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overclockedroulette · 3 years

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Anyway more kirimochi since exams have me absolutely FINISHED.

yeah maybe i made up some aasimar lore. who cares. it's my d&d character and i get to choose the canon lore divergency.

very short because lack of energy but eh. i enjoy it.

maybe fluff is my thing after all.

~~~

For aasimar, worship is as intrinsic as blinking or breathing. It’s what they’re for, after all - the holy union of an angel and mortal, existing in the image of their god to serve their god: it’s their very purpose, their raison d'être, and the fallen are no different - although, naturally, it’s more common among them just to repress that part of themself until it hurts. And it does hurt, eventually. Just as refraining from breath comes with consequence, so does refraining from a devotion woven into one’s core, and eventually, even the most vehemently independent of half-angels has to find something - or someone - to pour that devotion onto before the discomfort of stifling it becomes unbearable.

Vega knows this, of course, although he’s never really thought about it concerning Avarice. See, Avarice is very clearly of empyrean descent - the eyes give that away fairly quickly, pupiless and glowing a dull, necrotic scarlet - and it doesn’t take a genius to know that somebody so ardent in their blasphemy is among the ranks of the fallen, but it’s just… never really clicked. It’s never been something to relate to him, and, going by prior experiences, Avarice isn’t exactly one to talk about his ancestry even if questioned (the smell of burning skin and feathers is still thick in his mind; maybe that’s why he never asked). So, seeing Avarice whine loudly and double over, his legs buckling and collapsing onto his knees halfway through an attempt at flirting with him (teasingly, of course, but it still got to him, so naturally Avarice kept doing it), that repression isn’t exactly his first thought. In fact, his first thought is that the bastard’s overworking himself again, and that he’s going to have to spend another half-hour chastising him and/or listening to him insist that he’s fine and he can still do work, really, you’re being ridiculous all while sporting a temperature the sun gods would envy. That idea was cut short, however, by a short tug on the fabric of his shirt and Avarice’s voice, tremulous and wavering and trying so, so hard to sound nonchalant.

“Vega, do me a favour and try not to listen too hard to - ah - anything I say in the next few minutes. Alright?”

Naturally, he scoffed and rolled his eyes, leaning down a little to check his temperature. “Fine, that works for me. Are you-”

And, all at once, he realised the situation.

Vega has never had anyone devoted to him. Time after time, his whole life, he had watched his family, his friends, everyone he knew lay every ounce of devotion they had onto their saviour, their god reborn, their key to a new, perfect world, his sister, and not once has he ever been on the receiving end. He finds now, looking down on such a proud and arrogant aasimar on his knees below him, hands clasped together and letting words that definitely sound like a prayer spill out of his mouth quickly and flawlessly as if he’s been doing it his whole life, that he quite likes the feeling.

“You’re beautiful,” he starts, after a long-winded tangent in celestial, almost so quick that it was incomprehensible. “Every part of you, praise be, perfect, unfathomably perfect-” he has one of Vega’s hands in his now, rubbing circles into the back of his wrist with one thumb, and Vega has to stop himself from smiling, “-body, mind, and soul: flawless, sacred - you deserve everything this world has to offer and more, fuck, I’d drain the oceans for you on one command, you matter more than water anyhow, blessed pearl-”

For once, he doesn’t really register the shameless blasphemy. He doesn’t really register much of anything other than that look of raw, delirious adoration in Avarice’s eyes, boring into his own without pause as he speaks. It’s sacrilege, sure, but he loves it, and he just can’t bring himself to care enough about his own god to stop him.

It takes a few minutes for Avarice to stop talking, and when he does, he looks exhausted. Although, that’s really to be expected, having spent as long as he had speaking without reasonable pause to breathe. He’s panting, flushed a bright silver - Vega just gives him the benefit of the doubt and assumes that’s a product of overexertion, too - and somehow ends up resting his forehead in Vega’s hands, which he seems either too tired or too embarrassed to care about. There’s a long pause in which neither dare to speak, before Vega clears his throat.

“Well. For somebody so vehemently against religion, you certainly sound… reverent.”

Avarice lifts his head from Vega’s hands, shrugging. “That’s fine,” he dismisses, absentmindedly taking Vega’s left hand and sliding off the white silk glove. “It’s not ideal, but I’d rather worship you than any god.”

And when Avarice presses his lips against his hand, making full eye contact all the while, Vega almost thinks he might be enjoying himself.

#me? making up lore for convenience's sake?#it's more likely than you think #i love them actually <3 #avarice kiriatta #vega mochizuki #oc fluff #fluff #oc #oc writing #dnd oc #aasimar

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beauregardlionett · 4 years

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unrationed 1/7

A/N: going to be posting all my prompts in one chaptered fic and on here! excited for what this week will bring <3

AO3 Link

“I’m just saying,” Beau drawled, hands waving a lazy gesture in the air above her from where her head was pillowed against Yasha’s thigh. “I think it’s a lame idea.”

“What part of making a shop explode is lame to you?” Veth shrieked as Jester cackled beside the Halfling.

“Every part!” Beau insisted. “If you’re going to go through the trouble of picking locks to break in and take shit, commit to the level of badass sneaking we all know you’re capable of and leave no evidence behind. Not burn down the whole damn place to erase evidence! That’s just lazy!”

“Your inner criminal is showing through,” Veth shot back, no heat behind her words.

“I’m just saying, in this hypothetical scenario of a perfect crime, I probably have the most experience.”

“Oh, you absolutely do,” Jester giggled.

“How did we even get on this topic?” Veth asked through a laugh, leaning against the foot of the bed from where they were all sprawled on the floor.

“I asked you if you had ever robbed a store when you said you wanted ‘truth’ and then it went downhill from there,” Jester offered, matching Veth’s position.

They had ended up in Yasha’s room in the Xhorhouse that evening, since her chambers sat in the middle of all the girls’ rooms. Yasha had made a quiet remark about a sleepover, and Veth and Jester had jumped at the chance of a ladies’ night. Especially since the last time they got to have one had been back when they got their tattoos, and Yasha had been absent. Somehow, they had gotten into a game of truth or dare. Beau unearthing a bottle of liquor they had picked up in their travels not long after only added fuel to the fire.

Beau and Yasha were properly tipsy, Jester abstaining as usual and Veth had, with reluctance, stayed sober. Jester was quick to make the two of them some variation of warm milk with chocolate melted into it, so they at least had something to nurse alongside their friends. The evening had only progressed from there, Beau tipping sideways once they were halfway done with the bottle to lay her head against Yasha’s leg. The Aasimar hadn’t protested, merely tensing up for a heartbeat before relaxing again, her back propped against the wall from her place on the floor.

“Well,” Veth said after a long pull at her chocolate drink. “I get to choose now. So…Beau! Truth or dare?”

Having seen this coming, Beau let out a long suffering groan, feigning a put-upon expression. Once satisfied with her dramatics, she flashed a dangerous grin in response to Veth’s mischievous, sparkling eyes.

“Dare.”

Jester bounced in her spot and made a dramatic noise as her bright eyes flicked between Beau and Veth eagerly.

“I dare you to run up the side of the house, stand on the roof, and yell as loud as you can!”

Beau burst into tipsy laughter, clutching her stomach and tossing her head back against Yasha’s thigh. Jester collapsed into giggles as Veth egged Beau on over the chorus of amusement. She insisted that it would be easy for Beau to do, considering the monk had run up a tree that was hundreds of feet tall with relative ease. Beau knew that she could do it, but it was the mental image of doing so that caused her hilarity.

Opening her eyes from where laughter had squeezed them shut, Beau pulled in a breath through her giggles, intending to tell Veth that she would do it. Only, she found herself stuck, breathless where the air caught in her throat. When she opened her eyes, she found Yasha staring down at her, a tiny smile curling up the corners of the Aasimar’s lips with fondness. Her mismatched eyes twinkled in the dim light, braided hair cascading down over one shoulder and looking every bit the celestial Beau knew was in her heritage.

Feeling heat rush to her cheeks, Beau abruptly sat up. She only just avoided a collision of foreheads with Yasha and hopped to her feet.

“Yep! I’m gonna go do it!” Beau declared, sounding every bit as flustered as she felt, before darting from Yasha’s room. The other three went out to the balcony to watch, waiting for Beau to come around the back of the house to run up it. They were serious about this game.

As Beau jogged down the stairs and out to the back of the house, she tried to take a couple deep breaths. She might manage to pass off the flush in her cheeks as being alcohol related, but everyone knew her tolerance was better than that. The monk never got this warm until she was properly drunk. Perhaps if she was still flush after this, she could claim exertion, but that would make it seem like she had horrid endurance. Beau would rather eat her robes than make herself seem weak.

Standing off to the side of the balcony, she waved in response to Jester and Veth’s hoots and whistles. (If their neighbors hadn’t hated them before, they would now.)

Bouncing on the balls of her feet a couple times, Beau took a few steps back and then launched into a running start. Pushing off the ground, her feet made contact with the side of the house just above the first-floor windows, and she kept her momentum going from there. Finding footholds against the panes and using them to launch herself higher and higher, Beau eventually scrambled over the edge of the roof and perched herself among the shingles. Peering over the edge, seeing only by the light of the moon since she had forgotten her goggles, Beau waved to the three occupants on the balcony. Hearing Veth and Jester’s cheers, Beau pulled back and went to stand near the center of the roof, feeling the mild breeze brushing past her cheeks.

It was so peaceful up here. (Their neighbors were about to hate them even more.)

Beau used to do this as a bitter teenager, climb up to the roof of a random building, or her home. Sometimes she even braved the nearby hills of Kamordah and just yelled. She had found it was a suitable way to let out frustration when she wasn’t feeling particularly self-destructive. It had admittedly been a while since she felt the need to do something like this. But things had been rather tense as of late regarding their responsibilities to the Empire and the Dynasty.

She also thought about Jester and the complex, fading emotions she had for the Tiefling. Beau thought about Yasha smiling with quiet affection down at her, and the complicated, twisting mass of feelings their whole situation was.

Beau screamed.

Long and loud and uninterrupted until her lungs ached to draw in a breath. Voice cutting off, she sucked in a hurried gasp and forcibly refrained from letting out a second scream. That first one had been more than enough. And as chaotic as she liked to be sometimes, it was with abrupt and acute awareness that Beau remembered the neighborhood they were in. Someone might call the guards, alarms might rise if they thought the city was being attacked. That was attention the Mighty Nein did not need right now.

Embarrassed, but feigning smug triumph, Beau nimbly worked her way off the roof and down to the balcony. Jester and Veth greeted her with enthusiastic cheers and peals of laughter. Yasha seemed rather amused, but her joviality had always been quieter than most.

It didn’t take long after that for Jester to peter out into yawns, having worn herself down even more with laughter when Fjord, Caleb, and Caduceus had come bursting into Yasha’s room. Their frantic expressions had sent Jester and Veth rolling with cackled laughter. Beau and Yasha had found it amusing too, but explained that they were fine and apologized for the disturbance. Caduceus had left with a good-natured smile and went back to bed, Fjord grumbling after him. Caleb had stuck around for another few minutes to make sure everything was truly fine.

Veth, likely feeling a little bad for spooking Caleb, left not long after Jester started yawning, stating that she was getting tired. Usually Veth would share a room with Yeza, but the Halfling’s husband was in Nicodranas. Beau would bet money she ended up at the foot of Caleb’s bed.

“Are you going to bed, Beau?” Jester asked, stifling a yawn as she did. The Tiefling stood by the door to Yasha’s room, their own right beside it. But the gesture of Jester waiting and making sure Beau would sleep was still a sweet one.

“Yeah, Jess,” Beau assured her friend, smiling. “Yash and I are just going to finish this bottle first. Don’t wait up, okay?”

Smiling at the pair still sprawled beside each other on the floor, Jester waved a sleepy goodnight to them and shut the door as she left. For a decent stretch of quiet, Yasha and Beau merely passed the liquor bottle back and forth between them, not saying much of anything. Usually Beau would try to fill silence like this, but she found herself rather content. There was no awkward weight between them like there had been when their group first rallied together. It was a pleasant development, one Beau acknowledged to herself with satisfaction.

“Thank you,” Yasha broke their quiet, pulling Beau’s gaze away from where she had been staring at the floorboards. “This was nice.”

“Yeah, of course,” Beau said, pausing to take a swig, wincing at the burn before passing the bottle to Yasha. “Anytime.”

“I feel like I am getting better,” Yasha confessed in that soft voice of hers after taking a long pull from the bottle. “But some nights it’s still hard to…uh…relax. Especially on my own.”

A little surprised by the confession, Beau turned her head fully towards Yasha and observed the Aasimar’s profile. There was a little moonlight filtering in through the balcony doors, and Beau felt her breath catch in her chest as the silver seemed to make Yasha’s pale skin glow. Any sense of balance she had gained back from earlier fled.

“Yeah,” Beau said, eloquent as always. “Yeah, no…I get it. I mean, uh, not in the way that you—I mean. Fuck.”

Yasha was watching her now, brows pulled together a little with confusion. Beau could feel her cheeks heating and she cursed herself out in her head. Way to fucking ruin a moment.

“I just mean that I get it—the not being able to fall asleep on your own thing.” She was loath to admit it, because Beau liked to portray herself as someone who was independent, who could cut ties at any moment and be entirely unaffected. Though, she had shown her hand a few weeks ago, telling her friends she hated her past because it didn’t have the Mighty Nein in it, that she felt she was a better person for having met them, that she liked who she was with them. But despite that, Beau wanted to think of herself as someone who could find rest without the sound of at least one other person breathing nearby. She wanted people to believe that she could hold her own, despite how much stronger she felt alongside all her friends.

And she didn’t know why she was still lying to herself, because deep down she knew they had irrevocably changed her.

Which was the exact opposite of a bad thing. But Beau had spent so long being alone and needing others to believe that she was fine that way that sometimes she still fell into old patterns of behavior.

“We could do this more often,” Yasha’s quiet offer yanked Beau back to herself, looking over to the Aasimar again. She felt wildly disoriented, blinking owlishly at the other woman. “If it helps you, too.”

Why had Beau confessed that?

But did it matter? Yasha didn’t seem to mind or think her weaker for it. And hell, if Yasha—a big, badass, intimidating, powerful warrior—could admit to being scared, then why couldn’t Beau?

“Yeah,” Beau murmured. “I think that would be nice.”

Yasha was staring at Beau and, caught in an invisible orbit, Beau stared back. The silence pulled, and Beau let it. She had never found an affinity for magic, never learned how to cast spells and never cared to try. But she knew what it felt like because her friends cast spells on her all the time. Magic—at least their magic—was warm, encompassing, and familiar.

Being stuck in Yasha’s mismatched stare felt much the same way.

It left her giddy and just shy of breathless.

“I would like to kiss you,” Yasha whispered.

“I’d like you to,” Beau heard herself answer before she even thought about it. She had thought so much about Yasha, about how complicated things could be between them for a variety of reasons. But at this moment, it was so uncomplicated that Beau could do nothing but bask in it.

Having Yasha’s lips pressed against her own felt nothing short of unequivocally right. There was no explosion of emotion, no puzzle pieces fitting together, no stars or rush in Beau’s veins. They had already fit together months ago, their emotions had already built and this was just a cement to hold the bricks in place. This was a soft embrace, a quiet affirmation that tasted a little too much of Dwendalian liquor. It was soft and careful for all that they were both composed of jagged edges.

This was far from Beau’s first kiss, and she knew the same was true for Yasha. But it was their first kiss, and Beau could only hope that it wouldn’t be their last. There were still a lot of things they should talk about, emotions to lay bare between them. But they were patient with each other, and Beau was more than willing to wait. She could carry the memory of Yasha’s lips on her own like a token from a lover.

They pulled apart, and Beau opened her eyes—she thought it rather cliché that she hadn’t remembered closing them—to stare at Yasha. The Aasimar was watching her, quiet and still. Where Yasha usually looked impassive, there was something vulnerable and almost happy lining the edges of her face. Beau felt a quiet thrill in her chest at being the one to put that expression there.

She didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t ruin the moment. Before she could second-guess herself, Beau merely leaned in and left one more chaste, quick kiss to Yasha’s lips. Pressing the bottle of liquor into Yasha’s hands, Beau pulled her feet under herself and gave the Aasimar a genuine smile.

“That was nice,” she murmured. Don’t fuck up, don’t fuck up. For once in your life, Beau, don’t spoil a good thing. “I’ll see you in the morning?”

For all she was certain that Yasha would still be there when morning came without a sunrise, it still sounded like a question. Yasha gave Beau a smile, the one already on her face curling just a little wider. Most would take Beau’s departure as an untoward sign, but Yasha had always understood Beau better than most. She knew this was Beau giving Yasha room to breathe, to process—this was Beau giving herself room to process. It was a promise to revisit a topic that needed addressing at a later time when they had both had a moment to themselves.

“Yes,” Yasha said, fingers curling over Beau’s around the bottle between them. “Sleep well.”

Beau went to sleep that night in her shared room with Jester. Her heart was singing in her chest and her lips buzzed with the memory of the weight of Yasha against them. Not her first kiss, but theirs that tasted like liquor and a promise.

#cr #critical role #beauyasha #beauregard #beauregard lionett #yasha #writing #my writing #first kiss #beauyashaweek2020

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words-writ-in-starlight · 5 years

Note

would read the intensive level-up scenes, because I too DM with a ton of backstory and not enough actual session prep, also my current party is lacking in marketable/reusable details AND I'M NOT CREATIVE ENOUGH TO COME UP WITH MORE IDEAS

HERE, THEY LONG, THEY DETAILED, THEY UNDER A CUT

MY PLAYERS BETTER NOT BE READING THIS

(Technically I wrote these all as choose-your-own-adventure style things, and they have breaks for people to choose an outcome, but, A, I only included the path they took in this post, and, B, I knew my players pretty well and was fairly capable of scripting what they were going to do. They were all going up to Level 3, so the last thing noted is what they were choosing in-game--their class specialization.)

AZARA (SCOURGE AASIMAR, WARLOCK OF THE RAVEN QUEEN, PACT OF THE CHAIN)

You fall asleep, and it’s strange—you can feel time passingin the black of unconsciousness, leaving you to linger there for a long, darknight without any sign of dawn. Just asit begins to be too much, you feel something in the endless black for the firsttime. It’s cold, and hard, and touchingyour feet—no. You’re standing, barefoot,on stone.

Realizing this is like opening a dam. Sensation comes back to you in a blindingrush, all at once, and it hurts.

That’s what tips you off. You spent years being tortured. You know that dreams can’t make you hurt, but this—this hurts, light and sound and touch soharsh and immediate that they burn. You’ve had this happen before. Just once. You cover your earsand close your eyes like a child afraid of the dark, and wait to adjust.

You open your eyes, and this time the light is bright butnot blinding, and you uncover your ears slowly and discover that you can hearclearly, and you straighten up.

You are barefoot, unarmed, wearing a plain prisoner’stunic. You recognize the clothes fromprison, but now they’re starless black, so dark you can’t even seeshadows. You do not recognize the heavyiron collar around your neck, but it doesn’t hurt, doesn’t chafe at your skin,it’s just…heavy. Your skin is crackedlike porcelain held together with glue, and golden radiance pours forth likeyou’ve been traced with molten metal, casting a circle of light around yourfeet. Your face feels hot, like someoneis holding a torch directly to the height of your cheekbones, and your eyesdrip something thick and burning down your face.

You look around and see that you’re standing on abattlefield like none you’ve ever seen. Theroar of noise is the bellow of warcries, broken here and there by the sharp andviolent crash of weapons on armor as the posturing armies meet in smallskirmishes.

The armies are small. You are one of sixteen in black, facing sixteen in white. The battlefield is silver and sickly green,alternating squares five feet on all sides, and the armies don’t wear uniformspast their shared colors.

You are still on the back line, with two empty squares toyour left. You can see a black paladincoming under heavy attack from a white sorcerer with fire wreathing her handsto the furthest right side of the fight, and a black rogue with two knivestrying to rip through the white line, there and gone too fast to catch as theychart a jagged course across the battle.

To your right is a towering throne—empty and carved out of asingle piece of black stone, the seat level with your shoulder. You can’t get a good look at the rest of theback line, on the other side of the throne, but you can see that there’ssomeone else still hanging back. Justahead is a tall woman wearing a veil over her eyes, dressed in a priest’s blackrobes and holding her staff of office high with a battlecry. Defending the throne. There is an empty square beside her, in frontof the throne, and a clear line stretching away up and to your left, into theclash ahead.

As you look over the battlefield, trying to get a sense ofwhat’s happening, a soldier on a white horse swings a mace with a roar oflaughter, and sends a black-clad boy no older than twelve to the ground with acrunch and a spray of blood. He stayswhere he’s fallen, and the white horse steps over him to take his square.

You are a strategist. You’ve played chess before. Youknow that this is skirmish is just the beginning of the midgame, and it’s timeto develop the queen.

What do you want todo?

You take a step forward to leave your square, and you can’tmove your feet. Instead, a massivehand—long-fingered and slender—reaches down and scoops you up. Gently, but the fingers are hard and cold anddon’t give any more than the marble chessboard when you scramble to get yourfeet under you.

You’re lifted up and away from the chessboard, toward theinvisible player, and all you can think is that once you touch a piece inchess, by the strict rules, you have no choice but to play it.

The golden light pouring from your skin illuminates a vast porcelainmask with painted-on black eyes without sclera or pupil, a plain almond of inkthat you can feel staring at you. Theonly color on the mask is the bloody red slash of lips, which don’t move when theplayer speaks.

“Here you are,” the voice says. It’s soft and smooth and feminine, butthere’s a note of strain there that makes all the hair on the back of your neckbristle. “You have run for long enough,my warlock. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“You are not a soldier anymore,” the voice says. It’s harder, now, almost impatient. “You wanted freedom—I gave it. You walked out of your cage without a mark onyou. Why do you still hide in theshadows? I have given you freedom, andpower, enough of both to be my agent in the world. But you cower in the back line, waiting fororders.”

The voice pauses, and you find that you cannot speak toanswer. Something you haven’t felt in along time is settling over you: panic. You know fear, fear keeps you alive. You even know the feeling of knowing that you are about to die. This is deeper, more honest. Primal. You are faced with something more powerful than any mortal could hope todefeat, something that could sweep worlds clean without breathing hard, and asthe cool porcelain mask stares down at you, surrounded by the quiet whisper offeathers rustling in the wind, you truly understand what it means to feelsmall.

There is a long sigh, and the wind rushes around you withthe force of a gale, laden with the sweet, warm scent of fresh earth.

“You have agreed to a hard thing, my warlock,” the voicegoes on, a touch softer. “But we are allgoing to be faced with hard things, I am afraid.”

What do you want todo?

“You will seek imbalance,” the voice says. It’s not a request, nor is it even really anorder. It is a statement ofreality. “You will fight to restore whatyou can, and you will destroy what you cannot. You will be a scourge on those who betray the balance of the world. You will do these things, and you will dothem alone. I cannot interfere. I am perilously close to breaking my own lawsas we stand now. You are an agent of thegods now, my warlock, not a soldier waiting for a messenger to bring you orderswith a royal seal.” The player pausesfor a moment, and the mask tilts thoughtfully, like a moon consideringyou.

“I will send a guide,” the voice says at last. “To help you. But you must make your own moves now.”

The hand closes over you, so swift and powerful you can’teven think of resisting, and you’re on the chessboard again. The empty throne is on your left. In front of you is the priestess with herstaff. The game is on again.

What do you want todo?

You step forward, down the diagonal, and step into thesquare occupied by a ranger wrapped in white scarves, carrying a recurvedbow. The golden light spilling from thecracks in your skin burns the white ranger where you touch, and she cowers awayfrom you, hitting her knees. You kickher aside, out of the square, and look down the diagonal to the white throne.

You say, “Check.”

The world explodes, and you wake up.

HEINOUS (TIEFLING, BARBARIAN, PATH OF THE ZEALOT)

You are standing in your home—in the kitchen, with a castiron wood stove in one corner and a narrow staircase twisting upward in theother. Your back is to the door to themain room, the door closed firmly behind you, caging you in the kitchen. It’s simple, but big and broad. You paid for this place with money you earnedwith your own hands, as a mercenary, and you cut down trees for the windowsillsand floorboards with your own hatchet. Your wife Yevelda did the real carpentry, sanded things smooth and fit thejoints together, and the two of you together decided on how to furnish it.

Over the years you lived here, the floors grew scuffed andthe walls gained bumps and marks. Youcan see the window in the kitchen, the one that broke during a storm that senta tree branch through the glass, the one with the sill that never quite lookedright again.

None of those marks of life are here now. Your home looks as fine and warm andbeautiful as the day you finished building it, but untouched. The wood glows in the sunlight that spillsthrough the windows, but you can’t see outside, past the light, and when youtry, it makes you feel dizzy and sick, the smell of smoke strong in yournostrils. You’re standing in the kitchenand you know every inch, but none of your things are here—there is no sign ofthe maple table Yevelda made, and no knives or cooking implements on thecounter. The stove is dark and cold, theiron flawless, as if it’s never been touched. There are no pots or pans, no food stored on the shelves. The pantry door stands ajar, without evendust inside.

You are home, and youare alone. What do you want to do?

You ascend the stairs—they’re narrow, twisting sharply ontop of themselves, and you duck your head automatically to keep the rise ofyour horns from thudding into the wood as you take the first three steps.

At the top of the stairs is a small room. It’s empty of furniture, but you can picturewhere the bed should be pushed into the corner, under the window spillingimpenetrable golden light onto the floor, and where the dresser should stretchalong one wall.

There is a figure standing in the light of the window, withher back to you. It’s a half-orc, astall as you are and even broader in the shoulders, wild black curls twistedinto a complicated pattern of plaits along both sides of the skull and spillingloose down the crown and back of her head. She’s dressed in a blue tunic that flatters the green shade of her skin,and trousers, and she has her hands folded behind her back like she’s waiting.

You know her, of course.

Your foot lands on the creaky floorboard at the top of thestairs, the one she kept saying she was going to fix and never did, and Yeveldaturns around.

What do you want todo?

Yevelda doesn’t respond. She looks at you clinically, like you’re a mystery to solve, a finetrick of carving to unravel, and takes a step back from you, leaving you alonein the light falling through the window. Yevelda spreads her hands to either side of her, and you look down.

There are two greataxes lying on the wood. They’re both yours, or at least unnaturallyperfect copies—you recognize the lines of the haft and the curve of the blade,the place where the head fits to the shaft, the marks of use on the butt. But the axes aren’t wood and steel.

On Yevelda’s left, there is an axe made of whiteporcelain. It shines in the light,glazed and polished. You know just fromlooking at it that the porcelain is cold to the touch where the leather gripshave been transformed into ceramic, smooth and slick as water, the bladerefined to a razor-edge. It looks as lightand lethal as a clear winter night.

On Yevelda’s right, there is an axe made of stone—greygranite. There’s no glossy shine to it,but rather a matte finish to the rock where it’s been ground down smooth,interspersed with glints reflected from whatever minerals make up thegrey. The glints dance like sparks oflightning in your vision. Looking, youcan feel the heft of the stone, the way it pulls at your shoulders, the powerbehind each blow, like holding a mountain in your hands—or like breaking one.

You look back to Yevelda, and she is still standing therebetween the axes, expressionless, hands outstretched to display them.

“Choose,” she says.

What do you do?

You bend down and pick up the stone axe, as strong andpowerful as you imagined, and as you straighten up, the light outside goes greyas wind roars against the walls and,in one sudden burst, the window explodes inwards. The glass tears into your skin, leavingbloody cuts behind. Lightning flashes,so close that you’re blind for a moment as thunder booms, and when your visionclears, you are alone, standing in mist so thick you cannot see Yeveldaanymore. You cannot even see thewalls. There is only the axe in your hands.

What do you do?

You try to drop the axe and you can’t make your fingersmove, can’t force your arms to throw the thing away from you.

Slowly, the blade comes up to rest at your throat.

Do you fight the axe?

A voice that rollslike thunder down a mountain whispers, Fightfor me.

And in one swift motion, the axe slashes yourthroat, and you wake up.

(Note: actually this player failed her Religion roll and therefore does not realize that choosing the stone axe means she’s bound to the Stormlord, not her original god, the Raven Queen. That should be fun.)

NYMERIA (HALFLING, RANGER, MONSTER HUNTER)

You are standing in the square of a small village—the housesaround you are brick, not the river stone and lumber you’ve seen lately, andthe cobbled stones underfoot are red-brown with a dusting of fine goldengrit. You close your eyes and take adeep breath, and you smile, just a touch, as the familiar dry scent of thedesert rushes into your lungs, soothes something in your soul. It’s hard to define the smell of this place,the southern desert of Creshen where the mountains have dried out the ground,stretching all the way to the river delta that cages the desert on the easternedge, but it means home to you.

Opening your eyes, you turn, sure-footed, to look up at thestatue at the center of the square. Thetrinkets in your hair click together, but the sound doesn’t worry you, not now,not when you’re safe in your home and you have no need to hide. You tip your head up, toward the brilliantsun overhead, looking for the face of the statue, the draconic head turningintelligent eyes toward the council hall, each stone scale fletched withprecious silver—one claw on a pile of books and scrolls, and the other raised passant, dexterous talons held out inwarning. You have seen the statue everyday of your life here, it was crafted long before your birth and will finallycrumble long after your death.

You smile, and salute the Platinum Dragon, and blink.

You open your eyes.

The statue is not there.

Something cold twists in your chest, and, Nymeria, standingthere over the smashed rubble of your god’s icon, you know what’s about tohappen.

The village is empty as you rush through the streets,silent. You pass the signs of ruin—bloodand other things splashed against brick, doors battered down and stones clawedout of their moorings—but there are no bodies rotting under the harsh sun. It’s not right, not whatever right is supposed to be, but you can’tthink about that right now. You’rerunning, sprinting flat out, and you know, with strange certainty, that you’reolder now by far than you ever were in this village, but it doesn’t make youany faster to reach your own door.

It’s when you reach the door, splintered in its frame fromthe night your mother died, that you know you are dreaming.

You still step inside, because you have had this nightmarebefore, and you cannot help but see it through.

You know what you will see inside. Your little sister, Hama, sprawled on thefloor of your kitchen, a scant few feet from the safety of the cupboard whereyou told her to hide. A vampire,drinking from her arm, and her blood staining her shirt as red as the ribbon inher hair.

The ribbon in yourhair.

You know that you will blindly grab the nearest thing tohand, and that it will be a fragment of a chair, and that you will drive thefragment through the vampire’s back and into its heart before it can drop Hamaand turn to you. You know that it willlie there, paralyzed, and do nothing to stop you when you cut off its head withyour mother’s cleaver, and that your sister will, somehow, still be clinging tolife when you kneel down beside her.

You know that she will die with blood in her mouth, frombroken ribs and punctured lungs, and suffocate before she can bleed todeath. You know that the stench of deathover the village, of your mother and sister’s bodies in this heat, will saveyour life while you sit here in shock and clutch her to your chest untilsundown.

You step through the door anyway.

And you see your sister holding a tin cup in both hands,filled with water, creeping back to the cabinet.

“Ny!” she blurts. She’s only eight, and the last three days have ben brutal, but she stillsounds defensive when her older sister catches her doing something wrong. “I—I swear I was hiding, I just got so thirsty, it’s so hot in there--”

What do you do?

You’re trying to reassure her, arms around her shoulders, when you hear the voice behind you.

“And here I thought the village was finally empty,” thevoice drawls, and it makes your gut twist and your spine tingle, because itsounds—wrong. Flat, like the vocal cordsaren’t moving enough to imitate human speech.

You turn around, already sure of what you’ll see—the vampireyou killed, in vengeance for your sister’s life.

It’s there, dressed in tatters, skin waxy but flushed withthree days of easy prey. It’s easilythree or four times taller than you, and in the dream you can’t quite make outits face. You never looked at it, whileyou killed it, and now your memory can’t call up its likeness.

Then you glance over its shoulder, and your heartsinks.

It’s not alone.

There are five creatures there, two vampires and three deadthralls—you think you recognize the thralls from your own village. Isn’t that the butcher who always gave yourmother a discount, because she always thought you and Hama were so charming?

You realize, quick and sudden, that you have a choice. You can get Hama to the cupboard and lock herin, or you can bull rush the pack and snatch up the bow you can see on thefloor where the stake should have been, if the chairs had been broken.

Do you save yoursister, or fight the monsters?

You sprint forward before the vampire can stop laughing, andyour hands find the bow—your bow, theone you oil every day, the one you took over the Winter Pass to Desca. You grab blind and an arrow meets yourfingers, and you nock it and fire. Yourfirst shot takes the lead vampire in the throat, and it goes down. You spin, grabbing another arrow, and fire again. And again. And again.

You’re on another level, one you’ve never touchedbefore. The bow feels like an extensionof your body, your arrows hitting truer, your reflexes just a touch faster,your arm strong and unshaken by the work of it.

When you stop firing, the horde is dead all around you—andso is your sister.

You wake up.

#dnd #dungeons and dragons #starlight writes stuff #no bullshit this is some of the writing i'm most pleased with of late #it's long but it went pretty quick while i read aloud and the players responded #the warlock almost had a heart attack because i legit pulled up a chessboard on my computer #and she blurted 'YOU CAN'T MAKE ME PLAY CHESS AGAINST YOU YOU'LL KILL ME'#it was...hilarious #god the barbarian fucking whiffed her religion roll so bad #the dc was A MCFUCKING TEN kids #how's that sweet sweet 12 int treating you mom #anyway the point here is that i don't prep numbers for SHIT but i have all the character crap nailed down like...real hard #i'm gonna give them an npc cleric and i love him so much already #i also love that they'll have a cleric #because last session some shit went Awry and someone was down to...not many hit points #and they were like 'what do i do if i hit zero'#and i replied with 'hope someone has a healing potion 'cause y'all ain't got no healers in your party'#queue deeper than the sea of stars #emsondraeling #asked and answered

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ohgoddard · 4 years

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Storyteller.1.

AN: This will be an infrequent story series comprised of short stories taking place within a dnd world.

The campfire burned with a soft heat, illuminating the grasslands around it. The crimson embers shone with quiet intensity as it warmed those sitting around it. Above in the sky resides a setting sun, with its departure beginning to release a swath of stars. Upon the opposite horizon rises the twin moons, their opposing pale blue and bright white auras bouncing off each other, creating a shimmering wave of light across the coming night sky. Around the fire, two figures rest upon two fallen logs, roasting their hunt upon a stick. Above them, Pteranodons croaked and screech as they flap away into the sunset, chasing smaller birds.

One figure at the campfire pulls in their stick, and raises it to their face. With their free hand, they remove bandages around their face, revealing a beak. He begins eating into the jackrabbit he had on his stick. The man was a tall, spindly thing with wraps tightly clinging to long, thin arms. His body is obscured mostly by a large green cloak, only tightly wrapped arms and legs betraying his stealth. His feet were large,bird-like claws, colored a fading gold.

The other figure sitting across from the cloaked man was almost the complete opposite of him. She was a short-ish, slim elf girl with long golden hair ending in an intricate braid. She wears a light blue frock, accented with small yellow elements. Her pants were a black leather, with a simple leather belt holding everything together. She wore upon her feet a furred boots. Her perky ears stand straight up, with a slight bend pointing behind her. She was currently devouring a small rabbit, which she had roasted over the fire. She finished it ravenously and eyed up the man in the cloak. Her eyes, in contrast to the wrapped man’s glowing amber, were a vibrant emerald green. And green they were, as she jealously eyed up the larger creature the man ate.

“Hey. Hey Armak.” Her voice came out in a beautiful melody, akin to a siren’s song. It wavered in soothing patterns, and lesser man would’ve fallen into a spell listening to her. Armak, the man in the cloak and wrappings, grunted. “Were you planning on finishing that hog there?” Armak slowly turned his head, staring down the elf. Looking at Armak head on, one could see he was an ancient aarakocra. His bandages wrap around his face, gripping it tightly, thus betraying ha rather large eagle head perched atop his rather spindly body.

“Yes.” Armark’s voice came off as a wise man’s. That gruffness that came from ancient knowledge instead of screaming and yelling of anger. It had a slight accent to it, which no one from the continent of Avondale had been able to pin. When asked about it, Armak only replied that, “it is the sound of my people.” People would usually be put off by the man’s appearance, appearing far ancient than his race would allow. He bore no feathers, save for the grey and white that encompass his head.

“Are you sure? You know, I’ve worked quite hard for us today.” The elf jumped from her log stool and walked to where Armak was sitting. Armak had still not stopped eating the whole pig he had stuck. “Holly, you were almost trampled by the animal I am currently eating. I do not think you did much for us today besides laying out the fire.” Holly, the elf, stopped her little walk and immediately went into a pose that suggested a childish pout. She turned and began to walk back to her log stump, when Armak continued. “Plus, you must not eat much, else you lose your figure. Elf men are a pretentious lot, you should know.” Armak ducked out of instinct, and as he did so the log stump Holly was sitting on sailed over his head. He continued to eat.

“I offer only words of wisdom. Is that not what you write in your book?”

Holly was standing across from him, visibly fuming, her face very red. She took several deep breaths, muttering some mantra in elvish to herself in closed eyes, regained her composure, and addressed Armak. “Just so you know, the wisdom you claim to spout is very rude. Second of all, I do not write down what you claim to be wisdom. I write the stories you tell. I’ve told you this many times.”

“I am aware. I just choose to think you write about my wisdom.” Holly hmph’d before retrieving her stump and putting back where it was, grumbling the entire time in a language Armak could not understand, nor in that moment would wish to know what she was saying. Once Holly had situated herself where she began, she was still eyeing Armak.

“Holly, you can quit your jealous gaze. I am not going to give you my meal.”

“No, no I think I deserve something as an apology after that rude comment you made. And if not your food, then something else.”

“You have been getting a bit round around your bottom.” Armak ducked once more as a rock sailed over his head.

Holly spoke once more,a bit more subdued anger in her voice. “Yeah, rude like that. I want a story.”

Armak looked up from his food, looking at Holly. “A story? It is late, and I am tired. Maybe later.”

“No, now. Or else I won’t help you rebandage yourself.”

Armak thought on this. He could easily rebandage himself, but it is such a hassle to do it. He weighed the options..

“Fine, you have forced my hand. I shall tell you a story.”

Holly excitedly started digging the bag sitting next to her, pulling out a journal with a pencil. She propped her legs underneath to form a table, and was facing Armak with glee on her face, ready to write.

“This story is about the time I bested a djinni in a game of chess, saving my life and the life of the yuan-ti princess he had taken as her prisoner.”

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“Well, Flightless One, make your move.”

Armak sat across a man of towering height and awesome strength. His skin was a burgundy red, the only contrasts upon him being the gold bands around his arms and neck and the coal-black pointed facial hair he adorned himself in. His legs were a red mist, billowing below him, and his teeth were whiter than the moons. His arms were cross in front of him, and he was smugly looking down on Armak. He had removed his hood and head wrappings, showing the brilliant grey and white feathers and faded golden beak. They sat in a large, red tent, with beautiful tapestries floating all around him. Below him were carpets that felt softer than the touch of an Aasimar, and more colorful than the feathers of a parrot. Behind him was the tent flaps, being guarded by two large sphinxes. And behind the Djinni, a large golden cage.

Armak had been asked by the local Malekeh, a yuan-ti queen to a nomadic people in the desert long since gone to the sands of time known as the Kasseem, to retrieve her daughter from the great trickster Djinni Bhismah. He had come in the middle of the night, disguised as a prince from another tribe of yuan-ti. He had convinced her to come run away with him. But it was a trap, as when he did so he captured her and planned to extort a ransom in the form of worship from the Kasseem. Armak had been in the area looking for just such a thing, a Djinni would grant him any wish if he were to best it at its own game. He gladly took the Malekeh’s request and tracked the princess to the Djinni’s tent. And this is where he found himself now.

“Great Djinni, I need to hear the stakes once more, so I know I am not to be deceived.” This would not be the first time Armak had tangled with the Djinn, and each was more trickier than the last. “But of course, Flightless One. In this game of chess, if I am to win you AND the princess will be mine, except I will consume you. If you win, I will release the princess into your custody and allow you to leave my tent without harm.”

Armak knew the trick the desert spirit was pulling on him. Not only would he cheat in this game, should he lose it he would send his sphinxes to attack him the minute he left the tent, so he had to think this through. “Thank you for stating them once again. I had to be certain.”

“No foul feelings, Flightless One. Shall we begin?”

Armak could not play chess what-so-ever, and the Djinni knew this. However, he had a trick up his sleeve. Before venturing out here, he asked if the princess could play the game of chess. The Malekeh told him that she is a renowned player amongst the tribes, which gave Armak an idea. He had polished his chestpiece he wore under his cloak to a shine which blinds a man in the sun. Once the game had been decided and the terms set, Armak moved his cloak away from his chest, revealing the chest piece. The princess caught on immediately.

The Djinni had made the first move, a pawn. Armak pondered greatly about his next move, his eyes darting to the princess. His shiny plate had mirrored the game board perfectly to the princess behind the Djinni. She made gestures with her hands indicating the grid square to move, and Armak did just that. A few moves later, and seemingly out of nowhere, Armak won.

The Djinni was speechless, as he had never beaten in chess before, much less by a creature he knew could not play it.

“Well, Flightless One, it seems you have beaten me. And I must abide by my word, as governed by the laws of nature. You may leave my tent with the princess.” He snapped his great red fingers and the cage containing the Yuan-Ti princess opened, releasing her. She quickly walked out, her elegant dress trailing behind her as she attached herself to the arm of Armak.

“Thank you for your hospitality, Great Djinni.” Armak stood and bowed before the crimson creature, and stood tall once more to speak to him. “I do have a question, however.”

The Djinni’s face grew somber, and he shook his face. “Flightless One, I know of your condition. My magic, nor any others, can remove the curse placed upon you. Now, leave my tent.”

Armak bowed once more. “Thank you, Great Djinni.”

As Armak and the princess walked out of the tent, Armak subtly moved his hand to his waist, which lay his short sword. He and the princess left the tent and, to Armak’s prediction, did not get very far from it until the sphinxes attacked. The Djinni could be heard laughing from his tent, as it shimmered away akin to a mirage, leaving only Armak, the princesses, and the sphinxes. Armak drew his short sword, a simple iron thing, and threw it. The accuracy was deadly, the sword lodging into an eye of one sphinx, felling it instantly. The other sphinx charged the princess, but Armak jumped and wrestled with it to the ground. The sphinx bent its head and snapped at Armak’s head, narrowly missing it. He grabbed a dagger from his boot and plunged it deep into the sphinx’s neck. The creature bucked Armak from its body, sending him flying into the sands behind him. The creature shot up and was staring down Armak, growling. Then, the princess called out in broken common, “Quick move now!” Armak dove to the side, as the sphinx turned around. The princess pointed his hands at the creature and out from it came a beam of orange light. The light went into the body of the beast, slowly enveloping it until, after a minute of straight energy being expelled into the animal, the light show ended with the creature no longer being there. Then, exhausted from the attack, the princess fainted into the sands.

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“After that, I carried her back to the camp of her people and left.”

Holly was speechless. Her pencil, while never stopping during the story, now lay idle. Her mouth was agape.

The sky above them was now magnificent shades of violet and blue, with a swath of stars across them like a painter’s canvas. The moons are now high in the sky, casting their pale light onto the duo now. The sounds of cicadas and other insects echo now, as glowflies float in and out view as they illuminate the air. The fire had long since died, only the embers give any faint glow. Armak had finished his meal, and was lounging back on his log.

“You killed a SPHINX?!” Holly exclaimed.

“Coulda just been a rather large dog,lion thing.”

Holly was beside herself due to the company she found herself in. Not too long ago in the city of Clearmont, she met Armak at a bar, and having a hunch decided to follow him. She could sense the history in his voice, and wanted to hear what he could say. She had heard many stories from him, and each one carried an adventure with it. Sometimes however, his stories would be so outlandish she did not fully believe him. “No, I do not believe you felled a sphinx. They are an immortal creature.”

“Think as you must, you asked for my story and I gave one. Now, will you readdress my bandages before I retire?” Holly got up from her stump, and gave herself a stretch.

“Fine, a promise is a promise.” Holly walked to Armak’s bag and started rooting around for new bandages. However she found something else while doing so. With the story still on her mind, she rooted around and found something strange. A large claw, wrapped in an ornamental desert sash.

Perhaps Armak had truth in his story after all.

#ST:og #dnd #dnd stories #original writing #original story #originalwriting #original #fantasy #fantasy story #original roleplay #St:A&H

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