strength

Time seemed to stand still as Biarzenne heard him speak of someone who was, in his eyes the most noble of anyone he's ever met among other things. Mentally and physically bracing herself for the next sentence, Biarzenne resumed the tending of the patient, clearly expecting him to proclaim Aramalia's name when hers were called instead.  Gazing down at the bleeding knuckles of a hand held within her own hand, Biarzenne was lost in a world where she only heard nothing but Korrelas proclaiming his love of her, before she reminded herself he were still in grave danger if she did not get him the proper medical attention he needed, especially since he did not seem to realize she was there, judging by his spoken words.

     Daraman circled the house from the air, checking for any signs of guards or hidden traps.  So far he hadn't seen anything, or anybody for that matter, near the house, but it was early still, dawn still breaking, and the tauren had chalked up the inactivity to it's occupants still sleeping.  Fairly confident that he wouldn't be immediately overwhelmed by guards either before or after his mission, he gently steered his undead gryphon to the ground, dismissing it as soon as he dismounted.  Moving up to the small house, axe in hand, he caught a glimpse of movement against the dim candlelight of a nearby window.  He quickly ducked beneath it, pressing himself against the wall of the house and waited for several tense seconds for a reaction from the inside of the house.  After not hearing any cries of alarm or the sound of anybody going to check, he decided to peer inside the house and see what awaited him inside.  As he looked inside

     Daraman found Lyndra waiting for him back in the private chambers where he had renewed his service to Sylvanas, that cold, mocking smile on her face.  He said nothing, but instead reached into his pack and handed her the books.  She took them, still grinning as she thumbed through one, then the other.

     "Took you long enough, Dar," she remarked.

     "I'm sorry.  It's not like there were big signs saying 'Secret Tomes of Demonic Lore!' pointing at them," Daraman snapped back.

     "Fair enough," Lyndra replied, and calmly tossed both tomes into a nearby brazier, reducing them to ash in mere moments.  The tauren cried out in shock and disbelief as he watched all his hard work literally go up in smoke.

     "Lyndra, what the hell is wrong with you?" he shouted.

Lady Howell frowned, not for the first time, and considered the letter that lay on her desk.  She reflected how interesting it was that a simple piece of paper and such a seemingly innocuous request could hold such peril.  The Fallowtide woman had written her some days earlier requesting; politely, oh so politely, access to the late Countess Cheraville's books.  Such a simple request, and one that raised the most interesting questions.

How had she known of the bequest?  It was generally assumed that the Countess' library had been destroyed in the fire which had consumed her estate following her death.  The books had been conveyed to her some months later through a chain of intermediaries.

 She wasn't sure where it started or how old it was. Her father never talked much about it, but he would weave beads the color of the Lady of the Harvest into his braids. He'd learned the worship from his father, and his father's father before him and so on. The Lady of the Harvest was his favored, she was the rain and the sun, with her help the crops would grow and ripen. Of course, in hand with the Lady Harvest walked the Lord Fertility, who her father also murmured the praises of.  

I have heard tales of Argus, of what our homeworld was. I have heard of the shining streets of Mac'Aree and the shimmering waters which flowed through the mountains. Elders wove their memories into our imagination, until I believed that I might never see such wonder, such magnificence, with my own eyes. But I have.

The wind whipped through the valley. The harsh snap of the cold caused a tingle to transverse his nose. It was something he knew well. Something he'd grown up in,  But this was not home. Far from the lands of the Eastern Kingdoms, In the frigid icy hills of Winterspring he stood. His feet firmly planted in the cold powdery snow. The howl of the hills echoing in his ears. For now, He felt free, burdens of the past and future swept away by the blasting winter. He took a long slow breath. His eyes looked aged, blue orbs seemingly worn on from the rituals of everyday life. His freedom soon left him, as he caught sight of the Winterfall Furbolgs over the hill.

Last night I met a paladin who said he had once been considered a great hero, but was now forgotten by everyone. He helped to free a trapped spirit, and decided that he could become a hero once again. I think he’ll be able to do it, too. He seems to have the required motivation, and the inability to refuse to help, even when considering himself an ex-hero.

Personally, I find “hero” to be an odd concept. For example, I’m not one, but I have been called one by people I’ve helped. Maybe to them, I am. I wonder how many of my heroes would consider themselves one?

I told Thrall’tukk once, that if I had my way, I would stay at home, be a tailor, and never fight again.  He didn’t believe me, and I’m starting to believe he was right.  I am certainly at home more now that I have been in recent days, but I find there are times when I just have to, move.

Pand is kind enough to check in on Leiral those short times I’m gone, and I’m terrified that she’ll wake up when I’m away.  I believe she’d forgive me, she understands the need to go, but I don’t think I’d ever forgive myself.

I just can’t seem to help it.

(( Originally posted January 13, 2007 @ RealmPortal ))

(( Originally posted November 26, 2006 @ RealmPortal ))

Her palm is full of sand, she's staring at it in concentration, trying to will, ask, the ever-disobedient fire to come and do as she wills, and it's not quite working. She desperate and frustrating, and it's not working, now matter what she does, but she has to find another way. When the fire does finally answer, there's a sharp blast, and she drops the contents in her hand quickly before they burn her where the fire couldn't.

And unshaped mass of almost-glass shatters on the ground, next to a number of other failed attempts, and she sighs. For a few moments she doesn't realise that she's muttering, and then catches herself, cutting of the low swearing in short clipped words. She feel like gathering all the pieces up, throwing them into the fire place, feels like screaming and... Leaning back against the wall, she sighs. She doesn't feel in control.

(( Originally posted November 22, 2006 @ RealmPortal ))

She's gotten through part of the main field, weeds that seem like crops themselves and she's starting to think it might be a lost cause after all. When she starts wondering whether a fire would stay contained to the field, or spread through the Highlands, she decides it's time for a break. Leaning up against one of the fence posts, she looks at the small clear area in amongst the weeds, sighs at the insignificance of it.

*****

"I'm just scared that I'm not going to be of any use anymore."

"What do you mean?"

(( Originally posted November 20, 2006 @ RealmPortal ))

The table, or rather, the remains of the table are stuck in the door. She doesn't know how, given that it was weak enough to collapse upon itself, but apparently its time in pieces has managed to reinforce the structure. After a few moments, she stops trying to move it, glaring at the wedged in position, and collapsing to lean against the doorframe.

******

"Seriously Ko, you suck."

"Yes, we went over that last time, I believe."

(( Originally posted March 20, 2006 @ RealmPortal ))

I’d arrived at the Undercity to see the bones of the fallen, and the small sphere of light that were all that remained of the slaughtered spectral citizens. I’d waved good-bye to Sakti as she went to investigate the alarm bells from Orgimmar. I’d stood in shock and horror, watching the Deathguards attempt to subdue an insane orc who was rampaging through the city, slaughtering the citizens. When I arrived at the Crossroads to find a handful of strong fighters attacking the unprepared, I couldn’t just watch any longer, though I was as unprepared as the rest of them.