A young elf thrashes against a wooden floor like a thing gone mad.

Echo:

I am deeply sorry to hear of your wounding, though we both are well aware that danger is the soldier's constant bedfellow.  It strikes me, however, that a rest can only do your body good, and, more than likely, your spirit.  Although it saddens me that you have been removed from where you prefer to be, I think that, in time, you will realize the value of rest.  I know I am starting to.  It is difficult, of course, but I do feel some tensions releasing, even as others are realized.

Everybody's favourite scary man with a mask, below the break. (Drawing - pencil crayon and ink, oldschool y'all)

 A very old, battered and what was once a little black book, but now mostly faded back to a pale, tamer sort of gray book were found on a desk in a hidden location somewhere in Undercity, its contents exposed, pages filled with neat, formal handwriting torn out in places or blotted out, with one freshly inked entry. 

Dear Diary. There was a slient pause, as the next words filled a few lines after the title

It's been a while. There has been so many things happening, since the last entry, that I have had not managed to fill the pages with, and it would be far too much to fill the pages, and not only that, there are things I'd rather forget.

The hunter comes awake with a violent startle, sitting bolt upright and meeting the timber wall with his shoulder. He rebounds to his feet and stands bristling and panting. His eyes make slow sense of the shapes in the dark. At the far end of the room a small hearth glows softly with burned down coals. His breath fogs the air in front of his face and he shudders, clammy and sweated from sleeping under furs.

Report: Negotiations with Inquisitor Marda
Sergeant Taneel BrightBlade

The negotiations with the scarlet inquisitor were quite tense. I will admit that diplomatic negotiations are not my strong point, and if I had not had Dragoon Larosa with me, it should have ended disastrously.  

I told Marda that we were in the area to find a missing dragoon and not to spy, and Larosa informed her that we were under orders not to enter the Scarlet’s territory and that Staroda had broken orders in doing so and would be reprimanded on his retrieval. Marda agreed to this, and said she would speak with her superiors on this matter but suspects Staroda Skymane can be returned within a few days., Larosa also attempted to convince her to return Delphiee on the grounds that it was the dragoons responsibility to take corrective actions since, though her initial actions were on leave, her actions now reflect on the dragoons.

((This takes place before the events Here ))

Staroda crept a bit closer toward Tyr’s Hand. He looked left and right, keeping an eye out for anyone -or anything- that might alert the Scarlets to his being there. Almost in sight of the gates, he hesitated. Harrigan did say do not go alone. No harm in looking, mind, but if I run into trouble I will never hear the end of it.

Star decided to turn around, head back for camp and wait to complete his scouting with Jurik when he saw a small figure picking their way through the dead landscape. Small, red dress…and head of red hair Star recognized.

He approached her, even as she spotted him and frowned. “Delphiee. There you are.”

The missing paladin hissed, “Staroda? What the fel are you doing here?”

(( Been doodling steadily over the past few weeks, since I haven't had time for another fully colored CG image like Aji's bust. However, I'd like to share the material I start with before it becomes this. Oh. and huge possibly alignment stretching image, coming at you. ))

Iloam

Enclosed is the result of my research into the archives regarding the history of House Vinguld.I have not included that which I disclosed to you in person last night. For further information, I can point you in the direction of the elf whom we discussed; I was unable to unearth any further leads. Please forward my gold to the innkeeper at C&C, he will know what to do with it.

(( Subtle theme is subtle. Not. ))

The letter sat half open on my desk when I left. I'd considered crumpling it. Burning it. I decided those reactions would be childish, no matter how I felt about its author. The servants would attend to our bed before I returned home. I'd needed my Theryl's warm arms. I'd needed her kisses. Her love. When one goes to face the demons of one's darkest memory, one ought to go girded with armour. I kept my mind firmly centred on my love's body, the way she tasted, the sounds she made, the scent of her curling red hair. Call it armour if you like.

It performed the same function as I walked, feeling a ball of icy hatred burning deep in my gut. Protecting me from my own rage. I had many things to rage about, after all.

 Specialist Black,

It's five in the morning on the Rampart of Skulls.   I'm here on lookout with a dwarf named Buzzbeard.  At least that's what we call him, and he doesn't seem to mind.  He's on watch now, and I'm supposed to be resting.  Every time I close my eyes though I hear the voices again, singing.  They don't want me to leave them, so I can't fall asleep.  In camp it's easier, with the sounds of everyone moving about.  Since I couldn't sleep I thought I might as well try to write, though forgive my handwriting as there isn't much light to see by.

Something cold and wet nudged her cheek, followed by warm breath and soft woof against her ear. Vanaja turned her head, lightly shoving at the furry head intruding on her space only to be met with a warm, wet tongue sliding the up length of her face.
 
“Oz! Stop it!” she grumbled as she turned over. She stiffened as the red wolf snagged one of her golden earrings with a fang. “Okay, okay. I’m awake. You can let go now.” She growled. The wolf woofed in her ear again and complied, stepping back to sit on his haunches, watching the orc, ready to pounce if she tried to fall back to sleep.

This...was not a good week.

Avaraelia paced slowly within her room, eyes narrowed in deep thought. By chance, she glanced up and saw her reflection in a mirror - a face typical of a young Sin'dorei woman. What was not typical was the slitted pupils or the violet hues of her eyes. She stopped pacing, drawing closer to the mirror.

Mistress Avriella...if only you could see me now. What would you think of me, I wonder? You, who were my idol...would you be proud of me for following in your footsteps to the letter? You probably wouldn't be too happy with me, considering the attempted coup within the Felsworn...Darah was definitely not pleased, nor was his father....

A lot could change in the course of a week. It was difficult for Sid, who was used to letting entire decades slip by unnoticed, to take it all in without getting a headache. Then again, the headache likely had more to do with the punch than anything. Suicide punch was something he invented back during the darkest days of the war. He couldn’t remember which war exactly, but he vividly remembered the desperation that inspired it. Thus was born a creative distillation process involving dirty socks, rotten fruit, and a shaky grasp of responsible fermentation. The first fabled batch rendered at least one soldier temporarily blind. Even now, after trading socks for a proper still, the concoction could easily double as an accelerant. Sid would drink nothing else.

I smile, tucking my note into the frame of her mirror before snatching my stave. A glimpse of bright green eyes and the flash of my grin dart across the glass as I limp towards the door. I know I'm smiling like an idiot. Hopefully, she'll be doing the same soon enough, when she returns.

Steam, laden with the scent of roses, drifted above the bath. Spellweave cloth softer than the finest silk pooled on the floor around Marda’s feet. She moaned softly as she lowered her body into the water, feeling the knots in her shoulders and back relax.

She was going to kill him when she got home.

The town is desolate.

It's so small as to be as such even on it's busiest day.  The houses creak and groan from age. The wind passes through them like a dark thought, creeping inside your skull.

You've lived a lonely life. No paintings on the walls, nothing personal laying around. You do your rounds, barely sleeping.

Your house is silent, no children, no husband. You force yourself to go through the motions. The last time you were killed, they brought you back. I'm guessing you wished they hadn't.

Your life isn't your own. You go through the motions, and as you do, every day, you wish he'd come back and finish the job. But you know damn well they'll just keep bringing you back. Over and over. Because you're their savior. Their symbol of hope. You see the world as a penance, what have you done to deserve such a fate. You see everything in the village, even the invisible bars of your self imposed prison.

You're just what I need to impress him.

 What we need exists only in the emerald dream... acorns that are infused with a powerful restorative magic. Many places in this sacred glade are closely tied with the dream, and my shrine is among them.

In truth, Denley was only half-listening. There was a slight tinge of worry that spread across her face as ears perked forward, tugging on the loose crimson strands of silken hair. She had never been entirely comfortable in the Moonglade to begin with, and now.. she'd have to delve even deeper?

She checked the locks on her shop briefly, and listened closely for the sound of her daughter. Nothing. Good.

Stalking down the cobbled road of Silvermoon, it was all Thienna "Vinguld" could do to control her anger and fury. How DARE they threaten her? Send their pansy to do their work? HOW DARE he? Wasn't it enough, the hell he put her through while she was with his son?

The small room she had rented in Dalaran was bathed in brilliant darkness. Heavy blankets covered the small window blocking out all sun light. Dark thick bolts of cloth were stuffed around the door frame, preventing any light from seeping in, and muffled any noise coming from the hallway. In the center of the small room, Zaazas sat motionless on the plain wooden chair. In front of her, a small work table. In the middle of the table lay a Dark Jade and Forest Emerald. To either side of the small gems were arranged tools from her Jeweler's kit. Completing the set were two tiny bowls. One gave off a faint glow of soft white, the other, a soft glow of gold, as if the tiniest sliver of sunset resided within. Zaazas sat completely motionless. Her eyes were closed. She slowly let her breath escape her lips. Calm. Relaxed. Ease. Sitting there in complete darkness, relaxed, her mind saw what her eyes could not.

Emerald Eyes.

So I had this idea for arts. And since my darling husband just got me my very own first ever Wacom Tablet, I decided to play with it.

This would be what happened.

And I am so not telling who the feet belong to. You'll just have to guess. I was going to try and make it lineart, but I haven't the slightest idea how to give it that awesome clean look so many folks get.

Auctus luna refulgere id niger vultus
Sanguis ex donum virgo fervefacere in Ahenum
Et in ara id summus dominus tenebrae benedicere

...nobis...

I have done my duties. The wine flowed in honor of Lordaeron. The man known as Ythgar seemed pleased in my choice.
I have his blessing. The man understands my intents and yet I believe he wishes more to have the matter settled for more than duty of the ruling patron of his lineage.

In quinque hominis nobis occludere id quinque acuminis
Ac sicut donum virgo juvenil eam Satanas
Non sine id sanctus pugio ego tolere manus caellum
Ac profere verbum ex odium affinis invocare dei

...sopire Inferna...

"And that is what I would have you do."

Darion Mograine's words echoed through the hall. No one else spoke; even Tirion Fordring seemed to be pointedly ignoring the conversation, and if he had an opinion, he did not voice it. One got the impression that it wasn't the first time this had happened. Darion's gaze bored into the one person he had been addressing: one of his most experienced knights.

Julica Latchet, who had only fairly recently reclaimed full control over her own soul. That, however, is a story for another time.

Julica looked pensive (to say the least). After Darion's words hung in the air for a few moments, she spoke. "So that's why you sent me tromping across Azeroth, looking for weapons?"

"It is," the Highlord replied. "I wanted to ensure that the hammer was where I thought it would be before I sent someone else to retrieve it."

Gavrisom had been in few places as conflicted in purpose as the goblin outpost of K3. Certainly the entire place had a strange feel to it. A bizarre cross between aesthetics and function, K3 was all the indulgence and extravagance of the best goblin gambling den combined with all the charm of a scientific outpost at the edge of civilization. In true goblin form, there were lots of lights, guns, card games, and an immense array of alcohol and other mind-bending substances. Two statuesque human blondes sat at the bar beside a goblin wearing a fedora at least two sizes too big for his head, and Gavrisom was sure that either one, and assuredly both if that was your thing, were available to rent by the hour for the right amount of coins. And yet the ceiling overhead was a spiderweb of pipes, and the walls were unashamedly unpainted sheet metal. The pretentiousness of top shelf whiskey was muted somewhat by the stainless steel tumblers it was served in. The low-wattage electrical lamps overhead buzzed obnoxiously, and the whole place reeked of recycled air. All in all, K3 reminded Gavrisom very much of Area 53 in the Netherstorm, except with shittier weather.

In a basement in Brill, behind steel doors, Jakobus paced down the isles of his laboratory, a blackboard closeby. Occasionally, he glanced at his scribblings; endless rows of formulae incomprehensible to any but him. He ran a hand through his golden hair, the ring on his finger catching a few of them – the light pain as the hairs were pulled from their nooks in his scalp barely registered. Self-activating behaviors, Jakobus mused, before snarling at his own lack of focus and returning to staring at the board. It all added up. It was correct. It had to be.