#random roll

[redvioletpanda-art]

Last one, card for World Tarot Day, part 4

Ace of Wands

Ace of Pentacles

Ace of Cups

The Fool

Voting ended onMay 14

[proteidaes]

Happy Saturday and happy July!🌞 Here's an update for the adopt designs left in our summer gacha collab! The shop listings will close July 4th, so be sure to snag a friend by then ~

(featuring pals by @laughingbear @anguiculus! and myself!) 🌊☀️

Rays of Summer Gacha: Preclaim Roll - renee's Ko-fi Shop

☀️🌊 Rays of Summer 🌴🍉 is a summer-themed adopt gacha collab between @gelatobear, @proteidaes, and @anguiculus! Use this listing to preclaim

Rays of Summer Gacha: Random Roll - renee's Ko-fi Shop

☀️🌊 Rays of Summer 🌴🍉 is a summer-themed adopt gacha collab between @gelatobear, @proteidaes, and @anguiculus! Use this listing to receive

[anonbeadraws]

Randomroll for @witchy-queer, story for Jacint below!

✨i do commissions!| If you fancy tipping✨

Jacint was a people person. Minotaur. It couldn’t be helped, he was raised in a tavern, owned by his loving but ever presently busy parents, what else could he grow to love? Well, besides ale, i suppose. The tavern was filled everyday with new patrons and old, goblins and giants and orcs, that called the sprawling and odd shaped tavern their Local in the deep Verredain mountains. The tavern was warm, filled with food and flowed with drink and such things only lead to happy customers who will happily regale a tale or two of their own travels to the excitable little calf Jacint. They would sit him on their table or comfortably their lap (or on the floor if the story teller happened to be smaller than the growing boy), and tell him anything and everything. 

Jacint would tell you he had the perfect childhood. Jacint had no preference, he loved hearing the grumblings of the local miners about iron deposits and how ‘steel isn’t worth the anvil it’s made on these days’, just as much as the rip roaring adventures from the former rogue who’d made their retirement in the clean mountain air. As long as it was about ‘elsewhere’, Jacint wanted to know. He’d only really known the comfort of his tavern home, his parents being too busy running the place to take him elsewhere or really spend any quality time with the little one.  The patrons had some idea of their conundrum and seemed to all have agreed, without really discussing it, that the boy would not struggle for company or care while the taverns doors were open. There was rarely a time when the boy was not learning to play cards or discovering how dwarves could communicate by colour choices in their jewellery or very quietly, and out of view of the bar, learning from the rogue how to properly charm and pick a pocket. (Jacint didn’t do very well at this last one, he always felt too bad and rushed to return the item, his big earnest amber eyes smoothing over any complaints. The rogue decided to teach him to forge signatures instead.)  But as much care as his parents and their patrons could give him, Jacint grew up not knowing what he wanted to do, his life at 17 was at a loose end. He had learned pieces of trades but non grabbed him and he had no interest as a publican, besides helping as waiting staff and the odd bar work at rush hour. He had seen his parents life for himself, no time for themselves, no life outside of their tavern, no time to learn anything else or to want anything else. Yes, that was one thing Jacint knew, that he wanted to want to learn more, to lose that need would hurt his heart more than anything.  So his parents turned to the knowledge of their patrons, asking each new and old face to add their opinions as what should be done of the Tavern’s collective son. The eventual decision, after many heartfelt pleas and compassionate arguments against such an act, was that Jacint should be sent to the closest monastary. It’s far away, yes, but you will learn so many useful things there! and so many more books than we could provide, said his parents, trying their best to look hopeful as they helped load a cart of his few belongings. Perhaps, you will find the path you were looking for, added one of the patrons, a great scarred orc who was trying not to sniffle into their ale And consider, interrupted the rogue who perhaps knew the forlorn Jacint’s heart best ; all the new stories you’ll hear as you go. It was the last that helped Jacint, sat on the back of a mining cart that would take him part of the way there, waving goodbye to the only family and home he had known. That there was more, elsewhere.   The monastery was a small crumbling place, dug into a valley, and very different from the warm tavern. But there were books, as promised and new people, even if they were only interested in training and Ki and keeping themselves warm in the draft halls. But Jacint was a warm person and did his best to make friends with his fellow students, even if his rather larger form was a little clumsier than them in training. What he looked forward to most was the outings though.  Despite the monastery being quite isolated from the world, the Monks put it upon themselves to visit the surrounding villages, dispensing wisdom, medicine and sometimes the odd chore. It was their duty to keep the people around them safe and secure and Jacint was always the first to volunteer. Despite his size initially being, perhaps a little surprising to the halfing villages nearby, he quickly became quite popular amongst the people. He was kind, eager to help and to learn their ways and even happier to lend an ear as he worked. For some people, his help was physical, heaving logs or just keeping the children out from underfoot for an hour or so. (No one made a finer pony than Jacint, the children all agreed.) And for others it was his kindly nature and open heart that helped. Making a pot of tea and listening to the story of a life well lived or a heart broken or a loved one lost. He even helped the less popular of the people, the drunkards (a state he knew well and knew well how to help) and the pick pockets and the cruel, as it was his duty to do.One such being was Agata Flainfoot, an old bedridden widow who had driven all that wanted to help away, and now was only visited by the Minotaur. She had spat and sniped and said words that Jacint had only heard muffled under hands as a child as he cleaned and gently wiped her face and heated casseroles sent with him by kind neighbours. She had done so for months and he had stuck it through. It was his duty, even if it was hard, he reminded himself as he tended to the scratches she had left on his arm on his last visit. Even if other people repaid his kindness with food or flowers or a simple kind word. It was his duty and his promise.  He would still try to make conversation as he worked, talk about the day or question where an item on her mantle came from. Mostly there would be sniping, sometimes silence but as time went by, she would reply. More often than not to tell him to be careful with her things and when he once replied that; he would be careful, he was not a bull in a china shop it surprised him to hear her laugh. He would not hear it again from her, in the months he knew her, but it was something he held in his heart. The rusty ill used laugh from a sad, lonely woman. So, when she passed, he was not fully surprised when he got a letter sent from what remained of her family. What surprised him was that she had left him something. As he opened the sealed envelope, he had remembered some of her belongings being different from the rest of the village, as if they were foreign, though she had never answered his questions on the matter. She had never told him and now, never would. But she had left him something.   Inside the enveloped was a map, hand drawn and severely noted, of a forest, beautiful and vast with great stone pillars, lain in broken patterns. Scrawled on it, with fresh ink was; Go find them It was possibly, the last scrawling of a crazed and lonely person, a joke from someone who had enjoyed cruelty. Possibly. But researching possible places for this forest gave very few answers but there was enough there to make Jacint believe that there could be something in it. Something real. Go find them. Them. Them. ‘ Them’ was a tempting word. ‘It’ was a fine word and would probably convince others far better but ‘Them’ meant people, and people meant stories and perhaps Agata had listened to his heart more than he had known. Jacint had gone to his elders and shown them his discovery, told them this story but they had turned it down, as they had duties and of course, Jacint had acquiesced. Duties would always come first. So of course, when asked to deliver a document to a sister monastery across the country, being one of the strongest and most reliable of them, Jacint had eagerly agreed. It was his duty, of course he would. And the old map, well, if it happened to have been in his bag as he was packing, that was no-ones fault and if nothing else, the country was big and there were plenty of stories to hear on the way.  

[rabdoidal]

I’m doing a round of 5 cheap random rolls! DM me if you want to claim a slot!

✨ kofi link if you’re feeling generous ✨

[meaninglessprose]

I like to randomly roll for things, I’m currently running a campaign from a module, with lots of inspiration for side/extra stuff, but I thought it might be fun to pull up the Dungeon Master’s Guide and create an adventure solely through their tables.

Here is the result, though how I would even began to thread this all together I have no clue. . .:

Dungeon Goals:

Discover the fate of a previous adventuring party.

Wilderness Goals:

Establish trade with a distant town.

Other:

Interfere with the operation of a business.

Adventure Villian:

Fey with a mysterious goal

Adventure Allies:

Villa in posing as an ally

Adventure Patrons:

Respected elder

Adventure Intro:

A ghost appears and terrorizes a village. Research reveals that it can be put to rest only by entering the adventure location.

Ideal Climax:

The adventurers must discover the main villain's secret weakness before they can hope to defeat that villain .

Event based Villian Actions:

Growing corruption

Event based goals:

Protect or hide an N PC.

Framing Events:

Priestly investiture

Moral Quandary:

Rescue quandary

Twists:

The adventurers have two different goals, but they can complete only one.

Side Quests:

Discover the fate of a missing NPC.

[themanwhoplantedswag]

New tabletop, new character Met Ramn, they are a MedTech who loves animals and may or may not make and sell illegal drugs. They also have a pet sugarglider named Tim.

[ren-the-blood-knight]

Fate grand order

Is Tamamo Cat rare?

[anonbeadraws]

'Geshed had lived long, had seen the world pass in the increments of clock hands, but one thing, they knew, would never change.  People would always question. No matter how they travelled in the odd hours to avoid interaction, kept words to a minimum, brusque and short,  keeping their face blank of emotion, they would still come to them, come to their shadowy corner of the tavern and ask their questions! Who are you! What do you do! why is your skin that way? Where have you been, is it far?

Geshed. Play for money for food and shelter when they could. Born that way. And she could never really answer the last one truthfully. Not far, was the best she could come up with. Everywhere would have been closer to the truth. And it was harder now, travelling. She had to avoid so many places, places her path had lead more recently, places where her unchanging face might cause alarm, fear. It had happened before. Geshed had given up attempting to change their appearance past covering their head. Make up did not stay, the ivory of their skin, the white stain glowed through anything she pasted and plastered on (which admittedly, the sales person took as a challenge years ago when they attempted to cover them) and their hair would grow unheeding of shears, simply returning to their long dreaded length after a long rest, no matter the drastic measures taken the day before. Something seem to like Geshed just the way they were. The same something that had kept them living for almost 750 years now. 750 tiring years. It was not that they were invulnerable, unkillable. Geshed, though they had tried to avoid it, had been close to shuffling the coil many times. Usually accidentally. Wrong places at the wrong time, misfires, miscommunication and in one case, a poorly designed staircase and a deaf old dog. That one was embarrassing. Healing still took time, pain still burst through the skin and bone and they bled like others did. It was just that the lines around their eyes, thin but there, did not move or shift. Their body retained muscle mass and strength, well past the age it should have. And Geshed was not sure what age that this began, this endlessness, for even others found it hard to gauge and their childhood was dark and misty. No memory to examine there. But they remembered they had been easily in their first century when they noticed. So many people in that time. So many faces and stories and little sayings lost to time and place that Geshed used to try and remember, at least in the first 50 years after they realised that their face didn't not change in their reflection. They tried to get them down in the first couple of decades, write the ones they missed into their songs.  Music had been Geshed’s release. They had never been good at words, even as a youth, unknowing of their long long future ahead, and had struggled to connect with those around them. The drum had been a natural progression, breaching the silence, offering something, anything that people could grasp and enjoy. Geshed used to love watching the people they struggled to talk to before shows, people who had smiled awkwardly at their attempts of small talk, dance and cry with joy. They can't remember where the drum came from. They can't remember many things now, not far past a decade back, nothing personal, nothing of themselves. Nothing of those they had known. The music had once helped. The memories lost would step back into place with each song, like dancers, stumbling at first, shaky and ghostly, solidifying and remembering their place in the dance of Geshed’s life. Geshed took the time, determined, frightened, to keep them, sew the inflections of strangers and loved ones into rhythm, turn laughter lost and gone into syncopation. They had started their work with such hope and joy, a gift to work on as they travelled their seemingly more and more endless path to discover the reason for her longevity. But long life does not equal long memory. The songs would stay, they had to, to earn the bread and ale that fed the undying body that grew hungry, grew weak despite it all, but the meanings seem to fade, leaving nothing but music. Beautiful but empty. The movement now more natural than breathing but nothing more than repetition. Dull and dead.

Like how they should be really, they would consider, twisting the ring they had forgotten the origin of around and around its string on their neck, dark sigils spinning, merging, unheeded.  Dead and gone. But sometimes, when they played in those quiet places, in the campsites of long travelled, in the empty bars of ghost towns, and they played the song’s their hands remembered without thought, it seemed as though Geshed could hear it again. Not the laughter of those gone, but their own. The feeling of joy, a memory once so intertwined in the notes that their hands mindlessly danced to, now but a ghost in their ear. But a ghost was better than nothing, they would suppose, finishing up to the dregs of applause from somewhere in the darkness.  It was enough to question. Enough to follow.' random roll for a client!

commissions!|kofi