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Next prompt is on Monday.

 

Rules:

1. Pick one of the prompts and write about it for no more than 20 minutes. You can write for longer if you want, but only words written during the 20 minutes count towards your total, so mark where you ran out of time.

2. You will be graded on wordcount and overall coherence. You will not be graded on quality, so write as fast as you can while still producing something that makes sense and would be salvageable with cleanup. It doesn't have to have an ending or form a complete story, but it should at least read like an excerpt from a longer work.

3. When you're done, post your wordcount. Posting your story is optional. We understand it will be terrible.

4. You may go back and work on previous days if you missed them.

5. You may write fanfiction if your heart desires.

 

Prompt #1: A mage is constructing a golem, but the materials involved are questionable.

Prompt #2: A dude with a knife/machete thing in an abandoned train station

 

@WouldntItBeNice @Steve24833 @JJJ-thebanisher @Seto @bbshark @Bucky @mizal @FrankIevatus @TheNewIAP @Romulus @TacocaT @Crescentstar @Mayana @Zulutrader @MasonJarGuzzi @Ogre11

Been a really rough week, but I need to start participating in these again.

624 words in the 20 minutes, then I kept going.

 

Once there was a king who loved his queen and their seven daughters. In those early days the kingdom prospered, and the girls had a happy and carefree childhood, riding their ponies with their long brown hair streaming behind them and tumbling about the garden in dresses of green and yellow chiffon, like smiling summer flowers.   

In time troubles from the northern border and from certain factions within the capital began to weigh heavily, but the king was determined his daughters would still have the best of everything. He sent for toymakers from all over the realm to create for them the most wondrous marvels, and as his youngest daughter’s seventh birthday approached he even employed an up and coming mage with a reputation for crafting a unique sort of golem.

Golems in those days were strictly used as rather stupid and slow but reliable servants, and this artistic young man, mocked by his fellows for his fanciful designs, soon found that serving the royal family was the job he’d wished for all his life. His imagination given free reign, and provided with all the materials his heart desired, he made wondrous creations the likes of which no one had ever seen. Mythological beasts skillfully sewn of silk and feathers danced about the gardens, wizened leather hobgoblins hammered at tiny copper-soled boots, and dashing princes with their gear-jointed horses and painted wooden swords dueled fiercely with patchwork rogues on the playroom rugs.

Alas, all the delightful toys in the world couldn’t keep the ugliness of the world at bay, and the day came when treachery allowed soldiers in strange uniforms into the city gates, and subsequently the palace. The indulgent father, the kind-hearted queen, and the pretty little girls were never seen by their people again, and a new king kept a firm boot on the land. The young mage, steadfastly loyal, found himself in a tiny, dark cell, and there he remained, counting the years.

The tenth anniversary of the overthrow happened to fall on the same week as the seventh birthday of the new king’s heir and only son, and a great celebration was planned, with a party in the garden for the young prince and twenty other children of his father’s most loyal supporters, those who had opened the city gates among them. Toymakers were sent for from all over the realm, and as the event approached, a serving girl who remembered the old days whispered to her mistress of the mage and his talent. The word was passed along until the king himself heard of it, and ordered the man, no longer young, cleaned up and brought before him.

“I’ve been told you used to fashion golems for children, the likes of which no one else in the kingdom or the lands across the water can make. My son’s birthday approaches. Do your work well and you’ll be rewarded with your freedom.”

The mage was led to his old workroom, now covered in dust and memories of happier times. The bright fabrics he requested of the guards were brought by a serving girl--the very one who had remembered him and set the events in motion to bring about his freedom. A servant of servants, the girl sat ignored and unregarded in a dim corner of a tailor’s chamber all day and half the night, sewing tunics and trousers of coarse cloth and making repairs on the winter coats of the lowlier workers about the castle.

When the guards were gone, she pushed her hood back and looked the mage directly in the face. “Do you remember me?”

An unfamiliar scar and years of weary sorrow marred her face, but the long brown hair was the same, and the shape of her face was now so like the old queen’s, whom the mage remembered well. “Ah! My princess…but which princess? I heard you were all murdered, that horrible day.”

“I was the youngest. And of my family, I’m the only one left. I had been taken to the healer’s that night...” The princess reached up and touched her scar. “I’d been foolish, and taken the wooden sword from one of the little princes you made, and replaced it with a pair of my sewing scissors.” She gave a faintly rueful smile at the memory. “He was intended to have a proper battle with the rogue, you see. But when one of my maids came in I grabbed them up quickly mid-duel to hide them, and the little fellow slashed my cheek.”

The mage’s eyes widened. “I’m so sorry. My golems were never meant to do harm. Had I known...”

A calloused hand, a servant’s hand, waved him to silence with the practiced grace of royalty. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. That slash from the scissors saved my life. I was in a different part of the palace, and awake when the soldiers stormed in, and the healer was able to hide me. After...” Here her voice wavered. “...after everything that happened the following day, he opted not to use stitches or magic to heal the cut, so the scarring would better disguise me.”         

“It gladdens my heart, then, to know at least one of those innocent girls I remember so well still lives, and that one of my creations was responsible, if only indirectly.” The mage sighed, casting a glance around the disused workshop. “If only I’d made my golems true knights and princes to defend you and your sisters, instead of foolish toys, perhaps things would have been different. If they could draw blood after all, I should have made sure it was the blood of the enemy.”

A long pause and distant look from the girl. “I’ve thought of that. Often.”

“But even if I’d made them with the ability to attack humans in certain circumstances, and armed them all with steel blades, I suppose they couldn’t have done much against armed and armored soldiers,” the mage said, with a gloomy sigh.   

“Against armed and armored soldiers, no.”

The girl gave him a lingering look, then drew her hood back up and turned toward the door. “I must return, else I’ll be beaten. But I’ll call again, and we must talk.”

The following days went by quickly for the mage, and he was soon absorbed in his work, fashioning twenty-one golems the likes of which he’d never made before. Brave knights he fancied bore a passing resemblance to himself for the prince and his friends, and for the little girls attending the event, angelic princesses dressed in green and yellow chiffon. The celebration was a grand success and the feasting and toasts to the royal family went on for days. At the end of it all, twenty children went home cuddling twenty wondrous golems, and the prince was returned to his nursery, where he laid his painted knight on the pillow beside him.

The mage had been grudgingly granted his freedom and had vanished from the premises before the day was out. No one realized until later he’d left accompanied by a lowly serving girl--no one except for her mistress, the tailor, left stalking her chambers in a fury at what seemed to be the theft of twenty-one pairs of freshly sharpened sewing scissors.        

777

Dante stood over the cauldren, pouring in a vile of cow blood. The cauldren began to bubble, as Dante smiled. He lowered a wooden spoon into the potion, putting the reddish liquid to his lips, sipping the potion as his beautiful wife Elizabeth walked in, picking bits of leaves out of her long, golden hair.

“Hey, Dante,” Elizabeth smiled, walking in. “I was just gathering some more Elderberries.”

Dante stopped, staring at Elizabeth.

“Huh… the potion should’ve made my vision sharp…” Dante said, before collapsing to his knees and puking onto the floor. He hurled up the potion, his dinner and a lot of cow blood.

“Shit…” he groaned, as Elizabeth leaned over him, gently rubbing his neck.

“You know you don’t make potions, Dante. That’s not where your skill lies,” Elizabeth chided.

“Do you want to be hunted by everyone in this realm?” Dante asked, annoyed. “I’m not letting that become our life! I’ll succeed at another form of magic, dammit!”

Elizabeth sighed as she looked at her husband, frowning. Suddenly, there was a shout outside.

“Dante!” a voice yelled.

Dante stood, grabbing an iron dagger and holding it tightly in his hands. He opened the door to his room, entering the tavern outside.

“Dante!” Elizabeth whispered, as Dante motioned for her to stay in the room.

A dozen of orcs sat around the tavern, drinking. By the door stood a dozen Elves, holding swords and bows.

The fucking elves were here. People always talked about how Orcs were thick, stupid, cruel, greedy brutes and Elves were kind, smart, if isolationistic pacifists. That was bullshit. The Orcs of the village had treated Dante and his Elizabeth as friends rather than outsiders, letting them stay in the tavern cheaply and helping Dante out whenever they could. The Elves, who Dante had been stupid enough to borrow from to fund his magic career, were cruel, sadistic and little more than crime barons.

The Elf Bandit Captain stared at you, snarling.

“Where’s the money?” he asked.

“I don’t have it! I need more time, please,” Dante begged.

“We’ve given you enough time,” the Elf said, strolling forward.

“Look, I can…”

“Shut it,” the Elf replied. “Your life is forfeit, Dante. Unless… we would be willing to barter to finish off your debts. There’s always demand for prositutes in these cold mountains. Where’s your wife?”

An Orc stood, brandishing his axe to stop the Elf.

“Fuck off, knife-ears!” the Orc said. “I’m shit sick of you fuckers operating in our territory! This is greenskin land! Fuck your thievery, fuck your raiding and fuck your bootlegging!“

There was a roar of agreeal from the Orks. The Elf snarled, slashing his blade with insane speed and beheading the Ork. Suddenly, the bar errupted into chaos as the Elves and Orcs broke into violence. Dante turned and ran back into his room, grabbing his wife by the hand.

“You need to get somewhere safe,” Dante said, before a trio of Orcs ran into the room.

“Corpse-fucker! We need a mage! Time to…” one said, before his throat was slashed open by an Elf.

The Elf charged in, stabbing the second orc through the gut before beheading the third. The Elf smiled, walking towards Dante.

“You’re…” he said, before Elizabeth struck from the side, stabbing her through the side of the head, killing her instantly.

“Dante!” Elizabeth said, grabbing her husband. “They don’t need a fucking storm-mage out there!”

Dante nodded, looking at the four bodies around him.

“I don’t know what to do! The elves will be able to kill zombies easily, I…” he said, before stopping. “Where’s my golem creation stuff?”

“You’re shit at golem-making, Dante! You’re a necromancer!”

“Where is it?!” Dante asked again, more frustrated.

Elizabeth pointed to the cabinet, and Dante ran over, grabbing his gear. He ran over to the corpses, and got to work. He worked with extraordinary speed, hastily hacking apart and stitching together body pieces. Within a minute, he had created a humanoid made from corpse pieces, with several Golem life fragments inserted in it. Dante pressed the palms of his hands to the monster’s head, and began to think as he flooded the creature with the powers of undeath.

The flesh-golem spasmed, and stood up with a growl.

“Go! Kill the elves, help the orcs!” Dante ordered.

The beast nodded slowly, turning and lumbering out of the room, charging out.

“What the fuck is that?” an Elf shouted.

For the next few minutes, there was pure bloodshed. The elves had already wiped out the orcs, but they were weak and had taken losses. The flesh-golem easily smashed through one of them, grabbing another and snapping his spine, before booting another one into a wall. The elves were quickly wiped out to the last man, and Dante watched as the flesh-golem crushed the bandit captain under it’s greenskin foot.

“Elizabeth! They’re… they’re all dead,” Dante said loudly.

Elizabeth walked out, gently kissing Dante.

“It’s OK, honey,” she said.

“They died helping me. Orcs don’t get enough respect. They’re a second-hand citizen,” Dante spat, before looking at the flesh-golem. “What now?”

“Now, you embrace your powers, Dante,” Elizabeth said.

Dante closed his eyes and focused. Suddenly, the butchered Orcs and Elves in front of him stood up, their souls gone but their bodies reawakened.

“Two dozen zombies and a corpse golem. Not a bad start,” Elizabeth said.

“It needs a cooler name than corpse golem. Something like flesh monstrosity,” Dante says. “I’m not going to tread the path of the past necromancers. I’m going to be good, Elizabeth.”

“I know,” she replied.

“I’m going to change the world. So these Orcs are discriminated against. So rich kings don’t feast while the poor starve. I’m going to make a difference!”

“I know, darling. Or should I say Emperor Dante? Or you could have a nickname, like the Necromancer.”

“Pfffh, there’s been many necromancers. I’m the Grand Necromancer,” Dante smiled, as his wife playfully hit him.

“Five minutes of necromancy, and you’ve got a big head. Oh, at least we’re alive. I love you, Dante.”

“I love you too, Elizabeth.”

As the sun set over the village, the Grand Necromancer, with his wife, a Flesh Monstrosity and two dozen zombies, began their journey to power.

Haha, nice. How much of this is canon?

A prequel to Path of Death would be pretty great, actually.

Oh, it's definitely canon, unless it's wrong. Pretty sure his wife had a different name.

I feel a prequel CYS game would be pure white, tbh.

531 words: I needed to do something weird. I believe that this qualifies as such.

Oh, there goes my arm. I stare at my arm and wonder what I should do with it. Now, it's just flopping on the ground like one of those rubbish excuses for soldiers. I raise my other hand and incinerate some people. I'm not quite sure whose side they were on. Anyway, they looked angry.

I mumble one of those beginner's spells, and my arm grows back. I pick up my arm and use it as a fear mechanism. Who wants to fight a mage who is willing to beat people to death with his left arm? I sure wouldn't. I just still around blasting people. The only problem is that I have a quite horrible dance song stuck in my head. Some damn minstrel was playing it before the battle.

I examine the battlefield for a moment to take in its beauty. Blood, guts, and decapitated limbs are everywhere... My side seems to be loosing, but they payed more. The booze made it quite worthwhile for employment. There's this one guy, she's dressed in some flamboyant and reveling green suit, who's blasting the living daylights out of my side's soldiers. I suppose they'd want me to do something.

Now, I could just shoot something at her... lightning? Naw, if I miss, she'd see me. Then, I might get hurt. I could just do something totally hackneyed and make a zombie army and zombie-hoard her to death. No, the zombies would be missing too many limbs. For some reason, these soldiers like slicing more than stabbing.

Hmm, that gives me an idea. I use some levitating powers to make the heads and limbs of the battlefield to creep towards me. I start reciting a chant I heard from one of those really sketchy wizards. Dark magic and all of that crap seeps through my arms and into the ground around me. It envelopes the large pile of limbs.

The limbs rumble. Slowly, they come together into a two and a quarter men tall mass. I bark, "Rise, my minion!" (It's for effect.) Dozens of hands push the creature upwards. It forms into a vertical disk. I manipulate the middle to create a chair. I stroll over to my quite unorthodox golem and sit in its comfortable chair. It's rather wet... Oh well...

I yell out, "Charge!" and the create spurts forward like the wheel of a wagon. As I speed towards Greeny, more limbs are added to my... horseless carriage. Yes, that is what this is. My monstrosity grows to five men high.

Peering under an elbow, I notice that the mage has finally noticed the tallest damn thing on the battlefield. She fires at me, but it is to no avail. The flesh acts as a literal meat shield. She tries to jump out of the way, but I run her over. I turn around as she stand to her feet. I run her over again. I drive back and forth constantly crushing her into the ground. Finally, I use this creature's hands to rip her limp from limb.

I step out from my beast to the adoration of the crowd. I bow before them as she gurgles to death.