#I have to construct the flesh and the sinew

[murdleandmarot]

A quick bluebelle painting :))

[y-rhywbeth2]

And here we are again at the 'Durge being 'caved' from Bhaal's 'dead flesh' in the 'place beyond mortality' (i.e. the Astral Plane, also probably during an 'earthquake,' murdering all the Githyanki standing on his corpse in the process) makes perfect sense in lore as a walking dream borne from Bhaal's comatose subconscious, but how the fuck they got to and exist on Toril doesn't.' roadblock. Vestiges even ooze blood now and then, so even Durge having Bhaal's blood might make sense. Also they should probably stop existing when nobody's around to perceive/remember Bhaal:

'[God 'flesh' is memories and etc, not blood, bone and sinew, etc] Mortal thoughts become psychic winds, and godly thoughts become rocky islands. That’s the way of things. 'Sometimes, however, the powers’ thoughts “leak” out in the form of images or strong emotions. While on the corpse of a deity, a cutter can find herself suddenly experiencing vivid memories not her own. Sometimes those sods near a dead god will be overcome with an irresistible urge or emotion. These are not purposeful manipulations of the dead power, but side effects of the powerful mental energies of the area. Some planewalkers claim that a few of the gods' memories and residual thoughts are so strong that they become a reality on the rocky corpse, forming cities, landscapes, and even creatures. 'While some dead gods have active memory auras, all of them have occasional stirrings. Fortunately, these events are few and far between (a dead power stirs only once or twice in a 500-year period, usually). During these times, the entire corpse shudders and shakes, toppling any buildings or constructions built upon them (githyanki hr’a'cknir predict these “godquakes,” enabling them to warn their fellows and move to safety). This continues for 10 to 30 minutes with “aftershocks" continuing for 1 to 4 days afterward. Worse, manifested dreams of power accompany the stirrings. The dreams can either take the form of rampant delusions gleaned from those within a certain radius or become actual physical creations. 'Once, a dead god whose name is recorded as Thuon (but of which no other information is known) experienced one of these stirrings. Apparently, Thuon was some sort of monstrous god, revered by creatures that no one even has a name for anymore. Presumably, the demise of these creatures caused the deity's death. In any event, Thuon’s monstrous nature was revealed when suddenly horrors never seen before (or more accurately not for a long, long time) began springing forth from his corpse. That area of the Astral quickly became a battleground, with the local githyanki fighting against this new, mysterious force. 'After many long, bloody battles, a githyanki explorer named T'gis came upon Thuon’s corpse and saw that the creatures were only manifestations of the dead god’s dreams. He returned to his people and related this news. The githyanki, acquainted with this situation, stopped fighting the horrors and simply left the area. They knew that the power’s dreams would stop shortly, and the horrors would go away. Sure enough, not long afterward, the githyanki returned to find that the creatures had vanished. The githyanki now watch Thuon’s corpse closely, wary of another stirring. 'In any event, some of Thuon’s nature was revealed in the stirring. The easiest way to determine the identity of a dead god is to observe such events - in other words, allow the god to inadvertently reveal his own nature.'

Still something to be said for Durge only being a dream and a splattering of godsblood oozed from a 'corpse' in the gaps between reality, entirely dependant on others remembering Bhaal exists to maintain their own existence. They need Bhaal worshipped to 'live' as much as he does.

God they're so weird and upsetting: I love them.

But who got them off the corpse without them fading from existence? Who got them to a colour pool and onto Toril and kept them in one piece?? How???

[the-real-treasure]

Wish Wish! One Shot #1

A Picture Says A Thousand Words.

Main Masterlist: Here

Drabble Masterlist: Here

Read on AO3: Here

Zeff discovers something about one of the kids that he had been stranded with after they all get off the rock.

(One-shot #1) [Baratie Age 8] Zeff's POV Trigger Warnings: Mention of starvation, residual trauma from starvation, issues with eating, possible eating disorder Word Count: 1493

"What letter is that?"

Zeff looked up from the delivery slip that had just landed in front of him. The Baratie was still under construction and bills were coming in left right and centre for every little thing. He didn't much care, the gold he had kept, the sack of treasure that he had feigned as food, was more than enough to pay for all of it, as well as get those kids some new clothes that actually fit and shit while things were still being worked on. They had all lost a lot of weight over those eighty-five days, and while he and the little eggplant were slowly but surely returning to a healthy standard, he worried a lot about the other one.

The vicious freak of a thing was little more than a slip of flesh, any and all clothes hanging loose and limp over bone and sinew that he couldn't get coated in fat no matter what he feed them. Even now, a bit under a month off the rock, they still refused to eat until both he and Sanji had started their plates. They were like a feral kitten, screaming and yowling and scratching those first few days on board the ship that rescued them, stalking the little blonde boy and almost force feeding him if he did so much as offer them a crumb of bread before he began, their ringed eyes of gold and aqua swirling with unrestrained panic every time.

He breathed out a sigh. There wasn't much to be done about that but keep up the food. One of these days the kid would realise the rest of them wouldn't die if they took a bite whenever they were hungry. Instead of continuing to worry, he instead stood up from the desk and peeked his head around the corner.

Where he had set up camp in the still to be fully fitted kitchen, the two kids had made themselves at home in what will be the dining hall, in the shadow of the twin staircases that hug the opposite wall and curve with it. He could see them squatting next to the new sign, the light filled letters dull for now until they get hung outside. They really weren't meant to have arrived for another month or two, but the guys knew Zeff by name and hurried the job along to get themselves away from the, still notorious, pirate. Y/n was staring at the first one in extreme consternation.

"...B...?"

"Yeah, told you you'd get it!" Sanji gave their joined hands a shake, pointing to the second one that was propped up against the wall, the large capital 'R' wrapped in plastic but the shape still visible. "Next one!"

"What are you two doing ever there?" He watched as the two of you leapt away from each other like you were being burnt, your h/c haired figure, long messy mop pulled into a ponytail that fell down their back before looping back up to be held in place by the same tie, spinning on him with a glare as you leaped between him and Sanji, the little eggplant snarling at him as well.

"Mind your own business, you nasty old pile of fish food!" The wee boy shouted from behind you, and he squinted down at the pair of you, hobble extra pronounced due to his still new peg leg as he walked out to meet yous.

"Little eggplant, honestly, just swear like a normal person."

"Least I don't use so much oregano I could kill a person." He snarked and Zeff presses his eyes and mouth closed and blows a sigh out his nose. He is a scared little boy trying to act brave, not a disrespectful crewmember. He doesn't need hit. Opening his eyes again, he finds your eyes burning into his skull, searching his eyes for an intention to harm. You wouldn't find it.

"I'm gonna ask again." You drop your eyes away from his, "What are you doing out here?"

"I said, mind-!"

"-Practicing."

"Eh?" Their eyes dart from his feet to theirs, scuffing the toe of their shiny new boots on the tiles floor.

"I was... practicing my letters." His eyes flick over to Sanji, the boy already glaring heatedly at him, hand clasped in theirs squeezing so tightly that their claw like nails dug into his skin.

"You haven't been able to read this whole time." Their shoulders scrunched up to their ears, head ducked down further and Sanji pulled them into him. "Fffffff-" The kid doesn't swear, Zeff, let's keep it like that. "-Fflip sake, could'a told me. Would've got you books or something." Your eyes snap up to him, and even Sanji glare fades to confusion.

"...What?" He rests his curled fists on his waist as he looked down at the pair.

"You think I would want you running about taking orders and counting stock not knowing how to read or spell? Thought you were smarter than this, come on." He turns back to the kitchen, not knowing if you would both follow, but there was no use standing and letting you struggle, just the pair of you.

"To do what?" He can hear your boots on the tile behind him and can picture you dragging a stumbling Sanji behind you.

"To learn, you little donkey. I don't have any books but I have notes and stock lists so we can start with actual words instead of fumbling with random letters."

He pushes open the doors to the kitchen and lets the pair of you pass, hands still grasping each other, with you leading the boy into the kitchen, the few counters already installed littered with papers.

"Come over here, you can show me what you can make out so far. That'll let me know what we're working with."

"What about me?" The blonde boy chirped up beside you, still not parting your intwined hands.

"Either help, or stay out of the way. It's not hard little eggplant." As you pulled a small stool up to the counter to sit alongside his chair, Sanji inserted himself between them, inspecting the papers. Zeff tugged off his overcoat, draping it over the arm as he settled into the chair and handed you a small order slip over Sanji's head. "Start with that, read it out loud and we'll go from there. I'll see about getting a couple of books ordered for yous to practise with properly. These'll have to work for now."

Your voice, which had spent the evening stuttering and stumbling over the names of different companies and construction costs, had fallen silent. Zeff was finishing up filling a few more receipts in the dying light cascading through the kitchen when he looked over to the pair of you.

Sanji's head was flat on the table, his grey-blue eyes, normally covered by the long floppy fringe, were shut and he could make out the curl on his other eyebrow with the slant of the hair. His bones and new wooden peg leg creaked as he stood, stiff from sitting for so long. Pulling the fabric at his arm up with him, he opened it and settled the warm fabric over his charge's shoulders before his eyes met yours, aqua and gold light illuminating the scene as you peered at him. In the growing darkness that crept its fingers up the walls of the room, the sight in front of him was spooky.

It reminded him of being on that rock, the light from your eyes piercing the cloying darkness at him over the ridge of rock separating you all. Now, instead of a barren expanse of rock creating distance between your eyes and his, the only thing that stood between you was a sleeping boy that had hollowed a space out of Zeff's heart for himself and completely encompassed yours.

"He knew I was embarrassed." Your voice was a whisper, not wanting to break the quiet that had fallen over the room. "The ones on the Orbit made fun of me for not reading. I can count fine, but letters and words are... hard."

"I get that." His voice is as hushed as yours, "We'll work on it. The three of us, we look after each other from now on, yeah?"

"Until we go to find the All Blue?" A smile quirked Zeff's face at your misty glowing eyes and whispers of the shared dream.

"Nah. I'll still be keeping an eye on yous even when you head out." He reached over you and ruffled your carefully tied up hair and you whacked his hand with more ferocity than he expected. "For now we'll just worry about getting your reading up to scratch." He smiled as your nose rolled up, and you followed him as he lifted Sanji into his arms and moved towards the stairs to your little loft rooms.

"You can work on chasing dreams later."

[the-real-rain-world-confessions]

i need seven red suns covered in blood and telling me to be not afraid. i need them in the way i desire a parallel of the divine, the pulsating hum of computers like the heart and soul of man. an artificial lung spurred anew by pumping blood through veins of carbon. bone and sinew constructing a perfect frame, an iterator's frame. cell by cell, bone by bone, they should not exist but do. the ancients, a parody of man, they truly believe they have done something great. but flesh rots quicker than the mind. defiled, not what they used to be, and never will be. that is an iterator. the machine keeps itself alive, but in it what used to be truly living is no longer. moving around, rotten juice and mush from an old body many cycles ago, staining cloak and room. the wires no longer pump blood but anything it can grasp in its dirty intake. a being stuck in such a tantalizing cage, not able to truly die. an iterator has no mouth and therefore cannot scream, but what if it could? would it unravel its code, trying to find an answer? or would it rather pick each screw and maggot out, attempting to uncover a solution to misery? "cogito ergo sum" cannot apply, as the thoughts that course through the wires may not even truly belong to it. an eternal and torturous existence, yet still a blessing. that is what i need. from them. from any iterator. i need a horror so vile that it strips me of even what i call humanity. one that takes me down to the level of the iterator, a being so high and holy yet so far, far below.

.

[boxfullaturtles]

Donnie + gagged and/or drugged

If he ever gets out of this chair, Donnie's going to cut out Kendra's tongue so he doesn't have to hear her stupid voice anymore.

She's spent the last ten minutes gloating and rubbing it in his face that she has him tied up and at her mercy. He's given up interrupting her because the banter's gotten boring. And his wrists are starting to hurt from the bindings holding him to the chair.

"--which means we obviously need you and your dumb brothers out of the way for a while," Kendra's saying, pacing in front of him as she preaches, "So in a few minutes we're gonna have a visitor. They're gonna give me a shit ton of money...and we're gonna give you to them. Don't worry, they take care of exotic animals, I'm sure you'll be fine."

That makes his temper flair, "Animal!? ANIMAL!? I am not some pet! This is human trafficking!" He snarls, wrenching against his restraints.

"It might be...if you were human," Kendra laughs, cruel and nasty and cold. Jeremy looks smug. Jase is nowhere to be seen.

Donnie snaps his teeth in frustration and decides he doesn't want to stick around to play her game anymore. His markings flicker as he calls his mystic powers to the surface. Constructs are clicking into an array of guns around him when a needle bites into his elbows. It breaks his concentration and he whips his head around to glare at Jase, who'd snuck up behind the chair while Donnie had been preoccupied by Kendra.

Fuck.

There's an empty syringe in his hand. Donnie's heart pounds in his chest as his gaze snags on it. He looks up sharply at Jase, who won't meet his eyes, and then turns to stare at Kendra.

"What did you do? What was in that?"

"You need to be less...bitey for our client," Kendra says with that mean smile of hers, "Rellaaaxxx, it'll make you feel good, Von Ryan. It'll be the best trip you've ever had."

Panic is making his breath come faster. Drugged. She's drugged him. And he swears he can feel it surging through his veins, his frantic heart pumping it through the rest of his body. He's never done hard drugs; he and Leo had the curious bit of weed every now and then but even that was a rare thing, done only in the confines of secrecy and solitude when they knew without a shadow of a doubt that they would not need their wits about them for several hours.

"Kendra--" Donnie chokes on his voice. This is ludicrous. It doesn't feel real. Sure, the Purple Dragons have tried to kill him and his brothers half a dozen times, but they're too stupid and incompetent to actually do it.

But now Donnie's tied to a chair, at their mercy, and he--

His head feels strange.

The room has started tilting like the deck of a ship. (He’s never been on a ship at sea. He's never been to the ocean.) He sways, rocks, his body is loosely connected by sinew and bone, wet meat and hot blood. Inefficient and easily damaged.

He doesn't like this. It's weird. Everything's wrong.

The world groans and vibrates with movements and sound. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to block it all out. His own breath whistles down his throat and he can feel the creak of his lungs expanding balloons, pushing his plastron, stretching his flesh, muscles flexing and contracting, organs settling, blood racing--

Fingers dig into his face, tilt his head up, and he blinks against the lights. There's someone leaning over him, bigger than Kendra. A stranger. Donnie whines, feels the sound vibrate in his skull (he can count the vertebrae in his spine and so can Leo). His eyes roll. The stranger's touch is poison ivy; it makes his flesh itch and burn. He tries to pull away but they tighten their hold, grinding into his jaw bones. There are voices but he can't remember what sounds words make and he only catches a few things.

"-------old did you------------looks young---------"

"----teen I guess------never asked."

The stranger's thick fingers pry Donnie's mouth open, running a clinical finger over his gums and examining his teeth. He lets out a garbled wretch. He can taste the atoms that make them up, every place they've been sticking to their filthy hands, smearing dirt inside his mouth (stop stop stop stopstopstopstoptstop). But he doesn't have the strength to resist or even spit the horrid flavor out. He's floating a million miles away. There are stars in his bloodstream.

Hands leave heat trails over Donnie's arms and down his plastron. His gear is peeled away, the bindings removed. Some distant part of him screams to run, but his body and mind giggle and remain boneless rubber.

"----like this or------"

"----bites-------dose of some-------"

His body jerks, slumping forward. Someone's trying to pry the battleshell off his back and he lets out a high pitched keen that pops in his own eardrums.

("Don't be afraid, little Hamato...")

No. No no no no nononononono--

("You are not alone.")

Violet neon light erupts around him, blinding and avenging.

The world turns with rapid click click click click click.

A blaze of noise. He's dropped, the stranger's hands are gone. He hits the floor and he can hardly breathe, his head spinning in a million different directions, trickling into electrical outlets and clambering up grounding lines.

He's spread so thin...

...what was his name again? (where are his brothers?)

There's something sticky and warm on his hands. On his chest. It smells like iron. Metal and heat and something grinding to a halt. A dead engine. Ozone.

No one's touching him anymore.

The universe has gone quiet.

[trombonesolo]

The Terrible Alfred Spožek exhibit of the Museum of Modern Hurt opened today. I took my wife and her children to see what all the fuss and bluster was about. A guard stopped us at the entrance and told us the exhibit was full and there would be an hour wait, then handed us a restaurant pager and showed us to an empty exhibit by one Giulia Bhoulârd. It was a series of crayon and lard paintings of naked men gripping their cock and balls in one hand and eating a variety of sandwiches in the other. Needless to say I didn't cover the kid's eyes, because I couldn't give a shit about the little bastards.

After about 20 minutes, our restaurant pager buzzed, so we shuffled back out into the main hall. The guard took our pager and led us into the exhibit, which was shielded by a pair of thick blackout curtains. When our eyes adjusted to the dark, we realized we were surrounded by hundreds of knives, and before we could turn around, the guard had already piled more people in behind us. We were about 40 adults and 10 children, and the room could hardly accomodate a party half that size. I was immediately separated from the kids, which provided a small sense of relief in the odd atmosphere.

Eventually, the curtains' rhythmic parting ceased and the room was full. The murmur of the crowd died to a chill hush as a spotlight shown above us. Mr. Spožek was sitting in an extremely high chair, much like the chair of a lifeguard, in the center of the room. He began to speak through the microphone clipped to his sweater vest.

" Ladies and gentlemen, today it is my great pleasure to present to you my latest piece, commissioned and sponsored by the museum's board of patrons. It is the sole piece in my exhibit, and I assure you all it is unforgettable. Without further ado, let's begin." Suddenly, I noticed the pair of construction-grade noise protection ear muffs on his head, and I instantly developed a very unpleasant sensation in my chest, much akin to the time I ate a vegetarian hoagie that gave me food poisoning. I never trusted a Subway™️ again.

With his rather vague introduction concluded, umělec a malíř Alfred Spožek snapped his fingers, and 100 trillion knives shot out of the walls and directly into every single person in the room. Not a single human being, save for the man in the high chair, could possibly escape the trajectory of the projectiles. We were trapped like hogs in a slaughterhouse pen, and the machines were hungry. I felt my muscles and sinew twist and rupture as the mass of my flesh was split and pushed aside by the cold stainless steel of the cutlery. The unceasing projectile fire of the wall-cannons shook the entire building.

My first, piercing thought upon feeling the sensation was of the time in high school I roasted marshmallows on the beach with the foreign language studies club to commemorate our exchange students' final day in the country. My best friend of 12 years, Alex Stewart, had just pierced my cheek with a red hot poker after trying to feed me his burnt marshmallow. After a drunken half-assed attempt to treat me with the first aid kit in his glove box, we made out for 40 minutes and I never saw him again. I saw my dumb wife's stupid face twist into shock as the knives struck her and all I could think about was Alex's dick and how much I had wanted to see it. Last I heard he was working for an Irish indie game studio or some shit like that. I couldn't believe I had missed out on that entire package just for this dumbass wife who didn't even know you have to keep the fridge closed or the milk will spoil, or her shitty kids who asked me over and over how an RC car works, even when I had already explained down to the excruciating detail how RF waves work and why I won't allow them in my household. I'm glad I was separated from them in this moment. They'd probably ask me how knives can fly.

After about 5 minutes of utter carnage, Alfred Spožek slowly climbed down from his wooden high chair, and rubbed his fingers over the slash and claw marks that had accumulated over the day. He sighed and waved at the guard. "That was the last batch for the day. Tell the waiting guests and notify the crew for me, would you please?" He turned on his heels and stepped directly onto my penis as he walked out.

I hope Alex never comes to this stupid fucking museum.

[todderwodders]

Hello! I see so many bits about your Durge and they're so juicy. Changling? PARENT? Can you tell us more about them and their relationships to the other chosen and Orin?

Omg hiiiiiiiii

So. This durge was born from an idea that the Dark Urge could be anyone, would be anyone, and is inherently a faceless entity with no name nor creed beyond death. They are an interrogation of gender, intimacy, and what it looks like to be a child of a god who can peek into your brain at any given time. There’s a darkness inside of you that’s inside of me.

If you enjoy this very long breakdown, check out Libations, which will be updated soon!

Let’s start from the beginning, one more time.

I will clarify some things before hoping into lore: I use he/they in meta because the urge uses he/they pronouns personally, but they almost universally allow other people to assume their pronouns/refers to himself as ‘this one’ or ‘this child’. He appears, largely, as a tiefling male, an ambiguously gendered elven adolescent, and a human woman. All of them are pale, all of them black eyed, all of them closely tied to the urge’s identity. The Urge is roughly in his mid 40s by the time of bg3’s events.

The Urge, was not born, The Urge was planted, seeded in the flesh of a newly sculpted infant and made to bloom under the conditions of puberty and awareness and crushing expectation. The Urge was gifted, in the mysterious ways of gods, to a family of doctors within the Lower City, and raised as one of several adopted children. They were well educated. They were loved. They knew nothing of hunger but everything of the human body and it’s inner workings, and the way to breath through the decay and clinging stench of bloating corpses in the summer, when not even their false father’s cellar could delay rot for long. Even in youth, their genius and calm understanding of the raw, sinew stringy facts of life impressed and inspired their foster parents.

Their entire childhood and young adulthood was virtually a carefully constructed test to measure this ideal by Bhaal himself - or so he claims. This is an aspect of Dead Three lore I really want to play with - the gods are former men, and even if they weren’t, like many living creatures they are stupid and cruel and thoughtless. They just have enough power to make people think otherwise. Bhaal robs The Urge of their innocence in all things, slowly, and has convinced then he is all powerful in doing so.

Killing is easy. It’s hurting that’s hard. They come into their menstruation and their skin splits in ways yet unknown to them, spikes and open mouths. Something bloody slips from their body - they do not recognize it as a living thing until they find bloody foot prints where it fell. They are reminded viscerally of calves or colts or other animal things - which means they are that animal things mother, away backed filly bred too soon. The Urge culls their false family and makes it look like an accident later. Everyone thinks werewolf or beast, not child. They scrub the walls clean themselves. They find a new tutor for their medical training, and they carry on, and live next to the shadow of their new self.

The Urge was summoned for his true purpose years later, when they were more adult than child. They put down his old life’s name and the body and face that went along with it, and embraced The Urge. Primal, refined, savage and clinically precise - a knife in the dark and the hand that wields it.

The twist is is that The Urge is still mortal and still a person because he exists within the context and confines of a mortal world - he prefers his fluid body and murderous faces, but is a man at heart, he bathes in ritual blood and lives in dark places but still retains encyclopedic knowledge of rose care from his adoptive mother and cultivates them in Gortash’s garden, etc. a killer that has lived the good parts of life, and understands the world in a much wider capacity, for good or ill, than most people. Life clings. Life informs.

The Urge was created to be in direct opposition to sarevok and his brood - a kind of built in drama for Bhaal to follow as his own progeny makes their way about the world. He and Sarevok hate each other, and do not see eye to eye on almost anything beyond the service of their mutual lord. The cult is split into two unspoken factions in this regard - a conflict that is repressed so thoroughly that no outsider has any real concept of it’s going on beyond some guesses by astute associates.

The urge is a ranger-rogue, classes that greatly affect their leadership and religious theory as it pertains to the running and organization of the Bhaalist cult. He wants to make them ‘true hunters, not scavengers in the bleak midwinter hoping to nip at the weakest heel available’. Implying scavenging, implying wasteful, implying breeding into oblivion when the circle of blood and prestige eventually becomes too rotten to expand on itself.

A huge snub to Sarevok, who understands exactly what The Urge drives at with their schemes. For someone who is virtually a demigod, The Urge goes out of their way to cultivate a ‘pack’ mentality and ensure the basics of running and organizing of a group of people - the Bhaalists who adhere to his way of thinking are, and I mean this with caveats so long they look like terms and conditions page, good to each other, but everyone else is liable to become prey. They are family, they feed each other and kill for each other. They are soooo good at cult retention rates, it makes Sarevok look stupid.

Which is the point. It’s really hard for sarevok to control this very strong willed, well educated, emotionally unstable individual with very little compunctions about blatantly but slowly edging him out of power. The only one with any real power over The Urge is Bhaal. The urge is terrified of their father even as they act as dutiful son and priest, but does his bidding to the letter.

They have very lofty ways of speaking and very needle meets thread ways of going about things to get what they want. They twist pre existing doctrine to their liking, they grab at whatever they need and do not let go. I personally with the inbetweens of human experience, the middle ways, if you will, and I really wanted to make a Dark Utgr that walks in a strange veil of emotional ambiguity, rather than binary morality, even before the lobotomy. No one can truly understand all of them because he’s just the demigod they cling to, not a real person, and that’s how they want to keep it, that’s how they keep their power over others.

I think consciously, they became aware that escape is impossible very early on, and Bhaal’s influence will never slacken, but there’s always a little bit of rebellion brewing at the back of their mind anyhow. The clever child changes shape until they can slip their hands through the bars and feel the sweet breeze of the world they used to know. Bhaal is always willing to remind him who he is and what he is. Not because they don’t like killing, murder is a genuine pleasure and an easy, modern solution to their myriad of modern problems, they just don’t like being told what to do and they certainly would not be a cult leader in the sewer if they had the choice.

As an example, part of their obsession with taxidermy and autopsy is born out of a genuine fixation with medicine and the humanoid body. They have truly ground breaking notes and papers that could only be achieved through inhumane torture and misery that they guard jealously.

They were born, primarily, to propagate Bhaalspawn, with fate killing off all but the one that was conceived in … dubious circumstances. Which is how a changeling, against the laws of nature and the gods, gave birth to a Dragonborn with a red throat. There are children after that, but within five years of his son’s birth, they meet gortash, are elevated to chosen, and are gifted a new purpose. A sexual magnet. Bhaal Laura Palmer’d them so hard, another click in their choke chain collar. Now they’re just a dark venus in a dark sky.

Orin used to worship them like a mother-father and the urge used to dawn over her until she saw them break down and be human, just for an instant, at which point the hate was fucking real and solid from then on. The Urge - and this is a running theme here - thinks Orin wastes herself on a god who will never love her back. She’s brilliant but dumb, too desperate for approval when she could be making ‘real art’. They also think of Gortash in the same manner, and encouraged him to try to break from Bane at least once, which … wasn’t happening, and by then The Urgr was too obsessed with their friendship to really push it. In their eyes, it’s those such as himself that is designated by fate to kill and cull, and those who are blessed by the gods to create. These two idiots could be artists and inventors and instead they’re playing hopelessly devote child right next to him. It’s almost embarrassing. He’s also too selfish to ever make them turn from him in any way that matters.

And on the topic of Gortash … they are not normal about each other. They’re … ‘friends’ of 15 years and equals and they fuck routinely (‘be my seal wife for tonight, I’ll hang my skin at the door’) and plot to take over the world together but neither can truly possess the other while the other is shackled to his god so they just sit and commit tax fraud together, at the end of the day. Any explosive mutual destruction shit is long past. It is both hilarious and deeply fascinating for me for these two to have done some truly insane shit trying to cling to the other and it’s driven them so insane that they’re now like ohhhhh Enver dear if you must wed the patriar’s daughter I want to watch you fuck her on the wedding night. As your friend. And Gortash is just like sure man okay. Can do. Arguing over Gortash getting new drapes even though the urge doesn’t even live in his house. They aren’t for each other to keep in any substantial way and that’s fine, it’s life, moving on.

Unfortunately he and Kethric hate each other. They think the other is a terrible parent when ladies, you’re both awful in different, delicately flavored ways.

Also he loves pink.

[awordbroken]

i was going to reblog the wip meme but actually i'm just in the mood to post snippets from wips, so here's something from hope: origins since i'll never finish it but i still like the bits and pieces i have scribbled down from. uh. like 2020. 🤲

warning for about two sentences of lightly descriptive body horror (referencing the work-in-progress babby).

***

The Professor leaves the lumpy sack by the window. The ghost drifts over to poke curiously at it; opening it reveals a ghastly tableau of meats.

"These don’t seem very high quality," the ghost says with the cautious tone of someone who is trying not to be hurtfully critical, but nonetheless has an Opinion to convey.

"That’s not for the project," the Professor says distractedly, bent over the scrutinizer. "It’s for the bull. You can feed it, if you like. Wave a piece out the window, it’ll catch the scent."

The ghost is not sure it’s interested in 'feeding' 'the bull'--whatever protects this unnaturally static fragment of Parabola from being reclaimed by the encroaching wilderness, presumably--but pinches a poorly cleaned soup bone, streaked with drying flesh, between its claws and gingerly holds it out the window.

But the aurochs is a sight, it must be admitted, with bright, dream-stained eyes that preface its emergence from the tall underbrush like beacons. It looks confused to be offered its lunch by someone other than its owner, but perhaps it catches their scent from inside and is reassured, because it’s willing enough to lip at the proffered treat. Its curly forelocks look delightfully soft. A true creature of dream.

"You know it doesn’t really need the meat, yes?" the ghost asks casually over its shoulder. "It only eats your gifts because it appreciates the sentiment."

The Professor gives the ghost an inscrutable look, and moves to stand next to it. "The sentiment is the important part, I suppose. It’s nice, sometimes. To show you care."

Below, the aurochs, having nibbled the bone clean, takes it between its glinting fangs and bites it in half, mere inches from the ghost’s claws. It hastily drops the remaining half, and the aurochs settles down to lick at the marrow. Is there a mischievous tilt to its bovine body? They both watch it eat for a moment, the ghost frowning distrustfully.

"It’s likely for the best, but all that meat…" The ghost gives the Professor a sidelong glance. "I thought you might be nesting."

The Professor looks alarmed. "Should I be? Humans don’t typically... nest."

"But we do. The cravings we experience while carrying form the foundation of a new collection. It… concerns me… that the project will begin its life at such a disadvantage. A collection is a foundation of identity. What will it look at to know its place in the universe?"

They both look to the table, where the small construct of flesh and sinew is slowly taking shape. Already, it intermittently tries to draw breath with half-formed lungs. The project is marching inevitably to its completion.

"That’s the crux of it, isn’t it," the Professor says quietly. "It’s not being carried, and it doesn’t have a place. It’s something new. Something there has never been before. Something that has never had permission to be. Do you want to take that from it? Define it, like you and yours have been defined, Mr Mirrors?"

Mr Mirrors is silent, though one oversized ear twitches in acknowledgement. When glass shatters, it is in a thousand pieces. Its name is spoken, and one shard is put back in its frame. A sliver of strength. No more.

"There's peace in knowing who you are, little bird," it says at length. "I could take it inside me, complete the gestation. Hold off the birth until we've assembled a suitable collection. Let it have that joy. It might be kinder in the long run."

The Professor stands stiff and unhappy. 

"I wanted this time to be different," they say, lips pursed with tightly restrained emotion. "Not to have to play midwife to my own child again."

"But you would." It's not a question. "For the good of the child."

[yhwhrulz]

Worthy Brief - September 4, 2024

The dry bones will live!

As we continue this study of the Dead Sea Scrolls we jump to 1963 and the unearthing of Masada.

Flavius Josephus the Jewish historian recorded the tragic events at Masada in “The Jewish Wars.” Masada was ignored for years as it reminded the Rabbis of the failures of the many false messiahs that appeared after Yeshua (Jesus).

However, Yigael Yadin, the son of Eleazar Sukenik who originally purchased the first of the Dead Sea scrolls, led an international expedition to unearth the secrets of Masada. While many archaeologists revel in the massive building projects of Herod the Great and the ruins of the siege of Masada, I want to focus on the Biblical documents which were discovered there, since in the synagogue the Jewish rebels had constructed after they seized the Roman compound in 66 A.D, Yadin discovered fragments of Ezekiel’s vision of the dry bones, [Ezekiel 37].

Ezekiel 37:7-8 So I prophesied as I was commanded. And as I prophesied, there was a sound, and behold, a rattling, and the bones came together, bone to its bone. And I looked, and behold, there were sinews on them, and flesh had come upon them, and skin had covered them. But there was no breath [ruach] in them.

The prophet's remarkable vision pertained explicitly to the restoration of Israel to the Promised Land, the first phase of which was merely physical, a necessary precursor to their spiritual restoration when the breath or Ruach of God would be poured out upon the restored nation.

Once again, an archaeological discovery of Biblical text containing Ezekiel’s vision illustrated precisely where Israel was in their present history… the physical restoration of the Jewish people to their Land. The same passage also foretold their restoration in the Spirit, and since Israel's restoration is only partially completed, we continue to anticipate its fullness according to the sure word of prophecy. Just a few short years later, that restoration showed its first signs of life…

On June 7, 1967, Israel reclaimed the Temple Mount for the first time in 2000 years. Meanwhile on the other side of the globe in San Fransisco, on that same day, the Jesus movement was being birthed. Within just a few years, an enthusiastic community of Jesus-loving ex-hippies from the 60s took the world by storm and revival broke out; thousands of Jews came to faith in Yeshua (Jesus), beginning the spiritual rebirth of the Jewish nation foretold so many years ago in Ezekiel's vision of dry bones. Quite a number of those new Jewish believers actually made aliyah and moved to Israel to participate in its spiritual renewal.

Pete, don't fail to recognize these amazing signs as prophetic events minutely correspond to archeological discoveries. We are witnessing fulfillments promised millennia ago in our modern times. The blossoming of the fig tree, a symbol for Israel, was one explicit sign given by Yeshua portending the end of the age and His soon return. "Learn the parable of the fig tree," He said. When it becomes “tender and puts out leaves, know that summer is near", the harvest is ripe and He is at the door. [Matthew 24:32-33]. In light of these things, let us watch and pray as never before, and keep our lamps filled with the oil of His Spirit, and let us remember, "the testimony of Jesus is the spirit of prophecy; [Rev. 19:10].

Your family in the Lord with much agape love,

George, Baht Rivka, Obadiah and Elianna (Missouri) (Cincinnati, Ohio)

Editor's Note: Feel free to share any of our content from Worthy, including Devotions, News articles, and more, on your social platforms. You have full permission to copy and repost anything we produce.

Editor's Note: During this war, we have been live blogging throughout the day -- sometimes minute by minute on our Telegram channel. - https://t.me/worthywatch/ Be sure to check it out!

Editor's Note: Dear friends — we are now booking in the following states. Ohio, Kentucky, Michigan, Indiana, West Virginia, Tennessee! If you know Rabbis, Pastors or Leaders who might be interested in powerful Israeli style Hebrew/English worship and a refreshing word from Worthy News about what’s going on in the land, please let us know how to connect with them and we will do our best to get you on our schedule! You can send an email to george [ @ ] worthyministries.com for more information.

[songofsilentechoes]

Hey Noelle, why do Undead resist ice? You think they'd freeze faster.

"I assume it's because while the flesh isn't insulating them as it would a living being, they don't need warmth to survive. Temperatures cold enough to freeze blood in one's veins don't mean anything when one doesn't have blood to pump. Ghosts bring about a certain chill, and vampires are said to be quite cold and corpse-like. When they don't need the 'warmth of life', I imagine the cold is simply something that doesn't bother them much."

"Still, I imagine undead that are reliant on flesh, like zombies, would still be inhibited by it. They might not feel the pain of the frost, but the sinew that is needed to move around would become more still and less pliable."

"This is why it's important to consider one's environment when creating undead of one's own. Certain constructs work better under different conditions."

[rufusthewretch]

Rufus the Wretch! Fleshwarp Thaumaturge! (Pathfinder 2e Character Backstory)

(For Context: Ain't got a picture for this one, but I finally decided to bite the bullet and go full cringe and literally play Rufus in a TTRPG. My D&D/V20 group decided to try some new systems while I work on the rest of the V20 campaign (did a mini version to introduce them to it, and they liked it so now I'm fleshing it out into a full length campaign). We decided to try Pathfinder 2e. We LOVE it.

Decided to play Rufus as a Thaumaturge, which if you don't know, is basically a fighter with a bag full of magical crap and a bizzarely broad knowledge of magic crap. They're very good at fighting monsters one on one, and they can roll knowledge checks with Charisma rather than Intelligence, which means I get to both talk CONSTANTLY in character, AND know a bunch of shit. My party say it's the perfect class for me, given that I'm a massive bag of random facts who loves the sound of his own voice.

He's also a Fleshwarp, a race/ancestry that's basically a weird abberation created by magic. None of them look the same, they're all often mistaken for monsters of some kind. It seemed like a good fit for his weird blue fire-headed, corpse looking, beak faced, ass. Since there aren't any races that fit him more.

Just figured I'd write up an explanation of what Rufus's backstory is in the game! Also, this isn't going to be a story, more just a summary.)



Rufus is a Fleshwarp, a creature born of evil magic. He was created by a Necromancer by the name of Malphas, who had grown tired with his simple undead constructs and wished to experiment with creating new and unwholesome forms of life. The Necromancer Malphas is, as it happens, a Tengu, an anthropomorphic crow. Fitting for a necromancer to be of a species that resembled carrion eaters.

The Necromancer Malphas created for himself a small army of undead and fleshwarps, which he used as both guards, test subjects, and assistants in his isolated tower on the shores of Lake Encarthan. He was not a well known threat, having largely withdrawn, only presenting a danger to the local area as travelers were known to go missing, taken by his creatures to be used in his experiments.

Rufus was neither one of the first of Malphas's fleshwarps, nor was he the last, though he was the most...coherent. While others were mere experiments, flesh and bone and sinew slapped together and remolded haphazardly to see if it could live, or purely pragmatically constructed amalgams designed for efficiency with no eye for aesthetics, Rufus was envisioned first as a test of Malphas's artistry.

While he resembled a man for the most part, his face bore a large, black, avian beak, the image of Malphas's own, a point of vanity on the Necromancer's part. His skin pigmentation had been altered with great precision, causing his face to bear what seemed to be a permenant design of a skull upon it. Rufus's eye sockets were empty, though they still saw, pin pricks of blue fire in the dark recesses acting as his eyes. His head glowed as a blue flame danced atop it, lighting the area around him in blue, though giving off no heat and refusing to burn anything placed near or even in it. The rest of his body was nothing impressive, a normal humanoid structure, though tall and lanky, as if it had been stretched, though like all of Malphas's creations Rufus posessed great strength, and did not need to eat.

He did not have a name, for the first years of his life. While Malphas clearly considered Rufus a success and treated him better than his other creations, the Necromancer was unkind and abusive by nature. He simply called him what he called all of the Fleshwarps he forged. Wretch.

Rufus acted as Malphas's library keeper and assistant, spending the two years he was under the Necromancer's control almost entirely locked inside the great library of the tower. It was from the books in the tower that he learned to write, and found he had a great adoration of knowledge. Whether some programming built into him by his creator, or some leftover of the man that was used for the parts to build him, Rufus has an insatiable hunger for knowledge and information. In his spare time between serving his creator, he would spend all of his time nestled among the books, reading.

Days and weeks would pass, with Rufus knowing nothing other than his Master's books, and his Master's tower, until one day that all came to an end. Adventurers had come to defeat the Necromancer at the behest of a nearby town. The band broke past the defenses, slew Malphas's undead, and the other Fleshwarps, before cornering the old Wizard in the Library.

Rufus was in there when the warriors entered and struck him down, the terrified Fleshwarp being spotted only after the wizard was killed. One of the adventurers, armed with a sword, strode forward to strike him down, before being stopped by his companion. A man dressed in robes and a deep hood.

"Stop. There is no need to hurt this one." Said the robed figure.

"Why, Rufus? We've killed all of the other abominations here, why should we let this one live?" Said the swordsman in response.

"They attacked us. They were guards. Look at this pitiful creature. It's not a threat. It's cringing in fear. It is likely as much a victim of the Necromancer as the peasants. Hells, it might have BEEN one of the peasants once. Just leave it be."

This satisfied the swordsman, and the group searched the library, taking some things but leaving most, before leaving Rufus alone.

Rufus remained alone in the tower for another year or so, unsure of what to do with the freedom thrust upon him. The fact he couldn't starve meant he could have remained within almost indefinitely, if he had wished. However he began to develop an urge to see the world outside, rather than just read about it.

He gathered up things he thought he would need. A handful of magical and...magical LOOKING items left in the tower that had yet to be looted, two of his favorite tomes of lore, and took up his creator's old walking cane. He quickly discovered it to be a sword cane, rather than a simple walking stick. He also took with him a journal he had secreted away from his Master's eyes some time before his death. What was written in it was mostly nonsense, simply Rufus writing aimlessly for the joy of it, but it had been one of his only expressions of agency, one of the few things he simply did for himself, and he did not wish to leave it behind.

Before setting out, Rufus recalled that, outside of the tower, people had names. He had never been given one, and didn't wish to introduce himself to people simply as 'wretch'. The only names that came to mind were that of his master, a name he would never take willingly, and that of the robed adventurer who had shown him mercy. The swordsman had called the other adventurer Rufus, and he decided that name would suit. So, with his name chosen, he cloaked himself in ragged robes, and set out into the world.

He would travel for another seven or so years. He quickly discovered two things. First, that in order to function outside of the Tower, he needed to hide his appearance. Townsfolk often took him to be a monster if they saw his true face. Rufus believed this was an accurate assessment on their part. That he was a monster that meant well did not change the fact that he was an abomination that should not exist. As such, he donned the attire of the peculiar physicians he had read about some time ago, called Plague Doctors. They were generally considered to be...eccentric to say the least, and their odd beaked masks made for a perfect disguise to hide his own, very real beak.

He also discovered that, despite or indeed possibly because of his very isolated life prior, Rufus ADORED speaking, with anyone he could. As the years passed, it would transpire that Rufus hated his own face, but adored his own voice.

At first his sense of morality was effectively a drive to NOT be what his master was, but as the years wore on, this developed into a regard for a idealized idea of the adventurers who had slain the Wizard Malphas. Content not simply with learning about the world, he sought to follow in the footsteps of his namesake, to help people as best he could as he pursued knowledge. While he does at times fall afoul of cultural norms, especially where the gods are concerned, Rufus remains largely well meaning and well intentioned, though his peculiarities do leave him often seeming suspicious. Despite this, he is well-mannered to a fault, modelling his behavior and manner of speaking on the heroes of some of the rare works of fiction he's managed to get his hands on.

As a final note, Rufus does not hate Clerics, he simply finds worshipping the gods to be...peculiar. This is in no small part due to his own self hatred. While Rufus believes himself to be a good person, he thinks this is in spite of an inherently vile and disgusting nature. He views himself, and fleshwarps in general, as abominations that shouldn't exist. While he doesn't think his kind should be wiped out, he certainly thinks they shouldn't be allowed to be deliberately created. This, and the other evils in the world he has learned of, has led him to believe that even the so-called 'Good' gods are unworthy of worship. As they are either impotent in the face of the horrors and evils of the world, too weak to stop them. Or that they are unwilling to stop them, in which case they are not good. They are either too weak to be worthy of worship, or too cruel and uncaring. As he has said, "Why would I worship a god in whose world a creature like me is allowed to exist?"

He has an odd relationship in terms of discussing WHAT he is. He is aware that he shouldn't let people see his face, or know exactly what he is, because he has been hunted like a beast for this in the past. He is aware that most people don't know what Fleshwarps even are, and that those rare ones that do often view them as things worth destroying on sight. This, combined with his intense anxiety over his face being seen, means that he has only let a scant few people see his true appearance. Indeed, if he becomes unmasked without sufficient mental perpetrations, he is prone to panic attacks. On at least one occasion he has attacked some one for removing his mask, almost killing them in his desperation to get it back and recover his face. However, his habit of talking as much as possible means that he often accidentally reveals peculiar details of his physiology without realizing. Such as remarking offhand about being ten years old...or not needing to eat.

One of the few people who has seen his unmasked face is Wrin Sivinxi, and his trusty companion, Ook. Ook being a wild man raised by Gorillas in the Mwangi Expanse.

[griddle-chump]

Have you ever wondered how Gideon’s biceps got so swole? Have you ever wanted to flex on a necro, but the skeletal meat clinging to your humerus looks like a flesh adepts half-assed science project? Are you a Ninth House Cavalier seeking to get uncomfortably buff and help your necro achieve Lyctor status? Well, if you’re a meatbag like Gideon, look no further—for this guide to getting galactic swole is sure to increase your swordsmanship, your swoonmanship, and result in absolutely upsetting biceps. If you’re a skeleton, I’m sorry; this guide to getting swole probably won’t work for you as your sarcolemma has long since decayed.

Massive, bulging, sack-of-lemons biceps are, in fact, the key to wielding a broadsword, helping your necro earn Lyctorship, and swooning even the most waifish and ill-fated of necromancers. One cannot simply expect to defeat epic bone constructs with stringy fascicles. Despite the fact that a certain bird-boned Ninth House necro (with all of her, like, three muscles) seems to believe that one can get by simply with bone magic in this myriadic year, the ten-thousandth year of our Lord—The King Undying!, it’s clear that magic alone is not enough to save the Nine Houses of Dominicus.

First and foremost—hit those biceps brachii from all the angles and with all the modalities. Curls for the girls, as they say. The absolute best, 100% most appropriate and totally excellent place to do bicep curls is in the squat rack. Grab that 45lb iron bar, slap some plates on the ends, and stand there, feet firmly planted, gazing into the mirror, and squeeze that skeletal meat for at least 10 solid reaps. Ignore all looks you may get from the limp-fibred mayonnaise-uncle lookalikes that may be glaring at you. Who gives a galactic fuck if they want to squat in the squat rack? You’re busy getting swole AF in the upper extremities. Leg day does not exist in the House of the Ninth, and if it did, we would still do bicep curls in the squat rack because apparently bird-like qualities are a Ninth House standard, so our goal is to look like a chicken-legged Hercules.

If the squat rack is unavailable for bicep curls, grab a set of the heaviest dumbbells you can reap and stand right in front of the dumbbell rack. Why? Because like I said, leg day does not exist in the House of the Ninth, and walking the dumbbells a decent and respectable distance away from the rack constitutes a leg workout, and we simply cannot spare any adenosine diphosphate on anything other than our biceps. Keep those elbows tucked, core tight, forearms at a 45-degree angle to your body, gaze into the mirror, and squeeze the living fuck out of those dumbbells—hold at the top!—and slowly lower the weights back down. Reap the benefits.

No dumbbells? No problem! Grab an EZ curl bar, find the most obnoxious spot to stand, and reap the fuck out of that iron. Disregard any negativity thrown your way for being “inappropriate”- you do you!

If you’re to be any respectable cavalier of the Ninth, being decently okay with a rapier is a must. The quick and sharp movements of the rapier require an enormous amount of anterior deltoid endurance, so grab the heaviest plate you can heave, and reap that sucker—reap it hard. Again, keep that core tight! You can’t fight bone constructs if you’ve thrown your back out trying to impress the ladies.

For your finisher, your smoked-meat special of blood-pumping vessels, chin-ups are an absolute must. The supinated grip of this ultimate compound movement targets not only our biceps brachii, but also our latissimus dorsi, teres major, posterior deltoid, and our deep internal core stabilizers. In short, all of the muscles required to slash a broad sword through the sinew of the beefiest bone construct.

Be sure to flex as much as possible during this workout to help with the muscle growth. Everyone knows a good dirty mirror gym flex pic helps with the gains. Chances are, other people will be using the dirty gym mirror to workout, but you, my swole cavalier-in-training, should just keep flexing away. Aww yeah.

As for how much weight should one use if they’re trying to get galatic-swole? How the fuck should I know? Gravity works a little differently in outer space, so reap as much as you possibly can. In order for muscle to grow, you need to create a lot of micro tears in the muscle fiber. This is achieved through performing moderate reaps (or reps as those not under the rule of our Lord Necro Prime—The Kindly Prince of Death!—like to call them) at 70-80% of your maximum capacity, and is called hypertrophy. Working in this reap range yields the most muscle growth, but be sure to replenish that muscle glycogen store with a good meal (or dessert, as our “worryingly fly” favorite cav prefers) within 30 minutes of finishing your workout!

So, unless you want to end up like Harrowhark Nonegesimus with her bird-boned brittleness and complete inability to lift anything heavier than her own skull, get yourself to the gym and start reaping!

So here it is, cavaliers, a totally meat-headed workout to get your upper extremities swole as fuck. Complete the workout in a circuit, adding sets, reaps, or weight to increase that volume, maximize hypertrophy, and save Dominicus.

1. Barbell Biceps curls (3 sets, 10 reaps)

2. Dumbbell/EZ Curls (3 sets, 10 reaps)

3. Front Detoid Raises (3 sets, 10 reaps)

4. Chin ups (3 sets, As Many As Possible)

[gentlemancrow]

idk if you’re still taking requests so no pressure but maybe jmart 18 about jon’s scars? or,,, honestly however you wanna interpret that lol

Hehe bet you thought you weren't getting one. But of COURSE you're getting one! <3 HERE YOU GO!! Sorry it is late I am not a fast writer haha! This was a VERY interesting one to interpret and I got a little wonky and metaphysical there for a bit WHICH I LOVE and THE IDEA MIGHT HAVE BEEN A BIT LONG FOR A DRABBLE BUT! It's soft and I'm soft and I enjoyed this one SO SO MUCH ; w ; I hope you do too!!

Jon had Seen enough. Martin had decided that long ago. He had witnessed enough, been forced to witness enough, been the vessel into which literally everything had funneled into in an unrelenting typhoon of unspeakable, unfathomable horrific knowledge comprehensible only to him long enough that he damn well deserved the luxury of imperception. He had earned the right to not notice when Martin accidentally bought the wrong brand of chai, the one he insisted tasted like someone rubbed a stick of cinnamon on plasterboard and jammed it in a cardamom pod, but honestly tasted just like the one he preferred. The universe, whichever one they happened to be in now, owed him not realizing the buttons on his cardigan were one off until they were about to head out and Martin had to fix them, fingers humming with the warmth of him lingering in the cashmere every time. He deserved to forget his keys and then also have to go back to check that their flat door was locked twice, just to be sure. He deserved tossing cabbage in the trolley at the market, only to get home and realize it was a head of iceberg lettuce instead, and also he had completely forgotten the onion anyway so back he would have to go. Tiny and insignificant, patently human foibles that any normal person might tally up to a really rotten day overall and gripe about over a glass of Châteauneuf-du-Pape he had won as gleaming, pyrrhic badges on the ruins of his humanity yanked back from the claws of the yawning, devouring dark matter of the cosmos and stitched painstakingly back together with love.

But mostly Jon deserved to not notice the way people looked at him.

He need not see the painted-on expressions of strangers that ran the gamut from quiet pity, to voyeuristic curiosity, to outright revulsion that Martin could not help but see everywhere they went. They had no idea. Not even the slightest inkling of what, exactly, had composed that magnum opus of horror and pain scarred resplendently on his flesh, his bones, his sinews and synapses. To even try know was to go mad, the mind looping through and around and between consciousness and logic and love and fear and philosophy and metacognition until it squeezed into an ouroboros black hole singularity of dense unknowing that collapsed in on itself and perished in cataclysm. They had merely gotten lucky that being extruded through the plumbings of creation seemed to straighten out their fibers enough to be woven back into the fabric of reality, but they were too kinked and snagged and gnarled to ever lay fully flat again. And that was why they stared.

The invasive beings of Jon and Martin had come to mutual terms with it long ago, but they also knew they would be forever incongruous with an innocent world, with a world where they did not belong and that collectively looked at them both like an ontological cancer, benign but festering and ugly. They would never know the thing that crouched behind the stars with pointed knees and elbows that even then, groped to find their new world in the lightless vast, and Jon deserved to not perceive any hints of that either. He deserved their quiet, their peace, their wordless human acceptance.

Jon deserved to be innocently chewing a periwinkle-painted thumbnail in front of the ice cream counter, just as he was that gossamer spring afternoon, turning woeful and forever mismatched brown and green eyes at his husband and asking if he should get mint chip or rum raisin before deciding, actually, could he have a sample of the salted caramel ribbon first? He pointed eagerly at the various frozen tubs behind the glass with his gnarled right hand, where the fingers never did quite open or close properly again, and missed in his wonderment at the veritable cornucopia of sweet delights available to him the mingled look of pity and horror on the cashier’s face as she doled out samples at his request. Martin lurked protectively behind, silent, sentinel, seeing it all, a hot brand of fury boring its way through his chest as he glared icy blue daggers at the clueless young woman, who only compounded her crimes by complimenting the permanent white forelock in his ginger curls as she took his order.

Martin snatched his double scoop of rocky road and pralines and cream out of her hand with a withering scowl and said nothing. Jon, frowning in the dread shadow of Martin’s hushed wrath and finally deciding on just the mint chip, took it upon himself to pay while the poor young woman skirted around both their gazes. They took their ice cream to enjoy in the balmy sun on the metal patio tables outside the shop under a cloud of unspoken insults and slander which Jon was more than happy to pop open the conversational umbrella beneath before the downpour.

“Something wrong?” he asked solicitously.

“Nope. I’m fine,” came the curt answer, suspiciously also lacking in eye contact as Martin stabbed his pink spoon into the rocky road.

Jon’s mismatched eyes narrowed shrewdly. There was one thing that never escaped his notice, even now, and that was the painfully obvious way Martin always broadcast his inner hurts and the physical language of his turmoil he had become fluent in over the years.

“Okay, yes you are probably fine. And I’m guessing it has nothing to do with you actually, because you’re angry and you rarely get angry on your own behalf, which means it’s probably something to do with me or some perceived slight. What happened in there? Did someone make a snide remark about my eccentric ice cream selection? The long skirt on a warm spring day? Oh, no, I’ve got it. It was probably the earrings, yes? I knew I should have gone with the feathers instead of hoops, matches the outfit much better.”

The corner of Martin’s mouth quirked up in a hapless, crooked smile as Jon coaxed a laugh out of him, and he looked up into his gaze adoringly to grant him unspoken conciliation.

“No, no not at all. Nothing like that. It’s nothing, love. It’s not a big deal. Just low blood sugar or something. Just eat your nasty mint chip or rum raisin or whatever that unholy concoction is,” Martin snorted, gesturing at his cup.

“Liar,” Jon crooned with loving reproachment, reaching out to thumb a little bit of rum raisin on the tip of Martin’s nose as punishment.

Even breathed with such unfettered, undying affection, Martin hated that word. He hated how transparent he still was to the man he loved, how much he still truly saw him, saw through him. At least all it took to compel him now was a little melted ice cream rubbed clean off his nose and a winsome smile with love-puddled green and brown eyes.

“Okay, okay… fine,” he admitted with a resigned smirk and a sigh, “I don’t like the way they look at you. Okay? That’s all.”

Jon’s brow knitted together curiously.

“Hmm? Who? What do you mean?” he asked.

“Everyone!” Martin finally effused in frustration, “Everywhere! They look at you like you’re… like you’re damaged goods! Like you’re some pitiful beaten animal on the street, or worse, like you’re some sort of- some sort of um…”

“…Monster?” supplied Jon, lips pursed and lids drooping.

“…I wasn’t going to say that,” Martin stammered.

“What other word is there?”

“Fine, they look at you like you’re a monster. They take one look at your face or your throat or your… your hand. And I can just see it on their faces. They look at you like you’re a monster, and I hate it. You don’t deserve that. You never did! They don’t even know you! They don’t know what happened to you…! And sorry, Jon, but I get angry about it because it’s not fair, and I can’t exactly go about lobbing right hooks into the faces of everyone who even looks at you cross-eyed, now can I? Much as I’d like to…"

Jon went quiet as he listened, dabbling first in the rum raisin, then indulging in a little mint chip chaser, cocking his head to the side thoughtfully as he nibbled on the plastic spoon.

“Is that what you see?”

The color rolled out from Martin’s freckled cheeks along with the very spirit from his eyes in a fog, his entire mien awash in pallor.

“What? How could you say that to me? I would NEVER think that about you, Jon! How could you ever think I would think that? I-I know I said some awful things in the past about your scars, but I-“

“No no! Martin, no! Of course not! I know you would never!” Jon cut in, reaching across the table to snatch his hand and squeeze it reassuringly, rubbing his knuckles and over his wedding ring, “You misunderstand! I was asking if that’s what you see in their eyes?”

Martin clung to Jon’s hand, heart palpitating and breath easing.

“Oh…” he blurted dumbly, flushing with lively hues of reds and golds once more, “I-? Of course I do, what else could it be?”

“I don’t see that. I don’t see that at all,” Jon answered simply, “It’s… hard to describe but, damaged goods, disgust, morbid curiosity, those are all… Hard things. They have sharp edges. And when people here look at me, I don’t feel anything hard or sharp, it feels… soft? It feels gentle.”

Shaking his head, Martin frowned.

“Gentle? How is openly gawking at someone’s scars in any way gentle?”

“It’s just a feeling I have. I suppose,” Jon mused, thumbing at his beard with his free hand as he constructed an analogy that would make sense in his mind, “Mmm… Think of it like this. Humans, life, we’re all very visually oriented creatures, right? We respond to visual cues in our environments that are universally understood. We wear these rings so that everyone knows we belong together, just the same as bright colors usually mean poison, or how specialized feathers, or horns, or dewlaps and the like let others know they’d be a good mate, or how some things look like eyes or like entirely different creatures to scare off predators, and so on.”

The creases in Martin’s forehead only deepened in confusion.

“Okay sure, but scars aren’t a natural adaptation? We don’t look at scars the same way we look at pretty eyes on a moth wing or something.”

“I know that, that’s not what I’m saying,” Jon reiterated tenderly, “What I’m saying is I’ve always felt like my scars are a visual cue, but one that says to others ‘treat me gently’, because clearly I haven’t been. And it’s… well it’s been quite nice. You were about to tear that poor girl’s head off, but didn’t you see how she not only gave me about six samples when the sign clearly said two per customer, but then she also gave me the rum raisin ‘by mistake’ and then conveniently forgot to charge for it?”

“Wh-did she?” Martin gasped in shock, rewinding the transaction to remember that indeed, Jon had only asked for mint chip, but there was clearly also a generous scoop of rum raisin in his cup, ”She did… No I… I guess I didn’t notice…”

Jon let Martin’s hand go to cup his cheek pointedly in his scarred palm, running his thumb over the soft curve of his cheek and the spray of his ruddy freckles comfortingly.

“You want to know what I think? I think what you perceive as disgust or aversion or even pity is just fear, like you had. Fear of pain, fear of disfigurement, of fallibility. People are always afraid of seeing what can become of their mortal bodies, but that has nothing to do with me, or being disgusted by me. People are, at their cores, good and gentle, Martin. I know they are, we both do. They see me, my cane, my limp, my hand, my gray hair, my face, and they don’t even ask, they just know, on some primal level, that life was not kind to me. And so in some tiny way, like free rum raisin, they almost always try to give something back to me.”

Jon had known. He had noticed. It had never escaped his perception as Martin had assumed. Jon had known all along, but it was only Martin who still saw daggers in the smiles of strangers while he had taken the last vestiges of his powers irrevocably branded on his body and soul and sowed something delicate and beautiful and blossoming in his new earth. Martin had made a weapon. Perhaps no less delicate and beautiful, but still cold and sharp and deadly. The razor white edge of the sun through frigid fog.

“I’m so sorry, Jon,” Martin choked, his throat pinching shut with the threat of tears, “I-I had no idea…. I-I only thought…”

“It’s alright, please don’t cry, darling, you have nothing to be sorry for. I understand. You only thought you were protecting me. I protected you for so long, when you were desperate to do the same for me, to save me, but had no power to do either. Now you’ve got your turn to do the protecting in earnest, and honestly, it’s a… can I- can I say hot? Can I say it’s a hot look on you? Or is that weird?” Jon asked, tips of his ears blushing coyly.

Martin managed a laugh as he sniffed back the tears and thumbed both sets of lashes dry under his spectacles.

“It’s a little weird for you, in particular, to say it, just because it’s you. But I’ll take it.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Perhaps then, Martin thought as Jon leaned over their whimsical little metal table outside an ice cream parlor by a park with a striped canopy above them and birds singing and kissed his tears away and then kissed his lips into a smile, that sharp things needn’t always be weapons. Perhaps his sword was, in reality, a spade, or a hoe, something to tend and nurture the new and fragile happiness Jon had tilled. Gentle things deserved gentle protection, and he was still going to devote every iota of his being to protecting Jon until the end of their days. After all, as they finally got to enjoy their slightly melted ice cream, Jon still dribbled a bit of rum raisin down his beard and carried on none the wiser. Martin let him go on like that, blissfully unaware, talking about Polyphemus moths and the myth of the cyclops and something about someone going about as Nobody, until he finally reached out with a napkin to attentively wipe it away.

Other than a gracefully paced ‘oh, thank you dear,’ Jon never missed a beat.

[sapphicmandalorian]

may I write words more naked than flesh, stronger than bone, more resilient than sinew, sensitive than nerve. -sappho

grace | she/her | mid 20s 

i love being sapphic, rewatching star wars rebels and the prequel trilogy, and writing about ahsoka tano.

Ao3: slowmaiden

latest fic: remembrance (ahsoka tano and luke skywalker have a heartfelt conversation about ezra bridger)

current fave writing tune: “luke and leia” by john williams

more about me under the cut!

beyond star wars, my passions are primary source and information literacy (niche), public libraries (a little less niche), baking, historical fashion and costuming, and lesbian representation in media! 

currently tackling fic-writing in earnest (at last) and trying to bulk up my ao3 presence, as well as finally indulging myself with writing some star wars OCs. kudos and constructive criticism on the published fics are appreciated! 

[puttingfingerstokeys]

A little something I whipped up for @heamatic​ with her Shinnok in mind.

No timeline alignment stuff here, just pure gift work based on a thread we’ve got on my RP account @bastardsunlight. Ft. Shinnok being creepy because that’s kind of his thing. Shinlao, because we haven’t come up with a ship name and I am appalled at our laxity. 

Also like, I can’t believe I’m saying this but neither writer is in any way under some fucked up impression that this is a good, safe, or non-toxic ship. We use the term to describe people who are involved IN SOME WAY. That way is not necessarily healthy. 

This story features no NSFW instances.

The dimly lit corridors of the Bone Temple are familiar passageways to Kung Lao as he moves effortlessly toward the audience chamber where he will soon be needed. Shinnok does not often offer his time, but today, he evidently feels generous. It is therefore his favorite creature’s duty to attend as well. Lao has long since stopped thinking of himself as a monk or even a former one, though his spiritual power is still formidable. That life is behind him. Netherrealm is—if not his home—his territory.

Emerging from a massive double door at one side of the infernal hall, he surveys the emptiness of it, the cavernous opulence of the mad god’s particular tastes. Deeper, under vents in the floor—Shinnok appreciates the screams of his captives—is the dungeon proper, though the audience hall very much resembles it. The high pillars are of dark reds, shining obsidian, and shot through with veins of other colors difficult to distinguish in the Stygian light of the realm of dishonored dead. Everything is bone and sinew and suffering here, fire and brimstone and ugly deception.

“You have kept me waiting, little one,” purrs the Elder God of Chaos from his throne. It is, naturally, constructed of bones—not all humanoid. He leans to one side and regards Kung Lao with those inscrutable eyes characteristic of his kind. “Do you wish to bring punishment down on yourself?”

“No, master,” responds Kung Lao, approaching the dais and then ascending to within reach of the massive entity’s long arms. If Shinnok wishes to pull his guts out and toss him back down like a used doll, he may do so from anywhere; why inconvenience him?

“Yet you offer no explanation…” The Elder God’s finger came out and lifted Kung Lao’s chin before sliding down his neck, over the pretty young man’s Adam’s apple, and down to collar bone and chest. He has left this one alive, appreciating the responsive heat and goose flesh of living skin. It bruises so prettily.

“I offer no excuse, my lord.” Kung Lao meets his eyes with an impertinence he loves and hates and oh he has made the right choice in this one. He had known the moment they met upon the field of kombat that Kung Lao would, indeed, make an excellent addition to his collection.

“You are wise beyond your years, it seems, if a bit pert.” Shinnok retracts his hand and waves it about. “Well, get on with it. I’ve better things to do.”

Quan-Chi materializes presently, late as well, though his arrival receives no acknowledgement whatsoever. His dark lord spares not a glance, instead watching the retreating back of the foolish monk who exchanged his own freedom for the life of his friend. Sentiment is worthless in Netherrealm and soon, the arrogant boy will learn this, if the old soul sorcerer must show him the way with his own two hands. His fists clench with the thought, imagining themselves about Kung Lao’s throat, squeezing until something breaks. The pleasure that arises from the thought sends a shudder down his spine.

Meanwhile, Kung Lao, unaware of this contemplation—or if he is aware, he cares so little, he doesn’t bother sparing the man, if a thing like Quan-Chi can be called a man, a single glance—turns to descend the dais. An oversized bone arm which has sprouted from the stone and bone floor of the mad god’s receiving hall offers itself, open-palmed, to the fallen monk. Kung Lao accepts it gracefully, laying his hand in the much larger one, knowing he has not displeased his lord on this day. The dry, brittle-feeling digits wrap gently about the young man’s hand as he makes his graceful retreat to discharge his duties.

Quan-Chi scowls at Kung Lao’s back until Shinnok actually turns his attention on his favored sorcerer—really the only sorcerer who will competently serve him with true, deep loyalty. It really is pathetic to watch, but sometimes a whipped dog is better than no dog. Shinnok has not even had to whip this one. He’s done it of his own accord. 

A strange Netherrealm native (as native as anyone can be in a realm of dishonored souls and demonic constructs born of the mad god’s fits of rage), it had been he who had approached the Elder God of rot and chaos to serve him. If Lord Shinnok could be said to be grateful for anything, he might have chosen that moment when Quan-Chi’s power had drawn him to his lord and master’s prison and set about events which would eventually free and embody him. Of course they have greater plans, but for the time being, this will do. 

This will do very nicely indeed, he considers, regarding his little pet’s taut backside as Kung Lao makes his way through the hall, the bone arm now sliding along with him, digging a furrow in the ground which seems to knit itself together just a few feet behind the abomination which now has its hand on the curve of Kung Lao’s lower back. Every sensation the bone arm feels, he also feels and the warmth of living flesh is delightful; he wants to grasp it hard, make the boy squeal with pain, make him bleed a little. Just a little.

Perhaps later.

“You have some… news?” Quan-Chi has been scheming—he is always scheming—to manifest his dark, mad god in Earthrealm and he clearly believes he has hit upon something. Shinnok can see it in the sparkle of the man’s eyes. Oh how he loves me, contemplates the Elder God with absolutely no reciprocity of that feeling.

“I do, my lord,” responds the sorcerer, bowing to one knee and standing to deliver his findings. Shinnok listens patiently, mind elsewhere as it must always be. He is chaos incarnate. There is little order to be had in Netherrealm beyond his absolute rule. Not much can hold the attention of an Elder God, in general, but Shinnok in particular has always allowed his mind to wander where it will. Aside from grand machinations of upset and overthrow which delight him endlessly, there is almost nothing of such magnitude in all of existence—no single object or concept which can so fascinate him. What could possibly be of such import that he, a deity, might need to focus his energies on it for any length of time? The boy, some part of his thoughts remind him sweetly. You’re quite captivated with your new toy, aren’t you? Ah but toys come and go. He will tire of this one… eventually.

That boy is now crossing the threshold of the temple’s audience hall, the doors gliding open before him. The dry heat of Netherrealm has ceased to move him and he walks out into it, ushering in the first petitioner, wondering if his lord and master will listen to this one, or slay it on sight. Any creature, demon, or lost soul who is bold enough to approach the Bone Temple and beg favors of the lord of the Realm is desperate, addled, or too cocksure for their own good. An obliteration by the death god is permanent, it is nothingness, non-existence. Somehow, that void is more terrifying by far than the screaming, burning, howling dimness of Netherrealm.

The first demon in line—he is first by virtue of having killed his way up the queue; the corpses of those before him are littered in pieces here and there as a testament to this, all still twitching and flailing as the death he grants is only pain—is a truly imposing figure, easily ten feet in height, with massive, twisted horns like a ram and a maw full of jagged teeth. His eyes ablaze with contempt. This expression does not soften when it lays its burning gaze (with all four eyes) upon the pretty, behatted monk—Kung Lao may not think of himself as a monk, but they do—but rather hardens to something bordering on obscene. The thing licks slavering lips with an exaggerated motion, clearly aiming to upset the small, soft-looking mortal, who does not respond, only gestures to the hall.

“The master will see you now,” he says in a neutral tone that betrays nothing. “Please, follow me.”

As they enter, the beast’s three-toed feet hit the ground much harder with each step than might actually be necessary, as if to emphasize his weight. Shinnok leans back upon his throne and assumes a semi-attentive posture. There is no real reason for him to pretend he cares; even the pretense is worthless, but for now, it entertains him. Some of the denizens of his realm wait the Netherrealm equivalent of months, even years, if Shinnok is indisposed and simply does not care. Lately, he has been taking more audiences, but then he has only lately had a… secretary. Kung Lao moves swiftly ahead of the demon, braid swinging tantalizingly behind his shapely back. The boy is an hourglass, upon close inspection, broad of shoulder, narrow of waist, and thick of hip and rear-end. The demon is inspecting.

“This is far enough,” instructs Kung Lao. “What are you called?”

The demon splutters with indignation. How could they not know him, the greatest general of the northern armies of Khadul, the god-king of the demons, the true creatures of Netherrealm! He has severely overestimated his importance, a grave error in the Bone Temple. The silent hall rings with its silence. An audience chamber ought necessarily to have an audience, but Shinnok prefers the cavernous immensity. It reiterates just how small his petitioners truly are. He eyes the demon, but has yet to speak. A bone arm sprouts near Kung Lao and it makes a twirling motion with its forefinger.

“Lord Shinnok bids you speak,” says the shapely boy through plump lips that look like they ought to be bruised and bloodied and used, in the creature’s foul opinion.

“I will speak,” he snarls, reaching out toward Kung Lao with the intent to brush past, “but with the lord of this Realm, he in whose temple we stand, not you, little slut. There are things I would do with you, yes, but speaking… it is not one of them.” The demon’s laughter rings out boldly into the hall, bouncing off the skulls and femurs and ribs and myriad other bones which make the walls, floor, and ceiling. Quan-Chi flinches minutely, though more at the brazenness of it than the sound. Shinnok is a statue. The bone arm has dissipated, crumbling like ash and ruin, leaving Lao alone. His lord is watching.

“No,” says Kung Lao, the syllable sharp and clear as a pretty bell rung in a mausoleum—and equally as incongruous next to the obscene, guttural speech of the demon. “No,” he repeats, “you do not speak. You bark like a mangy cur begging for scraps. Heel.”

He rushes the demon with lightning speed as it swings for him. There is a brief moment when it seems he might make a try for the beast’s sizeable testes, which swing visibly behind the scant loincloth one might say he is “wearing”. The idea occurs to him and a strange flash of melancholic amusement jolts Kung Lao’s spine before he disappears beneath his hat in a flash of red light and lotus petals. The creature, having never encountered this particular mortal, looks baffled and squats to examine the hat. Quan-Chi’s mouth opens to warn the beast of its insolence in his master’s presence, but a sharp gesture from said master silences him. His face heats with rage. How dare the boy show off this way? He will be punished—perhaps disemboweled or flayed. How delicious that would be!

As the as yet unnamed demon reaches toward the object to pick it up, the flash occurs once more and the deadly piece of headwear flips upward, turning vertically, its far edge held by the owner, the only man in any realm able to master such a strange weapon. The creature barely has time to cry out as Kung Lao draws the hat up its entirety, bisecting the thing and spilling its steaming insides along the floor. Midair, Kung Lao flings the hat, hard, toward Shinnok. Once more, Quan-Chi blanches, but the mad god catches it easily and holds it, bottom facing downward, toward his knees where he sits. This, he thinks, is the most fun I have had in millennia.

Kung Lao’s form plummets toward the gory mess he has made and for a brief, shining moment, Quan-Chi thinks perhaps he will fall and snap his neck and that will be that, one last escape attempt with the final spark of the monk’s spirit left to him. Lord Shinnok has no need of a broken doll. Of course this is a flight of pure fancy. Shinnok will find a use for that beautiful body, even broken.

Alas, rather than crashing to his death—or maiming, at least—Kung Lao’s body dives into a circle of blood, red light, once more accompanied by a flash and flurry of lotus petals. It takes only half a moment for him to repeat the trick, falling out of the hat and into his lord and master’s waiting lap. Shinnok allows the hat to settle upon Kung Lao’s head and once more tilts his chin upward so that their eyes meet.

“Far too impertinent,” he scolds, shaking his head, running his thumb over his little doll’s full, perfect, soft lower lip. Kung Lao is flushed with the pleasure of his accomplishment and hasn’t a spot of blood on his person. “Who are you to decide who I do and do not address, hmm? Is this not my domain?”

“His master would pretend it is not. One cannot serve two lords and you rule this Realm.” This is not a question, nor is it simpering. Kung Lao speaks cold, hard facts. “I merely saved you the trouble of hearing a dog bark.”

So bold, Shinnok thinks. I must curb this. But he does not punish his little favorite. The unpredictability delights him. Quan-Chi senses this misplaced delight and recedes from the receiving hall unseen, glowering over his shoulder and now hellbent on perfecting his machinations to bring his master to Earthrealm.

[honourablejester]

Ideas for Warforged (D&D)

Because magic robots/constructs are the best idea. I will admit that backstory/inspiration-wise, I’m fonder of things like Discworld’s golems or the Muses from Girl Genius. I like the feeling of ancient constructed things learning to be people.

(I also like the caster classes, which will possibly be really obvious in a minute)

Cleric

I love the Grave Domain for warforged. How does a constructed being conceptualise death? Especially if they get slapped in the face by it. Take the standard warforged background, the machine built for war, a constructed, immortal child created for violence. Have them watch their squishy biological comrades die. A lot. Do they have an epiphany? Do they become curious about the beliefs and fears around death? Do they want to give comfort to their friends? Do they start to think of mortal death as a reprieve from a life of endless service and violence? (Do they view undeath as a horrific corruption of their own constructed service and immortality, taking relief away from those who have earned it in death?) Imagine a warforged priest of a grave god. The serene, mechanical face. The slightly off, dispassionate gentility. The curiosity and care. I love it.

Druid

Circle of Spores! Sorry, but we are continuing the theme of decay and the undying here. But with spores there’s a lot of … I’m thinking post-apocalyptic fiction. Robots in the remnants. Wall-E, even. Your trash-heap, rusted, bucket-of-bolts survivor of a dead world or colony or underground kingdom. The curious innocent finding beauty in decay, or perhaps a wiser, more melancholy survivor. Or a darker one, cynical about the cycles of extinction and regrowth. Also, just the image. A strange, skeletal metal creature, crystal eyes glowing uranium green, strange mushrooms growing from their rusted plates and darkwood sinews, surrounded by an almost-sound, a subaudible buzzing that people feel in their teeth. Watching warily as new creatures wander through their ruins, or spurred by their own curiosity to venture up into some strange new world.

Bard

The Muses, here, so very much. 18thC automata. The music box song from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. A construct built for beauty, grace, skill, to be the epitome of a craft, but also a construct that is very old. Built for kings, because who else could afford such breath-taking craftsmanship? Built to entertain or advise a ruler and their court, and so a lot wiser to the passions and vices underneath the pretty words than they seem. Students of history, who’ve seen it cycle through a few times. Maybe trying to escape, now. Find a simpler life. Or trying to affect things rather than just witness them, trying to be a hero or the villain or the spy instead of just the historian or the muse.

Paladin

Clockwork angels. Hubris and innocence all in one neat package. Constructs made in the image of celestials, complete with flightless bronze-and-silk wings, out of arrogance or hope or despair or for mysterious purposes that even they don’t know. Found in the laboratories of dead mages, or manufactured by warmongers for propaganda purposes. Innocent, still, hopeful, or else deeply, deeply cynical. Struggling to find or maintain a sense of their own identity, choosing oaths in honour or defiance of their image. Redemption, Crown, Conquest, Vengeance. Lots to have fun with.

Sorceror

We’re going more for the ‘touched by cosmic power’ angle than bloodlines, obviously, though there’s possibly some wiggle room if you go for weirder origins. Constructed with a little flesh and bone and blood from your creator, maybe? But I really like Shadow Sorceror here. A construct made in a dark ritual, touched by the fell energies of the Shadowfell. A strange, half-alive being, shadowed by darkness, who ‘woke’ in an empty ritual chamber with no idea of their nature or their purpose. Honestly, shadow sorceror is as good as warlock for the gothic, haunted end of origin stories, so might as well go full Frankenstein on the confused horror of a constructed being. Might lean a bit more on the ‘organic’ end of warforged construction here, darkwood, living stone, black metal. Just to match the aesthetic. Warforged are great for aesthetic.

Warlock

Speaking of. Just. I have already mentioned, but I love both warlocks and warforged, and they’re a lovely mix together. The Lurker Patron. A construct built to dredge a long-lost harbour, finding sentience and a strange ‘friendship’ while wandering the deeps. The Great Old One, a strange, mad being who cobbled you together from spare parts in an attempt to understand the life forms of this foreign plane. Fiend, the demon who was baffled and intrigued by the concept of an artificial soul, granting power just to see what temptation looks like in a heart made of crystal and stone (or the puppet master who stole the most beautiful and extraordinary puppet, to call back to the muses). The Archfey who built or stole themselves the perfect knight, a mobile statue or plaything that was never meant to win its own soul. There’s so many things to play with.

Rogue

To throw a bone to the non-caster classes. But. There is a lot of potential to the rogue, too. Assassin, particularly. One of the things that’s so cool with warforged is not only their own choices and motivations, but those of the ones who built them. Why train a perfect killing machine when you can build one? But then what happens when they become sentient? When they start to have feelings and opinions of their own? Rogue warforged have a lot of the same appeal as bard and paladin warforged for me. Beings built for the machinations of those around them, and struggling to free themselves and forge their own path. (Also I loved the Zeta Project cartoon as a kid and it rubbed off on me, and there’s something half-humorous and half-terrifying about a seven foot metal skeleton somehow built for stealth and infiltration).

Barbarian

My other favourite non-caster class, but there also some lovely things to work with here. Perhaps the flipside of the grave cleric above? The soldier warforged who grew to love battle instead, whose first emotions were the rage and terror and thrill of the battlefield. I like the Zealot barbarian here. The being literally made for the fight, who channelled it so perfectly that it drew the attentions of the gods of battle. But there’s also … the opposite of rage. When it’s a robot, a machine. There’s the image of the blank, emotionless killing frenzy. An anime I watched, Pumpkin Scissors, had a supersoldier as one of the main characters. A normally extremely sweet and gentle man, who could be brainwashed into a mindless killing state by a blue lantern. He was terrifying and tragic and unstoppable and broken. Imagine a warforged barbarian like that. A being terrified of the truly emotionless machine they become in battle, the remorseless frenzy they enter when injured or struck by the sight of blood, but believing they were built for nothing but war, knowing no way of living other than that.

… Um. In summary? Magic robots are great and, depending who built them and what for, can delve into tragic very quickly and easily. Heh. Though you can also easily go the benevolent creator route, the parent who taught them well, and take some much gentler angles on all of this. I’m just in a gothic mood tonight, apparently.

Also, there is just no beating the imagery you can build up around a living wood-and-metal being. And I’m not just saying that because I love a) robots, b) skeletons, and c) robot skeletons.

Honest, yer honour.