Written by | Posted November 13, 2014 – 12:30 pm A Girl and her Dog

The morning of the all hands summon to the Blasted Lands, Aely went for a walk. The late fall air was clear and cool, and leaves crunched under their feet in the less-traveled parts of the streets. She and Roger took the long way around Old Town, south through Tanner Circle and down Bulwarks, across […]

filed under Feature, friday five, Hunter, Roleplay
Friday Fivehundred – Five to Start
comment 9 Written by on February 27, 2009 – 8:23 am

Every Friday here at Too Many Annas, you’ll find a little RP prompting – either in the form of 5 questions to answer about your character or in the form of a ficlet prompt (500 words) to write about them.  These aren’t meant to be hard, just things to think about for your character – you can answer in a comment or use them as a blog post of your own!

This week is (as I’m sure you guessed from the title), a ficlet style Friday – only instead of a sentence prompt, I’m going to give you five words/ideas to use in your 500 word story. The idea is to use all of them in some way – but there’s no rules on how to use them or whether they’re important. Your five words for this prompt are:

Fog. Book. Bread. Horse. Sailor.

Let your imagination run wild!  I can’t wait to see some of the characters I’ve gotten to read about in these stories!

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9 Responses to “Friday Fivehundred – Five to Start”

  1. Erozion was not entirely certain of what had happened in the past few minutes.

    The deeds of the day–a day seven years ago, but this day, nonetheless–were done. The mortal warriors that Andormu had sent to him had accomplished the task before them, the course of events were preserved, the Infinites thwarted–if temporarily, as always–and the young future Warchief could safely go forth to his destiny. A sense of peace and tranquility had set in across the foothills of Hillsbrad, along with the morning fog.

    That was good. Erozion’s current predicament, however, was not.

    The dragon in elven form did not bother to struggle against his bonds. He tried to ignore the faint, stomach-churning sounds of the large vulture that was presently devouring the carcass of Captain Skarloc’s ill-fated horse. He merely stared at his captor, his face carefully expressionless.

    “You know who I am, yes, no?” He paced back and forth in heavy sailor’s boots, his dress that of a mariner of some variety,

    The accent was strange; nearly as strange as the person himself. “No,” said the dragon, “I cannot say I do–other than that your particular breed of elf is rather rare in this era.”

    The highborne scowled, “How unfortunate,” his grimace deepened, “I–” he blinked, and dropped his hunk of bread. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small book, which he turned on it’s side. A long map unfolded itself, dropping nearly to the ground. “Interesting.” The highborne’s silvery eyes narrowed.

    “Empires!” He turned suddenly, addressing the vulture. Erozion was certain then that he was mad.

    “What?” The vulture looked up from it’s meal, speaking in a raspy yet surprisingly resonant voice. Erozion considered the possibility that he himself was losing his wits as well.

    “We should have not taken the left turn at Gadgetzan.” The highborne’s voice was high with tension. Erozion tested the ropes. Nothing to them.

    “Why?”

    “We are seven years ago!”

    “Well, I could have told you that.”

    “Excuse me,” uttered Erozion.

    He was ignored.

    “You said go south! We went south! We went to Uldum! Walked in! Dodged dragons! Found no book!”

    “I didn’t–”

    “You said there would be a book, you puerile ghoul-bird!”

    “Morgan, will you–”

    “EXCUSE ME.” Erozion raised his voice. He did not like to raise his voice.

    “What!?” Both highborne elf and carrion bird turned baleful gaze upon their captive. Who was no longer bound. Their gaze went up, and up, and up.

    The ancient bronze dragon snorted. Lightning crackled around his fanged maw.

    The elf and the vulture looked at each other, looked at the dragon, and looked at each other again, and nodded.

    They fled, vanishing into the morning fog like ghosts.

    Erozion was curious for approximately seven seconds about what had just happened, then decided that no, no, he really wasn’t.

    The ancient bronze dragon returned to his vigil.

    ((This is a character who has yet to exist–Alliance side, anyway, though that will be corrected soon. Anna, you know how Lans is half-elf? Meet his dear old dad.))

  2. @Lans:

    Hehehe – I like it! Kinda wonder what else Erozion sees there in 7 years ago Old Hillsbrad.

    By Anna on Feb 27, 2009 | Reply
  3. I am incapable of writing any story in under 500 words. *grins* And yet every single Friday that you do these writing prompts, I am overcome with the desire to try.

    Have you considered doing maybe a once-a-month prompt that isn’t ficlit?

    Tami/Egos last blog post..Romantic Or Creepy?

  4. Also, randomly @Lans

    *cackles* It’s like an episode of Lost!

    I loved the “Erozion was curious for approximately seven seconds about what had just happened, then decided that no, no, he really wasn’t.”

    Tami/Egos last blog post..Romantic Or Creepy?

  5. @Tami/Ego:

    That’s not a bad idea – I’d not thought of it. I can’t promise anything regular, but if I get struck with inspiration, I”ll definitely fling it up (even if it’s not a friday 5!)

    By Anna on Feb 27, 2009 | Reply
  6. Bytemi stepped off of the boat at Ratchet and made her way past the sailors gathered at the dock. Geanti, her faithful feline companion, padded alongside her. When they were clear of the congested town, she pulled a worn book, “The Arcania of Mania”, from her pocket and flipped to a bookmarked page.

    “We’re heading to Un’Goro Crater, love.” She said to Geanti. She tried to keep her voice upbeat and soothing, but the words came out flat. Bytemi knew what had to be done, but it did not make this any easier.

    The pair made their way south. The long journey gave her time to think, the last thing she wanted to do. Over the past few weeks, her choice of pet had come under heavy scrutiny. Her fellow hunters brought massive reptilian beasts to aid in battle, and they strongly urged her to do the same. Buckling under the pressure, she reluctantly agreed to tame a behemoth of her own. This would be the last journey of Bytemi and Geanti.

    When they arrived at the crater, it was in the heat of midday. The pair stopped at a small stream to rest. Bytemi reached into her bags, rooted past the Kungaloosh and mage bread to find the preserved remains of a goldfish from the Dalaran fountain. Geanti gulped down his favorite snack and purred at his master. The troll gave him a pained smile, commanded him to stay, then took off through the fog of Un’Goro crater in search of a devilsaur.

    It was huge. An enormous monstrosity, at least three times the size of a horse. She set her jaw and thought back to the taming chant she learned in her early years. The ritual began, and the devilsaur was soon neatly trapped in a block of ice. In a matter of seconds, it would be hers. But then Bytemi looked into the eyes of her would-be companion. The memory of Geanti’s taming flashed through her mind. It was years ago, around her twentieth season, when the cat was the one gazing at her behind a sheet of frozen water. He had been by her side ever since. How could she abandon him now?

    She broke the chant with an curse and whistled for Geanti. The cat appeared at her side, ready for battle. The devilsaur was quickly dispatched under the assault of teeth and claws and heavy rifle fire.

    “Not so scary after all.” The troll mused, poking the carcass with the butt of her gun. Geanti also appeared less than impressed, giving the body a sniff. Bytemi unhooked a hearthstone from her belt and reached down to scratch her companion behind an ear.
    “Come on hun, back to Northend. We have things to do!”

    By Bytemi on Feb 27, 2009 | Reply
  7. Hi! Long time lurker, first comment – I was suddenly inspired and thought I’d give the ficlit a go. I would imagine this would be Burble’s last happy memory.

    Sunlight streamed through the opening barn door as Burble pushed it aside, making dust motes dance in the stream and prompting a welcome from one of the stalls. Under normal circumstances, she would have gladly answered it and gone to visit the friendly equine inhabitant, but today she didn’t want to be found, and the stall just wasn’t a good enough spot. Mamma knew she was friends with the old warhorse, who no longer carried knights, but pulled plows. Stealthily closing the barn door, she muttered under her breath “Don’t give me away,” with a pat for the old horse as she passed him on her way to the ladder leading to the hayloft.
    Originally, Pip and Umea Sprocket had fled the fall of Gnomeregan and lived in Ironforge with others of their kind. But Umea had hated the dark halls and long cold winters, and had convinced Pip to move somewhere warmer. So they had settled in Westfall, near the border of sunny Elwynn forest, and taken to farming, along the way siring a fine family of seven. Burble was the oldest of the seven, and ought to have bee apprenticed to a craft long ago. But with a farm to run and six younger siblings, her parents Pip and Umea could never seem to spare her.
    So this day she chose to hide from a particularly odious task – babysitting. It wasn’t that she didn’t love her little siblings, but Mamma’s talents as a healer and an alchemist had long served their little faming community, which meant long hours away from home. Burble had had just enough of changing diapers and cleaning noses while she was away.
    Up in the hayloft, there were some loose roof boards, and if you squirmed a certain way, you could be up on the roof, no one the wiser. Of course, if you were going to take all that trouble to get there, you might as well stay a while. Burble had brought a hunk of bread and her favorite story book, worn from years of reading, and intended to stay until it really sounded from Mamma’s shouts like she was going to get in serious trouble.
    Off in the fields, she could Pappa sowing grain with her brothers, Squee and Tog, while the sun was busily burning off the early morning golden fog. Far off down the road, she saw one lone dark figure lurching dizzily and carrying a full sack. “Some drunken sailor from Moonbrook, no doubt” she commented to herself, then settled back to her sloth enthusiastically.

    By Jill on Feb 27, 2009 | Reply
  8. Its marginally long, sorry but I have a tendency to get carried away :(

    The fog was encroaching faster now, half the dock was already shrouded in its damp embrace. The young priestess sighed and pulled her cloak tighter, whoever named Mist’s edge had certainly been accurate. How naive she had been when her instructor’s at the temple had told her, “its time to move on”, dreaming of Stormwind’s golden spires or Ironforge’s dark caverns. Instead of an exciting metropolis, they sent her to Darkshore…. “to learn” they said. What could she possibly learn here, there wasn’t even books, just picking mushrooms in the woods and fishing. That was obviously no job for a Priestess of Elune, she wasn’t a peasant, a cook or a fisherman. Everything was so sleepy, the worse injury seen in the days since she arrived was a tiny scratch a sentinel had received whilst out bear hunting, there wasn’t even any blood. Dinner, every night was exactly the same, bread and fresh fish… hence the reason she was out in the freezing cold about to be swallowed whole by the fog.

    She fished for another 5 minutes but the weather worsened, Auberdine was completely veiled from her and all noise even the sea was muffled, but faintly, carried by the salty air a sound caught her attention. It sounded like screaming. Grabbing her bucket, she picked up the hem of her gown and ran for the town. Storm lanterns were burning bright and the sentinels were running around, orders being yelled and obeyed. Watching from the misty shadows, she watched one of the younger sentinels lead three horses from the docks, sweat was pouring from their flanks as they rolled their red eyes in panic.

    Her sharp intake of breath revealed her position to one of the sentinel commander’s, “Priestess come”, the urgency left no room for argument. She was lead to the Inn where a sailor was lying on the bed, his shirt soaked with dark blood. He was human, young but his skin was clammy like the fog. There were two other humans in the room, an older woman, veiled and another man, a warrior who raised a thick black eyebrow when he saw the priestess. “No disrespect but is the best you can do?”, he turned to the Sentinel “she’s a slip of girl, I doubt she could cope with a nosebleed”. “Perhaps”, the Sentinel replied “but she’s the only healer within a days travel and you don’t need to be a priestess to know he needs help now”. “What happened”, the words slipped from the Priestess’s lips without thinking, as she stared down at the injured boy. “Shipwreck”, the warrior grunted, “can you help him?”, “I don’t know”, her honesty surprised her, earlier on the beach had someone provided this scenario to her whilst she dreamed her way through the fishing, the answer would be have been a fast, aggressive yes, but now, with the smell of blood hanging thick in the cramped room, the two humans and the sentinel all watching her and the boy, the dying boy staring up at her silently begging for help, her mind was empty of spells. She wanted to run back into the fog, perhaps she was destined to be a fisherwoman after all.

    Then the woman, silent for so long spoke, her Darnassian was poor but the emotion in words as she pleaded for someone to save her son, brought tears to priestess’s eyes. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and tried to block everything out, focusing just on the light, imagining it rising inside her, filling her with its power. Nothing, she tried again, still nothing. Just when she was about tell them all what a fraud she was, that there was nothing she could do, she heard a faint intake of breath and opening her eyes, to her own amazement her hands were encased in golden light. Power was streaming between her and the boy, the ragged edges of his wound were closing up in front of her eyes. Tired, she sank to the floor, only to be enveloped in the elder woman’s gown, kisses reigning down on her cheeks.

    By Mariposa on Feb 27, 2009 | Reply
  9. Whew, just in time! For once I actually did the Friday Fivehundred, I’m proud lol.

    http://knightsingold.blogspot.com/2009/03/friday-fivehundred.html

    Drazmors last blog post..Friday Fivehundred

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