#rogue archetype

[causalityparadoxes]

The fact Rogue didn't push the button while kissing the Doctor. It would have been so easy. In character for what the Doctor might expect even. He's the Rogue after all, the classic morally dubious role.

I think with that quiet 'no' the Doctor was expecting him, maybe even asking him, to take the decision out of their hands. To press it for them. Then they'd both have the fresh pain of losing someone and could go on to travel together.

But the Rogue isn't into cosplay, he isn't playing a character. So instead he puts the Doctor's happiness with Ruby above his own life, and above a life with the Doctor. He pushes Ruby out of the way, taking the controller with him so the Doctor still doesn't have to choose. That sad, cheeky, rogue-ish grin as he does it. Its just so unbearably sweet

[sun-snatcher]

( all gif credits to @bankaizen from this incredible gifset! )

✠ | absolution ; shay cormac

summ.  Shay is dying, but ghosts only haunt the living. Or: 6 times Shay is haunted, & the 1 time it matters most. pairing. gen!fic , implied Shaytham (up to you readers!) w.count.  4.6k a/n. Warnings for body-horror & overall graphic horror elements. Other than that, this fic explores Shay’s canon-typical PTSD!

‘A man who is laden with the guilt of human blood will be a fugitive until death, let no one support him.’ — Proverbs 28:17

i. THE SEA.

Shay crashes into water again.

It feels alot like the too-cold embrace of an empty home. 

“Don’t be pathetic,” says a Sailor. His accent is of French heritage; thick and full of contempt. “You are a man of the sea, not a Man of God. You’ve forsaken that part of you a long time ago.”

Have I? he asks, uselessly. The words bubble out instead; Up, up and far away. His eyes trail instinctively after it, where the dancing reflection of a naval firefight is shining curiously through the surface of the waves.

Shay is… sinking. Yes. He remembers now. His foot had been snared and caught in the whip of a rogue rigging line during some dogfight against a Man O’ War, knocked him out cold, and is sending him down now: plummeting to the seabed.

“Death-bed,” the mysterious Frenchman corrects, and yanks the rope tangled at Shay’s feet humorously, “if you want to drown with me, that is.”

He’s right. There’s no one else overboard other than the two of them. The rigging is frayed, fortunately, and so it doesn’t take much for the Captain to cut through it with his blades and free himself. 

He turns back towards the familiar face as the sea shifts, trembles, ripples. It’s bone-chillingly cold.

Come up, Shay says. The pressure of the water is squeezing his head into further disorientation. He’s fighting to wade upwards against the deep rock of the tides. 

“Why?”

Why else? he replies. We’ll both die, down here.

“Oh, I’ve been down here a long time, Shay, thanks to you.”

A heavy drape of red had appeared from the depths, curling up like a clotting cloud. Shay’s heart begins to pound in tandem with his lungs.

“Swim, or let yourself drown, then,” his old ally says. No bubbles of breath drift up when he speaks. His condescending laugh is everywhere and nowhere. A gaping cut is in the Sailor’s stomach; a mark of death by sword. “It’s my blood you’re seeing, after all. Not yours.”

A bolt of regret. I know. 

But Shay reaches out, nevertheless, still insistent. His reach always seems too little, too— 

“—late for that,” the man scowls.

Stop being a fool, Shay pleads. Just come to the surface. Is it an apology y’want?

“Connard,” the Frenchman curses. 

Torn, bloated flesh glistens at the seams of his rotting, festering wound as he speaks, and deep-sea creatures circle and feast excitably at the cruor and flayed pieces of his decayed skin. Chévalier glares at Shay with a hundred blinking barnacles for eyes and a mile-long seaweed for a black tongue. 

“It’s too late for that, too.”

ii. THE FOREST.

A burning rabbit startles out the ashen underbrush.

“Did you do this?” it cries out between its own flames, voice the rough scrape of tree bark. “Was it you who killed my Brothers?”

“I… Brothers?” Shay says, pathetically. His bleeding ears are still ringing from the explosive blast of the powder kegs he’d accidentally misfired at. It’s a miracle he could hear or think at all. “The forest— It wasn’t my intention—”

“So it was you, then,” rasps another pained voice. A hawk had descended onto a charred bough; its flaming wings are bent and twisted horrifically backwards, feathers singed into its own melting skin. “Look at yourself. We could’ve been greater than this. Do you take pride in burning away everything good in your life, you ungrateful creature?”

“No,” Shay shudders. The black smoke is thick enough to taste. The furious blaze of the forest-fire is beginning to sear into his skin as he wanders blindly for a clear path, trying to reconcile North from South. “I never meant for it to be this way—”

“How dare you,” comes a booming growl. “Look at the damage you can’t undo. Useless.”

Shay recoils. Missteps over the roots of a burning tree and lands hard on his back. “Please— I’ll make things right, you must let me help you.”

The lynx looms over him like an eclipse. A splintered branch is protruding through its blood-weeping eye socket, but its gaze is still vicious as Death while it snarls and snaps its jowls at him. “Is that what you Templar dogs do? Help? Look where it’s brought us all!”

Shay crawls backwards into the haze, frantic, until his arms falter. He snags a loose stone that sends his balance off-kilter— hurtling downwind, tumbling and rolling far from danger until he nosedives straight into a jagged outcrop. 

Everything silences.

Then, when he finally opens his eyes:

River water; poisoned with blood and soot and flesh.

A deer’s corpse twitches. 

It’s long since collapsed beside him, judging by the severity of the rot: 

Its face is peeling off; jaw torn through, loosely hinged by one last tendon. A puckle bullet lodged in its exposed ribcage glints in the waning firelight of the forest, glistening against the sinews of flesh and shards of shattered bone. 

“Do you hear it, Shay?” it whispers, tiredly. “Listen close. Past the beat of my wardrums.”

He pales. It’s not a ringing in his ears, he realises—

It’s screaming.

“Kesegowaase,” he recognises.

“Traitor,” it greets, watching as Shay shifts up to his knees. “You live to see another day, it seems. Good. I hope you live long enough for your guilt to tear you from the inside out, Shay— I hope you end up worse off than how you left me.”

Then the deer breathes out, and stills. 

“I’m sorry,” Shay chokes out at last, “for all of it.”

The forest creaks in protest. Even the riverbank sneers. 

Liar.

iii. THE GREENHOUSE.

A Venus Flytrap slowly unhinges its jaws.

Then a vial rolls out, and lands into his grasp.

“You’re late again,” says his Mentor, nodding to the tiny tincture. “Go on. It’s a fresh antidote.”

He hesitates. She notices, ofcourse, keen as usual. She always does.

“A pity,” she hums, sounding maternal. When she turns the corner of potted snapdragons, he can see the skirts of her elegant dress under the dusk light: a riotous bloom of purple irises and hyacinths, surrounded in wild, flitting butterflies. “I trained you better than this, you know?”

That gets a pained laugh out of him. The poison in his system that he’d inhaled works deliberately slow; makes it burn through his veins like acid. How did he get here, again? He can hardly remember through the fog in his head and lungs—

“By not listening to me,” the beautiful woman says, ducking past a cascade of pitcher plants overflowing with blood, and kneeling to where he’s sat propped against an old trellis of decomposing vines that’s ensnared and leashed him down, “and by being reckless. Now drink the antidote, Shay.”

“Relax.” He inspects the bottle of liquid in his hand, fidgets with the corkstop. “I’m not givin’ up hope.”

The clever play of words makes her laugh. It’s a haunting sound. He hasn’t heard it in a long while. When she sighs deeply after, the air chills until the garden windows frost over, and the life of the plants around her begin to drain and wilt. Carnivorous insects envelop and skitter loudly on the ground now, crunching underfoot and scattering over his feet.

“I just wanted to see you,” Shay admits, sorrowfully, “a little bit longer.”

“Why, you always were a fascinating fellow,” she muses. Her glowing face has turned gaunt at the edges. Putrefied and overgrown with grotesque roots stretching out from beneath her high collars, seeking to reclaim her. “Maybe I’ll just leave and save you the trouble—”

“No. Please.” He reaches out desperately to the black rose petals falling from her hair. “I’m hallucinating,” Shay says, disappointingly. “So y’might as well stay. Y’are goin’ to disappear, again, anyway.”

“Again?” she dimples at him. “Didn’t you make sure I could never be here to begin with?”

The shame burns his soul. She cocks her head, amused.

“Are you looking for absolution?”

Shay ignores the red in her too-wide grin; the blood pouring down her lips; the rapid darkening of her corset. They don’t go away when he blinks, so he imagines they’re just the bright red blossoms of poppies instead. 

He bows his head. Shuts his eyes. “I didn’t want to do it.”

“Oh, Shay.” Hope’s rotting corpse places her hand to his cheek. It’s ice-cold and skeletal— but he leans into the caress regardless; the only comfort he’ll ever be able to indulge in, fleeting as it is. “That changes nothing.”

iv. THE FORT

For a moment, he thinks it’s Chévalier, again.

But this Frenchman is less— spiteful.

“What’re y’doin’ inland?” Shay asks, sprawled against the floor of a fort he can’t pronounce the name of. There’s a telling, guttural ache of a fractured rib in his side from where he’d been struck by a stray piece of crumbling rubble. 

“What are you?” counters the Frenchman. He pulls a chair and straddles it, crossing his arms casually over the open backrest as he stares down at him. Shay can see the mutilating gashes of a swordfight across his chest and stomach, necrotic, with something diseased slithering between his shredded robes. “Come to storm another fort so I see. Shall you take as many down with you, too?”

“I already have,” Shay replies. There’s no pride in his answer. The ashlar walls of the war-room collapsing to dust around him remind him too much of when the world had caved in beneath his feet back— “—in Lisbon.”

“Well,” laughs the Navyman, “like I said: you always were good at your business, Shay. Tell me, how many more, then?” He cocks his head at the singed map on the floor, pinned under splintered barrels and debris. It’s what Shay had originally come for in this mission-gone-sideways, but—

The sketch of the landscape has come alive.

Its paper is now a graft of raw, human skin that breathes instead of flutters; ink replaced with rivers that bleed like fresh lacerations. Pawns march across borders and territory lines to the pulse of their dying heartbeats, the tattooed terrain shifting and clotting to a route that only directs them towards inevitable death. 

The map is a carved out piece of the Navyman’s stomach.

“Stop this,” Shay says, uselessly. “Enough.”

“Me? Oh, I didn’t kill those men, Captain.”

The marked out forts and strongholds are etched of dead, hooded Assassins and soldiers that twitch in endless piles. Something trapped underneath the skin-map writhes and buzzes and convulses, noisily demanding to be let out. It sounds like a thousand insects rattling against each other and beating their wings; burrowing, scratching and eating through fresh flesh—

Le Chasseur stomps hard.

Shay flinches at the squelch.

When the Frenchman lifts his foot, the stringing guts leave behind a twisted, grotesque insignia of the Brotherhood. “There. Retrieve it, then.”

He slides the filthy map closer towards Shay’s outstretched fingers with the toe of his boot. “I’m doin’ what I must,” Shay reasons aloud, swallowing hard as he turns his chin up to face the corpse, “It’s the only way, Le Chasseur.”

A scoff. When he moves to stand and leave, his open wound stretches like a maw with a sickeningly wet, sticky sound. Something alive crawls in, and out. “Right, because what is another great conquest— another hundred souls to leave in your wake, no?” 

“What is it y’want from me?” Shay calls out, hoarse. “Is it vengeance? Remorse? Do y’just want to watch me die?”

“And what exactly is it you hope you can do for a dead man? Bring them peace?” Le Chasseur mocks over his shoulder. “Shay. Captain. Look at what you’ve become,” he declares. “You can hardly find peace for yourself.”

v. THE BLUFF.

On a sunnier day, you’re able to see the horizon clearer from this high up a distance on the bluff.

An old, weathered Captain stands at the edge. 

“You beached the Morrigan,” he points out.

“To save my men, aye,” answers the Younger Captain. An ambush from an armada had left him disarmed and with little choice. He hadn’t fled— he’d tried to make a last stand where he could and spare his crew. Now he’s trapped and being used as bait to attract them. “I learned from the best.”

“Save your flattery for the Devil, child,” the Old Captain says. He walks over to the metal pillory that’s shackled the Morrigan’s young Captain. “Or do you think I’m the Devil, then; is that what it is?” he laughs, caustic. “That we’re all Him? Come to haunt you and punish you for your sins?”

The Young Captain says nothing. Days of pain have left him too exhausted to argue further. His worst wounds have been left to free bleed, and it’s tired him into resignatio— 

WAKE UP, SHAY.

He startles. 

The abrupt jerk spasms across his marred back, and he lets out a rasped choke.

“Younger slaves have suffered worst lashings than you, child,” says the Old Captain. When he pulls his hood down, his old scars are weeping blood: down his cheeks, his neck, his arms. He has a permanent scowl across his face. “Answer my question.”

“Yes,” Shay says, for the sake of it. The pain has jolted him wide awake and alert. “Why else would I be seeing you?”

“You tell me, traitor,” he snorts. “If I were the demon you think I am, I would have crucified you myself.”

The pillory seems to tighten. Sun-baked metal continues to sear through Shay’s bare wrists; bites at his neck; cooks the flesh of his flayed back. His vision swims, and he wonders if he’s imagining the ravens circling him have grown in numbers, too; daring one another to perch closer to him— waiting. Waiting. Waiting to pick him apart.

“Adéwalé,” Shay says, at last, “forgive me.”

The sea level has risen to an impossible height. It’s red, thick. Licking up the cliff face at frightening speed. 

He’s going to drown. 

“Forgiveness is not in my hands,” the Assassin muses, and makes dramatic a show of patting his gaping heart. It’s exposed in a ruptured cavity of his chest, pulsing like it was still alive despite the Hidden blade embedded in it from years ago. “You think me the Devil, after all.”

Shay rattles against his binds. The birds shriek and caw past him in vicious delight over his panic; his growing dread. The blood has covered the horizon, blinding the sun, drowning the Morrigan. It’s gone past his knees, and pools higher still. 

“Adéwalé,” he struggles, “Don’t do this!”

“Don’t worry,” he says, stepping forward. “Hell welcomes traitors like you.” 

“Stop!”

“It doesn’t end here, you know? Matter of fact—”

The tide rises to their chests, Adéwalé leans close to meet his gaze. His mutilated heart is leaking like a rusty faucet. It’s where the ocean of blood has been coming from all this time, flooding higher at each weak, circadian beat.

“The war will never end for you, Shay.”

vi. THE LAKE.

There’s no footprints in the snow.

Neither does his breath cloud.

“That was lucky,” his Brother says. It might’ve been him who’d helped spark the flint for the campfire, despite his gangrened limbs and black fingers. They’re frostbitten; stiff. When he moves, his joints snap and pop like a mangled doll that’s come to life after being put together wrong.

But it’s difficult to make sure. It’s too bitterly cold to think straight after falling through the ice and escaping the arctic  currents within an inch of his life.

“I, I make my— own luck,” comes the reflexive, shivering answer.

“Lose the robes. They’re wet,” his Brother ignores. “Else you’ll be frozen to the marrow come mornin’. Go on. No one’s here to peep the show.”

“You are.” Shay finally dares to look past the crackling fire. Searches for the familiar face just beyond the amber glow. “You— y’are here, Liam. Aren’t you?”

Behind the flicker of the flames, his Brother’s glacial blue lips crack when they smile. They will never again warm to any fire. “We used to jump off that creaky dock together back in New York, arses hangin’ out, Shay.” He leans his shattered, crooked spine to the cave wall with a laugh. “Y’tellin’ me you’ve gone shy, now?”

Shay isn’t amused. “That’s not what I, m—meant. You,” he endures a sudden bout of trembling. “Y’know it.”

“Well. What do y’want me to say, then?”

“That you— you’re here.”

“Alright,” he relents. Underneath the cowl that Shay had pulled behind his head as a farewell all those years ago, Liam’s eyes are milky; skin translucent. It reminds him of stained glass— the ones in church back home, where they were forced to attend as children together every Sunday mass. “I’m here.” 

Underneath the dark ice that’s become his flesh, Shay can visibly see past the frozen capillaries up his cheek; can see the very crack that had shattered Liam’s skull and damned him— violent enough to break him, but certainly not enough to kill him upon impact.

A slow, cruel death.

It makes Shay’s heart twist at the memory; his eyes sting. He allows himself the lie. “You’re here.”

A nod. “Yes.” Something from Liam’s cheek flakes off as he says it, exposing rotten teeth; a purple tongue. Blood and black fluid oozes, viscous and thick.

Do y’hate me? Shay wants to ask.

The words don’t come. It forms like a ball in his throat as he shivers and curls in on himself instead, and makes him choke back tears. “You’re here,” he convinces himself again, teeth chattering. 

“I am,” Liam repeats, patiently. “An’ no. I don’t hate you, Shay.” That makes him blink up. “You’ve always been my closest brother. Nothin’s changed that. Why’re y’surprised?”

The words in Shay’s head are brutal, unforgiving. He can’t bring himself to speak it into existence.

“The fall killed me,” Liam corrects knowingly, somehow, with a dismissive wave of his icicled arm. Then, honestly: “I don’t hate you, Shay,” he says. “I just wish y’died that night, too.”

So do I. He doesn’t bother admitting it. Liam will know, anyway. 

“…I will,” Shay replies, even after he’d disrobed and huddled into his dry pelts. Colour has returned to him. “T—Tonight.”

A laugh. It’s familiar.

“No, y’won’t.” It’s said like finality. As if he’s privy to a secret knowledge only dead men carry. “We trained y’well. It’ll take more than a dip an’ a splash into a frozen lake to kill you.”

The blizzard outside whistles a lullaby. The warmth thaws Shay’s blood back flowing. It unnumbs him; reminds him he’s exhausted. He wants to sleep— but this is the only time he’s been haunted with tender nostalgia above all else.

“Y’need it,” his Brother advices. “Go rest.”

He defiantly shakes his head. I miss you, Liam. I miss all of you. Even Chévalier, for fuck’s sake. Why did it have to be this way? Why me? 

But he couldn’t say that. It would’ve been ridiculous.

“You’ll… be gone,” he laments, “when— when I wake.”

“Shay,” Liam says, sadly. “I’ll be gone even if y’don’t.”

vii. 1782.

He escapes the Willow grove thanks to an old friend.

“What the hell… are y’doin’ here, Sir?”

“Saving you, it seems,” the Grandmaster says, and Shay eventually finds himself up on his tired feet, off the bough he’d been crumpled against. There’s blood pouring down his thigh, and a wound he can’t see torn somewhere into his side. “You’re lucky I chanced upon you, Captain. What? Oh, don’t say it—”

“I make my own luck, Master Kenway.”

“Get on,” he ignores, rolling his eyes as Shay sways and staggers, “Goodness, you’re heavy. I might just save myself the trouble and leave you damned out here like a tragic play.”

The pain blinds Shay as he shuffles onto his whickering horse, but not enough to stop him from apologising for exerting her joints— she’d been trained to kneel to get him on the saddle easier if he ever needed it. “Lovely girl she is,” Haytham compliments, already up and sidled behind Shay to take the reins sometime ago. “Stay awake, Captain.”

“Just— argh.” He winces at a pinch that travels up his leg with a curse as the mare is kicked into a swift and hurried trot back home. “Restin’ my eyes, Sir.”

“Famous last words,” Haytham snorts. “Shay?”

“Yes. I’m here,” he says. Then, as if reminded: “…Are you?”

The Grandmaster blinks in confusion. “I… Yes? I know we’ve just reunited after years— and in an untimely, unfortunate way, no less— but I am here. What do you mean?”

“…Nothing.” It wouldn’t do to tell his boss he gets haunted with whispering voices at every corner and gets plagued with hallucinations of his dead allies; even less to have that be their first conversation after all these years apart. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Bold of you to assume I am,” Haytham says, coolly.

“Time’s… worn y’down, Master Kenway,” he manages through the dull throb from the jostling. “Can see it— can see it in those blue eyes a’ yours.”

“Charitable of you not to say my greying hair.”

But he looks as young as Shay last saw him— what was it, a decade ago? He can’t see Haytham clearly to confirm it. The sun had yet to rise, and the way is paved under a tenebrous darkness that seems to be eating him alive. Or perhaps it’s just the daze in his head clouding his vision.

“Come on now,” Haytham says, when a waystation inn had come into view at last. Shay finds himself dismounted from his saddle— Haytham didn’t seem to bother with tying off the horse. Then:

The lady manning the bar flies into a frenzy of I’ll get yous a doctor, dear! the moment she’d set eyes on the Captain, and had insisted on supporting him all the way up the stairs, where they lumbered into the closest room they had available. “Poor boy. What happened to you, love?”

“Life,” Haytham jokes dryly, just as the woman tuts and disappears down the wooden steps to fetch for help. “Shay?”

The Captain’s voice is hoarse from where he’s sat propped up against the headboard of the bed. All at once, he feels both weightless and weighted. Shay’s been close to death before— too many to count, really— but he’s never teetered this close to the precipice. 

“Still… here.”

“Good man,” Haytham says, instead of stubborn man. “What is it?”

“Y’are awfully still, is all,” he observes, blinking lucidly through the gossamer of his waning vision. The moonlight filtered through the thin curtains has seemingly painted Haytham more sallow. “S’just, strange t’see… Strange t’see y’after this long.”

“I’m not the type to pace a hole into the ground, Captain,” he answers, puzzled. “Have you forgotten?”

“Never,” Shay says, easily. It’s the truth. Not a day had gone by without him thinking of Haytham; of what he’d be doing; of where he’d be; of what’d become of him. “I’ve never forgotten you.”

If he’d been flattered at the response, he didn’t show. Instead, he clasps his hand once more behind his back.

“Haytham,” Shay calls, abruptly.

The first name makes him look up. There’s no Sir, or Master Kenway, this time. “Yes?”

“Will y’tell me somethin’?”

Haytham hums. “Depends.”

“Please.”

“Well, how courteous,” he muses, but nods by way of assent. Go on, then.

“Will y’tell me—” —you’re here, Shay almost repeats. But then he remembers: he’d made that mistake before with another memory already. “—that you’re real?”

An owlish blink.

The Grandmaster gestures awkwardly from the corner of the room, by the door where he stands. “I’m right here.”

“I… I know y’are. But can you— can y’tell me,” he pleads again, desperately this time, “that you’re real, please?”

“I am,” Haytham insists, after a lengthy pause. 

“Will y’say it, then?”

A beat.

“I’m… here, Captain.”

Shay bows his head. “Oh.” Then he focuses his bleary eyes at Haytham. “Oh, no.” 

“Now you’re beginning to worry me, Shay—”

“Don’t bloody lie t’me, Haytham. Please,” he chokes, and an old grief fractures through his heart once more. “Please? Not you. Not you.” Then, in hopeless realisation, “God, anybody but you.”

A silence passes. 

Y’can’t say it. Y’never lie to me, Shay remembers. Then:

“How?” he dares, at last.

Haytham meets his gaze.

Shay braces himself.

“…Peacefully,” he finally answers, after a while. “Painlessly.”

This time, there’s unrepentant truth in his voice. It tears Shay apart more than he ever thought capable. Rips a startlingly horrific grief that stuns him with more force he can ever anticipate— 

“Y’bastard,” he croaks out, shaking his head and grunting through the jolt of pain that ripples through his wounds as he moves. “Y’are a goddamn bastard, Kenway. Why? Fuck— why?”

“That doesn’t matter, anymore.” The Grandmaster steps an inch into the moonlight. The floorboards don’t creak. No shadows are cast. Dust motes pass through him. He’s not here. He— He hasn’t been since the start of it all.

Shay’d been alone: following the muddy trail out the grassy willow grove with no other steps left behind but his own, clambering onto his sweet horse who led him safely and sure-footedly back to civilisation, and Shay himself had been the one to stumble into the first waystation inn he came by. 

Haytham had not been there to pick Shay up from against the tree bough; had not been there to help mount and steady him upon his saddle; had not been there to lead him into the inn, nor with the barmaid to guide him up the squeaky steps to his room. He’d never once touched him at all.

Haytham is not here.

He hasn’t been for a long, long time.

“Focus on holding on just a moment more, why don’t you?”

“Am I dyin’? Good,” Shay bites, cruel, “We’ll… have a proper conversation once I’m, once I’m bled dry.”

Haytham isn’t amused. “I’m not asking.”

“Orderin’ me from the grave, aye?” he laughs, wry. “…You’ve no right.”

A light hum. “Don’t I?”

“Y’left me,” he snaps, which he realises in an instant is unfair: Shay had taken on the task to find the Precursor box at Haytham’s behest, but the choice had always been his to do it. To leave. To sail. To complete the mission. “I wanted— I thought one day I could— come back—”

—to you, is his first instinct, instead of home. 

“Ofcourse,” Haytham says, pragmatic as always, “in due time, you will. But you’ve a mission to complete, still.”

“Oh, fuck you.” But the words don’t seem to affect the Grandmaster, and he couldn’t help but sink in a burst of shame— the sudden pour of overwhelming grief and ache from this newfound knowledge: Haytham Kenway is dead. He will never, ever again return to Shay. “I’m sorry. I’m— I’m sorry.”

“It’s quite alright.”

I wish I’d been there, Shay doesn’t say.

“There was nothing you could’ve done, Captain,” he answers anyway, and turns his ear towards the door where a thunder of footsteps echoes now from down the inn. The Doctor has arrived.

“I— I didn’t want it to be like this, Haytham,” Shay says, and can barely lift a weak hand to reach for the Grandmaster; one last attempt to touch his hand. “To be the last one standing.”

You’re not alone, Haytham says, and steps back into the corner away from the path. I’m here. 

The door is shoved open in a burst. A doctor and an apprentice begin to crowd him, speaking between themselves as they try to keep Shay conscious in a flurry of questions. 

What’s your name, Sir? Can you tell me where you are? Do you know the extent of your wounds? Have you taken anything?

He doesn’t answer them. Just looks past them and calls out, “Haytham!” over their shoulders, where the door has slowly begun to swing back shut—

The corner is empty.

Shay’s heart twists.

The corner has always been empty.

[dartagnantt]

Assassin: Rehired | What if the assassin didn't focus on dress-up?

PDFs of this and more can be found over on at my Patreon here! I release everything for free, so your support makes this possible. I've also started making a new system based off of 5e, 6th Dawn! Become a patron and join the playtest.

This week, as part of a theme most foul, I decided to go upon a foul task and revise our hired killer.

The assassin archetype never really appealed to me as a player, and not as a theme either. First off, just over half of its features are based on disguise. Which is fine, but one of them is literally the charlatan background feature for a price. But also, you may have realised this about me, the guy that keeps making playable monsters, I don't play humans and human-likes very often, so being the only gnoll in this city of mostly humans, there is no disguise in hell that will conceal my identity without magic. So while the disguise kit has its uses, the more exotic a creature you play, the less they are outside of the arts.

Secondly, it's primary feature is very strong, auto crit on any creature that has yet to act in combat. Great vibes, see what they're going for. Because that window is variable (and not always there) and at most a round, you don't actually get that feature most of the time. So, I opted to go for a different approach.

Poisoner

The assassin, in addition to disguise, has poisoner's kit proficiency, why not expand on that instead? In this instance I discard disguise as a proficiency you can go out of your way for. Instead, give the assassin a limited use set of debilitating poisons. Ones that impart vulnerability to weapons (what I intend to get the most use), knock out a target (for sneaky sneaks) and one that inflicts sneak attack damage (for convoluted assassination plots).

Death's Shroud

Bringing more general versatility to the previous poisons, but not quite wanting to ape the cloudkill spell, just gaseous poison. Sneak attacking a whole room at once sounds pretty sweet to me.

Hidden in Plain Sight

Possibly the least exciting option, but kind of how I intend to get around the lack of disguise issue for getting close to a target. Do it the old fashioned way! Not being seen.

Marked for Death

I suspect that this feature name exists somewhere in the D&D's history for something similar, but I didn't really check. This is based on the old capstone feature of the rogue, where you just straight up murder people with a single con save. I mean, you're playing an assassin, of course the capstone was going to be the murder button

And now to plug my stuff. I release homebrews weekly over on my Patreon. Anyone who pledges $1 or more per post don't have to wait a month to see them, and also help fund my being alive habit.

At the moment, they have exclusive access to the following:

Scout Roguish Archetype

Poisons: Reapplied

Finding the Trail

Skill Challenges

I also have four classes, and two splatbooks over on DriveThruRPG to check out:

The Rift Binder. A class specialising in summoning monsters and controlling the battlefield.

The Witch Knight. A class that combines swords and sorcery in the most literal way.

The Werebeast. A class that turns you into a half beast to destroy your foes.

The Beguiler. A spellcaster dedicated to illusions, enchantments, and general fuckery.

d'Artagnan's Adventurer Almanac. A compendium of races, subclasses, feats, spells, monsters and more!

d'Artagnan's Lycanthrope Survival Guide. A book of lore, stats, and werebeast subclasses for lycanthropes.

[witchthewriter]

I made another quiz ...

"𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐓𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐈𝐬 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐒𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞?"

I hope you'll enjoy it! ⋆.˚🦋༘⋆

[nikibogwater]

Me: Gotta make sure I build up friendships with all these different characters. They all have such great dialogue, and I bet their heart events are really cool.

Also me: Balor Balor Balor Balor Balor--Dozy! :D --Balor Balor Balor Balor Balor Balor...

[taardisblue]

my favorite part of the episode is how during that “let’s chase each other across the stars” scene, if you listen very closely, you can hear the master screaming in the distance

[dailycharacteroption]

Retrograde Revision 4: Bandit

(art by dusint on DeviantArt)

Highwaymen, hijackers, muggers, brigands, bandits. If there’s any iconic antagonistic role for humanoids in fantasy games and fiction, it’s hard to go wrong with some bandits if you want a travel encounter that uses more advanced tactics than animal instinct.

Of course, being a bandit is hardly fun and games. Choosing that life or having it thrust on you by circumstance means forgoing many of the benefits of civilization while ultimately still relying on it by way of raiding for supplies and sellable plunder.

However, not every fictional bandit is a villain. After all, Robin Hood was by all accounts a highwayman, even though he was typically more heroic, using his talents and those of his followers to undermine the power of a corrupt ruler (at least once the figure became associated with that story. Turns out Robin Hood is much, much older).

Also, remember that not everyone who is a bandit professionally is going to have this archetype, or even be a rogue. I’m sure by this point most Pathfinder fans recognize the difference between class and profession, even when they share a name.

In any case, we’ll soon see that this particular flavor of rogue is a master of coercion and ambush, very important skills when you strike at foes from the wild, where the comforts of civilization have been stripped away and failing to comply with an armed stranger could mean being stranded even if one is not slain.

These bandits are the masters of surprise attacks, and are able to perform several actions at once within those first few critical moments to gain the upper hand.

Fear is a useful tool, and all the better utilized when they manage to get in an especially grievous blow against a foe they already have gotten past the guard of.

This archetype recommends talents that utilize the terrain, help coordinate with allies, improve combat prowess, striking suddenly and without warning, and even combining their efforts with traps they set up as well.

This archetype is fairly simple, but effective, and can easily be combined with other archetypes for greater effect. As a general rule, the ability to get a full suite of actions in the surprise round can be quite useful in a proper ambush, and their ability to inflict fear on critical sneak attacks is a bit niche, but lends itself well to a critical focus build. Whatever your build is, it probably will include feats that let you work well with others, including teamwork feats, as well as ways to keep up in protracted fights, such as improved feint to make sure you keep having ways to sneak attack once the battle is joined.

Like I said, there’s plenty of precedent for these sorts of characters to not be evil, whether they are noble rebels, anarchist misanthropes with their own code, or maybe even former traditional bandits that abandoned that life but retain the skills. Either way, they likely still understand that strength and cunning have the power to rule just as easily as rules and law. How exactly they feel about that, however, is up to them.

Skvad Irontusk, a powerful orc bandit, has recently acquired the dubious title of King of the Gnolls after defeating their chieftain in mortal combat. He is an unpopular leader, however, and unless he can lead them to further and further glory, he will soon find himself with a spear in his back, or worse, shackled in the slave pens.

Trade routes between Kyonen and Kanei have recently come under attack, merchant trains slaughtered, their goods plundered. At first, local samurai believed it was the work of greedy bandits or rebels. However, they soon discovered that the plunder has been given away to peasants who could never fully utilize the magic items and jewelry they contained, leading others to believe that whoever is doing this is not interested in any agenda, not even altruism.

When a convoy devoted to the fire god goes missing, the party is contracted to recover the artifact it was transporting. Their only clue? A rash of incidents involving burning caravans on nearby trade routes. However, when the fires are traced back to a fire drake from the mountains, the heroes will have to look deeper to recover the missing artifact.

[rosenfey]

🕯️🕰️ I've been playing rogue trader for the past 3 days and I'm obsessed. I remember how much I loved this game the 1st time I tried it and it's even better now that I understand the world a bit more. can't wait to meet kibellah 😌

[visenyaism]

 this is gonna be a deep cut but I do sincerely believe that astarion from baldur’s gate three does happen to have the exact personality suited to being one of those villainous sinister white boy point guards that duke university seems to debut a new one of every march madness he has that vibe 

[miraruinada]

another aspect about claudio: he is a criminal.

not the 'doing it for the thrill' or 'does it because something's wrong with his nature'. he grew up in poverty, had to commit crimes to make ends meet. he's seen and dealt with petty crime, murder, violence, brutality, prejudice, and suppression, and everything that comes with having grown in poverty.

he's a lot darker than most muses in terms of how he feels about humanity. he's a lot grayer in morality in terms of, what are you willing to do to survive?

and he's my attempt at something of a exploration of my own past experiences in a similar regard. he holds a similar attitude i have to certain things.

when you've been generationally put down, what can you do but shrug and laugh? when you have no other option but crime, what can you do but try to survive?

[dravidssideblog]

Capture Quest, a yugioh archetype about adventurers getting caught by kinky monsters!

[dartagnantt]

Scout Roguish Archetype | Scouts that scout, not set up ambushes

PDFs of this and more can be found over on at my Patreon here! I release everything for free, so your support makes this possible. I've also started making a new system based off of 5e, 6th Dawn! Become a patron and join the playtest.

This week, as part of a theme most foul, I decided to go upon a foul task and revise our hired killer.

The second the theme this month is tracks, so I used it as an excuse to visit the scout archetype. I'm rather fond of it conceptually, but I will say, I was surprised when I realised that the latter half of its features are a better assassin than the official assassin. They get a second attack as a bonus action and can sneak attack with it too! Damn! That said, as cool as those are, I don't think a scout is best embodied by its ability to do devastating ambushes. Moreover, the rogue's base featureset is pretty good at doing that on it's own if you want to go that way. So, I opted to focus on mobility and detection.

Pathfinder

I won't lie, I couldn't resist calling this pathfinder. I didn't have to, but I wanted to. Anyway, the 5e scout gets nature and survival, which definitely gives it a ranger vibe, which is cool but not really the part of the ranger that fits this concept, instead I decided they'd be really good at navigating, reading maps, and making maps.

Skirmisher

This feature is really good in the base scout, so I kept it, and kind of made it its defining feature

Superior Mobility

While I kept the name of the scout feature, I decided that, as a class that can dash as a bonus action, they don't really need an additional 10 feet of movement speed. But they can probably do with other forms of mobility. Also, if you're going about in nature, not being slowed down sounds like a good idea.

Lookout

I'm not the proudest of this feature, seeing as half of it is part of my modified (and the oneD&D) alert feat, but quite frankly I had to try really hard not to make this subclass the Alert feat archetype. Which I mostly succeeded. But these are important skills for a scout to have. I am amused that it's basically the opposite of the lookout feature the other one gets.

Unfond Farewell

I enjoyed naming this one. This isn't much, but it does give the scout more to do during combat, instead of stuff largely surrounding combat.

Right Place, Right Time

I'm not sure if I'll keep this feature going into 6th dawn, but I have been toying with the concept that this one pulls off for a while. How did the monk or rogue evade the fireball and take no damage? By not being in the area, of course

And now to plug my stuff. I release homebrews weekly over on my Patreon. Anyone who pledges $1 or more per post don't have to wait a month to see them, and also help fund my being alive habit.

At the moment, they have exclusive access to the following:

Poisons: Reapplied

Finding the Trail

Skill Challenges

College of Epics

I also have four classes, and two splatbooks over on DriveThruRPG to check out:

The Rift Binder. A class specialising in summoning monsters and controlling the battlefield.

The Witch Knight. A class that combines swords and sorcery in the most literal way.

The Werebeast. A class that turns you into a half beast to destroy your foes.

The Beguiler. A spellcaster dedicated to illusions, enchantments, and general fuckery.

d'Artagnan's Adventurer Almanac. A compendium of races, subclasses, feats, spells, monsters and more!

d'Artagnan's Lycanthrope Survival Guide. A book of lore, stats, and werebeast subclasses for lycanthropes.

[shivered-bones]

more than a bit of a stretch, but i love rogue hawke and the completing of the triad of classes amongst the hawke siblings and how this represents each role they play.

carver is the warrior, a protector. he struggles with being under hawke's shadow. he wants to be noticed by his own achievements, he wants to protect people, and most importantly his family. and he's willing to take the hits. carver is impulsive, battle hungry. flashy, powerful, always at the forefront.

bethany is the mage, and she is a whirlwind. her appearance is decieving. it is easy to underestimate her, to mistake her sweetness as passivity, but truly she is fierce, even angry. and yet she is also the glue, the kindness to soothe, heal, the roughness of her family. she keeps them strong.

and hawke as the rogue, the handler of secrets. their main goal is to obfuscate, because the protection of their family can not be earned through brute force alone. their mind is quick, and their methods brutal. maybe they're charming, maybe they're not, either way they hide the hawkes in plain sight.

[reanimatestar]

boy slash doll who's neither <3

[image description: a series of drawings of the artist's dungeons and dragons character, giuseppe. the first is a bust on her dungeons and dragons character sheet in the character appearance section. according to the character sheet, giuseppe is 7 years old and has brown eyes. she looks like a preteen human child with dark hair in a braid, facing the viewer with a neutral expression. vertical lines run down from the corner of his mouth. she is wearing a sweater and a jacket. a description below the drawing reads: "At first glance, he looks like a normal 12 year old human boy. On closer inspection, you can see joints like that of a puppet."

the second is a page of sketches. from the top: a simple fullbody drawing of giuseppe wearing a coat and baggy pants tucked into his boots, three simple busts of giuseppe smiling, laughing and smirking respectively, a halfbody of giuseppe frowning and holding a book in one arm, and a bust of giuseppe similar to the one on her character sheet.

the third is a fullbody drawing of giuseppe. he faces the viewer with a neutral expression. she is wearing a sweater with an oversized jacket, and baggy pants tucked into her boots. /end description]

[itsjustevil]

You know, it's crazy how I've heard about this on here and from my discord friends, I never found anything that alluded to the main synopsis of Dungeon Meshi being "These bitches broke, so they're gonna cook up some delicious monsters."

[dailycharacteroption]

Needler (Rogue Archetype)

(art by MagicalKaleidoscope on DeviantArt)

Poison and rogues go together like biscuits and gravy, like pinapple and ham in a slow cooker, and more food pairing analogies. Perhaps the only class that has a stronger association with poison would be the alchemist, due to their skill at making and improving them.

However, while the rogue class has plenty of talents and archetypes geared towards using poison to the best of their ability, today’s subject is among the more creative, and I mean that in-universe. I mean, let’s face it, in a lot of games most poisons that a rogue would use are injury poisons, and not used very subtly. It’s kinda hard to be subtle with a knife or arrow in someone’s back, even if nobody hears or sees it.

However, poisons are not just injury-based. There are plenty that are poisonous fumes, toxic food additives, or simply are so toxic that not even skin is a barrier against them.

With these delivery methods, a rogue can do some truly nasty things, such as adding a log laced with poison to a campfire and gassing those sitting around it, or coating the Macguffiin the villain tries to steal from the party in poison to give them a nasty surprise when they think they’ve succeeded.

Today’s archetype is a master of such poisons, and delivering them subtly so that none are truly aware of where the poison came from. An ingested poison coating a wax coating on their lips, a hidden needle that scratches the target when they embrace them. (“Oh sorry, I have a rough edge on my cufflinks”), and so on. Even when they are overt, the roundabout types of poisons they use are sure to throw those investigating for a loop.

These poisoners have especially deft and well-practiced hands, especially with their poisoned weapons, concealing them and drawing them with ease.

Normally contact and ingested poisons are only really good for the appropriate application method, but these poisoners can use such poisons with their weapons in a pinch either to make use of their unique properties or throw off poison experts with the delivery method. However, such uses are weaker and tend to evaporate quickly.

They can also add poison to their weaponry at a faster rate, subtly adding toxins on the fly.

The real power of this archetype, however, comes when they learn to use subtle methods to deliver any poison to their target at close range. A dab of toxic vapor on the neck during an embrace, a poisonous kiss, and so on. However, such clandestine methods also make the poison unstable or precarious, meaning they must use it quickly or lose it.

A fun option for characters that want to use poison in such a way that their prey doesn’t even realize they’re poisoned until it’s too late, this archetype could see a lot of good use in an intrigue game. That being said, it is worth noting that it does not on it’s own grant poison use, so you’ll have to take a talent or another class with the ability to avoid poisoning yourself on accident. With that said, I recommend a bluff and sleight of hand build so as to be able to gain the confidence of others and envenom them without them ever suspecting.

Because poison in RPGs is typically used in combat, it can be sometimes hard to remember that in the real world, it can actually be hard to tell initially that one has been poisoned. Not every toxin has an obvious source, and not all of them are painful. There is sudden awareness of being envenomed as if one had a dialogue box or icon above their head indicating they’ve been afflicted. If you want to realistically depict a lot of venoms as a GM, I’d consider doing a little bit of research into toxicology and symptoms.

The champion of the local arena hasn’t lost in a long time, and certainly he looks like a truly powerful man. However, rumor abound how his challengers always seem to undergo bouts of weakness before or during the match, and one has to wonder if his skills lie in combat, or more dishonorable paths to victory.

The adaro are a warrior people that revel in combat and the wildness of nature. However, a nearby tribe has suddenly begun attacking merchant vessels without any of their normal enthusiasm. In truth, their leader was usurped by one of their own, a black sheep who has subtly been lacing the water around their home with poisons to weaken those who dare question their rule, turning them into petty pirates to their shame and chagrin.

Heeding whispers in the dark, a local apothecary has begun seeding chaos by providing and applying his poisons to sow discord and strife around the city, all to chase the vague promise of power the voice offers. In truth, it is a xacabra, who has no intention of making good on their promise, but will likely share some of it’s fiendish poison with the apothecary next.