#pseudo-goblin

[rustic-space-fiddle]

Feasting by the fireside 🔥

Laz, Naza, Leif, Bo, Mal, and Sampson working together to make some tasty fish for dinner. Leif may look like he’s not doing much, but he caught the fish. Barehanded. They asked Naza to help start the fire but she declined citing the fact that she “really just didn’t care to.

[a-guy-named-e]

sometimes. sometimes. an aroace character in a loving and fulfilling relationship with an allo partner. where they do all the normal intimacy and its okay because they know each other and they care about each other and they are so deeply familiar with each other's needs and wants and boundaries and they just. they trust each other over and over again. is a thing that can be so personal actually.

[yaboirezzy]

So yeah the FNAF movie was amazing and a really nice meal for us fnaf fans

And while I'm happy with the cupcake being an absolute menace in the film, it's a little disappointing that BB doesn’t have/share the same energy. I get that it's because he's just supposed to be a minor character, and the energy is still there especially in the post credits scene, but I feel like there could've been more of it to encapsulate that 'mischievous little creature' vibe from FNAF 2

[ghostlythinglady]

A lot of fantasy goes with Tolkien explanation of fantasy racism being the result of ancestral grudge.

Then you got Dungeon Meshi which is like:

"Elves and Dwarves hate each other because their respective empires make up 2/3 of the imperial core and are stuck in a cold war as the planet runs out of uncolonized land to grab. Elves are able to live in pastoral paradise because they've horded most of the settings farm-able land and natural capital, displacing and mass murdering any natives in the process. Orcs and goblins are hostile to other races because there the primary targets of an ongoing slavery and genocide campaign. The dividing line between human and inhuman is arbitrarily assigned via a phrenological pseudo-science that quickly falls apart when questioned by anyone who wasn't indoctrinated into it since birth."

[myrrio]

Help I just need somewhere to put my fanstay au thing that was inspired by a dream if I type it out on a doc I’ll try to actually make it look good

Cass run from the guards you stole something and ur funny

Oh no you slipped down a Sid spath root thingie tree right in front of a shop

Oh no the guards a catching up

Cass run inside the store now there’s a hot person also more valuable things that are actually kinda trash

I keep dreaming of 1942 French guns what does this mean for me

Cass it’s actually a bookstore with a bunch of random shit in the corner. Steal it. Oh fuck you got attached and you kicked the owners out. Oh you let them back in but it’s your place now. Cass I doubt your ethics more and more I swear you were NOT this fucked up when I dreamt you

Turns out the bookstore had something to do with a nature reserve and ppl are trying to fuck that up. Beat their ass nature needs your arsonistic ways

Oh the hot Demi girl wants to do gender fuckery with you. That’s hot. hi Sandra yeah sure I’ll participate in gender fuckery with you *finger guns*

[ashthesalamipiece]

"You Wanna Run That Back?"

Fem!Reader x Kirishima x Bakugou (poly) – Domestic / Crack-Fluff / Post-baby chaos

Sequel here

---

It was one of those mornings where everything felt just a little too loud.

The baby was fussing, you were half-asleep with your shirt halfway up, and Kirishima was shirtless in the kitchen making eggs one-handed like some kind of breakfast god while holding a bottle in the other.

And then there was Bakugou.

Bakugou Katsuki: combat-ready hero, battle-hardened, emotionally constipated... and currently shirtless on the couch, cradling his infant son with all the confidence of someone defusing a bomb. Which, honestly, might’ve been less terrifying to him.

You sat nearby, sipping coffee and watching with half-lidded amusement as Katsuki awkwardly adjusted the baby against his bare chest.

“You’re holding him like he’s radioactive,” you yawned.

“He is radioactive,” Bakugou grumbled. “He exploded in his diaper twice yesterday.”

“He’s three months old. He literally doesn’t know what a diaper is.”

Bakugou narrowed his eyes. “He knows enough. I see the look in his eye. He’s plotting.”

You snorted just as the baby started rooting—wiggling, snuffling, little fists clenched as he nuzzled against Bakugou’s chest.

“Uh, Katsuki,” you said, leaning forward, amused, “I think he’s looking for—”

Too late.

The baby latched.

To Bakugou’s nipple.

There was a full second of pure silence.

And then—

“WHAT THE F— OI!!” Bakugou shouted, absolutely scandalized. “WHAT—WHY—HE’S GOT TEETH—!!”

You howled with laughter, nearly spilling your coffee as Bakugou tried to detach his son, who was now happily suckling on his very confused, very muscular, very male father’s chest.

From the kitchen, Kirishima peeked in with a spatula mid-air. “Wait, did he—? Bro. Bro. Did he think you were—?”

“YES!” Bakugou yelled, holding the baby out like he’d just found out he was a secret landmine. “He bit me! This little goblin tried to breastfeed from me!!”

Kirishima was laughing so hard he had to put the pan down before he dropped it. “Bro, your chest is kinda soft lately—maybe he got confused!”

Bakugou glared murder. “Say that again and I’m burning your protein powder.”

Meanwhile, the baby was just giggling now, cheeks round and happy, hands reaching back out for his unsuspecting pseudo-milk-source.

“He just loves you,” you giggled, wiping your eyes. “He thinks Papa Boom is his backup bottle.”

“I will sue this child,” Bakugou growled, clutching his offended nipple. “I’m emotionally traumatized.”

Kirishima flopped onto the couch beside him, still grinning. “You sure you’re not lactating, babe? You’ve been glowing lately.”

Bakugou looked personally offended.

You got up, scooped the baby into your arms, and planted a kiss on Katsuki’s cheek. “Thanks for the tit-ful service, Papa.”

Kirishima wheezed.

Bakugou looked into the void.

“I hate this family.”

He didn’t, though.

Because an hour later, while you fed the baby from the correct chest, Katsuki was already curled up beside you, muttering under his breath while Kirishima tried not to giggle from the corner.

And when the baby finished and curled up between his dads with a sleepy little sigh, Bakugou was the one who kissed his head and whispered, “Try that again and I’m putting you up for adoption.”

[dutiful-wildcraft]

Life's Sweet Bells

A COD Farm Sim AU with omegaverse splashed in!

Poly 141 x F!OC. Previous. Villagers

Pt. 2: Paloma Meets Price

Johnny and Kyle lied to him. 

Horrid little pack mates, he should have known something was up when the pair were unusually quiet during their weekly friday night at the inn. 

John knew their newcomer had just arrived a few days prior, not that he had a lot of hope for the poor sod. People have come and gone to town before. Young bucks who thought they could hack it with the sweat off their backs. Most came because of the allure of the peaceful countryside, but quickly left when they realized luxury was a limited resource. 

John had sat at the bar, whiskey in hand, something deep in his soul easing at seeing the townsfolk all inside, laughing and happy. They were a pseudo-pack of sorts, not everyone bonded, not like him and his boys, but he remained protective of them all the same. It was sheer fortune that he'd built the pack that he had, beautiful, strong and resourceful as they were. It was an absolute dream to have them all together, safe in their little village. He wasn't particularly keen on adding another, though he supposed it was inevitable. 

The town's economy had been struggling since the earthquake cut down on business. Perhaps a new face wouldn't hurt…

Johnny and Kyle’s laughter pulled his attention, the pair playing some sort of roleplaying game at a nearby table, the party bantering after defeating a band of monsters. 

“The goblin floats lazily down the river, slowly…like, comically slow, and you know it won't be long before the rest of his hoard realizes he's missing.” Alex narrates, looking amused, (and just a little tired) after overseeing yet another harrowing adventure, all while the boys giggle and high five.

“I LOOK AROUND” Soap blurts, bypassing any structure of the game. 

“You don't wanna take a short rest first?” Alex retorts sharply.

“I did not lose any health” Farah cuts in, arms crossed, pointedly looking at Soap.

“Rest mate, you've only got 1 health point left.” Gaz adds.

“Ach fine, I rest. Then, I look around.” Soap laments.

Alex smirks, “We're resting so you can start fresh next week, but before we go” he leans in, mischief in his eyes. “You see a stranger, you know anything about strangers, Mactavish? Garrick?” He looks between them suspiciously. 

And this is what really gets John's attention, makes him turn away from the bar inconspicuously. Even Farah turns, schmoozing in close to Alex to fix the pair of men with an additional suspicious gaze, eyes narrowed.

The alphas share a look, a silent conversation happening between the long time friends before they're both shrugging in unison. 

Both Alex and Farah throw up their hands.

“Come off it boys, we know you've talked to the newbie.” Laswell calls from behind the bar, her wife Madeline grinning over her shoulder. 

John feels just a bit sour. They didn't tell him, they'd met the newcomer. 

The pair hem and haw.

“They seem alright” Gaz says, noncommittal.

Soap nods, “Real busy, they've got their hands full out there, for sure.”

“That's a whole lotta nothing.” comes a gruff voice, Ghost perched near the fireplace. 

John finally cuts in, his own god damned curiosity too much to bear. He feels a bit like a teenager, wants to know every detail, what they're like, what was their name, what did they look like, designation, etc. He reels it back instead.

“Are they going to stick around is what I want to know.” he grouses, taking another swig. If he were watching a little more closely, he would have seen the playful glint in both of his alpha's eyes. 

“Can't be sure.” Gaz replies, hiding a smile behind his drink.

“Maybe you should give ‘em a chat, Cap, see for yerself” Soap chimes in. “Not sure you two will jive though” he adds, staring absently into his mug. 

John wasn’t a tough man to get along with, just selective.

He huffs through his nose, finishes off his drink. It would have to wait. He'd already promised to help Nik with a few “projects” in the capital. Maybe the newcomer would be gone by the time he came back, that'd be one less problem to worry about.

~

He’d arrived back late monday evening, leaving Nik to unload his stock while he settled into a desk in the museum reception area, working through his portion of the collections paperwork and local donations. Desk work was never his favorite, but the peace and quiet of the old place, accompanied by the soft patter of rain against the large pane windows would be plenty to lull his weary mind to rest when the time came. He looked forward to crawling into one of his pack’s beds after a long weekend away. 

He’d settled in nicely, cigar in hand and hot evening tea, when the heavy wooden doors of the museum open, wind gently rustling the pages on his desk. He doesn’t look up right away, it’s probably Simon, coming by to check in. 

What he was not expecting however, was the soft round thing that tiptoes inside. Wet squeaky boots on marble as she blinks at him. She's a mess, dirt smeared on her sweet round cheeks and worn denim overalls, the soaked fabric hugging her soft tummy and wide hips, silvery hair tied back in messy twin braids dripping onto the floor. 

He stares. 

She stares. 

She’s the first to recover,  flashing him a sheepish smile, eyes bright behind big round glasses. His heart stutters just a bit. 

This was the newcomer?

“Hello! I’m sorry, I must have missed you earlier.” she chimes, seemingly unphased by her own disheveled appearance as she slips closer, slinging a heavy backpack from her shoulders with a soft grunt, the pickaxe at her back clanging noisily to the floor with the action.  

Who gave her a bloody pickaxe??

She slings out a hand and introduces herself, wrenching it back quickly to smear the remnant dirt from her hands onto her overalls before extending it again with an apologetic smile. 

It’s not often that John Price is dumbfounded, but it was certainly not every day that a big soft girl walks into his museum, especially not one like this. He didn't even realize he’d stood up, snuffling at the air like an old hound, trying to get just a whiff of the pretty thing. She’s an omega, he can feel it in his bones, something just on the edge of his biological periphery that makes his teeth ache. Her scent is nearly nonexistent under the earth and rain, but it’s there, sugary sweet like blueberry pancakes.  Something ugly preens in the back of his mind. 

Ah yes, this one is staying. 

“Are you alright, Captain?” 

He’s swift, snapping out of his thoughts to clamp his hand in hers. She’s cold to the touch, hands damp and freezing. Unacceptable. 

“Are you alright sweetheart? What have you been doing?” He rounds the desk, keeping her hand aloft, thumb rubbing at her skin in a weak attempt to warm her up as he looks her over. 

She had better not be doing what he thinks she was doing.

“Oh I’m peachy! Just doing a bit of mining, time just got away from me is all.” she laughs, nerves apparent in her soft english lilt. 

She was.

He bites back an exasperated huff, brows furrowed in displeasure as he scans her from head to toe. She goes still, nervous, like a pup as he comes closer. She’s filthy, but doesn’t appear to be injured, just…clumsy, the ass of her overalls covered in mud from where she’d apparently fallen, several times, but otherwise okay. His brain slows down just a little. 

“You were in the mines?” he asks incredulously, her hand slipping from his as she jumps back to life. “And who’d you learn ‘Captain’ from?”

“Yes!” she chirps, she’s beyond excited, dropping to her knees to root through her backpack, the sound of stones and tin clanking around in its confines. ”Soap and Gaz told me all about you, said you were always pretty busy, but I’d catch you eventually.” She pauses her rummaging, whipping back around to point at him ”They speak very highly of you by the way.” she tells him, as if the words were an important message she was tasked to bring to him. 

Of course. Conniving little shits, both of them. Trying to sell him false goods. He would have both of their heads later for hogging this pretty girl all to themselves. Telling lies. Though part of him was proud, they knew him all too well, at least well enough to know he had a big soft spot for pretty birds.

All he can do is hum, watching her with no small amount of confusion as she continues to root. It appears she’s never met a stranger, bulldozing over any social formalities unwittingly.  

“I’ve read mining used to be a big deal here, a great source of revenue.” she rambles giddily, “I didn’t think I would have much luck but look!” She yanks out an armful of dirt covered items, and bless her, Price doesn’t have the heart to tell her most of it is shit. Common coal and some exceptionally glittery rocks, but more importantly something else catches his eye, green and chitinous. 

“Is that a bloody bug?”

“Hmm? Oh yeah! Alex told me you all were looking to make some new collections, and I noticed you didn’t have much in the way of entomology. I thought it’d be a fun thing to start!”

Fun.

Price has spent years of his life, smashing these flying demons deep in the mines, and here she was catching them. As odd as she is, the pure passion in her eyes is incredibly endearing. It was already a miracle that the goofy thing had climbed down there on her own, come out with a bag full of rocks and a bug, all without being crushed, stung or bitten. 

He’d known the girl for a whole 10 minutes and already had his hands full.

He would need to have a serious talk with her about going down there again, but in the meantime he had no intention of crushing her spirit. She reminds him of Soap, brilliant and bright as a star, and it brings a fond smile to his lips. 

“Quite industrious aren’t you Miss Hadley? Looks like you’ve found quite a bit, I’ll take a better look at these in the morning” he explains, carefully placing her prizes in a bin for later, “I’ll have your payment for the donations sent later in the day. For now, It’s far too late for pretty girls to be out this late, you're soaked to the bone.” 

She blinks a bit, as if it just occurred to her, “Oh yes, didn’t think it would rain quite this hard all day.” she laughs a bit awkwardly, recollecting her soggy backpack. “I didn’t mean to disturb your evening.” she grabs her pickaxe (the one he was half tempted to hide and hope she forgot) before angling herself toward the door. 

John has to actively bite back the harsh no bubbling up his throat at her escape attempt. 

He’s never felt like such a muppet in his life. He needs to feed her, warm her up, but he has nothing here, just some granola bars and breakfast tea, no blanket, she was already shivering. 

He could bully her into his home if he really wanted to, it’s just down the road...strip her down and dry her off.

She’s halfway to the door when he breaks out of his thoughts, damn near sputtering like a drowning man. “Wait.” 

And much to his pleasure she stops on a dime, yielding easily to his voice. “Not going out there by yourself, absolutely not.” he huffs, stomping over to her, snagging his jacket from the rack beside the door and slinging it over her shoulders. He was being too much, he knows, opening the door for her and covering her with his umbrella as he ushers her to her home, taking the brunt of the rain just to keep her covered. He couldn’t help it, it was instinct, need. 

“This is very kind of you” Paloma tells him, voice grown timid, but she stops short, cold little hands giving his forearm a tug, “but we can at least share.” She presses in close, the pair now walking shoulder to shoulder in the cool summer rain. He has to clear his throat to stop the rumbling purr deep in his chest. 

“Too sweet for your own good” he murmurs, biting back a grin when she doesn’t hear him the first time. He changes tactics smoothly. 

“I said, what on earth were you doing down there?”

“Oh, just trying to give everything a go. I won’t know I like something until I give it a try right? Plus everyone here seems to need a hand, I’m just happy to help.” she smiles up at him. And John really thinks this sweet girl may stick around, not because he wants her too, but because she wants too, with a heart too big to fail. He decides he’ll help her with anything if she just asks. Hell, even if she doesn’t.

They chat idly the rest of the way, boots squelching on the muddy dirt path. He learns she’s quite the reader , and crafter, and a myriad of other things, having shoved her fingers into every pie she’s come across. He tells her about his past as a foreman, his stint in the military, his work with the museum since the earthquake, and it tickles him with how intently she listens, nodding along to his every word.  

Before he knows they’ve arrived, the soft glow of her porch lantern guiding them in, and part of him wishes she lived just a little farther away, if only to steal some extra time. 

He guides her up the steps, his hand in hers, standing dutifully as she fishes out her key and steps inside. Safe.

He’s only a little flustered when she shrugs off his jacket and swings it back over his shoulders, his height causing her to fumble a little. Shrouding him in petrichor and blueberry sugar.

“Right,” he coughs “You get warmed up, and lock this behind you, didn’t walk you home for something else to get you.” He taps at her door seriously. 

“Yes sir.” she chimes, and his stomach swoops. Fingers itching to dig into warm soft skin, he was being tested, he was certain of it. 

“John, lovie, call me John.”

“Okay John, be safe” she smiles, waving goodbye with a shy wiggle of her fingers. He has to make himself turn away,  waits to hear the click of her lock before trotting down her steps. 

John purrs the whole way home. 

[thetownsendsw]

Today marks the premier of #Pathfinder’s Triumph of the Tusk Adventure Path, so I’d like to take a moment to discuss a relevant topic near and dear to my heart.

ORCS!

While Tolkien was drawing on some linguistic antecedents, Orcs in fantasy originate from The Hobbit & Lord of the Rings, where they’re brutish soldiers of various forces of evil.

Initially lacking redeeming quality, Orcs have become a darling of pop culture, their thuggish nature explored from many angles across TTRPGs, video games, comics, novels, and more.

Now, when you picture an Orc, you no doubt imagine something akin to the Warcraft or Warhammer franchises: statuesque, green skinned humanoids with protruding underbites and looming tusks, often locked into a primitive, itinerant lifestyle, eschewing technology beyond what they pillage from other races.

Interestingly, none of this is in Tolkien.

In Tolkien, “Orc” was essentially another word for “Goblin,” or perhaps unusually large Goblins. Far from statuesque, Gollum (a (former?) Hobbit) could easily be confused for one. The Uruk-hai, a new, stronger Orcish offshoot were described as Orcish in appearance but only as tall as a Man, not taller.

Tolkien’s Orcs are described as deformed, but nothing as specific as green skin or tusks is specifically mentioned (Tolkien saved in-depth sensory detail for trees, and occasionally beards).

Far from being savages, Tolkien’s Orcs were–in his grand Romanticist narrative–stand-ins for industrialization. They were destroying the forests to build grand weapons of war, and soot-covered Mordor evoked the smokestacks of 19th century london.

In many ways the conflict of LotR can be interpreted as Tolkien pitting the noble myths and tales he studied up against his real experiences in WWI.

(the thought amuses me of a firmly medieval fantasy setting, except when we zoom in on the Orcish Badlands they’re all shelling each other from the trenches)

But while none of these traits are in Tolkien, there is a source where they are central.

The Green Martians, or Tharks, first appeared in A Princess of Mars by Edgar Rice Burroughs, published in All-Story Magazine from Feb-July 1912, well before any of the kids Tolkien decided to tell a fairy tale to were born.

The Tharks are described as 15 foot tall nomadic savages, favoring mighty beasts and weapons salvaged from the more civilized races of Barsoom. They have green skin and tusks, as well as six limbs (interestingly, the middle limbs are described as functional as either crude arms or secondary legs, but art always just depicts four arms)

Culturally, the Tharks are clearly meant as extensions of the Apache raiders encountered in the early chapters of the book set in Arizona; i.e. some California ranch-owner’s idea of wasteland savages. Nomadic, inhuman raiders redeemable only when breaching their primitive traditions.

The parallels are almost uncanny, and I’ll admit I’m honestly not sure where the crossover occurs. Early editions of D&D–another driver of fantasy trends–depict orcs as pig-people, which is probably how tusks became so iconic. They later added gray skin, which persisted officially until the current edition.

Somewhere between there in ‘74 and Warhammer in the early 80s is when the pseudo-Barsoom look took over in broader culture, and at this point there’s no getting around it. Even the more recent Tolkien film adaptations can’t entirely escape the expectation of modern Orcishness.

Turning back the clock a bit, Tolkien notably was never entirely sure where Orcs came from. His first idea was that they were molded from clay by Morgoth, a dark mirror to Adam, but being a Catholic at heart, he disliked the idea of Evil being a creative force.

He flip-flopped for the rest of his life, whether Orcs were corrupted men/elves/hobbits, uplifted beasts, even (according to one post I saw) soulless bodies remotely piloted by demons. He could never quite square the need for unfailingly evil mooks with his own feelings on Good & Evil.

Personally, I find particular resonance in the parallel between what D&D used to call an “always chaotic evil” race and the very Catholic concept of Original Sin. Was Tolkien merely dancing around the idea that the Orcs only needed to be Saved?

I can’t say what Tolkien would think of modern Orcs, either their merging with an earlier, American space alien, or our attempts to humanize what was supposed to be fundamentally inhuman. But I think his insecurity speaks to the same source as our fascination.

Who among us hasn’t struggled with what it means to be good? Or to be evil? And if we are made to be evil, what does it mean to strive against that purpose or to surrender to it? Can we abandon the precepts of predestiny? Or do we reject that they were ever there?

Stare deeply into that Jungian shadow and tell me…

Is it green? And do you want it to be?

[caitmayart]

I really love hiding little things in my art for D20, like the Hive binary!

But also I am one little goblin and sometimes I have to fill space so I made a weird pseudo-font of little shapes that KINDA looks like text

and sometimes I take chunks of that binary with the lasso tool and paste it all over the place

sorry folks hunting for secrets, I'm just one bean lmao

[ladybugmania]

BRAND'S FALL FROM GRACE.

Who's C..K has Russell Brand been sucking on.

Russell Brand: once the wild-haired, sex-charged court jester of British comedy, now just a crusty relic of relevance, drooling orange sludge from his mouth like a broken Trump-branded Pez dispenser. Seriously, what happened? The man who once seduced pop stars and sparred wittily on talk shows now sounds like your cousin who discovered Reddit and never came back.

He’s gone from sharp social critic to full-blown conspiracy goblin, squatting in the digital swamp with the likes of Alex Jones and Elon Musk fanboys, croaking out “truth bombs” that are really just brain farts wrapped in pseudo-mysticism. And naturally, like a Roach to a nuclear-powered dumpster fire, he’s found his tribe in the MAGA cult. Yes, Brand has latched on to the Trump regime like a barnacle to a gold-plated yacht, both loud, both delusional, both accused predators.

Let’s not mince words, Brand is under serious investigation for multiple sexual assault allegations, including rape, exposed by UK media in 2023. And what does he do in response? Deny, deflect, and dive deeper into the conspiracy playbook. Because when you're accused of monstrous behavior, what better way to distract the public than by ranting about the New World Order while selling supplements from your kitchen? Perhaps taken from the playbook of the Trump regime.

The man’s entire brand now feels like a parody of itself: once a provocateur, now a prophet for the perpetually confused. He’s like a cult leader who forgot the script halfway through and just started making up words. There’s nothing “woke” or “awake” about hiding behind “freedom of speech” when what you’re really doing is gaslighting your audience and ducking accountability.

So here lies Russell Brand: a “truth teller” in a sea of delusion, floating somewhere between a YouTube algorithm and the ghost of his own washed-up career. Once upon a time, he was funny. Now? He’s just a meme waiting to expire.

The charming trickster turned out to be just another predator in the parade of fallen celebs, hiding behind spirituality and self-help gobbledygook like it's a cloak of virtue.

It’s almost poetic, Brand, the man who once mocked the powerful, now grovels at the feet of power, parroting MAGA rhetoric while pretending he's awakening the masses. From British bad boy to bargain bin Bannon, Russell is proof that not all who wander are wise—some are just completely lost, ranting about the matrix while cashing in on clicks.

He's just another rapist MAGA loving loser, dribbling orange fluids from his mouth after sucking the Orange Kings little Republican doodle noodle.

[writers-potion]

My Favorite Fantasy Tropes

MONSTER TROPES!

A deadly monster with a terrifying appearance bonds with a small child with its life.

An injured hero comes upon a monster, or a hero comes upon an injured monster and they understand each other. Giant vicious-looking monsters that answer to names you would give to a pet dog.

A character rescues or spares the life of a wounded or infant monster; later th fully- healed/matured creature returns the favor.

The horrifying eldritch creature that's been stalking the heroes turns out to be benevolent and actually, trying to protect them from something deadlier.

HERO TROPES!

The hero is the secret heir to a throne. It may be that he was whisked away and hidden as a child, his parents sent them away or were killed, etc.

There's someone in power in your book who might be described as "pure evil." This can feed into the "Good vs Evil" trope listed further down this list.

The hero refuses to give into the dark magic and instead ascends to a new level of power. This may change their hair to their dream color.

The hero falls in love with a princess/prince who turns out to be working with the real Dark Lord and killed her whole family just to rule the kingdom.

SETTING TROPES!

Pseudo-medieval European setting especially in places like the British Isles, France and Germany.

A library full of secret, lost, important knowledge. The characters may have to travel to this library, or they may stumble across it for some kind of revelation.

Ancient Japan/Chinese royalty setting where clues about the mystery is given out in subtle, secretive ways. Plus, the hero can't travel outside the palace.

A fantastical world can hide in plain sight without being discovered. When the secret is unmasked by the hero, he is trust into the world. Now, there's no going back.

CHARACTER RELATIONSHIP TROPES!

The characters involved don't know they're soulmates for part of the book but feel drawn to each other.

Twisting the original dynamic between characters from legends, myths and folklore

Semi-humanoid/ multi-race characters bonding with monsters/people of other race like elves, dwarves, goblins, etc.

Enemies-to-lovers

Marriages of convenience based upon political/power dynamic leverage

The main character(s), with a ton of romantic tension, must, for some reason, share a bed.

DARK FANTASY TROPES!

Magic is eveil and often The Corruption. Blood magic, human sacrifice and forsaken children are commonplace.

Magical artifacts with bad omens/curses attached to them. They require a grievous price in order to wield.

The gods are all assholes who pass time eating prayer chips and drinking soul-booze while placing bets and trolling the helpless mortals.

Organized religion of the country is Corrupt Church or Religion of Evil. The leader is totalitarian and strange cults prevail.

The dead find staying buried a little boring and resist any and all attempts to keep them buried, short of cremation or dismemberment.

If you like my blog, buy me a coffee☕ and find me on instagram! 📸

[trivelino]

–part two

ACT ONE

Down, down a shoot I fell. How far? No one could tell! But, I landed like a cat, on both feet and without a scratch. I didn’t quite comprehend what happened. I looked up and realized I was on a stage– being introduced to an audience. Apparently, I didn’t pay for my food and performing was the only way to make a wage. A spirit appeared to explain the situation. I knew I was going to have to think on my feet without hesitation. 

"Ladies and Gentlemen! Tarts, strumpets and scallywags, lords and ladies and lastly, dubious royals: tomorrow you will confess to your priests the corruption you are about to lick off your fingers like thick cake after this evening's performance. Prepare to be scandalized, prepare to be immersed in a world you can only dream. For tonight, we have a very special guest."

 "Because no one eats supper for free…" the spirit leveled with a twitch of the eye and a hissing threat. "So break a leg, if you ever want to eat again." the nameless spirit faded out, leaving me to pay my debt.

For a moment I stood. Alone on a stage with a spotlight raining down, illuminating my head in a white, heavy crown. I lifted my face to the audience. Their expectation was drowning me in perspiration. For a moment I froze, my mouth dry–the stage fright kept me on my toes.

I knew I needed help. What gods could come to me? What ghoul, goblin, witch? I had no time, I already started with a hitch. Everyone was staring, the music was blaring. Now was not the time to think. Now was not the time to blink. 

So, I didn’t.

I opened with a smile. 

“Ah, welcome! Welcome, welcome!” I greeted the audience. I couldn’t see them from the stage. I could only feel them. I didn’t have a new act at the ready, so from the old repertoire I took a page. Whenever I am in a pinch– there is always magic that can be used in a sinch. 

A one man act is such a delight, but two or three of me’s can be added for extra bite! With my magnificent, manic, mage-magic I mirrored myself a multitude of times! The show was about to begin, and the actors needed to be placed–we didn’t have a second to waste. Then, we could spin our tale and inspire excitement, tears, and grins.

Each one of my mirror-mes were cast as actors. It is hard to tell a story —with just one to represent a whole allegory! Since they were all me, we were in synchronization. We were instantly on the same page without any hesitation. Once the mirrors disappeared, the troupe of us spun around in a theatrical dance. We were prepping our costumes and ready to send the audience in a trance.

“A harlequinade is something to entertain, to serenade! And we are all here to tell the tale of a house– inconspicuous, innocuous and inconsequential. A house, you say?” As I turned around, a backdrop of a spooky castle fell and made a profound sound, slapping against the stage floor. With the miracle of magic, my stage props were instantaneous as if my crew of me were pulling all the stops!

We set the stage: it was a haunted mansion. A flock of ravens, a vampire with a face so ashen, and a beautiful blonde wearing high end fashion! 

So much is happening at the castle with the pointed towers, every night, at all hours!

“Picture this,” I say to the hushed crowd. “Here we come, one and all… to the Castle Dracone, settled in the shadows of the Ghostlands under a dark and stormy squall. It’s here we meet Heathcliff, the master of the mansion, the maker of monsters and doctor of the demented!” 

I will admit, some of this is adlib. I was sweating profusely, only knowing the history of the castle very loosely. As I presented the first character, I did a flourish and a spin, allowing the ‘me’ portraying Heathcliff to cut-in. The mirror-me smiled, giving a moment for me to reconcile that I really didn’t know what I was doing.

Yet, no one was booing! On the contrary, the moment the audience saw him enter, there was nery a frown nor dissenter. I dressed myself like Heathcliff, but in a silly-pseudo-satire ensemble, with a turn of the century top-hat too tall and teetering to topple! I made my face scowl and growl, after all, Heathcliff was known to be unkind to all ghouls and unlucky fools wandering into his yard on the prowl. He wasn’t a kindly host to a stranger, his haunted mansion was full of danger!

“Did he turn his brother into a vampire? Everyone here dares to conspire! Did you know his bald brother bothers his betrothed? Or what’s worse? What’s her name is trying to steal his coin purse!” As I made my declarations, one by one my special creations came to stage. I had one of my actors dressed as Heathcliff’s brother, Aronsen, and another dressed as Lillandyr Shadowglade.  

“Oh, Heathcliff, honey….” cried Lillandyr in overdone makeup. “Won’t you give me some money?!” But instead of a breakup, Heathcliff hands over a sack of coins. Afterwards, he pointed to his loins! Lillandyr grinned, her lips scarlet red and her mouth full of teeth. She looked at Heathcliff as if he crawled up from somewhere beneath. 

“Aronsen!” always the middle-man, a mad man who ran from his playpen, wandered around on stage–slavering and growling with rage! 

“He was more creature than elf, a beast who craves blood and bones to feast!” I announced as the narrator. As I spoke, the actors played their chosen characters cartoonishly– capering, cowering, and chasing.  But when Aronsen laid eyes on the lovely lady Lillandyr, a woman who knows no fear and who holds nothing sacred, nothing dear– he had only eyes for her… something inside him did stir!

“Lillandyr was between the brother’s two, Aronsen and Heathcliff– both stuck to her bottom high-heeled shoe. It’s only money and all the interest that accrue– it’s affairs of the heart that she entirely eschews!”

One of the actors sneezed on cue…

“Bless you!” I joked on stage, playing with the rhymes all the time as the multiple mirror-me’s told the tale– for fun– to regale. Hoping that my harlequinade made the sale… and that the house wasn’t still too angry at me and would surely throw me in jail!

There were other characters, too. Heathcliff’s mother was a nasty old crone. Her two sons she did bemoan. 

“Get married!” she brayed. But in the haunted, magical mansion she did overstay. The magical house certainly had enough. Sometimes fate can be rather rough. Eventually she disappeared, no one was there to shed a tear. Turned into a flock of crows, whatever, who knows!? 

“And who is this, someone else, someone new? What is Heathcliff and the haunted mansion to do?” I announced a new character. She had big eyes like a doll, her stature was rather small. Immediately Heathcliff swarmed to her like a butterfly. Seralah Bloodhaven, approved by Heathcliff’s motherly swarm of ravens. The house did like her, sure, but there was so much to endure when it comes to this place. It was all a game of run and chase. 

Lillandyr’s assistant, Tosh… oh my gosh. When his character made his entrance, all elbows and knees and without any common sense– he tripped over his laces and fell face first on his braces. Tosh received the most applause and it was just cause there was barely any satire. It wasn’t hard to make fun of him since it was a little like preaching to the choir.

 Tosh was one of Lillandyr’s many sycophants. He broke his glasses under his asses and lost his pants. It was clear the magical mansion hated this man, making him mushy minced meat. It was a real grinder, an absolute reminder of the power behind House Dracone. 

Meanwhile, Heathcliff and Seralah danced as they pretended to have a deep romance. However, Heathcliff couldn’t help himself. A heel, a hound, a heartthrob! He turned on Seralah back to Lillandyr, circling around and around as the sound of the music began to swell. Which woman would win? Who could tell?!

All of the characters, one after another– whether it was Heathcliff or his swarm of birds for a mother, met with an untimely demise. The tinkling calliope was a stark contrast against this angsty tragedy. 

Aronsen was stabbed and exploded while Lillandyr was loaded into a cannon and shot out into the crowd. Meanwhile, Tosh and Seralah took their well deserved bow. Lillandyr’s remains rained down in the audience as a thousand rose petals. The mirror me’s didn’t matter… they weren’t winning any acting medals.  

I just knew I entertained the house long enough. I knew I needed to escape before I was chained and cuffed. The whole performance was a little rough and I was certain I made a good diversion. 

Which one was the real red harlequin? Which one escapes and wins? There were still several mirror images of me on stage, and I made sure to escape before I was locked in a cage. While everyone was distracted, I made sure I acted. The mirrors fell and shattered and when all the shards across the stage scattered I leapt into the shadows.

I polymorphed myself into a fox. The crowd laughed, cheered, and gawked– begging for an encore. There were still one or two mirror-me’s able to give them a little more. 

Once alone, I realized I was still hungry.  My stomach cried and groan.  I was famished. That feast I furiously frenzied into my face seemed to disappear from its place. My stomach was echoing, empty, hollow. This was hard to swallow.

I did all of that and now I wanted to wallow! How could it be that I ate so much and now I was starving. House Dracone wasn’t throwing me a penny, a bone, or a farthing. I escaped the theater as quickly as I could, knowing I would soon be on top as I should.

@lillandyrshadowglade @wraheathcliff @wraaronsen

[axolator]

Hiii axolator!!! I was wondering; how do you pick script for script-a-day? I’d be cool to understand your selection process.

Hey, Pxlfae, thanks for the ask! If you haven’t already, check out my introduction, Script-A-Day #0 - I go into this over there as well.

So, how do I curate scripts for Script-A-Day?

In general, when I look for scripts for Script-A-Day, here’s roughly what I’m keeping an eye on:

1) Is the script trying to do something interesting or unique in a way I find effective?

Above everything else, this is what I look for when finding scripts to cover. For me, I like covering scripts that have a unique sense of identity or try and do something cool. For example, Trust centers around the veracity and sobriety of a Mayor claim and how that impacts the game around it. China Shop takes the most unbalanced Demons in the game and puts them on the same script and makes it work. Rhetoric [Heroic: Failure] is a Legion script with zero hard Legion solvers! Those are all really cool concepts that get executed on in super fun, unique ways, even if they seem strange or odd at first glance.

As a result, I often cover scripts that might be theoretically dubious or have weird interactions: The Midnight Oasis frequently gets dragged for being janky and people call it bad all the time, but it frequently produces games like no other that are incredibly fun and memorable for everyone involved. I’ll sooner cover a script that has a couple weird interactions with an incredibly strong identity than one that’s theoretically better but super bland.

2) Is the script fun?

I mean, this feels like it goes without saying, but I might as well include it, since it's a very important factor in the scripts I cover. I don’t want to cover unfun scripts. As silly and unique as the Hermit-Drunk-Golem-Yaggabable nomination-stealing torment nexus script might be, it’s likely not one anyone will have fun playing. It’s also closely tied with the next factor:

3) Is the script good?

Whether or not a script is good is obviously somewhat subjective, but I don’t want to cover scripts that really only have 1-2 working bags. Scripts like Revenge of the Martian Vampires can indeed be good fun… but there are, like, 3 setups that aren’t horrendously unbalanced. (This isn't me shading the author, by the way — the intention behind the script was for it to only be played a couple times, according to them!)

If I need to bagbuild around several game-warping bad interactions like several extra evils, pseudo-hatejinxes due to basically-indomitable evil team compositions, keeping things like the Demon type and who the Goblin is solvable and also keep general game balance in mind on top of that, that’s typically not a script I really want to cover or ST (unless it’s so incredibly unique, memorable, and fun that I think it’s worth it - Rochambeau and the aforementioned The Midnight Oasis are pretty good examples of this).

4) How popular/well-known is it? Which mediums of Clocktower is it played in?

This is probably the least important one, but it’s worth considering. I like covering scripts from across the community - stuff from a variety of different groups, like the official app, the Unofficial, and Grim Scenarios (to name a few), but also across different mediums of play, from scripts popular in convention settings and IRL to ones in online live-voice to live-text to forum-style long-text games. (That last one’s where quite a few of my Script-A-Days have been from, like Pearly Gates and Fire Away!)

Conclusion

Just to wrap up — when I cover a script on Script-A-Day, it's because I truly believe it results in interesting, fun, memorable games, whether you're on the good team, evil team, or behind the Grimoire as the Storyteller. Hopefully, this series can serve both as a repository of cool custom scripts but also as a love letter to the community that made them.

That's all from me. See you around!

[dailycharacteroption]

Robotic Improvement Mechanic (Mechanic Alternate Class Feature)

(art by Varguy on DeviantArt)

A funny thing about robots is that, regardless of their level of sapience, repairing them, or even modifying them, is relatively simple since they don’t have to usually worry about things like shock, blood loss, or rejection. The potential for machine modding is so interesting that there have been several video game franchises and toy lines (including model hobbyists) centered around cobbling together robots from parts to make all sorts of creations. From Custom Robo to the customizable Rock-em Sock-em Robots action figures of the late 90’s early 2000’s, to the entirety of Gunpla.

Now, Starfinder already has the drone option for your mechanic characters giving you an option for having your own customizable robot buddy, but what if your character is a robot?

Whether they are androids, SROs, holograms, or even obscure robotic sapients like amrantahs and trinirs, there is nothing stopping a mechanically-minded robotic being from turning their expertise to modifying themselves.

This can be for several reasons, anything from defying the expectations put on them by their base chassis to practical modifications for their job. This is supported in the fluff of the setting too, with SROs in particular often barely resembling their original form when they awakened to sapience, and both SROs and Androids have options for installing bonus equipment into their bodies. It only makes sense that they and other machines would take this further, modifying themselves at they see fit.

And with that, let’s get into it!

Essentially, this option replaces the normal AI that mechanics work with for applying drone mods directly to yourself, granting yourself extra powers. Your body is treated as a specific done chassis for the purpose of prerequisites, but otherwise you are free to pick not just mods, but also feats drawn from the list of those available to drones, with the only exceptions being any mods that do not make sense for you to have, such as the drone providing medical aid to their owner, or transforming into a wearable apparatus for said owner, or any mod that would put you out of commission for using it, like the one that dumps your energy reserves into an electrical attack that renders the drone unpowered. As the mechanic gains mastery, they can change out their mods and feats as well.

This option is super simple, granting the player drone mods instead of their pet, but it is extremely flavorful and appropriate for any robotic playable species. You can pretty much treat these mechanics as almost pseudo-evolutionists, adding mods alongside augmentations to add abilities and enhance their bodies towards their build as needed. Want to wield multiple heavy weapons at once? Load up on weapon mounts. Want gadgets for every situation, load up on utility mods and augments, and so on!

The entire vibe of this option being about the character deciding for themselves what they want to look like and be able to do speaks heavily to transgender and transhumanist themes, and I can see a lot of folks exploring themselves through playing a robotic character exploring their own identity. Or maybe you just wanna be a cool robot with a plasma gun built into your arms. Either or both is good.

Survivors of the Rustracket tribe tell tales of how their former chief’s “new killbot” suddenly went on a rampage, slaughtering them and stealing their best scrap to incorporate into their own body. The goblins want revenge and are willing to pay others to get it, but keen-eyed hunters will notice evidence that the machine has been stripping away perfectly good armor and replacing it again and again, as if testing what appearance it likes. Perhaps there is more to this machine than a mechanical monstrosity?

Already a rarity as an android built to resemble an ijtikri, Valence-34 has never felt satisfied with their cephalopodic form, and has taken to modifying themselves repeatedly, to the point their employer is becoming concerned. She has called for a specialist in android psychology, who has hired the party to ferry them their.

Wheeler the SRO has been bartender and part-time mechanic for the Kalia Jo, a spacecraft turned orbital flotilla bar for decades now, doing odd-jobs to keep the ramshackle station of cobbled-together ships running in his rusty, antique chassis. None realize, however, that this is not his original job, nor his original form, as he was once an assassin robot before awakening.

[symbiotic-slime]

Hi I heard you really like Flash and I've been meaning to learn more about his character for a personal story I'm writing, do you have any reading recs for Flash?

hi!! sorry it took me a couple days to get around to this but omg I’m so happy that I’m known as the guy who really likes Flash and yes I would love to talk about it!!

not sure how much you know so I’ll just give you a quick rundown of what Flash is like in the comics! he starts as Peter’s high school bully before becoming friends with him in university. he then joins the US army and fights in the Vietnam war, goes back to being a civilian, then joins the army again and loses his legs overseas. after losing his legs, he bonds with the Venom Symbiote and becomes Agent Venom. he stays in the army for a bit and then goes to space to fight with the guardians of the galaxy (pretty insane lmfao). after that, the Symbiote goes back to Eddie and Flash becomes Agent Anti-Venom. he dies fighting the red goblin but then gets revived during the King in Black run. honestly I haven’t kept up with much after that— he’s still Agent Anti-Venom but I honestly couldn’t tell you what he’s up to right now lmfao.

I’m not the most informed on Flash pre-Venom so imma tag my friend @kitausuret who’s definitely more of a Flash expert than me to tag in and fill in some of the gaps in my recs :D

if you’re specifically interested in Flash as Agent Venom, the Agent Venom run (Venom Vol. 2 #1-41) is a pretty great place to start! it follows Flash through his first bonding with the symbiote and working as a covert agent for the US government. the symbiote isn’t much of a character and is more so a tool (much to my dismay) but the run really handles Flash’s character, relationships, and alcoholism incredibly. The first half is mostly focused on him in the army/running from the army and the second half is him trying to live a quiet life in Philadelphia. he pseudo-adopts an edgy teenager named Andi Benton and she becomes his sidekick.

The Space Knight comics are also really well done! it follows Flash and the Symbiote fucking around in the galaxy and doing little side quests for a bit before the real plot kicks in. I really love how Flash and the Symbiote’s relationship and also Flash’s disability! they don’t tackle it head on iirc but they do show him using mobility aids casually and not just relying on the Symbiote to create legs for him which is nice to see. the concept is a bit nuts— Flash and the Symbiote are agents of the cosmos (basically symbiote good guys™️) and are doing odd jobs to help the citizens of the galaxy and making a little ragtag group of friends as they go— but it’s a really fun read!

for more Flash as Agent Anti-Venom, the smaller part of Costa’s Venom run Venom Inc. (Venom Inc. Alpha, Anazing Spider-man #792, Venom #159, Amazing Spider-man #793, Venom #160, Venom Inc. Omega) is very cool! it’s how he gets the Anti-Venom Symbiote in the first place and it develops his relationship with Eddie. they move from like actively hating each other to being mildly okay with the other person.

there’s also Venom Vol. 4, which is also called the King in Black run due to its heavy focus on Knull, the evil symbiote god. as a Venom fan, I can’t recommend this for how it handles the symbiote and Eddie, but Flash is a pretty big part of it and I like how he’s characterized. they try to do a brothers-in-arms dynamic between Eddie and Flash, Flash turns into a dragon at one point, it’s decent from a Flash fan perspective (I’m aware that this run sounds insane— it is lmfao).

I haven’t read a whole lot after KiB— from what I know he got involved with the Venom War stuff and is human again (he’s been debatably not human since KiB)? but yeah. hopefully there’s some useful info in my ramblings about the comics Flash is in :D

[christmastheodora]

Red Star Rising or Sarah and the Immortal Demon by Noël Théodore

Fandom: Labyrinth, Phantom of the Opera, Good Omens, Buildingverse

Chapter Summary: 

When Sarah leaves, Moppet stays behind to confront The Goblin King— but she couldn't do it without her Muppet friends.

Later, Sarah goes to visit Az and Crowley to inquire about her book.

Wordcount: 6,926

Chapter: 4/?

Rating: T (for now but it is basically a G rating.) ✧・ﾟ: *✧・ﾟ:* *:・ﾟ✧*:・ﾟ✧ ✧・ﾟ

“We? Don’t tell me ‘we,’ Moppet,” Jareth began pacing before her. He was gloating, but she remained still. His outfit began to morph—casual wear transforming into his villain attire: black flowing cape, blue sparkles, spikes at the shoulders. “You were once so eager for me to take away all your suffering.”

“I was. And I loved every minute of every dream you gave me. That’s true,” she nodded somberly. Not a day went by that she didn’t still long for him in her dreams. “But what you offer is like a drug. It only masks suffering. Like morphine.”

“Mmm. Is that what this is about? Am I a drug dealer now? Have you joined the feathered revolution and decided I’m just the opium of the masses? Hmm?”

“This isn’t about drugs. It’s about time. You’ve wasted mine, Jareth. You can’t keep taking it from me.”

He flinched. “Time?”

Moppet nodded. “I want my time back.”

“Or what?”

Without warning, the room flooded with creatures. Goblins and chickens, Fireys and fairies, Ludo, Sir Didymus—and most importantly, Hoggle. Feathers burst from drawers, and patchwork-clad bodies stood shoulder to shoulder.

“Jareth, King of the Goblins and ruler of the Underground,” Sir Didymus proclaimed, reading from a scroll, “we of the Order for the Freedom of All Creatures demand that you restore time to the Underground so we may resume our work, as was promised. With the timeline paused for over five years, we have had many tired agriculturalists without vacation or holiday. Due to such conditions, we’ve lost countless goblin farmers to easily preventable—”

“STOP!” Jareth raised his hand. “I will not be made a mockery of by this silly pseudo-Marxist charade. This scenario doesn’t even function within the terms of a—”