#friday game

[lord-reggie-of-tabrohynne]

So I'm gonna expand on this later but- last night I had my Friday game. It was my birthday game (yay middle age!) and we are first game post-combat where my Pirate Crew of Crazy (forreal) SUNK A SHIP and my gods it was one for the ages.

I DM'd my first torture scene.

More to come...

[welcometololaland]

TWO TRUTHS AND A LIE

@rmd-writes and @celeritas2997 goaded me into playing this so here's two truths and a lie (injury edition) for your Friday:

1. I once fell up an escalator running for a train and caused my entire kneecap to swell up so badly I almost couldn't take my jeans off.

2. I once fell out of a tram and onto my laptop and broke a rib.

3. I once got so obliterated on a night out that i tried to do a pole trick on a street pole and grazed my entire neck and shoulder on concrete.

Which is the lie?

1 - escalator

2 - tram

3 - street pole

Voting ended onOct 21, 2023

open tag for anyone else to do this please create one!!!! I wanna guess!!!

[liversquiver]

Sometimes my Friday game is a lot

[dragonbookhoard]

A moodboard for Caelius d’Lyrandar, my half-elf air (smoke) wizard, from my Friday Eberron game (using Pathfinder 1e ruleset).   He fought in the last war and came back a mute, learning how to channel his magic through his violin instead of his lost voice.  Has a little bird familiar and a secret boyfriend.  He worships the Traveler.

He occasionally rides the goliath barbarian into battle.  :D

I should maybe try to make one for his twin sister, Morna d’Medani.  She’s the more serious of the pair - Caelius is the kind of class clown that uses humor to mask his depression.

@bookcub - I’m just gonna tag you in all of them, lol.  This is your fault, after all.

[acecasinova]

AND ANOTHER FRIDAY WANK THING

@kinnvelier @westerbroski How the f*CK LONG has it been since we actually got EXP FOR A SESSION???

[acecasinova]

        @westerbroski

Lmao yes let's do a separate discord group. I always keep my Skype muted anyway when things aren't involving me

But it'll literally just be me falling asleep on camera bc of how bored I am constantly

Asdfghjkl my dude if ATL ever seems befuddled it’s like, 90% just me dissociating the f*CK out, bro

Voices leave...Something to be desired tbh

[pokeasleepingsmaug]

Friday Heathen Game

So I just couldn’t get the modern military au thing out of my head for this. Unlike the other one, this is a big old ball of angst and sadness, told from Ivar’s wife’s point of view. I ended up not mentioning any names in it at all, actually, but the man she’s thinking about is Ivar. Gods guys I’m so sorry for this.

Trigger warnings: Mention of death. PTSD. Implied marital problems.

Maybe when he looks down at those spotless pale hands, the long blunt fingers and short nails, he sees blood on white flesh; crusted under those nails and caked into the life line that cuts across the calloused dry palm. I wonder sometimes if he swore as the man bleeding in the sand went limp in his grip; as light flickered out in the eyes and the breath rattling through bloody lips gurgled to a stop.

Maybe he moved those hands from the sticky red spring flowing from the right side of the neck, just beneath the junction of the throat and chin. He moved his red-streaked hands to the man’s sternum, locked his elbows. His shoulders tensed and relaxed, dropped as he pushed. Maybe he felt ribs cracking beneath his hands but he kept pushing, the rhythm of the compressions constant, as if through sheer strength he can force his friend to breathe, dammit man, keep breathing, don’t fucking leave me, you asshole why did you give the fuck up like that? You never were a pussy until now.

Maybe when he sits back on his heels he notices the bloody handprints on the sandy, sun-bleached cotton-and-nylon camouflage jacket. The crimson is vivid against the faded squares of tan, gray and dull green. Bittersweet iron fills his nostrils when he inhales the dry desert air.

I know he cries when he thinks I’m asleep but I can feel his muscles quiver when he lies next to me in our bed. He failed because he allowed a comrade to fall. He broke the creed he swore to uphold when his right hand was raised and the flag hung before his face. I will never accept defeat. I will never quit. I will never leave a fallen comrade. He hates himself. He didn’t act fast enough to save a life and couldn’t stop the blood flowing because the bullet pierced the soft part of the throat that covers the jugular, and even I know body armor leaves a soldier’s neck exposed.

He didn’t cry when he was in the desert, and he says he doesn’t cry now, he’s too strong and soldiers are too tough and proud. He’s too much of a man to cry, but I feel the tension in his back when the sky is dark, how the muscles quiver as he tries to control his breathing and his body trembles as he tries to lie still beneath the blankets. Beads of sweat on his back drip onto the white cotton sheets.

I wish he could see himself through my eyes. He would only see the strength in those hands, but maybe in his eyes the blood of the friend he couldn’t save mixes with the blood of some stranger he killed in a once-peaceful village.

Maybe he feels again the coolness, the light pressure of the trigger against his finger as he gives that gentle loving squeeze. Maybe he welcomes the slam of the rifle against the shoulder sculpted by countless push-ups. Even with the M-4 kicking him he doesn’t flinch. His sight remains trained on the wild-eyed insurgent lifting his assault rifle. Maybe he watches a crimson flower blossom on the skinny chest of the desert youth; the lethal rose of warfare blooming from a cold metal seed planted close to the heart.

The rebel drops, red-brown lips parted and dark eyes hinting at disbelief. My soldier lowers his rifle and turns those inscrutable sky eyes to the other men in his unit. There is no rejoicing, only a heavy and resigned kind of sullen silence. They never speak of their kills because they know the guilt of that word “killer”; it eats their souls with teeth that slice like knives.

He thinks I am ignorant but I see the strangeness in his eyes, the way they shine like twin blue suns, two distant planets I cannot travel to, and that is where he lives now.

[river-oceanus]

D&D Planning Session #11.002B

In which a random roll creates two burly humanoids carrying a new stained-glass window across an alleyway, and the DM just sighs and notes it down. The DM is sad that the joke will never again be better than the time it was done during a boat chase.