#fff354

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[#FFF354 What Is The prompt?]

What is being prompted? Who is prompting it? Is it an action, an idea, or a push towards something? Have lines been forgotten on stage or has a rebellion being sparked? Or perhaps, someone is simply trying to think what to write! You hold the answers, so start writing and let us know!!

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The Collective <3

[starkraivennemad]

And...?

Greg Lestrade sighed.

John Watson put his nearly empty pint down. “What gives, mate?”

Greg’s eyes were on the telly, and his favorite team was winning, but that sigh was proof he was not watching the game.

“Gives?” Greg frowned, sipping from his more than half-full pint, “Nothing gi---”

The bar erupted in mostly joyful noise as an Arsenal player made an impressive move to get the goal. John cocked his head at Greg, who would normally be the loudest one cheering, but was oddly quiet. His not meeting John’s eyes gave away that he knew he was done for.

“I’m waiting…” John prompted at Greg’s continued silence as he sipped his pint, “What’s her name?”

“Who said anything about a her?”

John raised a brow, “What’s his name?”

“Who said anything about a he?”

“Uh huh… Just had that epiphany, you might be falling?”

Greg nearly choked as he drained his pint. “How did you know...?”

“I didn’t. Thanks for confirming.” John chuckled.

“Bastard,” Greg mumbled.

“That I am.” John raised his empty pint in mock salute as he signaled the bartender for another round. “So, the lucky person…?”

“There is no lucky person.” Greg was not ready to have that conversation. Regrettably, John was worse than Sherlock at times like this when he knew he was onto something.

“Why?”

“Because they don’t know I exist.”

“Really…?”

“Okay, they do know I exist.”

“And…? What’s the problem?”

“I love them.”

“And…?”

“They don’t know, or ever will.”

“Why…?”

“I’m not their type.”

“Ta!” John placed notes on the bar top as their pints arrived, then looked at Greg, “And…?”

“They have made their thoughts on such known.”

John’s eyes narrowed. “And…?”

“They are immovable.”

“Did you think I wouldn't figure it out?” John smirked.

“Figure out what?” Greg bluffed.

John said quietly after a while. “I used to think Sherlock was immovable.”

Greg gritted his teeth at the loaded statement, playing it off.

“Oh? What changed?”

“Turned out I’m irresistible. So are you, Greg.” John grinned, “May the force be with you.”

“You know it’s him, don’t you?”

“Me?” John winked, “I know nothing about Mission: Get Go Mycroft.”

=========================================

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[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom

Finding the Right Title

“Can’t you give me more than that?” I ask Ella.

“More than what?” she enquires, clearly not at her most vigilant.

“More than: ‘What happens to you?’ Nothing happens to me, you know that. How about a prompt of sorts?”

“A prompt?”

Nope, Ella sure is distracted by something today. Normally, she’s as sharp as a razor.

“Forget it. I’ll think of something,” I sigh, and stand.

“Next week, then? Same time?”

“Sure. Whatever,” I mumble.

***

Merely two hours later, I feel I’ve jinxed it. The ‘nothing ever happens to me’ gibberish, I mean.

I’m currently in front of my laptop. My brand-new blog is on display; the cursor is blinking mockingly, impatiently, as if it says: “Go on, you numpty. Start writing, already. Things have finally happened to you!”

And my is that cursor right. But still I have no more idea what to write now, than the last times I’ve been sitting in front of a new blog entry. It’s likely due to the fact that too many things have happened to me in quick succession. I feel it needs processing before I put words to paper, metaphorically speaking.

I’ve got my prompt, though. The one Ella couldn’t (or wouldn’t) give me.

A meeting. No. Two meetings, actually. 

I know I’m dawdling, but I can’t seem to decide on a title, and I desperately need a title. Even in school, I couldn’t write a damn thing before I had a title. Little has changed in that department it seems.

It needs to be something that foreshows what the blog post is about, so the word ‘meeting’ should definitely be in the title; plural or singular. 

I start typing. Trying it out.

A Meeting in the Park

A Surprising Meeting

Two Meetings at Different Locations

Meeting a Doctor and a Madman

A Strange Meeting

I read them over and decide on the last one. It’s not that meeting Mike wasn’t significant – it was after all that particular meeting that led me to Barts and Sherlock Holmes – but it was the meeting in the lab that changed my entire world.

How to describe him? Sherlock Holmes, that is. Mike Stamford hasn’t changed much since our days at Barts. He’s gained some weight, but he’s as jovial now as he was when we first met years ago. Some would even say, he’s easily forgotten; normal.

‘Normal’ is not a word I would use to describe Sherlock Holmes. On the contrary. 

He’s most likely human, but his capabilities to observe – not to mention speak so rapidly you feel like you’re boarded a carousel out of control – are quite extraordinary and otherworldly. By just a perfunctory onceover, he knew almost everything about me.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” was his first question.

For once, I was immensely relieved that I had my cane to lean on. 

After I’d told him it was Afghanistan, he rattled out my entire life story, as if he read it out of a book. He did get the gender of Harry wrong, though, but I didn’t tell him that. Maybe I’ll surprise him with it some other time. Because I am meeting him again. The man that looked 12 when I first laid eyes on him. Tomorrow we’re off to look at flat together. Me and the madman. Me and Sherlock Holmes.

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[queenjunothegreat]

Okie dokie boys girls and squirrels! I've got another @flashfictionfridayofficial fic! This one REALLY gave me a run for my money because this prompt took NO prisoners. I had to use my brain, everyone pity me. </3 Anywho, here's the fic!

Word count: 1,000 (only a little editing this time!)

Ao3 Poetry in Motion

Jason had thought that the hardest part of going to Edgarton would be, you know, the part where he was going to a mortal high school for the first time in his life. He’d gone to school while he was at Camp Jupiter (of course he had, despite Piper and Leo’s incessant jokes about his wolf-grade reading level) but that had been completely different. School in New Rome had been carefully balanced with his Legion duties and was formatted with dyslexic ADHD kids specifically in mind. School in New Rome had been easy, Edgarton was completely different. There were uniforms and curfews and rules and– Well, maybe it wasn’t all that different from Camp Jupiter after all.

The hardest thing for Jason to get used to, though, was the free time he had. Part of that time was taken up with lacrosse, seeing as any students who lived on campus were required to partake in at least one extracurricular activity, but that was only four hours a week during fall. He spent some time on his school work, naturally, but Edgarton didn’t do homework, so other than studying for tests and writing papers, there wasn’t much for him to do. So, really, Jason found himself with idle hands far more frequently than he ever had in his life.

That was where Leo came in.

Jason had secretly, selfishly hoped that Leo’s involvement would have just amounted to a lot of holding hands in the quad and making out in their dorm room, but life was never quite that kind to Jason. No, unfortunately, Leo was very, very invested in “re-childhooding” Jason, which roughly translated to exposing him to all of the stuff he’d missed growing up in a demigod military camp. This included taking him to Chuck E. Cheese (which he hadn’t exactly loved because it was very loud) and binge watching “important” cartoons and movies (Avatar was a very good show, but the movie didn’t make much sense as an adaptation, considering it was suddenly about aliens) and, most terrifyingly, finding new hobbies and interests outside of niche Ancient Roman law. 

Lacrosse had been Leo’s idea, and it was definitely fun, there was no doubt about it. Jason liked the physicality and the predefined rules and the teamwork involved with sports. However, apparently, that wasn’t quite good enough, and Leo had been needling him to try something else, something that wasn’t just about performing an action for someone else. Jason had been a little lost, trying to figure out what, exactly, that new hobby could be until their English class had done a unit on classic English poets, and Jason had discovered a love of reciting poetry. That, naturally, had led him to the poetry club (which Leo insisted on calling the Dead Poets Society, for some reason) and for one shining moment, everything looked like it was gonna work out. 

Then, because the world could never be that kind, Derrick, the club president, had cheerfully announced that the next meeting they would be reciting their own poetry.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Jason groaned into his pillow while Leo sympathetically stroked his hair. “I don’t know how to write poetry.”

“What if you just started talking in Latin?” Leo suggested. “Then you wouldn’t have to actually write anything, you could just recite a cake recipe or something.”

Jason paused and considered that option with no small amount of hope before remembering that Sheamus was in his Latin class and would absolutely call him out. “I can’t. They’ll figure it out.” He considered it for another moment before adding, “I do like the idea of writing it in Latin, though. Only one person will have any idea what I’m saying, but I’m fine with that.”

“That’s the spirit!” Leo cheered, bending over to kiss Jason’s ear, which was the one spot of face-adjacent skin not hidden by Jason’s autoasphyxiation attempt. That made him feel a lot better. “So, whatcha gonna write about?”

Hopelessness crashed over Jason again. “No idea. Can I just quit this club? That’s a normal kid experience, right?”

“No way, dude, I watched you get moony-eyed over Lord Byron last week, you’re staying in this club,” Leo said seriously. Jason didn’t bother to point out that the reason he’d actually gone all sappy was because he was reading “Soon We’ll Go No More a Roving” with Leo beside him, still and peaceful for once. Leo poked him. “Come on. Talk to me. What’s the prompt?”

Jason continued his grumbling for a moment before he heaved a heavy sigh. “Beauty beyond measure.”

“Oh, uh, okay, um. What about…” Leo floundered for a moment. “A sunset? Or, um, a flower?”

Jason refrained from gagging, but only just. “No.”

Leo pinched his ear. “Okay, what about something less conventional that you like? Like swordfighting, or something? I’m pretty sure I could wax poetic about the inner workings of Festus, if you held a gun to my head.”

Leo continued to talk, rattling off all sorts of ideas, each one somehow worse than the one before, and Jason felt his brain throb. He figured this was probably only partially due to Leo’s poetry suggestions and mainly just a lack of oxygen, so he begrudgingly rolled over. When he did, he wound up with his head cradled in Leo’s lap, and his breath hitched as soon as he blinked stars out of eyes.

Leo was sitting there, still talking and completely oblivious to the fact that Jason was staring at him in complete awe. The sun was starting to set, so warm evening sun was pouring through the window at Leo’s back, lighting up his messy cloud of curls like a halo. His crooked teeth flashed with every word, his eyes glowed, his hands flapped through the air like baby birds, and there was a breathtaking smear of grease on his chin.

Jason’s heart sang, and he smiled. “I think I know what I’m going to write about.”

[seekers-who-are-lovers]

Eyes like Aurora Borealis and a face with a winning smile

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial using the prompt FFF354 ~ what is the prompt and @fluffbruary March 14 : rain | vines | water. I am having a ball creating a Medalist Teacher AU. A part of the vignettes. Inori found YodaTsuka again.

—

Fandom : Medalist (anime & manga)

Characters: Inori Yuitsuka, Tsukasa Akeuraji, Jun Yodaka

Word count : 858

Teacher Tsukasa told her to wait at his room before lunchtime.

The school fair was coming up in a few weeks. As the class representative she wanted to finalise with her adviser the proposal she and her classmates submitted in order to start planning.

They invited a semi-famous mangaka to talk about her work and introduce it to the public. She already said yes. It helped that a classmate’s mom was an editor and friends with the artist.

It is a free marketing, too. Inori thought.

At the same time they wanted to hold a workshop for writing and illustrating a manga and the artist would serve as a judge. Inori saw her strengths on it. She never had any talents nor stamina in sports. She realised that she loved to weave words and drew a sequence of the story she wanted to convey.

“It is still rough, but you have the drive. Most of all, you can draw, Inori! Don’t forget that!” Teacher Tsukasa once said.

Like always concocting a series of events that were connected to each other could be painstaking.

She and Hikaru played a game wherever she was stuck and out of ideas. One method she found effective to roll the ball was—

“What is the prompt this time, Hikaru?” It gave her focus. From there she could see the story before her eyes.

//

Inori began to feel antsy. She looked at her phone’s watch.

Teacher Tsukasa’s door was usually open, but she was reluctant to knock. Inori waited for another 20 minutes until she realised that her class adviser was not alone. There were murmurs behind it. She could hear two voices of men having a playful banter and then a loud giggling.

Inori came closer and placed her right ear on the door while holding her phone ready to send a text to Hikaru.

Teacher Tsukasa was definitely not alone by himself.

“You have to go now, Jun-san. Stop. Stopppp, this. Isn’t the. Right time. And place,” Tsukasa pleaded in a staccato voice.

“Hmmmm… I… miss…. you. Do I have to warn Kago-san that you are mine?”

“He’s like a father to me. Surely, you wouldn’t think that?”

“Akeuraji, I wasn’t born yesterday. I know when someone desires you. I can see it from their eyes. Even…”

“Even what?”

“Hitomi’s father. Takamine-san.”

Inori couldn’t believe her ears. Takamine-sensei, the assistant school director?

“They only wanted to support me. Your jealousy is over the top. You know how much I’ve always been loyal to you ever since I was a teenager.”

Inori noticed that her adviser’s voice went soft.

“I was ready to commit transgressions if you gave me the signs. I was a fool… for you. It hasn’t changed.”

“And it was a correct thing that I waited for you.”

Oh my god, Teacher Tsukasa! Inori pulled her hair. Unsure if she struck gold. This was the second time she caught her adviser and the science teacher being lovey-dovey.

They have a long history, huh.

She thought of sending Hikaru a text when the door opened.

Aghast, her mouth a complete O, she dropped her phone.

“Ah, your visitor is here, Akeuraji-sensei.”

Jun glared at her. She struggled to get up hastily putting the phone inside her uniform skirt’s pocket.

“So you are the one who keeps taking Tsukasa’s precious time?”

“Uhhhh…” Speechless, Inori found herself in need of water.

The science teacher’s eyes gleamed like a laser beam zapping at her. She was worried that she would fizzle out like a pulverised shrimp. Inori’s image of the cigarette smoke surrounding him still haunted her.

“Stop it, you!” Tsukasa lovingly taps Jun’s arm, then continued, “don’t scare the girl. Go to the cafeteria and get us a table.”

Inori couldn’t shake off the intimidating gaze, she secretly swallowed her saliva.

“Yes, Inori-san, don’t keep him too long. It is our lunch break.”

Eekkk!!!

The poor girl could only nod. barely moving from where she stood.

“Cut it out, Jun. You are scaring her.”

“I am not.”

He winked again. She didn’t have a crush on Jun Yodaka, but she could see his appeal. The small face contributed to his young looks complementing Teacher Tsukasa Akeuraji’s fresh appearance. And his eyes? They reminded her of Aurora borealis she saw from a host of TV documentaries. They matched together. She could see it now. Jun took the other man’s hand and squeezed it.

“See you later then.”

Then he walked leisurely outside. No doubt toward the school cafeteria.

“I am sorry, Inori. Don’t mind him. He’s a good person. I can see that you know the real score between us.”

Teacher Tsukasa’s face was red all over. It even spread to his chest.

“I… I … can keep a secret, Teacher Tsukasa.” Her heart was pounding fast.

“Atta girl! I know that I can rely on you.” A smile broke out from his cheeks.

He invited her in and began to discuss the upcoming school fair.

Who could say no to Teacher Tsukasa?

Inori promised herself that she wouldn’t tell a single soul about what she heard or saw. Ah, perhaps telling Hikaru wouldn’t hurt?

[improbablescience]

Refresh for new powers

A word-powered magical girl for @flashfictionfridayofficial 's #FF354 "What is the prompt?"

Sorry Zelda fans, this prompt wanted to be something other than fanfic. Sometimes throwing a prompt into the brain is like giving myself unpredictable powers.

Original fiction

Words: 1000

[Ao3 Link]

Sarah hit refresh on the page again, even though the clock read 11:58. The prompt definitely wouldn’t be up yet. It was never early and seldom late. Reading it right at midnight wasn’t actually important, but the anticipation made her twitchy and unable to do much else until she knew what it was.

The first time, she hadn’t known what was going on. It hadn’t even been the first of the month the day she followed the account. She’d been mindlessly scrolling when a long story came up based on a writing prompt. The story was a short but intriguing fragment of a fairy tale, so she’d followed the author hoping to see if they continued it, then decided to follow the writing prompt account that had inspired it for good measure. She scrolled through the posts and saw that a new prompt had been posted a few days before: “helping soulmates reunite.”

That’s when the pen in her pocket had started to vibrate.

Distracted, she’d assumed it was her phone, but that was silly because her phone was in her hand where she’d been reading prompts off the screen. So what she pulled out of her pocket was her grandmother’s pen. It hummed in her hand, making her fingers tingle. But… it was a vintage Parker 51 fountain pen. There wasn’t anything in there that should vibrate, and Sarah was quite sure of that because she’d spent the past couple of days taking it apart to clean it and refill it with ink. It should not be humming.

Confused, Sarah had uncapped then pen, and that’s when the magic took hold

The world around her had started to sparkle, somehow a match to the tingling she’d felt from the pen. She’d stood up in alarm, looking around her, and as she turned, she saw more sparkles flowing from the tip of the uncapped pen and swirling around her before settling on her skin, which was slowly turning lighter.

Am I… hallucinating? Then she looked down at herself. Her fuzzy house socks had been replaced with sensible hiking boots. Her favourite slouchy cardigan had been replaced with a light outdoor jacket.

Sarah glared at the pen for a moment, but it appeared to be done. She recapped it before it could do anything else to her wardrobe, and that’s when her phone buzzed with a reminder that she was scheduled to walk shelter dogs in an hour.

Sarah had not made an appointment to walk shelter dogs. But when she slipped her hand back into her pocket and touched the pen, the knowing took over her.

She’d apparently inherited not only the pen but also powers from her grandmother.

Sarah’s first powers had come from the prompt “helping soulmates reunite” and the knowing had given the explanation that she had a magical girl mission and all the tools and disguise she needed to complete it. But it didn’t exactly say what, just when, where, and the prompt. She’d spent the whole bus ride to the shelter preparing for playing cupid in some kind of meet-cute, but it wasn’t until she’d reached down to pet a shelter dog and suddenly discovered her new dog telepathy that she realized she was going to be spending the month helping re-incarnated pets find their people again.

It had taken Sarah a while to get used to the idea of being a magical girl. Eventually she found her grandmother’s diaries and learned that she’d gotten her prompts from a magazine instead of a website, but the powers otherwise behaved the same. They changed monthly. Grandma had joked that it was like being one of Charlie’s angels but more cryptic.

By the time Sarah hit the prompt “A soft place to land” she’d realized that checking early gave her time to plan and find other ways to use her powers whenever they first activated. The pen let her know when she was needed, but she could transform on her own as long as she was helping someone and it fit the prompt. So the strength she’d gotten as a power to help her save old ladies from bad, life-altering falls could also be used to help her friend move to a nicer apartment with a bit of planning.

The clock ticked over to midnight, and Sarah refreshed the page.

The prompt appeared, but this time it was even more mysterious than usual.

Sarah stared at the words on the page. “What is the prompt?” That seemed… kind of meta? What was she supposed to do with that? Her pen wasn’t humming yet, so apparently no call to use her powers yet. Which wasn’t that abnormal at midnight on the first of the month, but it meant no knowing downloading itself into her brain yet to give her any sense of powers or where and when. She flipped to her calendar but she didn’t see any new entries with the telltale shimmer yet.

Uncapping the pen, Sarah started to write down ideas. She’d been hesitant to use the pen once she’d learned it was magical, but when you find yourself carrying a pen with you at all times it was only a matter of time. It didn’t seem to do anything special when dormant, but it was a nice pen.

“What is the prompt?” could mean helping actors with missed cues. Ugh, or helping vibe coders given the modern use of the word “prompt.” It would be nice if it was writers in need of inspiration, though she had no idea what kind of powers and magical girl outfit would go with that. She’d wondered more than once if the fact that the powers came as writing prompts meant the magic came from the shared creativity of writers. Maybe that was why it was so meta, so she could feed creative energy into her own powers?

Sarah sighed. This one was a mystery for sure. Nothing left to do but wait for the call to power.

[thegodthief]

In A Flash

Inspired by @flashfictionfridayofficial

FFF354 What is the prompt?

722 words after the jump.

The reflection of the stagelights in Harry’s unblinking eyes accurately portrayed the utter lack of thought that was happening behind them. He was struggling to remember what to say next but was unable to remember what he had done just five seconds ago, much less what right at that moment.

He knew he was on stage. He knew there was a performance. He knew this was being shown live to an international audience.

He didn’t know what happened next.

Finally, he blinked and struggled to hide his panic as he struggled to find the prompter. Where was the hidden screen that showed his next line? He looked around using only his eyes. The stagelights were so bright that the glare overwhelmed any attempt to see away from the stage.

He heard a movement off to his left. A fellow performer stepped up to him, grabbed his elbow, and made a great show of dragging the still-dazed actor in a direction he was not prepared to move.

As he stumbled, he heard the audience laugh.

Too late, he remembered that this is supposed to be a drama, a serious portrayal of the human condition. He pulled his arm away from his fellow and attempted to take a serious stance.

The audience laughed louder. A performer from the other side of the stage laughed loudest.

He whirled around to face his heckler and the beams of focused stagelight flew from him to follow his gaze. His vision recovered enough for him to see the performer, now having the audience’s full attention, begin to speak the next lines with confidence and pomp.

Harry deflated in the encroaching shadows. The performer who pulled him across the stage now gently led him to the curtains where a chair had been prepared for him.

“Sit down, Harry. You did great out there!”

Harry looked up at the speaker even as he took his seat.

“No, I did horrible! I forgot my lines! I forgot everything! I couldn’t see the prompter!”

A bottle of water was forced into his clutching hands. “No, Harry. Wait, were the lights too bright on your face? I knew you should have worn the mask to dim the lights.”

“The light… I forgot!”

“As did I, Harry. Forgive me. If you come on the next show, you will wear the mask next time. The mesh will dim the light enough to not trigger anything.”

Oh. That’s right. Bright lights sometimes trigger an absence seizure in Harry. He had forgotten. “Oh no, did that happen on stage?”

His friend crouched beside him and patted his hand. “Looks like it did. Do you want to go lie down?”

Harry held the bottle of water as hard as the audience was laughing at the bumbling scene in front of him. “No. I’m sorry. I ruined it. I ruined it for everyone.”

His friend started softly laughing. “No, Harry. You didn’t ruin it at all. If anything, you saved it.”

“But I forgot my lines, and I just stood there like an idiot!”

It was then that Harry looked at the costume he was wearing. Brightly colored with a mish-mash of patterns, textures, satin, and sequins. No two inches matched each other. His gloves didn’t match. His trousers were streaked. He looked very much like a modern interpretation of a renaissance jester.

“Wait.”

His friend tried to not to laugh.

“Hey… For that scene… What is the prompt, anyway?”

His friend couldn’t look up to face Harry. “There weren’t any spoken lines. Just to stand there and stare at the audience until the next scene is ready. You and Luis then stumble off the stage in this direction together while Hank comes in from the other direction to take the focus. You did precisely what you were supposed to do. And you did it, quite well.”

Hank is suddenly standing before Harry. “Hey! You okay? Think you have it in you to stand for the end? I’ll support you! Come on, let’s go take a bow!”

Luis encourages Harry as well, offering to hold his hand if it would help.

“Together, please?”

Luis and Hank grin and pull Harry to his feet, together. As Harry’s senses return, the three good friends make their way back into the bright lights to the increasing cheer and applause of the audience.

[pianos-writing-corner]

Submission for @flashfictionfridayofficial, based on this prompt from @writing-prompt-s: This weapon requires someone worthy to wield it. You are not worthy. But it's the only weapon within reach, and there are people who need saving.

TW: blood, death

As the Dark Lord and his army advanced into the castle, the man the people called Hero, Savior, or even The Guy struggled to rise. Armor broken, weapon shattered, one eye swollen and black already, blood dripping from a crushed nose and split lip. One backhanded blow had been all it took to make a mockery of you. The royal family and nobles watched in horror as their guards, loyal to the end, were slaughtered.

The Queen looked at the fallen, broken man in terror, the King crying out for your help as the monsters advanced towards them. The Dark Lord cackled. "I told you fools, he is just a man. Not your hero. You trusted him and now look at him, broken and helpless to save your lives."

You slowly rose to your feet, leaning for support on the great spear Grandol, the fabled weapon of the gods. It had stood in the hall from time immemorial, an enchantment keeping it for one "who is worthy." You had tried to wield it before, and failed. Even you, hailed by the people, had not proven good enough.

The Dark Lord sneered and turned his back on you, raising his sword and preparing to slaughter the nobles. Accusing voices shouted at you in your mind, telling you that you knew you weren't the one, how dare you let these people down, you should have told them from the start that they were wrong. You nearly give up then and there, because you know, deep down, that they're right. You're not the hero, you're not worthy, you weren't even strong enough to try and make a stand.

One small voice, though, echoes suddenly in your mind, silencing all the rest. "I didn't think you were the man to stand by and let people die." It hit you like a ton of bricks- here you were, doubting yourself and ready to give up without trying! These people trusted you, needed you, and were about to die without your help.

A battle cry escaped your lips as you unthinkingly grabbed the spear Grandol, lifting the tip from where it sat sunk into the ground, and charged at the Dark Lord, running him through with a single thrust. He looks down in surprise at where the head exited his side, then looks at you, blood dripping from the corners of his mouth as he collapses, first to his knees, then into a heap on the floor. His army, a sorcerous construction, turns to mist and vanishes as his eyes glass over in death.