Gordian Nought

D&D 5e - High Seas and Tall Tales

Once the beasts halted in both skirmish and vivacity, the music of the murky spheres of darkness seemed to be dispelled by Jill. With it gone, Koan’s once offered golden heart was simply intercepted, masticated and cast back into the fiery depths of the final Cerberus’ permeable exsanguination. Like a freshly consumed apple, now demonstrating its rotten core, full of cancerous amygdalin, she bobbled in the abyss as her red orbs glared at the novel duo. The anti-heroine quietly pouted, striving to brew a cure to this newly discovered malignancy which so quickly metastasized as a sweet death to her lust for this fallen Andras, now plucked of his wings, his wolf, his weapon, and, now, his very woman.

“Sauron? But I thought…”

A vain war won and lost, as discord churned and spurned further a seething melancholy, while witnessing the shadowy Paris eventually selecting their beguiling Captain, the apparent Aphrodite of the crew. Her hair chose and breathed luminosity with her almost unparalleled charismatic beauty, angelically outshining the corporeal wealth of the surrounding tigress Hera and mystic Athena, and the obviously dejected Eris, subduing the silvery buffoon’s strife with an unheard song.

“…we were…”

The jester slowly tailed, from a deafening distance, the rich and delicate hands the partnered celestials shared. The sight birthed a tremendous lethargy her soul would have to encumber as silent thunder impregnated her mind with a millennia of screaming ululations, whispering and sowing sorrow onto the face of the grey geisha. This, a nebulous emotion never truly festered by the prankster, for more than a brief instance, weakened her chin as her hood floated over her wet eyes. It soon wrapped her weeping body with its blinding world, delivering a hushed pity and muted lamentations, heard only by those sensitive and inquisitive to a sad clown’s sins and aborted hopes.

“…a team.”

@The Grey Dust@JBRam2002

Ragnarov Fleet controlled space - Trespassers will be shot!

Zelthis fell.

Again and again. Because of betrayal. The Ragnarov had immense comprehension of many refugee races, but zero tolerance with rebellion.

Weeks and many deaths later, imprisoned within the weapons testing facility, the physiology manipulator succumbed to new toys, technomancered to deliver the most pain.

In the slowest feasible way. And as long as possible.

Captain Vropda had just marched away, behind a transparent barrier, from the last crimson rays of the waning subject painted again on the walls of the engineering canyon. The dark scar left by the impact reeked of mortar and brimstone. A blemish which grew thicker as Nick’s body continued to endure it. Such a will against the literal burnout of explosive torture surprised the sister of General Creft. The cliffs of flesh on either side narrowed, as the universe contracted into another detonation around the shapeshifter. The vassal appeared human in its still extant remains but with an inhuman luminosity about him, as radioactivity stemmed from the corpus as it slid slowly to the bottom of the crash well.

There were no signs of evolution. Yet.

As Vropda was hopeful that Zelthis would yield fruit, that might benefit her mother race, the scavengers of space, extricating life, in any and from any form or fashion. She ceased her experiments as the digital monitor reminded her Exosuit of a gathering with her brother. With another button, the chamber cryogenically frozen and with it the rebellious changeling.

---

Her boots barely broke the office as Jace completed a synopsis of her recent existence.

Rancher.
Slavers.
Mining Planet.
Revolution.
Escape.

Buzz words ACASIAS automatically gleaned, discerned and verified. The tale seemed to be authentic, according to the statistical boot-logging methods, the AI provided. The mechanically enhanced woman's unseen pale eyebrows beneath a cocooned visor leaped in excitement.

“What were you exactly harvesting?”

@scifidude47@Hekazu

D&D 5e - Hoard of the Dragon Queen

"I know you're not a mercenary group. So, what the fuck are you doing here?"

The pirate was seized off guard, slightly by the tyrannical abruptness of the inquisition. The feet of the sailor scuffled, with durst dislike his reign of his words, imbuing an adverse power against the dubious query.

“Tiamat’s hunger knows no rapture, friend. Left unbridled, her harvest will feast on all the fruits of Toril.”

The cryptic ambiguity was intentional, as Torus did not trust the young merc. He lingered for a moment, to discern whether his guide would disclose further incriminating or liberating evidence. The old man truly yearned, to shake the ark of the hooded man’s mental sanctuary, in a subtle fashion as to not attract attention nor to relinquish the previous farce, lest the surrounding propitiation redeemed with immortal revenge against those not sharing the wrath of the hoard, be forfeit. The beard and eyes swiveled its paired gaze over the encampment, indulging in the enormity of such an enterprise.

“A famine quickly depletes a region of prey. Hence, predators must migrate from hill to coast to feed their ilk’s massive bulk.”

The sailor entered the Mess Hall, seeking to understand their extent of provisions or rations and to delineate numbers, by the potential occupancy of such a deranged cafeteria.

@Hekazu@Irredeemable

D&D 5e - The Lost Lands

From the haunted knight’s infelicitous reprisal, the realms of light and darkness congealed into a haze, by his perspective, where neither setting nor rising horizon mattered. Clothed with transcendental and ancient brightness, a myriad of pain dispersed, from the guardian, unto the dark mantle of shadows guarding the warlock’s petite constitution, scurrying the capricious wisps away, far from the mortal angel. The enraptured celestial soon suffered another mighty blow by the hand of the cryptic paladin, as she suddenly became entangled in a brief web of ethereal lianas. The face of this world revolved slightly, turning his attention to fight and smite the slayer of monsters.

Their undesired foe was resolute with the accosted defenders of luminosity, as he turned his back, allowing the league of obscurities to return, shrouding Wick with dim and cloudy strength, once again. Her staff glimmered the other broken twin, in furious angst, searching for its other geminin of the jewel heralded from the lost Shujaat. The Green Man made a mistake, as the sailor tempted him with further desecration of his shrine, about facing away from the wizard, seemingly angered with the bard’s recent misery of events. Fostering a glorious enterprise, Wick hazarded a strike, that shouldered united mistrusts and thoughtful counsel, landing and securing a hope against such a mighty adversary.

But to no apparent avail.

The reincarnated cleric realized the defiant light, to which Birbin’s former friend, seemed partial, hastening with equal ruin, the pit that Cesar now plunged further into. The race was thunderous, as the force of those dire arms scrambled to reach the pirate and his insults. The diviner desired to aid her friend but to also to seek out the recently vanished Ruron, the reagent in this affliction of repentance and infliction of revolution. Summoning strength, the outward luster of the vines, intemperate against the murky miasma hovering about her breastplate, withered. With a fixt mind and high disdain, her boots quickly prostrated the temple’s floor with a sensed of injured merit, hoping to seek eventually, once more, the fierce contention of her master’s prodigy.

Only after the throne of this unconquerable will was usurped.

Effects

Wick suffers 10 damage, draining her 6 Temp HP to nought and takes an additional 4 leaving her at 18/22 HP. She will take her Attack of Opportunity against the Green Man, striking with a Critical Hit, for 12 damage.

For her main action, she will cast False Life at will, regenerating 7 temporary HP for 1 hour. For her bonus action, she will cast Expeditious Retreat.

She rolls a 19 against the Strength DC of 15 to not be restrained by the spectral vines.

Wick then moves up to 60 feet, investigating the area where Ruron disappeared.

Wick

HP: 18/22
Temp HP: 7
AC: 17 (Breast Plate (14) + DEX Mod (1) + Shield (2))
Weapon: quarterstaff in dominant hand, others (sheathed)

Arcane Focus: Fleece Necklace
Concentration: Expeditious Retreat
Agonizing Blast: Add CHA modifier (+4) to Eldritch Blast damage

Spell Slots:
Warlock (Level 2): 1/2 First Level (On Expeditious Retreat)
Full Spell Caster (Level 2): 0/3 First Level
Globe of Light Limit: 0/1 (unused)

Spell Attack/DC:
Cleric: 3/11
Warlock: 6/14
Wizard: 4/12

Lesser Restoration: 1/Day after finishing a long rest (unused)
Arcane Recovery: 1/Day after finishing a short rest (used)
Fey Presence: 1/short rest (used)

5e D&D - Mines of Phandelver

M’s pale nails assigned irritated canals through Bar’s sheared torso, much to the annoyance of the sorcerer. It was unlike a gent of unparalleled narcissism and abusive natures, to dig like an animal through a corpse. If Brim truly knew the feng-shui of the man’s mind, the actual dictator that heralded over the lineage of his frantic movements, diving into sinew, ligament, and bone, with such rancor, for a man bereft of muscles himself, this would be a mere moment of contemplation. The goliath pondered, out of ignorance, the duality of such a despoliation marred and contrasted against the exactness for his minimalistic purity, as the muffled vizier eventually arrested his activities and finally gestured him towards the perilous ledge.

Perhaps this was the manner of mute mystics.
Everywhere.
To torture all by hand signals.

However, the pain of these charades would steal likely minutes from both their brief lives.

Was he that ravenous for silence that he would risk miscommunication?

“M….” He paused, a slow, Parkinsonian thought wormed across the expanse of nerve clusters and his direct knowledge of the particularities of this mild, miniscule director of progress. His eyes slid over in a cool glance, curious, caught, hooked upon the subtle implication, frustatingly questioned by his own lack of whispered baritone.

“I don’t know what you’e talking about.”

An unassumingly, harmless sheaf of rope, enlisted by the mental shaman, was offered for the perpetual descent below. “Wope?” The nose turner grasped hold and buckled it to his belt reflexively as he looked with piercing eyes further into the depths of the cave. The next level below was distant, clear, spiteful and riddled with intentional harm, if someone was not careful. After some lengthy deliberation, the fetid giantkin released his hand from his chin and began to wave his arms in a methodical crux, as he attempted to chisel a stairwell, or ladder, if too cumbersome, propelling the carved stone upward next to the desecrated carcasses, hoping not to spill any silt, tipping off any circuiting patrol.

He hissed softly once again. “This will be betta to cwimb down.”

Mechanics

Brim will employ Mold Earth, if possible, on the cave’s stone. 5 feet of earth every 6 seconds, to make a makeshift stairwell or ladder.

D&D 5e - The Lost Lands

The visualization of not only Ruron, but her master’s gem, lashed out across her mind’s temperament, catching the brunt of her anger with a harsh, nearly bestial growl of displeasure as the treacherous prodigy evaporated from the shadowy skirmish. The irony was not lost upon the ancient cleric, for everything the wunderkind was brilliant at, in every execution and performance, teamwork was where the boy historically stood at a standstill and refused to participate. Partially because no one could easily mimic and match his precocious, flawless tendencies. His now directed slander to the gnome’s ignorance portrayed an overall cruelty Wick never had witnessed, demonstrating how nefarious and astute his demons were.

Why would he use them, and to what beneficial desire, just to throw them away just as carelessly without a flicker or shadow of remorseful reflection?

Abruptly, slaughter came forward and almost overtook Cesar and then Wick by the hands of the verdant, angered admiral. The warlock’s brows quaked, in attempts to restrain and redirect the Green Man’s fury against their common foe.

“Defilers?” An offering of peace slithered from her lips in a candied bite, as the dark tendrils hugged her armor, tighter, without abandon. “We are not your enemies.”

She gestured to the obsidian threads of dusk and damnation, now surrounding them.

“They are!”

Mechanics

Wick will leave her unseen servant, stationary wherever that may, to which in the future can still be manipulated via Bonus Action.

Wick will invoke Fey Presence to Charm (Spell Save DC is 14) the Green Man and Persuade him to fight the Shadows and not the Wardens of Light (5 without Advantage; 18 with Advantage).

Wick

HP: 22/22
Temp HP: 6
AC: 17 (Breast Plate (14) + DEX Mod (1) + Shield (2))
Weapon: quarterstaff in dominant hand, others (sheathed)

Arcane Focus: Fleece Necklace
Concentration: Nothing

Spell Slots:
Warlock (Level 2): 0/2 First Level
Full Spell Caster (Level 2): 0/3 First Level
Globe of Light Limit: 0/1 (unused)

Spell Attack/DC:
Cleric: 3/11
Warlock: 6/14
Wizard: 4/12

Lesser Restoration: 1/Day after finishing a long rest (unused)
Arcane Recovery: 1/Day after finishing a short rest (used)
Fey Presence: 1/short rest (used)

D&D 5e - Hoard of the Dragon Queen

Whether this is a trap or whether he can trust him?

D&D 5e - Hoard of the Dragon Queen

May Torus roll Inaight?

D&D 5e - The Lost Lands

"Sort of like the entirety of you..."

Was this a joke, a faux-pas, a jest indisputably to salve a sagacity of vengeance against the sins she committed? Or an outrageous debauchery, a slandered dalliance, or a gaping spiritual wound she dehisced to bleed before the once lost, but now found Ruron? Were the Gods arranging a penance to impose upon her fortified will of forgetfulness?

The cleric was surprised by the attempt of the tomb to bewilder her and the warped subconscious buried beneath the tendrils of shadows, under her bloodied breastplate and within the coffin of her heart.

But this could not be a mere illusion, as the conversational hallucination seemingly interacted with all.

Wick proffered a jeer of her lip, an uncharacteristic cocked hip, and a soft clack of mental departure; for there was no way in this world’s seven abysses, where she was going to simply subjugate herself to this prodigy’s defiant smugness.

With her golden locks, a carefully and intensely disarrayed style of long tresses spilled around her thin shoulders, for the first time again in a long time. Her joyful eyes a dark and swirling mess of carved pumpkins, enjoying the very presence of the man of careful grooming, gleaming a rioted perfection, to the expense of his tunic, to the cherry of his lips, down to the fabricated style of the scimitar. He even walked with a show of grace, his saunter a rolling expedience whilst appearing crude in the brisk exiting from the central cue.

The warlock didn’t make it far though, as floundering words drowned her confused posture.

“About time? Reason you’re here?? Light in the Darkness??? Entirety????” Her vernacular sunk deeper into a grotesque mark, delivering the abrasive message, as she bore emotions of betrayal and duplicity.

“Where the hell have you been? And... Who the devil is he?”

D&D 5e - The Lost Lands

The reincarnated sage steeped further into the hall, brewing over the monster slayer’s nystagmus, which darted, from corner to wall to shrine, over concealed apparitions. Before Theodore reached the egress, the cleric stopped his exodus.

“Halt. Let it go first.”

The avian-clad butler in the elbow of the room jarred from its statuesque hibernation; its syncytial gaze riddled with the radiance of oblivion, an Egyptian herald for the young accountants of light, of a prophecy of ten plagues yielding a briefer lifespan. The objective was simply reconnaissance, methodical and meticulous, to demolish the curious resolve of knights in order to checkmate any larcenous king cradled in this fleeced tomb. The unseen pawn entitled itself to a job security by willingly suffering any potential pyramid of pain, even to the extent of sacrificing to the very danger being sought.

Slothfully unraveling its magical position with sluggish footsteps to the Stygian exit, the invisible mute was commanded to test the darkness beyond. The excitement built within Wick, as the ranger remained still as the servant began to peer further ahead, with eyes of a Horus.

Would a rapacious nova tumble this tax collector downward into a Nekhen of its own imaginary blood?

Opening the portal, its contorted carcass suspended momentarily, slouching any attention drawn to the Memnon shadows looming over the murky unknown, distracted by the gazelles of the coming, exhaustive void.

Effects

The unseen servant is commanded to go past the door and into the darkness, before Theodore plunges in.