Shippy stuff & miscellaneous. YeeHan |
Overwatch | DC | Tolkien. Art blog for original stuff: https://vimeddiart.tumblr.com/
more links: https://vimeddiee.carrd.co/
If there is a story you wanna tell, but you don’t think you will ever have the time or resources to organize and tell it “"properly”“ as like…a novel or a comic or whatever, it can absolutely just be…a bunch of brain storm-y blog posts and sketches that you share and compile over time on your blog. That is still a story. It is still a format. In theory, it might not be the "best, most effective” format…but in practise, the best, most effective format is the one that is accessible enough to let you get your ideas and narratives out at all♡
And, yanno–it is just nice to be able to give folks some context for your characters n stuff :3c
Fun fact about Danish: “Spurt” means “a quick run” and “slut” means “ending.” So when stores have a quick sale that’s about to end they’ll often combine the two words
Do you ever just think about online mutuals who went quiet and never posted again, and by the time you realise, years have passed, and you wonder if they’re doing okay.
A mark on your forehead identifies the god you must worship to stay alive, usually by joining its local church or temple. Your mark is unknown, meaning an old, forgotten god sponsored you. To survive, you must either find an old temple to worship at, or do the arduous task of building a new one
Nobody in your small coastal village has ever seen the Godmark that you were born with. It’s a dark russet sequence of criss-crossing lines, with a vertical arrowhead on the left and a circle on the right, just over where your brow meets your temple. Some of the traders who come down from the mountain say it looks like one of the scripts used in the hinterlands, but not a language that any of them recognize.
“If she’s got the temperament for it, she should try her luck inland,” they advise. “No point her starting a temple here if she’d find her people elsewhere, with a little searching.”
At first, your parents are reluctant to send you away. Though you’re well-behaved and diligent in your chores, you’re a sickly child with no God to worship. And besides, you’ve always been the dreamy type–inclined to lose track of time watching the path of rain droplets chasing down the window, or the fronds of an anemone as it sways in a rock pool.
Instead, they send you to the temple of the Storm to learn all you’ll need for your own God. You are happy there, for a time: making up beds and serving food to the castaways who pass through, keeping vigil at the lighthouse, burning incense and praying with the loyal widows and orphans of the drowned.
One such widow, an old, old lady, touches the mark on your forehead. “I recognise those letters. We wrote this way in the town where I grew up, way off past the mountains.”
Your heartbeat quickens. “What does it say!?”
She squints, eyes engulfed by wrinkles and hidden behind smudged glass. “A… Ar… Oh, I can’t remember how to speak it. I left before I learnt my letters properly. There was a war, you know. But I remember,” she says, mistily, “the most beautiful pink and white flowers used to grow, on the borders of the wheat fields…”
You try to ask more questions, but remembering the war distresses her, and so you speak of other things. When she’s drifted off to sleep, you get to your feet, go home and tell your parents: you are leaving in search of your God.
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