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So all the cool kids on the block are making their fanart threads. @Arlesienne is neither cool nor a kid, but apparently has just tried.

People browsing this, well... to quote Różewicz, they came to see a poet and that's rather boring for the great populace, but Minespatch asked and just how do you refuse MINESPATCH so I oblige and...

Well, introductions aren't my strength. So just take a look at this if you want, starring OCs by @minespatch, @ScienceMachine and @DragonMage156 as well as @GiddyGuy (as himself based on this) and my own kiddie. It's quite inspired by the excellent players:

@Fortie as Webber

Slapy as Wigfrid (on hiatus)

Sugarcombo as Ruri

FuzzyIggyPoyo as Demo

Daniel as Soldier

 

In a nutshell: a dark little story about a girl and her toys.

 

Consider it tagged mature for one instance of strong language (dependent on your side of the pond), the dark setting, mental issues, shtuff... Oh, and for elfeminate puns!

* * *

Whoever needs a bit more of an introduction, here you go. This is also the blurb of our roleplaying campaign Project Rosebud. Otherwise just skip to this fat post.

Edited by Arlesienne
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"BOOKENDS"

 

It's always a struggle to stamp your mark on the world.
 
In a way, being in charge per se is. The constant need of planning, plotting, preparing, setting the stage anew when THEY grow restless, devising new forms of entertainment before the faintest impression of displeasure may show. And she has it all under control, she tells herself with satisfaction, so much superior to him and those overused ideas. THEY remain thoroughly impressed, as much as THEY can anyway. No matter who's king as long as there's a queen. No longer the purest of agony in the darkness, stalking the night on her mindless hunt, oh no - the tearing of the curtain as the book, this thrice-damned book is destroyed like whatever little bit of life its purifier had, chaining this puny wannabe scientist to the Throne as he is cast out and she - finally set free. Absent-mindedly smiling, she pats her foot on the topmost step of the wrought staircase of her doing, admiring her new decor.  
 
Freedom is a sweet sensation, power - even more so. Combined, they make a blend for sheer intoxication.  
 
Her hold over the domain solidifies with every passing day. The portals were her own doing, no mere adaptations of the Doors. Where once a hapless combination of random themes raged, there is now her own thoughtful design, a little bit of style, a subtle touch, a dash of creativity. New flora takes over the islands, trees turn to stone at her bidding, the moon does as she commands.  
 
Monitoring the transients is crucial for the right act THEY will enjoy. The tastes of her audience are amusingly unrefined, fitting the barbarian masses. Her Ladyship hasn't got any of them to make out yet, but she makes up for this with an appropriate amount of death, gore and violence. Topmost, she brings new souls in, new blood, new actors, and her spectators watch their struggles in sheer awe.
 
Right now, Maestra is needed in situ: one of the puppets is having second thoughts.
 
She has always shared a special bond with this one, her first, particularly stubborn, extraordinarily unwilling. He makes for a perfect show, trying to use the knowledge bestowed upon him through that failed attempt to purify the Codex which backfired so splendidly at him, binding him to the place, in a way benefitting the others. This actor doesn't want to act his script. And Maestra is more than eager to use this unwillingness paired with his failing streak to her advantage.  
 
Bringing this spider child back proved an ideal choice: herding him into the Frenchman and his lackeys was easy enough, the accusations of being his monster quick to turn their spears and axes against him. She still fondly recalls the boy running through the forest, stumbling on the lumpy bushes and her thorny saplings tremoring at every touch, screaming for help which was not meant to arrive.

Bumping into her first pet, surprised at gathering ingredients for his poisons, the only and nominal to add an obstacle between the terrified humans and the spider child, wasn't intended. It didn't have to be. Maestra knows her script, but reacts to her own whims of imagination.
 
THEY couldn't say what to make out of the unexpected alliance at first. In a way, it's still a matter of surprise. THEY cannot fathom the reason: the two are complete strangers, yet somehow what began as an unwilling patronage rapidly spins into a firm partnership. THEY demand more details. And so Maestra works her art, sending waves upon waves of bloodthirsty hounds, spreading famine across the land the two claimed, making the putrid waters of the swamp rise and flood their camp, unleashing giants of autumn and winter alike, furious blizzards and sudden droughts.  
 
And yet, they remain.  
 
When her pet half freezes in a hail, gushing dark sanguine and hallucinating the dead, yet still somehow brings the characteristic red-green beret and a backpack full of raw walrus meat back to the camp before collapsing and stilling in the snowdrift near the firepit, she thinks it a pathetic waste. There could have been so much more amusement to be milked from this one. This Webber kid seems affected too, desperately clinging to the ragged cloak now starting to serve as a funeral shroud, tiny furry palms pawing at the scrawny body and trying to pull it into one of the two tents near the fire, as if outright refusing to accept what transpired. It's a waste, a thought echoes on her mind, one undeniably deserving punishment, and Her Ladyship can only hope it won't be meted out to her.
 
THEY order the wounds grave, but not lethal.
 
She never truly understands the inexplicable... fondness THEY display for the pair. Over time, the two become something of a special care species. When she takes them world-hopping, they always wake up together, close enough to each other to allow easy finding. Other transients come and go, but they go nearly hand-in-hand through thick and thin. She remembers the actress from Belfast with her Valkyrie act, kind to Webber, acerbic to his partner, but THEY wanted them in the ruins, and she forgot to link this particular island to the labyrinth of the Ancients. Another leap enabled THEM to see the pair fumbling through the dark, but leaves Wigfrid behind, temporarily happy on her grand hunt. She tries to tap into more worlds then, a different period entirely, and this is how the haughty Japanese shows up, but instead of some interesting showdown, they learn to accept her too. And so they have to leave again. A new island, a new beginning.
 
Except this time, she knows, it has to be like fireworks.
 
And at last she finds two other candidates, a perfect duo to serve as a foil for them. Mercenaries from the same period as the Japanese, rough, wanton, with a primal joy of life - an ideal match to the spider child and the scholar. She has them stumble upon the pair while tracking a koalefant and literally raze this part of the forest they set up camp in to the ground. She wants to see their reaction to the two freaks, but like in a bad joke, nothing happens.  
 
The human men follow her prized pet to the camp as he guardedly carries the boy back home and promptly claim it as their own. There is no tension on their side, no suspicion against either, just primal, childlike glee of destruction. The scholar argues against it, of course, but doesn't object to the two warriors staying, and Webber watches with widened eyes as they turn their quiet world upside down.  
 
It goes on, naturally. The mercs are a force of nature. In a way, they remind her of the rowdy sailors back in Cisco from before the Leap, loud, boisterous, regularly drunk. And it's not a surprise to observe the boy grow increasingly fascinated. They let him in on their escapades with no regard to the horrified protests of his guardian. If anything, they only drift apart, like icebergs, just as slow and as inevitable. With the warriors as reckless, a disaster is about to happen, and she is well aware of that. THEY need a grand shake of the setting. Maestra aims to please. One properly misplaced grenade of their make and the explosion expert is no more, an iridescent ghost quietly hovering over a crisp skeleton.  
 
While aware of his knowledge of the matter, she doesn't expect the frail metamage to go through with the ritual. The gaze of this unsettling shade of blue is a look of a madman as he quietly tells the boy to run back to the camp and stay there until told otherwise, opening his artery up with the words out of time the shadows carry. She finds herself turning away when the lean figure collapses, spilling crimson. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a life for a life. One last effort to land the revived human several metres away and then nothing, only silence, for a few prolonging seconds.
 
Then, the ring of pines and birches around the scholar's crumpled body bursts into flames. She watches with a held-back breath as the fire dances across the bark, consuming it like a ravenous hound, licking just so at the stick figure at its centre. It looks more like her own shadow flame than a regular self-combustion reaction, one thing clear: this is no phoenix. Her pet will be lost.
 
AMUSING. LET THE SHOW PROCEED.
 
The unspoken words forming at the back of her mind stun her; this act is over, she cannot interfere, this magic is not familiar. THEY hardly understand mortals, maybe that's why this demand for more. She cannot fight it, just watch, and this means displeasing THEM, with no guarantee of what happens next. She tries protesting, points to the place where a pile of bones should have already started showing, yet the man remains still, more than that, drawing in half-choked, haggard, rasping breaths as the ribcage lifts, tiny sparrows trapped within it.  
 
THEY have no faces. If THEY did, however, she swears from the throbbing feeling at the back of her mind that they look damnedly smug.  
 
The coma doesn't let go easily; days pass before there is as much as a tiny errant movement of the sacrifice's arm, a lurid groan of pain escaping the bloodstained lips. Hours fly before her pet props himself in a more or less upright position, bloodied, battered, bruised and singed...
 
Alive. Alive is important.
 
THEY can be pleased, she reasons; while the man has recently discovered the joy of parenthood when two furry arms wrapped around his spindly legs, holding close with his secret out – We like you just how you are - now, crawling back from his would-be grave to the camp, only to find out nobody cared all those days, he learns the true taste of betrayal.  
 
The homecoming is bittersweet: nothing changed, bar for a growing pile of rubbish which apparently none cleaned up, his tent gathering dust, a biting scent of burnt food. The Scottish ex-ghost is tinkering with yet another weapon of mass destruction to the sound of his friend's snoring, taking a hearty swig from a fat bottle of something, blinking hard when the bloodied body staggers towards him. A calm question if he is alright falls as her pet starts awkwardly bandaging himself; he murmurs something barely audible to placate the Scotsman and bows to enter his tent.  
 
Something dirty and small, and soft blocks his passage. Maestra watches avidly as the man lifts it off the ground, the big blue eyes flashing a look of unwilling disbelief as the thing morphs into one of the stuffed toys he's been sewing together for the spider child, ragged and stained in dirt. The expression of pure defeat laced with pain when Webber stoically exclaims he just left the toy pigman out of the way, not really into plushies any longer, couldn't possibly be more amusing. Her pet truly is an artist, the perfect actor on the stage she sets with THEM as the ultimate audience.
 
What follows exceeds her expectations. He has always been this quiet, logical one. When switching worlds, most transients start looking for food and weapons first. Her pet begins with enough fuel for a fire, smart enough not to ply his trade unless absolutely necessary, then immediately follows with the research labs, always seeking more uses for the same old minerals and plants. When he silently collects his books, a bedroll, the smallest pot and all the arcane paraphernalia THEIR domain is rife with, she doesn't expect him to leave. Winter will begin soon, he has seen the signs, prepared warm clothes for his companions, made enough preserves to see twice as many adults through the entire season and beyond. Instead of remaining close, he wanders deep into the forest, bent under the shapeless backpack on his back, eyes trailing the darkened evergreens and the leafless birches. She's torn between disbelief and fascination: he's aware its heart houses the igloo where the MacTusks live during their annual manhunt, one of the few creations he gave life to actually deserving praise, and yet a tiny firepit is put together huddling under a tall pine, the few belongings dropped and fire kindled. No. It's impossible. It cannot be. Why would he camp here? It's foolish, it's dangerous, it's stark raving insane.  
 
As much sway as the shadows hold, Her Ladyship cannot watch what happens when his workshop is placed with anything but the purest fascination. It's better than bedtime stories full of science and magic, now coming back to her and unfolding before her eyes in this uncompromising wilderness. The dusk disperses as a single flame begins to flicker, momentarily solidifying, rising high like a triumphant torch of the statue on Ellis Island as a sleek column of polished stone incrementally forms below it. She knows it is a ward she cannot cross, no warmth, just light and raw determination, and yet she finds herself drawn to it despite its obvious aim to keep her at bay. He will still need the firepit, he freezes much more quickly, she can tell, probably coming from a warmer climate, but she will not crush the last breath out of those ailing lungs when the curtain falls.  
 
She thinks it a sign he's persevering, that her show will go on splendidly, with THEM pleased more than he ever managed to. Yet minutes turn to hours, hours shifting into days, and he only moves the barest minimum, skipping all else, no foraging, no feeding, nothing. She wonders if he isn't going to starve the way he carries himself. The place he picked isn't a second Eden, the camp he built for the spider child overflows with food sources, but he could do something even here, pick those mushrooms, hunt a moleworm, gather the few frozen berries the mercs haven't turned into alcohol yet.  
 
Instead, he's still.
 
"I can tell you're starving," she announces, a  subconscious attempt to startle him failing as it happens. Her rebellious actor looks in her voice's direction with an empty stare. "Good evening, Charlotte," he concedes. It's amusing, this desperate urge for civility when all around is madness.  
 
"Can't you see there's food right here?" she asks, stepping out of the shadows and seating herself on top of his backpack, pointing at the nearby rabbit warren. It's a definite plus of her current state: no physiological needs, no weight, no fear of extreme temperatures. She can sit down like this, hitching the flowing hem of her gown just so to cross her legs, the left shoe peeking out, and feel not a single bite of the frost already creeping up on the pines. Perfection. His stare is annoyingly blank. "I do."
 
Ten seconds of silence pass.
 
"And?" she nudges at last. A stately shrug. "What 'and'?"
 
"Why don't you start moving?" she asks, pointing at the rabbit which has just peeked out of the warren. It's a mindless little thing, white and fluffy, with empty beady eyes making her question her sanity in this previous life when she actually thought them cute. The nostrils flare at the smell of the burning twigs, the mammal cocking its head and blinking hard. The man on the opposite side of the fire shrugs. "I see no cause to."
 
"You're going to starve, freeze or both if you don't pull yourself together and get your move on," she announces icily, gauging for a reaction, but she only receives a neutral rise of the blonde brow. The rabbit scampers to a bush, starting to chew on its lowermost twigs. It sees no point in hiding despite a decent enough hunter squatting right here. Her annoyance grows, twisting in her chest, turning into anger, sprouting thorns of righteous indignation. "Elf," she drawls with a snap of her dainty fingers, "kill. The. Rabbit."
 
No reaction whatsoever.
 
"Kill the bloody rabbit!"
 
"No."
 
The growl gives her pause at last. As much as his rebellion offends her, such defiance deserves recognition. Her actor will not act his script in its current form. She needs to use a different angle.  
 
"Are you trying to kill yourself then?" she asks, fidgeting in her seat, half-horrified, half-curious. The hesitancy with which he replies is proof enough of his mental disposition. "...Suicide is a sin in the eyes of the Twelve," he finally sighs, looking down the ragged tunic patched over and over again. In a way, she reflects, watching this scrawny frame of his, there is strong resemblance to a starved crow. A bird, however, ought to be perching somewhere in full light rather than wallow in a mix of spirituality and utter misery.  
 
"So it is tempting then?" she insists.
 
The man shoots her a dirty glare. "We are not having this conversation."
 
"And why not?"
 
"For I feel no urge to whatsoever?"  
 
Calming the sarcasm down a bit, he shrugs. "Listen. I'm fasting. What's so odd about it?"
 
"Do you see any other transient doing this too?" she scoffs. "You got the rules wrong, scholar. The goal is not to starve."
 
"And you know it so well, I take it?"
 
She snorts. "I am the queen of this world." 
 
"Puppet queen."
 
"QUEEN, elf, QUEEN! Even you should get it!"
 
The gaunt face now sports a cynical smirk. It is a peculiar little thing, quirking upwards in his right corner as the lower lip twitches. She can't decide whether she hates it to death or there's something more to it somewhere. "I'm the master of the inappropriate."
 
"Admit they kicked you out," she jabs in return, rejoicing at the pained look his eyes flash. Shifting his weight, he grunts. "It was my own decision. It's easier to feed three mouths than four. A matter of their safety and convenience."
 
"Your puny little mouth hardly makes a difference!" she snaps, shadowy flames flickering around her fists for a split second as she temporarily loses- no, wilfully loosening hold on her self-control. "Maybe they are forgetting you as we speak!"
 
"It doesn't matter they won't remember me," he mutters glumly, "what matters is that I helped."
 
There's not much one can say to such stubbornness. Men have never been the bright ones. She can't allow the elf to consider himself the winner of this exchange. She settles for a classic. "You're a royal fool, Ayenth."
 
Just another unimpressed scoff. "I've never claimed not to be one, have I?"
 
She won't ever admit it, but he's saying the truth. Disheartening.
 
"I suppose I will have to make new arrangements," she purrs into that finely-pointed ear, delighting in how he instinctively shrinks away, tucking himself even deeper into this ghastly cloak of his (N o,   s t o p   i t,   h e ' s   a f r a i d   o f   t o u c h i n g,   I   d o n ' t   w a n t   t o-! Shut up!).  
 
For a moment, she pauses in embarrassment: this other self, weak mewling mortal, never ceases to make herself a nuisance. Graciously, the stronger always wins, leaving the shell of Miss Charlotte Eleanor Devery sobbing in the corner of her mind, properly reminded of her place.  
 
"Something in moonstone and marble. Subtle thulecite finishes. Roses. Some new puzzles for my favourite scholar. Would you like this, Ayenth?"
 
"What is the point?" he glares defiantly, pulling himself together after a moment of panic. "Just get it. I. Don't. Care."
 
She cannot resist a smirk before vanishing in a puff of smoke, leaving the man as alone as she found him. "You're an atrocious liar. I think you do. Oh, how much..."
 
The exotic pet is growing stagnant, dares to refuse to play. Well, she will have to provide more... encouragement.
 
There is always this delicious thrill of picking the next transient, she decides, swaying across the throne room, the glee of choosing new toys- n o,   t h e y ' r e   n o t   t o y s-
 
Silence.
 
Smiling with glee, she assesses her recent finds.
 
And there is a lot to assess before making the decision who shall enter the stage next: though truly inferior to THEM and her, each is a bruised and broken masterpiece. Walking across the chamber with her gaze sweeping over the shelf with crystal balls - such a silly memento of the past, little Miss Devery loved the faux snow falling onto the minuscule buildings and the tiny figurines upon every shake, but Her Ladyship prefers full-sized characters and tangible settings to bury in blizzards - she takes her time, examining each of her recent finds. There is this artist with a skull for her head, cheerful like a Mexican puppet for their Día de Muertos despite this morbid love of everything sepulchral gone so terribly wrong here - maybe she will do? The name is of a spirit of air. How fitting. But then she remembers how they once visited for the celebrations, how he placed a bright sempasúchil in her hair in her usual stage rose's stead, and how they- no. Better not.  
 
You wonder how it would all look now if there had been one migrant less to reach Ellis Island in July 26th, 1901. You wish <<Quest>> had never set sail that year. You shudder at every recollection of August of 1904, and you curse the 17th of April 1906 for ruining your lives.  
 
You hate Maxwell, Charlotte. You hate him for stealing your William.
 
Perhaps the little girl in this draconic form? Yet, somehow she cannot, not with those hopeful eyes piercing through her. A bitter taste forms on her tongue and she turns away. As hard as it is to admit, she isn't ready yet. She still has to get rid of her weak self first. Quickly, she paces to the third sphere, the one holding a young man, rocking precariously on a broad armchair seated atop a hill. This one holds promise, she muses, brushing the crystal and languidly watching the tiniest of shadow flames flicker across it: fit, visibly adventurous if a tad giddy. Except the stupid thing looks like what he brought from some flea market the summer before the Leap. The Ritz or not, it's good to build a home, stupid, deceiving words of a royal fool. She cannot stop herself from turning them in her mouth like a morsel gone bad as she decides the man will wait. Frustration grows in her chest, and swells, and swells, and swells, an unbearable weight pulling her down.
 
Then, she sees him and makes up her mind.  
 
He's perfect, already on one of the existing islands, already half in love with the might of the shadows, the ideal foil to him, making the concept all the sweeter. Yes. The psychiatrist growing feral by the day as he descends into madness. Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? She has long watched him, on the edge of night, glimpsed the giveaway signs of possession steadily taking hold, putrid oily tendrils seeping in while he remains oblivious.
 
A snap of her fingers as she settles in front of her precious vanity of black ash. The face in the mirror showing for a split second before the image forms is smiling. There is the typical grove of evergreens, bland and nondescript as all his creations - honestly, how didn't she notice how utterly unimaginative he is? - with the man in question sitting near a fire while polishing his glasses.  
 
Smile to your queen, William. Time to play. Off to sleep.
 
Now, who if not her would have come up with such an ingenious way of moving those hapless souls around? The doctor is now taking a one-of-a-kind trip through a new society of pigmen where transients are slaves of the porky master race as she gets to work. He will remember this one till the end of his days, probably never touch mushrooms again. The real fun will start soon, she muses wickedly as the space around the man is reshaped. A tug here, a pull there...
 
Perfection.  
 
It takes him a few hours to groggily get to his feet, the bleary eyes gazing druggedly around his new home. It's fine. Maestra has time. She watches in sheer delight as he takes a handful of crispy sand into his palm, blinking hard. He's going to have a bit to discover, she notes gleefully: the look of utter confusion at the lush green fans of the coconut palms swaying in the early morning breeze is golden. She will need to depart soon lest the mewling weakling fights for control again, but the crowning glory of the performance arrives now. He's just noticed the sign. It's another lovely little touch of hers: show, don't tell.
 
It's almost there. William takes out his glasses.
 
"...'Welcome  to my world'?"
 

Edited by Arlesienne
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9 minutes ago, ScienceMachine said:

Startings are always the hardest part.

Its annoyingly poignant too.

Indeed, but then I reflected at how your pictures kept me writing as per that challenge in What'd I Miss? in spite of my sprained-suspected-broken wrist and I decided to man up.

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"AS THE CURTAIN'S RAISED"

 

There is a swirl of contrasting colours, bright sparks of lightning and sudden jolts of suffocating smoke, stars beyond counting bursting before your eyes. Your mind is in tumult, the countless stimuli threaten to overwhelm your simple senses in a cacophony of synaesthesia, cold and warmth, and otherworldly noises all around you. Cobalt. Turquoise. Jade. Magenta. Cyan. Ochre. Ultramarine. Why are you there? Where is there? Who are you?

There is a throbbing sound of silence in your ears, along with a subliminal whisper you instinctively try to shirk away from. It reminds you of the damp darkness of a cave, of sounds of predators and little creatures cowering in fear of what they mean to them, although for the life of yours, you cannot tell why. You’re blinded in the poignant light piercing through your eyelids screwed tightly shut, waiting for a sign of life, friend or foe, anything familiar. You vaguely register hovering a good distance above the darkened ground, like a frond on the wind, the last autumn samara or perhaps the tiniest particle of moondust. In the distance, a storm is raging over the vast expanses of a rumbling sea. You hear no seagulls. The dissonance of this noisy silence terrifies you to the very core. You see the rocks beneath you and the stretching field of grass, an army of verdant spears jutting into the sky and swaying in the furious wind, and prepare for a crash just about to turn you into smithereens, this first and last flight.

Suddenly, it stops.

You must have just reached the eye of the storm; you hover a good distance above the ground, with the storm smashing trees against each other, but remaining oddly non-affecting towards you. Everything is still blurred and distorted, but it slowly solidifies and you start to discern the surroundings you are finding yourself in. There is some kind of a forest here, all submerged in this unnatural darkness, except for one puny circle of light in the distance. You hold no hope to see that far, but somehow you find yourself able to, and it morphs into some sort of a hastily-assembled campfire with a single willowy figure huddled on a boulder with a set of etchings on its side.

A sudden gust of wind assaults the creature and tears off a part of its skin, no, a hooded cloak, spilling silvery blonde hair everywhere along with a quiet hissing curse in some language you don’t comprehend despite it sounding familiar, words out of time, as it vanishes beyond the horizon. It rises from its perching spot, but doesn’t cross the circle of light it resides in. You wonder for the reason, the cold is chilling to the bone, you would do everything for the garment they had just lost, but then, then it shows, stretching from the core of darkness and creeping towards the faltering fire.

A hand of shadow taken form.

“You needn’t bother. I know who you are. I’m not afraid of you.”

You peek around the swirling column of antitime you have been frozen in, searching for the source of the voice, the soft, lilting cadence with a faint suggestion of a cough somewhere, but the creature and the hand are the only inhabitants of this harrowing world.

There is a giggle in the night, its melody both chiming and biting, like a sacrificial knife being sharpened, and you feel the fear of all the little creatures cowering in their caves and burrows, and the sudden understanding. A disembodied thought emerges it is the primal darkness taken form, the ultimate harbinger of your untimely demise, the monster in the dark your kin warned you about. It terrifies you to the very core, you try to wail and scream, and plead mercy, but no sound escapes your lips, gagging in your throat.

“You think you know me-”

“Charlotte Eleanor Devery,” the first voice counters as if reciting a well-learnt formula, “the youngest daughter of William Stephen Devery, Chief of Police, born on the 13th of August 1884 in New York City. Home-schooled, adored, pampered…” he pauses for a split second before delivering the second part of the sentence, “up to 1901 when your father intends to force you into an arranged wedding with a man twice your age. This is when you run away and vanish, your family doing everything they can to erase you from the community’s memory. Officially, you are stung by a killer bee. Every single person who knew you is dead now, but this is of no notice to you, is it not?”

The darkness appears to hold back its breath.

“But while they try to remove your existence from every possible source of information,” the voice continues, “you reach San Francisco and attempt to make ends meet working as a typist. It’s a brave new world for you, squatting in a tiny flat with several other girls of mixed professions, walking everywhere rather than being driven, the new status of a complete stranger, but you never look back. You cannot afford it. San Francisco State Normal School is possibly the worst place you can imagine, but it lets you blend in and self-develop. You’re young enough and look even younger.” The figure turns to the side and it strikes you it has to be a man, starved, no doubt, the willowy frame is almost certainly not a natural thing, and lets out a rueful sigh like a teacher unwilling to scold a naughty child.

“It doesn’t work in your favour.”

The darkness shifts uncomfortably, the hand retracting as if being bitten. “Stop it,” a different, youthful female voice cuts in, almost hysterical, “just stop it!”

“And suddenly it’s the 6th of June 1905, a borrowed newspaper covering your knees and a certain air of hope in the air. You meet him. He’s different. He treats you like a lady and a friend, not a prospective lady-friend. It matters. Charlotte is gone. Here comes Charlie. You feel safe again, and happy, alive. All up to the moment you discover the room. But then… it is already too late.”

“H-h-how do you…? The past is the past. You’ve had your warning. I will not repeat it. You will not dig in old wounds.”

I don’t. You, however…” the voice is oddly persistent despite the menacing quality of who he calls Charlotte. “You wonder how it would all look now if there had been one migrant less to reach Ellis Island in July 26th, 1901. You wish <<Quest>> had never set sail that year. You shudder at every recollection of August of 1904, and you curse the 17th of April 1906 for ruining your lives. You hate Maxwell, Charlotte. You hate him for stealing your William.”

“How dare you speak to me this way?! Do you not know who I-”

“I know this perfectly well.” There is a soft, mirthless chuckle from the blonde figure. “And I’m also aware of the fact the rules of the game are changing. I wouldn’t be here otherwise. You do realise I’m as real as Webber if bereft of the boy’s innocence. He would have never reached that far. For an entrepreneur, his mind is surprisingly narrow. You, however… You have always loved stories, Charlotte. And could tap into them. There is power in words, worlds beyond counting, and you know it. Your reign will be different. No point denying the fact, don’t you think?”

“I… I…” the female voice falters. “I just wanted him safe. Safer. Free-er? Them all. I thought I could free them- I am the queen of this world. Who are you to deny me what belongs to me? A new era is about to begin, elf, and you will all bow before our might!”

Before you can try to even remotely comprehend the shower of new information, each element making less sense than its predecessor, the errant half-coughing chuckle returns. “I noticed the roses, thank you very much. Your favourite, I imagine. He’d always shower the little Charlie with them, back in your sunny California. You certainly are more style-consistent, are you not?”

“I will recover what was lost by his foolhardiness, just you watch. Your thrice-damned book destroyed all we had. He betrayed me. THEY will give me my revenge… No! Don’t listen to this! I just want to go home- this is my home, my playground, my realm. He had always been a royal fool, elf, I was simply too blinded to notice. All transients of his – all complacent, all stagnant, building their little mud huts and the puny farms, only to watch them burn, all starving, all insane…”

“They are not like this, Charlotte,” the male counters with a sudden steel to the soft voice. “They learn, form alliances, they grow, something THEY cannot comprehend. Do you think there is just despair here? They are all human beings. They are so much more. I watch and-”

“Then you know how they rebuked you,” the dark voice chides, creeping closer once more. “You are a monster to them, elf. They believe in some hidden agenda of yours. Can you not comprehend your resistance is futile? They do not wish to learn, they solely care for survival.” The voice grows even darker, and you shudder as the spiteful hiss comes, “I saw what they’ve done to you, back in the forest. You think it is a secret? High time you learnt, Ayenth, that someone is always watching…”

“It doesn’t matter,” a fierce snarl follows. “What matters is that I helped! They all survived! They’re thriving, damn it!”

“Foolish child! Do you really believe it? Do you think there is any gratitude in them? Was there any when they left you for dead after stripping you of all your meagre belongings? Pathetic. They despise you, for they all fear you, fear you’re an emissary of THEM or an elaborate trap THEY’ve conjured.”

There is a scoff at the fire. “THEY have no imagination. Elaborate and THEY are two mutually-exclusive factors.”

“But THEY are- you have to be more careful, Ayenth, THEY are- you will not speak defiantly of THEM, foolish plaything! You belong to THEM!”

“They’re not my gods, Charlotte,” the man hisses as he throws another twig into the fire, blatantly ignoring the hand snaking closer. “And there will be others. It is no secret. I may have not been entirely successful, but now THEY don’t have the Codex, and neither do you. You have to adapt. You may lure in new transients, but your foul magic is waning and new approaches, and THEY won’t be ready, for THEY have no minds of THEIR own! They don’t evolve or grow, or learn! This is why you must fight that other side of yours! Stop giving up and pull yourself together!”

The darkness shudders, blurring at the edges of the crackling fire as if there were two Charlottes struggling for dominance over its smoky domain. You try to see the details of the two participants of the eerie conversation, it’s impossible that you can’t see their faces if you’re able to count every tree and grass turf swaying in the nightly wind, yet you fail completely. It all feels like an intoxicated dream, no, your sheerest nightmare, with your body not being your own and stretched in the vast dark nothingness, with just the tiny fire on the horizon of what’s familiar and tamed.

“You must fight it, Charlotte,” the male voice whispers, a sudden quality of rueful acceptance in the lilting cadence brought out with another cough. “I don’t fear you, but I pity you. Don’t give up after all you’ve been through. Fight it.

“Ayenth…”

“Eleanor is light, Charlotte. Remember it.”

Slowly, the wind subsides and with the first hesitant ray of sun of a breaking dawn, the minuscule samara of your shape is startlingly gently lowered onto the rolling verdant grass filled with roses.

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Like most forms of creative crafting, it's always the hardest when it comes to balancing the qualities. Word count and substance being the hardest qualities to balance; how does one know too much substance from too little? How many words is too many and not enough? Am I using the right words from the wrong ones? Too fast or too slow?

It doesn't help that all of these qualities tug on each other, tangled in a mess of elaborate strings and no one seems to know how it all works. Educators would like to think otherwise but I doubt their opinions as facts.

Personally? I think you're doing alright, but I'm much too biased in the ways of "squeezing out as much substance from as little word count as possible", much like getting the last few wads of toothpaste from a paper thin tube, to really be a good judge on that; a bit too wordy, but I'm sure you've heard this one too many times.

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2 hours ago, Arlesienne said:

And there is a lot to assess before making the decision who shall enter the stage next: though truly inferior to THEM and her, each is a bruised and broken masterpiece. Walking across the chamber with her gaze sweeping over the shelf with crystal balls - such a silly memento of the past, little Miss Devery loved the faux snow falling onto the minuscule buildings and the tiny figurines upon every shake, but Her Ladyship prefers full-sized characters and tangible settings to bury in blizzards - she takes her time, examining each of her recent finds. There is this artist with a skull for her head, cheerful like a Mexican puppet for their Día de Muertos despite this morbid love of everything sepulchral gone so terribly wrong here - maybe she will do? The name is of a spirit of air. How fitting. But then she remembers how they once visited for the celebrations, how he placed a bright sempasúchil in her hair in her usual stage rose's stead, and how they- no. Better not. 
 

2 hours ago, Arlesienne said:

 cheerful like a Mexican puppet for their Día de Muertos

 

  • Because you're not too far off. I do have Hispanic heritage. :wilson_ecstatic:
  • I like the crafty mechanics in the narrative! The change in fonts and style, you definitely adding character to the work. Just like @Paxtonnnn, both of you should not be hard on yourselves.
  • You might even want to do a @Aileen-Rose and add sketches to your chapter breaks to illustrate some scenes that you feel interested you in your own work.
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4 hours ago, Arlesienne said:

Perhaps the little girl in this draconic form? Yet, somehow she cannot, not with those hopeful eyes piercing through her. A bitter taste forms on her tongue and she turns away. As hard as it is to admit, she isn't ready yet. She still has to get rid of her weak self first.

Who's the weak one? Me or her?

I'll be honest, when you said "OC", I expected my anthro characters XD Interested to read more of it. Although it took me a while to figure out who was talking. Think you can clarify some things?

Ok what characters are in this story? So far I've got Webber, Wigfrid, Wickerbottom(?) as the less important characters. Charlie/Charlotte (is she having a war within herself/with her shadow self?) William, Maxwell(?), @ScienceMachine's OC and a couple more yet to be introduced. Have I missed anyone?

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      I don't think I gave the story so far justice by saying it's "Too wordy." Frankly that's unfair and undermines the rest of the great narrative you're trying to tell. I should be trying to be a bit more precise with my own wording and criticism.
      Lemme start by saying how I'll be looking forward to the rest of the story, how excited I am to read what you have in mind for my own character. I'm sure you'll aim to please without too much compromise.

      Now, to the nitty gritty;

"Too wordy."

      A common complaint I see when it comes to your writing and to be fair, I can see where the others are coming from. You have a writing style that while isn't bad, does lean more towards word count than substance density. It'd seem like a silly thing to complain about, right? "Too wordy? I thought that was the point!" The sheer amount of words to read through can be daunting and frankly, terrifying for those unprepared.
      I suggest adopting the Terry Pratchett approach and try to condense the substance, trim down on the word count and make each sentence mean something more. "Less is more" rings very true when it comes to writing.

"Who's up first?"

      Another symptom of amateurish writing is the story-teller unable to tell who is talking to who to their audience and what is happening. So far, I had a rough time keeping track of what was actually transpiring. A few rereads was needed to get a solid idea of what was going on and that's not exactly fun. Rereads should be for catching hints or foreshadowing the next time you read through.
      I suggest using a subtle dose of specific descriptors of the characters. Alternatively, setting up the dialogue so that it's easily read. Observe:

Quote

"Which one do you think I should get?" Dale browsed through the massive selection.
"That one," pointed Tim, indiscriminately.
"Which?"
"There, that one over there!"
"You're not- that's not helping, holding out your finger and not looking at it doesn't help."

"First Person Crisis"

      While I could be a fun thing to do, switching the perspective around, I haven't exactly found a piece of fiction that has done it well. I think its simpler to say to just stick to one perspective, i.e. the 3rd Person. Another thing to mention is Charlie's inner monologue. I've never really enjoyed reading the character's inner thoughts, despite- ironically- having a great fondness for psychic characters. While this is probably the least egregious thing I could mention, I prefer reading the characters struggling with their thoughts than reading their thoughts directly.
      Then again, Charlie isn't exactly the most subtle when it comes to duality issues ...

Edited by ScienceMachine
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18 hours ago, ScienceMachine said:

"Who's up first?"

      Another symptom of amateurish writing is the story-teller unable to tell who is talking to who to their audience and what is happening. So far, I had a rough time keeping track of what was actually transpiring. A few rereads was needed to get a solid idea of what was going on and that's not exactly fun. Rereads should be for catching hints or foreshadowing the next time you read through.
      I suggest using a subtle dose of specific descriptors of the characters. Alternatively, setting up the dialogue so that it's easily read. Observe:

"First Person Crisis"

      While I could be a fun thing to do, switching the perspective around, I haven't exactly found a piece of fiction that has done it well. I think its simpler to say to just stick to one perspective, i.e. the 3rd Person. Another thing to mention is Charlie's inner monologue. I've never really enjoyed reading the character's inner thoughts, despite- ironically- having a great fondness for psychic characters. While this is probably the least egregious thing I could mention, I prefer reading the characters struggling with their thoughts than reading their thoughts directly.
      Then again, Charlie isn't exactly the most subtle when it comes to duality issues ...

I agree with this. I was taught when writing a series or dialogue that whenever a new person speaks, it goes to the next line. I know you probably know this but it may make it easier to read in future chapters :)

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First of all, thanks to all of you for replying - and bearing with me when I lost the link, rendering me unable to reply! This is probably fixed now as I bookmarked it on my phone. All should be well.

I'm quite bewildered to see this garnered interest and worked out the way I aimed at (this will be addressed further on). I jumped onto the bandwagon out of a little innocent joke in Science's thread and thought little of it (it counts doubly as I am a research purist). Yet somehow you were patient enough to read all this and even (wow) upvote it! This little ficlet literally born on my phone. Incredible...

Now, I am going to struggle with multiquoting you. Bear with me for forum formatting hates my guts :D!

On 09/23/2016 at 1:26 AM, ScienceMachine said:

Like most forms of creative crafting, it's always the hardest when it comes to balancing the qualities. Word count and substance being the hardest qualities to balance; how does one know too much substance from too little? How many words is too many and not enough? Am I using the right words from the wrong ones? Too fast or too slow?

It doesn't help that all of these qualities tug on each other, tangled in a mess of elaborate strings and no one seems to know how it all works. Educators would like to think otherwise but I doubt their opinions as facts.

Personally? I think you're doing alright, but I'm much too biased in the ways of "squeezing out as much substance from as little word count as possible", much like getting the last few wads of toothpaste from a paper thin tube, to really be a good judge on that; a bit too wordy, but I'm sure you've heard this one too many times.

Points which deserve upvoting on their own (sucks I can't upvote fragments on top of the post as a whole; alas). Maybe this technique will help you or somebody else: think of a voice of your narrator (with time, it should emerge on its own) and construct the flow to fit their prosody. Some characters work best with crisp, concise writing: I'd say WX would be like this, DS-wise. Others need a longer, more meandering pattern (think Wickerbottom), a "drummy" gist (Wolfgang), perhaps a melodic cadence (Willow, Wendy). If you develop a voice of the narrator, you will be able to imbue the narrative with it to match their personality and linguistic traits. I've been having a very productive conversation with Skyflower51 on DA recently on rhythm and "tacting" you may want to take a look at ([url=http://comments.deviantart.com/1/625851506/4191344907]one[/url], two and three). In a nutshell, different patterns for different narrators and situations. I am so glad you highlight it, because it's important. I will explain my reasoning in a few more paragraphs.

Funnily, somehow people don't say things should be shorter, but that's likely as I tend to compile an explanation of why the flow is like this and not like that - or maybe they just prefer the pattern, I'm not judging ;)!

On 09/23/2016 at 3:30 AM, minespatch said:
  • Because you're not too far off. I do have Hispanic heritage. :wilson_ecstatic:
  • I like the crafty mechanics in the narrative! The change in fonts and style, you definitely adding character to the work. Just like @Paxtonnnn, both of you should not be hard on yourselves.
  • You might even want to do a @Aileen-Rose and add sketches to your chapter breaks to illustrate some scenes that you feel interested you in your own work.

I swear me being hard on myself is the one flower been me and insanity :P. But I'm delighted to hear you enjoyed the reference! Due to the time constraints and the jokey character of this thread for me, I was not able to do as much research as I would have preferred. I relied on instinct - glad it didn't err this time!

As for pictures, I honestly have no idea. Life being busy as it is, plus my meh skills, say "spare them the grief" ;).

On 09/23/2016 at 9:58 AM, ScienceMachine said:

      I don't think I gave the story so far justice by saying it's "Too wordy." Frankly that's unfair and undermines the rest of the great narrative you're trying to tell. I should be trying to be a bit more precise with my own wording and criticism.
      Lemme start by saying how I'll be looking forward to the rest of the story, how excited I am to read what you have in mind for my own character. I'm sure you'll aim to please without too much compromise.

      Now, to the nitty gritty;

"Too wordy."

      A common complaint I see when it comes to your writing and to be fair, I can see where the others are coming from. You have a writing style that while isn't bad, does lean more towards word count than substance density. It'd seem like a silly thing to complain about, right? "Too wordy? I thought that was the point!" The sheer amount of words to read through can be daunting and frankly, terrifying for those unprepared.
      I suggest adopting the Terry Pratchett approach and try to condense the substance, trim down on the word count and make each sentence mean something more. "Less is more" rings very true when it comes to writing.

"Who's up first?"

      Another symptom of amateurish writing is the story-teller unable to tell who is talking to who to their audience and what is happening. So far, I had a rough time keeping track of what was actually transpiring. A few rereads was needed to get a solid idea of what was going on and that's not exactly fun. Rereads should be for catching hints or foreshadowing the next time you read through.
      I suggest using a subtle dose of specific descriptors of the characters. Alternatively, setting up the dialogue so that it's easily read. Observe:

"First Person Crisis"

      While I could be a fun thing to do, switching the perspective around, I haven't exactly found a piece of fiction that has done it well. I think its simpler to say to just stick to one perspective, i.e. the 3rd Person. Another thing to mention is Charlie's inner monologue. I've never really enjoyed reading the character's inner thoughts, despite- ironically- having a great fondness for psychic characters. While this is probably the least egregious thing I could mention, I prefer reading the characters struggling with their thoughts than reading their thoughts directly.
      Then again, Charlie isn't exactly the most subtle when it comes to duality issues ...

Really (cue gleeful noises)???

You couldn't have made my smile broader here. Why? Because that confusion, wordiness and general state of insanity is exactly what I was aiming for in this duo. I wasn't sure if anyone would point it out while hoping they would... I was not disappointed.

Why confusing sentences, errant thoughts, tangled threads and general weirdness? For this, we need to backtrack to the time. Everything is happening in the early to very late night, with William waking up on the edge of night being the ending. This is the period during which shadow!Charlie is the dominant side. Everything is tinged with the slight insanity she dwells in, the effect of THEIR eerie influence, as well as her struggle with both selves - not something I'm fond of portraying as I'm not a psychiatrist, yet required by the canon here. I need to capture her errant thoughts (a feature shared with Webber, though in a different way: Webber's stems from his young age, Charlie's is induced by the magic of shadows not meshing well with human minds), the haughtiness of a (puppet) queen, her isolation making her actually soliloquise for herself just to remember how to speak, only half-aware of the fact. It's not my style, I prefer saner narrative, but it felt very much called for.

In "Curtain...", the craze aims at completely stunning the reader in order to make them feel like being pulled through several dimensions (can't imagine it being good for you). I had to rework this ficlet several times to check when I start getting nauseous (engaged writing, huh). In a way, it made way to your gift: shadow!Charlie has little control over herself (though still more than Grue!Charlie), her train of thoughts has broken down ages ago, she has moments of not being sure who she's talking to or about. TL;DR: if you are utterly confused, overwhelmed with the tangled narrative and wishing for simplicity, I can feel at ease. Having your objective fulfilled doesn't happen every day.

On 09/24/2016 at 3:55 AM, DragonMage156 said:

I agree with this. I was taught when writing a series or dialogue that whenever a new person speaks, it goes to the next line. I know you probably know this but it may make it easier to read in future chapters :)

A bit of technicalities here: it's dependent on the school (Western and Central European, for one) and subservient to what you want to convey. If you want to retain a clear voice, go with one line for each speaker. If you aim for confusion like above (a rare case, but worth highlighting), you should do the very opposite. In a nutshell, fit it to your goal: those aren't exactly rules, but suggestions :)!

On 09/23/2016 at 5:08 AM, DragonMage156 said:

Who's the weak one? Me or her?

I'll be honest, when you said "OC", I expected my anthro characters XD Interested to read more of it. Although it took me a while to figure out who was talking. Think you can clarify some things?

Ok what characters are in this story? So far I've got Webber, Wigfrid, Wickerbottom(?) as the less important characters. Charlie/Charlotte (is she having a war within herself/with her shadow self?) William, Maxwell(?), @ScienceMachine's OC and a couple more yet to be introduced. Have I missed anyone?

Another wonderful reader gloriously caught in my snare :D. This part is shadow!Charlie downplaying the importance of light!Charlie here. Light!Charlie cannot bring herself to hurt an innocent girl, overruling shadow!Charlie's seeking of new actors, and this embarrasses shadow!Charlie. In a similar vein, Ariel and Giddy are protected by fond if painful memories of William - shadow!Charlie despises them as they still pain her, but cannot get rid of them either. They're slightly akin to security checks.

Now onto characters, the spotlight is on how shadow!Charlie aims to please THEM and sort her own stance on William/Maxwell by being "better" (in this light, subtler, more devious, elegant and amusing than Maxwell while on the Nightmare Throne). There are your OCs (GiddyGuy having his persona from Science's sketch when William pushes his armchair iff the cliff instead of a full OC), whom she considers as the next "actors" of her "show"; Science's William ends up chosen as he doesn't have something that protects him; more so, he is an ideal foil to Maxwell as it has been discussed in What'd I miss? and she wishes to bait them onto one another, favouring the psychiatrist over the magician (I swear she's the master of mobbing :/). Webber is very important, first due to shadow!Charlie bringing him back onto the stage against Maxwell who let him "hang in there" after Wilson (?) resurrected him, then because of being so amusing for THEM. Daniel's and Iggy's mercenaries are meaningful too as they serve as a foil to Webber and Ayenth (shadow!Charlie is fond of juxtaposition, methinks). They also prove much more than mere warriors: shadow!Charlie, in game terms, hopes for PVP, but gets cooperation instead. She admires their ability to surprise her. Sugarcombo's character gets a mention as it's a similar story, an obstacle turned ally. It's a bit quite like Wigfrid.

Wickerbottom doesn't feature here, however, at least not directly; she's with the initial group of transients. Firectly after the last panel of the Cyclum puzzle, vanilla characters end up together - for a VERY brief moment. Shadow!Charlie pulls Webber, Wendy, Woodie, WX and Wigfrid away. This leaves Maxwell, Wilson, Wes, Wolfgang, Wickerbottom and Willow. Wes is too traumatised to stand Maxwell, something that suits shadow!Charlie with her justified grudge against him, so when she spirits Maxwell away, nobody objects. Then, Wes turns into a leader, Wilson - his second in command. Things are better than ever with the new faces, Ayenth is spat out and capable of giving them an edge with the knowledge of things past and present the now-destroyed (true) Codex Umbra poured into him... at least for a time. Because Wes - and partially Wilson - grows suspicious of the source of this, and ultimately decides the scholar must be Maxwell's spy, an emissary of THEM or a mix of both. Ayenth has to opt for an expeditious retreat and the group stays in "their" territory, well-outfitted and confident about their chances.

Wes and Wilson growing paranoid, with Wolfgang heeding their every order, doesn't help as you can imagine. Things come to a crunch when Wickerbottom and Willow learn how the boys almost offed Webber, but this is another story altogether.

* * *

In all honesty, I had no plans to continue. It's just a little joke for you, ladies and gentlemen. Your positive and thoughtful response fills me with joy and startlement alike.

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1 hour ago, ScienceMachine said:

As I return back to this, I have to admit, I may have lied about not enjoying reading the character's thoughts. As it turns out, I actually enjoy tidbits about a person's thoughts.

Oops.

Oopsie. Didn't expect that. Shame on me!

#FeelsAwkwardMilord

1 hour ago, minespatch said:

Don't feel ashamed. Psychic away, man.

This, I'm sure smashing some forum members will make William feel good again, and I will be there to upvote it!

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1 hour ago, ScienceMachine said:

As I return back to this, I have to admit, I may have lied about not enjoying reading the character's thoughts. As it turns out, I actually enjoy tidbits about a person's thoughts.

Oops.

Oopsie. Didn't expect that. Shame on me!

#FeelsAwkwardMilord

1 hour ago, minespatch said:

Don't feel ashamed. Psychic away, man.

This, I'm sure smashing some forum members will make William feel good again, and I will be there to upvote it!

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The freedom of choice dictates I should let be your choices in writing methods.

Personal tastes says otherwise. While you should be able to convey the sense of confusion and delay, it should be something like watching a 1st person view of a coaster ride; you don't feel the hard banks, twists and turns yourself, rather seeing the motions should imply the induced nausea. This is where clever use of descriptors come in. Stories are meant to be engaging, not sickening; a story that's hard to read is going to be a story seldom read by many.

But that's just me, what happens in the future is all up to you.

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