Chael took a lungful of the fresh prairie breeze blowing through the briar patch. “I really wish this thing still locked,” they said, admiring the heavy vault door.
“Breep,” agreed Glig.
Mahani shook her head. “The vault needs four undamaged godstones to be fully powered. Right now every bit of power is going towards keeping that planar barrier from collapsing completely. This thing won’t lock again until we have the last gem on that pedestal.”
Chael nodded, swinging their pack up onto their shoulder. “I’ll be quick, don’t worry.”
“Are you sure we shouldn’t go with you? I know you’re, you know, you, but I’m sure you could use help.” …
“I don’t understand her,” Mahani said.
The three of them sat against the wall, staring at the floor, watching the shattered gem fragment twinkle in the dim newt-light, holding hardtack and leftover mutton and honeycomb, not eating it.
“I mean,” she continued, “If Sal was a demonologist, then wouldn’t starting a war between heaven and hell just, you know, reduce her supply of demons to summon?” She pulled a dry speck of mutton off, offering it to a disinterested newt before putting it in her mouth.
Chael sighed, setting down the hardtack, “Eventually, I guess. But wars also tend to create a lot of weapons and armies, too. The Machine of War, and all that. And that could actually increase her power, right? Think about it. Instead of farmers, she’d be summoning militia, even with her lower-level spells.” …
His home. A dome made of bricks. Deep red bricks, shattered to pieces.
Glig stood in front of the dead portal. An ancient stone arch, surrounded by carefully carved glyphs, flickering weakly in the dark. A doorway back to his world. A portal to Hell. A portal to Heaven stood on the opposite wall. Also cold, also dead.
“I can’t believe you survived this,“ Mahani was saying to Chael, as she helped scrape the sticky acidic slime off their back. “I thought you were just gonna be a pile of bones. Like, really big bones.”
Chael didn’t say anything back. They were just staring at the pedestals. At the shards of broken crystal. …
Nothing like firmly gripping a giant slug’s throat bristles to make you appreciate the little things.
The textures, the squelching. The assembly line of muscles effortlessly sucking you down screaming and clawing into your new, dimly-lit pinkish home. A warm, quiet pouch of caustic ooze. A place where someone could get away from it all, relax, be digested in peace. This isn’t so bad, Chael thought, as a sphincter opened in the pouch, and sucked them screaming and clawing into a second stomach, then a third, then a forth. …
The hardest thing about canning monsters is getting them in the jar.
Monsters are usually bigger than the typical jar, and are often an entirely different shape. (If you are looking for a nice jar-shaped monster that responds well to canning, try a gelatinous cylinder, or even a set of fang-wheels stacked on top of each other. Or, even more simple, a cookie-jar hand-tarantula. Why not? They love jars, hold up to heat, and you probably have one in your kitchen already!)
But even the largest and least jar-shaped monsters can be canned beautifully with enough mutilation. …
Folks, let me ask you a question.
Do you love your body? Let me ask you again. Do you love your body? I’m not asking if you like your body, I’m not asking if you are fine with your body. But do you love it.
You, whats your name? Rebecca. Okay Rebecca. Do you love your body? Tell the truth now. No? And why not, Rebecca? Because you’re overweight. I see. Okay, thank you.
Folks, I’m here today to tell you that a year ago I didn’t love my body either. …
“Oh my goodness what happened to you?”
“It’s nothing, it’s nothing, don’t worry.”
“Nothing! Come on! Look at you. I’ll get you some ice.”
“I don’t need ice, mom.”
“Well you’re getting some. And you’re going to tell me what happened.”
“It was just horseplay.”
“Like Heef it was just horseplay. How much ice do you want.”
“I don’t want any ice mom, it was just horseplay. I’m fine. He’s fine. Everyone’s fine.”
“Who. Who’s fine? Who did this to you.”
“Mom, don’t. It doesn’t matter. I don’t need you to do anything. I don’t want you to talk to them or talk to me or give me ice. …
Huge aberration, chaotic evil
Armor Class 14 (natural armor)
Hit Points 90 (9d10 + 36)
Speed 30 ft.
STR 16 (+3) DEX 11 (+0) CON 19 (+4) INT 6 (-2) WIS 13 (+1) CHA 6 (-2)
Saving Throws Con +7
Senses darkvision 120 ft., passive Perception 11
Challenge 5 (1,800 XP)
Manasynthesis. The slug can survive off of magical energy, and can detect its presence within 120 ft. …
Giant acidic dungeon slugs can be found in three distinct sub-species: the spotted yellow, the yellow-spotted, and the crazed hellspawnic.
The docile and reclusive spotted yellow dungeon slug has yellow skin with green spots, 11 hitpoints, a non-lethal push attack, and survives mostly on ground water. The acidic mucus produced by its sunshine-colored hide is numbing and pleasant, sometimes harvested by both healers and beauticians to be used in luxurious and costly skin treatments.
The gentle, industrious yellow-spotted dungeon slug is green with yellow spots, and has been fully domesticated for the last two millennia. It has 34 hitpoints, no attacks, and survives on lichen, molds, poisonous insects, and everything else that grows on the dungeon walls it has been tasked to keep clean. It is social, slow-moving, and the acid it produces, while having no effect on organic matter, does completely obliterate rust, tarnish and other stubborn mineral buildup. …
I guess I’m just a romantic at heart, because I’ve always felt the idea of internet dating to be, ya know, uninspiring. I don’t know, it’s not like I want some kind of rom-com how-we-met story, or think that drama is the same as passion, or even that passion will be a fix-all for every problem a relationship faces over the years.
But online dating just seems so sterile, so inorganic. I guess it’s still just people interacting with people. I mean I’m sitting here right now, my hands are on the keys, and I’m pouring my heart out, and it feels real. But is it? …