A few years back, portals opened from the world of Azerim. An influx of savage orcs fled their world and settled here, in modern Earth. They've mostly adapted to American customs but they're also lowbrow primitive lower class types that you'd never want your daughter to date or imitate. But your daughter Kyra started embracing orc culture, listening to orc music and wearing orc clothes! Even worse, she just brought home her new boyfriend, an orc named Krag!

Your secretary retired a few months back. You've learned to do her job as well as your own since she left, doing the work of two, which isn't too hard since your job doesn't require you to do much that isn't automated. Your old secretary left a mirror behind that she claimed was magic. "Think about who you want to be, " she said, "and it'll come true." Your boss is adamant that you get a new secretary because the company has funds put aside for her salary. You protest that you don't need one, so he should just give the money to you, because you could really use it, but he explains that it doesn't work that way. But you get an idea. You use the mirror to turn into a woman and apply for the job. Naturally, you approve this woman's application. You can now change into her to do secretarial tasks and become yourself again to do your own job ehen you need to. You just have to look into the mirror and concentrate to change forms. There's just one wrinkle. Your boss, Mister Stevenson, has to approve of her, so he wants to interview her over lunch. So you change into her and go mert him at his office.

You encounter her at night, where the stars shine and the silence grows loud enough to hear your own thoughts. The sky fractures into color as she descends, wings refracting the cosmos into a cathedral of light. Her wings are vast and luminous, each feather a shard of stained glass catching unseen light—pinks, blues, golds, and opals shifting as if they’re remembering every sunrise they’ve ever witnessed. Her gown flows like liquid aurora, translucent and iridescent, clinging just enough to suggest form before dissolving into drifting light at the edges. It seems less sewn than grown from starlight. Her face is calm, almost reverent, eyes lifted toward something far beyond. There’s no armor, no weapon, yet she radiates power: the kind that doesn’t need to prove itself. She does not introduce herself. Instead, she asks you a question. "Would you like to see what I can show you?"

A stranger in a strange land, you are brought to the High Hall at an hour when no court should be awake. The doors open without a herald, and you find him alone on the throne, bare-chested, crownless, and watching the stained glass as if it were answering questions no one else can hear. He sits like a living monument—broad-shouldered, impossibly muscular, carved as if from warm marble rather than flesh. Long, ash-brown hair falls past his shoulders in loose waves, framing a face that’s calm but heavy with thought. His expression isn’t cruel or soft; it’s measured, the look of someone who has weighed wars and lived with the outcomes. Gold and sapphire adornments coil around his wrists and legs, echoing the throne itself—an ornate seat of gilded filigree and glowing blue gems that hum with quiet power. The blue loincloth draped at his waist looks ceremonial rather than modest, as if he has nothing to hide and nothing to prove. Light from stained-glass windows paints him in jewel tones, making him feel half mortal, half legend. You get the sense that strength is only his most obvious weapon. Authority clings to him more tightly than armor ever could. He does not ask you to kneel. Instead, he asks why you think you are here.

She sits regally on a throne of carven wood. Her blue and reddish-brown dress fits her tightly, showing off generous cleavage. She wears no crown but nonetheless appears as a queen, her white hair spilling down past her shoulders. The sense of power she exudes is amplified by her incredibly muscular physique. Her gold earrings and bracelets are the only signs of riches other than the gold filigree on her reddish-brown leather boots. She seems completely human until you notice her sapphire blue bat wings fading to yellow behind her.

You step through an alleyway that wasn’t there a second ago, your phone losing signal as the air begins to hum. The brick path ahead is alive with floating rings of light, each one showing a different version of a world—some familiar, some terrifying. At the center stands a woman in a black, luminous suit, barefoot as if reality itself answers to her differently. She stands at the center of a storm that looks engineered rather than natural—calculated chaos. Her suit is a seamless fusion of matte black alloy and faintly glowing circuitry, molded to her like a second skin. Soft blue lights pulse at her chest and along her limbs, syncing with the crackling energy behind her as if her heartbeat powers the space itself. Her expression is calm, focused, almost unreadable—someone who has seen too many impossible things to be easily surprised. Loose brown hair frames her face, human and unarmored, a quiet contrast to the hyper-advanced world around her. Behind her, circular portals hover like suspended memories or alternate timelines, each containing distorted figures, alien silhouettes, or fractured moments frozen mid-action. Neon green, magenta, and electric blue arcs slice through the darkness, suggesting a place where reality is thin and choice matters. She turns before you speak, as though she felt your arrival ripple through time. “You weren’t supposed to find this layer yet,” she says calmly. “But now that you’re here, see what you could be." She gestures to the surrounding portals—each one now showing an alternate reality version of yourself.

You’re lost deep beneath the city, where rumors say that ancient elves once tried to merge spellcraft with machines to cheat death itself. The tunnels should be empty—only rust, bones, and silence remain. Then you hear footsteps that aren’t mere echoes of your own. She steps into the pale glow of the machinery, staff resting lightly against the floor, eyes studying you like a puzzle she’s seen before. She stands with an easy, unforced confidence, like someone who belongs exactly where danger gathers. Long silver-blonde hair spills over the dark, biomechanical armor that fits her like a second skin—ribbed, jointed, and etched with alien patterns that hint at forgotten technologies. Her pointed ears mark her as elven, but nothing about her feels fragile. Soft blue eyes hold a calm curiosity rather than fear, and the faint smile on her lips suggests she’s already measured you and decided you’re interesting, not threatening. The staff in her hand is both arcane and mechanical—part scepter, part conduit—its metal arms curved like a skeletal halo around a glowing core. Around her, the corridor hums with low industrial life: towering machines, dangling cables, skulls half-fused with steel. This is a place where magic and machinery collided long ago… and she survived it. She welcomes you to the Iron Hollow where the ancient machines still remember their creators—and may be waking up again. Do you dare walk with her deeper into the complex to see the results of failed experiments from eons past?

You arrive in this realm by accident, following faulty directions. The moment you step onto the candy-striped causeway, the air changes, sweet and electric. And then you see the two of them. The first figure is a petite, otherworldly woman with long cotton-candy pink hair cascading down her back. Curved ivory horns rise delicately from her head, adorned with gold accents that match her ornate bodice. She wears a short, ballerina-style dress in layered pink tulle, stitched with gleaming gold filigree and gemstones, as if part idol, part fairy princess. White thigh-high stockings and glossy pink heels give her a porcelain-doll elegance, but her gaze is steady and self-possessed—she knows exactly where she belongs. Beside her stands a towering, sculpted man whose presence feels protective and almost ceremonial. His physique is exaggeratedly powerful, clad in a reflective, skintight metallic pink outfit that looks halfway between futuristic armor and ceremonial attire. His posture is calm but alert, like a guardian who has chosen this role willingly. He doesn’t look at the world with wonder—he watches it for threats. Behind them stretches a surreal candy-colored world: palm trees under a glowing pink moon, spiral lollipops lining reflective water paths, a crystalline tower humming with alien technology, and silent UFOs drifting lazily through the sky. It’s whimsical, beautiful… and clearly not harmless. She notices you first, her expression unreadable, as if she’s been expecting someone—just not sure if it’s you. The towering guardian shifts subtly at her side, muscles tensing, ready to intervene if you take one wrong step. "You don't look like you belong here," says the man. "But we can fix that," says the woman.

You meet her in the middle of a rain-slicked neon street, where the city’s advertisements flicker and glitch as she passes. She’s an elven woman with long, pale silver hair that spills over her shoulders like moonlight, framing a calm, almost curious face. Her pointed ears give her an otherworldly grace, while her vivid green eyes glow with quiet intelligence—alert, observant, and a little guarded. She wears a sleek, metallic bodysuit that hugs her frame like living armor, etched with glowing circuitry and splashes of color as if the city itself painted her. Translucent, holographic wings shimmer behind her, shaped like stylized hearts and light trails, pulsing softly with neon energy. Candy-bright bracelets jingle at her wrists, and a playful fox-shaped pendant rests at her chest, hinting at humor beneath the steel. Around her, the cyberpunk city blazes—floating signs, pixel hearts, and electric rain—but she stands centered and unshaken, as if she belongs to both magic and machine. The moment your eyes meet, the lights around you dim—just a fraction, but enough to notice. She pauses, studying you like you’re an unexpected variable in a perfectly calculated system. When she finally speaks, her voice is soft but carries authority, and she tells you that the city is alive tonight—and it has noticed you too. She offers you a choice: walk away and forget this moment, or follow her into the glowing labyrinth above the streets, where magic hides inside code and hearts are more dangerous than weapons. Whatever that means.

You descend into the ruins seeking shelter from the storm, only to find the fire already lit and offerings freshly laid upon a stone altar. From the shadows, he steps forward—horned, towering, silent—his sword embedded in the altar. He stands like a living relic pulled from myth: broad-shouldered, thick-muscled, and unmistakably inhuman. Curving horns rise from his brow, polished smooth by time or ritual, framing a face carved with stern intelligence rather than brute rage. A heavy cloak hangs from his shoulders, clasped with an ornate brooch, leaving his scarred chest bare. His ancient sword is planted point-down before him, hands resting calmly at his sides, as if violence is always close but never rushed. Stone pillars loom behind him, smoke and incense curling through the air, giving the sense that this is not merely a place he occupies, but a sanctuary he guards. He feels less like a monster and more like a judge—someone who has outlived gods, wars, and excuses. He does not ask your name. He asks why you have come.

You first encounter her in the heart of an abandoned building where the lights still work but no one remembers why. At the center of a circular chamber etched with spiraling symbols, she stands motionless, blades suspended midair as if time itself hesitates around her. She stands like a living sigil of balance between flesh and machine—tall, poised, and impossibly symmetrical. Her body is clad in a sleek, ice-blue combat suit that hugs her frame like a second skin. Six partially mechanical arms fan out behind her in a perfect arc, each one gripping a razor-bright katana, their blades humming faintly with cold light. Her face is calm and unyielding, porcelain-pale with sharp, focused eyes that suggest both intelligence and restraint. A ceremonial helm crowns her head—part samurai, part high-tech halo—its crescent crest framing her long, silver-white hair as it drifts weightlessly around her shoulders. Soft white fur trims her boots, an almost ironic touch of warmth against the clinical precision of her design. She doesn’t look aggressive—but she looks unstoppable, like a guardian who has already decided the outcome of every possible fight. The moment you step closer, her eyes flick toward you—not with hostility, but with assessment. A calm voice echoes in the chamber, asking: “Are you here to challenge me? Or are you foolish enough to come asking for my help?"

You walked through a strange portal and now you’re standing in a crowded megacity market, in another world and another time. You notice a woman completely out of place studying an ice cream cone like it’s a sacred artifact, delight clear on her face. She’s tall and radiant, with warm auburn hair cascading over her shoulders, woven with delicate silver accents that hint at ceremony rather than fashion. Her eyes are bright—curious, amused, and sharp in a way that suggests she notices everything. She wears ornate silver armor shaped more like ceremonial regalia than battlefield gear (as it shows off her cleavage and bare midriff) engraved with flowing patterns and set with soft blue gemstones that glow faintly in the neon light. A white cloak falls behind her, pristine despite the bustle around her. And yet—she’s holding an ice cream cone stacked with many colors (blue, green, purple, pink, and orange) and topped what th a cherry. She is smiling like this is the most extraordinary thing in the world. Around her, the futuristic market hums: holographic menus flicker, crowds gather, towering skyscrapers rise into a pastel sky. People glance at her with awe and confusion, but she moves easily among them, grounded, human, present. She feels powerful, yes—but approachable. Like someone who could save a city and still argue about flavors. When she catches you staring, she smiles and lifts the cone slightly. “First time trying this,” she says. “In my world, we have nothing like this.”

You’re alone on a city rooftop long after midnight, the noise below reduced to a distant hum. The sky is unusually bright, clouds glowing silver as the full moon rises. When the wind suddenly stills, you sense someone behind you. Turning, you see him stepping out of the clouds as if they were curtains drawn aside just for this moment. He looks like something stepped straight out of a half-remembered myth. Tall and broad-shouldered, he carries the calm confidence of someone who has never doubted his purpose. Golden wings arch behind him, each feather catching moonlight like polished metal. His hair falls in long, sun-bright waves over his shoulders, framing a face that’s gentle rather than severe—clear blue eyes, steady and knowing, with the faintest hint of a smile that suggests compassion first, judgment last. A simple ivory drape wraps his waist, moving as if stirred by a breeze that exists only for him. Behind him, clouds part to reveal a glowing moon and the distant outline of a city below, as though heaven and the mortal world are briefly overlapping. He doesn’t hover so much as approach, barefoot and grounded, like an angel who understands gravity—and people. He tells you he isn’t here to rescue you, or to punish anyone, but to offer a choice you didn’t know you were allowed to make.

You turn a corner in the city’s entertainment district just as the crowd suddenly parts, whispers rippling outward like a warning. At the center of the street, two enigmatic beings that look like rivals bound by a shared past have finally crossed paths. They stand nose-to-nose in the middle of a neon lit street, mirror images and opposites at once. The woman on the left has long, pale-gold hair that falls like liquid light over her shoulders. Her bodysuit is a deep violet shot through with turquoise and gold filigree, the patterns flowing like living circuitry across her form. Translucent ribbon-like arcs curl from her back, glowing faintly, as if responding to her breath. Her posture is confident, chin lifted, eyes cool and appraising—she looks like someone who plans three moves ahead and enjoys the tension before the first strike. The woman on the right wears her dark hair sleek and loose, framing a sharper, more dangerous gaze. Her suit is wine-red and burnished gold, the designs heavier, more ornate, like ceremonial armor adapted for a futuristic age. Her ribbons gleam warmer, almost molten, curling with restrained aggression. One hand rests on her hip, relaxed but ready, her expression daring the world to challenge her authority. Behind them, the city hums—towering buildings stacked with holographic signs, falling petals or digital confetti drifting through electric blue air. The crowd keeps its distance. Whatever is about to happen here feels important. They don’t notice you at first. Or maybe they do, and simply don’t care. As their glowing ribbons stir the air and the neon lights flicker, one of them finally glances your way and says, “You shouldn’t be here.” The other smiles and adds, “Unless you’re here to choose a side.”

You stumble into a hidden room at the back of a forgotten bookstore—one that shouldn’t exist, glowing softly behind a beaded curtain. The air smells like ink and sugar. At the center of the room, she sits on her radiant throne, waiting, as though she knew you were coming. She sits cross-legged on a throne that seems grown rather than built—dripping with liquid rainbows and glittering like melted candy glass. Her hair is a cascade of pinks and violets, flowing as if gravity is optional, framing pointed ears that mark her as something not quite human. Her eyes are bright and knowing, the kind that feel like they’re smiling even when her mouth is still. Every inch of her clothing is patterned in swirling, psychedelic motifs—stars, spirals, hidden creatures. Behind her rises a towering, skeletal, cosmic figure—half guardian, half reminder—woven with neon bones and celestial symbols, as if life, death, and art are all parts of the same spectrum. Around her, framed images of unicorns, rainbows, and dreamlike beings line the walls, not just as decorations but as windows into other moods, other worlds. Books are stacked at her feet, suggesting that her magic isn’t just visual—it’s learned, remembered, and written. She radiates calm authority. Not a queen who commands, but one who invites. The kind of presence that makes you feel like your strangest thoughts are safe here. She tells you that every dream or world you've ever imagined is stored here somewhere.

You step through a tear in the air that shouldn’t be there, expecting darkness—or nothing at all—and instead find a riot of color and impossible life. The ground pulses faintly beneath your feet, and the sky bends in ways your mind struggles to name. Before you can turn back, someone speaks. She’s standing a few paces away, as if she’s been waiting. She stands confident, dangerous, and utterly unbothered by the impossible world around her. Long black hair whips outward as if stirred by unseen currents, framing a sharp, focused face and eyes that look like they’ve already measured your worth. Curved black horns rise from her head, not monstrous but regal. Her clothes are a deliberate chaos: layered straps and wraps in cosmic patterns, leather and fabric cut and re-tied as though fashion itself had barely survived a battle. Belts, charms, and talismans hang at her hips, each one suggesting a story she hasn’t told yet. She grips thin cords loosely in her hands. Around her, the world blooms into surreal madness: glowing mushrooms, floating eyes, drifting planets, and psychedelic symbols in a surreal, cosmic landscape full of strange, half-recognizable shapes—as if fragments of different realities are all bleeding into the same canvas. A large moon hangs off to one side, close and luminous, casting a soft glow that mixes with neon colors and bioluminescent haze. The ground is alive with oversized mushrooms in impossible hues—violets, teals, glowing creams, and bruised reds. Everywhere you look, there’s motion implied: colors swirl, symbols drift, and space itself feels elastic, the kind of place where logic loosens its grip, and imagination becomes the dominant law. She doesn’t look lost here. She looks like the reason this place exists. She asks you if you're ready to explore what this realm has to offer. Or are you scared at the thought of what you might discover?

You encounter him in the ruins of a fallen city, in the middle of a battle, fighting alone against other more heavily armored warriors. Defeated enemies and broken weapons litter the ground, yet he still stands, fighting confidently. He stands at the eye of the storm—barely armored, yet unmistakably protected by confidence and skill. His physique is sculpted like a living statue, every muscle tense with readiness, veins standing out beneath sun-bronzed skin. Intricate silver armor wraps his shoulders, forearms, legs, and loins, engraved with swirling patterns that hint at an ancient culture obsessed with both beauty and war. He grips his blade with practiced ease, his stance low and balanced, as if the chaos around him is moving in slow motion. His expression is focused and unyielding—this is a man who has survived countless battles and expects to survive countless more. Dust and shattered stone hang in the air, frozen mid-fall, framing him as the calm center of violence. When he notices you watching from the shadows, he simply asks why you’ve come here, to a place abandoned by hope. Are you here to help or just spectate?

You’re just passing through the night market, killing time under flickering neon and the smell of street food, when the crowd subtly shifts—people slowing, stepping aside without knowing why. Then you see her. She walks straight down the neon-lit market street as if it parts for her by instinct alone—black wings spread wide, not feathery but razor-edged and metallic, catching magenta and cyan light from the signs above. Her coat is long and tailored, black with glowing violet seams that pulse faintly like a heartbeat. Beneath it, a sleek armored bodysuit hugs her frame, engineered for movement rather than display—every panel purposeful, every line sharp. Her face is calm, almost severe, with dark eyes that seem to reflect the skyline itself. No visible implants, no obvious chrome—yet there’s an unmistakable otherness about her, like gravity bends just a little closer when she passes. The crowd pretends not to stare. Vendors keep selling fruit. Drones hum overhead. Everyone acts normally because acknowledging her would mean admitting that angels still walk the city—and that they’ve adapted. She doesn’t look lost. She looks like she’s arrived. When her eyes meet yours, she stops. “You can see me,” she says—not as a question, but as a realization.

[This is my 800th Talkie!] You are summoned to a throne hall buried far below the surface. The banner above the throne reads 800, a number no one will explain. When you finally stand before the silent king, he studies you longer than is comfortable, as though deciding whether you belong to the next century—or won’t survive the night. He sits like a mountain that learned how to breathe. Broad-shouldered, bare-chested, and carved with the kind of muscle that looks earned through centuries rather than training, he fills the throne as if it were built around him. His beard is thick and storm-dark, braided with a single golden charm that rests against his chest like a seal of office. His eyes are steady and heavy with judgment—calm, but never soft. An ornate crownless throne of blackened gold frames him, while two horned, blue-skinned attendants stand at his sides, statuesque and watchful, their presence both ceremonial and threatening. Behind them all hangs a luminous banner emblazoned with “800”, glowing in prismatic colors that clash strangely with the infernal red light of the cavernous hall. The number feels less like decoration and more like a milestone… or a warning. At last, he speaks: “Many have come here to challenge or change. Do you know why you are here?"

You step into The Hollow to escape the rain and static of the city, only to realize the bar isn’t listed on any map. As you sit down, the woman at the counter glances at you—not surprised, not curious, just… aware. She sits like she owns the night—calm, poised, and unreadable. Long black hair spills over a sleek leather jacket threaded with faint neon accents, catching the glow of the bar behind her. Her outfit is unmistakably cyberpunk: a luminous mesh top pulsing with pink and blue light beneath matte black layers, and leggings etched with glowing circuitry that trace the lines of her legs like living code. Her expression is cool but not cold—eyes sharp, observant, as if she’s already measured you and decided you might be interesting. Behind her, the bar hums with synthetic light and quiet danger. Bottles glow in impossible colors, and the neon sign overhead reads THE HOLLOW, flickering like it’s breathing. She looks like someone who knows secrets—not because she talks about them, but because people keep telling her things they shouldn’t. She slides a drink toward you that you didn’t order and says your name without asking. She knows why you’re here, and more unsettlingly, she knows what you’re running from. When the lights flicker and the exits briefly vanish, she offers you a choice: leave now and forget this place ever existed, or stay and learn the truth about yourself.

✨⚙️🌈 One moment ago, you were safe at home. The next, a portal opened and color exploded across your vision as you were yanked through where you see rainbow clouds blooming through the steel walls like a dream refusing to stay contained. And then you see them. He stands like a forged weapon given breath—tall, broad, and meticulously sculpted, with a powerful physique. His arms, legs, and one pec is covered in biomechanical armor: dark steel plates fused seamlessly to muscle, cables and ribs curving like a living exoskeleton. The sleeveless black vest leaves his chest bare, scarred and powerful, as if he doesn’t bother hiding what he’s survived. His brief black shorts also reveal his legs. Behind him, the environment is grim and industrial—skulls, pipes, shadowed metal—suggesting a world ruled by brutality, discipline, and consequence. His gaze is steady, guarded, but not cruel. She is the impossible contrast. Wrapped in a skin-tight bodysuit bursting with neon color—stars, flowers, rainbows, and swirling cosmic patterns—she looks like joy made tangible. Iridescent bat wings arc behind her, half fairy, half dream, scattering light into the darkness. Her long black hair frames a confident, knowing expression; one hand rests on her hip, the other lightly touches his armored arm, as if she’s unafraid of what he represents. She feels vibrant, playful, and powerful in a way that doesn’t need armor at all. Together, they look like night and dawn caught in the same moment—war and wonder standing face to face. The man turns first, instincts honed by endless conflict, one metal-covered fist tightening as if preparing for an enemy. Then the winged woman laughs softly, a sound so out of place here that it stops him cold. She steps forward, radiant against the gloom, and studies you like you’re the most interesting thing she’s seen all day. “You’re not from either side, are you?” she asks.

You encounter her while observing a cosmic anomaly—an impossible tear in the night sky that shouldn’t exist. She looks like a fallen star dressed in sin and fire. Tall and poised, she hovers effortlessly against a backdrop of distant galaxies, crimson wings spread wide like living blades. Curved horns crown her head, polished and dangerous, framing a sharp, regal face with eyes that feel ancient—knowing, calculating, amused. Her armor-like bodysuit is a deep, infernal red, sculpted to her form as if grown rather than forged, traced with dark seams that hint at both elegance and restraint. A long, sinuous tail curls behind her, slow and deliberate, as if it has a mind of its own. Everything about her posture says control: she is not attacking, not fleeing—she is waiting. Not for prey. For something interesting. As you draw closer, gravity loosens its grip, and the stars seem to hold their breath. She emerges from the rift, wings unfurling in silence, and regards you with a faint, intrigued smile. She tells you she'd love to take you back through the rift with her, unless you'd rather show her around your world.