#revelry barbarian

[greyeisacreativecolor]

Little sneak peak at my next d&d homebrew project Tablature Tome, a bit of a buff for Bards, and some more performance based subclasses for Clerics and Barbaraians

[shenanigans-and-imagines]

ok I've got a few good sentences that might inspire you, but this one feels very much Tav and Astarion:

"oh, that's a nice tavern. ...Where the fuck am I?!"

It was taking every ounce of self restraint Astarion had to keep from laughing as you staggered forward, leading an equally staggering Karlach through the streets of Baldur’s Gate on a quest to get tattoos.

He didn’t know when exactly the scheme was sprung, but he suspected in was somewhere after the fourth and fifth round of drinks. He had quit after the third, deciding he had to keep a clear head if you weren’t. Besides, you’d earned at least one night of drunken revelry.

Gale and Wyll had expressed their objections, but being a few cups deep in themselves, weren’t in a position to stop a barbarian when she decided to leave anyway.

Astarion had opted to simply follow, just to make sure the pair of you didn’t get into too much trouble. And by the gods was he delighted he did.

“I think it’s this way,” your slurred, pointing down a side street.

“No!” Karlach bellowed, having lost control of her volume three drinks ago. “It’s ah…fuck, they changed fuckin’ everything. Should be ah—“

“Wait,” you objected. “If we’re…if we’re gonna do this. We’re gonna need another drink.”

“You’re so right,” Karlach said, leaning on you so heavily, Astarion was shocked she didn’t topple you over. “Elfsong is around here somewhere.”

“Oh that’s a nice tavern… Where the fuck am I?!”

Astarion did laugh then, muffling it behind his hand. He needn’t had bothered; both you and Karlach were too far gone to notice.

This was going to be a night to remember, for him if no one else.

(Astarion x AsexualBard!Tav Masterlist)

[pursuitseternal]

✨⚔️Chapter 3–“Little Huntress:” update to “Love Me, Hate Me” ⚔️✨Enemies to lovers retelling

Astarion x Tav (Katja) | M chapter | 3.8 K

🎨 by @dafna-winchester

Summary: After being bitten, Katja spends a restless night, learning for once that monsters are sometimes made… not born. One wayfairing stranger makes her confront these feelings, forcing her to question that straighter and narrow view of the Gur… much to Astarion’s delight.

CW: Act 1 spoilers, Astarion’s trauma rears its head, corruption kink incoming, Gandrel scene retelling

Previous ch | ao3 link | Masterlist

Katja tossed and turned and then tossed some more.

Blood replenished, but her stomach curled in on itself with hate and disgust. At least, yeah, that’s what she thought it was. Sitting up in her dark tent, legs tangled in her bedroll, she stared at her wrist in the dim light of dawn. Those fang marks stared right back at her, angry, red circles ringed in darker flesh from the ice of his bite.

It… wasn’t supposed to feel that good, was it? She flopped herself back down on her other side. Or maybe it was, maybe it was supposed to pull her under his spell, weaken her constitution to make her hot and wet and dripping with the need for his cool touch on her cheek and between her…

“Fuck,” she hissed to herself, kicking her covers off completely. It was no use, she would be miserable tomorrow with no sleep.

Maybe just some fresh air? Just a walk to clear her head… the rest of the revelry had shut down long ago, the fires smoldering. With everyone so drunk, no one stayed awake to stoke it, she realized.

Dangerous. Katja groaned, taking on the responsibility that, once again, no one else noticed. She grabbed some grass, some sticks, poking and feeding the fire until it was strong again. Strong enough to keep the scary monsters away.

“I might have one good eye,” a warm, jovial voice spoke from behind her, “but I can see you got to fire-tending before me.”

Wyll stood calmly behind her, his face turned into that casual, confident grin. It made Katja’s heart steady, even as it made her wrist sting with pain and shame. “Well, I figure if you want something done right… “ She reached far enough over for another log from the pile, the cuff of her sleeve creeping up to reveal those angry, red circles.

Fang marks.

Any monster hunter worth his salt would recognize them.

And Wyll was worth… a lot of salt.

“Katja,” he whispered, watching as she gruffly pulled her sleeve back over the bite wounds. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” came her reply. For once, her cold, distant, grumpy nature worked in her favor and hid the lie. “You should see the other guy,” she made her lips laugh.

“I bet he looks sated, happy, and stronger,” Wyll jested back, folding his arms over his chest. “I may have just joined your party, but I can see the tragic charm of your… friend.”

“He’s not my friend,” she interrupted with vehemence, standing and squaring her shoulders, ready to argue.

But Wyll just laughed, warm and rolling, holding his hands up in surrender. “Easy, Barbarian,” he spoke in jovial tones. “I’m not judging. I might have killed my fair share of monsters and fiends, but never a vampire. Those are harder to find outside their hunting grounds. They don’t make themselves as… dramatically obvious as our companion.”

“Dramatically obvious? You mean loud and annoying,” Katja rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t resist glancing at his rose and scarlet tent where he was trancing.

“At the very least, he might be a menace and an egomaniac with a flair for the dramatic and a penchant for bloodshed, but Astarion isn’t soulless, heartless, or of the infernal persuasion.” Wyll trailed off, a distant look in his one good eye. “You’re not beholding your soul to anything truly evil…”

Katja scowled. “How can you say that?” she scoffed, grinding her own booted toe in the dirt and ash. “Aren’t you the Blade of Frontiers, the best monster hunter on the Sword Coast? You should be appalled at me… tell me I’ll be banished from Selûne’s light just for thinking all the depraved… impure… unholy…”

“Ah, ta, ta,” Wyll stopped her, frantically waving his arms. “I’m a Warlock, not a Priest. I don’t need your confession, by Balduran’s beard.” He shifted uncomfortable on his feet for a moment, and Katja wanted nothing more than to be divinely smitten right then and there.

“Gods… I don’t know what to do,” she sighed, her scarred face looking into the night sky, a canvas for her inner turmoil. “He told me if I let him feed, I can have the head of his Master as a bounty for my tribe. I’ll be Chief Hunter for sure, but…” That face grimaced with something other than pain.

“Katja,” Wyll spoke softly, assuringly. “I’ll be the first to admit ignorance on the ways of the Gur, but I do know one thing about battles— the enemy of my enemy is my….” He gave a flourish with his hand, waiting for her to finish the tried and true phrase.

Katja just waited, dark eyes wide and waiting on his wisdom. “What?” she asked, a few beats of silence later.

“Seriously?” Wyll’s face broke into a goodhumored and skeptical grin. “Friend. The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

“Astarion is not… my friend,” Katja’s hackles bristled at the mere insinuation. Again.

“It’s a phrase? Like, choosing the lesser of two evils?”

“Why would I want a lesser evil?” Katha shook her braided head. “I want the no-evil-option.”

Wyll gave a heavy sigh. “What I mean is… maybe Astarion isn’t as he appears at first. Some monsters are born…. Others are made.”

That made her pause, her little nose scrunching, her blonde head tilting. Her dark eyes darted to Astarion trancing on his bedroll in front of his tent. Even from here, she could see the little rise and fall of his chest, taking sleepy breaths he technically didn’t need. His fingers curled into that shape Elves did. His pointed ears twitched in his reverie, whatever he relived in his meditations clearly affected him. His jaw clenched, and those breaths came faster and more frantic.

She hadn’t even noticed that Wyll had withdrawn to sit by the fire, or that her feet had led her closer to observe Astarion in his rest. He muttered to himself, names and grunts that sounded half-formed in his throat. If she crouched… yes, if she crouched she could hear names— Dal… Petras… Violet… Cazador. That last one was a snarl on his lips as his eyes flashed open. His breath was too quick, his eyes dark and dilated with rage, and… were those tears pooling in the corner of his eyes?

Unsure what came over her, but she reached out to soothe that pain. Katja pressed a hand to his own, only to get a face full of fangs and death-cold breath as he pinned her under him in the dirt.

“What are you doing?” he snarled, his thighs trapping her waist, his hands grabbed tight on her wrist and the other now on her throat. But in two blinks of his eyes, he released her. Her hands and throat at least. He raised himself up, a smirk on his sweaty face as he kept her pinned beneath his legs.

“And here I thought I was the nightcrawler that slipped into beds to seduce the sleeping…” he purred, but his voice seemed a little tight, less velvety than his usual simpering tones. “What’s wrong, darling? Come for a cuddle?”

“Get off me. I was just trying to help,” she snarled, pushing on his belly and thrashing beneath him.

“Oh, I bet you were,” he leaned down again, “in fact I can think of something very hard you could help me with… maybe a few times….”

Katja stared at him, neither angry nor submissive. Just those dark eyes boring up into his face as she stilled. “What was your nightmare about?”

Astarion froze for the splittest second. Then he breathed a laugh. “I wasn’t having a…”

“Who’s Dal and Petra’s and Violet?” she interrupted.

A reluctant groan, and he slipped off her, settling with one knee bent into his chest, his head tilted back to look into the stars. “My siblings,” he muttered after a moment. “Not… not my literal siblings, mind you, the other six spawn Cazador sired.” For that moment, as the moonlight bathed his pale skin, making his silver hair glow as if it were kissed by the stars, Katja’s heart stopped. He could have been any ordinary seductive Elf, with his mouth shut and his eyes closed.

Sitting up, she waited for more. But he didn’t offer anything, not yet.

“Why were you crying and thrashing and…”

“Alright, enough, you intrusive vagrant,” Astarion leveled his crimson glare at her, unamused… well maybe a little amused. “Cazador would send me and my six siblings into the city to bring him victims, we… couldn’t say no, compelled by him and his every dark whim. I had to lure his prey back to the palace by every means necessary, most especially with the gifts I was given…” He gestured dramatically the whole length of his body, from shimmering grey hair, to his bare chest, to the tips of his unclad toes. “If we failed, or disobeyed, or resisted, he would torture us… or even compel us to torture ourselves.”

His hand gripped around hers like a vice, pulling her closer as he twisted around. “You were too busy hating my undead guts to probably notice, but here…” As he turned, he placed her hand on the back of his shoulder. Rises and ridges, jagged and rough script circled in scars across his whole back.

“Moonmaiden’s light…” Katja whispered in shock.

“More like Cazador’s sadism,” Astarion scoffed in derision. “It’s a poem, composed and carved in my flesh one night, punishment for nothing more than the fact I existed.”

Katja couldn’t help herself, her fingers running over the weird shapes and whorls of his cool flesh. “Reason enough for nightmares…” she murmured.

Astarion turned once more, his finger tracing down her own jagged line in her cheek’s flesh. “Well, you told me of your scars,” he shrugged, almost gently, “I figured maybe I could do the same, since we do have our little… understanding now.” That look of vague kindness shifted, twisting back into that smirk of suave seduction. “And… I might have noticed that you didn’t stab me in the back, given the opportunity.”

“Don’t hold your blood-stinking breath, vampire,” Katja scowled in that little way of hers. “Just because I’m not killing you doesn’t mean I like you.”

“I’d be offended if you did like me, or if you stopped having murderous thoughts about me,” he crooned.

Katja grinned, turning her head and brushing her hands together to hide it as she stood. “Night,” she bid politely. Too politely.

His hand gripped hers roughly from her side. His thumb tracing over the fresh mark. “I think that tortuous nightmare left me… strained,” he purred, voice smooth as Cormyran silk. “You wouldn't mind soothing me a bit more with one last nibble, would you?”

Katja clenched her teeth, begrudgingly sitting back down on his bedroll. Their bodies decently far apart, she judged with a satisfied smile.

His bite was no less painful this time… nor less pleasurable. She tried to hide the way her back arched, concealing that tiniest clench of her thighs and her cunt. But more unnerving was how he just… stared at her.

He only took a few polite swallows before his tongue jutted out to lick the puncture wounds closed. “Finished?” she sniped at him, pulling her wrist away with white hot hostility.

Astarion just smiled and licked his lips, dabbing a finger at the bloodied corner of his mouth. “For now, my little treat,” he replied, a voice of silken seduction and venom all at once. “Don’t forget to say your prayers before you sleep,” he called, that sadistic lilt in his honeyed voice.

And Katja grumbled as she slapped her tent flap closed behind her. “Moonmaiden, deliver me…” came her prayer.

As she wrapped her hand around those icy wounds in her wrist, she ignored the needling thoughts in her brain… Did she really want to be delivered from this… from him?

The next morning was filled with acrid bog stink and rot. Katja could sense it, the Hag’s lands rife with dark magic meant to eat you alive. No way in the nine hells would she let some Hag offer her a cure. Gods…. If she thought about it long enough, she realized this was one story she could never tell to her tribe.

If she ever saw them again, that was.

It was just one monster after another… infecting her, helping her, possibly curing her… fucking and feeding from her….

With that though, Astarion turned his head, smirking over his shoulder. Fuck, Katja wondered, was he listiening through the tadpole?

A nice solid glower only made him scowl in return before focusing back on the road ahead. Katja took that as a victory. She’d show him she wouldn’t cow to all his demands; she might agree to make him stay strong with the boon of her blood, but he wouldn’t order her or control her… or dominate her…

Oh, that last one made her shiver just a little. Swallowing, she forced away the ghosts of his touch on her body and the memory of his mouth on her skin. Focus on finding the Hag, she reminded herself. Focus on the vapors of the bog and that stink of powdered iron vine…

Powdered iron vine? She froze in her tracks and squinted up the hill. “Astarion,” she hissed.

“Yes darling?” he turned and walked backwards, hands gripped into the straps of his pack, “I thought you were pretending I didn’t exist, too ashamed of your lover of a Vampire Sp—”

Katja lurched forward and clapped her palm over his sneering, ignorant mouth.

“What the hells do you think…” he muttered and hissed under her grip.

“Ah, stranger,” a warm voice bid them as a traveler approached them. “Forgive the aroma… Powdered…”

“Iron vine, yes,” Katja interrupted as she awkwardly released Astarion’s mouth, lips that now gaped in disgusted surprise. “Kushti divvus,” she greeted, guessing which dialect of her people he might speak.

Another Gur.

Apparently she guessed correctly as he eased his stance. This Gur was stocky, built for the hunt and the glory of their people. Surely he was the best of his tribe, and by the necklaces and strands of bone trophies and beads on his belt, he always got his quarry. Forcing a smile, she made every sinew in her body follow suit. If he suspected the monster she kept as company… Well, there would go her only chance to use him for Cazador’s head, for her own pride and promotion and future. A prize like that would serve her far more than some weather beaten old coot.

“A fellow child of Selûne here?” the stranger grinned, hands on his hips as his weathered, tanned face grinning wider.

Katja grunted, careful to show deference to an elder. “The scent of iron vine is not unfamiliar to a younger hunter,” she bowed her head. About to reach her hand out in greeting, her gaze caught the fleeting sight of those infernal bite marks. Shame seared through her, and she stuck it in her pocket. “Are you hunting so far out from tribe lands?”

Astarion’s honey voice took that tone that jeered with all the snark in his undead soul. “Pfft, is every Gur a monster hunter? How quaint you have more purpose than just vagrant cutthroats…”

Katja shot him a look, one that was supposed to do as much damage as her axe, one he wasn’t supposed to just blow off with that well-practiced, easy smirk of his. “Ignore the Elf,” she stressed the last word, “he talks too much.”

“Fairest and wisest beings are not my quarry,” the stranger arched a dark brow. “My name is Gandrel, and I am indeed seeking a monster, a Vampire Spawn, in these lands. His name is Astarion, and I am to bring him back with me to my tribe. I hope that the Hag of these lands will help me flush him out after the sun sets tonight.”

“Is that wise? Using one monster to trap another?” Katja folded her arms, insolence edging her tone. “If he’s just a Spawn, why risk more of your soul to seek aid from a disgusting Hag?”

Gandrel paused, his dark eyes skimming over the short little Barbarian, that glance quickly taking in each of her companions. Then, he scanned her up and down, no detail would be missed, not with his wizened experience. His brow furrowed in suspicion, his gaze was quick and sharp.

Shit.

“Did your elders not teach you respect, child?” Gandrel suddenly shifted onto his toes. “Your own presence in these lands is… curious, too young and insignificant to be on your own hunt. Which begs me to ask you… how did you come by those fang marks on your wrist?”

Katja could feel Astarion coiling like a spring beside her.

“They are fresh,” Gandrel’s thick, cracked lips turned in a chilling half smile. “And if I didn’t know better, I’d say they were given out of… familiarity. The wrist isn’t a Spawn’s first choice of bite unless they mean to draw out the life of their victim for reasons of torture, mercy, or affection.”

Katja’s pulse was deafening. The burn of shame was immeasurable, only outmatched by the swirling, gut dropping angst that churned in her belly to think that another Gur would take Astarion from her. He was hers… her prize that was. Her chance at the head of a Vampire Lord.

Fuck this guy, she decided.

“Well, Astarion,” Katja gave the Vampire a twisted smirk. “Which one is it?”

The Pale Elf suddenly flexed his muscles, a wide and wicked smile on his face, catching the scent of ambush in the air. “Torture, it’s the torture one,” he purred. “Just to be clear.” Unsheathing his daggers, he bowed his head in mock submission. “Together, my little vagrant?”

“Impossible,” Gandrel’s eyes went wide. “But… the sun!” His panic set in, the inconceivable truth of a daywalking Spawn all but shattering that experienced air.

“The only thing impossible is your survival,” Astarion purred, running a finger down the sharp edge of his blade. “I’m going to enjoy this…”

Only once he was licking Gur blood off his dagger did Astarion finally catch his breath. They paused just off the path, cleaning their blades and resting before finding the same Hag their unwanted intruder had sought. He watched Katja as she knelt by the Gur’s corpse. Rudely, she had denied him feeding from this foe, and his curiosity had gotten the better of him. From the corner of his eyes, he watched as she muttered prayers, placing two coins over his lifeless eyes before standing once more.

It was almost picturesque, this scene of pious devotion and tradition. Two things he loathed. And because they were Gur practices, why that only made him loathe it more.

She took her sweet time standing in that congealing pool of blood before she moved once more. A few paces away, and she stopped and turned to use one of a few spells her tough Barbarian brain knew. “Arde!” she called, and the corpse burst into a mass of flames. Their enemy was no more, just ash and smoke.

Astarion sat back on his heels, narrowing his eyes. Katja was a curiosity, a conundrum he couldn’t quite pick apart. And it irked him to no end. What started as a small way of exacting his revenge against a whole people on one little girl now became… complicated.

He hated the Gur, those cutthroats that took their ignorance out on him one fateful night outside of the Magistrates’ offices. The night he died in this world. Shuddering at the memory, he forced himself to assess this blonde braided beauty more carefully. She stood in a silent vigil, mumbling her Selûnite prayers one after another. She looked so… immaculate, pious, untouchable. Pure. It made his stomach lurch into his throat. In excitement, in anticipation.

A thought niggled the back of his mind, that part of him, ruthlessly cruel and oh so skilled at manipulation, plotted long and hard. Those thoughts reverberated with the notion of how much fun it could be to show her just what she missed on that straight and narrow path of the Gur.

A little corruption would go a long way, he smirked. Besides, he owed her a good time after taking his side.

He suspected her ambition protected him, her need to keep him alive so she could claim Cazador’s death as her final offering to become chief hunter… or whatever those backwater people called it. He didn’t care, so long as someone helped him kill that bastard.

Ever the conundrum, she stepped into the ashes, kicking them up with her boots. As all the dust had settled, then she reached in and retrieved those same two coins.

That… that made him smile. “Well,” he purred and resheathed his dagger, “perhaps there’s some hope for you after all. I was beginning to think you were no fun at all.”

“Why waste two coins?” she harrumphed, putting them in her pocket. “He’s not going to need them in paradise.”

“Yes, yes,” Astarion purred. “Eternal rest grant unto him, etcetera etcetera…” Those crimson eyes leveled at her, all brimming with primal hunger.

Katja shuddered, trying very hard not to feel like a mouse in a trap. Trying hard to remember she was the hunter.

“You know, I could show you a different sort of paradise.” He crept closer on silent feet, the tip on his tongue dabbling the teeny corner of his lips. “You wouldn’t even have to go through death to reach it, perhaps just a little death… once or twice if you’re very responsive.”

Katja’s scarred face twisted into a perplexed frown. “How can anyone die a little?” she sneered.

Undeterred, he grabbed that bitten wrist, pressing his full, smirking lips to that pulsing vein beneath. “Oh my dear, I’m glad you asked. My tent, tonight. Once the others are asleep, I’ll make sure you are thoroughly illuminated, my little huntress.”

[rwac96]

Ask

Alpha Stud Barbarian Overlord

Natsu makes it clear that once he and his crew take over the Heartfilia Estate, he is going to come for the Busty Blonde Bimbo, Lucy.

Natsu: "HEY YOU RICH FOLK!!"

*The overlord stands before the Heartfilia Estate, which is surrounded by multiple guards*

Natsu: "Once me and my tribe take this place..."

*The Fairy Tail Tribe roared in revelry*

Natsu: "I'm taking that blonde bimbo for myself!!"

---

Lucy: *blushing, indignant* "BIMBO?!"

[fuckitpossumorb]

I’ve been thinking about sdr and about how much I enjoy the magic and the abilities all of the crew portrays and I’ve noticed that the reason I fuck with them so hard it’s because all of their abilities feel as biological as they feel spiritual.

Like, bear with me, the most obvious examples of this are in Leboosh, Chuckles and Dandy.

Leboosh is simply born like this, not carbon based, non humanoid, his simply ooey gooey, oozoid self and it does so much for him as a barbarian. His body expands and bounces around rooms like a battering ram, but Leboosh isn’t stupid, he knows the abilities of his body like no other and so knows exactly how many risks he can take, how much ground he can cover, how he can use it to his advantage to cover his friends, to slow down enemies, etc.

Plus other details like how he can get sustenance from most things, or his fighting style in space which is just hit shit really, really, really hard. He is the most alien esque member of the crew and I love him for it.

Next, Chuckles, just like Leboosh his whole magic abilities simply come from his race, motliens, but what being a motlien entails is so interesting because these are humans who give themselves to the extreme revelry and hedonism and end up totally changed by an external force.

Discord (this being what changes the humans) is in this case kinda like a higher being or an infection, something that changes and mutates things to the point they are unrecognizable. Chuckles isn’t sure how he came to be a motlien, or how Discord really works, but he has the inherent ability to do all this crazy shit and is aware it could come with a cost (wild magic trigger).

He is alien in a totally different way than Leboosh who is alien-like because he is very diferent from the norm, while Chuckles is alien because he was changed so drastically from what he used to be.

Dandy! My beloved! She is so fun. She is a droid (something we generally associate with machine, the beyond human, leaving the natural world behind) but she’s a Druid! She brings back nature and is so devoted to the care of animals, plants and people. She is a droid made of stone, powered with weird crystal magic we don’t know much about and neither does she, but just like Chuckles, she has a natural instinct to pull from, to use her abilities to restore nature.

She is not necessarily alien looking, but is very much NOT like any other droid the gang could meet, she is unique in her making, and her design with all the feathers, golden accents and gems, maker her feel like an ancient relic, resurfacing after being left behind a millennia ago.

Now the two members whose powers are more obviously tied to spiritual means, Kavir and Pyke.

Featuring some spoilers for their backstories so beware!!

Kavir is obvious, he is a warlock, he made a pact with some ancient god but, in episode 9 when we learn a bit about his backstory, it seems like he was actually chosen by Father Time instead of striking up a deal with him.

It also seems like everyone in Kavir’s home planet is aware of this and familiar with this god, maybe it’s a common religion or legend in his home. Which gives it the feeling like it’s an especial thing, something that only the people of the dunes know about, an old story only spread from mouth to mouth.

So as much as it is very obviously spiritual it is also a very cultural thing that is exclusive for the people of Zahra Dune.

I also, personally, subscribe to the idea that Kavir was changed slightly by his pact with Father Time. I like to think his tattoos (whether they were done ritually or not) have changed from the normal black ink to this soft yellow bordering on gold by the magic that now flows through him, and also that they have taken a mind of themselves.

Like the lines in his arms swirl and drip like sand on the wind or falling from an hourglass, sometimes when using his powers they take the vague shapes of clocks or sun dials, ticking seconds, minutes, hours all spread across his body.

And his eyes, shining a bright golden light, maybe once they were a deeper amber color, more akin to brown, but after the pact they are piercing, bright like the burning desert sun, alluring to no end.

Now Pyke, he is very fun because his abilities seem to be very much biological but also maybe a recessive gene or uncommon trait.

In episode 12, when Pyke catches the crew up with his past in racing, he mentions that one day, at random his soul unlocked (whatever that means), that Khan noticed it and helped him nurture it, and after that he was unable to lose another race.

He also says that Rex didn’t take kindly to this, especially since Khan started being a little rougher on Rex, pushing him harder to try and do the same thing Pyke did unknowingly.

This is very odd, neither Pyke or Rett were aware that this was a thing that could happen, (earlier in the show Pyke mentions that he’s unsure whether Rex can use the same abilities he uses as they are discussing how he could’ve escaped the Rhapsody) but Khan seems very much aware of this, in fact, he knew more than he let on as Pyke also mentions finding out Khan was holding information from him.

I love all the things about Solar Elves having weird little things about them, like higher than normal body temperatures, their hair moving by themselves and shining depending on their mood, feeling connected to the stars, needing more sunlight than regular, etc.

I think all of that should apply to Pyke but like times ten.

Wherever the hell this soul is, this new weird thing that lives within Pyke thrums with enough energy to rival a dwarf star, it rests in between his rib cage and pulses like a second accelerated heartbeat, his hair moves violently nearly lashing out at the people around him like the energy bursts of the sun.

He doesn’t just need more sun that most he actively seeks it out, like moth to a flame looks for places to rest where he is near a star and can look at them, stare at them and this is the spiritualism point. He is a monk after all.

Pyke stares out at the stars thinking about them and their immensity and how many of them are in the universe, their energy, the cores that feel oh so familiar, and when he closes his eyes he can nearly hear them sing in his ears, words he cannot understand but knows deep down are familiar lullabies.

And now, finally, Rett.

He is very similar to Leboosh in that he doesn’t use magic, but disimular in how Leboosh’s abilities are all just himself while Rett uses machines.

But Rett even being able to make this machines is inherently special to just him, only aether dwarves can use this technology, they can’t express the knowledge of it or they die, it’s both a blessing and a curse bestowed upon them from birth.

It is also worth noting that Aether dwarves don’t live on planets, they live in stations they made by themselves and focus mostly on selling their tech to the highest bidder. Rett rejected this lifestyle in favor of being a bounty hunter and traveling but still has a generally high interest on machines and in upgrading things.

He constantly searches to make things better, to perfect things, even in something as simple as a snowball fight he was looking to make the perfect snowball.

Anyways,,,

I know some of this could just be chalked up to the general DnD rules biz, but I love over analyzing the funny shows I like, sooo. Gimme your thoughts?

[demigoddessqueens]

Lunch

A/n - I’ve been listening to the new Billie Eilish album and Lunch is up there with one of my faves, and the catchiest, which inspired these little drabbles about jealousy

Masterlist 10

Vex’ahlia

Who does Zara think she is?? Shamelessly flirting with you so out in the open and right in front of her!! Bless your heart you’re too sweet to not notice but the blatantness makes it all the more frustrating at times

Pike

Revelry aside from celebrating Grog’s victory, the cleric gnome isn’t too keen on the other barbarians taking an interest in you with all the dancing and ale. Maybe she just blames the alcohol…

Keyleth

She shouldn’t feel this way, right? Like it seems so silly! First, it was an Ashari who was more than eager to thank you after she sealed the Fire Plane and then now with celebrating Grog, she feels a bit left out with the others wandering eyes following you.

[gvfgal]

11. In Death We Give

Barbarian. Biker!Jake

18+ series. Minors DNI.

A/n: I’ll save all the blabbering this chapter 😂 All I have to say is feel free to leave your questions and comments wherever you see fit, and as always, enjoy. 🖤

Content Warnings: Gambling, drinking, smoking, negative thoughts of parenting, explicit sexual content, mentions of turbulent childhood.

Word Count: 3.7K

The Barbarians were scattered around Bobby’s bustling casino, deciding to partake in some leisure time since they’d already been there tending to business. It was a Saturday evening, and the place was packed, more so than Jake had ever seen.

The machines lining the walls had every seat filled, and every table had players rolling dice and slinging cards in hopes of striking it big. Some patrons seemed uneasy with the Barbarian’s presence, especially given their rowdy behavior fueled by the free-flowing drinks. But no one dared to say a word or throw them out—they practically owned the place.

Jake, though present, was seated alone at the bar. His mind raced with thoughts of you and the baby, making it impossible to fully engage in the revelry surrounding him.

Ace was busy at the blackjack table, but when he took a break, he found Jake sitting alone, clearly not in the best spirits. Ace had noticed his quietness all day but had chalked it up to a lack of sleep.

Crossing the large game room, Ace took a seat beside Jake, signaling the bartender for another round of drinks.

“What’s going on, kid?” Ace’s gruff voice pulled Jake from his racing thoughts. “I’ve hardly heard a peep out of you all day. Now you’re sitting over here moping at the bar.”

Jake chuckled, though it was devoid of humor. “I’m not moping, Ace,” he paused, wondering if this was a conversation he wanted to venture into at the moment, “It’s Cherry.”

Ace’s face contorted with concern, wondering if he and the club would need to handle something on your behalf.

“She’s pregnant.”

Ace’s reaction was animated, though he did his best to mask his surprise, taking a swig from his freshly prepared drink. Damn kids, he thought to himself, as if they’d never heard of a condom. Though he knew you and Jake were far from children, in his eyes, you were.

“She keepin’ it?”

Jake’s glare immediately answered his question, and Ace threw his hands up in defense. “Just thought I’d ask. You still don’t seem too thrilled, though.”

Jake took a sip from his drink and sighed, dropping his head before looking back at Ace. “I’m terrified, man. What the hell do I know about being someone’s dad?”

“Being a father ain’t easy, especially your first time around,” Ace agreed. “Never had any of my own, but I’ve done enough work helping raise some of you knuckleheads to know that fatherhood is one of the toughest jobs of them all. Tougher than being a Barbarian.”

“Yeah, well, other than you, we all know I didn’t have the best role model when it came to being a parent,” Jake scoffed, shaking his head bitterly. “What if I end up being a crappy dad like he was? What if years down the line my kid ends up hating me like I did Rex because I didn’t live up to the father I was supposed to be?”

Ace understood all of Jake’s worries; it was only natural for someone in his position. However, he knew most of Jake's fears were unfounded.

“I don’t see that happening.” Jake was gazing down into his empty glass, but when he heard Ace’s words, he looked up.

“I think you’d run laps around Rex when it comes to the father department, because you know what it’s like to have been in that position. I don’t see you repeating history,” Ace said, shaking his head. “You’ve got too much in you for that.”

Ace’s words were comforting, but they addressed only part of Jake’s concern.

“And what about all this, Ace?”

“All of what?”

“This,” Jake gestured between himself and Ace, “being a Barbarian. What kind of quality of life will my kid have if I bring them up around all of this? We’re knee-deep with a homicidal drug cartel leader, and God knows what else lies ahead. I can’t subject my kid to that.”

Ace shrugged. “Barbarians have been doing it since the beginning of time. I don’t see why you can’t.”

“Yeah, well, we see how that ended up for a lot of them. Some die and leave kids behind. Some run them and their mothers off before they even get a chance to know them. And if that doesn’t happen, one way or another, the life always finds a way to trickle down.”

The flirty bartender came over to top off Jake’s drink, sending him a wink. He rolled his eyes and snatched the glass off the counter. “I don’t know how I’m gonna do it, but I have to. Cherry needs me.”

“Mhmm,” Ace agreed, “that’s right. And with that being said, I’m confident that you’ll figure it out, no matter how you decide to go about it. You’re a smart kid, Jake, always have been,” he patted his young friend on the back. “I don’t see you not being a good dad, and that’s the honest truth.”

Jake was thankful for Ace’s words, and though he could’ve kept going, he decided to leave the conversation as it was.

“Now,” Ace said, brightening up, “will you please stop sitting over here throwing yourself a pity party and come have some fun? You’ve always been a wiz at blackjack.”

Jake smirked. “Fine. One game, though. Then I need to head back.”

Ace nodded, understanding Jake’s new responsibilities. “One game will satisfy me.”

Jake finished his drink, feeling a bit lighter. The future was uncertain, but with Ace's support and the determination to be there for you and your baby, he felt ready to take on whatever came next.

You sat on the sofa as an old sitcom hummed through the dilapidated speakers, though your attention was elsewhere. You glanced at the clock every so often, wondering when Jake would return, if he returned at all.

You had plenty of faith in him, but the uncertainty of your situation made you fear he might decide to leave. Truth be told, if you could, you might have considered the same.

Just as your thoughts began to sour, you heard the front door squeak open. Jake shuffled in with a large bouquet of red roses in one hand, his helmet tucked under the other arm.

“Jake,” you shot up from the couch, “you’re back.” The surprise in your voice was evident, and it made him feel even more empathetic towards you. He’d been distant the past couple of days, not intentionally, but it was enough to make you feel deserted and uncared for. This small gesture was his way of reassuring you.

“Of course I’m back,” he grinned, feeling a pang of guilt at your surprise.

“Are those for me?” You blushed, making your way over to him.

“What, these?” He joked, setting his helmet down. “No, actually they were a gift to me, from Nicky, of all people.”

You laughed and gave him a playful shove. “Shut up.” He handed the bouquet to you, and you admired them before smiling up at him. “Thank you, Jake.”

Even though you were smiling, he could still see the fear in your eyes. When recognition flashed across his face, your expression faltered and you couldn’t help but fall into his chest with a silent cry.

He wrapped his arms around you, holding you tight and rubbing a soothing hand over your head. “I know, baby. It’s okay.”

“I’m so scared, Jake,” you admitted, though he already understood. He was scared too, but his priority was ensuring you and the life you were nurturing were okay.

He gently pulled you away to look into your glossy eyes, his gaze sending silent assurances before he leaned in to kiss you softly.

You kissed him back, finding comfort in his embrace when you needed it most.

The kiss lingered before he pulled away, setting the bouquet of roses on the kitchen table. He grabbed your hand and led you toward your bedroom, and you followed wordlessly, feeling a little more at ease with each step.

Once you made it past the threshold, you began pulling your shirt over your head in anxious anticipation, dying to feel his calloused hands on your bare skin. But before you could get it off, Jake stopped you with a hand around your wrist.

You looked at him in confusion, wondering if you’d misread his actions, but he gave you a reassuring smile.

“Let me, Cherry. I wanna do it differently this time.”

Slowly, you lowered your hand and allowed him to take over undressing you. He picked up where you left off with your shirt, dragging it up your torso and over your head. You weren’t wearing a bra, and when your chest was exposed to him, a satisfactory sigh ghosted past his lips. You stood on display for him and let him marvel at you before he was cupping your breasts in each of his hands. He lapped at the left one first, small spurts of his tongue against your nipple before switching to the other.

You threw your head back with a breathy moan and savored the feeling. His mouth began to travel lower, sprinkling kisses along your abdomen and leaving one lingering just above your bellybutton before he was tugging gently at your shorts and panties. His breath was warm against your already flushed skin, and you felt your need for him growing with each agonizing second.

But you didn’t want to rush it; the care he was showing you was something you wanted and needed desperately. Jake had never been this tender when it came to sex, both of you behaving like a couple of savages due to the electric charge of your relationship. But as he trailed gentle kisses down your legs, taking his time showing attention to as much of your body as he could, you found yourself growing quickly addicted to the feeling.

Once you were standing naked before him and he was satisfied with his affections, Jake rose to his feet with a drunken, lopsided grin. He nodded his head towards the bed, signaling for you to lie down, and you did just that. You propped yourself up on your elbows to watch as he began undressing himself as well.

First his leather vest, then his white t-shirt, revealing to you once again his tattoos and battle scars that you grew to love so much. Next he stepped out of his pants, making a show out of the way his cock was pressed against his boxers and already staining the fabric.

When he finally removed them and was standing before you in all his naked glory, your mouth fell open without making a sound. You’d seen him naked more times than you could count, but there was something about this moment that felt so much different than the rest. It felt like an offering to you, his way of letting you know that he was entirely yours.

The Barbarian Prince all to yourself.

Unable to resist any more temptation, you reach a hand out to him, and he came over and took it in his own, kissing over your knuckles before completely joining you on the bed. His knee rested between your thighs, purposefully nudging against your clit and causing you to jerk forward. From that touch alone, he knew you were ready, his knee drew back slick, and you’d have felt slightly embarrassed if it were anyone else.

Jake gripped his cock in his hands, lowering his lips onto yours as he pumped himself a few times and lined up with your entrance. In one fluid movement, he sunk into you with a groan, and you instantly wrapped your arms and legs around his body, needing to feel him as close as possible.

You stayed like that for a moment, enjoying the velvet feeling of being connected like this. Usually by now Jake had a fistful of your hair in his hand and was plowing into you, but this wasn’t the time for it. Instead, he began gliding in and out of you at a leisurely pace, capturing every spurt of air that left your lips into his mouth.

“God, Jake,” you purred when he finally freed you to speak, “oh god yes.” The slow pace he was keeping was electrifying to your body, allowing you to feel every bit of what he had to offer filling you up over and over again. His head fell into the crook of your neck as he cradled you close, his breathing coming out more like shuddering grunts as he continued to rock his hips into you.

“I love you, Cherry,” he whispered into your ear, causing you to momentarily freeze. That was the first time those words had ever left his lips, and you thought for a moment you’d misheard him in your state of bliss.

Sensing your apprehension, Jake lifted his head and stared you directly in your eyes, picking up his pace ever so slightly.

“I love you. I know I don’t ever say it,” he paused as another groan left his mouth at the way you constricted around him, “but I do. I love you.”

You wanted to blame the good sex for his words, but by the way he gazed at you adoringly, you knew he meant exactly what he said. You leaned forward and pressed your forehead against his, not deterred by the light sheen of sweat that was forming in his hairline. “I love you, Jake,” you cooed, feeling tears welling in your ducts, “I love you.”

“You know I’ll take care of you. Of us.”

You nodded with a dazed sigh, feeling your release approaching slowly but surely.

“I know.”

Not another word was spoken after that, only the sounds of your breathing and the occasional sound of your bodies coming together could be heard in the trailer.

Jake continued with you slowly and sweetly, stopping every once in a while to plant firm kisses against the corner of your mouth. When you finally succumbed to his coaxing of your orgasm, a shiver ran through your body and leapt over to Jake’s, the hairs on his arms standing at attention at the feeling of your soaking him.

He wasn’t far behind you, spilling into you with a final pointed thrust and a long drawn out groan that sounded like sweet music to your ears. He took a moment to calm his breathing before rolling off of you onto his back.

You both stared at the ceiling as you fought to come back to earth, and once the intensity settled, Jake turned to look at you.

“You know I meant what I said, Cherry? That wasn’t just the sex talking.”

You giggled, “I know Jake. But it’d be nice to hear you say it again now that you aren’t balls deep inside me.”

Jake shook his head with a laugh, then planted a firm kiss on your cheek. “I love you,” he reiterated. “And for as long as you’ll let me, I promise I’ll take care of us.”

He brought his hand to your stomach and began rubbing it, fully acknowledging for the first time the life growing inside of you.

You smiled at him and placed your hand over his, your eyes meeting in a moment of silent confirmation. No matter what happened from here on out, you were in it together.

Once you had fallen into a comfortable slumber, Jake dressed and stepped out front to light a cigarette. As he stood there, his mind raced with plans for the future, brainstorming ways to ensure both your safety and security. But his thoughts were interrupted by the haunting presence of Rex’s trailer across the street, dominating his view and his mind.

Unable to shake the pull, he stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette on the railing and found himself walking towards the empty trailer. He hadn’t been back since he trashed the place days after Rex’s funeral, but something compelled him now.

Fishing out the spare key he had buried in an empty planter, Jake unlocked the front door and stepped inside, shutting it quietly behind him. The power had been shut off about a month ago, so he used his phone’s flashlight to navigate the dark, stuffy interior. Everything was exactly as he had left it, untouched and filled with memories.

An idea sparked as he remembered the small coat closet off to the left, where Rex and Vicky had stored many photo albums over the years. He retrieved an old office supply box from the top shelf and carried it to the dusty couch. Sitting down, he pulled out the album on top and opened it to the middle, inspecting the photos tucked behind the thin plastic covering.

The first photo he noticed was one of him sitting in his mother’s lap on a lounge chair out back. Both were dressed in swimsuits, his mother in a skimpy bikini and a one-year-old Jake in a pair of flamed swim trunks that looked a size too big. The photo next to it showed him splashing in a small plastic kiddie pool, water droplets frozen in mid-air by his chubby hands.

Jake grinned, flipping a few pages over. This set of photos showed one of Rex’s birthday parties. In one photo, Rex, Vicky, and Jake all smiled at the camera, and in another, cake was smeared across Jake’s face as his parents threw their heads back in laughter.

He scanned through more of the album before setting it aside and grabbing the next one. The photos in this album were from when Jake was a little older, maybe four or five. The first several pages were void of Vicky, leading him to believe they were taken during a time when she wasn’t around.

Most of the pictures showed Jake by himself or with the Barbarians. One picture particularly stood out: Jake sitting on a shiny black Harley, surrounded by Ace, Steeljaw, Madcap, and a few other men, all beaming with pride at seeing a young Jake already embracing Barbarian culture.

More photos revealed Jake’s life amongst the club, showing faces of men he once loved who were no longer around, either dead or serving serious time. It was bittersweet to see those familiar faces, reminders of a past both cherished and mourned.

As Jake browsed the photos, he realized that these seemingly happy fragments of his childhood were misleading. Each photo, each memory, no matter how joyous they appeared, was intertwined with some form of gloom.

There was a photo from his tenth birthday, where he smiled holding his Harley-themed cake, but he remembered the day being ruined by a blowout argument between Rex and Vicky, leading to Ace hauling Rex away. Another photo showed an adolescent Jake among a sea of leather jackets, a tiny figure among men. It looked like a good time, but it was the day of Tex’s funeral, a member Jake had been close to who died in a gunfight.

These memories were tainted, and Jake thought of his child years down the line, looking back at pictures of their childhood. Would they feel the same melancholy he did? Would he inadvertently tarnish their joy the way his father and environment had for him? It was a scary thought, one he tried not to entertain, vowing to make things different for his child.

Jake continued to flip through the albums until he froze at a picture of him and Jaxon. There weren’t many photos of Jaxon in this album; Jake had kept most of those closer to him, likely still under his old bed. He couldn’t face those memories yet.

This photo, however, was special to Rex. It was from the day after Jake and Jaxon had officially sworn in as Barbarians. They had their arms around each other’s shoulders, sporting their new Barbarian jackets and a few black eyes and scrapes from the initiation. The youth in their faces, the pride in their smiles, Jaxon’s tight sandy curls, and Jake’s darker, much longer tasseled hair. Best friends. Brothers. Torn apart by the very thing they were so proud to be a part of in that photo.

Jake decided he’d had enough reminiscing. He shut the album and began stacking it with the rest back into the box. When he moved to get up from the couch, the wall behind it caved with a crumble.

"Shit," Jake murmured. Another hole in the wall to add to the collection of others. The place was falling apart, likely beyond salvaging.

Setting the box on the coffee table, he pulled the couch off the wall and squatted down to inspect the hole. The mismatched paint around it suggested Rex had patched this spot before.

Something was odd, though. The wall hadn’t completely caved. There was something solid behind the drywall, preventing it from collapsing entirely.

Jake pushed in the loose piece of wall and felt something pushing back. He peered into the gap, catching a glimpse of something he couldn’t quite identify. Setting his phone down, he used both hands to pull the broken piece away from the rest. His vision was suddenly flooded with piles of cash.

Just from a glance, it had to be at least half a million dollars stuffed into the opening, maybe closer to seven hundred fifty thousand.

"What the fuck?" Jake mumbled, reaching in to pull out one of the stacks. He inspected it, and then another, halfway expecting it to be counterfeit. It was real.

“What the fuck?”

Where had all this money come from, and how long had Rex been hiding it here?

Jake stared in disbelief, unsure of his next move. Clearly, no one else knew about this money. If they did, there was no way in hell it would still be here.

But still, what was the money for? Who was it for? Or, who was it from?

A noise outside startled Jake. He quickly stuffed the stacks he’d pulled out back into the wall, fixing the hanging piece as best as he could and sliding the couch back into position. His heart raced as he looked around anxiously. It was late, and there was nothing more he could do at the moment.

He decided to leave his discovery as it was, leaving the box of photo albums on the table. Jake double-checked that all the windows were secured, and when he stepped out and locked the door behind him, he made sure his hidden treasure stayed secure.

As he crossed back to your trailer, his mind raced. He needed a plan, but for now, all he could do was keep this secret close and figure out what Rex had been up to.

Taglist: @edgingthedarkness @earthgrlsreasy @wetkleenex-gvf @hollyco @dannys-dream @slut4lando @josh-iamyour-mama @gretasfallingsky @takenbythemadness @scoreofinfantryvines

[hypnostouched]

i forever have dnd brainrot so,,, aftg dnd vibes

Neil is, of course, a rogue. lock picking, quick, lying sneaky lil bastard. In particular I would make him a Mastermind rogue as it comes with disguise profienecy , boosts so lying and vibes of a manipulator. I'd also build him into a wood elf - for the mechanical speed and hide buffs; but id flavour him as a half elf. The Hatford family would be elven and Mary is the one who trained Neil to hide and run. Other than some small things, he would look almost identical to his human father.

Now the Ravens in dnd, to me, are a Paladin order that is a lot more of a defined cult. They'd be a mix of Oath of Glory Paladins (one of their channel divinities is literally called Peerless Athlete) and Oath of Conquest Paladins (Kevin was Glory, Riko is Conquest) Paladins are physical builds with good Charisma and you can think whatever you like about the Ravens, they are charismatic (also to note, intimidation is a charisma skill in dnd)

now Oathbreaker has a very specific vibe but what I will focus on is the feeling of emptiness and darkness that come with it. Kevin is an oathbreaker when he leaves the Ravens, but he won't remain as one indefinitely. He would retake his Oath of Glory when it could mean something different to him (which would align with canon Kevin gtting his new tattoo). For him, being an Oathbreaker is connected to his fear and depression rather than any form of evil (High CHA Kevin is so funny to me bc its canon and i love a CHA build who generally doesnt seem charismatic until they turn it on) Kevin is a high elf seemingly in every way. He took after his mother almost entirely.

As said, Riko is a Conquest Paladin - I would also consider giving him a few levels in Shadow Sorcerer; as something he just is inherently rather than something he's trained to be like Paladin. Riko is also a half elf; most of the Moriyama family are High Elves but his mother was human. Riko can't claim that his family doesnt like him because of this, because Ichirou is also a half elf.

Returning to the foxes--

Andrew is a fighter. Human fighter, a v basic build lmao. he is a champion fighter; he's just a fucking threat.

Nicky is absolutely a bard (glamour). I would love to pitch Nicky as a Satyr because of their interest in freedom, revelry and enjoyment.

(can i just say its so hard to do dnd thoughts when so many characters are related and youre autistic so you have to factor all of that in)

Renee is a Barbarian/Cleric multiclass in the way that she used to be a barbarian and now mostly ignores those abilities to focus on her cleric shit. Light domain cleric. Also she is an air genasi and the colours in her hair are natural and look like the colours of sunset or sunrise on clouds

Dan is also a human fighter but she's a banneret fighter; which has a focus on inspiring allies. Still a threat, just also an inspirational one.

Aaron is a ranger; gloomstalker as he lurks around a lot. Mechanically he wouldn't be as high a level as Andrew. Neil is his favoured enemy.

Matt is a sun soul monk, taught to him by his mother. Bright and also quite scary when he's trying to kill you.

Allison is a bard/fighter multiclass. Similar to Renee, her Bard levels come from before her life with the foxes but she doesn't ignore them like Renee does. Eloquence Bard, champion fighter

[thedragonagelesbian]

Once upon a time, Cyrus Hawke had taken great comfort in pain. Hurt was a kind of testimony-- on the battlefield, in the bedroom, evidence of his physical existence that he could bear witness to and thus discover, again and again and again, his place in the world, both literal and metaphorical.

But there was no solace in this, the fever drawn between his eyes down to the pit of his stomach, throbbing like an open wound, raw and festering and pulsing out to the blurry edges of his being. The tadpole writhed against his skull, its small wriggling form quaking with anticipation. Perhaps it danced in time with its six kin, a coordinated celebration of their metamorphosis, life exalting in the correctness of its evolution.

Their revelry had run afoul of the tea Cyrus usually brewed to help himself trance, spoiling it in his stomach before he could set his mind at ease. The memory of Lae'zel's dagger pressed to his throat wasn't helping anything either. Nothing would at this point, he supposed, slumped against the floor of the cavern and sweating out his last hours like a sick dog.

I could have stopped this, once.

He didn't know if that was true or not, but he had never missed the crackle of divine magic at his fingertips as much as he did then. Like sunshine after a storm burning away the fog, he had once been filled with such warmth. His very blood had run hot with miracles, and he could open himself up to the bodies of others, soothing their ailments.

What was he now?

A voice he had spent decades trying not to dwell on snaked through the aching delirium: You will never be anything more than my champion.

"That is not true," Cyrus hissed, loud enough to hear himself over the blood pounding in his ears, and when that wasn't enough to banish the doubt gnawing at his rib cage, he reached for the knife instead. Nestled by his side, small as it was, its hilt felt heavier than anything he could manage to lift now, but he took comfort in his white-knuckled grip through the leather of his glove.

Whatever certainty he had left, it was this: he would not wait for Lae'zel to end him in the morning. He would not leave his death in someone else's hands.

...Although if he were to leave it to anyone's, he trusted Lae'zel's the most. He knew singularity of purpose and duty and devotion more intimately than he knew anything else about himself. He also knew what that singularity had cost him. He wondered if Lae'zel would live long enough to realize it too.

He watched her sleeping restlessly at the far edge of the camp before, one by one, he took the rest of them in. The cleric of Shar, so convinced of the virtue of her suffering (which wide-eyed fool did that remind him of?). The vampire spawn whose body had not been his own in two hundred years, who could not remember what he looked like beforehand (should he have mentioned it? that he had also forgotten what he had looked like before magic had scarred his body?). The Hells-touched barbarian who had not known comfort or intimacy in a decade (an all-too familiar story). The wizard who had tried to show him the wonders and beauty of touching the Weave (maybe it hadn't been a ploy; maybe it had been a gesture toward mutual understanding. Toward friendship. What miserable irony to finally have friends again only to lose them now...)

And Wyll...

Wyll...

He had a harder time keeping up the facade in his sleep, tail lashing, tossing and turning and knocking his horns against the ground. As his vision began to swim, Cyrus watched him, wishing desperately to be able to take that pain away. For himself, for all of them, for Wyll especially, a man too good for a world that didn't deserve him as its hero.

I'll find you. The thought came to him slowly, pouring like hot molasses over sluggish and slowing synapses. My soul will travel to Avernus and find yours. I won't let you live out eternity there.

It would've been a good thought to end on... but the darkness that claimed Cyrus lasted only a moment. A heartbeat suspended in nothingness, and then light flooded his vision. Blinding and cold, like steel glinting in sunlight, it cut through the fever. He tried to blink the whiteness from his eyes, but all he saw were strands of color mingling with the brightness. Purple and gold and pink and silver shimmering in the void.

And a voice, distorted and distant but closer and clearer with every word: "I came just in time. You are transforming."

A gauntlet, a shimmer, a memory that was not his imposing itself on his mind, and as Cyrus sat up, he saw her: a tall and imperious woman dressed for battle, severe and familiar down to the frightening blue of her eyes.

"Meredith..."

Perhaps he should have known right away that the figure wasn't her. For all the care and detail in its facade, it didn't smile like her, and it had shifted back to give him room to breathe-- room, indeed, to throw up his hand. A gnarl of withered flesh across his palm stood between them in some meager defense.

The next morning, Cyrus would loathe that that was his first instinct. That he had cowered like some caught prey animal instead of bearing his talons and forcing this thing--memory, ghost, guardian--away from him.

"How...? What are you...?"

"Be at peace, Cyrus." A command uttered with softness and gentleness was still a command. "I saved you before." He reeled again as his mind flashed unbidden to the crash of the nautiloid, to the fall that should have left him little more than a smear of viscera against the beach. But something had caught him. She had caught him. How had she...? "And I'm here to save you again."

"No." His voice--a voice he owed to her--cracked. "I do not want to be saved by you."

[cagemasterfantasy]

Satyr Class Rankings and Race Traits (5e)

Guide:

1= Do not play this class with that race

2= Can play but not recommended

3= Decent Choice

4= Perfect

MYTHIC ODYSSEYS OF THEROS SATYR

Satyrs have a well-earned reputation for their good spirits, gregarious personalities, and love of revels. Most satyrs are driven by simple desires, to see the world and to sample its every pleasure. While their spontaneity and whimsy sometimes put them at odds with more stoic peoples, satyrs rarely let the moodiness of others hinder their own happiness. Life is a blessing from the gods, after all, and the proper response to such a gift, as far as most satyrs are concerned, is to accept it with relish.

Ability Score Increase. Your Charisma score increases by 2, and your Dexterity score increases by 1.

Age. Satyrs mature and age at about the same rate as humans.

Alignment. Satyrs delight in living a life free of the mantle of law. They gravitate toward being good, but some have devious streaks and enjoy causing dismay.

Size. Satyrs range from just under 5 feet to about 6 feet in height, with generally slender builds. Your size is medium.

Speed. Your base walking speed is 35 feet.

Fey. Your creature type is fey, rather than humanoid.

Ram. You can use your head and horns to make unarmed strikes. If you hit with them, you deal bludgeoning damage equal to 1d4 + your Strength modifier.

Magic Resistance. You have advantage on saving throws against spells and other magical effects.

Mirthful Leaps. Whenever you make a long or high jump, you can roll a d8 and add the number to the number of feet you cover, even when making a standing jump. This extra distance costs movement as normal.

Reveler. You have proficiency in the Performance and Persuasion skills, and you have proficiency with one musical instrument of your choice.

Languages. You can speak, read, and write Common and Sylvan.

MORDENKAINEN PRESENTS: MONSTERS OF THE MULTIVERSE SATYR

Originating in the Feywild — a realm of pure emotion-satyrs thrive on the energy of merriment. They resemble elves but have goatlike legs, cloven hooves, and ram or goat horns. The magic of the fey realm has given them an innate ability to perform, to delight, and to resist magical intrusion. While they’re usually found in the Feywild, satyrs do wander to other planes of existence, most often to the Material Plane. There they seek to bring a bit of their home plane’s splendor to other worlds.

Ability Score Increase. When determining your character’s ability scores, increase one score by 2 and increase a different score by 1, or increase three different scores by 1. You can't raise any of your scores above 20.

Creature Type. You are a Fey.

Size. You are Medium.

Speed. Your walking speed is 35 feet.

Ram. You can use your head and horns to make unarmed strikes. When you hit with them, the strike deals 1d6 + your Strength modifier bludgeoning damage, instead of the bludgeoning damage normal for an unarmed strike.

Magic Resistance. You have advantage on saving throws against spells.

Mirthful Leaps. Whenever you make a long jump or a high jump, you can roll a d8 and add the number rolled to the number of feet you cover, even when making a standing jump. This extra distance costs movement as normal.

Reveler. As an embodiment of revelry, you have proficiency in the Performance and Persuasion skills, and you have proficiency with one musical instrument of your choice.

Languages. Your character can speak, read, and write Common and one other language that you and your DM agree is appropriate for the character. The Player’s Handbook offers a list of languages to choose from. The DM is free to modify that list for a campaign.

Mythic Odysseys of Theros Satyr ranking

Artificer 1 no Intelligence increase

Barbarian 1 bad ability spread

Bard 4 Bard is easily the most obvious option for Satyr. Dexterity and Charisma work for any build and the additional proficiencies pile on top of Bard’s already above normal number of skill proficiencies giving a 1st-level bard a total of 7 skill proficiencies (counting the two from your background) and 4 musical instrument proficiencies

Cleric 1 same as Barbarian

Druid 1 same as Barbarian and Cleric

Fighter 2 the Dexterity increase is enough to make Fighter work and with free proficiency in Persuasion and a Charisma increase a Satyr Fighter can make a decent Purple Dragon Knight and could serve as your party’s Face. Magic Resistance offers additional protection against spells which are normally a serious threat to Fighters

Monk 2 Dexterity is the only thing that Monk absolutely needs which is good because Satyr doesn’t offer much else that Monk needs. Magic Resistance is always powerful but it’s no better for Monk than for any other class

Paladin 4 with Magic Resistance Fey creature type and Aura of Protection you’re nearly unassailable. Dexterity builds are abnormal for Paladins but totally possible. Be sure to focus on keeping your AC high and you’ll live a long life of partying and adventures

Ranger 2 Dexterity is the only thing that Ranger strictly needs and a Charisma increase and some extra skills help Ranger compete with Rogue’s capabilities with skills. I would still avoid trying to be a Face for risk of being heavily MAD (Multi Ability Dependent for those who don't know tabletop lingo) but it’s possibly if your party doesn’t have a better choice for a Face.

Rogue 3 Dexterity and Charisma are great for Rogue and with Satyr’s additional skill proficiencies it’s easy to cover a broad range of skill-based roles. Keep in mind that Ram can’t deliver Sneak Attack unfortunately

Sorcerer 3 a Charisma increase is great for your spellcasting and a Dexterity increase and Magic Resistance provide excellent defensive options. Satyr’s additional skill proficiencies make it easier to serve as your party’s Face though you can’t compete with Bard

Warlock 3 same as Sorcerer

Wizard 1 same as Artificer

Mordenkainen Presents: Monsters of the Multiverse Satyr Rankings

Artificer 3 Magic Resistance and a tool proficiency. Artificers are extremely resilient physically but they are weak to attacks from spells so Magic Resistance is a helpful addition

Barbarian 3 Barbarians are very susceptible to magic so Magic Resistance is a great defense. Mirthful Leaps can help get over difficult terrain which is helpful for a class almost entirely locked into melee. The skill and tool proficiencies aren’t especially helpful

Bard 4 Charisma based spellcasting synergizes well with Satyr’s skill proficiencies and Magic Resistance is always nice

Cleric 2 Magic resistance is nice but that’s basically all that you get

Druid 2 Druids are notoriously frail so defenses like Magic Resistance are appealing. However they have no use for Satyr’s skill proficiencies

Fighter 3 same as Barbarian

Monk 2 same as Cleric

Paladin 4 Satyr’s best martial option paladins have enough Charisma to make Face skills viable so the extra proficiencies are nice. Between Aura of Protection and Magic Resistance you’re extremely resilient to hostile spells

Ranger 3 Ranger typically doesn't make good Face characters and 2 skill proficiencies won’t fix that. Magic Resistance is nice but that’s basically all that you care about. Fey Wanderer is an exception allowing Rangers to add Wisdom to some Face skills. That unique combination makes the skill proficiencies worthwhile but it’s only 1 of 8 subclasses for Ranger

Rogue 3 Rogues carry a lot of weight with skills so getting 2 more is always nice though Performance rarely sees use. If you just want the skills something like Tabaxi will work better but for a highly skilled Rogue with Magic Resistance there are no better options

Sorcerer 4 same as Bard

Warlock 4 Warlock’s Charisma based spellcasting and love for Face skills makes them a great combination with Satyr. Magic Resistance is very helpful for Warlocks since they don’t have enough spell slots to spend them on Counterspell like other arcane spellcasters

Wizard 3 Magic Resistance is great but Wizards can cast Counterspell and preparing is a minor commitment of Wizard’s relatively vast resources, and Magic Resistance is basically the only thing that you get

@doodl3 Auggie and You're Welcome

[celestiall0tus]

What new powers did you give to the canon miraculous in your aus?

This will need a little explanation as I had reworked the system including the abstract concepts that the kwamis embody. So, I will run down the list and give a brief explanation. Miraculous and Paradise:

Ladybug/Creation - Creation: able to create temporary objects. Lucky Charm: create an aura of good luck.

Black Cat/Destruction - Destruction: destroy. Cataclysm: bad luck aura.

Butterfly/Transformation - Twist: enhances the emotions, desires, thoughts to change people. Akuma: same as the show.

Peacock/Beauty - Beauty: manipulate beauty. Mesmerize: immbolize foes with beauty.

Turtle/Protection - Shelter: same as show. Steadfast: invincibility.

Fox/Deception - Trick: illusions. Shift: shapeshifting.

Bee/Devotion - Devotion: charm. Bless: enhancement.

Snake/Health - Mend: heal minor wounds. Rejuvenate: heal mind, body, and soul.

Mouse/Perception - Perception: see, hear, smell from across the city. Bend: manipulate perception.

Rabbit/Connection - Communication: telepathy. Connection: see threads of fate that connect us.

Dragon/Nature - Form Shift: can shift between elemental forms.

Monkey/Delight - Joy: happiness aura. Bliss: grants a person unconditional joy, pushing out all other emotions.

Pig/Ignorance - Blind: aura of ignorance, blinding people to reality. Ignore: Ignores some rules of reality.

Rooster/Animosity - Wrath: Anger/contempt manipulation. Rage: similar to a D&D barbarian rage.

Ox/Determination - TBD

Horse/Freedom - Voyage: same as show. Defiance: defy the rules of reality

Tiger/Valor - Vaolr: courage aura. Clout: same as show.

Goat/Revelry - Revel: TBD. Indulge: sin inducement.

Dog/Love - Cherish: love aura. Embrace: create love constructs.

Owl/Knowledge - TBD

Lynx/Truth - Truth: truth compulsion. Axiom: see the truths of reality.

Spider/Betrayal - Betray: betrayal aura. Shatter: break the bonds friends, family, etc.

Bat/Fear - Fear: terror aura. Terror: fear constructs.

Raven/Melancholy - Sorrow: sad aura. Detach: become incorporeal.

Koala/Lethargy - TBD

Ant/Drudgery - TBD

Wolf/Intuition - Trail: track. Clairvoyance: see into the spirit realm.

Note: The kwamis are paired off and possess a Miraculous which needs to be used in combination with another kwami. The only ones that really matter are the ones between Ladybug and Chat Noir, and in Paradise, the ones for the Butterfly, Peacock, Turtle, Dragon, and Snake which creates a heaven on earth.

Absolution's system is different. Instead of two powers, they get one power and a second they can use at will. They are as followed:

Ladybug/Creation - Passive: lucky aura. Power: Creation.

Black Cat/Destruction - Passive: unlucky aura. Power: Destruction.

Deer/Intuition - Passive: instincts. Power: Precognition.

Snake/Health - Passive: reinvigorating aura. Power: Healing.

Wolf/Freedom - Passive: teleporting. Power: Defy reality.

Fox/Deception - Passive: TBD. Power: Illusions.

Bee/Devotion - Passive: enhancement. Power: Charm people.

Mouse/Perception - Passive: enhanced sense. Power: Manipulate perception.

Turtle/Protection - Passive: shields. Power: Invincibility.

Butterfly/Transformation - Passive: TBD. Power: Transformation.

[classicschronicles]

Hi lovelies,

I went to an engagement party yesterday, except it was a full out Indian affair and that meant heavily embroidered outfits, massive jhumkas, gold bangles, oud, and a lot of food. The whole event reminded me of Classics lesson I had last week in which we discussed the concept of Orientalism in the Aeneid, and how the East in the Ancient World was seen as the embodiment of barbarism. I’ll be honest, as a South Asian person I still see a lot of negative perceptions of the ‘East’ in every day life, and ask almost any brown girl she will tell you that when she was a child she wished to be less ‘brown’. A lot of us grow into our cultures, accept them and embrace them, but Orientalism is massively damaging and has been around since, well, the ancient world. So today I wanted to talk about the ‘East’ in the Ancient World and why it was so villainised, with specific reference the Aeneid.

Before I start it might be helpful to explain the concept of the ‘self versus other’ and ‘Orientalism’. What that means is the self is seen as ‘Us’ and the other is seen as ‘Them’. To the ancient Greeks, Other meant anyone who was not Greek speaking, and therefore different to them. They described themselves by showing how they were different to the Other. To them, Us meant masculinity, order, Greek, democracy. And so the Other was feminisation, chaos, extravagance, not Greek. They defined the Other with the word barbaros (or barbarian, meaning uncivilised). It was everything that was different, and therefore a threat. Orientalism is a post colonial term ending the the representation of Asia in a stereotyped way that is regarding as embodying a colonialist attitude. Whilst the term is relatively modern (also everyone please go read Edward Said’s book ‘Orientalism’) its negative stereotyping has been around since basically forever.

A great first example to show this, is the portal of the Amazons (a mythical tribe of all female warriors) in Ancient/ Classical Greek art. The concept of Amazons, as both women and women who could fight, was threatening to Greek ideals of masculinity and so the portrayal of them in art became villainised. They showed them wearing Phrygian caps, which was associated exclusively with Phrygia (modern day Anatolia) and any country further East. To show the Amazons as threatening by associating them with the East was essentially Orientalism.

When the Greek initially won the Graeco-Persian wars, for a while the art that was produced of the Persians was pretty accurate to Persia, in a sense of the armour they wore. However, the concept of the Other, and therefore everything the Greeks were not, soon meant that the way Persia was shown changed. They began to feminise the Persian warriors, giving them longer and curlier hair. Before you know it, the Persian warriors stopped being Persian men and instead became Amazons. So now when you art of the Greeks fighting Amazons, you start to realise that the Amazons were a petty excuse for Persians, as a way of exemplifying the Other and villainising them.

I think, perhaps, one of the most prominent examples of Orientalism and the Other is how it is personified through Dionysus and the Maenads. Dionysus, an Asian and most likely Indian God, appears to be one of the most feminised and mocked of them all. He is often seen as having perfumed hair, womanly features, the god of wine, revelry, and excess- not the order that was associated with Greece. In Euripides ‘Bacchae’, they describe him as being associated with the smell of incense. Literally verbatim, this is what Euripides says, “Dionysus is glad when someone in the mountains falls to the ground from the whirling bands, wearing the sacred cloak of fawnskin, hunting the blood of goat-slaughter, the joy of eating raw flesh”. I feel like I don’t even have to explain how that is blatantly Orientalist. But also they call the Maenads barbarians simple because they have followed him from Asia, and the fact that they are women. Also I’ve noticed that in a lot of ancient literature if a Roman or Greek woman is acting in a way that is unbecoming they strip her of us ‘Us’ and make her ‘Other’ by calling her a Maenad and therefore ‘Eastern’.

In the Aeneid, Virgil is just as guilty of this as everyone else. Aeneas, on two occasions, is described by his enemies in a way that highlights his Eastern background as a way to insult him. Iarbas says this about him, “now this second Paris, with eunuchs in attendance and hair dripping with perfume and Maeonian bonnet tied under his chin”. The hair dripping with perfume again feels a bit obvious, and the Maeonian bonnet is a Phrygian cap. However, the bit that is really fascinating is the ‘second Paris’. In the Iliad, Paris is seen as a philanderer, the reason for the war, and ‘queer’. They describe him with such negative attributes whenever they blame the war on him. On numerous occasions he is depicted with his Phrygian cap, lounging on sofas, refusing to fight, oiling his hair, polishing his armour, and acting in a way that was seen as effeminate. Essentially, all the way that’s the Greeks wanted to personify the Trojans (modern day Turkey). So to call Aeneas the ‘second Paris’ is to equate him with this villainised feminisation of Paris. At some point, and you’ll have to forgive me because I cannot find the quote, but Turnus makes a comment about how Aeneas as a Trojan spends too much time curling his hair with hot iron. It’s worth noting that both Iarbas and Turnus are outwardly more Roman that Aeneas initially appears to be. They are masculine, leaders, and warriors, and whilst Aeneas is every single one of these things, he is Other and therefore stripped of them. It’s weird to me that the whole Aeneid is essentially a book describing the evolution of these barbarous Trojans into civilised Romans, insinuating that they are better at the end than at the start, not because they are better people but because they are Roman and no longer Eastern.

Another Orientalist description in the Aeneid is literally everything to do with Dido, the Carthaginian queen. When we first meet her, we have a lot of respect and admiration for her even though she is a woman and a a foreigner. This is because she is a city builder, a term which Romans liked to think they embodied. However, her descent into furor and her lust for Aeneas and as the queen on the foreign shores is, well yeah. A lot of scholars suggest that her character is the archetype of Cleopatra, and after the Roman civil wars and the Battle of Actium, Cleopatra became the prime example of Other and the corruption of the Eastern lands. If we take that to be true then Mark Anthony is meant to be Aeneas, the general who is seduced by the sexual woman from an exotic land. Also literally read what Virgil says about Cleopatra later on and it explains it all, “with him sailed Egypt and the power of the East from as far as distant Bactria, and there bringing up the rear was the greatest outrage of all, his Egyptian wife!… In the middle of all this the queen summoned her warships by rattling her Egyptian timbrels – she was not yet seeing the two snakes there at her back – while Anubis barked and all manner of monstrous gods levelled their weapons… In terror at the sight the whole of Egypt and of India, all the Arabians and all the Shebans were turning tail and the queen herself could be seen calling for winds and setting her sails by them” Again, this image of the East being other and the women being monstrous, and the Indians and Arabs and Egyptians and Shebans uniting together in an attempt to defeat the ‘pioneer of civilisation’ (Rome).

There is so much more I could say, for instance Nisus and Euryalus and Camilla, but I feel like this is turning into a rant. As amazing and as beautiful as ancient and classical literature is, it clearly has its own stereotypes and unfortunately, because of how much Classics influences us today, it manifests itself in the post colonial term that is ‘Orientalism’. This is something that is so fascinating to me so I might do a part two at some point. Anyways! I hope you all learnt a little something from my ramblings and hopefully I’ll see you all next week xx

~Z

[ymera-dathurn]

((Had our last in-person D&D session last night with the crew before the DM and one of the other players go back home to Chicago. It was the final round of the festival tournament we were taking part in, and it was the most intense combat we had experienced yet. No deaths would be had by the rules of the presiding order, but boy howdy did we feel like we were fighting for our lives. We were on the back foot for much of the battle, with the enemy team working like a well-oiled machine (they briefly took out our paladin, *twice*).

It was only with a lucky string of ability rolls that we turned the tide. Our fae-blessed barbarian Steff experiences a Wild Magic surge every time she rages, this time resulting in a holy lightning bolt firing from her chest at a target of her choice (she chose the leader of the group, naturally). He failed the save, resulting in sustained radiant damage and blindness. Unfortunately, his team powered through her rage and took her out a few rounds later. But then, in a stroke of genius, our dragonborn druid Nyomtasaliath managed to line up a few of the enemies such that he could catch three of them with his lightning breath, with only one of them saving. Lucky for us, it was enough to finish off the one opponent who was forcing disadvantage on our attacks, helping to even the field. Then, as if he wasn't carrying enough, he pulled our paladin Daffodil back from the brink twice with some ace use of healing word augmented by his Starry Form. For my part, Ymera is still not quite what I'd call good in a fight (she's more comfortable outside of combat), and her steel defender Feredir was down for the count in the middle of the crush, so all she could do was take shots at whoever she could, scoring a few decent hits. Our echo knight fighter Naidys was holding her own, spawning her echo as often as she could and keeping two of the opponents busy.

It was thanks to Nyomtasaliath's lightning breath, Steff's blinding lightning bolt, and Daffodil's searing smites that we managed to start whittling down the opposing force one by one. The enemy's leader, a Large Lad™ by the name of Rubid, was the last to go down, and he made us fuckin WORK for it. It took three rounds of 4-on-1 combat to finally finish him, at which point Ymera had a single spell slot left, Nyomtasaliath and Daffodil had none, Steff was down, and Naidys was badly injured. A tough fight, but we turned it around. After the awards ceremony, our PCs all went to bed, exhausted and proud of our victory, as the revelry of the rest of the festival attendees continued well into the night.

And then, like a jerk, the DM finished the session by saying, "We see the hanging lantern casting the pattern of the stars on the tent roof, slowly turning above you, lulling you all to sleep. This view fades into the sky outside, the sun slowly rising and dispelling the dark of night. And that's when the screaming begins."

Goddammit.))

[hrodvitnon]

Bit of a dnd question for you: What do you think a cleric of Dionysus would be like? Flavor wise thematically, and mechanically. I'm currently thinking of them being in what I call the revelry domain. Debuffing enemies with spells that inflict feelings of drunkenness, emotional highs, and being good at persuasion. Instigating both parties and riots alike in equal measure, just something that I've been thinking over and wanting to know your thoughts on the matter.

Sorry to say I'm not the best at technical thinking around game mechanics (I play a lot of "roll dice and hit shit" barbarians and fighters), so all I can really offer is that it sounds like it'd be a fun character to run and appropriate for a cleric of Dionysus. As for flavor... maybe bring a container of grapes and talk like Dionysus as he sounds in Hades?

[gobboguy]

Chapter 6: Gelbeg Dreams of the Future

In the heart of the forested mountain pass outside the city of Gorkin, the Orcs, once nomadic warriors, had established a thriving settlement on the border of the Calonia Duchy. What had once been a modest encampment of a thousand Orcs had transformed into a bustling community, now teeming with life as their numbers soared to over five thousand. The camp sprawled across the rugged landscape, a testament to the Orcs' resilience and adaptation to a more settled life.

Inspired by the neighboring humans and dwarves, the Orcs had begun to embrace practices of forging, blacksmithing, carpentry, and stonework. Though their innate intelligence posed challenges, the Orcs compensated with an unparalleled capacity for mimicry and replication. The settlement echoed with the sounds of clanging hammers, the hiss of molten metal, and the rhythmic thuds of axes shaping wood and stone. Though innovation was a slow process, the Orcs, under the guiding hand and intelligence of Gelbeg, were on a journey toward becoming a true society.

The camp, once defined by the transient nature of Orcish life, now boasted sturdy structures – primitive houses, forges, and workshops. Orcish artisans, their craft evolving through trial and error, mimicked the techniques of their human and dwarven neighbors. The settlement, nestled within the natural embrace of the forest, became a testament to the Orcs' newfound stability.

As Gelbeg oversaw the gradual progress of his people, the Orcs' intelligence, once an impediment, became a catalyst for transformation. The air buzzed with a palpable energy as the Orcs, driven by a collective desire for growth, strived to carve out a distinct identity in the heart of the mountain pass. Their journey from nomadic warriors to builders and artisans unfolded beneath the watchful gaze of the surrounding mountains, a testament to the resilience and evolving potential of the Orcish community.

As the night cast its dim veil over the Orcish camp, Gelbeg lay beside Lushak within the confines of his tent. The air within the space was thick with the musky scent of fur and the remnants of the day's feast. Lushak, deep in slumber, emitted a chorus of snores and oinks that resonated through the tent, her pregnant form shifting beneath a warm fur blanket – a tangible promise of the future of the Orcs.

Within the dimly lit interior of the Orcish barbarian tent, the ambiance reflected the raw essence of Orcish life. The walls were adorned with crude tapestries depicting battles and conquests, illuminated faintly by the flickering light of a dwindling fire at the center. The air, heavy with the musky scent of fur and the lingering aroma of a day's feast, created an earthy atmosphere that spoke of both celebration and survival.

Nearby, the remnants of a roasted pig sat on a crude wooden table, its succulent scent wafting through the air. Half-empty cups of bloodgrog, steamed in the cool night, stood as witnesses to the evening's revelry. The discordant sounds of Orcish revelry outside the tent seeped through the fabric – distant chatter, the rhythmic beat of drums, and occasional roars of laughter. The tent, though rough-hewn and simple in design, held an undeniable warmth, its interior bathed in the ambient glow of the fire.

Gelbeg, contemplating the uncertain future, lay in a quiet moment of introspection. The interior of the tent bore witness to the rough yet comforting aesthetic of Orcish life – simple yet functional. The sounds and smells intermingled, creating an atmosphere that reflected the raw essence of the Orcs.

As Gelbeg pondered, a question lingered in his mind. Would his intelligence pass on to his children? The ability to reason and think as he did could be the key to the Orcs' future. He considered Lushak sleeping next to him. She wasn't called "The Fertile" for no good reason. By the age of 8, she had given birth to half a dozen litters, consisting of over 6 whelps per birth. A mighty number blessed by MOG. All of her children had grown to be fine warriors, proud and strong, strengething the Orc nation. It was for this reason he chose her as his Bloodmaave, for the children of their union would grow to be conquererors and rulers. It was Gelbeg's fervent hope that the mixture of their blood would produce the next generation of Orcs. Orcs who possessed both the strength of heroes and the intelligence of scholars. In a playful gesture, Gelbeg slapped Lushak's ample butt. In response, she grunted in her sleep and emitted a noisome fart, a comical symphony that drew a hearty laugh from Gelbeg. Lushak shifted in her sleep and nuzzled close to him, dreaming of future victories for her and her whelps.

Resting his head on his hands, Gelbeg let his thoughts drift into the realm of dreams. The flickering fire cast dancing shadows on the tent walls as he envisioned a future for his family and the Orcs – a future shaped by both the untamed spirit of the Orcs and the evolving intelligence that, he hoped, would endure in generations to come.

[no-more-tales-tavern]

Tavern Regular: The Devil of the Seas

NAME: Captain Scourge Maelstrom RACE: Tiefling CLASS: Cleric (Tempest Domain)

STR 14 (+2) INT 9 (-1) DEX 17 (+3) WIS 17 (+3) CON 16 (+3) CHA 11 (+0)

GENDER: Male (He/Him) AGE: 32 HEIGHT: 6' BACKGROUND: Pirate PERSONALITY: The charismatic and cavalier leader of the Devils of Emon, Scourge is bold and outgoing, outspoken and intense. Despite that, he is known for his immense kindness and generosity, with a friendly and welcoming persona whenever he docks in a port town. Also, despite being a pirate himself, he has a surprising distaste for pirates, and especially the pirates that sail under the Revelry's banner. BACKSTORY: Originally raised in an unwelcoming orphanage, Scourge quickly found himself an urchin on the streets at the age of eight, and a stowaway on a large shipping vessel at the age of nine. That vessel quickly came under seige of pirates, and Scourge found himself taken on as a deckhand when the captain showed him mercy. His life quickly turned around as he became that captain's student, then first mate, then successor. He would have sailed the seas forever, too, had he not met a certain band of devils in the city of Emon.

The Devils of Emon

Forged the day the band of tieflings and travelers first met each other in the city of Emon and assisted each other in a calamitous quest a few had been undertaking, the Devils of Emon are regarded as the successors of Vox Machina. They have since taken up residence in Greystone Keep on the outskirts of the city, and have close relations with a few of the former residents. Scourge is the unanimous leader of the group, despite his initial protests to the contrary, and his joined by:

Verdant Wilde (Beastmaster Ranger Tiefling) Omega (Infernal Warlock Tiefling) Kyrie (Astral Soul Monk/Archfey Warlock Tiefling) Varris (Oath of Redemption Paladin Tiefling) Thorne (Way of Drunken Master Monk Tiefling) Aqua (Thief Rogue Tiefling) Gamora (Berzerker Barbarian Orc) Jean Ironwood (Gunslinger Human)