May she forever fly free

 

Let's play some Fuckin' D&D, part III

Chronicles of Stone & Blood – Part II

After clawing their way out of the ossuary’s grip, the Saintly Bastards returned to Greymire with battered limbs and quiet minds. For all their swagger and cynicism, something in that tomb had whispered to them. Something had watched.

The town greeted them with little more than flickering lanterns and muddy streets. It was a place on the edge—of the hills, of history, and now, of something darker. While Grobnar, Sleevax, and Pimm made straight for the Saucy Tart tavern, Sister Malady sought solitude and reflection.

In the quiet upstairs room of the Dustmere Inn, Malady laid out the cursed relics they’d claimed: the whispering skull amulet, the gilded hand, and the cold black iron hand. The candlelight danced over them like spirits. Then came the tapping—soft and deliberate at her window. Unstartled, she approached, candle in hand, and drew the curtain.

There was nothing outside. Yet the window was fogged from the outside, and traced across its surface was a sigil: a perfect circle, crossed by three vertical slashes. As she watched, the symbol pulsed with a cold, pale light. The skull amulet whispered in response, its voice like many murmuring as one.

Malady saw a vision—not reflected, but revealed. A stone throne buried deep beneath the earth. A mass of shadow coiled around it, too many eyes watching from its folds. Upon the throne sat a figure wrapped in iron and linen. One hand of gold. One of black iron.

She recorded it all in her journal before extinguishing the candle and surrendering to sleep, her god’s sigil gripped tightly in her palm.

Back at the Saucy Tart, the others sought comfort in drink, meat, and exaggeration.

The tavern was a sagging two-story structure of dark wood and low ceilings, thick with pipe smoke and the scent of spilled ale. The hearth roared with a greedy flame, its glow painting every wall in gold and shadow. A stuffed wyvern’s head hung over the mantle, its glass eyes dulled by time and grime. The floor creaked like an old boat, and the air buzzed with the hum of half-drunken conversation.

At one table, a pair of caravan guards argued over dice and debts. Near the bar, a merchant’s clerk loudly recounted how he once chased off a bandit with nothing but a ledger and a mean stare. Two locals nursed mugs in silence, eyes flicking toward the Bastards with something like respect—or fear.

Grobnar slumped into a bench like a sack of boulders, banging his tankard on the table. “Meat,” he growled. “Bleeding if possible.”

Pimm flopped beside him, pulling out his lute and plucking at it with distracted fingers. “Don’t expect applause. This crowd has no taste.”

Sleevax, naturally, occupied the best seat—boots on the bench, arms stretched wide, speaking just loudly enough for everyone nearby to hear. “So there we were, facing down a wall of shrieking bones, and who do you think takes the first swing? Not Grob. Not Sister Doom. Me.” He grinned. “Naturally.”

A barmaid named Kella brought their plates—mutton pies steaming and lopsided, trenchers of thick brown stew, and a round of foamy local ale that tasted like old boots but hit like a crossbow.

“That thing over the fire ever move?” Grobnar asked, eyeing the wyvern head.

“Only when you’ve had enough to make it interesting,” Kella said, smirking. “First round’s on the house. Second’ll cost you your soul or a song.”

Pimm grinned. “We’re already short on souls. Better make it a song.”

But even in the noise and warmth, the Bastards felt a hollow edge to the evening. The bone dust was still under their fingernails. The air outside still carried the breath of the tomb.

That’s when Pimm saw the old man.

He sat in the farthest corner, half-shadowed, nursing a mug of something dark and bitter. His eyes didn’t wander. They studied.

Curious as ever, Pimm rose and snatched Sleevax’s mug right out from under the elf. Now armed with two drinks, Pimm wandered over. Behind him, he heard Sleevax bark, ‘Hey, you damn little gnome! That was mine!’

He offered it without preamble. “For the thirst,” he said, sliding onto the bench. “You look like a man who’s seen more than most and talks less than he should.”

The man took the drink. Didn’t thank him. But after a long pause, he spoke.

“You one of ‘em?”

Pimm nodded. “From the tomb. And you?”

The man’s story spilled out in pieces—of a cave found years ago, of a throne buried in ash, of the gold and iron hands laid like relics on an altar. Of a humming in the dark that felt like a memory trying to surface.

“The gold one whispers,” the man said. “And if you pick wrong… you won’t die. You’ll wish you had.”

Pimm’s smile faltered, just slightly. “Charming fellow. Bet you’re great at parties.”

The old man looked into the fire, lost in it. He did not utter another word.

Pimm returned to Grobnar and Sleevax with the tale. No one laughed. No one finished their drink.

They left the tavern in silence and made for bed, each haunted by a sigil none of them had drawn. No one laughed. No one finished their drink. The night was lost.

They left the tavern in silence and made for bed, each haunted by a sigil none of them had drawn.

Dawn came like a verdict. And the tomb still waited beneath the hills, whispering through stone and bone.

Let's play some Fuckin' D&D, part II

 

“Ain’t no gods here, just gold and ghosts.” – Grobnar, probably

HELL. YES. The Saintly Bastards are geared, drunk, and morally compromised enough to kick in the tomb door of the Fuckin’ Lich King himself. Presented here in all-natural, RAW fashion. Enjoy.

The Tomb of the Fuckin' Lich King

Part One

They called themselves the Saintly Bastards—four vagabonds bonded by coin, sarcasm, and a mutual dislike of authority. Their journey began not with a trumpet blast or a royal summons, but with a half-remembered tavern tale and a map stained with ale and regret. Beneath the jagged hills of the Dunmarch lay the whispered resting place of the Fuckin’ Lich King, a name spoken with equal parts dread and drunken laughter.

Grobnar the Hateful led the way—an ogre-blooded brute whose solution to most things involved smashing them. Behind him stalked Sister Malady, a Tiefling cleric draped in faith and menace, her whispered prayers often sounding like threats. Sleevax the Bastard, ever-smirking, ever-armed, followed with blade and innuendo ready. Pimm Whistlesprocket brought up the rear, his gnomish frame light, but his ego far heavier.

“You sure this place is loaded with treasure?” Sleevax muttered, eying the shadows. “The last ruin you dragged us through cost more in bribes and bandages than it paid out.”

“And it smelled like wet goblin balls,” Pimm added with a scowl. “Grob’s hair still smells like ass.”

“Shut it,” Grobnar growled. “This one’s different. Feels right. Smells wrong.”

“That’s probably you,” Sleevax said, smirking.

Sister Malady ignored them all. “Keep bickering. I’ll save your souls—if there’s anything left worth saving.”

The tomb’s entrance was a mouth of shadow. They stepped inside, torches sputtering, the air thick with ancient dust and distant echoes. The first chamber—the Screaming Foyer—lived up to its name. Grotesque stone faces lined the walls, erupting into ear-shattering howls every few seconds. The Bastards spread out cautiously, inspecting the grim decor.

Malady’s sharp eyes found a hidden prize—a skull-shaped amulet that whispered secrets only she seemed to hear. “Ooh,” she murmured. “I can feel the power inside this! It whispers to me.”

Sleevax stepped back. “Yeah, no thanks. That thing’s giving me bad vibes. You keep it, Sister Creepy.”

With torchlight flickering and bones vibrating from the infernal shrieking, Pimm deciphered the arcane riddle etched above a sealed iron gate. He grinned. “I remember now—‘Pay in pain or piss in blood.’ Said it was just a joke, but look at that…”

Grobnar squinted at the gate as it melted. “Bitchin’. Guess I didn’t need to bash it down... this time.”

Beyond it lay the Hall of the Bone Choir.

Dozens of skeletons stood frozen in macabre performance, mouths agape and arms poised with decayed instruments. It was a trap—they knew it instinctively. But Grobnar, ever the impatient, scuffed a bone with his boot.

The choir erupted into a death hymn, a hellish cacophony of scraping bone and phantom shrieks that split the air like a blade to the brain. The sound clawed into their skulls, unraveling thought with each discordant note. Pimm clutched his ears, swaying as blood trickled from his nose. Sister Malady dropped to one knee, her lips moving in a half-formed prayer. Grobnar roared, more from rage than pain, and swung blindly at the air. Only Sleevax stood still, face pale but eyes sharp, lips curling into a grimace. Blood trickled from ears. Only Sleevax kept his footing.

“That is mildly annoying. Slightly out of tone, if you ask me,” Sleevax said, unfazed.

The Bastards reacted the only way they knew how: with violence. Grobnar charged first, bellowing with rage, his greatsword cleaving through ribcages like firewood. Bone splinters rained across the chamber. Sister Malady followed in righteous fury, her mace cracking skulls while scripture poured from her lips like a litany of vengeance. Pimm, nimble and feral, darted between the chaos, using his sling and short blade with surprising precision, occasionally pausing to kick a tibia out of his path with a gleeful snarl. Sleevax danced through the fray like a shadow, his rapier flicking between joints, separating limbs from torsos with surgical grace. The skeletons retaliated with unnatural coordination, their fingers clawing and instruments wailing as if mourning their own destruction. Dust rose thick as the last of the choir fell silent, shattered beneath the Bastards’ fury. Bones shattered beneath Grobnar’s swings, Sister Malady’s mace, and Pimm’s boots.

Between the chaos, Sleevax had retrieved a scroll. “Didn’t you once play Khawkaskie’s Melodies for a princess, Pimm? Or were you just boasting and full of shit?”

“Yes and yes,” Pimm grinned. “But I did play it. She cried. Could’ve been the hangover, though.”

With Sleevax’s cunning and Pimm’s theatrical performance, the cursed organ at the far end yielded to song rather than brute force. A stairwell opened.

Below, the Ossuary of Hands awaited.

Walls, ceiling, and floor writhed with skeletal arms nailed in eternal reaching, their yellowed bones twitching in fits and starts as though some buried instinct still lingered. The fingers flexed with impossible coordination, some grasping, others clawing at unseen enemies, the nails scratched raw and rust-colored. Each motion was jagged, like puppets animated by broken strings. The air stank of mildew, dust, and something older—like long-sealed crypts exhaling after centuries. The corridor pulsed with a kind of dread rhythm, as if the room itself waited to snatch the unwary into its brittle embrace. A narrow path beckoned. Sleevax led, Grobnar behind with the torch, then Malady and Pimm.

“Fuckin’ creepy guys,” Grobnar muttered.

“Think of all the people who gave up an arm to decorate this place,” Pimm whispered with a chuckle.

Grobnar, half-listening, reached out and brushed a wall.

The arms responded.

With a sudden lurch, the wall came alive—hundreds of skeletal arms erupting from their frozen poses. Grobnar had barely touched the surface when the nearest hand snapped around his wrist like a vice. Others followed, climbing over one another, clawing up his body, latching onto armor, flesh, and hair. They surged in waves, rattling like dry branches in a storm, dragging him backward into the wall itself.

He shouted—once—a guttural bellow of fury that turned quickly to a strangled grunt. The arms piled higher, smothering him, burying him in bone until the wall seemed to collapse inward, swallowing the brute whole beneath a tide of ancient limbs.

"Grobnar!" Malady hissed, already moving. The others were on him in an instant, pulling, hacking, kicking limbs away. The wall resisted, arms flailing and seizing anything they could reach.

With a final heave, they yanked him free, battered, bloodied, and limp. His chest barely moved.

Malady dropped to her knees beside him, fingers glowing with celestial fire. She pressed her palm to his sternum. With a whispered curse and prayer woven into one, the divine energy surged into his chest.

Grobnar groaned, his eyes fluttering open. "Ugh... fuckin’ arms..."

"You’re welcome," Malady muttered, already standing, her hand still faintly aglow.

Vax kicked him lightly. “Up and at it, big guy. That wench at the Saucy Tart’s waiting for me.”

“Hope she likes blood and bone dust,” Grobnar grumbled.

Sleevax drew his rapier and made a vaguely lewd gesture. “That’ll be the least of her worries. You coming, or do I have to do all the hard work?”

The arms calmed. Malady’s gaze swept the carnage, drawn to a strange glint beneath the shifting bones. She knelt and gently pried loose a gilded skeletal hand, its golden surface dulled by dust but worn smooth at the fingertips—as if reverently touched by generations. Not far from it, a second artifact caught her eye: a hand forged of black iron, unnaturally cold even in the close, torch-lit air. She hesitated before grasping it, a flicker of unease tugging at her gut. These weren’t mere decorations. They had been placed here with intent, and whatever lay beyond would demand their use.

They lingered at the edge of the room, ash and bone still settling in the torchlight. Sleevax was the first to speak. “We heading back, or are we letting Sister Creepy sniff another relic?”

“I say we press on,” Malady said, eyes locked on the darkened path beyond. “The auras here are ancient. Hungry. We’re close to something sacred—or damned.”

Grobnar grunted from his seat against the wall. “I nearly got turned into bonemeal. I’m gettin’ an ale and a nap. In that order.”

Sleevax scoffed. “You soft bastard. But fine. We’ll go tuck you in.” He turned and added with a wink, “Besides, that pretty little barmaid at the Saucy Tart promised to cry if I didn’t make it back.”

“Cry from relief, maybe,” Pimm muttered, rolling his eyes.

The Bastards gathered their gear, battered and bruised but not broken, and turned toward the exit. They would rest. Regroup. Return to town to drink, sharpen steel, and forget the song that still echoed faintly in the back of their minds.

The tomb had only begun to open.

And the Fuckin’ Lich King was still waiting.

Bored...Let's play some Fuckin' D&D, part I

 

I have had this PDF forever and never played it, suddenly had the itch after getting suckered into Joe's livestream last night, stumbled upon this, and well...magic happened. The mood of the game felt about right after the week I have had so I went with it. Came up with a few drunk fuckers who wanted to go get rich, or die tryin'.

 

Here is the party:

The Saintly Bastards

A crew of questionable heroes delving into the Tomb of the Fuckin' Lich King. Yes, I understand these are generic stock fantasy images but I don't fucking care. ;-)

---

Grobnar the Hateful
Lvl 1 Half-Orc Barbarian
AC 13, MV 9, HD 1d10, HP 10, #ATT 1
Gear: Chainmail, greatsword (d10), broken bottle (d4)
Bonuses: +1 to hit with any weapon (Half-Orc), +1 to hit with large weapons (Barbarian)
Backstory: Mean-as-hell berserker who bit his dad in a duel. Can’t read, won’t try. Loves smashing idols.

Pimm Whistlesprocket
Lvl 1 Gnome Bard  (yes....a fucking gnome...FLM)
AC 12, MV 9, HD 1d8, HP 8, #ATT 1
Gear: Leather armor, sling (d4), dagger (d4)
Bonuses: Can speak with woodland creatures (Gnome), casts all magic through song (Bard)
Spells (Today’s Rolls): TBD
Backstory: Overconfident gnome with a flute and foul mouth. Performs filthy limericks that cast spells. Insults animals.

Sister Malady
Lvl 1 Tiefling Cleric
AC 14, MV 6, HD 1d6, HP 6, #ATT 1
Gear: Chainmail, shield, mace (d8)
Bonuses: Darkvision and 1/day Darkness (Tiefling), +1 damage to undead (Cleric)
Spells (Today’s Rolls): TBD
Backstory: Cult escapee turned zealot. Glowing red eyes. Whispers prayers that sound like threats.

Sleevax the Bastard
Lvl 1 Elf Rogue
AC 13, MV 11, HD 1d8, HP 8, #ATT 1
Gear: Leather armor, rapier (d8), throwing knives (d6)
Bonuses: Never sleeps, creepy +2 to Lore (Elf), sneak attack x3 damage (Rogue)
Backstory: Smooth, smug, and dangerous. Robbed a noble, seduced their spouse, and stole the horse. Writes poetry about it.

24xx: The Deep

I have been interested in the 24xx series and wanted to play them but I could never get anyone I have been interested in the 24xx series and wanted to play them but I could never get anyone interested in them. Yesterday my wife wanted to head to mall for some shopping, I knew I would likely end up sitting in the middle section on a couch. I threw the PDF in Chat and asked Lyra to run a game for me. It is a long read, but what a wonderful game session!

The Deep on Itch.io

Sacrifice

 

Thank you to all paid the ultimate price to ensure our freedom and that our amazing country shall endure the tests of time.