HOW IS EVERYONE DOING AFTER VOL 5?!?!!

HOW IS EVERYONE DOING AFTER VOL 5?!?!!

HEY EVERYONE!!!!

I'm on artfight this year! After a couple of days of thinking, I'll be drawing for this month! I'm almost over my sickness too so yepper doodles i can draw without getting a headache!!!! Cya there!

artfight.net

Art Fight

An art trading game

I'm on team seafoam btw

Who is this guy?!!? 😱😱

WAA /pos

Thinking about mimic!Cesar - an ageless eldritch being - coming to the realisation that it cares about someone else and that one day he will have to lose the only person he's accidentally become so attached to because whilst death may not come for him, it will come for everything else:

"It was an odd practice, to whittle away a person's entire life and deeds to one little stone that would, inevitably, decay too. But humans liked to think that their lives mattered in some significant way – that they were more than fleeting specks in the grand scheme of things. Sure, they had their place in it all, but it was not one that was considerable or even noteworthy.

Life was born, it lived, it died.

That was their purpose.

But the part that was less it and more him could see the comfort it gave. It was… nice… to think that one would be remembered long after they had died. That it had all meant something to them and the people they had come into contact with during life. And perhaps that was good enough. It didn't need to be anything more than that.

Did it?

Death was a bizarre concept to one that could not die, after all.

¬ One day, Mark will be here, too. ¬

The thought had come unbidden and abruptly, enough so that he stopped in his tracks along the path twixt the graves. Staring down at a headstone beside it, looking at the simple cut of grey stone and the lettering etched into its weathered face.

There had been a name on it once, but the years had gnawed it away, the scraps consumed by creeping ivy and withered stalks. Only dates remained, struck in by hand over a hundred years ago. Someone young, eighteen - the same age Cesar Hernández had been, the same age Mark was. There were no flowers there, only weeds. No one remembered this human being – no generational family, no individuals taking pity.

Simply forgotten. Lost by time.

It did not care. Should not care.

But he did.

The idea of Mark buried, alone and forgotten, seemed to tighten around that pit within, constricting falsified lungs and endless void. Cold like the puddle that had soaked his shoe, as icy as the words the deer had spewed yesterday. Whether stemming from that which was once Cesar or that what it once was, it didn’t matter. For this was a truth that had been slow in the making, but brutal in its realisation.

He couldn’t be without Mark Owens."

The four victims fighting over who had it worse

(And then one of them eventually kills someone out of spite and every stops to look at them)

yeah