#But yeah that's the gist of it

[skylendra]

Luffy, Dragon and Freedom

I see people being like “Dragon really made the revolutionary army without including his son, the reincarnation of the god of liberation.” And yes, he did, and it was a good thing for One Piece as a story and for the world of One Piece. Because if he didn’t then Luffy would probably not have become the reincarnation of Nika. Luffy wasn’t born into being the embodiment of freedom, he was made into it.

Luffy is shaped by his experiences, the people he met and globally his childhood. Like almost everyone in One Piece. It is one of the core themes that we are not defined by blood but by our choice. That without being alienated by our past, it led us to where we are.  

Dragon couldn’t be the next Joy Boy, even though the timeline match, because he isn’t free in the way Luffy is. Dragon is the epitome of duty. He is leading the revolution. He has responsibilities towards his people but also the world, at least in his mind. And not to say that Luffy doesn’t have responsibility, but it’s different. The Straw Hat are a family, the Revolutionary Army are an organization.

For Dragon, it is all about the greater good.

He seemed to be sad to have taken this decision. But he will do it again. Because it is a sacrifice he is willing to make. And probably something necessary for the cause.

And this is why he is not the next Joy Boy.

But Luffy is not the same. He doesn’t do something for the greater good. He does things because he wants to or because he thinks it is the right thing to do. Like on Saboady, when he punched Charlos. It was selfish, immature and caused hardship on his crew and others. But that’s not something he regrets, as he said in ch 521. And yes it comes from a deep faith in his crewmates. But still.

If Luffy had been raised as the son of Dragon and under the hypothesis that his desire for freedom was inborn, then his take on it would be different.

Because he wouldn’t have been inspired by the free spirit that is Shanks. He wouldn’t have been left on his own with bandits and some dude he would later call his brother. He wouldn’t just live in the forest doing whatever he wants, without any worries, because they are strong kids. Even though the latter are important for Luffy as a character and also his conception of freedom, at least I think so, it's negligible. Because at this point, the Hito Hito no mi Model: Nika already chose him. Because of Shanks and how he shaped some parts of Luffy (and that's his tragedy, he will only ever be the one who set change in motion like Roger wanted him to, never the change he wanted to be for Roger. And he accepted his fate. He was going to follow his mentor's will and give the fruit to his son. So yeah. He drinks. Because if Roger didn't think he was the guy, than he can't be, he won't be. It's a self fulfilling prophecy. Even though he had the fruit, he won't allow himself to eat it. He won't betray his captain like that. But he still nudges thing a bit, and bet on Luffy. A way to change the course of the fate his captain doomed him to be a spectator, a way to have an impact. And that's a part why Luffy matters so much to him. Because he is the last mission of his late captain. But he also was the one who set him free).

One of Luffy's very strengths and an important part of his take on freedom is his simple-mindedness. He is incredibly emotionally intelligent. He doesn’t embarrass himself with what he considers to be frivolities, he doesn’t care about the reason, he just sees injustice and try to help. An approach that is not shared with the Revolutionary Army. They observe and weigh the stakes and debate and plan and so on.

Because compromises are necessary sometimes. But that’s not what Luffy does. And that’s great. Because Luffy embodies freedom, that’s his whole thing. That’s why the Hito Hito no Mi Model: Nika chose him.

Dragon and Luffy are very different, and have distinct take on freedom. But the one piece’s world needs both. And they need each other in order to succeed.

The Revolutionary Army are the big picture guys. The ones that see the patterns and identify the problem at its roots. The World Government, the Nobles, the Statu quo. They are the ones with the plans and the resources.

Overall, the Straw Hats are not relevant for the marine. They don’t threat the very establishment of the world in the same way. They don’t want to. Yes, Robin wants to discover what happened during the void century and maybe wants to spread the knowledge but she doesn't necessarily want to bring the world government down. Yes Franky had the plan to replicate Pluto but he destroyed it. Yes Luffy had the power of their sworn enemy, but he doesn't know what that means nor does he care. It's just his fruit now. Because they are just the straw hat. They are silly guys who tried to fulfill their dreams and help the ones they care about. They don’t give a fuck about the big picture. They care about the neglected, the people that don’t matter. It's never to end an oppressive regime, it's always to help people who had been kind to them. Everything about it is personal. That why they are different.

We need multiple approaches to get social progress.

So yeah. Dragon and Luffy are different. But that’s what make them complementary.  

[darkthare]

Does anyone else think he should have a Lestat moment

Still learning how to draw them

[foldingfittedsheets]

So one thing I’ve noticed is that people’s DnD characters may vary but there is usually an underlying thread that they all have in common. This thread is typically related to what that person struggles with the most.

For instance, my betrotheds DnD characters: a bitchy warlock we had to bust out of two different pacts, a sassy barbarian, a reformed drow cultist, and a sunshine fighter cleric.

All these characters were wildly different but at their very core struggle was them grappling with their self worth. My betrothed struggles with their worth a great deal and even with different facets showing their characters all have that too.

Mine all tend to contend with different themes of loneliness and acceptance. Surprise, surprise, the little autistic gremlin yearns to have been met with more love and lasting friendships.

So we’re at breakfast. I am meeting a new friend of my betrotheds for the first time. It’s been twenty minutes since I’ve met this man. I say my theory. He laughs. He starts to describe a few of his characters but specifies that he often has healing aspects. He gives a very broad overview of their character arcs.

I ponder for a moment then said, “Would you like to have my assessment?”

He laughed, “Sure!”

“We’ve just met. It’s gonna get real.”

“Bring it on.”

“I think your struggle is that you feel you must offer something of value or service to people to be worthy of their love.”

His jaw dropped. His fork froze midway to his mouth. A potato fell. He stared into space as this sank in. Quietly he said, “Oh.”

[starry-bi-sky]

There are two things that Damian knows that he knows Father doesn’t.

He has an older brother

He was dead

(And a secret third thing: Damian was glad he was dead. They did not get along.)

Well. No, correction, they were two things that Damian knew that Father didn't. Past tense. Strange magic swirled through the air and created a mirage before his eyes, and immediately a scowl forms across his face.

The mirage shifts and shimmers like the light hitting a slowly turning prism, and then it settles into a memory. One that Damian does not recall. Like looking into a tv screen, it shows, faintly, a room, with most of the magic going into the image of a crib.

His mother was standing on one side, and next to her, standing on his tiptoes was a small five year old boy looking up at her. With dark hair and skin that was only few shades lighter brown than Damian's, the little boy's resemblance to Damian was undeniable.

However, his eyes were blue. Not green. Damian's scowl deepens, and he sinks back. "Danyal." He mutters, and feels eyes turn on to him.

Danyal Al Ghul. Damian's older brother. A prodigal swordsman like Damian, and five years his senior. He'd be fifteen if he was still alive. His memory of the last time he saw his brother was still clear in his mind.

(A sword to Danyal's neck. Stars were glittering through his window. Damian was five, Danyal ten. He is not sure why Danyal had snuck into his room, all he remembers is hearing a sound and on instinct reaching for his sword.)

(His brother had intercepted easily. But had not shoved the sword away. Moonlight hit his blue eyes, and Damian remembers seeing the pupils shrink to let the light in. His eyes looked almost silver.)

(His brother bares his teeth at him. Damian wants to slice his neck more than anything, and he bares his teeth back. "Good." Danyal says, his voice low in a hiss, "Your reflexes are good, little brother.")

("Of course they are," Damian remembers snarling, and presses the sword closer. But it does not budge. "I am an Al Ghul.")

(Something unrecognizable passes through his brother's eyes, and his mouth twists into something like a smile. "I know." He says, and tilts his head downwards at him. "And you will be great.")

(His brother shoves the sword back, causing Damian to stumble. And like the wind, he is gone.)

(The next morning, he goes on a mission with mother and a few others. Mother is the only one to return with Danyal's sword, and a red-eyed look in her eyes. Damian does not mourn. Now there's only one of them.)

"Momma." The little Danyal-mirage speaks, a furrow between his childlike brows as mother lowers a bundle into the crib. His blue eyes watch her, and lifts onto his toes to peer into the crib as she sets the baby down. "Who is this?"

Their mother's hand comes to rest along his back. "This is Damian, my son." She murmurs, voice low. "He is your little brother. Protect him well."

Damian scoffs internally -- not likely. He remembers every spar he ever had with Danyal, every harsh word and insult. His pushing, pushing, pushing for Damian to get up. To try again. Do it again. The only kindness he ever showed him was when his fingers bled. And even that was harsh, firm. Rolling gauze around his wrist and scolding him, telling him how to wield his weapon better.

(It was the same as everyone else, but somehow it hurt worse coming from his own brother.)

But he watches his older brother's youngest self tilt his head to the side, and then reach his chubby hand through the crib's bars. He runs small, blunt fingers over the baby's arm, and the baby jerks. Through the crib's bars, Damian sees himself grab Danyal's fingers.

And he scowls even deeper.

And Danyal's eyes... widen. He lets out a little gasp, and a small smile Damian's never seen him wear tilts at the corner of his mouth as he looks up at their mother. "Mother," he whispers, "he grabbed me!"

Damian... his scowl falters, for a moment.

He doesn't wait for a response, he looks back to the baby with sparking eyes. His expression melts like sugar as he bounces the finger being gripped tight by the small hand. "Hello, little brother." His brother says, voice its of usual firmness, but there's more fondness underlying it than Damian's ever heard. "My name is Danyal."

The mirage shifts before Damian can comprehend his older brother's voice. It shows the crib again, appearing as if a few days had passed. There is night lilting through the nearby window, and a creek of the door. The baby doesn't stir.

Danyal sneaks in, still wearing his training clothes and a sword strapped to his side. Damian's scowl returns, watching him creep over to the crib. Of course -- the last night he saw his brother wasn't the only time he'd snuck into his room.

Would he go so low as to attack an infant? Damian wonders, watching his brother cross the room to his crib. But while his fingers rest against the hilt, they never curl to unsheathe.

His brother peers into the crib again, and there it is again, that smile wider in the corner of his mouth. It's not a full one, but its as uninhibited as it gets. Dripping honey-sweet with awe. "You are so tiny." Danyal whispers, and pokes a finger back through the crib. It wriggles, then pokes Damian's cheek gently. "Was I as small as you when mother gave birth to me?"

There is no response from the baby. Not a coherent one anyways, the little thing snuffles and turns his head, mouth open to latch. Danyal stills, his eyes grow ever wider again.

Danyal says nothing else, just rests his cheek against the crib and watches the baby sleep in silence. The affection never leaves his young face.

Damian feels unsettled. Off-foot. This Danyal is foreign to him... He wonders what happened to have changed his brother's mind on him.

There's a scuffle, quiet, but there. Danyal picks up on it just as Damian does, and his head pricks up like a deer, head already turning away from the crib. The affection leaves his face, falling away like water into something serious. His blade is already slightly unsheathed.

Two assassins, belonging to grandfather, burst out of the shadows. Their swords swinging into the air and ready to strike.

Danyal kills them both, his back to the crib. It's not without struggle, and when the two assassins lay dead on the floor, the baby is wailing at the top of his lungs. Danyal has a laceration cleaving down diagonal of his cheek. It's close to his eye, just barely missed blinding him.

Damian never knew how he got that scar. He does now. (He doesn't know how to feel about it.)

His brother clutches his bleeding face, sheathing his sword as tears well up onto his face. But he turns towards the crib, and hurries over. "You're okay, you're okay, you're okay." He hushes rapidly, the League-drilled seriousness fallen away to reveal a panic-stricken five year old. He sticks one hand into the crib, the one not clutching anything, and grabs little Damian's hand.

Their mother comes bursting in that moment, and Danyal turns his head towards her. "Mother." He says, his voice cracks un-wantingly. Their mother steps over the bodies of the assassins easily. "They tried to kill Damian."

"But they did not." Talias says, kneeling down next to the crib to inspect Danyal's face and Damian's well-being. When she finds nothing of concern beyond the injury, she continues. "You killed them before they could, Danyal. Well done."

The mirage of his brother nods, his eyes teary and red.

Damian... is discomfited. he never thought Danyal would kill assassins for him. He would have thought his brother would sooner look the other way. The mirage shifts again, and it quickly shows time passing.

Danyal sits in Damian's nursery every night, after that. He lays at the foot of the crib with his sword, a pillow and a blanket with him. Some nights there is nothing but peace -- or as close to peace as a baby could achieve -- and some days assassins break in.

Danyal kills each one.

The mirage shifts again, and it shows more memories of Danyal interacting with Damian during his youth too young for him to remember. His first steps, his first words.

"Danya." The small toddler of Damian says, arms reaching for Danyal.

A frown curls across Danyal's face, and pulls Damian into his lap. "No, no, little brother." He scolds, voice firm but.. softer. "It is Danyal, Damian. Danyal."

"Danya!"

Damian's brother sighs, but there is that same-small tilt at the corner of his mouth. A glimmer in his eyes. A glimmer... that Damian is finding he recognizes.

(He always thought his brother got that look in his eyes when he was mocking him. Was he wrong?)

The mirage shifts again, and this time it shows only mother and Danyal, alone. Danyal is older, taller. Seven, if Damian had to guess. Mother has a stern look on her face, her hands tight on his shoulders. "Damian will be starting training soon, my son."

Ah, then close to eight then. Training starts, always, at three years old. He watches Danyal nod, his expression mimicking their mother's. His arms are folded, always folded, behind his back, always neat.

"You can no longer have the relationship with your brother as you did before." Mother says.

Danyal's expression... falters. It shifts, it fluctuates. He looks surprised, thrown off. Like he isn't quite sure he heard what mother just said. His brows furrow. "What... do you mean, mother?"

"I mean what I said, Danyal." Mother says, stern, "Ra's will be keeping a closer eye on Damian now that he is of age to begin his training. He will not like if he sees you both getting along."

"I am sorry, my child. But your relationship with Damian ends here. You are rivals now, not brothers." In a cruel form a gentleness, mother raises her hand and tucks a stray curl out of Danyal's face.

Of course. Damian never had a relationship with his brother because of Grandfather. Of course. No, he's not feeling a little bitter. No. There's not an inner child that still, like a candleflame, wishes that he'd had a bond with his only flesh and blood.

Danyal is dead now. So it's not like it matters. He's happy about this.

Danyal frowns, and he steps back. He looks lost in thought. "We are still brothers, mother," he says, argues, and looks up to meet mother's eyes. "Let me train him, I will make sure he gets the skill he needs. If we must be rivals, then I will teach him how to defeat me. If he can defeat me, he can defeat anybody."

Their mother, and Damian, both blink in unison. Then mother smiles something sharp, calculated. She folds her hands behind her back. "Then do it. But you will make him hate you."

"...So be it."

Damian.... Damian is silent. His world axis has been tilted on its head. He is sliding, and sliding, and sliding down. Spinning. Many things click into place at once.

More memories from the mirage show. It shows Danyal training Damian. It shows their arguing, their bickering. It shows Danyal going to their mother to praise Damian and his skills, how fast he is picking up on the sword. How one day he will surpass even him.

It shows Danyal sitting outside Damian's bedroom door every night, listening in for anyone who dares to break in. His knees drawn to his chest, his sword at his side. Sometimes he sneaks in, sword drawn, when he hears a sound.

Some nights, Damian wakes up. He remembers those nights. Danyal standing over his bed with his sword unsheathed and tight at his side. He remembers the instant terror as he immediately reached for his own weapon.

His brother always scolded him for his lack of vigilance. That had he been anyone else, Damian would have had his neck cut. He would've been dead already. It only made Damian's hatred of him grow.

But he understands now. Because there were assassins in the room that Damian, four years old, three, did not notice. Not until later. He always assumed the attacks on him after Danyal's death had been because now there was a new heir to target.

It had been the only lesson he'd been even somewhat grateful for.

Then finally the mirage shimmers, and it shows Danyal, ten years old, in one of the training rooms, mid-spar with Mother. It's fast, sharp, impressive and like a blur. Damian is unsure if at ten which one of them was the better swordsman. Some of the assassins who have never met Danyal said Damian was, but the ones who had said it was Danyal. He'll never know.

In a lull in the fight, when their swords are crossed, mother speaks. "Ra's wants you and Damian to fight." She says, teeth grit into a deep scowl. The cross breaks and Danyal jumps back, he frowns.

"We have fought, mother." He says, and dives in first, swinging for mother's feet. Mother dodges, and slices at his arm. He swerves out of the way, twisting on his feet like a dance. "We are always fighting, doesn't he see our spars?"

"Not a spar like that, my son." Mother says, a snarl in her voice. She lunges, and Danyal blocks her blade. "A fight to the death. Father has grown tired of having two heirs."

That gets Danyal's attention -- or, more accurately, it distracts it. His eyes widen, and his sword lowers for a single moment. A mistake. "What?" Is all he gets out before mother has him on his back, her blade pressed to his throat.

He freezes. As does Damian. Danyal's brows furrow, then unfurrow, only to knot up again. "Mother, what do you mean a fight to the death?" He flips to his feet when mother removes the sword. She walks over to grab her water.

"Must I repeat myself, Danyal?" Mother snaps, rubbing her forehead before swigging from her canteen. "Father wants to find out which one of you is the stronger heir, and so you will fight to the death after your training in a few days."

Danyal's tan face loses a shade of color, he looks ashy. "There must be some mistake!" He exclaims, his arms gesturing out as he peers around mother. "There is a five year disparity between us, Damian has only just started training two years ago. It would be an unfair fight!"

"Do you think me unaware?" Mother whirls on him, and there is a grief-stricken look on her face. Like she is already mourning Damian's death. Damian feels ill. "Your skill is far beyond what Damian can accomplish right now, and there is nothing that I say that can convince Father otherwise."

Danyal wears an expression like he is scrambling for answers. A white knuckle grip on his weapon. There is a long silence, and his lower lip curls up. His throat bobs, he swallows. "Is there really nothing we can do?"

Mother makes a frustrated sound, pushing her loose hairs out of her face. "Not unless Father changes his mind, or I send one of you away. But Father would surely send someone to look for you or Damian."

"What if one of us faked our death?"

Mother stills. As does Damian. No, he thinks, stiff as a rod, no way. These mirages were lying, nothing but figments of an imagination. Of some quiet what-if that Damian had not yet stomped out.

Mother's expression shifts, and then turns contemplative. Danyal notices, and keeps pushing, he looks as hopeful as he could get beyond his usual unwavering, stone-like expression. "One of us could go to father--"

"No." Mother cuts off, voice sharp. Danyal wilts, confusion flittering across his face. Damian, from the corner of his eye, sees Father tense as stone. His white-slit eyes have not left the mirage. Nobody's has.

"Father will undoubtedly check there first, it would not be a good idea. You or Damian will have to go somewhere where he would not think to look. Someone unaffiliated with the League."

Danyal's face falls, shutters, and then closes up again into stone. Mother begins to pace, and Danyal's blue eyes follow her. "So a stranger?" He asks, and there is disgust lilting into his voice.

Mother nods, and she looks just as offput as Danyal.

The mirage of Damian's brother rolls his shoulders back. "Then I will do it, mother." He says, voice unwavering. There is a stubborn note behind it all, one that Damian recognizes. "I will fake my death, and Damian will stay here."

Mother's eyes turn sharp on him, and she stops in her spot. She pivots. "Are you sure?" She asks, eyebrow raising, "There is a chance you will never meet your Father if you leave. Nor will you see I or Damian again, if you do this."

Something like fear flickers across Danyal's face, eyes widening momentarily -- as if that very thought had not crossed his mind. But then it smooths over to sharp determination. He nods. "It would be the same for Damian if it was him instead. I will do it, Mother."

Damian feels ill again. Father has a strong set in his jaw, his teeth grinding.

Mother stares at Danyal, and then her expression softens. And like before, it is grieving. "In a few days time, I and another member of the League will be going on a mission to the American States. I will tell Father that you will accompany me, once there we will dispose of the other member and then orchestrate your death."

The American States. Danyal was here, in the country. He was out there somewhere -- but no this was fake. It had to be. Danyal was dead. A fool who got himself killed on a mission with mother and left the title of Heir to Damian.

Or maybe it had been his plan all along. His and mother's both.

...Was mother ever going to tell him?

The mirage of Danyal nods, sharp. Understanding. There is a gleam in his eyes that is not pride, it is tears. And when Mother leaves the room and leaves him alone, the stone-like expression on his face crumbles and falls.

His brother, ten years old, curls up his lip in an ugly way. It wobbles as the tears in his eyes do, and he brings up his hand to slam it over his mouth. And sinks to his knees, a yell-like sob muffled behind the skin.

His brother, ten years old, looks smaller than Damian remembers him being, and cries.

Damian has never seen Danyal cry. Not once in the mirage of memories, nor in his own.

The memory holds for a minute, and then disappears. And no new one shows up. The magic is gone, and it leaves a silence in its wake. Heavy, staticky, and full of revelations.

So there are two things that Damian knows that his Father now knows too.

He has an older brother

His older brother is alive.

(And a new secret third thing: Damian wasn't sure how to feel about it.)

[burr-ell]

yknow when ashton came to talk to percy they had a freshly sprouted, glowing magma arm; visible wounds and burns; and ripped-up tailored clothing, so i have to imagine when they started off the conversation "i just did something really stupid" percy had to restrain himself from the basic bitch comeback of "you don't say"

[taee]

tae being the sweetest person in this world

[crossmyheartwonttellnoother]

hc that andrew laughs but only at neil's deranged jokes

[serpentface]

how do you come up with the ways cultures in your setting stylize people/animals/the world in general in their artwork, i.e. jewlery, rock carvings, statues, etc? Each culture in your world seems to have a very unique "art style" and I love it a lot - makes them seem that much more 'real'. This is something I struggle with a lot in my own worldbuilding and I'd love to pick your brain if possible 😁

I think a starting point is to have a research process based in the material realities of the culture you're designing for. Ask yourself questions like:

Where do they live? What's the climate/ecosystem(s) they are based in? What geographic features are present/absent?

What is their main subsistence method? (hunter gatherer, seasonal pastoralist, nomadic pastoralist, settled agriculturalist, a mix, etc)

What access to broader trade networks do they have and to whom? Are there foreign materials that will be easily accessible in trade and common in use, or valuable trade materials used sparingly in limited capacities?

Etc

And then do some research based on the answers, in order to get a sense of what materials they would have routine access to (ie dyes, metal, textiles, etc) and other possible variables that would shape how the art is made and what it's used for. This is just a foundational step and won't likely play much into designing a Style.

If you narrow these questions down very specifically, (ie in the context of the Korya post- grassland based mounted nomads, pastoralist and hunter-gatherer subsistence, access to wider trade networks and metals), you can direct your research to specific real world instances that fit this general idea. This is not to lift culturally specific concepts from the real world and slap them into your own setting, but to notice commonalities this lifestyle enforces - (ie in the previous example- mounted nomadic peoples are highly mobile and need to easily carry their wealth (often on clothing and tack) therefore small, elaborate decorative artwork that can easily be carried from place to place is a very likely feature)

For the details of the art itself, I come up with loose 'style guides' (usually just in my head) and go from there.

Here's some example questions for forming a style (some are more baseline than others)

Are geometric patterns favored? Organic patterns? Representative patterns (flowers, animals, stars, etc)? Abstract patterns?

Is there favored material(s)? Beads, bone, clay, metals, stones, etc.

When depicting people/animals, is realism favored? Heavy stylization? The emotional impression of an animal? Are key features accentuated?

How perspective typically executed? Does art attempt to capture 3d depth? Does it favor showing the whole body in 2 dimensions (ie much of Ancient Egyptian art, with the body shown in a mix of profile and forward facing perspective so all key attributes are shown)? Will limbs overlap? Are bodies shown static? In motion?

Does artwork of people attempt to beautify them? Does it favor the culture's conception of the ideal body?

Are there common visual motifs? Important symbols? Key subject matters?

What is the art used for? Are its functions aesthetic, tutelary, spiritual, magical? (Will often exist in combination, or have different examples for each purpose)

Who is represented? Is there interest in everyday people? Does art focus on glorifying warriors, heroes, kings?

Are there conventions for representing important figures? (IE gods/kings/etc being depicted larger than culturally lesser subjects)

Is there visual shorthand to depict objects/concepts that are difficult to execute with clarity (the sun, moon, water), or are invisible (wind, the soul), or have no physical component (speech)?

Etc

Deciding on answers to any of these questions will at least give you a unique baseline, and you can fill in the rest of the gaps and specify a style further until it is distinct. Many of these questions are not mutually exclusive, both in the sense of elements being combined (patterns with both geometric and organic elements) or a culture having multiple visual styles (3d art objects having unique features, religious artwork having its own conventions, etc).

Also when you're getting in depth, you should have cultural syncretism in mind. Cultures that routinely interact (whether this interaction is exchange or exploitation) inevitably exchange ideas, which can be especially visible in art. Doing research on how this synthesizing of ideas works in practice is very helpful- what is adopted or left out from an external influence, what is retained from an internal influence, what is unique to this synthesis, AND WHY. (I find Greco-Buddhist art really interesting, that's one of many such examples)

Looking at real world examples that fit your parameters can be helpful (ie if I've decided on geometric patterns in my 'style guide', I'll look at actual geometric patterns). And I strongly encourage trying to actually LEARN about what you're seeing. All art exists in a context, and having an understanding of how the context shapes art, how art does and doesn't relate to broader aspects of a society, etc, can help you when synthesizing your own.

[lady-tortilla-chip]

Oh ALSO I am thinking about how Laurent saw Nicaise as the strongest one to have been toyed with by his uncle and how he viewed Aimeric as the weakest. How seeing both of them succumb to his uncle in one way or the other started to shatter his confidence in his ability to beat the Regent exactly because he saw himself in them. He saw how strong he could’ve been and could try to be in Nicaise. It’s the part of him he wanted desperately to save personified. And then Aimeric is the part he wanted to destroy, to get rid of. The part of him that loved his uncle as the last remaining family he had.

[s2pdoktopus]

Very late White day comic thingy

[brawlmetaknight]

what if i told you guys i had an elaborate smash bros AU and incidentally meta knight is dating princess peach. what then

[somepinkthing]

Shapeshifter nie huaisang AU:

His mother was qinhe nie's spymaster, hired specifically for her unique cultivation ability to change into various shapes. She was a wanderer prior to settling down with her lovers, an experience that allowed her to throughly observe many different animals up close. So while she could become an array of animals (though mostly smaller, quiet ones), nie huaisang seemed to only ever be able to do birds. Or rather, he only seemed interested in doing birds and all his parental figures passed before they could enforce upon him the importance of branching out. As a result of his single-mindedness and artistic eye however, he can basically do any bird he sets his eyes on and replicates it better than even his mother could. He's even started to be able to converse with a few of the species he favors.

It doesn't really amount to much more than a cool party trick... until the wens start to up the ante. At first, it's just a handy way to get away. It isn't until the attack on the unclean realms that nie huaisang first takes advantage of his skill in the form of a giant vulture snagging the side of wen zhuiliu's face during the fight. It almost gives nie mingjue a heart attack but luckily the wens don't seem to realize that it's huaisang. The nie's don't exactly go around broadcasting their cultivation styles after all.

They do burn down his aviary in retaliation though. Which is... extremely upsetting actually. His mother had built that for him.

Then the indoctrination period comes around. Nie huaisang suddenly finds himself in a unique position of being the only one who can escape rather easily. When he fake faints, he fully intends to do so. But. But...

Wei wuxian who checked on him, jiang cheng who came to yell at him about staying hydrated, jin zixuan who awkwardly peaked into the sickroom, lan wangji who was injured and grieving and sadder than huaisang ever remembers seeing him. Even if he could leave them behind, there was still the small retinue of nies that came with him. For the first time in his life, he feels the weight of responsibility that comes with being someone with the ability to actually do something—to gather information, to search for escape routes, to snag some medical supplies. In this situation, he can actually help.

It sucks.

He'll do it but he's gonna complain

[mildarka]

I'm interested in ur reversed au, I saw ur concept art and I thought it was really cool, consider this a free yapping card to info dump about the au,

:]/-< ( < that's me sitting politely on your front porch)

YIPPEE I LOVE YAPPING :DDD

So basically the Stars + Cross (the traitorous traitor) found a way to “reset” everyone in the bad sanses to what they were like before the events of their own AUs. (Or before the story of their AU?? Like Killer and Dust are normal sans again and Horror is still how he was during the famine (so like pre-Horrortale comic but post neutral end ig??)). Nightmare on the other hand was physically separated from the apples that gave him power (the corruption is with the apples, not with lil Night) so he’s pretty much defenceless. He doesn’t remember the apple incident or anything past that.

Originally the plan was for Dream to take Nightmare in and care for him but Nightmare was very briefly left with the gang once he was reverted and he got enough information to know something was very wrong. He kinda watches the others start to revert as well before Dream whisks him away. He doesn’t spend a super long time with Dream - mostly because the weird monochrome guy with them feels so guilty every time he looks at Night - and runs once the vibes are bad enough.

He finds Killer eventually - now a pretty regular sans - and tries to make him remember when they met before or take his jacket back but Killer doesn’t have any idea what he’s talking about or who Dust and Horror are. Nightmare ends up living with Killer and his Papyrus and occasionally ends up visiting Horrortale and Dusttale to try the same thing with them.

There’s other stuff too about how the AUs work with the reverted gang and what being separated from his soul means for Nightmare but that’s less worked out lol :)

[rennyrose]

your men are the BEST shape

Hhhhhhhhh men… 💖 hgghfhffjhf women….💖

[ihopethisendswell]

I'm past this point but I can't believe the way to stop kid Lloyd was to tell him a bed time story/ be a good influence to him. Like damn.

[see-arcane]

Carmilla: I want you so bad it's unreal

Laura: 😳 Are you a boy or my sister

Comphet is a hell of a drug

In fairness, Carmilla was trying to speedrun the incidental acquaintances-to-soulmates relationship Immediately. Girl didn't wait a week. I'd wonder what the hell was up too