Ahmandil

His hands still shook, no matter how long he waited. Through time and poor self-care, he had become ill with his choices. Delaying his life's work. Again. Eating nothing but empty foods. Again. Wallowing in self-pity. Again. Falling in with the wrong crowd. Again. It didn't matter what he did, Neru'daen was bound to struggle through a world of trouble.

Reaching out to the Captain, he offered his letter of resignation. "I changed my mind. I'm staying."

Ahman'dil Balor, crew captain, boggled at the elven mechanum and sighed. The letter didn't even have to be opened. He knew it was only formalities. "Are you sure?"

The tinker nodded, keen to keep his gaze steadily on the floor. "I'm staying here, in the City. I need to get back to my work."

[Large image below the break]

Comic below the break. There goes my whole evening. Sorry to flood you guys with all my stuff!

I blame the people who commented on my blog. And Braedyn. Particularly you, Braedyn. You and your fantasies!

!HUGE IMAGE WARNING!

A tap on his shoulder was all it had took. Fortune counted the seconds, best he could. He wasn't thinking clearly. "Bash 'is head on deh fountain!", Hakkajin had said. "I don't think this is a good idea.", Saviero had said. Too late now. Three, two, one.

Ahmandil had turned from Braedyn, their smiles dripping with insincerity. Words came out of his mouth that Fortune didn't hear. All he heard was the blood pounding in his head. His jaw was set even while he smiled pleasantly, his fingers curled into fists. The first blow was thrown, angled into Ahmandil's gut. Time slowed, there was the clatter of the sweet tray against the cobblestones. The tinkle of precious china dashed to the ground. Shouts, demands, questions and idle remarks. None of it he heard, because he only had eyes for the man in front of him, recovering from the attack and ready to launch his own.

Let's get this image gallery ball rolling!

Amusing sketch done that basically sums up blood elves for me as a whole.

((This blog entry is for mature eyes only. It’s longer than my usual. I think I can be forgiven… it’s not the kind of thing you rush through. This is explicit, honest, revealing and even I hope, on some level, enlightening.

It was the sixth day of the holiday. Very early on the sixth. Some might even consider it the fifth still. Morning rituals were the same though, knowing nothing of the lovers' holiday that swept the world up in a cloud of perfume and chocolates. Braedyn was finishing her rituals, preparing herself for the day to come after a few fitful hours of rest.

There were sixteen pins in total. Seven already neatly placed by nimble fingers into the platinum locks, one in hand, and the rest jutting out of her lips like so many cousins to Xiuhteena's cigarettes. She looked into the mirror and, for a moment, paused to lean forward. As if peering harder would make his reflection appear out of the shadows of her dark room in the Dalaran inn. He wasn't there, and she leaned back onto the little chair with a soft sigh. She would have conjured him weeks earlier, if her will and concentration could have summoned him up; still he didn't come. And the next pin found its place.

He could not have imagined being any happier, no matter what was going on around him. It was beyond happiness.  Happiness rose and fell with the tide of time, slipped away in circumstances.  This was pure joy.

One sunrise he sat in his favorite meditation spot in Eversong Woods, immersed in the sound of the nearby waterfall, and looked again at the secret letters from Avriella, the leader of the Felsworn. Drawing in the scent of her, he made a silent promise.  We will meet again… It is the will of the Light… You are not forgotten, you are not forsaken. You will know this peace, Mistress Avriella…

To: High Executor Anselm
From: Legion Colonel  Malkin
Subject: Missing in action.

Details from the front are in short supply when one wishes to learn about individuals rather then whole squadrons. As I am unsure of the circumstances I have sent this letter to you in good faith, hoping you will set aside the time to gather a collective of knowledge from your companions stationed within the Fjord to provide me with an idea of what may have happened.

A careful cover of woolen blankets had been laid over him, trapping a foreign warmth beneath it. Light vaguely seen in softly glowing waves washed over the elf as whatever beast or blessing was gently carrying him. Around him, he could still feel the cold of the ice and the moisture in the air. Weak, in pain.

"...What did you mean by what you said last night?" A soft, lilting voice cooed from his left.

Sounds of casual motion filled the pause from query to answer. "Nuthin'," came the contrast of a gruff and grumbling tone.

"E," the girl spoke. "People just don't say things like that and mean it as 'nothing'." She had to be from Dalaran, the elf thought between the numb undertow of his mind. Her accent was so strong.

Braedyn insisted that I post the product of much sweat, blood, and tears in class.

Image below the break. IT'LL BREAK THE WEBSITE YOU'VE BEEN WARNED.

There are many things that mankind fears. Spiders, fire, heights, commitment... But at the top of that list is a being so frightening it has stopped hearts right in mid-beat. That thing is death.

It is the monster that lies under your bed. It is the devil that takes joy in hunting you down when you can't find it. It is the thing that goes bump in the dark. The trick to getting beyond that fear is that you have to bump right back. I've witnessed no more than three people do this, and I'm personal friends with one of them. But she ain't here right now.

She's off, probably lookin' for whatever party this sorry sap belongs to. ...I wish she'd come back soon. I'm about as bored as a fly in a clean room.

Though she rebelled against it in a fit of pique, even Braedyn had to admit something was going horribly wrong.

The cook sucked on her fingertip, glaring down at the handwritten recipe card. The sharp pain of the burn brought both a flare of anger and defiant moisture to her eyes. Amid the aroma of the exotic recipe floating around her head, delicate locks of her platinum hair danced free of her bun on clouds of spice and scent.

(( There was supposed to be a picture for this, but I couldn't upload it for some reason. I'll post it pending that I figure out what the problem is and fix it. New avatar is a piece I clipped out of it.))

   Thaerin stood on the edge of his favorite cliff in Stranglethorn Vale, leaned up against a tree, and stared out over the bay's waters. In his hand smoldered a single self-rolled Bloodthistle cigarette, which had already been half smoked. He had picked up the habit after his little fiasco with the guards involving his so called "death". A friend had suggested it might help him relieve some stress, which it did, but only barely. Thaerin took a drag on the cigarette and let the night's events play back through his mind...

Thought I'd whip up some quick signage for Fancy Cakes -- Aestan's idea, really. Not my best work, but it does it's job. ;)

The worst part of sleepwalking through life is the occasional waking nightmare.  I’ve been going through the motions for weeks now, trying my best to do normal things, trying to find the way back from the dead to the living. 

Braedyn blinked when she realized she was gently massaging her wrists while reading her morning paper. There, very lightly on the pale skin overlying the delicate joints, was the evidence of break-through emotion. Faint discoloration--a red-violet blush to the skin and a slight tenderness. Bruises. The corners of her mouth turned up in the smallest of smiles, and she deliberately withdrew and lay her hands on the small breakfast nook table where she ate. Curious, she rose and left her cooling food and crossed to the polished cookware hanging on the wall. She turned her face from side to side, eyes narrowed as she examined herself. No; no bruise on her chin at least. The wrists would be less noticeable than if he'd left marks on her face.

She had been a little shocked at the roughness of his grasp when he reacted, but she couldn't pretend she hadn't been happy he had reacted. She wouldn't have put up with much more, but...

Braedyn sat sipping her morning tea and tried to analyze the aroma of the muffins that were finishing in the oven. While she could easily pick out several of the stronger ingredients, it took her conscious work for her palate to find the softer scents laced within. It wasn't quite dawn, and the sticky Silvermoon morning did nothing to soothe her mood. The light silk of her dressing robe was beginning to feel limp and confining.

They were almost done. The spicy-sweet waft of cinnamon saturated air from the oven drifted through the small kitchen behind the main sitting room at the cafe-come-apartment. There were tea cups and dishes with bits of pastry still strewn where their patrons had abandoned them. Monday morning was always a bit overwhelming for Braedyn. Sifting through it all tended to take her the entire morning. The clean up, the replay of the night before, the sudden quiet after the chaos.