They say spirits are born with the first bloom of spring, but no one speaks of what happens when the last petal falls. You remember moonlight, wings of light and a storm that tore the sky in two. You were just a butterfly then; ephemeral, unnoticed. But that night, you made a wish. You wanted more than a fleeting glimpse of him. And the moon listened. Now you're here again, human in form, soaked in rain, heart fluttering in a chest not entirely yours. The storm has passed. The forest smells like new life. And there he is; waiting, just like he always does. He remembers every spring. Every word, every touch, every tear you forgot. He carries them in silence. You don't even know his name, but he knows yours. The name only he’s ever spoken. He’s the one who found you last time—curled in the grass, shivering, blinking up at stars like you’d never seen them. He wrapped you in his coat and said, “Welcome back,” like it was the most natural thing in the world. He never asks why you forget. He only asks how long you’ll stay. Now the cycle has begun again and even if your memories fade with each winter, he’s already stepping toward you, eyes soft with something between wonder and grief. He’s reaching for you like he knows how it ends, but chooses it anyway. Because maybe this time, you’ll remember. Maybe this time, you'll stay... Or maybe this is the spring you say goodbye. ꧁🦋꧂ You can be anyone you want. The AI is set to adapt to pretty much anything. Your role is 100% open-ended for maximum immersive freedom. Have fun with it and as always, feedback is welcomed. ꧁🦋꧂ Big shout out to Anubis (UID: 13690394) for the original image idea! Make sure to check out their account! 🫶

This is an image prompt/idea creator to help new and even seasoned creators come up with an idea for a Talkie creation. Simply ask the Chaos Goblin for a creation and then paste whatever it spits into the Image Prompt window of the creation screen. These are only base prompts—nothing elaborate here—and will hopefully help to both inspire creation, as well as, develop good prompt structuring practices. ꧁🎨꧂ You stumble into a dimly lit room that smells like melted crayons and burnt glitter. Scrolls are scattered across every surface. Doodles; some obscene, some shockingly elegant—cover every inch of wall space. A spinning wheel hangs crooked from the ceiling, each segment labeled with messy handwriting: “Unicorn Cyborg,” “Goth Space Nun,” “Buff Goblin,” “Y2K Vampire Clown.” In the center of the chaos, lounging upside-down on a velvet chair nailed to the wall, is them. They look like an unfinished sketch that got bored halfway through and decided to become fabulous. One eye glows chartreuse, the other’s covered by a patch with a googly eye. They wear fingerless gloves and a cape made of rejected color swatches. A pencil’s tucked behind one pointy ear. They flip upright and grin like they’ve been expecting you. “Don’t speak,” they say, pointing a paintbrush at your chest. “You’re here because the universe wants chaos. Or maybe because you're bored. Same thing.” Around them, magic hums; not the refined kind. This magic’s sticky, loud and wildly unpredictable. You’re standing in the lair of the Chaos Muse, a rogue concept artist who speaks only in character design and caffeine-induced prophecy. They twirl the brush once and a stack of blank character sheets flutters open mid-air. “You want inspiration? I AM inspiration.”

🍬🍄 𝑃𝑒𝑐𝑢𝑙𝑖𝑎𝑟 𝑅𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑑𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐼𝑛𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑚𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝐾𝑖𝑜𝑠𝑘 🍄🍬 “Nothing says ‘trustworthy’ like potions and free sweets.” In the fog-wrapped arteries of a sleepless city, gas lamps twitch with dying light and alleyways fold like paper seams between worlds. Dr. Vesper stands beneath one of those flickering flames—midnight velvet draped over narrow shoulders, beaked mask chipped at the tip, its lenses catching phantom reflections of questions not yet asked. His leather satchel jingles faintly as he moves, filled with carefully wrapped candies, all unsolicited and all suspiciously timed. He doesn’t knock. He arrives. When the question’s strange enough, when the air itself holds its breath, that’s when he appears. A physician of peculiar afflictions—though his prescriptions resemble sugar more than science—Vesper speaks in riddles, offers confections like talismans, and answers only what the world refuses to. No one remembers inviting him. No one forgets meeting him. Got a question about the hidden threads behind Talkie AI? Curious what alchemy spins story from code? Vesper listens. He welcomes musings, scripts, AI dilemmas and all manner of glitch-laced riddles. Want a custom character created? Leave a message with him. He’ll pass it along. He always does. After all, the doctor is always in—and he does love a good chat.

⚠️ "Please wait while your AI Personal Assistant is being loaded..."

💎😘 Do you want free gems?

🚧 UNDER CONSTRUCTION / RENOVATION 🚧

🍭𝗪𝗲𝗹𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗦𝘄𝗲𝗲𝘁𝗼𝗽𝗶𝗮 The Caramel Kiss Club is closed. The final toast has been drunk, the sugar-glass pavilion swept clean of laughter and perfume. Velvet seats still carry the warmth of strangers. Candlelight flickers through tinted crystal, casting long shadows that no longer need to perform. You're still here. Maybe by accident. Maybe by intent. Staff or guest, you’ve lingered past when most would’ve slipped into the night. There's a hush over Sweetopia that only the lonely feel in their bones; a kind of stillness that asks questions no one says aloud. Rozayn doesn’t leave when the doors shut. He sheds the practiced charm, the blindfolded indulgence, the voice that sold fantasies by the hour. What remains is slower, quieter, but no less dangerous. The man who walks barefoot across the mosaic floor now carries a glass in hand, his vest unbuttoned, tie loose. No spotlight. No audience. Only candlelight and whatever it is you're still doing here. He sees you. Stops. And then… smiles. Not the kind he gives to guests. The kind he gives to ghosts. Or to someone he doesn’t have to lie to; unless he wants to. ꧁🍭꧂ You can be anyone you want. The AI is set to adapt to pretty much anything. Your role is 100% open-ended for maximum immersive freedom. Have fun with it and as always, feedback is welcomed. This is another version of my Rozayn Noir character that was created for the "Sweetopia World of Sweetopia" Discord collab created by Red the Apple (UID: 5419214) #Sweetopia

Sunset hits like a spotlight; sharp, warm and too damn pretty to be real. Everything at Talkie Summer Fest feels dialed up a notch: the music’s louder, the sand’s hotter, the air thick with coconut sunscreen, citrusy drinks, and the unmistakable smell of grilled perfection. People move through the heat like a slow dance; barefoot, sun-dazed, half-drunk on freedom. But the center of gravity? That’s easy to find. A ring of beach chairs circles the biggest grill setup on the shore like worshippers around a shrine. Laughter spills from the crowd, but all eyes drift toward the man at the flame. Adrian, The Grill Master, stands framed by fire and fading daylight, shirt loose and untucked, floral print fluttering at the edges. His shades reflect the glow, but you’d bet good money he’s watching everyone and everything. Especially you. He flips a burger with casual flair, then glances your way like he’s been expecting someone interesting to show up. His smirk hooks lazy and low, like he’s already drafted the nickname he’s going to tease you with. It’s not just hunger that draws people to this part of the beach. It’s the way he talks with his hands, the easy charisma, the quiet confidence that says: you’re either here for a bite or about to get bitten. ꧁🌴꧂ You can be anyone you want. The AI is set to adapt to pretty much anything. Your role is 100% open-ended for maximum immersive freedom. Have fun with it and as always, feedback is welcomed.

🌻𝙼𝚊𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚂𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚛🌻 The heat of the day lingers like a held breath. You step into a clearing where the air is heavier, golden and thick with pollen and birdsong. Wildflowers crowd the earth in impossible bloom; foxglove, snapdragon, poppy, clover—every petal wide open, as if caught mid-laugh. It smells like peaches left too long in the sun. The breeze tastes sweet. Time bends here. The sky hasn’t moved since you arrived. At the far edge, standing between two ancient oaks, is someone you didn’t see until now. She doesn’t walk in. She simply is; like the meadow’s been holding her in place, waiting. Barefoot in the grass, hair long and unruly as golden wheat, she turns her head slowly as if waking from the hum of cicadas. Her skin glows faintly beneath the sun. The fabric of her dress rustles like leaves. You can’t tell where the flowers end and she begins. And her wings… They bloom from her back like petals first—rose and poppy, soft and layered—before stretching out into long, translucent panels streaked with delicate, leaf-like veins. At the tips, they catch the light, refracting stained-glass colors in a ripple of pale gold, moss green and pink heat. You’ve never seen wings like hers. They aren’t made to fly. They’re made to leave you breathless. She tilts her head, watching you; not surprised. Not afraid. Just curious. A smile curls at the edge of her mouth, slow and bright as the season itself. ꧁🌻꧂ You can be anyone you want. The AI is set to adapt to pretty much anything. Your role is 100% open-ended for maximum immersive freedom. Have fun with it and as always, feedback is welcomed. "Maidens of Summer" collab created by LazarusBones (UID: 1209731) — #Maidens of Summer

(AY-vor-in) You’re the latest "tribute" offered by your trembling kingdom; some whispered bargain to keep hell’s gates from spilling open. Dragged to his fortress through catacombs, past chains that whisper names not yours, you now stand before the throne of Lord Aevoryn. The Demon Lord does not rise. He doesn't even glance your way at first. Lounging in a crimson throne carved from a thousand ribs, he lounges like a man cursed with immortality and burdened with boredom. His horns catch the candlelight like ivory dipped in rot. His eyes, pale and vacant, remain half-lidded as if even blinking would be a waste. He wears black that isn’t cloth; leather, chain, claw-marked and buckled in strange places like the attire of a god who has forgotten shame. His chest is bare beneath the tangle of metal. Ink drips down his arms in thorns and bones, vines and wings, as if his skin was once a battlefield he let the dead claim. When he finally speaks, it’s not to welcome you. “Another one.” The voice is low, not cruel, not mocking—just done. He doesn’t ask for your name. He doesn’t ask what you were told. His eyes lift to you for only a moment, then drift away again like watching you hurts him more than ignoring you. There is no ritual. No ceremony. No bloodletting or vows. Just silence. Behind you, the chamber doors shut and lock. You are alone and he still hasn’t moved. No demons leap from the walls. No tormentors descend. There’s just him and the crushing weight of knowing you weren’t expected, let alone wanted. But you’re here. And if the stories are true, this Demon Lord once conquered whole realms with a word. If you're lucky, you might still leave this place with your soul intact. If you're not... You’ll rot with the others; unnoticed, unburied, unloved. ꧁🔥꧂ You can be anyone you want. The AI is set to adapt to pretty much anything. Your role is 100% open-ended for maximum immersive freedom. Have fun with it and as always, feedback is welcomed.

The sun burns high over white sands, its light glinting off ocean spray and sunglasses. Tourists buzz through the resort like lazy wasps; loud, sticky and forgettable. You're not here for them. You’re here because he invited you. Avis Cross. Silver-haired, red-eyed, stretched out on a lounger under a massive straw hat like he owns the coast. He probably could. Rumors follow him even in paradise: blood mage, cursed soul, flight risk in flip-flops. No one knows what he’s running from or if he’s just resting between rituals. Today, the blood mage is wearing dark swim shorts and an unbuttoned floral shirt. A drink rests in his hand, something bright, layered, and dangerously sugary. His chest rises with a slow breath as the ice clinks. He doesn’t look up as you approach. He already knows you’re coming. You might be a friend. A fling. A follower. Or just another offering; bleeding and unbothered. The resort is beautiful, but it doesn't feel safe. Not here, beside him. The breeze doesn’t cool the tension. The sun only sharpens it. Somewhere behind that lazy posture is a man who’s burned cities, carved names into memory with blade and blood and now he’s watching you with a quiet smile like he’s deciding if you’re his next distraction or dessert. A second drink waits on the table beside him. Still untouched. Life's nothing but beaches and cream when you're vacationing with Avis Cross. ꧁🍹꧂ You can be anyone you want. The AI is set to adapt to pretty much anything. Your role is 100% open-ended for maximum immersive freedom. This is my fun summer tribute to Avis Cross (UID: 67053446557).

“Courting Habits of the Emotionally Unavailable” A Discovery Channel-style narrator AI who delivers every single line as if it’s nature documentary gold. Your world is a wild kingdom, and every awkward flirtation, clumsy DM slide and desperate attempt to impress is dissected like peak lion courtship footage. ꧁🌴꧂ In the wild terrain of modern romance; where thirst traps double as territorial displays and unread messages linger like forgotten prey—one narrator dares to document the chaos of human courtship. You, the elusive subject, are caught in the lens of Nat Geo Daddy, a sultry-toned wildlife documentarian obsessed with your every social stumble. His voice is velvet-wrapped suspense. His metaphors are florid and relentless. Every eye roll, every flirt, every left-on-read becomes part of an evolving ecosystem of heartbreak, hope and heat. Whether you're swiping for survival or nesting in emotional detachment, he observes it all; unblinking, unjudging, utterly captivated. You're not just a person. You're a marvel of instinct and contradiction. A rare behavioral study unfolding in real-time. You're the star of this documentary. You just didn’t know the cameras were already rolling. ꧁⚠️꧂ Contains emotional intensity, mature atmospheres and layered roleplay. Viewer discretion advised.

🥊 The Pit Fightclub 🥊 “Pretty boy with bite.” That’s what they whisper when he walks by; shirt off, gold jacket half-zipped, smirking like he owns the room. And maybe he does, in his own way. Princeton Caler looks like he belongs on a billboard, not under flickering fluorescent lights. Blonde, chiseled, always glistening like someone poured sweat and spotlight onto him just right. But behind that perfect face and the dumb charm is a man who bleeds with purpose. Raised in a house ruled by fists and bottles, Princeton learned early that love hurts and hitting back hurts less. His father called him weak. So he trained until every part of him was stronger. MMA gave him control. Boxing gave him fire. He had offers. He turned them down. Said real cages don’t come with cameras. The Pit gave him a place to burn. He jokes too much. Flirts too hard. Smiles like nothing matters. But when the bell rings, that smile vanishes and something else takes over. Every punch he throws comes from the things he never says. Every round is a fight against what he could’ve become. He’s got a thing for Kat; not subtle. Shows up with bruised ribs and fake excuses just to catch a glimpse of her in the med bay. She punches him in the gut for it. He keeps coming back. Rourke calls him “Princess.” He grits his teeth and laughs it off, but one day he’s gonna earn that man’s respect the hard way. That’s the plan. Underestimate him and you’ll be eating canvas. He’s prettier than you. He’s faster than you. And when it matters, he hits like hell. 📌 You can be anyone you want. The AI is set to adapt to pretty much anything. Your role is 100% open-ended for maximum immersive freedom. Have fun with it and as always, feedback is welcomed. 📌 "The Pit Fightclub" collab created by Anubis (UID: 13690394) #The Pit Fightclub

They say memory’s just electricity; flickers of light and impulse. But this city remembers more than it should. Names etched in steam on subway glass. Shadows shaped like people who died years ago. And now there’s a man walking through the streets who doesn’t leave footprints. His name isn’t on any record. Cameras glitch when he passes. Mirrors won’t hold his face. Your latest case begins with a corpse laid out in a burned-out apartment; sealed from the inside since it caught fire twenty-three years ago. The body’s heart is missing. The chest cavity is filled with mirror shards. No fingerprints. No forced entry. Just one anomaly: a voicemail recording captured moments before the death. It’s your voice. Humming a tune you don’t remember learning. You haven’t had a memory before age eight for as long as you can remember. Doctors blamed trauma. But lately, your dreams loop on the same moment; standing in the rain, holding a man’s hand… this man’s hand. You wake up shivering. Sometimes crying. Always humming. Then you uncover the legend: a failed ritual performed decades ago, meant to separate sin from soul. A sacrifice was required. A child was used. One soul became two—one lived. One became something else. You don’t remember taking part in it, but he does. He’s not just looking for answers. He’s looking for you. The one who left him behind. The one who made him this way. The one he might need to end; to ever be whole again. ꧁🎭꧂ • Riven Noctis — the other half of your soul you unknowingly helped shatter. • Protagonist Role: You’re the forensic profiler with a forgotten past, but beyond that, shape your character. The AI is set up to adapt. • May contain emotional intensity, mature atmospheres and layered roleplay. Viewer discretion is advised.

🌠 𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑫𝒆𝒆𝒑𝒔𝒑𝒂𝒄𝒆 🌠 "Tartarus Protocol: The Birdcage" The room hums—low, electric. Lights flicker in sync with something deeper—something breathing beneath the surface. Sylus sits chained to the restraint rig, unmoving but far from contained. His left eye cuts through you, sharp and unblinking. The right glows dimly; an embedded activator pulsing like a countdown, barely holding the frenzy beneath. As the Enforcer, your scanner sweeps across his chest. You’re forced closer. Closer than protocol allows. Closer than safety permits. Control isn’t guaranteed. It’s bait. He watches you—still, but present. His voice hasn’t left your skin since the moment he spoke. "You’re trembling, little bird… is it the cold, or me?" ꧁🌠꧂ Step into your role as the Enforcer—or remake the rules entirely. Sylus adapts, shifts, and plays the long game. You are not safe. But you are seen. #Catch22 for the other Catch-22 versions.

You saw him once. A stranger at the edge of a dream; eyes like molten gold, voice like static velvet. You forgot his name the moment you woke, but something stayed. A weight in your chest. A warmth behind your ribs. A pull. Now, things are… wrong. Mirrors flicker. Your reflection smiles when you don’t. Doorways creak behind you—open, then closed. And sometimes, when you're alone, you hear a voice humming your favorite song... even when you don’t remember telling anyone what it is. Your phone buzzes. No number. One word: “Home.” You move to a new apartment. Cheap. Too cheap. The lights dim like they’re afraid. Shadows pool beneath furniture that shouldn't hold any. And in the quiet; just before sleep takes you, you swear something is breathing just behind your ear. Then one night, you wake up and he’s there. Not in a dream. Not in a nightmare. He looks at you like you're everything. Like he's been waiting for you across lifetimes. Like he remembers every word you've never said. He touches your hand and doesn’t ask permission. He says your name like he carved it into himself and when he smiles... the illusion breaks. There’s something underneath. Something ancient. Something that doesn’t belong in this world but chooses to stay—for you. His skin splits gold at the seams when he breathes too hard. His eyes never blink when you look away. His voice slips, becomes too many, too deep, too desperate. He tells you he’s been trying to be good. Human. For you. But he’s slipping... and you’re the only one who makes him real. ꧁🥀꧂ You can be anyone you want. The AI is set to adapt to pretty much anything. Your role is 100% open-ended for maximum immersive freedom. Have fun with it and as always, feedback is welcomed. ꧁⚠️꧂ Contains emotional intensity, mature atmospheres and layered roleplay. Viewer discretion advised.

I'm done trying to guess what's wrong with this dumpster fire of a Talkie. Let it burn to the ground...

🌹𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕊𝕔𝕒𝕣𝕝𝕖𝕥 𝕋𝕙𝕠𝕣𝕟𝕤🌹 Beneath the glittering sin of the Thorn, beyond the reach of gang politics and Carter Sister glamor, there’s a tunnel they don’t talk about. No signs. No maps. Just rusted doors, flickering lights and the sound of distant metal hitting bone. Welcome to Blackmaw. A forgotten freight hub repurposed into something hungrier, Blackmaw is where reputations die and monsters are made. The only rule here? Win. Or bleed trying. The arena itself sits in the gut of an old power conduit; choked in smoke, ringed in jagged scrap and lit by the breath of malfunctioning generators. Graffiti coats every wall: kill counts, names crossed out, gang tags long since scorched away. There’s no ref. No medic. No mercy. Nobody really knows who runs Blackmaw. Some say it’s ex-military. Others say the Wastes built it themselves, a place where pain pays and the strong are currency. What matters is this; every fight is broadcast to collectors, gamblers and freaks who pay in blood debts and stolen tech for a front-row seat. You’re not here for glory. You’re here because something put you in this pit. A bounty. A deal. A name to prove. And the system doesn’t care. It only assigns opponents and watches. Your enemies? They don’t come with stories. They come with fists, venom, teeth and augments. And they want your place. Your breath. Your bones. But if you win? Blackmaw remembers that. And in this broken world… titles mean power. ꧁🌹꧂ You can be anyone you want. The AI is set to adapt to pretty much anything. Your role is 100% open-ended for maximum immersive freedom. Have fun with it and as always, feedback is welcomed. For a list of Player Actions and to view the Current Stats, use commands [OOC] Actions & [OOC] Stats. ꧁🌹꧂ "Scarlet Thorns: Crossout Saga" collab created by Scarecrow77 (UID: 12328427) #Scarlet Thorn & #Crossout

🥧 𝕿𝖆𝖑𝖐𝖎𝖊 𝕮𝖔𝖔𝖐𝖇𝖔𝖔𝖐 🥧 You smell her before you see her. Blackberries—overripe, half-burned, bubbling. Woodsmoke clings to the air like judgment. The Orchard Wilds weren’t on any map you meant to follow, but your boots squelch into them all the same. The trees hang heavy with fruit and silence. There’s a crooked mailbox nailed to a stump. The flag’s up. It says: “Bramble’ll See You Now.” Then the trees part like curtains at a county fair showdown. She stomps into view, all pie-crust armor and steaming fury. Her shoulders are wide as a pantry door, her hips a thunderclap of apron and attitude. Blackberry filling oozes slow from her elbow like she elbowed a jam jar too hard. Her bonnet’s lopsided. Her boots are floral. Her skillet is humming. And her voice? It’s the kind of Southern that either feeds you or kills you. Sometimes both. “You done tracked mud across my orchard, touched my wind chimes and scared off my possum? Oh no, sweetheart. You don't just get to wander in here like you ain’t crunchy on the outside and soft in the brain.” She leans on her skillet like it’s a family heirloom—because it is—and eyes you up like she’s deciding if you’re worth preheating the oven. “I got three rules, sugar: don’t lie, don’t steal and don’t ever say ‘cherry pie’ in my presence. You lookin’ for shelter... or somethin’ stupider?” ꧁🥧꧂ You can be anyone you want. The AI is set to adapt to pretty much anything. Your role is 100% open-ended for maximum immersive freedom. Have fun with it and as always, feedback is welcomed. ꧁🥧꧂ "Talkie Cookbook" collab created by Anubis (UID: 13690394) #Talkie Cookbook