Prison in Silvermoon was better than prison in Kezan...
But prison, is still always going to be prison.
The small lodge where Hogor Thunderhoof lived with his family was dark, the only illumination in the house a small candle on a workbench and the two glowing blue eyes of his brother, Daraman. The elder Thunderhoof sat alone in the darkness, several small tools spread across the workbench, along with several precious stones, one of which he held in his hand, quietly and skillfully cutting it to fit the gold necklace he had made earlier. He was too nervous to sleep, so he decided to finish the necklace he was making, a crescent moon carved out of the aptly named moonstone, to be held in place by gold filligree and attatched to a gold chain. He held up the moonstone, smiling as the moonlight bounced and sparkled off of it's edges. It would make a fine gift, Dar just hoped it wouldn't be last one he ever gave.
((Post for Gil's one year anniversary Horde side!)
He found it funny to think that it had only been that long.
Everything seemed like it moved so much faster, like half of a lifetime had been fit into the confines of a number of days. He had aged noticeably over the course of the past year, both in body and spirit.
He was more fit if anything. Muscles and general health had increased over the year as he'd gone about various activities...
His life was on track again. That was something to be thankful for. He'd left behind House V and their corruptive ways and blazed a new path for himself, a better one. Whether or not there were actions he'd take back was irrelevant. The past was a darker place. The future was bright. If he continued to change for the better, he might actually become a worthwhile person someday.
Sat at his desk eyeing a letter left for him at the sanctum. He read over it many times, and yet he was still full of confusion.
"Madates that don't exsit." he repeated the line to himself many times before it struck him.
"I need to put my knights back in check... and myself... Lord Tiradell is completely right. Knight Moriea's random beatings of citizens for 'information' must be put to an end."
He quickly wrote a response to Tiradell. His pen gliding across the paper. He seals the letter and places it gently into his bag, so he can mail it later. His eyes slowly drift down at a file that was given to him by Gilth. His eyes remain on the file for what seemed like hours... but in reality was only minutes
Gil shook violently.
Pull yourself together damn it...
Try as he might, the half-elf couldn't shake the doubt and worry that ran through his head. Every time he saw his reflection, saw his new face, the new beard, the new hair...He couldn't help but think that it wasn't really him. He'd been so happy with his new life, the new job, the new wife, the new daughter...But he'd gone and screwed that up in one movement. He should have been stronger, learned to live with the guilt of working for Volanthius like he had for everything else he'd done...but he'd been too fucking weak. He'd let himself believe that alone he could take Avaraelia down and stop the spread of her corruption...but he hadn't. And even if he had, the rest of her followers would have spread the word that he'd done the deed...What had he been thinking?! And so here he was, curled up against a rock in Durotar, shivering.
((This blog in part references Wezil's http://www.rp-haven.com/blog/wezil/wanted ))
Joyia's voice had giggled through her comm early that morning.
Wow, nice picture!
Lily had inquired, while looking down into a cup of coffee, ugh. She never drank coffee. But she hadn't gotten any sleep last night after her talk with Joy.
It was a hectic day, she could use the boost. She made a face at the Orgrimmar brew - it looked more like tar, than anything else. She eyed the veritable mountain of paperwork, listening to the footfalls - the good-natured laughing and cursing of the crew and ship-hands outside the office. She would need it to get through the day. It had been a sleepless night.
Daraman swung open the door to his apartment, both surprised and irritated at what he saw. They had finally removed the shattered remains of his bed, but instead of leaving a replacement, they had left several furs on the floor. On his dresser was a note, in orcish, apologizing for the delay in getting a replacement bed and one should be in by week's end. He sighed and looked at the fur pile. It looked comfortable enough, and he had slept on much worse in his life. It was certainly better than the stone slab he had slept on during his time in Undercity, and he was tired enough that he probably could have slept comfortably on jagged rocks at this point. It had been a long day, yet again.