#nuclearinsanity

Here ya go!

This type of creature is called a goblin, by the way. Originally from the creepier parts of Faerie, they’ve become somewhat ubiquitous among the Realms, preferring dark, underground and damp places.

Vote for me. Or don’t. It’s your choice.

How do Nithlings like the taste of lead?

I have the pleasure of planning a Pathfinder campaign in the setting of Panspermia, featuring some of the fine folks from the Geneverse Discord.

Crackle.

Your borrowed brain almost trips over itself, and you open eyes you were just watching out behind. What happened? You can still feel the points of contact to other minds, but they’re fleeting, less real than they used to be. It feels like your range has gotten shorter, too.

The form you’re wearing backs away from the safehouse doors, still feeling the hum of whatever High Technological thing is keeping you from transferring to the people inside.

Pop.

You surface from your travels coughing and hacking, your throat dry as sandpaper. Your skin stings and tears as you stand, mercifully whatever space magic makes side effects work prevents you from bleeding. It peels off in sheets, 

Snap.

As he snaps his fingers, you feel all the motor control you thought you had disappear. The body you’re inhabiting suddenly feels wrong, limbs too long, muscles and tendons misaligned, like you’re operating it one limb at a time. You promptly collapse, and the man in green, who’d seen you try to enter his mind and banished you back to the Agent you’d jumped from, steps towards you, out of the room marked ‘002’.

“Russelll...” he says, grinning, “Wake up, Russel.”

And you sit bolt upright in your chair, your real chair, skin flaking from your face and blood pounding in your ears.

How did he know my name?

Crackle.

The monster snaps at your offered hand, ignoring your commands. You back away slowly, reaching for the door behind you, to step out of your Domain.

It doesn’t open.

Pop.

Your skin is plastic, your heart beats thick oil through rubber arteries, your breath hisses out in clouds of choking smoke. Your hands are pitted and crusted with metal callouses, and they creak slightly as you move around.

Your saliva tastes of battery acid.

Snap.

You can’t breathe. The air stinks, of rot and pollution, and you collapse out of a doorway, wheezing. The lifegiving smoke of your home has turned against you.

oh no I’ve set a bar of activity

let me just warn you I fucks with this blog whenever I feel like it I’ll try to do it a bit more but I’m not that active

I’d assume too, but I’m being a lil paranoid. nuclearinsanity said:                                                                                                                            >implying