I remember when the forsaken first came to Gilneas...I was still learning more about my new form and what I was now able to do. When I turned into a worgen, I had to teach myself everything over again. I learned to rely on my hearing and sense of smell in addition to sight. The forsaken were pretty easy to smell though, that was a good thing and a bad thing--they smell pretty bad, or at least some did.
I don't know what possessed me to go to the Scarlet Monastary today, maybe it's because of the extra anger I feel right now. I walked into the monastary like someone about to rob a bank would. I knew how risky it is, but my anger outweighed any reason I had. When I walked in, I burnt the first Scarlet I saw almost on queue. I laughed as I saw it hit the ground like a sack.
I laughed as I tried to burn his tabard some more. I would of stayed longer by the body, burning it some more, but there were more Scarlets to kill. I saw 2 patrols, and I burnt them before they had the chance to pull out their swords or try to smite me. Before I went outside to the cloister, I saw one more Scarlet walking by, I used arcane magic and shackled him.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Bullets. My only weakness...
Home. What a strange concept for someone in his position.
His home in Arathor had been razed by orcs when he was but a babe. Not even a year ago the Forsaken had devastated his mother's home and the land that had raised him in a cowardly attack using their chemical weapons when they finally accepted that they weren't skilled enough to win the war that They had started. Everywhere he'd called home had at one point or another been destroyed by a race that owed its allegiance to the Horde. He had not asked for this. He had not challenged the savage green-skinned orcs from the safety of his cradle. Nor had he scaled the wall to spit on passing Forsaken or send missives by carrier pigeon to the Dark Lady as the walking corpses called her to boast and beckon.
Not long ago I found the one person I wasn't even looking for. But to get to him I must tell you why I landed in his path to begin with.
"The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, but I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep." ~Robert Frost
My moronic half-brother sleeps like the dead; the sort of sleep those who are too stupid to be kept up by thoughts or troubled dreams can enjoy. Some might call it innocence, but I find ‘stupid’ to be a better adjective. The meaning is much the same to me anyhow. The brutish ape snores loudly enough that I expect an avalanche to bury us within the cavern I’d dragged him into the night before.
The icy wind of Northend bit fiercly at the exposed skin of her face as she stared stoically at the two lifeless bodies in front of her. The mace, her closest companion for the past month, started to feel heavy in her hand; she struggled to keep ahold of it. Letting it fall to the ground with a resounding thud, Arillei followed, sinking to her knees wondering if her actions would spark some sort of feeling. Guilt, remorse.. pleasure, anything would be fine. But the nothingness.. it was killing her. Sadly the feeling, or lack there of, was something incredibly familiar to her. She'd worked so hard through it after her so called freedom from Arthas. It was also now the disasterous result of leaving everyone she had come to care for in attempts to shut out what she felt.
She'd always known the dangers of allowing emotion through.
(A few years ago)
Syrahe could hear the raised voices in the other room from where she sat polishing her plate armor. Training was tomorrow, she felt excitement. Finally she could prove herself to her family. She was a natural, her instructor had said. She had an aptitude for battle plans, for strategy, and the Light had chosen her. She was blessed.
“Marissa, how could you? A blood elf, of all things? Disgusting,” bellowed her Father. She jerked her head up openly eavesdropping now. Her older sister Marissa had been brought home from the Mage Academy but she had not known why. The words baffled her.
Quiet and stillness were their only companions in the room. Drowsing on the cushions across the room, Tiradell looked over at Raeril, now in a natural sleep across the room. He could feel his jaw tightening and his hands clenching as if seeking to grip his weapon. It’d been a long night for everyone. His memory wandered to the week’s events, thinking of everything that he’d need to report on. It was almost time for that again. Every week he made his report, he thought to himself, the General’s going to have my head for this one. Every week seemed like some mad goings-on that he was ill-equipped to handle.
"A person without a shadow should keep out of the sun, that is the only safe and rational plan."
~Adelbert von Chamisso
The raven clutched at the crude, iron railing of the zeppelin as the brutal winds of Northrend whipped and howled around him, and though they ruffled his ebon feathers, he did not move. Still as a statue and silent as death, the dire bird stared at one of the passengers on the goblin vessel, with his black eyes gleaming like glass. No one really pays a bird much attention, most days. No one seems to remember that there are those for whom the body of a raven is as natural as their own.
She checked the locks on her shop briefly, and listened closely for the sound of her daughter. Nothing. Good.
Stalking down the cobbled road of Silvermoon, it was all Thienna "Vinguld" could do to control her anger and fury. How DARE they threaten her? Send their pansy to do their work? HOW DARE he? Wasn't it enough, the hell he put her through while she was with his son?
She knew this dream. She could feel it. It crept out of her soul just as the bitter hatred she bore poured from every inch of her. Although, instead of bringing fourth the fire that the Sindorei were proud of, it gagged her. These images that were what she had so loved the most. Her beloved's face calming the cry of her newly born daughter. Five years had passed and still, these memories had not left her, regardless of her will for them to.
The creature had dared enter the Cathedral in such a state as to leave Yshri astounded. Armors still covered with blood. "-Must- you defile the Cathedral in such a manner?" she asked, shocked, though in truth the surprise was that the creature had not been turned away at the main passageway. How had she been allowed to traverse so deep into the Cathedral and unaccompanied?
The creature Aouregan leaned into Yshri and sniffed noisily before nodding. "Yes," she crooned, "this cathedral can rot for all I care. I've been looking for you, little girl," she added around a cackle and followed this announcement by chugging down some sort of alcoholic beverage. Perhaps Yshri's uncle or grandfather would have known the drink by its smell; Yshri herself was not so well-versed in that particular vice to note any real difference.
Asilia stood looking at the mirror, this get up was oddily peculiar to her. She didn't understand the fixation on the bright red and white fuzz. It appeared to be rather lacking in covering ones body, she wondered if it had something to do with beauty. The clean white bandages around her chest and arms offest that attribute somewhat Asilia figured. She did a brief half turn looking at herself in a side view, she looked like everyone else did....except for her eyes with that glow.
Steadily he plows past me and turns, a small shape covered in snow that waits and I want to stop but Rhuu has her teeth in my arm. The pain is all that I can feel so numb and cold and the shape that waits is just snow is just snow that holds a hollow chuckle and eyes that glow blue and it is speaking with a voice familiar but it is only a trick of course to the nine flying hells with this one.
Ythgar savagely dug his spurred heels into the chilly sides of his deathcharger. The ache to go home had come upon him the way an itch does.. growing in intensity until it was a maddening goad he couldn't escape. Something urged him faster... beckoned him.. until with atypical brutality to his mount, he charged toward Vingetrymming Manor at a breakneck speed. His haste abated with a suddenness like water dousing him when the hooves of his mount struck and dug into the loam at the edge of his family's ancestral lands. With equal force, the former Marquis of this land hauled on his mount's reins, the cruel bit forcing the unearthly beast to rear, screaming a haunting, wicked cry.
Chapter One: The Life of a Mercenary
Everything was packed in preparation, and soon I would go where I was bid, this time not by my forsaken but someone who had once been forsaken. I propped my feet up on my desk, looking idly at the tattoos that covered one foot as I lit my pipe of Maiden’s Anguish. Slade had bid me to do him a favor and one way or another I was bound to keep it, as long as he kept his end. We had struck a deal not long ago, I would go with Tsilas and retrieve something for Slade, and in turn Slade would keep Azaryel away from Mirien. If the ex forsaken knew what was good for him, he’d keep his word. After all if Azaryel touched Mirien, I’d happily destroy both the pale rogue and his mask that held the warlock.
((mature for violence and sketch))
It would have come down to this eventually, that I had known since Blackmarrow and I had first evolved into being more then just an angry blood elf who hired an assassin. It seemed like ages ago since he had confronted me in the Undercity about the task I had set him on. We never did manage to find that man…..
The sun was a pale honeyed disc high in the turquoise dome of the sky. Far beneath the cloudless reaches of warmth shivered a thousand shades of green dancing in the light spring breeze. Among those fluttering shreds of emerald and viridian were tan and gray rough fingers, holding up the crown of the forest. And among those great trunks patterned with gold and darkest gray, a small encampment caught the eye with its brave defiance of the natural hues and shades surrounding it. Bold crimson drapes alternated between hanging limply and tugging at their slim posts, displaying for all the world to see that this was indeed The Faire. The words were emblazoned in a cheap golden thread which seemed a dingy yellow compared to the glorious tone of the sunlight streaming in shafts through the dancing leaves.
This place makes me ill.
The air in Tanaris despite the heat felt cold. I still couldn’t breathe, even with the vast sandy nothingness stretching out in front of me, I couldn’t breathe because Iloam’s cries still echoed behind me. I shook, and tried not to curl into a ball and sob, I never knew emptiness this complete.
I hadn’t noticed him there.....even though some part of me registered he had left the ritual once it had been completed.
"It seems you brother has met his end out there in the cold..."
"It seems your brother has met his end out there in the cold..."
"I think I should give him another chance. I think I should give him the chance to abandon the pain which drove him to that."
"I think you should give him another chance. I think I should give him the chance to abandon the pain which drove him to that."
"Let us go visit him, shall we?"
"Let us go visit him, shall we?"
Do you remember a girl called Tansie?
No. Shut up.
She was about fifteen.
Hair down to her waist. It was honey-blonde. You liked it.
How would you know? Desperate, distract him, don't want to hear this, don't want to feel lust anymore, not to HIS voice.. no more...
Oh, I know these things. Fathers do.
You were dead by then. You'd been dead for a while, father.
Death didn't stop YOU, did it?
I didn't have a choice about that, did I. Bitter.
You're making a choice now, aren't you?
What do you mean?
You're walking north, aren't you. Walking through hell. That's what this is, you know.
Ha. I was dead once. There's no such thing as hell. If there was, considering all I've done, I'd have gone there.
That's because, as you put it so well, you had no choice last time.
The winters here are bitter and cold. The air bites through layers of clothing and the ice creeps along decaying skin that was once blessed and loved. The imperfect revenant still haunts the remains of every moment of every memory. Dripping, dripping, dripping. There are so many doors when he looks too closely, so many locked doors when it all opens up to him and yet the locks, the locks ... they always remain. Locking away the memories so he will never forget. They bite just as hard as the windy air. They sting more painfully than barefeet in the snow for mere minutes. The thick layer of white never, ever fades away. He could dig for his flower for hours, but he will never find it. He could dig so deeply in the white mounds of beauty and find lies and deceit.
But the shadows ... they keep him so warm.
"Ihhhl'm?" His name tasted like blood.
Kharris pushed her clumsy tongue around her mouth and then over her swollen lips, trying spit out the blood that had pooled under her tongue. Feeling the way it was pooling up into a into a slippery gel turned her stomach. The wretch induced a cough, and the pain from her presumably broken ribs admonished her sharply. A whimper came unbidden. Blackness started to push in on her again and she didn't fight it, but oblivion answered came only when it wanted, and Kharris was left bitterly hovering in consciousness.
She couldn't see well, still, her vision was blurred with tears, exhaustion, and sweat, but she blinked several times trying to make sense of her environment. She registered something pulling her uncomfortably back behind her, and she tried to roll down to her feet--why was she on her toes? What was going on?
His eyes were playing tricks.
Eyes... they weren't eyes. The fish had eaten those. The hollow empty places filled to the brim with sickly greenish-yellow light that he somehow saw through... were playing tricks.
He'd stopped running an eternity ago, and simply walked in the blackness. Swish, swish, swish.
Every footstep took willpower at first, but now it was harder to stop than to keep going. If he stopped, he'd be down here forever, under the leaden weight, and in the terrifying cold.
He saw things in the eternal midnight of this icy hell he'd chosen. Sometimes they were horrific fish twisted by some unknown hand into shapes of nightmare and demonic visage.. sometimes they were worse.
He absently detached another fleshy eel-thing from his elbow and squeezed it as he walked.
The blistering heat shone on unprotected bronze skin, bereft of veil or robe, like a smith's hammer striking a finger placed unwisely on the anvil. Only her faith supported her. Only her pride held her straight, eyes closed against stinging betraying tears at her shame. Hatred was like scorpid poison in her throat. Her ankles were past feeling, clamped into the coffle, rough metal searing skin beyond care. Her sanctity was gone with the torn away swathing fabric and the unclean stares and fingers upon her skin. Around the string of bent and broken figures, small grubs in green skin and with tiny chests out-thrust counted coins into sweating plated pink hands. The dull clink rattled in her ears above the bloodied tears where the heavy gold, holy metal, had been ripped from her flesh. Drops of crimson flecked weathered dark brass flesh and a body that refused to bend like the rest.
I wonder if you know that I hate you.
Beneath flatulent eaves, far from the hammer of the sun under which dross is beaten from pure metal, a dancer moves. If her black-lined eyes were open, they would be harder than chips of obsidian polished by the shifting ribbons of sand. Her eyes are closed, though, so not to see the pallid corpulence defiling her with its eyes. An audience.
You are water-bloated, and reek of water and soap.