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felassan · 1 year

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Some more snippets of interest and insight from Mark Darrah, from an older Mark Darrah on Games YouTube video where he was livestreaming playing Dragon Age: Origins some months ago -

"I imagine that the only way that broodmothers would remain in the game [DA:O] would be in a remaster. In a remake I'm sure they would make changes, I would be very surprised if they didn't. But in a remaster you can get away with a lot more. I think they would change their appearance. Also, there's been an effort to unify the look of the darkspawn a lot more, so." "You're never gonna see broodmothers, probably in any form, in the mainline games, definitely not in the form that they're in in DA:O. I don't think you'll ever see a broodmother again. I guarantee that you're not seeing broodmothers in any future Dragon Age thing. I would be very confident in that statement."

Chat commented "Male Desire demons on the other hand" and Mark replied that there is a concept art out there for male Desire demons.

Chat asked "If we won't get Broodmothers, do you think we'll get the original Archdemon design? The Tentacle Monster one?". Mark replied "Probably not the tentacle version for an Archdemon. I could see that being created as another monster or high level boss, but probably not as Archdemon because the, sort've, dragon as being part of an Archdemon is too intertwined in the lore at this point."

Chat commented "I just hope the Mythal death in DA:I was a fakeout". Mark said, "One thing with Mythal is that, Kate Mulgrew, as her stock has risen and fallen, her price has gone all over the place, so 'is Mythal gonna show up?' decisions will be partially based upon if she's priced herself out of the market or not. Though I think she actually was sad, based on the DA:I stuff, so maybe she'd be willing to do it on a little bit of a lower price. But I actually don't know, because is Orange Is the New Black still on the air? Her price may have come down again." "I mean definitely you can see, sometimes characters disappearing is because the voice actor became a pain to work with, or became expensive, those are definitely factors, no question."

Later on this topic chat asked "Would you say Laura Bailey is still in the affordable VA space? I know she's become a mega popular/busy thanks to CR, but she's always been VA first afaik." Mark replied "Depends, you can always sort've write less for them, if you can do it in one session you can kind've afford anybody, it's a question of how much they're gonna show up."

Chat asked "Do you agree with the criticism some people have that DA lore focuses too much on elves?" Mark said "Yeah, kind've, I think it sort've, it's not on purposes, the elves, they just kind've end up sneaking into everything it seems like. I think there's a recognition of the elves kind've being too present." "I don't think elves are going to disappear, I just think that they don't necessarily need to, one of the things that sort've constantly happened is that the stories ended up presenting the elves as, they keep sort've having them make just the worst decisions. So I suspect there's a goal to maybe make them not do that and then that would allow them to sort've rebalance with everyone else. It's also harder to get, dwarves kind've require a, they're either harder to integrate in, because they're off [over there], they're not just in a forest, you gotta go into a hole to talk to them, so they kind've always are gonna be less present unless you're doing something in the Deep Roads or Orzammar."

"It's always hard to kill off the protagonist. Always gonna get people who are against that but y'know [shrug]. I can certainly see the argument for killing off the Inquisitor in Trespasser".

Chat asked "Would it be more likely that we would be able to get answers to the more deep-fan stuff like The Calling etc by assuming those would be in DLC and not the main game of DA:D?" Mark replied "I don't imagine that there's gonna be a ton of, it's possible that you're gonna see that sort've stuff in DLC but I don't know what the live service plan is gonna be for DA:D to be honest because that was definitely, has been in flux over the course of DA:D, that's for sure."

[source]

He also talked more generally about DA:O and the franchise and things in general. These bits are collected under a cut due to length -

[when party camp is ambushed by darkspawn] "That's one of the few times that we actually pay that off"

[during Leliana's party camp song] "Very impressive cinematic design. It shows off the age of the models in the close ups, but the long shots are really great." "They're desperately trying to get the lipsyncing to match and failing"

Chat asked "Any insight as to why class design was made so much stricter in DAII and DA:I? DA:O had dual wield warriors, rogues with swords, etc." Mark replied "In DAII and DA:I I think we were trying to make the roles more clear. DA:O is basically DnD with no clerics and the serial numbers filed off"

In later DA games they suppressed visual effects (like glowing auras from active skills) during conversations. "Probably for the best because I'm also having... weird glowing stuff coming off of me"

[when Dagna in Orzammar talks about a bunch of nerdy magic lore] Chat asked "When you made this part about dwarfs and lyrium, had you then made enough lore to know how it all worked? aka how the Descent in DA:I would play out? Not story, but lorewise." Mark replied "The lore, like the magic sources in DA:O are kind've a mess so there is, there's been an effort since DA:O to kind've draw them back together. There was an understanding of why dwarves didn't have magic in DA:O, so kind've." Chat followed up "'Like theres four sources [of magic]: Fade, Blood, Lyrium, Blight?" and Mark said "Yeah, that's sort've the problem. You've got lyrium, you've got the Fade, you've got the Blight, you've got blood magic, you've also got some other, sort've genericized stuff where it's not explained. So from my perspective you kind've wanna collapse that down. You either want magic to just generally be from everything, which a lot of settings do, or you want it to have a somewhat unified source or sources, so you can see that there's like, things have been slowly drawn into a more common metaphysical explanation over the last two games."

Chat asked "I'm not sure when you came on to the DA:O project, but do you know which of the origins was the last to be added? Were any kind of 'last minute afterthoughts'?" Mark said "The actual truth is we cut an origin. There was an origin for the Avvar as well that got cut, so there was supposed to be two elves, two dwarves, two humans and then mage, but we cut the Avvar for time." "I actually really like the idea of us having implemented at least one faction where you come up with the Treaties and they're like 'good to go, just let us get our stuff'. That could've been the Avvar, as well"

"I think that lyrium will eventually drive a dwarf mad. I think that's established canon." "I would say that just because lyrium drives you mad doesn't mean that dwarves would stop using it. It only slightly drives you mad. Certainly there are lots of examples in [irl] history of people continuing to use things that are very bad for them because they're convenient or cheap."

"I've always wondered about dwarves, I mean you're burning big fires in the middle of a cave, and everyone's living together, it does seem like you're gonna run out of breathable air pretty quickly"

Chat asked "Were you involved much in the class design aspect of the game?" and Mark said "With DA:O? Not too much. When I took over, the game was largely design-locked. There was content still being created but most of the game design was done well before I took over"

Mass Effect 1's combat was aspiring to be something it was failing to reach

Chat mentioned that Citadel was a fan service/love letter DLC. Mark said "Citadel in ME is definitely, you're absolutely right, it's definitely a 'please stop being mad at us' piece of DLC." "I don't even know if it hit its profitability goals"

"The asari in ME didn't succeed at being a parody of the 'green space babes' trope. ME races are like Star Trek races, they're all defined by a relatively small number of characteristics. If they're attempting to be parodies of those kinds of races in something like Star Trek they are not succeeding at doing that. It's hard to imagine that you're succeeding at making a commentary about it when you're basically just doing the same thing. If you're using the codexes to talk about how well executed they are then it's not coming through in the main game, if that's what's required."

[source]

(pls note that in places there is a bit of paraphrasing of the info, the best source is always the primary source with full quotes in their original context)

#dragon age: dreadwolf #dragon age 4 #the dread wolf rises #da4 #dragon age #bioware #video games #long post #longpost #mass effect

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idontknowreallywhy · 24 days

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A little Teeny Scott wip snippet because the little Scooter popped into my brain as he often does when I’m a bit overwhelmed.

Tis another snapshot of my OC Primary teacher POV (oh oops I have two! No, not THAT one the other one! The one who taught teeny Scott rather than the one who trolls adult Scott)

💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙

Like many a primary class store cupboard, the one in Felicity Miles’ domain was crammed full of everything under the sun that could plausibly be “useful for craft one day” alongside all the more formal stationery supplies, brightly coloured sports equipment, first aid items, cuddly toys with their own bandages (often deployed to greater effect than the official first aid items).

She also had a small shelf, high up, she kept for the special pieces of work, the ones which demonstrated where a child had suddenly Got Excited - technicolour art, poetry with unashamed overuse of newly discovered adverbs, science projects, Scott Tracy’s poster about Pi. She always smiled to remember how after his initial disappointment about what the little squiggly symbol DIDN’T mean, how Absolutely he had adopted his new “favourite number”. She had a few from each class and when teacher life all got a bit overwhelming she’d take half an hour at the end of the day and reflect on why she did this in the first place. Retaining the space meant her marking piles were rather more crammed together and higgledy piggledy than ideal - her more organised colleagues would certainly raise an eyebrow - but it was worth it.

There was also a space about half a metre wide and about the same high on the very bottom shelf which it was important she kept empty. Again, the independent observer might have queries as to why, when space was at such a premium, this was necessary. She would probably just smile enigmatically and point at the tiny masking tape sign in wobbly 7-year old handwriting that said “The Octopus House” and leave them with more questions than they were ever going to get answers to.

The Octopus House wasn’t a secret but she didn’t advertise its existence. The few kids who knew about it found it because they needed it. The ones who needed to hide away for a moment, but not be too far away from the safety of their peers or the ones who needed to squeeze up small to process the big feelings without their limbs causing trouble.

It had received its name three years ago on that memorable day when she Lost a Student. He was just gone for at least 20 minutes which must have cost her at least a year of her life. Between the three adults in the class that day they’d subtly searched the corridors, the toilets, the lunch hall, the library and what could be seen of the playground but it was like the child had evaporated. Trying not to panic she’d sent the rest of the class out with the experienced TA and the very-green-but-compensating-with-extreme-enthusiasm NQT to do Olympic relay races on the playground (thank you Ancient Greek class project).

She leant on the back of the door for thirty seconds to catch her breath and psych herself up for the inevitable crisis meeting with the head and the moment at which that would turn in to needing to break the news to his Father.

The silence crowded in on her and she felt herself beginning to properly panic.

She didn’t even know exactly when he’d disappeared. He was there at the start of the lesson, seemed happy, seemed engaged. He’d been very excited about the task they had been given to recreate the Parthenon out of craft paper and had taken charge of his small group so naturally… they’d all been given their part of the mission and they were actually DOING it! Very effectively it seemed! She’d made a mental note to add “leadership skills” to the list of positive things she was going to put on his school report (because the previous few she’d read had made her nauseous with anger) and turned to assist a wailing child with no less than three glue sticks embedded in her hair. And that was… half an hour before? Oh hell that was a long time.

She and the other adults had been so busy mediating the minor battles breaking out in other groups that when a little voice piped up “where’s Scotty? He was sposed to make the lintels!” and her blood had suddenly run cold.

If he was hurt or in danger because she took her eye off him…

She blinked back tears and had just composed herself to pick up the phone to the head teacher’s office when she heard a tiny sniff and spun around to identify the source. Nobody was there.

Hardly daring to breathe, she tiptoed through the room checking under desks already checked three times.

Just as she was concluding she’d imagined it, there it was again - the tiniest noise but definitely a sniff and seemingly from the direction of the cupboard he couldn’t be in because the thumb turn bolt was still in the locked position.

Feeling like she was going crazy she unlocked the door and looked inside anyway.

Obviously it was empty. Her wishful thinking was wasting time. They needed to get a proper search party organised.

She turned to leave and heard it for a third time.

And it was that day, in her 5th year of teaching, she discovered just how small a ball a tall child could make themselves into. Seriously, the octopus had nothing on this kid.

The space was much smaller then, barely 30cm wide and only there at all because she’d taken out the long, thin box of baton-shaped sticks that had been wedged tightly in between stacks of who knew what. All she could see was a tangle of uniformed limbs and a mass of sweaty chestnut hair.

He obviously knew she was there and was holding his breath, clearly hoping not to be seen. Expecting to be in trouble.

Felicity picked up her phone and sent a quick “crisis averted” message to her TA and then, after ensuring the door was wedged wide open, she slowly lowered herself to the floor. Pulling her knees up to her chin to mirror his posture she rested her back on some boxes a few inches to the left of where he’d tucked himself away.

And she waited.

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #scott tracy #tiny Scott #adhd!scott #thunderbirds oc #wee!tracys #WIP whenever #idontknowreallywhy fanfic

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laniemae · 7 months

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John’s self destructive tendencies and coping mechanisms: theory

TW for sh, suicide mention

So I was thinking about this for a while and I want to talk about Mikoto’s tattered clothes in trial 2.

So basically in trial 2 we can see how the guilty prisoners uniforms have changed, with them having more restraints coinciding with Jackalope’s mention of phases of restraints. But Mikoto’s in interesting in this case because unlike the others his clothes are all tattered, and technically have less restraints than in trial 1. Initially I thought that this was remnants of Kotoko’s attack but looking at it more that doesn’t seem to be the case.

Just look at this these are bite marks. And obviously Kotoko wouldn’t have been biting him during the fight so it’s obviously self inflicted, and looking at the rest the straitjacket is ripped this definitely makes sense. Heck, it’s even said to be happening in trial 1 by this minigram.

It’s confirmed that all of the minigrams happen during trial 1, so we know about this already. And Mikoto mentions that he doesn’t know how it ended up like this, so it was probably John’s doing. And likely during his breakdowns at night time especially since Amane mentioned it right before. And since Mikoto was offered a replacement it’s probably a cycle of John destroying the clothes, and Mikoto getting a replacement so it’s probably happening a lot. And I mean, in the art for Double we literally see John tugging at the straitjacket.

(Also I noticed this now, but again in one of the minigrams one of the noises coming from his room is the sound of ripping)

But then the question is, why? First I thought that maybe John just wanted to get out as much as possible by ripping the straitjacket off. But I thought about it a while and that wouldn’t really make sense. As the straitjacket itself currently doesn’t have its restraints as much to really impair movement, and he never has expressed desire to leave but at the same time, it’s John, he basically hides everything about himself.

But then I thought, this is very likely happening during his breakdowns at night, so he’s lashing out at the environment and also lashing out at himself by ripping apart his clothes. And then I realised, John likely has self-destructive tendencies, but is harming the jacket instead of himself because he knows that’d hurt Mikoto.

I think this is probably what’s happening here, as it explains a lot for the tattered clothes and how it’s very likely a stress reaction. And also I’ve seen theories that the blood in the bathtub from MeMe was his own blood from an attempted suicide/self harming, and him collapsing in the shower was due to blood loss. This would also fit with the line sung in that scene “Maybe it's ok to try to keep on living,

Split in half, Make that heart beat”. But probably knowing that Mikoto would be suffering because of that, who he wants to protect so much. He lashes out in a different way by destroying the environment around him and ripping apart his clothes. Which good for John for finding alternatives I guess…

But this is really interesting to think about. As if it is true it gives alot of insight into John’s character. It’s very likely he’s heavily self loathing as expressed through Neoplasm and Double. And we know he’s constantly stressed and likely in mental agony. So how he deals with his stress as lashes inward, but doesn’t want to hurt Mikoto in the process is really interesting and sad. Like he’s willing to completely destroy his own life in order to protect Mikoto’s, but he’s already passed the breaking point and can’t control his stress and agony…

#milgram #Milgram theory #John kayano #john milgram #mikoto kayano #tw sh #with every analysis I’ve made of John I just want to hug him even more #LanieMae’s theories

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crow-crafting · 8 days

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Hello! I have so many questions. Okay. 1) I want to make a bunch of cotton kitchen towels both for practice and also because I need kitchen towels. This feels like a reasonable beginner project, is that correct? 2) I keep reading that you can do multiple towels on one warp but I’m not seeing how you’re supposed to separate the towels. Is it just cut the thread, roll more, start a new towel? But then how do you start the new towel? 3) when wet finishing something off the loom, the order is definitely sew the ends and then wash right? I don’t see how you could wash before seaming the ends…

Thank you so much for your time! And if you have links to beginner resources I’d really appreciate them!

I am so excited for your weaving journey!

I feel like towels are a great beginner's project. With a rigid heddle, it is mostly sticking with plain weave (also called tabby weave), so you can play a lot with colors and textures with the yarns themself.

I am currently warping up 6 yards to make 5 towels in one warp. The best way that I have found to make multiple projects in one warp is to...

Leave a gap between the projects!

Once you have gotten to the end of your first towel, hem stitch the edge to finish it off. Then, leave a couple inch gap on your warp and start weaving again!

If you like, you can use a waste yarn here to give you a solid edge to beat against.

Screenshot taken from the video Suzie Liles' Fastest Hem Stitch from the channel Eugene Textile Center.

It shows a good idea on the spacing to leave, as well as a good hemstitch to keep the edges all in place before you are done.

The video is below:

youtube

For towels especially, I like starting and finishing the last inch or so with a thinner weft (if you have one that coordinates), so you can sew the edges.

Also, it's a good idea to know how long your project it, so you know when to stop! This is doubly true if you are looking to make projects of the same size. Some people use a flexible tape measure and sewing clips, but I use a method with a ribbon and sewing pins. Try a few different ways and see what you like best!

This is an example of my measuring ribbon! I got a few spools from my local big box store (Michael's in this case) for a couple dollars, and they have been a great way to ensure I have consistent items. Any color works, the person I learned this from uses white ribbon. I just have red here because it makes it easy for me to find when it gets buried in my art room.

You are very right in needing to finish your edges before wet finishing.

Most towels, be they commercial or handmade, are hemmed. It gives them a little most structure and longevity. I would consider sewing the raw edge (not the selvage, your woven edge) if you have a way to do so. Even if you don't have a good way to do so, fringes are very cute on towels!

If you do choose to hem, I usually go for .5" hem size. The picture above shows how I usually fold it, so the raw edge is tucked away and less prone to wearing.

With wet finishing for weaving, I am usually a bit mean to my pieces. I use HOT water, dish soap, and agitate the heck out of it. I do my wet finishing in a five gallon bucket, then spin the excess water out with a salad spinner, then hang it over a clothes drying rack.

I am going to work on pulling together a good list of resources I have been using and probably reblog onto this with it.

In the meantime! A good tip for you, that I didn't learn until I was at least 8 projects in, is to use some kind of layer between your yarns in your warp. It helps so much with tension and keeps your yarns from wanting to snarl up with the layer beneath it.

Screenshot taken from the video Rigid Heddle Part 3 - Threading holes and Tying on the Warp from the channel Margery Erickson.

Like this! The weaver here is using cardboard, and gives a very good demonstration on winding on in the video below. The actual winding starts around the 10:30 mark.

youtube

I will be back with more information...

#crow chats #yarn crafts #weaving #id in alt #i know you sew but i just wanted to leave some extra details in for those that dont!

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embossross · 1 year

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The Art Collector

Prologue >> Chapter 1 >> Masterlist

✣ Pairing: Mikey x AFAB fem!Reader

✣ Warning: 18+ dark explicit content, minors DNI

✣ Series: part of the In the Belly of the Beast fic universe

✣ Chapter CWs: references to past cheating, drinking, author is not an artist and is Reaching for this character lol

✣ Story CWs: yandere, stalking, dubcon, kidnap, sex (ptv, oral), rough sex, and probably more to come

✣Synopsis: Mikey isn't like your typical boyfriends. He isn't an artist. He doesn't sport a messy bun or name drop Heidegger. He's just an antisocial IT guy. Or at least that's what he's told you...You may not know your boyfriend as well as you think you do, and by the time you realize your mistake, it may be too late for him. Or you.

✣ Word Count: ~6k and counting

It wasn’t raining or snowing, yet here you stood, struggling. You cupped a hand over the lighter, clove cigarette dangling from your pursed lips. This time you succeeded. A lungful of bitter smoke flooded your belly, and every synapse fired in relief at the familiar rush. You sank into a crouch, back against the wall as you savored your first smoke in six weeks.

On the other side of the wall, inside where it was warm and the harsh, unseasonable winds didn’t beat down like a father’s heavy hand, a dozen or so patrons wandered a little art gallery. It was the opening night of your first ever solo exhibition.

Thirty-eight minutes. That was how long you had survived playacting your official role as artist on display before you had snuck through a door marked employees’ only to smoke away the heartburn that flared in the face of phoniness.

To exhibit anywhere, even a dingy little art gallery in a dead backstreet of Kichijoji, one that saw less foot traffic than a 21st century Blockbuster video, was an enormous privilege. At twenty-seven, most artists slaved away at parttime jobs to afford cup ramen or hung up their paints for a life of housewife drudgery. You were so very fortunate, and if you were the type for positive affirmations, you would remind yourself of that more regularly.

The reverberations of polite dialogue trickled from inside, past the open door, to where you hid. You needn’t hear the exact words to know what they were saying. Trivialities as they strolled past work that dwarfed months of your life. Whether their comments were good or bad, asinine or nuanced, it didn’t make much difference.

Was it wrong to make art not just for the sake of its creation but in the hopes that someone, anyone, might find in your work the hidden messages that you knew were there, just out of your grasp, if only someone might decode them for you?

The breaking point that had sent you fleeing for the alley came from a smartly dressed woman, who praised one of your paintings as an ‘arcadian fantasy,’ as a ‘violent refusal of modern social organization,’ and return to innocence. She had categorized it as a clear response to the Tōhoku tsunami’s continued psychological and economic impact on the Yutori generation.

The painting in question depicted four schoolchildren at play. Lush green grass layered in oils dominated the background, leaving no visual queues as to the time of day, weather, or location as if the playground extended for eternity: back, back, back. The children appeared happy, but upon closer study, the viewer would find each child was built from an amalgamation of swirls. The swirls varied in size, but each one spiraled predictably at the same angle and to the same inevitable end. Using your most delicate paintbrush to measure to exactitude the angles, you had labored for hundreds of hours on that piece.

During the painting process, when you would stumble home after a night of drinking, you would get lost in those swirls, a sense of overwhelming mawkishness rising up from your gut at how each child was bound for the same destination. Everything was so predetermined in their young lives.

The spiral motif appeared again and again in tonight’s collection, going largely unnoticed by the gallery’s patrons. The only time your swirls seized attention was in your one interactive piece: four wooden panels, 75x225 centimeters, one fitted as a door to create a cramped room. Inside the panels were covered in tar paper and painted a deep black. Then, you had layered on the swirls in a gritty grey, so they dominated every spare millimeter of space, spinning and spinning. You had dubbed it the panic attack room because closed inside, you would be confronted with the inverse of infinity, feel the walls moving closer with every winding spiral.

The two “journalists” there that night – one an art blogger, the other covering for a university newspaper – both attended solely to try out that room. They thought it might make an attractive picture spot as interactive art was all the rage.

Speaking to them earlier, both presumed so much about your work and influences. You must have so admired Kusama Yayoi’s infinity rooms, they said; yes, you recognized Kusama as one of the greatest living artists, but no she was not a direct inspiration for your piece. The art blogger asked if, like the French-American sculptor Louise Bourgeois, you saw the spiral as a symbol of “freedom and control;” no, not remotely. The student journalist wondered if you’d read Uzumaki by Junji Ito as it depicted spirals in horror; no, you had never heard of it.

One of your friends, Shiyuri, had urged you to spell out the meaning behind your work on the placards that accompanied each piece.

“Don’t just name your art,” she had insisted. “Give people some guidance, some keywords, or shit, so they know they’re looking in the right direction.”

You had thanked her for the suggestion, even stared at a blank Word document for a half hour hoping to write out something helpful, but the words did not come. Behind each artwork yawned a question, dreadful and all-encompassing, and you painted in the hopes that someone, someday might answer. Maybe then you would finally understand yourself.

“There you are!” the curator boomed, peering around the doorway to where you crouched. “I’ve been looking everywhere. You won’t believe it. Every piece! Sold! Just like that!”

“I can believe it,” you breathed out around a last, lingering puff of smoke.

The curator’s beard twitched as he rushed to tell you about the phone call. A mysterious figure had bid to buy every single painting on display for the full asking price. He hadn’t even tried to haggle! The man’s fingers waggled as he spoke as if imagining the bills he would count and caress once he received his commission for hosting your work. He led you back inside with a hand at your back and the promise of celebratory champagne.

Inside, the orangish lights cast your work in warm tones that drew out their vibrancy. People flocked to the paintings now that they saw the lauded stamp of approval beside each, the sought after “sold” sticker that warned them this was their last chance to see the collection before it was locked away forever.

The champagned tasted fine as it fizzed down your throat. Around you, the blogger and student journalist prattled about how artist patronage of this sort was so uncommon these days. The curator boasted how he put you on the map with this exhibit. Your show was officially a success.

When ten rolled around and the last of the patrons left the gallery, you and your friends made the short walk to Harmonica Alley, settling on the first empty bar you found. It was standing room only, so you formed a single column at the bar. Your group tallied six in total: you, your four housemates, and one of your housemate’s new boyfriend. An hour ago, you had texted an invitation to the jazz musician you were seeing, but he shot back that he was busy with a gig and couldn’t join. He promised to see you soon and capped off the message with a winking emoji.

The once quiet bar grew rowdy as your friends settled into place. All of you were artists, renting a house together, a commune of sorts for creatives not long out of school. You shared the two bedrooms on the second floor with Shiyuri and Kii, rotating the private room every month to keep things equitable. Then, on the first floor, you’d hung a curtain over what was probably meant to be a dining room to create a makeshift bedroom for the boys, Yuudai and Fujio. There was a basement as well, but by unanimous vote that was retained as a studio for your collective use.

By the time you ordered a third round of beers – on you and your new windfall you assured your friends – everyone was red cheeked and loud as only twenty-somethings on a Friday night can be.

Normally, conversation would turn to topics like whether the newest arthouse film was worth seeing, the status and inspiration behind your current projects, and any household gossip, but tonight your housemates were joined by Kii’s new boyfriend, Shinosuke, and he couldn’t resist asking the obvious question.

Who had bought all your paintings tonight? And why weren’t you more surprised?

Your friends exhausted that topic months ago but as Shinosuke was himself an art student, the kind who monologued about the virtues of sacrifice in the name of art, fashioning himself as a starving idealist in the vein of a young Yoshizawa Akira – as if his parents didn’t deposit a tidy sum in his bank account every month – he fixated on the night’s dreamlike events.

“I don’t know who bought them,” you admitted.

“I think it might’ve been that woman in the fur coat. She looked like she had money, and she said she liked the painting of the empty hallway,” Shinosuke said.

“No, no, we know it’s a man, and that he always orders everything over the phone,” Kii explained.

“Always? Wait, so this has happened before?”

You shrugged, too bored by the saga of your good fortune to answer, but Yuudai jumped in and answered for you, “It happens nonstop. Everything she’s put up for sale in the last six months. This mystery guy just calls right up and buys it all. I’ve been telling the universe to send him my way, but so far, no dice.”

Seven months actually. It had been seven months since the first strange purchase. The lack of name hadn’t seemed so odd then when the cash was warm in your pocket. Then, your next painting had sold within mere hours of debuting. Then, the next. The guarantee that your work would sell was why you could afford to exhibit in a real gallery in the first place. It also earned you enough money to pay your water bill, to no longer worry over the expense of new brushes or the cost of good tampons. You even stashed a little away in savings. Thanks to your mysterious benefactor, you were the most financially stable member of your art collective.

“How can you have no idea?” Shinosuke demanded. “How would this rich, art-loving guy even find you? And why would he buy up all your art?”

“It’s not that crazy. Some artists have exclusive patrons even today. It’s rare, but it happens,” you said.

Shinosuke pressed his stomach into the bar and leveled you with a smirk. “Sounds like a sugar daddy situation to me. If he has any hot friends, hook me up, okay? I’d sell more than my body to get my art out there.”

Dents in the shape of fingerprints mangled your beer can. Kii’s faux-outrage, more worried about Shinosuke pimping himself out than the insult to her friend, saved you from having to respond.

Maybe Shinouske’s dumb remark could be chalked up to male pride. It was the kind of comment that almost any male artist languishing in obscurity might make when faced with a woman’s comparative success. They all figured that success came entirely at their own expense, a kind of stolen recognition. The art world thrived on scarcity, and you didn’t entirely blame Shinosuke for his resentment.

But you wondered if Shinouske’s mind might circle sugar daddies for a different reason. Kii might have run her mouth about that time you slept with your professor.

(You hadn’t slept with your professor to improve your grades, mind you, or for any other professional advantage. You had slept with him because you were young, and you liked the way his hands shaped around clay in your pottery class. You had slept with him because it was lonely that first year at CalTech, where you discovered your English was less “conversational” than passable. You had slept with him because you liked the way he would gasp out, like a confession, that you were the most beautiful woman he’d ever been with as you rolled around in cum-stained sheets that his wife would later clean. Like you said, you had been young. You would do it all differently now.)

The congratulatory beer doesn’t warm you on the way down. There wasn’t much to celebrate anyway when everyone took your success for granted these days, when your art would only be hidden away from the world in some rich asshole’s vault.

That was the other reason for the exhibit. You wanted someone, anyone, to see your work before it disappeared from your sight forever.

You excused yourself as if to the bathroom but made a beeline for the exit. A second cigarette laid crumbled in the pocket of your jeans, and since you were already off the bandwagon, you figured you might as well enjoy.

Thick cloud cover shaded the night in misty grays, but the moon glowed down unimpeded like someone had punched a hole in the sky just to let it shine. Still, the wattage of the moon couldn’t compete with the many LED lights that shone from streetlamps and storefronts alike. You had dressed for a warm spring night, but the wind had other ideas, stinging the bared skin of your arms and legs.

Once again, you struggled with your lighter, but before the spark could flicker to life, a hand, ghostly in the moonlight, held a flame up to your cigarette.

You screamed.

There were no blind spots on the narrow road, and there should have been no way to approach you without the sixth sense you possessed as a born-and-bred city dweller kicking in to warn you. Yet here stood a stranger. You raised a hand to your forehead to check for fever, wondering if you drank too much at the bar.

The man – because of course it was a man, you thought wryly – was shabbily dressed in a too-large black tee-shirt and joggers. The baggy clothes concealed his frame, but he looked small, shockingly so. Sharp clavicles jutted out above his shirt collar, and his gaunt cheekbones stood in sharp relief against a shadowed face. He might have been any age, a boyish prettiness put him in his early twenties, but his eyes…his eyes had seen things. Between his frailty and bottle blonde hair, he looked like he daylighted as a pretty boy idol.

“You scared me.”

He didn’t offer an apology. You couldn’t place what about this stranger unsettled you. The happy chatter of your friends drifted from the open entryway only a short distance away. Most of the other shops on the street were sealed shut by metal gates, but passersby ambled past the opening of the alleyway every few seconds. There was no rational reason to feel afraid, but you couldn’t escape the impression his icy smirk left on you, the impression of stumbling into a vampire movie and now playing the part of the woman who dies stupidly. His face of contradictions, his silent tread as he approached, and now, his undeniable presence all unnerved you.

“Shouldn’t you be celebrating?” the man asked.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re the artist, right? Didn’t all your art sell?” the stranger jerked his head in the direction of the gallery.

“Yeah, yes, drinks on me tonight!” you said.

“Oh, thanks. But I’ll take a rain check.”

Reality rebalanced itself as you laughed. The only horrors that awaited you were the hangover symptoms sure to greet you in the morning. This guy was just some starving artist who stopped by for a drink after the show, same as you and your friends.

“I liked your show. I’m not surprised it sold out as fast as it did,” the stranger said.

You don’t deign to thank him in the same way he avoided apologizing for scaring you. Strange to start off a conversation on such a rude foundation, but the polite niceties seem superfluous when judged against this man’s innate intensity.

“What kind of art do you make?” you asked.

The stranger chuckled. When he shook his head, the messy blond locks that framed his face swung momentarily to shield his eyes. The fine strands looked baby soft, almost translucent.

“I’m no artist,” he said.

“Really? If you’re not an artist, why do you go to shows? Usually, the only people who come to these sorts of things are other artists or friends of the artist. I’m not a big name, so it’s not like I draw a crowd.”

“I don’t. I just walked into yours because it was there. First time I’ve ever done that.”

“Ah, so when you say it was good, you mean it was better than the alternative, which is nothing,” you teased.

“No. Your art moved me.”

Such simple words. Such black eyes. They could suck you in. Yet the sensation of falling was almost pleasant, a kind of indulgence that raised goosepimples up and down your arms.

“What…what about it moved you?” you croaked.

The man shrugged. “I don’t know anything about art, remember? I can’t explain it.”

“Nah, I’m sure you can. All theory does is teach people to lie about what they’re seeing. I mean, I love reading theory to spark ideas or challenge my preconceived notions, but I think it’s more helpful in the creation of art than in the understanding of it. You go to school, and they teach you how to contextualize everything within these discourses, even if they don’t actually apply to what you’re looking at. As if art isn’t a visual medium. All you need to understand it is to look. Or, well, at least that’s what I think.”

Another half-assed dissertation on your work would send you to the hospital. This man claimed to be moved by your art, and you wanted to know what he felt, not what sounded impressive to the ear.

“How to explain it? Looking at your paintings, those spiral things especially, it’s like they sucked me in. But, rather than pulling me outside of myself, they pushed me back into myself, like the block hole was inside me, and so to look at your art was to look at myself. Does that make sense? I never liked art growing up. I always thought it was stupid the way artists tried to make something beautiful when nothing they make could ever beat a sunrise. The world is beautiful, I thought, but humans? We’re too ugly, too corrupted to create something truly beautiful. Looking at your art, I don’t see beauty, but I do see myself, every ugly part, and there’s something beautiful in that. Almost.”

As he spoke, the stranger met your gaze with unflinching eyes. You swore they swirled with all the same power and loss as your paintings. True to his words, they sucked you into their depths.

“See, you don’t need to learn theory to talk about art. Actually, you kind of stumbled into centuries long discourses about the possibilities and purposes of representation in art. And, while I’m not going to agree that aesthetics don’t matter or that beauty is impossible – because, hello, I am an artist – I know exactly what you mean. There’s a theory called the Formulation Theory of Expression that basically just says art is an outward expression of the artist’s inward feelings. When I paint, it’s because there’s something inside me that I don’t understand, and when I put it on the canvas or whatever…I can look at it outside myself. And then, I feel like I can conquer it or at least live with it.”

At some point while you spoke, you wrapped your arms around yourself, rubbing at chilled flesh. The cramped alley created a wind tunnel effect, directing all the elements straight at your lightly clothed body. The stranger’s eyes tracked your shiver.

“You’re cold.”

“Yeah, I think it might storm. This wind is weird,” you said.

“I don’t have a jacket to give you…” the stranger frowned.

“Oh, don’t worry about it. I’m fine.”

“How about we take a walk? It’ll be warmer if we keep moving,” he offered.

You glanced back at the bar where your friends remained happily ensconced. Through the entrance, you could see Shiyuri flirt with the bartender. The bar shaded in yellows and reds looked toasty, the simplest way to warm up. Your stranger, on the other hand, looked cold and somehow otherworldly, like he could never join your friends for a pint and a chat, like he was meant to wander the streets like a wraith until the sun rose and dissolved him back into the sea.

“Why not? So long as we don’t go too far,” you agreed.

With an illicit thrum of adventure, like you were doing something naughty, you took the stranger’s icy hand in yours and led him onto the main drag. You debated whether to head to Inokashira Park to enjoy the moonlight on the water or the opposite direction to stroll the shopping on Sun Road before deciding on the latter. The man let you drag him along without complaint.

You set a steady pace until you reached the shelter of Sun Road. Glass paneling overhead blocked out the moon and shielded you from the worst of the elements. Soon, you were warm, blood pumping strongly in your veins, but you didn’t let go of the man’s hand as his fingers stayed chilly in your grip.

An hour passed without you accounting for it. Childhood memories of Osaka and the free-wheeling college years you spent in Pasadena, venturing into L.A. as the mood struck, provided a benchmark against which you judged all cities. Since moving to Tokyo six years back, you were sure of one thing. You loved Tokyo with your whole heart.

You loved its tall buildings, the character of those varied architectural styles that never sought unity with one another and made for such an ugly skyline. You loved that it made a wonderland of the skies, climbing up, up, up as the city grew ever taller, loved that it made a playground of the underground, carving shops and restaurants out of earth and rock to accompany the subway system. You loved its people, who set the speed and schedule of the city. All that life happening just outside your door if you only thought to look.

It was a rare treat to visit Musashino as you sometimes went months without leaving your district, let alone Tokyo, and as you wandered about, you considered that your love just might extend to Tokyo’s network of satellite cities, too, thankful for the supportive flavor they added to the place you had made your chosen home.

Your eyes feasted on the vibrancy around you: the messy mix of old and new, high and low – a fortune teller’s impromptu stand blocking the entrance to a Krispy Kreme, a high fashion boutique on one side of the road and a hundred yen shop on the other. The smell of fresh bread wafted from a bakery only to be replaced by the heady scent of perfume from a department store a few steps beyond. A few shops had yet to take down their Golden Week decorations, and colorful carp streamers gaped with dumb open mouths down from those storefronts.

As you walked, the conversation flowed easily between you both. You would talk for a few minutes about aesthetics, and then he would return with a dazzling compliment, delivered as if it were the merest trifle, about how your art made him feel seen for the first time in so very long. He told you about old friends, who had insisted they understood him just because they were always looking but in reality, only saw the afterimage of the man he once was and refused to see the shell in front of them. You told him how you never felt less seen than after someone looked at your work, the contradiction and frustration of failing to communicate when you poured your soul into each piece.

You never talked like this with your friends. They would have called you pretentious, a death knell in your world, and scolded you for not appreciating the honor of even having an audience in the first place. The stranger, on the other hand, showed no signs of irritation as you unburdened yourself, your steps growing lighter and lighter with each confession.

Several times, you almost walked right into a trash can or utility pole. The stranger jerked you out of the way each time. After another near accident, your body bumped into his and stayed there, glued to his side where it was safest.

The many sights of the shopping distract were distracting enough, but it was the man’s eyes that increasingly tripped you up. They were all-consuming as they listened so intently to your every word. Yes, listened! His eyes rather than his ears received what you said. So black, they were almost a void. You wondered how you might capture them on paper. Charcoal was the obvious choice, but you doubted you would be able to render the nuances, the momentary flecks of light that warmed his haunted face and made the contrasting darkness all the more harrowing. Cold sweat collected in the creases of your arms if you stared into them too long.

“You know, I’m not always this moody,” you said, having just finished angstily opining against your audience. “I get anxious about showing my work, but on a normal day, I’m a lot of fun.”

“Oh, yeah?” the man hummed.

“Yes, very fun and bright,” you said cheerfully as if to prove yourself. “I’m a super fun friend to have because I love to go out and try new things, see shows, visit new places. And, I always have a ton of energy because I drink too much coffee, which now that I say it, doesn’t sound like a positive, but I swear it is. And, I am a great conversationalist, which…that one you already know.”

The ghostly facsimile of a smile brightened the stranger’s face as he said, “Well, I’m sold. You sound like a fun friend to have.”

“And you? Your turn to pitch me.”

“Pitch you?’

“Yeah, you now wanna be my friend, so you’ve gotta convince me that I want to be friends with you, too?” you teased.

“Your friend, huh? I guess that depends. Do you have a boyfriend?” he asked.

Thoughts of the jazz musician you’d been seeing made you hesitate. You thought of his fingers, so nimble as they danced across piano keys, his smile – cool and remote and the right kind of unattainable to make your heart race –, and his deep bass rumble when he got excited about music. You liked him, maybe enough to consider making him your boyfriend, but neither of you had broached the topic yet, and left in the no man’s land of situationships, you had no loyalties to betray.

Until now, you had balanced precariously on the line between friendly and flirtatious with this stranger, not entirely sure which direction you ought to tip. Despite his dismissal of aesthetics, the man’s face was certainly aesthetically appealing. Not merely handsome, but arresting, the kind of face you could stare at for hours. And, when he spoke about your art, your tummy buzzed with a feeling not so different from infatuation.

So, you answered honestly.

“Not really.”

The stranger nodded, once again quirking his lips into something that almost passed as a smile but didn’t penetrate his eyes.

“Well, what’s there to say about me? I have err, security, money, and time? I work from home doing IT stuff, so I set my own schedule,” he said, and then grew quiet for several long beats as he struggled to come up with more. “I…am a good driver. I have a license to drive cars and motorbikes.”

“Well, that does sound fun. I don’t have a license,” you giggled, and then you knocked your shoulder into his. “Come on, you’re supposed to be selling yourself to me. Tell me that you’re the funniest guy in every room or something.”

“I’m not.”

“Well, yeah, but that’s not the point. This dark and mysterious act is hot and all, but I want to know what you’re like on like a Wednesday afternoon not just on a Friday night when you’re brooding outside bars,” you said.

“I used to be fun,” the man conceded. “I was somehow always the leader in this friend group I had as a kid. People just looked to me. And I had all these dreams and ideas and the ambition to see them out. I was always reaching for something, and my friends were right there with me.”

“What changed?”

“My family died.”

“Oh my God!”

Stunned by the barefaced admission, you dropped his hand for a moment and then hurried to relace your fingers with his. Every time you compared him in your mind to a ghost or wraith or vampire returned to you. He wasn’t some dead thing but the very opposite, startlingly and devastatingly alive despite his loss.

“I’m so sorry,” you rushed to say. “For your loss I mean, and for all those jokes. I didn’t mean to be such an asshole.”

“It’s okay. It’s been over ten years now since my sister died, so I’m used to living with it. I figured you would understand after looking at your paintings. I could tell you’ve lost people, too,” he said.

“Not really, actually. I’ve only lost a grandmother I wasn’t that close to,” you admitted.

He came to a halt, right in the center of the sidewalk and studied you. A generator, in the alley behind his back, whirred loudly. When you looked at him, the darkness of the alley seemed to reach forward as if to swallow him up.

“I don’t understand. Your art has so much pain in it. Grief.”

“It does in a way. When I was a kid, I went through this – and I’m so sorry, this is so awfully morbid after what you just said about your sister – but I went through this obsession with corpses. I would beg my mom to take me to cemeteries everywhere we went. We actually visited the one up ahead at Gesso-ji Temple once. I wasn’t obsessed with death but the corpse itself. I’ve always been fascinated by abjection, the revulsion we feel at something that was once the self, transformed into the other. It’s in most of my works, this interrogation of what is that which is no longer us. How much of the self is left in the corpse? It must not be much based on the way we react to them. Anyway, I guess I have this perversity in me. I can’t forget that everything ends even when I’m happiest. Especially then. So, I find myself mourning people that are still there. It’s kind of sick when you think about it,” you said.

Maybe that morbidity explained your love of Tokyo. A city on the verge. One seismic shift, and then, collapse. The Tokyo Skytree would fall, devastation, evacuation. An ending both symbolic and true. But until that day, it shone brighter than anywhere else, glowing like a beacon for whatever astronauts peered down from space.

Engrossed by you as if you yourself were a work of precious art, the stranger continued walking without once looking away from your face.

“That’s smart,” he said finally. “I wish I’d known to mourn people while I still could. I would have appreciated them more. Kept them safe.”

Persistent buzzing from your pocket reminded you that you were hardly appreciating your own friends. They probably thought you’d fallen in the toilet at this point. You asked the man if he minded and fished out your phone. There were four missed calls and ten unread messages. You skipped reading any as you could imagine well enough what your friends wanted and dialed Kii.

“Hey, sorry about that,” you said when she answered.

“Where are you? We wanna head home, and the subway’s gonna close in an hour.”

“I needed some fresh air and ended up taking a walk. Didn’t realize how long it’s been. If you give me twenty minutes, I can come back with you guys.”

“Well, you better. Don’t forget you’re paying!” Kii cheered.

As you chatted, the man loomed over your shoulder, or loomed wasn’t quite right. He didn’t have that tall, physically intimidating presence some men had. His stillness, however, was eerie, his ability to stand patiently as you made plans without fiddling with his own phone or scratching a single itch. The only motion he indulged was scanning his surroundings, dark eyes missing nothing.

“Sorry about that, but I have to get back. Walk me?” you asked.

The man hooked his elbow through yours this time, and you walked arm in arm back to the bar. He kept you busy with questions about how you learned to paint, your next collection, your hopes for your career. After hearing about his family, his reticence no longer struck you as weird, and you appreciated his desire to simply listen.

Exiting Sun Road, the night returned in full force. The cityscape was a living thing, loud with sighing exhaust pipes and gurgling streams overheard as you crossed over storm drains. You made sure to appreciate every moment of it.

Somehow, the hurried walk back felt longer than the leisurely, initial stroll from the bar. Time froze and then sped up when you talked to this strange man, but too soon, you were back. Sounds of your friends’ good cheer trickled from the bar.

“Well, I’ve gotta get back to my friends. Thanks for keeping me warm,” you said.

Once more, the stranger’s mouth moved, corners curling up, but this time, even though the air was still, you shuddered with your whole body. You had the strangest impression that he didn’t want to let you go. That he wouldn’t let you go.

This figment of your overactive imagination passed quickly as he merely nodded.

“I’ll be on the lookout for your next show, then. It was fun,” he said.

“Fun? You? In that case, why wait? Let me give you my number, and we can grab a drink sometime.”

You typed your number into his phone without scrutinizing the spontaneous decision beyond the basics that he was hot and his hand fit well in yours. He may not have been your usual type – not an artist, no messy bun, not a single name drop to Heidegger the entire conversation – but he was attractive in a midnight kind of way, and he saw something in your art that you wanted to see for yourself.

Watching his retreating back, you were struck by the thought that he might be what you had been looking for all this time.

“Hey, wait a second!” you called after him. “I just realized, you know my name, but I don’t know yours!”

“Sangawa Manaomi,” the man answered quickly. “But my friends call me Mikey.”

‘Well, friend, Mikey it is then!”

You would be waiting for his call.

#tokyo revengers smut #tokyo revengers x reader smut #tokyorev smut #mikey sano #manjiro sano #mikey smut #mikey x reader #mikey x reader smut

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felikatze · 11 months

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roy is my boy. my beautiful boy who is so bad at combat which is also A DELIBERATE CHARACTERIZATION DECISION.

it's his support with lance, i believe, which questions why roy is at the front lines at all. and roy acknowledges that he sucks. he's weak compared to everyone else, he knows this, but he fights on the frontlines anyways because it's about respect. he doesn't want to be the commander giving orders from up high - he wants to fight together with his men, remain connected with the people he leads. he never wants to lose sight of them.

and it's a thing about self-confidence, too, and how little he has of it - this lad has some massive imposter syndrome. again, he knows all his faults intimately. his combat performance is poor, he's studied the art of war but lacks any actual experience, and he considers himself, well, a loser, overall. but people love him anyway, because he still gives it his all, and it's in his lance support, too - roy's charismatic. not in the bold way, but in his demure nature. he's a steady presence to draw people together, with an earnestness that inspires others to help him succeed. they can tell he just wants to make things better for everybody, and they want to be better for him, too.

also, he's not just a soldier on the battlefied. he's the tactician. you don't see mark sweeping maps, right? roy is canonically the tactical mind behind the entire campaign, and he's damn good at it, too. i forgot whether it's lalum or elffin route, but in one of the two, it's said that it was roy's decision to rebrand to the etrurian army. that name change alone shows keen political awareness. being the lycian army when you're just a hodgepodge of lycians is fine, but when a etrurian general starts backing you, and you've now got the the whole of the continent's biggest nation behind you, well - the snooty bastards from up high aren't gonna let tiny little lycia hog all the glory. roy's conceeding recognition of the war effort to etruria to appease the new etrurian soldiers under his watch who'd balk at being lead by a pheraen nobody. (they probably dont even know where pherae is).

roy's a scholar, not a warrior. he wasn't present when bandits attacked pherae's castle cuz he was on his way home from summer break at college. he's good at this shit cuz he studied it. he has elffin and cecilia as advisors later on, but the early game is all him.

and he still doesn't recognize that cuz it's not physical. he's not in the action. to him, he is just leading people to their deaths. it's his duty to prevent it. it's the inherent guilt of leadership. and how inferior he feels compared to his father and hector - both great warriors in their own right (even if eliwood's combat performance in fe7 is equally poor). this is the only way to prove himself to himself. agrh.

roy is also just so deeply deeply kind. he will give anyone the chance to change, but he's not softhearted. if he must kill, he will. still, though, he has to try. he's always searching for that silver lining, always searching for a way to spill less blood on all sides.

if there is one thing he believes in, it is the goodness of the heart. he's optimistic, but not naive. he knows the world is rotten. the history of the scouring proves that well enough. but the world is made of its people, and if people choose to improve, the world will, too. just as roy tries, anyone can try. anyone should be able to try. humans, dragons, he doesn't care. if you do good, you are good. i just. i know i'm talking vague but it's such a hard thing to pin down.

i really think fe6 is let down by it's lack of emotive portraits here. if you wanna get emotion out of the story you really need to read into it yourself and let your imagination do the work just because there's no portraits or voice acting to sell it for you.

i love my boy. if you mischaracterize him as "hehe dragon racist" ever again i'll kill you.

#feli speaks #fe6 #I LOVE BINDING BLADE HOURS

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jpitha · 1 year

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The Dreams of Hyacinth 5

First / Previous / Next

Nick comes back to reality slowly. He's on a bed and he has a thundering headache. He opens his eyes, but then squeezes them shut immediately. Sight just hurts too much right now.

"He's awake." Nick hears Selkirk talking to someone.

"Good. He's going to feel like he went on a two week bender for the next day or so, but he'll be fine. He took to the surgery like he was a natural, we gave him a few... bonus features. It's probably why his recovery is slower." That's Jameson.

"Bonus features? Jameson, bonuses from you are rarely freely given." Eastern is awake too, she sounds groggy, but a bit more awake than Nick.

"Eastern, I told you, I want you to find my daughter. It's in my best interests to give you all the tools you need."

"Uh huh. And I suppose we know the price to be paid if we fail."

"You know the price Eastern. Educate our mutual friend if you think he needs it." There's a whirr of Jameson's chair as he moves around the room. "Oh, Selkirk, don't think I've forgotten you."

"No thanks Jameson, I don't need to be stuffed full of electronics."

"Nah, you know it won't work on K'laxi, your brains are too different."

"I emphatically do not want to know how you learned that."

"You're right. You don't." There's a rustle of paper, a bag maybe? "Here. This is a K'laxi sized coronet. Put it on your head, top part between your ears, bottom and back down the rear of your head, and you should be able to interface with the same stuff as Nick and Eastern."

More rustling. Sounds like the bag is being opened. "Why didn't you just give them this Jameson?"

"The access isn't as fast. But this way, you'll feel less left out of their conversations."

"Don't assume you know me Jameson. I know where I stand between them."

"Sel, what do you mean by that?" Eastern sound groggy when she asks the question, just must have been dozing.

There is no answer. Jameson whirrs around again, probably towards the door by the sound of his voice. "That's my cue to leave. You three work it out and... I'll be in touch."

Nick heard the whirr of Jameson's chair as he wheeled himself out of the room. The door behind him closed with a soft click.

Nick tries opening his eyes again. It hurts, but he manages to keep them open this time. He looks to his left and Eastern is in the bed with him, but she's sitting up. He didn't know they were in the same bed. "Meghan?"

Eastern glares at him. "It's Eastern now. I wondered if you'd remember that. I know I was dreaming it, but it looks like we were dreaming together."

Nick squints against the pain. "I'm sorry I wasn't a better boyfriend."

Eastern smiles. "It's alright Nick. I figure you just needed practice."

But Nick was already asleep again.

Some time later, Nick wakes up, thirsty and sore. He looks over, and Eastern is asleep, snoring quietly.

He looks around Eastern's bedroom. The walls are a pale blue, and they're covered in photographs. It appears to be mostly pictures from Luna. He casts his gaze around the room, and sure enough, in a nice frame on her dresser is her photo of Empress Melody and her partner. It looks like Eastern has kept the photo from her visit.

Sick of lying in bed, Nick gingerly tries getting up. Other than a nasty wave of dizziness that passes almost as soon as it arrives, he seems to be fine. He shuffles into the bathroom off Eastern's bedroom and uses the facilities, washing his hands and drinks a tall glass of water.

As Nick walks around the small apartment he marvels at how much Eastern has put her mark on it. Art on the walls, furniture, even things like how she has plastic flowers arranged on a table near the door makes Nick think of her. He walks by the kitchen and sees dirty dishes in the sink. "That won't do," he thought to himself, and busies himself washing. The warm water is soothing on his hands, and the regular motion allows his mind to water as his body takes over the tasks.

Nick wonders what he has gotten himself into.

Back home, he was an easygoing "go along to get along" type of kid. Not really a delinquent but no honor student either, Nick stuck mostly to lifting snacks from the bodega on his street and stealing shows and games from the local network. It wasn't crime, not really. When his parents died, he used all the money he got from their estate to buy a ticket as far from Parvati as he could. When he got to Hyacinth, Nick figured that he could get a job nearly anywhere.

Three weeks after he arrived, he was flat broke and started stealing.

It was so easy. Back home petty thievery was a huge problem. Lots of young people, not a lot of jobs and plenty of time for them to work on and refine their technique. Nick found that almost nobody on Hyacinth took even the most basic precautions against people stealing things.

He eventually found buyers for his stuff and gained a very small reputation as a reliable thief. It was around then he met Eastern. She was also a thief like Nick, but her methods were much more... like her. Eastern preferred to work a distraction. She'd come in loud and brash and cause a scene and while people were running around distracted, she’d grab the merch.

Nick and Eastern worked well together. Eastern would cause a distraction and Nick would come in, boost the piece and walk out before Eastern was even done yelling and causing trouble.

Selkirk came onboard when they started getting asked to boost more digital things; apps, softs and vids. Nick understood the basics, but he was out of practice and security on Hyacinth was different than Parvati. Eastern knew Sel from other people and she set up a meet.

Selkirk was the first K'laxi Nick ever really knew, and for the first couple of weeks he was completely infatuated with her. She was smart and clever and sarcastic, insulting Nick and Eastern, but doing it with a legitimately funny joke, and she never really seemed to cross the line into making it hurtful.

As he finished the dishes and wiped down the counter, Nick thought about how lucky he was. He had two good friends in a place where friends were thin on the ground. Sure, they were neck deep in some serious stuff, but Nick began to wonder if together, they'd be able to pull it off after all.

Dishes done, he slowly walks into Eastern's living room and sees Selkirk asleep on the couch. Carefully, slowly, he settles into the couch next to Selkirk. It's not much different than sitting in the bed, but it's different enough that he's comfortable.

Selkirk yawns hugely and stretches. As she does, her hands brush against Nick. Seemingly while still asleep, she stretches out and puts her head on Nick's lap.

Nick looks down at Selkirk and smiles. He absently strokes between her large, expressive ears. She sighs in her sleep and snuggles against him further.

"Nick, where are you?" Eastern uses her newfound abilities to reach out to Nick on their personal connection.

"I'm in the living room, come on out." Nick is surprised to find how easy using the link is once it's been established.

Eastern slowly walks out of her bedroom into the living room. When she sees Selkirk resting on Nick's lap she raises her eyebrows, but doesn't say anything. Gingerly lowering herself onto the couch she looks at them. "She seems comfortable. You too ever get together?"

Nick shrugs. "Couple of times." The K'laxi have been known to the humans for more than a century at this point. They get along famously. If humans and K'laxi didn't date, it would be more surprising. "I don't know though. I thought the dates went well, but nothing came of it."

Selkirk mumbles, "If you were better at reading body language you would have known I was waiting for you to initiate."

Nick is so startled that he nearly flies out of the couch. His hand stops stroking Selkirk's head.

"No, keep doing that Nick, I like it." Nick put his hand back and continue stroking between her ears. "I'm sorry Sel, I never realized. I thought you weren't interested."

She stretches again and snuggles into Nick's lap further. "I was waiting for you to make the next move. When you didn't, I figured you were still holding a candle for Eastern or something."

Nick chuckles sadly. "Hah. I mean, yes, I was left in a lurch when Eastern declared me boring and left, but there was room in my heart for you Sel."

Selkirk mumbles into Nick's lap. "Someone as hot as her, I figured I never had a chance anyway."

Eastern looks at the two of them, and nods to herself. She gets up and plops down onto the couch, and leans into Selkirk. "Sel, I never knew you felt that way. I walked away from Nick because I thought he was boring. I thought he would make me boring. I thought I wanted more excitement in a partner." She leans against Selkirk and shuts her eyes. "It turns out that boring can also be nice too. Nick is good looking, easygoing, and a thoughtful partner."

Selkirk nodded in Nick's lap, "He's a bit oblivious though."

Eastern laughed and snuggled into the two of them. "That he is. He couldn't even tell when a hot K'laxi was into him and practically shouting about it."

Selkirk lifts her head off Nick's lap. "I know! It's like he was blind."

Eastern smiles and nods. "Well, that's why we love him, right? He's so kind and loyal and just the right amount of dim."

Selkirk nods.

"Well, tell you what Sel." Eastern leans in and nibbles on Selkirk's ear. She shudders in pleasure. "I think you're pretty great too, and I also think Nick is pretty great. I have enough room in my heart to love more than one person, do you?"

Selkirk sits up. "Are you sure Eastern? I won't accept a relationship that's Nick and Eastern and over to the side is Selkirk. We're all equal."

Eastern looks at Selkirk and kisses her. "Equal partners, in more ways than one. I promise. We do so well together for business, I know we'll do well together for... other things."

Selkrik looks at the two of them. She leans over and kisses Nick on the mouth. "You're a bit dim." She leans the other way and kisses Eastern as well. "And you're an asshole. But, Ancestors, that's who I'm into. So yes. If Nick is up for it, I'm up for it."

Nick looks at the two of them. "So I'm going from no girlfriends to two girlfriends? Yeah, okay. I'm game to try. I want to make it clear. I'll probably fuck it up, and I won't do it on purpose, but I'll probably hurt your feelings. I only ask that if I do, you tell me, so I know and can do better next time.

Selkirk buries her head into Nick's lap again and he strokes her ears. "Deal." she says, muffled by his lap.

Eastern leans into both of them and sighs contentedly. "Deal." She closes her eyes.

After a moment, they're all asleep on the couch together.

First / Previous / Next

#humans are deathworlders #humans are space orcs #humans are space oddities #sci fi writing #writing #humans and aliens #jpitha #the k’laxiverse #The Dreams of Hyacinth

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yournewfriendshouse · 5 months

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I feel like it’s probably time to explain my real art tag again, seeing as AI stuff is in conversations and stuff, and as some people use others’ tags and stuff I just want to be clear what that tag on my blog means…

it’s art, guys. it just means art.

so like I’ve been using that tag and that phrase for years and it has nothing to do with AI

the thing is even before AI there has always been a very very irritating conversation being carried out, often among people who aren’t artists, about what constitutes real art. and I just find it really aggravating. we saw it recently with those tiktockers standing in front of yves klein and mark rothko paintings saying they could do it. I used to get these dudes trying to be cool and pointing at shit and being like *I’m being smart face* ‘but is it art?’

and every time I’d be like…yes. yes, it’s art.

the spray painted little guy putting rubbish in the bin on the bin is art. the coka cola ad is art. the hgly cactus sculpture is art. the spaghetti lights on the freeway ramp are art, yes, it’s art!

if you have to ask that question or can conceivably ask that question then it’s probably art. it’s possible that even if it wasn’t art then you asking that question MADE it art! if you looked at something someone made and derived meaning from it then it is, arguably, art.

in 2011 I finished art school, where I was given so much shit for the emotive, sentimental kitsch, small art I was making, and was just so sick of that shit, man. The painting and sculpture staff got the ceramics studio shut down arguing that ceramics was craft not art which was SO much bullshit and just absolutely aggravating, and I was and am still genuinely so pissed about it.

so I would go around calling things ‘real art’. the shitter and less art-object-seeming it was the more likely I would call it ‘real art’. the first show I did outside of school (where I worked in black and white for like two years) involved hand cut confetti and glitter paper, lmao. it was process art it was performance art, i cried when one morning I came in and one of the studio residents had a private confetti party and made snow angels overnight in the pile of confetti that coated the floor. that was real art.

I was just so frustrated. Art doesn’t have some magical sacred meaning, or divine limit on what can be art. art is just stuff humans make for all kinds of reasons. and that is what makes it magical and sacred and amazing. That’s why I love it

elephants can make art! kids can make art! humans who don’t really know what art is have made some of the most wonderful art in the whole history of humanity.

I would hear my nurse friends say they aren’t creative and I’d sit them down with a piece of paper and ink and make them draw dots about it. nurses are problem solving constantly lmao. draw some dots, you’ll feel better.

so like don’t think that I’m like checking art for AI and then marking them as real art if they aren’t AI. firstly I have severe brainfog so I can’t always pick it, which is awful but I’m defs not going to put my hand up as some AI spotter. I’d suck at it.

secondly, I consider AI art to be art (by the way I personally define art). I just find the current means of making it to be repugnantly unethical and shitty (and pretty much all of it is ugly also, but that isn’t like…some barrier to it being art. it’s art. it’s just shithouse, lmao.)

so yeah. art is art is art is real art. make some art, look at some art, enjoy art or rag on art if you think it isn’t succeeding as the artist intended; just don’t take my tag to be some kind of sticker of authenticity or somethink. I’m just on here to destract myself from constant pain by looking at cute animals and cool shit, telling blue jokes, and enjoying tits and butts

#that’s a typo but I’m leaving it #real art #hope this makes sense #I thibk it makes more sense than the last time I tried to explain it lmao #pinned post

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cy-cyborg-draws · 10 months

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G'day mate, reckon if Straya was a bloody country-dragon, it'd be a ripper, breathin' fire like a barbie, and sportin' a snazzy set of scales, I reckon! But what do you reckon it'd look like? Is this request a mighty fine one? Cricket!

Ok, so it's not quite what you were requesting, but the OC I used as my mascot before Nix (the purple dragon in my pfp) was supposed to originally be an unironic, really stereotypically Aussie dragon lol, but in all the worst ways.

This is a drawing of her design after I toned most of that down, I don't have any of my really old art showing her from back in those days (which I'm honestly kind of grateful for lmao) but this is Kiesse. She was originally named Chrissy, She was green and gold because that's the Australian national colours when we compete at the Olympics/Paralympics (something I was working towards going to at the time, hence the obsession), her markings (not present in this version) were a reference to a popular style of tattoo among the surfer guys in my home town and she markings on one of her shoulders, I don't remember which, that were supposed to resemble the Southern Cross Tattoo a lot of dickheads people here have. It's kind of the Australian version of getting the American flag tattooed on you, with all the questionable implications that also tends to have (the only people I met who were an exception to that were the Paralympians I used to play basketball with).

There was one particular artwork I did of her though, I think it was to celebrate Australia doing well at the olympics or some other major sporting event, that was more or less exactly what you were asking for lmao. Again, completely unironically. I think she was wearing one of those cork hats everyone thinks we wear, at a BBQ on the beach. I remember trying to draw a kangaroo in there somewhere too, but I was like 13/14 so it probably didn't look much like anything honestly 😂.

I still draw Kiesse sometimes (I think there's some art of her currently in my queue) but she looks nothing like that anymore other than the green and yellow colour pallet (becuase honestly I just like the combo lol)

With all that being said, I won't be able to do this request. It brings back too many painfully cringy memories from my childhood😂I'm sorry.

#id in alt text #dragon #dragon artist #dragon oc #dragon art #childhood cringe #cringe #my art #old art #old oc #old ocs #old oc art #Q and A #Ask #request

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lake-archive · 2 days

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Scene 1

AO3 Link

Fandom: Persona 5

Character (main): Luka (OC)

Masterlist - Scene 2

It sounded surreal, especially in the moment they had heard it for the very first time.

“Yo Luka! Ya ever heard of that super famous Japanese artist?”

The guy had glared at his buddy with the biggest question mark on his face when looking up from their notebook, though not dropping their pencil. It was not a shocking thing to hear, no. Just a bit annoying. “You know how little that narrows it down?” Luka could… Uh… Actually, he was not traversing the world of art so no one came to mind. But there sure had to be a few, right?

And yet, their buddy had only slammed the palms on the table, looking at the brunette in disbelief. “Dude! You know the one! Everyone knows him!”

“Does everyone? Really?”

“C’mon! Not even you are living under that rock!” Oh what a bold assumption. That and Luka could just care less honestly.

“You’re giving me too much credit…” He sighed. Even this guy knew how far behind he was with some trends. This was no exception whatsoever.

“C’mon. Ain’t you the artsy freak anyways?”

“I’m more of a writer than an artist.”

“Same thing to me.”

“How is tha–”

“Anyways, ya surely heard of Madarame!” The buddy would interrupt, then staring his friend down.

This one only put aside his pencil by now, feeling way too close to comfort at this rate and only shoved his male friend aside, unable to hide his annoyance. “I get it I get it! Keep your distance!” Luka remarked, a little annoyed sounding.

Yeah, he heard of the guy. The old man who drew this “Sayuri” painting and got it stolen, right? Well, he had heard of that artist before but… “Why bring him up anyways?” The writer asked before picking up his pencil again.

“Well, my Mom’s nagging me ‘bout not bein’... What did she say? Educated ‘nough?”

“Not educated enough?”

“Ya heard me! Anyways, always naggin’ me ‘bout my grades ‘n stuff. And not knowin’ ‘nough about the modern arts. So she gave me these!” The guy said before shoving a pair of tickets in front of Luka’s face, making the other one try to keep a straight face but… Nope, going somewhat blank.

Shouldn’t the friend be studying more then? What does looking at art have anything to do with it? “What’s your point?”

“Go to the exhibit with me!” The buddy begged, lowering his head. “I got no girl and the other guys would laugh at me! Please Luka! I can count on ya, can’t I!? My Mom’s gonna burn my ass if I don’t go!”

Needless to say, it was hard to say no and Luka’s own Mom liked to say the following:

“ Sweetie, you need to get out of the house more! Maybe hang out with your friends more! All you do is stay in your room, write or play games! ”

Friends… Yeah right…

But alas, he was in the same boat. So he accepted in the end, having decided to visit the exhibit with his buddy. And so, just to know what to expect, Luka had done his few searches online.

Madarame Ichiryusai, a well known Japanese artist. He got famous with his famous painting “Sayuri” which got stolen. There are many theories surrounding this painting alone, heated debates and conversations starting in the artworld. They even found several online. But Madarame was not just known for the Sayuri, no, but also for his varying art styles, always coming up with a unique one. And he had several! Even at this exhibit!

And yet it made Luka’s stomach turn… Something didn’t sit right with him. Sure, he heard of artists imitating art styles but even then… Having this many different art styles? So many unique ones? Was that possible? He was no expert nor professional… Nor did he have a decade worth of expertise but–

“Oi Luka! What’cha looking at!?” The buddy who had dragged him here suddenly wrapped an arm around the body, right on his shoulders, pulling Luka closer. And they could hear the grin. “Somethin’ caught your eye?”

“Wha– Er… N… No. Just observing.” The brunette responded, trying to remain calm. Besides… Maybe he had been thinking too deep into this one. It was probably nothing.

“For real? You’re actually interested?”

“Well, may as well give it a shot while we’re here.”

“Eh? For real? Damn, you take this stuff way too seriously!”

“I’m not wasting the money your mother spent on this.”

“Sounds stingy.”

“It’s no–” Why was he even trying to argue here? “Nevermind… Let’s just get going.”

Masterlist - Scene 2

#Nimue's Lake #persona 5 #persona series #persona fanfiction #persona oc #phantom thieves #fanfiction #fanfic #fic #original character #female original character #original male character #genderfluid oc #persona 5 fanfiction #persona 5 fic #persona 5 royal #p5r #p5 royal #p5r spoilers

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g5mlp · 11 months

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More questions and answers from Riley Farmer, the editor of the G5 My Little Pony comics, on Twitter! Note that she has stated that she will not be answering more questions until "maybe next Friday".

Part 1 of this post

The main G5 My Little Pony comic series "will last 5ever probably". There will be more One-Shots and miniseries after Camp Bighoof, which will conclude in December.

She is not at liberty to discuss the future of Make Your Mark.

Misty will be debuting in the comics soon! "I just want to see her exploring her freedom and powers. I'm curious to see how she'll change, and if she remains awkward and shy."

There are plans for characters like Alphabittle, Sprout and Phyllis to appear more often, and "they'll all probably show up eventually". (Alphabittle has yet to appear in the comics.)

"I wish Zipp was less suspicious [of Misty]! I'm excited to see them grow as friends."

In her opinion, the wackiest or weirdest MLP crossover would involve "something super dark". "Like, imagine the Dark Knight meeting Fluttershy. But then again, Adam West Batman and Pinkie Pie would be fun… I think Star Wars would be a difficult sell."

Her favorite ponies are Pinkie Pie, Izzy Moonbow, and Pickle Barrel (Natalie Haines's OC, not the pony from Rainbow Roadtrip).

She can't draw, so she doesn't have a favorite G5 pony to draw.

"All of my artists are remote! From all across the world."

In an artist portfolio shown to IDW, it would technically be sufficient to include storyboards and animatics as "sequential artwork", but she'd "prefer to see actual comic samples if you want to do interior art work".

#my little pony #mlp g5 #mlp #my little pony comics #idw comics

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age-of-moonknight · 2 years

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History of the Vestments (Part II)

Long post incoming! :D Here are the rest of my random thoughts on 616!Moon Knight's costumes up through modern comics. As I was going through the material for this post, it normatively felt like there were a lot more artists drawing Moon Knight around the same period of time but with slightly different styles, so unfortunately this definitely isn't an exhaustive collection; it kind of ended up being a little less ontological and a bit more of a tour of some of my favorite points along the timeline (RIP my academic credibility).

1. The Skinny Peaked Hood Era

Although it was probably more indicative of artist David Finch's style than perhaps how Moon Knight's hood was actually supposed to be perceived, I do find it interesting that the markedly longer and thinner peak in the hood distinctive of Mr. Finch's work started to bleed into other artists' interpretation of Moon Knight around this time.

Moon Knight (Vol. 5/2006), #5

For example, there is this comic with art by Arthur Adams and Walden Wong.

Hulk (vol. 2/2008), #8

Another interesting characteristic that was especially emphasized during this period was the cloak's volume, which was expanded to create such wonderfully dramatic panels as this one by artist Jefte Palo:

Moon Knight (vol. 5/2006), #29

Other artists around this same time period, such as Mark Texeira and Javier Saltares respectively, chose to emphasize other elements, instead adding more prominent crescent details on the bracers, boots, and belt. (This definitely confirmed for me that the correct answer to the question "how many crescents are on Moon Knight's suit at any given time?" is "yes")

Moon Knight (vol. 5/2006), #17

Moon Knight (vol. 5/2006), #24

2. Armored, High-Tech Jake Lockley

With a new series and artist, Vengeance of the Moon Knight and Jerome Opeña respectively, the Moon Knight suit once again got a new look, featuring a new crescent logo design on the chest plate and what looks to be, in my opinion, more "futuristic" armor. The designs of the spaulders, bracers, and boots have been altered to include more elongated crescents and the armor overall appears to be more extensive and intensive to put on (necessitating the very post-Iron Man (2008) suiting up scene hahaha). Furthermore, there's also the addition of the firearm holsters, which is a marked development from the Moon Knight of the 1980's who largely tried to avoid firearms.

Cover for Vengeance of the Moon Knight (Vol. 1/2009), #1

Vengeance of the Moon Knight (Vol. 1/2009), #7

Vengeance of the Moon Knight (Vol. 1/2009), #4

One other interesting detail that I noticed becoming more prevalent around this time is the inclusion of more noticeable seams, especially along the sides of the mask (which frankly reminds me of Fantomex hahaha), as seen in this panel with art by Juan Jose Ryp.

Vengeance of the Moon Knight (Vol. 1/2009), #9.

But to be honest, this period was a bit of a free-for-all when it came to design, with some people like artist Bong Dazo really focusing on the details....

Shadowland: Moon Knight (Vol. 1/2010), #2

....others like Mike Deodato Jr. and Will Conrad going with a more "classic" look...

Secret Avengers (Vol. 1/2010), #10

...and others still sort of splitting the difference, as seen with Graham Nolan’s work...

Captain America: Hail Hydra (Vol. 1/2011), #5

3. Meleev’s Take

Moon Knight (Vol. 6/2011), #8

Maleev’s work on volume 6 leaned more towards the “understated” end of the spectrum, with no decoration on the bracers and boots and a belt that frankly reminds me of the sort of the thing Spider-Man would keep under his suit to carry his web cartridges (and of course, there’s all the other costume weapons/accessories that came with this volume hahaha).

Moon Knight (Vol. 6/2011), #9

4. Precursor to Mr. Knight????

Now this was an interesting (re)discovery: apparently in Secret Avengers #19 (a personal favorite issue of mine) with art by Michael Lark, Moon Knight's undercover stint as a civilian ends with him wearing a combo that is very similar to what Mr. Knight would wear in his debut in an issue published three years later. Just a fun little bit of trivia.

Secret Avengers (Vol. 1/2010), #19.

5. Ladies and Gentlemen, THE Mr. Knight

Moon Knight (Vol. 7/2014), #1

Perhaps one of THE most iconic looks for Moon Knight, Declan Shalvey’s Mr. Knight was described as a respectable public persona who could interact with official authorities, unlike the vigilante Moon Knight, and with such a smart looking three-piece suit, he definitely looks the part. In this particular panel, I especially like the crescent details on the buttons and cuffs.

5. That One Black Suit

Moon Knight (Vol. 7/2014), #2

I uuuuuh actually already wrote a whole post breaking this suit down, so you can find that here, if you like hahaha

6. Ghost Ripper Armor

Moon Knight (Vol. 7/2014), #3

If Mr. Knight is for respectable, above-board business and the Moon Knight armor is for beating up crooks in alley ways, this here armor is for the more mystical elements Moon Knight might need to deal with. While most prominently featured in Shalvey’s work and throughout volume 7, it has popped up in two issues of Moon Knight: Black, White & Blood, first in a story drawn by Akande Adedotun and then in a story with art by Leonardo Romero.

7. Lockley????

Moon Knight (Vol. 7/2014), #8

This one isn’t revolutionary so much as it just haunts me personally. This appearance by an alter only referred to as “Lockley” (Jake Lockley??? although some argue that this may be another alter???) is only found in this issue with art by Greg Smallwood. It features the volume 7 black suit sans the cowl and with the addition of a white mask and honestly, the whole lack of information surrounding this incident just insures that at least I will forever lie awake thinking about it hahaha

8. Bemis Era

Cover for Moon Knight (Vol. 8/2016), #189

The initial artist for the Bemis run, Jacen Burrows, continued the trend of keeping the Moon Knight suit fairly simple in design and monochromatic in color. Some elements I do appreciate, however, are the subtle change in shape of the bracers while the straps across the inner arm still mimic the banding of earlier designs. Furthermore, I just find the use of white lenses surrounded by black, as opposed to the typical glowing blue or slightly less common red, to be an interestingly distinctive artist’s choice.

Moon Knight (Vol. 8/2016), #197

9. MacKay Era

Simply put, I owe artist Alessandro Cappuccio and colorist Rachelle Rosenberg my soul. On my last post about Moon Knight’s suits, there’s a comment about how the body of Marc’s suit was originally supposed to be black while the white was only intended to act as highlights. The classic all-white suit wasn’t adopted until around the West Coast Avengers era due to changes in printing and some readers coming to the conclusion that the suit was white (sort of a Spider-Man 2099 situation where his suit is described in the text as being predominantly black despite looking blue). Mr. Cappuccio seems to be harkening back to that effect and I personally find it very exciting. Depending upon the lighting in a panel, the suit in volume 9 can look almost like the one introduced in volume 7 or it could look almost entirely black…

Moon Knight (Vol. 9/2021), #1

…OR it could look as pure white as people have thought it has been for decades hahaha

Moon Knight (Vol. 9/2021), #8

Add on to that the faint glow effect that’s present even with Mr. Knight's suit and you get a truly otherworldly look perfect for a guy who’s been brought back from the dead a couple times by an Egyptian deity and who will not hesitate to punch a ghost or kill a faery. Or live in a haunted house for that matter.

Moon Knight (Vol. 9/2021), #1

Moon Knight (Vol. 9/2021), #7

Look at this walking glowstick

#Marvel #Marvel comics #Marvel 616 #History of the Vestments #Moon Knight comics #Moon Knight #Marc Spector #Jake Lockley #Lockley #Mr. Knight #yeah this post feels a lot less thorough than the last but eeeeh what am I trying to do here???? Get a good grade in tumblr???#(....I would be lying if I didn't answer with at least '....a little bit' but I am practically yerding that instinct hahaha)#I had some fun and I hope at least someone else enjoys this too :D #I might do a big ol' compilation of non-616 Moon Knight suits #and then it'll be on to all the vehicles that have been crashed in Moon Knight comics hahaha #long post

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