#adventreebark2022

[cherrifire]

[Treebark week] Day 2 - Light

The Lamplight AU made by @unexpectedly-haunted and @liloinkoink​ 

I discovered the Lamplight au this morning. While I still don’t know a lot about it, I decided I wanted to make a second piece for it today. My decision to draw something for this au was partly because unexpectedly always leaves like an essay in the tags when relogging my art and it means the world to me.

Flat colour version

[yutarts]

I didn't follow a prompt for this one, it was just a WIP I decided to finish but Adventreebark day?? 5? for me I think (am behind :') )

[treebarkweek]

It's winter, and you guys know what that means...

It's Treebark week part 2! Or adventreebark, as we're calling it this time, our second Treebark week!

After Treebark won the 2022 trafficship poll, we've come together again to propose a full week--from December 11 to December 17--dedicated to creating content for the Treebark ship and sharing it with others who like it too.

Follow the prompts (or create your own!), and create whatever you'd like! When you post your work, use the event tags #adventreebark, #adventreebark 2022, and even #treebarkweek, so we can find your post and reblog it for others to see!

We'll post reminders as the date gets closer. See you then! We can't wait to see what you all create! Happy to be back!

[liloinkoink]

treebark week lamplight! for day 2, light/dark

loosely a 5+1, but more a timeline of touch

Ren hasn’t touched another person in a very long time.

Ren hasn’t touched anything at all, really, not since he lost his body. His new form makes it so most people don’t bother to try. There’s no sense in sticking one’s hands in an open flame, after all. That which he has touched, he hasn’t felt. Incorporeality does that to a person, Ren supposes.

And then, of course, Ren meets Martyn.

The first time Martyn makes contact with his god, he doesn’t actually notice it.

The walls of Dogwarts still creep over the trees, and Martyn won’t rest until the city disappears from sight. He sways on his feet, a combination of days without a moment to close his eyes and rest and a compulsive need to check over his shoulder every third step throwing him off balance. It’s not enough to trip him outright, but it’s plenty to send him stumbling toward the tree line.

All that to say, Martyn crashes into a tree. He realizes what’s about to happen a second before it does, and it’s all he can do to switch the torch from one hand to another before his shoulder bumps into the wood. He’s too distracted with his collision course to notice the way his hand brushes through the edge of the god’s flame.

Ren worries, of course, as Martyn leans one arm against the tree to catch his breath. His other arm hangs down, torch pointed away and at the ground, arm stiff to keep the flame from brushing his leg. A few sparks drift, red and dim, to the forest floor, though Martyn doesn’t look at them.

“I’m alright,” Martyn mutters, though Ren doesn’t know if it’s for him or if Martyn is talking to himself.

—

The lantern sits next to Martyn, open door facing Martyn’s leg. He leans back against the log of a freshly-fallen tree, one arm up over the trunk and the other holding a sandwich.

“Maybe I should do all my quests for food, actually,” Martyn says, “I’m sure you’d like that. No more cooking.”

He rips off a chunk of his sandwich to toss into the lantern. The fire consumes it immediately, with little more than a puff of smoke to show it existed at all. Martyn snickers.

“Also tastes pretty good,” Martyn says, “Not that there’s much of a difference for you.”

The fire claws at the edges of the lantern, poking out of the open door. Martyn’s never been able to figure out what he wants when he does it, but it happens every time Martyn leaves the door open.

“What’s up with you?” Martyn asks, sticking his hand by the edge of the fire. Ribbons of light dart in the air between his fingers, warming his hands against the mid-fall chill. He pulls his hand back when his god moves too close, though only to reach up and tap the top of the lantern.

“Hello to you, too,” Martyn says, “What? Still hungry? I can make you an actual fire, but I wasn’t planning to stick around here long.”

The fire shrinks no. When it puffs out again, the flames reach up, toward where Martyn’s fingers meet the metal. Martyn laughs, then moves his hand to the side of the glass, watching his god follow.

Glass heats below his fingertips, but never enough that Martyn feels the need to pull away. Martyn taps a meaningless melody into the side of his god’s lantern, and the fire snaps along to the rhythm.

—

“You’d think I’d be sick of ruins by now,” Martyn comments idly, opening the door of his god’s lantern. He turns it unceremoniously on its side, upending his god and dumping him into a patch of long-dead bushes.

“I asked around, this place has been abandoned for months and no one stops by anymore. Not much sense in stopping by a garden after all of the plants have died,” Martyn says, though fire already climbs up through the bush’s barren branches, “So you should be able to move around here as much as you’d like.”

It’s not often Martyn can offer his god a place that’s entirely alright to burn, especially not somewhere so beautiful. The garden had been deserted for quite a while because it was too far a walk from the nearest town, and with winter’s front foot already in the door, most of the annual flowers have died.

It had once been a lovely place, Martyn is sure, as he sits down on a weathered stone bench. It’s still lovely now, in the light of the setting sun, though Martyn can only imagine what it would have looked like in its prime. The walls and statues are all overrun with leafless vines. There’s several bushes on plinths Martyn figures must have once been lovey topiary, but now they’re little more than stubby balls of unruly bramble. There’s a large trellis decaying at the entrance, stretching several feet into the corpse of a copse of dry, leafless trees.

Martyn watches as his god consumes a line of dead flowers bursting through the cracked tile of a stone pavilion, toward the base of one of the many statues. He climbs over the vestiges of a vine twisted around the statue of a dog. Martyn laughs.

“Of course you went to the dog first,” Martyn says. The fire burns an irritated red, rumbling at Martyn’s teasing.

Martyn abandons the bench to head over to the old trellis, standing beneath the archway.

It’s knitted through with the remains of some plant. They were probably roses once, he thinks, if only because it’s the only plant he knows with thorns. He presses against one with his thumb, not quite hard enough to break the skin.

Martyn feels the heat of his god before he sees him, and when he turns, there’s fire climbing at the end of the trellis.

“Careful,” Martyn says, though he knows his god will be, “Don’t drop this thing on me or I’ll be really unhappy.”

His god doesn’t respond, but Martyn watches as he climbs the side of the trellis, burning a path through the rotten rose stems, leaving the old wooden structure in tact. He lights a path over Martyn’s head, and Martyn withdraws his hand just enough to leave room for the flame.

“Hey,” Martyn smiles. His god above him glows gold, and the hazy light surrounds Martyn completely. Even in the cold wind of the approaching winter, Martyn’s little bubble of air is warm.

“If I start walking, can you keep up?” Martyn asks. The halo of light around him brightens, and Martyn grins, stretching out a hand to a pocket of flame at his side. “Well, then, m’lord, care to join me for a walk in the garden?”

His god’s yes is a burst of fireworks, popping all around Martyn’s ears. Eager flames race a step ahead. Martyn opens his mouth to tell his god to wait up, and as soon as he does, the show starts.

The roses crumble into a cascade of stars.

Martyn’s god showers him in rain of sparkling embers. They drop just ahead of him, letting him step into the light. When he gasps, the light turns briefly white, euphoria rippling in bursts through the flame.

It reminds him of fireflies, flickering in the air around his head. He catches one in his hand, a childhood habit, but the ash crumbles away in his fingers.

Scraps of light circle him, ribbons cutting loose from the walls and floating away on warm air. He waves his hand through one and watches it disperse, laughing.

“You sure know how to show a guy a good time,” Martyn teases, but he’s sure the grin on his face could just about split his head in half.

—

“Does it ever feel stuffy in there?” Martyn asks. He’s settling down for the night, his god’s lantern planted firmly in the dirt toward the center of a clearing. His god hesitates, but after a moment the lantern glows brighter. Martyn hums.

“Yeah, I would too,” Martyn agrees, “Want to help me collect firewood?”

His god doesn’t hesitate to light the clearing this time, cheerful yellow spilling out across the forest floor. Martyn grins, unlatching the lantern.

“Just promise not to burn it all before I’ve even set up a fire for you,” Martyn says, and he reaches inside.

Martyn scoops the fire out with both hands, holding his god in cupped fingers. Usually, Martyn holds his god only in brief moments, transferring him from one container to another. It’s rare Martyn holds his god simply for the sake of, but with the way his god beams, Martyn wonders if it should be.

“The snow’s only just started to thaw,” Martyn tells him, “Not that it matters much for you if the wood’s wet. Does it?”

In lieu of a yes or no, the fire in his hands pops loudly. Martyn hums.

“Yeah, I guess the steam does pop more,” Martyn agrees.

Collecting up firewood is a familiar task, and Martyn kicks around half-melted snow to try to uncover anything he and his god can use. His god’s not much help in searching, but Martyn doesn’t expect him to be. He transfers his god to one hand to rifle through cold snow, and when his hand comes back empty, he cups it over the fire.

Granted, that only works until Martyn actually finds something to make a fire out of. Carrying his god in one crooked elbow only allows him to gather so much, and as he moves from collecting kindling to finding firewood, Martyn realizes he’s going to need both hands.

Even so, the pleased golden glow which washes over Martyn’s arm has him unwilling to put his god back in the lantern. He hums, shifting the weight in his arms before setting the kindling down.

“Alright, I’ve got an idea,” Martyn says. He scoops his god into one hand to deposit the ball of flame onto his shoulder.

“You good there? Not going to fall off?” Martyn asks, “Because I don’t need to add ‘dropped my god in the dirt’ to my list of slights against you as your paladin.”

His god crackles, and this close to his ear, Martyn can hear every individual spark popping with his laugh. Warm air tickles the hair at the back of Martyn’s neck, but even now, the contact against his skin is little more than a warm hand clasped comfortably on his shoulder.

“Seriously, let me know if you think you’re going to fall.”

The light in his peripheral gleams, and with that, Martyn returns to collecting up firewood.

If Martyn were honest, he’d admit he sort of expected his god to fall off his shoulder at some point. He’s careful with his steps, keeping his back straight even as he crouched down to pick up fallen branches. His god stays perched comfortably on his shoulder, fire curled at the base of his neck.

—

Martyn picks up a bundle of cloth and coal, testing the weight. It’s heavier than a human hand, the rocks shifting inside both sturdier and less cohesive than the real deal.

But the size is right, Martyn thinks, and that’ll have to be enough.

“Hey, I’ve got something,” Martyn says, holding the bundle where his god can see it. “You can hold shape as long as you’ve got something to burn, right? And coal burns for a long time.”

Martyn shakes the bundle of coal in his hand.

“You should be able to stay with this for a while,” Martyn says, and with that, he sticks his hand into open flame.

It’s become almost routine, at this point, for Martyn to push his hands into even the most furious of fire. The immunity his god grants him makes him fearless, and love makes him bold.

So it’s with little ceremony that Martyn lies his hand in the campfire, kneeling at the edge. His god is warm, always warm, even with Martyn’s hand closed within his heart.

Flames curl around the bundle in Martyn’s hand, consuming it in a moment. The fire forms into flicking fingers, resting delicately in Martyn’s palm.

Martyn doesn’t feel it, of course. His god is weightless, especially compared to the coal in Martyn’s hand. There’s no pressure, no feeling of fingertips against the pad of Martyn’s palm. His god taps his fingers there anyway, hot air below Martyn’s thumb.

Martyn lifts his god’s hand from the fire. Not high enough to break it free, but enough to see it. Details are hard to pin down like this, his god’s form impossibly dynamic. Fingers change size, nails turn to claws turn to air. They dissipate as his god moves, his wrist appearing and disappearing seemingly at random.

And, of course, his god beams so bright Martyn has trouble looking directly at him.

Martyn swipes a thumb over the back of his god’s hand and watches the surface of it swirl away, then reform across the fabric.

But his god’s hand is there, held in his own.

—

Martyn watches the fire in front of them lazily. It burns low, embers dimming as they starve from a lack of fuel. He’d almost forgotten how high maintenance an actual fire is over the last few months, though keeping a watchful eye over mundane flame is a worthy price to pay for what it earns him.

“You’re practically a heater, you know that?” Martyn says, turning his head toward the shape at his side. The god pressed against him grumbles something indistinct into Martyn’s shoulder.

“What was that?” Martyn asks.

“I said, ‘you’re just freezing, dude.’”

“I’m only ‘freezing’ because I didn’t spend two decades made of fire,” Martyn says, making quotes in the air. He then drops his hand to his god’s face, shoving cold fingers against warm skin. His god jumps back with a yelp.

“Martyn!” he says, catching Martyn’s hand in one of his own. Martyn laughs, even as his god scowls at him.

“Awful. You’re an awful man,” he continues, holding Martyn’s hand between both of his own. “I’m keeping this. You can have it back when you’re not freezing.”

Martyn’s hands aren’t cold, not really, especially not with spring creeping up. The first sprouts of the season are breaking through thawing grounds, and Martyn no longer has winter winds trying to bite off his fingers.

All that to say, Martyn’s not entirely sure that his god’s efforts to keep his hands warm are entirely for his own benefit.

“All yours, Ren,” Martyn says as his god tucks himself back into his side.

[martynsimp69]

Day 1: Blush/Mint

WAHOO ITS ADVENTREEBARK EVERYONE i didnt put as much effort into this as i should have bc i was running behind schedule </3 o well it happens. merry christmas. maids be upon ye

[riacte]

Yayy Space Opera AU for Treebark Week Day 5: Run/Stay :)

A hidden requirement of being Ren’s gunner is that you have to know how to run away— and run away fast.

So Martyn takes Ren’s hand, and they run.

-

Ren, Martyn, and the rest of Dogwarts are chased by a mysterious blue stalker. Ren believes the stalker wants to kill them all. As Ren’s loyal partner, Martyn won’t let that happen. Space Opera AU. Written for Adventreebark 2022 Day 5: Stay/Run.

Also extra meme:

[wallscornersedges]

(belated) treebark week day 1 - blush

[ilexdiapason]

day 7: past/future

Martyn lands heavy, steps out of the alley, ready to explore the future -

and is immediately pulled back, an ice-cold hand wrapping harsh around his mouth. “Don’t scream,” a stranger’s voice mutters, “don’t run. If you’re caught looking like that, it’s not gonna be pretty.”

Martyn nods, stock-still, breath held. After a moment, he’s released. “What are you -”

“I don’t know when you came from -” and how do they know he’s from the past? “- but round here we play by different rules.”

It’s then he sees the silver sheen of metal fingers, and realizes the level of shit he’s in.

[docmlm77]

Adventreebark Day 1, “Blush/Mint”

Tree(bark) Facts, #1 - Sweet Birch

The twigs, when scraped, have a strong scent of wintergreen due to methyl salicylate, which is produced in the bark.

[cherrifire]

[Treebark week] Day 1 - Mint

I’m using this event as an excuse to share with everyone my 3rd Life/Magnus Archive AU

Flat colour version

[treebarkweek]

And that’s a wrap!

Thank you everyone for participating in our second event, Adventreebark! It’s been a delight to see insanely talented people in the tag, writing and drawing for this event and showing off such amazing skills!

We’re so thankful for this comeback to have been welcomed with the same warmth as the first one, and we're so incredibly happy that we were able to have an opportunity to make content that we all enjoy and to share it with others. We’ll continue to reblog all the art under the event tags or that tag this blog, so don’t worry if you haven’t finished your project yet.

Biggest thank you from us mods, and hoping to see you all in next event!

[liloinkoink]

treebark week day 6, win/lose

based off my favorite movie, but you don’t need to know anything about it to read this as it doesn’t follow the actual plot at all

(been thinkin abt a baron omatsuri and the secret island au for dogwarts since august so i’m pretty thrilled to have an excuse to write it)

The King of Dogwarts is not dead, not if Martyn has anything to say about it.

Word of the kingdom’s fall spreads faster than even the fire which consumed its inner walls. A kingdom erased in the dead of night. Fires high enough to burn even the stars out of the sky. So much blood that even a month of rain couldn’t clear the muddy red from the streets. It had been a massacre, and no one had survived.

It’s a miracle, really, when a few months later, the King walks again.

Rumors are so easy to sensationalize the further they spread from their source, his Hand says, addressing the crowd as his King stands outside the door.

Don’t mention it to the King, he warns. It’s not something he likes to dwell on.

The King is a proud man, but his ordeal does not leave him unchanged. He stands tall as always, spine straight, towering above most of the others he meets. This regal posture simply reveals the large scar drawn in red across his throat. It’s hard to look at much else about him, when that vicious mark meets the eye.

A few wonder if that’s why he wears a new crown, now. Something taller, thicker, glistening with red gems. For how unwieldy the thing must be, he is never seen without it. It’s eye-catching, or it should be. Gives them somewhere else to look.

His Hand rarely leaves his side.

Movement returns to the streets of Dogwarts gradually. The citizens, thought to be dead, return in groups. Four, five, six at a time, families who fled in the night. One by one, the King’s court returns, Knights taking their seats back at his table.

Or that’s what trickles through the grapevine, at least. Few of the returned residents have been seen; The people of Dogwarts rarely leave their home anymore. Those who have been seen have come back… strange. Concerned friends mention pale skin, as though residents have stopped going outside. A great many have scars they won’t address, torn clothes they won’t change. The most outlandish rumors speak of strange sprouts growing from the heads of the kingdom’s residents, but rumors are so easy to sensationalize.

But Dogwarts is resilient.

Like a weed, the Hand says.

—

The King of Dogwarts is dead, not that he remembers it.

Ren wakes up in the dirt. Well, not in the dirt. “Ren wakes up on the ground,” would probably be more accurate. He doesn’t know where, exactly, it is that he’s woken up, but he knows it isn’t his bed, and that it’s damp, and that he’s not under any blankets.

Ren’s hand closes around a bundle of soil and he groans, weary even after resting, and then there’s a hand on his shoulder and another on his back, easing him into sitting up.

“Easy, Ren,” says a familiar voice laced with an unfamiliar worry. Ren opens his eyes to the sight of his Hand.

It should be a relief, Ren thinks, but Martyn doesn’t look… well. His skin is a sickly, washed-out white, and he’s lost the muscle and fat that used to fill out his bones. His eyes are rimmed with red, sunken and hollow. Even his hair seems almost as though he’s bleached it, dandelion blond turned from vibrant yellow to pale. Martyn, his sure and dependable Martyn, looks one wrong move from blowing away.

There are lilies in his hair that day, white and yellow and red, bursting out from below his headband like a crown.

Martyn has always grown flowers, an effect of the magic of Spring in his blood. They sprout from his hair, from his arms… Ren recalls one particularly noteworthy incident in which a number of little blooms had grown from his mouth, leaving him spitting petals for almost an hour. They usually disappear just as suddenly as they come, and Ren takes a quiet pleasure in learning what each one means, in reading the things his Hand doesn’t say.

Ren is not quite awake enough yet to remember what lilies mean, or to think of if he’s ever seen them on Martyn before. Ren is distracted, however, before he can come to an answer.

The flower on Martyn’s shoulder that day is new.

It’s an unsettling thing, that flower, strange and alive and knowing. Ren glances from Martyn to the flower, but Martyn doesn't pay the thing any special mind. It sways back and forth, humming off-key to a rhythm Ren doesn’t understand. Its voice is high, but muffled, as if it has something in its mouth. It smiles incessently, lips stretched wide but mouth always closed. 

“Her name,” Martyn explains, when he sees Ren staring, “is Lily.” He takes both of Ren’s hands in his own, and his hands are clammy, but warm. “She saved our lives.”

That's all Martyn sees fit to explain. He releases Ren's hands, snaking his arms around Ren's back and crushing himself against Ren's chest, an ear to Ren’s heart. One hand moves to the back of Ren’s head, fingers twisting up in Ren’s hair. Ren wraps two arms back around Martyn’s shoulders, resting his chin on top of Martyn’s head.

Lilies, Ren remembers idly, are toxic to dogs.

—

The Lily Carnation is her full… title, or name, or genus—Ren isn’t sure. Ren isn’t sure about a lot of things.

The lilies don’t go away. The flowers seem to be a permanent fixture behind Martyn’s ear, pure white petals the only thing highlighting the fact some shade of yellow still exists in Martyn’s hair at all. They drown out all the other flowers Ren has come to love in his Hand, robbing him of color and expression.

(Ren used to be allergic, but they don’t bother him now. He thinks it must be because they’re Martyn’s, but he doesn’t test it.)

Martyn doesn’t go anywhere without her, the strange flower perching always on his shoulder, humming her tune. Ren hasn’t seen Martyn without a shirt since she appeared, but he shudders when he imagines the roots of the thing crawling down his Hand’s shoulder, gnarled things rippling below his skin.

(He wraps a hand around Martyn’s back one night, sitting together in front of the fire, just to be sure he doesn’t feel anything out of the ordinary by the shoulder blades. Martyn doesn’t react, but she does—Ren feels smooth, unbroken skin through the fabric of Martyn’s shirt, and she watches him, and she smiles.)

There’s a sprout in Ren’s hair. It’s rather large, a stubby stem attached to two flat leaves, each the size of Ren’s forearm. Ren makes a conscious effort not to picture roots when he sees it, but he feels closely the skin around its base for any odd lumps. Smooth, unbroken skin, just like Martyn. It’s not reassuring here, either.

Skizz and Etho and BigB have them, too, when they return. It takes them a while to turn up at Dogwarts, trickling back into the throne room one at a time.

Skizz, only as tall as Ren’s chest, boasts bright leaves right at Ren’s eye. He returns first, loud and bright in a silent castle.

BigB’s remind Ren of his own ears, pointing up out of his head. He returns next, and Martyn smiles easier with him around.

Etho’s droop, one leaf falling over the left side of his face. He returns last, and the court is complete at last.

(Skizz’s suit is torn in the front, jagged at the edges much like the ruins of his sleeves. BigB’s sweater has a new patch, a familiar flag stitched lopsided over his heart. Etho’s leaves and mask obscure a burn that Ren doesn’t know the shape or source of.)

More of Dogwarts’s citizens return. A couple, a family, half a neighborhood, until the city is full again with familiar faces.

(No one can tell Ren where they’ve been. Days, weeks, months of absence, and no one can tell him where they’ve gone. All anyone can remember is a steady hand on their shoulder, easing them up off the ground.)

Some days, Ren forgets the leaves are there. Others, he forgets he never had them. Ren’s head is a strange place to be, of late.

There’s a spot in Ren’s memory he can’t seem to make himself look at. He knows the city was attacked, but trying to pin down any one detail of that night feels like trying to catch smoke. Dwelling too long makes him feel… slower, somehow. His brain feels sluggish. His shoulders shudder. His spine wilts.

Martyn, his ever-present shadow, always seems to know when he’s thinking about it. With a smile, a scheme, a joke, Martyn redirects Ren’s murky mind, and the smoke and haze clear. Ren trusts him, always—Ren is sure, at least, of this. 

Martyn calls her Lily. Ren… doesn’t think about her, or he tries not to. There are a lot of things Ren doesn’t think about.

—

The King of Dogwarts is not dead, and the world is never short on people in need of a miracle.

People visit. They seek audiences with the King. They ask for miracles.

Ren is not a miracle worker, but he offers what he can. Sometimes it’s things he can grant—tools and armor, enhanced with magic.

Most visitors don’t need trinkets, though. They ask for miracles.

Bring back my son and I want to see my wife again and They died too soon and Just one more day and I’ll pay anything and I miss my mom and He was my best friend and I need them and I loved him and I love her and Please.

But Ren is not a miracle worker. He doesn’t understand why so many people think he is. He looks to Martyn, guilty and apologetic and pleading, and Martyn leads them away.

—

Dandelions may be known as pests, but they have a meaning like any other flower. They are flowers of resilience, of sprouting in cracked concrete, of finding warmth at the end of a long winter. Dandelions are best known for their magic; When their seeds are blown away, dandelions are said to grant wishes. 

Martyn takes the desperate and desolate away when Ren starts to squirm. It’s the only time he leaves his King’s side.

Outside the throne room, where Ren cannot hear him, a sympathetic hand finds a grieving shoulder. Martyn smiles, but more than anything else, it is hungry.

“Would you like to see her?” Martyn asks, “My miracle?”

(No dandelion survives making a wish.)

—

The kingdom of Dogwarts is dead, erased in the dead of night. Fires high enough to burn even the stars out of the sky. So much blood that even a month of rain couldn’t clear the muddy red from the streets.

The knights had fallen, to an arrow and a sword and a blazing fire. The head of the king had rolled across his throne room’s floor, his red carpets stained vibrant. The people had fought, and their fight had been noble, but it had been a massacre, and no one had survived.

No one except one lonely Hand, severed from his heart.

It had been a tragedy, really. Anyone who had met the King had met his Hand, and anyone who had met the Hand had known his loyalty, his dedication. It’s a difficult thing, to be so alone in the world, to be so completely robbed of purpose.

The white lily is known to symbolize purity, innocence. It is also a symbol of mourning, a popular choice to decorate a casket at a funeral.

The Lily Carnation is a special flower, with very particular conditions in which she blooms. Her soil is watered only with blood. She sprouts only in the earth of graves. She can take root only in the heart of true despair.

She grants miracles, but her cost is steep. A life for a life is a bargain, after all—Lily grants a life in exchange for feeding an incessant hunger; a life for life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life after life.

But Martyn would do anything for Ren. Pay any price, carry any burden, do any terrible, terrible thing.

The King of Dogwarts is not dead, not if Martyn has anything to say about it.

[martynsimp69]

Day 2: Light/Dark

almost forgot to upload despite finishing this last night lol. more lamplight au from @liloinkoink​ and @unexpectedly-haunted​ love these guys (the actual au isn’t /r but lew cannot stop us <3)

[docmlm77]

Adventreebark Day 2, “Light/Dark”

In the final battle, Ren and Martyn were the only two left. Renchanting was in shambles; the crops trampled, and the water muddy, bloodied from the bodies of the dead.

It was fitting that Martyn had decided to have Ren slain under the light of the full moon. Like a dragon coming out it’s cave, or a zombie its tomb, Ren stalked up to Martyn, (The knight, the “hero”, the hand of the king, ever in his shadow) and spoke:

“Spill my blood, my love. Paint our story with it ‘cross the canopies and the grass and the leaves. Leave no stone unturned, no fragment spurned from the annals of history. If you must make a mockery of us, looking back from however long you may live, do not do so in vain. Tell our story. The entirety of it. Of the pain, the laughter, and the hardships. I wish to remember you, love, but I fear I will not.

“So let my blood go, and write our story the way it was meant to be written.”

With a grimace, Martyn pulled out the diamond sword he had been carrying, and threw himself into Ren’s chest. “I will. I promise, my king.”

And as the dragon’s blood ran, the knight wept as he took stock of his keep. Ren’s blood was red, just as it was when he was crowned king with the swing of an axe. But no longer was he a mighty force of nature, as his eyes felt shut as if he were asleep.

Tree(bark) Facts, #2 - Dragon’s Blood resin

Dragon's blood is a rarely used pigment produced by species of trees as a red resin.

[bargecraft]

Adventreebark Week Day 2: Light/Dark - Rock Band AU

"Don't I know you from somewhere?"

"Saw you guys were playing at this venue, couldn't pass up the chance."

"Not working this time I see. Didn't take you for the groupie type--"

"Har har. You still owe me that drink."

"I did promise that, didn't I? Lead the way, baby."

[cherrifire]

[Treebark week] Day 4 - Water

I’m using this event as an excuse to share with everyone my 3rd Life/Magnus Archive AU

Flat colour version