Fellowship of Freaks Tarot Series
The Fellowship of Freaks Tarot Series, by @chroncruik!
More to come. Maybe. Hopefully.

ellievsbear
almost home
Jules of Nature
dirt enthusiast
$LAYYYTER
Three Goblin Art
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"

Discoholic đŞŠ
Misplaced Lens Cap
Mike Driver
trying on a metaphor
ojovivo
KIROKAZE
Sade Olutola

if i look back, i am lost

oozey mess

Janaina Medeiros
Game of Thrones Daily
Monterey Bay Aquarium
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Bangladesh
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Argentina
seen from Ecuador

seen from TĂźrkiye
seen from Ireland

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Iraq
seen from Algeria

seen from Brazil

seen from Dominican Republic
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Hungary
seen from United States

seen from Malaysia
@barovianbitches
Fellowship of Freaks Tarot Series
The Fellowship of Freaks Tarot Series, by @chroncruik!
More to come. Maybe. Hopefully.

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
The Fancy Outfit Episode
(art by @sh4rkb0y-004)
The party's outfits from a dinner party in the town of Vallaki
(art by @cliobii)
TYYRAN LOOK BEHIND YOU OH GOD HE CAN'T HEAR US HE HAS HIS AIRPODS IN!
sicut pluit - Constantin Vasiliev
As the Barovian spring unfurled its first breath after the weary grip of winter, the land bore witness to a subtle yet profound transformation. Winter's icy fingers relinquished their hold, releasing the last vestiges of snow to melt into rivulets that trickled through the rugged terrain. In this desolate expanse, a tentative resurgence began; the skeletal arms of ancient oaks, once stark against the gray sky, now sported the delicate greenery of burgeoning leaves.
The cold, frozen ground yielded to the gradual thaw, softening underfoot and hinting at the promise of a nascent season. Anastazija Zenik was a woman reborn. It had been just over a year since the siege upon Ravenloft, led by her ex-husband. A year since she had witnessed him beat her son half to death. Few souls returned, she had heard. It didnât matter, though. She was gone the evening Nikolai had left the gates of the churchyard. She did not allow the cruel manâs words to haunt her any longer. She had packed her and Constantinâs things, leading him away long before the news of Nikolai's presumed death arrived at the gates of Argynvostholt.Â
The days were not always easy, even to Baroviaâs standards. While she was accustomed to flitting about the land, relying on only its resources and herself, it proved much more difficult with someone else relying on her. Constantin was by no means incapable, especially when it came to combat, but his hands were rough and worn even at the age of seventeen. Despite all her efforts to teach him gentleness during his upbringing, it was always difficult beneath Nikolaiâs watchful eye. A soldier could not be gentle, as it would prove a deadly weakness in battle.
And yet, she did her best to care for her son and herself, teaching him the recipes created of the land, which of the wild roots and mushrooms were edible and which ones were poisonous. How to trap wild game, and how to sense when a predator greater than themselves was stalking just out of sight. He simply had, to put it gently, difficulty understanding the natural landscape. Leaves were crushed in his palms, senses beyond a ten foot radius around him dulled. He lacked the eye for finer detail, missing animal tracks in the dirt or the disturbed earth surrounding a rabbitâs burrow.Â
It hurt her, to see how much Nikolai had worn down anything that wasnât useful to wield against another living thing. It made her angry, furious even. But she always did well to hide it, if not for his mental state. In the boyâs mind he had disappointed his father, not understanding that it wasnât his fault but instead the fault of the man who helped rear him.Â
Part of Your World - Thalassia Pier-Wave and Constantin Vasiliev
In a forest clearing, somewhere in the middle of the Svalich Woods, a party of adventurers stopped to rest. A Druid in a torn up shirt shivered in the cold forest wind as the others set to make camp. Off the edge of the clearing, a worn Paladin with a golden eye angrily chopped wood, a small axe hewing logs into kindling, the silence only broken by the KRAK! of the axe on tree chunks.
Still haggard from the earlier kerfuffle, the half orc of the party downed as much water as she could find, anywhere she could find it. Finally feeling just a little bit like herself again after a particularly refreshing pond, she took a count of the party's condition in her absence. Soaking and with a grateful smile, her eye catches a shiny something on the ground. Before she could investigate, a piece of bark interrupted her- smacking her shoe in its furious departure. The motion brought her back to reality, where she suddenly felt a pit in her stomach about the recently resurrected paladin. She'd never really heard of anything like that; Thalassia believed he would be cured, not... Actually brought back. Everyone had told her he wasn't dead. That was why they fought so hard. Why she had. But he still suffered. These thoughts threatened to storm over the forefront of her mind... so she redirected. Carefully walking over, Thalassia scooped up the shiny. It was a coin. Just a copper. "I always liked the brown circles more," the half orc woman spoke up. "They're prettier because they don't try to stand out, in my opinion. But they're always there when you need them, like right now!" She'd continue cheerfully, staring at a tree in front of them. "They just are what they are. And they're okay with it." Turning with an innocent grin, she seemed to move past the strangely philosophical observation. "What do you like that's simple, Constantin?" The question was similarly simple, though her tone seemed to encourage honesty.
Constantin drove the axe into the stump that served as a platform for the firewood. He heaved a sigh, running his hands through his loose-falling hair, tying it back into a rough ponytail with a strap of leather. He turned to face the woman, fixing her with a quiet glare. If there was any anger in it, it melted as recognizance filled his mind.Â
âSimpleâŚâ the Barovian muttered. âThe flowers that grow in the fields near Argynvostholt. They are the brightest and boldest colors I have ever laid eye upon.â His unnatural gaze was locked on the Warlock. Where once his left eye may have seemed a bit off, maybe misaligned at times, it now stared true, a small golden pool where an icy blue iris once sat.Â
âWhy?â He inquired plainly, a note of deep tiredness tinting his voice.

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
Amity - Rorali Caspian and Constantin Vasiliev
Finally able to settle down for a well earned rest, the complaint filled, fatigued air of the Barovian wilderness soon began to filter into an easy, peaceful breeze of chatter. Familiar banter and conversation between the quaint party occupied their tired and hungry minds as they took up putting together a cozy base to kick their feet up and enjoy a hot meal or perhaps a short nap.Â
Long accustomed to the partitioned responsibilities of setting up camp, everyone fell into their roles quickly, resulting in the swiftness of tents being popped up, gear being dropped off and sorted, gold being counted, weapons sharpened tuned, scratches or dents being polished and buffed out of armor. It was an easy process for the traveled group, a comforting sense of familiarity that eased their wary nerves just enough to turn their backs the haunting depths of the forest.Â
Rorali, who had shed just a few layers and buckles of her thievesâ leathers for her own comfort, had happily reclined into her position as party banker. She dutifully counted out each amount of coin that had been dished out to her, making a record of each memberâs addition to the pot and splitting whatever discrepancy there was equally between the five of them. She also took up the organization of their belongings since her menial task to tally up their coin was⌠not very difficult given their apparent lack of wealth. She took the time to properly pack the otherâs bags, clearing their clutter of haphazardly tossed in loot, old clues, expired and crushed ration packs, as well as whatever wild hairs that might have found its way into the wildness of their belongings. Of course, as she always did out of the pure sweetness of her heart- absolutely not because she refused to be seen with a gaggle of hooligans, she paid special attention the the threading and edges of leather on their bags, patching it up with her own needle and thread if necessary. Â
Constantin had spent the past several days either in Hell, or something remarkably similar to it. Craving any semblance of normalcy, the bustle of a camp being set up rang in his ears as a familiar cacophony. Thankful for the refuge from the insanity heâd been embroiled in, the Barovian set about organizing wood for a fire. Freshly-cut logs were laid out and stacked inside a small circle of rocks, and Constantin shoved a small pile of kindling under the assembled wood pile.Â
The man rose to his full height with a sigh, stretching out and rolling his shoulders. Reaching up to his head, he pulled on a small leather strip, tugging it away from his hair, allowing the shaggy, unkempt mop to drape down over his shoulders, casting dark curtains around his pale face, that as well which bore a fresh beard, an impossible amount of growth in the three days Constantin had been, for lack of a better term, dead. He scratched at it idly, having not a full day before chopped it down to a manageable length, using only a somewhat sharp fighting dagger.Â
For what itâs worth, he only looked slightly more awful than normal. Constantin grunted in annoyance as he tugged a knot out of his long, wild hair, before reaching into a pouch on his belt. Pulling out a knife and a small piece of flint, the man set about starting the fire heâd so motivatedly set up, and before long, an orange glow painted the dim clearing in which the party sought refuge.Â
Mother Bear - Constantin Vasiliev
Nikolaiâs blade came crashing down against Constantinâs shield. The teenaged Vasiliev cowered under the broad chunk of wood, as his father unleashed a barrage of crushing pommel-blows against it, pushing the boy even further back. âOn your feet!â Nikolai demanded, hardly affording the boy a chance to comply. Constantin rolled away from a downward strike, hopping to his feet and sprinting past his father, towards his hammer where it lay on the ground, discarded.Â
âToo close, boy.â The priest snarled, his sword sweeping out to batter Constantin in the side of the head. It hardly touched the young Barovianâs forehead, yet onlookers could see a stripe of red ichor slowly start dripping down his face. From the wings, where Anastasia Vasiliev stood watching, a voice rumbled from the shadows. âThatâs not a training sword.â From the darkness emerged a plate-armored giant, near seven feet in height and a warriorâs beard to match his intimidating stature. Dima, one of Nikolaiâs trusted inner circle stepped up to Anastasia as he made this realization. âHeâs going to kill him, going on like this.â Declared the man worriedly, looking to the boyâs mother.
"I see that." Anastasia's eyes were dark, like storm clouds over a blue ocean. She watched on, secretly hoping her eyes were deceiving her, that the red spatter across her son's forehead was a trick of the light coming through the stained glass windows. Deep down, she hoped that the monster her husband had become was not real. "A moment, Dima. Just a moment." She murmured, though she knew what was going to happen already. Her hand reached for her belt, eyes never leaving the form of the two before her.
Constantin, to his credit, was holding up remarkably well. Nikolai was a deeply talented swordsman, and he showed no signs of holding back. His son, who held advantage in height and weight class took blow after blow after blow relentlessly, soldiering on through the onslaught. He brought his shield up in a parry as he swung his hammer out towards his fatherâs knee, alas, his high grip on the handle caused it to fall short, and Nikolai brought the pommel of the sword around to slam into Constantinâs cheek with a sickening crunch. The boyâs stance wavered, and his weapons fell from his hand.
âNot good enough, malâchik.â The priest spat, throwing his sword aside and raising a gloved fist to strike his son, a commonplace punishment for failure in Nikolaiâs training halls. Constantinâs face darkened, and as the punch came flying in, it met a large palm, which caught the fist before it could land on the already bruising cheek. âYou⌠insolent little-â Nikolai growled before kicking out at Constantinâs straightened knee. The boot met bone, which shattered almost immediately from pure force, driving Constantin backwards onto the ground. Nikolai fell with him, slamming a fist into his nose. âNot-â A crushing blow. â-good-â Another one.  âEnough!â He shouted, accentuating each word with a punch. Constantinâs mouth filled with blood as it also streamed from his broken nose. Another armored hand clamped down on his throat, forcing the last of his breath out with a pained wheeze.Â
âTHIS IS WHAT HAPPENS TO WEAKLINGS, CONSTANTIN!â Nikolai roared, slamming his fist into his sonâs face three more times, as his consciousness started to wane. âThey die like dogs, unable to muster the will to fight back.â With his horrific declaration, Nikolai raised a gloved hand, likely to deliver what could possibly be a killing blow.
Stasis - Constantin Vasiliev
FOREWORD
Death is a funny thing. Itâs terrifying, even when peaceful or violent. In the real world, it is a primordial fear, the end and the death is what brings us all together, makes us equal. In Dungeons and Dragons, however, it takes on a different form. Death is often impermanent, when powerful Clerics and mighty Sorcerers can wrest life from death, in pure or necromantic form. In the case of this game weâve all come to love, countering death is beyond the partyâs ken, by a long stretch. This turns death from a triviality into a crisis. The death of Constantin Vasiliev marked itself as the first great tragedy to befall the Fellowship of Freaks, a moment that forced the party members to come to grips with the danger of a foreign land, as well as the loss of one of their companions. For the players, it was a reminder that no matter how attached we may be, how deep a backstory goes, death comes for all.
Constantinâs death hurts me deeply. I have written probably almost a hundred pages of lore about this young fellow in the time Iâve played this beautiful game with you all. Watching his tensions spike with Yvan, his protectiveness over Tyyran blossom, his friendly rivalry with Rorali, adoptive older-brotherhood of Bettany and growing adoration of Thalassia develop has been an utter joy. Sending him off is bittersweet, but in D&D, death is more than an end. It is also a beginning. The birth of story, the foundation of development. I trust that Constantinâs passing will lead to character growth on all sides, even for those not the closest to him, as they have now been forged in the crucible of crisis.Â
I want to thank you all for engaging with Constantin, reading and giving feedback on his stories, and accepting him as a member of the Fellowship of Freaks family. Playing him for these months was one of my greatest joys as an actor, writer, D&D player and gamer in general, and I hope that you all look back on our time with the Barovian Brick as fondly as I know I will. In time, Sterling will (hopefully) be warmed up to, but even I know that Short King Sterling cannot fill the void that Constantin Nikolaevich Vasiliev leaves in the hearts of the party, as he does in mine.
With this, I present to you Stasis. The final Constantin Vasiliev story. Â
A Dance With The Devil - Taliyah Whiteoak & Blackstarr
A young woman with copper skin clad in thick green fabrics and animal furs walked through a thick patch of berry bushes. She picked berries leisurely, replenishing whatever she took with a wave of a slender hand. Sparkles of light the color of grass flooded from her palm, and violet berries grew rapidly back to the buds where theyâd just been plucked. The woman hummed slightly, a melancholy tune as she worked. Pick, replace, repeat. Her small wicker basket quickly filled to the brim with ripe berries, yet she continued her walk, using her witchcraft to mend any damaged branches she came across.
âThatâs quite impressive,â a strange accent purred from the woods.Â
The woman took no time in drawing her blade, aiming it directly at the intruder's throat, the silver tip just pricking his Adam's apple and making a droplet of red blood run down his neck, dribbling onto his ruffled collar.Â
âSpeak.â The woman demanded, her hazel eyes narrowing at the man. The man only grinned, his eyes flicking down to the blade and back to meet her gaze. He pushed the blade away with a single gloved finger, causing the woman to draw another, pointing it at his throat once more.
âForgive me,â the man tilted his head, his eyes shining golden in the sunlight âIâm merely traveling in the woods and felt entranced by your beauty. The name is Blackstarr.â
Would You Like Me A Little Bit Better? - Bettany Blackstarr
âI don't⌠I donât have the money for that.â The young man admitted, shuffling in his worn-in leather boots. The Orkish barkeep glared down at him with a fierce gaze, his nose wrinkling in distaste. âMummy didnât give you your lunch money, eh, kid?â He snorted, large tusks extruding from his bottom lip as he laughed a deep rumbling noise. His eyes glinted with malice. âPlease, I just need it for one night, thatâs it,â Bettany begged, his legs wobbling from his long travels. The last town heâd stayed in had been over 16 hours away, and heâd walked straight from there.
âTough luck, lad,â The barkeep chuckled, âyouâve mistaken my place of business for a fuckinâ charity. Whatâs a young thing like you doinâ out at this time of eveninâ anyway? Didnât you see the signs, or can you not read, either?â He jabbed a green thumb toward a wooden plaque that read: 18 and unders will be kicked out NO EXCEPTIONS!
Iâm not a kid! He wanted to scream.
His slender frame and bad posture led many to think he was a young teen, thus many treated him as such. As if he wouldnât be able to handle more âadultâ subjects of conversation.
 âIâm twenty,â Bettany muttered, voice barely above a whisper as he frowned at the sign. âRight, and Imma pixie,â The orkish set down the glass heâd been polishing with a dull thud, he gripped his hands on the counter as he bent to Bettanyâs height. âYou canât pay? Then get out of my FUCKING bar!â He roared, spittle splattering across Bettanyâs face. âAnd for god's sake, cover that disgusting face of yours. Youâre going to scare off my PAYING customers.â Bettany winced, his lip trembling furiously as a lump raised in his throat. âPlease,â Bettany whispered once more, his nervous eyes looking to the spot on the counter between the Orkâs giant hands. âAre you STUPID or somethinâ? OUT!!!â The barkeep bellowed, jabbing a furious finger past Bettanyâs face and towards the door. Bettany scrambled backward, stumbling towards the door. Bettany hung his head low as the other patrons of the bar watched him leave, their curious whispers following him as he retreated.
The door slammed behind him, and the minute he left a joyous roar of laughter erupted from the grimy windows, as the guests of the establishment quickly jumped back into their festivities. Rain pounded the dirt streets, mud pockets burbling up from the earth as the storm thundered above. Bettany exhaled sharply, trying to stop tears from running down his face

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
Pick Your Battles - Constantin and Bettany
The Barovian morning was surprisingly pleasant as the adventuring party made their way towards the town Constantin had told them of. The wind was cold, as a thin veil of fog dampened everyoneâs clothes, their boots sloshing in mud. The weather was perfect by Bettanyâs standards, as he tilted his head upwards to feel the mist on his cheeks. A light smile graced the druidâs face as he closed his tired eyes for a second. He sighed as he re-oriented his head to look forward at the stretch of land ahead of them with no town in sight. He was briefly startled by the sight of a burly man with long black hair, not dissimilar to Bettanyâs, marching through the woods with an intense purpose. Constantin was back⌠seemingly reanimated alongside Bettany. They had both been all but dead less than 24 hours ago, only to awaken with no wounds, and twin medallions hung from their necks. Bettany came back normal, and more or less the same. But Constantin had come back⌠wrong. With shoulder-length hair and a long beard.
A golden eye with a nasty scar snaking across his face. Had Bettany and Constantin looked different before, now they looked like one and the same. The change was sudden, and upset Bettany, he generally disliked surprises of all kinds. While being slapped awake by an alive Constantin had been a welcomed one, his new look wasnât as pleasant. Bettany hadnât had a chance to speak with Constantin yet⌠not a real conversation at least.
The closest contact theyâd had was Constantin punching him in the head. Albeit Bettany had poked him in the eye, but only to see if it was real. Heâd been so startled by Constantin being alive that he didnât handle it well. Everything was far too complicated, and it still didnât feel like the last day had happened. One minute Bettany had been chasing a traitorous cowboy, abandoning his search when he smelled Constantinâs blood being spilled, being murdered by one of the nuns, only to wake up as if nothing had happened.Â
All in all, it was slightly uncharacteristic for Constantin to not even offer Bettany a nod of encouragement. He wasnât a warm and cuddly person by any means, but Bettany knew that he cared for him- in what could be described as a fraternal way. Bettany could really use some reassurance right now, just to know he was doing the right thing⌠that he was going to be okay.
Bettany crept up behind Constantin, never really being one to initiate conversation, so he lurked a foot or so behind him as he waited for his presence to be felt. Constantin trudged in silence, heaving the pack of salvaged supplies as he walked in the company of his traveling companions. Long raven hair flowed down his exposed shoulders, his shirt torn to tatters by the brutal knifing he'd received from a nun he didn't even know existed. While Bettany had been rendered simply unconscious by a thrashing delivered to him by the very same woman, Constantin had been... Dead. His friends may have left him dying. with the nuns that betrayed them, but by his best estimations, he had surely died.Â
He noticed the small presence in his vicinity, and he elected to slow his pace, allowing the others to accelerate past him absentmindedly, following his given directions.
"You were foolish. You could have died, for nothing." Constantin grumbled, finally addressing the Druid. Bettany blinked as he felt tears well in his eyes, which wasnât uncommon for him. It didnât make it feel any less embarrassing. The smaller man frowned, his brows tightening in the middle. âI- I know,â Bettany muttered, his hands found their way to each other, and his fingers began to entwine together like the legs of a spider. âI behaved irrationally. In a way you wouldâve chided me for had you been-â If youâd been there. Bettanyâs voice caught as the images from the cathedral flooded his mind. Villamina covered in Constantinâs blood, grinning at him as she licked it from her fingers⌠the image burned in his memory, clouding his thinking even now. The cackles of the spirit guardians as their small claws tore into his flesh, weakening him as he fell to his knees. Heâd been weak. âIâm sorry. I didnât mean for it to happen. I was trying to save you.â Bettany said, keeping his gaze firmly focused on the ground at his feet.
Constantin huffed angrily. "Everything I have tried to teach all of you, it goes out the window. I don't know what the world is like where you are from, but it is not safe to play the hero, to try and save the day. I made my choice, in that windmill. I knew the risks and I knew the price to pay, for you all to leave."
"That is my right and my duty, as a servant of the people of Barovia. Your duty is to go home. Alive. And when I am not there to guard you, that should be your first priority."
Several more minutes passed, the Barovian marching in silence. He would not speak, and the look on his face was one of discomfort and frustration. After some time, he spoke up.
"Thank you." He grunted. "For not leaving me in that windmill... Or in that infirmary." He did not turn to look at Bettany, his eyes locked on the road.
Bettany shook his head, â I wasnât trying to play the hero. Youâve taught me a lot of things. But you also taught me to fight, especially when thereâs danger. I was just trying toâŚâ Bettany faltered, âI donât know. I smelled blood. Weâd just been betrayed, so I wanted to find you.â Bettany staggered on the uneven ground, his body still tired even despite slumber. âI needed to make sure you were okay.â Bettany chewed on the thought for a second, âAnd for the record, I did a pretty good job taking care of the nun. She looked rough when I⌠when I died.â Bettanyâs heart pounded in his throat, the taste of sawdust filling his mouth.
Heâd died. His hand reached up to touch the gold medallion that hung from his neck, fearing that heâd drop dead if it was taken off, though he was terrified to leave it on. It clanked against his bony chest, each metallic tink like a clock ticking the seconds down on his mortality.
"You wouldn't have died if you waited for the others. Or if you'd left like you should have."
Constantin sighed.
"This is my failure. I should have taught you how to pick your battles before I instilled the warrior's spirit within you."
âDonât you understand, it was my battle!â Bettany snapped, uncharacteristically sharp. His gaze finally turned away from the damp grass and up to Constantin, his golden eyes narrowing in frustration. âYou say my duty is to go home? Bummer, I donât have one.â The words stung him as he said them, a childhood of happy memories overshadowed by the sight of a brown feather disintegrating in his hands, âThe party is my home⌠without that⌠I have nothing. I couldnât lose you too, donât you understand that?â He conjured a handful of magic and threw it in front of them. It sailed through the air and burst into sapphire sparks a hundred feet or so in front of them, Bettany made a noise between a chortle and a growl, his hands curling and tightening into fists. âThatâs why I went in alone, okay?â Bettany flipped his head back towards the ground. His lip quivered like it always did when he started to feel mad or frustrated.
His entire life heâd been told he wasnât enough. Not owl enough, not smart enough, not big enough, good enough. Heâd never been enough. With his friends, heâd finally felt like maybe he was worth something, more than just a sewer-dwelling creature who lived off of rats. Now he was being told yet again.
Heâd disappointed Constantin, the person heâd been protecting until his last breath. Constantin thought he was stupid, a petulant child for trying to take on a nun. He doesnât think Iâm strong enough, Bettany thought, his shoulders heaving with quickened breaths. He shook his head as his eyes flared blue, trying to calm down before he caused any more problems.
âStrength is nothing without strategy.â The Paladin preached. He finally turned to look at the Druid as he walked, and where his voice was tinted with anger, his eyes betrayed only worry.Â
âYou are stronger than most give you credit for, but what is the sharpness of a bladeâs worth when one does not know when to swing?â
Constantin shook his head. âIt is not my place to admonish you for such choices. I feel as if I am responsible for your well-being as if you were my charge. That is unfair to you.â He trailed off, shaking his head and looking back to the road.Â
âI see myself in you. Brash, angry. I did not have someone to guide me as I needed, to temper the boldness and fury into a cautious warrior. Those lessons were learned through pain and loss. I simply wish to spare you the same, ПодвоМОнОк.â
It took Bettany a second to translate the Barovian, heâd been studying the language as much as he could, but it was still not his strongest skill.
Bettany figured out the meaning of Constantinâs speak, and for a brief moment felt slightly taken aback at the name. A name that had recently been used to toy with him now settled him. The fiery blue magic faded from his eyes as his shoulders sagged. âI asked you for guidance, you know? After the windmill. I tried to reach out to you, and you told me to use my strengthsâŚâ Bettany admitted, still unclear on whether or not heâd dreamed of the conversation heâd shared with Constantin or if itâd simply been an illusion. âI tried to do what I thought was the right thing but I messed it up.â Bettany admitted, âI thought you would be proud. I thought I was being brave and doing something you wouldâve admired. I was reckless, and I understand that. But I was desperate, and look where itâs gotten us.â Bettany conjured a small daisy into his hand, twirling it between his fingers absent-mindedly. âI messed it up. I got us both killed, and now you have a beard.â Bettany frowned.
âIs the beard really the worst thing?â Constantin asked, bringing a hand up to the eyelid that concealed his marred, golden eye. He scoffed, shaking his head again.Â
âIt is possible to be proud of someone and also think them foolish. Ask my mother, should we ever find her.â
Bettany paused, âyour motherâŚâ
He thought to back in the inn the night before they headed to seek out Mother Rhonna. How heâd reached out to his own mother, how she had encouraged him to seek his fatherâs help for how to save Constantin. Only for no sign of help to appear.
âI spoke with my mother,â Bettany frowned, his head hurt when he tried to recall her face. She always apeared blurry when she reached out to him. Heâd always end up loosing memory of her features after a few days. âI⌠reached out to her spirit. I wanted her help, and she told me to seek my father.â
Bettany turned to look at Constantin, âclearly that never happened⌠when you spoke of the woman you met by the lake. Iâd hoped it had been her⌠itâs stupid, I know.â
âI do not know the woman at the lake.â Constantin muttered, his gaze becoming distant. âI⌠let us not speak of it. Not now.â He trailed off. Something about the ordeal didnât sit well with him, clearly.Â
âYou said⌠We spoke?â
Bettany nodded, âI thought we did⌠Iâm not sure if it happened or not.â
The Druid thought back to his dream, the twisted landscape that swirled like fog, blurry and out of focus. Constantin appearing to him in the monochromatic environment dressed in strange black armor before the image changed itself into a more familiar form.
âI was hoping itâd been real. In case we were too late. At least Iâd have gotten to say goodbye in some sense.â Bettany dropped the flower he was holding, crossing his arms over his exposed chest, shivering slightly as the cold bit at his skin through his tattered clothes.
âTell me what happened.â Constantin intoned quietly.
Bettany shook slightly, intimidated by the softness in Constantinâs voice. He licked his lips, pursing them before he spoke.
âYou didnât know me⌠not at first. You werenât able to recognize me. Once I told you- well, it wasnât really you, it was like a recorded message. You were speaking in commands. You asked me what I was seeking from you.â Bettany faltered, unsure of how to proceed.
Constantin mulled it over silently, pondering Bettanyâs words. He trudged down the muddy road for a few minutes, wordlessly. Eventually, he spoke again. âWhat was it that you sought?â
âGuidance,â Bettany admitted, his voice quiet. Bettanyâs hand found the sharp point of the sickle strapped to his belt. The golden blade glinted in the gray light. âI wanted to learn how to be stronger⌠to protect the party. I asked you to teach me to fight but you refused.â Bettany sighed. âIt was a long shot, to be fair. I didnât expect you to even be there, let alone teach me how to use these.â Bettany patted his sickle. âBut you didâŚâ Bettany stopped for a moment, feeling awkward about recounting this dream to Constantin. It was personal, and he didnât want him to be offended or find anything Bettany said to be childish. âYou offered me encouragement. You told me I didnât have to be strong like you. I just needed to use my strength. My strengths⌠my nature.â Bettany muttered, shrugging slightly, not in a way of indifference or dismissal, just to have something to do. Bettany also recalled the hug. He chose to leave that out. Constantin thumbed the belt loop of his Warhammer, scratching the leather with a fingernail, an idle activity as he walked.Â
âIs that all?â He asked gruffly, coughing once to clear his throat. Bettany nodded, pursing his lips. âMhm. Yep.â He lied, âSo⌠where weâre going, You said theyâd have armor, but will they have just regular clothes?â Bettany shivered. âIâm flattered that you see me as your⌠trainee of sorts, but I donât think Iâm a chainmail person.â Bettany rubbed his slender arms, knowing full well that if he even tried to lift chainmail heâd probably be sore for days.
Constantin did not answer Bettanyâs question. He instead fixed the Druid with a piercing gaze. An eye of blue. Icy, familiar, looking almost beyond Bettanyâs eyes, to the soul. An eye of purest gold. Different, strange. The iris and pupil, all gilded, abnormal. The gaze still somehow penetrating. Perhaps it was the nature of Constantin rather than the nature of his eyes.Â
His gaze was that of inquisition, a silent interrogation that offered merely one chance. If there is something you have not yet said, now is the time to say it.
Bettany squirmed under the gaze. Even from a friend, there were few things in all of FaerĂťn that made Bettany cave under pressure as easily as eye contact. He sighed, the tips of his ears and nose flushing with a tinge of pink, âYou may have hugged me in the dream.â Bettany admitted. He felt stupid and pathetic, childish. Heâd been so easily comforted by a hug that hadnât even happened, was he really that desperate for any form of affection?âIn the dream. Which didnât happen, soâŚâ Bettany grumbled, trying his best to not appear as vulnerable as he felt sharing that information. Constantinâs expression darkened, for a moment. âThis specter. You say it did not recognize you but spoke with my voice.â
âHow did it appear to you? Spare no detail.â As unsettling as it was for Constantin to suddenly speak with such urgency, it relieved Bettany that he seemingly didnât care enough about the hug to bring it up. Bettany thought on it for a second, struggling to recall the finer elements of the specterâs appearance. âHe was tall,â Bettany looked up at Constantin, realizing that the man would probably need more clarification, âtaller than you⌠Black metal, iron I think?â Bettanyâs face scrunched in concentration, âHelmet. He had a helmet on, shoulder paldrons. Dark red leather tied some of it together. I donât know⌠gloves? I donât know, Constantin⌠I donât know the technical armor terminology, if I did Iâd be more detailed.â âHe looked like you, when he took his helmet off, just less tired⌠not as pale,â Bettany recalled, remembering how coldly the figure had treated him at first, almost sizing him up for a fight. Analyzing him for weaknesses. He looked back towards Constantin with a frown, feeling anxiety creep into his shoulders. Had he done something wrong?âWhy?â Constantin mulled the description over.Â
âThe helmet, a sharp, pointed visor? Ridges on the skullcap? Large pauldrons, with.. Almost blades on top of wide curved panels?âÂ
Constantin pressed for details as if he was seeking confirmation of something.
âI guess maybe? Yes, You could call the ridges on top of the paldrons blades, I suppose. Large silver buttons on them too,â Bettany was feeling especially concerned now. How did Constantin know this? âWhatâs going on?â Bettany asked again, his frightened eyes flicking up to meet Constantinâs miss-matched gaze.
The Barovian frowned. âMy grandfather wore that armor. It is entombed in a mausoleum below the cathedral in my home.â
âHe was nearly a giant. Larger than me, so the story goes.â He huffed a sigh. âBut once you were recognized, the ghost spoke with my face.â
Bettany shook his head, looking around in confusion, âThat⌠that doesnât make sense? Why would I see your grandfather? I never met him.â Bettanyâs brow furrowed with confusion, realizing Constantin had asked him another question he snapped back into his right state of mind. âYeah, you- he⌠once theyâd realized who I was they⌠changed. He got smaller, and the armor vanished. It turned into your gambeson. It was you. Wasnât it?â Bettany asked the last question to himself more so than he asked it to Constantin.
âWhen I was wandering purgatory⌠I came upon a hall of mirrors.. No, windows. Windows into my past. I saw memories, but I also saw you, in a forest clearing, speaking to this specter. It wore my grandfatherâs armor, but it was not me.âÂ
Constantin hefted the rucksack higher on his shoulder. âIt is said that the Vasiliev men are possessive of an ancient spirit, the essence of a warrior. One that came to my grandfatherâs ancestor in great need, and finds home in the heart of my bloodline. Perhaps, in searching for me through your dreams, that was all that remained of my soul, at the time.â
âYou⌠You saw me?â Bettany asked, his head tilting slightly. He blinked slowly. âSo⌠I did see you, then. At least, a part of you.â Bettany looked down at his hands, unable to ignore the hideous scars that engulfed almost the entirety of the left side of his body due to all of his clothes (including his gloves) having been torn to ribbons. His left hand bore no black nail lacquer like his right hand, as he usually covered it with elbow-length gloves. His skin was grotesque, a sickly shade of blue as ribbons of marred skin made their way down his entire left arm. Scars spiraled and tapered up and down like the groves of a tree. He tensed and flexed his fingers to watch as the damaged skin pulled tight over his knuckles. He frowned, taking the (surprisingly still intact) silver and onyx ring off of his pointer finger and sliding it into his pocket. Wearing it with a glove was one thing, but the band kept catching on his skin, pulling and pinching it. âSo. You saw me in a field⌠anything else? Did you see anything else of me besides that?â Bettany asked, curious over why his death experience had been so drastically different than his friendâs. All heâd seen was⌠black. The complete absence of anything.
"No." He replied. "I did not linger on it, as my time in the realm was running short. It was shortly after that I found myself on the shores of Lake Zarovich." Constantin continued.
"I do not believe you saw me, rather, a facet of the Vasiliev spirit. Whether it haunts or guards us, or whether it is a manifestation of our will, it is hard to say."
âBut IâŚâ Bettany faltered.
It didnât make any sense. Itâd have been more plausible if it had just been simple wish fulfillment from his subconscious.Â
The idea of seeing a fraction of the Vasiliev spirit was just confusingâŚ
Then again, Bettany was haunted at night, something heâd known since he was a child.
âDo you remember the night you found me in the woods?â Bettany asked, âDo you remember why I was out there?â
"I am possessed by a case of the brain fogging. I apologize." Constantin said plainly. "I do not remember. Death does strange things to a mind."
Bettany nodded, not expecting that response but understanding the answer.
He sighed, that nightâs terrors had been particularly bad. A series of memories, overcut by screams of anger and terror⌠terror of him. âItâs okay, I had a dream.â Bettany explained, scratching at the back of his neck, âIt was something Iâd lived beforeâŚâ He sighed, âMy Ma⌠died. She died and it was my fault. It was my fault. My⌠Mom- Arteana blamed me for it⌠she looked at me like I was a monster, told me I wasnât her son.â Bettanyâs voice shattered, itâd been the worst day of his life. Arteanaâs shrieks still echoed in his head, the scars on his body reminded him of it at every turn. The scars etched the truth into his flesh, that he was nobody's son, monsters didnât deserve a family. âWhen you died⌠And I wasnât there, I was scared. I was scared that the party would turn on me like Arteana did. Iâm still scared. Scared that if what I truly am is a monster⌠Iâll be destined to be alone. That I will not be able to love or be loved.â Bettany coughed, not crying, but definitely choked up. The last few days had been hell, and he hadnât even been the one walking through it.
"That is... Unfortunate." Constantin said, with as much of an apologetic tone as the Barovian could muster. "You have known them longer than I. I don't understand why they would turn on you. In any case, if our roles were reversed, it would be more likely. With them, you are not alone."
âDid my mom not know me? She turned on me, turned on me after being my mother for 20 years.â Bettany countered, biting his lip. He was exhausted, âHonestly just forget it. As far as I can tell youâve never even experienced fear. Youâre not weak like I am, And I donât want you to try and suggest Iâm âstrong in other waysâ. Save your soul the sin of dishonesty for the day.â The words rang hollow in the woods, only the rustling of the wind could be heard as the two walked.
"You think I don't experience fear?" Constantin grunted, stopping in his tracks and fixing Bettany with a sharp gaze. His golden eye almost glistened in the faint Barovian light, his brow furrowing. "You must be the jokester." He snapped. âI havenât ever been described as funny,â Bettany frowned, glancing to look at Constantin before realizing the bigger man had stopped. He turned around completely, stopping to study his glaring friend.
Something was disconnected in his gaze, the heavy set of his jaw and the cover of his brow didnât reach his eyes. Even through the harsh landscape of the rest of his face, Bettany could see the softness in his eyes. The exhaustion, and how they didnât stay still for longer than a few seconds, always attempting to gage their surroundings.
âYouâre afraid?â Bettany asked, confused as to how a warrior as strong and consistent as Constantin could experience anything close to a true spine-tingling fear.Â
Even after being revived from death, he first turned to anger⌠Oh⌠Bettany knew what this was, he knew this all too well. The masking of fear under a different emotion, one easier to express. Before the party, when heâd been isolated Bettany turned to indifference when he experienced fear⌠a cold mask. In times of his own uncertainty, Constantin turned to anger.
âYou are afraid.â Bettany realized.
âIf you doubt I am afraid, then you have lost your grip on reality.â Constantin said through grit teeth. âWhat do you think I felt, when my skin was melting off the bone and I knew that night hag was going to kill you all?â
Constantin scoffed. âWhen my father beat me within an inch of my life, and threatened to have me expelled from my home because I could not manifest divine power. What, little man, do you think I felt? My whole life has been driven by fear. Fear of failure. Fear of death, of not being strong enough, a fear that was vindicated.â He fixed Bettany with a glare that was beyond angry, but fell short of entirely hateful. Even under the burning gaze, Bettany could tell that he was not the target. It was distanced, unfocused, as if trying to look inward. Constantin hefted his hammer over his shoulder and began to walk again, shaking his head and muttering to himself in rapid Barovian.
Bettany followed, skulking behind Constantin like a stooge with his shoulders hunched in shame. He shuffled along in silence, listening to the furious Barovian speak in his native tongue. âĐно МаНŃ,â Bettany spoke up, looking back up to his friend. Knowing that the best way to reach Constantinâs attention would be to speak in Barovian.Â
âIt was a foolish thing to say, and Iâm sorry,â Bettany fumbled over his words, âItâs selfish of me to assume that just because you donât show fear the way I do you donât fear at all.â
Bettany was desperate to get him to stop marching, though it proved to be no use. Constantin kept moving forward, his stomping echoing through the woods as Bettany grimaced uncomfortably. âYou know that youâll be able to figure it out? I can help you, we can figure out whatâs next.â Bettany tried again, feeling more and more out of his depth by the second.
"ĐŃ ĐżŃĐžŃонŃ." Constantin replied flatly. He did not stop walking, but he turned to look back at Bettany, noting the absence of the sound of footsteps, instead a quiet, dull shuffling. "Come on." He said, his tone softening just enough to hopefully reach the Druid instead of making him cower, albeit with an undertone of frustration.
"We cannot plan our next steps in the middle of nowhere, without shirts. I fear you will simply die if you catch cold, little man."
Bettany scurried forward, the mysterious new medallion clanking on his sunken chest.
âIâm fine.â Bettany insisted though his sniffled, wiping his nose. âShirts is easy⌠shirts is a plan, isnât it? We can do shirts.â Bettany suggested, gripping at his arms. He recalled something he hadnât thought of in quite a while, not for years. âSomething my Ma would say is to plant one thing at a time. You canât plant everything in one season, because some plants arenât meant to be planted in certain weather conditions⌠so youâve got to focus on the seeds that need the most attention.â Bettany stuttered, unsure if his metaphor was fully understood. âWhat we need to plant first is shirts, then you need weapons, and then we need to find Yvan. There, thatâs three seeds,â Bettany tried to gague if Constantin was following.
"Hmph. Yes." Constantin nodded.Â
"We need new clothing. Then I need armor. Yvan will find us, that is his seed. We must find food and supplies." Constantin countered.
He then fell silent for a few moments. "Your Barovian is improving, ПодвоМОнОк."
âХпаŃийО ĐąŃаŃ,â Bettany smiled wider than anyone had seen him smile in a long time before he sheepishly brought a hand up to his mouth, âIâve been working on it when I can.â âI could still use a teacher, though,â Bettany suggested, âAlbeit it isnât the most pressing thing we face right now, but Iâd appreciate the help.â He twisted the leather cord between his fingers, waiting for a response.
"You would not like the way I teach," Constantin said plainly. "If you wish, however, I will teach you."Â
He paused. "I would speak Common to you less each day until I only spoke to you in Barovian. This transition would take place over the course of five days."
Bettany nodded, âThat would be a welcomed strategy.âÂ
The druid pursed his lips, considering his next statement very carefully before he spoke. âI might have another seed we could plant.â The boy said.Â
Constantin waved a hand. "Just say it, little man. You are beating off of the bushes, speak your mind." âYou really need a haircut,â Bettany stated, âI donât know how committed you are to the beard and the hair but I really just donât think itâs for you.â
He winced, waiting for whatever reaction Constantin would have, good or bad. "You are allowed to have that opinion." He brushed a loose strand of long hair out of his face. "I am also allowed to disregard it."Â
He continued walking, picking up the pace. "At least, until we are seeing of the look on Yvan's face. Then we will discuss the merit of this idea, yes? Good, I am glad you agree." The Barovian said, without waiting for the approval he seemingly had.
Bettany nodded, snorting slightly as they continued walking through the woods. âItâs not the worst thing that couldâve happened,â Bettany admitted, âI mean⌠you couldâve come back as a zombie, all decayed and rotten. We donât really know how you came back still, it wasnât any of us or the nuns.â
Bettany frowned once more, âAre you a zombie?â The color drained from Bettanyâs face as he patted down his collarbone, âAm I a zombie?â
"We are not undead," Constantin said sharply. "You would have lit like a flame within my senses if you were." He explained, nearly taking off in a jog to catch up to the others.
"We are going to be fine, Just have faith." He said, with a little less faith than usual, if one could sense it.
âFaith⌠right,â Bettany said, allowing Constantin to pass in front of him, watching with an attentive gaze as Constantin rejoined the rest of the party at last. Bettany sighed, placing a hand on his chest to ensure he could still feel it beating before he too ran to catch up.
In the Shadow of the Svalich Woods -Nadia cel Tradat
Death had followed Nadia like a plague since her birth. Mama had been gone for so long before Nadia saw her again, leaving something else to take her motherâs place in raising her. She was but a baby when she was left with her uncle, the Beast of Barovia, Vasile cel Tradat, where she was raised among the warriors and magicians that made up the Untamed. Vasile, who never married or had children of his own, was happy to take in his niece and care for her as his own. He was never opposed to the idea of children, but he never had the time or patience when the possibility of conquest loomed. What better to share the fruits of the warpath than with an impressionable child?
The Untamed were known for their indomitable spirit, not their seasoned child rearing techniques. Nadia had no children her age within the clan, leading to the young girl spending much of her time either by herself or observing the rigorous training of her aunties and uncles. Idle hands were the devilâs playground, and even at a young age she proved it right time and time again. However, Vasile was much more of a⌠Nontraditional parental figure. He firmly believed in exploration, independence, and self-discovery. After all, it was how he found his love for the blade. This ideology left Nadia to her own devices for long stretches of time.
Her uncle was not the man, or, well, thing that truly raised her, though.
It began with dead things. Barovia has its fair share of predators and prey, wolves kill deer while looming creatures snatch travelers from the road. Such is the way of life. But a five year old disappearing for an afternoon, only to reappear after dark and clutching what looks to be a femur? Not a common trait for a child so young to not only return, but to be completely unharmed and unaffected. While other children would play make believe and spend their time beneath the feet of family members, Nadia enjoyed searching the forest surrounding the campgrounds, leaving for hours on end and somehow managing to find what was left of a mountain lionâs meal. Birds, squirrels, rabbits, and various small prey all found their way back to the camp.
âWe have a little hunter on our hands!â He proclaimed when Nadia returned one evening, her skirts and palms slicked in animal blood, cradling a feathered lump in her arms. âA very nice catch, little micek! Soon, you will run with the rangers and great soldiers of the Untamed, hunting the monsters of this land, and soon, Strahd himself!â Her capabilities were celebrated that evening with song and dance, earning her the nickname âkittyâ from her uncle. Vasile simply chalked it up to Nadiaâs unconventional upbringing, even by Vistani standards. She would grow out of it soon enough, perhaps picking up the sword or bow.
The years passed. In the blink of an eye, she was no longer a child, but a blossoming young woman. She was quieter than Vasile had anticipated, never quiet coming out of her shell while around others. Given that she grew up around such a rowdy bunch, her uncle assumed she might have become a man of the people, like him. But, no such luck. He was not going to push his one and only niece, if she enjoyed her books and time alone, so be it! Vistani tradition described the women of their clans as great seers, the keepers of the knowledge of the Fates themselves. With such knowledge, they would be the great guides and leaders of the clans. By extension, such was Nadiaâs fate as well.
âËâşâ§ââ˝âŻâžââ§âşËâ
Hell's Coming With Me - Wynona Colt
âE-Excuse me- Iâm here to uh, to pay my mamaâs bail.â Wynona wrung her tail in her hand nervously, looking up at the two guards that stood chattering at the gates of Fort Faithful, the stronghold of the soldiers who served the local lord. They barely spared her a glance. They couldnât be bothered by a scrawny teenager at their doorstep, mumbling something under her breath.Â
It had taken her weeks to scrape up the money, selling furniture, antiques from the farmhouse, and the scrap metal that was left when her fatherâs workshop burned down. Bertram helped some, moving heavy items for her and acting as a bodyguard. The warforged was the last thing she had left from her father, besides the crumpled notebooks and plans she had stowed away to save from the flames. She had worked so hard, and she felt as though she was on the brink of tears as she made the walk to the fortress.Â
âExcuse me-â The young Colt dared a little louder, standing up a bit straighter so they would notice her. She was met with a scornful gaze, a guard sneering from beneath his helmet. She felt so small in that moment, the high towers of the fortress stretching high above her, the iron portcullis resembling the maw of a monster from the fairytales her father read her.Â
âWhat is it? This is no place for little girls. Make it quick.â He spat, his shift partner chuckling wryly at the remarks the other man made. Despite the fact that she was clearly a thorn in their side, she refused to falter. Wynona was here for one thing, and one thing only.
âI wanna pay my maâs bail, if you please, sir.â She continued, feeling her spirit break under his hateful gaze. He scanned over her, spotting her tail held in her hands nervously and the stubby horns that sprouted from her golden-blonde hair. She was unnaturally tan, a coppery sheen to her skin that almost glittered in the sun. Her eyes burned a bright green, one that might glow in the dark. This was no human child.
âTch. You think this is the spawn of that big one we brought in, Rurth?â One guard scoffed, looking to the other man, gesturing to Wynonaâs devilish features. Anxiety formed a ball in her throat, tears threatening to fall. They werenât taking her seriously. The men didnât understand what was on the line for her. They didnât understand how in a few mere weeks, the rug was swept out from under her and everything she had known for her fifteen years of life was gone.
âHer name is Hera Serrano-Colt, sirâ You brought her in a few weeks ago-â She was cut off by the butt of a spear being jammed into her cut, causing her to double over and cough in the dirt.
âYou speak when spoken to, kid.â The other guard, Rurth, snapped at her, retracting his spear before looking back to the other man. âThe Infernal? Think so. Donât think any of the other prisoners woulda kept a halfblood brimstone baby.âÂ
Anger swelled in her chest. Life on the ranch was lonely at times, but at least there she was protected from the ignorant humans that plagued all of Faerun. It was just how her mother liked it, as she experienced all too much of that hate while in the fighting ring. She bowed her head, gritting her teeth. Her fangs felt sharp in her mouth, and for the briefest moment, she imagined what it would be like to tear their throats out with her very own teeth.Â
âDonât call me that.â Wynona choked out, trying to maintain her resolve. She hated that she cried when she was angry. She so desperately wanted to lash out, to make them fear her, but what could she do? She was a child, freshly orphaned by the cruel hand of a greedy noble. Not once in her life had she ever been on her own. Her wounds were all too fresh, still oozing blood, guilt, and grief.Â
The men paused, sharing a look. A brief kindling of hope sparked in her chest before they both burst out laughing. âOr what, brighteyes? Youâre gonna bite our ankles? Watch out, Stren, sheâs gonna sick her big scary mama on us. Oh, oh wait.â Rurth smirked, looking down at her with an evil glint in his eye.Â
Wynona balled up her fists, tears spilling down her cheeks as she lunged for Rurth, her hands aimed for his throat. Stren countered, bringing down the length of his spear across her back to swat her out of the air like a fly. She hit the ground hard, gasping for breath and rolling over on her back, clawing at the ground. Her lungs were empty, rib cage rattling desperately as she struggled for air. After a moment she gasped hard, coughing harshly.Â
âThatâs what I thought.â Stren muttered, delivering a rough kick to her side with an armored boot. The guards showed no mercy, their faces twisted with sadistic pleasure as they pummeled the youth. Each strike left marks on her skin, welts that would soon blossom into bruises. She curled into a pitiful ball, trying to shield herself from the onslaught.Â
Our Dnd Sessions are available on youtube!
They are unlisted, unedited and pretty raw. However, they're available for viewing if anyone is interested in hearing the sessions and understanding the context of some of the stories on this tumblr;
Tyyran-y - Constantin & Tyyran (Villain AU)
Years had passed since the Bard College at Ayrenza had banished a young Tyyran Drachedandion from their halls. His comic acts and mirthful melodies had thrown the patrons of the academy into a rage, and in their pearl-clutching fury they'd sent the young Dragonborn away. Since that time, he had gotten drunk, partied, played songs and told jokes... And he had also found himself in the dark realm of Barovia. The land of mists. There, with a Tiefling, a human, a strange Warlock with a crab friend and a few locals in tow, they adventured through the land, gotten into trouble, and through some unfortunate events⌠found the spark of motivation to return. Marching through the mists, the triumphant, talented Dragonborn marched into the halls of his old academy. He had been forged in the crucible of Barovia, and was no longer the timid young comedian he once was, rather, a charismatic, sly and noble bard of great skill and wit, and with him he brought the wrath of the Land of Mists in the form of Constantin Vasiliev, a towering behemoth of a man. If Tyyran was the body of the revolution, Constantin was the arm that bore the sword, and with it, the Dragonborn quickly found himself at the seat of his own empire, an academy which he was set to run his way, rather than the prude ways of his forebears.
Thus began the Age of Tyyran the Tyyrannical. Ayrenza, once a school of noble import and a respected institution, now devolved to a happy house of jesters and bards, with an utter clown at the seat of authority, and a dark shadow looming at his side.

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
I was just reading that new Bettany and Constantin lore⌠Is Constantin dead???
Constantin is currently in the throes of death... He's poisoned. However, we have a chance to save him. I'm thinking next session we will know for sure wether we get Constantin back or not.
Thanks for asking!!
If the party went to the mall, what store would each character go into?
â Bettany would go into Barnes and Noble and probably accompany Rorali into Hot Topic
â Rorali would have a rotation of bath & body works/lush, victoria's secret/pink and hot topic and then ofc the food court
â Constantin is hitting GNC, Barnes and Noble, whatever team pro shop is in his town for a jersey or something and then the food court with the gang. He might get dragged into hot topic but draws the line at Spencerâs, youâd have to mountain and earth to get him in there.
â Tyyran would find the first Pet Shop or Reptile Store and whatever store sells anime swords and figurines. He would also LOVE Spencers only because funny sex things LMAO
â Sterling would definitely drop hella cash in a sporting goods store Sterling is at sportsmanâs warehouse looking at all their revolvers and lever guns LMFAO
â Food court. Maybe a shoe store. I think she'd have a blast just trying on shoes đšWastes the whole damn afternoon figuring out what the hell shoe sizes are Finally gets one that fits and the mall closes. Forgets it for next time
â Yvan would be going to Earthbound, Abercrombie & Fitch (they try to scout him as a model), lil bit of Urban Outfitters, he would def be smelling ALL candles in Bath & Body Works ("Ooh smell this-- This one is so nice--")