#saliferah tag

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i wasn’t actually planning to add to this but. got a little carried away

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i was planning on doing more with this (i was gonna do an entire party shot tbh but lost steam) so i never posted this BUT this is my favorite saliferah i've ever drawn. the cheekbones. the chin. perfection. mwah mwah mwah

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i decided that instead of “listening to dnd canon” (gross) saliferah worships Pelor, god of the sun

get it

cause she’s a snake

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i posted some Saliferah writing to AO3!! check it out

Taking Her at Her Word - the saliferah / charlotte smut i was promising to post

The Day Martin G. Fredrickson Died - the Saliferah kills her husband fic

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fancy parties are a staple. and boy, ferah is going to go nuts

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based on true events from last session

i’ve known she had this rage button for awhile, but it only just now got brought up in-game. having a shitty, invalidating ex-husband would do a lot to a gal like saliferah

ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

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saliferah has a cruuuuuuuuuuuush

jennie is playing Pavlova, a russian half-orc/half-goliath barbarian

we were fighting graboids (y’know. from Tremors) and pavlova managed to scoop saliferah up right before she got pulled underground and swallowed. right after this happened, they both started missing every attack, which lasted until the end of the encounter

assigned disaster gays by the dice

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saliferah, in order to solve the murder mystery, used her racial trait to cast “suggestion” on the killer to get him to confess

we love a good girlboss

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so

saliferah's trans, right

and idk, between her and that poem i just reblogged, i...i've never been connected to womanhood, right. i have a lot of very conflicting feelings about it. at first, i think i clung to the lesbian identity so hard because i was put in the box of "woman" and from there put in the box of "because you're a woman, you have to love men"

and now that i've rejected the woman box i've kinda come to a place where i can embrace my love of men on my own terms, if that makes sense? i like to say i don't love men in the same way as a cishet woman would. i don't even know if that makes sense, let me try to explain.

i love men in a way that's informed by my queerness, informed by my knowledge of toxic masculinity and unfair standards men are held to. i buy my boyfriend flowers. i hold the door for him. i love him in a way that tries not to put any expectations on him that are based solely in the fact that he's a man. he's allowed to be gentle and soft and goofy and i think a lot of guys aren't given that chance, y'know? i try to love him in a way that will give him a better kinda standard for the people who come after me---i love him in the best way i know how so that he won't settle for less later. i like to say i love him in a butch way, a protective way, a way that doesn't assume he's invincible because he's a man

i have a lot of thoughts and feelings about this kinda stuff. but back to the main point i wanted to make with this post

saliferah's trans. and in a way, i've become more appreciative of womanhood playing her. i've seen her love of the feminine and the embracing of all the things that make my skin crawl---long hair, dresses, makeup, lipstick, high heels, a petite physique and a desire to be small and dainty. i've seen her embrace these things on her own terms and...idk. it makes me so much more appreciative of womanhood in general

there's a post that went around forever ago that was talking about how there's a trans person out there somewhere who has embraced the deadname i was given and the pronouns i used to have and has found comfort and a home in them. and...all of these things make me so wibbly about the trans experience (not that there's just one, but you know what i mean)

i love trans people. i love the creation of the self through transformation. i love being queer. i love being able to embrace all the little nuances of my own experience through exploration of the self and exploration of the world around me

i'm so glad i found chase. i'm so glad i found summer. i'm so glad i found my own gender as early as i did. i'm so glad i'm queer, and trans, and i'm so glad there's other queer and trans people out there who are doing their own thing every day.

i guess...to all the baby queers out there: there will be a day where you're as comfortable in your own body, gender, and sexuality as i am now. and i hope that day comes soon for you. and if it doesn't, i hope you believe me long enough to stick around and find out what that looks like for you

love you all. take care

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one of saliferah’s like, little Things she does is sometimes she calls people “doll.” mostly women, mostly women she’s interested in.

this is inspired by seeing the “darling (condescending with gay subtext)” post and realizing that “doll” is that but with 1000x more sexual tension

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(whispers) i am so normal about dnd things i am so normal i am not gnawing at a table thinking about how my dnd character is going to retire to become a florist with her wife and become pillars of the community i am so fucking normal i am so so sos os oso so normal i promise. ignore the gnaw marks on the furniture. come closer

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someone was talking about the disrespect towards southern accents manifesting in giving them to characters as a sign of low intelligence/punchline and tbh??

i gave saliferah a southern accent bc a high femme trans woman with a femme fatale kinda thing going on who has a sultry deep southern drawl and whose primary method of killing people is tied between a musket and pepperbox was the sexiest thing i could think of thank you

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SKETCH DUMP

i have been so obsessed with these two lately. utterly completely obsessed.

a little bit about the sketches:

pavlova has them tig ol biddies

the size difference in their hands slays me

lol

I AM SO INCREDIBLY SOFT (pavlova has russian nicknames for saliferah. this one is basically “smartie pants”)

(gnaws a clipboard in half) i am so normal

this exchange happened in canon

this exchange has not happened in canon, but seemed in-character

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The Florist / The Florist’s Wife

They said The Florist could help with any problem you had.

The Florist lived at the edge of town with her Wife. They tilled a vast garden, growing the flowers The Florist sold in her shop. They lived in a simple house that was said to be open to anyone who needed help. Often, The Florist could be found sweeping her porch while The Florist’s Wife chopped firewood nearby. 

The two of them were well-known within the community. If you had need of labor, talk to The Florist’s Wife. If you had a problem no one else could solve, talk to The Florist.

Spreading rumors about them was impolite, and discouraged in the community. However, people talked. People talked of the two of them, doing jobs around the country to make the world a safer place in their youth, before retiring here to live the rest of their days together. The jobs they did before, no one could agree on—killing monsters, killing people, solving murders and working on the side of the law before venturing outside of it in their later years. 

Everyone agreed on one thing, though: they were on the side of the people.

The Florist and her Wife were hospitable. Often they could be seen hailing travelers, inviting them in for a cup of home-grown chamomile tea and a slice of dandelion bread. The Florist and her Wife were somewhat of a landmark for travelers—anyone headed to Trawl was pointed their way, as their farm marked the final, hour’s long stretch before the city itself. 

They said that the Florist could help with any problem you had. If someone had no one else to turn to, they could always travel the hour to the Florist’s and have tea with her and her Wife. Nine times out of ten, the problem would be solved within the week.

Sometimes people had things killing their livestock that no one else would investigate. Sometimes young girls had admirers who wouldn’t take no for an answer. Sometimes people had abusive spouses. Sometimes people needed an extra hand to keep them safe.

The Florist, it’s said, would listen to these problems, offering a sympathetic ear and another poppyseed muffin. After hearing the problem, she would retreat with her Wife to converse on the matter.

Sometimes, The Florist went out with her musket. Sometimes, the Florist would simply have to talk to people. Sometimes, The Florist would hand them a small vial and advise dosages to achieve discomfort or death—a half dose for painful, a full dose for painless. Sometimes both The Florist and her Wife would show up somewhere in town—unassuming, but their presence was a silent warning.

The Florist traveled. Every winter, when their garden rested for the spring ahead, she would travel the world and return with the first thaw, full of stories, carrying seeds from far off lands, and happy to be home with her Wife.

The Florist’s Wife wasn’t a miracle worker, and wasn’t regarded as such. Whereas The Florist could shoot a direwolf between the eyes from four hundred paces, The Florist’s Wife was more akin to a workhorse. 

If you needed to raise a barn, you talked to The Florist’s Wife. If you needed help calving, you talked to The Florist’s Wife. If you needed someone to carry a fifty pound sack of grain home from the store, you talked to The Florist’s Wife.

The Florist’s Wife was a champion of the people, it’s said. She wasn’t afraid to knock heads together when other pillars of the community were bickering with their petty infighting. She wasn’t afraid to use her impressive height and large build to intimidate others into silence, if they were loud—or cooperation, if they were curmudgeonly.

She wasn’t a ray of sunshine, and neither was The Florist, but they were both warm and personable, and often seemed content with their little house and their farm and the shop where The Florist sold her arrangements.

People from the community always paid back to The Florist’s Wife during the winter. While The Florist was away on her trips, people would visit—bringing fresh baked bread, jam, preserved fruits, salted meats. They would bring her supplies, company, and things to do during her long and lonely winters. 

The Florist’s Wife always knew when The Florist was returning home. Some people said she could feel it in her bones—those who work with the post know that The Florist wrote frequently while away on her trips. Regardless, right at the beginning of the thaw, once a year, The Florist’s Wife would venture into town, whistling an upbeat tune—the lyrics accompanying which were about a jolly sailor bold returning from months at sea.

The passenger ships were regular with their passage. Every week, a passenger ship would make the trip across the strait, departing on Monday and arriving on Friday. It was these ships she was waiting for.

The Florist’s Wife would wait by the docks for the next ship to come in. From morning until sometimes late in the evening, The Florist’s Wife would make herself busy around the docks and surrounding shops—helping people carry their purchases, lending a hand with heavy freight. But she never strayed far from the dockside once she caught sight of the ship she was looking for���she would graciously excuse herself and apologize for the inconvenience, but state that she had business to attend to.

As soon as the gangplank was set, the Florist would come leaping across, carrying whatever bags full of baubles and trinkets she had acquired while away on her winter vacation. She would set her bags down a distance from the ship and cross the rest of the distance to her Wife with leaping bounds, to be picked up by her Wife and spun around and around, until the dockside was alight and alive with their laughter, overjoyed upon seeing each other again.

The Florist and her Wife would kiss, and then make the journey home. The Florist’s Wife would carry her, and The Florist would gush about all the wonderful things she saw on her trip. The two of them would make it back home, The Florist would greet her land, and the two of them would go inside. After so long apart, they needed the time alone—everyone in town knew that the day The Florist got back was to be spent with her Wife, not with the problems of the community.

The particularly romantic would remark that nothing even started to bud on their farm until The Florist returned home—even the land would miss her when she was gone.

But every spring, like the sun coming back, she came back to her home and Wife and land. And every spring, like the renewal of the land, she was renewed and ready to help for another year.

The Florist and her Wife.

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in any case, my reputation as continuing to treat dnd as a massive, elaborate dating sim continues!! saliferah slept with one of our murder suspects!!! (who was NOT guilty of the murder)

so anyway i wrote smut. should i post it??

i don’t have polls or i would make a poll

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TAG NINE PEOPLE YOU WANT TO GET TO KNOW BETTER

tagged by: @surprisegents!! thank you

currently reading: i could not tell you the last book i read :(

favourite colour: orange :) a nice, warm orange. one of the pretty ones.

last song: wicked ones by dorothy. i’m listening to saliferah’s playlist a lot

last movie: puss n boots, the last wish!! it was a really good movie, would recommend

sweet/spicy/savory: sweet 100%

currently working on: i’m trying to get sacrament published?? im tinkering on other writing stuff as well, i have another runevieve thing that’s been in the works for ages

im not going to tag but if this looks fun to you GO FOR IT and tag me!! :D