@thememime first of all THANK u for enjoying my claw paws i love drawin them oh so much
now let me think,, how do i actually,,,,,,…..draw them….,, ,
hmmmmmm uuuhhhhhhhhhh uuuuuuhhhhhhhhhh
ok to tell u the truth when i draw the claw paws its 100% muscle memory after drawing my dragon oc on every sheet of paper i came into contact with in high school, so actually thinkin abt the process is like ?? uhmmmmhhh well you squiggle it uuh
its not exactly a science i guess, and in retrospect its probably an anatomical bastardization, but i just go with what feels right bro. its kind of like a pattern or a rhythm.
i generally stick with three distinct knobs, a knuckle, another one, and another one after that second one. otherwise its about your line of action and where u want to pull the weight. oh! and i like to let the claws act as an extension of the hand, i give them bulk and weight as well, and they sorta flop around wherever they feel like goin
and of course there are 8,109,553,449 variations in how ya wanna stylize based on the exaggeration of your curves and angles, also by adding knobby joints and wrinkles! wrinkles are fun
but idk man. tbh ive just been kinda bullshitting it the entire time. please dont slap me with pizza dough
So this is an Outlander AU I’ve been playing around with ever since I watched Arrival. It’s a bit, err, weird so I wanted to see if people would have an interest in it before I dive in completely!
Weird dreams since it all began.
Everything—so vivid. Shadows exist there, and have discernable shapes. I can do
more than sense a presence behind my back; I can see it in the shifting, shadowy bodies approaching. Light, all this light.
In my dreams, there is so much of the old
life. Strawberries, as big as child’s fist, that I can smell and touch and taste.
Little seeds on my mouth; crunchy. I think of sand as I bite, and then it’s
there, it’s all there: a beach where the water isn’t frozen. Watergate Bay, I
think, in late July. I stand on the shore, watching the waves roil, when a
sweat bee lands on my arm.
swat at her, just let her suck the honey right out of me. (People cry over
daffodils these days, but I say fuck
the daffodils. I’d weep if I saw a bee.)
There are faces in my dreams, too. And
though I canna remember them when I wake, I know there is a woman. Sometimes a
kid appears—the woman’s? I have no idea—but she’s got spider legs and freckles
like you wouldna believe. She laughs and she laughs, a paintbrush in her hand,
and she is forever laughing, this girl, a beautiful, bird-like laugh and —
They do make me think, these dreams. All
I do is wonder:
What are these dreams, and who are these
What will happen to all the kids and that
little girl with the legs and the freckles and the laugh?
What will happen to me or to that strange
will happen to any of us?
It is so dark, Jenny. The whole world’s
April 16, 2018
days ago, human existence divided into two parts: Before Darkness and After
Darkness. The latter, pessimists will argue, is ignorant and misleading. Who is
to say, they ask, that there will be an After? Who is to say that this isn’t the
state of our lives, our world, our humanity for the rest of eternity? Darkness,
darkness, and more darkness.
It’s funny: the line between B.D.
and A.D. is a meager span of eight and a half minutes. Or, if you want to be
precise—to make the time sound shorter, like we couldn’t have seen it
coming—a matter of 510 seconds. That is how long it took for our planet to
realize it no longer had its mother, the Sun, to offer her steadfast care of
yellow light and warm hugs. For those 510 seconds, us earthly billions scurried
like ants, oblivious to the growing shadow of the palm that was slowly, slowly
No more sun.
B.D. becomes A.D.
could tell, ye ken? I could tell something wasna right. Felt a chill right down
my spine, I did.
This is a quote from a farmer in the
Shetland Isles whose potato crop, in just a few short months, will die out.
Travelers will sink their teeth into the greening skin, desperate for a taste of
an uncanned vegetable. The solanine that poisons their insides in exchange for
this token of the B.D. world.
same farmer—the man who claims he felt the cold finger of imminent doom—will
meet an ironic death: hypothermia, in his own bed. It will be 43 below on that
day, a temperature even his warm-blooded wife, long in the ground, would have
blanched it. There will be no one to mourn him, save the travelers eating the toxic
potatoes, and even they will fall not long after.
son lives in Stirling with his own wife, and he will not know of his father’s
death when it happens, but deduce its occurrence from the prolonged silence.
Silence, in the A.D., is none of the things it once could have been. Not anger
or disinterest or dementia. Only death—the certainty that something wasna right.
But this is months away yet, and so
the son, named Ian Murray, has no reason to assume the frozen corpse of his
farmer father. As of this moment, it has been eleven days since the sun vanished,
and outside Ian’s home is one of the hundreds of Sites. He flocks there, as everyone
within the vicinity does, to see the strange phenomenon at the Killin stone
circle. It floats over the rocks that no one—not even Ian, who lives just three
sloping hills away—ever paid much mind in the B.D.
But now: crowds surrounding them.
Children on parents’ shoulders, sound booms and camera crews, iPhones
perpetually raised and Instagram filters debated.
or Ludwig? Which d’ye reckon will
make it brighter? I need my cousin in Wisconsin to see this.”
“She’s already seen it, ye clotheid. This shit’s all over the news!”
And it is. Every broadcaster all
over the world has come to Britain, Ireland, Brittany, England, Scotland,
Bulgaria, Israel, and Poland, setting up camp by every ancient stone circle now
“Light!” people cheer.
“Light!” people hiss.
“Light!” people cry. And they cry
and cry and cry. Has anything ever been more beautiful than this, they ask?
These perfect lights—the only natural light left in the entire A.D. world—dancing
above the standing stones?
Eventually, the parties of gawkers
are broken up and ushered back to their homes. They trudge through the
all-consuming dark, seeing almost nothing, but hearing the chatter of hope and
fear buzzing around them. They cannot do anything except sit in front of their
televisions or their radios, waiting for answers that will arrive when it is
nearly too late. Their screens already black, the electricity out
entirely. Everyone huddled close under flickering candlelight, still
“What are the Orbs?”
“Where do the Orbs come from?”
“Why are they here?”
And so on the evening the Orbs first
appear, Ian and his wife return from Killin circle, trying (and failing) to make
sense of these lights that have appeared in their recently lightless world.
They sit at their rickety IKEA table, listening to their children in the living
room—“Is this the end of the world?” one of their daughters asks—before they
finally call the wife’s brother. No one in the Murray household has the foresight
to understand that the bulbs above their heads, the sound of Doctor Who, and the cell phone they are
dialing might eventually disappear.
“Jamie,” Ian says into the receiver,
And Jamie Fraser, having been
brutally awoken that morning, rubs his face and thinks, Aye, that’s me all right. The badge swinging from his neck
proclaims himself so: Dr. James Fraser, Solar Astronomer.
“Jamie, what the Devil is going on?”
This, from Jenny, Ian’s wife, who is convinced that the Orbs are a government
hoax. Those damn bastards, she keeps
muttering, those damn bastards.
is leaning against a tree, feeling the weight of his badge and, thus, his
responsibility dragging him to the ground. He has been avoiding the glare of
the floodlights, which are now shining so brightly on the uniformed men and his
impossible task. He does not want to get used to them, this artificial light.
Wants to forget them so that, when such forgetfulness becomes necessary, they
are impossible for him to miss.
“I’ve no idea.”
“D’ye think it’s aliens or some
“Dinna be daft, Ian, this has the
English written all over it. Those damn
“We’ve only been here since this
morning, Jenny. We willna ken any answers for a while.”
“Weel, where are ye?” Ian asks. “Are
ye here? In Stirling?” And Jamie, against his will, looks at the Orb over the
clefted rock. It dims, brightens, then dims again. No discernable pattern in
its behavior, though Jamie feels as though it is calling to him. Close your eyes. Listen.
“Today’s been such a blur, I—I
honestly canna remember. I woke up wi’ a man banging on my door in Glasgow, and
then I was in a helicopter on my way here.”
“Christ,” Ian says.
looks off into the distance, at the small but blinking city, and imagines it
several months from now. A ghost town, perhaps. A crater of an even deeper
blackness where the signs of life he is watching now have dwindled into
nothing. How long though? How long will it last without the sun?
stationed no’ far from Inverness, but I’m no’ sure what stone circle this is.”
long as it isna Stonehenge,” Jenny replies, bursting with a knowledge gleaned
from the Killin crowd. “Two people dead there. A sacrificial ritual before the
almost laughs at the idiocy of it all, but then a stern voice takes his attention.
It crackles from a walkie-talkie carried by one of the army bigwigs.
Craig Na Dun? Craig Na Dun, are you
there? They’ve found two more Sites in the Orkneys. Over.