IC

I.

The desert moon rises over the buzzing swarms, casting a sickly light over Convocate Severidan's hands. She wears gloves that fit her small, slender fingers perfectly as they wrapped tight around the small, blood-crusted daggers weighing her hands down. Her vision is getting blurry, exhaustion from a break-neck ride to scour the shifting sands before anyone else could started to set in. At her side should have been Satchiel Kerwin, because he insisted that he be there for this business trip, as she had put it. Instead, the steady, exhausted clicking of a raptor's breath is heard. Angus pushes against his Mistress, the desert chill biting at leathery scales, and the tiny elf beside him reaches up to pet his snout. Angus can taste the blood on her hands, can smell the boy that Faetrix had brutally stabbed and left to rot in those dunes.

All that Fae thinks of now is picking up the trail. Following the blood, and finishing the job that Satchiel interrupted.

Seething with anger Melicinth turned and with a harsh chopping motion of her hand banished Volmat and Ormmon to the nether. Betlia had not returned since the night the warlock and voidwalker had come home from Northrend. The succubus’ flagrant disobedience infuriated the forsaken woman so that she trembled with rage as she made her way to her workshop at the back of the cottage.

Stepping through the door Melicinth paid no mind to the piles of gems that cluttered a tabletop or the spools of copper wire, boxes of settings and ore that she used in her jewel crafting. She made her way to the back of the room, hooked a rug with boney toes and tugged it out of the way to reveal a trapdoor.

An empty bed beside her. Where is her beloved?

(( The ongoing events of Heulwen's day, in which a simple plan gets more complicated by the minute, she develops a case of pins and needles in her fingers, and that ceramic duck finally gets what's coming to it.... ))

Reggie lay on the couch and idly watched his wife as she drifted around the small apartment, checking bolts of various cloths and stacks of already made bandages. He folded his arms across his chest before clearing his throat, “Where are the cigarettes, hon?”

She paused briefly before going back to counting how many rolls of a certain bandage she had in a small, neat pile, “We’re out.”

“So why didn’t you buy more?” The Half-Elf raised a slender eyebrow, “I haven’t been able to find them since Tuesday and I know you’d have had time to pick up more…”

“I’m quitting, so are you.”

He blinked and sat up, snagging her wrist and pulling her into her lap as tried to walk by, “Bullshit. With what’s been going on lately… Something’s wrong. What’s wrong?”

Cerwis looked at her husband for a moment before relaxing against him and tucking her head under his chin, “…Nothing’s “wrong” exactly… I’ve just been not feeling so great.”

She spent each day in the service of interests other than her own. Perhaps this was why she never questioned the night. When her waking hours belonged to strangers, it seemed appropriate that her dreams should as well.

She did not know them, the subjects of those dreams, nor did she wish to. They were storybook figures- unreal, unreachable, remnants of a lost tale delivered from some long forgotten tongue. Still, there is always a degree of simple comfort in the familiar, and perhaps Lueli drew some strength from the knowledge that, when she closed her eyes, they would be there, waiting for her.

Ahh, a wonderful thing! Freedom!

True freedom. Not merely being cut off from him, adrift but hearing his Voice, a siren call to return to his side. But such a call recently tapered off, and then went silent. Were the rumors true? Was the Lich King truly dead? Or was he just too busy in his precious Citadel to continue to toy with those former servants? With everyone in Icecrown, surely someone has gotten into his Citadel, to try to kill he who raises the dead…

Victoria did not care either way. All she knew was that she was free to continue her own plans, even if she was constantly thwarted by certain groups of people. To make her daughter everything she was supposed to be. To have true power.

It was a shame her daughter was so adamant about not continuing in what she should be doing.

Tiradell’s eyes opened in his room; the single candle in the room sufficient to see what he needed.  Information had been gathered, help summoned, and everything prepared.  He smiled, the first time in many days as he strapped his heavy armor and harness on.  Well we’re just going to have to go find her then, he remembered Raeril saying, feeling just as foolish now that he’d not thought of it himself.  He drew his sword from the rack, hefting it.  He pondered the blade, long and sharp, gleaming from hours of polishing.  His smile widened, teeth showing as he swung the sword up over his head, nearly slashing the ceiling.  “Once again,” he said, feeling the weight, relishing the strain on his muscles as he held it high.  The smile sealed itself once again as he swung the sword back, almost habitually, settling it into its harness.

Stratholme wasn't an easy place to get used to. I'd cultivated a definite look by then. Mastered not just blending in, but looking normal. Heck, I even figured out how to appeal to women by then, though it never really took the sting out of that first rejection. I never formed any attachments.. no point to it, don't you think?

I found a job in a tavern as the man responsible for escorting drunken patrons out, and it was a good deal while it lasted. But my nightly runs along the rooftops to stay fit even though I was the height I am now by then.. and not exactly thief material.. let's just say that the first time a patron tried to knife me and failed miserably... so miserably that he required burial.. well, I found a note in my dingy little flat.

"Come to the stableyard at the Market Row, end of the line, at midnight."

Unsigned.

Her escape from the city had not been flawless. The wound on her arm left a trail that even an unskilled tracker would have been able to follow. But once she got out of the city she took some time to bandage the wound to prevent any persuit. Not even Akrish knew where she was going. She just knew she had to leave.

She took the road west to the dead scar and turned south to follow it. The dead scar was silent near the city since the Rangers did a good job of keeping the undead away from the city walls, but as she moved south she could hear the shuffling and moaning of the pathetic undead that still wandered this region.

As she waded through the stream that washed across the putrid stain on the landscape, she saw a scraggly undead that silently stared at her. He displayed no emotion; no hatred, no hunger and no sadness. She stopped and looked down into the glassy water at her own emotionless reflection.

From Acherus, a bone gryphon with a gnarly courier swiftly flies to the brightly decorated Silvermoon City...

Within the gheist's person, a letter sealed with the blood insignia of the Ebon Knights.

Baroness,

Suffer Well! So short has my notice been to imply my desire to return to SIlvermoon and stand side by side with you on the tenets of Virtues. Respect. Tenacity. Compassion. We, both living and dead Sin'Dorei have learned to respect each other quickly not out of convenience, but out of necessity. Our Tenacity must be bold and sure, if we are to be voices of reason together against those who would see chaos done to our fair city. Compassion always must be wielded with more expertise than the most abled blade or stave for the dead, and the living.

There seemed to be at least twenty tauren, or more, sitting in a ring near the walls of the tent. They wore a vast array of garments and some wore armor. The only gap in the ring was in front of the closed door flap and straight across from this Aponi Brightmane sat. She was the first Sunwalker and the head of the group. This was her council; hand-picked from the ranks of those who had completed their training to help decide policy and the direction that the Sunwalkers as a whole should take. It was a great responsibility as well as a great honor and amongst them sat Senoj Ragetotem. He still wore his armor, having just come from the training fields. His weapon he had left outside the tent. This was a place of peace and of council. Weapons were not allowed. Senoj watched the current speaker, a gray-coated tauren who sat on the other side of the circle.

“We lost ten of our first group of initiates to complete their training the other day in a centaur raid,” he said, his words drawing mutters from others. “I cannot help but think that this is too many. They may have been outnumbered, but, had that been ourselves in their place, I think the losses would have been less severe. I cannot help but think this tragedy serves to show us that our ways of training initiates is somehow flawed.”

((Just throwing this out there for whoever would possibly be interested. Just a teaser to get my feet wet before diving in fully.))

Who is Skythe Hawkins?

A phrase. A sentence. A question… One that begs an answer on so many lips while only a few know the truth yet refused to share. How had so many come to know him in such a short time? Did they remember him? Did they remember who he really was or claim to remember what he was now?

It all began with a fight in the bar.  A troll woman who had seen her share of battles and beds, and an orc who had to duck whenever he entered a building. A few heated words, and push turned to shove, which turned into an all-out brawl. A few well-placed gold coins and the unlikely pair of brawlers managed to put on a show that not only caught the attention of the crowd, but most of the local security as well. The Laughing Zhevra was quickly surrounded by onlookers and Bruisers, long before the usual end of happy hour.

To hide from the Blood Knights....we had to shut Death up. She kept talking tongues, I swear, theres something up with her..I made a >.> face, sneaking around SIlvermoon like ninjas. 

We got caught..ah yeah..Heh

((Gotta go..I dont have much time these days -_-))

The months crawled, and the land only got colder and more inhospitable.

From the desk of Convocate-General Firatril

Dear Aestan Firatril,

It has been a while since I heard from you. Will you be bringing the sweet rolls soon? I don't require a whole truck of them, but I would like to try them at the very least. Please write me before you stop by. It would be an awful shock, otherwise!

Sincerely,

Apophis

In the first weeks, her letters had been polite and written immaculately, if vaguely. She always took great care with them, loathe to leave bread crumbs that would lead to her. The fewer people who knew her location, the better. Aestan knew her location, but didn't know her. Turus knew it all, but Turus wouldn't speak of it. She couldn't.

From the desk of Convocate-General Firatril

“You’ve become wise in a short time,” he said to me a couple nights ago, a smile of gentle pride in his voice.  “Now we just need to get you to stop worrying all the time.”

As night grew deeper over Quel’thalas, I could not help but vaguely wonder how Maras intended to accomplish such a thing.  Wisdom can grow with experience and knowledge, but the wiser I grow, the more worry I seem to acquire.  In the quiet parts of my own mind, I could not help but imagine this would be one enemy my champion would not conquer.

A gentle breeze rolled into the small, two room flat; bringing in with it, the sweet smells of the pastry shop beneath it. Golden rays of sunshine, attempting to break through the thick clouds over the magi city, beamed elegantly against the eggshell walls within the sitting room; now turned into temporary bedroom for one presumed-dead rogue. While he appeared to sleep rather peacefully, it was another story for another, whose bed squeaked every other second or so from within the next room.

Tossing the blankets aside, Caitira sighed in defeat as she sat up, running her fingers through her sun-kissed tresses. This was the third night in a row in which she had seen little to no sleep. Something had to give.

Turning a tired eye to a large, framed picture at her bedside; Caitira smiled sadly at the image of a younger Kiyuri and herself.

Seven’s adaptation to normal society was not going well. People were always behaving irrationally, illogically and discussing irrelevant topics. She had been learning a lot about Sin’dorei society and trying to fit in, but it was painfully uncomfortable.

She slept on a metal table in the engineering department of the Spire under constant watch by two guards. There were always another two guards by a safe with all her belongings. They did not hide their disdain for her at all. They spoke of her as an object and how she should be inside the safe instead of her gear or how she should be given to the goblin engineers who so badly wanted to take her apart. She was an object to them; less important than the tools in the room and certainly less useful.

Things were not much better outside the Spire. Raeril and Sindrasa seemed like they cared and attempted to help, but their affection was disturbing to Seven.

The pen was mocking him; Tiradell was sure of it.  He sat there, looking between the pen and the paper.  This was always the hardest part of the week; thinking back to make his report.  Sometimes it was easy, merely informing General Sunlash of his observations and what had been done.  Other times, it was like composing a song, delicate and complicated.  Tiradell sighed, then placed the pen down against the paper, writing out what came to mind, his memory flashing back to the events of the week.

[An in-game exchange of letters.....and other things.]

I tend to have soft spots for very specific people I run into in my life and each and every one of them annoys me.  Hard to be painted as a villain and have so many blindingly obvious ways to force my hand.  Pity… I wonder if given the choice never to feel anything for any one person if I would take it, it would serve me a great deal not to have broken hearts or responsibilities for others, but sadly… like most I know, I have no choice, I live, breathe and pump fel tainted blood through a beating heart… thus I feel, and do so greatly.

On my way back from the ladies’ I stop and look over the crowd below. The music’s stopped for bit and the dancers are congregating around the bars for a drink or two. I watch for a bit, then look up to study the tiers. There’s Mister Worth with Miss Sophia on his arm, and it looks like he's watching something. I follow his gaze and see he's watching Ned and Bill talk.

“What's he up to?” I wonder, because Fatty Ellison is a big man with connections to all sorts of people and robbing him would be like cutting your own throat, pretty literally.

Its late in the evening. Andicelys stands on his chambers balcony looking up into the midnight sky. Its a starry night with wisps of clouds seen dressing a full moon that is silhouetted by one of his dragon riders in flight undoubtedly making patrol rounds. He looks down the see his guards below mumbling quietly to one another in an attempt to stay awake through what will be yet another long night. He places his hands on the cool stone wall before him as he peers out over the gardens with a heavy sigh. He thinks to himself. "I've failed yet again." His eyes drift to his hand that still wears his wedding band and his mind is sent adrift. "If only I were not so much in battle? Perhaps if I had only douted upon..." He blinks and lifts his head turning to walk inside as the croaking of the frogs below sing their midnight melody.

He walks down the long stone hall of his vast castle to the Queens chamber. His guards nod politely to him as he passes.