suspicion

Se'ala stared at the comb on the table. Just a few feet away, almost close enough to reach out and take. She curled her fingers inward, closing her hands into fists, and tucked them behind her back.

How dare he?

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.

(( semi-useful recap of yesterday's events, from Rhosy's perspective and knowledge. Brief! Very brief! Since I couldn't find the logs from all these conversations. Intended as a personal reference more than anything, since my attempts at narrating are woefully inadequate. -.- ))

She keeps offering me tea.

I keep telling her it’s poisoned.

Jim’s trying so hard to keep me calm, in between moments where his head is buried in a bucket, emptying the contents of his stomach. I think he knows it’s not working, and I think he knows that he can’t help in his state. I think he knows, but Light bless him, he keeps trying.

 "So, let me get this straight... You've been offered dance lessons from a Noble from Lordaeron who is also a Death Knight and is outfitting you for this particular notion..?" Reggie folded his arms across his chest, studying his fiancée calmly.

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.

I continue The God’s work.
It is my reason.

 A letter written in an agitated hand.
 Artisania Marveloso and Teledriath Ell'KaranHigh RiseThunder Bluff

{{ Posted 6/28/05 on the Blizzard froums by Glira, level 34 human warlock, The Emerald Guardians }}

The constable... how could she have forgotten? What little he must know about all this, Glira thought. She closed her eyes, wanting him to go away. She didn't want to explain the situation... She didn't want to face the guilt. Not today...

But the pounding on the door persisted. "Ma'am, are you in there?"

{{ Originally posted 6/27/05 on the Blizzard forums by Glira, level 34 human warlock, The Emerald Guardians }}

Glira awoke with a start. The sound of pounding and cracking--like firewood being chopped--was all her senses could register in the darkness of her inn room in Menethil.

Erendis walked down a corridor of Ironforge and into the Great Forge.  The heat of the molten metal immediately caused her to perspire.    Walking along the road, she was heading to the Halls of the Explorer's League.  She had read that the league had unearthed an ancient Highborn astrolabe at one of its digs, so far the oldest Highborn artifact recovered by the League.    The desig

((Takes place three days after "Mail Call / Last Call"))

Erendis stood at the south corner of Gadgetzan’s arena checking her gnomish pocketwatch. It was almost time for the meeting with the mysterious admirer of her "artwork."

(( Originally posted January 24, 2006 @ RealmPortal ))

I was exhausted, completely and utterly drained. I'd been moving almost non-stop since the last University Field Trip, trying to become stronger as fast as I could. Trying to solve the only problem I could see an answer to, locking the rest deep within my mind to be dealt with later. It was just easier that way. I could do what I needed to do to gain strength, and not face the other problems those actions illuminated.

And I was rewarded, with new training, with greater skill, with Slootom. My odd looking little Felhunter that reminded me of nothing more than my parents dog, the one that guarded the field, the one they refused to name. The dog was not a pet, they reminded me time and again, but with or without the name, I still cried when they found it torn and scattered across the corner of the field. So Slootom became more of a pet than the others, of slightly more use than Chibi in a fight, but still my puppy.