This Amazing! This Is So Useful And Has Visually Pleasing Layout.

Wow, this is an amazing reference sheet...!

To the person who put this together, BLESS YOU

Agreed

These baby hippos will make everything better

Wow this is incredible!! :)

a hypothetical d&d party

The bard is mute.

It’s not the first thing people notice about her, usually.  The first thing is generally that she’s young, and female, and lovely–the first thing people notice about their entire party is that they’re all young, and female, and lovely, and that’s gotten more than one would-be thief or mugger in far over their head when they haven’t noticed the the paladin’s hammer or the ranger’s axe.  It comes up rather quickly though, often enough.  Whoever heard of a bard who can’t sing?

She plays a lute, mostly, or a lap-harp made of shell and sinew, string instruments she can pluck while she smiles in secret and watches everyone around her.  She dances quick, except when she’s tired, when she’s scared, when she forgets to remember the feet at the ends of her legs.

She doesn’t tell her story to strangers, but enough of the other girls have learned to sign by now, and it’s easy enough to sketch out the outlines of the old bargain: the voice, the prince, the witch, the thousand shards of glass she walked upon on her way up the beach, the look in her sea-green eyes when they travel too near water.  The thousand shards of glass she walked upon when she left the palace, and turned back towards the sea to throw herself upon the rocks, and then made her way up the road inland, and kept walking.

.

The warlock is beautiful and mild and self-effacing and shy, is tidy and generous and charming.  She’s small with herself in exactly the right way to shout abuse to the half of her party who knows how to recognize that same look in the mirror in the morning.  The bird on her shoulder is too small, too bright, too sweet for a real warlock’s familiar.  The knife at her belt is sharp enough for anything that needs doing, though, cooking or otherwise.

Her fae patron visits sometimes, in the quiet hours between dusk and midnight, a sweetly old godmother made of moonlight and shadow.  She’s kind to the whole lot of them in her own chaotic way, free-handed with transmutations and illusions that break halfway through the evening, for better or worse.  She once spent three hours around their campfire drinking brandy and gossipping outrageously about the Feywild and teasing the wizard into fits of laughter.

She’s never told the story of how she met the warlock’s mother, or what debt was owed there, and the warlock doesn’t know herself.  It was never meant to be a debt paid in power and violence and the deft will-sapping enchantments the warlock weaves now, but, well.  The prince wasn’t meant to be cruel, the warlock says.  The palace was meant to be warmer than the fireplace cinders in her stepmother’s house.  The faerie was meant to be saving her from her lot, not throwing her into something worse.  The power’s an apology of sorts.

.

The wizard is awkward and joyful and nervous.  She has no fear of heights or small places, which just stands to be expected, she says, after all those years in that little tower, and she’s got no skill at lying or even edging around the truth at all, which is why she isn’t in the tower any more in the first place.  She says too much or too little or the wrong thing entirely, always, but the most well-socialized member of the whole party is the ranger who walks around with a dire wolf at her hip, or maybe their mute bard, so who are any of them to judge.

There was nothing to do in that tower but read, and brush her hair, and sort through the witch’s endless stockpile of dried herbs and potions ingredients, and watch out the window as woodcutters and hunters and princes rode by, and dream.  The reading was more interesting than the dreaming, most of the time, and the witch didn’t mind it as much when she talked about it.  She never bothered to actually use any of the magic in the witch’s books until the thing with the prince and the haircut and the desert, which she’s told them all about in all the detail they could ever ask for, but most of the girls get uncomfortable when she starts talking about princes.  It’s a little easier if she just starts rambling about conjuration and abjuration and illusion theory, about the 400-year-old history of a city that doesn’t exist any more, about the proper grammatical structure of Celestial, until maybe one of the quiet ones finally answers back.

Her hair is too short.  She keeps an illusion up over it whenever she can, while it grows back slowly, tickling the side of her face and the back of her neck and leaving her head too light and unbalanced.  

.

The ranger doesn’t care about princes, which makes one of them at least.  Then again, the ranger doesn’t trust anyone, really, prince or no, not wolves or monsters or the men who kill them.  She more or less trusts the rest of them by now, mostly, when the wind blows in the right direction.

She wears bright red in the middle of the woods and it shouldn’t help her slip into the shadows half as easily as it does, but most beasts can’t see color and red’s just another shade of gray if the light’s low enough.  She never uses her axe against trees.  She doesn’t need to.  She can find a path through any brush without it.  She picks flowers when she finds them, and tucks them into the other girls’ hair.

Her wolf’s mother killed the man who taught her to use the axe, and the man who taught her to use the axe killed that wolf’s mate before that, and the mate had an old woman’s blood on his teeth when it happened.  The ranger’s blade found the wolf’s mother’s throat.  The ranger’s mother sent her out into the woods in the first place.  It’s not as though anywhere is really safe, cottage or forest, axe or teeth.  One of these days maybe her wolf will turn and go for her in return, and maybe one of these days her axe will be faster and maybe it won’t.  In the mean time, there’s flowers and berries and pastries and enough game to keep everyone sated, for a little while.

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The paladin’s hair is raven black and her skin is chalky as a corpse.  She’s not undead, mostly.  The undead are her job.  She knows that much.

She was sweet, once (they were all sweet, once) but apples are bitter now and so is she, and there’s judgment to lay out in the world.  Her grip on her warhammer’s all wrong–she holds it like a mining hammer, but it hits as hard as it needs to.  Her armor’s all dwarven make, and her shield’s black and red and white like snow.

She was sweet once, and frightened, and when she says it quietly around the campfire in the night when none of them can quite make out the glimmer of understanding on each others’ faces, everyone still nods.  She took a bite of poison and somebody left her a full year in a glass coffin of Gentle Repose, dangling on the edge of the Raven Queen’s domain while all the other newly-arrived dead passed by and faded away.  She woke up to somebody’s lips and hands and skin on her lips and her hands and her skin.  She doesn’t like princes.  She doesn’t like necromancers.

She likes sunlight, and summer, and colors that aren’t black and white and red.  She likes the way the bard grins when she whirls into a dance, and the look in the warlock’s eye when she sets her feet to say no, and the wizard’s laughter on high with a Fly spell, and the ranger’s gentle fingers braiding flowers into everything she can touch.  

Wow 😯

Ethan, you wanna see some shit?

Nods. I agree death is not the only self sacrifice. Others include: - sacrificing one's Personal moral standards for greater good of those who care about. Example: A character who ardently against mind control because they had been victimised by it themselves but was forced into a scenario where they had to use mind control or something more awful and abusive would occur to great number of people.

ok but like when did self-sacrifice become synonymous with death? writers seem to have forgotten that people can make personal sacrifices for the greater good without giving their lives. plots about self-sacrifice and selflessness don’t always have to end in death. suffering doesn’t have to be mourning. you can create drama and emotional depth on your show without killing everyone. learn to explore the meaning of living rather than dying

Cool examples of various African Architecture styles. A great series of sharp shots. This sort of thing. Really helps in fleshing out creating world settings. I never had a good reference guide for this sort of architecture, definitely a few styles that would be amazing in what call the Spring Continent & the Summerlands Continent.

i feel like we don’t talk about things like this enough

I love the idea of all this so much.

You know what fantasy writing needs? Working class wizards.

A crew of enchanters maintaining the perpetual flames that run the turbines that generate electricity, covered in ash and grime and stinking of hot chilies and rare mushrooms used for the enchantments

A wizard specializing in construction, casting feather fall on every worker, and enchanting every hammer to drive nails in straight, animating the living clay that makes up the core of the crane

An elderly wizard and her apprentice who transmute fragile broken objects. From furniture, to rotten wood beams, to delicate jewelry

A battle magician, trained with only a few rudimentary spells to solve a shortage of trained wizards on the front who uses his healing spells to help folks around town

Wizarding shops where cheery little mages enchant wooden blocks to be hammered into the sides of homes. Hammer this into the attic and it will scare off termites, toss this in the fire and clean your chimney, throw this in the air and all dust in the room gets sucked up

Wizard loggers who transmute cut trees into solid, square beams, reducing waste, and casting spells to speed up regrowth. The forest, they know, will not be too harsh on them if the lost tree’s children may grow in its place

Wizard farmers who grow their crops in arcane sigils to increase yield, or produce healthier fruit

Factory wizards who control a dozen little constructs that keep machines cleaned and operational, who cast armor to protect the hands of workers, and who, when the factory strikes for better wages, freeze the machines in place to ensure their bosses can’t bring anyone new in.

Anyway, think about it.

I love this so much. Made my day. Never knew I wanted this but the moment this popped up, bam I was smiling.

Scenes I need...

Peter Parker: -on meeting Loki, offers his hand- Hi, I’m Peter!

Loki: -shakes his hand- Loki of Asgard.

Peter: Aren’t you like…a bad guy?

Loki: It varies from moment to moment.

Peter: So like…on a scale of one to ten, ten being the worst evil imaginable, like…killing puppies, and one being I’ll spit on your hotdog…where are you right now?

Loki: …maybe a three?

Peter: Cool. Lemme know if it gets above a six.

Loki: -thinking- I like him.

Fun & useful

25 Traps & Tricks For Your D&D Game...

A collapsing staircase creates a ramp that deposits the Party into a Pit at its lower end.

A ceiling block, or even the entire ceiling, collapses down upon the Party.

The ceiling lowers slowly into the room, as the doors lock shut and trap anyone inside.

A chute opens in floor, depositing the Party in a lower level of the Dungeon.

A loud clanging noise rings out, attracting any nearby monsters.

The door of the Dungeon Room (or other object) is coated in a deadly contact poison.

Touching an object in the Room triggers a Flesh to Stone Spell.

The floor collapses, or is an illusion, sending the Party falling down into another level of the Dungeon.

Several small slits in the ceiling act as a vent that releases a deadly gas.

The floor tiles of the Room are electrified.

A huge statue on wheels rolls down corridor, running over and crushing anything in its way.

The doors of the Dungeon Room lock as the Room slowly floods with water or acid.

A weapon, suit of armor, or rug animates and attacks anything that touches it.

An enormous pendulum, either bladed or weighted as a maul, swings across the Room or down the Corridor,

A hidden pit opens up beneath the Party, causing them to fall into a  Gelatinous Cube that fills the bottom of the pit.

A hidden pit floods with acid or shoots gets of magical flame.

The Party falls into a empty hidden pit. The pit then covers itself as it slowly floods itself with water or acid.

A set of brittle stairs collapse over a pit of spikes.

A large stone block smashes across the hallway.

The walls of a Corridor slowly slide together to crush anything unlucky enough to be stuck there.

A magical crown, when worn, ages the Creature by 1 Year.

A magical staff that, when touched by a living Creature, reduces the Creature’s Size by 1 Category (Medium becomes Small, Small becomes Tiny, etc).

A jewelled skull that gives false directions to any Creature it has not seen before.

A locked wooden chest that induces a great greed in any Creature that successfully opens it.

A scroll case that contains a false map of the Dungeon.

This is really cool...

“The Arcana is the means by which all is revealed… There is both joy and wonder in coming to understand another…”

Characters of The Lovers Arcana