#kryptonitic

[queenofbaws]

there is no truer form of friendship than announcing in the group chat that you have a really, really bad idea, and upon everyone hearing said bad idea, being met by a chorus of DO ITs

[queenofbaws]

how literally ANY ttrpg goes in our group (a simplified guide)

our incredibly patient dm: [x] is the WORST thing someone can do in this world. it has EXTREME repercussions on the rest of the game. here’s a 5-minute explanation on why it’s a bad thing that you should not do.

me, literally the very next session: uh...i do [x].

[queenofbaws]

We all need some climbing chrash on this chilly winter day me thinks.

Brad had absolutely no chance of escaping once they’d spotted him; there he was, just an innocent bystander in a war he couldn’t even begin to grasp, yanked into their crosshairs before he could so much as flinch.

“Brad, help us out here,” Josh said, in no way making his involvement optional, “Hypothetical question time...if two different monsters, say, a Dracula and a Frankenstein, decided to bone, would that be considered monsterfucking?”

Before he could open his mouth to put in his two cents (‘I’ve never in my life heard those words strung together in that order and I think I need a second to process’), Chris spoke up, “It’s not - if they’re both monsters, it’s not monsterfucking, it’s just fucking...or, y’know...doing the monster mash.”

“If they’re two different species of monster,” interrupted Ashley, her fingers pressed hard into her temples and her words coming out in short, frustrated bursts, “Then it’s by definition monsterfucking.”

“You guys are such fucking plebs...this has nothing to do with biology and everything to do with psychology, as I’ve been saying: If Party A perceives both themselves and Party B as monstrous, then no, it ain’t monsterfucking...but if Party A perceives themselves as typical and Party B as monstrous...”

As he’d learned to do fairly early on in their friendship, Brad waited until the three of them were too busy arguing to pay any attention to him...and beat a very hasty retreat.

six sentence sat(or)sunday!!!

[queenofbaws]

might i have some eli content on this fine saturday morning

In retrospect, it was sort of odd, really...his parents had never once taken him aside and had The Talk about the dangers of heavy metal or rock and roll or that ever-present Midwestern worry about Satan’s insidious influence over teenagers. They’d never thought it necessary, honestly, because at the heart of things, well, there was no question in their minds that he was a good kid - an awkward and unfortunate gosling caught between molts, maybe, nothing quite fitting right or attaching exactly where it was meant to, but a good kid nonetheless.

He always had friends, for example, and that had to mean something; true, yes, the kids he brought home tended to be as mismatched as he was, girls who wore collars and growled if you didn’t call them by their wolf-name, boys with spiked bracelets who wore trench coats on sunny days, once a bizarre little miscreant who sat at the dinner table and regaled them in a language they swore up and down was Martian...but they were just...creative types, and they’d grow into those eccentricities one day and blossom into artists or musicians or tv talk show hosts, God willing.

If anything, they worried for him, worried that the world wasn’t always the kindest place to creative types, that there would be those who saw his ever-changing hair, eyes, voice, identity as a weakness to be exploited. He wasn’t a fighter, their son, had really only passed phys ed by the skin of his perfect teeth, and so it seemed pointless, maybe even comical that they should have to worry about him.

And that would turn out to be a grave mistake - awkward and gangly beginnings, after all, marked ugly ducklings just as often as snakes stuck in their first shed, eyes cloudy and dim but bodies coiled tight until ready to eat their way through their own pasts.

six sentence sat(or)sunday!!!

[queenofbaws]

might i have some eli content

The dolls needed to stop talking, that was the thing.

Well, okay, that was sort of a gross understatement of the situation - a lot of things needed to stop talking: the dolls, the walls, the broken mouse skulls under the register, and whatever the good goddamn that whisper coming from the back room was - but the fact of the matter was that there were too many voices swirling their way around his head to form a grey, wispy corona of warning, and they were making it so fucking hard to focus on the task at hand.

“Hmm,” he said as menacingly as he could (which wasn’t, to be fair, all that menacing at all when one factored in his dime-store Dracula accent), “Hmm hmm hmm...” Eli lifted his eyes from the cards spread out on the countertop and narrowed them thoughtfully as he met the other kindred, the one that had been all sharp, angled excitement until he’d stepped foot into the shop, then lowered them to the cards again, thinking, thinking, thinking, waiting for the moment where the endless whorl of hissed threats would organize themselves into one neat promise: Some sort of hint of what was to come, or what might be to come, or what had already come, or what could come if only he did the right thing at the right time.

“Sooo...” the one who’d introduced himself as Billy asked (emphasis on the B, obviously, really had to push it out from underneath the diaphragm), his gaze never lingering on any of the shop’s other faces for too long, “Are those, uh...telling you where we should go next, or...?”

“Hmm,” Eli hummed again before straightening up and flicking his hair out of his face, abandoning the spread of cards when the voices refused to take on the shapes he needed them to, “I couldn’t tell you, Billy...I haven’t the slightest idea of how to read tarot - ” and before he could register the look on the other vampire’s face, he turned to gather up his things, “ - so maybe let’s just, I don’t know, check Craigslist for blood dolls, they’ve got to have something, probably.”

six sentence sat(or)sunday!!!

[queenofbaws]

DAI: Steel and Salt

Fandom: Dragon Age Characters: OCs Rating: G (some language) Author’s note: Welp, I haven’t posted anything like this in a grip, but I couldn’t help it - here’s the (unlikely) meeting of a couple of my fav side characters from an rp my buds and I have had going for a bit. Contessa is @malum--in--se’s, and the as-yet-mysteriously-unnamed Avvar is @kryptonitic’s ;P ---

“It seems to me that a captain should be at the helm of his ship at all times.”

To acknowledge her presence, the Avvar simply chuckled, one corner of his mouth curving upwards in a hooked smile. In the full light of the moon, he seemed to be cast in a pale silvery glow, his skin taking on the pallor of a waterlogged corpse. He made no effort to turn towards her, and indeed did very little to interrupt his own comfortable lounging; he sat suspended a foot or so above the waves, reclined in a makeshift hammock of netting attached to the side of the boat.

To Contessa, it did not appear to be a particularly safe perch. It would be so terribly easy for someone to slice through one of the ropes and simply send him down into the chilly waters of the Amaranthine. “You trust your men to handle your vessel, then?”

He did not speak for a long while, instead continuing to stare out across the water. As Contessa drew nearer (still well outside of striking distance), she realized one of his arms hung out over the nets, his hand obscured by foamy crests of water. “A strange concern for an Orlesian,” he said after some time.

“Antivan,” she corrected without missing a beat. Her porcelain mask was tucked away somewhere in her bags below deck in the hold, but the faint spray of salt air on her skin felt like a mask of a different sort. It was another of her many talents: switching so easily between Orlesian ideals and Antivan ones. Standing there on the rocking deck of the ship, illuminated by nothing save the moon and stars, lulled by the sound of the waves around them, she felt closer to a Crow than a Harlequin. Maker, it had been…a long time since she’d felt that way.

The Avvar scoffed loudly enough for her to hear. “Ah. Antivan. Aye. Such a difference, the two…” he tone grew mockingly pensive, “Such a difference.”

There was a difference. There was an entire world of separation and subtext that lay between the intricate societies, but she didn’t much care to explain that to him. The difference between Orlais and Antiva was as clear as the difference between her dear, sweet Napoleon and herself. Orlesians were ostentatious and backhanded, prone to histrionic meltdowns and weak for gold filigree. Antivans were prideful and as quick as the daggers hidden under their clothes, they were passionate but patient. Had Napoleon not already been asleep, the captain would’ve seen it clear as day: At the mere suggestion that Orlesians and Antivans were one in the same, Napoleon’s head may very well have exploded with righteous fury. Contessa simply watched the sky with careful eyes.

Because the Avvar were not Orlesians nor Antivans nor Fereldans nor Marchers nor Tevinters nor Navarrans nor much of anything else, and loath as she was to admit it, she didn’t have nearly enough experience with their sort to have as solid a read on him as she would’ve liked. That meant the scales were not particularly tipped in her favor. That would have to change. Soon.

The Avvar turned to her only slightly, the cast of the moon making the pale blue ink on his skin appear almost black in comparison. His eyes were hooded by the jut of his brow, and something about his face called to mind the warning tales her grandfather used to tell her about the beasts that lived in the ocean’s depths. “I don’t suspect you came up here just to nanny the crew, eh?” His head rolled back against the netting as he glanced down to the water once more. “So what is it that troubles you, lowlander? Ah. Apologies. Antivan lowlander.”

She could hear the smirk in his voice, filed it away for later, and pretended to ignore it. “Why did you agree to take us?”

He turned fully to her then, examining her with a breed of contemplation that again brought to mind something scaled and hungry. Still he said nothing, only watching her with those inscrutable eyes.

Ah, so he hadn’t expected directness from an Orlesian-slash-Antivan. Good to know. “No one else on the dock was willing to transport us, regardless of what we promised. So why is it that you would?” She had her suspicions of course—Contessa always had her suspicions—but it had been a full day without the Avvar or his crew letting on in the slightest. It was setting her on edge.

The air between them was silent but for the waves. Somewhere far off, a bird cried out in the darkness.

Slowly at first, the Avvar nodded, and then cast his gaze back out to the oily black waters of the ocean. “I suppose you’ll be wanting the real answer, Antivan, but oh, I’m not sure the real answer is something you’ll be willing to hear.” He heaved a heavy sigh as though it weighed on him.

She had considered making an accusation, drilling down on what he had meant, but years had taught her that men often hanged themselves best with the nooses their own hands had tied. So she let him speak.

His answer was…not even in the realm of what she had expected. “Mayhap the reason you’re aboard my ship is that it’s what the gods want.”

It was only decades of honing her craft that kept her face as impassive as it was. “The gods?” Contessa asked, blinking in disinterest. “I didn’t take you for a pious man. But if you feel the Maker has—”

There was a strange sound from him, caught somewhere between a cough and a laugh of derision. He forked the fingers of his dry hand towards the sky in a lewd gesture. “Stuff your Maker. Neither him or his fiery tart have say in what we do on this ship.” He offered her another sharp, withering look. “Our gods answer us, Antivan. When has yours ever done that?” He fixed her with that stare for a long while before jerking his head, signaling for her to join him at the edge of the boat. “Our gods,” he began again, “Look for those of us who are worth something. Those of us who are capable and strong. If we are strong enough, if we make our offerings, if we speak to them…sometimes they present us with…unique opportunities.”

Warily, she crossed the space between them, the boards of the deck creaking under her feet as she joined him. She leaned her hands against the side of the ship, craning her head over to get a better view of the choppy waters being churned up by the boat’s wake. From that vantage, she could tell exactly what ropes would need to be cut to send the great brute of a man crashing into the water; the thought occurred to her again that he must trust his men a great deal if he was so willing to put himself in such a stupidly vulnerable position. Contessa Ravenna did not trust in that way. “Unique opportunities,” she repeated, looking down at him.

“Whether you believe me or not is your burden, lowlander. You asked me a question and I answered. The gods brought you to me. There is a reason for that, though for love of The Lady, I can’t begin to fathom it.”

She had the desire to wrinkle her brow, but it was a fleeting thing, gone as soon as it occurred to her. “I can’t help but notice one tiny insinuation you’ve made, there. You say that your gods help those they find worthy. Does that mean you believe yourself to be one of those lucky few?” It was a pointless question to ask. In her experience, there were hardly any men, Orlesian, Antivan, Avvar, or otherwise, who thought themselves unworthy of anything.

The Avvar did not speak. Instead, perplexingly, he lifted his right hand, the one that had been in the water since she’d first come above deck, and reached across himself. He turned his palm up and waved his fingers to beckon her to give him her hand.

Contessa stared at his mammoth palm for a second, maybe two, thinking to herself that he was truly a madman if he thought she was about to entrust her own physical wellbeing to him. And then, in a show of bravery or stupidity—she hadn’t quite decided—she acquiesced, allowing him to take her hand.

“Bend,” he ordered, his tone surprisingly gentle, given the deep, thunderous rumble of his voice. When she did, he placed her hand into the water where his had been only a moment ago. Once her hand was submerged, he shifted his grip to her wrist, turning his gaze to her face. He stared with a dark sort of intensity, looking for something Contessa couldn’t quite place…

And then she felt it.

Against the pads of her fingers, something solid. Something rough. Something large.

Finishing school be damned, that time she did react. Her gasp was quiet, more a sudden intake of breath than an actual cry, and she pulled her wrist free of the Avvar’s grip with a sudden jerk. Part of her wanted to look at him, wanted to demand what had happened, or how he was doing that…but her eyes were riveted on the dark shape just under the water, the tip of a fin she had mistaken in the darkness as just another wave.

It was difficult to tell in the dark of the night, but she cast her eyes down towards the stern and thought she caught sight of another fin for the briefest of moments. If she had, and if that had been its tail…the shark was nearly the size of the boat itself. Her hand dripped, spreading a cold wetness through her bodice as she pressed her palm to her stomach in disbelief.

“Oh, I am worthy,” the Avvar said, his quiet confidence terrifying in its own right. He dropped his hand back into the surf, allowing his fingers to skim the massive beast hidden just under the water. “Of that, lowlander, there are no doubts.”

[queenofbaws]

Trick or treat :3

when the strange little gremlin creature peers out her door, she's only half surprised to see you, a giant fucking moth, waiting there for her. your antennae are perked, your red eyes gleaming, your body...well, there's no other way to say it, you are sort of throwing yourself against the porch light. a lot.

it's just so beautiful.

"i was wondering when you'd arrive," she says, slowly replacing the bowl of candy inside the house. "i - will you quit it? quit...you're not going to get inside the light, you know."

"i might," you say, giving it another go. "don't harsh the vibe, man."

she sighs, adjusts her tin can crown, and waves you away from the light. you pay her no mind. "i got something for you," she says, scuttling behind the door. then, louder, ostensibly so you'll hear her, "OH, I'VE GOT SOMETHING FOR YOU!"

when it becomes clear you won't be entering the porch light (not tonight, anyway), you sit on the step-stoop, covering it with all your wing dust. it's sort of ashy there already anyway. and there are...ducks? yeah, that checks out.

when the strange creature returns, she's holding something behind her back. she waits until you're looking at her, then smiles a wicked smile.

"happy halloween!" she grins, and sets the object down in front of you.

you don't know why you came here. you always knew it would end like this.

[queenofbaws]

Request: Eli says something DISTINCTLY Mid-western and has to play it off

Had Jayco accidentally caught sight of himself in a mirror and found something like...that happening to his eyes, he wasn’t quite sure what he’d do, but...but it wouldn’t be whatever the fuck it was that Eli’d been doing. How he was managing it, he couldn’t begin to fathom, but it sure felt like every time - every single time - he looked his way, that gangly weirdo was all but pressed against whatever reflective surface he could find, glancing this way and that, his perfectly white, perfectly straight braces-teeth on full display as he reminded himself time and time again that the eyes staring back at him were his own.

It was really, really, really starting to creep him out...more than Eli usually did, anyway.

“You know, you might wanna chill with that if we’re gonna be in public for a while - most people aren’t, y’know, thrilled when they spontaneously develop cataracts, and you seem pretty, uh, well, yeah, thrilled.”

“Forget thrilled,” Eli began, his playacting accent slipping for a fraction of a fraction of a second as he grinned into the mirror, “I’m happier than a pig in shit!” His grin faltered a second later, and when he turned from the mirror to glance Jayco’s way, Count Chocula was very firmly back in the house; “Which is something we say in the old country,” he drawled slowly, certainly, pupils bone-white and impossible too look at for more than a moment or two at a time, “In case you were...wondering...about that.”

six sentence sat(or)sunday!!!