Blood Elf

Old gift for Dwyer. Paladin armor is exhausting.

Second attempt at legitimately drawing something.  This is my warrior, Sarenar.  He is in training to become a Demon Hunter at this point, so he is getting used to fighting with minimal armor on.  This picture/pose was based off another drawing I saw here on RP-Haven, the name of it being "The Lightborne" -- How'd I do? :P

Moonbeams.

 They dance upon the walls of my room here in Silvermoon City where I am for the moment. I have no desire to return to the dusty sandlots that are the Burning Steppes quite yet. I prefer to be here, with the sheets of satin and the comfortable words flowing through the lips of my native Sin’dorai. I had enough time getting out the sand this morning in the bath. It does seem to get everywhere.

 But yes, gazing up through the gauzy window shades up to the heavens my mind turned like an hourglass. I knew it is quite late, but my thoughts kept me turning. The wind turned colder now,  the blankets not quite warm enough to hide the chill running through me.

Her hammer slammed into the arena wall, impacting only stone and creating only dust as the Vindicator growled in frustration. “Damnable felblooded insect! You can’t stay away from me forever.”

She plops down on the soft familiar bed, searching the surroundings with her eyes for a few moments before leaning back onto and looking up into the iridescent fabrics hanging from the ceiling of her room in Dalaran.  She quietly closes her eyes taking a few minutes to calm herself after all the recent events.  When she finally does reopen them she takes in the surroundings and smells once more.. Pastries and fruit from the market and inns, even the scent of flowers from the various garden beds throughout the majestic floating city.  After taking a deep breath and looking around the room from her supine position she thought, 

"Truly.. its not that good to be home..." 

Xanadinda had thought to stay away from Silvermoon, but she had been wondering what had happened to Vaeron. Surely he would have come and spoke to her or at least sent a letter, but then again, he was terribly shy about women and especially her, so it would seem. He was also extremely loyal to the Blood Knights, of what he was a part of. She would have preferably stayed in Nagrand, where she was free from the staring guards and civilians, but something -a strange, lonely feeling with a mixture of something like... love?- was calling her to return to Silvermoon City to talk to Vaeron.

The ghoul collapsed and momentum dragged it forward, the piled snow crowning his head jerking the lifeless corpse to a crumpled standstill.  A goggled eye stared upwards, already calloused before he had met permanent death by the priest’s hands.  Jaw dislocated hanging to one side with a rolling purpled tongue catching snowflakes.  Meters from him Melidane drew in a breath, the whipping wind and oncoming warning of a blizzard made the simple act of breathing a burning line through her lungs.  

Dull black hair drifted across startling Human features, frozen in repose while he stared through the frosted glass, a soft sigh escaping his lips though no fog drifted away in the winter breeze. Elriech stared, the icy glowing gaze heavy and thoughtful, his claw tips gently pressed against the cabin wall next to the window pane. It wasn't like him to feel so lost, yet this evening, while the sun drifted behind the mountains, that strange gut feeling sunk him deeper into despair. The soft form draped across his bed, still clothed, snuggled into his pillows further. A thickly furred travel cloak had been draped across her, she had fallen asleep without even taking off her boots, let alone get under the covers. Still he stared, unable to get close to the women he desired lest he destroy everything he found beautiful, it's insatiable desire swept over him again while his claws dug deeper into the cabin wood.

He watched the troll move from person to person, doling out succor for Horde and Alliance both. After all, everyone here was now fighting against the same enemy, the same threat. With their resources pooled, they stood the best chance at another day.

Down the echoing hall, the rough human’s crass tongue was spreading platitudes and encouraging words, rallying the stone-dumb orcs and the equally stone-dumb humans to value their pitiful lives long enough to make one final push for freedom.

How did these short-lived races fool themselves into such a delusion of self-worth?

When the troll priest knelt before a wounded orc blademaster, Xelarus could see with his fel-green eyes two women – one dead, one living – as they embraced with more passion than any two sisters-in-arms. Plum-painted lips curled in a smirk.

Arcwik smiled from the doorway of his Silvermoon office, waving as Sanna finally made her way off. She’d glance back and offer a wave, and Arcwik would renew his encouraging grin.

…encouraging her to keep walking, he thought. He almost considered upping her rate because he was getting sick of her clingy whining. Blood elves. Sheesh.

“Next month!” he called merrily.

“Next month!” she responded, her eyes still dewed and red. He could see her lips fighting between a sob and a smile even from here. Blissfully, she finally turned and rounded the corner of the little merchant’s quarter, and vanished from sight.

Arcwik’s shoulders drooped and he swept his small spectacles from his nose. His free hand pinched the base of his not-insubstantial nose, relieving some of the sinus headache he usually developed after a session with Sanna Brightwell. There were herbal treatments, but usually the only cure was time and the eventual fulfillment of her bill.

It was a breakthrough; one that was doing a good job of accomplishing two things. First, Sanna Brightwell was finally confronting her pent up resentment she held towards her dead father. Secondly, she was bawling like a child because there was nothing she could really do to resolve the issue; old man being dead and all.

Arcwik Mindweld dropped his eyes to the notepad he had propped against one knee and frowned at the sketch he had made of Sanna’s tits. It was a decent representation, which just made it all the more off-putting since the owner of said rack was visible just over the edge of the notepad, her elven face contorted and puffy and red. Even blood elves can do the “ugly cry,” the goblin inwardly mused.

Above the rack, Arcwik doodled a little unhappy face that spewed big, fat tears all over the page.

I tend to have soft spots for very specific people I run into in my life and each and every one of them annoys me.  Hard to be painted as a villain and have so many blindingly obvious ways to force my hand.  Pity… I wonder if given the choice never to feel anything for any one person if I would take it, it would serve me a great deal not to have broken hearts or responsibilities for others, but sadly… like most I know, I have no choice, I live, breathe and pump fel tainted blood through a beating heart… thus I feel, and do so greatly.

“It will have blood, they say; blood will have blood. “
    ~William Shakespeare

There’s a certain irony in having the blood of a blood god dripping from your chin and oozing over your throat.  Well, that may be an understatement.  I was practically coated in the stuff from my fingertips up to my elbows, and almost the whole of my face was painted to boot.  I’m certain I looked like a wreck, but the others didn’t seem much concerned.

"What kind of..?No. Now, really Mardyn. If you put as much effort in your womanizing and bedroom escapades as you did in the arcana you could really be something spectacular."

"It's quite all right Magistrix Dawnrose. His performance is habitually unsatisfactory."

Mardyn's aggressive retort was drowned out in the snicker and jitters of laughter, all leaving the poor victim to wallow in the image of his inadequacy.

Xelarus caught his knuckle in his teeth, his green eyes smoldering with need as he gazed across the gnarled, moist, Ashenvale forest floor. He slid a hand down his trim stomach, letting a few fingers hook under the waistband of his silken, ankle length skirt, tugging it down a touch, scandalously showing more and more taut tummy. He dropped the hand from his mouth, resting it on his chest to bestill his beating heart, “Come get it,” he invited, licked his lips. He winked, one eye adorned with faux long lashes, the other left plain.

((An entry for Tavlo's Time of Day writing exercise. I wrote this one last, and I think it shows that my creative mojo started flowing. Also, I apologize in advance. >.> ))

Clup clop clump clop.

Xelarus’ sandals had a chunky, slightly raised heel that made hollow clopping noises on the baked wooden planks of the dock, an effect that was enhanced by the way the elf insisted on stepping one foot in front of the other, swaying his hips and keeping a sassy clip to his stride. His voidwalker hovered a pace or two behind him, the creature carrying a bag in each oversized hand, laden with the contents of his Master’s shopping spree. It was difficult to tell, but it wouldn’t be far fetched to assume the voidwalker was glaring at Xelarus.

He hated this city.

Umbuya had requested leave time, made the appointment with the portal-mage, and even found time to spend some coin to rinse his body of the grit and grime and caked blood that would surely get him kicked out of Silvermoon before he could enjoy a story or two.

He had even fostered a tiny glimmer of hope that this decision wasn’t a terrible one.

“Silvahmoon, eh?”

“Yah, garl.”

“Doncha git lost dere, now. Dey putcha in wanna dem crystals, I heah. An den how I gon’ see ya again?” The Darkspear sorceress had winked over her shoulder as she led Umbuya to the portal circle. Umbuya had wanted to thank her profusely for the gift of her charm; her flirtations were helping him calm down the nerves he was feeling for visiting the strange city of the Blood Elves. As it was, all he could manage was a smile for her.

Xannivard’s grimore lay open next to me, in a rare moment of sunlight littering the landscape of Feralas it was an odd image to see its rays spread across the pages, the book looked as if it should be in permanent shadow. But maybe that was just my opinion…. maybe the book, bound in skin as it was, liked the sun..maybe it needed a tan?.. who was I to judge.

Akiri Cloudsong's Character Sheet (Art under cut)

 It is ritual before battle.

Vindicator Lesya despised the cold.

Did a doodle for my friend Tailn of her blood elf (Fortune) Velstand!

Hope you enjoy! I would welcome (gentle) critiques, as I am trying to get better.  I didn't forget his other ear, by the way! Apparently it's been mauled and wouldn't be visible.

Click to enlarge

The high elf sputtered a bit of blood as he sat under the lights, the wounds from disabling him in the first place still aching.  Around him a circle of green eyes glowed, every face masked, every voice distorted by some spellcraft he hadn't identified. 

"Why are you doing all this!?" he raged impotently.  He'd managed to kill one of his captors before they shackled him kneeling, the body - another elf, by his reckoning - had already been dragged off.

"You will tell us of your associations." The voice was low enough to be a demon's. 

"Why should I tell you anything?" The mage spat a gobbet of blood onto the floor.  "Felsucking filth!"

Panic would sweep this battlefield more than the dancing flames caressed by the wind and sinister ambitions, carried into the fading sky of the eve. While the heat of frantic certainly towered over the licking embers and crackles of pyro, it was nothing if placed in relation to the cries that roared, shrilled over the moans of collapsing structures in their blaze red return into the earth, leaving only the black ash as evidence of their demise. The hot gales whipped up to fuel the torrent of infernos, unleashing the bulk of the already intense oranges and reds to bend, falling atop the vulnerable constructions of man and their devices. Explosions lit the night in jubilant hues, only to draw outlines against the darker clouds that loomed in stolid watch of the conflagrations below.

Full image under the break.

     ((Written on a dried piece of flesh, pale pink in color with what appears to be red ink, written in orcish))

   To Dear Emissary Moriurya,