Ziondeh

Kozha sat before him, the frown upon his face, the anger that smoldered in his eyes was not something he had been expecting from the patient, soft spoken man that was Ziondeh’s Chief. Gone was that smug-smile, that voice that attempted to impart wisdom through metaphor and an ample amount of sarcasm.

“…For when I understand why you have decided to betray everything you have created here, then I will know what question to ask.” He said with heated voice.

“It is no betrayal. The winter comes, and the resources of the tribe are better suited to caring for the Future. Not the past as I am,” Dutaee responded, setting his carving knife aside so as to look Kozha in the eye, “I prefer to die upon the hunt, while I am able, instead of in bed, sick and weaker than I already am.

Summer's nearly here, but it's still cool up on the plateau. The elevation and the lake see to that, and there are plenty of trees for shade. The wyverns like that. Skyhumper's not likely to leave his perch for long, but he can share with Wissah for a while.

I think Faraji and his wife will like it too.

I don't want to stay here anymore. I don't want to go back down to the village, either, but it's better than this place. I liked it here, I was happy with the raptors. Then I had to go letting him in.

I ruined it. It's my fault, somehow. Maybe just for letting him get so close to me. Maybe it was what I did. I can argue all day that it's because he wanted to make me into a toy, some object for his amusement, something he could own. But I can't deny that I wanted it. It's a good feeling, knowing that you're wanted. I felt safe with him. I didn't think he'd ever leave, really.

He had defended his kingdom from intruders before, and the time had come to do it again.

It ain’t never goin’ to be the same.  Not the world, not the ‘interlands, not meh.  Aye’d give an arm to go back, livin in Shadra’alor made sense, mah life made sense.  Den dis tiny pebble got in the way, they scarred my lip, called meh flawed and sent meh awaeh.

(( Though I didn't feel that this blog warrants an Explicit tag, I must warn those faint of heart that it is fairly descriptive in violence. If you'd rather not read that sort of thing, skip to Frozen Wastes: Part 5 that I will post in the near future. Happy reading! ))

Harsh somehow seemed an understated description of the bitter bite of the morning wind. Ryo'jin stood silently pondering the massive structure before him, his warm cloak swirling in the arctic gale like a tame stormcloud. The building looked to be made of wrought saronite and seemed eerily similar to the Citadel in the distance behind him. A single spire arose from the base of the fortress, ending in three spikes curved outward and upward, as if cradling the silently wachful magic eye that sat betwixt them. Ryo'jin's eyes drifted down to the base of the spire where the minions of the Knights of the Ebon Blade patrolled, conversed, and dueled. According to his map, this was known as the Shadow Vault, the lair of the so-called "liberated" Death Knights.

Scorched, crowded, and loud were all apt words to describe the bustling city of Orgrimmar. Races of every kind were hustling to their destinations, selling wares, buying wares, screaming obscenities, or any combination thereof. It was the perfect place to lose oneself. Ryo'jin honestly wished that was what he was here for. The truth of the matter was that he'd received a summons from none other than the Warchief of the Horde, someone Iloam had advised against refusing. Privately, he agreed, but that didn't mean he had to like it.

The large hut is empty, now that the noon meal has been cleared away, and I practice.

I am not lurking. I am not hiding. I am perfectly visible, completely present, and yet I belong. There is nothing out of place here. I have been here forever, and will be here forever. There is no reason to take note of me.

Yunari enters, bucket of fresh water in hand. She passes by me as if I am a ghost, moving to clean the stacked bowls and eating utensils. I remain as I am, taking in the sights and scents and sounds of the hut, being one with the place and time.

Then, as she turns to pick up another bowl, I let it go.

The sound of pottery shattering is a most satisfying indication of my success.

((This song was stuck in my head as I wrote this.))

To think of himself as a tree led Etienne to think of home. Guided by the low rumble of Honani’s voice, he thought of himself as one tree among many in Eversong Forest. It was a proper forest in the old days, one that stretched to every edge of the kingdom. That was where he stood, in the untouched wilderness far from the capital. Even the troll city was far from where he grew. It was just him and the forest, and yet the experience was not as pure as he would have hoped. He could feel the sunlight upon his leaves, just as instructed, but the sensation was dulled by the numbing tingle of magic radiating up from his roots.

It was forever Autumn in Eversong, the trees filled with leaves of crimson and gold. The wind rustled through his own branches, coaxing a melodic hum that mixed with the other trees. The song was not as pleasant as he remembered, not when he was apart of it. The trees of Eversong never shed their leaves, never slept, never blossomed, they just sang endlessly in the breeze. It was truly magic—gaudy, unnatural magic. The land was tainted long before the Scourge swept through. Etienne took a shuddering breath, vaguely aware of Honani’s voice guiding the circle to imagine their roots no longer found water. What then, he asked.