The dating game...
Why had she even come here in the first place?
Because there was nothing better to do tonight. With only the occasional gull's cry to pierce her thoughts, the constant lapping of water against the hull was almost maddening.
She thought too much when it was quiet.
What Morthain wanted most was a controlling hand within the Silvermoon Underground. And using the Crimson Hand, he had exactly that.
((This entry is plumbing the depths of ooooold ShC history and 2 years of backlogged Gaz stories. The end part refers to Gaark's memorial service from- what, 3 years ago. Apologies if it's unclear, but categorizing the systematic descent of a character into batsh*t hidden insanity (for the second and probably last time) is tuff :V))
We take from the Light in bits and pieces. The Faithful are just borrowers, really- We extract a cupful of power from the Most Holy font, then suffice to dump it out onto the ruined ground, wasted. It evaporates into nothing. Then we spend months, years, running around with that same cup lifted to the sky, trying to catch raindrops of mercy and forgiveness as they fall from the indefinite clouds.
''Hnrngh.'' The man beside me reached for the pipe, claws flashing in the dim light. He had to cross over my thigh- holding onto my thigh, tightly, to support his gelantinous mass. My leg dug painful into the floor woven of filthy rushes, but I said nothing. Her eyes and mine..they were locked. Would've taken more than gypsy number 1020....and all that came before him.... to ever looks away from her in that moment.
Habet Riyahel Hobi fi bali Tahdeeni Salam el habib... Tigouli Erjah ya Ghali Ta-lel foura wal il gharib....
I leaned against the wall of an alley in the Lower City, drumming my fingers on the stone surface behind me. Across the alley, which thronged with people despite the fact that this was a less-than-savory part of town, the entrance to my usual club yawned before me, promising the answer to the craving screaming within me.
I could see the night elf who was my dealer, arrayed in embroidered silks, leaning back in his chair. He was watching me through that door as much as I was watching him. This was a game of ours: I would hem and haw outside the door, he would watch me, and eventually I would go in and we'd do our exchange. Usually this was accompanied by suggestions on his part of how I could get a discount that I routinely ignored.
A new lover means a number of adjustments. There is the obvious, of course, but it goes beyond that. Growing used to someone beside you in bed, for example, and learning if they are the time to hold or to cling or to try and push you from the bed while you sleep. There's learning if they are the type to roll over and sleep immediately or to indulge in conversation. And, most importantly, there is learning just how much of your attention they demand.
Thus far, Eberict was proving to be more favorable than I'd expected. He was beyond attentive, something I hadn't expected in the slightest from the rather bookish warlock. He didn't cling but he did hold. He at least talked a bit before descending into slumber. He didn't stop me from slaking my magical thirst on his own aura--indeed, he did his share of indulging in my Light-tinged aura as well.
Animos walked westward along the stone road in the middle of the night. He had his sword slung over his right shoulder and his helm held against his left side in the crook of his arm. The only sounds were from his metallic footsteps and the jingle of his mail. He watched ghouls run around mindlessly in the fields as he passed the farms.
Their army is perfect. No amount of torture can pry a secret from them. No amount of gold would change their loyalties. No threat against their families would even be heard. They can't even feel fear. They march unquestioningly to their victory or death, the outcome is meaningless.
Animos' mind wandered to his own allies as he passed the point on the road where he had been betrayed and murdered years before.
The stench of decaying fish and mildew permeated Fedora’s quarters. On the floor the remains of her latest experiment lay where they’d been left. Shards of glass, dead fish, water stains, sand—she’d made no attempt to clean up.
The remote, easternmost part of the plaguelands hung low, as if the farther one travelled, the more skewed and heavy the atmosphere became, coming close to threshing, the bottoms of the stormy ceiling nearly flush with the grass. The diseased clouds scraped the tops of the shortest trees, and the light was so dim before it broke through to a terrestial level that the land was bathed in perpetual dusk. The blanket of filth hanging above filtered out all colors except yellow, orange, and brown; this once beautiful countryside was now a sepia photograph, caught forever in an endless history of death, disease, and sorrow.
"What could you possibly expect I would have done?! You can't just shove over a man who's been fighting the scourge for the entirety of his unlife and expect him to trust you!" roared Animos, snapping his arm out to gesture to the pile of ghouls that he had dispatched just moments ago.
Xhaztol, now terribly bitter about his decision to save this man, crossed his arms over his chest and shrugged, "Oh, I don't know, I guess I would have THOUGHT for a moment or two before engaging in something as barbaric as that."
Animos knelt close to Xhaztol, who had uprighted his battered frame and was dousing his dusted face with a waterpouch.
"Look, I don't have time to think out here. I only have time to act. It's been the difference between life and death more than once."
A book lays open...
Observationalist. Aloof. Analyst. Well dressed. Over-thinks. Over-analyzes. Speaks too much. Speaks too little. In control. Not in control. Stalker. Snake. Viper. What type of predator do I think I am?
The rest of the page repeats one word over and over...
At the bottom of the page, hastily written:
...I’m not crazy.
(( When I transferred to Shadow Council almost a year ago, I was uncertain of the types of characters I would run into (both real and imaginary), and what exactly an RP server would be like. I was utterly shocked I wasn't bombarded with Old English being yelled in capital cities, or people cybering in the darkest recesses of the Deeprun Tram.
Before I moved my characters (a level 70 undead warlock, followed months later by my previously retired main 70 dwarf hunter), this was the type of thing I thought RP servers would be about. I'm very pleased to say that certainly wasn't the case, although a devious little part of me still wishes it was.
(( All of my characters have been a rich, wonderful experience to play and to represent.
As of right now I feel as if it would be inappropriate to participate in active RP with Gazrael, as she has reached a period of stasis. I have every intention of bringing her in strongly with the events of WOTLK, but from a personal perspective I feel as if her current timeline has reached its last note.
At risk of being overly dramatic I wanted to write a few snippets, probably unrelated to a general whole, to put forth the idea that she is indeed alive and well at the present time, and probably off making her own stories I will never be privy to. But I wanted to take these snippets and maybe do a bit of honor to those friends that have come and gone, as well as summing up a character- a person- I have loved (yes loved!) since her creation.))
I never knew such a sickness like this until then, that moment.
Fedora casually stepped around a cat as is lay on the ground, intently watching one of Silvermoon’s magicked brooms as it tidied the streets. Pushing back the delicate silk curtains guarding the entrance, she stepped into the inn. Without a nod to the tenant on duty, she headed to her room. From within a tattered leather satchel she retrieved a faintly glowing crystal—perhaps not the most secure of keys, though functional. Holding it close to the door of her room, she heard the locks click. She pushed the door open with ease, dropping the crystal back into the worn pack at her side. The door shut and locked instantly behind her. She allowed herself a sigh and a stretch.
The night had been a long one. Earlier in the week a poster had caught her attention, barely adhered to a city wall. Pinning down one of its corners with her hand, she had scanned the paper:
The already rotten and tangled bouquets made this newly placed batch of flowers appear to glow, even in the dusk of a heavily doused Tirisfal. Already their sheen and vibrance was beginning to molt, and he knew within the hour that they would be as decayed as his past offerings. Nothing lasted in this wretched glade, nothing.
Xhaztol opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't find the words. It had now been three weeks to the day that his nephew's grave had been defiled, its contents completely removed. Beyond the eastern portion of this hole there was significant earthen scarring, as whoever had stolen Tobias' body certainly wasn't being discrete. Yet, even after countless hours of pressing his nose to the dirt, even Ghurab, an expert tracker, could not make out the culprit. Brill's townspeople would later blame the gnolls, but the absense of their usual paw prints closed those accusations.
Why do we look outside ourselves for things to blame? Why do we seek to find a reason, a cause, or acceptance by pointing the finger at someone, something else? Is that how we come to live with who we are? Is that how we learn to sleep at night? It’s a lie.
We’re only fooling ourselves.
Against the wind and the tide I could stand any shock.
Straight and proud like Silvemoon upon her rock.
I let no woman near I suffered for Light's care.
In the heart of the night I saw the lightning flare.
Ta'Srith sat and patiently drew on her right hand. She drew with the tip of a sharp knife, face reflecting nothing of the pain she felt as she carefully drew elaborate runes into her own flesh. The welling blood was daubed away only when it overflowed the channels she carefully cut. Her hand trembled beneath the knife, the only sign of how painful it was to carve these sigils into her skin. She leaned back for a moment, glancing up at the past before her eyes. Seated on a boulder, looking at mountains... the mountain behind her. Sitting on the flanks of Hyjal. A faint smile crossed her lips and she whispered words of arcane power, letting raw magic sear the sigils into her hand. The blood bubbled in the channels, and burned the patterns permanently. She flexed her hand and arranged her thoughts correctly. Molten rock sprouted from the sigils to encase her fist, developing into lava coated spikes.
Test Subject 536-0a-112
Species: Fel-tainted subspecies ('Child of Blood')
Age approximation: Twenty turns of the Sun-death
Notes: Captured by Mana-Forge Duro. Affiliation is Sunfury by the signet removed from subject's forefinger. Made gravid by one of the male Fel-tainted subspecies approximately 9 moons ago. Subject's infant surgically altered in utero to recieve massive influx of purified arcane energy. Subject's energies fel-tainted. Can the generation following fel-tainting as a race be purified by infusions of the arcane? Female subject immobilized without harm to unborn infant. Female absorbing excess flow from miniature manaforge into body and deepening addiction also - resilience of physical race and ability to find sources for furtherance of cravings never ceases to amaze me.
It was a long hike to get up here.. I didn't bring my bird. No point, really. She'd have nothing to eat, and I don't want to be foraging.. there's other things I need to do. She'll be fine.. stabled in Thunder Bluff. I told Bas to go hunting once we got here.. no clue when I'll see him again. I haven't seen Cinnabar in weeks. I wish I knew where he was.. but cats are cats. He may be busy. Maybe when I go home, I'll find him. Hope he's okay.
((With apologies to Gazrael and Eberict.))
hi. i grom.
i king uv recap!!!!!!!
Do you truly think a bandage roll will make my heart not hurt? Did you want me to overhear? He knifed me! And you rewarded him with your love once more given to the unworthy. Bandages aren't enough to heal me. My ears won't stop hearing your cries. I'd heard them before, you see... given to ME. You act out of turn, Kharris.. you act to be a knife in my heart cutting deeper than your darling Iloam's blade in my back. The troll had the right of it. I intend to fight.. alpha male indeed, I'll be. If my smile is what you seek, you'll find it. But not at the price you're making me pay... smiles don't come after what I heard.
Ta'Srith sat silent, in her preferred place of meditation in eastern Ashenvale, drooping blooms surrounding her, and considered the change in her circumstances. To an intruding eye, the seated Kal'Dorei was a study in perfect, unsullied repose. Her legs were folded in the lotus' harmony, and her hands had naturally drifted to the mudra of inner peace. Body arranged to best move through the slow stately dance of time, the woman in the small grove of ancient pillars smiled very faintly. Ten thousand years ago, this very space had been a remote townhouse of Master Magister Ta'Rilsath and his lifemate and their retinue. Remaining eye closed, Ta'Srith, the Srith of Ta'Rilsath, could hear the distant sounds of speech in another room. This one had been hers, for her meditation. On that wall there - the closed eye moved slightly beneath the lid, tracing memory's lines exquisitively wrought and etched in ages-long habit - had been a hanging scroll, an inked flower upon it.
"Too many close shaves and headaches when I follow you two around. If you're not going to help me figure this debacle out, I'll do it myself," Xhaztol scowled at the two elves.
Gazrael and Eberict both looked up from their drunken stupor to grin stupidly at his sour face. And here he thought he might get a little sympathy, maybe even some insight as to who would have committed such a terrible deed. It had only been a week since he had presented them with the story of his nephew's grave-robbery, and all-too-characteristically they were back to their same old ways. Initial compassion and concern, followed days later by complete and utter dismissal through binging. Slack-jawed and hiccuping, they watched him leave the tavern, angrily ripping down the irridescent tapestries that so always pissed him off.
"I have GOT to get new friends," he mumbled to himself. Silvermoon was ugly and smelly anyway.
I've never felt this tired.. this violated. That's the word.. I can feel him inside me. What a fool I was.. she was right. Stupid, idiot boy. I thought I knew him.. I guess I only found the darkness in ME.. and then he truly came.. and I couldn't fight him.. he wanted her. Oh Light, he wanted her. I could see from beneath.. it was like I was in a long box - ha, maybe a coffin.. MY coffin.. and looking up at him through dark glass. I could see everything he was going to do to her. At first, I was so tired.. it didn't matter. But then she turned her head, suddenly shy, vulnerable, and told him she was afraid she'd disappoint.. ME... in bed. I saw the wolf above me slaver at the thought of that, and I couldn't take it. I couldn't let him do that to her.. not with MY body. I may not love her, but I won't let him do THAT. I fought.. rose up like an avenging something.. heh.. probably something battered and broken, in truth. I fought him. And I lost. He pushed me back down..
She felt...awkward. Encased in a shell of thick plate, in ostentatious display. Her sideways glances were most usually obscured by a brilliant glimmer of gold, a protestation from Sel'theril at her shoulders and brow. It beamed brightly, seeking to nudge her away her away from a human display of weakness and familiarity with those around her. A prison of gold, was it? ''No,'' she thought. ''Way too dramatic.''
Well Bas, the rooms are set up. I think I'll like it here when I don't want to be home. Let's take a moment, huh, and think about what we're doing. Me. Whatever. A lot has changed in a very short time. Maybe it'll help if I work my way through.. I want to be.. whole when she comes.
All right. First, there was Artisania... Meeting her. She told me things I didn't want to believe, but I knew were true. About the Prince. Took me here, to Shattrath.. this was where we would have gone! This was where they all went! I.. was left behind. Stupid, I know... since if I'd gone, I'd be tainted. But.. it still hurt to see it for the first time. To hear that the Prince had become what she said he had. To know that we're all damned because of what he taught us to do. Damned if we went, damned if we stayed. That hurt.. badly.
Today, we will join two of our dearest friends in the blessed state of Ka'eltiel.