Concept: A Fantasy Setting Where Cursing People Works Like Serving A Subpoena – I.e., You Have To Provide

L1 L4 G1 A4 H2

L1. what is their favorite fruit?Oranges. L4. do they have any food intolerances?Nope, not that I can think of.G1. what is their most attractive external feature?Hmm… Hair or cheekbones, probably. He’s quite a pretty boy.A4. what things are they bad at?He’s not the strongest lad. Sure, he could hold up as a body in a shield wall, but not for nearly as long as most of the other Helltroopers. A stiff breeze stands a good chance of knocking him on his arse. He thinks he’s more insightful than he is. A dozen smaller things that I wrote out but realised this answer took up 75% of the post.H2. do they prefer summer or winter?Paisley is a summer lad. 

People have been asking about colors and ref for this animatic!  This would’ve been handy while I was drawing it, but hindsight is 20/20.  Anyway, I made the designs with animation in mind so they’re all very simple, and it turned out fine!  Never did sort out how their waist wraps go on though, oops. >.>

my arch nemesis cynthia is, of course, at the bank, because we both were sent like clockwork to pick up the checks of our husbands. she is wearing a lovely long green gown, which i know was on behalf of me, because, as my husband will tell you, our house abhors green and glamour. already the tellers look at each other under their little hats, for they love our tirades, i’m sure, although not more than i hate them. 

“oh, is that your knitting?” my arch nemesis cynthia peers her eyes at my hands. “is it some kind of… sock?” everyone knows she and i used to be close before we were married and our husbands, smartly so, have introduced us to the idea of true vengeance.

“it is a scarf,” i say. i want to tell her that when the time comes and the world gets cold it will go over my mouth and i will breathe warm air and it will fill my lungs and i will be able to run around with my love even in the dark night. “it is not,” i say, “over surprising that you should be caught unawares of a scarf,” i say, “as i’m sure enjoying winter festivities are too beneath the handsome qualities your husband prefers.” pompous ass.

the tellers pass each other eyes for now it has started and they are delighted.

my arch nemesis cynthia thrusts out her hand. a white bottle. “rat poison,” she says. “i would expect the whole town knows about your little problem.” stage whisper. “such a shame, my dear.” then she rustles her long green skirts - which i know she wore on behalf of me - and she shimmies herself out of the room like royalty. oh, she floats everywhere she goes, beautiful black hair behind her. the bottle in my palm is cold. i will devise how to get her back starting first thing tomorrow.

the week, as always, is a long week, for there is much to make and do and knit and be. my husband comes home and i love him for who he is; for he never comes home without checking the state of the house up and down. he is the kind who loves his home so completely and sets each room like a stage for a great band to come playing. i am too ashamed to tell him why so many of the rats go missing, only make him a stew the next morning to celebrate. his favorite, although not mine, i’m afraid. plenty left over.

my arch nemesis today - of course - in a green the color of rotting. a bruise is uncarefully covered on her cheekbone, so striking against all of her dainty. her husband would say it was for her ungraceful nature, and i know mine would agree. i strike first, already delighted by my master plan, shoving over our best picnic basket tied with a bow. “i made you and yours a stew,” i say, “for beneath all that you carry” all that horrible wealth of your husband  “it seems you’re getting rather skinny.” i can’t resist one last comment. “i am worried you’re about to waste to nothing.”

She plucks it out of my hand. “yes, if it weren’t for you and your husband’s dwindling wealth,” her sarcasm is biting, “i’m sure i will be nothing in, oh, 5 weeks time.” she arches a brow. “so long from now.”

“i am counting the days,” i tell her. her lips purse. the tellers behind me make a choked titter. perhaps, by their estimation, i have won this round quite completely. i go home to my husband smiling. he asks where i have been and i tell him i’ve been at the bank, but he checks anyway because i like to get up to tricks and he doesn’t like to fall for it. it is a good game we play. at night, when he is asleep, i am so in love that i must convince myself to pull the covers over my nose and practice breathing. how silly to wake him up for a young girl’s feelings. 

the first week of five: she gives me a solid, ugly ring that requires three knuckles to hold. “i feel so badly for your status, and i must remember to practice charity,” she says. “it such a small thing, but do be careful amongst all that thin pine furnishing of your house, which dents so easily.” my husband appears at the bank’s front door. just checking. so lovely to be picked up by him. at night, in a rage, i try it - beneath the table bends easily. i scuff out the scratch with walnut before my husband can see. i pull the covers over my face in bed and breathe.

the second week: i wear her ugly ring and give her more stew, this time hearty with meat. her dress is a meadow. my heart each time it sees her collapses on itself. she hands me clothes for my husband, since his wealth continues to go missing, and the charity of her heart is so loving. i am so ashamed i bury them far by the old tree, where all my shames go hiding. again, the covers. it, by now, helps me sleep. i have gotten so good at it that i can simply shimmy my shoulders to be perfectly toasty and buried.

the third week: she asks how comes my knitting. i tell her it’s nearly complete. she asks how comes my husband, whom she must know has been ill recently, and who is doing quite badly. i go home to him, shaking. even sick he is a good housekeeper, who comes home examining for dust and dinge so i do not fall behind on my chores. who checks to be sure i spoke to only him and no one more, for fear a man might snatch me. tell me, who else has a man so involved, in this day and age?

the fourth week she is envy green. i shove a whole heaping of stew at her, for now her husband has gotten it. i say it will return him to spirits, she laughs, a sudden, beautiful sound, even in the quiet of a bank. everyone stares. maybe it is the stress that is making her quite improper. i feel the same way. so much is happening and it always seems she knows. she says she heard he has left me nothing in the will, which everyone already knows. she says she doubts either of us can dig upwards from the hole we’re both in. i look at the bruise on her nose. i tell her to mind her own husband, and be careful where she goes.

the fifth week: so final. her, garishly lime green. and i in black, to pick up a check that hardly seems the effort. it will be enough to cover my husband’s funeral. she smiles at me and hands me a silver bottle. she says quietly: now that i am destitute, there is one thing for it all, and everyone would understand quite completely. it would be quiet, and quick, and complete.

it is the night of the new moon, so dark no man can see in it. i receive notice her husband has died, and i am sorry to say i find a terrible joy in it. the air has changed cold. i have left a note asking to be buried in my scarf, the last thing i have made on this earth. i go through each perfect room, but there is nothing else to take with me, for the house has always been his and his alone, and now aches to be gone of him. i would not serve as a good tender for it. having spent so many nights watched carefully, the silly girlish freedom i’d gain would surely set the house ablaze.

i follow her instructions. quick, quiet, complete.

the horrible rustling is what does it. like a million green skirts. and then it is dark, and i am in my own coffin, eerie with pine. my head hurts but i must be quick and quiet. they have listened and buried me with my scarf. i shimmy my shoulders just-so and get it over my face. bring my arms up, ugly ring heavy, and begin to hit as hard as i can, over and over, the thin wood of my husband’s favorite furniture, the cretin. it would be pine, of course - he left me no money to be buried in any nicer recourse.

the wood splits so horribly, and then it is very hard to breathe, harder than under the covers, and i have to remind myself to be patient and continue to dig upwards, while my throat closes and my heart beats so loudly and the whole thing is so heavy it is a universe. the shifting of gravedirt is loud, and loud, and i feel i will be turned into a worm, and i fear everyone has forgotten about me, or i have gotten the timing wrong, or i will really die down here in the dirt and the cold

but then her hand, and my hand, and we are both digging towards each other, and she lifts me so easily from the ground like a plucked turnip and holds me against her, us both panting and muddied. we can only stay like this for so long, here in my pauper grave, and then we are both running to the old tree where we met, and unburying a second thing; my lovely box of shame, and men’s clothes, and all of my husband’s dwindling fortune i have slowly been squirrelling away.

my love and angel cynthia, who has black hair like a curtain and a mind so fast i sometimes am in frank awe at it, who is, even now and dirty and raw: even now the only sun in my life.

like this, i a man in an almost-dawn, and us cleaned by the river, and her smiling so widely, and only a faint bruise on her, and our pasts behind us in ugly garish colors. and her delicate hand and beautiful nose and when i finally get to kiss her it feels like green feels; my favorite color, all warm and nature and sunny grace and grass and lying awake so filled with love it makes you shake.

i hold her, and she holds me, and our future is a love like a dream unburied.

I haven’t drawn the Elf Squad in a million years, what’s up

saturday D&D tip: write all your lore from the woefully confusing world of Academia™. The whole argument depends on a tenuous citation of a guy who wrote about an event 100 years after it happened. The biography of the lich was written by one of his greatest enemies and so we have to treat it as a questionable source despite being the only primary source we have. The translation out of Old Draconic might be “sword,” or maybe it was “thorn,” but then the Draconic for ‘thorn’ was also often used as a euphemism for ‘usurper,’ etc. the academic text they were relying on is actually a fringe theory that may or may not have any basis in fact. 

I memed

This site is not only full of deliberate disinformation and hoaxes, it’s rife with anti-intellectualism. 

I encourage people to research anything that sounds fantastic and totally different than what they were taught - even in my posts.

If you see a blog post with startling information, do the CRAAP Test! (developed by Sarah Blakeslee and her team of librarians at California State University, Chico)

Currency:  What is the copyright, publication, or posting date? Does the date matter? Is the information outdated?

Relevance:  For what audience or level is the information written (general public, experts/scholars, etc.)?

Authority:  Who is the author, creator, or publisher of the source or what organization is responsible for the source? How do you know if the author is an expert on the topic (e.g examine the author’s credentials and/or organizational affiliation)?

Accuracy:  What indications do you see that the information is or is not well researched or provides sufficient evidence? What kind of language, imagery and/or tone is used (e.g. emotional, objective, professional, etc.)?

Purpose:  Why was this source written (e.g.to inform, teach, entertain, persuade)? How might the author’s affiliation affect the point of view, slant, or potential bias of the source?

More help:

The Ultimate Cheatsheet for Critical Thinking

Judging Source Quality

The Layperson’s Guide to Online Research

Media Bias/Fact Check Use the search feature to find the bias (left, right, center, and in-between) of any news source.

Snopes fact check

How to Spot Fake News from FactCheck.org

What is a “Good” Source? Determining the Validity of Evidence

Fake News and News Bias

be nice to goblins or taste my blade

Chain of Acheron, Helltrooper Granddad. “Yet here I am.” Vanirman Dwarf Barbarian (Ancestral Guardian). LN. Exiled skald from Vanigar. Joined the Chain to see the world in his later years. A grouch with a sailor’s vocabulary: truly a heart of morale for the lads he serves with. Rallied a few Helltroopers as Blackbottom fell. He would have been content with a good death at Blackbottom, but that didn’t happen. Now he’s responsible for getting these formidable boys and girls back to the company. In the past week, he has taken to writing down the deeds of his solemn band of Helltroopers. The others see it as sentimental, he believes it to be a priority that their story isn’t lost. Sings the epics of Vanirmen heroes of old. Jokingly sings of the mundane deeds of his fellow Helltroopers. Built like a brick shithouse. An oldboy. He’s been around for a while, and though everyone knows how long he’s been with the Chain, he’ll joke to recruits that he is the longest serving member. This one’s for you @krunk-mcdunk please don’t slay me now.

New goddess idea: She’s an earth goddess of the new age who’s domain is spinning and weaving, but specifically spinning and weaving gigantic structural steel cables for construction and other industrial purposes. Her skin is steel grey and hard to the touch and her hair is like long dredlocks of woven steel. She laughs at shitty architecture deigns that will fall apart if actually built and protects well-made bridges and buildings she likes. She might warn you of unforseen danger if you always wear your proper PPE.

Okay now what do I name her