#the ears are tiny and round with a tail that’s relatively slim | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

murdersexual · 4 years

Note

So... When are you going to post that LeoPika fic? 👀👀👀

Mane bet... 😏 But I might delete it later! Here’s part one!

🚨WARNING!🚨

Rated MA for Mature Audiences only. NSFW.

Sex, Drugs, Alcohol, Gambling, Gun Violence.

NOT COMPLETELY PROOFREAD.

May have a few out of character instances for I wrote this around 3am, so please excuse that.

✨Ship/Pairing✨:

LeoPika (Leorio x Kurapika)

March 3rd, XXXX, En route to World Resorts Casino, around 9:47pm:

The weather in Yorknew hadn’t exactly started to reflect that it’s close to Springtime yet. It’s still cold and snowy but that wasn’t going to stop the event that’s being hosted by some of the biggest names in Underground Crime.

We’re talking about a night full of sex, drugs, alcohol, gambling and music.

It’s also the night of Leorio’s 21st birthday and he’s in town, steaming hot for he’s yet to receive a ‘happy birthday’ call from a certain Mafia Leader with the most gorgeous of light blonde hair. However, that’s not all... In general, Leorio is ultimately tired of trying so hard to be the glue to what’s considered an already unfixable relationship. The point of his visit this time is to give Kurapika a piece of damn mind for what may be the final time.

What a way to spend his birthday, right?

The hot blooded koi fish found himself strolling down the cold streets of Yorknew by his lonesome. His enticing hazel gaze is relative to the weather... Cold and piercing. He wore the meanest of faces with his lips decorated in a sheer pout. Then his face and ears are red from the whipping of the snow and frosty winds. The thoughts that went around his sophisticated skull only ruses him further. With each step he took, the snow crunched beneath his expensive waterproof combat boots. The sound gave him a slight sense of calm—one that managed to steal attention momentarily.

“I forgot the last time I’ve even enjoyed the Winter...”

The words came rolling off his tongue. His eyes slightly softened as he now comes to a brief halt, a soft sigh exhales from the tall doctor-to-be. He finds the dark sky that slowly drops the small white flakes. Being the jovial spirit he knows he could be, he sticks his tongue out and catches a few of them. His handsome features are now graced with a soft smile only to see the lights of his destination illuminate the skyline. With a low growl, he’s reminded of his current goal.

“Bet even YOU won’t see me coming...”

His icy glare returns and the tone of his voice has lost all signs of benevolence. His words came out way darker than they should’ve.

But can you blame him though?

Continuing his traverse through the snowy lands of the busy city, he adjusts his earmuffs while now stuffing his gloved hands back into his long black winter coat. The brunette’s hair is messy and filled with snowflakes, such a look makes him appear rather gentle despite his mood. His trademark circular shades are gently shaded from the current weather but that doesn’t stop him from seeing now does it?

‘When I get there, I promise this time I’m gonna knock his fucking lights out.’

The thought got his adrenaline flowing. Now he yearns to cause physical damage. The question is... will it actually happen? This IS Kurapika here. He’s not gonna sit there and take that shit, UNLESS... he ACTUALLY accepts such a punishment.

Leorio knows how aggressive he can be but he is more angry than sad. He won’t ever come to say it...

But the idea of not being called on his birthday genuinely hurt him.

It felt like a slap in the face, especially for everything he’s done. He’d never miss any birthdays or special occasions and it’s to the point where he feels like it’s only him who thinks that way.

‘I give too fucking much to not get much—better yet, NOTHING in return!’

Being a person with a heart the size of the world this is the curse: to always be dealt a hand that’s never going to win. Knowing him? He wants to break that curse and by default there’s no better way to do it than to throw hands. His actions always spoke louder anyways.

Crossing a few streets and nearly fighting one of the people who almost hit him, he finally makes it to his destination—World Resorts Casino. Entering through the slide open glass doors, the bright slots, signs that point to everything and even the neon-like decor nearly blinded him. The smell of expensive imported cigars, cigarettes, various alcohol and a multitude of different colognes and perfumes filled the air. His nose burned from the mixture of scents all around. A low grunt emits as he now removes his gloves and earmuffs. Stuffing both in his pocket, he proceeds to walk ahead while undoing his silver buckle, his finely seamed gold buttons and his golden zipper. It revealed the finest of outfits!

He’s wearing a sleek black slim fit blazer that fits rather nicely around his muscular arms, a jet black satin button up that’s halfway unbuttoned at the top and neatly tucked in his matching sleek slacks that’s accented with a gold buckle Gucci belt. Tapping his feet to rid of the snow from the bottom, he walks on ahead only to meet one of the Casino Bunnies.

“Welcome to the World Resorts Casino, my fine gentleman! If you’re looking for the event labelled ‘How To Play Russian Roulette With a Criminal Mastermind’, it’s from the second floor on up! Here’s a complimentary welcome drink! May you enjoy your time here~!”

Giving a quick bow, the busty beauty now switches away, her semi-exposed cheeks had a little bit of a wiggle to them much like her makeshift bunny tail. With a smirk as he watches her, he stirs his drink and takes a sip, now charmed by how well it’s mixed.

“Not bad!”

Heading to the stairs that’s decorated in the cutest of roulette wheel numbers, he heads up, his ears are open and listening to the music that’s being played. He hums while trying to figure out what floor Kurapika may be on...

Speaking of him?

Kurapika’s right hand reaches for the roulette wheel, the midnight blue and black ombré nail polish that was still on his hands matched with the blue and purple ambience that is on the 8th floor. In his left, he held a half empty shot glass, now proceeding to spin the wheel. His right leg is crossed over his left, his foot gently swung to the beat, a soft smirk now decorating his face for he’s caught up hosting the Roulette Table.

“What’s your bets?”

He asked the two players, a woman in a black short evening dress that seemed one size too small, her breasts looked as if they were about to pop out of it and her bodacious hips, butt and thighs made the dress rise to the point her black g-string nearly showed. But it’s a good thing she has her legs crossed right?

“I’ll take all even on red, my kind sire~”

Her voice cooed, almost in a flirtatious tone towards him. To be honest, she’s been debating on attempting to charm him since his grand appearance earlier in the night. He knew that just from her gestures and body language alone. Those light grey orbs swished over to the woman beside her, she held herself up, a cigarette now being doused out in an ashtray, she wears a smile on her ruby red lips as she now casually blows smoke into the air.

“Mmm, can luck be a lady tonight~? I think I’ll take all even on black, hun~”

Sipping the little bit of cognac that’s left in his shot glass, he sets it down and looks to the wheel while mentally trying to calculate who’s going to win this round.

“How much?”

The busty lady was quick to answer...

“I’ll put 100 genie on my red~”

The ruby red lipstick lady smirked at her.

“Hmph, I’m a bit of a daredevil, so I’ll do 700 on my black~”

With that being said, he spins the wheel and actually narrows his choice down to who’s going to win.

‘Ruby, otherwise she wouldn’t have bet so much. She’s confident that all black on even will be victorious. And she’s not wrong... Tara’s bet was a safe one so there’s a lack of confidence in her choice. I know I’m the reason why she’s picked red... I have my earring to blame.’

“And the winner is...”

His eyes carefully watched the wheel as it began to slow up. The tiny little ball clicked and clanged until it fell onto...

Black, 26.

“Ruby.”

‘Just as I thought.’

Indeed, he knew it and with a gasp of disbelief, Tara pouts before reaching in between her breasts and pulling out a total of 800 genie. She hands it over to Ruby who takes it and waves it like a fan over her.

“Mmm, I can smell that vanilla perfume with a hint of boob sweat~ You were nervous weren’t you, doll face~?”

Tara gives an eye roll and crosses her arms over her chest.

“Hmph! What’s it to ya? Ya won already!”

She squeaks angrily. Getting up from her chair, Ruby wanders over and stands behind her before leaning down and wrapping her arms around her, she plants a kiss on her cheek before using her alcohol tinged tongue to sensually lick the shell of her ear before nipping at it and tugging on it. She purrs playfully.

“Better behave yourself, kitten~”

A soft squeak emits from Tara who huffs softly. She hates how she plays at one of her many weaknesses.

“Oh fine! But you’re on the couch tonight!”

“As long as my face is between your legs, I’m fine with that.”

The exchange between the two didn’t really surprise the blonde. As a Mafia Leader, he’s come to accept the shit he’s gonna see on a pretty regular basis. Taking his ice cubes and holding them into his cheeks he sets up for the next spin only to receive a call.

“Ugh...”

He knew whose voice it was off the back. He blinks his eyes closed as he slides the answer icon to the right and places it to his ear.

“What...?”

On the other line, that soft voice of Melody’s muttered...

“You have a visitor on his way to you... He seems very pissed...”

But who exactly is SHE referring to?

‘Oh don’t tell me...’

“Who…?”

He was enticed to ask anyways.

“I think it’s Leorio! I-I’m not sure, the only heartbeat I recognise that’s this fast and full of anger is yours though... It doesn’t seem like him at all...”

His eyes found the sky as he worded ‘my dear family, I do apologise, but fuck me gently with a fucking chainsaw, please, speed on low and blades on extra sharp.’ He made Tara and Ruby giggle for they read his lips perfectly. With a gentle sigh, he asks...

“Okay... so is it him or not…? I’m in the middle of hosting the roulette table...”

Her answer would’ve been immediate for she could hear the irritation starting to ruse. But before she could answer, she was spotted by the angry Leorio. His eyes glinted as he knew she was snitching.

“U-Uh!”

“MELODY!! TELL THAT FUCKER I SAID... BE READY TO FUCKING FIGHT!!”

Now leaning to his left hand to pinch his nose bridge a dreaded sigh left Kurapika.

“...Great.”

👀👀👀

I see that you’ve made it this far... This is ONLY part one. I currently have three full parts. So if you’d like to see the rest? Let me know! (EWW I CANNOT WRITE WTF! 🥲) I do apologise if this is all over the place but I knew that I’d get asked to post this some time around!

#hunter x hunter #hxh #hxh 2011 #oneshot #writing #leorio #leorio paladiknight #Kurapika #ask #ask response #anime #hxh imagines #one shot #fanfic #part one #thanks for the ask!#casino

13 notes · View notes

wordsturnintostories · 5 years

Text

show me your rosettes, baby (g)

summary: The world tour is over and the Bangtan Boys finally get their well-deserved break. When Namjoon suddenly can’t find Jimin anywhere, things take an unexpected and pretty unbelievable turn. word count: 2.8k note: part 1. finally. to be honest, I love this part so much. hope this will explain the title a little better... ✨ warnings: minor angst but fluuuff!

masterlist | moodboard masterlist

The World Tour is over. Bangtan has arrived home a couple of days ago. Namjoon still receives proud and cheerful “Well done”s whenever he checks in at the company. It’s obligatory for him and the members to come to the company every now and then even in their time off, a time that should be used for resting. It’s preventive, to avoid a crash-and-burn situation like other artists experience after a great tour. Bangtan’s health, which includes their mental health, is a priority and gives Namjoon once again reason to appreciate how the company takes care of him and the others.

So he comes in every day, spending a couple of hours in his studio, either mixing new songs or writing new lyrics or discussing concepts with the planners who already are on their marks for the next music videos and albums. Yoongi does the same. They go together, both having chosen this option that Bang Sihyuk gave them.

The other members are here and there. Seokjin, Hoseok, Taehyung, and Jungkook have chosen to travel home for a week, all equipped with a to-do checklist they have to complete and turn in diligently. Jimin is still at home, dancing on the grate that runs between being okay and being really sick. He had already been near the crash before he could fight it off.

So Namjoon returns home as soon as he can, to check up on Jimin again. Of course, Jimin is an adult, he could potentially take care of himself but Namjoon doesn’t want him to. As the leader and his hyung, he feels obligated to care for his sick dongsaeng. Also, Taehyung isn’t there, and Hoseok and Seokjin aren’t either, so Jimin will feel lonely, pathetic and pathetically lonely and he can’t have that. No member of Bangtan gets left behind, not under Namjoon’s watch.

Jimin had reported burning muscles, nausea and a feeling of a bursting skull last time he was asked, so Namjoon picks up specific painkillers and medication from the next pharmacy. The younger’s got it bad and he shouldn’t have to wait too long for relief.

Without another stop, Namjoon hurries home, hoping Jimin will feel better today without medication. It’s still relatively early, the sun’s rays just become warm on bare skin and Han River glitters under the beautiful light. If Jimin feels better, they could maybe take a walk together today. Jimin is a good companion for walks. Listening is one of his strengths, kindness is his heart’s language and he is impressionable by nature and beauty and Namjoon knows receiving gentle attention means everything to the younger. He’ll ask him later.

Namjoon’s mind is set on a lot of good and pleasant things when he enters the apartment. When he hears no sounds from anywhere, he assumes Jimin is still sleeping and decides to make some tea before waking the younger up.

However, when he enters Jimin’s bedroom, Jimin is not there. The room is all silent, just as expected, it’s even dark still with the lowered shades. The bed is empty, though, and that’s not expected. The mattress isn’t warm either, the blanket is thrown over the pillow messily and Jimin’s pajamas lie in a heap right where Jimin would have laid. As if he was in a rush.

Oh, Namjoon thinks and goes to check the bathrooms. Nothing. No Jimin. Namjoon frowns, thinking hard, calling out his name twice. Where could he be? Could he be out?

It’s unlikely. Jimin’s jackets and shoes are still in their respective spots, he hasn’t written a note (Jimin always writes notes), he’s still sick (and Jimin loves to be pampered when he is) and Namjoon knows for a fact that today, Jimin had wanted to get revenge for their last Mario Kart match even if Seokjin (their fiercest competitor) isn't home.

Namjoon walks back to Jimin’s room with attentive ears, hoping to find the missing boy or at least a clue. His eyes wander through the clean room where unpacked suitcases still sit on the floor and worn clothes are neatly stacked on Jimin’s chair. His fingers find the round container that holds the pills Jimin takes every day. It’s open and almost empty. Did he go to buy new ones?

He freezes when something begins to rumble, like a little motor that just turned on. It almost sounds like a small fan. The strange sound comes from… Jimin’s bed? Namjoon almost coos when he spots a little kitty that’s nestled between Jimin’s plushies (the two that Taehyung and Jungkook had won for Jimin in LA and New York). It’s sleeping. Namjoon had mistaken it as a plushie itself, with the way it looks so oddly still and soft. The fluffy fur looks golden with tons of dark spots on it and Namjoon can't help but notice how small the cub is in its entirety, dwarfed between the big plushies.

He smiles when he sees the animal but wonders how it got here. Jimin’s window is closed. The logical conclusion is that Jungkook must have left his window open again. So far, they’ve had two cats and one confused bird (plus a ton of big spiders) in their apartment and the common entry point had been Jungkook’s window. Sometimes the maknae is a little thoughtless when it comes to things like cleaning up behind himself.

Obviously, there’s no other option than to take a photo of the small animal. After all, Jimin loves cats and would want to see the little one as well. Namjoon sends the photo to the group chat. Found someone sleeping in your bed, Jiminie. Where are you now?

Namjoon hopes that the prospect of holding a kitty will make Jimin magically appear from wherever he’s off to (much like mentioning the Cypher will make Taehyung appear). A strange feeling spreads through his gut when a bright ding chimes right next to Namjoon. It’s Jimin’s phone. And that’s when he knows something is really wrong. Because off-stage, Jimin always has his phone on him.

The first thing he does is calling Yoongi. It's not a rare occurrence that Namjoon doesn’t know what to do but most of the time, he can resolve the problems on his own. Today, he can’t. So, since Hobi isn't present, Yoongi is his emergency contact.

It’s a possibility that Jimin had just taken off to go to the company while Namjoon was still on the way home and they had missed each other. And that he's forgotten his phone. It’s a very slim likelihood, but Namjoon has to try anyway.

“Joon-ah?” Yoongi answers with a mumble, which indicates that he is busy.

“Hyung, is Jiminie with you?”

“No. He’s at home. Where are you?”

“At home.”

A pause. Namjoon sweats. He locks eyes with the kitty. The kitty doesn’t know where Jimin is either. It looks mildly confused.

“Just call him?”

“Hyung. His phone is right here.”

“Um. Have you checked all the rooms? I mean, I can ask whether he went to the dance studios but I don’t think he checked in-“

“Please do me that favor, hyung. I really don’t know where he is. I’ll look here and you’ll check there, okay?”

“Yeah,” Yoongi says.

They both check, and they both come up with nothing at all. It’s disappointing, to say the least. Among the group and even the fans, it’s no secret that Taehyung and Jimin like to share beds with any of the members. They just need the affection, the feeling of another body close to theirs sometimes. In that sense, it would have made sense to find Jimin in someone else’s bed even if the others are out of town. When he doesn’t, Namjoon is out of ideas. However, he doesn’t fail to notice that Jungkook’s window is, in fact, not open.

He has an odd feeling of déjà-vu creeping into his bones and even the kitty on his arms (he's picked it up very, very gently, taking note of how small the thing is) can’t take the scary tingle away.

“What do we do now?” he asks it. The kitty’s tail wraps around his fingers. The small animal lets out of few meows that would be adorable and at the forefront of Namjoon’s animal-loving mind if figuring out Jimin’s disappearance wouldn’t be occupying that spot already.

“I don’t know, Namjoon,” Yoongi sighs from the other end of the phone. “Do you want me to come home?”

But Namjoon isn’t listening. The kitty has his attention now. There’s something about the way it curls up against Namjoon, the way it just rubs against him, looking up with a gaze that’s so familiar. He notices that it can't be a normal cat, not with that kind of fur coloring. But the eyes - that's what's both the most striking and the most irritating.

“Namjoon-ah?”

The leader can’t answer because his mind is running on high speed right now, like a facial recognition software almost, and more and more tiny movements match. They match. Namjoon pinches his own skin, just to see if it could be real, and then it hurts. He hisses and the kitty’s ears and eyes lock on his face with sweet concern. Immediately, the kitty licks over the reddened sliver of skin, with a crooning noise that leaves no doubt.

“Kim Namjoon!”

“Hyung.”

“Finally.”

“Hyung. How common is it for people to turn into cats?”

---

By the time Yoongi comes running through the front door, Namjoon has googled every possible combination of “human”, “cat”, “leopard” (because he is sure that this is not a random housecat-breed) and “transformation” together with random words. All he gets are leopard attacks, tons of stuff on leopard geckos, a few edits of Yoongi as a leopard (which is not a bad look, actually, who would have thought) and Taehyung as a tiger, and page after page about folklore and characters from tv shows or video games. Apparently, there is no such thing as people turning into leopards randomly, but after scrolling through seemingly endless lists of cat breeds, Namjoon confirms his initial estimation and is sure that he is indeed holding a leopard in his lap.

Because the cub is definitely too sturdy to be a domestic cat, with defined, muscular hindlegs even at this young age and a build that indicates a wild predator rather than a dainty kitty (Namjoon is aware that there are big house cats in the world - at age eight, he’d still assumed his former neighbor’s cat was a large pokemon). Although the leopard - Jimin, as weird as it sounds - is delicate in a way, resembling Jimin as a person. Several pages compare leopard breeds and if the pictures are accurate at all, he’d classify Jimin as an Asian Leopard - an almost extinct breed.

“Woah Jiminie,” he whispers, pulling his dongsaeng back when he puts his paws on the laptop’s keyboard. “Your breed is very rare.”

The cub doesn’t care, it likes the clicking of the keys. Every time Namjoon types something, the leopard’s eyes swivel and follow the clicking sounds. It’s cute. Especially when the little one starts trying to paw and attack the black keys. Namjoon wipes his face when the internet refuses to share more helpful information with him. He holds the cub in front of his face, nuzzling its belly gently. He receives a vibration against his nose and a raspy lick against his cheek. The soft tail of the leopard tickles his collarbone.

And then, Yoongi stands right in front of him, with red cheeks and wide eyes.

“What the hell!?”

The cub jumps, tail puffing up and heart pounding through his thin skin. Namjoon feels the big muscle thrum scaredly against his fingers. However, curiosity wins over and the leopard tumbles off the sofa. It lands on its side in a way that makes Namjoon want to pick it up and check for injuries, but the little ball of fluff seems to be okay. Yoongi stares at the cub nosing at his ankles. Then, looking up with something soft flowing in those brown irises, he repeats his question in a whisper.

“What the hell?”

Namjoon wants to launch into a detailed report of everything he’s found out so far, but the elder insists he can’t sit until he hasn’t checked every room himself - understandable, given the situation - and even then, he paces. While up until now, Namjoon and Jimin had interacted in a calm atmosphere, that serenity is up and out of the window by now. Yoongi brings nervous energy and even if Namjoon doesn’t blame the elder, he can’t ward off the growing irritation.

“How do you know Jimin didn’t go anywhere?”

They discuss this, back and forth, why the cat right here can’t be Jimin, where else Jimin could be, and how ridiculous this is until Namjoon refuses to argue any further. He’s a man of patience but right now, he is slowly running out of it.

“Hyung. I’m telling you, it’s Jimin.”

Yoongi at least sits down. He grabs the cat, turning it over and around to look at it from every angle. He huffs.

“It’s a boy, at least.”

“Hyung! Don’t look at his - oh my God. Just believe me when I say it’s him.”

“Why? It doesn’t make any sense,” Yoongi frowns and of course, it doesn’t make sense, that’s why it’s called magic, Namjoon thinks. Yoongi narrows his eyes.

“Are you pulling a prank on me?”

The younger rolls his eyes in exasperation. It takes every ounce of his self-control to not just - ugh.

Instead, he gently says, “Okay, first of all, you know I don’t pull pranks on you. Often. Big pranks. Stuff like this. Secondly, I came home to the same situation as you. Where would I even hide Jimin? You know he wouldn’t be able to stand still because he’d want to see your reaction so he would have to be here somewhere and you checked every room. Thirdly, who even has an excess leopard baby to hand out for a couple hours? Where would I get a leopard from, hyung? You tell me if this is a prank.”

Yoongi seems to be taken a little aback but can’t lie about the sincerity in Namjoon’s eyes.

“I’m just saying,” he mumbles, “the cub doesn’t listen to Jimin’s name. See? Jiminie,” he calls out but when the cub just keeps rolling around on the thick, feet (and cub)-swallowing carpet happily, he repeats, “Jiminie? Park Jimin. Park Jimin, look at me.”

It’s a failed attempt at best because the cub has better things in mind than to listen to his hyungs, namely to catch an annoying fly that buzzes around his ears. Just before the kitty can start the chase, Namjoon grabs his dongsaeng. He gets an angry mewl in reply. Adorable.

“Shhhhh,” he says, using his fingers to scratch Jimin’s arching back. “Hold still. I don’t know, hyung. Maybe he doesn’t realize he’s a cat.”

“How do you turn into a cat and don’t know?”

“Maybe he just has cat thoughts?”

When the leopard doesn’t stop struggling even with the fingers carding through his fur, Namjoon lets him go. He doesn’t want to be hurt any more. His arms already look horrible with all those small red streaks. And they itch.

“Like what?”

“Just… regular cat thoughts. Like, 'oh, I want to eat' or 'oh, I need to catch that fly'.” He watches the ball of fluff climb onto Yoongi. “Or 'oh, I wonder what hyung’s hand tastes like right now'.”

Yoongi yelps when tiny but sharp fangs dig into his flesh. “Ow, Jimin! Stop.”

That’s what he gets for being so rude, Namjoon thinks and tries his hardest to keep the chuckle in. He’s had his own experiences with those teeth and he knows there will be many more so he shouldn’t laugh but as long as it’s not me, right?

Jimin growls a little when Yoongi pushes him off his leg. They have a staring contest for a minute which makes Namjoon’s skin tingle. Jimin stares at his hyung with a fierce, reckless expression and the elder raises a brow at the little leopard with a mysterious look in his eyes. It’s an electric moment as if the air crackles and the birds stop chirping to indicate that something really big is happening right now. But then it’s over, Jimin’s ears fold backward against his head and Yoongi slacks, almost looking like he’s broken some kind of trance. The kitty croons and receives his hyung’s warm hand with kind licks as if nothing had happened at all.

Namjoon knows it’s probably stupid but he almost expects Yoongi to say something truly fantastical right now. To tell him what revelation he received during this moment of magically glaring into Jimin’s soul. He’s like one of those fantasy characters that had a vision, after all. When Yoongi speaks, Namjoon’s holding his breath.

“Joon-ah.”

“Yeah?”

“Jimin peed on the couch.”

It's anticlimactic, to say the least. It completely breaks whatever magical atmosphere had built and Namjoon tries to hide his disappointment as well as he can but can’t ward off the frown.

“I’ll get a towel.”

“I think we should bathe him.”

Before they decide, Namjoon and Yoongi both stiffen, eyes locked on each other. Something warm is running over their legs.

“Park Jimin!”

“I think he’s trying to mark us, hyung.”

“Maybe we should all take a bath.”

masterlist | moodboard masterlist

tags: @xmagicxshopx, @taeshuworld, @justanemptydream, @hoodmeup, @gingerpeachtae

12 notes · View notes

bloodybells1 · 6 years

Text

Leeches, Part 1

“Just the other day, I sat at a bus stop, over on, I don’t know, somewhere in the eighties on the east side. I sat back and the sun shined on my face, and I think I just sat there for going on half an hour. I let about five buses pass me by, I reckon. The drivers kept asking through the doors, but I just shook my head and waved them on.”

Joe laughed at himself, very much the wizened old timer, laughing at his time-honored follies, a cough feigning to latch on to the tail end of one of his chuckles. He sat on a folding chair and never crossed his legs during his speech. He looked back at us once in a while, a wide grin framing the face of a man who’d found God in his dotage.

Behind him stood three sturdy chairs on a low, small landing, the middle one much larger, obviously for a deacon, or some other minister. To his left was a banner affixed to the chapel’s wall, to his right the darkened interior of Rutgers Presbyterian Church’s main hall, only the closest pew mingling with our reflections on the glass, while the rest of the chamber disappeared into the unlit black, pews, apse, arches, all fading away like undulating cephalopods motioning into the bottomless expanse of the deep ocean.

We were thirty men of various ages and, in various angles, situated on recently unfolded chairs, our ears plastered to Joe’s syllables. A semicircle of a row flanked Joe on each side, while rows of five staggered farther away in front of him. We waited for him to finish his speech.

My friend Kenyon, a man given to reflexive smiles, body art and jangling silver jewelry, raised his hand on the tail end of the applause. Kenyon was, like myself but in a completely different way, the aesthetic anomaly in this male lineup of denim, half-zip fleece pullovers, and unbuttoned checks. As for me, I was undergoing an awkward transition from the bespoke slim-fitting hipster fare of my East Village salad days to the generic knits I ended up cottoning to, staid, American gear with a fashion forward edge, the kind of corporate mimicry of downtown New York style evident in late aughts Express storefronts, the cheap grey cardigan with thin, plastic buttons and a gaudy, shiny placket to name one example, the sort of trickled-down haute couture which American Apparel had turned into a belated, and thankfully short-lived, empire of disposable cotton.

Kenyon, on the other hand, was a world onto himself. He was irreducible, and managed to turn all of that corporatizing on its head. Steeped in glam rock, a downtown tradition dating back to Max’s Kansas City, he merged the ripped tank tops and the second skin of leather trousers with punk, post-90s hip hop, and even industrial. By the time Kenyon was done, he was fully dressed, even though he’d barely put anything on: five necklaces formed an extra shirt over that tank top, while seven sterling-coated rings formed makeshift cuffs past the “sleeves” of tattoos on his arms. Sometimes he wore a black grosgrain cap with a chrome plate sewed onto the front that read “BITCH”. No one dressed like Kenyon, and if the reader regards my valuation as improbable, I can but insist that no one pulled off his sartorial derring-do with even half of his aplomb.

In all honesty, I didn’t want to like Kenyon, and I chalk that up to sibling rivalry. Though he did pull it off, his style was nonetheless loud. At the time, I needed quiet. That’s why I was there listening to Joe with my conveyer belt cardigan. Of course I had no idea I was dragging my old style like a cadaver in search of some missing morgue. But I was trying to fit in, trying to make a break with the past. I needed those dudes with their conservative shtick, sitting cross-legged checking blackberries once in a while, probably texting loved ones about soccer practice and babysitter hours. Joe was the granddaddy and these guys were my dads.

Once Joe was done everybody else started chiming in. People talked one at a time, and each person picked the next person to talk. Kenyon’s arm was erect, and he was picked early. Joe was sheepish about feedback, more out of feeling gratified to have shared his story with us than with insecurity about revealing himself, so he darted his eyes from the floor to anyone who wasn’t talking. Kenyon, like all who were picked, was speaking to the room, even though he directly addressed Joe, who indulged the time it took to place a couple bucks into the donation hat making the rounds. Silver tinkled on silver as Kenyon lowered his arm.

He did his best: “Joe, that story about the bus stop, man, wow, that’s amazing. I wish that was me. I’m just not there yet. I’m always busy, running around chasing my fantasies, maybe a woman, projects, getting angry about my job. It’s like I’m addicted and I can’t find peace. So I envy you, and all that serenity you shared with us. Thank you.”

Unlike their hardier, more “masculine” AA counterparts, Al-Anon meetings have no liquidation agenda. They’re not out to eradicate your issue. Nobody will say, as they do in AA, “Hey buddy, you’ve been fucking up, so it’s time to get your ass in gear and do some service for a change”. It’s more like “Sit back and relax, you’ve been working too hard” and “Don’t just do something, sit there.”

AA-ers criticize the warm embrace as too accommodating, but for my money’s worth, I always got more out of the Kumbaya fireside chat in Al-Anon meetings, than the fluorescently-lit, “bad cop” demeanor of your typical AA church basement. Booze was a problem, of course, but only during a relatively short span of debauching as an erstwhile rockstar. It was a symptom of “extreme lifestyling”, so, once I left the music industry and started frequenting libraries instead of dive bars, I had little difficulty moderating my intake. Thankfully, there were no winged bottles of Smirnoff in my dreams, and to this day, I say a prayer of gratitude with every crisp draught of New World red during mealtime.

What I lacked was not self-control, but self-esteem. Al-Anon, with its boundaries, its “healing centers”, its gingerbread cookies, its amateur yogis meditating, palms up, while people like Joe regaled you with yarns about how they lived “one day at a time”, boosted the lagging go-getter within and checked the autocratic superego’s overreach. Unlike our bulldog AA counterparts, choking and chafing on the leash, we were more like tiny, caged Papillons needing assertiveness training. Al-Anon’s ethos of boundary-setting was the gamechanger for the steamrolled contingent.

I needed a jolt in the arm to help me take charge of the new me. Once the keg dried on my club kid/rocker past, so did all of its faulty affirmations – “I’m a killer” – “I’m the man” – “I’m the life of the party”. What had seemed like incontrovertible evidence of greatness and longevity soured into empty pomp and arrogance, showing its age faster than a fine Brie sitting out too long. If you cut the tap, you see things for what they are, hollow, teenage rhetoric, a lacquered gloss of puerile angst disguising the real pain within, the miserable cartography drawn in Crayola. I had a hard time transitioning to “adulting”.

Al-Anon was the perfect solution for a spiritual drifter like myself, someone who’d managed to duck the hypnotic allure of substance, but was tethered to the overhead luggage of an overwrought past, a hypertrophied lore inflated by the helium-empty of media success and unrestrained carousing. The skill of setting boundaries, the primary focus of the work in that fellowship, was my first time making a conscious, adult demarcation of self. It was a kind of handwritten accounting, using a brand-spanking new calligraphy pen when in the past I only had a crayon.

Not only had I been bluffing my way through every opportunity and relationship all my life, but I’d shirked male bonding as well. The old man had left enough scar tissue to lead me to believe, wrongly, that nothing presented a greater threat to my safety than another swinging dick in the room. Al-Anon, being majority female in its constituency, attracted me for this very reason. But this uptown meeting offered me a new twist: the gentle lilt of Al-Anon sloganeering with the familiar heft of masculine energy. When I found that meeting, I discovered the verdant hidden pastures of otherwise craggy masculine caverns, undergoing the Robert Bly encounter with male, yet enlightened, initiation.

“I get so much wisdom from those guys,” I told Kenyon on the downtown 1, our trip back to the Village from the Upper West Side enlivened by the meeting. Post-meeting positive spin comes like hand delivered mail, the delay forgiven and forgotten at the instant the hand touches the parcel, a sudden flash of serum in the bloodstream, a mild chemo.

“They’re like old New York,” Kenyon replied. A silver bracelet ticked on one of his eight rings as he switched arms straphanging. He rearranged his fedora and there was a moment when, with the sterling on his fingers blinking in the light as it contrasted with the soft crushed velvet of the brim, he looked like Jared Leto (Twenty Seconds to Mars Leto, not the actor). Kenyon was impossibly handsome and, after two decades of casual sex in New York, had to have known it. On top of that, his mind was so sharp, dropping an op-ed’s worth of observation in a single response, you always forgot how attractive he was. I didn’t want to like him, for survival reasons, but I couldn’t help myself.

We both got off at Sheridan Square and parted at the newsstand on Christopher and Varick. The hugs were the best part of the night, warm, not bro-y. Cool jocks first clasp hands and keep them in between, the embrace more of a back pat, with the forearms warding off fears of errant torsos touching. Not so with Kenyon. It was a full upper body affair.

He went East and I West, to a dinner date with someone I met at school. But I couldn’t get his wall-to-wall smile out of my head.

All throughout the evening, through the dinner and the subway ride back to my Upper East Side apartment, even as my head hit the pillow and I let the day’s events drift through my head like a shuffling deck, I thought of Joe’s bus stop and wondered if it was one of the ones I used, any of the M79 ones, running from where I lived on East End Avenue to Lexington where the 6 train offers the nearest underground service. That crosstown corridor gives access to one of the most pacific locations in the city. The highlight was coming out of Agata & Valentina, hauling four thick polypropylene shopping bags spilling over with istara cheese, seasonal fruits, swordfish, prime cuts, homemade pasta, and imported Brazilian nuts, and, braving the murder on my delts, walking across the street to the east bound stop on 1st and 79th,hauling two leaden weights like overfull scales pressing down on a balance. Joe probably had his atman moment directly across the street, at the westbound stop, where the sun hits more directly for longer in the day.

As I turned my head on the pillow, I thought of tomorrow, Wednesday, of waking up, walking the dog, hitting the computer to play around with electronic music, and stretching the limbs. At acting school they were really emphasizing the importance of movement (“If I see one more stiff actor in my scene study class, I’m going to be angry” was one teacher’s version).

I was reminded how, in my early twenties, I was terrified of anyone looking at my body. I didn’t know anything about anatomy, but I could feel how broad and lanky were my shoulders. I was like a wide clothes hanger. Playing the bass guitar, though I hadn’t gone out of my way to pick it up, made perfect sense, the heaviest rock instrument to offer ballast against flaying limbs. Night after night the strap creased my left shoulder, pulling me closer to the floor, the weight pressing my boots on the ground, plantar ligaments stretching out the arches. Once it was removed, I was like a hot air balloon.

So was my acting, hence the need for movement exercises, which made interesting cases concerning anatomy. At Stella Adler, I had the good fortune of having Joanne Edelmann, an experienced dancer from the Alvin Ailey school, impress upon me the importance of the pelvis. Everything was about the pelvis, acting, moving, blocking, memorizing lines, it all had to come from the pelvis, apparently. We’d lay down supine, after one of us had swiffed the last class’s sweat, grime and dead skin cells off the creaky, wooden floor, and start gyrating our pelvises, all twenty-five of us. Having suspended my pause at the bursar’s office (at some point the acting conservatory, like therapy and Al-Anon, acquired healing potential in my mind), I jumped into all this with gusto. These movement exercises, so I thought, were my ticket to getting my feet on the ground, literally. So I worked them every day for an hour.

It was early spring in 2009 and I’d been living in the Upper East Side for close to a year, moving here to escape the East Village’s countercultural orthodoxy.

The East Village is great when you’re an upstart, when your friend owns a vintage boutique and sitting there for hours talking about nothing could feel like a quiet revolution. There was something conspiratorial about scrounging for change, wearing the same pair of trousers, and bumping into the same vagrant hipsters every night. Bar hopping became a kind of Where’s Waldo stretched over the span of a week, like each party was a pop-up shop taking over that bar or club. It would have been unthinkable to go on another night, after the pop-up shop had moved. Each one of us could feel like an unshowered Che looking at Fidel clipping a Cohiba across the fold-out table, an overhanging burning bulb backlighting the floating dust and cumulus clouds of tobacco smoke.

But by this time, I’d already “made it”. My cover was blown. Interpol’s success had fattened my wallet even as it’d thwarted my agitprop designs. Trips to the grocer could involve catcalls and held stares. Benjamin’s wisdom seemed apt: “Behind every fascist regime, lies a failed revolution”. In my case, the project of seeing how far flipping the bird could get me (very far, apparently) had yielded such pithy spiritual results it was time to call it a day and find a place to do my laundry where I wouldn’t have to sign autographs.

Growing up in Queens, I had no idea what the hell was the East Village. But I knew the Upper East Side, mostly through The Jeffersons (my mother did have a wealthy friend and, once, while we visited when I was eleven, I feigned adult sass by declaiming “This place is rich!” during the elevator trip up the Central Park adjoining high rise). The sight of rows of stacked iron-grated balconies on grey-brick facades, all set to each other like a long ship container yard disappearing into the horizon of 2nd Avenue, where every taxi cab, street light and butcher shop becomes a tiny dot twenty blocks north of 79th Street, was always set to a soulful “We finally have a piece of the pie”.

Later, after initiation with the caramelized crust of 80s pop-culture, the Upper East Side came to mean Woody Allen and Andy Warhol. The high rises, in my estimation, offered sanctuary to the city’s cultural superintendents, a haven in which to pen or paint their New York City-centric odes in peace and quiet. I thought of Leonard Bernstein laboring over scores, the doorman interrupting with a call about a dry cleaning delivery.

Here, as well, were stock brokers, attorneys, traders, and other sundry bourgeois interests, the better to authenticate the wealthy artist’s pains with commerce’s badge of (dis)honor. (“There. You are one of us. Now, to quote a 90s prophet, entertain us.”) Eyes Wide Shut, with its luxury apartments and endless chambers, its New York Jewish-y professional class embodied in Sydney Pollack’s Rolex, its de riguer charcoal Brooks Brothers three quarter overcoat worn by Tom Cruise in almost every frame, laid out the terms of this fantasy of old school New York wealth for me, if also tickling my artistry with a Kafka-esque slant. Perhaps, I could revivify the failed revolution, I thought, not against the fascist regime, but from within.

It was a straight shot up 1st Avenue from Houston Street to 79th and on a random late morning Tuesday you could drive through light after light in less than fifteen minutes. I’d always hated the West Village’s European style of urban planning, the streets and lanes that curve and follow every slope of the ground, (pre-Google Maps, this meant that sometimes you ended up, Blair Witch Project-style, back to where you started). I loved the East Village’s Soviet, numerical grid, so artificial you could easily imagine the planners taking their time to map everything out. What this did was help me focus on the shops, ateliers, and salons within the fifteen block radius, without the distraction of curves and cobblestone. And the Upper East Side, at least from an urban planning perspective, was the East Village without the personality, simply adding a z axis of verticality to the latter’s x and y. With three dimensions now at my disposal, I felt I could take my Bernstein myth into Olympus itself, away from the caustic rabble of DIY punk down below.

I made enough money to afford a $4000 rent in what is called a “splinter building”; apparently only three in the city exist, a building slim enough it can only have two apartments per floor, but giving each one a three sided-view of all Manhattan, in my case, from the 23rd floor. When I first walked into it the sun was setting, casting an amber glow onto the East River. Wall to wall windows proffered a vision of Manhattan only the wealthy know – “This is Your City” (daily exposure did end up diminishing the returns of the view).

For some reason, taxis were out of the question (never mind I was splurging on rent, dinners, tuition, and music equipment expenses). After five dizzy years of flights and car services, I was only too happy to take to the MTA, the buses still lacquered in the future-glossy palette of navy and white, which I recognized from my morning commutes to St. Francis Prep High in Floral Park from my Elmhurst home. Getting on the M79 right by the river, I basically had the bus to myself, my own crosstown Lear jet, a meager, yet delightful, taste of the jet-setting I’d left behind.

4 notes · View notes

lilgreenfox · 7 years

Text

D&D 5e Homebrew Kitsune

Hi! I know it’s been a little bit since I last posted something here (it’s been a busy week), but to make up for it I’m finally posting my first bit of writing!

What I have for you today is a write-up for a playable Kitsune race in D&D5e, inspired heavily by the Pathfinder Kitsune.

DISCLAIMER: This race is completely untested! DMs, allow play at your own risk, and feel free to allow/ban any features as you see fit. Also, if you utilize this please lemme know how it goes!~

Additionally, I don’t describe them as Kitsune in the writing itself, instead referring to them as Voxen (Vortex Isles). This is because in me and @captainmista’s homebrew DnD realm Kitsune are a variant race off of Voxen, a wolf-based humanoid player race. For all intensive purposes, though, you may call them Kitsune in your own games. Feedback is appreciated. Thanks!

Not unlike their kin from Kaiken, the vulpine Voxen of the Vortex Isles are cunning individuals who use their natural talents in charisma and trickery to get their way. Though they are an incredibly rare sight, they can be spotted on all four corners of the Big Stretch as they seek out arcane power, riches, or whatever other treasures they may seek. Though they have a nose for trouble and an attitude to match, few can deny the fox variant of Voxen’s charm and inherent magical abilities.

Physical Features

Like Kaiken’s Voxen, the fox Voxen have furred, padded hands and long ears. Unlike the Kaiken variant, however, the claws of a fox Voxen are retractable. Combine that with a means of hiding their ears and tail(s), and one could easily mask themselves as human without any magic. While the range in appearance can vary, most fox Voxen also tend to have shorter, more manageable fur than a wolf’s, easily groomed if time is taken throughout the day.

The oddest feature of a Vortex Voxen that differentiates it from its lupine relatives is the arcane potential that is reflected by their tails. As a Voxen grows there are certain “checkpoints” in its life that cause its tails to magically split, multiplying as they become more accomplished. What exactly causes this is unknown, but is attributed to the race’s constant hunger for its personal goals. The more tails a Voxen grows, the more powerful they become, being able to cast spells even if they’ve never touched an arcane tome in their life. It’s rumored that if a Voxen can manage to obtain a total of 9 tails they become immortal, but no case has ever been properly recorded.

The sclera of a fox Voxen changes as they age. Children and young adults' eyes are hardly different from a human’s, with the only noticeable different being the odd iris color variations and of course occasionally slit pupils. As they age and their tails begin to split, the sclera starts to tinge the color of the iris, and when the fox reaches it’s “maximum potential” the sclera blends into the iris completely to form fully one-colored eyes.

Fur color and ear size varies based on the physical build of the fox. Shorter breeds (around 4’-5’) tend to have larger ears and lighter colored fur, usually white or tan. As the size increases (5’-6’), the hue darkens to oranges and browns. The largest of the breed cap out about about 6’6” and can be as dark as midnight, with black or navy-blue fur. The patterns in a fox Voxen’s fur vary based on the individual, but usually they have “caps” or “mittens” on their tails, hands and ears that are a significantly lighter/darker shade than the rest of their fur. Spots on the fur and skin are also common, though they’re often mistaken as freckles or vitiligo.

Culture

Vulpine Voxen don’t have much of their own culture- unlike the wolves of Kaiken they don’t have established territories or even villages. Instead, they stay with their guardians in small families until they find out their heart’s ambition. Once it’s been discovered they set out, either on their own or with the support of their family or party of friends. They pursue their goal, often referenced as their “Ambition”, until either they die or are completely incapable of pursuing it further. When a Voxen is incapable of pursuing their Ambition further, they typically settle down wherever they were stopped. Usually they do so believing that someday they may be able to continue their pursuit.

Children of Vortex Isle Voxen are similar to Tieflings in that when one parent is Voxen, the child always comes out 100% Voxen. The only manipulable traits of the non-Voxen parent, if any, usually is the height and therefore the color pattern of the child. A Voxen’s Ambition is also heavily based on the aspirations of their parents, whomever’s is stronger. The kits are born in sets of 2-6, with closed eyes, folded-over ears, and single, nearly hairless tail. Their growth directly correlates with the pressure to grow up in whatever community they’ve been placed in, capping at as early as 16 in stressful or war-torn territories. Their personalities, like Plantfolk, meld to match said community as well.

In whichever lands they grow in, Voxen are known to be passionate perfectionists in whatever crafts they apply themselves to. They’re excellent performers, being especially sensitive to pitch and tune thanks to their large, perky ears. They also can be seen enjoying craftmaking that requires a quick and dexterous hand, such as jewelry and glassblowing. On top of that, many Voxen are born gifted with arcane skill, pursuing magical power as their personal Ambition.

Playing a Voxen

Vortex Isle Voxen are so rare that it’s hard to really pin a stereotype to them. But like their lupine kin, they have a penchant for getting into trouble for their shenanigans. Luckily for them their wit and natural charm help them squeeze out of sticky situations. These Voxen are also very adaptable, allowing them to squeeze into any niche that a potential party of allies may require. As a Vortex Isle Voxen, you believe your future is yours for the taking, as long as you’ve got the willpower to continue chasing it.

Ability Score Increase You get a plus 2 to Charisma and a plus 1 to Dexterity Age Vortex Isle Voxen reach maturity at around 18-20 years of age. With a single tail, they live for up to 60 years- but for each extra tail they manage to obtain, their life expectancy doubles. It’s speculated that a nine-tailed Voxen is functionally immortal, with how long they can live. Alignment Fox Voxen lean towards the chaotic side, driven by the primal arcane urges that allow them to sprout more tails. Size Though there are very few Voxen in existence at a time, their sizes have a great range. They can be anywhere between 4’-6’6” in height, with weights that vary with their body types. Language You speak Common and Voxen, along with one third spoken language related to your travels or upbringing. Speed You’ve got quick feet and can move at 35 ft/round. Darkvision You have darkvision, which allows you to see up to 60 ft around you even in complete darkness. This vision allows you to see things in that radius but only in black and white. Retractable Claws You are born with a set of slim but dangerous claws that can be retracted to look like normal, albeit sharp fingernails. It’s a free action to sheathe or extend your claws. In combat you are proficient with them, and on a hit they deal 1d4 and have the Finesse property. In addition, if you are proficient in Sleight of Hand you can use them to pick locks, though they do not provide any bonuses to the check itself. Fox Form While fox Voxen don’t have the same bonuses to senses or the counter-charm ability as their wolf brethren, they have the unique ability to shift into the form of a fox. While they appear to be a completely normal fox when transformed, those proficient in magic can detect their true form using a Perception check (competing with a DC equal to the fox’s Charisma modifier + their Proficiency modifier + 10). Your particular fox form is based solely upon your height, listed below. (Note: These are the “default” settings for deciding form. If you’d like to be a different height than the forms assigned, go ahead! Rules were meant to be broken)

The abilities you obtain while in Fox Form, which you only have in Fox Form, are listed below:

All forms have the Pounce Ability, with a DC equal to 8 + Proficiency mod + Dex mod

Pounce: If the fox moves at least 20 ft. straight toward a creature and then hits it with a claw attack on the same turn, that target must succeed on a Strength saving throw or be knocked prone. If the target is prone, the fox can make one bite attack against it as a bonus action.

All forms use the base stats for a Cat, except for these changes:

Intelligence of 4

Wisdom of 14

No climb speed

d6 hit die

Claw attack deals 1d4 + Dex mod damage, and can be used as if they were a weapon with Finesse

4′11″ and under: Fennec Fox Form

You have a Burrow speed of 15 ft, which increases to 30 ft in sand

Keen Hearing: You have advantage on Wisdom (Perception) checks based on sound

5′-6′: Arctic Fox Form

You have advantage on Stealth checks when outside

You have either a Summer (brown) or Winter (white) coat

The Summer coat gives you resistance to fire damage

The Winter coat gives you resistance to cold damage

6′1″+: Red Fox Form

Your size is Small instead of Tiny, and your Dexterity is 16.

You have proficiency in Survival, and advantage on Survival checks done in urban areas.

When in Fox Form, the items on your person meld into yourself and become inaccessible till you transform back. The rules on your transformation are the same as a Druid’s Wild Shape ability. However, some things are different- you can speak the same languages you do in humanoid form, and you can transform into this form as many times as you’d like per day, though it costs a full round action rather than a bonus. In addition, you must be able to concentrate on holding the Fox Form while in it. You automatically lose concentration on any concentration-based spells you’re casting in humanoid form, and if anything were to overly distract from your concentration (ie, being knocked prone, taking damage, getting drunk/laughing too hard, or becoming incapacitated) you must make a Constitution saving throw with a DC determined by the DM based on the distracting force, or be forced back into humanoid form.

Vulpine Ambition The ultimate way a Vortex Isle Voxen shows it’s true power is through the usage and display of their tails, which are earned by making progress in their personal Vulpine Ambition. This Ambition must be a broad goal that can be segmented into proper milestones. For example, a Voxen Bard may have their Ambition be “to become famous, a household name that everyone recognizes”. Proper milestones are up to DM discretion, but it’s advisable to pace them so that the player can obtain their 5th tail at about 12th level, and their 9th tail around level 18-20. Each milestone should have a requirement that’s far better than the previous one.

Continuing the bard example:

Their second tail could be earned by performing at a nice restaurant,

Their third by drawing a crowd in a fairly large town,

Their fourth being asked for an autograph in a town they’ve never visited before,

Their fifth performing for a duke or other noble,

Their sixth by being offered great sums of money by multiple people to the point where they have to turn down very wealthy individuals,

Their seventh by playing for and impressing a king or likewise ultimate ruler

Their eighth by abruptly ending a great battle or war with their music, and

Their ninth and final tail by appeasing an almighty force such as an ancient dragon or a god, stopping them from causing an apocalypse.

These milestones can be set by the DM, or simply rewarded whenever the player does something especially incredible. Lastly, all Voxen grow at a different pace, and so earning multiple tails while the same level, not learning any for a long time, or even not earning all tails by the end of the story are all fine and natural.

When a tail is obtained, the Voxen obtains a spell-like ability that is usable twice per day, per tail. They are born with their first tail and obtain more as they complete their Ambitions.

Dancing Lights

Disguise Self

Charm Person

Nyustul’s Magic Aura

Suggestion

Mirror Image

Greater Invisibility

Confusion

Dominate Person

Your caster level for these spells is equal to your hit dice, and your spellcasting modifier and DCs are based on your Charisma.

-----

I know the abilities of the race are pretty complex, but they were the best I could do to mirror the power level and flexibility of the Pathfinder Kitsune. I do hope you enjoyed reading this, and if you have criticism or wish to utilize this race just let me know. Thanks!

-Christian Byrnes, aka Lilgreenfox

#writing #dnd5e #kitsune #custom player race #homebrew #dnd #d&d #voxen #halintar #the big stretch #vortex isles

5 notes · View notes

airoasis · 5 years

Text