w0bbe

Ves, a jester with far too many names, reads over the missive with a raised brow. Its hard being one of the only jesters who isn't undead. The idea of being evil is certainly debatable, though. "Jenny? Aw, c'mon. Everyone loves Jenny. Its Jenny," They mumbled to themself while recalling every cartoonish interaction they've had with Jenny. Like the time she got her head stuck in a vase. That was pretty funny. Ha-ha. Ves kept the missive as a souvenir upon their desk before returning to playing card games with their bard apprentice puppet, Jean.

IGN: w0bbegong DISCORD: prawzy CATEGORY: Visual Art TITLE OF YOUR PIECE: Crowded Preparation (praying the upload doesn't destroy the resolution)

An explosion of emotions was felt. Too many--far too many to the mourning father. Anger. Grief. Despair. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt... How many loved ones can one lose in a decade? This worry had reared its head many times in the mind of the elf. For their partner, a human. For their first daughter, a half-elf. Their sister, their nephew. Quill knew that, unless taken otherwise, they would outlive their own family due to the curse of descendant-kind. Then Catherine came along. The day she said her age, which was younger than the elf's first born, it ripped at their heart. Such a young creature shouldn't live this way. Unguided, unloved. It was not fair. They may not be a good role-model, hells, not even a good person in general--but they were someone. The journals she kept to document her evolution. The learning of how to 'feel' for an emotionless being. This was so much progress, and Quill couldn't be more proud of their daughter. The last one who was suppose to share the burden of immortality was slain, and her father was utterly destroyed by it. Rest now, little beast. Their little beast. Even if the beginning was horribly rocky, dangerous, and violent... Quill couldn't stay mad at her. A consistent fault of the elf was that horrible empathy for all creatures, even those 'unfeeling'. It would get them killed one day, that was certain. Oh, how they wished they could keep it together as that letter was read. Clutched between trembling hands--stained with the tears which didn't stop pouring--that letter was read, and read, and read. How disappointed would their little beast be to know they weren't as strong as she urged them to be? If only she could feel that. If only she was there. To the statue they spoke, "I'm sorry, Catherine. I will forever be your marn, that will not change even in death. Forgive me for letting you down this last time, for I cannot keep myself steady in your loss. This was wrong. You didn't deserve this--you deserved a good life, free from the cold embrace of losing yourself. If only I didn't drag you down with me. The things you sacrificed for family will always prove to me you weren't as unfeeling as they say." In their arms, she was held. Just as gently as their hugs during her life--the stone was cradled like a baby. Blankets were folded around Catherine, tucking her into her own bed within her room. Then, a peck was placed upon her forehead for one last goodnight kiss as the beast was laid to rest.

Quill held him the entire time. The moment Alice lost consciousness, the moment his eyes rolled back and never refocused. They were there, hand cradling the bloodied face of their lover despite the trembling. Oh Gods the trembling. It didn't stop. They wanted it to stop the same way they begged and begged for the rock to stop coming down. Quill had seen death so much before. It was never easy--but this? This was more than the others. This wasn't just guilt and empathy for a life lost. This was the loss of everything. This was their everything. Call it selfish, a fitting word to describe the two. No one understood another the way two evil people could. All the words in their mind were fuzzy, a buzz muffling and dampening any words which escaped their scarred lips. It was foolish to think leaving someone could save them. It was foolish to think you could save someone oh-so doomed. Perhaps, that is why the two belonged together. In the end, they were together. A jester's nightmare turned reality could only manage a hint of bittersweetness--a light in the dark, a warmth in the coldness of death--and that was the last hug Alistair Treuberg and Quillian Enberos ever shared. He did not die alone.

Marquise smiled smugly at the missive before muttering, "Wasn't me."

i love being bisexual and transgender 😏 happy pride