More than power? Never had anyone offered her that, and she leaned forward, intrigued. "And what would you say is greater than power, pray tell? Love? Wisdom? Other people have tried to sell these things to me before, and they were never able to carry through." "No," answered the merchant, bargaining for his life. "Magic. A magic that will make your food taste sweet again, will make every victory priceless and every ounce of power better." She leaned back and laughed. "That hasn't been the case since I was five and all my siblings were drowned like puppies, because the King had picked his heir." "He was a brutal man." "He was the finest King this country had had for fifty years." "And yet, I notice that you have no heirs of the body yourself." She shrugged, trying not to show the chill that went through her at the thought.


Inspiration: "Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger" - Daft Punk
Story potential: Medium.
Notes: The cliche here would be to do a bodyswap with some true unfortunate. But that's a cliche, which is why I don't think this story as-is has a ton of potential.

The post of Writer for the Sleeping Child was a fairly prestigious one, and well-paid, and it wasn't as if anything bad was happening to the Child. The Child--slept. The Child would always sleep, until it was no longer a child. Then it would wake up and be taught all the things about the world that a non-sleeping child would have learned from the time it could open its eyes and look around. Except how to talk, and certain other aspects that were significantly distressing to most people who interacted with the former Child. He was pondering what he would do when the Child woke. He had not had it for its full life; there was a previous Writer who had decided to stay on for the next Child. He did not think he could do that. He knew too much of her sighs and the slight lisp with which she talked, he knew what many of the symbols meant and annotated them in the Writing as should be sent. Some Writers adopted the Child when it awoke, took it home with them and made it part of their family. If he had a family, he thought he would have done that, but he did not. He knew very little, really, about even normal children, and so he worried that he would not be able to take proper care of her. His family still lived out in the country, by the foothills, a journey of a week's length that he made only once a year, in time for the annual Moon Dreaming festival. He would not be able to rely on their support as another unprepared father might. And he could not move back, first because his entire life as far as he could remember living there was devoted to escaping, and partly because his only chance at making a good income to support a family was to stay in the city. He did want a family, he just wasn't particularly good at talking with women, and he knew none of the ways that a solitary man might acquire a family. If his sisters had lived nearby, he assumed he most likely would have been married for a good ten years already.


Inspiration: http://www.danielmerriam.com/index.php?option=com_ponygallery&Itemid=0&func=detail&id=150
Story potential: High.
Notes: She wakes up early, say at--oh--ten. And no, there is not nor ever will be anything romantic between them. Ew. But because she wakes up early, she retains more of the powers of the Dreaming Child than normal, at least when she sleeps. And then plot ensues.

"Noooo!" the hedgehog squeaked as it tumbled posterior over teakettle. (I say posterior because my mother really, really didn't like me to swear. She said it made us look poor.)

I stopped. I'd only been rolling it away from the bonding circle, but then, I'd never heard a hedgehog say something that sounded like...well, that sounded so much like it was actually saying something before. I began to have a really worried feeling about how this particular bonding ceremony was going to end up. Sure, everyone says that what you get is representative of your personality in some way, but I’d been hoping for a predatory cat or something else with sleek fur and sharp claws, that could be decorative or defensive. A hedgehog--I imagined what the other girls in the school would come up with to decorate a hedgehog, and I winced. Bows on every quill, no doubt, should the hedgehog sit still for it. I resolved then and there that I would make sure *my* hedgehog never got forced to sit still for such things, and it was only after I decided that that I realized what I'd done. I'd gone and accepted a hedgehog.

"Thank you," it said, as it rolled over and sprawled its feet out until it could stand up and waddle back into the circle.

"Don't thank me!" I denied hastily. "I didn't accept you!"

"Oh, yes you did."


Inspiration: http://www.flickr.com/photos/__pjm__/9257319074/ Too cute!
Story potential: Medium-high
Notes: It really is ridiculously cute. And I like the idea that it indicates something in her that will be able to stand up to things a whole lot bigger than she is.

Toad Way split off from the merchant's district in Dragon Row, and that was where the sailors went. Sometimes sailors asked why the pleasure district's street name was Toad, but older hands took them aside quietly and explained about certain beneficial effects of toad-licking, and why you should avoid it, but why there were parlors dedicated to just that activity. Certain young sailors tried it. Some of them were able to put it aside and return to work and go on to create their own life as a sailor. Some of them never escaped it and spent their days in casual labor at the docks or, once they grew too decrepit for that life, begging so that they could chase the toad.


Inspiration: ChaoticShiny city generator
Story potential: Low.
Notes: Meh.

The under-priestess of the sect of absolute purity slammed her hand down on the bar counter again. "Another!" she demanded. Everyone in the bar held their breath. There were already six empty glasses lined up along the counter where the priestess had slammed them after she drank the highly alcohol, very peppery, and quite likely to lead to dancing contents. The bartender eased forward, mixed another swirling red drink, and cautiously slid it across the bar to her. The highest number anyone in that bar had seen a person consume was seven, and that was Big Ed, who they would have guessed was a half-ogre if anyone still believed that ogres existed. Priestesses were sweet, pure innocents who drank nothing but evaporated water that had been boiled into steam and recaptured so as to remove any harmful elements that might disrupt their purity. They ate nothing but vegetables. They had nothing but sweet sleep and innocent dreams. And that was as it should be, given the awesome power that they had bestowed upon them in return. They certainly didn't slam back...seven.


Inspiration: http://chaoticshiny.com/taverngen.php
Story potential: Medium.
Notes: Eh. Could be fun, but pretty much a standard high fantasy gimme.

A teardrop on the fire, a quick pass with a vial to catch the steam as it went up, and just like that--passion's heart was captured. She didn't feel any different, not right away, but then--she'd been concentrating on the spell, not thinking of the pain of losing him, of losing her family, of losing them all. She could have gone the vengeance route, turned to the dark side, followed the left-hand path, but she'd held just enough of herself to make the other choice. She held in her hand the vial of pain and anger and rage and sorrow and heartbreaking agony. She felt light, as if she could drift off into the sky like thistledown. She sighed. She hadn't known quite how much relief she would feel--

Inspiration: "Teardrop" - Massive Attack
Story Potential: High? Medium-high?
Notes: So what happens all those many years later when she uncorks the vial?

The heat of the desert sun penetrated through the white robes and veils. The rhythmic drumming of horses hooves underneath her as they raced across the salt flats. The bitter taste of the air in her mouth. The views of lakes in the distance, lakes that she knew were a lie. It was horrible and it would kill her if she lingered. She threw back her head and laughed gleefully. It was horrible, yes, but beautiful, and free in a way that she could never be where there were other lives around. Here--if she let free and a spike of energy shot out into the desert, there was no life to be harmed. At worst, she might kill her horse and herself. That was it. That was why--

Inspiration: "Shrine" by Beats Antique
Story Potential: Medium-high
Notes: I like the "feel" of it, but the story itself is not original enough to write.

Dormice were cute, adorable, and enchanting--everything she was not. Unless you used "enchanting" in the other sense of the word. That's why they were her default form whenever she was startled or forced to 'mute into something else. No hero worth his salt would ever hurt such a tiny, helpless, adorable creature. Little girls would protect her and feed her. Only a real dastard would hurt a dormouse, and most of those would recognize her for what she truly was and steer clear. Nope, in a storming-the-castle-type situation, a dormouse was a fantastic choice! It was somewhat less so when what had startled her was her familiar. The raven croaked laughter and--


Inspiration: Cute Overload, because OMGCEEYYYUUTE!
Story Potential: Low
Notes: Funny premise, no story.

It was very hard work being a Fool. One had to be entertaining, and funny, and do pratfalls, and make oneself a spectacle--while still pointing out the pomposity that rulers and those who surrounded them might be prone to. Puncturing the egos of the rich and powerful, without going so far as to make them kill you. It was even harder to be the Fool in Trilandia, for one also had to please the Queen--ahem. Literally. That required a good-looking, strong man who could still leave the impression that he was nothing of the sort. And one must please the queen without allowing others to know you'd gone that far and making them kill you. He'd clearly failed at least in one respect--

Inspiration: The book cover of Fool's War.
Story Potential: Low.
Notes: Meh. Nothing new here.

It was tithe day, and the overlord's collector sighed as he approached the Valle estate. Always there was more work there, though also more profit, and it could not be said that they did not abide by the tax rules. People who lived there died a little younger than elsewhere, but they did not have to fear being taken on tithe day, or losing their children. A child was a simple enough thing to take with him, however, and the Valle had an arrangement that was far from simple. Behind the tax collector a huge wagon filled with glass globes trundled along.

Inspiration: Pondering taxes. The taxman cometh. Thinking about tithes other than money.
Story Potential: Medium
Notes: Neat set-up, but only a set-up.