life

 ((Something I've been meaning to post since her passing this last summer.   As Gunderic and Gredda were the one married couple we rp'd together on wow.   I've had my mood swings since then I do want to say I'm sorry to anyone I've offended on any of my toons Teufelia, Meladela, Freyian, Ekela, or Rhagia since then.   I'd like to thank, Palo, Mairead, Shryn, Kharris, Lilliana, Lilthessa, Tamlin, Saviero and Raeyth for their support and checking up on me.))

I'm too old to start over ,but life didn't give me a choice

There have been coming and goings and endings. Sometimes new beginnings come at the endings of others. This is the cycle of all we know. Life and death are the ultimate balance. Here, I am talking like a druid or a shaman now.

Things have been spinning so fast out of control lately. Even in my hunting I have been missing a few words here and there with my casting. Nothing too significant , but enough for me to notice and take pause. Before something really disastrous could happen.

I just wasn’t expecting friends to step into my circle while the tides of darkness washed over me. That once again this fragile heart of mine would break so easily once again. So easily led. So simply weak.

 The sterile scent of quarantine gradually gave way to the richer, spicier aroma of hot food being prepared as harried volunteers busily worked on our next meal, their efforts coordinated through thick linen masks in a flurry of hushed voices. 

 Down the hallway I followed, past the ornately carved bannister and decorative drapings of silk and taffeta, enduring fixtures of the building's previous life as a tavern. The trappings of its new incarnation greatly overshadowed these vivid remnants of the past, as the rustle of sweat-dampened sheets, fevered nightmare nonsense and the anguished moans of the sick and the dying echoed through the elegant hallway.

"Death is eternal," the Aspect said, and he wondered if the dragon had even bothered to look around the world he was burning. Only had to go as far as where he sat huddled in the bushes for proof that death was as temporary as life for some.

But maybe Deathwing saw them -- if he saw them at all -- as  the Forsaken did, eternal death walking. Hadn't he seen himself the same way even as he told the angry girl he was no zombie? Thought it before he had a different truth to hold tight to his chest like a secret, let it warm his frozen core.

((This has been sitting in my folders, waiting for completion and posting. This happened Pre-Shattering, likely around the time of the War Against the Nightmare in game. Also, props if you recognize where I get the title from.))

The wind was cold, icy and biting. But that was to be expected in Icecrown. Rastila stepped out of the portal she’s made to this part of the world and looked at the figure who was attempting to sit up.

Haddrian.

“Get up.” She told him, her mind whirling with emotions. Happy to see him, even after what Darlain had told her. Disgust for what he’d done. Nervous, because she was alone out here with this man, and if she wasn’t able to talk him into seeing reason, she was likely going to be in trouble. She’d disconnected herself from the Meddler’s link, so there would be no help.

The death knight sat up, pushing himself to his feet. At her words, he turned to face her, letting out an outraged gasp. “You!”

She quickly pulls the pin that holds her hair in a lose bun. With a slow shake her dark hair falls  to just past her shoulders.  She sits on the soft bed as a man brings a large bowl full of a strange liquid. She nods to him with a seductive smile then turns her gaze to the bowl. She pushes her right hand into the still very warm liquid and allows it to fully coat her skin.  With a quick movement she raises her arm above her head. The warmth of the liquid starts to drip as her long slender fingers reach to the heavens. Her head falls back as she lifts the other hand just above the knuckles on the still coated hand. She slowly rubs the thick liquid down her right arm. The warmth of the liquid makes her skin tingle and the corners of her mouth turn up into a very pleased smile.

Searching her library for dark tomes on the dead.  

Today the lady of the house gave birth to her son. 

Mairead avoided fel magics while the child was in her womb. 

Nothing to taint the child. 

I can afford to delay my research into foul magics. 

Let the child's first day be full of life.

Joy

                       The Ametia heir has come. My love, my child, my life.

Born with a Priestess of Elune nearby and brought into the world, under Her blessing.

" When I began the portal proccess to Dalaran, everything was fine. But when I got to Thunder Bluff, everything seemed to fall apart. People screamed, and elementals ravaged the city. I left as quick as I can, and my trusty steed Silver, no matter how dead he was, at least got me to the barrens. Everything went silent. Ungodly silent."
- The Diary of Queladore

Fire. Blood. Silence. Ashes.

"No mercy.....no mercy," she muttered. She was sprawled on the ground, and anything that was cloth on her body had not survived. Luckily, she wore plate armor. Her axe lie nearby, and she grabbed it with shivering, bony fingers.
"No mercy......no mercy."

There's people fishing in the fountain. The waters are crystal and clear, but the lines come back with scraps of cloth or ancient wishes. Tokens are taken, sold or thrown away, and the lines go back in the water, dredging up the past from nothing.

~*~

She's standing in the middle of the Undercity and there are scourge everywhere. Rhan'jin is fighting with the other grunts and she keeps her focus on him, forcing the disobedient light to answer, to help him stay whole.

It's not the first time she's fought for the safety of this forsaken city, but before it was just something they did. Sitting around at Phials when the alarms were sounded, patrons and shopkeeps answering the call, and why not volunteer with them?

She looks out at the uniforms around her, whispers another prayer, and tries to figure out when it was she became a soldier.

She fell. Her eyes became heavy, and her limbs gave out. They felt numb, and as heavy as lead. The shot had torn a path through her chest, and left wounds on both sides. The wind left her lungs in a sudden, painful gasp as she lost her footing in the sand hit the ground hard. The sand turned dark as the color drained from her body. The world grew quiet, and she could only feel the void around her. She felt cold.

Exarch Menelaous had met an old friend.  In normal circumstances Ole Hannevold would have felt pleased for him, but in this particular case he was practically ecstatic. 

It was said among my people before our immortality was sacrificed, “We are ever-bound to the turning gyre.” When life has no end it must still be marked, and so we traveled the seasons in cycles of our own. Each of us, we were taught, walks the path of a circle, and throughout our lives we will walk the circle again and again.

(( A letter and package Tywyll hands to Analuri on leaving Silvermoon for Thunder Bluff ))

(( Posted through Rhan's Twitter ))

Trolls’re born into this world knowin’ our time here, unlike some we’ve fought, is short.

We’re fire an’ air more’n earth an’ water. We’re brisk an’ we burn. We blow through an’ we’re gone.

That’s why we hold tah what’s left behind. Old temples an’ our lands’re all that last.

But we’ve lost so much. Tah other tribes, tah other races. All we can keep ours is those short lives.

Journal,

I do love reading poetry, but there are few collections I can really find. Don't be jealous, I like reading you too, so I am going to put some poetry in and keep you at the top of my interest list. A jealous journal makes for a stressful entry. So here, tell me what you think.

The following arrives addressed to Commander Harrigan in his usual pile of mail, all the markings and whatnot of an official Stormwind document in place:

Dear Journal,

I know you never get that feeling that you are being followed, mainly because you are a book, but I wonder if anyone else feels like they are being tracked by hidden enemies and/or allies. I know that I have had spies on me for at least a year now, but I did not think they would stick around so long. Persistent little buggers, I must admit.

Thunderbluff was as beautiful as ever. A soft rain left the plains in glow, making me wish I wasn't told to come back. I know that "come back to Silvermoon now" were not his exact words, but his words on the paper definitely suggested that Convocate Goldleaf did not want me out and did not trust me as a bureaucrat and an ambassador. So I left Thunderbluff about a week earlier than I wished. Oh well ... no time to relax I guess when there is chaos to be had.

Days since my return: 1

Lovers: 1 and only 1.

Fights: 0..... for now.

Dear Diary....

Hmm where to start.

It has been so many months since I had left the lands I had known behind as a Paladin/Blood Knight Adept,  and since I left the side of the demon I had fallen for, Shorok , to take a journey into the lands of the dead and beyound, where I began my training as a Death Knight.

Some would say my journey started when I died, but truthfully, my journey started on that day when I met the demon they call Mistwalker, Shorok Morien.

I wouldnt call it love at first sight when I met him I suppose... but it seemed quite instanteous, and it felt so right... to fall for a Demon much older than I am.... but... I'm not complaining!

She couldn't remember the last time she'd cried so much.  She'd shed so many tears that she was certain she'd run out.  Her eyes felt itchy and swollen.  Her throat felt sore and her chest felt tight.  Her head felt fuzzy, as if it had been stuffed with freshly carded wool.

Stepping into her home, the Dargath manor, she looked about the foyer at the decorations that glowed and sparkled cheerfully at her.  The Winter's Veil tree... The holiday lights...  The tinsel... The ornaments...

Her brother was dead.

Once again, I wasn’t quick enough, wasn’t good enough.

And now another Dragoon lays cold, awaiting her final rites.

When your whole job is to heal others, and someone is lost on your watch, it stings.

I can remember, during my first Fire Festival with the horde, running around the Ribbon Pole with a human who had come to Thunder Bluff not to kill, but to touch the flame. We ran in different directions, passing again and again as we circled around, should be enemies tethered to each other by the ribbons.

I knew the Fire Festival was a celebration of life, but it never occurred to me that the Ribbon Pole was a mirror of it.

Well...

She was alive.

But what is this now? What is this corner that hums and thaws and sings?

Ah! And the color still lives in this discarded trinket. She is still there, though he knows now that she has been gone these many passing Springs. She lingers, and she has left streaks of light across the edges; tangled webs of memory.

Rhymor’s Life

Chapter One: The Life of a Mercenary

"No, I won't do it," Janiil stated flatly, an outside observer would of sworn she was talking to herself, but an outside observer wouldn't of heard the voice answering. Or they may have questioned their own sanity as well. "Relearning my ancient skills is one thing, this is something complete different."

"Necromancy is a staple magic just as Arcane, fire, and frost are staples. It is merely less understood by most." The voice replied with utter calm.

"But all Necromancy brings is death and pain."

"And what does a fireball bring?" Replied the smug voice. To which Janiil only fell silent not finding a reply against its logic. "Necromancy is more then death as others would lead you to believe."