regret

How can losing someone I never had hurt so much?

Hunter’s journal entry

It has been some time since my last entry, it might be a long while before I write again life has become overwhelming and my path is no longer set before me

** Tamakï Firestrider scratches his brow as he sits with his journal his hands shaking in the bandages from his practice twenty full quivers of arrows in multiple targets across the Farstrider training grounds, the disapproving look of the recruits as they arrived for their morning practice to find every target and attack dummy riddled with arrows. The only reason he stopped was because the blood was making his arrows slip, His hands probably will not recover for days.**

You had a half-sister Tamakï.... those words from Lilthessa were funny at best a half-sister get out of here.

The Ranger-General showed up to the city's gates eventually.

It simply wasn't in the expected manner.

The stench was over-powering, as the first monstrosities lumbered into sight. Fleshy mockeries of the living shambled, shoulder-to-shoulder...the foremost of the gruesome army being freshly slain elves, along with a handful of...spirits.

One of whom was quickly introduced by the white-haired Arthas as the “former” Ranger-General. 

Perhaps she'd simply lock herself in her home, once it was built.

Every venture she'd made since becoming a Knight seemed to have resulted in a more resounding failure than the previous one.

((refer to Raeyth post about the scars: http://rp-haven.com/blog/raeyth/breaking))

A man of a thousand scars.

Cover his body like spiderwebs.

Some faded, others cut so deep in his flesh they'll never fade.

Lost my temper.

Lashed out at him.

My words cut deeper than a whip on flesh. 

Saying sorry won't take away pain inflicted on his soul.

I'm such an ass at times. 

The blade scrapes across the whetstone as a razor against damp hair and skin. From one length to the other, Vikentiy sharpens this blade absently as his mind is elsewhere. He takes the stone, almost the size of his fist uncurled, bringing it with reverence across the edge. The soft, yet coarse scratching of stone against hardened metal takes him back...

"Ya couldn't pay me to mess with that Psychopathic fuck, mate, there's no way in hell. Not unless it was his life or mine." The words escape lips wet from Scotch, a single emerald eye peering toward the much larger figure within the room.

    "I'm not paying you to mess with him, I'm paying you to test the defenses of my new compound. I'll be watching the whole time, Velanth, no harm will come to you. Hell, he won't even be in the same place as you."

I should have continued where I left off, you know on the same page..but for some reason the clean untouched page seemed to be calling my name...I simply could not resist. Anyhow, here I am it is before sunrise and I cannot sleep due to all of the thoughts running through my mind. What have I done? If only things could be different...booze is bad...very bad and it is about time I stay clear of that. OH, and what the fel does 'Evil Man' mean by 'change'?

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

Someone called me 'pretty' today. The word is such a simple word that could be used in so many ways, yet I only have one use for it. My mother was very pretty.

Chaos.

I watched her walk out of our room in the inn, the image she'd created in her sketchbook burned into my brain. She had sketched a portrait of the two of us, framed in a bright border. I felt a moment of pure panic. That wasn't me, that wasn't a life that was even available to me. The hell had I been thinking, letting this go this far? I had to end it. Now. Joyia was far too young and vulnerable. I would spare her from disappointment after disappointment. She was trying to build some kind of future...with a man that didn't really exist.

I winced as I stood, my body still healing and sore. I limped over to the alcove where my satchel was stored and I rummaged through, tossing on some clothes. I crept downstairs, quickly moving past the inn workers that were scurrying to our room, preparing a bath for me. It had been the only way I could get Joyia out long enough to slip away. I scanned the lobby, looking for any sign of her. I made a break for one of the exits, breathing heavily from the exertion. I leaned against the balustrade as I whistled for my wolf. He padded up swiftly and silently and I gripped his fur tightly as I yanked myself into the saddle. As soon as I was in place we took off, heading for the front gates of Silvermoon. I handed the Flight Mistress a few gold coins and purchased a flight to the Swamp of Sorrows. That would get be close enough...

Up and down, in and out. Fyodora hummed softly to herself, needle threading carefully, deliberately through the square of embroidery as she sat on the cushions.  Such calming effects this place has, she thought, looking at the elves around her draining power greedily from the fel crystals.  She smiled, looking at one fallen to the ground, overwhelmed.  Weak, that one, he probably wouldn’t last too much longer.

“Ms. Weaver,” she heard a voice from behind her.  She stood, tucking the embroidery away, turning to face the speaker, a young elf woman, heavy armor bracing up a smooth face framed with red hair.  Next to her, a dark-armored elf man.  The two stern-looking Blood Knights stood with their weapons drawn, the young Lord Xannivard Ral’kas between them.  “Silvermoon calls upon your aid.”

    "I seen nothing but fault in him and you can see no wrong."

    Those words haunted the acolyte.  It wasn't the point of the conversation that Gwrtheyrn was trying to make, even if  it was getting a little heated.

    I stepped away from my husband and closed my eyes.   The moment of silence was like a howling blast of cold Storm Peaks wind, unrelenting, unforgiving.  Seconds became an eternity.    

    Guilt showed its ugly head.  Past sinful deeds, twisted pleasure of pain and suffering of my past slipping through me.  Part of me wanted to smile with pride, deep down I could feel a lingering thirst to relive those moments.

New

She turned to one side, then the other.  She lifted her chin, then lowered it, offering a smoky, sultry look as a playful smile teased the corner of her full lips.  The smile immediately faded and she sighed, lifting a brow, allowing pale green eyes to thoughtfully peruse the reflection in the full length mirror in front of her.  The door to her bedroom suite opened behind her, and she knew who had walked in – a servant would have knocked first – but she did not turn to greet him.  Her gaze remained on the reflection in the mirror, even as heavy boots fell across the carpeted floor towards where she stood.  It only slid from that reflection to gaze up at the impassive figure of the paladin behind her, his long, ebon hair flowing freely down his shoulders as his eyes took in the scene with apparent detachment.  Her lips quirked in a faint scowl, and she looked back at the mirror, assessing once more:  too much skin?  Too dark green?  “Maras, what do you think of my new dress?” she asked finally, wanting the opinion of the one whose opinion actually mattered under the circumstances.

The flowers nodded silent heads in time with distant tremors shuddering through the earth. For these few hours, he ignored the pain pounding within his skull, iron will like chains around sensation's frothing maw.

31. The poison boiled under his skin, rising to the surface at times, visible in his eyes. That red-eyed glare... She shuddered, pushing the memory from her mind. She'd fix him, she'd cure him. She'd find a way. The priestess had only hastened the weakening of his body, the removal of the fel taint that had strengthened him also taking a great deal of his life with it. He seemed old now, damaged even more than before. This time, she would turn to the spirits for help. Ajamu was a fine raptor. Surely they would heal him, restore him to how he should have been.

Heavy wood slams, the lock clicks, and I'm finally alone again. Aside from Moros, who takes the opportunity to flap leisurely over to the bedpost, and he doesn't really count in the first place. To be alone with Moros is to be alone with my thoughts, and he's of comfort when I need silence.

I take my seat at the writing desk, closing my eyes and resting my head on my arms in defeat. Everything is spiraling out of my control. Each new arrival into my life, while it's the brighter for their presence, plays merry hell with my ability to read my weaves. They all interact, tangle, war with each other. And I'm left to try and interpret the method in the madness. And as a direct result of failing to keep my head down, I have predators on my little web of possibilities.

I sat in my chair and shivered, eyes never leaving the bed adjacent to me. The being who occupied it was one I have known for quite some time, he lay sleeping what I hoped was comfortably now, his wounds seen to by my Gelis. Blood still seeped from my own wounds, the prefect set of teeth mark in my neck and the ragged lines where his nails had torn open my tattooed chest. I wondered who would wake up with the shock of red hair and face that told me it was Iloam. It wasn’t his sunken features or his extent of injuries acquired not only in the demon realm but for his violent return to this world that I was worried about and it wasn’t Iloam that worried me, it had been the eyes set in the face that I knew was his.