Dulcamara’s Story: Chapter 1 – Peacebloom

Peacebloom

Found primarily in wide open spaces, Peacebloom looks beautiful but like many plants, hides a dark secret within. It’s roots and petals are poisonous unless correctly treated. According to the Botanists of the Kaldorai, this involves soaking in Moonwell water until all the impurities have been drawn out. Once prepared, it’s primary use is in poultices for flesh wounds although certain races also crush the leaves to make tonics to quicken the blood. Folklore has it that Peacebloom flowers more frequently on the site of old conflicts, fertilized by the blood of the fallen. It’s also come to signify seeking forgiveness for past actions and  new lovers often send fragrant bouquets of it’s heavy blossoms after petty quarrels, hoping that the blooms will bring peace to their relationship.

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It would have been easy to overlook the Night Elf, concealed as she was in the shade, still as a statue. On her lap balanced an open sketchpad and in her hand she clutched a pen. Long white hair loosely tied in a plait fell over one shoulder and her silvered eyes were narrowed in concentration. As far as she was concerned, the world began and ended with the plant in front of her, a huge clump of Peacebloom, it’s sickly sweet perfume scenting the air. On the paper, black lines took form, capturing the free flowing shape of it’s petals.

As she drew, she dreamed of the life she could have had. The botanist she could have been, had she chosen a different path. Remembering all the stories about the flora she had listened to as a girl, the tales twisted into being like plant roots, a mix of fact and fiction bringing together history and folklore. Perhaps now she’d have had some exotic plant named after her rather than being a burnt out and broken shadow of herself. “Deserter” rose on her tongue, it’s taste foul like poisonous berries only for her to dash it away, besides it implied a sense of motion, of running when in fact the opposite was true. Her sisters in the Sentinels knew exactly where to look, they just happened to be turning a blind eye. The Priestesses in the Temple had advised rest and relaxation in the short term at least, until she was patched together mentality as well as physically. The scar on her breastbone was healing nicely, knitted together by the very plant in front of her. The same however couldn’t be said for her mind.

Sunday Storytime: The Aftermath of Theramore

Just three little stories charting the reaction of my three very different Priests to the events of Theramore.

Night Elf

Twisting the soft shining fabric of her robes, the Nightelf Priestess lent against the Temple Garden walls. Eyes closed she tried to bring peace to her turbulent thoughts. Every time she felt she was winning the battle, pushing her unchecked emotions back into the pool of her subconscious, the image of a dark blue haired elf rose like a drowning woman, gasping for air and vengeance. As a tide of rage washed over the Priestess, her magic rose to answer it’s song and for a moment everything felt right. Then opening her eyes, she glanced down to see instead of the familiar golden light bathing her hands, ribbons of shadows twisting around them. For the first time in her long life, fear enveloped her in it’s dark embrace. An alien emotion, it sat smugly on her tongue like a toad, poisoning her mind. She could taste it’s sourness every time she swallowed and in response, the shadows weaved around her like a shroud.

Forsaken

The heat of Orgrimmar was just as oppressive as it’s walls, rich red sand coated everything and turned even the finest food to ashes on your tongue. Not that particular issue was a problem to  the Forsaken Priest surveying the city from her vantage point by the waterfall, watching the Orcs below as if they were ants on the dust. Stretching her aching bones, she moved to the shade, Garrosh was keeping them waiting on purpose, probably hoping the sun and the implied insults would push their tongues over the edge. He had a lot to learn, no one does patience like the dead. In dark crypts and in dusty coffins it pays to turn a blind eye to the passing of time, no point in measuring it out in cobwebs or decaying flesh. Hearing heavy footsteps, she looked up to see her escort heading her way, clearly it was time. Wrapping her long dark cloak around her boney shoulders, the Priest acknowledged their salutes and stalked towards her meeting with the Warchief. Once a soldier, always a soldier and for a brief second imagining the conflict to come, she felt almost alive again.

Gnome

Scurrying through the Mage quarter, wrapped in her heavy cloak, the Gnome slid from shadow to shadow, drawing no attention. Past the increased military patrols and past the gossiping Mages sitting outside the Blue Recluse she hurried. Up the winding staircase she ran, stopping only in the safety of her own little apartment on the top floor. It was only then, in private as she unwrapped herself from the woolly cloak, discarding her gloves and scarf that she allowed herself to weep. Spilling hot salty tears for those considered friends now nothing more than dust in the wind. Poor Cassa Crimsonwing who had wanted nothing more than to fly with her gryphons and Spot, whose excited barking would no longer echo through the stone passage ways of Theramore Keep. Eyes red and sore from crying, she started to collect her bits and pieces. Spell books, herbs, warm clothes, cool clothes, dried Heaven Peaches from Darnassus and a jar of pickled eggs all disappeared into the travelling bag. Throwing her tiny green ragdoll on top, the Gnome proceeded to bounce up and down on the case until protestingly it shut. Justice and revenge, when it comes down to it, they’re sisters under the skin and in that moment, Sprout didn’t care which she got.

A rare thing: Humar the Pridelord

This is for Euphyley over at WoW Rare Spawns who is celebrating her first blogging anniversary.

My favourite rare spawn in game is this fellow here, Humar the Pridelord.

Way back in vanilla, my husband started playing a hunter as an alt with the eventual intention of making it his main for a period. As he levelled he started looking around on the internet, researching pets and looking for interesting ones to tame. That search took us to Petopia amongst other places and in the end lead to the Barrens. As a low level Night Elf hunter on a Horde heavy pvp server this was not an easy plan, however he persevered and was rewarded by a loyal companion who kept him company for a long time. Then when I came to make a hunter of my own, I followed in his footsteps, running from Theramore up into the Barrens to tame my very own Pridelord.

There was however a problem, back then levelling pets was horribly painful and because certain pets had different attack speeds, sometimes you just had to let go… a process which always left me feeling devastated.

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The hunter and her shadow, a huge black feline slid through the forests of Ashenvale, instinctively keeping to the shade. Their passage was silent, paws and feet making no noise as they glided over twigs and heaps of dead leaves. As they neared the border with the Barrens, the Night Elf slowed her pace, her unease translating itself to her companion. The cat whined softly, rubbing his head against her leg. ”Sshh”, she reached down and stroked his thick fur, “almost there boy, almost there”. In reply, he licked her hand, his tongue rough as bark.

They picked their moment, waiting until the Orcs guarding the rampant were distracted by a party of young Trolls, arrogant and brash on their first trip to Ashenvale. Moving in tandem like a well oiled machine, they worked their way deeper and deeper into enemy territory. The cat scouted ahead whilst the Elf shadowmelded beneath the heavy squat trees. Had any eyes seen them, it would have been clear that this was an old familiar pattern.

On a hill over looking the Crossroads, they stopped for food and to gather their strength for what was to come. Thick steaks for the cat, donated by a dinosaur whose curiosity had done him no favours and dumplings from home for the hunter. After they ate, they stretched out and gazed down at the busy town beneath them.  ”Remember all the fun we had here boy?”. The cat purred, rubbing his head against her. “Hunting all those cowardly Horde. There was that warrior, the Troll, we chased her half way to Orgrimmar didn’t we”. He growled, showing a touch of fang and she smiled, patting him. “You liked the taste of Troll didn’t you boy”. The two of them lay in companionable silence, reliving their glory days, as they stalked living prey across the barren landscape of their memories.

As dusk fell, an observant watcher would have seen two moving shadows drifting towards Ratchet. A hunter, her violet skin and height marking her as a Night Elf walking lightly in the pawprints of a large black cat who ran a little ahead, turning back every minute or so to make sure she was still there. As they covered the dusty ground, the hunter’s thoughts returned to the first time she had followed this path. That nervousness in the pit of her stomach, the tension in her grip on her bow, both feelings she had thought were long gone came swimming up from the dark depths of her memories. Sensing her distress, the cat paused for a second, licking her hand to reassure her.

Just above the Goblin settlement of Ratchet, they came a halt, pausing to listen to the sounds of drunken partying mingling with the drunken yells of the dock workers loading ships for Booty Bay. Closing her eyes for a moment, the hunter let her thoughts drift back to the days when she too had frequented those parties, waking up to a throbbing headache, foreign sheets and the golden eyes of her cat, regarding her and her new friends expressionlessly as he guarded her belongings from quick fingered thieves.

“Almost there boy, almost home”. The cat whined in agreement and led the way, past gnarled and twisted trees, their thick branches providing the only shade and through thick grasses which cut at your legs, flicking back like whips. Before she realised it, they were back at that spot, the right place under the right tree. Sitting down, their backs to the broad trunk she tried to put her thoughts in order. Stroking his fur, she found herself gazing down at the white marring the thick black coat. In her head, the white hairs melted into snow and the temperature dropped as the parched earth grew a snowy blanket. Out of the shadows, the bridge at Dun Baldar crystallised into being. The acrid smell of gunfire caught the air, the heavy thud of war drums and the twang of her bow strings replaced the Goblin sea shanties but most importantly, the large feline shape at her side, the shadow which tied all these memories together bounded like a kitten through her subconscious.

Ragged breathing pulled her from the safety of the past, “it’s alright boy, you’re home now”, blinking back tears from her silver eyes, she held him close. She felt the last rough stroke of his tongue across her hand, one last goodbye before her friend slid into the realm of memories and dreams, leaving her alone beneath the open sky. Digging the grave was easy, leaving him in it, far harder. Looking down at her closest friend, so small and somehow diminished in death, she found herself cursing her race, condemned to keep leaving those she loved in the cold damp earth.

Walking away, followed by nothing but her own lengthening shadow, she wiped away her tears. Then before beginning her descent into Ratchet, to the tavern in which she intended to drink until all this was just a bad dream, she looked back. There in the half light, she saw him again, standing proud before the tree. A sea breeze caught the branches, shifting the light and revealing nothing but long grasses, shattering the mirage. “Goodbye old friend and good hunting”, raising her hand in farewell, the hunter, her heart breaking headed into town alone.

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Now of course, it’s a different story as all my hunters have more than enough room to house him. That emotional bond with my virtual pets is just as strong however, the one thing guaranteed to make me mad in pvp is to persecute my pet. You can /spit spam me until I’m drenched or laugh at me until you cry and you won’t get a reaction. Hurt my pet though and you better be ready to die, over and over again.

The Black Bride – An Azerothian Ghost Story

Gather close little children, come hug the fire and listen to my tale of woe. Watch the flames closely. See them twist and leap and turn, stare into the glowing embers and let your mind go blank. Listen, listen. Can you hear the church bells pealing joyfully? From out of the darkness figures start to emerge, buildings swim into being from the mist.

Our story begins many years ago at Stromgarde in the Arathi Highlands. It’s springtime and cart after cart is crossing the drawbridge into the keep. They’re loaded with flowers, piled high with liferoot, mageroyal, peacebloom and black lotus. Tendrils of grave moss and cascades of dreaming glory flow over the deep red paintwork of the wagons. Within the fortress walls, banners are being hung and every nook, cranny and available wall is being draped in vibrant blooms. Footmen in their scarlet livery carry overloaded plates towards the garden where a huge tent is being build. Every little thing has to be perfect when the Prince marries today.

Within the cold stone walls of the Keep itself, the bride to be leans her head against the wall and sobs softly. The chiming of the chapel bells seems to signal her doom. It’s as if they are playing the passing bell and not the wedding march. Checking her reflection one final time in the looking glass, she sighs. From her tiara of night dragons breath and white roses to her crystal slippers she looked every inch a Bride suitable for a Prince of Arathor. A maid hands her the bouquet, creamy peacebloom, white roses and a scarlet splash of firebloom. All the waiting women smile and tell her how beautiful she looks but all the Bride sees is fresh red blood on white linen bandages.

Leaving the bed chamber, her eyes flicked back and forth. Down the long echoing corridors, past women in brightly coloured gowns and Knights with their dark red tabards. No one speaks to her, they just smile emptily as she is pulled past them. Out of the Keep now, down into the walled gardens. Through the shrubbery and under the arches of roses, towards the old Chapel. The pealing of the bells mocks her, like a child giggling just out of reach. Inside, away from the bright sunlight, it’s dark and forbidding.

After the ceremony, feeling dizzy, she rushed to the garden. Finding a quiet spot, away from all the backslapping and congratulations to sit and dream. To dream of a man. Not the one she married, not the one in the deep red clothes with the sword at his hip. Oh no, not him. The nebulous figure which filled her dreams was that of a gardener’s boy. Quiet, humble and kind, no songs would ever be written about his prowess in battle. He would never march at the head of an army bringing death and destruction along in his wake. Instead, flowers would carpet where he trod and birds sing over head. It was there, sitting in the garden, twisting her heavy gold ring that manacled her finger, that he found her. The gardener’s boy, come to Stromgarde to help organise the thousands of blossoms brought in from the countryside. Side by side they sat, the Bride and her boy talking of love and escape and happiness over the sea.

It was near dusk when he found them, the Prince of Arathor with his sword girded on. The hand of his Bride clutched to another man’s breast. By the time his men reached them, the gardener’s boy was already dead. His rich red blood a stain on the Bride’s white dress. Ignoring them, he dragged his Bride up to the Keep, past guest and guard alike. Sword drawn, blade dripping red, he marched her through corridors and passageways, past tapestries and paintings. Always upward, staircase after staircase until they could almost touch the stars.

The Bride of Arathor she vanished that night. No body was ever found but they say if you wander the highlands late at night, when the full moon hangs low in the sky and the liferoot blooms, you’ll see her. That long white dress is black with dirt and blood. Her torn and tattered veil covers her face and the ghost of a rose holds it in place. She walks the lanes and searches the gardens, looking all the while for her long dead gardener’s boy. Where her broken crystal slippers touch the earth, you can still smell the flowers, the peacebloom, roses, dreaming glory and mageroyal that blossomed all those years ago. As long as there is a son of Arathor left to raise that standard high, she’ll wander their lands searching for her stolen love. So next time you saunter home late, beware the subtle scent of roses drifting on the air.

This story was inspired by a childhood spent reading ghost stories and by the Arathi Basin Battlemaster, the Black Bride herself. What her story really is, I’ve no idea but I love the name and decided to write her one myself.

Eleventh Hour – Dirty dealings in Durotar

This is my response to Disciplinary Action’s Eleventh Hour challenge.

“Summer is coming and where better than to spend it but in Durotar!“. The Undead Priest glanced up from the pile of papers in front of her, sometimes she loved her job. An all expenses paid trip to show some Bloodelves around Durotar… this was far better than actually being on the front line smiting people. Her eyes skimmed the rest of the material, cheesy and no doubt blatant lies in most cases but who was she to criticise. At this rate, her dream of retiring to the glades of her youth were becoming increasingly real. She could almost see it; a little cottage near Brill, with cabbage roses around the door.

“Acres of pristine red sand, water front properties are “dirt” cheap and the locals are exceedingly friendly“. Glancing up at the Orc guard standing a little way off she snorted, “Friendly“.. that’s a unique way of saying distrusting and bordering on xenophobic. The guard returned her stare with a scowl. Got to love the Goblins, pretty much everything that came out of their little green mouths was a lie, albeit couched in so much small print and roses it was hard to spot the manure.

“Take a moment to close your eyes, imagine if you will waking up to the sound of waves lapping gently* against the shore. The sun is already filtering in through the windows of your state of the art Trollish home and all is peaceful. Get dressed and head outside, catch some fresh crabs or fish and then roast them on the barbecue for breakfast. Compare that with your current humdrum life, spending all day getting hot and dirty killing monsters for peanuts.

Leave the Dalaran rat race today and invest for your future in Durotar. All price ranges are catered for.“

Sure, all price ranges are catered for but you can guarantee you’re playing ten times what it’s actually worth. Ah well, who was she to stand in the way of anyone else’s dream. After all, she had escaped the rat race herself. Glancing at the shadows, she wondered where her new clients were. They were late and Razorhill was hardly difficult to find.. ordering another drink she toyed with the idea of going to look for them. After all it wasn’t good for business if she lost customers, selling to harpy food was exceedingly difficult even with the help of a Necromancer. People tended to lose their romantic notions after being eaten alive.  Deciding to give them 5 more minutes, she lent back in her chair and continuing flicking through the paperwork.

Finishing her drink, she quickly ran through the plan in her head. The tour was fairly basic in nature, a quick look around Razorhill itself. Making sure to point out it’s more attractive features, the abundant cacti for example. Distract them with a taste of the famous Razorhill Bitter Cactus Cider and then it’s off to Sen’jin Village. Emphasis the relaxed and happy lifestyle, let them watch the Witchdoctor for a while… tourists always love local colour. From the Village a swift boat ride to the Echo Isles, ply them with coconut liqueur, show them the beautiful sunsets, the statuary and let them feel the history. Pick up a painted coconut as a souvenir, most people love the ones painted to look like Zalazane and get them back to Orgrimmar before they sober up.

Just look at the Sunset

“If your years of adventuring have left you loaded, perhaps you want to look at the jewel in the Durotar crown… the Echo Isles. The coconut capital of Azeroth is inhabited by some very friendly trolls and has perhaps the most stable local government in existence. Zalazane has been running things for ages and everything points to him still being in charge twenty years from now**. The sunsets here are second to none and you’re as close to nature as you can get without moving to the Jungle. Watch tigers prowl on your lawn whilst you eat breakfast and then go and shoot one for dinner. Artisan markets cover all your decorating needs, everything from beautiful jade statues to huge carved heads for the garden and sacrificial altars which make amazing tables can be found cheaply here. The Echo Isles truly are a slice of paradise.

Buy our Echo Isles package today!“

Smiling to herself, she stood to welcome the couple. A fine smattering of red gold dust already covered their clothing but both had that silly happy look most of her clients did. The look of people buying a dream. “Sit down, sit down. Before we start perhaps a drink and a glance through the brochures yes?” As usual, the couple almost bewitched fell into the chairs and started flipping through the glossy pages in awe. Sipping her drink, she glanced up to see what page the Elves had come to rest on. Ah Tiragarde keep, one of the best sellers.

If you want something a little different, we at the Goblin Property and Solicitors Service can oblige. Perhaps you would like to restore a ruined Keep? If so, step right this way and take a look at Tiragarde.

Of course the trick with places like Tiragarde was to avoid mentioning the army still in residence. Oh and mentioning the gallows tended to be a no no too. Although it was where quite a few of her more recent customers had ended up. Shame you can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs.

Oh flicking again, that’s usually a good sign. Going back to the Echo Isles double page spread. People just can’t resist the idea of buying into another culture’s heritage.. strange but rewarding. Time to start her closing speech, the one about how we could go and look at the properties but that will take time and as the goblins say “Time is money”. After all, these homes are exceedingly desirable and only rarely come onto the market.

Putress was so wrong. You don’t need plagues and elaborate plans of betrayal to wreck havoc on the living… all you need was a few enterprising Goblins and some brightly coloured glossy brochures. Sighing with pleasure, she watched the Bloodelf couple happily sign on the dotted line. From the second she laid eyes on them, she had known they would go for the deluxe waterfront properties on the Echo Isles..  their type always did. Shame those deluxe properties amounted to little more than a few huts but these Bloodelves never seemed to learn. How many years would they need to be part of the Horde to understand that “Stay away from the Voodoo” wasn’t just the Trolls way of making polite conversation but a very real warning. Ah well, a few nights on the Echo Isles and these two would understand fast enough.

*Gently means different things to different cultures. In the obscure dialect used on the Durotar coastline it actually encompasses everything from tiny waves to huge 30 foot tall ones. Isn’t language a fascinating thing.

**Obviously we can’t guarantee that governments will remain stable or that crazed dragons won’t just sink your entire property but thats something you will have to take up with which ever God or Gods you believe in. Who knows in six months time those Trolls might decide its time for some regime change but if they do, we sold you this in good faith and it’s not our fault.

On a wing and a prayer

This was inspired by Jaedia’s The Explorer Task.

Heavy wings beating slowly, I glided down towards the parched earth of the Bone Wastes. Skimming the ground, I could almost feel the dirt brush my feathers. Then suddenly spiralling upwards, breaking for the clouds, turning circles in the sky. Terokkar Forest drew me like a magnet. From the first day I set foot within its glades, I knew, knew there was something here for me. Not in Allerian Stronghold, where people expect you to walk upright, wear shoes, talk not growl but in the forest itself and the wastes that bordered it. Those quiet places where the sweet smell of the olemba seeds lulls your senses and quickens the blood. The natural  spaces where most tend not to look, seeing only trees and grass and sky.

Underneath the sheltering trees we could stalk our prey, shadowed by their branches we could prowl to our hearts content. There are rivers for a bear to fish in, splashing water wildly as we dive for fresh gleaming darter. I remember so clearly the first time I saw you. Balanced on a fence, you were regarding a bloodelf with the contempt cats show so well.

Deep purple fur, so regal, marked only by a crescent moon on your flank. Then you took flight, blocking the sun as you soared into the sky. I could only stand and stare. I watched til you fluttered from my view, then slowly slunk back to Allerian.

The next few months were hard. I learnt much, swam, climbed, tried to forget those silver eyes which mirrored my own. I explored every inch of Terokkar, as part of my schooling of course, not because I was hoping I’d find you. Climbed trees, hunted, took my loneliness out on those foolish enough to wander the forest after dark. Then finally, they told me, I was ready. Ready to change into a raven. To feel my bones become so much lighter, my green hair become soft black down and jet black feathers. Now I have a different vantage point. Terokkar looks so different from the skies, staring down at the green leaves, the forest floor hidden from view.

I knew the lakes above Allerian existed. When taking a gryphon I’d even seen one once, pale waters reflecting moonlight surrounded by flowers. It looked beautiful. I’d longed for the chance to visit it myself and now, now I have wings I’ve been avoiding it. Scared of what I might find, who I might find. I waited for the moon to once again be full and fat. Climbing out onto the window ledge, closing my eyes against the cool night breeze, I jumped for the moon. My shape twisting mid air, contorting into talons and feathers just before I would have fallen.

Circling above the lakes, I searched for signs of life below. I saw nothing but the silver moon reflected both in my eyes and in the water. Diving down I switched to my own form just before the cold mountain water plunged over my head. Letting the current carry for me a moment, I swam til my lungs screamed at me, bursting with pain. Crawling from the water, cold and saddened, I lay in the moonlight, patting a water lily with my paw.

I remembered then, the game I’d seen the children in Stormwind play countless times. The words unbidden rising to my lips, “loves me, loves me not” chanted as they ripped flower petals apart. A tear dripping down my cheek, I shifted back to bird and flew home.

Lying on my pillow was a single purple feather. Not purpley bruise black, but a bright vibrant purple. Clutching it close, I hurried downstairs. The Innkeeper looked up as I ran in, still wet from my dip in the lake. “Please, where, where does this feather come from?”

Eyeing my soaking condition for a moment, she was silent, “please, I need to know”.

Nodding, “it’s a Lost Torranche feather”

“Don’t tell me they are lost because no one knows where to find them?”

“No child, lost because they live only on Sorrow Wing Point these days and now because it’s splintered from the mainland, they’re lost.”

“Thank you, thank you”, my bare feet leaving muddy prints on the floor, I ran from the building. Sorrow Wing point, it’s name didn’t sound too auspicious but what choice did I have. Heart pounding, I soared once more into the dark sky. The flight over the Bone Wastes seemed to take but seconds and then I was descending into the broken ruins of Sorrow Wing. The moonlight could not penetrate the trees here, there was a lush darkness at their bases. Anything could be hiding there. The Torranche themselves blended purple into the shadows, silent and watching.

Dropping to the ground, I prowled towards the darkest part of the point. Beyond the soft rippling of the wind and the talons of the plainstriders scratching dust, there was nothing. I might as well have been alone. Then suddenly a blood red water lily petal floated past me landing on the grassy carpet of green. “Loves me, loves me not, loves me”, the voice was soft, a mere whisper on the wind. My eyes scanned the skyline, there .. sitting on a tree branch.

Another petal drifted down, then another. Two pairs of silver eyes watching as the flower fell apart, “loves me not, loves me”, two voices murmuring in unison. “Loves me”, the last petal started its arc down towards the ground.

As the morning sun cast its first rays over Sorrow Wing Point, two dark birds soared from the forest floor and disappeared over the Bone Wastes.

My Kingdom for a Horse

My slightly late answers to this week’s Friday Five.

• Is your character participating in the Tourney? (If no, are you doing it OOC?)

Most definately. Erinys didn’t expect to like it, let alone enjoy it. Too much sawdust and sweat for her liking, yet once she found herself saddled up with a lance in hand it was suprisingly good fun. Besides, secretly after years of war, she has found a sudden and slightly uncomfortable lust for blood lurks inside her. The tournament provides a safe and fairly harmless way to relieve that aggression.

• If asked “What is your home city”, how would your character respond?  If the answer is not their “Faction Capitol” – why not?

Darnassus. Whilst Erinys doesn’t always agree with every decree and decision coming out of Darnassus, heritage and home are important to her. Sure, she spent many a happy day hanging out in both Stormwind and Ironforge, but she just doesn’t feel she belongs there. Even after many years of fighting for the Alliance, there is something alien about those cities, especially Ironforge. Erinys prefers outdoors and open spaces, to her Ironforge is claustrophobic. Stormwind on the other hand is too bustling, too full of humans running about their business.

• There are rumors in Dalaran that a Dwarven Expedition has unearthed an Old God – how will your character react?

Excitement tinged with fear. Having fought her way through the tunnels and passageways of the Ahn’Qiraj, hearing all the while “your friends will abandon you” and “your courage will fail” whispering on the desert winds and stared an Old God in the eye, she is afraid. Yet, there is always that frisson of excitement, somewhere new to explore, perhaps new books to pour over, new things to learn. Besides, how many people actually get to meet two Gods in their lifetime? even if they end up killing them.

• Does your character side more with Varian/Garrosh, or with Thrall/Jaina?

Thrall/Jaina. Whilst bloodshed bothers her less each passing day, she is still practical. Too much blood has already been shed on the shores of Northrend and there are greater, more dangerous enemies to be bested rather than wasting resources and troops on each other. After all that is a war neither side will ever win. Besides having spent time in Theramore as well as fighting in the past alongside Jaina at Mount Hyjal, she respects Jaina’s opinions far more than this hotheaded human who is allowing his desire for revenge to formulate his policies.

• Meta Question: Are there things you do with your character that are OOC, but have IC rewards? (Reputation for a Faction Item, farming for a non-combat pet, or Dailies/Quests for a title like Loremaster, for example?)  Do you have an IC explanation?

Yes. For someone who professes to be a lover not a fighter, Erinys does a rather large amount of slaughtering for financial reward, as well as wiping out whole populations of baby dragons in search of finding her very own, or not only turning a blind eye to the Oracles egg stealing business, but even purchasing from them. As for an IC explanation, Erinys prefers to believe that sometimes in order to do the right thing, you have to stretch the boundaries of what you are comfortable with. In order to fight the good fight in Ulduar, she needs gold. Potions and repairs do not come cheap and sometimes you have to take whatever work you can find on the side. Although there is no excuse for the eggstealing… that was just a moment of moral weakness brought on by the desire for something shiny and new in a world of blood and pain.

All this talk of jousting makes me want to go and watch Camelot now.

A demon speaks – Gaklop’s take on the Friday Five

Todays attempt at the Friday Five is brought to you by Gaklop

The Imp uncurled itself from the bed and waved a “paw” in the general direction of the chair.

The Mistress is “indisposed” right now.. too much to drink last night, but I’ll do my best to answer your questions.

What color are your Mistress’s eyes?

A reddish shade of amber. If she’s being a hundred percent honest, she would admit that with each passing season, they become less amber and more like mine. However, being honest to anyone isn’t something which occurs to Madam that often, and being honest to yourself, well that sounds like a fools game even to me. I read somewhere that pets and their owners often become alike, so it can’t be that bad can it?

The demon looked up slightly hopefully.

Er what is your Mistress’s skin like? Does she have freckles, tattoos, or other noticeable markings?

A tattoo on her right shoulder, its tiny bunch of flowers that represents her family. She had it done whilst drunkenly sentimental. I think its pretty but if you try and tell her that, she throws things and swears. Whilst sober she pretends it isnt there. The only other distinguishing marks she carries are a series of horizonal scars on her lower back, the unfortunate conclusion of an early run in with authority in general and the SW guard in particular. She doesn’t like talking about that either, I think shes embaressed that someone whipped her, doesn’t really go with her selfpromoting image as an evil warlock. Either that or it was for something really lame like stealing flowers rather than summoning a doomguard in the orphanage which is what she claims it was for.

The Imp considered the matter for a moment before glancing back up.

Am i doing ok?

Absolutely fine. How does your Mistress smile?

She doesn’t. Glare yes, frown yes, but smile no. Smiling is for happy people, not those who consort with demons, thats what she says. Although I’ve seen her smile sometimes usually when there is fire involved, but if she catches you looking she looks stern straight away.

All the time, his gaze darted around the room, paying particular attention to the door of the ajoining room.

How does your Mistress carry herself when walking around? What is her posture like?

Arrogant in public, after all, warlocks have something to prove right. In private though, her shoulders slump back a little and her haughty air dispates. If you promise not to tell..

the demon leaned in, whispering

I think she pretends to be arrogant, I mean shes not that bad for a warlock. I’ve heard all kind of horror stories, demons being sacrificed regularly, turned into shields and used for all sorts of depraved pleasures. I don’t want to go into details, its enough to make a Imp blush. So all in all, I think shes not as bad she tries to paint herself.

Describe your mistress’s hands.

The Imp looked quizzically for a second.

Short nails, the opposite of mine. Long fingers, which are good for incantations. Always traces of blood and other such things under the fingernails, in our line of work completely cleaning up is impossible. I can smell it on her, that slightly metallic flavour of other creatures blood mixing with that wildflower perfume she insists on wearing. She tries to make me wear it too you know, says I smell of rotten eggs. Pffff, humans.

The demon looked indignant. Then a sudden noise from the next room had him cartwheeling in panic.

You need to go, if she finds you here she’ll banish me and probably set you on fire, shes not a morning person at the best of times and hungover…..

Nerves getting the better of him, he lapsed into demonic as he ushered the visitor from the room.

Clara and the Ambusher

The forest of Elwynn seems so idyllic, lush pastures untouched by the ravishes of war. Both people and wildlife wander freely, still going about their daily businesses, fruit is still farmed, horses still shod. However if the passerby, hurrying perhaps to Stormwind or the amber meadows of Westfall were stop for a second and have a closer look would they perchance see something sinister lurking underneath the canopy of green.

Every day Clara Charles wanders down to the well to draw fresh spring water and every day, something waits, stealthed, a blade drawn for her.  Which naturally raises the question, what could this innocent if not slightly vacant looking blonde have done to deserve this? She doesn’t fight or scream, merely succumbs to her fate as if its to be expected. Does that mean a guilty conscience lurks behind that placid facade? Did she once work as an SI.7 assasin, inflitating and slaughtering Defias by the hundred, that would perhaps explain why this Ambusher seems so set on drawing blood. Perhaps his motive is more personal, a lover scorned or left jilted at the altar. Could it be as simple as a quarrel over water rights? Possibly but the well is unguarded, the Defias could easily steal as much as they wanted when its untended.

I suppose we will never know for sure, but this little pantomine plays itself out daily, the hunter and the hunted meeting down by the well. Personally I like to think that once upon a time, in happier days two young lovers used to meet down by the well, sitting by the benches and talking whilst sharing a glass of sparkling spring water. Now, sworn enemies they re-enact their courtship with entirely different aims in mind. Where once their lips would kiss, now a knife, so gently and so quietly caresses her where once his hands did roam.

Today, at least however, the play came to a slightly different end. Clara was rescued by the Stormwind Chapter of the Azerothian Society of the Preventation of Cruelty to Slightly Vapid Human Females.

Life after Death

Another attempt at the Friday Five RP challenge. This time the task was to write about “If your char died and was resurrected as a Deathknight, what would happen?”

———-

The sword felt heavy in her hands, so cold and so hungry. Swinging it experimentally she almost decapitated a passing ghoul and the voice in her head murmured its approval.

Outside her head was clearing now, the voice so calming so seductive whispering through her foggy thoughts. Turning her blood to ice, inciting her to violence. Telling her all about those Scarlet insects, how she had to crush them beneath her black boots. Images flashed through her fractured mind, women screaming as the sword descended, children cowering behind their parents. All superimposed against a fiery red burning sky, so real she could almost taste the acrid smoke.

Never before had she waded in the blood of the fallen, never before had she seen people run screaming from her. It felt so alien but so so right. All the time, the voice was there, tutoring, encouraging, suggesting. The battlefield was a symphony of loathing, the screams of the dying, the singing of the blade and the grunting of the ghouls as they ran about their grisly business.

With time came the hate, these pitiful creatures didn’t deserve their lives, their beating hearts. Merely a pestilence on the face of the land, vermin to be purged once and forever. Where once she had brought succour to the wounded, nurtured and healed, now she stormed through the lines bringing her Master’s message of death and destruction.

She learned fast, a quick eye and a swifter blade brought passing praise from her instructors, not that it mattered. Whether they rewarded her or flogged her meant nothing. All that mattered was the voice, when it was silent she felt hollow, an empty vessel serving no purpose. Desiring it, craving it, she took to worse and worse acts of depravity. Slitting the throat of an infant in front of its moaning, mewling mother, ripping flesh from bone and crushing skulls under foot.

Then, came that fateful day at Light’s Hope. One minute she had been facing off against a young paladin, circling him, enjoying the dance. Then the next, a sudden burst of pain exploded in her mind. The voice…. the voice was gone, leaving a void of nothingness. It didn’t stay empty for long though, memories blood soaked and horrible swam through her consciousness burning her. Her armor felt too big, too heavy and her head spun. Slumping to the ground, her scream echoed through her whole being, bringing back haunting memories of women, their mouths open in frozen, gaping screams, women she had slaughtered, wives, mothers, daughters.

Desperate, like a cornered rat she begged the voice to return, nothing. Closing her eyes she threw herself at the throat of the nearest paladin, hoping either his death would return her one true master to her or failing that someone would end her misery by killing her like the rabid and diseased dog she was. Instead, gauntleted hands caught her wrists, disarmed in seconds she was forced to her knees. A cool hand stroked her forehead, voices talked over her, calling her feverish, saying she needed to rest, that it would take time, others, mostly those with a pulse suggesting it would be better to end it now, cut her down like a mongrel cur.

One voice, louder than the others spoke, “enough blood has been shed tonight. She lives”. All arguments ceased. Arms lifted her, loosened her armor and carried her away from the muddy field into the chapel. Losing consciousness, her last thoughts were first of all of loss and loneliness, but as her mind faded into blackness, that voice… the man who saved her, who gave her yet another chance…. perhaps there was still some hope.