Inspired by the atmospheric and enigmatic game, Dragon Age: The Last Court, here are some prompts for art or writing. Don't forget to send the prompt along with the number to help your creator out!
Utterly indebted to the #SaveSerault preservation project, and @silvanils Plot Guide here.
The black ocean of trees seethes under a fretful night-wind.
Nightmares breed like maggots in meat.
Wolves howling in council, or prayer, or song.
Gnomic messages scratched into fragments of bark with a knife-point.
Painted Masked Goddess in the bluebelled glade.
An inquisitive wind stirs in the woods.
Questing roots crawling over a secret, locking it away against the centuries.
The forest returns to its sleep and its long, green dreams.
Streams suddenly freezing despite the sun.
A spider the size of a carthorse.
There are stranger directions than ‘North’ and ‘South’.
Power is a difficult steed to ride. Not everyone can stay in the saddle.
Today's answer could be tomorrow's treason.
A Baker’s Breeze, early in the morning. Upon it, the scent of bread rising in the ovens.
A coy breeze carries the sounds and smells of the market.
Spice. Lies. Laughter. The play of coin.
A grey wind drones in the fireplace.
A slow rain drones on the windows.
A hard wind blows from the east, carrying fat, gloating ravens.
A song of old Serault: the Stag and the Rose.
A star-wind, high and swift, pushes silver clouds to and fro beneath the moon.
The lap of the river upon the castle’s stone feet.
The scent of leaves and nodding barley.
White feathers drift like snow.
The Applewoods are dappled with shadow and filled with succulent midnights. Come closer.
The Biting Wind that Masked Andraste keeps leashed like a dog.
The sun swarms the river.
The Chateau’s four cats stretch out on the roof-tiles.
The wind eddies in corners, making dancing columns of dust. It comes from nowhere, goes nowhere. A Fade-wind, the Dowager calls it.
The Chateau’s pennants crack like whips.
“Payment in Glass” is the Serault motto.
The Green Chapel in the Deepwoods, where wolves go to pray.
A line of grey in the dark; fighting, failing, dying.
A sound like tearing silk.
Sun as warm as the touch of a hand.
A garland of aster and cuckoo-flowers.
The Masked Andraste isn’t as keen on chastity as her moon-faced sister.
A mage must be a poet, a philosopher, and a butcher.
To hold fire by the throat.
Familiar territory, but never quite safe.
Serault’s pride is like her forests: root-deep, thick-skinned, hard-won from the world’s edge.
Rune-strewn bones of a fell beast.
A forest victim: flowers sprouting from their eyes.
Hands burned to the blackened bone.
The Tower of Lights, as it never was: scraping the sky, mantled in light.
Smashing a horned mask of glass and gemstones.
Your true face: a horned mask of glass and gemstones.
The Glassworkers' Guildmaster elections.
This is the Grand Game. Play or drown.
A glass Guildmaster's sword, the hilt spinning fractures of light across the floor.
Freedoms for the Glassworkers: to leave, and leave to marry.
If it doesn't fight back, you drink it.
Secret liaisons with the Lover: Candlelit meetings. Fingers tangling briefly in the corridors. The door to your chambers creaking softly open when the guards change their watch. Stifled giggles as a servant passes.
A change of lovers, and the fallout.
An old tome. Dense, inseparable uncials cram the book. The ink fades. Mold speckles the flimsy pages.
A pig farmer advises the Marquis.
A grin as tight as a gallows noose.
Honor is a game that others play.
Your Chevalier Commander, and her loyalty.
Serault Town: Gold stone, red roofs.
The Horned Knight's hold: a round tower, jagged as a chipped tooth, its floors all collapsed in on one another. A great tree grows within it, spreading a canopy of burgundy leaves where the roof once was.
Grass sparkling with shards of an old, shattered mirror.
Fat partridge, simmering in a pot with sweet onions and pale beans, then a plate of round cakes, peppered with poppyseed and laced with honey.
The mother has eyes of fire; the daughter, a heart of it.
Twilit riverbanks untrod by mortal feet, and rings of tall blue stones that were not raised by human hands…
A hall where the trees walk and the stones speak.
The Horned Knight: clad in armor of forest green, with an ivy cloak that hisses along the flagstones.
Hounds in the kennels, baying for the hunt.
The effects of High Twilight.
The effects of High Peril.
The effects of Rumors of Revolution.
The Dignity of the Huntress, Glass Rose of Serault: deadly, beautiful, adored, dreaded.
The Freedom of the Scholar, who might be the one to bring change to Serault for the good of the common folk.
The apples have interesting properties: astringent... intoxicating.
The Chateau stands on an island in mid-river.
The Acerbic Dowager (Counselor)
The Cheery Baron (Counselor)
The Dashing Outlaw (Accomplice or Bodyguard)
The Elegant Abbess (Counselor or Lover)
The Kindly Knight (Counselor)
The Purveyor of Teas (Accomplice)
The Seneschal (Counselor)
The Silent Hunter (Bodyguard)
The Smiling Guildmistress (Counselor)
The Well-Read Pig-Farmer (Accomplice)
His Dour Lordship (Counselor)
