Thread: Random RPG Thoughts (No Videogames Allowed!)

  1. #6001
    consequences 3catcircus's Avatar
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    Quote Originally Posted by nail bunny View Post


    So - white, male privilege = demon worship?

 

  • #6002
    56% of an excuse nail bunny's Avatar
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    Quote Originally Posted by 3catcircus View Post
    So - white, male privilege = demon worship?


    Mostly it just the new set of pearl clutchers. But this time they actually have strong ties in the MSM and colleges, instead of churches and ladies book clubs.
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  • #6003
    Quote Originally Posted by Eldorian View Post
    Shriners are Masons who wear Fez hats that they adopted when at a party being thrown by a North African I think. So "Islamic Clown Fetish" is more "wear silly Muslim hats".
    Quote Originally Posted by Bagpuss View Post
    Not as cool as I am imagining in my head.
    Wait till you see the makeup worn by the Islamic Clown Posse.

    Dark the stars and dark the moon
    Hush the night and the morning loon
    Tell the horses and beat on your drum
    Gone their master, gone their son.

    Dark the oceans, dark the sky
    Hush the whales and the ocean tide
    Tell the salt marsh and beat on your drum
    Gone their master, gone their son.


  • #6004
    56% of an excuse nail bunny's Avatar
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    I'll have to try this one day.



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  • #6005
    guyjin's Avatar
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    things you didn't know your bard needed. https://www.cmuse.org/valentin-gueri...Vzx63X_lYjHLQU

  • #6006
    56% of an excuse nail bunny's Avatar
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    The next generation is off to a strong start...

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  • #6007
    I can't believe it's an admin COMMUNITY SUPPORTER Bront's Avatar
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    3 more days till my Kickstarter drops. Should be fun.

  • #6008
    can't be bothered Eldorian's Avatar
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    Oops, wrong thread.
    Last edited by Eldorian; April 3rd, 2019 at 05:48 PM.

  • #6009
    Quote Originally Posted by Eldorian View Post
    Thanos is like Spock. He understands the need of the many* outways the needs of the few.


    *Yes, half died and half survived, so superficially there are no many and fews, but there will be more with future generations. So the survivors are the many.
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  • #6010
    Quote Originally Posted by Bront View Post
    3 more days till my Kickstarter drops. Should be fun.
    Drop like balls?
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  • #6011

  • #6012
    Wow. This artist/sculptor does some amazing dragons. Some excellent anatomy and even when I have quibbles with his anatomy, I love his paintjobs.

    I think this is my favorite one, my inherent bias towards coppers notwithstanding. I think the innovative take on the head frill was pretty interesting, and personally inspirational.



    Dark the stars and dark the moon
    Hush the night and the morning loon
    Tell the horses and beat on your drum
    Gone their master, gone their son.

    Dark the oceans, dark the sky
    Hush the whales and the ocean tide
    Tell the salt marsh and beat on your drum
    Gone their master, gone their son.


  • #6013
    56% of an excuse nail bunny's Avatar
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    An interesting dungeon delving party idea...

    https://c-is-for-circinate.tumblr.co...tical-dd-party
    ------------------------------------------------------
    a hypothetical d&d party

    The bard is mute.

    It’s not the first thing people notice about her, usually. The first thing is generally that she’s young, and female, and lovely–the first thing people notice about their entire party is that they’re all young, and female, and lovely, and that’s gotten more than one would-be thief or mugger in far over their head when they haven’t noticed the the paladin’s hammer or the ranger’s axe. It comes up rather quickly though, often enough. Whoever heard of a bard who can’t sing?

    She plays a lute, mostly, or a lap-harp made of shell and sinew, string instruments she can pluck while she smiles in secret and watches everyone around her. She dances quick, except when she’s tired, when she’s scared, when she forgets to remember the feet at the ends of her legs.

    She doesn’t tell her story to strangers, but enough of the other girls have learned to sign by now, and it’s easy enough to sketch out the outlines of the old bargain: the voice, the prince, the witch, the thousand shards of glass she walked upon on her way up the beach, the look in her sea-green eyes when they travel too near water. The thousand shards of glass she walked upon when she left the palace, and turned back towards the sea to throw herself upon the rocks, and then made her way up the road inland, and kept walking.

    .

    The warlock is beautiful and mild and self-effacing and shy, is tidy and generous and charming. She’s small with herself in exactly the right way to shout abuse to the half of her party who knows how to recognize that same look in the mirror in the morning. The bird on her shoulder is too small, too bright, too sweet for a real warlock’s familiar. The knife at her belt is sharp enough for anything that needs doing, though, cooking or otherwise.

    Her fae patron visits sometimes, in the quiet hours between dusk and midnight, a sweetly old godmother made of moonlight and shadow. She’s kind to the whole lot of them in her own chaotic way, free-handed with transmutations and illusions that break halfway through the evening, for better or worse. She once spent three hours around their campfire drinking brandy and gossipping outrageously about the Feywild and teasing the wizard into fits of laughter.

    She’s never told the story of how she met the warlock’s mother, or what debt was owed there, and the warlock doesn’t know herself. It was never meant to be a debt paid in power and violence and the deft will-sapping enchantments the warlock weaves now, but, well. The prince wasn’t meant to be cruel, the warlock says. The palace was meant to be warmer than the fireplace cinders in her stepmother’s house. The faerie was meant to be saving her from her lot, not throwing her into something worse. The power’s an apology of sorts.

    .

    The wizard is awkward and joyful and nervous. She has no fear of heights or small places, which just stands to be expected, she says, after all those years in that little tower, and she’s got no skill at lying or even edging around the truth at all, which is why she isn’t in the tower any more in the first place. She says too much or too little or the wrong thing entirely, always, but the most well-socialized member of the whole party is the ranger who walks around with a dire wolf at her hip, or maybe their mute bard, so who are any of them to judge.

    There was nothing to do in that tower but read, and brush her hair, and sort through the witch’s endless stockpile of dried herbs and potions ingredients, and watch out the window as woodcutters and hunters and princes rode by, and dream. The reading was more interesting than the dreaming, most of the time, and the witch didn’t mind it as much when she talked about it. She never bothered to actually use any of the magic in the witch’s books until the thing with the prince and the haircut and the desert, which she’s told them all about in all the detail they could ever ask for, but most of the girls get uncomfortable when she starts talking about princes. It’s a little easier if she just starts rambling about conjuration and abjuration and illusion theory, about the 400-year-old history of a city that doesn’t exist any more, about the proper grammatical structure of Celestial, until maybe one of the quiet ones finally answers back.

    Her hair is too short. She keeps an illusion up over it whenever she can, while it grows back slowly, tickling the side of her face and the back of her neck and leaving her head too light and unbalanced.

    .

    The ranger doesn’t care about princes, which makes one of them at least. Then again, the ranger doesn’t trust anyone, really, prince or no, not wolves or monsters or the men who kill them. She more or less trusts the rest of them by now, mostly, when the wind blows in the right direction.

    She wears bright red in the middle of the woods and it shouldn’t help her slip into the shadows half as easily as it does, but most beasts can’t see color and red’s just another shade of gray if the light’s low enough. She never uses her axe against trees. She doesn’t need to. She can find a path through any brush without it. She picks flowers when she finds them, and tucks them into the other girls’ hair.

    Her wolf’s mother killed the man who taught her to use the axe, and the man who taught her to use the axe killed that wolf’s mate before that, and the mate had an old woman’s blood on his teeth when it happened. The ranger’s blade found the wolf’s mother’s throat. The ranger’s mother sent her out into the woods in the first place. It’s not as though anywhere is really safe, cottage or forest, axe or teeth. One of these days maybe her wolf will turn and go for her in return, and maybe one of these days her axe will be faster and maybe it won’t. In the mean time, there’s flowers and berries and pastries and enough game to keep everyone sated, for a little while.

    .

    The paladin’s hair is raven black and her skin is chalky as a corpse. She’s not undead, mostly. The undead are her job. She knows that much.

    She was sweet, once (they were all sweet, once) but apples are bitter now and so is she, and there’s judgment to lay out in the world. Her grip on her warhammer’s all wrong–she holds it like a mining hammer, but it hits as hard as it needs to. Her armor’s all dwarven make, and her shield’s black and red and white like snow.

    She was sweet once, and frightened, and when she says it quietly around the campfire in the night when none of them can quite make out the glimmer of understanding on each others’ faces, everyone still nods. She took a bite of poison and somebody left her a full year in a glass coffin of Gentle Repose, dangling on the edge of the Raven Queen’s domain while all the other newly-arrived dead passed by and faded away. She woke up to somebody’s lips and hands and skin on her lips and her hands and her skin. She doesn’t like princes. She doesn’t like necromancers.

    She likes sunlight, and summer, and colors that aren’t black and white and red. She likes the way the bard grins when she whirls into a dance, and the look in the warlock’s eye when she sets her feet to say no, and the wizard’s laughter on high with a Fly spell, and the ranger’s gentle fingers braiding flowers into everything she can touch.
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  • #6014
    Oh, I absolutely love that.

    They need to add one more lady to their party, though. Maybe she's a witch, and she'd get along with the warlock quite well, having been locked in a tower with nothing to do all day but weave upon a loom and watch the world through a mirror. They talk shop, and agree about the oddities of fae patrons. She's beautiful, quiet, with a haunted air; she's ridden a river to the gates of death and somehow been able to return. She enjoys books more than people and there's always a sort of lingering sadness about her, borne of her seeing others live their entire lives while trapped in exclusion. She once mentions seeing the handsomest knight in all the lands upon his black destrier, the way hooves and armor and lance shone in the sun filling her face with a wistful longing that made your own heart ache for her loss, somehow.

    She has an aversion to mirrors, doesn't much like boats. You know her hands could create otherworldly beauty in fabric with an exquisite skill borne of hundreds of years of practice, but she never wants to touch loom nor shuttle again.
    Last edited by Palaralae; May 6th, 2019 at 12:43 PM.

    Dark the stars and dark the moon
    Hush the night and the morning loon
    Tell the horses and beat on your drum
    Gone their master, gone their son.

    Dark the oceans, dark the sky
    Hush the whales and the ocean tide
    Tell the salt marsh and beat on your drum
    Gone their master, gone their son.


  • #6015
    56% of an excuse nail bunny's Avatar
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    Quote Originally Posted by Palaralae View Post
    They need to add one more lady to their party, though.
    I do not reciognize this fairy tale... though...

    The "she's ridden a river to the gates of death and somehow been able to return" makes me think Cleric with a Fey Patron.
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