of Nations. A determined few refused to leave their island home and rebuilt towns on northern Afalon. Some looked to rebuild their lost civilization. Others turned to immigrating into human nations to start over.

All But Human

Just remember, they’re stronger than they look.

Professor Isolde Trelawny, Historian at the Royal Institute of Otherworld Studies

At a glance, it’s easy to mistake them as human. They look human in many ways with a human-like face and body. In comparison, the typical thaye is only slightly shorter than a human. Thayans average about four inches shorter than most humans and have a thinner build.

Their hair color is like anyone else from black to brown, blond to red. Also, their hair does turn gray as they age. In the face, they look every bit human, but their eyes are a different story. Thayan eye color spans any color imaginable. Some are human colors of amber, green, brown or gray. But red, copper, gold, and even jade are not unheard of. Thayan males also have facial hair. Beards are often neatly trimmed affairs among the men.

As for complexion, that is no different than the average human. Which is quite a surprise given thayan blood is green instead of red. Their ears however are another story. Thayan ears are slightly pointed with the traditional faerie point. But the shape is not that pronounced and easy to overlook.

Out of all their similarities and differences, the one feature that sets them apart are their wings. Thayans possess delicate, yet durable, dragonfly-like wings that let them fly. Most assume that thayans possess hollow bones, like a bird. This is just not true. Thayan bones are lighter than a humans but still just as strong. Their bones and wings are strong enough to let a thayan carry themselves, a backpack, and even a human with them in flight. This is a startling surprise given their thinner stature.

Their wings have another characteristic and that’s a yellow-gold dust they shed in small amounts. Humans call this ‘pixie dust’ while thayans refer to it as ‘mana dust’. No matter the name, it is a soft, powdery dust that has a faint glow. For the average person, it’s either a curiosity or a nuisance. humans call ‘pixie dust’. This magical substance is a powder-like form of solid magic. A mysterious substance that, if collected in large amounts, aids anyone from human to thayan wizards alike in the practice of magic.

For the rest, see the link above or click here! Thayans on Hoist the Colors!

Taglist: @thelaughingstag

I wrote a poem in English class the other day- "Noise"

Our community is divided.

Despite our efforts to remain united and unshakable,

We’ve instead found ourselves filled with fear and ferociousness.

What once was a unified community, whole and strong,

Is now shattered into pieces,

Leaving broken bits of our hearts strewn across the anger-soaked floor.

The love and laughs we once shared have turned to a different kind of noise.

This isn’t the kind of noise that fills our hearts with joy.

No.

This noise drowns our souls in spite and anger.

This noise is confusing, and frustrating, and promises safety.

This noise tears the threads of understanding and connection which held us together.

This noise tells us to recoil inwards and trust no one but ourselves.

This noise, when we have the power to recognize it, leaves us feeling hopeless.

How are we to find one another through this raging storm?

How can we listen past the cries of fear and anguish to hear the quiet desire for understanding and love that allows our hearts to beat rhythmically in time with one another?

We cannot quiet the screams of our foes, but I suppose we mustn't spend time fixing one another.

Instead of quieting other’s voices, we must first raise our own.

We must love fearlessly.

We must love fully and to no end.

We must love unconditionally and authentically.

We must continue to love until, one day, our hearts’ desires will sing louder than the cries of division ever could.

Our community is divided, and it will remain so,

Until we let the voices of our hearts sing out,

And our shattered souls will begin to piece themselves back together again.

To be fair, that third one might need a software update to it's Cat OS. There might be a glitch.

There’s always one 🧡

Just passing along to @petermorwood

Guom with silver phoenix hilt, Vietnam, 19th century

from Runjeet Singh

painting be rand burns

WIP INTRODUCTION ๋࣭ ⭑⚝

because camp nanowrimo is starting tomorrow, i decided to do an intro for the novella i'll be writing this camp! (which is also my first camp nano)

✧┊ title: veil of shadow

✮⋆˙┊ genre: high fantasy

✧┊ literary genre: novella

✦┊ current word count: 1,241

✶┊ goal word count: 30,000

๋࣭⭑┊ setting: land of the moon; enchanted forests and mountains

★┊ tropes and themes (i'm so bad at this): werewolves, vampires, monsters, witches, dragons, dragon riders, lost heritage, finding one's identity, feminism, equality, slavic folklore, dictatorship

☆┊ playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6GM91iRqdFluI1pAyCJZPi?si=5oFyf8B7QjOyoVR8Xq7f8Q&pi=e-9aGJpn3MR_K9

🌙 plot summary

when alesya has been found by druids as a kid, all she had was a golden medallion of an unknown coat of arms. soon the full moon came and the druids found that the girl was in fact a werewolf. for years they've held her closed off from villagers, hiding her during full moons, and times when wolven features showed on her human form. behind closed doors, they took care of her and teached her all magic and knowledge they had. alesya was a quick learner and soon enough became a proper witch.

one day, when alesya was already an adult and got sick of being held back by the druids, she decided to run away. what made her make that decision was meeting of a spirit guide familiar, and the fact that villagers wanted to hunt her down. alone with her horse and wolf familiar, she went on a quest to find out where her medallion came from, and find her biological family. along the way she met new people and creatures, helping them, taking down regimes, and learning about the world after not seeing it for her whole life.

₊ ⊹ ┊ inspiration (aka the playlist that made me write this story): https://youtu.be/BaFuOrwIAK8?si=Kjr0OwKwVXZqZl84

✪┊ an excerpt:

The sun was low on the horizon. Night was approaching, and with it the full moon, ominous in its silken light. Children were returning home, running away from what hid in the shadows, and Alesya was what they were running from.

painting by dennis sheehan

hi everyone! I wrote a story based on @deepwaterwritingprompts and it would mean a lot to me if you could look at it :) A small fire glowed in the distance like a jar of fireflies, sparks flying out in all directions as a pair of shadowy hands warmed over the flames. The traveler limped towards it with cloak pulled close, longing for the idea of a warm place to sleep. As they drew nearer the dark figure became more distinct, with golden skin that gleamed faintly in the firelight and dark hair spilling out from beneath a hood that dropped low over their face. The traveler approached cautiously, hands out to the side in a universal gesture of peace. “Might I partake in your warmth for a night?”

The shrouded head turned towards them, and the voice that emerged from somewhere within the shadows was deep and gravelly. “Sit, then. But I have no food to share.” The traveler sank gratefully onto the hard ground, feeling the warmth of the flames sink into their bones. They unslung their pack and pulled out a smaller cloth bag, withdrawing a slightly bruised apple. The stranger next to them held their own provisions, a small heel of hard bread that they gnawed at, mouth hidden somewhere beneath their hood. It seemed to have black specks embedded within, but the traveler was sure it was merely a trick of the light; for who would willing eat a diseased loaf? The pair ate in silence for a time, until the stranger tucked half their bread back into a small satchel and sat with their head on their hands, staring into the heart of the fire. The traveler noticed for the first time that they sat on some sort of weathered stone, edges run smooth. 

“Why have you come here?”

The traveler shifted. “Just passing through. You?”

“Oh, I live here. Always have.” The way their raspy voice caught in the words hinted at something deeper. 

“Does… does anyone else still live here?”

The stranger leaned forward. “No, they don’t.” Firelight flashed off bared teeth in a grin, feral as it can only be in the night. “You wanna know why?” The traveler flushed and wrapped their cloak tighter as they began.

“A long, long time ago, this was a village. A village of farms… a village with a mill. And every year…”

Every year, the miller would take one grain, a single misshapen grain, from the piles sent by all the farms to be ground, and bury it in a pit of smoldering coals. The villagers thought him crazy, until one year, the stand of a more prosperous farm at the market was manned by a younger child, with skin a light gold, hair the dusky shade of wheat sheaves, and eyes of deep rich amber. The farmers said that she had appeared the same day as their flour, a week after they’d sent it to the miller. She didn’t talk much, but when she did it was soft and breathy, the rustling of wind through grain. A year later, another child showed himself from a neighboring farm, with such similar features that the villagers grew suspicious. And then other farms brought forth their children, all near enough to be twins, and all appeared when they seemed to be around five; and all nearly exactly a year apart.

The children helped on the farms, and it was soon noticed that their mere presence led to a more bountiful harvest. But even these blessed children with their amber eyes could do little to nothing against disease. The grains were swollen and black, and though they tried there was little that could be saved. So the farms picked out the best kernels they could find and sent them to the miller as usual. But some of these were still discolored, and it was one of these that was laid in the bed of embers. And a week later, a child showed up on the steps of a farmhouse.

But they didn’t look like the others who had come to the farm.

This child’s eyes were coal black, with sclera tinted a faint sickly yellow, and gold skin mottled with patches of scaly darkness. Whispers abounded, claiming the child was a curse, a punishment from the heavens, but the farm at which they had arrived was run by a woman who was kindly yet stern and would tolerate none of these rumors around the child she called hers, the child she named Keres. Even if the comb passed easily and swiftly through their sibling’s soft downy hair while theirs grew patchy and was liable to fall out at the slightest tug, they grew up surrounded by a warm and loving environment. Until they were old enough to help with the fields. It was nothing dramatic, but the plots Keres tended produced less than any others, and the grass near their favorite bench outside the mill was perpetually prickly and brown. And yet no disease as bad had struck the fields in the seven years since, and one new sibling had come to their farm. And no one loved Thalia like Keres did. They were rarely seen apart, for even while Keres did their chores, you could see their sister’s bright eyes following every movement. And then one day, she got sick. None of the wheat children had ever been ill before, but Thalia was weak and pale, with dark bruises down her arms. Keres never strayed from their sister’s room. Not for months as she battled the sickness that gave rise to tremors within her. And it was Keres who held her in their arms as her chest fell for a final time.

Thalia’s headstone was carved from wood, lacquered to a rich honey color that matched her eyes, and it sat by the river. It was the first ever carved for a golden child, elaborate and beautiful. Keres stopped working, choosing instead to sit by the mill, to sit by their dead sister. And meanwhile their farm grew prosperous. And the other children of the wheat, the ones who would visit Thalia in her silent entombment and lay wreaths over her grave, began to weaken. They too grew pale and cold, and one by one they succumbed to the sickness, in a row of graves that stretched down the river.

The cloaked stranger paused, and seemed to draw further into themself. The traveler, lulled by the warmth of the fire and the cadence of their voice, lay down on the hard dirt. After all, the night was so cold…

“So many graves. And yet the river flowed…”

With the golden children sick and dying, the town began to suffer. Weevils chewed their way through the barley. Mold grew in the foundations of the houses. And Keres sat alone by their little sister’s tomb. Soon the other people of the town grew ill, and the fields ran wild with no one to tend them. Keres did their best to help, but what can one cursed child do? And Keres was sure now that they were cursed, that this was their fault. Haggard and weakened, the remaining villagers decided to take their sick and leave, find somewhere else. Among these was the woman whom Keres called their mother. And yet the child would not go, blaming themself for all that was going wrong. They had lived in the village for ten years.

And so Keres wandered the village, doing their best to keep it standing. And yet everything around them seemed to decay, and even the moss would grow diseased and fall to dust. The mill had long since fallen down, but Keres haunted it like a dark wraith among the wreckage of the rotten wood. The only thing that grew was mold, the tendrils creeping across the damp and rotting wood. The sun still rose and set like it always had, but Keres no longer went outside to marvel at the colors. They stayed inside, perched on the millstone, sleeping in uneasy fits and starts. And every day they would press their face to a gap in the wood and stare out at the row of bodies buried along the riverbank. My fault, they would think. All my fault. 

They lost track of the days, the months, the years, like a half-dead ghost floating across the ground with no sense of the time that passed, until the first traveler arrived. He had been just passing through, off on some quest or another, and sought shelter in the rundown buildings. Keres didn’t know it, but they hadn’t seen a human being in more than three years.

They tried to help the traveler, gave to him from the tiny stores of food and led him to the most intact buildings. He stayed there for but a night, but they awoke to find him coated in sweat and staring wide-eyed around him, screaming with horror about whatever imaginary terrors tormented him. His seizures ceased quickly, but they were the last movements he made before all his muscles went slack and fell into rigor mortis.

Keres dug his grave with their bare hands, black dirt accumulating beneath their ever-growing nails and knuckles covered in blood. He barely fit, and they planted a sapling over the body. They did the same for the next traveler, and the next, an orderly line of oak across the river from the tombs of the grain children. Their hands grew more callused than they ever had been on the farm, and their tattered clothes, already loose fitting, began to slip off their shoulders. 

Eventually, Keres stopped caring, and that was when the grain came. It grew everywhere but the old farms and the graves, flecked with black and knee-high at first, then up to their waist, until one day it towered over their head. They pulled out the last patchy strands of their hair, and it regrew in a soft black fuzz like the fur of a peach. They took to wearing a hood pulled low to keep their scalp warm. More travelers passed through, and Keres would share the warmth from the fires they built atop the old millstone, but would never give them the bread they made from the flour of the diseased wheat and the acorns of the corpse-trees. Eventually, they began telling their story. After all, they were all dead by morning.

The stranger looked upon the traveler and sighed, pulling down their hood and revealing jutting cheekbones that the firelight cast strange shadows on, giving them a blotchy appearance. The traveler laughed, faint and tired, from where they lay on the hard ground before closing their eyes. “Good story, kid.”

DEEPER, I DIG

PS: My new line of D&D enamel pins is now live on BackerKit!

Chocolate Guy is at it again!

...he is weaving the chocolate. Do you copy, this bitch is WEAVING CHOCOLATE

I Found Something Very Strange on Instagram... and Now I'm Scared

I really love Instagram. It’s probably the app I spent most of my time on.

I don’t have a big following or anything, but I love to share pictures. Guess, it’s pretty normal for a teenage girl like me.

In my time on Instagram, I saw my share of weird things.

There was, of course, the spam bots and fake accounts who would comment on your content. Then there was nudity and pornography. For a site that has a strict policy against this, you sure stumble upon a lot of it.

There was one thing that was a bit creepier. There was a guy who had a crush on my friend Lisa. We found his Instagram by accident and saw that he’d shared dozens of pictures of her on the account.

Two weeks ago though, I found something else that was way more creepy.

It was an account by the name of cutzieee52. It didn’t have a lot of followers, but it had posted a fair amount of pictures.

At first I thought it was a regular account. When I scrolled through the pictures, I saw that they were all of young girls. Probably the account of some guy who posted pictures of girls he found attractive, I thought.

As I continued to scroll through the account, I realized that they were all my age or even younger. After a while, I noticed something even more unsettling. All the pictures were unprofessional and seemed to have been taken in secret.

Here was a picture of a blond girl on her way to school. There was a picture of a brown haired girl on a bus. It continued on like that. What the hell was this? Was this the account of some creepy stalker or something?

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Ah, of course, Cara Mia! How silly of me to forget!

Its me, your feral godmother

Writing tool for your fight scenes.