#cleric raccoon
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#15: Cleric Raccoon
#got real fancy with this one#only for him to end up looking like mercy over watch#i also asked my partner to give me ideas for a holy symbol that wasnt like. a cross#and they immediately said cotton candy#raccoon#raccoonaday#15#cleric raccoon
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Chaotic Cleric
For QuickFeet
Posted using PostyBirb
#cleric#dnd#tabletop character#tabletop#anthro#furry#furry art#raccoon#illustration#doodle page#doodles
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Nana casts Beacon of Hope.
Pose taken from @adorkastock
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Fuck it, I made mtg cards based off of Questionable Destiny (one of the stories I'm writing)
#Fynn and Alexis aren't even in the story yet#it's still gonna be a whiiile until they get introduced#also I made Alyva a Raccoon#because Red Panda isn't a creature type#and Raccoons are their closest relatives#I did my research#same reason Evan is a wolf instead of Coyote#I take these creature types very seriously#even spent like ten minutes deciding if darce should be a Cleric or Warlock#custom cards#custom cards 1
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The party has recently acquired a raccoon pet and forcefully gifted it to the cleric. We also just learned it is a shape shifting racoon because feywild.
Ranger(ooc): (gasp) We should name it Nimona!
Warlock, Barbarian, and DM: That’s awesome, totally!
Cleric(ooc): Okay. I hold up the racoon-racowl now? On my arm, I look into it’s eyes, and I say-
Cleric: You shall be called….pneumonia.
The Party: (dies of laughter)
Cleric: you try saying that with this accent!
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[Apparently, all it takes for a doomed man to feel hope again is bad flirting and corny jokes. Or maybe it's about the comforting presence of someone he loves?]
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Whether Gale wants it or not, he's a quite predictable person. His reliability seems to extend far enough for you to always be able to correctly guess where he might be when the wizard is not near his tent. Although his tendency for routines might be mistaken for something dull, you've always thought of it as somewhat comforting - that among all the chaos that your life has become, there's a sense of regularity; the comfort of knowing how to navigate certain situations.
Just as you knew he would, Gale is sitting by the riverside. His back is slouched as he mindlessly reaches to grab a blade of grass, tear it off, and let his fingers play with it. Brown eyes would be intently staring at the flowing stream if their owner wasn't so lost in thought.
He hears you coming, dry leaves crumble under your feet but he makes no effort to look over his shoulder. Maybe you're actually a wild raccoon that will finally put him out of his misery... On second thought, that is a rather pathetic end for a wizard as great as him. To die by a raccoon. Ha!
"Hey handsome, come here often?" you ask as you sit down next to him.
Gale's robes once smelled of musty books and seawater but during your travels, they have lost their original fragrance in favour of a fresh aroma of pine needles, campfire smoke and herbal medicine. It gave him an "edge", if such a word could coexist with the wizard's homebody way of life.
"Only when I wish to wallow in pity," he answers. Although it's fleeting, almost secretive, you do notice the glance he gives you.
You raise an eyebrow at his response. "And that's often?"
A sad chuckle rumbles in his chest. Gale looks down at his fingers, for the very first time studying what his hands do with the long blades of grass. "A lot more than I'd like to admit." He actually bothers to make himself sound light-hearted but the dread eating him up has already soaked into his words.
You put your elbow on your knee and rest your chin on top of your hand. The new angle allows you to see more of his face, not that it changes your impression. Something's eating him up. "Is this what pretty wizards frequently engage in? I think I ought to update my schedule."
He looks almost like a painting, you think. The one a cleric would put up at the temple, a depiction of martyrhood in the name of something greater. Normally, you'd shrug at the thought of some poor sod thinking that making themself suffer will somehow please their god. It sounds like a questionable freedom of choice at best. But in Gale's case, you can't just shrug. Not anymore. Not since the two of you made it very obvious there's nothing platonic going on.
"I think you'll find that a moping wizard is hardly treasured company."
"Then maybe I should help him stop moping." Playfully, you bump your shoulder into his.
A sad smile graces his face. His brown eyes give you a quick glance again. Gale just can't help his longing. "As much as I appreciate the thought and the effort," he tries to sound unbothered, "my troubles already take up enough of your time. The others might want to have a word with you too."
Not a thing about Gale's statement surprises you. He's always wearing a facade of "Don't worry about little old me" but having gotten closer to the man, you know he's far from that - he wants someone to worry, only doesn't have the pride to ask for that. Part of him probably thinks he ought to earn the right to take up the space in someone's mind. How silly.
Gale's eyes return to you when he sees your fingers sneaking between his hands and a blade of grass he was playing with. No matter what he might say and how laid back he attempts to appear, all of his half-hearted bluffs dissipate when he forms a tight grip around your fingers.
"And I want to have a few words with you," you tell him in round terms. "Well, I want to have many things with you but I guess I can settle for a good old-fashioned conversation."
"I, erm..." he hangs his voice at your allusion. The blush on his cheeks is barely visible in the darkness of the night but you can tell it's there - his whole body is suddenly on fire. Gale clears his throat. "Enlighten me, then! What sort of lexicon do you wish to bestow upon me?"
You can't help the whole-hearted chuckle that leaves your lips. "You're really adorable when you talk all sophisticated." Gale laughs nervously at the compliment and he's just about to say something back but before he gets the chance, you reveal the truth about your arrival. "On a more serious note, I didn't have any endgame plan. I just thought that I'm going to ask you what's on your mind and no matter what you answer, I'm going to bless you with my presence until one of us falls asleep."
For the first time this evening, Gale's eyes linger on you for a long while. Although his initial embarrassment at your boldness is now gone, a sense of nervousness lingers. But do not misunderstand - it's a welcome kind of tension; the anxiety of holding something dear and fearing breaking it. "I'd very much like that," he answers. A small smile of genuine happiness curves his lips.
Gale momentarily tenses up when you lay your head on his shoulder. Then, as though paradoxically a weight has been lifted from his back, he finds himself sighing.
Strangely enough, he feels... calm. Too caught up in his thoughts of impending doom and past failures, Gale has been oblivious to the good things in his life. Especially in the present. He tries to grasp at the fleeting thoughts he had been pitifully entertaining for the past hour or so but they escape his focus. Now that each of his breathes is filled with the smell of campfire smoke and fragrant oils that stuck to your skin, the doom that had been haunting him before dissipates like storm clouds blown away by the wind. Part of him wants to laugh - the morbid scenarios that once rendered him sleepless seem so trivial now. Gale was dealt a bloody difficult hand, yes, but that doesn't mean it's impossible to play it, does it?
He's known hope for a long time but only now does he see her. And what a wonder it is that she's wearing your face.
#gale dekarios#gale x reader#gale x you#gale x tav#bg3#bg3 gale#bg3 gale dekarios#gale bg3#gale dekarios bg3#gale dekarios fanfiction#gale fanfiction#gale fanfic#gale dekarios fanfic#gale#gale of waterdeep#baldur's gate 3#baldurs gate iii
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medieval resident evil au where Umbrella is a cabal of dark mages trying to unlock the secrets to lichdom and go mad learning secrets from the undead eldritch horror outside of space and time
Chris and Jill are Knights in service of the Order of Stars, Leon is a beginning town guard, Ada is still a spy, honestly not much is different
If you give them ttrpg character sheets then it's even more fun
Would guns be wands, badass Crossbows, or straight up magic, or different based on the game? They could also just be guns but that wouldn't be nearly as interesting.
Consider pistol=dagger, rifle=longsword, shotgun=axe? Grenades could be hand bombs or magic.
Or pistol=hand crossbow, rifle=light crossbow, shotgun is either special bolt or a spell
Beneath the cobblestone streets of raccoon city, where gaslamps and auto-carriages ramble, is the lair of an evil sect of mages developing spells in secret to transform humans into beasts
Could be very bloodborne-esque. Lots of fire and brimstone. Maybe STARS are more like paladins, and the bsaa is an order of Templar type organization.
If we go dnd 5e rules, Chris is a fighter for sure, Jill is like a rogue I guess? Leon could go either. It could be fun to make Claire like a sorcerer since she gets the grenade launcher
In later games I think Chris definitely fits either paladin or barbarian, where Leon goes for more rogue/maybe ranger vibes. Jill seems more rogue+fighter but magic rogue is cool, maybe artificer. Claire would be sorcerer multiclass I think. Keep any mages low powered that way.
Sherry in 6 is maybe warlock or aasimar instead of Cleric? Blood hunter would be cool. Rebecca starts as a Cleric in 0 for sure. For a low magic setting where research and Rituals are matched by quick, small combat spells, how high of a DC do you think enemies would go?
Of course, in a classless system like gurps or all flesh, this would be a lot less restrictive. What would be the best system for resident evil normally? What would be the best one for its fantasy au?
Wesker very much fits the low-fantasy vampire theme. He has a reflection and can step in he sunlight but wow it hurts his eyes. Chris rolls a 20 to punch a boulder to death.
Leon has the lucky feat or 20 in dex or something to pull off his stunts. Chris also gets Charisma as a leader for the bsaa, so paladin is up his alley. Leon's secret service requires more rogue skills, but his time in operation javier trains his skills as a Ranger under Krauser maybe?
Jill and Claire both get grenade launchers, but Jill is more Rogue with her lockpicking so it makes sense for them to switch level ups later on as claire learns more professional skills for rogue training.
Barry definitely hits fighter/barbarian with his heavy weapons. Jake is maybe more monk/barbarian but with something like a dhampir ancestry feature? Sheva is maybe rogue/fighter or paladin fighter since thats when chris starts taking paladin levels. Billy has to be rogue/fighter I think, or maybe fighter/rogue, if he even gets a second class. It would almost make sense for him to be pure rogue and rebecca be cure cleric, since she retires to become a researcher and hes never heard from again. Helena is I guess just plain rogue, hinting at her role in 6, while Leon has his ranger levels. Piers is more rogue/Ranger (or fighter archer). A lot of the one off teammates just don't get super interesting classes as a consequence of their limited appearance. Carlos... Fighter? Just fighter is fine.
Now, the problem here is that each game starts off with little to no equipment for various reasons. In the case of our spell casters like claire and jill, we can't just de-level them between adventures in the resident evil campaign. But we could give them more limited access to spell components to match the resource management of survival horror.
This is more complicated outside of dnd 5e, where a game like All Flesh Must Be Eaten has very different spellcasting rules, so you'd need to stray from a low-magic to a straight low-fantasy setting. Alchemist tools and one use spell scrolls replace your grenades and spell casting maybe? That's the issue you'd run into with treating the setting as one campaign instead of each game as an individual campaign though.
The easiest one to do is RE8. It's literally the same. Ethan starts 7 as a human Commoner, takes levels in artificer as the game goes on, since that one introduced crafting, and comes back very subtly as a human variant with a few new levels in fighter from chris' tutoring. Hey that means we can give Hiesenburg an artificer friend! Class buddies ♡ hiesenburg is probably artificer/sorcerer, giving him charisma and intelligence. Dimetrescu is maybe barbarian if she even gets class levels.
I don't think we can justifiably say Rose is a variant human, I think she gets her own custom ancestry features for this. Sorcerer also feels better than Druid for her, but a couple levels in - you guessed it, rogue! Cover her gun and Stealth skills. You get a lot or rogues and fighters in low powered/low fantasy settings, who knew lol
#resident evil fanfiction#resident evil#resident evil au#resident evil fandom#leon kennedy#chris redfield#jill valentine#claire redfield#sherry birkin#rebecca chambers#medieval au#canon divergence#zombies#knights#dungeons and dragons#vampires#albert wesker#rosemary winters#ethan winters#canon divergent au#jake wesker#barry burton#magic au#paladin#rogue#tabletop rpg#fanfic ideas
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son boy raccoon trash can man suffering in a dnd au as a cleric bc his warlock will not stop committing murders and he has to keep coming up with reasons murder is valid to convince the gm its fine and under control
#my characters#oops i fell in love#right is trying his best in the au to think about all the logic behind killing someone despite being a cleric SPECIFICALLY#bc he refuses to hurt anyone irl or in dnd and ok fine their warlock can have a little murder as a treat#and the body count is adding up and hes like ... so tired..... please can you not kill for five minutes im running out of excuses#fwiw he has the weird logic of the group in the base plot and the guy who is the gm here#is v open about ok but if we ask right then hell give an unhinged answer completely thought out and rationalized#and in fact asks him hey i know you refuse to hurt people but im having a debate with these two coworkers#if you had to commit a crime for aaaaaanyone on the planet who would you commit a crime for#and he doesnt even hesitate to say luca obviously to which the asker is like WHAT ABOUT MY DAUGHTER#YOU WANNA MARRY HER AND WONT COMMIT A CRIME FOR HER? but LUCA? of all people???? not even brent?#and right is just so confused because first off brent would probably be the one committing a crime for him without being forced#(brent agrees with this statement with a shrug) and second off luca has really weird coworkers and thought he was getting stalked for a bit#due to a misunderstanding with said one weird coworker so yeah obviously right would threaten the guy with a gun which is illegal and#third and final how could he face his beloved angel (the daughter mentioned above) if he was a criminal#he cant tarnish a sweet little innocent girls opinion by committing a crime IN HER NAME gosh fuck off with that attitude#he has STANDARDS thank you very much#and the three at the table are all like okay yeah that was really thought out on the fly youre right#also brent do not commit any crimes for him please and brent just nods in agreement bc ok he wont commit a crime unprompted#also hi animal crossing emotes are so fun to doodle for bye#once again i am baffled by how different the colors look on my laptop in the art program vs posting to tumblr#im going to go insane at how different they look#IM COLOR PICKING FOR MY OWN OCS AND ITS SO WRONG LOOKING IDK MAN
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"Here comes Roxie!"
A raccoon Smiling Critter made after Catnap's recall.
Any and all Roxies can answer your asks. Just know that if you don't specify on one, it will default to Cartoon Roxie!
Roxies available:
Cartoon Roxie Bigger Bodies Roxie Any Au Roxie THE CLERIC Jinx Roxie ( any variant ) ..Plush Roxie?
BOUNDARIES:
keep asks SFW. strictly use they/them pronouns when refering to roxie. don't demand art. i will draw whenever i feel inspired.
admin; @iidgm
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Please vote based on the picture AND the description!
Nimble {Strahliana @egglygreg]
Nimble is a sumic, a fictional possum species (kind of a golden brushtail/greater glider/quoll/raccoon hybrid). He has a long scruffy wirey coat and "nimble" little hands, and is a marsupial. He's very curious and quite mischievous, prone to hiding things and destroying the belongings of people he doesn't like. Very food motivated. My main character Aheri saved him as a baby and hand raised him, but he's definitely not a domesticated animal! She commonly calls him a little gremlin.
Nevin Imre [TGEOI @cygnascrimbles]
As a young child, Nevin was abandoned on the steps of the temple to the healing goddess Haila. He loved the monks and clerics who raised him, but grew increasingly frustrated with their adherence to Haila’s command that her followers never venture into the outside world, forcing those who needed healing to come to them. One day, he left, and now lives in a hollow tree in the forest by the city- still cloistered in deference to Haila’s wishes, but taking it upon himself to travel into and all around the city every day to seek out those who need him. He spends any free time in his garden inventing crossbreed plants, reading something recommended by his friend Sonrisa, or painting.
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DnDoggos
A while back I started with drawing dogs as DND classes
Saint Bernard Cleric
Golden Retriever Palladin
Corgi Bard
Schnauzer Wizard
Blood Hound Ranger
Raccoon Rogue
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I'd like to hear more about your dnd characters, I love their designs
Aight, first up the main 2! Shriek, my Kenku Death Cleric! He wields a cursed longsword that seals away the souls of those killed by it and gains power from that. On his other arm is a tower shield that's nifty. He wears adamantine armour and is VERY tanky as a result.
His entire deal is he was from a kenku village in the woods distant from most major civilizations/cities, so his hometown has a kenku made sign language! He was banished after stumbling upon a dark secret within the church, sold off into slavery, his home being burned down as he was carted away, and the head priest smiled towards him cruelly. He was branded and discarded when he lost his use, thrown off a cliff and left for death. Clinging to life, somehow, he was saved by a small group of travelling clerics, awaking in their church, bandaged and healed up. His wounds healed overtime, save for the branding which was done in the middle of his back.
After that, he went on a journey of vengeance, planning to burn down his former town. Which usually lead to him getting lost and turned around as he didn't know much of where it was since he never left it before so.
Eventually he ends up going to court, alongside a few others for random and petty crimes, and talked not only his own, but everyone else out of going to jail.
Over the year he's known them all, he's gone from edgy and murderous to a dumbass who casts ray of sickness when he can. Oh also he went from skin and bones to a borb so there's that.
Curtis!
Angry, grump raccoon, former orc(pig orc cause we love them more) cursed into racc. Now he's on a quest to undo it all! Time paladin with the hopes he can rewind himself if he gets strong enough.
But wait, there's more!!!
Esper, Kobold Bard, Former pet looking for his family.
So, his egg was bough by a rich family as a gift for their kid, and was raised in a decent situation. Him and the kid are buds, despite the. Power balance of master and pet. Kid grew up and went "hey, do you want to be free? find your clutch, even?" and esper went "yeah sounds neat!" so yeah. Never really got to play him past a few sessions..
Grizz, Ursine Artificer, Trying to find a way home.
A wanderer who found himself in a world not quite like his own, left with questions on how or rather IF he can even get home. Currently making a device to blast a hole into the fabric of reality to see if that works or not, regardless of the cost.
Silver, Tabaxi Barbarian!
Not much with him, he was kinda made for a dungeon crawl but he was hot so I want to give him a proper background besides idiot who left town to go on adventures.
Bahmet, Dragonborn Rogue, went on an adventure as a young adult and realized OOPS IT ISN'T FUN.
In the campaign he was in (like most of these, the DM either abandoned them part way or they died/off screened left), he became a highway bandit after years of hardships from trying to be an adventurer. He was in a terrible state when he tried to mug a sea captain but was later taken in, be it out of pity or genuine interest he doesn't know. This happened to him like a decade after he left his cozy village.
Bahmet had a loving family who was supportive of him going off on adventures and he just ended up sucking at it really bad!!! The captain taught him how to NOT suck and, another decade later became the ship's boatswain. He now writes letters to his parents and several siblings about how his adventures are going and how he misses them...
THERE, the lore on almost every DnD character I've had. The other 2 I've played were never fleshed out so they're just, a half orc, and dragonborn ranger. Kinda wish I had but, the games they were in were dropped by the DM pretty fast, alas. I had a tabaxi sorcelock prepped incase of emergency but never needed to pop him out.
I REALLY love making new characters, and sometimes even end up making them based on songs. Shriek, for example, is based upon the mind electric! He was a stable, happy lad until he was subjected to abuse after being delivered and carried away.
Grizz is, tbh, based on Mr. Grizz in a lot of ways.
Curtis honestly came to me by accident cause I wanted to play a furry in a campaign but didn't want to be weird even if it was with other furries. He was originally a HUMAN turned tanuki!
Esper and Bahmet were both just, I wanted to be a funny lizard man planning classes that do NOT compliment them AT ALL.
And Silver was just made over a week when Shriek died in a previous campaign (from the same DM who had a tendency to drop campaigns partway through...)
Not sure if I went on for a little too long but, yeah! That's all my boys that really matter tbh. Love em all pretty equally and hope to give them all a chance in the spotlight someday.
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In typal that cares for things that are two creature types would it be: creatures that are rabbit and warrior, rabbit warrior creatures, or creatures that are both rabbit and warrior?
I’m guessing something like this will probably never happen due to how limiting of a restriction it would be.
Lets say you have three creatures.
Peter who is a Rabbit Warrior.
Paul who is a Rabbit Cleric.
Mary who is a Raccoon Warrior.
Here's what happens with different templates:
All Rabbit Warriors you control gets +1/+1
Peter gets +1/+1.
All Rabbits you control get +1/+1. All Warriors you control get +1/+1.
Peter gets +2/+2. Paul and Mary get +1/+1.
All Rabbits or Warriors you control get +1/+1.
Peter, Paul, and Mary all get +1/+1.
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Chapter 9/?
(You can also read this and my other fics on ao3!)
Pairing: Copia (Papa Emeritus IV) x Original Female Character
Rating: Explicit, MDNI
Tags: Third person POV, original female character, miscommunication, demon summoning, blood, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, squirting
Words: 5801
Summary: In which Beatrice and Copia engage in some black magic, and there is more than one kind of arrival.
A/N: Please heed the updated tags and explicit rating for this fic, and enjoy!
The night is moonless, and as the hour draws closer and closer to midnight the Abbey is enveloped in a deep, velvety dark. It's the kind of darkness that it's best not to gaze into for too long, for fear of what might peer back at you.
The perfect night for a summoning.
Am I really doing this?
Beatrice studies her reflection in the makeup mirror set up on the table before her, nestled among pots of black and white paint, a ritual dagger, a bottle of wine, and various other tools of black magic, and she tries to conjure up her earlier resolve.
She had been confident throughout the planning stage, no matter how hasty that planning stage had been. Running through the steps of the ritual over and over again in her head, consulting dusty tomes from the depths of the library and meticulously poring over registers of demons.
Copia had assured her that he would do his part to secure all the necessary tools and materials and the location for the ritual. All she would need to do was meet him at the cathedral at the appointed time.
But planning is one thing. Now it all feels real. Now she feels out of place, her presence in the sacristy an intrusion. Just an impostor, sitting here with too-big ambitions, looking ridiculous in the embroidered ritual robes and stole that Copia had produced from a closet for her to wear when he saw how shabby the plain black robes she had brought with her were. What was she thinking, ever believing that she was capable of doing something like this—
No. She shakes herself out of the thought spiral. Going into the ritual with self-doubt is the surest way to guarantee that something will go wrong—and she can't afford for something to go wrong. Not when the stakes are this high. Not with magic this dangerous.
And she doesn't have time to waste on worry. Soon it will be time to begin, and she hasn't even gotten her face paint on.
"You don't have to paint your face," Copia had assured her, "but it helps. Makes you feel more… official, you know?"
She can't quite see herself in the full skull paint—she's not sure what design she would come up with for herself, and though she could borrow Copia's, that feels almost too personal. Presumptuous. Even if she trusted herself to get the lines right, especially when pressed for time. She'll do the simple clerical paint, she decides, setting aside her glasses and picking up the brush, just the eyes and top lip. She loads a brush with black and leans in close to the mirror to begin the process. How hard can it be?…
"Fuck… Fuck!"
"Something wrong, sorellina?"
Copia strides back into the sacristy, with some extra incense he'd had to fetch from elsewhere upon discovering that the store in the sacristy cabinet was low. Beatrice looks up at his arrival, squinting at him when he laughs.
"It's not funny!" she scolds. "I keep messing it up because I can't see without my glasses."
She had started outlining her eyes, trying to follow the curve of her eye socket. But the shapes kept turning out uneven, and when she tried to fix them, the outline just kept getting bigger and more lopsided.
Copia pulls up a chair and sits to face her, evaluating her work.
"I mean, it's a little bit funny. You look like… what are they called? The animals that eat trash?"
"A raccoon?"
"Yes! A raccoon."
Beatrice wipes at her face, attempting to finesse a line and only managing to smear black down her cheek. "A raccoon who's in a black metal band, maybe."
"Here, let me."
Copia turns her away from the mirror and with a makeup remover wipe gently clear away Beatrice's mess. A clean slate.
"Do you want me to do it for you?"
"Yes, please." Beatrice sighs as he selects a different makeup brush and loads it with pigment. "I don't know how you do this all the time."
"Practice. And better eyesight."
Beatrice assumes that Copia punctuates his good-natured teasing with one of those smirks that make her go all fluttery inside, but luckily for her, she's so nearsighted that without her glasses he is little more than a blur. She's not even blushing that much. Could this be a viable strategy for hiding how he makes her feel?
But then he tilts her chin up and leans in closer, and as he guides the cold brush gently over her rapidly heating skin, she realizes that no, there's nothing that can help her. Not with this.
"Close your eyes."
Copia's voice is low and soft in the silent room, and it brings to mind the last time they were alone in a silent room, the last time she had felt his gentle touch on her face. His pinkie braces against her cheekbone as he fills in her eyelid, and just that small sliver of contact threatens to undo all of her studious avoidance, to topple the walls she has built around her thoughts of him.
Her head buzzes, grows light with the panicky certainty that something risky is going to come out of her mouth, whether she likes it or not.
"I— I've been thinking about the other night."
Though her eyes are closed, she can tell that Copia's posture has stiffened from the way his hand pauses for just a moment, from the caution in his voice when he says, "Oh yeah?"
"Yes. And I—" The words die in Beatrice's throat as she realizes that there are so many ways that sentence could end, and she has no idea which one it's going to be.
I'm so fucking scared.
I don't know how to stop thinking about you.
I wish you would kiss me again, right now.
"I'm sorry for acting so unprofessionally." Even as she hears the words, she knows they're the wrong ones, knows that they're what she thinks she's supposed to say rather than what she actually feels. "I—I hate to think that I've done something to harm our— our working relationship, or make you feel uncomfortable—"
"You didn't."
His tone is harsh, cold, even. It makes her stomach clench with anxiety. When he finishes her left eye, Beatrice watches his hands as he reloads the brush, afraid even without her glasses to look up at his face. She's grateful to close her eyes again.
She feels the need to say something, to keep talking, to break the heavy silence that now feels like a condemnation.
"And I wouldn't want to get you in any kind of trouble," she babbles. "Not that— I mean, it's never going to happen again, but you know—"
Copia chuckles mirthlessly. "You don't have to worry. The rules here aren't very… strict. About that."
"Oh."
The thought isn't a comforting one. Beatrice's heart constricts with a spasm of jealousy, and she can think of nothing else to say. Nothing that's a good idea, anyway.
"Open your mouth a little?"
She does as asked, glad that while Copia fills her upper lip in with black, she can't talk.
And then he finishes his work, the moment ends, and whatever she might have said next is swept away unspoken.
"There. All done."
She puts her glasses back on and looks in the mirror to find herself transformed. Funny how something so simple, a little bit of black paint, can change so much. She's used to looking unimposing, sweet. Used to the constant underestimation that comes with it. But now, the face staring back at her is intense, severe, even threatening. A stark visage that no one would underestimate.
"Ready?" Beatrice looks up at the sound of Copia's voice to find that he's packed the ritual supplies into two bags, lit candles in two lanterns. She steels herself.
"I'm ready."
"Careful, these stairs can be slippery."
Copia's voice echoes off the stone walls of the stairwell. The space is small, the stairs steep, and Beatrice's chest hitches with nerves with every step. Her borrowed robes are just slightly too long, so she has to hike them up to avoid tripping, and the lanterns cast dancing shadows on the walls but do little to illuminate the darkness down below.
She had assumed that they would perform the ritual in the sanctuary, but Copia had handed her a lantern and a bag and led her out of the sacristy to a door on the other side of the altar. It was old, the dark wood carved with ornate sigils. Some she recognized—wards to keep things out, wards to keep things in—while others were unfamiliar to her.
Copia muttered something under his breath, an incantation she couldn't make out fully, and opened the door. Motioned for her to step onto the landing at the top of the staircase, where she waited for him to lock the door behind them.
Then he stepped around her and led the way down into the darkness beneath the church.
The space thrums with age—that eerie energy of extremely old buildings that Beatrice is still getting used to—but also with the unmistakable frisson of magic. It's disorienting, and Beatrice feels like she's been descending this same staircase for hours rather than minutes. The unwelcome thought of a book she once read pops into her head: an expanding corridor, a staircase that grows longer and longer and longer…
"How much further is it?" she can't help but ask.
"Not far."
Copia is true to his word. After a short time, Beatrice hears muffled voices echoing up the stairs, and she and Copia round the final curve of the staircase. They emerge into an antechamber, lit by sconces flanking another ornately carved door, and spacious enough to accommodate five waiting figures.
They are dressed in identical plain black robes that skim the floor, and each wears a simple silver mask with an elemental sigil engraved into the metal. Their hoods are down around their shoulders, revealing five unique sets of horns.
As Copia and Beatrice approach, the ghouls break off their conversation. A slight one, with long, straight blond hair and wearing a mask that bears the symbol for fire, steps forward.
"We were starting to worry you weren't going to make it!" he says, removing his mask to reveal sharp features. He turns his shrewd eyes toward Beatrice and asks Copia in a teasing tone, "This the new librarian we've heard so much about?"
Copia lets out a startled sound somewhere between a squeak and a cough, and rushes to introduce Beatrice. He points out each ghoul to her, and they raise their masks briefly or wave in turn. Beatrice tries to commit the names to memory—Cumulus, Aether, Mountain, Rain—but knows that with how bad she is with names, it will take far more than one introduction and a brief flash of face for them to stick in her memory.
Except maybe for Dewdrop, who gives her a smirk and steps forward to shake her hand with a teasing, "Pleasure, I'm sure."
Beatrice has the nagging—and all too common—suspicion that there is subtext here that she's missing, but she doesn't have time to puzzle it out, because Copia steps between them on the way to the door, breaking the ghoul's hold on her hand.
"Is the chapel ready?" he asks, and Dewdrop nods.
"After you, boss."
Never going to happen again. Never going to happen again.
The words repeat themselves incessantly in Copia's mind. It's silly, he chastises himself, to be ruminating on this, especially now. If he's going to be any use to Beatrice—if he's going to be able to support her through this ritual—he needs to focus on the task at hand. Laying out the tools on the altar. Double and triple checking that he didn't forget anything. Not wallowing in romantic rejection.
But then he looks up to see Beatrice bending down and carefully drawing the summoning circle in chalk on the smooth stone floor, the robes skimming the generous swell of her hips and ass, and the roiling tumult of emotions rise inside him anew.
Never going to happen again.
It shouldn't have bothered him to hear her say that. Fuck, hadn't he already decided that it would be better if they just ignored that the kiss ever happened? But something in the way she so casually shut the door on the possibility of… Well, of anything… It stings. It's gotten under his skin in a way that only illuminated how much he's come to care about her.
But obviously that caring is not mutual. So they'll get through this summoning, and go back to… Whatever. Ignoring each other? Fuck, that sounds awful…
"Done!" Beatrice straightens and slaps chalk dust from her hands. Copia rounds the altar to inspect her handiwork.
"Perfect." As he knew it would be, every single line of every sigil precisely in place. "Ready to begin?"
"I think so." Beatrice takes a big, deep breath, rolls her shoulders, shakes out her hands. A little ritual to settle her nerves.
Before he can think better of it, Copia reaches out and takes her hands in his. He holds her gaze steadily, voice soft as he reassures her, "I'll be here with you. Every step of the way." And then he scoffs, "Not that you need me here, anyway. You could do this in your sleep."
It has the intended effect: she rolls her eyes at him and grins. Tension eased, he leads her to the altar.
With trembling hands, Beatrice accepts the chalice Copia offers her, holding it high with a brief, whispered prayer before bringing it to her lips. She drinks deeply of the wine, draining it to the last drop and grimacing at the pungent aftertaste of mugwort.
It's a secret blend, steeped especially for ritual work like this and intended to open the practitioner's senses and facilitate deep trance states. It does its job, and it does it quickly: when Beatrice takes her place within the outermost of the two concentric circles drawn on the floor, her face feels tingly, and her nervousness is gone.
She casts her eyes around at the ghouls standing sentry around the circumference of the chapel, impassive behind their silver masks. Maybe she should feel intimidated by them. Surely most people would be terrified to stand in her place, surrounded by demons in a chapel deep beneath the earth, preparing to call forth the powers of darkness.
But Beatrice is not most people. She is a Sister of Sin. She has dedicated her life and soul to the infernal, has prayed and studied, chosen and been chosen in return by her Unholy Father. She has plumbed untold mysteries. All the powers of hell are hers to command.
And she's not alone. She glances over her shoulder at Copia, and he flashes her an encouraging thumbs-up.
With a deep breath in and a deep breath out, Beatrice lowers her eyes to the text open before her and begins to recite.
The ritual proceeds, slow and inexorable. With each word, each circumambulation of the circle, Beatrice falls farther and farther away from the world she left behind at the top of the spiral staircase. She ceases to be herself, becoming one with the words she intones, and her grasp of time slips away and is lost in the litany.
She speaks words of calling in languages long since dead, carefully enunciating syllables that she memorized over painstaking hours. All the while, she holds fast in her mind's eye the image of what she wants to summon, imagining all the traits of her ideal demonic helpmeet and all the skills they must possess.
This can't go wrong. She won't let it go wrong.
It's hot in the chapel—so fucking hot—both from the intensity of her concentration and movements and from the braziers emitting gouts of scented smoke into the air. Sweat coats her brow, and her breathing comes heavy. It won't do.
Beatrice pulls off her stole and unzips her robes in one fluid motion, shrugging them off without so much as thought to the many eyes watching her. She's wearing nothing underneath, and she feels better as soon as the air hits her bare skin. Without missing a beat, she tosses the garment outside of the circle and continues the ritual.
She can feel the energy building within the circle, crackling in the air like the moments just before a lightning storm. The hairs on her arms raise and goosebumps break out all along her skin despite the heat.
Though she has never performed a summoning before, she has gone over the ritual so often in her mind that its steps are flawlessly committed to her memory, the rhythm so deep it might as well be etched onto her bones. When she reaches the next pause in her chanting, she knows without consulting any text what comes now.
The offering.
Copia is already standing at her side when she holds her hand out. Instead of a chalice of wine, this time he offers her a dagger, handle first.
Beatrice accepts. The blade is cruelly sharp, and the flames dance across its polished surface when she lifts it.
And when she brings it back down.
She slides the edge across her left palm, opening a deep slash that immediately floods bright red. Biting back a cry of pain, she does the same to her right, before the dagger slips from her shaking hand and clatters onto the floor.
Beatrice steps over it, steps forward, and begins chanting again, beginning the final incantation. She holds her hands out, palms up, letting her blood weep out onto the sigils drawn within the inner circle.
As soon as the droplets hit the chalked sigil, the energy in the room shifts, darkening, condensing. A wind from nowhere whips through the chapel and sends the ghouls' shadows dancing madly across the walls. In the innermost circle, a dark bubble begins to form, growing larger and larger as Beatrice chants louder and louder, and inside it shadows swirl.
The pressure becomes nearly unbearable. Beatrice can feel her lungs squeeze and her skull ache, as though the air is being sucked from the room, but she pushes through the pain and the fear. She plants her feet, raises her bleeding hands high over her head, ignoring the trails of blood that drip down her arms. She is screaming now, throat raw, her voice breaking around her words but never relenting, never giving up, and then—
With a thunderous clash and a paradoxical flash of cosmic black light, the pressure releases, and the bubble pops. In its place looms an enormous creature, a being that seems cut out of pure darkness. Beatrice, silent now and panting, gazes up at it in wonder. It's so tall that it must stoop to fit inside the chapel, and its curved horns brush the ceiling even so.
It's terrifying, but Beatrice pushes her fear aside, and utters words of power meant to shape the darkness, bringing her hands slowly down. As though following her movements, the hulking shape begins to shrink until finally it is merely the size of a tall human.
It crouches on all fours, regarding her with shining, suspicious eyes. It sniffs, scenting her blood, and slithers toward her, its long, fur-tufted tail swishing sinuously, whipping the air as it approaches. It becomes more solid as it moves, the flat darkness filling out into flesh, taking on the dusky color of twilight shadow, somewhere between grey and lavender.
Beatrice proffers her dripping hands, and the ghoul reaches for them eagerly. It cups her hands in its own—shockingly gentle given the length of its sharp claws—and lowers its head to lap at her blood. As it drinks, it becomes more solid still, now tethered to this world and bound to her. When the ghoul has had its fill of blood, it runs its forked tongue over the cuts in Beatrice's palms one last time, and she feels her skin begin to knit itself back together.
There is a moment of silent communion as Beatrice and her ghoul regard one another. Something unspeakable passes between their minds, the ghoul's one true name that Beatrice alone will be the only human to know.
Then Beatrice asks aloud, "Will you serve me?"
And in a voice rough with disuse, the ghoul hisses, "Yes."
"What may I call you?"
By now the ghoul has taken on a much more definite form. The face peering up at Batrice is angular, mostly human, with huge black eyes, it cheeks and aquiling nose speckled with freckles as though strewn with stars. Long black hair tumbles messily over its—no, perhaps her—shoulders and small breasts in an inky waterfall. Graceful, goat-like ears. Twisting horns that curve upward from her forehead.
The ghoul flashes a smile sharp as the dagger lying on the floor. "Penumbra."
The ritual ends, and Copia lets out a breath he didn't even realize he was holding until now. It's over. Beatrice did it. She summoned a ghoul. Confidently. Skillfully. And naked.
He catches Dew's eye across the chapel and gestures around at the other ghouls. The fire ghoul nods and mobilizes them like a general. As a group they step forward to take Penumbra off of Beatrice's hands—somewhat literally—and welcome her into the fold. Rain helps Penumbra to her feet, and Cumulus helps her into a plain black robe like all the others'. They'll take her to the den, get her settled.
As they process out of the chapel, Dew hanging back to give Copia a celebratory fist-bump on his way out, Copia feels a rush of relief. The ghouls were here as welcoming committee, yes, but they were also here as extra security. To step in if things went sideways, and to protect Beatrice with tooth and talon if needed.
He's so glad that wasn't needed. That Beatrice—brave and tenacious and talented Beatrice—is safe. Whole and unharmed.
The chapel door bangs shut behind the ghouls, and as if the sound breaks a spell, Beatrice turns to him. A smile lights up her face.
"I did it," she says, disbelieving. Then she laughs and whoops: "I fucking did it!"
"You did!" Copia crosses to her, picking up her discarded robe along the way. He does his best to keep his eyes on safe, respectful places—her face, the floor, his hands—until he's draped the robe around her shoulders. Tries not to think about the fact that before tonight he hadn't so much as seen her in short sleeves, and now he's seen nearly everything and possesses the indelible knowledge that every curve of her body is just as lush and lovely as he had imagined it. More, if that's even possible.
Never going to happen again, he reminds himself. But he doesn't step back once he's helped her into the robe. And she doesn't step back, either. They stand there, his hands lingering on her upper arms, grinning at each other. She seems just as reluctant as he is to let the moment end.
"Did I do okay?"
Copia huffs out a surprised laugh at Beatrice's question. At the momentary return of the reticence and self-consciousness that veil her prowess. "You did more than okay, mia cara. You were brilliant."
Her brow furrows, a question forming in her eyes, but before she can ask whatever it is, her knees buckle. Luckily Copia catches her around the waist and eases her down onto the floor before she can fall. Their robes pool around them as he sits beside her, keeping his arm around her. For support, of course.
"Whoa." Beatrice presses the back of her hand to her clammy forehead. "Was that the wine, or…?"
"No. Aftershocks. Sometimes you get… surges like that, after a ritual. Summonings, especially," he explains. "They make you woozy, but they don't last."
She settles into him and rests her head on his shoulder, and he rubs her back in gentle, comforting circles. It feels good, holding her like this. Feeling the way she nestles against him, how perfectly she fits into his arms. He doesn't want to let her go, will sit on this floor with her all night if she needs him to…
When she pulls back, he loosens his arms, preparing for the spell to break. But it doesn't. She doesn't stand, doesn't move away. Instead she studies him, eyes moving over his face as though she's seeing him—truly seeing him—for the very first time.
She reaches up to cup his cheek. He leans into her touch automatically, helplessly, not caring that her palms are still sticky with drying blood. Then her hand slides around to the nap of his neck, delicate fingers carding through his hair. She pulls him to her, presses her mouth to his.
Immediately something inside him shifts. Tension releases, like a pain you learn to ignore, telling yourself you don't even feel it, until suddenly it's gone and you wonder how you ever lived like that. His arms tighten to draw her in closer. A tiny moan sounds from deep in her throat, and his cock twitches in response, growing hard just from kissing, just from wondering what other sounds he could pull out of her—
Never going to happen again.
The thought jolts him out of the moment. He breaks the kiss, gathers Beatrice's hands in his—because he knows he won't be able to think if she's touching him—and tries to find the right words. Stopping now feels like torture, but the thought of continuing, of going too far and doing something that she doesn't really want, that she will only regret—
He looks down at their clasped hands. Creamy skin and deep red blood and black leather. He can't bring himself to meet her eyes.
"Beatrice, I—"
"Copia." Surprise kills whatever he might have said. It's the first time she's ever called him anything but his title, and the raw longing in her voice transforms his name into something at once achingly tender and shockingly obscene. When he risks a glance up at her and meets her gaze, when he sees the desire written so starkly across her features, he knows that he's done for.
"Please," she breathes. And he can't deny her, doesn't want to deny himself any longer. This time when they kiss, there is nothing tentative about it, nothing held back. It is all heat and need, Beatrice slipping the still-open robes from her shoulders and reaching to unzip his with impatient hands. Their hands rove over one another's bodies restlessly, as though they can't decide where to touch. As though he and Beatrice are testing whether the other is real, whether this—what they've longed for, what they thought they couldn't have—is really happening.
He goes to remove his gloves, and she whispers, "Leave them on."
He gathers her into his lap, desperate to feel her fevered skin against his own, to finally feel her full breasts overflow his hands and hear her gasp when he brings his mouth to them. Even in the dim, uneven light of the chapel, he can see that he was right—she does flush all the way down to her decolletage.
She doesn't let him linger there as long as he would like, but how can he complain when she pushes him gently down onto the floor, her soft, thick thighs straddling his waist, her peaked nipples brushing against his chest as she trails kisses along his jawline and down his neck.
When she leans back he groans at the very sight of her. It's such a relief to let himself look, to drink her in, all of her. Curves limned in firelight. Her hair a tangle of molten gold spilling over her shoulders.
She has a tattoo stretching from shoulder to elbow on her right arm—a serpent rendered in black and gray, sinuous and clever, and nestled amid its coils is an apple. Forbidden fruit, the gift of knowledge. Something about it—maybe the fact that it's a surprise, maybe how appropriate it is for her—does something to him, stokes the flames of his lust even higher.
And her eyes rover over his body, too, unashamed and hungry. He's not sure if he's ever felt so wanted in his life as he does now, under her gaze. It hits him, with a certainty sudden and hard and not quite sane: he would do anything for her, let her do anything she wanted. Forever, if she would allow it.
His hands tighten, kneading her thighs, and he swallows around the dryness in his throat to murmur her name. A plea, a prayer.
A prayer that she answers, mercifully reaching down to take him in hand. She fondles him, slides the tip of his cock through her wetness, and it's already almost too much, too good, when she slides down onto him. Biting her lip and whimpering, taking him inch by painstaking inch and letting him guide her hips until he's seated fully inside of her. He swears under his breath at the sight of it and at the plush, wet heat of her cunt enveloping him.
Satanas, how many times has he imagined this, feeling pathetic and guilty and alone, and now—
Beatrice begins to move. Awkwardly at first—out of practice, he realizes distantly, disbelievingly, who wouldn't want her?—and he pops out of her once, but she only laughs and slides him back in and soon finds her rhythm.
It's a fight against his own body's insistence that he plant his heels and fuck her hard and fast, but it's a fight that he wins. Because lying beneath her, feeling the pleasure suffusing her body more and more with each movement of her hips, being used by her as she chases her release? It's so fucking hot he can barely stand it. A delicious torment he never wants to end.
Finally she leans forward, bracing her hands on his chest, and finds just the right angle. Her mouth falls open and her eyes flutter closed as she rides him and her clit grinds against the base of his cock. Her movements become frenzied as she grows closer and closer until finally, with a beautifully uninhibited cry, she comes apart around him.
Beatrice falls forward, still riding out the last waves of her orgasm. She'll get back to riding him in a second, she thinks, will make him come, just as soon as she can coordinate her loose, tingly limbs, and—
"Oh!"
Her wits are still scrambled when Copia rises up beneath her. He pulls out just long enough to reverse their positions, settling her gently beneath him. Even those scant seconds of absence have her needy, impatient, on the verge of begging before he grips the base of his cock and guides himself back home.
He's a gorgeous wreck, disheveled hair and sweat-streaked paints, smears of her own blood across his face and chest. I did that, she thinks, and that in itself seems almost more miraculous than the summoning. The way he looks at her almost makes her feel more powerful than did drawing a demon into the world—that mixture of tenderness and desperation and possessiveness, his infernal white eye piercing to her very soul.
He begins to move with slow, careful thrusts. But she doesn't want slow. She doesn't want gentle. She wants him deeper, harder, wants a leather-clad grip on her skin firm enough to bruise, to leave evidence she'll find in the morning. She wants to feel and see and hear him come undone.
She wraps her legs around his sturdy waist and cants her hips upward to draw him in deeper. Reaches up with greedy hands to pull him down so that she can feel his weight, his breath ragged and warm against her neck. He braces his forearms under her shoulders, pinning her in place, steadying her for each driving thrust.
He mutters an obscene litany under his breath, against her skin, a mixture of Italian and English that she can only understand in bits and pieces. Until his voice cracks on an oath and he warns her, desperately, "I— fuck— I'm gonna come."
"Do it," she urges, breathless and dreamy.
He rears back, grabs her behind her knees, and presses her legs open wider. His hips snap sharply against hers, and the chapel fills with the sounds of slapping skin, rough breath, and soft cries. His muscles tighten, but he pulls out just in time. He ruts against the softness of her belly and then, with a groan that makes her pussy clench, he spills his release.
He looks down at her—utterly wrecked—with something devious gleaming in his eyes, and says something she doesn't quite catch.
"What?"
He repeats, "You said keep them on, yes?"
Her mind is hazy, fuck-addled, and she's about to ask what the hell he's talking about, but then he slides a finger between her folds and she knows.
"Fuck."
"I'll take that as a yes."
He can take it however he wants, she thinks, as long as he takes her. As long as he keeps touching her, just like that—
He meets no resistance as he slides a finger into her, pulls out, presses back in with two. Fucking her steadily with one hand, while the other splays across her mound and his thumb finds her clit to trace maddening circles.
He's watching her intently, gauging her reaction to his touch, every flutter of her hands and every moan that falls from her lips. "Come on, dolcezza," he purrs. "I know you've got another one in you."
She spreads her legs wider as her back arches, and she pants a command for more, faster—a command that he readily obeys. Her clit throbs under his attention, and when he crooks his fingers up just so, she feels herself falling apart for a second time. Falling farther and faster than she did before, as her thighs snap together and her pussy clenches tight around those clever, sinful fingers, as she feels herself drench that fine, soft leather.
There will be a time to think about all of this and what it means. But here and now—spread out on the floor of a chapel scented with sex and blood and sweat—is not the time.
For once in her life, Beatrice turns off every nagging voice inside her, surrenders to her body, to pleasure, coming so hard that her vision goes gray.
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for the Secret Ask List- 1, 4, 7, and 27 for Kat, and 6, 11, 26 (lots of aquatic possibilities... feel free to answer with a non-plant like kelp!) and 29 for Vivienne!
Ooooooh thank you so much!!!
Secret OC Ask List
Katherine:
1) Does your OC have a voice claim, if so who?
I don't normally think much about voiceclaims, honestly! I've mentioned Dara Reneé as a possible faceclaim for Katherine, and I do usually double-up on voiceclaims with the faceclaim (since that's usually a fair bet for choosing a voice that "fits" their appearance) - I do see Dara Reneé's voice as a pretty good match for Katherine's in tone, but she'd have to put on a Southern accent!
4) What song describes your OC and their partner/love interest?
I mean... her whole fic is titled from the lyrics of Who Wants to Live Forever by Queen, and that was definitely meant to fit her and Ahk! And Rami Malek joke aside, I do feel like most of Queen's love songs fit them well (Love of My Life, You Take My Breath Away, etc.)
7) Vice-Versa! If your OC is in the modern day, what fantasy class would they be? Would they be a different race?
CLERIC!! I mean, she's basically a cleric already, even in the modern world, so you just KNOW she'd be a cleric to Bastet (or whatever the fantasy-fiction equivalent to Bastet would be)
As for a different race... no, I don't think so. I think she'd be best just to stick with being a human, though it could kinda be funny to have a running joke where the other members in her party joke about her being half-dwarf because of her height (don't worry, she'd absolutely find some way to get them back XD)
27) What's their spirit tamagotchi? Or an animal you associate them with?
I mean, the obvious answer would be cats, namely for her connection with Bastet, but that does fit Katherine very well (almost like it's by design... lol).
Outside of that, I could also see her as something like a spotted genet, raccoon, or marbled polecat - something small and cute but deceptively capable, and not entirely dissimilar to a cat (not in terms of biology, just mental association).
____
Vivienne:
6) If your OC is in a fantasy setting, what profession would they be in the modern day?
Answered here!
11) What was your inspiration for your OC?
Answered here!
26) What flower do you associate your OC with?
Ooooooh, I know it's not a plant but I really see Vivienne as fire coral!
Just these beautiful, branching aquatic forms, but with a hidden venom that's incredibly painful and dangerous!
But in terms of actual flowers, I'm going to go with sundew!
Similar story here: a very outwardly beautiful, unique, enchanting form, but secretly carnivorous! I feel like that's a good metaphor for being a siren :D
29) Imagine a mood board for your OC! What's on it? (Make it if you want!)
Oooooh so first things first, @negative-speedforce actually made me a moodboard for Vivienne and it is GORGEOUS!! It's on display here in her OC bio!
I really do love that misty, Gothic atmosphere in the moodboard, especially with the indistinct silhouettes that come from deep water or oceanic fog. That fits Vivienne SO well, and really matches the tone of the fics I've written for it!!
I do think it could be cool, if a second moodboard were to be made, to take things in a more colorful direction. Bright fish scales (betta fish baby!! Vivienne's inspo!!) and coral reefs, but also some more mundane or "human" things like rows of pastries from a bakery or formal dresses from the late 19th century, even something that represents oral storytelling (though I'm not sure what that would be). It would be neat to have this moodboard be bright and vibrant as a contrast to the Gothic moodboard I already have for her, and I think it would especially capture that dichotomy in Vivienne's character - not only land and sea, but the contrast between her behavior as a living sea storm/omen of danger and her behavior as an energetic and fun-loving storyteller.
#my friends!!!#unethicallypleistocene#answered asks#ask game#my ocs#oc katherine johnson#oc vivienne
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Context: We’re approaching a bandit camp and failed our stealth checks, so a bandit approaches us and the kobold barbarian tries to make an excuse as to why we’re there.
Kobold (Bret): Hi, um.. I’m Dirk, this (Me, Kenku Cleric) is Gamzee and that (Raccoon Fighter) is uh. Vriska.
Me OOC: WHY DID YOU NAME US AFTER HOMESTUCK CHARACTERS 😭
Kobold OOC: I DON’T KNOW I PANICKED
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