#psionic engine

[crazyskirtlady]

@waterborns I added multidimensional channeled biophotonic coded switch_words to the altar to boost your intentions into the noosphere🌈 & cybersphere🌐

🙏🏾may it serve you well🙏🏾

#digital altar #techno witchcraft #metawixen #intentions #manifestations #techno spellcasting #cyberspace #world changing #magicka #technomancy #synchronicities #multidimensionality #Hieronymus machine #psionic engine #eloptic energy #symbolic radionics #noosphere #hypervisual #quantum entanglement #bioetheric codes #biophotonic technology #hope #rise up #community #tenderness #revolution to utopia #beauty #love #mutual aid #resource based

[brightlotusmoon]

"The master has failed more times than the student has tried."

My father after sixty years of painting and sculpting. My husband after thirty years of martial arts and energy training.

Me, reluctantly, after twenty five years of wishing I could have been a mutant with the X Gene. Also creative writing.

#the physics of magic #psionics is engineering with organic magic

[ollypopwrites]

From Depths Unknown ; Part 3

Part 1 ⚜ Part 2 ⚜ Ao3

Rolan x F!Tav (AFAB, she/her) *Tav is a Storm Sorcerer, but no actual reference to her appearance.

Rating: E

Tags & Warnings: [18+ MDNI] Language, Canon-typical violence (there is a lot discussion of blood and injuries in this chapter), Major Character Death, Sexual Content (mostly just horny thoughts), background Bloodweave.

Chapter Summary:

Not even Moonrise Tower nor the Shadowcursed land had been this hectic. They dodged rains of incredible fire from dragons, psionic blast from nautiloids and falling debris from buildings crashing around them. Fighting their way through an army of cultists, mindflayers and intellectual devourers, her team felt as united as ever. Everyone felt the finality of it.

Notes: I wanted some whump, okay? I promise they will fuck eventually.

“Rolan? Really? I thought he hated your guts.” 

“You haven’t seen him pining from afar?” Shadowheart asked dramatically. 

“Honestly, Tav, he’s a decent bloke,” Wyll said. “A bit rough around the edges —“

“A bit?!” Karlach protested. 

“Alright, quite rough around the edges,” Wyll amended.

“And pompous,” Shadowheart added. 

“Completely up his own ass,” Karlach agreed.

“Alright!” Tav said, “I’ve told you all, nothing happened.” 

Her and Rolan had been camp gossip from the moment they had walked into their suite; Tav had a hangover and a strong need for coffee, while Rolan was stiff with embarrassment at the questioning looks from her companions. He couldn’t stay long, but they had food and tea and coffee, which was the least she could offer him. She remembered most of the night: the crying, yelling and him having to arrange a makeshift bed for her. As it was embarrassing as it was, she felt a little better getting it all off of her chest. The details were fuzzy, but she knew she had come on to him. While nothing untoward had happened, the camp only saw their leader come through the doors looking bedraggled with an equally out of sorts tiefling wizard. Tongues had been sent wagging immediately. 

“But you do fancy him, don’t you?” Karlach asked. 

She took a deep breath. “Can we focus on the task at hand?” 

“Only after you admit you want to shag the grumpy wizard,” Shadowheart teased. 

“Fine, fine!” Tav felt like tearing out her hair. “Yes, yes I like him. Okay. Can we move on now?” 

“Sheesh,” Karlach breathed. “Take him to bed, mate. You need it.”

She didn’t need Karlach to tell her that. She pushed on, ignoring them. Wyll, however, caught up quickly to her. 

“I won’t lie to you, my friend, he hasn’t made the best impression,” he told her. “But he’s truly a good man.” 

“I know that.” 

“So, are you going to come clean about what happened on the roof then?” He was grinning, boyish and mischievous. 

“Not you too, Wyll, please you were my last hope.”

Her only saving grace was that they found their way to an unusual engineer named Redhammer and his submersible, which happened to be the same culprit that had killed one the the priestesses of Umberlee. While she had half agreed to kill or hand him over if she found him, he offered an opportunity to find the hostage Gondians in the Iron Throne. Tav decided to take some inspiration from Astarion, using him to get down to the Iron Throne before she ultimately left his fate up to Umberlee's order. She thought she should have felt guilty, but he had been so casual about killing the priestess and transporting hostages she found herself lacking any real remorse. After the tadpole was out of her head, she thought she may have to reassess her moral compass. 

After saving the Gondians, Duke Ravengaurd himself and their old friend Omeluum she was happy to be alive and not blown to bits at the bottom of the Chionthar. The priestesses of Umberlee had even rewarded them with a beautiful robe in exchange for finding Redhammer. Gale was the only other person it would have been suited for and he was too embarrassed to wear it despite the entire camp teasing him about it. It was a bit risqué, but when Tav slipped it on she felt it cling to her body and the strange fabric was so damn comfortable she felt as if it were a second skin. She quite liked it. 

They made their way to Sorcerer’s Sundries, knowing the next day would be their chance to finish up the infiltration of the Steelwatch Foundry. Tav was sure Gortash would not bring the Steelwatch down on them right away. The last thing he needed was his army of metal titans tearing apart the city to find them, civilians would inevitably get hurt and then they would get angry. Gortash needed a city scared but ready to cling to a tyrant that could keep them safe, not ready to revolt for stepping on their children. They had to move, but she wanted to let him sweat and take time to get ready for their final push. 

The foundry, the hammer, the last Netherstone. Then the brain. There was finally a light at the end of the tunnel. 

Rolan was rarely in the shop these days. His mirror image had taken his position at the counter, helped along by the other specialists and Cal or Lia. Tav made her way upstairs; despite her pride she owed Rolan thanks for the night before and an apology for the teasing her friends had thrown his way in the wake of it. And she wondered if he’d like her new robes. It was silly, and pointless in the face of everything else that was going on but the desire was there, hiding behind her ‘noble’ reasons for disturbing him in the middle of the day. She made her way through the portal which led to the study Rolan was now using as his own office throughout the day. The blood, ash and bodies had all been cleared away — the decadent room was still in process of being redone to Rolan’s standards but it had come a long way since Lorroakan’s death. 

“Rolan?” She called. 

“A minute, please,” he replied from the balcony. 

Tav rolled her eyes, muttering about wizards and their books. She strolled about the room. He seemed to be in the process of organizing tomes, one of the animated suits of armor was picking up a stack piled on the ground and taking it through another portal. She recalled him mentioning a library, and wanting to cultivate his own favorites for the study. It was his, now, after all. 

“Please tell me you didn’t wear that into battle?”

When he had heard Tav’s voice carry through the study, he noted a lack of distinct irritation at being interrupted. Another sign that Tav was becoming worryingly exempt from his usual ‘prick-ish particularities’ as Cal had so kindly put it. He had just seen her that morning and as awkward as breakfast had been amongst her companions, he had to force himself to finish putting books on the shelf before heading down the stairs. He needed to retain some of his dignity, after all, despite his desire to eagerly stop everything he was doing at the sound of her voice. Tav waited for him below, and as usual, he took a mental note of any new injuries she may have acquired.

Robes with pieces of protective gear was what she normally wore. Soft leathers and sturdy cotton robes, with something to protect her vulnerable points. Even out of armor she usually only wore a simple tunic and cloth pants. His surprise to find her at the center of his study in an outfit that was all flesh and skin tight fabric made him stop in his tracks. The light blue ensemble clung to every curve, dipped low between her breasts (that damned pearl dangling at the center of her chest matched well with this new outfit, he noted), and was slit at the legs so all he saw was skin bared up to a concerning height on her thighs. Her worn leather boots stuck out, not quite fitting in with the sleek outfit, but that did nothing to preserve him from staring dumbly. 

His momentary gawking was interrupted when he realized this scrap of fabric was meant to be armor. All the soft spots of her were exposed to cuts and bruises. 

“Please tell me you didn’t wear that into battle?”

“You don’t like it?”

“That’s hardly the point I’m trying to make,” he said quickly. 

“Then what is the point?”

“Don’t be stupid,” he said. “You can’t wear that in a fight. It’s…” 

Ravishing. So easy to slide aside so I could have any part of you I wanted, he thought. 

“Impractical.” He said aloud. 

“And you decide what I wear now?”

“No,” he replied through grit teeth. “Of course not.”

“Well, I like it.” Tav shrugged him off, turning away and walking around to look at his progress in the study. 

The dress was just as tight in the back, he noticed, his mind reeling and his pulse thrumming. “Where did you even get it?”

“It was a gift from the priestesses of Umberlee,” she said. 

“And what, pray tell, did you do to earn it?” 

“Freed some hostages in a prison at the bottom of the Chionthar and found the man who killed one of their order.” She listed casually. “Duke Ravenguard was down there, if you can believe it. And then Archduke Gortash, magnanimous man that he is, tried to blow us up,” her tone dripped with sarcasm, “it’s been quite a day.”

“Your usual heroics, then,” he grit out. 

“Of course,” she grinned, and everything about the smile was a challenge, a tease, and he was certain he never wanted her so badly. “I know you love to hear about my gallantry. Not bad for a girl who started the day with a terrible hangover, I think.”

“Is there a point to your visit?” He asked tersely. 

“Actually, yes,” she finally came up to him. 

Close enough to touch. The fabric looked soft, and shimmery, probably pleasant enough to run his hands over but the exposed space between her breasts seemed particularly ripe for licking. His jaw clenched as he made the Herculean effort to look her in the eyes. The teasing look she had before was gone, something a little more bashful and sweet. It only made it harder to keep his hands to himself. 

“I wanted to say thank you for last night.” She said, “I don’t remember all of it… but I know I was not at my best. Thanks for putting up with me, and sorry my friends are busybodies.” 

Rolan didn’t know what to say. A whirlwind was inside him. Pure want and affection. Irritation at said want and affection. Irritation at himself for not being able to just say what he wanted to. This was all getting entirely out of hand. 

“How is your arm?”

“My….arm?”

“You’re still scarred, from that ring you so foolishly put on when you had no idea what it did,” he snapped. 

“Oh, that,” she deflated. “Fine. Just these marks,” she pushed back the sleeves of the robe to look at them. “Gale thinks it was some kind of connection to the elemental plane.” At his responding silence she shifted awkwardly. “Okay,” she drew out the word, “I’m going to go.” 

“Goodbye.”

He stayed to watch her go, eyes glued to the way the robes clung to her bottom, the shift of the fabric and delicate metalwork over her exposed legs. 

“You can’t wear that,” he blurted out. “Not in battle. You’ll be ripped to shreds.”

And so would the robe itself, which would be a terrible shame in and of itself, the more he thought about it.

“You said that already.” 

“It bears repeating.” 

She rolled her eyes. “Goodbye, Rolan.” 

As she stepped through the portal and he was left alone he groaned, rubbing both hands over his face, as he muttered to himself, “you’re going to kill me you meddlesome, irritating, beautiful woman.” 

While there had been little notice before the Netherbrain broke free and started unleashing terror on the city, Tav had at least warned her allies ahead of time that it could happen any day at any time. With Rolan’s permission, Counselor Florrick had spread the word that the tower was going to be one point of haven in the city. It had protections and wards, and plenty of space. When all hells broke loose, Cal and Lia were holding down the fort while he made his way to High Hall. Thankfully most of the fighting was happening in the upper city, but mind flayers were running rampant, the sky was red with fire, full of errant blasts from nautiloids and dragons. 

He sent civilian healers as he found them to the tower, instructing them to take whoever they could with them. The high hall was crowded, Flaming Fists taking account of all the allies of Tav’s which had gathered. Many of them he recognized, some he had never seen before, but his heart swelled with pride at the gathering of people who were ready to support Tav and her friends. 

When she came through the door with all her camp in tow, smattered in blood, as she always was, he thought she may cry at the showing. There wasn’t much time, but she took a moment to appraise them of her plan. Her entire party would take the main push to the brain, along with the illithid she had with her. There was no time to explain, she only assured them that this person — Orpheus, was on their side. She needed anyone she did not call to her side to focus on protecting the few points of refuge they had managed to secure in the city, and above all to keep as many civilians safe as possible. She was given means to summon her allies as needed.

As Tav made the quick effort to offer thanks to everyone individually, he felt the terror of it being the last time he saw her. This was not the Tav which he’d had drinks with at the Elfsong every night leading up to this battle, laughing with her friends, carefree for just a few hours. This was the woman who had lead four people to victory against a small army of Goblins, who stormed Moonrise towers and lifted the curse over Reithwin. Focused, determined and if she was scared it never once showed on her face. Only the storm dancing behind her eyes, calm before she exploded into action. 

Rolan had to believe the next time he’d see her, she would be relaxed and teasing him about something over a glass of wine. As she approached him last, before heading out to save the city, he bolstered himself to be whatever she and the rest of the people of Baldur’s Gate needed. 

“The tower is ready, you need only call.” He told her swiftly. 

“Thank you.” She nodded. “Rolan, I — “ she bit her lip and clenched her eyes shut. “If I survive this —“

“You will,” he said certainly. 

“If I do,” she repeated, eyes boring into his with earnesty he hardly knew how to deal with, “would you like to join me for a bottle of Arabellan Dry?”

“Are you asking me on a date? Right now?” As if to punctuate his point the ground shook, horrible screeching sounds and the roar of a dragon sounded out. 

“Might be my last chance,” she breathed. 

“It won’t be,” he insisted. If she was going to be bold enough to ask him out for a drink before running off to certain death — he had to rise to the challenge. He grabbed her hand, bringing it to his lips. “You’ll come back to me, gloriously and infuriatingly victorious.”

If he said it confidently enough it may just come true. It had worked for him before.

Tav nodded, squeezing his hand in hers. She hesitated, but there was little time for more to be said. She suddenly began to dig under the collar of her armored robes with her free hand. After fidgeting for a moment with something around her neck she held out the chain of the necklace which held her Pearl of Power. 

“Can you hold onto it for me? I don’t want to lose it again.” 

“You may need it,” he was unsure what else to say. 

“Already used it today,” she said, “it’s just sentimental right now. And just — hold onto it. Please.” 

Tav took his hand and placed the necklace into his palm, gently curling his fingers over it. It was such a small trinket, but the implications of her leaving it with him made it feel immeasurably valuable. He thought he would rather die than let it come to any harm. The dramatics of such a train of thought struck him so violently with the realization that he was undoubtedly in love. The terrible timing for such an epiphany was only emphasized by a loud boom on the roof and the shudder of dust and small bits of debris raining down on them.

Tav let go of his hand and with a determination in her eye he knew all too well, led her party out into the midst of terror with no other word. 

There was no time to stop. 

Not even Moonrise nor the Shadowcursed land had been this hectic. They dodged rains of incredible fire from dragons, psionic blast from nautiloids and falling debris from buildings crashing around them. Fighting their way through an army of cultists, mindflayers and intellectual devourers, her team felt as united as ever. Everyone felt the finality of it. She had seen Astarion and Gale share what they thought might possibly be their last kiss. Watching them felt like an intrusion, but the glance she had gotten of desperate softness in their eyes made her more determined than ever. Tav silently vowed that she would come out of this with everyone alive and ready to begin anew. 

When they finally found the  stalk of the Elderbrain it led higher and higher up over the city. She felt the adrenaline spurring her to start to climb, and she didn’t have to look behind her to know they followed. At the top it was an onslaught of psionic forces: the netherbrain, the illithids it commanded, and the tadpoles in their heads revolting at every move they made to fight against them. There were moments that blanked out, as she was stunned or her head hurt so badly she felt she couldn’t see. They were all moving on pure instinct to survive. 

Karlach’s rage was an unstoppable force, Lae’zel cut down anyone in her path with brutal efficiency, and the only thing more intense than the amount of healing magic Shadowheart was expending was the force with which she brought down her mace. Jaheira and Halsin were in charge of summoning reinforcements as needed, controlling the battlefield with Druidic magic while Gale sent off spell after spell with devastating effect. Astarion and Wyll danced around the battlefield; Wyll’s combined magic and skill with the blade making him virtually untouchable while Astarion flitted in and out of visibility, daggers digging into flesh with deadly accuracy. 

And she exploded with magic. 

Her arm hurt, the flowing lines of whatever had touched her when she put on that ring in the tower glowed and raged as she gave everything she had. When she felt she had nothing left, it fed her new power, keeping a steady stream of lightning ready to strike. There was not a lot of time to think on this new development, only time to acknowledge that whatever it did to her, her magic was thriving on it. Her magic felt centered for the first time in her life. Controllable, not just something she was barely wrangling and flinging around blindly. 

The last push to the crown was upon them. The way just needed to be cleared, she called to Halsin over the clamor of it all, tadpole transmitting to the others her plan. In truly rumbling cacophony explosions rained down, almost clearing their path. For a moment she took in the show of power from Ramazith’s Tower, but they had to bolt forward. 

Lae’zel took the lead, attacking an illithid arcanist guarding the portal they needed to get into. Gale was quick behind her, magic missiles firing off in every direction and counterspell quickly cast afterwards. Karlach was keeping the way clear, as more illithid were summoned, hacking at tentacled heads until they rolled off. Tav took off for the portal, only to come face to face with her father. 

No. It was her dream guardian. The Emperor’s trick. 

When she had first seen the man in her dreams she had thought the same thing: he was just similar looking enough to her dear old dad to get her guard down but not so identical it would ring off alarm bells in her mind. Tav’s father was dead, after all, the Emperor had toed the line of familiarity on purpose. The single moment of hesitation was enough for the guardian to blast her with psionic energy, knocking her off of her feet.  An intellect devourer took its chance and leapt onto her. Searing pain spread through her abdomen as claws dug in and tore. It was climbing up her body, ripping skin with every step. Her arm was pinned underneath one of its horrid legs, unable to cast, and she felt the thunderous pulse in her chest, the tingle of electricity in her veins — and then a dagger came down stopping the devourer in its tracks.

Astarion was above her, kicking the thing off of her. With a cry she felt the claws slip loose, blood pouring out of the wounds. The pain slipped away to the back of her mind as she flung forward, hands outstretched  when a chain of lightning erupted at another dream guardian which tried to stop Gale. Astarion helped her to her feet, shoving a meager healing potion at her. It was not enough to close the wounds, but it gave her a rush of new vitality and they ran for the portal

This was it. This was the final task. All they had to do was survive long enough to take out the Netherbrain. 

After setting off the blasts at Halsin’s command, Rolan had launched himself halfway down the stairs, nearly stumbling and stepping on his own tail. There were a handful of Flaming Fists, armed civilians, Cal, Lia and even Aradin guarding the perimeter of the tower; he had to go join them. The store was always chaotic with all the summons wandering around and magical effects but this was a different vein of mayhem. Anyone he could find with healing magic along the way was running around, people were screaming and crying on the floors and any clear surface available. 

It sounded like Elturel. 

Shaking his head of the thought, he pushed through the doors. People were still running, trying to get through the doors of the tower and whatever building still stood to get away from the carnage. The square was full of bodies and blood and rubble. He spotted Cal and Lia, both alive and fighting well. Cal’s swing was strong, Lia’s aim was impeccable — he was able to focus on casting. An illithid floated forward, chasing after a meal of one of the Flaming Fists' brains, Rolan quickly cast color spray, confusing the creature and shortly after one of Lia’s arrows sunk into its elongated head.

Cal got stunned, his head in his hands as he wobbled on his feet, two mindflayers floating towards him. Rolan nearly tripped over his robes to grab his brother by his shirt and pull him back, Cal fell and as soon as he was out of the line of attack Rolan felt the boom of thunder erupt from his hand. The illithids were sent backwards, landing on their back, prone. 

“Cal,” he turned to offer a hand to his brother, “stay steady.” 

“Yeah,” Cal grunted, shaking his head free of the psionic force which had stunned him. “I’m good, I’m alright.” 

“Rolan! Incoming!” 

Lia’s voice called out before she let an arrow loose. His eyes flicked to the sky, a nautiloid was overhead, a beam of some sort beginning to glow with energy. 

“To me! Now!”

Aradin and anyone nearby enough to hear him huddled close, Rolan swiftly casting an orb of invulnerability. He had never cast it before, not successfully, but it was all he could think of to try. A slight red shimmer created a bubble around them, the nautiloid made its attack. A few people were decimated by the blow immediately outside of the orb, even a ravenous illithid in the middle of extracting a brain from a skull had not made it out of the way in time. The spell worked. Rubble flew into the air with the blast, and stopped bluntly at the barrier. 

Thank the Gods. Rolan thought to himself, sweat beading down his temple. 

Lia ducked in and out of the orb to shoot off arrows, clearing the path for some to make their way to the tower or within the confines of Rolan’s temporary protection. He managed to keep the orb up long enough for the blasts to cede after the nautiloid was distracted from attacking the ground by a Githyanki force of dragon riders. 

“There’s more coming!” Aradin yelled. “We should fall back into the tower.”

“The wards can only take so much,” Rolan snapped back. “Get out there and kill something or get out of the way!”

He never understood Zevlor’s well-known ire for the mercenary more as he fled inside. As he had said, more illithids came out of the woodwork. The alien army had not found it necessary to send any armored mind flayers — relying on the freshly transformed tadpoled masses which had been lurking in the city. They had numbers, but most of them were stark naked, and sloppy in the unusual new bodies. Many of them fell quickly, which was his only comfort against the slowly dwindling numbers of his own allies. If they just kept it up, they could maintain the line of defense around the tower. 

“Come on, Tav,” he heard Lia scream as another Flaming Fist fell to an illithid. “Just kill it already!” 

There was no way for Tav to hear them, but he understood the panic. He felt each second that passed since he set off the blasts from the tower as if it were an hour. They could not keep this up forever, and part of him knew that as intense as it was on the ground, up there where the brain hovered in the air it was ten times worse. 

“Tav needs us to hold strong,” he called to his sister. “We owe her that, at least.” 

Lia was too far away for him to be sure but thought he saw her jaw set in the same way Cal’s did when he was concentrating. His brother felled an illithid in one blow, clean and easy at the neck. 

“Can’t believe I’m saying this,” Cal said, “but Rolan is right!”

It truly was the end of the world.

When Tav hit the water, she blacked out for a moment. Her eyes opened and the gasp that wracked her body filled her mouth and lungs with water as she realized too late in her waking that she was in the Chionthar. She floundered to the surface, hacking and coughing. Once she had her breath, she started screaming for her companions.

“Here!” Gale yelled.

He was not too far off from her, hanging onto some floating debris, with an unmoving lump with white hair. She swam over, grabbing onto the debris. 

“Is he alive?” She panicked. 

“Breathing,” Astarion’s voice was weak, “stop screaming.”

“Where’s everyone else?” Tav felt herself succumbing to the confusion. “Karlach! Have you seen anyone? Wyll!”

“I’ve got Shadowheart and Wyll!” She heard Karlach call, a red spot in the distance, tethering two limp bodies as she kept them on their backs. 

Lae’zel, Halsin, Minsc and Jaheira were still unaccounted for. Tav’s eyes scanned the water, dawn hadn’t broken yet, it was still dark and the depths below were impossible to see into. The only real light was provided by the city which was still very much on fire. Just as Tav was about to give into despair, a giant tentacle broke the water, then another, in its grips was an unconscious Lae’zel, and Minsc who was sputtering and cackling like a madman. Finally a third, and Halsin broke the surface. 

“Minsc! Where’s Jaheira?”

“You look upon her!” He called back. 

Wild shape was one hell of a thing. Tav called to the giant octopus whose eye peered into hers as it breached the surface, telling Jaheira to grab Karlach first as she was treading water and trying to keep two people afloat at the same time. Tav watched, only vaguely hearing Astarion and Gale speaking next to her. She needed to see them all safely put upon the dock, she needed to know she had done it. She hadn’t lost anyone. 

“Stop trying to talk to me,” Astarion muttered. “I’m furious with you.”

“My love, I would have made sure you were transported out of harm's way,” Gale attempted to sooth him. 

“And what about you?” Astarion snapped. “What was I supposed to do without you?” 

She was not quite sure what they were talking about. 

“We were losing, Astarion,” Gale pleaded. “The orb may have been—“

“The orb?” Tav heard her neck crack as she swung her head so fast to look at him. She felt dizzy. 

“He very nearly blew himself up, again,” Astarion seethed. “I saw him reach for the dagger.” 

“Gale!” Tav scolded. “I told you — not an option!”

“Tav, please, if all else failed —“

“But it didn’t!” She yelled. 

“No,” he sighed. “No, it did not. So please, can we make it to land and put this to rest.” 

Just as Tav was about to argue with him, she felt a tug at her midsection, and uncomfortable stinging of pain accompanying the grasp. Astarion and Gale were lifted out of the water by tentacles  at the same time she was and they were being slowly carried to the dock. It was supposed to be over once they all made it on dry land. She had given in to the hope that she had finally led her party to their final battle without losing a single member. The victory was supposed to be sweet, and cathartic. 

The moment they caught their breath on the dock, Karlach’s engine started to fail. 

The main floor of the store was cleared of most furniture to make room for cots full of injured people. Amateur and professional healers alike were running around madly, calling for aid from whoever was still standing. To his credit, he had begun to organize as best he could. It was still chaos, but he was managing to take requests, send off whatever volunteer was nearest to assist, and have Cal take on grabbing potions and herbs from the stores as needed. Rolan was no healer, but he could wrap a wound before too much blood was lost as some poor soul waited for someone to be available. He could also bark orders, arrange for Fists to section off high risk patients from those who could survive without immediate attention. 

There were two surgeons he had managed to recruit. Their space was at the very back near the necromancy supplies were, with a temporary shielding wall of stone. It didn’t drown the screams of agony as they operated but it prevented anyone from witnessing an amputation. 

When the heroes of the hour burst through the door of the tower, even amongst the chaos, Rolan knew something was wrong. They looked like hell. Jaheira was bleeding from a deep wound on her head, Shadowheart was limping, and even Minsc who was always quick to get back on his feet looked like he had been thrown from a twenty story building and felt it. A good chunk of the party was missing. Wyll and Karlach were nowhere to be seen. In fact way too many of them were just gone. Astarion, Gale and Lae’zel didn’t follow, and neither did Tav. Halsin was the very last of them in, carrying someone.

“A bed! Now!” The Archdruid’s voice boomed over the chaos

A humming sound rang in his ears, the entire world pinpointed to the form of the woman in Halsin’s arms as he was directed to place her on a free bed by a Fist. 

Rolan let his feet guide him to her side, a numb feeling keeping panic at bay. On the bed was a bloody mess of a woman, who in all appearances looked like Tav but… That surely wasn’t his Tav. That was an empty shell; the skin had no vibrancy, the only truly bright color was the blood leaking out of the deep wound in her stomach. Her eyes, open staring up at the ceiling, were empty. 

Shadowheart placed her hands over Tav and the glow of her healing magic flashed and ebbed away. She tried again, but the magic stuttered out. Shadowheart let out a strangled scream in frustration, pounding glowing hands into Tav's chest and each rush of power was weaker and weaker.

“What are you doing? Heal her,” Rolan demanded. “Fix her!”

“I can’t —“ Shadowheart’s voice cracked. 

“Shadowheart’s magic is spent,” Jaheira’s tone was sharp but even, the voice of a General. “And healing magic won’t work on her now. This is a magic shop — find a resurrection scroll.” 

Resurrection implied she was dead. Logically, yes, he could see that. Tav was dead, nothing more than spent flesh and blood. But this was not supposed to happen, this was beyond everything he knew of her.

She always survives. She always does the impossible. She can't be dead.

“How did this happen?”

“Rolan,” Shadowheart pleaded his name, disregarding the question, “do you have a resurrection scroll?” 

The buzzing in his ears stopped, the cacophony of the tower coming back to him. A solution that he could focus on. He took off in a sprint, jumping over the counter. His hands shook as he opened the safe where they kept the high value scrolls.  

“Rolan, that Florrick lady is here, she brought some — what’s wrong?”

He didn’t hear Lia come up, and didn’t take the time to acknowledge her as he started reading through the stock. “We must have one.”

“Talk to me,” Lia said again getting his attention, “what’s happened?”

An idea jolted him, there were stores and stores of supplies in the study. “Upstairs, in the study, the scroll collection —“ he quickly said, “we need a resurrection scroll.”

“But —“

“Check the vaults, check the study — find me a resurrection scroll!” 

Taking in his frantic tone, Lia ran off without further question. There was no possible way this was how Tav’s story ended. In a numb haze he remembered what little he knew about healing and divine magic; there was a time limit on a basic resurrection spell. At some point a soul was too far gone and True Resurrection would be the only other option. Plain resurrection scrolls were rare enough as it was, but a True Resurrection scroll was near impossible for most people to get ahold of. 

Chain of lightning, hold person, cloud kill — his hands fumbled to work as fast as he read the scrolls. He had no real idea how much time was passing, but each second was too long. There were dozens of scrolls, and he looked at each one. Finding nothing of use he ran around the counter to start up the stairs.

He should have told her at High Hall. He should have just said it. He should have thought to find a scroll ahead of time for this very purpose. What a cosmic joke, for her to have made it this far, only to die at the finish line. She deserved better. He would make sure she got a better ending than this. He nearly ran into Lia jumping the last few steps of the staircase. 

“I found one!” 

She held up the scroll and he snatched it out of her hand, narrowly dodging a healer as he ran to the bed where Shadowheart was praying desperately. 

“Found — the scroll —“ he stammered out, short of breath. 

“Use it, quickly,” Jaheira said. 

His fingers fumbled with the clasp that held it shut, as it unfurled he knew he needed to breathe through the panic in his chest. He could do an incantation, he could read the words off of a scroll as he had a hundred times before. There was not a God he prayed to usually, not one he thought to plead with specifically. Mystra, maybe. But given what he knew of her and her friends, Mystra might not be so inclined to help Tav. 

His willpower would have to be enough; this was not how her story ended, he repeated to himself. She was too good, too resilient, too kind, too forgiving, too infuriatingly wonderful — too loved.  Rolan was not going to let her disappear that easily, he vowed as he spoke the incantation.

The spell took hold, golden light shuddering Tav’s body, and then disappearing. For a terrifyingly long moment, he was unsure if it worked. But her eyes blinked, at first it looked like a twitch, but then they fluttered a few times and the light was back in them. Her limbs jolted like she had been electrocuted and then a truly shocking deep gasp for air had her sitting up on the cot. 

“There you are, Cub,” Jaheira said, a steady hand on her shoulder which emitted the familiar green light of her Druidic magic. “Didn’t think we’d let you get out of cleaning up, did you?”

“Hurts,” she sucked breaths in desperately. 

“Lay down,” Shadowheart said. “We’ll find a healer.”

“Where —?”

Rolan was frozen to the spot. She still looked so close to death. Her head swiveled over to him, eyes confusedly still searching for some sense of what was going on. 

“You.” Was all she said. 

“Yeah, me,” he breathed. “Lay down. You look awful.”

“Rude,” she wheezed but let herself ease onto her back. “I think you look… good…” exhaustion, pain or any combination of whatever her body was going through had her slipping out of consciousness. 

“Tav,” Rolan panicked, kneeling next to her. “Damn you, stay awake,” he grabbed her face in his hands and she gave him a heavy lidded stare. 

“Trying,” she said. 

She was still in rough shape. Halsin and Jahiera dumped the last dregs of their limited healing magic into her, doing just enough to keep her from bleeding out on the bed once more. Shadowheart tipped her head back for a basic healing potion, and it dribbled down the side of her face but it brought some of the vibrancy of her skin.

“She won’t succumb to the wounds, but she needs healing quickly,” Halsin seemed to be talking to himself more than them, as he took off to find someone to help. 

“You can rest now,” Shadowheart assured her softly. “Right, Rolan?” 

He wasn’t so sure. But Shadowheart was a healer, she knew better than him. He swallowed hard, and nodded. “That’s right.”

“Good,” Tav mumbled, “tired.” 

Shadowheart and Rolan watched as she slipped into unconsciousness. Her chest rose and fell, although shallowly. Shadowheart heaved a big breath, recomposing herself. She looked around the room, and then to Rolan.

“I need to rest, then I’ll be able to help,” she seemed to be telling herself rather than him. “I’ll stay here,” she said, “I’ll stay with her and rest.”

“What can I do?” Rolan asked desperately. 

“You are the Master of Ramazith’s tower,” Jahiera cut in. “This is your city, you have a duty to its people now — unless you wish to follow Lorroakan’s example, get to work.” Jaheira looked down at Tav, “we will look after her, as she has looked after us.”

Rolan never felt more like an outsider, and he felt he should watch whatever healer Halsin found. If only to see for himself that she was truly going to be alright. Shadowheart was watching the rise and fall of her chest with intense focus, and it felt wrong that she was the only one of their original group by her side. 

“Rolan, there’s a fire that they can’t put out over in Heapside,” Cal was there, Rolan hadn’t even heard him approach. 

“There’s summoning scrolls, water elementals,” he said distractedly. 

“Go,” Shadowheart looked at him. “We’ve got her.”

“And that is supposed to be a comfort?” He snapped. “She was dead just moments ago under your watch!”

“She didn’t tell us,” Shadowheart said back, a tone of shame in her raised voice. “Everything was happening so fast — she didn’t tell us she was hurt!”

“No one here is to blame,” Jaheira was annoyed, he could tell by the arch of her brow. “She would tell you the same.”

He felt another comment on the tip of his tongue, ready to rage and yell to do something with the gods awful feeling in his chest. He nearly lost her. 

“Rolan,” Cal said, “we have to —“

“Fine! Fine.” 

The city still needed saving, despite the threat being gone. Who knew how much help was needed across the city. Running to everyone's rescue was what she would tell him to do, but still he was afraid to leave her side. He touched her cheek: warm, alive, despite looking worse than she ever had after a fight. 

“She’ll be alright?” He asked, wincing slightly at the desperate crack in his voice. 

Shadowheart nodded, her hand coming to squeeze his, “I promise, I won’t let her slip away again.”

Rolan had no other choice but to trust her.

Thank you for reading!

Next Chapter

#rolan x reader #rolan x tav #bg3 fanfiction #rolan fanfic #olly writes

[littjara-compleated-sage]

I filled another sketchbook page yesterday, so here's weird Phyrexians 8-13!

8: Sometimes, clever mites use discarded bits from other Phyrexians as protection and camouflage. They use one set of legs to hold up the disguise.

9: This highly flexible, mobile Progress Engine octopus is a surveillance device with both eyestalks for visual input and antennae for picking up psionic signals. They will often cling to and hang from the spheres that form a major part of Progress Engine architecture, surveilling people who pass below.

10: Plants that grow wild in the Hunter's Maze, with bulbous glowing heads and trailing filigree veils like those of certain fungi. The patinated coppery stalks that twine up to support the heavy heads take the shapes of humanoid hands, and as a result can be a good quick place to harvest replacement parts if you don't insist on getting them custom.

11: Wearable secret familiar, popular among cenobites who want a little extra assistance. Its tail is longer than the pendant would suggest, as it telescopes out with stretchy red sinew in between the porcelain plates. In addition to attacking or spraying oil at foes with its hidden stinger, the familiar can be surprisingly effective at simple fetch tasks thanks to its prehensile tail.

12: This... monstrosity was originally designed to be a safer version of a viron, a massive Furnace beast that forms manastorms at its upper half and conducts electricity down its legs into the ground. Supervisors were disappointed, and goblins were thrilled, to learn that it was not in fact safer. The jubilant goblins then threw themselves fully into making it as unsafe as possible (its official purpose is now "intruder deterrent"). Problem is, it has been slowly breaking down as it wanders because no one wants to go close enough to maintain it. Great against Orthodoxy angels, though!

13: A Gitaxian automated scroll/reading wheel. It has spinners on each of its vertices, on top of which parchment is mounted, and this allows it to scroll as it or a user reads and writes. I had extensive conversations with friends about the potential silliness of this one, due to its bulk and tiny, spindly legs. Sometimes, when it tries to stop, it just keeps rolling. The Gitaxians keep it around anyway.

#31 weird phyrexians #phyrexia #phyrexian #mtg #magic the gathering #creature design #inktober

[ostrichmonkey-games]

Stampede Wasteland TTRPG

WELCOME TO THE WASTES

good luck, you’ll need it

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

THE SETTING

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

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

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

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

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

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

So how does Stampede Wasteland work?

THE GAME

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

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

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

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

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

THE CHARACTERS

Player characters have three components.

A Background that describes their origin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[dracaelus]

CHERIK FIC RECS

Angst (multiple levels of angst)

too close to the sun, by joshriku: 3, 683 words, charles pov, canon compliant to Jean Grey #1 (2023) (i think it's better to read the issue first, but it's not really necessary)

Jean Grey erases Magneto's mind - or so she thinks. When Charles finds his body, he brings it back to the mansion, and begins the arduous task of putting Erik's mind together. Of course, when it comes to Erik and persevering, it's always a lot more effective than he expects.

To Breathe Again (Impossibilities Remix), by Unforgotten: Erik's pov from the original movies timeline. The old men are old!!! It's a 3,879 words oneshot and it's beautiful

After Liberty Island, you think you must have burned that bridge at last. After Alkali Lake, you're even more certain. What once seemed so easy is now an impossibility, and the dream that once plagued you no longer comes.

Then Charles dies and you know: Going home was never truly impossible until now.

This is not easily described by a single genre methinks

superposition, by borninsideatornado: The racer car driver au! This one has some angst yes, but it didn't feel right to put it in the angst category bc there's so much more to it! This story is about healing. It's also about racing cars. And it's also a romance ! Charles and Erik have an amazing dynamic, but then so does Erik and Emma, Erik and Pietro (the father and son are father and son'ing!) and the entire team tbh. Really fun to read!

erik is a race car driver coming off the worst year of his life. charles xavier may be his last hope.

Time to Grow, by zarah5: 20K oneshot, Charles pov. Fluffy fix-it

In which you'll find chess dates which aren't dates (or maybe Charles is wrong about that). -- Based on First Class, this turns (slightly) AU during the beach scene.

Comedy

Fathers and sons, by M_Leigh: 6K oneshot, Hank pov. So fucking funny

“I have an – interest – in Peter Maximoff,” Erik said, somewhat grudgingly, glaring. “A – familial – interest –”

Everybody stared at him.

“In that – mutantkind is one – large – family –” Erik said valiantly, if pathetically.

“Oh, shit,” Alex said. “No way. No way.”

i guess i should say thanks or some shit: au but they do have powers, 17K oneshot, charles pov

believe it or not, charles has a well-thought-out moral philosophy. he doesn’t follow it. but he has thought it out. alternatively: charles and erik douche it up in amsterdam

Frosted hearts, by aesc & palalife: 29K oneshot, multipov, the main focus is cherik, and it comes with art!

Emma Frost has 99 problems, but a date ain't one. Specifically, she has no time to play the dating game--which is fine with her, because she'd much rather run it instead. From a set of sleek, silver and white offices on Fifth Avenue and with her trusty, stylish, and silent partner Janos Quested, Emma has built Frosted Hearts into New York City's premiere dating service, built on the principle that money, and a sufficiently rigorous psionic scan, can, in fact, buy you love.

Somewhere in Frosted Hearts's server is one Charles Xavier, genius and geneticist, with the kind of nicely-starched good looks that sell well on brochures for New England prep schools. He's also a telepath who's decided to give up pursuing serious relationships and instead spend his thirties doing what he should have done as a teenager: have a lot of sex with random people. Fortunately for him, Erik Lehnsherr, metallokinetic and engineering executive, has absolutely no time in his heart or his schedule for anything more serious than... well, absolutely nothing romantic at all.

#cherik #drac fic recs

[goattypegirl]

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

Why was Karzahni given the Olisi?

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

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

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

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

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

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

And they are all pale imitations of the Osili.

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

But why wasn't Karzahni shielded?

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

#bionicle #my writing

[sailorb00]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[dailyadventureprompts]

Monsters Reimagined: Thri-Kreen

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[sasster]

Anyway, Here's Wonderwall

You guys know Laeche?

How about Razzle?

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

[Doc]

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stupid, heartless shit.

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

She stops and smiles.

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

“Somehow? Not a living one.”

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

Her smile broadens.

“Ours works very hard.”

“You mentioned that.”

“Ready to meet her?”

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

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

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

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

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

 “Mm. Lead the way.”

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

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

But that could just be his biases.

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

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

Her pained shrieks are the worst of it.

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

Confusion twists the engineer’s features.

“Does that matter? Who cares?”

“Silly me.”

This is going to be a very long job.

–

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

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

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

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

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

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

The lead engineer herself had no idea.

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

“Snagged some apple sauce for you too.”

She moves slightly in her restraints.

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

The helmsman stops moving.

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

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

He smiles softly.

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

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

[kayforpay]

GHB in Psii position? like psionics yellow.

At first it was hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[crazyskirtlady]

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

[likes charge|reblogs cast]

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

[marlonbrandto]

THE MAYNOS GAMBIT | 4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

——————————————————————————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

——————————————————————————

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

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

[tenleaguesbeneath]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#tenleagues musings

[sekiromi]

A Devil You Do, ch. 3

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

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

Chapter Three: Scars and the Stories They Tell

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Somehow, you doubted that.

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

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

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

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

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

The Ghustil, however, was less pleased.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Raphael.”

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

“I didn’t say that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“See you, soon.”

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

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

He had healed you.

You held your face in your hands and groaned.

Fucking. Hells.

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

For now, he just needed to see Haarlep.

—-

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

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

Like Raphael had done to you earlier.

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

He’s an actual devil, for one.

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

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

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

His frilly shirt looks ridiculous.

…

He’d look better without it.

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

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

At least, you did not think you did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hm? Who?”

“Our devilish friend, Raphael, of course.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I saw him earlier, actually.”

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

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

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

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

“Alright, love. Sleep tight.”

“You too, g’night.”

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

[chapter four]

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

[verdantglow]

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

Ship 1

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

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

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

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

Ship 2

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

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

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

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