Decided To Do Something Just A Little Bit Ballsy And Post Some Sketches Of A Newer D&D Character Of Mine

May as well

Add a fedora and that’s my blog sona babeeee!

@trensu @nuggdoesart @lavendertoonz

my picrew addiction was re-ignited because of the corpoverse so now im doing that "make your blogsona" thing

Picrew

character maker! ✦ by veluv

WORK IN PROGRESS if you liked this picrew please consider following me on social media! instagram: https://www.instagram.com/veluv_art/

tags uh uh uh @basically-bumble @incognito-mode-official @walmart-the-official @firehouse-subs-fr @totally-ikea and open tags <3 (no pressure either!)

Please reblog! 💕

I have an unhealthy amount of love for this trope

Hello i'm a normal person here's some stuff i drew to illustrate different traits different "person getting controlled" tropes can have

so fond of characters who haunt their stories, who exist without actually existing at all. when a character is long gone, but persists in the actions and words of all the characters they have left behind. when everything to come unfolds because of them. when they are both dead and the beating heart at the very center of the narrative... that’s the stuff 💗__💗

Having an OC story and characters that you’re overly invested in is really just being in a fandom hell with yourself and no one else

Decided to fuck around instead of doing my work so have some quick sketches of a Fantasy Martin from my Swan Lake AU thingy.

Call me out like this, why don’t you?

And I can’t even be mad because this post reads like a gentle embrace as fingers ghost over lines we’ve drawn and sunken eyes and tells you it’s all going to be okay

This probably sounds weird but- I really like drawing scars, making them more exaggerated and sharp. It’s cathartic I think, it makes me feel better about my own scars. By realizing the character I’m drawing has also gone through some stuff, but they’ve healed. They made it through it. And so did I. It makes me happy seeing a character with imperfect skin, lumps and discoloration from scars and how the nerves don’t flare up the way they used to, all of that stuff.

PSA

You fought and you made it. I’m glad to see you here on the other side of that dark tunnel.

Whatever it might be that you’ve gone through, I’m proud to see how far you’ve come. It doesn’t matter if it’s just baby steps, anything at all, that’s what matters

Don’t worry to hard about falling back down. It happens. Shit gets tough. These paths aren’t always smooth. Just take your time.

Once upon the misty moors...

... there lived a lonely young man, living simply with his mother as many did in a small house in a village on the domain of their lord in Greymoor.

Not much can be said of those early years, not much this young man would have wanted to repeat that bore mentioning at least. All that can be said was that one day his mother fell ill, and with the rumoured sightings of a strange woman in a red skirt, face hidden by a cloak and smelling of death, bringing with her to his door nothing more than rake whilst he was away...they should have known there was nothing that could be done.

But that certainly didn't stop him from trying though. Working hard and long each day on their farm and on the properties surrounding it. Selling their only cow, their chickens and what little of value they could spare to afford the herbs that could ease her pain, only to return to scorn and stubborness in her delirium with a soft smile on his face as he tended to her, nevertheless.

All the same it didn't change her fate. Nor the fate of the lonely young man, now adrift and lost without much in the way of direction.

Untill at least, he was approached one misty afternoon by their Local Lord of Greymoor, who spoke to him with hollow geniality, and offered him a job as a servant in his castle.

And so, with nothing in the way of excuse to prevent him from doing so, he accepted. And soon, Martin Blackwood found himself selling what was little was left of his mother's small slice of domesticity in Greymoor, and like so many others was whisked away to live and work at the feet of their lord. Bouncing between fetching food from the kitchens or fixing pots of tea; setting kindling alight to warm cold rooms that made your breath fog up if left to themselves too long; keeping clean what he could when he was ordered and keeping his head down whenever he could.

All the same he found something of a friend in that castle more than once, and had to himself the gift of an extra hour each day to sneak away and write poetry on a little rock in the shade of a willow tree by the loch. One of the few things he could say was truly his.

Of course even setting aside the whispered legends of the figure of pestilance that had taken his mother, Greymoor, just like the other lands just on the other side of the Deep Wood, was no stranger to monsters of its own. So much so that despite the dissmissals and denials of their Lordship for as long as anyone can remember, there have always been the mists.

Not much is known, as with any of the beings that creep along the shadows of rumors and heresay and children torn from their beds before they can so much as scream. What can be said, was that at least once a year, maybe more than once, should someone be caught out too late at the wrong time, they would find themselves lost to the mists. Alone and forever wandering between a state of life and death to wither away as nothing more than ghosts on that very same moorland from which they dissapeared.

And so it was, that after a time of keeping his head down and doing what he was told, Martin would one night find himself staying out a little too late by the loch into nightfall; and in doing so soon found himself running into one of his fellow servants, a woman named Naomi Herne; who'd go on to explain, had been sent on orders from Lukas to pick berries under the cover of moonlight from the nearby woods (having found his supplies empty of such fruits despite the supply run they'd made just earlier that day).

Of course, finding the request rather unreasonable given the dangers of ventering out too late into the night by one's self, he offered to help her in her task, and not too long after, the two ran afoul of the mists, and knowing the legends, and hearing the whispers on the gentle wind that only one of their number need be lost, handed the only stubborn flame that hadn't gone dark to Naomi, and told her to run back to the Lord's castle.

Naomi, despite her hesistance to leave her only companion in the misty darkness, complied, and ran back with their only light to the Castle in a panic and raised all the nearby servants she could from their posts to come and help him. Immediately, despite the fear, a few rose to help her. Some stepping in to calm her down and ascertain what had happened, a few of the others grabbing their coats and lighting lanterns to aid in the search, despite their fears and the insistence of a few that there was nothing that could be done. But not a foot had breached the doorway when their Lord and employer Lukas stepped into the room and forbade them from going. Demanding they stay and not risk themselves catching a cold or getting lost in the dark. Ordering them wait and do nothing more than pray that by morning Martin found his way back to them on his own time.

No one beleived he would of course. The mists were like that you see. Those who wandered too far would never return to them, they never had.

And then, three days later, Martin returned to them.

Stumbling up the grassy hill just as the sun was setting. Freezing cold to the touch; dispondant and pale, with hair turned a snow white and breath misting even in warmer in air. Changed, or so it seemed, by his time alone in those mists.

The others were astounded of course. The head of them sending some of them off to fetch warm cloths and furs to warm him whilst they let him sit by the fire of the servants quarters. Asking him what happened despite his barely there eyes and the and the shaking hands cupping a hastily made mug of tea.

All the same it didn't take long for the news to find it's way to Lord Lukas, who at once demanded Martin's presence in his study despite the soft protests of those who could tell he was not well.

All the same Martin stood without a word from his place, still hardly warmed from his time by the fire, to meet with him.

"I saw you in the mists," he said once they were alone, "You told me I would forever be alone,"

And then he asked, simply, though by no mean masking the anger in now cold blue eyes, "You sent her out on purpose didn't you? You knew the mists were out that night."

Not a moment later, in a sea of fog that swept through the room and drained the life and colour from its walls, and the Lord Lukas was alone. Martin nowhere to be seen when he opened the door and stepped out, refusing to answer anyone's questions when they inquired on his health.

This time, it takes two days for Martin to return, and when he does Lukas gives them all new orders.

Namely that Martin Blackwood, not be allowed to return to the Grey Moors, lest it be with the head of the Watcher Beast, residing so they said, in ancient ruins found in the deep woods by the borders of land Panopticon.

He's given a day to prepare his leave.

And so it was, with nothing more than a single short sword, a map and some rations put together by those that asked after him, Martin was sent away without so much as the chance for a goodbye.

Martin himself, under no illusions that their Lord of Greymoor, had sent him there to die.

"Let them try," he'd whisper to himself as the foggy outline of a cold stone castle faded away by the rhythm and rumble of a horse pulled cart. "Let them try," even as the thought came again, that maybe this really was nothing more than a good way to get killed.

Whump Prompt for y’all

So, y’all know about wood burning kits right?

These little tool things that are literally red hot at the ends that people use to burn cool patterns into wood?

Been seeing a lot of ads for them recently, which is sad because I know I will never have the time or the money to try it.

But then I had a thought… an awful terrible whumpy idea I thought I might share with you.

Y’all know the whole brutal serial killer shebang, ‘making art’ on our poor hapless Whumpee, y’all have heard about branding, but have you considered ‘torture through drawing pretty patterns or words with iron wood burning tools’?

Idk may write this at some point, but boy would I pay good money for some quality whump and hurt/comfort featuring this concept and the horrible but calculated scars that could result.

Happy 2023, hope everyone’s got their bingo cards ready!