#shitty fantrolls

[ellansface]

I’ve been up to some basic modeling attempt with Blender lately. Unfortunately all of them turned out as miserable failures so far. These latest three are something I’d like to consider less hopeless than others. Heck, one of them even managed to get itself animated! My computer is hating me to guts right now thanks to that.

But of course, I don’t think I’ll ever stop till one of those shitty excuse of 3D models actually walks instead of standing idly.

[ellansface]

Shitty png edit 2/2

[ellansface]

Here are some shitty fantrolls I’ve made some time ago

Those numbnuts were designed to be the world’s crappiest fantrolls without violating obvious fantroll creation laws (no rainbow blood, no pastel blood etc). There was a crappy fanstuck scenario that involves them, but unfortunately that never became a real thing due to my lack of ability to understand Homestuck in general. (which kinda explains that there are Minecraft enchanting alphabets instead of “Alternian” ones).

Original plan was to make them into a tarot card with complimentary fankids, but that was scrapped b/c laziness

[thineself]

So what have I done? This is just my baby Siaren Pluvio which I adore and cherish. She is just a fucking selfish ass who needs to get a fucking grip. They are both transparent (yay) but the only difference (obviously) is that the one on the right has a darker rose colour. The one on the left is cerise

[nonbinary-porthos]

Headcanon

Caezar makes dial-up noises when he's frustrated.

[cuttlesquid]

So 4am is the perfect time to write shitty writings about shitty ancestors of shitty trolls right

----

Your name is Atropa Elapid, and you’re dying.

You can feel it.

Your body still works, of course. You’ve made sure of that. But you live a life seeped in death, and you can feel it coming for you. They know you simply as an Assassin, but you are so much more. Apothecary, you prefer. It is your life’s work, and your penchant for murder is only a means to an end.

Quick, sure steps take you through the passages hewn from stone, to your hive, your lab. You throw the door open, the slam not nearly as satisfying as you had hoped. But there’s no time to re-slam the door until it is. You have work to do.

You remove something from your person; a vial of indigo blood, a sample taken from your latest mark, a stark contrast to your own yellowed green. Yellowed green that marks you dirty in the eyes of the Highbloods, and even dirtier in the eyes of the Seadwellers. But Seadwellers still need Highbloods dead, and vice versa, and you are more than happy to thin their ranks yourself.

But it’s still just a means to an end. The lifespan your blood had granted you is pitifully short in comparison to theirs. They don’t deserve it, but it’s not enough to simply take theirs away. You want it for yourself, of course.

You decide that that’s enough reflection on your motives, and get to work, finishing the concoction in front of you. It reacts violently to the addition of blood, but that is merely assurance that it’s working to you. Once it settles, you chug it, because there’s really no other way to get the vile concoction down your protein-chute, slamming the container back down on the table as you reel from its effects.

It feels like life.

But it's not enough.

All too soon, the effects fade. You’ve bought time, but it’s less time with each drink. However much you hate to consider yourself desperate, it becomes increasingly difficult to deny.

You know what must be done, but you don’t feel quite desperate enough yet.

----

Your name is Atropa Elapid, and you’re feeling pretty desperate right now.

But you don’t let it affect your work. You never have. Two draughts, one to enable you to breathe underwater, and one to allow your body to withstand the pressure.  Standard procedure for Seadwellers.

But this is far from standard, and you know it.

----

Your name is Atropa Elapid, and you have made a grave mistake.

Currently, one end of a trident sticks through your midsection and pins you to the wall. Your yellow-green blood looks somehow out of place down here.

You can’t move. Seadwellers are deceptively strong, though this is something you are quite familiar with. The Empress speaks, but your ears don’t work right down here.

You read her lips and you think she’s asking who sent you. You tell her you sent yourself. She seems annoyed by this, but you don’t really care.

You knew that the only options were success or death.

However that death might come.

----

Your name is Atropa Elapid, or at least, it was. You think.

They called you the Assassin in life, and they call you the Revenant now, but you couldn’t care less.

The violent dead roam during the day and you have joined them, sort of.

You died and you don’t remember what happened after that, but your corpse washed up on shore, and your restless spirit doesn’t quite seem to have left it.

Something to do with your attempts at immortality, though you’re not certain of the cause and honestly you don’t care enough to investigate.

There are many things that you are not entirely sure of anymore, and even more things that you’ve stopped caring about.

One thing you are sure of, though, is how much you hate those that still breathe, and how much you want to make it stop. You’re sure, somehow, that if you stop enough of them, you will breathe again, live again.

So you wander, cloaked in white, cloaked in death, killing anyone and anything stupid enough to roam the daylight.

Even in death, you will not allow your life’s work to go to waste.