#give me mooorreeeee prompts

[forever-eternal]

Ok y’know what

I’m interested in the time Adam got hit by a cannonball

You have a writing request now 👍

:)

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The air is warm on the Colony shores, the ocean lapping at the rocks below like reaching hands, ready to claim any blood and flesh that falls into her depths.

The sky is dark, lit with the moon and stars; yet the light is blocked from the grass and sand below, blocked by the smoke of the raging fires that have overtaken the British Outpost.

A young man, a soldier— a redcoat by the name of Arthur— knew this was never expected.

They specifically chose this spot because it was hard to get to without scaling the cliffs facing the ocean at the East, or through the thickets and woods on their West side, and the North and South are barren stretches where they could see any foe for miles.

But, somehow…they were found.

It had been a simple night, a quiet night of joyous songs and beers around the fire. The walls of their outpost are high enough, and the men keeping watch would be able to see anyone who dared approach an outpost of the British Empire.

And then a gunshot.

One of the guardsmen falls over the walls, into the outpost, and Arthur had never seen a man’s blown-through brains before—

Another gunshot, another fallen man, and the General starts yelling. Arthur is a few steps behind getting up, the others already pulling open the doors to their small armory when—

…

Arthur will always remember the screams of his brothers in arms as the armory burst in flame with them inside, crumbling in on itself in a matter of seconds, falling too fast, faster than any other structure should.

He will remember the sound of the nurses screaming, the sounds of bones and skin and flesh ripping, the sound of cries of terror and pain as he finally— finally— moves, snatching up his bayonet—

And he will remember it.

The man.

A man with red-brown hair, tucked into a black tricorne hat with golden edges. He wears black breeches, a black waistcoat with gold buttons, and his black coat has golden trims.

The man is tall, about 6 foot, and while he is not as broad as an ox Arthur can tell the man is built for battle as much as any other soldier.

…

The man’s eyes are green.

Normally, that would not frighten Arthur, but the green is such an eerie shade— a shade that gleams brightly like emeralds in the sun when the blazing fires glitter across his irises.

The man carried a flintlock in one hand, a basket-hilted sword in the other— the hilt glimmering and the blade dripping with the blood that splatters up the side of the man’s face.

The man is smiling.

And Arthur believes that smile is the worst thing he’s ever seen.

Arthur doesn’t know how long he stares into the man’s eerie, gleaming eyes.

It’s like he’s trapped, held still, paralyzed with fear like a mouse before a coiled snake.

And Arthur doesn’t know what gave his fellow soldiers with the idea to load the cannon, but he is just barely able to snap out of it and throw himself to the side to avoid the shot.

It rips through the man’s right side, taking half his chest, the shoulder, and arm with it.

And, to Arthur’s horror, the man does not fall.

He does not waver as his body is ripped through by a solid iron cannonball, and Arthur can’t even hope to look at the injury, his head pounding and eyes glossing away every time he tries to prove to himself that the damage was done and he is not dreaming—

The man’s smiling wider, and Arthur thinks he can see fangs— needle-sharp, too many teeth, the fangs are even longer– and Arthur can feel his mind trying to tear itself apart at the seams when he realizes that is no man.

The things blade, it’s flintlock lost with its arm— its arm that is growing back, it’s body repairing itself as it moves— slices through the bodies of Arthur’s countrymen like an oar through still waters.

It’s graceful, the things body moving in ways no human ever should; fluid and coiling but tense, like a snake ready to strike.

Blood splatters onto Arthur’s face as the thing comes to a stop in front of him.

Arthur can’t move, his eyes locked onto the things face above him as it shifts and warps and—

—————————

Adam Jones stands upon a cliffs-edge, overlooking the sea to the East and a massive forest to the West, with empty terrain to the North and East.

Last night, there had been an outpost here; a British outpost.

There is nothing.

No ash.

No blood.

Nothing.

And no one will ever know there had been.

He smiles.