Anger

How can losing someone I never had hurt so much?

Hunter’s journal entry

It has been some time since my last entry, it might be a long while before I write again life has become overwhelming and my path is no longer set before me

** Tamakï Firestrider scratches his brow as he sits with his journal his hands shaking in the bandages from his practice twenty full quivers of arrows in multiple targets across the Farstrider training grounds, the disapproving look of the recruits as they arrived for their morning practice to find every target and attack dummy riddled with arrows. The only reason he stopped was because the blood was making his arrows slip, His hands probably will not recover for days.**

You had a half-sister Tamakï.... those words from Lilthessa were funny at best a half-sister get out of here.

     They smelled putrid. The sickening sweet smell of the plague. To a human it was enough to make one  vomit, but to a Worgen...

It was something else entirely.

Ångrif couldn't help but growl loudly as his padded feet thumped against the as-of-yet unsoiled ground as he approached Southshore, flanked by three more of his kind and two men on horseback. His fangs gleamed in the moonlight as he howled and reared up swiftly on his hind legs, bringing the cohort to a halt. His lupine eyes surveyed the ruined town as they stood quietly in the night air, claws itching to tear through the bone of a Forsaken.

What would Faun say if should could see you now?

    Morning again.

    Outside the townspeople have already been up for hours, busily making their preparations for tomorrow's feast. Children singing, ladies laughing; the sounds of mirth drift warm and tangible, like the scent of freshly-baked pumpkin pie, in through the window above my bed. Their cheerful voices carry through, in stark contrast to the ever-present din of the blacksmith at work and the bleats and bellows of beasts of burden as they go about their daily tasks. I wonder briefly if Hérion is out there, perhaps chasing the dragonhawk hatchlings with the other boys, his recent troubles forgotten in a moment of pure childish exuberance. The image makes me smile as I blearily survey my surroundings.

As you walk up, her eyes light up.

“So, let us talk about why you have not been into work in four days.”

Cerwis rolled her eyes and ran a brush through her long, silver hair, “I’d rather not. Can we not?”

The counselor laughed, it was always nice when she laughed. It was a warm, rich sound that always made the living room feel more like it was part of a home. She brushed her dark hair behind her ear and smiled, “I am afraid we have to. That is what I do, remember? We talk about things that you would rather not over tea and biscuits.”

"Did you ever think it would come to this?"

"No." He replied tiredly, setting the syringe he'd been tampering with down on the table he was using for a desk and turned to face the speaker. It would have been obvious to anyone in their right mind that the being before him couldn't possibly exist, but to the elf it seemed normal. The man seated before him appeared elven, but cloaked in shadow, his features blackened, wisps of smoke trailing from his insubstantial form. His grin was sickening, as if the creature took pleasure in the destruction around it.

"So thats why you decided to spend your final days here...with..Her...?" 

Not long ago I found the one person I wasn't even looking for. But to get to him I must tell you why I landed in his path to begin with.

For years this soul has scarred itself raw

For internal wisdom and mind in a war

Personal triumph to personal lost

The selling of morals for the price of their cost.

These arts of mine wrecked from personal flames

There's nothing to lose, though nothing to gain

For these stories of mine fall on deaf ears

Personal Trauma, hopes and the fears 

A baring of soul is not needed these days

For there's more to this world than personal pain

So burn it away and cast it aside

For we all live short on limited time

Cleanse yourself clean from a mental decease

The weight of our baggage makes us crawl on our knees

So leave this behind for it burdens the soul

Nothing is necessary, that's all one need know

Feel the removal of desire and shame

It's the key to rebirth in a world slightly sane

Such lovely suffering...the night is long when one is shut off from all that is good..decent and loving your other self..shutting herself away..apathetic..the husk..filled with rage..hatred...all that makes you a slave to the trapped King overwhelms all that is near..becoming what you truly are...a predator..hunting those filled with such nourishing blood...What is this? A hunter blocks me..an odd fleeting moment...should I know of this hunter? Orc..fel flows in him....it I feel his life within him..it must be changed..it must taste death..to have order once again. To be enslaved by the trapped King..It must die...painfully.

...GIVE me your life...

"It wasn't a suggestion." Cerwis's firm voice came back over the guild stone, causing Nel to inadvertantly snarl. Something that the stone fortunately did not pick up as Alynore continued on after the Lieutenent.

"Reg is plenty smart. he's also an athlete and male, so he's allowed to go caveman now and then."

The worgen drew in a heated breath before responding in an even tone to hide her irritation, "Very well, Ma'am." She then chucked the stone across her quarters, hearing it rebound off one stone wall after it finished skidding across the ground. The stone continued to sqawk as the conversation continued on with Nel glaring at a wall. Not really paying full attention to the talk.

Okay. Five dummies, set up at Orc height. First...

My hammer swings down, crunching into the wood-and-straw head of one training dummy. I'm already shifting my weight to the side.

...then the flankers would attack. Open them up with the parry, one good stroke for all. And turn...

Three whirling strikes later, the targets have all broken from their posts. I stand and breathe deep a few times, shouldering my weapon.

Feh. The real thing would've rolled with the hit. At least this'll help me teach the form.

Someone walks up to me, clapping. Actually, when I look, it's four guys. I don't know them well, but they're other mercs. I nod to acknowledge them as I mop my brow. I've been working on codifying my fighting methods all morning, which is almost as tough as actually fighting.

The room was silent. Xavior sat in a chair that he had pulled up from downstairs, his body slumped. His legs, clad in black cloth, were stretched out, fingers curled around the neck of a bottle. The elf’s blonde hair was ruffled and unkempt, his neck resting back over the curve of the chair. His gaze was settled upon the photo that mocked him from across the room. The black frame stood tall in contrast to the mahogany wardrobe where it rested. The mirror that rested on the wall behind it reflected the image of the crippled man, and as Xavior’s eyes shifted to peer at himself, he suddenly felt nauseous.

What had he done?

"Please, my lady, stand still!"

Farning Wolheld was the last of his line.  For two-hundred cycles of an Anti-Merlin Torquennator the Wolhelds had held Ansten Castle against all intruders.  Lord Risken, his Captian of the Guard, stood resolutely by his side.  Together they looked out over the green hills of Ansten, rolling in the fog like so many high-explosive sea mines on an ebbing tide.

 
“Risken, I’m dying,” Wolheld declared, gripping the pommel of his gear shift and switching to second for the curve ahead. “Even now the poison courses through my veins, eating away from within.  I haven’t much time.”

 
“No, my Lord!”  Risken fell to his knees, hands upheld to secure the oil pan tight to the manifold, catching every valuable drop of lube.  “If I could give my life for yours, I would in an instant!  Tell me, how might I save you?”

 
Wolheld’s hand fell to Risken’s head.  “My gentle servant, you honor me. If I may ask one thing, it would be for you to invent a gyroscopic engine which can break the sound barrier without -

 
“What an awful book,” Elli muttered, finally giving up on the battered and water-stained novel, tossing it to the floor over the edge of the hammock.  Even with her own interjections, the story just wasn’t holding her attention.  Of course, it was the third time she’d tried to get through the whole thing since fetching it off a beach on the Lost Isles.

He could hear the dripping of his blood onto the cold, cracked stone floor of the prison, but he couldn't feel the pain. His body was numb from the beatings he'd received from his captors and so far, he didn't even have the mental capacity to pray for relief. He slowly curled his hand into a fist experimentally, there didn't seem to be any broken bones, but it hurt like fel to move. As the Half-Elf pushed himself up from the ground and patted himself down to see where his wounds were, he heard the sound of a key turning in a lock and the door opened. "Good afternoon Mr.Soth, I assume that you're enjoying your stay with the RAS?". The Half-Elf coughed, the expulsion of air racked his entire frame and he fell back down on one knee. "You'll be pleased to know that we've searched through your records -quite- thoroughly and we've found no evidence to support a charge of treason. So, if you're a bit..."Beat" as some people say and at a loss as to what this means. You're free to go.".

An azure finger ran down the length of her tail as she shot the deep red potion back. Raksasha ran her tongue across her sharp canines to try and remove the filmy after taste as she shot a look over her shoulder at the muscular Draenei male who still lay in bed. She growled low, “Ahmik...”

He chuckled and stopped before answering in Draenic, “Come now, Sasha. You're not still mad, are you? I'm sure your comrades, and your sister, are looking for you, it has been a few days.”

The lean, light blue skinned woman rolled her eyes and finished buckling up the rest of her plate armor, “Yes, I am still mad. Yes, they are probably looking for me. I am very good at not being found until I wish to be, you know this.”

Alynore walked into the cluttered training room; it would probably get filled by injured refugees soon, but for now it still served its purpose. She stripped out of her armor, until she was only in sports top and shorts. She didn't bother trying to find the tape for her hands or feet.

Her eyes stung as she stalked to the heavy punching bag, swaying gently on its chain. She slammed her fist into the sawdust-filled canvas. Then the other, and again, over and over, faster and faster.

Nore had felt like this only twice in her short life.

The door slammed. Reggie threw his bag to the side before storming into the bathroom, “Cerwis!?”

The scout in question sat in a bath full of bubbles, her hair pulled up into a messy bun to keep it from getting wet as her head lay back against the rim of the tub, eyes closed. She murmured, “Yes, dear?”

“You stripped in a bar tonight. What in the Light's name were you thinking!? I saw how many people were there!” He sounded angry. Livid. He certainly felt it... She was his wife, sensibilities be damned. 

She looked at him then, her eyes narrow, “Look, it didn't mean anything. The men did it, then the women had to show them up. I didn't strip completely, either. My shirt was still on... Why are you so mad?”

((This precedes Quetsul's post Finding Resolve))

“Quet?  You here?”  Kozha asked, his voice echoing strangely in the shifting, grayish-blue haze that surrounded them.

“What did I drink?” she replied, looking around at the landscape, alien yet recognizable.

“It’s something that helped  us to sleep so the ritual could bring us closer to the world of spirits,” he said; the apprehension he’d normally feel at telling a half-truth somehow not present.

Quetsul’s gaze turned back to the tent, seeing their still forms lying inside.  “Are we dead?” she demanded, turning a furious glare on Kozha.  “This is all your fault!”

“No, sis, we can go back any time we—“he stumbled, the words stopping as a tall, thick-bodied figure walked toward them.

“I’m going back, I don’t want to be dead,” she said, turning to move back into the tent.

((During the 50 word challenge, I ended up writing a snippet for "taboo" that teased at Alynore's background and one of the many reasons she's messed up. That got my mind turning on this history blog from her late mother's POV, so may as well get it out of my skull.))

Elsbeth found Dirv when he was scouting; he took inordinate pride in ranging further solo than anyone else thought sensible, so certain in his own stealth and skill to avoid the Shivarra and their Wrathguard thugs. She used to admire him for his ability; now she realized he was one of the fools who, after almost twelve years on this broken world, had lost much of the fear that informed caution.

She intended to use that on the bastard.

Ormmon watched the warlock, worry marring his normally stern countenance.  She hadn’t moved since they’d arrived at the cottage in Brill; she just sat in her rocking chair, the gentle thump of the rockers hitting the floor the only sound to break the deafening silence. Even Volmat, after taking one look at their mistress, had judiciously held his tongue, though he wrung his hands nervously.

(( Continuing on from Open House..... ))

Heulwen slowly rose to her feet and forced herself to smile casually.

One must really have in their arsenal of thoughts, a sense of self preservation.

"Just going to stand there and watch me burn, well that’s alright because I like the way it hurts.”

The coins hit the floor, just a strange melody across the burned floor, the only sound save for his shallow breathing. It was a strange rhythm together, the sound echoing against breaths.. and the both of us.

I can’t seem to get though to him, I’ve tried with my heart, and now with his blood splattered bright across the shop floor.