so.... the server was sending some bloodswaps and i saw this one cerulean karkat (unfortunately cant remember who originally drew it) and was like. oh fucckkk i have to draw him with the similar idea (hook hand but its actually claw? kinda failed on that tho)
...then it expanded onto kankri and the sufferer teehee
also a closeup....
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The Unknown Troll
Feferi Vantas
> Sign: Cancen
> Trolltag: avantAgnathan
> Lusus: Sealdad
> Role: ???
> Land: ???
> Dream Moon: Derse Dreamer
> Specibus: Saikind
Living in the shadows with nothing but clothes, a lusus, and a dream, Feferi is a visionary for a nonviolent Alternia. A determined revolutionary or pedantic disturbance, her online friends aren’t quite sure where she lands. Her close friend, CA, has asked that she lead her friends to victory in a game that will remake Alternia, how could she not play!?
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just a reminder i have a bloodswap server! as a note it's 18+, fantrolls, general homestuck/hiveswap talk, bloodswap writing and general au talk is more than welcome here! additionally it's a place where i don't want any hate towards any character in the series, i want this space to be fun and inclusive towards homestuck fans
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you done any olive amporas yet...
his life was dictated by proximity. that was the case, generally, for lowbloods; proximity to a highblood determined how far they would get in life. proximity to a city or to fertile farmland dictated their acceptable careers. proximity to conflict dictated the role in whatever war they inevitably lived through, as either the gutter-born hero or the unfortunate, unavoidable loss.
and eridan, as he was so often reminded, was one of the luckier ones. he lived in a small city; not so massive he choked on the smog, but no so minuscule he was left to kill for a job that barely paid his offworlding fee. the conflicts around him were average, of course, for the area.
and he was, luckily, extremely competent with a rifle. part of it, he was told, was being willing. he never struggled with that; he'd seen enough death not to mind causing it. if anything, it made him powerful.
the first was a cerulean, and he hadn't even had any ammunition. he had rolled under them, struggling to breathe around the arm they pressed against his throat. the meal he had tried to steal from their mid-level store was long forgotten, his head fuzzy, his eyes misted in olive as he slipped further from life.
the rifle he carried was, as the blue clearly could tell, for show at that point, but when he wrapped a hand around the barrel and dragged it out of the sling on his side, the weight spoke to him. he twisted his arm, swung weakly, and knocked them in the nose. blood poured over his face, and he swung again as the weight on him lifted.
over and over. long past when the cerulean stopped fighting back, shaking as blood rushed into his head again, as he breathed as deeply as he could around the damage to his throat.
from then on, clothes stained with blood and arms laden with stolen goods, he started to move up in the world. getting enough battery packs to practice using his rifle properly, getting good enough at shooting that he could start picking fights he'd win. every step of it was luck.
lucky to survive. lucky to kill better than others. lucky to be willing and able to do it for pay. lucky that he had always been alone, so what difference did it make to have no connections now? lucky, lucky, lucky.
until he went off-world, he had never lost a fight, had never run out of luck. the clowns in his regiment would pull his horns, muss his hair for luck themselves, and he kept his mouth shut about it. if a shot from his side, from his perch, happened to slide too far down into their side of the battle, no one would say anything. clowns were usually taller than the creatures they were clearing out to colonize.
he never ran out of luck, until the chucklefucks joined the brigade. he was found out, of course. he never stopped thinking about it, about the satisfaction of watching a stupid, overfull, over-lucky clown fall with a hole blasted through their chest, about the confident power it gave him.
luck always runs out, but he never thought to expect his to end at the barrel of his own sidearm.
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