Euphadora
The Oath of Following
Twenty more steps. Twenty more steps and they would be safe. Twenty more steps and she would be warm.
A blood-covered, armor-plated foot slammed down, a splattering of the crimson fluid spraying across the snow. Korrelas felt himself wavering, but used the strength of his will to keep him standing tall against the blustery wind that struck him from the left. His goal was ahead. A large sawhouse at the Venture Bay lumber yard, its massive blade parked and as resolute as his resolve to reach it. He looked down through the frost that swirled around his purple lips, each edge of his mouth bearing a hint of the blood which he had coughed up now and again. In his arms, she hovered unconscious, only his desire to get her to warmth – to keep her alive – preventing her from slamming down onto the summer snow and the permafrost that winter left behind.
He staggered forward once more, his face twisting in pain from either the flesh ripped open on his knee, the similar gash on his forehead, or the ribs which crackled and popped with every breath he drew.
Eighteen more steps. Eighteen more steps and they would be safe. Eighteen more steps and she would be warm.
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Reflections
(( Writing this story has given me an appreciation for a need to have some sort of chat-logging addon. Aramalia, Euphadora, I humbly hope that I've done your characters justice here. ))
He had gone running to his mother, as fast as his feet could carry him. Behind him, a troll from the market gave chase, his eyes preceding each step with daggers of anger, hurling what must have surely been Trollish insults in his wake. Korrelas had no idea how close the troll had gotten to him, he could only judge the the thumping sounds which entered his ears. As he saw his mother’s silhouette against the glow of the setting sun outside their small home, he couldn’t decide if the pounding came from the troll’s feet, or his own heart.
His mother remained shrouded in the darkness borne of the light of dusk as he scampered up the hill. He sensed that his pursuer had become aware of the Sin’dorei woman to which the child ran, and had connected the dots. The troll backed off, thinking better than to let the shadow up ahead witness what he had wanted to do to the impetuous child. Korrelas did not so much arrive at his mother’s side as he crashed into it, burying his face in her stomach and wrapping his arms around her. He felt a reassuring arm drape across his back, enveloping him in an embrace of safety even as the other arm slipped into her cloak, her hand caressing a dagger at the ready.
Korrelas peered around her arms, the ocean of tattoos criss-crossing her arms like a spider web of reds and blues. He had guessed the tattoos to be a writing of some sort; to be sure, in the small study of his mother’s home he had busily learned to read the flowing characters of his own Thelassian language, and less so the jagged forms of Orcish. The words -- if they were words -- scribbled upon her arm reminded him in a way of Orcish, but even his untrained eyes could tell that they weren’t. Perhaps they weren’t words at all.
He heard the sound of a shovel slamming into the dirt, peered past his mother’s arm at the troll who stood before them, his body slightly stooped, his face colored with dark ochre lines just above tusks that jutted from his mouth, curving up as if they had been destined to gouge his eyes out. The troll squatted down, looking at the shovel for a moment, then back up toward his mother, the gentle breeze of the highlands causing his blue Mohawk to bend like reeds of grass in the wind.
The One Where Ivor Gives Up
Elysia ran briskly out of the rain under the overhanging crumbling ledge in the Silvermoon ruins where Ivor kept his home. Home was a pretty generous word for where he slept, a splintered overturned wagon covered by a white canvas sail. She whipped her head about, flinging water into his eyes where he sat. Ivor didn't flinch as he was already covered in rain. It dripped and tapped against the cracked stone dias as it rolled from his ill kept rusted armor. He looked over the length of her as she stretched and dried out. Athletic and sinewy yet still very feminine. He imagined her for a moment without her clothes, how the water would bead and drip from her soft contour.
[Vanthen] Shatter
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. ThwackthwackTHWACK! 'n' th' splinters fly.
Carved wood gives way t' sharpened steel. Sure, at first th' cuts 'er small... but when ya keep swingin' harder 'n' harder, ya eventually break through, just like my darkness come slicin' through yer light. Nothin' can dim my light, ya says. My light can change ya, ya says. Sorry t' say it couldn't change me 'n' couldn't protect you. Th' Light's all powerful, all good. It's in all our hearts... 'er so ya thought.
Shift yer weight t' yer right foot, swing from th' left 'n' aim fer th' neck.
One of Three
There are three names you cannot say and I am happier than I have ever been to know that mine is one of them.
While you cannot say mine, i repeat yours to myself until it feels like my own. Euphadora. The name hums in my heart like a summer song while I watch you. I'm grateful that you've given me this quiet moment. I'm thankful to just be near you in an air that doesn't insist on idle talk or distracting banter. You write your reports in the sunlit bakeshop. You brush your lush red hair behind your ear with a delicate forgiveness. I can hear your sighs and watch your tilted expressions in reaction to the thoughts you pen. I am filled with hope and a radiance that brings me divine peace.
Just a Woman
Razor Hill is the last place I would expect to see you Euphadora. I could barely believe my eyes when I saw you stride in. I wanted to get your attention. I wanted to sweep you up, but as usual, fear held me fast. Then he came in. A complete stranger putting his hands all over you, dancing in close with such familiarity. So much presumption. I thought you were the only other soul I'd ever met who understood what love is. You were always so far above the typical lustful advances and groping, the one woman who looked past all the Silvermoon grabassery.
[Vanthen] Reflections
"This... ain't right. She's just a girl I met at a club. She's just a girl who didn't know how t' dance..."
Vanthen ran his hands anxiously through his hair, until coming in contact with his hairtie. Thoughtlessly, he tore it out and tossed it aside. His sun-touched hair, now free from its bonds, cascaded down over his shoulders and enveloped the frame of his face.
"So, what will you do?" uttered a voice from indiscernable origin.
Shattered Plans
The pain…
It was some of the greatest Xannivard ever endured. The Light coursed through his shell, his crafted body. It’s source the Paladin Tiradell, the golden warmth flowing down his arm and onto his own. In any mortal body, Xannivard would have been ejected from its fleshy confines as puss from an overripe pimple. But Melanim had done his job well, crafting with magic and flesh a shell that would protect his Fel twisted soul…to an extent. The Light’s searing heat licked at his soul, flaying, burning, a fire seeking to purge it’s polar opposite in the universe. And Xannivard let it happen.
Disbelief
((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."
Greed
Up and down, in and out. Fyodora hummed softly to herself, needle threading carefully, deliberately through the square of embroidery as she sat on the cushions. Such calming effects this place has, she thought, looking at the elves around her draining power greedily from the fel crystals. She smiled, looking at one fallen to the ground, overwhelmed. Weak, that one, he probably wouldn’t last too much longer.
“Ms. Weaver,” she heard a voice from behind her. She stood, tucking the embroidery away, turning to face the speaker, a young elf woman, heavy armor bracing up a smooth face framed with red hair. Next to her, a dark-armored elf man. The two stern-looking Blood Knights stood with their weapons drawn, the young Lord Xannivard Ral’kas between them. “Silvermoon calls upon your aid.”
Discovery
Ruby red locks, freckles, and scrunched up nose. Breakfast of heroes in the Silver City. They shared times of war.
Two-hundred animals and a passion to draw, his date said goodbye.
Discovery of the new cousins, why so much pink skin?
Why forsake your blue eyes?
What has happened to all of you?
The Color of Trust
Give me your Trust, said the Priest.
Gwrtheyrn couldn't seem to get comfortable in the pew, small splinters digging into his back however he turned. He stared at the stark walls around him, trying to avoid looking at the elf in front of him. "It wasn't your fault, Gwrtheyrn. There isn't anything you could have done to save them."
