Friday @ 2:48 pm

Krampus season makes me want to draw this idiot Naruto-running, apparently.

Sketchdump amnesty.

Cleaning up the 5,000+ photos on my phone and… have a random assortment of old-ass art. Featuring lots of tabletop RPG characters, terrible photography, inconsistent character designs, my old Gaia Online avatar from circa 2009… and a picture of Lain in the Dashcon ball pit.


Liesmith, chapter 25.

LIESMITH title and logo.


(“vituð ér enn, eða hvat?”)

[fusion_dropcap boxed=”no” boxed_radius=”” class=”” id=”” color=”” text_color=””]P[/fusion_dropcap]eople aren’t the only things that die. Sometimes stories do as well, when there’s no one left to tell them. Here, now, in the space between the turning of the page, everything comes unraveled. And, for one bright moment, I see.

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Liesmith, chapter 24.

LIESMITH title and logo.


[fusion_dropcap boxed=”no” boxed_radius=”” class=”” id=”” color=”” text_color=””]T[/fusion_dropcap]hey broke through the fog on the outskirts of the LB campus. Looking up at the huge, gleaming glass-and-steel monstrosity, Sigmund felt nearly light-headed from relief. They’d made it. Whatever stuff came next, at least they were out of the fucking fog.

He could see stars, in the sky above the tower. Too many for a city, maybe, but at least it was a sky. Not the horrible gray-white nothingness.

The car took them around to a side entrance, a ramp down into the private parking garage. The one Sigmund had been in that time with Lain. A huge set of roller doors greeted their arrival. Sigmund had just enough time to wonder how they were going to get in without a pass card, when the doors began sliding upward all on their own.

He decided not to go staring at horse teeth, and all that.

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Liesmith, chapter 23.

LIESMITH title and logo.


[fusion_dropcap boxed=”no” boxed_radius=”” class=”” id=”” color=”” text_color=””]I[/fusion_dropcap]t’s the sound that wakes me. Something like an angle grinder crossed with a dying pig. A hideous cacophony, intruding on the warm and silent darkness in my head.

I want it gone. Now. I’m going to open my eyes, and get out of bed, and I’m going to hunt down whoever approved roadworks outside my fucking bedroom window and I am going to sue them down to the bone and salt the ground with their children’s bankrupt tears.

Opening my eyes isn’t as easy as it should be. The noise is roaring and my eyelids stick, and when I manage to prize them apart—



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