vault backup: 2025-12-03 15:27:14
This commit is contained in:
Andrew Cohn
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67ef712133
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7356675be8
@ -407,3 +407,92 @@ If ben wins, go to the accept route. If Pip wins:
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>“Routes change. Product finds new paths. So do other things.
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>“Routes change. Product finds new paths. So do other things.
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>You kids aren’t the only ones using that root.”
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>You kids aren’t the only ones using that root.”
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> Pip gets in his vehicle, and leaves.
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> Pip gets in his vehicle, and leaves.
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# Lunchtime with Soren
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>[!quote] Narration
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>Lunch at Avalon is chaos in slow motion.
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>The courtyard is a patchwork of tables and benches under string lights and a few half-hearted shade canopies. Students cluster in little cliques: mageball jerseys shouting over plays, robed nerds arguing about spell math, arts kids draped over each other in black.
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>Soren sits alone at the far edge, a half-eaten lunch tray in front of her, diary in her bag, jar of fingernails safely tucked away. There’s noise everywhere, but it all sounds a little distant- as if someone turned a pillow over her ears.
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>Across the courtyard, **Millie** moves like she owns the place.
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>She drifts from table to table with a tray balanced on one hip, laughing at some jock’s joke, dropping a little whisper at the student council kids, trading in-jokes with a group of spellcasters.
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>The boys’ eyes follow her. The girls straighten up when she passes—some out of jealousy, some trying to copy the way she carries herself.
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> She tosses her hair and a group at the next table actually sighs.
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> **A beat**
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> From where Soren sits, it's efforless.
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> Every smile Millie gets is one SOren never does. Every glance, every compliment, ever "oh my gods, Millie, you're gorgeous!" lands like a tiny thorn under her skin.
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> The hum under Soren’s feet—the same buried vibration that’s always there on campus—tightens a notch.
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> A thought that doesn’t sound _like_ her own drifts up, soft as a finger tracing her spine:
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> “Look at her.
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> All that attention for nothing. No blood spilled. No work done. Just hair and teeth and noise.”
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Let soren respond- or ignore. The voice pushes more:
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>![quote] Narration
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>Millie leans in to say something to the boys. They laugh so hard one nearly chokes.
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>**“They’d forget her in a week if she vanished,”** the not-quite-her voice murmurs. **“They wouldn’t forget _you_. Not if you made it… memorable.”**
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At this point, call for a DC 14 wisdom save.
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## On success
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>[!quote] Narration
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> You feel your jaw clench so hard your teeth ache. Your fingers dig into the edge of the table.
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> You feel your jaw clench so hard your teeth ache. Your fingers dig into the edge of the table.
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> And then you don’t.
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> The urge hits the wall of your will and shatters, leaving you shaking.
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Ask what's in her hand- fork, cup, pencil.
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>![quote] Narration
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>You look down. The [fork/cup/pencil] in your hand is **warped**—bent nearly in half, or spider-webbed with cracks.
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>The plastic of the tray under your palm is melted in the shape of your fingers, little scorch marks tracing the outline.
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>A kid at the next table glances over, mouth half full of food, sees the scorched handprints on the tray, and very deliberately turns back to their friends like they saw nothing.
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>The voice clicks its tongue, disappointed, but there’s a thread of respect in it this time:
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>**“You pulled back,”** it says. **“Most don’t. That’s… interesting.”**
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>“We’ll try again later.”
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> Millie laughs at something, looks vaguely in Soren’s direction without really _seeing_ her, and moves on.
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> For now, shes untouched. Soren is not.
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## On Failure
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>The hum under your feet swells—like the ground itself just took a slow, deep breath.
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>The voice doesn’t whisper this time; it **leans in**:
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>“Enough watching.
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>Do something.”
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>Your muscles move before your caution does. You know you’re going to act. You cannot just sit here and let it pass.
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>“You feel the dam break. You are _going_ to hurt Millie in some way. You still choose _how_.
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>Does Soren go for her reputation, her body, or her stuff?”
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### Social
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>[!quote] Narration
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>You stand up, tray abandoned, and cross the courtyard before you’ve fully decided what you’re going to say.
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>Millie turns as you approach, already smiling like she assumes you’re here to compliment her.
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>The words that come out of your mouth are not polite. They are **surgical**.
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>You pick the exact thing she’s insecure about—her roots showing under perfect hair dye, her last relationship, the scholarship she _barely_ got—and you say it out loud, in front of everyone, in a way that sounds almost casual.
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>The words come out laced with something more than just spite—there’s a little twist of **psychic pressure**, like a minor Vicious Mockery that hits _too_ hard.
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>Millie’s face goes white, then red. Conversations around you stutter and stop.
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- Millie runs off
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- Rumors begin yesterday
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- Soren's social status falls- she's scary.
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Let Soren say some nasty things.
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### Physical
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>[!quote] Narration
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>You don’t even remember standing up. You just know that suddenly you’re walking behind Millie’s table, hand half-raised, energy crawling up your fingers.
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>The voice directs your eyes to a loose flagstone, a condensation-slick patch of pavement, the cluster of drinks on the edge of her table.
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>“Trip her. Spill it. Break the moment. Mark her.”
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>You “accidentally” knock into the table with just a bit too much force.
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>The cups launch. A full tray of food and drink goes airborne in slow motion before crashing into Millie—drenching her in soup and soda, knocking her backwards off the bench.
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>There’s a yelp, a sick thud as she hits the ground, and a chorus of gasps.
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- Soren walks away.
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- Staff notices
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- Whispers begin
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- The voice says “Better. See how easy it is to bring her down?”
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### Stuff
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>[!quote] Narration
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>You stay seated, watching, until Millie sets her bag down on the edge of a bench. It’s nice—enchanted leather, expensive, with a little charm hanging off the zipper.
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> Your fingers curl under the table. The hum in your bones spikes.
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> **“Touch the root,”** the voice says. **“Let it through.”**
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> You exhale and let a thread of that pressure slip out toward the bag.
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> There’s a soft _pop_ and the smell of burned fabric. Millie shrieks as the charm on her bag explodes in a shower of sparks, the leather blackening, straps snapping. Half her books and her phone, mirror, and makeup case spill out, cracked and smoking.
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## Transition out
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>[!quote] Narration
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>As the scene erupts—shouting, people rushing to help, eyes turning to you—the hum under your skin **fades**, satisfied.
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>The voice sighs like it just had a good meal:
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>“See? You don’t have to be invisible.
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They’ll remember _this_.”
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