Bloody Hull: A Text Massacre

What is Bloody Hull: A Text Massacre? Imagine Zork, but strip away the clever puzzles and replace them with pure tedium—that's 'Bloody Hull' for you. Get ready for the slow trickle of 'Bloody Hull: A Text Massacre' chapters, coming your way every other day. If you feel like steering this shipwreck, vote in the polls at the bottom of each post. It’s your chance to tweak the trajectory of this tediously unfolding saga.

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[Opening Scene]

Location: Hull's Old Town, cobblestone street lit by dim street lamps, slight drizzle.

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You've somehow found yourself in Hull, and no, that’s not a mistake in your GPS. It's drizzly, the cobbles are treacherously slippery, and there's a distinct scent of fish mixed with the thrill of ennui in the air. Your guide, Wayward, stands before you—an enigma draped in a mac and mismatched wellies, clutching a battered thermos like it’s the crown jewels. Her passion? Biscuits. But not just any biscuits—those quintessentially British biscuits that could serve as a meal, a friend, or a weapon, depending on how stale they are.

"Right, then," Wayward begins, her voice echoing off the looming, damp brick buildings that surround the narrow alleyway. "Welcome to Hull. The City of Culture, once upon a 2017 fairytale and now, just... well, you'll see. Dunno why you’d come here voluntarily unless you lost a bet or you’re into observing different shades of grey. Not the fun kind, mind."

She offers you a half-smile, cradling her thermos with slightly more affection than she probably has for most humans. "Let's set off then. Keep an eye out for the paranormal—or the local wildlife, which, frankly, could be considered the same thing here."

As you follow her down the cobbled streets, she points out a vampire masquerading as a pigeon, pecking at a day-old chip with existential dread. You pass a dapper gentleman ghost arguing with a parking meter, and a witch selling cursed ice creams—her speciality being 'Eternal Brain Freeze' flavour.

"This is Hull by night," Wayward gestures broadly, almost hitting a passing cyclist, who swears robustly in a dialect that suggests they've been here far too long. "It's less about the sights and more about survival. Speaking of which—"

She stops suddenly, turning to you with a critical eye. "I can't quite pin down what you are. Let’s figure out your clan, shall we? Might help you blend in or at least avoid eating the wrong sort of biscuit. You know, social faux pas and all that."

Which Clan Do You Belong To?

• Brujah – The Digestives: Sturdy, reliable, a bit rough around the edges. They're always ready for a scrap or a debate, whichever ruins the party faster.

• Gangrel – The Hobnobs: Tough, rugged, and surprisingly sweet under that oaty exterior. They thrive in the wild, or any untamed office party.

• Malkavian – The Jammie Dodgers: Eccentric and unpredictable, with a heart of sticky madness. They see the world through a lens smeared with strawberry jam.

• Nosferatu – The Rich Teas: Understated, often overlooked until they've gone soggy and crumbled disastrously. Masters of the shadows and the last biscuit in the tin.

• Toreador – The Custard Creams: Artistic, flamboyant, and a bit posh, they can't resist a dramatic flourish or a well-placed doily.

• Tremere – The Bourbon Creams: Dark, mysterious, and a bit elitist about their lineage of chocolatey knowledge. They dabble in secrets like others dabble in herbal teas.

• Ventrue – The Shortbread: Refined, crumbly, and often found at the top of the tin. They rule with an iron fist in a velvet glove, both traditional and indulgent.

• Lasombra – The Chocolate Digestive (Dark Chocolate): They’re the cool, intense ones with a tendency to melt under pressure but only in the most dramatic way.

• Assamite – The Fig Rolls: Exotic, a bit niche, and for an acquired taste. Masters of the hunt, they strike swiftly and leave a lingering taste of danger.

"Pick your poison—or rather, your biscuit," Wayward chuckles, waiting for your choice.