Scottish Gothic
  • Up on Arthur’s Seat, little teeth chatter in little coffins, hidden in the crags. They cry and gasp and knock on their lids, but no-one hears them anymore. They miss their brothers and sisters.
  • The pillars in George Square start growing. No-one quite knows how, or why, but they stretch a thousand feet into the sky now. The statues are out of sight, barely black specks against the grey. Atop those starry distant plinths, something is moving.
  • You are almost lulled to sleep by the gentle rocking of the train until you begin to notice the signs on the stations never quite match what the over-head announcer says is the next stop. It gets worse the further you go until both are nothing but gibberish. “Here, what’s the right way to pronounce Milngavie?” you ask your companion. They open their mouth. They unhinge their jaw. The Void speaks.
  • A boulder stands on the slopes of Glencoe. It has stood there unmoving since the glaciers carved it out of the ground. If it had eyes, it would weep. If it had a mouth, it would scream. Oh god! God, the things it has seen!
  • They say if the Duke of Wellington is wearing his cone, all is well in Glasgow - but his proud head is bare tonight and none dare to go near it. Copenhagen snorts and stamps restlessly. All is not well. It might never be again.
  • The Old Man of Storr slumbers, but for how much longer?
  • You stare boredly out the window of the lounge in your Fort William youth hostel. It’s raining again. “Does it ever stop?” you wonder aloud, tapping the glass. The proprietor’s son overhears, “I don’t know,” he says, “I’m only twelve.”
  • The Wicker Man screams as it burns. “Green wood,” they say, laughing, smiling as they dance, “Just the sap boiling.” They dance faster, harder, smiling and smiling and smiling, but what sort of sap begs god for mercy?
  • You pull over on the Rest-and-be-Thankful. An ancient wind howls down the glen, hungry and vengeful, biting at your back. You must keep moving. You can never rest. There is little to be thankful for.
  • It’s midnight in Irvine, and a man steps out of a broken telephone box. His Burberry cap is pulled low and his trackies are tucked into his socks. “Gonnae tap us 10p furra bus, pal?” as asks. You place a coin in his skeletal hand. “That’s no enough,” he says. You give him your wallet. “That’s no enough.” You give him your phone. “That’s no enough.” Your palms are sweaty and a chill runs down your spine. The moon moves from behind a cloud; there is no face beneath the peak of his cap, only teeth. You think you know now what might be enough.

zstrikersource  asked:

1: cual es el programa que tu misma usas? 2: me encantan tus dibujos, pero te consideras furra?normal?o animatronica? 3: que es lo que te motivo para ser dibujante #SaludosDesdeLaArgentina

1-Programa? XD pues si hablamos de pintura se llama paint tool sai  XD

2-Soy una persona normal ◉_◉ si fuera los otros dos no se que pensar :v!

3-las paredes de mi casa que murieron rayadas por mi…pffff

anonymous asked:

Y cuales serían esos personajes?

Y unos humanos :‘v lo sé era furra.. O al menos lo sigo siendo :V (ño me odies :'v)

Demons Saving Angels

In a world far from here, one known to a small group of adventurers, someone was staying awake.

In that world, full of strange beings, a small island floated on the back of a very, very large Zaratan Turtle. And on that island was a small tropical village by the name of Silverion. Darkness covered the land, but it was nothing unusual, considering the late past-midnight hour. Most buildings were quiet, dark with missing light.

The hospital retained light, however, if only a little.

Because she had to stay awake. Good luck falling asleep when your sole hate-friend is in danger.

Only one light was on by this point; the rest of the hospital had been dimmed low. Kichuna stood by the medical bed, and kept an eye on the large tiger-man that laid flinching, helpless by her. He had been brought in by his wife in a panic, and she had done everything she could to cure him.

It was only enough to stop him from trying to claw out his own brain, but not enough to bring back his mind.

“The fuck did you do to yourself, Dimitri…” The woman’s voice is rough, raspy, as if she were perpetually on the edge of getting over a cold, herself. The tiger’s wife had been since sent off to rest, if allowed to stay in the hospital itself. It took a while to convince her that he would be alright.

Though, Kichuna herself has no idea if he was going to be or not.

“His enchanted necklace heals physical wounds, so it can’t be something like a cut or wound… He’s resistant to poisons, can’t be that…” She recites under her breath in a frustrated hiss. “Mindshields to protect him from outside sources, nothing, but…”

She trails her fingers over the gold circlet she had placed on him; one of her own enchanted artifacts, to help bring one’s mind back. All this has done, however, is stop him from trying to claw out his own skull, and left him blank-eyed and speaking in another dialect entirely. Almost like some kind of incantation…

“…At least figured out how to stop the pain, for now.” She mumbled, her ears swiveling back. “I need help…”

She squints her eyes shut in trying to think. “Who the fuck would even know this kind of shit? Mage, incantations, stupid– I need Sai.”