All Shadow's War
The Voidwalker yelled, his inky mass careening down the hallway, bumping small tales proudly displaying portraits, statues, and knick knacks from all over Azeroth and beyond.
The students slowly filed into the classroom, a buzz of excitement in the air. Many of thier parents still had thier reservations, but most of the children were far too excited about what they could possibly learn from this teacher to care. So excited in fact, all but the older males completely missed the slip of a girl with her feet on her desk in the back as they came in, her mammory glands underlined by the large book cradled in her lap.
It wasn't long, however, before people started wondering just where thier teacher was...
((Temporaly, this takes place a little more then one month after "To Kill A Goblin" and two weeks after "Nip / Tuck." Warning for a minor allusion to drug use in the name of arcane science!))
Sometimes we don't miss something, until we realize that it's been lost.
((To put this in temporal context, this takes place several weeks before "Nip / Tuck" and "Gunpowder Treason: Set the Fuse"))
The central tower in Stormwind rang ten times as Nykalia settled in to the very tiny room. There was little more than a bed and a very small window, and not much room for anything else. Despite her attempt to seem optimistic to Savas, she was very frightened.
The problem with trying to work undercover in a place like Silvermoon City is that everyone is always being watched by someone, even if they don't know they're doing the watching... or, on who's behalf...
Darkshire… sunset… The light of day began to recede westward, leaving the cursed forest in darkness.
I suppose this will be the last one, maybe. Depending on how this trip in Outlands goes.
Shannae squinted her eyes to shield them somewhat from the brilliant presence of the Naaru. Today, she had not come to speak with them, simply passing from one of the many portals to another on her way to places better left unvisited. Something was odd on this night, however. A vague feeling of being watched that she couldn't shake set her nerves on edge.
I cannot see you,
I keep you, in my heart.
I cannot hear you,
I keep you, in my heart.
I cannot feel you,
I keep you, in my heart.
I cannot sense you,
I keep you, in my heart.
You are so far away,
But I am not alone.
You're forever, in my heart.
The first letter written, Savas selected another piece of parchment, layed it out upon his spartan writeing desk... and sighed heavily. There was so much he wanted to say, but, now was not the time, nor was a letter the way. Once more he took up the quill, and wrote. But he decided, at the least, the words would be his own, the words of the man, Savas, not the Sword of Velen.
Savas stopped to muse a bit as he wrote the letter, memories washing over him. Another life, yet, not so long ago now compared to the weight of ages he bore these days. He could still see her hand over his, long feminine fingers adorned with simple yet exsquisitely fine jewelry. He could hear her voice, the elvish accent strong, but pleasant, like music, as she remarked how far he'd come, in such a short time. Had she not known better, she would have thought he was an elf himself. The nostalgia passed, and he took up the quill once more. There was work to be done yet.
For the first time in her life, Amigone knew what it was to be so warm she could not sleep. There’s was something oddly pleasant about being uncomfortable, she thought idly as she lay on the wooden floor, sweating. Even at night, the sweltering heat from the bay was permeating everything, and even having the window open as wide as it could get was not helping.
Malafese had always been a good boy. This had nothing to do with the wicked brats nature, per se, but more as a result of his uncanny talent for not being caught. This time though, he was in the limelight, and he reveled in it. He'd always had a big mouth when he wanted to use it, and the great thing, he decided, about the mob mentality is how much power that gives you over the actions of the mass.
The Cathedral loomed into view, the light of their torchs and the rolling of their angry voices bouncing off it, cast back almost with a sneer from the marvelous ediface. Malafese grinned to himself...he hoped to wipe that sneer off with blood tonight.
Savas held the human corporals hair out of the way as he retched. This was the third man to empty his breakfast onto the stoop of the old run down house, so horrific was the scene within. Satisfied that the man was alright, Savas returned to the charnal scene inside.
For once, he was thankful to have a slight sinus cold... the smell alone was atrocious.
He blinked suddenly from his focus, his hand lifting from the pen that was writing upon the paper on the desk. He looked up, as the cool wind blew past him. He felt something...and odd familiarity. He stood slowly, straightening his glasses. He paced slowly out to the large Balcony, his hand picking up his all too familiar staff and walking with it.
Sha'zren lounged in his favourite chair (granting, every chair would be a favourite chair if you had four Sayaadi pawing at you while you were sitting in it), reading over the various reports and intelligence he had managed to swipe from the full blooded demons in their moments of carelessness. What he saw, did not amuse him.
Tsukita sang to herself as she walked amongst the soft grass of the park in Stormwind. Well, she sang to anyone who would listen, really, but she wasn't aware of anyone else in earshot.
This of course, did not mean there was no one around. Tsu herself would have gone on about the birds and plants and trees and other spirits all around her had anyone asked. But there was a very good reason she wouldn't have known if anyone was listening to her.
Tsukita, is blind.
The title more or less says it all. I can't sleep, I can't get any of my ideas into writing (that I don't delete 30 seconds later, anyways), and I havn't seriously toyed with Lillies shiny new Wacom Tablet... yet. -grin- Linkage below the break! =^.^= (Erm, and clicking on any of them at work is possibly a bad idea.)
(( NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART OR WEAK OF STOMACH! ))
Sha'zren chuckled to himself darkly as he watched the chaos far below. His wings weren't much good for flying in the heavy air of Azeroth, but if he started from enough height (and opening the portal a few miles in the air was, it turned out, enough height) he could float on thermals for quite a while, drifting down like some demonic leaf in fall.
He couldn't have planned this better himself, and in his not so humble opinion, that was saying quite a lot...
This is a story about heroes. Heroes that will never have their names sung in taverns. Heroes that will never be greeted by stony likenesses of themselves in the great galleries of the world. Heroes who sometimes, really would rather not be. Heroes who stand face to face with the Darkness of the world, who walk amongst it and make it their own.
This is a story, about heroes.
It's been said before, and will be again I'm sure, that sometimes the best retelling of a story is the original thing. Ergo, I present for your reading pleasure, a chatlog of the actual RP. (With apologies for typos and such, as I have done -NO- editing of this at all.) The setting is the small building that serves as Shannaes home in Ironforge. Specifically, the bedroom. They were passing time simply enjoying the conversation and one another's presence when...
The following letter can be found by the
appropriatte person, resting neatly upon her
pillow. The paper seems rather ancient,
despite its obviously recent selection for a
writing surface, and the letters inscribed
thereon appear to have been seared into it
rather than inked.
... is that you never know just who might