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# writing commission info

When it comes to what I will or won’t write, I follow the principle Xanato from Gargoyle expressed best: “Pay a man enough, and he’ll walk barefoot through hell.” I can write any content, but I reserve the right to decline a commission. when it comes to revisions, I only allow them on a small scale.Please note: prices may vary depending on complexity or research required.

• sample one
• sample two

# edit commission info

I create simple layouts for banners, icons, and pins. Since some people appreciate the simplicity of my layouts and formatting, I thought I’d include them on my commission page. A full set is only $3 and includes one revision.Please note: I do not work with fanart, only official content.

# commission slots

# mundus' asscrack

The authorities called off the search after two weeks.They said it was standard procedure to suspend active efforts in cases like this —— caves like Mundus’ Asscrack, where the passages twisted into narrow veins and the rock formations groaned with instability and unpredictability. Any further attempts to probe those depths would be like courting disaster.He understood the reasoning; no one in their right mind would voluntarily continue the search, or venture further into its depths, when each step was practically a gamble.There’d been no sign of his brother, Vergil, along the mapped routes. And the deeper, uncharted tunnels —— the ones that had already claimed more than a few experienced cavers —— were simply written off. The authorities weren’t willing to send anyone else in or justify the cost.That was fine with him. He’d picked up where they left off. Sure, he’d retired from caving a decade ago, but climbing and exploring had been in his blood since he was a kid.And he wasn’t afraid of Mundus’ Asscrack; if anything, he was probably the furthest thing from sane. Besides, the cave had history with his family.“You ready or what?”He’d glanced back.His nephew, Nero, was still fiddling with the straps on his gear, impatience already settling into his face. One of the black kneepads was fastened; the elbow pads were already in place.Hugged tight to his back was a compact black Swaygo pack —— one of those newer models that looked like it had been stitched together from a diver’s wetsuit. He, on the other hand, had brought his old cylinder pack, which was dated by at least a decade. It was twice as stubborn to maneuver within tight squeezes.But what stood out —— what had caught his eye —— was the red, close-fitting jacket Nero wore over the black undersuit, paired with thick carpenters-style pants that clung snug at his waist. It was worn at the seams, scratched and torn from years of scraping against the rocky cave floors.It had been his once. Back when he was slimmer, younger, and still convinced denim belonged in a cave.Nero had swiped it years ago. He never gave it back.Now it fit Nero better than it ever did him.A small smile tugged at his lips as he turned away, gaze settling back on the cave’s mouth. “I’m ready. You’re the one still wrestling with velcro.”“Yeah, well,” Nero said behind him, the velcro of his kneepad strap snapping into place, “some of us actually prep before diving into hellholes.”“Hey now, I’m prepared enough,” he  shot back.

# middleman

The shop was one of several properties up for rent in the older part of the city, where worn brick streets gradually gave way to the smooth cement roads of the newer districts. It was tucked away so discreetly that passersby might not even notice it, though the area still had its share of criminal activity and frequent missing-person cases. Enzo had helped Dante snag the place, and the job he’d picked up, recently, would cover three months of rent —— enough to keep the place afloat while Dante figured out the rest.Pushing open the front door, Enzo's shoes scuffed against the floorboards as he stepped inside. The air was stale and carried the kind of warmth and smell that clung to furniture after someone had spent too many nights in the same room. For all the work it had taken to secure the lease, the place barely passed for a business. At best, it looked like a half-kept bachelor pad, thrown together without a thought for presentation."Figures," Enzo muttered. "Kid can track a demon a mile away but can’t crack a damn window."The front room opened wide, but nothing about it said "legit establishment." A pile of old flyers leaned against one wall, a jacket Dante still wore was draped over the chair near the desk by the bathroom, and a lamp stood at a drunken angle, its dented shade looking like it had gone twelve rounds.He drifted further in until he reached the middle of the shop. Standing there, his eyes swept over the room. Dante wasn’t behind the desk, sprawled on the couch, or leaning over the pool table as usual.To Enzo’s left sat a pool table, its green felt replaced with red, and its balls scattered across the floor rather than on the table. Around the stairs, items were stacked haphazardly: an amplifier rested on the floorboards, the guitar leaned against the first step, a trashcan and storage container blocked the second, and bottles with labels too worn to read were piled on the third. Further past the stairs, a fridge was positioned near two couches in the back. One couch was against the wall, the other extending from the top right; together, their placement created an L-shape.Enzo sighed through his teeth. Yeah, real professional, kid. Clients’ll be lining up ‘round the block, he thought.He pressed his hands to either side of his mouth and shouted, "Dante, you here!?"A year ago, in another city where Tuesdays were his day, Enzo would’ve found Dante in the dive bar, Bobby’s Cellar, where mercs nursed cheap drinks and information cost more than whiskey. Dante’s bright red coat and silver hair, too natural to be dyed, stood out against the bar’s muted colors. Compared to his own dark, short hair, brown jacket, and tubby stomach, Enzo had to admit he’d always been a little envious of how good Dante looked. On Tuesdays, he would sit on a stool at the bar, hunched over the counter with a strawberry sundae in one hand and a spoon in the other, paused at his lips.Dante would never be alone. Bobby would be scrubbing the countertop, scowling at a stain that refused to come out, while Dante talked with Grue, an older mercenary, who's face had lined and grayed from years on the job. If it weren’t for Grue’s three daughters —— and the way they all seemed to blush around Dante —— Enzo couldn’t help but wonder if Dante felt like part of the family, or like Grue's fourth kid.Back then, Dante had been the half-assed mercenary Tony Redgrave, before he retired the name. He turned down jobs constantly, which always irked Enzo. He had a running mental list of why Dante refused them: boring ones? Skipped. Pointless ones? Forget it. Too messy, too bloody? Tossed aside. If it wasn’t interesting, Dante wouldn’t touch it. The only person who could ever convince him otherwise was Grue. And Grue had died long before the fire that ravaged Goldstein’s gunsmith shop and the collapse of Bobby’s Cellar.