mature

Crack. Crack. Crack.

 My world had filtered down to somethin less than gold and red edged in a depth that promised oblivion.

Farooq and his soldiers crouched in the ferns and foliage of the oasis.  He had a dozen fighters with him in various kinds of red armor, from plate to leather to robes.  Each of them had a piece of armor covered in gold.  A pauldron, a shield, a belt, each distinct.  The most unique pieces were large elaborately curved horns, curling down from Farooq's broken stumps.  He looked up through the foliage to a set of palm trees.  He could see no one, but knew that Treader was up there, watching.  He made a few quick hand motions and waited.  Moments later, the little orc's head popped out from behind some leaves.  He flashed a few hand signals to Farooq, then vanished again.  Farooq lowered himself back out of sight and turned to his crew.

Despite Halfhill being a center of commerce, its people were “country folk” and didn’t approve of late nights when there was work on the morrow. A few adventurers and brewery workers continued swapping stories in the tavern, but otherwise, the Tillers’ homes were darkening.

Nore didn’t mind. The air was clear and warm, the trees rustling. The wind, thankfully, blew toward the pig farms this evening. She walked with Reave, the ghost worg acting as her “bodyguard” when Wes was unavailable. He had fought in the Barrens all this week; someone had to keep bringing in the company’s pay, while she, still off official duty, helped with the Henii problem. Tonight though, they were going to meet at the farmhouse, tend his various pets, and spend some time trying to relax.

"Happy deathday, Maggot."

Her eyes went wide with wonder. She was excited.

Like a child on, well, their birthday.

Kiss

I stood as still as a statue in the entryway of the Blue Recluse.  I'd ridden across town like a maniac, but when I finally arrived, I hesitated.  She was inside.  Maybe she was nervous too.  I took a deep breath and walked into the bar.  It was musty, as usual.  Old wood, worn but sturdy chairs and tables, lamps along the walls.  It was early, so only a few people milled about.  

I had to use the other soul's worgen form more often since he was slowly dying and I had to learn to control it more. I accidentally attacked someone without intending to, and it made me feel guilty as hell. When I regained my senses, I apologized to the victim's family but it didn't make me feel any better.

I asked my friend for advice as to what I should do and she took me to the caverns of time. Gredle tried to convince one of the dragons to let me in this sort of pocket dimension. Elune...a pocket dimension! I was almost completely terrified of the idea but I forced myself to go anyway. Time passes by differently there and she told me I would age in there. So a few years in that dimension would be a few days in the normal world, or at least what I consider to be normal.

No relationship is without its differences, and Iloam and I have had many arguments.  Often our disagreements are born from simple misunderstandings; at other times, he or I have crossed a line or disrespected each other in a way that is simply unacceptable.  I have been just as much at fault from time to time as Iloam, even with his difficulty connecting and empathizing with the emotions others experience.  Nevertheless, no matter what we’ve fought about or who is at fault, I do not question his love for me, and I have tried, through the past almost four years, to impress upon him that I will love him no matter how angry or hurt I am.  I think I’ve finally gotten that point across to him.  Maybe.

Well I was really anxious about my impending marriage and the ongoing war against Hellscream.

Anxious doesn’t begin to cover it, really.  I went through the full stages of grief in regards to Iloam’s brilliant plan to “take care of my future.”  I am sure when this is all over, I’ll go back to that, but for now, there are more pressing issues on my mind.  And to think, Sunday night started out so well.

“Why do you bother me Kor’kron?”

“Don’t play innocent Forsaken, for weeks you’ve been seen accepting shipments moving through undercity. And whenever the others have been questioned, they claim not to know what you are doing.” The large green armored orc huffed while glowering down at the small forsaken woman.

If it wasn’t for the undeath thing, the pale skin, or the stitches she might have been called attractive. Though the figure was mostly obscured by leather armor and the drawn hood, yellow glowing eyes peered out curiously though she didn’t seem to bother looking up at the Orc.

“My business is my own, I’m not creating another plague if that’s what your master fears,” She remarked dejectedly. The nearby cart bore many crates all labelled fragile, with a helpful arrow indicating the orientation to keep them.

The Kor’kron narrowed his eyes, “Your business is the Warchiefs business, and I tire of your deflections Qorra, what, are you hauling?”

Yangoul Advance, Kum Lai Summit

The skies are a deep summery blue with fat, lazy cloud of puffy white that drift across the snow-topped mountains. The fields of coppery wheat tug along the edges of a gentle wind that snakes its way along the surface, pooling to separate the edges of lapping water by the rivers edge.

It was pouring rain when he arrived.  Fay watched from the porch of her cabin as her stable hands led the man’s gryphon to shelter.  Her tireless workers were already drying and brushing the mount before they had even found an empty stall for it.  A stable hand spoke briefly to the man, pointing towards Fay’s cabin.  He rushed through the rain, across the yard, and up the steps to her cabin.                               

“Good evening, sir.”  Fay snapped a quick salute.  The man mirrored it, and then began untying his dripping cloak.

“I hope for nothing. I fear nothing. I am free.”
     ~Nikos Kazantzakis

     It’s been a long time since last I heard the laughter of children outside of dreams. Dreams of my little ‘tribe’ of orphans and refugees in Stranglethorn, silenced in oceans of blood spilling from Bloodsail blades. For a time now, the tinny chorus of amusement seem as dream-like as usual. Distant and soft and mingled with a myriad other sounds beginning to filter in over the pounding pulse in my skull. I hear the cry of gulls and the splash of gentle surf, but it isn’t until I feel a warm spill of the incoming tide’s waves over my feet that I realize I’m no longer sleeping after all. No, I’m lying flat on my back in the open, with the fierce heat of the sun beating down like a physical weight compressing me into the sand below. My eyes don’t even open on the first try, feeling every bit as dry as the granules of dirt coating me. When I finally manage to ease the lids apart, I find myself blinded by the wicked fire of the sun in its clear blue sky, causing me to lift an arm in attempt to shelter my eyes.

“Stitchy…this is very important, yes yes. Make sure Drogar gets this letter!” Nira stated while leaning over giving the small little stitched together machine a piece of rolled up parchment. It detailed having something very important to show Drogar and the others with the attackers, and instructing them to come to her home near the outskirts of Stormwind near Olivia’s Pond

Stitchy grasped the parchment with a small mechanical sigh, “As you wish Madam, the mail system would be faster…but I will trudge on.”

“No no, mail can’t be trusted at all, I can only trust you to deliver it!” She stated adamantly, “Now off, go go!” Nira waved her arms abit even as Stitchy turned and started trundling away from Nira’s home.

The night warm and dry, small plumes of smoke wafted up into the air as the blond haired hunter sat upon his perch looking out into the barrens. “Fucking orcs…” he mutters under his breath as his ears twitch, the air seems slightly colder as he keeps his gaze in the distance. He shifted a little, the leathers creaking as his hand ran over the various pistols strapped to his chest. The rifle in his hand felt bulky at best; it was not his usual choice.

Stripped of what was hers,
her possessions, magic, dignity.

(( I couldn't seem to get out what I wanted for back story April... so you get current practice in writing May, you don't like it bring it up with Ixi :D ))

“We are not so different you and I, we share the same demons.” - MW

So you want to hear a story…

 Only this has nothing to do with my past… this story was in my study, in my personal space and whispering dreadful thoughts in my mind.  It filled my house with a friendship, a mad man’s presence and slaughtered a dozen lives tonight.  This story is how I got from yesterday… to now…

I moved through the jungle, Krasarang Wilds groaned with the background noises of predators and strange birds.  My shield and sword in hand, heart thudding, Calen was no-where to be seen. He was just here I could have sworn. My eyes darted about the forest as the tree’s seemed to move and shift about in a dark inky haze. For a moment I could have sworn that one tree gained dark sinister eyes before reverting to stillness. Feeling my blue skin crawling as I turned away as if behind my back those trees had grown toothy maws and were leaning forward to swallow me whole while I wasn’t looking.

How Did It All Begin

The origins of one of the Alliance's most influential ambassadors to the Horde was composed of many twists and turns. One of the main twists in his life was his chance of meeting with an SI:7 operative that would not only give him a second chance at life, but also to give him a friend that he would owe his life to, much to the denial of the rogue. This story includes a lot of important story elements mainly in Cajucom's background, but a bit of how he got stuck sharing a house with a man who was known to be the "sleaziest man in Stormwind" but also "The One-Eyed Owl of Death".

CHAPTER 3: Intrusion

The SI:7 agent stepped cautiously on the floor, knowing that any foreign sound would probably set off an alarm. But it wasn't such a task for Litao, as subtly was his methods of working. He continued following the lackey that would lead him directly to where this twisted man he has heard about. The more he followed this man, the closer he got to his destination. But also, he got closer to the sounds of torture and pain echoing acrossing the halls. They were faint only minutes ago, but now he was so close, he could even hear the breathing.

 The lackey stopped before a set of guards leading to what happen to be the entrance to the source of all the painful screaming. Litao leaned his body into the shadows and listened in, jotting notes in his leather-bound book as he surveyed.

She made sure every belt and buckle of her uniform was fixed straight and proper before she ever stepped outside. The wind greeted her, a cold slap to her reddened cheeks, where freckles hid under a remaining flush, still bright and apparent. She couldn’t do anything about it, and not much more about the tangle of hair at the back of her head, an amber mess which defined poker-straight any other time but now. A gloved hand wouldn’t do much to smooth it, so she pulled her fingers through it only once before walking away into the internment camp compound. Eyes turned to her, as they always did; she walked through the gazes until they drifted away.

I remember when the forsaken first came to Gilneas...I was still learning more about my new form and what I was now able to do. When I turned into a worgen, I had to teach myself everything over again. I learned to rely on my hearing and sense of smell in addition to sight. The forsaken were pretty easy to smell though, that was a good thing and a bad thing--they smell pretty bad, or at least some did.

( Part one of this blog can be found here. Thanks again to Lilthessa's player for the proofread. http://www.rp-haven.com/blog/teslaan/new_hearthglen_campaign_noble )     

Eight days after Angrathar

Waiting was, easily, the worst part of any incoming punishment. Waiting in a room that had no defining features, save for worn bloodstains that had seeped into the porous stone floor and a simple, carved stone post set into the center of said room was infinitely worse. Castien’s stomach rolled as he tested the chains that bound his hands to the top of the small alabaster column with a sharp flick of his wrists. They held, and his heart sank. This room had been hidden, Castien hadn’t known about it until he was unceremoniously shoved into it by the small, female guardian of his temporary captor. A brown, boring silk scarf covered her hair and everything below her enigmatic fel-green eyes. Every now and again an unruly wisp of curly, crimson hair fell out and graced her pale forehead before she effortlessly tucked it back away with unassumingly plain and unadorned hands. She’d watched impassively as a manservant clamped the heavy manacles around his wrists.

I have been his prisoner and tool for almost all my young years, the smiling man is what I called him. His smile never faded and never faltered, it was like he was mocking me. He sent me to kill many people like him, to test me he said. There was another whom worked with the smiling man, she is taller then him, always wearing a black leather outfit and a mask. The only feature I have seen of her is her eyes, which are a pale white. She helped me learn how to fight, but she also hurts me if I fail or if the smiling man orders it.