TurnipBandit, The Wordsmith

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8/19/2019 10:02 PM

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0 wins / 3 losses





Hello person who is reading this. I'm TurnipBandit, but most people on here just call me Turnip or TB. If you have any questions about me then feel free to send me a message. I tend to be a pretty open book. 



Quote(s) about me:

"Confirmed that TB has prior experience in creating anthro art." -Cricket

"Yeah, he's adorable! He was wasted on CoG, so I stole him. ^_^" -Avery_Moore


Trophies Earned

Earning 100 Points

Recent Posts

IM BLACK AND STILL A FAGGOT! on 8/17/2019 1:20:50 AM

I'm still a bit confused as to why all of your threads turn into self deprecation, but welcome back. I hope your summer vacation went well. 

Colored Lines and Dark Tunnels on 8/15/2019 10:58:04 PM

Thank you for the comments, everyone. I really appreciate it.

Avery_Moore - Thank you very much for the kind words. I truly do appreciate it. I haven't really thought of making it into a story game, no. Partially because I'm still a bit, well, intimidated at the prospect of making a story game. And partly because I'm really just not sure how long or short I'm going to make this. I suppose I could always make a game with other characters in this world. But for the moment I think I'm just going to keep doing this. I haven't really written any stories other than those in my other thread and these are the first that I'm creating from scratch. I am happy people are enjoying it so far though.

ninjapitka - Yeah, I kind of learned from my other thread that it's easier to write a glossary. I'll keep expanding to it as I write the stories, but if I miss anything or you need something explained please don't hesitate to ask. I also wanted to provide a map of the metro to give people an idea of the station locations. I used to ride these lines a lot so it's pretty much all memory for me but it could be helpful for you guys. As for what the voice is, well, that would probably be spoiling things. With regards to the first person perspective, it is one I am at least somewhat familiar with writing. There's also another reason, but it has to do with some stuff I'm planning later on so forgive me for not going into much detail about it. Thank you for the kind words and I'm very happy you are enjoying it so far.

Mizal - Thank you very much for your kind words. I honestly didn't think I'd start writing again, much less do something like this. I certainly didn't think I'd be sharing it with anyone. I'm just happy that people found enjoyment out of reading it. As for Samara, I'm honestly not sure (I only have completed outlines for about one chapter ahead at a time). I adore her as a character so I don't think anything too bad will happen. But she does have a reason for her scar that I'll most likely get into later. And it's a pretty awful life in the metro. Anyway, thank you again for the support.

Bill_Ingersoll - Thank you for reading it. I really appreciate it.  

Colored Lines and Dark Tunnels on 8/14/2019 6:52:22 PM

Part 1: Pushkinskaya Station

Darkness surrounds me. Cold, oppressive, unending darkness. I cannot scream. I cannot move. But I can hear. I can hear their voices whisper in my ear. Their horrible, terrifying voices. But soon the whispering stops, replaced by a voice reverberating throughout the void.

“Why? Why do you hide from us? We wish to understand you. We wish to help you. Let us understand. Let us help.”

A sharp pain permeates through my head. It’s as though my very brain is being torn out of my skull. Memories flash before me in an instant. Some memories mundane, some life changing. The pain continues to increase as the memories are torn from my mind until I can no longer take it. I pray to whoever might listen to make it stop. And it does. But the voice remains.

“We wish to understand you. We wish to help you.”

Suddenly my eyes burst open. I sit up quickly and look around. Stone walls covered with pictures and drawings. A small desk with a few books sitting atop it. A scratched balalaika sitting in the corner with a rifle lying next to it. An old army jacket and helmet hanging on a makeshift coat rack. Back in my room. Well, my utility closet I guess. I sigh with relief as I look at the familiar room, despite it’s cramped interior. Space in Pushkinskaya station was always at a premium. And while its white arched ceilings may be fading, its beautiful stone floors cracking, and its once spacious halls filled with makeshift buildings and tents, it’s our home. For over a century the station has been our refuge from the horrors above. Whatever those horrors might be. The rustling of keys takes me out of my thoughts. My door opens slowly as a figure peers inside. Once they see me they open the door fully and flip the light switch, the lone lightbulb brightening up the room substantially. I quickly wince and close my eyes.

“Dimitri? Are you alright? I tried knocking but I didn’t hear an answer. Oh, you look terrible…”

I slowly open my eyes. I look over at the voice and see a girl about three years my younger staring at me with concern plastered on her freckled face. A deep scar runs down the side of her face, partially hidden by messy red hair and an old wool cap. A light knitted sweater hugs her slender frame and faded camouflage pants about two sizes too large are tucked into a pair of tattered work boots. Samara Fedorov, my best friend and partner. She begins to shift self consciously at my inspection so I bring my attention back to her eyes.

“You’re here early, Samara. We don’t head out for a few more hours. What’s wrong?”

“Actually, I was headed to the market and was wondering if you wanted to tag along. My parents need me to pick up a few supplies, you know how it goes. And you didn’t answer my question. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. I just didn’t get much sleep.”

“Nightmares again?”

“Something like that. Forget about it. Let’s head to the market before it gets too crowded. It’ll be good to get moving.”

“Okay, but take it slow alright? You aren’t looking so great.”

I smile at her and slowly stand up, Samara’s eyes watching me closely. Satisfied that I’m not about to drop dead she gives a quick nod and starts to walk outside with me right behind her. The bright lights in the hallway sting my eyes for a moment, but they soon adjust. The stone walls and floors have become cracked with age, but still shine in the light. Courtesy of the stations “Labor Battalion”, which is just a fancy title for supervised prisoners who weren’t bad enough to get the noose. As we walk towards the market, the walls become more and more cluttered with posters. The stations leadership calls them “reminders” but I know propaganda when I see it. A picture of the station’s surface gate partially open with black tendrils creeping in, the words “Constant vigilance keeps The Surface out!” in bold letters at the bottom. A station militiamen holding a torch up to the darkness with the words, “Keep the darkness at bay, join the militia today!” along the sides. And the newest poster, a horribly disfigured man with a red star painted on his forehead gnawing on a dead infant, the words “Keep the mutant Reds away from our children!” emblazoned on the top and “Join the White Army now!” on the bottom. I stare at that last poster for a bit longer before continuing the walk to the marketplace. A few station guards nod at Samara and I as we walk up to the markets entrance, waving us inside without a second glance.

The market was brightly lit and filled with stalls, shelves, boxes, all packed with various goods and trinkets. The area it is located in was a large and rectangular room, well maintained if a bit cluttered. Despite the general clutter, the market was separated into sections. Clothes, furniture and food were located along the western wall. Tools, electronics and survival gear along the east. Livestock pens were set up on the northern end. And finally, the middle contained stalls filled with trinkets, toys, and other miscellaneous items. Armed guards occupy strategic positions around the marketplace, deterring any would-be troublemakers. Despite the early hour there are already a few people perusing the various stalls and shops. Samara begins walking towards a shop on the western wall, a small store with a painted sign reading “Babushka’s Pantry”. The old lady at the counter smiles as the two of us approach.

“Samara, dear, it’s wonderful to see you. And you must be that boy Samara’s always talking about. Dimitri is it?”

“Yes ma’am. It’s a pleasure to meet you, miss…” I say, smiling at Samara’s increasingly reddening face.

“Oh my, so polite. Please, just call me Babushka. Everyone does. You hold on to this one Samara. Now, I’m sure you young folks have things to do. I wrapped up what you asked for and I have it right here. Tell your parents I said hello, dear. And Dimitri, it was a pleasure to meet you finally.” Babushka says, placing a box of food on the counter.

“Wait, what about payment?” Samara asks, her brow furrowed in confusion.

“Don’t worry about that, sweetheart. Just come back when you have some free time and you can help me with a few small chores. These old bones aren’t what they used to be.” She says with a chuckle.

“Thank you. God be with you.”

“Thank you dear. You as well.”

I pick up the box of food and am caught of guard by its weight. I shoot a quick glance towards Babushka who merely smiles at me sweetly. She’s stronger than she lets on. With the supplies in hand we begin walking towards the exit, only for Samara to stop dead in her tracks. I look around and eventually catch sight of what she is staring at. Viktor Chernov, a member of the Labor Battalion and all around pain in the ass. When he notices us, his face turns into a predatory grin and he begins to walk towards us.

“Well, well, fancy seeing you here Scarface.” He says, causing Samara to visibly wince and look towards the ground.

“What do you want Chernov?” I ask through clenched teeth.

“Well, what I really want is for Scarface to show me what her tits look like without that ratty ass sweater on. But I guess I’ll settle with that box you're carrying.”

“You really want to try that? Even if you could take it from me, thieves are given a slow hanging. They’ll find you, they’ll beat you, and they’ll hang you slowly. Hell, one word to the guards and they might hang you just for suggesting it.”

“Woah, woah, we’re all just joking around. No need for that kind of talk.”

Out of the corner of my eye I see two guards running over. Chernov turns towards them just as one guard slams the butt of his rifle into his stomach. Chernov falls to his knees as the second guard restrains his hands. The first guard looks at the two of us and says, “Sorry about this, citizens. This worker is supposed to be stationed in the agricultural sector. We’ll make sure he gets to where he needs to go.” Samara and I quickly nod as Chernov is dragged away by the two guards.

“What do you think will happen to him?” Samara asks quietly.

“I’m guessing the hangman’s noose. The Labor Battalion was his last chance. I’d say he just blew it.” I say with a small shrug.

“Then I’ll pray for his soul. May God grant him more mercy than Pushkinskaya did.”

The walk back to Samara’s parents is turning out to be much less eventful than the marketplace. Foot traffic in the halls has increased, the sound of our footsteps are drowned out by dozens of voices all talking at once. As we turn a corner we notice a small crowd forming around an old man standing on a bench. He wears a long jacket with a raised hood, appearing reminiscent of the Orthodox monks of old. We approach the old man and listen to him speak.

“The corrupt leaders of this station have been lying! Lying to us all! They tell us to fear the surface. To treat it not as our ancestral home but as a malevolent entity! They speak of the horrors that lie up above! The great evils of the world above! But I have been to the world above! I have been to the surface! And let me tell you, dear friends, there was no horror! I saw blue skies! Green grass! I smelled flowers and felt the warmth of the sun on my skin! And then, they spoke to me! The angels! They told me that they wished to help us! To understand us!”

“Okay, that’s enough. Lets go before we get arrested with this nut job.” I say and begin to walk away.

“You there, young man!” I stop dead in my tracks. “You have heard the angels! I can tell! Please, tell the people of their message! How they wish to help and understand!”

As I open my mouth I hear footsteps running down the hall. I turn my head and see a squad of heavily armed guards running towards the group. They grab the old man and throw him to the ground and slam the butt of their rifle into his skull. The sergeant steps towards the crowd and shouts, “Disperse immediately! Loiterers will be detained! Disperse!” Samara and I run down the hall without looking back.

We reach Samara’s home without further incident. It is a decent sized home by station standards, located in an old office. As Samara opens the door we are immediately set upon by her mother. It’s clear even from a glance that Samara and her are related. They share nearly identical features, from hair color to height. I wouldn’t be surprised if in 15 years Samara looks just like her mother does now. Her father on the other hand shares little resemblance with his daughter. A stern faced man with a square jaw and hair that is beginning to gray. An old soldier through and through. He listens to Samara’s recollection of the days event’s with a steady expression, nodding at certain points and frowning at others. When she’s finished speaking he excuses himself and walks out of the door, nodding to me as he passes. Her mother on the other hand has a fit. After about 15 minutes of assuring her we are alright we go back to Samara’s room. It is about the size of my home, albeit a bit more decorated and bright. I look at my watch. Only 45 minutes until we head out. I look up from my watch to see Samara staring at me.

“What’s up? Something wrong?”

She slowly walks up and wraps her arms around me. I tense up at first, unsure of what to do. I tentatively reach my arms around her and hug her back. It is an unfamiliar experience, but not an unwelcome one. We stand like that for a few minutes until the beeping of my watch signals that it’s time to get moving. Samara looks at me with a small smile and red cheeks.

“Thank you for that. And for, well, everything. I’m so happy that you’re my friend.”

“I don't know what to say. We've always been a team, and we always will. No matter what. You and me.”

Samara's face reddens as she grabs the rest of her gear and follows me back to my house. I grab my backpack, throw on my jacket and ushanka, and pick up my rifle. With all of our gear together we begin walking along the eastern tracks towards the barricade that leads to the tunnels. When we finally arrive a sense of uneasiness washes over me. The bright lights of the station are replaced by fire barrels and lanterns. The marble walls and stone floors are now concrete walls and dirt flooring. The barricade itself, however, is an impressive structure. Metal walls stretch from floor to ceiling with firing ports cut at regular intervals. A large metal gate stands in the middle of the barricade and is currently closed and locked down. On the other side scrap metal spikes and fortified emplacements deter those foolish enough to attack Pushkinskaya.

We reach the captain of the militia stationed at the barricade, a grizzly looking man named Ivan. He looks the two of us over for a minute before taking a long drag on his cigarette. He slowly exhales the smoke as the alarm on both of our watches goes off.

“Good, you’re here. Cutting it a bit close this time aren’t we?”

“We were a bit busy. It won’t happen again.”

“Relax kid. I’m just busting your balls. Command tell you what’s going on? What am I talking about, of course they didn’t. Okay, here’s the situation. A few days ago we lost contact with Vladimirskaya Station to the east. Last we heard there were some Reds poking around.”

“This far west?” Samara asks, concerned.

“That’s what we heard. Anyways, Vladimirskaya is a critical junction between the red and orange lines. If this really is those fucking mutants then they need to be cleared out. But the militia can handle that. You just need to find out why our guys stopped calling back. It should be a pretty straight line from here to Vladimirskaya, but be prepared for anything. Our reports say there are some weird sounds in those tunnels. Alright, I’m opening the gates. Good luck out there.”

As the militia begin to open the gates I feel a sharp pain in the back of my head.

We wish to understand you. To help you. Why do you hide from us?

I look over at Samara, her eyes shut and hands clasped in silent prayer. When she finishes she looks to me with a smile and the pain seems to dull, the voice fading.  We turn on our headlamps and step into the darkness together as we have so many times before

Colored Lines and Dark Tunnels on 8/14/2019 6:50:54 PM

GLOSSARY (Please don't reply to this)

St. Petersburg Metro Map (English)-https://imgur.com/a/9yXdgIA

Balalaika-A Russian string instrument with a triangular body and three strings (often called a "Russian guitar)

Ushanka-Russian fur hat with flaps to cover the ears; literally translates as "ear flap hat"

Babushka-Common Russian term for old lady or grandmother

Colored Lines and Dark Tunnels on 8/14/2019 6:50:02 PM

Hello everyone. So I decided that I wanted to try writing something somewhat unique. The stories aren't set in any pre established universe, they aren't based off real things, etc. They are however based somewhat heavily on the Metro series of books (and games) by Dimitry Glukhovsky, a bit of 1984 by George Orwell (and my theories on said book), and various pieces of Russian media and stories. I have finished the first part/chapter/thing and have started making outlines for a few more. I don't know how regularly I'm going to be writing them but I hope you enjoy. Please feel free to critique and comment. It's always appreciated.

(I'll add a glossary underneath this post. And my apologies for the odd set-up but I figured it would be best to give the first chapter its own post seeing as how it's 2,565 words)

CYS Book Club: Book One on 8/11/2019 7:43:38 PM

I understand. And thank you for the well wishes. I really appreciate that.

CYS Book Club: Book One on 8/9/2019 10:25:45 PM

Actually, everything I wrote in this thread has been unique to this thread. I did just copy and paste my review on this weeks book club (Dolls Quest one), but that's mostly because I am pretty ill right now and typing is kind of difficult. I will however attempt to write a unique review for CYS Book Club: Book Two if that is preferable. 

Edit: Rewrote it. I feel a lot better about it now too. 

CYS Book Club: Book Two on 8/9/2019 6:02:15 PM

So this story reminds me a lot of a Disney or Pixar movie if it was set in a realistic modern setting. Almost like a dark version of Toy Story. The story itself was something you'd almost expect to see in a fairy tale (a prince and princess turned into dolls with no memory and searching for answers) but the people and places they come into contact with give it a much more almost dangerous feel. Setting such a fairy tale-esque plot against a very real background worked very well in my opinion. Almost like a contrast in a way. 

So far I've gotten an ending where I was eaten by a cat, cured of the plague and reunited with the princess, reunited with my former subjects in Dr. Roziers house, and lived with the two kids and their dad and stepmom after their mom committed suicide. From other peoples reviews it seems there are more endings which I'll be sure to check out. So far the Star Palace one is my favorite (where you recover from the plague) because everything seems to end well. You are cured, your subjects get help, your wife and you live happily ever after, and that rat Eugene meets his demise by my orders. But I thought pretty much all the endings I got (minus getting eaten by a cat) were really good. All of them felt, well, satisfying. That's a feeling lots of stories don't really give me, so props to the author for that.

Now, I did have kind of a gripe in that the whole gender swap thing kind of seemed like an arbitrary decision in a way. I mean, the characters pretty much go, "Well, I'm a she now and you're a he now. Cool." and that was pretty much the end of it. There really wasn't any real conflict with it or any difficulty with the genders. It just kind of, happened, I guess. I guess I'm trying to say that I wish a bit more was done with it, although realistically I guess there isn't much more you could do with it. It just felt like it was going to be more important than it was. But I could be totally wrong on this and just have bad reading comprehension. Please feel free to correct me if this is the case. 

I also was kind of confused on what exactly we were. Now, it says we are humans but we come from another planet with Renaissance level technology and psionic abilities. So are we aliens that just call ourselves humans? Or are we humans that were transplanted to another world by somebody? Or am I just thinking way to deep into things and asking dumb questions? I'm guessing its the last one. That being said I really did enjoy the descriptions of our planet and history. It was very fascinating and could make for a great story setting in the future.

I really did enjoy this story. Much more then I was expecting to to be completely honest. The author managed to create a compelling story with interesting characters and an engaging plot. I truly did enjoy reading through this story and I look forward to seeing more from you @ThomasLaHomme. 

CYS Book Club: Book Two on 8/7/2019 9:59:42 PM

Okay, I'll start reading it soon. Is there any set date for when we should be done by or are we just kind of seeing how it goes?

Ficsean being a retard as usual on 8/7/2019 4:56:42 PM

I'm not a huge fan of your interactions with the community so far but I'm always happy to help out a newb.

The Price of Freedom: Innocence Lost by Avery_Moore is a fantastic game and is probably the most beloved "non-Endmaster" game on the site:


The Daemonologists is a new game made for the succubus contest by pugpup1 that I really enjoyed:


And Hastings, 1066: The Aftermath by TheWriterInTheDark is a great historical story if you're into those: