#And I wanted to expanded more on the stuff I draw

[illustrate-her]

@that-nerd-who-writes-fanfiction posted about wanting to read at Merlin/Musketeers crossover fic with Merlin in the 17th century timeline, and for some reason it just jumped into my head, and I wrote this thing in about two hours whilst trying to convince my stubbornly awake toddler to gtf to sleep.

Un-beta’d, very quick and dirty.

Tags: angst, insanity, mentions of serious injury, stuff like that.

___

Time slips on, and on occasion, Merlin will let his sanity slip with it. He keeps half a finger pressed against the magic inside of him, because he knows it will tell him when Arthur returns. Alright - he hopes it will tell him. His opinion on the trustworthiness of magic tends to ebb and flow with the years, and whether or not he is in a particularly bleak period at the time.

Merlin allows himself that too: a decade here or there to really wallow in the awfulness, the loneliness of it. After a couple of hundred years he begins to realise a pattern, that he makes himself Emrys when he is feeling miserable, and allows the hopefulness of his younger body to propel him back into purpose and the will to carry on. 

The sanity though, that is a different thing. Sometimes it just becomes too much to learn the new ways, to assimilate into the societies of the time and not look like, well, a lunatic. And when that happens Merlin seems to give a mental shrug and let himself descend into the swirl of magic inside of him, because when Arthur died, when the prophecy came to pass it was like all of the magic in the world came rushing through him like an open floodgate, and everything that made him Merlin got swept away in the deluge.

So the time slips on. And Merlin lives. Some times he lives better than others, though famine or self-inflicted starvation, injury or cold or despair doesn’t seem to hinder him for long.

Time slips on, but, he reflects one day, slipping almost implies a certain degree of speed. And the time fucking drags.

At some point around the 15th century he decides to leave the land that has now been named Britain: when Arthur returns it would do him well to be advised by someone who knows a little bit about the countries that now encircle Albion across the sea. Every year the world seems to expand, new places and people emerging from the mists, new foodstuff and materials and advances in technology and warfare and medicine and artistry. And despite his oft-experience malaise, Merlin cannot help but find it all absolutely fascinating: he had spent an interesting couple of years learning everything about astronomy and mathematics from a Moorish traveler, found himself moved to tears by the paintings of Caravaggio and the tragic love of Shakespeare. The marvels that can be wrought without even a scrap of magic are astounding, and often it is this undying progress of humankind and their relentless search for beauty and meaning that gives him a reason to keep living.

Sometimes around the early 17th century -  though he has lost count a bit. 1620? 1640? - he finds himself in France, and the magnetic pull of the great and rambling city of Paris draws him inexplicably towards it. It seems to perfectly represent everything that people are: disgusting and beautiful and kind and brutal in equal measure.

He doesn’t care much for the kings of this age, finds them venal and stupid and small-minded. And it’s because of this that the sadness swell within him once more like a horrible dark sucking of water behind his breastbone, because these kings are nothing - nothing - like Arthur, and he feels the loss of the man like an aching in the world. 

What a king like Arthur could do! What peace he could bring, what justice! To see these small men on their thrones when Arthur lies sleeping in Avalon feels like the most enormous of injustices, and Merlin feels the despair slip slowly into his lack of will to try, and his tenuous grip on his sanity loosens like a sail in the wind once more.

So it is in France, in Paris, in the early part of the 17th century - 1610? 1630? - that Merlin finds himself locked within the walls of some castle or dungeon or prison. He cannot remember if he has committed some crime - it does tend to happen, regrettably: an apple taken from a cart or an insult given without meaning, a lack of understanding of social mores of a time or that breeches must generally be worn in public, that sort of thing - but either way merlin is locked within stone walls and iron bars.

He could get out in an instant, of course. If he wanted to. If he had anywhere to go, something to do or anyone who was waiting for him.

Ah, there’s the despair again. What does it matter? He doesn’t need much to live on: the hunger cramps in his belly but he barely notices. It won’t kill him. 

Nothing will fucking kill him.

“Do I…do I know you?” 

It takes a long time for Merlin to respond at all, given that he is so unused to anyone speaking to him but the gaoler, who tends to spit on Merlin more often than speak to him. 

“I’m…I’m sorry?” Merlin says. He looks up, lets his eyes adjust. There is a man on the other side of the bars, clearly having paused whilst walking by this cell.

“Fuck,” Merlin breathes. It’s a word he’s learned of late and it seems to fit a lot of situations. Seeing someone who died around ten centuries ago is probably one of them.

The same brown eyes, that’s the first thing Merlin’s notices: brown eyes warm and lit from beneath like peat water in the sun, framed with lashes that always were a little indecent. He has a neat moustache and beard, fashionable at this time, and his hair is longer, reaching almost to his shoulders in places. 

“Your hair curls,” Merlin says, his voice croaked thin with disuse. “I suppose it was never long enough to before.”

Lancelot puts a hand up to his hair for a moment, his brows pulling low in a frown. “My hair…” he says, confused.

And everything just seems to crash around Merlin as if the whole ceiling were raining down on him because of course, of course: he’s mad isn’t he? This isn’t real. This is just some man. It cannot be Lancelot. 

“What’s your name?” The man who is not Lancelot says. He steps closer and Merlin can see that he is dressed practically but with a touch of frivolity, the lace around the edges of his shirt, the tooling on his doublet. The hilt of his sword is a swirled and elegant thing, just visible hanging from belts slug around his waist with a blue sash. And buckled at his shoulder is a leather pauldron, fashioned with some regimental heraldry that Merlin has not been bothered to educate himself on.

“What is your name?” The man says again, squatting down so that he is on the same eyeline as Merlin. His voice has gone soft, kind.

“Merlin,” Merlin rasps. “Who. Who are you?”

“Aramis. Of the King’s Musketeers.” The man doffs his feathered hat in a gesture of good manners, and his smile is warm and easing across his face.

His smile is not like Lancelot’s. Merlin’s friend had been shy at times, his smile a timid thing, though wonderful for its scarcity.

This man - this Aramis -  smiles too easily and with too much knowing.

“You’re not him,” Merlin says. He feels a lump of something hot and molten lodged in his throat, and only realises that he is crying when the tears scald lines down his cheeks. He doesn’t have the energy to feel shame anymore, dignity is such a pointless thing when you’ve lived as long or seen as much as Merlin has.

“I’m…I’m not him,” Aramis says kindly. “I’m sorry.” He reaches a hand then, through the bars, and lays it on Merlin’s arm without any guile. And Merlin cannot remember the last time that anyone touched him. 

___

Aramis comes back the next day. 

“You know, it’s very strange. I do feel like I know you,” Aramis says, thoughtfully. 

“You look exactly like a man I used to know,” Merlin says.

“And where is this friend of yours now?”

“Dead. Twice over,” Merlin says to the ceiling, because it is too horrible, too strange to say it while looking at this man who is the very mirror of Lancelot.

“I am sorry,” Aramis says quietly. “It is terrible to suffer the loss of a friend. They say that time can heal, a little…”

He trails off because Merlin is laughing, uncontrollable heaves of laughter. “I’m not sure,” he hiccups, breathless, after a while, “A thousand years hasn’t seemed to do much.” He laughs again then, for quite some time. Aramis only sits, a puzzled sort of half-smile on his face.

___

He comes back again the next day.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” he says, half to himself. And then he shakes his head as if to rid it of something, and settles down to talk through the bars once more.

“I brought you some food, Merlin,” Aramis says. “You’re terribly thin.”

“I always was,” Merlin says, but he accepts the food that Aramis hands him through the bars. “Arthur used to say that’s why my ears stuck out so much.”

“Arthur is another friend of yours?” Aramis smiles.

Merlin genuinely hadn’t meant to speak his name, hadn’t meant to summon Arthur up from whatever place he inhabited in the depths of Merlin’s heart.

“Another dead friend,” he says, with forced levity.

“I’m sorry,” Aramis says. And then, “Will you tell me about him?”

For a moment Merlin hovers somewhere between the desire to keep Arthur close, safe and protected and unknown by this huge and dangerous world he finds himself in. But to speak of him might make him feel as though he were alive once more, and it’s this desire that wins the day.

“He was a King, actually.”

“Huh,” Aramis smiles, though not unkindly, “Like King Arthur himself.”

“What?” Merlin asks, frowning.

“Well, you know. King Arthur. And, who was it…ah…Guinevere?”

His eyes widen a little bit when he sees the look on Merlin’s face. “I don’t know anymore, really. My English is not so good, so I’ve not read it. But Athos sometimes likes to rave about English literature when he’s drunk enough Armagnac. Not wine, funnily enough - that just makes him maudlin - but Armagnac? That’s when we get the Shakespeare, the Chaucer, the rest of it…”

He trails off. “La Morte d’Arthur. It’s a book about a king from Britain called Arthur...” He clears his throat. “I’ve not read it.”

“Fuck,” is all that Merlin can say.

___

“Why are you in here, Merlin?” Aramis asks one day. “What did you do?” He looks as though he’s bracing himself for some awful reveal, but Merlin can only shrug.

“I don’t know. Can’t remember.”

“You…can’t remember?”

“I must have done something,” Merlin elaborates, Nothing, you know, awful,” he hastens to add. “But possibly something illegal. Or mad. It’s likely I’m here because I did something mad. It has happened before.”

“You’ve been imprisoned before?”

“Oh,” Merlin puffs out his cheeks with a sigh. “More times than I could count actually. Never for anything awful.”

“Just something mad,” Aramis supplies.

“Yeah. That.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Merlin says after a while, and stretches out his long legs, and lets his head thunk back against the rough walls of the cell. “I could get out of here right now if I wanted to.”

“And you don’t want to?”

“Not really. I don’t see why I should.”

___

“I’m going to petition the Queen to have you pardoned,” Aramis beams one day, sitting on the floor outside the bars with an alarming clatter of pistols and blades.

“Why do you have so many weapons?” Merlin frowns, “Surely it just sort of gets in the way after a point.”

“I have exactly as many weapons as I need, thank you very much, and if I didn’t I’d be dead by now. Only this morning I narrowly avoided being shot through the head because I had this,” Aramis pats lovingly at a blade in his belt. “Besides, didn’t you hear me? I said I’m going to petition the Queen to have you pardoned.”

“Why would the Queen listen to you?” Merlin says, dubiously. “And did you bring me any more of that apple pastry?”

“No, Constance says there’ll be more tomorrow, and the Queen and I have…well, we are…we speak sometimes.”

Merlin sits up, a rush of something invisible and heavy suddenly falling onto his chest. “Aramis. You should stay away from queens. Take it from me.”

“You’re speaking nonsense,” Aramis says, waving a hand. 

“Frequently,” Merlin nods.

“She gave me this,” Aramis says, pulling out a small crucifix on a chain about his neck, and there is something small and tender in his voice and oh Gods he’s in love with her, isn’t he? He’s in love with the Queen. 

“Fuck, Lancelot,” Merlin moans, screwing his eyes shut. “You never learn, do you?”

___

Aramis doesn’t come back the next day. 

Or the next.

Or the next.

And then there is another man, tall and dark-skinned and looming.

“You him then?” He asks, voice gruff, as though throwing out a challenge before one can be made to him. “Merlin?”

Merlin opens one eye. “The one and only.”

“Huh,” the man says, “Barely more than a boy. You’re the one he’s been comin’ to see every day?”

“Aramis?” Merlin says, sitting up, “You know Aramis?”

“I do,” the man nods. “Yeah I do. He told me to come and see you. He was…he made me promise. Dunno why.” He scratches the back of his neck, awkwardly, and it’s only then that Merlin notices the stretched thin quality of this man, the way his face is drawn and tired.

“What’s wrong,” Merlin says, bolting to his feet. “What is it?”

“Aramis…” the man says, trailing off. He takes in a deep breath. “Aramis got…he was run through. Right in the gut.”

The world spins, settles to a point of excruciating clarity. 

“Is he dead?” Merlin asks, voice very still.

“Not yet,” the man says, and the yet dangles there like a hanged man because it is suddenly very obvious that yet means soon.

“Aliese.” Merlin feels his eyes flash gold, and it’s like a relief singing through his whole body to use his magic after so very long. The lock on the barred door clicks somewhere deep within its mechanism, he shoves it with his shoulder as he steps through. “Where is he?”

___

He can feel the wary shock of the man next to him as they hurry through the streets of Paris, hasn’t failed to notice how the man has one hand on his pistol and one on the hilt of his huge sword, both hanging from his belt, and uses his chin and a snapped word to indicate which direction they must go. 

They had walked right out of the prison. Merlin had only needed to cast a little spell, a small easing of things so that eyes glazed over him and attention settled elsewhere as he passed. They walked right out and no one even said a word, and is it testament to the fear and shock - not of Merlin but that Aramis’ death is imminent - that stops the big man who walks beside him from asking questions or demanding to know what exactly Merlin is doing.

He is led through a doorway and into an internal courtyard, up some worn stone staircase and into a suite of modest rooms. A young man startles to his feet beside the bed, and another is leaning heavily against the wall with his back to them and a half-drunk bottle of wine hanging from his lax grasp.

“Who’s this?” The young man says.

“Aramis’ friend.”

“Send him away, Porthos” says the man leaning against the wall without bothering to turn. “If he is truly his friend he will not want to witness what comes next.”

The big man - Porthos - crosses to the bed and drops to his knees beside it, and it’s only then that Merlin really looks. Aramis is lying there, his face a sweating and awful shade of spoilt milk. His eyes are closed and bruised around with blue shadows. His breath comes rattling and sullen.

“Aramis,” Porthos says, and his voice is horrible and filled with a false kind of easiness, “Aramis? Can you hear me? I’ve got someone here for you. Your friend. Merlin.”

The man in the bed does not move, shows no sign of hearing anything that is happening in this room.

Merlin can hardly breathe. He sees Aramis in the bed but he sees Lancelot, dead, laid out in the boat that he sent out into the lake. He sees it all and a thousand years is nothing, is nothing.

“Do you have yarrow?” Merlin asks, crossing quickly to the side of the bed and shouldering Porthos out of the way. “Ah…Achillée Millefeuille?”

“What would we do with that?” the younger man says, dubiously. 

“It’s an old wives tale,” the man leaning against the wall states in a monotone, “Said to stop bleeding.”

“It works,” Merlin insists, “Especially when I can help it along with magic.”

The room falls silent. “Magic,” Porthos says after a moment.

“Why did you bring him here?” Spits the older man, by the wall.

“Because Aramis asked me too, Athos!” Porthos says, jumping to his feet angrily. “Because he is Aramis’ friend and Aramis is dying’!”

“Don’t do this,” the young man says, his voice high with desperation. “Not now.”

“Fuck it,” Merlin says, and rips down the blanket over the dying man’s abdomen, and places his hands where there is a mess of dark blood and bandages. 

It’s not like with Lancelot, or with Arthur. Their deaths had been sullied by dark magic before Merlin could even think to help them. Aramis’ wound is deep and awful but it was made with a mortal blade, untouched by sorcery. 

Merlin couldn’t do it for Lancelot, or Arthur.

He will do it for Aramis.

He closes his eyes and reaches deep within himself, to that swirling maelstrom of power. He reaches further, pulls from the hewn timber of the floorboards that still hold some echo of the trees they once were and the vast forests in which they once grew. He pulls down deeper, reaching through beam and plank and flagstone, through to the earth beneath, alive with living things, alive with a magic that is so simple and so ever-present that it could never die, could never even be noticed.

“Come on,” he spits.

Merlin pulls. Merlin heaves. He feels his body shaking uncontrollably, his teeth chattering. He feels his eyes burning painful and hot with magic until he cannot see anything anymore through the sun flare glow of them. He feels all the air leave his lungs and the way they cramp around their emptiness because there is no room for breath, no room for anything but the magic.

All the glass in the windows blows out, and Merlin keels sideways. He doesn’t hear how the room erupts in shouts. He is unconscious before he hits the floor.

___

The dark is comforting, and warm, and friendly. He doesn’t want to open his aching eyes. He feels like every part of his body has been punched.

“Merlin,” says a voice. “Merlin. Are you with us?”

“Can’t I sleep a little longer Gaius?” Merlin groans, and then memory blooms like a flower, and he understands that Gaius is long dead, and that the man speaking to him was about to be.

“Aramis,” Merlin says, and tries to sit up but the room spins him back to a groaning horizontal. He screws his eyes shut again.

“Easy,” Aramis says. “I don’t know what in God’s name you did but I imagine it rather took its toll.”

“What did I do?” Merlin says, cracking one eye open.

“Well. I no longer have a hole in my stomach,” Aramis says, thoughtfully, “Which I…I don’t want to think about right now.”

___

At the Porte Saint Honore Aramis looks assessingly at him. It’s so much like the kind of look Lancelot would have given Merlin that he can’t help but grin back. It doesn’t hurt so much, anymore, and he’s not sure why but he is very grateful.

“Are you well enough to travel?” Aramis asks, dubiously.

“I’m fine, Aramis.”

“Are you an angel, Merlin?”

“An..a..no. No I’m not, Aramis.”

“Hmm,” Aramis says, assessing him once more. “Well, regardless, I will pray for you at the church of Saint Sulpice this evening.”

“You think I’m in need of saving?” Merlin is well aware that the attitudes towards magic - witchcraft - have not improved particularly despite the passage of time.

”I think you’re in need of protecting,” Aramis says, simply. “I think you’re quite extraordinary and I think I will pray every day for the Lord to watch over you because you saved my sorry, sinful life. Merlin.”

Merlin looks at those brown eyes, those same eyes. “I couldn’t save my friend. I couldn’t save any of my friends. I am glad to have been able to save you.”

“Where will you go?”

The countryside spreads out like a blanket around the city, darned patches of fields and woodlands. But Merlin can feel it again, that little tugging sensation somewhere inside his ribcage. 

“Home.”

“Britain?” Aramis says, and then makes a small moue of distaste at Merlin’s questioning raised eyebrow. “I assumed. Your accent is atrocious.” 

Merlin laughs. And it feels so good. 

“Yes,” Merlin says, “Britain. I can’t be gone for long. I’m waiting for someone.”

The countryside spreads out like a blanket, and time spreads out quite similarly, and perhaps there are bits darned here and there, mends and rips and added patches. Perhaps a person can come again, in a different place and a different time, and Merlin has to believe it’s true because that means he’s still holding on - somewhere, somehow - to the faith that Arthur will come again.

Time spreads out, and Merlin wonders if maybe all these years might be worth something after all, and that for a while at least, he might try being part of the world again.

[huh-1260]

Me *kicks down door*: IM DONG THE CHARACTER COLOR WHEEL CHALLENGE!

My brain (+anxiety): that's a little to late for tha-

Mr: SHUT THE FUCK UP I GET TO DRAW WHOEVER I WANT

My brain: what happens when you don't know who to draw

Me: I have friends to ask bitch! Plus i can draw everything i like! Every single one and I get to draw The JETTWINS again and post it.

Soooo, uh ill take request for characters for this

[blackkatdraws2]

There are more things in the Parable than Stanley knows about. [Blank Scripts AU]

[livvylubug]

In honor of a crumb of murder drones from glitch, here’s another AU me and my friend have been cooking up.

It’s a super hero/villain AU!

“Uzi” the villain! Who uses her real name as her villain name

(And she has two sentinel minions who are absolutely silly)

N J and V who are our heros (surprising I know)

V and N are designed and drawn by my friend Jack who doesn’t have tumblr

“Killer queen” the villain, AKA Lizzy! Absolutely coated in sparkles and glitter

And “Likho” the villain, AKA doll! Designed by my friend!

[fansids]

Being in multiple fandoms is so tough as an artist cause I want to draw everything, but I have time to draw nothing ahhhh. Even when I do just picking what I want to do is it's whole issue.

[maddieandangel]

Had a weird Hollow Knight-related dream a couple days ago, so I decided to draw a major scene I remembered from it dgsgshf

More context will be in the tags, for those interested!

[draw-you-coward]

power level: how it started vs how it's going

[mercurials]

I really like brandy's design!! can u tell us a bit more about her backstory?

THANK U!! :') i accidentally wrote a huge ramble so i hid it under a readmore and added a tldr paragraph lol! gonna try not to feel too cringe for sharing all this bc shes from a silly little fantasy animal rp teehee. also if anything seems contradictory or lacking in context its bc theres a lot of nuance to the roleplay/dynamics that i had to leave out cuz i could talk forever

TLDR - basically she grew up a religious fanatic who was training to be a priestess of a warmongering god, and left home at too young of an age to carry out missionary work after she received a sign from him. being young, very sheltered, and always in search of attention and validation (she'd suffered through a lot of emotional neglect and outright hatred at various points in her life thus far), it wasn't long before she fell in with a bad, predatory crowd and an abusive boyfriend. this led to her completely cutting herself off from her family out of shame (and fear over abandoning her missionary work) and a long and still ongoing struggle with substance abuse, self worth issues, problems setting boundaries and understanding her sexuality, and self-destructive hedonism. the shitty hand she was dealt felt like a betrayal, considering it was all caused by her leaving to carry out religious duties, so she spurned her god and has been unlearning a lot of religious bullshit ever since. after being dumped by her boyfriend it took her a long time to reconnect with her family, because she spent a while spiraling in isolation with deeply unhealthy coping mechanisms as she navigated a fuckton of trauma with no help. since then, however, she was found by her aunt and finally brought home - though the home was new, as her family had been exiled from their community during her absence due to political conflict. reuniting with them has been the best thing for her; she was welcomed back with open arms and is slowly working through everything that's happened to her, but her recovery has had many ups and downs.

longer version

(content warning for themes of pedophilia and abuse beginning in paragraph 5)

despite being born elsewhere, early on she moved to and grew up in a deeply religious society that worships a bloodthirsty god - and she was all for it in her youth. like, very gung ho about becoming a priestess, cutting off her siblings who still lived in their birthplace, etc etc. her beloved grandmother was one of the rulers of this society and a voice of their god, so it meant everything to her.

this new life gave her the purpose, community, and companionship that she lacked in her birthplace, with no friends and a neglectful and emotionally distant immediate family, so as a lonely and vulnerable child she was caught hook, line, and sinker. she connected with extended family that actually made her feel wanted, she was favored by a god to the point of being granted powers, and she felt whole. i think isolating herself from her immediate family, who did not live here with her, gave her a sense of retribution as well.

buuut there was also a lot of developing political tension and a lot of vitriol toward her family - spearheaded by her grandmother's co-ruler, who had powerful sway. and in a brutal environment like her warmongering clan, this was a major and dangerous threat. so for all the joy brandy found in living here and worshipping her god, youthfully unaware of the conquest this necessitated, she grew more unhappy than she was able to identify. so when she one day manifested the ability to grow (and retract) a pair of wings, she interpreted this as a sign from the red god and jumped at the opportunity to leave her home and carry out missionary work in his name - perhaps out of a desperation to leave this place, although that was largely a subconscious motivation.

she was absolutely too young to be striking out on her own, probably around 15 at most (i was writing her on a feral forum rp so the aging was obv different which makes the conversion fucky so im still figuring that stuff out a bit lmao). but what the red god said, went, so no one questioned it - and she was naively eager and unafraid. she was his chosen. she was royalty. she was invincible.

NOT REALLY! she was more vulnerable than she ever could have realized, so desperate to prove her value to her clan (...and get as far away from those seeking to harm her as possible). desperate to be seen and loved without any judgment for her lineage. so it was all too easy for one of the first men she met beyond her land's borders to take advantage of her, and lead her astray from her goals - she was young, after all, and had very little world experience. finn was his name, and he introduced brandy to an entirely new world than anything she'd ever experienced, one of hedonistic vice. nothing a fifteen year old had any business engaging with, and certainly nothing a grown man had any business introducing a fifteen year old to. this new world, this new attention, was intoxicating to someone as sheltered and high strung as brandy - it wasn't long before she and finn began dating, and relatively soon after that her missionary work fell easily to the wayside.

their honeymoon phase felt amazing, like a dream to brandy, but red flags eventually began emerging that she didn't yet have the capacity to examine or act against. finn would always subtly shut down conversations about her home and family, and grew increasingly more controlling, overprotective, argumentative, and jealous over time. resentment did begin to fester within brandy, but she was easily guilt tripped or otherwise pressured out of it time and time again... until things came to a head in an explosive argument that ended with finn dumping brandy and kicking her out.

distraught, she spurned the god who'd led his devotee down this path and then let her suffer like this, and struck out on her own instead of returning home - the shame of dropping off the face of the earth and abandoning her family was too much to bear. what if they hated her for running away? for abandoning her mission? from there, she spiraled, finding relief in substance abuse and the bed of any stranger that would take her. it was the one area in which she enjoyed any sense of autonomy and control - although it reinforced the lesson she'd learned from finn and his friends that her body and sexuality were what gave her worth. with time her physical and mental health began to plummet, her sense of self weakening and her hedonistic escapism becoming the only thing keeping her afloat despite slowly sucking the spirit out of her. she missed her family desperately, and longed to be a child in their arms once more, but as time went on reaching out to them became less and less of a material possibility in her mind.

but by pure chance and far into the future, she one day stumbled into her aunt, arya, while out and about; though panic overtook brandy at the sudden reunion, arya was only ecstatic to see her again, which was an unbelievable relief. but it was a bittersweet reunion - brandy had missed a lot, including the assassination of her beloved grandmother and subsequent exile of her entire family from their community. the former broke her heart and flooded her with even more guilt about her abandonment. here she'd been gallavanting about, living solely for herself and running away from her responsibilities and family and obligations, while the loved ones she'd been trying so hard to forget were suffering.

it took a lot of reassurance and convincing to ease brandy's nerves about going home and reuniting with everyone else, but ultimately she gave in – and it was one of the best decisions she ever made. everyone welcomed her back with open arms, having assumed she'd died and ecstatic to be proven wrong. she moved in with her living grandmother and began rekindling the relationships she'd lost and missed out on for so much of her life, and though recovery has been a massively uphill battle she's doing what she can with her newfound support system.

aaaand that concludes everything i properly rped before the site i wrote on crashed and burned ✌🏼

[lambentplume]

dude.

[thedortbag]

chrysanthemum

[mechanichuntsman]

[skitskatdacat63]

your trademark is sick AUs (positive, so positive, im obsessed) and vettonso <3

AAAAAAAAHHHHHHH THANK YOU!!!! 💕

I think I've said before but I really did not expect so much interest in what is just really intense historical brainrot for me, so thank you guys so much as always 🥹

Also yep, glad to have reached a point of patron saint of the ship atp 😭 I don't wanna act too egotistical abt it but then I realize how many people associate me with them and I'm like okay ☺️

[lonelysheepling]

There's that period you go through when you're learning a creative skill (be it digital drawing, animation, writing, audio production, game design, web design, etc.) where whenever you see/interact with it in the wild you end up—consciously or subconsciously—analyzing it to see how it was made

Trying to figure out how someone created the thing your looking at is background process that never really seems to go away entirely, even as you gain more and more experience in that skill area. It just becomes more of a background process than an active one.

[duskerot]

i just put together my year in review art summary for the year and its interesting because compared to last year i think my technical skills improved but it feels a little bittersweet overall because as soon as i got my job all of that ambition just vanished LOL

[rayne-showers]

Collecting some tags:

#yes this#I do think it was Jayce who was convinced Heimerdinger would support their new projects#he said that after building the hexgates it was their turn to decide what to do before he'd even considered getting outside funding#so I'd argue he's the naive one more than Viktor#Viktor just doesn't want to deal with the financial side of things or think about money which I find relatable#he wants to help people in need not argue about money and it kind of sucks that the latter is also necessary#and Viktor did seem more skeptical if Heimerdinger would approve#overall I would expect Heimerdinger to be willing to fund broader hextech applications than solely what makes the council the most money#since scientific innovation is kind of what his whole character is about#but he has some reasonable safety concerns that he presents in a not as reasonable way (via @melanielocke)

#and there's still plenty of opportunities for jayce to act as the face even without schmoozing investors#public engagement events to give information and answer questions about hextech#while it's government funded if enough people are uneasy about magic there would be potential for protesting#parties and galas with the heads of trade unions to persuade them to join the venture#engaging with artisans and architects to develop plans for the hexgates#and more i'm probably not even aware of (via @4amarcanethoughts)

#also makes sense in terms of Jayce being so frustrated with Heimerdinger#and so ready to toss him off the council#because that means Jayce and Viktor NEAR EXCLUSIVELY (as far as we can tell)#worked to get the hexgates done which was 100% a council project#for 6 years#and then something that was specifically what him and Viktor wanted to do#(and was specific to Viktor’s background)#and is frankly a whole lot more practical and less dangerous that freakin’ MASS ACCELLERATION GATES#was outright dismissed for 10 years of testing!#THE HEXGATES TOOK 6 TO BUILD#and I’m sorry but I absolutely would trust gloves that punch things tech wise vs a giant acceleration gate that zoomed a whole ship and#everything and everyone on it#but also I’m sure Heimerdinger saw it as individual vs collective#since these were tools an individual would use#vs what Piltover would have direct control over#ugh I both love and hate Heimerdinger so much this dude had so many control issues when it came to the cities &dropped the ball on so much (via @dizzyrobinsims)

(Arcane Meta) Jayce probably did NOT canonically need to fundraise for Hextech pre-time skip / before 1.04 "Progress Day"

I posted this originally on Twitter but I find the format there quite limiting so I thought I'd expand on my thoughts here. (For those unfamiliar with Jayce/Viktor-centric Arcane fic, a lot of fics have as a plot point that Jayce needs to be constantly out fundraising to make their Hextech dream a reality before the events of Arcane.)

Not to debunk some widely held fanon that my own fics have indulged in, but we actually have evidence that Jayce and Viktor did not have investors before 1.04 "Progress Day" (ie, during the time-skip) because Jayce was surprised by the notion when Mel brought it up.

Now, I’ve seen and WRITTEN plenty of fics where Jayce spends much of the time skip promoting Hextech to investors, so I know this fanon is very widespread, but actually Jayce seems surprised by the very notion when Mel brings up that she has found investors for Hextech. The idea is foreign to Jayce, implying Hextech to that point was a state-run effort, ie, Piltover-funded and they only ever needed to convince Heimerdinger/the Council.

(*Puts on my tech startup-founder hat*) What changes in 1.04 is that Mel is offering to bring in OUTSIDE interests who want to add their funds to Hextech’s development in exchange for a “piece of Hextech” that has until that point been 100% limited to government funding, ie Piltover, which makes sense. The Hexgates were a government effort and therefore only ever had one customer.

(Indeed, I actually don't think there are Hexgates anywhere but in Piltover, despite what some fics have posited. First of all, why woul you give that economic advantage to potential competitors? With there being only one Hexgate in Piltover, all trade is forced to divert there, bringing their goods and their money, if they wish to reach their target destination in record time. Piltover then gets a piece of every trade vessel that goes through there in Hexgate fees and profits enormously. You leave it up to the merchants to make their own, slow way back and only ever grant them one-way instantaneous travel away from Piltover as the sweetener to pass through and give you a percentage of that tasty, tasty trade.)

Anyway, back to to the topic. So actually Jayce probably WASN’T doing the dog-and-pony show, dressing up and performing for investors during the time skip as those fics (and my own) posit. We know this because the notion was new to him. Jayce was still the public face of Hextech, the Man of Progress, but from what we actually see, between Mel, the Kirammans, and Heimerdinger/the Council, he never needed to fundraise.

Indeed, we actually see Jayce fundraise for the first time, after he becomes a Councilor, with Mel as his coach, at the opera when he comes up with the idea of "Hextech partners" on the spot. In fact, Mel compliments him on the NEW idea of offering Hextech partnerships to outside investors in exchange for early access to their innovations. If Jayce had been fundraising before that, such a mechanism would already exist and he wouldn't need to invent it then and there.

Now, I still think there's plenty of reasons for fics to have Jayce fundraising during the time skip. Arcane S1 is a very efficient show and a lot of stuff happens post time-skip that probably would have actually happened during it, realistically speaking, but they want to show it on screen so it gets moved later, even if it logically makes less sense. After all, Jayce's half of the show timeline is very weird, since it technically runs parallel to Caitlyn's time in the undercity, but she only spends a couple days there while Jayce talks about being a Councilor "talking about talking for weeks now." So I think any fic would be justified in telescoping and moving around some of the logistical timeline in their story in a way that makes more sense in a longer-form story than the show had time for.

If anything, it would make more sense if Jayce's discussion with Mel about investors happened not long after Hextech was first launched and it's just moved later so it can be shown on screen after the time skip.

But, it is also worth noting, that it is also realistic that Jayce never had to think about investors, because the Hexgates have been government funded since the start as the sole invention of Hextech. So in a way, it does make sense that only now would he and Viktor need to start thinking about outside investors if, say, they wanted to pursue innovations that wouldn't be wholly supported and funded by the Council. Say, mining equipment for Zaunite workers?

Viktor was sure Heimerdinger would see the potential, but once again I think that just shows his naïveté and scientific tunnel-vision. Viktor has never shown a mind for the financial side of science, he's an academic through-and-through. Jayce was always handling the business side and indeed, only barely handling the actual practicalities, as we see Mel and the Kirammans were as far as we can tell actually doing the behind-the-scenes heavy lifting so his "business" handling was just smiling for the cameras, not negotiating with trade guilds, up until he became a Councilor.

What this really tells us, as a final thought to leave you with that makes my logistical brain go brrrr, is that the Hexgates were much less a traditional "tech startup", reliant on the goodwill of a whole board of investors that need to be shmoozed, and much more a governmental program akin to the US moon launch, or the Suez Canal.

Jayce and Viktor probably never needed to worry about funding, because they had the entire treasury of Piltover backing their effort, an investment that Piltover almost certainly made back many times over with what the Hexgates would represent for hyper-accelerating trade through the area.

But, such automatic, assured funding has strings attached, strings we saw when Heimerdinger's swift dismissal meant they couldn't simply embark on their own vision for Hextech once the Hexgates were complete. They only ever had a customer of one (Heimerdinger, aka, the government of Piltover) and clearly couldn't even conceive of a way around their one customer telling them to delay the product for more testing, again, because they'd never even considered outside funding before. They'd never had to worry about it, or think about it!

If anything, Mel was probably setting them up in a kinder universe to go independent in a less dramatic way if need be with that initial idea of investors, before events spiraled such considerations out of control and suddenly Jayce was a Councilor who didn't need Hextech partners anymore. He was now, as de facto head of the Council, his own #1 customer and could have, in theory had he not stepped down, double-dealed with himself as Hextech founder (ie, corruption) to green light any Hextech project he wanted, had he truly recognized the potential, and had unfolding events allowed.

[loregoddess]

why does art have to be so art