Scartaris

((Over the years I have had various ideas and plot attempts, some more successful than others and most inter-related.  Some of them have been kept secret for various, nefarious reasons.  Also because I'm a jerk.

I was looking through an old storage drive when I found this little piece.  I am sorry to say that little came of it...at least little I can talk about now.  I am terribly flaky, and my partner-in-crime of the time Slade quit WoW not much further down the line.

So, partially because much of it is long-outdated, partially because Rethelia always badgers me ot write more, and partially as a birthday gloating gift to myself, I present the following.  I have left it in its original format, minus some editing out of OOC bits and slightly flow correcting.  I am too lazy to write it up in a more standardized format.  Enjoy!))

((The ongoing saga of Open House, where our heroine now faces the perils of interior decoration and indoor plumbing.....))

(( Continuing on from Open House..... ))

Heulwen slowly rose to her feet and forced herself to smile casually.

Sleep.
Something for those who haven’t been where I have. Those of us who’ve been to hell, sleep means going back there.
They tell us there’s no –one- hell. That it’s a series of demonic dimensions. But once you’re there, it’s the only one that matters because you’re in it.
I remember fire and lots of it. It burns and I die.

I wake up again to the smell of gasoline. The stroke of a match.

And I burn again.

He sends me there. The demon with the blue shades.
Demons think they know all there is to know about hell. But they don’t. How could they? They aren’t mortals. To them hell is home. Maybe not a nice home, but a home they can, easily enough, escape.
Mortals don’t get that chance. Sell your soul, they said. Won’t feel a thing, they said. A soul is a useless thing to have, until it’s gone and the reaper comes knocking.

Drakys had lived a bland life thus far.

Bland of course, meant that his life had been fabricated. He hadn’t grown up in the body he was in right now. He had been born a very long time ago, for a normal human anyway. Then, Arthas had come and purged his city, to protect them they said. Save their soul. Protect the land.

Of course, some time after, the nice men and women of the scourge saw fit to bring him back to life, as an undead. To pass off as forsaken, he’d need to be free willed however. That was their first mistake. He joined the forsaken; being undead there was little choice, considering the Scarlet crusaders were on a burn first and burn some more later basis with what he had become.

((

Here are some photos I took of the 4th Annual Shadow Council Meet and Greet.

Full image under the break.

Artisania Stillwater-Ell'Karan had ordered a cake.

She picked it up from the little wagon in Dalaran at the appointed time, mid-morning, while the icing was still fresh and setting up in little swirls and tufts around the rim of the confection. Very tempting indeed, but she carried it carefully in its little paper box back to the apartment without even peeking once, though she did lick her fingers after setting it out on the table.

It was sometime last week I woke up, rubbing my eyes, in the rented room Shar and I share in Dalaran. The bed isn't that big – sized more for humans than for draenei – but we don't mind. Cozy enough for two, though I did take some care not to wake her, as the past night's work had been late and difficult.

I wanted to move about though, loosen stiff muscles, maybe go downstairs and order some hot tea. I pulled on my leathers and quietly left the room, stepping quietly in the cool morning. The sounds of my hooves on the stones soon blended into a thousand other sounds, odd for a weekday morning, and I couldn't help but boggle at the business downstairs in the common room.

And at the bottom of the stairs, I almost walked into a tree.

She passed the papers to me with that same damned superior attitude she has always had. I accepted them with a charming smile and a false appearance of interest, the way I always do. Just another day at the market, I thought, although this was probably the nicest market in which I'd had the pleasure to operate. Bright Silvermoon sunlight slanted down through vaulted windows, illuminating expensive art, elegant furnishings, and a few barbaric artifacts from my client's travels in the wilderness beyond Quel'thalas. Even the glass at my elbow was carved of some rare crystal brought back from the Outlands, the so-called promised land. It probably cost more than the suit I was wearing. Such were my thoughts as I gave the paperwork a perfunctory glance.

The sound my jaw made when it hit the floor probably startled her neighbors.

Welcome to Phials / Phials Of Lordaeron! The first Wednesday of the month will be "Phials", in its usual location in Undercity. The third Wednesday will be "Phials Of Lordaeron", in Silvermoon. The shop will be staffed from 19:00 to 20:00 server time, and may run later on customer request.

I’ve been doing this for so long, I should have known when things were going well that my luck would eventually dry out. Stealing the reference books from the University library had been as easy as if I’d been knicking copper pieces from Grandmum’s candy dish. Of course, it may have earned me a spot of momentary popularity with the Bluffwatchers, but that would blow over in time. I still didn’t know how Artisania had fingered me for suspicion, but the old biddy was likely as paranoid as a kobold and named every bad seed she could possibly think of to bring in for questioning. A bit over dramatic for my tastes, personally. She had plenty of resources to get to me with just a little bit of effort.

Maybe that was the point though. To insult me. My name in bold inscription below Heulwen’s, posted in all the major cities of Azeroth; “…and Iloam Blacksong, WANTED, for questioning.” She was telling me I wasn’t worth it… her time or her primary suspicions. Smug old trollop.

No matter; the job had moved swiftly forward. My luck had continued after White Hart, taking Kaisienna back to Everlook with me for the night. Pretty thing, dark skin and big brown eyes, a curve in her lips that told me she didn’t trust me. It’s a shame I didn’t get to taste them, but fate had other plans. Her magics nearly sent me on a bender – I hadn’t had that much mana pumping through me since Shryn’dael fell off the wagon and dragged me down with her. But she’d managed to trick the locks open on Artisania’s carefully guarded secrets and I finally had a location, a solid lead taking me straight back to Silvermoon’s carefully guarded stacks.

Of course the Tome hadn’t been there. Lost once again in the annals of history and me back to zero. My luck had dried out, and all I’ve got riding on it is the last shred of my soul.

From The Journal of Heidel Duskember Sunrunner:

I showed her no shame.

Perhaps I should have shown it?

Matters of our clothes,

and matters of our bodies,

we find shame in these

with all the world but one soul.

One soul completes me.

Her soul is ruby, amber,

sapphire; all beauty.

What does she see in my soul?

Does she see darkness?

Darkness I have aplenty.

But no shame before

one as dark inside as me.

The fire of my soul

shared her body, her name, all

freely with me, but

still the fear keeps us apart.

Should I be the moon,

since she is the sun to me?

I would reflect her,

her light shining forth from me.

Yet the moon cannot

share the sky with precious sun.

In a dark valley amid the spiny ridges of the Blade's Edge Mountains, fel machinery chugs along, maintaining portals and weapons. The foul clouds these devices belch forth choke the valley further, and make each breath a labor. From above, the scuffle on the ground looks unimpressive. The brief flashes of light are not distinct from other such lights the fel machinery and keepers produce, and the sounds are muffled by the layers of smog and the acoustics of the fel-encrusted valley walls. Yet, though it does not send ripples through the surrounding landscape as the place's existence has so far, the Fel encampment known as Death's Door is under heavy attack.

For my wife, an orchid.. fragile, delicate, and... in essence.. created. Artificial. Her lips' hue has never been that of an innocent, nor the artful shadows about her eyes. I'm not clever, but I'm not a fool. For that girl.. Heulwenn, or Gwynne... she's a Lily of the Valley, I think.. delicate, fragrant.. but something about her seeks the shade, I think.. and may well be deadly. For that kind priest.. Requiem? A flower of Jasmine.. he spoke so soothingly, for all that the word he spoke enraged my very soul.

Boy, Bas. I might have really messed things up. But.. but I don't CARE. I saw it. I saw everything like it was hanging before my eyes. You know, I felt so warm, and happy, and comfortable sitting beside Kharris. Seeing her smile when I put my cloak over her was.. it was like watching the sun rise when you're cold and shivering. It felt so.. so GOOD. Not you know.. 'good' like in that dream I had where..

Yeah, that was embarrassing. I know. For me, too. YOU were sniffing me like.. well. Anyway.

Today, we will join two of our dearest friends in the blessed state of Ka'eltiel.

Artisania Marveloso looked back and forth between the priestess and the tauren.

 Around them, the chaos of Quel'danas swirled, replete with shouts and cries and flashes of fire, dragonhawks swirling above, smoke rising, boots treading the stones surrounding the little grassy rise upon which they stood. 

A note is sent to Scartaris at Threadneedle via the housekeeper, Phaen, on the dewy morning of the first day of the week. It is folded and sealed with wax, though no family crest adorns the hardened mould. The lettering in the note is impossibly minute, requiring a magnifying glass to read, and ordered in precise lines across the paper. The handwriting itself is masculine and unrefined, lacking the schooling required to master the finer points of Elvish lettering held by high society.

Lady Scartaris,

I apologize for my rude behavior on the night I arrived. You were more than kind to invite me into your home without having met me (and I do understand my brother's reputation with you). I am not accustomed to being away from my cabin or holding the company of so many others; my manners have gone dull with disuse. I hope that you can forgive my buffoonery and join me for tea this evening. I would like to know my gracious host better.

It had rung through his ears like a bell. That one name, his true name, had hit him like an angry yeti when I came from Shryndael’s mouth. It had taken the demon several seconds to fully break through the film of hatred and anger that sprung up as she whispered his name.

Kharris Dawndancer,

I just got word of your departure from my estate. I am sorry I was not available to see you off personally, or to beg you to stay. House Sunwalker is diminished with the loss of so vibrant a woman. Despite the failure of our plan to secure your future as the Lady Sunwalker, I would hope that we two may remain friends.

I would also hope, for your sake, that you have made amends with your lover, Iloam, although from what little I can glean from my sister, this is not the case. I hope you will not be insulted that I have opened a small account in your name in Silvermoon. I cannot sleep well to think that you might be without any home or means of support during what must be a very difficult time for you. The father of your child should rightly be seeing to your welfare, but knowing him as I do, I cannot, in good conscience, consign you to his charity alone.