yUL
Anonymous10/29/25, 09:11No.6325135The Hairy Hand
The president put on the ceremonial gowns, now knowing the terrible conventions of society.
A forbidden fruit, offered to her by subordinates and friends, that which they all deemed an essential part of youth; the what to say, the what not to say; the great secrets of seduction; the three gazes of the man-eating leopard; “The height of skirt that melts the inexperienced virgin”. And she endured it all, like a woman. She endured to have them play with her, as if a rag or some mauled doll; only by the time they began to imply that the size of a bag was perspectively proportional to the osseous width of her body, she had already ran out of patience. And with the skirt, and the blouse, the inconspicuous accessory and the invincible bow of black hair, victory was served with imminence, and tremendous prematurity.
As the lead of the Paranormal Investigation Club, she was in labour of solving mysteries in the company of her most trusted. Who hasn’t heard yet about the rapist of human souls, the phantom on the staircase, or the not single instance when the devil went and took the farmer's cows for a dance? After that, and many other adventures together; seemingly united, in their hearts she earned a deep place with her pure merit. And this time it was their turn to prepare her with the ubiquitous knowledge, to face the unknown, and perhaps even… to scare her fears. Trembled the world when the day came,
Surely, long had spilled been the tea; and yet, in shame, a single drop lied and dared not to be spit. She, and she alone knew; thoughtless, truly thoughtless the compromise had been conceived. Upon their first and only conversation she was met with a sudden and unknown boiling emotion. She couldn't admit; the temptation was too much to bear. From the pure desire to partake in that which impossible is, agreed they to meet the next Sunday, despite knowing her she lived in the neighboring city. And even then, prepared and committed, without respect for distance, without fear, she departed on the afternoon, towards a station lost in time, lost from reason, all so she could ever meet with him... the next morning.
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The Hairy Hand is a quest ruled by contradiction of wills and whims The President has towards all gruesome realities awaiting. Survival is doubtful, and physical integrity is never assured; bad decisions are ultimate.
Players can cumulatively pick a maximum of 3 choices, once 3 different courses of action are picked, no alternatives can be proposed nor votes. Actions are taken upon popular vote, effected at irregular, arbitrary and unforgiving times. Small and menial actions may be taken by individuals at times; affecting or not the outcome of an encounter. The whims of a few may just suffice to change The President's fate.
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Replies
iAW
Anon10/29/25, 09:16No.6325137
Decide not to go.
yUL
Anon10/29/25, 09:19No.6325138
—
You packed your uniform, just in case you managed to return early in the afternoon, and at least, at the very least, partake in club activities. The school day was lost beyond repair.—With the calm step, anxiety alone began and pulled. Serene onset the voyage, and the exceptions of reason now found themselves falling onto deaf ears. A door, lockless at once strikes closed; the sunlight covers the pavement with a soft heat, and engulfing blackness leaves the room empty.With one foot outside you wonder; if shall concede first the foot or the horizon.Haggy and old familial homes come as they pass; and soon the streets themselves become abandoned– like hags they are.Walking upon, without permission of any where permission needed is, reddish the steel girder then rises behind your head, temerous, as the hundred heads of yellow implore for your sonorous and terrible pace to go far on its way.The quake took a toll onto the rough rising land, erosioning the ground beneath onto mounts, muddy and dead. The sole leaves its marks, so the weeds then know where they won't grow. And once well within the golden hills of wheats, where solace meets the sun, and when breads are no longer looked upon with empty, the trumpets and flutes mighty start to play.https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u9a8HwoMEGYTo the parts extreme, the horizon must know already where it is you’ll be sticking the foot.
vxB
Anon10/29/25, 10:38No.6325160
Well...that's dark.
yUL
Anon10/31/25, 02:00No.6325895
>>>Continue the voyage by footAye-ha… Some other time.The journey is one and the same, and the outcome? it’s just as certain; what good will come from stripping oneself from the journey?, for as early as one may want to arrive, the sun won't rise any earlier.The man, confused, and now safe from a sudden death by the scare alone, startled, continued the passage. Begrudgingly awoke again, she who they called “The rusty beetle”; trustworthy machine, and loyal, whose gallop would live to see yet another day, and another adventure.And upon the soles, grounds succumb; and tall the mountains now find their titles lowered into hills and mere trails; and whispered airs, the verb ‘to walk’ resonates across all. Indistinct, the step does not flinch, and follows their low sentence, as the path itself dares not to be made.
In the then distant parts of the mind, a tale of trails whispers dandingly, like a vivid memory;
— How beautiful Ganga was. When the day came and she had to do the dance of harvest, howled the blacks.
— …Many loved Ganga.
— In the grounds rose from the desert, by the humid shadow darkened, carved on the heart of the tree could still be read their many names: Ganga and Calumbey.
— Ganga and Mengwe.
— …Ganga and Sir Archibald Bradley.
— …Ganga… and the Obembe tribe…— ... Oh well, they were pygmies.— Yes… many, many loved Ganga.Fucking slut hag. This loving sunset calls for warmer, silent, prettier memories. This change awaits calls for reflection, evolution, growth. Then slut hag, why; she fucked everything and everyone, and now she fucked your very thoughts with her known myth.Dandingly again, the mind tackles down, and immerses deep down into the memories; seeking what to ramble next, ignoring the art of thinking about nothing. Now bored by the endless steps, upon realizing the monotony of the hours awaiting, monotonous became. That is the sentence of the journey, to journey be and a journey stay. Dandles then the mind, wondering what to think about next; perhaps it needs a better suggestion.https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XAWpIQATcRE>Continue thinking about the slut hag; remember who you heard who told her story; remember the Africas.
>Think about your past, who you are, and all other memories forbidden.— ...Fucking hag slut! — You realize once again, if you don't think of anything soon and return to the flow, each step will feel an eternity.
yUL
Anon11/12/25, 03:53No.6331287
>Introspect into your own undeniable memoriesThe necessity to think becomes unceasingly apparent. Without any distraction, each footstep feels monotonous and endless, demanding conscious input just to advance.With all places scattered around Earth, with all the sights repeated in a hundred distinct patterns: conversations exchanged and experiences lived diffuse vaguely into ‘who said what’ and ‘where were who’s. Only vague concepts of biomes and logical orders offer an idea of how your life is structured.‘’Doing what i didn't like; liking what i didn't do.’’; It was like that for as long as you managed to remember.You might have started this journey when you were as little as 4; you were playing ball with Imamu and Dada.
Would a 4 year old remember and feel emotions so vividly? You find your past self to have been very young back then. Those days, they were hot, raspy and lively… maybe you were older. Vaguely, a certain someone’s exile from the tribe's land comes to mind, Imamu and Dada were dried and eaten by ants when they got tied to a tree.Were those them?
You don't exactly remember; but you sure suffered as if they were.Suddenly, the dancing spirit of straw and long stick amused your thoughts, erasing the dry carcasses from your imagination. It moved in these impossible ways, when the night was black and the fire hot; sometimes with a single leg and at times, with neither. You would have liked to learn such art before your parents' business had concluded.A totem of an elderly tortoise sat in the living room, on a cubic short table of white marble. Before you could satisfy your curiosity, it was taken away from your sight, usurped to God knows where. Before that home was abandoned, a desiccated ocelot with marbles for eyes kept you just as entertained.As overwhelming as it may be, the promise of an insufferable travel experience by hoofs on dirt is enough to make you focus. Another sight appeared, and another just as ugly; you try thinking of the mummies of Guanajuato, trivial memories, but no. Thinking of not thinking, for a split second you visualized your grandma’s flying sags, now burned in your retina, areolas like the churning sun, the motion of shakes and convoluted jumps complemented itself to completion, rebuilding into a vivid feast of audiovisual recollection. She was teaching you her ancient technique of hog riding.Oh, the dog, the snake, Julius the monkey!Anything, but your grandma’s corpulence! You wish for anything else to recall. In Spain there was this bull that stabbed the matador, the doctor quickly came but didn't let him be taken to the hospital; he failed to save him, the deceased’s woman would scrutinize forever. And... and you remember again, your grandma was fat, saggy, had ashy hair... and wore floral dresses; as disgusted as you could be by the memory, your true love for her calms down your intense reaction, leaving you indifferent.1/2)
yUL
Anon12/31/25, 10:16No.6353117
Oh, its not archived yet, guess we better continue.
