Roll and then write a story about your roll, make it as entertaining as possible

roll and then write a story about your roll, make it as entertaining as possible.

Other urls found in this thread:

youtube.com/watch?v=YbBU06irWT8
twitter.com/NSFWRedditImage

ok

Rollin' for lucky 99!

>Dragoon

Oh well at least I can fly.

ROLLLL

Maybe.

Rollin'

I need to learn2writefag

Prepared to be disappointed

Entertaining to whom?

Rollin

William Dafoe.

>Technomancer

"zztzztZT-Mistress, time to get up!"

She opened bleary eyes and peered at the luminous red and black blur that hovered at the edge f her bed and leaned over her. Pulling away she fumbled for her spectacles. "Im up, I'm up." Placing the thick crystal lenses carefully upon her face they lit the room through the lenses in a soothing blue-white radiance, though n truth the room remained dark ave for the daemon.

Said daemon pixilated and broke apart to reform perched on the back of her chair and cross her delicate ankles, the dainty hooves swinging back and forth as her wings fluttered insubstantially. "Good mo-zzzt-evening mistress! You have an appointment with the silversmith on Brooks Avenue at the Sixth bell. You have a dinner da-zzztz-appointment with Acanthas the Erlborne at One-Half Past the Seventh bell."

Mutterign to herself the Technomancer Killian pulled her hair from her face. "Thank you, Dandie. Coffee please." The daemon pixilated and appeared flutterign over the counter, where she began pouring black sludge into a ceramic cup, whch was placed on a circular stone decorated with wire and gemstones around the edges. The diminutive daemon added water to the sludge and flew in circles, stirring the mixture until it began to steam and thin to something drinkable.

Tapping the lamp activated the crystals under the shade, bringing a warm golden light to the room. Tapping her spectacles the ceased providing extra visual information, and Killian crawled out of bed, and towards the cage that would instantly clean her of the evening sweat - and the accompanying reek of alcohol overindulgence - with carefully tuned vibratory crystals set in the bars of the cage. Kicking silver and gold wire and dull, cracked crystals out from underfoot, she staggered to the sound-shower and hoped Dandelion wouldn't burn her coffee this time.

Rolling for something sexy

>Warlock

A cold grey haze hung about the marsh. The rising sun made the world a monochrome grey where he couldn't tell the fog around him from the slate sky. Darkness still clung to the furthest reaches of the marsh. No birds cried out here and the wintry, wet soil was devoid of insects. He drew his robes about him closer as the distinctly sharp chill of the marsh night blew lightly over his face and made the fog swirl thickly. It was out of some far corner he heard the trickle of water seeping back into separated ground. The low little sloshes crept forward steadily to his position on the mossy rock he sat on. He never heard it approach, but once it was there, he could feel it in the vagueness before him, like the sensation of something close to your skin but not actually touching it. It was dimly irritable, and he began to stand up to shift the feeling.

Careful not to slip on the dewy moss under him, he stood up and produced from his satchel a parcel. He untied the red string about it and carefully removed the straw packing. Stepping from the rock, the marsh slime drew him in, and the ankle deep water around him parted silently like the fog. He took especial care not to stumble on the uneven surface and drop the priceless contents of the package. He had spent a lot of money procuring the body of the infant saint, he couldn't afford hiring that band again, and certainly couldn't do it himself. It's what was needed, and was perfect anyway, nothing else would possibly do. He stepped a little into the mud and laid the package on the low water and pushed it forward. It was devoured immediately by the fog. Something shifted before him, and a colossal silhouette he hadn't even noticed before drew back into the remaining shadow as the sun shown faint breaks of blue overhead. Somewhere far off an insect droned, and the warlock rushed through the mud and slime before the boatmen came through this area, or the town guard patrolled past his home.

You can't tell me what to do.

Roll

Got nothing better to do.

I'm probably not going to write anything good because I'm buzzed but we'll see.

I knew a druid once. What a fucking cunt. Transformed into a dragon and shit and bragged about how powerful he was. Didn't even do shit that was useful, the cleric out fought him nine times out of ten. If I had to be a druid I'd just hang out as a spider and spy on people. That'd be dope. But I'd still be a fuckboy nature lover druid. Okay that's my story.

that is not what a dragoon means. IIRC it means something like a musketeer, but I could be wrong.

rolling

Rolled 24 + 1 (1d100 + 1)

They see me rolling

Oh shit I should have just rolled a d100, forgot I could do that. Alright, 28 is a raider, not bad. Give me a minute here...

roll

Rollan'

gross

Time to roll

What the fuck is a Ballistician?

They floated down the river on a moonless night, clinging to logs and covering themselves with brush, floating in on the slow current. Naked, slimy with the scum of their swamp, covered in whorls and patterns of scars, human and yet inhuman. They killed with their teeth, their bone and shell knives, their poisoned darts and javelins. They slaughtered villagers in their sleep, slaughtered them as they went half-asleep to the window, slaughtered them as they began to finally arm themselves and try to muster their futile resistance in the village center.

A rider reached our fort before dawn. A wild-eyed teenager who had jumped on his neighbor's horse and galloped out of town with a pack of screaming savages running after him. He told me how they had butchered the dead, piling the meat on their rafts of reeds. Naturally, we mustered the garrison, donned armor, took up arms and marched out along the swamp road.

They were gone when we got to the village. They had painted the walls in blood, occult symbols mixing with scrawled curses, the few words of our language they knew being obscenities. The heads of the villagers were stacked at the altar of holy Cythras. We looked long into the tangled depths of the swamp, as the sun rose on gore and horror. Long we gazed, yet could not bring ourselves to pursue the devils and enter the swamp ourselves.

That is our shame, our cowardice, just as fleeing their bloody work was the cowardice of the savage raiders. I admit my shame freely. But I must ask: for what was this blood shed? What can this precious crimson price buy? For is it really true that gold and diamonds lie below this water-logged land? Or do we clear the tangled trees, and drain the brown waters, and endure the attack of the savages, for nothing?

They will never stop. We are strong, and organized, but they are born to war, and hate burns in their hearts.

-- Report of Commander Turos of Fort Blackwater

Someone who works a ballista, I assume

Rolled 8 (1d100)

Not something retarded?

spellsword get

Rolled 30 (1d100)

cool

strategist

I'm not writing a story about a strategist, but I guess someone else can use my roll if they don't like theirs

Rollanating

With a subjob!

Rolling rolling rolling

Rolled 88 (1d100)

Rollan

>quads for Samurai
>dubs for Magician
Checked.

Rerollan

Rolled 21 (1d100)

lets see, then.

roll

lets see what I get!

fuck me I got battlemage

rollandine

Rolling for the fun of it

Wow, didn't see that coming

Roll

dice+100

noko+dice+1d100

and just like that i'm a retard

Rollio

Raider
"Get those sails closed you Dogs!," he shouted, his arm swinging forward, pointing his tarnished axe at the shoreline. Dark clouds gathered all around overhead, sooner than they should have, and the waves crashed against the hull of the ship the same way his last meal did in his stomach.

There was no time for that though, he sucked in air as he moved from the aft of the ship to the bow, wind whipped through his stale gray hair and thick droplets of water soon followed just as the shore drew closer and closer, and the huddled grey shapes standing on it became more defined. Their attack had been spotted, not that he expected otherwise, but the fortifications were better crafted than the other villages along the Drowned Man's Coast.

"Ready the anchors!" another called out, he braced himself against the bow of the ship as he lifted up the metal flange, it's crusty chain grasping for dear life and wailing out as the raider and another crewmate threw them out, just as they felt the ship scrape the shifting sands just under the shoreline.

Wood clattered all around as oars fell to the deck, cries ringing out not just from their ship and brother ship, but from the inhabitants as their archers let loose a sputtering volley of wood arrows, one caught on the edge of his mail hauberk, another striking a good friend in the leg as he fell against the sucking sands nearly up to his thigh. but the raider didn't stop, his feet clawed at the ground as he lifted himself up over the dune, rushing for the fortifications.

Dauerk, a friend, had taken his heavy maul and made short work of a wood barricade, bursting open it's rope and wood guts as he made a breach large enough for two men abreast, but the villagers shifted into place, spears already at the ready to strike back at anyone who moved in, this did not stop the raider though, he moved in closer, their spears at the ready did not stop the raider, what did, was the terrifying sound of the Siren as it slithered forth

ran out of room right at the climax and had to end it abruptly, ruined the flow so that's all I'll manage to muster right now

"okay, 3 2 1, go"

youtube.com/watch?v=YbBU06irWT8

The necromancer runs to the head of the parade and raises his staff, leading the "Undead orchestra" trough the streets of the grand city infront of him.
He laughed as music played, civilians screamed as the caravan of horrors rolls trough town, spreading gasses and diseased left and right while playing a cheerful tune, as they were trained
The guards are overwhelmed by music instrument armed corpses and they scatter as the king's entrails are being strung and played like a violin, the necromancer watches from the king's balcony how the city dances and burns

Close, its a musketman on horseback

Rollan'

rolling for freedome

mentalist yea imma re roll that

Rolling.

IDK any tropes about Heralds, rerolling.

Check my 1

Rollan'

Someone else already did raider, rerollan'

All theese rolls but no stories, i shall roll again and write moar

rollin'

The scorceror paces around the shield that surrounds the evil wizard
"come on you bearded fuck, come out and lets get fighting" The scorceror exclaims and bounces in place, getting all jittery from adrenaline
"You impatient weakling, TRUE magic takes focus and preperation, i shall destroy you as soon as i am ready" The wizard sneers and finishes inscribing the last runes upon his talisman and puts it on. The wizard draws power from it, chanting scriptures that were long lost and learned by only him, drawing upon the lost power of the black frost.

"Now i shall destory you, youngling" The wizard exclaims and drops the barrier and begins to chant the words for the spell that shall vanquish the scorceror with one hit.

"Took you long enough grampa" The scorceror points his hands into the direction of the wizard and two bolts of lightning hit the old man, throwing him off his feet and interrupting the complex spell.

"You old nerds and your books, how can you hope to command magic with all that study and no passion" He raises his hand and thinks of a creative way to finish off the wizard.
In the end what was found of the wizard was only his robes and ash.

That was fun, il write another one

Dear Diary, last week was a mess.

Monday: I got a new employer, some shady elf who never told me her name, but atleast he pays a lot, he asked me to steal a rare gem from the dwarf caravan, risky, but il be set with whores and ale for the next month

Tuesday: I sneaked past the dwarves and stole the gem with little problem, a dwarf caought me on the way out of the caravan and asked me questions, so i bluffed that i was a tax collector , he could not get rid of me fast enough

Wensday: Blast that elven wench, she double-crossed me, no matter, i faced her mercenaries with sword and shield and cut them down one by one with great martial prowess, i got a few wounds out of it, but hers will be worse when i find her.

Thursday: After healing my wounds with magic i went and asked the local mages guild for a divination, they let me in after inspecting me if i was a true magician, of course, no problem for a chameleon.

Friday: I know where she is hiding, in a cottage in the woods she runs a web of spies and mercenaries, luckily she allways looks for new recruits, no problem, il just throw on the old spy attire and apply.

Saturday: People say revenge is best served cold, but i prefer it hot and in the shape of a fireball to the face, she won't be double-crossing honest adventurers anymore. I got my delayed payment from her safe and a little extra.

Sunday: Cant bother to write, hangover.

must write moar

Rolled 54 + 1 (1d100 + 1)

rollin

The dwarf fans himself as his opponent is stretching, its a hot day outside, and he would rather keep cool than jump and flex around, not on such a hot day.
His opponent was an elven warrior, eager to prove his power in the eyes of his loved one, and the way he chose to prove it is to challenge the dwarven duelist Gorom Silverthumb, thinking the short stout creature could never keep up with an agile elf.

"Come on dwarf, lets get this over with. The people may think you as an impressive duelist, but you can never defeat my grace and speed!" The elf taunts and strikes a pose with it's bastard sword, a streak of sweat running down his brow from the heat and stretching.

"About time." Gorom sits up from his chair and draws his rapier and dueling dagger, raising his weapons in defense. "Begin."
The elf springs forward and thrusts at Gorom from the side, the tip is gently brushed aside by a flick of the dwarf's wrist. The elf laughs and spins around aiming to crush the dwarf's defense with a powerfull side blow. Gorom takes a step back and the sword tip barely misses his side.
The elf grimaces and attemps a flurry of strikes to overwhelm his opponent, all of them parried or sidesteped by the dwarf, saving his stamina.

The elf stops for a moment and pants, red in the face and dripping with sweat. "You liitle slug, i will cleave you in two!" The elf raises his sword high for a massive blow.
Gorom raises his rapier and pushes with the flat of his blade at the elf's wrists, keeping him from swinging down.
The elf attempts to swing down and pushes agaisnt the flat of the blade with his wrists, failing to notice the dwarf's dagger strike forward and piercing the elf's throat.

Silverthumb steps back and obsrves the elf drop his sword and grip at his throat, blood pouring on his gloves and chest before falling to his knees and to the side.

The dwarven duelist wipes his dagger and sits back on his chair.

"Next!"

time to roll

Death Knight, come on Death Knight.

Favorite class, sorely underrepresented.

Rolling

Rolled 1 + 100 (1d1 + 100)

my story:
>le moi being me
>logging into Veeky Forums
>it is a shitty op is a faggot thread
>make mock dice roll
>abandon thread
>the end.

Rolled 16 (1d100)

What I get

Torches crackled on walls. The room smelled of dust, ink and paper. There was one man leaning at a table, staring at a map adorned with wooden figures. He was middle aged, and dressed plainly. A thick beard hid lips drawn thin. Many others stood at his side, dressed in crinkled royal clothes. One was chewing their fingernails.
The room was silent. The meeting continued staring at the man at the maps head. The smell of perfume badly masked the presence of sweat.
The meeting looked relived once the man with the map began to speak. "We cannot run. They outnumber us three to one, but we cannot run. Our army is starved and desperate. Their captains sip wine and laugh at us from their iron grip on the sea. But this is the best engagement we'll get for a long time."
"I know our foe well. He is brilliant, but not as brilliant as he thinks he is." Silence clawed it's way back into the room. The tactician thumbed his beard, knowing what he was about to say, but pondering how to say it.
"Position our cavalry here. These spearmen will be positioned as bait, to lure them into the core of our army while the archers holds here and the core falls back to the highground. Burn the bridges that would allow us to retreat."

Rolled 68 (1d100)

Post is class.
Roll is what the character secretly wishes to be.

Rollan this bitch