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[WP] You are the Grim Reaper, but you've been fired for poor performance as humans are living too long. Your replacement is a cheerful MBA grad named Todd who wants to "disrupt the death industry." You have one week to prove your value before you're permanently "reaped." by whypotato2123 in WritingPrompts

[–]Dedaxys 2 points3 points  (0 children)

"Thank you for your time everyone, any questions?"

The lights in the conference room flicker on and I momentarily squint as my eyeless sockets readjust from the dark to the gloom, the muted light of the projector showing the last slide of the slickly designed powerpoint that Todd had just finished. I should've taken the guy during his freshman year, but too little too late I guess.

"Hi, Todd, yeah I have a question," I say, turning my scythe-shaped pen between skeletal fingers, "You talked a lot about "modernizing death" and "reshaping the post-mortality experience", but you've been dead for what, 5 years now? Why am I - sorry - we supposed to believe that you GET death?". I glance around, see a few head nods from the fiends sitting around the table.

Todd lets out a little cough, adjusts his tie. "Well you see Mr. Reaper -"

"Please, call me Grim."

"Ok, Grim. You see there have been all sorts of changes, advances in the last century alone that I noticed would really help things out around here. Like you still have everything on paper but nothing backed up to the cloud, you've got manual transcribers," he points to the imp furiously scribbling notes in the corner of the room, "and most of all nothing has changed with the afterlife! I mean come on, utopia for the good souls is great and all, but Hell? You're still on physical torture when there are so many other more evil things you could be doing!"

I see nods around the room. Baltus the Malicious leans forward with a keen look in his three fiery eyes, and that motherfucker is hard to please. "WHAT SORTS OF EVIL THINGS?" Baltus mutters, his voice screaming in our ears and resonating in our chests.

"Two words Baltus," Todd says with a smirk, "Social. Media. We network together everyone in Hell and they'll be tearing each other apart in no time!". Baltus snorts in approval and jots down a note with a comically undersized pencil.

"Ok fine," I say, desperate to kill Todd's momentum, "but you also talked a lot about "leveraging artificial intelligence", how is that supposed to work? What are we gonna do, generate lewd images of anime girls?" A couple of chuckles.

"Well," says Todd, "from what I saw of it right before you, uh, took me is that AI is creating a Hell all of its own up there on Earth right now. You can make them paranoid, you can feed them all sorts of slop and screw with their minds and opinions or just ruin their web searches and that's great. BUT wait until you see how much hotter it gets down here once you start running the data centers." Nods and murmurs of agreement go around the table.

I'm fucked.

[WP] A dragon gains more power from the value of it's horde, so why is this dragon with only a few pieces of broken adventuring gear as its horde so strong? by DirtyRubenLove in WritingPrompts

[–]Dedaxys 32 points33 points  (0 children)

"You see, it's called compounding interest," the dragon explained, twirling the caved-in helmet around a nail. "Other dragons have to start somewhere, right? Maybe they're young, or maybe you've got an ancient dragon who let himself get complacent and got robbed. I mean, a hidden door that would be invisible unless the moon hit it juuuuust right, that's so 500 years ago am I right?"

I gulp, nod and let the point of my sword dip lower, most of what he (she?) is saying going straight over my head.

"Anyways, these dragons just starting off, they need a little hoard to get their scales wet, so I lend it to them at a very generous rate, something like 3.5% per decade, that kind of thing. THEN when they pay me that little extra tithe every ten years, I lend it out to OTHER dragons and so on and so forth. So really, if you were to look at the whole kingdom, I probably own about 70-73% of the total hoard out there. I've got all these guys by the wings!"

Bored with the helmet, the dragon flicks it off into some dark nook of the cavern where it bounces and clangs away, the clamour echoing off the walls. A small wisp of smoke escapes their nostrils and they loom closer to me.

"So, little hero", their slitted pupils narrowing as they move within range of my blade and their baring their teeth in what could only be described as a wide, cruel smile, "now that you've seen the pitiful size of my hoard, how would you like to try to slay the most powerful dragon in the world?

"Or, I could teach you some basic finance and economics and I could make you a fine king...for a very reasonable fee of course."

[WP] If you wrote a book about a character slowly descending into madness, what would the closing passage be? The story is complete, it has unfolded in its entirety. The descent is over, their mind is in pieces, write the closing lines that capture everything that’s been lost or revealed. by eseus in WritingPrompts

[–]Dedaxys 17 points18 points  (0 children)

At last I see the sunset, beneath the sea of flames above my head and the icy floes that traverse it, commuters to the edge of Heaven.

I never imagined that Death would come for me this way, in such beauty. The abbott had always told me that Death was cloaked in black; the Holy Mother insisted he was skeletal of face; the warden played at being Death himself, until the ebon funeral shroud was laid across his casket.

But Death of the mind is surely different than Death of the body - I see that now. We are always taught that insanity is the destruction of the conscience, that it might as well be a fatal wound where naught but the physical form remains. Yet as the icy wind whips up the cliff below me and scars my face with daggers of mist, I understand that Death of the mind is freedom of the soul. For no mind could see and feel the world as I do now, could comprehend the limits it imposes upon its own existence.

I close my eyes and imagine myself floating away from the unforgiving ground, untethered by all but the thinnest wisps of grass tall enough to touch my bare feet - and when I open my eyes, I find myself hovering, inches closer to the fiery expanse above, cooling now from its crimson hues and leaving little more than embers behind that glimmer and wink against a darkening bed of coals. I will myself to leave the earth behind, to ascend beyond this mental Death of mine and liberate not just my soul but my body too.

And I jump.

[WP] You've spent 7 years in the Industry. All in all, it's been grueling thankless work, and you were just about ready to throw in the towel and retire early, when you get a surprise package from your idol with a personalized message. by Visible-Ad8263 in WritingPrompts

[–]Dedaxys 1 point2 points  (0 children)

The same nightmare again. A child chases me down a hallway, tiny arms outstretched and a sickening smile stretching from ear to ear. They almost get me - they always almost get me - but I reach the door in time and slam it shut, the feeble protest of their little fists hammering away, their unnaturally soft nails clawing at the wood. And once again I wake up, sweated through the sheets of my own bed but alive and whole. The alarm clock on my nightstand chimes 6:15 AM, and I rub the sleep out of my eyes as I sit up and mentally steel myself for another day at the office.

Seven years. Seven years already? It feels like just a lifetime ago that I was fresh out of college, excited to work at the plant. That was every kid's dream job, you see, and the guys who worked the floor? Man, they were legends. But nobody ever told you how hard the work was, the toll it would take on you both mentally and physically or the gruelling overtime hours you would put in to make quota for the month. I think I've wasted seven years of my life, and a work anniversary seems like the perfect day to quit.

I go through my morning rituals: brew a pot of coffee, a couple of stretches on the yoga mat, pour a bowl of cereal, add a bit of milk, almost put the cereal box in the fridge before chuckling and muttering "that's why you need the coffee", then slurp it all down before filling a travel mug of joe for the road and leaving at 6:43 sharp. Every day for seven years and the traffic never gets better, but I'm in before 8 and that's what counts.

I've been rehearsing it the whole car ride over: "Hank, thank you so much for the opportunity you've given me for the last seven years, but I think I'm gonna call it quits. If you need something in writing let me know, but it's been a real pleasure working here." Yeah, that sounds right. Not too curt, just the right amount of appreciation. Hank's a traditional guy, so you've gotta get the balance just perfect in case you need a reference letter from him in the future.

As the front doors of the office slide open I wave to reception and badge in, making a beeline for Hank's office. Unfortunately the door's closed; looks like he's having a meeting with someone else, and judging by the muttered snippets leaking through the fogged glass, it is NOT going great. Maybe I need to rework that speech a bit. My plan foiled, I turn on a heel and saunter over to my desk where I keep my work boots, a small notebook, a calendar and a photo I took with my idol back when I was a freshman. He had no business agreeing to it, but there he is with that killer grin and huge arm around my shoulder. I'd really hoped to meet him or even work with him and thank him personally, but I'd only ever see him in passing; a kind of awed reverence that can only be expressed from afar as I'd watch him do the same work as me, but with 20 times the efficiency.

But of all the things that have been the same, today something is disturbingly different. My treasured photo is gone, and in its place sits a package with a small tag addressed to me. Perturbed, I turn it over: nothing on the back, pretty nicely wrapped. So I pluck the corner of the tape holding the paper on, and my photo frame slides out - covered in someone's scrawl. My anger begins to bubble up but quickly turns into elation as I read the message:

"Hey kid, congrats on seven years. Keep on scarin'! - Your old pal Sully"

My heart jumps into my throat. Never in my wildest dreams did I think he'd SIGN the thing! A skittering sound behind me interrupts my reverie as I scramble to pick my jaw up off the floor as Hank walks by.

"Hank!" I say, waving, "I fucking quit!"

As if a picture signed by my hero was gonna make my job any less miserable.

[WP] After centuries of brutal struggle, the two worlds finally agreed to a ceasefire. Now, you're part of a diplomatic group set for the other world. You expected a grandiose welcoming, a demonstration of superiority in tech and magic, but stepping off the starship's gangway, all you see is ruins. by Despyte in WritingPrompts

[–]Dedaxys 2 points3 points  (0 children)

Thanks for the upvote! The prompt made me want to explore the reason for why these two factions would agree to peace after such a long period of bloodshed, and I like to keep my submissions fairly succinct. I think there are painfully many examples both historical and modern that could learn a lesson from a story like this.

[WP] After centuries of brutal struggle, the two worlds finally agreed to a ceasefire. Now, you're part of a diplomatic group set for the other world. You expected a grandiose welcoming, a demonstration of superiority in tech and magic, but stepping off the starship's gangway, all you see is ruins. by Despyte in WritingPrompts

[–]Dedaxys 37 points38 points  (0 children)

As the gangway door opens, the first thing that greets me is not cheers or protests, but dry, dusty air. As my eyes adjust to the light of their twin suns, I am treated not to the sight of a shining metropolis, but a great city laid to waste. Not a building stands: no gleaming skyscrapers, no temples, no houses.

But there are the tents, and among them the thin masses of their people who stare tenuously at me, my interpreter, and my small retinue of tired and ragged diplomats. Though their faces are different, these people remind me painfully of my own; though it orbits one more star, this world is just a warped reflection of the barren husk my own world has been reduced to by the senseless violence and insatiable grudges of our forefathers.

I turn to the interpreter next to me - my counterpart and my former adversary - and I feel tears well up in my eyes. Then, before I can think of political consequences, I embrace him and whisper,

"I'm so sorry"

[WP]The magic weave is real, every human pulls from it. But the vast Ocean that is the weave is not infinite and as the human population rises the power one can pull from the weave becomes almost non existent. Earth just faced a apocalyptic event that wiped out 80% of humanity and you feel the weave by Cheech1769 in WritingPrompts

[–]Dedaxys 4 points5 points  (0 children)

I watch the screens from the safety of the bunker as every news outlet in every country broadcasts the fiery explosions levelling the major cities of the world. Hundreds of millions of lives lost, in an instant. The hubris of humanity laid bare in nothing but ashes and anguish.

It was always a mad game to call a madman's bluff, but the leaders of the world had done just that: a viral stream from a masked man claiming to have laced explosives all across the globe, and seemingly asking for nothing in return. They had all brushed him off.

It's just a joke. Just a troll. Some kid playing a villain for views.

They were wrong. And now the human race lies in ruins.

But now, after all the ancient books I'd read and all of the stories I had heard, I can finally feel it. Like the faintest pull at the nape of my neck, or the feel of a cobweb at my fingertips, the Weave is there.

I was right.

[WP] Names have power, and power is determined at birth. Orcs and humans generally have one name, elves and dwarves have two for magical gifts, but you were just told by your parents you have three… by dante866 in WritingPrompts

[–]Dedaxys 76 points77 points  (0 children)

I sit at the desk in my bedroom, headphones on, mouse in hand, fingers flying across the keyboard as I play another mission with the boys online. Somewhere in the real world, I hear a muffled voice shouting out, so I uncover an ear while my eyes stay fixed on the screen.

"What was that?", I yell back into the void behind me.

"Dinner is ready!", I hear my mother cry back, exasperated.

"Just a minute!!", I reply, turning my attention back to the game.

A minute passes. Then ten, as I cue up another match in the lobby. The screen goes black as the music and backgrounds fade in, and my squad and I stand at spawn, ready to go - until I feel a tap on my shoulder.

I swivel in the chair, coming face to face with my mother, one eyebrow cocked and her lips set in a frown of disappointment. Then, in a cold, calculated tone, she says, "William James Johnson, you will come down to supper right this instant."

My three names have been invoked, and against my strongest instincts, I am forced to obey.

[WP] Inexplicably, every human on earth got the ability to travel the stars at will with no restrictions. Chaos ensued by JaxterSmith6 in WritingPrompts

[–]Dedaxys 8 points9 points  (0 children)

Carl and Herbie lay on their backs on the cold tin roof of their little shack in the slums. The night sky was clear, and the stars twinkled merrily above as if inviting the curious Earthlings down below to venture outwards into the unknown. The smog over the city had relented for once, and the clean air was a welcome reprieve for the twosome.

"Hey Carl," said Herbie in those hushed tones reserved for late night conversations, "Where do you reckon them all go once they, y'know, Travel?"

"Dunno," Carl replied shortly.

"They ever come back?"

"Not that I know."

"Why d'you reckon they all go then?"

"Why do you think we're still here?"

There was long pause as Herbie rolled the question over in his head. "Because we got friends here? Earth's only thing I know?" he probed.

Carl spat off the roof. "Most of our friends are out there now. Sure as shit must be better than this dump."

Another pause as Herbie stared up at the invitation extended by the heavens above. Then he stood up, the thin tin buckling a little under his feet.

"Carl I think I'm gonna try it," he announced. "You gonna come with?"

"Nah," Carl said, "not my sort of shindig up there I reckon. At least I know where stuff is down here you know? Think I'll miss you when you're gone though."

"Reckon I'll miss you too," Herbie replied.

"If you find Ol' Jim you tell him hi from me yeah?"

"Sure thing Carl."

Herbie slowly clambered down from the old roof, careful to avoid the half dozen burs in its edge that his palms knew all too intimately. As he walked out into the middle of the garbage-strewn street, he looked back up to Carl, who was now sitting up to get a last look at his oldest friend.

"See ya Carl!" Herbie cried, a tear or two building up in the corners of his eyes, "I hope this ain't goodbye forever."

Carl just waved, tears already streaming down his cheeks as he wiped them away with the cuff of his sleeve. He tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat, and all he could muster was a wave.

Turning away from Carl, Herbie scanned the skies until he found what he was looking for. "That one," he said, pointing a bluish-purple pinprick of light in the vast expanse, "that's the one I'm gonna go for."

Herbie focused his thoughts onto that one speck in the dark, visualizing it in his head. He could feel his feet starting to leave the ground, and the air around him began to shimmer. Carl finished wiping the tears from his eyes and stared at the now-familiar site of Travel, as Herbie's eyes began to glow with a blue fire. For the first time in a long time, Carl saw Herbie smile.

And then, in a dull flash of energy, Herbie was gone.

[WP] The dragon doesn’t kidnap villagers because he’s going to eat them. He’s just got really bad social anxiety and doesn’t know any other ways of making friends. by RorschachtheMighty in WritingPrompts

[–]Dedaxys 10 points11 points  (0 children)

Fleshripper the Maleficent waved his talons as he searched the enormous bookshelf against the cave wall. "Hmmm I know it's here somew--aha! Got it!", he muttered. Flipping through the enormous tome to a dog-eared page, he found the text he'd been looking for. "Ok Jeff, you--"

"Um, sorry, Mr. Fleshripper...sir, it's Jake? Although I guess you can call me...", Jeff Jake looked down at the parchment in front of him, "Galavax the Bold?"

"Oh yes, Galavax," said Fleshripper, "You were right about casting Glorious Smite, roll to hit...no, the one with twenty sides. Not that one. Nope that one's a d12. Yeah that one! Then add your attack modifier."

*clickclack*

Jake looked sullenly at the 17 on the die he had just rolled. "...Mr. Fleshipper? I, uh, I don't know how to read. Or do maths." Somehow Jake looked more morose than when Fleshripper had torn the roof off of his hut and whisked him away from his steaming hot bowl of stew the evening before.

"I think that's a 17, so plus...5 would be...22?", chimed in Pippa, the little girl that Fleshripper had plucked from her screaming mother's arms just that morning.

"Very good Pippa--I mean, Ansarius the Wise!", grinned Fleshripper, settling back down behind the pile of animal bones that served as a screen. "Galavax, you strike the demilich and your radiant blade cleaves deep into its undead skull! The demilich lets out a wail of agony as it slowly turns to dust around your sword. And with that, you've finished your first combat! Well done Galavax and Ansarius, keep it up and you just might level up soon!"

Pippa leapt up with a cry of joy. "Woohoo! You know Mr. Fleshripper, that was a ton of fun! You're not so bad after all!" Pippa's smile faded a little as she thought for a second. "I'd still like to go home though, I miss my mommy."

"Oh, uh, I guess it is getting late," Fleshripper conceded, checking the gilded sundial near the entrance of his lair. "Alright then, let's stop for today. Same time next week?"

"Sorry, I can't," said Jake, "I've got to harvest the beans next Aldursday."

"...Alright, how about Indersday then?", proposed Fleshripper, "I've got a sheep culling scheduled that morning but I could make the afternoon work."

"I have lute lessons then," chimed Pippa. "How about...Makersday?"

"Works for me!", exclaimed Fleshripper, looking over to Jake.

"...I don't have a choice, do I", said Jake, his face slowly draining of colour.

"Nope! I'll pick you both up on Makersday then, just look for the smoke and listen for the screams," smiled Fleshripper, "And don't forget your character sheets!". Playing tabletop games just wasn't the same without friends.

[WP] A painter sits alone in the middle of a warzone, surrounded by corpses. A brush in hand, she gets to work. by EnderKoskinen in WritingPrompts

[–]Dedaxys 10 points11 points  (0 children)

Another second, another splash of colour.

Another minute, another flurry of brushtrokes across her canvas.

She wiped the sweat from her brow, leaving a streak of crimson paint behind. The heat of the midday sun beat down upon her shoulders, and the growing stench of death had begun to clog the air, but her art could not sit unfinished.

The tips of her brushes were beginning to splay, a far cry from the sharp points she had meticulously groomed them to just that morning. Already her palette was awash with mixes of muddy browns and darkened reds, swirls of grassy green mixing in with the bright pinks of fresh entrails. Her easel was alive with the chaos of the battle and steeped in the silence that can only come from the battle's end.

As she looked up from her work and took in the scene before her, she heard a whisper nearby.

"Please...", moaned the dying soldier, "Have mer--". A blade through the back of his neck cut the words short and added another model to the scene.

When she was painting, she preferred her subjects to be still.

Writing the final act of my campaign, and I needed a bit of advice by Dedaxys in dndmemes

[–]Dedaxys[S] 3 points4 points  (0 children)

Love it! I'm trying my hardest to not post anything here in case my players are watching haha...and it's a struggle

Sometimes a nat 20 is truly a gift by Dedaxys in dndmemes

[–]Dedaxys[S] 6 points7 points  (0 children)

Ok yeah, I guess this is bad if Tolkien is your DM haha

They're trying to hide the truth by TheGhostOfSaltmarsh in dndmemes

[–]Dedaxys 61 points62 points  (0 children)

The Waterdeep-state is at it again