There's none of the white stuff in Quel'Thalas.

There's a place, where Eversong Woods meets the aptly-named Ghostlands, where from a distance the ashen soil almost resembles it. It's quiet there, and the air is cool. Then when you move in closer, that's when you realize the 'drifts' are just a little too dingy, the surface just a little too dull...and it's obvious this place was last awash in flames instead of snow. It's dead leaves that crunch beneath your feet instead of hardened crusts of sparkling white...and the chill you feel in your bones has more to do with the haunted than the hibernal. After all, it's a different kind of quiet that follows the screams of the anguished, as opposed to that sort of hallowed hush that comes over the land with a blanket of virgin snow.

At least, that's how it seems to me.

  It had to be Silvermoon, of all places.

  Sabine knew damn well how uncomfortable it was going to be for me too. Light knows she can be as cruel and vindictive as she is beautiful- though I suppose she is entitled to a bit of rancor; even the most talented of our people aren't exactly welcomed with open arms by most of the folks living in the so-called city of mages. For such a short-lived race, humans are really keen to hold onto their grudges. Wasn't there some adage about grudges backfiring, or something? Ah, not that we're really ones to talk, I suppose.

Lorieni curls her lip in distaste and furrows her brows deeply as she paces around her house, tucked quietly away in Winterspring. She walks to the door, her diaphanous, silk gown blowing gently in the wind that carries soft snowflakes through the air around her in mesmerizing patterns. Many thoughts run through her head as she watches the ever-present snow drift softly around her, yet thoughts of the last week or two, roil around in her mind with a viscious nagging. It was almost unfathomable, another warlock walking up to her and pushing himself as sustinance upon her. What had Togy been thinking?

I'd had a meeting with a man I didn't even know.

At 1830, in the Royal Exchange, on the third Tuesday of this month.

His letter had come out of the blue – a name I'd never heard.

Tylel Tel'Arar.

THUMP!

Biarzenne awoke with a start as a book landed on the desk where she had only a few seconds slumbered over in a hangover induced sleep, lurching back in her seat to a point where the seat creaked ominously under her weight. Squinting with bleary eyes which travelled upwards from the drool covered book placed open before the mage, she was treated to the sight of a older, plumper blood elf mage brandishing a cane in one hand, the other hand on the offending book that woke the younger mage with a start.

Twentieth day of the seventh month one year after the great Shattering

Quel’Thalas.

My home and pride, often debauched as Silvermoon by the callous foreigners who do not believe in its original and rightful language, whose ever-increasing slip into madness and weakness, continues.

Greetings fellow Blood Knights!

Recently, it has come to light that there is a growing issue among our small Blood Knight community. Those of us that play the roles of law enforcers within Silvermoon are faced with a serious lack of communication due to the limitations presented by having different guilds and community connection with other players. As a means in which to better organize those who wish to play the role of law enforcement within the city, I'd like to suggest an OOC channel ( /BKI (Blood Knight Initiative.)) to allow us to acquaint ourselves with one another and better communicate what is going on with any current role play that may involve the Blood Knights as an order. The hope is through this we can better coordinate to provide a more fluid experience for those we interact with and ourselves. 

Tyi’fon peered closely at the flower as he leaned closer. After a moment the exceptionally large Troll sat on his rump with his legs stretch out in front of him with a heavy thud that threatened to cause one of the several small icicles on his tusks to fall off. The half-Dire Troll nodded to himself before snatching the flower with a large hand and delicately delivering it to the pouch of other herbs on his belt. Tyi stood back up and stretched before looking around at inside of the arena.

Tyi’fon peered closely at the flower as he leaned closer. After a moment the exceptionally large Troll sat on his rump with his legs stretch out in front of him with a heavy thud that threatened to cause one of the several small icicles on his tusks to fall off. The half-Dire Troll nodded to himself before snatching the flower with a large hand and delicately delivering it to the pouch of other herbs on his belt. Tyi stood back up and stretched before looking around at inside of the arena.

“Everybody pulls for David, nobody roots for Goliath.”     ~Wilt Chamberlain

    “…a great waste of time, I assure you.  I find it highly irregular to begin with, and even a touch insulting.  We have been doing this for, well, a very long time to say the least.  Yet here we are, traipsing toward the borders like a pack of….”

     As I had for the last several hours, I toned the complaining elf out.  Runewarden… Deryam?  Deryan?  Something like that.  True, the incessant rain had made our trek miserable, and the military forces could spare no horses to hasten the trip.  They could not even spare a single soldier to serve as an escort, save my usual ‘handler,’ Sergeant Oslight.  For his part, he looked as stalwart as ever, even smirking some at the elf’s displeasure.

"Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal"   ~A headstone in Ireland

Thuaynel leapt to his feet when he saw Sherinne stir, reaching out to take her hand in both of his.  She found it odd that the first thing she observed is that despite her delicate fingers, for a human, his own pale digits seemed so much more elegant.  It made her chuckle at the envy that bubbled up within her.

“You are in good spirits, then.  Good.”  He spoke lightly, almost cautiously, which made her abruptly nervous.

“I must look awful,” she mumbled in an attempt to belie her fears

I'm not quite property, but it's close enough. I don't care. This job will pay the rent, for the closet I have here in Silvermoon and for Mother's apartment in Orgrimmar. I don't owe the woman a thing, but she's family. I'm not like her.

I'm not what she thinks I am, either. Not what the elves think, if their glances show as much as I think they do. Might scrub tables, might run a few errands, but I don't spend the night on the street or my knees. Not that they care.

Only good thing about this place is, whatever else they see when they look at me, I'm an orc.

Yuria floats about the rather large city sucking on her sticky fingers from all the sweets she has eaten in the past few moments. Her files and paperwork covered in mint and cherry as her arms hug them tightly. "That icecream was worth it!" she nods very quickly as her light brown locks bounce lightly; as single lollipop half eaten stuck on the back of her hot pink notebook as she thinks about the letter she just handed off.

“Master is going to be as mad a Yuria without candy and bunnies! “ She nods thoughtfully as her fake bunny ears droop down slightly.

Currently seeking co-conspirators!

Need others to help overthrow the tyranny of the magisters in Silvermon!

The caste system WILL FALL!

<insert maniacal laughter here>

Must be:

Horde

Active Player (Over 3 hours a week)

Willing to play with the idea of politics and a coup!

Is this just a dream?

Phadrene mounted up, the hooves of her snowy white talbuk clomping in rythmic time as she ambled away from the fountain, with him standing next to it, in the Exchange.

Holding the reins in one hand, she gently thumbed the marble in her other hand.  It was heavy and smooth, swirling with a mesmerizing vortex of energy.

The rich azure color seemed to suit the cool temperature which emanated from it, though it was not uncomfortable to the touch.  Absently, she wondered if that was because he considered Frost his strongest magical affinity.

She reined in her mount, pausing as she bit her lip, remembering his words to her.

This contains my essence, highly concentrated.

She gazed at the marble, smiling shyly.  Such a secretive and strong personality he had...summarized in this tiny thing. 

Concentrated, indeed.

The trek south from the Burned Woods had not been easy. He had helped defend his blind mother from creatures unknown to him using shoddy sword skills learned from dueling his elder half sister who was always doing her best to try and kill him. Anterian wielded the Light offensively to back him up and later heal whatever scrapes he had earned over the day. However lengthy and dangerous as the journey was, standing in front of the large gate that was the entry into Stormwind made it all worthwhile.

The great statues that lined the causeway leading into the majestic city were imposing, yet beautiful. Certainly not the smooth Elven design he had grown accustomed to, but these seemed to have more of a lifelike quality than those of the arcane-shaped creations that stood around Silvermoon. 

Talent is never easy to come by.

As I walk beneath gilded archways of crimson and gold, I am left to wonder if this city was left the better or the worse for being spared complete destruction. For all their vanity, there is little of merit to be found. Even those bards who draw crowds by the thousands resort to only glimpsing Silvermoon from a higher perch on a secure balcony. Unfortunately, rats do not have wings, and so I lingered among the common folk.

Common. This word suits the situation well. I scan the crowd and see nothing I have not seen before. The roll of my dice, as idle as I am, attracted no attention other than my own. All the better. The tea was never quite to my tastes anyway.

Xanadinda had thought to stay away from Silvermoon, but she had been wondering what had happened to Vaeron. Surely he would have come and spoke to her or at least sent a letter, but then again, he was terribly shy about women and especially her, so it would seem. He was also extremely loyal to the Blood Knights, of what he was a part of. She would have preferably stayed in Nagrand, where she was free from the staring guards and civilians, but something -a strange, lonely feeling with a mixture of something like... love?- was calling her to return to Silvermoon City to talk to Vaeron.

She eyed the crudely drawn leer on the practice dummy's face, her full lips now set in a firm line. She had needed some time to think, and had come back to Silvermoon to practice before Fight Night- where the only noises in Farstrider Square were the occasional "twang-thunk" of the rangers practicing behind her.

Lily hefted her mace in her slender fingers, going over the next maneuver in her mind...and swung hard- but the mace was only a distracting move, as she swung her shield around for the real blow.

"So, you've finally come back to the city you abandoned."

The troll sat in the Cleft of Shadows, disturbed only slightly by the faint whispered echoes of those with business down there.  He grumbled as he sat alone, arms folded.   Part of him felt sorry for the woman, seeing her wariness.  She must have been wounded severely by someone, or many someones.  Part of him felt anger, that she’d rejected his gift, refusing to take the fine comb he’d purchased with hard-won money, the spider’s shape carved from ivory and set with small, bright green gems for the eyes.

He could hear the warning voice within, one of his guardians warning him of danger.  She knows what you did for Zalazane, the scars left behind are plain to see, just avoid her! The softest of the three spoke with unusual vehemence.  A sudden fatigue swept over him, urging him to just rest, to let the soft darkness of sleep wash away his cares.

Daraman sat at the bar, peering into the jug of burboun Synnaquin had given him earlier in the evening.  He had been staring at it for a good long while, his mind racing with the events of the day. 

It had started out like a normal day, Synnaquin and her crew were discussing entertainments and club business(and something about male dancers in thongs, but he hoped that idea was quickly squashed).  Some business was being discussed in the Royal Exchange, duels were held outside Silvermoon's gates, all in all a standard day.  He'd had an interesting discussion in the Inn with some of Synnaquin's empoyees, a brash, plain-speaking accountant by the name of Kharisa, and a paladin by the name of Rylost, and watched another of Synn's mob, an overly enthusiastic young elf by the name of Garenik, run around covered in snakes and shrieking like a girl.  He chuckled at the memory, still funny after everything that had happened today.

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.

“Hear me Silvermoon! The wolf that stalks the streets of this City is dead!”

Shyrik yells into the Royal Exchange, his voice thundering against the very walls that were supposed to protect us, “Fealdyra Shadowalka is dead! Her life was taken by the hands of those you fear and revile! The Darkfallen have kept further blood from spilling on these streets.”

It had to be done. There was no way around it. Lady Eva left the inn dressed in a way that she knew Fealy couldn’t resist. Playing into the hands of psychopathic killer was not her smartest move, but she knew Fealy. She liked a little skin showing. From recent events, she knew Fealy wouldn’t be able to resist coming out of the Shadows to touch her. As she crossed the Exchange she caught a glimpse of Anaraeth and waved. Some wolf was sniffing around her making Ana nervous.

And it had been such a good steak, too.

Hot tea…While the cups she had while staying with the Argent Vanguard had been bland in comparison to previous ones she had savored, they still had the euphoric effect of refreshing old memories that came with the warmth and taste.  Cups shared with friends and colleagues at a table in one of the inns or in the comfort of a charming cake shop.  Cups shared at the estate, smiling across the table at her friend, love, and husband as they took sanctuary in themselves from the turmoil of Silvermoon’s politics.

She frowned at her reflection in the tea, the bitter reminder settling in like the leaves at the bottom of the cup: her more recent cups had been savored alone.

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.