#anyway. happy saturday!

[obsob]

happy autumn!!!

[samglyph]

My two favorite parts of this episode were “John gets to experience a human connection” and “Arthur curb stomps a guy just to prove he can, probably.”

Bonus Noel/Charlie concept sketches and lil Arthur and Noel colors under the cut

[ruporas]

studies from the finale

[c-hrona]

Pietà

[ineffable-suffering]

Why yes, of course they are.

@fuckyeahgoodomens

[glitterghost]

Kind of want to run into an overgrown forest (ao3) and never be seen again (drown happily in my feelings).

[monerelluvia]

Iri'thiel reference sheet for lvl 10 (2023/2024)

---------- I post her often but if you're new here - she's a character from a homebrew The Revenants (Awakening) game that started as our first DnD one-shot 4 years ago. Today the game is separated into 3-4 different groups of players in different places around the world and time, trying to prevent it all from collapsing to an anti-magic calamity.

Iri is a customized Fey Wanderer Ranger that is based on slashing and psychic damage, blade dancing, misty stepping and invisibility. She's a good investigator and has the Observant feat that lets her see things others wouldn't. She also has more and more issues with having her mind safe from exterior influence and dangerously growing number of people to care about.

[mukkiethekip]

you're laying him off?! ON SASUKE SATURDAY??!!

commission info | da tip jar

[bearotonin-international]

Charger's working on the submersive salmon slammin

[glowingsand]

kazurei when they’re mad at each other

[breezy-cheezy]

Tragic siblings killing me again, here’s a soft painting that got OUT OF HAND...I like to think Plants do the cat forehead bonk of affection. It’s cute.

Please do not tag this in a shipping sense, thank you!!

[squeeneyart]

[Image description: A digital colored drawing of Jonathan Sims, a thin, darker-skinned man with short-cropped greying brown hair and various scars and burns, and Martin Blackwood, a taller fat light-skinned man with long blond hair in a loose ponytail and glasses. They are in warm clothing and stand in front of an abstract but colorful background. Martin is smiling fondly at Jon and has his hand on Jon's waist, tucking him against his side. Jon is looking down and smiling with a hand gently resting on Martin's front and seems to be saying something. Their breath is visible. End ID]

hoping to get more dynamic posing practice in today, but i want to get back in the groove with colors so. red/orange and blue contrast, everyone's favorite

[pixlokita]

Page 21, I actually divided it into two pages I think I’ll just start making them shorter to be able to get to them more easily ^^ hopefully I’m not …. Getting too violent with children in my comics ><“

Previous - next- first

[waterbottlqueen]

happy satousai saturday!!!

[sleepy-ventus]

actually, can I get five more of them?

[ah-bright-wings]

The Garden - A Holy Saturday Story

A night wind rustles through the garden. Acacius shifts his feet, eyes following the bounce of a tree branch, though no night creature disturbs it. The sky is empty of clouds, leaving the moon silver and naked. The faint blush of dawn touches the horizon. Acacius feels his back touch the stone behind him and he straightens himself.

“Have you noticed,” he says sideways to Longinus—who alone remains awake while the other two in their guard sleep, rotations completed—“that you can’t hear any insects?”

Longinus doesn’t respond. When Acacius turns his head, he sees the man’s face is set, eyes unfocused. He’s on his back, one hand behind his head, the other on his belly, calloused fingers curled. His thumb taps an unsteady rhythm.

“Longinus,” Acacius says, and the man finally looks over, though for a moment only.

“Hercules died,” he says.

“…Hercules.”

“He was a demigod. He died. So, the sons of gods can die.”

Acacius’ grip tightens on his spear. “You’re speaking of the Nazarene.”

“Who else could I speak of?”

It’s not a biting retort, but an earnest one. Longinus has not spoken since they left Golgotha. Now, his voice is quiet, gruff. Uneasy. The brush rustles, and Acacius’ head snaps towards it. Longinus doesn’t flinch. His eyes remain fixed upwards.

“Are his followers really stupid enough to try stealing the body?” Acacius asks when he’s certain there’s no one in the garden.

“Does their god have sons?” Longinus doesn’t seem to have heard the question. Or, he’s heard and ignored it, continuing his own thoughts. “He must. All gods do. His mother must be a great woman.”

“He’s not a demigod,” Acacius says, a sigh held behind his teeth. “And we saw his mother. She was plain. So was he. Just a man.”

“He wasn’t just a man.”

“Why not?”

Longinus’ thumb taps on the curve of his bottom rib. “You saw what I did.”

“I saw a man die on a cross.”

“And the earth shake at his death.”

“Earthquakes happen.”

“Not like this.”

“If you are so certain,” Acacius says, “perhaps you should make an offering to appease his father. The lightning could strike you any moment now. Oh yes, look, here it comes.” He lifts a hand to the clear sky above. 

Longinus’ jaw shifts. He pushes himself up on his elbows so he can properly see his fellow legionnaire. There is still blood on his tunic, spattered against him by the wind when he thrust his spear through flesh. “Be careful what you mock.”

“I mock nothing. I mock no one. Is their god so powerful? Hm? He does nothing for them while Rome rules. He sends only rain while his ‘son’ hangs on a cross.” Acacius snorts and readjusts his stance. “They have one god, and he has forgotten them.”

“You’re a fool,” Longinus tells him. “Even Petronius recognized him for what he was.”

“The centurion is superstitious.”

“And you aren’t?”

“We did our duty.” Acacius is growing uneasy. Something rustles again in the brush. “So he was unusual. So, then, what? It changes nothing.”

“He prayed for our forgiveness.”

“Then he was sentimental.”

Longinus mutters a crude retort and lies down again. Acacius smiles thinly. The Nazarene had disturbed him, with his piercing eyes and silence under their whip, though he won’t admit it. The man’s eyes had been open when they pulled him down from the cross. Acacius had shut them to hide from them. 

“If he truly was the son of a god,” Acacius says, after the silence has stretched out like a shadow and grown heavy, “then we’d be the ones who killed him.”

“Yes,” Longinus says quietly. 

There is a warm wind stirring the trees like a breath. The earth is otherwise still around them. For hours, it has been still, as if creation is holding its breath, and just now, it has let it out again, sending puffs against Acacius’ skin and raising the soft hairs. The other two guards stir in their sleep. Longinus sits suddenly upright.

“Something is here,” he says, hand on his sword. He’s up before his words are out, kicking the others so they wake. The dawn makes itself known. The wind rises quickly. Clear is the sky, but the moon trembles as if afraid, hiding its face. A shaking begins, deeper than stone, making the trees shudder and groan, causing the roots to untwist themselves from the ground. Caius, who had laid his head on the Nazarene’s tunic, which he had won, has gone pale. He clings to his sword and shouts into the wind. His words are lost.

A man—no, it is not a man, though it is dressed in the white robes of one—comes across the grass, silent in its steps. When Acacius looks at it, terror seizes him. It’s a flash of terror, bright and terrible, illuminating all within himself that he has tried to hide. This is death! he thinks. This is death! His legs are limp beneath him. His face is crushed against the ground.

The man who is not a man places its hand on the stone. The wax seal melts away. Though the soldiers had strained themselves closing the tomb, the stone is pushed away with one hand, as easily as a boy might pick up a pebble and toss it away. It lands on its side, though it makes no sound. The being sits on it.

When Acacius comes to his right mind again, he is on his belly. His cheek is damp with dew. With his head turned sideways, he can see, two paces from him, Longinus, who is prostrate on his belly also, arms bent at the elbows so that his hands cover his head. He is shaking. Acacius hears him speaking, though it is more a babble than intelligible speech, the words forced from his lungs as he weeps.

Mercy, Acacius realizes. He begs for mercy.

There is still a terror in his own self when he raises his head to see the tomb. The being is gone. The tomb is open, stone cast aside, seal destroyed. Slowly, Acacius turns his head from side to side. The garden has come alive. In the new light, green has unfurled itself splendidly, trees putting forth their fruits and flowers like offerings so their fragrance fills the air. He sees fruit he does not know, nor has ever tasted. In the dipped branch of an olive tree, a grey dove sits.

His sword is gone. When did he drop it? He lifts himself and looks for the others, who are sprawled on the ground like dead men, though they breathe. He should check them. He should look for wounds. But something draws him towards the tomb, until he’s at the dark mouth of it, leaving the others behind, breathing in the cool, damp air. 

The tomb is empty.

“My gods,” he whispers, and he is terrified. He takes a step back, then another, turning from the empty tomb and the white linen cloths folded neatly where the body should be. His sandal catches on a root. He sprawls. The ground strips the skin from his knees. Blood rolls down his right calf as he limps forward.

Father, forgive them, had said the Nazarene, with a tongue swollen from thirst. 

“Run,” he tells Longinus hoarsely, grabbing the back of his tunic and hauling him upright. The others rise too. Their swords are abandoned. The Nazarene’s red garment lies crumpled on the ground. In the tomb, the graveclothes are folded. 

Father, forgive them, the man had prayed.

They know not what they do.

Acacius falls again, knocking the breath from himself. No one stops. The other three run ahead, fleeing the emptiness of the tomb, and though he gasps after them, they do not hear. 

There is no strength left in his limbs. As if gripped by fever, he trembles. Every story he has heard of the wrath of the gods comes to him here, crouched in the dust, made as low as beasts, while some great and holy fear passes over him. He covers his head as Longinus had done and begs for mercy.

Son of a god I do not know, he pleads, have mercy on me. Have mercy on me.

A hand touches his shoulder. 

Peace, says a voice he has heard before. Be still.

Immediately, the trembling leaves him. The terror that had overshadowed him passes on, leaving him be, and he is alone in the dust, alone, breathing. A dove coos. When he opens his eyes, he sees it on the path ahead, feathers ruffling. His eyes follow it when it takes flight.

The tomb is empty. The seal is broken, and the Nazarene is gone. At last, the world has thrown off its silence, and it sings around him, crying out while he stands mute. For a moment, he is still, seeking the source of their song. From where does it come? He cannot discern it. He abandons the stillness and presses on.

It is only when he rejoins the others that he finds his skinned knees made whole.