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[jumpscared by a reblog of an 11 year old post] wuh???
Vikus and Solovet
Suzanne Collins can u hear me……please write a book about young solovet
Re: drawing something gory and dramatic, have you considered ares/gregor vs the bane?
Omg it is so interesting that you mention that bc I have a very dramatic short comic in progress that’s about some aftermath of that event.
It stems from me thinking about how the Bane tore open Gregor’s armor like a can opener to a can of vegetables. And I was like ‘hm I wonder how Luxa would react to seeing that armor while he’s in the middle of life saving surgeries- and how she would handle realizing how bad his injuries are while things are still uncertain’ And so I am evil and I sketched it out >:o) also Mareth is there bc i like mareth and feel like he and luxa saw a lot of each other as the war came to an end.
The thematic richness of Gregor having to drop Solovet's dagger to kill the Bane. How he is able to do what he has to do without using her tactics. How has to let go of Sandwich's sword to take Ares' claw. How Luxa has to let go of her anger, of hurt both justified and festering, to take Ripred's claw.
It's in the details.
Hamnet/Mareth
inspired by @aldoodles
The descent into Regalia’s lower cells always felt like falling into a place the city tried to forget. There were no royal banners here, no gleaming torches lit in welcome. Only stone, sweat, and silence.
Mareth kept pace with the guards, his boots echoing down the spiral stairs like drumbeats. He didn’t ask questions. His father had taught him better. Orders were to be followed, not understood.
Still, the details haunted him.
Assigned to the queen’s son.
Solovet's only son.
Six months in solitary confinement.
He hadn’t asked what Hamnet had done. No one had offered.
The guards ahead reached the final door—a thick slab of iron-banded stone. One gave a curt nod, then pushed it open with a groaning shriek of rusted hinges. Cold air flooded out, clinging to Mareth's skin, damp and sour. It smelled of mold, piss, and something sourer still. Not death. But close.
He expected something princely, still. Even after everything.
What stood—no, hunched—inside the cell stripped that hope away.
Hamnet clung to himself like he was trying to hold the pieces together. Thin arms wrapped tightly around narrow shoulders. He wasn’t tall. Not anymore. He looked like a boy who’d stopped growing the day he was thrown down here. His tunic—once likely white—was sallow, torn, and stained. His knees were red and raw, his feet bare. His ribs showed through his skin like the outlines of a broken cage.
His eyes darted up at the sound of the door.
They met Mareth’s—briefly—and Mareth felt a cold that had nothing to do with the cell. There was no recognition in them. Only the vague, flickering presence of someone who had learned to wait for pain. Or worse.
Behind Mareth, a presence materialized with a sharp click of boots.
Solovet.
Her hands were folded behind her back. Her chin lifted, her tone dry and unimpressed.
“Well,” she said, looking down at the hunched figure of her son. “Are you feeling more cooperative now?”
Hamnet didn’t respond. His grip on his shoulders tightened. Not in defiance—Mareth would recognize that. No, it was shame. Cold and shame wrapped around him like chains that hadn’t quite been removed.
Solovet’s nostrils flared, subtly
“Your stench is ghastly.” she said, bluntly.
“You will wash. You will eat. Then you will be escorted to the hospital.”
Her gaze flicked toward one of the guards, then briefly passed over Mareth.
“See that his quarters are cleaned and prepared for his arrival,” she added.
Then to Mareth, fully, sharply: “You are responsible for him now. See that he does not return to this state.”
It wasn’t maternal. It wasn’t even cruel. It was clinical. Like she were speaking of inventory. A weapon misplaced and recovered.
She didn’t wait for a reply. She turned and strode off, her cloak trailing behind her like a verdict.
Mareth remained.
He hadn’t moved since the door opened. His hands were clenched at his sides, the cloth bundle of fresh clothing under one arm, a soldier’s straight posture at war with the turmoil now curling in his chest.
Hamnet hadn’t moved either. Not even when the guards re-entered to help him stand.
He flinched when they touched him.
Mareth stepped forward suddenly. “I’ll do it,” he said, voice firmer than he felt. The guards exchanged a look, then backed away with a shrug.
Mareth knelt and held out the clean garments, but didn’t reach for him.
“I am Mareth,” he said quietly. “I have been assigned to you.”
Hamnet’s eyes twitched. He didn’t speak. His fingers slowly released their grip from his shoulders, as if it took effort just to uncurl. He reached for the clothes with trembling hands.
They didn’t touch.
Not yet.
But something passed between them.
Mareth wasn’t sure what it was.
Only that this—this ruined, quiet boy—was now his to protect.
The door creaked open with a soft groan, and Judith stepped inside as though breaching the silence might shatter something fragile beyond repair.
The room was dim, lit only by the soft amber flicker of a single wall sconce. Shadows stretched long across the floors, pooling gently beneath the carved legs of ornate furniture. It was a beautiful room—too beautiful for the hollow that sat in the center of it.
Her eyes found him almost instantly.
Hamnet.
Or what was left of him.
He lay on his side, turned away from the door, curled toward the center of the great bed like a forgotten child. The blankets draped over his thin frame in rumpled folds, but they could not hide the sharp angles of his shoulders or the way his spine pressed faint ridges through the linen shirt he wore. He took up so little space, his body drawn inward, almost trying to disappear into the down-filled mattress. He looked more ghost than boy, more memory than prince.
The air in the room smelled faintly of bitter herbs and old salves, that sterile sharpness of ointments rubbed into bruises and burns. It was the scent of the hospital, of healing, and yet nothing about him looked healed. His hair—once so carefully brushed and tied back—was tangled now, overgrown and uneven. His face was turned just far enough that she could see the bruised hollows beneath his eyes, the faint twitch of his cheek as he dreamed. Or remembered.
Judith stood frozen in the doorway. She had come here quickly, moved through the palace like a whisper of wind, driven by the need to see him, to touch him, to know with her own eyes that he was real, alive, here.
But now that she stood in front of him, her feet would not move.
She felt it rise in her—the rage, sharp and sudden and hot. The image of her mother flashed behind her eyes, not as a regal figure of state but as a woman, monstrous and unflinching, capable of locking her own son away like a mistake to be hidden. Judith wanted to turn and march through the palace, to find Solovet and strike her. Not just slap her, but drag her by her braid before the council, before the kingdom, and scream:
This is what you did. Look at him. Look what you made of him.
Her throat burned with the things she had not said, had not dared to say.
She clenched her fists until her knuckles paled. She wanted to run to him. Wrap him in her arms and beg forgiveness, sob against his chest like they were still children playing at sword fights in the garden. But she stood frozen, feet unmoving on the cold stone. Because she had let it happen. She had gone on. She had attended court, spoken her lines, done what was asked. And all the while, he had been here, beneath them. In the dark.
She did not deserve to rush to him. She did not deserve to touch him.
Her lips trembled.
She slipped off her sandals quietly and set them by the door. Then, with slow, careful steps, she padded across the room, her heart pounding in her throat. The bed loomed in front of her like a monument, wide enough to fit three grown men and still leave room. He looked swallowed by it, a lone figure adrift in a sea of linens.
Judith climbed in gently, not daring to shift the mattress too much. She moved like someone approaching a frightened animal—tender, cautious, reverent. Her knees sank into the edge of the bed as she crossed over, inch by inch, toward him.
And then, she was beside him.
She did not speak at first. She just watched the soft rise and fall of his breathing, the occasional twitch of his fingers. He did not know she was there. He did not stir. Her heart broke further at the stillness of him, the way his body remained so tightly curled, like it had forgotten how to rest.
Judith lay down behind him, stretching out slowly until her body curved along the shape of his. She pressed her forehead to the space between his shoulder blades and closed her eyes.
“Nettie…” she breathed. It came out half-formed, barely a whisper. A name she had not spoken aloud in years, not since they were children whispering under blankets and laughing at jokes only siblings could understand.
He did not respond. His breathing stayed even. Deep. Distant.
She told herself he was asleep. That it was good. That he needed rest. But the silence felt cruel.
So Judith did the only thing she could.
“I am sorry,” she whispered.
Her arm reached across his waist, trembling, and she carefully pulled him against her, as gently as she could. Her fingers splayed against his chest, desperate for him to feel her, to know—somehow, even in dreams—that she was here. That he was not alone.
“I am sorry, I am sorry, I am sorry…”
The words came again and again, each one softer than the last, as she breathed them into the fabric of his shirt, into the room, into the empty months that had passed without her.
“I did not know what to do. I did not know how to help. I thought if I stayed good, if I stayed obedient, if I did everything she wanted—maybe it would be better. Maybe she would let you out. That her anger would dim. But I was wrong. And I am so…so sorry.”
Her voice cracked, and a tear slipped down her cheek, trailing across his back. She tightened her arm around him, not hard enough to wake him, but firm enough to anchor herself to him. Her hand trembled as she gripped his shirt.
“I should have come sooner.”
She buried her face against him and cried silently, her tears swallowed by the warmth of his body, by the quiet that pressed in from all sides.
For the first time in months, Hamnet did not sleep alone.
And Judith would not leave. Not tonight. Not ever again.
Al, that comic panel truly opens up such a deep and rich story thats begging to be told.
gregor's family trying to explain to mrs cormaci why they go to a different laundromat
Some sketches of Judith, Hamnet & family. Def made myself sad while drawing these.
I'm having thoughts about Luxa and Ripred: the child whose parents were killed by rats and the rat whose children were killed by humans. I don't have many eloquent thoughts (it's mostly just me rotating them in my head and shrieking internally,) but something about how one fills the place in the other's family made a gap by war is AAAA
Re-reading The Underland Chronicles for the millionth time…gotta draw them again ✨ my art has improved
Gregor: ugh I hate group projects. Why do I always get stuck doing all the work?
Lizzie: Why don’t you have a study session at our house later and work on it all together?
Gregor: If I could do that, I would. They won’t listen to me.
Lizzie: Just think like a leader. What would Ripred do?
Gregor:…..
Lizzie:…..
Gregor: You and I had very different Ripred experiences.
look alive, boys. cus you’re about to not be…
it’s his son it’s ok
I am HOWLING
ok so i noticed something in curse of the warmbloods...
so you’re telling me Hazard can FLAWLESSLY mimic Ripred’s voice in gnawer? ok cool, that’s way cool but he’s learning from him still so he still sounds exactly like him SO YOU’RE TELLING ME…. THAT THERE’S THIS ADORABLE PEOPL PUP WHO SOUNDS LIKE A MIDDLE AGED TESTOSTERONE-AMPED MALE.
that’s like a spanish speaking 8-year old that learned to speak english from the movie commercial voice guy… “hey kid what’s up?” “ ONE MANS JOURNEY…”
“bro wtf”
Realized my age on here was two years out of date, lol. And I’ll be 25 in two months. Still remember reading the series way back when I was a small teen though.
I still like the general worldbuild of the underland. I wonder how things were before the humans came; were the rats the most powerful species or was it the moles?
crappy headcanons part 2
curse of the warmbloods in a nutshell:
ripred: you are a dumpster-fire of a liability and i hate you. if you breathe wrong I’ll hurt you in a way that matters.
gregor: :(
ripred: (gentle forehead kiss) you are also my pwecious wittle wage baby and wat-daddy is hewe to keep you safe and wisten to youwe pwobwems~
gregor:…(just puts head on his shoulder) just everything really sucks right now and I’m trying my best-TmT
one page later- Ripred: die fool. writhe at my feet you egregious heathen.
gregor: ok first of all STFU-
Gordon Ramsay style love
@yesthefandomfreakblr
I've stumbled into the underland chronicles fandom and I've spent way too long making memes not to post them. Enjoy.
Oh ho, I’m not dead. Tried a new brush/paint app. A huge inspiration for this style of coloring was @nobodyanybody0 (they’re amazing!!!). I just wanted to try it out! As always, I need more practice. 🐣