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About Beewolf

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    Visual Artist

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  1. This is Sophie. She is not a fan of peanut butter. She is the proud owner of a pair of clothes and not much else, really. Until a set of scales tells otherwise, she is also 85 lbs. She may be an independent thought form spawned by the kaleidoscopic whims of a malevolent demigod. (Jury's still out on the degree of independence and malevolence in that statement, though.) She hasn't had a chance to shower or shave since her spontaneous creation, being that nightmare realms are light on plumbing, but it has given her a certain Earth Mother appeal and intensified her natural musk. She is appropriately afraid of bears. That said, she owns no bear mace and has no power moves beyond staying out of the tall grass and playing dead, so if bear cuddles were to ensue, it's a true likelihood she'd still fall prey to some form of inter-species Stockholm syndrome. She just drank acid and had her mouth skin regrown via magic, so her breath is stem-cell-fresh, laaaadies. 😉 Most of her hypothetical enjoyment of fashion revolves around the aspirational goal of experiencing the unblemished weave of fresh socks and underwear. She's single and ready to mingle across planes of existence, and more than open to mail-order briding her way out her current one. "If you can't send love, please send food and water." -- Sophie
  2. Thank you, I'll give that a spin. I'll play around with it until I find something that works, and I'll be sure to check out the Art Club later when I have something respectable to post. lol
  3. Okay, question. I want to submit a reply with a personal drawing, but chatbox will not let me insert image with URL from DeviantArt or Pinterest. IDK if this is to avoid artists vying for monetary gain/advertising on Valucre or if I'm managing to overcomplicate something extremely simple, but I'm genuinely puzzled here. Is there a friendlier place for me to submit the drawing and then copy the URL and paste it here? Or should I just embed the URL without the picture?
  4. I can feel Jack shaking me, his eyes wide with fear, but I just hum non-committally in the face of his distress, turning my gaze to the Martyr as she approaches, bearing a goblet. I accept it, can smell the ambrosial sweetness of the liquid inside, and tip it to my lips. The overwhelming presence of copper in my mouth gives way to a euphoric taste that is too limited, too finite -- it slips down my throat leaving a velvety, seductive aftertaste, and takes the burn in my mouth and throat with it. I blink, feeling clear-headed for a moment, just long enough to fish the star from my pocket and hurl it a safe, if excessive, distance away. I see it flash in the sunlight of the square and land, bouncing, near the butcher shop. I set the goblet down, blinking at the parched soil and the coiling plume of smoke from the acid soaking there. "Um...so, might have tried one of the, er --" I motion towards the statues. "And it...made me feel...nice. So nice that I couldn't feel anything bad -- couldn't feel pain, even. Not great, in retrospect, when everything in this place is some shade of lethal. I mean, I thought maybe there would be poison in the bottles, at worst, but acid? Are you serious?!" I try to squint up at the Martyr accusingly. After all, the feeling of your gums disintigrating in your mouth is a bit of a hard sensation to repress for the sake of friendship, but the buzz in the back of my skull that began whenever I previously tried to look at her directly is back with a vengeance. Apparently, the star was good for one thing, but I think it speaks volumes that I feel better just averting my eyes and staring at my shoelaces instead.
  5. I walk at a quick clip towards the courtyard; I can see Jack has been making friends in my absence, and slow in recognition of the Martyr. Strangely enough, there is no static when I look at her now, but the pressing weight on my shoulder is heavier than ever. I can feel a burning sensation that's been building in my mouth since the descent down the clocktower stairs really start to make itself known as I walk towards them. I taste something coppery and spit it out, thinking nothing of it. I smile, and at their shared looks of horror, I drag my sleeve across my mouth in curiosity. Something on my lips, on my teeth, maybe? The sleeve I pull back is red, and I can hear a rasping sound in my ears, like wheezing. Come to think of it, my throat is feeling rather right. I try to smile again, close-mouthed this time so as not to cause alarm, and greet Jack brightly. "Hey, I tried some of the stuff in the clocktower, but I don't think it's as viable as we hoped." Or something like that. I think something gets a bit lost in translation on the way out, with all the coughing and labored breathing. Shrugging, I take the bottle out of my pocket, crouch down, and pour some of the liquid out onto the parched soil. The ground starts to smoke lightly where it makes contact. I smile up benignly at Jack, quirking my eyebrows as if to say, "Sorry, no luck," and let the bottle drain empty.
  6. I can hear the gears more than I can see them turning, despite my close inspection for seams in the metal casings, and I huff in frustration. The automatons remain completely outwardly inert, but I can't help the paranoia that one of them is going to twist their head on a dial to stare at me, or open their jaws to reveal a pistol barrel. I start to roll my eyes at my own internalized melodrama, but as soon as the fear manifests, it's gone. I hum noncommittally in the empty space left by that emotion and go to examine the banquet tables. I swipe a bottle from one and hold it up to the dull light streaming through the glass facing of the clocktower. It passes minimal inspection: no floaties or mold or anything. Good. I take a small sip, ready to spit it out if it's too offensive, but it's mostly tasteless, if somewhat stale. It's rather large, a wine bottle, I think, so I only take the one to fit it inside my pocket, to ride along with the star. Something is pressing on my shoulder, but the rest of me feels strangely light. Every unpleasant feeling and sensation that has dogged me since I became conscious is now unnacountably absent; I don't even feel unwashed or sticky or prickly, even though I only have to look down to know that I'm still a dumpster fire on human legs. I rub my neck a little, sensing vaguely that I should probably feel offput by this, but I can't find it in me to care. I start to hum with a bit more feeling, a smile on my face, and continue my perusal around the room. I dither for a bit and give the space one more sweep, paying closer attention to the all of its more seemingly innocuous elements. Finding nothing more of interest despite my former misgivings, I skip down the staircase and out into the courtyard, the mystery liquid sloshing in its vessel with every boisterous step.
  7. I only have a glimpse of the murky interior of the cathedral and sunlight glinting off of the scalloped plating of two giant sentinels before the doors close with a resounding bang, and Jack is eclipsed from view. I wipe my hands nervously on my pant legs and spin in a few frenetic circles as I try to orient my thoughts. "Okay, okay. We will both be just fine." I pause when my eyes catch on the gleaming star in one of the statue's hands. "Right, then." I climb up on the statue's stone plinth and gently prise the gleaming object from its loose grip. Might as well test drive another doodad while I'm at it. I plop it into my pocket and cross the distance to the clocktower in short, quick strides, entering and scaling the stairs to the top floor, where the frozen party is exactly as we left it: "upstairs is a lounge straight out of the great gatsby. deactivated people made of shiny metal and old clock parts stand around. THe tables are full of pearls,vases of flowers and bottles of alcohol.dented pocket watches hang from the light fixtures. A white wooden door stands unassisted in the middle" Before examining the 'alcohol,' I take a moment to more carefully survey all of the inhabitants of the room, looking for hints as to what may set their gears spinning into motion. Maybe it's curiosity, maybe it's their unnerving stillness making me feel like I'm trapped in a glitzy diorama, but the fact that there has been more depth to every location we've visited so far makes me think we missed something vital here.
  8. "No, no, that sounds good...." I trail off, thinking about the popping, fizzing static, the empty space between my ears while I was in the cathedral. At best, I'd probably be a liability to Jack. At worst, I might turn against him. Who knew what the Martyr could command me to do in close quarters? No, better not risk it. "Just one thing. There are these...crows, ravens, or whatever, sitting in the rafters, waiting to divebomb on command. I'd say bring food to distract them," I eye up the meat packages meaningfully, "but I don't know if that would actually help. I got the sense that they're totally loyal to the Martyr. Honestly, I don't know how to circumvent them, so just... don't provoke her, if you can help it." I stare at him worriedly for a beat. "We'll meet back here when we're done, okay? I'll just bring a bottle back with me and we can pass it between us until it needs a refill. I've got the pockets for it." I smile and stick my hands into my hoodie's pouch demonstrably, but my smile flattens as I turn thoughtful, my fingers brushing against metal -- the compass. I had completely forgotten about it. "Actually, you should take this. It might point you in the right direction if you have any questions come up while you're sleuthing." I offer the compass to Jack.
  9. Jack unceremoniously dumps his burden near the fountain, and I follow suit, the weight starting to tire my arms. To be fair, this place seems to have no time or weather, and there's been no other foot traffic here besides us and the procession of blind devotees, but a part of me still feels compelled to furtively nudge it into the unshifting shadow of the demoness's wings, just in case. I wipe away a trickle of shining ichor from my hand, shuddering. Must've been a haunch of celestial meat. "Okay, so, remember the bottles of alcohol in the clocktower? And how they're probably not alcohol? I was thinking we could test that theory out, the next time we're in there. If it's undrinkable, though, I'd wager our next best bet would be the ponds where the geisha were. Nothing attacked me when I took one of the doll smoke-bomb things, and I don't think they would begrudge us a drink. I mean, running water would be better, but...I don't really trust that river." I idly kick a pebble, considering my next words. "'Heathen' doesn't usually have good connotations, but I haven't seen anything be outright hostile towards you yet. The deer only seemed to think Katana and I should get the axe, and like, vaguely warned you to stay away from the Dear Leader." I glance around at the cathedral, its shadow stretching imposingly into the courtyard, completely at odds with the noonday sun. "So I'm thinking you may be a 'Heathen" because you aren't a follower or creation of the Martyr, but that doesn't mean the occupants of this place view you as an enemy or a threat warranting violence. They're just...warry of you...because you're unaligned, so to speak."
  10. "Eueueuergthththank you." I said, accepting my heavy, drippy share of the burden and shifting it in my arms with a grimace. I turned to look to make sure the butcher was out of hearing range before whispering conspiratorially to Jack. "Okay, so...I think I know where we might find water if we can't safely get it at the banks of the river or somewhere else, but we need to test it, first, and there would be a limited supply of it, if it is viable." I step out of the shop, trying to angle my foot to prop the door open for Jack to follow. "We also need to find some way to use this or store it, and we need to talk about what 'heathen' could possibly mean in your case."
  11. The word 'Saviors' conjures memories in my mind of crows lining the cathedral rafters, eyes beady and beaks snapping, razor-sharp. I stare at what look like plucked wings in some of the containers, thinking that as flying creatures, it would make sense if they could bring down an angel. My eyebrows shoot up as soon as Jack asks for a cut. Oh, okay. We're doing this then. All told, it wasn't a bad idea -- we could use the 'meat' to bait other creatures for food, or as a distraction. I eye Jack and school my expression. "Does that mean he's a 'heathen,' then? I was a Useless, if I remembered correctly, so I didn't think the label applied to me, but I wanted to be sure. "And what kind of meat do you have on offer, besides angel?"
  12. I watch the death mask quiver and undulate with the thing's -- Desperation's -- detached and informative speech, and feel acid crawling up my throat from nausea and an empty stomach. I'm hungry, getting hungrier, but I can't even begin to fathom what bad karma it would mean to eat an angel, or anything else in this shop, for that matter. I take my cue from Jack and start inching towards the doorway. "Okay, who are these 'Saviors?' And what sin did the angel commit to warrant death and dismemberment? And where do angels even come from, here?"
  13. As I watch in macabre fascination as the mermaid is defleshed, only for the remainder to then be cannibalized, it makes me wonder, not for the first time, about the wildlife of this place, and what might lurk beneath the surface of a pond or river here. In our last encounter with marine life, Katana was mobbed by arts and craft koi. Were all bodies of water in this world going to subject us to the same type of predation? Where would we source drinking water from, if they were? More to the point, did this nightmare sushi live in the river, the only other source of possible fresh water besides the koi-infested ponds that we'd seen so far? I was beginning to feel parched, and basic human needs were quickly becoming a point of concern. I hear Jack speak and the dreaded ringing of a bell, and turn my attention to the man -- no, the -- I feel my face spasm a bit as I try to gauge where the thing before us falls on the man-animal-monster spectrum of this place, with its uncanny, melted appearance -- and then point to one of the meat containers in answer, directing my finger to hover between parts which obviously belonged to a man, and parts that did not resemble anything sapien. "If I may ask, where do you source your meat from, er...sir?" I felt it politic to be polite, given the, by all appearances, fresh blood dotting his hands and apron.
  14. I flex my empty fingers in the air after Jack intervenes, my hope of permanently confiscating Katana's, er, katana, dashed. Ah, well. It was worth a shot. When we reach the butcher's shop, it takes everything in me not to retch. My eyes catch on the caches full of human flesh...and...other bits around the interior. "Soilent green is...people." I shudder, feeling skeeved, and then feeling even more skeeved at the knowledge that I'm interjecting foreign references again without even meaning to. I see a little brass bell on the counter, and feel a shiver crawl up my spine, thinking about what sort of horrors its innocuous chime may draw. My hand has been on the hairpin that I nicked from Katana this whole time, and my grip tightens further. I'm drawn to an eerie blue light on the counter next to the bell, and notice a murky fish tank, the little light filtering into the shop casting weird patterns on the walls via refraction. "What the hell is this...?" I whisper to Jack, edging just a little bit closer -- but not too close. I tap slightly on the glass with the pin, ready to pull my hand back at a moment's notice.
  15. I prop myself against one of the statues in thought, my eyes downcast as I absorb Jack's words. I hadn't considered that the deer could have been lying -- mostly because I felt it vain to hope with so little contrary evidence to go on. The idea that I could actually be real, and maybe even just another amnesiac like Jack, is electrifying in its implications, but I stubbornly quash it down, not wanting to risk dissapointment. I look back at the cathedral in worry at its mention, knowing that a more thorough exploration of its contents was probably inevitable, but all the same, still feeling a tell-tale sense of foreboding when memories of a throne draped in thick chains and inky black feathers rustling in vaulted rafters replay in my mind. I trace the compass through the fabric of my hoodie, coming to a decision there and then. Before I can reply, Katana has his sword pressed against his chest after seemingly slipping back into character with little warning, too eager to resolve Jack's hypothetical with a practical demonstration of his own. Part of me is intrigued by him wavering between two alternate identities so easily, even as I share a look of deep exasperation with Jack. I hold my hand out to him, letting my face assume the most solemn expression that I can muster in the face of this feudal melodrama. "I'll volunteer my services as executioner, then. I'm assuming this scenario would call for a beheading when a third-party is involved?" I ask, admittedly guessing at my role. I try to make reassuring eye contact with Jack over Katana's head, which is bowed somewhat in concentration, to let him know that I haven't truly given in to any homicidal ideation where our favorite samurai is concerned -- even if the figure in question did occasionally play havoc with my blood pressure.
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