OneCrappy DM
Explorer
Table
"From the memoirs of a traveler; They call it the Bleak Cabal. Most folks just call ’em the Bleakers. Some spit 'Madmen' like it’s an insult. Me? I’ve seen worse labels stick. They’re a grim bunch. Eyes hollowed out by the understanding that the universe doesn’t care. No grand plan. No hidden meaning. Just a long, cold walk from the cradle to the grave. Life’s a bad joke, and the punchline never lands. Their headquarters is the Gatehouse, a place where the lost drift in like pipe smoke. The hungry. The broken. The barmy. Even the ones whose minds snapped under the weight of it all. The Bleakers take them in, no questions asked, no sermons offered. Just a bed, a bowl, and the quiet acknowledgment that yeah things are bad. That’s the thing about the Cabal. They don’t believe life means a damn thing. But they’ll still hand you a crust of bread when your stomach’s screaming. Still sit with you when the walls start talking back. One of ’em told me once, voice rough as gravel: 'Just ’cause there’s no meaning to life don’t mean you shouldn’t help feed a hungry mouth, berk.' In a city full of liars, no gods, and dream sellers, that kind of honesty cuts deep."
"Lathly; Terribly, terribly, ugly. So ugly that even a fiend would be scared."
"Ringwalker; Beyond Clueless. Call a planar a “ringwalker” and you could start a blood feud, but a clueless prime’ll likely take it as a compliment."
Outside the Crooked Sword
As you sign out curses while the rest of the clueless and cutters are at the table, rain becomes coming down in grey sheets, the air chilled. The others will be falling out soon, the streets look especially dismal this day.
"From the memoirs of a traveler; They call it the Bleak Cabal. Most folks just call ’em the Bleakers. Some spit 'Madmen' like it’s an insult. Me? I’ve seen worse labels stick. They’re a grim bunch. Eyes hollowed out by the understanding that the universe doesn’t care. No grand plan. No hidden meaning. Just a long, cold walk from the cradle to the grave. Life’s a bad joke, and the punchline never lands. Their headquarters is the Gatehouse, a place where the lost drift in like pipe smoke. The hungry. The broken. The barmy. Even the ones whose minds snapped under the weight of it all. The Bleakers take them in, no questions asked, no sermons offered. Just a bed, a bowl, and the quiet acknowledgment that yeah things are bad. That’s the thing about the Cabal. They don’t believe life means a damn thing. But they’ll still hand you a crust of bread when your stomach’s screaming. Still sit with you when the walls start talking back. One of ’em told me once, voice rough as gravel: 'Just ’cause there’s no meaning to life don’t mean you shouldn’t help feed a hungry mouth, berk.' In a city full of liars, no gods, and dream sellers, that kind of honesty cuts deep."
"Lathly; Terribly, terribly, ugly. So ugly that even a fiend would be scared."
"Ringwalker; Beyond Clueless. Call a planar a “ringwalker” and you could start a blood feud, but a clueless prime’ll likely take it as a compliment."
Outside the Crooked Sword
As you sign out curses while the rest of the clueless and cutters are at the table, rain becomes coming down in grey sheets, the air chilled. The others will be falling out soon, the streets look especially dismal this day.
Last edited:
