#rp snippets

[songofthewood]

"These, dear lady, are for you! Compliments of the gentleman. That one right there, just to make it all perfectly clear."

“Are they really?”

[lettersnorth]

‘Never been very good at standing down’

[onlytavs]

Self-care Someday

Rules: You flip through your work (published or WIP, doesn't matter) and share whatever little section you're genuinely proud of. Something that makes you smile or swoon or that tugs at your heartstrings just the way you want it to.

Thank you for tagging me, @cursed-nyxan! I honestly am not working on much. I have been creating yet more OCs in the CC, though...😳..🤭!

They're moon elf siblings and I'm still working on their names and origin stories. 😅

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I'm also going to post a snippet from my last RP response to @thecampjuicebox because Talyss and Callashi do make my heart go all aflutter:

Talyss jumped.

And the sea hit him like a mailed fist, knocking the breath from his chest. The chain yanked him downward at once, iron loops tightening like hands determined to claim him. He kicked hard, fought upward with everything left in him, his free arm clawing through the cold until he burst through the surface, gasping, only for the next wave to crash over him and shove him back under. Salt stung his eyes, his throat, his lungs. And then another voice rose through the water–not the Lens this time, but something deeper, serene and ancient, as vast and merciless as the abyss itself.

The tide remembers every sin, and it drags its debts to the silent bed of the world. Come deeper. Let me peel the truth from your lungs, wretched thief.

He broke through again, coughing, ears ringing with the roar–only for a breaker to slam into him sideways, dragging him under mid‑breath, cutting off any chance to answer the goddess's accusation.

I remember your prayers, Talyss Marvyn. I remember your fear when the waves called your brother home, as it does all who sail through my treacherous waters. I remember the moment you cracked my Lens and let the Astral bleed. And now you return with my daughter in your grasp? My tide-born child? Thief of tides. Let the deep swallow you whole. You will not escape my judgment, boy.

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No pressure tags for: @thecampjuicebox, @bg3screenshotdump, @starlightweave, @moriarfer, @riddlerosehearts, and @bladesingerlily

♡ I can't wait to see what y'all have been cooking up!

[durgetrashbrainrot]

i, like many, subscribe to the hc that gortash would be immediately taken with durge in any form

and so i want to share this snippet of rp, wherein my wife's dark urge inspires bi panic in him

(or PAN-ic, i guess)

Inside, the room was spacious--ostentatiously so, sized to accommodate a large group of adventurers or a dignitary’s entourage, perhaps. Heavy curtains were drawn over all the windows. The only light in the room spilled from the massive fireplace at its center, though the fire had been allowed to fade to embers and the light it gave off was weak, a throbbing orange glow cast across the marble hearth. Darkness lurked in so many little nooks and alcoves that the shape of the place was as fuzzy as the elf’s form had been mere moments ago.

The ‘elf maiden’ was gone. The form that stood before the fireplace now was neither elf nor maiden. It retained roughly the same height and an equally slim build. The shoulders limned by the firelight were broader though, and the chest flat. Pale blue hair rose like a spiked crown between curved horns. Every inch of the Bhaalist leader was covered in black, save for the tail, swishing gently just above the floor, and the face, which was strikingly pale in comparison, and made even more so by the kohl smudged around the eyes and the pronounced, blueish tint to the thick lips.

The Bhaalist leader regarded Gortash with glowing, dispassionate eyes as he entered. “Did you guess correctly, Enver Gortash?”

-

Gortash entered, gaze first sweeping the room and lingering on the deepest shadows. Were they truly alone? His human eyesight struggled against the dim light, leaving just enough uncertainty to unnerve him. If someone, or something, was lurking, he wouldn't see them until it was too late.

Finally, he turned to 'Melissandre'--and, for a moment, he was struck dumb.

His brow lifted in quiet awe. She--he?--was a ghost in the darkness, a pale face framed by shadows, with hair like blue fire and horns that curved like a crown to frame it.

A tiefling. Or so it seemed.

Gortash had little fondness for their kind. Too reminiscent of devils for his liking. But he had never seen a devil or tiefling--or any other creature--quite like this.

"…I may have," he said when he found his voice again. Then his usual charm slid back into place, and his lips curved into a pleasant, knowing smile. "Am I to assume I have the pleasure of speaking with the leader of Bhaal's temple?"

[allasticus]

The bond conjured visions both radiant and dreadful. Silvermoon reduced to ash. A throne of bone and blood upon which she sat, regal and ruinous. Around her, the Entity’s clouds coiled, whispering seductions into her ear, urging her onward to a destiny steeped in shadow.

But that was wrong. That was never what she desired. A hand—the Shell’s hand—closed around her wrist, halting her wandering touch. The tendrils froze where they lingered on her limbs, as though caught between hunger and restraint. She was still the woman of Silithus, still the seeker who craved knowledge beyond all things. A low, thoughtful growl rumbled from the Entity as it pulled itself back, a measured distance imposed between them. Its tendrils unfurled from her with deliberate slowness, savouring her skin even in retreat. Another vision bloomed. The world brought to ruin. Horde and Alliance alike brought low, countless warriors bowing in chains before their feet. Again, wrong. Not her truth. For the Entity, it was inevitability long denied. Yet even it could not ignore what the visions revealed: a crossroads. She pursued knowledge. It demanded dominion. “I fancy my own door,” it answered. The rubble. The slaughter. The undoing of realms. Its teeth and claws would carve that path. That was its temptation. That was its hunger. “You do not want this,” it whispered, the words more accusation than warning. “Even if you claim you do…” And with that, the vision began to fracture as an unknown woman's laughter echoed against the pieces, drawing the faintest snarl from the Entity.

@eluviannaa @lillandyrshadowglade (brief mention)

[safrona-shadowsun]

It was never difficult for the Harvester of the Perished to find marked souls. The pain and loss of the victimized filled a veritable goblet of rumor that was rarely wrong to hunt by. The morally bankrupt and monstrous were often messy enough in their debauchery to merit a 'collection', but Safrona followed on questions of autonomy first most - she had run into her fair share of enemies only acting under the sway of another force, and darker threads were always worth untangling from the mass.

Tonight, something more and less than a Courier unraveled a nasty outfit of extortionists supposedly serving a cultist mastermind. Working in perfect synchronicity with her Voidwalker, they crippled a dozen bodies that had attempted an unwise attack as she infiltrated the cavernous lair - the warlock's power was no mercy upon them, and neither was her hunger.

Still, Safrona kept her dark itch for the soultaking at bay, concentrating her effort on steeping the catatonic horror in one very terrorized sycophant with a Fel-afflicting curse. His body was wire tight in tortuous anxiety, the location pried of his leader falling from shivering lips. After his provoked confession, the horrified supplicant doubled over into his own pool of vomit and urine, causing Safrona to step back.

Grimly satisfied, the warlock cast a glance to her Voidwalker, her command spilling out through a mental repore as she marched on deeper within the cavernous conclave.

"Riskel the Chosen, likely a caster. Take him down slowly. Need the soul in this one."

She put emphasis on her instruction for good reason. Hathkath's demeanor, and even it's void-born strength had in some ways evolved...

The Voidwalker rumbled low in acknowledgement... a sound not unlike breath, but older, dragged from the belly of the Void itself. Yet as it shifted, the joints twitched, jerked - not from pain, but as though obeying some hand not its own. A marionette wearing a corpse.

"He is already dead, M̸̾̄ḯ̴̕š̷̊t̸͒͒r̸͐̓e̵̽̚s̸̾̃s̵͗͂..."

The voice didn’t simply speak—it hummed, shook the marrow, reverberated against the very foundation of the space. The walls seemed to recoil. From beyond the Courier’s steps, the shadows obeyed, folding inward like ink drawn to blood. Tendrils sprawled outward... floor, wall, ceiling... like veins racing toward a corrupted heart.

And at their core, where all darkness met, a shape bloomed.

Humanoid.

At a glance.

But its skin sagged like wet paper, jaw unhinged in an expression locked between agony and awe. Riskel—but not. Something beneath Riskel. Inside Riskel. The truth of him laid bare.

His limbs spasmed—not randomly, but in time with Hathkath's own as if they were twin dolls danced by a single, unseen will. The head bowed. The mouth slowly sealed. Black ichor streamed from vacant sockets—the Void, weeping through him.

Then, from above, it descended.

The shadows gathered—not poured but coalesced—curling into a familiar, foul silhouette. The Entity emerged like a riddle unwinding, like prophecy dragging itself into flesh.

“And oh, how he died…” The voice did not simply speak... it soothed, scraped, and sang, each syllable stitched with something intimate and unclean.

“His soul I drink with reverence…”

As if to prove the point, the remains of Riskel began to wither. Eyes collapsed inward, skin flaked in delicate, papery curls. Flesh sagged, fell, and rotted to nothing in seconds, leaving behind a skeleton clothed in ritual’s ruin. Then, with elegance and finality, the Entity released it. The bones struck the earth like punctuation.

Then the air cooled. Thickened. The silence after was almost devout.

“How nice...” it rasped, voice stretching with mock sincerity. "To see the Harbinger’s work in full bloom.”

Then the tone twisted unveiling smiling teeth beneath velvet. A blade beneath a bow.

“Tell me, little usher of ends... do many know how you tend your enemies? Or…” a pause, just long enough to cut, “…have I stumbled into a private, sentimental affair?”

The smirk returned not to the face, but to the presence, like the room itself was grinning with him.

“Do you mourn what you ruin? Or simply memorize how sweet it is to watch it rot?”

{ Rp with @allasticus }

[barbwillbrb]

Snippet Sunday!

Thank yee @ladyofcrowsandcoffee for the tag! I finally got snippets to share for once thanks to the monstrosity of an RP @faerunsbest and I got going on.

I wanna show various aspects of Mortimer's persona, so here are five snippets showing different sides of him.

Combat Mortimer:

It was too strange, too surreal; faint memories flickered past his troubled mind, the ghost of his past life haunting him. Walking in his childhood footsteps, Mortimer worked his way through the house that was his personal hell, finding his way to the uppermost floors. His senses on high alert, he reached out with his magic, searching for any signs of life, but ultimately seeking one soul in particular– sure enough, Mortimer could feel him, a dark, angry force above him, in the office. Some things never change. 

While most of his father’s forces seemed to convene on the bottom-most levels– the man always, always hated being interrupted during his work, a lesson Mortimer learned all too well as a child, earning the scar on his wrist– a few lingered upstairs, holding fast to their positions as carnage echoed up the stairwells. The distraction proved fruitful; they never heard Mortimer approach, nor had the time to react when the wizard flooded their lungs, water blooming in their chests– the guards dropped dead, drowning where they stood, liquid tinged with red dribbling from their lips.

Hysterical/Sad Mort:

It wasn’t like Mortimer didn’t try, wasn’t like he didn’t want to– the gods themselves knew how much he wanted the man back. 

Fear, however, was an insidious, ugly thing– especially fear wrought from deep-routed traumas and broken memories. 

Mortimer knew damned well it wasn’t Sybyll that hurt him– not really, no. Sybyll wasn’t to blame for any of this. Unfortunately, the harm that befell Mortimer unlocked parts of his mind he kept buried for his own survival: all the very worst moments of his wretched life– the darkest, most vile recollections from his time with the cult, his time imprisoned. He couldn’t sleep without being taken to a dark, awful, choking pit. Nightmares weren’t nightmares when you knew them to be true, their marks buried deep in your skin. 

On the nights he could sleep, he woke in a cold, panicked sweat; Mortimer had taken to relying on potions to maintain any sort of rest. 

Mortimer didn’t just lose Sybyll; he was losing his damned mind, his peace, his sense of self.

More Sad Mort because making him miserable is fun, and he had to break in order to get better. Also, he swears!

It seemed fate would not bring Mortimer a moment’s peace, regardless of his misery. A knock came from the door, followed by Lennox’s voice; of course the wizard forgot something. Mortimer was half tempted to dismiss the werewolf’s concerns, simply wave away the questions or just refuse to open the door… if he didn’t know for a fact that Lennox would simply break it down to figure out what was wrong.

Besides, Mortimer didn’t want him to think something was wrong with the chair, not after everything Lennox had done for him. Gods– all this work to fix himself, and Mortimer was still a mess. Broken… incomplete. Without Sybyll, that’s exactly what he felt like, a puzzle without all the pieces. 

And Mortimer lost him. 

“Fuck, fuckfuckfuck,” Mortimer swore under his breath, wiping his eyes with his sleeves, his hands balled into fists in his frustration. He did his best to dry his face, pinching at his cheeks, and looked over the mess that was his desk. Hurriedly, he stowed the bottle and glass away, shutting the cupboard drawer. If he delayed any longer, Lennox would surely knock the door off its hinges. “Coming, coming,” he muttered, hating how hoarse his voice sounded; he should have brought water with him. Then again, his plan was to get shitfaced and forget about everything, wasn’t it? Thank Lathander that he only had the one so far. 

Mortimer being a disastrous romantic

It wasn’t that he had nothing to say– quite the opposite; the words came quite freely in regards to his feelings. The difficulty was trying to narrow down the torrent of emotions he felt for Sybyll into something that didn’t come off as the barely coherent, lovestruck ramblings of a madman– or led to him practically begging forgiveness for his stupidity. Although, if Mortimer was honest with himself, the shortest note he scribbled was probably the most accurate: “I am sorry, I am a fucking idiot, and I love you. Please tell me it’s not too late?”

A groan left him and he threw his head in his hands. At least Pinky was not trying to kill the goldish, or Mortimer very well might have lost his mind. Nothing was coming out right. Mortimer looked at the drawer of unsent letters, all pulled from his heart. Each one was a silly mess of fluff, pining, begging– unedited and raw. Why didn’t he send them before? Pride? Worry that it would be too much?

Each letter was nothing but honest. Mortimer needed to be honest– and damn-it-all, he didn’t give a shit anymore about his pride. 

Sybyll thought he was alone. Mortimer was determined to prove he never left his heart. 

He gathered all the letters and placed them in a box, surprised at the weight– he might as well have written a novel– tying it closed with red thread. Whatever Mortimer wanted to say, he would say it in the moment, and if Sybyll needed proof about his feelings– well, here it was, wrapped in a bow.

... aaaaaaand spicy time Mortimer

The vampire yanked his robe's collar free, fangs dragging lightly along his throat; Mortimer hissed in delight, feeling his lover trace an intoxicating path against his skin. The wizard wanted to be patient, to take this slow– but when Sybyll lay back, erection firm against his stomach, looking up at Mortimer with a pleading pout on his pretty red lips– he couldn’t hold back. “By Gods, I’ve missed you, I’ve missed you so much– and I’ll fucking prove it,” Mortimer growled, removing his fingers, snapping into life a mage hand that quickly took on a more appropriate form. 

Working quick but gentle, Mortimer wrapped an arm around the smaller man, flipping their positions in an instant so Sybyll straddled his lap. His hands went to the man's waist, holding him in place as the ghostly cock slid between Mortimer’s legs, beneath his lover’s waiting entrance. Eyes dark with barely contained lust, he pulled the ribbon free from Sybyll’s neck with his teeth, kissing his way up to the vampire's jaw, then lips. Mortimer guided Sybyll down onto the cock, gripping his hips tight. “I’ve longed to do this for months,” he murmured, beginning to move Sybyll, his hold firm.

No pressure tag time: @lemonsrosesandlavender @faerunsbest @kimberbohwrites @commander-krios @savriea

[idanwyn-et-al]

(XIV||22-20): Anon.

(Continued from here.) (♪ - you know I had to do it to ‘em.)

"A heartbeat without harmony is moonlight without dark. The heart seeketh equilibrium; With balance will your worry part,

So still this broken melody, and therewith, shoulder thee one last step, only leaving an empty hearth down by the sea.”

--”Equilibrium”, Michael-Christopher ‘Koji’ Fox.

When Oakmoss awoke after a full twelve bells of deathlike slumber, she was surprised to see Miovont still snoring beside her. They had asked naught of one another save for shared warmth and camaraderie, then fallen asleep amid gentle banter; apparently a ‘canary’ was different from a ‘cannery’, though the words still sounded too similar for her liking. Lips brushed together like sunflower-yellow feathers; that was a good way to help her remember the difference.

“Is it customary where you’re from to give someone a goodnight kiss?”

“No. But now I will have to give tju one in return. Szo that the szcales will tip in my favor; szo that I will have to find tju again to right the balance.”

Restorative though Miovont’s company had been, she was still largely a solitary creature, both by nature and nurture. Oakmoss was less-than-conscientious with her morning routine; splashing and singing off-key in the waters that flowed beneath the ruins she called home, dressing in heavy robes and cascades of chiming amulets. By the time she settled into the tattered leather seat at her desk, the Dark Knight was awake and clothed. The pair exchanged a few words about how, all things considered, it really had been quite a fulfilling adventure. After informing her that Fotiá had recorded everything that had transpired while she was beholden to Master Sari’s directive, he gave her left shoulder one gentle squeeze in farewell. His footsteps echoed within the temple ruins, then quieted as aether carried him back to whichever one of his many duties demanded his presence this day.

To have Fotiá record her in the SJAGA state...it was ingenious. She was embarrassed that she hadn’t thought to do so before. Summoning the recalcitrant eidolon forth, she took careful notes of all it displayed for her on an aetheric screen of sunset gold. The Kotelleloix family’s Kulix Sacrae, created by a High Allagan explorer who had seen similar vessels in their travels to Meracydia. Experimentation on the original corrupting its delicate matrix, causing the loss of a filter that would keep its varied contents discrete even as it allowed for controlled mixtures. Late Allagan magi deciding to use the imperfect vessel as the prototype for all other kylixes forged within the facility. Three hundred years past, a mysterious figure stealing one of these inexact copies from within the forge.

No wonder he had been so effusive with his praise. Her ability to tap into Master Sari’s perfect Allagan-wide defense systems had given him information that he would’ve been hard-pressed to find anywhere else.

Dismissing Fotiá after a failed attempt to teach it Thavnairian Rat Screw---her efforts repaid with a few singe marks on the back of her right hand from its overeager slaps---she turned her attention to her hoard of a desk. Rummaging through its many piles eventually rewarded her with an oxidized copper box containing mostly-clean and mostly-blank pieces of parchment, stuck to coordinating envelopes with what she hoped was agave sap. Smelled similar enough, anyway. Taking a moment to distill her best Common from the noble rot of her mind, Oakmoss began to write.

A bell passed within the cluttered ruins, the sun wending its way through the firmament, bright rays half-obscured by heavy-bellied clouds brushing fog through the Black Shroud. Leaf-shaded light dappled the Veena Viera when she emerged, her canny aethersense guiding her to a node that was perfectly balanced between astral Wind and umbral Water. Two nimble hops saw her feet land securely on a mossy rock, and there she waited for the messenger.  Once the road sparrow was comfortable enough to approach her outstretched hand, it landed, and she breathed gentle golden fire within the creature. A temporary enchantment familiar to these birds that travelled between summoner clans; an extension of her will that would fade once its task had been completed.

Oakmoss, once of Kisne, sometimes called Sorrel, Woodear, Plum, Sjaga, Jessamine, Lotus, watched the road sparrow take flight. A small willow-twig basket of letters was tethered to its left leg, augmented to feel as light as the enchantment that guided it onward. As a patch of fog swallowed its retreating form, she allowed herself a moment’s peace. Before long, she would be on the run again; enacting the Balance that her Goddess demanded, no matter the cost to her person or her psyche. For now, though, she could take her ease; a Viera content to be alone in the thorny wood.

---

Pavi--

I would meet with you presently, should you have the desire to do so. I have made quite the discovery in that cave you followed me to. I believe what lies within may be beneficial to both of our Deities.

--[A brand depecting the forest lichen oakmoss, with two of its branching tendrils extended into long green rabbit ears.]

---

Savo and Erah’sae--

At your earliest convenience, I would meet with you in a place of your choosing. The elementals have not seen fit to exile me from the Shroud permanently, but I understand if you prefer to meet somewhere else. As extra incentive, I will offer you each a three-card reading, and a guided vision quest if desired, gratin gratis. ((Gratin is mostly-obscured by a doodle of a slice of cheese.))

--[A brand depecting the forest lichen oakmoss, with two of its branching tendrils extended into long green rabbit ears. This one has little mushrooms and what appear to be minor arcana cards scribbled around the ‘signature’.]

---

Miovont--

Thank you for everything. After some time alone, I would be happy to lend my aid to you again. A spiral may never be in perfect balance, but ere long, it grows to accommodate inexact oaths.

--[A brand depecting the lichen, oakmoss, with two of its branching tendrils extended into long green rabbit ears. This brand includes a little yellow bird between the rabbit ears, and a discarded tin can complete with a rough-edged open top drawn to its side.] ---

To the Captain and First Mate of the Free Trader Nixie--

I believe I can help you uncover the memories that encase your ship’s ghost. There will be a price for all involved. You may speak with your ‘Cabin Boy’, Miovont, as to my qualifications; Rinh also may be willing to vouch for my expertise, if not my trustworthiness. If you are interested, I can make myself available to you anon.

--Oakmoss Vithsyna. [A brand depicting her summoner’s horn, in profile.]

--

---

((OOC Notes & Mentions: Yeeeeah used anon and some synonyms in all the letters :’D. This concludes Oakmoss’s ten-part story, and holy crap, I have never written this many lengthy entries for the XIV Write challenge, especially not as part of a continuous story and in conjunction with related RP. If you’ve read these, you have my gratitude, and I truly hope that you’ll reach out for RP if you’re interested; an offer that goes for all of my characters, of course! Anne-Sophie’s story starts tomorrow! This post mentions @bough-waker​ who is awesome, and I’m excited to RP with her again. Same for @savothesewercat​ and @erahsae-ffxiv​ ! The rest don’t have tumblrs, so far as I know, but I’ll bug them all the same.))