#it's twilight touching grass and dealing with world ending evils

[roatsww]

Dancing in the Devil’s Playground.

This is my Life, By Michael Drysdale

 An Introduction to Dancing in The Devil’s Playground.

 Some of you may know that I have been trying to write my life story for some time now, that I started in 2008, and then just left it hiding on my desktop, I don’t know if I’ll ever finish telling it, even though I have to tell my story, as ugly as it may be. Some of you may have read some of the extracts from my life over the past two years, in pieces which I have written such as: -

  Only a Boy

Once Was A Soldier

A Little Case of Murder and The Men of the number

The Crime Of Silence

Living with AIDS, My journey Through Hell,

Cholera In The Heart of An Epidemic

The Child Of My Heart

The Lessons of Men

The Sins Of The Fathers

Rags to Frocks - The World of Fashion

On a mission of Faith

My Life For a Horse

Predators

           Etc.

 I kept so much of it hidden for so many years, it became a ‘Bond of Silence’ between Rosie (my sister) and I, something we never spoke of among ourselves or dared to speak of to the world, in so many of the incidents, Rosie was always there to help me pick up the pieces, never questioning, never criticizing, just quietly giving me the strength of her love and her understanding.

The past eleven years were a rollercoaster ride through the Devil’s Playground, first with my losing the child of my heart, and then two years later having to lose my sister, my best friend, my soul-mate and my protector, Rosie to cancer, Two years after that it was a little case of murder, that finally brought all my walls of safety crashing to the ground, and two years later with Shaun’s incarceration, when I started a journey of terror by the infamous “Numbers Gang”, which led to my being attacked in my home by two of the gang in a murder attempt, and then the terror on the streets as I was harassed and robbed on an ongoing basis, to end with my being gang raped by “the Numbers Gang” on the 31st of October 2015, and then the floodgates opened and years and years of silence came crashing to the fore.

 I know that most will not accept my story, but in trying to write it, I have had to open some of the most painful and disturbing parts of my life to my own scrutiny, and dredging up memories that flash with startling clarity and all the physical and emotional pain as when they occurred, makes it hard for me to accept, I sleep even less at night, now that I have opened the doors to my past.

The thing which has shocked me the most in dredging through these memories is my memory of the actions and the reactions of not only the participants but also those who were involved on the periphery. I did not sleep at all last night, I just cried, because I realised the ultimate truth, “Nobody Cares” and “Nobody wants to get involved”.

 Oh yes, some will say ‘Oh, I’m so sorry’, others will comment, “Get over it, and move on”, but, nobody will do anything especially those who are in a position to do something, and last night I realised that I have spent more than fifty years “as a broken doll’ and I will spend the rest of my life “as a broken doll” because there is no hope of ever fixing me while the abuse continues, and it does continue because I am trapped in a never ending cycle of abuse, the latest incident having occurred as little as 11 days ago, and the people who were in a position to help, simply ignored my cry for help the following morning.

 Writing the story of my life is the hardest thing I’ve ever done, because in doing so I realise that even though there have been a very few friends on the side-lines, I’ve had to endure and walk through life in a pair of shoes that were not made for me, and that I have had to do it alone, because there is no man who is strong enough to have endured what I have endured and continue to endure to this very day.

I quote an example (of just how people choose to look the other way) here from the chapter on my early childhood: -

 The following year I started school for the first time and went to grade one, and it was in the first few months that I realised for the second time, that nobody cares and nobody would save me.

 Sitting in the class one day the teacher was moving around and looking at the work that we were doing, and when she got to me, she leaned down and patted me on the back, I had no choice, I screamed, you see, daddy had given me a particularly vicious beating the night before. The teacher took my hand and led me into the class’s store room, where she asked me to take off my shirt, I heard her “Oh my God!” as my shirt came off, she asked me to take off my school shorts as well, and then immediately helped me to get dressed again, and led me back to my seat, she said not a word, and went on with teaching us until the bell rang for home time. This teacher totally ignored me for the next two years, she never looked at me, never spoke a word to me, never touched me, and she simply ignored me as though I never existed, until I was finally moved to a higher class and out of her sphere of teaching.

  Memories are like an ear-splitting crash which shatters and startles leaving me a little disoriented, the memories come like a bolt of lightning followed by an immense crash of thunder. They come like a Highveld thunder storm ripping across the Eden that is Africa,

  Memories......... of violence and fear, that leave me once again drenched in nightmares that had ceased so long ago.

Dancing in the Devil’s Playground. 

This is my Life, By Michael Drysdale  Forward/Preface 

This world that we live in is the playground of the devil, I have no choice this is where I am, I am Dancing in the Devil’s playground, the music of life starts at birth, and the song only ends with the last breath that you take. The only choice you have in life is whether to dance or to listen, I have no choice but to dance and to keep on dancing, for if I sit it out for one minute then the children of the devil make their move, and I never know what evil they may perpetrate, so I just have to keep on dancing.

I try so hard to keep dancing the waltz of life with God, but, before I know it the devil has stepped in with his tango of death, and the battle to escape his clutches begins again, at times I beg for the music to end so that I can find peace for my soul, I have even on many occasions tried to stop the music just so that I can rest a minute or two, but the music just keeps playing, in this, the devil’s playground.

This is also a story of the tremendous struggle that I have with my faith, my see-saw relationship with my God, who will not let me go, and who has carried me through some of the darkest days of my life, when all of man turned their backs on me, it is the story of my struggle to survive life as a gay man, and dealing with the hand of cards which was dealt for me..

Throughout my life I have had so many who carelessly throw advice my way, people who make judgement on me without ever having walked a single step in my shoes, and I wonder, were they ever to step in my shoes would they ever complete the dance through the Devils’ Playground? Many of those who read my story, will jump up in judgement and condemnation of me, they will criticise me and my life and they will try to destroy the little that remains of me, of this I am sure, but, I accept it as part and parcel of revealing my dance through the playground of the devil.            

I have changed some of the incidents, names and places, in the hopes of protecting the privacy of innocent individuals who were involved.

  Chapter One - Only a Boy 

 I can smell it, it’s always with me, something’s dead in the house and the smell of rotting flesh permeates everything.  When I first smelt deaths ugly odor, I searched every-where, and any-place where death could possibly have occurred at my own hand.  As much as I have searched, there was never a decaying corpse. Still, as much as being enveloped by this ungodly tormentor I could also taste it. No matter what I do, still putrefaction stalks me. Gradually, like a dormant canker it has dawned on me, this all-embracing, consuming smell of death comes from my own mouth, it comes from my soul. Death is waiting, lurking on the threshold, waiting to take me, as it has so patiently for so many years and no matter how much I avoid it, it stalks me still, for death is one of the pitfalls of the devil’s playground. 

 I’m in my waning years, poverty and disease have aged me beyond my mark, the air hangs thick as a Basotho blanket around my shoulders, my life is an African heat, thick and cloying in its humidity, dry and cutting in its cold.At times, my life has been an African storm where you can smell the sweet wet dust of Africa, the rain in the air, a storm that brews its violence with the first large drops of rain that lift the dust to tantalise your nostrils. One of those violent all consuming African storms, that rent the air and leave nothing unscathed. A typical Highveld storm, with glaring flashes of lightning and deafening, ear splitting thunder, and hot, heavy rain, pelting down for an hour or two, and then gone as suddenly as it had come. Nothing is left untouched, every blade of grass, every branch, and all living things are soaked and when it’s all over, it’s as though the earth has emerged anew, washed clean of its sins, until the next one comes. And after the storm is always calm and a peace, just waiting to be disturbed, just waiting for the heavens to reach boiling point..

Mine is a life lived in a twilight world, with my own mistakes the only light to guide my way, and mistakes, yes I have made them by the dozen, I am no-longer an innocent, and as I’ve progressed through life the mistakes have mounted, I’ve tried so hard not to repeat them, but, I also realise that I am only a man, an imperfect man at that, a man struggling with not only the normal issues that every other man struggles with, but I struggle with so many others, and this is the tale of my struggles, of my failures and my triumphs, of my coming to terms with having to face my abusers in the aftermath of the cruelty that has been visited upon me, and yes throughout my life I have had to face my abusers continually and pretend that nothing ever happened, I have become an expert at wearing a mask.

 I remember my childhood in flashes as clear as a photograph, I remember a little boy, a small boy who was always lost and alone, something like this old man who sits in this barren, soulless house so empty of love, tranquillity and affection.

 I remember a little boy who’s aim it was to find some meaning to life, . . . . . . . a little boy who has become an old man still searching.   

   ‘n Kind se Gebed

 “Liewe Jesus vat asseblief vir papa se seer,

Liewe Jesus steek dit weg waar papa dit nie kan kry nie,

Want as ek dit weg steek en pappa kry dit,Dan slaan papa my eers seer.”

 “Liewe Jesus, hoekom slaan papa my so seer?

Liewe Jesus, sê asseblief vir papa,Dat hy my nie meer mag slaan nie.”

 “Liewe Jesus, sê asseblief vir papa,Dat hy vir my moet lief wees,

Want Liewe Jesus, ek is lief vir papa,Maar ek is ook baie bang vir papa.”

 “Asseblief Liewe Jesus,Ek vra mooi Liewe Jesus.”  

 En nou na meer as vyftig jaar wonder die kind nog steeds hoekom het Liewe Jesus nooit Pappa se seer gevat nie.   

Does God not feel my Loneliness? Does God not see my tears? Does God not hear my crying?       

 I can remember as though it were yesterday, at the time I was probably three or four, and yet the images are as clear as though they had just happened.                  

The wind was howling, sweeping up the debris of small town life and swirling it across deserted streets, The sky a musty brown the dust which got into everything had stolen the perfect blue of the sky. The long grass in the vacant stand across the street was leaning towards me bowing in submission to the wind.  My options were few as there was nowhere to play outside, and the dust got into your eyes and brought false tears. So inside I went, into the gloomy mining house, where my family lived. 

The walls were painted a light olive green and the long passageway which dominated the house, was dark and forbidding, it was a silent house. Nobody made any noise, there were no childish screams and shouts, none of the laughter of children at play, just an empty silence. The safest place would be a world of childhood fantasy in my bedroom, a good place to seek shelter, a comforting place. Out came the dinky toy cars and plastic animals and soon I was lost in a world forbidden to adults, a secret world, a world where I was allowed to be a child.  

Shattering the silence! I heard it, the sound of furniture toppling and crashing, glass breaking and my mother’s scream. In total fear, because I knew that I would be next, I crept down the passageway, halting beside the door to my parent’s room, that one place in the house revered and feared as a forbidden shrine. I could hear the muffled slap of flesh on flesh, stifled sobs, and as another ear splitting scream rent the silence, I stretched on tiptoe and reached up to the doorknob.  Shaking with fear, my eyes peeked through the gap between door and frame, and I witnessed what no child should see. . . . . .   

The big bed where my parents slept was awash with linen, the bedclothes strewn about. The Night lamp lay broken on the floor; my mother’s treasured pretty things lay scattered. My mother, stood naked, cowering against the ancient wardrobe, my father’s clenched fists rained down, blow after blow, on her obscenely exposed body. It was too much to bear for a little boy, and without closing the door I ran, with hot wetness trickling down my legs, I ran to the only safety I knew, and dived headlong under my bed.  Gripped with fear and panic, my mind was in turmoil, 

“Why was daddy hitting mommy?” “Why didn’t mommy have any clothes on?”

“Why was the room all broken?”

“What did I do to make daddy hit mommy?”

“What’s going to happen to me?”“Is daddy coming to hit me next?” 

 It was too much for a little boy to understand, what I did know was that the only safety in daddy’s house, was to keep out of the way. It was why it was always so quiet, I couldn’t make daddy angry. 

Daddy taught me well, daddy taught me about fear, something no little boy should ever learn. 

I couldn’t remember how long it was that I remained under that bed. All I remembers was that when I emerged, driven by childish hunger and a desperate need for comfort and with a pounding heart, my little body wracked with the ever present trembling of fear I crept out of my room. The house and the world I knew were equally dark. No cooking smells, no busy sounds from the kitchen, there would be no supper tonight.  Hungry, in need of comfort and reassurance, I crept to my bed, my safety, and lost myself in nightmares because daddy had gone to the pub.               

Memories are like an ear-splitting crash which shatters and startles leaving me a little disoriented, the memories come like a bolt of lightning followed by an immense crash of thunder. They come like a Highveld thunder storm ripping across the Eden that is Africa,   Memories......... of violence and fear, that leave me once again drenched in nightmares that had ceased so long ago. 

 My father worked on the mines as a fitter and turner, and the mine had a siren which could be heard all over town, which went off at the start of the work day and again at knock-off time, I dreaded that siren, and from the moment it went off I was immobilised with fear, because I knew that Daddy was coming home, the minute I heard the car stopping outside I’d pee my pants, somehow I just knew when it was going to be a bad day. 

Rosie only a year older always tried to protect me, she would constantly try to think up new hiding places for me, under the bed, in the washing basket, in the Apricot tree, Rosie always tried to find a new hiding place, but, daddy always found me, and then the nightmare would start. 

He’d grab me silently, and with so much violence, drag me to my bedroom, strip me naked and then the beatings would begin. Daddy had a wooden plank I guess it was about eighteen inches long, and it had a thick leather strap which was probably a little longer nailed to the end of it, and depending on daddy’s mood or how much he’d had to drink, sometimes it would be a beating with only the plank, other times it would be the full swing of the strap at the end of the plank, and the more I screamed the harder daddy swung. It was always only across my back and my buttocks, never my arms or legs, I was always just simply black and blue and in agony, it was only years later that I finally realised that if I kept quiet during the beatings, they were less harsh. 

The strangest thing of all was that I adored my father, I loved him and so badly wanted him to love me back, but, it never happened, and he never touched my sisters or my half brother who was to come later, they never felt the swing of his fists, the slap of the strap or the crack of the plank, they just witnessed in silence. It was always me, naked across the bed, while the blows rained down and the same litany of curses spewed from my father’s mouth:-                          

“Useless, a waste, you’ll never amount to anything, you’re rubbish, good for nothing,”

“I don’t know where you come from; you should never have been born!” 

 It was inevitable, but, eventually my mother and father got divorced, we three children moved with my father to my grandmother’s house, while my mother and the new man in her life sorted themselves out, yes, my mother had been doing a little of the hanky panky on the side. We’d only been with Granny for a short while when my father came home one day and sat the three of us down in the kitchen. He told us that my mother had gotten married and had a new house, and did we want to go and live with her, my sisters immediately said yes, and my father replied.             

 “Well that’s it then, you girls will go to your mother and Michael stays here,she doesn’t want him!” 

My sisters moved out and I stayed behind, it was a little easier living at Granny’s house, the beatings were less frequent, and Granny knew what was going on, but, Granny kept quiet, and when daddy wasn’t around, granny lavished me with attention, and told me that I had no choice that I just had to “Suck it up!”It was the first time that I realised that nobody would ever save me.

 The following year I started school for the first time and went to grade one, and it was in the first few months that I realised for the second time, that nobody cares and nobody would save me.              

Sitting in the class one day the teacher was moving around and looking at the work that we were doing, and when she got to me, she leaned down and patted me on the back, I had no choice, I screamed, you see, daddy had given me a particularly vicious beating the night before. The teacher took my hand and led me into the class’s store room, where she asked me to take off my shirt, I heard her

 “Oh my God!”

 as my shirt came off, she asked me to take off my school shorts as well, and then immediately helped me to get dressed again, and led me back to my seat, she said not a word, and went on with teaching us until the bell rang for home time. This teacher totally ignored me for the next two years, she never looked at me, never spoke a word to me, never touched me, and she simply ignored me as though I never existed, until I was finally moved to a higher class and out of her sphere of teaching.

I was often shunted backwards and forwards between my father and my mother, spending a few months with one, and then again with the other, it was never settled, I became an introvert, my only friend the budgie which Granny had bought for me, it talked the hind leg off a donkey, and refused to be separated from me (Granny had bought the budgie for me as a result of the trauma I suffered every time Granny needed one of the chickens to be slaughtered for the pot, and as it was my job to feed and look after the chickens, they always ended up becoming my playmates and hence the trauma when it came time for a killing).

 Even though there were constant periods of separation between us, Rosie was still my friend, my soul mate, my companion and my protector; she was always looking out for me, and even secretly got me a Barbie doll, so that we could play together, until the day that daddy found the Barbie, and then I suffered one of the worst beatings of my childhood.             On one of my early moves back to my mother’s house, it was the year before I was to start school, on a bitterly cold night, my mother took me out to the middle of the street, told me to leave, because she had no place in her home for me, she turned around, went back into the yard, closed the gate and padlocked it, then walked back into the house and slammed the door, I was terrified, I was only six years old. There was a block of apartments across the road from my mother’s house I first went in to their parking garage and hid behind some cars, but, the terror was just too much.

I then walked to the mine sports grounds which were always lit up with flood-lights, and climbed to the top of the bleachers (Grandstand) overlooking the rugby field. I crawled under one of the seats, and lay there for the night, because from where I was, I could at least see if anyone came along. It was a very long night filled with unimaginable fears. 

The following morning tired from lack of sleep and desperately hungry I walked back into town, and as I passed a boarding house, an old woman came out, she had been watching me, and asked me if I wanted a cold drink, I said yes, and she took me inside, and gave me a glass of milk while she made some crumpets and gave them to me with jam, all the while talking to me, I eventually fell asleep at the kitchen table only to be woken some time later with my mother shouting at me that I was embarrassing her in front of strangers, I was then dragged back to my mother’s house where I got a terrible beating from my step-father. This scenario with my constantly being thrown back and forth between my mother and father just continued it never stopped, if not the one, then the other would constantly tell me that I was use-less, good for nothing and should never have been born.

I lived a terribly solitary life, I didn’t have birthday parties like other children, I didn’t have friends from the neighbourhood and when I eventually began to go to school, I was the weird boy that nobody wanted to be friends with, I was just a little boy when I first learned the meaning of true loneliness, of isolation and of playing the eternal game of solitaire. I remember so clearly the humiliation, but it was something that my little sister thrived on, my mother used to come and fetch my sisters from school each day, I had to take the bus back to my grandmother’s house, but when the final bell for the school day ended, and everyone poured out of the school gates to waiting parents I’d come out, and there would be my mother with my sisters, and my little sister would shout out, “Mommy, Daddy’s been beating Michael again!”, I don’t know how she knew sometimes, but she always did, And I would be called over to the car and there in front of everyone, I’d have to take off my shirt and pull down my pants so that my mother could see the stripes and the bruises, and all she’d say was “Oh! He’s at it again.”, and I’d have to walk off to the bus in all my humiliation.  

You may wonder why I write almost nothing of my little sister, but, it is hard for me, because she was truly her daddies little girl in every way, and even at a young age she became the abuser that my father was, Rosie never ever referred to her by name, but always referred to her as “My Evil Sister!”, she truly was and even to this day, is pure evil. I will write more on her and the spiteful things which she did to me during my later years. 

 I was in my third year of school when my father came home from work one day, sat me down and told me that it was time that I toughened up, he told me that the only choice I had was in which sport I chose, otherwise I had no choice. He offered me boxing, or Judo, I was horrified, in boxing all I could see was a continuation of my father’s beating at the hands of some-one else. I had no choice so I told him that I would take up Judo. At the hall near the railway station where the Judo classes were given I became the favourite fight partner of every boy, they all knew that I had no fight in me, because my father had beaten it out of me at a very early age, and the other boys realised that against me they would always win, and I ended up being beaten to a pulp twice a week. 

One Tuesday night, I was dropped outside the hall as usual by my father, with him going to the pub to wait for me, when the whole world came crashing down, in the first fight of the evening, one of the bigger boys partnered me, and being as skinny as I was, I was a very easy throw over his shoulder, and as my back hit the mat, I started screaming and didn’t stop, I just lay on that mat and screamed, you see, I had received a particularly vicious beating from my father the night before. In those days there were no cell phones, and my grandmother didn’t know where to get hold of my father, and when daddy eventually arrived I was a sobbing heap that the Judo Instructor loaded into my father’s car with the following words, “Don’t you ever bring him back here again.” None the less, when my father got me home I got another beating for humiliating him by being a ‘sissy boy’. It was the first time in my life that I was to hear that awful word, said with so much hatred and which I would for the rest of my life associate with humiliation and hate............... Will I ever finish I don’t know......

[gnollandvoid]

MADical Items! The Strongest Items you'll never want to touch.

[Read the original thread here.]

Beautybane Blade (by ArchRain)

Legendary Item +3 Longsword. Requires Attunement by a Druid, Ranger, Oath of the Ancients Paladin or Cleric of the Nature Domain. If ever attuned a Character can never gain further levels in the aforementioned class. The character gains the ability to cast the Cantrip Druidcraft, learning another cantrip from the Druid Spell list if they already possess it and gain the ability to cast the spell Shillelagh targeting only this weapon. When the blade is drawn the DM calculates and announces a +1 for every Acre of Grass or Flowers, 100 trees and population of animals equaling either 100 Creatures or two CR within immediate unaided view of the Character with a maximum of +5 from these features to attack rolls. Whenever an attack is made with this weapon one of the aforementioned features instantly dies and the bonus is reduced by one. When this weapon critically strikes the opponent can expend two uses of the Legendary Save feature or instantly die. After killing an enemy with this weapon all party members lose inspiration or go to -1 inspiration if they had none available and the user cannot cast spells from their attuned class's spell list for the next week. Furthermore the DM randomly determines which prominent flower across the world instantly wilts and rots away.

Why it's fucking horrible: It visibly blights the land around you, permanently destroys a beautiful lifeform and leaves anything that survives in a horrible depressed state. There are no cheers and applause when you strike down an enemy with this blade. Only the quiet sobbing of the Universe. Why it's worth using: It's overpowered, edgy and cinematic.

Umbral Stone (by ignoringImpossibru)

Wondrous item, very rare. Any creature that makes contact with the crystal surface is instantly transported to Shadowfell, as if affected by the plane shift spell. Any time this effect is triggered, roll 1d20. On a 1, this location becomes a permanent gate to the plane of Shadowfell, open only under a new moon at midnight.

If the Umbral Stone is fashioned into any sort of melee weapon, treat it as a +1 weapon of that type, and trigger it's effect on hit.

Twilight's Cut (by Bluesamurai33)

This +3 weapon visibly distorts the air around it with waves of magical energy, similar to heat rising off a hot surface. An intricate handle made of Black Wood inlaid with Obsidian and Cold Iron meets with an axe head formed from the metal of a fallen star and granted power from a long forgotten Archmage.

In order to attune, a memory of a person, place or thing must be voluntarily surrendered to the blade each day at sunset in order for the attunement to happen. The wielder cannot offer up memories formed while attuned to this weapon. These memories can never be restored by any form of magic. While attuned, the user is shielded from any magic or effect that would effect their mind. Anyone who witnesses this blade being used must roll a WIS Save DC 18 or forget the event entirely.

The blade deals an additional 2d12 Psychic damage on a hit, and the target must make an INT saving throw equal to the psychic damage dealt or be paralyzed until the end of their next turn. Any creature killed by this blade is erased from the knowledge of the planes. No magic, not even a Wish spell can cause anyone to ever remember the creature. Paintings of the creature are unmade, any writing about it is made unreadable by any means and any memories involving them alter to not include them. Even the wielder is left staring at an unknown corpse, with only the knowledge that it was killed by his/her hand, but the who, what, and why of it are lost for all time.

Dreamcatcher (by Tsunimo)

Magical Weapon (Chakram), Artifact

The wielder of this weapon must first attune to it by sleeping with it under their pillow for a week. While doing so, the person attuning to it has fantastical dreams, as well as the best sleep they’ve ever had, or ever will. Upon attunement, the wielder is automatically proficient in it

The wielder of this weapon is able to receive the benefits of 8 hours of sleep with only 4 hours of actual sleep each night.(The character must still not take any strenuous activity for the entire 8 hours to receive the benefits of a long rest.) Whenever the wielder sleeps, he is wracked by nightmares the entire time, always about the wielder performing unspeakable acts upon the people he cares about most.

The Dreamcatcher is a beautifully crafted mithril Chakram. Made by a master weaponsmith, in the midst of nightmare-induced insomnia, when seen under moonlight, there appears to be an intricate web of strings on the inside of the weapon, forming the shape of an open eye. No matter how you look at the Dreamcatcher from then on, it appears that the eye is watching you.

This weapon has the thrown and finesse properties, with a range of 40/120, and is treated as having a +3 bonus. After being thrown, the Dreamcatcher returns to the attuned creatures hand immediately following striking a target or a surface. This cannot be controlled or stopped by the wielder. Attacks with this weapon deal 1d8 slashing, plus 2d8 radiant damage. If used during a full or new moon, strikes with the weapon are treated as critical hits on rolls of 19 or 20, instead of just 20 (this does stack with similar abilities, effectively inc

If the wielder uses the Dreamcatcher to bring a target to 0 hit points, the fear and terror held within its inner webbing is released, and channeled into the target. The target immediately transforms into an evil beast of nightmare, usually reflective of the targets greatest fear. While in this form, the target remains aware of what he is doing, and though he can do nothing to stop himself, trapping him in his own nightmare until the monstrosity is slain.

Phantom Blade (by Dovaaahhh)

Magical Weapon (Dagger), Artifact

This small dagger is missing its blade, and has been enchanted to use the energy of souls as its cutting force. It has been speculated that the creator had a steady supply of souls that were rent from their original body. A small ruby has been haphazardly fastened to the roughly carved and heavily blood-stained wooden hilt with a thin silver band.

Requires attunement. Using a bonus action, the wielder may summon a spectral blade, but doing so will consume the wielder's soul. The blade is a faint translucent crimson, pulsing faintly in time with the user's heart. Upon a successful attack with the summoned blade it will shatter into a cloud of etherial dust, and both the target and the wielder will instantly die.

Souls consumed by the blade are entirely removed from existence, thus they will not continue to their respective afterlife.

If the blade leaves the wielder's hand after being activated, they will die. However, the blade shall still remain activated for its remaining duration. It can be used to full effect by another being with a successful DC 25 Arcana check.

One hour after activation, the summoned blade dissipates. At this time, the wielder will die.

The Azure Codex (by BlueDragon101)

As the Book of Exalted Deeds and the Book of Vile Darkness are to evil and good, the Azure Codex is to magic. Pure magic. It is useable as a spellbook, and if you are attuned to it you gain the following benefits:

1 Major beneficial property 1 Minor beneficial property +3 to spell attack and damage rolls +3 to spell save DC

The Codex is divided into 3 sections: The Eternal Spellkeep, The Encyclopedia Arcana, and the Tome of Mystic Rites

The Eternal Spellkeep responds to the ability of the user. It acts as a spellbook with every spell written in it, although the only ones readable are those of a level you can cast. If someone, anywhere, creates a new spell, it is instantly added to the Spellkeep. While attuned to the Codex, the number of spells you can memorize/the number of spells known increases by an amount equal to your proficiency bonus. If your caster level is 10 or above, you may memorize/learn spells from any spell list, not just your own. However, none of these spells may be above 5th level.

The Encyclopedia Arcana is a guide to all things arcane. However, like the Tome of Mystic Rites, it is encrypted, abeit not as strongly. A user may make a DC 16 Arcana check to decipher a given page. The pages in this section consist of the Monster Manual Entries, the List of Magic Items in the Dungeon Master Guide and any magical lore specific to the setting.

The Tome Of Mystic Rites is a compendium of every known arcane ritual, from ones meant to summon gods to those that change day to eternal night. This is literally meant to store the instructions for whatever plot coupon/ McGuffin the DM uses.

The Open Book (by LePopeUrban)

This book allows any person who makes physical contact with it the ability to concentrate on a piece of unknown knowledge about any subject. That knowledge will be written, beginning on the next blank page, in a language the user understands.

Following this passage will be written a complete history of the user's life up to the point they used the book. If this person has used the book previously, the record will continue from where it last ended.

If the book is closed every person recorded in its pages and any living descendants will vanish from existence. All items recorded will also vanish from existence. Memory of any recorded events will be forgotten from all mundane and magical records, though their effects will remain. The book itself will appear, closed, at the location of one of these items, people, or events chosen at random.

When the book is opened again, its reader will find their own life story, written in a language they can read, up to the point they opened the book recorded within preceded by a page that reads "this book was closed" and followed by a seemingly uncountable number of blank pages. Nearby within 1d4 feet they will find a mundane quill and an inkwell completely full of ink. They will discover that any attempts to deface the writing are ineffective, but that they are free to write whatever they wish in the blank space.

Plot Hooks: An illiterate thief attempts to steal the book, only to have it vanish, and their world irrecoverably changed as a result. A power-mongering scribe or mage begins recording the history of the royal family for leverage.The book is used by an adventurer's guild to track down interesting items.The book contains the key to curing the world of some great evil, but is held open because it contains the life record of the noble paladin that found it.The book contains a record of the formation of the cosmos.There are two books, and their creators recorded the creation of each in the other.The book contains conflicting accounts of a historical event, and two opposing factions each believe one of them to be true.A cult leader enlists subordinates to obtain knowledge from the book without using it himself.An order of librarians and attempts to record as many events as possible within the book without knowing about or using its magical properties. The book is kept open only due to a tradition with unknown origins.The book is scanned in to a digital format. Its magical properties remain intact among all copies.

#dnd #d&d #5e #magic #treasure #loot #cursed

[tarakaybee]

Finished Zelda: Breath of the Wild!!!!111

I loved it. It’s easily in my top three of the 3D Zeldas, I have lots of thoughts on it which I’m going to spell out here in my usual uninspired method, with pros and cons.

Spoilers below tho.

Cons: 

First of all, I feel that for every bad thing they removed from the Zelda formula and replaced with something more interesting, they also replaced something crucial to the Zelda formula and replaced it with something still good, but provably less unique. For example, I like that the map of the game world opens up like in Wind Waker and Link’s Awakening by climbing towers and marking off points of interest manually, but having towers at all makes it feel less unique since every sandbox game nowadays has almost the same mechanic in it like Assassin’s Creed. Same goes for the foraging and crafting aspect, technically speaking I do enjoy it more, and it is and more of a challenge to be constantly scavenging for health but every game in the world has crafting and it makes it feel less like a Zelda game.

The other fairly big example of this are the 120 shrines and the four dungeons. On the one hand, the dungeons aren’t the trivially easy straight paths that many Zelda dungeons are guilty of being, instead utilising fun physics puzzles and manipulating the shape of the dungeon that causes changes that persist across the whole dungeon rather than getting a unique item from the dungeon, BUT ON THE OTHER HAND none of the dungeons have unique looks or puzzles, they all look identical besides layout and the puzzles are usually things introduced in the also identical shrines. 

That make sense? I feel like there was a way to both improve the gameplay and also maintain Zelda’s uniqueness. So the game is in a weird position of having some of the best and most challenging puzzles and combat and overworld design in the 3D Zeldas so far, but the lack of variety in a lot of important places makes them blur together in my memory. 

Pros:

Now for the pros, because I feel like that was too much negativity at once. 

So first of all, it’s been said before by other, more articulate people, but the overworld is amazing. Traversing across this new Hyrule actually feels like you’re on an epic quest and not so much like you’re running across the school football field. The only other game to feel that way in my opinion is Wind Waker, with its similar open world of possibilities, but unlike Wind Waker, exploring is a lot more challenging and exploring every nook and cranny is not only useful, but essential to staying alive, with the Zeldas series usual thing of having hearts in every blade of grass replaced with foraging for food and cooking different combinations to maximise your chances of survival.

Another nice thing in the game is the Shrines, despite my complaints about the lack of variety, the shrines are a lot of fun and a good incentive to explore new areas along with the towers, which are challenges in and of themselves. Exploring in general is just super fun, paragliding lets the game open up a bit and keep up a nice pace, and climbing means that the stamina gauge actually means something rather than being an arbitrary restriction, one could spend hours not even touching the main quests in favour of exploring for towers and shrines, and in fact many frequently do, it’s probably my favorite open world/sandbox game that I personally have played because I never feel motivated to explore in most games.

One thing this game does with the story/gameplay context (or ludonarrative context) that I quite like is doing away with the fantasy babble, in other games, the people or items that you have to collect help the quest in a very unspecific way, but in Breath of the Wild everything is a lot clearer, why do you need the Master Sword? Because it’s enchanted to deal more damage against Ganon and anything spawned from his evil. Why do you need to rescue the four champions? Because they pilot cool giant stone mechs that assist you in the final battle (Admittedly all they end up doing is knocking half of Calamity Ganon’s health off at the start and then disappear. Whereas I was kind of hoping they’d actively assist you in combat throughout the battle like a cross between Shadow of the Colossus and The Last Guardian, but I guess even the Nintendo Switch has its limits).

How Does It Stack Up?

Like I said, this game is easily in my top three Zeldas, the other two being Majora’s Mask and Wind Waker, so let’s see how they compare in each individual area.

Overworld: Hard to decide between this and Wind Waker, Breath of the Wild is obviously more challenging to traverse and has a wider range of things that exploring can yield, wheras exploring in Wind Waker was mostly fruitless because money is beyond trivial to find and the dungeons provide you with enough heart containers to never bother with heart pieces. But as I said before, Wind Waker’s ocean is unique in gaming as far as the games I’ve played, and Breath of the Wild has a habit of feeling like a less blocky Minecraft, but then again, this is me thinking as a Zelda fan and not a gamer in general because I should stress that I do really enjoy Breath of the Wild’s overworld.

Dungeons: Up until now, my favorite dungeon puzzles have been Majora’s Mask’s, because as detailed in this episode of the cool webseries Boss Keys, Majora’s Mask, moreso than the 3D Zeldas, takes advantage of the interconnecting 3D space the most, with things like Water Wheels and central columns changing heights and flipping the dungeon upside down and what have you. Breath of the Wild’s dungeons all have the gimmick of the latter, with the unique puzzle of the dungeon being the way you manipulate the environment. 

One dungeon has you controlling a mechanical elephant’s trunk to either be flat enough to walk across or angled enough to activate a water wheel, or the dungeon inside a bird where you rotate the entire bird’s orientation. They’re all great puzzles, though admittedly some are harder than others, but again, they all look the same and feel lacking in uniqueness. I’m not saying that sticking to the same format of grassland, volcano, water level etc would’ve been the most creative thing in the world, but the dungeons all looking the same and drawing from the same pool of puzzle assets make them feel like they were made in a level editor.

It’s a close call, but I’m gonna go for Majora’s Mask. The dungeons are a lot more varied and unique on top of actually being some of the more challenging dungeons in the series, whereas the dungeons and the shrines in Breath of the Wild are challenging, but fairly interchangeable otherwise.

Combat: This is a bit harder to critique because the combat is deliberately very different to the other Zeldas, focusing on finishing enemies quicker before they can lay any hard hits on you rather than the flashier swordplay of the other games. On top of that though, the bosses of the game adopt the game’s theme of ‘more challenge, less uniqueness’ more than anything else in the game. And since the game is designed without unique dungeon items to do in any order, the result is that the game’s main quest bosses, Waterblight, Windblight, Fireblight, Thunderblight and Calamity Ganon are all extremely similar bosses, they all look the same and they’re all weak to arrows in the eyes and sword blows when they’re stunned, they have different attacks and they’re fun to fight sure, with Calamity Ganon being Dark Souls-esque in its difficulty. But as I’ve been repeating, they’re just not unique. 

That’s another thing I’ve heard a lot which I think I agree with, that the increased enemy strength, the weapon degradation and the bosses being weak to any damage you can deal as long as you can dodge their attacks makes the combat very Dark Souls reminiscent. And I only wish that they’d gone further, because Dark Souls has every boss all fought in the same way, but no two are the same, and I feel Breath of the Wild could’ve done that without sacrificing its open feel.

Challenge: Breath of the Wild. Calamity Ganon and Dark Beast Ganon are great and challenging final bosses, the shrines are very clever in their puzzle solutions, the dungeon puzzles are very challenging, even at their easiest, and navigating to and up the towers are puzzles in and of themselves depending on environmental hazards. Easy choice. Other games have harder elements but Breath of the Wild is more challenging across the board.

Story + Characters: Ooh it’s very close. I like Majora’s Mask’s grim atmosphere that gets nicely juxtaposed by moments of levity and its straightforward lack of ‘fantasy babble’ and I like Wind Waker’s emphasis on characterising Link and the game world more than usual and how heavily it veers away from the incredibly boring ‘chosen one’ routine that Twilight Princess and Skyward Sword veered very much into and then some. I feel like Breath of the Wild starts off very strongly with a nice intrigue, but then we find out the twist at the end of the tutorial and then there’s no mystery or plot for the rest of the game. I like the game mechanic of plot being given to us as Link has flashbacks to memories he’d lost, that flesh out his relationship with Zelda and the four champions, but it doesn’t develop the main plot or give us a lot of additional context. 

Example, in Wind Waker, Link sets off on his journey to rescue his sister, who he has an established relationship with, and Majora’s Mask likewise starts with Link’s developing relationship with the Skull Kid and the two fairies, which then escalates and encompasses the rest of the world. Breath of the Wild tries to avoid frontloading the game with exposition, but ends up having to verbally explain Links relationships with a series of characters we don’t meet for a while anyway, rendering that story decision a bit pointless. Where I think I would’ve preferred to have context for rescuing the four champions before I’d set off to do so rather than during and after. I know the idea was to start Link with amnesia so the player’s understanding of the world would develop along with him, but not having a connection to anybody makes the game feel a little bit emotionally dead in places, not helped by the fact that this Link doesn’t emote in any way.

The characterisation of Link is very confusing overall, unlike the other Zeldas, we don’t get to name Link and he has an extensive backstory and history with other characters, and his dialogue options suggest he has a very specific personality of “Bitter on the outside, heart of gold in the inside”, but also he’s a silent protagonist who doesn’t emote, which makes me think we’re supposed to project ourselves onto him regardless.

Zelda is a good character though as always, the flashback cutscenes give her a very interesting character arc that pays off in the game’s climax, I only wish that that quest was a little bit less optional.

Conclusion

Well I think I’ve reached a fairly definite conclusion, the game based on its individual merits, it’s far far far better than it has any right to be, but as an addition to the Zelda canon, it eschews the classic Zelda uniqueness in favour of taking inspiration from things like modern sandbox games and Minecraft-esque things and sacrifices a lot of things that makes a Zelda game a Zelda game. But still, I’m glad that the Zelda franchise is making every attempt to evolve though and I’m excited to see where they go next.

Sorry for the wall of text, if you read to the end, then much appreciated.