Writing Prompt #1: Love And Hate

[AtticCat]

Prompt: Describe the same character twice. One to fall in love with them, then again to be repulsed by them.

Example:

Merina Taliesin

1. The woman stood leaning against the bar top, clear eyes who's color rivaled the jungle's green kept watch over the patrons that drank. Marigold shaded curls weaved together in the simplistic bun atop her head stood out against the opposite coloring of the Leveia mage's lilac hued butterflies resting peacefully upon her cotton covered shoulders. The woman's fingers held each other upon the counter of the bar, thin and elegant much like the rest of her frame.
2. A gauntly figure of a Claith stood against the counter, ruined and burnt fingers weaving with those still unmarred. Lose curls escaped down her cheeks and painted them the color of dirty copper that could not conceal the blemishes of past injury and sun damage upon the scraggly woman's face. Pesky fluttering insects carried about her and rested upon her now worn dress- their obnoxious lilac flashing with every wing beat.

 

[AtticCat]

Reserve

 

[Daekon]

This is an attempt with my noble, Lucien. Wasn't sure how good it is, but eh.

1. The noble stood at the bar, eyes the same blue as the sky on a good day, cloudless and clear. His posture was that of a relaxed person, an air of confidence around him as he laughs and jokes openly, eyes twinkling. Mouth curled up into a smile, or a smirk, he drums his fingers on the bar, his shorter figure not so obvious on the bar-stool. Picking up his cider, he takes a sip, watching his companion with amused eyes.
2. The short noble laughs loudly, the obnoxious noise ruining any peace that was there previously. His jokes failed attempts at a humour he obviously doesn't have, annoying all nearby patrons. Smirking to his companion, his cocky air does nothing to better what one thinks on first glance, even worsening it. Taking a noisy sip of his cider, he watches his companion with a sly grin.

 

[FeralGayWalnut]

Spoiler: Darcie

1. There she sits, her head tilted upwards into the sunlight, a book open upon her lap. Her hair cascades down her back and her bangs curl gently around her face. A teasing smile is upon her lips as a soft little giggle escapes her.

2. The sunlight reveals more than what the onlooker might wish to see. Her smile is a smirk and her expression not peaceful but conniving and one worn by a woman who knows she's won the world. The giggle one may have heard is actually a soft, sharp cackle escaping her smirking lips.

Spoiler: Seraphina

1. Shoulders back, head held high with wavy brown hair pulled back in a braid, the woman rides towards you upon a mighty steed. Her sapphire eyes staring into your very soul, her lips drawn up into a large, toothy grin. A sword glimmers upon her back as she grows closer and closer, hoof beats echoing her approach. And then she is upon you, a woman of large stature and gleeming eyes. She offers you out a hand, her friendly grin always present.

2. Hoof beats alert you to someone approaching. Turning, you see her. A steed larger than you have ever seen and the rider as large as the creature they ride upon. You see a flash and know what is coming. As the horse grows closer and closer, you begin to see who exactly will be bringing your life to an end. She is scarred and her lips drawn back into an angry, teeth barring sneer. A loud sharp neigh escapes the mighty creature she rides and you know your time has come.

This was fun.

 

[SpoopMelon]

Spoiler: Kimmie

1. A young noble woman let out an almost hypnotic laugh, the kind that spreads throughout a room. Her hair was in a simple but neat style and her dress was much the same, but in vibrant colours that reflected the girl's joyous personality. Her words were laced with un-ending kindness, no matter who she spoke to, showing that she saw past someone's skin and into the good intentions they held.
2. A 25 yet to be married noble woman skipped into the tavern like some child. Her hair made it look like she'd just rolled out of bed without bothering to touch it up, and her dress was a garishly bright green and gold. No matter what kind of filth she spoke to she acted kind, as if she was luring them into some false sense of security so she could take advantage of their trust.

Spoiler: Tuija

1. A teenaged Velheimer with short dark hair sat confidently on a table, her smile daring and inviting of challenge. She lightly elbowed her companion, letting teasing words spill from her full lips as she gave a smirk. She let out an accomplished laugh as the person gave the expected reaction, leaving them with an equally amused grin when they retorted.
2. A young lady with short completely unkempt hair was rudely sat on the table, her posture not that of a lady, but almost that of a man. Her words seemed to all be mindless ways of getting on people's nerves, and with her persistence she often achieved that goal.

All I got time and energy for in my current state.

 

[ScaledSupremacy]

Spoiler: Edmure

1.

A lone rider strode through the entrance of the old pub where she worked, breaking the dead silence that usually plagued the establishment at this hour. A single black skin cloak covering his figure. Snow and rain was scattered throughout the mans hair that seemed naturally kempt and set by the very wind and snow it had faced throughout the long night. The man made his way up to the counter of the bar as he sent a single longing glare at a nearby pint of ale. He turned his sights to the barkeep, emptying the last of his wallet onto the counter for a batch of hay and cover for his dormant steed, that while stationary, could be heard tugging at its fastened reins and neighing against the dark winter night outside.


Exhaustedly, the man ran a hand through his chestnut brown hair, darkened to a near black shade by the rain and melting snow that covered him from top to toe. He made his way over to the window, observing his mount be escorted into the folds and he slumped into a large chair with a content smile.


2.

Death was in the air. It was a hot and wet atmosphere that plagued to jungles of Daendroc that night. The occupying ailors had made their encampment in a subjugated elven village. A soldier in a purple and black uniform with medals and armscoats covering the sleeves of his attire, rode along the empty streets that night. He was mounted on a steed so black that it seemed to meld with the night around it. The rider was reared by two others, casting their searching and inquisitive glares down upon the streets, windows, and doorways. Faint screams and cries of sickened, injured soldiers and elves set the atmosphere over the farmers homes and buildings that seemed to reek of rot and disease almost as much as the war struck elves that lived within them. Further down, an old slender man and his grandson came hobbling down the streets toward the riders, carrying a small shared burden in their weakened arms. The riders moved slowly around the elves, the purple clad officer sliding out of his saddle as he strode towards the old one with a steadfast and militaristic pace. The old man fell to his knees, the grandchild behind him attempting to pull him back onto his feet but to no avail.

"You are aware there's a mandatory curfew, right?"


The old man let out a low wheezy grumble in a language foreign yet recognizable to the officer who panned to one of his fellow riders that had also left his saddle. The man began to converse with the old one in elvish, then turning to the officer.

"He claims that they are sick. He wishes for us to take his grandchildren and treat them. He says.. He says they've caught the jungle flu."

The fellowship of riders glared to one another as the name that had taken so many friends and camerades was spoken. The elder dropped onto all fours, placing his payload onto the ground and ushering it forwards toward the officer who moved a single hesitant step forward to pick the sheet glad newborn up into his arms. The two other riders looked to the officer that stood stalwart in the spot. They could not put the mission at risk. He looked down upon the old man who was ushering a prayer and a plead to a false god. No. Not to any god. He knew that those had long abandoned him. Didn't he?


The purple clad militant nodded to the two others that drew their sabers, cutting down the two elves as swiftly as their blades had been drawn, tainted blood flushing up the sides of the officers black riding boots. With the child in his arms he got back onto his horse, a fellow rider taking note as he inquired with curiosity in his voice.


"..Commander?"


The officer glanced over to the others, nodding them along. When they were out of sight, he held the child up into a stretched arm. It looked almost human. He let the ragged lump clatter down onto the pavement with a loud and hollow thump before rolling onwards and plunging into the gutter at the road side. And as the officer tugged at his reins to turn his unsteady mount, justifying himself by the war that was raging, the sickness that was plaguing, and the gods they were begging. But just then, on the rain clad streets, to the muffled thuds of heavy tropical rain drops and the clatter of hooves beneath him, the rider understood that the old man had not been praying to any gods. He had been praying to him.

 

[AtticCat]

Spoiler: Edmure

1.

A lone rider strode through the entrance of the old pub where she worked, breaking the dead silence that usually plagued the establishment at this hour. A single black skin cloak covering his figure. Snow and rain was scattered throughout the mans hair that seemed naturally kempt and set by the very wind and snow it had faced throughout the long night. The man made his way up to the counter of the bar as he sent a single longing glare at a nearby pint of ale. He turned his sights to the barkeep, emptying the last of his wallet onto the counter for a batch of hay and cover for his dormant steed, that while stationary, could be heard tugging at its fastened reins and neighing against the dark winter night outside.


Exhaustedly, the man ran a hand through his chestnut brown hair, darkened to a near black shade by the rain and melting snow that covered him from top to toe. He made his way over to the window, observing his mount be escorted into the folds and he slumped into a large chair with a content smile.


2.

Death was in the air. It was a hot and wet atmosphere that plagued to jungles of Daendroc that night. The occupying ailors had made their encampment in a subjugated elven village. A soldier in a purple and black uniform with medals and armscoats covering the sleeves of his attire, rode along the empty streets that night. He was mounted on a steed so black that it seemed to meld with the night around it. The rider was reared by two others, casting their searching and inquisitive glares down upon the streets, windows, and doorways. Faint screams and cries of sickened, injured soldiers and elves set the atmosphere over the farmers homes and buildings that seemed to reek of rot and disease almost as much as the war struck elves that lived within them. Further down, an old slender man and his grandson came hobbling down the streets toward the riders, carrying a small shared burden in their weakened arms. The riders moved slowly around the elves, the purple clad officer sliding out of his saddle as he strode towards the old one with a steadfast and militaristic pace. The old man fell to his knees, the grandchild behind him attempting to pull him back onto his feet but to no avail.

"You are aware there's a mandatory curfew, right?"


The old man let out a low wheezy grumble in a language foreign yet recognizable to the officer who panned to one of his fellow riders that had also left his saddle. The man began to converse with the old one in elvish, then turning to the officer.

"He claims that they are sick. He wishes for us to take his grandchildren and treat them. He says.. He says they've caught the jungle flu."

The fellowship of riders glared to one another as the name that had taken so many friends and camerades was spoken. The elder dropped onto all fours, placing his payload onto the ground and ushering it forwards toward the officer who moved a single hesitant step forward to pick the sheet glad newborn up into his arms. The two other riders looked to the officer that stood stalwart in the spot. They could not put the mission at risk. He looked down upon the old man who was ushering a prayer and a plead to a false god. No. Not to any god. He knew that those had long abandoned him. Didn't he?


The purple clad militant nodded to the two others that drew their sabers, cutting down the two elves as swiftly as their blades had been drawn, tainted blood flushing up the sides of the officers black riding boots. With the child in his arms he got back onto his horse, a fellow rider taking note as he inquired with curiosity in his voice.


"..Commander?"


The officer glanced over to the others, nodding them along. When they were out of sight, he held the child up into a stretched arm. It looked almost human. He let the ragged lump clatter down onto the pavement with a loud and hollow thump before rolling onwards and plunging into the gutter at the road side. And as the officer tugged at his reins to turn his unsteady mount, justifying himself by the war that was raging, the sickness that was plaguing, and the gods they were begging. But just then, on the rain clad streets, to the muffled thuds of heavy tropical rain drops and the clatter of hooves beneath him, the rider understood that the old man had not been praying to any gods. He had been praying to the officer.

Click to shrink...

Yours is really good

 

[TalkChat]

Reserved.

 

[FeyWitches]

Spoiler: Annabel Berg

1. The Longing Barmaid

They'd give a single glance at the entrance of the establishment, heaving a heavy sigh, it never was very eventful here. Most establishments towards the city practically suffocated in patrons and buyers. The woman gazed off, her idle gaze set upon a bearded man with his arms crossed. His face soured.

"Stop staring off and do something useful?" the man gave a low growl, his hairy arms folded over each other, each whisker moving as his face contorted in several demeaning looks.

"What should I do, then? I cleaned all the mugs, chopped the wood, stoked the fires, fed the sows. We haven't had a single customer in da-" the woman was cut off as the loud thumping of fur boots trotted into the establishment. The bearded man standing beside the barmaid looked at her with a wolfish grin.

"You were saying?" a chuckle being followed up by the remark.

"You- jus- gah. What would you like?" the barmaid's gaze set upon the Velheim whom entered. An astonishing sight, surely for any man, but for the woman it was beyond what she could describe. Their body was adorned with a strange mix of formality and barbaric clothes, the collar of their shirt surrounded by white fur, the fringes of each hair fraying out, giving a magnificent splendor. They wore a green cloak, a singular pin lain near their right shoulder, tufts of the cloak being tucked in the owl-shaped pin. They wore boots that stomped mightier than an ox, the fur lining it seemed to almost bend to the will of their might as they stepped forth. The new patron's cold gaze set upon the Claith barmaid. Their face shown but two sides of them. Their right bore elegance, a look as gentle as a breeze, their blue eyes mystified those who were victim to the gaze. Their left shown their many years of service to the Regalian Empire, many scars, many wounds. The face maimed beyond what one can foresee. Their hair stuck close to the base of their neck, cut short as the ends curved outward, their head half-balded. Thus was the traits of a warrior.

"Just a simple ale, for now. If you could, though, throw in a muffin 'er something?" the Velheim's voice was poetic is sounding, she could speak in front of a crowd and people may cheer thinking they had sung for them. One could only imagine what she sounded like when she did indeed sing.

The woman went to get their desires, tripping slightly as she went away. Soon returning with their desired meal.

The Velheim soon ate their food, chugging their drink. How they ate was quick, but it was done like a doe's prance. Fast yet elegant.

The bearded man came to the barmaid, knitting his brows, "What are you gawking at?" following her gaze, an 'oh' to his expression. His lips pressed as he gestured her along, "You twit... You'll scare away possible patrons if you keep staring at her like that.." the woman frowned deeply, glancing down at the floor.

"'Am sorry. Can't help m'self. If you weren't married you'd do the same, mmm?" The bearded man stopped a moment, replying.

"Well, yeah, but doesn't excuse YOUR case in this matter... That shiet is illegal. Now straighten yourself up and clean their dish-ware when they are done."

2. Curses and Blazes, the woman with the mace doesn't help.

The Umredd backed against the wall, tired, fatigued. They needed food, to feed, to get away from- her. "Stay back! I warned you! You- you'll regret the day you sieged our home you vile woman!" they called out to what seemed like nothing, flicking their form to the side as a fallen piece of burnt wood fell beside them.

Through the crackling, a terrifying noise occurred. The hollow planks drummed as boots fell upon them. it was loud, the noise felt like it came from everyone. Oh by void, where are they coming from? The noise didn't stop, every time the noise was wrought, it got louder. The flames around the Umredd concealed anything hiding in the midst, the smoke fogging out any shapes to be determined. But look! The smoke from his left swirled when a figure passed through them. It revealed a woman, a terrifying sight. Their face shows nightmares, for the very face could have seen the nightmares themselves. Scarred beyond one's comprehension, blotting out any beauty or innocence the woman had. Her expression was unforgivable, it showed malice, intent to kill.

"I-I'm w-w-w-warning you! Stay BACK!" the woman didn't stop, their mace swinging by their side. It was a terrible mace, flanged all around, not a single part of it could cause no harm. Their buckler was charred but stood strong, an owl painted upon the buckler's face. A rafter from the roof fell, blocking the path between the woman and the vampire. The sanguine huffed a sigh of relief, believing that this would give them a chance to escape. Before they could even shuffle up. The wood cracked with the woman's brute force to the plank, charred splinters flying everywhere. They came closer. The Umredd tried to run but to no avail, their leg had been caught by the mace's terror. They cried out as they turned themselves about. Seeing that terrifying face.

"You Pilgrim dogs stay away! We've done nothing but live peacefully, feed when we really needed to! We just want to live!" the woman didn't stop, staring coldly at them. Letting their mace down upon the vampire's skull.

"Nothing excuses evil."