#OC: Bluebell

[steampunkbunnysworld]

The universe revolves around her✨🌠🌌.

[kendsleyauthor]

🍂 Sanctuary + Mirror + Puzzle 🍂

Promptober 2023

Print / Trinket Universe (Kylian and Bluebell)

~1400 words

Warning: Dehumanization

Introducing new characters! Kylian is a rich, eccentric artist. Bluebell is a print who is unfortunate enough to catch his full attention 💙

@marydublinauthor 🌸

Kylian hadn’t created anything in weeks. He didn’t bother lamenting this issue in his social circle. They would simply click their tongues and remind him that he could continue living in luxury for the rest of his life without having another single creative idea.

They didn’t understand what it meant to have an overwhelming hunger to shape something—anything—and to come up empty day after day. As an artist who utilized numerous mediums, from traditional art to more complex pieces like puzzles—something should have been calling to him.

He wasn’t particularly personable at the best of times, but when inspiration was elusive, he could go months without being spotted in public.

His woodworking studio took up one corner of the ground floor. Ample light bathed his work surfaces—all of which were crowded and cluttered with half-formed pieces. 

Cursing under his breath, he snapped a delicate piece of wood between his hands while the saw continued to buzz maniacally. It had started off fine. Intarsia was careful work, and though his technique was flawless, the outline of the owl he had envisioned was not turning out like he’d imagined.

As he switched off the saw, he caught the sound of the front door opening. His jaw clenched as he heard the housekeeper greet the cleaning service workers. 

Not for the first time, he briefly considered the idea of setting up a studio separate from his home. Money wasn’t an issue. He simply preferred to avoid venturing to a different location to create his art when he could do it from the comfort of his home. 

And that meant, twice a week, dealing with outsiders in his space. Two humans, and five prints. So long as they stayed out of his way, he wouldn’t have to snap at them, let alone look at them. They understood the protocol by now.

After another half hour of splintered attempts at a woodworking project, Kylian decided to vacate the studio before he destroyed one of the saws. Perhaps looking through some old sketchbooks would provide some inspiration. 

Along the way to one of his messier studios on the second floor, he caught glimpses of movement. A normal person down the hall. Two prints dusting meticulously at one of the bookshelves. None of them dared to greet him, and he didn’t acknowledge their presence. Ghosts were meant to be invisible, after all.

“If you refuse to date, you should at least get yourself a Mercy print,” one of his colleagues had crooned a few months ago. “You could use the company. Let yourself have a little fun, for fuck’s sake.”

He didn’t have a Mercy print for the same reason that he never hosted social functions at his own home. The thought of having to entertain or be entertained by someone beneath him was entirely unappealing. He couldn’t understand why anyone would subject themselves to it. 

The sanctuaries of his studios were more than enough to keep him satisfied—even when inspiration was out of reach.

As he approached the studio where he stored most of his old sketchbooks, he came to a halt in the middle of the corridor. 

The door was partly opened. On its own, that wouldn’t have normally gotten under his skin. Perhaps he carelessly forgot to shut it after his last visit. But he’d enjoyed his solitude enough to sense when he wasn’t alone—and he was certain that goosebumps were rising along his arms for a reason.

Taking silent steps, he approached the door and peered inside. Light filtered through the sheer curtains across the wide window. Every bit of illumination seemed to concentrate on the slight movement in the studio.

Kylian held his breath, narrowing his eyes.

A print was on his desk, admiring herself in the mirror that he occasionally used for self-portraits. She was so absorbed in her reflection, she didn’t even notice him in the doorway.

Disgust roiled through him, culminating in a silent rage.

The cleaning crew knew to stay out of his studios. Under no circumstances were they to touch any of his work. 

But he didn’t recognize this print—there was no way he could forget someone who looked like her. So she was new. Either someone had been negligent in warning her about his strict preferences, or she was a self-absorbed airhead who couldn’t resist a mirror even when she was knowingly trespassing.

Kylian nearly shouted for her to get the fuck out of there—perhaps he’d startle her enough to make her fall and break her neck. But he was taken aback by her odd appearance as she fixed her hair in the mirror. 

Bronze skin caught the muted light perfectly, as though the sun was hellbent on caressing her. Her inky black locks were pulled into a high ponytail with different shades of blue yarn, the ends of which cascaded among the waves of her hair.

Strangely, she was wearing a dress. It appeared to be stitched from many different worn-out and frayed fabrics—also blue, blue blue.

There was something about her. A sort of aura that he’d never witnessed in a print before.

She dropped her hands from her hair, satisfied with the way it fell, and took hold of the sides of her skirt. Swaying side to side, she took delicate steps, flouncing to music that Kylian couldn’t hear. She was performing a subdued version of a dance. Her full lips, touched by a faint flush of color, parted with a wordless melody.

“La la-la, la-la.”

The same tune, over and over. Her dance became more daring, her feet tracing a fluid path in front of the mirror. Then she began to twirl, eyes closed, arms raising slowly over her head.

Kylian gaped. She was out of her mind. He began to wonder if she wasn’t from the cleaning crew at all—she might have wandered in off the streets. But he couldn’t stop staring, slack-jawed.

Her eyes fluttered open as she was making a final turn. Her gentle song broke off in a shriek when she spotted him. She came to such an abrupt stop, she might have sprained her ankle as she lost her footing and fell to a hard seat. The print gasped, swiftly covering her mouth as though to belatedly take back her scream.

“Mr. Hart!” She scrambled to stand and lowered her head in a bow. “I-I’m so sorry. Ever so sorry.”

Her accent was strange, almost as if she’d stepped out of a Western film. He could barely believe the twang in her voice was real—let alone believe that she was real. He didn’t say a thing as she apologized over and over. There wasn’t a single string of words that could encapsulate a response to the bizarre scene he’d witnessed.

The print snatched up her dusting rag and climbed down the table leg expertly. The skittering movement vaguely reminded him of a rat, and he began to surface back to himself. Still, he kept silent.

Her cheeks were flushed as she made her way to the door—and inadvertently, toward him. Her mismatched dress fluttered like flower petals in the wind as she skirted around him carefully, like he might decide to step on her for her insolence.

She’d almost made it to the hallway when he venomously snapped, “What’s your name?”

Her blushing face paled. “Bluebell, sir.” She gave an eccentric little curtsy with her ragged skirts, then hurried off.

Kylian pointedly shut the door behind him, hoping she’d feel the vibration of it. He took a seat at his desk, noting the tiny footprints in the dust and pencil shavings near the mirror.

Bluebell.

What a stupid name. It made her sound like a trinket. She had to have grown up feral, out in the wilderness where prints only knew how to name their children after plants. Strange that she wouldn’t have adopted a normal name now that she was existing in her proper station in life.

Then again, she was clearly inadequate at the job that her proper station in life afforded her.

Her strangeness seemed exponential.

And he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

He grabbed a sketchbook and flipped through it. Finding it full, he tossed it aside. He repeated the procedure five times before he found a blank page. He picked up a charcoal pencil and began drawing for the first time in weeks.

He gazed at his creation silently, equal measures disgusted with himself and enthralled.

Then he reached for every shade of blue brush pen within reach.

[beepbeepbirdie]

@murdleandmarot ‘s Baby, had to draw her because LOOK AT THATH HAIR

[dissidiacloudstrife]

after bluebell retires from being by her commander's sides, she gets married and lives by the grove in her and her husband's own pocket area. she misses sparring, so she's typically around the vigil sect and warden compounds if not at home. she still gets called warmaster despite being retired, but thats a fight that, for once, she won't win

she's a lot happier now c:

[shrowdly]

Velgar and his extended family

[rosielav]

Almost finished with the ROY G BIV theme for my 100 Days of OCs challenge!!!!!

Just have the twins - Beauregard and Violet - and then it's on to the next theme (fun composition)!!!!!

Please enjoy OCs #8-12 R O Y G and B :))

Jeramy Leramy - works at The Mall, which has been closed for 25 years. His paychecks keep coming in, and that money keeps spending, so he keeps coming in for his shift at CD-Romania. He agrees it's a bad pun.

Queen Clemmie - Queen of De Land (Florida). Clemmie is 9 years old and her favorite thing is playing games with her friends and the royal guards. She's highly intelligent, but also quite silly, so it balances out.

Bobby Yayane - Orange Knights are the direct protectors of the royal family, which means nowadays the direct protector of Clemmie. Orange Knights, for some reason, have a fairly low lifespan. Bobby is the oldest known Orange Knight, which is clear when you know that the orange fades the older the knights get. He loves Clemmie like his own daughter.

Grunhilda - Witch of the Woods. Royal medic, advisor, and overall That Person in the kingdom. If something is going wrong, everyone looks to Grunhilda, because she either caused the trouble, or knows how to fix it. Clemmie adores Grunhilda, and vice versa. The path to her cottage in The Woods is well worn, with many budding flowers and fruits along the way; signifiers of Clemmie's many trips. Bobby and Grunnie don't always see eye to eye, but they always do what's best for Clemmie.

Bluebell - baby's first cowgirl!!! I have very limited experience drawing animal folks, or even people with animal characteristics. I'm not sure how Bluebell fits into the OC Universe yet, as I have to decide if the Orange Kingdom has anthro animals or not. Regardless, she is welcomed into the family with open arms :)

Bluebell loves to sing and dance, especially outside with friends. Handmade music is like magic to her, and she's able to turn that into real life actual magic through her songs. Flowers bloom, food tastes better, wounds heal... Everything gets a lil better when Bluebell sings her songs.

I hope yall enjoyed this post :) If you'd like to see OCs #1-7, or want more info on any of these (or my other) OCs, please ask!!!!!!!

[zivazivc]

Like a completely normal adult person, after watching the new trolls movie, I obsessively started putting together the brothers' backstory, the deeper reasons for their separation as well as how that all took place without disregarding the fact that they were trapped in the troll tree, which of course evolved into a fic in (forever) progress... yeah

Anyway, even though they aren't actively in the story much, i needed to design the parents, so uh meet Rosiepuff's daughter, Tulip, and her husband Branch.

I designed them based on the brothers' adult looks and in Tulip's case also on her mom's.

bonus baby branch:

[the-owl-tree]

pride art for my wc ocs!!

[nikonautic]

mane six fusions, part 5 - rainbow dash

[fae-sodapop]

Three cotl AUs(???)

Bluebell AU: Follows a merciful lamb named shepherd (they/them). The goat is named Belial (it/it's), this goat didn't come from a different timeline or anything it just pissed of the old gods by being a little bastard so it got turned into goop for a few hundred years. Indulgence AU for my Narilambgoat/Narigoatlamb.

Spider's Vessel AU: This goat is named Pann (it/it's), Role swap au. The lamb becomes a witness for Narinder in this AU. Indulgent AU for my Shamgoat brainrot.

Worm's Vessel AU: Yellow cat - Sunny (he/it), another role swap au. The goat & lamb may be witnesses or followers. Indulgent AU solely for my LeshyCat brainrot.

🔄&♥️

[murkshade]

silly little guy time?

[steampunkbunnysworld]

A little wip for you

[kendsleyauthor]

🎨 Journey + Hush + Labyrinth + Regret 🎨

Promptober 2023

Print / Trinket Universe (Kylian and Bluebell)

~2000 words

Warning: Dehumanization, fearplay

A sequel to this story. These were the only two stories I planned for this month about Kylian and Bluebell, but you can expect more in the future. 😉

@marydublinauthor

Bluebell was a woman of many talents and skills. Cleaning was not one of them. This was especially troubling because there were no other openings available for prints at the time she took the job. And changing roles was unheard of—she should be so grateful to have a job in the first place.

Thankfully, the fellow prints and even the human members of her crew were easily charmed. But was sure she was on thin ice despite that.

Kylian Hart, the owner of the estate she cleaned every Monday and Thursday afternoon, surely wanted her dead—or, at least fired.

Ever since he caught her dancing around in front of his mirror like an idiot, he glowered at her whenever they crossed paths. Even when she averted her gaze and hurried off to find something to clean, she was aware of his gaze following her like a lead weight.

He was probably waiting for the opportunity to pounce—ready for the moment she would do something frivolous and stupid again. It had been two weeks since the incident, and every time she had to return to the sprawling house, her stomach curdled with fear.

If Mr. Hart had complained to her supervisor, Bluebell hadn’t gotten wind of it yet. Which meant, for some reason, the enigmatic artist was keeping her slip-up to himself. That only put her more on edge. Any time now, he would fire her when she least expected it. She’d learned from the others that he had sent away cleaners for even less. Prints who were fired from a high-profile assignment like this were dismissed from the company entirely.

Against all odds, cleaning rich people’s ridiculous homes was a high-value job among prints. I’m grateful, she told herself over and over, as though it might nullify the karma that was chasing her. I’m very, very grateful.

If she lost this job, she doubted she’d find another. She wouldn’t starve—not when she had a way with charming meals from the neighbors in the slums. But it would mean having no money to wire to Aster. Not that she sent much, though it was something. And the wire transfer was one of the few ways she could assure him that she was still alive.

“Where are you off to, Blue?” Elara, one of the prints on the crew, spotted Bluebell wandering away while they were supposed to be polishing the contents of a china cabinet.

Bluebell barely needed the movable scaffolding to reach the floor. She landed lightly, slinging a rag over her shoulder with a warm smile. “Off to get a head start on the next room, sunshine. I feel so clumsy around all that fancy stuff, anyway.”

Elara gave a short laugh. “Please. You could do cartwheels around these things without leaving a smudge. But go on. The sooner we’re out of here, the better.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Can’t stand the way he skulks around like a ghost.”

A wry smile stayed painted on Bluebell’s face as she exited the room. He’s skulking ‘cause of me, sunshine.

When she reached the next room, she didn’t stop. The timing wouldn’t get any better than now. This was the floor she needed to be on. The humans on the crew, somewhat nice or not, wouldn’t have let her wander off again. Although they didn’t know about the incident, her penchant for vanishing hadn’t gone unnoticed.

She stayed close to the wall, winding her path toward the studio that Mr. Hart caught her in. Maybe if she apologized in person, he would have mercy on her. Maybe, just maybe, he would appreciate her bravery in speaking up.

Silly, ditzy me. Can’t help myself when I see a mirror. You know how rare a clean mirror is in the slums? Rare, Mr. Hart, very rare. I hope you don’t think that’s how I spend my afternoons here, though. I work so very hard. And I’m grateful. So very grateful.

Much like the first time she meandered into the room, it was open just a crack. The lights were off, and the curtains were drawn as she peeked her head inside. The hallway fixtures provided just enough illumination to confirm that Mr. Hart wasn’t there—and that there were several new canvases set up around the room.

Although her heart sank that she wouldn’t get her chance to apologize right then, her attention was drawn to the canvases that towered high overhead. She squinted. When she last intruded into the studio, there had been a few sketches pinned to the walls and books stuffed on shelves, but not much else to look at.

Her gaze remained fixed on the nearest canvas. She could make out a figure. One that looked like… But no, it couldn’t be. She was seeing things.

Get out. He’s not here. Go.

But she had to know. 

Grunting, she pushed her entire body against the door to widen the opening. The hinges were well-oiled enough, but the weight of the wood proved to be cumbersome. She managed to widen the net of light from the hallway that fell into the room. Panting from exertion, she looked up to see the canvas—and its neighbors—properly.

She would have gasped, but her lungs refused to take air. She staggered further into the room, unable to comprehend what she was seeing.

All five of the canvases—even the new sketches pinned to the walls—were her.

“Holy hell,” she breathed.

Most of her likenesses were full-body portrayals. Blue skirts, dark hair, dancing poses in motion. All kinds of expressions, too—from full-blown grins to pensive frowns. 

He had been watching her.

She didn’t know how long she stood there, gaping, but she didn’t know what snapped her out of it—footsteps thudded down the hall, fast approaching.

Bluebell cursed under her breath. It was him. No one else in this house would dare walk as loudly as he did. She couldn’t bolt out the door—he’d see her. She scrambled further into the room and ducked under the table, praying and praying that he would simply pass the studio.

The door creaked open wider. The footsteps entered. The light flicked on. The door shut firmly.

She cowered against the wall, hiding among the clutter. Boxes of half-used art supplies and scraps of crumpled sketching paper created a maze around her. Clearly, Mr. Hart had not allowed anyone to clean this room in ages. Thank heavens that worked in her favor. 

Polished shoes approached. She pressed herself hard against the wall, covering her mouth to keep from screaming. He settled into his chair. After a moment, she heard a harried scrape of pencil on paper. 

Another sketch of her?

Bluebell stepped gently to the side, looking past the clutter to catch a glimpse of the door. There was a wastebasket there, surrounded by more wads of paper. If she could huddle behind the basket, she could flee whenever he opened the door again. 

She turned her attention to his shoes and slowly, slowly crept against the floor molding. With all her attention fixed on him, she didn’t pay attention to her path. A pencil lay at her feet, and she stepped squarely upon it. A squeal burst past her lips as she dropped hard to her hands and knees.

The sketching stopped.

“Who’s in here?” His voice was vicious. 

His shoes scraped against the floor as he stood, shoving the chair back. Cowering in the soft puddle of her skirts, she looked around desperately for a hiding place. Perhaps one of the boxes—but the world rattled, making it impossible to think clearly. Massive hands dug at the clutter, determined to leave her with nothing to hide behind. Clawing fingers almost blindly took her into their grasp.

She bolted, slipping expertly among the boxes, but it was no use. He shoved one of the containers so hard that it knocked into her. Pain lanced through her body as she was forced into the open—right into his glare’s path. 

His hand descended and squeezed her into a tight grip. A scream wanted to come out, but she didn’t have the air to produce it. A pathetic whimper came out instead as he dragged her out from under the table. Her legs hung over empty air, her stomach churning from the sudden ascent before her captor’s eyes.

All at once, his murderous glare snapped into surprise. His grip loosened, nearly dropping her, but his other hand shot up to stop her fall. She gasped for air and bowed her head while she gathered her bearings. He said nothing, so she scrambled to fill the silence.

“I-I’m sorry,” she stammered. Both hands were around her, leaving her entirely at his mercy. After what she had seen in the studio—from the art to the bite of his glare—her inner speech abandoned her. All she could produce was a whispered, “I work so hard. I’m very grateful. I-I…”

“I didn’t know it was you,” he said, filling the pause after she trailed off. His tone was unreadable, and she couldn’t bear to look him in the eye.

She nodded shakily, wishing he would put her down. “It’s me,” she confirmed with a high little laugh. “I was just going to apologize about the other day, and I…” She chanced a look at the canvases around her, then winced.

He stood, carrying her with him effortlessly to the tabletop. He dropped her onto the surface. Her breath caught. He had, in fact, been sketching her. She could see the outline of her heart-shaped face taking form on the paper. The table was littered with blue pencils and markers. She swallowed hard and scooted back on her rear, wondering what he would do with her now that she’d seen his work.

“I-I… I should get back,” she said hoarsely. “They’ll start to wonder if I’m taking a nap somewhere.” She gave a forceful giggle. “N-not that I would ever—”

“You don’t like them?”

She blanched. He regarded her stonily.

“W-what?” she asked. “Oh. The—” She wet her lips and blinked around the studio. Something sinister crawled beneath her skin, but she forced another dainty laugh. “The me’s. I just… Sir, I just don’t understand why…” She pointed at herself and smiled cluelessly.

Don’t play dumb. You love the attention. Well, here it is.

Mr. Hart steepled his fingers imperiously, leaning the lower half of his face behind his hands. She dared to look higher and meet his gaze. She hadn’t noticed before—he looked less disheveled than usual. Hair combed back instead of messy. Clothing neat instead of rumpled. Facial hair was shaved close to his skin. Maybe he’d looked like that every time he glared at her the past weeks—she’d just been too afraid to look at him long enough to notice.

“I thought you looked compelling.” His voice sounded matter-of-fact, yet small behind his hands. Almost bashful.

A bizarre silence followed. He watched her closely, his stare digging into her face like hot knives. Was he taking the opportunity to examine her more closely for his next piece—or did he truly care about her reaction to his work?

As if that reaction could be anything less than undying appreciation and awe. He had her cornered. If she displeased him… Disappearances weren’t uncommon. Her crew and neighbors might mourn her for a few days—their charming little mascot lost. 

Only Aster would really care—but she was more or less dead to him already.

Still, self-preservation took hold. 

She fixed her expression into a bashful smile as she cowered before him. She batted her eyes coquettishly. Little old me?

“I’m… so very touched, sir,” she said.

For the first time since she’d ever laid eyes on him, Mr. Hart looked pleased.

[cillyscribbles]

tinnilummie and mme. moeureilles discuss the watching cats...

[dissidiacloudstrife]

“What’s it like to be a Champion of an Elder Dragon?” She repeated the question back in her thick southern accent. “Well I suppose it depends on what you want me to answer. I’m not like the Commanders and their bond to Aurene. I didn’t meet Vlast until it was too late.”

“We didn’t even expect him to become an Elder Dragon, he was originally just brought back as a Skyscale. I suppose with everything happening in Cantha, it’s to be expected that he would have....evolved like Aurene.

Back to your question. It’s like a bond, for Sylvari it’s one of a Wyld Hunt and your family. A tether always there in the back of your mind, another heart thumping in your chest for non-sylvari.”

“No, we won’t take you on a ride unless you absolutely needed too for safety reasons.” She rolled her eyes.

[prinsomnia]

blue bells, pink girl 🙆‍♀️🌷 wrapped up another comm for Kiwi!