character introduction

The waters were quiet.


Too quiet.

The slow sway of the boat seemed to bring a sense to ease everyone else. Me...I just wanted to get off the damn ship and get to work. A Zandalari ship had been sighted off a large landmass to the north of Kun-Lai; my job was to first figure out why, and then...stop them by whatever means were at my disposal.

"You look tense. Worried about the mission?" A young-ish Orc stumbled forward with the sway of the boat, looking like he was about to lose everything he'd eaten for the last week. He was such a city-boy, it almost seemed like sending a puppy into a dogfight. Useful only as a distraction, and little else.

     My name is Josephine. Yes, like the song.

Grey light blinds me through the crack beneath the door, slicing cleanly through the shadowy cell to herald another day. Dank dripping echoes in its wake from the lone sink in the corner, so very loud. Strange how the senses develop, well past our childhoods, dependent upon our surroundings.

     It was well after mid-day when his footfalls echoed gently in the external corridor. The Abbey was barely distinguishable nestled within the white capped hills in the North. Languid slopes all but hid the quiet little haven, even though for Alric it always radiated a warmth he could feel once he was but a days journey from it. Sparsely leaved branches of the orchard trees stretched to touch others, as if joining hands in prayer.

My dry, bloodshot eyes slowly cracked open as the sun filtered in through the dirty window in my small room. The second thing to greet me this morning was the familiar, irritating pain lancing through my lower back. With a groan and a wince I pushed myself up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed.

Clumsy, fumbling fingers reached over to the tiny, rickety end table to grab my pocket watch. Sliding the cover open with a thumb, my fuzzy, sleep-laden brain came screeching to a halt.

The electric lights of the prison hallway had been extinguished at the psychologist's command. It was in the remaining blackness that he quietly sat, leaning back into the support of the rickety wooden chair that was his only accomplice in the plundering of "RVO 472-09". Leaning his head back, Dr. Alistar Rauthe read and re-read the serial stenciled onto the bleak iron of the only portal into her own private hell. They hung there above him, upside down as he laid back against the door. He mouthed the meaning of each symbolic piece of the name he'd given her. 

Footsteps; loud footsteps rushing through the house, Lucy blinked from her bed as she sat up listening closely to her surroundings, she clutched her small stuffed rabbit to her small form as she heard the voices.

“Susan… Captain Redpath thinks things are going to get bad here… I want you to take Lucy and run, Head to lordaeron, from there seek passage as far as Stormwind.”

“What about you… we cannot leave without you David…come with us I beg of you.” Her mother responded seeming upset, Lucy slipped from her bed dragging the blanket along behind her as she walked.

“I have a duty Susan, you know this, Darrowshire will not fall to this plague, but I would fight better knowing you are safe and far from this place, do that for me and I shall find you, I shall seek you both out after the fighting has calmed.”

The evening was quiet around Silvermoon City, the faint glow from each street lamp all that lit the cobbled walkways. Had someone been strolling through these streets at this late hour they would find the occasional guard strolling around, perhaps a stray animal, the place was peaceful.

High up in one of the apartment spires of the city a single window was lit, within this apartment sat a young blonde girl, working tirelessly on the contraptions spread before her, Her hair tied up out of her face in a high ponytail, her cheeks a faint hue of pink and a small button of a nose beneath her bright Fel green eyes. Around her the room was simple at best, a bed and a small desk, her walls were covered with bookshelves and other mechanical bits and pieces, upon her door hung a shield with a blood knight insignia, and a simple sword that shone as if it were well cared for.

The low breeze moaned through Duskwood, adding the the already dark atmosphere further. The sound often accompanied by a howl that was at times a large Worg, while at others a feral Worgen running rampant through the permanent dusk. Otherwise all was quiet even as Ravenhill creaked nearby adding its own waneful cries of possession.

None of this bothered the woman that walked down the road, a long wooden staff being used as a walking stick, her robes rather plain, lacking anything that seemed to resonate as being unique to her. Even the plain gold plated hoop earrings nor the large dusty tome tucked under one arm didn’t stand out. As she walked a large canine stayed by her side, the animal looking rather worgish, though its eyes stared dead ahead rather than taking any interest in the surrounding noises.

There was once a time when death was the end. People were born, and they lived, then they died. Beyond the veil, they could rest in the Light, at peace. Sadly, this was not the case anymore.

When you try your best, but you don't succeed...

I look out upon the fields of war, seeing so many broken bodies. The flames of war and hatred burning brightly. A break in the storm clouds reveal a gleaming ray of light, and out we pour. Guardians of various backgrounds, disciplines, and faiths. We are legion in number, each coming to the aid of those who near death's embrace. Cries of terror and horror fills my ears as I descend from the clouds high above.

      Cynrick was dreaming. The creature, Silent, was visiting him within the sacred canopy of his sleeping mind. She called it walking. When she abandoned the chains of the shared illusion of the physical for the eternal mist of the collective unconscious. That at least was what he theorized it was. He had no idea truly what she was doing to him, or how, just that she was there in his mind with him. They stood together on a ledge of cut granite, the edge of some half-crumbled temple built of memories. The landscape of his mind was a dismal and haunted ruin, ripped from the pages of a history lost to all but historians and grave-robbers. He was both. His dreaming world was unlike any of the others Silent had touched, a graveyard slowly sinking into a fetid swamp.

Not all of us were so privileged to be born into luxury, all these nobles and their posh and cushy robes, their airs of arrogance and stupidity, hell half of them are crazier then loons on a lake and not one of them has a problem they probably couldn’t just throw money at.  Silvermoon has two societies, the up and shiny and all of us belly crawlers, if there is anyone walking that line in between I've never met them.

The evening air was cool and crisp; her thin night gown clung to her freshly bathed body as she moved through the gardens of Dawnfire estate, her lips curved into a satisfied smile as her entire body seemed to react to the cold her skin breaking out in goose bumps.

I didn't realize I'd dug so deep. But lo and behold, there was the knobby length of rib nestled in the rich, dark earth of my herb bed. The ends were cracked and much of the yellowed bone was stained black as pitch, crumbling beneath my fingers as I wrested it from its hiding place. The rest of what remained of the broken and burned skeleton no doubt lay buried right where I left it, still hidden, still safe- though I couldn't help but peek over my shoulder towards the towering residence that loomed just up the hill all the same. Equally hidden in the secluded clearing, nestled in the aged thicket, it took on skeletal properties of its own in its gnarled, run-down condition.

Dark red brows knit together in concentration while a razor sharp blade moves in an unwavering grip over the soft flesh of his neck and chin. Slowly he slices away the layer of stubble that had accumulated, the dark red hairs dotting his usually smooth and clean features vanishing beneath the small blade as he guides it across the line of his jaw. His lips form a thin line of careful concentration as he works. His dark emerald green eyes follow each stoke of his hand, the small golden framed mirror showing a sturdy figure of a man. The dark red hair that adorns his head is loose now, trailing down his shoulders and over his chest. A strong jaw and high cheekbones give him a look of authority, noticeable to any who would cross his path. He watches a small droplet of water run down his neck from the tip of the blade until it slips to the side running along the scar that runs from his throat to his shoulder.

Ever since that scarlet crusader tried to ''smite'' me for coming too close to their camp...I shot him with a spell I had, I can't remember which one, he died. What felt like 1 second later, I felt something hit my back, and felt it slowly slicing my body. I looked down in shock and trembling,I saw the sword coming out of my ribs,with so much blood. I tried to pull it off, knowing it wouldn't do anything, but I still had to try.

I knew I had a few seconds left before I was dead, so I used all my strength, turned to the attacker and lit him on fire with my spell. As I collapsed, I saw him screaming..slowly dying to the burn I gave him. After that all I remember or saw was my thoughts and the nothing..a limbo..

"Celisa, if you travel down Tirisfal, you won't come back alive. If the Forsaken don't get you, the Scarlets will!"

[Ghostlands] Weeks Earlier...

It is a cool evening on the plains – the wind dances in the door of my mother's hut, tugging at my braids. It smells like rain, and earth.

The Earthmother weeps today for our loss. We must see off the spirit of Greatmother Hawkwind today – mother to our chief, and wisest member of our tribe. She has seen the rise and fall of An'she many times, and has led our people in many times of need. She will be missed.

“Little One...Ayashe!!”

Chepi runs in, her hooves sliding in the dirt and making a mess, “I was told to bring you this. It is very important.” The enthusiasm on her small face warms me, and I take the rolled up parchment – my own enthusiasm barely contained by the time I finish.

“Well...what does it say, Ayashe?” She demands impatiently as I pause before reading the letter aloud.

She took a long drag from her dinner-length cigarette holder as she considered her companion's silent words.  With a practiced tap, the last of the smouldering paper and leaves fell to the ground. "The answer is still 'No,' Dahling. You know I'm more than capable of taking care of myself. And you would cause more problems if you were to accompany me any further."

... I was reaching out, trying to grab her, but the hands dragged her deeper into darkness made up of fire and ice, taking the person I cared about the most out my reach and sight. She called out as she vanished, telling me to keep our promise...

I woke up, but I'm not sure why. Was it from the strange dream that I couldn't fully remember or was it-

My head hit a wooden ceiling with a dull thud, inducating I was sleeping on a top bed bunk, most likely. However, as I tried to get off the bunk, my feet hit another wooden barrier, making me think I had hit a wall. Geez, it's dark in here, I thought as again tried the other side only to hit another wall.

What the fel?! What is this? A joke?

Monday, June 27

Analysis:  Peacebloom 

8:00    Boxxie and I are hungry again. The three flowers we ate an hour ago have had no positive effect. She wants to bake the flowers-- she says that's what Mom used to do. 

8:30    We went down to the steam engine to try and cook the flowers. Boxxie has a good set of tongs that we used to hold the flowers up next to the coals. Most of the flowers just turned into ash and landed on the coals. The smoke keeps filling up the boiler room. It's really funny, but I don't know why. 

The heat was comforting and the light cast by the fire shimmered and betrayed Zindanii in the welcomed darkness. Her purple skin was only covered by simple black kilt and poncho. The heavy black chain hanging from her neck seemed to drink in the light greedily; the purple gems’ glow seemed to look all the darker. If it weren’t for the fire, she’d be a shadow, the wind whispering through the leaves of Felwood. She looked over the small clearing next to the road that lay in front of her with those unnerving pale yellow eyes that shone brightly even when a shadow was cast over them. The small bells laced into her crimson braids softly jingled, scarcely heard over the crackle of the fire. Her royal purple hand idly reached up and turned the smoothed fetish at the end of the closest braid over, her fingers tracing the grooves without thought. The mask of black war paint on purple was broken by a pink tongue as she licked her lips.

Zatharia breathed in deeply. The joy, the pure ecstacy. Trapped for so long, her soul and her body severed from each other, her body discarded in the north by the Scourge when her King and Jailor was killed.

Now, it was time to have her fun.

"RETIREMENT??! FORCED RETIREMENT?"

The Corporal that delivered the message cowered in front the towering three-foot eight-inch, fourty-six pound Sergeant Zederie Melinda Steelbolt. "P-please don't k-kill the messenger Sarge..."

A book, simple in design, sat upon a desk in a room with much more interesting things to look at. Still, his brown eyes were on the book as he sat in the ornate chair in front of the matching ornate desk. Outside the window were the sounds of the city at dusk, mainly the sounds of large animals running by carrying different heroes and rich folk as they chatted to each other in some manner. He could not hear the words, but he knew they were talking about some adventure or interesting thing they were about to do while he sat in his new room staring at a book.

Lawrênce Leigh Griogarach could not help but feel frustrated at his assignment; a journal wasn't something he wanted or cared for. He knew that The Lady would look at it, which made him want to write in it less. A woman like her looking into the writings of a boy just didn't seem right to him. Besides, how would he explain how he would write her alias so neatly when the rest of the page was chicken scratch?

Old men.

[[Inside a leather-bound book. The writing is the perfectly-formed script of someone endlessly drilled in handwriting at a fancy girls boarding school! The edges of the page are a bit dirty and there's an oily stain from a tallow candle.]]