[ ID: A sketchy poem comic about the Crystal kingdom. First panel is of Kravitz, a dark skinned half-elf with vitiligo and dreads. Lower half of his face has turned in to a skull. After that come pictures of scared Lucas, Merle whose arm has turned in to crystal and the umbrastaff with some tentacles. Last two panels are of Kravitz and the legion and sketches of six bird heads and one fully drawn bird.
The poem going along the comic goes:
but even if i’m scared
angry, crying, laughing
when i walk in the park
birds sing to me from the branches.]
Day 3 of @kravitzweek Bounty (payment). Poem is from a collection called пирожки. альманах and is translated to English by my friend. Please check out the original book if you can.
warnings for vague character death (it’s kravitz, he’s kinda-sorta still alive lmao)
kravitz had dreams, once. he recalls them at night, lying beside taako, fleeting snippets of wants and hopes and memories from centuries ago. things that make his heart pound to think about, make tears well in his eyes if he thinks too hard.
he had a mother, a real one, not a goddess’s love filling the void of his heart and the form of his body and the shape of his magic. she was beautiful, he recalls. she could sing; she taught him how to play—what did she teach him? what instruments did he learn? the answer comes to him through forgotten, now-remembered strings of old memories. flute, and cello, and piano.
did he have a father? he cannot remember. perhaps he died. perhaps he left. perhaps he was just… distant. unmemorable. kravitz has no feelings toward him. why is that?
he had a sister, younger than him, bright-eyed and loud-voiced and lovely in every way. “ali,” she would call him when she was very small, and then later, when he changed his name, “kravvy.” always the sweetest nicknames for him, names that, when he thinks too long about them, make him weep silently for the little life he can no longer touch.
kravitz knows he died, of course, knows that he was killed, knows how he was killed, and knows who killed him. his sister was… not yet a teenager. eight? ten? he can’t recall. and he was… mid-twenties? probably? he has long since stopped paying attention to his age. he is centuries old.
but he recalls every single detail of that day, of that afternoon, of that night. the nightmares still plague him if he tries to sleep, which is why he tries to not do that, no matter how much taako insists that it is a “nice feeling.” death still fears the images of his past, and he will not sleep to see them.
he doesn’t have to—every moment is ingrained into his mind like the intricate carvings on the headboard of the bed magnus crafted for them. he remembers waking up, the sun streaming through the window, closing his eyes against the golden rays, stretching. feeling refreshed. he remembers bathing extra-long for the occasion—an audition, a job interview. he remembers gathering up folders upon folders of sheet music, of compositions, of masterpieces he created, and eating half an apple before the nerves got the better of him and he was almost sick in the sink. he remembers kissing his sister’s forehead and saying, “i’ll see you next week,” he remembers waving good-bye to his mother as he got on his horse and set about making his way towards the city through the forest.
he remembers never making it to the city, because he made the stupid mistake of forgetting his flute, his source of magic, at home, and he remembers his horse being shot out from under him and his arms being grabbed by strange hooded people and a muttered spell that forced him stiff and still. he remembers the inside of the house, quaint enough, well-decorated, and the dreadful and horrifying cellar beneath.
he remembers the smell of his own blood, the shrieking of his nerves, the darkness and the coldness of death gripping at his heart and his lungs.
he remembers his last thought as a living man being that he would never again get to see his sister.
he remembers waking, small and cold and trembling and weak, formless, in a bleak black throne room before a massive, feathered, masked woman with talons for nails and a deep husky voice. he remembers being offered a job to kill those who killed him and his family.
he remembers that being revealed to him, and he remembers how his bodiless soul flickered as he screamed out his grief. he remembers the goddess calmly walking him through the facts of the matter—after he was killed, the dreadful cultists realized they needed more sacrifices, and so they found the home where kravitz’s mother and sister were waiting for him to return and they captured them and they slaughtered them, just as they did to kravitz.
he remembers the goddess offering him a job, offering him revenge for his dead family, and he remembers, in a blind rage, without considering the concept of eternity, agreeing to her offer. he remembers how she took his soul in her hands and formed him and molded him into a body, an echo of who he was before, clothed in black and red and raven’s feathers, a scythe gripped in a trembling hand.
he remembers the cold, disconnected wrath with which he destroyed those who had killed his beautiful mother and innocent sister. he remembers the blood on his cloak and the tears on his fabricated cheeks when he broke down once more in the basement of that awful house.
he remembers the two centuries he spent cold, emotionless, barely a being outside of his work as an emissary.
he remembers, two hundred and thirty-seven years later, finally seeing himself in a reflection and pausing. he remembers the months and years he spent agonizing over his image when he was alive. he remembers the bandages and the corsets and the endless layers he would wear to try to appear as he so desperately wanted to. he realizes, suddenly, in this moment, staring at himself in the mirror inside an old, decrepit, ghoul-infested manor, that he looks the way he always wished he could have looked.
he remembers crying for the first time in almost two and a half centuries.
he remembers more things since that moment of self-awareness. he remembers collecting instruments, and shiny things, and treasures, and soft things, and worthless trinkets, and priceless collectibles, and storing them in an empty construct of a room that soon turned into a living space. he remembers the first time he saw a record player, that he picked it up with a whole collection of records and toted them all back to his room and sat on the floor just listening to the music.
he remembers falling in love a few times, only for them to become afraid once they learned who he really was.
he remembers no longer trying to find someone.
he remembers, not too long ago, comparatively, that time when he wasn’t looking that someone found him, and invited him to a pottery class, and snatched his unbeating heart from his chest and never gave it back.
he turns over in bed and wraps his arms securely around his husband and kisses his sleep-warm freckled face and whispers declarations of love until he runs out of synthesized breath, until the sun rises, until the big green eyes are revealed from under their closed lids and the small lines at the corners crease up with a drowsy smile.
memories are saved for the dark. in the morning, it is now.
[Id: A poem comic about Kravitz. First panel is of an old typewriter. Next is of a family portrait where everyone’s eyes are blurred out. The people are all dark skinned elves. Next is a closeup of Kravitz’s bust as he is holding a black cat. Last panel is of the typewriter again. The poem going along the comic goes:
“found a typewriter
in a cluttered attic
and like in a fog
i don’t know how
suddenly typed a word “sickle”]
Starting the @kravitzweek with the first day’s theme of Krav’s past!
On this year’s Kravitz week, I decided that I would try doing a poem comic for every day of the week! The poems are from a collection called пирожки. альманах and are translated to English by my friend. Hope you enjoy!
[Id: Sketchy headshot drawing of Taako and Kravitz. They are both blushing as their noses are touching. Taako is a chubby elf with his hair on a braid. Kravitz is a half-elf with black dreads and some stubble. The poem in the picture goes:
let’s go to the circus adelaide
you and i really need to
there are acrobats, lions, jugglers....
they all dream of seeing you.]
@kravitzweek day 6 “warming up”.
I’m so sorry this not as big as my other works of this week. Poem is from a collection called пирожки. альманах and is translated to English by my friend.
