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Thread: Piper's Attic.

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    Default Piper's Attic.


    As you ascend the creaking fold-down stairs, a dull yellow light envelops you. The first thing you notice is the dust: dust-rimed windows reflecting ghost images of the room, dust drifting down from the rafters in hourglass trickles, dust motes dancing in the light of rusty gas lamps swinging from the pitched ceiling. The converted attic space is floored with unvarnished wood, most of it hidden by tottering stacks of books, piles of blankets, and other junk that the owners didn’t see fit to keep downstairs.

    The only sounds are the quiet hiss of the gas lamps, and a soft tick tick tick, emanating from a gold pocket watch that is sitting open in the palm of a man, the chain spilling over the side of his hand to pool on the floorboards. He sits cross-legged on a voluminous beanbag, a spidery figure whose tailored clothes accentuate rather than hide his scrawny frame. HIs trousers are black, his collared shirt white; the only concession to colour a blue waistcoat with a paisley pattern picked out in faded silver thread.

    Cast in profile, you can see that his face is almost as colourless: pale, washed out, angular - thin skin stretched too tight over his skull. The gas-light playing across his face seems not to stick, sliding off without chasing the shadows from his features. Presumably it’s eager to go and play somewhere more healthy.

    The man turns his head towards you and smiles the sweetest knife of a smile.

    “Oh, visitors, visitors.” he rambles excitedly. “It has been some time. Time...time...what a construct, time, what an idea, ha ha…”

    His thumb caresses the pocket watch in slow circles.

    “Why are you here, I wonder? You must be very special writers to have been invited here. Look at you all...just killing time, until the killing time.”

    The lights flicker, the shadows trembling. For a brief moment, you swear you see a sheen of green light glint across the man’s sunken eyes.

    “There’s that word again,” he muses. “Time. Time is relative, time is of the essence. But one thing more than anything else, time is…” A flick of his thumb and the pocket watch lid closes with a snap. “Short. Especially for you.”

    The man’s shoulders quiver, as if he is suppressing a laugh. He extends a spidery claw back over his shoulder and plucks a book from the precarious stacks. The leather creaks as he flicks it open.

    “I’ve always liked short stories. They say the best writers can tell a story in just a couple of sentences. Look at this one.”

    He places a bony finger against the page, a jagged nail tracing the words.

    I was alone, and in the dark, and when I reached for a match, a match was put into my hand. That’s the classic one, of course. But I also like ones like this.”

    He turns the page with a flick of his finger.

    My little sister’s always coming into my room and crying. I’ve been to her grave to ask her to stop, but she won’t.

    He sighs quietly and turns the page again. This leaf is blank, and he smoothes it flat as he fishes a fountain pen out of his waistcoat pocket, licking the nib.

    “But enough of me talking, let’s see how you do. You know, while we’re here killing time.”

    He puts pen to paper, tapping thoughtfully.

    “Here’s your Halloween challenge: give me your best spooky story in just two or three sentences.”

    He spools up the pocket watch chain and then lets it fall, the timepiece swinging back and forth below his hand. Tick tick tick.

    “Let’s see who’s best, hmm?” He smiles, the shadows wriggling across his face like worms. His eyes pulse green. “I suppose time will tell.”

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  2. #2
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    Spoiler: Cobwebs 

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    Spoiler: Patina 

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    You can see the man nodding along as he scribbles your words furiously into the leather notebook.

    “Excellent, excellent...the first one reminds me of something that happened to me once, actually...”

    For a moment he stares off to the side, happily contemplating something in the dust twirling down between the stacks. Then he jerks his head and replaces the pen on the page, the nib poised.

    “There’s still time...what else can your imaginations conjure, I wonder?”
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    I stare uneasily at the man staring off to the side, jumping slightly when he jerks his head back into the conversation. What an odd person. "Are you alright?"

    Spoiler: Spotlights 

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    Spoiler: Mother 

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    Spoiler: Husband 

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    Spoiler: Carrots 

    Spoiler: Completely Unsolicited, Contextual Praise Definitely not Acquired via Torture 

  9. #9
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    Winners (and more!) coming soon...
    Spoiler: My RP links 

    PM me for novelised versions of any of my RPs, or ones that I have participated in. Set by the awesome Karma.


  10. #10
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    “Alright?” the man repeats, blinking. “Oh yes, perfectly fine. Just a happy memory.”

    He goes quiet, listening to the rest of your short stories intently. As he finishes transcribing your final sentence about the carrots he smiles, closing the book with a sharp clap.

    “Excellent!” he says, and pulls out his pocket watch once more. “Well, it seems that time has run away from us...time to announce the winner. And, of course, it must be @Alura!”

    He extends his bony arms out to the sides, bowing his head in respect.

    “Now I suggest you take cover. In a minute you’re going to see…”

    He breaks off, frowning. A moment later you realise why. Faintly, from somewhere downstairs, you can hear a scrabbling and a skittering, like hundreds of tiny claws surging across old wooden floorboards.

    The man glances down sharply at his watch. “Hmm. He’s a few seconds early this year.”

    The golden lid closes with a sharp click. The man shifts, unfolding his long limbs from the beanbag and rising to his feet. By now the scratching claws have grown louder, and they have been joined by the whistle of a flute, playing a jaunty tune. The strange juxtaposition of sounds winds itself into your ears as the man stalks to the attic ladder.

    Peering down after him, you see a second man standing in the hallway below. He is ragged and long-haired, but a battered nobility shines through in his pale features and in the musical notes dancing behind his eyes. He gives a flourishing bow and lowers his flute to sing.

    Come on RPA, can't you see?
    I'm the Pied Piper, trust in me
    I'm the Pied Piper and I'll show you where it's at!


    A swarm of rats caper around his feet as he twirls on the spot, arms spread wide.

    The man in the attic seems faintly amused by the display, one corner of his mouth tugging upwards.

    “Piper.” he sighs. “I see that your time has come.”

    “Yes.” another voice rasps. “And now yours ends.”

    The man’s smile is cut from his face as a seething black mass oozes up onto the landing, half crawling, half slithering. Behind it, you see the paint on the walls cracking and peeling, falling like rain in the creature’s wake.

    “Ah.” the man whispers. His gaze is target-locked onto the Piper, but for the first time you see something like fear in his eyes. “That’s how you got out early. You had help.”

    The Piper flourishes another bow by way of admission. “Indeed. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a forum to claim.”

    The man reaches for the ladder to climb down after him, but the Piper and his rats are already dancing away towards the drawing room. The black mass shudders, and thin tendrils slither out from it across the floor; snaring furniture, snaking up walls. Everything they touch begins to crack and fall to pieces. The tendrils look like glistening veins, only these veins are feeding off life instead of giving it.

    One of them wraps around the bottom of the ladder. A dry crackling sound reaches your ears, and as the ladder begins to rot and dissolve under the attic man’s fingers, you realise that it is the sound of the black mass laughing.

    The rungs splinter, and he falls.

    “Give in to decaaaay…”

    The man hits the ground, going down onto one knee, his fist pressed into the floor. The carpet beneath him is rotting to pieces before your eyes. When the man raises his head, green lightning is bleeding from his eyes, lighting his face with a ghastly glow.

    He smiles.

    “I think not.” He rises smoothly to his feet, arms spread wide. “The thing about replicants, is that they can replicate things.”

    A green light rolls out across the hallway and you see carpet reknitting, cracked walls sealing themselves, plaster scabbing back over the ceiling even as the decay continues to shred it and tear it down.

    As the two opposing energies battle, the man spares a glance in your direction.

    “I think you’ve had enough practice. If you want to save RPA, I need you to make some short, snappy propaganda slogans for us. We need to beat Piper in this War of Words!”

    Now with only a sheer drop below you, you take a step back from the attic opening, hearing your own heart thud wetly in your ears.

    Short propaganda pieces.

    As you cast around for inspiration, a strange thought occurs to you. You could write slogans supporting the staff of RPA...but you could just as easily write them for this Piper and his new, musical regime.

    Spoiler: NEW rules of the game 
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    PM me for novelised versions of any of my RPs, or ones that I have participated in. Set by the awesome Karma.


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