good omens drawing dump from the past few months :)

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noise dept.
Misplaced Lens Cap

Love Begins
Cosmic Funnies
One Nice Bug Per Day
Sweet Seals For You, Always
Peter Solarz

Origami Around
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
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roma★

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
Show & Tell

Janaina Medeiros

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shark vs the universe
tumblr dot com
DEAR READER
dirt enthusiast
seen from Germany
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seen from Portugal
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seen from Türkiye
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seen from T1

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@kavun-31
good omens drawing dump from the past few months :)
Augustine and Mercymorn, griefly: we didn't want to become Lyctors. Our cavaliers killed themselves to force us to ascend, so you see we had no choice but to—
Harrowhark Nonagesimus, an ice pick already halfway through her temporal lobe: skill issue
I just can’t wait for the inevitable scene in Alecto where Harrow looks at Kiriona and says “the teens said ‘hi’ to Gideon.” I just can’t wait for the wave of guilt to wash over Kiriona. For her to realize that even if she doesn’t, the teens forgive her. They always forgave Gideon for not being able to save them. And they still want to speak with her and wish that she knew just how much they loved her.
Harrowhark Nonagesimus please <3
Harrowhark Nonagesimus has been sent to The Pear Wiggler
she's literally a nun. she's repulsed by mirrors. she carries around teeth and other small bones in her pockets on the daily. she wears her religiously mandated coverings far more often than is strictly necessary. she wears a human ribcage like a corset. she's definitely 100% anemic. she's got a nasty sense of humor. she cannot stand the sweetness and sourness of lemon water. she will push herself to the point of dehydration, bleeding, and fainting even when it's definitely not necessary to do so. she's like 5'2". she's the embodiment of her entire society's hope for a better future, but also their angel of death—the physical manifestation of their grief, which of course very few of them are aware of. she takes out that grief on the only other child she's ever known by torturing her in a bunker for over a decade. one time she thought her favorite chew toy was leaving her so she spent all night digging to stop her. like all night nonstop. without like a shovel or magic or anything just her bare fucking hands in the frozen ground. completely wrecked her shit but she did it. when that girl dies she finds herself someone freak enough to open up her brain on the down-low and help her carve out the part of herself capable of grieving. she stole god's ex. god's ex is the angry ghost of a primordial goddess stuffed into a mannequin whose dead body she's been in love with since she was 10. that goddess falls instantly in love with her. the back alley brain surgeon is also in love with her. so is the girl she tortured in a bunker for 17 years. actually there are like 3-5 beautiful women who would eat each other for her hand in marriage at any given moment. she finds this mainly obnoxious and confusing.
harrowhark nonagesimus, ladies and gentlemen. THE protagonist of all time.
I pray that the book is open eternally. I pray the rock is rolled away. I pray that that which is buried becomes unburied, in perpetual joy, with open covers and flipping pages. I pray that it lives. I pray that it releases
THIS. is the beast ☝️🤓 that's a muffin 🤣 i see a cloud 🌥 but with a face 😶 if you take that main squiggle 〰️ for an eye 👁 i thought it was a flower 🌸👶 no yes there's something .... florescent about it 🤔 thought it was a snake 🐍 in a bush 🌳 I HATE YOU ALL 🤬 I HAVE HATED YOU FOR MILLENIA 🤬 except you my lord 😔 thanks 😊 i merely want to put you in jail 🔒 and fill up the jail with acid once for every time you made a frivolous remark 👌👈 or ate peanuts 🥜during a cohort admiralty meeting or said what would i know 🤔 im only gOD 😇 then at the end of a thousand years you would say mercy 😣 ive learned not to do any of those things 🙅♀️ because i haaaated the acid you put on me 😩 and i would say that is why i did it lord 😌 i did it for you and your empire 🙏 i often think about this 😁
Thinking about "The Unwanted Guest" and it's probably already been said at some point by someone a lot more perceptive than me, but I find it really interesting how the thesis of "you can't take loved away" from Nona is literally baked into the setting's magic system. The soul is permeable and it's impossible to have your soul interact with that of another without intermingling and being permanently changed; Ianthe and the other Lyctors (some if not all of whom loved each other in some way) absorb traits and memories from their cavs and (as we see with Pyrrha) vice versa, Palamedes and Camilla take their codependent cohabitation to an extreme degree by fusing into Paul, and don't even get me started on the whole Gideon/Harrow/Alecto hodgepodge. To be loved in any way or form is to be changed, and in The Locked Tomb it means being changed in your very soul
Happy indigenous peoples day!
girl who is playing disco elysium for the first time in 2025
htn in a nutshell
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coronabeth the worse twin tridentarius ilu
my unstable princess....
HELPP 😭😭😭
This was Harrow's equivalent of trying to neg Gideon into a sexy outfit
Harrowhark Nonagesimus is one of those people who makes you feel like she was already halfway through some baroque, centuries-long internal monologue before you walked into the room, and when you leave she will just keep right on going (she’s basically a walking parenthetical clause). The child-prodigy necromancer, high priestess of skulls and martyrdom, every word she speaks comes with the aftertaste of twenty-four hours of sleep deprivation and a lifetime of repressed grief. She is magnetic and mesmerising, like a solar eclipse.
Her parents are never far from any thought you might have about her. In combination they produced her, and then they performed her, as one might perform a ritual with exacting steps that include both offering and excision. To understand Harrow’s terror of affection, you must understand that in her family affection was not a substance but a faint, almost geological trace, present but not useful, detectable only as an absence that shapes everything around it.
Her genius is inseparable from her paranoia, which is also inseparable from the weight of having survived her parents’ exacting and grotesque form of attention. The world is stupid and broken and not nearly as clever as she is, and if she has to prop it up with splints of bone and manic contempt, she will (often literally, since the bones of the dead are her duct tape). Her interiority is a constant knife fight between her compulsive need for control and her equally compulsive disgust with that need (which yes is exhausting to read but also electrifying!!)
And yet she is deeply funny, but in the way a collapsing cathedral is funny. The jokes are jagged necrotic little things, bone shards she flings in the general direction of people she cannot quite bring herself to trust. There is no punchline, only the echo of the ruin, which is a ruin she inherited, excavated, and has now personalised with exquisite attention. The mausoleum of her parents’ making looms in every glance, every posture, every flinch at unbidden affection, and it is impossible to separate her from it, impossible to stop tracing her skeleton back to theirs, impossible not to marvel at the way she walks forward carrying that weight while making it look like gravity itself is merely decorative.