memory

The World's End was rocking. On the stage, a group of creatures played instruments which looked more like the after-effects of a bomb in a hardware store than musical objects, but no one was complaining. The din was deafening, with happy laughing patrons shouting over the rhythm, and dancing shapes clustering over the floor. Mo'arg and Gan'arg even were there, following the example of peace set by A'dal, and warbled along into their sulphurous drinks. Sal'salabim growled at one and whapped it when it began to loll from the strong drink. An ogre in one corner was spinning as fast as he could to the laughter and applause of four arrakoa, trying to keep pace with the music's frenzied tempo.

All in all, it was a good night.

Kudrun would never turn down a meal. No matter how much food she found to put in her, it never felt like enough. It made sense when she was growing. For years it felt like she stretched a foot a day and needed to stuff her stomach twice over to keep up. But even when the growing slowed, that hunger never left her.

“Just like your father,” Uncle had said.  “Skinny as a pole, hungry as a bear.”

So when the voice on the dented box wanted to make amends for calling her a boy, she wasn't going to argue. A meal's a meal, and he sounded nice enough.

Ashti had drawn her to the bonfire in the Stormwind square.  "Time to dance," it had whispered.  Flames flickered at the edges of her vision as the whisper grew more insistent.  "Summer fire flickering dance!  No more cold, blaze hotter hotter spinning!"

She tried to hold herself back, to watch the blue bonfire, the torch jugglers, and the dancers around the decorated pole from the edge of the square.  But her fire wouldn't allow it.  Her hooves would not be still, and a strange heat began to rise from her fingers, and all the time, the whispering voice in her mind demanded, "Dance!"  Feeling like an interloper, as she often did when confronted with Azerothian customs, Hadeel stepped forward and grasped one of the ribbons hanging from the pole.

((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.

Dirt brown, slender, imposing, comforting, shelter, no escape.

“You’re tender Annaleisa! I love tasting your meat!”

Shrieking to no end. Five fingers parts tight flesh.

Tears upon the bars, guards would never come.

“I’m the man, you’re the bitch!”

Screwed up how a cellmate became my rotten lover.

Hands to the bars, ignoring my fresh new scars.

miss you. Have you written to

class that couldn’t possibly be more mund

were here, I wouldn’t have to feel so

me. Next semester? We should

ssed trials. After, maybe you could visit

    It had happened fast. Like accidents or disasters do, each moment tumbled into the next. Like an artist’s flip-book of pictures, only the images didn’t match up.

rewriting a chapter for thurs

vintage you like? I’ll pick up a bot

thinking of you. It was funny, the

Clump.

The door shut softly behind Micah, and he rested his shoulders against the solid oak, feeling the wood rasp under his bony hands as he surveyed the inside of Ryberg’s apartment. The tips of bony fingers scrabbled on the wood, precisely tugging at different threads of the arcane.

“The third property of Warding is the Key. It builds on the First and Second – the Shield and Sword – and gives a sort of reason to them. The Key is a matrix of components, itself, and by altering one, a Magus alters the rest. With detailed manipulation, the Key may be weakened, strengthened, or even changed.”

“Excuse me, sir? Is there anything else I can get you?”

From under the deep cowl he wore, Micah could see the hips of the café waiter. The fellow had his pink hands clasped before him. The tone of his voice was pleasant, but carried a hidden message: I want to go home.

“No, no… thank you.” Micah resisted the urge to look up and make eye contact. The tilt of his head would reveal his features, and he never got used to the small looks of disgust he garnered from the living.

“Have a good night, then; thanks for coming by!”

Students passed from class to the café to their dormitories in whirling groups; very few stayed put for long. Micah, who had found himself a seat at a little bistro in Dalaran’s university district, felt as if he had been sculpted from heavy clay in contrast to the firefly-lightness of the students that flickered and wheeled about him.

Mid-way across the commons, a tall young man broke into a run to laughingly meet with his strawberry-blonde girlfriend. The other bustling students paid no heed as they kissed; didn’t notice the youthful strength in his bare forearms as they snugged at the small or her back; didn’t see the grins that appeared in the breathless spaces between kisses on their lips; were blind to the way her leg, bent whimsically at the knee, made her skirt drape artfully against her shapely calf. Micah spared a small, secret smile before he guiltily looked down at his espresso. He felt he had glimpsed something private and special, despite their public location.

Seven had finally determined to allow Aelberyn to poke around in her mind and see if she could repair what might be causing her inability to remember who she was. The bed in the guest room of the Bloodsword fortress strained under Seven's weight as she laid down and Aelberyn was getting ready to begin. Iloam had also come along and wanted to take a look at Seven to see if he could offer any mechanical expertise. After all, it was just a machine, right?

He felt around on her and she gave him a confused look that he mirrored after a short while. He was not sure why this construct was covered in skin and wanted to know where the access points were. Seven provided an access point by pulling out a dagger and slashing a vertical line up her chest as she lay on the bed. Her titansteel ribcage parted by a few degrees and exposed her lungs, heart and limited digestive system; this was not what one would find in your typical construct.

The manor stood amongst the overgrown weeds and hedges as if a memorial to lives once lived in happiness and relative peace.  She shivered at a sensation similar to spiders skittering up her spine.  Her steps were slow, but steady, half-expecting the ghosts of those former happy lives to appear in hazy memory before her, mocking her with memory as they floated through the dusty hallways.

She shoved these thoughts aside as she pushed open the door to the study.

I want to remember this place.  I want to remember where else the trees were so thick and embracing, where their foliage fell in such poignant color, where roots and fern swept up to my ankles in welcome.  I want to remember why such peace entered my heart when I stepped into this forest, and why I should sit by the water so long under the canopy of the Ashenvale.

A wise one once taught that memory is like a river.  Close to the source, it runs crisp and clear as a mountain stream. Nothing is hidden in its clarity, and it washes over the senses with tingling reality.

((Continued from Science in the Marsh))

There was rifle fire, then an explosion, and Qoruul instinctively ducked his head, his heart thudding in his chest. In his mind’s eye, he could see the grey-green smoke blooming in the Lower City, the teeming black-armored orcs like so many ants; no less dimly, he also saw the crystal spires of Mac’Aree shudder and reflect the fel-green fire as the power-maddened Eredar exalted in their transformation.  By the time his brain registered that the sounds were further to the north, he had broken a sweat on his bony brow and his shoulders trembled amid the tall marsh grasses. He chided himself; foolish, really, to be so haunted by the past. Bracing his hands against the loamy ground, he moved to stand…

Click-click.

“Don’t move an inch, goat.”

First there was the twitter of birds, each little pip and chirp like a damned Kaldorei arrow through his forehead. Then there was the searing light of the sun pouring like magma against his eyelids. The oversized troll grunted, big lungs filling and deflating with a huff. Umbuya was used to waking up to pain – his teeth, his tusks, his muscles, his head – but he wasn’t accustomed to waking up draped over the branch of an Eversong oak.

They had woken early, the six of them, before the sun could start baking the world. The desert’s sky only showed a hint of blue-black bruise at the edge, an innocent preview of what would blaze forth with deathly power at noon. “Come on!” his brother Yuuba called, standing a head over the others. He was the ringleader of the troop of younglings. With a crazy grin around his budding tusks, he pressed a spear to Umbuya’s hand. “Let’s go.”

((This is the last chapter of Micah Terwin's backstory. Thank you to all who have read and commented and enjoyed it; it feels good to have it done. The first section can be found here.))

The leonine boy

standing in the sun; watching

over my future.

"What are you thinking about, Exarch?"  The question was direct and not in the least bit whimsical.

Blood choking the once glowing rivers of Argus, Mac'aree in ruins and nuclear fire burning the horizon.

"I am thinking of Argus." came the even reply.  He would not have been forthcoming had he not been asked--it was not something considered desirable to dwell upon.

If only I hadn't lost that darned thimble! she thought, as the needle stood upright like a little excalibur in the thick layers of tuxedo fabric. It was always so strange to her, the amount of cloth involved in formalwear, starched and stiffened to ensure that none of the wearer's imperfections would plump or sag the shape of it. Although this handsome black jacket would sit easily on the broad engineer's shoulders of her groom, she would have to take in the waist just a touch, and adjust the silk lining accordingly. She reached out blindly, eyes still on the needle, fingers searching for something to work as a substitute for her missing thimble. From the pile of fabric, bobbins and doodads she plucked something large and round. Hm.

'They need a whole holiday for...this?' Alynore shook her head and continued on her new patrol route, trying to ignore the couples floating in boats through the canals, or lovers picnicking on the Park lawn. She adjusted the blue, silver, and gold tabard of the Silver Dragoons to distract herself from a pair getting more than a little affectionate in a doorway. Not her business.

Memories flit through Alynore's mind, of muffled moans, thuds, and giggles nearly every night; if it was quiet, that just meant Ma was spending the night in some man's own bunk. Sometimes one of the men would be around a few weeks, or months; on two occasions, over a year. But then Ma'd get restless, and flirtatious, and one man would disappear and a new one would take his place.

Alynore never gave it much thought as a child, inured to it all rather early...

She walked the paths of her ancestors, bare feet stepping between plants and flowers, careful not to crush a single growing life beneath her heel. Above her the trees whispered and sang; their myriad songs too quiet and ancient for her understanding. A faint breeze flew throughout, bringing fresh scents of earth and wood. All the while, she wandered the ruins of an old temple, no true purpose but to remain watchful of this land that was hers to protect. Somewhere beyond the reach of her eyes and ears, danger was growing, but it had not yet reached her beloved shrine. For now, it was the one safe haven she had from all the world’s ills.

It's quiet with him gone. I still can't believe he gave me this, a house of all things.  It's a nice little place, just a few rooms and a bit of garden out back.  Never really had a place of my own before.  Rented rooms in all sorts of places, the fixed up cowshed Pete and I had, the place Yuta and I have in Nighthaven.  But that's a Kaldorei place and it's the clan's, not mine really.  I want to make this place mine.  Maybe make the bedroom all lacy and frilly, just because I can. 

Guess this makes me his mistress after all.  There are worse fates, I guess.  It's not that I don't like the man, because I do; I'm just tired of the labels.  I'm the one who'll get stuck with it, not him.  But it's always the woman who gets labeled isn't it?

((  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. ))

It was night when I and Lyncis made our way through Silvermoon City; we had reached the inn that connects Murder Row with The Royal Exchange for a drink at dusk … there were voices inside.  I had ignored them for a time and spoke to Suntouch, my friend from before the last war. A bottle of weak alcohol was in my hand when I took a few steps to the large table with the owners of the beautiful voices. They all seemed to know each other so well.

I had curtsied, smiled, asked at almost a whisper if I could sit among them. The male across the table had said that the more there is the merrier it can be. I bowed her head in thanks and took the seat while Lyncis studied the group. Her ears were twitching … like she was listening or smelling something odd. While I was whispering to my companion to calm down, I had been addressed by the man with golden locks that looked more well kept than the two females.

There is a certain smell that clings to the foundations of buildings, a musky scent where stone meets earth. In Shattrath, that particular tang is remembered from my youngest days, and accosts me with memory lifting from the walls of the Lower City. Children run past us and their laughter is my laughter; walking here, I know only sunlight and the vague lost faces of those long passed.

Artisania Stillwater-Ell'Karan had ordered a cake.

She picked it up from the little wagon in Dalaran at the appointed time, mid-morning, while the icing was still fresh and setting up in little swirls and tufts around the rim of the confection. Very tempting indeed, but she carried it carefully in its little paper box back to the apartment without even peeking once, though she did lick her fingers after setting it out on the table.

     Still, I dream.  I know it's a dream, but it plays out before my eyes as though I hadn't experienced it all for myself.  Truthfully, I don't remember much of my days on Draenor.  At the point in which my sleeping mind chose to rejoin me with my past, months of murder and violence had already unfolded.  The Draenei were all dead, or all in hiding, and there wasn't so much as a single living thing that wasn't a part of the Horde for a hundred, hundred leagues in any direction.  No more battles to be had.  No more blood to be shed. 

[ A little nightmarish sequence to explain the disfigurement Saraphiel has on her back. Enjoy, darlings. ]

 "Janiil....I m-mean Asilia, you h-haven't used a b-bow since you were a s-sentinel, and that w-was a long time ago," Jasria spoke softly as her white haired twin leaned against the stone wall of the training courtyard. Fiddling with a bow string, before glancing up at Jasria, who was doing alot better but kept oddily purring and mewing almost at random in her elven form.

"Its....only been....." Asilia pauses as she starts counting on her fingers, pauses again before seeming to lose track and starting over. Again seeming to lose count as she counts her brow furrowing before dropping her hand back to the bow, ".....a.....year.....or..two......maybe three...or thirty?"

Jas raises an eyebrow, "Do you even r-remember?"