blood elves

Sometimes she felt like she was drowning.

Most of the time it was just drifting. She hid it well, at least she thought she did. It was easier to pretend like everything was fine when she was working, so she threw herself into it one hundred percent. That wasn’t hard. Being Doctor Vines assistant was almost a full time job, between people blowing off their fingers or needing reconstructive surgery or even just collecting rare alchemical reagents, there was always something that needed doing to keep her busy.

Greetings to you my fellow adventurers of Azeroth and Outland... gather 'roud...

Personal (OOC) introduction:

(( Continuation of this blog http://www.rp-haven.com/blog/azelas/homecoming ))

After the workday was done, the tinker would retire behind locked doors; but on rare nights– when the sky was clear, the moon so bright and full it looked ready to give birth – he would take to the porch, stretching out on an old swing, cat on his shoulder, tarnished lute in his hands, and play.

Well, you guys asked for some more of my art, so here is a random belf from my artwork exploring colors and such with the oil pastels. I hope you enjoy it.

"The grace of the Sin'dorai,

Through time itself does their beauty endure."

Took a bit of sweet talking to the captain there but I'll be damned if I didn't end up selling that tale to her  hook line and sinker.

The item in question and the tale to be sold...blondie there was more than just a stray blood elf in Redridge..no this one was up to something very foul

Watched him collecting bits and pieces of various animals.

Now what could that mean my dear Captain.

Helping his forsaken allies craft something foul to release into the air..something that will burn the lungs and eat you from the inside out.

Took a few minutes to sink into her skull...but the Captain being young  and in the end was more than willing to cough my bounty and take trussed up blood elf off my hands.

The Vindicator ducked as another blast of arcane energy flew over her head, detonating in the trees behind her. She smirked a bit. Even her daughter had better aim. 

(( New to the server, first post here. =] ))

When he was a young man.
( But old enough to know better )...

A wanderer returned to a town he'd once lived in: a town built of Memory, Innocence, and a Joy infrequently glimpsed in his long years of wandering.

It was foolish to return, he was certain of that. What was to be gained from such a visit? Disillusionment? Sorrow? Disappointment, certainly. He fully expected to gaze upon a place so changed that it bore no relation to what he'd known before. And, as he stood on a hill, looking down at the little houses and green lawns and the children rushing, breathless ( trailing kites, tossing balls, climbing fences), toward destinations both real and imaginary, He noted changes: but, to his great surprise, none were major enough to greatly alter the face of the town, and most were so minor that he almost believed no time had passed since his departure.

*Part of Synnaquinn's Extended Camping or Just Slavery, SilentFox's Ari's Traveling Journal and Ixinane's Above the Tide

   It was a waking nightmare, a whirling clogged figment of her imagination.  She wanted to wake up, willed it with all her heart but to no avail. Battered, dragged and swept away she fought for every ignited breath of air, every push of blood in her veins.  Her heart pounded a desperate rhythm in her ears, an odd imbalance to the deep howling below her. Calling, beckoning with no subtle hint of its want for her to relinquish her will to the depths.  Give up life, it commanded, and float here with me forever. She thought about it, stop fighting and let it take her.  To stop the endless weight that barreled its demands onto her, why fight when you can just drown?

The pain…

It was some of the greatest Xannivard ever endured. The Light coursed through his shell, his crafted body. It’s source the Paladin Tiradell, the golden warmth flowing down his arm and onto his own.  In any mortal body, Xannivard would have been ejected from its fleshy confines as puss from an overripe pimple. But Melanim had done his job well, crafting with magic and flesh a shell that would protect his Fel twisted soul…to an extent.  The Light’s searing heat licked at his soul, flaying, burning, a fire seeking to purge it’s polar opposite in the universe.  And Xannivard let it happen.

The Isle of Quel'Danas reminded the Exarch of the vibrant flares of the sun as it cursed the inhabitants of Kali Yuga with a cancer which caused their life-spans to decline with every successive generation.  The end of their civilization was a tragedy which few remembered, and as painful as it was to witness, the surreal qualities of the sky would haunt those who saw it with its ethereal beauty for as long as they lived.

The first; a dark jungle morning,

your cries never heard,

your face cold as a stone's.

Tonight; a cool ocean breeze,

his body warm against me hands,

his eyes like lidded gems.

Our people are steeped in Blood and Sin

but there are those rare few

                    gifted

with this

                   small redemption.

I am not one.

    Akoo! My new favorite word.. Akoo! I have no idea what it means but it brings a smile to my face. Met a very larg Yeti today when training some softskin elf in Hillsbrad. He called me Akoo and began to pet me. First instict was to ripp the creatures arm off. But I kept myself in check and let it pet me. The elf that was with me delved into the creatures mind and told me. That I reminded the Yeti of a pet snake it use to keep. Its not often I meet creatures that are bigger then me. Twice more that are fluffy and somewhat cute I must say. I'd say a Tauren. But that was a long time ago....

   Akoo! As my pack would say. It is for the win......

         Shorok stood at the mail box outside the pavilion tent in the Argent tournament grounds. Ignoring the disgusted looks he got from the races of the world. His Fel green Proto-drake pawed at the icy ground as the fel-ichor from its mouth litterally boiled the ground to ash. Shorok smiled at him.. Not long ago the little thing had been a troublesome companion on his shoulder.. Now it was his steed through these frozen lands.

   Shorok turned the letters of hate mail to ash (I actually get these from players. Its freaking hilarious that I'm hated this much) A fel green flame erupting from his scaled hands. He hears the tapping foot of an elf behind him waiting for him to move... Shorok snapps his jaws at the little softskin huffing out black flame from his nostrils...

  "I'll move, when I'm ready to move. Elf! Be thankfull I dont ripp your legg of for being annoying"

Hopefully, to avoid the hijacking of my other thread and its complete derailment off topic, I've put this one together because, well, this is another hotbutton issue to me.

Netherstorm, one day this place would no longer exist. Not if the area continued to crumble and collapse as its magical energies ripped it apart.Asilia merely shook her head as she gazed about the tinted landscape. Her undead gryphon sqawking idly at what the creatured considered to be prey below. The death knight urged the beast forward guiding it towards manaforge duro. It was there that Asilia would find the last ingrediant she needed for her formula.

This is the book of the rise and fall of Ellia Elisaveta. It is a work in progress, but will be updated regularly.

Ariel crawls into the den on her old homestead in Eversong near Fairbreeze Village in the late hours of the night and lights the old tarnished oil lamp to illuminate the cave like room. She removes the dire fox pelt from her head and lays it upon the make shift table where she also places her bow, quiver and mud covered armor. She kneels and reaches beneath the table to open a crate, revealing a stash of food which included apples, figs, a bread loaf, a few wild carrots and various homemade tea blends. She took a piece of fig and popped it into her mouth and then closes the lid of the crate. She can hear the fox kits stirring from their nook and sees Mother Fox come into the light of the lamp where she sits with a yawn as though to ask, ‘And where have you been, young lady?’ Ariel scratches behind the fox’s ears before sitting on the stack of furs she used as a bed in the den. She then takes out her journal that lay hidden between the bed and wall. Mother Fox, who was very accustomed to Ariel’s comings and goings, crawled back into her nook to be with her new litter of kits while Ariel wrote in the flimsy leather-bound book.

Artisania Marveloso watched the little cork bobber intently.

 A warm wind blew over the lower rise, sweeping strands of hair across her cheek and ruffling the brim of her purple hat; she looked in the direction the wind spun away and narrowed her eyes at the morning sun.  Fishermen always advised to attend to the early hours, when the fish were most active.  Or so they said.  Artisania turned back to her bobber as it floated in the little pool, blue and red feathers cheerfully undisturbed as they rode the wind-rippled waters.  She sighed a little, and her fingers adjusted their grip on her fishing pole, her weight shifting from one foot to the other.  Perhaps she could sit down?  No no, what fisherman sat down?!  At any moment that bobber might splash, and then what would she do?

I sighed as I walked back to my home, the conversation with Silverleaf having gone less than perfect. I paused on my way through the broken streets of the ruins that made up the western half of the city, eyes peering into the darkest shadows, which seemed to shirk from my gaze.

I slowly made my way up the steps to my home, stepping between the seemingly innocent pillars that covered the entryway to my home. As I did so, the shadows grew darker upon the place until only those who would know where to find it, could find it.

Taking great care, I undressed down to the simplest of garments, folding my robes and setting them gently upon one of the pedestals that held my clothing. Stepping then to the center of the room, I set down a bouquet I had carefully picked along the way, making sure to pick the most accenting flowers for it.

My Prince,

                Silvermoon's restoration continues on schedule. If all continues to go as it has, we will be ready in a few weeks, at most. However, even though the rebuilding of Silvermoon is going well; architecture, economics, and even security are all improving, there is a dangerous undercurrent running though the city.

                Everywhere you turn, if you know where to look, there is talk of discontentment and rebellion. Were the talk restricted to one social group or another, I would say it is merely the grumblings of a class over the hardships that are inherent in a nation rebuilding after such a blow, but it is ubiquitous, an ever-present fabric underlaying nearly every social interaction in every social class.