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Gloom: WILD CITY
[The old-fashioned writing desk in the center of the room carries several blank pieces of paper, a fine wooden pen, and a piece of parchment covered in writing. When you take a look, you find the following epigraph in a vibrant scrawl:]
Congratulations, future wordsmiths, and welcome to your first exercise in the creation of a true masterwork of tale-telling. This evening you'll be penning a terrific tragedy, starring the family of unsympathetic ne'er-do-wells provided to you.
Your goal? Why, to construct the best story your mind can conceive, of course - and make their lives as entertainingly miserable as possible before writing one of them directly into an early grave.
Congratulations, future wordsmiths, and welcome to your first exercise in the creation of a true masterwork of tale-telling. This evening you'll be penning a terrific tragedy, starring the family of unsympathetic ne'er-do-wells provided to you.
Your goal? Why, to construct the best story your mind can conceive, of course - and make their lives as entertainingly miserable as possible before writing one of them directly into an early grave.
Re: OUTCOME
Lola laid low by her clown begotten injuries hobbled to the doctor as she hummed to block out the sound of honking that echoed in her head. After a long wait she was finally seen and she hoped for healing to be found.
"Have you tried yoga?" Asked the doctor as he ignored her bruises.
Lola went to find another doctor and waited another long wait.
"Have you tried losing weight?" Asked the doctor as he ignored her bruises.
Lola went to find another doctor and waited another long wait.
"Are you pregnant?" Asked the doctor.
"I was ATTACKED BY CLOWNS!" shrieked Lola.
"There's nothing wrong with a clown for a father. In fact, were you to ask my mother, I was raised by the biggest clown of all. Of course my father was actually quite noble and...."
There was no aid to be found from the inattentive, half listening medical professionals. Lola sighed to herself as she slowly, achingly trudged home. Simon Simone didn't know real suffering she thought to herself.
. . .or did they.
Simon Simone, inmate number 69--nice--sat in his cell, a smug smile upon their face. These hard times had changed them, ruined them. They now embraced their liar title, and used it to climb the ranks at the prison. Every gang knew to make way for them, to save all their rations for their enjoyment! Sure, in reality a swift breeze could break Simon, but they didn't know that.
But then came the clowns.
It turns out, Simon's dear sister would get the last laugh! The clowns that trampled her were actually a rogue gang, and ironically, their wild charge on the wild card that was his sister lead to their eventual capture. Soon, Simon found them sharing his prison quarters.
Surely, they could win them over! Laughing? Acting? It all came full circle! Surely, these clowns were like family! This was the gang where they belong! But alas, it was not meant to be. Simon had left behind their acting days, and all that was left was a hollow shell of a liar. How could anyone so hollow be a true clown?
And they were sure to show Simon this, too. No longer the top dog, Simon found themselves being thrown from unicycle to unicycle, being juggled like a ball, and stuffed with cheap tricks. The clowns literally ripped them limb from limb, confetti and ribbons pouring from their limbs!
Simon Simone died without a smile, all to hold up a lie. Their sister sneezed.
The end.
[As they unfold before you, some of you feel the effects of the words as though you are the character that has been written about. You recall the events as though you have lived them; the damage caused to the character is reflected in your own flesh.]
[You have received the following effects. As many of you as want to take these effects can, but at least one person must.]
-Was bedeviled by doctors
-Was torn limb from limb
Re: OUTCOME
at least the ribbons are cute i guess ]