Ooh, yes please! Excited to see what y'all're up to! :D

so this was a thing i did for a school project- basically, she gave us a moderately sized list of settings, then of words, then of tones.  We had to pick a setting for our story to take place in, seven words to use in the story, and a tone to write the story in.  Oh, and it had to be exactly 200 words (no more, no less) it was a challenge especially with my tendency to not do anything till the day it's due:/

Wirya pushed gently on the abnormally large burl in the center of the willow's trunk.  The wood split in the center, revealing the entrance to a stone room dimly lit by torches hanging on the wall. An armor-clad figure stood at the top of the stairwell on the far side of the room. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and wore a glimmering gold circlet that contrasted with his long, elegant dark hair.  His back was turned to Wirya, but when the soldier stepped through the threshold he turned.  

    “Wirya.”

    “Lord Yal,” Wirya bowed.  "Our scouts report nothing unusual in the Rebellion cities.  They seem not to expect an attack and are at any rate unprepared for one.”

“Very good,”  Yal said, slowly descending the staircase.  “I assume your troops are prepared?”

“Well, actually…many are still wounded, my lord,” the warrior confessed.  “Our numbers will be few during the siege on Lingwiloce.”

“Mmm.” Yal stood in front of Wirya now.  "Remember that with this mission I am giving you a chance to redeem yourself.  After... last time, your victory is essential to recover our land."

Wirya swallowed.

“Now.”  Yal walked past the soldier into the bright sunshine outside.  "Let’s finish this.”

i chose (or rather, random name picker chose) enchanted forest; abnormal, assume, confess, rebellion, victory, recover, finish; assertive 

it was really interesting actually because after we'd finish the 200 words, we had to edit it to make a 100 word version using 4 of the 7 words, then 50 with 2 and 10 with 1 

There was once a boy in that town, who lived with his head in the clouds.

He was the peaceful kind of person, a very pastoral mind that didn't fit in with the tumult that brewed around him -- beneath his feet, down the street, in the darkened corners his bright eyes would never think to fleet. 

There was that one time he joined his comrades to fight for independence, to protect those he loved, but that was it. And it was a long time ago anyway; even if the screams and scars still sometimes flashed across his mind every now and then, even if sometimes he swore he heard a bomb go off in the distance, or the shriek of a projectile whizzing abovehead... No, that was a long time past. Everything was fine now. He lived for his friends now; that, and peace. It was good. It was enough.

Of course because of this, he would never see what was lying in store for him, the oily black fate creeping up from behind, emerging from his own shadow, claws poised and dangerously close to swallowing him whole -- the boy entirely unaware as he smiles with his friends. Those same friends with a dangerous gleam in their eyes -- such shifty eyes -- a look not too different from the one they wore before the slaughter they initiated long ago.

That boy still lives in that town, head lost amongst the clouds, too high up to hear the whispers that flurry all around him. He is alive and happy for now, but as feet stir in the tavern, everyone in the town knows; it's not to last for long.

Indeed, perhaps it is a mercy that the boy will be gone first. That way he will not have to witness the tearing of land, friend and foe alike once again. He will, in a way, die in the peace he so loved in life.

The king could not be slain by any human, scheme or plot; yet the nation still mourned.

For what could fell their titan protector? Not the greedy nobles, nor his scrabbling children, nor the hunger and struggle of the peasants.

And yet the nation was held deep within the grip of silence; a low, whimpering wail that swallowed even the most radical of the opposition. 

Their King was dead, and it was by hand the of his own treacherous overachieving cells.

~~~~~

Can you guess what inspired me here? :/

I'm most likely going to use this as a prologue to something else; any feedback would be greatly appreciated! (Also sorry if the formatting's off)

The throne room was a large, airy space, stained glass gracing every wall, floor lined with a white tile mosaic. Ornate columns lined the room, but rather than seeming to fill the space, they seemed to expand it. The throne itself stood on a dais on the opposite side of the room, and upon the throne sat the queen, graciously enduring a farmer’s report of the damage done to his farm by a recent drought. 

It was the fourth such report she’d received this week, and she did not need to hear the details of precisely what his field looked like: she knew the damage this drought was doing. Yet she listened patiently all the same. 

When the farmer’s speech finally wound down, she spoke. 

“Thank you, sirrah, for telling me of your plight. Speak to Duke Morsway, the lord in the deep blue dress uniform, and you shall receive both the seedlings you need to grow your crops again in the spring, and the rations your family may need in the coming winter. I am glad you have come to ask for help.”

The farmer thanked her and bowed, exiting through the double doors the way he’d come. The courtiers began to usher in another petitioner, but the queen held up a hand. She hadn’t eaten in hours, and it would not do to have her stomach growling in the midst of a diplomatic discussion. 

A guard approached her with a platter of food, bowing respectfully. The queen selected a plum, purple-red and perfectly ripe. The guard retreated to his position behind the throne, and she bit into the fruit, carefully keeping one hand cupped under it. She could not have the juice dripping and marring her dress. 

The plum was juicy and sweet, and the queen let out a quiet breath, allowing herself a moment to close her eyes. This was demanding work, though not many people knew exactly how demanding. The dress alone was an ordeal. 

As she ate, she ran through her schedule in her mind. After the morning full of petitioners was over, she had a luncheon with Lady Markowitz and Lady Blackburn. Then she had to meet with the General to discuss the potential significance of the currently empty Omurian throne, which wouldn’t be so bad. The political aspects of her job had always fascinated her. And then—

“Your Highness,” came a smooth voice from the doorway to the throne room. 

The queen’s eyes flicked open immediately. Her expression remained serene, but her thoughts were awhirl. She adjusted her position slightly, resting a hand on the throne’s armrest to discreetly hold the plum out of sight. 

“I apologize, dear sir,” she said, “but I am not receiving petitioners at this moment. You shall have an audience shortly.”

The speaker stepped into the throne room anyway. It was a man dressed in a black coat, hat tilted slightly over his face. His boots made hardly any noise on the tiled floor, his eyes fixed firmly on the queen. “I’m afraid this can’t wait.”

“I’m afraid it will have to,” the queen replied evenly, although the man saw her shift slightly on her throne. She was so young. A pity. 

“It won’t.” The man took another step towards her, his anticipation growing. “I won’t.”

“Guards, please escort this man from the throne room,” she ordered, but the man could hear the slight shake in her voice. She was scared. As she very well should be. When there was no response, she tried again. “Guards!”

But she could not see what the man could—behind the throne, only bodies lay, sprawled on the ground, uniforms darkly wet. 

The man took another step, and he smiled, a baring of the teeth that he knew would give away his intentions. But that wouldn’t change anything by now. 

He saw the queen’s breathing sharpen, start to come in gasps. One more step brought him into range, and he flicked up a hand. 

Something silver flashed from his fingers, sharp and silent as ever. 

He did not miss. He never missed.

The queen’s eyes widened slightly, but to her credit, she didn’t scream. 

The only sound in the throne room was the plum falling from her hand, smashing against the mosaic floor and splattering the dais with red.