#psionic engine | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ostrichmonkey-games · 7 months

Text

Stampede Wasteland TTRPG

WELCOME TO THE WASTES

good luck, you’ll need it

Stampede Wasteland is my in development rules-light ttrpg about adventuring, gunslinging, and surviving a dangerous, extreme, and weird planet. Players are wastelanders, traveling from settlement to settlement, taking dangerous missions, exploring the world, and hopefully making a quick buck or two.

THE SETTING

One of the main inspirations is Trigun, and similarly to that series, humans are the surviving remnants of crashed seed-ships, clinging to survival in the craters of the Crash-Sites that dot the planet. It's got a similar attitude too. Danger, adventure, violence. But things are their own flavor of weird.

During the Crash, the terraforming swarms of nanites that the ships carried were released into the atmosphere where they crashed against the volatile, quasi-living psychofield of the planet and created the Warp: dangerous maelstroms that change whatever they touch. Some even purposefully seek these storms out, welcoming their chaotic blessings.

Gunslingers refine the nanite-crystals that periodically rain down from the Warp Storms into gunpowder: for bullets and for consumption. If you can survive the first nanite-fever, consuming gunpowder can fuel powerful abilities. At the minor cost of staining your blood black, and possibly inducing madness.

The original crew members of the seed-ships have long since passed into legend and myth, becoming deified as Crash Saints. Technoccultists wield their icons and relics, but also risk consorting with dangerous tech-devils in order to harness Warp magics.

Dangerous implants can grant bearers psionic powers and the ability to interface with the psycho-net: a strange data-realm born from the melding of ancient Crash-tech dataspheres and the currents of the planet's psychofield resonance.

There's more to discover out there, but that's a good appetizer.

So how does Stampede Wasteland work?

THE GAME

It's built off of the Together We Go engine (born from the game Down We Go) which is a rules-lite OSR styled system. Dice rolls are simple. Roll over a target value to succeed. You can modify your roll with special bonuses or decrease the target value through narrative positioning. Like a lot of OSR-y games, being in a situation where you're rolling is risky. Players want to stack the odds as much in their favor as they can. Combat is quick and bloody. And in Stampede Wasteland it is made all the quick and bloodier by auto-hit mechanics: so long as you are using your fighting style (which you pick during character creation) you always hit and deal damage.

Stampede Wasteland is an open sandbox. It is player driven, meaning that there is no presumed plot. Whatever troubles the players get caught up in become the plot. And rest assured, there will be troubles. The players have a shared Bounty score that goes up through the game, and if you're unlucky, people are going to start coming after you to claim that bounty.

Resources are slim. Survival is always by the skin of your teeth, and you are almost always backed into a corner. Desperation breeds trouble.

The game is procedural. Settlements and the Wastes are randomly generated as the table explores, meaning that everyone's version of Stampede Wasteland is going to be unique. The procedures are also tools for creating trouble for the players to interact with.

Trouble is fun. I wouldn't call Stampede Wasteland a "play to lose" game, but it is an "embrace the trouble" game. Trouble creates interesting situations where player characters get to flex their abilities.

THE CHARACTERS

Player characters have three components.

A Background that describes their origin.

A Fighting Style that forms a core part of their identity. Think of it as a signature. It’s how you sign your checks.

Class levels. There are four classes; GUNSLINGER, PSYCHER, TECHNOCCULTIST, and WILDWANDER. These give you all sorts of special abilities and situational roll bonuses.

During character creation, you pick out a background, a fighting style, and initially get two class levels to assign to whatever combination of classes you want.

This is one of my favorite elements of Together We Go: multiclassing. You want to dip into Wildwander to pick up a beast ability and companion after spending a few adventures as a Gunslinger? Go for it. Just make sure you meet the "narrative prereq" first (in the case of Wildwander, if it's not one of your starting classes during character creation, to pick up levels in it you have to go out into a Warp storm and embrace the change).

Character abilities range from the bullet-curving feats of the Gunslingers, the symbiotic beast powers of the Wildwander, to the special "skill monkey" Crash Saint domains of the Technoccultist. There's some very cool stuff you can pick up.

And that's a quick rundown on some of the basic elements of Stampede Wasteland. The text has been coming together pretty quickly, so hopefully it gets a release date in the next few months!

As I continue to work on it, I'll share some deeper dives into some more of the procedural elements and play loops. But if you want a rough idea on what to expect, you can also check out DEATHGRIND!!MEGASTRUCTURE, which is also built off of Together We Go. Stampede Wasteland is going to be a bit longer, and characters have a bit more going on though.

#ttrpg #indie ttrpg #ttrpg design #stampede wasteland #osr

56 notes · View notes

goattypegirl · 4 months

Text

During the peaceful period following the reformation of Spherus Magna (and the conclusion of the... tumultuous events shortly after) much previously obscured information about the Matoran universe came to light. The actions of the Makuta and Order of Mata Nui, the nature of the Red Star, the machinations of the Great Beings. But for certain scholars, one unanswered question continued to nag them in the back of their minds.

Why was Karzahni given the Olisi?

For much of the Matoran Universe's history, Artakha and Karzahni were mythical figures. The Smith and the Physician. Synthesis and Dissolution. A reward for good work and a punishment for poor. Brothers who competed for a legendary prize before the dawn of the world.

(For the record, said contest never actually happened. There was a minor debate between the Great Beings during the planning phase, and they were designed by two teams working in parallel, but by the time the twins were constructed their purpose was already decided. It's not the only instance of the Great Beings' actions being exaggerated into an epic myth by the GSR inhabitants.)

According to the former inhabitants of Karzahni's realm, the Olisi was used to torment the titan's subjects accoring to his capricious whims. Flaming chains to break the body, a rictus-grin mask to break the mind. But why? Karzahni wasn't cruel in the beginning, so why would the Great Beings grant him that mask? Was it meant to be anesthetic, granting Matoran sweet dreams as the titan operated on them? Perhaps it was a replacement mask, his original mask discarded alongside his Duty?

Recently, the answer was found in a laboratory near the site of the old iron tribe. The Osili was a diagnostic tool. Matoran commonly develop amnesia after severe stress or trauma, and it's not as though a turaga or other Matoran could accompany them to give patient history. By using the Osili to sort through alternate lives, Karzahni could learn who a Matoran was, where they were from, what injury befell them, and what they would do after being repaired and sent home. It's a pretty elegant solution.

...Except, that's not the whole story. It can't be. Using the Osili like that is like using a sword to chop vegetables. Surely there's a better tool for the job, a better job for the tool.

Though Matoran stopped being sent to Karzahni's realm relatively early in history, stories about the Osili spread across the world. Mask makers, of course, attempted to reverse engineer it. A true copy was never made, but there are two confirmed cases of new masks made from these experiments. The mask of Foresight allows the user to glimpse a few seconds into the future and see the actions of those nearby, and the mask of Augury allows the user to know the percentage chance of a specified event or action occuring. Though it's unconfirmed, it is theorized the Calix and Sanok were also inspired by the Osili. These masks all have hefty drawbacks or limitations, but they are all incredibly powerful and versatile in the right hands. And they are all methods to divine the future.

And they are all pale imitations of the Osili.

There's another mystery about Karzahni. See, construction on the GSR and the constructs within began while the Dreaming Plague was at its height. It's become clear that the Great Beings didn't fully understand what caused it, nonetheless, they gave psionic shielding to many of the original constructs. Tren Krom was excluded, obviously, but shielding was given to the Mata Nui intelligence, the first generation of Makuta, members of the Hand Artakha, as well as the titan himself. The Order of Mata Nui later instilled this same shielding into their own members.

But why wasn't Karzahni shielded?

It's debated how Karzahni's lack of shielding factors into the Osili's hypothetical capabilities, if at all. Scholars can talk about the troubling implications, but Karzahni is long dead, the Osili presumed destroyed. It feels like they're making shadows to be frightened by. To look on the bright side, progress has been made on restoring the former inhabitants of Karzahni's realm. Slow progress, but progress nonetheless. Reportedly many of them are finding it easier to sleep at night, no longer tormented by nightmares. Or dreams of any kind, for that matter.

#bionicle #my writing

42 notes · View notes

sailorb00 · 2 years

Text

Just a few doodles.... that turned into a few mini comic panels 🤭

I'll look to maybe continue this in the near future, but who knows... 🤷

OH. And I've included a partial summary of this AU that I've been brewing in my noggin just below💡y'know, in case anybody was interested fsdf

So basically this is the premise for my Salamandrian Encounter AU (still thinking of a better title tbh 🤔) or at least the beginnings of it — somewhere between a few months to a year following the aftermath of the ROTTMNT movie, a strange meteor flies across the NYC skyline before crashing in the middle of Central Park. Witnessing the sight while doing their usual nightly patrol, the "Mad Dogs" go to investigate. At the crashsite, they find a strange frog-shaped alien spacecraft (I gotta doodle it some more, but drawing mechanical is hard orz. A mini doodle of it can be found here) and its pilot, knocked unconscious.

Before the boys can do much of anything, besides freak out about a another possible alien invasion, men in black suits and armoured vans arrive—i.e. the EPF/Earth Protection Force—with Agent Bishop at the helm, and the two parties have a stand off. Finding it hard to not only keep the government agents at bay, but also to keep them from seizing the unconscious alien, the Mad Dogs make a hasty retreat, leaving the spacecraft to be collected and contained by the EPF.

Taking the pilot back to the lair, the boys patch her up, remove the two strange half-spherical objects from her temples—of which Donnie's interest is immediately piqued. I mean, c'mon, mysterious alien tech?! Boy's brain would be ABUZZ with all the possibilities!—and leave her in the medbay to recover while they debrief the crazy events of the night. Unbeknown to them, not long after they begin to discuss the EPF, with supporting security camera footage and drone shots taken thanks to Donnie—who is multitasking: fiddling with the strange alien tech in his hands mid-discusssion/info-dumping about the information he's found about the EPF—the pilot stirs in the medbay.

POV switch to Y'Gythgba—a young, intelligent, earnest but socially naive Salamandrian warrior/engineer on a mission, awakes not only to a pounding headache and a couple of cracker ribs—made worse by the bright flourescent lights and her lack of psionic amplifiers/holovisor, which have mysteriously gone missing—but also to an unfamiliar environment, with no sign of her AMPHIBAMECH (if anyone can come up with a better name, please pass along your suggestions lol). Immediately on alert, Y'Gythgba goes into full on Solid Snake stealth and begins to sneak about the lair, not sure of what to make of her strange 'alien' surroundings.

Silently, she stalks from tunnel to tunnel, passing a sleeping rat-man in a lazy boy recliner as a projector plays an archaic holovid of a strange humanoid in a jumpsuit and large optic lenses, fighting several adversaries. Y'Gythgba pauses to observe the old rat, trying to assess if he is an immediate threat or harmless, until raised voices—faintly familar yet unintelligible to her ears—grab her attention. Summoning/'pulling' her NovaBlaster from its pocket dimension with a wave of her hand and a trail of pink alien code and light ribbons (think Tron Legacy 😉), Y'Gythgba confronts her 'captors' from the doorway, catching them by surprise as she demands to know where her ship/AMPHIBAMECH is.

Obviously, neither the Mad Dogs or Y'Gythgba can understand one another, so as the boys take a step towards her, Y'Gythgba raises her blaster and fires a warning shot on its lowest setting... just inches above poor Raph's head 🥲

And voila! SHENANIGANS ENSUSE. That's all that I really have set in stone ATM, but I'll probably add more in the future if I do more doodles (...maybe)

OH. And the alien language that Y’Gythgba/Mona is using can be found here

#rottmnt #rise of the tmnt #save rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #save rottmnt #rottmnt mona lisa #tmnt mona lisa #rottmnt fanart #rottmnt leo #rottmnt mikey #rottmnt raph #rottmnt donnie #rottmnt salamandrians #rottmnt salamandrian encounter au #carareedart #carareed #rottmnt au #rise mona lisa

315 notes · View notes

dailyadventureprompts · 1 year

Photo

Monsters Reimagined: Thri-Kreen

D&D lore has never been kind to human/animal hybrid characters, especially to those who resemble animals stereotyped as being “evil”, such as gnolls or lizardfolk. This goes double for Thri-kreen the game’s default bugpeople, who etither get no lore at all, or get a few paragraphs describing how they don’t have emotions or personalities and see most other humanoids merely as food.

That’s the personality of a monster species, not a player option, and that general flatness of concept is expressed by almost every piece of thri-kreen art: depicting them mostly naked in a barren landscape brandishing a weapon at something.

While there’s a few seeds of interesting worldbuilding in the different versions of the Thri-Kreen , I’ve found the best way to make them conceptually rich is to continue my trend of combining two lackluster bits of canon into something distinctive, in this case, the mostly forgotten race of creatures known as dromites, who share the Thri-Kreen’s traits of being insectoid and psionic, but have a lot more interesting notes about their culture, Here’s What I’ve come up with:

The “Kreen” evolved on a distant world as a singular psionic hivemind, functioning much in the way you’d expect any colony of insects might save their ability to learn and retain information was far greater than that of any simple arthropod. Developing knowledge of engineering and magic that let them spread across the planes, they eventually suffered some kind of disaster that caused their hivemind to dissolve, leaving the “Thri-Kreen” as free willed individuals for the first time, where as before they were merely fragments of a consciousness that spanned planets. The chaos was immediate, as if each organ and cell of a single body suddenly gained awareness, forcing the fragments of what was arguably a single world spanning organism to begin constructing cultures and civilizations from scratch.

While in the many millennia since the end of their hivemind have seen the Mantises take numerous different paths, the concept of “wholeness” is a reoccurring theme. The name “Thri-Kreen” literally means “un-whole”, referencing their psionic bond with one another, and hearkening back to their undiminished “Kreen” or “whole” state of the distant past. This search for wholeness leads the Thri-Kreen to live in small, closely bonded groups where each individual may be in contact with every other individual, much in the same way that creatures in cold climates will stick together to share bodyheat. While it’s not unsusual for smaller groups to break off from a larger one, absolute isolation is considered to be a terrible state for a Thri-Kreen.

Outsiders who come into contract with the Mantisfolk would describe them as a strange mix of dependant and standoffish: offering help without ever being asked but challenging every opinion ever voiced. This is because unlike most mortals, who tend to become resistant when their opinions are challenged, Thri-Kreen seek group consensus above all and when faced with a crisis will begin checking their ideas against others to throw their weight behind the best option possible. This leads to Thri-Kreen settlements being largely non-hierarchical, through prone to sudden political swings.

Thri-Kreen are mostly genderless, through groups looking to expand ( or larger enclaves looking to maintain their population) will yearly elect “queens” and “consorts” for the reponsibility of producing young. Most other species mistake these individuals as leaders of the Thri-Kreen, when really their job is to fuck for days to months at a time. Smaller, nomadic groups of Mantisfolk gather together to have these sorts of elections, and the young are divided equally to be raised by the different packmembers as they enter their pupation stage.

The umberhulks that populate the underdark and slave pens of the cruel neogi bear an uncomfortable resemblance to present day Thri-Kreen, hearkening to the fact that while many of their kind found new beginnings across the astral sea after the dissolution of their singularity, many others found terrible ends. Likewise, the clockwork horrors that swarm across spelljammer ships and junkworlds communicate in a codified form of the Thri-Keen language, hinting at the existence of what might be an extinct conclave of mantisfolk engineers, or a hidden coterie of insectoid artificers intent on recreating their kind’s previous numbers in metal.

#monsters reimagined #writing advice #dnd #dungeons and dragons #d&d #5e #thri-kreen #dromite #spelljammer #plains #field #savannah #neogi

384 notes · View notes

sasster · 9 months

Text

Anyway, Here's Wonderwall

You guys know Laeche?

How about Razzle?

Did you know they met before Razz met Vineno and Mille?

[Doc]

There is always an unspoken culture that is difficult to integrate into as a substitute for any given member of a crew. What parts of the ship are considered off limits, who on the crew is part of what clique, it really is always something. Usually something that is so very high school.

Even then, Laeche has found that this all can be very tolerable. Annoying but workable.

At least those members of the crew have quarters to retire to and voices that can be heard, annoying voices and tight quarters. But at least they have them.

What he could never stand, never stomach for longer than it took to reach his ears, was always finding out the ship he’d be stepping foot on was one of those archaic ones that used a single helmsman as its engines main power supply.

Conscripted to a life of nothing more than a battery with a pulse. A sad and thready pulse.

Before him the lead engineer prattles on about specific requirements of the ship. How hard their helmsman works. How if something can’t be fixed with a tightened bolt, he might need to ping the medics.

Stupid, heartless shit.

If looks could kill he might have needed to page med right now with the glower that sets on his face.

She stops and smiles.

“You’ve never seen a helmsman in person, have you?”

“Somehow? Not a living one.”

No, by the time he gets called to a new crew it is so he can teach them how to operate a helmless system once theirs had become a husk.

Her smile broadens.

“Ours works very hard.”

“You mentioned that.”

“Ready to meet her?”

“Is that possible?” He asks, somehow managing to bite back the venom trying in vain to force its way into his tone.

Swallowing it down coats his throat in a thin sheen of bile.

Oh, if only he were able to spit actual venom.

The implication of his question must have flown over her head because she only tilts her head quizzically.

“Of course it is. You’ll be working very closely with her for the next few perigees.”

“Mm. Lead the way.”

The walk to the engine engine is uneventful, just a brainwashed yellow blood nattering about how amazing the crew and ship are. It all really goes in one ear and out the other.

Once there, she leads him to what she calls the helm’s “quarters��, quarters that he would sooner call a prison.

But that could just be his biases.

“Here is where the magic happens.” She says with glee, as though she is opening the door to some wonderland. With candy grass and a chocolate river perhaps.

Instead, he is met with the grisly sight of some poor soul wrapped up in thick, sickly, writhing tentacles. Every so often her limbs, nearly entirely encased entombed in the mass, are on the receiving end of a series of shocks that jolt through her entire body.

Her pained shrieks are the worst of it.

“What is her name?” He managed to ask between them and his own winced.

Confusion twists the engineer’s features.

“Does that matter? Who cares?”

“Silly me.”

This is going to be a very long job.

–

Two perigees come and go, and still Laeche has not learned the poor things name.

This unfortunate fact has not stopped him from having his meals with her, she’s his closest friend on the ship. He pushes into her “quarters”, now carefully decorated with small knick knacks to “liven up the place” he once explained to her, with his mushy rehydrated MRE in tow.

The rest of the crew find it odd that he chooses to eat rations in the dungeon with a nameless crew helmsman, but it is a point of morals for him.

“Hey Starlight, I think this gruel is supposed to be a meatloaf maybe?”

There is no response, there never is, but he is comforted by the silence in the room. By now he has found a way to decrease the psionic input required by the ship.

The crew didn’t even notice. Nor did their commanding officer. Worst of all?

The lead engineer herself had no idea.

How blood boiling that it was gratuitous. The entire time.

“Snagged some apple sauce for you too.”

She moves slightly in her restraints.

“There she is.” He says as he takes his usual perch. “Guess what else I brought.”

The helmsman stops moving.

“Correct!” He beams, his enthusiasm filling the room as he pulls the guitar strapped to his back forward.

When he strums the first chord, her eyes light up with something close enough to life that it helps the engineer sleep at night.

He smiles softly.

“I am going to get you out of here, Starlight. But for now, we have each other’s company.”

#laeche #coko writes sometimes #long post #woke up covered in sweat and had to finish this drabble

36 notes · View notes

kayforpay · 26 days

Note

GHB in Psii position? like psionics yellow.

At first it was hard.

At first, he missed the freedom. He missed moving with his body -- the flesh, the meat that held his engine, or was his engine. But that passed. He was comfortable with it, content. The body around his engine was stronger. It didn't hurt. He didn't have to work on anything, didn't have to fight for food.

Besides when the empress needed him to exert more energy, he didn't feel anything at all.

His eyes stayed closed most of the time, his mind drifting blurrily through thoughts he couldn't hold, and didn't need to.

There had been a time, he thought, when he was a troll. He wasn't a ship the whole time. The surgical implants were added later. The enhancers to his psionic powers had come at some point between then and the time he was in the ship.

Sometimes, the Empress came to him, her hands on his face, lifting his head with the nubs of his horns (Had they hurt when they were cut off? He didn't remember being inside his body for it.). She spoke to him about purpose and true meaning and power's consequence.

Kurloz didn't understand any of it. Why should he? He was the engine. Engines didn't think, they just worked.

Impacts were rare, even in deeper space. The pilots were trained, and the Empress demanded perfection in all things. She had picked him personally (so she said, why would she lie?), and picked every pilot herself as well. So at first, he thought that he was imagining things, that distant, blurry, purplish haze that he usually settled into fading when the ship managers switched out canisters of his feeding slurry.

But it didn't end. As time passed, the blur faded further, until every detail in his block was sharp, grating against his pan like knives dragged over it. The wires twisted into his muscles hurt, a kind of agony so deep and complete that he immediately understood why it was called exquisite, and then it got worse. He fought against the burrowing tendrils on instinct, unable to stop even as the pain grew so severe he couldn't think of anything at all.

For the first time, he tapped into the systems of the ship. He had been connected, but the Empress had deemed it unimportant to keep him cognizant of what went on around him. It was easier, she reasoned, to let the trolls trained for it handle that, and use him for his purpose.

There weren't cameras on the exterior of the ship; it was designed in such a way that those sitting in command seats could see through portholes, much like an oceanliner, but he could tell that he was stationary. Sending pulses of energy to the engine did nothing; apparently he was disconnected from that.

The Empress, it seemed, had found a new engine, one to replace him. Something like betrayal settled into his mind, barely outweighing the pain, and he focused on it. Focused on the sweeps he had lost, and how he couldn't tell how long it had been; were his friends even alive? Where had he been dropped off?

With his energy no longer directed to the engines, all he could do was wriggle against the implants holding him still, blood beading at the edges and running down his arms, his legs, his neck. He wouldn't be able to walk. Did he even have enough power to lift himself? And if so, where would he go?

The palace? He wouldn't even get close to the Empress. His hive? It must have been demolished by now. Even without a destination in mind, he had to get free. The concept of it, the idea that had sustained his mind for so long, that distant thought he held onto, was enough.

He used to live next to a field of pale purple flowers. The smell of them made his head ache, but he couldn't remember it now. He needed to see it at least one more time before he let the Empire kill him.

#thnks fr th qstns #anon and on and on and on #bloodswaps #bloodswap #bloodswap ghb #ghb bloodswap #body horror kinda #homestuck #idk how to tag this tbh it came out! weird. hope u like it

10 notes · View notes

marlonbrandto · 7 months

Text

THE MAYNOS GAMBIT | 4

The interior of the vault is massive! As the Hammerhead and battlesuit escort glide down to the surface of the vault, Aun’Shar stares out the viewport to see what looks like the surface of another planet spanning all the way to a new horizon. D’tano squints at the onboard computer, “this cavern goes on for at least as far as the Hammerhead’s scanners, could cover the whole planet.” Aun’Shar marvels at the fast approaching ground, dotted with old dilapidated skyscrapers and crumbling statues, “a planet within a a planet, the Calamity Equation could be anywhere!” The door of the gunship hisses open.

1. The statues in the distance crack and come to life, four Nemesis Dreadknights flourish their swords. Ancient gears clatter against each other as the Grey Knights resume their watch, rushing the Cadre

2. A hail of psionically propelled shells pepper the Hammerhead from a distance. Then suddenly lightning arcs through the cloud of dust the gunfire created. Pieces of the gunship explode off it’s chassis, and it’s engines darken, gravity causes it to slam into the gravel beneath it . Everyone jolts into action, the new Ghostkeel pilot charges the nearest dreadknight, restraining the manipulator arms. The Crimson Order fires a volley at another, ion smokes from holes in a Grey Knight bedecked in archaic heraldry as his whole suit teeters over, kicking up a churning cloud of dust with the impact.

3. Walking through the wall of a building emerges another colossus, lightning flashes from the pilot, detonating two of the Crimson Order’s battlesuits. Commander Novastorm overcharges his weapons, diverting all the power in the thrusters into the mounted rifles energy output. All that’s left of the Dreadknight’s operator is a hole in the middle of the suit, which crumbles to the ground.

4. The Dreadknight in the center breaks free of the ghostkeels grasp and swings his arm cannon towards Commander Novastorm, recklessly carving a trench into the backdrop with the hot beam of light screaming out of it. Novastorm rockets into the air just in time to dodge the laser, but is unable to avoid the portal suddenly ripped into the folds of reality above him. Unable to adjust his course due to the lack of power in his thrusters, all the commander can do is pull the emergency eject lever. As he is flung out of the battlesuit’s chassis he watches the rift pull it closer, the suit caving in on itself as it’s enveloped by the impossible phenomenon. The Grey Knight then swipes with his Nemesis Greatsword at the Ghostkeel, who flickers out of existence as the stealth drone projecting the hologram crashes to the ground. The real Ghostkeel fires his Cyclic Ion Raker at the Dreadknight, destroying its Psi-Cannon before getting sheared in half by its greatsword.

5. The dreadknight turns towards the stealth suits and begins chanting endlessly about purification as purple flame bursts from him, swallowing and vaporizing stealth team Obscuro

6. D’tano had taken cover in the second floor of a nearby building, only to realize the rest of his fireteam didn’t follow him. Stray bullets burst through the dilapidated wall as the Fireblade takes aim with his pulse rifle, lining up a shot with the dreadknights’ pilot. Before he can properly get a shot, his wrist mounted tacpad beeps in alarm, the Ethereal Aun’Shar’s vitals are dropping! Grimacing at the exposed enemy, he swings his pulse rifle to the floor of the building and fires a few bursts of energy, damaging it enough for the section he stands on to crumble to ground level. Falling into the ruin, D’tano manages to land on his feet as he rushes into the open to support the ethereal.

——————————————————————————

Lighting and hellfire screams over Bo’ran (Commander Novastorm) as he stumbles towards the burning hulk that was once their gunship. A Crisis suit of the Crimson Order, Shas’Vre Nyk’thos of sub-team Crimson Dawn (judging by the markings on its side), rockets by Bo’ran, charging headlong into the raging goliath of a bygone era. Bo’rans’ legs ache from the impact of his ejection system as he breaks into a sprint, but is flung towards the Hammerheads wreckage as Nyk’thos’s suit erupts in a brilliant explosion. Ears ringing, Bo’ran smacks into the hull of the gunship. He wipes the soot from his eyes and rolls off the fusillade, the impact of hitting the ground sends a sharp pain through his ribs. He manages to push him self off the ground, taking stock of the situation around him. Drones whizz around in a panic, intercepting incoming fire. A handful of Fire warriors attempt to establish a firing line before a white hot laser vaporizes two of them instantly. And behind the smoldering wreck is Fireblade D’tano dragging the limp ethereal — Aun…. Char? We never got a proper introduction, Bo’ran muses to himself as he limps in their direction either way, what’s left of his honor guard will not last long against this foe, and I’ve learned the best chances of survival are always right next to an ethereal.

Screams echo across the landscape punctuated by thunderous lightning and wailing laserbeams as Bo’ran grabs hold of the ethereal and helps pull him away from the conflict. A bolt has punctured the ethereals’ chestplate, and as Bo’ran takes a closer look, he sees in place of a wound is a churning rift of psychedelic colors. The ethereal seems insensate, mumbling something about statues.

“He needs more than a doctor!” He shouts as the hammerheads chassis suffers one final explosion, shattering.

“He needs to get out of here first!” Grunts D’tano as a shower of bullets whizz by them and thud into the dirt.

“The only true way out is up, we’re stuck in this hell!” Bo’ran catches a glimpse of a battlesuit in the distance, through all the dust, the familiar glow of plasma flashing towards a large menacing silhouette.

“An elevator. In the building. Found it when we landed!” D’tano forces out between strained pulls. Bo’ran focuses on this new objective.

Almost there! Another explosion lights up the dust cloud in the distance

A few more steps! The screaming in the distance has stopped.

One more push! A hulking figure emerges from the dust, raising its sword, then slices downwards, creating a black rift in front of it. D’tano drops the ethereal and grabs the crank handle of the door, furiously spinning it.

“Inside!!” D’tano wrests the door open, while another rift roars a few meters away from the trio and out steps the hulking dreadknight, but by the time the foul contraption scans the area the Tau had all but vanished.

——————————————————————————

AUTHORS NOTE: I love writing the narrative of my 40K games, but sometimes you suffer a crushing defeat at the hands of a Grey Knights player who brought 4 Dreadknights to a 1000 point game. It was a hard game to play, since it felt like right after the first turn I barely even had a chance at winning, but I hope it at least made an interesting story! After all, if the protagonists of a story never lose, victory doesn’t taste as sweet. I appreciate all the likes I’ve been getting so far and hope you all continue to enjoy The Maynos Gambit!

#fanfic #sci fi oc #warhammer 40000 #battle report #tau empire #warhammer 40k #warhammer miniatures #warhammer oc #warhammercommunity #tau 40k #grey knights #scifi #short story #tau #warhammer #sci fi writing

22 notes · View notes

crazyskirtlady · 1 year

Text

AI prompt: I wish all railroad workers a very strike that destroys capitalism ✊🏾

[likes charge|reblogs cast]

#ai prompt #technospellcasting #techno witchcraft #technomancy #chaos magick #a digital psionic engine to create sympathetic vibes #digital spellcasting #cyber witchcraft #cyberspells #metawixen #hypervisual #digital talisman #metasigil #railroad strike #rail workers #anti capitalism

60 notes · View notes

tenleaguesbeneath · 7 months

Text

some musings toward hacking together a system to run my home games

combat engine wise, I'm drawn to either one-roll (well, maybe more like one+each rolls, where you roll once to determine the outcome of the whole combat and then each player rolls to determine personal consequences) or a puzzle combat system where rather than the enemy's defenses adding up to give it an armor class that you roll against, each one is a real thing.

Like, for instance, a knight in articulated plate with a zweihander would have a reach advantage (explicitly: you can't get close enough to use your weapons against him because he'll cut you up and push you back) and the armor protects all areas except for gaps too small to be practical to hit while he's up and moving, especially at range, and those are real in the game system. Rather than AC just he no-sells your attacks until you figure out a way to negate those advantages.

At the same time I want something more concrete and real than PbtA stuff does. I like the illusion that the narrative isn't just the GM and players saying stuff, that there's something concrete under it that the rules govern, that successes and failures are the result of interactions with the world and the mechanics rather than something the GM hands out. I like strings though, strings are good. I'm particularly thinking about thydungeonguy's recent posts about systems where the different parts (social interaction and combat) all play in to each other, with a shared metacurrency between combat and non-combat encounters.

I've had a little experience with Torchbearer and there's a lot I'd borrow from it and a lot I wouldn't. I like the grind. Honestly I'd want to take some of the emphasis away from the Conflict engine it has (in particular how you can basically never get enough Checks to rest properly without conflicts); just making plain dungeon crawling arduous is good. But I think I'd still want an OSR-style turn system over Torchbearer's.

Explicitly tracking characters' emotional states (like Torchbearer does, with Angry and Afraid as status conditions) is good.

I'm especially thinking of this in conjunction with psionics, and in particular this twitter thread about psionic archetypes and how D&D gets them wrong. Since I'm lately playing sci-fi psionic stuff that's on my mind.

I want some degree of random character generation, though stars without number's thing of making that optional but then giving an expectation value somewhat higher than opting out (three rolls vs two picks for background skills, or the raise option if you roll stats 3d6 in order). Not sure how much compatibility with D&D I want; that'd be a nice-to-have though. Honestly, what I like from random character generation is having a process to go through to meet your character, rather than just creating someone tailor-made, and don't like characters who are entirely optimized around doing one thing well. The random boons after you pick your class in On A Red World Alone are good, although I like the option for a random class which that system doesn't have.

Likewise, I want progression to be a mix of organic and player-guided. I don't want you to plot out a build from first to max level and have all that set in stone before play begins. At the same time there is something appealing about being able to quickly generate NPCs with just class and level. Tough needle to thread. I'm not sure I even like classes for anything else. but also adventuring gets you seriously injured and you may have to retire due to that.

I also don't want high-level characters to be godlike and I don't even necessarily want them to be rich. Being the best there is at what you do but having whatever wealth you gain go as quickly as you get it is a staple story.

#tenleagues musings

24 notes · View notes

sekiromi · 15 days

Text

A Devil You Do, ch. 3

pairing(s): Raphael x Tav/Reader, Astarion x Tav/Reader themes: reincarnation, soul bond, past lives, lost memories, pining, slow burn cw/tw: canon-typical violence, gore word count: 4.2k previous chapters: [1] [2]

[read this fic in all its glory on ao3!]

Chapter Three: Scars and the Stories They Tell

You are not your own, for you were bought with a price.

“I don’t know why you don’t just ask Karlach to take a look, I’m sure she could read them for you.” Astarion threw you a displeased look and shushed you to stop the others from overhearing, causing an irritated frown to settle on your features and a slight hurt to sting in your chest. Seeing this, he altered his expression into something less unkind, his eyes softening and a small sigh breaking past his lips as you pretended that a loose stone on the floor was suddenly the most interesting thing you had ever seen in your life just to avoid his gaze.

“Look, I know you’re just trying to help, but I’d rather we kept this between us. For now, at least.” He sensed you were less than satisfied with that answer. “…It’s quite personal. Apart from Cazador, you’re the only other person to really see those scars, you know.” He hoped that would placate you, and felt his shoulders lose some tension as understanding broke onto your face.

“Right, of course.” A pause. “…Sorry.” Astarion resisted the urge to roll his eyes, instead offering you a small smile.

“It’s alright. Now, where were we…ah! That’s it.” With a satisfying ‘click’ the lock on the chest came undone. He stepped back, stowing his tools as you lifted the lid and dove in, rummaging around to search for any valuables. A bit of gold, a jewelled necklace, a spell scroll…and a rather fancy looking dagger, which you wordlessly extended towards him. His fingers lingered on yours a little longer than they needed to as he took it. “Oh, thank you dear.”

“Don’t mention it. Seriously. Otherwise, I’ll get accused of favouritism.” You gestured your head towards the others milling about across the courtyard, chatting idly as you navigated Rosymorn Monastery. Astarion gave you a teasing smile, inching closer.

“You mean to say, I’m not your favourite? Darling, I’m distraught.” Unlike Astarion, you could not prevent the eye roll that ensued. You liked him, too much perhaps, but Gods could he be insufferable.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Come on, let’s get moving.” You slid past him towards your other companions, illuminated by the rays of the sinking sun, as you continued your search for the entrance to the githyanki crèche that Lae’zel had been harassing you about for the better part of your journey. Despite the only other githyanki you had met along the way having tried to kill you, she still seemed keen to make it there, and assured you the Zaith’Isk would provide you all with the solution you were looking for.

Somehow, you doubted that.

“What is a…Zaith’Isk…exactly?” You asked as you walked beside her, keeping a lookout as you rounded corners, watching for danger lurking in the shadows. Considering there was apparently a faction of githyanki loitering around here somewhere, the monastery seemed eerily quiet.

“It is a githyanki healing device that uses psionic energy to remove a mindflayer parasite from the infected. It is engineered from both illithid and metal machinery, it is our only hope for survival.” She assured, gait steady and confident as you traversed the halls.

“Have you used one before?” You asked curiously, still keeping an eye out for any imminent threat. Lae’zel hesitated a little, and cleared her throat before answering.

“No, I have not. But it is known that only a Zaith’Isk can purify a person that has become infected.” You lingered on those words, ‘it is known’, to who, and how, exactly? Perhaps it was your pessimism showing, or perhaps the tadpole had gifted you with some prescient sense of awareness, but once you entered the crèche, the Zaith’Isk did not fail to meet your expectations, as disappointing as they were.

Lae’zel thrashed and fought within the contraption, evidently in distress. Your own tadpole writhed in pain, communing with hers as it faced a barrage of psionic onslaught. It was torture, you realised, and extended exposure would be Lae’zel’s undoing. After some stressful back and forth, you were able to convince her to jump out of the offending machine, causing it to shatter as it would have done her own mind. Amidst the confusion, the disappointment, the failure, you were glad to see her relatively unharmed.

The Ghustil, however, was less pleased.

You managed to convince her that the Zaith’Isk had succeeded in its task, killed the worm wriggling within Lae’zel’s head, which seemed to satisfy her curiosity for the time being. Rushed by doubt, questions, uncertainty, you felt your mind wax and wane while Lae’zel tried to reason with herself as to why the Zaith’Isk had failed in removing the tadpole. Even after pointing out to her that it did not seem to be designed to accomplish such a task, instead being focused on destroying both parasite and host in one fell swoop, she still muttered to herself and tried to find another explanation. Her faith seemed to hang in the balance, so you did not push the matter as you descended further into the crèche to find the answers that you sought.

That worked out really well for you and your party, by the way. It only resulted in a few deadly battles with Lae’zel’s own kin, a confrontation with their wrathful God-Queen, oh, and the total destruction of the monastery and the crèche that resided within it. And still, you were no closer to ridding yourself of the unwelcome parasite that plagued you. But hey, at least you got a cool mace out of it.

As the sun started to merge with the horizon, flooding the valley in golden rays, sunbeams dancing in the dust that was settling after the total devastation you had caused, you peeled yourself away from your camp to sit on an outcrop that jutted out over the landscape, one leg bent so your arm could rest on your knee, the other dangling beneath you. Despite everything feeling more hopeless than ever, you could not help but to admire the view, savour the relative peace, and took a moment to offer a silent apology to Lathander for blowing up his temple. The sun remained mute in response.

Now that the crèche had proved futile, your journey would be forced to take a darker turn. Tomorrow, you would set out for the Shadow-Cursed Lands and try to find the source of this infection: Moonrise Towers. Hopefully, you would find the answers to your growing list of questions there.

“Shop around! Beg, borrow, and steal. Exhaust every possibility until none are left.”

The devil’s words echoed in your mind. It was as if he knew how every stage of your journey would go, had predicted every twist and turn, every dead end and disappointment. He seemed so sure of the fact that only he could alleviate your condition, and you had to wonder why. There was information he was withholding, knowledge that only he seemed privy to, and it was infuriating.

He knew your quest to remove the tadpole by any means other than his would result in failure, which begged the question, why did he continue to let you make a fool of yourself as you endlessly chased these false hopes? Could he not just tell you why those means were useless, why only he could help? You would be more willing to hear him out if he let you in on the secret.

Like a cat with a mouse, he was toying with you, you realised.

“Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things; --We murder to dissect.”

Every hair on the back of your neck bristled and stood straight, blood ran colder than usual, and your palms suddenly became slick with sweat. “My, my, made a bit of a mess, haven’t we?” You whipped your head around (how did I not sense him coming!) and tried to siphon some of the shock from your voice.

“Raphael.”

“At your service.” The devil took a low, dramatic bow, smile sickening as he drank in your dejected countenance, the irritation starting to etch its way onto your face. “What’s the matter, you don’t look pleased to see me?” He feigned an expression of hurt, placed his hand over his evil little heart in a way that reminded you of Astarion. Fighting was futile, you decided. This interaction would be less painful for you if you kept to the scripted tone. With concerted effort, you eased the suspicion from your features and gave a small shrug, turning back to gaze at the sunset.

“I didn’t say that.”

Raphael’s eyebrows lifted in mild surprise, causing the creases to deepen on his forehead. He quickly corrected the expression, settling for something slyer and more devilish, and brought his hand to hold his chin.

“Oh? My mistake, then. Tell me, my dear, how did Crèche Y’llek work out for you?” He was teasing you. You found it hard to stop your jaw from clenching. You were visibly covered in the evidence of how Crèche Y’llek had worked out for you: dried githyanki blood staining your armour, dust from the explosion settled into your hair, a new wound that promised to scar bisecting the corner of your upper and lower lip at an almost perpendicular angle. It had finally stopped bleeding, just, but you could still taste that metallic tang in your mouth.

“I think you know exactly how it worked out.” Less than ten sentences into this conversation and he was already starting to dig beneath your usually thick skin. He chuckled darkly, and you heard him take a couple of footsteps closer. Suddenly you realised just how precarious of a situation you were in, one small push and he could send you tumbling to your death, obliterated by the rocks beneath. You tried to swallow that new fear down, turning to look over your shoulder at him when he was less than a foot away, having to crane your neck up uncomfortably to meet his eye, conveying a silent message: that’s close enough. Despite the balance being tipped in his favour, he respected your wish and stayed firmly where he was. His eyes shifted across your features, scanning every fleck of blood, dirt, every pore, every imperfection. For a fleeting moment, you could swear they lingered somewhere near your lips, but only for a moment. Ashamedly, you felt your heart quicken a fraction.

“Oh, but it would be so much more fun to hear your version of events, little mouse.” You automatically wrinkled your nose at the nickname, not too fond of it, an immediate mistake you realised, knowing it would just spur him on and encourage him to use it more. A sigh deeper than the valley of the mountain pass heaved its way out of your chest as you tore your gaze away from him, looking down with a sudden vulnerability.

“Maybe another time, Raphael. I’m just…too tired for this right now.” You gestured vaguely towards him as you said that, an action he would not usually take kindly to, but he could see the exhaustion pressing down on you, forcing your shoulders to round and sag. Your eyes, despite looking beautifully aglow in the light of the fading day, were now framed in shadows, sunken and severe. Hands that held nothing sat limp in your lap, knuckles bruised and split, nailbeds torn and whittled all the way down. Your despondency was delightful, but needed some time to mature into utter ambrosian anguish.

“Little mouse.” Despite your distaste for the new nickname, you still responded to it immediately and turned to come face-to-face with the devil, causing you to flinch backwards a bit. He had crouched down to meet your eye, brown orbs holding yours steadily as he extended a hand towards with you exaggeratedly slow movements, like someone trying to approach a frightened little lamb and not scare it away. A lamb, or a mouse. Eyes wide and watchful, you held your breath as he cupped your jaw with perhaps slightly more force than necessary. Bewildered and completely taken aback, you watched as his eyes wandered south again, tilting your face to examine something. It was not until he pressed his thumb to the deep cut at the side of your mouth, opening the wound once again, causing a sting and a hiss of pain to snake through your gritted teeth, that you realised that was what he had been looking at before. You could only imagine it was an ugly thing, having not seen your reflection this evening yet, and suddenly felt self-conscious. “Do try to take better care of yourself, won’t you?” His voice was quieter, softer, and you felt a soothing warmth bloom from beneath his thumb as he traced the wound with an unexpected gentleness, eyes flitting briefly back to yours, feasting on the succulent mix of shock, fear and something forbidden (was that…arousal?) swirling in your dilated pupils.

Gods, he could just devour you. Never had an ordinary mortal been so tempting to him. It was slightly vexing, if he was being honest with himself, and he was not sure what he was going to enjoy more: toying with your soul or teasing with your heart.

Satisfied with something, he removed his hand, his retreating touch causing you to compulsorily follow, seeking it out again as your head fell towards his, before you suddenly realised what you were doing. Embarrassed and silently cursing the handsome devil, you moved back and reinstated the previous distance, unable to look him in the eye, for once in your life finding yourself to be completely speechless.

A chuckle bubbled in his chest, but he managed to hold it back for your sake, instead opting for a knowing smile.

“See you, soon.”

In a flash, he was gone, leaving behind nothing but a whisp of burning ashes, the smell of sulphur, and the ghost of a touch.

Gingerly, you brought your finger to trace the rapidly cooling warmth of where his thumb had stroked, feeling no blood nor scab, no stinging. No wound.

He had healed you.

You held your face in your hands and groaned.

Fucking. Hells.

Back at the House of Hope, Raphael eased into his chair to make a note of today’s excursion. Mostly, he just wanted to immortalise in vivid, descriptive imagery the look on your face when he had touched you, the way your pulse thrummed beneath the pad of his thumb, the inner turmoil that was surely brewing within you. Looking down, he inspected the bright, fresh blood decorating his thumb, glistening in the flickering candlelight, and brought it to his mouth. With unbearable anticipation, he could not hold back as his tongue slid past his lips to get a taste, gently grazing the remnants of the wound, and Gods was it divine. Rich and fragrant, with an earthy, woody, almost smoky base note erupting into something floral, giving way to a hint of sweetness that was not overpowering, the usually sharp, metallic edge dulled by the medley. Honey, jasmine, petrichor all mingled at the tip of his tongue, lingered on his lips as he smeared the remainder in a lazy line across the bottom. It was nothing short of euphoric, and for a moment his eyes glazed over, almost all sense leaving him. When it came back, he decided his written report of the day could wait.

For now, he just needed to see Haarlep.

—-

“How much longer do you think it’ll take?” Astarion asked, peering over his shoulder, back facing you as you sat cross-legged in his tent, journal resting open on your lap, trying to divine the infernal symbols branded on his alabaster skin in the limited light. Freshly bathed and dressed in a more comfortable outfit, you felt a little more like yourself, a little less defeated.

“Nearly there, bear with me…” You sketched quickly but precisely, making sure to capture every detail, every jagged line and joining swirl. It was painful enough trying to make an accurate copy, especially with nothing but the candles for guidance, you could only imagine how awful it must have been for Astarion to receive. The thought tore at the edges of your heart. Were you sure he would not bristle at the contact, you felt tempted to trace them with your fingers, soothe the pain that still lingered with your hands.

Like Raphael had done to you earlier.

The memory struck you like an ice knife, unwelcome and intruding. You did not want to think about Raphael, not right now, so you forced yourself to shove him out of your mind by recounting all the things you did not like about him.

He’s an actual devil, for one.

On to the final circle, you sketched with an intensity betraying your rising frustrations.

He’s trying to manipulate me into liking him so I will hand over my soul.

Scratching at the page, you traced over the fainter lines, making sure the symbols stood out and were readable.

His frilly shirt looks ridiculous.

…

He’d look better without it.

The lead of your pencil snapped with a sharp crack as you pressed down with unnecessary force at the nature of that thought, the tip somehow flying off somewhere into the far corner of Astarion’s tent. You both watched it zoom past in surprise, and he turned to give you a questioning look.

“Oops.” You pulled a sheepish face and looked back down at the drawing. Luckily, it was pretty much finished. Any more and you would just be overworking it. Satisfied, you set the pencil down and gently tore the page free from the binding as Astarion turned back around, giving it a final glance before handing it over. He took it quickly and without thanks, which did not surprise you but had you stifling an eye roll as you moved to sit beside him, watching his ruby eyes scan the strange, unfamiliar symbols that neither of you knew how to read.

At least, you did not think you did.

After having been staring at the scars for the better part of the evening, committing them to paper with a disciplined accuracy, some of the symbols started to shift into vaguely recognisable things that conveyed some sort of meaning to you. You were looking at them, but no longer seeing them, eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance, a trance-like sensation washing over you as the runes moved before your eyes, implanting their meaning directly into your head.

“Hoyc inferiu non iurare per igneu…” You muttered to yourself in a terrible, broken infernal accent, feeling a blunt throb begin to pulse in the outer corner of your left eye, the edges of your vision darkening as the details of the tent interior faded, and every other sense became dulled.

“What did you say?” Astarion asked, turning to look at you with a curious frown. You did not answer, eyes glazed over and unseeing, it seemed like you had not even heard him. He nudged you gently with his elbow, bringing you back to the moment and ripping you from your thoughts. The trance fell away quickly, and you blinked rapidly as the world around you came back into focus, seeming to have forgotten where you were for a second.

“Huh?” You looked tired and weary all of a sudden.

“I asked, what did you say? Just now? You were mumbling to yourself.”

“Was I…?” You mused with a frown, having no memory of what you said, not until you looked back down at the sketch and saw the first ring of the scar. “Oh, that was…the first line, here,” you reached out and pointed to the letter at roughly seven o’clock on the outer circle, the infernal letter for ‘H’, and followed the joined symbols clockwise to five o’clock, “it means something like ‘this soul swears no oath by fire’, I think.” Astarion followed your finger with his eyes, tried to see what you could see in the nonsensical etchings.

“I thought you said you couldn’t read infernal?” He asked slightly accusatorily, confused as to why you did not offer a translation when you first saw the scars. You shrugged, looking just as confused as he felt.

“I…can’t, or, at least, I didn’t think I could. I don’t know what the rest says, though, just that first line.”

Astarion looked back down, retracing the path you had taken around the outer circle.

“This soul swears no oath by fire…” He murmured quietly to himself.

“Any idea what it could mean?” You asked quietly, watching as he shook his head with a sigh.

“I…don’t know. It almost sounds like part of a…contract…or something.” He was right, you realised. ‘Oath’ was the key that gave it away, and you were annoyed for not having noticed it yourself. This realisation unsettled you. You already had reason to suspect that there was something in this that tied Astarion to Cazador still, and if an infernal contract was involved then that would be particularly binding and difficult to negotiate out of. Not knowing the rest of the translation seemed a significant hinderance, as well. “There is someone that could help us with this, you know…” Astarion glanced at you, gauging your thoughts through your expression, which was looking slightly more vacant than usual at this time of day.

“Hm? Who?”

“Our devilish friend, Raphael, of course.”

Vacancy vanished to be replaced by disapproval and reluctance, a cocktail of emotions that all gathered together to say one thing: no thank you.

“There’s got to be someone else, surely.” You pleaded with an unexpected amount of desperation.

“What’s wrong with him? If anyone’s going to know anything about infernal contracts, he will.” You sighed and pinched the bridge of your nose, tried to find the strength not to release a barrage of insults regarding the insufferable creature you had the misfortune of encountering again mere hours ago.

“He’s after our souls, for one thing. For another, he’s such a smarmy bastard…” Astarion huffed an amused laugh. He had yet to hear you shit talk anyone. He could get used to it, he decided, and made a mental note to gossip with you about Shadowheart and Lae’zel another time. “Gods know what he’ll ask for in return, are you prepared to pay the price?”

“Well, we won’t know until we ask now, will we?” You grunted and threw yourself back onto the hard ground with a soft thud, covering your eyes with your arm as you tried to suppress the images of Raphael roaming the planes of your face, drinking in your despair, piercing into what felt like your very soul. Feeling the phantom of his thumb caressing the corner of your lip almost caused you to whimper. Almost.

“Fine. We’ll ask next time we see him.” You relented, unwilling to deny Astarion’s whims and sour your otherwise positive relationship. He smiled, looking very much like the cat that got the cream.

“Thank you. Unfortunately, he seems to come and go on his own schedule, so I suppose we’ll just have to look out for any sulphurous odours…or the sound of questionable poetry.” You snorted at that, reminiscing unenthusiastically on your earlier encounter. It lingered uneasily in your mind, how he had the power to completely overwhelm you with just a simple touch, how you had frozen under his thumb. It was something you could not have expected, and stirred a feeling within your chest that you did not want to entertain, a distant ache, an unnurtured longing, a forgotten desire.

You took a deep breath, held it for a second, then spoke quickly. When you decided to tell it, the truth always came rushing forth without restraint, and, because you cared about him, you felt you needed to be truthful with Astarion, always.

“I saw him earlier, actually.”

“What? Why didn’t you say anything?” Astarion leaned over, gently grasped your wrist and peeled your arm away from your face, which you reluctantly allowed, hoping your eyes did not betray the tempest brewing in your soul. You managed a half-convincing shrug.

“Nothing interesting happened…he just wanted to toy with me, I suppose.” It was not untrue, but it was not the full truth. You were not sure what the full truth even was, so what was the point of trying to say it? He watched you closely, eyes searching for any sign of deception, any give aways that you were not being fully honest. You could not tell whether he found anything, but thankfully he did not seem like he was going to press you. “I’m sorry, if I had known you wanted to speak to him I would have said something.” Astarion shook his head, silencing your apology, and moved back to sit upright, no longer looming over you.

“It’s alright, at least you’ll know for next time.” You nodded noncommittally, wondering when the ‘next time’ would be, hoping it would not be too soon.

“Yeah…anyway, I better get going to bed now.” With great effort, you rocked forward and into a stand, brushing down your trousers before gathering up your journal and sketching supplies.

“Alright, love. Sleep tight.”

“You too, g’night.”

You left the warmth of Astarion’s tent, and delved into the chill of night.

[chapter four]

#bg3 #bg3 raphael #raphael bg3 #raphael x tav #raphael x reader #bg3 raphael x tav #bg3 raphael x reader #ao3 writer #ao3 fanfic #baldur's gate #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 raphael #raphael the cambion #reader insert #fem reader #female reader

13 notes · View notes

verdantglow · 28 days

Text

As previously mentioned here, in my trafficstuck AU, the players are all adult trolls in the present day. Given how troll society functions, they can’t stay on Alternia & at various times, they all take off in various spaceships to wander the universe. I have spent way too much time thinking about how this would be arranged, so here’s the first two of six ships to leave Alternia. (Note: The crews have a tendency to shuffle around as time goes on; this is just how they are arranged after they take off but before Last Life.)

Ship 1

The first to take off, this ship carries Lizzie & Joel. Lizzie is a fuchsia blood & spent most of her life focused on the point when Her Imperious Condescension would decide Lizzie was old enough to be too much a threat to leave alive. Then, they would have their epic showdown that would, almost inevitably, end with Lizzie losing the fight & her life.

Joel was very much not down with this plan. Lizzie stubbornly insisted that she had to at least try to win, to take The Condesce down, but eventually Joel convinced her that, at very least, she deserved a more even playing field & to have the fight on her own terms. They decided the best way to do this was, well before their cohort was meant to take off, they would hack Lizzie’s battle ship & escape off planet, buying some time as they went into hiding.

Few of the players knew that Lizzie & Joel had this plan until a while after it went down. Joel first confided in Griann that they needed a grub that could get into the battleship’s systems. Griann suggested Joel reach out to Tangoh, who had grown the game grub for 3rd Life & who Grian insisted would be sympathetic to their cause & not rat them out. After a lot of dithering, Joel contacted Tangoh & Tangoh happily grew & coded a grub for them that could hack into a ship system & basically nuke any tracking that might be on it. In exchange, of course, Lizzie used her position to acquire some extremely rare & expensive tech bits for Tangoh. No questions were asked by either side.

Joel & Lizzie made a slightly rocky, but successful, escape on the hacked battleship, along with hefty amount of supplies. Big down side of their ship is that it can’t sustain FTL very long, as it’s so huge it’d really require psionics to maintain that kind of velocity. But really. They’re not in a rush to get anywhere, just wandering the more distant, empty parts of the universe for long stretches & making port extremely rarely at extremely secluded planets.

Ship 2

Troll life sucks. It sucks for kids, it sucks for adults, & it sucks more the lower on the hemospectrum you are. It especially sucks if you are a gold blood with psionics, given you can pretty much expect to get shoved in some high blood’s ship as an engine. It was that or get culled. So yeah, Impuls had a pretty grim fate to look forward to. Luckily, his moirail, Skizzl, would never let that happen.

With the help of their friend, Tangoh (& the parts Lizzie helped Tangoh acquire), they built a ship & the three of them took off together several perigees after Joel & Lizzie. Since then, they’ve been on the move for the most part, avoiding other Alternian ships as best they can. When they can’t avoid run ins with other trolls, Tangoh does all the talking, which makes sense because, as an indigo blood, he has the most social standing & unless they run into high bloods or royalty, he can generally talk &/or intimidate their way out of trouble. Impuls tries his best not to be around for such things, to minimize risk of being caught. If they’re taken off guard though, they will generally put up the pretense that he & Skizzl are in Tangoh’s “employ,” which usually works well as most troll’s don’t look too closely at a blue blood keeping a couple of low bloods around to take care of things for them. (The moment they’re alone again, though, Skizzl & Impuls gives Tangoh so much shit for using high blood vernacular & acting ‘all proper & shit.’ The poking of fun sometimes lasts days if Tangoh said something they deem particularly ridiculous.)

Fun fact: since they built their ship themselves, it is designed to have two operating modes: 1. It can self-propel & be steered using a navigation panel or 2. It can be controlled, entirely or partially, by Impuls. He & Tangoh teamed up to invent a, uh, less brutal method for hooking Impuls into the system, allowing him to use his psionics to take over various functions without literally being permanently melded with the ship. Given how most space travel is just ‘get a boost in a direction & coast,’ Impuls will often just jump in to set a course & let physics do the rest of the work. If they want to go really fast, like faster than light, he has to be fully controlling things as there really is no replacement for his batshit psionics in those cases. But really, his job as the ship’s helmsman is far more laid back than a psionic gold blood could hope for & he finds he quite likes it this way.

#trafficstuck #Joel SmallishBeans #lizzie ldshadowlady #tangotek #Skizzleman #verdant rambles #trafficblr #specifically not putting this in impulse’s tag ‘cause he does not need to see this.#good lord I don’t want to be the reason someone has to give Impulse a thorough explanation of Homestuck #fuck it I’m adding on #Hermitstuck #‘cause honestly this AU is rapidly expanding to include that as well somehow.#oh damn I also forgot #trafficshipping #‘cause there is some in this post

7 notes · View notes