Bardic Inspiration

(Context) our party had gotten split up and it just left two support characters and a fighter alone.
DM: since the druid capsized the boat., you’re going to need to climb up the cliff. Make an athletics check.

Gnome Jewish bard: “I think… We may need some… Inspiration”
*Pulls out a REAL recorder and proceeds to play Hava Nagila*

everyone is in tears laughing
Druid (OOC): he’s been practicing all week…


Shades of Magic by V.E. Schwab - The Four Londons

“You don’t know anything about these worlds,” he said, but the fight was bleeding out of his voice.
“Sure I do,” countered Lila cheerfully. “There’s Dull London, Kell London, Creepy London, and Dead London,” she recited, ticking them off on her fingers. “See? I’m a fast learner.”

this is completely unrelated to any of my usual content but @drygrasses and @by-ogdens-hammer are strong-arming me into a DnD campaign bc they’re both McElroy trash. Our party so far is:

  • Josh- half-elf/genasi paladin who has renounced their patron god; jerk, but good hair; Fight Club
  • Wrog- an orc historian/bard, a real Good Boy; even better hair; tiny lute
  • Laszlo- crabby human inkeeper-turned-warlock who gets himself turned into a dog; bad hair; very bad dog
  • Kell: You know, on the one hand, I want to forget her.
  • Kell: On the other hand, I know that she's the only person in the entire universe that will make me happy.

anonymous asked:

#i could write sonnets to that belly <- I challenge you to write that sonnet about Link's belly :D

Shall I compare thee to a Georgia peach?
Thou art more supple and more delicate.
Rough hands do stroke to cause delighted screech
And bearded jaw scratch keen trails upon it.
    So long as Rhett can breathe, or eyes can see,
    So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

So I had a thought about Necromancers...

Usually, one thinks of the opposite or natural foe of a Necromancer as being some sort of white mage or cleric (or sometimes paladin).

But what if the natural enemy of the Necromancer is the Bard?

In combat there’s no contest, but the secret of bards is they weave the big magic, they weave the story-magic and the song-spell. And when a dwarven mine collapses or a dragon scours a city or the Edmund Fitzgerald wrecks in a storm there’s a bard there to weave a mournful folk-song about the event. 

The bard’s song or tale memorializes the lost but it also binds the event into a tale, the wild chaos of life and death tamed by the structure of narrative and verse. All sealed with an ending and reinforced by the retelling. 

And when the Necromancer pulls forth his scepter of bone and calls to the souls of the lost to rise in his service, he receives no answer. The dead do not rise because that’s not how the story ends. Too many people have heard it. Too many voices have sung it. The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead