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Did you learned magic from found books too?
"Mammals tend to forget we're in the room"
"Everything I learned this far was self-taught, from observing their skills and art, inside their private space."
#backstory#ð#backstory unlocked#ðª ð® âšïž#magic#illusionest#illager#envoker#fish tank#beast collection#caputred#sea beast#misc the enchanter#the enchanted mistake#minecraft oc#anonymous#minecraft ask blog#glowing eyes#yellow eyes#monster#ð
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#mycosylivingroom#actually autistic#special interest#paint by number#fantasy core#dark academia#magic ð© ðª ð® âšïž ð± ð
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#people magazine#people#magic johnson#magic ð© ðª ð® âšïž ð± ð Johnson#michael jackson#prince
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i can make pictures easilyðððððð
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beomgyu in lee mujin service.. i need ðð
#ive had a lot of time to think lately#and now i cant get this out of my head so im posting it to manifest it ðªð®ð§ââïžð§ââïžð±âšïžâšïžð¿ð±#.txt
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manifesting good grades for everyone this year ðð«ð¯ððâšïžâïžðªð§¿ð®ðª¬ðâ
ïžð
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Missed these 2 cuties ð¥°ð«¶ð»ð€ððð«âšïžðªð®
#noel niihashi#ninny spangcole#burn the witch anime#burn the witch#bleach#aesthetic#edit#anime#anime edit#anime aesthetic#viral post#explore#icons#viral#explore page#anime blog
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Hogwarts AU
James as Gryffindorâ€ïž, Lars as Slytherinð, Kirk as Hufflepuffð and Cliff as Ravenclawð
I'll draw Gryff Jaymz and Ravenclaw Clip more and next time I'll draw Hufflepuff Jason and Slytherin Dave too. i really love this au so maybe I'll draw this when i have time again ;]
*Why I put dave as a Slytherin and not Gyffindor? simple, his ambition is to be better than tallica. maybe his appearance looks so Gryffindor boi but he has a real ambition as a pure Slytherin ð
My Hogwarts imagination ðªð§¹ð®âšïž
These all imaginations, are just my silly imagination of em in hoggy woggy Hogwarts life
Well for Kirky... he'll like muggle studies and magical creatures or transfiguration I guess. also ykw? I'd like to see Kirk in herbology or care of magical creatures classes... it'll be so cute seeing him with a bowtruckle like Newt Scammander... ðâšïžð¿
for James, I think he'll like any class beside divination, ancient runes and other boring classes. I can imagine he prefer to go play quidditch with the sport gang. ohhh and seems he likes duelling to showcase his power like duelling with Dave ð§¹âšïž ðš
Lars... hmm... I think he'll like astronomy and charms or maybe defense against the dark arts(DADA) classes. I can see Seamus Finnigan in him when casting wingardium leviosa in charms class and exploded LMFAO ð¥ððª
Obviously Cliff would love potions, ancient runes, arithmancy, alchemy and history of magic. idk why, but I think it suits him well. I can imagine him being friend with Snape lmfao. and i think he hates divination cuz it doesn't make any sense for him. oh and he's such a good friend of James ððªâšïž
I can see Jason interested in muggle stuffs. So I think he'll like muggle studies and muggle arts. not only muggle stuffs, I can see him in transfiguration and charms or care of magical creatures classes with a cute niffler. he's the real Cedric Diggory in this AU hehe ðª¶âšïžðª
last but not least... Dave as a Slytherin. yeah you didn't read it wrong!! he has a strong ambition to defeat James, ofc in Quidditch. I can imagine him in DADA class duelling with James. also I think he likes potions and divination. ð§¹ð®âšïž
okay, we got a new member, Rob!! I can't even put him anywhere bcz I don't know whether he's in Gryff or Hufflepuff. sorry bout that qwq... but dw I asked some of my friends that he's a total Gryff!! I can see him mostly like James. He's okay with all of the classes in hogwarts, but he still finds that divination is such a ridiculous class just like everyone. I think his favorite classes is astronomy and DADA ððªðª¶
#metallica#metallica fanart#james hetfield#lars ulrich#dave mustaine#cliff burton#kirk hammett#rob trujillo#jason newsted#hogwarts au#hogwarts#harry potter#draco malfoy#drawing#digital illustration#fanart#gryffindor#slytherin#hufflepuff#ravenclaw#frugz artwork#frugz hogwarts au
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in honor of @bg3-apprecimaytion's event!
for @again-please's iconic elusory wizard girlboss tav: neve nomani ð®ðª from Dancing With My Demons (please read the whole Mercurial World series btw)
@again-please if your character is misrepresented in any way just let me know and i'll delete it no questions asked âšïžthis is all extrapolation
if i'm late no i'm not you didn't see anything
12. memories
snippets of neve's last day in baldur's gate. look at the clock, it's sad girl hour.
word count: 4419
storm's eye
"Do not take oaths when you graduate from Blackstaff Academy."
--Ka'a Orto'o, Gnomic Utterances, CC IV xvi
Norry's shop is little more than a hole-in-the-wall, humble stone and wood and washed-out sign ensemble of a storefront, nothing like the famed portal of children's stories youâd wander in hoping to stumble upon opportunity and adventure.
Fortune favours the ones who bet on losing dogs, so you could take a chance.
Youâd push the door open and strings of bronze bells would chime the merry little tune of serendipity.
Worn out drapes over small tables and shelves lined with books, bronze and gammanium arcane tools, miniature astrolabes, the stray fire elemental trapped in a crystal globe, dancing dust particles visible in the dim sunlight filtering through the windows, strings of colourful cantrip-infused trinkets that do nothing to help the shop's reputation as a curiosity store that provides unreliable magical objects (it's an unfortunate side effect of being associated to the Enchanter's Guild's name, uncancellable subscription, no refunds).
Magic safely contained in vials, jars, airtight bottles, neatly labelled and organized the way you'd store food or legal documents or body parts in a mortuary. Not a single living thing, no skin-prickling excitement that awakens at the mere mention of 'magic'.
The place is a light inconsequential spring breeze to the pulsing cold storms of the Weave.
Behind the counter, a young woman with pleated locks of strawberry-blond hair, a pale freckle-dotted face, and magic spilling out the eyes. The scroll she'd hold in her hands would go up in flames, and youâd very wisely choose a less hazardous place of commerce.
Well, a few days ago, that's the sight you would have been greeted with.
You've only taken refuge in this empty shop to avoid the tentacled monstrosity abducting people outside, after all.
Neve should be sleeping, which signals to her brain that now is the perfect time to wake up fully and work on the eldritch cannons problem.
Mornings always come to her sharp and early, crisp like dried tea leaves--so many things to do, so many tasks to get started on, so many readings to pick back up. But the light bravely soldiering on through her round window is not even pink yet, bathing her room in blue-gray hues that do nothing to lure her away from the covers.
No matter. She's awake, now.
The silver cylinders are waiting for her on her desk, exactly where she left them last night.
Neve slips out of bed and goes through the motions of her routine--splashing frigid water on her face, putting on her brown robes laid out at the foot of her bed, braiding her hair--and her train of thought starts following the path she'd agreed on with herself a few days ago. The eldritch cannons belong to a patron, a monster hunter in need of a magic touch on top of their skills, and Norry dropped the order in Neve's lap on top of everything else.
She can't resist taking a look at them before starting her day. Cold and smooth metal under her hands. She can feel the magic embedded in the mechanism--human-made. That's not the interesting part, though. Loaded in the cannons are silver capsules, which can split open to reveal empty insides. Scattered across her desk, half-finished explosive scrolls that she keeps worryingly close to her few belongings. What's the worst that could happen, anyway? The attic going up in flames?
Yes. That's why she traced a ward of containment along the wooden rim of the desk.
The only scroll she's finished is sitting in a bowl filled with blackened remains of charred silver--a neat line of ink disables the spell, running like a seam in the middle of the scroll. This hunter's quarry requires full-silver weapons, which lowers the melting point of the material, but it cannot coexist with the scrolls that are supposed to fill the capsules. The very nature of the spell endangers the metal, reaching the too-low melting point too fast.
It's an impossible endeavour, which makes it excitingly infuriating.
How do you slow down an explosion? Or rather, force everything around it to hold together?
She's still trying to figure that part out.
The key is probably in the acceleration upon release of the mechanism's trigger, but the trick is to force the spell into holding together long enoughâat least until it's out of the barrel, and out of the hunter's hand. Perhaps magical cooling would help? Books on frost magic are harder to find, but Neve is pretty sure she can get around that.
It's in cases like this that she bumps against the frustrating limits of her education. What ten-year-olds learn in academies, she has to knuckle her way through it, scraping together unrelated pieces of knowledge, reading between the lines written by long-dead archmages.
Well, no time like the present, right? First things first: harvesting the ingredients needed for the morning batches of potions.
On the roof, Neve's day dress sways on the clothesline, rippling in the wind. The chilled air carries the promise of rain, and even if she'll probably need to take her clothes to dry inside, it's a welcome change from the stifling atmosphere of the attic.
Her garden is a well-kept square made of orderly rows of magical herbs, culinary vegetables and berries. Along the neat edges of soil that turns downright frosty and hard in winter, complicated glyph patterns glow an eerie purple, keeping hungry insects away. They also form the base of an invisible energy dome protecting the plants from rain and hail--she cannot stomach seeing her little garden in ruins again, ever since a summer storm so sudden she didn't even have the time to pull the tarp up destroyed it a few years ago.
Away from the patch of earth sits a clay pot full of birdseed that she refills every tenday, when a couple of turtledoves stop on her windowsill, stretching their necks to peer inside her room. Sometimes, she'll put her work aside for a minute to get closer to them, and even if they're about to fly off, they'll change their minds and stay, letting her pet them. When she talks to them, they cock their little heads, beady black eyes watching her intently. They always stay when she talks, waiting until she's finished to leave.
It's the same couple, every time. She recognizes their matching white-spots.
(This grave is no home, they chirp. A heart-shaped hole in an axe's blade does not make it less of an axe.)
It's only her on the roof today, though.
She kneels in the madder soil of her much smaller plot of herbs--this one is surrounded by a much more potent combination of blue glyphs to keep the plants inside. That's where she grows the less appealing spell components, like daggerroot, oleander, henbane, aberrations of mugwort and rogue's morsel unfit for consumption and healing potions. Insects end up here, crushed by creeping vines, mixing with oxblood provided by the butcher's shop.
She pulls the roots and the soil stains her fingers, gets under her nails, the blood-fed stems rough to the touch.
Sharp pain lances through her wrist when she puts the roots in her woven basket, and she braces for the uncomfortable nerve-tingle that follows in her fingers. She'll try to write more with her other hand today, then.
She gets up and dusts herself off, her trousers spotted with earth and unfortunate ants.
No weavemoss here, she thinks wryly.
Neve blinks sweat out of her eyes and huffs. One more batch and she'll be done with today's first set of chores.
The fumes rising from the cauldron's surface press against her cheeks in hot swirls, and she cannot wait to wash it all off. Her eyes sting and her back is smarting with pain again and her stomach makes her acutely aware that it's almost noon.
Once she's satisfied with the colour and consistency of the mixture, she starts filling the pear-shaped glass vials that she'll have to label and put on the shelves later--but first she'll probably have to postpone lunch, she has to be in the shop to receive a shipment of wolfsbane and leave it in the decontamination salt circle for at least five days before using it, it has a bad habit of sucking the nutrients out of the soil and being a menace to the other plants, oh and there's still autumn crocus in the stocks, is there not? If not she'll have to make a quick trip to the botanical gardens, get more seeds, because the way they grow crocus (next to the strawberry stolons) is absolutely horrendous.
The cauldron is emptied until only dregs are left.
Neve settles at her workbench and starts grinding the mugwort roots she dried using her homebrewn rid-of-moisture spell. Once thoroughly crushed into a fine brown powder, she sifts it before mixing it with the pressed daggerroots in a clay bowl. She could keep going and turn this mixture into a proper oil, but that's not her end goal. Well, she is going to use it to coat the capsules and enhance their accuracy to the point that they'll never miss their target--better keep these explosions very, very localized.
However, this doesn't solve the melting off problem. The heat is dangerous for the cannons but also for the handler, who must take their mission seriously if they're willing to waste that much pure silver into a weapon, and as a result of its use, into, well, corpses (Neve tries not to think about that part too much. Yes, she's daydreamed about fire-bolting the careless cart-drivers who rush past her in the street while almost flattening playing children, but it stays what it is. A thought. She has more than an inkling that the client chose Norry's shop for its unobstrusiveness rather than for its quality of service.)
She needs something else. Something that, used in a different way, could solve her problem. Deerskin pouches rest on the shelves, but she knows none of them contains what she's looking for.
"What do you think?" She asks the cow doll slumped against her window--a gift from a little girl after she'd given her a healing potion for free three years after the start of her apprenticeship.
Black mica eyes stare back at her.
Oh gods. Two more years like this and she'd start animating the doll to get an answer.
Supply lines from the southern Sword Coast have been cut for weeks, narrowing the range of ingredients at her disposal. The Merchant's League is supposedly working on it, but most of the shops she frequents have been relying on stocks and seaborne trade. With certain components missing, one has to get creative and be willing to crack some eggs at random for... mixed results, to say the least.
Neve doesn't need to go through a lot of trial and error. She just knows. She sees the experiment failing before even setting up the materials.
She has to. She's running on limited reserves of time and energy.
Experiments play out to the end in her head, or stop when something goes awry--a misshapen ward, an ingredient shortage, too much heat under the cauldron, unsought results. When she encounters a problem that needs many steps for solving, she lays them out neatly, holds them each in her mind's eye, spins them in six or seven different directions to establish the most efficient and cost-effective way of accomplishing her task. Sometimes, an unexpected development prompts her to drop lines of thought, or add new ones.
Ingredients don't behave in unexpected ways unless you make them.
When she sees the solution too soon, it leaves her with mixed feelings. Yes, it's gained time, but she likes the challenge, and the feeling of being right that follows.
Small victories. She'll take them.
Maybe a temporary seal on the capsules to isolate them?
Norry is (or, rather, was a long, long time ago) a sealing specialist, and the back of the shop houses stacks upon stacks upon stacks of books on ward technique left to gather dust and cobwebs. Neve's made her way through a solid third of the collection, but quickly realized this was more a hoarder's trove of mostly dead languages than useful accounts of sealing spells. Still, she keeps a new tome on her bedside table, writing down any new information she can make out of it, referring to her translation notes and inferring purpose and spell components from context and common sense.
Her old master doesn't care much for frivolity or obvious displays of sentimentality, but he treasures most of his books like they're his own children.
He sure cares about them more than he does about Neve, not that his indifference comes from a place of genuine malice.
At least she's not on the streets selling her backside to the highest bidder, but there are some nights when even this thought offers only meagre comfort, nor does the knowledge that this alternative wouldn't have bothered anyone, least of all her parents.
Nights become the theatre of uncomfortable dreams--a cottage in faraway farmlands, where she'll be blessedly alone and only worry about her raspberry bushes and honeysuckle flowerbeds that she'll grow only for tea, no more soulless potion brewing in a dark room, coffee in the morning and getting dressed up to go nowhere, free to do whatever she wants with her days.
A place that's hers, no conditions attached, and in her wildest dreams, it's built for two.
She dreams of a slow, peaceful, rose-tinted life and doesn't think about the implications of retirement, because to retire she'd first have to live through something, anything, and it hurts and it doesn't stop there, because even though it's been ten years memories and dreams still blur together.
The in and out of a sewing needle, the embroidered bodice of a recently-mended pinafore dress that will be outgrown in a year and never mended again, lilac-scented hair she buried her face in, the forgotten feeling of laying her head on someone's shoulder, of a hug--
--a feral smile dripping with blood, the cut of a diamond, magic coursing through her marrow, splitting the skies, shattering the earth--
--waking up, the dream already evaporating, leaving her with the ghost of it, sitting on the edge of her bed, her guts twisting with aching loneliness, lack and emptiness all around her.
Others she spends in the throes of nightmares that never end nor clarify. Undefined. Black chasms and the slow agony of breath forced out of her lungs, burdened down, down, and this single thought like a death sentence, like cold truth: forever. this life all alone forever and ever and ever.
Those nights end with her eyes snapping open like a mechanical toy's from the artificer's shop, her brain leaning back in its chair, satisfied like a cat who got the cream of despair, I'm done! Please go on with your day! and she does, of course she does, because what other choice does she have?
Adjusting the shoulder strap of her satchel across her chest, Neve smooths the rumples of her day dress and locks up the shop, checking the defensive wards one more time--Norry left for an astronomy conclave with old colleagues in the countryside, entrusting her with the completion of the ongoing commissions and the never-ending list of magical items of service that need enchanting.
She's got some way to go before reaching Rivington, where she is to post a letter to Candlekeep.
Despite her earlier predictions, it hasn't rained yet.
She walks past busted open crates, wine spilling on the cobblestone path, broiling low clouds casting shadows across the buildings, wind carrying the smell of salt and fish and rotting fruit from the docks, the mix cloying in the back of her throat. It could have made for an unappealing brew if Neve didn't relish every second spent outside. Everything beats feeling like an old maid sealed off away from civilisation. Conversations no longer muted by walls reach her ears, the hum of the city, the hustle and bustle of shopkeepers.
Being lonely in a crowd rivals being alone in the attic.
Her path leads her closer to the docks, zig-zagging between sailors unloading ships, coming and going and dragging crates that clink with the tell-tale sound of wine and whiskey and rum bottles, the rumble of their steps on the gangplanks like the familiar ticking of clockwork.
Ivory tiles of Bite and Sting blink at her from a draughts stand, hand-painted bees and foxes and wolves laid up or down, sailors swearing and mutually accusing each other of cheating. Its companion card deck lies ignored in the muddy puddle at the sailors' feet. A few paces away, a lanceboard is perched on a barrel where two lanky laundresses are leaning on their elbows. Neve slows down, just enough to check out the board, and she can tell they're playing by Moonsea rules, if the broken Mystras laying on their side are anything to go by.
Near a warehouse, elderly seafarers skewer and skillet fish gasping for water. A rivulet of blood serpents around the lumps of wood and drips to the ground, carrying ripped scales.
High noon sunrays glint off Steel-Watchers patrolling on the piers. Neve can't say she likes seeing them around, but she can't deny she's curious to know what kind of spell animates them. She put aside incredibly rare books on armor magic from Khorvaire that Norry keeps in boxes in the attic like they're worthless junk but it seems she never has enough time to settle down and catch up on all her reading.
Watching the ebb and flow of low waves against the wooden pier pillars reminds her of all her compiled notes on elemental magic. She has no one to share them with, no one to comment on the capillaries-bursting focus she's attained to channel lightning, crackling wisps of blue light between her fingers, she'd been so ecstatic over finally managing to do it that she'd immediately broken her concentration the first time. No one to remark on her control of water, which she primarily uses to conduct electricity. No one to talk to, at all.
It's fine, though. She's spent ten years virtually on her own in Baldur's Gate. She can handle herself.
And if she hugs herself at night pretending to be held by someone else, and if she sometimes goes to Umberleeâs temple and skims her fingers over the flowers floating in the fountains and holds them in her hands long enough to convince herself she has someone to give them to, and if she dreams of curling up and laying her head against someoneâs chest to fall asleep to the sound of their heartbeat, well.
No one has to know.
The carrier pigeons of Sword Coast Couriers lounge under the sun, coats of feathers puffed up around them, looking like satisfied, plump, red and brown balls.
They look so peaceful to Neve, unburdened by debt and earthly matters and free to go wherever they wish.
They tweet at her as she enters the post office.
Danzo Arkwright, dwarven head honcho of the postal service, stands behind the counter, arguing with a customer--a darkling, hood lowered.
"No, no, no! Your hells-spawned bird already murdered seven of my carrier pigeons!"
An outraged gasp. "Hells-spawned? How dare you? He's as pure and innocent as the day he hatched from his egg! These were all unfortunate--"
"Well, I'm afraid I cannot let it join the ranks of the carriers."
The darkling clicks his tongue, pulls his hood up, draws himself up to his full height--Neve's, give or take the thickness of a hair--and turns on his heels.
On his way out, Neve catches a small flash of grey feathers and yellow-ringed eyes of the cuckoo he cradles in the crook of his elbow.
(He's saying Kill your whole family with an oyster knife. Do it and you'll be free. He's really fun at parties though, and this whole cannibalism affair in 1487 was a complete misunderstanding.)
Danzo glares daggers at his back until he recognizes Neve and smiles.
"Miss Nomani," he greets, crow's feet deepening around his eyes. He used to see a lot of her when she still sent letters to her father, and winked at her conspiratorially whenever she slipped a new letter to The Baldurian Post's editor across the wooden counter.
Still, his gaze quickly leaves hers when he spots another regular behind her.
She hands him the letter and thanks him before leaving.
The darkling is nowhere in sight, and she decides to allow herself one wishful trip to Sorcerous Sundries before going back to the shop.
A month ago, the Castle of Tomes issued a challenge: every scholar of magic was invited to send a new classification of the complete works of Ka'a Orto'o. If the classification was deemed an improvement compared to the previous one, the scholar would win the privilege of hearing their name added to the prayers of the Avowed.
And nine thousand gold coins.
Mostly nine thousand gold coins.
Of course, a wizard always pursues knowledge for knowledge's sake.
But nine thousand gold coins can't hurt someone's pride, which is a crucial aspect to consider when one has to deal with wizards, and it's a good carrot to convince scholars to dive back in Orto'o's works.
The true order of composition of Gnomic Utterances is a hotly debated topic in a pinpoint niche of the wizarding community. Voluntarily published out of order and purposefully mislabelled, it comes only second to the complete works of Volothamp Geddarm in terms of inanity and usefulness.
These works have nothing to envy to each other--rife with historical inaccuracies, bad puns, and piecemeal points of interest. It's a colossal waste of ink and paper and breath in arguments--in the year 1432, two wizards destroyed an entire reconstructed spelljammer fleet outside of Melvaunt in an explosion of magic after their discussion got too heated.
Unlike most wizards, Norry seems to have lost the need for posturing and constant ego-stroking, and thus didn't even spare a glance for the letter informing him of this challenge, resuming his tasks with the characteristic unhurried pace of an immortal being.
Which was tacit permission for Neve to sign up.
(To be quite honest, it's the hotly debated part that attracted Neve in the first place.)
It's the kind of work that relies on the reader to understand. But understand what?
Neve is a self-taught wizard through and through. She's used to figuring things out on her own. She's studied books until her eyes started weeping blood.
This proved not to be much different.
Of course, these books are an assortment of the most moronic, even if somewhat amusing in an absurd way, thoughts to have ever crossed anyone's mind since Ao created the Realms.
That's not what's important about them.
People have spent so much time unable to see the forest for the trees and dismissing Ka'a Orto'o as a bumbling old fool of a gnome that they've missed what was always sitting in front of them.
Because Gnomic Utterances paints a bigger picture: a complete map of Baldur's Gate ley lines--the most basic of basics of a wizard's education. There's a reason why the city is more often than not simply called "the Gate". It's not enough to read the words--a cryptographic approach suited this endeavour a lot better. In the right order, sentences bounce off of each other to create a brand new text.
The city is a gate for what Orto'o calls "the Swarm", some sort of collective-consciousness entity sealed off somewhere hundreds of years ago.
Even if Neve wasn't positive her proposition is the right one, she knows it's at least an interesting interpretation backed up by textual and magical evidence.
She's put in all the work she could. Now she can only wait for a response.
She signed the letter with her own alliterative initials, N.N.
Usually, everything that leaves Norry's shop bears Norry's seal. It's a frustrating erasure of Neve's work, and at the same time a safety net that fuels Neve's fear of being found out. That one day she'll be looked at and looked through and she'll have to make up for the fact that it's only her. That hypothetical people will assess and dismiss her in the same look.
As long as no one knows, as long as it's only her with herself, she's safe.
The solution hits Neve as she cracks an egg against the counter.
Yellow yolk spills in the pan and instantly starts sizzling, and she looks for her inkwell to write it down before she forgets. She's too tired to work on anything more tonight, but she'll get it started first thing tomorrow morning.
It's well into the night already, and she's barely pep-talked herself into eating a little before finally passing out on her bed.
Her brown robes are neatly folded and laid out on her small coffer, ready to be put on tomorrow, and there's nothing but the grating sound of her feather against parchment in the bare room.
A clutter of meaningless knick-knacks that see her leave in the morning and come back in the evening. Ropes of thyme and mint to drown out the burnt stench of cauldron dregs. Half-hearted attempts to decorate the place over the past ten years, but it'll take more than her good will and the smell of humid wood on rainy days to turn this attic into a home she'll be happy to go back to.
The space is lived in because she lives here, not because it's hers.
Surely, there are better ways to fall asleep that don't involve the gnawing feeling of being part of the book and arcane tools collection, left to be coated in dust and dashed hopes.
Surely.
Her scarce belongings are exactly where she left them.
Her abandoned and creased day dress, the bundle of unsent letters she keeps under her pillow, the little cow plush slowly losing its fluff. Dusty books on a bedside table, notes sticking out from various pages. Outside, the garden left to wither under a protection dome that's slowly killing it now that no one's here to renew it properly. Turtledoves pecking at an empty clay pot.
The little attic doesn't miss her, or wait for her return.
Don't think it cold-hearted.
It's just glad she got away.
#bg3apprecimaytion2024#did i write this whole thing just to make a âanimals talk but you don't have speak with animals onâ joke?#yes#also she should be at the club imo#if neve had drawn cards on the wharf she would have gotten#one of squids#two of bats#three of hydras#which is not a nice suite but!#it would have been topped by six of crows#i love her your honor#btw know that management apologizes if the quote wasn't irrelevant enough pls forgive us
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ÐÑОвеÑ!
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ÐкÑка:
Я ÐÐПМÑакÑе: vk.com/eltakalt
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в ЌОÑе ÑзПÑеÑОÑеÑкПЌ. С пПЌПÑÑÑ ÐœÑЌеÑПлПгОО ÑазПбÑалаÑÑ Ñ Ð·Ð°ÐŽÐ°ÑаЌО в ÑÑПй жОзМО, ÑлÑÑÑОла ÑвПО Ўела О гПÑПва пПЌПÑÑ Ñебе ÑЎелаÑÑ ÑП же ÑаЌПе.
ÐзПÑеÑОÑеÑкОе speaking ÐºÐ»Ð°Ð±Ñ ÐœÐ° ОМглОÑе ÑÑÑ:
ЧÑП ЎелаÑ:
ÐОÑО в лОÑÐºÑ â€ïž
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if im posting a lot on here lately and replying to every single post its because my brain feels like ðµâð«ð€¯ðŠððšðªâïžðð âšïžð¯ðð°ð²ð®ðªðŠºð¢ð£ððð¶ðµð·ðªð¥ðžð¬ð¡ððªðª€ð¬â ïžð³ðâŒïžâïžâïžâïžâïžâïžâ
ïžâïžâïžâïžâïžðâ©ïžâªïžâ©ïžâªïžâ©ïžðïžð³ïžâð lately........ you know what i mean?
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âšïžð®Making Magic ð© ðª
More installments coming...
#rottmnt#tmnt#rise of the tmnt#teenage mutant ninja turtles#leonardo#rise leo#2018 leo#yuichi usagi#samurai rabbit the usagi chronicles#usagi#leosagi#leoichi#leo x usagi#magician au#save rottmnt
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Soothsayer Phlow shall reveal your future. ðªâšïžð®
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