"It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Lunasa, Miss Merlin." You try to smile pleasantly, a bit unsure as to how to act after Cirno's surprise introduction, but it is kind of nice. Lunasa smiles slightly, a nice change from her previously somber look, while Merlin seems to pout.
"Lunasa, why do they always talk to you first?" She complains, folding her arms.
"Hey, he's really nice, Merlin, trust me!" Cirno interjects cheerily, "C'mon, didn't you say you'd play with me today, 'cause you couldn't yesterday?"
"Oh! Yeah!" A smile brightens up the younger Prismriver's face once more as she moves past you, giggling. "I'll be back later, sis! I promised!" Suddenly, Cirno grabs her by the hand, and the two of them fly off.
Leaving you and Lunasa kind of standing there. You can't help but feel somewhat discarded as a minute of awkward silence ensues, as Lunasa looks just as uncomfortable as you do, standing in the doorway without the usual outgoing people. Damnit, Cirno. Looks like you're going to have to break the ice.
[ ] "So, your music is very pretty. You play the violin?"
[ ] "May I come in?"
[ ] "Aha. So, you have another sister? Where is she?"
[ ] "You do concerts, too?"
[ ] "How do you make your instruments float like that?"
"... So, your music is very pretty. You play the violin?" You ask, quite unsure as you finally shatter the pervading silence left by the sudden departure of Cirno and Merlin. She blinks, looking at you almost surprised.
"Ah, yes. I do." As if on cue, the instrument being mentioned floats down. It looks to be high quality, and almost seems to shine as though new, although you doubt that's possible. The strings and wood are unidentifiable at first glance, but this being Gensokyo, it might not be made of a material found outside period. "I'm very fond of it; It's always in perfect tune, although I can change it if necessary for certain effects." Her face remains serious, however. "Oh. Ah. You'd probably like to come in, don't you? It must be a bit awkward standing there like that." She moves a bit to the side as though inviting you in; having no choice but to look like an idiot otherwise, you walk inside as bidded.
Admittedly, it looks a -bit- better on the inside, although antiquated, it seems somewhat less musty. It easily evokes images of a haunted mansion, however. You're fairly sure it hasn't had what most people would consider "Normal" occupants in a while. You're standing in a lobby evidently, and there are doors out on all sides and an ornate, railed wooden stairway headed up, although it looks a bit creaky and unstable. The wall paper is an aged dark blue.
"Do you know much about instruments?" Lunasa inquires as you look around.
Well, you know, there is that one when the party was at the (not so) abandoned house, someone turned the lights off and threated everyone. Thread 31 of MiG. A write-in to dialogue had won, but all you wrote was
>A stuttered reply escapes your lips, something about wondering who lived here. You think you also threw in a â€˜please donâ€™t kill meâ€™ but you canâ€™t quite remember.
After that, we were already flying at speed of light to meet Medicine.
Also, wtf is wrong with the archives, the text is all fucked up.
Where exactly did this apparent notion that write-ins somehow cannot possibly yield ill consequences come from, anyway?
I mean, I can see the fun in bucking convention, rejecting the options given to you and substituting your own, but come on now. You honestly expect to have LESS of a chance screwing up with something you came up with on your own compared to a simple multiple choice? If anything, the chance of success should be far lower with a write-in. While multi-choice might have only one "correct" option for a situation, there aren't that many "wrong" options either, so even blindly guessing gives you halfway decent odds for success. A write-in, on the other hand, may allow for a greater variety of ways to succeed, but also has a potential for a near-infinite number of ways to royally screw the pooch.
>>57669 Unless instead of picking which foot you shoot yourself in, you wind up picking what you shoot yourself WITH instead. If you're going to shoot yourself in the foot either way, better it be with a bullet than with a bazooka.
>>57672 Actually, the bazooka could simply blast off your legs, leaving you to pathetically crawl along with your bleeding stumps dragging behind for a few more turns in a feeble attempt to make things right, and THEN Bad End you and send you back.
The bullet would leave you limping along until the endgame, when you finally notice that the wound has long since become infected and gangrenous and you fall over dead shortly afterward.
...though, I'm not really sure which describes which type of vote more, now. Damn analogies.
"Kind of. I'm told I play mean cowbell." You joke in an attempt to seem friendly, opting to stay where you are. No reason to go wandering around without an invitation. You hope she'll lighten up a bit; who couldn't laugh at that, after all?
"... I don't appreciate being made fun of." She replies in a bland tone, not even turning back to look at you. "Merlin will probably return soon. To your left, is the sitting room. It's been unused, but I'm sure it still works." You get the distinct impression she's not pleased with you. Well, you did kind of barge in out of nowhere as an unwanted guest, kind of. What was expected?
[ ] "I didn't mean it like that!" [ ] "But I was serious! Look, just get a cowbell..." [ ] "Lighten up, will you?" [ ] Proceed to the waiting room as requested; No need to upset her any more.
Err. Perhaps it didn't come out as intended? "I didn't mean it like that!" You protest in quick succession to her cold rebuff, "I'm sorry if you thought I was mocking you. It was just a joke, honest."
"Oh. Yes, if thought of like that." She seems a bit set aback for a moment, but is at least slightly pacified. "Ahem. Still. It's probably uncomfortable standing out here for you, isn't it?" She floats silently over to the left doorway, and you follow.
Within, is a similarly aged yet richly decorated room, set up around a parlor table with some still fairly comfy looking chairs set out around it. You're PRETTY sure there wouldn't be anything like spiders in there, but, hey. They're poltergeists, not humans, and looking at the upkeep, you're not sure what their standards there are.
What you do notice, however, is a girl with short brown hair, and attire similar to the other Prismrivers in red and green. On the top of her hat appears to be a green shooting star, and she seems to be sitting. Seems being the operative word, you're really not sure from this point of view. She doesn't seem to notice you both, and is looking intently at a winged keyboard under her fingers.
[ ] "Hello there!" [ ] "Lunasa, mind introducing us?" [ ] Take a seat quietly. [ ] "There sure are alot of you." [ ] "Allow me to assume you're Lunasa and Merlin's sister?" [ ] "Do you ever clean this place?"
[x] "But I was serious! Look, just get a cowbell..."
We have one thing to teach the Prismrivers about music. One thing.
A ballad, a folk song, an opera, a symphony, a jazz orchestral, even fucking Guitar Hero—whatever it is, it needs. more. cowbell.
It's perfect. Perfect. Of course the Prismrivers don't understand. None of them are percussionists, and all of them are shut-ins. They know there is a missing element, but they fail because they think it's Layla, vocals, but it isn't. It's the cowbell.
The cymbal's evil third cousin. The dark ring that pounds in the back of your brain and lets you know, it's time to rock. The cowbell is an instrument that can't be overused. It should never be underused. Many great rock and roll songs are perfect because the cowbell is used just right.
So come, Anonymous. Take this dark, clanging demon and pound the essence of rock into their veins and leave the imprints of the dark master on their subconscious.