Dagger (Bard) (Neutral Good)

What to expect: Interracial/Interspecies, Human Supremacy, ****, Mind Control, Harems, ****, Corruption, Dirty Talk, and Human’d/Humaned, as they say. Also: gross icky blood. If any of the above mentioned do not appeal to you, please do not read nor continue.

Anything bad that occurs here is strictly for sexy times only. Racism is bad, **** is bad, you shouldn’t cheat on your significant other, you shouldn’t fuck family members, and you shouldn’t kill anyone. Why is this at the start? I’m a DM myself and choose to make a place where players are comfortable and having fun. With that said, happy reading, dear adventurer.

STR: 13 (+1)
DEX: 15 (+2)
CON: 6 (-2)
INT: 12 (+1)
WIS: 9 (-1)
CHA: 16 (+3)
Class & Background: Level 3 Bard - Entertainer
Skills/Proficiencies: Acrobatics, Performance, Medicine, Religion, Science, Survival.

You blink, and look once more at the weapons sitting before you. Your eyes drift towards a simple dagger sitting on the table before you. You pick it up and can see that there’s nothing special about it, just an everyday dagger, one usually used for survival in the wilderness. If anything, it’s more akin to a kitchen knife than any actual weapon used for combat. Nothing like a family emblem, nor anything like carvings or engravings on neither the blade nor hilt.

You look at your reflection, shining in the solid steel and iron of the blade, and let out a tired sigh. Odd dreams again, huh? A rather odd one this time too. Who knew your mind could plop you into a place like this, eh?

Sitting on the place beside it, you can see a sheathe. One that’s colored in ashen gray and feeling like a mix of both leather and rope in your hands. It looks like it complements the dagger perfectly, like a key to a lock. You pick in up and, after taking a bit more time to inspect the dagger in your hand, finally choose to sheathe the blade into its rightful sheathe... before you black out.

You awaken once more. This time, not on the ground, but inside a room, inside of what looks to be a tavern given the copious amount of... admittedly cheap booze on the bedside table, fit with two shot glasses. One of which is tipped over, spilling its contents onto the floor.You’re... alone on the bed, as naked as the day you were born. You look into a nearby mirror and look at yourself once more: handsome features, enough to make any woman swoon in delight, a light stubble forming on your chin. Your hair is messy and unkempt, and your eyes are bloodshot and half-lidded. Your lips are dry and crusty, and your eyebags seem worse than they were yesterday.

You look at your body, and look over yourself in the mirror. Slim hips, toned arms and stomach, solid calves and thighs. The body of an adventurer, is it were. What truly stood out were what was in the middle of your legs: your penis.

It could be that you’re just really drowsy and that this was nothing but a case of early-morning blues, but you could have sworn that your penis wasn’t that big when you saw it yesterday. Last night, as you recall, it was a rough 5, maybe 5 ½ inches hard. Enough to satisfy a woman, sure, but you feel that it’s been dwarfed compared to your penis today: 8, maybe 9 inches flaccid, with a solid girth of 3 ½ inches.

You should probably get checked soon. A sudden growth isn’t that healthy, probably.

Anyway, lying on the bed is a rucksack, one containing all of your traveling equipment:

A Lute. One made of solid wood with strapped on Aarakocra feathers, and with strings made from the finest enchanted silk in the entirety of T’sara. Or, at least, that’s what the merchant who sold you the lute told you. It could just be a normal instrument.

A Map. A wide one, displaying the Kingdom of Khartoum. Seeing as you have a map of the Kingdom of Khartoum, typical logic would dictate that you’re probably somewhere in the country. Unfortunately, that’s all you can assess, seeing as you have no other clues other than to ask around with other people.

A Dagger. Nothing special, nothing magical about it. It’s just a dagger, albeit one suited for basic combat and self-defense, but a simple dagger nonetheless.

Clothes. Flashy tattered garments, as they were, tattered as they are, look to be fitting of someone of noble stature. Unfortunately, you aren’t a noble, you’ve just opted to dress like one since... A.) No one wants a dirty musician, smelling like a peasant during their parties, and B.) You were a professional and a romantic at heart. Flashy clothes and a good singing voice (as well as a good... personality) were easy, surefire ways of getting into a woman’s heart. They’re a bit roughed up after last night.

A Leaf. A simple, leaf. One that’s manage to not decay after all of these years, thanks to an enchantment from your sister when you two were young. Looking at it brings you back to simpler, better times. Times where you and your sister played outside without a care in the world. Times where your family was whole, where it seemed that nothing would ruin it. Times were your mother recounted tales of the glory of man and the Immortal Emperor of The Intransican Empire, thus causing you to have some... interesting views about other species.

You should probably take the time to visit your family once in a while, huh?

150 GP (Or whatever the closest alternative is). Some funds you've saved up during your adventures as a traveling musician.

Now, finally fully clothed, with your penis tucked carefully inside your pants, your rucksack properly strapped onto your back, and your lute properly secured onto your front, you opt to leave.

With an absolutely throbbing headache, one from your hangover might I add, you slowly, but surely, manage to lumber your way into the lobby of the inn/tavern that you were in. At the lobby of the inn, or the main part of the tavern, depending on how you view things, you see almost no one awake at this hour of the morning.

The only two people are the barkeep; someone you can remember as being someone you befriended just a few days earlier (be it because of your... interesting personality, or for the fact that you tend to tip rather generously when drunk, who knows?), and the barmaid, a woman that looks to be in her late 20's to early 30's, despite you remembering that she told you last night that she was 40, much to your bewilderment.

...Immortal Emperor bless you, for you could not, for the life of you, remember what her name was, only the fact that you two had sex so intense last night that your clothes looked like they were the victim of a dragon's claws with how messed up they were. It would probably be best if you bought some new clothes with your current funds.

Your eyes lock and, for a second, her face heats up red and she looks away, shyly, offering you a simple wave as a greeting.

It’s probably best that you move on. Songs are hardly going to sing themselves, and treasure isn’t going to find itself, after all!