Vandethir
Anonymity.
The horizon was beautiful. It was that perfect light that is summoned at a twilight hour, where the world suddenly infuses with rich hues of red and yellow. The sweltering heat was oppressive for the hired workers and it showed in each droplet of sweat that stained their dirty brows.
The Lady Knight did not possess a similar issue. Her reanimated flesh remained as ever cool and resilient from the suns glare. She leans low, her darkened skin a contrast to the tan sand that chases her boots in tiny spinning whirlwinds. The darkening skyline marked yet another successful day at the site. She has uncovered a fragment of the urn. Her black fingers slide over the gentle ridges of the carved stone fragment with a smile on her painted lips. She appears pleased and the goblin overseer sags with relief.
The Synful tales of the Harlequin: Dutiful
(Warning: Strong themes in this one. Not for the easily offended.)
Synnaquin sits in her study. Her eyes slant forward dully her hand dangling loosely over the arm of her Fathers chair. Her paladin. Her first. Her lips slacken as the whispers of a thousand demands pour over her pale flesh, down to her darkened skirts. She stares up at the hardened portrait of Vanguard Bellamorte. dust piling high atop the oil canvas. She holds the absent glass that tilts an orange sea of brandy stolen from Jericho's club. The decaying mansion door swings open with a dull thud. She turns expecting Jorsca. She was surprised.
“I have found you at least my sly serpent,”Vandethir speaks a commanding bark, the guttural drawl of his voice like the sound of an iron ball pulled through a mass grave, at throbbing hatred echoed on every syllable that ignites them. Synnaquin felt cold rush into her belly. Disbelief made her dizzy.
Ma petite Fleur du Mal
Tylel walked slowly around the coffin, resting his hand on the cold corpse. Vandethir, the man was called. He was Synnaquin’s first husband. A man of the Light, who shared, years ago, the same faith as Tylel.
Take the Fruit.
The sand rose and fell in soft rivulets, circling the dunes that lay east of the temple. The heat was significant, though she could not feel it. The dark elf lowered herself to study the markings along the wall. Living memory etched into stone with careful detail. The people of Ramkahen preserved. Not unlike him. Her constant shadow. Her comrade with his pervasive brand of justice and hidden fears.
Avoidance is pain.
The whispering call of Azshara in bloom stirs the woman's heart as quick as spring rises from the barren winters. Synn floats endlessly trapped inside the yellowed landscape as she pounds at the glass futilely. The warm wind grants no aid as she slams her skinny, scarred body against the 'surface' of her globe. Trapped in eternal spring. Trapped as the world squeezes around the vulnerable girl. What remains. His shell.
Synn moves over the Dalaran apartment with a slow steady gate. Her face hurt. Her soul felt rubbed raw from the night before. The strange determination to make sure that Iloam didn't pay the price had cost her Jericho. How odd.
Bloodshed and Chaos
What a weird night.
Pins held up only half my hair as the rest of the disheveled curls flew behind my head where I sat in the sidecar of the mechano-hog. Dust and wind flew into my blood-spattered face, forcing me to narrow my eyes as I absently nuzzled my nose into the soft, ebony fur of my panther cub, a clever little thing named Mud. I was calm – the excitement was long past, after all, and we’d sent Jericho off to fight for his wife. Now Iloam was driving me to his home where no doubt Kharris was already at rest: of course making certain to run over every small animal that caught his eye. Ah my Prince; baby steps. Baby steps.
The Fire.
Synn was hot. Unbearably hot. The dusty thrust of Durotar's sand clogged her throat and burned at her eyes. She was not even sure why she was here anymore. The Elemental's were overwhelming in their assault and their defense numbers were sadly low. She deflected the swarm again, casting a gaze towards Ceresei who fought besides her. The paladin swung her blade up in a graceful arc, her lithe body casting with momentum against the Elements attacking her. Synn caught off guard, stumbled against a rock, stunned momentarily as the fire raged on top of her singeing her face, the heat so intense that her gear felt melted to her. Rivulets of sweat dripped beneath her robes as it roared at her, and all she could think was that she was happier then being in Silvermoon right now.
Small Measures.
The winds howled and rippled past me, tugging my stringy lengths of pitch colored hair towards the bluffs of snow that rested just beyond. The events of the past weeks consuming my thoughts. I had done like I always did.
Moved on....
Just deserves.
(This is part of that new project of Friendship musings, I wanted to do. More will be coming =)
t was late at night, Van and Morrigan slept side by side on the bed and could feel my thoughts restless and mulling over the details of the day in insidious detail. I pulled out a decanter of bourbon and poured a half glass, rolling my wrist to swirl the dark liquor staring into it. The idea of how polar opposite my life was from months ago, before, alone, always alone. Only my pets to keep me company in a dank and uninspired apartment and now... all this. It was … baffling.
“I think she is good for you, you need something stable in your life,” Iloams words stopped me.
“You mean you realize I am unstable?” I joke, but the truth is if Iloam is noticing my chaos and commenting on it, perhaps there was something to his words.
Enter stage right
I followed Synnaquin through the inn as we made our way to Murder Row. I hung to the back of the group and remained silent, my insides tangled with apprehension. As we came to a stop in front of the brothel, I stared at the building, memories washing over me from my time spent there. I thought back to how I'd ended up there. The rebellion against my father, the mana use before I got to the brothel, the sex. I'd wanted it, the mindless escape that chasing pleasure gives. Then I remembered the sober times, with the other women there. The ones who became closer to me than my own blood.
Aftermaths, second degree burns.
(I have edited the dates to reflect ICly, Shryn's timeline! Thanks for your patience <3 )
I stared across at Vandethir, a memory of Kagg distracting me from his words. I blink and shake my head certain I had misheard him,
“What?”
“I said, I want to burn this city to the damned ground,” growled the Blood Knight suddenly and I nodded to him slowly. “Your joking right?” I say carefully, raising a brow.
The Cure.
“Lets blow of some steam,” he said.
“I dunno, the last time time someone said that, I ended up on my knees, beaten within an inch of my life, and framed in a huge conspiracy theory against Silvermoon's best and most wicked,” I said snarkily.
He merely raised that imperious elven brow at me, making me feel like a child for even voicing my contention. But that was how he was.
Hours later, after one of the longest fights in recent memory, I reminded myself as usual to trust my damned instincts. It's when I don't, that I get served a dish of ass kicking.
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