The Ghost Scions

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 Echo's "Trail's End, Part 2"

“Thank the Light.” Echo took a deep breath and stood.  She motioned across the clearing to a dwarf in cultist robes.  “All yours.”  The dwarf cackled through her gag, and Echo walked into the trees to stand guard. 
 
I went to the dwarf and removed her gag.  She bit my fingers.  Pulling my hand away, I shouted in Dwarven, “Oiy, none of that!”  The bite was superficial, and I drew on the Light for healing while she laughed herself breathless.  “Tell me what you know about Hron Ironbelly.”
 
The question was too much for her, and she wheezed out another gleeful laugh.  “Dead!”

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.

“Kids these days,” Echo muttered, wincing as Credence gently lifted her foot to her shoulder and leaned forward slightly, hands pulling back at the muscles of her thigh. Echo’s knee gave a sad little creak and burned, the pain ebbing back as Credence loosened her hold and gently lowered the limb to the bedspread. Echo let out a few breaths before she opened her eyes again.

“That’s better,” she sighed, as strained muscles and tendons relaxed after the stretch. “Just... just wait a minute before you do the other one.”

I lick foam from my lips. 

Continued from Sadie and preceding the search for Hron.

I tripped on the hem of the oversized cultist’s robe, and Elrin turned to hiss, “Shhh.” Lifting the hem off the ground, I jogged to catch up with the line of recruits winding their way through the bowels of Grim Batol. A strand of hair escaped Hron's hat to swing across my cheek, sprinkling sweat in its wake. The recruits followed a narrow path along the canal of lava, and the smoke made my eyes water. I pulled the robe up to cover my nose and continued walking.

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.

This painting goes with the events Beisel references here: http://rp-haven.com/blog/beisel/trees_westfall

Image after the jump!

Continued from:  Homeless (Part V)

After his first visit to Ulduar, the elf drove away on a motorcycle that was much more flashy than the one Sadie had restored.  I walked to Olivia's Pond and unpacked my bone fishing pole.

A preserved arm served as the handle, and flayed fingers clutched a small skull that served as decoration.  The morbidity of such an item might have once given me pause, but Icecrown Citadel had long since stripped away those sensitivities.  I cast my line and stared into in the skull's glowing eyes.

The eyes stared back, and a voice whispered, "You were thinking about her again, weren't you?"

“Get away from her!” 

Onyxia ignored me and approached Verisimi. 

Echo stepped below deck of the houseboat, her mail jingling. "Well, that didn't go as expected," she sighed, moving to hang her crossbow back in its pegs on the bulwark.

Credence looked up from a table sporting a freshly-baked tart, her eyes smiling as they often did when she was successful in her endeavors in the galley. "You're back early. The tart is just out of the oven. It will take a bit to cool before we can eat it."

Previous Entry

“Yes, Ma, I've been saying my prayers. Kelval's been teaching--” 

Continued From...

I dared not breathe until a full minute had passed since every single one of Cho'gall's grotesque eyes had blinked its last.

“Let's take her to meet Cho'gall”  A cloying wave of suffocation passed over me as I remembered the cultists pulling the bag over my head.

The slapping sound of a high-five snapped me out of my memories. I could not bring myself to join in the celebration.

Timothy, the black fox, took a white-tipped ear in his mouth and growled. The owner of the ear, a long, golden cat stretched out on the houseboat deck in the sun, rolled slowly over, loose spotted coat flowing after the initial torsion, big white paw lifting to spread toes across the fox's cheek. Echo smiled at the lazy feline and poked Timothy with the toe of her boot on the cat's behalf, though her interference did little more than motivate the fox to switch ears. The two animals curled into a playful, harmless wrestle, Whistler the parrot hopping to and fro around them, bobbing his head and spreading his wings like some kind of mad referee.

"Going north, you said?" Credence asked, lifting the green-and-blue bracers from the table and handing them to Echo, a note of curiosity in her eyes.

"Not that far north," Echo answered, with a soothing smile.  "Not that far, hopefully ever again.  Just up into Quel'thalas, to deal with the Amani.  Haven't been up there, myself, but most of the Scions have been.  You know, I don't think I've dealt with trolls before - at least not a whole tribe, not like this.  Should be interesting."

"I always feel better when there's a dwarf around," Echo said, sitting back in her chair after swallowing a particularly refreshing mouthful of ale.  Decompressing with Credence on Friday nights had become a cherished routine: a light supper on the table, plenty of ale, and a patient smile accompanying a listening ear. Her sooty armor hung on its rack, far enough away that the scent of creosote didn't tingle their noses, and her bare feet rested in Credence's lap. As those kind fingers worked the tension from her toes, the ale tempted further musings from her lips.

My study of relics brings me to that great old wall.

As I sift the dust and fragments, I find my own crest, fallen from armor I once wore.

I take a news clipping out of my pocket, staring at it, and the crest.

I came looking for history.

This place holds my history too.

Continued From... 

Thread still under construction.  Posted to save links.

Thread contents.

1. What is Rumors of War?
2. Player Character Bios
3. The Armies at Dun Modr
4. Synopsis of the story with blog links

1. What is Rumors of War?

I went to Stormwind for roses.  The early Alterac frosts had withered those I planted outside House deWynter, the last blooms dropping petal after petal.  Stormwind always has fresh roses, and a beautiful variety.  Cassie deserves roses every day of the year.

We have no certain date or time to call our anniversary, but we both remember the music and festivities of Brewfest ringing around certain words that could not be unsaid.  No, the brews of the season were not involved.  Our exchanges are clear in memory, if not in exact time.  For the day, for the week, for the month, I will bring her roses. Red ones. White ones. Black ones hinted with the deep violet of her soul.

We want to provide enough information for people who wish to write blogs following this story to take and run with.  With the exception of changing major plot points or using "npc characters" that aren't yet introduced, please feel free to write things as your character sees them.  Go nuts!

We welcome 99% of involvement :D  If you do, remember to put "Rumors of War" in the storyline field so I can find your blogs easily and link them here!

I'll try to update this page as often as possible and provide "incoming" information (without revealing plotz)

The Story Thus Far

Rothmal Swiftblade and his small group of Orc soldiers crash land in Dun Modr on their way from Grom'gol to The Undercity.

I shift in the saddle, five miles from Warsong Hold. Dusk lowers his head, the slip and clatter of his barding ringing in the Borean stillness, as he seeks rare fodder among the lichens. The wind is sharp and relentless along my right side, blowing down from the North.  As I sit waiting, it reminds me.

This is my first return to Northrend since that night.  The cold wind feels both fresh and familiar, ruffling the fur of my cloak's collar and seeping through the layers of my clothing.  I am wearing leathers beneath the warm hide on my back, and carrying only my axe and my crossbow.  I have not come here to make war.  The war is over.

The war is over.

The cold pervades everything here: The air that snaps at our lips as we breathe, the bright clattering of weaponry and armor, the low rumble of crunching ice beneath our feet.  The spire is brittle and threatens us with its tenuous surface; if our boot-heels catch the edge, shards break away, whirling down into darkness.  It would have us fall, tumble away from the icy throne and the evil we seek to destroy.  But we cannot fall.  We will not fall.

He will not fall.  Melersian Corinth is one with the abyss, despite the voice of amusement often rising from behind his mask.  How much is he still human?  He will not fall.

She will not fall.  Beisel Goldthread sets a dwarven table, feeds us with laughter, then disperses in a puff of shadow.  How can a shadow be smashed or broken?  She will not fall.

"The shadow evidences an experienced intellect in a virus."

"Wha?" I can't seem to understand, or speak, or open my eyes. "Whzzere?"

"He's coming around, slowly," says a different voice. Lower... male? The first a woman?

"Yes," she replies. "This subject is similar to the others. Infection parameters consistent, thus the time to recovery is based on individual resilience."

"What... happened?" I manage to creep my hand up my body slowly, wiping at my face as if it could pull away the heavy headache, which tastes like something died and rotted while it was eating my head.

"You were sick," replies the male voice. "And crazy."

"I feel sick."

I touch the little cut on my neck, the least wound I have received in months.  Half of an inch long, it appears as a mere translucent line across my skin, hardly opening any chasm to flesh beneath.  It does not require a bandage.  I smear a thin salve over the incision; it will probably close by nightfall.

The assassin's sharp knife had hardly nicked my skin, not nearly deep enough to grant his poison's passage into my bloodstream.  His attack had been awkward, thrusting between my neck and my heavy shoulder-armor, having to leap for my height, grabbing my hair with his unarmed hand in an attempt to pull me back and down while slicing deep and true.  He could have cut my throat; he could have left me bleeding out and poisoned on the lawn.  He could have killed me, no more than ten steps from the entrance to my home. 

I let bowstring loosen, abandoned weapons. The sporebat lingered in the fresh spring night.

I shed my armor upon entering, death and plague left behind.

I went upstairs, my hair at my shoulders, every step one step closer.

I took her in my arms and lifted her up.

One step closer.

The Professor had fallen.

It is the middle of the week.  It is time to prepare.