Wilde, in the tunnels under Poets’ Corner.
oh crayonjerry i have had a thought. WHAT ABOUT wilde and/or zolf with a cat????? in your own time, of course, but i think i would turn inside out if you did that (affectionate) (ps it's knifemartin)
hoo boy i sure did take my time!
hope it was worth it
still the best zoscar song i can think of
My contribution to the 2021 Rusty Quill Big Bang! Binding, graphic design, and layout by me. Linocut for the cover designed by Stan Stanley, carved and printed by me. Bound in custom silk dupioni and linen bookcloth, moiré endpapers, and hand-dyed linen thread using a blackstitch binding technique I developed for this project.
Getting to work with these two unimaginably talented artists has been an absolute privilege. The Silver Gleam of Trees is an epic, utterly brilliant daemon AU that takes the RQG characters to places I could never even imagine. Beautifully written and wildly creative—it’s truly an extraordinary accomplishment, and I can’t recommend it enough! And Stan, I’m such a huge fan of yours, and getting to print your work in one of my bindings is a total dream come true.
Thanks so much to @pilesofnonsense for all your work on this incredible event. It’s been a blast, and I couldn’t be prouder of what we created together.
More pics below the cut!
ik it’s cuz it’s been like two weeks in-universe n those two weeks have been just a bit busy but it’s so funny to me that zolf n wilde haven’t like. discussed their deal, beyond establishing there is one. the relationship we have is significant! anyway,
and. i was gonna make a joke abt them both being emotionally constipated idiots but actually. i think the first thing wilde should do post-world saving is propose. “thank fuck that’s over. marry me?” n zolf just gives him a look cuz “you just want the ‘holy shit we’re all still alive’ party to be mostly about you” to which wilde grins winningly because yes, of course? is that not what he deserves? cmon, zolf, look him in the eye and tell him you don’t want an excuse to show him off
which is when cel interrupts to say “so you are dating?” and they both wrinkle their noses in the exact same way. zolf says “no. no?”, wilde says “absolutely not”, cel blinks and says “is this? your first time discussing this?”. wilde rolls his eyes and says “it took me dying to get him to admit he even wants me around”. zolf hits him. then says “yes, dipshit, ill marry you. but we’re not even inviting more than a dozen people” and wilde beams
help I can't decide between 1, 2 and 9 for zoscar in that prompt list!
1. touching foreheads
2. running fingers through hair
9. listening to the other’s heartbeat
Ok but what if, like… all three
CW for description of major character injury and death
Zolf wakes with a start, biting off the gasp as it comes- but Wilde is already awake, or perhaps still awake, lying on his back staring up at the roof of the tent, lit by an eerie blue glow despite how far they’ve camped from the Garden’s entrance. Zolf squeezes his hands in and out of fists and tries to even out his breathing. Wilde turns his head. “Zolf? You alright?”
Zolf swallows hard and takes a deep breath. “Fine,” he manages. “Sorry. Nightmare.”
Wilde shifts onto his side. “What did you dream about?”
Zolf and Wilde have a routine, when it comes to nightmares, and that’s never been part of it. When Zolf shudders awake with a jolt from dreams of Sasha’s organs and opening scars, when Wilde wakes screaming from- whatever the hell it is he dreams about- the other provides comfort, presence, but never asks why. It’s an unspoken rule that, so far, neither has been brave enough to broach from either side.
“You,” Zolf says quietly.
Little specks of blue light reflect in Wilde’s grave, worried eyes. “Oh.”
“I, er. I was the one who found you.”
Blood in the snow, blood staining the wood, the hull of the ship, cracked and splintered and deadly sharp, a body broken and twisted, a body he trusted, contorted in a way no human body should ever be, rib cage opened up like a horrible red flower, blood on the face, dripping from chapped, parted lips-
A hand slides into his, gently twitching his fingers apart and lacing them together, and Zolf takes another shaky breath. “Sorry.”
“Why are you apologising?” Wilde’s voice is gentle and fond. Zolf reaches out with his other hand, hovering an inch from Wilde’s face, wanting, needing, but not knowing how to ask.
Wilde shifts a little closer, and Zolf’s fingers make contact with his cheek and almost automatically brush back through his hair, and Wilde smiles, surprised. They’re so close Zolf can feel his breath, warm on his own face, and it’s hard to get stuck in the image of his battered, lifeless body when they’re lying like this, face to face.
He’s apologising because he shouldn’t need that to be okay. He’s not that fragile.
But his hand is still in Wilde’s hair, and there’s no blood matting it anymore, and he combs his fingers through it, just to make sure, because he’s still got one foot in the dream of cold white and warm red and he does need every sense to pull him out of it. Wilde shifts even closer and presses his forehead to Zolf’s, and he’s warm, warmer than humans usually are, and Zolf leans into the touch and tries as hard as he can to forget how cold his corpse had been.
“Are you cold?” Wilde asks, because he’s shaking.
Wilde chuckles breathily. “It’s all a bit much, isn’t it?” he jokes weakly.
“A bit, yeah,” Zolf manages, in the split second before all the composure he has disintegrates, and he gasps shakily and tucks himself into Wilde’s neck and clutches him like he is the only thing keeping Wilde’s body in one piece.
Wilde’s arms encircle him and squeeze, hard, like he’s thinking the same thing. “If you need to let it out, Zolf, you won’t get a better time than this,” Wilde says softly, and he’s right, damn the man. And so Zolf presses himself to Wilde’s chest, all the panic and fear he hadn’t let himself feel before lancing through his heart and out the other side, letting the entire world fill up with the steady pulse and overwhelming heat of a body that shouldn’t be alive but is. Is. Arms around him, safe and comforting. Thud, thud, thud, goes that miraculous thing in Wilde’s chest. Alive, Zolf reminds himself, alive, alive, alive…
sometimes a family is a bisexual 700-year old iranian himbo vampire, his bisexual familiar with a knack for killing other vampires, their bisexual vampire roommate with a porcelain doll containing the ghost of her human self, her bisexual pervert husband, and colin robinson. and they all hate each other. and that’s normal
Spoilers for RQG 207!
Do you ever think about how Zolf all of a sudden could cast a resurrection spell when in this world resurrection is very much against the law?
Here’s the thing; Zolf should not know this spell.
There is, to his knowledge, or at least the knowledge that he used to have, no simple magic that can bring someone back from the dead. The Meritocracy had always made that very clear; resurrection spells are difficult, they are costly, they are resource- and labour-intensive enough to warrant complete outlaw in the interests of equity. Zolf had believed this, because what reason did he have to doubt it? To be perfectly honest he’d had more pressing things on his mind back then, and of course that was the time when he still believed he could put his faith, not to mention his trust, in any higher power, be it god, man, or dragon. He was pretty hot for it at the time, but of course having your life saved by a god will do that to you.
The point is: there is no seminary training in the world that will teach you how to save someone who is already gone. There is no seminary training that can.
So Zolf shouldn’t know this spell, he doesn’t know this spell, but then he turns and sees Wilde lying where he fell with a warm pool of blood spreading rapidly out from beneath him, turning the shimmering iridescence of his cape sodden and dark and utterly magicless- Zolf can only hope that the wound isn’t mortal, that he can get him at least stable enough to haul him through that fucking door, because there’s no way to bring him back a second time and so if Wilde’s already dead then he’s lost him, lost him for good this time, and he promised himself he’d never let this happen again, he was going to keep him safe, keep everyone safe, damn you, you said we’d figure it out, you said we had this, you promised we could do this-
Zolf is already sprinting the distance and he trips to his hands and knees, colliding hard with the floor and almost wiping out completely as his palms slip in the slick puddle of blood that is still growing, and what he intends to do is cast a healing spell because fuck that’s a lot of blood and Wilde’s not breathing but he won’t know unless he tries and he has to try, but as the Weave answers his call and enters his lungs he knows instantly that this is something different. It tastes of coppery blood and fine French wine, lavender soap and salt air- all his magic tastes of saltwater, clean and fresh and pure- the cold snap of snow, the grain of soft velvet, the familiarity of damp wood, SLAM a blunt and slicing pain into his temple and lights pop behind his eyes and he gasps in the smell of India ink and fresh parchment paper, bad booze passed between warm hands after nightmares, the not unpleasant earthiness of wet fur, sand beneath his palms, the healthy creaking of a ship at sea, wind in the rigging, tea that has been left to brew too long, soft pages of a book you’ve read a hundred times, smoke from a funeral pyre, smoke that stings your eyes, bird’s eyes, blue eyes, white feathers, love and hate and trust and hope and the fermenting-fruit smell of mourning-
Here is how holy magic works. It’s really very simple. You enter into a contract with a god, and in return for serving them they bring you gifts from the place where magic lives. Every spell is an exchange, something that must be paid for, and if you do not pay they will not provide. Those with boundless, unwavering faith- and those among them who are lucky enough to make it out of their trials with it still intact- may someday be able to access magic by themselves, but this too is a gift, given by the gods to only their most devoted, most trusted followers.
Only now, here, for him, there is no god to hand out miracles at their mercy. This is the Weave itself, magic in its purest form, stepping back and gesturing to the now-unlocked door he’s already been through once before. Zolf runs to it and throws it open and is momentarily blinded by the sheer power of the spell, dazzled as it burns through him and out the other side.
Ow, he thinks dazedly, and beneath his hands he feels Wilde gasp a shuddering breath.
smith brothers baking together <3
[ID: A digital drawing of a young Zolf and Feryn Smith baking together at a wooden table. They are viewed waist up and from the front.. Feryn is a white dwarven man with shoulder length blonde hair in a loose ponytail, and a dirty blonde beard secured in a short ponytail by a metal band. He is kneading yellow dough with both hands, and looking to the right at Zolf’s hands while talking to him with a smile. He is wearing a dark green shirt, with sleeves rolled above the elbow and a light blue-grey apron around his waist. Zolf is straining something through a cloth into a metal basin, the contents of the white material staining it a pale pink. He is also a white dwarven man, but he is younger and shorter than Feryn. He is wearing a pale blue shirt, with the sleeves rolled above the elbows. Zolf’s hair is a yellow blonde and sits messily in short waves that sit just above his eyes, his beard is short. He is looking at Feryn and smiling with his right eyebrow raised. end ID]
so I’ve been mildly irritated by the fact that I haven’t been churning out quite the volumes of art that I would’ve liked but i just realized something else has been takin a lot of my time and that’s the quite important work gig i got a few weeks ago? I’ve been so obsessed with my lacking performance that for a moment i forgot that real time exists and you need it for making fanart as much as you do for doing literally anything else