#survivors of barovia
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Happy birthday to @tenderlyangstyfox! A moment of calm with our tiniest Curse of Strahd PC Ferret and her mother, the Seeker
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I just checked my queue and it’s around 350 posts, 90% of which I think is interview with the vampire. Contemplating sharing things I’ve written for Ravenloft or campaign resources just to counteract how far I’ve swung into being an iwtv blog lol. It wasn’t my intent to go this far into it, but it’s hard to beat the momentum of a new-is fandom.
#also I did a thousand year vampire playthrough a few years back#with Sasha Ivliskova as my MC#and I’ve been kind of tempted to share pieces of it bc she’s my babygirl now and I don’t see enough people talking about her#my sasha is heavily inspired by the survivors of barovia game tho
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Gottlieb Xinger now has a GUN.
…Gottlieb is a survivor of Drow House Wars. As a child, he was smuggled to the surface by the members of Bregan D’aerthe and was placed in an orphanage in Luskan. He then became their minion, performing small crimes, burglaries and thefts as a repay for his survival. Members of Bregan D’aerthe were known pirates and always carried gunpowdered pistols with them, which were madly expensive for an orphan like Gottlieb. This deadly and ornamented weapon couldn’t be compared to any knife or sword.
A hundred years later, in Barovia, he stole a musket from a trap in House of Lament. Now, he would rather die than be separated from his gun, as it represents him overcoming from his past and taking back the control over his life. Even if he chooses to separate from civilisation and live in a forest alone, that’s still his own choice.
#gottlieb xinger#digital art#dnd#dungeons and dragons#dnd art#dnd character#dnd drow#dnd ranger#curse of strahd
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Day 7 - Ireena
The warrior, the survivor, the blazing flame of Barovia.
In this AU, she has trained her whole life to be able to leave. To stand a chance once she is able to leave.
Hopeful but stubborn. The woman would stare down a hell hound because she is angry and full of determination to get out.
For context, in this AU, Ireena has an interesting relationship with Rahadin as he found her hunting once when she escaped Ismark's watch. Out of curiosity and to watch over her for Strahd, the elf observed her and taught her how to shoot. She knows he works for Strahd and distrusts him but sort of comes to realize he won't tell Ismark about her antics...and hasn't brought her to Strahd so she tolerates his occasional presence (they have occasionally associated for three years on and off).
Strahd is aware but doesn't see anything romantic about it as he believes Rahadin is not Ireena's type. He sees it as an excellent chance to keep an eye on her.
Rahadin does what Strahd says but also finds Ireena's company pleasant enough especially in comparison with the other residents of Castle Ravenloft.
Ireena occasionally teases him a little bit.
#anime style#digital art#artists on tumblr#character art#original character#curse of strahd#dnd character#horror#curse of strahd character#cos ireena#curse of strahd ireena#ireena kolyana#rahadin#curse of strahd art#strahdtober#art#murder elf and disney princess#happy halloweeeeeeen#halloween
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A portrait of Itzyll Kaliauk, divination wizard, hexblood, witch, cursed Hag's daughter, Barovia survivor!
#art#dnd art#oc art#digital art#digital illustration#dungeons and dragons#commissions open#original character#character art#character design#oc: itzyll#oc: Itzyll Kaliauk#curse of strahd#curse of strahd character#dnd character#dnd character art
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So: context. According to Curse of Strahd, Strahd may attempt to turn unusually charismatic or cunning player characters into vampire spawn, particularly if they are also unusually arrogant. And- well, that's Excellence in a nutshell. She very narrowly avoided being made into Strahd's latest spawn consort after the Ireena thing went badly wrong for him (if not for Ireena). Added to which, even after Strahd was (temporarily) slain, his spawn were unleashed upon Barovia, and that was not of the good. And she had to do the whole staking-the-loved-one thing with one of the members of her first adventuring party back in the day - I lean towards Oriax Scapegrace, the group's leader and the one who recruited her and was one of her main mentors. Excellence has a lot of reasons to distrust vampires, and waking up with Astarion's fangs at her throat did not help matters.
But- She likes Astarion, is the first thing. They get on like a house on fire, and there may be no survivors. She's got to know him as a person, and that's- not something she's done with many other vampires. It makes it a lot harder to consider just staking him, at least when no real harm has yet been done to her. She's not sure she can do that again - the look of betrayal and confusion as the stake slammed home in her mentor's chest has haunted her for a very long time now. And- She came so, so close to being where he is now. If her luck had been just the slightest bit different, if she hadn't been rescued from that situation by Ez D'Avenir and Professor Van Richten, she'd be where Astarion is now, and that flash of what being a vampire spawn under Cazador is like has definitely got her inclined to be sympathetic even if her guard is still up.
She's still got a stake in hand the whole time Astarion is feeding on her, and if he didn't stop when she said 'stop', she'd do it, but- she's extending a bit more trust than would be sensible under Ravenloft logic, and she knows it. It could very well bite her in the arse- she knows damn well what her old friends and colleagues from the Demiplane of Dread would say if they could see her now - but...they do need each other. And she wants to believe he might be trustworthy.
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twitch_live
With Sofia's wereabouts still a mystery, and Strahd himself seemingly back in Barovia, what could be in store for our mist hopping survivors? Find out in-
Ravenloft: Heir to the throne - Episode 23
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CoS ask: 1, 3, 5, 7 (any or all :3)
oh goodie goodie all of them of course. gabbing incoming
How much of your campaign is RAW, how much is other people's homebrew, how much is your own homebrew?
it's actually almost all raw! i changed a few things for sensitivity issues (i can't dm the incest and racism in the module, and my players didn't want to have to play through it either so it worked out) but it was mostly just taken out. the exception are the belviews who can't just be taken out, so i made them be the survivors of the berez flood with their own reason for wanting body mods that my players don't know yet. still not the most normal folk, but the abbot does treat them kinder than in the module lol. the biggest thing i homebrewed was putting escher in vallaki because a player wanted a slowburn romance with a vampire who wasn't strahd, but don't worry he had a bad reason to be there and it hasn't been easy for them. other than that, it's almost all RAW, but not just what the module says, if that makes any sense? i did some extrapolating and connecting things to characters' backstories, but it's nothing that isn't at least implied in the text or that you can't connect some dots for (and. getting rid of the something blue. sergei's still there, ireena just doesn't do that. just because the module doesn't understand her narrative purpose frfr)
i use three homebrew things: the lunchbreak heroes VR's tower, as well as their idea of doing quests for the revenants to set them free (just tweaked to fit our storyline a bit more), and the interactive tome of strahd but i don't remember who made that one (but again changed to my liking)
OH lastly i also made arik talk. not much, and not saying anything of value, but it led to an iconic conversation where they were taking notes so i went "it's arik. with an a." and they nodded and were like "right a-r-i-c :) thank you" so i had to go "it's also spelt. with a k."
3. What did your players do with Doru?
it's a bit of a mystery to them exactly what happened after they left. one player convinced the party to leave him alive, and the vampire in the party gave donovan a little written note on how often he'll probably need to be fed. she had good intentions but it certainly changed how things are in barovia the village right now
5. What's the biggest curveball your players threw at you? Or just something wild/funny they did?
i was surprised by just how much they try to have minimal impact. i don't mean it in a negative way, they just really go through the world trying to keep the status quo exactly where it is with the reasoning that everything will get better when they kill strahd. they do good turns here and there for sidequests (the revenants, the martikovs, arabelle) but when it comes to big actionable things like vargas vs fiona, izek wanting to protect ireena, and the abbot, they try really hard to get everyone to just put everything on pause until strahd is dead
but for an actual curveball, they went back to the abbot to get lydia's dress at one point, and they pulled a rules lawyer move on him. "we didn't say how long we would let you borrow the dress for." the abbot as i play him could only just
and return the dress. he doesn't like them any more. they're bringing the dress back to him though after realizing it's probably a good idea to have someone who can cure all diseases and raise the dead on a whim on your side.
7. What's your named character death count so far? (Players, friendly NPCs, villains.)
surprisingly low! 5 iirc. one pc, one npc related to that pc (rue and mikael respectively), father lucien, lady wachter, and kiril. related to the previous answer i guess, my players really try to navigate as quietly as they can through the world, and those were just these situations that were unable to be dealt with without death. they didn't even kill the hags! (strahd was the one to kill lucien, to clarify. my players liked him)
#asks#curse of strahd#addition to 7: they might have killed lydia petrovna but they aren't sure so i'm not putting her on the list teehee#corgisenpai
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Curse of Strahd, Act I: Pt. 1, Ch. I -Disparate Company-
D&D Campaign Retelling Part 1/6 Chapter 1/5 ~3.9k words Content Warnings: Curse of Strahd typical content, Read at own risk
Summary A hollow Ghost with a haunted heart. A lost Rebel seeking the missing. A sharp-tongued Charmer carving his own fate. And a Holy Man carrying the dawn's light. Each drawn from the lands of Faerûn like cards from a cursed deck and laid upon blood spilled Barovia. Their fates intertwine in the mists, but secrets and demons follow these souls into a world that will chip away at their limits and break them body and spirit. Four broken pieces, one story. Follow them through the misty forest and into the shadow of Barovia.
Emet An’srivarr found his hand absently wandering over the silversteel holy symbol in his pocket. A recent habit and one he’d already like to break. The gentle weight of it once rested over his chest where any could see, a token of not just his faith but his purpose and position. Now the tarnished metal sits like a stone, hiding beneath the faded folds of his dark clothing, the black of the fabric a shallow shadow of what it once was.
Like him…
His eyes narrow at the thought, not liking the comparison. Yet it is one he cannot deny either. The ghost of a survivor, the ghost of himself, and as a few wandering eyes are drawn his way he realizes the ghost of this town. Long wavy white hair drifts past his broad armored shoulders and sharp elven ears, the strands brushing past pale silver eyes narrowed in permanent suspicion beneath a darkened brow. With ashen greyed skin fully wrapped from neck to toe in the faded black cloth and slate metal of his unadorned armor, he likely looks like a wraith. But he’s use to it, half remembering the jests of those who once fought beside him. Now ghosts themselves.
But ghosts don’t wear scars. The dead are absolved of every symbol of pain, even the deepest mar smoothed like clay beneath a stream in death’s waters. It’s as though the sorrows of life cannot touch the soul—not truly. A strange comfort perhaps, but Emet still wears his.
A long winding scar—fresh enough to stand darkened against his pale flesh, but old enough to have mostly healed—cuts across his face, disappearing beneath the high collar of his shirt. A few others decorate his chin and ear, disappearing beneath the dark faded collar and stretching into an elaborate tapestry of pain beneath the shadows of his clothes where none can see.
Emet’s fingers continue to wander the hills and valleys of the embossed metal symbol buried in the folds of his pocket like an addict pawing at his next fix—always craving, never satisfied. He constantly finds his nails tracing the cold metal these past few months, his hands seeking the irritant like sand in the mouth of a mollusk. But this irritant will never smooth into a pearl for him.
The moon elf frowns as his nail traces the deep cut that now scars the familiar face of the holy symbol. The blade that caused it wasn’t particularly sharp, but the force behind it parted more than just the metal. Emet forces his hand to release the token of his dead life wishing he had rid himself of it. It is tarnished with dried blood he’ll never get out.
His mood soured with memory, Emet stalks past the customers of the Nightmare Bridle Tavern like a towering wraith. Many eyes follow him, some glazed with the dull shine of drunken malaise that will turn this moment into a half remembered dream the next morning. Did you see that giant’s ghost in the tavern? Emet’s shoulders brush past the heads of those around him, heads that then turn to stare wide eyed up at him as he passes. Having the blood of giants somewhere in the annals in his ancestry gifted him with an imposing figure that makes it difficult to simply blend in and slip away. Something he greatly wishes for in this moment.
Quietly slipping toward the final patron blocking the door—the red cheeked man spouting loud boastful tales of conquering another ten ales this Harvest Tide—Emet’s pardons go unheard. He hesitates then steels himself as he sets a light hand on the man’s shoulder, easing him aside to slip past. The large rosy-cheeked man—human, this one—whips around for a fight and practically looses his bowels as his eyes meet Emet’s chest instead of his eyes, the lush forced to look up for what might be the first time since his chest sprouted that forest of hair rolling out of his shirt.
“When the fuck did we get giants?!”
Emet ignores him and steps through the now cleared doorway, shaking off a tremor as he rubs the hand that settled on the other man’s shoulder. He can still feel hands on him, still feel their fingers as they grasp him, clinging to him. They never let go. Never let him breathe.
Emet forces his lungs to take in a steadying breath of autumn air as he skirts around the tavern, the bite of the night’s cold filling his lungs with a sharp chill enough to stop the panic before it spirals. He watches his warm breath swirl about his face in the light of the bright windows spilling out honeyed light of hearth and flame mixed with the sounds of clinking glass, loud laughter, and tall tales. He can still feel their hands like cool weights on his skin, but at least he can breathe now.
The moon elf stalks beyond the merriment spilling out the tavern’s walls and into the festival crowds with their bright colorful lights, walking further still until the people become fewer and the noise dims beneath padded shadows.
There at the edge of the town with its bright festivities stands a crooked stable, its weary walls leaning heavily against a line of trees at its side like a crutch. Hobbled and humble and right where the barkeep said it would be. Merely a handful of steps past the tavern so even the drunkest of patrons might stagger their way back to their steeds.
The weathered barn looms above Emet, its rickety doors shedding paint like snakeskin with the gentle sound of horses nickering beyond. Every inn several miles out is spilling out drink and drunkards like over-poured wine. This sagging stable is all the town has to offer him for the night, the rooms all booked to the brim with visitors and travelers come to enjoy the festivities. Part of him absently wishes he could say the same, but as Emet’s hand pauses on the door’s rusting latch, the glint of amber lashed to the back of his gauntleted hand holds his attention once more.
No. He is here for a very different reason.
A paladin once, now a no one who will spend his night in the company of horses. It seems fitting…after what happened…
Emet gives the aging barn’s tilted doors a light shove, the wood scraping firmly through an old channel in the dirt. Paint flakes off around his gauntlets like snow as the rusted hinges let out a banshee wail grating against Emet’s sharp elven ears unpleasantly. Within, several sets of eyes meet his, only a few of them belonging to the horses.
It seems his night won’t be spent alone after all.
A shame.
Atop the hayloft, a young half-elven woman with a grudge against the world glares at him as though he’s already personally offended her. One eye a shade of blue befitting the strange caverns beneath the sea, the other a white so pale it pierces the soul, stare out from a pale pointed face covered in metal piercings. Several studs and rings decorate everything from her brows to her chin, her lips painted in a dark pigment and eyes lined in kohl. The woman’s long black hair is shorn short on the sides, the length of the top streaked with a shock of white and teased into a mohawk above her armored shoulders.
The armor is fitted perfectly to her form—made for her—not bought or borrowed, but crafted with care. It’s the shoulders that give it away. The plates sit perfectly without a gap between her neck and the chest plate. And though it is well made, it is not well worn. No small dents left over from battle, no little scrapes missed during a buffing. It is too pristine to have been worn anywhere outside of ceremony. The short dark skirt worn over fishnets and the thick platform boots that add a handful of inches to her height are an unfamiliar sight to be worn under armor, the boots tapping dully against the floor in an irritated rhythm. The young woman glares at Emet with an open grimace as though he’s let himself into her personal chambers. Though by the two other “guests” present, this is far from a private space.
A roguishly handsome tiefling man leans back in a half broken chair flipping a silver coin and looking in desperate need of a drink. His hellish red skin holds a faint light even in this dim space as though the infernal blood within can never be darkened and the rust-brown of his eyes carries the weight of some unspoken tragedy. Dressed in what might have been fine leather armor once, the tiefling hides the wear beneath a well worn overcoat kissed by the dark charcoal singe of fire. Emet swears he can scent the faintest hint of old smoke about him.
It’s clear the man’s thoughts are a world away. Emet’s not sure the man even realizes someone else has shown up to their little party. He eyes the twin horns curling tightly over the tiefling’s skull like the dark hair slicked back with oil. A sharp red tail swishes across the dirty barn floor, sweeping aside errant straws of hay and a bow string stretches tightly against the man’s chest, the longbow itself bearing darkened char along one edge as though seared in flame. Emet can’t help but wonder if the mortal devil clawed himself up from hells this very night just to grace this barn with his presence. He certainly seems the commanding type, someone who expects attention even as he changes faces like masks. Charming as a thief and half as handsome. Trouble, in other words.
Seated between the two, crosslegged atop a bale of hay with a shepherd staff set across his knees is an older human dressed in faded gold and white robes. Chained mail glints faintly beneath the folds of the cloth and a shield emblazoned with a sunrise over a green field leans against a nearby post. Tanned skin weathered into a map of lines beneath his smooth shaved head, the man holds his face with the warm reverence and serenity Emet has only ever seen in those most secure in their devotion to the gods—forever at peace with the chaos so long as celestial words can claim a divine plan in them. A metal sun hangs on a chain around his salt and pepper bearded neck, framed perfectly between wrinkled strong hands held in quiet prayer. A holy man, but not the same god as the forsaken token in Emet’s pocket. Lathander, if Emet isn’t mistaken. God of Life or Light or some such revered notion.
Though the holy man wears the contented smile of those raised in the comfort and security of those cages they call temples, forever sheltered from the blood soaked earth beyond their holy walls, this one carries callouses not worn by books or parchment and the raising of hands in song. Strong hands thickened by hardship press together at the fingertips in prayer, that accursed sun glinting between them. And if one weren’t looking—weren’t studying—the way Emet finds he always does, they wouldn’t see the faint scars along the large knuckles or the ones hidden in the ridges of the human’s weathered face. They wouldn’t see the faint crease in the metal around the sun on his shield as though hastily hammered out by an unskilled hand. One that couldn’t afford the blacksmith’s hammer.
Each of them are armed and armored in their own fashion, dangerous in their own right, Emet suspects. One would think them a party of adventurers if the distance between them did not whisper strangers. Seems the barkeep will make a pretty copper off more than just Emet for such accommodating lodging this festival season.
One of the horses whips her head and stomps her hoof as if in response, snorting disapprovingly at the latest intruder to her kingdom of hay this night. Emet gives the horse a comforting click of his tongue and a gentle rub along her soft nose in tribute before moving past to find his own place among these strangers.
Two blades rest on his hips, one a simple steel short sword that looks more like a dagger with his height, the other the bladed end of a glaive broken off at the haft, now wielded like a sword. His hand rests atop the broken glaive as he approaches, out of habit if nothing else. A wave of memory crashes like the sea against the walls of Emet’s mind when his hand brushes the purple cloth wrapped along the broken haft, the rich color stained darkly in old blood. But he swallows it down bitter as salt water, turning the emotion aside to glare at the amber shard lashed to his hand instead.
It led him here, but why?
What good is a town enthralled in the merry throes of a festival for him? What answers could he possibly find in the eyes of drunks and celebrants. Being surrounded by strangers is the last thing he desires when ghostly hands grasp his soul and refuse to give him peace—
A crash of heavy thunder and the blinding flash of lightning answers his anger, the burst of heaven flame filtering through the unsealed wooden plank walls in sharp lines across the hay strewn floors, startling the horses into a frenzy. Emet doesn’t remember the skies being clouded, the moon was bright just a moment ago.
The storm beyond the barn picks up, heavy winds battering the timeworn frame and sending little twisters of loose hay spinning across the floor.
What is this?
All sound of festivity fades and drifts away. Not the sounds of a party winding down for an unexpected storm with the curses and laughter a sudden rain would bring, but as though the barn were set atop a raft being carried away on the deck of a departing ship. The sound of celebration continues unbroken, slipping away across the distance until only the storm remains.
Mist and fog slither through the walls, curling and pooling across the floor, beckoning. The amber lashed to Emet’s hand hums and glows faintly brighter, the stone lifting his hand like a lover and pulling him towards the doors as the crooked panels are thrown open in a burst of powerful wind. He tries to hold his ground, but the amber pull is relentless and something in its call wraps around his mind with a gentle caress, numbing his senses and he finds he wants to follow.
A white feather bathed in golden light sweeps past Emet’s face, carried on strange winds out the barn doors toward the thick mists. The old holy man chases after it with a youthful spring in his step and behind him the half elven woman grips a brooch at her neck, leaning back slightly as though someone has taken hold of it and drags her forward. Emet’s own amber shard continues to urge him to follow them and he gives in with the promise of answers filling his head. Behind them all, the tiefling follows at full sprint, the distant expression now wide eyed and sharp as though flames lick at his heels.
Beyond the swaying barn doors, mist swallows the town like a wave. Crashing and spilling and consuming until there is nothing beyond the hazy shadow of the what was beyond the veil. Buildings fade to great looming shapes, people dissolved into little more than blurred silhouettes and washed further still until they are no more. A whole town swallowed whole.
Still they run, the old man chasing his blazing feather now leading the group of strangers like the beacon of a lighthouse in the empty. All fades beyond the fog, all shapes and shadows dissolved into mist. There is no time for understanding or stopping to question why, there is only the desire to survive. Each driven forward with a pull and a promise. Sweet wordless whispers of answers.
Beneath their pounding feet, another pulse beats. It begins slow, barely noticed beneath his boots at first as Emet follows the amber shard’s pull and the beacon of a feather. But the pulse deepens, striking the bones of the land with an unmistakable ripple of power. He wonders if he treads across the chest of a sleeping god before everything suddenly stops.
An impossible silence swallowing every breath, every beat, every thought.
And just as quickly as it set, it passes.
The fog withdraws in bowed supplication, the tendrils wrapping like fingers of the dead across his feet and face before slinking back. Emet’s pulse quickens as that cool touch leaves him, a spike of some raw and desperate thing within him reaching out with feral claws to drag it back—No! You can’t take—a familiar gentle chill settles along Emet’s arm with a comforting press.
I’d thought…
The presence remains unwavering, soothing the ravaged creature inside the forsaken paladin. The others soon return as well, their touch unwelcome and sending nauseous chills down Emet’s spine. Grasping him desperately, holding to him like an anchor in a storm. Emet wants to crawl out of his skin, shake them all off—all but that one—but he can’t. His heart continues to run a race behind his ribs, the pulse pounding in his ears long after they all stop running, but no…Emet breathes, settling his nerves.
The others did not see.
Good.
But his concern shifts as he sees what holds the others’ attention. An ancient forest of dark trees, barren boughs tangled and withered, reaching endlessly like beggars hands toward the dark gloomy skies above them. Though the impossible silence is gone, part of it still remains. Only the whisper of wind through the aged branches speaks in this place. A light rain starts, the drops falling like tears over his armor.
A path stretches ahead with no worn ground behind, starting at the very place where their feet stand, here in the midst of nowhere.
The old human leans down to pick up his snow white feather, no longer alight in holy glow, no longer carried on guiding winds. The brooch around the young half elf’s neck and the amber shard along his own hand have stilled as well. Emet shifts his blade arm beneath the black cloak draped over one shoulder, brushing his hand across the broken glaive once more as he surveys their new surroundings.
Emet’s voice is soft and rough, worn at the edges. He swallows back the last remainder of tightness in his throat as he asks, “Do any of you recognize this place?”
“What do you think I am, some kind of hobo?” the half elven woman bites back, old venom behind the youth in her voice. Her glaring eyes hold a strange kind of magic behind their judgement. Not the glint of a wizard’s pride or the mystery of eldritch power whispering through, but something else. Something he can’t quite place.
The tiefling turns on them all. In one swift motion, he draws the short sword at his belt and traces its point across each of them, “Which of you magic idiots did this?”
The half elven woman eyes his blade with a snarl, “I’m not a fan of people who draw weapons first and ask questions after.”
The tiefling sees the wall of eyes watching his every move with hostile intent. Something shifts in his expression and body language then like a costume being changed, a new role to better fit the part as he waves the blade around like it wasn’t just pointed at them before finally sheathing it, “I’m pointing it, it’s not a threat.”
A lie. The “charmer” of a tiefling changes his tune with deft ease, shifting into a new part to better play the people before him like a bard switches songs before the crowd can chase him from the stage. He will be one to watch carefully. Emet doesn’t buy the wasted breath of an excuse for a moment and neither does the rebel half elf.
The charmer sets his hands on his hips, mumbling half to himself with a drinker’s rough grated throat, the faint whiff of alcohol likely permanent on his breath, “Right well, I’m gonna track my way back.” His eyes wander over the unfamiliar terrain, “…or to somewhere with civilization. You can come along if you want,” he adds almost as an afterthought. “Nice, uh, whatever.” The charmer waves them off dismissively, already abandoning the false niceties as he checks the path ahead.
Wagon tracks start beneath their feet, coming from nowhere and leading deeper into the fog of the dark forest. No other souls in sight, no town, no civilization. Nothing. Everything swallowed by the mist and the strange forest.
Emet sighs, “Seems we’re stuck together for now.”
“Oh no, you guys are stuck,” the charmer sweeps a sharp finger across them like the sword not moments before, “I’m not stuck. I’m getting out.”
The tiefling turns on his heel and trudges down the strange wagon path as though he’s walked it a hundred times before, never once checking to see if anyone follows.
“I think we should follow the man.”
The holy man’s voice is deceptively young, lilting with an unfamiliar accent that brings to mind deserts and endless sun, lands Emet has never seen and only heard of in books.
“Hey, old guy.”
The holy man regards the half elven rebel eyeing him. She wears a different expression than the ‘burn the world with you in it’ one she’s given Emet since the moment he walked through the barn doors. “You’re human right? Trouble seeing in the dark?”
Though her words are full of condescension, Emet notes a faint hint of concern.
“Yes, but I can do this.” The holy man grins and speaks a few hushed words beneath his breath. Spreading out like molten glass from his hands, the shepherd crook lights up in a dawn glow with a flash of magic.
The rebel gives him an approving nod and uses the same spell on her own armor, though the light shining off the formal chainmail is a deeper blue in color.
“I think we are where we are meant to be,” the holy man shrugs. “At least for me.” He walks off after the charmer still powering down the path, the mists half swallowing him from view already.
Left behind, Emet and the rebel share a brief look. She chews a painted nail, its end chipped with polish peeling like tree bark as she absently worries away the edge with her teeth. Pinching her eyes shut, she whispers a soft ‘fuck’ and drags her heavy boots through the mud to catch up.
Emet knows he’ll follow. Where else is there to go, after all? But his eyes wander back to the amber shard lashed to back of his gauntleted hand like an arcane focus. Its smooth surface is dull and stagnant, all echo of its guidance and promises now gone. Taking a chilling breath of the icy air, Emet follows the silhouettes of those ahead of him into the mist.
A rebel, a charmer, and a holy man. What did that make him?
#curse of strahd#dnd#d&d#dungeons and dragons#strahd von zarovich#d&d campaign#dnd campaign#dnd vampire#barovia#strahd#dnd fiction#dnd fic#my fiction#fiction writing#dark fantasy#gothic fantasy#my writing#creative writing#writeblr#writers on tumblr#dnd strahd#ravenloft#strahd campaign
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I posted 20,106 times in 2022
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@nil-the-glitch
@the-ruler-of-rabbits
I tagged 1,724 of my posts in 2022
#save - 137 posts
#neverafter spoilers - 52 posts
#lmao - 36 posts
#i love this - 33 posts
#holy shit - 17 posts
#owo - 17 posts
#ough - 16 posts
#neverafter - 15 posts
#cackling - 14 posts
#technoblade - 14 posts
Longest Tag: 140 characters
#she’s a girlboss she’s a manipulator she needs to be liked by everyone she’s actually super awkward but doesn’t show it i love her so dearly
My Top Posts in 2022:
#5
girl help the animatic i have for sun and moon to will wood and the tapeworms’ “dr. sunshine is dead” is incredible but it’s a) in my head and b) out of my artistic rangge
11 notes - Posted January 13, 2022
#4
SHAMING YOU SHAMING YOU SHAMING YOU SHAMING YOU SHAMING YOU SHAMING YOU SHAMING Y---
*does my silly little dance of shame*
12 notes - Posted November 8, 2022
#3
Tell me more about Del? :0 btw I support womens wrongs 💖
HELLO HI YES
oh my god i love del she is so beloved to me she is my first dnd character i ever made and she is so good and somehow she is still alive, she’s a water genasi swashbuckler rogue (level 7)/hexblade warlock (level 1) except she got that hexblade level from the literal fucking kraken to help protect her Actual warlock friend who also serves the kraken
her girlbossing comes from lying directly to various people’s faces. one time a shopkeeper was vaguely racist to her (she’s blue and they were in Barovia) and so she got a nat20 to intimate him into giving her all the shit she wanted for literally nothing. she also lied directly to strahd von zarovich’s face a couple times and while that made me as her player So Fucking Nervous she bluffed her way through like no one’s business. she did it again recently when the literal head of the mage’s guild was found out to be corrupt and she went to confront him about how her alchemist friend got cursed when he was supposed to be watching the wards. she’s also a constant poison hoarder she’s got like 6 different poisons at all times (never know when you need to assassinate a noble)
the rest of her party includes:
aforementioned kraken warlock who sucks at Everything but magic shit (lovingly) - @melchoinsassy
Big Sister Rogue Mentor/Friend - @aikogumi
forest druid/green dragon sorcerer who’s kind of oblivious and is also a fucking wereraven somehow - (don’t remember her blog sadge)
coast druid who was also somehow related to strahd and also is ingratiated into the feywild and can also cast fireball if she’s angry enough (spoiler: she always is) - @b0redt0wn
way of shadows monk/bloodhunter who worships the stars and also kicks ass in combat - @musical-in-theory
cult survivor paladin #1, former neverwinter royal guard but now a full-time mom (both for the party and for the construct child she found in Barovia) - @4everinvideos
cult survivor paladin #2, former bane loyalist with a brother still embroiled in the cult who is actively working against us, she also refuses to practice self-preservation - @the-ruler-of-rabbits
18 notes - Posted October 28, 2022
#2
ok but something that’s eating me alive is the fact that we know. we know. we are almost 100% certain that the wolf transformed ylfa into a werewolf herself, right? (or werewolf adjacent). like that’s the whole thing. that’s not really the question here.
the question is: when was she turned?
cause i can see Two possibilities here, and i don’t know which one is worse:
a) ylfa strays off the path, wastes too much time, and goes to her grandmother’s house, only to find the wolf there already and her grandmother dead. as she tries to escape, she’s bitten and turned, and she runs back home to her mother
OR
b) ylfa strays off the path, and runs into the wolf. bitten, turned, and frightened, she runs to her place of comfort, her grandmother’s house, but turns completely and kills her grandmother. she awakens, and horrified by what’s she’s done, she runs home to seek answers
141 notes - Posted December 1, 2022
My #1 post of 2022
holy shit
14,866 notes - Posted September 8, 2022
Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →
#tumblr2022#year in review#my 2022 tumblr year in review#your tumblr year in review#LMAO#tw misinformation#look i made that meme in the heat of the moment
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A late birthday present to Nui of @green-makakas
Edena, our Curse of Strahd sorlock, and the spirit of Kavan who very unexpectedly became her hexblade patron
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Update on that: we survived. Then repaired as much as we could and back with us on the road (again)
We found a lovely, sweet letter on our accompanying squire, thanking someone unknown for their services. The dwarf and human were wondering who that mysterious patron could be, that he coud send a letter to Barovia to them?
We travelled to the Knight hideout, to give the survivors the body. Have a chat (weren't invited into the house) and leave for the swamp.
News Alert: the carriage is on fire,
the horses are scared and nearly died,
everyone got hit by the blast (except the investigator)
and the cleric is down.
A good start, hopefully we will witness an end to that!
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Party that travels toghether baths together (our first team picture!)
#DnD#CoS#dungeons and dragons#dnd art#Curse of Strahd#survivors of Barovia#PC: Lady Arisa#PC: Ferret#PC: Paelias#PC: Edena#PC: Vincent#art#by: foxda
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I’m playing Ireena Kolyana for a new Curse of Strahd campaign! Very super nervous but excited, too. My Ireena is a bookish ranger with survivor’s guilt, a healthy dose of fear that she never wants to show, and a determination to make Barovia a better place in any little way she can.
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intro ophelia lore is just: lesbian vampire having just THE WORST time
IT IS <3 but here's the slightly longer version
Ophelia Tenebrae is mechanically a Vampire (Dhampir Stats) Ghostslayer Bloodhunter / (Future) Redemption Paladin
Her weapon of choice is a chain whip (a homebrew weapon I've been using on and off for three years w/ different characters)
The majority of her Bloodhunter abilities are flavored as aspects of her vampirism, though her rite of the dawn specifically connected to the fact that she wears a consecrated cross that is constantly turning her blood into light which is KIND of a terrible experience when you're undead.
However, Ophelia has a terrible self esteem, issues with self loathing, religious baggage, and survivor's guilt so it's FINE for her, she's doing GREAT.
Her main deal as a character is about how to love yourself when you don't like the person you've become and how do you learn to love all of the people you once were so you can love the people around you without being afraid they'll abandon you.
It's also about playing with what it means to be a monsterTM (untrusting of your control over yourself, dangerous actions to try to keep herself in check, punishing herself for things she had no control over and cannot go back and change, breaking into pieces when anyone shows her basic compassion and care)
Her whole insecurity and issues with loving herself while wanting to be loved and love others has a lot of parallels with Strahd's whole deal, it's very fun and sexy especially with the history they have.
She's one of the souls that has been stuck in Barovia since it became a dread domain so she's constantly reincarnating (and cannot remember her past lives). Said past lives include: a luthier / militia deserter, strahd's hot cello-playing vampiric trophy wife, and in this lifetime ward of the church of barovia turned sexy woodcutter turned exhausted shame vampire living in the woods.
She has several love interests despite being the most pathetic, wet-cat of a person ever (she's working on it, she loves SO much it is just hard to love herself), including: her childhood best friend in this life / a person she's been reconnecting with in several different lifetimes as they inspire each other to change and grow (luce 🥰), ireena kolyana, & COUNTESS STRAHD (her wife 😔 they're technically still married. Ophelia does not Know This.)
Ophelia and Defenestration go hand in hand. 💃🪟
Her entire motivation for joining the party is because she can't stand to be emo in the woods anymore and wants to do something about Strahd and regrettably, realizes, she needs friends 🤢 to accomplish this. Now she's there because she's worried and attached to Ireena and still needs the friends.
Ophelia is very cagey and hates talking about herself (she's convinced anyone that finds out what she is will hate her because she hates herself) thus comes across as very antisocial and standoffish. She does not mean to be rude. She is just INCREDIBLY socially awkward and was so even before she lived alone in the woods for fifty years.
She's very sweet and sensitive, but it's gotten her hurt so often (and she's hurting so much), she's resorted to numbness. When she lets herself feel it's often so overwhelming she starts to cry <3. Ophelia's also kind of a doormat, something she's slowly unlearning, and she's recently unlocked in this life the ability to let herself be angry at the people who have hurt her.
Ophelia has a habit of playing dumb, both as a self protection mechanism when authority figures / others are upset at her. It's easier to let it happen and say "I don't know" instead of standing up for herself. However, playing dumb is ALSO one of the only ways Ophelia expresses a sense of humor. She Loves Committing to the Bit.
She plays the cello (in multiple lifetimes), knows three additional languages other than common, can read and write music (mostly in her past lives), and likes carpentry and woodcarving.
Ophelia acknowledges that technology and the arcane are real and understands the basics of how they work but also REFUSES to learn anything more because frankly that is above her paygrade. She is a simple guy. She does not need to know.
Honestly, peak Ophelia endgame is getting to be wifeguyTM. She just wants to take care of someone and live a nice, quiet life. (She cannot cook for shit.)
and this is entry level ophelia lore. if i went into more of the details of her backstory this would get SO long and I think talking more about how Funny of a Person she is is more interesting and important to understanding why I'm obsessed with her.
#ch: ophelia#i think im going to start a tag for just the posts that are about explaining ophelia Lore and not just like. me screaming about her and eve#ophelia lore tag
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No it’s completely valid to view him more than one way, I agree. And I love myself a good tragic villain, especially as a fan of the Strahd von Zarovich of Barovia backstory.
Ascended Astarion is an incredibly interesting character to me because of the fact that he, as a vampire lord, holds an almost disproportionate amount of power over the player (if they choose to be turned) that is hard to ignore as the game progresses (which is kind of what got my brain thinking about this made up game in the first place, lol!) But at the same time, he is the same Astarion that you adventured with and grew to love in many ways. The most interesting part is that he *does* still care, just in an incredibly fucked up, inhuman way. Because he doesn’t see you as an equal. And that superiority complex is one that pops up in his character far before he ever makes the decision to kill 7,000 odd to ascend himself.
It’s not hard to see how he goes from this:
To this:
It reminds me of Omniman from Invincible’s comment about seeing his own wife more as a “pet” than as an equal, y’know.
For a really long time, I hated Astarion as a companion. He annoyed me endlessly, he reminded me too much of horrible men I’d met irl and the amount of holier-than-thou shit he says early on doesn’t give the best first impression. But I found myself really identifying with a lot of his story, especially the amount of vulnerability he allows you to be privy to, and the trauma of being abused is something that I feel is handled poorly in a lot of stories. Not his, though. Hearing Neil Newbon at the GOTY awards talking about how much this character means to both him as a survivor of abuse and to the many survivors in the fandom who see ourselves in him - even when he’s decided to continue the cycle of abuse and torture that was visited upon him by Cazador, and visited upon Cazador before Astarion even came into the picture - kind of solidified this metaphor in my mind at least. I feel like the metaphor within the game itself is pretty backed by Cazador’s journal, Amanita’s journal, and Cazador’s thoughts when in his healing slumber, along with the fact that nearly every single spawn of his refers to themselves as his slaves, only referring to themselves as his children for what is essentially a platitude.
Again, *I personally* feel like it’s the most interesting way to read the vampire plot within the context of BG3 specifically, and the one that resonates more closely to my own sensibilities, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be flavored to be more classically “romantic” gothic the way Strahd is. And I’ll definitely never make the argument that mine is the only valid way to interpret it because it’s just objectively false, heh. I’ll always be a person who prefers unAscended Astarion, but his Ascended path is endlessly interesting to me regardless.
also, i just have to say, thank you so so much for the intellectually stimulating conversation! i love talking about interesting characters on the internet. i’m a relatively new fandom blog but i’ll probably post more abt evangeline and my dark urge on here really soon.
✌︎('ω')✌︎
envisioning a one-shot pixellated video game campaign based off of BG3 and premise is your tav and the party reunited to bring an end to ascended!astarion. and his boss music is a rendition of megalovania
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