Orgrimmar

The lantern hovered just over her shoulder, shedding a cool blue light on the narrow figure that lay on the bed. He huddled in the blankets, shivering in spite of the oppressive heat of the small apartment. Se'ala knelt, setting a spoon and bowl of broth on the stool next to the bed, and reached to touch the thin troll's shoulder.

"Violet. Wake up, time to be eatin'."

Moshir stirred, groaning a bit, and she stood to help him sit, carefully pulling the pillow out from under him and standing it at the head of the bed for him to lean against. He kept his eyes nearly closed, wincing and squinting against the lantern's light and the few specks of sun that found their way through the heavy curtains they'd hung the week they moved in together. He looked worse than he had last night; the bags under his eyes were just a bit heavier, his movements slower and more sluggish, and his purple hair hung limp and sweaty on his brow.

The cat, sunning itself in what little light penetrates to this lowest level of the Drag, hears everything and understands nothing.

They say success is one part ambition, two parts determination, and three parts hard work. No one believes that, though. It's obviously an incomplete recipe. Were you to ask the goblin sitting on the front steps of the Broken Tusk, sharpening her sword, she'd tell you that it's really more like one part guts, three parts funding, fifteen scoops of good luck, a dash of explosions, and the rest is all in who you know.

She might also add, as she runs a fingertip along the edge of her blade to check her work, that not knowing anyone means the rest don't count for nothing.

((Obviously inspired by Wezil's brilliant gossip rags, I decided that Keth, in order to stir some trouble, would start her own through one of her aliases.  While most of these are scattered around Silvermoon, a number have found their way into inns in other Horde cities too.))

Continued From...

Like the insulation shearing off a rocket’s metal skin at re-entry, the face of the teahouse sloughed away as ash.  A monstrous head appeared, massive angular jaw opened wide, breathing flame. The old goblin’s laughter strangled to a stop, replaced only by the echoes of unbridled inferno.

“No, no!” El’Tacho cried, but grasped the hand of the teahouse matron, and pulled her between himself and the far wall.  He spread his back and shoulders to the fire and heat, tucked his head as if rounding a high-banked curve at maximum gees. The final parting breath of the monster seared across the protective hide of his driving suit, licked across his shining black helm.

It did not take long to pack. There wasn't much that she needed to take with her. Her clean shirt and the robe Violet had made for her went into the heavy canvas knapsack first, followed by her healer certification in its heat-resistant, waterproof case. The sewing kit and spools of spidersilk thread fit neatly into an inside pocket, and left plenty of room for the tin of emergency rations and roll of bandages she'd been given when she began working with the airborne priests in Azshara. On top of that--she paused, frowning. That was everything. Almost everything, she amended, as she reached under the coarse, frayed blanket and brought out the spider-shaped ivory comb, tucking it carefully into the roll of bandages. There. That was all.

She reached the village at dawn, as the first fingers of sunlight crept over the walls of the valley, stretching down to touch the huts and bathe sand and thorn vines in gold. Her wyvern circled, seeking others, and she tapped his shoulder, indicating the thin twist of smoke rising from the fire pit before the main hut. He grumbled softly and turned, gliding down slowly, following the curves of the valley's walls until his feet touched ground and he folded his wings against himself. Paws and boots scraped on gravel as she swung her leg over and dismounted, reaching up again to loosen her pack and pull it down after. She checked his harness, removed the saddle too, and slapped the beast's rump. He let out a hungry mrrrip! and ambled off to find some breakfast. Then, slinging her pack over her shoulder and holding the saddle under one arm, Quet started down the hill toward the fire.

There was another mouse on her pillow, neatly wrapped in strong, heavy strands of silk. The little cocoon twitched when she prodded at it with a finger--still alive. Se'ala smiled as she sat down on the hammock, knotted ropes creaking. The little spiderling wasn't quite so little any more. She had molted twice already and was now the size of a housecat, with similar habits, and any complaints the grunts might have had about sharing their living quarters with the creature had been quashed by her skill in keeping the vermin down.

Health Risks at Goblin Slum Bar

Authorities at Orgrimmar are expressing concern over a dive bar in the Goblin Slums. The tavern, known as "Gin & Juice" isn't particularly popular, but has apparently raised the ire of local police.

(More after the break)

((The following is Wezil's summary of last night's event at the Gin & Juice. The direct link to the Wiki entry for this night is here, complete with photos of the event...

http://www.cobiness.com/index.php?title=Gin#Week_2_Monday

Moshir took in a deep breath, savoring the sweet air as he walked further away from the goblin slums.  The thick, stinking lake around which they had built their homes fell behind.  The ground, bare and littered with small castoff items, gave way to the wooden walkways atop the marshy land of the trolls’ Valley of Spirits.  The troll walked slowly, shoulders slumped, breathing heavily as he walked toward the inn.

Artisania Stillwater-Ell’Karan breathed a sigh of relief.

The breath, a sudden cold fog in the Winterspring air, dissipated quickly, revealing once again the comforting sight of the little cottage nestled by the hillside.  The goblins had said the place had escaped any cataclysmic harm, but Artisania had insisted on seeing for herself before putting down any gold on the annual holiday rental.  She smiled, visions of warm tea and snowy mornings floating through her mind.  At least some things hadn’t changed.

((Continued from Azumah's The Shattering: Rays of Light))

“EAUUGHH!” Muscles strained against the weight of the metal-enforced timber that had not withstood the might of the world’s shattering. Sluggishly, like pulling a stick through mud, the timber relented to Umbuya’s insistence, and lifted into his arms. He stood for a moment in the wreckage, his teeth grit, lips pursed around the bulk of his tusks, his whole body tensed against the heft of the thing.

“Ovah here, bud! Move it! C’mon! You got this!”

Twelfth month, Day 5 - Grizzly Hills, Northrend, Azeroth:

Camping in the wild northern frontier with Miss Synn, Mister Jericho and some friendlies of our kin was not quite what I imagined.  It’s cold as to be expected, but as long as I stay near the fire, it’s not so bad.  The country is amazing though, mountains, rivers, strange fauna and plenty of wildlife.  I can definitely see myself coming back here to explore further, maybe even a bit of rock climbing up to that peak I saw earlier in the distance while we hiked through the wilderness. There was a breath taking forest we passed through with boughs of lovely violet hues and so many wolves.  The General seems to like the north quite well.  I like playing my flute in different locales to see how the notes resonate off the environment.  It is very agreeable here.

Once, long ago, he told me: all things have life
Tree and stone and valley; axe and spear and knife
All have spirits, so he said, and speak to those who'll hear
So quietly, take a breath, and lend a listening ear

((My Shattering Snippet, unfortunately late. Loads of irl drama have been postponing the inevitable. Sorry for the week delay, hehe))

She sighted her next target, hefted her bow and notched an arrow...all with lightning speed. Her hunter's mark illuminated the rogue trying to backstab her battle mate- the gnome rogue quickly fell under the death knight's blade. Next was a human warrior, charging an elven priest. She took careful aim, to note the weakest areas in his armor, then notched an arrow and took a breath....and promptly fell forward to her knees.

The ground was shaking violently - as she looked around her, she saw the battle had come to a stand-still as human and orc alike were thrown about like rag-dolls. She managed to get to her feet, and looking around her saw magi from both sides opening emergency portals to other cities. She quickly ran over to the nearest portal to Orgrimmar and hurriedly rushed through...she had to save her home - her family.

The air is crisp and cool and I
Roll over, groan, and blink my eyes.
The hammock sways as I climb out.
I stretch my arms and look about.

My armor lies where I left it.
I put it on, adjust the fit,
Pick up my pack, and leave the inn.
The wind picks up, freezing my skin.

I stop a small way up the road
For hot tea to keep out the cold
Then heft my pack again and make
My way toward the western gate.

The guards ignore me as I pass,
Another face among the mass
Of trolls, Shu'halo, elves and orcs
Departing for a day of work.

(( Short little post. Had some free time. I simultaneously find these creatures obnoxious as hell and adorable, and I'm sure Jabari does as wel. ))

Jabari sat opposite the small sleeping mat, watching his most recent development root among his few possessions. The feathery creature, first hatched, could fit in the palm of his hand. Its eyes were entirely too large and bright light often sent the thing into a downy frenzy, but its wings were still proportioned in such a fashion that it could manage a few inches of hovering if it was so inclined. Not the most peculiar thing was its propensity to sprout flowers wherever it pleased, whether it be under Jabari’s bed, or out of his shirt, his hair, between his toes, and once while he was using the latrine. Sure, flowers were all good and well, but there had to be a line somewhere, and the former Drakkari was reasonably sure the tiny owlkin had crossed it.

The only sensation he knew was pain. It was a powerful ache that began somewhere below his waist and seemed to wash up through his entire body like a wave lapping at the shore; not always there, but never really gone. In time he began to notice his other senses at work, especially as he tried to distract himself from the crushing feeling that caused every breath to make him want to scream. His eyes were not yet adjusted and he knew not how long he had been lost from the world. He felt enshrouded in darkness, dust, and ash. He was cold.

The first thing he had noticed upon his arrival was the smell. Orgrimmar had always had a lingering aroma of fires burning and metal being worked into its defense, but this was different. It was an overpowering scent that assaulted Azu’mah’s nostrils and stung his eyes. Smoke and ashes set the tone, and the remnants of the last elemental uprising was visible upon every face and on every wall. The victims of the rock and flame were still being carted out to the refugee camps that had sprung up throughout Durotar.

((For some value of the word "choice."))

Rage had taken over.

The sound of iron meeting solid rock echoed around the forlorn cleft again and again. Like a pack of wolves trying to take down a bear, the general and his guards leapt at the towering creature of stone. Sparks flew as the warriors’ blades clanged against the elemental’s body, accomplishing little more than dulling their weapons. Belying its size, the creature moved with incredible speed and monstrous strength, swatting the mighty warriors aside as if they were little more than play things. 

A cool breeze blew over the sea as The Thundercaller made it's way back to Durotar. Gulkar leaned over the port side of the goblin airship, loosing himself in his thoughts as he watched the sea rush by below. The trip to Silvermoon had been a pleasant one and the general looked forward to his return there. The kindness and compliance of the convocate Faetrix had been a welcome surprise to the general, who had believed stationing warriors in the city of the Blood Elves would have caused an uproar. Gulkar did not relish the task but the Warchief's will was law. The threat of the traitorous cults was becoming too dangerous to have to deal with political formalities and demanded action. To make matters worse the recent attempt on Faetrix's life would only strengthen the Warchief's conviction in sending warriors to Silvermoon. Gulkar rubbed his tired eyes as one of his Blood Guards came up behind him.

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.

Many of these feathers have started appearing all across Azeroth. They may not appear out of place in some, but are certainly worth note in others. They are most often ten inches in length and three in width at their widest point, with some variation. They most often appear in slums, cemeteries, places of magical power, and cathedrals. Some residents of these areas may end up missing, or dead. No masks appear on the corpses of the deceased.

I’m not a good reader.

Damn, damn, I don’t know half these words.  More than half.  I faked it at the altar.  The troll didn’t seem to care.  Just like she didn’t check too close on the size of this robe.  Robe itches like crazy, especially in this heat.  I’m sweating like a pig over a roaster and I can’t read these damn words.

The morning air was thick and warm, Ajim sat up to find the fire burnt out and his victim still trapped. He immediately prepared more medicine, administering it Via drink once more. Luna trembled at his touch, his sinister satisfied grin apparent as he began to unbind her, gently placing his death-touched lips to hers, the poison kiss burning and burning, like fel-fire it was acidic and putird against her recently victimized and bruised skin. She writhed at his touch, the automatic response he wanted. The excuse to strike out again, self-justified in nature, he does as he pleases and lets forth a slap to her cheek, bruising and the rough leather tearing violently. She cried silently, no sound for the sheer fact she had screamed it out as he defiled her, unable to muster words or noises, just tears rolling down her battered face.