mickume/dnd_drow · Datasets at Hugging Face

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Słysz, A. (2017).
Konceptualizacja przypadku w różnych modelach psychoterapii
. Wydawnictwo Naukowe Wydziału Nauk Społecznych UAM.
Sugarman, L. (2004).
Life-span development: Frameworks, Accounts and Strategies
The Elf Race for Dungeons & Dragons (D&D) fifth Edition (5E) - D&D Beyond
Tyrer, P. (2023).
Making sense of the ICD-11: For Mental Health Professionals
. Cambridge University Press.
Van Bennekum, H. (2013, November 12).
World Health Organization (WHO) recommends EMDR in new guidelines - EMDR Canada
WhiskeyPixie. (n.d.).
Reddit - Dive into anything
WHO. (2013, August 6). WHO releases guidance on mental health care after trauma.
Wiki, B. G. 3. (2023, October 20).
Astarion - Baldur’s Gate 3 Wiki
Wiki, C. T. B. G. (n.d.).
"It will only take a moment to finish you."
You know the right moment to strike when you see it. Grinning, you replied, each word echoing loudly in the great hall of the House of Hope:
"That's twice as long as Haarlep said it would take to finish you".
Perfect timing. The insult landed like a slap, the look on the devil's face was worth a crown of Karsus and more. The echo of your taunt lingered on, as it were to remain here forever.
"You contemptuous creature!"
You would wager good money that no one had ever humiliated him like that, and you are not a gambler. For a brief moment, the mask of superiority slipped, he actually looked stunned, stupid... human. You couldn’t suppress a chuckle of delight. The funniest shit you've ever seen, and you've seen some.
But the glorious moment passed all too quickly. Raphael's physical form faulted, cajoled, your insult melting him like holy water, human face giving way to an infernal visage: eyes flaring, fangs bared, claws outstretched and muscles bulging. The very air of the house bristled with the fury of its Master.
In response, the magic in your fingers burned and ached for devil's blood. You longed to send the smug fuck back to his maker.
There was a damn good chance you might actually do it.
It was close. Your victory, it was close. Just one lucky strike away, one small glimpse of luck, dodging one second earlier than later. You hoped for it as you never hoped for anything else until the very last moment. Until you saw Shadowheart stumble to the ground, her femur snapped in two, thigh torn by claws, green eyes searching desperately for you.
Only you were already on the floor, flesh torn by the infernal magic, Shadowheart's cries echoing somewhere far away, distant and increasingly unimportant as you nestled in the cozy comfort of darkness.
Your arrogance has never gotten you into trouble before. On the contrary, it has brought you so far. It has kept you alive for so long. Where others would falter and begin to doubt themselves, your ego carried you on and on until it took you straight to the devil.
Your companions, they believed you were something very special indeed; Shadowheart above all. You were the one who showed her the true light of the Moonmaiden, the one to save her from the wolves. She opened her heart to you. Hear me, heal me, save me, lead me. Astarion admired you, too. He wouldn’t say that, no need to be that obvious. Why should he not? You freed him from Cazador's chains.
They believed you when you assured them the heist would work. Why would they not? They saw you trample Myrkil's chosen. They watched as your wild magic turned Orin into a statue of blood and gore. When you waltzed into House of Hose, you felt like the Chosen One of all Chosen Ones, special enough to defeat a devil in his own home.
Hell, even Raphael himself must have thought highly of you, with all the talk of the Crown. But you were never too sure. The little innuendos, the veiled threats and the double entendres - when he spoke to you, he spoke down to you. His presence smothered you, the monumentality of his ego dwarfing yours. His eyes were cold, infernal slits that pawed over your soul, searching for the good to crush and the bad to nurture.
Raphael made you feel very small and very mortal.
So you ransacked his home, shattered it to the core: chests burst open, the collection of rare wines tasted, treasuries emptied, the sheets of his bed stained with your sweat and lust.
You felt no less mortal, but infinitely less small.
"Don't even dream of dying... don't you dare..."
You missed the end of the sentence as Raphael pushed your head under the cool water. The cuts and bruises that covered your face began to heal. You struggled against his grip, trying to breathe, scratching at his hand. Water filled your throat and lungs, you swallowed it, it swallowed you. You writhed and writhed, overwhelmed with panic, every rational sense evaporating, only one thought flashing through your mind: you are drowning, drowning, drowning, you are finished, you are dead. But where one would normally be docile, limping towards inevitable death, you remained remarkably alert.
Is it possible to drown in a rejuvenation pool?
Raphael pulled your head up by your hair and held you upright, your body hanging helplessly from his hand like some kind of trophy. The devil was seething, his body shaking with rage, his breath burning hot against your ear.
But you had given him a good beating too, the aftermath of the fight a testament to that - the cuts, the acid burns, the scorched skin where radiant light had struck him. You could have been the one to finish him, the one to scatter his remains across the hard wood of the House of Hope.
Could have, would have - you were on your way to becoming a true expert in conjunctions.
"You despicable creature," Raphael repeated, "you absolute filth".
Yes, anger, but also fear. He knew as well as you that it could have been you: bet he hasn't felt this mortal in a long time.
The only thing you would sell your soul for is to see the light in those pitch-black eyes go out. Paintings and statues in the Devil's boudoir danced a macabre dance. You could swear some of them were laughing at you.
Raphael sent you on another dive, this time completely underwater. A pervasive numbness set in, like a sleeping potion that spread through your body. The world was spinning, the bottom of the pool was getting closer and closer.
And then you hit it.
You regained your senses plastered to the hardwood floor of Raphael's boudoir. Still panting, your clothes soaked with water, clinging to your skin, your long hair damp and disheveled. Shaking and trembling, a wretched, poor thing. It was not at all cold in the House of Hope, but your body seemed to have lost all sense of temperature.
The first thought was of your companions: what became of them? Were they dead? Were they being tortured?
They better be dead. They had better be dead for their own sake.
The second was of your magic: how did he manage to silence you shut?
"Mahogany wood".
The meaning of the words escaped you. You looked up; Raphael had taken the time to rearrange himself while you were gone: his clothes no longer torn and tattered, his horns freshly waxed, his hair clean and slicked back.
"Mahogany wood, - he repeated. - harvested from the forests of Ardeep. Extremely rare, worth more than your flesh and soul put together. Under no circumstances should it be soaked in water".
He snapped his fingers.
"Have a modicum of respect for my house, you mannerless filth".
You don't realize for half a second that the gesture has stripped you entirely. Wet clothes were gone. You curled up, knees to your chest, trembling, your pale body certainly devoid of any erotic allure.
Indeed, Raphael barely glanced at you, and when he did, you'd think you were an insect - a particularly nasty kind - something between a cockroach and a tarantula, but more the former than the latter.
The toe of the leather boot - clean and polished to perfection - jabbed into your side, ordering you to roll away from his precious parquet. The hierarchy of things of value in this house, and your place in it, was made clear. You rolled into the plush of the obscenely lush carpet.
"Haarlep!" - he beckoned. His command was laced with magic. He called.
The call was answered immediately. This time, however, Incubus did not grace the bed with their presence. Instead, they chose to rest their back against the huge painting by Raphael.
You felt surrounded.
Haarlep looked exactly as they had the last time you saw him - a lecherous, whorish younger version of their master. Does the devil know that this scantily clad facsimile is more of an insult than a tribute?
Your tryst under the crimson sheets was fiery and elaborate. You preferred them in their female form - the joke of a feminised Raphael pleasuring you was certainly not lost on you. And they did - a true zealot of oral pleasures. You always liked lovers who went above and beyond to please you.
Shadowheart didn't utter a word of protest as the boudoir door closed behind you and Haarlep. No, she was not the judgmental type - or the type to deny you your little whims and pleasures.
Monogamy was never your forte.
You found the idea of playing with Raphael's personal pet, of taking what was for him a private, narcissistic pleasure, brilliant. A small indulgence for valuable information - and a most delicious, most humiliating gossip. Brilliant, yes; you tried to find that brilliance now, but it seemed much less obvious.
"I don't presume any introductions are required?"
You and Haarlep exchanged glances. The last time they looked you in the eye, their face was nestled between your knees. You found it amusing then, knowing that Raphael might have a phantom taste of your juices in his mouth.
"No need, Master. Our guest is well remembered".
Their flirtatious, joyous tone could not hide the fear beneath.
"Trust me, your encounter was nearly not as memorable as ours. Now, Haarlep, I gather you both partook in most entertaining conversations - would you mind filling me in on the details?
Devil moved towards his doppelganger, closing in and pinning him to the wall. Haarlep's tail tucked behind their leg. The fear of their Master seemed to have aroused the creature, their eyes glistening and breathing becoming more erratic.
"Ah, meaningless chatter, Master, mostly revolving about that sweet little cunt of hers".
You snorted in contempt. Incubus ogled you, trying to draw their Master's attention away from himself and towards your naked form. Thankfully, Raphael was having none of it.
"No word of a certain hammer lost in this chatter?"
Haarlep tensed.
You sensed a perfect opportunity to deflect some of that anger.
"Oh, many words, but few of hammers, - you said. - Said you were worthless in bed. Can’t last a minute if your Crown depended on it".
Raphael bared his fangs, his face contorted in a grimace of rage. Haarlep gave you a dark look - not a trace of lust left - as if backstabbing was something exotic in the Hells.
You watched in awe as Raphael raised his claws to the neck of the incubus, suddenly feeling very inspired.
"And that you like to lie under him. To, you know, take him like a woman would".
Perhaps the last remark was a step too far, but at this point you cared little. You would dig a grave as deep as hell for Haarlep if it would save you.
"FILTHY, LYING WHORE!".
"That's what she is," Raphael nodded, so lost in his rage that he almost seemed calm, "that's what you are too, Haarlep. And that’s how I would treat both of you".
What sounded like a threat to you seemed to incubus like the promise of a great time.
Raphael stepped away. The blow Haarlep had been expecting never came.
"Make no mistake, Haarlep: I would enjoy tearing you to pieces if it weren't for the fact that you would enjoy it just as much".
With a small chuckle, Haarlep looked past their Master and gave you a smile laced with the promise of revenge.
"I know someone who wouldn't, Master. I know that someone very well indeed."
Incubus shifted, transformed, into something very familiar. Except that you would never clothe your body in that ridiculous garb.
Fate continued to bombard you with the unfortunate consequences of your brilliant ideas.
The doppelganger, her lips curled in the shape of a smile, held the devilish talon to her throat. You felt the phantom pressure of its point against your damp skin and gasped for air. It thrust deeper. You felt the ghostly twin of your hand preparing to jerk the talon to the right and slit your throat.
You screamed before Haarlep could do anything. The circular cuffs, engraved with infernal runes, lifted the incubus from the ground by their wrists, suspending them in mid-air.
"Enough of your initiatives, Haarlep, - Raphael shook his head. -- You should have dealt with her when you had the chance. You do not deserve a taste of my feast.".
The creature that wore your face was thrashing, angry, struggling against its chains. You couldn't reproduce the screams it made. You felt your own shoulders clench with pain.
Raphael stared at Haarlep in your writhing leather-clad form, then turned to compare it to the naked original.
"Now, you and I, we have a matter to settle. The matter of my manhood, my endurance and my preferences. I cannot allow this slander to go unchallenged, can I?"
Somehow you lulled yourself into believing that you were not an object of his lust, but the edge in the last question dispelled the illusion. You found little pleasure in the idea of lying with a man who had stripped you naked, drowned you and, worst of all, defeated you.
Raphael tapped his thigh lightly and nodded his chin to point you to the spot beneath him. You got the hint, but chose to ignore it.
"Do I have to spell everything out for you? The eroticism of the unspoken is truly lost on your generation".

Słysz, A. (2017).

Konceptualizacja przypadku w różnych modelach psychoterapii

. Wydawnictwo Naukowe Wydziału Nauk Społecznych UAM.

Sugarman, L. (2004).

Life-span development: Frameworks, Accounts and Strategies

The Elf Race for Dungeons & Dragons (D&D) fifth Edition (5E) - D&D Beyond

Tyrer, P. (2023).

Making sense of the ICD-11: For Mental Health Professionals

. Cambridge University Press.

Van Bennekum, H. (2013, November 12).

World Health Organization (WHO) recommends EMDR in new guidelines - EMDR Canada

WhiskeyPixie. (n.d.).

Reddit - Dive into anything

WHO. (2013, August 6). WHO releases guidance on mental health care after trauma.

Wiki, B. G. 3. (2023, October 20).

Astarion - Baldur’s Gate 3 Wiki

Wiki, C. T. B. G. (n.d.).

"It will only take a moment to finish you."

You know the right moment to strike when you see it. Grinning, you replied, each word echoing loudly in the great hall of the House of Hope:

"That's twice as long as Haarlep said it would take to finish you".

Perfect timing. The insult landed like a slap, the look on the devil's face was worth a crown of Karsus and more. The echo of your taunt lingered on, as it were to remain here forever.

"You contemptuous creature!"

You would wager good money that no one had ever humiliated him like that, and you are not a gambler. For a brief moment, the mask of superiority slipped, he actually looked stunned, stupid... human. You couldn’t suppress a chuckle of delight. The funniest shit you've ever seen, and you've seen some.

But the glorious moment passed all too quickly. Raphael's physical form faulted, cajoled, your insult melting him like holy water, human face giving way to an infernal visage: eyes flaring, fangs bared, claws outstretched and muscles bulging. The very air of the house bristled with the fury of its Master.

In response, the magic in your fingers burned and ached for devil's blood. You longed to send the smug fuck back to his maker.

There was a damn good chance you might actually do it.

It was close. Your victory, it was close. Just one lucky strike away, one small glimpse of luck, dodging one second earlier than later. You hoped for it as you never hoped for anything else until the very last moment. Until you saw Shadowheart stumble to the ground, her femur snapped in two, thigh torn by claws, green eyes searching desperately for you.

Only you were already on the floor, flesh torn by the infernal magic, Shadowheart's cries echoing somewhere far away, distant and increasingly unimportant as you nestled in the cozy comfort of darkness.

Your arrogance has never gotten you into trouble before. On the contrary, it has brought you so far. It has kept you alive for so long. Where others would falter and begin to doubt themselves, your ego carried you on and on until it took you straight to the devil.

Your companions, they believed you were something very special indeed; Shadowheart above all. You were the one who showed her the true light of the Moonmaiden, the one to save her from the wolves. She opened her heart to you. Hear me, heal me, save me, lead me. Astarion admired you, too. He wouldn’t say that, no need to be that obvious. Why should he not? You freed him from Cazador's chains.

They believed you when you assured them the heist would work. Why would they not? They saw you trample Myrkil's chosen. They watched as your wild magic turned Orin into a statue of blood and gore. When you waltzed into House of Hose, you felt like the Chosen One of all Chosen Ones, special enough to defeat a devil in his own home.

Hell, even Raphael himself must have thought highly of you, with all the talk of the Crown. But you were never too sure. The little innuendos, the veiled threats and the double entendres - when he spoke to you, he spoke down to you. His presence smothered you, the monumentality of his ego dwarfing yours. His eyes were cold, infernal slits that pawed over your soul, searching for the good to crush and the bad to nurture.

Raphael made you feel very small and very mortal.

So you ransacked his home, shattered it to the core: chests burst open, the collection of rare wines tasted, treasuries emptied, the sheets of his bed stained with your sweat and lust.

You felt no less mortal, but infinitely less small.

"Don't even dream of dying... don't you dare..."

You missed the end of the sentence as Raphael pushed your head under the cool water. The cuts and bruises that covered your face began to heal. You struggled against his grip, trying to breathe, scratching at his hand. Water filled your throat and lungs, you swallowed it, it swallowed you. You writhed and writhed, overwhelmed with panic, every rational sense evaporating, only one thought flashing through your mind: you are drowning, drowning, drowning, you are finished, you are dead. But where one would normally be docile, limping towards inevitable death, you remained remarkably alert.

Is it possible to drown in a rejuvenation pool?

Raphael pulled your head up by your hair and held you upright, your body hanging helplessly from his hand like some kind of trophy. The devil was seething, his body shaking with rage, his breath burning hot against your ear.

But you had given him a good beating too, the aftermath of the fight a testament to that - the cuts, the acid burns, the scorched skin where radiant light had struck him. You could have been the one to finish him, the one to scatter his remains across the hard wood of the House of Hope.

Could have, would have - you were on your way to becoming a true expert in conjunctions.

"You despicable creature," Raphael repeated, "you absolute filth".

Yes, anger, but also fear. He knew as well as you that it could have been you: bet he hasn't felt this mortal in a long time.

The only thing you would sell your soul for is to see the light in those pitch-black eyes go out. Paintings and statues in the Devil's boudoir danced a macabre dance. You could swear some of them were laughing at you.

Raphael sent you on another dive, this time completely underwater. A pervasive numbness set in, like a sleeping potion that spread through your body. The world was spinning, the bottom of the pool was getting closer and closer.

And then you hit it.

You regained your senses plastered to the hardwood floor of Raphael's boudoir. Still panting, your clothes soaked with water, clinging to your skin, your long hair damp and disheveled. Shaking and trembling, a wretched, poor thing. It was not at all cold in the House of Hope, but your body seemed to have lost all sense of temperature.

The first thought was of your companions: what became of them? Were they dead? Were they being tortured?

They better be dead. They had better be dead for their own sake.

The second was of your magic: how did he manage to silence you shut?

"Mahogany wood".

The meaning of the words escaped you. You looked up; Raphael had taken the time to rearrange himself while you were gone: his clothes no longer torn and tattered, his horns freshly waxed, his hair clean and slicked back.

"Mahogany wood, - he repeated. - harvested from the forests of Ardeep. Extremely rare, worth more than your flesh and soul put together. Under no circumstances should it be soaked in water".

He snapped his fingers.

"Have a modicum of respect for my house, you mannerless filth".

You don't realize for half a second that the gesture has stripped you entirely. Wet clothes were gone. You curled up, knees to your chest, trembling, your pale body certainly devoid of any erotic allure.

Indeed, Raphael barely glanced at you, and when he did, you'd think you were an insect - a particularly nasty kind - something between a cockroach and a tarantula, but more the former than the latter.

The toe of the leather boot - clean and polished to perfection - jabbed into your side, ordering you to roll away from his precious parquet. The hierarchy of things of value in this house, and your place in it, was made clear. You rolled into the plush of the obscenely lush carpet.

"Haarlep!" - he beckoned. His command was laced with magic. He called.

The call was answered immediately. This time, however, Incubus did not grace the bed with their presence. Instead, they chose to rest their back against the huge painting by Raphael.

You felt surrounded.

Haarlep looked exactly as they had the last time you saw him - a lecherous, whorish younger version of their master. Does the devil know that this scantily clad facsimile is more of an insult than a tribute?

Your tryst under the crimson sheets was fiery and elaborate. You preferred them in their female form - the joke of a feminised Raphael pleasuring you was certainly not lost on you. And they did - a true zealot of oral pleasures. You always liked lovers who went above and beyond to please you.

Shadowheart didn't utter a word of protest as the boudoir door closed behind you and Haarlep. No, she was not the judgmental type - or the type to deny you your little whims and pleasures.

Monogamy was never your forte.

You found the idea of playing with Raphael's personal pet, of taking what was for him a private, narcissistic pleasure, brilliant. A small indulgence for valuable information - and a most delicious, most humiliating gossip. Brilliant, yes; you tried to find that brilliance now, but it seemed much less obvious.

"I don't presume any introductions are required?"

You and Haarlep exchanged glances. The last time they looked you in the eye, their face was nestled between your knees. You found it amusing then, knowing that Raphael might have a phantom taste of your juices in his mouth.

"No need, Master. Our guest is well remembered".

Their flirtatious, joyous tone could not hide the fear beneath.

"Trust me, your encounter was nearly not as memorable as ours. Now, Haarlep, I gather you both partook in most entertaining conversations - would you mind filling me in on the details?

Devil moved towards his doppelganger, closing in and pinning him to the wall. Haarlep's tail tucked behind their leg. The fear of their Master seemed to have aroused the creature, their eyes glistening and breathing becoming more erratic.

"Ah, meaningless chatter, Master, mostly revolving about that sweet little cunt of hers".

You snorted in contempt. Incubus ogled you, trying to draw their Master's attention away from himself and towards your naked form. Thankfully, Raphael was having none of it.

"No word of a certain hammer lost in this chatter?"

Haarlep tensed.

You sensed a perfect opportunity to deflect some of that anger.

"Oh, many words, but few of hammers, - you said. - Said you were worthless in bed. Can’t last a minute if your Crown depended on it".

Raphael bared his fangs, his face contorted in a grimace of rage. Haarlep gave you a dark look - not a trace of lust left - as if backstabbing was something exotic in the Hells.

You watched in awe as Raphael raised his claws to the neck of the incubus, suddenly feeling very inspired.

"And that you like to lie under him. To, you know, take him like a woman would".

Perhaps the last remark was a step too far, but at this point you cared little. You would dig a grave as deep as hell for Haarlep if it would save you.

"FILTHY, LYING WHORE!".

"That's what she is," Raphael nodded, so lost in his rage that he almost seemed calm, "that's what you are too, Haarlep. And that’s how I would treat both of you".

What sounded like a threat to you seemed to incubus like the promise of a great time.

Raphael stepped away. The blow Haarlep had been expecting never came.

"Make no mistake, Haarlep: I would enjoy tearing you to pieces if it weren't for the fact that you would enjoy it just as much".

With a small chuckle, Haarlep looked past their Master and gave you a smile laced with the promise of revenge.

"I know someone who wouldn't, Master. I know that someone very well indeed."

Incubus shifted, transformed, into something very familiar. Except that you would never clothe your body in that ridiculous garb.

Fate continued to bombard you with the unfortunate consequences of your brilliant ideas.

The doppelganger, her lips curled in the shape of a smile, held the devilish talon to her throat. You felt the phantom pressure of its point against your damp skin and gasped for air. It thrust deeper. You felt the ghostly twin of your hand preparing to jerk the talon to the right and slit your throat.

You screamed before Haarlep could do anything. The circular cuffs, engraved with infernal runes, lifted the incubus from the ground by their wrists, suspending them in mid-air.

"Enough of your initiatives, Haarlep, - Raphael shook his head. -- You should have dealt with her when you had the chance. You do not deserve a taste of my feast.".

The creature that wore your face was thrashing, angry, struggling against its chains. You couldn't reproduce the screams it made. You felt your own shoulders clench with pain.

Raphael stared at Haarlep in your writhing leather-clad form, then turned to compare it to the naked original.

"Now, you and I, we have a matter to settle. The matter of my manhood, my endurance and my preferences. I cannot allow this slander to go unchallenged, can I?"

Somehow you lulled yourself into believing that you were not an object of his lust, but the edge in the last question dispelled the illusion. You found little pleasure in the idea of lying with a man who had stripped you naked, drowned you and, worst of all, defeated you.

Raphael tapped his thigh lightly and nodded his chin to point you to the spot beneath him. You got the hint, but chose to ignore it.

"Do I have to spell everything out for you? The eroticism of the unspoken is truly lost on your generation".