The Technovore

Ovinch fought back by thinking about those zit-popping videos. He had an EXTREMELY visual imagination. Detailed, too. I like how this story is taking a turn for an Alleyverse-style RP but with no rules and lots of godmodding XD

Ovinch—who is in no way related to Narrator Tech and is completely not corrobrating with him for shenanigan purposes so stop thinking that—began thinking about shipping extremely loudly. While standing next to Thought. Staring.

On a box of incredibly hard screenplays for the first 10,000 episodes of the famous Cosmere-based soap opera...

Backstory Time: Narrator Tech thrived on drama, and breeded it every chance he got. He did this because as a child...

But what Jay didn’t realize was that he wasn’t alone in the darkness.

Which was fine. In Tech’s feverish shipping frenzy, he had ordered thousands of JayThought shirts and stored them in warehouses all across the RPverse. Tech assured everyone that that was definitely NOT foam coming out of his mouth, it was simply... dish soap. Yes dish soap. Dish soap is perfectly sane.

Technovore and Lunamor pranced about Jaywalk sporting their totally quality T-shirts, tauntingly singing their songs of sitting in trees and the like. It was a good time for the two of them. Jaywalk did not appreciate it as much.

Technovore now had a T-shirt stand. His stand stood in a spooky alleyway in the despondent void that used to be the fourth wall. He sold shipping T-shirts. They all had customink watermarks on them, along with random symbols and uncreative name mashups branded on them. They were not very good. Tech is bad at business.

Narrator Tech sat behind the fourth wall, watching the two other narrators stare deeply into each others eyes. It felt grossly reminiscent of Twilight, yet somehow they actually pulled it off. He decided to ship it, and sell the t-shirts at a limited-time premium. One must always take advantage of a golden business opportunity.

“Special.”

Because their father was of the tree side. He spoke for the trees. He was whatever Goth—I-I mean the trees needed him to be. He’s the Lorax.

Narrator Shadow got banned from the RP for godmodding. Voidus wept in the distance.

“No... No that’s not true! THAT’S IMPOSSIBLE!” Stick lamented.

Granted. “V” is also transformed as a phenome of “U”, and “W” is also replased by “U”, as well as “X” by “S”, and “d”, “p”, and “q” by “b”. Now that the English language only konsists of 20.5 letters and all books are utterly uorthless, an angry mob of historians, authors, english teachers, and lawyers are now after your heab, and will likely kook, kik, and otherwise kause you to sease to exist. I wish to marry my true love for time and all eternity.

A suspiciously convienent tree... could it be...

Instead of using spears, he’d use an iron spike crossbow!

Narrator Ovaltine took a die-no-bomb to the neck and died. Meanwhile Narrator Technovore, being actually useful, gave Narrator Enitlavo command over the great Mime Hoards of Rowanda to break Shadow’s psychology to its knees.

What the narrators didn’t know was that Narrator Bean had extremely nefarious and traitorous intentions. Butterflutter the Eigth glared at TLPW, which is the only possible reason this has happened, and defintely could not be anything else at all.

Granted. Your gradnfather died of polio at the age of 8, and your bilogical father is completely infertile. And yet, you exist. Have fun with that. Also your feet hum when you stand on tile. I’M SORRY OKAY? XD I wish for a meteor of solid gold to land in my backyard without wrecking my house or my family.

The mimes shuffled into the room despondently and knelt by the remains of the fourth wall. They sullenly picked up the ruined fragments, miming weeping and deep, deep sorrow. They were extremely good at it. I cried. They carted away the pieces and threw them—and themselves—into Honor Chasm. For they knew the truth. The fourth wall was shattered. Splintered. Fractured. And it could never be fixed again.

Awesome! Same story here! Although I don’t really put in the time like want to be/should be... it’s funny how with all the roleplay here, you can really tell the difference between the aspiring writers and... those who are not aspiring writers. There’s just a love for the scene thst you can really feel whenever they post y’know? anyhow... The nightwatcher cracks a grin. “Finally, It’s you. I’ve been waiting so long.” She closes her eyes and tilts her head to feel the sun on her face. “It has been done. Thank you Zath. You’ve saved us all.” Above her head, the sky cracks, blue and white light spilling out of the seams that stitch the world together. A deep rumbling emenates from the ground, from the plants, from the air itself as the earth takes a deep sigh of relief. You stare up in wonder as the light intensifies, and as the cracks spread. Other colors join the blue and white—green, red, black, yellow—the full spectrum of light and energy joins in and bathes the earth in warmth. The nightwatcher begins to laugh. Beginning a low chuckle, it quickly becomes a mad, hysterical laugh. She points to the East, at the horizon line of the mountains and sky. “Look!” A golden light seems to concentrate... first a pinprick, then a flame, then a star. It shines with terrible power and destruction. “He cannot possibly stand against the Collective! It’s over! It’s finally over!” The golden light concentrates from a star back into a tiny point, before blazing across the sky in a single, powerful beam. It flies overhead, consuming everything and threatening with all the rage and hatred of divinity. Just as you’re nearly convinced you’re doomed to be consumed, the beam impacts against the sky itself, pressing against the cacophany of colors. They contest for a few, precious, breathtaking moments. If you haven’t figured it out before you’ve now realized you are witnessing history on an infinite scale. The golden light falters, then fades, before being blasted back by a brutal unleashing of raw power. When your vision returns to you, the harsh golden light is gone, utterly destroyed. Standing above you in the air dozens of beings radiating light of all colors survey their newly-reclaimed home. They cry out in unison, their voices gentle, yet piercing, drowning out all noise and enveloping continents. “WE ARE THE COLLECTIVE. YOUR GODS HAVE FAILED YOU. WE WILL SAVE YOU. CEASE YOUR WARS. CEASE YOUR STRIFE. PROGRESS, GROWTH, AND PEACE WILL BE PROVIDED FOR YOU. THE WAR IS OVER. THERE WILL BE PEACE. FOR ALL TIME AND ALWAYS.” The Nightwatcher smiles at you again. “Thank you. Your bane is that you’ll have garlic breath for the rest of your life.”

Likely by taking their agony and amplifying it by 1337%, Simmons reasoned.

Granted, you now have six fingers on your left hand, which makes you easily identifiable to any and all Spanish swordsman looking to avenge their fathers. I wish to actually understand the Alleyverse

The night watcher glares at you for a long moment. When you stare back impetuously, she sics her axhounds on you and chases you out of the valley. I wish to rectify my previous mistake of not wishing.