hate

Was it something about her?

They thought she was too weak to handle it, probably.

Or, they simply didn't trust her.

How was she supposed to lead a people who could not confide in her?

Togy sat there, looking at the chess board. He could not figure out why he lost game and game again. No strategy worked. How could he plan to outwit her if he couldn't even win
a game of chess, until saw what he had missed time and time again, and that gave him an idea.

To hell with her

Her pawns all strut about trying to earn her favor

But none can remove me

I'll speak my peace

Even if Shryn doesn't what to hear it.

She started this and tries to finish it

She's weak and her flames miss

Just as they'll miss a true enemy when they come.

For years this soul has scarred itself raw

For internal wisdom and mind in a war

Personal triumph to personal lost

The selling of morals for the price of their cost.

These arts of mine wrecked from personal flames

There's nothing to lose, though nothing to gain

For these stories of mine fall on deaf ears

Personal Trauma, hopes and the fears 

A baring of soul is not needed these days

For there's more to this world than personal pain

So burn it away and cast it aside

For we all live short on limited time

Cleanse yourself clean from a mental decease

The weight of our baggage makes us crawl on our knees

So leave this behind for it burdens the soul

Nothing is necessary, that's all one need know

Feel the removal of desire and shame

It's the key to rebirth in a world slightly sane

 Her cloth slippers make for silent footsteps on the floor of the ever-frozen Citadel.  Her cloak wrapped casually around her and her cowl pulled low.  Her aura bright and makes the deepest shadows brighten as she strides through the mostly deserted and chilling halls.  Like following a magical string she searches for Lola, the connection was so faint.  Her steps quicken as she runs up the familiar walks and keeps her eyes open for remaining Scourge.  They were there, she could feel it.  She could feel the eyes of some upon her as they shied away in the dark from her.  Ever watchful, ever hungry.  Hoping that some misstep would be made.  

  Sinlaise stood on the grassy, green hill dotted with flowers.  She was not wearing her signature blue robes,  but the red ones that only come out for special occasions.  Her cowl was pulled back, allowing her calf-length blond hair to cascade all around her silky, shining robes trimmed with gold.  A hand was resting gently over her heart, the only sign of her great anxiety.  

There were always quiet, abandoned places.  Shujaa had years of practice being where nobody was.  Red blood mixed with red dust behind him as he walked slowly, carefully out of the canyon.  Eyes steady, mind watching, steps measured, careful, muscles relaxed, ready to tense.  Weakness will betray me, he thought to himself, but I will be strong.  For her.  A vision of his tall, beautiful mate, tattoos outlining her face and the remembered sensation of her long, graceful legs against him stiffened his back, kept the fatigue from days with no sleep from causing his body to collapse on the ground to rest.

The Darkness floods back into her memory, flowing freely if only restricted to the memory. The pain that's been given, the Light searing the skin. Ash, falling from the vacant sleeves. Regrowth, into something more vile than anything that could be imagined. Sindrasa opens her eyes, her mouth dropping. She attempts to scream, re-flexing from the pain that was currently in her mind. The scream echoed through the girl's mind, releasing the suffering that was briefly returned from her with how she can. The room remained silent.

I can’t seem to get though to him, I’ve tried with my heart, and now with his blood splattered bright across the shop floor.

 It is ritual before battle.

 Have you ever heard of the stories of valiant last stands? Where all seems lost until the very end when the calvary arrives, or heros rally together to live through the night? Well those are the things of fairy tales, and the cold truth about Northrend is that there are no fairy tales made up there...

 To the observant one there are four things in a battle, movement, sight, sound, and smell. In a battle these four things can be divided among two combatants, the attacker and defender, neither one is ever doing the same thing in equal amounts. The attacks is always moving more than the defender, the defender is seeing the blade of the attacker more than the person themselves, one is always making some sound, a attackers war cry or a defender's cries of pain, and there is always blood. The smell of the defeated is always stronger, because more of it lies on the ground.

The movement was Tess on her target, a loyalist death knight screaming orders at a pack of mindless ghouls who drug chunks of saronite from the earth. She bound across the frozen black earth, her striders taking her three times the length of a normal man, she moved like the frozen wind itself, the once-human had naught but time to gaze at his impending death.

(( There was supposed to be a picture for this, but I couldn't upload it for some reason. I'll post it pending that I figure out what the problem is and fix it. New avatar is a piece I clipped out of it.))

   Thaerin stood on the edge of his favorite cliff in Stranglethorn Vale, leaned up against a tree, and stared out over the bay's waters. In his hand smoldered a single self-rolled Bloodthistle cigarette, which had already been half smoked. He had picked up the habit after his little fiasco with the guards involving his so called "death". A friend had suggested it might help him relieve some stress, which it did, but only barely. Thaerin took a drag on the cigarette and let the night's events play back through his mind...

What’s the point of love

If all it does

Is end in heartbreak?

 A girl runs through the dark streets of Silvermoon, tears flowing freely and silently down her face. A young tiger keeps easy pace behind her.

She reaches a large townhouse and slams open the door, locking it behind her. As she thumps up the stairs, an older woman pokes her head out of a room off the hall. “Alenei?” she calls, but is answered only by another door slamming.

It was a bright day in Mulgore. The sun shone of its glistening gold; the sky,
pristine in its brilliant blue, dotted by the softest of clouds. Bird’s songs swept
through the area; the laughter of children kissed the air. By all accounts it was a
perfect day. But not for Qiu.

        The overbearing druid stood before the grave of his Master. Master had trained Qiu.
Taught him how to channel his emotions; specifically the Beast that dwelled within
that sought control over the young Tauren. Qiu had hated his Master. Qiu had loved
his Master. Qiu had idolized his Master and he had cursed the man's very existence.
Qiu had needed his Master as a child. Master died shortly after Qiu had felt
himself ready to leave. He was wrong. Qiu had needed his Master again just a few
short weeks ago. When the Beast had won.

Bugs. Huge bugs. They were everywhere. Undead giant bugs crawling around the Sands of Nasam.

Disgusting.

Even worse were the people sent out to fight them. There were lines of civilians just waiting to be recruited. She watched one day as, one by one, they were judged on a basis of their professions and were either sent off to one of the master trainers or off to the barracks to get suited up.

They needed soldiers, yes, but what she saw was no better than slaughter. Zeth'anz did not know how much training these 'soldiers' got behind the relative safety of the stone walls, but it was not enough. Out on the sands they rushed forward and fought those undead abominations with everything they had. And the draenei watched in horror as, one by one, they fell.

Dear journal,

I know, I don't usually write in the morning, and I'm sorry I haven't written in a couple of days. So much has gone on, I just really haven't found the time to jot anything down! So, well, I'll see if I can't start where I left off the last time and see if I can remember everything.

Our trip down into the depths for the temple was relatively easy, Azaryel and I made it without much problem while my magic kept us breathing underwater.  The temple was as I imagined it, carved stone towering and decrepit in a cavern big enough to house Onyxia.  The air was stale but breathable, bringing with it the smell of decay and mold. 

"Everything they have told me has been lies?  The love I felt was but a hallow shell of the emotion?"

Timbul sat down at the well late at night, humming his usual happy tune. He sat down, pulled his sketchbook from his pack, and a few drawing materials, and began to doodle. It was a relatively quiet night...

"I don't remember anything... I just... don't remember anything before it..."

The three had stepped through the portal, His eyes carefully looking to Shannae only briefly, before rotating onto Amigone. He took a deep breath, as she spoke. "...T-They...They wish to speak." He turned, slamming his staff harshly into the ground, the sound echoing like thunder through the ears of those nearby. "...Let them speak, Amigone." he said calmly.