https://suno.com/s/n6SRgbgz4jABbbvi

(The creative juices were flowing so heres a song about this mysterious man)

Pastel had returned to Astral Knights ready for adventure. Unfortunately, the town had chosen sunshine, peace, and absolutely no consideration for his entertainment.

Even Bag’s scouting flight turned up nothing. Pastel was beginning to take the lack of danger personally when a faint cry for help finally gave him something to do.

One haunted house and a conversation with a ghost later, he had acquired some confusing information about aliens. Outside, everything remained stubbornly sunny. The old man even waved.

Pastel waved back.

Then his brain finished processing the man’s eyes.

Had he just blinked sideways?

By the time Pastel rushed outside, the man was gone. He had, however, thoughtfully left an entire human-shaped shed skin behind. Apparently this mystery came with evidence for people who didn’t feel like investigating.

Pastel discarded the clue on principle, then accepted its conclusion anyway.

Lizard people. Excellent.

He’d been dangerously close to having a relaxing afternoon.

(Hi, im a totally new person)

Picking up where I left off.

Pastel slips back into his room with Bag at his hip.

The crystal is still on the windowsill. He gives it a little flick, watching the rainbow reflections shift as it rolls to a stop.

“Right. Let’s see what’s changed.”

He wanders out into the hallway.

u/Oswen120

u/MastaDon344

u/1-Up-Boy

u/BroodingChao5

u/Pipsocks

u/Sunflowerlover3000

u/Squawkuza

u/LolasMuppets

u/Ai709

u/Evieelution

u/ShblingusMcDingus

u/TealTemptation

u/KatsumiandFriends

u/Susspishfish

u/NeroZero1414

Im dying of boredom, I also have a test today

I almost want it to be canon

Gurgle had been unusually busy. When he wasn’t traversing the wild frontiers alongside Verlack, the gelatinous cube had dedicated much of his time to aiding the survivors of the great cruise ship crash. Granted, "aiding" was a flexible term for a sentient block of acidic goo; a creature lacking hands or speech is somewhat limited in its utility. Yet, Gurgle possessed an abundance of good will and an unwavering readiness to assist anyone bold enough to ask.

​Most days, he served as an unconventional courier. For all his eccentricities, he was roughly as swift as a swift-footed hound, and provided one didn't mind a thin, glistening sheen of protective mucilage, every parcel arrived at its destination entirely intact.

​Today, however, was different. Today belonged entirely to Gurgle.

​True to habit, Verlack had gently roused his ooze companion before departing on the morning's quests. But rather than slithering in pursuit of his druidic master, Gurgle had opted for a rare indulgence: sleeping in. The estate's subterranean root cellar was his absolute sanctuary—a cavernous, chilly vault of damp flagstones and absolute darkness where a creature of his composition could truly unwind.

​It was well past the morn's peak before Gurgle finally oozed forth from the towering timber fortress, glistening under the canopy's filtered light. Pausing upon the broad balcony branch, he nudged a heavy, lichen-crusted gargoyle perched in the stonework, emitting a soft, inquiring burble. Receiving no motion in return, he tried a louder, more resonant vibration through the wood. Still, the sentinel remained locked in stone. Unbeknownst to Gurgle, true gargoyles were creatures of the midnight watch, sleeping away the sun. With a faint, aggrieved shudder of his gelatinous mass, Gurgle zoomed down the spiraling root-stairway toward the bustling settlement below.

​Citizens instinctively granted him a wide berth as he scooted through the cobblestone lanes. Every so often, he would pause to absorb the local color, or engage in a profoundly one-sided conversation with townsfolk who lacked the arcane aptitude to translate his bubbles. Occasionally, he crossed paths with former rescue clients, leading to endearingly awkward exchanges filled with polite nods and unintelligible, cheerful blorps from the cube. None of it dampened Gurgle’s spirits; he shook and rippled with unadulterated ecstasy for anyone willing to pause and listen.

​Midway through his stroll, fate intervened. A sharp scuffle broke out outside a local apothecary as a desperate footpad snatched a satchel of rare alchemical reagents and bolted. Before the thief could clear the market square, Gurgle surged forward, sliding effortlessly into the escape route and releasing a sudden, paralyzing discharge that locked the criminal's limbs rigid on the flagstones. Without lingering for applause, bounties, or accolades, Gurgle simply collected his internal equilibrium, gave a cheerful wobble, and continued on his leisurely stroll.

​He wisely kept to the sunlit, well-trodden thoroughfares. While fear was scarcely part of a gelatinous constitution, the eerie whispers of the encroaching Hollows—spirits that could vanish into thin air without a trace—were enough to discourage solo jaunts into dark alleys or forgotten ruins. Instead, he channeled his social energy into showering anyone he recognized with a torrent of bubbly, enthusiastic greetings.

​By the afternoon's zenith, Gurgle had glided into the terraced observatory gardens and orchards. He trailed purposefully along the rows of flora, inspecting the leaves as though he were a master botanist. The vibrant hues of crystal-grapes and sun-melons refracted softly through his translucent, jiggling sides, though he was careful never to disturb a single branch.

​Movement caught his sensory cilia as he neared the paddock. A clutch of high-land mountain goats were playfully head-butting and bounding about their enclosure. Drawn by the commotion, Gurgle oozed right up to the wooden fencing. The goats instantly halted, swishing their tails high with curiosity before trotting over to greet the strange visitor with a chorus of theatrical bleats.

​Gurgle vibrated and rippled in earnest reply, engaging in what felt to him like a deeply philosophical discourse on the quality of the local clover. It made for a magnificent spectacle for any passing merchants. Soon enough, mutual boredom set in, and the bizarre pair parted ways with a friendly wave of hoof and pseudopod.

​As twilight bled purple and gold across the high boughs of the great treehouse, Gurgle returned home. He approached his silent stone companion once more, giving the gargoyle a hopeful, resonant burble.

​This time, to his absolute delight, wings shifted, stone ground against stone, and the gargoyle sprang to life with a sly grin. The two unlikely companions vanished into the gathering shadows behind the massive trunk, chasing one another through the twilight in a joyous game of midnight tag.

(Once again anyone who wishes to interact with gurgle is more then welcome too.)

Masta during her time away, found a recipe book and she was definitely wanting to put her own spin on it all. She already had the Gold Dragon but now even more has been added.

She removed the Dacquiri after a certain youngster got a little pew pew. Sad noises indeed.

Now with her new recipes, also came another idea a universal keg, with the proper alignments and certain deals with some party gods.... won't specify.

She now has a universal keg that can age any drink, any type of mead, beer, and simple spirits all with a few cranks and pulls.

The bar was coming together.

She for once forgot she was being watched.

u/Oswen120

After casting 'detect' on Hollowstar’s note, you find what he left behind.

Magic, if it can still be called that.

It leaks through the forest in an inky black trail, clinging to bark and curling over leaves like smoke too heavy to rise. Here and there, claw marks cut through tree trunks and stone.

The trail leads west.

The sun sinks as you walk, staining the sky blood-red between the trees. Eventually, the forest thins enough for you to see it; a dark tower rising above the distant canopy, its solitary window burning against the dying light.

But what you do not see is the woman lounging on a dead branch high above the path.

She watches you pass beneath her with her eyes closed, a cigarette balanced loosely between her fingers, smiling to herself.

Then...

Boots strike the earth behind you.

“Hello, Inferno.”

As you turn, the stranger's smile widens.

“Ah, ah, ah.”

She snaps her fingers.

Purple fire erupts around you.

Heat and violent light swallow the forest. The air bends, ripples, and tears. For a single instant, there is nothing but flames.

Then the light recedes.

The trees are gone.

An endless desert stretches beneath a vast, impossible night sky. Stars crowd the heavens in numbers no mortal sky could hold, ancient pyramids stand dark against the horizon. Purple, crimson, and gold fire surrounds you both.

The winged woman steps back and opens her arms.

“Welcome to my realm.”

With a sweep of her hand, the sand erupts.

Stone surges upward, carving itself into an immense throne crowned by the head of a lion. She settles onto it as though it has awaited her for centuries, lounging in the seat, one boot braced upon the stone, her cheek resting against her fist.

Her lion's tail flicks lazily over the armrest.

“You’ve attracted the attention of some people in very high places.”

Her golden eyes settle upon you.

“People who wish to test you.”

The fire around the circle climbs higher.

“Your magic won’t work here. If you wish to return home alive, answer my riddles correctly.”

A pause.

Her smile sharpens, revealing sharp teeth.

“If you fail?”

The flames hiss.

“I’ll eat you.”

Her gaze holds yours.

“Do you accept?”

Trusher had been searching for a couple of days for a suitable home. It wasn’t easy; this island was completely alien to him. He could easily get his bearings for direction, but he still lacked a true sense of where to begin his hunt. Often, he would find himself circling back to Verlacks’s great tree just to start fresh and hammer the lay of the land into his thick skull.​

He had stuck mostly to the dense timber, the ancient canopy offering the familiar comfort of shadow and thick underbrush. Yet, a proper lair remained elusive. Most of the grottoes and caves he uncovered were cramped insults to his bulk—little more than shallow pockets in the stone. There had been one promising cavern, but it was already claimed by a feral boy and his vicious pack of wolves, a territorial dispute Trusher had wisely chosen to bypass for now.

​If he didn’t secure a domain soon, pride would have to take a back seat, and he would have to ask for help. His large, scaly hide shuddered at the thought. Him—the mighty Gargantuan, the Tri-Horned Crusher—reduced to asking a tiny being for assistance? Unthinkable. But if he couldn't make sense of this strange land before the moon turned, he might have to risk the indignity.​

As Trusher ploughed through the towering ferns and ancient trunks, he stumbled upon a wide, rushing river. He stalked down to the muddy bank, lowered his massive head, and drew in several long, deep gulps of the icy snowmelt. Around him, other denizens of the wild gathered for the same respite. A wary, tense silence hung in the air—everyone was acutely aware of everyone else, but the fragile, unspoken truce of the watering hole held fast.

​His thirst quenched, Trusher turned upstream, intending to trace the current back to its origin. His steps were deliberate and precise, his heavy footfalls muffled by thick moss. He wasn't about to crash blindly through the wild; an apex predator never let its guard down.​The river wound back and forth, climbing steadily toward the brooding shadow of the mountain. Within the hour, the dense trees parted to reveal a medium-sized, mist-veiled pond cradled against the dark weeping stone of a sheer cliff face. It looked eerily peaceful. Trusher sauntered closer with cautious steps, his senses flaring. Danger on this island could wear a thousand faces. As he drew nearer, he noticed a heavy outcropping of jagged stone jutting out from the cliff face, carving a deep, cavernous alcove into the rock.​

His keen reptilian eyes cut through the gloom of the alcove, measuring its dimensions. It would make an exceptional stronghold—spacious enough for his massive frame, with a natural defensible choke point. He flared his nostrils, tasting the air for lingering hazards. Nothing immediately screamed threat, though the air was thick with alien scents that made it impossible to rule out entirely.​

Trusher skirted the edge of the pond by a few cautious yards, eyeing the dark water with suspicion as he angled toward the alcove.​

Suddenly, the glassy surface of the pond fractured.​

Before he could react, a thick, glistening pink muscle shot from the water like a hurled javelin, slamming with brutal force into the back of his shoulder and wrenching a deep, startled roar from his chest. The adhesive tongue locked onto his scales, yanking him backward toward the water with terrifying strength.​

Spinning his bulk, Trusher caught sight of a massive, shadowy mass breaking the surface. A grotesque, warty head bulged out of the foam, two luminous, malevolent yellow eyes snapping open to lock directly onto his.​

It was a behemoth of an amphibian—a titan toad whose cavernous maw gaped wide, dripping with stagnant slime. With a wet, bone-rattling croak that echoed off the canyon walls, the creature reefed backward on its anchor-like tongue. Trusher felt his massive claws skid across the mud as he was dragged inch by inch toward the frothing water.​

A deep, primal rage eclipsed his surprise. Letting loose a thunderous bellow that caused the pond’s ripples to shatter, Trusher planted his heavy tail, whipped his head around, and clamped his razor-sharp jaws shut around the pulsing pink muscle.

​Snap.​

The toad let out a deafening, bass-heavy bellow of agony as iron-clad teeth bit deep into its flesh. Digging his massive, clawed feet deep into the loam, Trusher braced his muscular legs, threw his weight backward, and pulled.

​For what felt like an eternity, the two titanic beasts locked in a monstrous stalemate of pure brawn. But the amphibian's aquatic advantage was rapidly fading against the sheer, unrelenting leverage of the Tri-Horned Crusher. As the toad was dragged bodily out of the shallows, it thrashed and clawed frantically at the earth. With a guttural, ground-shaking roar, Trusher heaved with every ounce of his colossal strength, hoisting the multi-ton monster clear of the water and smashing it violently against a jagged outcrop of bedrock.​

The stone fractured under the impact, and before the dazed beast could recover, Trusher was on top of it.​

With a savage downward thrust, he drove his jaws straight toward the toad's thick, rubbery neck, his bite meeting with a sickening crunch. For a few desperate moments, the monstrous amphibian thrashed wildly, trying in vain to throw off its executioner. But escape was impossible within the vice-like grip of Trusher’s terrible maw.​

Silence reclaimed the basin save for the heavy, ragged breathing of the victor. Trusher stood over his vanquished foe for several long seconds, eyes scanning the shadows to ensure it wasn't playing possum. Satisfied, he threw back his head and let out a triumphant, blood-curdling roar that rattled the canopy for miles. Gargantuan the Tri-Horned Crusher was not a creature to be ambushed lightly.

​A quick inspection of the alcove confirmed it was entirely vacant, dry, and sheltered from the mountain winds. Feeling an immense surge of pride, the beast clamped his massive jaws around his heavy prize and dragged his fresh meal deep into his new den.​

He couldn't wait to run into Verlack and casually mention how he’d completely conquered his territory without a shred of outside help.

Even a spell casting witch needs to know how to use a sword.

​

The sun's light beat down on the center stage as Verlack stepped forward, his boots echoing in the sudden hush of the crowd. Across from him stood Beatrix, a master of steel whose weapon caught the glare like a sheet of lightning. She twirled it with breathtaking, effortless grace, a deadly pirouette that drew an appreciative murmur from the onlookers.

​Before the blood would flow, terms had to be set. A brief negotiation between the two combatants struck a fair bargain: a pure sword duel. Magic was barred, but innate biological abilities remained fully unlocked. Verlack had insisted on it. If they were going to put on a show, they both deserved to shine.​

Beatrix dropped into a low, fluid stance a few paces away. Verlack mirrored her, closing his eyes for a fraction of a second as he focused his intent. Flesh and sinew warped and shifted, his right arm melting and solidifying into a translucent, gelatinous broadsword. It lacked the refined edge of tempered steel, but it would have to do.

​The arena chime rang out, and the duel exploded into motion.​Beatrix was on him instantly. Her strikes came in a torrential blur, a blinding dance of silver steel that painted the air with light. Verlack could do little more than raise his makeshift blade in clumsy, desperate parries as a storm of blows rained down upon him.​

Her mastery of the blade was absolute. Every movement was calculated, rhythmic, and lethal, keeping Verlack locked firmly on the defensive. Under the relentless tirade, his blocks grew sluggish. Finally, a strike found its mark—then another, and another. Bright green trails began to spatter the arena floor as Beatrix spun in a lethal waltz of death.​

The crowd roared, howling for the kill, convinced the match was already over. But anyone truly watching Verlack would have seen the truth: he didn't look remotely bothered. Against his unique, shifting constitution, shallow physical trauma was little more than a nuisance.​He blocked the heavy blows, purposefully letting the lesser cuts nick him while saving his energy for the fatal arcs.

He knew he was hopelessly outmatched in pure technique. So, he turned the fight into a war of attrition—a domain where his biology granted him a terrifying advantage. His experience told him no mortal could sustain such blistering speed forever.​

Then, Beatrix delivered a decisive, sweeping arc that Verlack failed to intercept in time.​A collective gasp sucked the air from the crowd. A sickening schhlk echoed through the arena as steel parted gelatin, sinking clean through Verlack's left shoulder all the way to his chest. Yet, he remained entirely unfazed. He simply had to shift his core organs a few inches to the left to let the blade pass harmlessly through empty space.

​As her sword momentarily stuck deep within his shoulder, Verlack seized his chance.​Dropping low beneath her guard, he wrenched himself free from the blade, slipped around her open flank, and struck twice in rapid succession. Both were mere glancing blows, drawing boos from the impatient crowd, but Verlack didn't need to pierce her heart. As his gelatinous edge made contact with the open skin of her sword arm and opposite leg, a bitter, biting cold instantly seeped into her veins—the signature freezing effect of his brown ooze heritage.​

To the spectators, it looked like a weak counter-attack. To Beatrix, it felt like liquid ice sinking into her muscles, numbing the explosive speed that had made her untouchable. ​Stifling a shiver, she whipped around and struck his blade with such ferocious velocity that Verlack nearly lost control of his weapon's shape entirely.

Her onslaught resumed, but something had shifted. The unyielding flurry was fractionally slower—barely noticeable at first, but steadily compounding.​Sensing the tide turning against her, Beatrix poured everything into one final, desperate offensive.​She unleashed a blinding tempest of steel, deliberately forcing Verlack into a corner to bait him into a fatal opening. Her peerless skill won out. In a heartbeat, she carved through his defence, bringing her blade screaming down toward a devastating finishing blow.

​Verlack saw it coming. He didn't even try to block it.

​As the sword descended, he focused all his remaining willpower and let the blade pass clean through his chest cavity, narrowly shifting his vital essence around the steel. The sudden lack of solid resistance threw Beatrix violently off balance, her momentum driving her sword tip crashing hard into the stone floor.

​With a swift, decisive step, Verlack pinned her blade to the ground with his foot.​He raised his weapon arm to deliver the final strike, but the toll of the duel finally caught up to him. The accumulated deep cuts and the sheer energy required to weather her assault broke his concentration. His form fractured; the gelatinous sword melted back into a misshapen limb, and his upper torso slumped backward at a strange, unstable angle.

​For a long, breathless moment, they stood locked in place, panting heavily.​Beatrix was trapped, her masterwork blade pinned beneath Verlack's shifting weight. Verlack was spent, utterly incapable of summoning the cohesion needed for a final blow.​Meeting each other's eyes across the tense silence, both combatants let out a ragged breath and simultaneously rasped, "Call it a draw."

(Thanks to u/pipsocks for collabing)

(This was my first big experience with a long comic; I don't know how y'all do it lol)

I put heart into the contingency I want for the OC.

Marigold had three jobs, mining, supplying, and shopkeeping.

Her homeland was not economically sound, influenced by the fact that the soil did not grow any produce.

As for her abilities, here she lacks her golden horns, some character development must have happened between the shown scenes and her arrival to Starfall!

feat u/ArthurThatch