Critique Welcomed

“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.

Just a strand of hair left

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.)

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 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.

Kiss

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.

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.

Stealth.  Precision.

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.
Red kerchief.
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.