theres an unhinged little voice inside me that sometimes asks me to do difficult things like "make croissants" or, in this case, "illustrate some key shots from the Snow/Coin assassination scene"
Maybe I'm imagining it but Katniss has this deranged little smile as she's being hauled away that just 👌
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I was scrolling through my art folders on procreate, and I found this huge panoramic piece of a bunch of fnafsb Sun & Moon artists with mini versions of their Suns & Moons that I really looked up to.
Unfortunately it never really got past the sketching phase and even then I hadn’t gotten everyone drawn who I wanted to.
But looking back at it gives me this big smile and reminds me of all the good memories of the fandom I think I might as well share it.
Also mind you this is like a year old so it may not be entirely accurate to the designs.
Why I like to torture myself with these elaborate panoramic pieces with like 10+ individuals on a piece is beyond me.
Under the cut is the @ for everyone in this
I’m sorry for the mass @ing
It’ll go from left to right
@maiko-coy
@hashbrowniss
@fluffffpillow
@luckydragon333
@twitchydoodle
@ragingtwilight
@pinkiepig
@chlorenw
@jack-o-phantom
@eating-you-alive-cutely @soopenedraws
@twinanimatronics & @dana-chan-the-control-brain
@bamsara
@paper-lilypie
@kitty-c4t
@bones-of-a-rabbit
@vurelly
@maudiemoods
@oobbbear
@glitchysquidd
@opudont-donut
@spaciebabie
@chankchua @traichank
@witchysolfan
@newts-and-sharks
@gutz-munch
@solarrush
@might-be-a-potato
If you’re reading this and you’re one of the @ individuals, thank you. You guys are amazing artists that I’ll always look up to and I’ll always look forewards to seeing your art. Keep up the great work and I hope you have a wonderful day/night
Even if you aren’t, thanks for reading and looking at my art! I really appreciate it. I hope you too are having a wonderful day/night and know that you’re doing great.
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“Shit,” Lu Ze swore. History monks were not, generally, given to vulgarity. But, given the circumstances, it was more or less the only appropriate response.
Lu Ze swore again, more creatively this time, as the distortions around them became increasingly unsettiling.
“What happens now,” Vimes rasped, still cradling the corpse in his arms.
It is a strange thing to mourn yourself.
But he was just so small.
Carcer giggled helplessly in his restraints. “Should be interesting, huh.”
“Oh, be quiet, you vile man. Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve caused?” Another monk snapped.
“Nope,” Carcer said, with an obnoxious popping of his lips. “But I’ve got a few guesses.”
“THIS IS ALL WRONG,” Death said.
“Yes, we know,” Lu Ze sighed, rubbing his brow. Reality splintered further, the surrounding troops, which before appeared distorted as if by mist, now simply appeared distorted. Vimes’ stomach twisted in empathy and revulsion.
“I LOATHE TIME TRAVEL” Death said, approaching the Sam Vimeses. The older, living one scowled defiantly, pulling the small corpse away.
“There’s no time for that,” Lu Ze said sadly.
“HE IS DONE,” Death agreed. “REALITY CAN ONLY TAKE SO MUCH.”
He turned empty eye sockets towards the monks, as if to glare judgmentally. “PARTICULARLY WHEN IT HAS ALREADY BEEN TWISTED UP LIKE THIS,”
Vimes shuddered as the reaper swung his scythe, passing through his younger self without slowing down. A terrible chill fell down his spine, but the vague unsettling form to the world around them settled into a more familiar pattern. Cracks still ran through the length and breath of the sky, ground, and people.
“FIX THIS,” Death commanded the monks. “BEFORE THE AUDITORS GET INVOLVED.”
“Right,” Lu Ze steeled himself.
He took a slow, oversteady breath. “Alright people, get ready—we’re —we’re going to make another trouser leg.”
"Now?? Here?"
“We’re not prepared.”
“ARE YOU MAD?”
“What about—”
“It’s too big a change—”
“Just do it!” he snapped. “Unless anyone has any better ideas!”
A moment of crystalized hesitation, then the monks got to work, spinning glittering devices and furrowing their brow in concentration.
“I’m sorry,” VImes whispered, shame-faced, “I tried—”
“It’s not your fault. And it doesn’t matter anymore,” Lu Ze said brusquely. “Now hold still— this is going to hurt. A lot.” He reached a hand forward, then paused.
“Sorry about this,” he whispered. “But sometimes we are called to live through things we would rather not. And sometimes... we are called again." He tapped the center of the blood soaked Commander’s forehand.
“Wha—AAARRGH
from this au
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Fig's line "I don't think I'm an artist, I think I'm just a good friend" has not left my head at all. Just...
You're Fig Faeth and your horns came in over the summer and you pick up the bard class as a form of adolescent rock 'n' roll rebellion, and it works! It's exactly the outlet you need! You give a guy you just met drumsticks and you start a band and it's good enough that within a year and a half you're touring. You are, in every sense, good at being a bard.
And then, finally, your junior year, you start to take it seriously. Your art goes from an outlet and a form of rebellion to a practice. A discipline. (Can rebellion exist within a discipline?) Your classmates know what they want to do with their work. They all have a thesis statement. And yeah, there's cohesion in the music you make, but you've never had to think about why you make it. You've never sat down and dissected what it is about bass that speaks to you. You've never poured over your lyrics to pick at any deeper meaning. Why should you? You don't play music for a grand design, you do it to... huh, why do you do it?
(Your art is the one form of self-expression that feels as safe as Disguise Self does, because even if you're pouring your heart onto the page and then screaming it in front of thousands of people, it's not like you're really making yourself known. You can sing I'm lonely, I'm scared, I'm furious, and your fans will sing it right back, and there will still be the distance between performer and audience to keep your heart safe.)
Now you're being asked to look inward to explain the artistic choices you're making, and you can't help but recoil at that, because you'd rather do anything than look inward. Meanwhile, your classmates have no problem with it, so you start to wonder if you're a real artist at all. Can your art be authentic if it only exists to bolster a thesis statement? Has your art been unauthentic this whole time because you've never really thought about a thesis statement before? Is that what makes it art, and not just the next track on somebody's teen angst playlist?
You can't think about yourself— acknowledging your own existence makes you want to puke. So if your music is an extension of yourself, (and it is, even if it's just because the spotlight reveals only what you want it to,) you can't think about your music. You can't. You have to. Your grade depends on it.
You're Fig Faeth, and you keep multiclassing because you'd rather be a good friend than a great artist. If introspection is what great art demands, then fuck it. You must not be a bard at all.
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Listen is so great you don't understand. It's an episode about mental illness. And some people point out that some of the things that happen (the kid under the blanket, the airlock mechanism triggering) are on the surface unlikely, but that's the exact point. The Doctor is not an objective narrator, I mean this is the episode that starts with him sitting on top of the TARDIS in space speechifying, we see it in the way he frames it, so we see these ordinary things (a mischievous child, a dead ship breaking down) in the uncanny way he sees them—
—and because he is the Doctor, because he is the person who bad guys pause their plans to listen when he talks, because he is charismatic and impressive and the Oncoming Storm—
—because he's the Doctor, Clara (and baby Danny and Orson) start to believe him, until they arrive on Gallifrey, until Clara sees the root of his trauma, and she understands.
And it doesn't matter if this creature is a delusion or not, it only matters that it scares him, because fear is a superpower, and the way he responds to the reality he experiences is why he's the Doctor.
What. an. icon.
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