#fierna tiefling

[rielzero]

Nymrod ''A Silver-y coated Fool''

Backstory Blurb;

Nymrod was a High Half Elf Silver Dragonic Bloodline Sorcerer who tried to become a fashion designer despite his family's high demands and expectations. He particularly disliked his innate magic as he had the tendency to freeze things when he got nervous.

As a result of his unstable powers and clumsiness, no one would take him as an apprentice so he had to teach himself how to sew. Struggling with what to do with his misfortunes, he briefly joined a band of friends on a few adventures, realizing he really disliked contributing to conflict and fighting. During a tour to Elturel, he got really drunk and passed out.. Only to awaken when Elturel was pulled into Avernus. The sudden shift of planes for some reason changed him into a Dainty, soft looking Tiefling, unrecognizable to himself and his friends. They swiftly abandoned him in order to flee. Left with little else to hold onto, Nymrod is who he became. Acting docile, foolish and helpless, his appearance and behavior gave him his name, a combination of ''Nymph'' and ''Nimrod'' Passed around several devils as a pretty pet to look at. Hiding his intelligence and using his charm to remain unharmed. When Nymrod was about to be sold to one particularly cruel Devil in exchange of dozens of soul coins, Raphael ended up coming to his rescue. The Cambion recognized Nymrod's facade, becoming the only safe space were Nym's intelligence was genuinely recognized. Nym is very indifferent about the conflict surrounding Avernus as he had to prioritize his own survival. Due being abandoned by his only friends in his time of need, he stopped caring for those who do not value him. Since then he has gotten used to his body, still feeling somewhat strange about it. Some inconsistencies might exist in the blurb, but he is an OC, casual oc. He wouldn't exist in the same universe as the videogame per sé, so no tadpole or mindflayer business. He's not an adventurer, so not very experienced in combat- avoids it.

Idk I like the idea of ''very evil half devil has soft spot for a very unlucky dude'' cuz I enjoy fluff as much as I enjoy angst.

*people in the house of hope literally being tortured, screaming in the background* Nymrod: Hmm. I feel inspired.. *sketches outfit ideas* Raphael: *sips from a glass of brandy* The songs they sing in the morning are the most spirited. Nymrod: Oh, should I add some more skulls in this pattern??

I don't think Nymrod is evil, but rather- indifferent? He had no room to care for others, being isolated for so long. He no longer has that passively active empathy he used to before Avernus. Too much shit happened..

Might write some fic later, idk. I don't feel confident in writing Raphael to be honest, but I want to describe Nym's story a bit more. I don't really intend on drawing it actively as I have other projects.

Nym would get along with Haarlep pretty well, sassy bitching.

Some other things about Nymrod.

-Freezing things when nervous still happens, but given that they're in hell- it just turns into water right away half of the time. ''Did you have an oopsie?'' Haarlep would probably joke around that Nym is a bedwetter.. -He sometimes sheds the scales, but they regrow on the exact same locations. Skin gets a little overly sensitive during this time. -He purrs! Isn't sure why, but it happens. -As a Half Elf, his hair was much darker, he used to wear very dark clothing, but after settling in his new form he prefers light colors. Mostly pink. -As a Fierna Tiefling and sorcerer, Nym's charm spell happens mostly subconsciously, it's gotten him out of trouble many times. -He sold his previous name to a Fey who was wandering in the Hells while he was still held captive as a caged pet. The fey gave him a blessing that makes him naturally lucky out of pity in exchange. He doesn't remember his old name or previous personality much, but he does remember his life before Avernus. He has no attachment to his old life. -Nym had no close friends or relatives when he was abandoned by his family. His only friends were the adventuring group, or so he thought.. -He is clingy, bit of a damsel. Would still throw ice at someone as a last resort. Not great at aim though. Would probably die in 2 hits. -Plays with his tail absentmindedly when he's bored, still unfamiliar with the limb at times. -Tailwag when he's excited. -He really really really likes how his body looks after the change, but it did take some getting used to. -His horns have very sensitive nerve endings. -Insecure in the bedroom, but only because he's inexperienced. His only previous sexual encounters were while drunk, has an alcohol problem but isn't addicted. He just doesn't know when to stop drinking. When given the chance he will drink until he passes out. -Whenever possible, he will make or design clothes for Raphael and Haarlep. Has his own little atelier room to work on these things. -Throws little pouty tantrums when his clothing or work gets stained. -Crybaby, very easily overstimulated. Cries when stressed. -Smarter than he makes himself out to be, loves puzzles. Has solved very intricate and difficult puzzles on a whim before. -Raphael exclusively calls him ''Nimphy'' when greeting him. -Settled for being spoiled or treated as a pet pretty easily, has kept the collar with his name on it since he first got it. He feels safer while wearing it. I might draw responses to specific questions about Nymrod actually. Feel free to flood my inbox lol, if you want me to draw this oc in specific situations..

#oc #original character #digital art #bg3 #raphael x oc #tiefling #fierna tiefling #half elf #sorcerer #dragonic blood sorcerer #silver dragon #male oc #gay #monster boy #gay character #bg3 raphael #bg3 haarlep #haarlep #raphael bg3 #house of hope #raphael the cambion

[madamrynodm]

Drafting up new reference sheets while I wait for the Art Fight 2023 theme to drop... it's a fun time! Definitely drawing on the Bleach character profiles in the back of every manga volume

Blitz here is technically retired. I only played her for 2 sessions, but they were some of the worst I've ever seen. Killed her vibe hardcore, and I haven't played her since. My poor girl

#rynooc #dnd character #dnd #character profile #tiefling #fierna tiefling #dnd cleric #twilight cleric #dnd 5e oc #okapi #drawing #art #art fight 2023

[sainttropic]

My bimbo fierna tiefling wild magic barbarian, Carmen!! She is...my power fantasy I’ll just say that. I’ve played her in a few one-shots and she’s my backup if Moss dies 😭 She is the MOMENT

Every time she rages, depending on what she rolls on the wild magic table, her outfit changes ✨ she also has a drow viscountess gf 

SUPPORT ME!

✨Twitter: @saint_tropic✨

✨Instagram: @saint_tropic✨

✨Twitch: saint__tropic✨

✨Ko-Fi: Saint Tropic✨

#tiefling #fierna tiefling #dnd #dungeons and dragons #barbarian #wild magic barbarian #carmen #lesbian #lgbtq #lgbtqia+ #saints characters #art #digital art #firealpaca #wacom #september 2022 #2022 #oc #original character

[lanaevyssmoved]

#fray.txt #afhiri is serving....... ive never said that before ever #i got the fucking. tiefling subclass + claws race mod thing #to try #and i think its made me decide i wanna make afhiri a variant tiefling instead of fierna yes yes #i hope i spent her name right i didnt fact check #oc afhiri

[bookofchaos]

Currently re-building an old campaign...

and I have decided that my selling point is..............

BARBARIAN PROSTITUTES!

that is all.

#dnd #5e #building tiefling lore based around Fierna's bloodline

[jackalgulch]

TIEFLINGS IN JACKAL GULCH

In Jackal Gulch, tieflings are both born and made. Some tieflings are those that have made a deal with a devil, or their ancestors did and now they bear the burden. These tieflings can appear perfectly normal, like a regular human, dwarf, or elf. However, they are devil-marked, bearing the brand of one of the Archfiends on their skin as a constant reminder that their soul has been sold. Other tieflings are hellspawn, descendents of fiends, with similar characteristics and appearances to the tieflings of other settings. As a tiefling you gain the following traits from your lineage:

Ability Scores. Choose one of: (a) Choose any +2; choose any other +1 (b) Choose three different +1

Size. Small or Medium

Speed. 30 ft. 

Darkvision. Thanks to your infernal heritage, you have superior vision in dark and dim conditions. You can see in dim light within 60 feet of you as if it were bright light, and in darkness as if it were dim light. You can't discern color in darkness, only shades of gray.

Hellish Resistance. You have resistance to fire damage.

Infernal Bargain. As part of your damnation you can leverage favor in your life, though never without a cost. Before you make a roll, you may choose to give yourself advantage on it. If you do so, the next roll you make must be made with disadvantage. This disadvantage cannot be negated in any way. You can use this feature a number of times equal to your proficiency bonus and regain all expended uses when you finish a long rest.

Devil's Mark. Whether you are considered hellspawn or devil-marked, you gain access to the magic of the fiend your soul is sworn to. You learn a cantrip at 1st level, a 1st-level spell at 3rd level, and a 2nd-level spell at 5th level. You can cast these spells once each without expending a spell slot and cannot again until you finish a long rest. You can also cast these spells using any spell slots you have of the appropriate level. Intelligence, Wisdom, or Charisma is your spellcasting ability for these spells when you cast them with this trait. You choose which ability when you select this lineage. 

Mark of Baalzebub. This mark evokes mettle to dissolve any challenge. You know the Corrosive Touch cantrip. Starting at 3rd level you can cast Shield. Starting at 5th level you can cast Acid Arrow.

Mark of Balor.  This mark evokes burning fervor. You know the Produce Flame cantrip. Starting at 3rd level you can cast Hellish Rebuke. Starting at 5th level you can cast Scorching Ray. No tiefling, born or made, can gain this mark by being your descendant since Balor's death 20 years ago. 

Mark of Fierna. This mark evokes glee and fascination. You know the Mage Hand cantrip. Starting at 3rd level you can cast Faerie Fire. Starting at 5th level you can cast Spray of Cards.

Mark of Graz'zt. This mark evokes power and guile, both fading. You know the Minor Illusion cantrip. Starting at 3rd level you can cast Silent Image. Starting at 5th level you can cast Darkness.

Mark of Lacrima. This mark makes a mockery of the god Pholtus. You know the Thaumaturgy cantrip. Starting at 3rd level you can cast Command. Starting at 5th level you can cast Calm Emotions.

Mark of Mammon. This mark evokes domination. You know the Friends cantrip. Starting at 3rd level you can cast Charm Person. Starting at 5th level you can cast Suggestion. No tiefling, born or made, can gain this mark by being your descendant since Mammon's death three years ago. 

Mark of Malphas. This mark evokes intelligence and tenacity. You know the Mind Sliver cantrip. Starting at 3rd level you can cast Illusory Script. Starting at 5th level you can cast Detect Thoughts.

Mark of Zariel. This mark evokes corrupted divinity, a taste of the light you will never know. You know the Light cantrip. Starting at 3rd level you can cast Searing Smite. Starting at 5th level you can cast Branding Smite.

Mark of Zorakath. This mark evokes overpowering malice and ambition. You know the Vicious Mockery cantrip. Starting at 3rd level you can cast Dissonant Whispers. Starting at 5th level you can cast Crown of Madness.

[forgeofthenine]

Time to bring on my second playthrough of BG3!

I wanted to play around with both mods and a bard this time through, so meet Della! A fierna tiefling with a talent for the violin you don't often find in an orphan raised on the streets, she's ready to get rid of the tadpole in her head and cause a little mischief on the way ;)

#bri rambles #my own character

[sky-kiss]

How do you think Raphael views marriage? Would he be monogamous or polygamous (I read on Reddit that some Archdevils had more than one consort)? What kind of partner would he absolutely marry? I’m sure someone with power?

Also a little surprised he doesn’t seem to have his own children. LOL is he that careful on birth control? Or perhaps having his own heir is possible after becoming Supreme Archdevil?

It's my understanding that "marriage" revolved around convenience in the Hells. I could be mistaken, but only one of the Archdevils has two consorts. Baalzebul has his consort and Lilith, the former Archdevils consort. She's been kept around due to the size of her cult and her influence.

Glasya currently has no formalized consort. Neither does Fierna (though, her relationship with her father is uh...he's most likely occupying that role).

So, they tend towards only taking one formalized "spouse," but are free to take as many lovers and mistresses as they want. Like most of the Archdevils, I'm sure Raphael wants someone to compliment his own power. A lot of the spouses are spy masters, master diplomats, or have powerful cults on the Prime Material.

Honestly, I don't think Raphael has a lot of time for kids right now lol. My dude is trying to pull of his psycho schemes. The tiefling in the Caress has his horns? Maybe her? But he's defying a million years of Hell Hierarchy to try and bring himself to power. He's got a lot on his plate.

Thank youuuu!

#asks

[soltytears]

azriel kain : fierna tiefling, peace cleric, golden vault body guard division faction agent

#original art #original character #dungeons and dragons #dnd #dnd oc #dnd art #everchanging oceans

[cellphishthekaiju]

Fan-girl Ramblings: My [1st] Custom Tav, Hestra Lumeth

Being so absorbed in BG3 as of late, figured why not write nonsense about my Tav (inspired a bit by a Twitter post about voicing their background) and since I write some 'serious' fan-fic about this woman... why not do a lengthy post explaining her?

*Usual warning of spoilers and a lot of this is made up from my deranged mind.

Hestra's 'natural' name is actually Keryx, born to Archdevil Zelinor, a succubus, and Veestan Lumeth, a high elven nobleman from the 'secret' city of Ny'nahil [in a valley somewhere within the Greypeak Mountains].

The 'story' goes is that Veestan wanted to recapture his glory days as a troubadour and decided he would seduce and bargain with a devil; specifically a native to the Fourth Layer of the Nine Hells, Phlegethos. Whatever bargain was made resulted in Keryx's birth; an Infernal contract cosigned to flesh.

*Though born to a devil, Keryx was born as a Tiefling and not a Cambion (since her mother is the devil, not her father). She does not inherit any Succubus-related abilities though does 'attain' the traits of the Fierna Bloodline, giving her a natural suave charm and inverting a tiefling's natural 'aura' to unsettle others, instead appearing alluring to most who encounter her and remain within her proximity for an extended amount of time. After her 'reforging' in the Pit of Flame, she developed a couple of succubus traits, mainly the ability for her musk and bodily fluids to behave as aphrodisiacs.

As per the bargain, Keryx was taken to Faerun to be left in the care of Veestan until her thirteenth year, but he wanted nothing to do with his bastard devil and so abandoned her in favor of reliving his fame.

For his vanity and blatant disregard for his own child, Yorilnth banished Veestan fron Ny'nahil and stripped him of all his wealth and titles, bequeathing them to Keryx as his sole (and rightful) heir once of age to utilize her inheritance. In the interim, Yorilnth, reluctantly, became mother to an unwanted tiefling child.

Yorilnth is no ordinary high elf, but an Ancient Silver Dragon that has called Ny'nahil her lair for several centuries now. Though there is no monarchy, the residents of Ny'nahil and her clan refer to her as 'queen'. Keryx was raised, mostly, by Yorilnth and Alioth, the clan's egg keeper, and experienced a relatively lovely and 'normal' upbringing. Keryx grew especially close to Razsermerjur, Yorilnth's youngest child, and the two treated each other as siblings.

Upon the hour Keryx turned thirteen, a Bone Devil suddenly arrived in Ny'nahil and dragged her down to Phlegethos, nearly killing Razsamerjur as the dragon, valiantly, tried to protect their sister from her fate.

For the next twenty-ish years, Keryx was raised in the ways of her Infernal heritage. Every day was a test of survival as Baator was not a kind place to mortals, in any capacity.

Zelinor hated Keryx, being the living embodiment of a great embarrassment yet could not cause harm to her due to the contract she, literally, gave birth to. Yet, Keryx developed a very sharp wit and talent for duplicity and seduction despite the disadvantages of her breeding... skills Zelinor took advantage of to the point Keryx found herself serving as a Justiciar of the Diabolical Courts, when not being utilized as a whore.

To ensure the contract wasn't 'accidentally' broken, Zelinor assigned one of her Cornugons to guard Keryx, with the ulterior intention to test Keryx's ability to charm and seduce. This is how Keryx and Esilith became intimately involved with each other. Keryx seduced her guardian and the two became, madly, enamored with each other.

Through the course of their relationship, Keryx picked up the moniker and stage name 'The Infernal Siren'. With Esilith at her side, the pair wracked up quite the body count. Keryx was so 'in love' with the cornugon, she put herself through horrendous physical trials and torment, such as having her body modified to be the 'perfect' lover and even endured several days within the Pit of Flame (which ruined most of her body and burned away parts of her soul). However, their relationship quickly turned violent when, in a fit of jealous rage, Esilith stabbed Keryx through the heart after learning she was to be 'married' to a another devil.

With her heart rent in half, but alive, Keryx had the brilliant idea to have a variant of an Infernal Engine grafted to her heart; an iron music box that would serve as a spell foci for her infernal bardic work, which solely had relied on her singing voice. Over the course of a year, Keryx wrote a song & performance that came to be known as the 'Song of Ruin' but required the use of her 'music-box heart' to complete the ritual; driving entire armies and cities to ecstatic destruction by instigating orgies and various acts of debauchery until all that were subjected to the song perished, either from sheer exhaustion or violent madness.

The Song of Ruin attracted the interest and attention of the Lords of the Fourth; Archduke Belial and Archduchess Fierna. Keryx served them as, primarily, a saboteur on various fronts of the Blood War as well as other layers of Baator.

At some point, Keryx grew homesick for Faerun and tried to escape, unsuccessfully, several times before entering a contract with Archduchess Fierna to return to the Prime Material Plane... as long as she fulfilled her obligations to create cults and worshippers for Fierna so the Lady of the Fourth could increase her power.

Upon returning to Faerun, Keryx immediately returned to Ny'nahil. Yorilnth, Alioth, Razsamerjur... despite her long absence, Keryx was welcomed home and her family sought to heal what they could of the scars, both physical and mental, that the Nine Hells had left upon her. Keryx struggled to adjust to being a Faerunian, however... and Fierna made her pay for her insubordination.

Archduchess Fierna tormented Keryx with nightmares until the tiefling broke and she attempted to corrupt Ny'nahil. The ritual never finished, as she fled when she realized what she had wrought upon her home.

Adopting the name Hestra while on the road (and rarely ever revealing her surname), Hestra wandered the Sword Coast for a number of years (often carrying out her contractual obligations to Fierna) before starting to settle in Baldur's Gate. She becomes a 'silent partner' with Rizare (a Deeva prostitute turned business owner), wrote and sold plays to theatres around the city and occasionally turnrf sects of the Baldurian aristocracy or common folk to the worship of Fierna.

She further hides her identity by wearing a Ring of Disguise Self that makes her appear more 'normal'; Infernal eyes hidden behind green, tattoos and scarring all smooth flesh

Despite having a string of paramours from all walks of life (though she never physically engaged with anyone, resorting to charm spells to gaslight her 'lovers' into believing otherwise), Hestra staunchly refused to intimately commit to another.

Then the Absolute Crisis happened... Which is where my fan-fic writing tends to focus with this character (with a sprinkling of post-game or AU nonsense).

Hestra was leaving Baldur's Gate, via the Black Dragon Gate, intending to take one of her plays on tour when Absolute Cultists nabbed her and imprisoned her on the Emperor's Nautiloid.

The adventure wasn't all bad, despite being infected by illithid.

Made new friends, saved Faerun and fell (very hard) in love with Lae'zel of Creche K'liir.

And the rest, as they say, is history. I drabbled very long about my Tav, hope you enjoyed. Maybe I'll do more... cause I have a few more Tavs and other OCs.

#baldur's gate 3 #lae'stra #custom tav #bg3 tav #female tav #OC backstory #i love my oc #this occupied my thoughts...always #i might have gone a little too hard #oc babble

[rielzero]

Rendering some of the images of the refsheet~ Is fun. Should probably do that for more of my ocs since I don't toss my wip files..

#oc #original character #digital art #bg3 #bg3 oc #fierna tiefling #tiefling #sorcerer #dragonic blood #silver dragon #male oc #baldurs gate 3 #male tiefling #soft #monster boy #gay character #ocs #original characters #my oc #my oc art

[madamrynodm]

See I like my linework here but had no idea how to finish it. Also, Nitra is playing sabaac so hehe

#rynooc #dnd character #dnd #art #drawing #winged kobold #dragonborn #half elf #drow elf #fierna tiefling #tiefling #sabaac

[dicebound]

Striker D&D 5e Build

My Stolas post is making the rounds again, so I thought I'd build Striker for funsies. 1. Lineage - Tiefling (Fierna) Being an imp, Tiefling is an obvious choice for Striker. What sub-lineage you choose varies on what class you end up picking for him. Zariel or Standard Tiefling is the most fitting in my eyes, followed by Fierna Tiefling for the charm and suggestion angles. If you wanted to play up the rattlesnake aspect of Striker's character, you could also go with Yuan-ti.

2. Background - Urban Bounty Hunter So here's the thing, we don't know much about where Striker comes from and why he's the way he is. He seems to be from the Wrath Ring, given his cowboy theming, and has a strong dislike of Nobles. He also takes jobs from just about anyone to do just about anything. I'd say Criminal/Spy, Urban Bounty Hunter or Outlander are your primary thematic options for him given what information we have at this time. I could also see Faction Agent with a specific tie to the Zhentarim in a Forgotten Realms game.

3. Class - Vengeance Paladin So Class is fun, as Striker can do a little bit of everything. He's a highly capable contract killer with a charismatic flair. He fights with guns and whips, rides hell steeds with ease, and even plays the guitar. He also seems to struggle to keep his cool under pressure as of his second and third outings. Because Striker has such a wide array of talents, he could realistically be many classes. Bard, Fighter, Ranger, Rogue, Paladin or Warlock all fit him to one degree or another. I feel stronger about the Martial Classes than I do the spellcasting ones, given we haven't really seen Striker use magic. SO let's break it down. A) Bard Striker is sexy and charming and Bard is the class most known for it's Charisma shenanigans. Their skill monkey nature fits Striker's wide range of capabilities. However, Striker isn't much of a spellcaster and no Bard subclass currently enhances ranged combat. If you want to go this route, go College of Whispers or College of Valor. B) Fighter If your DM allows Guns and Critical Role content from DDB, then Gunslinger Fighter is an easy answer. You really couldn't go wrong with it. If not, Arcane Archer or Battle Master Fighter could also do the trick. Arcane Archer more for it's focus on flashy ranged attacks and Battle Master for being just fucking good. Also Chevalier may be good to represent his ropin' and riding.

C) Ranger So Cowboys just *are* Rangers. They spend time out in nature alongside trusty steeds and stocks of steer. That being said, it's not a popular class in 5e and only Hunter really fits Striker as a character. I also don't know if I'd represent Striker as especially Wise, given his demeanor. D) Rogue He's a criminal who takes jobs with the mafia and assassination contracts against nobles, he's got Rogue energy for sure. Skill monkey also fits well with his wide range of talents. Assassin is a given but also consider Swashbuckler and Scout as subclass options. Swashbuckler for it's Charisma focus and stylin' on the enemy and Scout for it's ranger, outdoorsy flavor. You really can't go wrong with Rogue. E) Paladin This might seem way off base, but I think Paladin has some great potential to represent Striker really well. Charisma based martial class with limited holy power (angelic weapons anyone?). While we don't know the full scope of it, Striker seems to have an ideology that he's intent on carrying out and holds against others. Oath of Conquest, Oath of Vengeance, or Oathbreaker are the stand-outs to me. My only grip is Smite doesn't work on Ranged attacks (though One D&D may fix that) Conquest's battlefield control really fits the fantasy of fighting and winning against multiple people at once, while Vengeance seems to fit his anti-noble ideology.

F) Warlock Finally, we need to pay some lip service to Warlock. Striker is a demon, he usually works for a greater evil (Crimson or Stella for example), and Hexblade may be too good to pass up. Also hey, Eldritch Smite is a thing. I don't see Striker being anything other than Pact of the Blade for this though and He hasn't been shown doing any real spellcasting. It's one of the weaker options in terms of accuracy to the character.

For my purposes, I'm gonna go with Vengeance Paladin but really Assassin Rogue, Hunter Ranger, and Gunslinger Fighter are all excellent options.

4. Stats With +2 Dexterity and +1 Charisma from Tiefling (Origins) and using point buy I would distribute his stats as follows: Str - 14 Dex - 16 Con - 12 Int - 10 Wis - 10 Cha - 14 If not for the Strength requirement of Paladin (minimum 13) I may not have it so high. You could variably give him higher Intelligence or Wisdom but Striker has some butt monkey tendencies after his first outing that make me happy with how I've spread his stats. Alternatively, you swap his Dex and Charisma scores around as well.

5. Skills Skills that make sense for Striker are Athletics, Deception, Intimidation, Persuasion, Stealth, Animal Handling, Survival and Perception. You could also grab Performance for funsies. For my build, I grabbed Athletics and Intimidation from Paladin and Persuasion and Deception from Urban Bounty Hunter.

He also gets some tool proficencies from his background so I grabbed Thieves Tools and a Lute (sweet victory!).

6. Spells In my build, he's still a partial spellcaster. Most of his spell slots will go to Smite, but let's take a look anyway. Can't go wrong with the Smite Spells, Bane or Bless, and Heroism or Divine Favor could all be great. He debuffs his enemies or buffs himself and hits you where it hurts. Find Steed/Find Greater Steed seems like a must once you reach high enough level to take it.

7. Feats (Optional) - Skilled (Survival, Animal Handling, Perception) Most people use feats and feats at first level, but they're technically optional. That being said you have a lot of good options. Infernal Constitution from Tiefling could be nice to make Striker just hardier (he takes a lot of punishment in the show). Dual Wielder, Crossbow Expert/Gunner and Sharpshooter/Firearms Specialist are no brainers for a ranged focus character like Striker (varies if you use guns or not). Skilled / Skill Expert to show just how much more talented he is than you. Alert, Mobile, Tough, and War Caster are all easy choices with no real downsides. Mounted Combatant could be fun if you want to focus more on the ropin' and ridin' aspect of Striker's character.

#dnd 5e #helluva boss #hazbin hotel #striker #ttrpg #character builds #paladin #dungeons and dragons

[birdie-told-me]

Red Sky at Night (D&D Fic, ~7.5k words)

Fandom: Dungeons & Dragons (homebrew setting)

Rating: Explicit Summary: On the final morning of the holy festival of Truatonalia, Faustine, a priestess of Truatoni is drawn to the seashore. What she finds there is unexpected

Contents: M/F; tiefling female x water genasi male; oral, handjob

Header art by vampariart!

Faustine is intensely aware of the approach of the festival’s third day: the Veneration of the Sea. The closer it gets, the more she feels that tug, deep within her, to venture down the rocky cliffside to the shore, to immerse herself in the crashing surf, allowing the salt water to overtake her. Twice, now, she has felt the elemental power of the Storm Maiden coursing through her, having been struck with divine lightning in both the holy Grove and the Temple, and received boons thereafter. She imagines submitting to the power of the sea would carry a similar terrifying thrill, the same new empowerment afterward. 

The sea is both refuge and restlessness. 

It is a constant, ever-present. The sound of waves crashing upon the cliffs beneath her window had been her first lullaby. The smell of it on the air is a familiar comfort. The sea featured in her earliest hopes and dreams: a promise of freedom, carrying her away from all of her unhappiness. 

It is a mystery, ever-changing. Its churning waters reflect the Storm Maiden’s moods: sometimes peaceful, sometimes violent. Its currents tug on the hearts of those connected to it, pulling them from the stability of home, imbuing them with wanderlust, yearning to embark on its rippling waters.

Naridius carries the sea with him. On his ship it hadn’t been as obvious, surrounded as they were by the thing itself, but here in the city, it clings to him even as it releases everyone else. His skin, his hair, even the air around him - he smells of a fresh salt breeze. His skin is the color of the sea on a warm, inviting summer day, and glistens enticingly with droplets of water, as if he has always just emerged from beneath the surf. His hair is a riot of seafoam: pale, tumbling curls forming a corona around his head, setting off the lovely aqua shade of his skin, giving him the look of a cresting wave. She longs to run her fingers through it. 

She knows the Maiden would not begrudge her this, but resisting the lure is a habit borne of years of practice even before she swore her life to the goddess. Faustine has always been an expert at resisting temptation. Too cautious has she been, seeing Fierna’s phantom smirk behind every opportunity for pleasure. Too frightened to give in and allow herself to slip for even a moment and open the door for infernal influence. (Not to mention, of course, the thought of baring herself in such a way. Being seen beneath the swathes of fabric she always keeps her body concealed by). She has trained herself to be as remote and untouchable as the clouds.

But, she thinks, what if I want to be touched?

She has grown accustomed to it, lately, and she must admit, she craves it more now that she knows what she was missing. So many years of her life spent isolated, contact with others limited only to the most necessary of functions. Now she travels among friends who do not flinch when she reaches out a hand to touch them, even if said hand does not carry a spell to bolster them. She is still cautious, always watching for the slightest indication that her flesh is an unwelcome presence among theirs. But she has not seen one yet. And Naridius….

He had asked her to dance on the first night of the festival. Despite having invited him earlier in the day to come find her, she had still been surprised and a little flustered. She is not graceful - never was lithe and delicate, and now even less so since separating body and spirit, never fully fitting the two back together even after leaving the Astral Plane - but he did not seem to mind her stumbling feet and her flushed cheeks. He had offered his hand, and when she took it, pulled her against the solid planes of his body. 

Never had she been pressed so intimately against another. She hardly knew how to process the feeling of his muscle against hers, his hand resting on the curve of her hip, his sturdy shoulder under the hand she had drawn up to steady herself. A faint buzzing filled her ears, and she is quite certain her face went slack for a moment as she felt his warm breath against her skin. But the lively music wound its way to her ears, sparking her senses back to life and drawing a smile to her lips. She cannot pretend that their dancing was in any way polished or worthy of spectators, but she found that she did not care. It was enough to feel the rush of joy as she clutched him to her, allowing him to twirl her through the crowd. She tilted her head back and offered her delighted laughter to the heavens. She reveled in the feeling of him moving with her, against her, alongside her, as the music swept them up. He was close enough that his lovely curls brushed against her cheek, releasing a burst of his clean, fresh scent, and she wished she could breathe him in forever.

Inevitably their dance had ended too soon - duty had called her away, and Naridius had melted back into the crowd. She found herself cold and irritable, resenting her friends and their silly foibles for drawing her away from the moment of happiness she had managed to snatch. Perhaps she was harsher than she ought to have been with them, but she found it difficult to tolerate their continued foolishness as she enviously noted other couples slinking away from the crowd with clasped hands and furtive caresses. Her night would not end with such a tryst.

(In fact, her night had ended with a shadow fiend stalking her through the city streets and trying to kill her instead. But such is the life of an adventurer.)

The second day of Truatonalia had been a whirlwind worthy of her goddess. Official duties beginning very early in the day, blessing and cleansing and above all trying to retain a dignified yet approachable manner. And once the ceremonies were over, she was pulled from event to event, presiding over games and races and contests, all the while spending every spare moment shoring up what support she could from the various noble houses, wheedling and charming and complimenting and persuading. It was a relief when the evening performance finally came around and she could simply let loose and confront her problems with spellcasting and trident.

But now, in the silent predawn hours of the third morning, she feels that tug again. An urge to head down to the shore and submerge herself. While she has proven herself inconsistent at best when remembering the official rituals and ceremonies Maurina taught her, her individual veneration of the Storm Maiden has always been guided by urges like this: an insistent feeling that she ought to be doing something, allowing her intuition to guide her through the Maiden’s desires. And in this time, at the height of her patron’s power, on her holiest of days, who is she to deny a calling? 

She forgoes the heavy regalia she wears at most ceremonies - the robes of fine-woven chain and the fearsome breastplate. She does not need her shield. There is a moment when she lingers over the trident, but ultimately she decides to go empty-handed, trusting in the goddess to protect her. Instead she dresses only in the gauzy linen stola she had worn to the cleansing ceremony. The air is balmy enough she does not wrap a palla about her before she sneaks out of the villa. 

The path down the cliffside is one that her feet remember from years of childhood antics, and so she picks her way down easily. Even the few times she stumbles over scattered pebbles or slickened rocks, the wind itself seems to lift her and prevent a fall. She closes her eyes and smiles into the breeze as it pushes fallen locks of hair from her face: this is how her goddess shows her love. 

When she reaches the bottom, the sea is gentle and the tide is low enough to have revealed a minuscule beach - no more than a narrow bar of sand and some flat rocks. Soft waves rock back and forth, lapping at her feet with only the barest of splashes. She removes her sandals and steps in, wading out into the brine. The water lifts the gossamer fabric of her skirt and saturates it until one can hardly tell the difference between cloth and sea. It clings and drapes around her legs and she cannot resist the contented smile that tugs at her lips: she is clothed in seawater. Her tail loosens from its habitual coil around her ankle, and she allows it to float behind her as she wades deeper, up to her hips, where her fingertips can skim the surface of the water as it ripples around her. She swirls her fingers in a semblance of somatic spellcasting, leaving eddies and ripples in their wake.The water is warm as it slips and slides against her, rising up from hips to waist as she ventures deeper and deeper. Tendrils of seaweed brush against her legs. With a laugh, she tilts her head back to the sky and raises her arms in exultation, droplets of water trailing from them in streamers. The official public rituals for the festival are so rigid and unyielding; this spontaneous private ritual feels more like true worship, delighting in the Maiden’s domain on a personal level.

A sudden noise startles her, and she whips her head around to spot its source, instinctively crouching so that she is nearly immersed in the water as she scans the shore. He is easy to find, even in the dim predawn light; his bright, dewy skin picks up and scatters the last reflected glints of moonlight. He seems as surprised by her presence as she is by his. From this distance, she cannot quite make out the expression on his face, but his posture is hesitant, weight rocked back on one foot, hand raised slightly in surprise, as if to fend off an attack.  For a moment she wonders if she should be upset that he has interrupted her communion with the sea, but she finds she cannot bring herself to be. 

“I - I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean - “ His voice calls out from shore, more hesitant than she has ever heard him. He is backing up, his hands now both before him in a placating gesture. “I didn’t know you were - I just -“ She is struck by the realization that she doesn’t want him to leave. She feels that same tug deep in her belly that drew her to this place, drawing her to him. Her legs straighten to her full height once more, water sluicing up off her as she emerges, holding her hands out to him in a pose that mirrors his, beseeching. 

“Wait!” She winces at the tone of command in her voice, and softens it. “You can stay.” 

She picks her way carefully back to shore, somehow more difficult in this direction than it was on the way in. The rocks feel slicker and the tide slightly higher, while the waves beat with more intensity now, kicking up little splashes against her sides. He is rooted in place, watching her approach. He has not spoken again, but his hands have dropped limply to his sides, and his lips are parted. Only when her feet touch sand rather than rock does she let her own hands drop, tilting her head as she watches him in turn. The silence is heavy, and she cannot think of the proper words to break it, so she takes another tentative step toward him instead. 

The tiny strip of sand is barely large enough for them both to stand on, but he does not back away. He, too, seems caught up in the hazy atmosphere, unwilling or unable to cut through it with a word. The only sound around them is the steady rushing of the sea, and the rustling of a gentle breeze. The air around them feels thick and charged, as if a storm is about to break. 

He is staring at her. His eyes dart back and forth, from horns to lips to eyes to décolletage. She is suddenly very aware of the way her dress clings to her, translucent and waterlogged. There is but a momentary twitch of her fingertips, ready to call a swirl of fog to cover herself, but she defiantly forces herself to allow him to look. She wants him to look. She wants to keep looking at him. The expression on his face is one of…adoration. Nobody has ever looked at her with that expression before, and the realization is a bittersweet twinge that catches in her breast. 

The hand he lifts is slow enough to give her time to back away. She does not. His fingertips graze her cheekbone with such tenderness it feels much like the caress of a gentle breeze. She closes her eyes and tilts her head, leaning into that touch so that his fingers tangle into the curls at her temple and his palm cups her cheek. Like this, she can feel the rough calluses of his sailor’s hands, can hear the rasp of his breath so close to her, can sense the heat of his body leaning infinitesimally closer. She opens her eyes to find them locked to his. She has stared down dragons and her heart did not race as fast as it does now. 

“Can I - ?” He starts to ask, and she has not even registered the words themselves before she is nodding and he is drawing her closer with the hand still wrapped in the long strands of her hair, his other hand cupping the back of her neck as his lips meet hers with a frizzle of lightning that whisks her breath away. She is dizzy. She is floating. She steadies herself by grasping on to his broad shoulders. Their bodies align so naturally, curve against slope against plane. She cannot press herself close enough, though she tries, molding herself into him the way water fills a vessel. Her arms drape atop his shoulders and she finally, finally threads her fingers through those seafoam curls that have been enticing her for weeks. They are as luxurious as she had imagined. 

She does not know how long they stand like that, entwined together, with the rising waves lapping at their ankles, but it is not long enough before she must pull her mouth away, panting and gasping. They part just enough that she can see how wide his pupils have grown, black overtaking so much of his eyes that they almost resemble her own. His cheeks are flushed and for some reason the pink at the tip of his regal nose causes her heart to swell so much she can hardly contain herself. She grins, a smile broad enough he can surely see the sharpened canines she is usually so careful to conceal. A huff of startled laughter escapes him in return. His eyes are wide and his jaw a little slack, but he does not make any move to escape her embrace. Instead, he moves his hands, careful as he untangles them from her hair, and brings them to cradle her cheeks reverently before bestowing the most chaste of kisses upon her. 

“Come sit down,” he says, his voice roughened and deep. He trails his fingers down her arms until they interlace with her own, and he draws her toward one of the flattened rocks framing their little sand bar. She obliges, though her brow crinkles and her mouth twists into a moue of displeasure when their bodies are no longer pressed together. The distance between them serves to remind her of the state of her dress - the air rushes in to the empty space and chills the soaked cloth, causing a wave of goosebumps to ripple over her. 

The rock he leads her to is conveniently sized and shaped, large enough for them both to recline on, low enough to step onto without trouble, and situated up against the cliffside such that one could comfortably lean against it. She does not know enough about stonecutting to tell whether it has been formed naturally or purposefully carved out, but she finds she does not really care. If this is a place for trysts, it must be only fitting that she has been called here, and a partner as well. There is no room for serendipity during the holy days. In the pause as she steps onto the stone and seats herself, she takes a moment to consider why the goddess would arrange such a thing. This does not feel like a command - the itching feeling at the back of her mind when the Maiden desires her to do something specific is not present. This feels more like…approval. Encouragement? Relief rushes over her and loosens the tension in her limbs she didn’t realize had crept in: this is still her choice - she can walk away if she wants to. 

The sight of Naridius kneeling beside her is enough to remind her that she wishes to stay. His lips are swollen and his tunic is askew. Her fingers carding through his hair have left it wild and untamed, and as he leans in toward her, she is struck again by that thought that he is the sea itself, a foam-capped wave come to engulf her. She had come here this morning to embrace the sea and she decides to do just that, pulling him to her so that she can reach his lips once again. The fine silk of his tunic crumples as she clutches at him, but he does not seem to mind; he is too busy complying with her unspoken plea. 

His mouth is warm and gentle against hers, his kisses soft and lingering as he cradles her face between his palms. While she finds this perfectly lovely, she can feel the restrained tension in him beneath her hands. She pulls back for a moment and looks at him directly, taking in the whole of him. Instantly, he also draws away, putting more space between them, and for a moment she is hurt before she realizes that he is following her lead, taking things slowly to make sure she is comfortable. He is holding back for her. She licks her lips, uncertain of how to encourage him. 

“You can - “ her voice is husky and raw. She tries to make a gesture to encompass the two of them, and gives a helpless little shrug, unable to even begin to find the words to tell him everything she wants. “If you want. Don’t worry.” 

He hesitates, weighing her words, so she underscores them by drawing him close once more, pressing her fingers firmly into his flesh. This time, he surges back into her like a wave crashing upon the rocks. No longer confined to gentle caresses of her hair and cheeks, his hands roam their way down her body, electrifying her skin in their wake. Every place he touches sears with heat - her throat, her ribs, her hips. The chill on her skin dissipates as he replaces it with delicious warmth that seeps through her, soaking in to her muscles and pooling deep within her very core. 

His mouth strays from her lips and down her jaw, her neck, her collarbone, alternating between kissing and sucking and licking. She gasps at a spot that sends a jolt through her, and he rewards her by lingering there, running his tongue over it again and again as she moans her encouragement. But then he is moving on, raining kisses across her collar and to the spot at her shoulder where her fibula pins her dress in place. He pauses and shoots a glance up at her, but makes quick work of unfastening the pin as he sees she is already nodding, reaching for the brooch at her other side. 

The sodden linen of her stola sticks to her skin, so he must strip the fabric away in order to reveal her breasts, and the exposure causes her nipples to tighten into peaks in the open air. Her tail flicks nervously as he stops and stares, and she almost moves to cover herself once more, but she allows him to continue unimpeded. Now his movements are slowed by reverence rather than reluctance. He is caressing and stroking the sides of her breasts, murmuring praises to the softness of her skin, the firmness of her flesh. He presses his lips to the exposed column of her throat and sucks that same spot that had stolen her breath before, while his thumb grazes across a nipple. The air she sucks in is a sharp hiss, and her back arches instinctively, offering him more access. He accepts her offer, granting her a deluge of attentions as he rolls the hardened nub between his fingertips, pinching and squeezing first one, then the other, as she writhes beneath him. The sharp, insistent burst of pleasure tinged with pain contrasts so keenly with the sensuous rolling of his tongue along her neck. Her hands roam, searching for something to clutch on to, sliding over the broad musculature of his arms and shoulders and chest. 

Their legs are a tangle, hers still wrapped in gauzy seasoaked fabric. She can feel little splashes spraying her feet as the sea churns beneath them, waves crashing more insistently upon their rocky refuge. Naridius, emboldened, bestows her with a searing whirlwind of lips and tongue against hers that she hurries to follow, returning his intensity with her own. There is a perplexed wrinkle on his brow when he breaks away from her to catch his breath, and his hand comes up to cup her jaw, thumb pulling down at her lip so that her mouth drops open for him. She is confused until she realizes he is peering at her tongue. Before the mortification can even begin to creep through her, he is grinning, returning to his ministrations, unperturbed by the revelation that the tongue that slides against his is forked in two. 

It takes her a moment to catch up, overwhelmed as she is by the dizzying series of emotions this conjures. She tries to cut them off and focus only on the sensations as he works his way back down her body with both hands and mouth. The wonderful frisson of lightning under her skin in every place he touches. The building warmth that is smouldering and pulsing within her, shooting sparks through her veins. The solidity of his body as it presses against hers. She is mostly successful, though tears do still prick at her eyes as she registers the words he is whispering against her skin: murmured homages to her beauty, her power, her perfection. This last, spoken as his questing mouth finds a nipple and engulfs it in the most delicious wet heat she has ever felt, sucking and licking and scraping his teeth against it, making her writhe with pleasure. 

He is terribly attentive, lingering in each place or with each motion that draws a gasp or a twitch or a moan from her, until she is squirming and desperate and ready to melt. She ceases to notice where precisely he has aimed his regard, drowning as she is in bliss. It does not matter which part of her he encounters; each of them is met with the same intent adulation. She is free to float upon a sea of sensation, basking in his worship.

He makes quick work of the girdle that cinches her dress at her waist, and she hurries to help him tug away the garment once its ties are released. She is fully exposed, no barriers between her skin and the outside world. However, she barely notes this momentous occasion, distracted as she is by the feeling of his mouth moving down her stomach and over hipbones, fingers pressing in to the flesh of her thighs, urging her to allow him access to the depths between them. When her legs part instinctively, he bolts forward to lavish her with even more rapturous attention. 

This is the overwhelming, elemental force she came down to the shore to experience. She is surrounded everywhere by the essence of the rising sea - the brine of it filling her nostrils, her ears rushing with a roar that evokes the wildest of squalls, her blood pulsing with the rhythm of her waterborn partner between her thighs as his curly seafoam head bobs and retreats back and forth in time with the waves that beat against their rocky refuge. Her hands bury themselves in his hair and her tail winds reflexively around him, attempting to draw him closer, to hold him in place as he does something with his tongue that shoots bright white lightning through her entire body. The wordless gasps and pants that emerge from her meld into and are swallowed up by the sounds of the seascape. The waves are high enough that the water has begun to break over the ledge of their stone more consistently, sending salty surges of seawater lapping against her skin in counterpoint to the lapping of the skilled tongue occupied at her most intimate parts. 

She cannot help the blasphemous words that flash through her mind: divine, glorious… ecstasy. 

While his mouth has dedicated itself to a single spot, his hands have not been idle. They work their way over her thighs and hips, kneading, squeezing, pressing, stroking. Teasing fingers swipe over the more sensitive parts of her skin, drawing closer to where his lips and tongue continue their clever work, causing her to shudder and clutch at him. This appears to spur him on, his efforts redoubled as one arm hooks her knee over his shoulder and the other tugs at her hips to change their angle. 

Her horns clatter against the stone of the cliff as she throws her head back. She didn’t know it could feel even better, but somehow it does, the new position of his tongue against her pressing so perfectly her vision begins to blur. Those nimble fingertips draw patterns and circles around her entrance, tempting her with the prospect of delving within, but he withholds them. Coherent thoughts have ceased to flow through her mind, replaced only by a litany of Ohs and Pleases and Mores that fall from her lips like scattered drops of rain, but a sudden thought does break through the haze with striking clarity: If he is the Sea, then you are the Storm. 

The Sea may be master of its own currents and tides, but the Storm may descend and enact its whims upon it, changing courses and churning up the waters. Her hands cannot quite reach his from this distance, but her tail wraps its way around his wrist and leads him to the place she most needs to feel him. His startled hum of approval reverberates through her as he wets his fingers with the slick moisture that has gathered there. The foot she has draped over his shoulder presses in to his back, urging him on, while her hands, still threaded through his riotous curls, position his mouth exactly where she wants it. 

He concedes to her demands, finally dipping his fingers inside her just as she has arranged his head to her liking. The combination of sensations overcomes her, and she cannot help the immediate rocking of her hips or the scraping of his scalp with her nails as her fingers clench, scrabbling for something to anchor her as she feels herself start to come apart at the seams. He continues his onslaught, steady as the pulsing waves surrounding them, and it is not long before she is cresting, breaking on the rocks alongside them, swept up in the tide that has welled up within her. The lightning in her veins buzzes through every part of her, setting her lips and fingers and toes tingling, contracting her muscles, searing through her vision with a blaze of white. She can only gasp and allow it to wash over her. It is not unlike the times she has been struck by holy lightning, only this time there is no pain, just throbbing waves of pleasure that shock their way through her over and over. 

He does not pull away until she has settled. Her limbs loosen and her fingers unthread from the locks of hair they had wound around themselves, and finally his tongue stills. When he lifts his face to look up at her, it catches at her heart, sending a sharp ache darting through her breast. He is so beautiful, with his wide, dark eyes and his tousled hair and his slickened mouth. The expression of exaltation as he stares at her is too much for her to bear. 

She tugs at him and pulls him so that their bodies align once more, face-to-face, and presses her lips languidly against his. She can feel the hardened flesh of him against her hip. While he does not press her to do anything about it, she understands that he remains wound tight, has not reached the same heady release as she has. Though she can admit to herself that she finds the prospect daunting, she finds that she still wants to try. Wants to do for him what he has done for her, to fill him with the same rapturous delight. She licks her lips and murmurs against his cheek,

“I’d like to return the favor. Will you guide me?”

The breath he lets out is half laughter, half groan. His hips give a little jerk against her, but his tone is sincere.

“You don’t have to.”

“Please. I want to.” 

Another soft sound that might be a laugh as he nuzzles his cheek along hers. His voice is pitched low and she can feel it vibrate through her as he responds, lips catching and brushing at her earlobe.

“Then I would be a fool to deny you.”

This is met with a laugh of her own, and she turns her head to catch his lips again. There is a momentary pause as they adjust, shuffling positions so that he is now leaning against the cliffside, Faustine kneeling between the splayed V of his legs. He takes the opportunity to remove his tunic, folding it and solicitously offering it as a cushion between her knees and the rough ledge they sit upon. She bites her lip, touched by this concern for her comfort. Her whispered thanks are heartfelt.

She finds she isn’t sure where to begin, now that the whole of him is spread before her, clad only in his undergarment. Expanses of enticing skin and planes of perfectly-sculpted musculature call out to her, but she cannot decide what to touch first, overwhelmed by choice. He waits, patiently, allowing her the time to move when she is ready, but she can see the heavy rise and fall of his chest belying his desire. 

The water that always glistens from his skin is more pronounced now, enhanced by the spray of sea, so that tiny streams drip down in captivating rivulets that her eyes track greedily. She watches as one curves around the swell of his pectoral and she barely realizes that she has leaned forward to catch it on her tongue, swiping up to follow its sinuous path to the place where his shoulder curves into his neck. She cannot tell if the burst of salt on her tongue is from him or the seawater, but she hums in delight either way. 

The long straight column of his neck is before her now, and she laves her way up the side, collecting more droplets as she goes. With her hands braced on either side of him, the change in position brings her breasts up to skim along the skin of his chest, sending a little shiver of pleasure through her that is echoed in him as well. She pauses at this realization, before bringing her lips to close around an earlobe with the softest scrape of teeth. He shifts and sighs. She never was a very good student, but she finds that this is a skill for which she has an aptitude - her perceptiveness and insightfulness giving her the advantage she needs to fumble her way through it. She might not have the experience of having done this before, of knowing where to touch or how, but she can at least catalogue his reactions and find out what pleases him the most. 

She draws her hands up his sides, caressing his ribs, his shoulders, down his arms, reveling in the feel of the smooth muscle padded by just enough soft flesh while her mouth remains at his neck. Her lips tingle with exquisite friction as they drag over his skin. Her tongue rolls over the taut tendons he has stretched out as he tilts his head back to invite her to continue. She moves slowly, achingly aware of every minute twitch, every catch of his breath, every groan that escapes him. She finds which swirling motions of her tongue cause him to gasp, and which spot beneath his jaw makes his hands come up and fist in her hair. She passes over his chest with long, broad swipes, and finds that she can make him tremble and call out her name with a strangled moan if she catches a nipple between the two bisected halves of her tongue. His sides seem ticklish so she is more firm in her attentions to them as they lead her to the peaks of hipbones just barely jutting out from the cloth wrapped round his loins. She presses her lips reverently to the hollows they create, and his hips rock in response. 

While it cannot be said that she has ever truly been frightened in her life, she does find the mystery of what lies beneath his last remaining article of clothing to be a bit too much to tackle just yet, and so she passes over it, moving on to find what spots on the insides of his thighs are most sensitive. Hands and lips and tongue roam together down the long stretch of muscle between one hip and knee, before switching sides and making the return journey from knee to hip. The scent of him is deeper here, muskier rather than salt-sharp, and the damp heat coming off of his skin is thicker. There is a particularly beautiful curve of flesh along the inside of his leg, a lovely soft place that calls out for her to sink her teeth into. She gives in to this urge, and is rewarded by a cry that is wrested from his throat - an “Aaah!” of both shock and pleasure as his hands clutch at her head. The jolt of his hips this time brushes the cloth-covered bulge of him against her cheek, and she is struck with a burning satisfaction beneath her breast at the contact. Her tail gives an involuntary swish behind her. 

She lifts her head and looks up at him, soaking in the picture of his flung-back head and his scrunched brow and his flushed cheeks. He is drenched in seawater now, the waves having grown fiercer and the tide higher in their time here, and it only accentuates his otherworldly charm. Her fingers brush at the folds of cloth at his hips, accompanied by a tilt of the head and a raised eyebrow. 

“Yes. Please,” he hisses through clenched teeth. 

She merely hums her acknowledgment of his plea, but does not immediately act on her unspoken request. Instead she continues to run her fingers over the cloth, exploring the topography of him that has yet to be revealed. His restraint is sorely tested, and he cannot refrain from the eager twitches of his hips as she ghosts the softest of touches across him. She rises back up onto her knees proper, and straddles one of his legs, bringing her lips up to his ear and leaning into him so that they are chest to chest, skin to skin. Her tail winds around his leg behind her. She braces one hand against his shoulder, while the other works its way beneath his undergarment and presses her palm flat against that part of him she has been avoiding, surprised at the rigidity she meets. Her fingers curl around him, drawn to the shocking silkiness and warmth of his skin.

“Will you show me? What you like?” she whispers, more breath than voice. 

His hands are instantly upon the knots keeping the cloth tied in place, working at them with not a little desperation. She keeps her hand still in the meantime, wondering at the feel of him in her palm, marveling at the texture beneath her fingertips. While she is not completely ignorant of what lies between a man’s legs, no bathhouse fresco or bawdy song had prepared her for this reality. Inexplicably, she feels saliva pooling in her mouth. Her fingers squeeze just a bit and she feels an answering throb beneath them. She muffles her gasp into the hair at his temple. Finally, he works the knots free and he is unclothed, completely. 

She pulls back from him just enough that she can peer down as his hand wraps over her own, showing her how tight to grip, how to move her hand over him. The only word that comes to mind is ridiculously apropos: fascinating. Her attention is rapt, focused on this single point between them as she follows his lead in pumping, squeezing, stroking. Though mostly obscured by their entwined hands, she can see enough of him to admire the becoming proportions - this is no comedically engorged phallus in a farce, nor a demure, flaccid one on a public sculpture. She can feel the blood pumping through him, and it seems to match her own heartbeat thrumming in her ears. She turns her head to crush her lips against his and she imagines she can feel both of their heartbeats pulsing in time there as well. There is a rhythm shared between them that they are both caught up in, and she realizes that it is the same as the rhythm of the waves upon the shore. 

“Do you want to -“ he does not even break away to speak, instead allowing his lips to continue to brush against hers with the formation of every word. Affection flushes through her when she realizes he is trying gallantly to remind her of her offer to return his favor in kind without pressing her to fulfill it. 

She does want to. 

It is strangely comfortable, settling herself between his legs as she does. From here, she can more clearly see the organ that had so captivated her. It truly is a stunning sight: flushed a reddish purple with hot, vigorous blood, jutting out from his body with a pleasing arc. There is a drop of fluid at the bell-headed tip, a different consistency than that she has seen on his skin before. She wraps her fingers around him once again, careful to remember the tightness he had preferred, and brings her lips up to capture that pearl of moisture. It is bitter salt that blooms on her tongue, but she does not find it unpleasant - in fact, it seems to unlock something in her, some driving desire to wring more of this from him. 

His skin is so, so soft, and she delights in skimming her lips over it; no fine silk or velvet has ever felt so luscious against her - not even those she admired in the City of Brass. But she can feel his restlessness in the shift of his hips, the little groans he lets out. He is not in a state to endure her lingering, and she takes pity on him. Her tongue swipes along him in a broad, thick line from root to tip, leaving a trail of slickness in its wake. She experiments a few times with different ways she can wrap her tongue around him, searching for the one that makes him spasm and buck beneath her. It is when the two halves of her tongue split and run in tandem under the flared edge of the head that she is successful. His hips surge forward and his hands clutch at her head, grasping not at her hair as before, but along the curve of her horns. 

Her mind stutters for a moment as she tries to decide whether this is acceptable or if she should shake herself free of him, but then he is using the leverage to tilt her head, to draw her back down, and the sensation clicks with some deep primal urge within her. She opens her mouth wide and takes him in, receptive to the merest pressure of his hands on her horns, as if she is his ship, guided by his steering oar. 

The feeling of her lips stretched around him, of his warm, hard flesh stroking along her tongue, of being filled with him in a way she has not been before, is remarkably satisfying. Her tail swishes once back and forth in languid approval. One hand braces herself at his hipbone, and the other wraps around the base of him, steadying as she moves her head back and forth. He shudders and rocks his hips in counterpoint to her motions, thrusting deeper into her mouth, his body rising as hers is falling in a dance just as exhilarating as the one they had shared nights before. 

He is speaking again - jumbled words and fragments of sentences interspersed with moans, praising her, telling her how brilliant she is, how perfect her mouth feels around him. He starts to say something rather poetic about the shape of her backside but it is cut short by his strangled cry as she swirls her tongue around the head of his phallus. She finds it easier to accept compliments like this, mouth occupied so that she does not have to stutter back her embarrassed thanks; she can merely hum and preen and duck her head to redouble her efforts, determined to earn every drop of esteem he has rained down upon her. 

She raises her eyes to look up at him, to watch his face as she licks and sucks and bobs. He meets her gaze, awestruck and full of ardor, and it sends a seeping warmth spreading under her ribs. She cannot manage a smile with her lips stretched as they are, but she hopes he understands the softening of her eyes for what it is. One of his hands dislodges from her horns and cradles her cheek, caressing her cheekbone with a gentle swipe of his thumb. 

Somehow, this serves to embolden her, single-minded now in her desire to bring him to completion. She is relentless in her pursuit, increasing her speed, moving her tongue in swirling patterns along his length, attuned to his every breath so that she may extract every possible drop of pleasure for him. She is the hurricane that their home is named for, bearing down upon him with unbridled fervor. He rises to meet her, matching her passion with his own. His hands are upon her horns once again, gripping tight as he buries himself between her lips, so deep that he catches the back of her throat. Her answering moan is muffled by his girth. She does not know if the moisture dripping down her face is sweat or spit or seaspray, but regardless, it eases her way, slickening both of their skin with lubrication so that she can slip up and down without resistance. 

Her jaw aches and she can hardly catch enough of a breath to keep going. Her lips prickle with the beginnings of numbness. Yet none of these things matter in the face of the heady intoxication that surges through her. She can hear the change in his breathing, the new quality to his gasps that hint at his nearness. Her hand sneaks up to graze the pendulous sack that hangs between his thighs, delicately testing its weight, then rolling it along her fingers, and she is delighted by his visceral reaction. 

There is a sudden frenzied haste to his movements, and he is pulling her mouth off of him, covering her pumping hand with his own to set a punishingly fast pace. She follows his lead and remains knelt in front of him, watching, waiting. Several quick strokes and his face contorts, as his member throbs in her grip. Warm ropes of pearly essence spray onto her face and chest and spatter on the ground between them, and he sags against the wall of the cliff. Bitter salt floods her mouth as the substance begins to drip, slipping between her parted lips.

She blinks. Suddenly the storm has run its course and they are in the quiet calm that follows. She rises, kneeling upright between his languorously splayed legs. Her hand is drenched in heaven knows what, and the fluid on her face tightens her skin as it cools. Leaning to rinse her hands in the churning water, she realizes that it has risen to the very edge of their stone, each successive wave threatening to be the one that covers its surface with the rising tide. She brings a cupped handful of water to her face, habitually wiping it in the motions of her ritual ablutions to cleanse it of the congealing fluid. The sky is still dim, but the horizon has taken on that hazy quality that heralds the rising of the sun. She can hear the faintest rumble of thunder approaching in the far distance and her lips curve into a jubilant smile. 

He is breathing heavily, limbs hanging limp, and a fierce little flame flickers in her chest - pride at having accomplished this - tempered by an aching tenderness. Careful of the stickiness still coating her chest, she leans forward and brushes a stray lock of hair from his damp forehead. Saltwater drips from her fingers onto his cheeks: an anointing by the sea. His lashes flutter and his eyes lock in to hers.  The smile he musters is sleepy, and he lets out a soft huff of not-quite-laughter as he takes in the sight of her glistening wet face. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to - “

She cuts him off with a dismissive noise made between tongue and teeth. She rises to her feet and holds out a hand to him.

“Would you like to go for a swim and rinse off before the sun rises?”

He accepts her hand, and they slip together into the embrace of the sea. 

#original writing #original fic #dnd fic #original character #my writing #writing #writeblr #romance

[bg3fangirl]

My Tavs

One thing I love about any game is character creation and BG3 is no exception. Since I like making characters and BG3 has so many romance options I've ended up with 10 different Tavs for (technically) 9 different romances plus a bonus run to get everyone's bad endings.

This is just a brief introduction to them. I plan on posting more in depth stuff later.

(text version under the cut)

Tav 1

Venlynn

High Half-Elf

Wizard / Conjuration

Tav 2

Elimythe

High Elf

Rogue / Assassin

Dark Urge

Tav 3

Scarlett

Fierna Tiefling

Rogue / Assassin

Dark Urge

Tav 4

Mayriia

Elamshinae

Cleric (Lolth) / Trickery Domain

Tav 5

Nalith

Levistus Tiefling

Sorcerer / Storm Sorcery

Tav 6

Amara

Wood Half-Elf

Ranger / Beast Master

Tav 7

Nikaia

Wood Elf

Druid / Circle of the Moon

Tav 8

Fen'lur

Githyanki

Warlock / The Great Old One

Tav 9

Sylviel

High Half-Elf

Cleric (Selune) / Life Domain

Tav 10

Nadara

Seldarine Drow

Fighter / Eldritch Knight

Dark Urge

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 tav #baldur's gate 3 tav #meet my tav

[morgana-ren]

why do tieflings have all those ridges and can you rub yourself on them-

Lmaoooo to actually answer your question, if I recall correctly, Tieflings have fiendish blood coursing through their veins. They're perfectly normal people, but they tend to have fiendish, Hellish features because their blood is hell-touched, hence the tail and the horns and the ridges. They often find themselves on the receiving end of discrimination from other races because of it. Aside from a few benefits and inherent powers (certain cantrips, dark vision, Hellfire powers in certain variants, etc,) it seems mostly cosmetic. There are different 'sub-races' of Tiefling based on the specific Archduke of Hell that "created" them, like Zariel, Good ol' Mephi, Asmodeus, Fierna, Dispater, etc. Tiefling blood is dominant and actually takes precedence, so if you one one non-Tiefling parent and one Tiefling parent, the child will be a Tiefling. Once hell-touched blood runs through your family veins, you can count on it making an appearance later on down the line. Winged Tieflings are a personal favorite of mine.

Not to be confused with something like a devil or a cambion, which is directly from fiendish blood (occasionally with a human parent, the lucky little fucks.) Tieflings, aside from the hellish imprint on their bloodline, have no affiliation with the Hells despite the suspicions from other commonfolk. Essentially, Tieflings are just humans with cosmetic differences when it really boils down to it.

If your lover is a Tiefling, I'm sure they'd be fine with you rubbing on whatever you want. Use the horns as handlebars, have them coil their tail around you or use it to pin you down, have them use those sharp little claws, do some real fuckin' interesting and kinky magic shit, as long as they're okay with it, you're in the clear.

However, if you're a human and decide to take a Tiefling as your lover, be aware they will likely live a bit longer than you.

Some of my absolute favorite characters are Tieflings. My first OC is currently married to one-- except he actually is a devil. Rest assured, he is using the claws and tail for uh... nefarious bedroom activities. Gleefully.

#morgana and friends #morgana talks uhh biology #Tieflings kick ass literally my favorite DnD race