Arasminna's blog

It started like they all do.  With a dame.

Light's cold on the chrome as you kick off the stand
Rumbling roar as the air starts to burn
Throttle's ready and waiting right under your hand
And the road hums away when your wheels start to turn
Got a long way to go, get away from that place

"We do not run from the end of the world."

The voice was quiet in the middle of the night, but it was still loud enough to be heard over the sound of paperwork.

"Shaw."

The man looked up, eyes reflexively narrowing to speed the transition between paper and candlelight.  He turned this way and that, slowly, smoothly, not telegraphing his movements.

"Always the professional, Shaw.  I'll make this fast and painless, for old time's sake."

His hand gripped the arm of his chair as he slowly swiveled about, fingers tightening on the trigger mounted under the leather-covered oak.  He'd get a shot off, but only if he saw her first.  That's how the game was always played.

"You keep using wanted posters this way, they're going to send the wrong message.  This is the third time you've put up a price on our heads.  You're making yourself look a fool if you don't bring us in.  I don't think Matty Shaw wants to be the court fool."

The death knight carves his way heedlessly through the reanimated scourge filling the lower hallways. Failed experiments of the professor. Trash. The problem is that this trash, like most other formerly human refuse, does not stay down. Since he doesn't turn around, it's up to me. I slide down the wall like some sort of scuttling spider. Or swooping bat. Or...spider...bat...thing.  There are plenty of handholds for me to swarm down, even without risking the pointy bone spikes decorating the sconces.  My stiletto slides home, scrambling a recorpsified experiment's brains for good, and I dart to the other side in a whirl of cloth and a rustle of leather as it falls over.  All he sees when he turns is the remains of his work, crumpling to the floor...which gives me time enough to slip ahead of him and cut the tripwire he's about to stumble over.

you say that you spoke to the priest but that you didn't mention me

"Hello, Anatole.  Good morning.  I know I slept well, and hope you did too.  We'll both have plenty of energy for the day ahead of us."

Everyone makes mistakes.  In Avramidas' case, that mistake was panicking and bolting from his precious, protected little hidey-hole.  The second he left the scrambling field's effect, Sabyne had a fix on his location.  It took her a while to get that through to me, however.  The bolt-hole in question exploding had broken my calm into little tiny pieces.

A word to the wise is sufficient.  The foolish require a sermon.  The truly stupid require a lesson in pain.

To Miss Tavlo Moonsong:

It is with great chagrin that we deliver these packets to you at long last.  They were initially found on the person of Arasminna Moonsong, unsent and soaked through.  After they were dried (confidentially, we assure you) they were dispatched via courier, and we assumed you had taken delivery of the shipment.  It is only later that the animated remains of the courier were discovered, and his dispatches retrieved.  We have, therefore, taken the liberty of tasking one of our fast-courier magi to bring them to you directly.

We hope you will overlook the delay, and look forward to serving your needs in the future with similar diligence, but greater results.

-Alvin Durnell, Dalaran Bonded Courier Service.

Tavlo:

That's another dress ruined.  Tauren hoof right through the stomach.  Roll with it, Moonsong, take the momentum and hit the cobbles.  Left.  Dress is ruined, roll out of it, that's right.  Daggers come to hand, one-two right through that cow's knee.  No more kicking.  Up.  Push up, pu...no.  No, no, no, don't give out on me now.  Please.  Not now.

Drops fell like rain from the showerhead, magically floating, weightless, just long enough to sparkle in the light before impacting soft flesh, dimpling, steaming, and running in rivulets down the hollow of her neck, pooling for a brief instant at the ridge of angry violet scar tissue that defied the doctors' best attempts to remove before flowing through the valley of her breasts, once smooth and flawless, now tracked with the rest of the scar, reaching outward akin to the clawed, grasping talons of death pursuing that which had been within his grasp once, well and truly beyond the borders of his murky kingdom thanks to his lightning-priest, before her impossible escape.

there once was an elf who galen the stormwarden
tossed 'round the room like she weighed not a pound

Wish I were with you but I couldn't stay
Every direction leads me away
Pray for tomorrow, but for today
All I want is to be home

Swimming is hard.  Not like sinking.  It's easy to sink, to let the icy waters pull you ever downwards, their cold hands soothing away the pain of that fever we call "life".  It feels heavenly as it washes away the grime covering me, chill fingers prodding into my wounds and pulling out elegant ribbons of blood.  They trail almost straight up, this close to the Thandol Span.  There's no current to speak of.

So easy to sink, to finally lay everything to rest.  You don't need a reason, not like swimming.  You need something to swim for.  I close my eyes and listen to my heart slowing...slowing...

...stopping.

It was the suits that caught my eye first.  Bulky things of ill-portent, formerly bright colors of warning muted and faded, both simply through wear, tear, and the salt spray of the docks, and from being deliberately caked with mud and grime.  They were the suits of the Corruptors, designed to keep harsh weather, foul magics, and unwholesome things away from the wearers, and to see them being worn near midnight at the Menethil dockyard rather than out on the high rises of Blade's Edge...well, it piqued my interest, let me say.

I can't win at this game.

"He is a dangerous man."  I tapped a short riff on the table with my fingertips, staring at the man across from me.

"So am I."  He wasn't lying.  We called him "The Butcher" in our little circle, because Stavros Mannig was good with a cleaver.  His jobs were always messy, arms and legs scattered about the place.  It was said by those "in the know" that he took choice cuts home with him from each of his victims...a flank here, a thigh there, a dwarf's liver, a gnome's brain, a kaldorei breast.  I knew what he was eating now, of course, because I'd taken the liberty of dosing it before it left the kitchen; a soporific, nothing more, but enough to ensure my getaway if things got ugly.  Well, uglier.  His face was foul enough that it, by itself, would be enough to turn most situations "ugly".

You can tell a lot about a person by the places they frequent.  If they just want companionship and a good drink, you'll find them at a place like the Golden Leaf:  Nice, good service, and a big menu, but no atmosphere to speak of.  Those who want a quiet drink, alone or with a friend (or two or three) usually end up at the Recluse, and if you want a meal, you'll likely end up at the Pig and Whistle.  The kids who want the world to know how dark and anguished, yet bad-assed they are (after they get tossed out of the Leaf for troublemaking) end up posing and brooding at the Lamb, paying top dollar for a glass of piss-and-vinegar beer, and not impressing anyone.  This, of course, suits the Warlock cabal in the basement just fine...who'd believe an overpriced poser bar was exactly what the posers said it was?

What is the difference

Papers, papers, and more papers.  It's all papers these days, no cold, hard experience, no sniffing around the scene of death.  It's not real anymore.  Then again, the invention of the picture-box and the printing-press allowed information to be more easily captured and disseminated, and the pioneering efforts of the gnomes allowed it to travel, so I suppose I can adjust.  After all...it would be very difficult to personally investigate murders this far apart the good old-fashioned way.  I'll settle for second-best.

between an assassin

"Yes?"  She looked up from her ledger, moving her glasses up off her nose.  The dark gentleman smiled.

Once, there was a maiden
who watched everything around her
through sparkling eyes.
Sometimes, she would fall apart, but someone would
always sew her back together.
One day, someone didn't.
But that was all right.
"Children grow up" she said, "and there's always an ending."

I've been looking for an original sin.
One with a twist and a bit of a spin.
And since I've done all of the old ones.
Till they've all been done in.
Now I'm just looking
Then I'm gone with the wind
Endlessly searching for an original sin.

Leofric Angra was a well-guarded man.  It was unsurprising, of course...anyone with so many enemies as he had would surround himself with only the best.  I spent the better part of three nights examining his manor's defenses with my most critical eye.

O Fortuna
velut luna
statu variabilis

semper crescis
aut decrescis
vita detestabilis

nunc obdurat
et tunc curat
ludo mentis aciem

egestatem
potestatem
dissolvit ut glaciem

A balcony overlooking the desert
in Cenarion Hold
Legs propped up on the railing.

A bottle of rice wine in one hand
the glass forgotten on the floor
half-empty already.

The rush has passed by now
six hours, perhaps less
and for what?

Tension, bruises, and worse
a few new scars
some pains that will never quite go away.

Rewards, yes, aplenty
new trinkets and toys
weapons and arms.

Eminence with the Watchers
the respect of a few others
and a blow struck against evil?

The bottle arcs through the air
shattering against a stone
the spiders fleeing from the intruder.

The Tower won't be freed
by simple force of arms and will
no matter how much we try.

Fighting and dying is not easy work.

They'll return again, soon.
The tower calls them,
back from the grave.

It was raining in Shattrath city.  A hard rain.  Hard enough to wash the grime from the streets of the upper city, sending the scum to seek refuge down below.

A popular destination for that scum was the World's End tavern.  Down there, the rain mostly didn't reach, at least if you were lucky enough to find a good table under the solid part of the roof.  If you knew who to ask, you could get anything you wanted there...and anything that you couldn't lay your hands on, you could find in your imagination with the right drugs.  The World's End was aptly named, in a way.  Most of the time it was like the rest of the Lower City: a home for refugees, perhaps a bit of grime or despair, but generally full of acceptance, or at least resignation and safety.

Delivered to the Scarlet Raven Tavern, Garrett Room

Ode to a Table

By Minna Moonsong

If it were news about the Black Riders you sought, you could find it anywhere in Duskwood.  Of course, that would be mixed with news of the various undead abominations, giant spiders, alchemical experiments, worgen, horde, and other menaces to the once-peaceful hamlet.  Plus, it would all be so wild-eyed and far-fetched that you couldn't be sure what had actually been seen, and what was e

The letter would take time to reach its intended target.  According to memory, he would not awaken until the next day.  Allowing at least one hour for a reply to be drafted, then post time, Minna had perhaps 12 hours before she would hear from her current target.

To Lord Elandrin E. A. Arkander, Esquire:

I am a hot woman.  I would very much like to speak to you.  Alone.  In private.  Far from anyone else who would like to interfere with us.

Please write me back if you are interested in a private, lengthy meeting.  I am a beautiful, lonely woman, and I need to speak with you very much.

The wind whistled across the icy hills, driving eddies of snow before it.  While the horses stamped and shifted in the early morning, Chane mused to himself; even here, at the top of the world, the wind from the north was always colder.  And here...not 5 days' travel from the heart of the Scourge's power...it smelt of death.

It proved amazingly troublesome to dress while on the back of a galloping cat, being pursued not only by Lost Ones, but also by large birds and curious ogres.  In fact, it was so troublesome that Minna had not fully buttoned her tunic as her cat skidded to a halt.  Her hands were occupied with the first button, and her feet were only half-in the stirrups, and so her entire body went flying as