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[spikygunslingerdimension]

sometimes i think the real magic of dnd isn’t the spells or the dragons. it’s when a group of tired mortals with snacks and bad dice luck accidentally tell a story worth remembering.

[spikygunslingerdimension]

there’s something beautiful about night city at 3 a.m. when the ads go quiet for half a second and you almost believe the world could heal.

[spikygunslingerdimension]

the sunlight hit my face for half a second and i forgave everyone who’s ever wronged me. i’m choosing joy. i’m choosing chaos. i’m choosing to believe the plot will resolve beautifully.

[spikygunslingerdimension]

there’s nothing more powerful than me after one good day. i’m googling apartments in cities i’ve never been to. i’m picturing the montage sequence of my comeback. i’m healed, reborn, and slightly delusional.

[spikygunslingerdimension]

i’m not isolating, i’m just in my “observing from the shadows like a morally ambiguous side character who knows too much” era.

[spikygunslingerdimension]

sometimes i think i’m finally becoming mysterious but really i’m just tired and slightly translucent in certain lighting.

[spikygunslingerdimension]

i don’t want self-improvement. i want to decay in peace and maybe develop cryptic wisdom about the moon. let moss reclaim me and call it enlightenment.

[spikygunslingerdimension]

i am so tired of being perceived. i just want to wander into the woods and let the local cryptids slowly get used to me until we coexist in mutual, silent respect.

[spikygunslingerdimension]

the laundry ritual has begun. the machine rumbles like a distant god remembering its anger. i have made offerings of detergent and half-formed prayers that no socks get consumed by the bowels of the apparatus. the cycle spins, the runes blink, the outcome uncertain.

i know only this: when the chime sounds, i will forget to move it to the dryer for at least three hours.

such is the curse. such is the way.

[spikygunslingerdimension]

i have entered the room with purpose. the purpose has fled. the air hums with forgotten intent.

something was meant to happen here- an action, a task, a destiny. but the thread has been cut. i stand in the doorway, unmoored, clutching nothing but the vague certainty that i was needed. perhaps one day the memory will return, but by then it will be too late. the room will have claimed me.

[spikygunslingerdimension]

“no evil glowing artifact this time,” i say, lying directly to my players’ faces. cut to session three and suddenly there’s a sword humming with malice, a crown whispering in dreams, or a crystal nobody should touch but everyone WILL. i’m sorry. i have a disease. it’s called Plot Device Syndrome.

[spikygunslingerdimension]

listen. i know every single one of my homebrew campaigns ends up being “corrupt kingdom ruled by a tyrant.” i KNOW. i can’t stop myself. i sit down with all the best intentions like, “this time it’s gonna be a cozy trade town, a whimsical festival arc, maybe some fun dungeon crawls.” and then three sessions later suddenly there’s an evil monarchy, peasants on the verge of rebellion, and a tax system so broken it might as well be a dungeon itself. i’m sorry. i’m weak.

[spikygunslingerdimension]

i hate how every “evil overlord” in bg3 has a hideout that is perfectly designed for me to walk in and murder everything. like, yes, you’ve conquered armies and tortured innocents, but apparently you couldn’t hire someone to conjure up some trap doors that launch me into a pit. also, why does every goblin and duergar have a torch in their hand? don’t you have darkvision or magic or literally anything? it’s like they want me to succeed.

[spikygunslingerdimension]

okay, hear me out:

the world ended, and with it, almost all written language was lost. scrolls crumbled to ash, books turned to dust, inscriptions on stone faded overnight. but the librarians survived. not the kind with glasses and shushing gestures- the real librarians, who memorized stories, laws, recipes, histories, even entire magical rituals in their heads.

each librarian carries a string of beads: one bead for every story, song, or spell they remember. when one dies, the beads are redistributed. the stories never vanish, only shift hands. some beads are whispered, some are shouted, some are sung with minor variations so the story evolves organically, like a living thing.

[spikygunslingerdimension]

every ancient library in fantasy settings is described as "dusty" and "forgotten," but never once do they explain who’s lighting all those eternally burning candles. who’s replacing the wax??

so here’s my pitch: the Candlekin. little wax-fingered cryptids with matchstick teeth. they scuttle out only when no one’s watching, trimming wicks, pouring fresh tallow from their own melting bodies. they never speak, but if you catch one in the corner of your eye, the flame flickers in greeting.

they don’t care if you read forbidden tomes or summon horrors. their only concern is that the light never dies.

[spikygunslingerdimension]

i don’t actually want riches or power from a fantasy world, i just want a little dagger that’s slightly magic. not even special. just sharp enough to cut bread, glows a bit when i’m sad, maybe hums if there’s danger. i don’t need legendary weapons, i need an emotional support knife that doubles as kitchenware.

[spikygunslingerdimension]

sometimes i don’t want modern convenience, i want a cursed-but-gorgeous fantasy fountain in the middle of town that everyone warns me not to drink from. like yes it whispers at night. yes the water glows. yes a knight disappeared there once.

and yet… my throat is dry and i am but a fool with zero self-preservation instincts.