NotAMouse

Game of Thrones final episode prediction

LEAKED SCRIPT SEGMENT: FINAL EPISODE OF GAME OF THRONES SEASON 8:

//Scene opens on SER POUNCE. He's stalking his way through the snowy woods of Northern Westeros. His eyes gleam. There is a fresh notch in his ear. His paws are streaked with mud and blood and bits of ice. He crests a hill, then stops, sniffing at the air. Pan to a shot of the army of the dead, fog rising as they trudge their way south of the wall. Far above, the ICE DRAGON screeches mournfully, carrying THE NIGHT KING on his back. The dragon makes a slow circle in the air, spotting something far below. It is SER POUNCE at the hilltop. The dragon begins to descend. The camera returns to SER POUNCE. His feline hackles are raised, and his notched ear twitches. He stands his ground. The ICE DRAGON lands not fifty paces from where SER POUNCE stands. THE NIGHT KING dismounts. There is the barest spark of curiosity in his eyes. He tilts his head fractionally before taking a few steps forward.

SER POUNCE's fur stands on end, his tail straight in the air. He lets out a warning hiss. THE NIGHT KING pauses briefly, then takes another step forward, ignoring the cat's warning. Suddenly SER POUNCE's back arches. His tiny cat mouth opens, and --

SER POUNCE: M E O W

//THE NIGHT KING bursts into flame! He has just enough time to open his mouth in utter surprise before he shatters into a million smoldering pieces! The army of the dead also begin to shatter, row by row, until nothing remains of their ranks but bits of gross bone dust! The army is vanquished! The ICE DRAGON blinks, and the blue of his eye fades away. VISERION is restored to his former self! VISERION and SER POUNCE high five. SER POUNCE leaps upon VISERION's back, and the dragon launches himself into the air, flying in the direction of King's Landing. All the citizens cheer when they see the great lizard and the great cat approach the city. They recognize Ser Pounce for who he really is: Azor Ahai! The Prince Who Was Promised! SER POUNCE takes his rightful place upon the Iron Throne, his trusty dragon friend VISERION flying joyful circles above. All the other secondary characters (Cersei, Jon, Daenerys, Sansa, etc.) applaud, then throw a great feast in the cat's honor, for they are all friends now that the throne has been restored to the rightful ruler of Westeros. The lights fade as everyone lifts mugs of ale and goblets of wine in celebration. Credits roll.

The End

The Trapdoor — (trying something different)

The Setting: Historical, low fantasy.

The Plot: A thief (my character) has secured a spell that will bind a vampire's (your character) will to her own. She has a task that needs doing, and needs a vampire to assist. The trouble so far has been finding one willing to do so. This binding spell just might do the trick, if she can manage to find a vampire unable to resist it.

The Bond: A spell designed to force a vampire to comply with any command a human gives. The bond must be consensual to work properly — the vampire cannot be forced into making the bond. The bond, if forced, will be less effective and will wear off quickly. To complete the bond, the human and vampire must exchange the proper words, and a tribute of their own blood.

The Task: The thief has... lost something of great value. The details of what was lost and what must be done to get it back are hidden. For now.

The Vampire: I'm looking for a good match. I'd like someone who knows how to write well (we all make minor errors, I'll overlook yours if you overlook mine), and can move along a story in a compelling way. The vampire can be M or F, but for the love of god, they cannot sparkle. Make your character dangerous, reluctant, and interesting.

The story so far...

The Trapdoor

The small hunter’s shack tucked away in the woods outside of Grimbly (a small milling town) didn’t look like much at first glance. It looked like any other small shack set up by a hunter, the perfect spot to perch and wait for game, or to spend a night in from the cold while out for days on end on the lookout for deer, bears, and the occasional wildcat. But this little, nondescript hut wasn’t a hunter’s shack at all, but a Hunter’s transport lodge.

A prison, really.

Loxley Crowfoot knew that there was a trapdoor somewhere inside the small hut, and underneath was a large, dark, damp cell. There were cold irons fastened to the walls, manacles where wrists were meant to be clamped, and just a bare smattering of hay on the floor. It wasn’t meant to be slept on. It was probably there to soak up any blood that happened to be spilled there. The lodge had been built as a waypoint, a “resting spot” for Hunters so they could travel more easily between the larger cities, without risking complications as a result of their cargo.

For months, Lox had watched this waypoint. For months, it had lain vacant. Until tonight. Tonight, she’d seen two Hunters exchanging patrol outside the hut. Every time they opened the front door, she could see candles burning on a table, and travel packs lying on the floor. Based on the way they exchanged banter and swaggered about their patrol rounds, Lox knew the cell beneath the lodge was occupied.

Now or never.

Lox crouched in the shadows, fingertips resting on the hilts of her twin blades strapped to her hips. One of the Hunters had just come outside, calling to the other that he needed to take a piss. The Hunter walking the perimeter of the lodge laughed and shook his head. “Might as well. My shift’s about over anyhow. Figure it’s your turn, and I’m starving.”

What perfect timing, Lox thought. There was no better time to catch a man off his guard than when he was either eating or pissing. Well, maybe one or two other things as well.

The Hunter in need of a piss grumbled about the early shift exchange, but ambled further into the woods, unlacing his breeches. Right in Lox’s direction. Another stroke of luck. Lox let him have a moment of peace before she leapt at him. The Hunter was a sizable fellow, but size meant little when it came to the element of surprise. Lox was small, light, and quick. In a moment, she’d latched onto him, one arm snaked about his throat, her other hand cupped tight around his mouth. In a few brief moments, the struggle was over, and the first Hunter lay unconscious in the grass at Lox’s feet. She hoped she’d given him enough time to piss. Either that or he’d brought an extra pair of trousers in his travel pack.

Loxley stood still in the night air, listening to the slowing calm of her heart, the chirping of night creatures, the rustle of wind through leaves. All calm. Quiet. Good. She brushed the palms of her leather gloved hands on her trousers, then made sure her cowl was still securely in place, obscuring her nose and mouth, her hood tucked up around her hair. Her dark outfit kept her almost invisible in shadow, and underneath the cowl and fitted light leather armor, nearly shapeless and indistinguishable. Only her sharp gray eyes stood out like twin bits of steel, much like the knives she carried.

She approached the door of the lodge quietly, placing a hand lightly on the knob before she twisted and pushed it in ever so carefully. It didn’t creak, only gave in silently to her touch. She slipped inside, leaving it open. The table stood against the back wall, and Lox saw the second Hunter hunched over it, digging through their pack of provisions. Hard bread, a hunk of cheese wrapped in a cloth, and some salted meat in waxed paper packets.

“Course he didn’t leave any wine. Bloody fool,” the Hunter was saying. Then he tensed, and looked up straight at Loxley. He must have heard the night sounds of outside, or felt the cool night air as it came in through the door. Immediately the Hunter’s hands went to the broadsword strapped to his back, and he lunged at Lox with a cry. She sidestepped him neatly, ducking under the ringing whirl of his blade just as she drove her fist into the back of his leg, just above the knee. His leg buckled under the weight of his own momentum and he toppled with a shout, landing hard on the wood floor. Lox darted towards him, a little packet already in hand, and she jammed it into the man’s mouth, then shoved his mouth shut. The Hunter grunted, trying to struggle to his feet, but the powder that had been encased inside the packet had already dispersed, and it was too late. He coughed twice, eyes rolling back in his head, then was still.

Lox waited a long moment, still crouched over the Hunter, then rose to her feet. Impressive, she thought. She hadn’t expected the sedative to work so quickly. She’d have to thank her supplier. Then her eyes scanned the rest of the hut. The only pieces of furniture aside from the table were an old rickety chair and a small bookcase. Lox had first visited this spot nearly a year ago. After picking the lock, she’d examined the few sparse contents of that bookcase. A seed of an idea had been planted that day. The contents of that bookcase was why she was here now. The reason why, when her eyes turned to the trapdoor in the corner, her pulse quickened, and sweat pricked at her brow.

Lox drew in a few easy breaths. You’re all right. You know what to do. Then she approached the trap door and hefted it open, ready to greet whatever creature was imprisoned inside.

Thanks for reading. If you're interested in this plot and applying, please send me an IC reply post over PM. You can also hit me with any questions/clarifications if you need to. I find the setting-up stage of an RP very boring, so in the interest of interest, I'm trying to bypass it by making the first post already available. What can I say, I'm lazy.

Details

1. Post an appropriate amount. Just no one-liners, please.
2. Romance isn't a must, I really don't care.
3. Be over 18. Just makes me feel less weird. Y'know?
4. OOC is fun, I'll try to be nice.
5. We all have our own schedules and lives. If there's going to be more than a week between posts, let's tell each other. Communication is key, yeah?

whowhowhowhowhowhowhowhowhowhowhowhowhowhowhowhowhowhowhowhowhowhowhowhowho

Could y'all fuckin' not?

Elder Scrolls 6 Predictions

I predict that Bethesda has perfected 100% guaranteed birth control.

@Otaku95

Nine months of guaranteed uninterrupted gameplay!

Elder Scrolls 6 Predictions

My prediction is that it'll be set two or three eras after ESV: Skyrim.

All the holds surrounding Whiterun have been decimated. All that remains of Whiterun itself is the skeleton of the former glorious city. Small villages are scattered among the ruins of the old structures. The only recognizable landmark is the statue of Talos, now rusted and carved by time so dramatically he looks like a Falmer. The villagers gather around it every third night to sing songs and share stories of the ancient times, and to praise the man-god of old, the hero of legend that conquered the skies in his chicken chariot, weilding a mighty enchanted fork.

The gathered villagers return to their huts after swapping these well-known tales around campfires. Once safe inside their huts, they ward off the chill by consuming the only thing that gives them true comfort, the only small hope they have of escaping this barren landscape full of eight-legged deer and levitating giant mud crabs: Skooma. Skooma for days. Skooma is all they know. They are Skooma. Skooma.

After partaking, they crawl inside their bedrolls and squeeze their eyes shut, and utter the only prayer left to them. Khajiit... Khajiit has wares if you have coin, they stammer into the dark. But the prayer offers little comfort.

Outside, the winds howl. The only other sound is heard at a distance, and all the villagers are grateful for that distance, for it means they have at least a few more guaranteed hours to live. It's the far-off clicking of a giant mud crab, soaring through the skies above, hearkening back to the days of old, when heroes like Talos were vanquishing airborne foes in their chicken chariots, sending mud crabs plummeting back to the earth, speared through with fork punctures. Now the villagers can only dream of a hero to save them. For all the heroes of old are dead. Talos is dead. Now there is only Skooma. Skooma. Skooma.

I still have the Spamfic I started writing over 4 years ago.

Edit: deleted

I still have the Spamfic I started writing over 4 years ago.

Edit: deleted

I still have the Spamfic I started writing over 4 years ago.

I appreciate your caustic pity.

I still have the Spamfic I started writing over 4 years ago.

But none of the people that were in it are here anymore.

Unser Führer Mahz

I'm feeling personally injured by that Comic Sans font.