AI Generated Story Plotting, Prompts, and Giveaways
Marcus Prince’s POV – 2001
The morning air was crisp as I walked through the vast grounds of the Prince estate, a sprawling collection of stone buildings and immaculate gardens that had been in the family for centuries. The trees swayed gently, their leaves casting intricate shadows on the gravel path, but my mind was elsewhere—on a certain distant cousin of mine, who was more of an enigma than a relative.
Draven was, as usual, nowhere to be seen. Not at first, at least. That didn’t surprise me. He rarely lingered indoors these days unless absolutely necessary. The weight of something, something that had happened years ago, seemed to drive him, pushing him beyond normal limits, far beyond what anyone would consider reasonable. And I respected that, in a way, even if I didn’t quite understand it.
I eventually found him in the courtyard near the eastern wing, setting up for his morning training. His posture was as rigid as ever, his eyes focused, as though the entire world outside his practice was nothing more than an inconsequential blur. The air around him seemed to hum with tension, as though his very presence exerted a strange pull on reality.
“Draven,” I called, walking toward him. His head snapped up, his eyes momentarily meeting mine with that piercing intensity I’d grown used to. He didn’t exactly smile, but there was a flicker of acknowledgment.
“Marcus,” he replied, his voice calm yet distant. “Is it time for the household duties?”
“Nearly,” I said, folding my arms as I stood a few paces away from him. “There’s some organizing to do later—something about the Prince family vaults, I believe. The usual routine, really. But I assume you’re about to… train first?”
Draven nodded, his gaze already drifting back to the task at hand. “Just a bit,” he muttered, his tone more focused than casual. “I need to work on my movement. I’m still not quick enough—still not precise enough.”
I glanced at the various weapons and training dummies scattered around him, a familiar sight by now. It was hard to imagine anyone thinking they weren’t ‘quick’ or ‘precise’ after watching Draven. But then again, Draven wasn’t like anyone else. Not since that day in London.
I watched as he strapped on his gloves, his movements deliberate but weighed down by something unseen. Something heavy. "Don’t push yourself too hard," I said, knowing full well it was pointless advice. "You'll need your energy later."
Draven didn’t reply immediately, just continued preparing. His silence wasn’t rude, it was just… him. His mind was somewhere else entirely—probably on that elusive goal he’d been chasing since London. Since that incident.
With a sigh, I clapped him on the shoulder. "I'll leave you to it, then. I'll see you later." He gave a brief nod, and that was the end of our conversation. I walked away, feeling the ground crunch beneath my boots as I moved toward the distant side of the estate.
From a safe distance, I turned back, unable to resist watching him train.
He was brutal in his movements, striking the dummies with calculated ferocity, his wand a blur of motion as he executed spell after spell in rapid succession. Then came the physical exercises—lunges, rolls, and footwork drills that were so fast and fluid, they barely seemed human. Sweat glistened on his brow, his breaths coming in sharp, controlled bursts. Each movement was precise, each spell perfectly cast, yet there was an underlying frustration in the way he carried himself.
I leaned against one of the stone pillars, arms crossed, silently observing. He was relentless, never allowing himself even a moment's rest. And I knew why. London. That night when everything had gone wrong. When Draven had faced something—someone—that forced him to confront his own limits in a way he hadn’t before.
That night had left a mark on him, deeper than any physical scar. It had shattered the illusion of his invincibility. No matter how strong he was, no matter how skilled, there was always something out there stronger. That realization had been a wall—immovable, towering. And ever since, Draven had been trying to break through it, like a man trapped in his own shadow.
I understood his need to grow, to become something greater. We all had our ambitions, our reasons for wanting to be more than we were. But Draven? His was different. His was about redemption, about proving something to himself.
“He’s too hard on himself,” I muttered to no one in particular, my voice lost in the soft rustle of the wind. I watched him execute another devastating spell, obliterating a dummy with precision. “He’s felt his limits, and now he’s desperate to tear them down.”
But then, maybe that was what he needed. To push himself to the edge and then leap beyond it. And if anyone could do it, it was Draven. There was something inside him, something raw, something waiting. I could feel it in the way he moved, the way he trained, the way he carried himself after London.
A quiet smile tugged at my lips as I turned to leave, my thoughts drifting to what was coming. The time was fast approaching when Draven would realize the truth about himself. Not just the truth of his power, but the truth of his potential. He was no ordinary wizard. He never had been.
I could sense it. And soon, he would too.
“The strongest in the world…” I murmured as I walked back inside, the words tasting like prophecy on my tongue. Draven’s moment of realization was coming. The day he would rise above the shadow of his limits and emerge into something far, far greater.
Draven Snape’s POV – 1999: The Inner Lunatic Battle
The air was thick with tension as I crept toward the clearing. Every sense was heightened, every muscle taut, ready to strike. Layla’s face flashed in my mind, pushing me forward through the shadows. I could hear the low mutterings of the Lunatic cultists, the sick undertones of their ritualistic chanting filling the night. The clearing ahead of me was lit by the cold glow of a twisted magical fire, and the hostages, including Layla, were bound near its center.
My heartbeat quickened. I’m coming.
I stepped into the clearing, wand raised. The moment the cultists saw me, their chants ceased, eyes filled with shock and a creeping realization of who had come for them.
"Let them go," I commanded, my voice steady but filled with the promise of violence.
At the center of the group stood the Inner Lunatic, his black eyes gleaming under the firelight. He was tall, his presence menacing, draped in dark robes embroidered with sigils of madness and death. His smile twisted into something almost gleeful.
“Draven Snape,” he hissed, his voice like a snake’s whisper. “I had hoped you would come. I wanted you to see the moment I transcend.” He gestured toward the hostages, his wand crackling with dark magic. "You're too late. The demon has already touched me.”
My gaze flicked to Layla—her eyes were wide with terror, but she was alive. Focus. I need to get her out.
I gripped my wand tightly and fired a quick spell before he could finish his gloating. "Confringo!" I yelled. The fiery explosion hit one of the cultists directly, sending him crashing into a nearby tree.
The others scattered, their hands scrambling for their wands. They were nothing—pawns. But the Inner Lunatic… he would be different.
He deflected my next spell easily with a sweep of his wand. Protego Totalis, his shield shimmering as my hex collided with it and fizzled out. “You’ll have to do better than that, Snape!”
I wasted no time. “Tenebris Lacerum!” I cast an original spell of my own, a dark rippling shockwave of slicing magical energy that tore through the air toward him. Dark arcs of shadow cut through the night, shredding the earth as they barreled toward their target.
The Inner Lunatic dodged with unnatural speed, conjuring shadowy serpents from the ground. "Let's see if you can handle this!" He raised his arms, and the serpents lashed toward me, their fangs dripping with venomous magic.
“Serpens Dissolvo!” I shouted, countering with a charm that dissolved the summoned creatures into nothingness. The serpents evaporated mid-strike, their magic disintegrating in the air before they could reach me.
He growled in frustration, then began muttering low incantations under his breath. The air around him shifted, dark tendrils of power swirling ominously as he raised both hands to the sky.
He’s summoning it.
The ground trembled as a wave of dark energy surged around him, his body twisting unnaturally. His skin turned a sickly gray, and his eyes bled pure darkness. Horns erupted from his head, his frame swelling grotesquely as demonic power flooded into him.
“I am no longer merely human,” he growled, his voice now deep and guttural, the sound of a demon’s rage. “You’re too late. You can’t stop me.”
I barely flinched. “I’ve seen worse.”
He lunged toward me, his speed almost blurring as he sent a torrent of dark flames my way. “Incendio Aeternum!” he roared, the cursed fire tearing through the clearing like a wildfire.
“Glacius Maxima!” I countered, slashing my wand through the air. A massive wall of ice erupted before me, the cursed flames crashing into it with a deafening hiss. Steam and ice shards flew through the air, blinding us both for a moment.
As the steam cleared, I saw him moving again, this time casting a bolt of crackling dark lightning. "Cruciatum Fulmen!" he yelled.
I spun out of its path, barely dodging as it scorched the earth where I had stood. Too strong to face head-on now.
I couldn’t outlast him in this state, but I could outthink him. I had to wait for an opening. His power, vast as it was, would burn through him quickly if I could just survive long enough.
I weaved around him, casting distraction spells to keep him off-balance. “Reducto!” I aimed at the ground beneath him, sending chunks of earth flying up and forcing him to stumble back. Then, I struck.
“Sectumprostra!” I called out, a modified version of the infamous Sectumsempra, specifically designed for foes with magical defenses. Thin, invisible slashes of pure magic tore toward him, bypassing shields and defenses that would normally stop standard curses.
He roared as the slashes hit, carving through his demonic form and ripping into his skin. Dark ichor spilled from the wounds, his flesh peeling back in grotesque ribbons.
“You’ll pay for that!” he snarled, but his steps faltered. His demon-infused body was starting to break down under the strain.
I closed in for the kill. “Sectumsempra Draconis!” I roared, unleashing the full power of the curse. The magic rippled through the air, spiraling like a dragon’s tail as it struck him square in the chest, tearing through his body with ruthless precision.
He screamed, a bloodcurdling sound that echoed into the night as his form was shredded from the inside out. The demon’s essence was torn apart by the force of my curse, his body disintegrating into black smoke and ash.
The fight was over.
I stood panting, the adrenaline still pumping through my veins, but the threat was gone. The Inner Lunatic was nothing but dust on the wind. I looked back toward the hostages, my eyes locking onto Layla. Relief flooded through me as I saw her safe, though shaken.
I moved toward her, my legs heavy but steady. "It’s over," I said quietly as I untied her bonds.
She looked up at me, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and gratitude. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice trembling.
I nodded. “Let’s get you all out of here. This isn’t the end of them, but it’s a start.”
Name: Vagos "The Cursed" Dragosson
Alias: The Dragon Slayer
Affiliation: Lunatic Cultist
Birthplace: Trondheim, Norway
Race: Human (Cursed by Dragon Magic)
Year of Birth: 1972Background:
Vagos Dragosson was born into a small, secluded tribe in the mountains of Norway, known for its ancient bloodline that claimed descent from dragons. The tribe, colloquially known as the Drakener, revered dragons as divine ancestors, their leaders chosen not by birthright but through a mystical connection with these great beasts. Dragons guarded the secrets of power and were seen as more than just mythical creatures—they were family, protectors, and rulers of the tribe.
From a young age, Vagos showed exceptional combat prowess. He was proud, reckless, and desired to rise above the reverence of the dragons, believing that the power of his tribe lay not in cooperation with dragons, but in their control—or elimination. As his skill grew, so did his ambition. He believed that by killing the most powerful of these dragons, the Elder Dragon Chief, he would ascend to greater strength and earn the right to lead his tribe into a new era of domination.
Against the warnings of his elders, and blinded by arrogance, Vagos set out to slay the tribe’s dragon protector, the Elder Dragon Chief Ragnaruth. The battle was fierce, but Vagos succeeded in killing the ancient beast, his blade piercing through the heart of the dragon. However, Ragnaruth, with his dying breath, cursed Vagos with a dark and terrible magic—a dragon’s wrath intertwined with his soul, ensuring that his power would come at an unbearable cost.
The curse deformed Vagos’s body, twisting him into something that was no longer entirely human. He could summon incredible strength, but each use of his power caused him immense pain, as though the dragon’s vengeance burned through his very veins. His once-proud form became marked by scales, his eyes glowed with an eerie, reptilian light, and his skin, now tougher than any armor, bore the brand of the dragon’s fury.
The tribe, horrified by his actions, cast him out, labeling him a traitor and a monster. Vagos disappeared into the wilderness, consumed by both his newfound strength and the curse that ravaged him.
Rise to Lunatic Cultist:
For years, Vagos wandered the world, driven mad by the curse and his lust for power. He had become an outcast not only from his tribe but from humanity. His cursed form allowed him to survive, but at the cost of his sanity. His hatred for dragons and those who revered them grew, and with each passing year, he sought vengeance against anything resembling his past.
About a decade ago, the Lunatic Cultist found him. The cult, a dark organization worshipping chaos and destruction, saw Vagos as an embodiment of the power they sought. In exchange for their support and ancient knowledge, Vagos offered them his deadly skills. Under the cult’s influence, his curse became less of a burden and more of a weapon, as they taught him how to harness the full extent of his dragon-like abilities. He embraced his transformation, now fully intertwined with dragon magic, and became known as "The Cursed" within their ranks.
Vagos terrorized villages, cities, and governments around the world, but he always sought something more—a way to completely lift the curse or perhaps to make it permanent, but painless. He began targeting ancient relics and magical artifacts, often attacking dragon-related temples or sanctuaries to quench his undying hatred. In these acts of terror, he left no survivors, earning a reputation as one of the most feared Lunatic Cultists.
Vagos became known as a one-man army, able to crush battalions with his brute strength, his thick, dragon-scaled skin making him nearly impervious to conventional weapons. His battle tactics were brutal, and he often fought with a twisted smile on his face, relishing in the destruction he caused. His favorite method of attack was to swoop in like a force of nature, using his curse to assume a semi-draconic form in battle, where he wielded the combined strength of man and beast.
Abilities:
1. Dragon Curse Transformation: Vagos can partially transform into a dragon-like state, growing scales, claws, and wings. In this form, his strength and speed increase exponentially, but it causes him severe pain. His control over the form is imperfect, and he can sometimes lose himself to the beast within.
2. Scales of Ragnaruth: His skin is naturally tougher than steel due to the curse, resembling dragon scales that offer high resistance to physical and magical attacks. However, the more he fights, the more his body deteriorates, and the pain increases, forcing him to choose when to push his limits.
3. Dragon Fire Breath: Vagos can summon the dragon fire of Ragnaruth, spewing forth a deadly torrent of cursed flames that burn through nearly anything in their path. These flames are laced with dark magic, capable of consuming even magical protections.
4. Dark Magic Mastery: Taught by the Lunatic Cultist, Vagos has learned to weave dark spells into his combat style, often using curses that drain the life force of his opponents or bind them in shadowy chains. These spells complement his brute force, making him a deadly duelist.
5. Dragon Slayer’s Blade: The weapon Vagos used to kill Ragnaruth, now cursed along with him. It grows stronger with each dragon he kills, but it has a mind of its own, often thirsting for blood and pushing Vagos to fight more brutally than he would otherwise.
Personality:
Vagos is a tortured soul. Though his exterior is cold, brutal, and merciless, there are moments where the madness recedes, and the regret of his actions surfaces. He is conflicted, hating the dragons but also hating himself for the path he’s chosen. The pain of his curse fuels his rage, but deep down, there is a sense of loss—an acknowledgment that his quest for power has come at too high a price. However, the madness often consumes him, and he becomes a force of nature, driven solely by the desire to inflict as much pain on the world as he feels inside.
Motivation:
Vagos seeks to either lift his curse or control it fully. He believes that by helping the Lunatic Cultists achieve their goals of chaos and destruction, they will help him unlock the final secret of the curse—total mastery of dragon magic without the painful consequences. At the same time, he harbors a deep resentment toward the Lunatic for manipulating him, knowing full well they may have their own agenda. For now, he plays his role, but always with an eye toward betraying them when the opportunity arises.
His ultimate goal is to find peace—whether through lifting the curse or embracing it completely—but peace is something that may be beyond his reach.
