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the P R O M P T S-- - -



Ⓐ ﻬ Tell us about the Froakie's faction: Which one is it, how does he feel about it? What are his thoughts?
Ⓑ ﻬ In order to get by, Froakie will have a job description. What do you think his title and profession would be?
Ⓒ ﻬ How does your Froakie feel about Alice, or the Red Queen? Pick one. This prompt can be done twice.

Ⓓ ﻬ Day to day as a priest of a dead religion might be unpleasant for some; how does your Froakie care for it?
Ⓔ ﻬ What kinds of ceremonies do his people execute?
Ⓕ ﻬ One thing that makes your Froakie stand out, for better or worse: What is it? You may complete this prompt twice, once for each option.

Ⓖ ﻬ Free play. You may complete one entry with any subject matter you like!

Ⓗ ﻬ The great detective question: what does your Froakie determine is happening, given the clues provided by Faust's brother so far?

The Froakie sighed, closing the doors to his temple. Sorry, door. The other door had fallen off and lay on the stairs like a drunk who had been thrown out from a bar.

It was time for the celebrations inside to begin, regardless of no attendance. Though the doors had stood open for this most important of days, the building on the Diamond's side of Clubs was as void of life as it had been the day before. It was a strange place for a temple and long had it stood nearly empty, its only occupants the Priest and his two sub-diaconates. Its easy accessibility meant that the citizens of Wonderland had either forgotten this year's Alimas or they didn't care to attend.

Reyson could understand them not coming his yearly reading of William the Conqueror on Caucus day and he knew the sorrow people showed on Mock Day was genuine, but the few people who cared for this important holiday made his heart heavy. It was the day of their god's arrival, the day of birth for all things in Wonderland.

He slipped inside the dimly lit building. It used to be such an impressive place, but now it was in desperate need of repairs. The ceiling was leaky in some places and had crumbled away entirely in others. The lack of donations meant the windows couldn't be replaced, leaving easy access for horny teenagers to break in and use the floor as a screwing ground.

The night was a simple one. Tarts were in abundance, the music was repetitive and the croquete was left unplayed. The confessional booth was closed for the evening, but Reyson found himself in there, speaking to nobody. Or in his mind, to Alice, with a prayer for forgiveness for all of Wonderland, an apology that so few were praising her name.

It was a shame, really. The most important tradition of the year was still to come and there was no-one to see the spectacle.

As midnight came, Reyson placed a mask over his face and drew up his hood. He entered the room of Vorpal, a holy place only opened for the most important of times. He stood before the empty space where believers used to watch. There was a stone table with many candles about it, which he lit one by one and motioned for his only followers to bring forth the final part of tonight's ritual.

Adorned in blue robes, wearing his own mask, the weakened Weezing was brought up from the basement and laid flat on the stone slate.
"Brothers, gathered here, tonight we give praise." He spoke to no-one in a soft voice. This was the only time speaking was allowed inside the holy room. "We give thanks to our great God." He anointed the Weezing, a former deacon of this very temple, in purple salve, drawing on his exposed neck and body. Under the mask was a sack hood and under the hood came a weak whimper, his legs paralyzed. "We ask that our beloved God bless us and accept this offering in her name. May the blood spilled here tonight bridge the gap to your return."