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10+ One Word Prompts - Choose 4!

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Alright, so I've seen this kind of game on forums before, thought I'd set one up too!  Sorry if this is an accidental repeat of a thread already out there!  xD;


Below is a starting list of 10 one-word writing prompts; choose 4 of them, and weave them all together to create one cohesive concept involving your character(s)!  You can do a quick WIP-style, or you can go all out!  It's up to you, writing as much as you want or as little!


  1. Blanket
  2. Falling
  3. Campfire (or fire pit or other variants)
  4. Fairy
  5. Gauntlet
  6. Livelihood
  7. Mountainside
  8. Spirits
  9. Indigo
  10. Scarab beetle (yes, I know that's two words, shh)
  11. Water
  12. Arcane
  13. Wind
  14. Storm

:moogle:  For extra fun, add a word to the pile at the beginning or end of your post, and I'll add it to the list!!

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This was fun. I did two, one for each character. It was interesting trying to capture both their very different voices within the word limit (200) I put onto myself while still using the prompts!

I think I did alright! Thanks for the idea!   ... my word to add is.... water.





The twinkling yellow orbs grew more and more distant and more blurry as her eyes glazed over with her stare

She was falling.

The inky indigo of the La Noscea nightscape wrapped around her and the world’s buzz ceased to exist.


This wasn’t her. This wasn’t her life. Fear, uncertainty, anger.She suffocated under the blanket of doom. Impending doom. At every turn it was something new. Luther. Tabart. Winters. Bennett. Grey Water. They threatened everything she had worked so hard to build. Everything her names touched. Her companions. Her livelihood.


A log in the bonfire popped and fell against another,sending an ember floating to her arm. She jumped, the drink falling from her hand as she patted out the small shock of heat.




Sand kicked at her feet as the voice came to a stop in front of her with a giggle and bent at the waist, a jovial drunken grin plastered to the unfamiliar face.


“What are you sitting around for?”


Her hand was jerked forward and she was pulled from her seat, her world materializing again. She smiled. She laughed. She danced.


Never let them see you sweat.





She stoked the dying fire, closing the curtain of the fireplace before returning to her chair, her feet curling underneath her. Raandal would be home soon and would insist the fire be put out. She smiled as she pulled the skein of yarn into her lap again and picked the hook from it.


“Gods save you, Daphine. How you can be so cold in this desert is beyond me.”

He would smile and fan himself as he bent to kiss her forehead before smothering the embers and falling in place beside her in the oversized chair.


She smiled at the thought and found her last knot. The blanket was coming along nicely. Her mother would be proud of her handiwork. Daphine was no seamstress. Nothing like her mother whose livelihood hinged on those delicate stitches and intricate designs she was no where near talented enough to recreate.



She lifted the small project, spreading it over her lap and began her crochet again, attaching the indigo yarn to the soot black panel already there. She was determined to finish before the cold settled over Thanalan.


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I'm game! Turned it into a little snippet of Averill's time in and around Gridania (My words were Campire, Gauntlet, Water, and Spirit(s)).

The soft orange flames licked Averill's gloves. He pulled back with a sigh. "What kind of archer brings mitts to a hunt?"

He tore them off. His supplier had shown the utmost confidence in the product; not the slightest bit obstructive, suitable for a man of the bow. Promises that he could scoff at with a surety that rivalled the merchant.


Turning his attention away from mercantile mistrust, Averill checked the meat cooking slowly over the campfire, tutting as he counted at least four rips and punctures from poor shots. Any sort of livelihood that could be eked from this kind of hunting was no livelihood at all, and he certainly wouldn't be boasting to Naoh upon his return. He kicked back, half-tempted to toss the useless armour into the blaze.


Content to let his meal cook a little longer, he lay back on the lush, Shroud grass that would serve as his mattress for the night. "Should'a gone with the gauntlets," he grumbled. Heat from the campfire brought a weight to his eyes. How long had it been since he arrived? Several weeks, at the very least. For the first time in many moons, Averill found his feet pining for the hardwood floor of the Roost. Soft beds and a warm hearth might earn him some of Oschon's scorn, but he could not deny himself those pleasures.


A gentle rustling nearby found the Hyur reaching lazily for his longbow. A water spirit ambled ponderously towards the fire, no doubt curious to find the presence of its rival element so close to home. Averill watched the sentient bubbles for some time, trying to picture the puzzlement on an imagined face. He sat and smiled. 


The Roost had its pleasures, he thought, but nothing quite beat the wilds.

I hope you enjoyed! My suggestion for the list is arcane.

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Used: Mountainside; indigo; spirits; falling

Offering: wind




Normally he paid better attention to his botany lessons, since it might prove useful when he was finally accepted into the Guardians of the Clan and was sent off down the mountainside and the swampland below. But not today. Today his mind was far too occupied with the fun he and his friends planned on having that afternoon than listening to old man Fraideoux drone on. And lessons were -just- about over for the day anyroad.


At nine cycles old he'd gotten together with his friends to make a team and today was their first ever Strikeball match after two moons of practicing. An informal match of course, as were all the children's games, but it gave status amongst themselves and that was more than enough. He was the youngest of the team and also the smallest. Which made him the perfect candidate to be the team's Dodger.


Today's match was weighing even heavier on his mind than it would otherwise, for they were to play against his elder sister, Vedelle's team. So instead of learning about marjoram and it's uses he was thinking about the bet the two of them had made the previous day. The winner got a Fetcher for practices and gloating rights. While the loser had to -be- the opposing team's Fetcher and wear a small cloth tied about their wrist that was the colour of the winner's team. For an -entire- season! And Spring had just started. Oh, he'd make certain it was -her- that was wearing indigo and the one fetching stray balls for his team.


So deep he was in his fantasies of grandeur that he didn't realize that Fraideoux had excused them for the day. He comes back to reality with a start when one of the other children brushes past him. Which he then tries to cover by quickly gathered up his things and heading away from the rooms that lessons were held in. When he was free of the small crowd filing away he breaks into a run. Spirits high he ignores the shouts that followed, telling him to slow down. He heads for the lower tiers of the immense central cavern the Clan called home. Once at the lower levels he ducks into one of the intricately carved tunnels. Here he is finally forced into a walk by a series of thick cloths hanging across the path to help dampen the sounds from the carved out arena beyond.


As was the nature of these informal children's games, they started almost as soon as both teams had all their players in attendance. And since he'd been among the last to arrive, he only had a few minutes to exchange taunts with his sister and warm up with his seven other teammates on their half of the court.


The court itself was longer than it was wide and marked down the center, splitting the court into two squares. At the opposite ends of these squares a smaller box was marked and it was this small box that he'd be spending his game time in. As the Dodger he couldn't leave this box, while no one else was allowed inside the small box. His job was to dodge the ball without overstepping or falling outside the lines as the opposing team tried to strike him with the ball.


Vedelle, on the other hand, was a Striker. The offensive portion to a team. He watched as her team gained control of the ball at the opening toss and worked their way down to his side of the arena. The ball always had to be in motion and she was dribbling it with practiced ease as she jogged the distance. She was occasionally passing between the two other strikers as they neared, working their way past his own team's defenses. He shifts his weight in anticipation, watching the ball and trying to anticipate where they'd try and throw from as the Strikers started to flank his box. Would they aim for his head? Or maybe his feet in a feigned pass?


No! A feigned strike in his direction turns into a handoff. Yet he manages to call the play by not dodging too soon, leaving him able to react to his sister throwing the ball -hard- at his chest. Falling to the side the ball soars harmlessly by to bounce out of bounds. So the tone of the game is set. And it was going to be a good one...


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Used: blanket, falling, livelihood, spirits

Offered: storm




Holiander was in one of his fevered fits again. The bedding was soaked through with sweat, but he didn't have the energy to push them off. He just lied in the dark, his brother beside him praying to whatever gods or spirits would listen as he took the blankets off to allow him to breathe.


"Vaughn, he's good as dead, you know," came a light feminine voice.


Vaughn didn't look from his brother. "No, Sasha. He will get better. He has to. He's...my brother."


"Vaughn, sweetie, we're all your brothers and sisters. He..."


"No! He's blood. My father's blood. My..." He sighed, looking to the petite blonde hyur girl. "I'm sorry. Please...don't tell your mother I snapped at you."


Sasha frowned. "That's 'Madame' to you. We may be friends, but remember your place."


Vaughn nodded, returning his attention to Holiander, feeling his forehead and wondering how someone as cold as ice could sweat so much. He sighed and stood. "Sasha, may I ask a favor?"


"Maybe, though I'm inclined to just tell on you for this ridiculousness."


He hesitated before he spoke again. "I want to visit the mages at the ossuary. Maybe they..."


"Vaughn, trying to fix something that can't be fixed is a waste of time. He's dead, Vaughn. Let him go and stop making him suffer."


"I can't believe that there's nothing that can fix this."


"Birth defects happen. Your father didn't follow convention and this is the result. He shouldn't have meddled with a Red in the first place!" Sasha grew visually irritated. "So now he's fallen to Green and you're going to follow suit if you don't get yourself together. You're nearly of age for your mark! Don't ruin it!"


"I..." He sighed. "Please, Sasha. I've seen you with Madame Levvine. A...family. People of the same line. I...I want to know what that's like. And Holiander is my blood brother. What if it was your mother here?"


Sasha frowned, shifting her weight from one leg to the other with her arms crossed. Finally, she let out an exasperated sigh. "Fine. We'll make a city trip. I'll say it's an emergency and...figure it out."


Vaughn beamed, giving her a big hug and kiss. "Thank you, Sasha. Thank you so much!"


Sasha rolled her eyes but returned the hug. "If you lose status, don't blame me."



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