Citizens of Silvermoon,

Image below the break.

It was a simple glance and a newly remembered memory that lead Aurry to be sitting with an older Sentinel, her eyes lowered after having told her story.

“You have always lead with your heart, child. Even the time you tried to run away and I found you.” The woman sighs. “I would say the first thing you need to learn is how to listen.”

At Aurry's frown, the Sentinel raises a hand to stop the much younger woman from talking. “No, Aurorana, honestly listen. I have watched you long enough in your life to know you hear the bad first and then block out the good. Take your conversation with the Shan Navires. All you heard was the negative. You did not hear how she is impressed with your abilities at all.”

What: The Laughing Zhevra!

Who: Hosted by Ressekkie, drinks/entertainment by Broch, the creative ukulele stylings of Shiverhorn

When: 6pm Server time. (Monday, monday, monday!)

Where: Tavern/Inn building located in Ratchet.

Why did he have to yell? To block my path to my friend Eranna who has returned and try to force his presence upon me, hands like bars on either side of me, reeking of lust and anger and desire, like some overheated lion in a rut intent on forcing me to the floor so he could reclaim me with his body? I was so very wrong to have let him in.. he is too young. Too young by far, with a boy's impetuous demand that he get all he wishes now and no care for what cost may be had for others.

'They need a whole holiday for...this?' Alynore shook her head and continued on her new patrol route, trying to ignore the couples floating in boats through the canals, or lovers picnicking on the Park lawn. She adjusted the blue, silver, and gold tabard of the Silver Dragoons to distract herself from a pair getting more than a little affectionate in a dooorway. Not her business.

Memories flit through Alynore's mind, of muffled moans, thuds, and giggles nearly every night; if it was quiet, that just meant Ma was spending the night in some man's own bunk. Sometimes one of the men would be around a few weeks, or months; on two occasions, over a year. But then Ma'd get restless, and flirtatious, and one man would disappear and a new one would take his place.

Alynore never gave it much thought as a child, inured to it all rather early...

A sanctuary of books and notes and numbers and theories. Héra relished every moment she had alone with her studies; if purely to find herself in a most comfortable state of nakedness. While still covered with plain unders and an equally plain brassiere, the skin not covered was free from the stuffy warmth of her robes. Her solitude made the tiny, faint scars on her arms perfectly alright to reveal. Years of self-punishment were now meaningless without eyes to capture them.

Now finished with her reviews, the young mage left the couch in the room Jakobus had supplied for her and wandered slowly to her ashwood vanity. Nimble fingers plucked her hairbrush from its place and soothed her wild curls of bedhead with slow, thoughtful strokes. Tired, dusky-lidded eyelids drooped over her vibrant yellow eyes, although they appeared so Sin'dorei green in this light, she thought.

 It is ritual before battle.

((This post may be NSFW due to the mention of some parts of the female anatomy. Additionally, fair warning that this post may cause mild offense in some. Read at your own discretion.))

It had been two days since he had received the letter from Rethelia.  Two days he had been traveling as swiftly as possible back to Stormwind from his latest academic venture.  The letter seemed urgent to him, and as such his ancient mind made all sorts of presumptions on the situation ranging from diabolic to just plain strange.  And as he arrived in Stormwind, he immidiatly headed for the Old Town tavern, The Pig & Whistle.  He neglected to tell her where we were meeting intentionally.  Though he did leave the hint of a trail, thanks in no small part to his currently employed succubus, Jhorlith.  Much like himself, the demon was very much unlike the rest of her kind and her skills in subtle fel manipulation was something to be admired.

Not like it's really too graphic, but there -may- be some mild exposure... Also, feel free to hypothesize who this belf might be!

OOC post here.

I've had a bit of a random idea that could hopefully get me writing more than I have in the past (Last junk I posted was as Tara, back when Acherus and all that jazz was new stuff.) I'd like to have my alchemist dr00id Wildmane try to write some treatise or at the very least some sort of reference material regarding the alchemically useful plants you'll find in Northrend, but I've hit a bit of a snag.

"Mommy, stowy." Baby Ashe was a year and a half now, I had spent precious too little time with her, but, things were different now. I kneeled, picking her up, she was much heavier now then that day she was born, her wings were starting to develop, though not enough to hover yet. Still so beautiful, it's odd, knowing what she'll look like when she grows up. I've been asked, by those that know her secret, if I might be disappointed with the results if she doesn't live up to what I've seen.

Silly notion, she'll always be my little angel, nothing can change that. I sat on the comfy couch, calling for Radiae and Apollo. Those two had grown up awful fast, they'd be five soon enough, who'd ever have thought I of all people would have three kids, I feel like a kid myself.

So in the spirit of Iloam's fun drink game, and many other similar fun games, I propose a Mixed-Tape post. For you young whippersnappers, a mixed-tape was something pre-iPod people would spend hours on, crafting an aural letter to people they cared for. Songs were chosen to follow songs based on the intros and endings, and the lyrics or the themes or melodies were all meaningful. People put ridiculous amounts of effort into these things, mixing as carefully as any professional, often with nothing more than a tape recorder. The whole point was to tell a story or express an emotion which was difficult to put into words.

So. Obviously we can't go into that kind of detail.

((This story refers to events from the previously posted story "A Bedtime Story", though the events are separated by many years.))

The Duke snapped his book closed and frowned at the sound of the knocking on the door.  He quickly checked the clock, seeing it was almost ten-thirty in the evening, he frowned a bit more deeply.  For the staff to disturb him at this hour must make whatever it was important enough that he would have to deal with it.

“Come.” he said sharply, easing his frown until just showed the proper hint of irritation.

The butler entered with a silver tray.  He closed the door behind himself and waited to be recognized.

(The last memories of Lady Xanadinda Dragonhome)

I have never seen the ocean before. Stars, clouds, and moons move across the unbroken sky. The ground doesn't crack and lurch as pieces fall into the Nether.

It is unnerving.

This is the paradise my elders have dreamed of for twenty years.

But it has never been my homeworld.

The following is on wanted posters, spread around Silvermoon on all government buildings and buildings of note.

His enemies lay still, cold and silent. He'd arranged them in row upon row, after their conflict, and victory had never felt so sweet. They'd resisted, and their struggle had been a valiant one. But, one by one, he'd rooted them out of their hiding places and soon placed them alongside their fellows. And, if he was right, it would be the last battle he would fight this day. The tinker had won his war. He settled back into the chair surveying his combatants, and a relaxed, victorious sigh floated away from him.

Thump.

The sound momentarily drowned out the anarchic echolalia of The Shadowed Eye as he, the figure after whom the establishment took its name, found himself staring at a pin-heel unceremoniously dropped upon his desk. His gaze, however, did not rest upon the stiletto for too long; naturally - as would any man in his position - The Eye (as he was called) took the gesture as an invitation to inspect the body to which the shoe was attached, and began the visual journey northward, relishing a patch lilywhite thigh between the woman's ink hose and purple sequined dress, noting tangentially the black fur that draped her frame before meeting her supremely satisfied gaze in disbelief.

"You're. . . Lady-" His cigarette fell from his mouth as the woman interrupted him.

I am looking at the insides of this ticker that I am christening and it is very obvious that it is not just a ticker.  Mister Wade had handed me two tickers to christen so he could sell them on; the first had been easy, just a simple set of initials that came out with a bit of buffing and some polishing.  The other ticker has some posh coat of arms that means remaking the case a bit which is why I have opened it up.  I think this is very interesting, so I carefully slide the works out to take a better look.  Now I think that it is a shame to sell this interesting bit of work to some cove who won't take proper care of it and it just so happens that I have a spare ticker or two lying around so I put the other workings inside the case and save the interesting bit to look at later.  All Wade cares about is if it works or not.

He woke up feeling a hand at his throat. It was gentle, caressing the exposed flesh. Curious, even.

As he sat up to check where Darma lay, he found her across the room, sprawled over her hammock like a large green blanket.

He took in a deep breath, and smelled it in the air. Warlock.
 

(( Bahaha. ))

Good morning Silvermoon, the Dawn is at hand.