you will be glad to know that i suffered. and that i have no self-control and no sense of scale. i just wrote an 8k hondo/dogma fic on 1.5 hours of sleep. why did i do this. why did i ask for this. this was supposed to be short. i hope you are pleased with yourself. full fic under the cut.
Months. Years, maybe. Dogma didn’t exactly have a calendar in the tiny white room where they kept him when they weren’t prodding or poking or cutting or testing. Trying to figure out what his defect was, he supposed. He was told nothing. He didn’t even know if we was slated for death, or reconditioning, after they were finished with their tests. When the doctors came into the room for him, he never knew if they were taking him to his death or not. It was, as Kix would have put it, a “relevant stress factor”.
There were no brothers in the medical facility. The guards were all droids. Dogma had no way of getting news from the front, from Captain Rex and the rest of his brothers. He didn’t know if they were alive, dead, if they were winning the war, if Tup was doing ok without him. Sometimes, Dogma would lie on the ground and stare at the ceiling, wondering what bits of it were real and what bits he had imagined. Had he really shot a Jedi? Or did he make that up? Was there a trooper named Jesse with a republic cog tattoo? Had Dogma been part of Captain Rex’s squad, as he sometimes thought, or was it just something he’d wanted for so long, ever since he’d been a cadet, that he’d just convinced himself it was true?
Time smeared together. Dogma didn’t know if he slept anymore or not. It was impossible to tell. When they came one day and put him on a guarded transport, all hush-hush and talking like everyone Dogma knew was dead, Dogma didn’t even notice until the ship was in hyperspace.
(today I learned that, according to Google Translate, “Drachen” is “dragon” and “drachen”, no capital, is “kite”. The below was run through Google Translate but looks sensible to me. It did give me “I escaped” in the last panel.)
Dragon: “We dragons do not have it easy. In times of democracy, there are hardly any princesses we can kidnap.”
Dragon: “Hey, are you a princess?”
Klaus: “No, I’m the Klaus. I sell insurance.”
Dragon: “But in your heart, you always wanted to be a princess, right?”
Klaus: “Actually, I always wanted to be only the insurance Klaus.”
Dragon: “Nonsense. I [have captured] you now, little princess!”
continuing my Porg trend I took a crack at redesigning the Fathiers/space horses from TLJ!
There are a lot of ways I could have taken this (and I might do some cat-like alternate designs), but I wanted to lean into the plant-eating aspects of the creature: resolve the leg anatomy, find precedent for stubby ungulate faces, etc.
Concept: an RPG setting including a nation that overthrew the vile Sorcerer-Kings several generations ago after a thousand years of subjugation and instituted a modified form of anarcho-syndicalism, but, well, by then the Aesthetic had become a part of their culture – and radical reform of political institutions is one thing, but some things are more stubborn!
Architecture consists primarily of storm-lashed spires of obsidian and (ethically sourced!) bone, the interiors of which are mostly filled with comfortably appointed apartments, including heavy soundproof window-covers to muffle the frequent thunder.
Fashion tends toward voluminous hooded cloaks, which are eminently practical, given the near-constant grimy drizzle. Fashion also tends toward an excess of thick leather belts and chunky metal buckles, the latter typically fashioned to resemble skulls and leering demonic faces; these are less practical, though as a result few denizens ever find themselves without a handy spot to secure a tool or pouch.
The languages spoken much resemble those of neighbouring nations, though most of the men (and a growing number of women) practice a trick of speaking with a booming sepulchral echo that non-natives can never seem to get the hang of. Many elders also work on perfecting their shrill cackles in their free time.
People carry “skeleton donor” cards indicating their consent to have their remains reanimated after death. Animated skeletons require no luxuries and dislike idleness, but they’re required to take every third day off anyway; most of them spend those days staging elaborate pantomimes and engaging in musical duels with whatever instruments they can get their phalanges on that require neither breath nor skin.
The harbour is patrolled by a tame leviathan that in all honesty would probably just run away if anyone ever mounted a serious assault, but thus far nobody has been willing to test that theory. It quite enjoys having its gills scritched, a predilection that often unnerves visiting mariners.
Every Winter Solstice a volunteer puts on the spiky armour and the ridiculous hat and runs through the streets while village children chase after her and hit her with sticks, and a grand time is had by all.
Context: Same game I’m playing as Animated Armor. It’s been a little while, since the lake incident and we’re just getting started with the next session. Our healer, the elf whom I get along well with in our party is now determined to find something to help me speak. (I can’t due to not having vocal cords) The Paladin hates me more than ever for having almost drowned him and forced him to walk around naked for a while.
*While in a tavern, the rouge is off trying to gather information for employment and the other two eat while I just stand around not really being of any use because there is nothing useful I can do at the moment when the elf turns to me*
Cleric: Oh so the Paladin was the first man ever inside you?
*Ooc the elf’s player is giggling her butt off at this point, and I nod to answer*
Paladin: What’s your point elf?
*She turned her head to the Paladin with the most wicked smile I’d ever seen on her*
Cleric: Why don’t you see? You’ve taken our poor fighter’s virginity!
Paladin: He’s a walking suit of armor! There’s nothing to take!
Cleric: How else is he suppose to be intimate?
Me ooc: I roll for embarrassment
DM: What?
Me ooc: I roll to see how embarrassed I am
DM: okay…uh..go for it, 20 sided, higher rolls means the more embarrassed you are.
*Me, rolls a 19*
DM: Your entire helmet starts to visibly glow red, prompting concern looks from the other patrons and revealing your secret crush that’s developed upon the Paladin since the ‘incident’
Paladin ooc: You serious?
Me: I run out the tavern covering my face from the embarrassment.
DM: Uh…run a perception check?
*Fails and proceeds to trip over a stool, my burning helmet/head then caught a rug on fire and burned half the tavern down and injuring several people. The rest of the session after we fled the town proceeded with the elf shipping me and the Paladin hard time*
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