A bit of backstory on this is that the word (I'm guessing it was a CAPTCHA?) ojie makes me think of an instrument for some reason, explaining why the picturing is the...way it is. Anyway, here you are!

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The fire grew larger as a hand, wearing a thick leather glove, tossed a branch to the fire, sending a cascade of sparks into the air. Someone among the chorus of voices whooped, and another laughed, clutching their neighbor's hand. The fire perfectly silhouetted the small movement. 

Then, out of nowhere, there was the unmistakable sound of a foot tapping on wood, keeping rhythm. The unmistakable tone of an instrument sang through the air, and all voices fell silent.

The instrument's music paused for a moment, and all around the campfire there were cheers. The instant the instrument's music began again, hands met hands and the group was immediately dancing around the campfire, laughing and joking about this or that and how terrible one's dancing was, or how another wouldn't stop staring into the forest.

The energetic tune slowly faded into a slower, relaxed composition, and, without suggestion or even word, they seated themselves in the grass again. But the instrument continued to play, and it would continue for a while...

I'm not particularly active, but it'd be interesting to have one of these. Your writing style is really cool! 

I had a lot of fun developing story and going down a rabbit hole with this one, to be honest. Here you are!

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The tip of the quill met the parchment, trailing ink across its surface. No voice spoke in the quiet of the attic; nothing was there to disturb her writing. So it was peaceful, or would have been if she weren't so tense--everything, in her mind, depended on this moment. And it did.

So she, in all her tense dependence, continued writing. This was the last sheet of parchment, the last chance. Every bone in her fingers itched to write a story, itched to create another fairy tale or drama. But no; this was important. She knew that. 

The letter would save her and every other soul held captive in this empty house. It would. Her quill dug further into the parchment, biting into it. The ink grew bolder, grew thicker with every word. And then the final word filled the paper.

She ran to the window, which was already open in preparation. Taking care to whistle a tune for the couriers as she placed it on the sill, she almost relaxed. 

Then the door creaked open. She whirled, her eyes widening. The villain was there, every inch of her dripping triumph. 

But the girl smiled. Before that villain could even speak, the girl interrupted. "I wouldn't waste your time if I were you. I've already sent a letter to the authorities." The girl's voice was tranquil. She walked over to the writing desk and picked up her quill again. "They'll be here any minute now. If I were you, I would run."

The villain gasped once, making a small choking sound. The villain opened her mouth to speak, but the girl gave her a warning look. "I would run." The girl repeated, smiling serenely.

And run that villain did, out the door and down the stairs. The girl could hear her stumbling. The girl knew that she wouldn't be bothered by the villain again... And the girl had all the time she wanted to write her stories now.

I completely went down a rabbit hole with this one... It's  probably my longest picturing, but the scenario was so fun to do! Here you are:

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A woman sat at the table, running her fingertips over its aged surface.

He didn't notice her at first--he was already occupied with looking around the shop, turning a curious eye toward its wares. There was a small porcelain doll holding some sort of stick or staff, a deck full of playing cards, a costume chest filled to the brim with assorted (and odd) costumes, a boomerang, and an open box of child's paints. They weren't the only wares the store offered, but he noticed her before he had the time to look at them.

'She' was, of course, the woman at the table. She smiled. He gave her a half-smile in return while trying to decipher what was so strange about the woman. She was an older woman, maybe in her later forties, with brown hair and blue eyes, but nothing about that was suspicious. 

"Welcome to the Gicma toy shop." She greeted him. He nodded. "Thanks." 

She wasn't done talking. "Your first purchase in this shop is free of charge." A pause. "Since you don't seem interested in these, would you like to see some of our older wares?" She asked. He nodded, taking a few steps toward her table. 

She produced a stack of polished black dominoes from a shelf to the side.  His gaze followed them, watching as she set three of them up on the table. With a flick of her fingers, they toppled, and with a quick movement of her hand, they were up again. She added four more to their number.

He blinked and opened his mouth to speak. She spoke first. "Not many seem to lean towards these. Usually something else starts them on their path." She set up dominoes with one hand and suddenly tugged hard on a cord to get right with the other. He flinched as, across the room, a large cloth that had previously hung on the wall fell to the floor, sending a cloud of dust into the air.

She knocked a particularly large line of dominoes down, then ran a hand over them, righting them almost magically. "Choose one." She told him. What? What good was a domino on its own? " I... I'm sorry, what?" he asked. She frowned and gestured to the wall, where the cloth had previously been. A picture hung on the wall of what was obviously a witch, clutching a wand in one hand and holding the other arm out to display a wrist covered in arcane bracelets. He squinted at the picture. On the woman's wrist, among all the magical artifacts, was a juvenile, pink bauble of a bracelet... Wait, there was a display holding the same exact jewelry in the shop window.

He looked back at the woman. "See?" she asked impatiently. "This is a shop of beginnings. This is where every good start is birthed." She gestured at the picture. "Where do you think Elize started?" she asked before withdrawing her hands from the table. "Now choose one."

He, more uncertain and weirded out than ever, stepped even closer to the table and reached out, closing his eyes and choosing a domino.

At first its surface was cold, but it warmed to his touch. He brought it closer to him and opened his eyes, staring at it. Where the dots on a usual domino would be, there were small renderings of... Wolves faces?

"Coyotes," the woman said out of nowhere. "They're coyotes, and this little trinket has been just waiting on my shop for years," she informed him. He turned to leave. "Yes, with something like that you could topple the world..." she said under her breath as he pushed the door open and left.

It was a good beginning. 

I usually talk about my favorite part of a picturing at the introduction, but... Your picturing was HARD, Leeli. Shame on you for having such a difficult name!

...Joking aside,  I hope you enjoy the picturing!

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"Leeli?" The foreign name was unfamiliar to them, sliding clumsily off of their lips. She nodded, digging her fingers further into the wooden mug she held. "Yes. Now that we're done with the formalities, how about we get to business?" Leeli asked, her voice an imitation of a trader's, harsh and clipped.

One of them, a large, rough man, glanced at the person next to him. "Right." He muttered. The group ( practically a mob) glared down at her. She faked a sip from her mug. "So," She began casually, composing herself as if she belonged in this tavern. "Which one of you has seen--" She tried.

"Not so fast, girl. What are you paying for the information?" One of them growled. She took another fake sip. "How do I know you even have the right information? You've heard nothing about this beast yet. I'm not here for a  wolf or a bear." She retorted. No. I'm here to return it to its rightful home.

"The beast was winged." A man muttered.  "I'm listening." "Large, too. Made barely a noise, though." The man finished. "Sounds right.  I'll give you a fair share for it." Leeli responded, fishing a  good amount gold coins from her pocket. She studied the amount, then dropped a few back into her pocket. Their eyes followed the money. "Good enough?" Leeli asked.

"Actually," One of the men began. "We'll be taking it all." The people formed a tight circle around her. Her grip tightened on her mug. Noticing this, one of them--a woman--laughed. "What're you going to do with that?" The woman jeered.

Leeli observed them. All but one carried simple clubs, and one a knife. "Actually, if you'd be so kind as to let me explain." Leeli started, one hand in the air near her cup. "You might have noticed I haven't been really drinking from this. Not because I'm not thirsty, but--" Leeli reached into the cup. "--because I really don't drink knives." With a twist of her wrist, the previously concealed knife was out of the cup. With just a quick movement of her hand, the man's knife clattered to the floor. She smiled. "I'd like that information now."

Hey Leafpool! I think this is probably along the lines of every picturing you get because your name is...well, Leafpool, but I tried to change it up a bit.

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It was at the center of what had once been a forest. All that was left of what had been was blackened trees and stumps of charcoal. Thorns were the only thing that grew around the trees anymore, a thicket of them surrounding every once-tree and every glade. The gray thorns resembled little blades all too well, and they were rumored to have the same effect on flesh as their iron counterparts.

A few glades and clearings remained in the once-forest, their lush green grass reminiscent of what the forest had been. Of course, one would have to make their way through the thicket and thorns to find them, but nobody wanted to risk that--who would? Would someone really want to die for a bit of grass (however green it was) and flowers?

However, past all of those little glades and sparks of life, the burnt forest held one real treasure. A spring had bubbled into existence at the heart of the forest, forming a pool of water. It was clear and pure, untouched by even a single bug. Nobody knew of it; nobody sought it or touched it. Whatever sparks of magic the arson and forest fire hadn't destroyed dwelt there; with time, they had flourished there. Faeries dwelt there; so did the nymphs, and a single dryad and her sapling.

And life continued there, neverending and almost never changing.

Until one day, when a single, green leaf drifted on a sudden breeze and fell into the pool, floating slowly on its surface. Every tree was charred and blackened; none bore leaves anymore. Yet there it was. None of the faeries, nor nymphs, knew what it was.

Maybe it was hope.