AI generated stories for analysis.

[Jackarandajam]

For the sake of our time and energy:

I am going to generate AI stories using a variety of different prompts in the ai story generator found here:

AI Story Generator (free, unlimited, no sign-up)

Completely free & unlimited AI story generator/writer based on a prompt. No sign-up or login. Generate LONG stories, paragraph-by-paragraph, optionally guiding the AI on what happens next. Fast generation and there are no daily usage restrictions - unlimited and 100% free storytelling AI. You...

perchance.org

To familiarize us with the style characteristics of an AI generated story.

While I think there are lovely things about people's newfound ability to click a story of (more or less) their choosing instantly into being, I find it insulting to be asked to critique such a piece without knowing that's what I'm critiquing. I typically try to be kind when critiquing, particularly when the poster is new or seems young, and the idea my carefully worded encouragement could be construed as ignorant compliments tossed at the mindless work of a machine, frankly, hits me all kinds of sideways.
So, without further ado, enjoy some short works of formulaic, machine-generated drivel. I will do my best to test it with both creative and generic prompts to see what it's capable of and what it sounds like.

I encourage others to experiment and post interesting results here as well. I'm tired of wondering if I'm wasting my time on critique and would like to feel confident moving forward of the smell of AI, at least until it evolves further.

 

[pmmg]

Just sayin’. If i know you are using Ai, i will not help you.

 

[Jackarandajam]

Prompt: A dragon-person prince with a new slave received as a birthday present plots to overthrow the royal kingdom.
---
In the bustling market of Velloria, a young man named Alden pushed a cart laden with fresh fruits and vegetables. His skin was tanned from the sun, and his muscles flexed beneath his simple tunic as he navigated the crowded streets. The cobblestones were slick with the early morning dew, and the air was ripe with the scents of baking bread and spices. Despite the early hour, the townsfolk were already out in full force, eager to stock up on supplies before the day grew too hot.

Alden's eyes darted from one side to the other, searching for a familiar face amidst the throng. His heart raced as he spotted the grand carriage of the royal family approaching, surrounded by a contingent of heavily armed guards. The crowd parted like a sea before a ship, bowing their heads in respect as the carriage passed. Inside, the prince, Elaraan, stared out at the people with a look of disdain. He was a dragon-person, his skin a deep shade of emerald, with scales glinting in the early light. His eyes, a piercing gold, swept over the marketplace, seemingly searching for something or someone of interest.

The carriage came to a halt, and a guard called out, "Make way for the prince!"

Alden's stomach churned as the crowd shuffled aside, revealing the prince's gaze fixed on him. The guards approached, their boots echoing on the cobblestones. One grabbed his arm, jerking him to a stop. "You, human," the guard barked, "You're coming with us."

Elaraan stepped out of the carriage, his eyes narrowing as he studied Alden. "What have we here?" His voice was a low rumble, a hint of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth.

Alden swallowed hard, his knees threatening to buckle. "Your Highness," he managed to say, his voice barely above a whisper.

Elaraan's gaze swept over him, taking in his roughened hands and the calloused skin from years of hard labor. "I see," he murmured. "A gift, perhaps?"

Alden's heart sank as he realized what was happening. He had heard rumors of the dragon-person's cruel whims, but never thought he would be the subject of one. The guard shoved him towards the carriage, and he stumbled over the cobblestones, trying to maintain his dignity as the prince's laughter followed him. The heavy door slammed shut, trapping him inside with his new master.

The ride to the castle was a blur of fear and confusion. The opulence of the carriage's interior clashed with the stark reality of his fate. Plush velvet cushioned the benches, and gold trim gleamed along the windows, which were tinted a soft shade of amber to mimic the warmth of a dragon's lair. The prince sat opposite him, his emerald tail flicking idly, as he studied a scroll, seemingly indifferent to the human's distress.

Upon their arrival, Alden was escorted to the dungeons, where he was to be cleaned and prepared for his new role. The guards were efficient, stripping him of his market clothes and tossing him into a tub of lukewarm water. The rough sponges scoured his skin, and the lye soap burned his eyes, but he remained silent, his mind racing with thoughts of escape. As they scrubbed and oiled his body, he noticed the bruises and scars of past battles marring their own scales. A spark of hope ignited within him—perhaps these soldiers knew pain and would be more susceptible to his pleas for mercy.

Once clean, he was draped in a simple linen tunic and led through the castle's labyrinthine corridors. The grandeur of the royal abode was starkly contrasted by the cold, damp stones of the dungeons. His bare feet echoed on the cold floors as he was brought before a chamber with a massive, ornate door. The guards stepped aside, allowing him to enter.

---- End Prompt ---

 

[Jackarandajam]

Prompt: A dragon-person prince with a new slave received as a birthday present plots to overthrow the royal kingdom.
---
In the bustling market of Velloria, a young man named Alden pushed a cart laden with fresh fruits and vegetables. His skin was tanned from the sun, and his muscles flexed beneath his simple tunic as he navigated the crowded streets. The cobblestones were slick with the early morning dew, and the air was ripe with the scents of baking bread and spices. Despite the early hour, the townsfolk were already out in full force, eager to stock up on supplies before the day grew too hot.

Alden's eyes darted from one side to the other, searching for a familiar face amidst the throng. His heart raced as he spotted the grand carriage of the royal family approaching, surrounded by a contingent of heavily armed guards. The crowd parted like a sea before a ship, bowing their heads in respect as the carriage passed. Inside, the prince, Elaraan, stared out at the people with a look of disdain. He was a dragon-person, his skin a deep shade of emerald, with scales glinting in the early light. His eyes, a piercing gold, swept over the marketplace, seemingly searching for something or someone of interest.

The carriage came to a halt, and a guard called out, "Make way for the prince!"

Alden's stomach churned as the crowd shuffled aside, revealing the prince's gaze fixed on him. The guards approached, their boots echoing on the cobblestones. One grabbed his arm, jerking him to a stop. "You, human," the guard barked, "You're coming with us."

Elaraan stepped out of the carriage, his eyes narrowing as he studied Alden. "What have we here?" His voice was a low rumble, a hint of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth.

Alden swallowed hard, his knees threatening to buckle. "Your Highness," he managed to say, his voice barely above a whisper.

Elaraan's gaze swept over him, taking in his roughened hands and the calloused skin from years of hard labor. "I see," he murmured. "A gift, perhaps?"

Alden's heart sank as he realized what was happening. He had heard rumors of the dragon-person's cruel whims, but never thought he would be the subject of one. The guard shoved him towards the carriage, and he stumbled over the cobblestones, trying to maintain his dignity as the prince's laughter followed him. The heavy door slammed shut, trapping him inside with his new master.

The ride to the castle was a blur of fear and confusion. The opulence of the carriage's interior clashed with the stark reality of his fate. Plush velvet cushioned the benches, and gold trim gleamed along the windows, which were tinted a soft shade of amber to mimic the warmth of a dragon's lair. The prince sat opposite him, his emerald tail flicking idly, as he studied a scroll, seemingly indifferent to the human's distress.

Upon their arrival, Alden was escorted to the dungeons, where he was to be cleaned and prepared for his new role. The guards were efficient, stripping him of his market clothes and tossing him into a tub of lukewarm water. The rough sponges scoured his skin, and the lye soap burned his eyes, but he remained silent, his mind racing with thoughts of escape. As they scrubbed and oiled his body, he noticed the bruises and scars of past battles marring their own scales. A spark of hope ignited within him—perhaps these soldiers knew pain and would be more susceptible to his pleas for mercy.

Once clean, he was draped in a simple linen tunic and led through the castle's labyrinthine corridors. The grandeur of the royal abode was starkly contrasted by the cold, damp stones of the dungeons. His bare feet echoed on the cold floors as he was brought before a chamber with a massive, ornate door. The guards stepped aside, allowing him to enter.

---- End Prompt ---

If you notice here, there is an unending flow of information balanced only barely by vague personal description. The prompt is weak so the story is exceptionally bad from what I've seen, but the descriptors are all frustratingly vague. There's nothing to FEEL. The fruit might be fresh or juicy, but it is never "the sticky sweet banana flavor of Ecrids so ripe their juices formed in mirrored drops on their purple rinds" or whatever.
The characters are, obviously, exactly what you'd expect: dry, vague outward descriptions, obvious and 2 dimensional.

People don't write like this. People can't HELP but add the unique details that pop into their head. These stories move far too quickly, are too informative and completely non-experiencial, and "hook" in a very predictable pattern, almost at the end of every paragraph.

NEXT.

 

[Karlin]

I have tried generating AI stories. The results were so bland, that I won't even glance at them anymore.
I once asked an artist "what is art?". He said "Art has to DO something to you. It needs to make you react, to feel something. Otherwise, it's not art."
There's a difference between art and decoration. It's true in storytelling as well.

 

[Finchbearer]

Prompt: write me an opening paragraph for a fantasy novel with multiple female leads;

Beneath the cerulean skies of Seraphi, where the winds whispered secrets to those who dared to listen, a prophecy long forgotten stirred once more. In a secluded village nestled among the clouds, Aeryn danced upon the currents, her feet barely grazing the ground as she spun and twirled, each movement echoing the ancient rhythms of the air. Unbeknownst to her, this very day would mark the beginning of a journey that would bind her fate to the elements and awaken powers that had slumbered for centuries. Shadows loomed on the horizon, but in that moment, Aeryn was blissfully unaware, lost in the song of the wind.

Prompt: write me an opening paragraph for a historical fiction novel with multiple female leads;

In the heart of Valoria, where the crimson petals of the bloodrose bloom and whispers of ancient prophecies linger in the air, a storm was brewing. Lady Elara Ashthorne stood on the battlements of Blackthorn Keep, her sharp eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of the Ravenshade forces. The scent of impending war mixed with the cool morning breeze, a grim reminder of the fragile peace that had held their kingdom together for far too long. As the sun cast its first light upon the land, illuminating the deep scars of past battles, Elara knew that the time for hidden schemes and shadowed alliances was over. The battle for the soul of Valoria was about to begin, and with it, the rise of those who would shape its destiny.

- in short, they are terrible. There are certain formulas that are used and recurring names, such as an ancient evil force, a great sacrifice, names such as Seraphime, Elara, Valoria etc. there’s also no specifics, and realistically there’s not an actual story there at all. It’s a broad generalisation at best.

 

[Penpilot]

Prompt: write me an opening paragraph for a fantasy novel with multiple female leads;

Beneath the cerulean skies of Seraphi, where the winds whispered secrets to those who dared to listen, a prophecy long forgotten stirred once more.

Prompt: write me an opening paragraph for a historical fiction novel with multiple female leads;

In the heart of Valoria, where the crimson petals of the bloodrose bloom and whispers of ancient prophecies linger in the air, a storm was brewing.

Hahha. There's an obvious pattern to the first sentence of each paragraph. IMHO, there's always an uncanny valley element to AI output. At first blush, you might get fooled, but I don't think it'd take more than a paragraph to get squinty-eyed.

 

[Prince of Spires]

If you notice here, there is an unending flow of information balanced only barely by vague personal description. The prompt is weak so the story is exceptionally bad from what I've seen, but the descriptors are all frustratingly vague. There's nothing to FEEL. The fruit might be fresh or juicy, but it is never "the sticky sweet banana flavor of Ecrids so ripe their juices formed in mirrored drops on their purple rinds" or whatever.
The characters are, obviously, exactly what you'd expect: dry, vague outward descriptions, obvious and 2 dimensional.

People don't write like this. People can't HELP but add the unique details that pop into their head. These stories move far too quickly, are too informative and completely non-experiencial, and "hook" in a very predictable pattern, almost at the end of every paragraph.

NEXT.

To be fair to the AI, but it's actually better than some human-written (self-published) novels I've read. Yes, it's flat and a bit all over the place, but there are also some story elements in there, and a general flow to it.

I would say it's a decent outline for the first two chapters of a novel. It rushes through the whole thing, instead of taking its time to show the character and build both the world and the story.

 

[Karlin]

If you want an opening for a fantasy story, look to this recent real life event:

Sacred buffalo calf offers hope amid efforts to revive species

The prophesized birth of a rare white bison is welcomed among tribes that work to support buffalo.

www.bbc.com

This is great. I'm going to wait and see what reality does, but someone could run with this.

 

[Finchbearer]

Thing is, the AI output just makes me want to get more creative.

 

[Jackarandajam]

Thing is, the AI output just makes me want to get more creative.

THATS what I'm talking about!

 

[Incanus]

I haven't messed around with any AI so far, and I've seen only little bits of it, some artwork, some fiction.

Most of my stories develop around an original, fantastical concept. I suppose this is the kind of stuff to prompt the AI with. But even then, it seems to go with really generic stuff.

I feel like the only way this would be even a little useful is to pile on the prompts. I would have to frontload it with a lot of material to get something I'd want, otherwise the thing would run off in some uninteresting direction.

AI seems much more like a 'first draft generator' than a creator of proper, finished stories.

 

[Jackarandajam]

An anthropomorphic banana warrior battles an army of smurf-like dwarves, wielding a giant magical spork heaped with Troll Mucous

"You know, Larry," Bob the banana said, flipping through the pages of a dusty, ancient cookbook in the quiet library, "these ancient fruit scrolls are fascinating, but I don't think I'll ever find a recipe that doesn't involve peeling."

Larry, a peach with a penchant for philosophy, peered over his friend's shoulder. "Perhaps the peeling is not just a culinary step, but a metaphor for the layers of life we shed to reveal our true selves."

Bob rolled his eyes. "You're one to talk. You still have your fuzz."

"But think about it," Larry insisted, his voice echoing through the vast, empty room, "the fruit kingdom is vast and diverse. Each of us has our purpose, our destiny."

The banter between the two fruit friends was interrupted by the clanking of the library door. They turned to see a peculiar creature stumble in, covered in what appeared to be a blue armor made of...spoons? The creature looked up at them with wide, terrified eyes.

"I...I've seen them," it stuttered, gasping for air. "The...the blue ones, they're coming!"

Bob and Larry exchanged confused glances. The creature was clearly distraught, and the sight of its makeshift armor suggested it had been through something harrowing. But blue ones? What could it mean?

"Whoa, easy there," Bob said, his leafy hand reaching out to comfort the trembling fruit. "What are you talking about?"

The creature, who introduced itself as a Plumkin from the neighboring village, took a deep breath and began to recount its tale. It spoke of an unexpected and terrifying encounter with a horde of dwarves, each no larger than a walnut, with skin the color of a clear summer sky. Their eyes, however, were anything but calming; they burned with a fierce, cold blue flame.

"They've...they've taken everything," the Plumkin managed to get out between sobs. "Food, weapons, even the village pets! They're... they're monsters!"

Larry, ever the deep thinker, pondered the situation. "Blue dwarves with the power to instill fear in a seasoned warrior like yourself? This is most unusual. Could they be under some form of enchantment?"

The Plumkin nodded frantically. "Yes, yes! Their leader wields a giant magical spork, dripping with Troll Mucous! It's...it's like nothing we've ever seen before!"

At the mention of Troll Mucous, Bob's eyes widened. Everyone in the fruit kingdom knew the legends of the sticky, green substance that could amplify the power of any weapon it touched. "That's serious," he murmured, flipping the page of the cookbook to reveal a recipe titled "The Warrior's Last Stand." The irony was not lost on him.

The friends knew they had to act. If these smurf-like dwarves were indeed a threat, then the entire fruit realm could be in danger. Larry suggested they gather the council of wise berries for advice, while Bob, ever the practical one, thought they should start by sharpening their own...peels.

But as they discussed their plan, the distant rumble of approaching footsteps grew louder. The library windows rattled, and the very air seemed to quiver with anticipation. The blue dwarves had arrived, and with them, the warrior banana's destiny was about to unfold.

Bob closed the cookbook with a thud. "Looks like we're skipping the appetizers and going straight to the main course," he said, a determined glint in his eye. "Let's go give these little pests a taste of what we're made of."

Larry nodded solemnly. "But remember, Bob. We fight not just for ourselves, but for all fruit-kind. We must be swift and cunning, like the banana in the jungle."

The two friends donned their makeshift armor and took up their weapons—Bob with his trusty spoon and Larry with a peach pit sharpened into a point. The Plumkin handed them a bag of small, hard berries. "For your journey," it said, its voice filled with hope.

They nodded in thanks and stepped out into the blinding sunlight, ready to face whatever the blue dwarves had in store for them. The fate of the fruit kingdom rested in their...fruitful hands.

 

[Jackarandajam]

The sight that greeted them was like something out of a fruit's worst nightmare. The once-peaceful town square was now a sea of bobbing blue hats, each one adorning a dwarf with a gleaming spoon in hand. The air was electric with tension as the dwarves spotted the trio and let out a collective, blood-curdling shriek. The Warrior Banana's heart raced—this was no ordinary kitchen raid.

With a mighty roar, the banana warrior unsheathed his weapon—a spork that looked as if it had been forged in the fires of Mount Doom and dipped in the stickiest of Troll Mucous. The mere sight of it made the dwarves pause, their tiny eyes widening in a mix of fear and fascination. The warrior took a firm grip on the spork's handle, feeling the power surge through his banana fingers. He knew this was going to be a fight like no other.

The dwarves charged, their spoons glinting in the light. The banana warrior's comrades, a plucky strawberry named Raspberry and a stoic apple named Sir Cider, drew their swords made of chocolate and steel. The three friends had faced many battles together, but none quite like this. The warrior's thoughts raced as he observed the dwarves' tactics—a mix of ferocity and surprising coordination.

The first clash was deafening. The banana warrior met the onslaught with the grace of a gazelle and the strength of a gorilla. His spork whipped through the air, deflecting spoon strikes and sending dwarves flying. The ground grew slick with blue paint as the enemy fell, but for every one he took down, two more took their place. The battle was fierce and unrelenting, a dance of steel, fruit, and magic that painted the square with a chaotic mural of valor and valor.

- End Prompt -

 

[Jackarandajam]

"Whoa, easy there," Bob said, his leafy hand reaching out to comfort the trembling fruit. "What are you talking about?"

Larry nodded solemnly. "But remember, Bob. We fight not just for ourselves, but for all fruit-kind. We must be swift and cunning, like the banana in the jungle."

The warrior took a firm grip on the spork's handle, feeling the power surge through his banana fingers.

The banana warrior met the onslaught with the grace of a gazelle and the strength of a gorilla.

Just some highlights

 

[Finchbearer]

Using Perchance instead of GPT

Prompt: Give me an opening for a Spanish gaslamp fantasy set in a world where particular pottery has magical properties driving the cost of olive oil to astronomical levels.

In the dusty, sun-drenched streets of Valenciana, Alejandro, a young potter with calloused hands and a heart full of dreams, sat at his wheel, shaping a simple terracotta pot. His eyes, the color of the rich soil that surrounded the city, never left the spinning clay, his focus unwavering. The rhythmic sound of his mallet against the pot's surface created a soothing melody that harmonized with the distant chatter of the marketplace.

But today, something was different. As Alejandro applied the final touches to his creation, a strange energy pulsed through his fingertips and into the pot. The clay, normally so pliable under his masterful hands, began to glow with an inner light, casting a soft amber hue across his small workshop. He stepped back, his breath hitching in his chest, and watched as the pot grew warm to the touch, its surface rippling like the surface of a calm lake disturbed by a pebble's plunge.

Alejandro had heard whispers of such occurrences before, but they were always dismissed as potter's tales spun over a cup of wine—stories of pots imbued with the essence of the earth itself, pots that could whisper secrets of fertility and growth. Yet, here it was, happening before his very eyes. The air in the room grew thick with an otherworldly scent, a mix of blooming olive groves and the crisp breeze that carried the whispers of the ancients. His heart pounded in his chest, the excitement of discovery warring with the fear of the unknown.

The door to his workshop creaked open, and Alejandro's sister, Isabella, peeked her head in, her eyes widening at the sight before her. "Alejandro," she breathed, her voice barely a whisper. "What have you done?" She stepped inside, her skirt brushing against the floor, her eyes never leaving the pot. "Is it... real?"

Thoughts: apart from its shit, there’s no alluding to the 19C gaslamp setting, nor is there any real addressing of the economical aspect to the magic.

 

[Jackarandajam]

He stepped back, his breath hitching in his chest, and watched as the pot grew warm to the touch, its surface rippling like the surface of a calm lake disturbed by a pebble's plunge.

This is deliciously bad

 

[Finchbearer]

Just some highlights

Who doesn’t love a spork? I mean, for comedic effect, it’s entertaining.

 

[Jackarandajam]

A bloodthirsty, hulking vampire battles a rabid hipster ghost intent on ripping his arms off. The battle is on a rooftop in the rain. The vampire is very vain about his hair. The ghost is obsessed with the philosophy of Jean Paul Sartre. The vampire only speaks in Christopher Walken quotes. The world is an alternate history in which a race of hockey-playing Kaiju took over the world in 5,000bce

---

The rain pummeled the rooftop, each droplet a tiny fist knocking against the concrete, creating a rhythm that mirrored the tumultuous dance of the clouds above. A solitary figure stood at the edge, his silhouette a stark contrast against the neon glow of the city. He was a vampire, not of the suave and brooding kind found in romance novels, but a hulking brute with a thirst for more than just blood. His hair, usually a majestic mane that drew the envy of mortals, now clung to his skull in soggy strands, a sight that filled him with silent rage. He had spent hours in front of the mirror, perfecting the sweep and volume, only for it to be reduced to this.

The ghostly apparition that faced him was an affront to the very essence of the night. A rabid hipster, all skin and bones, his eyes burned with a manic light as he quoted Jean Paul Sartre between gnashes of his teeth. His clothes, a tattered mess of plaid and skinny jeans, fluttered in the cold wind like the flags of a lost cause. His skeletal hands, which had once held a double shot of espresso, now reached out, twisted into claws that ached to tear the vampire's arms from their sockets. The creature's obsession with existential philosophy was as palpable as the tension in the air, a deadly cocktail of intellect and rage.

The vampire spoke, his voice a deep, guttural growl that could only be the result of Christopher Walken bellowing from the depths of the abyss. "You gotta have style," he rumbled, his fangs glinting in the sickly light of a distant street lamp. "It helps you get laid." The hipster ghost snarled, his spectral eyes narrowing. He had never encountered a creature so dismissive of the deep thoughts that had consumed his afterlife.

With a sound that was more of a roar than a scream, the vampire lunged, his muscles coiled like a spring. The ghost, driven by a frenzied need to dismember, met him halfway. The air crackled with their malice, the droplets of rain hissing as they were vaporized by the heat of their unearthly forms. The battle had begun, a clash of two beings who were once the top of their respective food chains, now reduced to a grisly duel on a rooftop in a world ruled by the whims of giant, hockey-playing Kaiju. The vampire's eyes never left the ghost's, a silent promise that one of them would not be leaving this rooftop under their own power.

(unfortunately the prompt reset. It actually seems like the more specific the prompt, the better the AI does. Here's some more after it reset.)
"You ever dance with the devil in the pale moonlight?" the vampire quipped, his fangs glinting in the neon glow of the city.

The rain-slicked rooftop was a battleground of shadows and echoes, the pitter-patter of rain playing a relentless drumbeat beneath the grinding clash of steel on spectral bone. The hulking vampire, known only as the Count, swung his blade with a grace that belied his monstrous form. His adversary, the rabid hipster ghost, known as the Existentialist, cackled with a maddening glee, his eyes burning with the feverish intensity of a thousand forgotten ideologies.

The Count's hair, a masterpiece of gelled perfection, remained untouched by the rain, a stark contrast to the chaos of their fight. His leather trench coat billowed dramatically as he moved, the sound of water droplets hitting the pavement below like a symphony of rejection to the soggy world of the living. The Existentialist, on the other hand, was a whirlwind of spectral energy, his vintage glasses askew and his skin paler than the moon itself, which peeked through the clouds like a shy child watching a playground fight.

"I've seen things you people wouldn't believe," the Count said, parrying a furious swing of the Existentialist's spectral skateboard. His voice was a deep, velvety purr, each word a piece of himself torn from the fabric of reality and wielded like a weapon. "Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion."

The Existentialist paused, his transparent form wavering in the rain. "Is this... is this what it's all about?" he howled into the night, his arms flailing as he quoted Jean Paul Sartre. "Man is condemned to be free?"

The Count smirked, his eyes narrowing into slits. "Yeah, I've seen some weird stuff, too," he said, delivering a punt that sent the ghost spiraling into the air. "But nothing quite like a ghost who thinks he's too cool for the afterlife."

As the battle raged on, the rooftop became a canvas of shadow puppets, their silhouettes dancing across the wet tiles. The Kaiju, towering giants of the cityscape, took no notice of the battle unfolding high above, their attention fixed on the distant rumble of the hockey arena where their kind had taken to the sport with a fervor that would make even the most die-hard fan blush.

The Existentialist, driven by his obsession with meaning in a world that had moved on without him, threw himself into the fight with a renewed vigor. "Man is nothing else but what he makes of himself," he screamed, his fists crackling with spectral power.

The Count, ever unflappable, raised an eyebrow. "More nonsense," he murmured. "You're gonna need a bigger boat." He lunged, his blade a silver streak through the rain, aiming for the ghost's incorporeal form.

The air crackled with unseen energy as the two foes clashed again, the Count's blade slicing through the Existentialist's spectral appendage with a sound like tearing silk. The ghost screamed, his form dissipating into a cloud of mist and rage.

The Count, his eyes gleaming with victory, sheathed his weapon with a flourish. "Alright, let's get to the part where you realize you're dead and I'm not gonna be your punching bag," he said, striding through the puddles with the confidence of a man who had seen civilizations rise and fall and had never once had a bad hair day.

The Existentialist's laughter followed him, a chilling echo in the damp air. "You think this is over?" he cackled, his arm slowly reforming. "I'll be back, and next time, I'll bring Kierkegaard!"

With that, the ghost disappeared into the mist, leaving the Count alone on the rooftop, his hair still perfectly in place despite the tumultuous battle. He pulled out a pocket comb and ran it through his hair one more time, then vanished into the night, the sound of his leather boots fading into the rhythmic pulse of the city that never sleeps.

 

[Jackarandajam]

Alright, alright, enough playin around. ***cracks knuckles