warlocks

Mmmmm, the sweet, molten taste of freedom.

How long had he been contained, used? It didn't matter. All that mattered was that he had control, for times at least. Xiltavian had been listening in. This 8 Fold Path, now that was interesting; but, it required solitude, something which he had dealt with.

We shared a meal, you spoke in rhyme
And transformed in an hour's time
From two whose words had never mixed
To not a inch of space betwixt.

She awakened slowly...painfully. The lean blonde was shackled to a wall- unable to move much at all, much less find a more comfortable position...and gods, was she weak.

But hadn't Asarel told her that her luck would run out, eventually?

One of our agents at the Slaughtered Lamb sent this in. Apparently a "welcome" speech for a new bunch of warlocks. Why do we put up with these nutjobs?

- Burns

Why are you here? Perhaps it is because you thirst for knowledge and power. Perhaps hatred burns within you and you seek revenge. Perhaps you reject the boundaries society has set. It does not matter. What you have is desire, passion, and an unshakable belief in yourself. You know society for the miserable fraud that it is. You know its rules are lies, its pieties shams, its limits set by the blind and fearful.

You will know fear, you will feel pain, and you will die - most of you, anyway. Some few of you might be strong enough. Strong enough to master your fear, strong enough to endure the pain, and with an unshakable will, strong enough not to die.

For now.

  I thumbed through a book that had far to many bent pages.  I had dog eared each one, seeing something of importance, but no such luck for my new task.  I welcomed the distraction, though it would prove challenging indeed. I hadn’t tried to teach a warlock since Wraithlynn was still alive but she was a poor excuse for a warlock to begin with.  Dante served a greater purpose in the accidental demise of her adopted sister, more then she knew and certainly more then she could remember. Her maze like mind had been ready to bury that atrocity with all the others she had suffered and I wasn’t one to dig it up.
 

(( OOC Note: The format of this blog is a bit odd compared to my usual stuff, and it might not make much sense to anyone unfamiliar with the characters, so please accept my apologies in advance for that.  Rabbly is by far my oldest character, and sometimes I get questions from other grizzled server vets asking what she and her wife are up to these days ... so, I thought a basic "here's where they are right now" sort of post might be helpful. 

Incidentally, the blurb about Deathwing and Surwich actually happened during our RP.  It was far and away the most perfectly-timed coincidence I've experienced in six years of playing this game. ))

I wrote an entry, An Ill Wind..., for an alt of mine around a year and a half ago. The character was a fugitive witch, fleeing unknown authorities in Gilneas, who has stolen something of value to her former master. I never really fleshed things out, easily distracted as I am, but with the release of Cataclysm and the opening of Gilneas, I see a potential for a bit of fun taking up that plot. What I'm wondering is if there's anyone out there who would care to represent the authorities of Gilneas, or perhaps agents of that mysterious master, or even perhaps con-conspirators or other former students of said master. I'm open to other ideas as well, so if you care to join me in a bit of plot making, I'm opening the door here. Let's discuss it. Thanks for your attention.

She sat, straight backed and chin held high, a serene expression settled on her face though beneath the folds of her robes her foot tapped with impatience. The man raised his eyes from the document to look at her as he handed the parchment to the blonde woman who stood to his right, hand resting lightly on his shoulder. Clare breathed a slight sigh of relief when the woman’s sky blue eyes turned from their study of her the letter in her hand.

Clariona knew well enough who these people were; their names had been discussed in hushed tones at the cathedral for several years and even now there were whispers. Very few had use for warlocks or their priestly wives who embraced the shadow. 

    Jessica sighed. It'd been two months since John was last on leave, The cabal of warlocks whom she had come to know as family surrounded her, and all she could think about was John. Her mind wandered, as she was not required to do anything but sit by, as the warlocks worked their magics upon her. The shadows of the candlelit room seemed to bend in, and fought with the light of the flickering candles. Her mind continued to wander through the mists of time, to where she remembered her husband John and herself packing up everything to move out to Lordaeron's center. Back to the time when it was just her and her new husband consummating their marriage, back to when they shared their first kiss, back to the day John asked her to accompany her to some backwater festival that had little meaning for either of them, but gave him excuse to ask her out. Back to the day she first met John Jamesen in Pyrewood.

(( I started this story about the Book after receiving it in an IC interaction with Rockhewer back in November. It first appeared in blogs then and in a few since.  Finally I get back to that tale, and I don't blame you guys a bit if nobody remembers or cares what's going on  ;) ))

Tick

When she'd arrived at the usual staging ledge for those who sought entrance into the Lair, a Gnome sat perched on the ledge, waiting. Cerwis sighed and moved to sit on the railing a yard or so away, giving the stone-like female space to watch the entirety of the Molten Span. 

She didn't know how she was going to do this. Claim the head of the current Broodlord...She'd worn her heavy plate, something she knew she was going to get flak for. Cerwis rubbed her forehead and looked down at her shield, it had been far too long since she'd done any sort of defensive fighting..

The log book of my life seems to have been lost with a recent shipment and a few of my crew, quite the hassle to deal with when under emotional stress that the crew is not to know about. As such, I am starting a new journal, a "captain's log" of my travels and experiences. I hope to not have this one burned as the last one was by an enraged green-skin with extreme powers in demonic flames of some sort; we almost lost the ship in that mess. This has, in return, has made my trust of these "warlocks" even more to an opposing angle, but my personal feelings of the powers a person decides to follow cannot get in the way of business.

The dark arts are immensely dangerous, requiring complete mental focus in their application.

The mind of a gnome is entirely unlike that of a human, dwarf, elf or draenei.

Why risk ruination by settling for the training of other Alliance races, attempting to employ methods that have been altered to suit a radically different thought process?  The great magic academies may have been lost in Gnomeregan's fall, but the gnomish tradition of teaching lives on.  If you are a gnome seeking to control fel, shadow or necromantic power, Shadowspark Institute is your salvation.

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 flung the door open with every intent to let Drakys know I wasn’t welcoming this. Not only had I just gotten out of a room where everything went to hell, I couldn’t even hurt anyone in the process… keeping my temper in check means I either need time or the next poor soul I would run into would feel the brunt of it. Drakys apparently volunteer himself. He sat at his desk in a office below freezing and watched me rage at him, breath coming out in white puffs of air while fel rolled off me so thick it was heat against the frigid atmosphere. I spat at him about the situation and about his vile death knight lord who was in huge need of a female blood elf handing him his ass.

Are you a gnome who wields the power of fel, shadow or necromantic magic?

Perhaps you're an experienced practitioner of the dark arts looking to talk shop and exchange knowledge with fellow Exiles.  Perhaps you're a novice seeking training in the spirit of the great Gnomeregan schools, untainted by the lesser methods of other races.  Perhaps you fall somewhere between those two extremes.  Regardless of skill level, Shadowspark Institute aims to quietly and efficiently nurture the talents of any gnome who commands energies forbidden and frowned upon.

I’ve been doing this for so long, I should have known when things were going well that my luck would eventually dry out. Stealing the reference books from the University library had been as easy as if I’d been knicking copper pieces from Grandmum’s candy dish. Of course, it may have earned me a spot of momentary popularity with the Bluffwatchers, but that would blow over in time. I still didn’t know how Artisania had fingered me for suspicion, but the old biddy was likely as paranoid as a kobold and named every bad seed she could possibly think of to bring in for questioning. A bit over dramatic for my tastes, personally. She had plenty of resources to get to me with just a little bit of effort.

Maybe that was the point though. To insult me. My name in bold inscription below Heulwen’s, posted in all the major cities of Azeroth; “…and Iloam Blacksong, WANTED, for questioning.” She was telling me I wasn’t worth it… her time or her primary suspicions. Smug old trollop.

No matter; the job had moved swiftly forward. My luck had continued after White Hart, taking Kaisienna back to Everlook with me for the night. Pretty thing, dark skin and big brown eyes, a curve in her lips that told me she didn’t trust me. It’s a shame I didn’t get to taste them, but fate had other plans. Her magics nearly sent me on a bender – I hadn’t had that much mana pumping through me since Shryn’dael fell off the wagon and dragged me down with her. But she’d managed to trick the locks open on Artisania’s carefully guarded secrets and I finally had a location, a solid lead taking me straight back to Silvermoon’s carefully guarded stacks.

Of course the Tome hadn’t been there. Lost once again in the annals of history and me back to zero. My luck had dried out, and all I’ve got riding on it is the last shred of my soul.

A note is sent to the University of Kalimdor main library, return addressed from Shattrath, Lower City. A simple seal of a raven is pressed into black wax along the envelope's edge.

Artisania,

I am looking for a particular grimoire that you may have some knowledge about. I need to know the content as well as the last known location of the Tome of Kar'desh. I get the impression the University, particularly some of its more colorful professors, may have a shared interest in my curiosities. As such, be a Love, and keep it under your pretty bonnet for me, aye?

Regards.

-Iloam Blacksong

The air of the Stockades was foul, even the above ground parts were permeated by the stench that crept up from the dungeons below to mix with the odor of sewage from the canals.  Belmilia Carrington-Howell sniffed as she waited.  The smell was decidedly vile, she thought, but oddly comforting in a way.  So very ... human.  Certainly more so than some of the things she had smelt recently.

The tramp of heavy boots signaled the arrival of the parcel she had come to retrieve.  A parcel in the shape of a rather battered red haired Sin'dorei, paid for in bribes and minor threats.  Cheap, really.  Given the miserable wages Stormwind paid its jailers, it was perhaps surprising that more prisoners did not escape.  Or perhaps it was not surprising that the prisoners seemed to control the prison.

To read the journal, click here.  To turn the pages, click and drag with the mouse, or single-click on the corners.  Just as a footnote, the "House of the Arcane Contraption" that Lasche mentions actually does exist in the lore, though I don't think it's currently referenced anywhere in-game.  The House is an association of "techno-mages" who combine tinkering with the arcane.  There's a decent amount of information about it in the Lands of Mystery RPG sourcebook, much of which can also be found on WoWwiki.

Whomever had observed that knowledge was power, Belmilia Carrington-Howell mused, was only half right.  It was the application of the knowledge that brought power.  She permitted herself a smile as she leaned back and surveyed the library - her library now.  A love of books had been the one and only thing she had shared with her late husband.  It had, in fact, been the lever she had used to convince him to marry her.

Blackmarrow,

  I know business takes you far away, and I know you are scheduled to be back soon, but I figured I would give you a bit of reading material on your mission. Plus I suppose if anything bad were to come of my actions over the last few weeks, at least when you return you will be prepared as well.

(Sent this straight to archive as it's old material, just here for Celenex's major backstory information. Read at your leisure and for your pleasure. ^.^ ... It's, um, long. It was originally five posts that I've condensed into one here, so...yeah. >.>;)

Living History
Part One - Fools Fall In

Entry 32507, Caverns of Time

Karnakh is lost in the writhing rapture of his fantasies for the irredeemable redeemed, yet still managed to remove me from the dangers present in Orgrimmar. The situation is, on its own merit, fascinating to someone, I would guess, but I am not that someone. I have no time to be interested in this political debacle. I have no time and all the time there is.

(Archive me.)