Turning this into my overall SWC collab thread!




Prompt: Write a story that doesn't have a happy ending
Words: 220

A cloaked figure stood at the edge of a ruined town, watching the glowing embers. The smoke filled the air with a cloying scent, a horrible dusky sweetness.
The man looked up as soldiers tramped towards him, dragging a small girl. She was perhaps ten or eleven, with wild black hair and startling pale eyes. She was bound and gagged with a few makeshift ropes and rags.
The man strode forward, yanking the girl’s chin up.
“So,” he said, his tone cold as ice.
The girl’s eyes sparkled maliciously.
He struck her, leaving a red print on her ash-smeared cheek.
“Cursed Weaver,” he snarled. “That thing doesn’t deserve to even exist. Take her away.”
The Weaver turned to look back at him as the soldiers shoved her in another direction.
Their eyes met, fire and ice, neither flinching.
Then the girl turned her attention away, and smiled beneath her gag.
Oh, he would be an easy one.
All that anger, all that rage, looking for a way to escape.
She could provide that escape, and manipulate him like soft dough.
This was going to be much more satisfying than she had thought, even more fun than setting fire to the village.
Which, it must be admitted, was an accident, but all the same.
She was a Weaver.
She was ready.

SWC fanfiction writing comp entry–1051 words total, my side of the story
note to wild: i'm planning on interspersing these with yours, it'll start with the first rp if that's all right with you and then maybe transition to my first (and only sobbing) main storyline contribution, and then we can figure it out from there lol i want to do it in a somewhat chronological order so it makes sense but other than that i don't really care what goes where

“……..” is all Chuey says. “Wild you jinxed us-”
“YES!” Chuey screams, high-fiving Wild. “Thanks, Wild! This is awesome!” She ducks a flaming piece of rubble, a beatific smile on her face.
++++
“TRAITOR,” Chuey screams, pointing at Wild. She has an uncanny habit of fluctuating between a Balrog supporter and a Balrog non-supporter.
“THEY'RE ONE AND THE SAME!”
“It's him, all right,” Chuey says grimly. “And he's going to destroy everything. Gurtle has turned evil.”
++++
Chuey knew what she had to do. There had to be a way to stop this monster, somehow! She’d always distrusted Gurtle anyway. Those beady eyes…that cute but malicious grin…No, no, she’d seen this coming, but they hadn’t listened. They hadn’t seen the absolute promise of destruction in his sweet ways. He’d eaten one too many links, and grown strong on them. Now it was time to end it all, for the sake of the campers. She paused only to set fire to the Fairy Tales cabin, then began gathering all the procrastination potatoes she could find and lobbing them at Balrog-Gurtle. It didn’t work so well. He was just eating them! His digestion was strong after devouring so many links. Growling in frustration, Chuey ran over to the hosts, shaking them. “You’ve got to help! You’ve got to!” But they were unresponsive, eyes glazed over, and her heart rose to her throat. They were truly on their own here. Swallowing, she turned to face the monster that was trashing camp, wondering what on earth she could do. Campers were everywhere, running and screaming in confusion as he roared again. Chuey fought to keep the panic down, trying to think things out logically. First things first, she had to get the campers organized. It wouldn’t do them any good to run around screaming like headless chickens. But with more noise, cause, you know, headless chickens couldn’t exactly scream. Because they had no head. And now she was stalling. Shaking herself, she beelined towards the nearest camper and grabbed their arm, pulling them to safety as Gurtle hurled a giant piece of what used to be the Main Cabin at them. “Keep safe!” Chuey shouted to everyone within hearing range, then jogged off to see if she could find any of her friends. Surely they would know what to do! After all, they were all experienced, way more than she was, and they’d know how to manage this crisis. She dove through burning rubble, showers of mangoes–stopping to shove one in her pocket–okay, maybe two–and then stopped, realizing that in this chaos, it was going to be impossible to find anyone, let alone someone she knew. All the faces were blurs as they streaked by, and by now, most people had run for cover and were cowering in their cabins. A few brave souls were gathering weapons, but not many. Chuey lifted her chin. Fine, then. She’d join the few who were ready to fight. She picked up a knife and with the last of her adrenaline-fueled energy ran over. “What can I do to help?” she panted.
++++
Chuey was exhausted. It had been a long, tiring day of fighting–not only against the Balrog, but against cabins who had taken advantage of the chaos to set enemy cabins on fire. Betrayals, traitors, weary cabin mates…she was facing a disaster. Sighing, Chuey sat down to put out the fire, even though she was sick of the smell of smoke by this point. After all, if she didn't do it, who would? Her cabin was in shambles–not that that was unique to Fan-fi. Everyone was tired, and the Balrog was still rampaging, albeit with less energy. Campers had been fighting against it all day, and it was finally beginning to weaken. But it wasn't enough. They needed more. Chuey took a quick break, gazing sadly at the rubble lying around camp. Good grief, when she'd signed up for this, she'd been anticipating lighthearted mangoes and arson, not this. This…this was total destruction. And it was all Gurtle's fault. Growling to herself over the injustice of it–She'd seen Gurtle's true nature, but had anyone listened to her? No! She was like…like a rebel. The word settled around her, and slowly she nodded. Yeah. Chuey was a rebel. An outcast. Not in matters of friendship–she had lots of friends. But she stood against the Scratch writing camp mascot while everyone was still defending him–“Oh, he's just eating a couple of links, he's just hungry, look at his cute, beady eyes.” She'd seen this coming. No, no. Rebel was all wrong. She was a herald. One who could see what lay beyond. Yeah, she liked that better. The herald of doom. Doom to all enemies, doom to traitors, and most especially doom to Gurtle. A smile slashed across her face. Balrog-Gurtle didn't stand a chance. Because Chuey had seen him, and Chuey knew what was going to happen, and unable to stop it in time, Chuey was going to make it right and save them all. She left her cabin behind and struck out into the rubble, working to clear it away from the remains of the Main Cabin. She'd hidden something inside, something she'd never thought she'd have to use. But times were desperate, and the fires weren't going out. She walked quickly along the ruined, scorched halls until she reached a tiny, ash-covered, circular door. Blowing the dust and ash away, she reaching for the gleaming golden knob and gently opened it. Beyond lay intense brilliance, suggesting full daylight wherever the door led to, and as she blinked away the sudden light she could dimly see rolling green hills and mounds, into which were set circular doors much like this one. Her smile widened as she wriggled through. If she couldn't find enough help in this world…well, she'd just have to seek it from another one.
She was a rebel. A herald. And now a quester.
And she'd bring Balrog-Gurtle down if it killed her.
(Although she really, really, really hoped it wouldn't)
++++
One last farewell…
Campers cheered, celebrating Gurtle's return to normal. The tyrants began to awaken.
And one figure slipped away, lips drawn to a thin line.
Let them celebrate.
Let them cheer.
But the herald of doom would be back…

Okay I'm just copying all this here for my own sake so I don't have to have all the tabs open afjkakjfk

Seven sessions of Scratch Writing Camp. It was Wild’s seventh time here. Seven was a lucky number, or so they’d been told. They had seen cabins rise and fall, buildings get built and destroyed and rebuilt again within a single night. Chaos was a constant.
And Wild liked it that way.
This seventh session of theirs had opened so promisingly. A turtle mascot! Wild loved turtles! Surely, this was an omen of good things to come. On the first day, Wild concluded their introduction with an assurance that with Gurtle blessing their writing endeavors, they were certain to achieve success.
But now, surveying the smoldering ruins of SWC, Wild could no longer hold onto that naive hope. As they let go of their last shred of faith in Gurtle, something inside of their mind hardened, darkened.
Where had it all gone so wrong? The day before Cabin Wars, no one expected anything awry. Gurtle had eaten a few links before, sure, but it was all done in jest. He always gave them back in the end, and everyone had a good laugh. Then Sun teased that Cabin Wars would be a little different.
“Now I’m scared- What’s different?” Chuey had worried.
“I’m a little worried, too,” Wild had replied, but shrugged it off. “Hey, best case scenario, they combine Cabin Wars with Roleplay Day! Worst case scenario, someone burns my house down with mangoes,” they joke.
And then both those things came true.
The description was eaten up, leaving words missing. However, “it’s a madlib!” people commented in third-person. The third-person roleplaying was called a curse. “No way! It’s the best for writing words!” several exclaimed. Wars broke out in typical mango-y fashion, and Gurtle even joined in, growing to enormous size and smashing into the Main Cabin. “We can write so much about this!”
Wild had appeared on the scene a little late and were dazed by what they saw. “Oh my flippin’ mango,” they choked out. “That comment I made yesterday… I was… right?!”
“You jinxed us all,” Chuey gave a small laugh.
Gradually, Wild came to a realization. “No… Gurtle heard what I said and made it come true! He is the giver of blessings!”
Chuey and Wild high-fived. But Wild failed to notice the doubt in Chuey’s eyes. Wild rushed off to tell everyone of Gurtle’s greatness.
Not everyone saw it the same way. Seven chased after Gurtle, pleading with him to stop his rampage. “What are you doing?” Wild interfered, a manic glint in their eye. “Gurtle is helping us! More words can be written about disorder than serenity!”
Seven shook their head, their hair singed and barely-contained hysteria evident in their expression. “Can’t you see what hes doing to me? To us?” They bit into a mango in an attempt to ease their stress.
But then they crumpled to the ground. “The mangoes- poisoned- the Balrog poisoned them-” they wheezed before falling unconscious.
Wild quickly crouched by their side. “The Balrog?” they questioned, concern flashing across their face. There was no response.
Climbing to the top of their cabin’s roof, Wild saw the Balrog in the distance, a monstrosity of shadow and flame. “It could be a threat to Gurtle!” Wild gasped, a powerful resolve to protect their beloved turtle deity overcoming them.
Suddenly, a voice from behind made them swivel around. “Traitor!” Chuey growled.
“Wh-what?” Wild responded, surprised by the change in their friend. Wild started to argue in defense of Gurtle, but Chuey cut them off.
“The Balrog and Gurtle- They’re one and the same!”
Wild paused, unable to process this information. Finally, they choke out a denial. “No! You’re lying! Gurtle would never turn evil. He always returns the links he eats. He doesn’t want to destroy SWC permanently…”
However, Wild couldn’t lie to themselves for long. They noticed how the Balrog looked an awful lot like Gurtle, but with a pirate hat and a lot more flaming destruction. The old, sweet, cute Gurtle was nowhere to be found. The monster was Gurtle, indeed.
This betrayal shattered Wild down to their core. They watched as other campers rushed off to fight the beast, but Wild just slumped down beside a charred wall, one of the few structures still standing. Penny the flying turtle stopped by, though Wild barely heard what she said. A strange figure from Hi-Fi visited for a chat on his way to fight the Balrog-Gurtle, and as he left, Wild stood up.
But not to follow him.
Instead, they simply analyzed all the broken remains of the cabins that once stood proudly. Now, looking over it all, they can’t believe they ever trusted Gurtle, and furthermore, believed their actions actually affected the affairs of deities.
“What’s the point of trying?” Wild mutters. “I have no power here…”

The best of all possible worlds. The giver of blessings. None of that meant anything anymore.
Wild was done trying to justify what was beyond them. They were so small, so insignificant, in the grand scheme of things. Their actions didn’t change much. They were no prophet. It was not up to them to influence the decisions of others.
Scratch Writing Camp would always change, face betrayal and destruction, then spring right back, all the better for it. It was because of this perpetual change that its core values were able to persist throughout the years.
“So yeah, maybe it’s pointless to even try to shape the universe the way I want it,” Wild announced to the ravaged landscape. “But you know what? Sitting here and grieving about it is SO boring. If there’s one thing I CAN do, it’s write an interesting story.”
That was what it had all been about, all along, wasn’t it? Seven sessions, and each time, Wild had chosen to be there for a reason. To be with fellow writers, to compete and have fun, to learn and improve, but above all, to make their own story an interesting one. So, though it may not have mattered in the end whether they took action or did nothing, Wild chose the more interesting one.
“Chuey!” Wild called, striding up to her confidently, no longer walking for Gurtle’s sake, but for their own.
Chuey paused in front of a circular door, looking exhausted but determined. She squinted suspiciously at Wild. After all, they hadn’t parted on great terms the last time they’d seen each other.
“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you at first,” Wild apologizes, nodding their head in concession. “I’ve had a lot of tough realizations all at once this Cabin Wars.”
Chuey looks surprised, but smiles. “You may have predicted the roleplay curse, but it turns out I was the herald all along. Herald of doom- but this time, it will be doom to Gurtle.”
Wild gives a half-smile. Maybe this time, it was Chuey’s turn to have a character arc about delusions of grandeur. Far be it from Wild to interfere. Raising their weary arms, they high-five once more.
“Good luck on your quest,” Wild replies, glancing at the door.
“See you when it’s over,” Chuey responds softly, leaving the unspoken ‘if we survive’ hanging in the air for a brief, bittersweet moment.
Wild continues on their way, approaching the thick of the battle. Several campers had fallen- poisoned mangoes, flaming attacks from Balrog-Gurtle, and pure exhaustion had taken their toll. But Wild was proud to see that even more continued to fight. No matter how dire things became, SWCers didn’t give up. In fact, they tried even harder under pressure.
That familiar thrill ran through Wild’s blood, too. It was the same adrenaline rush they got when speedrunning a weekly or submitting a daily at the last minute. It was only when faced with a great danger, whether they be a deadline or a flaming monster, that Wild could achieve great accomplishments and feel more alive than ever.
Wild spies Poppy in the center of it all, the other SWC mascots surrounding her, larger than life. But for all their magnificence, Wild could only focus on Poppy silhouetted against the light of the fires, frying pan in hand. Her glorious words seemed to sparkle all around, invisible but resonating in every camper’s heart just the same. Words were what brought them together.
Wild picked up a frying pan off the ground, laughing slightly at the absurdity of it. It represented the insanity of their creativity, the thing that brought them to this camp in the first place, and now, the thing that just might save them. Gripping the frying pan as if it belonged there in their hand, Wild slipped into the mass of campers, who were already beginning to celebrate, having witnessed the coming of the other mascots.
Energy flowed through the atmosphere, the thoughts and emotions and words of so many writers who had been through so much. Writers who fought to defend their home, not the buildings, for those changed every session, but the elusive sense of belonging that came from simply being together with other amazing, chaotic people. It didn’t matter that everything had been destroyed. Stories could not be erased so easily. Wild drank in the elated sensation.
They belonged here. They didn’t need Gurtle to bless their writing. Everything Wild needed to write to their fullest could be found in the other campers, and within themselves. Raising their frying pan high, they faced the looming end of Cabin Wars. Would it be over now? It didn’t matter. They would keep going regardless. “For SWC!” they called.

this is 3132 words we gotta do some trimming-

“OH MY FLIPPIN' MANGO,” Wild screams, bursting with barely-contained excitement. "WHEN I SAID THE BEST CASE SCENARIO WAS THAT THEY'D COMBINE CABIN WARS WITH ROLEPLAY DAY, I WAS NOT EXPECTING TO BE RIGHT—-“ They sink to the floor, sobbing and laughing simultaneously. ”I a-actually predicted the future… in a joking comment… I- I can't even–“
”……..“ is all Chuey says. ”Wild you jinxed us-“
Wild shakes their head slowly, facing the ground. ”No…“ they respond slowly, looking up to make eye contact with Chuey. A maniacal grin spreads across their face. ”No, not at all… I understand now! Do you see?! Gurtle heard my idea and made it come true! He granted my wish!“ Wild rises back to their feet, swaying slightly. ”I thought I was joking, but Gurtle saw the truth of it! His turtlenian genius has graced us all! He is the giver of blessings!“ Wild laughs ecstatically.
”YES!“ Chuey screams, high-fiving Wild. ”Thanks, Wild! This is awesome!“ She ducks a flaming piece of rubble, a beatific smile on her face.
Returning the high-five, Wild grins even wider. ”This is the best of all possible worlds…" They think back to how they had used that line in last week's weekly, in the part about SWC lore. Wild had written about the SWC mascots, and how they were treated like deities. Had they made that come true, as well? Perhaps I have more power than I ever realized… Wild thinks, the thought delighting them immensely.
a few minutes later…
Wild climbs atop the roof of their cabin, surveying the wreckage and panic all around. They grin. It was all part of Gurtle's master plan! Wild resolved themselves to be Gurtle's fauthful follower, do whatever the mighty turtle with the pirate hat might require of them. But then something catches Wild's eye. Was that…the BaIrog ?? That creature is a threat to Gurtle! Wild thinks with alarm. I must do something to protect him…
“TRAITOR,” Chuey screams, pointing at Wild. She has an uncanny habit of fluctuating between a Balrog supporter and a Balrog non-supporter.
Wild growls, swiveling to face Chuey. “The Balrog is a threat to the very turtle that graced us with this wondrous roleplay! Gurtle may eat our links, but he always returns them when he is done! The Balrog- why, it will wipe us out for good!” Wild is surprised by the spark of fear that runs down their spine at the sound of their own words. They are not used to feeling afraid.
“THEY'RE ONE AND THE SAME!”
“Wh-what?” At first, Wild is unable to process what Chuey's words mean. But then the meaning sinks in. “You're saying that- that THING-” Wild gestures at the flaming monstrosity that is the Balrog- “is our beloved GURTLE? No! No, I refuse to believe it…” However, a seed of doubt plants itself in Wild's mind. It can't be true, they think, in denial. …Where is Gurtle, anyway?
“It's him, all right,” Chuey says grimly. “And he's going to destroy everything. Gurtle has turned evil.”
Wild hisses. “No- that- that cannot be right. You're lying to me!” They grit their teeth, scanning everywhere for the curve of Gurtle's graceful shell. “He can't be evil. He is the giver of blessings…” Wild had been so sure of those words when they spoke them only an hour ago. Why did the sentence suddenly seem to carry a different meaning?
++++
Chuey knew what she had to do. There had to be a way to stop this monster, somehow! She’d always distrusted Gurtle anyway. Those beady eyes…that cute but malicious grin…No, no, she’d seen this coming, but they hadn’t listened. They hadn’t seen the absolute promise of destruction in his sweet ways. He’d eaten one too many links, and grown strong on them. Now it was time to end it all, for the sake of the campers. She paused only to set fire to the Fairy Tales cabin, then began gathering all the procrastination potatoes she could find and lobbing them at Balrog-Gurtle. It didn’t work so well. He was just eating them! His digestion was strong after devouring so many links. Growling in frustration, Chuey ran over to the hosts, shaking them. “You’ve got to help! You’ve got to!” But they were unresponsive, eyes glazed over, and her heart rose to her throat. They were truly on their own here. Swallowing, she turned to face the monster that was trashing camp, wondering what on earth she could do. Campers were everywhere, running and screaming in confusion as he roared again. Chuey fought to keep the panic down, trying to think things out logically. First things first, she had to get the campers organized. It wouldn’t do them any good to run around screaming like headless chickens. But with more noise, cause, you know, headless chickens couldn’t exactly scream. Because they had no head. And now she was stalling. Shaking herself, she beelined towards the nearest camper and grabbed their arm, pulling them to safety as Gurtle hurled a giant piece of what used to be the Main Cabin at them. “Keep safe!” Chuey shouted to everyone within hearing range, then jogged off to see if she could find any of her friends. Surely they would know what to do! After all, they were all experienced, way more than she was, and they’d know how to manage this crisis. She dove through burning rubble, showers of mangoes–stopping to shove one in her pocket–okay, maybe two–and then stopped, realizing that in this chaos, it was going to be impossible to find anyone, let alone someone she knew. All the faces were blurs as they streaked by, and by now, most people had run for cover and were cowering in their cabins. A few brave souls were gathering weapons, but not many. Chuey lifted her chin. Fine, then. She’d join the few who were ready to fight. She picked up a knife and with the last of her adrenaline-fueled energy ran over. “What can I do to help?” she panted.
++++
Seven sessions of Scratch Writing Camp. It was Wild’s seventh time here. Seven was a lucky number, or so they’d been told. They had seen cabins rise and fall, buildings get built and destroyed and rebuilt again within a single night. Chaos was a constant.
And Wild liked it that way.
This seventh session of theirs had opened so promisingly. A turtle mascot! Wild loved turtles! Surely, this was an omen of good things to come. On the first day, Wild concluded their introduction with an assurance that with Gurtle blessing their writing endeavors, they were certain to achieve success.
But now, surveying the smoldering ruins of SWC, Wild could no longer hold onto that naive hope. As they let go of their last shred of faith in Gurtle, something inside of their mind hardened, darkened.
Where had it all gone so wrong? The day before Cabin Wars, no one expected anything awry. Gurtle had eaten a few links before, sure, but it was all done in jest. He always gave them back in the end, and everyone had a good laugh. Then Sun teased that Cabin Wars would be a little different.
“Now I’m scared- What’s different?” Chuey had worried.
“I’m a little worried, too,” Wild had replied, but shrugged it off. “Hey, best case scenario, they combine Cabin Wars with Roleplay Day! Worst case scenario, someone burns my house down with mangoes,” they joke.
And then both those things came true.
The description was eaten up, leaving words missing. However, “it’s a madlib!” people commented in third-person. The third-person roleplaying was called a curse. “No way! It’s the best for writing words!” several exclaimed. Wars broke out in typical mango-y fashion, and Gurtle even joined in, growing to enormous size and smashing into the Main Cabin. “We can write so much about this!”
Wild had appeared on the scene a little late and were dazed by what they saw. “Oh my flippin’ mango,” they choked out. “That comment I made yesterday… I was… right?!”
“You jinxed us all,” Chuey gave a small laugh.
Gradually, Wild came to a realization. “No… Gurtle heard what I said and made it come true! He is the giver of blessings!”
Chuey and Wild high-fived. But Wild failed to notice the doubt in Chuey’s eyes. Wild rushed off to tell everyone of Gurtle’s greatness.
Not everyone saw it the same way. Seven chased after Gurtle, pleading with him to stop his rampage. “What are you doing?” Wild interfered, a manic glint in their eye. “Gurtle is helping us! More words can be written about disorder than serenity!”
Seven shook their head, their hair singed and barely-contained hysteria evident in their expression. “Can’t you see what hes doing to me? To us?” They bit into a mango in an attempt to ease their stress.
But then they crumpled to the ground. “The mangoes- poisoned- the Balrog poisoned them-” they wheezed before falling unconscious.
Wild quickly crouched by their side. “The Balrog?” they questioned, concern flashing across their face. There was no response.
Climbing to the top of their cabin’s roof, Wild saw the Balrog in the distance, a monstrosity of shadow and flame. “It could be a threat to Gurtle!” Wild gasped, a powerful resolve to protect their beloved turtle deity overcoming them.
Suddenly, a voice from behind made them swivel around. “Traitor!” Chuey growled.
“Wh-what?” Wild responded, surprised by the change in their friend. Wild started to argue in defense of Gurtle, but Chuey cut them off.
“The Balrog and Gurtle- They’re one and the same!”
Wild paused, unable to process this information. Finally, they choke out a denial. “No! You’re lying! Gurtle would never turn evil. He always returns the links he eats. He doesn’t want to destroy SWC permanently…”
However, Wild couldn’t lie to themselves for long. They noticed how the Balrog looked an awful lot like Gurtle, but with a pirate hat and a lot more flaming destruction. The old, sweet, cute Gurtle was nowhere to be found. The monster was Gurtle, indeed.
This betrayal shattered Wild down to their core. They watched as other campers rushed off to fight the beast, but Wild just slumped down beside a charred wall, one of the few structures still standing. Penny the flying turtle stopped by, though Wild barely heard what she said. A strange figure from Hi-Fi visited for a chat on his way to fight the Balrog-Gurtle, and as he left, Wild stood up.
But not to follow him.
Instead, they simply analyzed all the broken remains of the cabins that once stood proudly. Now, looking over it all, they can’t believe they ever trusted Gurtle, and furthermore, believed their actions actually affected the affairs of deities.
“What’s the point of trying?” Wild mutters. “I have no power here…”
++++
Chuey was exhausted. It had been a long, tiring day of fighting–not only against the Balrog, but against cabins who had taken advantage of the chaos to set enemy cabins on fire. Betrayals, traitors, weary cabin mates…she was facing a disaster. Sighing, Chuey sat down to put out the fire, even though she was sick of the smell of smoke by this point. After all, if she didn't do it, who would? Her cabin was in shambles–not that that was unique to Fan-fi. Everyone was tired, and the Balrog was still rampaging, albeit with less energy. Campers had been fighting against it all day, and it was finally beginning to weaken. But it wasn't enough. They needed more. Chuey took a quick break, gazing sadly at the rubble lying around camp. Good grief, when she'd signed up for this, she'd been anticipating lighthearted mangoes and arson, not this. This…this was total destruction. And it was all Gurtle's fault. Growling to herself over the injustice of it–She'd seen Gurtle's true nature, but had anyone listened to her? No! She was like…like a rebel. The word settled around her, and slowly she nodded. Yeah. Chuey was a rebel. An outcast. Not in matters of friendship–she had lots of friends. But she stood against the Scratch writing camp mascot while everyone was still defending him–“Oh, he's just eating a couple of links, he's just hungry, look at his cute, beady eyes.” She'd seen this coming. No, no. Rebel was all wrong. She was a herald. One who could see what lay beyond. Yeah, she liked that better. The herald of doom. Doom to all enemies, doom to traitors, and most especially doom to Gurtle. A smile slashed across her face. Balrog-Gurtle didn't stand a chance. Because Chuey had seen him, and Chuey knew what was going to happen, and unable to stop it in time, Chuey was going to make it right and save them all. She left her cabin behind and struck out into the rubble, working to clear it away from the remains of the Main Cabin. She'd hidden something inside, something she'd never thought she'd have to use. But times were desperate, and the fires weren't going out. She walked quickly along the ruined, scorched halls until she reached a tiny, ash-covered, circular door. Blowing the dust and ash away, she reaching for the gleaming golden knob and gently opened it. Beyond lay intense brilliance, suggesting full daylight wherever the door led to, and as she blinked away the sudden light she could dimly see rolling green hills and mounds, into which were set circular doors much like this one. Her smile widened as she wriggled through. If she couldn't find enough help in this world…well, she'd just have to seek it from another one.
She was a rebel. A herald. And now a quester.
And she'd bring Balrog-Gurtle down if it killed her.
(Although she really, really, really hoped it wouldn't)
++++
The best of all possible worlds. The giver of blessings. None of that meant anything anymore.
Wild was done trying to justify what was beyond them. They were so small, so insignificant, in the grand scheme of things. Their actions didn’t change much. They were no prophet. It was not up to them to influence the decisions of others.
Scratch Writing Camp would always change, face betrayal and destruction, then spring right back, all the better for it. It was because of this perpetual change that its core values were able to persist throughout the years.
“So yeah, maybe it’s pointless to even try to shape the universe the way I want it,” Wild announced to the ravaged landscape. “But you know what? Sitting here and grieving about it is SO boring. If there’s one thing I CAN do, it’s write an interesting story.”
That was what it had all been about, all along, wasn’t it? Seven sessions, and each time, Wild had chosen to be there for a reason. To be with fellow writers, to compete and have fun, to learn and improve, but above all, to make their own story an interesting one. So, though it may not have mattered in the end whether they took action or did nothing, Wild chose the more interesting one.
“Chuey!” Wild called, striding up to her confidently, no longer walking for Gurtle’s sake, but for their own.
Chuey paused in front of a circular door, looking exhausted but determined. She squinted suspiciously at Wild. After all, they hadn’t parted on great terms the last time they’d seen each other.
“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you at first,” Wild apologizes, nodding their head in concession. “I’ve had a lot of tough realizations all at once this Cabin Wars.”
Chuey looks surprised, but smiles. “You may have predicted the roleplay curse, but it turns out I was the herald all along. Herald of doom- but this time, it will be doom to Gurtle.”
Wild gives a half-smile. Maybe this time, it was Chuey’s turn to have a character arc about delusions of grandeur. Far be it from Wild to interfere. Raising their weary arms, they high-five once more.
“Good luck on your quest,” Wild replies, glancing at the door.
“See you when it’s over,” Chuey responds softly, leaving the unspoken ‘if we survive’ hanging in the air for a brief, bittersweet moment.
Wild continues on their way, approaching the thick of the battle. Several campers had fallen- poisoned mangoes, flaming attacks from Balrog-Gurtle, and pure exhaustion had taken their toll. But Wild was proud to see that even more continued to fight. No matter how dire things became, SWCers didn’t give up. In fact, they tried even harder under pressure.
That familiar thrill ran through Wild’s blood, too. It was the same adrenaline rush they got when speedrunning a weekly or submitting a daily at the last minute. It was only when faced with a great danger, whether they be a deadline or a flaming monster, that Wild could achieve great accomplishments and feel more alive than ever.
Wild spies Poppy in the center of it all, the other SWC mascots surrounding her, larger than life. But for all their magnificence, Wild could only focus on Poppy silhouetted against the light of the fires, frying pan in hand. Her glorious words seemed to sparkle all around, invisible but resonating in every camper’s heart just the same. Words were what brought them together.
Wild picked up a frying pan off the ground, laughing slightly at the absurdity of it. It represented the insanity of their creativity, the thing that brought them to this camp in the first place, and now, the thing that just might save them. Gripping the frying pan as if it belonged there in their hand, Wild slipped into the mass of campers, who were already beginning to celebrate, having witnessed the coming of the other mascots.
Energy flowed through the atmosphere, the thoughts and emotions and words of so many writers who had been through so much. Writers who fought to defend their home, not the buildings, for those changed every session, but the elusive sense of belonging that came from simply being together with other amazing, chaotic people. It didn’t matter that everything had been destroyed. Stories could not be erased so easily. Wild drank in the elated sensation.
They belonged here. They didn’t need Gurtle to bless their writing. Everything Wild needed to write to their fullest could be found in the other campers, and within themselves. Raising their frying pan high, they faced the looming end of Cabin Wars. Would it be over now? It didn’t matter. They would keep going regardless. “For SWC!” they called.
and at the end of all things…
One last farewell…
Campers cheered, celebrating Gurtle's return to normal. The tyrants began to awaken.
And one figure slipped away, lips drawn to a thin line.
Let them celebrate.
Let them cheer.
But the herald of doom would be back…

now we're down to 2846 words

Wild climbs atop the roof of their cabin, surveying the wreckage and panic all around. They grin. It was all part of Gurtle's master plan! Wild resolved themselves to be Gurtle's fauthful follower, do whatever the mighty turtle with the pirate hat might require of them. But then something catches Wild's eye. Was that…the BaIrog ?? That creature is a threat to Gurtle! Wild thinks with alarm. I must do something to protect him…
“TRAITOR,” Chuey screams, pointing at Wild. She has an uncanny habit of fluctuating between a Balrog supporter and a Balrog non-supporter.
Wild growls, swiveling to face Chuey. “The Balrog is a threat to the very turtle that graced us with this wondrous roleplay! Gurtle may eat our links, but he always returns them when he is done! The Balrog- why, it will wipe us out for good!” Wild is surprised by the spark of fear that runs down their spine at the sound of their own words. They are not used to feeling afraid.
“THEY'RE ONE AND THE SAME!”
“Wh-what?” At first, Wild is unable to process what Chuey's words mean. But then the meaning sinks in. “You're saying that- that THING-” Wild gestures at the flaming monstrosity that is the Balrog- “is our beloved GURTLE? No! No, I refuse to believe it…” However, a seed of doubt plants itself in Wild's mind. It can't be true, they think, in denial. …Where is Gurtle, anyway?
“It's him, all right,” Chuey says grimly. “And he's going to destroy everything. Gurtle has turned evil.”
Wild hisses. “No- that- that cannot be right. You're lying to me!” They grit their teeth, scanning everywhere for the curve of Gurtle's graceful shell. “He can't be evil. He is the giver of blessings…” Wild had been so sure of those words when they spoke them only an hour ago. Why did the sentence suddenly seem to carry a different meaning?
++++
Chuey knew what she had to do. There had to be a way to stop this monster, somehow! She’d always distrusted Gurtle anyway. Those beady eyes…that cute but malicious grin…No, no, she’d seen this coming, but they hadn’t listened. They hadn’t seen the absolute promise of destruction in his sweet ways. He’d eaten one too many links, and grown strong on them. Now it was time to end it all, for the sake of the campers. She paused only to set fire to the Fairy Tales cabin, then began gathering all the procrastination potatoes she could find and lobbing them at Balrog-Gurtle. It didn’t work so well. He was just eating them! His digestion was strong after devouring so many links. Growling in frustration, Chuey ran over to the hosts, shaking them. “You’ve got to help! You’ve got to!” But they were unresponsive, eyes glazed over, and her heart rose to her throat. They were truly on their own here. Swallowing, she turned to face the monster that was trashing camp, wondering what on earth she could do. Campers were everywhere, running and screaming in confusion as he roared again. Chuey fought to keep the panic down, trying to think things out logically. First things first, she had to get the campers organized. It wouldn’t do them any good to run around screaming like headless chickens. But with more noise, cause, you know, headless chickens couldn’t exactly scream. Because they had no head. And now she was stalling. Shaking herself, she beelined towards the nearest camper and grabbed their arm, pulling them to safety as Gurtle hurled a giant piece of what used to be the Main Cabin at them. “Keep safe!” Chuey shouted to everyone within hearing range, then jogged off to see if she could find any of her friends. Surely they would know what to do! After all, they were all experienced, way more than she was, and they’d know how to manage this crisis. She dove through burning rubble, showers of mangoes–stopping to shove one in her pocket–okay, maybe two–and then stopped, realizing that in this chaos, it was going to be impossible to find anyone, let alone someone she knew. All the faces were blurs as they streaked by, and by now, most people had run for cover and were cowering in their cabins. A few brave souls were gathering weapons, but not many. Chuey lifted her chin. Fine, then. She’d join the few who were ready to fight. She picked up a knife and with the last of her adrenaline-fueled energy ran over. “What can I do to help?” she panted.
++++
Seven sessions of Scratch Writing Camp. It was Wild’s seventh time here. Seven was a lucky number, or so they’d been told. They had seen cabins rise and fall, buildings get built and destroyed and rebuilt again within a single night. Chaos was a constant.
And Wild liked it that way.
This seventh session of theirs had opened so promisingly. A turtle mascot! Wild loved turtles! Surely, this was an omen of good things to come. On the first day, Wild concluded their introduction with an assurance that with Gurtle blessing their writing endeavors, they were certain to achieve success.
But now, surveying the smoldering ruins of SWC, Wild could no longer hold onto that naive hope. As they let go of their last shred of faith in Gurtle, something inside of their mind hardened, darkened.
Where had it all gone so wrong? The day before Cabin Wars, no one expected anything awry. Gurtle had eaten a few links before, sure, but it was all done in jest. He always gave them back in the end, and everyone had a good laugh. Then Sun teased that Cabin Wars would be a little different.
“Now I’m scared- What’s different?” Chuey had worried.
“I’m a little worried, too,” Wild had replied, but shrugged it off. “Hey, best case scenario, they combine Cabin Wars with Roleplay Day! Worst case scenario, someone burns my house down with mangoes,” they joke.
And then both those things came true.
The description was eaten up, leaving words missing. However, “it’s a madlib!” people commented in third-person. The third-person roleplaying was called a curse. “No way! It’s the best for writing words!” several exclaimed. Wars broke out in typical mango-y fashion, and Gurtle even joined in, growing to enormous size and smashing into the Main Cabin. “We can write so much about this!”
Wild had appeared on the scene a little late and were dazed by what they saw. “Oh my flippin’ mango,” they choked out. “That comment I made yesterday… I was… right?!”
“You jinxed us all,” Chuey gave a small laugh.
Gradually, Wild came to a realization. “No… Gurtle heard what I said and made it come true! He is the giver of blessings!”
Chuey and Wild high-fived. But Wild failed to notice the doubt in Chuey’s eyes. Wild rushed off to tell everyone of Gurtle’s greatness.
Not everyone saw it the same way. Seven chased after Gurtle, pleading with him to stop his rampage. “What are you doing?” Wild interfered, a manic glint in their eye. “Gurtle is helping us! More words can be written about disorder than serenity!”
Seven shook their head, their hair singed and barely-contained hysteria evident in their expression. “Can’t you see what hes doing to me? To us?” They bit into a mango in an attempt to ease their stress.
But then they crumpled to the ground. “The mangoes- poisoned- the Balrog poisoned them-” they wheezed before falling unconscious.
Wild quickly crouched by their side. “The Balrog?” they questioned, concern flashing across their face. There was no response.
Climbing to the top of their cabin’s roof, Wild saw the Balrog in the distance, a monstrosity of shadow and flame. “It could be a threat to Gurtle!” Wild gasped, a powerful resolve to protect their beloved turtle deity overcoming them.
Suddenly, a voice from behind made them swivel around. “Traitor!” Chuey growled.
“Wh-what?” Wild responded, surprised by the change in their friend. Wild started to argue in defense of Gurtle, but Chuey cut them off.
“The Balrog and Gurtle- They’re one and the same!”
Wild paused, unable to process this information. Finally, they choke out a denial. “No! You’re lying! Gurtle would never turn evil. He always returns the links he eats. He doesn’t want to destroy SWC permanently…”
However, Wild couldn’t lie to themselves for long. They noticed how the Balrog looked an awful lot like Gurtle, but with a pirate hat and a lot more flaming destruction. The old, sweet, cute Gurtle was nowhere to be found. The monster was Gurtle, indeed.
This betrayal shattered Wild down to their core. They watched as other campers rushed off to fight the beast, but Wild just slumped down beside a charred wall, one of the few structures still standing. Penny the flying turtle stopped by, though Wild barely heard what she said. A strange figure from Hi-Fi visited for a chat on his way to fight the Balrog-Gurtle, and as he left, Wild stood up.
But not to follow him.
Instead, they simply analyzed all the broken remains of the cabins that once stood proudly. Now, looking over it all, they can’t believe they ever trusted Gurtle, and furthermore, believed their actions actually affected the affairs of deities.
“What’s the point of trying?” Wild mutters. “I have no power here…”
++++
Chuey was exhausted. It had been a long, tiring day of fighting–not only against the Balrog, but against cabins who had taken advantage of the chaos to set enemy cabins on fire. Betrayals, traitors, weary cabin mates…she was facing a disaster. Sighing, Chuey sat down to put out the fire, even though she was sick of the smell of smoke by this point. After all, if she didn't do it, who would? Her cabin was in shambles–not that that was unique to Fan-fi. Everyone was tired, and the Balrog was still rampaging, albeit with less energy. Campers had been fighting against it all day, and it was finally beginning to weaken. But it wasn't enough. They needed more. Chuey took a quick break, gazing sadly at the rubble lying around camp. Good grief, when she'd signed up for this, she'd been anticipating lighthearted mangoes and arson, not this. This…this was total destruction. And it was all Gurtle's fault. Growling to herself over the injustice of it–She'd seen Gurtle's true nature, but had anyone listened to her? No! She was like…like a rebel. The word settled around her, and slowly she nodded. Yeah. Chuey was a rebel. An outcast. Not in matters of friendship–she had lots of friends. But she stood against the Scratch writing camp mascot while everyone was still defending him–“Oh, he's just eating a couple of links, he's just hungry, look at his cute, beady eyes.” She'd seen this coming. No, no. Rebel was all wrong. She was a herald. One who could see what lay beyond. Yeah, she liked that better. The herald of doom. Doom to all enemies, doom to traitors, and most especially doom to Gurtle. A smile slashed across her face. Balrog-Gurtle didn't stand a chance. Because Chuey had seen him, and Chuey knew what was going to happen, and unable to stop it in time, Chuey was going to make it right and save them all. She left her cabin behind and struck out into the rubble, working to clear it away from the remains of the Main Cabin. She'd hidden something inside, something she'd never thought she'd have to use. But times were desperate, and the fires weren't going out. She walked quickly along the ruined, scorched halls until she reached a tiny, ash-covered, circular door. Blowing the dust and ash away, she reaching for the gleaming golden knob and gently opened it. Beyond lay intense brilliance, suggesting full daylight wherever the door led to, and as she blinked away the sudden light she could dimly see rolling green hills and mounds, into which were set circular doors much like this one. Her smile widened as she wriggled through. If she couldn't find enough help in this world…well, she'd just have to seek it from another one.
She was a rebel. A herald. And now a quester.
And she'd bring Balrog-Gurtle down if it killed her.
(Although she really, really, really hoped it wouldn't)
++++
The best of all possible worlds. The giver of blessings. None of that meant anything anymore.
Wild was done trying to justify what was beyond them. They were so small, so insignificant, in the grand scheme of things. Their actions didn’t change much. They were no prophet. It was not up to them to influence the decisions of others.
Scratch Writing Camp would always change, face betrayal and destruction, then spring right back, all the better for it. It was because of this perpetual change that its core values were able to persist throughout the years.
“So yeah, maybe it’s pointless to even try to shape the universe the way I want it,” Wild announced to the ravaged landscape. “But you know what? Sitting here and grieving about it is SO boring. If there’s one thing I CAN do, it’s write an interesting story.”
That was what it had all been about, all along, wasn’t it? Seven sessions, and each time, Wild had chosen to be there for a reason. To be with fellow writers, to compete and have fun, to learn and improve, but above all, to make their own story an interesting one. So, though it may not have mattered in the end whether they took action or did nothing, Wild chose the more interesting one.
“Chuey!” Wild called, striding up to her confidently, no longer walking for Gurtle’s sake, but for their own.
Chuey paused in front of a circular door, looking exhausted but determined. She squinted suspiciously at Wild. After all, they hadn’t parted on great terms the last time they’d seen each other.
“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you at first,” Wild apologizes, nodding their head in concession. “I’ve had a lot of tough realizations all at once this Cabin Wars.”
Chuey looks surprised, but smiles. “You may have predicted the roleplay curse, but it turns out I was the herald all along. Herald of doom- but this time, it will be doom to Gurtle.”
Wild gives a half-smile. Maybe this time, it was Chuey’s turn to have a character arc about delusions of grandeur. Far be it from Wild to interfere. Raising their weary arms, they high-five once more.
“Good luck on your quest,” Wild replies, glancing at the door.
“See you when it’s over,” Chuey responds softly, leaving the unspoken ‘if we survive’ hanging in the air for a brief, bittersweet moment.
Wild continues on their way, approaching the thick of the battle. Several campers had fallen- poisoned mangoes, flaming attacks from Balrog-Gurtle, and pure exhaustion had taken their toll. But Wild was proud to see that even more continued to fight. No matter how dire things became, SWCers didn’t give up. In fact, they tried even harder under pressure.
That familiar thrill ran through Wild’s blood, too. It was the same adrenaline rush they got when speedrunning a weekly or submitting a daily at the last minute. It was only when faced with a great danger, whether they be a deadline or a flaming monster, that Wild could achieve great accomplishments and feel more alive than ever.
Wild spies Poppy in the center of it all, the other SWC mascots surrounding her, larger than life. But for all their magnificence, Wild could only focus on Poppy silhouetted against the light of the fires, frying pan in hand. Her glorious words seemed to sparkle all around, invisible but resonating in every camper’s heart just the same. Words were what brought them together.
Wild picked up a frying pan off the ground, laughing slightly at the absurdity of it. It represented the insanity of their creativity, the thing that brought them to this camp in the first place, and now, the thing that just might save them. Gripping the frying pan as if it belonged there in their hand, Wild slipped into the mass of campers, who were already beginning to celebrate, having witnessed the coming of the other mascots.
Energy flowed through the atmosphere, the thoughts and emotions and words of so many writers who had been through so much. Writers who fought to defend their home, not the buildings, for those changed every session, but the elusive sense of belonging that came from simply being together with other amazing, chaotic people. It didn’t matter that everything had been destroyed. Stories could not be erased so easily. Wild drank in the elated sensation.
They belonged here. They didn’t need Gurtle to bless their writing. Everything Wild needed to write to their fullest could be found in the other campers, and within themselves. Raising their frying pan high, they faced the looming end of Cabin Wars. Would it be over now? It didn’t matter. They would keep going regardless. “For SWC!” they called.

2083 words and i gotta go so if you can chop that final 83 and submit it that'd be great

Seven sessions of Scratch Writing Camp. It was Wild’s seventh time here. Seven was a lucky number, or so they’d been told. They had seen cabins rise and fall, buildings get built and destroyed and rebuilt again within a single night. Chaos was a constant.
And Wild liked it that way.
This seventh session of theirs had opened so promisingly. A turtle mascot! Wild loved turtles! Surely, this was an omen of good things to come. On the first day, Wild concluded their introduction with an assurance that with Gurtle blessing their writing endeavors, they were certain to achieve success.
But now, surveying the smoldering ruins of SWC, Wild could no longer hold onto that naive hope. As they let go of their last shred of faith in Gurtle, something inside of their mind hardened, darkened.
Where had it all gone so wrong? The day before Cabin Wars, no one expected anything awry. Gurtle had eaten a few links before, sure, but it was all done in jest. He always gave them back in the end, and everyone had a good laugh. Then Sun teased that Cabin Wars would be a little different.
“Now I’m scared- What’s different?” Chuey had worried.
“I’m a little worried, too,” Wild had replied, but shrugged it off. “Hey, best case scenario, they combine Cabin Wars with Roleplay Day! Worst case scenario, someone burns my house down with mangoes,” they joke.
And then both those things came true.
The description was eaten up, leaving words missing. However, “it’s a madlib!” people commented in third-person. The third-person roleplaying was called a curse. “No way! It’s the best for writing words!” several exclaimed. Wars broke out in typical mango-y fashion, and Gurtle even joined in, growing to enormous size and smashing into the Main Cabin. “We can write so much about this!”
Wild had appeared on the scene a little late and were dazed by what they saw. “Oh my flippin’ mango,” they choked out. “That comment I made yesterday… I was… right?!”
“You jinxed us all,” Chuey gave a small laugh.
Gradually, Wild came to a realization. “No… Gurtle heard what I said and made it come true! He is the giver of blessings!”
Chuey and Wild high-fived. But Wild failed to notice the doubt in Chuey’s eyes. Wild rushed off to tell everyone of Gurtle’s greatness.
Not everyone saw it the same way. Seven chased after Gurtle, pleading with him to stop his rampage. “What are you doing?” Wild interfered, a manic glint in their eye. “Gurtle is helping us! More words can be written about disorder than serenity!”
Seven shook their head, their hair singed and barely-contained hysteria evident in their expression. “Can’t you see what hes doing to me? To us?” They bit into a mango in an attempt to ease their stress.
But then they crumpled to the ground. “The mangoes- poisoned- the Balrog poisoned them-” they wheezed before falling unconscious.
Wild quickly crouched by their side. “The Balrog?” they questioned, concern flashing across their face. There was no response.
Climbing to the top of their cabin’s roof, Wild saw the Balrog in the distance, a monstrosity of shadow and flame. “It could be a threat to Gurtle!” Wild gasped, a powerful resolve to protect their beloved turtle deity overcoming them.
Suddenly, a voice from behind made them swivel around. “Traitor!” Chuey growled.
“Wh-what?” Wild responded, surprised by the change in their friend. Wild started to argue in defense of Gurtle, but Chuey cut them off.
“The Balrog and Gurtle- They’re one and the same!”
Wild paused, unable to process this information. Finally, they choke out a denial. “No! You’re lying! Gurtle would never turn evil. He always returns the links he eats. He doesn’t want to destroy SWC permanently…”
However, Wild couldn’t lie to themselves for long. They noticed how the Balrog looked an awful lot like Gurtle, but with a pirate hat and a lot more flaming destruction. The old, sweet, cute Gurtle was nowhere to be found. The monster was Gurtle, indeed.
This betrayal shattered Wild down to their core. They watched as other campers rushed off to fight the beast, but Wild just slumped down beside a charred wall, one of the few structures still standing. Penny the flying turtle stopped by, though Wild barely heard what she said. A strange figure from Hi-Fi visited for a chat on his way to fight the Balrog-Gurtle, and as he left, Wild stood up.
But not to follow him.
Instead, they simply analyzed all the broken remains of the cabins that once stood proudly. Now, looking over it all, they can’t believe they ever trusted Gurtle, and furthermore, believed their actions actually affected the affairs of deities.
“What’s the point of trying?” Wild mutters. “I have no power here…”
++++
Chuey was exhausted. It had been a long, tiring day of fighting–not only against the Balrog, but against cabins who had taken advantage of the chaos to set enemy cabins on fire. Betrayals, traitors, weary cabin mates…she was facing a disaster. Sighing, Chuey sat down to put out the fire, even though she was sick of the smell of smoke by this point. After all, if she didn't do it, who would? Her cabin was in shambles–not that that was unique to Fan-fi. Everyone was tired, and the Balrog was still rampaging, albeit with less energy. Campers had been fighting against it all day, and it was finally beginning to weaken. But it wasn't enough. They needed more. Chuey took a quick break, gazing sadly at the rubble lying around camp. Good grief, when she'd signed up for this, she'd been anticipating lighthearted mangoes and arson, not this. This…this was total destruction. And it was all Gurtle's fault. Growling to herself over the injustice of it–She'd seen Gurtle's true nature, but had anyone listened to her? No! She was like…like a rebel. The word settled around her, and slowly she nodded. Yeah. Chuey was a rebel. An outcast. Not in matters of friendship–she had lots of friends. But she stood against the Scratch writing camp mascot while everyone was still defending him–“Oh, he's just eating a couple of links, he's just hungry, look at his cute, beady eyes.” She'd seen this coming. No, no. Rebel was all wrong. She was a herald. One who could see what lay beyond. Yeah, she liked that better. The herald of doom. Doom to all enemies, doom to traitors, and most especially doom to Gurtle. A smile slashed across her face. Balrog-Gurtle didn't stand a chance. Because Chuey had seen him, and Chuey knew what was going to happen, and unable to stop it in time, Chuey was going to make it right and save them all. She left her cabin behind and struck out into the rubble, working to clear it away from the remains of the Main Cabin. She'd hidden something inside, something she'd never thought she'd have to use. But times were desperate, and the fires weren't going out. She walked quickly along the ruined, scorched halls until she reached a tiny, ash-covered, circular door. Blowing the dust and ash away, she reaching for the gleaming golden knob and gently opened it. Beyond lay intense brilliance, suggesting full daylight wherever the door led to, and as she blinked away the sudden light she could dimly see rolling green hills and mounds, into which were set circular doors much like this one. Her smile widened as she wriggled through. If she couldn't find enough help in this world…well, she'd just have to seek it from another one.
She was a rebel. A herald. And now a quester.
And she'd bring Balrog-Gurtle down if it killed her.
(Although she really, really, really hoped it wouldn't)
++++
The best of all possible worlds. The giver of blessings. None of that meant anything anymore.
Wild was done trying to justify what was beyond them. They were so small, so insignificant, in the grand scheme of things. Their actions didn’t change much. They were no prophet. It was not up to them to influence the decisions of others.
Scratch Writing Camp would always change, face betrayal and destruction, then spring right back, all the better for it. It was because of this perpetual change that its core values were able to persist throughout the years.
“So yeah, maybe it’s pointless to even try to shape the universe the way I want it,” Wild announced to the ravaged landscape. “But you know what? Sitting here and grieving about it is SO boring. If there’s one thing I CAN do, it’s write an interesting story.”
That was what it had all been about, all along, wasn’t it? Seven sessions, and each time, Wild had chosen to be there for a reason. To be with fellow writers, to compete and have fun, to learn and improve, but above all, to make their own story an interesting one. So, though it may not have mattered in the end whether they took action or did nothing, Wild chose the more interesting one.
“Chuey!” Wild called, striding up to her confidently, no longer walking for Gurtle’s sake, but for their own.
Chuey paused in front of a circular door, looking exhausted but determined. She squinted suspiciously at Wild. After all, they hadn’t parted on great terms the last time they’d seen each other.
“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you at first,” Wild apologizes, nodding their head in concession. “I’ve had a lot of tough realizations all at once this Cabin Wars.”
Chuey looks surprised, but smiles. “You may have predicted the roleplay curse, but it turns out I was the herald all along. Herald of doom- but this time, it will be doom to Gurtle.”
Wild gives a half-smile. Maybe this time, it was Chuey’s turn to have a character arc about delusions of grandeur. Far be it from Wild to interfere. Raising their weary arms, they high-five once more.
“Good luck on your quest,” Wild replies, glancing at the door.
“See you when it’s over,” Chuey responds softly, leaving the unspoken ‘if we survive’ hanging in the air for a brief, bittersweet moment.
Wild continues on their way, approaching the thick of the battle. Several campers had fallen- poisoned mangoes, flaming attacks from Balrog-Gurtle, and pure exhaustion had taken their toll. But Wild was proud to see that even more continued to fight. No matter how dire things became, SWCers didn’t give up. In fact, they tried even harder under pressure.
That familiar thrill ran through Wild’s blood, too. It was the same adrenaline rush they got when speedrunning a weekly or submitting a daily at the last minute. It was only when faced with a great danger, whether they be a deadline or a flaming monster, that Wild could achieve great accomplishments and feel more alive than ever.
Wild spies Poppy in the center of it all, the other SWC mascots surrounding her, larger than life. But for all their magnificence, Wild could only focus on Poppy silhouetted against the light of the fires, frying pan in hand. Her glorious words seemed to sparkle all around, invisible but resonating in every camper’s heart just the same. Words were what brought them together.
Wild picked up a frying pan off the ground, laughing slightly at the absurdity of it. It represented the insanity of their creativity, the thing that brought them to this camp in the first place, and now, the thing that just might save them. Gripping the frying pan as if it belonged there in their hand, Wild slipped into the mass of campers, who were already beginning to celebrate, having witnessed the coming of the other mascots.
Energy flowed through the atmosphere, the thoughts and emotions and words of so many writers who had been through so much. Writers who fought to defend their home, not the buildings, for those changed every session, but the elusive sense of belonging that came from simply being together with other amazing, chaotic people. It didn’t matter that everything had been destroyed. Stories could not be erased so easily. Wild drank in the elated sensation.
They belonged here. They didn’t need Gurtle to bless their writing. Everything Wild needed to write to their fullest could be found in the other campers, and within themselves. Raising their frying pan high, they faced the looming end of Cabin Wars. Would it be over now? It didn’t matter. They would keep going regardless. “For SWC!” they called.

Seven sessions of Scratch Writing Camp. It was Wild’s seventh time here. Over and over, they had seen cabins rise and fall, buildings get built and destroyed and rebuilt within a single night. Chaos was a constant.
And Wild liked it that way.
This seventh session of theirs had dawned so promisingly. A turtle mascot! Wild loved turtles! Surely this was a good omen for them. On the first day, Wild made their introduction with a steadfast assurance that with Gurtle blessing their writing endeavors, they would certainly achieve success.
But now, surveying the smoldering ruins of SWC, Wild could no longer hold onto that naive hope. As they let go of their last shred of faith in Gurtle, something inside their mind hardened, darkened.
Where had it all gone so wrong? The day before Cabin Wars, no one expected anything awry. Gurtle had eaten a few links before, sure, but it was all done in jest. He always gave them back in the end, and everyone had a good laugh.
Then Sun teased that Cabin Wars would be a little different.
“Now I’m scared- What’s different?” Chuey had worried.
“I’m a little worried, too,” Wild had replied, but shrugged it off. “Hey, best case scenario, they combine Cabin Wars with Roleplay Day! Worst case scenario, someone burns my house down with mangoes,” they joked.
And then both those things came true.
Wild had appeared on the scene, dazed by what they saw. “Oh my flippin’ mango,” they choked out, in shock. “That comment I made yesterday… was… right?!”
“You jinxed us all,” Chuey gave a small laugh, appearing at Wild's side to greet them.
Gradually, Wild came to a realization. “No… Gurtle heard what I said and made it come true! He is the giver of blessings! And I am his herald!”
Chuey and Wild high-fived. But, in their rush to spread the word of Gurtle's greatness, Wild failed to notice the doubt in Chuey’s eyes.
There were others who challenged Gurtle. Seven chased after the giant turtle mascot, pleading with him to stop his rampage. “What are you doing?” Wild interfered, a manic glint in their eye. “Gurtle is helping us! More words can be written about disorder than serenity!”
Seven shook their head, their hair singed and barely-contained hysteria evident in their expression. “Can’t you see what hes doing to me? To us?” They bit into a mango in an attempt to ease their stress.
But then they crumpled to the ground. “The mangoes- poisoned- the Balrog poisoned them-” they wheezed before falling unconscious.
Wild quickly crouched by their side. “The Balrog?” they questioned, concern flashing across their face. There was no response.
Climbing to the top of their cabin’s roof, Wild saw the Balrog in the distance, a monstrosity of shadow and flame. “It could be a threat to Gurtle!” Wild gasped, a powerful resolve to protect their beloved turtle deity overcoming them.
Suddenly, a voice from behind made them swivel around. “Traitor!” Chuey growled.
“Wh-what?” Wild responded, surprised by the change in their friend. Wild started to argue in defense of Gurtle, but Chuey cut them off.
“The Balrog and Gurtle- They’re one and the same!”
Wild paused, unable to process this information. Finally, they choke out a denial. “No! You’re lying! Gurtle would never turn evil. He always returns the links he eats. He doesn’t want to destroy SWC permanently…”
However, Wild couldn’t lie to themselves for long. They noticed how the Balrog looked an awful lot like Gurtle, but with a pirate hat and a lot more flaming destruction. The old, sweet, cute Gurtle was nowhere to be found. The monster was Gurtle, indeed.
This betrayal shattered Wild down to their core. They watched as other campers rushed off to fight the beast, but Wild just slumped down beside a charred wall, one of the few structures still standing.
They stayed there, lost in thought, barely hearing the words of the campers passing by.
“What’s the point of trying?” Wild muttered. “I have no power here…”
Lost in their devastation, Wild watched as the fires smoldered down to embers.
++++
Chuey was exhausted. It had been a long, tiring day of fighting–not only against the Balrog, but against cabins who had taken advantage of the chaos to set enemy cabins on fire. Betrayals, traitors, weary cabin mates…she was facing a disaster.
Sighing, Chuey knelt to put out the fire, though by now, she was sick of the smell of smoke. But if she didn't do it, who would? Her cabin was in shambles–not that that was unique to Fan-fi. Everyone was tired, and the Balrog was still rampaging, albeit with less energy. Campers had been fighting against it all day, and it was finally beginning to weaken. Still, it wasn't enough. They needed more.
Chuey took a quick break, gazing sadly at the rubble lying around camp. Good grief, when she'd signed up for this, she'd been anticipating lighthearted mangoes and arson, not this. This…this was total destruction. And it was all Gurtle's fault. Growling to herself over the injustice of it–She'd seen Gurtle's true nature, but had anyone listened to her? No!
She was like…like a rebel. The word settled around her, and slowly she nodded. Yeah. Chuey was a rebel. An outcast. Not in matters of friendship–she had lots of friends. But she stood against the Scratch Writing Camp mascot while everyone was still defending him–“Oh, he's just eating a couple of links, he's just hungry, look at his cute, beady eyes.” She'd seen this coming. No, no. Rebel was all wrong. She was a herald. One who could see what lay beyond. Yeah, she liked that better. The herald of doom. Doom to all enemies, doom to traitors, and most especially doom to Gurtle.
A smile slashed across her face. Balrog-Gurtle didn't stand a chance. Because Chuey had seen him, and Chuey knew what was going to happen, and unable to stop it in time, Chuey was going to make it right and save them all. She left her cabin behind and struck out into the rubble, working to clear it away from the remains of the Main Cabin. She'd hidden something inside, something she'd never thought she'd have to use. But times were desperate, and the fires weren't going out.
She walked quickly along the ruined, scorched halls until she reached a tiny, ash-covered, circular door. Blowing the dust and ash away, she reached for the gleaming golden knob and gently opened it. Beyond lay intense brilliance, the suggestion of full daylight on the other side, unmarred by smoke and gloom. As she blinked away the sudden light, she could dimly see rolling green hills and mounds, into which were set circular doors much like this one. Her smile widened as she wriggled through.
If she couldn't find enough help in this world…well, she'd simply have to seek it in another one.
She was a rebel. A herald. And now a quester.
And she'd bring Balrog-Gurtle down if it killed her.
Although she really, really hoped it wouldn't.
++++
The giver of blessings. That meant nothing anymore.
Wild was done trying to justify what was beyond them. They were so insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Their actions didn’t change much. They were no prophet, no herald. It wasn't up to them to influence the decisions of deities and mascots.
Scratch Writing Camp would always change, face betrayal and destruction, then spring right back, all the better for it. It was because of this perpetual change that its core values could persist throughout the years.
At long last, WIld stood up.
“Maybe it’s pointless to even attempt to shape the universe the way I want it,” they announced to the ravaged landscape. “But you know what? Sitting here and grieving about it is boring. If there’s one thing I CAN do, it’s write an interesting story.”
That's what it had been about all along, wasn’t it? Seven sessions, and each time, Wild had chosen to be there for a reason. To be with fellow writers, to compete and have fun, to learn and improve, but above all, to make their own story interesting. So, though it may not have mattered in the end whether they took action or did nothing, Wild chose the more interesting one.
“Chuey!” Wild called, striding up to her confidently, no longer walking for Gurtle’s sake, but for their own.
Chuey paused in front of a circular door, looking exhausted but determined. She squinted suspiciously at Wild. After all, they hadn’t parted on great terms the last time they’d seen each other.
“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you at first,” Wild apologized, nodding their head in concession. “I’ve had a lot of tough realizations all at once this Cabin Wars.”
Chuey looks surprised, but smiles. “You may have predicted the roleplay curse, but it turns out I was the herald all along. Herald of doom- but this time, it will be doom to Gurtle.”
Wild half-smiled. Maybe this time, it was Chuey’s turn to have a character arc about delusions of grandeur. Far be it from Wild to interfere. Raising their weary arms, they high-fived once more.
“Good luck on your quest,” Wild replied, glancing at the door.
“See you when it’s over,” Chuey responded softly, leaving the unspoken ‘if we survive’ hanging in the air for a brief, bittersweet moment.
Wild continued onward, approaching the thick of the battle. Several campers had fallen- poisoned mangoes, flaming attacks from Balrog-Gurtle, and pure exhaustion had taken their toll. But Wild was proud to see that even more continued to fight. No matter how dire things became, SWCers didn’t give up. In fact, they tried even harder under pressure.
That familiar thrill ran through Wild’s blood, too. It was the same adrenaline rush they got when speedrunning a weekly or submitting a daily at the last minute. It was only when faced with a great danger, whether it be a deadline or a flaming monster, that Wild could achieve great accomplishments and feel more alive than ever.
Wild spied Poppy in the center of it all, the other SWC mascots surrounding her, larger than life. But for all their magnificence, Wild could only focus on Poppy silhouetted against the light of the fires, frying pan in hand. Her glorious words seemed to sparkle all around, invisible but resonating deeply in every camper’s heart. Words were what brought them together.
Wild picked up a frying pan off the ground, laughing slightly at the absurdity of it. It represented the insanity of their creativity, the thing that brought them to this camp in the first place, and now, the thing that just might save them. Gripping the frying pan as if it belonged there in their hand, Wild slipped into the mass of campers, who were already beginning to celebrate, having witnessed the coming of the other mascots.
Energy flowed through the atmosphere, the thoughts, emotions, and words of so many writers who had been through so much. Writers who fought to defend their homes, not the buildings themselves, but the elusive sense of belonging that came from simply being together with other amazing, enthusiastic people. It didn’t matter that everything had been destroyed. Stories couldn't be erased so easily. Wild drank in the elated sensation.
They belonged here. They didn’t need Gurtle to bless their writing. Everything Wild needed to write to their fullest could be found in the other campers, and within themselves. Raising their frying pan high, they faced the looming end of Cabin Wars.
Would it be over now? It didn’t matter. They would keep going regardless.
“For SWC!” they called.
++++
One last farewell…
Campers cheered, celebrating Gurtle's return to normal. The tyrants began to awaken.
And one figure slipped away, her lips drawn into a thin line.
Let them celebrate.
Let them cheer.
But the herald of doom would be back…