Feb 24
doodles
seen from South Africa
seen from China
seen from China
seen from Canada
seen from Canada
seen from Hungary
seen from Australia
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from Canada
seen from United States
seen from Canada
seen from Italy
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from Singapore
seen from China
doodles
Finally bought some alcohol markers. I’m addicted to them ugh.
Here’s me and @packcoventhing ‘s dnd characters Blackjack and Gravel from my Pirate themed campaign
Doodle of Ankou! She's a dodo Aarakocra necromancer... Aka a necromancer birdfolk^^ I just bought her the other day and I've been obsessing over her since! I love her so much!
Idk what class she is though yet... Likely sorcerer??? Because she does have a staff^^
commission for good friend @zouwuu of their barbarian aarakocra character!
finally got to finishing this guy, drawing his wings put me through the 7 stages of grief
@uniquevoidflowers here it is!
Polly’s Plight
. . .
“…Say, Polly,” Iidek says suddenly, and the parrot looks up. “I’ve been meaning to ask, but—“
“You want to know what happened to my beak?” Polly guesses, cutting him off. The owl is quick to correct her.
“Oh, no, no, er…not if you don’t want to, but I was really going to ask—what made you decide to pursue music?”
Polly blinks, inclining her head and trilling softly.
“Those are the same story, actually!” She chirps, and then pauses. “Well, not quite the same story, but they’re closely connected, and I’d very much like to tell you if you don’t mind, but is that selfish of me? Is it one of those very personal backstories I should not tell you for mysterious reasons?”
“Well,” Iidek chuckles, “not if you don’t wish to be mysterious.”
“I’d like to be mysterious,” Polly says after a moment of consideration, “but only to the people who don’t know me. I believe I do that well enough, so I’ll tell you the story anyways, if you will listen.”
She pauses to let anyone voice their opposition, and when everyone only remains quietly attentive, trills happily and begins.
“Alright, why do I like music? Well, I always loved music, it was always a passionate hobby. I suppose my real dependance on it began a long time ago, when I was a much more clueless child than I am today…”
Polly talked a lot. It was in her nature, her parents said, and it was. A hereditary trait, if her own parents’ tendencies to chatter on and on about mundane things were evidence of anything. Polly was lucky enough that most people she interacted with either had the understanding to let her talk, the patience to endure it, or very rarely, the character to enjoy it. But that day, one hot afternoon in late August, Polly’s luck ran out.
The playground of the school Polly attended was a small one, a handful of square feet of flat ground within the school property lines. There was an old, rotting wooden swing set that was a risk to play on, if you dared, and an old frayed rope with knots tied on the end that they used as jump ropes. Other than that, their only other toys were the dirt and each other, but among the younger kids who played there, it was enough. Polly, for her part, was content to swing by herself—a small girl, with no taste for thrill and thus her swinging was shallow and controlled. She talked while she did so, of course, to anyone who was nearby, wether they listened or not, and today it was a harpy eagle called Derrick.
Derrick was one of the older students who attended the school, a high schooler. Tall, dark feathered and beady eyed, Derrick had the intelligence his kind boasted of and chose not to use any of it, and was warily avoided by most kids. Most kids, but not Polly. She was innocently unaware of his intimidating air, and even more clueless of his growing irritation as she continued to talk to him.
“…But it’s fine anyways because I never liked peanuts, anyways,” Polly chirred cheerfully. “Yesterday I saw the prettiest grasshopper ever, it was green and red and yellow and black and every lovely color you could think of except—“
“For the love of Phoenix, do you ever shut up?!” Derrick cried, drawing Polly’s shocked expression.
“Well, yes, when I sleep but mother says—“ she began with a frown, and Derrick crowed a moan of frustration.
“You’re like an old clock,” he growled, “broken and useless and you never stop ticking.”
Polly thought was very rude, and she said so, not bothering to keep the hurt out of her voice. Derrick simply scoffed.
“Just be quiet, no one wants to hear about your silly grasshoppers.”
“But they do,” Polly objected. “Mrs. Peabody at the general store wanted to hear all about them, and I told her, they were very lovely, and then she gave me a lemon candy. It was very sour, I liked it very much, but I like Mrs. Peabody even more because she is so nice and sweet to me as anybody ever was and—“
Derrick’s fist closed around her beak, squeezing tightly and effectively cutting her off. She scrabbled at his hand, a squawk caught in her throat as she began to panic.
“If you won’t shut up by yourself,” he snarled, “how about I shut you up forever?”
He squeezed even harder, and it began to hurt very much. Her cries were silenced until she fell backward off the swing and slipped out of Derrick’s grasp. She scrambled back, trying to put distance between her and the raging eagle, but he was larger and faster and lunged at her, hand wrapping around her upper beak as she opened her mouth to scream. She clawed at him with as much force as she could, little clawed hands making small cuts in his skin that seemed to bother him more than hurt him.
“Stop, stop, you’re hurting me!” She cried, and Derrick only readjusted his grip to try and keep her mouth shut. He increased the pressure on her beak, squeezing harder, harder, harder until Polly could not breathe through the pain. She heard something snap, then, felt it vibrate through her whole body before she felt as though she was punched in the face, white hot pain washing over her in waves—but only for a second before it knocked her out.
“…When I woke up again, there was blood everywhere and my face hurt very badly, too badly to move. I screamed and cried until someone came to my rescue, and everything after that it quite hazy.
Derrick had crushed my beak in his grip, although the way he had been holding me, my upper beak took most of the damage. Derrick fled shortly after he realized what he had done—he said later he didn’t mean to really hurt me, just scare me, but I was told he had had similar incidents including assault prior to mine, and continued to long after.
The damage was extensive enough that what remained of my upper beak had to be removed in order for it to heal properly and be fitted with a sufficient prosthetic. My lower beak suffered only a little and thus it is mostly intact, save the tip. Derrick did not silence me forever, but he did for two years. The first year was healing from the initial attack. I could not speak at all, without my upper beak to form words with. I still could not talk probably after getting a new beak. I first had to grow used to the feeling of metal, of chewing, of waking up through the night for water because my tongue and throat would dry out. And then I still could not talk for a long time because words formed on a new beak are slow, are warped, sound strange. It took a long time to grow accustomed to all of that.
Although Derrick had taken away my speech, he had not taken away my voice. I could still sing, to a degree, chirps and trills and whistles and anything that only needed vocals because mine were very much intact. After my new beak was attached, I could hum.
And during all that time, when all I could do was sing, I learned people like music a lot more than chatter. I would waste time playing on my instruments and no one ever told me to stop because it annoyed them. That, and music became my safe place. It was always there. Even if I had no voice at all, I could still play a violin. Now I play music to keep myself from talking too much, and because when you love something very much the first thing you want to do is share it with someone else, and I found that playing for myself was not as fulfilling as playing at festivals or taverns for weary travelers who could use a friendly face and a familiar tune at the end of a long journey.”
Polly stops abruptly, eyes fixed on the fire. The others all wait to see if she will keep talking, but she doesn’t, instead, she reaches for her violin carrier and extracts the instrument from within, tuning it and rosining her bow before she pressed it to the delicate strings and began to play.
There were no words to the tune, but it was lovely and solemn and hopeful, and turned all eyes to the sky and the stars that glittered there, save Rhaark’s—he simply fell asleep.
When the tune draws to a close, there is a moment in which Polly lets the crickets and the breeze wash over them instead.
“People care more for music than chatter,” she says quietly. “And so have I grown to.”
No one can really argue with that.
* * *
What did you think? :D
Aarakocra Boyfriend: Enzo 2
A/N:
Started my new job so that means updates maybe once a month now. I will try and get more updates down during the weekend, but I will try to keep writing as I am slightly stiff at it now.
Support me on Ko-fi!~ - Patreon
Part 1
Relationship: male monster x female reader
Burning Heart Part 2
Soft snow had never stopped falling, cascading like silver droplets over a landscape of white, a perfect backdrop that no one could grow sick of.
Yet, you found yourself sick of the view. Stuck within the cave's confines, the backdrop of snow had become your constant view day in and out, surrounded by the heavy flurry that never seemed to stop.
The only warmth that came to you was from the dimly lit fire, slowly dying as its embers cooled, needing to be rekindled once more. Not long before they die down. You thought. Perhaps, I could be rid of this Hell.
There was some movement that came from the entrance of the cave: the howling wind died down for a moment when you heard the sound of shuffling snow and someone approaching. Your fingers the small hunting knife, heart palpating uncomfortably in your chest.
When the dread settled emerged the culprit: the red-brown feathers seemed to dampen from the cold and hailing blizzard, Enzo entered the cave and carried some sticks for the fire, mind overtaken with the thought that reached his neutral face.
For a moment, you only watched, watched the way he approached the dwindling flames, kneeling as he prepped the logs. His eyes seemed to care for the fire as he poked and prodded, cinders and ash that once seemed blackened, emerged with life and roared slowly, a proud look reaching his features.
Unexpectantly, his eyes moved up and met yours, and neither of you could react. You felt as if you were too scared to look away, watching those hawk-eyes bore into yours with such a look that you couldn't decipher.
Finally, Enzo clicked his tongue, rolling his shoulders back as he poked the flames.
"Still cold?"
dnd oc for a campaign
