Latest Posts by lauremaster - Page 3
I’m tired of the 1 and 20 designs LOL so I made this random design that is more like how I roll. Enjoy~
tattoo designs… but make it beaujes 💎💎💙💙
The lower table players whisper a lot, i love it
Talon!Stephanie Brown Commission for @our-happygirl500-fan ! This was v fun to work on tbh. Commission Info
i did some messy agent of the empire au doodles for my morning sketches :L
featuring expositor!beau meeting up with her sometimes-ally, always-enemy vollstrecker!caleb on a case that both of their respective factions have interest in
agnes montague kiss me challenge
Inspired by Anita Sarkeesian’s Video Game Tropes vs Women, I wanted to pitch a Zelda game where Zelda herself was the hero, rescuing a Prince Link.
Clockwork Empire is set 2,000 years after Twilight Princess, and is not a reboot, but simply another iteration in the Zelda franchise. It just so happens that in this case, Zelda is the protagonist. I’m a very big Zelda fan, and worked hard to draw from key elements in the continuity and mythos.
This concept work is meant to show that Zelda as a game protagonist can be both compelling and true to the franchise, while bringing new and dynamic game elements that go farther than being a simple gender swap.
Hope you like it!
(for more info about this project, check out my FAQ)
my fave bit of black dog folklore is that in some folklore there is a belief that the first person buried in a cemetery stays there and doesn’t cross over and helps other spirits move on and protects them from evil spirits, now naturally people want to avoid this fate for their loved ones and themselves so they would sometimes bury a dog first and it would return in the shape of a big black dog and protect the newly dead from evil spirits and occasionally the living as well
this kind of spirit is called a church grim
i learned that Binghamton University researchers have been working on a self-healing concrete that uses a specific type of fungi as a healing agent. When the fungus is mixed with concrete, it lies dormant until cracks appear, when spores germinate, grow and precipitate calcium carbonate to heal the cracks (x)
a character design i came up with
(1/3) In my fantasy world, I have humans, elves, and dwarves. I’m trying to give them all a wide variety of races and cultures, though we only meet a few of them. They all have pretty different approaches to gender. The humans in the area I’m focusing on have I guess pretty Western conceptions of gender, but I have multiple trans characters, including some nonbinary ones later one (one of the main characters is a human trans man).
(2/3) The dwarf cultures we encounter have pretty set gender roles but they don’t care who fulfills them/their ideas of gender aren’t tied to biology like humans’ often are, so there’s a really large percentage of trans dwarves. The elves don’t really have gender at all. They don’t have gendered pronouns. They can also change their appearance at will, and obviously sex and gender are different and also both socially constructed, but the elves as a whole don’t really think about either one.
A lot of elves do prefer a certain presentation, but the only ones who ever really gender themselves are the ones who live among humans or dwarves and have to choose pronouns in those languages. Some of them choose pronouns that “match” their presentation, some deliberately don’t, and some ask that people just change it up, the way that a lot of humans also do. Is there anything I should avoid or anything I need to think through better in all of this?
(I submitted that before saying so but the elf pronouns ask was 3/3)
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Honestly, I have never come across an ask about fantasy gender stuff that was more evidently thought through or knowledgeable about gender and gender systems. You seem to have really gone through the work to make this a diverse and beautiful world. I think you’re doing great, but here’s some things I’m thinking.
I would keep in mind that the term ‘trans’ doesn’t necessarily translate across cultures. Using a different word or label doesn’t make it any less representation. It’s more in the portrayal and the way of getting across how different people relate to their own gender identity. Dwarves might be free to ID as trans in a translation, or maybe they have a similar or identical term but it just means something different. If there aren’t gender assignments the same way as in the cultures our contemporary definition of trans* had in mind, it might feel like a compromise for a dwarf who has grown up their entire life free of the same constraints to feel like trans (in our definition) is an accurate label. Or maybe not, or maybe it depends on the individual or the place they grew up or who they grew up around or their own specific culture.
In cases where terms/labels change, the key to making it actual representation is to focus on concepts of relatability. There’s no one way to be trans of course, but there are some things that I see in other cultures that I relate to because of my relationship with my gender.
Another idea on something you could use to add more depth - gender is seldom just gender. For some people, their gender identity is tied in with their sense of kinship. Like, someone might really love being a mother, and that’s a large part of how that particular person relates to their gender identity. There are also a lot of cultures (including most of western-colonial gender systems as perceived through most of written history) (subcultures can have this too) where things like orientation might be a big part of how someone relates to their gender identity. For example, I know a lot of people who identify their gender as lesbian. These kinds of things exist in pretty much every culture (that I know of). I think more people feel this way too than most of us really think about - we have our gender identity label in its simplified form and then we have other terms and ideas associated that we relate to; ways of interpreting our relationship with other ideas and feelings and social and societal ties. Or whatever else.
I would also think a bit about the third culture folks and how nomadic people may develop identities. (Nomadic cultures exist on nearly every continent in our world. Some of these cultures did the whole ethnogenesis thing within the past 300 years, though most of the nomadic peoples I am familiar with go back at least a thousand. Some nomadic people aren’t part of nomadic ethnic groups but may have a subculture, like military families and carnies. I’m mainly thinking about how the subculture folks would develop identities and what that would be influenced by because otherwise folks just have their own regular cultures.)
I’d also think about maybe making up pronouns that are meant to refer to someone with a dwarf or elf etc gender identity. I know some folks who want the pronouns they use in their ancestral or native languages to be the ones used in English as well. Maybe instead of choosing an English (or Common, idk your world) pronoun, some folks opt to just keep using the same pronouns as always, regardless of the language they are using.
All in all, most of my advice and tips are just, “here’s how you can get even more creative with it if you want to, and add more depth.” There’s a lot to read on these topics but it can be hard to research because people don’t typically get to this level of depth. (I definitely don’t mean to knock at anybody - there is not a soul out there who is not learning and growing in some way.)- mod nat* The definition of trans I’m referencing here is identifying differently (either wholly or in part) with a gender (or lack thereof) than what was assigned to you at birth. That kind of hinges on the idea of birth assignments being a thing. I do have a feeling this definition will change a bit once people stop gendering infants based on genitalia shape. But y’know, that’s something to think about. Maybe have a lore-based definition. Maybe it varies in different cultures. I dunno - go with the flow! Get creative with it.
“character design is my passion”
*proceeds to never draw original characters*
anyway, I kinda disliked my designs for some of the m9 and this seemed like a good exercise to work on facial variation.
Y’all I read a lot of scripts. And the one note I give over and over and over and over to the point that I can pretty much copy and paste it from one review to another…. let your characters lie. Let them omit, stumble, and circumvent. Allow them to be completely unable to express what they’re feeling. Make them unable to admit a truth. Let them sit in silence because they can’t think of anything clever to say! Let them say the exact wrong thing!
Dee Rees talks about it in her BAFTA lecture (which you should ABSOLUTELY WATCH): that what your character actually says should be three degrees of separation away from what they mean to say.
I read script after script after script where characters articulate their needs, desires, and objectives with perfect accuracy off the cuff 24/7 and there is not one single human person on this planet who is actually able to do that. This is the #1 thing that’s going to make your script sound stilted and the #1 thing that’s going to make shit difficult on your actors. Let them shut up, and let them lie.
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.
me: dress how you want!! gender is fake!!! nothing matters!!!!!!
trans person: i like gender tho
me: hell yeah i respect that!!!! i apologize and don’t mean to dismiss your identity with my optimistic nihilism!!!!!!!
Okay, hot take? Bisexual and pansexual are functionally synonyms, and the decision to ID as one or the other comes down to personal preference and interpretation, and any attempt to further separate the two is driving a wedge between two communities that should have nothing but love and solidarity for one another.
We have more in common than not, and the words for our respective identities should not be pitted against each other.
I want to try so many little hobbies. Candle making, soap making, basket weaving, wood carving, book binding, baking, weaving, I want to try them all.
Everyone’s talking about House Martins and their fuzzy pants, so I painted over them to make them into griffons. The Common House Griffon (original photo credit is to Steve Robinson)
More dumb cross-fandom nerdery: D&D warforged with Culture ship names.
oh to be an 1800’s gentleman practicing questionably unethical science whose experiments drive you to madness as your lover grows more concerned each passing day
fucked up that we don't make belts with loops for holding blades or pouches for storing coins and bunches of dried herbs anymore
Thinking about my cute little campaign-less tiefling bards
living islands
sexual tension is out, platonic tension is in. I need enemies who have fought each other so many times that they've developed a mutual fondness, realized they have a lot in common, and have to stop themselves from slipping into friendly conversation when they're supposed to be kicking each other's asses.
✨ Chaos Crew Tattoos ✨
All my girls
*Chefs kiss*
Bonus top table reactions:
tattoos?!! tattoooos.
artistic liberties everywhere, made up too many spirals oops