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 Posted: Sat Nov 16, 2024 8:55 pm
Museum Gift Shop Entries
Item Shop Cactus Cat:
Moth Plush:
Cursed Dagger:
Forgot his name right now but purple and green angry boy
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NymiiNym generated a random number between
1 and 3 ...
1!
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Posted: Sat Nov 16, 2024 8:56 pm
If you roll a 1: The cat is somewhere between in love with you to very much approves of you.
Then again, it wasn't as if it changed anything; Aleda didn't have a single friend to wander these lands with, anyway.
Crunching-- the snow crinkled at her side, giving way to a tiny warmth pressing itself into her flank. A sharp p***k startled her, eliciting a yelp of surprise, her head whirling to face the attacker.
Oh.
Oh.
A small feline blinked owlishly back at her, shivering closer. Aleda's eyes dragged across their spikes and back to their face, reluctantly pulling away to consider the creature. It squeaked meekly, trailing after her warmth with folded ears.
"You poor thing," Aleda murmured softly. "You didn't mean to hurt me, did you?"
Another squeak, another pathetic attempt to crumple into her side.
"No, shh- come closer. It's okay. We'll keep each other warm." She shifted, dragging a hoof around the small critter and gesturing for them to scurry up towards her chest, to which it obliged. Eagerly, the kitten scrunched into her, squirming in effort to avoid pricking her again. There, the two remained, huddled against one another until the sun rose and greeted the sleepy, frozen pair. Aleda would leave that mountain with her first friend.
Her best friend.
WC: 276
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NymiiNym generated a random number between
1 and 3 ...
2!
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Posted: Sun Nov 24, 2024 10:05 pm
Mothman plushie placeholder
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NymiiNym generated a random number between
1 and 3 ...
3!
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Posted: Sun Nov 24, 2024 10:13 pm
 If you roll a 3: You are transported into the body of an injured and lost Valkyrie. Do you panic? Do you find your way home? (You do not have any breed healing powers as the Valkyrie you're in does not).
He had wanted to shout at first. Blame something, anything, for his quite literal downfall. It couldn't be his fault-- no, that'd mean admitting he was in the wrong, which he wasn't. Who looked at the ground when walking? Surely, the world should look above and avoid him, instead. He rose with a curse, leg lashing to kick out at the offending item, only to freeze inches above. Now, what was such a pretty helm doing on the ground? His head tossed, checking both sides-- nope, no one was watching, which meant...
Well, it was his now.
His head dipped, nosing the helm onto his head with glee.
It was beautiful! It matched his feathers perfectly, highlighting the blue of his accessories and--
Wait.
Why was the world on fire?
His chest heaved, his mouth gaping as a sharp, pained, laborious breath croaked free. His legs crumpled under him, careening him into hard soil, where a cold and sticky fluid clung to his legs. It hurt. Everything around him burned with an intensity he had never felt before, his sides laboring with harsh, choked sobs with each breath. Blood-- it filled the air and poured from his chest, dripping into puddles under him. His body did not feel his own, full of feathers no longer accessories, hooves contorted into claws he did not recognize, and a muzzle he clawed desperately at. He was not him-- not the beautiful and carefree Lance who had never once felt pain like this. He was someone else-- something else, and he was dying.
"Help!" He cried, writhing as his chest bloomed in agony. He looked down at the gaping wound, claw marks dragging through his chest and down his open sides. "Help me!" He screamed again.
No one came.
He tried to stand. Tried to claw his way up and drag himself free of his firey surroundings. A cacophony of screams echoed through the air, his knees buckling under him and prompting his own to join the choir. It hurt. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt-
IT HURT.
The clang of metal clattered behind him, his head snapping to see a large Valkyrie towering above his body. "Make it stop," he begged, reaching out with claws he didn't understand. She sneered, lifting her own adorned claws.
"Gladly."
His world turned black after her claws left his throat.
.......
With a gasp, Lance jerked upright, the helm clattering to the ground, innocuously rolling to his feet. He scrambled, kicking at dirt with hooves he did recognize, his voice shrieking a shrill and sharp sound. Sobs wracked his throat, crashing from him in loud, choked waves. He was back-- he was him.
But it'd take a long time for Lance to truly feel like himself again.
WC: 569
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NymiiNym generated a random number between
1 and 3 ...
2!
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Posted: Sat Nov 30, 2024 6:17 pm
If you roll a 2: The curse is deadly. You have to find a way to neutralize the dagger. How?
The voice beckoned again—as it had for nights prior—hissing under her ear with a sharp, dripping malice. She knew what it craved, what it demanded, and she was wont to heed its call.
"Not yet," she'd seethe in return. "It's not my time."
It wasn't her time.
Throughout the days, she strived to ignore the lingering hate baying at the corner of her vision, pushing to turn her head when it cawed and howled, lowering her gaze as it ascended when she hesitated in place. It was not to be ignored, it threatened, but Veydra was not one to buckle. She was, after all, her mother's daughter, and her bloodline did not concede.
"You hear it, don't you?" Her mother asked on the seventh day.
"No," Veydra lied, tasting the iron of her deception on her tongue.
It wasn't their time.
The dagger found Veydra on the ninth day, left unceremoniously at her feet upon her waking. She knew instinctively what it meant, and yet she denied it further, chucking the blade deep into her bedding where not a soul would find it. The rot should have been enough— the decay that seeped from her claws with each touch, each step, should have been enough for the moth-winged daughter, but still, she persisted. It was not her time— not their time, and Veydra would not fold.
"Our people will die," her mother urged on the twelfth day.
The blade whispered each night, growing louder every moon. Veydra thrashed in her sleep, plagued by the poison of her nightmares, visions of her people choking on her deceit and betrayal. Sickness traveled through the herd, felling her people to their knees for her refusals— her crimes.
"It will be your fault," the light promised her.
"I can't," Veydra cried in return.
The fifteenth day came with dark claws, abandoning the corpse of a cold foal in its wake. Veydra looked down on the child, hearing the cries of its mother shriek through the night, echoing with its horrible, twisted wails. Her eyes met her mother's, and she knew.
"I'm sorry," she whispered to the night— to her herd, her mother, and, most importantly, The Light.
"We forgive you," The Light answered.
The blade sang when she removed it from its cradle, ringing soft, joyous cries while its master stood before her swarm. Her mother laid upon the sacrificial slab, pride weeping from her eyes. Veydra hesitated, sweeping her gaze past the hill and over her people, who waited patiently— eagerly. On the fifteenth day, she plunged the dagger deep, dismantling the mother and leader she had so loved. The Light cooed gleefully in her ear, gripping her shoulders tight as she dug deep.
This was her right, it soothed. "It is your time," it urged. She had been chosen—as once her mother had before—and Veydra was left with a new name; The Lumen. The rot and plague ended, leaving behind Veydra and her people to replenish and grow once more. The dagger, appeased and content, no longer whispered to its owner at night, taking its resting place upon a new altar, reserved exclusively for ceremony. Veydra swore never to disobey The Light or ignore its calling again, lest she invoke its curse once more.
WC: 555
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