#the wizard literally stabbed her and killed her in one shot. because she was ten.

[githvyrik]

boyfriend lowered my monk’s AC by one point. so 19. everyone who has ever dm’ed for this character cheered. then realized the bardcleric can cast greater restoration on her the following day.

[lesbian-deadpool]

Roses In A Storm

Part One of Three: We’re Not Done Yet

Prelude | Part One | Part Two | Part Three

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Words: 2,777

Warnings: Sadness, grief, blood, violence, excess drinking, anger, murder, talks of weed use, I think that may be it.

Request: By so many but mainly @missmonsters2​. Happy??

Summary: Unhinged and grieving. You get a very special guest.

A/N: This is the ending to “Soulmates”.

Ko-Fi

(Not my GIF)

***

To say you became unhinged after Tony's funeral, was an understatement.

Your entire being crumbled. And you became a shell of the person you used to be.

You cared about nothing and no one. Not even yourself.

You had told Fury he could, respectfully, shove your job up where the sun doesn't shine. And stormed out of his office, with him calling after you.

And that wizard dude.

What was his name?

Stanly?

Sherlock?

Samantha?

Fucking, Benadryl Copypaper?

You didn't know, you couldn't remember?

But that wasn't the point. What was the point, however, was how much Socriteis-Harry Potter bothered you- Stephen Strange!- That was wand-boys name!

Anyway!

He had been bugging the shit outa you ever since you left the lake house.

You could kill him.

Texts, emails, letters, calls, fucking popping out of nowhere. With all this "we're not done yet" bullshit. Yada, yada, yada. To be completely honest, you didn't listen to a single word he ever said, so you wouldn't know.

Luckily, he didn't randomly pop out from one of his orange portals, as much as the other things. So, you didn't have to actively try to dodge, escape, and punch him the fuck out evade him all that much.

But you could still fucking kill him.

Currently, you were stood, overlooking The Hudson River, staring at The Statue Of Liberty. The cold had just started to settle in, Autumn slowly turning into winter, frost visibly coating the ground.

Natasha loved this time of year.

It wasn't too hot that she would feel like she was melting, and it wasn't too cold for her to have to bundle up too much to step out. It was just perfect. She always liked it on the chilly side.

You remember once a few years ago before you had even met Penny and started this whole heart-breaking spiral. Natasha had dragged you out of the tower, her hand in yours as she literally dragged you. And towards the coffee shop she had recently found in the Soho area, what she was doing there in the first place, you didn't ask, out of fear of being threatened. Because you knew Natasha would never, actually, hurt you.

It was a fantastic day out.

One of the best times of your life.

The day had started off early, at around ten AM at that coffee shop, which you had to admit, was amazing. Followed by a store Natasha wanted to check out for Clints Christmas present. Then you had lunch, followed by more shopping.

You were pretty sure this was all one big day for Natasha to find out what gift to get you. But, none the less, you spent the entire day together. Even ending the day by staying over at Natasha's apartment, after walking her home. Because you were a gentleman like that. And also, there were way too many bags for her to carry.

Who knew that the Black Widow could shop like it was a sport?

At the end of the day, you came to the conclusion that she would win gold in the Olympics for it if she could. She could win gold in the Olympics on most of the sports if we're being truly honest.

It was a date.

Not your first one, by far.

But it was a date.

You realised that now.

Way too late.

That wasn't just Natasha's way of finding out what to get you for Christmas. She wanted to take you out on a date.

And you were way too fucking clueless to realise that.

You just wish you could make up for that now.

You wished you could hold her in your arms again.

The way you were always supposed too.

Not as friends. But as lovers.

But now, you had to live without her. So you did what you always did to get through the day.

You drank.

You found the closes bar that was open at the early hours of the morning, sat down on one of the dingy stools, and drank.

Little did you know, that sitting at that bar, would change your life forever.

***

The sound of glass smashing behind you caused your eyes to snap wide open, startled at the sudden noise. But you didn't care enough to turn around and check the commotion out, from your place leaning on the bar, with your glass of whisky pressed to your temple.

"This is bullshit!" Came a gruff voice.

"Hey," that same voice said. It's owner shoving against your shoulder harshly, "Avenger."

"That's not my job anymore," you replied coldly, to the scruffy man, with a long dirty blonde beard.

You had seen him around this bar, that you had quickly made your regular, but had never caught his name.

"No, but you were one," he spat out drunkenly.

"Well done," your tone was sarcastically chipper, "Would you like a sticker for being such a big, smart boy?" The sickly sweet smile that was on your face fell, as you turned back to take a hearty swig of your drink.

"You motherfucker."

Just as he was about to shove you off of your stool, the bartender spoke up.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you. Do you really want to go up against an ex-Avenger?"

"Shut up, Weasel!"

"Yeah," you told the bartender, smirking as you did, "He's a big boy, remember. He can make his own mistakes."

"'Mistake'?!" the bearded man barked out, "Ha! No. This is going to be the best thing I've ever done."

"I think you've drank too much there, dirtier Hagrid."

He slammed his fist down onto the bar, furious at your calm state.

"You see that up there?" He pointed up to the long chalkboard above the bar. "That's the Dead Pool, and you're the highest one to win-"

Without even sparing the board a glance you quipped, "Yes. I am able to read."

You didn't even flinch when the man flicked out a switchblade right by your cheek, just continued to drink your burning liquor.

"I want that money. And I'm gonna get it. But first, I'm gonna cut out your tongue so you can't say any more smart-ass remarks."

"Wow. 'remarks'. That the smartest word you have in your vocabulary?"

A laugh sounded from behind you. One, predictably, from your new-found friend, Wade. Just as the man to your lefts anger bubbled up, flowing from the brim.

"Oh, you motherfuck-"

He brought his blade back, intending to stab you in the back, as he spoke. That is before your almost empty glass smashed into the side of his face, glass flying everywhere, especially into his face and your palm. The man yelled out in pain. And before he could retaliate by trying to stab you again, you quickly disarmed him, fracturing his arm as you did so. Then plunging the switchblade into his right thigh, making him scream out in pain. Ad finally, you delivered a crushing blow to his chest, by kicking him down to the floor, along with a couple of barstools, breaking a few of his ribs in the process.

Most of the people in the -once nunnery- bar, sounded out their happiness at witnessing a fight, no matter how outmatched the people were to each other. While the man groaned on the floor, trying his hardest to stand up, while a few of his buddies helped him up.

"Told you so," Weasel said offhandedly, his face sporting a cringe.

"You sonofabitch!" he spat out -like, literally spat... gross-, as he tried his hardest to keep his tears at bay.

"You- You stabbed me," he stuttered, pointing at you.

"That's right, Einstein. I did."

"You'll pay for that. You'll fucking pay!" He hoppled closer to you so that you were now face to face. Leaving his buddies behind.

"I can't wait." You smiled.

"There's no fucking wonder the bitch you drank overthrew herself off of a fucking cliff." Your smile dropped. "Anything to get away from you. To never have to see your face again."

Bad idea.

Your sight turned into an intense hue of red, so much so that the man's beard turned ginger.

Rage boiled up within you. The only other time you had felt this angry was when you found out that Natasha was gone, and she was never coming back, and that it was all that purple Titan's fault.

You hit him.

Of course, you fucking hit him.

With all your might.

No one said that kind of shit about Natasha. And especially not to your face.

But you weren't fighting a titan this time.

You were fighting a drunken burly man.

A drunk burly man who could take a fucking punch.

But you chalked that up to his adrenaline and how intoxicated he was.

He was sure to feel it all in the morning.

He stumbled from your punch. The knife, still in his leg, tearing against his flesh, causing more blood to spill from the wound.

And for Weasel's skin to tingle green, when he saw it.

The bearded man's friends rushed up to him, as yours did the same to you, holding you back from the man. As you roared at him.

"You're one stupid motherfucker, you know that?! It's like you've got a fucking death wish!"

He spat blood at you while laughing, "You really think she loved you! Wouldn't she still be here if she did?!"

You exhaled hotly. Fury pouring from your every pore.

The familiar cold metal filled your hand as you pulled the trigger of your concealed gun, shooting the man between the eyes.

Okay... so, maybe he wouldn't feel everything in in the morning...

His friends were just as idiotic as he was. Them all moving to pull out their own guns, but you made quick work of them.

Two more head shots. And one shot to the neck.

Even drunk, your marksmanship was impeccable.

"Well..." Wade said slowly, as the whole bar grew silent. Patting you on your back, he continued, "You just won yourself ten grand."

"Awesome," you muttered, "I'm buying everyone their drinks for the rest of the day!"

That got the bar cheering again.

"What the fuck, Y/L/N?!"

You turned around at the new voice. Coming face to face with Nick Fury, who looked beyond angry.

"Nick!" you cheered, "Take a seat, have a drink.- I'm paying!"

"Yes. I heard."

The man watched you for a few moments, noting how intoxicating you were. But was still able to see the coldness behind your eyes, that wasn't there before.

But a lot of things had changed since then.

Fury sighed.

"We need to talk."

***

"Hey, Weasel! Can I get another drink over here, please?!" you called over to your friend and bartender, who nodded at you.

You sat at a small table in the back of the bar, with Fury to your right, and Wade to your left.

The bodies of the four men you had shot down, already cleared away, and the drinks you had promised the patrons, poured.

"You still shot down four men in cold blood, Y/L/N," Fury continued on with his rant, that had been going on since you first sat down with him, not even fifteen minutes ago. You rolled your eyes, just as Weasel cam over, placing a full bottle of whisky down in front of you.

"If it makes you feel any better," the bartender began, facing Fury, "Those guys were plotting to kidnap some kids for ransom."

Fury just starred at the fidgeting man, with a blank eye. No emotion showed on his hard face, which only made Weasel more anxious.

"Right. I'll just go then."

"It makes him feel better, Weasel!" you called to the retreating man.

Even after months of not seeing the man, you could still read his, almost always, blank face, like an open book. It was a skill you wore proudly like a badge of honour. You doubted if your skill would ever fade.

Fury 'humphed' at you. Knowing full well that you were right, as he watched you take a swig of whisky straight from the bottle.

"You've changed, Y/N."

"No shit," you said harshly, "Wouldn't you?"

Fury sighed, for the umpteenth time since you've been talking to him.

"Listen Y/L/N-"

"Sorry to interrupt," Weasel said, "Making you smile into your bottle of alcohol, "But not really- What happened yo your eye?"

"He won't tell you, trust me. I've been asking him about it for years."

Wade hummed, squinting his eyes at the scars coming from behind Fury's eye patch, from his half rolled up mask, while taking a sip from his pina colada.

"My eye is not the focus, right now," Fury barked.

"Oh, but can it be?"

"Yeah, I beg to differ," Wade carried on, waving his finger at the fore talked about eye, "It looks like you got scratched by an itty-bitty kitty-cat."

"Bold words from the man whose lips look like a gaping asshole," Fury fired back, causing you to laugh so hard that tears started seeping from your eyes.

You wiped at your eyes as you regained as much of your composure as possible at that moment. Muttering to yourself, "I'm so drunk."

"Okay, listen. I came here for a reason- Don't." Fury pointed at both you and Wade, glaring at you in warning as to not interrupt him, with your remarks, or just in a general. "Strange has been trying to contact you, Isn't that right, Y/L/N?"

"Yeah. He wants me to work for him, go back to work for you, or something. I don't know, I didn't listen to him. He can go fuck himself."

"Strange?" Wade asked

"Yeah." You nod. "The portal guy I told you about."

"Oh. Shitty Harry Potter?!"

"That's the bitch!"

"Okay, that's enough!" Fury yelled, slamming his hands down onto the table, causing the drinks upon it to shake.

"Okay, damn. What's up you dating him, or something?" you asked.

"No, I'm not dating him," Fury growled.

"It's okay if you're gay." You nodded at Wade's words. "We don't care. We're both gay as fuck."

"I'm not!" Fury stopped himself from fishing his sentence, taking a breath and then exhaling it before he started speaking again. "I'm not dating Strange. But you do need to talk to him."

"Yeah, not gonna happen."

"Just hear him out."

"There's no reason for me too! What? He's gonna ask me to help him out with some hero bullshit. Well, I don't do that anymore."

"Yeah, I've noticed with all of the vigilante work you've been doing with your new friend here." Fury nodded towards Wade, who placed a hand over his heart.

"Oh, you've heard of my work. You flatter me."

"I'm not a vigilante I'm a hitman," you spoke at the same time.

"You're a what?"

"A hitman. If I'm gonna do this shit, might as well get paid for it." You shrugged.

"Or you could not just do it."

You shrugged once again. "It's what I'm good at. And it's the only thing that seems to distract me from this unbearable pain- Well. That and drinking. Also, weed. So much weed."

Fury put his head in his hands, shaking it against his palms, because of your words.

"Good job, Y/N. You broke him!"

"Stop it, both of you," Fury muttered.

"I know, it's so easy. It's a skill really."

"Stop," Fury ordered.

"What's up, Nick?" you asked, "Someone bugging you? Need me to kill ew? I'll give you a friend's and family discount."

"Just listen to strange!"

"Okay."

"Wait. Really?" Fury asked.

"For the right amount."

You smirked as Fury groaned.

"I'm not paying you to listen to Strange."

"Then I guess I ain't listening to him then."

"He wants to talk about Natasha!" he yelled.

Slowly pulling the whisky bottle from your lips, you placed it back on the table.

"What about Natasha?" you asked blankly.

Fury sighed again, thankful that you were finally listening to him. "Listen to what he has to say."

"What does he have to say?"

"It's better coming from him. I don't know everything and I know you'll have a lot of questions. Most of them stupid."

Gritting your teeth, you exhaled deeply. "Fine... I'll talk to him."

"Thank, God."

"You gonna set up a meeting for us?"

"No need." Fury smiled."What do you-?" Suddenly you screamed, plummeting down the portal that just materialised on the seat of your chair.

"Now we're playing with portals!" Wade joked.

Fury shook his head, picking up his drink. "I hate you."

"So... what is the story with your eye?"

"Go fuck yourself, Wilson."

"Well, if you insist."

***

Permanent Tag List: 

@imnotasuperhero, @veteranwerewolf95, @natasha-danvers, @marvelfansince08love​

[critical-ramblings]

First Impressions

I was at Mac’s for a drink. Putting my life back together after being legally and literally dead for a year was hard work, and I deserved a break even at...I glanced up at the old wind-up clock Mac kept on the mantle. Eleven o’clock in the morning. I was here for a break, and because someone had been following me for the past few hours. Mac’s bar was Accorded neutral ground, and though I hadn’t gotten a great look at my trackers, I had snuck enough glances in the rearview mirror to know that they weren’t Formorians. Or agents of Faerie. Really, the list of people who might want me dead was getting too long for me to keep up with. They’d either follow me onto neutral ground, where we could have a nice chat about their employers, or they’d try to jump me just outside the doors. In which case things might get messy, and I’d owe Mac a few bucks. Money meant a lot less than it used to, now that the Winter Court was footing the bill. 

They followed me in. One of them was a wizard, I was certain of it. It was the only reason I’d picked up on the tail in the first place, which said something about their mortal sneaking skills. But this guy clearly had no idea how strong his aura was, or how it warped into unpleasant mirage-feeling at the edges. This was somebody who, if they weren’t a warlock already, had at least started dabbling with black magic. 

I went up to the bar and ordered three beers, on the grounds that a polite conversation would be a lot easier to handle if I had a small chuckable distraction ready to hand. Mac grunted once for both ‘hello’ and ‘you got it’ before giving a long, pointed look over my shoulder back towards the door. 

“Yeah, I know,” I said as he put the bottles on the bar. “I’m hoping they’ll come quietly.”

Mac didn’t even dignify that with a grunt, just raised an eyebrow as mirage-dude and his buddy walked up. 

“Are you Harry Dresden?” The woman was in her early twenties, darkly tanned, with a dancer’s build and a practiced don’t-fuck-with-me expression. She did have the faint aura of an untrained practitioner, but it was overwhelmed from a distance by the walking inferno next to her. 

He didn’t look like much, but most warlocks didn’t. A skinny white guy with shoulder-length red hair that needed to be washed about a month ago, wearing a calf-length aviator’s coat covered with a similar layer of grime. 

“Who wants to know?” I asked, taking a sip of beer. If I did have to waste it Molotov-cocktailing my way out of here, I didn’t want to waste all of it. 

“Uh, I’m. Traci.” The woman grimaced like she regretted the fake name choice, which sucked for her, because that was definitely what I was always going to call her now. “And this is...”

“Phillip.”

“We want to hire you,” the woman said. She still had her arms crossed, looking less hopeful and more desperate. “You’re still a PI, right?” 

“Technically my license expired when I was busy being dead,” I said, but my mind was kicking into a higher gear. This was not exactly how I’d expected the ‘conversation to go. 

“We are missing a friend,” the man said in a sandpaper-rough German accent. He studiously avoided looking at me, or even in my direction. My suspicions crept up another notch; I took another drink. Then I pointed at the other two open bottles and jerked my head towards one of the haphazardly placed tables. Mac’s place was built with grumpy wizards in mind--specifically, dispelling magical buildup to stop said grumpy wizards from accidentally setting off an explosion (on-purpose explosions cost extra). Thirteen tables had been placed at unaligned intervals amidst thirteen pillars and thirteen ceiling fans I always managed to whack with my head. It had the added benefit of wearing away at passive magics the longer you were in here, like waves breaking down stones. Just in the time it took for the Dynamic Duo to gather their drinks and get over here, I could sense the guy’s veil starting to fade. It was pretty solid veil by my standards, though nothing like the stunts Molly could pull. And as it wore down I could feel the tug of ‘don’t look at me, I’m not important fading as well. 

“Let me get this straight,” I said, as they each took a seat. I’d stolen the one with the best view of the door, but I noted that neither of them sat with their backs to it entirely. “You, whoever you two are, heard about a professional wizard. Who’d been dead for a year. You decide the best course of action, upon discovering that said wizard was not as dead as some people had devoutly hoped, was to follow him around until he...what?” 

“Until he walked into a bar, apparently,” Phillip the German said. His sarcasm was so dry you could have poured in most of Lake Michigan. 

“And here I thought your people didn’t have a sense of humor,” I said, too brightly. “Fact of the matter is, I can’t help you. I’ve got...other responsibilities now.” 

“We know about that, a little,” Traci put her arms on the table, leaning forward and losing just a hint of her prickly exterior. “We’ve got some experience with that kind of problem. But it’s not important right now.” She waved a hand dismissively at her companion, who looked like he was about to object. “You work for the faeries, don’t you?” 

“And you should never tell them that to their face,” I said. This was getting curiouser and curiouser. Who the fuck were these people? 

“Sure, I knew that.” Traci shrugged. 

“Our friend Nott is a goblin,” the German said, a little too loudly. He shot a Look at his buddy that wasn’t quite a glare, which she also shrugged off. “We think she is trapped somewhere in the Verlorenenzeitstelle.” 

“In the what?” 

He scowled at me, forgetting to be afraid, and for a second I felt his tattered veil slip away. It didn’t strengthen his aura much, but the mirage-like patterns expanded and twisted in ways that were starting to make me nauseous even without using my Sight. The Mantle surged within me, sensing a threat, and the air around the table dropped several degrees. 

He muttered something in a language that definitely wasn’t German, and wrapped another veil around himself. But I knew what was there now, and it wasn’t going to go away. Herr Schulz was a warlock, no question. As a Warden, it was my duty to smash him over the head and bring him to the White Council. And from the way Mr. Bad News was shrinking back in his chair, he knew it. 

“Hey.” The woman snapped her fingers at me, which did successfully transfer my glare from him to her. “We came to you because you have a reputation for helping people,” she said, more gravely than before. “Nott went into Faerie, and she hasn’t come back. She’s a goblin, yeah, but she’s our friend and we can’t help her. We’ve got...” she paused to dig around in her pockets for a few seconds, during which the German closed his eyes and started to pray. Finally she pulled out a sizable wad of cash and put it on the table. Mostly tens and twenties, as far as I could tell. Maybe a thousand bucks, tops. For a second or two the old calculations of rent and bills and groceries ran through my head before stuttering to a stop. I was still living in Molly’s svartalf apartment while I looked for a place of my own and she was off in Antarctica or wherever Mab had sent her this week. Sarissa had given me access to the bank accounts of the Winter Knight, which had allowed Lloyd Slate to live a rich, decadent and demented life. I remembered again the look on his face right before I stabbed him, then shoved those thoughts aside. 

Then I looked at the warlock, and I wondered what exactly the Council would do if I showed up outside Edinburgh with someone like him in tow. I honestly couldn’t tell if I’d be tried alongside him, though damned if I knew what the charges would be. 

I pushed the money back towards her, wondering just how much I was going to regret this. ”I’ll do it,” I said. “If he looks me in the eyes right now.” 

Phillip stopped picking at an imperfection in his beer bottle and clenched both hands into fists. I leaned forward a little with one arm on the table, mostly to hide the fact that I had my blasting rod ready in my other hand. Offering a soulgaze was risky on both sides, honestly. If this guy was as fucked up as he seemed, I could end up with some nasty psychic blowback while his friend went to town on the rest of me. And he couldn’t be eager to see what was behind MY eyes either, from the way his shoulders were up around his ears. 

“What?” Traci asked, glancing between us. She’d been on the defensive for this whole conversation, but she didn’t know what was up now? Her warlock buddy must not have told her very much. “C--Phillip, if you don’t–”

“It is fine,” Herr Commandant said, though the way he was hyperventilating made it clear that it wasn’t. Jeez, this guy was wound tighter than a trampoline spring. And God help whoever was there when he snapped. It was that last thought that steadied me when he raised his eyes to mine. If this guy couldn’t be helped (and odds weren’t that great that he could) better that I take some damage than an innocent--or, more likely, a whole bunch of innocent bystanders--got killed in gory and extremely unpleasant ways. 

On that cheerful note, I was pulled into the soulgaze. At first, it was about as bad as I’d expected, which was to say: very. I was surrounded by fire and screaming, the air choked with gray smoke. I was wading through blood up to my shins, passing bodies whose faces I couldn’t see through the firestorm. 

And then, just as I was about to wrench myself out of that particular hellscape, I was in a room. A library, or a study, so quiet that I had to pop my ears to get rid of the pressure. Along the wall to my right, an elaborate chemistry setup sprawled across several work benches. On the left, dark wood bookshelves and boxes full of components were crammed full to bursting. Stars gleamed through a window on the opposite wall, shining impossibly bright light on a desk, a chair, and the man sitting in it. He didn’t look up from the book he was reading, but the big orange cat on his lap did. The cat blinked, and for a moment his eyes shimmered the same startling blue as the German’s. When it spoke I just about jumped out of my skin. 

“Don’t you dare disturb him,” the cat said. Phillip raised a hand to scratch at his head, a tribute the cat happily accepted. The thing could easily have rivaled Mister for size, though it otherwise resembled a lean American Shorthair with some hint of stripes on its dark orange fur. 

Before I could really nail my one-liner (or before I could pick my jaw up off the floor) the gaze ended. I was back at a table in McAnally’s, blinking crud out of my eyes. 

The German was still breathing hard, like he’d just finished a race, and his gaze was a little distant, but overall he’d done pretty well with the soulgaze. I’d had one person faint on me, if you can believe it. And no, I don’t know what it is they see when they look at me. I’ve never asked. 

“You okay man?” Traci put a careful hand on her buddy’s shoulder. He took a deep breath and turned to nod at her, a strained smile at the corner of his mouth. I wondered what kind of history made a thief and a warlock team up to find a goblin, of all things. And more than that, what made them so obviously care about each other. It may have been because I was looking for signs of hope, but those bonds were definitely a good sign for Phillilp. If he could hang on to them. 

“I’ll do it.” I rapped my knuckles on the table for emphasis. “I’ll take the case. Disappeared from where, in the real world?”

“New York. Ja.” The German pulled a whole manila folder out of his bag and slid it over to me. He took another swallow of beer and shuddered. I don’t think it was at the taste. 

“Alright.” I glanced through the papers for a second, noting pictures and what was definitely an arrest warrant. “What’s a good number to call? I guess you figured out, my office line is a little busy.” If by ‘busy’ you meant completely defunct. I was lucky they only put out one phone book a year, or my claim to professional wizardry would be gone for good. Well, that day was coming soon enough. 

‘Traci’ scribbled a phone number on the front of the folder and pushed it back. The German was already getting to his feet, finishing his beer with a few healthy chugs. “We, uh, we’ll be in touch.” 

I nodded back, watching as neither of them completely turned their backs as they walked away. The Winter in me approved, though it was getting a little too excited at the prospect of hunting down and destroying the warlock. “Down boy,” I muttered, and went up to the bar to order a sandwich. 

[britofthebacklogs]

hey remember those OC question lists

Literally, a couple questions answered for @erlenwald re: Tim 2. Do they have any titles? How did they get them? Answering this would be a lot easier if we'd ever established what kind of rankings/roles might exist within the Taster's Guild. (I'm not going to get into the kitchen stations she's trained or not trained for, though by this point she could be a roundsman. Maybe? Even if she doesn't have the upper body strength to be a butcher chef.) Less seriously, “cheese wizard” or “wee magic hag,” due to being a cheese-hoarding mage, and a petite female mage who's had some truck with bangaa. 21. Do they have a temper? Are they patient? What are they like when they do lose their temper? Oh, yes, Tim has a temper. Some of her personality has been blamed on her time in Balfonheim, but the temper is largely nature (that's just how she be) even if it's been enhanced a bit by ten years in Balfonheim; though Tim rather enjoys living there, she'll be the first to admit it's a place where you'd better be ready to push back when pushed. She's inclined to lash out when she loses her temper, and if it's acceptable enough, she'll follow that inclination, as we've seen in a few fights. (Stabbing the judge who had just attacked her cousin, kicking a corpse in the face til the nose broke because, in life, that enemy had almost killed Celeste... the would-be skeleton war...) If lashing out isn't acceptable enough, she will seize on delayed gratification and commit to a grudge until she's had the chance to take a shot and whoever's irked her so. It may be resolved in a relatively short time (as with the mages' duels she entered during her academy days) or may be banked for ages, but “now ...or later” is just how it's going to be unless a friend manages to deflate Tim's ire. Most of the times we've seen her get angry, she's been in a fight; get her angry enough in a conversation and she will either leave to seethe and side-step doing something which'll cause complications later, because she IS pragmatic enough to acknowledge that... or say what she's thinking, if she's all out of fucks. She's very unlikely to slap someone, no matter how riled up she gets, but that can be attributed to 'Don't make a scene,' lingering from childhood, knowing she can't hit hard enough to make it effective, and, on some semi-subconscious level, going “How about you give me an excuse, instead?” Timandra Remonce is not the heart of the harpy. She is a fairly patient person, though. She doesn't really mind delays or detours so long as she still gets to sleep in a bed as opposed to a bedroll at the end of the day; if the weather is bad or the terrain is goopy, that's unfortunate, but there's no help for it; she doesn't get cranky if she's made to wait, provided it's not an unreasonable amount of time, and if it is an unreasonable amount of time but for one of her friends, that's alright enough: she'll have questions, but not too many complaints.

[rerollpodcast-blog]

Why are there so many grapplers?

If you’ve been playing for a while, then I’m guessing at some point you’ve played with someone who played “a grappler” character. Even if you haven’t, the internet is full of stories and anecdotes of players that build their character around the grappler mechanic (in fact one of my players’ grappler died and he just made another grappler). Now, I’m not badmouthing them, but it did get me wondering: why is the grappler so ubiquitous? I spent a lot of time thinking about this and I think that the underlying answer actually has a lot to say about the way we play and think about martials in 5e. To explain why, we’re going to have a look at the differences between magical and martial classes, the shortcomings of the latter, and how to make life more interesting for your martial players.

Jackie Chan: the epitome of a martial

First, let’s look at the way magical classes are set up. Let’s say you wanted to create a new magic-based character. In terms of playstyle, you have quite a lot of options. You can be the blasty-mage that throws fireballs and lightning bolts. You can be a healer, supporting the party and tending to their wounds. You can be a Loki-like trickster, focusing on illusions and charms and deception. You can be a summoner, or a shapeshifter. Or you can focus on utility and be able to change terrain and crowd control your foes. You get so many options as a mage, and that’s not even counting the many ways you can mix and match your spell lists, or the completely different mechanics that each magical class has on their own.

Martials on the other hand are considerably more limited. Their options boil down to essentially: do you want to use two handed weapons, do you want to use an offhand weapon, do you want to use a ranged weapon, or do you want a shield. And even after those exciting choices, they largely all play the same way: run up to/away from something, roll a d20 and then do some damage. Compared to mages, martials just can’t compare in terms of playstyle options. Hell, just look at what’s available to a level 1 wizard compared to a level 1 fighter. The wizard gets to pick 9 spells from a list of 65. Fighters get to pick 4 weapons from a list of 36, most of which do the same thing or are inferior versions of each other.

Now at this point you may retort: “but flavour wise, the classes feel different.” And you are right on this point, but it is very discouraging when your flavour choices don’t reflect in your gameplay. The mysterious, Loki-like, illusion-specced mage plays very differently to the trigger-happy, fireball throwing mage. On the other hand, we have both the gallant longsword-wielding Champion Fighter and the savage warhammer wielding Berserker Barbarian who just run up to things and hit them for 1d10+STR mod damage.

Martials end up feeling like the mechanical equivalent of the Mass Effect 3 ending

 And that’s where I think grapplers come in. Mechanically speaking, grapplers just feel different to traditional martial gameplay. Rather than roll a d20 and compare to AC, you have a contested roll-off against your DM; that’s an exciting tension beat. Instead of inflicting damage, you inflict a status; that opens up new strategies. You get to move your target, you get to set up your target for co-operative attacks. I don’t think people play grapplers because they’re inherently fun to play, they play them because there aren’t many other variants of a martial to explore. The grappler just feels different, and most importantly, feels like a uniquely martial style of gameplay; it’s not like Gandalf ever did judo. But what do we do about this? How do we “fix” the martial classes to make them feel like individual classes? How do we make the martial classes feel like they’re more than just different flavours of attacks? Well in my opinion, there are three main methods: items, techniques, and environment.

 First up, let’s look at items. Items (especially homebrewed ones) are a really easy way to tailor a character to a certain playstyle vision since you can let them do literally anything. Of course, the type of items you give is important. If you want to play into a flavour archetype, you need to look beyond just adding more damage, it needs to either play to their strengths, overcome their weaknesses, or synergise with their mechanics. It’s probably why the “blink dagger” is such a classic item to introduce for a rogue player. It lets the rogue be sneaky, be agile, zip around, and most importantly: stab people. The mechanics of the item fit with the flavour of the character. It makes a rogue play uniquely like a rogue.

It helps here if you already know what your player wants out of their character. For example, I had a (revised) ranger player whose backstory involved them being the fantasy equivalent of a secret agent. So, I gave them a bow that could attach special arrowheads like Hawkeye, turning them into more of a stealth-infiltrator-utility character. That player went wild with that bow, using it for everything from long range shackles, smoke bombs, and grappling hooks. They even opted to keep it after bows that did more damage became available. I’d like to think it’s because it let them feel uniquely like a ranger; stealthing around and setting traps, playing with cunning rather than pure strength.

Slightly disappointed I didn’t see a USB arrow

 Now, items are all well and good, but they do have their limitation in that they require a bit of knowledge of what your players want already, require some skill in homebrewing, and are largely DM driven. After all, we’re trying to make enticing options for creating martial characters, but your player won’t know what items they’re getting when they create their character. Instead, let’s look at something that’s largely player driven: techniques. When I say techniques, I’m referring to abilities that aren’t hard-written into the rules of D&D but are instead flavourful abilities that players ascribe to their actions and require the DM to adjudicate effects on. For example: the ranger that asks if they can shoot at a flying creature’s wings to bring them down; that would be an example of a technique. It’s not something that’s strictly in the ranger’s abilities or in the rules for flying, but it would make sense from an in-game perspective.

Techniques like these can be extremely useful for when players want to feel like their individual strengths make a difference in-game. A bow toting ranger may be able to make that shot at the enemy’s wings, but not the axe wielding barbarian, and you want to reward those strengths and creative thinking. I have a barbarian/enforcer rogue player that has a spear that lights itself on fire. Originally my intent with the item was just that it sets creatures on fire for extra damage. Ironically however, she’s used it for just about everything except that. She’s done everything from creating sparks to blind people, lighting explosive materials on fire, melting gears in a construct’s arm to disable them, and stabbing it in an ogre’s back to ride them around Batman-on-a-mutated-henchman style. None of these are strictly in the rules, and thus required me to come up with a ruling and a check on the spot. I like to encourage her to request these techniques though because they let her play her barbarian-rogue the way she envisioned them; a swashbuckling pirate that likes fighting dirty.

Dale Gribble knows what I’m talking about

Our final differentiation method is one that let’s both the player and the DM control the input: the environment. In a way, the environment is like a combination of the above two methods, it’s like providing a short-term item that creative players can make a technique with. And its so easy to implement too, just describe your battlegrounds more. You certainly don’t need to come up with a list of potential actions that your players could use with every single item in the room like you were coding a video game, your players will come up with it for you. All you need to do is make sure your players know that they’re fighting in more than a featureless void and they’ll get to work. Indeed, my best players even start asking me if there’s certain objects in the room, just so they can enact some crazy plan they’ve come up with. Nine times out of ten, I’ll say yes, just to see what they do.

The best part about using the environment is that different classes will see the environment in different ways, and utilise it depending on their strengths. The agile rogue may see a hanging chandelier as a convenient method to get across the room, while the eagle-eyed ranger may see it as a heavy object to shoot down on their enemy. The brazier of coals can be knocked over by the cunning fighter to slow the enemy, or the savage barbarian can throw their foe into it to cook them alive.

This is going too far though

 So, now we know three good methods for providing class differentiation. But, here comes the tricky part: convincing your players to use them. You see, the methods are not overly difficult, and I would argue that a lot of them are more fun than just vanilla attacking. Unfortunately, in a lot of cases, attacking just seems to be the strictly better option. Why take a creature down by shooting its wings, when you can just take it down by killing it? Why bother knocking over a brazier to slow down your enemies, when you can just stab them? In other words, what’s the incentive to be creative?

Personally, I like to encourage it in a few ways. First, is that I don’t make fights overly punishing. When players know that they don’t need to optimise every single action to come out victorious, they feel the freedom to mess around a bit more and go for the fun plays. That barbarian-rogue I mentioned before? Sure, she’s done all those cool things; but she’s also failed at a whole lot more. But, punishment is rarely anything more serious than if she had missed an attack, so she feels free to try again another time.

The second is the inverse of the first. When my players try something out of the ordinary, I like to reward them. If they attempt a technique as an action, I will make sure that the successful result is at least as useful as an action spent attacking. If my fighter knocked over that brazier of coals, my minions will over-react, taking the long way around, or attacking in a way that lets the fighter knock them back into the coals for even more damage. Nothing kills a player’s enthusiasm quite as much as pulling off what they thought was a great move, only to find out it achieved next to nothing.

Finally, I like to encourage creative fighting by joining in on the fun myself. Particularly noteworthy NPC’s have special weapons and items that make them feel like more than just vanilla damage dealers. My NPC’s attempt big plays just as much as my players do, and mess around with the environment like a player would. I’ll admit, I’ve even thrown a few NPC grapplers at my players just for the fun of it. Not only does seeing the DM do these methods assure the player that it’s okay to do them, it also inspires them to try their own things.

 I hope that this has helped inspire you and your players to explore the potential of the martial classes again. Instead of resorting to one-note tricks like playing a “grappler,” try to use items, techniques, and environments to bolster creativity, and let martial classes really shine. So many times, I’ve heard people complain that martials are just plain boring compared to all of the options that magical classes have. And while it may be true that magical classes get many more options than martials, I’ve found that once you give martials anything to work with, they end up using it even more creatively than the mages do with their spells. So, work with your martials, and maybe we can finally remove all these luchadore stories from the front page of Reddit.