1-2 line story game

Mid

That one harlot
Original poster
FOLKLORE MEMBER
Posting Speed
  1. 1-3 posts per week
  2. One post per week
Writing Levels
  1. Adaptable
Preferred Character Gender
  1. No Preferences
Genres
Fantasy, medieval.
Cause DIANA likes to peer pressure people with innocent guilt *coughs*

Here it is. Write 1-2 sentences to create a story together. It has no plot, no theme. Just whatever we can think of to keep it going. Let's see how far it goes before the end. *legasp*

The clouds were grey and heavy with rain, lightening flashes here and there. With it came the howl of the wind as if to say danger is here, run as fast as you can!
 
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Should you stumble, they will catch you. Should you fall... you really don't want to fall at all, let me tell you!
 
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Down, down, down, you’d fall. The ground below would look very unforgiving indeed.
 
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And should you miss the unforgiving ground below, all the worse for you. The howling wind was your warning, the fault yours for your ignorance.
 
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By the time Dawn arrives, a child will be gone. Keep your windows closed shut and the shades drawn.
 
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That very child sat in the corner of his mother's windowsill, staring longingly into the cold and rainy night, entranced by the beauty of the storm. But woe betide that child, for he soon would be afraight.
 
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For hidden within the clouds lies the Widow. A woman who yearns to reclaim the child she once lost.
 
Her watchful eyes ever wandering, searching, searching. She seeks her child, but no longer knows his face.
 
If you hear a knock, you shouldn't answer. For all it takes is one unsuspecting child to peek out and feel a tug on their shirt.
 
Her crooked claws sinking deep into the hem, to pull the unfortunate one into the cold and stormy night.
 
In the morning, screams of distraught are heard at the realization their child is gone.
 
But their torment is not yet over, for after the widow comes the hound.
 
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With its tracks, The Hound leaves behind a stench of death. For everyone in the house, be it the old, the young or barely born, is marked for a bloody night.
 
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The hound seeks to slay the widow, for it may never know rest until her influence is at its end. The widow's abduction has left a hole in this abode, so the hound must erase it.
 
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It remembered being forced to kill the husband to try and kill the wicked woman. The husband was noble and good, but woefully ignorant.
 
But the hound had no time to spare for grief, for the hunt had to continue. The wicked widow could not be allowed to rest for even a moment.
 
The young boy, around 6 or so, slept beneath her cloak. The tear stains visible on his rosy cheeks while her hand held him tightly against her breasts.
 
With every step, the cloudy ground below severed more and more of his remaining past, for none the widow takes can remember their homes, cursed to forever wander.
 
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A new life was written by the cloud shrouded captor. The child was born in the mist, she would insist.
 
And insistence is the birth of memory. Thus the child grew to adulthood, a new child of the mists.