STAGE 28: I Need an Adult
STAGE 28: I Need an Adult
You need help. You cannot find your housemate, and you heard something last night. You were too scared to do anything about it and now you are probably regretting this. You drifted off sometime before dawn. So strange. But worse, you can’t remember their name.
You could describe what had no name. They had… two eyes, probably. Wore robes, you think. Maybe green? Or blue. Yellow... perhaps red. Or not. No, they definitely wore robes, there are rules against nudity. They had hair. That much you’re certain of. Probably.
The more you try to recall, the more your memory slides sideways, like your neurons were covered in vaseline. You cling to the scraps of what you think you might know, but it’s like remembering a dream through fog.
With no other ideas, you climb the spiral staircase to the Headmaster’s office, heart pounding. The stair moves reluctantly, like it resents your presence. Headmaster Solomon Lear was the epitome of an adult, he was very old. Age being the greatest criteria of adulthood, Mr. Lear has the most experience.
When you arrived, the door was already ajar.
You push it open—and stop short.
This is not how you remember the Headmaster's office.
I-it was so pink.
The walls are draped in floral lace and soft pink curtains. Doilies rest beneath every teacup and saucer. A velvet-covered couch glows under the gentle hum of enchanted lighting. The air smells faintly of powdered sugar and something more overly floral. The strong scent of rosemary, tansy, lavender, carnation, and feverfew. A combination a historian would be more likely to recognize. For others, a strong, herbal tea-like scent, not particularly offensive but strong.
You might make yourself known.
No response.
The headmaster is absent.
But you are not alone.
Seated primly behind the ornate desk is a woman. Small, round, and still. Her robes are sickly sweet shades of rose and bubblegum, and every finger bears a pearl or opal ring. Her smile is painted on, thin and stretched, and her eyes gleam—too wide, too still. As if she hasn’t blinked in some time.
She speaks before you can.
"Children shouldn’t worry themselves with things that go bump in the night."
Her voice is syrupy, but there’s iron underneath. Every syllable laced with something darker than concern. You feel like a beetle pinned under glass.
You stammer, trying to explain. About your housemate. About the sounds in the night. The dolls.
She listens without interrupting. Just smiles. Smiles and stirs a cup of tea with a tiny spoon shaped like a toad.
"That sounds like a very vivid imagination. Would you like a biscuit?"
This thread is open to players that have the Twinkle/Steven Doll in their inventory. Simply post in this thread, choose a path and carry on. Let's see where this adventure takes you. This thread has an abbreviated word count - 50 words minimum.
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You could describe what had no name. They had… two eyes, probably. Wore robes, you think. Maybe green? Or blue. Yellow... perhaps red. Or not. No, they definitely wore robes, there are rules against nudity. They had hair. That much you’re certain of. Probably.
The more you try to recall, the more your memory slides sideways, like your neurons were covered in vaseline. You cling to the scraps of what you think you might know, but it’s like remembering a dream through fog.
With no other ideas, you climb the spiral staircase to the Headmaster’s office, heart pounding. The stair moves reluctantly, like it resents your presence. Headmaster Solomon Lear was the epitome of an adult, he was very old. Age being the greatest criteria of adulthood, Mr. Lear has the most experience.
When you arrived, the door was already ajar.
You push it open—and stop short.
This is not how you remember the Headmaster's office.
I-it was so pink.
The walls are draped in floral lace and soft pink curtains. Doilies rest beneath every teacup and saucer. A velvet-covered couch glows under the gentle hum of enchanted lighting. The air smells faintly of powdered sugar and something more overly floral. The strong scent of rosemary, tansy, lavender, carnation, and feverfew. A combination a historian would be more likely to recognize. For others, a strong, herbal tea-like scent, not particularly offensive but strong.
You might make yourself known.
No response.
The headmaster is absent.
But you are not alone.
Seated primly behind the ornate desk is a woman. Small, round, and still. Her robes are sickly sweet shades of rose and bubblegum, and every finger bears a pearl or opal ring. Her smile is painted on, thin and stretched, and her eyes gleam—too wide, too still. As if she hasn’t blinked in some time.
She speaks before you can.
"Children shouldn’t worry themselves with things that go bump in the night."
Her voice is syrupy, but there’s iron underneath. Every syllable laced with something darker than concern. You feel like a beetle pinned under glass.
You stammer, trying to explain. About your housemate. About the sounds in the night. The dolls.
She listens without interrupting. Just smiles. Smiles and stirs a cup of tea with a tiny spoon shaped like a toad.
"That sounds like a very vivid imagination. Would you like a biscuit?"
Looks like the decoration here is more than for April fools. Good luck.
New Adventure Hook starts April 19
There is something about ambition, how it not only propels you but also defines you.