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whimsical Observant
Artist | Hobbyist | Varied
20-something agender, studying library & information science and computer science in berlin

Mostly active on tumblr these days


No matter where you travel, there is an old castle or old monastery jutting out from between the trees up the hill, stones coated in moss, but still standing. Sometimes, when the moon is waning, or when it’s full, you feel a cold draft and hear singing.

This apple core has a name, and it’s not Griepsch. You do not know its name, but it’s not Griepsch.

The october festivities are jolly, so jolly. This is not bavaria. And neither is it october. It’s march and you are starting to be concerned. You haven’t eaten anything but pretzels in months.

Do not wear yellow near the canola field. Do not wear yellow near the canola fields. Do not wear yellow near the canola fields.

The graffiti on the walls changes daily, sometimes it grows, sometimes it recedes, sometimes you wake up to a whole new gigantic mural. Sometimes there are names. You think you recognize one as your neighbour’s, and a week later someone new moves in there.

If the maps are correct, the subway line goes straight through the river. You never take that line.

There is a fox sitting next to you on the bus. You don’t dare to talk to him. You want to know where he bought his suit. Foxes can’t talk.

Coffee or tea? Coffee or Tea? Coffee or… The answer is Cocoa. And Fear.
Your university is in a castle, and you are never late to your classes, even if you trecked down this hallway behind the garden for half a day now.

Your across-the-street neighbor throws a pot of flowers from his balcony to the street every day at precisely 12:20 o’ clock. You don’t know why he’s doing this. You liked the violets he threw last week.

The late summer air is full of moth silk threads, they’re clogging windos and streets. Every night, you clean your clothes, but to no avail. There are threads in your bed, and larvae.

The same three teens on bikes pass you whenever you try to unlock your front door. They look kind of unkempt. Their dead stares haven’t changed in ten years.

The Nandus that escaped from the Zoo are procreating.  They have left a baby in your backyard. You plan on calling her Anne.

Your great-grandmother told you to never pick up the jewellery and coins that wash up at the riverside. One day she took a walk on the dam, and never returned.

There is a reason why the ships are crewed by mostly women and few men, all deaf.

The shrimp on your plate only speak French with a Moroccan accent. You ask them, slowly and haltingly, why French. You do not understand the answer.

The old trains on the old rails are accurate like clockwork, and one day there is a mudslide and you find gears and chains down from the tracks.

The announcer said there would be a train in two minutes. It has been two days and you can still see the lights in the distance. Dear passengers, the train will arrive shortly. We apologize for the inconvenience. The train will arrive shortly. We apologize for the inconvenience. Dear passengers…

Heidi Klum has visited your town every year. There aren’t many young girls left to appease her.

Everyone goes to the church on Sundays. Even the dead. Especially the dead.

You always take the same tram every morning. It’s the only one where there is space for you.
You used to play near the fairy rings in the forest when you were young. Your parents were never quite the same when you returned.

Ashes to make the crop grow after the stubblefield has been burned, ashes to make the mill down after the mill has been burned, each year, every year. If winter crop is sowed, you can see the first shingles of the new mill come out from under the snow when spring nears.

The forest covers the whole country at night. You once found an Alp stuck in the branches in your room.

It’s bad luck to turn a horseshoe upside down, the ghost tells you. The bad luck falls on you, not its owner.
German Gothic
For the Regional Gothic meme (…) on tumblr, German Gothic.

The Regional Gothic meme features locations, cities, counties, countries as if they were a gothic horror setting, sometimes with eldritch horror elements. They reference things that happened to the author, myths, legends, landmarks, local quirks, etc, blending the real place with surreal, magical, unsettling, and outright horrigying elements.
There is a bag of dice, wrapped in dark blue velvet cloth, that go from hand to hand, from dim taverns to a soldier's tent, aboard a merchant ship to a rich noble's house, from where they disappear one night and wander through back alley slums, clackering on muddy pavement, taking stops in children's games, until they're passed on. It is customary that the very last bet of the night are the dice. Whether you're down to your last shirt in the middle of winter, or won all the night's bets, whether you've collected the dice yesterday or have been carrying them with you in your bag for a month.
They are made of bone, sometimes, from iron and wood and starlight. Old and weathered, and sharp and new.
Sometimes it's a deck of cards instead, or a box of tiles, but you know when it's them. They tingle, like fine chain flowing over your fingertips, they're Chance weighing your soul, and choosing their next hands.

The sun is rising over the shivering sands, and Kattalin flows down the cart steps, she smells the metal tang of cold, like chewing on a fine chain, but she does not feel it, not since four-hundred-something years.
Throwing these dice means to wager your soul on them, and Kattalin's fingertips burn, she throws the dice like old friends (they are, she meets them every duodecade or other) with no soul left to wager, the dice never choose her, but you throw the dice when you're sitting at their table.
The brass taste of magic layers over the silver of cold, and Kattalin wonders if the thing she has been betting all these years was not her soul, but her Chance at a successor. The girl with the brass taste around her looks like she had just grown out of the sand with her dark skin and green clothes, and Kattalin wonders if this one will be different.
Not quit two hundred years later the sun rises over she shivering sands, and Kattalin's fingers sting from old and wooden dice, and the brass taste of magic wafts through the silver taste of frost, and there is another with dark skin and green clothes, who breathes magic like air and speaks it like words, and Kattalin wonders if this one will be different.

The room is small like a closet, and Damien's head almost grazes against the ceiling, his hair snagging on bolts, his robes snagging on bone hooks and rope ends he overlooked in the dim, yellow light hanging over the table. There's a pack of cards, worn soft and smelling like oil, with strange pictures, but the cards tingle, like a fine chain running across his fingertips, and it's a familiar feeling.
He is in a strange place, far under the horizon he lived above for all his life, a place of steel and glass and gears where magic is ground to fuel the city another day, but Rillanon with her steel limbs and sharp tongue has not ground him up yet. By the time they have left, Rillanon has won his life story and how to weave and speak and breathe magic, and a chance to travel the world above the waves, and they leave the cards with a group of passing merchants with colourful wagons and giant beasts of burden, and both of them are alive.

All white and black and grey around her, a pier on a still lake, the smell and taste of wet dust in the air from the mist covering the shore. Even the blood and guts dripping from her stomach are grey.
The ferrycrone looks at her from her pitch boat, and says: "Show me your fare."
The one on the pier fingers around her collar, and pulls up a sole coin dangling from a fine chain that tingles across her fingertips as she removes the coin, and flips it into the air.
Dark blue cloth, a set of bone dice, a deck of cards, a coin
A being not yet ancient but already old, a young man, and one who has lived their part and wants more.
The chance that comes with the blue velvet cloth and its contents, and that which happens around it.

Set in Toalsuverse.

For :iconunseen-writers: Theme of the Week - Luck
Misdreavus by SulZala
For a ghost Pokemon, Misdreavus is quite nice, actually. It frightens you and then feeds off your fright, but apart from that, it's not malicious. Sounds like prime material for a mutually beneficient relationship.
Heya everyone ::D

Please do not crosspost any of my art to tumblr. I have a tumblr, whimsicalobservant - please reblog from there! Or if there is anything you'd like me to put on tumblr, please contact me, along with your username, so I can notify you that I have posted it.

You can find all my art under my art tag, so please look there first.

Thank you very much!

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BaconBaka Featured By Owner Sep 17, 2013   Digital Artist
Happy Birthday!
Extranzia Featured By Owner Dec 2, 2012  Student Writer
You've been tagged: [link]
bluehazerd Featured By Owner Sep 17, 2012  Hobbyist Photographer
:airborne::party: happy birthday :party::airborne:
SulZala Featured By Owner Sep 17, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
thank you!! ^^_^^ -hugs-
bluehazerd Featured By Owner Sep 17, 2012  Hobbyist Photographer
you're welcome and happy birthday again:hug:
SulZala Featured By Owner Sep 17, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
L0u1sa Featured By Owner Aug 7, 2012   General Artist
Thank you for faving my new costume!
SulZala Featured By Owner Aug 8, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
You're welcome ::D
Epicmushroom Featured By Owner Jul 26, 2012
Thanks for the watch!
SulZala Featured By Owner Jul 28, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
You're welcome :)
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