I'm a part of a small indie team working on a 3D Romance FMC RPG called "A Courting of Curses". We just released our Steam page and announcement trailer:
Play as your own villainess in this 3D romance RPG! Romance four mysterious suitors that bring survival or destruction. Live your life in a
Play as your own villainess in this 3D romance RPG! Romance four mysterious suitors that bring survival or destruction. Live your life in a Magical Academy, trapped in a day/night cycle: study, socialise, and fight for your life—then do it all over again.
Some behind the scenes for you, showing MC sprite sketches that didn't make it into the final cut.
Hope you look forward to the final mc sprite reveal c:
I've always been a sucker for outfit design, and on occassion, when inspiration strikes, have been known to indulge and participate in such contests organized by RomanceClub.
So here are some of my submissions. Note that the character base sprites were not done by me, they belong to RomanceClub.
Only the outfit sketches are mine.
Outfits for Vyxaria from Souless;
Outfit for Audrey from Astrea's Broken Heart;
Matching outfits for Lane and Anna, Heaven's Secret: Requiem;
Outfit for Raphael, Astrea's Broken Heart;
Prosthetic leg for Ava, Souless.
So... the discord gave me quite the special halloween prompt
"Sexy Ghost MC seduction of tempted priest/nun W". Uh... yeah. Here is my attempt on that lol (it became more of a thriller tbh...):
(There's is one word that is for John and one for Jane and they are separated with a / )
To Whom It May Concern,
Upon this paper, I enclose the remarkable sight I saw and scarcely believed one hour past. If my scribblings are found without their owner—J. H. Watson—please deliver this, my last belonging, to a Mrs Hudson of 221B Baker Street. She should know what transpired. If nothing else.
I shall begin again, at the very start.
On the 21st of October, I received a letter. It was a torn-up thing, with edges more charred than ripped and decolouration of years—not months as the date suggests.
And as I have only recently taken orders/the veil and entered the church as I always hoped and said I would, I felt compelled to return this stray. God is found in small matters. So I have been told.
Admittedly, I was drawn to the thing. To this strange curiosity. I believed, perhaps, that the journey of such a letter must likely end on a crescendo.
I say to you now. I was far too correct in my suspicions.
May god have mercy upon my soul.
—————————————————————————————————
It was there no sooner than I closed the door.
The gate, as well as the entryway, had been ajar, and I had stepped in; I had not meant to act the wrongdoer—it was as if it called to me, this broken door on the edge of broken steps of the broken, decrepit facade. I could sooner turn my heel than abandon my breath.
And as the door closed, there it was.
It—such word sound not enough. For it was more than enough to blind me with only its glitter of starlight. But I do not have the words for it. No, whatever it was, it was not human. A being out of this world or long past it. And I found it the most beautiful sight.
It appeared lighter than the dark room, but not like the shine of fire, but of stars. Cold white and blue. An Aegean glow.
I could not believe it true.
It smiled, then.
A tremble wrecked my body, from fear, from—words I dare not speak nor think. I had my vows.
It smiled wider, then. And wider still.
‘What are you?’ I had to know, you see. I had to.
It moved; It swam above ground without water. But not in haste. It approached me, and its hand went through my shoulder. Incorporeal. But its breath was cold on my ear, and it whispered, ‘Yours.’
Before I could grasp the siren words, it was gone.
—————————————————————————————————
I searched the house. Delving further into the abandoned estate with nothing but a kerosene lamp and my trusted RIC revolver. First, I came upon a sitting room, but it held nothing. Not any answers. And, to my growing desperation, no sign of the being I found myself hunting for.
I went further and further. And the air grew thick.
The glass of the old chandeliers would clank without wind. Twice, a drawer fell. Soon a cabinet shut with biting force, and I held my voice from escaping. The sounds and heavy clatter lead me up the old house towards where I find myself now. The bedroom. Untouched, compared to the rest. Beyond the heavy layer of time, the room would be a fine stately room of fine furniture and finer company. A large four-post bed stood by the window, and next to it, on the drawer, where the moonlight shone—was a journal.
Leather, yellowed paper, and a red bookmark placed upon the first page.
Here is the journal of Sherlock Holmes. I seek the truth, no matter the cost.
If you should find me, return me.
If you should seek me, you need only to present me a puzzle worthy.
The last written page wrote.
I lack the final piece. And now my bones are aching and mouth a desert, and I will be dead by the poison in the hour. The letters I have hidden beneath the floorboards of the dresser. They are the work of months of careful study. I toiled, yet, I will never know the truth.
I find myself praying to a god that the truth will appear from heaven and I will be set free.
It will be soon. More than in my breath, I know it not by logic but by feeling. My time has come. And I have pen, ink, and paper to be my confidant and friend. Why am I so lonesome in this dying hour? I never—
The ink runs across the page, and the writing ends.
Digging through the floorboards, I did find it. A letter stack detailing and unravelling things I have only read of in the papers. A mystery that was yet unsolved…
But the papers did clear one thing. And it fit neatly with the rest, and I scribbled it onto the notes with charcoal from the fire, hoping for a sign. But nothing came. ‘Sherlock Holmes,’ I whispered, ‘I have your truth.’ But it did not appear. I thought of the ethereal shape, the words whispered, and the breath and the tongue which made such sounds. ‘I wish to see you again…’
Frost appeared at the window, and a chill came upon my bones. And there it was. By my side, by the dresser, by the dust on the ground. On its knees as I was.
As beautiful as the first moment. As tempting as fire to my convictions. Its fingers, now made form, were ice upon my ever-aching leg. I felt skin upon mine. Nails racked beyond my layers and sent shivers through my spine.
‘Mine.’ It crawled further towards me.
I did not turn away.
I could not.
And its kiss was the sweetest death. Even now that it has gone, where it went as it took my soul, I feel it on my lips. Chill turned to burning, craving drove me forward, and I felt its weight heavy upon mine.
It is hard to write now. My hands are turning cold and blue. The lamp does nothing for my warmth. I am dying. I know this. More than in my breath, I know it not by logic but by feeling. My time has come. But I am not lonesome in my dying hour. With every further gasp, it returns to me. Appearing all the more in colour. Soon, we shall be joined in this afterlife.
I do not regret. I only hope I will be forgiven.
For, god, I am not your strongest servant.
And I would not win this battle—
The charcoal runs across the page of the journal, and the writing ends.
