Ok So A Bit Of A Backstory

Bdubs: You played me like a fiddle

Doc: Oh no, fiddles are actually difficult to play

Doc: I played you like the cheap kazoo you are

my 2022 madness day art finished

Shadow army shenanigans:

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [?]

My boyfriend was showing me his cat and I leaned over to kiss the cat on his soft little baby head and he went "meow" and scrambled away because I'd been wearing my headphones and I accidentally jabbed him with the microphone.

And I said "Damn, this is exactly like in the Iliad"

mini picnic

More rat comics

oh, you!

Astarion knows an easy mark when he sees one 🤣

Bonus Gale reaction:

Receiving gifts, visualized, continued

Featuring Saint-14, Drifter, Eris Morn, Devrim Kay and Failsafe :]

first batch here

“Guardian…”

After the noise has died down, Misraaks scans the room. His eyes come to rest on the Hunter, standing in the center of a dozen splayed-out Eliksni corpses, and wiping blood from its visor for what seems like the hundredth time.

“I… I appreciate that we are at war,” the Kell pauses to find the words, to find exactly what it is he is feeling in this moment. “A war for the future of our peoples, and of our universe. But…”

He pauses once again, his eyes drifting back over the young, malnourished bodies of his former kin. “But the cruelty — no, the effortlessness with which you employ cruelty to kill my fellow Eliksni…”

Misraaks releases a slow breath. The Guardian is staring at him, its flat helmeted face entirely expressionless - a cold expanse of white splashed with reddish purple.

“It brings to me a feeling of unease. Not one that is necessarily of your own fault, rather, but nonetheless. These were my people once, and for each youngling with docked arms that is slain…” the Eliksni looks away, concerning himself not to show too much emotion in front of the human. “I wonder if they could have been saved. If we could have taken them in. Fed them. Helped them grow into something more.”

He looks back at the Guardian, who is motionless for a moment, hand cannon still in hand. Then,

“I’m sorry,” comes a cold, filtered voice out of the recesses behind the helmet.

Misraaks nods and turns toward the door. “Let us continue.”

The Guardian did not sound sorry at all.