Archived Thread

File 122214781035.png - (355.69KB , 753x704 , One_Fathom_Bank_Lighthouse_(new)_Selangor.png ) [iqdb]
8837 No. 8837
I am not a good writer.

But still, I feel like giving this a shot.

Anyway, I already told you that I’m not a good writer. But I’m not a good person, either, in more than one way. I.e.: I’m quite defective. My brain doesn’t stick to things. So, if a plot hole comes up, or someone starts acting out of character, twist and shout. I expect to have to make great use of the retcon button…

>> No. 8839
File 122214807283.png - (183.96KB , 381x654 , One_Fathom_Bank_Lighthouse_(old)_Selangor.png ) [iqdb]
You stare dispassionately at your monitor.

Having no eyes, it does not deign to stare back at you and instead simply sits there, mocking you with its silence, the cursor on the screen poised above the image of the folder you were so ready to double-click only a bare second ago.

The insides of your insides churn.

The room smells very strongly of lemon--a result of the wasteful spraying of disinfectant that occurred only half an hour ago. You are, as you’ve noted many times before, not the shining example of the impressive coordination between hand and eye that the modern human being is capable of, or even a shining example. Thus, a flyswatter in your hands is more likely to lead to the sound of percussion than the death of any annoying insects.

Takes one to know one, you think to yourself.

The solution had been simple, so you’d decided to complicate it. Instead of standing up and away from your computer and leaving the room, you’d procured a spray bottle of disinfectant and chased the accursed fly about the room with that.

It was, of course, altogether too awkward to make an effective bludgeoning device, so instead you’d pulled back the trigger again and again until a lucky shot had blasted the fly clean out of the air--almost like a flyswatter, you’d noted, a not altogether all together smile upon your face. You’d then proceeded to drown the fly in the bubbling, burning liquid--
>> No. 8840
File 122214810786.png - (191.58KB , 801x288 , One_Fathom_Bank_Lighthouses_(old_and_new)_Selangor.png ) [iqdb]
Bringing you to your point, here.

You stare dispassionately at your monitor, which has remained unchanged since the last time you stared dispassionately at your monitor.

To tell the truth, you’re not entirely sure why you halted in your browsing. You were about to open that folder, you remember, and read that gag manga that you downloaded an age ago, when suddenly, you got a feeling.

Such a vague description! But that’s the only description that fits. It’s not a bad feeling, exactly (which would explain the churning), nor is it a good feeling. But, just as it seems to not be any extreme, it doesn’t seem to hit any kind of median where feeling is concerned, either. There really isn’t any word in the English language that can properly convey the feeling that you’re feeling--or at least no word that you’re aware of.

After all, it’s not as if you’ve studied the dictionary back to front, all the way to “a is for a”. It’s quite possible that there is a word for this sort of situation. Perhaps even simply “scared”.

No, not “scared”. The word floats, almost dreamily, through your mental skyscape before you pick it off with ruthless efficiency, tearing it into freefalling letters, then even further from there to its very phonemes. Frustrated, you move on to the hundreds of defenseless words huddled around it. None of them fit. But surely, somewhere you’ve heard something, somewhere…
>> No. 8842
File 122214816094.jpg - (94.80KB , 640x423 , Lenton_Priory.jpg ) [iqdb]
Your mind scrambles. Your mind has already been scrambled. It finds no trace of survivors from its vantage point off the top of your head, and returns to blase dejection. The copes are littered with gerunds.

You step back from the computer, breathing heavily--you must have kicked back your chair without realizing.

You need to get out of here.

That feeling that you can’t describe--that’s what it’s saying.

>> No. 8843
[x] Dissociate. "What is 'akathisia,' Alec."

"Neuroses" for 400.
>> No. 8847

[X] Convivial; it's almost ironic. How wonderful can this get?

You're suffering from a (mild) case of schizoid personality disorder: why wouldn't you be enthralled by the sensation of being alone?
>> No. 8852
[x] Wanderlust.
>> No. 8893
File 12222320957.jpg - (503.55KB , 2048x1024 , Cortina_Pasqua_2007_-_Cristallo.jpg ) [iqdb]
[x] Dissociate

It doesn’t make sense--that’s what you think, still standing, still staring at the screen. If you squint just right, just for the moment in the middle of a blink you can see the eyes of whatever beast it is that inhabits the workings of your computer.

That’s ridiculous, of course--there is no beast, no gremlin, no tiny fellow who turns the light in the refrigerator off when you close the door. It’s all…it’s all stuff. All very scientific, very complicated stuff, but stuff nonetheless.

You stand there still, staring, staring, staring, staring…

You should feel silly, you note, and the moment the realization occurs to you, you do. Leaning away from your computer like this--as if it is some monster readying to leap up from your desk and sever a major artery of yours. Hasn’t your computer been a constant friend through these years? Through thick and thin, through stick and scan, you two have looked out for each other, veritable brothers in this cold, lonely world.

So why, then? Why is it that you want so dearly to bolt? To get away from this terrible, lovely piece of machinery? What is it that has made its comforting glow seem so suddenly threatening?

Your nerves sing, and it is all you can do to keep your feet planted to the floor. There is no voice in your head--no clear warning such as that--but if there was a voice, surely it would be screaming at you right now for being an idiot, for not following its instructions.
>> No. 8894
File 122223236638.jpg - (764.34KB , 2048x1536 , Dolomites2006-223.jpg ) [iqdb]
But there is a retort. Another voice burbles to the surface, the words it speaks winding in a lazy, looping drawl. Up, around the bend, and down again, it flows and thickens, forming a verbal lasso that pulls the strange screaming from the fore of your mind.

The voice of reason, that which chuckles (even it cannot brings itself to laugh too loud) in the face of black cats and four-leaved shamrocks. Why are you even considering this? Running? What are you running from?

The other tries to answer, composes a hideous face, its features purloined from old, half-forgotten memories. The image laughs--and then dissolves in its own absurdity, its inability to hold even for half a minute finally deciding your choice. Elevated above the sounds of weeping, you step closer, and then sit.

See? There’s nothing to be afraid of…but what about all those stories, I wonder?

The voice of reason suddenly undergoes a curious reversal. All those stories, about men and women who felt their skin crawl and crawled away after it--silly, silly, yes of course it’s silly, but they all avoided an unlucky death chasing after the skin of their teeth. It’s silly, silly, silly, silly! What about that? You should really consider that.

It probably wouldn’t do much good, you think, and then stars explode through the back of your skull.

The supernovae explode out your mouth, your nose, your eyes, your ears--every orifice and every pore emits an impossibly blazing light.
>> No. 8895
File 122223240944.jpg - (258.51KB , 1024x768 , Marinobianchi.jpg ) [iqdb]
Light this bright should kill you, you know. There is the sound of somebody screaming, but it is of no concern--neither are the nails scratching at your face and clawing at your eyes. For a moment something foul burns at your throat, but then it torrents violently from your mouth and is gone, no longer of any importance. You read it in a book. Even if it was only a single pinprick, something that bright would kill you.

It was a blue book, light blue, filled with facts and figures but no citations. Your heel is wet, and then slips forwards.

You put it somewhere and never took it out again.

The back of the head hits the corner of your dresser as your body burns away, and the last thing you see as the darkness climbs over the edges of your vision is the pain, concentrated into a single, brilliant point.

>> No. 8897
[x] Wake up refreshed, rejuvenated, reborn

Well, that was fun.
>> No. 8900
[x]Awright, we're not dead, LET'S DO THIS.
>> No. 8901
[x] Wake up refreshed, rejuvenated, reborn

This is like /x/ Creepypasta, the CYOA. I'm loving it.
>> No. 9167
It was too annoying, so I gave it up. Of course, of course.


[x] Wake up refreshed, rejuvenated, reborn

You drift in and out of nothingness for a while, reaching the shallowest of consciousnesses each time you awake--not nearly enough to realize your circumstances.

I was sleeping, your mind recalls. I am sleeping, it corrects.

The future tense remains unspoken, and your mind takes in its surroundings with dim comprehension. Sunlight--even with your eyes still shut, your mind can sense it leaking through, a molten brightness it tries so hard to ignore without realizing it is ignoring it.

Think of nothing, comes the instruction. Think of nothing.

The effort backfires spectacularly--the mental effort is a beacon of light, and your mind, seeking to escape under the cover of darkness, is instead caught red-handed. It tries desperately to tunnel under the walls, anyway, and in fact almost makes it--

A heel stands fast on its train of thought, and it knows that it’s over. Let in the sunlight, the louder voice commands, and what can your mind do but comply?

And there is light, bright light that stabs at your vision like a thousand tiny knives, and that is because your eyes are open.


The light comes in spots, like the colored hair on a dog you once saw. You were standing on the corner of the sidewalk, and it had come by on its own, dragging its leash behind it. The name of the breed soaks on the tip of your tongue before you swallow it back, still forgotten.

Spots. That’s wrong. There is a layer of not-light above you, covering you like a blanket, and it is that layer that is broken, holes torn through to the other side, letting in the light that sifts and sieves down until it reaches your eyes. Yes. It’s the same thing--black and white is white and black--but for some reason, it feels more right, so you ease into it, accept it as your new truth.

There is pressure on you, you realize. Something pressing against your back. The weight of the ground, the entire planet, crushing you. It’s unbearable. Like Atlas, with his globe.

And so, you decide to fall.

You look towards your decent. The light is still there, coming in spots, and you head towards it, ready to burst through that cover--but your feet catch at the last possible moment, as they have a million times before, and you are left with your head tilted back, uselessly staring.

A rustling--a bird passes from branch to branch.

Where are you?

You were there, your normal place, with the hardwood floor and the dusty desk, and then you stood and you thought--

Don’t think about it.

And then here, here, though you have no memory of what “here” is. That chronology is broken, you know, but the missing piece twists and escapes from your grasp, and you suppose it must have a good reason. Looking for a warmer rock to sun itself on. It doesn’t belong here, in this lush green forest. There are snakes in the forest, but this one needs something more. An inferno of energy, instead of this lazy warmth.


You walk.

You come across the path--and you can tell it is a path because of the way the grass is beaten and downtrodden--with a distinct feeling of glee. Before, you didn’t know where you were. But here--here is a path. And a path always connects things, like a winding dot-to-dot picture. You didn’t know they were supposed to be straight lines, and drew them in loops and the result was something hideous and horrible that you threw away.

You’re trapped, now. You’re between dots. They all come in sequences, one-two-three-four, and to slip another dot in the middle would only throw things off, make a gentle curve a jagged edge or edge a curve. The time for movement is now.

There are three ways to go, then. You’ve been back--that would be four, but you’ve been back, and there’s no point in leaving if you’re leaving to come back. Left, right, and forwards.

And up.

Your feet leave the ground for a moment, then land again. The dust mites in the hair tumble madly. No.

No. Not up.

>> No. 9172
[x] Down is probably no good either; best to just keep walking forwards.
>> No. 9205
[x] Down is probably no good either; best to just keep walking forward.

This shit is trippy.
>> No. 9211
[x] "My fellow Americans: As a young boy, I dreamed of being a baseball, but tonight I say, we must move forward, not backward, upward, not forward, and always twirling, twirling, twirling towards freedom!"

~spin ~spin
>> No. 9457
File 122301571714.jpg - (27.60KB , 290x283 , 1222826986648.jpg ) [iqdb]
[x] Down is probably no good either; best to just keep walking forward.

You survey your choices with an eye most critical.

To your left is a path. It leads to a place you do not know. To your right--the same path, leading instead to a different place you do not know. Or is that right? You can’t see where they go, left or right, after all.

Perhaps it’s a circle. Everything’s a circle. You can’t remember the first time you worked yourself to the bone, scrawling half-smudged words into your notebook, the sides of your feet worn against the insides of your shoes. When you looked up, you found that you were where you started. A whole day wasted.

It was a miracle, you getting out of it afterwards. You still can’t remember what happened that night, other than the feeling of sweat running down your forehead and a thousand crinkled papers--a thousand, a million, more, more, more. You were buried in papers, surely--you remember that. Stacks you tossed into your closet once they had served their respective purposes.

Someday you will go back to that place and give them the funeral they so richly deserve. They were bad people, but they were honorable, at the very least. And that’s alright, in the end.

So left is out, right is out, up is out, and you refuse to dig like some blinded, biting mole. It isn’t dignified. The only direction left is straight, across the path and into the woods.

The woods. You’re expecting those woods to be like these woods, they woods you’ve been stumbling through for the last--but you can’t keep track of time. Has it been an hour? Two hours? A day? No matter. A wood is a forest is trees, trees all around, trees that you can’t tell one from another. That’s alright, then. Even if you walk in circles for the rest of your life, you’ll never know.

That’s happiness.


You knew when you made your choice that it would be like this. But still, you can’t help but feel unsettled. This isn’t your world.

The sky is blotted out.

You don’t like that.

If you were inside, that would be okay--that would be your choice, and it’s the privilege of the sentient being to make his own choices. But being forced into a situation where there is only--

You can see it out the windows, but that’s not the point. This trash compactor, this moving sardine can!

You tighten your grip, and the strap stretches, like gum--but it is only your imagination, you know. There are many straps, down the length of the bus, and someone would have noticed, if they really did stretch. Or perhaps they’re meant to stretch.

Every time the bus makes a stop, everything lurches--you have to lean forwards then backwards to keep your balance, and then backwards then forwards as the bus accelerates once again. The strap is a godsend. A godsend! To question it would be--unappreciative.

The thought strikes you--as it has every half-minute for the last ten--that you may have gotten on the wrong bus.

There’s an electronic scrolling marquee near the front of the bus, behind and above the bus driver’s head. It shows the date and time, and then the bus number, and then the date and time again. It would be helpful if not for the fact that you have no idea what the bus number means.

Did you mean I minutes or ten half-minutes?

You can’t keep track of time anyway. Your mind wasn’t built for this. Where did you pull “ten” from in the first place?

You look out the window. You don’t recognize this street at all. There’s too much wildlife--fake wildlife--like the palm trees near the Korean restaurant that might be dying. A newspaper article said something about that. A disease of some sort, perhaps? It wasn’t made for this climate, or this soil, or something.

These trees look alright, but they always look alright until it’s too late. They aren’t palm trees, though. Just…regular ones. Regular trees.

The bus shudders to yet another stop, and you listen to the engine idling as people file past you, all headed towards the bus’ exit. They’re all very indistinct people, you think. Unreal. Like someone made people but forgot to put people in them. Or maybe they made people but never put them in…

Wait a minute. That’s the driver.

The man, dressed smartly in a blue uniform that seems at least one size too big, turns to you before disembarking. “End of the line,” he says, grinning, and his teeth shine in the darkness. No, not his teeth--

“You can stay here if you want--it’ll be going in the other direction, soon.”

And then he bounds down the steps, one-two-three, and disappears from your view.

Hesitantly, you draw closer to the doors and peer outside, hoping to see another passenger, maybe get some directions. At the very least, there should be some building--

But there isn’t. There isn’t even a stop. There isn’t even a road. Only--only --

You’re in a forest. How did you get to a forest, without you noticing?

At least now you know for certain--you did get on the wrong bus, after all.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see a flash of blue, but when you turn your head there is only the wood, dark and silent.
>> No. 9459
>> No. 9467
It's like the entire story is a TRIPPIN BALLS scene, and I love every minute of it.

Not that I ever know what to vote for, but that's just a minor detail, really.
>> No. 9470
File 122304087357.jpg - (32.86KB , 620x400 , iceberg-1_1002774i.jpg ) [iqdb]
Oh dear. I am a bit of an idiot, aren't I? I forgot to put the "[_]" that indicates it's time to vote.

It's time to vote.

>> No. 9486
>At least now you know for certain--you did get on the wrong bus, after all.

Did we? Did we really?

[x] That madman just abandoned a perfectly usable bus in a forest! Maybe some disgruntled employee giving one last fuck you to the company? Well, you'll put it to good use; did he leave the keys? If not, you'll have to hot-wire it.
>> No. 9504
[x] That madman just abandoned a perfectly usable bus in a forest! Maybe some disgruntled employee giving one last fuck you to the company? Well, you'll put it to good use; did he leave the keys? If not, you'll have to hot-wire it.
>> No. 9545
File 122314202433.jpg - (147.70KB , 800x600 , wolf-deer-sartore-513176-sw.jpg ) [iqdb]
[x] That madman just abandoned a perfectly usable bus in a forest! Maybe some disgruntled employee giving one last fuck you to the company? Well, you'll put it to good use; did he leave the keys? If not, you'll have to hot-wire it.

I’m alone, you think.

As if in response to your thoughts, the lights inside the bus go out. Still, you barely react, simply sitting in your seat, staring straight ahead. End of the line, he said. This is the part where the bus turns around and heads back the way it came--but to turn around, someone needs to be driving it, and--

You look out the window, hoping to spot that familiar blue uniform. Not the same person in it, necessarily. Just a blue uniform…but there is only the trees, and the darkness in between.

I’m alone, you think again. It’s a mystery.

A sudden, insane idea grips you. You are alone. What if you were to drive the bus to your destination instead? You’d be the only person who would be in danger, and you wouldn’t have to wait--yes, that’s the important part: you wouldn’t have to wait. You’ve had enough of this queue.

But still, maybe that’s a bad idea. It sounds like the sort of thing that would be illegal. Maybe you shouldn’t. Maybe you should just sit here quietly, like a good egg.

Would it be worth it?

Alright, your mind whispers. Alright. If the keys are there, I’ll do it. Having made your decision, you slowly rise from your seat and make your way awkwardly to the front of the bus--the lane between the seats is much too small. How is anyone supposed to maneuver over to the back doors before they close?

There isn’t a key.

You sink into your seat--a different seat, one nearer to the front this time. You feel…free. Thankful. Thank god I didn’t have to steal a bus. Free.

Now you can wait.


You wake up.

Your back is stiff. Comes from sleeping outdoors without proper bedding, of course--still, you curse at the you from…

The you from before. Before you slept. The you from before. What an awkward phrase! You were hoping you’d be able to narrow it down more than that--the you from two hours ago, perhaps. The you from yesterday. But you don’t actually know when you slept, or for how long.

Maybe you were only asleep for ten minutes, even! Twenty minutes, like some sort of uberman.

You look towards the trees.

It’s dark, Pitch black dark.

It still doesn’t preclude your twenty minutes, though. Not sure when I slept--and your mind reaches that train of thought once again. Not sure when I slept. Could be missing a day.

Darkness, pitch black darkness. Something buzzes in your brain--a blinking light indicating importance. Hazard lights. Never actually seen them in use. Or one of those red triangular signs, either, that you’re supposed to carry around with you…

Something is important. Pitch black darkness. No moon, either, you realize. No moon, no stars, no tree. Tree? Something else is biting at the edge of your mind, but it isn’t as important as this. No moon, no stars.

Behind you, over your right shoulder, someone giggles.

>> No. 9560
[x]Jump forward, look back. Something wicked this way comes.
>> No. 9588
[x] Holy shit that is creepy. Crouch down and look around behind you for the source of that giggle, while your hands search the ground for a rock or a stick. Don't make a peep.

Fucking Rumia. Good thing she can't see in the dark. Try to fake her out regarding your position by generating noise at an increasing distance away from you. Move slowly; if you try to run, you'll probably just smash into a tree.
>> No. 9589
[x] Holy shit that is creepy. Crouch down and look around behind you for the source of that giggle, while your hands search the ground for a rock or a stick. Don't make a peep.
>> No. 9648
File 122320383472.jpg - (73.85KB , 612x480 , Valley_of_the_Shadow_of_Death.jpg ) [iqdb]
[x] Holy shit that is creepy. Crouch down and look around behind you for the source of that giggle, while your hands search the ground for a rock or a stick. Don't make a peep.

You start, shooting out of your seat as if the Finger of God has sudden left your head. You bob to the surface instantly, porous, full of tiny holes that make up every square inch of your skin. Over the hedge.

It isn’t a hedge at all, of course, but with the nonexistent lighting it feels green, felt green when you touched it, fingers gripping the top of the back and leaping over. Green, a deep, dark green that exploded in your eyes for a moment as you gripped the seat (a dead man wrapped in cloth, you thought for a moment), and then was gone again, leaving the black.


Why did I do that?

Crumpled up across yourself, breathing hard, you navigate the corridors of your thought process, grasping at strings that wrap around corners as you follow the maze of twisty little passages. They’re all alike, you realize suddenly. They’re all the alike because they’re all the same, and they’re all the same because they’re all the same passageway. There is only one passageway, and only one room at the end of it, and you grasp the thing in your hands, tenderly, afraid that it might break into a dozens of pieces.

Why was I scared?

You put your hands to the floor--a useless gesture. You feel only clods of--something, some unknown substance that crumbles between your fingers. A wave of panic turns the inside of your skull cold. I broke it. I broke it!

No, no, no, you didn’t break it, it’s okay.

I broke it! In my hands--

Not these hands, different hands. You didn’t break it, you put it down, you picked it up and then you put it down and it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.

I broke it.

It’s okay. Okay? Okay? Repeat after me. Repeat after me, now. It’s okay. Are you listening to me? Say it. Repeat after me. It’s okay. It’s okay. What is it? It’s…

It’s okay.

It’s okay.

Okay. It’s okay. Okay.

You spread you hands to the side, still feeling the floor, making sure to keep them away from--okay, okay, okay, okay, okay. Nothing. There’s nothing here. It’s all grass and clods.

You turn your head, looking over your shoulder, but you still can’t see anything, so you look back at your hands. Your hands aren’t there. You can feel them, the tips of your fingers against the tips of your fingers, but that doesn’t mean anything. Professional. Didn’t scream as jagged teeth bit into chest. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, and didn’t even scream.

I was only a child and they took her legs away, you think. Sure, of course, why not? San legs, too. That’s covered under “everything”, isn’t it? Teeth, eyes, taste, and everything!

You’re gone no matter what you do! It’s funny, you think, it’s funny because it’s terrible and you laugh, a great barking wild cry that sputters wheezing into heavy spitting Muttley snickers.

And then after that, after the darkness and the nothing, there is--

Warm breath, against the tip of your ear. Lips. A soft whisper.

“What are you laughing at, I wonder, I wonder?”

>> No. 9651
[x] "I cannot be smelt, I cannot be dealt, I cannot be touched, I cannot be felt. What am I?"
[x] "I just found out what the answer to that riddle was. The answer's so simple it's funny. Bet you can't tell me what it is!"
[x] If she falls for it, sneak away while she tries to find out the answer.

Doesn't matter what the answer is, all that matters is that she loses interest in us. And if it's Rumia, she might be childish enough to stop chasing us in order to figure it out.
>> No. 9654
[x] "Laugh, and the whole world laughs with you; cry, and you cry alone."
>> No. 9656
[x]My madness! My own MADNESS.
>> No. 9775
File 122335415692.jpg - (307.32KB , 1500x1198 , sunprominence_304erupt_crop.jpg ) [iqdb]
[x] My madness! My own MADNESS.

The answer comes unbidden, jumping to your throat and out your mouth before you can even process the question and what it means. It’s only a jumble of meaningless syllables in your ears--but some force other than yourself opens your mouth and flaps your tongue in response.

“My madness.”

Because you’re quite mad, you must be mad, because you’ve missed your stop and there will come fierce cries when you finally make it to your destination (if you ever even do) but you can’t manage to care. That bit of you has been erased, wiped clean--no, nothing can ever truly leave, once it enters.

It always leaves itself behind. Relabeled, then. Given a new call number, placed on a shelf far across the aisles. You look in your regular place, a place you’ve visited so many times before, and you cannot find it. It is not there. It is not gone, but it is not there--an unexploded mine, waiting to be tripped by the only unfortunate soul who wanders the dusty halls.

Stand fast! Damn you, stand fast!


My own madness.

Sans teeth sans eyes sans taste sans legs sans mind.

The thing in the darkness smiles. You can’t see it, but you can feel it, like grease in the air, like fat burning.

“Is that so?”

You nod. “I will be late.”

“You will be late,” the thing agrees, and its grin becomes wider and for a moment you think you can see beyond the darkness, though it--and an image flashes in your mind (sans mind, you keep reminding yourself) of two rows of sharp teeth. He stood with his hands in his pockets, you think. Never once did he reach for the guidance of--

Breath upon your face.

>> No. 9782
[x] Warm. Other people are warm. Reach out for this warmth.
>> No. 9808
I'm torn between punching her and trying to mindfuck her.
>> No. 9820
Okay, here's my theoretical explanation for this story:

Yukari, Reisen and Koishi are combining their powers to leave the player character as utterly confused and mindbroken as possible.

Anyway, not voting for a suicide option.

[X] Use your madness as a weapon: try to scare or confuse the person into retreat or submission.
>> No. 9822
[X] Use your madness as a weapon: try to scare or confuse the person into retreat or submission.
>> No. 9825
[X] Use your madness as a weapon: try to scare or confuse the person into retreat or submission.
>> No. 9920
File 122351933239.jpg - (696.47KB , 1280x960 , Ants_cleaning_dead_snake.jpg ) [iqdb]
[X] Use your madness as a weapon: try to scare or confuse the person into retreat or submission.

“The rats never--”

You try to say something, have to say something. But your throat is dry.

“The rats never harmed a man as me.” Frantic, flying. “I only became their cellmate, their food-bearer, when I struck upon the truth--”

No response.

“The truths--the truths hidden beneath my father’s foundation, and that of the father’s father and the fathers’ fathers--” Father, Father who art in heaven, lend me a cup I beg of you. “Bones--bones in the mist, over every bridge and stair, who with meaning hidden to me--”

You babble mindlessly as the things draws nearer, your words torrenting forth as vomit from your lips. If they could see you now, they would laugh--you were never the model of perfect health, but such schizophasiac speech is far removed from your usual murmurs.

“--strode forth with like-minded--I took the only option available! It was my birthright, the liar’s gift--”

But it is not pure madness dripping from your tongue. There is method there--half-thought, half-formed, but method nonetheless.

Maybe if you keep talking, it will go away.

“--dead only to keep me safe. Me, and a thousand like, content in their ignorance--I have done good things,” you plead. “seen people. Tall people, who saw the world upside-down and I, following along as Bertuccio after some twisted parody of the Count--”

A wild, useless hope.

“--not even a nod!” you cry. “Not even a nod, not even a gesture--damn your eyes, you but keep staring at me with that smile--I have letters, sealed, stamped, addressed!”

Finally, a response.

But not the one you hoped for.

The thing slowly, deliberately raises its hands. Its palms are cool against the sides of your neck.

You smell the fetor of your own death.

“Matthew!” you call desperately into the darkness, into its face. “Matthew, I beg--Matthew --Jerome--Duncan--Agri--”

“You haven’t tasted near the poisons as I,” the thing says, and its voice is sweet, high-pitched as a child’s as its nails dig into the back of your neck. “So…”


Something spills.

“…I’ll taste you.”


[_] Listen to Egar-sensei’s lesson.
[_] Go back one turn and choose a new action.
>> No. 9923
[x] Beg Karl Gotch, who happens to be walking by, for help.
>> No. 9928
[x] Listen to Egar-sensei’s lesson.
>> No. 9931
>“You will be late,” the thing agrees, and its grin becomes wider and for a moment you think you can see beyond the darkness, though it--and an image flashes in your mind (sans mind, you keep reminding yourself) of two rows of sharp teeth.

[x] Go back one turn and choose a new action.
~[x] Genuflect.
~[x] "Is that so~?" Breathe on her face.

Mimic her actions in an exaggerated fashion.