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  1. Today
  2. Time Shattered

    This is fine. It’s fine. It will be fine. Once I’m no longer blindsided nor hungover, it will be fine. I was prepared to deal with Silvermoon’s tizzy over nothing. I had all my excuses and counter-stories ready for those accusations. I wasn’t at all prepared for Syreena’s little revelation. It was just a stupid game. I was supposed to be taunting her for accessing my correspondence, nothing more. I asked for letters written in code, but I wanted them to be inane, perfectly pointless, so that if Syreena actually went to the trouble of breaking them, she’d get nothing but grocery lists and meeting minutes for her efforts. And there it was, the whole of it. Don’t read my mail was all it was supposed to say. I suppose I should be taking this as a win, considering it convinced Syreena to essentially confess to reading my mail. However, that’s rather lost under what kind of mail it proves Syreena’s reading. I got my letters in code. And they were ordinary, in the sense that they were the same kinds of letters that she had been writing before. But those kinds of letters were... Personal? Incriminating? Certainly not inane, not to me at any rate. I decided I didn’t care that much because it was so unlikely Syreena would ever find the cipher anyway. I could keep the game going indefinitely, and I might as well keep it going forever, as punishment for getting into my mail. Fine. Read my letters. And end up with an unsolvable puzzle. Enjoy breaking your brain against that one for a few years. Well, game’s over. The jig is up. Check please. Why would she do that? All it does is ruin what Syreena thinks of me. I don’t care what most people think of me. Rumors have been an integral part of my existence for as long as I can remember. That doesn’t mean I need to pay any attention to them. But could you leave well enough alone the one person that I managed to convince I wasn’t worthless? Of course she couldn’t. She can’t know why it would matter to me. None of this matters to anyone else. I’m sure none of it even matters to Syreena. It only matters to me. I think I know why she did it. She thinks she’s better than I am. Of course she does, or I wouldn’t like her. So she’s showing me how much better she is. If that’s all it is, then this will be fine. It will pass. It will blow over. For now, the game isn’t mine anymore. It’s Syreena’s until she gets bored of it. Let’s hope that’s sooner than later. I’m not sure what I told the bartender, or what he gave me to drink before he sent me home with... Was that cider? I think it was rocket fuel. Rocket fuel and champagne? What the fel? I wonder if everything would be better if I had managed to kill the kid. That was... a far greater ordeal than this petty game of letters and innuendo. And it was a wake-up call that I never wanted. I got what I wanted. I succeeded in what I’d been threatening all along. And it hurt? Why did it hurt? No, I know why it hurt. And so I let her hurt me in turn. Saved my life, the kid did. Probably. I don’t think she would have killed me, but she might have kept me in a jar for a thousand years. He’s a good kid, smart, good reflexes, strong sense of power. I can hope he’ll grow up to have more sense than his mother, but with me stepping out that seems like a long shot. Still, I’m glad to drop the teaching. I dropped the others, as well. I’m no instructor. All but one. I’ll keep her. Ninorra said no one saw her. What a liar. I told her I didn’t care. Evidently I’m a liar, too, despite my great pronouncements to tell nothing but truths. I know she’ll tell Vicailde everything I said, and everything she said, so there won’t be any real need for him to come after me. But that’s not exactly going to stop the entire city and apparently the entire Horde from saying something that’s patently not true and makes him look like a fool. If I were in his shoes, I’d want to kick my ass anyway, just for the rumors, whether I believed my wife or not. And Syreena was already angry with her, so now she gets to be angry with me as well, because of course someone like Ninorra can’t walk through Silvermoon’s streets without being noticed. I should have told her to wear a sack and cover her face or something. I didn’t think it would be so damned necessary. I don’t know what Vyalis thinks he’s going to do. I made my suggestion. I think it’s a good one. We’ll see. We’ll see with all of it. I don’t want to see. Can I just... lock the door and come out when everyone’s forgotten everything? It’s not like I’m innocent of anything, but that doesn’t mean I want to deal with this garbage fire.
  3. Time Shattered

    I'm an idiot.
  4. Last week
  5. Kimba Goldfield

    Full Name: Kimba Goldfield Date of Birth: July 21 Age: 42 Race: Shu'halo, Tauren of Thunder Bluff Gender: Male Hair: Black mane and fur Eyes: Gold Height: 8 feet, 2.4384 meters Weight: Approximately 1000 pounds, ~453.592 kg Place of residence: Ashtotem Village Place of Birth: The Barrens, in a small canyon between two mountains where the sound echoes like a boom of thunder Known Relatives: Qarn (Older Brother, deceased), Rumba (younger brother), Cassowary (younger brother), Nagoda (nephew), Fasha (sister-in-law via Qarn), Magooma (mother-in-law via Fasha), three dead mates (all tauren women), Draquesha (promised mate) Religion/Philosophy: An'she, the sun god Occupation: Thunder Bluff Brave, Escort to Barrens Refugees Group/Guild affiliation: Guest of Ashtotem Village Enemies: The Alliance, Scourge Affiliates, Brinnea Velmon, the Barrens centaur tribes Likes: Wide-open spaces, flat landscapes, large gatherings, parties, playing the drums, racing, javelin toss, fishing, swimming Favorite Foods: Kodo roast, grilled salmon Favorite Drinks: Mulgore firewater Favorite Colors: Leathery Brown and Shiny Gold Weapons of Choice: Battleaxe, Hunting Spear, War Club, Throwing Axes, Javelins Dislikes: Confinement, tight spaces, restrictions to movement, diet, or activities, the smell of death, quiet places, abstract studies such as complex math, magic, social sciences, politics, etc. Physical Features: Average tauren height, black fur all across his body, black horns tipped with gold ornaments, facial hair tied in three braids, has two gold teeth, and rippling muscle across his body criss-crossed with scars Special Abilities: Peak physical fitness, hugely powerful legs and arms, expert tracker, and can run for several days without tiring. Positive Personality Traits: Boisterous and optimistic. He tends to go with the flow without concerning or stressing about the future or the past. Can liven up any situation with a fun story, song, or joke. Bold and brave, never one to shy from a fight. Highly objective; will confront someone if he senses the need. Perceptive, and takes note of people's mannerisms or interests. Reveres the elderly for their experience, and prizes the youth for their energy and potential. Has strong control over his rage, so he can use it as a tool without it getting the better of him. Negative Personality Traits: Insensitive and easily bored. Impatient and likely to take risks even when unnecessary or clearly dangerous. Finds it difficult to grasp a bigger picture or pat attention to abstract ideas or feelings. Often if there is an emotional matter at stake, he'll ignore it or find a way to move away from it. Defiant and resistant to criticism. Misc. Quirks: Shows a flagrant disregard for nature whenever possible. He'll kill critters for sport, pelts, and food if they cross his path, chop his way through foliage that annoys him, and grows vindictive at his surroundings if they restrict or confine him. Sharpens and polishes his weapons every morning, first thing. Always carries a skin of firewater with him, and gets in an intolerable mood when he's run out. Music: "Thunderstruck" by AC/DC History: Ever since his birth, Kimba has had an uncommonly strong set of lungs. He cried the most out of his three siblings, and was the most likely to cause trouble for the family. His father often told him that he had a responsibility to his people and to his family to uphold their honor and legacy, just as his older brother Qarn understood intuitively. Kimba eventually understood what his father meant after both his parents were butchered in Camp Taurajo. Qarn was devastated and went on a rampage against the humans of Northwatch that nearly got him killed. Kimba pulled Qarn, who was usually the responsible one, from the fires of hate. Kimba understood loss and felt sad too, but he understood how to control anger until the right moment, and could always find a way to enjoy the now rather than get hung up on the past or future. That way, he could always look out for his family's honor and legacy, even if he couldn't make as significant strides to a glorious future like his older brother could. Qarn was grateful to his brother from then on, and trusted him with his own family. When Qarn perished in a hunt for fugitive undead Parigan Blackmane and Brinnea Velmon, Kimba took upon himself all his brother's former responsibilities that he could. Though he could not be a visionary and a diplomat, Kimba could still be a warrior and a guardian for the family. He took in Qarn's wife and son, Fasha and Nagoda. Nagoda resented Kimba for trying to step in where his father had left, but Kimba never understood how to make the child accept the new reality. The boy wanted to be just like his father, but didn't know how to. Kimba tried to teach him as best as he could, but found the boy more hateful with every passing day. To fulfill one of his brother's final tasks, Kimba led some refugees displaced by the war in the Barrens south to Thousand Needles, to the neutral territory of the Ashtotem Tribe. They were accepted as residents, though the people had to cut their ties with the Horde. Kimba and his brothers continued to serve the Horde and uphold their duties to the refugees. Though they did not join Ashtotem, they were allowed to stay as guests. Kimba shortly afterwards led his nephew on a pilgrimage to one of Qarn's favorite holy sites, Wyrmrest Temple, to offer service to the dragons and continue their ties to the Light as Qarn would have wanted. Kimba was given a task to slay a void beast lurking in the center of Sholozar Basin, and there he found Draquesha, a Darkspear troll living alone with a multitude of animal companions. The two grew fond of one another and engaged in several sexual encounters, until the tauren asked the troll to be his mate. Drunk on firewater and lust, she accepted.
  6. Young Soldier, Old Wounds

    Sometimes he stood at their graves. The ones he'd lost. The stones sat there looking up at him questioningly. They still waited to hear his diagnosis. Every one of them stood stock still like a soldier should and watched him with the utmost attention. It was a tremendous weight to see them all look at him. He stood at each one he could remember, and he had a long memory. When he had had time away from the war, Sanjay found his way to the graveyards eventually. Now the war was over, and there was nothing to do but stand. He counted them back in his head, but couldn't. He wished he'd never learned to count past ten. Or one hundred. Or a thousand. The graveyard had to be extended to fit them all. New earth was put into place for them to be buried. How ironic was that? Sanjay thought about the earth beind ripped apart a hundred miles away to be toted here, surrounded by walls and sad, grey stone. All that, only to be dug up again and filled with bodies. Filled with dreams and thoughts. Hopes and loves. Husbands, fathers, mothers, daughters, sons, brothers, sisters, and everything else. He thought about the ones without names. They sat and watched, too, but silently. The others shouted in his mind. A name to a memory. The nameless were the ones that kept him awake at night. They crept through the crevices of his mind like errant shadows without a source of light. They wandered aimlessly, silently. His overactive mind put faces to their lack of names. He invented names only to discard them, calling himself stupid fir disrespecting them. But he had a long memory. The discarded were not filled by new memories so quickly. And so they built up, one atop the others and so on until the nameless names outnumbered the true names. He tried to set the weight of their gaze down in his mind. He needed something physical, like a talisman, to embody the weight. So one time he spent a week weaving little leather dolls. He had meant them to look like soldiers, strong and proud. Once he'd placed them on the graves they looked more like children -- huddled, alone, and frightened. Sanjay thought about his legs sometimes. He'd told himself it didn't matter anymore, that old wound. It was the new wounds that really mattered. With new wounds, you couldn't be certain if you'd recover. If the patient would ever walk or talk or live again. Sanjay's legs had recovered. His back had mended and his spirit reformed from the ashes of the cannon that buried him alive. But he still thought about them. He had even named them. His mother had told him that names made the monsters less scary. Torque was what he'd named one. He liked giving it a powerful name, something that carried weight. It was his right leg, the one he unconsciously considered his dominant leg. When it had stopped working years ago, it sat limply in a chair and melted away like an old flower blown to dust by a brisk wind. Only, he didn't notice the wind had taken it from him until one day he'd woken up alone. There had been girlfriends -- dozens of them. They came and went, but his memory was long. He recalled them straddling his unmoving waist lovingly, swaying as if to a song. At least that part of him had still worked. The other leg he'd called Panic. It was the leg that reacted when he needed to react fast. Where Torque carried the weight, Panic pushed him past it. Sanjay remembered pushing past the time when he was alone. He had decided he wouldn't live on without legs. He had decided he wanted to sway to the music he couldn't hear. Dancing was something he'd been good at. He'd wanted to be a dancer once before his father had given him his duty. Sanjay had looked for a cure everywhere cures could be found. A broken spinal cord was tricky business, something no amount of potions, Light, magic water, experimental surgery, or happy thoughts could cure him of. His vast knowledge of medicine and fixing broken things didn't help. He had been convinced it only made matters worse because there was no more room for hope. But in the end, he'd found his cure. He'd been made whole. And so he was graced with the chance to make others whole too. But making some whole meant burying those whose pieces wouldn't fit back together. That meant names, and the nameless. It meant moving earth to fill it with bodies and wishes. It meant standing and weaving talismans and finding ways to lift the weight. It meant standing before a grave on the outskirts of Lakeshire on a dry evening as the sun fell dead in the west, biting back tears as they escaped at last from their long sentence behind the bars of shame. They were the only names that could make him cry anymore. It was bizarre what time could do to a man. Time could heal his wounds and change him into something new. But it could also make grief weigh heavier, and guilt burn deeper. The names stared up at him as a talisman of past failure, a weight that couldn't be set down. He stared down at the blurred carvings and the piles upon piles of woven children and felt time's effect on him. "Hi Dad," he told the children, "Hi Mom. Alex. John. Brom. Hi Saphir. It's me again." He wiped away his bitter tears to do his duty, as Father had always wanted. "I didn't think I'd ever come back, you know. I don't just mean to Redridge. I thought Pandaria was where I was meant to be. I thought home meant making something for myself and never looking back. I didn't think I'd have a reason. As it turns out, I was right. There was nothing to come back to." He thought it was true. They were all dead. Every last one of them. Broken pieces that couldn't be mended. No sense in dwelling on old wounds. Yet he had come back. "I'm still patching up soldiers like you would have wanted, Dad. Guess you got your wish, somewhat. I don't win any glory for the family name like you wanted, but at least I'm keeping the army you helped build keep its feet." Sanjay looked at the dolls seated carefully about the graves and sighed in frustration. "This is stupid. I'm stupid for ever thinking this would help." He bent over to pick a doll up and tossed it off into the distance. He lost sight of it behind a dry, dead bush. "You're all dead. There's no point to it. My words won't comfort you, and your lack of presence won't make me feel any better. I screwed up. I left and didn't look back until you were all gone. Ducking around the truth is pointlessly stupid. You are dead, but there are others that I can keep from the grave with the gifts you gave me. That's legacy. That's what will make me feel better. Don't any of you ever catch me getting weepy around you again, got it?" None of them answered. Sanjay told himself he was still being stupid, yet there he stood. Sanjay. Sander Redjay. The firstborn son of Alexander II Redjay, a hero of the Alliance. Taken by war before his time, and dying far too old. Beside him was his family, the ones who had stood by him. And standing above him, still breathing and crying was the one who had left. "I'm not using your name anymore, Dad. It belongs exactly where you put it. My name is Sanjay now. I never got to tell you before you died. It means Conqueror." He about-faced and walked off, his stride long and stiff. Torque and Panic carried him back down the road to town. The old house belonged to him now, so he intended to give it away to someone who needed it. That, or burn it down and light a cigar in the flames. He hadn't decided.
  7. Young Soldier, Old Wounds

    "So let me get this straight, you jumped off the top of the Temple of the Moon, relying on a glider with a torn wing to slow your fall?" "I didn't know it was torn until after I jumped, but yes that is how it went." The young man with the ponytail winced as Sanjay investigated the damage resulting from the younger man's escapade. "You are lucky you survived. The Kal'dorei take matters of religion very seriously. That Temple is as tall as any castle I've seen." "It wasn't that bad, really." Sanjay eyed the broken leg skeptically. His educated mind told him to be open-minded, but this case seemed rather open-and-shut. "Your femur is cracked in five places," the doctor replied, "Your tibia has a solid dent in it, too. Plus your nose from where you most likely faceplanted, that's seven fractures." "Seven is a lucky number." The boy gave Sanjay a weak smile. Sweat dripped down his forehead in rivers. "Not today, it isn't. I have a question, though, unless you don't want to receive treatment." Moors sighed and lie back on the cot, staring up at the bottom of the top bunk. "Ask away. I'm an open book." "Why did you contact me, and not send a message out to the whole guild?" From what Sanjay had been told about the Empire's guildstones, the default function was to address the entire guild. It took some fiddling in a way Sanjay hadn't bothered to uncover to address only one particular stone. Usually he just kept his on mute. Moors shrugged. "I've never sent a message to one person before." "That doesn't answer the question." "It's late, people are sleeping." "You don't think they mute their stones before bed?" "People tend to forget things. Maybe not as much as I do, but still." The doctor exhaled through his nose and scratched his beard. Though he'd committed to growing it out in Pandaria, the hair was starting to get itchy. He briefly considered shaving it, or at least trimming it down some. "Right. I'm sure that's what went through your head while you writhed about at the steps of the Temple of Elune with bones broken in seven places." Moors' leg twitched in its fresh splint. Sanjay was more interested in that hair of his. It was yellow like straw, and held back in a ponytail. A slash of white lie along his scalp from above the right eye, as well. That was uncommon in one this boy's age. It reminded Sanjay of some old patients. The kid probably rubbed some warlock the wrong way at some point. "I try to be considerate." Or you just wanted to avoid the embarrassment of telling the whole guild you jumped off a building. Sanjay had been aware of some event going on tonight. Given the wine stains on the boy's cotton shirt, he figured Moors had attended. He tried not to jump to conclusions about the alcohol's affect on the boy's actions leading up to his injury. "I'll lend you potions for regrowing the bones and to suppress the pain. It'll be a week or two before you're back on your feet. I'll check in daily until you can get back to work." Luckily for you, I'm on vacation for that long. I could use a break from my break. "Thank you, Doctor. That's really nice of you." He seemed sincere. Sanjay never knew for certain. "Don't jump off anymore buildings, and I'll consider it even. And get some sleep." He stood up to leave. The elves were giving him odd looks. "Hey Doc?" "What is it?" "You won't tell anyone about this, will you?" So it is as I thought. "Not a word, kid. Rest easy." "I got three dates coming up. This won't keep me from any of that, will it?" Sanjay scoffed. That's right, it was about that time of year. Pretty boys like him would be breaking hearts left and right for the next few weeks. "I hope you weren't planning to take any of them for long walks. Or on that deathtrap of a glider. In fact, stay away from anything goblin-made for a while." "Alright. You're the Doc, Doc." He lie back and shut his shiny, baby blue eyes. Sanjay took a breath. After so long spent patching men and women condemned to die of fel poisoning or self-inflicted wounds of despair, this felt utterly mundane. It was a strange thought that such normalcy would feel unwelcome. He strode out of the medical ward of the Temple across soft grass that tickled his feet through his sandals. The elves out here watched him too. Sanjay had grown used to it. When the face of your people is a boy who looks eerily similar to Moors Hawthorne, seeing someone with skin and demeanor as dark as Sanjay's would be rather curious. Maybe I should shave the damn beard.
  8. Earlier
  9. Fishing for a Fish Mount

    Margoss Island Fishing Community Event Sun & Mon, February 11 & 12, 2018 8:00 Server Time Fish up Drowned Mana, which is spawned by a water elemental when fishing in the pond there. Turn in enough Drowned Mana to become Best Friends with Conjurer Margoss so you can buy a water mount called Brinedeep Bottom-Feeder or pets, toys, and other items. The more people fishing, the more often the water elemental spawns, and the faster you collect Drowned Mana.
  10. Spelling Trouble

    Qabian woke in a cold sweat, sitting straight up with a gasp of fear before he realized where he was. When he took in the familiar surroundings he breathed a sigh of relief and laid back down. A Nightborne woman approached the bed carrying a bowl of steaming water. He reached toward her with both hands almost on instinct, then flinched, grunting as pain ripped through his right shoulder. "Fuck the sun. That all actually happened, didn't it?" She nodded. "And as much as I'd like to hear exactly what 'that all' was, you have some decisions to make." She set the water on a small table beside the bed, then pulled a cloth from it. The warm fabric felt impossibly soft against his forehead as she washed his face. He groaned, laying his hand on hers. "I want a bath." "You're not getting in any of my baths until I know that's not going to come undone and fill them with blood," she said, nodding towards his bandaged stump of a shoulder. "I know I told you I was going to study healing, but you can't possibly expect me to create you a new arm." "No, I can't." He stared at her, coming to greater realization of just what he had lost. He could have fought back harder. He could have even escaped entirely, at least temporarily. He knew why he didn't. He knew why he let Ninorra do what she did. He even knew why he would have let her do more. But he didn't want to dwell on it. He forced himself out of his thoughts. "Reinna..." The woman blinked at him. "You want Reinna to make you an arm?" She seemed shocked. "Belore, no. But I assume you know who she steals from." "Ah. I do. And you'd like to commission them?" "Yes." "Do you prefer blackmail or negotiation?" Qabian laughed. "Whichever gets it done faster." "Blackmail then." She grinned at him. He smirked. "You're priceless." "Do you love me?" she asked, leaning over him to kiss his forehead. "Absolutely not." "Good." She mirrored his smirk. "You taste like dirt."
  11. Spelling Trouble

    Qabian stumbled from deeper in the Underbelly toward the ramp by the portal to Dreadscar Rift. His fancy robes were covered in a thick layer of pale dust that left footprints in his wake. His face was smudged and dirty and his hair a mess. His expression was a combination of distraught and confused. Wherever he was going, he was going slowly. Stepping out of the portal to the Dreadscar Rift was Ninorra, dressed, as always, in immaculate robes tightly tailored to fit her curves in ways that were more than likely inappropriate for battle. Today they were a dark purple color that matched her scythe, likely pilfered from some poor Nightborne during the city's siege. Her hood was tilted just enough to hide her red eyes from view, but they were not shaded enough to miss Qabian's slow progress from her path. "Qabian?" She said gently, lowering her hood. "What in the world happened to you?" Qabian's eyes went wide. He opened his mouth as though to say something, then closed it again. He glanced back over his shoulder, looking for help, but it seemed unlikely any was coming. Of all the people to run into, it had to be her. She had a good reason to be there. He could have taken any other exit, any other way out, but he'd walked that way. Why had he walked that way? "Nothing," he muttered, and tried to move past her. Ninorra's eyebrows raised with curiosity. Qabian wasn't the type to simply push past her without some sort of quip or insult, especially not when he looked like complete shit. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a healthstone. "You're limping. Do you want one of these? It will help. I promise not to poison it," she added with a smile. "No." He stared at her for a pause, then shook his head, looking deliberately away from her, first over her shoulder, then at the floor between them. "I'm fine. Don't... I-I need to go." "Qabian," Ninorra said more firmly, reaching for the mage's robes with a delicate hand that sported long nails painted a dark amethyst. "I know I am not the sort of person you would--, actually, I do not think you would confide in anyone, but I must admit that the sight of you distressed has me concerned." Qabian scowled, taking a step back as she reached for him. "I'm not in distress. You are. You just don't know it yet," he said, obnoxiously cryptic yet without the slightest hint of a smirk. Something was definitely off. The warlock blinked once, her expression shifting away from her concern for him to something far more unpleasant. "..and why is that?" "Why do you think?" he snapped, meeting her shift in expression with his own move from avoidance and irritation to anger. He already regretted saying anything at all. "Get out of my way." Ninorra cocked her head to one side, the usual mirth in her face replaced by a strangely unsympathetic flat look. With a gesture, she called forth one of her minions; a doomguard, which stood at least several feet taller than Qabian. He appeared a few feet in front of the mage, blocking his exit. "Explain," Ninorra said once, her eyes just a little brighter than before. Qabian turned away from her. He pulled his hands up at his sides, both of them on fire, and stared down the doomguard for a drawn out moment. Then the fire in his hands sputtered out and Qabian appeared to just give up. He had other choices, but what was the point in any of them anymore. This was going to happen eventually anyway. He might have lived through it if he'd made it to the top of the ramp, but he was having trouble giving a damn. He leaned against the stone Underbelly wall and turned a slow, expressionless stare on Ninorra. In a voice tinged with something like disappointment, he asked, "Where's your son right now?" Ninorra's lips parted as she poised to answer. It was an easy question, certainly. He should have been in school, with the Kirin Tor. He should have been somewhere safe. He should have been where she could find him, or reach him. Why hadn't she? She felt something awkward, as if she'd swallowed a stone, and put a hand over her stomach. "..he should be with the Kirin Tor. Studying. He should be somewhere safe, learning. Why would he not be?" Qabian shook his head, looking away from her again. "And who's his teacher? And you agreed to it. You're so concerned about me looking like this. What do you think--" He glared at her, but the anger in his eyes flashed then faded and he turned his stare back to the ground. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. He could have been lying. He was certainly the type to lie, to do things specifically to hurt people. She expected, any minute, for him to start laughing at her. How quaint, to see the utter despair on your face, she pictured him saying. That same sneer, that same cocky grin. Why wasn't he smiling? Why wasn't he laughing at her? "..Qabian.." she said hoarsely. "What.. what have you done?" "I didn't do anything!" he stammered defensively, grimacing at the doomguard blocking his exit. "I didn't do anything." He choked on his words. "I'm sorry. I couldn't-- I didn't do enough. I didn't mean for-- I don't know... what else..." Emotions spun through him and across his face in rapid succession: confusion, frustration, annoyance, despair. In all of it, not a grin or smirk to be found. He pushed back up off the wall as he settled on cold anger. "I didn't do anything," he said, his tone quiet, serious, and unfriendly as he finally levelled his gaze on her. "This kind of thing just happens around me. Might as well let me go. There's nothing left." "Let you.. let you go?" She said, horrified. Ninorra's eyes flared again, but they dimmed as she spoke. A frightened as she might have been, there still was a strange sense of empathy for the elf who may have just doomed her own son. "Qabian what are you talking about? What happened?? Where is Damian?" "There's nothing left," he repeated. "There are reasons I don't--" He hesitated. The temptation to explain was always there, to circle around with insinuations and implications, to say nothing directly, but if he let himself follow those thoughts, they would take him apart alongside her. Best to stay cold. Best to stay at the bottom of the Elrendar, in the dark, with the weight of failure pressing down. He was already there. He'd been there for years. What more could she do to him that he hadn't done to himself? "He's dead. I killed him," Qabian said, withdrawing all feeling from his face and voice. Ninorra closed her mouth abruptly, her hand flexed around the scythe that stood twice her height. She took a single breath and shook her head, staring at the mage confidently. "I don't believe you," she said finally, taking another step forward. "Not because I don't think you capable. Of course I do. You wouldn't hesitate to kill a child, my child, that would be amusing. But not like this. You wouldn't tell me this way. You would make it into a joke, you would be happy. Damian can't be dead because that does not fit into your plans, and you are not the kind of person who.. who does not.. follow through on his plans," she finished, her voice wavering. He eyed her scythe carefully, then her foot as she stepped toward him, but he didn't move. He waved a hand over his smudged and dusty face with unnecessary drama, revealing a perfect, exaggerated smirk and raised brow. "Is this better? My dear sweet stupid Ninorra," he said with cloying sarcasm. "This was my plan all along. Why should I be upset about anything except being caught here by you? I've finally taught you your lesson after all these months." The put-on faded just as quickly as it appeared, replaced again by cold emptiness in his demeanor. "You're wrong, but not for the reasons you think you are. I had no choice. I did what I had to do. What does it matter now? He's still dead, and I still killed him. If you don't believe me," he gestured off-hand to the doomguard, "you can just let me go." Her face fell as easily as her confidence rose, disappointment and despair like the worst kind of makeover. Swallowing her rage, she tightened her grip on the scythe and took another step closer. "How could you? Why? Why would you do this, after everything? I don't understand, Qabian," she added, her breathing beginning to quicken. "I don't understand. Why is it you want to die so badly? If you wanted this, you could have asked. I might have said you were crazy, but I would have put you down if you really wanted it.. but why kill my son just to do it? Why? Answer me. I need to know before I do this." He lifted his chin, but didn't fall back to emotion. He finally shifted away from her, taking a step to the side, away from the doomguard, back toward the Underbelly. "I don't want to die, but I've earned it, don't you think?" The words were snide, more like him, but the tone was still vacant. "I said I had no choice. I didn't want this any more than you did. What do you think killing me accomplishes? I've come back from that before." A qualified truth, and a meaningless one in the current situation, but he held onto it like a beacon. "And it does nothing for your son." A strange smile drew her lips upward, displaying the same dimples she always had when she was enjoying herself. They were a grim reminder of their history. "If he is dead, then yes. You're right," she said with a shaky voice, close to tears as she was. "..but this would not be for him. It would be for me." The doomguard grabbed him then, it's hands enveloping both of Qabian's shoulders as Ninorra's scythe swirled with the thousands of souls that powered it. "I don't just want you to die. I want you to suffer, as I know I will, for the rest of my life. I want you to know just how deeply you cut me, just as I am about to cut you. And I want to add your scream, your wretched voice, to my songs. To remember you by." Dim light around Qabian shimmered and refracted between the doomguard's hands as the mage called on his magic, but something was wrong. What he'd suffered not long ago had consequences he didn't expect or he might have turned and run earlier. Everything was having consequences he didn't expect. He brought his hands forward as best he could, setting them alight to burn through the arms that held him, but a faster escape, the kind he always relied on, was not an option. "You'll get nothing from me," Qabian snarled, but he kept his focus on loosening the doomguard's grip, while simply bracing for whatever it was Ninorra was about to do. "Oh, Qabian," Ninorra said mountfully, even disappointedly, tears finally rolling down her face. She wasn't exactly the sort to hide her emotions, dramatic though they might be. With her free hand, she appeared to reach for him, fingers outstretched. They waved like a fan, casting a curse on Qabian that she hadn't been expecting to use on him. "That's what everyone says." The curse of agony was always the first of many. It wasn't like normal pain, it didn't radiate in one place and travel through the nerves. Agony struck its victims at once and all over, gnawing at each nerve from head to toe like a tree with each leaf on fire. Qabian threw his head back involuntarily, his jaw clenched against the pain, immobilized as he was. She didn't know him that well. She didn't know just how much practice he had, even with the exact curse she was using. The fire in his hands flickered, threatening to go out. His body stiffened against the encompassing agony, but not so much that he lost control. The traditional smirk that had abandoned him thus far in their encounter genuinely graced his face as he eyed her over the doomguard's arm. "Is that what they say? Is that what they say before they... submit?" He gave her an utterly inappropriate wink, unthinkable in the moments before she'd pushed actual violence, bringing him out of his tempest of emotions and back into his familiar adversarial relationship with the world. The fire in his hands, rather than sputtering out, flared stronger, threatening to encompass both him and the doomguard more thoroughly. The doomguard didn't seem to think much of Qabian's fire, in spite of how it burned through his flesh. It could have been bravery, or his complete and utter submission to Ninorra. Either way, he held on to the mage as she cursed him with corruption, her own expression still mournful. "You know it is," she said through tears, the rest of her finally responding to the emotions building as she choked back sobs. What would she tell her husband? That their son was lost because of her own mistrust? That perhaps she was, actually, a terrible mother, and his loss was on her hands? How much would he resent her, then? And how could she ever grow to forgive herself for being so very short sighted? The corruption attacked Qabian's circulatory system, crawling through his veins to eat at them slowly. He would appear ill, at first, as they collapsed. The pain, combined with her curse of agony, would have been exquisite. But it wasn't what she really wanted, and he knew that much already. "Damn it, Qabian," she said between heavy breaths, her own voice hoarse. "How can I blame you for being you?" His eyes flicked back in his head. He knew that curse, too, knew it too well. His body responded to it both as illness and as something else, something trained, something reflexive. He licked his lips as they dried and cracked. His usually vaguely tanned skin was already pale from his earlier ordeal and the dust that still clung to him, but the pallor of her spreading corruption began to give his skin a bluish tinge. "What else... is there?" he answered through gritted teeth. With nowhere else to go, the other schools of magic locked to him and his preferred method of casting prevented by the grip on his shoulders, the fire flowed unfettered up his arms and those of the doomguard holding him. Qabian's intention to break the demon's grip seemed lost in the purer chaos of the only action left open to him, letting the fire grow, to the point the link between him and his imprisoner became pure fire. Qabian's smirk widened into a grin, somehow both menacing and pleased, as a thin trail of blood ran from his nose down over his teeth. "You can do... better than that," he managed with some difficulty. He was baiting her, that much she knew. Why he wanted to die so much, though, that she couldn't understand. The fire grew closer to her, something she vaguely registered. Heat was something that never bothered her, and she felt drawn to it now more than ever. "You.. you are right," she said mournfully, her eyes still glistening. His grin was unbearably lurid, and it pulled at the thread holding her together. "You are so often right about me." The unstable affliction struck him, then. Like a cancer, it ate at the mage's body from within. Except very soon after she cast it, Ninorra pressed her scythe forward and began the final task. It would drain his soul, the very last essence of him, and it would remain with her like so many of her victims. It increased the power of her other curses, the corruption, the agony, and now the affliction which actually made it through his flesh and began the process of eating through his right hand. Before their eyes, Qabian's own limb rotted, clumps of flesh dropping to the fire surrounding him to sizzle and burn and surround them both in a putrid perfume. "I wonder.. why that is?" It wasn't about death, but he didn't have the words anymore, and that was probably for the best because he wouldn't have made any sense anyway. The muscles in his jaw clenched and twisted as he stared her down, the pain beginning to broach what even he could handle. He had been through this sequence of curses before, yes, but not drawn out at the hands of someone who actually wanted him dead. "Where's--Where's the... music?" he choked out as his stiffened body began to twitch and writhe under the assault. A low moan in the back of his throat overrode any further attempts at speech. As more of his flesh dropped away, the fire along his arms finally sputtered and went out. He closed his eyes, threw his head back, and screamed. "There it is," Ninorra said quietly, sadly when she considered what this would mean. No more gossiping, no more little plots. She wasn't just losing her son, she was losing a friend. A friend who may have never actually admitted to being her friend, maybe, but a friend none the less. One who she would miss terribly, whose soul she would keep close to her.. "What?" The scythe trembled in her hand. It stole the life from Qabian, and with it there should have been the distinct feel of his essence as it flowed into the weapon, and eventually into her own collection. What she found, however, wasn't that sweet flicker of life. It was a few crumbs, broken from the whole, and perhaps incapable of being put back together. Qabian may have made jokes about having no soul, but what she found was a void with the fragments of one that may have been shattered a long time ago. Pressing a few fingers to the red jewel at her throat, whose color matched her eyes so well, she felt a pang of regret. "Oh.. I see," she said to herself, as the affliction ate its way toward his arm, soon to rot his heart from the inside. "Mother?" Ninorra felt her heart drop into her stomach at the sound of such a sweet voice, a voice that she thought she might never hear again. Turning toward it, she let go of the scythe and broke her concentration from the torment. Standing a few feet behind her, Damian was rubbing his eyes. He was covered in dust, and it appeared that his hair was terribly singed, but he was in fact alive. "Mother," he repeated. "What are you doing?" As her focus broke, the mage's screaming pitched to a crescendo and a blast of fire slammed outward from Qabian's body, knocking him out of the doomguard's scorched grip and back against the wall. As he slid to sitting, the disease still eating away at his arm moved past his elbow, leaving nothing attached to bones left slick with decay. He had the presence of mind to press a hand full of fire to his upper arm and burn away everything there, whether the curse had reached it or not. He stifled a new scream by keeping his jaw firmly shut, but couldn't prevent an agonized groan as he burned away what was left of his own limb. The space of hallway beneath Dalaran was full of the fragrance of charred flesh, but perhaps that wasn't so uncommon just outside the Dreadscar Rift. "H-how?" On the floor, slumped back against the wall, Qabian stared at Damian in disbelief. Then the mage started coughing up blood. Ninorra looked between the two males, confused and still enraged. Damian didn't give his mother time to question the reality of his presence as he ran to the magister and pulled a healing potion from his pocket. "I used the cauterize spell when I felt the meteor get close, then I ported out," he explained, uncorking the bottle to empty it into Qabian's mouth. "It hurt, but I had some potions on me." "Damian, what are you doing?!" Ninorra finally shouted, grabbing him by the waist to yank him away. "He tried to kill you!" The boy opened his mouth to explain fully what happened, but thought better than to include details. Instead, he shook his head. "He tried to save me. From an Eredar. She tried to send her felhounds on me, but, he tried to kill them with a meteor. I got out before it could really hit me. Honest, he tried to help." Ninorra regarded the charred elf incredulously. "Then why did you tell me.. Oh Qabian!" She shouted, grabbing a healthstone from her pocket to shove it forcefully into his mouth. "I can not believe you would rather die than admit you tried to save a child! Of all the ridiculous things!" Qabian drank down the potion without resistance as the boy made his explanation, then the mage wiped blood and spilled potion off his chin with a hand still on fire when Ninorra yanked the child away. But when Ninorra shoved the healthstone in his mouth, Qabian spit it out and quelled the flames in his hand as he feebly attempted to push her away. "Don't--don't touch me," he said, eyes narrowed. He broke down in another fit of coughing, but brought up no blood. When he recovered enough to speak, he tried to straighten himself up against the wall. "Don't pretend it would have mattered if I'd said I killed him trying to save him. What did you think I meant when I said I had no choice? You would have killed me either way." "That is not true!" Ninorra said incredulously. "I might have been vengeful about you admitting to murder him, but I would not have wanted to kill you if you actually told me the truth!" Damian ran a hand through his hair. "I'm fine though.." "Gods I am so upset with you right now!" She fumed, grabbing her staff again before banishing her semi charred demon. "And you know another thing, you did not even have much of a soul left! Did you even know that?? Not that it makes much of a difference, but you must understand that if you were to die, Qabian, there would be nothing left!" Qabian raised an eyebrow at her. He glanced down at himself. "I did not know that, but," he tapped his chest twice, remembering, "it went through a lot. I'm not surprised it didn't hold." He shrugged, then winced. He gingerly poked at the smoldering edges of his charred shoulder with its skeletal arm and found them tender enough to suggest he'd succeeded in keeping himself alive. "But I certainly knew there would be nothing left, and there are other reasons for that. What does that matter? Isn't that what you wanted?" Ninorra sputtered, tears still staining her face and most of her makeup gone. Behind it, she seemed overwhelmingly vulnerable, and perhaps younger than she otherwise appeared. Opening her mouth to answer, Damian interrupted her by grabbing her hand. "He'll be okay though, won't he?" Pressing her lips together, she tried to smile at Damian's concern and nodded once. "..there are.. certainly things that can be done. If he so chooses," she added, looking back at the damage she caused. Her eyes were soft and mournful, perhaps more for their loss of friendliness than his bodyparts. "But he has to want to. And right now, we should all probably go home and recover from this terrible ordeal." Qabian burned away the tenacious connective tissue keeping the bones of his otherwise missing arm attached. "I'll be fine," he said. "I'll--" He frowned, looking down at said lack of arm, suddenly realizing how temporarily difficult his life was going to be given he did almost all of his spellwork via gesture. He struggled awkwardly to his feet, holding himself up against the wall with his good arm as a wave of pain and dizziness washed over him. He held up his hand defensively when he could and reiterated, "Don't touch me." He took a deep breath. "Maybe consider I never believed you'd finish it. And given that you didn't, it turns out I was correct. For a reason I didn't expect, perhaps, but I'm still here nevertheless, hm?" Ninorra rolled her eyes as she took Damian's hand. "Right. Well. Safe travels home, then," she said as she used her scythe to lead both her and her son out if the sewer. "If you actually do want help with your little problem, you know how to reach me. Believe it or not, in that area at least, we have a lot in common." Damian spared a parting glance at the magister, fully aware he might never be allowed near him again. He couldn't argue with that logic, given the events that transpired, but he gave the mage a shrug of helplessness. More toward Qabian's situation, it seemed, than his own. Qabian nodded at the parting glance. He half-smiled. "Good work," he directed at the boy, probably too quietly to be heard as the pair left. Qabian waited, then followed up the ramp, limping and clutching his shoulder. Back in the bright light of the city, he called over the nearest Kirin Tor guardian. The hooded man started in surprise, then tried to usher Qabian toward First to Your Aid. They argued briefly, then Qabian straightened up and slapped the man, nearly knocking off his hood. "I said Suramar, you dimwit!" Qabian shouted. The guard stepped back, then reluctantly opened the Kirin Tor portal to Meredil. Qabian barely made it through the tunnel into Shal'Aran before the adrenaline wore off, shock kicked in, and he collapsed to the mercy of unconsciousness.
  12. Malkaris Sen'Thil Darkfire

    There is no way in this world or any other that we are related.
  13. Sins of a Patriot: Act 1: Rise of the Shattered Son

    The already dim lighting of the foreman’s office flickered with the rhythm of the hydraulic presses within the munitions factory below as the sounds of the machines at work would comfortably drown out any unwanted noise inside well before it could be detected by those whom resided in a proximity of the building. With each wax and wane of the lighting the shadows threatened to consume the triad of the office. Two were goblins tied to chairs facing parallel to each other; one a sobbing female, the other an older and unconscious male. Between his captives was the final occupant of the room, a looming monster of a man. It was nigh impossible to distinguished where his silhouette ended and the room began thanks to his dark attire and features. With each flicker the girl tried to get a better look of him as she pleaded for asylum from what malice this imposing figure had planned for them. Though he seemed, for better or for worse, to pay her no mind for what seemed like ages as he shuffled through paperwork from the cracked safe on the wall behind her father’s desk. No matter what she said, what she tried to bargain-- the man didn’t acknowledge her existence since her bondage to the chair. That was, until her father finally stirred from his repose. He groaned as he tried to get his bearings, his hands pulling at his binds before he froze. The realization of his predicament had taken hold. “Shit. Look, we don’t want any trouble… take whatever you want and just… please, don’t hurt us!” “Funny, she said somethin’ similar,” the stranger’s voice was rough, and though the accent was faded, the hint of the Bay lingered. The glove grasped for the revolver that lay beside him, his face turning towards the goblins. The beard made it hard to read his jawline in the dark. The lightless, mixed-matched eyes were a different story. “Problem with that though. You see, if I take your meager stash here… still don’t rightly un-pissoff my boss.” “Boss? Who--Fuck!” The elder of the captives began to thrash in his chair as unleashed an onslaught of curses at his own misfortune. Of all people for them to send… it was the man who was supposed to have died five years ago. “Yes, my boss, the one you sold counterfeit shards of Frostmourne to? And he’s rightly pissed off about it; so much so that I’ve been having to hunt your little start-up cartel to find a way to soothe his temper. And you’re going to help me find a way to do so.” The man picked up a revolver from the counter behind him, he moved in deliberate motions as to ensure his audience could see what he was doing. His right hand dragged a box of bullets where the bound duo could see. The branding indicated it was from this very factory. He unlatched the cylinder and began to load the chambers as he continued his little speech, each sentence accentuated with a new bullet. “He ain’t really a pleasant man when pissed off, this makes my job harder. And by making my job harder, you’ve pissed me off. So, today we’re going to be playing a little game from the good ol’ days.” “That’s what this is about?” The gentleman, if you could call him that, bound to the chair gave a forced laugh. “This… this is all a misunderstanding! We sent one of our boys to deliver the goods, and he ran off with ‘em! Oh that bastard...” “I think you misheard me, we received the product, what was delivered was not what was promised. So we’re going to see if all the products you produce are of poorer quality than what you advertise, or if we’re a special case. Tell me, have you heard of the game Ratchet Roulette?” Neither goblin immediately answered the man’s question, electing to exchange looks for a couple moments instead as the tried to devise a way out of this mess through silent expressions. Then the dangerous man from the Bay got impatient, setting the last two bullets in his gun and clicking the cylinder in place and pointing it at the girl. So the elderly of the two spoke up, “Yeah! I do! But Van… please, let the girl go. She ain’t got nothin’ to do with this…” “Better come up with somethin’ to please the boss then. And quick, you’re already late on your shipment to the Horde as is.” He pulled back the hammer, taking careful aim on the youngest of his two captives. The elder behind him was stammering as he tried to come up with something. “Then we’ll start with the line of questioning. Refusal to answer, I fire. A lie, I fire. Where did the shards come from?” There was no clear answer, just more stammering. He was given thirty seconds to respond before the trigger was pulled. He had aimed for her shoulder, but the bullet struck the gobliness in the neck. Behind him the man meekly cried at the horror of both the gunshot and the sight of his daughter quickly bleeding out as the projectile had struck an artery, causing a flood of her red life fluids to pour like a fountain. “...Shoddy ammo.” The rogue noted before giving a wicked laugh as he turned to point the gun at one of the man’s kneecaps. “Turns out we weren’t a special case after-all! Well, I suppose you should count yourself lucky I found you before the new Warchief… I hear she is known to be quite cruel to those who cross her. Now, I’ll ask again… where did you find the shards you sold us?” “Why did you kill her!? She wasn’t part of this! Why?!” The elderly goblin shrieked in grief. Another non-answer to the question asked. With a sigh, the man spun the cylinder and then shot another bullet. The rogue waited until the scream of agony died down before he spoke again. “Shh. Easy now. From one grieving father to another, I don’t like doing this… I know your pain. But if you don’t tell me what I need to know, he’s going to send me after the rest of your family. I’ll have to line them up as I did you and her, and play this game with them until either I get what I need to ease his anger… or he’ll take solace in knowing all of those stupid sons of bitches that tried to scam him are dead, and that the message was well received by anyone else with the bright idea to cross us. So, I’ll ask again.” He used his thumb to roll the chamber once more to prove his point. “The shards you sold us, where did you find them?” “...Icecrown.” “Where in Icecrown? The Citadel or the area surrounding it?” The goblin remained silent on the matter, leaving his interrogator to give a sigh as he made the motion to spin the chambers once more. He pulled the hammer back before asking the question again. “Where in Icecrown did you find it?” No answer. Van pulled the trigger once more, another bullet was fired into the goblin, his last healthy kneecap. He spoke over the screams of the goblin. “And now you’re probably never going to walk again, you stupid mother fucker. All because you think putting on a brave face is going to save you. It’s not. You have a three and eight chance next time of losing an arm, and then you’ll be running out of appendages. So please, do yourself a favor and tell me what I want to know… see your kids again. What fucking part of Icecrown did you find the shards you sold us?” “At the gates! We found them laying next to a powerful death knight after the battle! We thought we could use it to make some money, get out from Gallywix’s thumb. Please, you have to understand, he tried to use us as slaves!” “Who was in on this? I need names.” The goblin opened his mouth to protest, the man twirled the revolver’s chambers to silence him before putting it to the elbow left elbow of the goblin. “Tell me who your associates were, sell them out to save your own life and limb. They did it to you.” “...Kankle Bentdust, Jord Brightbreak,” the elderly goblin looked away from his interrogator in shame as he started to list names, “Gezmi Fusehammer, Benk and Klek Slicksmile…” “Dead, dead, dead and dead. Who else?” He pulled back the hammer. “Nanak Dullbulb… Memi Niftfingers…” “Also dead. Go on.” “Neshma…” “Last name?” “...I can’t. They trusted me, they were business partners.” “Have it your way.” He pulled the trigger, the goblin flinched with a whimper. But nothing happened. Just an audible click. “You lucked out… this time. Do you think you’ll be as lucky if I pull the trigger again? Eh?” Whatever the response from his captive, it was lost in the sudden burst of encoded beeps within the interrogator's right ear: - .... . / ... ..- -. / .-. .. ... . ... --..-- / - .... . / ... .- .. .-.. --- .-. ... / ... . . -.- / - .... . / .- .-.. -... .- - .-. --- ... … He gave a growling, “Shut up. I’ll be back with you in just a moment,” before heading back to his original position that overlooked the factory. He took out some sort of mechanical device and tapped in a response in some unknown code. - .... . / .- .-.. -... .- - .-. --- ... ... / ... .. -. --. ... / - .... . / ... .- .. .-.. --- .-. .----. ... / ... .... .- -. - -.-- Almost instantly a replay came. .-. . - ..- .-. -. / - --- / .--. --- .-. - --..-- / .- / ... - --- .-. -- / .. ... / --- -. / - .... . / .... --- .-. .. --.. --- -. .-.-.- / .- -. --- - .... . .-. / ... .... .. .--. / -.-. .-.. .- .. -- ... / - .... .. ... / -... --- ..- -. - -.-- .-.-.- For a few minutes the rogue stood before the device, staring at it intently as he tried to decide his next course of action. Behind him, his captive groaned from the pain his wounds inflicted. Van tapped the grip of his revolver for another moment before holstering the weapon and collecting the things on the surface he had been using as his operations table for this mission, the documents included. He sent one more message before departing the office, to make his passage out of the factory and towards his extraction point. - .... . / .- .-.. -... .- - .-. --- ... ... / - .- -.- . ... / .. - ... / ..-. .-.. .. --. .... - .-.-.- “About time you left, I thought you were going to hog all the fun.” A baritone voice spoke to the left of Van as he stepped out of the factory. The rancid stench of Bloodthistle was quick to follow. “Looks like you’ve had plenty of ‘fun’ already.” He nodded at the shorter elf, covered and caked in dried blood. He didn’t want to ask what that was about. “Family’s gone, I want a set.” The Baritone voice said causally, the blood cracking at the corners of his mouth as he grinned before he dropped the paper-wrapped herbs he was smoking onto the floor. He gave it a solid stomp before he started to head into the factory, only to be stopped for the moment by the man leaving. “Easy now. We own this property, Ky--” “Kyrous died with his sister. You’ll remember that, if you know what’s good for you.” He shoved his way past the rogue and into the darkness of the factory proper, leaving his compatriot alone outside. “...I tried.” The rogue finally found words to express himself as he looked up towards the polluted sky, pulling his eye-patch that had been lost in his dark hair back down onto his human eye. He pulled out his pack of Sultry Maiden cigarettes, lit one and headed once more towards his extraction point. He had a long flight ahead of him, might as well get started.
  14. Malkaris Sen'Thil Darkfire

    ((Updating Malk's bio)) Full Name: Malkaris Sen'Thil Darkfire Nicknames: Malk, Ancient, Necromancer, Facilitator of Festivities, "That guy that slept with my wife!", mostly just Malk as far as he knows. Date of Birth: ~14,000 years before the First War. Age: ~14,000 (based on this timeline: Race: Nightborne, formally Highborne. Gender: Male Hair:Jet Black Eyes: Bright blueish purple Height: 7'6" Weight: Average weight for a nightborne male Physical Features: Tattoos line his entire body, with various purposes. Shadow flits about him in small wisps that look a lot like black water or oil, but not like you'd see on a shadow priest. This can be attributed to how ingrained his mastery of necromacy has become. Elongated canines, possibly a hold over from the remnant troll influence, or just from his magic. Despite his occupation, he still maintains a fighter's build focusing on speed rather than brute force. Place of Residence: Suramar, Formally Silvermoon and Undercity. Place of Birth: A region outside of Elun'dris (which later became known as Zin-Azshari). Known Relatives: Father - Mordrannus Sen'Thil Darkfire Mother - Anadarys Sen'Thil Darkfire Brother - Tyranthael Sen'Thil Darkfire Sister - Saeryss Sen'Thil Darkfire Religion/Philosophy: Passion and desire are of the utmost importance. Without them, life is meaningless. What may be whimsical to some only belies the forces surging within driving you to these pursuits. In a time of magic and power that be gained simply by chasing it, Malkaris would be a god. So what if people die in the process? As long as he's having fun, what may be impossible to some, is horrifyingly possible for an immortal and he's more than happy to enjoy the ride. Occupation: Necromancer, Fel Researcher, Party setter upper. Group/Guild affiliation: The Grim Guild Rank: Harbinger Enemies: His family with possible exceptions, as far as dedicated enemies are concerned. Everyone else, depends on the time of day. Big picture-wise, anyone who would attempt to bring down the Kaldorei Empire before he's had a chance to "save them". Those who would try to take advantage of his people again. Boredom. Weapons of Choice: Necromancy, Fel Arts, trained in the art of combat with two weapons, and Scythe like implements, psychological manipulation, deceit and corruption. Likes: Lust, having a good time, good food, killing on a whim, picking on Qabian and Syreena, not having responsibilities, people not knowing who he really is beyond what he lets them see. Dislikes: People peeking behind the curtain without his permission. Uptight individuals who take themselves too seriously. To some degree, most of the younger races, which to him, is basically all of them. Mushrooms. Favorite Foods: Liquor, steak, whatever passes for a burrito or taco. Favorite Drinks: Liquor Favorite Colors: Black, blue, dark purple, crimson. Hobbies: Maintaining the illusion that he's a vapid party monger. Otherwise, furthering his pursuit of power in the fel and in necromancy beyond any limitations that might be imposed on him. Does actually like drinking and teasing people he's grown somewhat fond of though. Special Abilities: Can tie a cherry stem with his tongue. Can possess various bodies due to his research into the nature of the soul and necromancy. Allegedly he can command the dead, but this has never been displayed as he always found the other aspects of necromancy more fascinating than having tea with mindless dead things. Due to his age, he can carry himself with a sort of noble, if incredibly dark, majesty that is not wholly magical in nature. It's the weight of his years and experience and how he carries himself. He's also really good at making people think he's just a frat boy. Animal Magnetism. Positive Personality Traits: Passionate, Loyal, ambitious, amicable. Negative Personality Traits: High functioning Sociopath, lack of empathy for those he's not around on a regular basis. Arrogant, distrustful, Apathetic to everything but his own whims. Misc. Quirks: Doesn't actually care about any causes beyond his own. The fact that he's killing people for fun at this point doesn't bother him in the slightest. He's in The Grim because he likes some of the people in it and would rather protect them from the shadows than see someone's face on a stick later in front of some fortress. Then he'd have to burn the fortress down and hunt down the families and friends of the inhabitants. He'd do it, but he'd rather be lounging on a beach sipping mimosas. Due to his extreme age, it's hard to relate in many ways as most tend to die in a blink of his eye anyway without him doing much of anything, so he rarely tries. Played by What Famous Person: Oded Fehr? From when he was in the Mummy with long hair. Might change, but he came to mind first. Theme Songs: Quiet Mind - Velvet Mind The Shadows - Amy Stroup Hail the Apocalypse - Avatar (All Flesh Is Equal When Burnt) Man to God King (especially when he's being all...ancient evil-y)- Junkie XL Basic History: Malkaris was born to a family that secretly practiced many dark arts on top of the arcane arts his people were known for, roughly some 500 years after the ascension of the night elves began from the troll tribe that begot them. His family's "dark arts" were a hold over from the voodoo practiced by the Trolls that gained sophistication and evolved into something closely resembling the necromancy practiced to day, if only more ancient and influenced by the growth of elven magical knowledge. He began his studies in the arts of martial combat before his affinity for magic was discovered (he was hiding it, knowing the type of masters his parents would be). Long story short, he got really good at what he did, partied in Azshara's courts, took part in the war of the ancients, family got found out, moved to a small estate outside of Suramar where Malkaris killed his family after a rather ugly dispute (they were all monsters for the most part). Malkaris was judged guilty in the crime after they found him in the garden amidst the bones of their victims, staring blankly at a crystalline rose. He was sentenced to death and interred with his family in their crypt. Malk's soul managed to get out years later during Arthas' shenanigans and possessed the corpse of a human. The rest is pretty much history. Initial History with the Grim: Initially, Malkaris was thought to be insane, as he was a Forsaken Warlock claiming to be a night elf. His eccentricities were allowed though due to his proficiency in murdering the enemies of The Grim. Over time, some began to suspect he wasn't entirely crazy, or lying about his origins, but left suddenly in the dead of night. Upon his return, it came to light he had been masquerading as a human working with the alliance within the First Legion, spying on to relay his findings back to the The Grim. Something they knew nothing about. Malkaris left a second time, this time disappearing entirely, only to return once again, but he has not said a single word as to what he was doing. His habitation of a blood elf, and finally his old reconstituted body might be an indication of what he was working on however. Recent History with the Grim: Currently he's resumed his actual body and is aiding in the fight against the mad Titan, Sargeras in his personal pursuit of vengeance for the fall of his people's Empire.
  15. Spelling Trouble

    The past months had been ordinary. Qabian’s interested in politics had waned for various reasons, both positive and negative, but through it all, he taught his students their lessons. It felt strange simply accepting the role of instructor. He had resisted it for years since the Academy had let him go, but something about the act of teaching seemed to calm him. Perhaps that was only because the students he had were actively interested and behaved as such. If they were otherwise, they would not have lasted. Meeting with Damian at the Violet Citadel, Qabian greeted the boy by simply saying, “Today, we’re going back into the Underbelly.” Damian had grown more comfortable during his time in Dalaran. He still wore the same uniform that befitted a student of the Kirin Tor, but his white curls had been growing longer these days, and he was starting to sport a short ponytail at the base of his neck. His attitude too, had shifted. Rather than contest decisions made for him, he started listening more. Observing. Also gone was the little bag he once carried, changed instead for a bag sewn into his belt where he still kept a small notebook, a quill, and a strange gem gifted to him by his mother. "Yes sir," he said obediently. Qabian smirked at the lack of resistance or inquiry. "Good." He led the way through the city in serious, thoughtful silence without waiting to see if the boy was following. He exchanged nods with the Kirin Tor sentries stationed at the bottom of the ramp before moving to one side to open the particular keyed portal that led to the same useful little room he had used before. Damian kept most of his questions to himself these days. Having found that most of them went answered, eventually, he opted to wait for that to happen naturally. His curiosity regarding Qabian's consistent desire to get him out of the city had been met with an answer, albeit a rather vague one. Taking him into the Underbelly might have been another attempt, or perhaps a test. He was happy to find out. Qabian paused in front of the portal. "Heads up," he directed at the boy. At a gesture, a translucent shield of flames surrounded Qabian in the moment before he stepped through, again without waiting. Damian blinked a few times, frowning. He hadn't been instructed to shield himself, and he was skeptical about why he might have to. Following Qabian's example, however, he muttered something under his breath and surrounded himself with a shield before stepping through the portal as well. The room appeared empty, but the wood slats that made up the floor wobbled seemingly randomly on the surface of the water. Qabian stood a few steps in, the shield around him shimmering with heat effects. He held his hands out at his sides, readied. "Show yourself," he said calmly to the empty room. This was new. Damian wasn't sure what to expect, but for Qabian to speak with someone else he must have had something interesting planned. The mage rarely spoke to anyone, outside of his students or his mother, and with them it was usually with distain. Suddenly, a burly worgen stepped out of the shifting dim light of the room beside Damian, the barrel of a massive rifle inches away from the boy's head. "This is your idea of a challenge, elf?" the wolf man growled, grinning toothily at Qabian. "A little boy?" Qabian mirrored the grin with a simple "Yes," as he stepped to the side, watching Damian's reaction. Damian didn't move as he felt the air shift around him, though the sound of Common was foreign in his ears. He'd been learning it from the Kirin Tor, and picking up enough to understand the basics. "Little boy" in particular was somewhat irritating. "What are you doing?" He asked Qabian. "My friend here--" the term was dripping with venom, but the expression on Qabian's face was one of excitement "--wanted a fight and I promised to give him one. Seemed like a good opportunity for a test, hm?" Qabian explained to Damian. The worgen turned his gun on Qabian. "Enough talk," the worgen grunted. "Catch." He tossed something at Damian, something round and metal and making ticking noises, and in the next instant there was a deafening bang as the rifle fired. The fiery shield around Qabian flickered out, but he seemed otherwise unharmed as his hands filled with fire. Damian, while inexperienced with guns, was more than experienced with the idea of being distracted in a fight. His father had taught him that much, at least, in their sparring sessions. He let the ticking ball fly past his hands and blinked as it soared through the space he once inhabited, choosing instead to appear a few feet behind the worgen and send a ball of flame sailing into the base of his spine. The ticking metal ball rolled across the wooden slats and fell into the water. There was a whumph sound and the floor shifted as the little bomb exploded beneath it, causing waves, but the wood that made up the floor of the room was eerily sturdy and was back in place and steady very quickly. The worgen wrongly assumed his little explosive would take care of the distraction that was Damian, and focused all his attention on Qabian, firing again. The huge gun was not a particularly quick shot. Qabian's shoulder jerked backward at the sound, but otherwise, the mage didn't seem to react. He brought the fire in his hands forward, throwing a fireball that seemed to split into four as three copies of him suddenly appeared behind him. The worgen yelped as Damian's fireball caught him in the backside. With fire coming at him from all sides now, the worgen tucked and rolled, dodging what he could, but his fur smoldered nonetheless. "Ha! Of course you'd teach your babies pyromania, wouldn't you?" he taunted in Common. He brought up his rifle but wavered in choosing a target out of one of the several now available to him. "I am not a baby," Damian countered, frowning irritably at the worgen. He did not have much experience with the hairy dog people, but this one he decided he did not like. Another fireball leaped from his small hands, flying toward the creature's body. It was not the most that he could muster, but it was enough to at least distract him as he gathered more mana. The wolf laughed a laugh that sounded like gruff barking. He shot one of the Qabians, then another, each of which shattered into glittering fragments of light. A third, the real one, drew in shadows around itself and vanished from view. "Guess he's ditched you, pup," the worgen said, firing off another shot toward Damian but the fireball caused it to go wild, a spray of stone fragments spitting out from the wall. The worgen staggered backward a couple steps, shaking off the effects of Damian's spell. "Spicy," he said with a laugh. Damian frowned again, his little eyebrows scrunched between his forehead. "I'm not a pup," he said flatly, corrected the worgen before muttering something under his breath. The boy's voice was vaguely melodic, not unlike his mother. In the time the worgen took to make Qabian's clones disappear, he managed to gather enough mana for a fireblast from both hands. The blast made the worgen stagger back again, this time with a howl as he patted out a fire tenaciously burning through his shoulder, and in doing so took a hand off his gun. A massive pyroblast from behind the worgen knocked him bodily to the floor mid-howl, the rifle clattering across the wooden floor as Qabian shimmered back into view. "Not today, elf," the wolf growled. There was a clanking sound and a glowing green image of a turtle shell appeared over the wolf as he struggled to his knees. He took something from his back that he began swiftly constructing into what looked something like a mechanical turret in front of him. Qabian's eyes went wide. "What are you doing, you fool!" He blinked across the room toward Damian. "How well can you make an ice block?" Qabian hissed as he took the last few steps toward the boy. Damian didn't answer the question with words. There was no time to talk, so he answered by holding both hands in front of himself to conjure what looked like a thick shield that grew between himself and the worgen. The boy's face scrunched in concentration, as this clearly was not what he specialized in. Still, he tried. Qabian eyed the boy a moment, then stepped in between Damian and the worgen and encased himself in ice. Between his own block and the boy's shield, it would have to be enough. As the worgen finished his contraption and stood up straight, a massive explosion triggered at the center of the small room with a blinding white light and shrapnel flying everywhere, embedding itself in the walls, the ceiling, and Qabian's ice block. The floor rocked violently on its liquid foundation. Their eyes readjusted after the flash to see the worgen standing in the center of the room beside the smoking metal carcass of his explosive device, laughing as the turtle shell image around him faded, leaving him entirely unscathed. The worgen didn't seem to notice that the two elves behind their magical barriers were also unharmed. The ceiling, however, was not as lucky. As the worgen laughed his belief in his final victory, there was a loud crack and large part of the stone ceiling of the small room tilted inward. Qabian glanced toward the boy, but unable to speak within the ice, simply willed Damian to hold his shield steady. The center of the ceiling fractured then collapsed downward, directly onto the worgen's laughing face, filling the room with a massive cloud of dust from above. As the stonework smashed into the wooden floor, the slats rocked again, but somehow did not break, somehow holding up the massive weight of stone just as they had held against the earlier underwater blast. The ice around Qabian melted downward and he waved his hand in front of his face, coughing through the cloud of dust as it settled. Damian was more or less distracted by the worgen's antics, his annoying laughter, and the explosion. It wasn't until the ceiling was actually coming down on him that he turned his hands upward, moving the ice shield to cover himself. A brief moment of terror crossed his mind as he wondered about his shield, whether or not it would hold, and in that moment his red eyes glowed like two lamps as the shield covered him completely. It kept him covered until the dust settled, and in spite of his best efforts, the boy's breathing had become labored with leftover panic. As the dust finally cleared, Qabian looked over at the boy. Qabian acknowledged Damian's fear with nothing more than a nod, as the boy appeared to be otherwise unharmed, or at least still standing and not bleeding profusely. Qabian moved over to the rubble in the center of the room, kicking away pieces of stone and attempting to stand on large fragments that wobbled under his feet. It was a decidedly ungraceful procedure. A dark furred arm stuck out of the rubble at a violent angle, confirming that the worgen had not managed some sort of miraculous escape. "Hm," Qabian mused aloud. "That was not at all what I was expecting." He shielded his eyes from the dust that continued to slowly dribble from above as he looked up at the ceiling. "If I had considered this possibility, I would have--" He froze as he saw a violet glowing shield of some sort covering the hole in the ceiling. "Oh, no..." He glanced around the room. The portal they had entered from had closed during the shuffle of the fight. It was a simple enough procedure to open it again, but he hesitated. Damian swallowed in an attempt to calm himself, but the boy's hands were trembling. This may have been the most dangerous thing that he remembered happening, and his shield was the only thing that had saved him. It was a lesson in self preservation, a world where there was no one to save him but himself. Slowly, the ice melted and he finally regarded Qabian again. "Should we make a portal?" He asked, his voice slightly more subdued than usual. Rather than answer the question, Qabian asked another. "Do you know what's up there?" He pointed to the magic covering the hole above them. Damian's eyes followed Qabian's finger, but he the violet shield confused him. "Dalaran?" "Correct, but more importantly, we are under the Violet Hold. And that..." Qabian tilted his head as he stared upward. The magic flickered. Qabian flinched so hard he staggered backward from his precarious perch on a piece of rubble. "That is something being held below the front facing prison. If we--" The magic shield above suddenly vanished with a twang like a snapping guitar string, and Qabian scrambled backward off the rubble pile, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like "Shit shit shit shit shit." Damian, reached into his pocket and grabbed something. "Should we be getting out of here?" There's a sound of a decidedly female moan from above. "Yes, but--" Qabian begins to open a portal, then stops mid-cast, the half-formed portal fading. "Most of what they hold in that prison is highly arcane sensitive. If whatever that is can latch onto our magic and follow us, we risk not just ourselves but the entire city above or wherever we choose to go." His voice holds more confusion than fear, though there are elements of both, and his brow is tightly pinched as he tries to calculate the many risks in a highly volatile situation. He usually does a much better job of managing outcomes before problems arise. "It may... Can we deal with this here? They must have alarms. They must be..." He's clearly thinking out loud. "I believe the safest option is to hold, but be ready. Your test just got more interesting." Qabian can't resist a brief smirk, but it's quickly replaced by a determined upward glare. "Why did you think that testing me below a prison would be a good idea?" Damian asked, reaching instead for a mana potion to shove into one of his closer pockets. If one of their prisoners could follow him out, than his mother's 'get out of trouble' gift couldn't be used. The idea that he might not have a way out of something actually dangerous pricked at his skin, and a wave of goosebumps travelled from his legs to his arms. Qabian shook his head. "I didn't expect our dead friend to collapse a structure that should not be collapsible. And to be honest, I did not know. This city is..." He looked at the boy as if suddenly realizing he was there. A variety of emotions crossed Qabian's face, and he settled on, "It was a mistake," before turning his attention back to the ceiling. "If we can deal with this here, we deal with it here," Qabian continued, "and the Kirin Tor can consider how it happened and how to fix it. If we can't, if it takes a turn for the worse, you teleport out. Above is best. This is Dalaran's problem. No sense taking it anywhere else. Understood?" Qabian held his hands at his sides, each palm filled with fire, as a pair of red hooved legs slowly floated down through the hole in the ceiling, dark greenish black fabric swirling around them. "Ah, my daring rescuers. Wonderful to see you," the descending Eredar intoned in what sounded like thickly accented Orcish. Floating over her hands held out before her was a curiously canine skull. Damian was about to say his usual "yes sir" when another voice suddenly joined them. What followed was more than shocking to the somewhat sheltered boy. Having lived in Dalaran these past few months, Damian had seen his share of draenei, but eredar were something different and this one even more so than he expected. As an elf, he could feel the power surging from her, like a warm stove that radiated heat throughout the house. The power in her nearly filled their surroundings and his red eyes flashed with understanding of their plight. Qabian's voice echoed in his mind, If it takes a turn for the worse, you teleport out. There was no mention of what he himself would do, and that part was curious in itself. The eredar landed on the top of the pile of rubble with considerably more grace than Qabian had shown scrambling over it. As the magic that allowed her to float diminished, her ludicrously extravagant greenish black robes draped around her. Her horns and black hair glimmered with delicate strings of silver like a spider web. Her brilliant yellow eyes stared vaguely upward. She held the carnivorous looking skull out toward Qabian. "An elf mage? How delicious. And yet it wasn't magic that saved me. I would know. Curious." She turned, holding the skull toward Damian. "And a child of the same? Tell me, boy." She leaned forward, almost kneeling. "Do you like dogs?" He could feel the stone in his pocket, suddenly very heavy, like a reminder that he could vanish at any moment. He could have reached for it, escaped, and left the magister and this insane experience behind. It would have been easy, but his hand was frozen. The eredar's eyes bore into his own, as if she hypnotized him with her gaze. It wasn't often that he found himself panicking, but for some reason, he spoke. "No." “Ohh, that’s a shame,” she said, her face distorting in a frown so extreme it looked like a theater mask. “Perhaps you simply haven't met the right ones yet. Let me--” There was a loud bang as Qabian brought his hands together, flames rippling across the floor and over the pile of rubble from where he stood, singeing the edges of her skirts. “Hey!” he shouted. When the eredar turned her attention to him, he snarled, “Try someone your own size, hm?” The eredar towered over Qabian's perfectly reasonable elf height, but apparently he couldn't resist the cliché. “Of course, sweet mage. You do have more to offer my pets, after all,” she crooned. A pair of huge black felhunters stepped out from behind the black fabric pillar of her dress as though they had been there all along and began weaving sinuous paths toward the mage, all their stalks directed towards him. A third pushed between the eredar’s legs, rubbing up against her ankles like a monstrous cat, which would have been incongruously amusing if it weren't so outright menacing. “It had to be fucking felhunters,” Qabian hissed under his breath. The eredar laughed a peal of bright laughter that took on a dark demonic echo as she lifted her hands and the skull floating over them above her head. Qabian took a step back, then another as the creatures approached, a genuine fear on his face that he rarely ever experienced let alone showed. As he hit the wall behind him and had nowhere left to go, he shouted wordlessly, almost a roar. Accompanying the shout, a detailed dragon's head crafted entirely of fire appeared above him and blasted the felhunters, dizzying them and halting their sinuous march. In the next moment, Qabian’s entire body burst into flame and he began blasting a quick succession of intense spells at the eredar. A flick of one wrist and a sizzling sound followed by a massive pyroblast flung from his other hand. A punching motion ending in a blast of flame with enough force to cause the eredar to take a step back immediately followed by another pyroblast that sent waves of heat throughout the room. Over and over, spell after spell, without pause or loss of power. Though the magic seemed to impact her physically, in that she had to push against it, her arms crossed before her shielding her face, the ominous skull spinning slowly as it floated above her head, no matter how brutally huge and quickly the fire came, it had no effect. At the center of the barrage, her eerie laughter could be heard beneath the roaring flames, simultaneously high and low pitched. Between one pyroblast and the next, the felhunters regained their senses and suddenly, Qabian found himself without any magic at all. The flames that had surrounded him were entirely snuffed out, their power absorbed by the demons. He couldn't force so much as a candle flame from his fingertips. “No. No, no, no!” Qabian pressed his back against the wall, out of options, out of ideas, suffering all the crippling indecision that accompanies a personal nightmare come to life. But as the felhunters seemed about to set upon him, they turned instead toward Damian. Qabian's already panicked expression turned angry. “What? No! Leave him alone!” He had no fire to use but what limited access he had to the other schools was still available to him. He blinked across the short distance, putting himself between the felhunters and the boy. Qabian slammed a palm down on the wooden slats of the floor, a sheet of ice blasting out from his hand and freezing the felhunters in place. “Run!” Qabian snapped at Damian. “Cast a--” Any further warning was choked off as Qabian found himself struggling in the air, lifted off his feet, clawing at an invisible hand at his throat as the eredar stepped down off her dais of rubble toward them. The felhunters easily ate away the magic that held them in place and bore down on Damian’s fearstruck form. “N-no--” Qabian choked. The demons were too close. Even if the boy tried to teleport now, the creatures would silence him partway through the casting. There was nothing left that Qabian could do. He chose wrong. He made the wrong decisions. Just then, the lock on his fire dissipated. He mustered the last of his strength and clasped his hands in front of him as the world around him grew dark. A thundering meteor of fire crashed from the gap in the ceiling above down onto the three felhunters just as they reached the boy. Qabian heard a crack and a jolt of lightning shot through the back of his skull in the moment before everything ended. But it wasn't quite over for Damian. Even as the felhunters appeared, and began their cruel work of draining Qabian of his magic, the boy was making plans. He could teleport out, using the gift his mother gave him. He could run, and even if the woman followed him, he would have help above. That, however, would have left Qabian alone to meet his fate. Perhaps a month ago, this would not have mattered. Seeing him actually make the attempt to save him, however, proved something that even his mother would have a hard time believing. What could he do, though? At this point in his training, Damian could perhaps stand up to a foe a tenth her stregth. She was clearly locked up for a reason, and her felhunters would drain him dry before his first spell hit. So what was the solution? Time was running out. The demons were closing in on his teacher, someone he was always wary of, who may have in fact actually been his friend. And then the felhunters were on him. He could feel his mana drain instantly, a dry hunger consuming him of the likes he'd never experienced. The smell of their breath as they drew closer was like rancid sewage, and he knew that his flesh would soon meet their teeth. He muttered an apology to his mothe when the meteor materialized, and in the split second before it hit, the boy's body burst into flames that all but consumed him. And then he was gone. Qabian opened his eyes to a backlit human form crouching over him. The man got a face full of fire and fell backward before Qabian had his magic locked down again. The man wiped ash off his face with his Kirin Tor tabard. "Well, he's alive," the man shouted to someone off to the side. "Fucking Kirin Tor," Qabian groaned as he pushed himself to sitting with significant effort. He rubbed the back of his neck. It radiated heat outwardly and inwardly, an effect he recognized as the consequence of his magic stitching his body back together the way heat could from an otherwise fatal blow. His head was pounding and the rest of his body ached, probably from being slammed against the wall, at least that's what it felt like, but bruises he could deal with. Death was more difficult. He scanned the scene, seeing at first only dust lit by the eerie glow of Kirin Tor light globes, then the pile of rubble and the hole in the ceiling. Not much time could have passed if he still felt the heat at his neck, so it seemed the Kirin Tor were moments too late and the demon had been thoroughly convinced he was actually dead. He got to his feet, and one of the Kirin Tor examining the scene tried to help him. "I'm fine," he snapped at them. He walked the edge of the room until he found the circular pattern in the rubble. All that was left of the meteor's targets was the smoldering leg and tail of one of the three felhunters. He stared at the circle in the stone fragments and the dust for what felt like forever. Eventually, a hand touched his shoulder. "Fuck!" Qabian shouted, and slammed his fist into the wall beside him. "What happened?" the voice belonging to the hand asked. "What do you fucking think happened?" he snapped at them, shoving their arm away. "Your shoddy construction of this worthless pit of a city failed you. Again. It couldn't hold Kael'thas, and it couldn't hold whatever the fuck that was."(edited) "Did you see her get away?" the voice asked, calm and sensible. "Of course not. I wasn't conscious," Qabian said, his anger fading over the course of the sentence as he leaned against the wall. "Where are the exits here?" An interrogation proceeded for a few minutes while the Kirin Tor continued their attempts to clean up the mess. Qabian's answers were succinct but accurate, as he became more and more too tired to care. "Am I free to go?" he finally interjected. The Kirin Tor man nodded. Back in the halls of the Underbelly, Qabian held himself up with one hand against the wall for a long pause. When he finally moved, he took two steps, then dropped to his knees on the stonework slick with gutter filth, and held his face in his hands. To anyone passing by, he may have seemed to be weeping. He wasn't, but he was more frustrated, distraught, and uncomfortably emotional than he had been since he woke more than a year ago. When he finally stood up, he staggered, filthy and limping, he didn't even care in which direction.
  16. Ivelysse

    Full Name: Ivelysse Anthelme, pronounced ee-vuh-LISS, avoids using her surname when possible Titles or Nicknames: Eva to her friends. Lady Ivy to most around Suramar. Age: Less than a thousand years, but they all run together in Suramar. Race: Nightborne Gender: Female Hair: Black Eyes: White Height: Short for a Nightborne Weight: Soft Notable Physical Features: Typical shal'dorei female. Place of Residence: Suramar Place of Birth: Suramar Known Relatives: Damois Anthelme (husband), Reinna Anthelme (daughter). Religion/Philosophy: She places her faith mostly in herself, but sometimes also in the stars Occupation: Owns and manages a Teahouse in Suramar, training to aid the Horde as a Priest Guild Rank: Minion Known Associates: Qabian Grimfire Known Nemesis: None Special Skills: Good with money, skilled with management and scheduling, a decent sense of etiquette which she ignores at will. Positive Personality Traits: Polite, intelligent, adaptable. Negative Personality Traits: Arrogant, selfish, shallow. History: Ivelysse has been recognized within certain less than savory circles in Suramar for centuries as the proprietor and manager of Lady Ivy's Teahouse, a fairly low class, relatively recent (only a few centuries old) establishment in a darker corner of Evermoon known for extreme discretion. People who've tried to spread rumors about what happens there have a tendency to turn up dead. Ivelysse herself claims no knowledge of such events. Her husband is a skilled politician known for his moderate stances on almost everything and as a decently effective ambassador between the lower and higher classes. He's thus relatively well respected within the city, though of course that fluctuates as always with politics. His marriage to Ivelysse as an ordinary businesswoman has always been a point of contention and a point of pride among his detractors and supporters respectively. Ivelysse was introduced to Qabian Grimfire through mutual acquaintances not long after the Alliance and Horde first started making their forays into the city. While they both acknowledge their association with each other, that's generally as far as they'll go willingly. They avoid ever being seen together in public and can both be expected to lie if pressed on the matter. With Thalyssra's pledge to the Horde, Ivelysse has taken up Qabian's offer to join the Grim, though she remains a minor player in the organization.
  17. Sins of a Patriot: Act 1: Rise of the Shattered Son

    Magister Raeventus, Director of the Shattered Son Project and commanding officer of SOL-ONE marched with furious strides down the halls from his office towards the now defunct Laboratory 31. The Adamantine used in the retrofitting of the compound had been bent and warped by the Subjects during their rapid escape. Impressive, he could not deny, but it only exacerbated his fury. As did the injured personnel whom were picking themselves off the ground from the skirmishes, not to mention that wretched stench of death that lingered in the halls. “Director--” The Knight stood at attention despite his broken arm. “Whatever your pitiful excuses, I don’t care, Everryn. Where is the Doctor?” The Knight knew not to argue, and was happy to pass off the fury of the Magister before him with a bow of his head and a side step to reveal a one armed Doctor Peacebloom unconscious in one of the chairs that their subjects had been strapped to during the experiment “Wake him.” “You heard the Director, Tallion, wake up the good doctor. Quickly now.” Knight-Inquisitor Everryn refused to take his eyes off the livid Magister, his voice threatened to crack as he spoke. This was quite unlike the man Tallion was used to seeing, a man usually stern in his overseeing of the experiments. But the assistant simply did as he was told. He pulled out a vial and extracted the contents with a syringe. A syringe that was hastily injected into the neck of the unconscious man in question. Within a minute the one-armed doctor stirred. His eyes fluttered over the scene, still not entirely lucid. “...Wha… what’s going on?” “So glad you could join us once more in the world of the living, Doctor. We have so much to discuss…” A sadistic smile formed upon the Director’s lips, his wrath still not faded upon his features. “For example, if you would be so kind, could you enlighten me as to how you not only lost Seventeen-Hundred-Seventy-Seven-- But also allowed the Shattered Son to escape?” “Director Raeventus! I--” “In spite of this, surely you have accomplished your task? You can replicate the Shattered Son process on the living now?” “Seventeen-Hundred-Seventy-Seven has exhibited signs of true life. With that--” “That was not your assignment, Doctor. You were to produce a method of using the Shattered Son’s blood to empower our best agents. Not only have you have used an exorbitant amount of our resources on a fool’s errand, you allowed our weapon against the Legion, and a massive security risk, to go free in the process. You have failed me, Sollal ‘Peacebloom’.” The Director was no longer smiling, his eyes shifted back towards the Knight-Inquisitor, “Everryn, you are to assume command over Phase Two of the Shattered Son Project. To make up for his abysmal failures, Sollal has graciously volunteered to serve as Subject Seventeen-Hundred-Seventy-Eight. Let us hope he proves more useful as a test subject than he did as a researcher.” “What? No! Director, please!” “As you command, Director Raeventus.” The Knight gave a deep bow in lieu of his usual salute. This seemed to satisfy his superior, whom gave a simple curt nod before leaving the laboratory. “Our Arcane Intelligence Specialists have been set to the task of using Vindicator to track him, but he has eluded us from using this technique before.” The Inquisitor Magistrix Dawn spoke as soon as she caught sight of the Director’s departure. “Competent as always, Inquisitor.” The scowl melted for a mere moment before he continued. “Relay a message to House to reassign the Albatross. We have bigger concerns than a few charlatans now. We’ll start with our little Magister friend.”
  18. Behind the Curtain

    Ninorra waited in the courtroom. A few people already started filing out; young Sin'dorei, a few older ones, one noticeably older elf with his daughter by his side seemed amused by the proceedings and indeed, the half-elf at the center of this debacle had been supremely entertaining. In what appeared to be an example of grace, the judge suggested that Mardalius Anterius, the half-elf exiled from Silvermoon for crimes of which he was not guilty of, actually regain citizenship by marrying a member of their society. Ninorra smirked to herself. Marriage had certainly changed her own circumstances, it was reasonable enough to imagine that they could change his. If he were interested, that is. "The Honorable Judge requested that I become a symbol for you all. She said that Silvermoon needed an outsider who was also one of you to break the mold of xenophobia that holds you like shackles and fetters. I have decided that I shall do so, but not by bowing before their mandates, for to do so would betray all that I am. I am an individual, a free man, and I will not let this court nor this government dictate how a lawful citizen may attain his rights, which were unlawfully stripped. I will do as she asks by showing you what we were, what I was raised to be. I stand tall and prideful, though I do not blindly do as I am bid by those who name themselves my betters, for that is the mark of a slave. If you, the people, yearn for change, I encourage you to demand it, by becoming the change you wish to see. Do not let them in their high spires determine your lives, for your lives do not belong to them. They belong to you, and those you choose to share them with. Not those you are instructed to share them with. Thank you." How sweet of him, the warlock thought to herself. That he would give up his chance to become a member of their community was a sweet sentiment. Surely he deserved the chance to be with his people, half-blood that he was. She waited, then, for the crowd to thin before making her move. Situated in the back of the courtroom, to the left of the judge and tucked in a corner, sat a Sin'dorei with a scroll and a quill. He was recording what happened in rapid scrapes, long blonde hair tied into a tight braid at the back of his neck so as not to obstruct his writing. She kept a close eye on him, and waited. Eventually, he stood and made his way toward another door opposite the judge's chambers. Ninorra took this as her opportunity and rose from her seat to follow him. There were no guards, no one to stop her from following the severe looking man to his cramped office, where scrolls lie in neat piles as he transcribed them. Decorative paintings hung on the too-small walls, tightly packed together, as if to hide the darkness of his windowless room. It would come to no surprise to most people that a court reporter would be given such meager trappings. He was surprised, however, when Ninorra walked inside of them. "Can I help you?" He asked with a raised eyebrow, thin and blonde and perhaps plucked too narrow. Ninorra grinned like a hungry cat and closed the door behind her. "Why yes, I believe you can. Lord Arryton Dawnbreeze, yes? My name is Lady Ninorra Bloodstone." The warlock introduced herself with a bow and a flourish of black robes, stylishly tailored after being pilfered from an eredar with enormous hips whose measurements were strangely similar to her own. Ninorra's appearance was more or less in fashion with what so many of her kin wore, with the exception that she somehow managed to convince her tailor to remove a few inches from the neckline and expose pillowy tanned breasts beneath a necklace of dark red gems. One of those gems seemed to glow in tandem with her eyes. "Lady Bloodstone," Lord Dawnbreeze said dryly, his eyes glancing from her robes to the ostentation of her chest. He didn't seem much impressed by the parade of flesh, but it certainly grabbed his attention for a split second. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" "Well I came for dear Mardalius' day in court," she explained, sitting down opposite of the man in a strangely plain chair. Obviously whoever furnished his office did not care to indulge the reporter's sense of style. "The poor dear, he really is a very kind boy. I have known him some time with Sanctuary." Dawnbreeze frowned. He was a reporter, not a judge. Any kind of information he had was trivial at best. "What about him?" "Well, I was wondering if you could give me a bit of insight," Ninorra explained, folding both hands over on knee as it crossed over her thigh. The warlock's hands were dainty, if not garishly decorated with gold rings and long fingernails painted gold and red. "You see, I was wondering why on Azeroth anyone would consider marriage a reasonable solution to his little problem. Especially considering the fact that it has, in my research, never been offered as a means of gaining citizenship before." Dawnbreeze sighed. "I can't give you the information you want, Lady Bloodstone. I'm a reporter. I'm not privvy to those sorts of--" "But you must heart things," she interrupted, leaning in forward. "I am certain that a man of your great perception must hear things. Am I right?" "Even if I did, you would not be entitled to them," he grunted, drumming a hand on his desk. Dawnbreeze's digits boasted a rather subdued manicure, but the care he took in his appearance was genuine. Ninorra smiled broadly and leaned forward a bit more. "Entitled? Surely not. I have never been the type to take advantage of entitlements." "Ha," the man said derisively, more of a statement than a laugh. "Please. I know all about your entitlements, 'lady' Bloodstone." "Then you know I'm the type of woman who gets what she wants by offering acts of kindness," Ninorra purred, smirking with ruby painted lips. "An act I can certainly pass your way." Dawnbreeze's jaw clenched. "I assure you, there is nothing you can give me that I am interested in." "Oh no?" Ninorra said with raised eyebrows, cocking her head to one side. "Well, that is not what I heard. In fact I heard that you might be very interested in something. Something that your wife is in desperate need of." A blonde eyebrow twitched, though he avoided her red gaze. "I don't know what you're talking about." "Oh don't you?" The warlock teased, reaching into her robes to retrieve a small drawstring bag, subtle in its size but boasting important cargo. "Because I could just take this home and she would never see it, or you could take it with you and be her hero. For a while." The deep sigh of consideration passed through Dawnbreeze's lips like a whistle, and while his face was red, he made no effort to argue. Finally, the elf sat back in his chair and waved a hand. "The boy is a mule. He will likely never breed. This whole idea to have him marry off someone in our society, the judge never intended for him to take it. It's an effort to keep the half-breed out, and even if he did manage to find someone who would take him, it isn't as if he could have children. His mixed blood will never be a part of our city.. but why did you come here to ask me this? You could have figured it out for yourself. This isn't official, it's off the record and has no bearing on his status." Ninorra sighed herself and placed the bag on his desk. "I suppose I was hoping for something a bit less simple. I can understand wanting to be a part of something you are barred from, as I am sure you know." "Please," Dawnbreeze muttered, grabbing the bag. "Everyone knows. Nobody cares. So you married above your station. Good. It's an archaic system, but you've done your part to keep your household. What would this boy do? He's half human, and his father is loyal to the Alliance. We didn't write off those mongrels just to bring in their half-breed children with open arms. Even if, someday, he were to find a woman capable of ignoring his disfigurements and marrying him, he would never be accepted. So what is the point of his citizenship? To see the city? To walk the streets like the freakish Horde delegation? They may be here but they are not our people. Nor would he be, even as a 'citizen'." Again, Ninorra smiled. This time, however, she chose to stand. "It is a shame that so many of our people can not overlook these little differences. I daresay we might even come to appreciate them, with time." "Appreciating the differences between us doesn't mean we need to lower ourselves to them," the man grumbled, running his fingers over the drawstring bag. "We may change what we call ourselves, but we will never change who we are. Even you, lowborn as you might be. You are one of us. Don't forget that." Ninorra smirked let a tendril of hair fall into her cleavage as she bowed before the court reporter. "My dear, how could I? May the eternal sun guide you, Lord Dawnbreeze." Dawnbreeze grunted a goodbye and waited for his door to close before opening the bag. Inside, he found that Ninorra had been true to her word. A limited edition Tiffany Cartier bracelet lie in his palm, something his wife had been obsessing over since she heard of its limited quantities. With another glance at the door, he considered just how much trouble Ninorra would have had to go through to retrieve it in exchange for such trivial information. Pocketing the jewelry, he also tucked away that tidbit of information.
  19. Raelana De Bergerac

    Phyruss can't help the bashful smile and the coloring of his cheeks as he hears Raelana's name. "She..." He stops himself, humming in thought. "She is beyond what a good person should be; selfless beyond sainthood, cheerful before the world's woes, stalwart in the face of evil, and the most diehard of romantics..." His smile grows fonder, "I count myself lucky every day I am allowed to wake next to her."
  20. Saoirsae Norrelo

    Full Name: Saoirsae Norrelo (seer-sha nor-el-o) Age: 24 Race: Blood Elf Gender: Female Hair: Auburn Skin: pretty pale, with greenish blue tattoos Eyes: Green Height: 5'3" Weight: 110 lbs Place of residence: None currently. Place of Birth: Norello Estate, Tirisfal Glades Known Relatives: her twin, Laoisae Norello aka Raelana De Bergerac Occupation: Hunter of demons, engineer Likes: Killing, stealing things from Rae, going to events in Rae's place (without her knowledge), killing things Favorite Foods: Rare steak Favorite Drinks: Any champagne Favorite Colors: Blood red, black Weapons of Choice: A flaming sword in one hand and a sword of ice in the other Dislikes: Liars, cowards Hobbies: reading, tinkering, fighting demons Special Abilities: Has a knack for arcane talents but hasn't had time to pursue it Positive Personality Traits: Extremely loyal, protective Negative Personality Traits: hot-headed, prideful, headstrong, fights first and asks questions later Played by What Famous Person: Isla Fisher Theme Songs: Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground by The White Stripes History: At the age of 18, Saoirsae and Laoisae had promised themselves to the demon hunters. They had trained their whole lives for this, their highborne turned blood elf parents homeschooling them so they could train for hours on end on how to fight and how to prepare to become demon hunters. Saoirsae, who is a few minutes older than Laoisae, signed herself over to the demon hunters first, excited to fulfill her destiny. She turned to Laoisae to watch her sign her paperwork to find the color draining from Laoisae's face. "Laoisae," she hissed. "What are you doing?" But she waffled to long and the demon hunters, miffed by her hesitation, knocked her out and dragged her away. Saoirsae begged them for a chance to talk some sense into her sister. The commanding officer grinned and whispered something to another soldier who ran off after them. The officer sneered, "You won't have to worry about her anymore." Grabbing Saoirsae by the arm, they dragged her off. Letting only two tears fall before wiping them away, she stands up tall to begin her new life as a demon hunter. Several years and many battles later, Saoirsae is a decorated war veteran and a high ranking officer with the Demon Hunters. As she passes through Eversong Woods on a scouting mission, she decides to visit Silvermoon City for the first time. She's fascinated by everything there, such finery and elegance; however , she keeps getting stopped by random citizens who, after they look at her face, excuse themselves, saying she looks just like someone else. She asks them who, but no one will give her a straight answer. She figures out her sister must be alive and begins a quest for her. It's during this that she meets Julilee who gives her a name: Raelana De Bergerac. She goes in search of her, only to discover she's away fighting, which makes her proud of her sister until she learns more about her. Disgusted by the fact that she serves the Blood Knights and gave up her entire life to worship, of all things, holy power, she decides to cause a bit of mischief and problems for her sister, stealing her mail and going to parties in her stead. One day, after stealing her most recent mail, she bumps right into her. She smiles wickedly at her sister, only to see that she's delirious and being chased by a man. She decides it's not the right time and slinks off into the shadows to see what other mischief she can get into.
  21. Raelana De Bergerac

    Full Name: Unknown. Goes by Raelana De Bergerac Nicknames: Rae Date of Birth: Unknown Age: Unknown, maybe 22? Race: Blood Elf Gender: Female Hair: Auburn Skin: pretty pale, but slightly tanned from working on the farm Eyes: Green Height: 5'3" Weight: 110 lbs Place of residence: None really. Has a small farm she goes to occasionally, has a room in Dalaran paid for by the blood knights. Place of Birth: Unknown Known Relatives: None Occupation: Blood Knight Ambassador and Master, tailor, enchanter Group/Guild affiliation: Sanctuary, Blood Knights Guild Rank: Guardian Likes: teaching various skills to her two squires, Elanor and Galaban; food; exploring Favorite Foods: A total foodie, she likes pretty much everything. But prefers surf and turf Favorite Drinks: Any champagne Favorite Colors: Red, black Weapons of Choice: Flaming swords. Doesn't matter which ones, as long as they do the job. Dislikes: Rude people, being abandoned, not knowing what's going on Hobbies: tailoring; reading; exploring the world with her horse, Cadmus; fighting demons Physical Features: Has several scars on her arms and torso from various fights Special Abilities: She has a knack for enchanting and has learned how to enchant various things, including her journal which can only be opened by her Positive Personality Traits: Extremely loyal, caring, protective Negative Personality Traits: Can be hot-headed, prideful, headstrong, tends to rush into battle if she thinks she's needed without fully assessing the situation first Played by What Famous Person: Isla Fisher Theme Songs: Fever by Peggy Lee; Where is my mind? by The Pixies; Cry me a River by Julie London History: Raelana was found on the side of the road in Eversong Woods, left for dead. Barely breathing, she was carried to the infirmary in Silvermoon City by some local traders. When she awoke, she had no memory of who she was, where she was from, or what her name was. The nurses found her to be an absolute joy and nicknamed her Ray because she was a ray of sunshine. When she finally was healed up enough to leave, she took the name Raelana and the last name of the author she read while she was healing. They guessed she was about 16 and so she was sent to the orphanage and went to school, but had trouble fitting in and found herself constantly angry at her situation. She started training as a rogue, hoping to sneak away and escape her life. A few months later, a blood knight came across her practicing punching a training dummy after getting kicked out of class again and told her he had a place that she would fit in. He told her stories of the blood knights and their heroics and so she abandoned her thoughts of becoming a rogue and left for the blood knights. They took her in and educated her in the art of war, combat, and diplomacy. She fought swiftly and mercilessly, fighting on the front line for several years, quickly gaining rank and accolades for her accomplishments. But, after several years she was exhausted of fighting. She wanted time to explore and see the world and learn about what other adventures were out there. When she finally made her way back to Silvermoon City, she approached the Matriarch to ask for permission to leave the ranks. Lady Liadrin, not wanting to lose such talent, made her an offer she couldn't refuse. They drafted out a secret contract of which there are few public details. What is known to the public is that the contract allows Rae to serve as an Ambassador to Lady Liadrin and the Blood Knights (with all the rights and diplomatic privileges which come with the position) and in return she would be free to explore when she wasn't needed.
  22. Tynnifer Manslaughter

    Full Name: Tynnifer Manslaughter Nicknames: You knaves will address him only as Tynnifer Manslaughter or Tynnifer, if he permits Introduction: Have you ever walked into the city and seen something so beautiful it almost made you cry? You may have laid eyes upon the illustrious Tynnifer Manslaughter. Date of Birth: 30 July Age: 47 Race: Bloodelf Gender: Male Hair: Straight red hair pulled into a manbun Skin: Pale with pink undertones Eyes: Green, but wears silver contact lenses because they're cute Height: 6ft/1.8m Weight: 120lb/54.4kg Place of Residence: Silvermoon City Known Relatives: tbd Birthplace: Silvermoon City Occupation: Warlock, Diva, Drag Queen Likes: Himself Dislikes: Everyone else, not being treated like royalty Favorite Food(s): Chocolate Favorite Drink(s): Red wine Positive Personality Traits: Creative, Flexible in more than one sense, confident Negative Personality Traits: Vain, selfish, stubborn, cocky Hobbies: Tynnifer appreciates the finer things in life: music, dance, the arts Physical Description: Tynnifer is a specimen of true beauty: pale, white skin with pink undertones highlighted by thick black eyeliner around his glowing silver eyes and a bold black lip. Red hair pulled tightly back into only the most fashionable bun to expose his gorgeous ears for all to see. While Tynnifer may have a couple external wrinkles on his skin, they do not take away from his aesthetic. Finally, Tynnifer likes to have a tasteful goatee shaped into a triangle underneath his lower lip. He is absolutely stunning. History: Tynnifer does not share his history with just anyone. Ask him, and if he feels generous, he will share with you. Theme Songs: LMFAO -- Sexy and I Know It Justin Timberlake -- Sexy Back Right Said Fred -- I'm Too Sexy Lady Gaga -- Applause
  23. Sachatamia Greybird (Tauren Druid)

  24. Full Name: Sachatamia Greybird Nicknames: AMI. Also: Socks, Ket, Cat, Tay, Tami, Mia. Date of Birth: Unknown Age: Variable* Race: Tauren Gender: Female Hair: Brown, dreadlocked Skin: Pale mottled fur Eyes: Mysterious Height: Short side of average Weight: Thinner side of average Place of residence: Has no home Place of Birth: Unknown Known Relatives: No one knows who she is, so they can't know if she has any relatives Religion/Philosophy: Wild. Occupation: No Group/Guild affiliation: (Not ICly yet. <Rutilus Luna>) Enemies: on the run from the Cenarion Circle Weapons of Choice: Anything handy. She also tends to hide and panic at real violence. +Weaknesses: Faints easily, so far snowballs are a sure thing. Likes: Alcohol. Lots of alcohol, usually fruity varieties. Singing. Favorite Foods: Mushrooms. Favorite Drinks: The kind that get you drunk Favorite Colors: All of them. White. Dislikes: Surprises. Loud noises. Hobbies: Traveling. Singing songs. Physical Features: This one's hide is pale and mottled. She wears a simple clothes. They are worn garments, patched and plain. She isn't much better looking than her clothes. Long braids have been left alone long enough to unravel and then rework themselves into matted dreadlocks. An initial impression of broken horns turns out to be false- they merely never grew. She's stubby. Overall she's not an especially savory character in appearance alone. People have trouble looking her in the eyes. If asked to describe Ami when she is not in their direct presence, they would have difficulties naming any defining features or correctly recalling how old she is. Some may not remember her at all. Special Abilities: * Personality: Volatile, mischievous, distracted. Frantic. Stressed. Zealously LOYAL. Misc. Quirks: Ami may be crazy. She is often talking to herself, or to others who are never seen. Will always pray before eating any meal containing meat. May come over and pray over your meal if you sit down to eat meat in front of her. She doesn't usually eat any meat. Ami tends to avoid populated areas unless drunk or about to be. Theme Songs: Spontaneous Me - Lindsey Sterling History: This person is a complete stranger to everybody and has no known history. Asking after her turns up absolutely nothing at all! (nsert close-up portrait shot of character here if they like) NOTES TO OTHER PLAYERS: *Ami can constantly hear the voices of spirits. They tell her things- sometimes important things, sometimes not. She almost always can address any given person by name before introductions have been made. She will learn random trivia knowledge, embarrassing stories, etc from someone's ancestors. ((I will use OOC knowledge of your character, if I have any, to effect this. Please also share anything you like! If you do not wish me to play this feature for some reason, please tell me!)) * Ami may appear to be any age from a child to an elderly woman. This age remains constant once established in a person's view. You may choose which age your character perceives Ami to be if you'd like to exploit this feature but otherwise it shall be random. /roll to determine how Sachatamia appears to your character. 01-25 CHILD 25-65 YOUNG ADULT Brynzi Nashna Qabian Tahzani 65-85 MATURE ADULT: Syreena 85-100 ELDER: Ranadarus
  25. Amietia Greydawn (Tauren Priest)

    "She is nice. Too nice for this world, I think. Sometimes"
  26. Jinchan Mistdance (Tauren Monk)

    "She is my friend! She is very nice and kind. Very helpful. Just... it is polite if you ask her first, if she needs help.
  27. Amietia Greydawn (Tauren Priest)

  28. Kerala Windchaser (Tauren Druid)

    Kerala has been missing since June 2016, however some people may have seen her a few months after that (during the Mists of Helheim adventure). This character is DECEASED, however this is NOT yet common knowledge. ((Updated))
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