Latest Posts by uniquewitchfest - Page 3

a list of 100+ buildings to put in your fantasy town

academy

adventurer's guild

alchemist

apiary

apothecary

aquarium

armory

art gallery

bakery

bank

barber

barracks

bathhouse

blacksmith

boathouse

book store

bookbinder

botanical garden

brothel

butcher

carpenter

cartographer

casino

castle

cobbler

coffee shop

council chamber

court house

crypt for the noble family

dentist

distillery

docks

dovecot

dyer

embassy

farmer's market

fighting pit

fishmonger

fortune teller

gallows

gatehouse

general store

graveyard

greenhouses

guard post

guildhall

gymnasium

haberdashery

haunted house

hedge maze

herbalist

hospice

hospital

house for sale

inn

jail

jeweller

leatherworker

library

locksmith

mail courier

manor house

market

mayor's house

monastery

morgue

museum

music shop

observatory

orchard

orphanage

outhouse

paper maker

pawn shop

pet shop

potion shop

potter

printmaker

quest board

residence

restricted zone

sawmill

school

scribe

sewer entrance

sheriff's office

shrine

silversmith

spa

speakeasy

spice merchant

sports stadium

stables

street market

tailor

tannery

tavern

tax collector

tea house

temple

textile shop

theatre

thieves guild

thrift store

tinker's workshop

town crier post

town square

townhall

toy store

trinket shop

warehouse

watchtower

water mill

weaver

well

wind mill

wishing well

wizard tower

waitt i'm browsing the warsaw national museum's online database and there are some lovely paintings from a trip to palestine in 1901

[ID: A flyer titled "Toy Raffle!" featuring five handmade, red and green bipedal toys with no arms and heart-shaped faces. Two of them are full sized and three of them are miniature. Flyer text: "Would you like to have one of these things in your home?" (arrow pointing to the toys) "Donate €5 or more to Ezzideen's GoFundMe to enter the raffle for a chance to win! Ezzideen and his family are fundraising to be able to evacuate north Gaza. I made these toys to raffle off to raise money and awareness for their situation. Please read the description below for details!" There is a QR code leading to Ezzideen's fundraiser with the text "Scan or go to gofund.me/2b7f982c to donate!" end ID]

A little overview of how this is gonna work! These are small handmade toys (measuring 2 and 1/8th inches/5.5cm tall for full size and 1 inch/2.5cm tall for the minis) made with polymer clay, acrylic paint, and polyurethane varnish. The raffle will last from today, May 1st, starting from the time this post goes up until 9 P.M. Pacific (12 A.M. Eastern) on May 15th.

To enter, you must donate a minimum of 5 euros to Ezzideen Shehab's evacuation fundraiser. Donations made before this post goes up do not count. Then fill out this form to claim your ticket. If you do not fill out the form your entry will not be counted! You can also get an extra ticket after donating by resharing this post.

Each entrant can only win one toy so I will draw for the full size toys first to make sure nobody misses out. I will cover all shipping costs and ship to wherever accepts shipped mail from the U.S. You must be comfortable giving me your shipping address so that I can send them to you. Thank you and good luck!

May 4, 2024 - CNN writes about how the mean anti-genocide protesters silenced a lone counter-protester at the University of Pennsylvania:

How did they silence him, you ask? They drew a circle around him in chalk, and labeled it "Designated Dingus Area":

What a lovely Permit Office…

this is from a couple weeks ago but i am proud of how this drawing of gem’s base came out so it can go here too

See, the thing is, Grian isn’t lying when he says that the snails aren’t his doing.

He gets why people are saying that; the timeline of him finally getting the stupid book and the snails emerging from the sea line up near-perfectly, as if they were another manic machination of his boredom. It’s also the fact that they just straight up came out of the sea, or at least should’ve- he swears up and down that the pink one shot down from the sky, he saw it with his own two eyes. But, considering he doesn’t control the sky, the pink snail cannot be his doing at the very least. And the teal one? The one that people are calling his snail? He just found it after a particularly stormy night, chilling on the docks, and he found it just so damn cute that he took it as a pet. Both of those aren’t Grian’s fault. They can’t be, by that logic.

But honestly, by now, he’s getting a little worried about the snails, in either case of his innocence with them. He’ll be the first to admit that he’s not the sanest person on the Hermitcraft server—he’s not sure who is, really, when everyone has their own things going on—particularly within the past few weeks, if the beard and book count as indication. His memory has been a little foggy for a while, so it very well could’ve been him putting snails everywhere, and he just flat-out forgot for one reason or another. Though, that doesn’t seem likely- he’s strong, but not strong enough to haul a giant snail out of the sea and onto a literal freight train, nor does he have the patience to meticulously choose snails that are sturdy enough to replace the wheels. That had to be a meticulous and pre-planned process, something Grian doesn’t really have the time for.

This leaves him with three conclusions: if it is him behind the snail acts, he’s not the only thing occupying his body. If it isn’t, well, there’s still something causing the snails to make their way through the works of Magic Mountain, and it certainly isn’t another hermit, based on their reactions. If it’s a mix of both—considering he’s found himself freeing snails from the cages Scar put them in without remembering how he got there—then the snails aren’t so cute anymore, and Grian’s just about ready to—

To—

He’s just—

Where was he?

Right. The snails. They’re not his doing, pinky promise. Grian got his book, he filled the prophecy, and he’s stopped fishing like it’s his last day on earth. The bit is over. He’s moved on- why would he beat a dead horse into the ground like that? Sure, he can still smell rot wafting from the river, but he’s Gem’s neighbor, and she’s got that whole fish horror thing going on, so it very well could be her. Nevermind the fact that they were eating her lighthouse, and she wouldn't do that to her own hard work. And sure, she came to him when a snail chose her--the way he said it would--but she was probably under the assumption that it was his, just like everyone else. It wasn’t. He’s sure it wasn’t.

The snails would explain his white-hot anger at Scar’s little cooking prank; the way Grian’s skin felt like it was burning every time he looked at the pan. How, despite knowing that his friend was just messing with him, every instinct was telling him to kill him where he stood, no mercy. How it felt like the same seething rage he felt when Scar had fished up a copy of the book weeks prior, and he’d done that very thing. And maybe, just maybe, it would explain how sometimes, on the nights where his dreams are the most vivid and gross, he wakes up in the Chamber, positioned as if in a prayer.

But if it is…

A streak of fear runs up his spine. The weather, despite his dedication to the sea released, is still stormy and grey. The water is still murky and washing slime up onto his shores. The dreams of the book haven’t stopped, despite him clutching it like a rosary on even good days. The whispers of the wind are an angry, menacing thing in his ear. He thought it would be over once he got what he wanted. He thought it would be enough to satisfy whatever the ocean needed from him.

There is a rod in his hands, he realizes. He throws it as far away as he can. It lands next to a clump of snails, who all turn to look at him with an otherworldly menace in their pitch black eyes.

Just what has he released onto his home?

“When Scar fell, so did the first drop of rain.”

The moment he died, the desert was brought to life for the first time since the beginning.

The smell of petrichor had never brought a more bittersweet sense of relief, nor a heavier sadness.”

• “La liberté guidant le peuple” by Eugène Delacroix

and

• “13th attempt to break the Gaza blockade by sea”. Photo by Mustafa Hassouna (Andalou Agency for Getty)

Grian had taken her aside quietly. He'd awkwardly talked around the idea of her remembering now; apparently, he didn't know if her victory counted. She'd rubbed the back of her head and hadn't quite realized what he was talking about and said something about the games and, ah. Apparently she does remember now. Apparently the victory counts. Apparently this means he needs to say sorry.

Cleo considers not accepting the apology. Grian would get the wrong idea then. If she said: you don't need to apologize for shit, or maybe, there's nothing to apologize for, he'd take that as: you are exactly as bad as you're convinced you are. Honestly, Cleo's not sure whether that means Grian would decide he'd done nothing wrong or everything, but that's besides the point.

She'd never not remembered, is the point.

Frankly, Cleo hadn't realized people were meant to be not remembering. She's honestly a bit embarrassed not to have figured it out. Surely that can't be right. Cleo has held every single slight and every single ally and every single person she has ever connected to right in her ribcage, next to where her carved-out, unbeating, torn-up heart lies, the entire time these games have gone on. Each game, a new fact carved into the bone that makes them up.

Names ribbon around her memories. Bdubs and the Crastle and Scott and soulmates and Pearl and friend-turned-foe and Etho and survivor and Bigb and traitor and Scar and son and everything else. She wouldn't be the same at all if she didn't remember. Everything she is, it's built on top of everyone that was.

Maybe it's a zombie thing. The undead are said to be memories that can't fade as much as anything else, after all.

But she can't really explain this to Grian, of course. If nothing else, that would require explaining the place he's taken next to her heart, too, and frankly, that's way too mushy for the both of them. What ends up coming out her mouth is: "Oh. Does that really change anything?"

Grian stares at her a moment.

"You know, I guess not?" he says.

"Right then," Cleo says. "Cool. Good to know my victory means nothing then."

Grian squawks. "You can't just say it like that! That's depressing!"

Good enough.

She buries 'not-supposed-to-remember' 'not-sure-if-it-counts' 'laughing-as-scott-dies' and 'I-have-always remembered' in the same place in her ribcage, so she won't forget it, and then she does the thing that sets her apart from the common zombie:

She moves on.

there should be a shiny duo (gem and pearl) high society vampire au where when they initially meet they're competing for, basically, hunting territory, and are rivals at first sight but very quickly realize that outside of being rivals they click like nobody else. so like from an outsider pov these two lovely ladies are absolute darlings to each other. only some of the other (human) socialites clock that their back-and-forths have hidden meanings but they have no fucking clue what they're ACTUALLY talking about behind the pleasantries which probably drives those socialites insane. which obviously they retaliate by starting gossip and spreading rumors about both gem and pearl, some rumors individually about them and others implicating them both. this of course culminating in them being blamed for some hoity-toity white collar Big Scandal that comes out because all these stuck up folks are like I Always Knew There Was Something Up With Them... (but really they're just jealous they're not In On whatever they're talking about). and now gem and pearl must of course unite (they are secretly super excited about having an excuse to put aside their rivalry and work together) and use their joint hundreds of years of experience, connections, and vampiress powers to unravel the threads of lies of the White Collar Scandal that is of course intertwined with something Much Dark (who knows what, not me) that idk maybe also involves vampire hunters too for extra flavor. anyway.

A fog has rolled in. 

She’d first noticed while cleaning up the kitchen after dinner, Pearl long gone. Gem couldn't blame her for leaving as soon as she did; she had a long day at work. It was something about the mail system breaking and troubleshooting for five hours. It sounded exhausting. Gem was happy to clean up by herself if it meant he got some rest- by god, did he deserve it.

She whistled to herself as she wiped down the table, the mindless task not keeping her attention very long. Her eyes wandered to the window in search of anything more interesting to focus on, when she noticed the thick mist obstructing her view of the beach. Her eyebrows furrowed. There wasn’t any reason for fog tonight, given that a heat wave had passed through earlier that day. But she wasn’t a meteorologist; who was she to know why it’d be foggy? Gem let it slip from her mind. She had better things to worry about than a simple bit of fog. It was nothing the lighthouse couldn’t fix. 

Gem rinsed her rag and shook it out to dry before moving on to the door, sliding on her boots, throwing on her coat, and grabbing the lighthouse key from its hook. As its keeper, she had to make sure the lighthouse was up and running every night, a routine she’d become quite familiar with these past few months. 

Outside felt more foreign with the dank, chill mist of the fog, a stark contrast to the warm, still evening air earlier that night. She was glad to escape it when she reached the tower and its winding staircase. Though, she wasn’t saved by its embrace for long before she reached the top. The chilled air made her shiver when she opened the door, and she made sure to pull her coat tighter around her. This was fine; she didn’t have to be up here long anyway. 

The lighthouse keeper made her way to the lamp inside of its glass enclosure, flicking on the switch and watching it blink to life. The light’s beam illuminated the fog, yet she could still barely see. Gem frowned, hoping the ships could see, at least. 

She made sure to grab the bucket filled with bottles of cleaning supplies and rags, and decided to get to work. Turning back to the door, she could swear eyes were peering at her from the corners of the fog, watching her every move with a searing scrutiny. She whipped her head to the side, finding nothing there. Unease settled into the pit of her stomach. 

It’s just your mind playing tricks on you, Gem. You’re stressed, you didn’t get a lot of sleep and the fog’s only creeping you out, okay? She hoped what she said to herself was true.

She had almost forgotten about what was freaking her out in the first place as she continued her duties as lighthouse keeper. That is, until she heard the whispering. She had been on the outside walkway of the tower, cleaning the rails when it started. A shiver ran down her spine as a mirage of voices murmured in her ears, faint enough to not be able to make out what they’re saying. Faint enough to not know if they were real. 

Okay, fuck this. 

Anxiety flared in her chest, causing her to heave for air as she frantically threw her cleaning supplies into their bucket. Sure, she was brave Gem who ran the lighthouse by herself, but she wasn’t stupid. She was probably having a nervous breakdown. It was the stress. Her job was getting to her. She would just take the rest of the night easy and stop by Doc in the morning to double check if anything’s wrong with her. 

Gem fully ditched her bucket and headed to leave. A single, dim light cut through the haze of the night in the distance. Grian. Of course, leave it to him to be her saving beacon in a time like this. 

She said her thanks and prayers to any deities she could think of as she practically sprinted down the stairs, almost tripping once or twice. Gem was barely thinking as she undocked her boat, sailing across the river for company. She just needed to not feel so alone right now. Hopefully the man’s presence would calm her, even if just slightly. Gem thought it to be unlikely, but she could at least hope.

She found Grian in his usual spot on the dock. He’d built a small hut beside it since she last saw him- about a week now, she guessed? He’s still fishing, just like their last time together. Hopefully, he’d be in a better mood now. 

Gem docked in front of him, only being lit by his dingy lamp, which is even less bright due to the fog. She could only tell that he noticed her by his curt nod in her general direction. 

“Grian?” Gem started tentatively, leaning off the side of the hull. She wasn’t sure what might provoke him. “Have you seen anything…” Gem trailed off, wanting to avoid informing him of her experience. She wasn’t sure why, but something told her not to tell him, “unusual? Lately?”

He shook his head. “Nothing’s wrong to me.” She looked him over. Deep bags have settled under his eyes. He looked exhausted. “Why?”

Gem hummed in response. “Nothing, just wondering if you were alright with the fog and everything.” No response. She shifted on her feet in a wish to stave off her unrest. “Well, um. Goodnight?” He only grunted. Alright? Weird, but what was new with him?

She moved to undock and sail back. Gem gripped the wheel tightly, a restless, agitated feeling rumbling in her gut. Something didn’t seem right, something beyond her anxiety. 

The boat continued along the water, when a shape emerged from the fog- something she could swear wasn’t there ten feet beforehand. A large, jagged rock appeared in her headlights, seemingly out of nowhere. She cursed, panickedly swerving to avoid it. A terrible scraping sound filled the still air. Shit.

Luckily, the rest of the way back home was normal. Gem frantically parked her ship at the dry dock, investigating the gash in her hull that was very, very real. She swore that rock wasn’t there before! Whatever. Just go to sleep. 

The next morning, she went out to investigate her path. Examining the river, she couldn’t find any rocks that she could have hit on the course she was on. She needs to make that appointment with Doc. Quick.

>Previous<

underrated fact about the Double Life ending: Pearl had already drawn her bow on Scott before the TNT went down. she had no reason to expect a sacrifice from the man who had spent every moment of their life together hating her. she was prepared to get her victory by force.

she was always ready to kill him. but she wasn't ready for him to die.

Huevember day 3: The Apology

A baroque-inspired take on the 3rd Life finale! Grian refusing to give Scar his heart last week has been rattling around in my brain so I had to make something Desertduo about it 💔

young artist posting your work online, heed my warning. im holding your face so gently in my hands, you have to stop caring about numbers right now and start caring about making the weirdest and most self-indulgent art you possibly can

she kinda cryptid

Gem heard the clank of her ship’s anchor drop. Normally, the would be. Well. Normal. Except Gem was currently ankle deep in discarded maps in the storage locker and the anchor dropped from the top deck.

“What.” Gem glared at the ceiling. It’s too late for someone to be messing with her boat. There are rules. (Unless the snails got bored, but that was different.)

She stomped up to the deck, shoving the door open with her shoulder to find…nothing. A empty, clean deck. No footprints, no feathers, no redstone marks, no signs left from Etho where he complained about not having the right materials for him to steal (washed! up!), nothing.

She gripped the rope in tired hands, freeing the anchor from the depths. Morning-Gem was going to hate now-Gem when she found the disgustingly silt-covered anchor getting mess everywhere, but it was late and reeeaaallly difficult to bother. (Morning Gem can deal.)

The engine sat close, thankfully, so she didn’t have to go far to start it. If she got to the reef she could do a bit more collection.

She tugged the cord.

Nothing.

“What.”

Gem rapped the top of the engine cover with her knuckles. “Why are you doing this? Did Grian touch you? Grian is going to be banned.”

The sound of rope hitting the deck was a sound she was used to now. That’s why it took two seconds too long to notice it behind her.

The plunk of the anchor sinking back into the depths left Gem blinking, heavy, tired eyes at the guileless ripples it left behind in the water.

Her deck was empty. Just Gem and the inky dark and the boat-sounds that were actually normal. Maybe she should—lie down on the deck? The stars were out.

A door opened, an arrow cutting across the night silence.

Her hammock was swinging gentle in the room. A lantern sat on the shelf. The boat rocked, suddenly, making her feet slip forward, and Gem had to catch herself on the door frame.

The door started tapping against her back. Gentle, then faster.

“Okay, okay,” Gem laughed, incredulous, holding up her hands in surrender. “I’m going, I’m going! Gosh.”

The door shut behind her and it’s warm in her cabin. A welcoming heat to contrast the bite of the water.

Gem kicked her boots off (almost tripped like, three times while she did but she didn’t) and dropped into the hammock with a huff. “Happy?” Gem said, punctuating the question with a jaw-cracking yawn.

A blanket dropped on top of her from somewhere. One of the heavier ones she definitely tucked on a shelf somewhere. Warm and weighty.

Oh. She definitely wasn’t moving till morning, was she?

“Fine,” she murmured, the consonants messy, “sleep time.”

She was asleep, so she didn’t hear the fog horn sound one, short (quiet) blast. Like a fist pumped in victory.

[ ] He looks [ ] and he looks [ ] again. [ ] and the moon [ ] looks [ ] He looks at the moon [ ] and [ ] quiet. [ ] "And the plane still crashes."

blackout poetry of a fantastic fic called cockpit resource management by @theminecraftbee. i was really hoping for another conjunction but thats the fun of erasure isnt it! this section is so striking in the text that i couldnt help giving a poem a go

Interior practice but I started it about 10 months ago… you know when the buttercups were still a thing that was happening

🌖🌗🌘🌑🌒🌓🌖

(happy eclipse day yesterday🎆🎆🎆)

The Silo

Spooky feesh

waiting room downstairs

where the heart is

⚓ Dredge style-inspired Gem and her s10 base :D

The thing in her cargo hold is looking at her again.

Really, Gem should have sold it by now. If the fishmonger had refused to take it--and really, it seems unlikely, Gem thinks, that the fishmonger would refuse to take it; he has taken and carved up and made meals of far stranger fish than one with a human face and hands and torso--she could have easily sold it to the man on the train, who takes exotic catches for his zoo. She could have even taken it to Grian; it's not a mending book, but it's the sort of thing he'd like to make fun of her for catching, instead of anything she's after.

Really, she should have. The longer she keeps the thing in her cargo hold, the more it starts to look properly human to her. She should know better. She has caught far stranger fish, and none of them have been human. It's another trick these seas have been playing on her, she thinks.

Long nights alone do that to a woman.

She ignores it. Instead, she opens the lid of the tank and starts depositing salmon. "It's a really weird request, that I keep them alive the whole time. You won't eat them, right?" Gem says, knowing the thing in her cargo hold can't answer. "Because if you eat them, this time, I really am going to sell you to the fishmonger. Or maybe I can figure out how to get fillets from you on my own? I've certainly eaten weirder fish..."

The thing in the cargo hold continues to stare. It has eyes that look like little moons, and brown hair, and it is smiling for some reason. Gem huffs.

"Don't give me that look! You are a fish. I am a fisherman. If mere human faces stopped me from doing my job, I would have gone mad a long time ago."

The thing in the cargo hold smiles wider. The lights flicker. Gem rolls her eyes and finishes putting salmon in the tank. As though to spite her, the thing in the cargo hold immediately lashes out, grabbing one in the claws on her otherwise-human hands and then tearing it apart with razor-sharp teeth. Blood rises on the water. Gem sighs.

"I have a harpoon in here somewhere, or at least a very sharp knife," she says to herself. She doesn't really want to use her nice knife, the one she always keeps on her belt, but she ought to have another knife around with which she can finish the job, right?

The lights flicker and go out. When she looks across at the tank, there are two silvery-moon eyes looking at her.

Gem pulls a wire. Gem turns the lights back on. She takes a deep breath.

"I really should have sold you by now, really. If the fishmonger won't take you, then the zookeeper would love you," Gem says.

The radio crackles. Gem startles. Very, very few people ever contact her on the shipboard radio, but if she's getting a signal, that's more important than a grudge match with a fish. She heads over to answer the call.

An amalgamation of voices responds:

YOU ARE FUNNY. I HAVE A MESSAGE. A DELIVERY. YOU'VE TRAPPED ME THOUGH.

Slowly, Gem turns around to the thing in the cargo hold.

"This won't stop me from treating you like a fish," she says. "If messages from the ocean stopped me--"

A terrible, crackling laugh sounds from the radio.

I AM THE MOON'S PEARL. YOU WILL NOT HOLD ME FOREVER. WE WILL SEE WHO EATS WHO.

Gem wags her finger. "We'll see, for sure, as long as you don't eat my salmon. That man in the fish-scaled suit was VERY insistent, you know."

TELL ME MORE.

"You're tying up my radio. What if there's another ship? What if there's something important?"

OH GEM. YOU KNOW THERE WON'T BE.

Gem swallows.

The thing in the cargo hold is staring at her.

"I need to sleep. I need to go to shore," she says.

YOU WON'T, the radio says.

She won't.

i love horror :3