Welcome to the Roleplayer's Haven, a website dedicated to the roleplayers of Shadow Council, World of Warcraft!
This website serves as a community portal and roleplaying archive for all roleplayers of Shadow Council, regardless of faction, guild, or roleplaying experience. Once you have created an account with your character's name, you can begin writing a character blog, participate on our OOC discussion and IC roleplaying forums, advertise your events (and keep track of others), share your creativity, and enjoy the creative talents of others on our server. All are welcome!
Hey guys! I'm going to try and do a bunch of quick commissions this weekend for the holidays. $25 will get you a painted character bust and some icons, $10 will get you a sketch. If you want one, let me know! Comment, PM, or email me at email@example.com if you're interested! My deviantart is here if you'd like to peruse, but I haven't updated it in a while.
I heard her whispered plea, as soon as she stumbled through the door. My name, like a bitter-sweet benediction.
Bleeding from her chest, shivering. A vision of death.
Commander Ebonlocke sat quietly, looking over papers that covered the table she sat at. A deep frown formed on her face as she looked up towards her father who stood across the room, talking to members of the community. She couldn't hear the conversation, but she was pretty sure that it had to do with the same topic as her reports. The destruction of the acadmy set up by the Shrouded Dawn.
(I had one of the craziest days of Rp yesterday and I thought, how the hell will I fit everything into one blog. So---- I made my Imp do it. Sorry for the length, but it was literally scene-to-scene)
There were many things that Ziluri the Imp hated about Synnaquin. The rumor about toe-painting were true, however, that was one of many horrid things that his mistress required of him. The other thing was that he had to accompany her where ever she went.
This doesn't seem horrible until you realize what a chaotic monster she truly was.
Traskus threw a punch with his massive black fist. Shaoqing, at the speed of thought, lanced the big draenei with pure pain. Traskus cried out, holding his head, and stumbled, missing his punch. He lashed out blindly. Shaoqing rolled aside, dodging the blow. Raising her hands, she summoned a shadow mist around Traskus. The shadow magic billowed across his skin, causing him to grunt in pain. But it also cleared his head. He bolted out of the mist, and in two quick strides of his long legs, he had Shao by the throat, lifting her off the ground. He applied enough pressure to make her gasp for breath before setting her down. He bowed to her, and she bowed back.
"That was better." He said. "You dodged several blows. And your attacks were much stronger."
Shao rubbed her neck and coughed a little to clear her throat. "Didn't last long."
The Musically Challenged
Music filled her mind as Fiawyn went to the mailbox to retrieve her letters. Not just from her memory, but also from down the hallway, where she could hear the drummer banging rhythms on his bedposts again in that steady 4/4 beat. At least he wasn't doing it in the middle of the day when she was trying to study. She never fully understood percussionists and their constant need to tap things. This clashed with the melancholy strain of a melody coming from two doors down. Nothing could compare to the high-pitched song of the violin as the violinist fumbled with a complicated motif. Fiawyn would say she was up to her ears in music, and she loved it.
The office was dark except for a lone candle that flickered in loving teasing response to the shadows. 'Come play with me,' they whispered in fluttering movement. It sounded like her voice, teasing, dark, and icy.
Her eyes snapped open in the darkness, the transition from sleep to wakefulness happening in an instant. What occurs is an instinctual response; the same instincts that cause the growing of fangs and the extending of claw; and without thinking her form shifts to that of the beast. Now, in the moment, her senses come to life. Tufted ears swivel but hear only the soft drumming of rain on the roof, and in the near distance the quiet whicker of horse and other things in the nearby stables, oh yes and the breath coming from the form beside her. Her brain continues to process. Her eyes, reflecting a yellow glow from the fire which has burned down to mostly embers, see only the dark interior of a ranch house by the sea.
The tea master spoke of his noble quest to find the perfect tea, with balanced flavor and aroma.
There was no sweeter sound than Lu's ears than the song of peace.
Azeroth has a varied culture base and weird tech! Goblin radios are a thing! We've got clubs and dance halls, major bands and neat instuments! How does music affect your characters? Do they play it themselves? Do they compose or just listen? Do they have a favorite style or band? This month's prompt is your musical oyster!
The nights have been cold, sitting alone near the hearth watching the flames flicker until they are nothing but a warm glowing lump of dust. My stomach clenches again, unease but this is normal…at least lately it has been, worry consumes us.
Will he come back? Is he hurt? Where did he go?
These things will plague me until I have answers…until we…have answers.
Tonight at 7 at the Hall of Explorer's, thanks to the handy healing properties of the Light, Darlain will be managing to take a break from her new baby boy to begin a lecture series on the Heroes of the Horde, both old and new. Mirroring Arkav's series on the heroes of the alliance, Dar will be speaking about the Warchief of the 2nd War, Ogrim Doomhammer.
"What are you doing here?"
Mara reached towards the light and fell through it, falling into a world where she instantly floated. Her feet were a couple of inches off the ground and she looked at herself. She was bathed in purest white, and even her gown was drenched in sunlight. Not a single spot was visible anywhere, and her fingers were gloved with white lace ribbons around the edges. Her hair was perfectly placed, not a single strand missing, and securely fashioned to her head. All around her she saw beings of light floating, but incorporeal. But the voice came again, this time from behind her.
"What are you doing here, Amamara?"
He felt her presence prickling up the back of his neck before she'd uttered even a sound. All the same, the sight of her threw him off – a hooded helm, leaving the female voice featureless, save for two burning, fel-green embers in the shadows. The helm crowned by a half-halo kissing a demonic horn, leering visages carved into armor the color of dried blood – a child-like angel with devil's wings, a grinning skull with angel's trappings.
The grim reaper come to call in dulcet tones.
“Now where might those schematics be, Kragg?”
Let’s do this.
One vial for forgetting. Viscous grey.
One vial for remembering. Milky yellow.
Winter came, without warning, and there spread from the corners of her eyes tiny cracks upon the surface, slowly but surely, that spoke of the great frost to come.
((Ok so I'm a little late with the prompt, forgive me! ))
"Ten families bound against the darkness, to duel the enemies of the Light."
Fliers are posted around where all the bulleton boards are:
SNOWFLAKE BALL AND MASQUERADE
HALLS OF RESPITE
FORMAL ATTIRE AND MASKS REQUIRED
((So good to finally have gotten over the crud I had the inspiration to write.))
It has been an extended period of time since my last entry. At least my spirits are higher than in my last entry. It fascinates me how quickly life can take off and change into something completely different than what I had expected it to become. This path I walk has twisted and turned in an unpredictable manner.
((A few vulgar words mixed in this entry, just fair warning. Also there is some bullying, so possible trigger there for anyone.))
Fiawyn curled up on her bed after she finished up her round of classes. They had been grueling to say the least, but she had to admit she liked learning so much about music. Quietly she pulled out her journal to write, being careful not to wake her roommate, who was slumbering in her bed across the room.
Tacked to message boards over the old posters. The new Open Mic Night flyer with the new date! The Shadowfire Club will be closed on December 8th.
Kaewynn took a deep breath and relished the relative quiet. There was too much movement, too much noise, too much heat, and too many scents in a crowd. It threatened to become too much to process. Out here in the cold air of the balcony, there was only a few servants, who kept a discreet distance, and Frederick returning with two steaming drinks. He placed one in her hand.
“It’s like mulled cider. Only they used some sort of fruit from Pandaria,” he said. “Genevieve started talking to me while I was waiting and the name of it flew right out of my head.”
“That’s all right. Thank you.” It was warm and spicy. She saw reds and orange and heard the sound of a flute playing a low note. The warmth spread through her body.
“I should probably see that Lord Mallorey doesn’t need anything.” She felt more than heard the resigned sigh beside her. “What is it, Frederick?”
“It’s nothing, Kaewynn.”
((Still working on the next part of Bindings. Realized I had to change POVs for it. After last night's Meddler's event, I think I should explain Jehenne's actions. The game was something she wouldn't participate in both as a matter of taste and practicality. She doesn't like to use her magic in public if she can help it; she doesn't have really good control of it right now; and well, she's a bit stuck up. I'm sure it will have some IC consequences. It will be interesting to see what happens. I wrote a little story about what happened after she left the dam.))
Several years ago...
Rotted, decrepit grooves crept through the portal of Eversong oak like a swarm of black snakes during a mating frenzy. The entanglements immediately caught Ranidaris’ eye as he approached the tiny, urban stoop of his former childhood home and residence of the torment of his adult life. He paused at the foot of the door, taking in a labored breath whilst his nerves began their conquest of his calm. Every last disc of his spinal column froze in that brief moment, holding his legs in their place like stalactites hanging from the ceiling of a lightless cave. The fear swarmed his psyche, but as he had managed to learn in the past few years, he suppressed it with a set jaw and a wipe of his sweat-beaded brow. His satin-gloved hand curled around the rusted doorknob and turned it with a chilling grind. Shortly thereafter he stepped through the doorway, chin held high and brow knit, fighting to block the images of past abusers’ ghosts haunting this place, their faces molded into a single, empty blur.
He was terrified, for the man responsible for so much of his pain lied therein.
With a smirk, the elven commando looked onwards at his accompanying superior, the famed Arbiter himself. With that simple smile he remarked, “Checkmate.” Perplexed, the Arbiter looked at the makeshift board in the dirt for some time before conceding the match. “Impressive.” said the masked man, belying the same amount of calm that had surrounded him during the match. “Now, what are your spoils of war?” The opponent’s hand scratched his chin, thinking of a suitably rewarding trophy, before he decided on what exactly he would do with this newfound strength.