I have been participating in a daily writing prompt on Twitter! I thought it would be fun to start one here.
Ground rules: All regular forum content rules apply. Keep content to a soft R rating at the most.
We will try this as a round robin meaning that one person will start and then you add on to the story from there!
Write until you get to a good jump point for someone else to take over. If you are comfortable with only writing the antagonist, then someone else could jump in to write the protagonist. No limit on the number of times you respond to the others.
Let's see what we can come up with!
Place: Library
Scenario: You and your team have been tasked with stealing the Black Book of Enoch.
Protagonist Motivation: Money, Fame, or seek to gain the book's power for themselves and betray their employer.
Object: Black Book of Enoch - believed to be an arcane spellbook of the unspeakable Elder Gods.
Antagonist: Militant Fox Girl Librarian death squad (3 fox girls) from Vice.
Antagonist Motivation: Wants to steal the book to liberate the non-humans of Vice.
Ready go!
Weekly writing prompt #1
Weekly writing prompt #1
I also write webcomics~
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Re: Weekly writing prompt #1
For some reason, I got really confused when we were talking about this over in voice. I'll chalk it up to being hungry though. So the players aren't playing as the sexy foxgirls? And instead they're the opposing force that we're racing against to get to the Book of Enoch? Also, do we post here or?
Re: Weekly writing prompt #1
The players can be either the sexy fox girls or the team working to recover the book. And you post here.
I also write webcomics~
Author of
Co-Author of &
Author of
Co-Author of
& Re: Weekly writing prompt #1
As cold, chilling rain pattered down from above, the old soldier of Vice gazed up from under his hood at the great sight and inwardly despaired. Dark, grey and slowly crumbling, The Grand Archives loomed over him like a twisted giant, its once eternal spire impossibly bent over, a clear hint at the dark forces that held it together from within. He had fought for years to protect his world, his people's way of life, but over the years, this had become harder and harder. The Alliance and their oppressive preaching. Tai Pan and their slew of abominations. It just never ended, and now the ancient library loomed over his burly form as the ever oppressive respirator attached to his lower face forced rattling air into damaged lungs. This place would have been an ominous challenge alone, but the doors were forced open, just as he had been warned. Malevolent creatures plotted the downfall of his home, and if he stopped here or turned back, its fate would be sealed given the power of what lay within.
Joseph von Johannesburg strode forward, knowing that this may be his last great act.
Joseph von Johannesburg strode forward, knowing that this may be his last great act.
Re: Weekly writing prompt #1
Flute adjusted her glasses.
She wasn’t going to hide, and was way too pale to hide, anyway. Flute showed up like a beacon. She was white in a world of darkness, neon moonlight in a gray world of musty tomes and paper dross. Flute was like the silvery blade of … silvery… silverness. Silver.
Surreptitiously, and just because she was having trouble describing herself, she slipped a thesaurus off of the wall of archaec books in the isle down which she walked, finding that she was also relucent, illumined, and lambent.
Great.
She stopped and put the book aside.
It wasn’t the book she wanted, anyway. But she wasn’t in a huge hurry, and that was partially because the place was empty, all the security systems had been hacked yesterday, and she had a clear idea of where she was going. Not only that, but Flute was paid on an hourly basis, and it was getting pretty close to overtime, and she was certain that she could milk it a little bit.
Unfortunately, that was about the time that she heard an ominous booming noise, as though someone had forced open the old, sticky chamber door to the giant cathedral-like Grand Archive with a boot, or perhaps with a battering ram.
She sighed.
She wasn’t going to hide, and was way too pale to hide, anyway. Flute showed up like a beacon. She was white in a world of darkness, neon moonlight in a gray world of musty tomes and paper dross. Flute was like the silvery blade of … silvery… silverness. Silver.
Surreptitiously, and just because she was having trouble describing herself, she slipped a thesaurus off of the wall of archaec books in the isle down which she walked, finding that she was also relucent, illumined, and lambent.
Great.
She stopped and put the book aside.
It wasn’t the book she wanted, anyway. But she wasn’t in a huge hurry, and that was partially because the place was empty, all the security systems had been hacked yesterday, and she had a clear idea of where she was going. Not only that, but Flute was paid on an hourly basis, and it was getting pretty close to overtime, and she was certain that she could milk it a little bit.
Unfortunately, that was about the time that she heard an ominous booming noise, as though someone had forced open the old, sticky chamber door to the giant cathedral-like Grand Archive with a boot, or perhaps with a battering ram.
She sighed.
Re: Weekly writing prompt #1
Stepping into The Grand Archives, the ragged and muddied edges of Johannesburg's concealing cloak hovered just ever so slightly above the stone cold floor.
The place was far from immaculate. Ruinous even. Blood from conflicts ages ago stained the floor and walls with black splashes. Candle sticks were knocked over, their wax melted and splattered as their wicks slowly burned to nothing. Books molded and moldered on the shelves, several of which were knocked over, their contents strewn about long ago. Yet, when he reached out to randomly flip open what looked to be a destroyed book, his eyes widened as it took to life, restoring itself anew. But just as quickly as it had, the old man recoiled. His faint interest in its contents fading, so too did the book. He hated magic. It was as fickle as it was powerful after all, and just as horrible as the knife-eared wretches that practiced it. Taking in a harsh breath from his breathing machine, he then looked up the great height of The Grand Archives, the interior of the building bending over just as the great tower did from the outside.
Like an Escherian labrynth, the numerous floors and stairs went in all the wrong ways, and yet, he took his first steps, following one reading section up a wall before taking the sideways stairs too the next level. Being first to the book was best, but, The Grand Archives hosted its own dangers. He knew that those seeking its knowledge had come before, and often gone mad, their bodies twisted by a reality they thought they wanted to comprehend but could not.
Worse, there was no telling if he was being watched.
The place was far from immaculate. Ruinous even. Blood from conflicts ages ago stained the floor and walls with black splashes. Candle sticks were knocked over, their wax melted and splattered as their wicks slowly burned to nothing. Books molded and moldered on the shelves, several of which were knocked over, their contents strewn about long ago. Yet, when he reached out to randomly flip open what looked to be a destroyed book, his eyes widened as it took to life, restoring itself anew. But just as quickly as it had, the old man recoiled. His faint interest in its contents fading, so too did the book. He hated magic. It was as fickle as it was powerful after all, and just as horrible as the knife-eared wretches that practiced it. Taking in a harsh breath from his breathing machine, he then looked up the great height of The Grand Archives, the interior of the building bending over just as the great tower did from the outside.
Like an Escherian labrynth, the numerous floors and stairs went in all the wrong ways, and yet, he took his first steps, following one reading section up a wall before taking the sideways stairs too the next level. Being first to the book was best, but, The Grand Archives hosted its own dangers. He knew that those seeking its knowledge had come before, and often gone mad, their bodies twisted by a reality they thought they wanted to comprehend but could not.
Worse, there was no telling if he was being watched.
Re: Weekly writing prompt #1
Flute watched the man blunder about, crouched up on top of one of the old decrepit bookshelves with their old decrepit books. She made sure not to ruin her perfect white coat-tails. She made sure not to mar her perfectly fluffy, well groomed, utterly silver tail either. Of course he could see her, if he’d only look, but from down there she would probably look like a mirror glass or some sort of odd person-shaped light. Still, people rarely, if ever, looked up.
But he did look up. Flute noticed he didn’t look up at her, but he seemed to be taking in the rest of the library. Flute had a hard time thinking about the bulky little shadow skulking through the fusty corridors as a ‘she’, so she began to wonder what she would do to scare some burly imbecile treasure hunter away from her designated prize book.
Flute checked her pocket watch, drawing it out on its little silver chain from her perfectly white vest and opening the face to peer at its little hands. She did have the time.
So, she wiggled her way over the edge of the bookshelf, picked a particularly hefty tome, and hurled it through a window on the other side of the library.
But he did look up. Flute noticed he didn’t look up at her, but he seemed to be taking in the rest of the library. Flute had a hard time thinking about the bulky little shadow skulking through the fusty corridors as a ‘she’, so she began to wonder what she would do to scare some burly imbecile treasure hunter away from her designated prize book.
Flute checked her pocket watch, drawing it out on its little silver chain from her perfectly white vest and opening the face to peer at its little hands. She did have the time.
So, she wiggled her way over the edge of the bookshelf, picked a particularly hefty tome, and hurled it through a window on the other side of the library.
Re: Weekly writing prompt #1
Rather than darting for cover as glass shattered, the old man's steps slowed as his eyes searched for the source of noise. From the broken window, his gaze slowly, deliberately followed unseen paths through the air and eventually narrowed down to a point, settling on the pale white woman.
"You're no statue then," Joseph plainly stated, realizing that what he overlooked had changed poses, if only slightly. "You should go home. You know how it will end if you don't." Gazing at her across the Escherian library, only his eyes could be seen under the hood, respirator and wrappings he wore. But even then, their gaze was not an angry one. No, he had seen this a hundred thousand times already, and was weary. Even then however, he stepped forward, continuing onward towards to their goal.
"You're no statue then," Joseph plainly stated, realizing that what he overlooked had changed poses, if only slightly. "You should go home. You know how it will end if you don't." Gazing at her across the Escherian library, only his eyes could be seen under the hood, respirator and wrappings he wore. But even then, their gaze was not an angry one. No, he had seen this a hundred thousand times already, and was weary. Even then however, he stepped forward, continuing onward towards to their goal.
Re: Weekly writing prompt #1
"It's mine, you know," Flute called down, standing up and following along atop the bookshelves. She came to a gap, and jumped it, expertly, her white bush of a tail bobbing along after her. "I think you're over-estimating yourself."
He could see her. She swished it. After all, she was dressed elegantly, in a proper suitcoat, all white and silver buttons. She carried her dueling cane with her, with all of its specific elvish ruins on it, and she twirled it as she went along watching him, like a dancer or an acrobat, as lithe as a cat and twice as debonair.
He could see her. She swished it. After all, she was dressed elegantly, in a proper suitcoat, all white and silver buttons. She carried her dueling cane with her, with all of its specific elvish ruins on it, and she twirled it as she went along watching him, like a dancer or an acrobat, as lithe as a cat and twice as debonair.