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Mythos & Legends, Honolulu, HI (2026)

08/09/2026

(IT IS ALMOST...) PARTY TIME
A dusky-hued elf with flowing yellow-white hair at sunset.

08/09/2026

JOURNEY INTO DARKNESS 2
(Call of Cthulhu moment)
From the Journal of Dr. Victoria Ashworth:
*...The passage deposited me into a chamber so precisely constructed that I hesitate to call it a room. Five feet in length, five in breadth, and no more than five feet in height—a perfect stone cube. I was forced to stoop slightly, and the oppressive closeness of the walls made the chamber feel smaller still.*

The lanterns carried by my companions were already beyond the corridor, their light reduced to a faint and useless glow behind me. I could scarcely see my own hands. Yet upon the wall before me, I discerned markings inset directly into the stone.

Aramaic, or something remarkably similar.

I could not make out the characters in the darkness. Reluctantly, I withdrew through the passage, collected one of the lanterns, and returned.

That was my first mistake.

The additional light revealed that the writing was not painted upon the wall at all. The letters were fashioned from crystal, each fragment carefully inlaid within the black stone.

Then the ceiling moved.

There was no warning beyond a low, dreadful rumble. The stone above me began descending.

I had perhaps a foot of clearance before I understood the purpose of the chamber.

A trap.

I read as quickly as my trembling hands permitted. The entire inscription proved to be a riddle, its meaning approximately this:

*What animal has one voice while it is alive, and seven voices when it is dead?*

The answer was supplied by the text itself, though I confess I found it almost absurd in such a place:

*A kosher bird.*

I had scarcely finished reading when the ceiling ceased its descent.

Then, with another groan of ancient stone, it rose.

Eight feet, perhaps more, before stopping.

Only then did I notice what had been concealed above the inscription. A narrow aperture had been cut into the ceiling itself, invisible while the chamber remained compressed to its original dimensions.

I raised the lantern and shone its light into the opening.

And for the first time that evening, I wished desperately that I had brought my revolver with me.

08/07/2026

BLACKHEARTS: Valkyrie
Introducing SOVEREIGN.
This shouldn't be "strength versus intelligence."
They're both builders of civilization.

Valkyrie preserves it.
Sovereign redesigns it.

Imagine if Sovereign discovered something impossible.
Not that Valkyrie is immortal...
But why.

Suppose Sovereign realizes Valkyrie is not merely "the first hero."
She is an anchor point in human civilization.
History unconsciously organizes itself around her existence.
Every age invents stories about her because humanity needs an archetype of the protector.

Sovereign becomes fascinated.
Not because she wants Valkyrie's power.
Because she wants to understand what makes civilization repeatedly create someone like Valkyrie.

Valkyrie, meanwhile, recognizes something unsettling in Sovereign.
Not another tyrant.
A genuinely worthy ruler.
Perhaps the best humanity has ever produced.
..Which is exactly what makes her dangerous.

VALKYRIE: You will fall, I am the first and always will be.
SOVEREIGN: I am The last Queen, the one that will rule the longest and be the last among you to remain.

08/06/2026

BLACKHEARTS
Now I did a lineup of the member, gave them codenames, gave them a motto.
They fight because they love it,
They fight because they are needed to,
They fight because everyone is too much of %$ #@ to do so...
If you wish to find them,
Follow the bodies and the destruction they leave behind.
If they want to come for you,
They will find you,
And you can do nothing because...
They will k**l you.

08/03/2026

PORTRAIT DUMP 8
It is...time again!
I bring you a mix of my recreations of my esteemed peers' creations (not copies) and my own posted content.
A big shout out of "Great work, my colleagues and friends"....
Enjoy!

08/03/2026

BLACKHEARTS
In the shadows of the year 205X, when crises grow beyond the reach of governments, corporations, intelligence agencies, or even the most elite special operations forces, there exists one final option. An employer with no public identity, no flag, no ideology, and no traceable existence deploys three legendary operatives whose names have been erased from every official record.

They are known only by their roles: the Warrior, the Assassin, and the Mercenary.

Each is among the finest in the world, yet each represents a different philosophy of conflict. The Warrior is an immortal champion whose mastery of arms, indomitable will, and advanced mythic armor make her an unstoppable force on the battlefield. The Assassin is a resurrected revenant whose supernatural precision, psychic gifts, and living thermokinetic hair transform every encounter into a flawless ex*****on. The Mercenary is a technological phantom, disappearing from sight through revolutionary stealth systems while dismantling enemy networks, fortifications, and operations before anyone realizes she was ever present.

They were not always allies. Throughout their long and storied histories they have been rivals, reluctant partners, trusted comrades, and bitter adversaries, depending entirely upon the mission and the era. Each has crossed blades, exchanged fire, and fought beside the others often enough to know there are few beings alive capable of matching them. Time has forged mutual respect where trust is impossible and loyalty where friendship was never required.

Together, they accept assignments that officially cannot exist—missions so politically volatile, morally ambiguous, or globally catastrophic that no nation, corporation, or organization can afford even the possibility of being connected to them. Their victories are never celebrated. Their sacrifices are never acknowledged. Their identities are denied, their actions erased, and every operation is meticulously disavowed.

When history records that a war never happened, a bioweapon was never released, a rogue artificial intelligence mysteriously vanished, or a global catastrophe simply failed to occur, the world sees only peace and stability.

It never sees the three who ensured that outcome.

For them, there are no medals, no recognition, and no monuments.

Only the mission.

Only success.

Only silence.

08/02/2026

JOURNEY INTO DARKNESS 0
(Call of Cthulhu moment)
(Takes place before the prior post)
"...This evening's undertaking proved considerably more taxing than any descent into forgotten ruins.

Mr. Harrow, Mr. Ellison, and I found ourselves obliged to infiltrate a rather lavish dinner held within the old Blackwood Theatre, recently spared from demolition by the appearance of several astonishingly generous benefactors whose identities remain, rather curiously, obscure. The city's elite seemed eager to celebrate its restoration, though I could not help wondering whether they honored the building itself or those whose money had rescued it.

Society has never been my natural environment. I should much prefer the quiet company of books or the damp solitude of forgotten catacombs to an evening spent exchanging pleasantries beneath glittering chandeliers. To my further embarrassment, both gentlemen insisted upon complimenting my appearance with such sincerity that I found myself wishing the floor might yield another hidden passage into the earth.

Our true purpose, however, lay not with the festivities. Somewhere among the assembled guests was a contact willing to sell information concerning an abandoned residence whose owners met with mysterious ends many years ago. More importantly, he claimed to possess knowledge of a subterranean complex concealed beneath its foundations.

If even half his claims prove truthful, tomorrow may find us trading polished marble and champagne for dust, darkness, and truths long buried beneath both."

Dr. Victoria Ashworth

08/01/2026

JOURNEY INTO DARKNESS (a Call of Cthulhu moment)
"...I have endeavored throughout my career to maintain a scientific disposition, to regard every curiosity as merely another puzzle awaiting proper examination. Yet I confess, in these pages if nowhere else, that there are places where reason grows unsteady.

The abandoned house had long since surrendered itself to decay. Dust lay thick upon every surface, the furniture left precisely where its owners had abandoned it—or where death had interrupted them. No satisfactory account has ever explained the circumstances of their passing. The neighboring villagers speak only in lowered voices, each tale contradicting the last, but all sharing the same conclusion: no one remained in that house after nightfall.

It was beneath the drawing room, hidden beneath loose and ill-fitted floorboards, that we discovered the passage.

The descent was steep and oppressive. Every stair groaned beneath our weight, exhaling air that had not, I suspect, been disturbed for centuries. Dampness clung to the walls, and an odor unlike ordinary rot lingered in the darkness—a mineral bitterness accompanied by something strangely metallic. Mr. Harrow remarked that it reminded him of an old battlefield after rain. Neither Mr. Ellison nor I cared to answer.

The stair delivered us into a rough-hewn chamber before opening into another unlike anything I have encountered in any archaeological record. The stone itself was black—not merely dark, but possessing an unnatural depth that seemed to consume the glow of our lanterns. Every surface had once been covered in elaborate carvings, pictographs, and inscriptions. Time, moisture, and impossible age had worn nearly all of them smooth, leaving only ghostly impressions that teased at meaning before dissolving into meaningless grooves.

Standing against the far wall was an obelisk.

I hesitate even to employ the word, for while its proportions resembled those monuments raised by ancient civilizations, its purpose felt altogether different. Its surface bore the suggestion of a face—or perhaps many faces fused into one grotesque semblance that refused to resolve itself no matter the angle from which I studied it. Dark stains streaked its length. They may have been mineral deposits, oxidized by centuries beneath the earth.

They may not.

Unlike the surrounding chamber, the obelisk had clearly been fashioned from another stone altogether. It possessed a dull, almost oily luster, untouched by the same erosion that had claimed the walls, though inscriptions of a similarly indecipherable character had been etched into its sides. Whatever hand had carved them possessed neither the conventions nor the proportions of any script with which I am familiar.

It was Mr. Ellison who first noticed the shallow depressions concealed among the carvings. What appeared decorative proved mechanical. After no small amount of experimentation—and several combinations that produced sounds I would rather forget—we discovered a sequence of recessed studs that yielded beneath deliberate pressure.

The stone answered.

There is no other description suitable for the event. No grinding of hidden gears announced the movement, nor the crumbling protest one expects from ancient masonry. Instead, the obelisk separated with dreadful smoothness, as though the centuries themselves had never passed. It opened upon a corridor scarcely wider than a foot.

Mr. Harrow attempted first to force himself through and found the effort hopeless. Even without his satchel he could not advance beyond his shoulders. Mr. Ellison fared no better. The passage had not been intended for a man of ordinary build.

For me, however...

They argued against it with admirable conviction. Mr. Harrow became unusually stern, insisting that nothing beyond so unnatural a threshold could possibly justify the risk. Mr. Ellison appealed instead to reason, reminding me that every sensible investigation has limits, and that this was surely one of them.

Perhaps they were right.

Yet every discovery worth preserving has demanded that someone step where others would not.

I removed my field pack, lantern straps, and heavy coat until I carried only a small electric torch, my notebook, and a length of cord secured about my waist. Even so, the stone pressed uncomfortably against my shoulders. I could scarcely draw a full breath once I committed myself to the passage.

The dread that had accompanied us since entering the cellar had become something more tangible. It was no longer merely apprehension. It possessed direction.

As I crawled farther into the darkness, I became increasingly certain that whatever lay ahead had never truly been hidden to keep intruders out.

It had been sealed to keep something else apart from the world above."

Dr. Victoria Ashworth.

07/31/2026

Now that is entertainment.
The three companions, a human paladin, a forest gnome and a tiefling monk, relax for a short rest....showing off their talent.
The monk shows his focus and grace in doing a kata.
The gnome shows off her evasive skills and knife throwing skill.
The paladin shows off something unexpected, but rather entertaining.

07/30/2026

The Living Arsenal
Imagine a warrior whose body is a constantly evolving biological weapon.
Rather than drawing swords, axes, or spears, every weapon is formed from their own flesh in an instant.
A forearm hardens into a blade, fingers extend into talons, an arm elongates into a piercing lance, or a shoulder erupts with hardened spikes.
Every attack is another adaptation.
Outside of combat, the same body can subtly reshape itself for infiltration and deception, blending into society or assuming entirely different appearances before revealing its true nature when battle begins.
As the fight evolves, so does the character.
Defensive layers thicken against heavy blows, limbs reshape for greater reach, muscles reconfigure for explosive movement, and wounds knit closed with unnatural speed.
The character isn't carrying an arsenal—they are the arsenal.
Mechanically, the build combines a Changeling with a carefully chosen mix of martial classes and subclasses that emphasize natural weapons, tactical combat, and adaptability. The mechanics remain firmly within official 5e (2014–2023) rules, while the descriptions transform every class feature into another expression of the body's living evolution.
Every attack, maneuver, and transformation can be described as a new biological adaptation without changing the underlying rules.
The result is a highly cinematic martial character that feels less like a warrior wielding weapons and more like an intelligent, ever-evolving combat organism.
(Recently I had to quit two groups that have enjoyed my posts for a long time, I was an all star contributor to both...however they both had issues with my posts (including one withholding months of posts as unapproved), their loss....)

Mythos & Legends

08/09/2026

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