dicethrow

[dicethrow]

One day I was like "damn Gale you're SO difficult to draw I'M SICK OF IT" and ended up with this bunch of studies omg It's always such a challenge to depict his cuteness, masculinity and handsomeness at a time ,_, drawn somewhere in april

[dicethrow]

Heyo folks. Small update to the blog, for the moment the only muse that's consistently rattling in my brain is Finn so I'm going to move the others to low activity until I get the surge to write them again.

[dicethrow]

If you were a deity, what would be your domain?

The Sea and Storms

You are the divine embodiment of rivers, oceans, and the thunderous storms and gales which make them so treacherous. Because your watery realm is one of the most foreign and inhospitable to humans, it is therefore a source of unease, mystery, and wonder. Much like deities of Nature, you are one of the most unpredictable of all the divine beings, a reflection of the capricious skies and waters you command and cultivate. Even so, without your tempestuous influence, the mortal realm would be a stagnant and featureless place to inhabit. Mortals look to you for bounteous fishing voyages and safe passage across treacherous waters, and your mythological equivalents are Greece’s Poseidon and Zeus, Scandinavia’s Njörðr and Ægir, Egypt’s Set, and Japan’s Raijin.

tagged by: @corvusregards

tagging: @deathswcrn, @chaoticbard, @truthshaper @wolf-eyes-wolf-soul, @fatedmuses, @ab5olution

[dicethrow]

His annoyance temporarily evaporated when the bard laughed and casually returned to his instrument. Finn’s hand fell limp, just enough strength left in it to keep hold of the shoe. That laugh reminded him of the sweet harbour bells he’d sometimes hear on calm days at sea.

But they weren't at sea, or anywhere near a harbour...

Shaking off the thought, he took another step closer, eyeing the guitar with interest. It was an intriguing instrument, not one he’d ever had the chance to use, and he found himself drawn to it. He knelt down, placing the shoe aside.

“Uh huh… blame the dog,” he retorted, though his eyes remained fixed on the instrument. It was in good condition, far better than the fiddle he’d stumbled across by the blighted village. Illario’s guitar looked impressive.

“Where did you find that?”

@dicethrow asked

Finn walked out of his tent, hoping to refill his waterskin before spending the evening doing some training - when he tripped and nearly faceplanted into the ground. Catching himself just in the nick of time, he grumbled and crouched down to pick up a shoe lying just outside his tent. It was in perfect condition, and of course it was. He didn't need to be a detective to know exactly who it belonged to. Knowing his theory was correct, he marched over to the tent right next to his, raised the shoe into the air, and gave it a shake at Illario. "Oi, Princess, next time I find this shoe, it's going right up yer hole!"

Illario sat on the ground by his tent, tuning his guitar without paying much attention to anything else. He could get easily lost in his instrument, probably one of the few things that brought a genuine calm and piece to his paranoid mind with wheels constantly turning on the what ifs of everything around him. Who could he trust, how could he use the situation to his advantage, when would they be rid of these damned tadpoles in their heads?

But of course, the contemplation and solitude was going to be broken by a gruff voice with a colorful threat, and Illario couldn't help the little quirk of his lip as he looked up from his guitar at the irate rogue holding his shoe.

"Careful, my friend, I might enjoy that." He said with a light laugh, then went back to fiddling with his instrument again.

"I did not leave it anywhere. Scratch must have stolen it. He is such a rogue."

[dicethrow]

Illario was special. And by that, Finn meant relentlessly annoying, with the remarkable ability to burrow under his skin using just a few silken words. Why he put up with the man was beyond him. Yet… he did.

In fact, it just felt better – no, easier, to help the bard around camp rather than listen to his ceaseless moaning.

But the coxswain did have a point. He had healed Finn in the midst of battle, a gentle touch that made his whole body tingle as the wound stitched itself shut. Finn had instantly rejoined the affray, showing his thanks by ensuring the bard stayed safe until all the goblins (and the rest of the cultist with them) were dead.

“Thought you were smart, eh? Maybe you’ll find what it means in a book,” he retorted, also having no idea what muchacho meant, but it sounded… okay, really.

And he wasn’t about to give the bard a chance to prod him further, so he figured he’d ask Gale or someone else who might know.

He watched Illario try to stretch out his meal and sighed, very softly, before turning it into a low incoherent grumble. Then, shifting closer, he scooped a large portion of his own stew into the bard’s bowl before retreating back to his original spot. Without uttering a word, he quietly returned to his own meal and continued eating what was left in his bowl.

There was something infuriating about Finn that Illario couldn't quite place and didn't understand. It was an odd thing that drew him into the swashbuckler's presence, even as antagonistic as the two of them could be with each other. Finn was a stupid mystery, a goofy puzzle that the bard felt compelled to figure out.

Like the way his words were short and bitey, the way Finn poked and prodded and teased, and yet brought him food and kept him safe in battle. He couldn't quite understand it, especially with a few interesting glances he had caught from the rogue now and again.

Like he was interested but afraid at the same time. There was something to unpack there. And Illario's curious nature that had him wanting to know and figure everything out only made him

"And who was the one who healed the wound from that same bugbear's spear, hmm?" Illario snipped back. It wasn't as if he was entirely useless, after all. He was good with his blades, he was good with his voice and his magic, but he was endlessly wanting to see just how much Finn would be willing to do for him while grumbling the whole time.

The insult slung back at him had Illario raising a brow, however, mid-bite as well and he had to let his spoon drift down from his mouth for a moment to speak.

"I do not know what a coxswain is, but I am sure that I am not one. But, I suppose I could be one if you wanted me to be, muchacho."

With that, he gave a shrug and tucked back into his smaller portion, making a show of taking the tinniest bites in order to make it last longer.

[dicethrow]

@wovenambition | Starter Call

“So, you know wizard school, Gale?” Finn asked – no greeting, just the question as he sat down on the rug by the wizard’s tent and stretched out with a soft groan.

Truthfully, he liked Gale. Mostly because the wizard seemed happy to answer his many questions about Waterdeep. Finn often missed his old home, always wondering what was happening on the streets these days, but this time, his mind was on something else.

“Can anyone attend? Like, if they’ve got the gold? Or do you already need to be magical in some way? Is it only, like, sorcerers or someshit who can just train into being wizards?”

Not that he had any intention of doing the sort. He’d once tried to mimic Gale and cast a fire bolt, and failed miserably – not even a puff of smoke.

Still, magic really was fascinating to him. There was no one with a knack for it aboard the Dúncannon, so most of his exposure to the arcane had been either on land in harbour towns, or during raids if they happened across a spellcaster.

[dicethrow]

@muselycertain | Lysander | Starter Call

A lovely slash across his back, courtesy of a Venatori blade, meant that Finn urgently needed medical help. Thankfully, the cultist hadn’t lived long enough to do anything with his blood. But that didn’t help with the wound in the slightest.

He knew the Eluvian was far away, as was the Shadow Dragons’ hideout. There wasn’t much time before he’d start feeling woozy from blood loss, and there was no chance he’d let himself pass out and get robbed in Minrathous. Not his old home.

So he trudged towards the hideout regardless – until a thought struck. He recalled Varric talking about some lad with a healing touch. Any recommendation from Varric was a five-star seal of approval to Finn, and if he remembered right, he could even picture the building the old dwarf had gestured to on one of their usual city wanderings.

Luckily, that building was far closer than any hideout. So, after a few painstaking minutes, he dragged himself to the door and slammed his fist against it a few times, loud enough to make it rattle. He needed to be heard.

Then, his legs gave out, and he slumped against the doorframe, sliding down to sit on the ground while he waited. He gave the door another thump, just for good measure.

When it finally opened, he looked up to see a pleasant-looking lad standing there. Must be Lysander.

“Varric told me ye can help with healing?” Finn said.

[dicethrow]

@ab5olution | alara | starter call

They were taking a brief respite on a crumbling path near the remains of the monastery that Lae'zel insisted was a créche. He still didn’t really know what a créche was, which seemed like a strange Githyanki custom to him, but whatever. She was insistent, and Gale did mention that the Githyanki were experts at fighting and dealing with mind flayers. So, off to the créche they went.

Though it wasn’t exactly comforting to know they were walking into a den of Lae’zels who could turn on him just for sneezing out of line.

And so, he spent the rest of the stop sorting his weapons by Alara. The sound of blade-sharpening filled the air until he paused to inspect his dagger, tilting it upwards into the sunlight, then nodding in approval.

A beat later, he leaned back and directed his attention toward the sorcerer.

“You remember that wyvern poison you ‘promised’ that druid to take? Can I use it?”

[dicethrow]

As awful as he felt for the act, he kept a firm hold over her mouth, trying to stifle the struggling whimpers until they faded away. They needed to be silent, silent as the stone itself. He racked his brain, searching for anything he could do to keep the creatures away from their crevice, or at the very least, ensure they wouldn’t be detected if they passed by.

Then, slowly, he gave her a pointed look that silently screamed stay quiet, before removing his hand from her mouth. He mouthed:

“Any spells?”

He had his dagger ready, just in case things went badly. He would dive into the fray and plunge the blade into the nearest monster if it meant giving Morren the chance to flee.

But preferably, he’d take the silent, sneaky approach. That way, he might stay alive, and relatively unscarred.

Morren was frozen. Even without Finn holding her still, she felt as if she couldn't move. Her struggling wound down until she was as still as the stone that surrounded them. Her nails dug into the leather of his armour, her eyes darting between him and the gnolls. She couldn't help the whimpers that escaped her even with Finn's hand clamped down over her mouth to muffle them.

There was no creature on the face of Faerûn that terrified her more than gnolls. Those creatures haunted her darkest nightmares. She almost swore she could also smell smoke as well.

Pressed against Finn and the wall of the crevice, Morren was acutely aware that if they were found then she would be in a bad position. Her bow was slung across her back along with her quiver. She wouldn’t be able to detangle herself to arm and fight back, at least not quickly. All that left was the knife that she kept in her boot and that too would require some contortion to draw.

Oh Gods, they were, as Finn would likely put it, completely fucked.

The snap of bones was making her anxiety wind higher and higher. Being forced to stand still was not helping. Now all her instincts screamed at her to run, run as fast as she possibly could and pray that she wasn’t caught. That was how prey got caught. The instinct to bolt overrode all other sense and in the end they only wound up in the jaws of a waiting wolf. She knew this and yet she still felt it like a burn in her limbs.

[dicethrow]

He tried to wipe the sweat from his brow and cheeks with his sleeve as he gathered his breath, glancing around the tent and fully coming to terms with the fact that the encounter with his father had only been a dream. A dream that made his heart thud so loudly he could barely hear Illario over the noise.

It was painfully clear to Finn why he feared his father discovering the truth, and that was because of the very man who now shared his tent. Thoughts about the bard had begun creeping in more and more since that night of the stolen hammock.

Illario slotted against Finn’s body like the perfect puzzle piece. There had been no complaints from either of them once they’d finally settled, and it turned out to be one of the most restful nights Finn had ever known. Lying in the hammock, entangled with Illario, wasn’t how he’d ever imagined a perfect night… and yet it was the closest he’d ever come to one.

And that small voice in his head pleaded for it to happen again. But he silenced it.

“Maybe I was. You just came too late,” he replied, trying to grumble, but his voice came out far too soft. “Kicked his arse…”

Illario frowned as he saw the look on Finn's face. Even in all their fights -- both with each other and beside each other as they faced goblins and gnolls and whatever else this gods-forsaken wilderness was going to throw at them -- he had never seen such a look of fear on Finn's face.

"I heard shouting." Illario said simply, calmly with an edge of readiness in his voice with the adrenaline still coursing through his veins.

"I..." Illario paused, looking down a moment in the darkness of Finn's tent, wondering himself why he even cared about it, but looked up to the other man after a moment to finish his sentence. "...I thought you were being attacked."

And maybe he was, in his dreams. The idea wasn't a strange one to him, often times he'd had his own nightmares of the families of his marks coming for him; lately it had been nightmares of that demon of his cousin's coming after him.

There was still, also, that unspoken of night when Illario had stolen the hammock Finn had found and put it up in his own tent. Finn, stubborn bastardo that he was, had crawled into the hammock with him and had stayed there the entire night. Neither one of them would yield.

He'd slept soundly that night, wrapped in the other man's arms for lack of room within the hammock, but they'd parted ways in the morning without much words or ceremony and hadn't spoken of it since.

"Clearly, you are not being attacked, so why the shouting?"

[dicethrow]

Traitor. Deserter. Leaving his crew to rot.

Finn dreamt he was back aboard the Dúncannon, tossed into the brig, hands bound and face pressed against the tarry wooden floor. His father stood before him – a wall of anger and disgust. As if Duncan could read his mind. He knew Finn’s thoughts, the secret desire he tried so hard to bury beneath the rage that kept him alive.

Duncan knew. He knew what Finn was, what he wanted. Who he wanted. He sneered over Finn, the waft of rum on his breath brushing against Finn’s face before grabbing him by the throat and lifting him until their eyes met, with Finn’s legs dangling in the air.

“You disgust me, boy. You betrayed us with your filth.”

Finn knew what happened to traitors. Every failed mutiny brought forth a show of torture, and finally, execution.

“I didn’t betr–” he gasped, the tightening hand cutting off his voice as he tried to scream for help.

But his voice failed. His legs swung wildly, striking nothing but air. He kept kicking and kicking, missing Duncan, even though he was terrifyingly close.

The world darkened, until he heard a softer voice. Someone else was calling his name. When he blinked, he wasn’t in the ship anymore, but in a tent. The swing of his hammock reminded him of the rolls of the sea, but the world around him reminded him of the land, and before him stood that anchor; the source of that gentler voice:

Illario.

“Shit…” He went to rub his face, only to realise he was covered in a layer of sweat – or was it tears? Better to say sweat.

“The… what are you doing here?” he asked, trying his utmost best to keep the quiver from his tone, and failing miserably.

It had just been a dream.

But why did his throat hurt?

@dicethrow gets a starter

Illario was a light sleeper, for a number of reasons. The first was, of course, the paranoia of an assassin. Especially one with his sort of connections and power within his organization. Another was the vigilance of being able to snap to and be ready in an instant for any orders his patron might give him. But Zara had been quiet ever since this disaster of an adventure started, and there was no way his enemies knew where he was, snatched away as he had been from his comfortable loft in Baldur's Gate.

So when he'd heard a shout from the next tent over, he awoke with a start and sat bolt-upright in his bedroll, wondering if they were under attack. Scrambling out of the tent with dagger in hand, he gave a brief scan of the camp, but no one else seemed to be disturbed, yet he heard another shout from the tent.

Finn's tent.

"Mierda." A sigh passed through his lips and he debated on a moment of whether or not to check in on the other man. When they weren't at each other's throats, he could actually be present company, and if he was being attacked...

So a split second later he was over at the man's tent and opening the flap, ready to slide a dagger into the side or neck of a midnight intruder.

Only Finn was alone, and he wasn't quite sure if the rogue was asleep or awake as he sat in his hammock, eyes wide and filled with a fear he had yet to see on the other man's face.

"Finn...?" Illario asked cautiously, a hint of concern in his voice, lowering the dagger but keeping it in hand just in case.

[dicethrow]

Finn noticed that he’d certainly struck a nerve there. Maybe it was better to stop antagonising the so-called assassin, and he decided it was best to step back from his teasing.

Although, he was very tempted to reach out and pinch the man’s bicep, to emphasise that he certainly wasn’t built for hard labour. The touch would likely end in an altercation, something he was used to back on the ship, but for the sake of everyone actively getting along here, he swallowed the thought.

Instead, he tilted his head away, not quite in agreement, but in a silent gesture of agree to disagree.

“Well, brawn here stopped that bugbear from chopping that pretty head off your shoulders,” he pointed out, recalling that skirmish by the Grove gates.

He’d never seen so many goblins and the like in one group before, and he knew there were likely far more ahead – what with the constant mention of a camp and this Halsin they needed to help. He figured Illario had a plan for that.

Though he wouldn’t give the bard the satisfaction of admitting that yes, he thought Illario was very clever indeed. But still, a spoiled brat who never did his chores, so Finn took them on himself. Hells, he even gathered food for Illario.

And then the fucker called him a bastard pirate.

Yeah, he understood that...

“Bloody coxswain…” he grumbled in response.

Illario was staring daggers directly at Finn as he made such a show about eating the food, ignoring Illario's words in the process and only adding to his sour demeanor.

"I am not lazy, I am just not built for hard labor." Illario huffed before stuffing a bite of the stew into his mouth. He had to admit, Gale was a decent cook, but the deliciousness of the meal was not enough to combat the grumpiness of the bardish assassin.

But when Finn called him a princess, he almost choked on the next bite of his food and shot another glare the rogue's way.

"You know I am only a rich boy because I earn all my coin from an honest job. It may be a bloody job, but it is still an honest one. I cannot say the same for plundering and pillaging." Another grumble was given and he went back to his food...

...but he couldn't leave well enough alone.

"And you act as if I do nothing, but you would be lost and dead without me and you know it. Whose idea was it to have Gale blast that damn giant spider into the pit, hmm? I am the brains. You are the brawn."

Another bite shoveled into his mouth, and he mutters around it with his mouth full. "Bastardo pirata."

[dicethrow]

Starter Call: Like this for a starter from Finn. Verses include Baldur's Gate 3 and Dragon Age.

[dicethrow]

if you ever feel safe please remember that im out there

[dicethrow]

your teens are for learning how to rp and your twenties are for the trial and error of rping around a rotating door of some of the most bugfuck unstable people you have ever met and your thirties are for finding contentment rping with somewhere between three and ten people who all came out of it stronger together 🙏

[dicethrow]

@wolf-eyes-wolf-soul | CONT.

The laugh that echoed along the roadside cliffs made the rogue pause. Whatever caused it, he doubted it came from anything friendly, especially given the viscera scattered around them. It reminded him of the harpies' nest they’d come across back in the Grove. But at least that nest had been a somewhat contained mess of bone and the like; this was more of a bloodbath.

He had frozen in place, while Morren stood before him like a deer in front of a cart... stunned by fear. Unsure what her instincts might scream at her to do, he made the best decision he could think of: he reached forward, clamped a hand over her mouth to muffle the yelp, and tugged her into a nearby crevice, using his own body as a shield to protect her from whatever in the Hells those creatures were.

They'd need to head back once they could, warn the others, maybe rally the routes and fight them? He wasn't entirely confident on that front. But plans beyond the moment were futile if they didn't survive, and so Finn held his breath and strained his ears, listening for the scampering steps of the creatures and the continued snap of bone.

His biggest hope was that the flowers on the shrub would mask their scent long enough to wait out the passing of the creatures. That was – unless Morren had a better plan. He tried to ask, raising a brow and jerking his head slightly in the direction of the monsters.

[dicethrow]