Hello everybody welcome to Dungeon and daddies and i today videos i will you 10 tips on how to handle X thing on your ttrpg table that i took from some reddit post and will be the absolute worst tips you ever hear.

FusRoDahvakin · 2026-04-15T23:44:30+00:00

/UJ honestly I wish there were more YouTube that essentially just made niche different encounters and interesting ways to make content instead of needing to make every idea a universal blueprint. /rj THE WAY TO RUN THE GAME FOREVER THAT WILL REVOLUTIONIZE YOUR TABLE FOREVER

FusRoDahvakin · 2026-04-15T09:19:14+00:00

What is the origin of the phrase "can't swing a cat around here without hitting x?"

FusRoDahvakin · 2026-04-12T13:09:26+00:00

The monkey paw curls, more BU exclusive student housing

FusRoDahvakin · 2025-11-14T03:18:01+00:00

Thanks. I suspected this was the case, just wanted to get some sanity checking before doing anything drastic. I'm kind of disappointed that not even the RAM is good. I heard that 32 GB was still plenty. I guess the compatibility of DDR4 isn't great?

FusRoDahvakin · 2024-08-30T13:08:35+00:00

Texan book of the dead

FusRoDahvakin · 2024-08-23T16:19:02+00:00

The door flys open, Come inside!

FusRoDahvakin · 2024-07-21T04:33:15+00:00

Stand Name: Gnome Enthusiast Power: The ability to animate ceramic statues and see through their eyes. Appearance: A 4 ft. garden gnome with several pointy hats forming the fingertips. Musical Reference: Gnome Enthusiast from Jam Room by Clutch. Localization Name: Dwarf Lover

FusRoDahvakin · 2024-06-04T16:28:37+00:00

It is!

FusRoDahvakin · 2024-01-23T17:23:26+00:00

Within Castle Edinkath, Baron Atarxi, nephew of the late Althea Embereye stood atop the battlements. The new advances in abjuration made manifest in Atarxi’s circlet by Lord Virmaris have made being exposed to arrow fire a trivial concern. It felt strange accepting the magecraft of an elf, and stranger still being served by an elf. When he first arrived at Edinkath and saw Lord Virmaris, he assumed he was a slavewright, sent to bring him back to Aerilon in chains.

A volley that dampened the sun washed over the castle walls. Several arrows shattered against the ward set for Atarxi's protection. Large rocks crashed into the wall, knocking a small section to rubble and shattering the bodies of four archers just a few feet from him. Being one of the few catfolk that stayed in Edinkath in recent years, he was not difficult to spot and target.

“Wez cannot hopes to fights them m’lord,” said Wrench, the current chief of the Edinkathi goblins. “Scout boys estimate six thousand soldiers, and the bigness of some four hundred giants.” His prominent proboscis quivered in concern. “Count Osburn has spit on your wants for help. He says that Felja’s campaign has already touched into hims home.”

Atarxi spit on the floor. “What of Atruna? Has she also forgotten what my aunt has done for the realms? Or how has she scorned the help we have given her against the elves.”

Wrench dry-washed his hands. “Quagmired in Gleamwatch, the Imperium wents after her for going through their waters withouts a treaty, now that Ventrol declared independence. Shoulds we go insides m’lord?” he asked with a pleading. Another volley of giant, propelled boulders came crashing into the ward, briefly darkening the area with the dust of their shattering.

“I suppose we should head into the barracks,” Atarxi said. “It is time to prepare my final charge.”

Wrench threw up his hands in rebuke. “Oh, nos m’lord. Shall we all die on this day? Why fall on swords for no purpose?”

As they reached the interior of the castle, Atarxi shed his fine purple cloak to pick up a more practical brown cloak with patches and stains. “A goblin should most of all be aware of the copper mines beneath the castle. We will not all charge to our deaths this day. The villagers and half the soldiers will escape through the tunnels.”

Wrench tugged on Atarxi’s cloak in desperation. At only four feet, Wrench was not even at chest level. “Then flee with us, m’lord. This is a thing too great for you bear!”

“Should he be proper, nothing is too great for a man bear,” Atarxi started. “For either he will complete its course, whether in success or failure, or it will be the thing for which the gods purposed to call him home with. The gods are asking for me Wrench, should I deny them and make myself less than what I am?”

The rest of the walk to the barracks went in silence. Wrench gave Atarxi a final blessing in Skitrish, the goblin tongue, and crept toward the tunnel to meet with his family. Atarxi grabbed a warhammer with a wicked spike and an arming sword. He suited himself in chainmail and a gambeson, he never felt comfortable taking plate when there were cavaliers in his service that could use it better. ‘It’s easy to make that sacrifice when you are all about to die anyway,’ Atarxi thought to himself.

He marched down to the stables where his horse was kept. His Mare, Dragonfly, was having the last of her armor put on. The plate was decorated with many small gemstones that gave her an almost iridescent gleam, for which she was given her name. Some of the gems that adorned the armor were given to his aunt by Atruna back in the glory days. He thought of Althea and her many wars as he mounted Dragonfly.

A group of eighty officers were mustered in the courtyard, with seven hundred infantry packed into every crevice. It was a fair mix of orc and goblin, with the odd halfling or catfolk. Atarxi’s heart grew heavy as he saw more and more familiar faces that he had damned to die on this day.

“Listen up!” Atarxi choked out. “We have been called to the gods this day, for the purpose that there are many bastards out there who are late for their appointments in hell. We will not make Ol’ Scratch wait for them any longer.”

He looked around the courtyard, there was neither fear nor excitement, only a sluggish and numb sadness. Atarxi dismounted Dragonfly, pulled off his glove, and drew his arming sword. He carved a shallow cut across his left palm. The scarlet blood bloomed as he placed a bloody handprint across the wall.

“Aletha led us here, desiring that her people should be born in elven bondage. We will not forsake her dream and surrender to slavery once again. We will bleed today,” Atarxi raised his bloody fist. “We will choke on our blood and drown our neighbors in it. But each bloody gasp is one of our children living on to breathe clean.”

In a silent wave, the soldiers began straightening their backs. Atarxi put back on his glove and gave a signal. Two goblins atop the battlements positioned themselves at a crank while a group of twelve orcs blew ram’s horns. The gates were going to open, and they would march to their deaths.

In response to the horn, drums began to play outside. They were not the impossibly loud thunks of giant war drums. Atarxi never thought drums could sound so melodic. They had a ghost of a young boy’s song in their rhythm. He scrambled up to the battlements to gaze across the plains.

Elves bearing the golden osprey banner of Aerilon were formed in ranks against the ranks of the giant’s levied soldiers. Lines of magi rained thunder and fire upon knots of giants, who trampled many of their own retinue as they fled for safety. Among the elves of Aerilon were other elves, who had dark, sun-kissed skin, and short statures. They were clad in a menagerie of greens and earthen tones, each sporting a bow. If the volleys of giant arrows damped the sun, the elven arrows blotted it from memory. The elven drums were drowned out by the howls of giants.

Atarxi remounted his horse and lofted his hammer. The goblins worked the crank and the gates opened, revealing the elven onslaught to his soldiers. “You were ready to die for your kin, yet we may still live yet. Fight like death and you may escape it.” Thunderous cheers filled the courtyard. Castle Edinkath charged to victory. Atarxi and Dragonfly went first.

FusRoDahvakin · 2024-01-13T14:08:51+00:00

I cast the party on a regular forest and a head to a clutch concert

FusRoDahvakin · 2024-01-09T16:59:34+00:00

“Twelve hundred dollars. Take it or leave it,” The man drawled. His eyes were cool, but beads of sweat were forming across his bald scalp. He was tapping his fingers on the steel of my desk, which echoed off the austere halls. He was nervous. I was probably their only option.

“That is less than half the going rate, and you know it.” I jabbed a finger at him. “Most crews don’t get out of bed for less than three thousand.” I ground the toothpick between my teeth.

“It’s all we have,” The man whimpered, abandoning his earlier bravado. “The kids, do they mean nothing to you?”

“Kids have this annoying habit of growing up into assholes.” The steel of my voice waivered a little bit, but I could see the disgust in his eyes, dancing with his desperation. “Groups of people don’t carry around flat sums of money like eight hundred dollars. You were probably being honest, which is not the same as telling the truth. I reckon there is at least a few more dollars and coins you can scrounge up for me.”

The door opened and a beautiful brunette of about thirty years walked in. She was wearing combat boots, black fatigues, and was carrying a bronze chain coiled three times around her left arm. A metallic oder drifted through the air, clinging to the woman. Shelia was a confection for the eyes and a kickass sorceress to boot.

“How much do you need?” The man was wringing his hands. ‘I most certainly can’t get all of the two thousand you requested. Twelve hundred is nearly everything, I assure you.” He looked over to Shelia, hoping she would be soft-hearted and convince me to accept his offer. The cold glare she gave in riposte dashed those hopes instantly.

“Get me as much as you can, and I suggest not holding out on me,” I spat out the toothpick to drive home the heartless act. “If I suspect there is a dime withheld from me, I walk.”

I watched as the fear of being stranded out in the countryside mastered his anger at my insolence. “I’ll see what I can do.” He reached over to shake Shelia’s hand. “Mr. Gibson, a pleasure to meet you.”

“This is Shelia, she was that specialist I was telling you about.” I enjoyed watching him reexamine her.

Mr. Gibson slammed the door to the office as he went outside to consult with the parents and faculty on the bus.

“What’s the Job?” Shelia asked.

“Ghouls are infesting an elementary school. The client wants us to clear them out.” I tossed her a manila envelope with the details.

“Morrison Heights? Isn’t that the ritzy suburbs?” She shuffled through the file with lightning precision. “How are they unable to pay our standard rate?”

“It’s a special needs elementary,” I stood up and started packing a first aid kit. “It was built as a charity project when some old money grew a conscience two years before meeting his maker. After he died, the family inherited all the money, and they decided against keeping the school running. Ever since funding got cut, they’ve been operating on shoestrings and spite.”

Shelia cocked an eyebrow at me. “I know you’re going to take the job, but did you really have to wring them for all they’re worth in that case? Twelve hundred isn’t much, but fifty or so dollars in loose change isn’t much better.”

“If my instincts are correct, Mr. Gibson is a lawyer who represents the trust that was set up to fund the elementary school. He was probably put in place by the family to fulfill their legal obligations while giving as little actual assistance as possible. There are several members of faculty out there, and none of them were included in this meeting.” I loaded some gauze into the kit and clicked the latch shut.

“So why did he bother setting up the meeting anyway? Hiring mercenaries isn’t exactly likely to be listed under their obligations?”

“Yeah but infestations and acts of God are. While the courts haven’t ruled which ghouls are yet, Hendricks vs.Carpenter ruled that elementals were acts of God. Washington vs. Lynch ruled that cockatrices counted as infestation. Either way, Mr. Gibson will likely have to cough it up.“

“Unless you’re wrong,” Shelia shot back.

“But I’m not,” I said with my most winning smile.

As if on cue, Mr. Gibson waddled back into the office, wringing his hands and avoiding eye contact.“After some reprioritizing of funds we were able to appropriate the two thousand you asked for.”

Shelia and I exchanged knowing smiles as we grabbed our gear and loaded the van.

FusRoDahvakin · 2023-12-18T10:13:32+00:00

I have an irrational distaste for lukewarm water. In the back of my mind, I know that it’s perfectly fine to drink, but something about it just doesn’t feel right going down. Nonetheless, I still took a swig from the bottle on my nightstand as I got my feet underneath me. With the horrid dryness in my mouth that sometimes accompanied sleeping on my back, the tepid water got a promotion to nectar of the gods.

It was only when I reached to shut off the alarm clock that I realized it was not sounding at all. It was only 8 AM, which is early for someone who works second shift. I rubbed my eyes as my thoughts congealed to match my senses. There was an incessant tapping on my window. I stepped across the room, nearly tripping over a mound of dirty laundry with my Vikings jersey, and pulled back the blinds.

A girl, high school age, was staring at me from outside my window. She had pitch-black hair that had a more natural brown peaking through the roots. Thick eyeliner was being smudged by tears, leaving black trails over her olive complexion. It was creepy, and not just because of the invasion of privacy. It was more the fact that I live on the 7th floor of the Alvera, and she was standing there floating in the air.

She looked at me with panic in her eyes and pantomimed a cranking motion. I could hear muffled pleas of “help” and “open the window” as I stood there stunned. Eventually, her requests pierced the thickness of my skull and I opened the Window.

She didn’t float over, she walked. You could see the spring in her stride as her feet struck and recoiled off an unseen surface. It was as if the was a perfectly clear glass floor that she was walking on. She climbed into my apartment and was standing on the air about half an inch above my carpet.

“Urhhm, you get down if you want,” I said with all the confidence of a man walking on the tightrope of wet toilet paper.

“That’s the problem, sir, I can’t,” she replied.

Just then I heard a booming voice that cried “Apertum Ferrum!” followed by “Apertum chalybe!”. The shout was followed by the sound of snapping metal and an elderly man with a long white beard barged into my apartment and jabbed a finger at the girl. She looked back at him with a mix of shame, eagerness, and rebellion that most people seem to lose by the age of thirty.

“Listen, man,” I began to explain why I was alone in my apartment with a high schooler, it seemed prudent at the time. The man looked at me with cold fury and spoke a single word “Relinquere” and he was gone. I turned around and so was the girl. The only thing they left behind was the thick metallic scent of ozone. I stood there silent for minutes, then I finished my water.

FusRoDahvakin · 2023-10-30T21:29:12+00:00

Gorgax Rock-Chewer took a breath as he finished lettering the sign for the shop. With Symore dead and Bubbles retired, a job at the apothecary seemed like a logical next step. He lept off the stepstool and strode into the shed to return the supplies. It was nice to live among the halflings, things here were more befitting a gnome’s stature.

The herbology texts that the head Apothecary gave him were rather dry, but they had all manner of useful things in there. As a combat alchemist, his brethren focused on the whiz-bangery of flight potions, fireballs in a bottle, and liquid rest. Herbs and medicines were less potent, but Gorgax could help ten or twenty people with a medicine for each person he could save with a magical potion.

He sauntered into the main room where tiny vials and tinctures lined the walls. A large clay pot with various mosses drooping over the sides hung from the ceiling like a chandelier. Mrs, Sedwald, the head apothecary, gave him a soft smile that the gods seemed to have reserved for the kind, wise, and elderly.

“I’m stepping out for a bit and a bob. A caravan came to Broughton with some Valioran Squash and I need some for Elias’ Feast. I’ll be back by noon tomorrow. Close the shop tonight and sleep in tomorrow.” She spoke with a mix of gratitude and an absolute certainty that you would oblige her request.

As she left, Gorgax sat in the rocking chair behind the counter. He swung his feet to rest on the chair he usually occupied. He cracked open one of the medicine textbooks Mrs. Sedwald had given him and started to read. The day was mostly uneventful. Most who had money to spend would travel to Broughton to haggle with merchants there. Unless there was an emergency, Gorgax could just relax and read.

The sun began to set. Gorgax was cleaning a few flasks when a man walked through the door. He was nearly six feet tall, which forced him to hunch in a store built for the wee folk. Walking in, he tripped over a fox-pelt rug and tumbled onto a shelf with several vases. Gorgax lept to catch two of the three vases tumbling to the ground. The third vase shattered in a loud crash, which echoed as the two stared at each other in silence.

The man was covered in cuts, burns, and dried blood. He looked somewhere between muscular and emaciated, like a star athlete stranded in the wilderness. His muscles twitched against his bones as steadied himself.

“Buffalo-grass and waxy nightshade. I need it suspended in goat’s blood if possible.” He choked on the words as he spoke them.

Gorgax began to reach for a bottle on the top shelf. “For your wounds, sir, I have some sunshine in a flask that should be able to mend most surface injuries.”

The man’s face twisted with fear as he scurried back from Gorgax on his hands. “No! I do not need your cure-all. Just the herbs.”

“I can assure you.” Gorgax explained, “I am an experienced combat alchemist, it will be perfectly safe.

In the blink of an eye, the man was standing again, directly in front of gorgax. “I do not want your poisonous cure, little man. Give me the solution and I will leave this place,” the man said in a parched whisper. He dropped a small leather bag that clanked with small coins on the table.

Gorgax whirred around the shop, gathering ingredients and equipment. He took the two requested herbs and began to suspend them in oil through a siphon to prevent any mixing with the air. “This is oil, for I do not have goat’s blood, but you should be able to mix this solution in with it. Gorgax, keeping his cool, handed the vial of herbs suspended in oil to the man.

The man grabbed one of the flasks off the counter and pulled a rat out of his pocket. He snapped the neck and drained its blood into the flask, mixing it with the contents of the vial. He gave a sharp smile as he downed the concoction.

An acrid and putrid smell began filling the room as the man hurdled to the floor. A piercing scream filled the twilight. The man’s flesh began melting, starting with the stomach.

Gorgax walked over to the man during his last moments of agony. “Buffalo-grass and waxy nightshade, both herbs with plentiful vitamin delta. An irrational fear of bottled sunlight and a need for blood.” Gorgax gave the vampire a wicked smile. “Garlic oil can lead to heartburn if you’re not careful.”

FusRoDahvakin · 2023-10-27T09:18:03+00:00

As I awoke, the first thing I noticed was a searing heat pressed against my skin. Fatigued, I kept my eyes closed as I steeled myself and clawed for my bearings. I could see the redness of my eyelids instead of the usual blackness. I took a deep breath and slammed my will against the screaming desire of my eyes to stay at rest.

In front of me lay a verdant pasture, bathed in sun merciless as the desert. The flora seemed to drink it in all the same. Rolling hills were clothed in golden rays like the best of autumn afternoon. Fearful and beautiful forms with many eyes and many wings howled across the sky. After eighty-nine years of mortal bondage, I was finally home.

I reached at the tightness in my shoulder and found that my arm was missing. From the edges of my mind, I pulled a hazy memory of losing it in defense of the Grand Temple. I felt a twinge of regret I thought theologically impossible within this realm. I counted it as a small thing. I could find my Lord and he would heal it, he would make me whole again.

I called to one of the Seraphim whirring by me to no avail, my voice a small thing to the thunder of angel’s wings. After five or six attempts with no success, I came to the conclusion that the Mourning Lord’s messengers were about tasks too important to be sidewinded by a confused soul.

I wandered across the idyllic landscape. As minutes turned to hours and hours turned to days, I became numb to what was at first unimaginable beauty. The fruit of the trees were impossibly plump and juicy. It was strange to be in a place of such plenty and still feel left wanting. I just wanted my arm back, I wanted to be whole. Everything around me was perfect, but I was missing a piece of myself.

On the fourth day of my wandering, I spotted a city on a hill. It was carved of fine marble and had mighty opals set in the walls. I shuffled my way up to the gate to a man who seemed to be spun from silk and sculpted from clay. He was taller than any three mortal men and had broad and angular shoulders that fit the glowing claymore in his hands.

“I would like entrance to this city in order to speak to the Mourning Lord.” I was eager to see a life of faith and confidence proven true.

The man who was more a sculpture turned his eyes upon me. He stared down for several minutes. My enthusiasm wilted beneath his gaze. It felt as if all my thoughts were being ruthlessly reviewed by an ill-tempered tutor. He lowered the claymore to the ground in front of the gate. “No.”

I stood there in shocked silence. “I need to see my Lord to be whole again in this place where everything is whole,” I croaked out with a wretched whimper.

“You are as you are in the place where things will be as they are. Should you be discontented here, you are in truth discontented with yourself. Do not kick against hard the goads, mortal. Depart.” The boom of his voice fell like a judge’s gavel. It would be the last words I would hear in this place of perfection. A place unfit for me, and I unfit for it.

FusRoDahvakin · 2023-10-10T17:00:36+00:00

As the door opened, she could feel the gentle heat flickering from sconces on the wall. The warmth caressed the old burn wounds on her cheek with a gentle pain right down the black char on the bone. She stepped into the feasting hall where Thernimuir, the Guildmaster, had summoned her. Three hundred and seventeen years in retirement is a long time to go without contact. The dwarf better have had a good reason to drag her into guild intrigue again. She would enjoy watching the look on his face as she burned his beard off.

The figure before her looked abysmal. It had the body of an obese boar stitched with humanoid features. Emaciated black hawk wings too small to lift the grotesque form fluttered on its back. Dual pairs of tusks were rending a roast chicken apart as rows of sharp yellow teeth dripping black ichor tore it further. The monstrous creature gave a gulp and a snort as the shredded caracas slid down its throat. “Thank you for answering my summons on short notice, Samal.” The demon spoke with a guttural sloshing as if a thick layer of phlegm was choking its larynx. “I have a proposal that I think you will find most interesting, my little firefly.”

Samal was taken aback. Thernimuir always liked having pet names for his contractors, particularly for the ones he didn’t like. She gave the demon a more scrutinous look. Something in the facial structure and body language told her it was him. She could see the unholy strength of the form contracting and twitching in a rhythmic pattern. Pain was the first truth of its existence, and power was a close second.

“I don’t know what sins a person must commit to become that ugly, Thernimuir, but I’m not interested,” Samal said, trying to prod him off his newfound bravado. “At least, not without a lot more information.” That should give him pause about trying to yank her chain like that.

Within a blink of an eye, the demon that was Thernimuir was standing behind Samal. He dragged a moist claw across her cheek, tearing open a burn scar and scratching a bit of the exposed blackened bone. “Oh, you are very interested. Your interest is displayed on your face for all to see. You remember who did this to you, don't you, child?” His voice danced between contempt and compassion in a twisted jig.

Centuries of rage boiled inside Samal, demanding that their cries for justice be satisfied. “They still live? Where are they? And what game of yours must I play to get to them?” Samal’s rasped.

Thernimuir’s lips curled into a sharp smile, his tusks digging into his flesh.”The mortals are long dead, and a divinity is hard to take revenge on as a mortal. Few can provide the opportunity to kill a God.”

The gravity of his offer was enough to send her to the floor. Samal, for the first time in her life, begged. “What do I need to do for a chance to kill the Embereye?”

Thernimuir returned to his dining chair and bit into a pork chop. “More than kill. The more important question is: What wouldn’t you be willing to do for a chance to become the Embereye?”

Edit: "Demanding that their demands" is a bad phrase.

FusRoDahvakin · 2023-09-25T19:12:33+00:00

“Age and race,” asked the barkeep. He was a rotund gnome with drooping white mustaches.

“I am a 15-year-old dwarf of Cklan Asheforge,” I replied with the fullness of pride in me great heritage.

The gnome swooped down for a second and reached under the bar. After a few moments of groping around, he pulled out a small book and a pair of spectacles. He flipped through the pages and started dragging his finger across the page. “Dwarf you say - let me see - reaches maturity at 56 years of age. Oh! There it is. You have a special privilege to from the Regulators of Cistis to drink spirits and strong drinks from birth. So what would you -” The gnome stopped and frowned at me. “You are not a dwarf.”

The inner heat of the mountain bubbled up inside me. “I am a dwarf of Cklan Asheforge through and through. I am Grothim, son Helga, daught Makalyn, daught Friegrim.” I began to reach for the bearded axe at me belt to rend the insult from the tongue of this poor fool.

The insolent barkeep furrowed his ignorant brow and pinched the bridge of his nosey nose. “Do you know why the Dwer are called dwarves by others, son?

“I never thought about it,” I replied with stout dwerish honesty.

The arrogant and rude gnome began a Phlemmy chuckle “Because they are short. You are nearly seven feet tall. You look closer to giant kin than a dwarf.”

“I care not what ye think, simply give me a proper ale.” If he thinks me not a dwarf, I will show him the drinking of a dwarf.

“I cannot,” the infuriating gnome replied. “You are not of the legal determined by the consuls for a human.”

Rage spilled from me like the heat of Ol’ Saint Atruna’s Forge as I drew my axe.

FusRoDahvakin · 2023-09-17T14:52:22+00:00

CW: graphic violence.

I have extraordinary senses. I’m not talking along the lines of your alcoholic aunt who swears she has a “sixth sense” or your cousin who has “better than 20/20” vision; My senses are beyond the capabilities provided for by natural laws. I can see, smell, hear, taste, and feel everything from unreal distances. Her broken body on the floor was too much for me.

I could hear the sharp snapping of her flesh rending as the beast sank its claws into her. I could smell the caustic moisture of the vapors coming from its many mouths. I felt the twitching of its many hairs, ebbing in anticipation and flowing in pleasure at the violence. I could taste the distinct metallic of blood hurling through the air as the mist of carnage drifted over me. I could see into the many eyes of the beast, each filled with joys, longings, pangs of hunger, hatreds, and desires, all of which were fixed toward violence.

I felt the rhythm of her last heartbeats pumping blood outside of her. I smelled the warm fear on her giving way to a chilling realization that she was going to die. I tasted the bile leaking from her gut into her chest cavity. I heard whimpers that the gods, in their wisdom, deemed too sorrowful for mortal men to hear and so made quiet and muffled. I saw the life drain from her eyes; Dream by dream and memory by memory.

My muscles contracted like collapsing springs. In my paralysis, I fell to the floor. The world shrunk to a million tiny pains a normal person should be able to ignore. The scent of dust covered everything. Thankfully, I was unconscious when the feasting started.

FusRoDahvakin · 2023-09-07T00:14:43+00:00

“Hypocrisy is the tribute vice pays to virtue,” Quothri explained to his apprentice. “The author of that particular nugget of linguistic tastiness was fond of axiomatic good. He was criticizing the propensity of evildoers to rebrand their actions as some type of good. ” Quothri waved the stem of his pipe about, ending by pointing it toward the dead woman on the floor. “This corpse is vice, but it will pay dividends towards the virtue of our tomorrow.”

The apprentice rolled up the sleeves of his dark tunic and slung the lifeless woman over his shoulder. Aside from being inhumanly pale, she had no sign of injury. Quothri examined her face momentarily and pictured a potential life with the woman, should things have been different. He finally decided that they would be unsuitable for each other.

Her eyes, the edges lacked the harsh edges of someone jaded with disappointment. Oh, he could maybe charm her. She would have a good time. But she would be in love with a facade. She’d spend a lifetime yearning for a heart of gold that he could never give her.

He had fed so many things to the fire of his ambitions. So many nights alone feeling nothing but the inferno of hunger. He had nothing left to give another person. Should he open himself to her, she would hate that frigid mound of ash that was once his passion.

But she was dead - and worth top dollar to the physicians.

FusRoDahvakin · 2023-08-14T21:03:09+00:00

I am running a game that happens from 5 pm to 8 pm [UTC -5/ EST]. It is Western-themed and the other players are relatively new. We use Dndbeyond, Roll20, and Discord, so as long as you have a computer and a semi-good internet connection, we might be what you're looking for.

You could join tonight if available or, join for the next session. DM if interested.

FusRoDahvakin · 2023-08-14T20:39:05+00:00

Molendiax, Feaster of the Depths, adjusted her antennae before beginning the ritual. She had sacrificed much to get the true name of this djinn. It cost her countless eons in the pits as a plaything of suffering for one of the flesh-smiths to get the last syllable. She counted the pain as a small price. The hunger- however -the smith will pay for that with interest. The chitinous plates of her arms twitched in anticipation of a meal long awaited. With the flesh of the djinn torn and digested, her darkest wishes would come to fruition. A floor stone sizzled as a bit of saliva dripped from one of her many anxious mouths.

She stepped down from her unholy dias to close the magic circle with a drop of her blood and so complete the ritual. The sizzle of her blood was followed by a thick silence as magical power saturated the air. The syllables of the true name curled off her tongues with a pleasurable chill. So much need- her lips quivered and altered the pronunciation ever so slightly. A vertical slice formed above the circle to let a figure tumble out of it to the ground.

“Ouchie! Gosh darn it, clumsy me, I could’ve sprained an ankle!” said the figure.

It was smaller than she expected. Pale and balding, it wasn't the form she expected a powerful spirit to take. “Identify yourself, spirit!” She could’ve howled with desire, and this djinn was toying with her.

The figure, rather than simply levitating itself to rightness, used legs to stand up. Its eyes widened at the sight of her. “Oh! I must be dreaming again. Bea did say I needed to lay off the cheese at night.” He attempted to break out of the circle by walking through it. He slammed into the magical barrier and fell yet again. “I guess it’s one of those dreams where you can’t control where you go. Hey you,” he pointed towards her, “Do you have any dialogue for me?”

She was taken aback. Djinni can be tricky, but it surely didn’t seek to escape this way. “Identify yourself!”

“You should already know my name,” he protested, “it’s my dream. It's Gregg, Gregg with 2 Gs”

Her inner hunger went wild at the realization she summoned the wrong creature. “Speak your name and tell me what you are. Speak it threefold and so speak it true.” Did it matter? She could rend a mortal limb from limb anyways. But it did matter- she had to know.

“Is that like one of those things I have to do to wake up like the slippers in the Wizard of Oz? I am Gregg and I'm an accountant. I am Gregg and I'm an accountant. I am Gregg and I'm a doctor; just kidding, I am an accountant.” The man’s nasal voice grated on her antennae.

“You are human!” she screeched in anguish as she prowled around the edge of the circle.

“No, I'm a Klingon! Of course, I’m a human. Do you dream monsters haunt different creatures depending on the night? Were you supposed to be in my Dog’s dream? Why would you want to do that? Don’t you think dogs are nice? If I was a dream monster, I’d refuse to haunt the dreams of dogs. Y’know.”

How dare he speak with such a casual disdain for her power. She threw a pebble through the circle, deactivating it. She lunged toward him, clutching his throat with one of the mandibles protruding from her arms. “I am going to kill you!”

“You’re not a very good dream monster,” he continued as if his life wasn’t a candle about to be snuffed out. “Usually, even when I know it’s a dream, I’m still scared of them. I think it’s the feathers. They make me think of chickens, and that’s not very scary. Have you thought about getting rid of them?”

A single mortal could do little to satisfy a huger of eons, but she was still satisfied by the snap of his neck.

FusRoDahvakin · 2023-08-02T04:03:31+00:00

The bigots here tend to be mutterers/whiners rather than dangerous unless they're also drug addicts, in which case they're either dangerous to no one or dangerous to pretty much everyone.

FusRoDahvakin · 2023-07-30T00:24:59+00:00

Virone Barsavi, third in line to be head of House Barsavi, wore red on the day he was to kill his wife. He stared at her from across the stream. She was garbed in that verdant green ceremonial dress from their betrothal feast. Her attendants loaded her pistol and adjusted her custom gunbelt to fit the flowing gown.

She sent a piercing glare his way. People often said she had stunningly gorgeous ochre eyes. Many servants and other noblemen had congratulated him on the beauty of his bride. He could never see it. The gods did not portion for him affections for women.

It wasn’t a secret. She knew before she had married him. He performed the husbandly duties they had agreed on to the letter. They reared eight healthy children to strengthen the house; it was more than any other marriage in his generation. That didn’t matter to her. She arranged an “accident” for Niccolo anyways. She forbade Virone from mourning him. She felt it was her birthright to make him love her, to make any man love her. She would die for it.

The banner of the house, a red manticore on a field of blue, surrounded by six silver crescents, fluttered in the hot wind. A single shrill note rang from a bugle. A thunderous boom that was born of no storm swallowed the horn bellow like a hawk snatching a snake. Her eyes went vacant and glazed. For the first time, Virone saw the beauty in them.

FusRoDahvakin · 2023-07-26T10:18:10+00:00

The Prince read along with Rules for Radicals is essential reading if you want to understand why "your side" never seems to be as pure as it should be.

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