dirt drawing

@dungeonsdonuts invited M and me to his Ravenloft/CoS game!! We just played our first session(s) and had a great time, I’m hella pumped abt it!

Anyway, this is Bowsnap the Kenku Ranger (me, obv) and Arjette the halfling-turned-goblin Artificer (M)

I forgot that Kenku are size medium and not size small but I think Arjette is tall for a goblin and Bo is small for a kenku. It all works out


HUUUGEEE dump of requests/trades/draw-the-person-above-you’s that I’ve done over on MCL. Some recently, some not so recentlyヽ(・∀・)ノ

I’ve been trying to be more active on the forums lately (mostly been lurking around on Creative Arts), but, uh. Let’s see if that continues :P

Went on a little five day climbing trip to Priest Draw with my love.
The boulders are unreal.
Coconino National Forest in Arizona
April 18, 2017


sawasprout 🌱 (please click through to read!)

I was having sad thoughts of lonely kid miyuki, which made me return to my sawasprout au ideas. that au did basically start with miyuki wanting a good pitcher to play catch with and he is given seeds to grow one. one of too many other au’s i have.

It’s the crying that wakes him.

Crying is not a concept foreign to FN-2187: his training has streamlined his mind into two neat lines deemed as being Productive and Unproductive. Logic and loyalty and righteous anger at those against the First Order are considered to be Helpful and Necessary, while misery, and guilt, and empathy are cut out with clean scalpels and the burning sharpness of a laser drill.

Crying, it turns out, is startlingly difficult to remove.

FN-2187 is still a cadet, though his station officer has listed his attributes on his public file, and he’s held a Stormtrooper helmet in his hands and stood at attention when Captain Phasma inspected his platoon. And at night, in the bunks he shares with twenty other cadets with matching haircuts and identical uniforms, he learns how to recognise the hitching sounds of someone burying their face in a pillow, or what it feels like when the person sleeping above him shakes with sobs.

He also learns how to close his eyes, and shut his mouth.

This crying, however, is loud.

It’s not so much crying as it is screaming, the same words over and over in some foreign tongue, and with it comes a heat that tickles and scratches his skin beneath his clothes. When he rubs his fingers together, eyes screwed shut, it feels like sharpened dirt, and tastes of dust.

It’s a girl, he thinks, resisting the urge to roll over, and he doesn’t recognise the voice. It’s too young, too pitched, and it echoes in a way that’s unfamiliar to the dorms; expanding outwards and outwards, uninhibited by corridors and the cold vacuum of space.

It feels like burning, and rubs his mind raw.

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