#pollstory — Public Fediverse posts
Live and recent posts from across the Fediverse tagged #pollstory, aggregated by home.social.
-
You call out for Kyrie before you start, relieved to hear your own voice, but the nothingness absorbs it all the same.
You pick a direction and scootch across the top of the networked yarn, your limbs frequently falling through the gaps, scraping you with yarnburn. It is intricate. The more progress you make, the deeper you sink into the mesh. Now and then a thread snaps under your weight while two or three below it catch your fall.
Turns out, the longer a support is from its base, the less it will hold. The word "tensile strength" comes back to you from science class, though you can't remember the formula.
Above, in the tunnel, there was only one way to go. Now here, with every direction open, there is still only one way: Down. You're basically in a giant net where every movement traps you further. You exhaust yourself until your efforts feel futile.
You feel quite foolish and lost in this endless space. You can't find anything funny about it. But at least *these* strings aren't trying to grope you.
A crow lands on the top line, now above your head. He doesn't quite seem real, a little translucent, like a ghost or projection, fading in and out as you watch him watching you. He cocks his head and seems to be mocking you.
"Caw!" you say.
He snubs you and your poor grasp of his language, then grabs a broken strand and pulls. It lengthens, as if rolling off some distant spindle. Then he flies off with it in a straight line to repair your damage.
You dig out the scissors and with a sigh, begin lowering yourself strand by strand to the ground as the crow painstakingly seals your path above.
It's nice to feel solid ground again, this dimly lit infinity of featureless slate grey floor. A gridwork of yarn spans out in all directions.
Among them, you see one golden thread.
In the distance, you see a faint glow.
And is that... a dog you hear yapping?
DORKY??
Obviously you should:
-
"Kyrie!!" Your shout lands like a damp rag.
The tendrils gently coax you to the right, tho you suppose it's left when facing the other way. The tunnel bends right and left at regular intervals, with no further options. Your footfalls land silently, contributing to the stifling sense of being hugged to death by plush worms.
Time passes like drying cardboard as you zig and zag. You call for Kyrie every few minutes, but you can hardly hear you much less them. You reflect on your plight and how you got here, unsure if you are angry or somehow ...grateful.
There must be some end to this. Everything ends.
Eventually, the tunnel begins to widen into a small cavern and you breathe relief that something is different. But not much. There is a slight variation of color now, muted greens, purples, blues, dominated by charcoal grey. The strings have lengthened and dangle from the ceiling like stalactites, while the "stalagmites" below lay limply in tangles. They seem to twitch toward you as you pass.
Still no choices, only forward. As the cavern expands, you expect to hear dripping. But it's only the soft pat-pat of your footfalls.
At the end of the cavern is a hole. Below, you see a dim light and a tacky plaid floor just a short drop away.
Since you really have no other choice, you put your feet through the hole, and drop.
You land not on a solid floor, but a network of interlaced yarn of every color. Each string follows an irregular grid separated by 2" to 2', spanning in those four directions as far as you can see. You are suspended there, your weight bowing the strands, with only those below to support you from falling to the actual floor extremely far below. That's where the light is coming from.
Directly above is the exit hole, dripping grimy strings like clinging sewage. The hole doesn't seem to be *in* anything, because you can't see a ceiling — only impenetrable blackness above in every direction.
It seems you could:
-
[OOC: Thank you for your patience. I needed to take some time to do story development at this sudden new juncture.]
-
#PollPlayingGame #PollRPG #PollStory
EPISODE 13!!!
You quickly overcome your fears and rush into the circle, not even bothering to put down the scissors and pink punk tee, concerned only with saving Kyrie.
They are nowhere to be found, not a trace except for their cross stitch still sewn to the rug. In front of which is now a hole where Kyrie once stood, filled with a tangle of these elongated shags. More long shags lay limply encircling it. The tangle seems to be moving slowly, as if digesting.
Your human nature reaches out with caring impulses for your fellow human, just a stranger, but already you have been through so much together. Gingerly, you poke at the hole with the scissors. The tendrils react by springing to life. You lose your balance...
...and fall.
You are sliding down a maw of brown shag rug and lint and hair, getting rug burn on any exposed skin. You feel reality sort of — go out of you. Before you can grapple with any of these unnerving sensations, you land on a soft surface.
More of the stuff.
In fact, you are in a low irregular tunnel made of brown shag tendrils. They dangle in your hair, caress your feet, graze your elbows. Shag rug everywhere.
Ambient temperature: clammy.
The space is lit by a dim light with no apparent source, perhaps ahead or behind you. The tunnel curves both ways, so you can't see very far in either direction. The hole you came through is making a sucking noise above you. The long tendrils there seem excited.
Obviously, you:
-
[OOC: Run into the circle it is...
[I'm finding the best cycle for me on these is about a day and a half. I ideally need about 12-18 hours after the poll ends to make room for my energy pacing, whatever else is going on in my life, and mulling over the next bit.
[So see you tomorrow! In the circle.......]
-
#PollPlayingGame #PollRPG #PollStory
"Aren't you HUNGRY?" You hold up a slice of calzone.
"Gosh, after waiting this long, it's hard to be still. But good thinking. I'll need stamina." They cram a mouthful and glug down the Pepsi (eww), then get to lighting candles before you've taken two bites.
They hand you your shirt. "Take this. When I give the signal, rip it up. You can make the shirt cool if you want. Tear off the sleeves and neck. That'll be punk."
"I'm not sure how Hypercolor can be punk," you say.
"It can if it's torn and was used to break the rules of the entire universe."
Fair point.
They hand you scissors and stand in the center of the circle with their cross-stitch hoop. Without much ceremony they begin chanting:
"Warp and woof,
Weave and weft,
As planets spin
Right to left!"We weave these threads,
And so to thee,
Oh Thou Cosmic Galaxy,
Shape my future destiny!"What must go up
Must to go under,
So as we weave,
We tear! We sunder!"They motion frantically at you.
Taking your cue, the fabric *ripppsss* and you find yourself holding a pop-punk masterpiece. All you need now is a backwards baseball cap and to hold Avril Lavigne's hand.
Kyrie kneels and starts sewing their project to the rug, which is now writhing fervently around them. Its tendrils lengthen, and as they stand, it begins caressing Kyrie's ankles... then their calves.
This seems bad.
You try to lunge into the circle to put a stop it, but your heart clenches with dread at the very thought. The whole thing churns your stomach and puts you off pizza forever.
Kyrie does not seem bothered as the fingers of that dirty brown shag rug envelope their thighs and torso, their arms held aloft as if to an unseen god.
A sound deep as the inside of a dying pulsar shakes something inside you.
And suddenly— Kyrie is gone.
...
...
...
-
Tho you feel your 1994 Self Destruct Tour tee (signed by Trent himself) might be a more valuable sacrifice in the spirit of a ritual, this is for some stranger, who seems nice enough, but you don't even know their name.
"Hey, what's your name?" you ask, digging through your luggage.
"Kyrie."
"Good," you say. "Now I'll know what to call out if anything happens to you. Here's this awesome Hypercolor shirt that changes color when heated. Is that magical enough?"
"Yes! I've always wanted one of these." They grab it from your hands and hold it under their arm. It does not change color. "It's not working..."
"Yeah, turns out you're not supposed to put it in the dryer."
They shrug and get to gathering used candles from a shelf up front. And you were so looking forward to selling those.
DINGDONG!!
"The pizza is here!" You leave Kyrie to their work and answer the door, hoping it's not another fancymancer. Thankfully, it smells like pizza.
"Sorry it took so long," says the driver, handing you a flat box and a bottle of Pepsi (eww). "We had to take it back and reheat it."
You pay and tip in cash and go back to find Kyrie ripping up pieces of carpet.
"Hey!"
"Oh, it's made to do this. See?"
It's true. They're pulling up pre-cut shapes in strips to form a symbol you can't quite make out yet. The carpet doesn't seem to mind.
You set the pizza and pop on an end table and head to the kitchen.
"Oh, Cal's!" you hear. "That's no pizza. It's an open-faced calzone!"
"Clearly," you mutter, returning with a full spread of ancient cups and plates that look like they need price tags.
There is a symbol now fully revealed in historic linoleum tile beneath the carpet: a wavy number sign surrounded by a circle, with spots for eight candles at each point. Like this:
____
/~|~|~\
\~|~|~/
-----"Impressive."
"It represents the cosmic woven flow. Very sacred." They set candles in each spot.
"Are we ready to begin?" they ask.
-
Torn between a craft you can do and one you can't, you settle on the one that's possible. And that arguably will look better. This kind of thing usually takes a ton of believing anyway. You'll just have to believe a little bit harder.
"Unicorns," you say. "Unicorns feel right."
"Fine. Now go work on your project for a year, pouring your intention deeply into it while you... uhm... color. Imagine the universe is a tapestry — I guess a velvet unicorn tapestry — stitching, or I guess 'coloring,' in your future. Focus on your areas of doubt while imagining the threads — or in your case, markers — covering them up."
There will be plenty of extra doubt to color out now with the way they're putting it.
They bounce the embroidery hoop on their palm. "Meanwhile, I've got my cross-stitch here all prepared and it's time to uncover the sacred symbol and light the candles. Oh, and we're going to need a rending."
"A rending?"
"Yes. What must be sewn must also be unsewn. Balance is required. It is written."
You gape blankly as the shag rug gently massages your feet.
"We just need to rip the crap out of something you love most. Whatcha got?"
You are absolutely reeling from these rapid-fire decisions. In your luggage, there's:
-
It all sounds a little demonic. Or totally innocent like that book you read about "narcomancy" — telling the future by dreaming — but you don't want to admit that yet.
"Well it's simple," they begin. "The whole universe is a tapestry. Or a lacy doilie. Maybe it's a shawl. Or it could be jogging pants."
"Jogging pants?"
"Really it's just a metaphor. Everything that happens is a tangled mess of threads with everything else that happens." They keep weaving their fingers in and out to demonstrate.
"So everything happens for a reason," you hear yourself saying.
"Well... it happens for a reason, but that reason could just be patching a hole in the cosmic sock."
"So let me guess. You make crafticrafts to manifest your intentions?"
"Basically."
"ANY craft?"
"Well, anything to do with textiles. Yarn, spinning, that kind of thing."
"What about macramé?"
"That'll work."
You figure there's only one fiber art you wouldn't make a mess of. "Does coloring in one of those fuzzy velvet unicorns with markers count?"
"I... doubt it. But maybe if you believe hard enough."
"And what do you call this dark art? Macramancy?"
"'Weaving divination' in Greek is ýfansimancy. But no one around here knows how to say that, so we just call it fancymancy."
Well, who wouldn't NOT want to be a fancypants fancymancer at this point?
"You must decide which kind of craft to use based on what feels right," they say.
Which for you is:
-
"The vampire LARP isn't here," you say, hoping they'll go away.
"I know. I'd normally be at that but I couldn't miss solstice knitting night."
Their voice sounds shaky. It helps you remember that no matter how ominous the cowl, there's always a real person behind every mask.
You think, why not? You'll need some friends here. Maybe get in with the vampire LARP.
"Sure," you say hesitantly. "Judy usually runs it, but she's... indisposed tonight. So I guess we can do... whatever it is... if you tell me what it's all about."
"Ok, great!" they say, perking up and pushing past you. They flip open their hood and under is a nerdy looking teenager. They stop just inside the door to squat reverently and pet the rug.
"Good rug. Such a good boy," they whisper.
Dorky yaps from way back in the kitchen. His good hearing is his best feature.
"Ohh, a puppy!" They clasp their hands together. "He's a good boy too I bet! Whatcha got to eat?"
"There's a pizza coming."
You lead the way to the back room. While they plop down on a lazyboy, you poke into the kitchen to give Dorky the all-clear and a treat so he'll stop yipping. Against your better judgement, you let him off the leash just so you don't have to babysit him. He takes off to someplace deep in the house.
He'll be back. Probably.
"Bye puppy!" the stranger says. They whip out a craft project from somewhere deep in the robe. "This here is my cross stitch. I've been working on it all year. I'm so excited!"
Still on the hoop, the embroidery depicts a... well, it looks like a...
"It's abstract. It represents my rudimentary null points trapped within my subconscious, transforming across the fabric into the colors of my desires made manifest within a future rending of the universal tapestry."
"Huh?" you blink.
"Magic," they say. "We believe that we can shape reality through the textile arts. Want to try?"
You...
-
It takes forever to dial 555-9898 on this rotary. The way Cal says "Calzone-Calzones!" reminds you of Little Caesar.
You are lectured on how he won't stoop to selling "pizza;" they're "open-faced calzones." You order a large pepperoni. "45 minute guarantee or they'll reheat it for free!" You add a 2liter Pepsi (eww) for 99¢.
The the first door on the left under the stairs is the customer bathroom. Toilet and hygiene bars restored somewhat, you continue exploring.
The door in back leads to a den-like room that would be cozy if the shag rug hadn't followed you in. There is a circle of assorted couches and chairs, and a basket of yarn. The walls are all covered in tapestries of a 70s goth bent. One looks like the cover of a Tanith Lee novel. Hard to describe the rest without looking closer. You don't want to.
The meeting room you presume. It smells of mildew and incense. Dorky sniffs everything and looks up at you to signal the all-clear, tho he growls at the yarn for a minute before realizing it's already dead.
Here you find the thermostat by a door to the left. You crank it up to 69. Nice.
That goes to a kitchen, which looks well-used. It's stuck somewhere in 1950. You're just glad there's a fridge. Judging by the smell, it'll need cleaning first thing.
"Why don't you growl at that?" you ask Dorky, who seems interested. "Nothing in *there* is dead."
The floral-padded chair gives you a slight comfort bonus. You flip thru a week-old newspaper hoping to learn more about your new community.
You notice an ad for this place, Judy's Jumble, touting its collectibles. Near the bottom, in quotes: '"Knitting" Circle, 4th Thursdays.' That's today. You hope no one shows up.
DINGDONG!
The pizza is here! Already? You salivate. You could get used to this town if the pizzas come early. You tie Dorky to the chair and run to the door.
It's a figure dressed in a dark cloak, cowl shadowing their face. They are not holding a pizza.
You:
-
As you guessed, this phone is super old, maybe 40 years, from the 60s, an olive green rotary like AT&T leased to everyone before the breakup. Your parents had one just like it.
You answer.
"Hey Jude. Is the meeting still on tonight?"
"Aunt Judy is dead," you blurt.
There is a long silence. "Oh," they say. "Well that sure complicates things." *click*
How puzzling. What kind of meeting?
No sooner than you've set the phone back than it rings again. This place is far busier than you expected it to be. Nonstop action.
"Hello?" you stammer.
"Lightning strikes at midnight, has the rending been— Wait, this ain't Judy."
"No, it ain't. Judy is... gone." It comes out a lot more ominously than you intended, only half so glooming as the caller.
"Oh no. Then it *is* too late."
"To speak with Judy? Yes, yes it is I suppose." You're filled with a sudden sadness.
"Did she leave you in charge? Tonight's the solstice. Is the... thing? Still happening? There won't be another chance."
"What thing?"
"Oh, I see." *click*
What the hell is happening? Was Aunt Judy a drug dealer? Some kind of... cultist? You're not sure why that word popped into your mind.
*ring*
You pick up. "I'm sorry, Judy is dead and we're closed."
The caller sounds disappointed. "Does this mean knitting circle is canceled?"
You soften. "Yes. This time."
Of course. Aunt Judy was just a knitter. Now you won't have to fear finding any crack or pentagrams in the basement.
After they hang up, you realize that your hunger, bathroom, comfort, hygiene, and tiredness bars have turned to orange like in that new Sims video game, although your social bar is doing ok for now.
Where there's a phone, there's a phone book, the only thing thusfar preventing you from doing this earlier.
You flip it open to the pizza section. While they're bringing it, you'll have 30 minutes or less to find the bathroom, thermostat, kitchen, and a place to sit.
You call:
-
There's nothing like going outside at night in the wet Pacific Northwest. There's a death drizzle on, a heavy fog-like precipitation that doesn't even seem like rain but it will drench you in seconds. Dorky understands this as well, and spends as little time as possible doing his thing.
As you turn for to shelter, you think you see a light blink off in that out-of-place bell tower, but then you think it might have just been a reflection of the harbor lights against the gloom.
Back inside, Dorky gives himself a good shake and that shag carpet gets a shower. You pointedly refuse to look at it. (If you can't see it, it can't see you.)
Suddenly, a phone rings, the solid sound of the real bell on a rotary. It's coming from behind the counter.
Do you:
-
One more glance at the carpet before checking out the–
Ohhh... oooo... it suddenly looks so inviting. So soft. So fuzzy. Such a good boy ... a good rug doing rug's job of coating the hard floor. Surely he deserves a nice little pat. *pat pat pat yawn* good boy sure was a long drive down from Seattle sun setting soon, orange light from window dancing rainbow of dusky colors orange to brown rug looks *so soft* now you understand why anybody would buy one your rug now good rug good boy you just need to settle down right here under the watchful eye of this carved waiter and gently-used croquet set so gentle soft you hardly notice the lint and hair buildup just a little nap just a snoooz—
Dorky is licking your face in an effort to save your life. Or was it... you were dying in your dream. Dying? Or being consumed? There was a sense of tightness, of being restricted. And shadow passing over the infinite stars behind the exterior of all that is...
What?
Confused, you wipe saliva from your nose and stumble to your feet. You're in a strange place. A store? Aunt what's her name. It's night now. How did you end up on the floor?
That's right. That rug. It seems to wave up at you still, a fur of endless fingers.
The leash yanks at your legs where it is wrapped. Dorky seems eager to relieve himself. You're *starving*. You'll need to find that living area so you can unpack and relax.
Still, you can't shake this new level of dread that goes beyond your usual daily existential habit.
How will you proceed?
-
Yes, you can pet the dog in Corbden's pollplaying game.
You decide to pet Dorky and find the light at the same time. You hate when this happens. Dorky needs to stop carrying on before he can carry on. But at the same time, the back of the room is calling to you both.
You give Dorky a glance as you pick him up. His eyes always seem to point in different directions and he has trouble controlling his retractable tongue. You would say that he'd never hurt a fly, but he did that one time when he tripped over one. It's hard to say how he stays upright, but he tries his best.
You notice the brown shag carpet while down here, with its thousands of tiny arms reaching up as if to grab Dorky back from you...
Better find that light.
"Good boy," you say, patting Dorky's head in a way where you both know you're not paying attention. With him tucked under your arm, you slide closer to the darkened back area, glancing up and down the aisles as you go, watching for danger.
It's not very far to the back wall, but it is a bit tense back here what with the shadows of those castaway belongings suggesting hostile intent.
You flip the switch next to a closed door on the back wall, which floods the room with welcome light — this one fluorescent, blinking coldly out of sync from its warmer incandescent up front. The threatening shapes melt into the banality of an overstocked "antique" store, though you suppose most this crap was made after you were born. Your eye picks out unwanted souvenirs, a row of hardcover books, a healthy collection of pint glasses, and a high ratio of nautical devices in disrepair. Even that shag rug looks better now, though it isn't helping you want to buy anything.
There are two doors back here, closed, this one on the back wall, and one going under the stairs.
Do you:
-
A boat or something toots tiredly in the harbor behind the house as your cheeks grow cold and damp.
The vaguely pink door squats in front of you, wooden with glass panes. Glass trinkets in the window to your right are meant to catch the sun, if there were one. You cup your hand to the grime, careful not to touch it, and peer inside. There's a register on a short counter, beyond which is something of a shop. Straight back and not far from the door, a stairway leads up into gloom, probably to the living space.
Dorky yaps at the door. You can't tell if he's excited or warding off evil spirits. Heh, the ghosts probably don't think of themselves as evil. You chuckle at your own gallows humor, even though it isn't very funny.
The key turns like rust on gravel, and the small dented knob turns with a squeak. A bell rings as you enter to let the shopkeeper know there's a customer.
You. That's you. You're the shopkeeper now.
You plop your luggage on the floor next to the counter and decide to keep Dorky on the line for now, even though he's tugging and yapping in twenty directions. The light switch clicks under your finger and you're relieved when the flickering bulb casts a frail light on the situation.
Junk. And a lot of it, packed in densely. But some of it seems interesting. The ornate brass register seems like it was built with the house, behind that, window panes wrap around the corner, lined with shelves. There are shelves making aisles, shelves above the shelves, and the walls buried in whatever will hang. The unlit back of the shop seems to be on a different circuit, so you'll have to find the other switch.
A full inventory will be first order of business. If you decide to stay.
You shiver. You'll have to find the heater if you even hope to stay the night. Given the state of the motels you saw on the highway, that seems best.
Do you:
-
[OOC: I finally did it! But given that I've been working on this opening twoot for over a week, I fear for my ability to keep up. The challenge is that I can't pre-write the next one because polls, and given my day-to-day variably in capability, I hope to keep up.
[To assist with this, some days I might not have the next one ready for awhile, possibly days. I may also write the next one a few hours before the poll is over. If it's not a close race, the outcome likely won't change anyway. I'd rather set the poll time to 18 hours, but it's either 12 hours or 24.
[It would be super if Mastodon had a notify option for updates to a specific thread. Now that we have quoots, maybe they'll do that next.]
-
You turn up US 12, which has strangely forked into a bifurcated one-way street through town. Since passing the "Come As You Are" welcome sign at the edge of town, Aberdeen Washington has struck you as less of a town and more of a feeling. You can't quite give this feeling a name, but you're not sure you like it. The vibrant evergreen forest has decayed to this weary town. Shuttered businesses suggest a once-booming harbor, but today, the primary exports seem to be smoke shops and junk stores. The few houses still occupied are quirky, but in an off-putting way.
Speaking of which, you've arrived at your aunt's house and storefront. Beyond the dead grass, a crooked sign reads: "Judy's Jumble." Below that, a "Closed" sign has lost its C. The vaguely Victorian building is mauve, a particular discoloration that varies in hue based on how much oil has been carried in on the fog. A small bell tower looms above the second story, quite out of place on a house.
Since your side of the family was estranged from Aunt Judy until the moment of her death, you're not sure if inheriting this old shop was a gift or a curse. You utter one as you step out of your car into the clammy sea breeze. The air smells of liquor bottles and gas fumes.
"Ok, Dorky..." Your black Yorkie terrier untangles his tongue from his colorful ribbon leash... "Let's do this."
-
"But I magicked you a new pair!" says Fairy quickly "You never noticed, right?"
Ranger glares at them
"_Your_ fault!"
Without losing control over the duck Ranger removes a boot. A new one immediately grows around their foot. They throw away the first one, remove the second, and a third one pops out.
"I... I'm not always good with magic!"What does Fairy have to do to remove the spell?
(Boost pls)
(Story starts at
https://mastodon.art/@MarthaCrimson/110962499439059371)
#FantasyRomp1 #fantasy #FantasyRomp #adventure #PollStory -
"If you take me there I'll make you an endless supply of trail mix!" says Bard
"It's crap" mutters Ranger.
"I'll cook for you for the rest of your life!"
"Food's too perfect."
"_Too_ perfect???"
Bard starts to hyperventilate
"What if I never again cook your boots?"
Ranger gives them a long hard stare. Bard recoils
"I needed a midnight snack!"Why is Ranger still wearing boots?
(Boost pls)
(Story starts at
https://mastodon.art/@MarthaCrimson/110962499439059371)
#FantasyRomp1 #fantasy #FantasyRomp #adventure #PollStory -
"I'm adding a cure to the curse" reads Noble out loud "Rubbing the person with laser should do"
Both Bard and Noble groans.
"What?" screams Fairy "What's the problem?"
"No one's been able to make laser for hundreds of years," says Bard "The plant's extinct"
"People don't know where to look" mutters Ranger
"You can find it? If you take me there I'll..."How do Bard bribe Ranger?
(Boost pls)
(Story starts at
https://mastodon.art/@MarthaCrimson/110962499439059371)
#FantasyRomp1 #fantasy #FantasyRomp #adventure #PollStory -
"Weff, it'f youhf call the' " says Dragon Horse trying to not lose the rose between their lips "Loo' in th' boo'!"
Noble hands the feather and the crystal rose to Fairy and starts examining the book. It's a perfectly normal notebook, with neatly written text, but it's not ordered. Snippets of recipes are mixed with lists, diagrams, and random thoughts.Where do they find the cure?
(Boost pls)
(Story starts at
https://mastodon.art/@MarthaCrimson/110962499439059371)
#FantasyRomp1 #fantasy #FantasyRomp #adventure #PollStory -
Luckily Ranger sees them in time when they jump through the window. They have their mallard spread its wings. lift again, and catch them mid air. But not without a harsh
"Stupid!"
Noble makes sure Fairy and Bard stays on the feathered body, then nods at the rose between Dragon Horse's lips
"We need to reverse that! Can't be one fighter down!"How do they reverse the spell on Himbo?
(Boost pls)
(Story starts at
https://mastodon.art/@MarthaCrimson/110962499439059371)
#FantasyRomp1 #fantasy #FantasyRomp #adventure #PollStory -
Mechanical contraptions of the kind they saw at the bottom floor burst in, clacking ominously. Himbo shrinks in a shower of glitter, and turns into a rose. Dragon Horse gingerly picks him up with their mouth looking like they is about to dance tango. Noble grabs the things they found behind the lock and screams
"No time! Out the window!"Pick one:
(Boost pls)
(Story starts at
https://mastodon.art/@MarthaCrimson/110962499439059371)
#FantasyRomp1 #fantasy #FantasyRomp #adventure #PollStory -
In the meantime Noble finds himself distracted by an intricate lock. The mechanics around them is reinforced with hardwood and shining with gold, but this contraption is made of iron and looks like someone has beaten it repeatedly with a hammer. Noble picks it in less than a second and finds a crystal rose, a tattered book, and a feather.
What happens when they take them?
(Boost pls)
(Story starts at
https://mastodon.art/@MarthaCrimson/110962499439059371)
#FantasyRomp1 #fantasy #FantasyRomp #adventure #PollStory -
"Cut it!" snaps Fairy "You're not helping!"
They bend down at the air vent where The Snake disappeared and look at the pattern of the scales. Then they look around
"Are there any ventilation maps?"
Ranger nods approvingly and points before steering the mallard down to ground. To Himbo's amazement Fairy reads and points
"Thataway!"What do Noble find in a box in the meantime?
(Boost pls)
(Story starts at
https://mastodon.art/@MarthaCrimson/110962499439059371)
#FantasyRomp1 #fantasy #FantasyRomp #adventure #PollStory -
Suddenly the duck sticks its head through the broken window and devours the horse.
"Good drake!" says Ranger
"My horse!" screams Noble
"Looked like a slug."
"A _slug_???"
Dragon Horse and Himbo immediately forget their differences and team up to keep Noble from trying to strangle Ranger
"Eh" says Bard "You'd just lose it on tic-tac-toe to one of the contraptions anyway"Where now?
(Boost pls)
(Story starts at
https://mastodon.art/@MarthaCrimson/110962499439059371)
#FantasyRomp1 #fantasy #FantasyRomp #adventure #PollStory -
"Look" shouts Fairy "The Snake!"
An iridescent tail disappears through a floor vent.
"And a horse!" says Noble, their voice vibrating in awe.
"Oh poop!" says Himbo as the desk transforms into a horse with a long flowing mane.
Dragon Horse immediately returns and transforms into a horse
"What did you say???"
"Nothing!"
"The Snake gets away!" screams FairyWho breaks up the conundrum?
(Boost pls)
(Story starts at
https://mastodon.art/@MarthaCrimson/110962499439059371)
#FantasyRomp1 #fantasy #FantasyRomp #adventure #PollStory