Avaraelia

I once heard it told that students were much like sheep, useful and even likeable when one paid attention to them, but when instructors turned their backs for even a minute their Apprentices oft ended up falling off a cliff or drowning in a shallow river. The first is an amusing mental image, the second scenario barely even worth noting, yet I personally cannot help but find it most curious to leave my students alone and see what becomes of them.

It's quiet, now.

So unbelievably quiet.

I never thought this day would come...the voices silenced, not having to fight against the tide. It should be comforting that I am of my own mind, alone with my thoughts, for the first time in over a year.

Instead, it terrifies me beyond words, beyond reason.

The last pic of lady ava did not really go over well. So! today I tried again and I believe it puts the first to even greater shame. Please enjoy Lady ava icon 2.0

Heres two picks of Lady Ava and a pic of my favorite psycotic Goblin. Enjoy folks.

The wind howls, and the snow falls, the only sound is a wolf's call.

      It is late one night in the small town of Hearthglen. Baron Gothran climbs the wooden ramps to his office. The tower is lit by hanging lamps and candles. The electrical power that Sprigge rigged the town with was once again out. Sprigge the Goblin is attempting to fix the problem at the workshop/forge. Gothran drops into his chair with a relaxed sigh. A loud explosion rings throughout the town followed by Sprigge's screams strangely coming towers the office. Sprigge crashes through the glass window and unto the floor.

          The winter wind blows as snow whips around. Gothran Marches up the path to the walls of Hearthglen with a look that means business. A few of his me stand behind him with weapons drawn incase of an attack. The guards of Hearthglen salute the baron before allowing him and his men to pass. The snow crunches beneath their boots as they stride into their former Sanctuary. Gothran walks into the fortress as the guards close the massive gate behind them.

Glamoured emerald stared piercingly into lifeless green, a hand reaching out to trail affectionately over the cheek of an old Elf. A soft sigh echoes through the sealed room, sylvan ears twitching slowly as though uncontrolled.

"You have an incredible knack for causing trouble, you know that? Even without a head, you're quite a thorn in our side. You've roused Rand into a rage that'll be such a pain to calm, and you've managed to hurt both Mother and Father quite severely."

The roar of the hover machine swept up gusts atop the Violet Citadel. Flanking the newly minted Duke were ten others in similar crafts. The men were of the same colors of their Lord in front of them. “Ah. Lady Volanthius. How good of you to come and see us here in the isolated North. How goes things in the South?”

Avaraelia perks an ear to the whirring sounds of the chopper, her gaze half-focused on the distant city below. "Good morning, friend."

Avaraelia chuckles quietly, offering a light shrug. "All is well, to current knowledge. And for you? Rumor has reached our ears of a change in command, of late."

“Rumors which are no doubt true. I suppose nosy people still live, despite the best efforts of the Black Aspect. A pity, really. Plans must be kept more to the chest now.

Avaraelia tossed and turned a few times restlessly before giving up; it was no use, there would be no more sleep for her tonight. Resisting the urge to sigh, bi-coloured eyes opened slowly as she pushed herself carefully into a seated position on the shared bed and gazed down half unseeingly to the peacefully sleeping Elf. She almost envied him for a moment, shaking her head and raising a hand to drift her fingers through the long, russet locks. He smiled in sleep, an arm reaching out to wrap around her waist. This in turn brought a soft smile to Ava's lips, edging a bit closer to him as the soft fingers drifted over scarred skin. Her head tilted in a thoughtful expression, followed by a sheepish grin offered to no one in particular as events from the previous day replayed in her mind.

Avaraelia uncurled herself languidly from the large bed she had been sleeping in, yawning softly and wincing at the movements. A hand reached over her naked shoulder to drift her fingertips gently and carefully over what they could reach of her back, hissing softly even as her back arches in pain from the deep claw marks that scored the fair skin. Pulling back bloodstained fingers, an ear flickers slowly to the sound of tentative hooves on the stone floor.

Glancing up at the approaching group of Succubi, the 'Elf' smiled sweetly at them, utterly careless of her lack of clothing and the various sluggishly bleeding lacerations. "Where is Father, sisters? He was rather delightfully ungentle, and I do need him to heal what he did." A black tail with violet swirls swayed slowly behind her, curling and uncurling slowly to gesture toward the rent flesh as she eyed what seemed to be the leader of the pack.

"Hunting, I'd imagine."

((Sorry if some parts seem weird. What should have been captured quickly was not captured, so some slight improv had to be done. enjoy. Edit: Definitely as not intentional to change up things. Any good recommendations to chatloggers are welcome!))

In the Silvermoon Bank and Trust, Euphadora and Starscythe spoke on delicate matters...

"A grave new threat to Azeroth is working behind the scenes, seperate from the current developments."

Euphadora raised a brow, considering this for a moment. She blinked, her expression stricken with worry. "Is it lizard people?"

"No. Folks who operate and thrive amongst Silvermoon itself."

She wrings her hands and frowns. "Okay. You ought to keep your voice down, you know. The Arcane Guardians here record everything."

"You bring me here Champion. Personally, other than pressing matters, I'd rather be North of Silvermoon to divulge this further."

Avaraelia sat on the strangely warm floor of the Dreadmist Den, legs crossed in a meditative position. Her eyes were closed, breathing steady as the Fel of the cave flowed both around and through her. Taking a small measure of comfort in the sound of another's breathing in the closed cavern, a small smile danced at the corners of her lips as she took a deeper breath than usual, memories of the last few days rising to the forefront of her mind in place of the information she had been given to contemplate.

Where had it all gone wrong? It had been such a good day to start, talking pleasantly with her 'children' and associates, ensuring that plans were running smoothly. The crisp autumn weather outside the eternal spring of Quel'thalas was a refreshing change of pace, playful breezes tugging sunset tresses left and right.

Gathering her children together was always a pleasure, even for such unfortunate reasons as business and warnings. Threats and attacks aside, it warmed her heart to see her loved ones uniting against threats from the Outsiders, those who would gladly see her family hang for simply existing. An hour's conference later, and she found herself wandering across the world to the Barrens, to the base of the mountain where it had all began.

The end of the beginning.

"So much to do, so little time..."

Avaraelia tapped her fingers absently on her desk, her eyes narrowed in deep thought at the sheets of scattered papers in front of her. Names, locations, and half-formed plans all stared back at her almost mockingly, the ex-paladin laughing softly to herself. A list of names was pulled out, marking each of the Elves in the city who had been sent exploding letters. Unnatural eyes narrowed once more as she mused over each, trying to understand why some of those names were there and more importantly, who might be hit next.

((Have to Log in to view the photos. Enjoy))

 Within the morning papers, inserts were slipped in every newspaper. Dalaran, Ratchet, Gadgetzan, Orgrimmar, Thunder Bluff, Shattrah City, Silvermoon, Undercity, and strongholds such as Light's Hope all received these cryptic messages.

The name of the insert was The Whispering Lips, with a large section especially devoted to pictures and captions.

Good morning proud citizens of the Horde! We trust you've made the right decisions when you got the preview to our brand new publication! That scene was just delightfully wicked, with discreet eyes on the street reporting the local pastry shop in Silvermoon almost emptying OUT of patrons when certain celebrities showed up!

Our analyst Ima B. Tr'lling secretly got some comments from the scent after purchasing a cupcake. Here's what his recorder picked up:

The warm rays of a beautiful Nagrand sunset streamed through a window, oranges and pinks merging into one hue to illuminate numerous bookshelves and stacks of files. Little disturbed the small study save the crackle of papers moved about, until the sole occupant of the room 'tsked' in thought as the sounds of paper stilled.

Night seemed to fall swifter this particular night of the year than any other. One by one, the figures of the five who had accompanied her to the secluded grove vanished into the darkness; the small gathering had gone somewhat well. Ideas had bounced back and forth between the group, plans and codes and advice to deal with the most important threats at hand. Avaraelia sighed quietly in frustration as a hand reached up to tuck a lock of hair behind an ear, her eyes slowly surveying the empty glade. The information from her ally and contact within the city had proved startling, and troublesome.

I should have guessed that this would happen...Gilthanas grew a conscience at the worst possible time, and damn his tenacious digging. Let us hope there is still time to reverse the damage, before Aelberyn knows the whole of what he does...ah, well. Our favourite Shadow will watch him, and her.

(( Written by request to explain events that happened in The Round Table. Deals with child and spousal abuse, as well as vivid torture and vivisection. ))

"Another day, another candle...another hour of reflective contemplation..."

A familiarly soft female voice drifted through the small chamber, pensive in tone as a single candle flickered to life. Heavy drapes blocked out the dim light of the moon and the stars, the only illumination being the candle, a small, gently pulsing crimson orb, and a pair of faintly luminescent, Fel-distorted eyes that rested on a small lockbox on her table. Slender fingers gently traced over its contours, the rough edges snagging on thin silken gloves every now and again.

"Hyah!"

Thunk...

Thunk-Thunk...

Thunk-Thunk...

Thunk-Thunk-Thunk...

Thunk-Thunk...

Thunk-Thu--Crrrack!

It was the Hour of the Wolf.

The tall glass of crimson liquid sat innocently upon a desk, a single candle behind it casting an eerie red glow over a small room and several scattered papers. Heavy curtains ensured that the room remained shrouded in darkness against the starlight and ever-present lights of Silvermoon, aside from that single flickering candle and a pair of faintly luminescent eyes.

Quiet and stillness were their only companions in the room.  Drowsing on the cushions across the room, Tiradell looked over at Raeril, now in a natural sleep across the room.  He could feel his jaw tightening and his hands clenching as if seeking to grip his weapon.  It’d been a long night for everyone.  His memory wandered to the week’s events, thinking of everything that he’d need to report on.  It was almost time for that again.  Every week he made his report, he thought to himself, the General’s going to have my head for this one.  Every week seemed like some mad goings-on that he was ill-equipped to handle.

So much for a quick audience...even now, as I sit in the place of my creation, I cannot help but wonder what exactly went wrong this time.

Things had started rather smoothly in the day, the usual wandering and watching taking up most of my time. Happening upon a conversation between one of our allies and one who seemed very similar to my dearest Lacriox was quite surprising, but a refreshing change. At least for the time being...Rand, it seems, still has yet to learn to control his temper, much of the time. Being spied on was nothing new, but Andicelys' latest adoption was a poor stealther, and absolutely horrible at dissembling his thoughts. Perhaps leaving Gilthånås and Tydrill in charge of the brat was a bit of a mistake, but Gil, at least, I can trust to take care of the kid as well as teach him some Light-be-damned manners before dropping him back off to his 'father.'

It was always hard to tell whether she was smiling or not; Fyodora didn't have much in the way of a face left.  The harlequin pattern of brightly colored cloth patches and stitching revealing little of her emotions when she made an attempt, and the empty sockets of her eyes didn't help.  Fyodora looked around at those gathered in the old Brill graveyard, the heavily-armored warriors, massive weapons at their sides or backs.  Other in their robes or light clothes, eyes narrowed, hands empty yet still betraying the position of their weapons.

“Living in cities is an art, and we need the vocabulary of art, of style, to describe the peculiar relationship between man and material that exists in the continual creative play of urban living. The city as we imagine it, then, soft city of illusion, myth, aspiration, and nightmare, is as real, maybe more real, than the hard city one can locate on maps in statistics, in monographs on urban sociology and demography and architecture.” -Jonathan Raban

"If I said your assumption was true, would you ignore me for the rest of your life?" Delamontre's voice was deep and low, almost a whisper. His bright blue eyes, those eyes that all death knights shared, looked at Moriurya with concern and ... love?

Weekly report - Aug. 10 - Aug. 15

Tuesday Aug. 10 - observed the Felsworn gathered around a cart; discussion seemed little to do with others, mostly of others within their own circle, personal difficulties, and playful banter.  Did notice an open box within the cart filled with weapons and tabards.  I was unable to identify the pattern on the tabards.  There was also a sealed lockbox, was unable to see what was inside.  Later in the day I followed Avaraelia, overhearing her advising an orc who was following their ways asking for instruction in wielding the fel; she instructed him to find a warlock.  Shortly thereafter a young girl, very young, approached Avaraelia and informed her that on her mother’s death, she had been instructed to follow the Felsworn.  I attempted to dissuade her, but am unsure whether my attempts were successful; her name is Lunaliska, her mother was apparently a mage of some power, who has recently died.