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Ahoy there, writery sinners among us!

I bringeth thee a new game, and hopefully one that'll draw out some real literary short masterpieces. Title explains it all: the user above provides a song (could be lyrical, but instrumental songs or even soundtracks from games or films), and the user below writes a short scene that, to them, matches the energy of the song. It can be anything, from a stand-alone tale to something relating to your character (and their canon).

Key rules here aren't far-fetched either: no NSFW/mature content (can be dark, just no lewd and over the top shit), and put in some effort! One-liners aren't gonna do here, unless you manage to make it so jaw-droppingly witty that it actually compliments the content.

A'right, that's all for now. Good luck everyone, 'n happy writin'!

I'll start us off with the first song, a personal fav of mine for writing dramatic scenes:
Your footsteps echo as though you walk hallowed halls, but there is nothing around you save for darkness. Even your feet strike nothing, and the only reason you have any confidence in not being forever lost in this void is the shape of your divine guide a few steps ahead. Thankfully it's easy enough to keep your eyes on her, those brilliant sapphire scales shimmering with inner light, the swishing fluked tail, the majestic and alluring curves, but that isn't the focus right now. The focus is your destination, apparently just ahead, though you feel as though you must have been walking for hours.

Abruptly, the nothing opens up. Ahead is a spindle of magnificent, shimmering, dark stone that rises up as though to pierce the empty sky or run the entire diameter of the largest of stars. Surrounding it are five shapes pinned to distant walls a solar system's radius away from the center. Elder star leviathans! Beasts, now preserved corpses, thousands of kilometers in length, all feeling to scale for once in the presence of the enormous obelisk. The faint glow from the hovering pillar puts the features of the leviathans in stark and nearly artistic relief, bringing attention to every frill, membrane, tendril, and crease on their ancient, fallen frames. As though reading your mind, the goddess explains, "The only ones who have ever managed to come here without my guidance. They were the most ancient, the most starved for possibilities to devour. They sought the root of all possibilities. Unfortunately for them I'm... free from my vows here." You can't help but shudder.

You've been walking toward the obelisk and, inexplicably, are nearly there. It must have been as distant as a star is from the edge of its solar system, billions of kilometers away, but somehow you've almost made it there in moments. In another... minute? two? you can see the fractal relief on the matte-yet-shining surface. The inscriptions are the source of the shimmer you had first seen, you realize, along with the spindle's slow rotation. You had been able to see the gap between spindle and... ground, for lack of a better word, from the distance of the pinned leviathans, large enough to fit a dozen worlds below it. Now as you come up to it, though, the distance is minuscule in comparison. You could reach up just above your head and lay your hand upon the surface. By instinct, you do. Even though She's a head taller than you, still is, the goddess must also reach above Her head to do the same.

You know some task awaits you, but you have a sense of time, time to spare, time to bask in the presence of this spire. The countdown has been paused, the show is on intermission, the game is at the end of the half, inning, or period. Nothing is happening now, but everything is ready to happen at a moment's notice, once the time comes for time to move on once again. Once the spire is satisfied that you have borne witness to it

In this frozen moment, the goddess glances toward you, smiles gently. It feels... wrong, for even her eyes to move here, now, in this gap in time, this halt of purpose and change, but they do anyway. She does anyway. She steps toward you, the fingertips of Her right hand staying in contact with the surface of the spindle, then places Her left hand on your shoulder.

She gives your shoulder a gentle squeeze, staring up at the inexplicable obelisk with you. You see now that it isn't stone. It's solid. The idea of durability, strength, and resilience given form. A fortress, a prison, made of a single part and inscribed with its purpose an infinite number of times. The inscription coats its surface over and over, intertwining with each other copy of itself. Each symbol is formed from a smaller carving of the entire inscription, and the empty space each symbol leaves also contributes to another instance of a different character, again somehow formed of a smaller copy of the greater text. The pattern repeats on and on, no matter how deeply you look. It has been here since the dawn of time, and will remain when everything else, when all of reality, has faded into nothing.

After seconds, minutes, hours, eons have passed, She breaks the silence. Her voice is soft, gentle, careful to avoid shocking you from the moment "The two within are waiting. It's nearly time for us to wake them up. Shall we?"

I hope you enjoyed! Next writer, let's give you something a little different..... I've had this one stuck in my head for a bit lately. Haaaaave fun! ^v^ /)
Randle Pentecost (played by GarnaalProductions) Topic Starter

On the East End of New Arcadia, where the green-grayish Hellfast Lagoon took a bite out of the metropolis and the skyscrapers were replaced with dusky industrial districts, there was a tiny, chock-full bar by the name of Buster's Hideout, a little hole-in-the-wall establishment well-known around the area for its craft beers, loyal clientelle and eardrum-shattering live performances. Folks from all walks of life spent their evenings here, dressed in their finest black leather and denim, ears and muzzles plastered with metal decor. In a way, it was the most authentic and entertaining punk paradise in the city, and it went without saying that the one thing that the grizzly dockworkers, rebellious teenagers and alter-ego-harboring bussinessmen had in common, was their love for raging punk rock.

Except tonight, the one exception to this rule had entered the building.

Randle had never been big on these newer types of music genres. He loved a political message as much as the next guy, but with its shirtless stomping, abuse of instruments and downright unhealthy screaming habits, he could hardly say that punk was the right way to do it. Of course, despite his fresh 24th anniversary of his chassis being animated being just around the corner, Randle was certainly an older fella in spirit, and that played a major part in his intolerance for this shrieking musical mess.

That night, he'd found himself in Buster's Hideout to investigate an alleged beer-poisoning caused by a bottle native to the punk bar alone, and, knowing full-well how terrible of an idea it was to outright walk up to the bartender and start hurling around accussations, he decided to stay back and observe the ongoings in the Hideout for at least a minute or five 'till he made his first move.

With the torrential summer rains crashing on outside, it came as no surprise that the bar reeked with the pungent aroma of wet fur, nearly drowning out the heavy notes of sour indie beer and cheap, tarry cigarettes. One teenage tigress had tried to overpower her natural stink with fourty or so heavy puffs of rose-scented perfume, which'd caused her table-mate to break down in a coughing fit so severe that he'd knocked over his sweet and smoky whiskey. On the opposite end of that scene, two aardwolf brothers with gelled-up crested manes and giant studs in their ears were chatting up a female polar bear, and on the furthest end of the bar, the spot that Randle was facing, tonight's entertainment thrashed about on a sticky black stage. A young lion, his mane barely grown, stomped back and forth on his platformed leather boots, screaming into the mic about 'Chippin' In'. That some new trend goin' around with youth these days? It wouldn't surprise him; even decades after their fall, the cybernetic enhancements of the Kiandros'd fascinated many across Tellus. By the looks of it, though, none seemed to be too willing or able to afford those just yet.

"Hm, it'd be interesting to not be the only metal-boned fella around anymore," he thought to himself as he, his own thoughts deafened by the 'music', calmly made his way over to the bar. Behind it stood a rare Pholi woman, a tree pangolin by the looks of it, flexing her trained, tattood shoulders as she rubbed some filth off a beer pitcher. "Hey there," Randle said, leaning one arm on the counter. Instantly, a formely invisible puddle of bitter Arcadian Pale Ale soaked into the sleeve of his trench coat. Great.. "All of these made in-house?" He nodded at the variety of taps rowed up next to each other. Yeah, the culprit had been a bottle of beer, not a glass of tapped stuff, but it was important to know nonetheless. Sea Dragon Stout had been the last drink Mr Selodon Arshes'd ever put to his lips, and because of its utter lack of official detailing and ingredient stats, Randle was forced to come out here and snoop around in brewer's business himself.

"Huh?" the muscular Pholi woman snorted, her long tongue flicking out to toss her smouldered-up cigarette to the side. "Who's askin'?" On a bulging bicep, a persistent mark of tattoo ink spelled out a symbol consisting of a upturned triangle with two dots in the middle. A symbol awfully similar to the one printed on the back of Mr Arshes' neck. Huh..

"Randle Pentecost, private eye. I've been hired to-" As Randle spoke, he saw the pangolin's eyes narrow, and she made a quick gesture to the side. Alright, this was already heading the wrong way- "Which means, no police ties here, capiche? I just need to ask ya a few questions, preferably without any unnecessary obstacles." Unfortunately, an unnecessary obstacle had already made its way over to him. As the lion boy screamed on about his chrome and chips, Randle turned around, and was met by the fist of pierced and tatted jaguar, right to his snout.


Right-eo then, that wraps it up! Here's the new song for scene-writing:

Wonderful thread as I have already told you, Garn. úwù
Only seventeen.

Yesterday, a woman watches, with pride in her glowing eyes, her prodigy embark on a prosperous journey. The same she had gone through a decade-so past. Then, at a much later age. That beautiful smile and a tiny, white hand waving from the porthole of that smog-spitting vessel is the most wondrous image a mother can lay her eyes upon. A golden flower blooming amidst such an scalding ocean of sand and dust, as far as the eye can see. The purity of such sapling so enthralling the entirety of the Lucian Desert turns to a gentle warm. A warmth quickly turned oppressive, a reminder of Lucy's penance all of its dwellers must carry. A punishment in the form of ten more black-spitting engines of war, trailed by the likeness of a mushroom cloud of Lucian sand and dust. Her head count amounts to an insignificant handful before another handful of copper passes through skull, brain matter, skull again and then the sandstone wall. The fading glimpses of consciousness in her brutally scattered thoughts being only that beautiful, young smile.

The imprint of a blade sharpened down to the very atom neither the passage of a decade has fully tarnished the purity of that smile. Nor does the scars of war decorating such lithe figure and neither the whipping of Lucian sands or punishment by her own "battle brothers", as so are they called. Nor the disgusting lies one might hear; "There's no left-overs." "Only bricks stand where your home once was." "Your family is dead." "Your mother was murdered." Home still awaits. The calming voice of a mother still calls amidst deep dreams, a voice so gentle it muffles the distant roar of gunfire. For a decade, even after the body has been broken, dignity defiled and a porcelain-white skin torn and cracked, the smile never fades, for mother awaits; "I love you. You are my angel." They would said to one another.

"Codename... Fallen... Angel..." The last words of anything that ever resembled a mother, choked under gurgling red pooling from the sides of her lips. Mother was, indeed, dead. Now, even a friend. The friend. One and only. A punishment for refusing defilement to please the Master. The smile, still, does not fade. Instead, it becomes a grin, dyed red from the final touch of each other's lips. The "brothers" don't see that desert flower turn into a phantom, a weapon of their own making, embark their most horrifying gear of destruction. The pain of having one's flesh pierced and invaded by needle-like plugs, turning brain into wetware fades and become utter, unending bliss. The grin never fades, it only widens, reflecting the same unchanged purity of decades in the screen right in front. Pure, unadulterated wickedness.

"Who the **** stole my-?!" The Master's alarmed shouts are completely drowned by the ear-splitting roar of a construct of war sparking to life, death-dispensing life. Smart cluster grenades, stolen from the previously pillaged village light up the night sky before raining down on the still lost brigands. The pilot doesn't care if they're adults or children amidst. The machine only sees armed targets behind the pair of blood-red sights it has. "Are we under attack?!" "I thought you killed her!" "Who's shooting at us?!" All their voices are cut short when the scrambling bandits are either split in half by a storm of ferromagnetic rails, cutting through personal armor and flesh like scalding vibro-blade in greasy, human-fat butter. "It's the suit! Somebody got the suit!" The smarter scum that climb the rampaging machine are quickly flung around by one of its many winches, ripped apart like paper and discarded in a red, ropey mess of spilled guts and limbs. Blades, fabricated to cut the last trees in Lucy, are used to slice anyone returning fire to the metal beast. Flash-speed rockets lay waste to any of the large weapons and any hope of making more than a dent on the alloy carcass furiously spreading destruction in the encampment.

"My- My girl. That's my- My girl..." The Master, now biting the dust, legless, missing an arm, writhes on the ground with a smirk on his shrapnel-torn face, red blurrying his vision from the encroaching beast that closes in for the kill, it's shoulder mounted flamethrower spouting fiery blazes that turn the night into day. "Look at you." That mass murderer gurgles on his own life fluid, looking at the death machine as if it was his own child; "I've made a little- A little monster out of you, my- My daughter. You- You have failed me. You have- You have failed all of us and your- Your brothers. But I'm- I'm still proud of you. Do it. Do it, YOU *****! MAKE IT QUI-" But the psychopathic barbarian is only deserved a spittle of superheated fuel.


Volatile compounds tear into the skin, melting flesh and dusting bone in a blinding, fiery blanket. The man combusts from the inside out, his tripes and offal boil and spill from the same holes the burning fuel had tore through him. Quickly after, ignition. Alive by pure hatred and a twisted sense of pride in the monster he has created, the Master's blood-curling screams fade into nothingness as whatever is left of his corpse is reduced to carbon.

The metal monster limps away on a week long journey. On the eighth day, it falls to its knees and lets out a final whimper before it too, along with the last of the Broken Cuffs Independency Fighters, fades into non-existence. It's sole pilot severs the temporary fusion between flesh and machine and limps on through the endless desert. Destination: home. Or what really used to be. A mere decade of sandstorms and war had completely eroded even the bones of what once was neighbors into nothingness, picked apart by truly desperate scavengers. But the desert flower remains untarnished, grin never fading. Even after embracing the Lucian sands, exhausted, emancipated, dehydrated, bleeding from severed cybernetic plugs. An angel never dies.

"What's a kid like ya doing all battered and messed up in a place like this, girl?"
"I'm waiting for mom."
"I'm afraid nobody's coming this way. Everythin's been razed in this region, missus."
"No problem. I'm waiting for my mom."
"Mom ain't comin, young lady. What's your name?"
"You look hammered, Huan. Mizu's the handle. You get quenched, fixed up and you do some honest work for me; how does it sound, Huan?"
The smile finally fades from Huan's expression. "Deal."
"Good girl. Come on, you're too pretty to be lying on the dust, you're a lady, for ****'s sake!"

Huan is now eighteen.

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