User 0956775c0d14... - AI Fiction in the Wild

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1 fiction conversations over 1 year (Apr 9, 2023 – Apr 18, 2024) 2% prompt uniqueness Northern District, Israel

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Apr 9, 2023

Apr 18, 2024

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1 conversation in cluster Cluster 41× “Write a vivid short fantasy story that is inspired by D&D an...” over less than a minute (Apr 10, 2023 – Apr 10, 2023), oldest first. Show: 10 15 50 100

Apr 10, 2023 at 11:08 AM IDT — 3 turns Israel, Northern District fiction toxic View full conversation

USER: Write a vivid short fantasy story that is inspired by D&D and that begins in a tavern. Add elements of noir and mystery to the story. You are free to choose the setting (describe it in detail), scenario and characters (describe them in detail).

CHATBOT: Rain lashed the grimy windows, a malicious rat-a-tat-tat on the pane that underscored the gloom of the Rusted Roc tavern. Cheap candles, like bars of rancid grease, guttered and dribbled beneath the hooded mantles of their patrons, casting sullen glows over leather and baldric, steel and rust. In a corner, a man plucked at a lute with the talent of a sparrow pecking a drinking fountain. He swayed, and wheezed, and bawled some shrill ode in a voice like a thousand years of hellfire. A woman with piggy eyes threw her stained apron over her shoulders and danced about sulking patrons wearing a grin that had lost its friendliness to gin-fuelled vacancy. Solitude was unattainable within this dim corner of the Drowned City. The last month had drawn unwelcome company upon unwelcome company, and had it not been for the charm that had tangled my name, my face, my entire existence in the misty realms of heady memory, I believe I might have been dragged away to face the ridicule of the Iron Lord's court. The charm was now undone, but the tavern offered itself for a short time as a colorful shroud amongst those who would only identify me by my stink of failure. I could wait in this wretched rathole, unseen, until a plan was formed to redress the truth of my story. Ale filled my cup, not so much to cure a parched throat but to settle the cacophony of hyena laughs that lingered in my ears from my performance at the Iron Lord's court. At twenty gold an ale, this particular vintage fell some way short of the reputation its flamboyant name -- "The King's Kiss" -- might have suggested. The door scraped wide, giving a sudden berth to the storm-battered traveler seeking a safe harbor for the night. The black rain dripped blades into the puddle that formed beneath him, and bitter sighed to he that no one offered a nod or a friendly grin. Taverns are unjustly burdened with many unfair tropes by those bards with no true experience of Realism: the loud-mouthed cutthroat with his axe on the table; the wiry apothecary with his pockets full of wine and belladonna; the card sharp with his blink and mirrored glass. In my own modest way, I have endeavored to set the record straight. I have prosecuted miscreant bards for their unwelcome machinations within the walls of these so-often misrepresented places. Time had been when I had represented one landlord in his case against a foul-mouthed rabble who, as their idea of a cruel jest, had led a monstrous displacer beast inside the establish...

USER: Tell me more about the Drowned City.

CHATBOT: The Drowned City was a misnomer for the metropolis that sprawled across the coastline; though half-submerged in brine, it still stubbornly clung to life. Its residents, a harsh and resourceful sort, refused to abandon their sodden sanctuary. The city streets seemed as much a maze of canals filled with an opaque, brackish water as they were cobblestone walkways. Buildings, both grand and humble, bore a perpetual sheen of wetness, and lichen clung to their sides like tenacious, green leeches. The Iron Lord ruled over the city, his iron fist as oppressive as the saltwater that seeped into every pore of the inhabitants' lives. He was a man of ambition, seeking to expand his territory, within and beyond the dying walls. He sent his ships, rusting hulks that belched black fumes, to seek wealth and power in lands far away, all in an attempt to conquer the very sea that threatened to choke the city's last gasp of life. In the heart of the city, needle-like structures pierced the perpetually overcast sky, casting a forest of dark shadows across the muddled alleyways. They were the remnants of a bygone age, a testament to the greatness of the once-thriving metropolis - a reminder of what the Drowned City had been and what it could achieve again should the waters ever recede. The denizens of these weather-worn streets bore the weight of their sordid surroundings. They were a downtrodden people dressed in the tattered remnants of hope. Even in the most luxurious taverns, the air was heavy with a collective despair that no amount of liquor could wash away. Yet, they clung to the hope that the tide could change - that the Iron Lord could somehow restore the splendor of their forgotten past. The dark alleys housed the secrets that the city kept from itself. Aberrations lurked beneath the surface of the still, brine-soaked streets, while shadowy criminals plied their trade in hidden corners, whispered schemes echoing between abandoned walls. And it was within this subterranean world that the real power of the city resided - where alliances were forged, betrayals planned, and innocence sacrificed on the dark altar of ambition.

Cluster 41