Stranger in a Strange Land

It was truly a dead, dangerous land. White as snow, cold as a woman's heart, and deadly as a goblin toaster.

          We all chuckled at that part of Toy's speech, as he was packing up the special 'present' for the Silithid. Now, though, no one's laughing. The time for joy, merriment, it's long past us. Dead to us, even. Why not, after all? We certainly look the part of a band of corpses, wrapped up to the eyes in flowing white cloths. In the day, it somehow manages to keep the heat off against all odds, and by night, it just barely keeps enough heat near the skin to keep you moving. Broiled by the sun and frozen by the moon. And now was the freezing time, though what Toyir carries in his pack (almost as large as he is!) promises to heat things up quite a lot. Moving quickly, darting in single file across the bleached bone color sands, it's as though we're the last living creatures in the world.

Even the bugs go quiet at night, in the darkest of the dead hours.

Click and clatter

Pit and patter

'Ware those hives,

And cut the chatter!

Ready knives,

And prep to scatter!

((Been awhile, but here I am! ^_^;; Little rusty, but hopefully, that'll go away soon enough. Blog attempt, take one!))

"I see. Well, how about this one?"

I watch tiredly as the strange elf holds out the ball of light once more, his bursting satchel rustling with the noise of long dried parchment. Another night filled with dreams from which I cannot wake, and with pleas and entreaties I do not understand. Nor care to. Leaning in, I can see the surface of the orb shimmer and change. The sky is dark and filled with endless stars, constellations familiar to me. Quel'Thalas. A quiet spring night on a beach, and two elves lying in each other's arms at the edge of the sand, and from the image, faint noises. Words. "I love you". The sigh literally rips it's way from me. More meaningless people, another purposeless place.

"No, Light damn and blast you! I don't know them."

      Crimson lines on parchment skin

Will tell me tales of other men

What is it that I do, or did?

What selfless task or silent sin

To earn this charming, hungry grin?

((The formatting, somewhere along the line, got...well, bent all out of shape. Centered the alignment of some paragraphs, for example >-> *Shakes fist at Firefox* Hopefully, it doesn't make it too much of a chore to read.))

Anywhere that houses people, for a while, starts to take on a life of it's own. In a way, the wood and walls themselves mold themselves to their occupant. The owner and the roof that sits above his head soon seem to share a personality, a peculiar sort of connection between bricks, boards, and blood--with never a word passed betwixt the two. It hardly hurts when one is a mage, as well. When the boarder is within, the home truly comes to life; an individual in it's own right.

And when the people are scarce, the house abandoned? Like a seashell on a beach, the form remains, but the presence and warmth of it's life has vanished.

Normally, at least.

The rules of his existence were simple things, truly.

He could not leave the bounds of the Woods. He could not deliberately destroy the fabric of the prison that held him, though he'd found ways around that precept quickly enough. And, after a daring, rigged gamble, he was no longer allowed to harm Poet when the feeble rhymecrafter entered his domain. Infuriating checks to his power, stumbling blocks at his feet. Chains that held him at barely a fingertip's distance from what he deserved.

But they change. Bending. Tonight, I break them.

The moon watches me, and I watch Hera. She's finally sleeping, there on the sand, curled up and at peace with the world. The moonlight on the soft waves of the ocean is a calming flow of light and darkness, and the pinpoints of stars pinned to the black velvet of the sky easily make this one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen--and it still can't compare to my Muse. Auburn waves framing her face, and that little smirk she wears in sleep or when awake, easily compete with the glory of the night itself. Even with all that I burdened her with tonight, she manages to sleep sweet and easy, confident in some secret belief that everything will turn out for the best.

Would that I were that easily soothed.

((Again, another poem, after the break.))

A poem sits quietly next to a linen bag of deep red cherries, in the depths of a wicker basket. The young man leaving it limps towards the door, locks it, and glances to the next locked portal. Soon, he hobbles off with a defeated sigh, leaving the muffled sounds of merriment behind. But (as prose will often do) the poem waits patiently and silently for it's reader to arrive, inked words bunched together against the melancholy dark....

A young elf thrashes against a wooden floor like a thing gone mad.

I smile, tucking my note into the frame of her mirror before snatching my stave. A glimpse of bright green eyes and the flash of my grin dart across the glass as I limp towards the door. I know I'm smiling like an idiot. Hopefully, she'll be doing the same soon enough, when she returns.

((I'm apologizing in advance for the dry, uninspired wall of text! Caveat lector.))

Three days ago I learned that, in spite of the old saying, you can go home again.

Every forest sits under the sheltering, ever-changing sky. Some sit patiently on the plains, waiting for the charity of the heavens in light and rain. Others labor up the sides of mountains, refusing to accept a lower station, determined to receive the stormclouds on equal footing. Still others sink lazily down, down into the rifts and valleys, greedily draining the rainfall from all about them to fill their gluttonous hunger for moisture. Despite their paltry differences, all the stately trees that make these verdant havens accept the sky as a protector, provider, and lover. All that they are is possible through the rain the clouds bring, and the sun that warms their bark-shod souls.

This forest had no need for a guardian.

This forest required no provision by the weather.

This forest had a soul, warmed not by the sun, but by black and twisted hate.

Moving quietly and having a gimp leg tend to be mutually exclusive activities. Stands to reason.

Doing it in the dark, with only the smallest of glows from the decorative crystals in the room to guide you whilst you hobble about? Or the wane light of the pre-dawn peeking through the curtains? Peak of idiocy. Invitation to disaster.

That is, unless you've had years upon years to practice.

I've learned many, many things since I've arrived here. Some more useful than others.

I can create a sudden, searing gout of flame with little more than a moment's notice and a brief twitch of my fingers. A spear of ice needs only the slightest thought to coalesce, then launch itself from my outstretched hand. Ranidaris' advice is giving me more control over my errant mana, and slowly, the spells are becoming more and more familiar to me. Like fletching arrows or churning butter, it's just something that must be practiced to find the best way, the rhythm, the key to doing it right and well.

((Poem after the break! It's on the short side; you've been warned. Critique and criticism always welcome!))

A postman wends his way through Silvermoon, handing off letters here and there at various inns, homes, and businesses. He's a good man, wife and child waiting at home for him to finish the late-night shift, and seems to love his job. A kind smile as he knocks on doors and the cheery whistling that follows him at all other times, bright and touchingly happy, assures me of this as I watch him wandering down the darkening city streets. Nothing but good in his soul, if only at face value.

Is it wrong to hate the man solely because my apartment is one of the last on his list?

Heavy wood slams, the lock clicks, and I'm finally alone again. Aside from Moros, who takes the opportunity to flap leisurely over to the bedpost, and he doesn't really count in the first place. To be alone with Moros is to be alone with my thoughts, and he's of comfort when I need silence.

I take my seat at the writing desk, closing my eyes and resting my head on my arms in defeat. Everything is spiraling out of my control. Each new arrival into my life, while it's the brighter for their presence, plays merry hell with my ability to read my weaves. They all interact, tangle, war with each other. And I'm left to try and interpret the method in the madness. And as a direct result of failing to keep my head down, I have predators on my little web of possibilities.

((The poem is 'The Waking' by Theodore Roethke, and one of my favorites. Not sure how well I managed to mesh it, but...oh well! Enjoy!))

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

                                                           I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.

I wake from pleasant, peaceful, bright dreaming to a dark room. Moros is shifting nervously, eyeing me. Waiting. His feathers are raised, and his threads are worried and strained.

Something's wrong.

Immediately, I see the threads surrounding my own body have altered. A meeting for drinks, a slip and a fall for tomorrow's adventure downstairs, all of the mundane little weaves that had gathered around me over the past few days stand eclipsed. One thread, one only, marks my tenuous connection to the lovely--

Broken?

--Ravnok girl. It burns my vision, a pulsing, dark tendril across my inner sight. It's the uncertain future incarnate, rapidly becoming the concrete now. I reach out to it, emptying myself to follow where the thread leads me, curious...

Abstract:

Alone.  Wandering for unknown reasons.  A crimson-clad Tauren has been spotted around the Exodar, and the surrounding islands.  There are rumors that he has approached several Draenei with no indication of hostility, but has promptly retreated when met with hostility.

((This is just an introductory post.  I'll post more later this evening.  Everything I post is based on what happened on the previous day's actual in-game experiences.

Yes, this is actually happening in game.  Yes, you're free to come interact.  Yes, I will flag for PvP if you want to try and chase me off the island or attack me.