Let me introduce you to Qamar... I.e. My D&D char
So... I just started with a new D&D campaign. My first time at D&D but not at tabletop rpg's so went in and it wasn't as role-play heavy as I was used to. So I did a write-up on Qamar (my raven/black throated magpie jay hybrid) and her reaction to this whole, yes, lets go in the hole and the ground and explore, idea that the company had. It entertained me, so I thought it may entertain others. Or ya'know, I should at least put it somewhere for posterity.
In the corner of the wretched hole in the ground that our 'intrepid explorers' decided to investigate, Qamar grumbles. Her dark beak and slicked back feathers peak out from the over-sized charcoal hood on her head, caught on her uncomfortable, pinned, crest feathers. They had been sitting here for a little while. 'Resting' they called it. Though how anyone could rest in a hole in the ground was beyond her. She snorted a bit to herself, a harsh echoing noise on the damp walls around her. 'Resting' isn't a thing you do underground.
With the cave/dungeon/WhateverTheHellThisFuckingPlaceWas walls closing in around you. She tucked her arm-feathers in even closer to her body, wrapping thin dark arms over each other in the wide blue embroidered sleeves of her robe. Even the sparrow seemed unconcerned. About the space at least. He didn't even seem to mind (that much) when she had shoved him into that strange crack behind the wall because she thought there may have been some valuable shiny things, or maybe just some high quality luminescent moss, down there.
Of course that really just proved to her that sparrows weren't proper avians anyhow. Which she hazily remembered her mom telling her anyhow. Memories of her parents were blurred with time and her young age, but she definitely remembered the thing about sparrows. Not proper birds. Living in filthy dens. Ugh. Probably underground too. That's probably why he was so comfortable in this hole. With the ceiling closing in. Stupid adventurers.
Surely it'd be worth it. She did need some pretty particular spell components, and the powdered finger of a dead man who walked again was certainly going to go a long way towards helping. And if she could find the skin of a luminescent elephant slug down here that'd sure be great. But seriously. Resting? Down here. Who did they think she was? A bat?
She huffed again, setting soft raucous echoes throughout the cavern. Muttering to herself, clattering her beak lightly she pulled out her crossbow bolts. Guess if they were stuck down here she may as well enchant a few more. Her pale red eyes gleamed for a moment, she did so enjoy blowing things up. Setting things on fire. Watching bandits/walls/trees/letsbehonestanything burn in a flash of her blazing blue fire. Her dark talons twitched, blue tattooed runes flaring for a moment down the length of her arms as she pulled her sleeves back to start open her satchel and the tiny vials on her bandolier, filled with the really volatile components. This would take her mind off of things. Her hood fell back when her crest feathers raised a bit as her interest started to focus on her rather tempermental ingredients, blood red spots on the tips of the feathers catching the ruddy light of the torches. Still muttering in her hissing voice about idiots and the underground, her eyes pinned, attention fixed on the very delicate process of making this particular potion. She wanted it to blow up into a fanfare of beautiful flame when it hit the enemy, not when she was pouring out the powdered greenfin bone...
In the corner of the wretched hole in the ground that our 'intrepid explorers' decided to investigate, Qamar grumbles. Her dark beak and slicked back feathers peak out from the over-sized charcoal hood on her head, caught on her uncomfortable, pinned, crest feathers. They had been sitting here for a little while. 'Resting' they called it. Though how anyone could rest in a hole in the ground was beyond her. She snorted a bit to herself, a harsh echoing noise on the damp walls around her. 'Resting' isn't a thing you do underground.
With the cave/dungeon/WhateverTheHellThisFuckingPlaceWas walls closing in around you. She tucked her arm-feathers in even closer to her body, wrapping thin dark arms over each other in the wide blue embroidered sleeves of her robe. Even the sparrow seemed unconcerned. About the space at least. He didn't even seem to mind (that much) when she had shoved him into that strange crack behind the wall because she thought there may have been some valuable shiny things, or maybe just some high quality luminescent moss, down there.
Of course that really just proved to her that sparrows weren't proper avians anyhow. Which she hazily remembered her mom telling her anyhow. Memories of her parents were blurred with time and her young age, but she definitely remembered the thing about sparrows. Not proper birds. Living in filthy dens. Ugh. Probably underground too. That's probably why he was so comfortable in this hole. With the ceiling closing in. Stupid adventurers.
Surely it'd be worth it. She did need some pretty particular spell components, and the powdered finger of a dead man who walked again was certainly going to go a long way towards helping. And if she could find the skin of a luminescent elephant slug down here that'd sure be great. But seriously. Resting? Down here. Who did they think she was? A bat?
She huffed again, setting soft raucous echoes throughout the cavern. Muttering to herself, clattering her beak lightly she pulled out her crossbow bolts. Guess if they were stuck down here she may as well enchant a few more. Her pale red eyes gleamed for a moment, she did so enjoy blowing things up. Setting things on fire. Watching bandits/walls/trees/letsbehonestanything burn in a flash of her blazing blue fire. Her dark talons twitched, blue tattooed runes flaring for a moment down the length of her arms as she pulled her sleeves back to start open her satchel and the tiny vials on her bandolier, filled with the really volatile components. This would take her mind off of things. Her hood fell back when her crest feathers raised a bit as her interest started to focus on her rather tempermental ingredients, blood red spots on the tips of the feathers catching the ruddy light of the torches. Still muttering in her hissing voice about idiots and the underground, her eyes pinned, attention fixed on the very delicate process of making this particular potion. She wanted it to blow up into a fanfare of beautiful flame when it hit the enemy, not when she was pouring out the powdered greenfin bone...