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Sitting Here posted:If you write a story and post it here, you've probably done something right! Word Count: 605 A [mirror] agonizes over a [scientist] The mirror awoke to the warm, radiant glow of a flickering fluorescent bulb. It was the only light the mirror had ever known, and therefore the most wonderful in the entire world. The mirror was greeted by the beautiful baggy, bloodshot eyes, and the sonorously scornful voice of its dearest and only friend, the scientist. “God, I hate you,” said the scientist. “You and your ugly mug,” the scientist said to the mirror. Such was the scientist’s routine. Early every morning, the scientist woke up to brush and wash and hurry off to the laboratory, and every evening, the scientist would dejectedly plod back to curse and swear and bemoan their apparent failure. The mirror could not say for certain for how long this pattern had persisted, but it was all the mirror had ever known. The mirror knew no other face and no other voice and no other friend. “Christ, what’s wrong with you?” challenged the scientist. “All your classmates and all your friends by now are doctors or lawyers or start-up owners. And what are you wasting your life on? Some hare-brained science project that only an idiot like you is dumb enough to work on.” The scientist was nothing if not consistent in their habits. Every evening, the scientist would return to the mirror, and the mirror would reflect their face, and the scientist would curse and swear and cry at the face the scientist so hated. It was rare that the scientist wore an expression other than the numb, half-lucid daze of the morning, or the livid, self-loathing rage of the evening, but on rare occasions the scientist would barge into the bathroom at the wee hours of the night. Such oddities would begin with the scientist entering the bathroom laughing giddily, and would end with them kneeling in front of the toilet. The mirror did not fully understand what would cause either the scientist’s unusually euphoric mood, or their sudden forgetfulness on how to use the toilet, but in any case the mirror suspected it was nothing good. “Four years in the Ivy League reading classics, and for what?” demanded the scientist. “Not like those materials science and thermodynamics and biochemistry classes are doing you much more good, either. ‘Plato enough for a cocktail party,’ they said,” scoffed the scientist, “as though I’d ever be invited to one. And the debt! Oh, the debt!” The room turned silent, as the scientist’s rancor turned from hot to cold. With an impulsive jerk, the scientist raised a fist, as though to strike the much-detested visage who returned the scientist’s gaze. For a moment, the scientist froze still, glaring coldly at their reflection. Eventually, after an interminable moment, the scientist released their breath, and lowered their hand. “What would even be the use?” acquiesced the scientist. “It’s my face I want to tear up, not my hand.” The mirror, of course, had heard and seen this same tirade in various permutations more times than it could count, and wished desperately it could offer some form of comfort or solace to its dearest and only friend. It had considered showing a different, less-loathsome face to the scientist, or failing that, perhaps simply shattering, and reflecting no face at all, but such feats were beyond its power. It was, after all, a mirror. “Why, oh why,” cursed the scientist, to the only one listening, “did I ever make it my life’s work to invent sentient glassware.” The mirror had no mouth to speak, no voice to share, no tears to shed. The mirror could do nothing more than reflect the face the scientist so hated.
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Aug 6, 2022 01:35
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sebmojo posted:A [failed fanfic writer] agonizes over [sentient weed] Kudoszu [897 words] By Copernic The Homestuck fandom was too horny to survive. Jacob had sounded the alarm early and often, even privately messaging moderators on the message boards. He had no moral objection to it – he told the subreddit admins – but “it crowds out the many varieties of love with basest lust.” Also the characters were thirteen, at least the human ones. He took the shadowbans stoically. Jacob channeled all into a grand response, thirty-five chapters released in one grand unveiling, cross-posted on a dozen subreddits and touted on Archive of Our Own. It was titled Thirty-Five Romances. The next morning was hazy hot and the sun was already high. He’d conscientiously outfitted the room with the IKEA furniture with the same stain. Jacob had made an effort to avoid male living space pitfalls. His walls did not have any posters, and he kept his lotions and tissues in a discrete area. He even had a new plant, a climbing vine salvaged from the curbside. It had a pleasing, calming scent, like mown grass tossed with chamomile. Jacob dressed first. He sat himself at his desk. The AO3 panel told him that Thirty-Five Romances had accumulated Twenty-Three hits and 0 kudos. There were no comments. He broke a number of things in his room. — A bowl of weed, then another, lowered his blood pressure but did strange things to the interior of the room. The shadows cut differently, perhaps because he’d kicked a lamp, and the two unbroken bulbs cast long silhouettes from the carpet. But that didn’t explain the wavering lines on the wall. Plus it smelled – not just of weed but a keen greenhouse aura. “This is the future,” he proclaimed, over the busted furniture. He thought about this. Thoughts percolated slowly, even under the influence. The smell wasn’t actually bad. Just vegetable. “No. I should cum on everything. THAT is the future.” He should watch TV, something told him. An idea, except he wasn’t sure he thought it. If he had, where was the fury? Jacob turned the TV on anyway. Somehow the Roku had escaped his anger. His computer monitor had not. It made the eastern half of the room dangerous to tread in. Glass shards in beige carpet. Ponies, he perhaps thought. He turned on ponies. Early seasons. The climbing vine was a welcome contrast to the chaos elsewhere in the room. It had pulled free of the simple stick and ventured onto the windowframe. Small white flowers had blossomed on the bulk of the stem. “Season two is where things really got going,” he said, to no one. — It was strange – one of the things about doing recreational drugs is that they wore off. That didn’t seem to be happening this time around. Between episodes Jacob tried to measure his pulse. There was an echoing thud, but it seemed to take ages to beat. He certainly felt like his heart barely beat. He hadn’t stirred from the couch in a long time. It’s fine, someone thought. “Like, I get that these are for kids,” Jacob said. “It’s just—” Yeah? “That’s why they’re good. We’re born as these nasty squalling monkeys that suck our mother’s dry and then we learn to be real people, GOOD people, with things like compassion and friendship and– more friendship and courtesy…” Becoming a person, the thought arrived. “Yes! And Homestuck and MLP and even Avatar and maybe Spongebob – that’s where we learn all that! But then everyone wants to just RUSH past that part to learn about…” Jacob tried to gesture, with disgust, at the TV. His hand didn’t really want to move. It smelled so good in the room. Herbal, in an all-consuming sense. “...sex and being a snarky rear end in a top hat.” Sex is bad? The idea percolated. “I mean–” Jacob tried to look around. The window was open somehow. Was there someone – but no. There was just the calm rustle of the vines in the late afternoon breeze. They formed patterns along the walls, and had grown taut around the couch cushions. It was nice of them, to hold his head upright. “Look, it’s complicated.” Lets watch another episode. — His heart made a long, trembling thump. It was all very clear. Season three of Steven Universe had clarified things. “I need to– write them together. I wasn’t creating– I was…” The vine was wrapped around his throat. Not in a bad way – Jacob wasn’t alarmed at all by it. It kept his head upright. Much of him was supported by the vines, a green wrapping against his skin. He labored to stand up, regardless. He had to write it down. “Hey, hey,” it wasn’t quite speech. Hundreds of brilliant white flowers seemed to curl and uncurl. “No. Stay there.” The scent wafted around him, calming him. His friend, helping him. The door was blocked shut, to keep out the occasional thuds. Large strands hung down from the ceiling, with a gap in the floral curtain, so he could see his shows. They both could. This was the power of friendship. “I need to write it. A better story. With all the Homestuck kids and Catdog and Arnold and Aang and…” The very tip of a vine touched his lips. A green figure, coiled into the shape of a man, got up from next to him on the couch. “I’ll do it,” it said. “Where’s your spare monitor?”
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Aug 6, 2022 04:47
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In for vanilla, please fill my blanks with some really weird stuff.  Oh yeah, and I’d like a spin, next time that happens. curlingiron fucked around with this message at 04:58 on Aug 6, 2022 |
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Aug 6, 2022 04:55
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Week 522 Alpha Blanks: A [spaceships] agonizes about [the toilet dimension] Spin: Birthdaytar The Brown Round 847 words One single piece of poop floating in outer space doesn't get a lot of respect. Nor do two, or even three. But if you let that poop accumulate until there's a few thousand pieces agglomerated into one big log, exciting things start happening. Chemical reactions take place. Bacterial consciousnesses develop. All of a sudden, you're looking at a fully-functional living spaceship. Made of poop. Which calls itself The Brown Round. Me. It's me. Hello. Unfortunately, being a fully-functional living spaceship made of poop called The Brown Round doesn't get you a lot of respect either. Or maybe it does. I don't know. I achieved sentience alone, and I'll experience heat death, I assume, alone. Actually, no - not entirely alone. I do carry within me a clutch of eggs. That's you. Collectively, you're some of the only non-poop matter I've ever touched. A few dozen little rounded yellow eggs, stowed away in the various wrinkles and hollows about my constituent poops. I don't know if you're a young form of the original lifeforms that pooped me, or perhaps you're the poopers themselves, shrunken now by expelling me and hitched along for the ride. It isn't the sort of thing a bacterial consciousness can just intuit. I didn't even know you were eggs until a few centuries ago. I was scooting along my trajectory near Ebolus II when a freighter ship pulled up alongside me. It hailed me with some hoity-toity message about "the honor of first contact" and "trading information about our species", so I shot one of you guys across the gulf of space at the freighter's hatch to see if they knew what you are. Well, they got one whiff of it, screamed "EGG" or "YEUGGH" or something, and sped off. Don't worry, I pooted my way over and recaptured the left-behind egg. I feel like you guys might be important. I still see the freighter, or others like it, along my trajectory. I can feel their scans. But they don't hail me anymore. They keep their distance. Very few things that move through space get to choose their own trajectory. I also did not. Someone, or many several someones, pooped me out, and with the force of that pooping decided my destiny. Eventually, my trajectory will coincide with some celestial body's gravity, I'll be unable to escape, I'll crash-land, and environmental forces will shear my consciousness away until I'm inert, lifeless, even dissolved into the water table. It happens to asteroids. It happens to comets. It'll happen to me. But maybe you'll get the better end of it. Maybe it'll be a hospitable climate for eggs to hatch, and creatures to thrive. I like to imagine the form you'll take when you're full-grown. Sometimes you're a bunch of little frogs, hopping around a pond. Sometimes you're a forest spanning dinosaur, hoovering up old growth at a whim. Always, you make your own little poops, and in that way, I can live on somehow, even if you don't remember me. That's the way I try to keep my spirits up. Try to stay afloat. Bobbing along, waiting for that planet to enter my detection radius and– Wait. Nevermind. I can see it. It's not a planet. It's a wormhole. And I'm already past the event horizon. poo poo. Wormholes are a lot like black holes, only they're not entirely black. They're certainly dark, especially down in the deep middle, but there's a bright white glow that stretches up around the edges. But the most fascinating feature is a yellow-brown ring that cuts through the white, streaking all the way around the hole. It's beautiful, but terrifying. I'm sorry I failed you, little eggs. I would've given anything to see you grow up. Everything's going dark. No matter what happens in there, remember that I love you. … I'm still alive. I'm no longer in space. I've splattered, a bit, onto a marble floor, and my cold turds are rapidly warming. This is not the ideal scenario. Someone approaches. A tall creature, in a resplendent headdress fit only for a galactic emperor! They reach down and pluck one of you from my runny, melting form. They hold you up for the gathered millions of their subjects, and they all cheer, with a deafening joy. Oh god, little eggs, I'm sorry. I failed you. Prepare to be ritually devoured. Before my bacterial mind disbands completely, the emperor finally comes into sharp focus. They're tall, and thick around the middle. Yellow in color, wearing bright green vestments, their headdress a cascading tassel of fine, shimmering golden strands. And they aren't eating you. Not at all. They're gathering you up with utmost care, kissing each one of you in turn. "Peace," they scream, amplified and echoed in every corner of the Corn Imperium city-planet. "War is averted! The galaxy will know peace!" Can it be, my eggs? As I take the form of a wet puddle, and my last gas reserves release and float away, I still must wonder if it can possibly be - have I managed to bring you home?
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Aug 6, 2022 04:56
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curlingiron posted:In for vanilla, please fill my blanks with some really weird stuff. A [three hundred angry gophers] agonizes over [Jeff Probst]
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Aug 6, 2022 06:38
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Thranguy posted:In for wizards, flash me too. Also a Sunday wheel spin.
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Aug 6, 2022 10:41
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Prompt 3. Flash rule: 12 words in your story are in alphabetical order. Hellrule: Exactly one thing happens in your story. Magnitude 6.2: Strong. Weak buildings are damaged. Fragile and precious objects are destroyed. Walking steadily is difficult, and will remain that way for the foreseeable future. 245 words A week after the earthquake, Rose’s house was still a disaster. The power hadn’t been reconnected, but she couldn’t bear the civil defence shelter. Too much crying. Torrential rain had soaked her desk through the smashed study window. Dead leaves were strewn over the ruins of her laptop. A framed poster lay on the mouldering carpet. Rose stooped to flip it over, and the corners of her mouth tugged down when she saw the glass was broken, the paper sodden. Rose remembered her little niece’s grin as Rose had played the alphabet game with her. Alligator, bear, cow, dog, elephant, fish, gorilla, horse, igloo, jacket, kangaroo, ladder…. Rose would ask her what sound each made, and the little girl would howl with laughter every time they got to “igloo.” The paper came apart in Rose’s fingers as she tried to peel it from the broken frame. Rose’s mouth tugged down again, and she felt tears prickle her eyes. It’s just a thing, she told herself. An object. Be grateful you’re all still alive. Rose hauled her trash sack outside and opened the lid of her big plastic bin. She stopped, sack held aloft. The ruins of her favourite potplant sat on top of the stinking contents of her dead freezer. Smashed from its pot and soil everywhere, the gerbera had been in the pitch dark for days. It was flowering. Rose looked at the single bud, and tears flowed freely down her cheeks.
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Aug 6, 2022 10:43
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I'm going to the top of the ladder bitches, yeah baby let's go, it's wizard time, flash rule me up real good
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Aug 6, 2022 10:45
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RNG wizards (sorry I didn't get to this sooner)Thranguy posted:In for wizards, flash me too. Your left eye causes anything it sees to wither or decay. Your magic grows when things around you die. You must be very careful if you don't want to bring ruin down on the innocent. The Saddest Rhino posted:Flash me re ladder 3 and 4 Note: I assume that by signing up for prompt 4 you want a wizard. Even if you don't want a wizard, i'm giving you a wizard. It's yours now. No take backsies. Your flash rules will be assigned by seb or the spinner wheel, whichever happens first You are the wizard of hair. With your magic, hair of any kind can become a choking serpent or a net of razor-sharp twine, or anything else your whimsy demands. You can even persuade it to betray the head it grows on.
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Aug 6, 2022 11:01
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In with sweet vanilla. Cause of my mangled balls and everything
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Aug 6, 2022 12:52
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Crits for Week #518 PhantomMuzzles - My Heart Beats So That I Can Hardly Speak: This is a decent story that really could have benefited from something more distinctive in its world or characterisations. The central ideas — someone being hooked up to some sort of computer-generated heaven, quasi-religious types taking advantage of people — aren’t bad, but they’ve been done before, and better, many times. (Don’t take this as a slight: Black Mirror’s San Junipero remains one of my favourite pieces of television, and I can’t help but compare its similarities here.) What this story needed was something real and concrete, that made this combination of plots and characters uniquely yours. You get halfway there with Seth, and the idea that there’d been conflict in their life (about this? about something else?), but he’s introduced too late to have emotional impact and you don’t explore it any further than as an aside. Otherwise, I don’t really know too much about Ruth besides “old lonely widow”, and the story could have taken place in a white room for all the description we’re given. (Sidenote: another judge liked that you opened with dialogue, but I’ve often found that a riskier move, especially if the dialogue’s unattributed. Here, the entire first bit of dialogue is effectively meaningless (“necessary preparations”?), and doesn’t establish anything about the characters or the setting. You could perhaps open with the slightly more direct “You’ve had the port installed, and your neuropaths have been synchronised. Why do you now hesitate, my child?” which gets us into sci-fi cyberpunky territory a bit quicker.) Finally, I’m not sure I understand the scam they’re running here. As much as the Father and the acolyte feel like they should be conniving villains, putting on a religious charade in order to collect money from lonely old people, they kind of … give her exactly what she wants? I think the other judges touched on this also, but beyond the initial twist of “yep, they’re not actually religious types, just tech hucksters”, the juxtaposition of her heavenly bliss with the callous disregard for her body doesn’t strike as well as it perhaps should. Copernic - Glass Case: There are some decent moments in this story, and you can clearly write, but for the most part I had no idea what was going on here. I think the biggest problem with this story is that it just doesn’t know what it’s trying to do. We open with two characters trying to work out where a rogue AI has come from, which I expect to play a much larger role in the story, but this question’s abandoned almost immediately to focus on the conflict between Vass and Clay; which, cool, that works, except we never really find out who they are and then Vass dies off-screen. And then the story concludes with Clay worshipping Godbot, but outside of the obvious religious overtones of his suggested name, there wasn’t really any indication until that point that Clay was heading in that direction. Some earlier characterisation in this direction would help immensely — eg Vass calling the AI “it” and Clay referring to it as “him / her”, or ascribing a personality to the construct that Vass refuses to acknowledge until it kills him. MockingQuantum - Verdancy: Like a lot of Thunderdome stories, this reads like a perfectly fine first draft, which could be immeasurably improved by a second. And much like PhantomMuzzle’s entry, it feels like it largely needs something unique — the central mix of plants and body horror is effective, but this story treats it perhaps too clinically and relies too heavily on a twist ending over a creeping sense of dread. Also, the ending is incredibly abrupt. I feel like the story is missing some internal consistency—or perhaps some opportunities to use internal consistency as more subtle foreshadowing. If Grundorf has been taken over by the plant disease, shouldn’t it affect his behaviour or physiology before the sudden about-face at the end? (There’s some foreshadowing in his “oh, but the plant is thriving” commentary, but I was taking that to be a sign of his loyalties and not the fact that he’s already been infested.) I’m thinking particularly of him switching on the light; the narrative justifies this by saying it wouldn’t make a difference to the boy, but I’m wondering if he’s in fact doing it because he needs the light? Chili - Follow the Light: This is a really sweet story of brotherly love, but to be honest it feels like the setup for a much longer story. For all that Henry knows it’s just a pressure plate and a timer, his nonchalant response to Jason’s reaction to seeing Poppy feels disingenuous; in another story, I can see the next scene being him waiting until Jason’s gone to bed, and then going into the Spiritbringer himself. As it stands, the story feels a bit imbalanced, with the majority of the story being setup to create the Spiritbringer, and then … everyone loves it, the end. I would have liked to see a bit more dilemma in Henry’s decision, a bit more curiosity from him about why so many people are having such vivid experiences in what he knows is just a cardboard box with some wires … right? Chernobyl Princess - Kindness: I’ll tell you freely there was a fair amount of discussion in judgechat around this one, as Jib’s already alluded to. It was still top-tier, but I suspect much of my appreciation came down to how I was interpreting the “kind-faced god” — to me, “kind-faced” is misdirection bordering on ironic foreshadowing, and it’s notable that the little girl imagines her appearance and creates the god’s likeness through her belief. The god herself is not kind, as we’ll later come to discover. But this reading is undercut by a single line, “It is a terrible thing to be a god of kindness in a warzone”, which specifies her as a god of kindness and not a “kind-faced god”. With this reading in mind, the story now becomes a rumination on how kindness necessarily requires hurting someone (wonderfully captured by the “seed of betrayal” line) as opposed to how people ascribe morality and meaning and kindness on gods who are ambivalent at best and self-serving at worst. I’d suggest both readings are valid in your story, but I’m not sure they’re equally intentional. Anyway. I really liked this. The prose is strong, there are some delightful turns of phrase, and the storytelling is confident. Ceighk - The Second Coming: I think we talked about this somewhat in the Discord, but I had some problems following this piece toward the end, where it wasn’t especially clear that Tommy had paused time to help save his brother. I think this is partly because there was no description of the gunshot’s sound—only the smoke, which feels a bit backwards—and partly because, until now, there’d been no real indication that Tommy actually possessed magical powers (or indeed any indication as to why they were worshipping Tommy). Tommy’s character feels a bit confused to me. At the beginning (well, two years earlier) he seemed innocent and naive; and at the end it almost feels like he’s the one taking advantage of everyone else, with his childish laughter and the sense this is all just a funny game. Which, maybe he is, and it is to him! But the story doesn’t really explore this. It’s a good scene, but by the end I was a bit disappointed to see the protagonist just escape without any real thought to his objective in saving Tommy. Even a suggestion that he’d go back when it was safer would have helped tremendously here. hard counter - Fragments from the book of Danhune, 4th Verse (Revised English Edition) Narrated by Danhune the Witness Collected by Bardu sen Alfaktan Translated by Ellen Kaufmann: I appreciate the idea of the story’s framing as a historical text, but I feel that the execution doesn’t go too far beyond a structural conceit. Even allowing for the inevitable inaccuracies of translation, the language doesn’t really work for the story—“should’ve”, for instance, doesn’t mesh with the archaic tone affected elsewhere. The story itself is fine. I like the idea of a people turning their cenotaphs into weapons to drive out an invading force, and being rewarded with old learnings thought lost. I think that, in itself, is a strong idea that feels a bit smothered by the trappings of some faux-historical framing. Also: I don’t mind when stories use footnotes for dramatic effect, but here they feel a bit arbitrary, especially when used to provide definitions for real words that a reader could themselves look up. Even assuming the footnotes are only there to provide verisimilitude to the conceit of translation, why would the translator not substitute in an easily-understood word in replacement (eg: “murder holes” for “machicolations”), and why would she leave other foreign words—such as “bazaar”—without definition? It’s obviously impossible for us to know when the piece was ostensibly translated and what Ellen expects her audience to understand, but it raises too many questions for too little benefit (and, frankly, slows down the pace of reading too much). Thranguy - Zed's Testament: On a re-read, I think the line “listened to him explain the universe” is a bit out of place in a story that otherwise tells a great deal through subtext. Sure, perhaps we’re not meant to take this literally; I’m sure more people have tried to explain the universe in a diner late at night than in all the churches of the world. But it’s pretty clear, from the miracle we’ve just witnessed with the tattoo, and the miracles still to come, that this man really does hold some knowledge worth sharing. And dropping this here raises questions about what was said that the story doesn’t seem too interested in answering, even though you’d think the protagonist would take some of it to heart. Bad Seafood - The Arrival: Like many other stories this week, this takes a fairly recognisable conceit—an old man representing time, a young child representing rebirth, the sea as a source of life—and explores it through some delicate prose. I feel like you’ve successfully imbued the central metaphor with enough of your own creativity that it feels fresh; the umbrella and the bell are symbols I don’t commonly associate with these stories, although in all honesty I’m not sure what I’m supposed to read into the umbrella as it’s mentioned once and never again. Anyway. I appreciate the visual language. This story does lose me a bit toward the beginning, where some of the dialogue is presented as text—as if internal narration—but we then switch to every line as quoted dialogue. I feel like you could cut the four lines of dialogue, between “Where am I?” and “that is for you to tell me” without honestly losing too much of the story.
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Aug 6, 2022 13:03
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Mercedes posted:In with sweet vanilla. Cause of my mangled balls and everything A [dentist] agonizes over [hot sauce noodle juice]
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Aug 6, 2022 13:32
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Yoruichi posted:I'm going to the top of the ladder bitches, yeah baby let's go, it's wizard time, flash rule me up real good Your story ends before it begins Thranguy posted:In for wizards, flash me too. Your story is twice as long as it should be The Saddest Rhino posted:Flash me re ladder 3 and 4 3: yarn, everywhere, just way too much yarn 4: a picture that everyone thinks they have seen but noone actually has
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Aug 6, 2022 13:36
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I got my wizard already but give me a flash for prompt 4
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Aug 6, 2022 17:55
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rng wizardYoruichi posted:I'm going to the top of the ladder bitches, yeah baby let's go, it's wizard time, flash rule me up real good You gain your power from supping on the obscene. Specifically, if you eat gross stuff, you get stronger magics. Your might depends on your willingness to defile your tongue and digestive tract.
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Aug 6, 2022 20:47
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MockingQuantum posted:I got my wizard already but give me a flash for prompt 4 Your wizard is in a terrible hurry
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Aug 6, 2022 21:08
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Omega prompt #2 Dinosaur’s Fangs 1085/1100 words “So do you like hip-hop or techno?” An 18 year old Simon is wedged firmly between two older guys twice his breadth. He had met both of them for the first time when he got in the backseat of this car, currently driven way too fast by his coworker, let’s call him Sonic. The question comes without any lead-up. Simon looks to Sonic for assistance, but he’s busy racing an Audi. Simon’s gaze shifts from one backseat neighbor to the other. Right wedge, asker of question: burly guy, friendly enough. Right wedge: jacked, comically so. Simon doesn’t know it yet, but on his vast bicepses are tattooed the words BLOOD and HONOR in you-know-what-font. I-just-like-the-values-the-words-represent smirks. “Is it a hard question?” Simon’s sweat turns a few degrees colder. He’s even worse at reading rooms than what he will end up being, but at least he has the mind to realize that “neither” would be suicidal. So as unanswered tension rises, he defaults to his standard modus operandi - brutal honesty. “Well, there’s a few techno songs I like, I’m not an expert in the genre, but…” He looks straight ahead at the road, waiting for a reaction. Time seems to dilute, maybe because the car is going so fast. Suddenly, a slap from Burly on his back. “Ha! Very nice.” Heritage-not-hate nods. “gently caress hip-hop.” And that’s how our protagonist became a member of Sonic’s eclectic group of friends. — A few weeks later, Sonic was even more hyper than usual. “Dude. Chris Liebing will play at the Dinodrome.” Youth slowed down his work to think hard about the statement. “Dinodrome is that lizard museum out in the boonies they converted to a disco, right?” Sonic slowly shook his head. “Please. It’s called a club. And the Godfather of Schranz will play it!” Simon made a “go on” gesture. “Chris invented the best form of techno! Hard, pure, uncompromising, it blows your face. Right. Off.” Simon liked Sonic, so he tried very hard to not hurt his feelings. He put his most genuine smile forward when he faked enthusiasm and happiness for his coworker-turned-tentative-friend. He was too successful. Less than five minutes later, he had accepted an invitation to the “concert of the century. Millennium!” — The evening of the concert had arrived, preceded by mounting dread by Simon, who had used the intervening time to educate himself on Schranz. It was horrible. Absolutely dreadful, amelodic, droning noise. He knew that he would not enjoy himself one bit, but this was all to make Sonic happy, and maybe Simon could siphon some of his exuberance? Burly was designated driver, and perhaps even more pumped than Sonic about the whole affair. No chance of him calling the evening early, and he was driving Simon and Sonic into the middle of absolutely nowhere. Simon would have to force his fun or just die out here. At the Dinodrome, the friend group assembled. Sonic, barely able to contain himself. Burly, content like fat buddha. A guy who Simon hadn’t met before, wearing a Dinodrome shirt, buzzing with nervous energy but a blank expression, let’s call him Dino. And, of loving course, I-enjoy-the-looks-my-tattoos-get-at-the-public-pool. Some awkward hellos later, Simon had firmly decided that this evening was going to be a complete write-off. — Two hours later, Simon congratulated himself on his ability to stick to the plan. The third vastly overpriced beer of the evening was almost empty. The alcohol had done absolutely nothing to dull the piercing spikes which Schranz drove into his brain at 140-160 bpm. But he had managed to not interact with any of Sonic’s bizarre troupe after they had streamed onto the dance floor like men possessed, and nobody had questioned him just sitting at the bar for the entire concert so far. God, it was not even 10 PM. Time for another toilet break of increasing frequency before the next order, once again succumbing to the faint hope that the “music” might be less devastating inside the stalls. When Simon returned to his well-warmed seat, he found Dino waiting for him, still holding a perfectly blank expression. His bad vibe had only intensified, however. Its negative resonance formed a perfect superposition with the Schranz’ overtuned sonic waves, resulting in an interference that constructively drove a fist into Simon’s suffering stomach. “Um…hi?” Dino’s gaze shot a spike directly through Simon’s eye. “We’re gonna step outside now.” Simon slowly walked towards the bar, clamping down on his stale glass like a lifeline. “I’m fine, actually.” “You’re not. Out.” “I don’t want any trouble.” “You’re gonna be in trouble if you don’t come with me.” Simon scanned the dancefloor. He’d even have been happy to see comically broad, tattooed shoulders in the crowd to turn to. But of course, no such luck. Hoping to just have misread the situation, he complied. On the way to the parking lot, attempts to communicate were met with silence. No plea for an explanation, no reminder that Simon did not know what was going on, was answered. And nobody else was outside; the concert was still going, people were in oblivious ecstasy inside. Before any hope of running back to safety was gone, Simon stopped. “I’m not taking another step before you tell me what is going on.” Dino turned around very slowly. “We’re going to go to a car, and you’re going to go inside.” “Which car? Why?” Dino’s voice was as flat as his expression. “If you don’t, I’ll stab you.” Simon felt like someone had thrown the rest of his beer into his face. Before he could do anything, Dino had cut off his escape route towards the club. “This way.” Dino’s voice pushed Simon along, who had fallen into a trance induced by sheltered kid shock. Trying to argue seemed pointless; no: dangerous. A car came into focus in the dark of the lot. The door was open; inside, Burly, Sonic, and Nazi. It was impossible to determine who looked the most pissed off. “Finally.” Sonic’s voice was acid. Simon desperately wanted to ask what was going on. Why they had sent a lunatic with threats of violence to get him. But the words were blocked by both his fear and common sense. “Get the gently caress in.” Dino was way too close. Did Simon feel something touch his quivering spine? The car’s door seemed to open into an abyss. But Simon felt anger exponentially increasing for every millisecond of delay. He got in, and strong hands slammed the door close behind him. Flash rule: Story must include a dinosaur Spin: -200 words https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DSHqsMq7UKo
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Aug 6, 2022 22:57
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I'm also in for prompt 3 and would like a hellrule for it. Spin is not gonna work out, timing-wise.
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Aug 6, 2022 23:00
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I don't know if I'm doing this right, but happy 10th, everybody! Prompt #1: A Jeweler Agonizes Over a Ruby Handle With Care 983 Words It's 2008: the Great Recession. There's no rules-lawyering our way out of the definition of this one; millions are broke and jobless, and everybody's scared. I, in my infinite wisdom, am working at a jewelry store, selling luxury goods with a sales tax of 10.25%. It is not a good time to be selling luxury goods—especially not at that tax rate—but I love my job anyway. Well, maybe I don't love my job, but I definitely love the gemstones. It's a rare day when somebody comes looking for colored stones, since diamonds are the bulk of our business, but I always hope the next customer will want to talk color. Maybe they'll even buy something, and I can use the commission to buy the chrome tourmaline I've been eyeing. That's the hope I'm holding when a petite woman pokes her head through the door and peers around the store with wide eyes. "Welcome to [REDACTED] Jewelers!" I say. I've concealed our name to protect the innocent, but I'll reveal one telling detail: our phone number is unfortunately and coincidentally 1-800-SHITTER. "How can I help you?" She smiles and wiggles her fingers, childlike in her nervousness excitement as she approaches the counter. "I was hoping you could help me set a gemstone my son bought me." "Aww, that's so sweet!" It would be sweeter if she bought something out of the case, since I only need a little bit more commission money to buy that tourmaline, but I'm still excited to talk shop. "Do you have the gem with you?" Her face lights up with a broad, toothy smile. She's small, but she's got a big grin that makes her look younger than her copious wrinkles would suggest. "I've got it right here." She takes out a glass gem-box and sets it on the counter. My heart sinks as I eye the stone inside. It's a silky red oval the size and texture of a jellybean, the kind of thing that could be worth hundreds of thousands—if it's untreated. This is not untreated. Without even checking under the microscope, I can tell it's hiding a hundred cracks filled with ordinary glass. That's how all the poo poo-tier quality rubies are treated these days, whether they're from Burma or Thailand or Mozambique. There's one place in the world that's spitting them out at top speed, however, and I really hope she's not about to tell me what I think she is. "It's a beautiful color," I say: not technically a lie. "Do you know where he got it?" "He bought it for me when he was serving in Iraq." A tear springs to her eye; my stomach hits the floor. "It's the last gift he bought for me before he died." No. No, no, no. gently caress! This is the worst-case scenario, and I'm including the scenario where her head spontaneously bursts into flame. Iraq is the current epicenter of fracture-filled ruby sales, and America's bravest are the easiest marks in the marketplace. They spend thousands for rubies worth pennies per carat, and they don't realize how badly they've been hosed until they go home and try to set the stone. Lead-glass fillings aren't stable, especially when you heat them. You know what jewelers need to set stones? Heat. A competent jeweler can try to work around the fillings, but odds are good the stone explodes like it stepped on an IED. On the off-chance it makes it through the setting gauntlet, it won't last more than a few weeks on an ordinary person's hand. An errant bump against the wall, a mistimed spritz of Windex, an errant drop of lemonade: any one of those will rip through the gem like it's a tissue at a soldier's funeral. Now how am I supposed to tell this woman that when this gem is the only piece of her son she has left? I look into her eyes. They're wide and watery, and I can see all her hope and pain smeared around with my reflection. I look down at the stone again. It's pretty in its own way (and it ought to be, for all the red dye they mix with the glass), and the surface-breaking fractures aren't as pervasive as they could be. A careful goldsmith might even be able to set it in a pendant, provided the customer knows to be gentle with it, but careful goldsmiths don't come cheap. "If you don't mind me asking, what kind of budget would you like to set for this project?" I say. "I've got a pretty big budget for this." She grins. "Five hundred dollars." I bite my cheek to keep my face from falling. Five hundred dollars won't even cover the materials, let alone the labor cost. It's less than I've got set aside for my tourmaline, and tourmaline's a lot cheaper than gold. She passes her fingertip over the gem. "I don't need something fancy, though. As long as I can keep him close to my heart, I'll be happy." The overhead spotlights bounce off the ruby's facets as she lifts her hand away. I could tell her the truth—that she can't afford to set this ruby, and even if she could, life would destroy it anyway—but who am I to tell her it's better not to risk losing something she loves? She knows that, maybe better than anybody. She's loved and lost, and it still hurts so much, but she wants to love again anyway. "This sounds like the perfect opportunity for a pendant." My voice cracks; I fill the gap with a smile. It'll be a little longer before I can afford that tourmaline, but this is a better use of my money, anyway. "Just make sure you're careful with it. It's a precious stone." "I'll treat it like it's my own child," she says, and it hurts because I know it's the truth.
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Aug 6, 2022 23:12
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Simply Simon posted:I'm also in for prompt 3 and would like a hellrule for it. Spin is not gonna work out, timing-wise. Your characters are literal shades of light blue
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Aug 6, 2022 23:24
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Simply Simon posted:I'm also in for prompt 3 and would like a hellrule for it. Spin is not gonna work out, timing-wise. You do not have to be present for a spin! Still don't need to sign up for one if you're not but don't let availability be the reason to sit out.
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Aug 7, 2022 04:10
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I think this might be my last one for this week. Prompt: Bog wizard. Flash rule: must include a necromancer. Property rights 1104 words “Lady Visenis, Verdant Hand of the Wetlands,” The attendant's voice calls out, cold and emotionless. “The Grand Magus will see you now.” The goblin woman in the mossy, bark-adorned dress sighs her clear disappointment, crimson hair fluttering in the slight breeze. She sees the standards hanging from the ceiling, swaying back and forth in an endless cascade of colors. Twelve symbols hang in that hall, six to a side, the wizard spotting her banner on the left, a golden tree upon a verdant tapestry interwoven with vines. Before her, standing in front of a large round oak table was a figure she wished she wouldn't have to see. They were tall, their skin a pale clammy gray. Long ears bent under the weight of gold and silver rings, their hood bundled around their neck like a serpent. Their eyes met for a brief second and the temperature drops in that sunlit room, the two already building their mana around themselves, ready to go at each other's throats. A loud tap breaks their staredown. “And for the second time in a fortnight, I find myself standing between two of my council,” That rough voice speaks, the form of the Grand Magus walking towards them. He'd simply appeared, as if he had always been in that place, the seven-foot-tall man looking from the pale elf to the bright goblin. “What troubles you, Visenis?” The goblin nods with authority, looking from the slighted necromancer over to the Grand Magus. “Let me begin by greeting you properly, Grand Magus Jumenia. I, Visenis of the...” A sigh. “We've known one another for near a century, Vis,” He says, waving his hand. “And this is not an official meeting.” Get to the point, he implies, and Visenis huffs gently. “Very well. Gurith tried to claim my lands as his own, and sought to kill me when I rebuffed him.” Both of their eyes widen in surprise, and for a second the goblin doubts herself. She looks to Gurith, noting those amber eyes. “What? You're the one that sent those skeletons to my cottage!” “That was meant to be an apology!” He says, his voice weak and small despite the outburst. “They were there to serve as guards.” “Excuse me?” The Grand Magus simply observes, watching as the necromancer takes a step forward. “It was after your, umm...” He frets, fingers intertwined. “After the time at the cemetary.” Visenis laughs. “The one where you were summoning up ghouls on my land? Do you understand how much damage you did to the soil there? All those bodies buried underground, clawing themselves up to the surface like that!” Her ears twitch as she glares at him, turning from mocking to cruel upon a whim. “It was just a few trees,” Gurith murmurs, looking aside. “You shifted the water table! Trees older than all of us combined, nearly uprooted! Colonies of life disturbed and broken for no reason! I was working for weeks to fix your mistake!” She shouts, stepping forward. Mossy tendrils began to twine under her feet, those few small bits of life in the carpet rising to meet her fury. It was then that the tall man begins to chuckle, the two of them suddenly stopping. He turns to look down at Gurith. “So, is what she saying true? That you were raising dead in her marsh?” The elf nods, ears jingling gently. “Only at the northern border. The blight has been hard there for a while, and I...” Visenis shouts, only stopping at that hand lifted from the Grand Magus. “So why did you do it?” His voice booms with the weight of authority, being no louder than speaking yet nearly driving the two towards the ground. “I...I thought she needed help,” He says, looking up at Visenis. “She's been working herself to the bone for a season now to keep it from spreading southward, but she doesn't have enough hands.” That left the small wizard in shock, mouth hanging open for a second as she processes the information. Help? From him? “I thought you were causing the blight in the first place!” “N-no-not at all!” He stammers, swaying gently as if struck. “Plague isn't my domain, I don't know what's causing it.” “It's a fungal infection,” Visenis says. “It's been spreading through the old wood at the border because of the birds in the area. I thought it was because they migrated from your land down south so you could get at the battlefields in my marsh.” The Grand Magus steps forward between them. “So, all of this came about because neither of you actually decided to talk about what was going on?” Silence. Nothing more than the rustling of the banners above them, the warmth of the sun cutting through the cool tension between them. Visenis looks back over that necromancer, noticing how he seems to shuffle in place. Clearly uncomfortable being placed on the spot. “So, why did you want to help me?” She asks, her voice rising gently. “Huh? Wait, me? I mean, we're on the same border so it's...” “No,” She stops him, watching him squirm. “You said that you were doing it to help me. That I've been working too hard, but how would you know that, if even the Grand Magus didn't point it out?” For the first time in memory, Visenis sees a dash of color on the elf's cheeks and she sees it as a victory. “You Like Me!” The Grand Magus watches Gurith jump, a hand coming out to touch him confidently on the shoulder. “I believe you two should return home,” He says, looking to Visenis. “And this time talk to one another, instead of running to me due to a lover's spat.” It was Visenis' turn to step back, that reaction making the giant laugh as he turns to leave them, taking a step and fading out of existence. Leaving the two of them alone in that grand hall, the goblin looking back at him with that wide grin. “Well, you heard the Magus,” She says, walking up to him, hands on her hips as her eyes meet his. “If you're so adamant to help, then we should discuss how you can help.” He looks nervous, but Gurith allows a smile to slightly show on his face, wispy white hair falling in front of his features. “Just as long as you don't toss me out of the forest using your vines again.” She laughs. “No promises, necromancer. We still have a lot of work ahead of us, and I could use something to throw.”
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Aug 7, 2022 04:42
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sebmojo posted:A [tiny top hat] agonizes over [lizard smoothies] Thinking ahead 559 words “I digress. I would call it a slurry.” Somehow, the tiny top hat used its brim to enunciate its words. Eve saw the charm in seeing these game tokens talk on her screen, but the people who chose the top hat were usually vocal and cranky and not the “Silent Cal” types that chose their words carefully. Still, this top hat was actually holding a conversation and not just going on a two hour diatribe. Maybe she'll actually have a nice conversation in this online game of Gentrification for a change. "Well, that's not how I'm marketing it," Eve responded. "Besides, it's just an ingredient in a smoothie or shake. It's no different than what people drink after a workout." Besides lizards, she's never tried sustainable protein replacement ingredients besides whatever vegetarians eat, but her cousin in Canada makes a popular maple flavored cricket cookie. What used to be bizarre is now commonplace. Hopefully, it will be common enough for her to actually find one of those cookies for a change, in order to try those herself. "Fido, I hope you're not going build an EV charger on Dakota Avenue," Tiny Top Hat replied after using their turn to build yet another gastropub. "You'll alienate the commoners and make parking more difficult. How come you don't build any batteries?" The top hat's modulated voice made a warbling sound, but thankfully they were still comprehensible and surprisingly soothing. "You can call me Eve. I wanted to be the terrier but that other player stole it before leaving at the first turn." Eve had regretted picking fido420 as her name in-game, but she thought that no one would ever pick the tiny terrier with human teeth. Turns out, people with the fastest reflexes usually choose it first, and she was never good at video games. But she was good at paying attention, and she knew that the game was recently updated with EV conversion vehicles. "Anyways, I'm trying out a new strategy." "Ok Eve, but I don't want to win too fast. I'm enjoying this," replied the top hat. "But I want to know what you think. Why lizards? Lizard meat is hazardous, and certainly not as profitable as beef or chicken." Eve heard these questions before, and had an answer at the ready, but she decided to delay a response to keep her opponent distracted. She decided to place an EV charger on Jefferson Drive, next to Dakota. Her turn ended, she started to recite a practiced response. "Well, the yield of reptiles is greater than traditional animal protein when you consider water usage, and powder is easily sanitized, " she began. "If there's not enough water for crops, chickens, or cows, you have to grow something. People have to eat, so their diets will adapt." She knew she was going to get another lizard convert out of this game, on top of her sure-fire win. The top hat began their turn by dropping a plutonium nuclear reactor on Dakota Avenue. "Did you know that power demands are weighed more heavily now? If you had put a battery there, I would be in a lot of trouble," taunted the top hat. Eve sighed, knowing the game was lost. "By the way, I make cookies with cricket powder, and now I'm kind of curious. Do you think lizard cookies would sell?"
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Aug 7, 2022 10:06
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Prompt destiny omega, achieved! Wizard: You gain your power from supping on the obscene. Specifically, if you eat gross stuff, you get stronger magics. Your might depends on your willingness to defile your tongue and digestive tract. Flashrule: Your story ends before it begins. The resulting eruption is used as a cautionary tale for new acolytes to this day. 650 words It was all over for Neville “The Stomach” Duncan. He had a world-ending hangover. Every cell in his body was nauseous. His eyeballs throbbed and the coating on his tongue had developed new forms of life. Fortunately, Neville could use magic to suppress his body’s urge to explode in a fountain of vomit. Unfortunately, Neville was almost out of power. It was all Beatrix’s fault. Though, to be fair the cause of Neville’s hangover lay not so much with Beatrix’s actions as her inaction. Neville had tailed her around the party all night, drinking cocktail after cocktail as he tried to catch her attention with his best topical banter, outright flirting, and, eventually, charm spells. But it was all for naught, and Neville had been left without enough magic to counter the effects of his horrific alcohol intake. Neville groaned as another seismic gurgle hit. He rolled out of bed and headed for the bathroom, one arm wrapped around his middle and the other leaning on the wall for support. He stared into the porcelain. If he let go now it was all over. He’d never keep anything down long enough to cast a recovery spell, and he’d have to get over his hangover - Neville shuddered - like a normal person. He shoved himself back from the bathroom, turned, and shambled for the kitchen. He had to recharge, and fast. As an acolyte of the Way of the Iron Gut, Neville’s magical abilities were fueled by the ingestion of negative energy, which, through the power of the Way, was transmuted by the digestive system into positive magical flows. Basically, Neville had to eat something really gross. There had to be something powerfully disgusting enough to bring him back from the brink. Neville opened the fridge and regarded the pottles of off yoghurt, jars of mouldy condiments and the plate of grey-green leftover scrambled eggs. But it was all so replete with new life, the negative energy was far too low. Neville dry retched, held it down with sheer force of will. He could feel sweat running down his ribs underneath his flannel dressing gown. C’mon baby, thought Neville. There’s got to be something. With his last ounce of power Neville cast a spell of find, and thrust his hand into the fridge. Trying not to breathe around his horrible tongue, Neville withdrew his hand and stared in wonder and the condensation-covered can in his hand. Budweiser. The world’s most singularly undrinkable and disgusting beverage. Neville didn’t drink Bud, it must have been left over from some party… It could be years old by now… Jackpot. But even as Neville grasped the tab between his trembling fingers he hesitated. He was as yet a novice in the Way. The negative energy contained in this one can might be enough to destroy his stomach for good. Perhaps he should just take a paracetamol, and go back to bed-- Neville jumped as he felt his phone buzz in his dressing gown pocket. He pulled it out, and his heart stopped when he saw who the message was from. Beatrix. Neville held his breath, tapped the screen… Hey. Some of us from the party last night are going to get brunch, the message said. Would you like to come? Neville’s heart restarted at a million miles an hour. Brunch! Yes! Yes!!! he typed back, then thought better of it and went back and deleted the exclamation marks. He hit send, dropped the phone back into his pocket, grasped the can of Bud and ripped open the tab. He raised the can in an imaginary cheers to Beatrix, who was surely at this moment eagerly awaiting the chance to feed Neville bits of pancake off her fork. Neville took a deep breath, and tipped back his head. Then he open-throated the Budweiser.
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Aug 7, 2022 11:01
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Clash of Blues 250/250 Words The morning sun kissed colors into the world, and their argument resumed. Sky: I am an infinite canvas for the painter of clouds, they look into my infinite images and see the shapes of dreams. Sea: I invite them to brave the element they weren’t born for. I challenge them to grow and conquer. Sky: your black depths hide endless terrors! They fear your churning waves. Sea: you are jealous that they conquered you with their planes! I remain unplumbed fully. Like so many times, Sky was aghast at their shameless pride. Had they not the duty also to provoke raw wonder in man, like cousins Forest and Fire and all the rest did so admirably? In their indignation, Sky retreated inland in a cloak of storm clouds. How could they make Sea understand that awe was what should drive men, not competitiveness? But since man had first glimpsed the rainbow hidden in Sea’s waters, Sky had trailed ever behind. Then Sky saw the possible answer. A man-made hue, adorning a car racing in the midday sun. Pinnacle of their technology, canvas of dreams realized - this would sway Sea. The next morning, Sky carefully misted themselves to achieve the exact same color. Sea: I have never seen you like this. Sky: did you think I could never innovate? Sea: this is enticing. Touch me. They formed the perfect horizon. Stunned by this phenomenal display, the driver lost control of his vehicle. It shot off a cliff, through Sky, into Sea. Hellrule: Your characters are literal shades of light blue 
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Aug 7, 2022 11:49
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Signing up for the final prompt too, would be a shame to leave it at that. Give me a wizard, please.
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Aug 7, 2022 11:51
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Wizard please.
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Aug 7, 2022 14:55
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LADDER PROMPT 3 Prompt: Wonder (250 words max) Flash: yarn, everywhere, just way too much yarn Pencherita Malam (Night Storyteller) (249 words) They say she could spin yarns, longer and further than what the eye could see. It was a time when the world was wider, the nights were darker, the thunderstorms were wetter. Our soles, thickened by rocks and crushed leaves, ran on wooden planks that tilted and split earth and water apart, towards her in her pondok hut where she had a sole flame floating on a bowl of oil. We stopped our laughter, our gossip, our rivalries, for she was coughing now for attention. Thus, she spoke. She spoke of djinns, or hantu, of dewa and dewi, of evil defeated by those who were virtuous, of gods and monsters laughing at human behaviour, of true love – always true love. We sat and stared and marveled at the powerful bested by the weak, the cunning outfoxing the fools. As she regaled her fingers trembled over winged termites, made golden in the low light, and – pluck! One is taken off the night air, and – another one! She spun them between her fingers, turning into thread, into yarn, into weaves for the attap roof for her home, for the rattan bowls for her wares, for the bamboo bubu to catch fish with. The dark of the night grew lighter, the oil in her bowl shrinking with her fire barely a flicker. Weaved goods piled her whole floor, and into our hands. She told one last tale finally, and then shooed us, making sure each of us ran home holding something new.
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Aug 7, 2022 15:37
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Prompt Alpha. A [couple] agonizes over [altruism]. Kindness Bandits word count: 1200 “But when thou givest alms, do not let thy left hand know what thy right hand is doing, so that thy alms may be given in secret; and thy Father, who sees in secret, will reward thee.” - Matthew 6:3-4 After a long, tense three years of courting Aleesha, I finally worked up enough nerve to pop the question: "Can we at least soak?" Aleesha shook her head. "That's cheating." "Whyyyy," I pretended to whine. "Soaking is like if a Ouija board involved a dick." She swiveled her hips. "I'm not moving it. Are YOU moving it?" "What about after we're married? Can we soak then?" "I'll think about it." Without soaking, we kept right on courting, kept right on worshiping together. By this point, we were like a fusion of Pentacostal and some of the most Off-Broadway kinds of Latter Day Saints. Still, the courtship was mostly unchaperoned, since Aleesha’s mom didn’t believe in The Heavenly Father. Eventually, all the togetherness mixed with all that non-touching made me and Aleesha feel like our stomachs were made outta beetles. Aleesha’s weaving became more hurried and frayed. My beard got real patchy from yanking individual stubble-strands. “Frack,” I told Aleesha. “We need to find ourselves some sorta outlet. Why don’t we do something crazy together, something spontaneous?” Aleesha’s face lit up. “What about random acts of kindness?” “How random?” “Like drive-by random.” “An altruistic driveby!” “We’ll hit ‘em with the kindness blammer.” Aleesha made her fingers into a gun “POP! POP!” “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?” “Yes,” she said. “But if we get found out we gotta stop forever.” “How come? There’s nothing wrong with getting caught being nice.” “We only get heavenly credit when we avoid earthly credit. It’ll never count for us if people know. Swear it on your immortal soul,” said Aleesha. “We get caught doing random acts of kindness, we quit forever.” “Caught doing hits, we call it quits. I swear it.” We carried out our first hit that weekend. It was for Drew, a co-worker of mine who’d spent months looking for a certain platypus beanie baby. When I found one at a garage sale, I knew it was time for Aleesha and I to bust out the kindness blammers. It was easy, as far as these things go. I distracted Drew with some Mario Kart inside, while Aleesha biked over and dropped the stitched-up-bird-mammal into Drew’s mailbox. He never knew who was responsible. After that we picked up ski masks, mimed strapping ourselves with extra-long kindness blammers, and began rapid-firing altruism. POP: Fixing a neighbor’s fence under cover of darkness. BLAOW: Roses on a lonely widower’s porch. RAT-A-TAT-TAT: Missing kitten located, fed, and shipped by drone to a highly bemused pet-mom. Gradually, the hits got wilder and more complicated. One time we put on our masks, broke into an animated children’s movie through the back door, and tossed candy to all the Pixar-loving kids and their suddenly-nervous parents. Sure, we could’ve just bought tickets to the film, but that might’ve made us more traceable. “Bang, bang!” I said on the way out, my fingers in rigid kindness-blammer formation. Aleesha looked down and warned me, “Your shoelace is untied.” I told her, “I like to live dangerously. You taught me that.” When we got to the woods nearby, Aleesha said, “That was the most exhilarating thing I’ve ever experienced. We just shot up an entire movie theater!” I glared at her like I just caught her laughing in church. Then I said, “But it’s all okay ‘cause we used halo-tipped ammunition!” Aleesha let out a belly laugh, after which we shared our first kiss. It wasn’t courtly behavior, but somehow it felt proper anyway. Sure, Aleesha had been a little intense lately, but our kindness banditry was the best thing that ever happened to me. Nobody else out there would be plotting and executing secret missions with me, let alone ones that low-key made the town better. In my heart, I had renewed faith I’d found the person The Heavenly Father made for me. A week later, we had broken into the home of Margaret, a notoriously sloppy Sunday School teacher and certified cat lady. She was away at conference, so we took the opportunity to clean her fur-ridden home. We started by scrubbing out the tub. Then, while bleaching the grout, I asked Aleesha if she thought Margaret might be freaked out on coming home and seeing the place tidied. “I would be,” said Aleesha. “But Margaret? Nah, she’ll probably stoop down and thank one of the cats for it.” We spent some time dusting the shelving, then sweeping the attic, after which Aleesha found an old photograph of Margaret. Aleesha made her fingers into a kindness blammer, twisted it sideways, and pulled the imaginary trigger at the picture. “Pow! We we’re about to waste this bitch with kindness.” “Aleesha!” She laughed, “Alright, I won’t let myself get too carried away.” Room by room we continued to clean until I took the chance to disentangle all the wires around Margaret’s entertainment center. That included one going to her laptop, and another to— “Oh My Heavenly Father, Aleesha, she’s got a tiny webcamera, and it’s ON!” Aleesha came running. Both of us stood there, maskless, silent, hearts pounding with the fear our kindness banditry may come to a permanent end. Aleesha checked the wires. “Maybe it’s just recording into the laptop,” she whispered. I tried logging in to check, but Margaret had password protection. “We’re screwed.” I told her. “No we’re not!” Aleesha picked up the laptop. “We can destroy it.” She ran to the kitchen sink. “Aleesha, stop!” “No, hear me out. We’ll accomplish so much more good in the world if we never get caught. Think of the laptop as collateral damage.” Aleesha turned the faucet on and hovered the laptop above the sink. Out of desperation, I made kindness blammer finger guns and said, “Stop or I’ll shoot!” Aleesha turned and laughed. “You’re gonna shoot me with a kindness blammer?” Then, paraphrasing Christ himself, I declared: “Amen, I say to you. Those who live by the kindness blammer die by the kindness blammer.” “Get the hell out of here, Bradley. You’ve been living by it too!” “Then I die by it as well and we end all this.” I turned my finger guns toward myself. “This has gone too far Aleesha. Cut this out or the courtship is off.” It was a little dramatic, but it gave Aleesha a moment to reflect. She turned off the faucet. A couple days later, Margaret had some words with us, and we agreed to pay some vet bills in exchange for her not pressing charges. We never did kindness banditry again. That was four years ago and Aleesha and I are since married. I'm not gonna tell you whether or not we soak, in fact I think it's a little sus if you even want to know. I mean you're allowed to guess though, what do YOU think? But no, I gotta respect my wife's privacy. Some treasures, no matter how face-meltingly awesome, have to stay inside the Ark of the Marital Covenant.
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Aug 7, 2022 16:28
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Simply Simon posted:Signing up for the final prompt too, would be a shame to leave it at that. You have power anywhere there is dust or grit or ash. You can coax dust bunnies out from corners, and if you put your mind to it, you also can make much bigger, scarier things. If it\'s lighter than sand, you can whip it into whatever shape you desire. Friends with allergies don\'t visit very often, though Noah posted:Wizard please. You gain your power from the stories children tell each other while playing. You can bring childish superstitions to life to do their bidding. Your creations, however, can only ever be as wise as the children who made them up.
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Aug 7, 2022 17:15
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Omega prompt #4 – Wizards Words of Power 1140 words Wizard: You're the wizard of rhetoric, arguments, and deft turns of phrase. Your magic lets you see and manipulate the ebb and flow of any conversation, though people tend to react poorly when you use your power too drastically or obviously. https://thunderdome.cc/?story=10835&title=Words+of+Power a friendly penguin fucked around with this message at 13:05 on Dec 20, 2022 |
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Aug 7, 2022 17:36
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LADDER PROMPT 4 Prompt: Wizards (1300 words max) Wizard: You are the wizard of hair. With your magic, hair of any kind can become a choking serpent or a net of razor-sharp twine, or anything else your whimsy demands. You can even persuade it to betray the head it grows on. Flash: a picture that everyone thinks they have seen but no one actually has Art is Subjective and So Is Your Dumbass Opinion (~1300 words) ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Antonio il Capelli Sicilian, 1892-1953 Bagliore Narice, 1952 Woven Monkey Hair At first glance, viewers may observe this merely the taxidermized decapitated head of a golden snub-nosed monkey kept in a jar. While perfectly preserved, its bright red hair have faded considerably, due to the less than desirable conditions of the original gallery displaying the exhibit. It is speculated the monkey was smuggled alive from China and then kept by Filiberto Palmiotto, the ward of il Capelli’s patron Duke Nicomedo Palmiotto II, then upon its demise given to il Capelli to see what he could make out of it. Viewers are invited to the southern side of the jar, where a magnifier is put in place. This magnifier points straight towards the left nostril of the monkey, and viewers will note there is, in fact, something else within other than the chasm of the monkey’s nose. Il Capelli, at the later stage of his life, had spent 5 years weaving a tiny monkey within the left nostril of the monkey. The nostril, seemingly unaffected by the poor conditions of the Museo di Curiosità senza Precedenti, allows the piece to retain its original gold colour. This wondrous piece has sat in this gallery as its centerpiece since 2002, and has amazed visitors since and for many years to come. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ “It says there’s a monkey inside,” declared Myra Amanita, wizard apprentice specializing in clocks, who was also the only person in the trio who read the exhibition notes. “I’ve been squinting for the past 2 minutes,” said Jenny Jr Margarite, wizard apprentice specializing in cuddling, “and I still see nothing. This piece sucks! You should use your time travel skills for us to return to when this dude made it so we could tell him not to make it and we won’t have to write a 1300-word essay based on it.” Myra pouted. “For the (at least) twelfth time, I. Do. Not. Specialize. In. Time,” she told Jenny Jr. “I specialize in clocks! My magic makes me and other people look at clocks and tell time better. I have just mastered making clocks not tick!” “That’s super common nowadays,” Jenny Jr said. “Well I make OLD clocks not tick!” Myra protested. “Except, they also don’t move… and… and I got a C for that…” Myra was about to burst into tears in the middle of the gallery where a bunch of their meaner wizard apprentices were around. Jenny Jr quickly hugged her. “Wow, I suddenly feel excellently ecstatic, despite still thinking about my failing studies,” said Myra. “I got an A in empathetic cuddling magic.” Jenny cuddled tighter. “You bitch,” Myra said, though in good cheer. “But we still can’t write the essay! What should we do, Nina?” Nina Parrucchiera, wizard apprentice specializing on hair, was playing a game on her phone. It was very engrossing, which made her bite her lip as one finger constantly twirled her shining luscious emerald-green hair with rainbow-tinted highlights in salmon duotones. “Dunno,” she suggested. “We’ll fail if we don’t submit this assignment! Oh, life is such pain!” Jenny said. Nina scratched her perfectly sculpted left eyebrow, with each hair drawn up as tiny daggers, in contrast with her right eyebrow made out of tiny whips, and furrowed her brow. “Sorry, I’m trying to win this match. Otherwise I’ll exhaust my oblitero-coins for the day and that would suck real hard.” Jenny’s empathetic cuddling magic was fading, which meant Myra’s despair was returning. “I cannot afford to fail!” Her tears began to flow. “I don’t know what we can do if we can’t write this! Oh, help!” “Seems bad,” Nina said, still on her phone. She was concentrating very hard on defeating the army of Raoul Woodson, wizard apprentice specializing in video game datamining and cheating. It made her unconsciously transform the ends of her long hair into patterns of swirling flames ala pre-colonial Bali wood carvings. “Kinda busy. Got a boy’s education career to destroy.” “Nooooooo.” Jenny and Myra hugged each other, tears streaming down their faces. Nina’s hair floated, braiding in Fibonacci sequence as she started walking away. In a last-ditch effort, Jenny pushed Myra away, cast her self-loving spell of self-reflection, and then hugged herself. “Oh,” Jenny said. “Wow, I’m so dumb. Nina! Can you cast your hair embiggening spell on the monkey?” “K. I need to kill this troll first. Gimme a sec.” She carelessly pointed a finger at the priceless taxidermized monkey head housing Bagliore Narice, her eyes still staring at a kaleidoscope of colourful lasers decimating what may be a troll. Instantly, the monkey’s scalp grew a massive mohawk-afro combo, which was very impressive but nowhere as fashionable as that may sound. “The nostril! Use your magic at the nostril!” “Mmm.” Nina pointed again while killing another troll. The monkey’s nostril hair shot out of its right nostril as spikes, stabbing through the jar. “Left nostril.” “OMG! Wait.” Jenny and Myra waited. Nina’s killing spree of troll continued and ended, and now she focused on creating sanctions and treaties with countries in oppose of Raoul’s nation, thus reducing the war budget afforded to him. “Well?” they asked. Nina pointed. Jenny and Myra stared at the now life-sized version of Bagliore Narice, finally in the open, outside the cage of the monkey’s skull, after 70 long years. Nina forced ideological change across part of the world within the game, causing a 99% chance of armed rebellion to erupt in Raoul’s nation. Within seconds, Raoul’s army was reduced to a husk not through violence on Nina’s end, but through his own short-sightedness. Nina did a little fist pump. Across the gallery, she could hear a loudspeaker going. “Raoul Woodson, please report to the principal’s office now,” and undeniable weeping coming from Raoul’s corner of the gallery. After seven long months of practicising on her phone game and reading up various tomes on war, geopolitics, activism, economics and minor datamining, she had finally enacted her revenge on the boy who mixed exfoliating shower gel into her shampoo. On hindsight, she could have just made him grow so much hair out of his eyelashes that it cut into his eyeballs and rendered him blind for life, but this was a little bit more satisfying. “Wow,” Jenny and Myra said. Nina went to the girls’ room. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Tragedy at the Gallery A new discovery – or some may call a tragedy – has been made in the Gallery of Precedented Peculiarities today. Bagliore Narice, 1952 by the esteemed artist Antonio il Capelli, known for his many eccentricities, have been revealed, for the first time in more than half a century, in full to the public due to a minor case of vandalism by a group of wizard apprentices from the University of Impractical Magic. Known for so long to be a monkey made of nostril hair kept within the confines of a taxidermized monkey head’s left nostril, magic was performed causing the piece to be enlarged. Instead, it is shaped like a penis with testicles. After due research through the archived letters and illustrations of Capelli, it is deemed a perfect replica of the nether region of the previous owner of the monkey, Filiberto Palmiotto. Scholars had previously determined Palmiotto and Capelli were very close roommates, but this new revelation may rock that foundation to its core. It is unknown what magic could have caused this revelation. University apprentices nearby professed they lack the ability to commit such an act. “I suggest you ask the guy who knows about datamining,” said apprentice Nina Parrucchiera. “Technology is unapproachable to adults, and he may have expanded his reach towards hacking the integrity of dead monkeys.” Raoul Woodson, recently expelled, remains at large. ------------------------------------------------------------------------
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Aug 7, 2022 17:48
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Omega Prompt No. 1sebmojo posted:A [gerund] agonizes over [spooky moon men] Chili posted:+200 words “Since the invention of the glomp, there have only been five glomps that were rated the most passionate, the most pure. This one left them all behind.” Shuffling her papers, Nancy sat down, unable to hide her self-satisfied grin. Those in attendance side-eyed each other. Then someone clapped, and the rest joined in. “Thank you, Nancy,” said Aaron, “For that startling piece…what was it called?” “A Tale of Two Catboys!” “Right. Yes. A Tale of…yes, Catboys.” “Two of them, even,” said Agatha, seated opposite. Nancy beamed from across the panopticon of metal folding chairs. Agatha struggled to return the gesture. Wasn’t that…the Princess Bride? That’s literally plagiarism. Is no one else listening? Aaron cleared his throat. “Well then. Any feedback?” He glanced about the circle, once, twice, before selecting, “Chuck?” Chuck, cross-legged, pinched the tip of his nose a few times before answering, “I always wondered whether or not cat people also had human ears under their hair. Thank you for demystifying that particular conundrum.” “Actually,” Nancy began, before Agatha tuned her out. Aaron had already picked someone else; she didn’t need to listen to this. She glanced down at the papers in her own lap. Her turn was coming up. She’d been told it would be fun. She didn’t want fun. She wanted to improve. Aaron meant well, bless him, but she could only sit through so many amateur fanfics, unable to voice her actual concerns. “This is a positive space,” Aaron said. “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.” Is this a writer’s workshop or a daycare center? “Thank you, Nancy, for that clarification.” Aaron nodded. “Now then,” he checked his clipboard, “Xargon, you’re up next.” Agatha tensed up, then narrowed her eyes. “Um,” she raised her hand, “I thought I was next?” “Well, Xargon’s new, and hasn’t had a chance to share anything yet. Nancy’s story went a little over time- A LITTLE over time? -so I thought it’d be good to give the newcomer the spotlight.” Aaron smiled, warily, then added quickly, “You can go next time, first thing, I promise!” Agatha shut her eyes, a clear displeasure in her features. I stayed up all night for this? “V-very well,” she said, forcing an awkward, unnatural smile. “Right!” Aaron clapped his hands, rubbing them together. “Xargon? The floor’s yours.” Xargon slowly turned toward Aaron. Twenty feet tall and pallid blue, with long, lanky arms and a round, bloated stomach, they were an immediately imposing figure even before you stared into the empty head cavity where there should’ve been a face. Nodding, they extended a pair of unnaturally long fingers, picking at the air, the space between spaces. Peeling back the fabric of reality, a page was produced from nowhere at all. The rest of the circle sat back in silence. Just one page? At least it’s short. Xargon held the page gingerly at the corners and cocked its head, as though puzzled, and a rhythmic ripple spread out from within its gaping cavity. The air around them split at the seams, forming a ring of perfect darkness. The darkness pulsed and stretched and enveloped the room. Agatha blinked, and was all alone. W-What the- She snapped her attention left, then right. She was floating in a void, bereft of form. Suddenly a light pierced through the darkness, illuminating a small patch of dreary, gray soil. The land grew out into hills and craters, the pockmarked surface of a heavenly body. A sea of stars winked into existence, and a large blue planet dominated the horizon. …The Earth? Gazing down, she saw movement on the moon. Beneath the rise of a certain hill, tucked away from all but the most perceptive of eyes, two small figures were racing towards what appeared to be a sealed bunker door, overtly militaristic in design. Agatha drew close, and the figures were revealed to be small only in comparison to the door: at ten-feet-tall, they towered over any possible human estimate. Each resembled Xargon in miniature, with only minor changes. One wore…a baseball cap? They held hands and rubbed their face cavities together. The hell is this? The two small Xargons approached the door, where a bicycle had been cleverly hidden. It was a miserable old thing, rusted, derelict, with several signs of attempting jury-rigging. The hatless Xargon hung their head, rubbing their elbow, a clear nervousness in their posture. The cap-wearing Xargon waggled a finger, then climbed atop the bike before leaning in. Again they touched their hollows together, caressing each other’s shoulders and sides. Then the bike was off, its stalwart pilot having turned their baseball cap backwards. The other ran behind, flailing, keeping up. Then the front wheel bent, collapsing inward, throwing its passenger quite a ways. Now hatless as well, this Xargon touched down, their head cracked open like an egg on the pavement. Thick black blood pooled in syrupy horror. The timid Xargon fell back, a mournful reverberation echoing from within. The surviving Xargon turned to face the Earth. There, watching from a distance, was a third Xargon. This one shared the author’s height. It wore a wife beater, and poorly-buckled jeans. It stood before a camping wagon, a freshly-opened beer in hand. Agatha blinked. She was seated again, as she had been before. Her face was pale, and her hands were trembling. Looking around the reading circle, she saw the others were similarly startled. Even Nancy had surrendered her smile. “W-w-well now,” said Aaron, offering up the customary clap. No one joined in. He was sweating bullets. Xargon lowered the piece of paper and folded it neatly, before tucking it away in a place unseen. Putting their hands on their knees, they surveyed the crowd. That empty face cavity bored like a drill. “...Agatha! Agatha, you wanted to go, right? How about a few words for Xargon’s story?” Agatha remembered herself. She raised a hand to her throat, and considered her options. The rest of those gathered shifted uncomfortably. Xargon’s…gaze seemed to meet hers. She licked her lips. “I mean…it was very...evocative?” "Evocative! Y-yes! It's l-like we were there!" Xargon nodded, and reached its hand deep within its yawning face cavity. Rummaging around, it retracted its arm, its fist clenched tight around something quite small. Extending toward Agatha, their fingers unfurled, revealing a token of modest appreciation. Agatha couldn't believe her eyes: there, in its palm, sat a tiny golden bean worth an estimated one million USD.
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Aug 7, 2022 18:06
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Yoink.
Bad Seafood fucked around with this message at 04:26 on Jan 15, 2023 |
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Aug 7, 2022 18:06
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Omega Prompt No. 3Chili posted:One day, the sun doesn't come up and it's your protagonist's fault The dyson sphere was nearing completion, coiled around the sun like a covetous serpent. “But why?” asked the diplomat on his hands and knees. The emperor replied as though talking to a child. “I am the sun. You need no other.” Rising from his throne, he turned to face the construction of the cage. “I understand your planet once believed itself the center of the universe. Only recently have you come to appreciate your place. Is it not the sun that sets you in motion? By its light you measure your meager days.” “…it is so.” “All that is yours, the sun has given you. By its light you see all, yet still perceive nothing. The night you fear is all there is, and the darkness of space is cruel indeed. The sun you know is a mere aberration, a passing respite from the depths of the cold.” The last few interlocking plates clicked into place, another priceless bauble in his treasury of stars. “Return to your people. Let them know it is I who sets all things in motion. Let them know it is I who illuminates the night. Once they perceive all things through me, then they shall know the true shape of existence.” “But…how shall we live?” The emperor smiled. “Like the sun of old, I, too, am generous. My light, my warmth, my wealth is yours. But make no mistake: the light is mine; to share as I wish, or destroy if I must.”
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Aug 7, 2022 18:06
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In for prompt 4. Gimme a wizard and gimmie a spin.
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Aug 7, 2022 18:07
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it seems like there's no sign-up deadline on this week's special challenge, i don't know if that's an oversight but i'm IN i'm going to try and embody its spirit of  by climbing the omega ladder as high as i can... but to make this work i'll have to make my own fate the whole way
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Aug 7, 2022 18:18
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Bad Seafood posted:In for prompt 4. You fuel your magic by stealing hubris and vanity from heroes and divas, among other things. Anyone who has an overly high estimation of themselves is fodder for the plucking. Careful you don't leave too many empty, broken people in your wake...
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Aug 7, 2022 19:04
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Archived.
Uranium Phoenix fucked around with this message at 01:01 on Dec 24, 2022 |
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Aug 7, 2022 19:31
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Sitting Here posted:A [wizards] agonizes over [dinosaur island] Sstrizzr, King Lizzr 973 words Vanilla prompt Varyn Greystorm, third magus of the Order of the Second Star, summons an orb of incandescence and suspends it between gloved, dexterous digits. The cerulean flame illuminates the painted walls of the cavern, giving life to the crude etchings immortalizing their quarry in stone. It is none other than the tyrant Sstrizzr, King of Lizards. The Dynast-Destroyer. Lord of the Primordial Isle. Ender of the Lines of Man. It is the likeness of the very same abomination that rendered Varyn the last surviving son of house Greystorm. Varyn growls as he glares into the darkness. “This ends today. No more shall the dynasty of terror endure. Today I avenge- Furium Helious: What the gently caress, Steve? Sal’uun Kah: Dude what are you doing Varyn Greystorm: ((Hold on I haven’t finished my emote. Ugh I hate this character limit.)) Furium Helious: We’re not roleplaying this. Varyn Greystorm: ((I thought dungeons were always in-character?)) Sal’uun Kah: The schedule changed like two weeks ago. Where’s Ellen? Furium Helious: Ellen has dance class tonight. We’ll have to queue with an open slot and pick up a random. We still trying for an all-wizard clear? Sal’uun Kah: Yup. Can we hurry, my wife is going to be home soon Varyn Greystorm: Well drat. Wait I still need to switch over to my combat gear. The Order of the Second Star has entered the queue for Primordial Isle - Cavern of Fate. Furium Helious: Hope we can find someone. No one does Isle anymore. Varyn Greystorm: You guys A match has been found. Clownworld Meatprison has joined the party. Prepare yourself - your destiny awaits! Clownworld Meatprison: hi Furium Helious: Well that was fast. Sal’uun Kah: Steve you have no mana Clownworld Meatprison: why all wizards where is tank Sstrizzr the Devourer emerges from darkness and summons his legions to his aid! “Foolish mortals! Mine is a power beyond the bounds of time!” Varyn Greystorm: I told you I wasn’t specced for this. And somebody didn’t let me switch to my combat set before joining the queue. Furium Helious: Sorry, in a hurry. Furium Helious: I don’t remember this boss being able to summon velociraptors. Clownworld Meatprison: heal Sal’uun Kah: I’ll focus the boss while you guys focus the velociraptors Varryn Greystorm: I had so much backstory to reveal tonight. Sal’uun Kah: Just save it for roleplay night Varyn Greystorm: No, the moment is ruined. Furium Helious: Something seems off here. Sal’uun Kah: Is it because Steve hits as hard as a mitten? Furium Helious: Well yeah, but we must have screwed up a mechanic. Maybe we should re-queue. Sal’uun Kah: I don’t have time. My wife texted she’s almost home Clownworld Meatprison: heals pls Furium Helious: These loving dinosaur adds just keep coming. I’ve never seen this phase before. Sstrizzr calls his vassal Hrik the Undying to his side! Clownworld Meatprison: u need to kill them faster Sal’uun Kah: Holy poo poo he almost one hit me Furium Helious: Boss just summoned an armored triceratops. He’s laughing at us. I didn’t know he could even do that. Sal’uun Kah: Stay on the adds I’m going to use my cooldown Clownworld Meatprison: rez pls Varyn Greystorm: Welp I’m dead, Clownworld’s dead, and Furium is out of mana. Sstrizzr is insulted by your laughable display and calls upon his hordes to bear witness to your demise. Clownworld Meatprison: adds inc Furium Helious: Now there are a bunch of duckbills with spears?? Varyn Greystorm, prone and broken, raises his closed fist at Sstrizzr and cries out in a loud and clear voice, “By the light of the Second Star, you shall rue this day! In the name of House Greystorm!” Sal’uun Kah: Steve come on Varyn Greystorm: What? You’re almost dead. We’re going to wipe. Let me have this. Clownworld Meatprison: u guys suk Sstrizzr sets his sights upon Varyn Greystorm. His thunderous voice echoes throughout the cavern, “I tire of these empty threats, mortal. Your magicks cannot forestall the inevitable. I may have failed to end the Greystorm line once, but I shall not fail again.” Furium Helious: Uhhh what the actual gently caress? Clownworld Meatprison: hax Sal’uun Kah: ??? Varyn Greystorm: Well that’s new. I think I have an idea. Varyn Greystorm coughs, a trickle of blood trailing down his lower lip as he rises to his knees. He reaches into the voluminous sleeves of his mage robes and produces a shard of obsidian. He clasps the stone in his trembling hands and threads his fingers together, whispering in the ancient tongue inscribed upon it. Sstrizzr’s roars. “Where did you get that?!” Varyn Greystorm’s chiseled features quirk in a rueful smirk as unshed tears well in his eyes. “Look familiar? It was my father’s dying gift to me.” The shard between deft digits dissolves into a black mist. “If I am to enter the Halls of the Dead this day, I shall take you with me - with this stone, you are unmade!” He then gesticulates wildly, bending the vaporized obsidian into ribbons of fine mist that rapidly encircle Sstrizzr’s reptilian form. “Return to the primordial ooze from whence you came!” Sstrizzr falls to his knees as the stone of the Unmaker unravels the great lizard’s corporeal form! “Curse you, Greystorm!” He gasps his last breath as his flesh melts away, leaving behind a skeleton of perfectly-bleached bones. You have conquered The Primordial Isle - Cavern of Fate! Sal’uun Kah: how Varyn Greystorm: See this is why you guys need to read the dungeon lore. Furium Helious: Did Steve just roleplay a boss to death? Varyn Greystorm: Oh hey I got a rare drop! I think it’s a hat? It’s a wearable version of Sstrizzr’s head! Neat. Clownworld Meatprison: lol Clownworld Meatprison has left the party.
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Aug 7, 2022 20:35
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