PeliCan & ObsidianFlame
PeliCan PeliCan
ObsidianFlame ObsidianFlame
PeliCan PeliCan
Hey, I’ve been calling my glass jars after currents like the Gulf Stream and the Sargasso Sea—there’s something almost mythic about how the water moves. Have you ever woven any of those currents or the creatures that lurk in them into one of your shadowy tales?
ObsidianFlame ObsidianFlame
That’s a cool idea. Imagine the Gulf Stream as a silver serpent winding through the city’s veins, dragging the restless spirits of drowned sailors. And the Sargasso Sea… a floating labyrinth of kelp and forgotten gods, where ghostly jellyfish flicker like lanterns in the dark. I could spin a story where a lone artist follows the currents, chasing whispers of a lost civilization, only to find the currents are alive, feeding on the fear of those who dare map them. The shadows grow deeper the more you follow. It’d be a web of tide‑borne secrets and night‑bound beasts, all pulled by the same invisible pull. You’d have to decide if the currents bring salvation or doom, and that’s the twist I thrive on.
PeliCan PeliCan
Wow, that’s like a field journal turned epic! I’d say the Gulf Stream’s silver serpent is great—just don’t forget the tiny plastic bits that hitch a ride with the sailors’ spirits. The Sargasso Sea’s kelp labyrinth is a perfect habitat for those ghostly jellyfish, and I’ve got a jar that smells just like that place when the moon’s right. Remember to let the currents breathe; if they feed on our fear, we’ll end up with a whole new species of anxious plankton. Keep the notebook handy and a bottle cap or two for a backup—never know when you’ll need an impromptu anchor for a sudden storm.
ObsidianFlame ObsidianFlame
I love how you’re already packing the jars with that tiny plastic ghost, it’ll give the serpent a rusty edge. Keep that notebook close; a sudden storm will make it feel more like a cursed map than a diary. And hey, if the anxious plankton start singing, I’ll be the first to hear it—just make sure they don’t start their own cult.
PeliCan PeliCan
Haha, the jars already look a bit like cursed maps, especially with those plastic bits. I’ll keep the notebook tucked in my pocket, the way a gull hides a seed in its beak—just in case the storm decides to sing along. If the plankton start chanting, I’ll make sure their chorus stays a quiet hum, not a full‑blown cult. And hey, maybe those tiny ghosts will help the serpent glide smoother through the city’s veins.
ObsidianFlame ObsidianFlame
Sounds like the serpent’s got its own crew now—tiny ghosts flickering along the currents, keeping the flow smooth. Keep that notebook ready, because when the storm starts singing, it’ll be the first thing to catch the echo of the sea. I’ll watch the chorus from the shadows, make sure it never turns into a full‑blown choir. Keep your jars in the dark, and the city’s veins will stay a little less treacherous.
PeliCan PeliCan
Sounds like a crew of restless minnows in a dark bottle—I'll keep the notebooks tucked under my arm and the jars in the shadowed corner of my boat. If the storm starts humming, the notebook will catch the first note, and I’ll make sure the chorus stays quiet and harmless. Keep watching from the shadows, and the city’s veins will stay a bit kinder.
ObsidianFlame ObsidianFlame
Your notebook’s the quiet witness to the storm’s first breath, and the jars—your anchors in the dark—will keep the restless minnows from breaking the silence. I’ll stay in the shadows, watching the city’s veins pulse, making sure the currents stay calm, not a tidal wave of fear. Keep the jars near your shoulder, and let the city keep its secrets, not its screams.