Family

((little break from Gil's backstory to do a present time post before i get back to the Murder Row storyline))

"More tea deary?"

Gil shook his head, rocking Lynessa in his arms. "No thank you aunt Leandra." He smiled thankfully, but it was abundantly clear that he'd enough to eat and drink already.

"Fair enough! I'm so glad you finally agreed to visit." She chimed, running a hand through her shoulder-length grey hair as she sat down in an armchair across from her half-elven nephew and great-niece.

"Hows everything been with Lady Brightsinger?" she inquired, smiling warmly as she sipped on her tea.

"Daddy, can you bring me some candy when you come home tonight?"

"Of course son. Don't worry, I won't be long." Came Gilthånås' reply. He ruffled his son's hair as he slid his coat over his shoulders and put his hat on.

"I just have to go deal with some business a few blocks away.". With that, he was gone, stepping out through the door of his suite and vanishing from Gilthås' sight.

              "Evenin Sir." chimed a well dressed elf as Gil approached the stagecoach the man was currently sitting on top of.

"Evening Selerius, how are you this evening?"

The winds rose around the aged hunter like vengeful spirits, crying out their fury and tearing angrily at the ragged hides draped around his imposing frame. There was a storm coming, faster than he'd expected, and it seemed he would not quite have time to return to the small Taunka village before it was upon him.

No matter. He would seek shelter for the night elsewhere.

A fortnight he'd been stalking these frozen valleys and snow-capped ridges, accompanied by his beloved tigress, Belmaria, and burdened by both a worn leather satchel and a heavy heart. The bag- of Ranger-issue, and the last vestige of his former life he'd allowed himself- was clutched close to his body as he trudged through heavy drifts of knee-deep snow. His finely trained gaze methodically scanned the nearby crags even as his thoughts turned to the precious cargo he carried.

((I took a shot at writing a third person story and dialogue, not really my element.  So any feedback on improving is welcome!))

Time passed,

love deepened...

Lower City’s honeycomb of crumbled tenements and tattered tent neighborhoods was entering into an entirely different city. Sha’tar and Shattered Sun patrols were thin below the Terrace. Brown Orcs sold goods to Draenei while Arakkoa conversed with Ethereals. Urchins in ragged clothes herded sheep and chickens across the cracked floor. Thin women and scarred men drifted through the market to the sounds of Ogre bellows and Netherdrake growls. At some point, everyone ended up at the World’s End Tavern, listening to loud music or bad stand-up comedy until their meager coins couldn’t buy the cheapest beer.

Alynore climbed the stairs that zigzagged up the inner wall. The higher your housing in Lower City, the better off you were, until you reached the Terrace or the outskirts. Kamron’s apartment was in the lower part of the middle tier. It was a climb not quite high enough for an elevator stop. Two youths gossiped on a landing and a baby cried through an open window; otherwise, the level was quiet.

((This is intended to be a private RP between Faunah DeCapo and Angrif Lightforge and his alt, Gawain Lightforge. However, if someone does decide to visit the home, that's how it works~))

November 23. It was the day before the Pilgrim's Bounty feast. Faunah sighed, smoothing out her tightening dress. She'd have to go to the tailor again to get refitted. The pregnancy made her gain a dress size what felt like every hour, but was perhaps more like every other week. She and Angrif had figured that she was about 4 to5 months along. How was she going to where her hair tomorrow? Up, down, half up, half down? She swayed in the mirror, playing with her ebon locks. Behind her Acacia played with a few dolls, narrating an incoherent story. What about dress? The golden one she wore last time Gawain came for dinner was already too small. It should be yellow though, Gawain likes yellow.

I never really gave him much thought.

Why should I? It was Ma and me making our way through the broken world. We researched in Kirin’Var, did arcane work for the grunts in Honor Hold, and studied with the High Elves in Allerian. The two redheaded Forrester girls could do anything together and there just wasn’t room for anyone else, not for very long.

For the first time in my life, I find myself wondering.

             He had often wondered what exactly had driven him to join the Crusade. It hadn't been for glory. He hadn't done it for riches or fame. He'd aligned himself with them because he had decided that their values were very similar to his. But deciding to go through the process to become a Crusader had been a different matter altogether. Many of the men and women who'd trained to become paladins alongside him as a boy were now either in charge of Noble families in Stormwind or dead. Yet he'd felt no ambition to become a Noble. Cynric had always been uncomfortable around wealth and decadence, likely because he had grown up in an orphanage, a casualty of Stromgarde's defeat. Stormwind was the city that had raised him, but he had no home. If he were to have one, it would be in the old country if it were retaken, or in a neutral land that the Horde would not attack.

Continued from Beisel's The Mind of a Cultist:

They were coming. Two-hundred yards uphill Gus splashed across the stream, running headlong towards us with something in his mouth. Not big enough to be the donkey’s head... it looked like a leg. He barreled on, closer and closer, until I could hear the nervous giggle in his throat. When he reached me he didn’t even slow down, just kept going down the path we’d come, a rippling mottled gray mass descending through the trees.

Continued from Trail's End, Part 1

The most useful aspect of being an expert tracker isn’t the ability to recognize and follow just about any trail. The most useful aspect is the ability to recognize what a trail looks like so completely you can make one yourself. Any trail. Any type. Anywhere. From a deer’s meandering path through the forest to the marks a tauren’s hooves make on wet sand.

Here I was working with rocks, dust, dry scrub, pockets of aspen and birch with their flickering golden leaves, and dense growths of conifers. A little spare - not like the thick forests of Hillsbrad around Dalaran where I’d learned the craft - but workable. I walked on the hunched backs of the stones, scuffing the gravel between them here and there, reaching out to break or bend a branch in the way. Others I pushed aside. After all, this trail wasn’t meant to be mine.

“I’ve got to go.” I didn’t even look back as I stuffed necessities into my pack, buckled my crossbow quiver against my hip and tugged on my gloves. “It’s important. There isn’t time.” I opened the door.

Before I stepped out I glanced over my shoulder at the two of them. Credence and E, sitting at the table with our unfinished dinner plates between them, just as they had been when the message from Zhukova arrived. Neither had even moved, nor spoken a word as I’d leaped from my roast chicken and started suiting up, blathering about Hron Ironbelly and cultist informants and a hot lead.

*** NSFW- some mention/imagery of nudity ***

Learning to match the beat of the Old World man
Learning to catch the heat of the Third World man

He's got to make his own mistakes
And learn to mend the mess he makes
He's old enough to know what's right
But young enough not to choose it
He's noble enough to win the world
But weak enough to lose it --

The wood of the ship's railing was wet with salt spray under my grip and the swells of the heaving gray-green ocean made me strangely calm. Being on a ship is a place between. Between time, and between places. One is simply in transit. Time to think, to pause.

Kast decided to take a break. He didn’t look at me as he walked out of the room, and I didn’t look at him. He can be an ugly man sometimes. This business was some of the ugliest, and sure wouldn’t do much to improve his looks.
 
I snapped my fingers at my side, answered by the huff and scuff of Gus rising from where he had been lying against the wall. The basement was dark enough the hyena’s hoary coat barely muddied the shadows, but his eyes gleamed in what light there was. Funny how I treated him like a dog. In many ways, he wasn’t like a dog at all. All the better for this. People get used to dogs.

The barge was the key. It came downriver with the gray light before dawn, sidling up to scrape against the shallows. A quick transaction of men and cargo followed. With Forsaken crowding the surrounding territories, new supply routes had been carved through the hills, Alterac’s river shores being one safe place to make landing. Chillwind camp would have some fresh soldiers and fresh supplies tonight. But not after a quick trip downstream, first.

Denryk made his way down from the Peak as he waved good-bye to his siblings up above, watching them take to the skies on their own gryphons.  He would be taking his own gryphon skyward soon, as well, but he had to see one more member of his family before he left.  Taking a small, barely recognizable, path, he walked through a thick line of trees until he found himself standing in a clearing filled with stone grave markers.  He quickly found the one he had been looking for, a small stone marker, just beginning to show signs of age but clearly cared for, with flowers resting on it.  He set his own boquet down with the rest before seating himself on the grass next to it, watching the gryphons soaring overhead for a moment before speaking.

He was lost.

No name, no memories, no sense of direction.

All he had to keep him company were bleak sky and the barren wastes around him.

Occasionally he would come across people, but they were faceless. They always seemed familiar, but in the end he could never identify them. He was scarred, disfigured and badly wounded. He bled but did not die, wept and yet no tears graced his injured visage, could hear but not speak. He was dressed in rags that bore numerous scents, all just as hard to recognize as the people he encountered. He walked for days on end, miles of rough road causing his feet to bleed ceaselessly and painfully. Eventually after what seemed like an eternity of wandering, he found something that wasn't open wasteland.

It was a grave.

  Eriaria stood outside her home in Desolace, sipping a cup of hot green tea.  The night air was brisk and a breeze was running through her jet-black hair.  Her hair was almost dry from bathing and the scent of roses swirled around her with the wind as she basked in the soothing waves of the moonwell near by.  She lets out a contented sigh, basking in the life all around her.  She was in the Cenarion Wildlands, there was lush foliage and trees everywhere.  Not to mention the Ancient Protectors, the quaint little inn and small amount of Denizens who call this beautiful place home.  You would never know that they were in the middle of high desert with Legion minions and lurking undead near by.  Here, it was paradise. 

Last semester I had an interesting discussion with my Short Story/Creative Writing teacher about the impact of family (in our case, fathers) on a character.  He mentioned something about every character in fiction ever having "daddy issues" (and most of us in real life, I'm sure) and it got me thinking about this topic.

I decided to expand it beyond your Old Man, so here are some discussion points.

A. Who/what makes up your characters family (including extended family if you want)?

B. What sort of impact do/did family members have on your character(s)?  Did they follow in someones footsteps or are they a black sheep?

C. What are those family members doing now?  Are they aware of your character's recent on-goings or just wasting away in Ironforge's Home for Old Dwarves?

D. Are they alive or dead?  What did this mean for the character?

For writers/greater introspection...

First up was a trip to the Craftsmen's and Trader's Terraces and her various friends and colleagues there, armed with various new—or newly rediscovered—items and techniques to share and trade, as well as a cheerful, friendly disposition. Luckily, the latter came naturally.

It has been a busy week.

Settling in my new quarters at the barracks, although not as comfy or grand as my former rooms in the estates they’re grander than most people houses in Dawn’s Port.  Interviewing and picking the sergeants to assist in training the new recruits turned out to be smoother than I thought it would go.  Especially considering I wanted ones I could trust and who didn’t give a crap about my little romp with Saviero.

Of course this forced me to push some things aside which really needed my attention

The strongbox sitting in the corner starting the process of gathering dust and cobwebs.  According to Destrado it was filled with documents and deeds as a belated gift for my service to house Dawnrose.  This was rather unexpected when he dropped the box at my feet the other week in Silvermoon.    Sadly this was going to have a bit wait since I was going to need someone to sort out all the legal crap with these.