Ineesa

My study of relics brings me to that great old wall.

As I sift the dust and fragments, I find my own crest, fallen from armor I once wore.

I take a news clipping out of my pocket, staring at it, and the crest.

I came looking for history.

This place holds my history too.

Stormwind Harbor, usually placid, washed and heaved.

Echo looked out from the quarterdeck of the houseboat, narrowing her eyes as a hot wind seethed over her face.  Under the black night sky the horizon glowed strangely orange.

She had a feeling no elementals would invade tonight.

[[ Who ya gonna call? Ghost Scions.... ]]

Ineesa's entry for the "Time of Day" writing exercise, found here: http://www.rp-haven.com/forum/workshops/writing_workshop_0

Her robes did little to disguise her limp; as subtle as it was, it still showed with every step, a little jerk of her leg, a slight drop of her opposite shoulder.  She held her head high, however, the deep curves of her horns aligned, her taela hanging evenly from behind the sharp angle of her jaw.  Casting her face upwards to catch the dappled sunlight, she smiled youthfully, playful blue-green freckles spattered across her full cheeks and broad forehead, curtained often by dark strands of smooth deep green hair.  As she flung back the locks, the brightness of her smile matched that of her eyes, endless in their conveyance of the Light within and without.

When she used to dress up and be a huntar.

Cassie raised her head as I entered the room. In an instant, she was clambering from where she had curled herself in the armchair to reach for me, and in two steps I had her in my arms. I kissed her like I had been away for years. I had thought my lips would never be so warm again.

 She broke the spell.

Perched above the Shadow Vault, I looked down from the saddle of the bronze drake. The skies were dark – darker than night – and the air thin and cold. Like a chill feather the stroke of a shiver swept up my spine and I couldn't help but hunker down, reins tight in my hands, eyes narrowed at the movements below us.

“Is this how it will be, Eleredormu? One day, will it be no more than the dead fighting the dead?” 

((Since there are spoilers about Yogg-Saron's dialogue, I've hidden this behind the cut.))

Full image under break!

Artings below the break  :)

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. ;)

There is a certain smell that clings to the foundations of buildings, a musky scent where stone meets earth. In Shattrath, that particular tang is remembered from my youngest days, and accosts me with memory lifting from the walls of the Lower City. Children run past us and their laughter is my laughter; walking here, I know only sunlight and the vague lost faces of those long passed.

Lord Kast commands us ever deeper into Ulduar. His eyes face forward only, as if in rebellion against the fear that awaits beneath; every guardian and watcher is only an obstacle in our way. One by one they fall.

Among the scrap heaps, where the giant mechanical screams and throws its tantrums, I spotted a shadow. It dashed for cover when we entered the chamber and disappeared when we engaged the mechagnomes and their equipment. While the others picked apart the remains, gleaning for gold or treasure, I sought the shadow among cast off metal plates, piles of robotic guts, wires and gears and cogs. A shadow amid the shadows, it huddled beneath a great beam and hissed, batting at my gauntlet as I reached for it. I could pick it up with one hand, wrapped about its ribs.

In the sleep of the just, what dreams may come need never give us pause.  Whether the dreams bear us away to the shining spires of Argus, standing tall and true in the thoughts and memories of our eldest and passing from them to us, to remain incorrupt and eternal against the backdrop of dreams and hopes, whether they bear us to the rolling plains of the spirit realm, to run with the wind and listen to the wisdom of the ancestors gone before, or whether they carry us no further than the lips of our beloved, they bear us up, strengthen us and give us courage to continue.

I have heard tales of Argus, of what our homeworld was. I have heard of the shining streets of Mac'Aree and the shimmering waters which flowed through the mountains. Elders wove their memories into our imagination, until I believed that I might never see such wonder, such magnificence, with my own eyes. But I have.

Light knows how many trolls I've killed. From the Sandfury in the hot southern deserts to the green-mouldered forest trolls of Zul'Aman; from the scattered tribes in the Vale to the little villages of the Revantusk. They are everywhere on this world, this relic of a savage old race. They walk among the Horde but defy the need to stand upright. They fish, they fight, they hunt, they grow their tusks long and they die within a blink of years.

**a slip of paper lying half under a bed in a corner of the Hero's Welcome dormitory, appearing as if it had been written in the middle of the night.  The pen has rolled out of sight; the occupants of the bed are soundly sleeping **

Don't think.

Don't worry.

Just be.

I breathe deep, the herbal smoke filling my lungs and causing me to close my eyes. Behind them, I listen for the spirits. I listen for the high pure call of the wind, the rumbling wash of the tides, the crackle of the fire, the deep quivering of the earth. I listen for them and feel them surround me like an embrace, like they had been waiting for me all along. I open my eyes and the world is so vibrant I can barely see.

I didn't go to Lorith Stonegarten's funeral. I spent the evening with Shar, going out to dinner in Dalaran and celebrating the ring she had me put on her finger, the promise of our future together and the life that lay before us. I didn't want to think back those many months ago to Arathi, to my own fumbling ineptitude with the weapon in my hands – compared to her. And none of us could save her, none of us could do anything but watch her die.

I wake up before she does. One of us almost always wakes before the other, as if gifted a little sliver of consciousness before togetherness, those quiet contemplative moments where we see the other so still and so silent and so vulnerable, and for that one moment say, “There lies my treasure, there lies my love.”

I smile as I rise from our bed. I don't know when she'll wake and I don't want to wake her. There's too much I want to do before she rises. The bedroom is small and I cross it silently, pulling a loose white shirt over my shoulders, stepping into a pair of worn woven leggings that let the breeze pass through.

I keep coming back here. Back to this curving ledge in the Crystal Hall, high above all the other shrines, where behind me the Glyph of the Wind hovers in stone. Although incense permeates the air, I've lit another one of Shar's sticks of rolled herbs. She doesn't seem to mind giving them to me and certainly can make plenty for her own uses. Sucking the woodsy tip, I feel the smoke tingle through my mouth and up the back of my nose, causing my eyes to squint. I don't cough anymore though, and exhale slowly, to taste and feel the motes of essence and spirit as long as I can.

Someone once asked me if I was a Shaper.

I am not.

The stars are bright over Dalaran. I always wonder at how they shine in the cold, unobscured by cloud or mist. I rarely saw such stars growing up in the marsh. They reflect off bits of my armor as I run a polishing cloth over the metal, shining up rings and scales. One bracer at at time, then onto gloves. I polish each and set each beside me on the balcony railing.

Eleredormu... perches on the eaves above, his long neck and keen head hanging over, watching me work. I can feel the gentle breeze of the bronze drake's breath as he takes in long inhalations of the cool night air, as if it is delicious to him. I smile, glancing sidelong to his bright golden eye. He seems to smile in return, a toothy grin.

To: Exarch Olenaar, Department of Draenei Relations, Exodar

Regarding: Noteworthy aspects of the Human city of Stormwind.

Exarch:

As the center of power for the Alliance, I thought it fitting to explore Stormwind first. Please advise if you have alternate locations in mind.

Target blank. Nothing past three years.

We ran in the green. Splashed through marshlands. Hunted together.

There need be nothing more.

I know it's ridiculous to buy her flowers. Flowers spring from the earth at Shar's footsteps; she grows them, finds them, collects them every day. I may as well bring water to a well. But I buy them anyway, a bunch of white roses from the woman in Dalaran. They're just blushing pink in the evening light, and the color makes me smile after the cold dark of Icecrown. I give the woman the coin and wrap my fingers around the long smooth stems. No no, take your glove off, Ineesa. There's Scourge bits on it. I pull it off under my elbow, exchange hands, taking care not to drop the bouquet... There.

Moonglade swung dizzyingly below, like a mist-shrouded emerald jewel set in the jagged mountains.

The wind cut cold across the nares of the raven, and sleeked her violet feathers tightly to her body. She cupped a wing, and slid sideways into the slipstream, leading with her primaries.

The rush of cold wind and hot blood and height was a pleasure she could not have ever even attempted to articulate to a grounded being. No earth-walking creature could do more than grasp the merest outlines of the sensations flooding her, and even that grasp came solely due to another being bearing them into the high reaches of the wind. It wasn't their element.. it couldn't be! If their mount failed, or threw them, they would die.

No fall could kill her, for she would slip as easily into her cloak of feathers as she now circled high above her home. In fierce triumph at flying, she opened her hooked beak and screamed; a high, piercing shriek. It felt good.

I was dismissed. For the morning, for the evening, I'm not sure which. I'm not sure what time of day it is, or how long I've been awake. I've been over the mountains to Onslaught Harbor, stealing documents and slaughtering the gryphons like Maybel, like those I often ride myself. I don't think about the humans I've slain. I don't think of the vrykul, either. Just more dead faces. In the Shadow Vault, even the floor is covered with dead faces.

I dreamed of Nagrand. I dreamed of the water resting and flowing through the Telaari basin, and the smell of her sun-warmed skin. We laid out on the bank sunbathing, the breeze bending the reeds carrying just enough coolness to keep us from becoming too warm. Draenei do not burn in the sun like the pink-skinned humans; we absorb sunlight, revel in it, glow. We were both glowing, in my dream, basking and glowing and there was nothing between us but light.