Rolling the die..
18!
Cyphrus is an AI trying to keep itself "alive" so it kind of has to lie. Cyphrus is a pathological liar, and can blend into any social setting, so it wouldn't really be fazed by this.
DM me if you wanna do an rp with this character!
18!
Cyphrus is an AI trying to keep itself "alive" so it kind of has to lie. Cyphrus is a pathological liar, and can blend into any social setting, so it wouldn't really be fazed by this.
DM me if you wanna do an rp with this character!
How does your character react when they're...
3.) Furious
[ Well, I asked for it, I guess. As per public forum etiquette, dark themes are ahead, so have a warning and a collapsible. ]
The Singing Canary...
The location was of no real importance, clandestine for its more nefarious intents and purposes, and appropriately masked as nothing more than a facility meant for storing commonplace goods. The foreman and his crew left for the day as per instruction by the real factions that governed the actual commerce both received and distributed. Now all that remained were a few wandering members diligently referred to as the night shift. There was an otherwise quiet stillness only punctuated by the slight shuffling of footsteps on patrol.
Within the many offices typically occupied by the average bean counter, darkness poured over the silent, empty desks in an uneasy vigil. The only glimmer of light were those cast by the electronics ported and charging within their stations. Nothing appeared to be out of place and innocently the night claimed the end to yet another fulfilling day of work.
And yet, beneath one particular metallic door, slats of light shone from its crevices suggesting the presence of someone likely burning the midnight oil. Muffled sounds could be heard from within followed by a distorted, almost lulling voice, but none of which was decipherable. Someone had gone through a great deal of trouble to ensure that the conversation within those walls would be heard by no prying ear.
"Tweet, tweet, little canary," sang a jeering James Moriarty, his tone masterfully composed. "So I heard a little birdy wanted to sing to the Met, hm?"
The response he received was hardly coherent, however. The bound man that sat before him could only whimper behind his restraints, and it was obvious by the panicked shifting that Moriarty's former associate was desperate to make his plea known. Jim could only smile at the other, but his fathomless, dark eyes hardly relayed any signs of good humor.
The master criminal clasped his hands behind him and began his leisurely stroll to and fro before his quarry. "I've never liked snitches. They leave a bad taste in my mouth. And the thing about snitches, well, there's a saying -- I'm sure you've heard -- they wind up where now?"
He permitted the simpering traitor a moment of respectful reticence to allow a response. Ironically Jim even cocked his head as though making every effort to hear what the other had to say. Another small, contemptuous curve of the lips graced his fair features and in a lilting Irish drawl, he praised the unfortunate conspirator. "That's right. They wind up in ditches -- very good!"
At this point, the man thrashed within his bindings frantically, body twisting and writhing wildly to get free, yet to no avail. Suppressed howls and stifled cries were thrown Moriarty's way in a last-ditch effort to appeal to whatever good graces the criminal consultant had within him. Everyone who worked for Jim, however, knew there was none...
"I think you know what's going to have to happen here," Moriarty spoke with a quiet, eerily contained fury, his face leering but inches from his defector now. "Everyone gets one. One. And you squandered it all away -- for what? For nothing!"
The imperturbable expression fell and soon there was an apoplectic ferocity within his turbulent gaze. James had spent precious time weaving this arms deal into a sundry of his other considerable preparations. Had the petty informant succeeded in his efforts to oust this little plot, a cascade of mere inconveniences would ripple throughout Moriarty's empire. This sort of mishap was intolerable.
"It's tiiiiime for the little bird to go," Jim trilled sinisterly. "Here's what I think I'll do; I'm going to beat you to death with your own femur after I tear it from your still living flesh. Sound good to you?"
It was going to be a particularly long night at the office, but Jim's keen work ethic and dedication to the job were superlative if anything, and he was always willing to put in the extra hours if need be. He had to act his wage, after all...
Within the many offices typically occupied by the average bean counter, darkness poured over the silent, empty desks in an uneasy vigil. The only glimmer of light were those cast by the electronics ported and charging within their stations. Nothing appeared to be out of place and innocently the night claimed the end to yet another fulfilling day of work.
And yet, beneath one particular metallic door, slats of light shone from its crevices suggesting the presence of someone likely burning the midnight oil. Muffled sounds could be heard from within followed by a distorted, almost lulling voice, but none of which was decipherable. Someone had gone through a great deal of trouble to ensure that the conversation within those walls would be heard by no prying ear.
"Tweet, tweet, little canary," sang a jeering James Moriarty, his tone masterfully composed. "So I heard a little birdy wanted to sing to the Met, hm?"
The response he received was hardly coherent, however. The bound man that sat before him could only whimper behind his restraints, and it was obvious by the panicked shifting that Moriarty's former associate was desperate to make his plea known. Jim could only smile at the other, but his fathomless, dark eyes hardly relayed any signs of good humor.
The master criminal clasped his hands behind him and began his leisurely stroll to and fro before his quarry. "I've never liked snitches. They leave a bad taste in my mouth. And the thing about snitches, well, there's a saying -- I'm sure you've heard -- they wind up where now?"
He permitted the simpering traitor a moment of respectful reticence to allow a response. Ironically Jim even cocked his head as though making every effort to hear what the other had to say. Another small, contemptuous curve of the lips graced his fair features and in a lilting Irish drawl, he praised the unfortunate conspirator. "That's right. They wind up in ditches -- very good!"
At this point, the man thrashed within his bindings frantically, body twisting and writhing wildly to get free, yet to no avail. Suppressed howls and stifled cries were thrown Moriarty's way in a last-ditch effort to appeal to whatever good graces the criminal consultant had within him. Everyone who worked for Jim, however, knew there was none...
"I think you know what's going to have to happen here," Moriarty spoke with a quiet, eerily contained fury, his face leering but inches from his defector now. "Everyone gets one. One. And you squandered it all away -- for what? For nothing!"
The imperturbable expression fell and soon there was an apoplectic ferocity within his turbulent gaze. James had spent precious time weaving this arms deal into a sundry of his other considerable preparations. Had the petty informant succeeded in his efforts to oust this little plot, a cascade of mere inconveniences would ripple throughout Moriarty's empire. This sort of mishap was intolerable.
"It's tiiiiime for the little bird to go," Jim trilled sinisterly. "Here's what I think I'll do; I'm going to beat you to death with your own femur after I tear it from your still living flesh. Sound good to you?"
It was going to be a particularly long night at the office, but Jim's keen work ethic and dedication to the job were superlative if anything, and he was always willing to put in the extra hours if need be. He had to act his wage, after all...
rolled 1d20 and got a natural 3.
Note: C'mon, be something just awful!
10. Completely alone.
Drawing the heavy curtains shut, Zubairad mused that the weather almost always took an odd chill whenever he found himself alone with his thoughts; it was as if something in the air empathized with him, as much as it felt like too far-fetched a tale to believe. Even as the cold settled into his bones and crept into the cockles of his heart, he is well-adjusted to the sound of silence.
The years of being a whining nestling to cry at the thought of being alone have long since passed, and even as sociable as his kind are wont to be, solitude was something of an old face that visited every now and again. If loneliness becomes your closest companion, find better friends. Leaving his rather comfortable room at the Gryphon's Nest, a wonderful inn in the prime of Waterdeep, he made his way down the steps to the dining hall.
With every step, the plucked strings of a zither grew ever louder, and the delectable scent of breakfast hung ever so thick in the air; ah, what luck that he caught Valeyrlaedyn on bard duty in the morning, what fortune to find Ferenaar working the grill. In the privacy of his mind, in the security of silence, he could pick favourites amongst his friends. Only Sardior knew his unspoken sin of favouritism, and that was enough.
"The usual, Zubby buddy?" A voice brought the crystal dragon out of his reverie, and he caught the gaze of none other than Ferenaar, cleaning tankards behind a bar made of antique redwood. "Hot tea, something meaty to eat and uh... people-watching?"
Zubairad smiled, pulling out a stool and no sooner than that, made himself comfortable. "Yes, please. Music in the morning does one good."
"Pity Sieraiz comes on in two hours! We could've seen a show to go with the music. Next time, stay in bed a little longer."
"When I'm with proper company, perhaps." Zubairad offered, a weak smile on his face. Ferenaar only sighed in return, knowing the context fully well, and was content to leave it at that.
rolled 1d20 and got a natural 10.
Note: 🤔🤔🤔🤔
Sorry for double posting, but this prompt is just really, really fun and I love it so much. Bless you, OP.
16. In Mortal Peril.
TW: off-screen side character death.
TW: off-screen side character death.
See more
Fire and ruin. That was all she saw upon the reddened shores of New Luskan, an island colony far south of the Sword Coast, as the mainland found itself overrun by its locals, tired of a lifetime under the thumb of its conquerors. Man, fae folk and draconic descendants alike finally stepped as one, and marched to crush their opressors underfoot.
"Help me, you useless witch!" Zaharah's client yelled, a babe in her arms. One of the few surviving settlers of Luskan noble descent, though her garments of a simple cloak, a shift and slippers would reflect no level of prestige. The attack on their settlement was instant and came when the moon was at its peak.
She knew what her orders from Geist were. Save the babe. Her mother is better dead. Easier said than done, she thought to herself.
Behind them, hot on their running heels, was Pasir Panjang's head priest. Last Zaharah heard, he was a seemingly normal man, but whispers have said that his hurts ran deep in the war, had seen more than 600 turns of the monsoon seasons, and swore to his Lord that every last Luskan soul would meet their death on the island they invaded. Men, women, even children were not spared this zealot's wrath; all were to be put to the sword, in his sapphire eyes. There were many who were not settlers, only merchants of non-Luskan origin who came to opportunities a new port could bring, but even they were not spared.
Her end was near if she tarried any longer.
She could hear his voice behind them, foreboding, furious, ferocious.
"This is a revelation from the Almighty," came his voice, reciting passages from holy texts. She knew that canticle. They were funeral rites. "So that you may warn a people whose forefathers were not warned, yet they remain heedless."
"Keep running!" Zaharah yelled out, tugging the noblewoman behind her, as the winds whipped around them both to the priest's will.
"Run?! Can't you fight him?! Kill him, you're supposed to protect me!"
"They will be gathered before Us in death." It was almost like the storms themselves heeded to the priest's call; a crash of thunder and lightning clamoured overhead, and even fire started to swirl with the coming storm. The clouds roiled red, and something arcane brewed above. "On that day, no soul will be wronged in the least, and all will be rewarded what they sow."
Oh.
She knew what rumbled above.
Meteors streaked across the sky, all barelling towards them both in a storm of thunder and faith.
There was no counterspelling that, and it was too late to escape.
"This is the Fire which you have denied! Burn in it for what you have disbelieved!"
In the noblewoman's slack-jawed terror, Zaharah made a grab for the infant in her arms. The Luskan screamed, her child immediately bursting into tears, but Zaharah turned to run. Reaching into her own arcane depths, she twisted the Weave to open up a portal, and jumped right in it to some distance away. While her feet reached the outskirts of the settlement, further away was still ideal; she ripped open the Weave again to jump through another portal, and the next, and the next, until all she could hear was a barrage of explosions so, so far away.
Bakaram was a madman, and Zaharah immediately made herself scarce. Run. Run. He won't stop until every last settler blood was spilled.
Fire and ruin. That was all she saw upon the reddened shores of New Luskan, an island colony far south of the Sword Coast, as the mainland found itself overrun by its locals, tired of a lifetime under the thumb of its conquerors. Man, fae folk and draconic descendants alike finally stepped as one, and marched to crush their opressors underfoot.
"Help me, you useless witch!" Zaharah's client yelled, a babe in her arms. One of the few surviving settlers of Luskan noble descent, though her garments of a simple cloak, a shift and slippers would reflect no level of prestige. The attack on their settlement was instant and came when the moon was at its peak.
She knew what her orders from Geist were. Save the babe. Her mother is better dead. Easier said than done, she thought to herself.
Behind them, hot on their running heels, was Pasir Panjang's head priest. Last Zaharah heard, he was a seemingly normal man, but whispers have said that his hurts ran deep in the war, had seen more than 600 turns of the monsoon seasons, and swore to his Lord that every last Luskan soul would meet their death on the island they invaded. Men, women, even children were not spared this zealot's wrath; all were to be put to the sword, in his sapphire eyes. There were many who were not settlers, only merchants of non-Luskan origin who came to opportunities a new port could bring, but even they were not spared.
Her end was near if she tarried any longer.
She could hear his voice behind them, foreboding, furious, ferocious.
"This is a revelation from the Almighty," came his voice, reciting passages from holy texts. She knew that canticle. They were funeral rites. "So that you may warn a people whose forefathers were not warned, yet they remain heedless."
"Keep running!" Zaharah yelled out, tugging the noblewoman behind her, as the winds whipped around them both to the priest's will.
"Run?! Can't you fight him?! Kill him, you're supposed to protect me!"
"They will be gathered before Us in death." It was almost like the storms themselves heeded to the priest's call; a crash of thunder and lightning clamoured overhead, and even fire started to swirl with the coming storm. The clouds roiled red, and something arcane brewed above. "On that day, no soul will be wronged in the least, and all will be rewarded what they sow."
Oh.
She knew what rumbled above.
Meteors streaked across the sky, all barelling towards them both in a storm of thunder and faith.
There was no counterspelling that, and it was too late to escape.
"This is the Fire which you have denied! Burn in it for what you have disbelieved!"
In the noblewoman's slack-jawed terror, Zaharah made a grab for the infant in her arms. The Luskan screamed, her child immediately bursting into tears, but Zaharah turned to run. Reaching into her own arcane depths, she twisted the Weave to open up a portal, and jumped right in it to some distance away. While her feet reached the outskirts of the settlement, further away was still ideal; she ripped open the Weave again to jump through another portal, and the next, and the next, until all she could hear was a barrage of explosions so, so far away.
Bakaram was a madman, and Zaharah immediately made herself scarce. Run. Run. He won't stop until every last settler blood was spilled.
rolled 1d20 and got a natural 16.
Note: 🐦
Mary is bored, which is not often the case so she activates her power ring and proceeds to change into Green Lantern. She flies over the smog choked sky of New York looking for trouble and finds it in the form of a gang war! She creates constructs of swords, getting ready to open a can of whoop butt!
Slam bam, thank you ma'am, Mary is no longer bored.
rolled 1d20 and got a natural 7.
You've all inspired me 😭 Let's see what the dice says, I want to write an actual piece. I know - this is my prompt - I don't wanna spam - I'm sorry haha!
Btw I've read every single reply to this thread and I'm stunned at the talent of every single person here. So glad I joined this site, thank you everyone!
Ok--
Oooh I'm excited. I'll edit this later!
//
[haha it took me so long to write this and it ended up as disgustingly indulgent fluff. I love these two and how they interact. Poor Jack - Baby's First Rejection. There'll be a lot more of those to come, buddy. Under a cut cuz it's long - and probably not particularly good, sorry lol.]
Btw I've read every single reply to this thread and I'm stunned at the talent of every single person here. So glad I joined this site, thank you everyone!
Ok--
Oooh I'm excited. I'll edit this later!
//
[haha it took me so long to write this and it ended up as disgustingly indulgent fluff. I love these two and how they interact. Poor Jack - Baby's First Rejection. There'll be a lot more of those to come, buddy. Under a cut cuz it's long - and probably not particularly good, sorry lol.]
formless fluff
It wasn't that he was unused to it, but familiarity never softened the blow. Jack had come to expect the word "no" - from prospective bosses, prospective friends.
But this?
It was a strike to the gut that stole the breath from him.
He'd been sat on his bed for most of the evening, trying to find some comfort in the familiar. The in-and-out rhythm of the sewing needle usually soothed him - today, it did nothing. The little plush dog underhand was unfinished; half-stuffed and floppy. Jack cradled it like precious cargo nevertheless when he began to cry.
He was still in this sorry state when he heard the front door slam.
Really, Jack couldn't fault his friend. After all, he hadn't told him. Not yet - not what had happened. So, he held his tongue and settled for a sad-eyed , hangdog look when the inevitable question came in that strangely comforting slur.
"So, how'd it go?!"
Sab, the little gossipmonger. Jack knew that he delighted in it, and the schoolgirl-at-a-sleepover look on the burly man's face said it all. That was why it was almost funny how quickly it dropped, as soon as Jack replied,
"Oh, it was horrid!"
It was all he could do to keep from breaking out into fresh tears. Easier to hide his face - go back to sewing and bury himself in it. Even so, he felt the bed dip down beside him.
"Come on, then. What happened?" The other man's rough tones were gentle, now. The sympathy in his voice wasn't amiss, though: Jack caught that comforting surge of outside, woozy concern that he associated with Sab.
"He said no. Obviously. But... it was more the way he said it?"
And hadn't he been surprised, when such a beautiful person has been so blunt? It was no secret that Jack harboured crushes - sure! And could he be a little full-on? Well, he'd spent weeks watching, yes. Working out a plan and plucking up the courage. Had he been intense? Definitely. Out of nerves, more than anything.
And had he totally botched it? Been a red and stammering mess who had babbled at the counter before his crush had told him, in no uncertain terms, to leave? That there was a queue?
Well, yes.
That was why he'd said no, Jack supposed.
Now, Jack had cringed after finishing his tale. Visibly, and without a second thought. The laughter he'd expected never came - he wasn't sure why he still expected it, really. Because, par for the course, he found a thick and placating arm being wrapped around his shoulders.
"Aw, Jacky. Happens to the best of us, mate," and he recieved a hearty clap on the back that almost pitched him forwards. "But, hey! Look on the bright side. Ya got yasen out there. You know how many times I've been mugged off, huh?"
"You?"
"Mhmm. I was just as shocked. But, hey. Still here, ain't I? Whadd'ya always tell me, huh?"
The faintest of smiles tugged at the corners of the ginger man's lips. He scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his wrist.
"It gets easier?"
"Exactly," it was said with such relish that Jack couldn't help but giggle.
"You do listen, then."
"Yup. Now, come on. Stop ya scraitin' and get your ass downstairs. We're gettin' takeout. And quit goin' after folks who don't treat you right, okay?"
And that was that. He heard his housemate whistling, low and melodious, as he left the room. It left Jack with the strange and nagging feeling of perhaps I'll learn. After all - this was his first time living with someone who acted this way towards him.
Maybe this was what he needed, right now.
And maybe that was just fine with him.
But this?
It was a strike to the gut that stole the breath from him.
He'd been sat on his bed for most of the evening, trying to find some comfort in the familiar. The in-and-out rhythm of the sewing needle usually soothed him - today, it did nothing. The little plush dog underhand was unfinished; half-stuffed and floppy. Jack cradled it like precious cargo nevertheless when he began to cry.
He was still in this sorry state when he heard the front door slam.
Really, Jack couldn't fault his friend. After all, he hadn't told him. Not yet - not what had happened. So, he held his tongue and settled for a sad-eyed , hangdog look when the inevitable question came in that strangely comforting slur.
"So, how'd it go?!"
Sab, the little gossipmonger. Jack knew that he delighted in it, and the schoolgirl-at-a-sleepover look on the burly man's face said it all. That was why it was almost funny how quickly it dropped, as soon as Jack replied,
"Oh, it was horrid!"
It was all he could do to keep from breaking out into fresh tears. Easier to hide his face - go back to sewing and bury himself in it. Even so, he felt the bed dip down beside him.
"Come on, then. What happened?" The other man's rough tones were gentle, now. The sympathy in his voice wasn't amiss, though: Jack caught that comforting surge of outside, woozy concern that he associated with Sab.
"He said no. Obviously. But... it was more the way he said it?"
And hadn't he been surprised, when such a beautiful person has been so blunt? It was no secret that Jack harboured crushes - sure! And could he be a little full-on? Well, he'd spent weeks watching, yes. Working out a plan and plucking up the courage. Had he been intense? Definitely. Out of nerves, more than anything.
And had he totally botched it? Been a red and stammering mess who had babbled at the counter before his crush had told him, in no uncertain terms, to leave? That there was a queue?
Well, yes.
That was why he'd said no, Jack supposed.
Now, Jack had cringed after finishing his tale. Visibly, and without a second thought. The laughter he'd expected never came - he wasn't sure why he still expected it, really. Because, par for the course, he found a thick and placating arm being wrapped around his shoulders.
"Aw, Jacky. Happens to the best of us, mate," and he recieved a hearty clap on the back that almost pitched him forwards. "But, hey! Look on the bright side. Ya got yasen out there. You know how many times I've been mugged off, huh?"
"You?"
"Mhmm. I was just as shocked. But, hey. Still here, ain't I? Whadd'ya always tell me, huh?"
The faintest of smiles tugged at the corners of the ginger man's lips. He scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his wrist.
"It gets easier?"
"Exactly," it was said with such relish that Jack couldn't help but giggle.
"You do listen, then."
"Yup. Now, come on. Stop ya scraitin' and get your ass downstairs. We're gettin' takeout. And quit goin' after folks who don't treat you right, okay?"
And that was that. He heard his housemate whistling, low and melodious, as he left the room. It left Jack with the strange and nagging feeling of perhaps I'll learn. After all - this was his first time living with someone who acted this way towards him.
Maybe this was what he needed, right now.
And maybe that was just fine with him.
rolled 1d20 and got a natural 4.
Note: 🥳
How does your character react when they're...
9.) In love/crushing on someone...
[ Oh snap! In looooooove! Who the hell do I have him..?
Also, you don't have to apologize, Skylark! This is an amazing thread, and you are heckin' talented yourself. It takes some considerable thought and actual in-depth introspection, and these writing prompts are perfect for fleshing out your creations (in my case, how I handle my canons) with good ol' fashioned character development. It's by far, one of my favorite forum games! Now it's time to give the Scotland Yarder his go at it. ]
There was a cacophony of energetic revelers surrounding Gregory Lestrade of Scotland Yard, though none of which, despite how boisterous and lively their strident tones rebounded off the walls, were given any due regard. The conversations resonated merrily, the occasional bouts of laughter could also be heard along with the clinking of silverware and the heavy, repeated pounding of impatient steins waiting to be refilled.
Greg sat alone, purposely shuttered away from the carousing all the while nursing his own mug of bitter reprieve. He and a friend had oftentimes come to the pub to discuss life's current hardships, the difficulties in wrangling mad geniuses, the latest political stances on whatever events were transpiring at the time, and that one everlasting tribulation of the heart...
There was a hefty sigh that pulled from the Yard official's lips, one so vehement in its forlornness that his shoulders lifted and fell with a weighty jerk. In the moments when his job was no longer that assured and welcoming diversion, Greg felt particularly at the mercy of his more intrusive thoughts. They always had the same confounding destination when he was left to ruminate without proper interference. He stole another few hearty gulps of the amber liquid in an effort to repress the oncoming trepidation.
Without the pompous logician that was Sherlock Holmes to monopolize his attention, the mysterious government representative with their vague back-alley dealings, or the superintendent of Scotland Yard berating him for involving civilians and amateur detectives in officially classified cases, Lestrade was truly left to fend for himself in this appropriately dark corner booth at the back of an astir pub.
It was then her prominent face manifested in his mind; the pretendedly virtuous Evelyn Stuart with her piercing, nearly primeval gaze locked in a perpetual state of judgment. He tentatively allowed himself to drift further knowing full and well the condemnation that awaited him until he finally succumbed. Greg closed his eyes and recalled her with a twisted medley of fondness and disparagement.
Evelyn's cruel smile was brandished like that of a dagger, both beautiful and cutting balefully at the heartstrings of her unsuspecting whims. She was loveliness and elegance personified, the perfect guise of wit, charm, and intrigue conjured masterfully. The sensuous Evelyn was effervescent, sardonic to a fault, and utterly passionate in a way that despite her blatant cruelty, there was always that inkling of hope to change. Gregory never gave up that hope. He had always held on to the notion that perhaps someday they could reignite that unyielding connection.
Lestrade's tea-colored eyes drew open, focusing now on his hands. They were the hands of a laborer, nicked and scarred here and there, and calloused at the tips and along the palms. Greg's fingers twitched almost eagerly and he resisted the sudden urge to draw out his wallet. However the compulsion was too great, and as though his life depended upon his haste, he quickly withdrew the folded heap of worn leather. Once inside, he skimmed through its contents until he procured perhaps the only bit of his past that made him feel absolutely bereft.
Evelyn's photo failed to show any of her nuances. The cold, diverging glance she cast aside as though she couldn't be bothered to regard the man taking the shot was more than enough to suggest her dispassionate nature. And yet... And yet, Greg could not pry his eyes away from the confidence she obviously bolstered, the gentle mahogany waves that appeared to flounce about her swan-like neck, and that uncompromising nonchalance in the way that her black chemise slipped off her slender shoulder or the cigarette dangling precariously between her lips. It was as off-putting as it could possibly be, but to Greg Lestrade, it was, at one point in time, his entire life.
"This again, mate?" came the all too familiar voice of Dr. John Watson. The best and most consoling part of it all, however, was the lack of judgment in his concerned tone.
Greg slipped the photo back into his wallet and smiled sheepishly up at his friend. He then gestured toward the opposing side of the booth for John to sit. The other obliged gratefully and once he took his seat folded his arms over the tabletop and fixed the Scotland Yard official with a wry expression.
"You know you're old when you have photos in your wallet and not on your cell."
Greg blinked at the man before letting out an affable chuckle. Thank goodness for friends who tell it to you straight...
rolled 1d20 and got a natural 9.
Note: Mercy! Mercy for me!
[Gonna try this yay!]
4. Heartbroken
haunt would sit in a corner with his favorite book, the hound of the Baskervilles, and read his woes away
4. Heartbroken
haunt would sit in a corner with his favorite book, the hound of the Baskervilles, and read his woes away
rolled 1d20 and got a natural 4.
Note: OOO
Back again, with a different character this time!
Okay, right off the bat: Patches is not applicable to this question. Patches cannot eat or drink in the Waking World, therefore they cannot consume alcohol, thus making it impossible to determine how'd they'd act when not sober.
Even if they can sample alcohol in the Dreamworld, it would definitely not be their first choice, nor would they even like it to begin with.
To be fair, even if they somehow got drunk, they probably wouldn't behave any differently. And if they did, any changes to their behavior would be minimal at most.
Okay, right off the bat: Patches is not applicable to this question. Patches cannot eat or drink in the Waking World, therefore they cannot consume alcohol, thus making it impossible to determine how'd they'd act when not sober.
Even if they can sample alcohol in the Dreamworld, it would definitely not be their first choice, nor would they even like it to begin with.
To be fair, even if they somehow got drunk, they probably wouldn't behave any differently. And if they did, any changes to their behavior would be minimal at most.
rolled 1d20 and got a natural 19.
Let's do this!
Nicki would probably be lost for words, since she doesn't usually get into embarrassing situations.
Nicki would probably be lost for words, since she doesn't usually get into embarrassing situations.
rolled 1d20 and got a natural 12.
lets see what we get
ah alone.... how six would normally be. being a highly trained assassin with a history of being a lone wolf being completely alone would be nothing new for the hyper lethal SPARTAN III that would just be tuesday
ah alone.... how six would normally be. being a highly trained assassin with a history of being a lone wolf being completely alone would be nothing new for the hyper lethal SPARTAN III that would just be tuesday
rolled 1d20 and got a natural 10.
[It's my first time doing anything here. Thank you for this opportunity to learn something new]
rolled 2d10 and got a natural 13.
5
8
Chadwick Mortimer Rolfe wrote:
[It's my first time doing anything here. Thank you for this opportunity to learn something new]
((Sorry, not sure if it's poor tact for me to reply on these forum games OOC- but just wanted to say you're very welcome! I hope you enjoy it here; I'm relatively new and have found out quickly that everyone is lovely and very talented!))
Trying this with teacher
Edit: forgot to add the dice roll
Edit: forgot to add the dice roll
(rolling the dice)
8. Cranky
Teacher would sit in his room, with ink and quill, writing the book he's been writing for ages, until he was feeling better
8. Cranky
Teacher would sit in his room, with ink and quill, writing the book he's been writing for ages, until he was feeling better
rolled 1d20 and got a natural 8.
Note: The unseen dice roll lmao
[OOC: Heck, Atheist kept showing me these things, I had to try my hand!]
- Terrified
See more
Long before the warg-hai, a sentient warg person, arrived in the realm of Alfheim, they were being lead from the pens in Uzg Lata ("Land Below"), the underground realm of Dâgalûr-hai ("Demon-People") orcs and warg-hai. They were obedient - there really was no need for the thick chain around their neck, nor the two well-muscled guards flanking them as they plodded through the muck and mushroom-strewn cavern floor.
However, once the trio reached the massive wrought-iron doors keeping them separated from Uzg Tala ("Land Above"; over-run with elves and who knows what!), Gahl began to grow... uneasy.
Indeed, though their name was 'Stench of Fear' in Black Speech, Gahl had rarely felt it themselves. They were a beast of war, of death. Their entire 40-odd year existence had centered around training their mind and body for the brutal life of a pit-fighter. They knew that was what awaited them at their final destination, but in between then and now, there was...
The sky.
An endless abyss from which there would be no return should they find themselves somehow untethered from the earth's gravity. The moment those doors opened and pierced the gloom with daylight, Gahl truly felt afraid for the very first time in their life. Every corded muscle in their massive frame locked up, and though their guards yanked on the chain around their neck, they would not budge. No, all they could do was stare, their pupils but pin-pricks in the bright light of the over-world. It felt as if their heart was in their throat, and someone was squeezing their windpipe and lungs with an icy fist.
"G-Gahl no go up... Please..." they whimpered, all 300 pounds of pure, monstrous beast affixed to the spot in unfettered terror.
Suddenly, one of their guards lifted his steel poker and jabbed it into Gahl's flank. The warg-hai gritted their jaws and grunted - it was only minor pain, but the message was clear: there was no going back. To Uzg Tala they would go.
Just to be sure, though, the beast dropped to all fours like a common animal and sunk their claws into the moist soil. Despite the soothing scent of petrichor rising to their nostrils, Gahl still found it difficult to consciously move their limbs, one at a time, towards the glaring illumination and the unfathomable ceiling-less sky that lay before them.
However, once the trio reached the massive wrought-iron doors keeping them separated from Uzg Tala ("Land Above"; over-run with elves and who knows what!), Gahl began to grow... uneasy.
Indeed, though their name was 'Stench of Fear' in Black Speech, Gahl had rarely felt it themselves. They were a beast of war, of death. Their entire 40-odd year existence had centered around training their mind and body for the brutal life of a pit-fighter. They knew that was what awaited them at their final destination, but in between then and now, there was...
The sky.
An endless abyss from which there would be no return should they find themselves somehow untethered from the earth's gravity. The moment those doors opened and pierced the gloom with daylight, Gahl truly felt afraid for the very first time in their life. Every corded muscle in their massive frame locked up, and though their guards yanked on the chain around their neck, they would not budge. No, all they could do was stare, their pupils but pin-pricks in the bright light of the over-world. It felt as if their heart was in their throat, and someone was squeezing their windpipe and lungs with an icy fist.
"G-Gahl no go up... Please..." they whimpered, all 300 pounds of pure, monstrous beast affixed to the spot in unfettered terror.
Suddenly, one of their guards lifted his steel poker and jabbed it into Gahl's flank. The warg-hai gritted their jaws and grunted - it was only minor pain, but the message was clear: there was no going back. To Uzg Tala they would go.
Just to be sure, though, the beast dropped to all fours like a common animal and sunk their claws into the moist soil. Despite the soothing scent of petrichor rising to their nostrils, Gahl still found it difficult to consciously move their limbs, one at a time, towards the glaring illumination and the unfathomable ceiling-less sky that lay before them.
rolled 1d20 and got a natural 1.
Rolling first~ Editing after.
rolled 1d20 and got a natural 17.
Look at that a mistake
Lets try that again-
Pya actively destroys your room with large octopus like tendrils, then takes a nap in your bathtub or something like that
Pya actively destroys your room with large octopus like tendrils, then takes a nap in your bathtub or something like that
rolled 1d20 and got a natural 8.
[Is it silly and self-indulgent that I want to write another piece here? Am I spamming my own thread? Maybe a little bit. But, hi! I'm back. Sorry!
I love working with emotional reactions to be honest, which is one of the reasons I chose this as the prompt, hehe. Let's see what the dice says.
Cheers for putting up with me here, too :p
And what's this? A new(ish) character? I've quite shocked myself. Anyway...]
I love working with emotional reactions to be honest, which is one of the reasons I chose this as the prompt, hehe. Let's see what the dice says.
Cheers for putting up with me here, too :p
And what's this? A new(ish) character? I've quite shocked myself. Anyway...]
Cranky Werewolf (TW for hints at, like, vague death and violence)
The moor was still, silent; her feet sunk into the boggy ground. All around her, it smelt of damp and moss; enough to sniff it in and feel fit to burst with the earthy tang of nature. Sunset burned violent in the sky, and Bex stopped in her tracks. She kicked out impatiently at a stray twig, but it just sunk into the marshy mud underfoot.
With a huff, Bex yanked at the straps of her backpack. The bag clinked as it slid to the ground, now spattered lurid brown with what she hoped was mud. Bex cursed; kicked out at the bag; cursed again - she dipped onto her haunches and pulled out a bottle of Grey Goose, fussing with it.
It didn't seem broken.
Good.
Tilting her head, Bex took a long swig. She let the momentum carry her until she was lying on her back, the mouth of the bottle pressed to hers. A few, thirsty gulps later, and she tossed the empty bottle aside. As a werewolf, it took a lot to actually affect her - especially now, so close to the full moon.
She'd known it was coming, of course. For days, her shoulders had been drawn up beside her ears without her noticing. She'd carried a nervous tension in her step and had snapped at the slightest perceived sleight. Nothing new, yes, but this was moreso than normal. Had Bex any friends to speak of, they'd have noticed she wasn't her usual, cocky self.
Even now, her upper lip curled; dagger teeth glinting ferally in the last, dying embers of daylight. As though the encroaching evening was to blame for her dark mood. In a way, it very much was.
The change was approaching more strongly, now. She could smell small and delicious morsels, huddled in burrows and dens - bigger morsels, too, barricaded in bricks and false bravado. Her ears picked up the squalling of children from a distant garden. The cawing of crows far out of sight. The harried scamper of a mouse scurrying underfoot.
Darkness slowly descended on the moorlands.
Bex felt her breathing quicken. There was the sudden sense of something trying to push out of her. As though her soul, whatever made her her, was tearing her insides asunder just to escape. The scream that was torn from her throat was one of impotent rage, more than fear or pain.
control it
She clenched her jaw as deft fingers ran up her spine; the first spikes of fur beginning to jut out uncomfortably. The nightly change was an excruciatingly slow process, when dulled with silver and drink like this. Sometimes it dragged on into the wee hours of the morning; those times that she'd wake up still semi-human, covered in blood and exhausted.
wish i could control it
She made a strained and unhappy sound, her nails digging into the wet earth. There'd be an hour or so of prickly, itchy, hyperaware discomfort until the pain really began.
i should be able to control it
But, alas, that was just a pipe dream. The thought was enough to tear another, furious shout from Bex - though now, it came out as a wordless, harsh cry. More a roar, than anything human. With the anger already kindled inside of her, and being exacerbated by the feral nature of the wolf, Bex just hoped that she'd have enough self-control tonight.
She'd gotten real tired of waking up to viscera.
With a huff, Bex yanked at the straps of her backpack. The bag clinked as it slid to the ground, now spattered lurid brown with what she hoped was mud. Bex cursed; kicked out at the bag; cursed again - she dipped onto her haunches and pulled out a bottle of Grey Goose, fussing with it.
It didn't seem broken.
Good.
Tilting her head, Bex took a long swig. She let the momentum carry her until she was lying on her back, the mouth of the bottle pressed to hers. A few, thirsty gulps later, and she tossed the empty bottle aside. As a werewolf, it took a lot to actually affect her - especially now, so close to the full moon.
She'd known it was coming, of course. For days, her shoulders had been drawn up beside her ears without her noticing. She'd carried a nervous tension in her step and had snapped at the slightest perceived sleight. Nothing new, yes, but this was moreso than normal. Had Bex any friends to speak of, they'd have noticed she wasn't her usual, cocky self.
Even now, her upper lip curled; dagger teeth glinting ferally in the last, dying embers of daylight. As though the encroaching evening was to blame for her dark mood. In a way, it very much was.
The change was approaching more strongly, now. She could smell small and delicious morsels, huddled in burrows and dens - bigger morsels, too, barricaded in bricks and false bravado. Her ears picked up the squalling of children from a distant garden. The cawing of crows far out of sight. The harried scamper of a mouse scurrying underfoot.
Darkness slowly descended on the moorlands.
Bex felt her breathing quicken. There was the sudden sense of something trying to push out of her. As though her soul, whatever made her her, was tearing her insides asunder just to escape. The scream that was torn from her throat was one of impotent rage, more than fear or pain.
control it
She clenched her jaw as deft fingers ran up her spine; the first spikes of fur beginning to jut out uncomfortably. The nightly change was an excruciatingly slow process, when dulled with silver and drink like this. Sometimes it dragged on into the wee hours of the morning; those times that she'd wake up still semi-human, covered in blood and exhausted.
wish i could control it
She made a strained and unhappy sound, her nails digging into the wet earth. There'd be an hour or so of prickly, itchy, hyperaware discomfort until the pain really began.
i should be able to control it
But, alas, that was just a pipe dream. The thought was enough to tear another, furious shout from Bex - though now, it came out as a wordless, harsh cry. More a roar, than anything human. With the anger already kindled inside of her, and being exacerbated by the feral nature of the wolf, Bex just hoped that she'd have enough self-control tonight.
She'd gotten real tired of waking up to viscera.
rolled 1d20 and got a natural 8.
Note: Wheee
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