Gazrael's blog

Hi friends.

Just a quick update to let the RP-haven crowd know that my .com is up and live!

http://www.lisacunha.com

The formatting and stuff is pretty fuzzy right now- I wouldn't suggest venturing away from the portfolio section as I'm still learning this html biz and there are a few dead links.

With the site going live, however, I'm officially opening up my commissions list. A few people over spring sent me e-mails expressing interest in commissioning me, and I apologize for not getting back to you- I was swamped with graduation and final crits business.

If you're still interested in getting a custom portrait done of your character, e-mail me at  Nijuunigou@gmail.com (Put something like ''commission'' or ''art stuff'' in the title so I don't lose it in the newsletter and site update e-mail spam!)

My name was Icabod Madeiras.

I am not quite sure if it would be appropriate for me to continue identifying myself by this name. I have been long departed from my corpse and now sit next to it in hopeful vigil. I've watched for the last three days, as my mortal vessel swelled and puffed up like a sallow toadstool. Insects stirred to life and began their steady march through the open flap of the tent towards the waiting feast of our bodies. There hasn't been a glorious flash of Light, or the assumption of my soul unto the golden tiers of Paradise.

So I sit, watch, and think.

The details of my journey seem rather insignificant and unimportant to me now. I am not sure if amnesia affects all souls pinioned between the planes of mortals and the afterlife, but details I once cherished when I was alive are slipping away with each passing moment.

((This entry is plumbing the depths of ooooold ShC history and 2 years of backlogged Gaz stories. The end part refers to Gaark's memorial service from- what, 3 years ago. Apologies if it's unclear, but categorizing the systematic descent of a character into batsh*t hidden insanity (for the second and probably last time) is tuff :V))

We take from the Light in bits and pieces. The Faithful are just borrowers, really- We extract a cupful of power from the Most Holy font, then suffice to dump it out onto the ruined ground, wasted. It evaporates into nothing. Then we spend months, years, running around with that same cup lifted to the sky, trying to catch raindrops of mercy and forgiveness as they fall from the indefinite clouds.

''BLOODWARDEN GAZRAEL, STEP FORWARD.''

The ''meeting room'' was not so much a room at this point, more of a box with a few wooden beams thrown over its roof. The sound of hammers, saws, and shouting voices vibrated its walls, and every once and a while a shirtless orc could be seen clambering over the support beams overhead. Sunlight bathed most of the room- When the job was complete, however, the hall would be without windows, without any light- save the two monstrous iron braziers set at one end, where the long teak table crammed with bodies was positioned.

My Brothers and Sisters were interspersed throughout on long, low benches, ears tuned into the dull mumble of conversation that lilted along beneath the constant drumming of carpenter's tools. Every few minutes another name was shouted, and one of us trudged to the front. A few glanced in my direction as I rose and stepped to the table, to my summons.

((Again with the bouncing around with short excerpts- The first part is from the UoK Scourge lecture, the second from current events.))

''ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT, QUIET DOWN!''
The gibbering mass of people crammed in the pews shifted. Hands were waving in the air, pencils scribbling. The din rose to a low roar as the Brill meeting house, packed to the gills, found itself its most active it had been in years.

Kanji was standing some distance away, gripping tight the back of a pew as a Tauren and female troll sandwiched him. A vein in his forehead pulsed visibly as he looked over to me, obviously unentertained. He never did care for this sort of academic meeting.

The lecturers standing at the front were trying their best to contain the pandemonium. The ghoul that was standing atop the wooden block scanned the crowd, mouth half-open and not reacting as he was poked, prodded, pointed at.
Somebody threw a pencil to the front of the room. I shifted uncomfortably in my chair.

Gadgetzan was a wonderful sight. We had gone for two days without seeing another soul. As the rocks gave way to the deep grey sand clothed in the murkiness just before dawn, the twinkling lights of lanterns and fires grew brighter.
Almost imperceptibly the lights tracked back and forth like jittery stars- the goblin town's night guard were undoubtedly doing their last rounds. I was just as certain a few of them had pulled out their spyglasses and goggles, fixing their sight on the bright streak of white and gold light that was quickly approaching the town's aboded walls.

Abbadon carried us without protestation, flying over the sands despite the heavy load of two people and the remainder of our provisions. A harsh wind blew behind us, whipping the energy trailing from Abbadon's hooves into the twisting trails of a comet. Dubaku leaned forward, most certainly unsure himself. First time for everything, Fallen.

-------------------------

''Kul'koz! Tin' ska-kee!''

(paaaart 1)

The sound was terrible. Had been going on for hours.

The wind howled up the sides of the mountains that surrounded us- screaming down the dried stream-beds, echoing through the ancient hollows in sandstone and granite.
Intermittently- a minute here, five there- the direction shifted, blowing back towards the sprawling flats below- and there was silence. It was the silence that was the worst. My wandering eyes cast crescents of white across the kodo-hide canopy above our heads, knife cuts slicing through the absolute darkness. Then, it was only the sound of my shallow breathing.

His eyes had been closed for hours, but I knew he wasn't sleeping. His ear flicked back and forth silently when the noise started and stopped, as if he was idly eavesdropping on the conversation of the winds.

''Hnrngh.'' The man beside me reached for the pipe, claws flashing in the dim light. He had to cross over my thigh- holding onto my thigh, tightly, to support his gelantinous mass. My leg dug painful into the floor woven of filthy rushes, but I said nothing. Her eyes and mine..they were locked. Would've taken more than gypsy number 1020....and all that came before him.... to ever looks away from her in that moment.

Habet Riyahel Hobi fi bali Tahdeeni Salam el habib... Tigouli Erjah ya Ghali Ta-lel foura wal il gharib....

((A dialogue-heavy prologue to a large backlog of events I've been neglecting to write about.))

The Forsaken was bowed, frail. He leaned into the frigid wind with a grit-tooth determination, pressing his hand into the chitinous neck of his steed. Licks of fel snapped and trailed from the infernal beast's eyes, blackened foam pattering the snow beneath his mouth with a regular beat. I used the pattern to count the seconds he made me stand in silence. Fifty. A hundred. Two.

''....Papa.''
''eh?'' Eyes narrowed as he stared into the hollowing wind that was screaming down the ice canyon, as if he was trying to gauge its strength.
''...This is important. I know you're busy here, waiting, but-''
''yeah.'' He straightened slowly, yanking on his reins. About-faced, using his back to block the wind.
''Your blessing. I need it.''

Fifty. A hundred.

The troll slumped, curling his shoulders together. There was a dull thud as the hewn chunks of wood toppled from the leather straps across his back, falling in a semi-circle around his feet. Crystallized, red pupils dilated as he glanced across the fire, pausing for an impenetrable moment as he went through the silent ritual of collecting his wits.

The snow had abated slightly, enough so that I could set out my tiny, crusted pot of ink and quill on the cleared ground. A thin, cracked piece of parchment was spread across my knee, scratched with a few spider-thin trails of jumbled characters and staggering syllables. My hands were still shaking under the thick bear's hide wrapped around my torso.

(( All of my characters have been a rich, wonderful experience to play and to represent.

As of right now I feel as if it would be inappropriate to participate in active RP with Gazrael, as she has reached a period of stasis. I have every intention of bringing her in strongly with the events of WOTLK, but from a personal perspective I feel as if her current timeline has reached its last note.

At risk of being overly dramatic I wanted to write a few snippets, probably unrelated to a general whole, to put forth the idea that she is indeed alive and well at the present time, and probably off making her own stories I will never be privy to. But I wanted to take these snippets and maybe do a bit of honor to those friends that have come and gone, as well as summing up a character- a person- I have loved (yes loved!) since her creation.))

I never knew such a sickness like this until then, that moment.

 World's End Tavern had never seen such a brawl. Well, at least since the week before..And who remembers that far back?

''SAL'ZAAR! SAL'ZAAR! LEYSH NATARAK?'' The corpulent goblin stirred from his silken covers as the room around him quickly dissolved into a whirlwind of flying booze bottles and fists. His voice was surprisingly loud over the din of drunken babbling and curses. There was a sharp noise, a rain of broken glass. A troll toppled down onto the cushions beside him like a freshly-chopped elm, roaring and clutching his face. Blood sprayed the expensive imported rugs and the goblin, who slapped a meaty face in indignation, wiping the crimson smear from his nose and lips.

((Short entry.))

She felt...awkward. Encased in a shell of thick plate, in ostentatious display. Her sideways glances were most usually obscured by a brilliant glimmer of gold, a protestation from Sel'theril at her shoulders and brow. It beamed brightly, seeking to nudge her away her away from a human display of weakness and familiarity with those around her. A prison of gold, was it? ''No,'' she thought. ''Way too dramatic.''

((Stuff has been edited, updated, added layout picture, starting list of stories to be included. Keep checking back here because I might not get a chance to let you know 1-on-1. :X))

Hello there, Shadow Council frens.

  I'd like to announce an open call for stories, relating to my Book Design and Illustration final.  We've been given free reign in this class- for the next 6 weeks, we dedicate ourselves to any project we are passionate about and illustrate/design/construct it as a solid, definitive collection or work on a single subject.  I've decided that, to keep my own interest and perhaps give back to the community of Shadow Council (albeit in a very narrow sense), that I would like to compose a packet/book of illustrations accompanying stories written by RP-Haven members.

 If you're interested, here's some technical information on how and what I'd use your stories.

((Not -truly- explicit, but yeah.))

''And here, folks, be the mystical and dangerous Red Whipvine. It destroy all in the path of its rampan' growth, as you can see all along this path.'' A fat finger gestured to a virulent-looking grey plant, snaking vines winding along the ground and leaflitter with statuesque purpose.

The muscular, dark-skinned troll made every gesture with full knowledge that several pairs of eyes were watching him, the flora tour utterly ignored. The hostel manager, a shrewd and stunted orc, had specifically required that his male employees and guides be well-oiled and muscled. Mostly for the deprived and hungry-eyed wives, but also for the secret roaming glance of good, heterosexual fathers and upstanding, all-Azerothian sons. At least they had the good grace to look at the plants that the guide pointed out, fantasy shoving out appreciation of the lush heat of the jungle that made their skin bristle with sweat.

((Hopefully the screenshots add a little context into an admittedly nonsensical entry. Make of it what you will :X))

It is comforting to sleep here. The sand covers like a volcanic blanket of embracing ash. My throat, my nose, my eyes are full of it. Hard-packed and tramped down and into my lungs.

''Gaz!''

The ash retreats as limbs whirl and spin, snapped out of lethargy. A torrent of sand flows from my mouth and empties onto the red-hot rock ground, sheaths of encrusted sleep falling from my eyes. It's 3am, but the sun immediately blinds me. After a few painful white moments I can focus on a human standing before my outdoors bed. He has a warglaive through his head.

The blow was sudden, unexpected. I crumpled to the ground with the sharp clatter of plate, my mace dropping to the dirt with an ineffectual glimmer of scattering gems. The side of my face exploded in exquisite agony, jaw cracking loudly as I gasped a ragged breath into the dust.

A shadow cast over me again, and I immediately curled into myself, bringing my forearm to my face in some useless attempt to shield my skull from another blow. There was a thick whistle in the air as a hundred pound's worth of plate carapace, muscle, and bone came crashing down to shatter my cranium into a thousand little pieces.

''STOP!''

The matted, gnarled fist halted, its plated knuckles glimmering in the thin sunlight. A heaving exhalation bathed me in the stench of rotting meat and sickness. My head turned away again and I graced the dirt beneath me with a thick splatter of blood and spit, peppered with a few ivory shards of broken teeth.

((I was commissioned many months ago to write the story of the rise of the Omen, and have only now started compiling the information neccessary to begin writing the first chapters. As you may know, Black Omen was founded as a PvP guild, but its first leader and great Chief, Muargon, believed in the importance of a strong Roleplay foundation for the guild's beliefs, justifications, and motivations.

I have had to adapt many of the original ''characters'' of the story and assign them roles in a narrative history, as many of them are no longer playing the game and can't be contacted with questions as to their preference in being inserted into the story. But I've strived to maintain the general ''flavor'' of the characters as they were played by their owners, and hopefully do them justice in these illustrated roles...

 The landlord isn't too happy with me.

 He sends in this, uh, cleaning lady. In the mornings, after I get my brief in the mail and eat my breakfast. Nice enough troll girl, I guess, just doesn't speak Orcish all that well. Sometimes on the weekend she'll come barreling in with her mop and bucket and start screaming about the stockings hanging from the chandelier and the booze bottles that slowly find themselves accumulating in artsy pyramids of broken glass in the corners of the room. Today she finds me sitting on a gutted pillow, legs bare, shovelling scrambled dragonhawk eggs into my mouth. Reading my morning papers.

I have spent so long, locked in this prison-

One of brethren's spilled blood, of feverish prayers and hope for forgiveness. Cast like adamantine bars over a weakly beating heart.

You once convinced me of something better, but she that dwells within knows...

Lies...Please give me lies, love. Perhaps it's all I'll ever have.

((This is a relatively out-of-date entry. And yuh, kinda long too!))

She questioned why it was that she constantly returned here.

Words like devastation, rape, slaughter, carnage, starvation,

Are lock and key words to keep the pain at bay.

The very first page of the book seemed to be little more than a series of blots, spilled ink, and scribbles from an apparently defective quill. If she pressed her nose against it she could smell the faint trace of a blazing hearth and bear-skin rugs.

Hi friends! This is my first post on RP Haven. Hopefully there's lots of gud tiems and stuff.

I figured I'd introduce myself by way of sending over a link to a project I did on the culture of Warcraft for a certain course I took. It follows a fictitious player (Marvin Smith) as he navigates Warcraft, coming up against all sorts of tribulations- and managing to squeeze in a bit of RP at the same time!