DUE TO CONCERNS WITH AI SCRAPING, THIS STORY HAS BEEN REMOVED AS OF APRIL 6, 2024. FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO HAVE READ WHETHER IN PART OR IN WHOLE, THANK YOU ALL FOR YOUR HONESTY, YOUR ENJOYMENT, AND YOUR INPUT. FANART WILL REMAIN, AND THIS WILL BE USED AS AN ARCHIVE OF SUCH POSTS.
All characters, races, and planets mentioned, as far as I am aware, are original, and any resemblances between individuals or ideas is purely coincidental (cough). ANY FEEDING OF CHARACTERS INTO CHARACTER.AI OR SIMILAR PROGRAMS, INCLUDING LANGUAGE LEARNING MODELS, GENERATIVE TEXT MODELS, OR OTHER “AI" PROGRAMS IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED. Proof will be provided of original ownership, and if necessary, discussions for remuneration will be had pursuant to any/all copyright infringements. No AI training, use, or generation based on any of my works is allowed, and individuals caught feeding the machines will be blocked, reported, and issued a DMCA notice. Do not steal, alter, trace, copy, download, or use my art or characters without permission. Do not sell, repost, claim, or redistribute my art, races, worlds, or characters. Participants are not allowed to sell giveaway art or use it for personal or business endeavors.
By participating in giveaways or exchanges, you agree to the above rules, which abide for collaborative works, as well. Thank you for your understanding and your commitment to human art created by humans, for humans.
FANART:
For all you lovely, crazy people who drew my darling characters whether as gifts, exchanges, or trades. While I do have my own renditions at the art-room, here I will be showcasing the hard work of others. Thank you to all! <3
A’den at Work (sisterdragonwithfeathers) (2021)
Doctor Rebecca Brown (ladypepperofdavenshire) (2022)
A’den in Hasran Formal Dress (scarvenartist) (2022)
Portrait of A’den in Hasran Formal Dress with Earrings (jenniferbrincho) (2022)
Artist’s Rendition of Venom Jackal (the-derpy-dragon) [2022]
Sketch of Rebecca and A’den at the Gala (jenniferbrincho) [2022]
I don't honestly think Heron is good at any instrument except the harp. Maybe the flute. And he's very, very rusty. His lifestyle and rucksack don't leave much room for instruments.
Heron: I see you decided to make another snarky comment about my nose.
Carver: And I'd do it again, Doorjamb.
Heron: I was hoping you'd say that. Tarja is meditating elsewhere. I can hear her, but we are relatively isolated this evening. Thus.
Carver: wait DON'T YOU DARE I WANT TO SLEEP
Heron: And you should have thought about your actions and consequences earlier. I've prepared a nine-hour harmonica concerto in G Sharp Major for my vengeful enjoyment.
Carver: [whispering fiercely at him] you are the WORST kind of monster.
Heron: I just added a coda to stanza eighty-one. E n j o y.
You are Correct! Heron is annoyingly good, but even something really good will be annoying if heard for 9 hours, especially when he's TRYING to be annoying. Carver is just about equally peeved at the pale man's skill as much he is irritated at his own enjoyment while being furious at his own lack of sleep.
Me 2: What do you mean wait?! There are four of us!
Me 3: Oh my gosh. OH MY GOSH WHAT'S GOING ON.
Me 1: Wait, wait, wait! Girls! I have an idea! For one thing, let's all take a deep breath.
Me 2: Yeah, we all know how great we are at calming down...
Me 4: You're the one who said we should start trying!
Me 2: Well, yeah, because --
Me 1: GUYS!
Assorted Mes: ???
Me 1: Okay, look. This is weird. Very weird, yes. But do you know what this means?
Me 3: Existential crisis to the power of four?
Me 1: Aside from that! We can crash out later.
Me 4: I'd love to crash out now.
Me 2: Let's just wait and see what we have to say.
Me 1: Thank you, Me... 2? Gosh, you all look the same.
Me 3: Wait, is that a new zit?!
Me 1: CAN WE PLEASE FOCUS?!
Me 2: Yeah, now I'm going to be thinking of the zit.
Me 1: LADIES!
Mes 2-4: [begrudgingly fall into silence, some shuffling nervously and others glaring at me and one another]
Me 1: There is some good to this. Yes, we have only one machine for writing and balancing the budget, but with more of us to do our things to our standards, we have four times the working power.
Me 2-4: !!!
Me 3: [raises hand] I DON'T WANT TO BALANCE THE BUDGET.
Mes 1-2 and 4: Well, tough luck, because none of us do.
Me 2: We'll vote on it!
Me 1: What a fantastic idea! Rock-paper-scissors to see who does what?
Me 4: We're all the same. We'd be stuck in a loop forever.
Me 3: Let's roll dice.
[ASSORTED GROANS]
Me 1: Look, I know our luck is either abysmal or fantastic, but this is the fairest way of sorting things out. We'll do a head-to-head elimination match. Whoever is the overall winner gets first choice of chores or tasks, whether budgeting, editing, gardening, or working. If someone gets done with a task, we'll combine forces to help with the others.
Me 2: Oh my gosh, I could get so much weeding done.
Me 4: If you get gardening!
Me 1: [Claps sharply] All right, ladies, let's get the dice bag! We'll sort this out and both be able to get everything done and then hang out with people!
(But what, Margot? But what? But you don't mind? But he's kind, strangely tenderhearted? But there's something about his laugh, sinister though it may be? What is it about those eyes, striking, sharp, and so pale blue they're almost white? Do you find him handsome despite his stark features?)
SL: What do I look like, a lonely hearts club?
(You decide to redirect your thoughts to the fact that he's been convincingly framed for a brutal murder. )
Criminal: I've done something terrible to Margot Lane, and nobody would know!
The Shadow (Lamont Cranston): Hasn't anybody told you to leave Mr. Cranston's wife alone yet?!
Margot: !!
Criminal: ??
Shadow: ... I mean... Um.
Criminal: You mean he secretly got married to this dame? She's a pretty valuable hostage then! Though I'm pretty sure he might not like how closely you're trailing her, Shadow, but that's a problem I'll --
Shadow: [quickly knocks him out]
Margot: Oh, I'm so glad you're here, *Mr. Shadow.* And what was that about a wedding for your friend...?
Shadow: Something I'm sure you misheard.
Margot: Hmm. And I'm sure you'd be perfectly calm and unflustered if I was to see those ears of yours?
Shadow: Miss Lane, please save this line of questioning for your companion *after* we've gotten out of the death trap?
Margot: Of course, Shadow -- but tell me, do I feel your ring on a different finger beneath this shroud of invisibility?
Some people might think Heron, like my other main fighters, needs some sort of explosive firearm. What they fail to realize is that while DLP and A'den generally have access to guns, Heron has so many other types of weapons on his person at any given time that adding more fiddly objects to his already burdened self may slow him down or result in the delicate arrangement of his arsenal clattering in a mishmash to the ground, which might slap him with the label of either "menace to public cleanliness" or "not allowed to travel without notifying local guardsmen of moving as a personal army".
As he has only so much patience and zero desire for personal bureaucracy entangling themselves in his business, he makes a point of picking his weapons and maintenance tools very carefully.
Dalur LaPonte is a serial womanizer, but he prides himself on one thing: He never takes what is not willingly offered. His past on the slave ship, Lethe, is one of his biggest reasons for this, and if he discovers any one of his crew has abused and taken advantage of someone, he will not hesitate to kill them as a public example of the dangers of breaking the most unbreakable rule of his fleet.
Those who think the Pirate King is free with his affections and boundaries are often reminded with swift, brutal retribution that the host of the Blood Rose is more thorn than bloom. Broken bones and severed limbs are his rare mercy, and men who cross that line usually find themselves slaughtered in seconds.
Women who have done the same may find themselves reminded with a razor smile and a cold quip that art cannot be touched but given, and royal treasure demands a price higher than mere flesh. Those who ignore this veiled warning learn too soon that the Pirate King is horribly just to either sex for their offense, and more than one entitled noblewoman has found her final resting place deep within the twisted roots and vines of Dalur's ravenous patron.
"Do not touch me, swine. Attempt to halt me at your peril. Force your affections and choose between a bullet or thorns. Flee now, and I might shoot you in the back or let you go. Now. What will you decide?"
It would be just my luck that I’d be the only one open to dating an alien, only to miss the cues their head scientist had desperately been trying to give me.
He was a nice guy, don’t get me wrong, and not an air quotes “nice guy”, either - someone who was genuinely kind, and terribly awkward at trying to convey his feelings. It’s just that, unfortunately for A'den, I already had the social observation skills of a brick, and was too flabbergasted by the prospect that one of his kind might actually be interested in me to give my hopes any credence.
Holy wow, so that got way more traction than I anticipated, so for anyone curious, here are some rough sketches of A’den (and general male daktlyc form):
A’den’s favorite romance song is “Starlight” by Starset, for those wondering. He’s a brilliant scientist, but also a bit confused on the cultural differences. Also a massive dork. (And just massive overall, standing around 8′ tall.)
Daktlyc are a warmblooded species that falls into the deathworld category for most races of the universe; despite many common misconceptions, they are very scientifically advanced, especially since they figured that science is as much a good weapon as any against would-be predators and environmental stressors. They’re highly omnivorous and have an unusual ability to devour metals for vitamin/mineral content – which allows their nails, plates, and spikes to have a metallic sheen. They’re really tough to kill unless you get to some of their soft points (joints mainly, as well as their lower torsos; upper torsos tend to have fairly thick bones), even excluding their own defenses. Arm spikes are but one example of this, and have been theorized to show genetic superiority or strength; some males have been known to purposefully devour incredible amounts of iron and calcium supplements in a desperate attempt to make them grow longer and harder with mixed results.
My farmer goes by Daisy. It's what her husband, Elliott, calls her, and she hasn't bothered to say otherwise, so it's not until much later when somebody actually catches sight of her marriage license that it's made known that her name is actually Maria.
"But why do you go by Daisy?" a bewildered visitor asked. The young woman beamed, a blush spreading over her fair cheek and reddening her ears.
"Because before my husband and I first started dating, he said the first thing that caught his eyes were my smile and the daisy in my hair. He didn't know my name, so he just mentally called me 'Daisy', which he told me during our first night out." She tucked a flyaway strand of bronze hair behind her left ear, where an apt flower peeked from its gleaming hold.
"But... but everyone calls you Daisy!" The visitor's eyes widened. "Wait, just how soon after you arrived did you start dating?"
"Oh, only about a month or two," she chirped, spinning around to grab a ruby jar of raspberry preserves from the wooden stand behind her. "Everyone assumed that I'd been going by my middle name or something before then and followed Elliott's lead. Want some?" She popped open the jar, startling the visitor with a flash of well-defined bicep. "Made it fresh this week!"
The spoonful of sweet, tart jam was too good to go without, and the jar found itself in a wicker basket laden with fresh goat cheese, dried mushrooms, and homemade wine. The little farmer runs a good bargain. "So, do I still call you Maria?"
She shrugged good-naturedly, tucking her hands into the pockets of her indigo pleated skirts. "You may; I don't mind. Will that be all?"
The visitor nodded, about to say something more, when a man's delighted shout echoed across the market: "Daisy!"
She whirled around with a gasp of sheer joy, stretched to her tiptoes, and waved so hard that her whole body shook. "Elliott!"
As the tall, red-haired man who must have been her husband laughed and picked up his pace and ran through the crowd, the visitor smiled and left.
You're telling me that my farmer showed NO signs of a baby bump, thought her kid's birth date was a long way off, and proceeded to stay up late, passing out from SHEER EXHAUSTION within a week of her son's arrival?! Elliott must have nearly torn his hair out wondering where his dear, sweet nocturnal wife was and probably tried getting her to sleep through all but the most drastic means.
... oh my gosh he had a better idea of his son's birth date than his own WIFE LOL
"Ugh, normally I can munch spicy eel for days with no issues, but lately, I've just been nauseous at the smell of it. Oh, well, must be a stomach bug."
"Why have I been making more clothes and getting more furniture? Just bored, I guess, but I did burst into tears at the sight of the cradle."
"Poor Elliott does so much, but for some reason I was just So on edge that I snapped at the innocent guy! I apologized profusely afterwards."
"Hey, El? Are you sure that void mayonnaise I keep selling is poisonous? I've been wanting to try it on a sandwich with some smoked tuna and pickled mushrooms. What? Don't give me that look! It sounds good!"
"Of course I've been tired lately! We live in a monster hotbed, so if I decide to empty my pockets into the shipping bin, I have to take my sword and fight to get back!"
"Yes, I've been missing my period, but it's never been regular. And it could just be stress. ... Elliott, why do you keep muttering and writing notes on the calendar?"
You asked for it SO we’ve been hearing about Cruel Fancy Roses Pirate Man Dalur a lot recently, but are there any more things you’d be willing to share about his eventual beloved?
Of course!!!
His beloved is a pirate hunter sent as tribute by her kingdom as a last resort to take Dalur LaPonte down. She's not the first he's faced, but she is the first who arrives at his kingdom who is a fellow elf -- and the first who is a slave. Determined, honest, blunt, and fierce, she is a weapon who has, like the Pirate King, learned to set aside both her wants and any hope of love. So when he agrees to let her kingdom free of its tax to him if she falls in love with him, neither of them expect the result that follows.
The ground is hard and full of weeds. The woman in the short black dress cannot help but think of how sad it is that the garden is so overgrown. A few years ago, it had been organized. Tidy. Full of vegetables and -- well, admittedly, no small amount of weeds. But it was manageable.
This is a disaster. The clover, she's heard, has a tenacity that makes it a beast to uproot. Don't even get started on things with a long taproot, or runner plants. And the bugs! They're supposed to be horrible this year.
"Hey," comes a call. She turns from staring morosely at the overgrown jungle. Another woman wearing a sunhat, gloves, and gardening clogs with a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved shirt strides her way carrying a bucket, rake, and a hoe. She plunks them down and follows her gaze. "Huh." Her tongue clicks. "Pretty bad, isn't it?"
"Yeah," the woman in the dress sighs. "Remember when it actually looked like a garden?"
"Yep." The hatted woman picks up one of the in-ground steel tubs. It hasn't been buried yet, so it's not an impossible feat, but it's taller than her. She at first rolls it before stepping inside the oblong hoop and managing to set it off to the side.
"We had plans for it once. Too bad those runner beans never took to the trellis."
"It is a pity," she says, wiggling the other tub aside with a grunt. "Annoying, that's for sure. Maybe we needed stronger seedlings."
The first woman shrugs. Dandelions that have already gone to seed sway in the wind, silvery puffballs that promise more hard labor. More weeds. More taproots buried deep into hard soil. "This isn't going to be easy."
The look the newcomer gives her is one of mild annoyance. "Nope." She grabs the hoe in gloved hands, squints at a clump of green, and -- she doesn't lift it over her head. The woman in the dress thought hoeing always took a long, heavy swing. Instead, the flat metal doesn't rise higher than her hip or shoulder before the other chops it through the compact soil.
A sigh breezes past her lips. She's already thinking of the unbuilt garden boxes. "I mean, there's so much work to be done. We'll need to construct the raised beds, get soil, start new seedlings..."
The second woman's jaw is set, but the hoe chunks into the dirt and scrapes, pulling spindly taproots and masses of carpet weeds into dusty lumps. This time the rake is grabbed, and some dirt is pulled from the plants as they tumble through the space above its metal tines.
"I mean, do you think we'll get any help? We were told there'd be help..."
"There were some unexpected situations that came up. Help will come, I'm sure of it." Her bucket is slowly filled with handfuls of dusty, dirty, ragged weeds. Taproots, clump roots, stems, and leaves. Lots of soil she can't shake off. It'll be heavy.
"Are you sure you haven't got any ticks on you?" The woman in the dress wrings your hands, skin crawling with imagined legs as she takes a step back. "We were told the ticks would be bad."
"I'll check for them later." The bucket is hauled in a gloved fist and passed from one to the other as she staggers on. Finally, it's emptied into the fenced-in compost pile.
"I mean," the first huffs, heart sinking as she returns. "It's just so much work! Even if you're not reaching for the moon when you're tilling and hoeing--"
"Are you done?" The hatted woman is glaring this time, lips pursed like she's holding something barbed in her cheek. The watcher blinks.
"What?"
She sets the empty bucket down and folds her arms. "Are you able to pick up a rake?"
"I mean." The woman in the dress inspects her clean hands. "I suppose I could."
"Are you physically able to work?"
"I'm not used to it." The way she was moving made it look uncomfortable.
"I'm not, either. I've been procrastinating on this longer than I should because of the janky weather. But can you think of any reason why you are in any way incapable of working?"
The first woman steps back. The second's jaw shifts to the side, a humorless grin twisting her lips. "I..." begins the first.
She shakes her head and turns back to the field. "If you're able to work but not willing, don't complain about the condition of the field. The least you can do is bring me a glass of water."
The idea of having a plasma cannon that interpreted its pilot's singing voice and translated its notes into calculated shots was an inspiring stroke of massive genius whose finesse was rapidly undone by a single intern who boarded the ship with a very impressive set of lungs and somehow fired everything all at once by yelling a single, wordless noise very loudly for a length of time hitherto unsurpassed by any save the original pilot's beautiful, classically trained, operatic voice.
