*I had a dream where I was an orphan named "Rust" who was adopted by Dracula. The rest of the orphan I was grouped with had equally miserable goals and a wide variety of interests.*
*Who names their child ‘Rust’???*
*I was better off than Mold and Roach, let me tell you.*
*I had a dream where I was an orphan named "Rust" who was adopted by Dracula. The rest of the orphan I was grouped with had equally miserable goals and a wide variety of interests.*
*Who names their child ‘Rust’???*
*I was better off than Mold and Roach, let me tell you.*
*Nah Mold is my favorite character. Mold disrespect will not be tolerated*
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
This is just Jobah619 again btw
Protect trans kids
Though you rested, you were not content to remain. And so you just had to seek me out.
*I had a dream where I was an orphan named "Rust" who was adopted by Dracula. The rest of the orphan I was grouped with had equally miserable goals and a wide variety of interests.*
*Who names their child ‘Rust’???*
*I was better off than Mold and Roach, let me tell you.*
*Nah don’t disrespect my boy Mold like that, leave somethin’ out and he’ll catch you lackin’*
*IDEEEEA. IDEA IDEA IDEA AND IT WON'T STOP PLAGUING MEEEEE.*
Ashten King had always been a product of a small, close-knit nuclear family, but deep within him burned the desire to carve out a unique identity and make a name for himself in a world that often felt constricting. From a young age, the echoes of his dreams filled his mind, imagining himself as a singer, a rockstar whose voice would resonate through stadiums and touch the hearts of millions. Each note he practiced, each strum of the guitar, invented a world where he stood on stage, bathed in spotlight, with adoring fans chanting his name.
His mother, with her unwavering belief and soft smile, often encouraged him. "You're destined for great things, Ashten. One day, you'll make it," she'd reassure him, her eyes glimmering with maternal hope. Yet deep down, he sensed the faint undercurrent of doubt, a nagging voice that whispered the stark truth. His father, practical and grounded, echoed a different sentiment. "Just keep practicing, son," he would say, but Ashten could read the unspoken words behind that advice. His father secretly yearned for him to abandon his lofty dreams and join him on the factory floor, filling the role of a dutiful son in a family based on hard work and modesty.
Despite countless hours spent honing his craft, Ashten found himself perpetually on the fringes of success, unable to break through the unseen barrier that separated him from his aspirations. Overwhelmed by a sense of defeat, he finally surrendered to reality, taking a position at the factory alongside his father. The rhythmic clatter of machinery and the smell of grease became the new backdrop of his life.
One fateful day, tempers flared during a break. A confrontation erupted with one of his colleagues, fueled by jealousy and resentment. The taunts cut deep, his fellow workers hurling insults that struck at the very core of Ashten’s battered self-esteem. "You’ll never go anywhere!” they jeered, piercing through the thick skin he had tried to cultivate. The words ignited a wildfire of anger within him. In a flash, fists flew and chaos erupted, but it ended all too quickly; a brutal uppercut sent him spiraling into darkness, unconscious before he hit the ground.
In that suffocating void of unconsciousness, an extraordinary dream unfolded. Ashten found himself on a grand stage, a sea of faces illuminated by vibrant lights, all eyes fixed on him as he sang with a raw intensity he had never known. Among the audience, a mysterious woman lingered in the shadows, her eyes shimmering a vivid crimson, captivating yet unsettling. She beckoned to him with an alluring promise, whispering that his dream of fame could be his reality—for a price. “Give me your soul upon your death,” she intoned, her voice a haunting melody that wrapped around him. Blinded by the intoxicating allure of fame and desperate for validation, he accepted without hesitation.
When he awoke, the familiar din of the factory was replaced by the hushed anticipation of a dressing room, rich with the scent of polished wood and the vibrancy of artistic chaos. He stared into the mirror, recognizing his reflection but sensing a disquieting difference, as if he was now infused with an energy beyond himself. The roar of the crowd outside reverberated in his chest—a euphoric symphony that felt like home.
Suddenly, the door swung open, and that same woman from his dream entered, her smile enigmatic but warm. In her hands was a stunning guitar crafted from gleaming metals and intricately woven plastic, humming with a latent power. Ashten accepted it, a rush of raw energy coursing through him, amplifying his senses. The crowd beyond the door awaited him, a sea of eager faces hungry for his music. They wanted to hear him; they craved the unique magic only he could provide.
He stepped onto the stage, surrendering to the rhythm and harmony of the moment. Each show was a whirlwind of applause and adoration, transforming him into a celebrated figure whose name resonated in every corner of the music world. However, in the shadow of his burgeoning fame, pride and an inflated ego began to consume him. Lost in the exhilaration of the spotlight, he became increasingly blinded to everything but the cheering crowds, neglecting the life lessons he had once held dear. The promise of the woman—his price—hovered just beyond the edge of his consciousness, a dark reminder waiting to be confronted.
*IDEEEEA. IDEA IDEA IDEA AND IT WON'T STOP PLAGUING MEEEEE.*
Ashten King had always been a product of a small, close-knit nuclear family, but deep within him burned the desire to carve out a unique identity and make a name for himself in a world that often felt constricting. From a young age, the echoes of his dreams filled his mind, imagining himself as a singer, a rockstar whose voice would resonate through stadiums and touch the hearts of millions. Each note he practiced, each strum of the guitar, invented a world where he stood on stage, bathed in spotlight, with adoring fans chanting his name.
His mother, with her unwavering belief and soft smile, often encouraged him. "You're destined for great things, Ashten. One day, you'll make it," she'd reassure him, her eyes glimmering with maternal hope. Yet deep down, he sensed the faint undercurrent of doubt, a nagging voice that whispered the stark truth. His father, practical and grounded, echoed a different sentiment. "Just keep practicing, son," he would say, but Ashten could read the unspoken words behind that advice. His father secretly yearned for him to abandon his lofty dreams and join him on the factory floor, filling the role of a dutiful son in a family based on hard work and modesty.
Despite countless hours spent honing his craft, Ashten found himself perpetually on the fringes of success, unable to break through the unseen barrier that separated him from his aspirations. Overwhelmed by a sense of defeat, he finally surrendered to reality, taking a position at the factory alongside his father. The rhythmic clatter of machinery and the smell of grease became the new backdrop of his life.
One fateful day, tempers flared during a break. A confrontation erupted with one of his colleagues, fueled by jealousy and resentment. The taunts cut deep, his fellow workers hurling insults that struck at the very core of Ashten’s battered self-esteem. "You’ll never go anywhere!” they jeered, piercing through the thick skin he had tried to cultivate. The words ignited a wildfire of anger within him. In a flash, fists flew and chaos erupted, but it ended all too quickly; a brutal uppercut sent him spiraling into darkness, unconscious before he hit the ground.
In that suffocating void of unconsciousness, an extraordinary dream unfolded. Ashten found himself on a grand stage, a sea of faces illuminated by vibrant lights, all eyes fixed on him as he sang with a raw intensity he had never known. Among the audience, a mysterious woman lingered in the shadows, her eyes shimmering a vivid crimson, captivating yet unsettling. She beckoned to him with an alluring promise, whispering that his dream of fame could be his reality—for a price. “Give me your soul upon your death,” she intoned, her voice a haunting melody that wrapped around him. Blinded by the intoxicating allure of fame and desperate for validation, he accepted without hesitation.
When he awoke, the familiar din of the factory was replaced by the hushed anticipation of a dressing room, rich with the scent of polished wood and the vibrancy of artistic chaos. He stared into the mirror, recognizing his reflection but sensing a disquieting difference, as if he was now infused with an energy beyond himself. The roar of the crowd outside reverberated in his chest—a euphoric symphony that felt like home.
Suddenly, the door swung open, and that same woman from his dream entered, her smile enigmatic but warm. In her hands was a stunning guitar crafted from gleaming metals and intricately woven plastic, humming with a latent power. Ashten accepted it, a rush of raw energy coursing through him, amplifying his senses. The crowd beyond the door awaited him, a sea of eager faces hungry for his music. They wanted to hear him; they craved the unique magic only he could provide.
He stepped onto the stage, surrendering to the rhythm and harmony of the moment. Each show was a whirlwind of applause and adoration, transforming him into a celebrated figure whose name resonated in every corner of the music world. However, in the shadow of his burgeoning fame, pride and an inflated ego began to consume him. Lost in the exhilaration of the spotlight, he became increasingly blinded to everything but the cheering crowds, neglecting the life lessons he had once held dear. The promise of the woman—his price—hovered just beyond the edge of his consciousness, a dark reminder waiting to be confronted.
*This feels like the backstory of a Darklord or something. I really like it.*
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
This is just Jobah619 again btw
Protect trans kids
Though you rested, you were not content to remain. And so you just had to seek me out.
*IDEEEEA. IDEA IDEA IDEA AND IT WON'T STOP PLAGUING MEEEEE.*
Ashten King had always been a product of a small, close-knit nuclear family, but deep within him burned the desire to carve out a unique identity and make a name for himself in a world that often felt constricting. From a young age, the echoes of his dreams filled his mind, imagining himself as a singer, a rockstar whose voice would resonate through stadiums and touch the hearts of millions. Each note he practiced, each strum of the guitar, invented a world where he stood on stage, bathed in spotlight, with adoring fans chanting his name.
His mother, with her unwavering belief and soft smile, often encouraged him. "You're destined for great things, Ashten. One day, you'll make it," she'd reassure him, her eyes glimmering with maternal hope. Yet deep down, he sensed the faint undercurrent of doubt, a nagging voice that whispered the stark truth. His father, practical and grounded, echoed a different sentiment. "Just keep practicing, son," he would say, but Ashten could read the unspoken words behind that advice. His father secretly yearned for him to abandon his lofty dreams and join him on the factory floor, filling the role of a dutiful son in a family based on hard work and modesty.
Despite countless hours spent honing his craft, Ashten found himself perpetually on the fringes of success, unable to break through the unseen barrier that separated him from his aspirations. Overwhelmed by a sense of defeat, he finally surrendered to reality, taking a position at the factory alongside his father. The rhythmic clatter of machinery and the smell of grease became the new backdrop of his life.
One fateful day, tempers flared during a break. A confrontation erupted with one of his colleagues, fueled by jealousy and resentment. The taunts cut deep, his fellow workers hurling insults that struck at the very core of Ashten’s battered self-esteem. "You’ll never go anywhere!” they jeered, piercing through the thick skin he had tried to cultivate. The words ignited a wildfire of anger within him. In a flash, fists flew and chaos erupted, but it ended all too quickly; a brutal uppercut sent him spiraling into darkness, unconscious before he hit the ground.
In that suffocating void of unconsciousness, an extraordinary dream unfolded. Ashten found himself on a grand stage, a sea of faces illuminated by vibrant lights, all eyes fixed on him as he sang with a raw intensity he had never known. Among the audience, a mysterious woman lingered in the shadows, her eyes shimmering a vivid crimson, captivating yet unsettling. She beckoned to him with an alluring promise, whispering that his dream of fame could be his reality—for a price. “Give me your soul upon your death,” she intoned, her voice a haunting melody that wrapped around him. Blinded by the intoxicating allure of fame and desperate for validation, he accepted without hesitation.
When he awoke, the familiar din of the factory was replaced by the hushed anticipation of a dressing room, rich with the scent of polished wood and the vibrancy of artistic chaos. He stared into the mirror, recognizing his reflection but sensing a disquieting difference, as if he was now infused with an energy beyond himself. The roar of the crowd outside reverberated in his chest—a euphoric symphony that felt like home.
Suddenly, the door swung open, and that same woman from his dream entered, her smile enigmatic but warm. In her hands was a stunning guitar crafted from gleaming metals and intricately woven plastic, humming with a latent power. Ashten accepted it, a rush of raw energy coursing through him, amplifying his senses. The crowd beyond the door awaited him, a sea of eager faces hungry for his music. They wanted to hear him; they craved the unique magic only he could provide.
He stepped onto the stage, surrendering to the rhythm and harmony of the moment. Each show was a whirlwind of applause and adoration, transforming him into a celebrated figure whose name resonated in every corner of the music world. However, in the shadow of his burgeoning fame, pride and an inflated ego began to consume him. Lost in the exhilaration of the spotlight, he became increasingly blinded to everything but the cheering crowds, neglecting the life lessons he had once held dear. The promise of the woman—his price—hovered just beyond the edge of his consciousness, a dark reminder waiting to be confronted.
*This feels like the backstory of a Darklord or something. I really like it.*
*A faust-like deal for fame. A rockstar whose ego is out of check. MWHAHAHAHAHAHAH.*
*IDEEEEA. IDEA IDEA IDEA AND IT WON'T STOP PLAGUING MEEEEE.*
Ashten King had always been a product of a small, close-knit nuclear family, but deep within him burned the desire to carve out a unique identity and make a name for himself in a world that often felt constricting. From a young age, the echoes of his dreams filled his mind, imagining himself as a singer, a rockstar whose voice would resonate through stadiums and touch the hearts of millions. Each note he practiced, each strum of the guitar, invented a world where he stood on stage, bathed in spotlight, with adoring fans chanting his name.
His mother, with her unwavering belief and soft smile, often encouraged him. "You're destined for great things, Ashten. One day, you'll make it," she'd reassure him, her eyes glimmering with maternal hope. Yet deep down, he sensed the faint undercurrent of doubt, a nagging voice that whispered the stark truth. His father, practical and grounded, echoed a different sentiment. "Just keep practicing, son," he would say, but Ashten could read the unspoken words behind that advice. His father secretly yearned for him to abandon his lofty dreams and join him on the factory floor, filling the role of a dutiful son in a family based on hard work and modesty.
Despite countless hours spent honing his craft, Ashten found himself perpetually on the fringes of success, unable to break through the unseen barrier that separated him from his aspirations. Overwhelmed by a sense of defeat, he finally surrendered to reality, taking a position at the factory alongside his father. The rhythmic clatter of machinery and the smell of grease became the new backdrop of his life.
One fateful day, tempers flared during a break. A confrontation erupted with one of his colleagues, fueled by jealousy and resentment. The taunts cut deep, his fellow workers hurling insults that struck at the very core of Ashten’s battered self-esteem. "You’ll never go anywhere!” they jeered, piercing through the thick skin he had tried to cultivate. The words ignited a wildfire of anger within him. In a flash, fists flew and chaos erupted, but it ended all too quickly; a brutal uppercut sent him spiraling into darkness, unconscious before he hit the ground.
In that suffocating void of unconsciousness, an extraordinary dream unfolded. Ashten found himself on a grand stage, a sea of faces illuminated by vibrant lights, all eyes fixed on him as he sang with a raw intensity he had never known. Among the audience, a mysterious woman lingered in the shadows, her eyes shimmering a vivid crimson, captivating yet unsettling. She beckoned to him with an alluring promise, whispering that his dream of fame could be his reality—for a price. “Give me your soul upon your death,” she intoned, her voice a haunting melody that wrapped around him. Blinded by the intoxicating allure of fame and desperate for validation, he accepted without hesitation.
When he awoke, the familiar din of the factory was replaced by the hushed anticipation of a dressing room, rich with the scent of polished wood and the vibrancy of artistic chaos. He stared into the mirror, recognizing his reflection but sensing a disquieting difference, as if he was now infused with an energy beyond himself. The roar of the crowd outside reverberated in his chest—a euphoric symphony that felt like home.
Suddenly, the door swung open, and that same woman from his dream entered, her smile enigmatic but warm. In her hands was a stunning guitar crafted from gleaming metals and intricately woven plastic, humming with a latent power. Ashten accepted it, a rush of raw energy coursing through him, amplifying his senses. The crowd beyond the door awaited him, a sea of eager faces hungry for his music. They wanted to hear him; they craved the unique magic only he could provide.
He stepped onto the stage, surrendering to the rhythm and harmony of the moment. Each show was a whirlwind of applause and adoration, transforming him into a celebrated figure whose name resonated in every corner of the music world. However, in the shadow of his burgeoning fame, pride and an inflated ego began to consume him. Lost in the exhilaration of the spotlight, he became increasingly blinded to everything but the cheering crowds, neglecting the life lessons he had once held dear. The promise of the woman—his price—hovered just beyond the edge of his consciousness, a dark reminder waiting to be confronted.
*This feels like the backstory of a Darklord or something. I really like it.*
*A faust-like deal for fame. A rockstar whose ego is out of check. MWHAHAHAHAHAHAH.*
*So… a rockstar?*
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
This is just Jobah619 again btw
Protect trans kids
Though you rested, you were not content to remain. And so you just had to seek me out.
*IDEEEEA. IDEA IDEA IDEA AND IT WON'T STOP PLAGUING MEEEEE.*
Ashten King had always been a product of a small, close-knit nuclear family, but deep within him burned the desire to carve out a unique identity and make a name for himself in a world that often felt constricting. From a young age, the echoes of his dreams filled his mind, imagining himself as a singer, a rockstar whose voice would resonate through stadiums and touch the hearts of millions. Each note he practiced, each strum of the guitar, invented a world where he stood on stage, bathed in spotlight, with adoring fans chanting his name.
His mother, with her unwavering belief and soft smile, often encouraged him. "You're destined for great things, Ashten. One day, you'll make it," she'd reassure him, her eyes glimmering with maternal hope. Yet deep down, he sensed the faint undercurrent of doubt, a nagging voice that whispered the stark truth. His father, practical and grounded, echoed a different sentiment. "Just keep practicing, son," he would say, but Ashten could read the unspoken words behind that advice. His father secretly yearned for him to abandon his lofty dreams and join him on the factory floor, filling the role of a dutiful son in a family based on hard work and modesty.
Despite countless hours spent honing his craft, Ashten found himself perpetually on the fringes of success, unable to break through the unseen barrier that separated him from his aspirations. Overwhelmed by a sense of defeat, he finally surrendered to reality, taking a position at the factory alongside his father. The rhythmic clatter of machinery and the smell of grease became the new backdrop of his life.
One fateful day, tempers flared during a break. A confrontation erupted with one of his colleagues, fueled by jealousy and resentment. The taunts cut deep, his fellow workers hurling insults that struck at the very core of Ashten’s battered self-esteem. "You’ll never go anywhere!” they jeered, piercing through the thick skin he had tried to cultivate. The words ignited a wildfire of anger within him. In a flash, fists flew and chaos erupted, but it ended all too quickly; a brutal uppercut sent him spiraling into darkness, unconscious before he hit the ground.
In that suffocating void of unconsciousness, an extraordinary dream unfolded. Ashten found himself on a grand stage, a sea of faces illuminated by vibrant lights, all eyes fixed on him as he sang with a raw intensity he had never known. Among the audience, a mysterious woman lingered in the shadows, her eyes shimmering a vivid crimson, captivating yet unsettling. She beckoned to him with an alluring promise, whispering that his dream of fame could be his reality—for a price. “Give me your soul upon your death,” she intoned, her voice a haunting melody that wrapped around him. Blinded by the intoxicating allure of fame and desperate for validation, he accepted without hesitation.
When he awoke, the familiar din of the factory was replaced by the hushed anticipation of a dressing room, rich with the scent of polished wood and the vibrancy of artistic chaos. He stared into the mirror, recognizing his reflection but sensing a disquieting difference, as if he was now infused with an energy beyond himself. The roar of the crowd outside reverberated in his chest—a euphoric symphony that felt like home.
Suddenly, the door swung open, and that same woman from his dream entered, her smile enigmatic but warm. In her hands was a stunning guitar crafted from gleaming metals and intricately woven plastic, humming with a latent power. Ashten accepted it, a rush of raw energy coursing through him, amplifying his senses. The crowd beyond the door awaited him, a sea of eager faces hungry for his music. They wanted to hear him; they craved the unique magic only he could provide.
He stepped onto the stage, surrendering to the rhythm and harmony of the moment. Each show was a whirlwind of applause and adoration, transforming him into a celebrated figure whose name resonated in every corner of the music world. However, in the shadow of his burgeoning fame, pride and an inflated ego began to consume him. Lost in the exhilaration of the spotlight, he became increasingly blinded to everything but the cheering crowds, neglecting the life lessons he had once held dear. The promise of the woman—his price—hovered just beyond the edge of his consciousness, a dark reminder waiting to be confronted.
*IDEEEEA. IDEA IDEA IDEA AND IT WON'T STOP PLAGUING MEEEEE.*
Ashten King had always been a product of a small, close-knit nuclear family, but deep within him burned the desire to carve out a unique identity and make a name for himself in a world that often felt constricting. From a young age, the echoes of his dreams filled his mind, imagining himself as a singer, a rockstar whose voice would resonate through stadiums and touch the hearts of millions. Each note he practiced, each strum of the guitar, invented a world where he stood on stage, bathed in spotlight, with adoring fans chanting his name.
His mother, with her unwavering belief and soft smile, often encouraged him. "You're destined for great things, Ashten. One day, you'll make it," she'd reassure him, her eyes glimmering with maternal hope. Yet deep down, he sensed the faint undercurrent of doubt, a nagging voice that whispered the stark truth. His father, practical and grounded, echoed a different sentiment. "Just keep practicing, son," he would say, but Ashten could read the unspoken words behind that advice. His father secretly yearned for him to abandon his lofty dreams and join him on the factory floor, filling the role of a dutiful son in a family based on hard work and modesty.
Despite countless hours spent honing his craft, Ashten found himself perpetually on the fringes of success, unable to break through the unseen barrier that separated him from his aspirations. Overwhelmed by a sense of defeat, he finally surrendered to reality, taking a position at the factory alongside his father. The rhythmic clatter of machinery and the smell of grease became the new backdrop of his life.
One fateful day, tempers flared during a break. A confrontation erupted with one of his colleagues, fueled by jealousy and resentment. The taunts cut deep, his fellow workers hurling insults that struck at the very core of Ashten’s battered self-esteem. "You’ll never go anywhere!” they jeered, piercing through the thick skin he had tried to cultivate. The words ignited a wildfire of anger within him. In a flash, fists flew and chaos erupted, but it ended all too quickly; a brutal uppercut sent him spiraling into darkness, unconscious before he hit the ground.
In that suffocating void of unconsciousness, an extraordinary dream unfolded. Ashten found himself on a grand stage, a sea of faces illuminated by vibrant lights, all eyes fixed on him as he sang with a raw intensity he had never known. Among the audience, a mysterious woman lingered in the shadows, her eyes shimmering a vivid crimson, captivating yet unsettling. She beckoned to him with an alluring promise, whispering that his dream of fame could be his reality—for a price. “Give me your soul upon your death,” she intoned, her voice a haunting melody that wrapped around him. Blinded by the intoxicating allure of fame and desperate for validation, he accepted without hesitation.
When he awoke, the familiar din of the factory was replaced by the hushed anticipation of a dressing room, rich with the scent of polished wood and the vibrancy of artistic chaos. He stared into the mirror, recognizing his reflection but sensing a disquieting difference, as if he was now infused with an energy beyond himself. The roar of the crowd outside reverberated in his chest—a euphoric symphony that felt like home.
Suddenly, the door swung open, and that same woman from his dream entered, her smile enigmatic but warm. In her hands was a stunning guitar crafted from gleaming metals and intricately woven plastic, humming with a latent power. Ashten accepted it, a rush of raw energy coursing through him, amplifying his senses. The crowd beyond the door awaited him, a sea of eager faces hungry for his music. They wanted to hear him; they craved the unique magic only he could provide.
He stepped onto the stage, surrendering to the rhythm and harmony of the moment. Each show was a whirlwind of applause and adoration, transforming him into a celebrated figure whose name resonated in every corner of the music world. However, in the shadow of his burgeoning fame, pride and an inflated ego began to consume him. Lost in the exhilaration of the spotlight, he became increasingly blinded to everything but the cheering crowds, neglecting the life lessons he had once held dear. The promise of the woman—his price—hovered just beyond the edge of his consciousness, a dark reminder waiting to be confronted.
*This feels like the backstory of a Darklord or something. I really like it.*
*A faust-like deal for fame. A rockstar whose ego is out of check. MWHAHAHAHAHAHAH.*
*IDEEEEA. IDEA IDEA IDEA AND IT WON'T STOP PLAGUING MEEEEE.*
Ashten King had always been a product of a small, close-knit nuclear family, but deep within him burned the desire to carve out a unique identity and make a name for himself in a world that often felt constricting. From a young age, the echoes of his dreams filled his mind, imagining himself as a singer, a rockstar whose voice would resonate through stadiums and touch the hearts of millions. Each note he practiced, each strum of the guitar, invented a world where he stood on stage, bathed in spotlight, with adoring fans chanting his name.
His mother, with her unwavering belief and soft smile, often encouraged him. "You're destined for great things, Ashten. One day, you'll make it," she'd reassure him, her eyes glimmering with maternal hope. Yet deep down, he sensed the faint undercurrent of doubt, a nagging voice that whispered the stark truth. His father, practical and grounded, echoed a different sentiment. "Just keep practicing, son," he would say, but Ashten could read the unspoken words behind that advice. His father secretly yearned for him to abandon his lofty dreams and join him on the factory floor, filling the role of a dutiful son in a family based on hard work and modesty.
Despite countless hours spent honing his craft, Ashten found himself perpetually on the fringes of success, unable to break through the unseen barrier that separated him from his aspirations. Overwhelmed by a sense of defeat, he finally surrendered to reality, taking a position at the factory alongside his father. The rhythmic clatter of machinery and the smell of grease became the new backdrop of his life.
One fateful day, tempers flared during a break. A confrontation erupted with one of his colleagues, fueled by jealousy and resentment. The taunts cut deep, his fellow workers hurling insults that struck at the very core of Ashten’s battered self-esteem. "You’ll never go anywhere!” they jeered, piercing through the thick skin he had tried to cultivate. The words ignited a wildfire of anger within him. In a flash, fists flew and chaos erupted, but it ended all too quickly; a brutal uppercut sent him spiraling into darkness, unconscious before he hit the ground.
In that suffocating void of unconsciousness, an extraordinary dream unfolded. Ashten found himself on a grand stage, a sea of faces illuminated by vibrant lights, all eyes fixed on him as he sang with a raw intensity he had never known. Among the audience, a mysterious woman lingered in the shadows, her eyes shimmering a vivid crimson, captivating yet unsettling. She beckoned to him with an alluring promise, whispering that his dream of fame could be his reality—for a price. “Give me your soul upon your death,” she intoned, her voice a haunting melody that wrapped around him. Blinded by the intoxicating allure of fame and desperate for validation, he accepted without hesitation.
When he awoke, the familiar din of the factory was replaced by the hushed anticipation of a dressing room, rich with the scent of polished wood and the vibrancy of artistic chaos. He stared into the mirror, recognizing his reflection but sensing a disquieting difference, as if he was now infused with an energy beyond himself. The roar of the crowd outside reverberated in his chest—a euphoric symphony that felt like home.
Suddenly, the door swung open, and that same woman from his dream entered, her smile enigmatic but warm. In her hands was a stunning guitar crafted from gleaming metals and intricately woven plastic, humming with a latent power. Ashten accepted it, a rush of raw energy coursing through him, amplifying his senses. The crowd beyond the door awaited him, a sea of eager faces hungry for his music. They wanted to hear him; they craved the unique magic only he could provide.
He stepped onto the stage, surrendering to the rhythm and harmony of the moment. Each show was a whirlwind of applause and adoration, transforming him into a celebrated figure whose name resonated in every corner of the music world. However, in the shadow of his burgeoning fame, pride and an inflated ego began to consume him. Lost in the exhilaration of the spotlight, he became increasingly blinded to everything but the cheering crowds, neglecting the life lessons he had once held dear. The promise of the woman—his price—hovered just beyond the edge of his consciousness, a dark reminder waiting to be confronted.
*Anywhoozle, I'm bored and don't want to explain to children the history of the river.*
Home is lying on the grass on the front lawn of the guilt house. He is staring up at the sky, hands clasped on his chest. The smell of smoke pours out from the house but he doesn't seem to care in the slightest.
Julian is sitting in his trailer, eating breakfast, grumbling to himself about back pains. He is dressed in a black hoodie and blue jeans, both kinda dirty.
Scott is sitting at a booth in the tavern, drinking coffee while looking over old manuscripts.
*IDEEEEA. IDEA IDEA IDEA AND IT WON'T STOP PLAGUING MEEEEE.*
Ashten King had always been a product of a small, close-knit nuclear family, but deep within him burned the desire to carve out a unique identity and make a name for himself in a world that often felt constricting. From a young age, the echoes of his dreams filled his mind, imagining himself as a singer, a rockstar whose voice would resonate through stadiums and touch the hearts of millions. Each note he practiced, each strum of the guitar, invented a world where he stood on stage, bathed in spotlight, with adoring fans chanting his name.
His mother, with her unwavering belief and soft smile, often encouraged him. "You're destined for great things, Ashten. One day, you'll make it," she'd reassure him, her eyes glimmering with maternal hope. Yet deep down, he sensed the faint undercurrent of doubt, a nagging voice that whispered the stark truth. His father, practical and grounded, echoed a different sentiment. "Just keep practicing, son," he would say, but Ashten could read the unspoken words behind that advice. His father secretly yearned for him to abandon his lofty dreams and join him on the factory floor, filling the role of a dutiful son in a family based on hard work and modesty.
Despite countless hours spent honing his craft, Ashten found himself perpetually on the fringes of success, unable to break through the unseen barrier that separated him from his aspirations. Overwhelmed by a sense of defeat, he finally surrendered to reality, taking a position at the factory alongside his father. The rhythmic clatter of machinery and the smell of grease became the new backdrop of his life.
One fateful day, tempers flared during a break. A confrontation erupted with one of his colleagues, fueled by jealousy and resentment. The taunts cut deep, his fellow workers hurling insults that struck at the very core of Ashten’s battered self-esteem. "You’ll never go anywhere!” they jeered, piercing through the thick skin he had tried to cultivate. The words ignited a wildfire of anger within him. In a flash, fists flew and chaos erupted, but it ended all too quickly; a brutal uppercut sent him spiraling into darkness, unconscious before he hit the ground.
In that suffocating void of unconsciousness, an extraordinary dream unfolded. Ashten found himself on a grand stage, a sea of faces illuminated by vibrant lights, all eyes fixed on him as he sang with a raw intensity he had never known. Among the audience, a mysterious woman lingered in the shadows, her eyes shimmering a vivid crimson, captivating yet unsettling. She beckoned to him with an alluring promise, whispering that his dream of fame could be his reality—for a price. “Give me your soul upon your death,” she intoned, her voice a haunting melody that wrapped around him. Blinded by the intoxicating allure of fame and desperate for validation, he accepted without hesitation.
When he awoke, the familiar din of the factory was replaced by the hushed anticipation of a dressing room, rich with the scent of polished wood and the vibrancy of artistic chaos. He stared into the mirror, recognizing his reflection but sensing a disquieting difference, as if he was now infused with an energy beyond himself. The roar of the crowd outside reverberated in his chest—a euphoric symphony that felt like home.
Suddenly, the door swung open, and that same woman from his dream entered, her smile enigmatic but warm. In her hands was a stunning guitar crafted from gleaming metals and intricately woven plastic, humming with a latent power. Ashten accepted it, a rush of raw energy coursing through him, amplifying his senses. The crowd beyond the door awaited him, a sea of eager faces hungry for his music. They wanted to hear him; they craved the unique magic only he could provide.
He stepped onto the stage, surrendering to the rhythm and harmony of the moment. Each show was a whirlwind of applause and adoration, transforming him into a celebrated figure whose name resonated in every corner of the music world. However, in the shadow of his burgeoning fame, pride and an inflated ego began to consume him. Lost in the exhilaration of the spotlight, he became increasingly blinded to everything but the cheering crowds, neglecting the life lessons he had once held dear. The promise of the woman—his price—hovered just beyond the edge of his consciousness, a dark reminder waiting to be confronted.
*Fabulous as usual, you never fail to amaze me.*
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Local Jokester, Viber, Doctor, and Therapist, I do my best to make your day better, and if I fail I'll try again tomorrow.
'Nothing is beautiful because it lasts.'
'War does not decide who was right, but only who is left.'
*Anywhoozle, I'm bored and don't want to explain to children the history of the river.*
Home is lying on the grass on the front lawn of the guilt house. He is staring up at the sky, hands clasped on his chest. The smell of smoke pours out from the house but he doesn't seem to care in the slightest.
Gon decides to go back to the Guilt House, despite it viciously burning his flesh previously. He's carrying a bag full of candy from the night before. He sits next to Home, offering them some with a bright smile.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Local Jokester, Viber, Doctor, and Therapist, I do my best to make your day better, and if I fail I'll try again tomorrow.
'Nothing is beautiful because it lasts.'
'War does not decide who was right, but only who is left.'
*Anywhoozle, I'm bored and don't want to explain to children the history of the river.*
Home is lying on the grass on the front lawn of the guilt house. He is staring up at the sky, hands clasped on his chest. The smell of smoke pours out from the house but he doesn't seem to care in the slightest.
Gon decides to go back to the Guilt House, despite it viciously burning his flesh previously. He's carrying a bag full of candy from the night before. He sits next to Home, offering them some with a bright smile.
Home sits up, eyes narrowed. He tilts his head "Why do you keep coming back?.."
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
𝔾𝕖𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕥𝕠𝕡 𝕤𝕙𝕖𝕝𝕗, 𝕕𝕠𝕦𝕓𝕝𝕖 𝕣𝕠𝕔𝕜𝕤, 𝕡𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕔𝕠𝕥𝕔𝕙
𝕀'𝕧𝕖 𝕞𝕚𝕤𝕤𝕖𝕕 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕥𝕦𝕟𝕖 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕦𝕞𝕓𝕝𝕖𝕣𝕤 𝕔𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘
𝔻𝕖𝕒𝕝 𝕞𝕖 𝕚𝕟, 𝕜𝕚𝕔𝕜 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕚𝕟 𝕦𝕡 𝕒 𝕟𝕠𝕥𝕔𝕙
𝔻𝕚𝕧𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕚𝕟 𝕢𝕦𝕚𝕔𝕜𝕤𝕒𝕟𝕕'𝕤 𝕗𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕟 𝕤𝕚𝕟𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘
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*I was better off than Mold and Roach, let me tell you.*
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
Awake, impure, divine
Breathgiver of the Strugels
*Nah Mold is my favorite character. Mold disrespect will not be tolerated*
This is just Jobah619 again btw
Protect trans kids
Though you rested, you were not content to remain. And so you just had to seek me out.
*Nah don’t disrespect my boy Mold like that, leave somethin’ out and he’ll catch you lackin’*
*Anyway, want to role play?*
*I said I was better off, not that I was better.*
*Mold is stronger than any of us.*
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
Awake, impure, divine
Breathgiver of the Strugels
*Thats true, Mold is not living the good life.*
*IDEEEEA. IDEA IDEA IDEA AND IT WON'T STOP PLAGUING MEEEEE.*
Ashten King had always been a product of a small, close-knit nuclear family, but deep within him burned the desire to carve out a unique identity and make a name for himself in a world that often felt constricting. From a young age, the echoes of his dreams filled his mind, imagining himself as a singer, a rockstar whose voice would resonate through stadiums and touch the hearts of millions. Each note he practiced, each strum of the guitar, invented a world where he stood on stage, bathed in spotlight, with adoring fans chanting his name.
His mother, with her unwavering belief and soft smile, often encouraged him. "You're destined for great things, Ashten. One day, you'll make it," she'd reassure him, her eyes glimmering with maternal hope. Yet deep down, he sensed the faint undercurrent of doubt, a nagging voice that whispered the stark truth. His father, practical and grounded, echoed a different sentiment. "Just keep practicing, son," he would say, but Ashten could read the unspoken words behind that advice. His father secretly yearned for him to abandon his lofty dreams and join him on the factory floor, filling the role of a dutiful son in a family based on hard work and modesty.
Despite countless hours spent honing his craft, Ashten found himself perpetually on the fringes of success, unable to break through the unseen barrier that separated him from his aspirations. Overwhelmed by a sense of defeat, he finally surrendered to reality, taking a position at the factory alongside his father. The rhythmic clatter of machinery and the smell of grease became the new backdrop of his life.
One fateful day, tempers flared during a break. A confrontation erupted with one of his colleagues, fueled by jealousy and resentment. The taunts cut deep, his fellow workers hurling insults that struck at the very core of Ashten’s battered self-esteem. "You’ll never go anywhere!” they jeered, piercing through the thick skin he had tried to cultivate. The words ignited a wildfire of anger within him. In a flash, fists flew and chaos erupted, but it ended all too quickly; a brutal uppercut sent him spiraling into darkness, unconscious before he hit the ground.
In that suffocating void of unconsciousness, an extraordinary dream unfolded. Ashten found himself on a grand stage, a sea of faces illuminated by vibrant lights, all eyes fixed on him as he sang with a raw intensity he had never known. Among the audience, a mysterious woman lingered in the shadows, her eyes shimmering a vivid crimson, captivating yet unsettling. She beckoned to him with an alluring promise, whispering that his dream of fame could be his reality—for a price. “Give me your soul upon your death,” she intoned, her voice a haunting melody that wrapped around him. Blinded by the intoxicating allure of fame and desperate for validation, he accepted without hesitation.
When he awoke, the familiar din of the factory was replaced by the hushed anticipation of a dressing room, rich with the scent of polished wood and the vibrancy of artistic chaos. He stared into the mirror, recognizing his reflection but sensing a disquieting difference, as if he was now infused with an energy beyond himself. The roar of the crowd outside reverberated in his chest—a euphoric symphony that felt like home.
Suddenly, the door swung open, and that same woman from his dream entered, her smile enigmatic but warm. In her hands was a stunning guitar crafted from gleaming metals and intricately woven plastic, humming with a latent power. Ashten accepted it, a rush of raw energy coursing through him, amplifying his senses. The crowd beyond the door awaited him, a sea of eager faces hungry for his music. They wanted to hear him; they craved the unique magic only he could provide.
He stepped onto the stage, surrendering to the rhythm and harmony of the moment. Each show was a whirlwind of applause and adoration, transforming him into a celebrated figure whose name resonated in every corner of the music world. However, in the shadow of his burgeoning fame, pride and an inflated ego began to consume him. Lost in the exhilaration of the spotlight, he became increasingly blinded to everything but the cheering crowds, neglecting the life lessons he had once held dear. The promise of the woman—his price—hovered just beyond the edge of his consciousness, a dark reminder waiting to be confronted.
𝔾𝕖𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕥𝕠𝕡 𝕤𝕙𝕖𝕝𝕗, 𝕕𝕠𝕦𝕓𝕝𝕖 𝕣𝕠𝕔𝕜𝕤, 𝕡𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕔𝕠𝕥𝕔𝕙
𝕀'𝕧𝕖 𝕞𝕚𝕤𝕤𝕖𝕕 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕥𝕦𝕟𝕖 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕦𝕞𝕓𝕝𝕖𝕣𝕤 𝕔𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘
𝔻𝕖𝕒𝕝 𝕞𝕖 𝕚𝕟, 𝕜𝕚𝕔𝕜 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕚𝕟 𝕦𝕡 𝕒 𝕟𝕠𝕥𝕔𝕙
𝔻𝕚𝕧𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕚𝕟 𝕢𝕦𝕚𝕔𝕜𝕤𝕒𝕟𝕕'𝕤 𝕗𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕟 𝕤𝕚𝕟𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘
*This feels like the backstory of a Darklord or something. I really like it.*
This is just Jobah619 again btw
Protect trans kids
Though you rested, you were not content to remain. And so you just had to seek me out.
*A faust-like deal for fame. A rockstar whose ego is out of check. MWHAHAHAHAHAHAH.*
𝔾𝕖𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕥𝕠𝕡 𝕤𝕙𝕖𝕝𝕗, 𝕕𝕠𝕦𝕓𝕝𝕖 𝕣𝕠𝕔𝕜𝕤, 𝕡𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕔𝕠𝕥𝕔𝕙
𝕀'𝕧𝕖 𝕞𝕚𝕤𝕤𝕖𝕕 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕥𝕦𝕟𝕖 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕦𝕞𝕓𝕝𝕖𝕣𝕤 𝕔𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘
𝔻𝕖𝕒𝕝 𝕞𝕖 𝕚𝕟, 𝕜𝕚𝕔𝕜 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕚𝕟 𝕦𝕡 𝕒 𝕟𝕠𝕥𝕔𝕙
𝔻𝕚𝕧𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕚𝕟 𝕢𝕦𝕚𝕔𝕜𝕤𝕒𝕟𝕕'𝕤 𝕗𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕟 𝕤𝕚𝕟𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘
*So… a rockstar?*
This is just Jobah619 again btw
Protect trans kids
Though you rested, you were not content to remain. And so you just had to seek me out.
*Like this?*
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
Awake, impure, divine
Breathgiver of the Strugels
*yesh.*
*[Blinks] I have no idea what that is..*
𝔾𝕖𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕥𝕠𝕡 𝕤𝕙𝕖𝕝𝕗, 𝕕𝕠𝕦𝕓𝕝𝕖 𝕣𝕠𝕔𝕜𝕤, 𝕡𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕔𝕠𝕥𝕔𝕙
𝕀'𝕧𝕖 𝕞𝕚𝕤𝕤𝕖𝕕 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕥𝕦𝕟𝕖 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕦𝕞𝕓𝕝𝕖𝕣𝕤 𝕔𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘
𝔻𝕖𝕒𝕝 𝕞𝕖 𝕚𝕟, 𝕜𝕚𝕔𝕜 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕚𝕟 𝕦𝕡 𝕒 𝕟𝕠𝕥𝕔𝕙
𝔻𝕚𝕧𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕚𝕟 𝕢𝕦𝕚𝕔𝕜𝕤𝕒𝕟𝕕'𝕤 𝕗𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕟 𝕤𝕚𝕟𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘
*Hey, Jester, wanna RP?*
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
Awake, impure, divine
Breathgiver of the Strugels
*So sorry, got my phone taken. I'm totally down. Who would you like?*
Local Jokester, Viber, Doctor, and Therapist, I do my best to make your day better, and if I fail I'll try again tomorrow.
'Nothing is beautiful because it lasts.'
'War does not decide who was right, but only who is left.'
https://docs.google.com/document/d/12WUcdu6YBH2USIcmf48FCnLwDh_mGHZJZYZWwLLRzhA/edit?tab=t.0 (For when I'm gone.)
*Anywhoozle, I'm bored and don't want to explain to children the history of the river.*
Home is lying on the grass on the front lawn of the guilt house. He is staring up at the sky, hands clasped on his chest. The smell of smoke pours out from the house but he doesn't seem to care in the slightest.
Julian is sitting in his trailer, eating breakfast, grumbling to himself about back pains. He is dressed in a black hoodie and blue jeans, both kinda dirty.
Scott is sitting at a booth in the tavern, drinking coffee while looking over old manuscripts.
𝔾𝕖𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕥𝕠𝕡 𝕤𝕙𝕖𝕝𝕗, 𝕕𝕠𝕦𝕓𝕝𝕖 𝕣𝕠𝕔𝕜𝕤, 𝕡𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕔𝕠𝕥𝕔𝕙
𝕀'𝕧𝕖 𝕞𝕚𝕤𝕤𝕖𝕕 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕥𝕦𝕟𝕖 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕦𝕞𝕓𝕝𝕖𝕣𝕤 𝕔𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘
𝔻𝕖𝕒𝕝 𝕞𝕖 𝕚𝕟, 𝕜𝕚𝕔𝕜 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕚𝕟 𝕦𝕡 𝕒 𝕟𝕠𝕥𝕔𝕙
𝔻𝕚𝕧𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕚𝕟 𝕢𝕦𝕚𝕔𝕜𝕤𝕒𝕟𝕕'𝕤 𝕗𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕟 𝕤𝕚𝕟𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘
*Fabulous as usual, you never fail to amaze me.*
Local Jokester, Viber, Doctor, and Therapist, I do my best to make your day better, and if I fail I'll try again tomorrow.
'Nothing is beautiful because it lasts.'
'War does not decide who was right, but only who is left.'
https://docs.google.com/document/d/12WUcdu6YBH2USIcmf48FCnLwDh_mGHZJZYZWwLLRzhA/edit?tab=t.0 (For when I'm gone.)
did anyone notice wendigo of Love changed his profile pic to barny or at least I think that thing is barny?
Extended signature
*I have more cursed pictures, don't worry.*
𝔾𝕖𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕥𝕠𝕡 𝕤𝕙𝕖𝕝𝕗, 𝕕𝕠𝕦𝕓𝕝𝕖 𝕣𝕠𝕔𝕜𝕤, 𝕡𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕔𝕠𝕥𝕔𝕙
𝕀'𝕧𝕖 𝕞𝕚𝕤𝕤𝕖𝕕 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕥𝕦𝕟𝕖 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕦𝕞𝕓𝕝𝕖𝕣𝕤 𝕔𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘
𝔻𝕖𝕒𝕝 𝕞𝕖 𝕚𝕟, 𝕜𝕚𝕔𝕜 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕚𝕟 𝕦𝕡 𝕒 𝕟𝕠𝕥𝕔𝕙
𝔻𝕚𝕧𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕚𝕟 𝕢𝕦𝕚𝕔𝕜𝕤𝕒𝕟𝕕'𝕤 𝕗𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕟 𝕤𝕚𝕟𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘
Gon decides to go back to the Guilt House, despite it viciously burning his flesh previously. He's carrying a bag full of candy from the night before. He sits next to Home, offering them some with a bright smile.
Local Jokester, Viber, Doctor, and Therapist, I do my best to make your day better, and if I fail I'll try again tomorrow.
'Nothing is beautiful because it lasts.'
'War does not decide who was right, but only who is left.'
https://docs.google.com/document/d/12WUcdu6YBH2USIcmf48FCnLwDh_mGHZJZYZWwLLRzhA/edit?tab=t.0 (For when I'm gone.)
Home sits up, eyes narrowed. He tilts his head "Why do you keep coming back?.."
𝔾𝕖𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕥𝕠𝕡 𝕤𝕙𝕖𝕝𝕗, 𝕕𝕠𝕦𝕓𝕝𝕖 𝕣𝕠𝕔𝕜𝕤, 𝕡𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕔𝕠𝕥𝕔𝕙
𝕀'𝕧𝕖 𝕞𝕚𝕤𝕤𝕖𝕕 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕥𝕦𝕟𝕖 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕦𝕞𝕓𝕝𝕖𝕣𝕤 𝕔𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘
𝔻𝕖𝕒𝕝 𝕞𝕖 𝕚𝕟, 𝕜𝕚𝕔𝕜 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕚𝕟 𝕦𝕡 𝕒 𝕟𝕠𝕥𝕔𝕙
𝔻𝕚𝕧𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕚𝕟 𝕢𝕦𝕚𝕔𝕜𝕤𝕒𝕟𝕕'𝕤 𝕗𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕟 𝕤𝕚𝕟𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘