Elf

(( Directly preceded by The Songbird in a Cage ))

Drip.

Several candles lit the room, though they had little life left. The flames flickered, but they endured. Water collected from a crack in the ceiling. A droplet fell, only to have the cycle renewed in a slow, steady rhythm.

Sitting outside on the ledge of the lair she had been staying in Shilaze gave a long sigh. "seems.. I'm meant to be alone.. doesn't it Fang?" she asked her wolf getting a gruffle in a reply "I know.. your with me but.." she looked behind her into the lair "they.. have each other.. I'm.. bonded but.. it's all i have. I feel so.. alone.. so empty.. at times my bond is all i can feel" getting her cheek licked she smiled sadly "I know.. you bonded with me too Fang but.. it's.. not the same.. I thought I had love once.. he.. just went away. He said he loved me an... he.. I guess didn't. Am.. I that bad of a person.. is there something wrong with me? Is that way I'm always alone?" she sighed tucking her knees up under her chin her ears drooping as her wolf whined softly "I.. just don't want to be alone anymore.. but I'm scared.. if I try one last time.. an I lose them as well.. that I'll crumble away.. my heart can't take much more.

(( Preceded by this post ))

Journal Entry #39
Subject:  “Songbird”                            December 19

We began instruction today. The subject was responsive and took criticism well. Classified as a mezzo-soprano. She has received no instruction previous to my own, which is to my advantage. She is easily mesmerized by what little I myself understand of the subject, and like all works of art, it is best to mold from untainted clay.

She treats theory as a man does a petticoat; a minor detail that can be easily overlooked in the pursuit of one’s goals. The subject lacks refinement. She has retained a good repertoire of folk songs, though far too many are light-hearted tunes that could be belted out by any drunkard.

Within the quiet shadows, stood the man, watching a trembling and huddled form as it moaned next to a fire. Thick sandalwood smoke filled the air, the inscent almost stomach curdling, but he was used to it. Unadorned of plate armor and weapons, he stood bare chested in long black slacks, arms crossed, glowing gaze carefully studying. Elriech had visited the Priestess almost every day, but recent events left him troubled and the Knight couldn't bare seeing another of his companions suffer, so he avoided her.

Just a small picture I did for the player of Mahat, of her character. :) Enjoy!

"Where is the small orc?"

It was the wrong question to ask, and the long-haired elf watched with amusement as Tanakyll whirled, snarling at him. He set the armor and weapons down and leaned back against the wall of the inn, arms folded. Once the story had come out--

"You can always make another."

She growled, reaching for her leggings. "Always so calm."

He shrugged. "Makes a nice counter to your frequent bouts of insanity."

She snorted. "You are the one who got stuck watching an orc. Must have done something wrong."

The elf frowned at that, running a hand through his hair. It was a habit he had obviously picked up from Tiradell, and the knight who had til now been quietly working to strap on his plate stifled a small chuckle. Tana glared at them both.

Tiradell swallowed, face tensing back into its expression of worry. "We'll find him, Tana."

"Councilman Yer'micha. You had some closing remarks?"

The Order of Tirisfal came to a uniform silence, some clearing their throats, others taking sips from their goblets. Their eyes shifted to the tall, middle-aged elf now standing to address them. In toast fashion, he held his own glass into the air.

"Tonight we celebrate the innovative minds of Dalaran's youth. Tomorrow morning, they will take their first steps in representing our nation by leaving the protected walls of our great city and venturing into an internship of the highest regard!" Yer'micha paused at this, his eyebrows twitching. The Council was all smiles, lifting their glasses, uttering phrases like "Indeed" or "Here, here."

 Please, someone. Save me from my own crazy ideas...

I've been having twitches of wanting to try out playing a Forsaken character, and I've just recently had a very strange and interesting- NOT INTERESTING! Bad Maira! Bad! Bad!- idea.

So. Someone please stop me from doing this. Because...

I want to make a Forsaken character and say they were an elf. And they're very unhappy... because their ears fell off while they were dead.

/whooping laughter at own idea

I can't help it! Someone, stop me before I embarass myself and do this very, very silly thing.... Or don't stop me. I won't complain if you don't. Just tell me what you think.

I mean, it makes sense, kinda. They could have been visiting Tirisfal, or lived there, and their undead horse could be their elven horse that died and that they raised/a friend raised/a necromancer raised for pay/ ...

    The temperd enviroment of the City Dalaran floating in the night sky of Northrend. Was still..for the most part. The armies of the Horde and Allaince hurried about. Deeds to be done, lives to be taken. So a soft scream over the commotion of races was barely audible....

       Kneeling at my old friends feet, Surprising her with my speed across the room. The *beast* part of me coiled and leashed to a wall.. The disciplined manners of old taking over. My tail coiling around me, Right knee down, left knee up. Left hand still and clasped over my knee as my right hand held aloft at her waist... Open and waiting for hers to pay respects. A soft sigh escapes her lipps as I felt her hand slipp into mine. Lifting my lipps to her hand, over turning it.. Cultures mixing as I softly lick and bite her wrist. A shuddering gasp leaving her. Her hear rate jumping...

      The perfect dance of battle, The stepps, the way bodies move across the dance floor of the battle field. The smell of fresh blood mixed with sweat. The music of steel and screams of the fallen.

   The dank smell of Dalaran's  sewer filled my lungs, Combined with sweet loving taste of blood and whimpering fear. I slidd under my brother Shaaghuns Axe as he cleaved it into the elven gladiator's chest. The pleasent sound of the soft skins voice slidding across my scales like living silk. I blast an elven combatent in face fire smoldering in the palm of my hands. The fell  across the ground silenced, still, free from the world of pain.. So many wariors trying for our attention, my brother and me. I spread my hands out calling on the shadows, the runes carved in my flesh glow molten red. The screams of agony befall my victims. Shaaghun chuckles at my side; cleaning his blade. As warriors fell one by one.

A slightly edited repost from Realmportal.

“Screaming is bad for the voice, but it's good for the heart.”
~Conor Oberst

I can't escape my slow death even while wrapped within my dreams. The fierce, cold ache of my bones beginning to deteriorate chases me into nightmares. Where once I could content myself with nights of hot blood pouring down my parched throat and quivering meat between my teeth, now I can only seek to chase my dream-prey through brightly lit woods, always out of reach as they laugh in delight. No more the boogeyman.

 Dutaee rode through Eversong forest, Talon and Shifter walking contently behind him. He was still hurting inside, still angry at himself. He should have known better, should have known Hakka wouldn’t have feelings for him.