alto-motleyrun

[alto-motleyrun]

Moonlighting

Di sullenly observes the tiny assembly of three, sitting in stiff and reluctant contemplation upon the broad surface of a nearby tree stump.

As a result, while Xajal talks, Di thinks of little save the old hurts still nursed. He sits and he seethes, burning hotter with every passing second the smiler's fish interacts with their captain, because everything she does betrays her, and each crime--just one would be too much--seems numerous when tallied and added together with the most unforgivable of all: the Loa themselves approve.

How it burns him when an ignorant thief--from a race he spent his relatively long life hating with all his being--sees more favour in the collective eyes of the Loa than he ever will. He devoutly slaughtered countless heretics such as this one in the names of his gods, and still they view an elf as somehow closer to the troll ideal than he?

They went so far as to grant a sacred relic from the desolate desert!

Its carved face stares at Di from its place at the thief's shoulder, while she turns aside to gesture at the cluster of buildings beyond the slope of a nearby road. The old mosshide thinks the eyeless mask wears a damning, scornful grin just for him, because where his failing eyesight worsens a little more each day, he can still make out some of the little signs inherent in being Loa-touched. Especially when the bear spirit rouses enough to bluntly reveal them.

A silent maelstrom churns ceaselessly at the thief's center, and renews itself relentlessly as clockwork by the pulse of the heathen heart driving its every revolution. Before, he knows, it stagnated into a ravenous void, one which only gulped magic down its greedy maw without release and threatened to snuff her life out through prolonged exposure.

No more, of course; the sanctified mask prevents the magic around them from choking the thief senseless as it once did, and the effect becomes painfully tangible.

The meekness of a coward still exists--and might always, in Di's unkind opinion--but the miserable moonlighter greets Xajal using subtle changes to posture that did not exist before the Snaptusk's gift and the Swiftblade's crew separated, departing to the various ends of Azeroth.

A vague sort of confidence lingers in the fluid movement of spindly fingers and the mosshide spitefully recognises the particular heft of weight in the thief's stance to be a mimicry of forest aggression.

Not only did the elf steal one of the forest as a mate, she felt it her right to appropriate troll ways and profaned troll voice by learning--however clumsily or partially--to use their words. He closes his ears to the tongueless slurry of mangled Orcish, but not in time to prevent hearing the smattering of clumsy Zandali interspersed throughout.

The bear's roar blessedly deafens him to the rest, but it cannot soothe the raw hurt to his pride nor the burning anger inside, and lashing out to strike the elf in her ugly face does not end abruptly nor in any satisfying results like he wants.

Startled and made stupid for it, the thief cannot dodge his fist--except that instead of solidly connecting as he expects, his knuckles graze the sharp edge of cheekbone, delivering a blow made weaker for it since it merely knocks her back and not down.

Stiff-legged, knees creaking protest for standing too quickly after a lengthy sit, he follows with a second swing, bolstered by the stumbling even half a hit nets him; this one fails him, too. The thief steps away entirely, fleet-footed as if the air cushions her stride. He does not recall this skill from before.

Lips pulling back over his gums in a graceless snarl to show recently-remade teeth, the hulking, former Amani follows the coward's retreat with the intent to crush her into the dirt and make her permanently stay lower than he.

Di hardly notices the grey tinging his sight or the peculiar malformations gnarled hands or aged body undergo; he remains too accustomed to the normal shift of muscle and warp of bone when under the bear spirit's influence to heed any differences.

He stalks the weak-willed thief, and tells himself he does not even need the bear spirit's might to aid him in withstanding the flurry of jabs and kicks the elf defends with, for no elf ever hit him properly to get through his thick hide.

The sudden, sharp blaze of a rib yielding to those little fists jolts him into halting, though, and here, at last, he glimpses himself reflected in the polished sheen of the stolen mask.

Too late, he sees a monstrous, blackened thing neither bear nor troll glaring back at him--

--and then hatred swallows him whole.

[alto-motleyrun]

Rebagled to the proper blog. Eee still so pleased, and still cannot properly express my delight.

A long-overdue request for one of my giveaway winners, umbrarex! Thanks for being patient while I was swamped with school. Hope you like it!

[alto-motleyrun]

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—-

It would be unseemly, of course, to touch royalty without permission, and even though he remains well aware of how inappropriate hands laid upon anything sacred would be, he nonetheless reaches forward.

He consoles himself with the notion that, as former royalty himself, he remains on fairly equal footing. Too, his overwhelming need--to run his fingers over the gleaming white scales and to ground himself in the feel of sleek and supple hide--stems not out of a desire to disrespect, but to observe offering. He possesses nothing else of worth to give them, after all, but his time and attention, and if he receives some semblance of calm in the process, who would it actually harm?

"This is my camp," he says quietly, without looking to the offended whelp indignantly chiding him. "I will maintain its security, and if you think shutting away the eyes for the false notion of privacy assists in the safety of those I am in charge of, perhaps we ought set aside your current studies in favour of revisting what it means to--"

Kite's obvious and lingering amusement interrupts him, derailing his thoughts and his words to the point that any attention paid to the hydra stills when his hands do. He straightens up, recoiling as if physically hit.

It takes the motions Mja goes through to set out their meager place settings to loosen some of his tension, but he neither invites Kite out of the tent for the meal, nor informs him of the things left outside it for that purpose.

Whispers of Sand

[alto-motleyrun]

Done originally because I wanted SOME sort of image to go with Meej's "What would you eat?" ask for putting up on my silly new ask blog (because it's painfully blank and she was nice enough to give me a prompt to try).

But what was supposed to be short and quick ended up being... not so much. I went through like five different doodles before finally settling on this one because I was bound and determined to get his awkward, ugly, gap-toothed smile just right on that border between creepy and cute.

I still don't think I succeeded and it's as unfinished as all my work, but I'm tired and this'll have to do.

Edit: fml I forgot his ears.

Whatever. I'll fix it tomorrow.

[alto-motleyrun]

CHARACTER CLIFFNOTES NONSENSE PART 1

Because Draiol is kind enough to put up with my blathering, I guess.

(ps this took so long to post because my character notes were woefully out of date, sorry Draiol!)

Penumbral “Penny” Moonwinged - moth, shadow, and blood themes - sin’dorei; death knight - over 10,000 years old at death - former Sunfury researcher, and technical traitor to both the Sunfury and the sin’dorei at the time of his death - possesses a third eye, tied to one of his few unique abilities involving shades he enslaves from the Realm of Shadows - can be described as built like a brick: muscular, tall, with a dull, red-ochre skintone - white/grey hair, curling and thick, with two tails wrapped up in leather and weighted by metal rings; moth “eyes” dyed into bangs which obscure most of his face - heavily scarred on face and torso; “hollow” inside, with a “gut pouch” - partnered with Tisho; calls him “Shemshi” [“Sun”] - blood brother AND blade brother [“It’s Complicated”] to Meros, making him both uncle and godfather to Corsiel, as well - friend to Jabiru the King of Eyes, and his family out in Feralas, but not as overly fond of them as he is of Jabiru - carries personal grudges/enmity for--and thus is dangerously hostile to--Greyspell [Meej’s character], Ti’kalan, and Xaj the Snaptusk - DK name: drawn from a combination of his Sunfury callsign and a side research project - ‘blade name: Errant’s Choice; hints at the fondness for wordplay from life - his name in life: Merosiel Riversung [yes, he was that brother]; his alias after the Sundering: Namurael Quicksand - mostly speaks only broken Orcish or Tisho’s conlang - suffers from multiple disabilities, including but not limited to: severe musculoskeletal and nerve damage, true colour blindness, and a variety of noticeable cognitive/speech impediments - more stuff here.

Macaw the Little Tyrant - parrot theme - sin'dorei; in-game class is warlock, but he's not trained and not really much of anything other than a creepy little brat with too much power and corruption - somewhere between 12-14 years old (Blizzard's timelines aren't clear or concise enough for me to really know) - planned RP includes fel corruption (thanks to Solly) pulling a cancer and coming out of "remission"; gonna hafta head to Pandaland and work through all the consequences of this and hopefully somehow come out of it alive and finally free of taint and demon - raised by wolves a troll for the first formative years of his life, he is the ugliest, most awful little mowgli ever: a skeletal, perpetually gaunt body weighing about as much as a soaked cat in a paper bag, matte black horn nubs at either temple, cornsilk blonde, matted curls, terracotta red skin, and sickly, fel-green eyes likened to the dying embers of a fire - marked by multiple scars, as well as what are essentially open wounds: lightning patterns of split, cracked skin seeping fel magic - all extremeties are blackened and largely numb to all sensation. one arm; the other (right arm) was forcibly amputated (by himself, in fact) during one of his fits of self mutilation. he used to own a prosthetic for his stump (made by himself), but that was stolen from him when he was kidnapped, and he has yet to make another - fixes ALL the things: clever little tinkerer of machines and gadgets, who has a habit of appropriating anything and everything around him, whether it belongs to him or not, in pursuit of “improving” items or creating new things - wears ALL the things: if it’s pretty, lacy, ruffled, brightly coloured, even remotely dress-like with lots of baubles, ribbons, and bows, he wears it - adopted nephew to Ti’kalan and Xaj, which makes him--by extension--technically also related through this adoption to Tisho, Noneta, et al. - Macaw’s first “father” figure is Di; Di is also the reason behind Macaw’s missing arm and how he ended up in Silvermoon - is the reason the Swiftblade’s crew even exists in any fashion, and clings viciously to their honourary status as a family/tribe - will kill all the elves - entangled with a demon named Hesola (who, much to said demon’s chagrin, he named Solly) who he was tricked into summoning and failed to properly complete said summoning; there is a backwards soul link going on here, it’s pretty nasty business - once called “Lim’thala”;Di named him “Macaw” (kwao’iga) in the Amani dialect of Zandali because he was loud, obnoxious, brightly coloured, and mimicked everything. this has stuck ever since, and because he doesn’t think of himself as elf, he also does not associate his elven name with himself anymore - Xaj named him “little prince” (kiasa kibwani) with exasperation, while Greyspell named him “little tyrant” in a condescending manner, and both made Macaw so proud that he’s kept them as his own “titles” and loudly announces them to new people - speaks a heavily-accented, horribly mangled pidgin of Orcish, the Amani dialect of Zandali, Thalassian, and the “family words” (a created Darkspear argot based around a specific family within the tribe back before they lost the isles and ended up in Sen’jin on Durotar’s shores) - ANGER MANAGEMENT, ENTITLEMENT, EMOTIONAL, AND DADDY ISSUES, among other things - other stuff can be found here

Primal "Di" Ji'anu - bear theme - former Amani, former shaman; Swiftblade mosshide, druid - 40+ years old, ancient by mosshide standards - first mate of the Swiftblade; enforces “order,” mostly - likes lemons, yet hates all the things, ever - planned RP includes reaching troll version of “enlightenment” where he comes to terms with the animal spirits he hosts [bear, primarily, but playing host to others based on the loas’ more whimsical natures and preferences] and takes a new purpose [primalist] as well as a new set of names [Zuya’kali/Zu’kali, Ji’anu] to finally shed his past self and abandon the guilt/shame of exile - moss: vaguely resembles “yoke-moss”; useful when stripped and crushed for speeding up healing - dark green skin, red eyes, greying hair with faint red still visible - an ugly motherfucker as heavily scarred and tattooed as a prison lifer, only with better taste and a worse temper - wears all the piercings and jewelry and trinkets ever - branded - missing all of one tusk, majority of the other - mate to Xaj the Snaptusk - Macaw’s first “father” figure; also the reason behind Macaw’s missing arm and how he ended up in Silvermoon - will never admit it aloud, but considers the main crew of the Swiftblade as the closest thing to family and a tribe - will kill all the elves - once called “Yanu”, he took the prefix “Di” to signify his exile - speaks heavily-accented, godsawful Orcish, and the Amani dialect of Zandali - ANGER MANAGEMENT ISSUES

  Noneta’jai “Nonny” the Bonespeaker - crocolisk theme - former Darkspear, former priest; not really anything now - 29 or so (roughly a few months older than Xaj) - exiled to Feralas - former apprentice to his village’s master of the healing arts, Zul’bizu - passable cook - has all the puns, ever - novice healer, untapped potential, etc. - somewhere between ciel (“sky blue”) and periwinkle skin tone, with muddy brown eyes and dull green hair - stubby ears, slightly on the short side for a jungle troll male, and quite a fatty - hilariously fabulous; imagine a combination of King Gator, Louis, and Albert from the Birdcage - smiles way too much, all close-eyed like he’s got a secret to share; and yet, him smiling rarely signals happiness - ears, wrists, ankles, throat, neck, etc. adorned with teeth of many sizes and shapes--typically "croc" related - branded on his wrists; formerly, their intent was to bind his natural skills in magic, but the bonds are broken and the brands remain [there’s no healing fire-made scars]. now they serve as helping to amplify his magic instead, lighting up (painfully, given their origins) when in use - tusks are “bow”-shaped, left tip chipped/missing - fond of ridiculous hairstyles - family: Jabiru, Shomoro, Xaj (distantly related through “some cousin or other’s” marriage), Ti’kalan (same thing), and as a result this technically also includes Macaw, Penumbral, Meros, et al., though he'd rather not have any of them claim ties - friends: Xaj the Snaptusk (sort of; on-again-off-again), Kite - Jabiru’s master killed Noneta’s master - best known as the diminutive of his public name, “Nonny,” from “none” (“fat”) - “noneta’jai” has all the puns: “none” + “ota jua” (“basking in the sun”) = Noneta’jai (“fat basker”/”fat bastard”), a bastardization/wordplay of the two phrases - his private name, "Nomoya'na," is another mashup of word-play and roughly translates to "heartfelt" in Zandali; OOCly I tie it back to "cherimoya" and "atemoya" since these are related to Jabiru's pet nickname for him (see below) - Xaj calls him “Nonny-no-no”, Jabiru calls him “Noi-na” (when Nonny’s behaved himself, at least), a pun from a favoured fruit; other nicknames include: Croc, Auntie/Uncle, Nurse, etc. - speaks Zandali mainly, and Orcish fairly well, but typically only exercises this in order to play word games and give flowery, dramatic diatribes - has a problem with being serious for any length of time

  Oti'eno the Virulent - snake theme - unspecified age; adult - Zandalar--technically traitor, given the state of current world affairs; former priest to an unspecified snake Loa [I assume Hethiss, but remain unclear on whether Zandalar worship the Gurubashi’s pantheon as the rest of the jungle trolls do] - former prince [of a large family] - practitioner of charms, hexes, potions, and other voodoo witchery, but specialising in poisons (and their antidotes) - extremely intelligent and practically stupid, an extreme fussbudget about EVERYTHING, and holds grudges over even minor slights - eunuch - can speak to snakes/charm them; to an extent has a way with related reptiles, as well - dark purple skin peppered with lighter purple pebbling/spots on shoulders, hips, wrists, and shins, along with considerable dyed-ink runework under the layers of his clothes - runework allows him to cast far more powerful spells without circles, augmented further by his many trinkets - amber eyes, black tusks, and ginger as hell* * actually it's a wig, but talking about that is Not Allowed - quite a collection of adornments, charms, trinkets, and piercings; fond of jade jewelry - hairstyle vaguely resembles elizabeth taylor’s cleopatra - tusks are “bramble-spined” and hooked/s-shape, like rearing serpents - personality similar to “Greed” from FMA, with touches of Sadi from David Edding’s Belgariad/Mallorean series - has no one particularly close, but is tiptoeing around the idea of friendship with Jabiru (they get along marginally well so far) and outright acceptance of Mja as his apprentice - keeps two attendants: Kite the Scribe, and Oski the Sea-Bear; his relationship with Kite has recently become kind of confusing, far less professional, and awfully complicated - once kept a “companion”, which he considered his most prized possession and trusted familiar: Hirizi (“charm”/”amulet”), a rare, albino monocled cobra - unfortunately, his familiar died right before Pandaland expac and he still hasn't dealt with the grief associated with it - public name: Oti’eno, “born at night”; often called “Oats” when others feel particularly cheeky/exasperated with him - private name: doesn't actually have one due to past Reasons; kind of a big spoilery plot point with him - speaks excellent Zandali and Orcish, albeit the latter with an obvious accent - his past being exposed is his biggest fear and quite crippling for him - he cannot stand his personal space invaded, and rarely answers any personal questions; Kite suspects much about him, but lacks proof or conclusive information - PROBABLY DADDY ISSUES? IDEFK HE HAS PROBLEMS

  Senumeros “the Shark” Quicksand - shark theme - quel’dorei (Highborne, not high elf), brawler/former rogue - former Shen'dralar, of Eldre'thalas/Dire Maul Ruins - over 10,000 years old - currently lives and travels with a mosshide [forest] troll ["It's Complicated"]. this means he's basically M’naa’s worst-kept secret in the history of worst-kept secrets - pre-Mists, he “worked” aboard the Swiftblade; post-Mists, he's wandering the Pandaland continent with said mosshide, and more usually gets into trouble that overshadows any actual work they try to accomplish - skilled at way too many little things to list - grey-skinned, green-haired, and silver-eyed - [enchanted] gill tattoos, “shark” [filed] teeth, and lean, long-limbed build - family: more “It’s Complicated”; includes three adopted brothers: Ti’kalan, Tisho, and Penny, plus two sons: “Bee”/Corsiel and Siyo [adopted] - friends: Astarin, Kite, and Nextus [Corsiel’s biological father] are closest to him, but he's starting to make more as time goes on and he learns how to be a Better Person - speaking of, he's forever doomed to Worst Impression Ever - more than one name: Senumeros [“poison shark” in his mother tongue] Quicksand [ father’s surname] and Me’notoa [“shows teeth” in Zandali], borrowing from troll practice of private [“true”] name, and public name - missing tongue; speech: horribly mangled. as a result, he knows a language of handsigns “borrowed” and adapted from goblin merchants - severely allergic to cats as well as magic of all kinds. fixing to improve on the latter post-Mists/this is actually part of a huge RP Plot development that's in the works. - ELVES - GENDER ISSUES [understatement]

  Other Characters Not Yet Posted: - Astarin, draenei paladin, kirin/qilin theme - Shomoro, troll druid, bird theme (sparrow) - Ikaros “Ike” Waxwings, III, goblin medic (shaman), shi shi/stone guardian theme - Corsiel “Bee” Quicksand - Caoilte “Farmboy” Gallagher [Grigors], worgen hunter, no theme yet - Cobble (Juushona), undead rogue, pumpkin/scarecrow theme --an undead construct made of shadows, voodoo, and dead things, stuffed with straw, and wearing a jack-o-lantern for a head - Kel’arath “Off” Canterflare (Sunherald family), sin’dorei magelet, horse theme - Silverswift, n’elf druid, owl theme - Hieros, draenei [broken] shaman, no theme yet - Rahmiel/Rahmael “Rammy” the Unseen, draenei priest [monk reroll?], ram theme - Iatrios Dustdancer, n’elf druid, tree theme - underdeveloped/unfinished panda girl ("Miss Poppy") and boy siblings concepts - unfinished other concepts including dead mailman, mushroom selling DK, baker dwarf, windrider “derp”, and several DK ideas not really anything more than a name or a theme floating around in my notes - AND A LOT MORE AUGH SORRY

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Once, when Tisho and Penny were still shaping their relationship and Penny was even more clueless than he is now, Tisho got it into his head that since living elves like flowers and chocolates and all those other things (and I believe Love Day was going on, on top of it), he would try his hand at courting Penny a little more obviously than he'd been.

So he bought chocolates and he flash-froze some flowers, and gave them to a dead elf.

Who had no idea what either were for or what to do with them (I don't think he remembered what chocolate even was, in fact) and while he thanked Tisho, it still fell kind of flat for the poor guy.

And it was made worse by how there happened to be a gaggle of living elves nearby watching this awkward little bit of courting. They mostly laughed at Tisho or tried to offer "advice" on it--including describing courting as "because sex is the end goal" and that confused Penumbral even more when he and Tisho can't have sex because DEAD and REASONS and the whole mess ended with Penumbral having a bit of an aversion to the whole idea of courting as a result.

Thankfully, he later [re]learned what courting really was and that relationships don't need to involve sex. These two remain a rather fun interpretation of how a relationship can be, since it's largely romantic interests and some handholding and sharing food tastes and emotional support and being Useful Dead Things together for the living things present in their lives.

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Macaw - Offer Me

His sturdy legs took him far to the other side of the city, and in his lost wandering, they took him furthest to a room with rich colours, thick plush rugs, and brilliant, smoky crystals bigger than his own self.

Grass-green eyes scanned the inside of the room and frayed ears rose high on end to quiver in alarm. He heard, yet saw, no soul but himself.

Not one to let fear conquer him, he stood straight and proud despite how his insides felt ice-cold.

"Who be you?" he challenged in the old man's words, biting out the harsh syllables with as much force as could be mustered.

"Oh, my sweet little sun bug, where did your warmth go?"

His faked bravado faltered in the wake of such admonishment. His shoulders hunched inward for the strange pain that simmered inside, and his ears gradually wilted.

"You says all the words, like..."

"Yes, honeybee?"

He mumbled to the empty air a tender, raw whisper.

"Little sun bug, you do remember me!"

"No," he denied. His ears folded back entirely and his chin tucked in involuntary unease.

"The rotty monsters ate them up. Her and the men. I see'd it."

Suddenly, he smelled sunflowers and honey, and it made his face hot, his eyes tingle, his throat tight.

"Not me, dear honeybee," the sourceless voice crooned softly, and the memories touched him again, gently, gently, gently.

Elegant hands pushed the curls from his forehead and she smiled at him with the same mouth she used in yelling fiercely at her men when they

"--stepped out of line, honeybee--"

He learned how to yell from her, how to tilt the chin, how to hold the ears and shoulders just so, how to

"--never show fear, even when you feel it, because  the men only respect you when you grind your heel into their balls."

"Gone," he repeated, barely whispering, and brought a thumb to his teeth to nibble roughly on.

"No, honeybee, I am here."

He tried again to find the voice, craning his neck to look. Puzzling out the source of it became more difficult every second: thoughts muffled and sleepy, he felt steeped in magic and sunlight, like a freshly-laundered blanket.

And the lingering scents of honey and sunflowers further distracted; they clogged up his nose, kindled an ever-greater yearning for strong arms and a proud face. He wanted her, not just the reawakened memory, and the unfairness of her absence tightened his features painfully into renewed grief.

"All it takes," the voice enticed, "for us to go home together is to offer me one small promise."

"Maman," he said brokenly, and reached out to the greatest of the gleaming crystals before him--because he saw his dead mother's face within.

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umbrarex’s Macaw

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Have a thing. It's barebones because I'm still fixing it up, and I need to either wheedle art from someone or suck it up and do shitty little doodles myself, but in the meantime... uhh. Have at thee? 

If you have no idea who the "little prince" in question is, you can read through the appropriate tag here or check out his WIP character ref sheet here.

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The chewed up hand that peels off the vellum-wrapped tome trembles minutely. Blackened, skeletal fingers shred the paper only with concerted effort, for their owner lacks even the meager strength and vigour he once possessed.

Click goes the lock at his touch, and roll goes the nebulous, shadowy eye within its socket. The attached chains begin to disintegrate into nothing, like fine grains of sand puffed away on an errant breeze.

Crackle, the shelfback whispers as he opens the tome up; shhh, says the folded up note that flutters free into his lap. Reading it taxes him just as much, but he persists, mouthing the syllables as tired, hollow eyes scan the elegant script with slow, ponderous persistence.

Sometimes to See, you must brave darkness.

His trembling hand spasms, involuntarily crumpling the parchment between the stiffened fingers. Daring to read another line--with the cruel susurration of darkness humming through his mind--becomes a struggle of will versus crippling fear.

You can become the master, rather than the slave.

An enticing promise--but he remembers promises, and how all of them habitually end as false hopes hellbent on crushing him beneath the weight of their failure and disappointment.

Desperation trips him into kindling a flicker of hope, however, and his reward becomes the finally, penned line:

Do not fear the bees: my Eyes are all around you.

The Forest does not cry, and while his shell might be an elf's, he remains Forest through and through, and so the hot, salty tears that brim over and dribble down dirty, sunken cheeks cannot be his.

The dark-skinned, fel-riddled creature that can barely pass for a boy tucks the opened lock against his cracked, callused palm--clutching to it as much as the heavy book cradled in the crook of his bony elbow, because they represent the only Light a monster like him might dare dream of beneath the barbed sting of Solly's bees.

((THANK YOU FOR THE BOOK, X. I WILL WORK VERY HARD IN GETTING 'TALA TO 90 AND GEARED FOR THIS ADVENTURE. <3<3))

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---

The thrum of the Zandalari voices stayed a steady presence behind closed tent flaps until Mja returns with his offerings.

The troll himself comes from the tent the next moment, rushing outside in a flurry of fabric and sputtered incoherency--only to halt mid-stride when confronted with the visual reminder of the "company" present, and no where really to go lest he wishes to undo all of his efforts on shielding their camp again.

Unable to complete his hasty exit, Oti'eno hovers in front of the tent opening in uncomfortable silence. His frozen indecision comes replete with ears flattened, chin tipped, and tusks tucked, all considerably unusual posture for a man prone to far more confident posturing.

In fact, the laughter rippling out at his back from inside the tent causes his shoulders to hunch the barest amount and the dark skin of his face to darken subtly.

"Sasa, is it?" he huffs out in a released, anxious sigh, inadvertently revealing that--indeed--he listened in to their conversation.

At least to the  extent of his abilities before being _rudely_ interrupted by a certain kite-flier.

"After the meal, o hunter of the sands, we will discuss how best to ensure your silence of us." He awkwardly feigns focus in adjusting the thick metal cuffs about his wrists. "Loyalty to your ward or no, you can surely understand my reticence in trusting your word."

Whispers of Sand

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You made him such a pudgy cutie. I'm so proud. I'm especially impressed with the eye colour and the paint job on them. Hell, all the little details in this please me and you have officially given me the headcanon that his tusks were super awkward as a kid, like someone in need of braces for really crooked teeth or an overbite or something. :D

Really fantastic job, Kate. You're steadily improving with each piece. KEEP GOING.

Psst draw another troll. 8D

Umbrarex’s Noneta as a kid. Thanks for letting me draw this guy, he was fun! <3

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Astarin, uh... learns things.

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rebagle'ing to appropriate character blog, also.

This is art by the wonderful kudufawks, who--given the choice of a good portion of my character cast, chose Oti for an offered freebie art sketch.

Thanks again!

forrrr umbrarex!

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Baby Naja kaouthia

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NECROBIOLOGY

[noun]

the life processes associated with morphological, biochemical, and molecular changes which predispose, precede, and accompany cell death, as well as the consequences and tissue response to cell death. The word is derived from the Greek νεκρό meaning “death”, βìο meaning “life”, and λόγος meaning “the study of”

[Budi Satria Kwan]