Phadrene gazed at herself thoughtfully in the mirror, back in the Magister's study. Long white hair hung to the middle of her back, a lovely tone-on-tone contrast to dusky silver skin; large almond-shaped eyes glowed silver and pupil-less in the candlelight like twin moons, though just a bit of pale green yet still glimmered through. She smiled shyly at her reflection, eyeing the extended sweep of her ears, enjoying the masquerade.
recently remembered the day when I realized I wanted to become a mage. Both of my parents were priests, while my uncle, Mickah, who I was really close to, was a mage. I think I was about 10 years old. I had 2 cousins who became a paladin, and the other became a rogue...which was pretty weird.
Wielding the light didn't interest me back then, and I couldn't wield it even when my parents tried to teach me too. So I went to my uncle, where he would be at his personal library with a bunch of floating furniture and floating books, casting sorts of spells. I wanted to be able to do that.
"So, you want to become a mage?" He asked me proudly.
I was always a little timid occasionally, even back then. "..Yes."
"She and I have a history." Fay sat astride her massive black stallion, Chon. Graham rode his mud-brown mare. They rode at a slow trot, northward, on the northern stretch of Dustwallow Marsh. They were both lightly armored in boiled leather, studded with steel. Their helms were strapped behind them with their gear.
"History, as in...history..?" He asked, grinning. He scratched his chin, mussing his thick, black beard.
"No, not..." Fay sighed. "Well yeah, kind of, but that's not what I meant."
"Must have been a bad break-up. She treats you like shit."
Fay grunted. "That's just it. We weren't even really involved. We made out on the second day of training, and the next day she just turned on me. She's been a raging bitch, ever since."
“Evelyn, no. You will not be going to that party, the Reed boys are all a bunch of hooligans and thugs, not to mention their father is a damn Royal supporter. You have your classes in the morning and I will not abide you acting like a childish wretch,” Father puffed away on his pipe, his cheeks all ruddy red and pocked from the last pestilence that had eaten away at the peoples locked away behind the great Greymane Wall. He had gotten so old so fast after it had gone up, after the food got scarce. The Ravenlocke family had relied on trade with Lordaeron to survive, and the money, like his weight, had vanished over time.
Evelyn slammed her foot down against the worn wooden floor, her hands clenched into fists as her arms were stick straight at her sides. The sound of her hard leather sole striking the boards echoed in the sparse drawing room. One of the paintings of Grandmama Myrtle went slightly crooked on its nail. “But Papa,” she shouted, “I passed my exams. You said that--”
Continued from Page 17
The cell door slams shut with a stomach-turning CLANG. You listen to the guard’s footsteps echo down the corridor outside, then fade into dripping water and quiet sobs, now and again interlaced with the scrape of chain upon stone. A short length of chain extends from a loop set into the masonry of the wall to the heavy shackle about your ankle; you can move a little ways, but not without the iron digging into your flesh, even through your clothes. At least your hands are free, if only to stuff under your arms so the chill doesn’t get to them.
You certainly weren’t planning on being thrown in jail tonight.
I met her in the shadowfire club, we were taking a few rounds of alcohol, even though the effects of it were minimal because of undeath. I told her that being a forsaken still bothered me, because of how I looked like physically, and my whole family situation.
She said she is getting used to a really odd thing, she is now able to have all the bodily experiences that living people had...and she didn't have that before.
"I am after a book with all my memories in it, and my research," she told me. She said she used to work with the scourge, but left when the Argent Crusade were attacking the citadel. She wasn't interested in violence or destroying everything, she was only there for research and made alot of machines.
"Do you have any idea where the book is? I am a little interested in seeing it."
"Some where near the dalaran crater."
"What's your name?" I asked.
"Xarvia, and you..?"
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.
Continued from Page 13
Miranda the not-so-well-disguised blue dragon stares at you when you ask if she could possibly explain the whole situation. Then she slowly, gradually smiles, showing her sharp canines again, as her long fingers pluck a fruit-laden toothpick out of her cocktail.
“How adorable you mortals are, always asking for explanations. Always asking us to reveal our plans. This is where I’m supposed to speak in a clever parable, aren’t I? Where I will somehow draw parallels between some fictional events and what is happening as we speak without ever spelling it out? I could do that, you know.”
Continued from Page 10.
You take a long moment to look over the motley crew of characters before you, with their rather cliché group name. They stare back at you expectantly. At this point, all you want to do is get out of the damp stink of the sewers, so you tell them yes, you will help them, if you can.
“Oh, I knew it!” The gnome claps his hands together and breaks into a grin. “I knew we’d find a ally!”
"It’s been eight years since my eyes looked upon my past home…"
Jadelynna trots up on her skeleton horse to the bridge that enters into the Ghostlands with a reason, the winter wind rolled over the hills of the Ghostlands making the dark blades of grass dance in the breeze, “So carefree anymore.” She says softly looking around slowly with a curious gaze. Though the hills were dark and wicked. But Jade, she recalls a far darker threat in theses woods than the undead.
Ulduar is an expansive ruin with many halls: Halls of Stone, Halls of Lightning, and many more unnamed. Master Thelnaren has been researching and delving the depths for the past six months. Among his papers were maps and descriptions, more than enough for my needs. It was not difficult to isolate probable locations, nor find them each, once I managed to steal out of the camp and into the ruins alone.
Tall and serene, a lone figure stands motionless atop one of Noreassil's great roots, save for the wind that whips her cloak and robes in the wind; making the diaphanous silk sppear almost like a butterfly's wing. She stands motionless, her left hand holding a great staff, while she peers down into the pool below, the magial, iridescent waters sparkling serenly below her. If not for the faint call of a bird, one might have though they behld a statue. At the soft sound she looks up in the direction of the chirp, and a moment later answers with her own soft call. The flapping of wings grows louder and closer as a huge stormcrow lands gently on the branch a few feet away from her. Even as the stormcrow transforms to a formidable Kaldorei, neither she nor her gaze moves.
Ten sheets of paper pillowed her right hand, which held a pen carved from a plainstrider quill. The writing would not be terribly graceful, but the quill’s nib held plenty of ink. Just in case it ran out, a small pot stood open nearby, within easy reach. All other papers, books, and other random items that so frequently crossed her library desk had been cleared away. Her writing hand required complete freedom of movement.
To her left, resting under the tips of her fingers, lay a closed book. Fine leather bound the front, back and spine, carefully applied and just touched with the marks of old age. Artisania ran her hand over the cool, smooth cover, letting her fingers fall to touch the soft variations of the rough-cut pages beneath. The book had obviously been assembled with care, perhaps by the hand of a single person, and not some goblin steam-factory where tomes were punched out, mass-produced. In all appearances, it was the kind of book she most loved, binding up some treasured thoughts like the polished casing of a nut, waiting to be cracked open and consumed.
If only she could be so carelessly delighted with this one. This book was no ordinary find.
She never liked going to see Gwendydd like this... Intruding on her during experiments was a lot like baiting Lomzy with gold. Potentially volatile, courts calamity, and happens to extremely risky where your mortality is concerned. Outside the broad oaken door she cringes slightly as she raps on the door. While she waits for an answer she looks around,
"It's so... tacky..." she says softly, inspecting the goblin decorating styles, "This place may be remote... but if I were her I'd kill my decoraters..."
A few moments later the soft padding of footsteps is heard over the muffled sounds of voices coming from the upstairs. The broad, bronze door swings open, revealing peeling pineapple wallpaper and other tacky affects. She looks down and blinks at the gnome who oened the door.
'Gnome? What's a gnome doing here?' she thinks to herself and recalls her common.
"Is um.. Gwen.. here?"
Eriaria approached the lake cautiously, a deadly calm had come over the snowy hills of Winterspring. She narrowed her eyes and looked around cautiously, now extra thankful for the fur and leather collar she wore with the biting winds flowing around Lake Keltheril. She makes her way silently to a small island in the middle of the frozen lake.
Lomzy launches herself at Sinlaise with full force. She hits her right in the abdomen and knocks her down on the ground. She falls in the mud and slides a few feet from the impact; mud splattering all over her and her blond, calf-length hair.
"So it's like that is it?" she asks wiping some of the mud from her face.
"Yeah, toots, it's like that."
"You know it."
"Can I have a book?" Talenn spoke meekly as a guard passed her cell, completely ignoring the elf who promptly sank back in the cold prison. Lips curled in a pout, not that it was the only reason she was upset, having been arrested being the primary one. Then her tome being taken followed by her jewelry, and even her robes, now all she had to wear were these ratty clothes they'd given her.
"Think they could let the prisoners....look decent after taking everyting else, "She muttered in darnassian. "BOOOOOOOOORRRRRED!" She let out a sigh, while still distraught over being captured the woman had gotten the tears out of her system earlier on. After one reached a certain point they just couldn't keep the whimpering going. It also helped that she could picture her mother glowering at her for bawling like a baby. Plus the smirking guards also didn't help.
If crimson could be considered a calming color, the study of Magister Ranidaris Sorin'von would embody such.
Everything is red here. The carpet, the veils and the bed they surround, the glass of the windows…
The color invades my senses and I half-lid my eyes, musing associations.
The color of the elite.
The color of blood.
The color of war.
The color of wine.
The color of fire.
The color of roses.
The color of passion.
Phadrene mounted up, the hooves of her snowy white talbuk clomping in rythmic time as she ambled away from the fountain, with him standing next to it, in the Exchange.
Holding the reins in one hand, she gently thumbed the marble in her other hand. It was heavy and smooth, swirling with a mesmerizing vortex of energy.
The rich azure color seemed to suit the cool temperature which emanated from it, though it was not uncomfortable to the touch. Absently, she wondered if that was because he considered Frost his strongest magical affinity.
She reined in her mount, pausing as she bit her lip, remembering his words to her.
This contains my essence, highly concentrated.
She gazed at the marble, smiling shyly. Such a secretive and strong personality he had...summarized in this tiny thing.
Phadrene looked up from her reading, rubbing her eyes and reaching for her tea. The afternoon was quickly winding down toward evening. Spring was in the air indeed, as evidenced by the chorus of birdsong filtering in through the windows of her Silvermoon apartment. The veils swayed gently in the fragrant breeze, and the Bishop’s attention was hooked by their sinuous movements as her attention drifted. Everything seemed sharper, louder, more colorful today…
Tomes lay scattered across her desk and white leather ottoman: The History of the Demon Hunters, Comparative Religions of Azeroth, Myths and Symbolism of the Tribal Peoples, Philosophical Exploration of Healing Mechanisms, and, the most recent, Basic Theory of the Arcane. She scanned the collection and rubbed her temples. A slight headache had plagued her all day, since...
*Lifting said body part up produced a large headache that forced her eyes to open and suddenly close from a blinding light.*
*fingers slowly moved to form fists, the older callouses on her fingertips reassuring her that she did still have ten fingers and not eight.*
*toes wiggled, the lack of boots was silently disturbing, but the feeling of socks and a weight of what was likely a blanket over her legs eased her thoughts.*
"I owe Laelan a drink." Larosa thought as she squirmed in what she figured was an infirmary bed, "And Cerwis might want a better explanation of what happened between me and Reggie in my room.
"Fear - jealousy - money - revenge - and protecting someone you love."
---- Frederick Knott - Max Halliday, listing the five important motives for murder, Dial M for Murder (1952)
The rag that was in her hand was the cleanest thing on her person, as Fox sat on her workbench within her shop. She made quick work of cleaning her guns, her pistols were always well taken care of and last in line when she cleaned her weapons. She finished the left one, setting it aside with a soft sigh, her head leaning back to rap gently against the wall behind her. Her temper was on a simmer compared to moments ago, the embrace of silence within her shop was what she needed. Work was what she needed... to keep busy. "Idle hands," Kharris had said about Bishop Aelberyn. "Idle hands," Fox muttered, looking down at her own, still smudged with grime. Yes, Adalynn Foxtrot needed work--or to murder someone.
Akiri was sent out the next day with the same sentinel following her through the forest. They were sent to Northern Felwood which was typically a hotbed of demons and corruption. Nyla was certain more direct conflict would provide a chance to be rid of the evil creature who called herself Akiri. Nyla didn't want to send her near any frontline of conflict with the Horde because she would certainly turn on the Night Elven forces and cause some damage with her reckless arcane behavior.
Akiri had at least been provided with a simple robe for this trip since the escorting Sentinel had assured Nyla that parading the girl around in her underwear was not having the expected outcome of shaming her, but it did make the sentinel uncomfortable.
After returning to the spire in a pool of blood and gore, Akiri spent the next few days in bed and refused to eat. The world had changed and dragons were to blame, of course. She had not expected those Goblins and Orcs to help the dragons in destroying the world; those damn greenskins.
She woke up in the middle of the night after having a nightmare of the forest burning down around her. She imagined herself back where she had killed the Goblins and felt a rush of joy in as the images of their deaths played out in her mind. When she opened her eyes, she was back in that place. The blood stained nearby structures and the road under her feet. It would still be a while before it all washed out.
((I guess I needed the world to end to bring this guy out of me...))
High Arcanist Theledra of the Blue Dragonflight paced back and forth in her quarters of The Spellweaver’s Victory, otherwise known as the ‘Nexus’ to outsiders – those she derisively dubbed “barbaric interlopers”. What crudely straightforward terminology they used. ‘Such lack of vision’ she thought, sneering, as she gazed idly through frostglass windows to the snowscape below. Her ebon locks, held back from her face with a glinting coil of mithril, shimmered like oil down her back. The lean form beneath her robes was taut with agitation. She needed information, and she needed it now!
At last, a curt knock at her door relieved her tension. “Come” she instructed the visitor, her tone cool and collected.
A human male covered from head to toe in midnight leathers entered, quickly kneeling down on one knee, head bowed to the arcanist respectfully. “Report” she barked.
Reports, requests, documents, records, paperwork and a mountain of it, Tiradell thought to himself, scowling at the files on his desk. He sighed, sitting down in the creaky old chair. It groaned ominously under the weight of his thin frame covered with heavy armor.
“Oh, light, not this too!” He grunted in frustration, rubbing both his temples with his fingertips. He stopped suddenly, a brief smile crossing his face. His mind wandered back to earlier in the day in the Sunfury Spire, Lord-Convocate Kerwin’s hand stretched out toward Iloam Blacksong, the sizzling spark flying out and lancing into his chest, a complex rune swiftly traced out in bright glowing lines as he stumbled back, grunting.
Her journey had taken her across Northrend and into dangerous territory. Her health had deteriorated as she focused single-mindedly on her goal - to locate Alainthal Starwhisper. Apparently he had returned to Azeroth, and she made haste to follow.
In an isolated area of the Storm Peaks she met one last burst of resistance. A magical storm had raged, preventing her departure, as waves of blue dragonflight operatives attacked. A band of goblin pirates fought at her side, eventually turning the tide; though the Blues' left Sinobel a far more sinister parting gift.
Part Six: Northrend - Epilogue
Let no one ever say, “We could have never imagined.” Let no one ever say, “We had no warning.” Let no one ever say the worst catastrophe could not have been foreseen.
We have our testing ground, our hypotheses proven, in a crescent of land at the top of our world. Northrend was once a pure land, a staging ground for the Titan’s creation of our world. It remains a place where wilderness remains untouched, where tall peaks tower capped with snow; where the engines of the makers still grind slowly, echoing the distant past. It is the aerie of the Aspects and the graveyard of our world, a promise of life and a promise of death.
And Northrend is broken, corrupted, and forever changed, much as our own lands could be.
Part Five: Eastern and Southern Kalimdor
To look at land as a playing board for a game of politics can prove interesting, to say the least. Factions affect geography and vice-versa, mountains and rivers and deserts playing parts as vital as any king or general. Every people needs a homeland, a place to build cities and homes, raise their progeny and nurture their culture for future generations. In Kalimdor, we find the homelands - old and new - of the essence of The Horde. If this were a political essay, much could be written of the provenance and history of the trolls, taurens and orcs, but it is not. There is enough to say of the effects of these people on these lands, and why it is the Eastern and Southern regions of Kalimdor that draw a thin, wavering line between what is old and what is new, what is material and what is transient, what is absolute and what is arcane.