#horror sans

[thaltro]

Thaltro on Tumblr dot com! Draw horrorfell or fellmare and my life is yours!!

pupp0ccino.. yes I.. can yes..

Horrorfell as cannon as I can draw

He’s putting out a cigarette on his head i know it’s not obvious

I know horror doesn’t look cannon enough but fml who cares I need him to look a little glam to match well with the fella

[mayumara-writes]

how would scrimshaw boys react to human singing? It'd be very different from the usual kind of calls they'd hear from other creatures or leviathans. could be mc sing as they work, or just deciding to serenade the boys cause they feel like it idk. I know I'd be desperate to fill the silences and remember what songs I could if I was stuck on that planet

All of them pretty quickly grow fond of the Reader's weird little noises and calls, and they can figure out some words as time goes on. So I think all of them would enjoy it to varying degrees! I imagine it's a bit like listening to a bird's song, we may not know what it means but we can pick out the tunes and enjoy it.

Killer and Horror both just like any sounds the Reader makes. Neither are really capable of any similar vocalizations, so hearing it from their teeny little human is quite fun. Killer may even try to whistle or click an imitation if he gets the sense you're doing it for fun. Horror mostly just likes to listen and uses it to keep track of you when he can't see you clearly; his hearing is much better than his vision.

Dust is the one who would get the most significance out of it. He'd be the most likely to stop whatever he's doing and listen or get closer when the MC is singing. If no one else is around, he might start humming and trying to imitate their songs as well. While it IS often used in courtship with his species he doesn't have that particular 'baggage' since he's been so isolated other than his brother. They would usually hum to one another when they were young...it feels comforting.

Nightmare also takes a lot of enjoyment out of it, whether it's aimless tunes or a song with lyrics. The void is quiet and he likes being near the noisier areas of the crater, and the Reader's songs are a fun new addition to the medley. He'd be the most interested in learning about the songs themselves--what they mean, what the story is, etc. The idea of a species that sings just to sing and not for any particular reason is very endearing to him.

[siilly-artisttt]

MTT DOODLES!

{ + KRALIA :D }

KILLER -> Rahafwabas

HORROR -> Horrortale

DUST -> ask-dusttale

KRALIA -> siilly (me!)

[luwkade]

Hunter instincts

Since horror has gone through that kind of hunger, he sometimes suddenly goes into hunting mode. When this happened, he thought he was going to be judged by his teammates but they themselves are just as screwed up as him.

[mayumara-writes]

Do you think Scrimshaw Horror already has a concept of cooking? He lives in the lava zone, has heat powers. I wouldn't be surprised if he had larger prey he might stick it on a thermal vent to cook

There's even some basis in canon here! In the past when he hunted Killer's species and other leviathans he would usually drag them into the lava zone for the heat to kill them. Faster, less mess, less personal risk of injury from the flailing.

These days there aren't any left to hunt, and hasn't tried dragging any other species down there to experiment with. He hasn't really tried using a surface-level heat vent but would probably be fascinated if he saw the Reader doing so. Kind of an "Oh you do that too" response.

He probably would prefer cooked meat. Just harder for him to get in large quantities. As his health improves he'll probably have the energy to try again. (He won't cook Killer but may threaten it sometimes.)

I need to write his ecological notes...

[a-whispering-echo]

sneak peak

for betrothal

And there, in the midst of it all, had been the princess.

Not ‘Princess Horror’ then. Just… the princess. The youngest, he been told. A boy already towering over Nightmare and Dream, all long limbs and earnest, wide sockets. He’d been shy, hiding behind his sister’s skirts until his brother - Morún, a lanky, grinning teenager - had shoved him forward. “This is Horror,” Morún had said, the name sounding like a joke, an irony. “Don’t let the name fool you. He’s terrified of earthworms.”

The boy had scowled, his face (whole, then, smooth bone without the terrible, star-fractured wound) flushing a faint, embarrassed red. But he’d stepped forward. He’d been tasked with showing the Durmousian princes the orchards.

Dream had flitted ahead, a dart of gold, asking a thousand questions about grafting techniques and seasonal yields, his mind a catalogue of future usefulness. Nightmare had hung back, overwhelmed by the sheer, noisy life of the place.

Horror had noticed. He’d moved slowly even then, with a careful, deliberate gait, as if afraid of breaking something as sturdy as the earth herself. He’d stopped beside Nightmare and pointed a thick finger at a particularly high branch of an ancient apple tree. A single, perfect fruit hung there, blushed red and gold, catching the late afternoon sun.

The fruit had been perfect. The national emblem of Durmous, above its princes head. It hung just out of reach, a tantalising jewel against the blue sky.

Horror hadn’t said anything. He’d just looked from the apple to Nightmare, then back again. Then, with a grunt of realisation, he’d turned and braced his broad back against the gnarled trunk, his hands forming a stirrup. His meaning was clear, communicated in the silent, practical language of children: <8>Here. Climb.</i>

Nightmare, the solemn, shadow-touched prince of a kingdom of stone and suspicion, had hesitated for only a second. Then he’d placed his boot in Horror’s linked hands. The giant had lifted him as if he weighed nothing, boosting him up with a steady, unwavering strength until Nightmare could wrap his arms around the branch. The bark had been rough and warm against his palms. He’d plucked the apple. It had come away with a soft, crisp snap.

When he dropped back down, Horror was watching him, his expression a mixture of shy pride and curiosity. Nightmare had held out the fruit. A silent offering. A thank you.

Horror had shaken his head, a slow, deliberate motion. “For you,” he’d mumbled, his voice already deeper than a boy’s had any right to be. “You reached it.”

Nightmare had bitten into it. The flavour had exploded in his mouth - honey-sweet, crisp, with a tartness that made his tongue tingle. It was the taste of sunshine, of fertile soil, of a kingdom that did not know hunger. He’d never tasted anything like it before or since. He’d offered it again, and this time, Horror had taken a small bite, his smile widening as the juice dripped down his chin.

That was the memory. A fragment of sun-dappled kindness, of uncomplicated help. A giant who offered his back as a ladder.

He had not seen Horror since. The reports had trickled in over the years, charting a descent as tragic and inexorable as a landslide. The droughts. The failed harvests. The death of the queen. The sickness that took the siblings, one by one. The uprising. The storming of the castle. The wound.

The gentle boy as gone. Eaten by the same famine that had consumed his kingdom. What remained was the figure in the reports: a seven-foot-tall monument to loss, brain-damaged, limping, struggling to string a sentence together. A prince who baked because his people were starving, who gardened because the land was dying, who was here not to win a heart, but to buy grain.

The kingdom of green and gold was a monochrome wasteland of grey fields and grey hope.

[coffii-spiral-wood]

Er er er

[marble-birdie]

The skeleton was too stunned to speak