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/tg/ - Traditional Games

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Writing General: 'Book Club' edition.

Welcome to /wg/, the thread for all /tg/ related writing. Whether you're plotting your campaign, trying to come up with a character backstory, or just trying to write some setting fluff, this is the place to post it. You don't even have a campaign, just an idea you want to develop? You're welcome here. While the rest of /tg/ is arguing over mostergirl mating and which way rivers are supposed to flow, we're here to help you turn your thoughts into an actual finished product.

As the successor to the Storythreads, we're also open to /tg/ related fanfiction (D&D, Warhammer, Battletech, whatever). In fact, if you've written any vaguely /tg/-related short stories, you can try them out here. We also have flash-fiction challenges from time to time.

There's a discord for writers here

The previous thread can still be found in the archive here

And finally an archive of /tg/ fiction can be found here:
What do you guys read for inspiration?
I know it's not original, but I like the Dresden Files.
I like spec fic magazines like Strange Horizons and Clarkesworld
I'm writing a setting that's essentially the Emperor (40k) returning to a world that's being taken over by darkness (Not!daemons) and the church of Light is so corrupt that the archbishop are trying to find a way off world for themselves while silencing any means of hope. Is that sort of thing something you all would give a shit about reading? I'm about 6k words in atm.
Been a while...
>tfw I give my main characters a cool name, but the name is mentioned so many times that I end up hating it
I doesn't sound like a bad concept but it doesn't sound like a hugely original concept either. As with most things, it all comes down to execution, so I guess you'd just have to show it to us and find out.
I really need to read more sci-fi magazines but I'm always afraid of ending up with another money-draining subscription I never use.
I really really want to write some magical realm fetishbait shit. However im way too embarassed to actually do that. How do i embrace my inner coomer and stop giving shit what people think?
Don't put your real name under it and you are good to go.
nighty night
its been so long since last thread, what happened?
1. Use a fake name.

2. Embrace the way of the long-time retail worker, whose fucks have long since disappeared, and so act like with your writing as to those who will cry coomer because you write about two succubi teachers consensually fucking a college girl senseless... or whatever.
i have the same problem, one of the main antagonists is inspired by slaanesh and his demons, and a good amount of the book takes place in his realm so i'm not sure how to represent it
call them by their characteristics/nicknames rather than the name every time
"The Walls Are Hungry" Edition


"The Offering"


"The things in unrealities are hungry for anything- memories, material, flesh. Some devour mindlessly, others more picky, leaving victims a distorted husk of themselves.
Some are even willing to show their gratitude for an offering... whether or not it was made intentionally."
-Backroom Survivors Group posting, anonymous


Richard Gates, brown haired, thirteen and slender, leaned his head against the window as rain beat against the car, trying to numb a split lip and the residual burn of pepper spray as best he could while ignoring the constant berating directed at him.
Another vacation attempted, another vacation ruined.

He had committed one of the worst mistakes according to his own code of conduct- having hope that this excursion would be any different from before. It could *never* be different. It might start out with some indication of optimism, but no matter what, any outing or vacation would always end in tears and him being blamed.

Because of him.

The Brat. A.k.a. Patrick to anyone who hadn't had the displeasure of knowing him for more than five minutes.

"You always do this! You always do this!" The Brat whined, blonde bowl cut jiggling as he shrieked. "You always LIE - ABOUT ME - AND GET ME - IN TROUBLE!" The Brat punctuated his screeches by kicking at him as hard as he could from his seat. He jerked his legs away as best he could, trying to dodge the blows.

"I'm getting really sick and tired of this, Dick." his father growled. "Everytime we try to have a nice time out as a family, you go off and get your brother tangled up in another one of your dumbass ideas."

Civility and respect bleeding out of him as he was kicked in the shins again, Richard knew from multiple experiences that no amount of katowing and "I'm sorry" would diminish the wrath sent his way, so he went with another approach.
"You and mom both saw the security tapes dad. Patrick was the one who attacked that girl, not me. He was the one-" he grunted as Patrick started wailing and rapidly kicking him, raising his voice to be heard over the screeching, "-that started trashing the gift shop and biting customers!"

"You were supposed to watch after him!" his mother interjected, now using the tried and true method of moving goalposts.
"We told you it was your responsibility to look after him and *keep him out of trouble*!"

"Again, you both saw the tapes! I was holding him back from hitting that girl again until he started screaming about how I was abducting him and a guard maced me! Then he went- Goddammit, stop already!" he snarled at The Brat, shoving him off as he'd now unbuckled to scratch and punch at him, "-on his rampage while I was busy coughing my lungs out in zipties!"

They had been waiting for the water park's lazy river to open in the early hours of the morning, right as Splashburg opened, and his mother and father had gone over to procure a locker for their towels and other items. Richard had been left to watch over The Brat, who had seen a girl smaller than him, locked onto his preferred target, and immediately launched an all-out attack as soon as both the girl's parents were preoccupied. He had pulled The Brat off of her before he could do any serious injury, and that had prompted his brother scream about being kidnapped.

He was blinded by pepper spray and restrained, so he had to hear about what happened next second-hand. The Brat had gone back and resumed attacking the girl, six years old, with sadistic glee until the girl's father had thrown him off of her.

This had not gone over well with The Brat, who went berserk at the injustice of being denied a punching bag, screaming profanity at the parents, then went into the gift store to vent his frustrations by tearing down shelves, biting, scratching and hitting employees and customers who were unluckily nearby.
use a fake name and run it as a quest on fiction.live

the high of interaction and real time reaction will overwhelm your inner cringe
It was then, and only then that the security guard who had been interrogating him between coughing fits realized that Richard's pained gasping explanation that his brother was hitting a girl was factual, and managed to restrain the rampaging Brat- albeit with some scratches and bites.

He would eternally lament the guard didn't use mace on his brother. It would have made the entire trip worth it...

The guard had just finished untying Richard and helping him start to rinse off the spray with some milk from the concessions stand when his father had marched up and backhanded him to the ground, only for the guard to intercede between the two. His father had immediately started slapping him and slamming him against a wall the moment the guard started talking to his mother, only relenting when the guard thankfully intervened and threatened to call the police on his father.

Trent Gates was not a man of reason, however, and despite an uncomfortable meeting in the park manager's office where security footage revealed the truth- that The Brat had gone on a rampage unprovoked- he had stubbornly chosen to believe The Brat's version of events... as varied as they were. The initial version was that Richard did everything and lied to a guard that The Brat did it. The second version had Richard threatening The Brat to do it all or he'd beat him up. The third was that Richard was chasing him, hitting him for no reason, and everything that happened was a result of trying to get away.

The manager and guard had the unfortunate decency to apologize to Richard, which had only incensed his family more when they were banned for life from Splashburg. (Though the portly manager had quietly mentioned to Richard that he was free to return *alone*.)
"Then you should have figured out a way to defuse the situation!" his father snarled, banging a hand on the driving wheel in frustration. "You're supposed to be the mature one in these situations!"

"Mature?" Richard retorted. "You mean like you, slapping your son around for something he didn't do *again*?"

The reminder that this was not the first time Trent Gates had openly attacked his elder son for an uncommitted crime made his father go silent for a while. It was not the first, second, third or even fourth. The default reaction of his father to The Brat's misdeeds was to slap and throw Richard around, a habit that had cost his father friends and reputation when it was witnessed- consequences both his mother and father blamed him for, of course.

After a few moments of silence from both parents, only broken by The Brat kicking at him and the rain drumming against the car, his mother Dana spoke. "You know your father can't think straight when he's upset with you."

"I *tried* to defuse the situation. He lied about me, got me maced, went back to picking on a little girl, and then went berserk when someone finally disciplined him."

"That was *not* discipline!" his father shouted. "Throwing a kid to the ground like that is assault!"

"And what do you call what you three do to me?!" Richard snapped.

"That... that's different." his mother stammered, his father at a loss for words. "We... we expect more of you. We hold you to higher standards than other parents hold their children, because we know that you can handle it-"

"No, mom, I CAN'T." Richard broke in, despair creeping into his voice. "I can't do this anymore. I can't be his chaperone, your gopher, and everyone's punching bag, okay? I don't have anything left in me."
"All three of you act like I'm supposed to just bounce back and forgive whenever you decide to go off on me," he spoke, voice breaking, "and sure, sometimes you'll say 'we're sorry, we didn't mean to hit you that hard' or 'one day we'll make it up to you', but then you make me come on these trips when I don't want to go, because I KNOW what will happen, and I TELL you what will happen, and you say I need to give second chances and forgive and have a positive attitude, but then HE goes off and hits a girl, robs a gift store, knocks over a concession stand, attacks a mascot- whatever, and no matter WHAT I do to try and 'defuse' the situation, you blame everything on me- GOD FUCKING DAMMIT, *STOP IT!*" he screamed at The Brat, shoving him back in his car seat for a second time.

The Brat stared at him, confused and disgusted at the outburst, as if the very idea he would protest another attack on his person was blasphemous.

"So you know what? You wanna send me to a home or an orphanage, fine. You wanna send me to military school like you keep threatening to do? Go ahead. Kick me out of the house? Leave me here on the side of the road in the rain? Fucking fine by me. But I can't keep doing this thing where I'm expected to be responsible for everything he does just because it's easier for you."

Patrick kicked at him again, only for Trent to speak up. "Stop it, Patrick. Now." he said quietly.

On the rare occasions his parents *did* tell Patrick to stop whatever he was doing, The Brat's valor faltered. He was perfectly okay when Richard was on the receiving end of "corporal punishment", but the mere threat of any punishment was enough to deter him.

Five minutes of blissful silence ensued, and Richard leaned his battered face against the cool window.

"We know we're harsher with you than other parents are with their kids." his father finally admitted. "But that's only because we thought you can handle it and it would make you stronger. Maybe we were too hard."
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Can someone assist me with writing something? I want to describe a character pulling out their knife and holding it in that typical cool way where its downwards, but I cant for the life of me make it work.

Pic related for what I mean, sorry about the cringeshit anime pic, finding a reference image of what I meant was hellish
"One day, you'll understand what we were trying to do." his father said quietly.

"I understand *now*." Richard snapped. "You're hurting me because it's easy. And it's fun for you."

Several minutes of uncomfortable silence passed. "Do you... do you really think we enjoy hurting you?" his mother asked, voice shaky and pleading.

"Yes." he answered immediately. "You hit me whenever he does something wrong, you ignore any evidence that he's lying, and force me to go on these trips so you can hit and scream at me in public when he flips outs. YES, I think you enjoy hurting me!"

He saw his parents glance at each other. At one time, events like this might have given him hope there would be change- at the very least, a little more leniency for him and some actual discipline or restraint on his brother. But they had done this dance before, banned from five restaurants and now four family amusement parks, often with no hint of remorse at all, or at best some pithy show of dismay that their son could think them so cruel.

"We'll make it up to you, some day." his mother promised.

He bit his tongue to avoid laughing.


The road trip from then on was thankfully silent of berating and kicking. They hit a fast food joint for dinner, and after much raging and screaming from The Brat, it was agreed Richard had at least suffered enough for one trip and would not be denied dinner- an outcome that had The Brat sulking angrily.

Making the complete trip home became unfeasible because of the storm, as steady rain gave way to an unrelenting deluge, and soon Richard's thoughts became far less about the unfairness of life and more about practical things, such as how long he could stay afloat in a flood. It was eventually decided that they would spend the night in a hotel, hoping that the morning would bring clearer skies.
it's called a reverse knife grip if that helps
Can do!

Awesome McCoolname stared at the child molester with the kind of muted disgust one could expect from someone witnessing a dog
relieving itself on new carpet. "I just want you to know," Awesome said as he drew his (insert your favored knife type here) from its sheath, holding it lazily in his fingers as he regarded the edge, "that this isn't murder. Not really. You're a cancer... and this is surgery."

McCoolName's hand flicked with a practiced movement, flipping the knife downward with the edge towards him, gripping it as he ducked low and sprinted fast.

The Child Molester had only finished pulling the barrel from its holster when McCoolname's folded right arm raised parallel to his neck, elbow pointed at his Adam's apple, before unfolding in a movement that the Molester's panicked eyes couldn't track.

It was suddenly hard to breath, a suddenly deluge of warmth covered his chest, and The Molester became aware of a blossoming inferno of pain below his chin. He barely registered the glock being wrenched from his hand.

McCoolName walked past him, jerking his left leg back to kick the Molester in the back of his left knee, sending the bleeding man to the ground.

He watched the Molester expire, wiped his blade on his victim's pants, sheathed it, and strode off into the crowd. Sure, there were easier ways to make a few grand...

...but they weren't nearly as fun.
"Mom. I'm begging you. Please let me sleep in a different room than him."

Richard tried desperately to plead reason, even as his brain told him it was a useless affair. Sleeping soundly at home often meant locking and barricading the door so his brother wouldn't break in during the night and attack him. The last time he'd slept in a hotel room with The Brat, he'd woken up to his brother clumsily trying to bash him in the head with a chair over a dream in which Richard had been rude to him.

"Hell, I'll even sleep in the car, just don't make me-"

"Honey, we need someone to keep watch on him, and your father and I need sleep. We *will* make it up to you later, I promise." (he again barely suppressed the urge to laugh or roll his eyes) "Just... try to keep him under control."

He gave his mother a tired look, considering whether or not he wanted to waste precious energy trying to explain that as of this morning, trying to keep him 'under control' had resulted in him getting maced, cuffed, and beaten in that order, and that he had not one iota of faith left that the discussion in the car had gotten through to his parents at all. He settled for shaking his head, walking inside and closing the door to their room.

"Honey-" his mother called, but the door closed in her face.

The Brat was in the bathroom, and God only knew when he'd be out. He stayed in there as long as he could on these occasions for the sheer sake of denying Richard access. It was almost impressive, in a way, the sheer level of devotion The Brat had to being as malicious as possible.

The hotel was decent enough. Clean. Air-conditioned. A fridge and microwave, TV. Hopefully the brat would break something less expensive- Richard was always expected to pay back any damages through chores and forfeited birthday and Christmas presents- though he doubted even if he could manage a year without The Brat breaking something that his parents would actually allow him to feel celebrated.
It had been this way for five years, as far as he could recall. Five years of being a punching bag and family scapegoat ever since The Brat had learned two things- how to lie, and that his parents were stupid enough to believe any lie as long as it made Richard look bad.

Other people weren't so blind. Pastors had admonished his parents that Richard couldn't be in two places at once, nor did he had demonic powers to influence his brother into sinning. Teachers had commented that Richard always seemed on the verge of mentally breaking down, or that The Brat was uncontrollably violent. Several police officers had suggested reform schools or boot camps. Yet his parents shut their eyes and ears.

It left him tired. The kind of tired that made you want to sleep and never wake up.

He leaned against the wall, waiting for The Brat's siege on the bathroom to end...

His hand moved through, and something *pulled*.

With a startled gasp, he wrenched his arm back, yanking it out of-

-the *wall*?

For a minute, Richard considered that he had finally gone insane. He stared at his left hand, looking for marks or anything. Nothing.

"What in the fuck...?"
The wall ahead was a bare spot right next to the desk the TV was seated on, a muted beige-white. He stared, looking for a moment for a hand shape hole when there was

He extended his left hand again, slowly. As soon as his fingers pushed against the wall, they went through- like a 'noclip' glitch he'd seen at a friend's house on a rare occasion he was allowed to stay over.

Something began pulling again, and he wrenched back. He examined his hand again.


He tested it with the tv remote, poking the wall- nothing. He tried again with a finger, and had to pull back all the harder,

What the hell was this?

"You're such a pussy."

He turned to see his brother, only now having come out.

"You really think they're going to change things just because you cry and bitch about how mean I am? Waaaaaaaaaa, you all are mean to me and I wanna kill myself!" The Brat said mockingly, advancing. "They love me, not you, you worthless piece of shit. And nothing you say or do is ever going to change that."

"And where the fuck do you get off talking to me like you did, huh?!" he snarled, charging and shoving him back. "You're just a little bitch, remember? All I have to do when I want you gone is call the police and say you touched me in my sleep. You think I'm being mean?!" The Brat growled, hammering at him with his fists. "This is as fucking nice as I get-"

He shoved The Brat backward, still confused by the wall. "I don't have time for your bullshit right now-"

But then he realized that any retaliation whatsoever was like throwing gasoline on a fire. The Brat did NOT take being rebuked by him well at all, and he saw a fire of entitled rage flare in The Brat's eyes as he grabbed a pen off the desk and lunged, screaming and stabbing down at him.

"I HATE YOU!" The Brat screamed, the impact of his rush sending him backwards towards the door. "I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU-"
Grabbing his brother's right hand as he tried to stab him in the face, Richard shoved him to the left, trying to throw him against the wall so he could get into the bathroom and lock himself inside- fighting back, no matter what, was never tolerated by his parents. It didn't matter when his brother had gone after him screaming with an aluminum baseball bat over thinking he'd drunk the last soda, and it wouldn't matter now-

It was only after his brother went hurtling at the very patch of wall he'd been investigating that he realized his mistake.

Narcissistic wrath turned into a brief expression of fear as The Brat fell backwards through the wall as he stumbled.


He stared at the wall, still unchanged, half-expecting The Brat to emerge and resume attacking him.

A mad sense of panic hit him. The punishment he would receive for fighting back would be nothing compared to the unholy hell he'd get if he was unable to account for his brother in the morning. He reached into the wall-

-and his fingers painfully bent against an unyielding surface.

He prodded and searched, feeling and groping for some... entrance into the wall that had seemed so eager to 'eat' him before, but there was nothing. Desperately he searched the other walls, feeling as he went, wondering insanely if the 'door' had moved.


His bladder and bowels suddenly reminded him of a more pressing need, and he looked wildly around the room for some answer to his dilemma before deciding that nature would not wait.
He had hoped the bathroom break and washing his face would dispel whatever temporary insanity he was under, and that his brother would be there, smashing things or raging at him, but he exited the bathroom to an empty hotel room, with only the storm raging outside to break the silence.

Again he desperately felt up the walls to no avail. Heart pounding in his chest, he fell backward, sitting on the bed, staring brokenly at the unpowered TV.

He was *fucked*. What would he tell his parents, that he'd flung his brother off during one of his rages and he'd fallen through a wall? Noclipped into Neverland?

That would never work. It never did, he realized with despair. In a contest between his word and The Brat's, he'd...

Thunder roared outside, and a dark inspiration struck him.

No. His word against The Brat's word was never a contest. The Brat's version of events won every time, even when the evidence was staring them in the face.

Except this time...

He took a breath as a universe of possibilities opened up before him...

Except this time there WAS. NO. BRAT.

Another thought came to him.

*I can work with this.*

He settled down in the shower, letting the hot water wash away the misery of the day and the residue of the mace. It helped him think, and now with no brat banging down the door, he was free to think as long as he wanted.

He could tell them the truth, that The Brat had charged him with a pen as a shank, he'd shoved him off, and he'd fallen through the wall. That would be outrageously stupid- no one, not even those who knew Patrick and sympathized with Richard would ever buy that kind of crazy story, factuality be damned. How then would he explain his brother's disappearance?

Darkly his considered his advantages. There was no body or evidence of murder, nothing to immediately indicate him as a culprit. In all the fantasies he'd entertained of finding a way to dispose of The Brat, he'd never dared believed he would be so impossibly lucky as to have the body vanish into thin air immediately afterward with neither stain nor sign.

The Brat was uncontrollable, and everyone knew it- even his parents on some fundamental level. The idea that he might run away or try to go somewhere else while in the throes of a fury was far more likely an answer than "he fell through a wall". Even then he knew the police would be called as his parents desperately searched for their golden child.

Going over his options again, a story began to form in his mind- the truth, with some rather unbelievable details carefully omitted.

The Brat had attacked him, he'd pushed him off, and then he'd locked himself in the bathroom. When he had come out, his brother was gone.

Another issue struck him now with that story, the timing. Waiting until dawn to tell his parents about this would put way too much suspicion on him. As stupid and contrary it was to his usual methods of avoiding further punishment, he needed to tell them the story now, get the wheels rolling.

Act confused. Ask if he went to their room. Feign panic. Stick to story.
Hotel workers scrambled through the building alongside police officers, knocking on doors, rousing sleeping guests, desperately searching.

In his room, his parents spoke to one officer, his father pale and his mother hysterical. A detective sat on the bed across from him, notepad and pen at the ready.

"You said your brother has a history of getting really angry?" the man asked, staring him in the eyes. A softball question if ever there was one...

"All the time." Richard explained. "I was just standing there, waiting for him to get out of the bathroom, and he came out, cursing at me because I yelled at him to stop hitting me earlier today-"

"This was after the incident at Splashburg, right?" the detective interjected.

Richard nodded in the affirmative. "He kept blaming me for everything that happened and kicking me, and I finally screamed at him to stop it. I guess that made him even madder." he continued to feign disbelief and panic even as he assessed his own story. No need to omit anything from that particular time.

"Did he leave any note?" The detective asked, fixing him again with a gimlet stare.

"No, but he did take the pen." Here, years of holding his tongue and reactions in check came into play, keeping back the smile that threatened to expose him.

Deciding to press the role of a worried brother further, he continued. "I'm not allowed to fight back when he goes off like that, so I just pushed him off of me and locked myself in the bathroom hoping he would calm down. I didn't hear anything, so I used the restroom, took a shower to wash off, and when I came out, he was gone."

The detective looked him over. "What happened to your lip?"

"Dad hit me during what happened at Splashburg." he answered, noting with muted glee the grimace that arose on his parents' faces and the frown that darkened the Detective's own.

"Does your dad hit you a lot like that?" the Detective asked.
"It happens every time my brother causes trouble." he said, giving his dad a look and feeling a dark sense of pleasure when the older man looked away. "He always thinks I did it, even when other people tell him I didn't."

Detective Morgan- he now saw the name on the badge- frowned deeper. "Does he ever do that to your brother?"

"No, not that I've ever seen." Again, truthful. His parents never raised a hand to their beloved and favored son.

"Am I in trouble? Do you have any idea where he is?" he asked, trying to sound desperate.

"No, you're not. And we're going to find him, don't worry." Morgan said reassuringly. The Detective stood. "Mr. and Mrs. Gates, I need to have a word with you two. Outside, please."

As an officer continued searching the room, Richard continued feigning an air of being distraught and confused.

It had worked better than he'd hoped. His parents had reacted with confusion when asked if The Brat had went to their room, then that confusion turned to panic, and they had sounded the alarm, not even bothering to berate him in their mad scramble.

The door to his room had not wholly closed, and he heard Morgan speak to his parents.

"You two need a damn reality check- that kid of yours, the one you smack around so much, he's not supposed to have to be the parent. You two are. Get yourself some anger management or the next time I hear about you hitting him- word one- I'll make sure you both wind up in gen pop with everyone knowing just how badly you fucked up as parents, got it?"

He waited until the officer left the room to smile.
They're both free to read online. Clarkesworld also has audio readings of its stories up on YouTube, and Strange Horizons has audio readings of some stories on its site
The investigation wound down around 3 AM, and he was advised to try and get some sleep, that it was in "professional hands" now. The police told his parents they
would contact them as soon as they knew anything, and would check everywhere nearby the hotel.

It was after his despondent parents finally went back to their room and he was left alone that he went over to the patch of wall his brother had fallen through. Taking a breath, he poked it with a finger, jerking back, then two, then pressed a hand against it.


As he stared at the now perfectly ordinary wall, he realized what he had done hadn't truly been an accident. He had subconsciously weighed his brother's life against his own safety, the danger the wall posed, and decided that it was a risk he was willing to take.

The Brat was gone because of him, and he was okay with that.

He had refrained from ever acting out the fantasies out of fear of retribution and the idea he would never live with the guilt, but there was no guilt to be felt. It was an infected splinter finally removed, a sore zit finally popped, and now the wound was empty, free of splinter and gunk, cleaned and now could begin to heal.

He wondered before how he could ever sleep with himself if he carried out his revenge fantasies.

It turned out the answer was: very easily.
He had run as much as he could, until his legs refused to run any more, and still he saw no exit, no doors, nothing.

Yellow wallpaper, damp carpet, and buzzing lights. That's all there was here.

"Mom?! Dad?! Anyone!" he shouted hoarsely.

What was this place? He was in their room one moment, then his brother shoved him. The next thing he knew, he was staring into the lights that hurt his eyes.

His eyes hurt, no longer from the lights but from crying out of sheer terror. Was this a maze? Was there an exit? He hadn't seen anything like this coming into the hotel, where was he?

It was then that a very bad thought came to Patrick. Maybe he wasn't lost. Maybe he was dead.

Patrick knew he was not a good kid, even if his parents didn't. His teachers said he needed a therapist. One cop said he needed his ass kicked. Their last pastor had warned him that if he kept acting like this, he wouldn't be under God's protection...

Was this Hell?

On and on he walked, legs aching from his panicked running. It was like an office that extended forever and ever.

"I'm sorry!" he whimpered, hoping someone would hear. "I'm sorry! I'll never lie again!"

Buzzing and stale air from an overhead vent answered him.

"I'll never hit my brother again! I'll never hurt anyone again! Just let me out of here! Hello?"

Now panicking for real, he screamed. "IS ANYBODY OUT THERE?!"
A staticky noise hit him suddenly, and he fell quiet.

It was getting closer. Maybe it was someone with a radio!

He ran, pushing his tired legs to move him forward. "Hello? Hello! Can you help me out of here?"

It had to be help. It had to be. He'd just gotten lost and he'd see some janitor with an old radio looking for him, and he'd go back and be a good kid... the static grew louder and louder.

Patrick rounded the corner to face the source of the noise.

Something made of a billion pitch-black nightmares looked back at him. The Bad Thing above all Bad Things.

He took a step backward. It shot towards him with the speed of a bullet and the howl of Satan himself.

Black fiery pain obliterated every memory he had. He screamed forever.
The Gates household became little more than a funeral home. There were token snarls and jabs at him regarding his brother's disappearance, but those withered when he used the defense of how they were blaming him for The Brat running away.

They had kept his room just as it was, four months and going now, in the hopes Patrick would return some day.

Richard had asked for a computer for the upcoming school year. With zombie-like motions, they had gotten him a good one.

The neighbors held vigils and spread fliers and posters. The police promised to let them know any news, good or bad. The pastor led the church in prayer.

He smiled only in private.

Slowly his parents began the long trek on the stages of grief towards acceptance. The jabs and snarls stopped. The apologies and "I love yous" grew more frequent.

The school started quietly, or as quietly as eighth grade could. Homework, tests, teachers. All manageable now that he no longer had to deal with The Brat.

He arrived home from school one day to see his mother at the table, browsing her ipad. He thankfully noted the lack of any smell of alcohol nowadays.

"Hey honey." she said quietly. "How was school?"

Some vicious part of him wanted to open their wounds and pour salt in them, repayment for five years of misery, but now he realized that would let The Brat live on through him.
"It was okay." he admitted. "Some idiot lit a fire in chemistry, but that's about it."

She smiled slightly. "Your father and I thought we might go out tonight. You're welcome to come with, if you're up to it."

He gave her a concerned look. "Are you going to be okay?"

She took a breath. "No." she said simply. "No, I don't think I'll ever be completely okay. I don't think either of us will. We made terrible mistakes, those mistakes cost us one son, and we hope it won't cost us another."

She looked at him pleadingly, and in her he saw she had accepted that the room, still in the same state it had been for months, was now a memorial and nothing more.

"It won't." he said quietly.

Breaking the silence. "I have some homework over the weekend, I'm going to get started on it so I don't have to rush on Sunday. What time did you want to leave?"

"Six-ish." she replied. "Depending on when your dad gets home. We thought we might try the new Italian place."

"Sounds good. Love you." he said as he started up the stairs.

"I love you too." she replied.
Things between them were not perfect. Maybe they never would be. But they had realized Patrick was not coming back.

And he had realized that they had been hurt enough.

He entered his room, dropping his backpack and exhaling, when he noticed a small mountain of green paper near the wall besides his computer desk.

Richard moved over, not believing what he saw. A large pile of hundred dollar bills lay there. Thousands? Tens of thousands of dollars? He couldn't tell.

He was about to scream, celebrate, ask his mother what the occasion was, when he noticed a scroll among the bills. It wasn't paper, it felt thick and leathery... and it was bound with frayed string.

His guts stirred as he opened the scroll, and tied into knots as he read it.




Undedicated to my late brother. May he be tortured in hell forever.
Deny yourself till your writing is finished. The desperation will make it tastier. The coom must flow.
i miss the old storythreads :(
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Looking for a character's superpower for my players to have a moral dilemna over.
>PCs are vigilantes, doing the right thing, sometimes with not so ethical solutions
>Character is kept in a max security prison for superpowered people
>They are here on their own accord, because their power is extremely dangerous and they don't want to hurt anyone, they are actually a really nice person that is caught in something to big for them
>However, their power is becoming more and more unstable/difficult to control
>PCs are tasked to find a solution. While a faction wants the individual dead, another asked the PCs to help them
>They have to side with one eventually

What power could be threatening enough for the players to want to act? I just don't want something classic like "nuclear reactor person", "hulk mode" or "reality manipulator weirdo". For now my idea is of an universal interface and assimilation power. The individual is compatible with everything, be it organic life, technology, magic, etc... Which could be really bad in the wrong hands.
I was away last weekend and after I got back I was so exhausted I decided to just take a break.

All the people who made Storythreads worth something are still here - the new format hasn't changed that. You have to admit, we're getting more conversations now; a lot of Storythreads were just day after day of picture bumps until someone finally posted a piece of writing, which usually had nothing to do with the pictures and as often as not wouldn't get commented on by anyone except me.

If you want to post a few pictures for inspiration there's nothing wrong with that, but I think we're better off without the mindless bumps.
Thanks guys, that actually helps a whole lot! I finally know what that damn thing is called.
I'm having fun latelty DMing with a ready-made scenario and utilizing almost only canonical characters from the gameline. It takes a huge burden trying to think on many NPCs and their interactions. I'm focusing more on how those pieces can fit together in the story I want to play with friends and the interconnections between them and the PCs.
Also, it feels good to play with canon characters. Feels like they are alive again in a new story. Feels like playing with dolls.
They can manipulate DNA on the fly. They can cure cancer, or cause it. The reason they're in a supermax of their own will is because they had a bad run in with your (Obligatory Superpowered Nazi Group) who wanted to kill everyone not blonde, blue-eyed, and white, and decided he was the man for the job.

He managed to barely break free, gave them all terminal testicular cancer and had himself locked up because the event scared him as to how close they came to decimating the world population.
The Blacktongue Thief by Christopher Buelman.
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What if the person is a two meter tall man made of tugsten? When he feels attacked or hurt, his body releases hundreds of metallic spheres. Tungsten Man can prevent the release of these metal spheres by concentrating hard enough, but he has to be completely focused.
The metallic balls move through space-time and stick firmly to any surface (lava, ice, plants, human bodies, mud, etc.) These spheres grow and turn into other tungsten men in a matter of minutes.
these tungsten men have the same ability as the original tungsten man and also release several hundred metallic spheres.
The Tungsten Men are animal creatures that act on instinct (very dangerous to civilians) and can fire blasts of purple energy. The blasts of purple energy can break the target's atomic bonds, literally disassembling their bodies atom by atom.
The consciousness of the original tungsten man can be transferred to another tungsten man when he dies.
The Tungsten Men can also heal themselves and can only be destroyed if the core inside their chests is destroyed.
sorry if i made it too full
I say this as an anon and a friend. Bro your writeing has a taste of the macbre while still captivating the audience in a classic twilight zone
story format. The way you present the fantastical events in the story paralell alot of dark and murderous paths of the real. Its perfectly imperfect and plays out just as long as it should; no more no less. Id say try to write and pitch an episodic black and white twilight zone-like series.

Now for the second and more important point. You need some therapy my dude. You have been granted a powerful passion in your hatred but you gotta find peace about whatever you are dealing with. Seek a good confidant in whatever form makes you comfortable. Even if it is here. Here is looking to you scifi bro. Use your negative expieriences to become wise. Not ruin your life.
to add how much of a threat it means. at the beginning there is a tungsten man (the original), after a few minutes it is 200, after a couple more minutes it is 40000, then 8000000
.... in less than thirty minutes there will be more tungsten men than human beings on earth
The hilarious part of this is that I *have* been to therapy and it was suggested I used writing to vent these feelings.

This story was part this, and partly because ever since I got into Backrooms stuff, I realized that accidentally or intentionally, throwing someone in there would be one incredibly convenient way to get rid of them. You can only get out if you're lucky and persistent enough to find an exit, and smart enough to recognize one when you see it and learn how to use it.

The offering idea came about from a rather good DM I had who would posited that some deities would reward sacrifices, whether they were made intentionally or not. Gave the fighter a helluva shock after he impaled the evil high priest on his own altar, though.
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Okay, so I actually do need help figuring out a background plot element to make sure it works mechanically and narratively in the context of the game I'm running.

It relates to what essentially you could call "Save Points" scattered around the world in various locales.
They are statues that are comprised of what appear to be bismuth-like cubes arranging and rearranging themselves into some weird almost non-euclidean forms. When the players touch them, their memories and life experiences up to that point are analyzed and absorbed into a dragon who rests in what amounts to the Ethereal Plane. It is a dragon who feeds off of the energy released by the rewinding and resetting and passage of time. If you recognize pic related, yes, it's this kind of game.
The dragon theoretically would be a lawful neutral or maybe even lawful evil dragon and would not attack the party unless they probably attack him first. The only reason he seems to have these statues is so he can feed off of the memories and time energy the Warriors of Light give. The problem is, I don't know how to answer the following question for myself or the players:

>What happens when I touch the cube and how can I know that something happens when I touch it?
>What exact benefits does the dragon gain every time the players touch the cube statues?
>What exact benefits, if any, can/should the players expect should they touch the cube statues? Maybe the dragon might offer some temporary power in exchange?
>Maybe in the event of some unfortunate TPK--should that happen--the players can rewind back to the moment they touched the cubes with their life experiences given back to them and have them at the level they were the last time they touched the statue?
>What exactly DOES the dragon want to do with all that power hes gaining in the interdimensional ethereal plane? Should he be using it for lawful (set the timelines to right), neutral (preserve itself) or evil (become supreme)?
I like them too. They're fun, and that's often what I'm looking for in my reading nowadays.
The Discord channel has fellow weirdos to help you out.
Perhaps someone who can make himself immaterial somehow and phase through everything. Build him up as the ultimate spy who can enter into any secure area just by walking through walls. Bullets pass through him harmlessly. While he himself may be harmless, there's simply nothing that can be used to stop him.
I really like the idea of exponential cloning. I might toy with that, thank you!
Neat, but I already have that exact power on somebody else, the Genetic Singularity. Thanks though
We're kind of losing the idea of a very dangerous power when out of control. Also the person is pure and innocent, so it doesn't really mesh well. Thank you anyway
How can I make sure an Alex Jones-type figure DOES NOT become sympathetic if he turns out to be at least partially right about certain things that are important to the setting? Especially since I haven't figured out how directly he'll be involved with the protagonists

Like, for example, maybe this guy has ranted about mythical beings from another realm living among us. The kicker? Unbeknownst to the public, but beknownst to the audience, (most of) the main cast and MAYBE him, he's pretty much right. Though if there's anything he's wrong about, it's that he's claiming these beings have some secret agenda or are plotting to take over the world or are already running the world, when in truth, they, for the most part, just want to live their lives. Still, I'm kind of worried that this sort of character might end up "empowering" people who legitimately follow people like Alex Jones or David Icke. Or am I overthinking this?

I suppose one thing to do would be to give this character a blatantly antagonistic goal. For example, the conspiracy theorist has the goal of getting or publishing tangible proof of mythical creatures' existence through ANY means necessary. Or a storyline where the guy falsely accuses a muggle of being a witch based on coincidences and rallies local nutjobs to "bring them to justice", maybe lethally. Not sure how plausible that would be in the present day, though
You can make him being right about the issue (mythical being among the population), but wrong about the reason they're here, if there's even one. Maybe he witnessed something supernatural that traumatized him in some way and because of it he reached the wrong conclusions.

>there's werewolves and vampires among us people!
Right on that
>they are out to get you, if you find one, strike first!
Wrong on that
Hadn't heard of that one, I'll have to check it out.
I'm gonna have to say if the OP doesn't wanna go "radioactive man" or "Not-Quite-God Reality Warper", this would be a really damn good power that fits the bill.

Is 4chan down? I cant open any thread I dont already have open.
Yeah, it was broken several times today.
Still need to read one story from the old thread. Good night for now.
Give him concrete proof that the mythical creatures are real, but he rejects it because it doesn't quite line up with his conspiracy theory about them. Like, they were photographed with a Republican politician rather than a Democrat.
A man who can cure any disease, injury or defect with a touch of one hand, but instead of getting rid of those ailments, he "stores" them and is able to release them as either a super-plague or through an instant-kill move with the other hand.
So pretty much what I was hinting at in the first half

I think I can see that. Might have to brainstorm ideas though. Like, seeing a unicorn watching TV and brushes it off, because unicorns OBVIOUSLY abhor technology.

Hell, maybe turn that on its head, pull a Crocker. He sees natural occurrences and thinks they're the doings of MAGICAL CREATURES!
>Like, seeing a unicorn watching TV and brushes it off, because unicorns OBVIOUSLY abhor technology.
The point is, he's unsympathetic because he doesn't care about the mythical creatures themselves or the truth in any real sense, he only wants to expose them because he thinks it'll further some other agenda. Maybe it's political, maybe he's a religious nut who thinks proving 'demons' are everywhere will get people to come to his church, maybe he just wants a conspiracy to blame for why he didn't succeed in mainstream TV.
Oh, that makes more sense
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>What happens when I touch the cube and how can I know that something happens when I touch it?
They fall unconscious for a short period. Seems like a fairly logical consequence of having your memories sucked out.

>What exact benefits does the dragon gain every time the players touch the cube statues?
No practical benefits, it's just bored. Absorbing the players experiences is like watching a soap opera for him.

>What exact benefits, if any, can/should the players expect should they touch the cube statues?
Isn't having a save point enough?
How do you guys come up with character names? It's so hard, honestly backstories are easier than names.
Depends. For realistic names there are whole name dictionaries in different languages. Just pick whatever fits the character. As for original ones I just sometimes notice cool sound-groups while reading, note them down and adjust them to my liking. When I want to be more deliberate, I pick a short phrase or an adjective that fits the chatacter and translate it into various languages. For best result pick a language from a group other than your own/the one you are writing in. Then it's the same deal: cut it, move stuff around and see what tickles your fancy. I find this method very effective.
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They say Heroes are born, not raised.

Real Heroes, that is. The big boys, capital H, with a The in front if it suits their pleasure. Anyone can be a hero with enough guts and good fortune. The Companions, for instance. They are, all of them, masters of their chosen crafts, and only a step beneath the Hero, but they are beneath. They can be planned for. They're as mortal as anyone, with mortal weaknesses and mortal flaws. They have bad days too. That sweet spot is where everyday heroes thrive.

But not the Hero. The Hero doesn't have bad days. There's no luck involved when you're fighting for the fate of the realm and all that entails. You're either born with that spark that's driven men to venture beyond the flickering bonfires of civilisation to the uncharted edges of the map, or you're the b-roll. Simple as that.

What a load of shit.

We all have that spark in us. Every single one of us, from the children to the elderly. Ha, of course you'd disagree. Here's the thing--I don't care. This is my story to tell, and you're going to listen.

It all began sixty years ago, when my parents found me on their doorstep. They named me Anders, as you would know. It wasn't until long after my name was known throughout the land that I discovered my real origin; my real name. But that's a story for another time.

It was at the age of fifteen when I first--

Oh, you'd like to know my real name, would you?

Like I'd tell you, knife-ear scum.
Will anyone anywhere help me with writing a harem fantasy (as in fantasy with harem, not the fantasy of having a harem) that is more around themes of how we interact with power than the sex stuff?

I want to understand how best to create the order of appearances. Should I introduce all of them at once and work each into the harem as the story goes along, or give each girl an introductory arc following which she is inducted in.

I really don't care about the sex stuff. Probs won't even write it.
What other places do people dump their writing, other than royal road?
As with so much of what you write, my reaction is: that was great, but, like... are you okay? But if this is your way of working through trauma then that's great. It certainly beats drugs and alcohol, and it's much more entertaining for us.
I don't have much /tg/ related writing other than a write up I did for a solo test of a game called Jackals. I'd like to try worldbuilding a dark fantasy setting, and I hear the tips are to go easy and not overengineer too much.
Better than I was about a decade ago. Like I said earlier, yes, this IS venting after a long period of my life where I wasn't allowed to call out anyone on their mistreatment on me, but another part of it is that I've been kicking around a story idea for forever about someone using The Backrooms unreality (I.E. noclip through a wall and wind up in an infinite maze where you have to be incredibly lucky and smart to get out) to get rid of an antagonist.

I kicked around the idea of someone who just moved out on their own using it to get rid of an abusive former teacher who was adamant about ruining their life, but that had far too low stakes- if someone unrelated shows up at your apartment, harasses you, and then disappears forever, people are generally going to assume you're glad they're gone.

Hurling a pastiche of my asshole narcissistic brother into a parallel dimension to be painfully devoured made me giggle, so you got "The Offering" with a dash of horror that even though Richard didn't mean to offer his brother up to some horrible Nonerit abomination, the Nonerit doesn't care and is more than willing to try and entice him into further "sacrifices".
For fantasy names, it helps to have some idea of what the language they're speaking sounds like (because presumably they're not actually speaking English in-universe). You don't have to go full Tolkein and come up with an entire language, but just work out what the sounds available are. Or compare it to an actual language - does it sound more like Welsh, or Swahili? Then pick a name from that language and maybe alter it a bit so it seems more fantasy.
Just use a name generator and keep rollin until you get something that feels right.
>Undedicated to my late brother
>my late brother.
You didn't kill him, right?
No, I did not.

He an heroed when he got caught with drugs for the nth time, was facing indictment, and mommy and daddy couldn't bail him out.
sup /tg/
I pumped this out while quite drowsy because being tired is strangely my best and most active state of being
what is it about
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I have a question about currency. Specifically currency in a setting thats urban fantasy but gone post apocalyptic. As in, generally the established comfort of society has collapsed but humanity is still around and kicking, maybe working out how to survive alongside all the dangerous supernatural shit. There's still cities, or general regions where life is close to "normal" but outside of those its dangerous deadly supernatural disaster. So in such a world, what would humanity and other species default to as "currency"?

I dont want it to be something too mundane like bottlecaps, but also just sticking with dollars/euros seems a bit out of the realm of fantasy.

My idea was to take the current "strongest" nation available, ruled by a benevolent yet slightly tyrannical supernatural being and have them mint their own currency (named after them of course + bronze/silver/gold etc). But then im concerned about a couple things:
-Would it be possible to mint a whole new currency 7ish years after such a big societal collapse like that? How big does the infrastructure even have to be? Is it even worth thinking about or should I just writer handwave it away?
-What about the other city states that arent under their control. Would it make sense for them to adopt that currency?

As a nice added bonus, since that leader is notoriously anti-demon and theres a lot of those running around, the coins will be consecrated, leading to some nice storytelling possibilities.
Just use good ol' gold
Imagine if our reality suddenly got invaded by demons. Would it make a lot of sense to if everyone started using gold coins out of nowhere? Im trying to come up with a nice way to make it "work"

Also if you read all the way youd see that I already said I want to use some form of gold/silver coinage, but my issues arent just about the nature of the currency but also some other stuff.
I don't, reading speculative fiction is for fags (writing it is fun though).
you use a printing press just like anyone else would, the main problem is that without a lot of work a bunch of paper-cloth inked with old tech is easy to make forgeries of
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A barbarian getting sold as a slave soldier. This part in particular is about being sold and doing a some exposition on what the world he was used to was like which would serve as a contrast to the civilized world he's about to enter and to give a lens to his culture and people. Incomplete at the moment but I wanted to know if what exposition I did have was overbearing or rambling or if I just can't tell how shit it is.
Printing press for metal coins?
This is what I get for speedreading, but consider governments all around the world still have a bunch of minerals despite moving to fiat
Depending on the nature of the apocalypse you could work out a currency based on materials that originated from it.
You know, if it was a devastating meteor shower (just an example) you could make coins from the rare, but perhaps otherwise useless materials from inside.
If it was a demon invasion through a tear in reality, maybe the sites where the portals appeared got morphed somehow and resulted in precious materials not seen anywhere else?
Other than that, if you want to weave in some relics from the old world? I always thought that rosary beads (or any other symbol of an old faith for that matter) would make for a badass currency, especially when there's supernatural shit going down.
But ultimately, money as we know it only holds value because of a social contract. It's a stand-in. An "I owe You" note.
If you want, you could look for things with more intrinsic value in your setting. Seeds in a razed world. Water on a desert planet. Lamp oil in a realm where darkness itself is a danger. The possibilities are endless, so don't be afraid to experiment.
>soften metals
Why would this be too hard?
Sounds like a thinly veiled attempt to buck admitting me wrong while still putting yourself on the moral high ground.
I'm about to drop the biggest fucking bomb on your ass, especially of you live in a small town.

Just walk through a Cemetery and read the names on the headstone.
Wait, what?
That's actually really smart, interesting. I settled on the name Myrrh for my fey sorcerer. Now I just need to come up with something for my homunculus ranger.
I dont know anything about minting coins or currency, thats why Im here asking for help about it.

That sounds very interesting, thank you anon. I'll look into stuff of that nature some more! See what I can explore to find.
>Better than I was about a decade ago
That is the one advantage of getting older. Time doesn't exactly heal all wounds but you do grow beyond them. Like if your arm got cut off and you were able to grow a new one, except instead of growing back good as new it sticks out somewhere else and you still have the ugly, scarred stump of the old one.

I'm glad you're doing better.

>the Nonerit doesn't care and is more than willing to try and entice him into further "sacrifices".
That's actually a really cool idea: an entity that rewards you for worshipping it even when you do it by accident.

People always default to gold not because it's useful or even shiny, but because it can't be faked. That's the most important quality a currency needs and gold fits the bill perfectly because it's an elemental metal and you can check that what you've got is pure gold simply by measuring its density (thanks to Archimedes). Gold is also rare, so your currency is unlikely to experience sudden inflation thanks to a huge influx from a new find.

Coins were originally simply ways for people to know at a glance the weight of metal in a given piece without having to weigh it and check its density. That's why the British pound is called a pound: because it (originally) contained a pound of silver. The idea that currency could stand for hypothetical value rather than what you physically had in your hand requires a fairly sophisticated banking system.

Minting a new currency requires virtually no infrastructure at all. Gold and silver are very malleable and have low melting points; a simple home hearth is enough to melt them, and you can form them into coins by casting a circle of the metal and then use a die and a hammer to stamp the design on them.

Adam if you wanna go biblical, or if the creator had some serious deity issues.
Honestly that's not that bad. But the wizard who created him had good intentions, he was meant to be a protector for a people who were in dire need, something like a hero created by human hands.
Damn thats so cool, so it would be real simple for a new power nation to take over and use sanctified gold and silver coins as currency, thats awesome!

What about like, about spread out usage, would around 7 years be plenty of time for like an entire continent at least to start using it or is that too fast?
Well, that depends very much on the politics of your setting. But historically it was certainly not uncommon for coins to end up being used far from the country they were minted in. It was often a big problem for ancient governments that if they minted good currency that actually had the metal content of its face value, it would all end up being exported and they'd be back to where they'd started - i.e. with not enough stable currency.

If one polity gets a head start and makes a currency before all the rest have got past barter, and travel is easy enough to create good trade networks, then a gold-based currency could certainly spread very quickly. Although given that it would probably take a few years after an apocalypse for anyone to set up a proper mint, it would probably be a case of coins being common in the country they're minted in, and merely an occasional supplement to barter everywhere else.

What you might well get, however, it a bunch of fakes as well as the genuine coins. You can't fake gold, but the whole point of making coins - which is basically just stamping a piece of metal with a mark of its weight - is to facilitate trade without having to go to the trouble of weighing and measuring the density of every coin every time you make a transaction. And once people stop checking every coin they're given, that opens the door for fraudsters. Not least governments who're either short on gold for their own coins or just want to fuck with their neighbours' currency. That's the reason for the elaborate designs, to make them tricky to replicate. Although seven years after an apocalypse, with coins just coming back in, there maybe wouldn't be enough skilled forgers around for it to be common, so you can probably ignore it if you want.

Historically some of the harshest punishments were reserved for coin forging, because it could throw a whole country's economic system into chaos. Isaac Newton once had a man hung, drawn and quartered for forgery.
Thats some very cool information chron, and that forgery idea especially is pretty interesting. Im getting ideas of demons forging coins that dont have the real one's sanctified properties that way so their brethren can use them safely and other such scenarios.
Also for the political aspect, said "tyranical leader" that I mentioned earlier is unquestionably one of the most powerful beings around (save from some of the protagonists and villains, but most of them arent looking to get into politics) so it should be easy to explain them spreading their influence so easily.
If you're going to call someone Myrrh, then Frankincense is actually kind of a cool name too.
You've read my mind, but I can't help but feel like "Frank" isn't a good name for a hero in a fantasy world lol.
>I can't help but feel like "Frank" isn't a good name for a hero in a fantasy world
The medieval French and Normans were literally called the Franks. Also the governments of the Crusader States and Latin Empire were called Frankokratia.
How about Paphos? That was the name of the son the sculptor Pygmalion had with the statue of a beautiful woman he carved.
Cats are gay
Or, for less effort, the authors on your bookshelf. Ian Fleming got the name 'James Bond' from a book on birdwatching; it caught his eye as the most nondescript name he'd ever seen.
Help I have a 55 word essay due and I can’t stop shitposting on /v/
But really I’m on the writing thread on /tg/ arguing that the gold standard would return then realizing he’s talking about the logistics and was already using precious metals after replying twice
Sorry anon, also I need three more words
You okay anon?
"Hunting Trip"


The local chapter of The Backrooms Survivors Club was fortunate enough to have one among their ranks who had the keys to an empty warehouse that served as a staging ground for their excursions into Unrealities. With no funding but their own pockets, whatever resources they could scrounge together were used to their maximum effect- locations, favors, materials, knowledge, weapons... and people.

One of the persons the BSG considered a valuable resource as of late was Jeffery Clefton.

The boy, 15 going on 16, was nothing particularly impressive at first glance. Blonde hair shaved down to peach fuzz after a pyromancy sorcery went awry. Reinforced glasses. White t-shirt, jeans, and camo-jacket.

The official designation for people like Jeremy was 'Sorcerer', those who had gone into the Forever Mall, deliberately sought out Mastema's instruction, and weren't reduced to permanent gibbering insanity when they learned how to twist reality to suit their needs. More often he and his kind were referred to as 'the crazies'.

An outsider might think this moniker cruel or born of jealousy, but Jeremy knew different, even as he approached the folding tables littered with various materials. They called you crazy because you *had* to be crazy. You could not let ideas like thermodynamics, physics, or causality be the basis for your conclusions when you were a sorcerer dealing with the hazards of unrealities, that way lay madness and death. Being a sorcerer required delving ever deeper into the art of rejecting reality while being wary of the threshold of distortion you invoked- because as many sorcerers had learned in their final moments, if you rejected reality enough, reality rejected *you*.
Despite the risks, sorcery was invaluable to the BSG. It could heal wounds or cause them in a myriad of ways. It gave them means to locate entrances and exits in unrealities. And today, it would assist with the issue of procuring equipment- namely firearms.

Refined metal, raw plastic and other materials lay on one of the tables. On another lay a functional Barret .50 BMG rifle, which Jeremy was given to understand was roughly an anti-tank weapon.

Hopefully, with the right ammunition, it could be an anti-nonerit weapon as well.

All around them people were conversing and planning for the upcoming excursion to one unreality- The Woods. The Woods held special herbs and fruits that were beneficial to alchemy, and they had successfully grown a few of said plants in specialized incubators. However, there were a plethora of hostile nonerits within as well, anathema to all life and hostile to invaders.

Running was one option, assuming you ran *fast* knew which direction to run, and didn't run into a trap along the way set by the nonerit in question. Some surviving delvers had reported that in the case of flora and insect-like nonerits, fire was an effective weapon. Holy Water, assuming you could produce the genuine type, was effective against the Walking Hives, humanoid corpses that shambled along, serving as unliving hives for venomous insects that looked like some hideous hate-baby of a wasp, spider and scorpion.

Many hostile nonerits, for all their fearsomeness, would die if hit hard enough, even if by something mundane as a few 5.56 rounds to whatever resembled a head. It was thus logically assumed that hitting them with something meant to disable military vehicles would have a similar effect.
"So you think you can work with this, Germ?" one of the guys nearby asked, a senior of the BSG, promoted recently after his former superior died while performing a rescue in an Amusement Park unreality. Charlie Herst was a Marine whose first encounter with unrealities had been with The Backrooms a few weeks after he got his DD-214. He'd let his brown hair grow out a bit, square face still sporting a scar from where shrapnel sliced his cheek while on tour, but he was still an engine of power and destruction with a burning hatred for all hostile nonerits, and claimed dibs on Peche The Clown if he ever got his hands on him.

Jeremy looked over the raw materials- on another table he saw what he assumed was a .50 round, with several tubs of various chemical agents and scrap brass- ammunition materials.

He said nothing, instead examining the rifle to make sure it was unloaded, awkwardly hefting it, feeling the weight with his arms. Setting it down, he re-examined the materials.

"How much do you have here?" he finally asked.

"A little over enough for three." Charlie answered. "Can you work with it?"

Taking a breath and taking off his jacket, throwing on a nearby chair, he slapped his hands together. "We're about to find out. Get clear."

"Back up." ordered Charlie to the others observing the spectacle. "No one get near him until I give all clear."

He'd studied the specs on the way over here, but even so he went over to the rifle again, breathing in the scent of gun oil and taking in the construction with his eyes. Fabrication without materials could incur enough distortion to cause severe breaks in reality, ranging from physics and thermodynamics going awry to causing the sorcerer responsible to die in any number of horrible ways.

With materials to work with- something to satisfy conservation of mass- the risks were significantly mitigated, but not wholly erased.
Setting the rifle down again, he looked over his notes taken under Mastema's tutelage, transcribed into his native English as best he could.

The words he spoke could be spoken by anyone, but they served as a trigger for the spell burned into his brain through meditation. The truth was that with sorcery, it didn't matter what words you used, as long as their meaning was significant and powerful to the sorcerer.

"Base to form. Part to whole. Raw to made. Take shape and be made new. Forged and molded, bound and sealed."

A few members smirked at his choice of invocation until the materials on the table began to shake and levitate. The metal began to radiate heat, and the chuckling vanished quickly as Jeremy focused.

"Base to form."

Glowing metal twisted into barrels and slides.

"Part to whole."

Plastic bent, twisted into grips and stock-ends...

"Raw to made."

Finished gun-parts began to take shape from the levitating, smoldering assortment of materials.

"Take shape and be made new."

Metal scraping could be heard as the barrels rifled themselves as they cooled, slides taking definite shape, scopes forming lenses in place, Sights and rails took shape of their own accord.
The first few times he had done this, trying to make a pencil from graphite and wood, he had blacked out and woken up with his nose leaking blood. Now he knew how to control the ebb and flow of power, to cajole reality to accept what was happening as permissible with the idea as long as there was a creator and materials, the hows and whys of a finished product materializing were irrelevant.

Yet even now he could feel distortion creeping into him, the byproduct of such blatant disregard for causality.

"Forged and molded, bound and sealed."

With a brief cacophony of metallic cocking and clicking the cooled parts assembled themselves into copies of the rifle laying to their right- the plastic coloring was slightly different, but the shape and form were identical.

Jeremy held his concentration long enough for the completed weapons to be set gently on the table, and then exhaled, stumbling back. Charlie's arm shot out to catch him before he fell.

"Someone get him a chair." Charlie barked. A chair was brought over for Jeremy to sink into. "Cuts, go ahead with inspection."

Cutter, the long red-bearded resident gun nut and person responsible for donating the original rifle, let out a whistle as he stepped forward to inspect the newly minted rifles, tapping them with the back of a finger to make sure they were cooled, inspecting them as he cocked them, checked the slide and pin, among other minute inspections of purposes Jeremy wasn't sure about. "Well shit. And here for twenty fuckin' years I've been makin' them the hard way."

He looked over to Charlie. "Looks good. I wanna take to the range before I give the A-Ok though." Cutter spared Jeremy, catching his breath, a concerned look. "He gonna be okay?"

"Fabri... fabrication takes a lot of me." Jeremy answered. "I just need to catch my breath."
That, and he needed to 'cool down', let the distortion he'd accrued in fabricating the rifles dissipate. Distortion worked like an inverse mana bar of the rpgs he played, with multiple thresholds.

At certain lesser thresholds, sorcery came more easily and more potently, but the more distortion accrued, the more a sorcerer could feel themselves being rejected by reality. Even now, he looked at his hands and saw brief blurring, the feeling of not being in the room came and went in brief bursts for seconds. There were potions and disposable crystals that could be used to dissipate the distortion quickly, but those required rare materials and time to make, so he chose a different method.

Out of his right pocket came a fidget spinner.

He spun it, twirling it as Charlie and Cutter muttered and murmured over the weapons, then ceased, letting the motion halt via inertia. In this way, he was consciously acknowledging the way the world was designed to work in regards to physics and accepting it thusly. In doing so, he accepted reality for what it was, and slowly reality accepted him.

Some Sorcerers lived to be in the constant throes of distortion, only cooling off enough to avoid crossing that fatal threshold. Jeremy had been cautioned against such practices by the lightning-fire cloud that was Mastema, warning him that such behavior was addictive and pushed the sorcerer to seek new highs. Jeremy being a human was more inclined to take the Scourge of Egypt's advice in regards to matters of the supernatural, unwilling to see where that final line was.

They would need ammo, of course, and so his night was not yet done. Then there was talk of having another sorcerer enchant the ammo to be even deadlier. At one point, he would think that there was a point where you stopped making a weapon more powerful and went into obscene overkill.

Now he just prayed it would be enough.

(Christ, I mixed up Jeffery and Jeremy. Not sure why. My bad.)


There were a number of things that could go wrong before a delving even started. The first and foremost was that a majority of participants would chicken out, unwilling to risk life, limb, or liberty. Fortunately for once, they had a group of twelve, which was deemed
enough for this delving.

The second was that the law could stop one of their vehicles and become very interested in why they were carrying unmarked vials of glowing liquid, multiple firearms, and homemade explosives. Explaining that they needed a small armory's worth of weapons to kill unnatural abominations in another dimension had resulted in several members being involuntarily institutionalized. Minor sorcery came into play now, obscuring the more controversial items to look like fishing rods or other less lethal items- though a touch could break the illusion.

Third and finally, there was a very real possibility that the gate into an unreality could straight up disappear without warning- that was why Delving into an unreality was planned mostly in advance, barring a few new arrangements like Jeffery's fabrication.

Fortunately, this opening seemed stable- for now. Usually The Woods would allow someone to exit relatively close to where they'd entered. They'd brought cell phones, a gps, and money just in case it didn't, however.

Taking deep breaths, Jeffery tried to psyche himself up. It would be his first time fighting nonerits- it was not a question of if they would run into hostiles, but when and how many. If they caught them unawares, as they usually did, they might have time to make some headway in gathering what they needed before they left. If the nonerits organized, they would have to retreat- fighting against a legion of unknown size in hostile territory was suicide.
After a three hour drive in Cutter's beat up civic, they pulled off onto a dirt road, eventually arriving at the edge of a large forest where Charlie and the other members were already getting set up, loading weapons and packing potions and explosives into chest pouches.

Cutter took one of the rifles from the trunk, inspecting it and the spare magazine before handing it to a powerfully built man with chocolate skin, bald head and a livid scar that stretched across his face. "Brandon, you're on long-range. No friendly fire, please- we didn't pack the extra-large band-aids."

It was a pithy joke. Being slain by a stray round was probably one of the least unpleasant ways to die in an unreality, and given a choice between friendly fire or being left to the nonexistent mercies of whatever was in there, he'd take the former.

"The entrance still there?" Charlie called over to Jeffery.

His own claim to fame in the BSG was the discovery certain cell phone map applications interacted with unrealities, displaying entrances into- and more importantly, exits out of- unrealities. He checked his phone. The staticky blob that was the entrance into The Woods was still there. "Yes sir." he affirmed. "Still no sign of how long it will last." he added.

Reaching into the trunk, Jeffery clutched what would serve as his own sort of weapon- to the untrained eye, it looked like a small crystal dumbbell weight, with both ends terminating in a hexagonal point.

The focus had cost him lots of favors and running around, but hopefully it would prove worthwhile, amplifying the output of his spells, allowing him to do more before reaching a critical threshold. All the more important in an unreality, where methods like meditating with a spinner or some other method of cooling down didn't work. The only method of purging distortion was to use dispersion crystals or potions. Furthermore, just being in the unreality slowly accrued distortion.
"All right ladies and gents, listen up. This is a simple retrieval delving, we're not staying any longer than we absolutely have to. Keep Jeff alive, we need him to get us an exit. Gunners, cover scouts and gatherers. Sorcerers, give us updates on any incoming Nonerits and provide support fire. Form up, we're going in."

As the group of assorted conspiracy theorists, survivors and paranormal enthusiasts followed Charlie, Jeffery felt his feet move of their own accord in a slow march.

Hopefully they could make something good come from this.

They trudged forward in a tight group, Jeffery calling out their closing distance and offering course corrections. For half an hour, it was nothing but marching with an occasional stop to rest and check their surroundings.

Finally they crossed into the staticky blob, and his map displayed an error- a black featureless map, with the coordinates leading to their exit just a few feet behind him.

"We're in." he announced quietly.

One guy to his left, a college dropout who signed on after a bad encounter with The Amusement Park, looked around, clutching his pistol in its holster. "Doesn't seem different." he muttered.

"Keep going." Charlie ordered. "We should start to see it eventually."

On they went, slower now, the trepidation evident in everyone's stance. Slowly, he noticed changes.

There were no more forest noises, no wind blowing. The trees were dead, and the further they went, the less leaves they had. He tried to find the sun, and all he could see through the thinning canopy was a grey expanse- not cloudy, but as if the sky had gone monochrome.
They hit a clearing of sorts where the trees were less thick, and stopped. All about them lay what appeared to be the aftermath of some ecological disaster, with only a few sparse shrubs in the distance the signs of greenery they could see. Ahead, just visible through a grey fog, the dead withered trees looked suspiciously less like wood and more like stone. One white tree stood out among them, and Jeffery stepped towards it-

"Don't." said Cutter, pulling him back. "Bone Tree. Get too close and it'll prick ya with one of the branches, injects something nasty that burns like fire. Nearly killed me once." he turned and pointed to an
angry white scar that started at the right base of his neck and went down into his collar.

"Boss, I think I see some Mend Berries in that bush." called one of the scouts, a female brandishing an assault rifle.

"Right. Let's start there."

He scanned the horizon and checked his phone for any moving objects that would indicate a nonerit- nothing. Charlie looked over to him, and he shook his head. The two other sorcerers focused with crystals held in their palms and gave similar reports- no signs of any hostiles. Charlie frowned, but then the scouts mentioned seeing more patches of herbs and berries in the distance.

For about half an hour, they settled into a pattern- gathering what they could, seeds being the more essential finds, while others stood watch. Frowning, Jeffery zoomed out on the map.

Still nothing. He moved closer to Cutter. "Is it supposed to be this quiet?"

Cutter stared into the fog. "No, usually you'll see or hear something moving, even if they decide not to fuck with us."

Again the scouts called out as the others finished gathering herbs, roots, and berries, seeing another, larger bush just in the distance.
They marched over, and Cutter shook his head as they took up positions, gatherers filling coolers and bags with what they could.

"Somethin's not right... Jeff, how far are we from the exit?" Cutter inquired.

Jeffery checked his map. "Little over 4 klicks."

Charlie looked over to the gatherers from his post with the rifle, lifting off the ground. "How're we doing?"

One girl, no older than 19, looked up. "We've gotten quite a few samples of what we came for. It would give our garden a good start."

Cutter trudged over to Charlie, still prone and scanning the horizon for any threats through his scope. "Boss, we oughta pack in. I don't like this... feels like we're being led further away from the exit."

"Cutter, we haven't seen any sign of those things since we came in." Charlie countered.

"That's just it." Cutter pointed out. "Not one Goddamn thing in our way except an odd Bone Tree."

Jeffery considered this. Weren't unrealities supposed to be chock full of hazards? He looked down at his phone. The exit, 4.02 km away from them, was still there, a comforting reminder that safety was a short distance away...

Then it vanished. He moved the screen around, wondering if he'd bumped it, but it showed his position clearly, and not a sign of where they'd come in.

"Guys, we have a problem! The exit just disappeared!" Jeffery called out, the effect immediate on all of the group, who ceased gathering and immediately got to their feet.
Charlie's face paled slightly. "Shit... you three, find us another exit, the rest of you, get ready to move. We're getting out of here, now."

Cutter looked around nervously. "Trap... we didn't avoid trouble, it avoided us... they played us..."

Jeffery turned back to his phone, zooming out, eyes widening in horror.

There was an exit- a good 23 klicks from their position, and between them and salvation was a thick ring of multiple static blobs slowly closing in.

"Boss..." Jeffery croaked, voice going dry... "...we've got incoming."

Yeah, the name 'Frank' has been unfairly pigeonholed as a boring and old-fashioned name.
Something catalyzing, like a healing power that if used too many times on a given individual or for too long (like X minutes, you decide what X is, or maybe it varies), triggers mutation, evolution into something else, or bad mental side-effects like neuroses/psychoses in the person healed (which may not get noticed until later).
The person w/the power discovered this after healing cancer ward, but 1 out of a dozen healed went home and turned into a rampaging fleshbeasts overnight; or became unable to manage their emotions and super violent.
Stare blankly at a screen for two hours until I finally give up and put something I don't like thinking I'll change it later, then end up having to keep it because I can't think about the character with a different name now.
>not overengineer too much.
This is definitely good advice.

I couldn't get that interested in a write up of a game I'm not playing; naturally, the setting and the characters mean nothing to me, and maybe there were a few too many unfamiliar names for a newcomer (Asa, Rekiti Vana, Gerwa, Melkoni, Luathi, etc). However, it seems like a solid basis for a campaign, and it's definitely a good idea to do a post-game write up.
55 word exercise but for some reason I couldn't think of a real topic at the time
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How do I get back into writing? I used to write a lot but stopped about 7 years ago, now I wanna document my coomy solo campaign but have no idea how to begin.
Write a paragraph. Doesn't matter what it's about, just write something. Then when you've squeezed that out, don't bother thinking about whether it's any good or not, just write another. Can be a continuation, can be a whole new thing. Repeat the process once or twice more, then read them all back and think about what you might do to improve them. Make an edit here or there.

It shouldn't take all that much time, but if you spread it out over a few days that's okay too. When you've done all that, you'll realise you've just started writing again, and it was a lot easier than writing the thing you wanted to write about because you didn't care. But now you've dusted off those unused writing neurons, it should be easier to start writing your *checks notes* hmm... coomy solo campaign. Well, whatever floats your boat. And if you get stuck, write paragraphs about any random shit again. The important thing is to get back into the habit of writing.
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Way too familiar
I still go back to the Lord of the Rings appendices (maps, language, history, etc) when I'm world building.
Your writing isn't terrible but I didn't find it gripping either. There's a little too much exposition and unfamiliar terms, I found it a little hard to keep track.
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tell me what to write /wg/, i'm bored
You should be careful about inviting open-ended requests like that. But since you ask: spaceship salvage team finds a derelict with thousands of dead elves floating around.
>You should be careful about inviting open-ended requests like that
Nah, it's more fun that way.
It's really just a question of having the self-discipline to sit down and focus on writing without letting yourself get distracted. Once you can do that you'd be surprised how easily the rest comes.
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write this
Write a New York Times best-selling novel. That should put us on the map.
A bunch of living weapons argue which weapon is the best one to be
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How would you describe this in writing? The movements and everything
>His swords spun like the blades of a harvester; it almost seemed as if he didn't hold them, but merely guided them as they flew, like the wind catching sycamore seeds.
fucking stealing this
>Welcome to California.
I feel like almost every book lands on that fucking list nowadays
How do you guys come up with names? Just sounding it out? Do you get into etymology?
I just take Ancient Greek words or Old Norse words then compound them.
I guess it would also depend on the setting. Latin words would fit a more stereotypical European inspired world, I assume.
I process a name either by finding one that's appropriate to the culture the character came from, or in the case of places I translate it out based on the people who settled there. The main city in my setting is called "Colshire" because it was a coal mining operation that grew into an economic power in the area.
Sure. I write stories that are inspired by the Cathar Crusade and other stories inspired by the Eddas, so Greek works for the former and Old Norse works for the latter.
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Wowie-zowie! I didn't know this thread existed but I'm glad to see there is a place for all these people who endeavor in the most noble of hobbies, writing.

I'm writing a Sci-Fi book about a man in the distant future who can make wormholes and he and his buddies go all over the place to deliver Earth technology to distant colonies launched long ago. So far I've got ~119k words, in the current format it is 574 pages (I wanted my older family members to be able to read it clearly without eyestrain). I've been working on it since 2010, but only started typing from my notes in 2020. I've got it hosted on my website as a PDF.

I'm a new writer with abunch of questions.

Say I write a chapter in a book to be published. How do I get that chapter critiqued before it's published and unchangeable? Before it's published I can change things and make them better, but if I post it anywhere on the internet, it could be stolen or plagiarized.

And the question that adds to this, I seem to have difficulty coming up with a "middle" for the story. What happens is I brainstorm the beginning, where I want the story to start and how the characters are introduced, and then I brainstorm how I want the journey to end, and the character developments at the end.
But then the middle, trying to fill in the pieces, it's much more difficult. I know where to start and I know where to end, but brainstorming that "middle" is definitely the hardest part.
I've written 3 separate books now, where I have chapters 1-4 and 9-10, but filling in 5,6,7,8 is harder than just moving on to write another book.

Help? and thanks!
Is it hard to sell a setting or module manuscript to a company? I know places have open submissions sometimes...
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>orcs are just land orcas
I like the idea, both come from the same etymology, maybe I'll use it sometime
You can pay for professional editors on sites like Fiverr. It's not cheap but it's not hugely expensive either. If you don't have a friend who can do it for you it may be the best option, because you should definitely have someone else edit your work before publishing.
Idea I was kinda having this idea for an Age of Sigmar story, or kind of a collection of them.

I have basicly been playing a lot of XCom recently: EW LW1, XcomFiles, TFTSD, and so on. So I kinda got the idea of telling the story of a free city being attacked by some ancient group of beings that have recently been reawakened from the Rite of Life that woke kragnos and made the realms unstable. The have found that their home now is inhabited by the children of sigmar.

This awaking enemy is using long lost runecrafting and specially forged realmstone materials (like how shade glass comes from grave sand), goes on the attack determined to remove those who have settled on their home. They don't have the number to take a free city though so they use gurellia tactics. Which forces the cities defenders to operate in more mobile individual companies. As time passes mord of the ancient beings and the battles get more frequent. The city has to start reverse engineering the magic and rune technology of the enemy to slowly beat them back and finally strike at the heart of the enemy

I could see telling the story as a collection of different character journals, free guilder reports, order of azyr interrogation logs, 3rd or 1st person short stories and so on. Almost a bit like the reader is part of city council or a historian going looking through the records after it is all done

Thoughts? And recommends on how to catch that feeling of a grinding assult with making the story just a bunch of "Day x: attack in the so-so district, outcome, person A managed this. "
Sorry typo and it's not letting me delete
>without making the story just a bunch of "Day x: attack in the so-so district, outcome, person A managed this. "
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I want to make a character that looks like a human but has jagged crystals like pic related growing all over her body in the shape of a bikini armor. What race would be the most appropriate for something like this? Some kind of human-earth elemental hybrid? An earth nymph?
What's the kind of setting you're working with? Standard eurofantasy, or something different?
Typical medieval high fantasy. Population is highly diverse because I love fantasy races, so a human-elemental hybrid chilling with some humans and orcs at a bar wouldn't be too out of place.
On a scale of 1 to 10, how high fantasy do you want the answer to be? Because I've got an idea but it's somewhere in the realm of a 9 or 10.
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Should I continue
>if I post it anywhere on the internet, it could be stolen or plagiarized.
I could've sworn that mindset gets laughed at in at least some places
Anyway, can't you just point to wherever you talk about it on the Internet?
It has a few rough edges but it's worth sanding those off and carrying on. Here's my suggestion:

>Bob had seen bodies in wrecks before. It was part of the job, or so he'd heard during the ten minutes of shrieking abuse that had constituted his training in space salvage. The master diver, who insisted that the crew call him Major, ordered Bob and his fellow wreckers about like a he'd been Frankensteined together from several dozen of the worst military stereotypes. There was no discernible reason for the Major's title and martinet streak, but for his belief that the rusty tug he captained, the Nighthawk, was the spiting image of the big navy patrol ships. The rest of the crew, a dozen or so men from all walks of life, were either too incompetent or too heavily invested in the Nighthawk to leave. Bob had recently been inducted as the newest member of this brotherhood of mediocrity, and he fit in well most of the time.

>The Nighthawk had approached this particular ship "on a hunch" from one of the Major's secretive contacts, which Bob had been assured were port-bar drunks, if they weren't entirely imaginary. An older ship, ancient according to the senior crewmen, had evidently dephased improperly, shearing itself apart in its botched attempt to re-enter spacetime. How a ship so ancient had a phase drive was never brought up by either the Major or the crew. They, experienced reavers all, knew only that the ship likely had the phase drive still aboard. That was a prize worthy of the risks of zero-g reclamation, and a potential ticket off the Nighthawk altogether.
Horrible. Do not give people writing advice, ever.
>Be me
>JK Fucking Rowling
>Share a snippet at my harrypotter work on 4chan when I'm stuck figuring out the middle of the book
Either other authors could take the idea, then beat me to publishing, then "I'm" the copycat
Or I post it and get zero helpful responses and it's just there forever in archives.
Or I actually get a movie deal later, then news articles come out about the "4chan author JK Rowling"

Like do you see ANY good outcomes from posting serious work here? There might be one, getting a real answer to a real question, but the cons outweigh the pros for that.

I really would like to find a writers club though to get feedback and help from.
Hrmph, when you put it that way...

Then what good is this thread?

Hell, I've posted ideas here before that I want to actually do stuff with. Same with /wbg/

Now what?
You guys are legitimately overthinking it. The only time something like that is going to happen is if you become such a massive phenomenon that people are willing to comb deep through several archives searching for your writing. But further than that, nobody thinks the same way you do; unless you're aping a particular writer's, which you shouldn't be doing if you want to pursue writing as a serious craft as art is sold on authenticity, then even if they take the same idea you had the result won't be the same thing.

As an example, I've designed an entire setting to work with a sort of superhero noir setup, and it works quite well in my opinion, but even if I shared every character I've written so far, the mysteries, the way powers are handled, and more aren't something that can just be captured by another writer. I write in such a way that a lot of people consider it different from their own style, and that's good, because it means I have an authentic tone and style that nobody else is going to be able to steal.

Don't get too hung up on the idea of intellectual property theft. Just keep most of the actual text of your document saved in a place where, if it's truly necessary, you can show it was present long before the other person published their book, and then get on with doing your own thing.
No one cares and if you become successful no one is going to remember you.
In a sort of similar topic, I always used to be worried that my characters were "too similar" to some other characters from popular media out there, games, movies shows etc. But then what really opened my eyes was that one kimba the white lion video that yms did. In it, what really got me is how people will draw similarities between any 2 random things even if they are completely different, and desu that was kind of refreshing in a way. It meant that I shouldnt worry that "oh this character looks a bit like popular anime character y" or "Oh this character has the same kind of ability as z from game x" instead just focusing on what the character as it exists in my universe, and what struggles and growth they experience and makes them their own.
good night, writefrens
West of the Seven Hills, a village called Tull lies at the bottom of a valley. There is nothing special about the valley - to be sure, it's a beautiful valley, with streams as clear as crystal and meadows that blush with flowers. But in that respect it's no different to any other valley thereabouts. Nor is there anything special about the gentle mountains that frame it or the azure sky above it.

There is, however, something special within the valley. It isn't the village of Tull itself, although that could at least called unusual, with the warren of underground passages that run beneath cobbled walls that groan and sag under all the ivy. The streets are paved, which isn't common, and clear of muck and manure, which is all but unheard of. Look closely as you walk about and you'll see why: a grating here, a manhole there, access to the tunnels. Listen closely and you'll hear the faint sound of rushing water, and then - if you're bright - you'll realise that the street you're standing is in sunken just a bit, almost like the channel of a canal. The residents like to flush the streets regularly, so if you pick the wrong moment to visit you may even have to jump up onto the sidewalk to avoid being soaked up to your knees.

An extraordinary feat of civic planning for a rural village that probably counts more sheep than people among its population, no? Well, keep following that thread and you'll soon come to what make the place so special. If you're visiting Tull you won't fail to miss the tall building that stands by the stream that runs through the centre. Ask the locals about it, and they'll call it the wizard's tower. It is, in fact, a misnomer - the tower was actually a mill, built to store grain in the winter and feed it by gravity down to the grindstones, although the waterwheel that drove the stones, and the screw that drew grain up to the silo, are long since gone.

And the man who lives there, although you could be mistaken for thinking him such, is not a wizard. No, he's something far more exotic and dangerous.

In modern parlance, the term is: "engineer".

Engineers have several advantages over wizards. Chief among them is the ability to reorder the nature of the world without trading on some cosmic account mankind was not meant to access, much less go into debt on. Lesser known, but just as important (at least to engineers) is the ability to perform their craft and still enjoy all those things that might disrupt their mystic energies. The Engineer of Tull is currently in bed, which is normal since it's only just past dawn, but notable in that it is not his bed. The blacksmith's daughter is still sprawled in much the same position she had been last night, and taking up rather more of the bed than is comfortable for the engineer.

For most people, this minor discomfort would be nothing to the heart-pounding terror that the barrel-biceped blacksmith could catch them at any moment. For the Engineer, this is not as much of a worry - as a general rule, engineers get a large degree of leeway, and this is doubly true in an out-of-the-way place like Tull, which knows exactly how lucky it is to have him. Although he should still get going; he does have to work with the blacksmith, and although the man would forgive him (and maybe even be mildly flattered that the Engineer had chosen to seduce *his* daughter) it would still be extremely awkward.

He should get going, the sun is up now anyway. And there's work to be done.
One question, comrades, just saying the caliber of a weapon also indicates the size of the projectile?
>muh you don't have to be so specific
but I want
For all intents and purposes, yes. The caliber is actually the width of the round so you can have projectiles of the same caliber that are shorter or longer, but any 9mm pistol round is going to be basically the same size as another type of 9mm pistol round. However, a 9mm pistol round is much shorter than a 9mm rifle round.
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for example if I say: / The nine meter caliber cannons roared like beasts on the ephemeral figure of the Thunderstrike /
it is understood that the cannons are firing bullets 9 meters wide
Yeah. Although 9 meters is fuckhuge even for a gun as big as the one in the picture; it might even be wider than that barrel. If the width is 9 meters then the length of the projectile must be 40 meters or more. For comparison, the massive railway guns the Germans built in WW2 had a caliber of 0.8 meters, and a barrel length of 32 meters.


But of course, it's sci-fi so you can do what you want.
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I'm taking inspiration from 40k, Lensman and Blame!
a botanical race that slowly wakes up from deep sleep and lives in 9 astro kingdom.
each astro kingdom has the size of the city of Blame! and they are a huge spherical space station that contains the weapons to conquer the galaxy in a short time, since the main weapons are cannons that fire antimatter planets at superluminal speeds.
but they cannot, as not enough vitans have yet been awakened to properly administer the astro kingdoms. there are some leaders (Kunongar) who want to make peace instead of conquering and most of the awakened vitans still want to find the astro kingdom Mimameidr (the religious, technological and political capital of the vitan empire where all important decisions are made) before take some significant action
morning, writefrens
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>Spent a few months developing fantasy comic pitch with friend for a publisher
>Finally submit it
>Department that was in charge of overlooking new pitches gets dissolved literally two weeks later

Fuck me huh?

At least we can rework it and remove shit we didn't like in the initial pitch. Main thing that sucks is said publisher would've bankrolled production of things didn't go tits up.
What are some of the names you use for not!countries?
Damn, that's unfortunate. How difficult is it to find another publisher?
It's not too difficult to find new publishers but the hard part is finding one that'll say 'yes' to the pitch.
Would you mind saying what it is?
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We're gonna be reworking the whole story so not much use getting into that. I'll post one of the main characters who's staying for the rework.
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So my setting has generally been mainly eldritch monsters, demons, ghosts and generally "Supernatural" things.

Since the apocalypse happened and I want to shake up the general layout of society and stuff, I want to introduce some castes of people that arent people but vampires. Not sure how to validate it in story though.
- Are they true-blue vampires or some sort of vampiric demon mutations?
- Were they always around just hidden like the demons, or did they appear after the supernatural apocalypse occured?
- Should it be a couple ones here and there that are vampiric or the numbers being higher in the few hundreds or thousands?

And then a few other questions that stem from that. I want to basically have a few different "factions" some good, some evil. Thats because I generally want to have the protagonist gang interract with a few vamps in a positive light, but it doesnt really make sense for a bunch of demon hunters to not immediately kill them on the spot unless they're "good" vampires.
- If there are "good" vampires, how do they generally feed? Are they "vegan" and use pig's blood or other animal substitutes? Some sort of intense fasting meditations with rationed blood?
- If demon hunters are a thing, does that mean vampire-hunters are also a thing? I guess that depends on what the "origin" of these vamps are no?
That's something a lot more people have to grasp when it comes to writing. Always remember; originality is meaningless. Authenticity is what makes people love your work.
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Le me realising I have writers block
Yep, thats why I even stopped worrying about things that might be "cliche" or "overdone" or even stuff like "edgy or cheesy". So what if you've seen a protagonist get fucking wrecked against a villain but he heroically stands back up at the very end a thousand times, its what I wanna write and I fucking love that shit.
what year are you from?
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What do you mean?
>Mfw they announce the newest edition of Dnd
I can has 5e? Predictions for what it will have in it?
tell me more
Anyone wanna help out?
>Were they always around just hidden like the demons, or did they appear after the supernatural apocalypse occured?
I'm not sure what kind of supernatural apocalypse we're talking about, but maybe they could both be true. Vampires were always around, but they were very rare before the apocalypse. Now the mutation is far more common. However newly turned vampires don't magically become evil so they usually try to avoid drinking human blood if left to their own devices. I'd imagine such people would either try and hide their mutation, or band together and live apart from normal humans. The older vampires would probably hate the new generation for not being proper vampires, and might get rid of anyone who they can't take under their wing.

I'd assume such older pre-apocalypse vampires might be pretty much exclusively evil and very powerful, due to either drinking human blood or just being around for a long time. Thus, you'd need dedicated vampire hunters, if hunting them is different enough from the techniques and skills needed for hunting demons.

It's ultimately going to depend on what you want to do with your vampires. A lot of the questions here are things you'll probably have to make your mind up on yourself. You can validate almost anything, but I'm not sure if we can provide input on questions like "should there be a few or a lot?"
I think I'm going to have to cut one of the races from my setting, that being demons. I have enough already with 5 (really 6, but one's "extinct") and subraces of most of them. I have more variety than I'll ever need. However, I can't figure out what could fill the niche the demons were going to have. That being "abandoned servants of the gods, bitter at the mortal races who now have their favor". They were also going to fill some of the niche that elves might fulfill in other fantasy settings, being a mysterious and long-lived race. A setting with all mortal races works fine, right?
Actually thats a great idea thanks! I love the idea of there being a "new generation" like that which makes it have a really cool spin on the whole thing.

I guess for some of the questions i wasnt so much as looking for an answer, but just kinda throwing them out there to start a discussion. But also to like ask Myself the same things, and see what sort of option I feel works best.

This is a supernatural demonic apocalypse where earth is infested by creatures and hellish monsters but not every human immediately combusts, so pockets of humanity still exist.
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Do you guys write by word, pencil or some other method?
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>Cannot come up with an idea for the actual plot of the game
>Spent 4 hours working on a nursery rhyme in game about why the planet has 4 blue moons and 1 red
Write characters, not plot.
I use writerduet for my stuff. It's been pissing me off lately cause I'm noticing in some of my scripts that entire lines are getting deleted at random. I don't fucking know why but it's led to me just saving everything manually every hour.

I should just switch to Finaldraft.
im a newbie starting this year and just using google doc but its a bummer
not sure of another alternative (preferably free)
I'm not sure about alot of other free programs since I was using Word up till I switched. Writerduet lets you make 3 projects on a free trial.
Worse yet, you spend hours sweating the smallest details and stressing out, but in the end everyone will forget them in like 5 minutes because they simply don't care.
To be fair, there will very likely be people quick to call plot hole over the tiniest thing or otherwise give your project the sporking or CinemaSins treatment
I'm super jealous then. I feel like being subject to scrutiny shows how much people care. Being glossed over and given a single "cool" for all the effort, little crumbs and winks is like a kick in the balls in comparison.
I kinda was nursing a kernel of an idea for a Fallout rpg campaign. The idea is for the PCs to get, erm… roped into dealing with a problem I’d expect would follow a disaster like total nuclear annihilation, is a general mindset of cynicism and forlorn despair.

It’s a more serious problem than you might think, I mean how do you expect people to build back civilization if they genuinely don’t think it’s worth it anymore. Or individually just give up and either become a raider or slit their wrists and be done with it. Because, yeah, simple survival isn’t enough, people need to thrive and it would be interesting to build a campaign about pushing back against the feeling of hopeless of the situation.

Now while it might be funny to watch frustrated PCs angrily shaking random NPCs while screaming in their face “STOP BEING SAD!” I would like some ideas on what kind of direction I could give them on how the PCs could accomplish this.

My first thought is to have them help in restoring some kind of culture and art to the wasteland, like some group wants to start broadcasting plays and dramas on television again and need the PCs help. Or… and this is where I get stuck. Any ideas on other ideas? Or if the whole concept is fucking stupid let me know.

I posted here because I didn’t know where else to post it.
I always imagined that people would just become massively hedonistic in those circumstances. Like, just be constantly high, get black-out wasted after the day's chores are done, and finish off the night with a massive orgy. Who cares about cirrhosis when your liver's probably going to get eaten by cannibals anyway?
I mean that’s essentially what a raider is. There’s no actual philosophy of freedom or liberation behind them. They just said “fuck it” and gave up. They do what they want, take what they want, whenever the mood strikes them, so what if they get their head blown off tomorrow or overdose on psycho, who fucking cares? World’s over anyway. Hell why bother with even growing crops and building shelters? Not like you’re gonna live long enough to enjoy the effort.

But the other thing to keep in mind is that not everyone deals with despair the same way. Some may go full hedonistic psychopath, but others may go another way, they may decide to checkout and off themselves, or take the more passive take of just not taking care of themselves until they drop dead. Some may fall into depression. And some may just shut down and just start mindlessly going through the motions of bare bones survival shit because they have no idea how else to cope. And some may go nuts in other ways, fanatically clinging to anything they see as a safety blanket (like hoarding weapons and prewar foodstuffs) Everyone’s different. But the key takeaway is that this cultural miasma is going to prevent civilization from rebuilding beyond basic survival needs and small isolated communities.
See, I would think having the drive to be a raider means you have a strong survival instinct and a will to survive. Likewise, being hedonistic doesn't necessarily mean you're nihilistic.

Throughout large periods of history, raiding was an annual occurrence even in fairly civilised places (relatively speaking). The Greek city states would regularly skirmish with their neighbours, as did the city states of Mesopotamia. And as for the city states of Mesoamerica - raiding was practically their main occupation. They built vast cities, with temple-pyramids of stone, supported by complex agricultural systems... and still, the one activity that occupied their rulers most was the annual raids for captives against enemy cities. Raiding and civilisation aren't mutually exclusive.

Nor is civilization and being drunk all the time. In fact, sobriety is a relatively modern invention. Before the industrial revolution beer or wine was the staple drink in Europe. Yes, it was watered-down, but it still had some alcohol content. And getting drunk as soon as you had a free moment was standard. It gave the first industrialists a real headache trying to get former farmworkers - who were used to a large degree of freedom - to sober up long enough to actually do their jobs, because machinery is less forgiving of motor impairment than an ox.

I'm not sure how much of that's helpful to what you're trying to do. But I think it's worth considering that depression and malaise might not take the forms you think. I would personally believe it more if post-apocalyptic depression manifested as pointlessly clinging to the trappings of the former civilisation, mindlessly sticking to the old rules by rote and not bothering to change when they proved counter-productive.
> See, I would think having the drive to be a raider means you have a strong survival instinct and a will to survive. Likewise, being hedonistic doesn't necessarily mean you're nihilistic.
No, certainly not. And a case could be made for the Khans and Boomers being more akin to what you’re describing. But in the fallout games (notably along the east coast and Mojave Wasteland) this is more the case, and, in fact, hedonism born from nihilism, is not unheard of either, one need only look at the passengers and crew of the SS Arctic for examples of this flavor of depravity.
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can someone help me with something. I want to make a demon character and i was thinking of something cool like daemon angron, but the problem is that I have no idea how to describe it to be exact to the pic related.
does anyone want to try it?
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having trouble here figuring out if this sentence I wrote is in an active tone or a passive tone.

>William and Jane walked up to the portly elf, who was stirring up another fresh serving of the stew.

what I'm trying to say is that William/Jane are the subjects of the sentence, and that the elf is the one stirring the pot. But did I write this sentence correctly? appreciate any replies.

yes i'm a retard
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Yes. There is absolutely nothing wrong with that sentence. You could put the second half of that sentence in the passive voice by saying:
>William and Jane walked up to the pot, which was being stirred by a portly elf.
Which is also fine if you wanted to draw attention to the pot.

As writing guidelines go, 'don't use the passive voice' is a bit like 'i before e except after c', in that it has so many exceptions telling it to beginners is more unhelpful than not.
You could also say
>William and Jane walked up to the portly elf stirring up another fresh serving of the stew.
How the hell does one write high-fantasy content?

No seriously, I’m used to running science fiction RPGs, that’s my wheelhouse, it’s what I’m comfortable with. But for some reason switching over to a fantasy setting and my brain goest *pbbbt*. I mean I know my medieval larp, I can work with that, I can work with weird and exotic creatures (obviously, aliens are a sci-fi staple). But throw in the magic, metaphysics, pseudo philosophical crap and I hit a Creative wall. And I just can’t do the “well magic is just another form of science” crap because whenever I see that (and my extension most magictech) in other works I cringe so fucking hard, I can’t bring myself to do it in my own storytelling.

What is the key!? Can someone explain to me how to write high fantasy? Go ahead and explain it to me like you would an imbecile, because I kinda feel like one for not being able to wrap my head around a genre that seems to just come naturally to practically everyone else.
Okay, let me ask you a simple question; how do you write sci fi? What's your starting point? It'll give us a basis for how to explain to you.
Usually I’ll be reading some books on theoretical or weird science or cool tech and how that science works, the challenges in its development or implementation and usually I just start building this narrative in my head from mental extrapolation and speculation on it. And sometimes I read about some truly strange places and phenomena like many of the moons of the outer solar system, or the proposed chthonian worlds and rogue planets, or the Einstein-Rosen bridge and again a narrative forms in my head that sounds like a neat place. Like “hey there are binary and trinary systems, that’s a lot of sunlight, someone could set up massive orbital solar farms around these systems and store that power in colossal batteries and ship them to extrasolar colonies where local energy sources are limited for power.”

And I’ve done this for medieval setting’s and it’s worked just fine too. But supernatural and paranormal stuff… well either one of two things happen: either I wind-up concocting something that sounds like just more sci-fi (esp = neural implant that allows remote operation of nanites that can mimic certain psychokinetic abilities). Or I just think “well that sounds fucking stupid” and my creative side just shuts down.
Sounds like the disconnect you're having here is in something fairly basic - you're not thinking about how to access magic. So, to appeal to your sci fi brain, I'm going to lay out some steps for you to follow.
>1. Presume there's a kind of energy field in this universe or around this planet. What matters is how people access it and how it affects the wildlife. Perhaps some animal species evolved to draw on that energy field to accomplish specific tasks, maybe some plants use it in lieu of sunlight. Certain rocks might absorb it more than others, making them essentially energy batteries.
>2. How people access it is a technology. It should be accessible without the use of external tools, but it's sensible that tools can help with accessing it.
>3. Different cultures can develop different ways of accessing this energy. Perhaps some feed energy-rich rocks into machines to power them. Perhaps some are attuned enough to the energy in the air that they can pull it down for a specific task, shaping it with raw willpower. You should have a variety of different ways of accessing the sort of energy, as this is a technology cultures can develop.
>4. Plan out the limitations of each form of accessing the energy field. Driving power directly through your body might burn out your synapses and body, you might need special technologies to program the magic, and so on.
>5. Plan out how these technologies have changed the way that various cultures live and interact with one another. The one that uses energized rocks likely has a stronger material science than the one that can simply pull magic out of the air.
6. Determine how these cultures have interacted with one another, and what they've learned from each other. Perhaps one with material science advances has been trying to stamp other cultures out, using their greater industrial capacity, and the others are fighting back.

Do you understand what I'm saying? Magic is a technology. You just define how people access it.
I think I have, but how could I describe the mouth? It's the only part I'm having a hard time describing.
An elongated maw filled with the teeth of a predator, stretched beyond human proportion to better howl in fury
oh thanks, I was thinking of comparing it to a snake, but it really didn't match. yours is better
It sounds like you focus more on the worldbuilding than the characters when you make a story. Try building the narrative around the relationships between your characters. That might keep you interested enough to get over the magic. Only use the fantastical elements as a tool towards furthering characters you're weaving a story for.
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thank you, fa/tg/uys.
I have nothing good to offer in consolation, but enjoy an eldritch warlock.
>The beast opened its maw, a terrible chasm filled with curved knives, each sabered tooth brutal enough to skewer a man's skull in one fell bite. Its pointed tongue slithered, slathering its wicked teeth with slime that stank of liquid corpses.
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I am currently at the climax of a long arc I've been working on. Feels fucking great, but im feeling a little drained creatively. I'm looking for some "out there" ideas about this last battle.

A bit of context: one of the main characters has gone absolutely fucking ballistic because of the death of their lover, gave in to their "demon form" and they're now taking on the big bad evil villain. Basically, I'm looking for ideas of absolutely wild, cosmic-type crazy shit that could happen because of these two clashing. Shit like "drops an actual ethereal moon on someone's head" (The main character in question does this in an earlier fight)

General overview of their powers at this current point, MC:
- Divine and Demonic abilities
- Primarily a conjurer and weapon to weapon combatant, fights using swords and weapons constructed from light (can also conjure projectiles, barriers etc)
- Now because they've gave into their dark side they can conjure lasers of pure void that obliterate everything in their path out of an existence
- Can manipulate cosmic elements like starfire, gravity to create meteorites or comets, also general "moon-related" abilities. This is because they are the literal descendant of the moon, hence all these cosmos-related abilities they have unlocked.
- I'm generally open to any similar ideas if they "fit" and make for a cool battle to write.

The villain next post
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The villain cont:
- They're basically "the thing" from the thing meets "pennywise" which resulted in someone intelligent, otherworldly, and generally an affable and elegant demon. Except they've had a few beatings and now they're extremely pissed off.
- That but also they're a god of endless flesh
- Extremely ancient, experienced, and nigh unkillable
- Endless repertoire of unholy spells and knowledge about the inner workings of the nature of reality
- High ground advantage because the fight takes place in the depths of their home which they've been trapped in for thousands of years. Their home which is an extension of them in a way.
- Not technically a power of theirs, but will play a factor in this fight. One of their villain friends is also kind of participating and kind of not, and they have some time manipulation abilities. Nothing extreme, time freeze, "undo" a few things of that nature.

I know generally a fight in writing should be more than just spectacle, but I already have all the emotional and character-related elements planned out for the fight. Its the spectacle I need some assistance with. I want this to be some wild out there shit.
Im gonna go to sleep soon so any questions or ideas lemme know and Ill try to respond in the morning.
Use a bunch of planets to make a gravity slingshot.
did tranny janny get mad again
so... why is the thread dying?
I don't know, janny got mad for some reason and set it to autosage, I guess.

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