It started as a normal, sunny day without anything out of the ordinary happening. Xarvia has been ignoring me lately, and I guess we're drifting away from eachother, and of course I didn't like that. During the past few weeks though, she apologized to me for the way she was acting. I spoke with a few of my friends today near the fountain in silvermoon and as always, Xarvia came by and knelt by the fountain. A few minutes passed and she joined the conversation with the friends.
Three Hundred and Ninety Five Days...
In Human, a birthday and cake.
Gnomes, a few new projects.
Dwarves, fifty-two kegs.
Elves, apparently not long enough.
It has been a busy week.
Settling in my new quarters at the barracks, although not as comfy or grand as my former rooms in the estates they’re grander than most people houses in Dawn’s Port. Interviewing and picking the sergeants to assist in training the new recruits turned out to be smoother than I thought it would go. Especially considering I wanted ones I could trust and who didn’t give a crap about my little romp with Saviero.
Of course this forced me to push some things aside which really needed my attention
The strongbox sitting in the corner starting the process of gathering dust and cobwebs. According to Destrado it was filled with documents and deeds as a belated gift for my service to house Dawnrose. This was rather unexpected when he dropped the box at my feet the other week in Silvermoon. Sadly this was going to have a bit wait since I was going to need someone to sort out all the legal crap with these.
"My lovely Lady Stormcren…."
What had he called us in the letters scattered about my desk, the dried rose he had given me set atop the folded writings? The God-touched man and the Demon- cursed lady, he was right.. what a pair we made.
“And there's your fitness paperwork done for the next few months. Anything else I can help you with, Nore?”
“Think I'm good, Judiciary. Thanks.”
“Oh, happy birthday, by the way. I'm sorry I'm a couple days late.”
The flows of time shifted like hawsers whipping and slashing through history, severed by forces unmentionable and unnameable.
Heaved this way, ripped that, time shuddered like an intricate web laced with bound steel.
A future man stood speaking knowledgably with Shu'halo, another man beside him with dark skin and tribal tattoos, yet sharing a similarity showing their blood kinship. The men both wore the garb of Argent Crusaders, righteous and just, yet the darker skinned man's attire bore painted symbols not unlike the sigils of the Tauren.
Another future man, along a different timestream, stood near the ruins of his father's Tower, screaming demonic, hideous words ripped from the Twisting Nether, his eyes flaring with power as hatred boiled out in visible lashing waves from him. Screaming of inconsolable loss and outrage.
I hear voices in my head
They council me
They talk to me
You got your rules and your religion
All designed to keep you safe
But when rules start getting broken
You start questioning your faith
(( I started this story about the Book after receiving it in an IC interaction with Rockhewer back in November. It first appeared in blogs then and in a few since. Finally I get back to that tale, and I don't blame you guys a bit if nobody remembers or cares what's going on ;) ))
(( The book is the same that appeared in an earlier Tywyll blog here ))
There is a certain smell that clings to the foundations of buildings, a musky scent where stone meets earth. In Shattrath, that particular tang is remembered from my youngest days, and accosts me with memory lifting from the walls of the Lower City. Children run past us and their laughter is my laughter; walking here, I know only sunlight and the vague lost faces of those long passed.
((Gave it a spoiler tag just incase anyone hasn't done the Bronze Dragonshrine quest and doesn't want anything even remotely ruined. But its mainly my own take on the situation.))
Asilia dismounted from her nightsaber as the kaldorei caught sight of the bronze dragonshrine. It was such an odd site here in a snow covered landscape their was a small sandy desert. The shrine just seemed to ignore the weather that was outside of it since Asilia noticed a dramatic rise in temperature the moment her feet crossed the threshold into the shrine. Mirage noticed it as well, the green warpstalker letting out a disgruntled growl feeling the drastic temperature shift. Turning back to her mount Asilia simply whispered for the large cat to wait for her return.
The stars are bright over Dalaran. I always wonder at how they shine in the cold, unobscured by cloud or mist. I rarely saw such stars growing up in the marsh. They reflect off bits of my armor as I run a polishing cloth over the metal, shining up rings and scales. One bracer at at time, then onto gloves. I polish each and set each beside me on the balcony railing.
Eleredormu... perches on the eaves above, his long neck and keen head hanging over, watching me work. I can feel the gentle breeze of the bronze drake's breath as he takes in long inhalations of the cool night air, as if it is delicious to him. I smile, glancing sidelong to his bright golden eye. He seems to smile in return, a toothy grin.
Bad people never stop being bad, the races of this world are incapable of learning from their mistakes. Perhaps, however irrational they are, their ability to ignore their past is what makes them so dominant, to see a better future. I don't have that luxury though, for me, past and future are the same.
I can't see past the mistakes.
Nobody saw the plague coming, the arrogance of mortal races is unbelievable. In their comfort, they will always believe themselves above the same smug assurance of their own power as the failures before them.
They were decieved, not by the nathrezim who led the prince astray. By a lie in their hearts, the one that told them they were different, that somehow they would be spared.
Her waving navy hair glistened with sweat, her face was etched with agony, wincing as she bit her lips to hold back her moans and panting breath. The elf was beautiful today, unlike what I had known before in my time watching her. Her arms were straight back, fingers arched and bending as she pushed, as if she could get away from the pain by squirming. She still didn't see me as I looked up and down her naked body, how different she looked without the clothing to mask her.
Artisania Marveloso watched with a grin as the gnome scooped out her ice-cream.
Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Tigule and Foror's was known for its consistency. Thick and rich, it contained just enough cream so as to coat the tongue, but not so much as to bury the crystalline iciness of the frozen treat, so vibrant and alive with the pink juice of strawberries and luscious, crunchy chunks of fruit. Teledriath was already bending over her own cone to lick away rogue droplets of cream as the confection melted in the desert night, enough heat trapped in the sands beneath their feet to be pleasantly warm, the easy wind shifting about the flats touching their exposed skin like soft wool.
The past night in Silvermoon was nightmarish to Syhrrvarajh. The things he'd learned weighing upon themselves, one revelation worst than the last. The death of King Anasterian, the destruction of the Sunwell, the addiction to Fel Magic and the disgust his people now held for their former kind. Their opulence, their hunger, their drive to conquer and overtake.
The professor found himself fleeing the city as Eberict and his newfound friend "Gazrael" were confronted by the Convocate in training. His fel-green glare falling over them. Commoners allowed to mingle in politics, the stationary upper class, his people, left to sit useless on their ivory pillars.
Ok, just to head things off and not have to explain this to multiple folks, I'm going to post this little announcment here. As a compromise, to encourage myself to spend more time on art and less time running about Azeroth, I've engaged the parental controls on my account. Yes, I know, why not just not play? Well that's not worked out so well for me over the past year or so. I'm a confirmed "what feels good" type of person, and working is always less fun than playing. Consequently my projects have langoured and gone fallow, and I'm no closer now to where I want to be than I was in January.
The lid of the oaken trunk came to a stop upon one of the vertical wooden beams of the longhouse. Beneath, a rectangle of darkness lay, cloaking the contents.
Artisania stared into that darkness. He had never told her not to open his chest. He had even taught her the incantation which harmonized the lock and key, and had never hidden that key from her. But she had always considered it his, his property, his world – a world, in ways, far from her own. The distance between a student and a teacher. The distance between the Magician and his Assistant.
Although distances, she had recently found, were not always as they seemed.
Time is against me, I feel its inexorable pull tugging me into the Nether, yet I fight on, there is too much left for me to do here. Yet, I am beginning to think it is past my time, long past.
Artisania Marveloso held a key in her hands.
At first glance it did not look so extraordinary; fashioned of bronze with a well-oiled patina, perhaps it shone with a slight violet sheen when the light hit it just-so. It had a usual weight for such a key, a usual sense of warmth or chill depending on where it had last rested. Presently, it was rather warm, as Artisania held it first in her palm then in her fingers, to turn it over, see the starry light scatter across the fine runes inscribed across the smooth surfaces.
He stood calmly atop the hill in Lakeshire. This was the place he most often came to think. He felt the gentle summer breeze sweep across the lake, rustling his hair in it's elegant movement. He took in a deep breath, as he sighed contently, relaxed. His eyes staring through the small circular lensed glasses across Lake Everstill.
[The paper is badly crumpled and the writing on it barely legible]
I hate showing up one day and then disappearing for months at a time, but I hardly ever get a chance to rest here, in these Outlands.
-It doesn't help that the entire mail system was out of commission for a week. Someone went a messed the whole thing up, swamp water all over, Light knows how.
(( Originally posted November 30, 2006 @ RealmPortal ))
I’m sorry it took me so long to answer your letter. I was preparing to come home, and then was so eager to do so that I forgot to check the mailbox before leaving Hammerfall! Speaking of which, I am back again, and trying to find a way to make certain Keir gets back to your mother. Do you think the stable master in Thunder Bluff would recognize him if I can’t find her?
The choice that I knew Olm would have to make, one way or the other. In the end, he had to make it, the way I knew he would have to. I hadn't seen Olm all day... I'd been all over the world, fighting Alliance, fighting Twilights, fighting bugs, fighting Scourge... and none of it meant a damn thing.
Agony cannot continue forever. It overloads the system, and eventually the system will shut itself down to prevent being destroyed. However, there may be lasting damage. Some parts may never function properly again. Some gears may miss teeth and skip, some channels may be permanently crushed and blocked.