Admittedly, I am homaging Arthur C. Clarke, but why not aim to finish 2001 drabbles? Why not?

Will it take me a long time? Yes.

Will I finish? Maaaaybe.

Will it be fun trying? Yes!

Ergo, I give you this! My 2001 Drabble Oddysey!

1. Intro (thou art here brave traveler)
2. Characters/etc
3. Current List
4. Completed Lists
5. Links to other 100-theme folk!
6. 2001: The Illustrations

The characters I'll be using will be an assortment of mine from various sources including roleplay, my ongoing fantasy novel-type project, and miscellaneous stories of mine. There's really no telling who will show up!

Theres' a VERY PARTIALLY COMPLETED database of characters here:
The Imperium Character Database

Most characters will be from there. At least, any character I actually use I'll endeavor to have a profile up for.

My Personal Rules:

1. No reusing words/themes.
2. They don't have to be true drabbles, they can be whatever, and I can reuse them as actual story if I like. Conversely, they do not have to be used as actual story.
3. There is no rule three.
4. I must complete a list before starting a new one.
5. I can use existing lists but I must switch out words I've already done.
6. Anyone's welcome to use one of my random lists, you don't even have to ask or credit me or anything!
7. Comments and critique welcome! ^^ Feel free to post in this thread!


My Little Info Form:

List:
Number:
Story of Origin:
Character(s):
Warnings:
Use:
Scenario:

The Current 100-theme List!

Em's Mostly Random Word Generator List #1

01. Name
02. Birth
03. Behind
04. Wear
05. Stun
06. Rafter
07. Weekend
08. Incumbent
09. Dyeing
10. Muffins
11. Fleeting
12. Reinvention
13. Climatology
14. Foppish
15. Befuddlement
16. When
17. Pyroelectricity
18. Automatic
19. Light
20. Wonderful
21. Winter
22. Sparkling
23. Maternal
24. Omniscient
25. Entrancing
26. Suppressive
27. Bodiless
28. Contemplated
29. Crunch
30. Deciding
31. Inflate
32. Account
33. Couple
34. Growing
35. Scarf
36. Saluted
37. Disintegrating
38. Quilt
39. Palpitate
40. Inevitably
41. This
42. Funny
43. Please
44. Hopelessly
45. Tough
46. Majestically
47. Northward
48. Unfavorable
49. Breathless
50. Done
51. Indeed
52. Soft
53. Dear
54. Contact
55. Woe
56. Hail
57. On
58. Near
59. Among
60. Throughout
61. Versus
62. Thwart
63. Atop
64. Betwixt
65. Sans
66. Outshout
67. Field
68. Nine
69. Programming
70. Afternoon
71. Brick
72. Basis
73. Possession
74. Historical
75. Label
76. Refusing
77. Carrying
78. Collect
79. Button
80. Win
81. Normally
82. Apology
83. Entering
84. Train
85. Technology
86. Blessed
87. Log
88. Price
89. Cover
90. Corridor
91. Indirection
92. Quick
93. Guide
94. Selection
95. Purple
96. Religious
97. Spy
98. Mutter
99. Red Balloons
100. Finale

When I complete a list, I'll archive it here!

The original idea for doing this on Menewsha belongs to Seito! Go visit!

Other 100 themers...
The Very Talented seripha
The Incredibly Lovely Aliena
The Aspiring Author Jitsumi1221

Oh! I have an idea! Illustrations based on the scenes, by any artist, are welcomed here. ^^ I'll do a few myself when I've the chance.

And I may need this post for something else. Because, let's face it, I'm always finding things to add.

List: Em's Mostly Random Word Generator List #1
Number: 52. Soft
Story of Origin: Daerinnid Chronicles
Character(s): Daerinnid, Alonriel
Warnings: Spoiler for Daerinnid Chronicles, PG-13 for some very light mature content, and... rather fluffy!
Use: Possible, but unlikely, at least in Daerinnid Chronicles. (Doesn't really fit.) Maybe rewrite parts for use in something else.
Scenario: Daerinnid has become duke of the Duchy of Rakkel and been bullied into an arranged marriage with a fairy princess, but as he discovers a few months after their marriage, he has fallen in love with her.
=============

He could feel the tendrils of her hair tickling his cheek, like soft feathers on his skin, and he smiled in contentment. This, here, was where he wanted to be, laying by her side, surrounded by silken sheets and down pillows, engulfed by the mattress of their marital bed.

Even without opening his eyes he knew it was morning. The warm sun spilled through the east windows, driving away the chill of night, and the room was already at a comfortable temperature. Usually he rose when the cold still lingered on the floorstones and the sun was but a wash of damp blue on the sky.

He knew that outside the city was in full motion. Merchants, travelers, housewives and workers were already toiling under the sun's light, at their work for several hours now. He, on the other hand, had the luxury of not getting up. He exercised it against his better judgment. There were some perks to being the duke.

There were also several drawbacks. While he lay slumbering in his bed, petitioners were already lined up to seek his justice, awaiting his presence in the throne room. They started arriving well before dawn and the gatekeeper let them in when the sun struck the top of the portcullis, perhaps an hour into morning. There had been a time when Daerinnid would have been downstairs already, waiting for them, dispensing his rulings within minutes of the gate's opening.

That had been before his marriage to Alonriel, before his knowledge of the reasons why a man might stay up late into the night and then sleep through as long as he was able.

Eventually, someone would come and get him. Maybe Rikard, maybe Caerden. Technically it was not their jobs, but they took a sort of perverse pleasure in torturing Daerinnid, payback for slights both real and imagined. Any chance to bother him.

Daerinnid sighed and was surprised to hear Alonriel's voice answer. "Did you sleep well?" He merely groaned in response, wanting to pretend he was still sleeping. Then maybe when someone came to bother him, Alonriel would send them off.

Only that would mean she'd get up, and then he'd have no reason to stay in bed after all. Daerinnid reached over and draped his arm across her slender form possessively. He would just have to keep her here. Alonriel settled against him, tucking his hand across her chest. He could feel the softness of her breast in his calloused palm and somehow it still felt so wrong, so impossible that he of all men could have come into possession of such a beautiful treasure. "Shall I compare thee to my finest pillow," he mumbled drowsily, and she giggled in response. Her laughter filled him with such indescribable joy, like silver fairy bells ringing. Like mountain streams and spring rain showers--

Alonriel stretched her neck and kissed him on the chin lightly. He hummed happily, mumbling in conclusion, "Thou art softer and more gentle." He could feel Alonriel suppressing another giggle, and then she was getting up, pushing away his possessive arm. He turned and groaned in honest misery, "Urgh, no," but she was not leaving the bed just yet.

Tucking long strands of silver hair behind her graceful ears, Alonriel leaned over Daerinnid, letting her hair tickle his face once more until he opened his eyes and looked up at her. The soft, graceful body, the most powerful treasure in his duchy. He reached up to possess her once more. The petitioners would have to wait, at least a while longer.

List: Em's Mostly Random Word Generator List #1
Number: 91. Indirection
Story of Origin: Imperium
Character(s): Etteras
Warnings: None
Use: Possibly as solo RP on Gaia
Scenario: Just a page in the life of the morose mage Etteras, former priest of the goddess Anetil.
Notes: More a story inspired by the word than anything else. Indirection sort of personifies Etteras in my mind, so I wrote about it.
=============

Etteras was lonely. He had always felt the need for some companionship, but despite himself had never done anything towards getting any. Maybe it was because he felt an outcast. It was hard not to. There were few who understood his unique position.

As he sat at his desk he tried to make a decision. He might create himself a golem, they were always fun little companions, if sometimes problematic. His last three golems had disappeared, at least one from running away. The other two he figured must have gotten lost in his workshop until the spells that propelled them had run out, or perhaps the little one had been eaten by rats. Maybe it was still out there, lost or trapped, pleading with what remained of its magical life for someone to rescue it.

But that little golem had been mute, for Etteras's golems, when given the ability to make sounds, usually produced most upsetting ones. Two he had dismantled for that very reason. A third had been too large and knocked things over. That had been last year. There were still some items lying around he had not bothered to set right yet.

In truth, it mattered not whether his belongings were upright or knocked over, unless they were blocking his way. His house was full of magical clutter, relics from hundreds of worlds, old spells and worthless knickknacks. He collected antiques and things that looked interesting, sort of. There was no real planning to this collection. If he saw something he liked, he bought it.

He was infinitely wealthy, thanks to his benefactor, and could buy whatever he wanted. He could go wherever he wanted, he could do whatever he wanted, and yet here he was, sitting and doing nothing.

He catalogued the items on his desk. A quill pen, a tray of twenty ink colors, a few scrolls with half-written letters of spells on them. A broken pendant, the gem shattered. A mug that some weeks ago had held coffee. Etteras had all of infinity to play with and he had no idea what to do with it.

He rather decided not to bother with a golem. He pitied the poor things when they got lost and disappeared, imagining all manner of gruesome fates for them. He was not by nature a cruel person and disliked thinking of them so discomforted. He might have come up with a spell to track down the lost golems, but that seemed like something that would take a lot of time and effort. There were rooms in his house he had not seen in years and he did not want to, worried about the surprises he might find.

He was still lonely. There was always the option of necromancy. Such creatures were infallibly obedient, but they lacked creative minds, unless he created one of the ones that had a mind of its own, but those were almost always dangerous and deadly. If they did not attack him, they would attack his neighbors. He hardly wanted that on his conscience.

He knew all manner of spells to summon demons and spirits and creatures, but he didn't want a companion who was held by force. He wanted someone who would stay with him out of choice, like a familiar.

At that, Etteras had to roll his eyes. He spun in his chair, knocking over a stand of old umbrellas with his long legs and not caring. He hated furred and feathered familiars, and he found most familiars were equally frustrated by him. Worse, they were always digging up trouble in his backyard, his garden of dead flowers and animals.

Etteras tapped his fingers on the desk. He wanted someone subservient, but not too subservient. Someone who needed him but didn't depend on him. Independent but not overly so. What he needed was a paradox.

Giving up, Etteras decided to ignore his loneliness and think of something else. He kept at it for the rest of the day, pushing around piles of junk and rummaging through things until he was exhausted. Finally, he dragged himself off and fell to sleep, having accomplished absolutely nothing.

List: Em's Mostly Random Word Generator List #1
Number: 36. Saluted
Story of Origin: Imperium
Character(s): Ronald Turpin, Elisabeth Harriman, Adomital, Dmitry Mikhaelov Petrov
Warnings: None.
Use: None, just silliness! Based around some events that happened in the past (Turpin's assignment), though they didn't actually happen this way.
Scenario: Ronald Turpin, aka the Highwayman (son of the famous one), is one of several security officers in the Imperium's Perimeter Defense Force. They have these security briefings twice a day, once for each shift. It's serious business. Not so much for Turpin, apparently.
=============

Ten minutes late to the second, in came Turpin. "Ronald Turpin reporting for duty, sah!" he shouted, and jauntily saluted. The groan was almost audible. Certainly it was for Dmitry, to whom human minds were open books. Everyone else was left with only the sneaking suspicion that their internal groans were mirrored in the hearts of their fellow security officers.

Only Adomital seemed unphased, but then, when did he ever seem phased by anything? Alien in both mind and body, his emotional reactions were a mystery even to the resident psychic. "Thank you, Mr. Turpin, you may take a seat," Adomital said levelly. "The formality is unnecessary."

Turpin just grinned in response. "I mean it only with respect to you." He gave a flourish and bowed.

"Sit down, Mr. Turpin."

Turpin hesitated but a moment. All the seats by his lovely Elisabeth were taken and he was ever so disappointed by her cold glare of disapproval. There was, however, a chair in the back of the room. He headed for it.

Adomital resumed the security conference. "The sectors we're monitoring for dimensional breaches are here and here, obviously a result of the area residents' magical proclivities."

Instead of sitting down, Turpin picked up the chair. Adomital stopped his briefing. With all eyes turning to the back of the room, Turpin carried the chair to the empty spot directly behind Elisabeth. She gaped at him in shock. "What are you doing?" she hissed, her voice coated in thistle and nettle.

"Morning, Beth," he replied, smiling, using the nickname she hated the most.

Adomital, having had enough of this silliness, resumed his briefing without fanfare. The rest of the room quickly followed suit. "We're going to double up patrols in these areas, and I want two on each. Ryan, Fulkirk, you'll take Crescent, from Bethlehem to Cornucopia. Rayga and Onomi, you'll have the whole East Lake area, including Le Silo, Sarmidian, and Inverness up through to Pintar. I want full sensor sweeps and reports on the fifteen and forty-five for Crescent, on the hour and the half for East Lake."

Ronald Turpin was not listening. He was staring at the back of Elisabeth's pretty head and trying to imagine her expression. She was pretty all the time, but when she was angry she was radiant. Just to make sure his mental vision of her loveliness matched reality, he slid down in his seat and put his knees up on the back of her chair.

It rankled her. He could see her shoulders shaking with fury. He thought her lips must be all puckered up by now, that exquisitely sour look she got when things weren't going her way, and he quietly laughed to himself.

Then her name was being called. "Harriman, you'll be on the Arrivals desk--"

Turpin's hand shot up. All eyes turned to him again. Deadpan, Adomital said, "Yes, Mr. Turpin? What is it?"

"Request duty on the Departures desk!"

Elisabeth sucked in air between her teeth. That would put her with Turpin all day! She was about to whirl around and smack him, propriety be damned, but Adomital smoothly answered, "That duty will be performed by Mr. Petrov."

Dmitry smiled at Turpin and wiggled his fingers in smug greeting. Turpin thought the loudest, most offensive thoughts he could, including all three of the Russian insults Boris had taught him. He was pleased to see Dmitry frown in response. Turpin's hand shot up again.

"What?" demanded Adomital, close to getting actually angry.

"Request office duty!"

"No!" Adomital said sharply. "Your assignment has already been set."

It was Turpin's turn to scowl and Elisabeth's to smile. Probably Turpin would be sent out to one of the corners where nothing happened for the day, forced to languish in boredom. He crossed his arms and settled in his seat, kicking Elisabeth's chair, which soon wiped the smile off her face. Stop that! came a voice in Turpin's head. Dmitry. Damn psychics.

Shut up, Mikhaelov, or I'll start thinking the song that never ends. That always worked, and Dmitry did not bother him again.

Adomital droned on for another five minutes, and Turpin kicked Elisabeth's chair. She did a rather fantastic job of ignoring him. Only when Adomital declared the meeting finish did she finally turn around to face him, fixing him with one of her most radiant glares.

"Dammit, Ronald, what the Hell do you think you're doing?"

Turpin, in too foul a mood to be humorous at this point, scowled back. "You didn't wake me up and you didn't save me a seat!"

"You are so immature!" she retorted, gathering up her things.

The other security officers started filing out. Dmitry walked up to Elisabeth's table, rapping his knuckles on the wood. "Is he bothering you?"

"No!" said Elisabeth and Turpin both at once. Turpin added, "And quit bothering my wife."

When you start treating her better, sent Dmitry, whirling on his heel and marching out. He always, always had to have the last word.

"If you keep this up, you won't have a wife," hissed Elisabeth, following after Dmitry.

Turpin maintained his foul look until Elisabeth was out the door. Then he had to smile. She really was too beautiful when she was angry. Maybe on his lunch break he could swing by the Arrivals desk and surprise her with flowers as a thank you. He'd have plenty of time to gather daisies out at the corner.

Actually, speaking of assignments, he'd not heard his. Adomital was waiting up at the front of the room for him.

"Before you start--" began Turpin, ready to run damage control.

"Be quiet," said Adomital flatly. "You've been requested to permanent detached duty in the City of Greyhaven."

Turpin blanched. That was the posting. The one Dmitry Mikhaelov Petrov had been after. The one Edward Autry, Johnathan Brinkley, and pretty much every other security officer Turpin could think of had been after for the past two weeks, ever since the position was announced. Turpin hadn't even bothered putting his name in the hat for it. True, it meant no sneaking off midday to see Elisabeth, but he would have the whole of the city of Greyhaven under his watch and the prestige of being one of the Three's personal protectors. He would answer to no one but himself.

"You're lucky you're good at your job," said Adomital, quite truthfully.

And with perfect military precision, Turpin saluted.

List: Em's Mostly Random Word Generator List #1
Number: 10. Muffins
Story of Origin: Imperium/Gaia
Character(s): Daub and Kirkcaldy
Warnings: None; but could be considered a very mild spoiler for Daub and Kirkcaldy.
Use: To be expanded and used as part of a Gaia roleplay in the future.
Scenario: Daub invited Kirkcaldy and her father n'Barit into his house when she was just a toddler. Daub is ... well, you'll see. This story takes place some time after Kirkcaldy and n'Barit have moved in; Kirkcaldy is about ten. She considers Daub to be her second father, but it's certainly not a typical parent-child relationship.
=============

At seven o'clock in the morning Daub got up, threw open his windows, and inhaled deeply, expecting the sudden burst of refreshment that only a crisp new morning could bring. He got something else completely. A lungful of air that tasted like smoke and made him double over coughing. It smelled like something was on fire. Quickly closing the window, Daub peered out almost fearfully, looking for telltale dark clouds on the horizon.

The sky looked clear, save for regular puffs of clouds turned yellow in the early morning sun. The rolling hills of the countryside stretched for miles.

Confused, Daub went out from his room to the other side of the house and peered out that window, but still no sign of fire or smoke. Just the night slinking away beyond the horizon and the road that led away from the house to the neighborhood.

Daub went back to his room and decided to think on the problem. Where there was smoke, there was fire. Or was it where there was fire there was smoke? Come to think of it, did smoke even go with fire? Maybe that was something else entirely. He had never been very good at physics, and since Lucy's death it seemed his wits sometimes escaped him entirely.

All the while he thought over the relation of smoke to fire, the smell grew stronger. Daub was confused. He'd closed the window. Just to make sure, he opened it again. It was then he discovered the smoke was in fact coming from the window below his. He thought a moment. Had he lit a fire there for some reason? What room was that? Then it hit him. The kitchen!

Daub was out the door and down the stairs in a flurry of knees and elbows. He had the physique of a stork combined with the mannerisms of a squawking parrot. The combination made him an ungainly danger no matter where he was. He somehow managed to get his arms through his waistcoat without tripping as he barreled down the stairs, never mind that he put it on inside-out so the seams were showing.

The smoke was quite visible on the lower floor, gathered up by the ceiling. Daub coughed again, waving it from his face, and dashed into the kitchen. There, he found Kirkcaldy.

She was standing next to the open oven and coughing, her apron and oven mitts all sooty. A blackened tray sat before her on the oven rack, its contents still smoking.

Daub marveled at it a moment. Then he leapt forward and grabbed Kirkcaldy, pulling the mitts from her hands. "The kitchen is on fire!" he exclaimed, pulling her in a circle. "The kitchen's on fire!" He wasn't upset or terrified at it. The surge of adrenaline had made him giddy. He was bordering on manic.

"Daddy, stop it!" she exclaimed. "Calm down please!" She danced with him without wanting to, too small to escape his mad circle.

"It's on fire!" Daub sang. It seemed to him oddly marvelous, that he should wake up and find his kitchen on fire. That had never happened before that he could remember. Or maybe it had, just like this, happened before.

Kirkcaldy managed to pull her hand free and put an end to his dance. "Daddy, stop!" She took two steps back away from him, scared. Tears began to run down her face.

"I don't--" Daub began, lost for words. He looked up at the smears of soot left on the ceiling. His mind drew a blank. Why did it smell like smoke? "Where's n'Barit?"

"He's out for a walk!" cried Kirkcaldy. "I was just-- I only wanted--" And she rushed forward and grabbed Daub around the legs, clinging tightly.

Daub had enough of a mind to realize something bad had happened. He patted Kirkcaldy. "There, there, child. What's the matter?"

"I just wanted to make muffins for indyadin and Daddy!" wept Kirkcaldy. "I did it all wrong and the muffins caught fire and I'm sorry!" Her tearful apology was interrupted by two little coughs, almost squeaks, which Daub found exceedingly adorable.

"There, there!" He rubbed her shoulder some more. "I don't mind. The muffins sound good."

Kirkcaldy stopped crying. "They're burnt, Daddy! They're not good for eating." She looked at him with her wide blue eyes, wondering if he was having a very bad day, or just a regular bad one. A regular bad one she could deal with by herself. A very bad one and she should probably get out of the house now. The inside-out waistcoat was a tad alarming.

Turning, Daub said, "Oh, I'm sure..." and trailed off. The muffin pan was a black smear and little else. He started to reach out to touch it but Kirkcaldy tugged him away.

"Don't!" she warned. "It's still hot."

List: Em's Mostly Random Word Generator List #1
Number: 63. Atop
Story of Origin: Daerinnid Chronicles
Character(s): Olivi
Warnings: Spoilers for Daerinnid Chronicles (fairly big ones at that).
Use: Daerinnid Chronicles.
Scenario: Having cheated on her husband, Olivi seeks redemption by taking over the role of a recently deceased mountain hermit.
Notes: Another one inspired by the word that doesn't actually use the word, but I think it embodies "atop."
=============

From up here you could see the world, a fabulous patchwork of fields and forests and farms, laid out as the gods intended. It was both breathtaking and heartbreaking. Below lay all the achievements of Man, the towns and cities and lives of a hundred thousand people if not more. They were going about their lives, bickering and loving and learning, blissfully unaware of how small a part of the world they truly occupied.

From up here Olivi could see miles and miles of the river Rakkel and she marveled at the fact she had walked all that way. The clouds were high overhead and she could see straight through to the city, just a speck in the distance, the webwork of trade roads stretching out from around it like the spokes of some great wheel. The island of Keska was turning and Rakkel was at its center.

Something in her heart mourned truly, for somewhere in that smudge of a city sat her husband. Perhaps he was still in the castle, perhaps he had completed the purchase of that bar and was already running it. Perhaps he was dead and she did not even know it. Her soul burned with the shame of her betrayal and she turned away, unable to look any longer.

Even without looking she knew that somewhere just to the south of her, plague was loose. She had passed it on the way to the mountain, seen the pyres and corpses riddled with spots and boils. The gods might have called her to help those suffering people, but they did not. Instead they called her to the mountain.

Olivi spat on her hands, torn by the sharp edges of the mountain rocks, and rewrapped them in strips ripped from the hem of her cloak. The path here was little more than a thin line of dirt leading up the mountain, more a climb than a walk. It was a lesson to man: you may ride horses and master the beasts in your own realm, but you come before the gods on foot.

She knew from her vision that it would level out soon into a high plateau, and there she would find the hut of the old hermit. He had died several weeks ago. That was her destination, that place of solitude where the old man had lived for over forty years. It was a spot of pilgrimage and penitence and perhaps, if she lived there for forty years, she might live to see the blight erased from her soul.

With each step upwards she could hear the gods just a bit more. She knew, of course, that the gods did not truly live in the sky. They lived everywhere, all around, but in isolated places you could hear them clearly if you possessed the divine gift. Olivi had possessed it all her life and never doubted its wisdom. To hear the gods was to know something of the truth. They had sent her here because, despite what she had done, they could give her forgiveness. Oh, Norman, if only you could forgive me, too.

Olivi wiped at the tears stinging her eyes. She was cold and tired and hungry and would likely spend the rest of her days like that. She had seen the hermit in the moments before his death, his old bones cold and achy, his clothes worn threadbare. There was little left of him after spending so many years of his life subsisting on high mountain berries and the handouts of visiting strangers. Sometimes he could go months or even years at a time without having visitors. Eventually she would become him.

In preparation she was wearing a good half-dozen layers of cloaks and robes over a pair of men's pants, her womanly aspects completely eclipsed by all the swaddle. All that remained of her was her hair, long and straight and black, and her fine face, a face that had once stirred the jealousy of men the land over. When she reached the summit she would streak her face with ashes to obscure its beauty. She hardly needed that sort of attention in her new duties.

Olivi's foot slipped on a rock and she cling to the mountain in panic, the cuts on her hands opening anew. Breathless, she hung there a long moment. One false step and her calling to the gods would be a calling to her death. She bit her lip and waited for the flutter of her heart to subside before continuing upwards, propelled by her need to erase her shame.

Though she filled her lungs with each breath, the air was thin and unsatisfying. She knew the tales of mountain sickness, but until now had not thought there to be much truth in it. She was out of supplies and had no choice but to continue and hope for the best.

She was nearing despair when finally the path flattened out familiarly. Relief flooded Olivi. The hut was just over the hillock. She could already see the tips of the small trees that surrounded the well. Her earthly journey was over. Now the real journey would begin.

You know, if you're going to say I'm crazy, you can at least say why you think my writing sucks! *insert domo-kun emoticon*

Ooo awesome, another 100 theme thread. xD

I don't have time to read now, but yes~ Expect me back later! ^^

Hee, yes, I'm still reading through your thread myself! <3

Shall I write more tonight, or... Ah, crap, I have to finish my contest judging from the Patch sale on Gaia. Maybe afterwards, if that hasn't drained all my literary juices!

... that sounded vague pornographic. :lol:

Originally Posted by Emperial

Hee, yes, I'm still reading through your thread myself! <3

Shall I write more tonight, or... Ah, crap, I have to finish my contest judging from the Patch sale on Gaia. Maybe afterwards, if that hasn't drained all my literary juices!

... that sounded vague pornographic. :lol:

haha. xD Nice to know someone is reading them! You're reading Domination or 100 themes? If you're reading Domination then you'll finish in no time. If you're reading through 100 well since that's almost completely, xD You'll have a long way to go.

Awesome. I hope it doesn't! Speaking of which... I really should get started writing again. >>

List: Em's Mostly Random Word Generator List #1
Number: 1. Name
Story of Origin: Imperium
Character(s): Etteras, Thirlane
Warnings: Some mature content.
Use: Thirlane's a concept for a contest in progress. If I win, this will be rewritten to fit the scenario. If I lose, this'll be used as is, non really for anything, just as
Scenario: Etteras meets Thirlane.
============

Etteras wasn't sure what to think when he found the child, naked and shivering on the floor of his house. It looked so sad, so pathetic, that his surprise overrode his humanity and he stood there, staring blankly at it.

He had seen many children in his lifetime, but none that quite matched this. It was greenish, with strange dark spots and patches of vitiligo. Its hair hung in gnarled twists, like the roots of a tree, and he could make out each of its ribs and the knobs of vertebrae on its back. Along the shoulder blades were little black threads and strange scaly flaps like something aquatic. It looked almost fearsome, but Etteras was fascinated.

"You there," he said, his voice soft. The little creature did not respond. It sat there, huddling on the floor, hugging its knees to its chest. Etteras walked around until he could see its eyes, inky and yellowed, peering out from under the knotted strands of its hair. They eyes were sunken and ringed with dark circles. A spatter of freckles dusted its cheeks and nose. The lips were dry and cracked. A trial of snot rang between the nose and mouth, smeared in both directions.

As it shivered, it scratched itself with its fingers. Brittle, broken nails grown too far out, dirt coloring the cuticles. The knuckles and joints were bloated and knobby. Etteras looked at it carefully for some sign of danger. It looked only tired and cold, too weak to even be scared. Still, he wanted to be careful.

"I won't hurt you," he offered as he stepped forward. The creature made no sudden moves, but he could see the hollow eyes, watching him. They had the look of death. Etteras had seen a lot of death in his lifetime, too.

Since it was cold he drew off his cloak and draped it carefully over the thing. He was ready to dash off at a moment's notice and had the words of a spell to kill on his lips. The creature just lay there and watched him as the cloth settled over its shoulders.

"How did you get here?" asked Etteras, more to himself than the creature. He could remember setting the security spells in place the last time he had come in here, and sure enough, they were right as he had left them. The strands of the spellwork tugged at him in recognition. Etteras cautiously knelt down by the creature. "You can talk. Do you have a name?"

At that, the creature made an attempt. Its parched lips parted, skin cracking, and in its mouth Etteras could see the remains of several moldy teeth, like a zombie's. The breath stank like a zombie's, too, yet Etteras was sure this was not an undead. Breath still entered its lungs and blood coursed through its body.

The lips moved, but no sound was uttered. Etteras wanted to read its lips but the teeth were too few in number and the slimy black tongue offered no help in the matter. The creature gave up after a moment, sinking slightly in exhaustion.

Etteras narrowed his eyes. There was a certain way of looking that could be used to uncover the secret names of things. He had learned it from an Arcturan hedge witch. He tilted his head to the side. Nosos.

"Ah," he concluded. "You came out from Pandora's jar. You must therefore have a name."

The creature just stared, dully.

Since he knew what it was, Etteras was devoid of any worry. He knew spells and wards to keep away daimones, or drive away the effects of one, even one like this that carried disease. Surely if it was in his house and intended him serious harm the wards would take care of it. More like disease was an aspect of its nature, a simple fact of its life.

Gathering it up in the cloak, Etteras marveled at how light the child was, and how frail. It just settled in his arms like it had no will left. He carried it to the bathroom and tapped the spell that would fill the tub in an instant. A flick of his wrist set a bowl of soup of a platter. He gently set the daimon down in the tub, dispelling the excess water, and forced soup into its mouth, pleased when it actually swallowed.

"Now then," said Etteras definitively, "your name."

The creature didn't even bother trying. Etteras gave it several moments. Then he dispelled the dirty bathwater and conjured up a robe to wrap it in, noticing in the process that it had no gender. That was not uncommon for a daimones.

Wrapped in the nice fluffy robe, Etteras carried it up the stairs and put it in the spare bed where it fell asleep. He left it alone for several hours, under a watch spell, and returned when it was waking. He fed it more soup.

"Now, your name."

The creature stared at him dully. It had cleaned up nicely. It still looked horribly ratty and spotted, but there was a hint of hope in its hair and the fingers looked much clearer. Still warped and cracked, but clean. The skin almost glistened.

Thinking perhaps it understood only Greek, Etteras pointed at himself and said, "Etteras." Then he pointed to the creature. Still nothing.

Discouraged, Etteras said with mild frustration, "Do you have a name?"

The creature stared at him a moment and then rolled over and pulled up the covers. Etteras sat there on the foot of the bed and did nothing. "I must call you something," he reasoned. "I cannot simply call you 'nosos.'"

At that, the nosos shuddered, quietly seething. Etteras swung his left foot.

A week ago he had gone to visit his friend in Virginia, and the motel had been on a street called Thirlane. Since then, he had not been able to get rid of the word. It held some great power. Like any such powerful word, the best way to get rid of it was to give it away freely.

"I will call thee Thirlane," he informed it. "Thirlane Road. May the words torment me no longer." And with that, the words were gone from his head, their power over him waning.

Etteras smiled at his intelligence, getting rid of two problems in one fell swoop. Thirlane Road. He left the little daimon there with its new name to comfort it, a powerful name for such a powerless thing.

List: Em's Mostly Random Word Generator List #1
Number: 29. Crunch
Story of Origin: Imperium
Character(s): Daub, Jeremy, Third, Emperial
Warnings: Some spoilers for Daub's story.
Use: This is an alternate version of an RP posted to Gaia. What if Daub had gotten what he wanted for Christmas? What if the lab rats had not arrived and Jeremy had punched him? It all unfolds much the same, but from Daub's perspective. As an alternate, this never really happened.

Scenario: It's December 24th, 2006. Nearly everyone in the Neighborhood has gathered for the annual holiday event, a huge party taking place in a large mansion. Anthony Arthur Andrews, called Daub, sits down between Jeremy Blake and Third Hhalak Atreipie. Neither of them knows Daub, but Daub knows who they are. He proceeds to antagonize Jeremy with the intent of getting Jeremy to punch him.
============

The fist hit Daub's jaw with a sickening crunch and for a moment he could see spots in his vision. The room seemed to spin and then he was staring at the ceiling, not realizing he had fallen. One of his arms struck a wood table on the way down and he could only think, Oh! That's nice-- even though it really wasn't.

He was not immediately conscious of anything but his awkward position. His left arm was pulled back, almost out of its socket, and his legs had gotten tangled to the point where he was not sure which was which.

He had landed partly on his side, partly on his back, an uncomfortable twist that he might not have minded if he were ten years younger, and a contortionist. He could see the fibers of the carpet stretching off for what seemed like miles, followed by a forest of giant feet.

Above him he could hear voices, but they sounded distant, faraway. More concerning was the strange feeling that something was missing, some noise that should have been there was gone. The murmur of voices rose and fell like the tides. He was adrift in some vast sea on an ocean of grey fibers that spoke with rhubarb tongues.

Finally he realized the noise that was missing. With one great gasp he sucked in as much air as could fill his lungs. He must have stopped breathing for at least half a minute, or maybe hours. He had no concept of time.

There were hands pulling him, and Daub wanted to just lie there and do nothing and be dead a while longer. But the hands were much stronger than he. They pulled him up until he was sitting and he finally remembered where he was and what he had been doing.

Bloody. He hadn't meant for the punch to be that hard. Daub wobbled, woozy. "Yes, yes, quite all right," he answered to a question he was not truly hearing. He was at the party, the big party. He had come here to... He could not remember. He had wanted somebody to punch him. Somehow he had gotten lost and then he saw Jeremy.

Already Daub felt badly about it. Jeremy had just been sitting there, enjoying his martini, and Daub had used him in the worst way possible. He had taken the most intimate details from Jeremy's file and used them against the other man. In six seconds he had stabbed at Jeremy where Jeremy was weakest and manipulated Jeremy into doing exactly what he wanted Jeremy to do.

But he hadn't thought the punch would be that hard. Jeremy was a geek, a scientist, not someone you would expect to throw a punch with the strength of a burly Armenian dock worker.

And then her face was before him, like an angel's, and he could feel his heart breaking and all the fear rushing straight back in. Emily.

Only it was not Emily, it was someone completely different. She had all the physical features of his mother, but she was just a copy. He looked down at his legs, away from her, and asked, "Oh, am I not dead?"

He was not sure what he meant by the question. Was that what he wanted? To be dead with Spork and Lucy? Or was it merely surprise that he was still among the land of the living?

When he looked up again there were two Sporks -- two Emilys. The first was asking the boy standing next to Daub what happened. "Please," said Daub, "let's not relive the whole experience."

Then the two Ems were helping him up, which meant they were both real, not the result of double vision. Daub closed his eyes, saying, "I'm sorry, but I don't think I can take two of you right now," just as easily and carelessly as he might have spoken in a dream. He half expected to see four of her when he opened his eyes again, thereby proving it was a dream, but when he did, the second one was gone and he had only one exact copy of his dead mother to worry about. One exact copy of his shame. It was like being punched anew.

List: Em's Mostly Random Word Generator List #1
Number: 80. Win
Story of Origin: Imperium
Character(s): Ruga, Raal, Ria
Warnings: None.
Use: Miscellany
Scenario: Ria, Ruga, and Raal are triplets.
============

Ruga lay sprawled out on the yard and imagined he could feel the worms and the insects crawling over and possessing him. He was the dirt, and they were eating him to make him into good soil. Above him, he had a clear view of the perfect cloudy sky.

Until Raal's face came into view. His brother reached out a hand for him.

"You win again," Ruga told him, unmoving.

Raal, not caring, said, "It's not a competition," and grabbed Ruga by the arm. He pulled Ruga up and released him only when he was sure Ruga was standing.

From the backyard of their house they had a clear view of the countryside stretching unbroken for miles. Trees, hills, and eventually the ocean where their sister liked to fish and play in the waves. Ria never called it playing, of course. She was much too old for that. They all were. Instead, she called it turning. Turning with the waves. Listening to their old-men voices.

Raal waited for his brother to end the reverie. "We should go inside," he said. Always the practical one, Raal. While Ria played at her mysticism and Ruga was lost in his own mind for hours, Raal lived in what he was doing. Sometimes his other two siblings thought he had nothing in his head but mechanics, his actions governed by rote programming. Raal started to move inside.

"Again," said Ruga. Raal paused, but did as his brother commanded. He always did what Ruga wanted.

Again Ruga was laid down, stretched out on the ground as if crucified, his gaze skyward. Again Raal set him to his feet, and again Ruga told him, "You win."

"Let's go inside."

"No." Ruga found the stick in the tall grass and brought it back, its wood smoothed from years of practice, oiled by human skin and human sweat. He assumed the position. "Don't let me win."

Raal obeyed his brother, beating him squarely. Ruga imagined he was a stone slab upon which thousand of lives had been sacrificed, and their blood stained his gaze skyward. It was his own blood getting in his eye.

Raal did not move to help him, shamed at the gash on his brother's forehead. It was a mere flesh wound, but cuts on the head always bled the worst.

"Help me up," said Ruga, and Raal shuffled forward to comply. He reached down, and Ruga bit him and pulled. Raal came tumbling down on top of Ruga. "I win," said Ruga, and Raal did not object.

Ruga could hear their sister's voice in his head, and she was laughing. You both lose.

List: Em's Mostly Random Word Generator List #1
Number: 47. Northward
Story of Origin: Daerinnid Chronicles
Character(s): Daerinnid, Rikard, Caerden
Warnings: None.
Use: Just as a starting point for a future plotline.
Scenario: Daerinnid, Rikard, and Caerden are questing. (Anything more would be a spoiler.)
=============

"What do we do now?"

The vast emptiness of the plateau went on for miles, a rocky plane of nothing stretching to the horizon. Daerinnid frowned at it.

"We keep going."

Rikard let out a whining cry, his feet tired, his stomach empty. Daerinnid sighed and closed his eyes. He could walk this heading without trouble as far as it took them, but Rikard was unaccustomed to such journeying.

"Oh, buck up," supplied Caerden helpfully. "This is nothing." He strode northward towards the very nothing of which he spoke.

"You have the blood of the undead!" whined Rikard. "Have some consideration for those of us still living!" Caerden ignored Rikard's complaint with a parting wave.

Daerinnid stretched out his hand to Rikard. "Give me your pack." Rikard's eyes widened at the gesture. Daerinnid's patience waned. "Come on!"

Hurriedly Rikard sloughed the pack off and hefted it towards Daerinnid. It seemed to weigh a thousand pounds in Rikard's tired arms, but there was little in it. Daerinnid was already carrying most of the camping supplies. With a grunt, Daerinnid hooked the straps on his pack's wooden crossbars and set out, one pack piggybacking on the other.

"Daer--"

Daerinnid grunted again, a sure sign he was in no mood for talking, and they continued northward towards the far horizon.

List: Em's Mostly Random Word Generator List #1
Number: 88. Price
Story of Origin: Imperium/none
Character(s): Daub
Warnings: None.
Use: Random.
Scenario: Daub is dealing with a shady character named Telini who has just made him an offer for something he very dearly wants. If I had to place this story somewhere, I'd say it was back when Daub was working as an operative for Black Em in the mirror universe, on some strange and dangerous mission for some unfathomable purpose.
=============

Tapping his card against the table, Daub considered her offer. This was a once in a lifetime chance. If he did this, it would mean changing everything, a new kind of life, a new everything. He had come so far already. He could feel his adrenaline rushing, coursing through his body in response to the excitement of this opportunity, but he needed it to stop. He needed his head and his wits about him right now. He could not afford to lose his cool.

Across the table, Telini watched him with slitted eyes. She could practically taste the salty-sweet beads of sweat on his forehead. Instinctively she licked her lips. She wanted him to take her deal. It would cost him so little. She would gain so much.

Daub tried to weigh the choices but his head was swimming. Should he stay or go? Live or die? Feed the monster or starve it dangerously? He chewed on the very tip of his tongue with his front teeth, enjoying the sharp pain. He bit down and tore off a few taste buds. His mouth filled with the taste of blood. It was sweet.

Blood, that was all she was after. His blood. They all were, everyone, out to get him. Why him? He wasn't very special. He might be his own father, but hell, surely dozens of time travelers could make that claim. Daub snickered softly at himself, eager to believe that particular lie. He tapped the card on the table again. A glance up at Telini made it clear she was over-anxious for him to accept her offer. So anxious, in fact, that she looked completely unconcerned. A good poker player, that's all she was.

It was a game Daub had no interest in ending. "No," he said, and folded his card flat on the table. "Your price is too high." He slid the card, a queen of clubs, across the table towards Telini. With a smirk, he turned on his heel and left her there.

Let her stew on it for a while. Next time, she would make an even better offer.

List: Em's Mostly Random Word Generator List #1
Number: 2. Birth
Story of Origin: Imperium/Alexandre the Great
Character(s): Silvia Declair, Alden Madison
Warnings: Some language.
Use: To be used as diary post basis, and general Imperium.
Scenario: Carrying twins, Sylvia goes into labor some weeks before her due date.
=============

Silvia could feel only pain as she lay there, twisting in the covers, biting down on the washcloth and trying to swallow the scream in her throat. She wanted to put on a strong face for Alexandre, but it was impossible. She felt like a base animal, some chained beast at the gates of Hell, straining against the bonds that held her. They were the bonds of her labor, and Silvia did not want them. Anything, she begged silently to God. It's too soon.

The burden on her back was doubled. The labor, and the guilt at not having made it longer. Almost two months left to full term. Her body had betrayed her. Her mind had been filled with resolve to see this to the bitter end, but her body had not. She was in labor and she could not escape.

Sylvia steeled herself against the next contraction, fighting it. She could hear Alden yelling at her: "For Christ's sake, Sylvia, push!" She wanted to scream back at him. Two months was all she wanted, two more months to give her babies. Anything to make them stronger, to give them a better chance, help them develop. She would gladly give her life if it meant just one more week for them.

Even with all the will of the universe, she could not do it. She pushed.

List: Em's Mostly Random Word Generator List #1
Number: 81. Normally
Story of Origin: Misc
Character(s): Laceana, Daub (indirectly)
Warnings: It's pretty vague?
Use: Vaguely in the future.
Scenario: Things in her life are never normal.
=============
Normally, Laceana would have just dropped the job completely, but normally was not a word that very often applied to someone in her position. It was a fact the maid service had come to accept, even if sometimes her bosses still had questions and still berated her for her idiosyncrasies. She had long since stopped caring what they said. It was just a job, a very crummy job that kept her off the streets, and not something she cared about with any depth of feeling. She made up for it all the times she was there. They always said that about her: "Normally Laceana is a very hard worker. She cleans and works double-hard and we love her for that." But normally was not the operative word when it came to Laceana.

She was just glad and relieved that the maid service allowed her emergency leave. They always hinted that if it were not for the ebullient compliments of her customers they would not tolerate this behavior, and so Laceana worked her hands to the bone. It did not change who or what she was, it just kept her employable. It just gave her the means to eke out a meager life in a meager apartment in a world where normal was more than just a word, it was a badge that marked you a member of a very important club, and Laceana was locked out.

Normally Laceana did not even care about her customer's opinions, but this time things were different. This time she was not just a hired hand to do the washing and scrubbing, this time she was seen as a valuable member of the household, a part of the family. It was not a mindset Laceana encouraged, but this man was so needy, so desperate for companionship that there was nothing for her to do about it. She could have just said no to the assignment, asked for a different house, but he paid well, and he was sort of sweet in that sad lonely man way. He always talked to her and never touched her (which some men did try, never quite realizing this was a maid and not a prostitution service) and the people he lived with were such good people even when they tried to pretend otherwise. The tips that he paid her allowed her to live a bit more once in a while, rent a movie or buy a new shirt, things she had not been able to afford in a very long time.

It was hard to say, "I'm leaving, and I don't know when I'll be back." Especially by phone. Especially when she could hear the concern and confusion on the other side of the line. Normally she did not care.

Normally did not apply to Laceana.

List: Em's Mostly Random Word Generator List #1
Number: 24. Omniscient
Story of Origin: Imperium/Gaia
Character(s): Will, Agrippina
Warnings: Rampant (intentional) misuse of the word "omniscient."
Use: Gaia journal.
Scenario: Will and Agrippina have just finished dinner.
=============

"I," declared Agrippina, "am omniscient."

Will looked at his daughter and did not question this assertion in any way except with his blank expression. Agrippina too easily picked up on it.

"Do you not believe me?"

Will did not know what to say. He cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses, and swallowed a few times before reaching for a glass of water and downing half of it. He wiped his mouth with his hand, sighed, and slumped a little in his chair. Agrippina was keenly watching him, waiting for him to react to her directly, frowning at his unnecessary delays. Finally, Will said, "Do you know what the word omniscient means?"

He could not have picked a worse thing to say to her. Agrippina gasped and gaped with pure, furious indignation. "I know what the word means!"

It was true that she was usually fairly good with words, especially those which were Latinate, but given the fact she was also sometimes very lazy he was justified in his doubt as to her having actually gone and researched up a definition.

Will tugged at his tie, pulling it a little looser around his neck. "Then, let's hear it."

"Hear what?" said Agrippina. She hated being told to perform. As far as she was concerned, the show went on at her discretion, not anyone else's. She was more stubborn than a mule on a bad day.

"The definition," stressed Will, tired already. He had been home not an hour and already she had exhausted him.

Agrippina turned up her nose and pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. "Omniscient people don't need to give definitions," she said, and fled from the table. Fled, because she had just deserted the dishes. By the time Will realized what had happened it was too late. He frowned thoughtfully at his daughter's ingenuity. Tomorrow, it would be his turn to be "omniscient."

List: Em's Mostly Random Word Generator List #1
Number: 5. Stun
Story of Origin: None
Character(s): Random
Warnings: None.
Use: None.
Scenario: Not much of one, though I’ve been watching a lot of Star Trek: Voyager recently.
=============

He could feel the gun stun him like an old fairy spell, turn him to stone or ice, ripple through his nerves and membranes up his arm and through his shoulder to the cortex, immobilizing him. It was painful only briefly, as the pulse first traveled, and then the nerves that should have sent him pain signals were stunned and stopped. When it hit his cortex he crumpled, lost control of his body, became a lousy heap of bone and muscle.

The battle continued over him, the sounds distant and images blurred. Being stunned was being trapped inside your own body, helpless. You remained peripherally aware of the things going on around you but you could not focus. It was like being awake for over forty hours, not eating in so many days, being gripped by the lethargy of no energy.

Though he could not feel it, he knew he still breathed. All that was gone was the sensation, the connection between higher brain and body. The body itself continued on, oblivious to the commands missing.

Stun technology had taken years to develop, but it was the preferred method of nonlethal force. It was the best way to take someone down for questioning, or put a stop to what they were doing without hurting them, or skirt charges for murder. True, every so often a person died from stunning for one reason or another, but overall it was a safe, effective technology, in use throughout the galaxy.

His thoughts were coming sluggishly to him, not wholly formulating, and some part of him regretted the inability to think even if that regret was as distant as everything else about his body right now. He usually had his thoughts if nothing else. It was what had gotten him through prison on the Thurisian colony, yearlong solitary confinement, and even if he was no genius he liked to believe himself smarter and more contemplative than others. Being without thoughts was being as good as dead.

He had been in so many firefights before, yet this was the first time he had ever suffered a fully-paralytic stunning. Sometimes a blast would nick his leg or his hand and it would go to sleep and half an hour later he’d have terrible pins and needles, but this was the first time he had been truly disconnected. It was different than he imagined it would be, not at all like the stories they swapped around the campfire. He would probably lie like the rest of them when they swapped battle stories again, if they won the fight.

He was turned to stone and ice.