My Tabaxi character Hawk who is soon going on my first ever DND campaign yippee yay :D she was a loner for a long time until she accidentally caught ran into @carmelgecko 's Kobold Rummy.
I'm still figuring out how DND works but she's tentatively an outlander rogue. She's not friendly at all but she tolerates Rummy and her antics. I need to figure out how to change her outfit to include the stuff that she got from her new class and whatever.
hello new mutual <3 I love the look of your stuff!! do tell me please, which deadly sin would a character of your choice be??
hello new mutual! <3 thank you so much, i absolutely love how ur stuff sounds too!!! gonna answer this for Hawk from the coveting bc he came to mind Immediately.
Hawk would be envy, 100%. A big part of the story & his character is his desire and yearning to steal the good things/blessings that others get to have - especially when he resents the others in question!
He's always envied the angels for how they're held in the good graces of... everyone, really. So he sets out to drag an angel down to his level. Then he encounters Sadhiel, becomes infatuated, and envies God for getting to "own" such a perfect thing.
thank u so much for asking! now, i would love to return the question: which deadly sin would a character of YOUR choice be????
[In which we get a quiet flashback of Silk's packlife and a glimpse of Lace, the pack's only Thinblood. More under the cut...]
Now is the carcass of a stripmall: Lee's Discount Liquor Locker & Food, SpeedyPrint, Thompson Burr ROAD LAWYER, all sagging under the weight of that vine that eats everything here. This unit sold music, instruments maybe: no signage left to read, but a stave of vinyl-transfer notes unspool along the wall. Empty bottles and folds of tinfoil, carpet the colour of an unclean tongue. There are sounds in the night that could be bugs or frogs or birds and Silk would never know. Ermine's hiccoughing laugh beckons out from the lightless backrooms, quickly joined by the others. They all have a different laugh for while Reno is gone, doing what he does.
"Sure," Silk says. "They do that in America. You can be somewhere that's nothing for nine out of every ten minutes of driving, nothing but asphalt and advertising, and they still call it Houston… Atlanta…"
"Memphis."
"Memphis." Silk nods and goes on nodding.
Heavy head. A rummaging pain in their guts. After finally being full, glutted and sated, the first pangs are always the worst. (You thought you were free? You thought it could last? If there's one lesson you can learn from eternity, they're starting to think that's it.)
Wax and Hawk and a big mechanic's wrench, Pacman jaw as wide as their palm, they cracked open the kind of roadside fire hydrant you get every three miles or so along busy runs of freeway or highway (Silk's never been clear on the difference, just movie words), and sprayed Silk down till the red ran pink then clear. It felt like being pressurewashed, riotpoliced, in the headlights of their stolen Toyota truck. Luna, laughing. Her no-Reno laugh. Silk was warm until then, failure nursed like a dying coal, under the tar of gore that Luna made a brief show of licking from their forearms, neck, chest, until she said something about diminishing returns – meaning she was bored – and left Silk feverish, unfinished, in jeans that were ruined for good: skinny lightwash Levi's, brown with blood.
"There'll be other chances," Lace says. "The war's, like, what, five hundred years old. Not like we're running out of enemies. Listen. Babyteeth over here? I get it. They won't even let me try."
She bounces in place, sucking and spewing breath. Trying to pump something up from a well that never struck water. She whines, low in her throat, a borrowed sound. (Silk read something once, probably partially bullshit, about a girl in Bengal raised by wolves. If it had made her a good wolf, the missionaries never would've got her. She would have never turned into a story.) Slithering sound of Lace's trackpants. Outline of their volume, low on her narrow hips, against the different dark beyond the storefront window, the parking lot and lightningbugs.
"Ermine, Hawk, you, me," Silk says. "We all get it. Got it. Panders. Placebo group in the study. Same dose of nothing, right?"
"If that's true," says Lace. "How come I'd trade places with any of you in a heartbeat? How come Reno treats you like the fuckin' golden baby? That whole much-is-expected-of-those-to-whom-much-is-given run. And he doesn't treat me like anything. I could count the words he's ever said to me."
"Do I need, like, proof of purchase to redeem all this much I've apparently been given, or..?"
The wrong thing to say. Lace, silently, no whine and no groan, turns away for the grimy plateglass left behind in the storefront window. Puts her fist, and the heavy steel lighter, and her skinny brown forearm through it.
Silk smells the blood before they see it. (And if they can smell it, then…)
Lace eases her arm back through the hole she's made. Trembling and pink, the sound of her lungs. She pinches the cigarette into the corner of her mouth. Her face in the flame is too young for this shit, maybe forever. Maybe not. No one knows yet how long they last, the kind of thing she is — or if there's world enough left to find out.
"C'mere." Silk pours off the counter. "Kiss it better."
She thrusts out her arm, makes Silk come to her: tattered skin, one long gash, bright red and slow, but bleeding. It's not a choice for her. Night air steals through the break in the window. Silk takes her wrist in their fingers. Bends to the pale underside of her forearm, tongue alive with the foreknowledge of how she tastes, and their throat already working.
"You know I used to be in a band?" She blows smoke away from Silk. Gestures with the dancing coal of her cigarette at the black notes on the thin and off-white walls. "Entradas Oscuras. My mamá didn't like it – devil music – but I was gonna move out any day now anyway. Maybe out on the road. We were getting kinda good? I was bass. They say about bassists that they're all tall, dark, and quiet. I heard the joke that one outta three ain't bad so many times I started telling it myself. Thing was like as big as I was, and the good kinda heavy. Something else they say, though, about bassists? That no one cares. No one cares that you're there, but they notice if you're not."
On the floor now, Silk kneeling, with Lace's arm raised to slow the bleed a little. Lapping mouth, gnawing almost-kisses. She tastes of butter before it burns, leaf tobacco, gas station air.
"Guess I kinda did though? In the end. Go out on the road, I mean."
Hawk is in the backroom doorway, hooked in by the scent. Cartoon wolf, windowsill pie. "Fuck are you two doing?" He tries to sound like he doesn't care, but Silk's pretty sure they can hear his leather pants creaking like a tree about to fall.
In Dallas, in eleven months, in the time of the mask, he will try to kill Silk with a prybar and a pair of boltcutters and a broken Wild Turkey bottle, and not – for some twist of love, bad luck or good – the inch-long hooks of keratin that sleep inside his fingers.
Lace will say nothing for six weeks after. Two out of three ain't bad.
Okay so it started with idea to do subconite roleplay in snurch.
Somebody said if you want to take a break in the middle of rp just give your subconite excuse to leave and we started coming up with the most ridiculous ways subconite can just leave. One of ideas was being swooped up and carried away by bird of prey. We brainstormed around this idea and thought that there is just one subconite that is kidnapped by birds everyday and it’s just very casual thing for them and other subconites was too good to not use so I just.... made character I will rp with based on this idea.....
Their name is Hawk because most often he is carried away by this one hawk that kinda adopted him.
He’s just little cloth child who loves birds and wants to be a bird and was adopted by bird and just vibes and I love him.
