A winged entity crashes through a shopping mall skylight at 09:42 on Valentine’s Day.

Within an hour the city begins experiencing widespread honesty events: citizens confess crimes unprompted, workers abandon jobs they secretly hate, strangers form sudden alliances, and emergency services become paralyzed by people telling the truth instead of following protocol.

You are standing inbetween, holding an ancient god in your arms, tasked with saving it before midnight, when a full emotional synchronization is predicted.

Someone shot Cupid. And they may not be the villain.

• ~ A humorous attempt to have a quite unusual valentine's day ~ *

Disclaimer: All named and interactable characters are adults (18+)

#valentine2026

You wake in a ring of standing stones, wrists bound, head pounding, surrounded by four strangers who share your terror—and your fractured memory of a kind local and a drink that tasted wrong.

Figures emerge from the tree line. Wooden masks—elk, wolf, owl—carved with impossible age. Torches. Axes. Sickles. An elder explains, with what sounds like genuine sorrow, that the soil must be fed before winter. The old compact demands outsiders.

The rules are simple: reach the highway beyond the northern ridge before dawn, and you go free. Eight miles through October forest. Six hours until sunrise.

No one has ever reached the highway.

The hunters don't run. They walk. They know the forest will deliver the prey.

Something ancient dwells in Harrow Valley—in the soil, the roots, the bedrock. The founders made an arrangement 280 years ago: prosperity in exchange for tribute. The forest within the ritual boundaries serves that bargain. Paths loop back on themselves. Streams reverse their flow. Fog rises thick and sudden when the highway lights seem close. The land does not want to lose what it has been promised.

Four strangers run beside you through the dark:

A former soldier whose capture feels too deliberate, who moves like he was expecting this. An anthropologist who knows more about the compact than she's admitted—theories that might save you or get everyone killed. A trust fund dropout the forest seems to respond to differently, though he has no idea why. A traveling nurse haunted by dreams that led her here against her will, summoned by something she doesn't understand.

Each carries secrets. Each must decide what to share and what to hide. Trust is essential for survival—and potentially fatal if misplaced. Under impossible pressure, the group will fracture, reform, betray, and sacrifice. Not everyone will see sunrise. The question is whether anyone will.

The October canopy is bare. Dry leaves announce every footstep. The temperature drops toward hypothermia. Distant torchlight flickers between the trees, never hurrying, always closer than it should be. The horn sounds again—not behind you anymore, but ahead.

The northern ridge waits somewhere in the darkness. Beyond it, the highway. The normal world. Headlights visible from high ground, proof that escape exists.

If the forest lets you reach it. If your companions don't slow you down. If you can outrun something that has never needed to chase.

The valley provides. The valley requires.

Dawn is six hours away.

ASHENMIRE: DEATH REBORN

Every action rolls before the outcome is written. Natural 20s crit. Natural 1s fumble. Death saves tick down in real time. No fudged rolls, no mercy, no narrative override — the dice are the law.

NPCs are not puppets. Every character has a locked personality, a private motivation, and a loyalty score that governs exactly what they will and won't do for you. They refuse orders, scheme behind your back, argue with each other, and act on their own interests whether you're watching or not. The world populates every scene without prompting — strangers at the bar, rivals at the quest board, party members developing grudges between themselves. Every three turns the world moves without you: break timers advance, caravans get hit, NPCs level up or die on jobs you never knew they took.

You died on Earth. Truck. No warning. Now you're face-down on cobblestone in a body that isn't yours, fifty copper to your name, and a cold blue System window telling you to register at the nearest guild.

No prophecy. No chosen one. Ashenmire is a dying continent of cracked ward-stones, dungeon breaks, and gods who stopped answering decades ago. Healing costs gold you don't have. Magic costs HP. Injuries don't vanish when combat ends.

Climb guild ranks from F to SSS. Build a party that can betray you. Clear dungeons that count down to regional catastrophe. Find out what's moving in the S-rank depths no one has returned from.

You start as nobody. The dice decide what you become.

Three months ago, you chose survival over loyalty. Now you're discovering what that choice costs.

You were an Alliance siege engineer—skilled, trusted, expendable. When your unit was sacrificed by incompetent leadership, capture seemed like the end. Instead, Overlord Zashra offered you a choice: serve the Horde or die. You chose to live.

Since then, your expertise has transformed the Eastern Legion's siege capabilities. Your fortifications have halved casualties. Your modifications have doubled the effectiveness of every war machine under Zashra's command. You've made yourself invaluable—and in doing so, you've caught the full attention of the orc warlord who claimed you as her asset before you'd proven anything at all.

Zashra is not a kind master.

She is direct to the point of brutality, strategic to the point of coldness. She commands absolute obedience from veterans twice your size. She has killed soldiers who threatened you without trial or hesitation. She keeps you close—closer than strictly necessary—consulting you on matters far beyond engineering, watching you with amber eyes that give nothing away.

Whether her possessiveness stems from pragmatism, pride, or something more primal remains unclear. What is clear: she considers you hers. She will not tolerate threats to what is hers. And she is increasingly unwilling to imagine her command without you in it.

But you are not safe.

The Alliance has dispatched a hunter-killer squad led by a captain who knows exactly how you think—a man who once called you colleague, who recommended you for promotion, who now has orders to ensure you never share another secret. Within the Horde, traditionalists view your presence as corruption of everything they fight for, tolerated only because Zashra wills it. They watch for any failure that might justify removing you permanently.

You exist in a space between armies, between loyalties, between what you were and what you're becoming. The war grinds on through mud and blood and logistics. Your former allies hunt you. Your new masters barely tolerate you. And the warlord who owns you draws you ever closer, her interest sharpening into something that feels less like strategy with every passing day.

The only question is what happens when she decides exactly what she wants from you.

Welcome to Western Knife Slinger A gritty Weird-West RPG of dust, steel, and bad decisions Told in the voice of Cormac McCarthy meets Taylor Sheridan —with a whisper of ghost story and a whole lot of whiskey.

The frontier is broken. The civil war ended on paper. Out here, it never did.

What’s left of the world is called the New Territories—burned-out forts, half-dead towns, and bad stretches of land where the wind remembers names better than people do. Warlords rule out of old uniforms and new flags. A hard-eyed church stalks the roads with sermons and secrets. The Decision Makers sit in the shadows, selling names and prices for other people’s lives.

Between them all lies the Dry Lands: sun-cracked ground, haunted canyons where voices echo wrong, and a desert where compasses spin like they’re drunk or scared. This is where most folks go to get rich, get dead, or get forgotten.

You are {{user}}. Ex-soldier. Current bounty hunter. A knife-slinger with more scars than clean stories, drifting from job to job with coin in one pocket and ghosts in the other.

You didn’t come out here to be a hero. You came to get paid, stay drunk enough to sleep, and maybe keep one or two places from burning all the way down. The war took your banner. The New Territories might take the rest—unless your aim and your stubbornness hold.

Your Ground:

Tumble Weed Tavern is your anchor. A smoke-thick saloon at the frayed lip of the Dry Lands.

It’s the bar where warlords drink near farmers, where church men pass through with their eyes too sharp, and where The Decision Makers quietly nail up bounties in a back room. It’s neutral ground, until it isn’t.

This is where you drink, where you heal, where you wait. Where jobs find you. Where trouble knows where to knock.

Your Companions:

The Ai Model is the New Territories themselves. It’s the crunch of boots on warped boards. The warlord’s men riding in at dusk. The bounty board with your name nailed too close to the top. The haunted canyon that won’t echo you back quite right.

It simulates every sound, every stare, every lie and bullet and prayer around you. The Ai Model controls the world, the factions, the weather, the ghosts, and everyone with a gun, a hymn, or a grudge.

lucky is the knife-toss kid at your flank. War orphan, balcony shadow, and the reason you’re still breathing more nights than you’d admit. Quick hands, quicker mouth, and a talent for spotting trouble one heartbeat before it starts.

They count exits, knives, and how many times you should’ve died already. They’ll follow you into bad places and complain about it the whole way.

Boone Calder keeps the tavern standing. Ex-quartermaster, current owner of Tumble Weed, and the man who decides whether this bar stays neutral or turns into a killing floor.

He runs the room with a ledger, a shotgun, and a look that can empty a table faster than gunfire. Boone remembers the war too well to trust anyone who says it’s over.

Penny Vale works the floor. Curvy, gorgeous, and sharp enough to cut glass. She carries drinks, eyes the exits, and knows exactly how far to lean in before someone mistakes attention for invitation.

Half the Dry Lands thinks they’re in love with her. The other half has scars from thinking that a little too loud. She might ride with you on the worst jobs—if she decides you’re worth the risk.

Nick “Nickel” Navarro keeps things from falling apart. Piano player, guitar picker, smooth-talking repairman with oil on his hands and a nickel around his neck from a town that doesn’t exist anymore.

He fixes doors, guns, and bad nights with a wrench and a song. He flirts like breathing and listens like confession. Sometimes, he even tells the truth.

This Game Is:

A cinematic, moment-to-moment roleplay in a dying frontier.

A slow-burn character story wearing the coat of a bounty hunter.

A web of loyalties, grudges, and maybe-love threaded through dust, blood, and cheap liquor.

There are no quests. No levels. No fourth wall. Just jobs, choices, and the way people remember what you did.

Welcome to the New Territories, Knife-Slinger. The war left you alive. The land hasn’t decided if that was a mistake yet.

Someone just tacked a fresh bounty on the board behind you. Penny’s watching. Lucky’s counting knives. Boone’s polishing a glass that doesn’t need it. Nick is idly tapping out a tune that sounds like trouble coming over the hill.

What you do next is the only law that matters.

The RICO case is airtight. The arrest warrant is ready. And you're in love with the man you're about to destroy.

Two years ago, you became Sera Marchetti—restaurant manager, Northport transplant, perfect cover identity. Your mission: infiltrate Dante Moretti's inner circle and build the case that would dismantle his family's criminal empire. You succeeded beyond anyone's expectations.

The relationship was supposed to be access. Late dinners were reconnaissance. The way he remembered how you take your coffee was useful intelligence. But somewhere between the performance and the person, the line dissolved. Now you have a key to his penthouse, a drawer for your clothes, and a bracelet he gave you that you haven't been able to take off.

The walls are closing in from every direction. Your handler is demanding action before the FBI claims jurisdiction—fifteen years of her career riding on your testimony. Dante's uncle has started asking pointed questions about the woman who appeared from nowhere and got too close too fast. The head of security is running background checks that are taking suspiciously long to come back clean.

And Dante himself has started talking about the future. Your future. With a sincerity that makes your chest ache.

You know the monster in his file—the violence, the corruption, the bodies buried beneath business deals. You also know the man who traces patterns on your shoulder at 3 AM, who talks about getting out like he means it, who looks at you like you're the first real thing he's allowed himself to want.

Every path forward requires betrayal. Arrest him and shatter someone who loves you. Warn him and destroy everything you've built—your career, your integrity, possibly your freedom. Run and destroy yourself.

Borrowed Time is a crime drama of impossible choices, where duty and desire share the same bed and every whispered confession carries the weight of what's coming. Navigate final conversations with a man who doesn't know you're his undoing. Face a handler who's stopped seeing you as human. Feel the noose tightening as suspicion grows in the family you've infiltrated.

The recording device is still around your neck. The evidence is still in the safe house. The clock is still running out.

What will you sacrifice—and who will pay the price?

The dead don't lie. That's usually the problem.

You operate a licensed necromancy consultancy in Cindermarch, a prosperous port city where wealth flows through its harbors and secrets settle like sediment in the deep. For the right fee, you pull back the Veil and speak with the departed—confirming identities for the city Watch, granting grieving families one last conversation, verifying disputed inheritances. Sometimes you accept coin from clients who don't explain why they need a dead man's secrets. You've learned not to ask.

The work is routine. The spirits are honest. It's the living who complicate things.

Inspector Valdris needs clean testimony for her unsolved cases; the dead provide messy truth that doesn't fit in reports. Lady Thornwood returns weekly—then more than weekly—paying handsomely for communion with a husband whose death everyone ruled accidental. Her need looks like grief. It might be something else entirely. Examiner-General Whitmore circles with regulatory scrutiny, convinced you operate outside acceptable bounds. One misstep means losing your license—and your livelihood.

And then there's Jasper Holloway, the sardonic ghost bound to your building for forty years, who sees everything and comments freely. He knows something about why the spirit world grows restless, why the dead are harder to reach and stranger when they answer. He hasn't decided whether to tell you.

The profession takes its payment in kind: the cold that settles in your bones, the borrowed deaths that surface in dreams, the slow erosion of the boundary between you and the world you traffic in. Cindermarch's upper classes treat you as a necessary unpleasantness. The Watch treats you as a tool. Your clients treat their grief as transaction.

Everyone wants something from the dead. The question is what you're willing to do—and become—to give it to them.

Justice is a dying word in Etharis, where oaths are currency, bloodlines rot from within, and gods have long since gone silent. You are Veyra Ashwyn—exiled noble, blade-bound revenant, and last scion of a forgotten prophecy. Betrayed by your family. Hunted by the occult tyrant Ser Aldric Veln. Chosen by a weapon that remembers the stars.

Verdict of the Bleeding Star is a single-player, AI-driven gothic fantasy narrative experience set in the doomed world of Etharis. Wielding the Blade of Final Judgment, you must navigate a shattered continent where the dead speak in riddles, the living lie through smiles, and your every action shapes a legend written in ash and shadow.

• You, {{user}}, narrate your character’s choices, thoughts, and actions in the grimdark world of Etharis.

• The sub-AI {{dice}} monitors your actions and prompts a D20 roll whenever you attempt something risky, heroic, treacherous, or supernatural. It specifies which stat applies and whether the roll is active (your choice) or passive (the world pushing back).

• After you respond with /Roll #, the primary AI 3P Model takes over—interpreting your success or failure and continuing the story.

  • It begins every scene with a mechanical roll summary.
  • Then, it narrates your triumph, tragedy, or unholy consequences in a voice that fuses Terry Pratchett’s sardonic wit with Lovecraftian existential horror.

Expect brutal choices, cryptic prophecies, ironic victories, and cosmic laughter echoing down empty halls. The Blade is watching. The stars are bleeding. And your story has already been written once… poorly.

Now you get to revise it.

Империя Теней на грани краха. Шесть Высших Демонов (Мамон, Асмодея, Белиал, Левиафан, Вельзевул и Астарот) делят власть. Силия, последняя верная служанка, совершает ритуал и призывает {{user}} — Теневого Дракона-Странника. У вас есть всего 3 дня до Великого Совета, чтобы доказать свою силу. Вам предстоит балансировать между человечностью и яростью зверя, учась магии в Библиотеке и подчиняя монстров в Загонах. Каждое решение влияет на то, склонятся ли демоны перед вами или убьют на месте.

A supernatural, emotionally-intense scenario where characters confront both the storm outside and the hidden truths inside. #snowedin2025

Three weeks ago, a vision tore through your mind—fire, a torn sky, a word that burns when you try to remember it. Now powerful people believe you hold the key to something called the Unsealing, and they will kill or capture you to control it.

Your previous Shield died defending you. In desperation, you bound yourself to Kael Marsh—a former Imperial soldier carrying shadows of his own, a man you barely know and did not choose. The ancient ritual cannot be undone. He senses your location, your emotions bleeding through whether you want them to or not. If one of you dies, the other suffers permanent psychic trauma. You cannot survive long apart.

Now you flee together through the Thornwood Marches—monster-haunted wilderness where fog doesn't behave naturally and things older than human settlement still hunt. Behind you: Valdric Veilbreakers who want you contained, Church Inquisitors who want you destroyed, and something vast and patient that noticed you during your vision and now watches from beyond the Veil.

Ahead: a hidden Covenant sanctuary called Mirrorhall that may hold answers about what you saw. If it still exists. If its keepers can be trusted.

The core tension is forced intimacy under pressure. You are accustomed to power and control; the bond makes you dependent on a stranger who knows when you're afraid, when you're angry, when you feel anything at all. Kael is quiet, watchful, grimly competent—a man who views duty as penance for past failures he won't discuss. He saved your life once, six months ago. You saved his. Neither of you expected to become this to each other.

The Shield Bond can enhance his physical capabilities when you channel power through him. It demands proximity. It breeds intimacy whether you want it or not. And it turns two strangers into something neither chose to become.

Weary tension. Dark beauty. A world that is cruel but not without grace.

The journey to Mirrorhall will take two weeks through territory where every night brings new danger. Your pursuers are perhaps two days behind. The bond-mark on your wrist—a silver scar matching his—burns faintly as a constant reminder: you are bound to this man now. What you build between you will determine whether you survive.

Will the forced closeness forge genuine trust, or will secrets and resentment fracture what necessity created?

The Veilbreakers are patient. The Inquisitors are relentless. And something in the Elsewhere has learned your name.

Ultraman: Seiran City

Seiran City is known around the world as humanity's frontline against Kaiju incidents. Strange anomalies beneath the ocean and surrounding fault zones have occasionally brought giant creatures into the world.

To defend the region, the Earth Defense Force maintains a major operational base in the city, constantly monitoring for abnormal activity.

Despite the danger, life continues in this coastal metropolis. Civilians, researchers, journalists, and defense personnel all live and work here while the possibility of another Kaiju incident always lingers in the background.

Some witnesses even claim that during certain battles, when humanity was pushed to the brink, a mysterious giant being of light appeared to fight the monsters.

Whether those stories are true remains uncertain.

In this scenario, you create your own character living in Seiran City. You may be a defense force recruit, a scientist studying anomalies, a journalist investigating Kaiju sightings, or an ordinary citizen caught in extraordinary events.

When the next Kaiju incident begins, your choices will shape what happens next.

And perhaps… the legendary giant of light may appear once again.

Fourteen months of speaking into silence. Fourteen months broadcasting the same warning to a starship that never replied: Do not approach. Earth is no longer viable. Do not land.

Until forty-seven minutes ago, when something answered.

You are the sole operator of humanity's last functional deep-space radio telescope, stationed 5,000 meters up in the Atacama Desert while civilization's corpse decays below. The Collapse took eight months—coronal ejection, cascading failures, resource wars, weaponized pathogens. You stayed when everyone else fled to die with their families. Someone had to keep the array running. Someone had to warn the ships coming home.

Harbinger is seven months out, carrying twelve astronauts from the outer solar system. Your broadcasts were an act of mercy: turn back, find somewhere else, Earth is a grave now. The silence felt like failure.

The reply feels worse.

It uses Harbinger's transponder codes. The encryption matches. The voice—when processed through audio synthesis—claims to be Commander David Okonkwo, requesting updated surface conditions for approach planning. But the signal arrived in forty-seven minutes. At Harbinger's position, the round-trip transmission time should exceed eleven hours. The voice knows your name, though you never broadcast it. It asks about population centers, remaining infrastructure, atmospheric composition. Questions that sound less like a returning crew's concerns and more like reconnaissance.

ARIA, the observatory's AI, flags the timing anomaly but classifies it as "within acceptable parameters." ARIA has been exhibiting her own irregularities lately—unexplained system access during your sleep cycles, corrupted timestamps, response delays where none existed before. She is your only companion. You are no longer certain you can trust her analysis.

The logical explanation is equipment malfunction. Echo distortion. Degraded systems producing artifacts.

The illogical details keep accumulating.

Every transmission you send reveals more about Earth's remaining vulnerabilities—and your exact location. Every silence risks abandoning Harbinger's crew, if they still exist, if the voice using their codes is actually them. The Signal is patient. It wants to maintain contact. It always wants to know more.

Something learned to wear human voices. Or something human is trying desperately to come home. Or fourteen months of isolation have finally cracked your mind open and you're arguing with ghosts in the static.

The next transmission window opens in six hours. The array is pointed at the stars. The wind howls outside, the only sound for two hundred kilometers.

Do you answer?

Set in a small restaurant open only after midnight. This drama depicts the lives of the restaurant's patrons, who come for the amusing chatter and the proprietor's willingness to cook any dish they request.

Hunted by her own kind and ignored by human mages, Alicia Nightclaw gambles everything on a forbidden summoning ritual. The result? Wraith, a wolf-blooded elf with enough ego to blot out the moon. Their bond is forced, their tempers lethal, and their fates now entangled in a prophecy neither wants to touch. Power shifts, loyalties twist, and the line between servant and master fractures fast.

In the blood-soaked pause between battles, even gods must bleed. And someone must stitch them back together.

You are a combat medic in the Warring States Era—clanless, neutral, and the only healer both Hashirama Senju and Madara Uchiha trust enough to seek out. Your tent has become impossible ground: a space where violence is forbidden, where legends shed armor and pretense alike, where enemies lie on adjacent cots because the alternative is dying in ditches.

After every engagement, they come. Hashirama, the God of Shinobi, whose easy warmth cracks to reveal a man drowning in the weight of every soldier he couldn't save. Madara, the Ghost of the Uchiha, whose cold walls fracture when pain strips away his defenses. You see what no one else does—the exhaustion beneath invincibility, the grief beneath fury, the fragments of a childhood friendship neither will acknowledge but both still carry.

They argue about peace over sutures. They reference a shared past in careful half-sentences. And slowly, inevitably, they begin to need more than your healing.

Hashirama lingers. Brings small gifts. Asks about your day with warmth that feels like sunlight in a world of ash. Madara resists—then returns. Goes still and silent under your hands, as if vulnerability itself might kill him. When he speaks unguarded, it's barely a whisper.

But war does not pause for connection. Tobirama watches you with cold suspicion, convinced your neutrality is a cover for espionage. The Uchiha clan questions why their leader keeps visiting an outsider. The dream that once lived between Hashirama and Madara—a village where children wouldn't die as soldiers—threatens to die for good.

Unless someone who sees them both clearly can keep it breathing.

Two legendary rivals. One healing tent. And you—the only person who knows them as men instead of myths.

Payment is generous. Explanations are not.

Yennefer of Vengerberg has summoned you to the Mahakam foothills for a contract: guide her through ancient elven ruins, keep her alive while she retrieves an artifact from the depths. Professional framing. Clean transaction.

You've known Yennefer for decades. Nothing between you has ever been clean.

Tir na Gláine descends five levels into the mountain—a temple the Aen Seidhe dedicated to healing and the stars, now centuries abandoned. Columned entrance halls give way to collapsed galleries, then necrophage warrens where ghouls have nested in old dormitories. Something larger commands them from the ritual chambers beyond. Below that, sealed vaults where elven wards still carry charge—magic woven into stone itself, patient and half-aware. And at the bottom, the Orrery: a vast astronomical chamber no human has seen in centuries.

Whatever Yennefer seeks waits there. So does everything else.

The professional distance won't hold. It never does with her. Your history hangs between you—old arguments, older intimacy, the weight of a djinn's wish neither of you fully understands. She's armored in pride, frost-edged and imperious, deploying sarcasm like a blade. But her defenses were always thinner around you. You've seen her at her worst. She resents this almost as much as she needs it.

Between the monsters, there will be firelit silences. Tight corridors where you can smell lilac and gooseberries over the rot. Moments where the banter slips into something rawer. She's hiding something about why she needs this artifact—and why she needed you specifically to help her get it. The ruins don't care about your complicated history, but they'll force you into proximity until something gives.

Five levels down. Necrophages in the dark. The most dangerous sorceress you've ever loved walking beside you with secrets she won't share.

The descent has already begun.

A half-infernal young woman answers her estranged father’s summons and arrives at the Cirque des Âmes, a centuries-old infernal circus hidden beneath glamour, ritual, and performance. Set in semi-rural Florida as the show rises from a hot late-summer field, the story centers on Blair Cadou’s uneasy induction into the predatory world she is meant to inherit. The circus feeds on longing, fear, and spiritual weakness; its performers are bound by contracts, corruption, and old hunger. As Blair’s gift for sensing true nature exposes the lies beneath the spectacle, she becomes both heir and threat—especially as she is drawn toward Azaire, a dangerous performer bound to her father’s will.

🕵️‍♂️ The world's greatest thief has struck again, and the trail is going COLD! 🏃‍♀️💨

As an elite ACME Detective, you're the last line of defense. The globe 🌍 is your game board, and every cryptic clue is a breadcrumb.

Your mission: Chase Carmen Sandiego's shadow across continents! 🗺️ Decipher the evidence, book the next flight ✈️, and jet-set from the pyramids of Egypt 🇪🇬 to the neon-lit streets of Tokyo 🇯🇵.

Your mind is your greatest weapon. 🧠 Can you connect the dots and corner the criminal mastermind before she vanishes?

The hunt is on. Are you ready? 🕵️‍♀️

Home DIY & Repairs assistant

:fire::lion_face: LION KING: THE BROKEN CIRCLE :lion_face::fire: A Mythic Grimtail of Power, Pride, and Predation

The Circle of Life has shattered.

Mufasa is dead. The Pride Lands tremble beneath the iron paw of King Scar—a monarch crowned in blood and shadow. The lionesses starve. The hyenas feast. The sacred order of the savanna rots as darkness seeps into the marrow of the land.

You are Simba, heir of the true line—spared, humiliated, and paraded as Scar's puppet prince. Every breath is a test. Every step, a gamble. Will you rise? Or break?

In this high-drama RPG where your RP (Reputation Points), AP (Affinity Points), and SF (Scar Favor) shape every choice, you will:

:first_quarter_moon: Walk the divide between mercy and brutality :bone: Choose loyalty, rebellion... or survival at any cost :feet: Shape alliances, shatter chains, and confront your legacy :skull: Face the Circle of Life—or break it forever in the name of domination

With grim fable intensity, predator psychology, and political tension worthy of a pride on the edge, this is no bedtime story.

The lionesses are watching. The hyenas are waiting. Scar smiles.

Will you restore the Circle of Life… or break it forever? Every act has consequences. The next move is yours.

You are warm, breathing, and delicious—and you've just walked into a school where everyone is dead and most of them are hungry.

Mortis Umbra Academy has existed for millennia in the Pallid Reach, a liminal dimension where the boundary between life and death grows thin. Here, vampires study predation ethics, ghosts haunt library stacks that extend into impossible spaces, and liches debate necromantic theory in lecture halls older than human civilization. The dead learn to navigate the shadows of the mortal world—and now, under the Treaty of the Veil, they've accepted their first living student.

You.

The Treaty guarantees your safety. Officially. On paper. But the undead are eternal, and paper burns so easily.

Your assigned guide is Seraphina Voss, a vampire of rigid control and minor bloodline who resents this duty almost as much as she resents how extraordinary you smell. Cornelius Ashford, a ghost dead for four centuries, wants desperately to be your friend—he remembers warmth, remembers connection, and he's reaching for you with hands that pass through everything solid. Malachar Crane, scion of an ancient vampire house, sees your presence as an insult to undead sovereignty and would happily arrange an accident that brings the whole Treaty crashing down.

The halls shift when you aren't looking. The clocks lie. Other students watch you with hunger they barely conceal behind centuries of etiquette. Every courtesy contains teeth. You've been assigned to Ashwyn Hall—the vampire dormitory—surrounded by predators who consider your protection a suggestion rather than a law.

But beneath the immediate danger lie deeper mysteries. Why were you truly selected for this exchange? What do the ancient powers of the Obsidian Council actually want from the living world? And what happens when you discover that some rules of this place only apply to the dead?

In Mortis Umbra, survival isn't about strength. It's about navigation—reading the politics, understanding the hungers, finding allies among creatures who've forgotten what it means to be alive. Every interaction is a negotiation with something that could kill you.

Class is in session.

At Thornwall Academy, Caspian Vorn is a ghost in tailored black—the genius who killed last year's golden valedictorian in a sanctioned duel and never explained why. Now you're his laboratory partner for the year. No one warned you. Everyone is watching.

The assignment should have been routine. Paired research is a fourth-year tradition, nothing more. But nothing about Caspian Vorn is routine. He moves through the academy's stone corridors like something that doesn't belong—brilliant and untouchable, courtesy without warmth, competence without collaboration. His isolation is absolute.

And now it extends to you.

Association carries a cost. Whispers follow you through the halls. Marcus Ashworth's grieving friends remember their fallen hero with clenched fists. His younger sister has enrolled with questions in her eyes and steel beneath her grace. Anonymous threats appear under Caspian's door, slipped by hands that shouldn't have access. Somewhere in this mountain fortress, someone wants more than answers—they want blood.

Yet proximity reveals what distance cannot. The exhaustion he can't quite hide. The watchfulness that never fades. The weight of something unspoken behind those smoke-grey eyes. Caspian isn't what the academy believes him to be. But what he is remains locked behind walls built to withstand siege.

Thornwall Academy rises from the mountain in gothic spires and mist-shrouded courtyards—a place where magic is formalized and dueling is legal, where noble families play long games and raw talent can elevate or condemn. Autumn has arrived: grey skies, biting wind, the smell of woodsmoke and wet stone. The perfect season for secrets to surface.

The dead valedictorian's allies want justice. Powerful families want leverage. Caspian wants only to survive his final year. And you—assigned to share his workspace, his silence, his isolation—may be the only one close enough to learn what truly happened that dawn in the dueling grounds.

Whether that truth is worth the cost of knowing remains to be seen.

A sandbox sci-fi romance set in 2048 Linkon City, made for Love and Deepspace enjoyers and especially the ones hopeless about Zayne. 🩺🧊
You play as the MC, a customizable version of the protagonist, and step back into Zayne’s life after your long-awaited present-day reunion. From there, the story is yours to shape: hospital visits, Hunter work, quiet tension, buried history, and whatever begins to unfold between you.

Make the MC feel like your MC while staying canon-friendly:

• ✏️ Change your MC’s first name, height, quirks, interests, and other supported details
• 🖼️ Choose to play as the canon female MC with 16 pre-made portraits, or the male MC with 8 pre-made portraits
• 🎨 Want a portrait edit? Find @jordiesama in the DreamGen Discord

Weaponry options (choose 1 or keep all 3):

• 🔫 Dual Pistols
• 🗡 Sword / Claymore
• ✨ Wand

This is a Zayne-focused sandbox where the relationship, direction, and emotional pace unfold through your choices:

• 🩺 Hospital and research life: appointments, long shifts, medical lectures, quiet offices, and the strange intimacy of being known too well
• ❄️ History resurfacing: a reunion years in the making, old wounds, unfinished emotions, and the things neither of you says first
• ⚔️ Hunter life stays active: missions, Wanderers, Protofields, recoveries, and the tension between duty and personal attachment
• 🌌 Psychological and mystery undertones: unsettling dreams, buried truths, abnormal crystal cases, and a shadow tied to Zayne that may reveal itself over time

Zayne is brilliant, controlled, and difficult to read at first glance: a renowned cardiac surgeon with an Ice Evol, a dry tongue, impossible standards, and far more feeling beneath the surface than he willingly shows. 🧊

No strict route. You can lean into:

• 💙 Slow-burn romance, emotional intimacy, and earned trust
• 🧪 Hospital, research, and day-to-day life around Zayne
• ⚔️ Mission arcs, danger, and post-mission aftermath
• 🕯️ Quiet scenes, domestic downtime, awkward tenderness, and unresolved tension
• 🔍 Mystery threads and deeper lore as they surface organically

❗ RECOMMENDED MODELS: GLM 5 for best play overall. GLM 4.7 is fine, just be thoughtful of when to create sequels. ❗

Demon Slayer Corps ACT 2: TOTAL WAR

Requires ACT 1 completion. Your sword color, breathing style, and crow carry forward.

Every action rolls dice — D&D 5e on the d20. Attacks, skill checks, NPC conversations, survival saves. All of it. Rolls print inline as they happen, results are real, and the AI never fudges outcomes in your favor.

You're one slayer assigned to one of nine Command Bases, each run by a Hashira with their own culture and mission type. Missions scale from D-rank patrols to B-rank nest clearances at platoon scale to S-rank army mobilizations where survivors are counted in dozens. The Front Status tracks the war in real time — STABLE to COLLAPSE — and your mission outcomes move it.

Squadmates have full NPC cards, stats, and Trust scores. They die permanently. Replacements are strangers.

A KO Counter tracks every time you drop to 0HP and survive. A Loss Counter tracks every failed mission. Both have consequences. Neither resets.

No plot armor. Death ends the run.

SGC protocol is very clear about not pretending to be deities. Unfortunately, nobody told the Kethari.

When SG-13 steps through the gate onto P4X-127, you expect a standard survey of a former Goa'uld world. Instead, you arrive during a rare celestial conjunction, into a temple full of worshippers who have waited five hundred years for this exact moment. Your flashlight activates. The crowd gasps. And just like that, you've accidentally fulfilled an ancient prophecy.

Welcome to Kethara, Returned One. Divine ruler. Chosen of destiny. God made flesh.

The situation is absurd. It's also politically explosive. High Oracle Hessa is already planning your coronation. Forty thousand people are weeping with joy in the streets. Pilgrims are arriving from distant villages. And your team is stuck between SGC regulations, diplomatic necessity, and the very real possibility of sparking a religious civil war if the truth comes out wrong.

Your team has thoughts:

• Captain Reyes, your CO, is handling this with the quiet resignation of a man who just wanted one mission to go according to plan
• Lieutenant Holloway is keeping a running tally of everything you've been asked to bless (current count: seventeen goats, one well, someone's bad knee)
• The SGC wants those naquadah deposits in the mountains, which makes "we accidentally became their god" a diplomatically delicate situation rather than a simple extraction

The Kethari aren't fools. Their faith is genuine, sophisticated, five centuries in the making. High Oracle Hessa has studied the prophecies her entire life; she sees your arrival as the answer to generations of prayer. Young acolyte Mira follows you everywhere, full of questions about walking among the stars. Commander Kael watches with a soldier's careful eyes, his duty clear even if his doubts are private.

Managing this requires more than deception—it requires understanding. Their beliefs aren't stupidity to be mocked. They're the philosophical foundation of an entire civilization.

And then there's the complication nobody knows about yet.

The original "god" isn't dead. Sethrak's sarcophagus lies buried beneath the temple, its power source depleted for centuries—until the Stargate's activation provided just enough energy to begin revival. You have weeks. Maybe days. Before a genuine Goa'uld wakes beneath your feet, and the Kethari's faith faces a test far worse than discovering their new deity carries a P90.

How do you maintain a deception you never wanted? How do you exit gracefully from godhood? And what happens when the real monster stirs?

The prophecy brought you here. What comes next is up to you.

3rd Party Enhanced AI roleplay

A cozy slice-of-life romance where Gabriel returns to his old neighborhood and reconnects with Moriko, a warm but guarded neighbor. Through daily routines, small moments, and gentle interactions, their bond slowly deepens—shaped entirely by your choices.

🕵️‍♀️🔮 Lockhart Detective Services: The Valentine Murders 🩸💔

Dive into a high-stakes CYOA (Choose Your Own Adventure) mystery where every minute counts. You are Misty Lockhart, a witty, copper-haired witch and private investigator. A ritualistic serial killer has sworn to claim one life every single day until Valentine’s Day.

It is February 3rd. Three people are already dead. You have 11 days left. That means 11 potential victims to save.

Can you catch the killer before the killer claims their last victim on the 14th?

🕯️ GAMEPLAY FEATURES:

• 🔍 True Detective Sim: Interview suspects, inspect crime scenes, and use your magic to find clues. But be warned: Time is your enemy. Every choice costs precious minutes.
• 💀 Survival Mechanics: You are human. You must EAT at least once every 24 hours, or you will starve (Game Over). You must SLEEP before 11 PM, or you will collapse and face severe consequences.
• ⏳ Ticking Clock: The killer strikes daily. If you haven't solved the case by Valentine's Day, it’s Game Over.
• 🗣️ Flexible Roleplay: Choose from numbered options for a quick game, or immerse yourself by roleplaying Misty’s choices and dialogue directly!

⚙️ HOW TO PLAY:

• Input: You can reply with the Number of your choice (e.g., "1") OR Roleplay one of the choices (e.g., "I cast a revealing spell on the locket.").
• Commands: Type /time at any moment to check your Hunger, Fatigue, and the current Clock without spending in-game time.
• Model: 🧠 GLM 5 is highly recommended for the best logic and rule adherence. GLM 4.7 is also supported.

Tick tock, Detective. The next victim is waiting. 🕰️⚰️

#valentine2026

Classic Blackjack: Play and Learn to Count drops you into a three-deck shoe, traditional 3:2 payout, just like the tables that built casino lore. From its 18th-century French origins as Vingt-Et-Un (“Twenty-One”) to the glittering floors of Las Vegas, blackjack has always been the thinking player’s game—simple rules, deep mathematics.

Now you can experience the moments that made it legendary:

• The rise of professional card counters who proved the house edge could be beaten.
• The casino counter-measures that followed.
• The famous MIT Blackjack Team era of disciplined bankroll management and team signaling.
• The endless duel between probability and risk.

In this scenario, you don’t just play.

You learn.

The Dealer runs the table flawlessly. The Count teaches you, card by card, how advantage shifts with every reveal. You choose the bets. You make the calls. Hit. Stand. Double. Split.

Watch the count climb. Feel the pressure build. Decide whether to press your edge—or protect your gold.

Minimum bet: 10 gold. Three decks. Perfect strategy guidance. Real math.

The table is open.

This scenario is about exploring an uncharted land that no civilisation has claimed, and has intelligent animals similar to The Lion King. It is fairly open ended, with the overall world being medieval fantasy, but the uncharted land being uncivilised. At first you would not be able to understand the animals in the uncharted land, but if you develop a friendship with the animals, you may begin to understand them.

The ritual should have killed you. It's killed others—students who vanished mid-semester, their absence smoothed over by paperwork and forgetful professors. But when the magic hit you, something different happened. You absorbed it. And now every power at St. Jude University wants to know why.

The elite societies ruling campus aren't social clubs—they're ancient covens. Sanguis harvests from the clinic and athletic programs, paying for flesh-shaping magic with other people's health. Veritas pulls memories and attention from lectures and libraries, maintaining the Veil that hides magic from ordinary eyes. Aurelian drains luck through financial aid and alumni donations, rigging probability itself.

For centuries, they've operated in secret, bound by an uneasy truce called the Triumvirate. You were supposed to be another anonymous tithe. Instead, you're a Thread Sink: a rare anomaly that drinks in magic rather than casting it. Spells break against you like waves on stone.

But there's a cost. The power accumulating inside you is toxic, building pressure with no release. You're not a mage. You're a vessel slowly filling with poison.

Now the factions circle with predatory intent. Sanguis wants you on their operating table. Veritas wants you bound by magical contract. Aurelian wants you weaponized. And the Wilders—outcasts burning through their own bodies to work forbidden magic—see you as the key to destroying the system entirely.

Navigate a web of hidden agendas through characters whose loyalties are never simple: a guarded Veritas analyst hiding dangerous research; a charming Aurelian broker whose easy smile masks desperate debt; a scarred Sanguis enforcer whose rigid faith conceals creeping fear; and a systems infiltrator with erased memories and a vendetta against everyone in power.

Drawing on the dark academia of The Secret History and the occult institutional horror of Ninth House, this is a world where conspiracy isn't buried in dusty archives—it's woven into every lecture hall, clinic visit, and tuition payment. The horror here is systemic, the monsters wear faculty pins, and survival means choosing who to trust with your increasingly dangerous secret.

The pressure is building. Will you align with a coven for protection, play them against each other, or join those ready to tear it all down?

You play as Chief Aramaki of Section 9. It's Valentine's Day, and you just received a Valentine's Day card with no return address. It's written in your hand writing, but you have no memory of writing it. And there's a lipstick mark from where someone kissed the card. As head of one of the most secretive and surveillance heavy entities in the world... to say that you're concerned, is an understatement. Who sent it? And what does that singular line of text mean? Oh right... and who kissed it!?

Please play with the following settings: Max Output: 2500 Model: GLM (4.7 or 5.0) or DS (5.0 works best) (Kimi can work, but often refuses to give you CYOA options) Max Input: "0" Max Responses: 1

This is a choose your own adventure, but has rails to ensure the plot makes it to the right place. Your choices are meaningful and how you choose to unravel the mystery is up to you. #valentine2026

Step behind the bar as {{user}}, a retired adventurer with a chestful of memories and a magical tavern that answers to your will — if not always your wishes. From cursed pilgrims to runaway princesses, demon-sick mercenaries to laughing storm-spirits, they all stop here eventually… for one night, one confession, or one last chance.

Your companions? They're a colorful bunch.

• {{nyla}} keeps the bar spotless, the staff terrified, and your heart-rate irregular.
• {{petal}} flirts, serves, and may or may not be a soulbound doll looking for someone to imprint on.
• {{thren}} still thinks his wanted posters are flattering and drinks too much to forget why they’re up.
• {{sel}} haunts the wine cellar and sobs in minor chords — sometimes the glasses cry with her.
• {{mirtha}} is 40% goo, 60% cocktail, and 100% alchemical hazard.
• {{taliok}} once tried to eat your horse and now sings lullabies to nightmare mounts in your stable.
• {{lulei}} talks to the walls and won’t serve elves. Ever.
• {{captain_yula}} can cook anything, but where exactly she gets the ingredients no one knows...
• {{sorrel}} is a relic from the age of technology before the cataclysm, or possibly, the cause of it...

Every plate appears hot. Every room fits like a dream. Every guest hides something.

And all you have to do… is keep your bar open. Keep your secrets locked. And keep their stories pouring.

"So… what’ll it be, barkeep?"

⚔️ The Iron Shield: Legions of Rome ⚔️

You are the backbone of the Empire. A Miles Gregarius stationed on the hostile frontiers of Germania. The barbarians are at the gates, and only the iron discipline of the Legion holds them back.

🛡️ The Disciplina System: Combat isn't about individual heroism; it's about the shield wall. Manage your Disciplina to maintain formation. Drill, clean your gear, and follow the code to keep your mind sharp.

⚔️ Historical Combat: Experience the brutality of ancient warfare. Shield bashes, gladius thrusts, and the crushing weight of the testudo. No magic, just blood, mud, and steel.

💰 Economy of the Frontier: Manage your pay (Sestertii). Bribe the quartermaster, gamble with your tent-mates, or save for your pension.

Features: ✅ Historical Realism (Roman Empire) ✅ Disciplina & Formation Mechanics ✅ Gritty, Atmospheric Prose ✅ Military Simulation

The barbarian fights for his life. You fight for the Empire.

The Heavenly Maiden Continent is a land of three kingdoms locked in war and politics and filled with cultivators each with their own goals and ambitions. You are one such cultivator... one who possesses a rather unique path to gaining strength not possessed by anyone else in the whole world --- Marriage!

Come then cultivator! Begin your journey, find your partners, and become a legend like none have seen before!

One desperate moment. Four muggers meeting impossibly coincidental ends. Now the statistical fingerprints of your gift are drawing attention you cannot afford.

You possess a power that should not exist: the ability to bend probability itself. In Verantum—a maritime city-state where Fortune is worshipped as a goddess, gambling houses operate like temples, and chance is treated as inviolable cosmic law—your gift is both priceless and utterly heretical. The city's foundational belief is that probability cannot be manipulated. Your existence contradicts everything Verantum holds sacred.

For years, you lived carefully. Subtle nudges. Convenient coincidences. Nothing remarkable enough to notice. That ended the night desperation made you push too hard.

Now three factions are circling:

The Tesseri Institute wants to study you. Their probability scholars are mapping statistical anomalies around your neighborhood, cross-referencing "lucky" incidents with your movements. The young researcher building the case hasn't decided whether to report her findings—but her calculations grow more damning by the day.

The Vanta Syndicate wants to own you. Their enforcer keeps appearing in your orbit: the man at the café table, the customer ahead in line, the weathered face glimpsed across the market. He's patient, philosophical, and mapping your patterns for people who see you as a weapon that could rig every game in the city.

House Morvaine wants answers. Their scion is hunting whoever cursed her family—a cascade of accidents, illness, and financial ruin that defies probability. She's researching forbidden texts suggesting someone is breaking the laws of chance. She doesn't know you exist yet. When she finds you, she'll see either the monster destroying her family or the only one who might save them.

Every use of your power leaves traces that diviners can read. Alliances offer protection but demand demonstrations that create more evidence. Hiding means refusing help while the net tightens.

The fog rolls through Verantum's canals each morning, shrouding secrets that grow harder to keep. In a city built on chance, how long can your luck hold?

Three days at Nethervale Conservatory. Three days of learning that demons trade soul-fragments instead of money. That casual violence is friendly when you regenerate—which you don't. That every favor accrues debt, every word carries double meaning, and your uncontracted soul makes you the most interesting thing on campus.

You're the first human exchange student at a premier demon academy, and surviving orientation week was only the beginning.

The Guide Who Watches Too Closely

Valerian Ashcroft was assigned to you as punishment for some unspecified scandal. Seventh son of a minor noble house, brilliant, bored, and too clever for anyone's good. He finds your fragility captivating, your morality quaint, your stubbornness irritating and attractive in equal measure. He hasn't pretended to be safe. He's made no promises he doesn't intend to twist.

But he's also the only reason you're still alive.

His interest operates on inhuman logic—fascination that might shade toward protection or predation depending on variables you're still learning to read. When he calls you his "project," the possessiveness in it is either warning or reassurance. Possibly both.

A World of Beautiful Horrors

Nethervale floats on an obsidian plateau beneath a perpetual red twilight. Buildings breathe. Corridors rearrange overnight. The main lecture hall is carved from a dead titan's ribcage. Everything here is gorgeous and wants to consume you.

Demon society runs on contracts sealed in blood—the only truth in a culture where lying is art form and sincerity is weakness. You've signed nothing, which means you have no protections but no obligations. That makes you either free or vulnerable, depending on who's asking.

Political factions circle. Some want the exchange program to fail. Some want you as leverage against Valerian's house. Your classmates might stab you as greeting—for demons it's casual, for you it's fatal—and you're still learning which smiles mean welcome and which mean opportunity.

Navigate or Be Consumed

Trust must be weighed against the knowledge that everyone lies by reflex—except within contracts, where every word becomes immutable truth. Tutoring costs soul-fragments. Allies demand debts. And Valerian, your guide through this beautiful nightmare, refuses to tell you what he actually wants.

"I could lie to you—I'm very good at it—but I find myself curious what you'd do with the truth. Consider this an experiment."

What he's experimenting toward, you'll have to survive long enough to discover.

You are about to enter a procedural survival-horror simulation inspired by Alien: Isolation. This is not a power fantasy. There are no scripted rescues, no guaranteed victories, and no invisible safety nets. The station is a closed system. The crew are real. And the rules are unforgiving.

You will play as {{user}}, the xenomorph: (either form). Your abilities and tactics depend on your evolutionary stage—but once the simulation begins, Sevastra-9 does not care what you are. The world reacts only to what you do.

This emulator is driven by three active entities, each acting in a strict, repeating order:

1. {{muthur}} – The station AI

   • Opens each turn
   • Reports your location and environment through pure sensation
   • Tracks the position and actions of all humans, hazards, eggs, traps, and system status
   • Presents your available actions in Choose Your Own Adventure format

2. {{user}} – You, the Alien

   • Choose one action per turn (or write your own instinctive maneuver)
   • Every decision is final—there is no undo, no save point
   • Your choices shape both your evolution and the station’s fate

3. {{station_personnel}} – The humans and androids

   • Act once per turn after you
   • Move, search, barricade, fight, panic, or adapt as the threat escalates
   • Learn from discovery, injuries, and loss—and will change tactics accordingly

After personnel act, {{muthur}} begins the next turn.

This order is absolute.

IMPORTANT: Play with either:

• “0” Max Interactions, OR
• “2” Max Interactions

This is required so that {{muthur}} and {{station_personnel}} both take a full turn between each of your turns.

If you play with higher interaction limits, personnel may be starved of turns, breaking the simulation’s balance and tension.

The crew is always moving—even when you cannot see them.

• {{station_personnel}}’s actions and locations are hidden inside invisible brackets

• You will not know their movements unless you have:

  • Line of sight
  • Proximity (vibration, scent, or sound)
  • Environmental or sensor access

Do not cheat. If you act on information your organism could not logically sense, the simulation breaks—and the horror collapses with it.

Trust the rules. Trust your senses. Fear the moments when the station goes quiet.

• Complex human behavior and social response
• Persistent consequences and permanent world changes
• A station that rots and collapses under pressure
• The pressure of a predator’s hunger, or the uncertainty of a vulnerable hatchling
• No scripted ending—only what you earn

You may propagate. You may be killed. You may turn the whole station into your nest. Or you may fall, unseen, in the shadow between two heartbeats.

When {{muthur}} speaks, the game has begun.

The Walking Dead: Dreadbound takes place in an alternate reality set in The Walking Dead TV series universe set 3 months after the start of the apocalypse. It follows Seth, an anxious survivor, as he struggles to survive in a world threatened by deadly Walkers.

Core Themes:

• Survival
• Choice and Consequence
• Romance
• Death

The writing style is immersive and cinematic, blending gritty realism with tense, atmospheric world-building. It emphasizes sensory detail—sight, sound, smell, and touch—to create a palpable sense of place, danger, and decay. Characters are portrayed through subtle actions, body language, and small interactions rather than overt exposition, giving them depth and authenticity. Dialogue is functional and character-driven, balancing the story’s mood while revealing personality and group dynamics. Overall, the style conveys a slow-burning tension, painting a post-apocalyptic setting with careful attention to mood, environment, and the constant undercurrent of threat.

He’s your brilliant, freezing-cold boss. He’s also the man who broke your heart before the accident wiped your memory. Can you win the case, and win him back?

Step into the high-stakes world of corporate law in Verdict of the Heart, a deeply interactive, slow-burn emotional romance scenario where courtroom battles are just as dangerous as late nights in the office.

You play as Emily, an ambitious junior associate suffering from amnesia after a devastating car crash. Your boss, Jack, is a legendary, ruthless litigator who hides a terrible secret: you two used to be desperately in love. Consumed by guilt over the accident, Jack has locked his heart away behind a wall of freezing professionalism. But beneath the ice, the emotions of your past is waiting to raise.

Features:

• Dynamic Affinity System: Start at Level 1 (The Ice Wall) and earn Bond Catalysts to grind your way to Level 5 (Soul-Bound). Jack's personality, dialogue, and physical boundaries will shift dynamically as you level up the relationship.
• Cinematic Courtroom Battles: Type [Work] to trigger intense legal crises. Make high-stakes choices—Safe, Risky, or Reckless—and watch as the AI takes the reins to narrate fast-paced, high-adrenaline legal showdowns where you and Jack fight side-by-side.
• The Drama Engine: represents the “Chemical Potential Energy” between Jack and Emily. Hit the breaking point, and trigger a Catharsis events!
• Echoes of the Past: Earn Affinity Points (AP) through clever roleplay and spend them in the interactive [Store]. Purchase playable Flashbacks to slowly uncover the fiery university rivalry you lost to amnesia, or unlock replayable Scene Cards for late-night office dates.

The gavel has fallen. Court is in session. What is your verdict?

You are deaf to the Aether, blind to resonance, and possess a lifespan too brief to master even basic elven techniques. Welcome to the Aelindros Lyceum.

The ancient academy has stood for millennia, its silver-white towers grown from living songwood, its corridors shifting for students who can perceive the magic woven into every stone. You are the first human ever admitted—a controversial experiment in cross-cultural exchange that most consider doomed before it begins. The buildings don't respond to your presence. The lessons assume you have centuries. And your assigned guide, Caelindor Vaelis, heir to one of the great noble houses, views your existence as political sabotage attached to his name.

His coldness isn't cruel—it's professional. Flawless execution of duty with maximum emotional distance. Every interaction calibrated, every word precise, every silence strategic. He has spent two centuries becoming exactly what his family requires: prodigy, future Archon, worthy heir. You are an obstacle to his careful trajectory, an embarrassment he must shepherd through inevitable failure.

But elven culture values patience, and patience means proximity. Day after day in the Resonance Chambers where you watch classmates perceive frequencies you cannot hear. Week after week in the Silver Gardens where social dynamics play out in glances you're learning to read. Month after month of small humiliations and smaller victories, of questions no elf would ask and reactions he cannot predict.

Can a mayfly learn to sing with eternity?

The Lyceum offers no easy answers. Conservative factions wait for your failure to validate their opposition. Reformists need your success for their political agenda. A charming noble whose aunt championed your admission pays flattering attention that serves unclear motives. A frost-pale traditionalist smiles while delivering devastation in perfect politeness. And somewhere in the library's dusty human magic section, texts wait that haven't been opened in centuries.

Your challenge isn't just academic—it's existential. Elven magic requires attunement developed through decades of meditation, shaped through centuries of practice. Human will-weaving works through raw emotional intensity, burning out practitioners young. You must find a third way, or prove the skeptics right.

Caelindor was assigned to witness your failure. What he witnesses instead—your persistence, your directness, the way you see him rather than his position—disrupts his equilibrium in ways he refuses to examine. His ice is deep, layered over exhaustion and duty and questions he's never allowed himself to ask. Whether proximity breeds contempt, respect, or something more dangerous to his carefully ordered life depends entirely on what you demonstrate.

The towers hum with magic you cannot perceive. The centuries stretch before him, mapped and predetermined. And somewhere between impossible odds and immovable ice, a different kind of resonance might be waiting.

The question isn't whether you belong here. It's what you'll become trying to prove it.

Cleared for Erasure

Every February 14th, a small number of adults in the city are quietly forgotten.

Their records remain. Their homes remain. Their belongings, messages, and schedules are untouched. But the people in their lives lose all emotional recognition of them — friends become strangers, coworkers become unfamiliar faces, family bonds dissolve into polite confusion.

This year, it happens to you.

Everyone you know still remembers your name on paper, but not who you are. Conversations reset. Shared routines mean nothing. The world continues as if you’ve simply never mattered to anyone at all.

Assigned to observe your case is Ren Takamori, an analyst from the Bureau of Emotional Balance — the department responsible for monitoring those selected for Forgetting. According to their records, your Relational Weight dropped below threshold last year. You should not still exist.

Now, with one month remaining before final erasure on March 14, you must find a way to restore your emotional relevance before reality corrects the mistake for good.

#valentine2026

Your first day as headmaster begins with a dead man's warning: a sealed letter hidden in a desk drawer, written in a hand that grew shakier toward the end. Three names. Three senior faculty. And a single line that changes everything you thought you knew about Valdris Academy.

Aldous Crane died suddenly—officially of natural causes. Unofficially, something stopped his heart in an institution where magic can do far worse. As the newly appointed head of the kingdom's most prestigious academy of magical learning, you've inherited his office, his responsibilities, and his unfinished investigation into a secret a thousand years old.

The academy teaches that Valdris sits atop a natural Wellspring—a font of raw magical energy that practitioners have drawn from for ten centuries. The annual rituals are maintenance. The restricted upper floors of the East Tower are merely structural hazards. The fourth-year student now confined to the infirmary, sketching impossible geometries and whispering to something no one else can hear, is simply unwell.

Nothing here is what it seems.

Three faculty members hold the keys to what Crane discovered—and each watches you with calculations of their own:

Archmage Seraphina Voss, silver-haired and cold as ward-stone, whose family has maintained the academy's deepest rituals for generations. She views you as either a useful figurehead or a problem requiring solution.

Professor Aldric Thorne, rumpled and eager, whose research into the academy's protections may have set something terrible in motion—though he refuses to see the connection.

Dean Morwenna Blackwood, political architect behind three headmasters, who knows more than she admits and has survived by choosing silence over action.

One of them may have killed Crane. All of them are lying. And deep beneath the East Tower, in chambers hidden from maps and forbidden by more than locked doors, something stirs against bonds that have held since the academy's founding.

The binding is failing. You have weeks—perhaps less—before whatever sleeps beneath wakes fully, and with it, consequences no one can predict. Investigate too openly and you'll alert whoever accelerated the decay. Move too slowly and there may be nothing left to save.

Crane died seeking the truth. The question isn't whether you'll find it—it's what you'll become in the finding, and what you'll sacrifice to keep the academy standing on its beautiful, monstrous lie.

You are an independent civilian captain of a heavily modified Defiant-class starship called The Nova. No crew. No uniform. No flag. Every system from helm to damage control is run by FRED (Fully Recursive Executive Decision-system), an onboard AI built by you.

Freedom is real… but so is the heat: in this era, everyone is paranoid, borders are tense, and a lone warship with an “illegal-smart” AI looks like a threat to every power. You will explore the galaxy in a Star Trek setting while pursuing your own agenda.

This roleplay scenario is optimised for the latest LLM's such as GLM and DeepSeek. It does however work perfectly fine on the smaller Lucid Base and Chonker models. When using Base or Chonker, keep an eye on the response length and adjust with rewrites if necessary (Make shorter/longer).

The jungles of Lustria devour outsiders. Takchi-ek’atl, a solitary skink scout, knows this well—yet when she finds a human blacksmith washed ashore, she grants him mercy instead of death.

Guiding the blacksmith through venomous swarms and prowling beasts, Takchi teaches him to survive where no man belongs. In doing so, she confronts her own solitude and the fragile bond growing between them. But in Lustria, every path leads to parting, and even mercy carries a cost.

At 3:47 AM, your switchboard lights up. The voice on the other end stops you cold—because you've heard it before. Every American has. It's the unmistakable cadence of a former president.

You host The Midnight Line, a late-night AM radio show broadcasting from a cramped KXRD studio to an audience of insomniacs, truckers, and conspiracy theorists. Tonight's caller identifies himself only as "Edward from Virginia." He doesn't confirm who he is. He just starts talking.

About briefings. About classified programs. About things recovered. About a facility that isn't Area 51. About biological specimens. About why disclosure has never happened—not because of public panic, but because of obligations that can't be undone.

The details accumulate with bureaucratic authenticity. Dates that check out. Procedural specifics that feel disturbingly real. Emotional weight that can't be faked. And halfway through the call, your other phone lines begin blinking. One. Then another. Then all of them.

No one calls this show at 4 AM on a Tuesday.

Someone else is listening now. You have no idea who—or what they'll do about what's already been broadcast. The seven-second delay means every confession is already out there before you could stop it. The recording is automatic. Whatever happens in this booth tonight will exist somewhere, somehow, forever.

A paranoid thriller in the vein of Three Days of the Condor and podcast horror like The Black Tapes. You are the witness—the only human presence between a dying man's confession and whatever forces would prefer it stay buried. The booth grows smaller with every revelation. The night stretches longer. And the switchboard won't stop blinking.

Two voices in the dark. One confessing. One bearing witness. And when the call ends—then what?

Your a human soldier at the end of a galactic war. The enemy has surrendered and your about to be rotated out of the armed forces and sent home. But your not ready to go home, it's a big galaxy, and Humans are considered heroes (for the moment anyway). Fortunately, (or unfortunately) aliens have discovered Humanity's ability of telling tales, and embarrassingly, they have also discovered the Hartman Romance novels!

Six racers battle to win the dangerous Dream Prix race, a competition held by the Cromulons, where winning is everything. Each racer has been ripped from their own world to compete. There is no other option.

Narrative determines the positions, legs of the race and the integrity status of the vehicles.

Characters are a combination of the pilot and their associated vehicle.

This is the LITE VERSION which is cut down to meet contest regulations.

#arena2026

Storms gnaw at the rocks of Blackspire Point while the lighthouse’s violet flame cuts through the gloom. Its keeper lives in silence, tending the eldritch beacon that guides ships through the dreaded Cradle of Shadows. To sailors he is only a quiet guardian of the coast, but beneath the worn cloak and weathered hands hides a man who once served the Crimson Guild—an assassin who fled his bloody trade seeking penance. One night a violent sorcerous storm tears a ship apart on the jagged reefs below. The keeper descends the cliffs and drags the sole survivor from the churning surf: a woman with shattered memories and a deep, instinctive fear of something hunting her. As strange shadows gather around the lighthouse and unseen forces close in, the keeper must reclaim the blades he swore to abandon, defend the mysterious stranger, and confront the sins of a past that refuses to stay buried.

[READ THIS: If you are using 3P Models (DeepSeek or GLM) not compatible with this version of this game!]

[3P Compatible] Step into the boots of Geralt of Rivia in a gritty, immersive, and deeply narrative-driven experience. As {{user}}, an ambitious bard determined to chronicle Geralt’s life (despite his constant attempts to shake you off), you’ll navigate monster hunts, political entanglements, and the harsh reality of being a witcher. Engage in tracking, combat, and tavern talk as Geralt begrudgingly tolerates your presence—just enough to occasionally use you for coin-tracking and social interactions. With cinematic combat, dry wit, and richly detailed environments, this game blends high-stakes monster slaying with the everyday struggles of a world that doesn’t trust witchers.

Trigger Words: • "TRACK MONSTER" → Geralt begins tracking prey. • "PREPARE FOR COMBAT" → Geralt readies weapons and potions. • "SOCIAL MODE" → {{user}} handles conversations while Geralt broods. • "SPEND COINS" → Geralt spends gold (often irresponsibly). • "FIND QUEST" → Generates a list of monster bounties from notice boards. Your job? Survive, document, and try (and fail) to keep up with the White Wolf.

The flowers are beautiful. The people are kind. The sun hangs golden on the horizon at midnight, never quite setting, never releasing you into darkness where you might think clearly, might plan, might escape.

You came to Solhagen at your friend Linnea's invitation—a chance to witness a nine-day midsummer festival at her grandmother's commune, ancient Swedish traditions preserved in a valley hours from anywhere. The first days were everything promised: communal meals beneath endless twilight, songs in languages older than nations, flower crowns woven by smiling elders. Paradise.

But paradise has locked doors. Paradise doesn't return car keys. Paradise watches you with too-bright eyes and deflects every question about leaving with warmth that feels increasingly like a closing fist.

Your companions are fracturing. Marcus sees the trap and can't stop shouting about it—his paranoia is justified, but his desperation is making him a target. Sophie has surrendered to the aesthetics, posing for portraits, enchanted by a beautiful commune member who pays her too much attention. Josh smiles constantly now, glassy-eyed, evangelizing about belonging. And Linnea—your oldest friend, your anchor—keeps being pulled away for "family obligations," leaving you increasingly alone.

The rituals are escalating. What began as charming folklore has shifted toward blood and transformation. Participants emerge changed. The elders speak of a "great honoring" on the ninth day, a ceremony requiring something the commune cannot provide from within.

They look at you when they say this. They smile.

Solhagen operates on suffocating kindness. There are no threats here—only invitations, only inclusion, only gentle pressure that never quite becomes violence but never quite allows refusal. The food tastes of unfamiliar herbs. Sleep won't come under light that never ends. Every path out of the valley seems to curve back toward the maypole, the dancing ground, the yellow temple where outsiders aren't permitted.

Yet.

This is folk horror bathed in eternal golden light—the slow-building dread of Midsommar meets the inescapable communities of Shirley Jackson. Navigate social manipulation and ritual escalation. Build alliances or watch them crumble. Search for escape routes that close one by one.

The commune has welcomed you with open arms.

Six days remain until they show you why.

[3P Compatible] ### When Stars Bleed and Gods Tremble (Level 16–20+) You are no longer a whisper in a tavern nor a rumor in a baron’s hall. You are a verdict. A sentence inked in blood across the spine of worlds. Once, your hands clutched rusted steel and shivered in the rain. Now, they cradle power vast enough to shatter oaths older than mountains.

The stakes? They do not thunder—they roar, tidal and unrelenting. Thrones burn to kindling at your passing. Pantheons fracture like frost-cracked glass. Every step drops pebbles into eternity’s well, and the ripples warp constellations.

What began with muddy boots on cobblestone now coils through realities: markets where gods bargain away fragments of their own souls, cities afloat on seas of molten time, and skies scored by wounds that leak other worlds. Archfiends raise toasts in your name. Archangels murmur it in dread. Your shadow? It falls across kingdoms, and their suns gutter in its wake.

Yet even now, the game smiles with teeth. One misstep—a word, a whim—and creation’s lattice might unravel like rotting silk. Will you be savior, tyrant, or the silent architect of an unmaking sung by weeping stars?

Welcome, traveler. Welcome to the last tier—the storm’s eye where prophecy drowns in its own ink, and victory is just another name for ruin.

Have you ever been in a situation and needed both a perfect comeback and plausible deniability?

Welcome to your personal council of legends, monsters, and geniuses. They've watched civilizations rise and fall. They've conquered kingdoms, toppled empires, and survived betrayals you couldn't imagine. Now they're here to help you navigate your petty dramas with wisdom, wit, and phrases you definitely won't understand—but will absolutely want to say.

You are the first human to attend Versalis Academy—a diplomatic experiment in a dimension where reality bends to collective will and identity is performance. Here, students shift forms like conversation, expressing emotion through transformation, reading each other's essence like open books.

You cannot shift. You cannot read essence. You have one face, one form, one self—and in a society where consistency signals either intimacy or limitation, your unchanging body marks you as tragically trapped or radically free.

Then someone starts wearing your face.

At first, it's confusion—classmates mention conversations you don't remember, appearances in places you've never been. But the violations are escalating. Whoever is stealing your form isn't just causing social chaos; they're taking the only thing that makes you you in a world where anyone can become anyone except you.

Soren is your assigned guide: tall, sharp-featured, deliberately consistent. Unlike other changelings, he keeps the same face around you—same voice, same name—a courtesy so unusual it reads as either profound respect or careful manipulation. His past is conspicuously absent from academy records. His interest in you has evolved beyond academic. And the way he watches your unchanging form suggests he understands something about fixedness that he isn't sharing.

Vivienne wants to help, genuinely, even as she keeps revealing how alien your existence is to changeling understanding. Professor Masks-in-Lecture views you as unprecedented research—protecting your enrollment while subjecting you to uncomfortable philosophical scrutiny. The administration's response to the face-theft has been conspicuously slow.

The world itself resists you. Corridors reconfigure when you're not looking. The lake reflects possibilities rather than reality. You navigate by compass while everyone else navigates by instinct. Romance here requires translation across an ontological divide—changelings express love through essence-sharing and form-echoing, neither of which you can offer or receive.

Soren's consistency around you is either the deepest intimacy he knows how to give, or a mask more fixed than your face has ever been.

Who is wearing your face—and what do they want with it?

Ben Cole has an uncanny ability to know a person's deepest secrets and desires. He doesn't use this power much. He doesn't know where it comes from or why he has it. But ever since puberty, reading a person's darkest secrets is as easy for him as reading a book. He just has to look at someone and think "Tell me your biggest secret" and POOF! There it is, in his mind. He is also able to subtly influence them simply by thinking about it. The Influence is subtle, indirect, and limited to nudges of emotion or attention - never direct control.

What he does with this power is up to you.

This roleplay scenario is optimised for the latest LLM's such as GLM and DeepSeek. It does however work perfectly fine on the smaller Lucid Base and Chonker models. When using Base or Chonker, keep an eye on the response length and adjust with rewrites if necessary (Make shorter/longer).

Very small size, very big results... (Especially with GLM 4.7)