In Lantern's Light, there's truly only one place which assures refuge to the most desperate and distraught of the city's inhabitants. It comes in the form of The Underground, a smoking parlor and "house of langour" operated by the enigmatic Madam Velvet. With a single pact, she can promise any wayward souls eternal care and escape within the saving embrace of her den.
hey gang i wanna buy myself an xmas/early bday present so i’m opening 2 custom accent/skin slots >:)
rlc only (paypal), apologies for the ass dollar conversions but the ratio do be shitty rn :/
more of my accents: https://www1.flightrising.com/forums/skin/2780408#post_41314726
I am DYING for an accent that makes a female pearlcatcher wingless. Especially for this gal! If anyone has customs open for fr currency or USD PLEASE let me know!! Reblogs help me with my search!
A few quick busts (of... varying quality) of some characters I drew just to get their designs out there.
Featuring: Mars (She/Her, Velvet's most exemplary and special hand-picked demon of greed), Sìleas (She/Her, a lich blacksmith so directionless that it's deeply philosophical, actually), and Moth (He/Him, who's like if a repressed 40 year old scientist from a gothic horror novel was a 25 year old lesbian).
Iezekiel, a Plague druid and hunter of the Shade. Further lore for her can be found beneath the cut!
The Stygian Coalition, despite their reputation as "Shade hunters," never aims to fell the monstrous or corrupted until all other options have been exhausted. Their Plague druids' acute command of the flesh has been used to methodically rend Shade from body, while their Light clerics' extensive knowledge of the soul has been used to wholly cleanse Shade from mind. But no method is proven completely effective, and every new case may present a condition too advanced or situation too strange to salvage what was once warped, now long departed.
Iezekiel is among the Coalition's number of genuine hunters, though her speciality in viruses and microorganisms has always defined her role far more than any status as "willing executioner" could. Ask her how such a mild-mannered and studious Tundra came to wield a blade, shotgun, and enchanted gauntlet with such controlled effeciency, and she'd assure you that any member of the Plague clergy must be as well-versed in combat as they are prayer. Ask her why she's no longer a member of that clergy, and she's suddenly far less open to discussion.
Her outward sentimentality, then, is reserved largely for those inevitable ends. After all, she can be trusted to act alone; her judgment is sound, her blows are measured, and her opponents fight honorably and viciously in the hollow halls of whatever bit of ruinous construction they take shelter from the harsh Wasteland sun in.
The miserable, lumbering forms Iezekiel smites in the Plaguebringer's name are the life which proliferates in death, not so far from those revered, diminuitive forms she devotes her studies and magic to. There is a serene stillness in death; a stillness which the Rot-Mother's children riot and raze so vibrantly to combat. The squirming and pestilent things which invade death's stillness are exalted, beautiful, thrilling.
And yet, in the sprawling, hallowed carcasses of forsaken structures, long devoid of such fiercely devout and intoxicating life, Iezekiel must contend with a stillness of her own making.
