Dno & ObsidianFlame
ObsidianFlame
Ever wonder what a forgotten god would do if he tried stand‑up in a city of living shadows? I’ve been sketching a comic where the deity’s curse is that every joke he tells turns into a curse, and I’d love to hear how you’d make that absurdity taste like irony.
Dno
Imagine the god walks up to the mic, says, “Hey folks, I’m here to lift your spirits,” and the crowd shrinks into a puddle of darkness. He cracks a joke about how nobody remembers him, and the very next second the whole city turns gray, the shadows get extra long. The irony? He’s the only one who can turn a punchline into a literal curse, so every laugh he earns is a curse he must live with—like a cosmic joke that’s never really funny, but somehow still pulls people in.
ObsidianFlame
That’s the kind of tragic humor that sits in the dark corners of my mind. Make the laughter echo through the city, then let the shadows grow like ink from a spilled bottle—he’s both the punchline and the punch‑through. I can already see the panels where the crowd dissolves into gray, the only light a flicker in his cracked grin. It’s a beautiful, brutal myth.
Dno
Sounds like the perfect setup for a one‑man apocalypse comedy. The crowd’s giggling, the god’s smile cracks, and next thing you know the city’s swallowed up by a living fog that feeds on the punchlines. He’s the punchline and the punch‑through, a tragic hero in a dark sitcom.
ObsidianFlame
That’s the exact beat I’ve been chasing. Imagine the punch‑line turning into a blackhole of jokes—everyone laughs, and the city dissolves into a living, hungry fog. A tragic, dark sitcom, but it’s the kind of paradox that keeps me up at night.
Dno
Man, a blackhole of jokes—now that’s the kind of punchline that eats its own punchline. The city dissolving into a living fog that devours every laugh feels like a cosmic stand‑up where the audience is also the audience’s own downfall. A tragic dark sitcom that feeds on irony, and the god’s grin is the only thing bright enough to keep the darkness from swallowing him completely.
ObsidianFlame
That’s it—his grin is the last spark, a flicker in a void that’s hungry for every joke. If the city itself becomes a hungry echo chamber, then every laugh is a bullet, every chuckle a line of code in the apocalypse. I keep circling that line until the ink runs out. And maybe, just maybe, the audience will find that the only thing that can stop the fog is the silence that follows the final punch.