hope

Foulness within and black betrayal. My soul is stained with demonic magic. It grows stronger, while the elements I draw on rise against us. How long can I hold it back?

I stumbled in blinding darkness until he took my hand.

He can see the Light clearly.

While he still hopes, I will not despair.

        ((was listening to this song when the idea for the post came to me))

         He hadn't felt this kind of pain in years. His chest was sore, his eyes were bleary and his breath came in short gasps.

But it wasn't because of his illness.

(( Directly preceded by The Songbird in a Cage ))

Drip.

Several candles lit the room, though they had little life left. The flames flickered, but they endured. Water collected from a crack in the ceiling. A droplet fell, only to have the cycle renewed in a slow, steady rhythm.

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

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

Prison in Silvermoon was better than prison in Kezan...

But prison, is still always going to be prison.

((Following Until the Shadows Disappear))

It feels like a weight has lifted, while the heaviness of guilt for thinking such things presses on me.

My father has passed on; with a dear friend's help, he has been guided back to the Light and those who went before him. His illness was long and difficult. The release from his Broken mortal body is a relief.

But that doesn't mean this little girl can't miss her papa.

(( Title from Little Wonders ))

Such a lil ting, a seed inna ground. But i' holds da tauren's hop fer all dis land bein' as green da centre o' i'. Hard no' ta ge' carried along wit' dat.

And wit' da itty trees growin' fas' enough ta see, Wen can' help bu' cheer dem on.

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.

The large room howled as the icy dark wind wales through the saronite halls, the silken red drapes sway slowly around the throne the room. Its empty and damp lifeless blood stained floors tell the story of a dark past of a cruel leader; silent whispers speaking softly flowing with the wind.  The hero’s that came here and killed us and our past king was told to stay silent as the dead. They go home a hero, a king slayer, the world is freed from the lich King and the wrath of his higher chair holders.

 Dellissa frowns into the mirror of the Barbershop, watching her reflection with eyes full of criticism, noting the pale skin with a cross shaped scar over her right eyelid, her soft red lips almost open as if to say something, all framed by the blueness of her hair, that had become her trademark since the change way back in the day, that fated decision, her mind abuzz with many thoughts, when that prominent thought, from a teal haired goblin she happened to have come past the other day while in town, when she had an impulse moment to go there wearing her old training clothes and a blonde wig.

((Continued from Never Lend a Book ))

The bag looked far larger than her frame could carry.  She limped with it against her shoulders, wobbly like an old pedlar woman or a snail wearing its home like a pack.  If it pained her, none on the streets would notice.  Her head bent with her back, and a threadbare hood sheltered any shadow of the effort in her expression.  The stones below her feet could see.  They stared up with flat faces, a thousand little mirrors of the still resolve in her burnished gaze. 

Gil's eyes. I cannot help but think about his eyes. So calm, so collected, so sad, so begging ... those are his eyes. My skin prickled as I felt him watching me on the dance floor. He made a few jokes, teasing me with his playful mannerisms. I wonder if he even realizes it is Rya with the short cropped hair and the form-fitted leather. Playful, inviting, alluring. It is a wonder I had not seen the charms of the half-elf sooner.

We shared a campfire after the club closed for the night.

There were feathers on the floor. A hole in the down-stuffed blanket puffed them out in little breaths when the sleeper shifted.

Daraman sat in the exchange, pondering the events of the day so far.  It had been relatively quiet, which was a welcome change after the insanity of the past week and a half.  He taken Kassira to Fancy Cakes, where he had run into Tiradell and Tanakyll, much to his surprise.  He was glad to see the orc up and about, especially given the severity of her injuries he had seen the night before.  It was clear she wasn't back up to full health, but she was still doing far better than the tauren had expected.  They had spoken a bit, and Daraman had also met their young son, Kagg, who seemed a brave, strong boy who would one day be a great asset to the Horde.  They had also talked about possible suspects, and Tana had said her abductors had identified themselves as cultists.  While he believed the orc, he didn't think it had been cultists.  He had been there when they had found her, and there had been no sign of cultist activity, no sigils, totems, ic

Daraman waved goodbye to Fiona and the other members of her caravan as he rode out past the walls surrounding Light's Hope chapel.  It had been an interesting day, helping the worgen and her strange band in their journey across the Eastern Plaguelands.  They had been a strange group; a worgen, a dwarf, a blood elf, a human, and a tauren, all united in a common goal-reaching Light's Hope Chapel.  It had been a strange trip, but in the end, they had all made it safe and sound.  In their journey, Daraman noticed many changes on his trip to Light's Hope.  The Western Plaguelands had been healed almost completely, with only several pockets of Scourge resistance, mostly in the ruins of Andorhal.  The Eastern Plaguelands were still Scourge-dominated, but the Argent Crusade had made serious inroads, most notably at the restored towers.  It had amazed him to see the lands being restored to their former glory, the death knight had thought it would have been

22. Hollow
The words I hear are empty; they do not fill the hollow that seems to be growing within me. The world is in motion around me yet I feel as if I cannot join in the crowds. Nothing feels sincere; everything is moving and does not want me involved.

24. Hope
Hope itself is a species of happiness, and, perhaps, the chief happiness which this world affords; but, like all other pleasures immoderately enjoyed, the excesses of hope must be expiated by pain. Why should one hope for something that could never happen?

((hiya. I wanted to create a story of Starscythe defeating Arthas, and having the OOC proof of such for RP. You can click here for the soundtrack to this piece, which I feel is appropriate. Without further ado, I give you this piece. Enjoy, and as always...criticism welcome. Thanks for reading folks.))

Paws. Feet too deformed for shoes to wear. Linen shoes. Leather moccasins. Mail boots. Platemail greaves. All made one sound: Audacity. Yes, the brazen audacity to walk through the portal from the center of the Upper Spire unto the Liege-lord of the Scourge's throne room. To challenge winter's champion. Perhaps to try their hand at death's version of roulette.

Hope

The morning sun peeked through the faded blue curtains of her window, a single beam, like a finger of light, reached in to touch her brittle black tresses where they spread across the pillow. With a smile she rose quickly, dressed and rushed out to the kitchen of her tiny cottage. Today would be the day he came home! Today would be the day that her world was set to rights. This morning, like every morning, she greeted the day with a healthy dose of herbal tea and hope.

Far to the North of Quel'thalas, within the borean reaches of Icecrown, stood Frostmana Citadel. Within this monolithic obelisk, the Duke paced back and forth in thought. Dressed in an opulent lavender robe with golden-wheat trim, he twirled his moustache. The robe was of furs from five different animals with rugged protection from the harsh winds. Emeralds of large carats lined the robe with obsidian clasps and a sash to hold it all in place.

Upon the marble and saronite floor, his leather boots squeaked and echoed through the floor. Attendants went by here and there, as if banshees. Their voices hardly audible, their glimmering robes shining from the light of radiating crystal chandeliers high above. He snapped his finger but once, a man in silver platemail striding towards him. He wore the colors of the Frostmana lineage as a tabard upon his armor, his steps loud and telling of his purpose.

21. It hurt. Mother ignored her flinching, tugging harder on her coarse dark hair, pulling the braids tight. "Stop wriggling, girl." Quet tried her best, squeezing her eyes shut and gritting her teeth. It felt like her scalp was going to be ripped off. At last, her mother released her, and she shot out of the hut like a streak of blue lightning. It was two more years before she learned to braid her own hair, and until she did, she dreaded it every time.

Mishia walks down the long damp hall of his large castle as she looks around all she can see is him. The castle is a part of him and she loves being within it's safe walls. As she thinks back to the first time he brought her here to eat with him she grins wide showing her fangs.  she walks to his chamber door and stands before it, a small sigh escapes her pink lips he is away at battle but she misses him so. Deep in thought she thinks to herself. "How can a king that is so loved by his men and people think he is a cursed of love?" She stands looking about the kingdom hearing all the new voices and one's she knows. But the one she longs for the one she waits patiently like a swan waits for there mate to come back to them always and forever his name rings in her mind "Andi." Oh how Mishia longs to hear the trumpets roar and echo in the castle halls she knows then the wait is over.

“Blessed are we, the exiles, children of Light. Blessed are we, the survivors, the champions of Life. We beseech the Light, and it's harbingers the Naaru, to bless us in this time of rest, that we might know joy and happiness, and come from it ready to once again face the struggles that define us. By the Naaru, let it be so.”

Daevra sat on the sand and watched the waves rolling in and out, a continual rhythm that soothed her mind. The remnants of the previous evening's picnic were scattered on the beach, crawlers cautiously creeping up to the site and snatching pieces of cake, pie, or fish in their greedy claws and taking it under the water.

Lirriel looked around the staging area into Icecrown Citadel, wincing at the cold air striking the back of her neck. The goblins in Dalaran had done a decent job bobbing her hair, and the blue and silver gown she'd dug out of storage felt looser now. It was part of her gamble, praying he'd listen as she saw his familiar form standing near the forge. Lirriel walked over and cleared her throat. "Hello Drauglos."

Drauglos turned from the fire. He looked like he hadn't slept in days. “What are you doing here?”
 
“I came to see you.” Lirriel smiled at him, then examined the forge area. She saw Light's Vengeance, sealed vials containing something foul-looking, and stacked saronite so green it seemed to glow.

“If you came to try and... I've made up my mind,” he said, sounding less certain than he had the last time she'd seen him.

((  There is a knock at the door of a cottage somewhere in Tirisfal.  A Forsaken courier makes his delivery.  It is a very large wicker basket, the contents of which are covered with a tightly fastened blanket.  Along with the basket comes a note. ))