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Doodle
You pull out your handy orange crayon and begin to happily doodle over every nearby surface. You draw peanuts, and organisms, and lecterns, and kitty cats. Every typical doodle flows from your crayon.
Naturally, this peace could never last. A purple doorway draws itself in midair before you and out steps your old rival.
"Traitor!" he needlessly shouts, "Hand over that Crayon!"
You stand up from your half-finished diagram. "You have no power here, Harold," you explain patiently, "I left the Order behind. I have a new life now."
"As what?" he spits, "An error-hunting vagabond? Only those of the Order may wield a Crayon. Hand it over, and I will let you go back to your... life."
You furrow your brow. "I do now wish to give you this Crayon," you say, "It is... precious to me."
"Then you leave me no choice!" Shouts Harold. He raises his crayon high into the air. "Secret Technique: Scribble Platoon!" From the tip of his crayon erupts a cloud of scribbled lines, which form themselves into a set of imposing humanoid figures.