#vlaka

[wyrdwulf]

Very rushed ref for my Starfinder character so I could get her up on Art Fight in time ✌️

I didn't purposefully plan to make both of my active ttrpg characters prophetic Seers with opposite personalities and vibes, but. Whoopsies.

[rins-cafe]

snip

[dailycharacteroption]

Immortal Tutor Technomancer (Technomancer Alternate Class Feature)

(art by BootsDotEXE on DeviantArt)

Science-fantasy spellcasting may change a lot from the ancient days. Unified theories of magical sources, more robust understanding of the mystic arts, but even in such halcyon future days, there are some things that do not change, and one of those things is that sometimes mages will seek out otherworldly tutors to learn magic.

One part Ars Goetia and/or Lesser Key of Solomon “summon this specific demon or angel to learn about a topic” and another part homage to the witch patrons of Pathfinder, some technomancers seek out cosmic beings to help learn the arts of fusing magic and technology. After all, just as mortals have developed, so too do the cosmos.

However, while it is possible to entreat with fiends for such tutelage, remember that this path is open to all alignments, though the exact nature of the being you call upon will influence what benefits you gain.

I can’t help but imagine technomancers with immortal tutors contacting their patrons for more learning through various hybrid tech methods. Some may set up a rune-etched holoprojector to “summon” their patron. Or perhaps they literally have their patron on speed dial with an eldritch communicator.

While the method varies, their powers are undeniable, as we’ll soon see.

Rather than having a spell cache that lets them cast any one spell they know for free once a day, these mystics can instead cast a specific variable-level spell based on the nature of their tutor once per day, even if it’s not on in their repertoire otherwise. Aeons grant levitation and flight, celestials, elementals, and fiends grant appropriate summons, inevitables enhance projectiles into deadly splitting adamantine-like shots, and proteans grant self-polymorphing.

As they grow in mastery, each tutor provides their first, second, third lessons. The first comes into effect after the caster uses a spell, the second with an expenditure of resolve, and the third grants an additional benefit when the first lesson is triggered.

For aeons, this includes bolstering attacks when you switch damage types regularly, being able to learn a new language for a brief while, and finally gaining a bit of an aeon’s formlessness to avoid critical blows.

Celestials, meanwhile grant a brief defensive ward that only evil can pierce, a sudden burst of insight with a skill, and finally a ward that bolsters the defenses of nearby allies.

Elementals start by granting bolstered movement based on the nature of the elemental patron, flight for air, burrowing for earth, faster land speed for fire, and swimming for water. Next they learn to intensify the damage of their elemental spells, gaining greater than average results. Finally, they can gain resistance to the element in question, electricity or fire for air and fire, and physical resistance for earth and water.

Fiends provide protection only bypassed by good, as well as a magical trick to grow spikes on one’s armor, and finally fiery protection as well as a flash of fiendish malice that leaves foes shaken.

Inevitables teach the caster how to bolster their vitality after casting a spell, take on a mechanical mien to resist harmful effects, and rapidly restore stamina for a short time.

And finally protean tutors teach their casters how to infuse their attacks with chaos, changing the damage type randomly but having slightly better average damage. For their second lesson, They gain some of the ever-changing anatomy of proteans for a short while to reduce the effect of critical blows. Finally, their form becomes fluid after casting, letting them slip through obstacles and avoid attacks and grappling.

As you can see, each tutor type offers different benefits, from the protections offered by celestials to the mobility and damage of elemental tutors. With that in mind, there are a lot of ways to build these technomancers no matter what route you go with. Just know that you have to cast spells or spend resolve to use them, and remember to manage those resources effectively.

Much like the witch patrons of Pathfinder’s yesteryear, coming up with the exact nature of your character’s tutor, as well as the relationship they have with the mage, can be very interesting indeed. Is your tutor a helpful source of advice? Do they require some sort of service for their tutelage? Is their instruction purely transactional?

Additionally, this character option could be a good launching point for homebrew for other outsider types or more specific ones, such as psychopomps or say, demons instead of fiends.

A computer whiz in addition to being a technomancer, Koski has been eager to innovate encryption for the past year. However, the young vlaka has grown increasingly frustrated, as the advice given by his protean tutor, (chosen for their understanding of chaos) results in encrypted files that can no longer be unlocked.

Not all immortal tutors are willing, as is the case with the “diabolus ex machina” method used by technomancers that wish for the insights of devils without the contracts. However, the method has risks, such as when a young mage plugged his binding device into Tageo Station’s main computer and the fiend within utilized a loophole to possess the organic computing components (derived from cerebric fungus buds), resulting in a takeover of the whole station.

Having finished their millenia-long duty guarding the cosmic city of order, an inevitable known as “Pilgrim-Follows the Unending Road” has chosen an active retirement of serving as the tutor for aspiring technomancers. However, technology has evolved considerably in that time, and while they do sometimes offer archaic advice, Pilgrim is trying their best, and is an insightful instructor regardless.

[enecola]

Lorelai the Puppy Girl!

She’s a Starfinder Vlaka, and she’s an envoy. She’s blind but that’s ok.

[pinnithin-writes]

Star-Blessed

Scene expansion from episode 27 of the Live and Let Fly podcast. 3809 words. Read on Ao3.

The wind on the mountain was cold enough to burn. Roland Mons Gelidus narrowed his eyes and tucked his muzzle into his scarf as he surveyed the horizon. Dusk approached and the sky was a freezing cobalt, the dying sun sinking rapidly out of sight. Behind him trailed nine other vlakas, breaking through the snowdrifts in single file. 

Their journey was tethered by constant contact. Thick pelts of moon and ice, shot through with the bleak blue black of the darkening sky, brushed, connected, parted and met again as they trudged along. It wasn’t a time for speaking, conserving energy for the hike through silence and stilled hands, but each knew how the others felt about their trek. Heads ducked and ears flattened against the chill, emotions sparked between their fur like static in the cold, dry air. The scent of their nerves and exhaustion swirled on the wind. 

The Lajok wilderness in early spring was a dangerous beauty. Its stillness couldn’t be trusted; every motionless mountainside held the promise of an avalanche, every too quiet night the careful inhale before a snowstorm. Soaring peaks of sheer gray stone funneled the pack into a saddle between them, the boughs of spruce and fir offering sparse shelter from the elements. As Roland studied their formations, heavy with ice crystals as they grew into the unforgiving wind, he wondered if he, too, would freeze in a bizarre shape if he stood still for too long. Even in spring, the cold was enough to sting his eyes and crust his eyelashes with frost, the air so frigid it hurt to breathe.

He turned to face his traveling companions. “It’s getting dark,” he said, signing as he spoke. “Let’s find a spot to camp.”

The Lajok Leadership Academy had dropped Roland and his squad in The Space Between approximately twelve hours ago, leaving them with nothing but basic survival essentials and their thick woolen uniform coats. Their assignment was simple: make it back to campus alive. Roland had been excited by the challenge in the beginning, stepping forth as he often did to take charge, as none had officially been assigned as squad leader. Finally, a chance to test themselves in a real life scenario, something he had hungered for after the negligible stakes of so many simulations and exercises.

Roland knew it would take all of them working together to survive the task. Each member of their squad had a unique set of skills and experiences to lend to the collective whole. This particular group he was quite close to; all third year classmates of his, all with intrinsic knowledge of each other’s strengths and weaknesses. Where Kedric lacked orienteering skills, Alyn covered him, and where Alyn struggled with trapping, Hoyt covered her, and so on. 

He rapidly grew disillusioned as he hiked through the snow, realizing that their wilderness assignment was simply beleaguering a point. It was all very pedestrian to him, a lesson taught time and time again since the moment he was born. Cooperation is key, no man is an island, and only a team succeeds. It was inherent to any vlaka anywhere on the planet, an interdependence ingrained in every facet of their society.

Roland knew they shouldn’t be in their third year at the Academy and still learning something so elementary. He hadn’t enrolled to learn teamwork. He was here to learn leadership, and he was beginning to suspect the Lajok definition of leadership was just another way to keep vlakas like him planetside.

As the group dispersed to set up camp, a familiar touch on Roland’s elbow drew him out of his thoughts. At his side was Zuri, a deafblind squadmate he often defaulted to as his deputy. If we keep this pace, they signed, we should reach Lajok in three days’ time.

“Thank you, Zuri,” Roland replied aloud, taking their paw in his and signing his words against their palm. “How are the others faring? Have you noticed anything I should take note of?”

Their eyes, pale pink and wandering, couldn’t see Roland as they conversed, their expressive ears unable to pick up the cadence and timbre of his voice, but Roland knew they understood the intention behind his words better than most. Zuri gathered it in his scent, the pressure of his touch, even the resonance of his footfalls. It was a much needed reassurance, to have someone by his side who not only understood what he meant when his words failed him, but could also mediate between others just as successfully. They had an extrasensory talent for understanding others, as if they could smell the very words their emotions translated to.

So far so good, Zuri signed, though some think we should press on through the night. The Space Between in early spring makes them uneasy. They want to be back within the city’s rings as quickly as possible.

Roland’s snout wrinkled with disagreement. “I told everyone it would be unwise to push ourselves,” he stressed. “We know how to survive in an austere environment, and we won’t come to harm if we take the journey slowly and carefully. Who is saying this?”

Zuri offered a small, sympathetic smile as Roland expressed his concerns into their paw. Skinner and his usual clique, they signed back. Just something to keep an eye on. You know how he can get.

Roland did know how he could get. Gaius Skinner Valens, who went by Skinner amongst his squadmates, was often at odds with Roland Mons Gelidus. He was an irascible, opinionated vlaka whose headstrong leadership style clashed with Roland’s thoughtful, meticulous approach. Troubled, he turned his gaze to the horizon again. The temperatures would drop from dangerous to deadly come nightfall, and they couldn’t afford to lose a single vlaka if they were to survive the journey. Something to keep an eye on, indeed. Perhaps he should speak to Skinner early before this came to a head.

For now, camp setup took priority. Starting a fire, thawing provisions, and divvying rations was the simpler matter, while the majority of the group’s efforts went toward excavating a snow trench to shelter against the elements. Tempers in the camp were tense but subdued, packmates conversing through low whuffs and tactile signing. Occasionally, a brief spat broke out and dissipated in moments - a harmless vent of anxiety.

Regardless of what their opinions might be, everyone contributed to the chore, tolerating Roland’s hovering. While he was confident in the squad’s ability to survive in The Space Between, the unpredictable spring weather made him nervous, and monitoring the particulars helped him maintain a sense of control. Thankfully, he had Zuri to soften things when his orders came out unintentionally abrasive. 

He took his own turn clearing out the trench, his paw pads stinging with cold. He could hear his own labored breathing and the howling wind as he worked, but underneath that was the faint nocturnal call of birds, the sparse patter of prey animal feet. If Lajok’s smallest creatures could survive out here, so could they. Not to mention dozens of lone vlakas survive in The Space Between year round, doing whatever it is they do beyond the city walls. Roland and his classmates had survived their adolescent journeys through the wilderness in valai, after all.

His breath clouded the air as he appraised the work, questioning himself. This was no longer valai, though. And they were no longer children.

As he contemplated this, his ears picked up the low tones of a grumbled conversation. A short distance away, Skinner huddled with a few of his friends, paws jammed in his coat pockets. Even without signing his words, his scent was enough to convey his dissatisfaction. It stained the bitter wind with a thick yellow anxiety. 

“...Wasting time out here digging ditches,” Roland heard him mutter. “He’s going to get us all killed.”

“I’m sorry, Skinner,” Roland interjected, brushing snow from his palms. “If there’s something you’re concerned about, please do tell me.”

The other vlaka scoffed at the interruption, turning from his huddle with a reproachful look. His eyes were the same ice blue as frost in moonlight. “Oh, now he knows there’s a problem,” he sneered.

Roland had no idea what Skinner meant. If he was so bothered by making camp here, why hadn’t he said something about it earlier? Zuri told him Skinner was uneasy, but this level of hostility was unexpected. “I… apologize,” Roland said, “I was unaware you had a grievance. If you have input that would better serve the group, I’d love to hear it.”

“Don’t play ignorant. I didn’t say anything because I knew you’d only pretend to listen,” Skinner snapped back. “Then you’d just go on ahead and do what you were planning on doing anyway. Tyrant.” As he spoke, the two other vlakas with him reflected his attitude, shifting their weight from foot to foot and raising their hackles.

Roland exhaled heavily through his nose. He really tried with Skinner. Even if he didn’t like him, he still respected him for his boldness. When it came to making quick, decisive action, he was the best of them, and Roland had full confidence he would make an excellent battle tactician someday. Matters of caution didn’t suit him, however, and he became agitated at anything that made him wait. He should have expected opposition from the likes of him.

Skinner’s coat, streaked with indigo, bristled as he continued. “The longer we wait out here, the more we risk getting injured or worse. We don’t have enough rations for a three day trip. We’re practically buried in snow. Spring is here, Roland. What if there’s an avalanche?” He gestured to the nearby mountainside, where its sheer face hung heavy with snow. 

Work around the camp ground to a halt as their raised voices drew the others’ attention. Roland caught movement in his periphery, but it was only Zuri, signing to ask a squadmate what was going on. Though Skinner and Roland were only verbally disagreeing, the deaf members could read lips well enough to gather the dispute. Uneasiness rippled through the pack, their fear scent betraying an erosion of faith.

Roland scowled. The name calling was a little juvenile, but he had heard worse. Sowing discord among the squad he wouldn’t stand for. He cut his eyes to Tiber, a classmate whose wilderness skills he trusted the most. “Is there risk of an avalanche?” he asked, signing out the words along with his question. 

Tiber studied the mountainside carefully, checking her own work, then gave a reticent shake of her head. “Snowpacks look stable, no recent displacement, still too early for rapid melting,” she responded, also signing. “There’s risk, but it’s low.”

Her words confirmed aloud the reasoning in his head. If the choice was between an avalanche, which might kill them, and subzero temperatures, which most definitely would, he was picking the avalanche. 

Roland turned a justified stare on his opposition, hoping the public address of Skinner’s concerns would be enough to quell the squad’s anxieties. “Pardon me, Skinner, if I trust the words of our most experienced mountaineer over yours,” he said, unable to keep the disdain from his tone.

Skinner rolled his eyes. “They’ll say whatever you want to hear because they know you’ll walk all over them if they don’t,” he said. “I should be leading this squad, not you. Everyone agrees.”

Did they? Roland wanted to pass a glance at his pack to verify, but he forced himself to hold eye contact with Skinner, even as doubt stormed his heart.

“This is challenging for all of us,” he shot back. “It’s going to be a hard couple of days. If you’re afraid, just admit it.” He meant it without malice, but like many things he said, it came out insultingly. “We’ll get through it together.”

“Afraid?” Skinner repeated. His tail lashed with agitation. “The only thing I’m afraid of is your stupidity. I’m putting an end to this.” He took a challenging step forward, eyes bright and alert. “Duel me. Winner takes charge of the assignment.”

The gall! Roland bared his teeth. “I’m not fighting you, Skinner,” he snarled, “have you lost your senses?”

The hot, impulsive side of him wanted desperately to accept the challenge. Prove his capability, vent his aggression, and put an end to this ridiculous argument all at once, so they could get back to more important matters.

Roland swallowed back the growl in his throat. He shared Skinner’s fear of dying, out here in the Lajok wilderness where the elements leached the very life from your blood, but it was eclipsed by a something greater. The onus of their survival rest upon his leadership. If anyone succumbed to cold, hunger, exhaustion, or injury based on his decisions, it would be no different than if he’d killed them with his own two paws.

He couldn’t risk hurting a packmate, no mater how badly he wanted to. He held his ground. The other vlakas flanking Skinner shifted indecisively, and all around them the temperatures continued to fall. 

Skinner was dauntless. Steam and fear scent rising from his body, he showed no indication of backing down. “I thought you’d say that, coward,” he spat. “It always has to be your way, on your terms.” He pointed defiantly at Roland. “I’m not letting you dig your heels in this time. You aren’t fit to lead this troop. Step down. I won’t say it again.”

Roland was beginning to gather that this stemmed from more than just the present situation, but he couldn’t examine how many times he might have unintentionally slighted the other man that very instant. “These are unacceptable terms-” he tried to protest, and Skinner charged him.

Reflex kicked in and he ducked, unable to fully dodge the claws aimed at his face. The blow came first and then the pain, a stinging, hot gash that ripped down the length of his snout. 

He clapped a paw to his muzzle and staggered back. The scent of his blood drenched the air, soaking through his fur and spattering scarlet on the snow. If he hadn’t moved in time, Skinner could have taken out one of his eyes. Panting, he felt a growl vibrating his chest, his nervous system flooding with the instinct to defend himself.

“Calm yourself, man!” Roland barked, both to himself and the opposition. Skinner was already preparing for another attack, his lithe body low and stanced to strike. 

As Roland braced himself, the pack surged around him, forming a barrier between him and Skinner. Backed up against him was Zuri, as vicious as he had ever seen them, teeth bared, hackles on end, head ducked and ears pinned against their skull. The others snarled and snapped at Skinner, scolding him for disrupting the order of the pack. It was a chastisement beyond words, coming from a primal place before the vlaka had developed language.

Roland was stunned. Both at Skinner’s audacity and the loyalty of his squadmates. He was tempted to resist their protection, to order them to step aside, to tell them this wasn’t their fight. But enveloped as he was by the animal congruence of his team, he allowed their support to wash over him. He realized, with a tiny thrill of vindication, that the pack took Skinner’s challenge as a threat to them all. A leader spoke for the group and the group spoke for him. His successes were their successes, his failures their failures. His squad would not stand for hostility from a wolf who would rather endanger them than trust their collective capability.

Skinner backed off, breathing hard, as his brethren rebuked him. He flicked his eyes questioningly to his usual supporters, but even they were unwilling to take his side against the rest of the squad. Fear and fury billowed off him and curled into the frozen sky; Roland could smell his humiliation even from behind the resolute wall of his squadmates. Skinner let out a snarl and set off, disgraced, away from camp.

“Skinner, wait!” Roland called, watching the indigo coat lose itself amidst the pines and snowdrifts. He tried to shoulder past his team to pursue him, but Zuri caught his arm.

Let him go, they signed, their hand motions quick and sharp with their remaining agitation. You can’t get yourself killed going after him. We need you here.

As much as he hated to admit it, they were right. If he ventured into the polar darkness, he was just as foolish as Skinner. All the bravado and self assurance left him in a rush and he took a step back, reeling from what had just happened. Blood dripped from his wound, glittering rubies congealing in the snow.

The phalanx dispersed, his packmates murmuring and signing amongst themselves. One of them offered Roland a clean cloth, which he gratefully pressed against his muzzle until the bleeding stopped. Though the cuts stung, resentment found no purchase in his heart as he stared at the place where Skinner had fled. The squad finished digging out their shelter and turned to other matters: eating and drinking, checking their paws for blisters, patching over minor injuries, wrapping hands and taping feet to protect against the next day’s strenuous hike. As night swallowed them, they huddled against the deadly temperatures inside the snow trench.

Roland posted himself at the entrance, watching the darkness, an anxious, guilty dread gnawing at his chest. Ordinarily, he would take this downtime to check on everyone, but the habit escaped him as he stewed in his emotions. He was furious with himself for allowing the argument to happen, for letting it escalate to violence, for losing a member of the team. It didn’t matter that he had successfully avoided a fight. If Skinner died out there, it was Roland’s fault.

He pressed his shoulder against the cold trench wall, listening to his companions slumbering at his back. He talked himself down from searching for Skinner over and over again, and as he did so his gaze wandered heavenward. Cradled by the mountains, away from the light and haze of the capital city, the night sky was a sprawling, starlit invitation. Roland found himself momentarily breathless, entranced by the glimmering cosmic expanse above him. There were entire worlds beyond the Vast, mere pinpoints of light from his small, insignificant vantage on Lajok.

Why he was doing this? Attending the academy, honing his leadership, striving for achievement - it all felt so meaningless under the infinite sky. The Circle of Lajok only fought amongst themselves, wasting time deciding what was best for the planet while Sota continued to die. Did his dispute with Skinner portend his future? Was their assignment supposed to teach him acceptable loss? This couldn’t be the life he was meant for, to lead his people confidently to their end. 

Rest, the stars sang him, and Roland felt a profound quiet overtake his troubled heart. Rest, yes. He needed to rest. He still had to lead the remainder of the squad safely out of the wilderness, and he was doing no one any favors wasting precious energy on penitence. With one last look at the sky, he ducked inside the snow trench, pressing himself amongst the furry bodies of his squadmates. He thought he would be too anxious to sleep, but exhaustion took him the moment he closed his eyes.

He didn’t know how much time had passed - minutes, hours - when movement stirred him awake. Roland startled, expecting an intruder, but the familiar scent of Skinner quelled his alarm. Wordlessly, he moved aside to allow room for his wayward teammate. Skinner settled sullenly against him, shivering from his solitary trek through the cold. Any impulse to scold him for his rashness was erased by a relief so powerful it made Roland dizzy. Together they nestled in close, sharing in the warmth of the pack.

Abruptly, he returned to the present. He was no longer on Lajok, the wound on his muzzle having long since healed over. The mist clouding the hall wasn’t from his breath in the frigid air, but the steam from Morgan’s shower. His hand hovered over their door, his determined knock utterly arrested by their haunting, bittersweet song.

His fear of losing Morgan was what brought him to their quarters in the first place. The necrograft they volunteered for was a point of contention he didn’t wish to escalate, but concern roiled within him all the same. Skinner had survived his recklessness, but would Morgan? He had come to care for and depend on them, even more so than Zuri back in his Academy days. While he couldn’t afford to lose any one of his crew, he knew he would be especially devastated if something happened to Morgan.

Roland had always struggled with his words, even on Lajok with the aid of all his senses. Now, it was even more difficult to convey how he felt, speaking a language that was not his birth tongue, parlaying with people who couldn’t scent the true emotions behind his stilted words. He spoke as clearly and often as he could, for fear of being misinterpreted, but it seemed the more he said, the deeper he dug himself. He had offended everyone on his crew dozens of times over, and still, somehow, they followed him.

It left him with the same shocked assurance he’d felt in The Space Between, with his squad rallied around him. Surely the crew didn’t defer to him based on rank alone at this point, but it was hard to believe everyone had his back when he fumbled his title left and right. This inexplicable cooperation he owed largely to Morgan.

The song ended, but its echoes rippled around him like ghosts. He lowered his hand, feeling unsettled and wistful and vaguely itchy, his fur saturated with ambient humidity. Morgan’s lyrics had slammed him back in time, back to the mountains of his namesake. A tremendous homesickness overwhelmed him. Rather than tamp it down as he usually did, he took a moment to sit with it, his throat tightening and his eyes prickling with tears.

One day the sun would set on his homeworld for the last time. How cruel it was, to love something so doomed. 

He had left his circles - his family - behind on Lajok. The crew he captained now was a naive replacement, a product of fleeing failure. Still, something within him ached for this to work. His leadership was tested and tested again, yet he felt a peculiar fondness for it, every impulse to run outweighed by a deeper desire for connection. This crew was just as hungry for life as he was. He felt privileged to lead them.

Roland drew in a shaky breath. Only after sunset could he see the stars.

He raised his hand and knocked.

[vlakandload]

What is your pack like? Vlaka are usually blind and deaf, right? Does that affect the family dynamic in any particular way beyond linguistic accommodations?

We're extremely tight knit. For governmental reasons our moms were forced to actually claim their pups specifically, but apparently it's not something we really do as a culture. As far as i know, i've got 1 full littermate, 3 half littermates, and 5 other cousins who live here at camp.

Yeah, apparently about a third are blind or deaf. In my pack though it's more deaf than blind, to the point that i don't think anyone's blind here?

No?

Ah, apparently one of our dads was blind, but he died a few years back. Though i'm not sure what you mean by blindness or deafness affecting the pack's dynamic? We're pack, and we take care of each other. There's nothing really unique about us.

[vlakandload]

Aww, it looks like our pack's puppy pictures! I'm the extra fluffy one in the second row.

pics of me if you even care

[miss-indecisions]

Doctor Kreskivitz!

She's from the same campaign that Decio's currently running around in! But she's owned by the fantastic Game Master, @KnightlyVoices ! (She's unhinged and yells a lot. I love her.)

[glikozi]

vlepw to Skam ksana meta apo 7 xronia kai apla epivevaiwnomai oti htan to roman empire mou

[nightstormartistcat]

Did a full body shape study/lineup of my DnD characters!!

I'll go into more about them when I do their deep-dives!

Characters:

Bayclove - Muskin (mousefolk) Fighter

Journey - Tiefling Bard/Warlock

Erica - Tiefling Rogue

Nyadra - "Human" Sorcerer

Eraqiel - "Aasimar" Paladin

Rae - Changeling Bard

Ash - Tiefling Bard/Warlock

Yan - Dragonborn Cleric

Zephyr - Vlaka Paladin

Vivi - Moth Bard/Cleric

Bonus:

[vlakandload]

Personally i'm the first type, but recently i've found a bunch of other otherkin who've brought me into their pack and it's helped heal a lot of that yearning.

Are you an "I am a wild animal that was raised by humans and longs for freedom" kind of therian or are you an "I am a human who was taken in by wild animals and I have become one of them" kind of therian?

Do you get me?

[dragonnan]

Friday Fic Recs

The Sandman - Dreamling

The Undone and the Divine E by @dancinbutterfly

Warnings: Consensual Violence, Burning, Stabbing, Skin picking, Drowning, The Corinthian is His Own Warning, Cannibalism, Horror, Suicidal ideation, Mutilation, romanticization of violence, Dissociation, BDSM elements

For 24 hours, John Dee influences the entire world with the Dreamstone to make what he thinks is a more honest world.

At the New Inn, Hob finds himself uniquely positioned to save his fellow patrons from the dangers they now pose to themselves and each other.

Why not? After all, what's the worst that could happen?

And how can he do anything else?

Read Me Your Longing M by @linzod

The Stranger hesitates, and does something Hob would not have believed possible. He stammers. “I- I do not remember. I came to and was being pursued.”

Hob notices the older man approaching, but is shocked as his voice rings out, addressing them both, “My dear boy, I am so glad we have found you.” He observes the situation warily; the only reaction from his friend is subtle, the smallest recoil.

“Who exactly are you?” Hob asks the man.

“Why, I’m Paul McGuire, and I can’t thank you enough,” the man looks at Hob’s ID badge, “Dr. Gadling, for finding my nephew.”

Hob’s eyes narrow, as he flatly asks, “Your nephew?”

***

Hob’s life is forever changed when his Stranger literally stumbles back into his life, amnestic and hunted, and he must use the skills gathered over an immortal life to evade their pursuers. They soon realize that bits of memory are coming back to Hob’s Stranger, through the power of literature. They are slower, however, to recognize that the most important story to explore may be their own.

A love letter to books, libraries, and the stories that make us, and allow us to change for the better.

Part of the Centennial Husbands Big Bang! Work Complete, Includes Art!

to keep our metaphysics warm by ineverfeltyoung G

“Where on Earth did you learn to make pizza?” Death asks around a mouthful. Hob hasn’t even finished serving himself yet and she’s already dug in. Dream is certain that etiquette would denote this rude behavior, but Hob doesn’t seem to mind, only giving her a disbelieving look.

“I’m immortal,” he says blandly. “Italy. Where else?”

Death comes to dinner. Dream does the dishes. Hob cries a little bit.

Series: Part 2 of the abstract entities dinner club

Cottagecore series by @the-apocrypha

Warnings: vary by story

The love story of a fae prince and a hedgewitch in the middle ages. <3

The Measure Of A Soul E by @vlakas-ex-machina @blueberrymffn

When Hob Gadling made a drunken deal with a mysterious man in a pub, he didn’t expect anything to come of it. Waking up the following morning with a golden mark on his wrist was a shock, though less than finding out that he couldn’t die. Who had he made a deal with, and what did he want? His Stranger was far from forthcoming, so he’d have to figure it out himself. That his mark was not just a passkey to an underworld of supernatural beings but the sign that he wasn’t meant to spend eternity alone was enough to send him down paths he never knew existed and ask more questions than were answered. Who, or more importantly what was his Stranger, and did the mysterious man know who Hob was destined for?

(An AU where only immortals have soulmarks that mark their species/type as well as their partner, and Hob has something no one has seen before)

who wants to live forever? M by ranchdiip

“An Endless?” Hob asks, softly, because it feels like a question that needs to be soft.

“That’s what we are,” Death responds, trying again for a small smile. “Me and D—”

“Don’t,” Hob interrupts, far stronger than he meant to, and Death looks surprised for as long as it takes him to get out, “Don’t, please. I-I want to hear it from him.”

Sympathy colors Death’s gaze even as Hob feels his face burn. Six hundred years, Hob thinks—he’ll be damned if he finds out his Stranger’s name from anyone but the odd man himself.

—

It's 1989 and Hob Gadling thinks he's been stood up. Death herself is kind enough to inform him otherwise—and, well, now Hob's got to bloody do something about it, doesn't he?

it doesn't matter which you heard (the holy or the broken hallelujah) T by @meadowziplines for Thranduilland

Warnings: Kidnapping, Torture, occultism, Blood and Violence, Blood and Injury, Whump, Broken Bones, dislocations, magical torture, Physical Torture, Delirium, Confusion, Memory Issues, Identity Issues

Roderick Burgess kidnaps Hob Gadling on June 7, 1989, intending to break both him and Dream. Instead, Dream being rather aggressively tortured triggers the knowledge of Hob's identity as Hope of the Endless, wrapped away in a mental box as they had been.

[dailycharacteroption]

Infinity Lash Witchwarper (Witchwarper Alternate Class Feature)

(art by Sleepy-Hillhurst on DeviantArt)

And we’re following up yesterday with another witchwarper option!

Today we’re looking at an option that combines two fun flavors that you might not think go together: Energy whips and bringing in matter from other realities.

Indeed, though some may rage at the absurdity of things like light-whips found in the Legacy expanded universe of Star Wars, the idea of a whip weapon that is made of light or energy is a fun one, whether it be technological or magical in nature. It only makes sense that there would be fancy ways to do whips and whip-like weapons in Starfinder, such as the plasma ribbons used by some battleflowers of Ning on Triaxus.

Today’s subject, however, is not a technological weapon, but rather an extension of the magical power of the witchwarper class. Indeed, rather than project areas or bursts of matter or energy from alternate realities, some instead focus this multiversal potential into a narrow, ribbon-like strand, one that they can then use on foes.

The results can vary depending on how much energy they put into it, but the core result is that the lash phases through the target on a molecular level, shunting all matter it comes into contact with into another reality and replacing it with an equivalent. This might be matter from an alternate version of the target, but the trauma of the change is highly damaging and painful as you might imagine, making the infinity lash a quite effective weapon, especially when enhanced by the witchwarper pouring their power into it.

The result is a mage with a surprisingly effective melee weapon at their disposal. Some may, much like yesterday’s subject, do this as a way to specialize in military or combat endeavors, but others may choose this path as a may to demonstrate their refinement of their reality-warping abilities!

These witchwarpers can create their infinity lash at any time with minimal effort, and it functions effectively as a whip, albeit a weak one. However, it becomes especially powerful when empowered by a sacrificed bit of spell energy (or the energy granted from the enhanced witchwarper’s version of infinite worlds). At it’s baseline this just increases the damage output, but the greater the expended energy, the better they become.

For the weakest sacrifice, the lash can potentially wrack foes with pain and even be used as a conduit for touch spells the witchwarper knows, letting them cast from a little farther away. For a bit more, they can alter the exact nature of the matter that they replace in foes, causing the lash to deal various forms of energy damage. Going further makes the whip tangible enough to be used to disarm and trip foes, and even further lets them render foes sluggish when they strike critically. The pentultimate enhancement causes their critical blows to weaken a foe’s whole body, while the most powerful expenditure lets them weaken foes in multiple ways with a single critical blow.

It's a simple replacement, but with it, the mage can absolutely be a contender for a second or front-line melee combatant. As such, I recommend a debuffing and battlefield control build, as well as possibly some combat touch spells. Your feats should primarily be focused on ways to better defend yourself and strike more accurately at your foes as well. With that in mind, you can lash at foes all day with your mighty whip, especially if you’re using the enhanced version of the witchwarper class, which you should.

Having such a clearly magical and exotic weapon can be a lot of the charm of such a character. It’s definitely a distinctive look and unless it is pretty common in the game you’re playing in, your character might be banking on that uniqueness. Perhaps they’re a mercenary with a distinctive signature weapon, or a warrior from a rare dojo or school of thought among witchwarpers eagerly demonstrating their unique skill.

The use of the whale-like oma are living starships dates back centuries, but the process can range from consensual to horrific or even ghoulish as the magnificent beasts are enslaved or even preserved as corpse-ships. Most notorious of the latter is Skarworks, a company more akin to a poaching ring than any legitimate business, and named for their leader’s tendency to create wicked “signatures” on her work with a reality-altering lash. Many have tried to bring her operation down before, but none have succeeded yet.

As their world slowly dies, the vlaka Kerba has been tormented by dreams of a version of reality where the damage never happened, and the planet is full of vibrant life. They’ve become obsessed with the idea of making that version a reality, and so they’ve begun a campaign to “recruit” more witchwarpers, with the hope that enough reality-warping power, guided by their lash, could permanently revive their home.

When you hunt bounties for a living, you’ve got to have some gimmick to set yourself apart from others in your profession, so that clients remember you and choose you over the competition. That’s what Lexia believes, which is why she developed her reality lash technique. However, she’s still a novice by all accounts, which has hampered her ability to complete and receive jobs. She’s getting desperate, perhaps enough so that a devil with a bargain might seek her out.

[wise-blue-cookies]

Hestia is also a member of the Olympians of course she pranked the shit Outta them all and absolutely no one has the faintest clue that she is the one messing with them becoz well,, she's Hestia, the literal innocence incarnate.

Zeus: PoSEiDoN!!! Imm abt to serve u up to Amphirite as a seafood platter if u don't stop replacing my gucci suits with ur so-called Hawaiian shirts!!⚡⚡⚡

Poseidon: ?? Why would I waste my fashion on an airhead like u😒🙄😑??

*argument occurs for another 2 months*

Hestia:*Giggles into her nectar*

...

Aphrodite, screeches: Stop fucking with my makeup and my wardrobe u absolute heathens!!

Apollo and Hermes coincidentally dressed in drag: US??

Aphrodite: Who eLSe wOUld DaRE to taKE My RaRE BeaUTy red Matte or empty my Lakme 24/7 liquid eyeliner or tear my purple Balenciaga evening gown that I was waiting to wear for the winter solstice party, u vlakas!!!!

*camera cuts to Aphrodite to leaping on Apollo and Hermes, scratching and pulling their hair and then screaming like infants *

Hestia, turning around the corner with a suspiciously purple fabric trailing from her bag

...

[catofgooddecisions]

Canonically they're supposed to be more anthro than nekomimi, but I get the idea. I guess the beastkin versatile heritage covers it too.

I'll go with a harder one. Where are our leporine ancestries? Our bunnies and hares! Ysoki don't cut it imo.

A funny thing about my experience with ttrpgs is that everyone loves foxgirls and yet all but one kitsune I've seen as a player character has been 1) Played by me 2) A man

Which isn't some definitive sample size, nor a bad thing but it's just extremely funny to me for some reason, given how often I end up in parties where I'm the ONLY one with a male PC. All my kitsune are some level of horrible scrunkly fella that will scream obscenities too, as foxes should be.

[lifeinbooks]

Ljudi su prolazni, nestalno, ulaze i izlaze iz vlaka tvog života te nitko, nitko nije tamo od početka vožnje do kraja, nitko osim tebe. Zato se nemoj pretjerano vezati za ljude, kako te prazno sjedalo nakon nečijeg izlaska ne bi razdiralo i izjedalo.