Gaelwyn woke up in the makeshift inn there in the depths of Felwood at some odd hour. Once she remembered the night's events, she was more grateful than usual for the isolation of this temporary home. Earlier that night she had boarded the zeppelin in Orgrimmar with a few other Blood Elves, intending to run routine errands. She met someone, though, and from there her night flipped topsy-turvy.
"She's trying to come back to life," he murmured against his partner's warm skin.
Her hand stilled as she stroked it through his silken black hair, "So what does that mean? Is she going to try to kill me again?"
She watches as the beer dribbles out of the bottle at her feet, the shock of seeing the Dawndancer girl beginning to fade as humiliation takes over.
It was the debut of her return to Quel'Thalas society after over a decade's absence and she would be remembered as the woman at the gala who spilled her beer, in front of the brew mistress no less, whom she was approaching to thank and compliment.
But then -she- had been there...
Heaven. This was heaven.
The silken blankets curled around my body as I lay in bed, hugging each curve of my body with memorized affection. The air was cool, but that was to be expected this early in spring. The breeze had caught the window, setting it open to let the scent of jasmine through.
Kharris must have planted them before I'd gotten here..Not surprising, she was as much of a green thumb as I was at times. Oh shit, I'd need to get up soon- she'd be wandering around looking for company on making those portents later. No, portents wasn't the right word- potions...that was it.
“Are you safe now? Did you banish him?”
“I'm working on it.” Means no.
About the last thing I was expecting to hear after we got to Nidhoggr was Kharris’ voice on the comm asking what the heck was going one. Afraid I almost blew her ears off, I squealed so loud. Of course, no one had bothered to tell me she was back - just like they hadn’t bothered to tell me she was missing and that’s part of what started this whole mess. Almost made a fool of myself when she said she would come to visit, I was so happy to hear from her.
Nidhoggr’s a gloomy place, buried down in the forests of Duskwood. Ythgar uses it for things he thinks I don’t know about, but aside from that, we hardly ever go there. I’d dragged one of my senior maids along to cook and help with the cleaning, aside from that it was a boy’s club. Ythgar, Iloam, and a half dozen guards, with Stormcren and Bloodsword off doing whatever the nether it was they were doing. So I was bored, lonely, and worried sick about Ythgar when Kharris arrived at the door.
Looks like it always did
This flesh and bone
It's just the way that we are tied in
Now there's no-one home
I am learning the rules and my thoughts are clearing. I do not belong here, but I am beginning to adapt; I should probably worry about that, but I don’t have time to spend wallowing. I never stop fighting.
The unexpectedly careful voidwalkers; a battle of a patience, then sudden strikes. The bold but predictable succubi and incubi; their confidence is their weakness. The imps are chaotic but cunning; they are easily distracted and weak once vulnerable. Felguards, felhounds, hags, infernals, abyssals, dreadlords, doomguards.They all have their weaknesses.
I am... alive. I think. Any other existence is hazy for me and I wonder if the memories aren’t constructs made to torment me further.
I am surviving, but I am not thriving. I am so tired. If I were dead, surely I wouldn’t be this tired.
There is no choice but to keep going. Exhaustion creeps up here. It feels like a blanket dropped onto my shoulders to drag at me.
(Time passing for Synnaquin was very different for Kharris. I hope that does not confuse too much! <3)
(Per usual, this is pretty late. I'm so slow! This goes with http://www.rp-haven.com/blog/ixinane/past_shadow )
The machine Cynrick employed to bring us here confuses me. I will not pretend to understand its methods. It is some obtuse goblin design that rattles my brain to consider. The hardened warrior has the machine locked into a leather satchel with strange tubes filled with a sickly green liquid that filtered into a muzzle that socketed a hole through the humid Eversong climate. The void that lingers beyond is daunting. The machine whirs and ticks as it travels over each of us in turn. Iloam stares into the beyond as though he could summon Kharris with the glint of his eye. He is worried and quiet. The group was a determined one.
They just kept coming.
The last pack had been made up of some kind imp. Was it a family? One had been larger. They had flung fire and taunts and gnashed their pointed teeth.
Nothing is stable here and it confuses me. At first, it kept shifting, flashing spaces for me. Keiran’s cabin. The apartment in Shattrath. Winterspring. Shift. An open field in the Hinterlands. The Shadow’s apartment. The shore on Lordamere lake. Shift shift shift. But it couldn’t settle. Or maybe I wouldn’t settle. And something instinctively knew it--I--was … wrong. Shift. It is as if some consciousness is sifting through my thoughts, emotions, and memories, trying to anchor me. It cannot pin me down and it keeps throwing me back...here. Wherever ‘here’ was.
In spite of it all, I am amused at the thought I frustrate Hell. It feels like I smile, but I’m not sure.
My smile feeling fades when my sight searches the landscape. Confusion takes its place. This place bothers me. There is gritty, orange dirt under my sandal. I know this. I am aware of this. I am also aware of the heat and the scent of fel. A wind blows through me, hot and dry.
“Bring him to me, alive.”
Asarel wanted the shaman that had robbed him of his lover. It was wrong seeing her laying quiet and unmoving, doing nothing more than breathing. There wasn’t anything he could do but bring back a Shaman.
I should have known her when I came upon her, even cast in shadows the form within should have been familiar, she and I have had our rounds after all, fights with words, spells and things far worse.
Kharris Dawndancer. The wife of my rogue, the one my daughter calls Dancer. For a time she was my line to Iloam, when I wanted his attention I tortured his priest and to get my attention he had broken what was mine. I remember his face, in vague detail, everyday it slipped a little more and the beings I knew became memories, taken by the nether and replaced by something else, something far more savage then the love I had given to them.
I’d noticed it long ago. During the celebrations of the Dead in the autumn, I think. Which autumn, I am not sure. I cannot explain--it is difficult to explain much of anything, here, where confusion and chaos were birthed. I know it was not Yesterday. And it was certainly not Future. No, it had first appeared a time Ago. Something familiar was teasing at my senses. It swept around those hazy memories of more corporeal days, blasting through my thoughts like a breeze in leaves. It immediately intrigued me. I began to focus for it. Being a creature of whimsy and delight, I followed. I was home, after all, I was safe. It wasn’t the tearing-ripping-grasping that makes you fight. It was not a binding. This was no one pulling on me; this was serendipity.
He hadn’t had to physically expel the elf from his hut, but it had been a near thing. Glowering down the dusty street, his ears still caught the melodic tinkling that heralded the dark-skinned Sin’dorei woman’s smooth steps. Good. She was leaving. By the jangling of those bangles, she was moving fast. She was angry; but he didn’t care. He wasn’t going to be a part of this anymore.
He turned on his bare heel and grunted. The effects of the sapta were still on him and his vision clouded between the concrete evidence of his worldly senses and the hazy hues of the spirit realm. His body wavered with the resonating call of the spirits and he felt drawn tight inside, near to snapping. It was too close. He was too close. He knew better than to do this. The Nether’s energy sizzled through his nerves. If he wasn’t careful--...
He had done the ritual for her three times now. No more. He would do it for her no more.
I could feel it like a thunder in my veins.
There's something I don't have a lot of, anymore.
The door closed behind her with a muted click as she left, slipping into the earliest of dawn’s light. He listened to the familiar cadence of her footsteps fade.
She’s going back to him.
“She is going for a walk.”
He allowed muscle memory to reign once more, bare feet whispering upon the floor as he slid through the motions of routine.
She misses him.
Slow, deliberate breaths sought to steady the quivering of his heart. Arms rose outstretched and slid behind his head, fingers linked.
She loves him.
“She always will.”
A sigh crept free, eyes intent on the bare wall as his awareness wandered; seeking to fuse the fractures within his mind.
Quiet footfalls closed the distance to the washbasin, lifting a folded cloth to be dampened within and dragged over the contours of his face.
You can’t make her happy.
((Written to the tune of: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v0sXoC-VkS4 ))
My first instinct was to drown it all out. All of it, til there was nothin' left.
Shopping for female Elves was, quite possibly, one of the most difficult events a man could face. Especially when it was shopping for a nice gift to aid and accompany apology.
The first question that you always had to ask was "is this thoughtful enough", the answer was usually a resounding "no" followed by an incredible amount of over-thinking. If you could get past that, the second was always "am I going to look like I'm kissing ass," which always seemed to be a resounding "yes", inevitably starting the process back over again. The "will she like it"s and buyers regret came much later.
((Per usual, a few weeks old by now))
Taliandra had been told that he was going to spend time on his boat. It wasn’t a complete lie. She’d tell Kharris where he said he’d be. That was... for the best.
The door to the small apartment in murder row was unlocked, and he didn’t bother knocking. It was brighter than he remembered it, and there was more furniture, but there was still a large, uncovered bloodstain in the light-wood that made up the floor. She’d added a record player to the space as well, and it was playing some uplifting, epic sounding instrumental score. He leaned against the doorframe and watched the small girl who had taken up residence in his old flat as she flitted around the kitchen, her brilliant red curls bouncing as she moved.
Cyrena threw a devious smirk over her shoulder at him before stopping what she was doing, “Come for revenge?”
It wasn't fatal, of course. The arrow had hit him just below the hip while they had been standing just off the Fancy Cakes' stoop, and Miss Luisa, Doctor Luisa?, had fixed him up. Castien had no doubt that it was Tel'arar's girl that had done it. They had the arrow shaft, they could prove the fletching matched. What would be the point, though?
Each such paper was a well of information, the physical embodiment of the Professional’s attention to detail. On one side, a top-down sketch of the layout of each Thread’s home, ranging from a room within an inn to a respectably large manor with small, neat notations: Total number, number of guards, how well trained they were, how they were equipped, what their experience was, and what shifts they worked in. He noted how many slept at their employer’s home, how many were nestled amongst the day-to-day servants as a contingency for the unwary.
Lastly, any and each potential warding glyph or aura generator was marked clearly along with its purpose, if it had to deactivate for recharging and how often, the times of day and how long each lasted.
Perhaps she'd simply lock herself in her home, once it was built.
Every venture she'd made since becoming a Knight seemed to have resulted in a more resounding failure than the previous one.
It was hard, sometimes, to explain to people who were so used to seeing what they were fighting that shadows could be deadly. More deadly than the standard Knight or monster with brute strength. The bumps in the night, the rustling in the leaves, the creak of an old staircase at night. Being afraid of the dark was something that mothers tried to work out of their children when they were still elflings. It worked too well for some.
May the wind be ever at your back
In this line of work, the less known you were, the better. He and Asarel understood each other. They weren’t friends, they weren’t enemies. They were just... guys, and they treated each other like one would a strange animal. Distance and respect.