WRNUs kreativitetskalender 2025

krank

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För åttonde året i rad öppnar vi luckor tillsammans. Det har varit en rätt trevlig tradition (2019, 2020, 2021, 2022, 2023, 2024) och jag fortsätter gärna.

Här är alltså "reglerna":
  • Tillsammans strävar vi efter att öppna en lucka per dag fram till julafton.
  • Det finns ingen gräns för hur många luckor som kan öppnas på samma dag. Det kan finnas flera luckor med samma siffra.
  • Man "öppnar en lucka" genom att posta ett inlägg.
  • I inlägget ska följande finnas med:
    • En kort beskrivning av vad som finns på utsidan av luckan, förutom siffran.
    • Ett innehåll, lagt inom spoilertaggar för maximal luck-känsla.
    • Valfritt: ett julrim relaterat till innehållet.
  • Innehållet ska vara något man skapat till något rollspel. Eller det kan ju vara ett rollspel också, om man hunnit bygga ett. Det kan vara en husregel man just kom på, en SLP som kan slängas in någonstans, det kan vara ett vapen med stats, en ny klass till D&D, en ny bakgrund till Rotsystem, en mini-dungeon, en häftig organisation, ett äventyrsfrö, en inspirerande mening eller nästan vad som helst som faller under kategorin "skapande" och "rollspel".
  • Skulle vi som kollektiv missa en dag så gör det inte jättemycket, men om man är den förste som postar något nästföljande dag så är det helt OK att numrera sitt inlägg retroaktivt.
Så: Ingen press, inga prestationskrav, bara renodlat gemensamt trevligt skapande och en ursäkt att skriva lite nonsens.

Nu kör vi!
 
Tack till @God45 för påminnelsen! Jag har verkligen haft för många bollar i luften senaste tiden, och då känns det bra att det finns folk som har huvudet på skaft!

Men det är i vart fall anledningen till att jag inte skapade någon peppa-och-förbered-tråd om det här, som jag brukar försöka göra. Jag tänker att God45 själv antagligen redan förberett för att han redan räknade med att kalendern skulle bli av, och kanske finns det andra som tänkt likadant. Vi andra får ta det lite på uppstuds, men jag ska försöka producera lite Luna City Blues-material i år iaf =)
 
En julhälsning från Waverider-expeditionen när de är i Ardenvale, från Otto the Dwarf:

20251013_1632_Otto's Tavern Escapade_simple_compose_01k7eznb30es08tw3jwkj554cq.jpg
Millford was a sleepy harbor town at the edge of Ardenvale, where the air smelled of roast meat and wet wood, and every street led to a tavern. The Waverider had anchored for repairs and rest, but by sunset of the first night, Otto the Dwarf had vanished.

Venera found him soon enough.

The “Copper Cauldron” was the largest inn on the docks, and tonight it was bursting at the seams. Halflings darted between tables with trays stacked high with pies, roasted potatoes, and mugs of amber ale. A pair of dockside giants, hunched under the rafters, clinked tankards the size of buckets and sang badly out of tune. The smell of meat, sweat, and spilled beer filled the air so thick you could almost chew it.

And at the center of it all, standing on a table, swaying, beard full of crumbs, was Otto the Dwarf.

“...and when the mast snapped clean in two, did I run below deck? No!” he shouted, thumping his chest. “...the bloody mast snapped, but I, I, patched it mid-storm, with one hand and a gods-damned seagull for a hammer!”

The crowd howled with laughter. Someone tossed him a mug, which he caught and drained in one go.

“Another round for the hero!” a halfling called.

“Ah, just a few more drinks!” bellowed one of the giants, slapping the table so hard a roast duck bounced onto the floor.

Venera pushed through the crowd, her patience worn thin. “Otto the Dwarf!”

He looked down from his table, eyes glazed and grinning wide. “Ah, Pillowtits! You came to cheer your favorite dwarf!”

The tavern roared.

Venera’s slap cracked through the air like a whip crack.

Otto the Dwarf blinked, rubbed his cheek, and grinned again. “Deserved that. Still, ye could’ve waited till after the next round.”

He tried to step down, but on the way past her, he gave her rear a fond pat.

The second slap nearly spun him sideways.

The halflings cheered. The giants booed. “Let him finish his drink, lass!” someone shouted.

“Back to the ship,” she said through her teeth, grabbing him by the collar.

Otto the Dwarf threw up his hands. “All right, all right! I’m going! No need to bruise me ego more than you’ve bruised me face!”

The crowd parted for them, jeering good-naturedly as Venera dragged the dwarf out through the door, boots scraping, beard trailing like a banner of disgrace.

“Another ale for his courage!” a halfling called after them.

By the time they reached the Waverider, the moon was high and Otto was sober enough to curse at the tools waiting for him. Under threat of another slap, or worse, he went to work. The sound of hammering echoed across the water well into the night.

When Venera came back to check on him a few hours later, the deck was quiet except for one tremendous snore. Otto the Dwarf lay sprawled beneath the newly patched section of hull, a bottle on his chest, his beard full of sawdust and satisfaction.

The work was perfect.

Venera folded her arms, sighed, and muttered, “Miracle-working drunkard.”

Without opening his eyes, Otto the Dwarf grunted, “Best kind.”

She smiled despite herself. “If the ship ever sinks, I’m throwing you overboard first.”

He snored louder in reply.

The Waverider rocked gently in the harbor, while Millford’s laughter drifted faintly from the shore, the sound of a town that never stopped eating, drinking, or forgiving fools like Otto the Dwarf.
 
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Lite snöiga julhälsningar från Waverider-expeditionen, denna gång Ulfar och Eira, som är i Draknir:

20251013_1455_Ulfar and Eira Embrace_simple_compose_01k7et4a80e1gr3cq72kbqwhyn.jpg

The wind off the fjord was sharp and cold as the Waverider’s crew walked into Stormvik. Smoke curled from turf-roofed halls, and the clang of a blacksmith’s hammer echoed across the snow-dusted street.

Then a voice cut through the noise. “Ulfar Strongaxe!”

Ulfar stopped. His shoulders stiffened. From the crowd came a broad man with a scarred jaw and fury in his eyes. “Your brother,” the man shouted, “killed my wife. I challenge you to holmgang!”

Ulfar’s gaze was steady. “I am not my brother.”

The man spat in the snow. “Then fight for his sins, or be branded a coward!”

The square fell silent.

Ulfar sighed, rolling his shoulders. “Fine,” he said. “But you won’t like the ending.”

A circle was drawn in the packed snow, marked with spears. The villagers gathered around, their breath misting in the cold air. Virellus watched from the edge, arms crossed, while Eira stood beside him, her axe resting on her shoulder, eyes narrow.

The duel began.

Steel rang, boots crunched, breath hissed. The challenger was strong, wild, but untrained. Ulfar met him with the patience of a man who’d seen too many fights already. When the opening came, it was quick and brutal. Ulfar’s axe slammed into the man’s shield, shattering it, and his follow-through sent the man sprawling onto the frozen ground.

The man’s sword flew from his grip.

Ulfar stepped over him, pressing the flat of his axe lightly against the man’s head. “I am not my brother,” he said, voice deep and steady. He gave the man’s helmet a soft tap with the haft. “And that is why you still live.”

He turned and walked out of the circle.

The crowd murmured their approval. A fair win, clean and honorable.

But behind him, the man rose, snatched up his sword, and charged.

Before anyone could shout a warning, Eira stepped forward. Her axe came down in a clean arc. The blade split skull and spine alike. The body crumpled to the snow at Ulfar’s feet.

For a moment, there was only silence, then a grizzled elder nodded. “He cheated. She did right.”

Ulfar turned to Eira, then burst out laughing, a deep, rough laugh that shook the tension from the air. He pulled her into a hug that lifted her clear off her feet. She didn’t let go quickly, nesting her face in his big beard.

When he finally set her down, he shook his head. “And that,” he muttered, “is why I don’t talk about my family name.”

The crowd laughed. The tension broke. Somewhere, a cock crowed, and the snow began to fall again, soft and silent over the blood in the ring.
 
Jag insåg nu att jag borde börjat från början med Waverider-expeditionen. Det största skeppet någonsin byggt, på ett uppdrag att kartlägga världen! Början:

20251010_1033_Majestic Ship Departure_simple_compose_01k76kyvgzebevf38qs296513g.jpg

Harun stepped onto the docks of Estorio Ventura and stopped to stare. The air was thick with tar, sweat, and the sharp tang of salt. Crates clattered, gulls screamed, merchants shouted over one another. He had heard of this port all his life, the beating heart of the sea, but no tale had prepared him for its noise or its hunger.

And above it all towered the ship.

The Waverider rose from the harbor like a wall of oak and iron, her hull black with pitch, her masts lost in the sky. She had no gold leaf, no carved saints, no painted figurehead. She didn’t need them. She was a ship built to endure, not to please. Her blue sails hung heavy in the still air, stitched with the mark of a single white wave.

He felt a pull deep in his chest, the same pull that draws men to gamble their lives on storms. Around the ship, the crew moved with hard purpose, scarred, sunburned, voices hoarse from years of shouting against the wind. There was no music, no ceremony, yet something about them made him believe this voyage mattered.

Harun imagined the storms ahead, the lands no map had named, the dangers waiting beyond the edge of the known world. Every instinct told him to stay on the dock. Instead, he tightened his grip on his pack and stepped forward.

The ship groaned softly, as if sensing him. Harun smiled.

He knew he was about to join the greatest journey ever.
 
En hälsning till från Waverider-expeditionen. Denna gång är de i Olydrian isles, för ett varmt återseende. Oroa er inte, det blir mörkare sen.

20251024_1046_Ogre's Embrace Reunion_simple_compose_01k8ap88nvf3bbr6bv3zbp07jr.jpg

The sea around the Olydrian Isles shimmered like hammered bronze. White cliffs rose from the water, topped with terraces of vine and olive. The air smelled of salt and fruit, the sound of gulls blending with distant laughter from the shore.

Phaedros Pelagos stood at the rail, the wind tugging his gray-streaked hair. “Home,” he said quietly. “Though I never thought I’d see it again.”

Captain Solonex smiled faintly. “You’ve charted half the world, Phaedros. It seems fair the world should let you rest a while.”

Severin Valerius raised his cup. “Rest? On these islands? Impossible. You’ll end up in an argument about philosophy, taxes, or whose god loves them most before the hour is out.”

Kethra leaned on the rail, her eyes narrow against the glare. “And they call this paradise.”

The Waverider anchored off Lysara, the city gleaming white and gold above the hills. They rode inland along winding paths lined with cypress and terraced vines until the Pelagos vineyard came into view, a wide estate of stone and sunlight, its fields sloping down toward the sea.

As they dismounted, the ground shook with a thudding run. From between the vines came a massive figure with gray-olive skin, broad shoulders, hair tied back in a messy knot. An ogre, nearly twice Phaedros’ height, grinning from ear to ear.

“PHAEDROS!”

Before Phaedros could move, the ogre wrapped him in a hug that lifted him clean off the ground.

“By the gods, Ormun!” Phaedros gasped. “Put me down before you break my ribs, or my dignity!”

The ogre laughed, a sound like rocks rolling in a river. “Ha! Dignity hasn’t changed you, little wolf.” He set him down gently, grinning at the others. “This is my brother, in all but blood. We stole grapes together before we could walk.”

Phaedros' face flashed slight embarrassment, but shone with a warm smile.

Solonex nodded in greeting, Severin gave a sweeping bow, and Kethra only raised an eyebrow.

The estate was alive with preparation for a feast. Tables were set under olive trees, amphorae uncorked, and servants hurried between vines with baskets of grapes. Phaedros’ family, cousins, nieces, nephews, embraced him one after another, offering toasts and laughter.

As the sun sank, the feast began.

Wine flowed like water, rich and red. Plates of lamb, olives, and sea bass filled the tables. Music rose from lyres and drums, mingling with the crash of waves below.

Severin told stories of the voyage, of storms survived and ports best forgotten, drawing gasps and laughter from everyone but Kethra, who simply watched, smiling faintly.

Ormun leaned close to Phaedros. “You look older, but not slower. Still chasing the horizon?”

“Still,” Phaedros said. “The captain hasn’t let me stop yet.”

Solonex lifted his cup. “To the sea. And to those who still follow it.”

The toast was echoed around the table.

Later, as the laughter softened and the stars began to burn above the vines, talk turned to the Games, to favored athletes, to old rivalries rekindled, to rumors of new raids by Imperial ships along the western trade routes.

“The Empire grows restless,” said one of Phaedros’ uncles, a portly man with a sailor’s hands. “They’ve been testing the coasts again. Theron and Myrake have already called for stronger fleets.”

“Lysara still debates,” another said bitterly. “They’d rather argue about poetry while the harbors burn.”

Phaedros sipped his wine in silence. “It’s always the same. The Isles unite when it’s too late, then forget why when the blood dries.”

Solonex glanced at him. “And yet you love it still.”

Phaedros smiled faintly. “Of course. It’s the only place that ever made me feel I belonged to something greater than myself.”

Kethra looked up at the stars. “You could have stayed.”

“Perhaps,” he said. “But the sea keeps calling. Some voices never fade.”

A breeze came off the water then, cool and strange, carrying the smell of salt and distant smoke.

Ormun’s smile faltered. “Storm brewing from the west. Not natural, that wind.”

“Then we drink faster,” Severin said, refilling his cup. But his tone was quieter now.

As the night deepened, laughter rose again, but something beneath it had shifted. The music slowed, and the waves below the cliffs sounded louder, heavier.

Phaedros watched the horizon. For the first time in years, he felt uneasy on land.

Somewhere far out to sea, lightning flickered without thunder.

He poured another cup of wine and raised it to the dark. “To home,” he said softly. His voice caught, and his eyes were wet.

No one quite answered, though they all drank, remembering their homes.
 
Nu när vi har visat lite glimtar från Waverider-expeditionen, så går vi tillbaka till början, uppdraget och besättningen.

20251011_2044_Stealthy Scout in Shadows_simple_compose_01k7a99zppe78stwmywqg7z1r8.jpg20251011_2008_Veteran Warrior's Vigilance_simple_compose_01k7a78sanfjcspseszcdpcevd.jpg20251011_2024_Savvy Ship Captain_simple_compose_01k7a859wcf5arkfjxd8g79wpr.jpg20251012_0849_Brannick's Culinary Fortress_simple_compose_01k7bjtp2ffk2tvc828nn26ex9.jpg20251011_1911_Healer Selene Bandaging_simple_compose_01k7a3zx1he6yvc2xk8a1vvdy7.jpg20251011_1729_Otto the Dwarf_simple_compose_01k79y5kh7fbk9mgh01r0dgky7 (1).jpg20251011_1714_Boatswain Ulfar's Authority_simple_compose_01k79x9jk6feps2egrw66qatvf.jpg20251011_1616_Navigator Phaedros' Legacy_simple_compose_01k79sz96bevbrtsngavetq6se.jpg20251011_1555_Seafaring Commander_simple_compose_01k79rsqmwf5wag5e52t1h8ay0.jpg20251011_1344_Kind-Hearted Captain_simple_compose_01k79hb80eewf9y3mrywbsjj9j.jpg

## The Waverider

The Waverider is the largest ship ever built, and perhaps the last of her kind. She is captained by Solonex Virellus, explorer, adventurer, and madman, depending on who you ask. Over a hundred paces long, her masts claw at the sky, and her shadow swallows smaller ships whole.

There is no gold leaf, no carved angels, no silken drapes. The Waverider was built to survive, not to dazzle. Her hull is thick oak, iron-banded, her timbers stained with pitch and salt. Her sails are heavy blue canvas, patched and dyed, stitched with a single white wave, the only mark of pride her captain allowed. She creaks like an old god waking.

Below decks, the ship is simple but efficient. Crew quarters are clean and close, the mess hall serviceable, the library small but practical. Captain Virellus’ cabin is modest, a cot, a desk, a chair, and a view of the sea. At the heart of the ship lies the navigation room, where ink, maps, and instruments mix in ordered chaos.

The ship’s crown is the observatory fixed atop the mainmast, a steel cage with a glass dome where stars are charted by skilled hands. It is said that from there, the world looks both infinite and terribly small.

## The Mission

The mission is simple, though no one expects to live long enough to see it through.

Map the world.

It began as a merchant’s dream, new routes, new trade, safer gold. But for Virellus, it became something else. A calling. He has chased the horizon for half his life, seeking knowledge, exploring new lands.

The Waverider was built and launched in Estorio Ventura, the great naval heart of the world, where fortunes are made and graves are dug in the same tide.

## The Crew

Every one of them is exceptional, or broken, or both. The best never come cheap, and the desperate never come honest.

### Captain Solonex Virellus

Born in Morvelyn before the plague, gone to sea before it struck. Now in his forties, lean and sharp-eyed, a man who measures everything, winds, words, lives. The crew say he’s fair, but not soft. He despises slavery and treats his men as equals, which some call weakness and others call madness.

He hides his reasons for sailing, though no one truly trusts a man who stares at the horizon that long.

### First Officer Venera Sorn

Venera Sorn fled the wars of Freevalor to find peace at sea. She is a hard woman, scarred across the face, disciplined, and loyal to her duty. To the crew she is stern but just, a commander who demands excellence not for her pride but for the ship.

She keeps her own pain buried deep, but the crew can feel it, like the tension before a storm.

### Navigator and Cartographer Phaedros Pelagos

Known as the "Island Wolf" in his reckless youth, Phaedros is now in his late fifties, grizzled but sharp. One of the finest navigators of the Olydrian Isles, he is blunt and unafraid to question orders, even from the captain. To the crew he is a stubborn old man. To Virellus, he is an old friend whose honesty he values more than obedience.

He says he can chart the world. Some say he already has, and just wants to prove he’s right.

### Boatswain Ulfar

Ulfar is a mountain of a man, broad and loud, with hair like a storm cloud and a beard to match. No one knows if he has a surname, nor why he left Draknir, and no one dares ask twice. He is the link between officers and crew, and when he gives an order, even the wind seems to listen. But off duty he drinks, wrestles, and laughs with the crew, calling them brothers and bastards alike.

To the men he is both hammer and heart, and they know he'd go to hell and back for them.

### Carpenter Otto the Dwarf

Otto the Dwarf, and that is the name he goes by, is the ship’s carpenter, smith, drunk, fool and general annoyance. He works miracles with wood and iron but only after a shouting match or a threat from Ulfar. He calls Venera "Pillowtits", which has earned him several smacks over the head, smacks he, if given opportunity, returns to her behind. He has survived doing so, which says more about his luck than his worth.

He claims he is a warrior, and that his axe is blessed by dwarven gods. In truth, it’s tin over pine and covered in nonsense runes. But he can fix anything that breaks, even when he’s too drunk to stand.

### Medical Officer Selene Kavira

Selene was born a slave in Estoria. Bought by a healer as an apprentice, taught the craft, then cornered for a different kind of service. She ran. Virellus found her, bought her, freed her, beat up the previous owner and gave her a cabin instead of a cage. She’s stayed ever since.

Now in her thirties, she is a healer of rare skill and a mage of quiet power, though the work wears on her soul. She mends wounds that break her mind, and prays for fewer reasons to use her gift.

### Ship's Cook Brannick Tull

The Waverider’s cook is a squat man named Brannick Tull of Albirica, with arms like hams and a face that always looks offended. He boasts that he can make a feast from anything that once breathed, swam, or grew in the dirt, and often does. Fish stew, gull pie, eel bread, something he once called “sea-hare surprise.” The crew say he can cook everything, but nothing he makes tastes like food.

Still, he runs his galley like a fortress. No one touches his pots, no one questions his art, and those who do eat double rations of salt as punishment. Yet when the sea turns rough and stomachs empty, even the proudest officer swallows Brannick’s creations without a word. Hunger, he likes to say, is the best seasoning in the world.

### Diplomat Severin Valerius

Round, smiling, and always holding a cup, Severin Valerius seems a man made of ease and appetite. Beneath that soft laugh hides a mind that cuts like a blade. His charm is his armor, his words his weapons. No one knows where his true loyalties lie, but everyone listens when he speaks. He is fond of saying "Be smart and act stupid".

### Marine Commander Decimus Brutio

Decimus Brutio once fought in the arenas, a slave turned champion who earned his freedom one corpse at a time. He is older now, his eyes cold and patient, his body carved by scars. He leads the landing party. Fighters, scouts, diplomats, killers.

He knows when to strike and when to wait, when to attack and when to feint, and he trusts neither gods nor luck. In his silence lies the promise of violence.

### Marine Scout Gato Dax

Gato was born in the gutters of Estorio Ventura and raised by hunger. He joined the army to escape the gallows and found purpose as a scout. He is young, quick, and quiet, with eyes that see everything and a soul that trusts nothing.

He moves like smoke through city or jungle and disappears like a lie.

### Marine Arven of Ashen Vale
Miner’s son from the Twin Cities, lungs full of iron dust, heart hard as the ore. A true brawler, comfortable in the center of the fray.

### Marine Rahim of Zarhalem
A desert warrior who believes every battle is a trial set by the djinn.

### Marine Velan of the Great Empire
Once led slaves into the Necropolis and came out white-haired and silent. Now, he fears nothing.

### Marine Eira mac Braigh of Caerduin
Wolf-hide armor, pale eyes, and an axe that once belonged to her mother. Fierce, with a quick temper, but equally quick to cool down. In love with Ulfar, though she, wrongly, thinks no one knows.

### Marine Kethra of Zarhalem
An assassin once in the khalif’s service. Her curved blades have tasted royal blood, yet she moves like any market woman with a basket. Given as a slave to his enemies, slitting their throats before vanishing in the night.

## The Launch

When The Waverider leaves Estorio Ventura, the harbor is lined with people—sailors, merchants, thieves, and the forgotten. Some cheer. Some just watch.

The ship slides into the sea like a blade into its sheath. The wind catches her sails, and she groans as if waking from a long sleep.

To the city, she is a marvel. To her crew, she is a gamble.

To Captain Solonex Virellus, she is destiny.
 
Resten av besättningen, jag tror ni kan gissa vem som är vem utifrån beskrivningarna:

20251012_0833_Assassin on Ship Deck_simple_compose_01k7bhwaahfvctfyfak94068kx.jpg20251012_0807_Celtic Warrior on Deck_simple_compose_01k7bgde6kf8x8z06x7byg37v4.jpg20251012_0743_Fearless Warrior Sailor_simple_compose_01k7bf1vr9f3yr12j3jj29qs5x.jpg20251012_0737_Desert Warrior on Deck_simple_compose_01k7beq7prfejstbmzq1gx7nsv.jpg20251012_0725_Fierce Ship Deck Brawler_simple_compose_01k7be0tjzfbwv9ddh0x6arrtd.jpg20251010_1501_Sailing Into Sunset_simple_compose_01k773b5p7e80bnc7yet51a1je.jpg
Edit: Min stavning sög, nu suger den mindre. Jag har svårt att växla mellan ilika datorer med olika tangentbord.
 
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