#but this is the basic premise

[blueywrites]

outlaw!eddie has my heart already 😩💕

ah yes, my love. outlaw!eddie....

Hellfire has menaced the town of Hawkinsville for as long as anyone can remember. Clothed all in black, faces painted fiery red, they ride in led by the devil himself and make off with the spoils of their terror. No business is safe, least of all the ones owned by the Carver family, the closest equivalent to oil magnates a quaint town like Hawkinsville could have.

R is betrothed to eligible bachelor Jason Carver, who'd had his eye on her, it seems, ever since she stepped foot off that train as Hawkinsville's newest schoolteacher. She's quite the envy of the town and is beyond delighted to receive Jason's offer. Though they've only been courting for two months, he's been a perfectly respectable gentleman and quite the charmer.

It's just such bad luck that R had to be in just the wrong place at the wrong time so as to run into the Devil of Hellfire in the midst of a raid. And most certainly terrible, awful, rotten luck that he'd had to make the snap decision to take her with him.

Ed Munson is kicking himself now, but when he discovers she's set to be Jason Carver's little wife? Well, now... this might be his biggest bounty yet.

[tragedy-machine]

Listen, listen, listen, imagine Charles making a grand romantic gesture to confess to Edwin, he makes it really special, VERY obviously romantic

They're talking, they're bantering, and eventually, Charles sees his chance and tells Edwin, "I love you"

Edwin blushes and naturally says it back

And Charles is super happy, like "Yes! I finally did it, we're finally dating!" ...meanwhile, Edwin did not get that it was a date and a romantic confession

So we see them go about their days and solve cases while Charles thinks they're together and assumes Edwin is too shy to kiss him, but he's waiting for an opportunity to do it one day because he really wants to, but he can be patient for Edwin

And Edwin is just like, "Charles’s been more affectionate with his touch recently, I don't know what that's about, but it's nice"

[rius-cave]

Guys.... guys..... Prison AU.......... You have no idea how mentally ill I am about this

[remxedmoon]

“the eternal wanderer. even death cannot release it from its plight.”

tribeless

1 power - 1 health - 7 bones

unkillable - when a card bearing this sigil perishes, a copy of it is created in your hand.

corpse eater - if a creature that you own perishes by combat, a card bearing this sigil in your hand is automatically played in its place.

brittle - after attacking, a card bearing this sigil perishes.

hidden trait - cursebearer

this card cannot be sacrificed at the sigil stones event.

finally posting my isatscryption stuff here!!! yipee!!! here’s a writeup about the card design because frankly i put wayy too much thought into all of these cards. sorry if these are a bit hard to parse!

unkillable and corpse eater effectively make sif immortal, since every time he dies, he’ll be placed back on the board! and i thought that was fitting for. y’know. timeloop reasons. brittle is only there to emphasize the whole constantly dying thing. because is it really isat without siffrin torment

also didn’t notice this until after i designed this card, but the brittle sigil art has a star on it??? not intentional in the slightest but it is Fitting

sif is a fox here! i know that that would technically put them in the canine tribe, but i felt it’d be more fitting for them to be tribeless? and base game inscryption already kinda bends the rules when it comes to tribes (such as the bullfrog being a reptile and the rabbit being treated internally as a rodent) so i think it still works

i’m well aware that card traits don’t actually have cool names or anything but i still want to give them cool names because it’s fun. anyways! cursebearer! i gave them this trait both because these sigils are extremely overpowered, and for lore reasons. sif sees their sigils as a curse! they don’t want to force them on anyone else!! it’s their burden to bear!!!

tangentially related to that last point, but sif is a talking card in this au! because it’s fun :3. and because i think it’d be really interesting to see how he’d react to the cabin

sif’s scar is covered by the hat a bit but it’s Star Shaped. and so is the eye shine teehee

this was the first card i made and Boy Does It Show. i had the WORST time trying to get the card generators to work for this because oops! both of the card generators are inaccurate in different ways! plus theres a few mistakes in the card art that i didn’t notice until after i finished most of the others... i promise the others are a little more polished

also, since i didn’t mention it above the cut, the sigil patch is for the bone king sigil! which makes the card award 4 bones instead of 1 upon death. this is less for lore reasons and more for the synergy with his sigils. since he’s constantly dying and coming back, he can basically give you infinite bones for Zero Cost. fun!

aaand i think that’s all the notes for this card! thanks for reading this absurdly long post. here’s his alt card art without the patch for your troubles 🫡

[brokenheartedcubscout]

he said i am not a cop but i am still here to protect and SERVE

[aroaceleovaldez]

doodles of my youtuber au cause i've had this au for like. 5+ years but never post anything about it. one day i'll actually go over it fully.

[poyameows]

After listening to the newest tmagp episode I have one theory about the baby. I was thinking about changelings in Irish mythology and how a baby would be swapped at birth with a faerie as some cases believe a human mothers milk is needed for the baby to survive. Especially with the 'health visitor' monitoring her the whole time. Since the demon baby seems to resemble a vampire, I was thinking maybe Patricia did originally have a human child which was then swapped for a vampire baby. I can't remember the exact way vampires are born/made in tma so this might be slightly off. But since the baby is mentioned to be eating the mother, it seems likely it's in an attempt to get blood which adult? vampires wouldn't be able to provide. If the baby was swapped at birth it would also fit in with the equivalent exchange narrative that has been prevalent for a while. :)

[slimeshade]

You are here to stop something. Something big, something deadly and dangerous.

However, you can't remember what that something is.

Bonus concept:

[thelemonsnek]

half baked malevolent au because i havent been able to get this podcast out of my head

[image id: four drawings on one sketchpage. The first is of Ingo, newly fallen to Hisui, staring off into the distance. A shadowy Giratina looms over his shoulder. To the side of this drawing, Ingo looks up angrily, saying "I don't think 'inner demons' was supposed to be this literal.' Giratina, not pictured, says, "sorry?" Another drawing shows Ingo smiling and peace-signing, while Giratina does the same behind him. The last drawing shows Ingo and Emmet reuniting - Ingo stares out in shock, unmoving, while Emmet runs at him, arms outstretched for a hug. Giratina looks frantically between the two, going "WHAT THE FUCK". End id]

[marokra]

Stardew Valley au and/or custom npc concept? yes? no? take the blorbo anyways

[monstrsball]

[sixtyune]

Hear me out: Toppin Peppino

[hugeegosorry]

„dead due to medical malpractice” „kills u by medical malpractice” no you don’t get it. Medical Malpractice SAVES lives. but you know what it kills? genocidal dictators

[hardly-an-escape]

Stormy Weather, or: Outside, the Wind (Inside, the Light) | Dream/Hob | 1600 words | Rated T

tags: I recently spent an evening without power therefore I must put the blorbos in a Situation, love confessions, first kiss, getting together, power outages, Hob Gadling throughout history, gratuitious use of mildly accurate Middle English

The wind tears around London like a living thing, a wild animal, a predator, intent on the hunt. It chases birds into their nests and people into their homes, moans around corners and rattles shutters, sending piles of leaves whirling into miniature hurricanes and whipping branches into a frenzy, sharpening its claws on roof tiles and telephone poles.

Except in Hob Gadling’s flat.

The New Inn, and the cozy home above it, is in one of those old buildings that’s actually been loved and maintained – thanks in no small part to Hob’s own care and attention. The walls are thick and strong, the roof is solid. The shutters may rattle, but the windows are double-pane; the curtains and carpets are warm and soft, and no drafts encroach on the sanctity of his living room, where Hob and Lord Morpheus, King of Dreams, are having a movie night.

It’s part of Hob’s concerted effort to introduce the Prince of Stories to the stories he’d missed during his imprisonment. Tonight it’s Blade Runner – the final cut, of course – which isn’t necessarily one of Hob’s personal favorites, but seemed to fit the stormy, rainy vibes of the weather. They’re installed on the couch, with hot chocolate and wine and snacks, which Dream has deigned to pick at. Harrison Ford is eating noodles and wandering through wet, moodily-lit streets. The wind is howling outside, but they’re safe and warm and surrounded by soft things and life is about as good, Hob thinks, as it ever gets these days.

And then his lights flicker. Once, twice; there is the impression of a sort of electrical last gasp, and the room is plunged into darkness.

The wind whips and the shutters rattle. A volley of rain spits itself against the windows.

“Bugger,” says Hob.

Dream says nothing, merely brings his wineglass – which had already been cradled in one elegant hand – to his lips.

“Hang on,” says Hob. “I’ve got some candles around here somewhere.”

He gropes his way to the kitchen. In one drawer he unearths some beeswax tapers and several tea lights, which he arranges on a plate. He rummages in one of the deeper cabinets and makes a triumphant noise as he discovers his prize behind disused mugs and a fondue set from the 1980s: a pair of old-fashioned brass candlesticks equipped with round reflectors, highly polished to catch the light and bounce it back out into the darkness.

“You are remarkably well-prepared for an event such as this,” says Dream, as Hob lights his various prizes and returns to the living room with his hands full of flickering flames.

“Well, you know,” Hob demurs. “When it comes down to it, I’ve lived a lot more of my life without electricity than with it.” He arranges the tea lights on the coffee table and sets the brass candlesticks on a nearby bookshelf. “You never really get out of the habit of preparing for the worst. Although I will say, these beeswax ones beat the hell out of the old tallow jobbies we had when I was young. Got ‘em from a local bloke who keeps bees not half a mile away, isn’t that cool? A beekeeper in the middle of London. There, now,” he says, and having arranged the lights to his satisfaction he plops himself back down on the sofa.

Outside, the wind wails. The lack of lamps on the empty street below and the gentle candlelight within make the night seem even darker, and turn Hob’s living room into something even softer and cozier than it already is.

Dream’s face, in the flickering candles, seems even more otherworldly than usual; and Hob, for his part, truly looks as though he belongs in another century. The very shape of his face has changed, somehow, into something older; taking on a new appearance in the candlelight the way a man’s tongue might curl differently around the syllables of another language.

“I miss it, sometimes,” he says lowly. “This kind of world. Before the wires and the phones and the cars. It was… quieter.”

“You speak often of your delight in change and progress. Do you truly long for your past lives?” asks Dream.

“Yes and no,” answers Hob. “Some things are better now, no question. Antibiotics, wouldn’t want to live without those again. Vaccines and X-rays and chemotherapy and antidepressants – almost all the medical stuff. Mass transportation. Cars and planes have never been safer. Honestly, I’ve never understood the people who moan about the olden days and oh, life was simpler back then. Don’t they know how many people died? How many kids? Because they caught a cold or fell out of a tree or had a case of the runs that lasted a little too long?”

He leans forward to adjust one of the candles, which is dripping unevenly, and when he sags back into the couch there is just the hint of a frown between his strong brows.

“And yet…” he says, staring into the flames, voice quiet. “Nights like this. I do sometimes think…”

Hob trails off for a long moment.

“There was a rhythm to life, back then,” he says finally. “You counted hours by the church bells and days by the tasks that needed done. And there was so much that needed to be done… cows milked and fields planted and clothes knitted or mended. And it was all so important, so… necessary. Regimented. But in the in between time – Christ! your time wast thine.” As he speaks, his voice has slipped into an older register: his Rs grown rounder, his vowels longer, curling from his mouth to mingle with the candlesmoke hovering over his coffee table. “I remember fair hours as a lad, even into my manhood, of which I spent lyende in th’ fields, watching ants in th’ grass. And later, too, we’d hie us to bed with the sonne, the fire banked in the hearth. An’ it happen that if we awakened before dawn, ’twas a simple thing to pass the time in simple ways, be it in prayer or in pleasure…”

The innuendo in his words is clear, but Hob is not looking at Dream; his eyes are unfocused as he stares into the middle distance, revisiting the past via candlelight. Until one of the wicks lets out a small pop, and flares, and he shakes himself, coming back to the present.

“God, sorry,” he says, voice back in the 21st century. “Woolgathering. I’ll go on for an age, me. More wine?”

But Dream’s eyes have also gone unfocused, his lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling with unnecessary breaths as he stares – no, gazes – at Hob. He, too, must shake himself into the present moment at Hob’s offer of more wine. He silently holds out his glass.

“May I ask you a personal question?” Dream says.

“Anything. You know that.”

Dream pauses. Sips. Outside, the sound of the wind has not abated; has grown, if anything, even more dramatic. There is the muffled sound of branches scraping against the side of the building.

“Why,” asks Dream finally, “do you pretend to yourself that you do not want me?”

Hob chokes. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Why do you pretend thus to me?” Dream pursues. “Who has known you longer than any being on this planet or any other; who can know your innermost dreams?”

“What do you mean, other planets?” Hob demands. And then: “Have you been peeking at my dreams?”

“I need not peek, as you put it, to see the truth of the matter. It is writ plain on your face and in your every word and deed. I merely wonder why this truth has hovered before us for over six hundred years and you have yet to press your suit. Do you doubt, after all this time, my affection for you? Do you find me – unworthy?”

Dream sounds, impossibly, almost uncertain. Even vulnerable. Hob sighs heavily and leans forward, elbows on his knees and face in his hands.

“I – God. Dream,” he stammers. “Yes, Christ, I am full of doubts. You stormed away from me when I implied you might be lonely, I… I have never, once, thought I had a suit to press at all. What on earth has brought this on? Now, of all times?”

“I do not know,” Dream murmurs. “Perhaps… this darkness is working on me, as well. Perhaps I am as susceptible to candlelight and nostalgia as the next anthropomorphic personification.”

He smiles, a little quirk of the mouth that contains worlds, and Hob leans over, listing helplessly into Dream’s space as the tapers flicker.

“Fuck,” he whispers, pressing their foreheads together, turning his head to butt his cheekbone against the sharp line of Dream’s nose. “Art thou rēal? Speak you treue?”

“Aye, my Hob,” answers Dream. “Min herte is treue and bilongeth to you.”

A sob catches in the back of Hob’s throat at the words. “Fuck,” he whispers again, “Dream, I’m yours. I am. I always have been. My Dream, min sweven, my leof. Alwei, allesweis…”

Their mouths find each other, then, finally, lip against lip and breath against breath. They kiss for a long, long moment, desperate and hungry and soft all at once, as outside the wind howls coldly around the corners of the New Inn, and inside the light cast by Hob’s candles bathes their whole little world in a cozy glow.

“Take me to bed,” murmurs Dream against Hob’s mouth. “Make me your lover. Show me how you pass the time by candlelight, and in darkness.”

“Oh, darling. Dearheart,” Hob answers. “Nothing in this world or any world past could make me happier.”

And he suits his actions to his words.

[i-like-books-and-women]

Oh the crippling reality of small fandom means if I wanna read the fic I'm probs gonna have to write it

[moonlit-tulip]

A gimmick which I think would be interesting in a visual novel: small variation in the visual designs of the sprites and backgrounds based on who's narrating a given scene. Not large variations, mostly—buildings are going to have generally the same architecture, people are going to have generally the same outfits, et cetera—but lots of details shifting around on the margins, showing the texture of the characters' thought-processes through the visual design of the world as they see it, rather than only through the text of their narration.

So, for example, one could have one viewpoint character be unusually faceblind, and portray this by having all the sprites have Same-Face Syndrome when viewed from their perspective, even as they hold onto more variation face-wise in everyone else's perspectives. One could have one viewpoint character who's unusually conscious of the fine details of their physical environment, and portray this by drawing the environment-art with much more fiddly detail when in their perspective, showing wood-grain and electrical wiring and other such things which are abstracted away in others' perspectives of the same areas. Et cetera.