Kingfisher Feathers

Warning: Long post about something very near my heart.

About three inches from it, give or take.

Tumblr, meet Cancer-Bob. (Bob, this is Tumblr. They’re lovely, but they’re gonna hate you.)

I got diagnosed with Bob about six weeks ago. (It’s fine, I’m not gonna die, I’m just gonna have a really shitty few months.) As is the way of my people, I started doing a comic about it. Except it’s not really a comic, because there’s only one picture in it, but it’s more a comic than it is anything else. A comic made entirely of words, I guess?

It’s mostly me screwing around with Typorama and word balloons and the alcohol ink tools in Procreate. I knew that if I had to draw hamsters or wombats, I’d never keep up. My energy levels are, uh, variable. But it’ll tell you the saga, or at least some of it, and I got really into making it, and I commit some spectacular atrocities with fonts.

(It’s ok to laugh, by the way. Some of it’s hilarious.)

(Also I’m very sorry, I can’t do alt text for all these. If someone wants to type them out, I will embrace you as a savior, but it’s just…a lot.)

This is only part one of rather a lot, but Tumblr has a 10 image limit from the app. I’ll put up more tomorrow. And I only just started chemo in real life, so there’ll be more. And then, if fate is kind, someday there won’t have to be.

I love you all, you know that?

Part Two Here

ALT

This is an Arizona Rainbow Cactus, Echinocereus rigidissimus.

I have no further comment at this time.

tam–lin:

@beradan and I went to the Connecticut Renaissance Faire today as unnamed White Rat and Saint of Steel acolytes.

Emily’s embroidery is from art by @magpiemalarkey, mine was designed by my partner based on art from various Kingfisher romance covers.

Holy moly!

blackmudpuppy:

The Unfamiliars

One day, all the wizards disappear overnight. The only magic-users left are the most bottom-of-the-barrel familiars and it's now up to them

BackerKit

It’s ALIVE

birdandmoon:

Real and implied birds.

ALT

mutant-distraction:

(via phatfred)

A general reminder—periodic cicadas pose no threat to anyone and their plant damage is limited to nipping off the ends of twigs. Please do not hose them with pesticide. They are slow and clumsy and confused and only want to make friends with other cicadas and eventually die of sexual exhaustion.

Yes, the screaming is a lot, but they’ve been extremely quiet neighbors for thirteen years, cut them some slack as they go through the most fraught time of their lives.

ALT

The Saga of Bob: Endgame (hopefully)

This one was awhile coming. Partly I was afraid that if I posted it, the tumor would come back the next day, and partly I had some complications that took awhile to iron out. But here we are, at long last, sans Bob.

You can learn all about how I had cancer in Part One or hit the prior episode at Part Seven.

What is with doctors and painkillers?! Though to her credit, she was like “I am so sorry you’re in pain! Let me write a new prescription!”

(Still not sure if it’s PTSD.)

That last bit was the really scary one. (It was, uh, pretty bad. Never been bedridden before. Don’t recommend it.)

Shout out to Doctor Pinkeye who had it sorted in two business days. Also, when I first reported my symptoms, she said “You never complain about anything. If you say something’s wrong, it is.” She’s a doctor in a million.

Lack of cortisol can cause problems in about twenty different ways, including dangerous levels of potassium and blowing your electrolytes all to hell. It’s actually kinda interesting, in a “wow, look at all the fascinating ways I could keel over!” way.

Honestly, after two months of slowly crashing cortisol levels, complaining about radiation would have felt like complaining over a hangnail. It was boring and I moisturized a lot, the end.

Also there are some quite nice MedicAlert bracelets on Etsy.

And here is hoping I never have to make another one of these!

bookofthegear:

You leave the room behind and spend twenty minutes trying to get the grille more or less back in place. It doesn’t really work, but you manage to wedge it into the opening so that at least it won’t fall over on anybody. You still give it a worried glance as you leave.

The only place left to go is down the stairs, so down you go. At the bottom, you find a smallish room with an alcove, a huge iron door that someone made specifically to be intimidating, and a sloping hallway to the south. You hear frog calls echoing in the distance from the hallway.

There’s a rusty faucet in the alcove. Jimmy says, “You know what’s weird?”

You are spoiled for choice, frankly, but you humor him. “What?”

“Every time somebody turns that faucet handle, it breaks. But every time I come down here, it’s wired back into place.”

You consider this. “Magic or plumbers, do you think?”

Jimmy makes a flailing gesture with his wings. “I don’t know. Maybe this is some kind of afterlife for plumbers and the bad ones have to stay here fixing the same faucet for all eternity.”

This is an interesting theory. It doesn’t body well for your dreams of treasure, but then again, plumbers get paid way better than adventurers.

Your options include…

Turn the faucet! Make more work for the plumbers!

Investigate the deliberately creepy door.

Follow the hallway south to the frogs.

Oysters have no afterlife. They join the great oyster overmind and are reborn.

See Results

bookofthegear:

You search the room carefully, even though the space between your shoulderblades itches with the thought of secret doors and people leaping out while your back is turned. Jimmy keeps watch, which helps.

Your search confirms your earlier suspicions—somebody left this room in a big hurry, probably when they saw you setting to work with your screwdriver. That’s good? Maybe? They were more scared of you than you were of them?

Is that good?

There’s a low brick shelf that contains jars labeled in a language you don’t read, something swirly. Wedding invitation levels of swirly. The labels look hand-lettered, not mass produced. You’re guessing it’s food, though you have no plans to try it unless you’re on very short rations. You took a semester long class in what foods are safe to eat in a dungeon, and the lecture called “Botulism And You” has left you extremely wary of canned goods of unknown provenance.

The footprint in the firepit is roughly human foot shaped, but that’s the most you can say about it. The ash-mud is too goopy to hold fine detail. You can be fairly sure they didn’t step outside the firepit afterward, though, because there are no muddy footprints. Which means the only way they could go was up.

You look up the dark shaft above the firepit. The walls are black with soot. Obviously it was used as a chimney for some time. You don’t see any handholds. Possibly they had a rope, and pulled it up after themselves? If you hold the lantern just right, you can see what looks like a distorted handprint. It’s not impossible that they climbed up by bracing themselves against the walls, though you have no idea how they’d have gotten up there in the first place. You certainly can’t follow, even if you wanted to.

You saved the desk for last. It was swept clean, whatever was on it grabbed in a hurry, and the drawers were cleaned out. Except… You spot something far in the back and pull out a couple sheets of loose paper. They are covered in dense lines of the swirly writing, and drawings. Careful sketches of the faces of several humans.

Sleeping humans.

“That’s Two,” Jimmy says, his wings trembling slightly. “And Five.”

The drawing of Five has a small bird tucked up under her chin. You’re no artist, but it has the sort of start-and-stop, ragged-extra-lines look of something drawn from life. Which would mean…

“Oh, that’s creepy as fuck.” You glance up the chimney and wonder if someone is watching you and drawing a portrait right now.

You could…

Recklessly sample the canned goods

Leave the room

Leave the room and try to barricade the entrance with the grille

Leave the room, the labyrinth, and the land itself. Go to the oystery sea.

See Results

bookofthegear:

Your trusty Swiss Army knife makes…well, not short work of the grille. It takes awhile and your wrist gets sore, and there’s a dicey moment when it’s only attached to the wall by one screw and starts to twist, but eventually you get the huge metal grille loose. It clangs to the floor and you throw yourself against it, trying to slide it against the wall so you don’t get squished. The loud scraping sound probably alerted anyone in a half-mile radius, so you’ve rather lost the element of surprise, but no one attacks you.

There is indeed a layer of thin black cloth pinned across the opening. You move it aside with your walking stick. No one attacks you.

The alcove is only about two feet deep, just enough for someone to stand and watch. The east side dead-ends against the wall, while the west side opens into a larger space.

Possibly the most unsettling thing about this is that it appears the concrete wall here is all of three inches thick. The architecture here all feels so solid, like huge slabs were just poured in place, and seeing that some of them are nearly hollow…it’s a weird feeling. As if the whole place is a facade over something bigger and emptier. Or as if the walls might be full of silent observers.

Jimmy, unasked, hops down from your shoulder and peeks around the corner into the larger room. He gestures with a wing to let you know it’s clear.

The room is not large, maybe fifteen by fifteen, and clearly has been occupied for some time. There’s a crude firepit made of broken concrete bits, a square smoke hole in the ceiling, and a nest of blankets in the corner. (There’s a drain in the far corner that was probably for more biological concerns.) Perhaps most incongruous of all, there’s a wooden writing desk pushed against the wall that wouldn’t be out of place in any study or or office back home. It’s been swept clean, but there’s still a candle on it.

You touch the wax. It’s still warm. And the firepit is full of soggy ash, as if someone hastily dumped water over the fire.

There is a single bare footprint in the ashes.

Do you…

Search the room

Ask Jimmy to fly up the smoke hole

Nope the hell out

Nope clear to the oysterfields of home

See Results