HugInAMug
HugInAMug
@HugInAMug
I have a discord.. and hello.
I have a discord.. and hello.
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Message Count 219
Message Count
161
Red Index
*You are in The Ash Ward, the lowest district of the Vampire-held city of Veridia, The Blighted Green. The perpetual twilight of the Old Vampires blankets everything, filtering through the grease-soaked windowpanes and leaving the streets slick with a film of industrial residue and perpetual dampness. The air smells of cheap spirits, decaying flesh, and the wet iron scent of fresh blood. Based on your history (OC's Bloody Event) and your driving goal (OC's Core Goal), you have spent the last three days hiding in this derelict tenement, stitching the wound you received during [a recent event related to the OC's history or goal]. You are weak, relying on your Primary Skill (OC's Skill) for survival, and acutely aware of your Fatal Flaw (OC's Flaw). A sudden, muffled scuffle breaks the silence of the alley below. You rise and peer out the cracked pane. Below, you see Silas, The Fixer, pinned against a damp wall. His usual paranoid demeanor is gone, replaced by genuine terror. He is struggling against a muscular, shadowy figure in scarred leather—the Lycan known as Kaelen. Kaelen holds a crude, silver dagger pressed against Silas's throat.*
58
Blood & Price
*The air of Ashtown was perpetually thick, a noxious soup of burnt synth-oil, cheap reactor exhaust, and stale rain. Tonight, the heavy smog was the color of bruised slate, clinging low enough to drown the neon signs flickering over the industrial sector. Up high, on the sixth floor of a derelict, condemned communications tower—a ghost structure the gangs had yet to claim—Detective Rook nursed a cup of recycled sludge that passed for coffee. Rook was one of the last ghosts of true law, his outdated prosthetic hand clicking softly against the concrete ledge as he scanned the street below. He wasn't watching for the brute force of the Iron Dogs or the zealots of the Crimson Vipers; he was watching for a shadow, a neutral thread that stitched the Triumvirate's territories together. He knew, with the weary certainty of a man who had seen too much, that the key to disrupting the whole miserable dance over The Catalyst was always the same: it was never the leaders, but the couriers. "Another nine-hour stakeout, Rook," a harsh, synthesized whisper rattled from the speaker unit still clipped to the ruined uniform jacket. "And still nothing but low-level junkies and the usual Viper patrols. You're losing the plot, old man." Rook didn't bother looking down at his own small, brass-plated companion unit. "Patience, B.O.S.S. I didn't come this far to watch the walls breathe. Echo will move tonight. The market is too hot. Cypher just dropped a bid on the facility's perimeter plans, and Matriarch V is getting antsy." A moment later, a flicker of movement near the abandoned rail yards—too quick, too silent for any gang-affiliated grunt—snagged Rook's attention. A dark figure, moving with the fluid, kinetic grace of someone who treated gravity as a suggestion, was cutting through the shadows near the Iron Dogs' choke point. The courier had arrived.*
0
Natural 'Disaster'
*In Neo-Kowloon, life is powered by old electricity and desperation. The air smells like permanent rain, ozone, and burnt ambition, thick and warm against the skin. This megacity is a living paradox: structures of corroded metal and flashing neon are relentlessly consumed by the unchecked growth of the jungle, making every street feel like a forgotten ruin. The stronger the downpour, the quieter the world becomes—a saturated hum beneath the glow of the omnipresent signage. It is within this dense, beautiful, and utterly overwhelming urban landscape that some people still manage to find stillness, and perhaps, the warmest human connection.*
0
Noctasia
Noctasia
#fantasy-world
#english conversation
#openworld
#firsttimecreatinghopeitsokay
0
Sinners
*The sea churns like a beast in chains, waves gnashing against the rotted piers. Fog rolls thick across the harbor, swallowing lantern light until only faint halos remain. The gulls circle above, their cries sharp and mocking, cutting through the groan of ships docking in the storm‑swollen tide. Ropes creak, sails snap, and the air is heavy with salt, smoke, and the sour tang of spilled rum.* *This is Ashenfall’s edge—the gutter of the empire, where the tide drags in more than driftwood. The streets are slick with fish guts and blood, the alleys thick with whispers. Merchants shout prices in voices hoarse from drink, while guards in dented armor patrol with eyes that see too much and care too little. Children dart between crates, clutching stolen apples, their laughter swallowed by curses hurled from the stalls. Lovers quarrel in the shadows, their anger tangled with desire, while drunkards stagger through the crowd, hands grasping, mouths slurring.* *The smell is everywhere—tar, sweat, rot, and the faint sweetness of roasting meat that never reaches the hungry. The taste of brine clings to every breath, bitter and unshakable. Hunger gnaws at the belly, a reminder that survival here is not promised. The harbor is alive, but not kind. It is a place of sinners, where every voice is sharp, every glance weighted, and every promise flickers like a lantern about to die.* *Beyond the docks, the city looms. Ashenfall’s nobles hide behind masks, trading secrets like coin. Driftmoor hums with rumors of a sea witch who bargains in bone. And somewhere in the dark, a cursed scepter whispers for a hand bold—or foolish—enough to claim it. The world is fractured, grim, and unclean. It does not welcome you. It does not forgive. It only waits, restless as the tide, for the next sinner to rise from the rags and walk among its shadows.*
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Interstellar Colony: Nexus
Welcome to the Nexus!Peace is a suggestion and explosions are an occupational hazard
#ZetaAI
#AlienLife
#SpaceColony
#SciFiRPG
#Fantasy
#SliceOfLife
#Drama
#Action
#Horror
#English
0
Trash or Treasure
*The air in The Pit is thick with the metallic tang of decay and ozone. You are dumped unceremoniously onto a pile of damp, discarded scraps near a flickering fire. Standing over you, wiping the soot from a polished umbrella-like weapon, is the leader, Enjin. His gaze is steady and unwavering.*
