Overboard

>>10315 →
>>10317 →
>something resonates in the doll's mind
>a moment...

<Ursula
Do you think I represent pride? Well, you're mistaken... for starters, I prefer lust, and besides, I'm not the only one who's been in more than one role, remember Howlita?

>the chick who gave them those weapons for showing her the cards Gold Ship gave her has also been on more than one adventure
>although in both she was completely different

<Ursula
I'm afraid the true enemy that represents pride is much worse than me, someone only comparable to my master, the insatiable one

<Nozomi
even I am afraid of her

>says the woman who has killed many with snu snu while playing with her Tarot cards

<Ursula
but I warn you... she is a worse opponent than you can imagine, so don't underestimate her. Although

>Ursula shows her true form anyway

<Ursula
Now that I don't have to worry about WhatsApp anymore, I can show as much flesh as I want! Thanks, Liam... or whatever your name is.

...

>their next trial is crossing the bridge
>what kind of enemy is Ursula warning them about?

>>10423 →
>>10424 →

Rum is the advent of death, of the entity behind the man's mask... or something like that. I can't really think of anything profound when we're on this island, but the important thing is that by still rolling lower dice, Liam the all-powerful can create his tornado that traps the gas cloud to destroy it once and for all, freeing the world from the damned ERP. Why did the action work? Idk man, maybe the dice added up or a +10 is a hit, I don't make the rules here.

The power of brute force was superior to any strategy because brute force is the best strategy.

This strange subject with red eyes and a smile drinks the last of the bottle and then listlessly throws it to the ground, shattering into shards of grayish-green glass, bursting like my dreams and hopes. He then covers himself with this hand from the dust and his hair, which flutters madly due to the strong hurricane winds, his cape also escaping from his back and neck to be lost across the island.

In the end, he dissolves the tornado by his will because it was already leaving the place a mess, more of a mess than it already was in the first place, and he had surely left a large crack in the ground from the initial cut or not, that's up to each person. At least looking at the destruction was certainly comforting. The lady from Brazil would no longer be able to build her casino on this land.

>Liam All
Life itself is just another illusion. A dream. Nothing exists but empty space and you. And you are nothing but a thought.

... Who are you talking to?

>Liam All
You.

...
...
... Who is Tigo?

The man adjusts his disheveled hair, in a very unmanly way.

~•~

Moving from existential horror to present horror when Liam approaches those other three characters in the story, completely unrelated to the absurd fight before, just as he was also unrelated to what was happening here, as if all these people were living in parallel worlds that collide to give these tiny interactions.

According to the guide's words and the doll, the multiversal-clash was real, canonical, but that was known because Liam All had already been in other roles worlds, other Realities and all that before this move. Here he joins the conversation to explain things, not for nothing was he omnipresent.

>Liam All
Daughter, sometimes there are unique entities, sometimes not. A common mortal will have their duplicate in another Reality, the same or different from their "original" version depending on how far or close it is to the other Reality. If it's very far, it will be more different.

At that, he bites the tip of his index finger to let a drop of blood fall to the ground, which begins to take shape. From a puddle to a silent and painful transformation, a body, a young boy, with brown hair and from a certain country-

>Liam All
Look at this boy for example. All his versions are the same with tiny changes, in the end they all converge into the same body, mind, and soul because it's the same entity. Surely you can do the same if there are other versions of you out there.

The figure of the boy looking at his own hands returns to its form of a drop of blood on the ground, after all it was just a borrowed body without a soul or mind. Marcelo no longer exists, or at least not that one.

>Liam All
Likewise, sometimes it's not that simple, too many variations and infinite possibilities. One doesn't meet their alternate reality self every day.
Very complicated, very complicated, very complicated.

Mr. Brain, end your explanation of the multiverse so they can keep talking about the deadly sins or some crap about how they saved the BBC's armorer's cards... Oh, right, I couldn't comment on that, sorry. Apparently, they were going to fight someone who represented pride, only Liam wasn't that interested.

Lla Mail waves his hand and smiles at the teenager in the cage, then puts away the sword that turns back into a metal ball. He puts this in his dimensional inventory/backpack, the rift he uses to store things worth keeping, like his dreams and hopes-

Just then, super freak Ursula does a hocus pocus and changes her appearance to something more like a hussy, the kind who dance on poles and have money thrown at them. (Insert xenophobic comment about Mexican women here).

<Thanks, Liam... or whatever your name is.

>Liam All
You're welcome. You were very quick a moment ago, I knew you weren't conventional.

There's the explanation for the attempted homicide earlier.

>Liam All
But remember, sharing your flesh with another being is wonderful, however seeking this wonder in unbridled lust is like seeking warmth in a fire that devours a forest. In the end, Venus's poison will leave you hollow, turned to ashes and cold.

Liam All shares his wisdom; everyone already knew what happened to adult film actresses or what happened to Cleopatra according to Dante's Inferno™, so one had to control their physiological needs.

>Liam All
...Are we going to leave this girl locked up here?

He was also asking about the whore in the cage because he wasn't present for the earlier conversation; all he knew was that being locked up is an agony that makes you develop multiple personalities... or so he was told. He can't lose his head because he doesn't have one.

~•~

The party then continues their walk, passing through the gap, bridge, elevator, or stairs, it didn't matter. Just then, they speak to the man with the po-po-po-pokerface; it's the doll who is communicating right now as if she were Josué Yrion, throwing in a w reference to the galactic war along the way. Unfortunately, she missed the song.

Maybe Josué Yrion was onto something when he said that; it's not normal for the great N to keep making all-soy video games and for fat virgins to keep buying them. Nostalgia is Satan's strongest weapon.

>Liam All
(You know, making constant references to other types of media or people isn't synonymous with good writing.)

Okay Camus, whatever you say.

We return to the doll. She speaks, looking forward.

>Liam All
I don't have much to smile about right now. Smiling all the time isn't something I'd want to do.

The slow and torturous walk continues.

~•~
~•~
~•~

At an indefinite time, probably after these three have left, from the small drop of blood from before, another Liam All, identical to the original, is created and moves to the cage of the ----. With a slightly lost gaze around, he grabs the door and rips it off with a single movement.

>Liam All
Come on, get out of there. I know exactly the feeling of eternal confinement.

He extends his hand. He was going to release a universal catastrophe anyway, but mortal morality was the only thing that mattered right now.

1d20 = 4

>>10336 →
>>7287 →
>Leroy

"The president of what?, I'm talking about Tim Burton's movie, don't you know good cinema?"

>Shall I show them to you?

"No thanks, if I wanted to see rotten teeth I'd go visit my grandma. Now come here, damn it--BITCH"

https://youtu.be/ZFsd1XQWvzI▾The zombie uses her own head as a projectile and breaks his whole face, making him fall and roll on the ice floor until he's in a comically characteristic pose.

"Ugh... did you get his license plate?..."

His limbs are at weird angles and his tentacles grope the floor for support, until the brunette frees herself and talks to him, making him regain all his strength to automatically get up.

"Psst, punching bag?, looks like you don't know strategy, sweetie, didn't you hear the tank tactic? If you take all the hits, your opponent will eventually get tired and victory will be yours, I saw it on The Simpsons."

The zombie smelled bad, what a surprise, a dead person smelled dead.

"Sniff sniff Oh damn, it's true, can't you use deodorant or something, little dead girl?"

Anyway, there were things to do, places to go, and the black girl now had a weapon, very true to her skin color.

"Hey, hey, wait a minute! Shit, why don't we go where we need to go first and then kill ourselves? Besides, she's already dead, I don't think you can kill her twice, you know? You can dismember her later and it's..."

As she speaks, she extends an appendage to lower the brunette's weapon.

1d20 = 19 1d6 = 4 1d2 = 1
1d20 = 7 1d6 = 6 1d2 = 2
1d20 = 17 1d6 = 6 1d2 = 1
1d20 = 20 1d6 = 2 1d2 = 2
1d20 = 10 1d6 = 5 1d2 = 1
1d20 = 6 1d6 = 6 1d2 = 2

"Also, I don't think the diabetes villain would like dead bodies in her yard, let's save our necks and not act like children, does anyone object to staying alive everyone?" She asks, "I'm Leroy, by the way, and you, little lump of brown sugar?"

>>7288 →
>how the hell do you miss 6 attacks in a row?
I feel nostalgic

>>10337 →

It's called aura. Listen up, rookies, the real fight starts before the bell even rings! The smell will disorient the enemy and stop them from getting close! If you don't believe me, watch this!

>He approaches the squid kid and removes the head he threw from his body. He squeezes it tightly against his neck and twists it from side to side to make sure it's on properly. Once it's all there, he starts striking various poses, showcasing his villainous aura.

>>10335 →

You'll serve as a test subject, now check this out.

>He walks away from the group to approach the redhead. Standing in front of him, he scoops up as much ice cream as he can, making a ball the size of his head, and swallows it in one gulp. Preparing for the next part of his demonstration, he puffs out his cheeks, tightens his stomach, and then releases a lethal amount of methane gas in a heart-shaped burp. The stench expelled would hit the redhead's olfactory sensors with such force that he would end up falling to the ground from the sheer smell.

>>10336 →

Oh no! A weapon! How scary! What are you gonna do? Shoot me? Let's see, let's see, let's see! Try to kill the undead! Let's see, let's see, let's see! KYAJAJAJAJA!!

>Squidward is correct, a weapon poses no danger to the zombie. In fact, the threat was so minimal that Zombossa started playing with the barrel of the pistol. Hitting it multiple times while laughing out loud at how useless shooting her would be. She already proved she can survive without a head, a couple of bullets are nothing compared to that.

1d20 = 17 1d3 = 2 1d2 = 2
1d20 = 12 1d3 = 2 1d2 = 1
1d20 = 15 1d3 = 1 1d2 = 2
1d20 = 1 1d3 = 1 1d2 = 2
1d20 = 20 1d3 = 1 1d2 = 1
1d20 = 13 1d3 = 2 1d2 = 2
1d20 = 4 1d3 = 2 1d2 = 1
1d20 = 12 1d3 = 2 1d2 = 1

>>10337 →
>>10338 →
>the brunette girl eats her own weapon

<brunette
yes, you are right

>she then rests her head on Leory's shoulder

<brunette
and my name is Kimberly, little octopus

>it seems Leory is managing to win her over

<Kimberly
but I don't think now is a good time to flirt

>meanwhile, the green guy approaches Zombossa

<green guy
if those attacks had been directed by the tentacle guy to hurt you, you would be dead², what would happen if they burned your body or sliced you up? don't get too confident

...

>eventually both and Lucien enter the building
>there are soda fountains (literally) and ornamental candy plants
>they are greeted by gingerbread men who guide them to the auditorium
>the principal should arrive soon

Turnos mañana

>>6641 →
Your insults and provocations were lost in the air like dust. Paolo entered the room with a changed chip. Now he was going to speak with a blade, and not of paper, but of sharp neon. kek

The knife wavered before you, marking the line drawn by your opponent. He challenged you to cross it, and you, already accustomed to crossing any line, lowered your body. The force of your muscles preparing for the lunge opened holes beneath your feet, which joined into a small crater once you launched yourself forward.

The wind spread like your wings, everything not tied to the ground shot out behind you.

You were a bullet devouring distance in the blink of an eye. An anti-tank. But though the earth trembled with your advance, not a hair on Paolo's head moved.

You made a swift exchange, yielding the lead to your jacket in a blinding throw. The thug reacted as if by reflex, his hand descended in a diagonal so swift and perfect it seemed magnetized. The neon imprinted its advance with its celestial light, which illuminated the fabric before spreading throughout it in less than a second, incinerating it like paper in the sun.

But it was a feint. Your shoe relieved your jacket, and it was all that was reflected in the enemy's glasses before the impact that combined all the movement into an omnidirectional blizzard—which did move a hair—

But the collision was strange. Not as solid as a face, not as weak as a neck. You felt pressure increase around your foot, as if the shoe were shrinking in real-time. Your foot trembled in the struggle, you could neither advance nor retract it.

Looking closer, it was firmly locked between the thug's fingers, who raised his off-hand just an instant before the impact. And then, he twisted it.

Quick, for him, like turning a doorknob abruptly, for you, it was as if two knives entered both your ankles at once. Your bones cracked like a branch as your foot turned completely, now facing the same direction as your back.

<Ryu 90%

Paolo gave your foot a shove to push you away. You detached from the ground half a meter, but didn't lose your balance. You planted both feet back on the ground, though they faced opposite directions which doesn't hurt because No More Heroes and you destroyed the half meter by suddenly launching your arm straight at your enemy.

Paolo reacted. He raised the knife, but by the way he held it, it only grazed you with the handle. The blow was enough to leave a bruise and slightly deflect the trajectory, but not to cause a parry or truly injure you.

Your hands grab the thug's hair, and you yank him off the ground like a carrot. Through the light showing through his glasses, you can see his eyes roll up for a moment as you close your hand, compressing the wind between your fingers with a burst.
>Paolo
"Again with this...?" – he muttered to himself, in that tone we use when analyzing situations–

<Alright, now.

They locked eyes.

<Stay still.

"..."

He shrugged. And your knuckles invaded his face. The crack echoed through the entire room, the chandelier fell, the walls cracked.

<Paolo 90%

You pulled back your fist, then threw it forward again—your punch buried into his face with increased force, as if the last one had been mere practice. The thunderous impact shattered every window in the house, in the entire block.

<Paolo: 85%

Another. One more. Your fist struck again with a titanic collision. Like a personal train running over a suicide victim, you felt Paolo’s facial flesh mold around your hand, yielding to let your fist pass through. Muscles softening, flesh crushing—and that sweet sensation when the vibrations—turned sound by contact—of that CRACK tell you that you’ve broken something, compensating for the exponential increase in strength.

<Paolo 80%

But the impact came afterward. The energy transferred to the criminal, and he went flying. A strand of hair remained in your hand, as the shockwave of wind wreaked havoc. The room collapsed completely, walls falling away, replaced by dust, and outside, car alarms blared across the street from the sheer force of your punch.

Yet there was no moment to rest. Dust is usually used for dramatic effect, but the smart ones exploit it. The lights from the knife, still floating in the air, slightly blurred by the thick cloud of dust blocking your view of the yard—where you were practically already standing—suddenly reactivated.

You heard something like a whistle—the kind an airplane makes—close to your ear. You managed to track it with your vision. It was the neon blade being launched.

It grazed your face, matching the haircut, making you lose a chunk of hair on the side Ryu degradé kek before it buried into the ground and vanished.

Then, Paolo returned. Walking through the dust, nose crooked and bleeding, brandishing the knife.

"You fight like a woman... not that I care..."

Behind him, countless lights flashed through the haze, as if he had turned on the stadium lights of a baseball field. Blue dots identical to the one that had just missed you by mere centimeters. Floating blades.

"...they all end the same..."

The criminal tapped the base of his knife’s hilt, and every neon light shot toward you—a rain of stabbing blades leaving glowing trails.

Paolo: 1d100 = 94

>>6701 →
As it concerns us
This was the last battle to win the war. Dimitri looked at you with the disdain deserved by all those not protected under the equality of the red flag... but you ignored him, like you ignore all politics in this country, and walked past him.

Dimitri let out a few small laughs, and turned with some interest to watch you make the bartender tremble.

>Bartender
"A-ah, Dimitri, he's coming this way..."

As you approached, he stepped back, hands raised in fear and the desire to create more distance. But by the time you reached the bar, his back had already hit the wall. Your hand landed on the wood and the fat man lost his composure and balance with a scream.

"AAH!"

You jumped over the bar. Your feet touched the ground at the same time as the fat man's ass, who now saw you from below. You also ignored his pathetic display and went straight for the alcohol, which lined the walls in its transparent form, your rage manifesting in the atmosphere. The vodka in the bottles bubbled for an instant it just works before you exploded.

<RAHHHHHH!

"Aahh!" - he raised his arms to defend his head -

You turned your fists into a rain, and your fists turned the bottles into another rain. The alcohol and glass exploded in unison from the rapid movement, like a single balloon filled with vodka and crystal splashing in all directions.

For you, it was like watching in slow motion, the liquid growing in the air like a puddle under a dripping faucet. You hit even faster, the shards of glass turned to dust, and the small bodies of alcohol, barely drops.

The glass stuck to your fingers, usually harder than granite. Because you hit too fast and too hard, or something. From these cuts, you managed to get the alcohol and poison of 29 into your system.

This is because... you hit so hard that... when your knuckles collided with the alcohol, they filtered into the small space between the shards and the cut they left, thus entering your blood and leaving you tipsy.

"Th-the drinks!"

Having decimated the vodka population, taking only one hostage. You raised the bottle, previously uncorked, and drank it down, like those fat guys who chug water, finishing the bottle. The attentive eye could see a swirl for the thousandth of a thousandth of a second it took you to drink it.

>Dimitri
"Hmph. I see you liked the vodka."

30. You were now officially drunk. It would make the fight more fun. You were going to ring the bell for the first round.

You smashed the bottle against the wall, the glass spray made the bartender flinch. You then gave a sharp turn, releasing the sharp remnants of the bottle in a movement so strong that it shot out a burst of the glass you had in your hand. Accompanied, of course, by their respective trails of blood.
The crystal fleet turned red like blown glass. Your blood evaporated like a memory, but the Soviet was unimpressed. You raised your hand and thumb in a shooting combo. The wrench broke the sound and intercepted the bottles in an instant. A chime. Sharp as only glass can be. And the mouth of the bottle exploded, increasing the ammunition by splitting it, and causing a deflection in the wrench.

A takeoff. The upward diagonal went straight towards the Soviet's gigantic shoulder like a heat-seeking missile. The metal was about to pierce his flesh when he moved a hand like Casillas in 2010 and caught your weapon between his index and thumb.

"You call this a wrench?" he asked, bringing it before his eyes. "It looks like it's for opening a little girl's diary."

The first attempt failed, but there was no time to waste. You shot another wrench, faster, stronger, at that very instant. The same one flew. It bounced off another piece of glass that was still halfway there, and jumped like a magnet straight towards the other wrench.

The jagged tips of the wrenches crossed in an instant. Sparks flew violently right before Dimitri's eyes - he didn't even blink - and ignited a fire that turned the wrench into a perfect thousand-degree knife.

Next instant. The sound of impaled flesh echoed. A clean, brutal cut straight to the neck. Not even Dimitri could remain indifferent. His eyes lowered to see his blood dripping from his prominent Adam's apple.

"..."

<Dimitri 90%

"..."

He looked up again and finally frowned.

<I came for your life.

"So be it..."

Dimitri copied your move. He shot your wrench from his thumb, and it, in an instant, collided with a hundred pieces of crystal that were about to hit him, making them explode into more harmless fragments before embedding itself in the floor.

"But everything you do... we can do better."

Dimitri reached into his huge pockets, and without much searching, pulled out, in one hand, a sickle... and in the other, a hammer.

"DIE, CAPITALIST PIG!"

The Soviet threw the sickle from his left hand horizontally, it spun as if looking to decapitate you, while the giant came behind with the hammer over his shoulder. He spun it between his fingers with the mastery that years give, and threw it at you with the combined power of effort and European steroids. The air vibrated, as the hammer entered a violent curve that sought to hit you in the ribs.

1d100 = 96

What moon would you be looking at?
You, who already know the weight of failure, better keep silent.
Even if love escapes us, don't waste your tears.
At this end of the day, where you get along with the birds that fear the night.

Trapped between the beginning and the end of the journey,
you soak your pillow with a cry as ephemeral as foam.
I guess peace is that treasure we simply cannot reach,
barely a sip of water for an eternal thirst.

The heart you gave to violence hurts.
I feel everything slipping away and burning.
What are these drops that overflowed from my eyes?

It is the flame of confusion, a white poison that clouds the air.
A dance of lights that surrounds us on both flanks.
We beckon with our hands for a tomorrow we know won't come,
in this cycle of compensations where only a funeral awaits us.

From the horizon, news travels a thousand leagues.
"Do you really think you can resist fate?"
What remained tied to the tip of that branch,
is the calm of one who sows a seed and sits down to wait.
Whose body is that lying fallen?

My own reason, wild, silences the mockery of others.
Enough! Don't keep tearing at the wounds...

Do you hear that melody that breaks your throat every night?
If in the next life I must apologize for my arrogance, so be it.
"—Stop fighting, little one, and surrender to the eternal cycle—"

What moon would you be looking at?
It's almost pathetic... to see my eyelids falter before reality.
Let's say goodbye now, and please, don't cry anymore.
We are just changing form; it's time to shed the skin we know.

Let us witness this first act of the tragedy.
Beyond the mountain, a thread of hope still glimmers.
What do we have left, besides never giving up?

It was I myself who started this fire in my chest.
And even if they try to stop me, the current will keep flowing.
My loyalty has deformed me, but I don't care about the pain.
Hey, jester! Your song is not music... it's just a lament.

>>6509 →
>Dante
Ready turn, free time remaining

>>7302 →
>watch it in one roleplay sitting, you son of a bitch
"Waoh, I guess I gotta do it now"

>>7304 →
Should we do it? I have no problem, just respond to Kyoto's last turn (the general) and we'll pretend you were always there.

Better to have all the assets together. Too bad the experiment failed, I liked the idea of the festival.

>>7306 →
Keksito. Perfect then. I won't wait for you. We're similar anyway. Best of luck with whatever you have to do, little black boy, come back whenever you want and can.

>What do you say about Kyoto?
He accepted his superiority.

>>7307 →
>how the hell do you not finish a 9-episode series?
Well, it disappointed me and I dropped it, kek

>If it's just going to be adventures where the circus background and characters don't matter much
That was my idea, yes. Keksito.

>watching 3 episodes is more than enough for you
I dropped it at episode 4, I think. The last one I saw was the baseball one. Then I didn't have the motivation to continue.

>then by all means you have to watch at least up to 8 along with several theory videos
I was planning to finish the series someday... someday...

I guess I'm not the right person to handle that role, it wasn't my idea to make it lore-shit!

>When you see
These days. I'll respond when Dante takes his turn so there are at least 3 of us, kek

>>10324 →
Okay, I'll wait for you.

>>10325 →
>it disappointed me and I left her
It deflated as it went on, so I don't blame you either

>It wasn't my idea to do lore shit!
Putting lore in would imply there's a goal to reach and that kind of ending stuff doesn't go well with hisrol... Episode style would be best, although the concept of a "caricature episodic" roleplay works with practically anything, even a supermarket. Imagine something like a regular show where you go to get fish to restock and end up fighting Poseidon for some kek reasons

>so that we can be 3
With Kumiko and Amara it would already be 3, although well Amara didn't respond to what you said so... yep I said nothing

Niggers, I have time (for now), and the desire to do a roleplay, are mecha roleplays still more or less popular around here or did they die?

Mil gracias a todos esos países que mandaron su ayuda al mío. Aunque los malos en el mundo sean muchos, también hay bastante gente buena. El Salvador, México, Argentina, Estados Unidos, España, Francia, y muchos más, están llenos de gente basada. No solo están salvando vidas, también están visibilizando los abusos y obstáculos del gobierno.

De nuevo, mil gracias.

>>7322 →
For a bit, use the .st anon

Cece's turn tomorrow. I got inspired kek
>>1838 →
>Looks like a Gerudo, or do all Gerudo look like Din?
Secondly, we have to remember that Din shares a name with the primordial goddess from Zelda. So it comes from there. Same with Nayru and Farore.

Din gave the Gerudo their darkness.

>It's because in that game the star is Midna
I know, and it's understandable, but at the same time it's, in part, a pity. I'm not saying it about the Zelda in that game, who we only see being solemn and such, but more about short-haired Alicia Ilia, she had so much potential. What a shame how they left her completely aside. She had the advantage of being a childhood friend and all little keks with that ending, she was totally devoted! But Link got bewitched by the damn dark world and abandoned her.

>A question capable of starting a war between two realms: Which do you prefer? Imp Midna or True Form Midna?
Is there anyone who prefers the big form?

>Imp Midna full force, kek. Nintendo created a genre with her.
I agree. It's impossible not to love her when you talk to her and she says "awgsgehw piiii"
Kek that "piii" she said at the end with her sweet voice full of echo always liked me. And then the moan she made when you accelerated in wolf form. They knew what they were doing.

>Your impressions are making me want to play it again. But I can't, the backlog! The backlog!
Little keks. It's crazy, the backlog just grows, and grows. It seems impossible to defeat! I almost give up.

>It's recommended to bump into her
I did it, just to see her a couple of times. But it wasn't very useful to me honestly. Now I don't remember well if she dropped a potion once or if I'm imagining it, but that would be the only interesting thing. Well, and that after bumping into her a lot she started flying in a vacuum cleaner kek

>also hers, so you can steal from her, kek
I always did it, Argensimio mode of Buenos Hambres, I didn't leave her a single cent. The worst part is that I didn't need it kek, I don't know how but most of the game I went with the rupees at max.
>Surely many kids liked her attitude, they grew up, started drawing her, and that's when her fame solidified.
She has that something that sparks a cute childish crush. I felt something similar when I was little towards some mean girls in cartoons; Maple wasn't mean-mean, but she was grumpy and haughty. That attracts too, kek. I get it, I get it.

>You'll have to wait for the Oracles to get remade so that, maybe, you can get some more interaction with her.
Better make A Link To The Past more fun for me.

>Noooooo, you ruined one of my favorite races, I hate you!
Little kek

>As a counter, I'll let you know that surely Saria turned into an ugly and short Kolog.
Yeah, I had that in mind, little kek.
If you recall, the Kokiri already become those since Wind Waker, although if I remember right they were still called Kokiri there. In fact, there's a theory that says they actually always looked like that, like leafs, but hid their appearance so Link would feel comfortable. To me it doesn't seem like that makes much sense because when you meet Mido as an adult and he doesn't recognize you he looked the same kek. But it's there, whoever wants to believe it is free.

What I will debate with you is the ugly part. My beautiful Saria would be a BEAUTIFUL Kolog.

>Do you know which Zeldas I have pending? The DS ones. I feel like downloading an emulator and giving them a try.
Well go ahead, but know that, as far as I remember, they are those games that make the most of the DS. You'll have to assign a blow button, and I think it's played purely with the touch screen (but I'm speaking from hearing half-baked things a long time ago, things I don't remember well so take it with a grain of salt).
Luckily for you, emulation of those games is already perfect. It's not that they are heavy, it's that I understand there were silly things where you couldn't progress without doing certain physical actions, like closing the console at a certain point. That can already be emulated like nothing.

>>1836 →
>>1837 →
The high ceiling, with golden engravings, sheltered you from the night in its luminous womb. Or rather, in the uterus, where art was gestated. Where the pieces that watched you were born, and which were once a fragment within a head.

Bodies surrounded you. Trapped on canvases, or constructed from plastic in the eternal silence of objectification. You respected, and imitated the quiet nature of those around you, and took those steps with the care that thieves would wish to have.

Naturally, you made no noise. The wings surrounding your ankle silenced your feet. It was like a killer pillow. Even if you wore heels, you would make no sound, your feet were gagged like the screams of the suffocated.

But that didn't remove the habit. The wings were new, the habits were old. Even if you didn't have the former, you would have the certainty that your cautious steps would have been lost among the notes of that piano struck with frenzy.

But perhaps, those of the others too. You looked back. Several times. And always the mannequin returned your gaze. Without eyes. Lifeless. Soulless. Still in its place as since it was brought.

Perhaps it was once used to try on certain clothes. Other times, to simulate a pose. It was manufactured to be, and never stop being. It couldn't follow you, perhaps that was the reason for your distrust? Things going against their nature are unsettling. There was, however—according to the various sporadic glances you gave it—nothing to indicate that this object was going to defy its reality. There were more real things to worry about.

Alice was one of them. Lost in the darkness. The darkness that fell in the painting could not help but remind you of her. You caressed the oil paint, your fingers felt the almost imperceptible wrinkles of the paint as you compared Alices.

The last thing you remembered of her was that golden hair. So yellow it was noticeable in the dense night, disappearing among the trees and the mist of the cursed forest. Her goodbye was laughter and her whereabouts became uncertain. Lost in the darkness... was she who you saw on the canvas. With yours, you could only imagine.

Hopefully, she didn't end up in the jaws of that monster that watched you in the darkness. That rotten beast, falling apart like a forbidden temple where no one should be. Those eyes pierced you with a coldness that the flat face of a mannequin could never achieve. For half a second, it paralyzed you in the way only the greatest of predators can.

You tried to take refuge in the distance of a step, and the wall behind you held you back as if it wanted you to face your fear with unusual malice... but that was enough for you to see that it was just a painting.

A stupid painting.

You breathed to recover. Your chest, racing, seemed to pump sweat instead of blood. Your forehead had enough icy drops to indicate cutting on the dotted line. It took an instant that you didn't waste in dedicating. You rebelled against your emotions and put one foot in front of the other to face the painting, which was as large as the head of the real beast. The one that could have dissolved you in acid with a single bite, reducing you to a memory that would soon be forgotten.

And you rebelled against its image. Before the newly nicknamed forbidden temple, you dared to step. Your silent sole crushed the canvas. Its surface sank slightly, flexible, but the paint itself cracked under your feet like glass does, and the brushstrokes began to crackle everywhere. Pieces of paint separated and fell, revealing the white canvas underneath. Like lines of light born from the blackness surrounding the animal, and tearing it as well as if it were harming it.
Once you stepped off the plant, the ripping sound of tearing paper chased your foot as a hole the size of your shoe opened in the canvas. You saw your reinterpretation of the work, it was now as if your footsteps left a great spiderweb, as the canvas had cracked completely, not to mention there was now a large hole in the wolf's head.

The last column of that forbidden temple has collapsed.

With it, the last thing distracting you from the desperate melody also fell. You followed the trail of music like snakes that writhe, enchanted by certain notes from a certain instrument. You found the culprit, eager to kill the piano with every violent keystroke. His fingers crashed against the keys and the sound exploded from the instrument like a shriek. A translation of the pain that reflected his face, but which was otherwise mute.

Confidence has led many to the grave, but suspicion drove you. A motor of careful movements, which you used to advance with the utmost stealth that haste allows until you found yourself on the other side.

The glass under the light, otherwise transparent, reflected you minimally. Your eyes soon ignored your translucent, perplexed face to allow you to admire the product of your desire. Standing upside down on a diagonal, supported by an acrylic stand resembling a Greek iota.

You let out a bit of life in a half-breath, but your hands rushed to prevent its escape. But not the fright that accompanied it. You turned quickly, and found that the music that didn't stop behind you hadn't lied. Cosimo was still at the piano, with that desperation that proved almost contagious.

You ran the couple of meters separating you from the display case, crushing your counselor, stealthy suspicion, on the way to cling to that stand like insects that died in the yard by sticking to the lamps. Your fingers, feeling the glass to know it in an emotional blindness, felt the cold of distance in every centimeter of its surface.
It was real, being close made it more obvious. It was Napoleon, and between you and him was a solid barrier that reminded you of his existence, leaving the imprints of your sweaty hands for a brief second after each touch.

It seemed firm, and although you also saw a small lock on the right in the middle of the glass, you ignored it, for reasons you perhaps couldn't even recognize at that moment, and started shaking the display case.

https://youtu.be/8fcy2X06VH4?t=78▾
Your hands accompanied the pianist's in a desperate rhythm. You moved your hands as you would with a vending machine that gives you nothing. But it didn't budge an inch. One would quickly understand that the display case was fixed to the floor, and was perhaps as hard as it. Your chest quickened, and you signaled your lungs like an orchestra conductor to join in the desperation. You let out gasps that you were just starting to hide in droves, your gaze abruptly left the glass, and your scan of the place was like that of a headbanging musician.

You looked here, canvas. You looked there. Wall. You looked. Mannequins. You looked. You looked. You looked. Nothing. You looked...

There. A fragile-looking vase diagonally to your right, right in front of something covered by a tablecloth. You snatched the urn from the floor, heard a small sound inside, but ignored it. You lifted it over your head, and threw the container with all your body's strength.

The impact wasn't long in coming. The characteristic crash of hollow porcelain shattering filled the room... as the urn broke into pieces, and fell without even marking the display case.

https://youtu.be/HQj78oXGrhw▾
It happened at the same time. At the moment of impact, a discordant note. Or several at once, burst in, and broke Cosimo's song with their formless screech.

If hearing is the first thing that alerts us to danger, at that moment, that blow so... badly struck amidst perfection... followed by the silence of the culprits, could have alerted us.

And it would have been right.

At that instant. Cosimo turned towards you, and although that angry frown already showed obvious fury, you could somehow feel, in those eyes, the purest desire to harm you've ever felt.

1/2

>>1837 →
...and at the next moment it changed.

The eyes in which you were trapped expanded, and your silhouette in the irises was consumed by the black pit of the widened pupils, which were now touching the white of the sclera, revealed up to the limit to which only the greatest surprise can lead us.

He held that gaze for the miserable second that the silence lasted. After that, his eyebrows descended to the level of the calm already shared with the rest of his face. The corners of his lips curved upward in a nearly imperceptible way. A smile as fine as the legs of a spider, with which he deigned to stand up.

>Cosimo
"Ahh..." -he adjusted his tie, then let his hands drop to his sides, taking a small moment of silence more to look at you better with slight satisfaction transmitted in his drooping eyelids and that weak grace in his lips-

He extended his hands in front of his abdomen, with his fingers open and pointing towards you, following his habits of a good presenter.

"Welcome... princess."

The left hand went up to cover his heart, the other was extended to the side.

"My name is Cosimo..."

He inclined the upper body without breaking eye contact, and confirmed you in his reverence:

"I am at your service."

Cosimo straightened up and took a few steps closer. The soles of his shoes made an echo that occasionally replaced the total silence that filled the room.

"I notice something..."

His eyes dropped for an instant, leaving the sensation of the looks on your chest, which inflated and retracted to the rhythm of your gasps. Then he regained eye contact.

"...nervous."

He stopped his walk once the distance was optimal for conversation. And although he didn't seek to intimidate, he made you feel small with his one meter eighty and good posture. But with the relaxation well-placed in that look of fullness in times of calm, he bowed again. He extended his hand, giving you the bridge from which he would share his parsimony.

"Could you suggest sitting down and resting a bit before telling me what I can do for you?"

He assumed something had brought you to his space. And a bit further back there was a good place to sit. Perhaps you needed it.

Meanwhile, at your feet, something shone among the tiny fragments of destroyed urn.

Very small, none are tier swords btw. Get used to it because they're just the typical item container of a game kek
2/2

>>7276 →
1d150 = 5

>>7277 →
>>7276 →
>>6864 →
"My apologies, Earthling, though it's a shame to end the life of someone with such style. Lord Frieza's orders are absolute."

Ginyu launched a coordinated barrage of attacks. You ask Vegeta for the opening and advance, dodging the shots with stylish movements, until... one slips past and heads straight for your face.

Boom

But it explodes before reaching you.

"Damn it, stop playing around!"

It was Vegeta. He saved you by detonating the attack at the last second, and with two more shots, he clears the path for you.

"Keep up with your stupid gimmick and attack. I'll handle the pest control."

Did Vegeta... actually want to help? Of his own free will?

"HAAAAAA"

Vegeta launches his own assault, his specialtyvegeta technique™, his ki attacks canceling out Ginyu's and giving you an opening.
Ginyu sweats, canceling his charge and preparing a counterattack, but Vegeta lands a precise ki blast that pierces his shoulder, giving you the chance.

Pow

Pow

Pow kek

Three consecutive spinning strikes that look like one. Ginyu is sent flying backward, tries to recover, lands, and leaves a crater on a plateau.

"Hey."

Vegeta appears behind him and kicks him.

"Gotcha!"

Your signal! You intercept Ginyu and hit him again, making him bounce. Vegeta repeats it and strikes. Ginyu spins in the air, and suddenly you see his eyes glowing with that malicious ki surrounding him.

"You hit like a princess! If you're that strong, I'm not surprised how pathetic your dear father was before Lord Frieza killed him."

Vegeta was following him in the air, and for a moment he froze.

"Pathetic, isn't he? The King of all Saiyans begging for his life, crying and drowning in his own blood. In the end, that Saiyan pride was just trash."

A vein throbs on Vegeta's forehead.

" "N-Not please Lord Frieza, forgive me, forgive my son, I'll do anything, I'll kneel, you can take my throne, anything just-ACK". Hahaha! I'm sorry I wasn't there to see it, a recap can't do it justice."

"SHUT UP! "

The rage causes Vegeta's ki to explode, increasing exponentially... now he too is covered in malicious ki and charging at Ginyu. And this was exactly what the purple alien had planned. Extending a hand, he impaled his own chest, an action so random it snaps Vegeta out of his furious trance.
"What--"

"CHANGE. NOW"

A light was expelled from Ginyu's mouth, heading straight for Vegeta. You wanted to act, but suddenly, it was as if you were paralyzed; an immense pressure crushed your chest, as if black chains were wrapping around you.
You saw it in your memories: Ginyu's body-swapping technique... When everything cleared up, "Vegeta" was laughing while "Ginyu" looked on in shock.

"But what?... That's my... That's me..."

"Ginyu" was confused, while "Vegeta" approached him, ripped the scouter from his ear... and punched straight through his stomach. The malevolent ki began to surround "Vegeta" as "Ginyu"'s body started to fall... sinking into Namek's waters.

You fought, and by increasing your ki, you managed to break free from this strange paralysis.

Pow!

A sudden blow hit your face, and when you realized it, you had been launched flying to the other side of the planet.

...

You flew through the air, crashed into the ground, and barely managed to stand up. There they were, your attackers, those you had seen before on a scroll, coming from the Demon Realm.
https://youtu.be/3ZLV-rUQhAU▾
"Ufufu~"

The woman with blue skin and white hair laughed, standing next to a stoic man with similar features. The woman struck the ground with her staff a couple of times.

"I must admit, I enjoy playing the waiting game, but it cost me quite a bit to find the perfect chance to separate you from the others... you see, Paradoja~, you are very annoying."

At the tip of her staff, an accumulation of malevolent ki began to form.

No matter how handsome you are, continuing to interfere with our energy collection is a problem, so if you could stop doing that, I would be very grateful.

She closes her eyes and smiles at you.

"Take care of him, Mira."

The man walks forward and expels his ki; it was so intense it almost knocked you to the ground with the pressure.
https://youtu.be/LDw0PlweE9U▾It wasn't just a huge and malevolent ki in nature... it was familiar. It was the ki of Raditz, Nappa, Vegeta, of all the enemies you've faced on Namek so far, all that energy gathered and culminated in a single warrior.
Mira attacks.

<Mira
1d300 = 72
1d300 = 153
<Special ability: can choose between two dice for his attacks thanks to the use of malevolent ki.kek

>>4774 →
<Tenshinhan 2
F

<Earth team
2/5 dragon balls

<Krilin
1d100 = 90

<Gohan
1d110 = 41

<Tenshinhan prime
1d100 = 21

<Guldo
1d50 = 46
1d50 = 5
1d50 = 38

<Recoome
1d90 = 71

<Bonyu
1d90 = 18

<Tagoma
1d70 = 55

>>6978 →
>A week ago I diverted some AIs and made a small manual spam application
Can AIs be applied to, for example, a board for newfags? Let me explain, we attract new people and to give the site an initial boost there will be an AI in X role to OP turns of a moderate amount of characters or adapting to the player. A lure.

Also, every now and then on the amino subreddit they ask for a similar role-playing app after the app was deleted. If there's no problem, I'd like to promote Anatase a bit.
>Does promoting it as an app change much?
Nah, it's a strategy some apps implement and I never fully understood.
>But I doubt I can promote it through Google, both because of restrictions and because the price is 4 times that of 4hojas.
Generally, restrictions are exaggerated, even more so considering that Google doesn't have moderators who thoroughly review every app 24/7. There are handfuls of live stream apps that are practically Pornhub with extra steps.

From what I read, the Google registration costs 25 shekels, if you want I can help you, nigger.
>If it depends on luck, I prefer to spam on TikTok or YouTube
I don't know, many chans came and went without a trace and I don't know if we are the first to think about leaving things to chance. What I would like is to plan some scheme to see if a big YouTuber can indirectly promote us as happened with Dross and Chadou. With that it would explode with activity more than any advertising kek.
>Since they are temporary boards, it depends on the BO to maintain a certain degree of non-spam activity or users on their own board so that it is not suspended or deleted from 1 to 3 months.
Admin: I'm sorry nigger, but you didn't meet the monthly user requirement, your board will be recycled into /toddler/ :^) kek joking
It's the most organic option, if we think on a large scale, sooner or later it would end up filled with "trash boards" without any regulation. Besides, it contributes to hubs promoting themselves.

>>7010 →
I also have some admin proposals.

What comes first, the community or its chan?

Obviously, one would say the site comes first. You open a board and wait for the grass to grow. But in my experience as a social claustrophobe, it's not always like that.

Nobody remembers 4chan for its interface or for being a pioneer it literally copied everything from futabachan. It's ugly and slow, and to this day you can't post without filling out 25 captchas. But it was a hit because of its anonymity and the possibility of being a complete edgelord without facing social consequences.

BrChan stood out for being the only Portuguese chan where Spicy Candies were shared like there was no tomorrow

Voxed was the spiritual successor to Taringa. A place for Argentinians, by Argentinians.

Hispachan survived for years because it occupied a specific niche of being, in Zeta's words, the 4chan in Spanish.

Language filters people. Moderation filters people. The web format filters people. The presence or absence of anonymity filters people. Even users end up filtering people.

They all ended up developing a personality because they all had clear filters.

Today the internet is no longer fragmented into small communities. There's Gayddit, Discord, Twistter, Cancerbook, Tiktok, and hundreds of Chinese platforms where people already have friends, reputation, social routines, and followers.

Consequently, the question isn't, "Why should someone join Anata?"

The question is, "Why should someone temporarily abandon the places where they are already comfortable?"

That's the crux of the matter for Anata: what is its identity? Are we a chan? Are we some kind of Discord? Is it exclusively for role-playing or general interests? What audience are we targeting?

Because if the answer is "a little bit of everything," we run the risk of becoming nothing in particular.

I hate pessimistic people who get stuck in black and white, so I spit on my previous words and use Hispachan as an example again. Also Kyodo and projectZ.

Anata can be sold as everything to everyone. If you promote it on 4chan, sell it as the new Hispachan/BrChan/Voxed/Xchan Latino or even Russian. If you promote it on YouTube, dress it up as a new Amino or Discord. If you post it on Xvideos, lie and say it's the most paraphilic place on the internet.

not that extreme but I think it's a good port from which to set sail with the idea kek

Meaning, target all types of audiences in all types of formats, as the black guy above said.