"What has happened?" a voice asked, hollow and metallic. Its owner pushed his way through the trees, always moving in the same direction though not understanding what was calling to it. It only knew that it had to go, it was called to a specific place. Finally, the trees thinned and the voice's owner stepped out into an open space beneath the trees of Duskwood.
It was dark and shadowed, as it usually was in that area. The speaker stepped beneath the trees' shadows, his metal armor ringing quietly and echoing back at him from the forest around him. Its armored head turned this way and that, expecting something, though it wasn't sure what.
The pair ran quickly through the center of Darkshire, swords slapping against their thighs as the moved up the hill towards the flight master and his gryphons. The village watcher, visibly pale as he led Commander Althea Ebonlocke along the road.
"When did you find the body?" Ebonlocke huffed out as they jogged up the hill.
"Just now," the watcher answered between gulps of air. "As soon as we saw it, I came to get you."
"And you're sure you were the first to find it?" asked the commander as they slowed towards the landing area.
"Yes, ma'am. The flight master notified us and we investigated right away."
The two turned off the path to find the flight master attempting to calm down his gryphons. Obviously agitated about something, the beasts rocked back and forth and ignored any attempts to settle them.
Braghaman had entered Stormwind quietly, uneventfully. He still was cautious when coming to the capital, previous experiences still fresh in his mind. But this time was by invitation. And so the paladin chose to arrive quietly. Wearing his leather vest and pants, a plain linen shirt beneath, he briefly wished he'd chosen to wear his armor instead. He put the thought behind him and rode across the bridge leading into the city. He had even chosen to ride in on a frostsaber rather than his traditional charger, assuming it would draw less attention.
“Light. Must remember the Light.”
That’s what the Broken say, shuffling through their torn-apart lives.
Maybe there’s something to it. I try to remember.
“What are you doing Luca…” he muttered under his breath, walking out from the small cabin in the rocky outcrops of Hillsbrad. His fingers moved through his hair as he scratched the back of his head, lips dry as he placed the cigar between them. “She’s a nut case…” he says again, lighting it and allowing the plumes of smoke to surround his head. One hand reached out idly, waving them away from the door.
Pre-morning, the world is a hazy green until the sun pulls over the trees, burning orange.
She sits on a hill that hugs the Harborage, leaning on her gryphon’s pale flank.
Farooq and his soldiers crouched in the ferns and foliage of the oasis. He had a dozen fighters with him in various kinds of red armor, from plate to leather to robes. Each of them had a piece of armor covered in gold. A pauldron, a shield, a belt, each distinct. The most unique pieces were large elaborately curved horns, curling down from Farooq's broken stumps. He looked up through the foliage to a set of palm trees. He could see no one, but knew that Treader was up there, watching. He made a few quick hand motions and waited. Moments later, the little orc's head popped out from behind some leaves. He flashed a few hand signals to Farooq, then vanished again. Farooq lowered himself back out of sight and turned to his crew.
Braedyn crouched easily on the marble roof of what had once been a bank. Twilight’s warm light was coloring the marble steps below her perch a deep purple, away from the original Quel’Thalas blue that they had once been. It seemed fitting to Braedyn, shifting in her leathers to get a better look, that blue and red made violet. She snorted silently as her lips pursed. The city of Blood would yet bleed over here into the ruins of her memories.
This whole section of the city was like one slowly decaying bruise. Years had passed, but there had been no serious time or resources available to devote to the rubbled ruins of western Silvermoon City. What would be the use? The city as it was now was nearly empty, too few to fill even the half of what the city once was.
(Commission by http://sionra.deviantart.com/ below the break there.)
Braghaman sat on the edge of the fountain, looking around at Darkshire. He had taken a stroll from his home, mug of bourbon in his hand, and his wanderings brought him here. People moved around him, some fast and some slowly. Most of the people seemed not to notice him as they crossed the town center. Every now and then, a watcher would catch his eye and nod or salute to the paladin, to which Braghaman would smile and nod and tip his mug in their direction.
Despite Halfhill being a center of commerce, its people were “country folk” and didn’t approve of late nights when there was work on the morrow. A few adventurers and brewery workers continued swapping stories in the tavern, but otherwise, the Tillers’ homes were darkening.
Nore didn’t mind. The air was clear and warm, the trees rustling. The wind, thankfully, blew toward the pig farms this evening. She walked with Reave, the ghost worg acting as her “bodyguard” when Wes was unavailable. He had fought in the Barrens all this week; someone had to keep bringing in the company’s pay, while she, still off official duty, helped with the Henii problem. Tonight though, they were going to meet at the farmhouse, tend his various pets, and spend some time trying to relax.
At first I wasn't sure
The priestess slept on clean cotton blankets. Her pooled hair a golden ribbon of sunlight through the slanted windows. This place was unfamiliar and cold, preserved like a museum. She couldn't run forever, and eventually her body needed time to rest. It had been two days and the priestess hadn't stirred from her slumber.
The rain created a soft serenade of sounds upon the rooftop from our cabin in Karasang Woods. It has lured Eleniel to slumber with its soft, unassuming presence. But I lay awake listening to the droplets fall one by one.
Life aboard the ship is different than expected. I half expected the crew to scowl, hiss and slur their words like in the books I've read. I don't know whether I am disappointed or impressed by this. Captain Robin's was right about one thing, there is a lot of respect between the crew and nobody is without something to do; Except for me.
Mix together one smart-ass girl, one angry Death Knight, one detective who couldn't keep control of his own body, and one strange little Forsaken with big purple wings. Bring to a boil, adding liberal splashes of overconfidence, posturing, and condescension with a dash of misconception. Let sit for a monologue or two, but don't worry if little creature-shapes that itch for a fight separate themselves from the whole, that's supposed to happen. Simmer for several hours after removing all the ingredients but the Death Knight, mixing in a bit of concerned dissent.
Prepare to duck the explosion.
I stood as still as a statue in the entryway of the Blue Recluse. I'd ridden across town like a maniac, but when I finally arrived, I hesitated. She was inside. Maybe she was nervous too. I took a deep breath and walked into the bar. It was musty, as usual. Old wood, worn but sturdy chairs and tables, lamps along the walls. It was early, so only a few people milled about.
The night was slightly chilly as Sierra walked across the ways, the forge was nothing like what she had at home, but it would have to do. She smiled faintly at the smell greeting her, bubbling metals, sweat, the heat was as welcoming as a mother's embrace. Her skin tingled at the change in temper as she crossed the threshold. The latest shipment of metals had finally arrived, Trillium from Pandaria - though the metal was rather foreign to her, it was easy to fashion into what she needed. A small smile spread across her lips as she put the first batch into the smelter, her eyes face glowing orange in the light of the molten liquid.
What a bloody fucking night.
Perched across from me, swathed in head-to-toe fuschia and a generous, cloying application of what I’m told is SUCCESS!™ perfume, the be-ponytailed Goblin woman fidgets with her gem-encrusted eyewear. I can’t see her eyes through the hot pink shades, but I can tell by the all-too-toothy grin she flashes that she’s eager to get started.
The Dawnfire Estate,
Many years ago...
Scribble twisted through the mushroom stalks as the inevitable moisture seeped into Arkav’s clothes and hair. He’d almost forgotten how wet Zangermarsh could be.
Orebor was just ahead, the harborage’s lights shimmering in the haze and reflecting in the water. Doodle flipped and whirled by Ark’s head. He pulled Scribble to a stop, floating under a broad shroom canopy, trying to work up his nerve.
The last time he’d been in Zangermarsh, months ago, he’d been with Rhaala and Xillia. They’d been far to the east, though, enjoying sporefall not too far from the border with Terokkar and the city of Shattrath. Ark had thought about making the trip to the harborage then, but had ultimately decided that he had to return on his own.
Fun. Exhilarating. Risky.
The Darkspear Rebellion’s operations in the Barrens feel different for me.
It feels nostalgic.
Like all those days on the Whitedawn estate harassing garden tenders.
Like it used to be, the reward seemingly almost as great. Bucking their authority.
No Faye, but no matter.
My sword is my companion now.
Leather-clad, hair tightly tucked.
Nightingale crept in shadows
towards Kor'kron encampment.
Another one of these - a three-quarters slurped daiquiri - had a whole battalion at attention; for Szeharia Everbloom was in full flower upon the otherwise inhospitable sands of Stranglethorn, and it had been given to understand that, should but a single petal droop, heads would roll. Literally. That Lady Shar'adore was as exacting in her pursuit of pleasure as the Kor'kron were of victory had been demonstrated before. The umbrella wasn't shading her ankles from the sun, so an awning had been provided. The sand was all too uniform a sight, so winding walkways of iridescent seashells had been laid. The pectorals were too small, so the scrawnier members of the staff had been sacked. But then her porcelain skin wasn't getting the delicate tan it required, something had drawn blood from a ruby-inlaid toe, and the masseur's hands were practically kneading her back.
“This is my brother, Commer,” Lormar said. Life choices had made the twins less identical. Commer was heavier with muscle, wore his blond hair short, and kept a trimmed beard. His green eyes danced as he looked Aerie over, sliding into the seat next to hers.
“Nice to meetcha,” he said. “Lor wouldn’t say much. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was keepin' such a pretty girl to himself.”
She sits in the overgrown ruins of the garden, sipping tea from a chipped cup. Somewhere behind her there is the slosh of water and faint hiss of a mop against the stone flags of the loggia. The scent of strong soap reaches her nose and carries her to another time, another place.
It was pouring rain when he arrived. Fay watched from the porch of her cabin as her stable hands led the man’s gryphon to shelter. Her tireless workers were already drying and brushing the mount before they had even found an empty stall for it. A stable hand spoke briefly to the man, pointing towards Fay’s cabin. He rushed through the rain, across the yard, and up the steps to her cabin.
“Good evening, sir.” Fay snapped a quick salute. The man mirrored it, and then began untying his dripping cloak.
I took a stroll this evening in hopes to find my the Arbiter patrolling the streets, when I found myself reading an advertisement outside the Wayfarer's Inn. The Siren's Song was open tonight and hosted by none other than Lady Garnetglass. Shouldn't have surprised me that she would be a proprietor to another fine establishment; But it was. I also learned she was married to someone, an author, whose name that hasn't been revealed.