A little shy, very friendly, and BIG fan of Katia Managan from Prequel Adventure!|
Also likes Housepets!
Katia Managan FTW!
StagDusk. The sun made its exit from the show of day, bidding an encore of ochre as it dipped beneath the silhouetted horizon. Soon the haze of yellow and reds would give way to black, and as the crowds parted making their way home, the stars would give their own stage for you. For a man who needed no audience for his show to be a roaring success. For you. You're a hunter. The forest is a performance all of its own where acting means nothing without a well placed arrow.Stag by GrapeButter
You're sitting, perched high in a silverbirch, watching the woven floor of dead plants and branches as creatures of the day scutter to their hovels, past ones that are just waking up for a night of antics, food, and death. You're not waiting for those, you're waiting for the lead. A stag, more accurately. You've seen it, heard stories of it, heard folks promise to capture it before you do. You never worried. They sleep cosy under their thatch roof and cotton sheets, dreaming of the success that is passing right by them. Whi
ColoursScattered lights dance around the twisted wreck of the city. They flicker in a spectrum. Some grow dim, others brighten, some merge into different hues, a small few even surrender and go out completely. Thousands of them cast a dull warping glow on the streets as you clamber over rubble. There are no shadows, there isn't enough light for shadows to exist, instead, shrouded tunnels and crumbled buildings sit in a veil of achromia. The wan traffic lights, neon signs, street lamps, none of them dare colour the hidden corners.Colours by GrapeButter
The lights are sickening, but they bring hope. This city isn't dead. Somewhere deep under the crust of cracked concrete and dried, charred rock lies a heart, meekly pumping away. The barriers fell. The air freed. The people died. The city suffered, but it stands. That's why you're here, canned in steel draped in leather. Triple moons flaring in the curve of your helmet. Firearm whistling a raspy tune as dust sails past on toxic winds. As you weave your way through th