Augury Goldsun

@allislaughter.bsky.social

41 Followers 28 Following

33 years old, he/they ♦ Aspiring househusband witch. I create several webcomics and am a member of the MercuryMelon Youtube channel. I go by several names, including Alexander, Art/Artemis, Augury, Apollo, and Rig.

Concept art of Extra Extra by Pythonmelon. A silhouette of a man made out of old newspapers covered in splotches of ink stains. The man towers over a shorter man in a hat and coat. The background is dark and fades into dark red to emulate foreboding.
An illustration of a simple wolf-like face wearing a bowtie and designed with a wool-like scribble body emulating a "wolf in sheep's clothing". The figure has stick figure arms and legs and is winking while looking to the side and posing proudly. He has a speech bubble attached that reads "Writer, cartoonist, Filmmaker, and more. I'm what you call a polymath." There is a note pointing at him that reads "scribble is see through" and one indicating texture of wool that reads "wool changes based on emotion." Surrounding him is four samples of faces he can make including embarrassed/in love, happy, dazed/confused, and happy in a wild/wicked manner. Text transcription: Inkwell - The God of Writing and Storytelling aka Page Oswald Verity. "Tinderton's greatest and gayest filmmaker."
The god before him is almost a paper doll of a man. An illustration in black and white like a political cartoon, but drawn directly on faded newspaper, the words ever changing too fast to read. He looks down at him, smiling, cordial, and happy to lean in to offer a hand or ear to any guest who wanders in. Mr. Moore, however, isn’t sure where he is or when he got here. He takes off his hat and rubs his temples, mumbling “What a fucken Nightmare” as he tries to remember where he is. “…Are you alright?” Extra Extra asks, genuine concern on his voice. “Have we met before…?” Mr. Moore puts his hat back on. “Eh… You’re the God, Extra Extra, right? No, I never met you.” Extra Extra bristles. He frowns, leaning closer, looking up and down Mr. Moore. “…Well, I have to assume that’s the truth,” he says, though he seems to catch something about the statement is only technically true. “Considering no one is capable of lying in my presence… Being the God of Truth comes with that perk…”
After that, however… Lyric Muse pitches the Rebellion first to the rest of the community. The inspiration it gives spreads like wildfire. The Rebellion, or the Celebration to those not in the know. A dedication to those who came before them who could not admit their so-called “immorality”. The anniversary of Verity Productions, with impromptu recreations of moments from the films, where secret lovers are openly cast as the romantic leads. Where closeted trans folk are allowed to play as roles most befitting their gender. Where people of any gender and so madly in love make-out with each other in public under the guise of performance art and everyone just looks the other way. It’s just one day of Celebration, of dancing together and wearing what they want regardless of their sex and not having to be afraid because it’s just art, and there is nothing immoral about art. Just one day of Rebellion, because they are just people, and there shouldn’t be anything wrong with just living as yourself.
“You get used to it,” Improv says. “No, no, I don’t think I can,” Metta winces. “Owwww, my chest— Someone get me Occam’s razor, I need to cut myself out of this scene—” “We’ll be quick,” Seemore says. “We need to know where to find you and that Idea.” “Don’t know,” Metta says, wincing still. “Factory, abandoned, still has its machines… Ow, my head— Headlines.” He smiles, looking dreamy as his voice starts to seem far more airy than it should. “Have you ever seen how a newspaper gets printed? The machines for it were so fun to watch… All that paper and ink smell— The gears turning were always so attractive— I’m glad I got to work with Page, but sometimes I miss feeling welcome in— Ow, ow, sorry, where was I?” Improv frowns. “…You tell us. Where are you?” “Oh, uh,” Metta hesitates. “I’m everywhere. I’m the Story.”
“Huh,” Mr. Moore rubs his head. “The God of Truth is afraid to face facts…? Is that why I keep… Uh…” He shrinks when the other two turn to look at him with terrified expressions. “Wh-What…?” “Why you keep what?” Improv asks. “Seeing and hearing things that are supposed to happen just… not…? Happen…?” Mr. Moore scoots away. “Is— Uh— Is that not normal…? I thought half of you Gods changed things all the time.” “Not on a micro-level unless it’s inconsequential,” Improv says. “And not with consulting the others unless it’s so obvious something needs to change! What have you been seeing?” “I can’t answer that!” Mr. Moore shakes his head. “No, no, that one?” He motions at Page. “It’ll… change his timeline if I just put it back into the world like that. Or worse…” Page taps his foot faster, nearly growling in aggravation. “It’d summon the attention of the one who struck the line from the narrative.”
“Wait,” Clyde calls after him. “How are you not the God of Fear?” Seemore stops again. “…Are you afraid of me?” “Yes,” Clyde hisses. “Vehemently. You’ve been in my nightmares for decades.” Seemore smiles and turns around. He tips his hat. “God of Mysteries, at your service. Tell me, Clyde. What’s more frightening than the fear of the Unknown?” He waves and heads for the door. “Now, I gotta get going. I have a train to Tinderton to catch.” “Wait!” Clyde calls again, but this time Seemore doesn’t let him stop him.
Seemore scowls, or so they both get the impression of him between his lack of mouth and both of them able to see the Narrative in the moment, but even that mere action causes their newest God to recoil. “Ugh—” he interjects to stop the Narrative. “Stop that! That’s the worst of it, actually. How do you live with everything you’re doing being announced in your head?” “I’m the one writing it,” Inkwell reminds. “And I have tenure.” “Tenor?” Seemore asks. “I thought you were more of an Alto.” “…Forget the Nightmare, I’ll kill you myself.” Seemore looks down at him. “Really? I thought it was clever. It was one of your own jokes. You really did write some great stuff back when, Verity.”
“…Fair enough,” Felix says, though he does not sound quite like he understands. “But, naturally, whichever name is your true name, you must keep to yourself. Damocles is just the sword above you as a reminder to keep your name private. You are human enough that any demon can control you the moment they have your true name.” Felix narrows his eyes. “Do not cause me to need to use your name against you, my child.” The title feels painful. John fights back the urge to recoil from this literal demon he met only yesterday, who killed him yesterday, and who already wants to consider him his child. The familiarity is sickening when he moved here to escape his family temporarily to start with. It might not be temporary at this rate, and John wonders if he should have taken Simon’s advice to heart like this… It’s not even his heart anymore. Well. He left one family behind on short notice. He can figure out how to do it again.
She shakes his hand, gripping tight as if trying to assert her dominance. “Mr. Moore. You may call me Miss Starling. Since you already know my name… Page— Mr. Verity is busy, as you saw. But I suppose you’re here to speak with him. Would you like to come in for tea or coffee…?” “Coffee would be nice,” Mr. Moore says. “Hold the arsenic.” She laughs. “Come now! Would you prefer cyanide?” “Not if you’re drinking out of those same cups later,” he says, following her in. “You got to throw them out with the body. Honestly, do you even know how to hide one?” “You cannot be one of Extra Extra’s,” she laughs. “None of his boys are this funny.”
She turns to face him. “Please, answer my question. What are you here for?” Mr. Moore sits straighter. “I wanted to ask one thing.” She grimaces. “Yes, Mr. Moore…?” “Does Mr. Verity know his first trilogy is ASS?” She stares at him. They both hear someone running from down the hall. The door slams open, and Mr. Page Oswald Verity himself stands in the doorway fuming. “Excuse me?!” he demands. “My first trilogy, while not exemplary of my writing skills, is far from—” Eve bursts out laughing. “Oh, good, someone noticed!” Page sputters, looking so betrayed. “What…?! You think so too?” Mr. Moore smirks and turns back to look at Page. “You titled them Allusion, Sincerity, and Synchronization. That spells ASS.” Page stands, mouth agape, while Eve supports herself on the counter to keep from collapsing as she laughs harder. “You knew!” Page says, pointing at Eve. “You knew the entire time and you let me do that?!”
Joan looks up at Felix. “I’m tired of other people deciding what I get to do. Does it count if it’s just the illusion of free will?” Felix sighs. “Child, would you rather have the illusion of free will that you chose to stay on this side like Lovell forced upon you…? You’re not meant for this world. Your tenacity, your cunning, your Hunter blood… It’s wasted here. It’s wasted as something human.” He sets a hand on the box again. “I can give you more to live for. You can have your Hunter blood… but the heart of a demon.” For all the hesitation, all the complaints about being unable to choose, Joan would be a liar not to admit her mind was made up frame one. Whatever deal she would make with this demon to get back to the other side, to get back at Lovell, to fully leave the life she had in the suburbs, she was going to say yes and she knows it, just as Felix seems to know. Maybe it’s the adrenaline of getting something she wanted, maybe it’s the flattery poisoning more logical thinking, maybe it’s the knowledge that she couldn’t say no anyway… But that doesn’t matter. Her “yes” is sincere, as is Felix’s fond smile when he tells her to sit still and try not to scream too loud.
“You’re a musician,” Inkwell says. “And a muse. If you want them to listen…? Make them. Inspire them. But most importantly…? Invoke my name. Put the fear of the Haven in them. You will know what to say.” “Will it work?” Lyric asks. “Do you want the reassuring answer, or the answer only I could give…?” Lyric hums. “Let’s do both. Why not both?” Inkwell chuckles. “The reassuring answer is, you won’t know unless you try…” He grins again, eyes wild this time. “The answer only I could give is: It will work if I write it so. I am the Storyteller, and the Story of this world needs a protagonist willing to change society!” His face returns back to its more cutesy look, but Inkwell still looks up at Lyric in fond sadness. “Give us a world Zans could have lived in. Where he wouldn’t have had to hide.” Lyric tears up again. “You’ve got my word, Inky. One big Riot, to change things in Magi Nation.”
His human form, slumped over Police Chief Cheery’s desk, groans as the only indication that his Mortal visage isn’t dead. “Don’t get me wrong,” he says. “I like getting to be a God, of all things, but I don’t know if I’m cut out for it.” “They’re all too silly for you?” Cheery asks with an amused cadence. “What happened to all your jokes? You’re the guy who threatened to leave eggs on my grave if I died.” Seemore glares up at him. “You’re not the one caught playing straight man to Improv’s gay chicken.” “I don’t think it’s chicken,” Cheery deadpans. “Yeah, yeah, they have the hots for me or whatever.” Seemore sits up straight and sighs. “Can’t say I’m not into it, but… I dunno, it feels… weird to me. I like it down here. Where everything feels grounded. Where I actually feel like I’m making a difference. Dammit, Cheery, I want to help people. Y2K is around the corner, and there’s still a lot to do around here. I can’t be the only god willing to do the fucken legwork, can I?”
The laughter fades into a sigh. Seemore slumps his shoulders. “Alright, what do I go by?” “I’m Professor Nim,” he introduces again. “And you, my forgetful companion, are Mr. Morris Seeger.” “No,” Seemore says. “Wrong.” “Wrong?” Professor Nim scoffs. “How is that wrong?” “I’m Mr. Sean Moore,” Seemore says. “S-E-A-N, and yes I am pronouncing it that way.” Professor Nim slaps at him. “That joke only works in text! Stop that!” “I’ll follow the rules once you tell me game on,” Mr. Moore snickers. “Until then, deal with it.” Professor Nim rolls his eyes. “You, my dangerous little friend, ought to be more willing to practice the rules you’re given.” “I’m a bit of a rule breaker,” Mr. Moore answers. “A detective. I like to find new solutions. You know that.”
A photo of a metal clown figure from the torso up with paint scraped off its face. The photo is edited to have a heart half tones from the top down behind the clown. The clown itself is tinted pink. Three text boxes with neon text on black partially obscure the bottom of the face and the torso. The first text box, in blue, reads "LEAD, my beloved" The second, in green, reads "The CLOWN" and has a human skull also in black and green after the word "Clown" The third, in orange, has two lines reading "Pb" and "82" in the bottom right corner is the artist's tagline and the date/time the photo was taken reading "invest in the prism" and "April 20, 2026 4:28 PM"
1: Footlight: an image of a sunset over the ocean Baskerville: That's why you never confessed to him? But he's gone now. Why not confess to Cambria. 2: Footlight: It's different. *He's* different. 3: Baskerville: He knows you won't see him as a replacement. 4: Baskerville: So why don't you go in there and tell him how you- 5: Footlight: It's because of *you*, okay?!
The machines here were left to rust, but they’re gorgeous… Conveyor belts and metal gutwork exposed through open maintenance doors. He eyes the mechanisms wishing to be a voyeur to a time when they were functional and watch the gears turn and create something from whatever tiny parts once circulated here… Paper spools, the smell of ink… The heat of machinery and the joy of folding the day’s headlines to pass along to the newsboys to deliver… He never regretted quitting, but he misses how attractive it was to watch the printers work— Adam shakes his head, blinking away the memory. He feels faint. He needs to get back through one of the God doors—
1. Baskerville: "Okay, Brother Mine. I know I'm the only one between us who is still a detective..." 2. "But literallly everyone knows about your brush on Cambria." 3. "Stop. Please. Talk to me. That's as polite as I can say the order." 4. Footlight: "Alright, then, Overlord Baskerville. Let's talk about this."
“Why would a writer normally stop a sentence Improv walks away. The sentence, once again, ends without proper punctuation. Inkwell is about to dive after them and sink his teeth into that rubber chicken of a character, but he realizes that Improv would not have the power to do that alone. That’s a meta joke after all. “Oh, thank Us,” Inkwell sighs in relief. “Metta, my dear, you may be absent from my narrative, but I’m glad you’re alive…” He shakes his head. Focus on the clue. As a writer, there are two options for ending a sentence without properly ending the sentence… Option one is an artistic choice. Less common, to be used sparingly, or to drive a point home without a period… The second option is, of course, a draft that did not work out. A scene cut out or tossed aside.
AAAIIIEEE!!! -BANG!- "Was that Zephyr?" "-gasp!- She had Chicago with her--"
Mercutio: The Grand Cosmic Clown SFX: Poof Mercutio: Mercutio - At your service. Alexander: Hey, Merc. News on Clown Club? Mercutio: Last minute change of venues, my dear Alexander. Mercutio: Our usual clubhouse had an incident at the Fire Jugglers meeting. Alexander: Again? Where are we meeting now? Mercutio: Civic Center. Alexander: Across town? Mercutio: Yes. Alexander: Greaaaat.
Mortis flutters. "You don't have time to speculate, Rev! I entertained this flight of fancy long enough, but don't forget that you and your friends are trapped by a demon possessing some obsessive worshiper of Animus! Just do what feels right, you foolish boy!" "What?! Don't blame this on me!" I drop Mortis and let him flutter beside me. "What feels right is to stay in one place and ramble about how I think you and Animus are super attractive but it sucks that your brother is evil and trying to kill me but also do you think he'd be okay if I still call him my Motley Prince?" "You're still thinking about that?!" Mortis pecks at my head. I yelp and swipe at him. "Stop thinking with your dick and start thinking with your HEART!" I grab him and squeeze him gently like a plush toy. "What good would that do?! I've been in this world for TWO DAYS. I just met you TODAY. The only thing I cared about in this story before waking up here was the Motley Prince because I don't know anyone here. What do I have in my Heart that isn't just you gods forcing out of me?" Mortis breaks free and I stumble back as he reappears in effigy form and grabs my by the hands. "You have been awake for two days, but some form of you have been here all of your life, my pet. Do you not recall a single love you've had in this world? Nothing you can pull from your own heart?" My stomach aches. A single love in a world I never learned to enjoy...? My heart feels as empty as my stomach. Why couldn't I get to eat my own lunch? "Delectable Sight!" I call out.
Actually, my name is Brenneeeeeerrrrr hi, okay, cute guy--
Lyric fell for Inkwell after falling for the movies that made him feel safe, made him feel seen. Now, blood on his knuckles, he was going to join the Haven with and try to get a God who said he could never love another man to admit love for the partner everyone knows is gone…? He might as well die too, just like Zans. Alone, anonymous, no one knowing for sure if he was ever gay and only having to assume based on the art he left behind… “I shouldn’t have been a coward,” Lyric whispers at his human reflection, at the green eyes staring at him through the shattered mirror. “I should have just said… I love Inkwell shoves the scene back into the drawer, panting heavily, his face wet with sweat and tears at the sight of blood… The transition a metaphor, a look into a scene he would not have witnessed from the Mortal side, and a reflection of his own broken heart…
The sun sets on both sides of Earth, with no one on either side there to witness what happens besides Felix and any gods that might exist. The moon rises with a mask made of shadows on its face to blindfold it to what medical alchemy Felix conducts. But to the sun, the moon, and those possible gods: souls that live, souls that suffer, and souls that struggle to survive are on equal terms with souls whose wicks snuff out in demonic operating rooms. Joan never considered herself a candle. The flame in her had always been strong, uncontrolled, needing something more than what her brother could kindle. John never imagined a world where he would go out peacefully, in a waxy puddle. John’s death, or Joan’s death, no matter which role the spotlight fell on when the moment came, would be one scripted to fight until forced to yield. Between surviving the vampire attack, the knowledge that magic is real and none of it was mere hallucination, and now Felix’s claws switching out a pair of hearts… She knows. She’s not a candle about to go out. He’s a Roman candle, and his fuse finally reaches the starry explosives inside. The silence threatens to kill Felix Damocles.
Some writers delete their work and any evidence it was ever there. But, in their mortal years, Zans Xerif and Page Oswald Verity made a pact, one that they both still respect as Gods. Never throw away their work. Simply file it away, in case they can repurpose it or find inspiration from it later… Inkwell’s hesitant hand shakes as he grasps the handle of the drawer. He turns away, grimacing in fear, as he pulls it open, fearful of what monsters this Pandora’s Box may let loose… Instead, one file hits him in the face. A previous version of the chapter he now occupies. He closes the drawer and sits to read what was so bad that someone had to throw it away, be it himself on another timeline or Metta advocating for the Story that they are. He glances up at the extant chapter’s name. Edits Needed. Compared to the original chapter name… Envy.
Rabbit Hole A non-linear, poetic story exploration of depression, nostalgia, and the ways people know, hurt, and help each other.
“Then abandon them. Pack your things, and we will pick you up tonight.” It’s a plan, even if it’s not an ideal one. John concedes to take a bite of his pancakes as dry and plain as they were presented to him as rebellion against good taste. He locks eyes with Turlough who waits for approval, and John provides a wordless thumbs up while choking down another piece of dry sponge. “Sweetie,” Turlough says. “Do you want syrup?” John clears his throat. “No. I’m committed now.” Felix snorts. “Well, you have the stubbornness of a demon already. However, you are allowed to indulge like one as well…” He holds out a bottle of the fanciest maple syrup John has ever seen. John stares at the bottle, considering the decadence of sugar and flavor. He stabs his pancakes and tears off another tasteless bite. Felix counters the move by setting the bottle on the table and sliding it closer to John, testing him, daring him to ignore it. John holds true and shoves more of the disgusting pillow stuffing into his mouth.
“Were you and Zans…” Lyric hesitates. “Did you love each other?” Inkwell beams. “He was my dearest friend! A lovelier man I… well, I’d say I never met, but I know you now, so…” “Just friends…?” Lyric asks. “Nothing, uh… more…?” Inkwell blinks. “Ah, the classic question. No, of course not. He was another man. My closest companion. It would have been inappropriate… Besides, I doubt Zans was interested in that kind of… investment, let’s say.” Lyric lifts his brow. “Yeah…?” “We lived in Tinderton in the 1920s and 30s,” Inkwell clarifies. “It was out of the question. It would have ended our careers.” “…The 60s haven’t improved much,” Lyric says. “Notesville’s no better than Tinderton. It’d end my career too, to y’know… Love another man like that.”
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Now, now, dear boy... You remember my promise, don't you?
An illustration of Commander Nebula dressed in black cowboy clothing. In the bottom left corner there is a faux barcode that looks like Zurg's mouth. The text is styled like a magazine cover. Title: "Star Command Catwall Good vs Evil Edition" Blurb 1: "Featuring the latest and greatest styles known to infinity and beyond" Blurb 2: "The Galaxy's best dressed - the Good, the Bad, and the Stylish" Bottom text: "Commander Nebula - Space Cowboy" Barcode Text: "Sept 2025 Iss. Infinity"
A photo of a brown American Akita laying on tile and looking up at the camera with what could be read as a sad expression.
A crested gecko in a plastic carrier labeled "Boba"
A blue book titled "Practical Miming" by M. Gertrude Pickersgill