Alliance

For being a ruthless and brutal race, Ogres were once again proving to be both shaped and controlled by a middle aged dwarven housewife, much to her annoyance.  Honestly, dealing with Ogres reminded her of taking care of her child, the mannerisms and reactions being fairly predictable with both.  The trick was breaking into their rather chaotic pecking order system.  Darlain had edged her way there in a rather unlikely manner, not through strength or cunning or backbreaking labor, but through fashion.

((Here's the second part. Leave comments, because I'm wondering how my story is going,))

“Now,” the forsaken said, “You have the option to run from me since yes, I am a rotten corpse, or kill me.” He turned around and looked away from me. He actually looks like he’s sobbing.

She is there in the mist. Pale fingers grasping for me. I catch her. Watch her cough blood. She exhales once, broken. Her eyes go cold. I watch her hair fall out. Her eyes fall in. Lips part. Skin and meat sloughing over my arms. I count her ribs and teeth before she turns to dust. I wake up smelling dirt and stone and moss.

The bed creaks. It's too short for me. I see her now. She bleeds from the shadows, smelling of ink and water. She's the girl on the corner, before she turns and I see blue where brown should be. She stands in the mist when I close my eyes. Drawing closer. A step or two each year since Brill.

I bump into him on the street. Clearing my accounts, liquidating assets. Large words for other people who care for the smell of gold. I only have one use for it. He is buying flowers. We collide. An accident.

“Fuck, sorry mate.” He bends for a dropped blossom.

((Not too many people here know me, but I've been thinking about a storyline that's been bugging me for a few days that I want to write out. So just bear with me))

Gilneas is lost, everyone is going to be leaving tommorow for Teldrasil..have to make the best of it, and by that I'd mean about hunting down the Forsaken around these parts...

The transformation has proven to have nothing but benefits, when you're in control at least. The ability to go between human and wolf has indeed helped to keep my identity a secret against the Forsaken. Once I left a near by town, I let my self shape-shift-which I'll discuss about more later. I climbed up a tree in the wilderness and stayed hidden.

My ship is gone.

As my assumption of being safe within the Stormwind Harbor has been abolished, so has my respect for the King and his lackeys. With the highest quality parchment they brought words of the finest inks and a golden seal of the Lion, the Stormwind officials took “military emergency control” of the decently crafted merchant ships that were “safe” at the Capital city docks. No more than twenty-four hours given for finishing paperwork, laying off the crew, and handing over the rutters, my rutters, to the shipyard office. No more than fourty-eight hours allocated to the unceremonious unloading of merchandise, the clearing out of personal artifacts, and the last goodbyes. No thank you, no apologies … just a little slip of parchment telling all that The Mistrunner is now property of the Stormwind Army and is doing service for the Alliance.

The merchant still wore a symbol of faith around his neck. His legs were dragged a few yards away. All the soft parts gone from his upper half. The air smelled of fear. The goods in his cart were untouched. His mule was gutted in a ditch. Sinking in a pool of its own shit and gore.

Paw prints stamped in blood ran around the mess. The necklace shone red. I knelt and took it. Some fool in Gilneas would buy it. The merchant couldn't help but smile up at me. All teeth and blood. No lips left.

Shiny trinkets weren't going to save you, you dumb bastard. There's nothing here that gives a good goddamn. Not the trees. Not the mountains. Not the storms. Not the wolves. This is all there is. Fear till the teeth find your gut. Then death. No great Father watching from above. No Light driving the dark away. Mother hides her face deep within the earth. Wolves on our doorstep and she rolls over.

((This series may not get finished due to school. Or it may culminate in an ending of epic cliches. And yes, it is posted on the correct character.))

She smelled like water. I learned numbers by counting her toes. The only blanket was too short for her. She taught me to multiply when the bed got too short for her. She'd crouch by the cloth and straw, raise her fingers into the moonlight and make me learn until I slept.

Father drank all the money. He never understood numbers. Mother cried. Father drank. Mother left. Father gambled. Father lost. Sister left. Father sold her.

Might not have been my father. Mother wasn't a saint. He sold Minelle. Might not have been my father. But he was the only one left for my hands to find.

I left. Found Minelle. She smelled like dirt and stone.

Done for the blog "Incorrigible"!

A collab with a friend, he did the sketch, and I did everything else. He wanted to know very sincerely why worgen do not have tails. Oops?

Character-development art for Rawley. Some of my earliest art of him.

I... wasn't too happy about the whole 'haha you get stuck in roots thing' last year, so I drew a picture to get my feelings out in a constructive way!

This is ooooold.

One year, three weeks, five days.

The unbearable heat...  The echoing screams of agony...

Amidst the unnerving sounds of battle, a dark figure stood atop a ledge, though merely a silhouette through the dense smoke buffeting across the Molten Front.

This prayer was uttered sometime during Urilla's work-related stay at the Exodar. It takes place well before this.

Max and Mama:

Urilla makes another letter for Miss Rethelia, but this paper is of crude quality. The stamp of the Exodar is on the note, but nowhere to be found are the fine stationary of Frostmana. The note lies on Urilla's bed, perhaps forgotten as she heads off to train yet another day. It reads...

Light above...this man is huge! It's as if the Naaru chisieled him out of obsidian chunks, and crafted ivory stones for his eyes and teeth. His arms seem to be as hard as titansteel, his bones of enchanted thorium, hardened, and tempered, he shows no pain, feels no pain when he trains us. It's good that we have such an honored man in our midst. It appears that he has seen much turmoil in his life, yet only within the swings of his blade and voice can you sense it.

A letter from Thomas Alexander Mallory, Recruit, The Silver Dragoons

Dear John,

I had to write and tell you about this week.  I can’t discuss any of this with Mother and if you breathe a word of it I swear I will knock your teeth out.

I met a girl here, a reservist.  Her name is Kaewynn and she is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen!  And have I seen a lot of her.

A letter from Thomas Alexander Mallory, Recruit, The Silver Dragoons

Dearest Mother,

Thank you for the quilt you made for Winter’s Veil.  It has kept me quite comfortable at night.  In fact, there have been a few times where it was very hard to leave my bed in the chill of the morning.  Thank you for the cookies, too; they were very well received by my mates in the Hall.  Karen hopes you send more, especially the sugar cookies.

The ship docked just within reach of Velaar's Berth, and the thunder of plated boots upon firm wood echoes in the serene forests of Azuremyst. The leader of the men stood with Jol, one of the Draenei Vindicators nearby. The Draenei peers to the slightly short woman to her left, smiling as she speaks.

"Khrona Kai Khristor, Urilla. Where have you been all this time?"

The half-elf woman is shrouded in platemail, with a thick, white hood covering her plated form. She doesn't turn to address her mentor, her gaze set firmly upon the men she brought to the shores of the Draenei. With a solemn nod, her hand stretches towards the men.

"Eastern Kingdoms, Jol, within the boundaries of the Quel'thalassian City. I know that you might be upset that I left after my induction into the Order. Moreso that I saw people who your venerable kind despise. But...I am a woman of both worlds, and of neither worlds."

((

Due to extenuating circumstances, I'm stranded in Joplin, so I will not be around tomorrow night.

Furthermore, next Thursday, Jan 5, will be my last night hosting.  I have really enjoyed these Thursday nights for the last six months, and I hope that people will continue to enjoy The Blue Recluse!

I have quite a stock of beverages, so if you have interest in hosting something yourself, please feel free to shoot me a PM!

Thank you for all the fun!

))

((Sorry for the giant break in story -- lots and lots of RL stuff happened. But here, have more story! And if you just got here, here's the other parts: I, II. Constructive criticism welcomed and appreciated!))

Giuli was nervous -- nervous, and scared, and a number of other things. But in the hours leading up to her departure, it somehow all resolved down to being nervous about visiting. It had been years since she had seen the clerics of Northshire Abbey, and she wasn't sure how they would remember her -- if, in fact, they remembered her at all. Did they talk to each other about their old trainees? It seemed like they'd have better things to think about…though the fact that they had taken such an interest in her mother's case was an indication that they at least thought well of her family. 

Wasn't it?

The blade scrapes across the whetstone as a razor against damp hair and skin. From one length to the other, Vikentiy sharpens this blade absently as his mind is elsewhere. He takes the stone, almost the size of his fist uncurled, bringing it with reverence across the edge. The soft, yet coarse scratching of stone against hardened metal takes him back...