Sin'dorei

Continued from this Drifter's tale.

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The boy had proven to be an engaged and ardent spectator, and as the sun set over Sunstrider Isle, the Ranger-Lord Elaeryn Stardrifter concluded his marksmanship demonstration and settled in for a shared supper over a campfire.

~~~~

As I coaxed the fire into being, the flames willingly blossoming under my hands, he piped up again with his questions.  “I want to know more about how you came to be able to handle animals.”

I regarded him thoughtfully.  “You’re quite fond of beasts, aren’t you.”

He swallowed nervously, but held my gaze.  “Well, I’d be lying if I said that the animals weren’t what tipped my interest more from the Knights to the Farstriders.  And, well, you told me never to lie.”

The heat was comforting and the light cast by the fire shimmered and betrayed Zindanii in the welcomed darkness. Her purple skin was only covered by simple black kilt and poncho. The heavy black chain hanging from her neck seemed to drink in the light greedily; the purple gems’ glow seemed to look all the darker. If it weren’t for the fire, she’d be a shadow, the wind whispering through the leaves of Felwood. She looked over the small clearing next to the road that lay in front of her with those unnerving pale yellow eyes that shone brightly even when a shadow was cast over them. The small bells laced into her crimson braids softly jingled, scarcely heard over the crackle of the fire. Her royal purple hand idly reached up and turned the smoothed fetish at the end of the closest braid over, her fingers tracing the grooves without thought. The mask of black war paint on purple was broken by a pink tongue as she licked her lips.

The figure who so coldly observed the blood elf woman through glowing crimson eyes stood in a shadowy corner that seemed to enfold around his pristine whiteness.  Some of his long, ivory hair was pulled into a leather thong – the rest hung haphazardly about his shoulders and back in a manner of one who either does not care or is not used to bothering with it.  In fact he was unused to having hair at all, unused to having long, pointed ears, unused to wearing clothing over soft, unscaled skin.  Alas, his new mistress – Lady, he reminded himself – did not make it a habit to surround herself with dragonkind, and so it was necessary for him to disguise himself as one of her kind.  The disguise was hardly exact, but he had long ago learned the ability to remain unobtrusive if he wished to survive.

If crimson could be considered a calming color, the study of Magister Ranidaris Sorin'von would embody such.

Everything is red here.  The carpet, the veils and the bed they surround, the glass of the windows…

The color invades my senses and I half-lid my eyes, musing associations.

The color of the elite.

The color of blood. 

The color of war. 

The color of wine.

The color of fire. 

The color of roses.

The color of passion.

Is this just a dream?

An honored Ranger, coming with many an accolade, attached to a noble family.  Retainer of the House with plenty of freedom.  Captain of the Guard, directly of service to his Lordship.  A calm force, the temperance to his fits of rage. 

Most importantly, covertly protecting him against his willful and dangerous son.

Despite my best efforts, my Lord made some big mistakes.  There were whisperings of a bastard child.  Then, the sad and lovely Lady of the House disappeared under...questionable circumstances.  To add insult to injury, my Lord embroiled himself in things above his head, and his House was ultimately betrayed and destroyed during the Scourge invasion of Quel’thalas. 

My Lord fell to the very hand of his own dark son, I might point out.  ...What?  The bastard had it coming.

Sinobel tried to wind down in her Venomspite apartment, but she was too on edge.  Her dreams had been shadowy and disturbing.  She felt unrested and unsure of so many things.  So instead she paced, back and forth, hands wrapped around her daggers, drawn for no purpose other than to keep her personal demons at bay. 

After the Hallow’s End costume party a few days ago, when Sinobel had handed the Seraph’s private missive to Aelberyn, pointing out that she didn’t care what it said enough to break into it and read it…

Ugh.

The cell door closed, harsh laughter echoing through the dungeon as the three other initiates locked it and walked away. The remaining initiate pounded on the bars, panic and fear on his face as he screamed, pleading for them to come back. He spun, sobbing as he saw the green eyes that stared back into his own, looking into the shriveled, twisted form that once was a Sin'dorei.

"So fresh, so full, you share, yes," it said.

When they returned, they found him in a corner, weeping, hands covered in blood. Nobody cared about one more dead Wretched.

Evelvnia glances back to the entrance of the Medical Ward, a couple strands of her platinum blond hair falling in front of her eyes. "The Bishop is right, I can't let her live like this. Sin would not wish to. It's possible that her memories will return on their own, but when?" She brushes away the strands, pondering her own question. The Paladin returns her gaze down the corridor. "It's just like I remember, back in the day before Kael returned..."

Ruby red locks, freckles, and scrunched up nose. Breakfast of heroes in the Silver City. They shared times of war.

Two-hundred animals and a passion to draw, his date said goodbye.

Discovery of the new cousins, why so much pink skin?

Why forsake your blue eyes?

What has happened to all of you?

Tyi'jin fell over into the snow, his blood speading in a pool around him as his eyes faded. His chest was cut open and soon drained of blood. The armored knight smiled at the troll as he shakily reached for the curved blade, but fell short, his life leaving in a quiet breath. The Death Knight knelt over him with a sly smirk.

He opened his eyes, looking around the fortress of Acherus. Fellow Death Knights were busy following teachings of their masters. Tyi'jin adjusted his gloves as he walked towards the ledge overlooking the razed Scarlet Crusader's lands. The cut across his chest was stitched by thick cloth string, binding the flesh back together. The Death Knight smirked, it could have been his head on the bright side.

The motorcycle roared to a halt in front of the shop, engine dying as the elf riding it shut it off, pushing the kickstand down.  He walked into the shop, saluting the shopkeepers who waved idly back, then walked up to the apartment.  No one in sight, Tiradell shrugged, beginning to loosen the harness holding his sword to his back.  The familiar, comforting smells of their apartment always helped him to relax and put behind him the stresses of his duties.  The smell of last night’s fish lingered faintly in the cooking area as he walked over, a small bowl on the wooden table holding the single remaining fruit from last night’s dinner.  He smiled, eating it swiftly.  He knew he was lucky; usually Kagg would finish off all the fruit.

Soft, moss-covered skin covering hard muscle, the scars’ patterns weaving through.  Shujaa ran his hand over the troll female’s skin, her robes torn in the massive blast that elf let loose.  The dark rusty blood of her wound stained both of them, his blue fur clumped from the mess, her mossy skin stained and crusted.  Her eyes were now closed in sleep, the panicked fluttering calmed to a still rest, her chest moving steadily up and down as she breathed, no longer gasping raggedly.

She woke up.

She woke up, to find herself lying on the ground, and for a moment, she could not fathom why she would be lying there. After a moment, she realized she could think of no reason why she should be anywhere else.

Then, she began to hear His Voice, the thinnest whispers of it, and all else was rendered inconsequential.

Rise, His Voice echoed, and she felt as though His Words were for her ears alone. She stood, as His Voice commanded.

She realized she was leaking blood, and that her armor was pierced through by a massive blade. It impeded her movement, but she felt no pain.

Ignore your injuries, His Voice commanded. She drew the runeblade from her own stomach, that she could better obey. You are above such things. He spoke the words, and a wave of light washed over the field, over her. The gaping hole in her torso sealed itself shut. Silvermoon awaits. Slaughter any who would stand in your way.

Tiradell’s eyes opened in his room; the single candle in the room sufficient to see what he needed.  Information had been gathered, help summoned, and everything prepared.  He smiled, the first time in many days as he strapped his heavy armor and harness on.  Well we’re just going to have to go find her then, he remembered Raeril saying, feeling just as foolish now that he’d not thought of it himself.  He drew his sword from the rack, hefting it.  He pondered the blade, long and sharp, gleaming from hours of polishing.  His smile widened, teeth showing as he swung the sword up over his head, nearly slashing the ceiling.  “Once again,” he said, feeling the weight, relishing the strain on his muscles as he held it high.  The smile sealed itself once again as he swung the sword back, almost habitually, settling it into its harness.

From Acherus, a bone gryphon with a gnarly courier swiftly flies to the brightly decorated Silvermoon City...

Within the gheist's person, a letter sealed with the blood insignia of the Ebon Knights.

Baroness,

Suffer Well! So short has my notice been to imply my desire to return to SIlvermoon and stand side by side with you on the tenets of Virtues. Respect. Tenacity. Compassion. We, both living and dead Sin'Dorei have learned to respect each other quickly not out of convenience, but out of necessity. Our Tenacity must be bold and sure, if we are to be voices of reason together against those who would see chaos done to our fair city. Compassion always must be wielded with more expertise than the most abled blade or stave for the dead, and the living.

((Earlier this week on the Haven channel (Horde side) we were having a discussion about all the various noble Houses in Silvermoon, and how trying to keep track of them all was a pain.  However, there are characters who would know about them and general information about them - if not in depth details.  Nobles, people who deal with nobles, etc., would all have a clue of the "known families" in Silvermoon - after all, we were the Highborne from the beginning, nobility is in ALL our blood ;o)  We kept all saying "Someone should do that," "Yeah.  Someone should do that."  I guess I get to be someone ;op

The door to the cramped and dirty room flew open and a diminutive and angry Zelenthe stormed in, slamming the door closed behind her with enough force to shake the walls and invoke angry yells from occupants of neighboring rooms.  She ignored the complaints and stormed towards the small, lumpy cot and the wooden crate next to it that was, supposedly a night stand.  Carelessly she flopped on the bed and stared up at the ceiling, bitter rage and helplessness playing freely over her face.

“This is such bullshit,” she spat out angrily after a moment.  “It’s Narisa, I just know it.  Ajay doesn’t care one way or another, but Narisa has never liked me.”  Her scowl grew momentarily darker and she sat up abruptly, grabbing the dufflebag on the floor next to the bed and she muttered to herself as she began shoving her few belongings into it, “I bet she’d like me if I had a dick.”

Unfortunately, it was highly unlikely she would randomly sprout a penis a

    I’ve never stepped foot into Shadowmoon Valley before.  I had heard the skies were green both night and day.  I had hoped the rumors I had heard about this territory were exaggerated.  The ground was rough, the air in this wasteland was thin.  I could feel my skin chapping in the harsh climate.  Every so often gusts of wind blew by, blowing the coarse pale ash up.  If there ever was a place that personified despair and loneliness; this was it.

"What kind of..?No. Now, really Mardyn. If you put as much effort in your womanizing and bedroom escapades as you did in the arcana you could really be something spectacular."

"It's quite all right Magistrix Dawnrose. His performance is habitually unsatisfactory."

Mardyn's aggressive retort was drowned out in the snicker and jitters of laughter, all leaving the poor victim to wallow in the image of his inadequacy.

((From the writing exercise here: http://www.rp-haven.com/forum/workshops/writing_workshop_0 ))

Aelberyn: A Funeral at Sundown

Phadrene paced the edge of Stillwhisper Pond, enjoying a balmy Eversong evening.  Her cerulean and gold robes rustled softly as she walked and her pale blonde tresses were gathered away from her sunkissed face, framing them in an unusually unruly but attractive way.  Her expression was serene, but her eyes betrayed a bit of the unrest she felt as she sought the comfort of nature.

Gilthånås lit a fire in the center of the cave, the morning breeze whistled across the lip of the chasm leading down the crevice to where Gil had made his camp. Gil tossed a haunch of talbuk onto a spit and slid it into position over the fire carefully. He grinned a bit as he inhaled the smoke as it passed the talbuk haunch, gaining a rich, hearty smell. Gil slid his pack over a shoulder after checking that the tomes he'd brought with him from Murder Row were packed safely into the backpack. He leapt into the air, grabbing ahold of the edge of a rock jutting out in the crevice leading down to his cave. 

It was one of those rare, balmy days in the Barrens. A breeze caused the dry grasses and scrubs to hiss against one another, and the calm twittering of flycatchers and swallows belied the savagery that waged over the land just to the north.

Xelarus drew in the fresh air through his nostrils, smiled, and sighed it out, beaming at the large orc that stood before him, “It’s days like this that make the soul sing.” The words, spoke wistfully, sounded terribly strange in the vocabulary of the orcish tongue. It was not a language suited to waxing poetic about the weather.

Captain Shatterskull of the Warsong Offensive attempted to bore his glare through Xelarus’ forehead and out the back of the elf’s idiot head. “If you’re here to chat about the weather, elf, I can help you experience it more closely when I fire you from a catapult.”