honor

Tylel entered his small bachelor apartment in a hurry.

“Where is it... where is it?” he asked out loud to no one, tapping his chin. The bed was undone, a few dishes were left next to the sink in the small kitchen. There was a pile of heterogeneous objects in another corner, brought back from his expeditions in to the Black Woods. Aside from that, the room was rather clean. The sound from the street would come in, day or night, but it gave his now lonely life a sense of action.

He had just came back from meeting from meeting Lady Whitedawn, or Lilliana as she preferred to be called at first. She was taller than what he had expected. And much, much younger. Perhaps his own age. There is, in young people, a very fine age, between being a complete teenager, and being a fully assumed adult, where carelessness is confronted, each day, by a view of the future that requires planning and dedication.

           Home. What a strange concept for someone in his position.

His home in Arathor had been razed by orcs when he was but a babe. Not even a year ago the Forsaken had devastated his mother's home and the land that had raised him in a cowardly attack using their chemical weapons when they finally accepted that they weren't skilled enough to win the war that They had started. Everywhere he'd called home had at one point or another been destroyed by a race that owed its allegiance to the Horde. He had not asked for this. He had not challenged the savage green-skinned orcs from the safety of his cradle. Nor had he scaled the wall to spit on passing Forsaken or send missives by carrier pigeon to the Dark Lady as the walking corpses called her to boast and beckon. 

No.

Kavanar could have picked a different day for his visit — or better yet, he could have just left me alone —but since he didn’t intend to stop pestering me it was best just to get this out the way and see what the Eins’Soldats wanted from the great betrayer of the family name.

This didn’t mean I was going to be polite; I had a training yard full of recruits to review today. Young men and women who one day hoped to swear to Shryn they’d be willing to die for Pox — either that, or get paid a lot more.

Kavanar was brooding next to the stack of practice weapons I’d left him by after his formal greeting earlier this morning. I’ve ignored him for the past thirty minutes to assist my sergeants while they lined up the recruits in neat little rows for inspection.

My mind wandered back to the week which had just passed:  a vivid image of members of various platoons from the 6^th and 8^th Farstrider Companies gathered on a rise in the Ghostlands, my shrewd gaze flicking over them from the shadows as my Sergeant-Major made the formation inspection, a grim grin of pride curving my face. With confirmation of the troll threat, the Farstriders were assigned to the Ghostlands in slowly increasing numbers and confidence, and I had been called to fulfill my duty as the rank of Ranger-Lord entailed, commander of the 2^nd Farstrider Battalion.  

Is this just a dream?

The ring's floor was dusted with a white snow, blotches of crimson splattered around where a Vyrkul had been caught by a blade during their challenge in order to ascend. A tangy iron scent of blood fillled the air as the val'kyr examined Gunndis, then the larger male across from her. Gunndis adjusted her helm. She wore a heavy kilt of thick mammoth fur with a dragon scale over-kilt lined with metal studs. Her boots were well worned and thickly lined with furs to keep the cold out. Metal plates were attatched to the tops of her feet and shins to add protection when riding her Proto-Drake. A fur poncho hung from her shoulders, the thick dragon scale vest peeking out from underneath. A large metal belt hung loosely from her waist, more to display the various skulls and tied braids of those she had defeated than anything else. Fingerless gauntlets made of thick saronite and covered in a never-ending weave of designs reached to her elbows.

(( I'd been nagged for weeks to do this questline, and several designers at Blizzcon recommended it as their favorite. Upon completing the quest in character for Jabari, I chose to blog out his reaction to it. I understand that in reality Jabari would not have been 'the' one standing there under Garrosh's gaze, as anyone can do these quests, I chose to imagine the scenario with the implications therein. Also. If you plan on doing these quests yourself on an alt, I recommend doing it for yourself rather than reading this. I promise it's worth it. ))

     Daraman circled the house from the air, checking for any signs of guards or hidden traps.  So far he hadn't seen anything, or anybody for that matter, near the house, but it was early still, dawn still breaking, and the tauren had chalked up the inactivity to it's occupants still sleeping.  Fairly confident that he wouldn't be immediately overwhelmed by guards either before or after his mission, he gently steered his undead gryphon to the ground, dismissing it as soon as he dismounted.  Moving up to the small house, axe in hand, he caught a glimpse of movement against the dim candlelight of a nearby window.  He quickly ducked beneath it, pressing himself against the wall of the house and waited for several tense seconds for a reaction from the inside of the house.  After not hearing any cries of alarm or the sound of anybody going to check, he decided to peer inside the house and see what awaited him inside.  As he looked inside

Behind the cover of the ebon, leather-bound book which was known as the Apocryphalt, a slate of thin metal lined the very inner pages almost as if it were they were among the most important the book had to offer. The language was a strange mixture of Eredun and Nerubian, seemingly blended by a multi-tongued being. Or perhaps, a non-physical being. If one were able to translate it to Thalassian or Orcish, it would be crude simply because of the grammar differences. If one were to properly translate it and add proper parts of grammar, it would read:

He paced on his usual walk down the bustling street of the Trade district. He was returning to where he'd tied his Charger up for the time being, having sold some things at the local auction, his purse felt a bit heavier to carry. A smile upon his face at the success of such. "Who knew those blasted Orbs would sell..." He chuckled softly, pausing as he came upon a small news stand. His face sudddenly melted every bit of relaxation and casual attitude it had upon it. He stared at the headlines, as it outlined the massacre in Arathi. He grabbed up the paper, tossing the coins at the man working the stand. His form moving, bumping carelessly into people as he made his way to the horse. He tossed the paper aside, and undid the horse, slinging himself atop he, he tugged at the reigns. "....And so it begins.." And with a swift jolt to the beasts sides, the hooves galloped off towards the Gryphon master.

The day dawned bright and cool. Kyperion rolled slowly onto his side to look at the inky pool of raven hair that spread across the pillow. He leaned over and his lips softly brushed the soft cream colored skin of Muriella’s shoulder. She mumbled softly, as he whispered “Good morning my sweet ‘Ella.”

Chapter 5 - Turning the Corner

All of us reach a specific point in our life, when we must jump from the mountain to see if we can fly.  Here we read of our gnomes reaching that precipice.

He did not stay the night, but rather resumed his feigned drunkenness and walked from the Inn to the gryphon master of Stormwind. Slurring his speech he stammered South Shore as he shakily climbed aboard one of the great winged gryphon. Once airborne however, the drunken affectation was shed faster than the skin of a Barren’s asp.

The ocean crossing was, as crossings go, uneventful. Kyp kept to his cabin a good deal of the time, after it was obvious that word of the events in the tavern had reached the crew before they weighed anchor. He had no desire to recount the events, and wanted the matter behind him. He had other concerns to deal with now. In the bottom of his travelling pack in a cleverly hidden compartment lay the heavy metal seal of the Commander of the High Tinkers Hand.

He was unsure of why Nik’s last request of him had been to return the seal, and why it must be done with stealth. In the days after Nik’s death several rough and weary looking gnomes had stopped by the house to pay their respects. He knew none of them, but they all knew him by name. Most spoke highly of his grandfather, and it was odd to be around so many people who knew so intimately a gnome who had helped to shape his life, even though they had never met.

After visiting his newly acquired vault in Ratchet, Kyp climbed on a gryphon to Theramore to catch the next boat to Menethil and let his mind wander. He mused on his trip to the goblin city about his mentor, and what a hole there seemed to be in his life now.   He had been out on his own for a year, though he kept in contact with Nik frequently. The fact that he could not just send a pigeon to the old gnome sat on his heart like a heavy stone.

"Gentlemen," the goblin Qizzik says. His brow furrowed as he looks up from his ledgers, and he says to his guards, "No, make that, 'you bozos.' What have I told you bozos about letting customers in here ARMED!?"

Smirking at the desperate note in the goblin banker's voice, Amara "Flamefist" Niall casually flicks one of the seven blades on his very large axe with an armored finger. As the metallic note rings in the air, one of the gadgetzan bruisers shrugs and says to his boss, "Hey, you didn't spring for the bruisers' guild insurance level that covers extreme bodily dismemberment. As long as he doesn't interfere with Cartel business, Mr. Niall and his extremely powerful weapon can go wherever they like."

"Mr. Lefty and Mr. Bruno simply thought they'd escort me in, since I wouldn't give up my arms," Amara chimes in helpfully, a cruelly satisfied note in his voice.

[ Had a blast with a mess of awesome folks last night mauling Sylvanas. Got inspired by all the brilliance in vent. :x ]

[ For more about Ythika, and the Blood and Felfire storyline, check out bloodandfelfire.blogspot.com ]

In the instant before he woke, he felt the silence constrict around him, a heavy, cold hand that robbed him of breath.  A half-second of burning agony replaced it, and a single peal of thunder split the darkness, thrusting him back up out of the deep well he'd fallen into.  The first echo of noise died into a rushing tremor that galloped in his ears, the racing sound of his heart.

((follow up to http://www.rp-haven.com/blog/freyian/blackheart))

It was nearing the end of the second war; the Alliance was still not sure what to do with the Orcs that had showed up seemingly out of nowhere. For the leaders of the Alliance; this was a topic of hot debate. However, for the alliance soldiers … it was more a matter of life and death. So while the leaders disagreed over what to do; the soldiers died. All they were told was to hunt down the remaining orcs, action was left up to the field commanders; until an official decision was reached.

One such unit, a small group of soldiers that had achieve a reputation of being extremely disciplined during the war; approached a small encampment.

“Sir, we’ve found an encampment off ahead to the east about a quarter mile.” A scout reported.

“Thank you William, how many battle ready enemies were there?” The man responded.

((Chatlog of an rp, altered somewhat but kept intact, as I said taneel if anything is amiss just let me know))

Janiil moved further into the catacombs underneath the cathedral where she seemed to spend most of her time now. She still remembered the incident with Darial that occurred so long ago in these very catacombs. But this wasn't what was on her mind as she continued deeper, eventually moving down the final steps only to see a familiar figure waiting for her.

"Janiil," Taneel spoke mildly, for once not smiling at the sight of her. Jan merely narrowed her eyes at him as she replied.

"What are you doing here?"

"Waiting for you, I need to talk to you."

She kept her narrow gaze on taneel, "About what?" Hoping it wasn't some kind of proposal, but his grim face said otherwise. And confirmed it with his next word.

"Jasria."