Хочу додати в НХ барда, але його треба якось інакше назвати.

(Це не ім'я для персонажа, я буду додавати клас Барда в свою настолку, але for legal reasons він не може називатися Бард)

Я думаю спинитись на Трубадурі

Для контексту, це буде не бард з мемів, а щось ближче до оцього

Day 9. Bounce.
"Mister Harmson and I have been through many a thing together. We bumped into each other by pure chance back in summer of '87, somewhere on the Mexican-Texan border and made acquaintance on account of the both of us being hideous in the eyes of the law for very different reasons. After that, we rolled around the Lone Star for about a year, then headed to New Orleans via a gigantic sky snake (I promise to elaborate on that at some point) and later headed across the Atlantic to Ireland and then Gobby.
Here we lended our servicers as "contractors" to big players in the city, started operating from the Newcomer Inn, partook in a gang war or two, the uprising as well, and, after I got severely beat up by a stash of dynamite exploding in my face, settled down."

"...From then on mister Harmson started working in the Inn as a bouncer and a bruiser for when things get hairy - as they tend to do in a tight space full of guns for hire. He seems content with this job, though I can seldom distinguish the goings-on of that man's mind."

Clint Westfield, "Journeyman's Journals, Volume 2"

Day 10. Fortune.

"...I know you to be a sceptic, but I went to a supposed fortune teller in Northside. Cranky old soul, she was, read my palm, read my cards. Nothing of interest, really. I do not believe her to be truly gifted with the knowledge of the future.
The crystal ball, however, told an interesting story. She said she saw me in front of a raging bull, who was standing still, unlike me, who was the one to charge it. The bull then turned into the serpent and strangled me as I was stabbing it with a flaming sword, both of us writhing in agony.
It is peculiar how, no matter which way you look at it, it does seem to tell the future I have already set myself up for. Whichever way it plays out, I will die at the grasp of the serpent while trying to save it from the bull."

Letter addressed to F. Ember, believed to be written by J. Smith. 1899.

Day 11. Wander.
"Although the Saint James island has served as a place of final respite for many for the past two centuries, we rarely have accidents with any kinds of ghouls, ghosts or goblins. It is because our practices ensure that souls of the dead are content and buried with all necessities.
There is one, however. Every once in a while, once a year, to be precise, in the end of October, but not every year, for it depends on circumstances, an apparition appears from the sea, wrapped in wet garbs and seaweed, bearing a top hat and an axe, yet with a distinct absence of a head on his shoulders. Whenever that does happen to happen, he wanders around the graveyard gazing at the graves, looking for his noggin, and, if happens to see a door of any kind, or a portal where a door used to be, walks through it and upon that vanishes."

Father Antonio, "Short History of the Saint James Island"

За першу добу зібрали 91 мільйон грн це вже 52 зі 100 дронів

Залишилось 48 дронів, прошу вас і сьогодні поширювати та підтримати збір донатом

https://send.monobank.ua/jar/3LqSdtSG2s

Щоденники автора TTRPG

А я для душі займаюся оцією блять шизофренією виделочки тарєлочки блять

Day 12. Spicy.

"I've got the spiciest fucking peppers on the damn island, sir. I'm completely off the rocker. The magic cops tried to reach me, call me a ghost the way they can't grab me. This chili can be fried, boiled, baked, roasted, dried, eaten raw and smoked. I smoke it. I smoke it raw.
... All these gangsters and bandits trotting around, they don't dare touch old Vlad, they walk away at the sight of my grimace, they shiver in their pink boots. Fuck off and die."

Unknown man in his letter to the Gobby city council, 1899.

😍😍😍😍😍

66 грн сюди: https://send.monobank.ua/jar/3LqSdtSG2s

200 піпісників в інсті