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A Unicorn, a mythical beast captured and slaughtered after it comes out of the forest to greet a Virgin. Outside of its original metaphorical context, it is a disturbing story,  the young nameless woman used as a part of the hunting game of the mob to murder a mythical conscious being. Instead, I wanted to show something soft and tender. The Lady as an adult woman closer to her thirties rather than the teenage years and being there by her own will, fully present. The little magic goat, the Unicorn, as safely resting and unharmed. Enough of the hunts and games. 

(I wanted to draw this image for quite a while, but were finally inspired to do so after watching this video I found on Youtube when searching for the Lady and The Unicorn tapestries documentary to watch)

all night long the sword on the wall above my bed has been rattling and i finally woke up all the way and went wtf and turned on the light and found this.

@ those of you saying this is cute… that’s a feral rat. a feral rat hovered over my head watching me sleep for three hours while trying to figure out how to assassinate me with a longsword. thanks.

He’s there to give you a quest

The fae smiled, sharply: “Give me your name, child.”

“Uhhhhh. Stick.”

“What.”

“Does Leaf work better? I’m just kinda looking around this clearing. Look, I’m trans, I haven’t decided on one yet, I’m throwing some spaghetti at the wall, you know how it is.”

Fae are born with features sharp and narrow, yet this one seems to soften as Moss looks at it. Its grin— sharp, teeth gleaming, its eyes— cutting, searching, the jut and pull of its jaw enough to scratch glass. It does not blink. Branch does not blink. It softens.

“I said, give me your name, child.”

“I still haven’t picked one,” Grass defends, even now still hoping for a way out of a faeries deal.

“No. But your parents did. Give me your name, child, and it shall no longer be yours. The entity of your name shall no longer exist, and you will be free for whichever name you choose— Leaf, or Stick, or Lichen.”

“…oh.” says Petal, and in the next moment a name falls from their lips. It is not their name. It never has been. The fae is sharp and cutting and witty, that moment of softness an imagined slight.

“Very well, child. Be warned of mushroom circles, should you lose your name again.”

“Okay,” Mushroom smiles, and the Fae pulls itself away from their reality in a swirl of feathers and silk.

When they go home for the first time in two months, their mother frets over them in a way she had not since they were a child, and she calls them by no name at all.

Goddamn.  This is my favorite version of ‘faeries take your name’, that’s it, we can all go home now.

The fae said trans rights

skeletons