Category: Uncategorized

notyourfathersdungeonmaster:

thebibliosphere:

glumshoe:

glumshoe:

Yeah, I wish I could fly or run at super speed or teleport. Whose doesn’t?! But the superpower I crave most acutely is the ability to dreamwalk.

There are innocent uses. You show up in your friend’s recurring nightmares and tell her that this time, it’ll be okay – she’s safe, her dreams are made of dust and fantasy, and she can control them. You chase off the monsters and demons and teach her how to turn lucidity on and off. She can rest easy without your help.

But oh, god, you can also make the person who gave her those nightmares in the first place pay for it. Sleep tight, shitlord! What’s the matter? Did you have a bad dream? Are you ready to have bad dreams for the rest of your life? I hope you like sleep deprivation, asshole, ‘cause I’ve got a full tank of nightmare fuel and you’re riding shotgun.

Corrupt politician ready to vote for an evil bill? He can’t prove that you terrorize his dreams! Maybe he’s a rich bastard who will never experience any of the horrible consequences of his actions first hand…but he’s a rich bastard who wakes up screaming every night because The Ghost of Christmas Fuck You has come a-calling.

Honest to god this is so close to my mood right now I am cackling. Holy shit.

Dream is honestly the most underrated spell in D&D. I mean, think about it. You wait for your enemy to fall asleep, and bam! Take 3d6 psychic damage, a CR 3 Nightmare, and a level of exhaustion. You can literally torture someone with a low Wisdom save to death in their sleep across the course of a week.

Players, if you want to seriously screw with your DM, use this to have your PCs torment the BBEG. DMs, vice versa.

Little moments of whump

ariestaurus21:

ysande-jin:

Grand whump is wonderful, of course, but what takes my breath are those subtle moments that show the whumped character is really not ok:

– taking a moment to close his eyes because he’s light headed/exhausted/has such a bad headache

– pressing the heel of his hand against his temple, because his head hurts or he can feel his temperature rising

– spacing out a bit during a conversation – especially when he’s the one speaking, so that he kind of trails off and has to shake himself and apologise and get back on track

– pressing a cold bottle of beer/coke against his forehead and just taking a moment to savour the relief

– especially a normally diligent/stoic character – falling asleep on the job or somewhere he shouldn’t, even if it’s just for a moment, and he’s startled awake by someone/something and there’s just that moment of being lost in his eyes as he tries to figure out where he is and what’s happened

– his hands are shaking and he accidentally meets someone’s eyes who’s seen it happen so he shoves his hands into his pockets or armpits and stalks off

– a little stagger as he walks, or kind of drunkenly reeling off-course a tiny bit before he self-corrects

– that helpless expression just before he collapses

– moving wrong in a way that aggravates the pain, and the sudden seizing of his body

– breathing through the pain

– leaning against objects so he can stay upright, especially if he’s doing it as nonchalantly as possible

– a pause as he first notices that something isn’t right

– that white knuckled grip

– a hitch in his voice as he talks

– half-lidded eyes that are becoming unfocussed

– the way his head lolls

– where he can’t even spare the energy/strength to turn his head and he kind of just accepts things/carries on looking straight ahead

– trying to carry on speaking a command or direction or explanation even though he can only voice a few words at a time, either because of pain, or weakness, or confusion/disorientation

– someone passes him something but his hands are clumsy and he fumbles with it rather than just taking it normally

– reaching under a jacket and coming out with a blood-stained hand (always this <3)

– apologising for being about to pass out just before he does (afhflksdkkjfgg)

All. Of. Those. So. Hard.

Good Boy

elsewhereuniversity:

It began on a Tuesday. Later, she would tell people that this made sense. Nothing bad happens on Tuesdays. He knew better, but he was far too polite to contradict her.

The offering had changed. Usually it was the standard bowl of cream, which he ignored. He wasn’t a cat. There was one outside almost every door. Not hers.

He knew what it was long before he found her door. Floating above the heavy, yellowing smell of dairy, twisting through the shimmering scent of the Fair Folk – leaf-mould, rainwater, Sambuca and not enough sunlight – was the tang of blood. Meat.

His ears twitched. His maw began to slaver. He was hungry, so hungry. There were no offerings for him. He took what he could get at The Hunt, but it was never enough.

He followed his nose. There, outside a door that smelled greenish-blue and soft. It sat raw and wet in a little dish, piled up like rubies.

One of Them was crouching over it.

They didn’t eat meat. It was poking at it with one long, long, long finger, disgust twisting all four of its mouths. It hissed, clicked, and all the quills on its spine bristled with fury. Not the cream it was used to.

He growled.

It turned. Shifted so it was blocking the meat, just out of spite. It wasn’t going to eat the meat, but it certainly wouldn’t let him eat it, either. It shifted its smell – something the Fair Folk always did when they wanted to give him a headache – and waited for him to leave.

He snapped at it. It shrieked, flapping backwards, and scythed out a claw. He lunged forward and bit, jaws tight around its arm. There was a crack and it came away in his mouth. He shook it around, just to show the thing who was boss, and it ran shrieking down the corridor.

He spat out the arm by the greenish-blue door. He wasn’t going to eat that. The bones felt like bark and tasted like mouldering leaves, and there was fresh meat waiting for him.

He settled down to his dinner and licked the bowl clean.

There was more meat the next day. The arm was gone, though. Ripples and dents spattered the floor from where the thing had bled, but the corridor was empty. Good. Sometimes the Fair Folk needed reminding of what he could really do. Too many of them saw him as another of their shiny, knife-like hounds. He was another thing entirely.

He’d left scorch marks on the floor too. The RAs wouldn’t like that. One of them had tried to chase him off with a broom when he’d been at his weakest and the whole experience had been very undignified.

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