Aktarin

A gentle rustling sound provided a steady accompaniment. Gray shifting shadows of green and violet shaped the trees into veiled dancers frozen in a graceful gesture.

"You're... very good at this." She was all leg, awkward, torn between indecision and fear, desire and trepidation. A challenge in her eyes, but with that challenge came tension.

"You are a mongrel dog among wolves!" Scarred snarling face glaring at me with hatred like venom dripping from his tongue, threatening, trying to bully.

"No other man makes me feel like yeh do.. like yeh're all I want." He stood in front of me, hands on either side of where I leaned back against a table, sipping mulled wine.

"He rescued the orphans from.... horrible situations. He actually didn't do anything with the cookies." I remember first seeing her, luminous eyes lowered, twisting the hem of a robe in her hands. So childlike.

"Your daughter was very lucky." Her voice a husky contralto, green eyes knowing, flush touching her cheeks, tucking that stray curl back.

Snow-draped plains passed by, far below the feathery wings that beat against the chill winds of Northrend. Like some great, white, crystalline sheet being pulled away by an unseen hand. Vanassa gaped in awe at the stark beauty of the Dragonblight. It was an astonishment she had not allowed herself to fully express in the presence of the Marquis Vinguld, back in the Howling Fjord.

That would mean admitting that Ythgar had put me in awe, despite my protests at being dragged halfway across the world just for atmosphere. If I admit that, he enjoys too much triumph. Bother, how ridiculous the Game is sometimes, the way we concern ourselves with these tiny maneuvers and victories. But even a mountain can be brought low one grain of sand at a time.

A crosswind evoked a squawk from the gryphon and whipped Vanassa's midnight hair about her head. She hastilly drew up a hood, tucking the loose strands into it.

The sun burned at my eyes relentlessly. I suppressed an overwhelming desire to yawn; I'd been up for longer than I liked. Still, Elune gave me Her strength and courage, and my discipline would not be wanting.

I had been Sentinel-Priestess for the Nightblades. For their inheritors, the Nightsabres, I was a Sentinel Captain; my life to be spent safeguarding my Commander.

It always had been reserved for that purpose, since I'd become her friend so many millenia ago. Broken-winged Aktarin Shadowsong..

My soul sang in the vaults of my mind to see her so much at peace now. The aid of her friends and comrades had somehow mended that scabbed wound within her, and at long last, she had learned what I had known all my life: how to feel the commands of the Goddess. I could heal my Commander even now, by the will of the Mother, but I had little need to, for she now could bring the touch of the Mother to salve her own flesh and bone.

I could hear the full throated roars above me. The fortress barracks echoed with their voices, answering our leader's demand to war. Her challenge. I could see her in my mind's eye, boiling with shadows, infused with the protective rage of the Night Warrior Herself; the dark face of Elune. I could hear the dwarf's voice - Oathfinder swearing the Runelord Clan to fight with us.

I led them as my Commander requested, with sentinel captain Leshana beside me. Two Sentinels with shields at ready, guiding our band. We walked and rode from Astranaar, still smouldering from the Horde bombers. The flames were gone and the warriders slaughtered, but the air stank of ash and soot and as we left, a woman was crying somewhere.

We walked south through our home, the acrid smell of the volcanic eruption tainting the sweet air. Ears flicking as we heard the hideous sounds made by the orcs who'd taken Silverwind.

"You've -got- to be kidding me?!" Fox waved the piece of paper at the Blood Knight before her, glaring daggers at him. He gave a slight shrug, "Have a good day, Miss."

"Paladins! UGH!" She thrashed, flailing her arms in frustration. This had to happen after breakfast?!

She had received a citation. For not clearing her mail from the local mailbox, the city was issuing her a citation and a fine. What utter bullshit!

Nightsabre Commander Soto regarded her empty cup and I my own, feeling a wry smile quirk my face. It held no humour. With the horrors our race had endured during the Sundering, what trauma had warped Aktarin... we could each guess, though neither truly knew. Even so, I could not fill in that aching gap between the moment my own consciousness faded to a greenskin's axe blow in a forest glade.. and the hard faced pale woman who now wore the title 'Warden'.

*At the floor of the frigid Citadel, the two Ebonites stood together in silence.*

"Behold the binding of sacred and corrupt! The forging of Shadow's Edge, a weapon of untold potential! Bind it to your will and you shall wield unspeakable power! Fail, and your soul shall forever be its slave...."

*She stared at the weapon, exquisite in design. "Perfect for soul-extraction, perfect for my dominion over mine enemies!" She thought.*

"Listen well, Dutchess. IN accepting this weapon, your fate is sealed. Overcome or succumb. I have placed your feet upon this path. You are therefore my responsibility. Should you falter, I am duty-bound to deliver you from this life. Remember my words, Sin'dorei. and do NOT fail."

*Irihapeti stared at the Highlord of her Order with a gaze that could shatter a thousand suns.

It was a typical night in the hall. The mute priestess known only as Silence stood quiet vigil at the entrance to the Warden's quarters. Yet some sound, some gasp made long ears twitch, and, prepared for assassins or worse, the Sentinel whirled and crept, as soundless as her name, toward her commander's door.

I decided to make a composite picture which could never ever happen as a screenshot - all of my characters in their ideal RP gear. Left to right is Gyrithrea, then ta'Srith, then Aktarin, then Silénce. Due to my obsessive nature, with the exception of Silénce, all actually have the gear they're pictured in.

When you’re outside the jungle and someone asks you to describe it, you’re likely to say “hot.” When you’re in the jungle and you want to describe it, suddenly your words get a bit more descriptive: “suffocatin,” “swelterin,” “blisterin,” “stiflin,” “mucky.” Un-bloody-bearable. 

The sun was beating down on us so ‘ard I’m pretty sure me forehead was developing a bruise. More likely it was the fairly nasty beginning to a sunburn that would end up in even more freckles for Kharris to count when I got back. She’d be having a field day with me shoulders and the tip of me ears as well. I felt a bit like a wee peach that had been shoved in a wet, muggy oven – my soft skin heating beyond its tolerance and bubbling up. I’d be cracked and oozing in a few days, without a good spell or healing potion.  

We were ambling along through enormous rubber plant leaves and swinging vines that brushed past our legs and shoulders as the raptor under us swayed through the jungle brush. I wiped the back of me hand over my forehead for likely the hundredth time that hour and it felt like I’d conquered Mount Hyjal in that single raise and fall of an arm. I bit back on the complaint about the heat that I wanted to pointlessly whine at my riding companion. I silently applauded my manliness in refusing to complain and then, as wantonly as any tartlette with a case of the vapors, leaned back against the enormous black Gurubashi pressed to me back. Balla’s skin felt cool and hard against mine and he smelled pungent – we both did – but it was somehow comforting. He smelled like the jungle; he smelled like sweat and sex and sun-drenched skin; he smelled a bit coppery and dirty from the grit of the ride and it was like laying against an enormous shadow panther. There were all sorts of nasties that could jump out at us at a moments notice and I should have had me guard up, but with him behind me, his arms circling to hold the reigns and his huge, bone tusks brushing affectionately against me shoulder as we rode towards Zul’Gurub… I embraced me inner dandy and laid back into his safety as me mind wandered over the exhausting events of the past few days. 

Elune's a bitch sometimes; that's the way nature is, after all.  Like I've said before, the Light's nice when you want philosophy and all that, but when you want to get something done you need someone or something to pray too.  Outsiders look at the Temple and only see the big stone front.  That's just stage dressing, really.  There's all sorts of schools, factions, sects, cults, and such.  Some you can't tell apart and some might as well be worshiping a different goddess.  And, frankly, some are just old feuds that have gotten themselves set in stone.  It's gotten me in trouble a time or two, assuming I knew more about things than I really do.  On the other hand, I don't have ten thousand years of bullshit weighing me down.

It's been a year, hasn't it?  Keep meaning to drop by, but with one thing and another ... well, you know how it is.  Looks like someone's been running sheep down here, the mound is looking well kept and all.

The kids are growing like weeds; can't really call them babies anymore, and well ...

I'm quitting, Pete. 

Not going to let my children grow up without me.  Been spending more and more time at home anyway.  Well, and Yuta and I are going to try for another one.  Probably can't count on Her making it happen like last time; well, not any more than She usually gets involved.  All Kaldorei children are Her gift, after all.  But I suspect there'll be a male involved this time.

Moving through these motions... these simple motions, as if I had them from birth. Killing... it's not a big thing on it's own, it's one of the few ways to make it by in this world, killing. I make a forward thrust, twisting the blade so I can follow through with a lateral swing, bring it back around dragging their weapon away from me and carving up what's left of the body with a diagonal slash. A time ago I might've felt a little sad or might've gotten a little high from the bloodlust after killing something, but now it's a dead feeling... now I think I'm starting to understand why all the old veterans act the way they do. There is one thing that is starting to happen more often now when I killing a person...

I see faces, not just one, but many. Crystal clear as if it's the actual person to whom the face belongs to.

Am I the only one who sees?

They are two of a kind in their mutual misery. 

((obviously dramatized version of the actual fight :P))

There is one thing that I remember about that night, it was incredibly ironic. Right before I had rushed headlong into battle with the Alliance and without thinking I'd received a letter from my dwarven friend Yoradash. It seems ironic to me at least. I wasn't thinking about irony at the time though, the trumpet's call to battle had sounded and I was one of the first Poxites to bring arms to bare and assist my allies. I was pround to have stayed true to my title as a Strider, the first to the fight... What a fight it was.

She sat thoughtfully in Nighthaven. Keeper Remulos had listened carefully to her words, and the Circle with him. Her duty was done. Yet she could not muster the serenity to assume a shape clad in bark and drink in the peace of Moonglade. Lying between that gentle tranquil balance and her core was a shivering wall of outrage.

She rose, and slipped fluidly into deep violet fur tinged with the mossy green of her long hair. Feeling her long fangs in her mouth, and the twitch of her tailtip. Longing to break something's spine.

And she knew whose she'd like to break.