#disabled dm

“You always fight this angry, Songbird?”

“Call me that again and I’ll show you just how angry.”

Long before they trusted each other with their lives, Roselyn Mercè and Ashtyn Valemere could barely stand being in the same room.

Roselyn was a common-born bard with a temper to match the flames dancing along her rapier.

Ashtyn was a young noble duelist who seemed to wear confidence, and sarcasm, as naturally as breathing.

One thought the other was an arrogant princess.

The other thought she’d been paired with an uncivilised brute.

Their first weeks training to join the Rainths Family Guard were filled with arguments, sarcastic remarks, and increasingly competitive sparring matches.

Then one duel ended with both of them tumbling headfirst into a muddy lake.

Somehow…

That was the beginning of a lifelong friendship.

Sometimes the people who become family are the ones you swore you’d never be able to stand.

I think one of my favourite things to write is relationships that grow.

Not instant friendships. Not people who immediately understand each other.

I love characters who clash. Who misunderstand each other. Who spend months, or years, earning each other’s trust until one day they realise they’d do anything for the person they once couldn’t stand.

Roselyn and Ashtyn became that for each other.

Not a dragon.

Not a lich.

Not an ancient vampire.

A broom.

An animated broom.

The party found it quietly sweeping away in an abandoned manor.

If they’d simply left it alone, nothing would have happened.

Instead…

Someone grabbed it.

So naturally, initiative was rolled.

The little menace refused to die. It just kept hitting.

At one point I jokingly narrated:

“The broom growls, ‘If I’m going down, you’re coming with me.’”

…and then I immediately rolled two natural 20s.

The broom took being grabbed personally.

By the end of the session it had become our first permanent character death.

To make matters worse…

I rolled EIGHT natural 20s tonight.

Including FOUR IN A ROW.

I have photographic evidence because frankly no one would believe me otherwise.

Apparently my dice woke up today and collectively decided:

“Violence.”

I love D&D.

This drawing is from just over a year ago, when I was exploring some of my childhood in therapy. And you know what, it’s allowed to see the light of day alongside my happier works.

It’s called

Everything I Could Give

———————

Is this enough for you yet?

Will it ever be enough?

Some children grow up believing love is something you earn.

You become the helper.

The peacemaker.

The one who never asks for too much.

The one who carries everyone else.

You give away little pieces of yourself—

your childhood,

your time,

your safety,

your voice.

Always hoping that this will finally be enough.

Sometimes, years later, you find yourself trying to explain what happened.

Not because you want someone to take the blame.

Just because you want someone to say,

“I see it now.”

Sometimes that moment never comes.

Learning that someone may never understand your childhood the way you lived it is its own kind of grief.

So now the question isn’t whether I was ever enough for someone else.

The people whose role is to coordinate your care. To advocate for you. To help you access the supports you need. To make living with complex disabilities and chronic illness just a little bit easier.

Instead…

Emails go unanswered for six weeks or more.

Five out of six appointments with the same doctor are cancelled.

Phone calls aren’t returned.

Things you were promised quietly disappear into the void.

Yet somehow the invoices keep arriving.

Charged for services rendered.

What services?

I already spend so much of my limited energy fighting my own body every single day. I shouldn’t have to spend the rest of it fighting the very systems and professionals that are supposed to have my back.

People talk about how exhausting chronic illness is.

What they don’t talk about enough is how exhausting fragmented care is.

The endless chasing.

The constant explaining.

The paperwork.

The waiting.

The feeling that unless you do everyone else’s job for them, nothing happens.

I’m tired.

Not just physically.

I’m tired of having to beg for the care I’m already supposed to be receiving.

No one with a complex disability should have to become their own case manager just to access healthcare. But that’s exactly what so many of us are forced to do.

Most people don’t realise my tics specifically get worse the more stressed or overstimulated I am.

With some people, I almost never tic. Like when I go out with my Mumpling. She’s incredibly calming and understanding, so in turn, I’m calmer too.

But at home around my family, the tics are intense.

Everyone in our house is disabled. My mum and sibling live with my wife and me, and all four of us have support workers.

At any one time, there can easily be seven or more people in our little three-bedroom house. Thank goodness we have separate living rooms.

So honestly… it’s no wonder I tic more than a clock.

And of course my tics are biggest around my wife because she’s the person I feel safest with. Around her, I can stop masking. I don’t have to desperately hold everything in anymore.

Holding my tics in is exhausting. It’s physically draining, mentally draining, and honestly just soul-destroying after a while.

My family mostly just sees the tics themselves, and how funny they can be. I genuinely don’t mind them laughing. I’d much rather they laugh than get offended by something I can’t control.

But I don’t think they realise that a lot of the time, those big tics aren’t random.

They’re the result of being so stressed and overstimulated that eventually… it all just explodes out. 🤦‍♀️

They aren’t random.

Case in point.

I was planning an arc set in the damned city of Zablina for my homebrew D&D campaign, trying to work out how the party could weaken the BBEG, Lord Vandersign.

Apparently, at about 3am, with insomnia in full swing and my pain meds doing their thing, I came to a very important conclusion.

The party needed to rescue an egg.

The next morning I opened my notes in complete bewilderment.

What sort of egg?

No idea.

Why was it important?

No explanation.

Why an egg?

Your guess is as good as mine.

What I did have was a complete dungeon outline.

This mysterious egg was apparently guarded by guttergorges, undead trolls, another dragon…

…and an undead tarrasque.

Because obviously.

Past Claire left absolutely no notes explaining why this was apparently the single most important egg in the campaign.

Just:

Egg.

Needless to say, that dungeon never made it past the planning stage.

My players have absolutely no idea they almost had to save the world by rescuing a completely unexplained egg from an undead tarrasque.

I’m slowly going through my drawings and being brave enough to post them. So. Here is another drawing.

Rosie and her Uncle Mara

Well… I thought my first post should be an old favourite.

This drawing is from March last year, inspired by a wonderfully bizarre dream that mashed together two worlds I absolutely adore.

It’s a crossover between characters from my D&D setting Eltaria and the wonderful boys from Dandies in Danger.

Roselyn Mercé is fencing with Mr Liam Bardsley, while in the background (left to right) are:

• Mr Adrian Edwards

• Molly

• Adelaire Mercé

• Mr Daniel Pritchard

• Mr Zachary Wilkos