#vault prompts

[hiding-in-the-vault]

Art propt - dream drinking tea with techno :) i just want them to have a nice and cozy time!

This is one of my favorites :)

[bleue-flora]

Ok, I recently wrote an essay [here] talking about the definition and duties of civil engineering as well as the ethics because of the brain rot @swordfright gave me with calling Dream Sam’s ultimate engineering project. So, because I actually am a civil engineer I took it upon myself to design the title and summary of quantities sheets just like I do at work for roads but with Dream as the project instead. And in honor of angst day sponsored by @sixteenth-day-event, I figured I’d share it because I feel like it kinda works for the prison of the mind prompt.

“Sam’s “ultimate engineering project” he deemed too damaged like a bumpy road or crumbling building that wasn’t worthy of patching and filling in the cracks or reinforcing, that’s too eroded to be fixed and preserved. So, Sam strived to tear him down to the bedrock so he could remake, remold, and reengineer Dream according to his design for the common safety, public health and well-fair.”

{These are very similar to the actual sheets I make day to day, which I shall not share for the sake of doxing my location, but yea pretty much everything has a significance. Some of it doesn’t necessarily make sense but that was because I was more so taking inventory of what we see in lore (so you know I counted ;) lol)}

[valeriannnn]

I know little of the Keepers and their cultural norms, but I suppose it should not come as a surprise that matters of grooming and personal maintenance should carry a more pragmatic connotation for those who live in such isolation - or perhaps our friend is simply strange, regardless of his context. I must admit: it was no small comfort to me, in those frigid days heralding the twilight of the Dragonsong War, to discover that our champion did not share our Sharlayan intuition toward personal space. Our more guarded companions don't always share my gratitude for the attention, but I believe that after our long estrangement, even the coldest of hearts could not fail to be warmed by such a gesture.

Wolcred Week 2024 Day 1: Warmth | Home

ok as mentioned in the tags i didnt have time to render a complete scene for this but i found this old mspaint sketch that demonstrates the Vibe. tyagoa just walked up behind him after cleaning up from their meal

[jcwdrawskinda]

Test Subject: Boe Alt. Name: Sole Survivor. Blue. Day 1 - 100

(P.S. if anyone draws their character from day 1 of their story to their climax, tag me so I can reblog you :0)

I wasn't sure if I was going to make this animated or not, but I've been animating so much lately that things don't feel complete until it has a little movement! (⓿_⓿)

Doing the animated touches ended up being my favorite part. It was fun once I figured out what I wanted to do!

That all said, I'm getting that itch to jump in to Spine (the program). I was able to buy it, but it's daunting to learn lol. But I'm craving the knowledge! ( •̀ ω •́ )✧

I hope to post a timelapse soon, I wish I could have 2 videos in one post

[koilarist]

Step aside, Vault Dwellers. There's a new Overseer in town.

[agronzky]

⠀⠀⠀ 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐊 𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐕𝐀𝐔𝐋𝐓 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒. ♡

"Still hoping that the fire won't burn me"

"All I know is this could either break my heart or bring it back to life"

"I've gotten used to no one calling my phone"

"I was thinking just one time maybe the starts align"

"I know that boy will never be the same"

"'Cause she's the kind of book that you can't put down"

"And to tell you the truth, sometimes I wish I was her"

"Little does he know, his whole world's about to change"

"I've been watching you for ages and I spend my time tryin' not to feel it"

"Then we kept everything professional, 'cause something's changed"

"And I can see you being my addiction"

"Hide away and I will stop behaving myself"

"I was held up so high, I used to be great"

"Crowds would hang on my words and they trusted me"

"Ones I loved tried to help, so I ran them off and here I sit alone behind walls of regret"

"My foes and friends watch my reign end"

"You give me just enough attention to keep my hopes too high"

"Stop checkin' your mailbox for confessions of love"

"You are not the exception, you will never learn your lesson"

"You haven't written me or called, but goodbye screamin' in the silence"

"The kinda love that you only find once in a lifetime"

"So, even in a different life, you still would've been mine"

"Time breaks down your mind and body"

"Even if we'd met on a crowded street in 1944 you still would've been mine"

[distorted-smile]

Might try this…? The 31st is meant to be a collage but if they’ve got backgrounds idk..

Anywho

(Also it’s not really a horror challenge more as a thriller).

[bagelrites]

Sixteenth Day Event Prompt:

Sam fires Bad from the prison for his involvement with the Egg

Pink Slip

While working a weekly shift as a prison guard (or glorified cell-cleaner, really) Bad finds that the prison walls seem to dampen the effect the Egg has on his mind.

Eventually, it gets him fired.

My fic for @sixteenth-day-event

(also on AO3)

If you asked Bad whether he liked working as a prison guard, the answer would be complicated. There are some things about the prison, and especially about the Warden, that unnerve him, yet oftentimes, being in the prison helps clear Bad’s mind. It’s like a breath of fresh air, stepping beyond the obsidian maw into the dark, cloistered halls. Not that the air in there was fresh—it was quite stagnant and hot, the sort of the stillness that makes sweating an useless defense of the body against the heat. But he felt it inside, like a glass placed over a fly to dim the buzzing. That’s what it did for his head. It made things clearer: less fogged.

He had a feeling he knew why. That these walls kept things not only in but out. That for the hours where he patrolled and cleaned, his mind was his own, again, or at least more so than it had been.

Maybe that’s why he was willing to do some of the dirty jobs around the place, just to keep himself employed there. That, and if he had to guess, he was the only guard who’d ever changed a diaper. (Thanks, Sapnap.)

So his duties looked like this: patrol the halls, report anything suspicious or damaged to the Warden, then at 5 o’clock sharp, when he was to bring the prisoner his evening meal, he cleaned the bedpan, along with anything else that had gotten soiled in the cell. If anything was damaged or dirtied beyond repair, he was to confiscate it and report it to the Warden to be replaced. He’d only done that once, in regard to a hairbrush with a broken handle, but he’d never seen the prisoner get a new one.

Now his hair was long and matted, and his bedsheets had holes worn through them, and Bad was too afraid to report the damage, lest he return to find the prisoner sleeping on a bare mattress. 

(He’d complained once about the conditions in the prison. Expressed concern that the prisoner ate his weekly meal from Bad like it was the only food he’d been given in days. Expressed further concern about leaving the bedpan unwashed for so long—and not just for the sake of his nose. The Warden reminded him what the prisoner had done. Said Bad seemed too sympathetic. Asked if his prison should be run like a hotel. If the prisoner should be treated like a guest.

Bad said no.)

Maybe that was why he brought the new sheets. Tucked into the bottom of his supply cart, just a simple white sheet and a matching pillow case. The blanket would have to stay, it was too bulky to sneak in a new one, but it wasn’t as though Bad was concerned about the prisoner getting cold in that sweltering box.

The hardest part was convincing him to stand up so Bad could change the sheets.

“You need to what?” he asked, looking up with filmy eyes. 

“Change your sheets. Can you stand?”

The prisoner looked down at his legs like he didn’t trust them, then back up to Bad with much the same feeling.

“You’ve never done that before.”

“The Warden wants me to change the sheets,” Bad lied, and at last the prisoner seemed to understand. His expression turned blank, resigned, and he nodded, shuffling to the edge of the bed so he could throw his legs over the side and rise—wobbly—to his feet. Bad ached a little inside watching him hold the wall for support as he moved away, but he waited until he was well and clear of the bed before he started. He’d learned a long time ago not to get too close to the prisoner. He didn’t react well to that.

Bad tucked the sheets around the corners, fluffed up the old, squashed pillow as best he could, and laid the tattered blanket overtop. He put the meal tray on the blanket, since the prisoner usually ate in bed, and when he turned around he saw his expression had changed.

He looked crumpled. Like he would cry, if only his body had enough water in it to make tears.

“Did the Warden really ask you to change my sheets?” he asked.

Bad didn’t answer.

He couldn’t lie again.

…

Something shifted. The prison became an escape for Bad. He walked his weekly route around the halls with a brisk pace, feeling the tension in his joints release, the teeth-grinding bitterness roll off him like steam. He grew more determined, more willful. It was here and only here, after all, that he could exert his own will.

He began to bring a change of clothes with the meal and the cleaning each week. He stole two of the orange uniforms from the supply closet, and snuck one in, leaving it under the prisoner’s pillow. He was clever enough to pick up the hint, and Bad found the old, smelly, tattered one under his pillow the next week, which he threw away. They exchanged the two new uniforms weekly after that: the prisoner would dress himself in the clean one and Bad would take the dirty one away to wash for the next week. 

He wasn’t sure it would work, at first. Didn’t think the prisoner would change in front of him. But he did it mostly when Bad’s back was turned, and that seemed to be enough privacy for him. (Bad still caught glimpses of scars and burns he’d never seen before, but he pretended he didn’t see—both for the prisoner’s sake and his own.) 

Slowly, the prisoner let him get closer. Would occasionally say a few words to him, outside of conversation pertinent to Bad’s duties. Would even let him stand close enough to touch him. 

So Bad got bolder. He brought in a rag and some soap and asked the prisoner if he would like to be clean.

That question confused him. Bad saw in gnawing at him, the confusion in his eyes, the press of his brows.

I don’t deserve to be clean.

“Just let me wipe your face,” he said, and the confusion melted into obedience.

“Okay.”

He held himself very still. He gripped the edge of the mattress, knuckles white and protruding from skeletal hands. Bad moved slowly, wiped the rag in soft, careful circles over the dirt and oil crusted along his hairline. It took awhile to come up. Bad had to rinse and wring the washcloth several times, the water in his bucket turning just as gray as when he moped the floor. But slowly, the skin below revealed itself, pale and flaky over scars and acne. 

The prisoner began to cry somewhere in the middle of the cleaning. Silently, jaw clenched, trembling with the will to remain still for Bad. But he cried nonetheless, and Bad wiped away the tears with the rest of the dirt.

When Bad was done, he remained there—eyes closed, shoulders melted down, face pressed forward—while Bad folded away the damp, dirty washcloth and wrapped the soap in a fresh, dry one.

“Here,” he said, trying to offer the parcel to him so he could clean the rest of himself, later, unobserved. But the prisoner did not open his eyes.

Bad sighed.

“Dream?”

His lashes fluttered, his green eyes wide, suddenly attentive.

“Here.” He pressed the gift into his palm. Dream took in a shuddering breath. He looked scared.

Still, he said: “Thank you.”

…

“What is this?” Bad held the pink paper away from himself like that would make it less real.

“Your termination letter,” the Warden told him. He was standing, arms behind his back, a large, oak desk between them.

“What have I done? I—I’ve never been late. I do the worst job here and I never complain,” Bad argued. “Who’s going to clean the bedpan now, Ant? You?”

“You don’t need to worry about that anymore,” the Warden said. “You are no longer an employee of this prison.”

“But—but why?” Bad’s lips were dry. He almost wanted him to say it. To admit that what Bad had done was wrong. That it was wrong, somehow, to offer human decency to a fellow human being.

But the Warden did not say that. Of course he didn’t.

“You are no longer committed to this cause. Your loyalty lies with the Egg. So leave it there.”

“The Egg?” Bad almost laughed. “This is about the Egg?”

“Yes. You’ve been distracted, these past few weeks. I think we both know why.”

Bad’s lip quivered, his eye twitched. This was the only place the Egg wasn’t on his mind. This was the only place he moved with determination and single-minded focus. This was the only place, in the past year or more, where he felt like himself—if only for a few, small moments in the quiet of that sweltering little cell.

“Do you need me to state it clearer?” the Warden asked. “You’re fired, Bad. And as such, you no longer have clearance to be here. Ant will escort you off the premises.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Bad put the letter back on his desk. “I know my way out.”

[bosspigeon]

so due to money issues and also the fact that i have kind of a Big Project in the works i'm trying to figure out kofi and hfdjshg lord help me

[hiding-in-the-vault]

art prompt u say? how about cdream marveling at the sky after prison

[charmwasjess]

awwww today I genuinely found my limit in terms of what is actually too sad for me to write :'))

[bleue-flora]

Sixteenth Day Event Prompt:

Punz remembers his home

So I wrote a poem this time, was bound to happen eventually lol. Enjoy some staged duo angst. :) @sixteenth-day-event

Pandora's Vault Is No Home, All It Houses Is Pain

Punz remembers home. 

Not this jagged obsidian box. But a sanctuary made of bricks and helping hands, holding a fish tank and a bed for whoever needed one.

Punz remembers home.

Not these long dark halls leading to nowhere good. But a house made of wood, each corner carved to perfection and full of bees.

Punz remembers home.

Not this lava filled room soaked in nothing but the echoes of suffering. But a tower layered in style and treasures only skilled trident users can reach.

Punz remembers home.

Not this bitter unescapable silence in all of his houses, now empty. But the laughter that could light up a room and man who made his houses a home.

Punz remembers home.

Not this cold broken skeleton limping with every stride. But the warm arms that made the world right again and the smile that made him feel whole.

Punz remembers home.

But all that’s left are scars and bruises and pain. 

All that’s left is quiet hopeless tears and unending desperation. 

All that’s left is the sweltering lava burning him from the inside out.

All that’s left is blood crusted walls haunted by what they’ve witnessed. 

All that’s left is hell in box, where a house should be.

All that’s left is death, and the hope of a home that can be again.

[holycatsandrabbits]

Hey, y’all, it’s Weird Wednesday! Where on some Wednesdays, I blog about weird stuff and give writing prompts.

Today: The Mystery of the Moving Coffins

Welcome on this Weird Wednesday! Today we’re going to take a look in some burial vaults to see what the heck those dead people get up to in there.

The story goes like this: A family builds a burial vault, which is a kind of underground tomb, a chamber that’s typically large enough to hold several coffins and is reached by a set of stairs that lead down to the door. So the family inters their dead, the tomb is sealed by a heavy stone door, and presumably everyone inside rests in peace until the next time the tomb is opened, when somebody else in the family dies.

But to their shock, at the next funeral, the family finds the huge, heavy lead coffins have been tossed around the vault, as if a giant hand had flung them. Some coffins have tipped over, some lie on top of each other, and some lean against walls, upside down so the head is at the bottom, which is extra creepy. 

Naturally, no one has a great explanation for this. At last, the family decides a team of very strong vandals have broken in and caused mischief. They search the tomb, but find no sign of an entrance anywhere but that main door. So they seal it carefully this time, making sure it’s quite secure, and then leave, until the next family member dies.

Well, sure enough, when they reopen the tomb, the coffins are once again thrown about. Furious, the family sets everything to rights, then spreads ash or sand on the floor to record any vandal footprints, and seals the door with concrete, marked with the family crest from somebody’s signet ring.

They open the tomb a month later, noting the seal is intact. So is the sand on the floor, actually. But the coffins? Not so much. This time, there’s even a skeletal arm sticking out of one of them. Completely freaked out, the family buries their dead elsewhere and abandons the tomb.

Cool story! And it’s been told about the Chase family vault in Barbados, the French family vault in Staunton, England, the Gretford family vault in Stamford, England, and the Buxhowden vault on the island of Saaremaa in the Baltic Sea. The idea is, somebody is buried in the family vault who shouldn’t be, usually a cruel, unrepentant soul or a suicide, since there is a prohibition against burying suicides in consecrated ground. After that person is interred in the vault, the other folks buried there revolt.

Is any of it true? Well, maybe. 

Check out the blog post for the whole story and some writing prompts, such as:

The new neighbors. So what do the dead get up to down there? How do the coffins get thrown around? Do the dead actually crawl out of their caskets and fling them with supernatural strength, or do they use telekinesis or magic? You could write a dark comedy in that tomb, full of hissy fits and ridiculous complaints about the neighbors, a horror story about a new burial trapped underground with a supernatural menace, or an epic battle of good and evil fought in a tiny dark room.

DannyeChase.com ~ AO3 ~ Linktree ~ Weird Wednesday writing prompts blog ~ Resources for Writers 

Image credit

[butchtwelfthdoctor]

Howwww about Missy and prompt 11 for the drabble thing?

YAYYY YIPPEE THANK YOU

11 - "I went willingly."

Missy, in her current situation, spends a lot of time alone. A lot of time sitting in a basement very few people could find if they tried. A lot of time with no one to talk to but herself.

The first few years were the most annoying, the most grating on her pride. You fool, begging for your life only to loose everything. Oh come now. I'm being silly. This is better than nothing. It has to be.

Every evening after the Doctor was finished entertainng himself with ridiculous humans, he would come and visit her. It took her a long time to admit to herself that she did rather find herself waiting for him to come. What else was there to do, after all? She had read her way through a significant proportion of the ridiculous literature of this silly little planet, taken up multidimensional watercolour painting and was not unseriously considering Makithian tapestry, an extraordinarily complex art that required living plants and threads of the maker's own hair.

It was the boredom that got to her. So much time to sit and think. Too much time. Endlessly dwelling on things that's she'd long forgotten she'd done. Lifetimes worth of memories she once would have glanced through unfeelingly now made her feel ill. I did that. Just because it wasn't my face doesn't mean it wasn't still me.

She tried to distract herself but there simply wasn't anything to distract herself with. She stood in the centre of the room. For the seven hundred thousandth, four hundred & thirteenth time she considered escape. She could do it. It wouldn't even be that difficult. She could get through the door if she wanted, she got halfway though a plan before stopping herself.

'I came willingly' she said aloud, jarring herself out of her thoughts.

'I chose this. I entered this room of my own accord.'

She reached over and touched a low minor chord on the piano. She felt her throat getting choked up. She vaugely wished the Doctor was here, so he could see that she was trying, that she did feel remorse. but at the same time infinitely grateful that he could not see her like this.

'I came willingly,' she said again, quietly.

The empty walls of the room stared back at her, same as they always did.

[fvlmen]

The Prompt Vault!

Hi! You stumbled upon The Prompt Vault! This is a space created by me (@fvlmen aka Amahy on AO3) where you can leave a prompt to help others who might struggle with writer's block, or even a prompt and a fandom, if you wish to read something.

Feel free to reblog this post and/or add your prompt(s) in the comments. Or, you can take any prompt you wish and write a fic or original work. If you do, feel free to drop the link.

Happy writing!

[plasma-packin-mama]

Miss New Vegas herself