I fear no evil.
Nor do I fear death.
There is a fire in my heart I need to reignite.
Step one or is this two?
Pain is real. Go figure.
Story after the break. Fair Warning: Read the Keywords, but repeated now that if you are EASILY OFFENDED OR SICKENED by certain keywords above, or of previous stories...
DO. NOT. READ. You've been issued your public service warning. Brutal Critique welcome (for purposes of instilling fear into future pieces).
*You’re being sized up by old eyes, a dirty hand touches you as if to beckon you over.*
Hey kid, what you in here for? I’m Sal. Vet of Cell Block Gryphon. What’s that you say? Oh, you wanna know ALL about Cell Bock Gryphon? Well, Ol’ Sal’ll teach ya ‘bout it.
The next morning, we find our heroine huntress- laying face first on the edge of Krasus' Landing. Hair strewn about, body lightly clothed in shorts- a tanktop, and a pair of poorly built sandals. To passerby's she looked as if she belong in the slums, drunk and passed out in her own vice- none of the nobles seem to take heed, and none of the mages seem determined enough to break from their studies to worry about a foolish elf.
Her world had become a blur of blues.
Her days had become azure skies and the glare of reflected snow. Her nights, midnight and cobalt. Her dreams haunted her with the memory of cerulean and indigo eyes, and her waking thoughts were the blues of swirling Dragonflight mage cloaks, the wings of blue dragons, the ice blue of the Oculus and Nexus.
She had tracked. She had killed. She had questioned. She had gained in confidence seemingly in contrast to the weight she lost. She was gaunt and hungry, too focused to eat, hardly sleeping.
And it was cold. She was so very, very cold.
The cold wind whipped around him, his cloak billowing out behind him as Daraman enjoyed the splendor of Alterac Valley. The beautiful white snow that blanketed the ground and covered the trees, the graceful and majestic white wolves that stalked their prey amongst the forests, the feeling of life that seemed to simply flow through the valley. It was so different than the last snow-covered area he had been to, Icecrown.
Her blonde hair flows freely about her pale features, a smirk twisting her lips as she crouches low, hiding deep within the shadows. Her green eyes are filled with mirth, even as she holds her daggers at the ready. She is silent, patient; she is death in both form and function. The cold wind sends a shiver up her spine, chilling her beneath the black leather of her armor and nearly giving her away as she fights the urge to shudder. He will hear her. She knows he will. It is merely a matter of when; for a moment can deter a death and a moment can end a life.
She is the Lady Sinobel, apprentice of Alainthal Starwhisper, servant of the Baroness Aelberyn… She has many such moments, dwelling in silence, patiently waiting – moments in which the world itself unfolds with in her mind. Alainthal will never see her coming, such is her mind this evening.
Up on the snowy ridge overlooking the roads of Winterspring, a snow-covered mound stirred, a young troll lifting himself up out of the snow, shaking himself and his heavy blanket off. Kozha smiled as he stood, shivering a little bit in the wind. The jungle troll raised in warm ocean breezes had padded his armor significantly with fur and wool. He stood for a few moments, feeling the wind brush around him, the small pinpricks of cold snowflakes landing on his exposed skin.
Kozha crouched back down, settling himself down on the heavy cloak he’d spread out under his feet, pulling the warm blanket over himself, eyes closing. His breathing deepened as he felt himself slide slowly into the trance that grandmother had taught him.
It's cold out here. Damn cold, especially for those of us just returning from our tours of duty in Outland. As a whole, it was a pretty hot world (except maybe the Marsh - rain kept that pleasantly cool) and all the combat gear I'd brought with me from the other side of the Portal was constructed primarily for fighting in the warmer climes.
Must talk to the Scribes about getting ink that won't FREEZE up here.
From the journal of Nalathas Dawnfire.I remember the cold.
It’s easy to forget in the eternal autumn of Silvermoon. No rain, no storms, no snow. No need for furs or blankets, cloaks or hoods, drainage gutters or covered roofs. We live in a paradise of our own making.And I intend to keep it that way.
Ernie raised his head and gazed up, his eyes narrowed against the sting of the ice particles that were being driven into his face by the relentless wind. Even the towering blue and white mass of the glacier, it seemed, was no sure protection against the power of the northern storms. It had been a long, hard journey. Ernie had crossed plains, oceans, swamps, forests, and mountains of increasing steepness. Now only one climb remained.
At the party.
Scartaris would not respond.
Artisania had no time, busy with everyone.
Teledriath spoke to him, but emergency called.
Tylien introduced Razyel, but they didn't have time either.
But everyone talked.
Heidel heard all these things.
And the demons stirred.
For now, he silences them.
I got to pet a tauren! Yes, unbelievably true, and I will explain and be brief!
I went to the White Hart last night. I'd heard all about this place up in Winterspring. It was a NIGHTMARE to get to. Oh my Sun King, Diary! It was SO cold. And there were big white ewoks in diapers that tried to eat me! Horrifying! I finally did get to the place though, feeling like a frozen Popsicle. The first thing I noticed was how busy it was, Diary. I mean who knew that this out of the way little inn would have so much patronage? Someone lucked out on location choice. That's what papa always used to say about business, he did. “Vohlash,” he'd tell me, “it's all about location location location.” He used to sell potions and curios in Silvermoon. Always did well for me and my mom. He had a good head for business. Anyway, this place was hopping with people. I was amazed.
“How long are you planning on sleeping?” a female voice said as she opened up the tent, allowing the cold mountain air.
The female laying in the tent rolled over as the cold air hit her. “Is that some kind of joke?”
February coated everything in ice and snow, covering the cobblestone streets of old towne in a treacherous white blanket. Carts slipped and slided in it, their drivers cursing the weather, while foundling refugee children ran back and forth, squealing with delight as they glided over the slick pavement. The cold air made your breath hang in your face, like a small puff of cloud, but with a warm coat to hold back the chill, the shabby buildings didn't seem quite so forsaken. Warm orange light spilled out of almost every window, the stacks from the tenements trailing dirty black coal smoke up into the air to mix with the falling snow. Late afternoon sunlight cast long shadows in the alleyways and the streetwalkers huddled next to burn barrels, rubbing their hands together for warmth. Their pimps hid away inside, while their girls and boys eared their pay.
I ran away from the Lodge. I hadn't time to get anything to bring with me, and the idea of going back made vomit rise in the back of my throat. The shouts and hateful screams of my sisters followed me on the wind long past when it seemed they should have faded. Traitor. Last of a handful who've stood their ground... you fell back. Traitor.