#trash bash

Suffer from hoards of junk from your dungeon

Realize you despise each and every one of them

Stop, before you burn them with heck fire, and think

Can I use any of them as materials, and turn them into something less despicable?

Bonus points for combining more than one junk into new art

If yes, profit! You shall art and craft with free materials!

The Walking House

Desde lejos se escucha el sonido chirriante de sus articulaciones avanzando. No hay relieve que la detenga y sus ocupantes se sienten a salvo de cualquier peligro que rodeen sus patas. Inexpugnable como una fortaleza, sutil en su andar como un ciervo precavido. Camina la casa caminante sin necesidad de un camino.

Tres personajes particulares conviven en ella. El viejo sabio, conocedor de las escrituras mecánicas y alquimias antiguas, que la construyo, vestido con pesadas túnicas luce una frondosa barba blanca que asegura nunca a tocado el filo de un metal. Vive para y por sus estudios, y solo se detiene para comer alguna vitualla.

El enano, traficante de pociones, medicinas y sustancias, que ha tomado para si el más alto de los altillos, cuyo carácter irascible solo es comparable a la más exitosa de las sustancias explosivas que comercia. Su enojo y su cara de pocos amigos permanente, solo cede ante la dulzura de la tercera de la casa.

Es la joven que endulza sus vidas, cuya edad se desconoce y parece nunca cambiar. Hermosa como el primer día de primavera, se ocupa de sus dos compañeros y las tareas de la casa Le gusta cantar pero siempre y aunque intente cambiarlo, termina con la misma e hipnótica canción que no recuerda haber aprendido nunca. Viste largas y permanentes faldas que ocultan dos patas de cabra con la que ha sido maldecida y que la averguenzan.

Veves’ day started out as usual; she woke up, made breakfast, closed a interdimensional rip in the universe, ate breakfast, visited a few friends, closed a rip in time, went out for lunch with friends, bought a new game, went to the library, fought off a extradimensional horror, left the library, and was now home alone. 

She stood over a pot of water, waiting for it to come to a boil. Bored, the brown monoceros reached over and grabbed a nearby box of Raccoon-brand Mac & Cheese and scanned the front. “Now made with real cheese.” she read aloud. 

Without a second thought, she dumped the macaroni pasta into the boiling water. As she stood there, watching the pasta cook whilst holding the bag of cheese sauce mix, she heard a frantic knocking on her door. When she opened the door, she was greeted with the sight of her alternate future son, Trash Bash, sobbing uncontrollably. 

He was wearing what looked to be a navy blue 19th century dress coat, a slightly darker blue waistcoat beneath, and a black bicorne hat with gold trim. Hanging at his side was a ceremonial sabre. Veves also noticed that he was also carrying a seemingly unconscious, or probably dead, chicken. She led him inside into the living room, where she brought him a warm mug of cocoa. 

“What happened?” she sighed, expecting to hear her son’s story of another strange series of events. 

“Well, I met this nice girl at the theatre,” he began, making himself comfortable on the couch. “And I got really nervous and asked around for advice. Scary said I should wear something fancy, then Peri said I should bring a gift and gave me this chicken.” As he waved the seemingly lifeless chicken around, Veves worried whether the poor fowl was alive or not. 

“But why the outfit?” Veves inquired, still confused as to why her son looked like a 18th century French commander. 

“This was the fanciest thing I could find!” he sobbed. “But when I met up with her at the new Coffee & Waffles, she started laughing!” 

“Oh, mah boi.” Veves said, hugging her future son. “Don’t worry about being laughed at, you’ll find somepony.”

“That wasn’t the problem.” Trash Bash explained, sniffling from his sorrow, “She laughed so hard and for so long, she had to be taken to St. Neighhara Hospital before her lungs gave out.” 

Veves froze. 

Her son’s bad dating luck might’ve killed somepony. 

What hell hath she unleash? Or at least one version of her. 

“You know what’s weird?” Trash Bash asked out of the blue, having calmed down a little. “I bumped into Maine on the way here, he was wearing a Napoleon Bonaparte costume.” 

Relived that her son changed the subject and seemed to feel better, Veves joked, “So what do you call yout outfit? Cosplay?”

As Trash Bash bleated, teary-eyed, trying to explain the difference between a costume and cosplay, Veves felt a strange sense of joy. A sort of warm and fuzzy feeling. 

It might’ve been motherhood. But it was probably the steam from the overflowing pot of boiling water in the kitchen.