Not much 'appening. I'll put up this weeks writing:
The first one was putting twenty random nouns to twenty random adjectives and then choosing ten to put into a pros piece, they'll be underlined:
Every rain drop soaked through the gear and the like in the fortess. Marcus walked through the passages of the fortress, dubbed dreamy necromancer 17, like a lost child. It made odd sense to build a necromatic fortress in an offshore oil refinery, but did they hace to take a small dingy to get to the middle of North Sea?
Even that Cold Car was better then this place, only the counicl chamber was more inforgiving then that machine. Two necromancers, one in hippy clothes and the other in a scuba suit, passed by Marcus. Marcus let them pass before checking around himself to check for anybody else before kicking a small panel on the bottom of a wall, he heard a click and looked around himself, he couldn't see anything and then he heard another click. He felt the ground open up beneith him and the rush of air across his face as he fell down. When he finally landed on the crash pad he groaned for a second and then pushed himself up and walked to the doorway and through the illusion of a perfectly sealed door, he felt a tingle as he did so, and he entered the council chamber, a secret room deep beneith the sea, the home of the Spectral Eight. The eight highest necromancers in existance, only one was actually in the room but the other seven where represented by holograms; Hating Sword: lord of North America; Fiery Jewel: Warden of Antartica; Lonely Scar: Maiden of Eurussia; Crimson Night: Councilor of South America; Fifth Mirror: Voice of Australia and Paciffic: Doomed Griffin: Thane of Asia; Gleeish Mask: Choosen of Africa, and The Nameless One, High master of All Necromancers. One of them handed him an envolope, he didn't know which one as they all wore black hooded robes. Tehy where incredible secretive, so secretive in fact that less then a percent of all high level Necromancers knew the location of the council chambers, so what ever was in the envolope was important.
The next one was a similar exercise but with Verbs and Nouns, and senteces not a whole piece, three also had Hiakus made for them:
1) The fire cried with drops of metal as it ripped an teared apart the forge.
2) The blood dreamed it was never cursed, for as it spilled in that battle between the man and the witch, the stone rotted rather then let the blood run along it's surface.
3) As the tempest flew over head it spat lightning and lashed at the men with rain.
4)The Leech familiar grew as it drained the blood from the hawk which mutated as a result into a cross of a dinosaur, platapus and a bunny rabbit covered in feathers.
5) The ghost mutalted the boy with hands that danced in and out of sight that in life belonged to a champion who corrupted all before being scorn by a wyvern sage, by it large jaws of diamond hard fangs.
Hiakus:
Here the champion,
by his lying stories true,
corrupts all the youth
The tempest flew high,
but it was not in ill wraith,
As not a drop fell
As my wretched word,
Flew from my own wretched maw,
Rot forth all the stone
That's all folk,
The Shadow Poet,
Me.
The first one was putting twenty random nouns to twenty random adjectives and then choosing ten to put into a pros piece, they'll be underlined:
Every rain drop soaked through the gear and the like in the fortess. Marcus walked through the passages of the fortress, dubbed dreamy necromancer 17, like a lost child. It made odd sense to build a necromatic fortress in an offshore oil refinery, but did they hace to take a small dingy to get to the middle of North Sea?
Even that Cold Car was better then this place, only the counicl chamber was more inforgiving then that machine. Two necromancers, one in hippy clothes and the other in a scuba suit, passed by Marcus. Marcus let them pass before checking around himself to check for anybody else before kicking a small panel on the bottom of a wall, he heard a click and looked around himself, he couldn't see anything and then he heard another click. He felt the ground open up beneith him and the rush of air across his face as he fell down. When he finally landed on the crash pad he groaned for a second and then pushed himself up and walked to the doorway and through the illusion of a perfectly sealed door, he felt a tingle as he did so, and he entered the council chamber, a secret room deep beneith the sea, the home of the Spectral Eight. The eight highest necromancers in existance, only one was actually in the room but the other seven where represented by holograms; Hating Sword: lord of North America; Fiery Jewel: Warden of Antartica; Lonely Scar: Maiden of Eurussia; Crimson Night: Councilor of South America; Fifth Mirror: Voice of Australia and Paciffic: Doomed Griffin: Thane of Asia; Gleeish Mask: Choosen of Africa, and The Nameless One, High master of All Necromancers. One of them handed him an envolope, he didn't know which one as they all wore black hooded robes. Tehy where incredible secretive, so secretive in fact that less then a percent of all high level Necromancers knew the location of the council chambers, so what ever was in the envolope was important.
The next one was a similar exercise but with Verbs and Nouns, and senteces not a whole piece, three also had Hiakus made for them:
1) The fire cried with drops of metal as it ripped an teared apart the forge.
2) The blood dreamed it was never cursed, for as it spilled in that battle between the man and the witch, the stone rotted rather then let the blood run along it's surface.
3) As the tempest flew over head it spat lightning and lashed at the men with rain.
4)The Leech familiar grew as it drained the blood from the hawk which mutated as a result into a cross of a dinosaur, platapus and a bunny rabbit covered in feathers.
5) The ghost mutalted the boy with hands that danced in and out of sight that in life belonged to a champion who corrupted all before being scorn by a wyvern sage, by it large jaws of diamond hard fangs.
Hiakus:
Here the champion,
by his lying stories true,
corrupts all the youth
The tempest flew high,
but it was not in ill wraith,
As not a drop fell
As my wretched word,
Flew from my own wretched maw,
Rot forth all the stone
That's all folk,
The Shadow Poet,
Me.
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