Ythgar Vinguld

((Okay, yes, I've been inspired lately. I blame frustrations with Open office. As before, I messed with the setting, but the characters and moment remain as they were during a recent rp. Thoughts on colour scheme chosen and better tactics to have taken are always welcome!

 This is also the first piece for which I've used a photo reference from a google stock image to get the heads right in a loooong time. I'm really happy with how it went!

((Since the file was too big to host in the galleries and I'm a noob at figuring out where else to put it... shiny pretty!))

Someone was going to die. A red mist began creeping into my vision and I forced it down with an act of will. Not now, not yet.

I closed the heavy door to the chapel behind me and looked at the guards who stood on either side and at Hugh who stood wringing his hands.

"Is he? ... How?" Vinguld's steward stammered awkwardly.

"Getting worse." I cut him off and he visibly sagged. "He might not recognize you. Make sure you have one of the lads with if you go in. And don't carry anything sharp."

He nodded despondently.

"And use the cosh I gave you if he gets violent. That goes for you too." I gave the guards a hard look.

The cosh was a small leather sack filled with lead dust. A good blow to the base of the skull would daze anyone if it didn't knock them out. He'd have a nasty headache when he woke up, but that was the least of my worries.

Staring across the table a the inn, they each found what pleased them, and smiles touched eyes or lips. Not kindly smiles - the expressions of the assembled group were a parody of amusement, unless amusement was considered to be expressed in malice's sweet embrace. Only one looked out of place, eyes flicking to his grandfather to see what the old man intended. Taking in the wicked smile and appraising stare at the Sin'dorei informant facing them, flanked by two hired thugs.

A simple meeting, and yet in its souring, true values were made clear for those with eyes to see them. From the undead Kal'dorei's set hard gaze, promising brutal and garish death... to the empty gaze of the warlock bastard son, most chilling of all the pairs of eyes regarding the sweating blood elf spy. The insane and undead Sin'dorei squatting with hair like a moulting bird and a writhing nightcrawler dangling between two blackened fingers was not to be even noticed, lest he shriek with glee at the attention, and the Marquis simply smiled through it all, amused, his knowing smile promising a tainting of soul the nervous informant found increasingly difficult to resist. As for the half grown boy standing among them, his face was not one meant for unholy delights the rest might appreciate. And yet in his oddly golden stare was a coiled beast, awaiting a word to rush baying out.

Learning to match the beat of the Old World man
Learning to catch the heat of the Third World man

He's got to make his own mistakes
And learn to mend the mess he makes
He's old enough to know what's right
But young enough not to choose it
He's noble enough to win the world
But weak enough to lose it --

The wood of the ship's railing was wet with salt spray under my grip and the swells of the heaving gray-green ocean made me strangely calm. Being on a ship is a place between. Between time, and between places. One is simply in transit. Time to think, to pause.

There was a tug at her arm, as she groggily opened her eyes.

Blindfolded...the muffled sound of hooves...

The damned succubus-

The paladin's brain sluggishly tried to make sense of the situation.

I thought she was dead?

Those cold lips were pressed to her bicep – which was in turn, upheld at the wrist by a shackle.

The moon is up there. Beyond my reach.

I think I understand what makes wolves howl so mournfully, as if their hearts are shattered.

Grandfather brought a bottle of wine out to where I am, on the balcony. Right now, I distantly know that I love him so deeply that my heart might break... except that I cannot feel any of it. It's as if a veil hangs between me and the world, and the moon shines so brightly on the land.. paints everything silver.

I remember the Draenei prayers. The Kaldorei rituals. I grew up with them. With joy.

My baby is dead somewhere in the great house behind us. I was going to be a father. Yes, Grandfather wasn't happy about it. But he would never turn her out. Frieda and I.. well. I wasn't exactly in love with her, but she loved the way my scars felt under her hands, and I loved the way her cornflower blue eyes would close in ecstasy when we...

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.

((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!))

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.

Snow-draped plains passed by, far below the feathery wings that beat against the chill winds of Northrend. Like some great, white, crystalline sheet being pulled away by an unseen hand. Vanassa gaped in awe at the stark beauty of the Dragonblight. It was an astonishment she had not allowed herself to fully express in the presence of the Marquis Vinguld, back in the Howling Fjord.

That would mean admitting that Ythgar had put me in awe, despite my protests at being dragged halfway across the world just for atmosphere. If I admit that, he enjoys too much triumph. Bother, how ridiculous the Game is sometimes, the way we concern ourselves with these tiny maneuvers and victories. But even a mountain can be brought low one grain of sand at a time.

A crosswind evoked a squawk from the gryphon and whipped Vanassa's midnight hair about her head. She hastilly drew up a hood, tucking the loose strands into it.

The houses in Mar’at and Ramkahen were all constructed of the same white stone, with elaborate carvings on the walls and paintings on the floorboards.  In this particular house, the tiles were patterned stone, set in gold sunbursts and the triangular symbol of the tol’vir.  These tiles were covered in most rooms by thick, plush rugs of intricate woven patterns and myriad colors.  And the room that served as the personal study of Aelberyn Bloodsword – that’s me in case you’ve forgotten – was no exception to this.  The richly stained wood of my desk had been piled with books and notes, and the book shelves along the walls were by no means filled; yet.  Give it time.

Aelberyn Bloodsword, a sin’dorei noble from far north on a completely different continent, loved everything about Uldum.  One of the things Aelberyn – that’s me of course - loved best was the breeze that came in from the lake and moved through Mar’at to waft into her open windows and lead the silks that served as curtains to dance in the night air and toy with the shadows.  The frogs and night insects sang loudly among the swaying reeds and the scent of strange spices and exotic fruits from the market on the harbor found its way up to the top floor of my recently secured house in the tol’vir port city.  I had been fortunate to do so before Ramkahen and Mar’at was bustling with too many travellers.  Not every night, of course – it was hardly logical when my duties in Tol Barad and Silvermoon required me more often than not – but it was a place I had taken for myself and made my own, in a land that touched me in a way that could only be described as love at first s

I woke feeling... strange.

The flows of time shifted like hawsers whipping and slashing through history, severed by forces unmentionable and unnameable.

Heaved this way, ripped that, time shuddered like an intricate web laced with bound steel.

A future man stood speaking knowledgably with Shu'halo, another man beside him with dark skin and tribal tattoos, yet sharing a similarity showing their blood kinship. The men both wore the garb of Argent Crusaders, righteous and just, yet the darker skinned man's attire bore painted symbols not unlike the sigils of the Tauren.

Another future man, along a different timestream, stood near the ruins of his father's Tower, screaming demonic, hideous words ripped from the Twisting Nether, his eyes flaring with power as hatred boiled out in visible lashing waves from him. Screaming of inconsolable loss and outrage.

Everything was wrong, off about the the Marquis physically.  He was undead, he was a Death Knight existing purely on the necromancy that rose him from the grave.  Yet here he stood, even after his battle the previous night, flourishing and nearly alive.  In fact he was far livelier than he had been a few weeks ago when I first examined him.  Despite his injuries from yesterday, and despite the terrible headaches that had been plaguing him for so long, physically this man was in the peak of health for any living man his age – and that very simply was impossible .   There he stood before me, human and Death Knight, clearly suffering terrible agony but at the same time… tangibly flourishing.  I couldn’t help but shake my head in vague wonder at it – and at the possibilities that very thing presented for the Forsaken, for other Death Knights… but my mind needed to remain fixed on the task at hand.  No lowering my guard, not yet.  So, my eyebr

It was the first time he called me “my dear” that I knew this would end in tears.  Not immediately perhaps - the night was still young!  No; slowly, like someone pulling a cart, half pushing it to keep it from going faster than they can handle.  But at some point past halfway down that hill, gravity and the weight of the cart was going to work against them, and the cart would begin to move faster than one could handle.  My only hope at that point, I knew, was to keep a steady, strong hand and hope that gravity took over close enough to the bottom so I could catch this unmanageable cart quickly enough.

Redridge could’ve been a painting on a wall. The chilly sunlight filtered through the changing leaves in burnt umber and yellow and dappled across rolling hills. Passing clouds rolled by in large, cool blue shadows over whisperin’ pasture grasses. It was a sleepy sort of mid-day afternoon at the country estate. The leaves swirling in front of me on the packed dirt path were as mirthful as a pack of playful squibs. Their crisp laughter overlayed the quiet, interrupted only occasionally by the crack of a training whip or impatient whinny. Somewhere far off, me long ears could pick up the muffled baritones of men chattin’ and ‘aving a laugh over packed lunches and thermoses of coffee, but the grandness of the stable complexes made it difficult for even me to determine exactly where the sounds echoed from. Fer now, I was alone on me walk up towards the enormous stable house, and I much preferred it that way.

I hunched me shoulders, pushing me ears further against the protective collar of me navy peacoat, as a swish of chilly wind gusted through the complex. Me hands pushed further down into me pockets, finding the firm apple I’d knicked off a local orchard tree. I shouldn’t ‘ave been ‘ere. Not for a litany of reasons – which convenient to the guilt churning in me empty stomach – were at the forefront of me mind.

((The events in this blog took place between late May and mid-June 2010))

The days after meeting with the Marquis Vinguld and Hakkajin to discuss how to save Faraji were mostly lost to me now. Most of them I ‘ave no recollection of at all. I had fallen asleep at some point, and the evil in Ythgar’s runesword had sank her hooks into me well an’ good – cracking me mind open and turning me into a babbling, Scourge-obsessed nutter. There were a few vague memories, but they might ‘ave been nightmares or just fragmented images still floating around in me subconscious. I thought I remembered seeing Ixinane, like an angel washed in red light, in a back alleyway that stank of rotted trash. I remembered countless days of fighting side by side with Ythgar in the frozen North, an army of death knights at our command as we pushed further south, slaughtering everything in our wake. I remembered falling asleep in his lap, me arms curled around his thick waist, as I let sleep embrace me. 

The first solid, real memory in days was when I woke up. Me body didn’t ache with fatigue. It felt like I must have slept for hours an’ hours. I felt relaxed, bloody fantastic even. I was lying on sheets so fine that they felt like pure spider’s silk. The pillows under me head were as soft as clouds - enormous, fluffed and lightly scented with some sort of flower. The mattress neither too ‘ard or too soft, and lifted so high I felt like I could have been floating. I could hear birds singing but there wasn’t light in me eyes. It was as I lay there, enjoyin’ the quiet, that I realized it was quiet. The voices were gone. I let me mind wander, searching for them, purposefully calling fer their answer – but there was only the blissful, peaceful silence. Finally! Me lips had curved in a smile against me pillow as I stretched, loosening back and calf muscles that had been cramped with stress for far too long, when I heard the soft breathing in the room. Not asleep, just relaxed into a resting cadence. Deep breaths into a large chest – male, obviously – but so very subtly whistled through thin nostrils over mustache. Ythgar.  

((The following occurred over a month ago towards the start of Faraji’s "The Adventures of Sefu the Ravenous" blog series. I am far behind, but attempting to play catch up!))

I had a lot on me mind. This wasn’t completely unusual – I kept a lot in there most times: meeting schedules, running bar tabs, gambling debts owed to me, names and faces to avoid, Drunken Fishball League scores, delivery schedules for me clients, mana & thissle orders, produce Kharris wanted me to pick up, sailing conditions in Booty Bay, and so on. But this was on a completely different level. It wasn’t just me own inner voice bouncing around in there. It was mine. It was Mum’s. It was Ythgar’s. Strangest of all, it was Halodante’s.

“You’re here!” she giggled, her voice wispy and young – seductive in all the wrong ways – in me ear.

The source of her elation was the enormous, dark gothic club I was pacing in front of. It towered up into the Underbelly of Dalaran, built right into the stone – dank sewer water ran down the mossy, black stones and pooled under my boots as I stepped in puddles – the only sound echoing down the large annals of the floating city. Somewhere deep and far off, a pin prick of light cast creeping shadows that rats and frogs shifted through. Outside, it was noon – the sun high in twinkling blue sky with gauzy white clouds. Down here the club sat silent, waiting patiently for visitors to trickle in after dinner hour and fill its dance floors with writhing, sweating bodies. Overpriced drinks to be served, lines of mana dust to be snorted, pulsing music by the latest mechano-jockeys to be discovered. And then later, of course, it’s back rooms with bolts set into the floors and walls to be utilized in ways that I highly doubted the girl I was meeting here had even heard of. Had I been in a better mood, I’d have liked nothing better than to set about horrifying her by sharing just what she was to be walking into. But as it was, I was hardly of the mind to bother. 

“I’m ‘ere for Aji,” I reminded the voice, but we both knew it was half truth. I sucked nervously on the Thalassian Black bloodthissle cigarette hanging between me lips.

((My conte and pencil sketch of Ythgar Vinguld and his adored partner))

While RP Haven was down I was awash in despair and had only my tears to comfort me! Cerwis (through no fault of her own) have me the idea to draw something. Please do not send her hate mail. She is an innocent in all this!

So I drew the studly Marquis Vinguld - evildoer of the other side of the fence! He is the chocolate to my peanut butter. As usual, here is the linework if you wanna color it better than I ever could (please show us if you do!). Check out the progression:

Some decisions are born of great ideas, some are born of desperation…and some..like the one I made…are based on desperation and just the right timing.

Dear Light Everlasting

Who hast safely brought me to the beginning of this day

by Thy holy power,

grant that this day I fall into no sin,

neither run into any kind of danger,

but that by Thy restraining care my thoughts be set to keep Thy Holy laws and do thy Holy will.