pssst !! hello !! welcome to my very secret and special multimuse sideblog for a variety of d&d affiliated characters!! some of these characters come from critical role campaign 4, but most of them come from playing ttrpgs with my friends.
this blog is a sideblog and does not have a carrd for the moment. rules can be found on any of my main blogs. follows will also come from one of those. i will only write here with people who are also mutuals on one of my main blogs. extremely formatting-light. if you want to know about my ocs there are brief summaries linked in the section headers, and if you want to know more than that just ask me.
main blogs (this blog is attached to all of these!) ;
tachoniis ; occtis tachonis of critical role campaign 4.
deadlettered ; fandomless urban fantasy oc.
recre8ed ; cho hakkai of saiyuki.
drfeelgreed ; baccano! multimuse.
other sideblogs ;
isghouliish (monster high, ever after high, pixie hollow multi)
hey. yeah no i havent been writing ive been thinking about my dnd characters terminally and can't do anything that isn't with like 3 of my dnd guys. sorry. heres some workplace sketches from session 1 of our new campaign.
The silence weighed upon their shoulders like a heavy blanket.
Clars couldn't help but sag from the weight. While the clearing of their misery had been left behind, nothing more now than an awful memory, the reality of it still sunk into her skin like claws & teeth. Of course, it wasn't the actual already-torturous-on-end cycle that left its most prominent marks. No, it wasn't the constant death-undeath that had stung so terribly ( though, it certainly left its own abhorrent sting ).
It was everything she had been and had not been up until this point: a burden, a load, a coward. A walking death sentence who has already accepted their afterlife without regard for those still living. It'd be one thing if it was herself she had to drag through mud and mire ; if it had just been her in that clearing . . .
no, she knew, i wouldn't have even gotten that far.
But the time for tears and apologies have come and gone. There was no reason for her to go back through that door again, after she has already taken the keep moving forward.
still, Clars casted her eyes towards Tempest, it's not something i should forget. nor is it something so simple.
" . . . "
While most of the group seems to have given her sway, Tempest seemed a little less forthcoming in his acceptance of her wrongdoings. Not that she really blamed him for this ; Clars knew her actions were unacceptable and it was nice to have someone keep her accountable. Knowing Tempest wouldn't sit back and accept her sliding back into cowardice . . . even if it wasn't for her sake, she couldn't help but find relief in such support. Though, he'd probably object to her calling it support . . .
She cleared her throat, attempting to break whatever thoughts he might have been having. She doubted he was going to try to break the silence ; he could be stubborn, like that, and she couldn't help but smile a little at the thought.
" . . . the stars in Miri are quite different than the stars in Aiva, aren't they? " It seemed like a good idea to start with something they both liked. " i'm not really familiar with the ones here, if i'm to be honest. it's just something i've noticed. not that i'm really familiar with the skies in Aiva either, eheh . . . "
There was no way in avoiding the conversation being awkward, but that didn't make it any less painful!
There is a tension in the dark, quiet as the nightlife of the strange forest springs to life around them. Countless days spent doing the same thing over and over again feel like a distant dream already, slipping away into the long stream of memories that Tempest holds claim to.
Relatively speaking, the memories he makes with these people will be some of the last memories of his life. It's only a shame they must be so bitter.
He knows fully well he shouldn't blame Clars entirely for retreating somewhere else, making her fate the problem of anyone she considers more well-suited to facing it. He knows more intimately than anyone what it's like to be standing with the proverbial noose of an execution around his neck, waiting for the floor to drop. Were he blessed with the same agency and opportunity to fight back that Clars has been, he doesn't know that he would have thought himself capable enough to even try. Not that he wanted to in the first place.
But things are what they are, and Clars has promised to step forward. It should be enough of an assurance on its own, but it isn't. Intention and action are, after all, two different things.
There is resentment, also. Since landing here, he's found himself thinking—it was your circumstances that found me here. I chose to make this the tail end of my life, and you may very well have cut it infinitely shorter. He's never been a stranger to those unfair thoughts, nor is he a stranger to the fact that they're unfair.
Clars of all people didn't ask for this, after all. But none of them really did.
His eyes slide over to her in the dark as she begins to speak. Unbidden, his lips twitch into a frown as she mentions the sky, and in an act of cordial disguise he turns his sights upwards instead, staring towards the twinkling constellations that have always remained consistent.
"I somehow doubt the stars in Miri are similar to anywhere," Tempest says, eyes settling in place. He doesn't need to compare them to his reflection to know that the arrangement of the stars is different than he's ever seen them. He's only spent thousands of years looking, pridefully, towards the same sky. "Another of the many oddities that sweep this place, I'd wager. I don't recognize any constellations."
Something moves and shifts in this sky when he looks away from it—though he keeps the fact that he has been looking held tightly to him, as though even that is some vulnerability that can't wholly be trusted to give out. Even Vel hasn't really asked, though Tempest sometimes catches him staring when his gaze has lingered upwards too long.
It looks familiar sometimes, like the world outside of Miri is constantly on the verge of breaking through whatever keeps the Feywild contained here. Then he'll blink, and the stars are out of alignment again.
"Not that I imagine you were especially itching to talk to someone about the stars," Tempest murmurs, eyes flicking down at her again for half of a second. "But it's a nice, agreeable topic. So I won't complain. The stars are beautiful in Aiva, though they looked better from the islands. And you're at least passingly familiar with them—unless you claim you and your other faces haven't so much as glanced in my direction lately."
The only thing that bites harder than the burn of the sun over the Peshykoran desert are the harsh winds at night. They cut cold across the arid cracked landscape and strike pins and needles deep under the skin of those unfortunate enough to weather them without even a tent or wagon for shelter.
Trevor is feeling that misfortune for himself at the moment, even beside the heat from the fire. It’s not much in the way of a proper camp— one small fire, traveling cloaks, and nothing but the dry ground underneath. But it’s a way he’s used to surviving.
The same cannot be said for the man across the fire from him, who looks well beyond miserable out here in the chill. The last lingerings of the day’s warmth have been sapped from the rocky earth and Dara’s feathers seem to wilt like flower petals in the absence of it. Trevor supposes it’s probably natural for him to do poorly in lower temperatures, but even so…
The cold is one thing, but it’s not the only thing Trevor would guess that’s clinging to him. From all Dara has shared with him about his situation, there isn’t any wonder that he’s lonely, too, on top of freezing.
A sigh leaves the monster hunter’s lips, and a shift of fabric breaks the crackling ember quiet, disrupting any thoughts that may have been haunting within it. Trevor raises an arm to lift one side of his fur-trimmed cloak, leaving a path open enough for a certain someone to settle in at his side— if he should choose to.
He looks away, himself, though— off to the opposite side of their fire, eyes awkwardly flitting between shadows as he clears his throat. How long has it been since anyone was as close as Trevor is offering now? However many years it is, he’s lost count.
“ Uh— ” His voice stumbles over itself, uncertainty dragging it down, low and quiet. “ You can…come over here, if you’re cold. Cloak’s big enough. ”
His eyes wander down to the flames where they greedily lick at their fuel. It’s enough for him— he’s been colder, he’s been hungrier, more tired, in more pain. But Dara hasn’t been living a life like this, not until recently.
Just how recently is a question Trevor wonders, but hasn’t asked. It’s not a memory he wants to be responsible for dredging up.
Instead, he tilts his head, mustering up enough bravado for a hint of a smile— a ghost of a thing, swallowed up quickly by the deep shadows and the flickering orange light.
“ I won’t bite. I…don’t suppose you’ve had to camp out much before. You don’t exactly strike me as someone who’s had much cause. ”
The wind blows over Dara with a rattling chill, the of his tail taking over the chattering from his teeth as he clenches them. It's easy enough to stay warm in the sun—Peshykor's a lot of things, but it's especially hot. Except at night; then it's especially cold.
Now there's just the fire. Dara's been sticking to inns before this, but Trevor had pointed out that it'd be easier to find him in an inn, surrounded by other people. Dara knows it's true. If he were smart enough, he wouldn't have even gone to that town in the first place, and then they wouldn't have gotten turned to stone, and he wouldn't have met Trevor.
Well. Meeting Trevor has actually been the best part of all of this. Dara didn't think he'd have been lucky enough to find someone who already knew exactly what he was, but trusted him anyway. And then Trevor's been so nice already outside of that, teaching him how to set up a camp and promising to do his best to keep him alive on their way back, and giving him one of his daggers…
… That part's been fine. But the rest is still terrible.
All he has is a little blanket that the townspeople had been nice enough to give him, and he wraps that around him tighter.
His mom was always warmer than him. He remembers, when he was little, getting cold even under the nice covers of his bed, and slinking over to his parents' room so he could fall asleep somewhere it was warm. He hadn't done that in a long time, though, because when he was still a little too young to make many things beyond his toys, Reza had met his complaints about the cold with a smile and a wink, and had done something to Dara's blanket that he'd promised to teach him when he was older.
Dara had forgotten to ask. He's tried to work on replicating it, but in the cold silence of night, all he can think about is that blanket back home, and he can feel the stale air from inside of his goggles heat up with the tears that have started to form in his eyes.
Maybe he'll never be there again. Maybe—
"—Huh?!"
A little louder than necessary, as usual, Dara tries to rewind his brain to see if he actually caught what Trevor had said to break the silence between them. Cloak's big enough—he'd caught that much, and Trevor's holding it open like an invitation. Before he can respond, Trevor speaks again, confirming that much—Dara feels the tears grow fatter beneath his eyes as he swallows down a relieved sob.
A younger Dara, even a few months younger, might have grown a little warm at the offer, might have smiled a little too sheepishly. Maybe blushed, if he was capable of it. But none of those things even occur to him, in the moment.
"Okay," he says. But he stays where he is, awkwardly frozen in place. "Um. Are you sure? 'Cause I'm cold—I mean, I'm cold but also I'm definitely gonna make you, um, colder. I don't really retain body heat well 'cause of the—um, yeah. Not that I don't wanna come over there 'cause I super do but it's seriously okay."
One of his hands, which had clutched the blanket, falls to the floor, and Dara taps a finger on the ground, twitchy and frantic. He stutters over a breath, but manages for the second time to hold back a sob.
"I've just been a lot of trouble already. And I haven't camped out before, so. Maybe it's just—maybe I just have to get used to it! So, I mean, I'd be fine either way. Probably. Unless I won't be. I don't know."
His other hand drops the blanket, too, letting in another stream of cold air—he rattles again at the sudden sensation, but doesn't stop in his mission to temporarily push his goggles up and wipe his eyes before letting them fall back down again, "I don't know. I wanna come over there. If you're sure."
my current d&d pc ankita culathene, owlin wizard of the order of scribes, is ... i would sort of describe him as the de facto face and negotiator of his group, the sparks of hope. he's VERY politically minded and has a lot of investment in inspiring change in the world in whatever ways he can. he's the soon-to-be champion of the unbroken shield, and despite his focus on protection and healing he has no plans to shift focus to abjuration. he straight-up broke the magic system and is making healing magic accessible for wizards.
also, he has no spells that deal damage and a total of 23 hit points at level 7. 8 strength 8 con 10 dex.
