#wheee!

[chocodile]

At the Furlandia Dealer's Den, table B1 right next to the entrance!

[yokolate]

⠀ ⠀Esquie⠀mon amiiii

Clair Obscur: Expedition 33 (2025) ⠀dev. Sandfall Interactive

⠀

[raystarkitty]

On a magical dragon ride with @ponypizzaparty :3

[zarvasace]

So I can't really draw dragons very well, but I can draw humans with dragon features. I've been listening to the Wings of Fire series again recently and have had very much fun imagining human faces combined with the official character designs—I'm not the first to do so, I'm sure, but I haven't seen any others' yet so this is pure, unadulterated Vibes From Mina! :) Here's a first pass at a Glory and Deathbringer because I love them.

[rotting-ink]

The Commerce of Royalty: H Angelov

“It’s quite a good deal, really.” Ivarsson tugged the cigar into the side of his mouth, sitting back comfortably. “Even with expenses, such as shelter and feeding and so on.” 

Angelov hummed softly, tilting their head for just a moment before clicking their fingers, the end of Ivarsson’s cigar immediately catching alight, and giving off the usual soft glow those things had. The ex-heir gave a grunt of thanks and inhaled. 

“Hm.” Angelov leafed through the sheaf of papers again, painted nails dragging over some of the sums. “More so. I assume wellness checks would be in place?” 

“Well..” Ivarsson couldn’t stop the flash of doubt that etched over his face for a moment. The Macedonian couldn’t help the small smile that stole over their own. “I think for the first few years, maybe. If you wanted to relocate to the Isles, then maybe-” 

“No.” Angelov immediately shut that idea down. “Not even your full fortune could make me want to spend more than a few months in your countries.” 

Ivarsson swore he could see them shudder at the thought. A part of him wanted to stick up for his promised land, but the other part of him had been staying in warmer climates recently. The ache in his bones had all but vanished and the food had been delicious. Goodness knew what things were like in Macedonia. His stomach grumbled a bit. Fuck’s sake.

“Well then. I’d send along Braithwaite-” 

“Hm?” 

“Oh, my butler. Well, more like the child’s full time nanny at this stage.” Ivarsson couldn’t stop his chortle, remembering the last time he saw his compatriot. A pillar of wisdom, who advised him well, cursing underneath their breath as they hunted through the grounds, trying to find his child. Apparently having escaped another mandatory bath time. 

Angelov just gave a dry smile. Just being polite, Ivarsson thought warmly. Truly an Islander deep down probably. No idea what the fuck he’s talking about and smiling just to avoid awkwardness. Perhaps they shared an ancestor, given the Royal family’s origins. Better not say that out loud though. Calling someone an Islander at heart was usually an insult, weaponized by Gallia, Kemet, Almany- Well, most places. 

“But yes, perhaps it would be best to send them along as well?” 

Angelov shrugged. 

“Would I have to provide expenses for them too?” 

“Oh, no, no,” Ivarsson ashed the end of his cigar and shifted in his seat. Avaricious, grasping little fucker. He had to respect it though. It wasn’t horrible hard to disappear someone, but it was if you didn’t want that someone dead. 

Especially if you wanted that person taken care of, fed, clothed… Loved would be nice in the long run. Even if they weren’t of a mind to appreciate that. 

As per usual, there was a pain in his side at the thought of his child. A sharp one, just below his stomach. He massaged the area with his good hand and hoped Angelov didn’t think he was coming onto them or something. Not that Angelov was bad to look at. Ivarsson had lucked out. Macedonia was a good way away from the Isles, it was warm, it had plenty of older buildings, and Angelov was known for living well. Not royalty, so that was a mark against them in real life, but in this situation? A blessing. His child would get to swim in the sea that was a beautiful green-blue, eat food no doubt better than Braithwaite’s cooking. Their jailer was beautiful in a cruel way. Should have been in some of the elder myths about Hellas, to drive men and women mad, but here they were. Looking at him with unfeeling eyes, slices of red in those black irises. Truly, the best Ivarsson could ever give them. 

“I’ll provide all the money for Braithwaite too.” He finally ended his sentence after a while, the ache ebbing away.

Angelov gave a long sigh and sat back in their chair a bit. They just looked up at the ceiling for a while. Ivarsson could understand. Clem liked to decorate well, and while they and their child were back at the house, he got to use their apartment they still had in Lutetia. Angelov had refused to move any closer until a deal was struck. Apparently Gallia was their stopping point before coming to swoop up his kid. Ivarsson glanced up too. Hm. It was a nice ceiling. No doubt the rundown family manor was being made over thoroughly. He wondered if he was going to come home to pink and yellow wallpaper. 

After a moment the Macedonian stood up and went towards the open glass door, looking out onto the breathtaking city. A fresh scent of flowers and bread washed over him as he breathed in, overpowering the smell of his cigar.

“I can’t make them be happy, y’know.” Angelov finally said. “If that’s a part of the contract, I might as well leave now. It’s up to them to enjoy going from one jail to a… Nicer one.” 

“They’ll adapt.” Ivarsson said sternly.

“Hope so.” They returned to the chairs the two of them had been occupying and picked up the pen that had been sitting in the inkwell by the papers and leaned over. They scribbled down H. Angelov onto the last blank line and passed it over. “Then, I am happy to take your money.” 

Ivarsson chuckled and clapped his good hand against his knee. 

“Very good. Something bubbly to celebrate?”

“Would love it.” Angelov said smoothly and watched the man shuffle away, to get their drinks. 

The Macedonian stood stock still for a while before smiling to themself and patted their jacket pocket. Filled with quick instructions, detailing his friend’s thoughts about the newcomers to the house and how to right the situation they found themself in. And a plea. To take the deal Ivarsson would want to strike. Angelov didn’t mind it. After all, they knew they had been personally recommended. 

[the-red-drow]

Blood is Life.

It's been a rough week for Spooky Deet since the nautiloid crash-landed in the middle of nowhere. He's fragile after his tadpole infection and his connection to his archfey mother's power—hundreds of miles away—is weak. He's desperately trying to keep his new companions at arm's length, lest they discover too much of what he is, but fate has other plans.

cw: brief gore, body horror, blood

An elegant incision. From shoulder to shoulder.

“From navel to neck,” the githyanki says next to his ear, each syllable as sharp as the blade in his belly. His eyes roll as he searches for her. He cannot move his head.

A man’s voice carries from far away.

“So much more agreeable like this, wouldn’t you say? It nearly took your face off, last time.” The voice is right on top of him. “Yes, yes. Well, perhaps I'll allow you to have its face as recompense. But not until I am satisfied—ah, thank you.”

Thick fingers and cold metal, practiced and delicate so as not to damage but callous enough to push deeper, probe the dark, wet spaces he once thought inviolable. He would push him away, but his hands are as heavy as iron. Somewhere, a child is sobbing. One moment the sound is muffled and the next its keening bites into his brain with sharp teeth. And then it soothes. You are loved, it seems to say. There is love in this violence. Right?

“A beautiful weapon,” the dark cleric repeats, those pretty lips fluttering against his throat. She is right. He was born of his mother’s blood and he spills blood in his mother’s name. Her Beloved’s love and unending devotion, sinking into fertile soil.

His mother’s blood spills from him now. Wasted.

In this oddly stretched and twisted space, he is frozen—pinned and held taut somewhere between the cold, unfeeling slab beneath him and the shadows that swim across the distant ceiling. Tendrils of something that perhaps he was not meant to see. What—or who—had they belonged to? Or perhaps he had simply imagined them.

“Open it further; I’d like to inspect its chest cavity.” The distant voice is light, conversational. “Yes, those will do.”

A hand presses over the hollow of his breast as cold teeth sink into him and he—

Deet wakes with a choking gasp and collides with a cool weight above him; he turns to see the pale elf stumble backwards. They stare at each other in breathless silence for a moment and then:

“Shit,” Astarion says. There’s a smear of red on lips.

Deet puts a hand to his throat and it comes away bloody. A vampire. Shit, he agrees. Still agitated by a dream he can now barely recall, the growl rolls up from his belly on instinct and he watches the creature’s throat bob and he readies himself to fight or flee.

“Now, now,” he begins, his lilting voice barely above a whisper. “No need for that—I didn’t even get anything.”

Deet does not care. With the smooth grace of a stalking panther he keeps his pale eyes ahead and readies himself to strike.

“I—I’ll wake the others.” Astarion’s voice shakes. “With your teeth in my neck, who do you think they’ll believe?”

That gives him pause. Someone—the wizard, by his weight—shifts behind him. He hates that the vampire is right. Sensing the shift in his favor, Astarion’s smirk is sharp and bloody.

“Good boy. I think you’ve got something to hide yourself.” He taps a finger against his breast, over his undead heart. “Your blood runs hot and—eugh—sickly sweet, but there’s nothing beating in that chest of yours. I felt it myself.”

“What of it?” Deet asks through clenched teeth.

“Well, we could help each other,” he replies as though this were obvious. “We’re both… some kind of undead—we aren’t exactly popular amongst the, uh, rabble.”

Perfectly still but for the silent rise and fall of his chest, Deet’s eye catches the slight tremble in the vampire’s fingers.

“Oh please, I’m not blind. You barely remember to eat and I rarely see you sleep. You’ve driven me to this, you know; how am I supposed to hunt with you up at all hours of the night?”

Deet’s lip curls. “I am no walking corpse.” Deet is as alive as the forest he calls home. The wind through its leaves is the breath in his lungs and its waters are the blood in his veins. His life is as eternal as the earth and sky. As immortal as his mother—or, he was. He scowls at Astarion, who only seems to grow more smug at this declaration.

“I beg to differ, my boy—your blood is positively rotten. Heady stuff, to be sure…” He trails off a moment, red eyes glassy, then shakes it off with a trace of disgust. “But biting into you was like biting into an long overripe peach.”

He opens his mouth to reply, but nothing comes except for the sudden taste of copper, loam, and fermented fruit. It coats his tongue and he stumbles over it, speechless.

“You won’t catch me dining upon you again,” Astarion offers, pale lips tracing out an amiable smile that only just touches his eyes. Eyes that flick every so briefly in the direction of the cleric’s bedroll.

Deet shakes off his stupor and lunges forward with the beginning of a snarl, catching the vampire off guard. He jerks backwards with wide, fearful eyes, but when Deet does not pursue him, he stands tall and begins to straighten his clothes. His bloodless face is carefully blank. Nothing seems to be out of place, and his hands are shaking again as they fiddle uselessly with the ruffles at his throat.

“Your loyalty is certainly cheap, isn’t it? Fine,” he huffs.

Deet narrows his eyes, unsure of what Astarion means by that; he’s simply being practical. The dark cleric may have eyes that remind him of mountain pines and kind enough words for him in the evenings and at mealtimes, but she is a healer—she’s already saved his life. If he were more himself, Deet could manage fine on his own but it seems he cannot. And he cannot afford to lose the vampire, either.

Astarion is quick and clever in a scrap, almost ecstatic, and Deet would be lying to himself if he said that it didn’t bring him back to his younger years—days of lighter heads and, well… hearts.

And he supposes Astarion was right that they have something in common: blood is life.

“You can hunt all you need on my watches,” he says. His offer is quick and blunt and the vampire gives him an unimpressed look.

“Oh? Thank you, how generous of you.” His reply is dripping with sarcasm. Still, a bit of tension slips from his thin shoulders.

“You—you could also finish. If you needed to.” Deet instantly regrets the offer, but stands by it; he figures he could stomach the vampire feeding from his wrist. Mother will never find out. Probably.

Now, Astarion really looks at him, naked astonishment on his face. Immediately followed by a grimace.

“No, thank you,” he says with what might be a shade of actual sincerity. “I’m not quite that desperate. No offense,” he adds as an afterthought, not particularly caring if he’s offended.

There’s a moment of awkward silence between them as the hostility evaporates off them like stale sweat. He may be wrong about Deet being undead, but the vampire was right about one thing: they are two kindred spirits.

Two bloodthirsty predators.

“I won’t breathe a word,” Astarion whispers. “If you don’t.”

Deet nods. “I won’t.”

“I… suppose I’ll go hunt, then.”

“I’ll take your watch.”

“Kind of you.” Astarion gives him a stiff little bow before slinking off into the night.

Deet doesn’t return to his bedroll. It still reeks of whatever nightmare had him in its grasp before the vampire woke him. He leans against a nearby tree and scans the edge of camp, his eyes penetrating deep into the darkness. Nocturnal eyes flash in the darkness, winking in and out like stars, and the underbrush writhes with life. He hears the stutter of wings in the canopy and creatures of the forest calling to each other, some alerting their brethren of their camp, and others crying out in warning of the vampiric hunter now on the prowl.

Deet tunes them out; there is nothing out there that frightens him as much as whatever was waiting for him in his dreams. Somehow, he is certain. The cleric shifts in her sleep nearby, but does not wake.

He tenses, waits for a few breaths, then sighs. She is turned away from him, so Deet cannot see her close her eyes.

Don't ask me how no one else wakes up, lol.

[crittaslink]

[hyacinthanon]

Thank you for the food hyacinth anon PLEASE GET SOME SLEEP

WELCOME 🫡 and yes I did in fact sleep ridiculously late today