#im actually now gearing up to run Blades in the Dark with some friends!!

[lunariarts]

If a ttrpg has options for the player characters to be furries, they will succeed. Homebrew can solve any problem, but baked in RAW furry rules are your ticket to fame.

Cyberpunk: Absolute horseshit no one is running around as one those handsome little robot sergal fuckers

Lancer: Deergirl piloting a mech, fuck with me

Monster of the Week: Become Cryptid

DnD: Pirate all of their content, become tabaxi, come aarakocra, become harengon, become leonin

Monopoly: play it in your fursuit you had to pass go fifteen fucking times to afford I guess

SO fucking true. My enjoyment of a setting is hands in hands with how many weird lil fellas there are running around. Like one of my sonas is a kobold I'm not immune to furrybait ttrpgs

Also can you actually play as a deergirl in Lancer because uhhh uhmmm 👉👈

[dvrkprinces]

&&. ( ronan ludolf ) was just spotted in amsterdam. rumor has it ( he ) is a ( 36 ) year old ( alpha werewolf ) who resembles ( michael fassbender ). ( he ) has been said to be ( courageous & patient ) but also quite ( judgmental & quiet ). with all the chaos surrounding the magical underworld, he has chosen to align with ( no one / the russian bratva ). ( he ) is currently serving as ( a contracted assassin ). hopefully the city doesn’t devour them whole.

— ❝ i’ve had to burn your kingdom down.❞

( hi there, kiwi here! this is the official intro for my ‘quiet killer’, ronan ludolf. he’s a loyal assassin to the valentina family and i would LOVE to build some more relationships for his character. please let me know if you’d like to plot; i’m available through both the group’s discord and tumblr ims. ♡ )

name: ronan aleksander ludolf

birthplace: krakow, poland

birthday: october 30th | scorpio

scent: earthy, quiet forest woods on a fresh autumn day, spirited bergamot, amber, vanilla + ( signature cologne: sauvage - dior )

current familial / relationship status: ronan was one of five children, until vengeful vampires killed his peasant family in a hate crime. now, as an adult, ronan tends to push people away out of fear of growing too close and failing them the same way he failed his own family as a child. he is yet to meet his mate, but is more than content to serve as a makeshift family for the valentinas / the russian bratva, whom he considers close enough to act as surrogate siblings / children in lieu of his own family.

appearance: 6′4″ and rather large. ronan came from a family of tall individuals, and he was no different; though he has no family to date these days, he suspects he looks rather like what his father did at his age. tall, broad, and muscular, from years of training as an assassin. with a shock of soft-toned red hair and a beard to match, ronan finds that his auburn hair is one of his most defining features. 

ronan has his assassin gear, which is comprised of dark clothing and cloaks, and then he has casual-wear–traditionally collared shirts and slacks, or sometimes sweaters and more relaxed pants.

personality: resourceful, strong, narrow-minded, secretive, protective, loyal, resilient.

biography: ronan was the second eldest in a family of five children, born to two loving, attentive parents in the heart of krakow, poland. his family was quite poor, and having five children (two boys and three girls) likely didn’t help matters financially, but ronan never felt he lacked anything emotionally from the care in which his family devoted to one another. His father was a german jewish immigrant, his mother a polish native, and so ronan grew up understanding polish and german fluently.

when ronan was roughly twelve years old, his family uprooted and moved to russia in what his parents claimed was a search of opportunities for the entire family. in actuality, ronan’s parents were running from debt they’d run up with some of the more…unsavory members of poland’s slums. for a few years, everything remained as was. the children learned russian, attending school and immersing themselves in the culture of the soviet union. but then, one cold november night when he was fifteen, ronan walked home after studying with a group of friends from school and found that there had been forced entry into his home. sprawled about his house were the mangled and drained bodies of his family–his mother and father, elder brother, and younger sisters. racing through their small quarters, ronan found that not a single member of his family had survived the brutal attack; instead, ronan’s wolf senses and a calling card left behind led him to the realization that the act was a hate crime committed by a group of vampires who were displeased with the ludolfs’ presence in eastern europe. for the first time in his young life, ronan felt hatred that day. and it burned bright inside of him, festering into something truly awful and deadly.

ronan allowed himself to be carved into a lethal blade then. school became less of a priority for him; as he searched the streets for anyone–anyone at all–who would help him before he risked being taken away by the state, he stumbled from proper society deep into an assassin’s guild. the guild was run by a fellow werewolf alpha who deemed the plight of vampires a plague among supernatural society and vowed to rid the world of their kind. ronan allowed himself to be seduced into their ranks, learning the skills necessary to hone his body and mind with the instincts of a natural-born killer. he wouldn’t just kill the vampires responsible for annihilating his family--no, ronan would kill all of them. ronan operated mostly independently, commissioning himself for jobs all while hunting down the vampires who were responsible for his family’s untimely death.

and then...well, then the russian bratva happened. and though ronan didn’t have a family, he had something similar to it. the human-led russian mafia opened its dark, brooding arms for ronan, embracing him. the bratva had their own grief with supernaturals and gangs wreaking havoc in europe, and they promised to shelter and protect ronan if he gave them something in return: his loyalty. hardened by the grief inside of him, ronan allowed himself to be hardened into something lethal and tangible; a weapon honed by anger and regret. he blames himself for being absent when his family was taken and murdered. since then, ronan has distanced himself from society in general; he doesn’t wish to form tight-knit bonds with anyone, lest the deep rooted fear inside of him that warns he’ll continue to lose those he cares for festers into something tangible.

as ronan grew from a young man into a hardened adult, he became involved in the crooked, corrupt world of espionage for the russian mob. specifically, as an assassin. the only limitations ronan had in his job, he argued with himself, was children; he wouldn’t touch children. but the corrupt, power-hungry rulers of the world who toyed with people and kept them in squalor and poverty? his specialty was vampires; he hunted them for sport, for purpose, for retribution. those monsters, he believed firmly, deserved his blade. and by the time ronan was twenty-five, ten years after the deaths of his family, he had tracked down every last vampire responsible for his family’s unjust homicides, and killed them all. he was known through the the seedy underbelly of europe’s supernatural community as the white wolf; a mob-affiliated alpha assassin who left no paper trail and slipped in smooth as night to finish the job left to him.

ronan views the russian mafia as his family; he’s fiercely loyal to them for taking him in and allowing him to sow the seeds of vengeance against his family’s killers. as such, he witnessed much of the rise of the current pakhan, viktor valentina, as well as witnessed his younger sister, tatiana valentina, grow up right before his very eyes. ronan considers them the closest thing to a family he has to date. though he misses his own family fiercely and with everything inside of him, he’s made his own makeshift home out of the family he serves and the people he works with.

with the supernatural tensions present in amsterdam, ronan plans on aligning himself with no one but the protection of the family he has sworn himself to. he cares very little for the politics employed by the human or angelic governments and considers himself more of an anarchist than anything else. he hasn’t found his mate yet, and at this point, ronan doesn’t have much hope for himself. there’s not an omega in the world who would bear to look at him, scarred and damaged as he is.

after all: who could ever learn to love a beast?

wanted connections: i’d be super down for some enemies especially; bring me all the vampire vs. werewolf angst ! i really enjoy getting to play ronan in a supernatural setting, so if you’ve got ideas for frenemies, contracts / clients, enemies, etc. please let me know !!

[ronanvvludolf]

&&. word has it ( ronan ludolf ) was just spotted around the city. ( he ) is a ( 36 ) year old affiliated with ( the russian mafia ). it’s been said that ( he ) resembles ( michael fassbender ). ( he ) has been said to be ( resourceful & strong ) but also quite ( narrow-minded & secretive ). ( he ) is currently serving as ( an assassin ).

— ❝ i’ve had to burn your kingdom down.❞

( hi there, kiwi here! this is the official intro for my ‘quiet killer’, ronan ludolf. he’s a loyal assassin to the russian mafia and i would LOVE to build some more relationships for his character. please let me know if you’d like to plot; i’m available through both the group’s discord and tumblr ims. ♡ )

name: ronan aleksander ludolf

birthplace: krakow, poland

birthday: october 30th | thirty-six | scorpio

scent: pine and cedarwood

appearance: 6′4″ and rather large. ronan came from a family of tall individuals, and he was no different; though he has no family to date these days, he suspects he looks rather like what his father did at his age. tall, broad, and muscular, from years of training as an assassin. with a shock of soft-toned red hair and a beard to match, ronan finds that his auburn hair is one of his most defining features, particularly among so many dark-and-blonde-haired russians.

ronan has his assassin gear, which is comprised of dark clothing and cloaks, and then he has casualwear--traditionally collared shirts and slacks, or sometimes sweaters and more relaxed pants. 

personality: resourceful, strong, narrow-minded, secretive, protective, loyal, resilient.

biography: ronan was the second eldest in a family of five children, born to two loving, attentive parents in the heart of krakow, poland. his family was quite poor, and having five children (two boys and three girls) likely didn’t help matters financially, but ronan never felt he lacked anything emotionally from the care in which his family devoted to one another. His father was a german jewish immigrant, his mother a polish native, and so Ronan grew up understanding polish and german fluently.

when ronan was roughly twelve years old, his family uprooted and moved to russia in what his parents claimed was a search of opportunities for the entire family. in actuality, ronan’s parents were running from debt they’d run up with some of the more…unsavory members of poland’s slums. For a few years, everything remained as was. the children learned russian, attending school and immersing themselves in the culture of the soviet union. but then, one cold november night when he was fifteen, ronan walked home after studying with a group of friends from school and found that there had been forced entry into his home. sprawled about his house were the mangled bodies of his family–his mother and father, elder brother, and younger sisters. racing through their small quarters, ronan found that not a single member of his family had survived the brutal attack; instead, an infamous gang in poland had left behind their calling card. apparently, his parents’ debt had caught up with them, and the gang had come to collect.

ronan allowed himself to be carved into a lethal blade then. school became less of a priority for him; as he searched the streets for anyone--anyone at all--who would help him before he risked being taken away by the state, he stumbled from entanglement in one mob to another. the russian mafia opened its dark, brooding arms for ronan, embracing him. the russian mafia had their own grief with poland’s aggressive gang messing around in their territory, and they promised to shelter and protect ronan if he gave them something in return: his loyalty. hardened by the grief inside of him, ronan allowed himself to be hardened into something lethal and tangible; a weapon honed by anger and regret. he blames himself for being absent when his family was taken and murdered. since then, ronan has distanced himself from society in general; he doesn’t wish to form tight-knit bonds with anyone, lest the deep rooted fear inside of him that warns he’ll continue to lose those he cares for festers into something tangible.

as ronan grew from a boy into an adult, he became involved in the crooked, corrupt world of espionage for the russian mob. specifically, as an assassin. the only limitations ronan had in his job, he argued with himself, was children; he wouldn’t touch children. but the corrupt, power-hungry rulers of the world who toyed with people and kept them in squalor and poverty? those, he believed firmly, deserved his blade. and by the time ronan was twenty-five, ten years after the deaths of his family, he had tracked down every last person responsible for his family’s unjust homicides, and killed them all. he was known through the mafia and the seedy underbelly of organized crime life as the white wolf; a mob-affiliated assassin who left no paper trail and slipped in smooth as night to finish the job left to him.

ronan views the russian mafia as his family; he’s fiercely loyal to them for taking him in and allowing him to sow the seeds of vengeance against his family’s killers. as such, he witnessed much of the rise of the current pakhan, viktor valentina, as well as witnessed his younger siblings, dimitri and tatiana valentina, grow up right before his very eyes. ronan considers them his family; them, and his fellow assassin, one celine dahl. though he misses his family fiercely and with everything inside of him, he’s made his own makeshift family out of the family he serves and the people he works with.

knowing only fierce loyalty and devotion for much of his life, ronan wasn’t equipped for what would happen to him one fateful day, when he was making a routine stop at the bank for the valentinas when the establishment was robbed. instinctively, ronan flew and shielded a young, petrified girl next to him when things got angry and out of hand...and from that day onwards, it was fate. meeting emmaline bennet, even in such a traumatic way, sealed their fates; it was like looking into someone’s eyes and knowing they were made for you. ronan and emmaline fell into a whirlwind romance, consumed by passion, desire, and love.

after the two had been secretly seeing one another on and off for a time, emmaline informed him she was pregnant. what should have been the happiest moment of ronan’s life soon became a dark cloud of turbulence and uncertainty; he received a series of photos and incriminating, disguised messages in the mail one day, showing emmaline exiting the apartment she shared with her elder brother, christian (a detective for the nypd), and expertly mapping out both her and her brother’s daily schedules. someone had it out for ronan; someone who wanted to pay a blood debt for something he had likely done on behalf of the russian mafia years before.

terrified for his mate and their unborn child, ronan convinced emmaline that the only way to protect herself and her brother was to hide, at least until he could find out who was threatening them; with the help of the russian mafia and the assistance of the pakhan himself, ronan was able to fake emmaline’s death, and the two consequently fled to russia, where ronan worked at the mafia’s headquarters and kept emmaline safe from the clutches of new york city. until, that is, news reached him months later that the revered and precious russian mafia princess, tatiana valentina, had finally returned home, after being entangled in the irish mafia for so long.

now, ronan and emmaline have recently arrived back in new york city and are staying at the russian mafia’s base in brooklyn. ronan is hellbent on finding out who has threatened the life of his mate and his child, and--no matter the consequences or the price--someone is going to pay.

[dreams-for-the-apoplectic]

something i will probably never finish but like enough that im posting it anyway

Bro leans in the doorway of your room, 

(and you see him from your periphery: boxers loose on bony hips and patterned with hearts, no shirt, can of orange soda in hand with shades neatly tucked on the bridge of a strikingly crooked nose) 

and tells you, 

(over the sound of the fans, three, overclocked on some jury-rigged upgrades he threw together last year when the air conditioner went schizo cherry apeshit, just like now, again, for the second time this week spewing out mad fumes all grey-black and choked from its old, dusty vents) 

that you and he should just ollie outie of this midsummer popsicle stand and move somewhere the sun don’t actively to attempt murder you in the crispiest degree, KFC style. 

And you jokingly tell him sure, fuck it, anything is better than clawing my way up Fire Death Concrete Mountain aka Texas Mordor, clutching this bitchin’ ring of power and muttering all manner of rapturous obscenities and salacious innuendos for my precious. Sign me up Major Douchenozzle, I’ll shimmy my fine ass up this fabled air-conditioned igloo any day. 

A week later and you've packed your shit, grabbed your ticket, and are hopping the next flight to Vermont.

--

(four hours, fifty-one minutes, seven seconds, and Bro practically jumps off the plane hyperventilating when you touch down. you didn’t know how much he hated flying. you’ve never been on a plane before; if you didn’t know better, you’d think he hasn’t either. and if you quirk an eyebrow just over the rim of your aviators, and the side of your mouth makes a confused downturn for a second or two at just how fucking strange that that is, well, that was just a trick of the light, and the light is a dirty liar.)

He and you stick out like sore thumbs here 

(with Bro in a crumpled white polo and asshole jeans and dumb fucking anime shades, one hand in his pockets with an impassive, calculating kind of expression that you’re more used to than the panic, checking through tabs on Complete Bullshit for god knows what reason; you in the same shirt you wore yesterday, hair a meticulously crafted unkempt, posture slouching something awful as you bop right the fuck along to some sicknasty new bassline Jade dropped on you the night before, thinking of ways to remix it into this new beat you’ve been working on) 

among a crowd of home-grown New England faces haughty white and upturned and staring down at you and Bro like some trash that just rolled in from Doesn't Fucking Belong Here, USA.

(the luggage belt is moving so slow, so, so slow, it’s like watching a retarded crippled snail attempt a marathon against the goddamn salt shaker, and you wish you could just shake off the lingering, disdainful stares these people give the two of you, and you can, and you do)

(except you don't.)

--

You’re rolling through Montpelier an hour later, crammed up in the shotgun seat of an old, dirty, piece of shit pickup Bro apparently had nesting in the airport storage unit,

(it’s a rust hulk straight out of the early eighties, all torn up vinyl and engine rattling, with tacky, outdated bumper stickers on the back and a pine air freshener that does nothing to mask the smell of two-decade old cigarettes, and somehow you aren’t surprised this is his car because it is exactly how you imagined it.)

(you want to ask why he had a car in bumfuck, vermont and not in houston. you want to ask him if he even knows how to drive, but you hold your tongue nice and pretty and settle into the split vinyl seat cover)

moving past the city limits and into the countryside, over the state border and into New York. You give Bro the ‘what the fuck are we doing out here, man, is this the setup for a horror movie or some shit, because I’m not down to being the unwilling accomplice to some new echelon of fucked up smuppet snuff’ look, your fingers tapping in 4-4 on the dash, not really nervous so much as habitual. 

(he ruffles your hair with a smirking, mean kind of half-smile, all teeth and teasing and unnatural. you swat at him uselessly.)

And then the road is quiet, and the sky is misting grey. It’s all evergreen and shrubbery and dark soil here, and small towns by clear water: fishing ponds, creeks and rivers, and more wildlife roaming these secondhand backroads than you’ve ever seen in Texas. It starts to rain a bit, ghosting against the glass, and over the soft creak of the windshield wipers Bro asks you if you wanna put on some music, little man, heard you were working on a new track and can I get a sneak peak at that delirious biznasty? And fuck yeah you have, even if it isn’t quite done yet, and you plop your phone on the dashboard, and the drive is comfortable, 

(and you cannot shake this feeling that something is wrong.)

---

It isn’t an apartment, it’s a house in the goddamn woods; no, a fucking mansion in the goddamn woods, the design of it ripped straight from the personal architectural smutjournel of Frank Lloyd Wright, complete with white-foam waterfall and neo-American art deco pretension. Your mouth hangs open, and you know, you just fucking know a fly is about to buzz in that shit and set up a cozy little cottage, but you don’t care. This is straight wack, man.

(it looks vaguely familiar too, like something nostalgic stuck in your mental gears, cracked and rusted from disuse; something you saw once, a long time ago, in a place you can’t quite remember.)

Bro gestures you along along the concrete path, and you tell him no, wait, put the fucking brakes on Anime Goldilocks, what the fuck are we doing here, because this sure as shit can’t be where we’re living now, and I don’t wanna piss off the three bears. He pinches the bridge of his nose, and tells you in that deep southern mumble of his that, shit, kid, did you expect we’d just take a plane and end up in the same shitty apartment? And of course you didn’t

(even though you kind of did)

because that would be ridiculous, but-- you don’t know, you’ve been sharing a seven-hundred square foot living space with him for the past fifteen years. How are you supposed to react to a fucking mansion that just suddenly up and settled before you on delicate foundational popliteals and a stark-white concrete strapless all alluring and sultry? Just stand there stone-faced morose and stoic and fuck, that is exactly what you should be doing, isn’t it, because that was what he taught you, to

(stitch up the cuts slowly, careful with the needle and don’t fucking rush it, lil’ bro, even if they’re shallow you can’t just take it and jab that shit in, and for the love of god you gotta work on your dodge game, how the fuck do you expect not to get your ass served up sunnyside in a real fight?)

(̶̥̘͗̉̾̊͝ ̷̦̙̦͌͊̒́̍͛̀̀̈́́̚͘̕̚n̷̨̜̲͓̹̪͎̒͋́̊̎̐̍͌̆͘͝ͅͅͅ ̸̤̥̏́̌̑͒̈́̿́̃

̶̧̝͎̝͔͔̣̬͈̗̥̠̔̀͌̈́͆̒̇̋̋́̈́͐̈̚͝ ̷̡̛͕͚̰͉̦̼̤͍̘̝̹̮̩̈́̑̇̃̔͝͠ơ̷̡̧͔̘͇̖̫͉̳̳͖͇̰̻͗͛̿̋̾̏͘͝ ̸̨̧͈̱̫̩̲̦̭͖̿̃́̔͛̓̓͌̌͗̍̔̾͜ͅ

̷̢̮̮̠̠̬̖̙͈͋̍͛͆̔̈́̓̌̂̀͌̽͝͠ ̸̨̗̯̓͐̿̇͂͊̓́́̄̃̚͘͜͜.̷̲̙͓̮̮̬͓̈́̋͂͒̓̃͘͠͠)̸̧̖̪̦̥̪͙̫͍͙̩̻̺̩̒̌̈́͒͋͝ͅ

̵̬̯̪͛̓̈́̎̒́̂

It isn’t our house anyway, he says, 

(and your mind slams on the brakes so hard you think you might flip this shit frontways, slam the roof on that motherfucker into the burning asphalt and skid off the edge of this brutal synapse fuckup.)

(you can’t remember what you were thinking. it’s blurry, and forgotten, and everything is normal again)

moving forward in long, atypical strides that you scramble to follow. The rain is still coming down, you realize, in a softer drizzle that dampens your shirt. Friend of mine lives here.

Holy shit, he has friends?

Yes, I have friends, you little shit, and you flinch when you realize you must have said that out loud. His arms flex, shoulder blades audibly popping with the contraction of muscle, and you flinch, and nothing happens. Her name is Roxy.

And shit, you guess that’s all there really is to say on the matter, because he doesn’t provide any further explanation and you sure as hell don’t ask. You duck under the porch roof and he raps a fat bar of knuckles on the door.

---

Roxy isn’t anything like you expect. 

You don’t know what you were expecting, actually, considering you’ve only just heard about her, but she is perky and kind-eyed and so fucking sincere that the saccharine emotional font of exuberant delight that straight up sparkles from her is making you real uncomfortable.

She hugged you.

She hugged you and you liked it.  

(and she hugged Bro too, made his spine go all weird fucking c-shaped wrongness as she crushes him against her chest, calls him Dirk like she fucking owns him.)

You’re ushered in as she turns on heel and sways away with a tipsy strut, sauced and sauntering and high stilettos tapping on the dark hardwood. She tells you to drop your things by the door, she can set each of you up with a room in a bit, and Dirk, honey, we have got so much catching up to do, I haven’ seen you and the lil’ guy in ages, and god yer both so fuckin’ tall I forgot about that bit,

(christ on the cross, she can speak at a mile a minute, accent a thickly laced New York staccato that matches Texas about as close to the intersection of nil and fuckall as you can get without running head-on into traffic.)

and Dirky, Dirkle, Dirk-a-licious, oh my god come here right now, I gotta show you this badass shit I‘ve been working on, it’s fuckin’ lit as hell, it has got switches and gizmos and all of the cool techy shit I know you swoon over, and you need to check out this code I wrote because you know I’m not about to trust anyone else to parse my sick lines, so come ooooooooooooon and there they go, Bro dragged stiff as cardboard across the floor by the hem of his fucking shirt. He gives you a side-eye look that says crosses somewhere between  ‘don’t go anywhere, I’ll be right back’ and ‘help me.’

You shrug and flip him off and leave him to his fate. His death glare could kill a lesser man.

(holy shit.)

And then, quite suddenly, you are alone.

It’s not quiet, you notice - just a more subtle murmur than the scream of a city, made emptier without Roxy to fill up the room. Slow, churning movement below signals the languid rush of water as it tumbles beneath the floorboards and off the cliffside. Some woodland creature skitters in wet dirt beyond the window pane, which filters in ghost-grey light and shakes a bit when a particularly heavy set of raindrops hit. 

You shuffle about awkwardly, and glance around for a second,

(the interior is lavishly decorated, you notice. posh white starkness for fineass digs. sir asshole the stone swamp wizard sits plainly in the foyer, nested in arcane robes of the dimwitted and tacky. a cat is nuzzled up at the foot of some kind of bronzed vacuum. the whole place smells like perfume and vodka. it’s kind of intoxicating.)

before deciding the panicked, lingering gaze is kind of stupid, and waiting for Bro to come back like a pining factory girl in the nineteen-forties writing sappy missives to the brave boys in Okinawa was lame as shit, so you flop down on the couch, all loose, gangly puberty limbs and feigned indifference and the muted light of your phone glaring back at you. You pull open a pesterchum window, shoot a few messages to Harley,

(some off-the-cuff rap cooked slow on these sick fires, like just put some whip cream and a goddamn cherry on that shit and call it a sunday. you also make sure to attach a file for the new sbahj comic you’ve been working on. you’ve lovingly dubbed the new arc ‘the spaztastic furry hatesex maelstrom,’ and you hope know she’ll love it.)

and Egbert,

(and you admit, muddled up in tangents and similes that take forever just to get to the goddamn point, that you actually took his recommendation and stuck through the bitterly tasteless cinema assassination of the week. you even wrote a shitty review for it on one of your ironically maintained critic blogs, and send him a link)

(you won’t admit you laughed at groundhog day. he will never let you live it down. never.)

and Lalonde,

(who is on, surprisingly, because you know she has school right now, and fuck if the flighty broad doesn’t take every swat of the educational ass whooping with a snide, condescending seriousness that has a way of getting just under your skin. she wants to go to Harvard, or Cornell, or Oxford, because she is smarter than you, and John, and maybe not Jade but damn is she close.)

(she doesn’t respond either, though, so you cast the thought away and send her some custom made memes deep fried in a hundred layers of crystalline  jpeg illegibility and wait, fuck, holy shit)

and then someone is standing over you, peering with an appraising interest, like they’re looking at a slab of beef splayed out dumb on the chopping block. And you don’t flinch, you really don’t, even though you’re about five seconds away from flipping this shit backwards and kicking dust up as you run for the hills. 

You can tell this girl is nasty. She is stygian lips and white-blonde hair and violet eyes that politely inform you that this is indeed the fucking slaughterhouse, that you guessed it right, and you’re about to get served up with a side of collard greens and barbecue sauce.

So of course the first words out of your mouth are 'sup, Rose.

Wait, wh

(you see her past the glow of a verdant sun, because even a double universe killing superbomb can't outshine her. cascading orange silk stitch wrapped in a star-shimmering supernova of violet eyes and pallid skin. it's like a goddamn angel come from the heaven; a smirk beneath the hood and fire in her belly. she is the fucking sun now, and nothing can even fucking compare.)

at.

(what the fuck.)

What the fuck.

(what the actual fuck dude.)

Do I know you? Her voice is just dripping contempt.

And you don't fucking know her. She isn't here. Rose is a billion lightyears off in the gay space commune, deep encoded digital vaporware that went out of style twelve fucking years ago. She is a string of chat logs and embarrassing Fruedian slips that didn't happen, no, Rose, you don't have undercover mother-lust. 

And she is here.

You've never even seen her picture, but you know. You know far beneath the skin, something deeper than blood or bone or anything else seething something above that spiritual core. You know on a fucked kind of metaphysical. It's self-evident. It cannot help but make itself true.

Uh.

Shit.

Shit dude fucking say something. She’s just standing there, and the downward curvature of those lips is about to break out of the spatial plane and into some hyper paranoid fourth dimension. You guess she has a right to be weary. Your gangly ass is seated firmly in her territory.

[jaws330]

Fatalis but with actual edits this time

Allot easier to read and with real grammar. cheers Sonya for the help. im not a writer by nature so it helps when people with actual talent help out.

________________________________________________________________

Four men sit apart from each other in the hull of a ship. Wood creaks as the ship pushes through another swell. The men haven’t spoken much to each other since preparing for the trip 2 mornings ago. Jackson scans the room, checking on his team members. Marlow and Ike hadn’t moved in hours, and Hans was still focusing on his meditation. The group’s Palico, Thellow, had brought down fish from the upper decks and encouraged everyone to eat, but no one seemed interested. The journey was worse than many of the hunts the men had been on.

Jackson and Ike had been hunting wyverns and dragons all over the continent for the last 10 years. Marlow was new. That isn’t to say he was without skill. Jackson and Ike had seen the kid rip a diablos tail clean off with 5 good slice shots that Ike had bet strongly he wouldn’t be able to make. Marlow had a keen eye, but he didn’t have the same willpower the others did. Jackson was worried he wouldn’t be up to par for this hunt.

He didn’t have the greatest tact when talking to others, so after a while of contemplation he moves over to Ike and sits next to him on the floor. The floor creaks more as Jackson’s weight sinks upon it. The damp wood smell doesn’t help to lift the mood either, not that any of them seem to notice. The simple act of moving towards the prey they had been asked to hunt was harder than any of them expected.

Jackson leans his head over to Ike and whispers, “Could you check on Marlow? I don’t think he’s doing well.”

Ike looks back at Jackson. His eyes are red, and the skin under them sags. He must have been sobbing, though Jackson hadn’t noticed. Ike gulps, taking a deep breath. He looks like he’s about to say something but can’t find the words. He exhales in despair. The two look to Marlow, who has lifted his head at the new activity. Marlow stares back at his two seniors, and within a few moments he breaks down and cries. Ike rubs his eyes and starts to compose himself. Standing up, he walks to Marlow and places his arm around his shoulders, comforting him as best he can.

Hans hasn’t said anything, or even noticed the energy in the room change. He had been meditating for the last day. The Wyverians had it easy. They could focus their minds and remain steeled even in the worst situations. The rest of the men were only human and could not help but dread the impossible task they had been given.

The monster they had been sent to kill was growing more and more confident in its prowess. Everyday it seemed like its area of influence was growing. More towns burnt to the ground. More bodies are incinerated while running for their lives. And more hunters burnt, killed, or mutilated beyond recognition. The impression of glory from the hunt had faded from most hunters’ minds. All that was left was the depression of knowing that those who face this creature have forfeited their lives.

Jackson was nervous, but had expected a fight like this to come at some point in his career. Ike too, but with less acceptance than Jackson. Marlow had only been an official hunter for 2 years. He showed lots of potential but still had a lot to live for.

Despite showing strong will in the face of an impossible task, there was still something burning in the back of Jackson’s mind. He’d had a song stuck in his head for the last few days since news of the hunt came in. He was surprised by the persistence of his own brain to keep the song running at every waking moment. It was not even a good song. It was only ever sung by kids playing games, and Jackson couldn’t remember the last time he had even heard it sung out loud. But in stressful situations the mind can fixate on things. Even things you might not want it to.

_______________________________________________________________

A few hours later the boat comes up to port.

“Finally,” says Ike.

He is the first and by far the most eager to get off the boat. Jackson thought that getting on with things is probably the best move for everyone. Waiting just let the mind stew and overall wasn’t going to help the hunt at all. Hans jumps to shore first and ties down the boat. The others prepare their gear and pass it over one by one. The metal boxes of explosives, ammo, and blades were an awkward shape, and heavy for most. Ike jumps on shore as well to help Hans with carrying everything, while Jackson and Marlow pass the boxes across. They take extra care not to slip on the wet stone of the port. It had been sleeting here for some time and most of the stone and wood was covered in moss. Losing a weapon box here would be not only embarrassing, but tragic. Even losing one weapon would put a huge burden on the rest of the hunt and create even more risks which none of the men wanted to take.

Once the supplies were on shore, they set about looking for a place to stay the night. The clouds around Schrade were always thick and dark ever since the beast moved in. The port town at the base of the mountain where they had just landed was a hollow shell of what it used to be. The town’s name had been burned away with its people. Now all that was left was a few streets of wooden shacks, either black from ash and fire or bleached white from the sea and time. The streets were an eroded cobble path of wet granite. Grass and small plants were pushing past the stone to reach what little sunlight they could. The group venture into town, already knowing the location of the one building that would give them some refuge for the night.

At the end of the main street there is a well-built stone and oak building used by the town's fire brigade. Suitably, it was the only building that was not totally destroyed by fire. The hunter’s guild had already scouted out the area to make the journey a little easier, and after the two nights of sailing the old abandoned building seems like a luxury hotel. The metal door swings open easily and inside there are a few old sleeping mats, a pile of firewood, and a pile of paper scraps. The group pauses after seeing the rather basic and dismal interior. Marlow let out a disappointed exhale. He had been looking forward to a real bed. Hans enters first and moves to the right-hand side of the building. He drops his bag and swings around, clapping his hands together.

“All right boys, who’s getting the fire started?”

Thellow crawls in between the hunter’s legs and runs for a pile of old drapes. Rain was not a Palicos friend and scraps of cloth were a nice reprieve. Marlow, Ike, and Jackson let out the first smile in days. They needed someone like Hans to take the reins for a bit.

After about an hour, Marlow got the fire burning. Thellow had set up a camping grill and was preparing some fish for the group. Hans was thumbing through the scraps of paper while Ike was writing on one.

"Would you like to write one too, Jackson?” Hans called out from across the fire.

Jackson was going through the metal boxes they had brought, checking everything was where it was meant to be. Some hunters hated how neurotic he got when preparing. However, his policy of triple checking before a hunt meant that no one hunting with Jackson had ever worried about running out of medicine or drugs during the expedition. He had checked the weapons and med packs 12 times since packing.

Hans called out again. “ Jackson, are you going to add your own letter or not?”

Finally out of his packing trance, Jackson perkshis head up and quickly replies: “Yes, yes, of course I’ll write something. Let me just finish and I’ll come over”.

Hans rolls his eyes while Ike snickers. They are both a bit sick of this behavior.

Ike stands up and says: “I think this will do. If anything happens then at least people will know how cool I was.”

Hans addsIkes paper to the stack. For a hunt of this caliber it was tradition for hunters to leave a note at base camp. Each hunter would write a bit about themselves and why they were going after the monster they were. The notes would pile up at base camp until someone slayed the monster. Only the winning person or team could take the papers home with them. A symbolic way of carrying the efforts of other hunters with them. Even if hunters did not lose their lives, it was still a way of showing respect to others in the field. After another 3 minutes Jackson walks over and takes the pen from Ike. He doesn’t want to write anything too sentimental or emotional, but considering the monster they were going to be fighting he tried his best.

Thellow was just about done with the first part of dinner. Grilled fish with lemon and mashed potato. It was basic, but filling. Marlow and Ike take the first servings. Hans would eat a small amount after everyone was done. He wasn’t the one hunting. Hans was a Recorder and Handler for the hunt. It was his job to get the hunters safely to the monster and gather what information he could during the fight.

Jackson puts his pen down, satisfied with the drivel about the honor of such a hunt. The song rattling in his head didn’t help. He writes and scratches out a few parts, and the whole thing looked a bit fake. He moves to get the next serving of dinner while Hans starts reading Jackson’s note.

While Jackson fills his mouth with potato mash, Hans snaps at him. “Is this really what you want to leave? You’re not doing any of these other notes a service by mixing your crap in with them.”

He gestures to the pile of 50 or so papers piled on a supply crate. Ike and Marlow both look at Jackson, assuming he had written something dumb about it being bullshit that they even need to do this.

Jackson finishes his bite and swallows. “I did really try, but I couldn’t find it, ya know? It’s kinda hard to think about good things for a hunt that we are being forced into.”

Ike and Marlow look back to Hans, expecting a well formed argument, but are surprised when he nods in agreement. “I know it's not the best situation, but every day more and more towns are destroyed. The guild can’t get hunters up here on short notice like this.”

Marlow cut in. “If we don’t kill it now then the next closest town is Minegarde. Hans is right, we should knock on its front door rather than let it come knock on ours.”

The port town of Minegarde was usually safe and had a high quantity of hunters ready to take on whatever challenged them. But stories of an elder dragon, Darhen Mohran, had drawn most of the town’s skill away to the east.

Ike lets out a laugh and says: “Bet you don’t think the Mohran hunt is overrated now, Jackson.”

Jackson laughs as well, and sheepishly replies. “Yeah, I kinda wish I had gone with the rest. Probably would have been a livelier trip.”

Marlow offers a small smile, and Hans chuckles.

Jackson looks back to Hans. “Would you like to write it for me then? You seem to be better with words than me.”

Hans shakes his head. “No, this will be fine. I’ll make sure anyone who comes here will know of the great Jackson who thought he had better things to do than hunt an elder dragon.”

It was the first time the 4 men had laughed together in days. The joy a simple meal and good conversation can bring to people’s hearts is astounding.

The dinner bolsters the spirit of the party far more than expected, and when armor and skill are stripped away, spirit is all that’s left. An hour later the group settles in for the night. They all try to get a good night’s sleep before tomorrow’s hunt. Jackson still struggles to sleep, the song running in his head like a ticking clock. He starts wondering if maybe the song was written by the monster itself, to drive hunters mad before they even fight it.

Eventually, he dozed off.

_______________________________________________________________

Morning came, but day did not.

The sky is still dark, and only a few rays of sun pierce the black clouds that loom over Schrade. They are unnatural. They weren’t from a volcano or storm, but they linger around the mountain where castle Schrade once stood. The castle had been destroyed hundreds of years ago. The town was a settlement that tried to take advantage of the castle’s well-built infrastructure. They had planned to turn castle Schrade into a hunting hub for the mountain ranges above Minegarde. It would have made a great port town between the western coast and northern town of Pokke. It would have, if it wasn’t for the last living resident of castle Schrade.

The group spends the early morning getting ready. Hans helps the men get their heavy armor on, while Thellow sorts the packs to make sure everyone has the correct equipment at the ready. Jackson gets his armor on first, a nice well-made set from a Brachidios. He had a reputation at the guild for his humorous encounter with it, so he figured it was a good choice of armor to wear for a hunt like this. The Brachadios’ obsidian hide was naturally fire resistant, and considering his role at the front line, it fit both thematically and practically. He cleans his gun lance one last time while Ike and Marlow are getting ready.

Ike is a jack of all trades, and enjoys hunting with whatever he finds most suitable for each hunt. For this particular hunt, he chooses the matte red Rathalos armor and a greatsword. He figures that to kill a big monster he would need a big sword.

Marlow was to provide cover fire and support from behind with his bow gun. He doesn’t usually bring more than a few kinds of ammunition. He likes to keep it simple. As long as he can shoot the monster down then it will be fine. For this hunt, he makes sure to bring a wide variety of ammunition. Poison, electrical, and a few sticky bomb shots.

Each of the hunters have prepared an appropriate kit for a fight of this caliber.

Finally, the crew is ready to depart. Hans would be climbing the neighboring mountain to observe and record the encounter. From there he will be able to tell if the crew is successful, and if anyone or anything survives the fight.

Hans grabs Jackson’s hand and looks straight into his eyes. "Don’t let this beast be your end, Jackson. I will see all of you when you return. Legends of the guild.”

The three wave goodbye as Hans starts his own journey. Jackson feels hollow, as he watches the only natural leader among them walk away. Now it's his turn to lead. The group doesn’t waste any time, and sets out climbing the mountain to castle Schrade.

The sides of the mountain area trial in and of themselves. They have narrow walkways, coated in damp mud with a sheer drop on one side. For a gun lance user like Jackson this was a bit of a joke. He has Ike and Marlow go before him for the first part of the climb, and even tiesa rope around his waist just in case the weight of the cannon mounted on his back becomes too much. Eventually the path comes to an end at a plateau. The area is larger than expected at this height. The group could easily fight the beast here if it were not for the rusted graveyard of old weapons.

Before them was 20 or so old worn out Dragonators. A metal spear several meters in length, designed to drill straight into the hide of even the toughest monster. They were a devastating defense the guild had been employing since its early years and they were a staple of elder dragon defense operations. This pile must be hundreds of years old. It’s hard to tell if the previous occupants of castle Schrade used this as a nearby dump or if they had been hauled to the castle and simply forgotten. Regardless, the team climb over with care, making sure not to slip and fall onto one of the vicious spikes.

The real climb was just beginning. A sheer cliff with only a few outcrops for about 100 meters. Jackson and Ike tie their equipment to a rope and would hoist it up after they had made it to the top. They aren’t the best mountain climbers, but they make do. At about halfway up Jackson pulls his head up into a cave that can easily fit the party.

He calls out to the crew. “We should take a rest here.”

After entering the cave the group line up and, together, pull the weapons and Thellow up the cliff into the small cave. The Palico makes sure the knots stay firm and the weapons don't rock too much while ascending.

Ike makes a snide remark while huffing and pulling on the rope. “Jeez, Thellow, how much fish did you eat last night?”

The Palico meows loudly from outside the cave as the group pulls the equipment inside.

They all fall to the ground and pass around a water bottle. While Marlow and Ike have a drink, Jackson investigates the back of the cave. Finally he’s able to spend more time examining it. It isn’t very big, but at the back is a pile of ash and rusted metal. He walks over to inspect it. Reaching out to wipe the ash away, the whole thing crumbles and explodes into a black cloud. He wipes the black soot from his visor and has the chance to see what remains. It is an empty suit of old armor. It only takes a second for Jackson to realize what the ash filling the armor used to be. He loses focus for a moment. The song is louder than ever. He can even hear  the voices of the children singing it now. His heart is pounding, feeling like it’sbanging on the metal armor around his chest.

“What was that?” Ike asks from behind.

It snaps Jackson from his trance, and he swivels around. “Nothing, just some old scrap”.

Jackson has some water and the group continues up the mountain. Another 40 or so meters and Jackson finally places his hand on the stone base of what once was castle Schrade.

_______________________________________________________________

 Pulling himself up, Jackson pauses for a brief moment to take in the fortress. The enormity of the structure staggers him for a moment. The wind blows softly but carries the scent of decay. Distant metal structures can be heard creaking and clunking as time passes them by.

Jackson, realising he still has friends climbing the cliff, turns to assist them up onto the final ledge. Without hesitation, Ike and Jackson begin pulling up the weapons once again. Upon reaching the top, both Ike and Jackson quickly grab their tools. Being unarmed for that long has made them both a little jumpy. Marlow has already started surveying the area. He needs good vantage points and places to move to while gunning. In front of them is a large courtyard made of stone bricks. On the upper side isa castle wall connecting to a stone watchtower. Spears and swords lay around it, as if the men they belonged to simply evaporated. It was giving all of them chills.

Behind that is more of the castle. The entire building is massive and expanded over 2 mountains,crossing the range in between. This is only the entrance. It is by far the best place to fight something big. The rest of the castle is too jagged, with corridors that will restrict movement to much. The team knows that the monster will almost certainly take advantage of that and blow them to pieces before they even know it’s attacking. Out in the open is the best they can hope for.

Marlow has already started moving to the side wall to get some height. It is a great place to have a gunner, and gives a brilliant view of the area. There are a few pieces of old ammunition around. Not much, but some ballista and cannon balls might help if given the opportunity. The castle wall still has one intact Dragonator in it, unfired. Jackson has already set to work getting a plan ready, using what little they have in  the castle.

It is only morning, but the sky is still dark. Not much light can get through the clouds, even this high up. It still feels like night is around them.

Ike moves over to one of the cannons and starts checking the fuses while loading a ball in. Jackson starts walking to the eastern side to check if the last cannon has a working fuse. He stops, frozen in place. The creature appears out of blackness. As if the clouds that swirl around this mountain are the monster itself. A beam of light shines across it, revealing the full size of the dragon.

It is a lot bigger than anyone expected. Standing on his back legs, it stands easily over the entire watchtower, over 40 meters tall. Its tail is an enormous black whip that stretches the whole length of the beast and more. Its legs are short, but its claws are long, crusted with blood from those who had come before. The spines along its back look like bladed gravestones. Its scales are a hideous black and blue, as if all of its skin isone giant bruise. The wings on its back stretch into the air, welcoming the hunters to its roost. Its neck is long, which gives it incredible height. At the top is a head full of more teeth than its mouth can hold. Two sets of two horns each side of its head that twist away from its skull. And its eyes. Its awful eyes. They have black slits like a snake, but a furious red iris that looks like a fire storm inside its head.

It hasn’t even made a sound. Jackson isn’t even sure it is real yet. He doesn’t know if Ike or Marlow are even still here. The world pauses for a second. The dragon’s tongue slithers out of its mouth and licks its lips. It stares down at its new guests. Jackson has fought a lot of monsters, and after fighting enough he can tell why a monster fought by the way it looked. Some are hungry. Others are scared. But this is something new. Never has Jackson seen a monster smile back at its combatant. This unholy creature of night doesn’t care for food or to defend its home, it just wants to kill. It is genocidal to the core and wants nothing more than for hunters to die. The dragon is going to enjoy this.

Jackson yells out to whoever might still be behind him. “Time to show it what we're made of!”

He flicksthe main barrel of his gun lance down and takes out his shield. Turning the safety off with a click, he rotates a few shells through the main gun. The dragon lets out a bellowing cry that changes from a roar to a shriek. This close, it feels as if his ears are going to bleed just from standing near it. His heart slows down, and a smile creeps into the corner of his mouth. Both the song and his fear leave his mind. Without his fear he feels confident, nothing holding him back from his fate.

The song’s lyrics make sense now.

The Legend of the Black Dragon

When the world is full of wyverns, the legend is revived

meat is eaten, bone is crunched

and blood is sucked up dry

he burns the earth and melts through iron

he boils the rivers and mows down trees

he awakens the winds and lights the inferno

he is called Fatalis, the wyvern of destiny

he is called Fatalis, the wyvern of destruction

call for help, run for your lives

and don’t forget to pray to the skies

he is called Fatalis, the wyvern of destiny

he is called Fatalis, the wyvern of destruction

Fatalis, Fatalis

Heaven and Earth are yours

Fatalis, Fatalis

Heaven and earth are yours