Site Write Entry #7: Marriage

Prompt: May 13, 2012 - Marriage http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/marriage?s=t

. . . . . The village of Hanglington-on-the-Rocks in the Headlands of Gilneas wasn't actually marked as such on the maps. In fact, it wasn't marked at all. Some forty or so adults and children hardly made up enough of a settlement to warrant notice from the cartographers of the nation. Hanglington-on-the-Rocks had but two claims to fame: it was a half-hour's ride from Gilneas City proper if you crossed the bridge, and there were a fair amount of potatoes there.
. . . . . Mister Derian Baxter, a middle-aged man with sun-leathered skin and work-roughened hands, was just returning home from a visit to the big city on his chestnut mare, Fairflight. His modest home on his modest farm had a barn just big enough for Fairflight and the plow horse, Whomper. It was just short of three bells past midnight, and he rather imagined the missus - Goody Matilda Baxter - hadn't waited up for him to return home. That was fine by him, meant the bedclothes would be nice and warm and he could wake her up gently with snuggling. It also meant, at this hour, that his blessed little scoundrel of a son, Ryule, was also abed.
. . . . . After tending to Fairflight and locking up the barn, Mister Baxter thought fondly of his evening with his favorite gal. She looked right fantastic with all that tumbling and flipping and backbends. He had to adjust the fit of his britches as he crept quietly into the house. After all, the type of mood he was in, the last thing he needed was to wake the little scoundrel and have him wanting to crawl into bed with his parents because he was afraid of harpies on his bedposts again. Like a mouse on farmer's feet, Mister Baxter crept into his own bedroom and peeled off his market-day clothes, carefully hanging them up lest the missus get irate with him in the morning.
. . . . . A bit of moonlight from the window fell on Matilda's round face. Dark brown hair curled across her cheek and her pillow both, and one hand was curled up under her chin. Mister Baxter smiled like a lovestruck fool at his wife. Then again, he rather reckoned he still was, even six years into marriage. Her chair was at the foot of the bed, and he took care to avoid knocking into it as he rounded the bed and climbed in as lightly as possible on his side. Despite the chill on his body from being outside the warm blankets, she mumbled sleepily and snuggled back against him, pressing her back to him. Knowing she'd appreciate it, he curled a hand over one of her thighs and pulled her backwards until her legs pressed against his too. She couldn't feel it, of course, but he could and he knew she'd appreciate the cuddling in the morning.
. . . . . Contented and warm, Mister Baxter smiled as he closed his eyes. In his dreams, his Matilda was laughing and carefree again, without the pain creasing her brow when she was awake. She did cartwheels in the grass and balanced on fence rails like they were broad walls. In his dreams, his Mattie was free again to tumble and play, no longer confined to the wheeled chair at the foot of the bed. His visits to watch Miss Treelily's tumbling girl always helped him keep the memories of how Matilda's body used to move fresh. Watching some other girl do the acrobatics his Mattie used to cheered him up, reminded him of how much he loved his wife - even if she couldn't feel her legs anymore.

Site Write Entry #6: Warlocks

Prompt: May 12, 2012 - Warlocks. Your character comes across one being very obvious and stupid with his magic. What do you do? Do you walk away and pretend it wasn't happening or do you say something, perhaps do anything, to stop and/or encourage it?

(Warning: Graphic violence.)

. . . . ."Ooo, girls, lookit that one! Ent he a fine figure?" Giggling, Hettie nudged her elbow into Ilva's side, hitting the steel reinforcement of her pale blue corset. Behind Hettie, Rowena and Myrtle were trying to crawl up onto the other girls' shoulders just so they could shove their heads down and see through the horizontal crack in the wall the girls of Miss Rivanna Treelily's establishment used to spy on the guests in the lobby.
. . . . ."Let me see," hissed Myrtle, climbing Hettie like a tree. Then again, Hettie was one of those stout, fine-figured ladies with curves like an oak tree - that is to say, not many of them. She was sturdy, healthy for her profession, and easy enough for a waif like Myrtle to climb. Hettie grunted as a knee pressed into one of her kidneys and she ducked so that the girl climbing on her could get a gander at the man in the lobby.
. . . . .And what a fine figure he was. The man was somewhere in his mid-twenties, dark hair cropped close to his well-formed head and covered by a slim top hat with not even a hint of rakish tilt. His face was elegant and refined, not quite as fey as one of them high elves, but clearly the face of gentry. As he handed his greatcoat to the boy who lounged around the lobby expressly for that purpose, a dark purple silk waistcoat over a trim, fit torso covered in a white silk dress shirt was revealed. Myrtle sighed wistfully and Hettie shoved her out of the way so she could get another look.
. . . . ."Light, I hope 'e picks me," Rowena whispered, fanning her cheeks - which had gone a pink visible even under her thick makeup.
. . . . ."Pff, he's probably just here t' collect protection coins," Ilva mused, though she wasn't immune to the fancy man's charm either if her own pink cheeks were a hint.
. . . . .Miss Treelily came into the lobby and had a discussion with the man; the girls never could hear those, and couldn't hear this one either. But when she came into the side room and barked, "Ladies! Line 'em up!" she was more than audible. Like soldiers in a military drill, the girls fell into formation, each displaying a length of stocking-clad leg or a forward-bend for cleavage as her best assets required. The handsome fella came in the room and looked over the girls. It struck Ilva that brown eyes were usually warm...except on this man. His smile was genial, but his eyes were cold. She shivered and was oddly grateful when he crooked a finger at Hettie, who squealed girlishy and skipped off after him.

-----  

. . . . .Miss Treelily always shut the place down right around two bells past midnight. That was when Ilva patted dear old Mister Baxter on his middle-aged hand and led him to the door. Arching her back for a moment after she shut the door behind her regular, she groaned happily when her vertebrae popped in short succession at the small of her back. Light, but Baxter liked some odd things... Never got handsy, just liked to watch her do tumbles and acrobatics. It always left her with a right awful crick in her back. Maybe when she got back to their room, Hettie would be a dear and rub her back for her.
. . . . .But the room she shared with Hettie was empty. Frowning, Ilva pulled her linen bathrobe off the wall hook and wrapped herself in it, then went back into the main house to see if perhaps Hettie was still busy with that fancy man.
. . . . .The door was the first give-away. Instead of the door knob turning, it spun idly as if the mechanism had been broken. One good thump to the doorjamb had it free and she pushed the door open. It squelched.
. . . . .In the center of the room was something that used to be a working lady of the night, something that used to laugh and breathe and stand up and offer back rubs and smile. Now... Now it was merely... Ropy strings, glistening dark red, were arranged in a circle around a heap of raw meat. Parts of bone stuck out at odd, incomprehensible angles which no longer had any relevance to how a body was put together, many of the visible ends chewed flat by something serrated which left grooves in the finality of termination. One particularly broad expanse of raw muscle was almost recognizable as a torso - or at least, the inside of one. Outside the circle of innards, a circle had been drawn in more dark red, and horrifying runes she couldn't understand even if she could read were patterned regularly around it. Somehow overwhelming what should have been the smell of charnel house was the smell of brimstone. The fancy man was nowhere to be seen.
. . . . .Ilva's scream brought the entire house running, as well as two night watchmen four blocks away.

-----

. . . . .Warlockery, they said it was. Dark magics meant to mutilate human souls and make contracts with demons. The fancy man was caught, arrested, tried, and convicted. He was sentenced to spend the rest of his life in the city prison for killing one girl - but rumor held he was responsible for ten more. The rumor seemed proven when the killings stopped after he was locked away. It wasn't until after she saw him led away in chains that Ilva felt she could sleep again.
. . . . .The riots in Gilneas when the curse broke out, naturally, ended up destroying the security of the prison. What prisoners weren't eaten by feral worgen or killed each other escaped. After the riots, she hoped - she prayed to the Light - that he'd been eaten by a feral monster. It would only be just.
. . . . .Last Tuesday, Ilva smeared violet pigment over her skin, glued the purple feathers to the tips of her ears, put on her green robes, picked up a basket of flowers, and headed to Cathedral Square to hand them out for free. She liked the smiles she got for her efforts. And the gossip. The gossip never hurt.
. . . . ."Pretty flower for a pretty lady?" She bounded up to a draenei female with a sunny smile and flower outstretched. A smile and a murmured blessing was her thanks.
. . . . ."Pretty flower for your lady, good sir?" She turned and bounded up to a well-dressed man in a dark purple waistcoat over a white shirt. His dark brown hair brushed his collarbone, but looked neatly kept. There was no return smile. He didn't even reach for the offered flower. Just a flat, disapproving stare from those cold brown eyes.
. . . . .Ilva bolted. She ran like the rabbit Norm sometimes nicknamed her. As she ran to ground, she prayed the odd disguise was enough, that he'd never paid enough attention to the rest of the girls in the house, that for the love of all that was holy, she would never, ever run across a warlock again.

Site Write Entry #5: Alive

Prompt: May 11, 2012 - Alive http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/alive?s=t

. . . . . This last job had made her a fortune. There wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that she'd ever tell Badge exactly how much - even half of how much - because he'd roll it into a marketing scheme for khorium-enhanced belt buckles or something like that. She'd play it way down, very under the table, and simply make quiet sure that whenever he needed the coin for something, it was somehow always in his pocket. This sort of fortune could last her a few years if she played it out right.
. . . . . But there was...one...indulgence. At the noisy claims room of the auctioneer's house in the Trade District, the plain trader's wife with the hood over her bandaged eyes handed over her claims chit and then a sack of coin which would make Badge's neck veins pop. It wasn't receipt of the crate which had her smiling as she placed her heavy burden on the wheeled cart so thoughtfully provided, but the mental image of Badge's face turning purple in anticipation of a very long shouting match. It was a very silly mental image which rarely failed to make her smile - and therefore crossed from mental image to physical reality quite often.
. . . . . The trader's wife navigated her cart out and to a secluded alleyway near the Mages' District with surprising deftness for a supposedly blind woman. Once she was well-assured of her safety and relative solitude, she shed her disguise of Miss G. Ulricson and stuffed the robes and runecloth bandages behind the newly-acquired crate. Ilva tugged at her leathers until they resettled comfortably on her frame, then plucked her gnomish army knife off her belt to pry off the top of her purchase.
. . . . . Nestled in a bed of straw was the final component, its aphotic gleam smooth and even, sixteen slender bars of obsidium ready to be worked into bolts and plating. Now, she just had to call in that favor Lilliam owed her for a workspace.

-----

. . . . . Working obsidium was a right pain in the arse. Too cold, and it snapped - brittle. Too hot, and it flowed - amorphic. One entire bar was wasted in learning the precise shade of cherry red the metal needed to be heated to in order to be formed.
. . . . . Once she had it, though, the plates moved fast - it took her about a day. The schematic was good, entirely images and arrows. Her talent for letters might be lacking, but mimicry was her bread and butter, so the designs were quickly transferred and the plating formed, cut and shaped. The bolts took a little longer - about three days, but she wanted each one to be as precisely functional as she was capable of crafting.
. . . . . Assembly took her a further day of work. Any burrs on the articulation had to be filed smooth, any irregularities of form had to be carefully reheated and corrected. The bezels for the jasper took an hour apiece to grind out, file, and set. The innards were leather tubing lined on the inside with embersilk for fire-hardiness. A trap door with protected hinges allowed access to the simple two-button controls and the socket for the energy source - volatile, expensive, dangerous when tightly compressed, electrified ether.
. . . . . As a final vanity, she broke out her expensive metals paints, usually reserved for the top disguise jobs, and she painted a delicate, sunny yellow design on the lightless metal, utterly ruining it for any possibility of stealth. The hinges loosed the trap door. Eight vials of tempered glass with time-delay enchanted wax seals lined up in the chamber. A pop as the first timer expired. A hiss as the electrified ether sped through the innards. A glow from the energy indication chamber on the posterior.
. . . . . Its nose wrinkled. Wire whiskers twitched. Cli-click - obsidium plating painted yellow blinked over sightless green jasper. Another hiss as the pistons engaged and Ilva's brand new mechanical rabbit hopped off the table into her lap.
. . . . . It worked! It was alive!

Site Write Entry #4: King for a Day

Prompt: May 10, 2012 - Your character is presented with an offer far too tempting to turn away. For one day, your character is allowed to be the leader of any race (other than their current one) of either faction. Which race would it be? Why? And what would they do as the supreme ruler?

(It is worth noting that my best friend, dearest love, and partner in all manner of crime is also participating in the site write challenge and that entry #4 here follows quite directly from his own entry #4 posted here.)

. . . . . "Interestink," mused the draenei.
. . . . . "I thought so," replied Eredis as he cast his line back into the water. "What would you do?"
. . . . . "If I took over Undercity?"
. . . . . "Or anywhere. If you were ruler of any group."
. . . . . The small herm of flat rocks balanced on the wood next to her right hip grew smaller by one, and a sharp gesture sent the topmost sacrifice skipping across the ocean waves. "Six!" she crowed, before looking contemplatively up at the sky. "Ze first thing I vould get rid of are zose ridiculously mismatched pauldrons..."

-----

. . . . . The Keep was silent for about ten seconds, not even the drip of blood daring to make a noise after that first startled indrawn breath. Instead, the blood pooled sluggishly on the marble, collecting in her palms as it ran off the spikes of her vambraces onto her gloves and sluiced into the lowest point it could reach - her curled, gloved hands resting on the floor. There would have been counselors to intervene, of course. Guardsmen. Secret agents. Presume it was all dealt with ahead of time; after all, if she really had a plan for handling all that, she'd be implementing it, wouldn't she?
. . . . . Valdiis broke the silence by reaching forward and gingerly removing the horrible, mismatched steel pauldrons of eagle and lion. Honestly. The exiled ones would have to teach their new subjects about symmetry. Respect for the dead would have her closing the eyes of the late King Wrynn, but they'd popped when he'd taken a full blow across the face with her spiked arm.
. . . . . Scratch that, leave one counselor. Some sycophantic little traitor who'd probably made this possible. The rat-nosed human counselor would creep up, all trembles and hand wringing, and ask what the new King's will was.
. . . . . "Get Mathias Shaw in here." The counselor scurried off to retrieve the head of SI:7.
. . . . . Wiping her bloodied palms down her cheeks to mark herself with the old king's blood, signifying her supremacy in battle, she tilted her head towards her right pauldron - perfectly matched with the left, mind you - and the tiny gnomish communication device clipped to it. "Someone bring me ze jar labeled Iron #8 from my vorktable. And a glass jar of curry. I vant ze bloodvorms excitable."  
. . . . . Now that she was King of Stormwind, it was time she found out precisely why SI:7 was harrying her soldiers.

-----

. . . . . "That's it?"
. . . . . "Vhat? I am supposed to be grand and create havens for undead, or cause ze slaughter of legions of my enemy by orderink zem to valk off a cliff?"
. . . . . "Well, something more interesting than getting rid of ceremonial armor and running inquisition on Shaw."
. . . . . "Pff." The draenei illustrated her lack of concern for this further by flopping backwards onto the deck and folding her plate-covered forearms beneath her head. "Clearly, you don't understand how offensive I find ze lack of symmetry."

Site Write Entry #3: Worthless

Prompt: May 9, 2012 - Worthless http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/worthless?s=t

. . . . . Behind number eight Foxfield Lane, Gilneas City, there was a monumental crisis. This just would not do! If someone were to catch her out here with this distasteful mess, there would be all manner of unseemly fuss... But it was a back alley, the rear entrance of the townhomes so upper crust that to get higher one would be licking off the whipped cream, and so there was no one here to see the well-dressed noblewoman and her heavy burden.
. . . . . With quite the unladylike grunt, she heaved the onerous load off her shoulder and into the trash-can. The noblewoman looked left and right warily, still expecting someone to spy her. But it just had to be done! Someone had to take care of the unfortunate incident before the night watch was called in. The dinner party had been going so swimmingly until her reprobate younger son had showed up at the door with a pistol in hand, and her hot-headed elder son had started with the name-calling and oh, it was such a disaster!
. . . . . She wrung her hands and stared down at the abominable failure resting in her garbage bin. Someone would see. Biting back a sob of panic, she shoved her bare hands into the bin and pushed the evidence down farther. That would do. Dusting her hands on the edge of the cloth shrouding her calamity, the noblewoman squared her shoulders and went back inside to calm her guests.
. . . . . Someone had seen. Two muddy green eyes set in a round, cherubic face blinked from the shadows of the retaining wall on the far side of the back alley. From here, she could see a leg still peeking out of the top of the trash-can. Something dark and viscous pooled on the ground at the bottom of it, the color indeterminate now that the lady's lantern was gone. Fear tasted acrid in the back of her mouth, but avarice was sweeter. She wanted to go through that bin. There might be something good still in those pockets!
. . . . . Tiny child's feet wrapped in rags carried her across the alley as fast and noiseless as one of the fat rats which occasionally ended up as her dinner. The liquid pooling on the ground outside the bin stained her foot rags, but she didn't care - new ones weren't hard to find. This shroud might actually serve, once it was pulled free and cut up; it was what was wrapped in the shroud she was after. It was heavy for so small a girl, too heavy for her to lift. Cautiously, using her own little frame to counterbalance it and muffle sound, she laid the bin on its side so she could pull the lady's disaster free and go through the pockets.
. . . . . Sadly, there was nothing of use in them. But even stained with wine and olive oil, it looked like seven-year-old Ilva Swift had her very first pair of pants. And a broken toy pistol to play with! There were even the remains of a cake of some kind wrapped up in the smeared tablecloth.
. . . . . "Mooom," came a wail from the backyard of the fancy townhome, "this birthday party is worthless!"
. . . . . Perhaps for some! Ilva Swift made like her chosen namesake and hurried off with her treasures.

Site Write Entry #2: A Second Chance

Prompt: May 8, 2012 - Somehow by magic, your character is given one shot to redo and/or take back something that happened in their lives. What would they take back? Would your character take the offer or would they decide against playing with fate?

A Second Chance (To [verb] Your [noun] ) - or - I Swear I Didn't Intend to Write Two Flashbacks in a Row

. . . . . It was really quite a pleasant thing that Azuremyst Isle had clean, non-irradiated water again, because while the soaking tubs of the Exodar were quite nice, they had nothing on dunking oneself in the chill rapids of a flowing stream in late spring. Diyos would never call himself an ascetic, but he did indulge in the occasional austerity for austerity's sake.
. . . . . Like today, when his head was so muddled over whether he ought to go back to Stormwind or stick around and find that scary former Auchenai he'd been told to train. A bracing few minutes in the stream were supposed to help him clear his mind.
. . . . . Instead, he was just cold.
. . . . . Grumpy about it, Diyos walked back onto the bank and swiped his towel off the low-hanging tree branch. Toweling off his wildly curly hair, he still couldn't decide if this new duty was really worth the trouble. As he bent his head to see his own hands so he could wrap the towel around his hips without it falling into the mud, his eyes caught the jagged, sky-blue line dragging just beneath his ribs on the right side.

-----

. . . . . It didn't hurt. Not yet. He was still too busy staring in wide-eyed in shock at the youth - surely not more than an adolescent from his gawky frame - who stood hoof to hoof with him, a twisted sneer on his boyish face as his hands were stained a dark navy with Diyos' blood. In the rapidly narrowing frame of the priest's vision, the boy's sudden rage and violence was backlit with the bright red robe of the female crumpled on the floor, her ears and nose leaking the same dark navy which once moved life.
. . . . . Priest and boy stood in a circle drawn in charcoal and blood on the floor of the female's spare dwelling on the edge of the settlement. They hadn't even named this planet yet, and already they were finding their first settlement too confining. Fetid rot filled the air. Not the female, she was quite freshly dead. The smell came from the recently exhumed remains of her mate arranged in the center of the room-spanning magic circle.
. . . . . She'd gone mad with grief, susceptible to the twisted whispers of foul man'ari magics. But as - oh, hey, there's the pain - Diyos was beginning to realize, she wasn't the only one to have gone man'ari here at the edge of town. Vision dimming further, Diyos reached his hands out as if to embrace the youth who'd put the serrated knife into his abdomen. A mental half-step to the side, and the shadows - easy to reach in this ritual charnel house - flowed into him. It was only seasons upon seasons of strict discipline which allowed him to keep the shadow magic's glee in check, making the youth's death swift and clean. One quick shadow spike to the brainpan. The unholy red light in the youth's eyes winked out and his hands dropped away from the dagger, leaving it embedded in Diyos' side as the youth's body toppled over, leaking blood from his nose and ears.
. . . . . Come away with us, the shadows whispered. Your pain will go away. All your pain will go away. It will become someone else's problem. Come with us.
. . . . . "No." With just that word, a word borne of immeasurable time spent being trained by the Hand to refuse, Diyos pushed the shadows away. He was a male of the Light. His work was in service to his people. He did what must be done. A faint scent of spiced honey gone rancid wafted past his nose as the door to the dwelling was yanked open. There were shouts, recognizable as his fellow man'ari hunters. He smelled charcoal. Oh. It was because he was lying on his face on the necromancy circle. He really hoped they didn't bring him back from the dead...

-----

. . . . . Long, thin indigo fingers set on a hand the size of a human dinner plate traced along the scar below his ribs. He'd almost died that evening. And two people did. A female and a youth.
. . . . . Come to us. Retreat, and we will undo your sins, hide your pai-...
. . . . . "No."
. . . . . He was a male of the Light and would not undo his hard work for any magic promise.
. . . . . Realization struck and he sighed at the flowing stream. "Dammit!" he muttered, kicking the bank and getting splashed by the mud he dislodged into the water. He'd be staying to train Elysium's new priest. If nothing else, he would teach the male how to deny the whispers of his old ways.

Site Write Entry #1: Surprise

In a fit of absolute insanity, I have signed up to participate in a writing prompt series on Moon Guard's realm forums. I've been doing a lot of story-telling through the forums lately, and in order to preserve my "site write" entries from eventual forum creep, I'm going to queue them up for preservation here. I'll schedule one a day for the 30 days of the challenge, if I can keep that up.

Prompt: May 7, 2012 - Surprise http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/surprise?s=t

. . . . . "Take a squadron out to Blackrock tonight, Commander."
. . . . . "Yes, sir." With a stiffness born of a life-challenged state, the draenei female's plate-gloved hand snapped up in salute at her superior officer. But there were only the two of them around, and she'd learned to grow brave around this man who'd once tried to have her beheaded. "May I ask vhy, sir?" she dared.
. . . . . "You may ask." An insufferable smirk settled in the hardly-visible opening of his greying goatee. "And this time I will answer," he relented, leaning back in the wooden chair built along the lines of a body half his build. For a moment, she feared it would break under the stress, but dwarves make chairs to survive tavern brawls - one plated human was not enough to bother its small, sturdy frame. "There has been word of an expedition of scholars heading down into the old Molten Core, but not word of their return. Given the elemental instabilities in the cities of late and the area's known fire problems, the 1113th was asked to send a retrieval team." The draenei female let her hand slowly drop and return to its usual position folded with its partner at the small of her back as the Major continued, "Fire is somewhat more of a problem for us sometimes, so I am sending a healer from the Icecrown company." 
. . . . . "Ekanos?" She perked up. She rather liked the gentle druid healer and his polite manner; he was much easier to herd around than the cranky old Farseer mercenary from the Major's illicit hired company. 
. . . . . But the Major shook his head. "No. Laurenhall's indisposed. Hangover from Brewfest, I believe. I have a new hire. He will meet you ther-" 
. . . . . "As long as it is not zat cranky old Farseer!" she broke in. 
. . . . . Major Orill almost smiled. Almost. "No. As I said, you will meet the new hire there. Now get that squadron moving. They will make the forges cold if they keep standing out there."

----- 

. . . . . Valdiis rubbed her gloved hand across the back of her neck. She didn't sweat in the heat, but her bloodworms got more active as they warmed up and one of them had decided that right between vertebrae C4 and C5 was a great place to set up a salsa dance. Not, of course, that she thought of it in those terms. Consider it a literary device. A not-entirely-gentle nudge was enough to get the little parasite calmed down as she led the squadron of seven's trudge up the ashy side of Blackrock Mountain. The heavy iron door leading inside was open, but then it always was. Her adjunct healer was nowhere to be seen. She turned to address the squadron as they finished the ascent and fell into formation, and that's when one of her Corporals nudged the Private next to him and pointed behind her. The titansteel shoe nailed to the bottom of her hoof squealed on the stone beneath her as she spun.
  
. . . . . Telaar was always hungry, always low on food. Feast days such as this one were rare, but visitors from Shattrath had brought several crates of supplies. At the unavoidable insistence of her harridan mother, Valdiis was sitting stiffly in one of the round-backed chairs of Telaar's rest and social hall, glowering at the door as she waited for her...date. Even thinking the word made her angry. 
. . . . . At least she'd managed to escape with her dignity and avoid Omii shoving her into a dress.
. . . . . And there he was, all broad and tall and a little soft in the middle, like a strong man gone to seed. His armor gleamed as if it hadn't seen hard use in seasons and his short, dark hair was rumpled like he could care less that he'd come to meet a female to whom an arranged marriage might well be in the offering. With a booming laugh and an easy smile, he flopped bonelessly down across the table from her and proceeded to order for the both of them: mudfish. 
. . . . . She hated mudfish. 
. . . . . Dinner was strained, though she suspected he didn't notice it. If she'd stripped down and danced the kamil-amir on the table, the only thing he'd do is complain that she was blocking access to his food. She'd barely touched her mudfish and he was just leaning forward to ask if she was going to eat that when her brother - her nether-blasted, meddling, eldest brother - passed by the table with a smirk and a comment about how she would sleep with anything wearing pants. 
. . . . . The ensuing brawl destroyed two tables, five chairs, one rug, and eleven dinner plates. The gleaming, chubby vindicator's only contribution was to snag her mudfish off the table before she picked it up and chucked it at Zunaadrin. If she never saw the oozy Ortuuze again, it would be too soon. 

. . . . . There he was, all broad and tall and a lot soft in the middle, like a strong man gone to pasture. His armor gleamed as if it hadn't seen hard use in seasons and his short, dark hair was rumpled like he could care less that he'd come to meet a Commander of a military unit paying him handsomely for healing. He grinned broadly and lifted a hand in greeting as she sneered at him. 
. . . . . "You."

A New Dawn

 Written while listening to Sunset by Kate Bush.

. . . . . With a jaw-cracking yawn, Kresmira stretched out in the bunk provided for her at Mardenholde Keep in Hearthglen. Or tried to. If she laid on her back, her hooves hung off the bottom of the bunk all the way to her knees, rather feeling a lot like she'd sat on the end of the bunk and fallen backwards. It was tremendously uncomfortable. A soft growl came from the bunk above her, and she started - realizing seconds later that it was only a dwarven snoring noise. The tiny woman who'd climbed up there not fifteen minutes ago could wake a clefthoof with that sound. Kresmira tried to roll onto her side, the way she usually slept, but discovered quickly that the position put an awkward strain on her knees, since her hooves still hung out. Even if she curled her knees up - which made them stick off the side of the bunk instead - she couldn't get comfortable. As with many things she was learning about on Azeroth, Hearthglen just wasn't built to her scale.
. . . . . She didn't want to wake the tiny woman above her, so pulling the mattress off the bunk was out. Instead, she took just the pillow and blanket, trying to be as quiet as possible on adamantite-shod hooves, and snuck out of the Keep. Outside, it was still early spring and her thin linen shorts and sleeveless linen shirt were not adequate for the damp chill of somewhere past midnight in the northern part of Eastern Kingdoms. That was what the blanket was for, however, and she draped it around her shoulders - to fall somewhere just past her knees - and carried the pillow as she walked around to the back of the Keep and sought out a suitable tree.
. . . . . There. Some several yards from the back left corner of the Keep was a tall tree with a thick trunk. It would do. She set her pillow down in the grass - which had just begun to gather a coating of dew - and stretched out parallel to the tree, pressing her shoulders against the trunk as she curled up on her side under the blanket. The grass tickled her arm and she wished she still had a small herd for warmth, but the ground was tolerable enough until she could cobble together larger arrangements inside. Surprisingly exhausted after a whirlwind day of introductions and meetings and explanations, she dropped off to sleep almost immediately.

No Such Thing as a Smooth Course

((Hey, I'm not dead.))

Written while listening to Times Like These (Acoustic) by Foo Fighters.


. . . . . Schwip... schwip... schwip...
. . . . . Waves lapped gently against the sturdy wooden hull of the schooner before Diyos's eyes. He tried to focus on the solidity of the boat instead of the constant motion of the waves, but it was no good. His stomach heaved again and he hung over the railing like a limp rag. They were only about six hours out from Menethil Harbor, but he hadn't exactly started the day on the best hoof. Still plagued by a vicious hangover ever since they'd pushed off in the early morning, it was all he could do to keep from toppling into the Great Sea.
. . . . . “Ooo, look!” came the far-too-cheery-for-the-hour voice of his baby brother by his ear. “I'm pretty sure that's a dragon up there!” After several rapid pats at his shoulder, Athos gave up and elbowed him in the ribs. “Degenerate,” he muttered with good humor.
. . . . . “Shut it, will you? I'm trying to find my sobriety.”
. . . . . “And whose overindulgence was that?” Athos peered down into the sea with Diyos, watching as the lapping waves seemed to slow their pace against the hull. “It was a small bronze dragon,” he explained.
. . . . . “Probably one of the dragons who started befriending adventurers last year, then.” Diyos clung to the railing for another few moments, then started to straighten. As he did so, the entire ship rolled and bucked under his hooves - a long, slow yaw port, then a gentle pitch starboard. “Urrrp!” was Diyos's only reaction.
. . . . . “Woah!” was Athos's response, followed by a sharp gasp. “What was that? Did we just pass over a huge fish? Maybe a shark? Or a whale? Do sharks get that big? Maybe it was a whaleshark!”
. . . . . “Athos, quit being such a nerd. There's no such thing as whalesharks. It was just a big wave.”

One Disaster Less

Written while listening to The Last Thing On Your Mind by Lights.


. . . . . To whom it may conce-... “No, too formal.”
. . . . . Regretfully, the ti-... “Too emotional!”
. . . . . After a year, it has co-...
. . . . . “Diyos!”
. . . . . Papers rustled as Diyos swiftly covered the letter he was writing with a blank sheet and looked up expectantly to see his baby brother closing the door to their apartment in the Park District of Stormwind behind him. Athos had a distinctly frazzled air to go with his usual excitability; he practically bounded into the room, a cardboard box wrapped in twine tucked under one arm. “DiyosDiyosDi-”
. . . . . “Stop.” The priest held out one platter-sized hand in a staying gesture, careful not to sweep his sleeve through the pile of crumpled balls of paper on the table in front of him. “Breathe.”
. . . . . The younger – by a few minutes – draenei clattered to a halt in front of the table and set down his package. He took a deep breath and regarded Diyos in his chair, managing to stay quiet for all of about six seconds. “Diyos! Naaru’s sake, did you forget? Why are you just sitting here? Get up. Get up! It’s time to go!”
. . . . . “I didn’t forget – I’m just trying to get other business done, brother.” The chair made an obnoxious scraping sound as it moved back across the wooden floor and Diyos stood. “Is Kreli coming up or are we mee-”
. . . . . “We’re meeting him there!” Athos interrupted.
. . . . . Diyos shook his head and gave his baby brother a bemused smile as he picked up a book titled Compassion in Battle: War-time Counseling to read while they waited at the courthouse and tucked it under his arm. “Alright, let’s get under way then.”
. . . . . “You’re going to wear that?”
. . . . . Diyos glanced down at his robes; they were black with purple embroidery on the cuffs. “What’s wrong with this?”
. . . . . “You practically look like a magistrate yourself,” his baby brother said with a scowl. “You could at least attempt to look like a man who still serves the Light.”
. . . . . “They do! I mean, magistrates. I mean, I do!” Diyos practically gasped at the audacity of the accusation.

Fishing Stories

((What follows are a series of conversations - mostly conceived and written by Ekanos’s player - that occurred between the two while they were in hiding. It’s not everything they spoke about - for example, the deep conversations about what was really going on tended to be in the evening, staring up at the stars - but it was a writing challenge to try to convey a sense of what they were up to almost entirely through text. There is exactly one line of non-dialogue in this story, and only because we could figure out no better way to present it. Imagine these as snapshot moments which break up hours of silently staring at the water.))


. . . . . “Hey, Ekanos.”
. . . . . “Yeff, Diyof?”
. . . . . “Do... Do you have to do that?”
. . . . . “Do what?”
. . . . . “Eat...like that.”
. . . . . “Like what?”
. . . . . “The fish is still alive, Ekanos.”
. . . . . “What?” The elf cracked the fish against the trunk of the tree he was leaning on. “No, it isn’t.”
. . . . . “Well not now. Couldn’t you at least cook it?”
. . . . . “But...then it loses all the flavor!”

. . . . . “Hey, Ekanos?”
. . . . . “Yes, Diyos?”
. . . . . “What’cha readin’?”
. . . . . “A scroll about abnormal tumors in the human body.”
. . . . . “What’s a ‘normal’ tumor?”
. . . . . “I...don’t know, Diyos. That’s a really good question.”

Frostbite

Written while listening to Six Gun Quota by Seether.


. . . . . Finally, the last of the Company left, but not until after the creepy young thing had left a cookie atop his ice prison and told him to keep his chin up. She was one of them and always struck Diyos as a little freakish. She’d taken up the human habit of adornment through piercing and so much metal pushing into her dead flesh only seemed to make it more obscene…like carving smiley faces onto the fallen walls of Auchindoun. On Azshariel, a single piercing was cute. Perhaps he was just a hypocrite; it wouldn’t be the first time.
. . . . . The pierced one told him to keep faith in the Light and the Naaru. He’d scoffed and told her to leave, to let this human Colonel just knock him over the head and put him out already. The Light wasn’t doing jack – more slang he’d picked up in Common classes – to help him. He didn’t know precisely what jack was, but he knew not doing it meant that his world got a little bleaker with each heartbeat. When that nasty unholy Man’ari had been in his face and the Company had gotten a dose of righteous fury on his behalf, he almost felt like he’d be alright after all.
. . . . . And then they took a vote on whether or not to help him.
. . . . . And after being told what they needed to do to spring him from this early, they debated it like they were choosing an expedition spot and ended up deciding to not do anything like what they’d been asked.
. . . . . He was so screwed.

A Little Character Art

. . . . .I was complaining to a friend of mine that I was a sometimes little sad I played a dead character, because dead characters could not be sexy - ever. (And shouldn't be!) She decided to attempt to prove me wrong and drew a picture of Valdiis for me. I got bored and colored it recently, so I decided to share.

Drawn by Kyléa of Moon Guard. Colored by Valdiis of Moon Guard.

Fireflies in a Jar

Written while listening to Hello Again by Dave Matthews Band.


. . . . . Extinction. The word crashed against the inside of Diyos’s mind like a marshlight bleeder in a giant jar. He translated the word into his native tongue and back again, listened to his memory echo Azshariel’s voice to him until he felt like it was his own psyche beating on the glass for freedom.
. . . . . In the small workspace in Ironforge he rented for his tailoring commissions, he sat at his mana loom, weaving threads soaked in arcane dust with threads soaked in nether essence. Every clack of the shuttle seemed to repeat her premise: adapt or die. Under his hands, enough imbued netherweave to form a full bolt of cloth was forming.
. . . . . A craving for the bitter burn of alcohol settled in the back of his throat. Before joining the company, a few hours of watching his thoughts batter against his mind like trapped fireflies would have him well on his way to drinking himself into oblivion. But now he had a new start, people counting on him who were not obliged to toleration by filial bonds like his baby brother. He could forget the nightmares of millennia nipping at his hooves. He had a connection to this planet outside of his family’s bonds, and for all that he was not with them as often as their core members, he felt as if the company’s employees were what held him here – as well as his brother still on probation in Stormwind.
. . . . . Unlike Athos, if he screwed this up, they would kick him to the curb.

Making the Best of It

Written while listening to The Best of What's Around by Dave Matthews Band.
((I’m not totally pleased with this, but as it’s been several months since I last wrote something, I’ll take what I can get.))

. . . . . “She’s dead, Jim.”
. . . . . The draenei anchorite who’d just voiced this statement of fact for the fifty-third time thumped his head back against the thick hide of the elekk lying behind him on the deck of the Elune’s Blessing. For his part, the elekk – named Jim – curled his trunk around to his side and appeared to give his draenei owner a comforting pat on the hip…until it became clear that he was actually tugging on the small pouch of acorns tied to the anchorite’s belt.
. . . . . A platter-sized indigo hand swatted at the elekk’s gray trunk. The elekk snorted, blowing clear snot all over the right hip of the anchorite’s brown trousers.
. . . . . “Thanks, Jim. Good to know your opinion.” The anchorite’s voice was dry as he elbowed the elekk in the side to get him to settle down.
. . . . . A shout drifted down from the crow’s nest of the ship. The glittering crystal spires of the Exodar were just visible on the horizon. He was almost there.

. . . . . The new cook at the Valiance Keep inn gritted his teeth. That damned tapping sound was back. Taptaptap. Tap. Taptap. Tap. It was coming from the other side of the wall behind the fire pit, which was impossible since there was nothing back there.