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"Tell the chef, the beer is on me."
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I see it, I want it
I stunt, yellow bone it
I dream it, I work hard
I grind 'til I own it
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Necrotic shroud is one of my favorite racial traits. And, like all the best special abilities in DnD, it’s utterly useless in combat.
Playing a fallen aasimar pretty much demands that you debut necrotic shroud when the party hits its first big milestone of drama. Everyone’s spilling their baggage, filling up the party inventory with tragic pasts. Then, your aasimar busts out necrotic shroud in the heat of battle.
It’s supposed to strike fear into the enemy, and add necrotic damage to your attacks. By the time you earn the ability, though, most enemies can beat the save. Which is fine, because it’s not for beating enemies.
It’s for beating your party members over the head with pure, gothic drama. It’s for blowing their drama off the table. It’s the Alexander McQueen finale look, gauzy death embellished with broken celestial light, designed to quicken the rabbit-hearted mortals with thoughts of infinite loss.
Top to bottom, necrotic shroud is entirely, painfully, aesthetic.
Necrotic shroud is a trait that serves the story more than the game. It’s a self-aware, flamboyantly dark piece of character pageantry…and I fucking love it.
And, I was thrilled to see everyone reacting to Yasha’s ult with the extravagant enthusiasm it deserved.