Iloam Blacksong

He did it.

The little blighter actually did it.

I didn’t think he had it in him.  I’d be proud, but then again I did bear and raise him.  I know exactly what to expect.

He’ll trip up.  He’ll fall.  And mummy won’t be there to pick him up.

It’s always a matter of time.

The foyer is as I remember it and I recover from the disorientation of translocation by dusting at my skirts and looking around. Hesitating. Stalling. I can’t breathe, but I pretend. I finally start across the small guest lounge to the bedroom door, fingers tucking at my hair and smoothing over my clothes. My bangles chime when I knock.

There’s no time. Now. Now. NOW. I can hear movement beyond. The door is not locked. Both of my hands are on the latch and it swings open from my weight where I lean. “Iloam?” There is a high note to my voice, though it comes out soft. I’m so scared part of me wants to bolt. But what am I scared of? It had been building: I needed to see him. To reassure myself. I was worried for him and he would tell me nothing when I’d asked. Fluttering uncertainty felt like a bird trapped in my breast. Seeing him was the only way to try to understand. The only way to move past the trapped feeling of worry and keep it from moving into panic.

((After over a week of fiddling, cold medicine induced haze, and personal real life unexpected happenings, I finally have to just post without it being what I want it to be. It was also MASSIVE, so I've split it into two, again. Apologies. This RP happened a bit ago, and I hope it's not too confusing with 'newer' blogs out.))

In 30 minutes I will see me wife.

She’ll walk t’rough tha door an look as stunning as ever. She’ll smell like jasmine an lotus oil. She’ll make a wee sound like fairies laughin as she walks wit ‘er bangles an jewelry jingling toget’er. Her skin will be t’e color of milky tea an just as warm an comfortin’ on me lips. She’ll --- Wait—will I kiss ‘er? Should I kiss ‘er?

Iloam is asleep.

The significance of that should not be minimized.  Like most rogues of my acquaintance - and I know quite a few more than would be considered in strictly good taste – Iloam exists in a rather constant state of apprehension.  Thus, even when at rest, he is still alert; I rarely catch him actually asleep, and even when I do he wakes instantly with even the smallest change in his surroundings.  Honestly this constant state of unrest is a detriment to his health:  not to mention his continued refusal to eat properly.  My inner healer protests these terrible habits rather vehemently, but that’s beside the point.  Iloam is asleep for now, which is good because he could not last a moment longer without rest.

"He's exhausted."

"He's weak," the tattooed gypsy woman corrected with a cold, but satisfied, tone.

"He's found ways to chase us off temporarily at times, but we have others to attend to as well."

All t’ings considered, it was a lovely sort of chapel. Smallish, wit a thatched roof tha’s long since caved under weight of snow an rain and an ‘eavy past tha it couldn’t bear. T’ere’s a sadness tha ‘angs in t’e air in Lordaeron; but out ‘ere, tucked ‘ard against t’e white capped mountains an softly fallin’ snow, it adds a still beauty tha yeh cannae capture most anywhere else.

Me boots is loud, crunchin’ t’rough t’e snow as I come off t’e overgrown pass. Almost lost it a few times under white powder as I’d veered off from t’e Thorondil River an inta starlit night. A lantern would’ve only drawn attention from all manner of unrestful t’ings out ‘ere, an I’ve got me ‘ands full as it is.

I lifted gloved fingers fer t’e iron gate as another ball of snow ‘it me square between t’e shoulders. From t’e balance of it, they’d packed it wit stones. A chorus of children laughin’ from t’e edge a t’e darkness sounded be’ind me. I turned me face over me shoulder, peerin inta empty night. Poltergeists. Wee snots ‘ad followed me t’e ‘hole way, jeerin’ an pullin’ at me boot buckle’s, slurrin’ an cursin, whirlin’ past me ‘ead in frigid blasts of screamin’ wind.

“Bugger off,” I growled inta t’e empty darkness. T’e snowfall twinkled back at me. “Yer goin’ ta ‘ave ta do much better’n wee pranks ta scare me off.” Brave words. I vaguely wondered ‘ow true t’ey really were as I turned back ta t’e chapel an pushed open t’e gate against a bank a snow. A crumblin’ stone wall lined ‘allowed ground in a pretty ring tha edged right up against t’e mountain base. In t’e starlight it loomed large an proud; a forgotten bastion guardin against t’e ‘orrors tha rose up and left a bloody wake across t’ese lands.

A woman’s tall, nearly emaciated form cavorted in strange, sinuous movements around flickering fingers of flame that grasped higher and higher into the chill, pre-dawn air.  Eternal spring was overpowered by a cold autumn wind that gusted northward from the Eastern Plaguelands, a wind that rustled through the dry, leafless branches of long dead trees.  The sound of it added an otherworldly rhythm to the woman’s dancing, to the music of her sinister chanting that frightened off the smallest, twisted insect that foraged in the long tainted earth.  This open area within the Ghostlands, once a hilly glade that bloomed with wildflowers, still bore the remnants of charred wooden wheels and rusted metal axles if one knew what to look for.  It had been over a century or more, but once this place had been the ground upon where a gypsy clan put down its roots during times of trouble, only to be utterly consumed by trouble of an entirely different kind.

On a wooden table, prominently positioned to be seen from anywhere in the room, there is a tall bottle of very fine whiskey. Under the bottle of whiskey rests a letter. When unfolded the letter is undated and unaddressed. The ink is rich and smooth with clean, strong script dancing across the fine vellum, but it is the excess slant of the letters that is the subtle indication of the strength of the author's emotion.

~
I am not your child. So stop treating me like one.

Who is this boy, anyway?  That is the first thought that came to mind as I listened to the paladin that stood before me in the Main Hall.  What does he want?  What is he truly after?

When I heard he wished to meet me in the Main Hall, I was somewhat taken aback.  Most of those who come to me appreciate more informal settings for whatever they wish to discuss, and generally I meet with them in the library or elsewhere, using the opportunity to encourage them to relax.  In truth I hadn’t sat in the Baronial seat in… months.  Not since the days after the Shattering, when I finally lost faith in the leadership of Quel’thalas.  Absently my fingertips traced the grooves my nails made in the wood on the arm of the chair that day, but my gaze remained on the young knight who looked up at me with composed discipline.

The tattooed gypsy stared into the glass with absolutely no expression.  Black lines twisted into patterns on chin and cheeks as dots lined angular cheekbones.  Shadows darkened the skin around one fel green eye while the other remained hollow, empty save for scarred ivory skin where the matching orb previously rested.  The gypsy woman pursed plump lips so tightly together that they paled almost as white as the rest of her face as her gaze traced every line at the corner of her eyes and marring the perfection of her forehead.  Her gaze trailed over the lines from nostrils to the corners of her mouth, and finally her eye moved back to that empty socket and narrowed, rage darkening the unholy green and burning within like fire.  One hand slowly rose, silver bracelets tinkling together as the arm moved, and long, nimble fingers trailed up her cheek and over the smooth, puffy skin that stretched over the hollowed bone.  A soft sound vibrated deep within her throat before her fingers curled into a fist and shot out without a word, crashing into the mirrored glass and shattering it.

The scent of rotting things, of mold and death and old plague is such a heavy smell in the air of Ghostlands, a land that once smelt of life and spring.  Then it smelled of burning, and this place was called the Blackened Woods after the orcs took dragonfire to it.  Like so much of Quel’thalas, this part of the land still bears the deep scars of war – and the scars of a leadership who takes no time to heal those wounds.  I wondered if the Ghostlands would ever bloom with anything beyond sickly green mold and mutated plantlife.  Then I stepped over a hill with my escort of guards, stopped, and thought nothing for a long moment:  nothing but shock, sudden dread, and rising outrage.  My soldiers… my loyal warriors, sworn to serve and follow and fight at my word… laid broken on the ground, one sightless eye from each skull staring up at the sky.  The other eyes had a knife driven through them.

Knives, deadly knives.  The knives in their eyes made me think of the knife that sliced into my arm and nearly killed me.

It sits on a table in the main room of my cabin now; such a fine, bright light, shining enough so I haven't needed witchlights in days.  Why settle for less?  I have had a long, thrilling life - longer than someone might think, to look at me - and I've accomplished many incredible things.  But this spark, this fire? This is MY creation.  Truly I shaped it, I cultivate it like an attentive gardener, and when necessary, I prune it.  So, now... what a magnificent flame it has become, flickering and dancing, catching other things on fire and consuming everything it touches.

My son may be a sorry excuse for anything else, but if he has anything of worth it is his passion.  

It’s hot.  Pretty words could be used to describe it - sweltering, humid, muggy - but at the end of the day it’s just hot and no matter where I go it will be the same.  Perspiration crawls down my skin like insects, leaving salty trails on skin that is far too pale to welcome the sun in any healthy manner besides painful burning.  My servants removed my more luxurious sheets, as there are few things more irritating than silk or satin soaked with sweat.  Fortunately I’ve embraced the simplicity of finely woven linen sheets, and these are far more comfortable to lie on as I stare up at the multicolored tiles and hanging cloths in my bedroom.  It’s late.  I can’t sleep.  I should read perhaps, but I cannot concentrate.  I already attempted to write poetry, but the words… they fight in my head and refuse to come.  It’s just too hot, and my mind is… busy.

 Monday

My skin is like the moon, luminous and glowing.  The power is like the tide as it moves through me; waxing, waning, pulsing in time with my heartbeat.  I have never been so aware of my own body, of the spirit that fueled it, as right now.  I could count the atoms as the air moves over my skin, I can taste the steam, and the blood, and the power in the air.  Especially the blood.  So much blood; I am drowning in it.  So much power; I have already drowned.

This is just to get a link in the blog postings to this picture I tossed up since it doesn't show up on the main page otherwise so parden the double post... 

And DISCLAIMER: A little bit provocative but no nudity...just a scantily clad Iloam in an...interesting pose with sexual tones.

A little bit provocative but no nudity...just a scantily clad Iloam in an...interesting pose with sexual tones.

With a world shattered, what mother wouldn’t worry?

But he was always a willful child.  He’s alive.  Haven’t seen him since I let him go, but I knew.  I’ll always know.

What’s that?  Those words… that language… that voice.  Oh.  Finally.  He feels… "safe."

Oh my darling boy.  It was only a matter of time.

What a weird night.

Pins held up only half my hair as the rest of the disheveled curls flew behind my head where I sat in the sidecar of the mechano-hog.  Dust and wind flew into my blood-spattered face, forcing me to narrow my eyes as I absently nuzzled my nose into the soft, ebony fur of my panther cub, a clever little thing named Mud.  I was calm – the excitement was long past, after all, and we’d sent Jericho off to fight for his wife.  Now Iloam was driving me to his home where no doubt Kharris was already at rest:  of course making certain to run over every small animal that caught his eye.  Ah my Prince; baby steps.  Baby steps.

Me ‘ands are shaking as I turn the skeleton key in the attic door. Useful thing – lockin from the inside. The previous owner’s likely installed the feature ta keep thugs an robbers out. There’s a hidden vault in the wall an Gobbos aren’t known ta mess about with their priorities. But fer me, it’s completely opposite, innit? Lock the baddie in. Keep the monster in the attic, away from all the rest.

The inside of the room the shadowy version of Aelberyn leads Kharris to is like all the other rooms along the corridor in that it is plain and unremarkable.  The door opens to a small, wood paneled room with drafty bare floors and no afforded rug for comfort.  The ceilings are high and the beams are bare with sloppy, white washed paint edging the heavy oak at the corners.  There is a simple cot and a tall wardrobe.  A porcelain wash basin sits on a plain chair wedged in the corner.  A small desk with a single white wax candle that illuminates the room.  But it is not the room itself that draws the eye - it is the first the smell: food.  The sticky sweet aromas of cinnamon and sugar, fresh baked cookies and steaming, cooling cake.  Flakey pastries and fresh, sweet citrus oranges.  The carnival aromas of kettle corn and fluffy cotton candy.   It is all there in the room, covering every surface and the floor, stacked deep on the desk, plates on top of plates - empty serving dishes and covered silver platters.  And it's not just sweets, but the savory, wonderful scents of beef wellington and mushroom gravy.  Fresh hot Yorkshire puddings and mash potatoes.  Steaming, crackling sausages dripping with grease.  Then there are the sounds in the room, the whirling of wind-up toys and the echo of a bouncing rubber basketball, the dry swish and thokk! of a cricket bat hitting a ball, the echoing of a boy's laughter as he pants heavily and plays a game of afternoon football in the grass.

It was a couple days before they could return to the task; a couple days, and Aelberyn had almost gone elsewhere to get it done.  The unhappiness and anger Kharris showed after looking into her mind was enough to make her realize that it simply was a terrible idea.  What in the world did her friend see that affected her so badly, she kept wondering.  Some dark secret?  Something about Iloam?  Some hidden personality trait?  She wouldn’t have turned to Kharris again… but then she almost killed Iloam.  Well actually, the fight was fairly even.  He beat her pretty badly, but she WANTED to kill him.  She could taste his blood in her mouth, and she craved it so badly.  Aelberyn knew the thought wasn’t hers, knew she snapped only because of whatever was going wrong in her head.  The problem needed to be dealt with, and Kharris was the closest one there.  She wanted to do it, she told the Bishop sincerely.  It would be alright.  Kharris knew it wasn’t real, she assured her.  And because she really didn’t have another choice, Aelberyn allowed it.

"If you're aware you're friendship... Then he is wrong.  And that says something to me," Kharris says in an even voice to the figure of the human girl that walked at her side down the streets of a Lordaeron that no longer existed.  "I'm not exactly sure what yet.  But it says something to me. It may not be important.  I don't think it is to the mission." Her feet are quick, sure, and purposeful in a graceful but ground-eating paced stride.  Now and again she rubs both hands across her skirts again as her own thoughts go back to the mentally conjured image of her own husband.  Her green eyes peer ahead, watching and waiting for some sign or direction that would show her what could possibly be amiss in the ever-changing mindscape within the Bishop of Silvermoon’s brain.

((I've been inspired by Ythgar's player being an amazing art power house this weekend. I realized I've written plenty but not ever actually done a drawing of the Ythgar/Iloam pairing. Consider that rectified! Not too racy but probably NSFW. Also if you are not into gay depictions, don't click.

This one is for you, Yth. You inspire me to try harder and be a better writer, artist, and intellectual type every single day ♥ So naturally I gift you with lowbrow smut!))

Hare snagged in the trap. Willing. Trembling.

Crave the heartbeat under me teeth. You bite first – spill the blood. She screams. No mercy in yer eyes.

We hunt as one. Rolling flanks an bared fangs, growlin’, feastin’. Helpless between us.

Full on fresh game, our hunger has only been awakened. We sate on each other.

Something was wrong, and she didn’t know what it was, but it couldn’t continue like this.  Her thoughts were all chaos and control was out of her grasp.  Something was terribly wrong, and whatever it was had changed the Aelberyn into nearly a different person.  She didn’t know where to even begin to fix it, but it had to be fixed.  Her options were few, but she turned to her friends.  There were instructions passed, ideas offered, but in the end she lay vulnerable on her large, soft bed in Uldum, staring up at the dark lashes that fanned over dusky cheeks as Kharris tightly held the Bishop’s hand.  A quick sidelong glance to Kharris’ husband – to Iloam – sitting like a silent sentinel at the chair near the window and watching them both intently, then forest green eyes moved back towards the other woman’s face.  Aelberyn took a deep breath, and sighed, and trusted, and hoped that Kharris could identify the problem… and wondered what she would see within the depths of her mind…

Yeh have all the power but I claimed it fer meself.

Tethered to the bike, skirt hiked up an gasping, doe in the headlights. Life screaming past at 70 mph.

There’s so much potential burning through yeh. Rocket fuel in yer engine ready fer release. Eyes rolled back an pretty blush.

I’ll take yeh there.

((This storyline took place a couple weeks ago for reference.  Mature for language.))

So hungry.  I am… so hungry.  All the time.  Not for food, but for everything; for sensation, really.  It just feels as if there’s this yawning hole inside of me that will never be filled no matter how much I consume. I drink, I eat, I feel, I have sex again and again and it just isn’t enough.  I want blood… LIGHT, I WANT BLOOD.  Does he feel like this?  All the time?  Light… how does he stay sane?

I'm going to end up being one of those old codgers that tells young blokes tha there will come a time in 'is life where everythin is goin ta change an he'll be forced ta re-evaluate wots important to 'im. He'll no longer be the youngest, strongest lad in the pack of 'is mates. He won't get quite as tossed on weak ales an lagers. He'll prefer more refined spirits an need less of 'em ta get well inta 'is cups. Pretty young lassies will flit about and flirt with 'im, sure, but it'll be others they go 'ome with. He will go 'ome ta 'is wife at a reasonable 'our on week nights, mindful of the day job in the morning, an think about bigger issues than the tickets to the latest DFB match or how much petrol is in the mechano-hog.