#martsi

[tdrawsstuff]

Is it just me but when thinking about drawing the void players all at once i noticed that all of them have glasses or shades or some sort of eye gear or something is up with the eyes like

What is up with void players and getting glasses or shades are they just naturally bad at seeing is that part of the void???

[swarmishstrangers]

Oh wow

Mawrsi hoot heck

[zabbyart]

Friendsim Void Players!!!

Martsi makes me go 🥺💕💕💕

as always used optimistic duelist as reference for the characters godtiers

[dust-medium]

Getting in the way.

[hoovse]

Marsti calls herself a basic bitch because most cleaning chemicals are very basic on the pH scale thank you for coming to my ted talk

[sofialily440]

I rest my case

[kayforpay]

Knights and castles fantasy AU Kanaya and Marsti?

All it took was one wrong step.

They had planted mines, crude things, full of metal chunks that tore through flesh like paper, leaving ragged wounds behind. You should have known better, stepping out into the middle of a battle like you did, but you’re not the kind who thinks before acting; it’s your worst trait, or so you’ve heard. You were in your armor, running forward while the enemy held their line, and you stepped down, felt a shift, and nothingness enveloped you instantly.

You were dead. That had to be the case. You were laying in a downy bed, in a small cottage room with exposed beams and yellowed white paint, feeling lighter than air and dizzy. There was no way you were alive. This was nothing, the nowhere after death you’d always feared silently, there’s no possible way you’re alive. You stepped on a mine. And you can still feel your legs.

The door of the room is open, and on the bedside table is a mortar and pestle. The smell of herbs permeates the room, heavy and earthy, makes you feel cold somehow. In the hall, there’s a door; you’re not at the end, then. Just in the middle. The door is faded once-red, now pink, with a simple bronze colored handle. The floor is wood, some dark stain, and has a threadbare rug sitting in the middle of it. There’s a desk, a chair, and nothing else.

Turn your head. A window sits in the wall over the bed, showing a tree’s branches swaying and a bird hopping from twig to twig, paying you no mind. The sky is blue, bright, cloudless. Your chest feels heavy, your arms lead and your legs distant; are you dead?

Yes, you confirmed that.

A sound finally reaches your ears and you turn your head again, watching a tall, thin, severe woman enter the room, glasses somehow obscuring her eyes more than anything. “Oh, you’re alive.” She says, and sits in the chair next to the bed. You blink slowly, your tongue fat and dry in your mouth. “I found you after that battle, laying in a puddle of blood. You were unconscious, I think your party retreated too fast to get you.”

You blink again. You feel dizzy looking at her, but even more dizzy looking away.

“I’m not dead?”

She sighs, and leans over you suddenly; or maybe slowly. You’re realizing that you’re a little distant from everything, including time. She pulls your eyelids apart and looks at your eyes hard, inspecting. You wonder if you should have put something on them before coming, and then remind yourself you’re here because you almost died.

“No. And your concussion should be lessening soon, if you keep still.” She says, seeming satisfied with herself. “Who are you? Can you remember?”

Can you? Think back. You were born, at some point, and named, and you’re alive now, and you had a job, and a rank. What happened? Where are you? Your legs are starting to hurt now, and your head. The sky is too bright, the wind too loud.

“I’m Martsi. You’ve been asleep for at least four days.” She says, calm as ever and pushing your blanket flat again. “Don’t force yourself.”

The beams look like ribs. You feel stifled, like you’re in the ribcage of some great beast, breathing second-hand air. “Kanaya. I’m Kanaya.” It comes to you suddenly, and you wonder if that is even your name. It must be. You don’t think you know anyone but Martsi.

“Good job. Kanaya. Your outfit was a footman’s, right? You must have stepped on one of those traps they’re using now.” She puts a hand on your leg, but you can’t feel it. Is that bad? “I made a plaster splint for you, and it should heal. I hope you don’t get a limp.”

Oh, you’ve seen those. You’re not sure where, or why, but you’ve seen those. “When can I go home?” You ask, managing to meet her sharp eyes again.

“Whenever you want. I think you should rest more, though. Your leg was shattered and I’d be surprised if you could stand without throwing up now.” She says, matter of fact. “Where is home?”

Blink again. You’re tired. Keep them closed. “I don’t remember.”

[karakoopierot]

Marsti gives off such powerful lesbian energy...