demons

Taking a deep breath, I drew the ten of cups with the beautiful rainbow dancing across the golden-inlaid card. The ten cups overflowing with the sunlight that glistened over the engraving filled with hope. 

The perpetual cold of Northrend; Come to the fire, be warmed by heart’s hope…

Clean-up operations in Northrend were almost the ideal work for me.  

It started like they all do.  With a dame.

((Just a quick OOC blurb, Black text is for Xiltavian, blue text is for Togy. Decided to make a play off of the eye color of Togy when every one or the other is in charge, enjoy the read))

Well. Well. Well. Togy, looks like you finally found out.

How in fel are you in my mind?!

The seals dear boy, you missed one on your neck, right on your spine so simple for me to make my way to your mind.

So it's been you have it? When I've blacked out that has been you taking over?

Mmmmm, the sweet, molten taste of freedom.

How long had he been contained, used? It didn't matter. All that mattered was that he had control, for times at least. Xiltavian had been listening in. This 8 Fold Path, now that was interesting; but, it required solitude, something which he had dealt with.

((Hadeel's recurring nightmare.  Image after the jump.))

Hadeel never came here, not if she could help it.  For her, it was a place remembered through a filter of madness, shattered elementals and broken ghosts screaming in her head until she no longer knew herself from the voices.  It was the place where I had first been bound into the cacophonous wreck of her mind.  She had nothing good to remember here.

The fall of Illidan and destruction of the Black Temple had not cleansed Shadowmoon Valley.  The armies of the Aldor and the Scryers had lost support when the Lich King rose in Azeroth, and so they had to be content to maintain their outposts, make occasional raids, and attempt to keep the remnants of their enemy from organizing again under a new leader.  

She awakened slowly...painfully. The lean blonde was shackled to a wall- unable to move much at all, much less find a more comfortable position...and gods, was she weak.

But hadn't Asarel told her that her luck would run out, eventually?

Prison in Silvermoon was better than prison in Kezan...

But prison, is still always going to be prison.

I am going to die here.

The lantern hovered just over her shoulder, shedding a cool blue light on the narrow figure that lay on the bed. He huddled in the blankets, shivering in spite of the oppressive heat of the small apartment. Se'ala knelt, setting a spoon and bowl of broth on the stool next to the bed, and reached to touch the thin troll's shoulder.

"Violet. Wake up, time to be eatin'."

Moshir stirred, groaning a bit, and she stood to help him sit, carefully pulling the pillow out from under him and standing it at the head of the bed for him to lean against. He kept his eyes nearly closed, wincing and squinting against the lantern's light and the few specks of sun that found their way through the heavy curtains they'd hung the week they moved in together. He looked worse than he had last night; the bags under his eyes were just a bit heavier, his movements slower and more sluggish, and his purple hair hung limp and sweaty on his brow.

(( Image between the words, click to see whole blog ))

I am many things.

I am Te’kuja, Bone Reader, Soul-drinker, Hakkarite. I am Etherwalker and Devourer. I am Zion’deh and Gurubashi.

The question has never been what I am, for I am many things.

What fills my heart with dread, in these long daylight hours and deep into the night,

“Loa bless and guide this son of the Darkspear, guard his sleep and shield him from those who wish to harm him,” Moshir whispered his nightly prayers.  He smiled as he opened his eyes, looking across the room to where his friend lay on her sleeping mat.  Their new home would not have much light, nestled in between the canyons of Orgrimmar as it was, but he didn’t let that worry him.

Take what you need from her, little one, you are yet weak. Moshir shivered as the voice echoed powerfully inside him.  There is still much to learn, much to be taught.

  I thumbed through a book that had far to many bent pages.  I had dog eared each one, seeing something of importance, but no such luck for my new task.  I welcomed the distraction, though it would prove challenging indeed. I hadn’t tried to teach a warlock since Wraithlynn was still alive but she was a poor excuse for a warlock to begin with.  Dante served a greater purpose in the accidental demise of her adopted sister, more then she knew and certainly more then she could remember. Her maze like mind had been ready to bury that atrocity with all the others she had suffered and I wasn’t one to dig it up.
 

The gardener's shovel swung in a great arc, shining in the mid-afternoon light. THUNK!

"Too loud," Miryam complained, pouting as she held the cool cloth to her head.

Tallulah sighed, freckled nose scrunching. "I could ask him to stop, but you know how he is about moles."

Miryam groaned, closing her eyes. "More of them?"

We, are rare. Rare for being selfess, possessing the epitome of selfishness and darkness in our frames. Yet, we are common. Common for our otherworldly bond, for our quest for thirst unending in our bosom, and in our purpose. So...lost. We are lost upon a road that few travel, fewer still leave paths to tread, and lost in fighting for redemption through a damnable choice.

I am Veli-Rinara. I used to be like my brothers and sisters. Falling from grace, repeatedly possessing blinding loyalty. We were lost in our lives, sworn to follow those who would find salvation for us. Elves. We often create more pain through pleasure, than measures designed to procreate salvation.

We're corrupters of humanity, right?

We're supposed to drive them to forget love, beauty, peace, and kindness, and sink into endless war, deceit, misery, and ultimately self-destruction.

But what could I do to this one that he hasn't already done to himself? He hates like my kind, and without our intervention.

Perhaps we are unnecessary.

Se’ala,

Sorry it took me so long to write back, but I’ve been busy preparing.  My friends have been pressing me to go, and I am now ready to visit you in Outland.  I would like you to show me the city of Shattrath, and the place that was on the picture, as well.

I hope you can survive on just the fungus until I arrive, for I will make sure you get some decent food.  I hope we will be able to spend much time together, but I will understand if your duties prevent us from being able to do much together.

Hoping to see you soon!

Moshir

The soft scratching of the tip of the quill against the paper stopped as he signed.  One last time he looked at the letter and postcard, and then he folded his own letter, sealing it in an envelope.

“You look like an unhappy woman, who is trying to make the best out of a bad situation,”

Syrahe moved with ease into the tiny hut that she had purchased in Orgimmar. She still had not accustomed herself to the dust that accompanied the terrain of Durotar. She stamped her plate boots against the mat outside before entering the plainly decorated sleeping area.

She summoned a reservoir of patience as she saw that again Rameikos was gone. She knew he owed her nothing. She had betrayed him, but since coming to this place, she could feel them slowly moving apart and it bothered her. She could not put her finger on it, but perhaps he was bored.

“Idle hands, …” She murmured as she moved to drag a wilted piece of lettuce from her bag for BunBun. She dropped the morsel to the ground at the feet of the fluffy white rabbit.

Your friend cares for you; she wants you to be with her.  She is a good friend to have, a useful friend.

So much time and effort you put into her, is she worth it?  What will she give back to you?

She will be a useful ally, her powers wedded to your own will make you stronger, and all who would stand against you will fall.

The young troll sat in his room in the Cleft of Shadows, nodding dully.  The faint smells of incense and smoke hung heavy in the air.  He wore a wrinkled robe, bright silver and purple patterns woven throughout the dark blue cloth.  One hand rested at his neck, gently holding a small purple crystal set into a silver clasp hanging from his neck.  He leaned back against the wall, shoulders slumped.

((part of Tess' story Things, Lots! Time, None!))

"To describe a mother would be to write about a hurricane in its perfect power." - MA

  It hung around my neck like fingered pressure below my throat, almost as cold as the north itself, but I wanted the reminder.  It’s hexagonal shape was a silver center of grounding for me because once he had been just that.  He saved my life, I have never forgotten it and I never will.  
 

((Part 1 here: http://rp-haven.com/blog/hesedd/roommate_agreements_pt_1))

Hadeel did her banking in the Dwarven District.  She'd always liked the dwarves - even lived in Ironforge for a while, before the Shattering.  Fel knew why.  And so we lived in the Dwarven District, where we stuck out like sore thumbs.

I'd learned through painful experience that borrowing Hadeel's storm drake was out.  The damn thing could tell.  So, avoiding the gazes of passersby - any one of them might know her and want to talk - I walked across the city to the Trade District bank, where I had an impersonal deposit box filled with everything I called mine.

(( OOC Note: The format of this blog is a bit odd compared to my usual stuff, and it might not make much sense to anyone unfamiliar with the characters, so please accept my apologies in advance for that.  Rabbly is by far my oldest character, and sometimes I get questions from other grizzled server vets asking what she and her wife are up to these days ... so, I thought a basic "here's where they are right now" sort of post might be helpful. 

Incidentally, the blurb about Deathwing and Surwich actually happened during our RP.  It was far and away the most perfectly-timed coincidence I've experienced in six years of playing this game. ))

She had stood on the red ridge over-looking the swampy forest, with its moss and fog-laden branches. She stood and peered down - the dry clay crunching under her heavy,metal boots- the sun stinging her eyes, sweat rolling down the side of her face as she held her helm under her arm. Lilly eyed the sheer drop, mere inches from her plate-clad toes, and looked to the water-fall on her right...and got an idea.

The troll sat in the Cleft of Shadows, disturbed only slightly by the faint whispered echoes of those with business down there.  He grumbled as he sat alone, arms folded.   Part of him felt sorry for the woman, seeing her wariness.  She must have been wounded severely by someone, or many someones.  Part of him felt anger, that she’d rejected his gift, refusing to take the fine comb he’d purchased with hard-won money, the spider’s shape carved from ivory and set with small, bright green gems for the eyes.

He could hear the warning voice within, one of his guardians warning him of danger.  She knows what you did for Zalazane, the scars left behind are plain to see, just avoid her! The softest of the three spoke with unusual vehemence.  A sudden fatigue swept over him, urging him to just rest, to let the soft darkness of sleep wash away his cares.

The pain…

It was some of the greatest Xannivard ever endured. The Light coursed through his shell, his crafted body. It’s source the Paladin Tiradell, the golden warmth flowing down his arm and onto his own.  In any mortal body, Xannivard would have been ejected from its fleshy confines as puss from an overripe pimple. But Melanim had done his job well, crafting with magic and flesh a shell that would protect his Fel twisted soul…to an extent.  The Light’s searing heat licked at his soul, flaying, burning, a fire seeking to purge it’s polar opposite in the universe.  And Xannivard let it happen.

The giant Tauren let out a quiet yawn as he leaned back against the stone wall of inn. The night was not very eventful, a welcomed turn from his time with the Scourge and Goblins. A couple made a crab-like walk past the door, already pulling clothes from their bodies. Lathaire shut the door with a slight smile. There was that dancer at the club, she was probably just being polite and professional with her flirting, but she was indeed, very attractive. Death had not been too harsh on her. The Death Knight unclasped his large ax, setting it next to the twin swords against the wall. His weight caused the bed to give an angry whine as he sat down. He'd try to visit the woman some other time when he was not working.

Avaraelia sat on the strangely warm floor of the Dreadmist Den, legs crossed in a meditative position. Her eyes were closed, breathing steady as the Fel of the cave flowed both around and through her. Taking a small measure of comfort in the sound of another's breathing in the closed cavern, a small smile danced at the corners of her lips as she took a deeper breath than usual, memories of the last few days rising to the forefront of her mind in place of the information she had been given to contemplate.