Locavera

((So this is a new short series I thought of, to detail Loca's interactions with his daughter.  I can't say it'll be regular, because I'm terribly ADD, but I'll post one everytime something comes to mind.  Feel free to leave any feed back you like.  Hope you enjoy it.))

    Braedyn was missing.   For two weeks she had been missing, and there was nothing he could do but wait.  He wanted to go find her…to do something, anything at all.  He tried to ask local authorities if they had any information, but he was understandably stonewalled.  Then there was the word on the street, normally a bastion of honest and reliable information…except for this time.  All he got were dark rumors and idle speculation (why would trolls kidnap an elfish baker anyway?)  So, having exhausted all avenues of investigation, Locavera Thornthalas did the only remaining thing he could.  He baked his own damn cake.

    I blink my eyes and look around.  The world changed…no that wasn’t right, I changed, and left the world behind.  The snow and ice don’t seem to affect me now, what must be a rather biting cold wind flies right through me.  Through me?  That doesn’t make sense.  It should ruffle my hair and cause my cloak to billow.  Does anyone even say billow any more?

Zaraek was floating for countless days, heart wide open.

The second he shared his heartbeat with Linthice, he found himself in a joy beyond imagining, the Light connecting from Tabalah through him to Linthice and back in a wash of wonder, all bound somewhere by Brother’s smile.  There was nothing to compare to it.  It stayed with him, thrumming throughout his soul. Nothing could take this away from him because his only desire was to give it away.

The bright-eyed eagerness in Aestan's expression as he held out the rancid mason jar towards her was hard to resist. Grimacing, she skewered one of the “treats” with her fork and examined it. Green brine dripped off of the squishy dough ball, and the sour smell of vinegar assaulted her nostrils.

“What... is it?” Oneska asked, not exactly wanting to know the answer.

Locavera grunted as he was shoved backwards, his boots grinding into the packed snow.  He thanked the light for his shield, a piece of armor he had only recently begun to carry again.  The dragonkin roared in a primal fury, raising it’s wicked sword for another strike, but the beast left itself open and Loc’s faster blade struck the beast, slicing it open from navel to chest.  Blood splattered across the snow, staining the formerly immaculate white ground.  The battle wasn’t over yet however, the creature still had some fight left and brought it’s sword down towards the relatively small elf.  Again Loc’s shield saved him, though the force of the blow bent it.  Loc’s next strike relieved the mage hunter of its head, and Loc sighed as he stepped backwards.

His axe rose and fell, cleaving through the head of a fel orc.  The poor creature crumpled and fell under the weight of the massive crescent blade.  Locavera turned his head, looking over his shoulder in the direction of The Stair of Destiny, how easy it would be to turn back and leave this hellish waste.   

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. ;)

Abuse was never the right word for it, he thought. 'Conditioning' was a better term in his mind. How she had treated him a few nights ago. How she had toyed with him like he were a little kitten, then dunked him into a bucket of bathwater. Yet, he still wanted to be a housecat, and not regress into the stray he used to be.

Shryn's final actions confused him, but reassured his faith in her. He had already told Locavera that he still saw some good in the woman with the tainted heart.

The light of the lowering sun bled through the tree branches like the dye of a bottle of apricot ink through gauzy bandages. Its drowsy warmth fell onto the marble steps to the Silvermoon Registry, even onto the balcony set above it; the perfectly designed underbite to Ahman's loft. Within the modest hollow sat the sin'dorei in mention, hunched over his writing table and nit-picking over slips of parchment, all of them covered in notes and musings.