fear

The late night was always beautiful in Silvermoon City, Walking back in after my three days away now to face Mara, I left with only a note telling her I had a solo hunt and would be gone a few days.

A small smile broke across his face at the thought of her reaction as he walked through the city cutting through The Arrow Song in search of Luck before he went home, he walked out the other entrance to find the barkeep Miss Lacey sitting alone staring at something within her hands.

((Takes place after Elaeryn's "The Nightmare Continues" & my "Corrupted - Lamb"))

 “You resist. You cling to your life as if it actually matters. You will learn.”

The muffled hissing of voices greets the young girl as she slowly regains consciousness, but her body does not respond to her will to move.  She feels something strong and scaly coiling around her, tensing to restrain her arms, legs and waist.  As the voices and shadows sharpen, the sting of a cold, bony hand strikes her cheek and then grasps her by the jaw to raise her head.  She looks into glowing crimson eyes, void of life, from a familiar face staring back into hers with a cool, calculated gaze.

 “Heavy breaths, a trail of blood, and an empty room in the darkness of the Ghostlands…  A trap, perhaps? It has to be a trap, there’s no way it could be this easy. But if he’s truly wounded, then now’s my chance…”

 The wounded man clasped the daggers close to his chest for a moment, the continuing labored breaths of another elf seemed almost threatening. Hesitation, for the first time in a long time, and even fear began to play across the male’s lips. Earlier in the day he had also been overcome by such a grave situation, and even then, he was not afraid to go out and fight… He was afraid for them.

 Tamaki had even contracted the known assassin for a mission just earlier that day, and without a second to think, Velanth had accepted. Morgannah specifically warned him not to accept the mission, and even offered a solution for the problem she had put before him.

Fealydra is upon her drakes back tugging at the reins to guide the animal; the feeling of the wind hitting her face as the beast soared through the clouds was welcoming.  Fea’s long blonde locks whip behind her wildly in the breeze, she already felt uneasy being it was the dress or that fish she ate at the ball. More than likely the dress, this corset has been grabby in all the wrong places.

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. 

 ((I had so much fun with this one, http://www.rp-haven.com/blog/lilliana/perchance_dream that I felt a throwback was in due order. A perversion of it, if you will.))

Nothing, no one...

They all stood at a distance now, those masked people that had so enjoyed the dance.

The chestnut-haired elf in the elegant dress glanced around hurriedly at those gathered.

The tempo was heart-breakingly frantic, as she was swallowed by the crowd suddenly. They pressed, and writhed against her...all these nameless, face-less bodies. The dragon's maw here, a frog there, and a gnoll next to a grim fairy.

 Where...?

The dark-plated paladin...he'd left her here alone, hadn't he?

He makes me feel like a child
He makes me happy when he smiles
He makes me sad 
Makes me mad
Want to give him all I have
And I have tried to treat him good
Show support like I should
Did my part, he's my heart
And I've been faithful from the start 

((A short letter written to her deceased mother, Marion Victorine. She would keep the letter in her quarters within Frostmana Citadel.))

Dearest Mother:

I know you’re around, looking at me and all I do. I am well, as I can be. It turns out that there was indeed a man who loved you, enough to help conceive me into this cruel and yet warm world. I stumbled upon a friend and caretaker of his house, Miss Raeril (or Rae for short). Here I thought you were making stories up to pull the wool over my eyes.

((Takes place after The Nightmare Continues.))

The small runner’s chest heaves as she weaves through forest trees.  White tulle mesh and two, long flowing banners of brightly copper braided hair flow by in a wild blurr to beasts lacking the instinct to flee.

“Miss Recruit Lilli?”

Stephan - his young voice, frightened.

Ythgar's grandson.

  The lilting lullaby could clearly be distinguished even over the tireless chatter of the stables, vaguely dissonant in counterpoint to the agitated voices of Sin'dorei caretakers. It carried even over the coos and clamors, bleets and brays of myriad beasts under their care- over even the deep, rumbling purr of the great black feline at my feet.

The city was eerily silent as she made her way back from the quarantine area. She felt numb as she thought of all she had seen. The woman she had grown to love against all odds, her sister of sorts, was trying to sit there calmly. Shadow's words echoed in her head. "Get tested, then if you're healthy, take Van and go."

She reached her home and looked around, eyes blurry with tears. It felt empty and frightening to be alone here. She quickly packed the few things she actually cared about and made her way to Van's home. She knew he wouldn't be there, but it felt warmer and safer than her own rooms had. She curled up in his bed, wrapped in one of his shirts and her fingers brushed her forehead. She definitely had a fever. For a brief moment, she thought about running as fear overwhelmed her. If she was sick, he was already exposed. The tears started to fall down her cheeks as she realized that she was most likely to blame for exposing them all.

His head is killing him.

Which isn’t good, because he relies on his head to kill things.

If his head is killing him, how is he supposed to kill whatever made his head start killing him?

Mel rests against his shoulder, mouth ajar. Red strands of hair rest across his pink lips. When the human sleeps, he looks like a young boy and the innocence in his expression is something Xavior had never noticed until now. They lay together in Xavior’s house, cozied up beneath a wool blanket on Xavior’s bed. Xavior enjoys the tight proximity; it makes him feel like everything is normal. He nearly forgets the troubles that wait for them outside of the stone walls until his eyes fall upon the bruises that disrupt Mel’s creamy skin. The elf traces one of the dark marks, finger moving slowly around the irregular shape. He can imagine the size of the fist that created the bruise and it makes his teeth grind.

The scent of rotting things, of mold and death and old plague is such a heavy smell in the air of Ghostlands, a land that once smelt of life and spring.  Then it smelled of burning, and this place was called the Blackened Woods after the orcs took dragonfire to it.  Like so much of Quel’thalas, this part of the land still bears the deep scars of war – and the scars of a leadership who takes no time to heal those wounds.  I wondered if the Ghostlands would ever bloom with anything beyond sickly green mold and mutated plantlife.  Then I stepped over a hill with my escort of guards, stopped, and thought nothing for a long moment:  nothing but shock, sudden dread, and rising outrage.  My soldiers… my loyal warriors, sworn to serve and follow and fight at my word… laid broken on the ground, one sightless eye from each skull staring up at the sky.  The other eyes had a knife driven through them.

Knives, deadly knives.  The knives in their eyes made me think of the knife that sliced into my arm and nearly killed me.

There is no stray breeze for feverish skin. No teasing hint of water for parched throats. Sweat simply evaporates, steaming before it swiftly dissipates.

The world around me so perfect and green

the stars alight and the lands so pristine

I walk through quietly this endless dream

The waters shining, reflecting in gleam

Then they darken, deepen and change

Something stirs with unending rage

It feels just like it did before

When the coming of the legion our home tore

My heart is stifled, griped and strangled

I look around, breathless, as the deep forests are mangled

Roots are twisted, wrong and dark

The goodness in all is now so stark

I falter an fall, not strong enough

The ground turns dark and brown and rough

I look for aid, but noone is there

I'm alone, cut off from all that is fair

Your name my love I try to cry

but deep tendrils close the throat that is mine

Your touch is all that I could need

To cut these bonds that now make me bleed

Love.

Many claim to know it.

I am not one of them.

Kozha:

My songs I sing, my axes still.  Carved totems and blessings adorn their armor, my heart goes with them.

“Will o’ wisps.” I cried and pointed to the edges of the tall frozen cliffs surrounding the ship, a large smile on my face.  I reached for the arm of the soldier nearest me to direct his attention, excited that there was something familiar in this strange land, “ Look!”

I had grabbed the muscled arm of a sergeant, though I didn’t know that at the time.  He was an older man, maybe in his forties, his brown hair and beard were laced with white hairs, while wrinkles surrounded his lips and eyes.  He turned to look at the lights, following my finger and paled, his face chalk white as he took in my wisps.  He turned and began shouting, “Incoming!”

I didn’t catch what he said, I just stared at the lights as they grew bigger and closer.  I wanted to change into a bird and fly to meet them; to be the first to touch a will o’ wisp. I think I had taken a single step forward, my body ready to jump up into the air and change, to catch the sea breeze on my back and soar, when the sergeant reached out to grabbed my arm.

The sun is warm and welcoming, the occasional cloud shadow scuttling over the cobblestones. A light wind blows in from the forest, bringing with it the smell of fresh planted fields, blossoming flowers, and newly-mowed grass.

Death is not usually so frightening.

It takes a long time to come to one of our people, but it does come. Too often with violence; sometimes with illness. Age is an odd thing, with so much suspension between worlds and our inherent magic granting us long lives. Even so, few seem “old” except perhaps the Holy Prophet. Even he is not infirm, the Light's grace granting him the strength to guide our people.

I stand at the threshold, watching shafts of sunlight play on the cobblestones.

My breath catches.

Seeing her like that… hurts.  It hurts even more than the things she said.

In my dreams, I saw what happened to her.  She fought, but I knew I never could.  I was not as strong as her.

And now we’re both hiding in the Keep, jumping at every sound, avoiding everyone, even… each other.

She’s as helpless as I am.

This is wrong.

Kaewynn shut the door solidly and put her back to it, letting go of the tears she’d held at bay.  It was all wrong, everything was all wrong.  Miss Alynore was back but Kaewynn’s nightmares continued, each worse than the previous one.  She drew pictures to gain some sort of mastery over them.  She started practicing hand to hand combat in the hope that she could learn to protect herself, to give her the confidence she would need if those dreams ever became reality.  It seemed to help.

But Miss Alynore found the pictures and confronted her in the gym.  In its own way, it ended far worse than any nightmare she’d had.

She stands very still, staring at the swirling water in the fountain. The rushing of the water is the only sound that breaks the monotony of silence that almost overwhelms her. Eventually, she turns and walks towards a nearby bench. She hesitates as she stares at what should simply be an item of convenience, a place to rest while taking in the beauty of Silvermoon. Now it stands as a reminder of what used to be. Her hand trembles slightly as she touches the arm rest. She steels herself silently before climbing onto the bench and pulling her knees up to her chest. Her chin drops to rest on her knees as a feeling of loss rushes over her, memories of a time when this bench was not empty flood her mind.