when ppl act like leaving gifts for fairies is to get the fairies’ attention so they’ll be kind to you~~ when really leaving gifts for fairies is the supernatural equivalent of a mafia protection racket

gotta pay off the Mab

Not sure if it is but I’ll take it as a Dresdon files reference

View Tom Holland’s performance »HERE«!

I mean FUCK

Since May 2016 I’ve created well over 200 monsters, NPC’S, weather, hazards, traps, and items to add to Dungeons & Dragons 5th edition adventures and campaigns. Here is a list of FREE available material so far. Use the links below to download them from google drive. New content always available first on my Facebook group page. https://www.facebook.com/groups/dmweber/ Jungle Encounters https://drive.google.com/file/d/0BzlzB4FzIyPQemxpMW9ZTDg2VzQ/view?usp=sharing 

Arctic Encounters https://drive.google.com/file/d/0BzlzB4FzIyPQMDF6UE45TTZSakU/view?usp=sharing 

Desert Encounters https://drive.google.com/file/d/0BzlzB4FzIyPQTWtEb2wza2Q1S28/view?usp=sharing 

Holiday Encounters https://drive.google.com/file/d/0BzlzB4FzIyPQd1lsdUhZaXF5blU/view?usp=sharing 

Jurassic Encounters https://drive.google.com/file/d/0BzlzB4FzIyPQRGZRcXdqalBhc3M/view?usp=sharing

What’s in the PDF

Jungle Encounters has over 50 monsters, NPC’s, new races, weather patterns, and traps. Arctic Encounters has over 40 monsters, NPC’S, new races and weather patterns Desert Encounters has over 50 monsters, NPC’S, weather Patterns, Encounter ideas, new races and items. Holiday Encounters has over 30 Monsters, new races, and items. Jurassic Encounters has over 30 Monsters, and items.

These are amazing, honestly. The first time I used one of these was the Desert Encounters and my players fucking loved it. I made them encounter a Blank on their way to a city, they fought over who could take care of it for days but eventually forgot to bring him with them to the next city…

The amount of content within these is actually insane. I held off on reblogging this for a little while to check through it, and man am I impressed by how much there is to work with

Holy shit is there a Patreon or Gofundme I can donate to this is too much for me to just take and use holy shit

Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up.

Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in.

“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”

The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.

“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”

“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”

The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”

Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”

“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”

Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.

“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”

“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?” 

The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.

A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer. 

“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”

“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”

“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”

The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.

And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.

Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.

“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”

“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”

“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.

“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”

“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”

And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god.

Sora found the temple with the bones within it, the roof falling in upon them.

“Oh, poor god,” she said, “With no-one to bury your last priest.” Then she paused, because she was from far away. “Or is this how the dead are honored here?” The god roused from its contemplation.

“His name was Arepo,” it said, “He was a sower.”

Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. “How can I honor him?” She asked.

“Bury him,” the god said, “Beneath my altar.”

“All right,” Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.

“Wait,” the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. “Wait,” the god said, “I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.”

Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.

“When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,” the god said, “When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,” the god’s voice faltered. “When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.” Sora looked down again at the bones.

“I think you are the god of something very useful,” she said.

“What?” the god asked.

Sora carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. “You are the god of Arepo.”

Generations passed. The village recovered from its tragedies—homes rebuilt, gardens re-planted, wounds healed. The old man who once lived on the hill and spoke to stone and rubble had long since been forgotten, but the temple stood in his name. Most believed it to be empty, as the god who resided there long ago had fallen silent. Yet, any who passed the decaying shrine felt an ache in their hearts, as though mourning for a lost friend. The cold that seeped from the temple entrance laid their spirits low, and warded off any potential visitors, save for the rare and especially oblivious children who would leave tiny clusters of pink and white flowers that they picked from the surrounding meadow.

The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without him, for he knew there was no help to be given. The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned, if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, he thought.

He had come to understand that humans are senseless creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity. Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless creatures, humans were.

So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth, and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god’s work on his dying breath.

“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,” called a familiar voice.

The squinting corners of the god’s eyes wept down onto curled lips. “Arepo,” he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year mutism.

“I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting friendships, and trust,” Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.

“That’s wonderful, Arepo,” he responded between tears, “I’m so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You’ll be adored by all.”

“No,” Arepo smiled.

“Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for visiting here before your departure.”

“No, I will not go there, either,” Arepo shook his head and chuckled.

“Farther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,” the elder god continued.

“Actually,” interrupted Arepo, “I’d like to stay here, if you’ll have me.”

The other god was struck speechless. “…. Why would you want to live here?”

“I am the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting friendships. And you are the god of Arepo.”

Always reblog Arepo and his god

Just cryin on Tumblr on a Monday afternoon. What a beautiful piece of shared art. 

This is the most amazing thing I have read on this site to date please show some love

Don’t_grow_up

Big lift energy

sexyback over the beat of seven nation army

i’m bringing sexy back a seven nation army couldn’t hold me back

this post gave me whiplash

It already exists guys

This is so beautiful, I’m crying

reblog if ur bi, ur not biphobic, or ur best friend is a beautiful valid bisexual

Reblogging for you @anxieteandbiscuits my beautiful, valid bisexual friend 💜

same. HERES TO SAMI💞

humanoid typhoon

This is really fucking cool

the player’s guide to DM-speak!

If you’re old enough to remember it, you just lost The Game.

I have no idea what’s going on here

Back in the early aughts, when many millenials were in high school, before Facebook and Youtube, The Game began. No one knows who started it, but the moment we learned we were playing it, we began to lose. The goal of The Game is to forget you are playing The Game for as long as possible. The rules of The Game are as follows: Everyone is always playing The Game all the time; at school, during breakfast, at night when you are asleep, etc. The Game never ends. The moment you remember that you are playing The Game, you lose and must immediately announce to those around you, “I just lost The Game!” thus making them remember they are also playing The Game and causing them to lose as well. Upon losing, you begin The Game again. Sometimes players could go weeks or months without losing, sometimes only minutes. At the height of The Game’s popularity, it became common to see people at events such as Comic Con or midnight movie premieres, wearing t-shirts proclaiming “You just lost The Game!” Once they were noticed, groans and shouts of “Fuck you!” could be heard for miles. These people thrived on the chaos, taking great pleasure in the cries of their victims. Most people eventually grew bored of The Game, and many began to claim they won by choosing not to care about it anymore. Some rely on a particular XKCD comic strip or Tumblr post to lend a sense of legitimacy to their feeling of victory. They are fools. It is impossible to win The Game. There is only losing. Only a few diehards remain loyal to the rules. The drop in popularity has allowed many to keep from losing The Game for years at a time. The growth of social media has caused a minor resurgence, although without the satisfaction of real time auditory feedback when causing others to lose, The Game will likely fade back into obscurity once again. Someday when we are old and gray, our grandchildren will innocently ask us to play a game of checkers, and we will shriek and shout until the whole nursing home joins us in defeat. Death is the only release from The Game.

Ok so this post is extremely long and I put it all together for my blogs Feeling sad page but as I don’t have a huge amount of followers I realize so many people are not seeing this information so I’m posting it here too!

alternatives without harming yourself:

killing yourself will not help. it is not a solution.

you have your whole life ahead of you. you have so many more years that you can accomplish things in. for example;

what you’re going through is temporary.

in case you need to hear this:

———————————————————————————————————

abuse

coping

chat rooms

add/adhd

coping

medication

addiction

coping and recovery

anger

coping

anxiety

coping

panic attacks

medication

bipolar disorder

coping

medication

chat rooms

depression

coping

medication

chat room

eating disorders

recovery

friends with illness

grief and loss

ocd

coping and treatment

chat rooms

perfectionism

coping

ptsd

coping

schizophrenia

coping

treatment

self-harm

self-love

suicide

therapy

———————————————————————————————————

the quiet place

things to do when you feel bad

when you’re not having a good day

reminders

self care suggestions

take a break

the thoughts room

90 second relaxation

the dawn room

the comfort spot

control a rainstorm

calm

how to make changes in your life

imalive

crisischat

7 cups of tea

kids help phone

positive love network

trans lifeline: 877-565-8860

depression hotline: 1-630-482-9696

suicide hotline: 1-800-784-8433

lifeline: 1-800-273-8255

trevor project: 1-866-488-7386

sexuality support: 1-800-246-7743

eating disorders hotline: 1-847-831-3438

rape and sexual assault: 1-800-656-4673

grief support: 1-650-321-5272

runaway: 1-800-843-5200, 1-800-843-5678, 1-800-621-4000

exhale: after abortion hotline/pro-voice: 1-866-439-4253

Dont forget about Crisis Text Line! 

Text HOME to 741-741

for those who might need it

the one that stuck out to me was “save someone’s life”

Thank you for making this

After loosing the whole picture + sketch thanks to my pc crashing…I actually made myself redo it completely.  Wanted to try something more stilistic.

AHHHH my little boomy boi

“writers always know exactly where they are going with their work!”

r u sure

“no writer does anything by mistake, it’s all very strategic”

r u sure

“they use symbolism in everything. for example, a simple sentence symbolises directness and-”

R U SURE

The best moments in writing is when you discover you did something absolutely genius by complete accident.

A miscellaneous world-building detail from ten chapters earlier accidentally saved a character’s life once

“Omg this line is genius and the best reference!” “Thank you I did that entirely on purpose!!” *sweats*

READER: “(points out symbolism and foreshadowing and depth)”

AUTHOR:

I once literally flipped a coin to decide which character was going to die in a multi-award-nominated novel.

I was once rereading a manuscript before editing it and discovered that in an early chapter I’d put in a line without any forethought that ended up aligning perfectly the plot and is now my favorite line in the entire book even though when I wrote that sentence I hadn’t even come up with that plot point yet.

In my book series, I have done various things on accident and then, looking back, yelled BRILLIANT and went with it. And, often times, my characters just DECIDE things, like one character was in love with another and I was “WHAT?” but went with it because it was actually a VERY good story and made some of the plot stuff that much more interesting. 

If you ever wanted to know my creative process for writing, congratulations, this is it. 

Writing a story like

There’s an author’s note in an Isaac Asimov short story collection - Isaac Asimov, mind you - and I can’t for the life of me remember which it was because my mom has a billion of them, but basically he went to a lecture on his books where the teaccher was lecturing on all the symbolism and themes and such and Asimovewent up to him and was just like “Uhhhh…. I didn’t put any of that in? It just…. no? Not really?” And the lecturer legit looked ISAAC FUCKING ASIMOV straight in the eye and said, “What do you know, sir? You’re just the author.” And Asimov described it as being a fairly profound moment in his career.

This is all completely true.

this is all very very true

This all needed to be said

Please send me more of these memes, I need to see literally every single one of them

submitted by @artistic-cyber-cat

submitted by @zeddspectrial

submitted by @goodwiththechicken

submitted by @fedora-master96

this meme is officially called Fantasy Painting Object Labeling, thanks for that @eddrian32!

I love these so much

some notes i’ve been taking on DMing, culled from various sources

Plot & Campaign:

Rules & Rolls:

Rewards:

Players:

I have weight encumbrance, food and water requirements, and track hours for travel and sleep in 2 of my campaigns (both out of the abyss). Normally I wouldn’t add these in so prominently, but I really wanted to focus on how difficult it can be to survive in the underdark. I explained this to both groups (One in person and one on roll20) and everyone has been fine with it, the in person group has been handling it easier for whatever reason.

Anyway, point is if you’re going to be adding things in that your players may not be use to; talk to them. Which is basically always the answer to anything.

These are great tips for DMing, and honestly I should try to remember them better, myself.

keysmash composition

sksjjsksj- as if you placed your hand over your mouth and are trying to keep it down, but it’s so funny you can’t help but make a hissing kind of chuckle. ;; is common due to proximity.

bdfgdbd - imagine laughing so suddenly you spit out your drink. that’s what this is.

GDBDLSBD - gargling noise

fgsda - quick response, left hand middle row of the keyboard, indicates acknowledgment. gays mostly.

qowuytiypu - rare upper-row smash. unknown, yet infinite, implications.

DHKDHLDJGFIFK- just died in a video game.

asdfghjkl; - The Swipe. needs to express Something, but unwilling to actually smash. not unacceptable, but tactfully lazy.

all-over smash(pdnhsbfsxkoowkdndjznkix) - it’s too much to handle. your mind feels overwhelmed, and must truly smash. occasionally accompanied by ;; and ?? with rare number appearances.

Words are amazing things

It seemed like a good idea at 4am. Anyways, here’s a quick fantasy insult table for when you don’t have a witty line prepared. The ‘Son of a” tables are based off of Shakespearean insults.

Tag your weird combos? I have no clue what else to use this for.