Tag: taz spoilers

jeinu:

When my friend first released the remix for this song, I knew I wanted to make an animation to it, but it wasn’t until over a year later I knew how that animation would go. Here is the product of two wild weeks of creation, six months of brainstorming, and a decade of friendship. 

Special thanks to a couple of ferns for inspiring me to do better and be better. I live in awe of your creativity and curiosity, and I feel so lucky to know you!

Have you thought about Barry and Kravitz meeting pre-gerblins? Lich breakdowns and all that could make for some nice a n g s t

inkedinserendipity:

The trail leads him deep within a network of caves. It’s exactly the sort of lair Kravitz would expect of a lich; damp walls, dim lighting, unstable structure. The type of thing that could collapse at any moment, and if Kravitz weren’t so preoccupied staying completely silent there would be a metaphor, there, about rocks and the sorts of creatures that live deep below them.

The lich is draped in a red robe, a rickety chest beside it, the sparse beginnings of a workshop constructed around it. Beside it is a pod of green fluid that sets Kravitz’s reconstructed skin crawling when he looks too closely at it; and inside, someone growing.

Necromancy, of the highest degree. This scene alone would be enough to damn this lich’s soul, to say nothing of the twenty-four times he’s died.

“Barry J. Bluejeans,” Kravitz says, and the lich jumps. “It’s time for you to come with me, I’m afraid.”

The lich…doesn’t scream. Doesn’t turn, spitting and furious, to claw at him. Instead, its shoulders slump, and it sighs – a remarkably human sound for something that gave up its humanity long ago.

“Well, shit,” says a deep voice not unlike Kravitz’s own. It turns to face him, and the light inside the hood of its robe is stable. It flickers at him, sure, in a shape not unlike a face, but there is nothing of the ungodly turmoil that pervades every other lich Kravitz has ever met.

Interesting.

“I was hoping there wouldn’t be Reapers here. Guess that was too high of hopes for a plane like this,” it mutters bitterly, and flicks its wrist. Kravitz raises his scythe to block the oncoming blow, but no spell bounces off the reinforced steel; instead, from the chest raise a pair of blue jeans.

“Fitting,” Kravitz drawls. “I’m afraid those won’t help you much in the Astral Plane, my man. Poor fashion sense is hardly an excuse for necromancy.”

“I can’t come with you,” it says, and it has the nerve to sound almost sad. As if a sense of apology could wipe away the twenty-four times it has died and failed to appear in the Astral Plane. “There’s something I have to do before I give up. Look, I don’t – I don’t want to fight you.”

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