We open on Ishmael, sitting in a leather chair in front of a roaring fireplace. In one hand, he has a cup of coffee in serious danger of spilling; in the other, a sheaf of notebook paper hastily stapled together. A pair of ancient reading glasses perches on his nose but he's still squinting in the way people do when they can't read their own handwriting.
He sees you, the audience, quietly appear in the thread. Ishmael grins wolfishly and gestures with the coffee mug to sit on the floor. No chair for you, filthy peasant.
Ishmael shifts in the chair, still grinning. "Welcome," he says, "to Cringestar's Journey." he holds up the wad of paper. Sure enough, the title is scrawled out in big letters, except the s is backwards and "Journey" has an i in it for some reason.
You suddenly realize that this is going to be a really bad Warriors fan fiction and get up to leave.
But Ishmael stands up as well and hurls his coffee cup at the back wall. The cup shatters, sending the smell of wasted caffeine into the air.
"No one is leaving until this is over." his voice has an ominous cast to it.The room temperature drops and the broken pieces of the mug appear to be screaming with the voices of tortured souls in the Underworld. You look back and see he has another mug in his hand. He seems like he's throwing pretty accurately today.
You hurriedly sit back down. Given Ishmael's track record, he'll probably drop this in like a week and then you can go home anyways.
"Now then," he continues like he didn't just threaten to forcibly add porcelain to your face, "Let us begin."
( Get hyped. )
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ℂall me Ishmael.
pυт тнαт тнιɴɢ вαcĸ wнere ιт cαмe ғroм or ѕo нelp мe
Put your head up, for you are a lion.Don’t forget that, and neither will the sheep.