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Everything posted by RiktheRed21

  1. RiktheRed21

    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), Mayha, Laika, and Rhoma (his 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.
  2. RiktheRed21

    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.
  3. RiktheRed21

    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.
  4. RiktheRed21


    "Gall's name says it all. He's got guts and doesn't shirk from a fight. I didn't know him long, but I'd probably have lost my head if I hadn't met him. I'd watch his back anytime," -Brinnea.
  5. RiktheRed21


    Brinnea Velmon carried a sack over the shoulder with a stooped back, slowed by the weight, but sped by her resolve. She stomped eastward and north from Greenwarden's Grove, into the wild green lands in which only winding, grasping creepers grew and watched. She found a spot beneath an old, wide tree that stooped as she did. There she set down her burden, far enough away from the Grove to be out of sight, but close enough to reach within a twenty minute walk. Inside the sack lie stones she had spent the last week carving at her desk. The runes she had found in a tome she kept in her Thelsamar home. It was a memento of sorts, from her time under the boot of the Scourge. One she had stolen from a pile meant for burning by the Argent Crusade. She set the stones in a precise way, arranging them to make a shrine of sorts up against the stooped tree. Then she drew her blade, Paragon. The runes etched in the side glowed a familiar icy blue as she plunged it into the earth before her shrine of stones. The freshly etched runes glowed a dark purple hue, and wisps of shadow riddled their way up into the old tree like the creepers upon the ground. Bark withered in seconds and high above, leaves fell blackened and dying from the lowest branches. Whispers echoed all around, though it was impossible to discern their meaning. An unkeen ear might mistake it for an odd breeze. Brinnea knelt, her head lowered to the earth. She uttered an incantation that darkened the ground at her feet. Even the heat of the sun felt dimmer as she spoke. When she finished, she uttered one phrase in the low speech that meant, "Show to me the spirit of the dead: the spirit of Parigan Blackmane!" The whispers ceased, as did the dark creepers up the tree and the darkening shadow in the dirt and grass. A single voice pierced the silence -- strong, resolute, yet mocking it was. "Hello Brin. Long time, no see." Brinnea lifted her head to look up at the shade that now hovered over her wicked shrine. "Pari," she breathed softly, "I'm sorry to have to call you like this. You deserve a long, undisturbed rest." "Ha! No rest for me. I've been wandering for some time, here in Azeroth. Without a body, the spirit is free to see whatever sights it wishes, without a care in the world." He seemed utterly content and without a care in this form. He looked as she remembered him before his first death: a young man with shoulder-length black hair left uncombed and wild, brown eyes regarding the world with a fascinated bewilderment, and a body built strong, sturdy, and casually balanced. "That sounds right for you," she replied with a sad smile. "I only wish I could go with you." "In a way, you have. I see you everywhere I go. Your soul still tugs at mine. Sometimes I come back to watch you or Charlotte. She's seen me a time or two, I'd wager. A keen sense, our girl has." "Yes, she's going to make a fine mage someday. She still wants to be a hero, like you. Or me, I suppose." "A hero like us? That won't do. Teach her how to stay alive for longer than twenty years first." Brinnea laughed, tears forming frozen in her eyes. "I should be the one dead, and you the one alive. You could have taught her so much more than I ever can." "And I say," he said as his phantom hand urged her head upwards, "The only true knowledge worth having is earned yourself. She'll learn one way or another, from hundreds and thousands of teachers, living and dead. But you can give her something that I could not. You can be a mother to her. There is no replacing one's own mother." "And the same can't be said of fathers?" "A father puts life in a mother's body, but the mother carries that life with her. They are truly one for he longest time. It's a bond that transcends biology or psychology. I've seen it, you know. The bond between you two. With my own eyes, I can see it like a tether between you two. I truly believe you will never be apart. Not for long." She felt for his hand fondly, though it slipped through her fingers like smoke. "Oh you foolish, clever man! What did I ever do to deserve a you? To deserve any of what I still have?" "You were yourself. Always you were, and forever you will be. Nothing will ever really change you." "I'm not so sure..." "What is it that pains you now? There's always something, but I can feel agony within you. Something in your mind." She sighed, remembering that which urged her to contact him in the first place. "A nightmare. But this one felt real. An illusion, perhaps, but you know I've never been good at sorting reality from fantasy." "What sort of illusion?" "I saw..." she spoke reluctantly. She had been dreading that she would relive the memory again. "I saw the future. Charlotte and the boy, August, grown into a woman and man. I led them astray. They wanted to be heroes...like me." "So they died and became Death Knights," he concluded. "Yes." "Now that's bullshit." "Pari..." "No, you'd never let them do that to themselves in a million years.You wouldn't even let me get a dog when we couldn't afford it. You're stubborn as an old mule when you want to be." "It felt too real to disregard so easily." "That's the thing about illusions." "Don't you think I know that! But what if it becomes real? What if they do try to be just like me?" "Charlotte is what, six years old now? I think you've got enough time to teach her that isn't such a good idea." "It just feels as though I am leading her astray. People I meet believe a Death Knight could never be a true mother to living children. Even if they don't say it, I can see it on their faces." "When has that ever stopped you before? You spent years trying to get adoptions rights in Stormwind, and now you have two children to take care of. Stop worrying over whether it is right and just do the best with what you have." "You're right," she said, still unsure, "But that doesn't make the feelings go away." "Well, I can't control your feelings, though I believe there are drugs that could help with that." "Parigan!" He laughed -- a wispy sound that was a shadow of the irksome chuckle it had once been. "You'll find a way to get through this. You've wanted to be a mother for so long, I know you won't screw it up now." "I hope you're right, Pari. I want to believe it." "Then do that. I'm gonna go on some more adventures. Maybe possess someone along the way. Ah, to feel young and alive again!" "That's just awful," Brinnea said with a laugh and a cry. "You don't have to forget me, Brin. But you have to accept that I'm gone now." "And if you were in my shoes?" "I'd never let you leave me, obviously." "You're such a hypocrite." "And you don't need me to protect you anymore. I may have seemed strong and handsome and dashing when I was around, but it's only because I had you to inspire me. Now you do the same for our daughter, and your boy. Show this world it doesn't get to beat you." With that, he vanished with a puff of smoke. The sun grew brighter, and the silence faded into the breeze. She stood and removed the blade from the ground. Paragon. He would have said it was a funny joke to name it that. "But that's why I did it," she said to herself, "Always carry a smile into battle. Isn't that right, Pari?" Only the wind gave any reply.
  6. RiktheRed21

    "Lady" Jenivyr Vayne

    Full Name: Jenivyr Vayne Date of Birth: April 2 Age: 28 Race: Gilnean Human Gender: Female Hair: Blonde, curly and usually tied back in a tail Skin: Pale, decent complexion Eyes: Light green Height: 5'5'' Weight: 125 lbs Place of residence: Greenwarden's Grove, Wetlands Place of Birth: Gilneas City Known Relatives: Lord Walther Vayne (father), Olivia Vayne (mother, deceased) Religion/Philosophy: Church of the Holy Light Occupation: Mistress of Scouts for the Night Vanguard Group/Guild affiliation: Steward of Night Vanguard Enemies: The Horde, House Hunter of Gilneas, Witherbark Trolls of Arathi Likes: Parties and various social gatherings, hunting trips, fishing trips, planning trips and events Favorite Foods: Fish Favorite Drinks: Ale and wine Favorite Colors: Green and Yellow Weapons of Choice: Bow and arrow Dislikes: Quiet places, being alone, discussions about abstract or unnecessary things (foreign politics, ideology, scholarly or artistic things), sudden and poorly-planned adventures, insensitivity, fighting people. Physical Features: Angular features, somewhat sharp nose and chin, prominent cheekbones. Thin lips with bright gloss. Small eyelashes and thin eyebrows. B-cup breasts. Special Abilities: Excellent at planning and tactics, or navigating intrigue and political plots. An excellent shot with a bow and handy with a spear. Spectacular horse rider. Positive Personality Traits: Strong practical skills, has a sense of duty and loyalty, sensitive and warm, always trying to connect people. Negative Personality Traits: Overly concerned about her social status, inflexible and wants things her way, reluctant to usher in change for the sake of change, vulnerable to criticism, very needy, and possessive. Misc. Quirks: Flirts with just about anyone -- male, female, single, married, human or otherwise. History: Born the first and last child of Walther and Olivia Vayne. Her father was lowborn and earned his lordship through his friendship with one Mayes Blackmane. Jenivyr was born the second generation in this new dynasty, and her mother lived not long to carry on the name through a male heir. With this in mind, Walther allowed his daughter great freedom, hoping she would strike her own path. Even so, he nagged her often for her laziness and disregard for social conventions. Jenivyr never fit in with the noble ladies of court, and garnered many insults and taunts for her tomboyishness and general awkwardness. As it turned out, she was awkward in large part because of her interest in women above men. Though, to impress both, she often flirted with just about everyone. Due to the utter rejection by the women, she preferred the company of men and learned to track, ride, and shoot a bow from a string of short-lived boyfriends. When Gilneas fell, she avoided the Worgen using her survival skills, though her father was bitten and she looked after him throughout the ordeal. She even managed to subdue him long enough for the elixir to be finished. She moved with her father to Stormwind for a time, then to Duskwood after Walther purchased a plot of land for them to settle on. Jenivyr hated the area. The people were grim and disliked her as much as those in Gilneas did. The game were mostly mangy or inedible, and in all she grew stir-crazy before too long. Walther was kidnapped while investigating a plot of treason against the crown, so Jenivyr used the chance to take some time away from his nagging. She set into drinking too much ale and wine, until the day the Night Vanguard arrived at her doorstep. Recruiting their aid, she managed to free her father, unveil the conspiracy, and earn herself a position in the Vanguard's base of operations leading the men who formerly worked for the conspirator. She found her true calling leading others, organizing events, and even fell in love with the woman of her dreams -- Justica Anterius. ((Justica and Jenivyr))
  7. RiktheRed21

    Sorel Crescentsong (A)

    "Has to be the most persistent son of an elf I ever met. Everyone I know who knows him berates him constantly, and yet he keeps on at it regardless. Making him blush has become a hobby of mine. He may have trouble adapting to Alliance life, but he's got a big heart wrapped in his thin purple skin. I wouldn't trade him for a legion of Sentinels," -Jenivyr.
  8. RiktheRed21

    Baern Ashtotem

    "He is a strong and wise chieftain. My father would have trusted him with his life, so I will trust him with my family," -Nagoda.
  9. RiktheRed21

    Naheal Malastar

    "A dutiful knight with a strong sense of responsibility. I would have liked to work with him more when I had the chance," -Brinnea.
  10. RiktheRed21

    Rylie Tattersall

    "I heard about her. What happened in Eastvale...I can't help but feel responsible. I hope her new family treats her well, and she goes on to do great things. My mother once said the most beautiful flowers bloom in adversity. I pray every day that she was right," -Brinnea.
  11. RiktheRed21

    Tayissa Steel

    "I haven't seen her in a while, but I remember enjoying her company. She was a staunch companion in battle, and knew how to unwind otherwise. Not so many people had their lives so well put-together," -Brinnea.
  12. RiktheRed21

    Julilee Liene

    "She seems a strong and capable leader, full of fire. Reminds me of a certain General I know. I hope she finds a happy ending wherever her life takes her," -Brinnea.
  13. RiktheRed21

    Resileaf Ravenwing

    "I've never met someone so willing to put others ahead of herself. I sure was glad to hear she survived the knife," -Brinnea.
  14. RiktheRed21

    Kex'ti Dalendala [H]

    "He's a fighter and an idealist. He reminds me of what I want to be," -Brinnea. "He stood up for a people who needed him. I hope to be like him someday," -Nagoda.
  15. RiktheRed21

    Myaka Winterborne [A]

    "She's a soldier with the mind of a healer. She doesn't fight to kill, she fights to save and protect. And she has a fine taste in tea," -Sanjay.
  16. RiktheRed21

    Siané Dawnlight

    "The most innocent and caring person I've ever met. She'd try to save a rampaging ogre if it kicked her down the road a hundred miles. Too good for her own good," -Brinnea.
  17. RiktheRed21


    "A killer, a torturer, and an all-around terrorist. When I think of the enemy, her face comes to mind. Her face and that damn rocket of hers..." -Brinnea.
  18. RiktheRed21

    Mardalius Anterius, Battlemage Extraordinaire

    "Hotheaded and thinks he can solve everything himself, from what I heard. My daughter seemed to adore him, so he must come off as...heroic," -Brinnea.
  19. RiktheRed21

    The Huntsman in Chains

    Soft leather boots squished against wet cobblestones in the dank, dark depths of the Stormwind City Stockades. Looking around and seeing the agonized faces of prisoners of every race, height, age, and build imaginable, Baron felt the heat in his chest rising at the thought of his father's unjust imprisonment. Locking him up amongst thieves, rapers, and murderers...if I make it out of this dungeon without snapping someone's neck, it'll be a miracle. His own men had learned not to provoke him for any reason. They knew enough to fear his wrath, his sword, and his beasts of war. But these false knights that led him to his father's cell knew not of him. They had never heard of the Bloody Baron. That made this situation all the more dangerous. "Here we are," the portly man in shimmering plate armor announced boredly as he unlocked a simple wooden door. I bet this fat man has never had a scratch put in that armor of his, Baron thought to himself bitterly. It was insulting how easy it would be to free Lord Walden Hunter from his captivity. Clearly these southerners had lost all respect for Gilneas' nobility in their years of isolation. "About damn time," Baron barked, shoving the man out of the way. He entered the cell and the door slammed shut behind him. He heard the two knights snickering and whispering insults as they stood outside. He sniffed angrily and bit back a taunt of his own. "Calm yourself, son," a man in rags and tattered from head to toe said, "Save your rage for the true foes. The living are not worth the effort." Baron almost didn't recognize his father looking to disheveled. His hair was ordinarily well-groomed and a slick light brown color, but now it was a ratty tangle and more the color of dirt or dung. His dark brown eyes were still sharp and skeptical as always, but now they were bloodshot from the gloom. Baron spied a small pile of books in the corner of the cell. "You convinced them to give you reading material," Baron said with no humor in his voice, "With guards as stupid as those, you ought to have just asked them to leave the door unlocked so you could visit a library yourself." "Nonsense, I don't have to ask for anything. I tell them to get me books, and they bring them. Just because Greymane saw fit to strip me of my title, I have not lost my noble blood. Those wretches know how to grovel to a man of power when they hear him call." The man rose to his feet, and Baron felt foolish for having not recognized him. The man held himself in that same self-assured manner as ever, as thought he already knew what the result of the conversation would be and was thinking about some other scheme. If he truly knew what I was about to say, he wouldn't look so pleased with himself. He nearly growled in response, "Can you not escape this prison, then? I did not ask to become the head of the household! Every morning one of your bootlickers comes to me looking for favors or loan repayments. I cannot even return to Stranglethorn to see my wives with all the 'important matters' to deal with in Stormwind!" Walden struck his son. The backhanded slap echoed in the small space, though Baron hardly moved when hit. Its true force was the power to silence him. "You will not complain to me about your duties again. You are my eldest son. It is unbecoming of you to whine like a sullen child. You will appease every last one of the House's allies and you will not leave the capital until Greymane gives you my former position in the army. That is all you must do for now. If I hear a word of ill report about you from those back-country fools outside the door, you will be forced to give up the sword and sit at a desk the rest of your life. Do I make myself clear?" Baron's fists clenched furiously, but he knew he was trapped. "Yes, Father," was all he managed to say from between his teeth. "And if you ever mention those whores you call wives again, I'll send Grant to hang them all." "Yes, Father." Baron had to bite his tongue to keep himself from saying any more. "Now then, tell me what I summoned you here for." Baron took a deep breath and relaxed his body. He would definitely kill someone tonight. "We received word back from the Wetlands. The treasury was looted without a hitch, Grant got it all down into the tunnels before the Vanguard even knew it was being taken. It was all in place down in the cave Creighton picked out, but something happened." Walden's eyebrow rose. "Something happened?" "Walther's brat managed to sniff out the cave through Creighton's traps. Grant wasn't at the rendezvous when our people got there. Our spy says he was toted into the cells by some elf mage named Alcabus or something. They say Creighton's locked up, too." Walden's eyes narrowed only slightly, but it was more than enough to tell Baron he was displeased by the news. "They have your brother and Grant in cells, and all of my money?" A dangerous silence followed. Baron felt no fear, but he was anxious about what new plan his father would cook up now that his first had fallen through. "Have the spy summoned to Stormwind and cut her throat. Throw the body in the canals, but make certain you take any and all valuables off her corpse first. Make it look like a robbery and there won't be any suspicions." Baron risked a question, "Why kill the spy?" "There must have been an information leak. Creighton is too careful to be captured, and the cave would have been concealed too well to find by the time the Vayne girl looked for it. Someone talked, it's the only possibility." "Very well then." Baron was more than happy to clean up the mess. At least he would get to kill someone soon. "But how are we going to carry on without that money? I have your debts to pay and new friends to keep happy, after all." He didn't conceal his resentment well. "Pay them from your own coffers." "You cannot be serious!" Baron stomped madly. "Don't argue, and don't complain. If you do your job well, there will be plenty of reward. You will also need to ransom Creighton and Grant from Greenwarden's Grove. Don't even think of raising your voice at me again. Neither of them will spill any information, I am certain, but we need to smooth over our difficulties with the Night Vanguard sooner rather than later. We cannot hope to get to the girl otherwise." "As long as her Scourge mother is alive, we'll never get close. You could at least let me kill her. It would save us all trouble." He forced himself to say this calmly, though his insides boiled with rage. "No. It is clear now that removing Velmon is not as easy a solution as I once hoped. The child is too attached to her to be separated willingly, and now Gilneas has pardoned her. For now, Brinnea Velmon is off-limits." "Then how are we to take the girl as a ward? The blue-eyed she-devil watches her constantly, and trusts no one she doesn't know." "You've nearly hit the nail on the head, boy. We cannot hope to get close without someone Velmon knows, someone the Vanguard trusts. Someone who hates the undead as much as we, and cares for the child's well-being." Baron huffed quietly. "Who then?" "In due time. For now, focus on winning allies and freeing Creighton and Grant. Make certain that when you ransom them, you send someone who can act with a shred of diplomatic temper. And don't forget about the spy." He sat down and opened a book. The conversation was clearly over. But Baron wasn't finished. "So that's it? No thanks or apologies? Not even so much as a 'goodbye?' Am I not still your son? Am I only a tool for your schemes?" Walden replied without looking up, "All I do is for you and your brother. And for Gilneas. Remember that the hunter does not require praise to catch his prey. Only focus. Now go." Baron went, slamming the door behind him. He ignored the two bumbling guards and their poorly concealed snickers as they locked his father's cell up again. I'll do your dirty work, Father. But once you are free to take back the reins, I will never be slave to your whims again!
  20. RiktheRed21

    Nagoda of the Gold Plain

    Full Name: Nagoda Goldfield, son of Quaran Date of Birth: September 20 Age: 14 Race: Tauren Gender: Male Hair: Brown mane Skin: Brown fur, spotted white Eyes: Brown Height: 8' Weight: 475 lbs Place of residence: Ashtotem Village, Thousand Needles Place of Birth: An Oasis in the Barrens Known Relatives: Quaran Sunwalker, (father, deceased), Fasha Sunseer, (mother), Magooma, (maternal grandmother), Kimba [the commander], Rumba [the muscle], and Cassowary [the logistician], (paternal uncles) Religion/Philosophy: An'she and the Earth Mother Occupation: Healer's apprentice at Ashtotem's Healer Hut Group/Guild affiliation: New recruit of Sanctuary Enemies: The White Hawk of Silvermoon, Nakama's pirate crew (presumed dead), Brinnea, the Butcher of Kaur'he Likes: Quiet walks in the wilderness, praying to the sun god in private, reading, singing, watching bugs and critters, tending to plants Favorite Foods: Any veggies or fruits (vegetarian) Favorite Drinks: Shamed to admit he loves firewater (it helps him be more social), more commonly admits to liking kodo milk Favorite Colors: Brown and gold Weapons of Choice: A spear or staff Dislikes: Being cooped up indoors, restraints, (claustrophobic) Physical Features: Chubby, white-faced, brown furred. His horns are small and young, his hooves well-trod upon for his age. Keeps his left hand covered to hide a brand in the shape of a red dragon. Special Abilities: Talented at healing with herbs and medical supplies. Knows how to set snares and traps for game. Positive Personality Traits: Idealistic, seeks value and harmony in all things. Respectful of others' cultures and opinions. Open-minded and flexible, willing to try new things even when afraid of the consequences. Highly creative, passionate, and dedicated. Works hard and complains little. Negative Personality Traits: Too selfless for his own good, lets others take advantage of him. Takes any insult to heart, internalizing them until his self-esteem is at a deep low. Poor at practical skills and unfocused so as to leave him unable to master any trade. Very distant and hard to get to know. Misc. Quirks: Rubs his left hand and bows with his horns to most everyone elder to him Theme Songs: "The Farthest Land," Shadow of the Colossus History: Born to the warrior Quaran and his wife Fasha in the Barrens. Watched his father transform from an implacable warrior with bloodthirst and ravenous thirst for revenge turn to a life of piety and devotion to An'she. Fasha was the first to take to An'she as a Seer, and Quaran followed to become among the first Sunwalkers. This transformation began with a miracle: the Light saved Quaran's life from a mortal wound delivered by Grimtotem axe at Thunder Bluff. Since then, Nagoda has been in love with the sun god, and pious to a fault. Nagoda grew only occasionally in his father's eyes. The elder warrior was normally away at war, a dutiful bull. Nagoda became much like his mother and grandmother because of this, and followed the path of a healer for some time. He was poor at fighting, and did not want to eat meat or even harm wildlife, so he was no huntsman. Since his family had turned to An'she, he did not follow the path of a druid or shaman either. He seemed destined to become a Seer, if not for his uncles' constant insults about his femininity. His father, though he hid his disappointment well, accepted his son's inability to take up the mantle of warrior, which made it sting all the worse for Nagoda. He wanted to make his father proud, and so he would wander from home often to reflect, pray, and try to practice. He could never bring himself to swing a spear or staff at anything alive, or even any practice target he pretended was alive. Quaran Sunwalker died hunting after the Butcher of Kaur'he. The death knight had to die to see justice done, Quaran had been convinced when he left home. Nagoda's heart fluttered nervously the day his father left -- the man had faced the death knight once and still carried a scar on the face where she had smashed him with his own maul. The news came not as a surprise, but it was enough to cast a lasting shadow on the family of the Gold Plain. Nagoda ran from home not long after. His uncles wanted to whisk him away and make a true warrior out of him, but at that moment all the boy wanted was to avenge his father and prove himself at long last. He knew he needed help, so he asked a friend of his father's to hunt the death knight down. The troll was an expert at the hunt, using the elements themselves to bolster his weapons and senses. Yet even he did not return to hunt after the death knight. For a time, Nagoda believed the Butcher was impossible to kill, and that An'she intended for him never to be like his father. But then the sun god sent him a new chance -- the Butcher was imprisoned in Silvermoon, and would soon be sent across the sea to Kalimdor. The boy ran again from his people, this time to total strangers. He approached a pirate captain called Nakama, a trolless with her own ship docked at Ratchet. He paid her with money left behind by Quaran, and arranged for the ship carrying the Butcher to be hijacked at sea. The gold was not all his father had left behind, though. A priceless relic from Northred, a gift from the Wyrmrest dragons themselves, accompanied him on his task. He believed it was a gift from An'she as well -- the instrument of justice. His father had called it a brand once, though Nagoda had been too young to understand what it was for. He knew only that it carried the dragon's fire somehow. Fire that might cleanse the world of the death knight he thought unkillable. The White Hawk, a mysterious elven task force, warned Nagoda not to do what he intended, but he stubbornly ignored them. He had to avenge his father. The Hawk were prepared for this, though, since Brinnea the Butcher was not on the ship as the pirates had been informed. It was set up as a trap, and the pirate ship was surrounded by war vessels to be taken in by the Hawks. Nagoda was stunned, and with the brand in hand, his emotions exploded outward at last. It was enough for the dragon fire to erupt and burn the ship around him. As far as the young tauren knew, no one by he survived the explosion. It left a lasting mark on his left hand, a reminder of his failure. After that, he decided he had shamed himself too much to return home again. He tried to find a new path, and An'she sent him a vision of a golden hawk on a purple sky. Sanctuary. He followed his vision, remembering that it was Kex'ti of Sanctuary who stood against the Butcher and lived. Nagoda sought a chance at redemption and escape from his failure, but he never forgot his duty. One day, he knew, he would have to face the Butcher, and only one of them would walk away alive.
  21. RiktheRed21

    Sanjay, The Desert Wind

    ((Updates and edits, most likely final version))
  22. RiktheRed21

    Sanjay, The Desert Wind

    Full Name: Sanjay, Alexander III Redjay Nicknames: Sander, Desert Wind, Doctor Jay Date of Birth: May 21 Age: 35 Race: Burning Steppes Human (Descendant) Gender: Male Sexuality: Heterosexual Hair: Black, shaved head, bushy beard Skin: Dark brown Eyes: Dark Brown Height: 6' Weight: 210 lbs Place of residence: Dalaran Apartment Place of Birth: Lakeshire, Redridge Mountains Known Relatives: Alexander II Redjay (father), Joanna Redjay (mother, deceased) Religion/Philosophy: Pandaren Spirituality Occupation: Monk of the Broken Temple, Licensed Medical Practitioner Group/Guild affiliation: Steward of the Twilight Empire Enemies: The Sha, Mantid, Cultists of the Old Gods and the Black Empire, The Burning Legion, Nyomi of Suramar Likes: Snakes, physical exercise, brewing Favorite Foods: Cinnamon ginger snap cookies Favorite Drinks: Black coffee Favorite Colors: Green Weapons of Choice: Staff, fists Dislikes: War, hypermasculinity, the color red, recruitment of child soldiers Hobbies: Researching medicine, brewing tea, mixing coffee, distilling beer, meditation, exercise Physical Features: Large, muscular build. Dark skin and black hair. Shaved head and thick, bushy beard. Dark brown eyes, thick and bushy eyebrows. Scar over right eyebrow. Multiple surgery scars at the small of his back. Special Abilities: Healing mists channeled through his staff and body. Physical excellence at its peak, as with all Pandaren monks. Spiritually in-tune, and able to commune with spirits and cleanse bodies possessed with dark spirits. Incredibly fast runner, and has high stamina to boot. Positive Personality Traits: Warm, caring, and supported. Loyal and dependable. Hard-working and thinks practically. Patient and always willing to lend a hand for long-term projects. Negative Personality Traits: Humble and shy, unwilling to step in even when he knows he can improve something. Strict sense of duty and a moral code. Easily overloads himself by working too much, and never asks for a lighter load. Won't argue a point unless he has to. Reluctant to change his mind on something; stubborn. Easy to manipulate. History: Born to an illustrious Stormwind military family in Redridge, Alexander III Redjay was destined for a life of military service at the insistence of his father, Alexander II. During the conflict with the orcs of Orgrimmar, the night elves of Ashenvale called on their new Alliance partners, the humans of Stormwind. Alexander served in a battle in Ashenvale against the Warsong Raiders as a combat medic, having already shown an aptitude for medicine. During the battle, a cannonball shattered his spine, leaving him paralyzed and incapable of continuing his military service. Drifting from his disappointed family, Alex pursued his medical degree in Stormwind, often held back by his confinement in a wheelchair. After many years of hardships and isolation, Alex earned his doctorate. Then, he shifted his focus to repairing his body. He investigated hundreds of claims from doctors, surgeons, physicians, magical healers, and spiritualists the world over to try and repair his paralysis, but all of them proved to be unable to repair his broken back. Still dissatisfied with his life, Alex began using his inherited wealth to pursue selfish luxury and pleasure. His father confronted him and warned him to stop wasting his life and his family’s hard-earned wealth, but Alex told the man off angrily and bitterly. His disappointed father departed, cutting his son off from the family and the remainder of his inheritance. After the mists lifted from Pandaria, Alexander half-heartedly travelled there with what was left of his wealth. Upon arriving, he found himself captivated with the beauty of the land, and enamored with the philosophy and lifestyles of the people. He spent the next few years training to repair his broken spirit, and upon lifting his downtrodden haze, he found his body responded, and he slowly regained the use of his legs, and dedicated himself to the preservation of the land that had granted his rejuvenation. He continued his training as a monk until he reached physical perfection and learned the healing arts of the serpent and crane styles. Now imbued with new power, having cleansed his spirit, restoring his body, and reaching new heights as a healer, Alex cast aside the past that had embittered him so he would never be dragged down by it again. He cast aside all he had from his past, his possessions, his wealth, and his name. He took on the name Sanjay, and his new title of Desert Wind. With this new identity, he roamed the world to spread a philosophy of balance, peace, non-aggression, and spiritual purity. (The Chakras, Yin and Yang, and the Caduceus Staff. Represent Sanjay's tangential relationship between spiritual and physical, his balancing of the two, and his engagement in spreading his balance to others through the art of medicine.) (Appearance from Elder Scrolls Online) (Profile)
  23. RiktheRed21

    Writing Contest: Race Bending

    Oof, I've been meaning to go back and read everyone's posts at some point.
  24. RiktheRed21

    The Prison of the Mind

    She was reading by the fire again. He loved watching her do that. She always seemed happy, even for the briefest of moments. Even if there was so much fear in her heart that she spent nights weeping in bed or curled up on their carpet, she could always find solace in a story read by firelight. Parigan didn’t enjoy much. He didn’t enjoy going to the bar his brother used to take him to. He didn’t enjoy attending the galas his sister sent him invitation after invitation for. He didn’t enjoy meeting his father every month to tell him what he had been up to. Parigan was sick to death of his family and seeing their hands in every aspect of life in the city appalled him. He had his forge, and he had his sword. And he had her. Parigan regretted so much that he had pushed her away since the rebellion. It was the last thing he had wanted from the cause. A fair society, free of tyranny and oppression, of course. Freedom from his father’s dictatorship of a family, most definitely. But he never considered it would mean losing her trust. She’ll never look at me the same way. After what the rebels did in the war – terrorism and mass mayhem – she won’t feel safe setting foot outside the door. And she knows I was part of that. How can I ever make her trust me again? But at the very least, she could find freedom in the pages of her books. He admired that about her. With him, he could never set aside his problems, but it was clear he hadn’t the foggiest idea how to fix them. She was in much the same boat, but could manage to set aside her worries to enjoy her passion. Parigan used to take literacy for granted until he’d met some of Brinnea’s relatives. Brinnea Velmon. Parigan had never once questioned why she had kept that last name. Now he wished he had taken it as well. What has being a Blackmane ever gotten me? She didn’t talk much about her father, but he could tell by the way she reacted to any mention of him that she wasn’t sure what to think of him. Parigan thought she was trying to be angry with him, but she came off seeming more worried than mad. He felt such sorrow for her complex array of emotions, but he couldn’t empathize. With Parigan, everything was black and white. Yes or no. Right or wrong. He felt he had chosen wrong. Marrying her didn’t make her life better. It had dragged her into worse shit than she had already been dragged through. But he loved her more than anything, so he selfishly kept her close and never let go. And she never said anything against it. Does she truly love me anymore? Did she ever? He felt the need to comfort her, or maybe he just wanted to be comforted. He picked himself up off the stairs and walked up behind her chair. She was reading something about a knight and his lady, and a witch who had cursed them to fall in love. Parigan had never enjoyed books, at least not the way Brinnea had, but he remembered this story well enough. The two were from rival kingdoms that had an unsteady truce between the two in the face of the Horde invasion. It was a common theme in literature after the Second War. Everyone loved a good story about romance in the face of a calamity that nearly wiped out humanity. The two lovers had been brought together by the orc witch in the hopes of shattering the alliance between the nations, but instead the people saw how beautiful things could be if everyone held love in their hearts. The ending was blissful – the two humans married, the families and kingdoms both united, and the witch was burned for her treachery. Parigan liked the story well enough. Real life is far from a fairy tale, though. Love isn’t so simple or clean, and hatred is never easily set aside. Parigan kissed her on the head, ruffling her hair affectionately. She set down the book on her reading table, which was buried in piles of books she’d bought with his money. Her grey eyes looked up into his brown eyes. She smiled, but it was a bad fake he’d seen too many times to be fooled. She was upset he had interrupted her. She wanted to look up and see a noble knight, not the failure he was. “Hi,” he said quietly. “Hey,” she said back. “I’m sorry.” “For what?” “I don’t know. I’m just sorry. Sorry for everything, I guess.” “And why do you feel like you need to apologize? Have you done something requiring an apology?” “I just…I don’t feel like a very good husband. Or man, even. I don’t know what to say.” She stood up and walked away from him, towards the hearth and fire. She warmed her hands over the flames. He wasn’t providing her any, clearly. “It doesn’t really matter what you say, does it? Everything out there isn’t real. This isn’t real. All that’s real is what lies outside the Wall.” Parigan stood behind the chair, unmoving. His eyes lowered to the tome she had set down. The Tale of Richlid and Theodara. If only life were so simple. “What is outside of the Wall isn’t the world. It’s just a nightmare. We’ll live through it.” “What makes you so sure?” “We have so far, haven’t we? Nightmares always have an end.” “This one hasn’t ended long enough for me to believe it is real.” She hugged her arms and rubbed them roughly. The sleeves on her gown were worn and tattered. He had offered to buy her a new one, but never had. “We will make it together,” he replied. He wanted that to be true. He needed that to be true. “Everyone I’ve made it with so far is dead.” “Your sister…” “Is gone. She left yesterday. She bought a fishing boat and made for Purgation Isle. She’ll never be able to come back. She probably won’t survive long enough to try.” Parigan’s shoulders slumped in defeat. Christa was gone. The last person who could get through to her. Why had she left? It had been a year, nearly, since their mother had passed away. Why choose now to leave? The Scourge had only gotten worse, and no contact from the outside had made it in. That my father is willing to share with me, that is. “Did she say why?” “It doesn’t matter. It hasn’t mattered for years now.” “It’s about your father, isn’t it?” She tightened her grip on her shoulders until her knuckles turned white. He stepped forward and held her tightly. She didn’t resist or pull away, and he took that as a good sign. He hoped it was. “It’s all gone. Why can’t she understand it?” “Some people need something to hold on to.” He held her close, but she didn’t hold him back. “There’s nothing left to hold on to. It’s all ashes and bones now. Gilneas may as well be all that’s left, and there’s nothing for me here.” “I’m still here.” He turned her face gently so she would look at him. Her eyes were dry, but her face was pale. “I am. And I’m not going anywhere.” That night, she disappeared. He awoke to find a note where her head should have rested. She told him not to go looking for her. He crumpled the letter and threw on his coat and boots. *** Shanoris gasped and awoke suddenly, disturbed from her dream. From his dream, she thought silently. Felsoul Hold’s dwindling supply of portals crackled nearby, and she felt the presences of demons approaching her location. That was what had awoken her from the dead man’s dream. She had already searched for evidence of the witch’s revival, and found nothing. The sarcophagus was gone, as well. The Illidari had already seen to its removal, but the last she heard it had yet to be destroyed. That thing is dangerous, but it may have some use as of yet. I’ll check Marduum and the sarcophagus next. She meant to leave, but she felt compelled to stay. Parigan’s grave was marked by a badly rusted sword that had been broken jaggedly in half by a savage blow. She had witnessed it personally, felt every felling of the demon’s hammer in her core as if it were her the beast had slain. His last words echoed in her mind. “Brin, I lo—love you—“ Shanoris may have stood against Brinnea in the past, but what the witch had done to her was beyond cruel. And she took my sister from me. We both have enough reason to want her dead forever. The demons came on her suddenly, emerging from the shadows as if they had the element of surprise. She proved they were wrong. Moving faster than the untrained eye could even see, she sliced her way through felhounds and Felguards like scissors through silk. At the end, her rage and demonic spirit boiled over, bursting through the uncovered crevices of her eye sockets. Nothing remained of the demons save for ashes. The grave marker had fallen over in the scuffle. Shanoris returned it to its rightful position, but then noticed something she hadn’t sensed before lying buried in the dirt. She dug it up with a strong hand and felt its surface, clearing it of dirt as she did. It was a ring. She detected moonstone and silver, badly tarnished. Words were engraved in it, and she could feel the indents enough to read it. Words may leave on wind, but love is forever. A wind licked at Shanoris’ cloak. She felt his presence still writhing in the tainted dirt, too tired and fragmented to be pieced back together or take form. She made a promise to the grave that she would see his remains taken to a proper burial site. But then it dawned on her she had no idea where he would want to be at rest. She would have to ask Brinnea, but there was no way to speak with her now. Sighing, she made another promise. “I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?” she asked the dirt. Parigan’s spirit was silent, but silence speaks volumes to a demon hunter.
  25. RiktheRed21

    The Prison of the Mind

    Brinnea tried to cast a rune. She didn't want a large, easily noticed blast of frost, but a small amount of ice. She felt the usual surge of power flow through her body as a rune activated, but then it all vanished as soon as it appeared. The wards on the cell were top-notch, it seemed. She was not particularly surprised. Now I know, she thought to herself, And I had to know. A guard clanged his baton against a bar of her cage to get her attention. Brinnea had been aware of him before he knew she was, though. She turned her head to look at him -- an average-looking blood elf with his verdent green eyes, chiseled jawline, and vaguely smug expression. He spoke to her unpleasantly, clearly thinking very lowly of her, "You have a visitor. Your only visitor." Brinnea pulled herself up and off the small bed and stood before the cell door as the guard unlocked it. She held her hands straight out in front of her, awaiting the shackles that inevitably clasped around her wrists. She had no intentions of breaking the rules. Not here. The guards escorted her to another holding cell, this one twice as large as her own. She was seated at a finely polished wooden table with red and gold enameling across from an empty chair. The guards who had escorted her stood against the wall near her back as another pair of elves strolled in from the door on the far wall, just behind the second chair. One of the elves was dark of skin, a shade of violet with fel-green markings, short black horns, and flowing black hair like ocean waves in the night. Her hair even shimmered in the dull torchlight as though glistening under a full moon. It evoked a pretty picture in Brinnea's mind, though she didn't much care for the open sea. The demon huntress's brightly lit fel sockets simmered slyly in Brinnea's direction as the elf took a seat in the vacant chair. Brinnea kept her shackled hands in her lap and struck all emotion from her face as she had done a thousand times before. One of the guards spoke. "Ten minutes," he said simply. "You hear that, Brinnea?" the demon huntress said with a voice as silken smooth as her hair, "I do hope whatever you asked me here for won't take too long to explain." Brin replied politely, "Not to worry, Shanoris. I know you have much to preoccupy you of late. Hopefully this favor won't require too much of your attention." Shanoris took a deep breath, tapping her fingernail against the table rhythmically. She was just as Brinnea remembered her, though she had not expected an elf as old as Shanoris to have changed much in only a year's time. The huntress never sat still, never kept her hands from moving for longer than half a minute before fidgeting. And she regarded Brinnea with a blind gaze that spoke of distrust and cynicism. Rightly earned, I suppose. Her sister gave her life so that I could keep mine. Shanoris replied, "Yes, I am sure you noticed the massive new satellite Azeroth just received. Have you ever heard that term, Brinnea? 'Satellite?' It's an astronomical term invented by my people after centuries of gazing skyward with wonder and enchantment. It is a celestial body that orbits another. In this case, it refers to Argus. It orbits us now." She smiled ruefully. "How lucky are we to have such a splendid deliverer as Illidan Stormrage?" "If his methods give you such stress, why did you choose to follow in his footsteps?" Brinnea asked simply. She regretted engaging the huntress in a long-winded tangent with so short a time to spare, but she needed Shanoris' interest to get the job she needed done handled. Shanoris exhaled harshly. "He gets things done quickly, one way or another. I may have lived a long time, but much of that time was spent in a dark cell. At least, I think it was dark. Regardless, I don't like wasting what time Elune saw fit to grant me." "I hope you won't blame me for getting to the point, then," Brinnea said, "She has been appearing in my dreams again. I believe you know of whom I speak?" Shanoris's finger ceased its tapping for a brief moment. "The Black Witch. Nightmares of her are common for you, I'm sure." "You're the one who traded me your family's remedy for nightmares, Fargaze." Brinnea noticed with a hint of satisfaction at the huntress's displeasure at her surname being used to address her. She continued, "The remedies worked, even for a death knight like me. My compliments to your esteemed father. Whatever vision I received to see that witch again was no simple nightmare." Shanoris reclined in her chair casually, but Brinnea could see her face twisting in displeasure at this particular topic. She replied after a short pause, "So, you think the witch may yet live. In whatever form the Legion has seen fit to grant her after her failure. What of it? The Dark Titan is not in the habit of rewarding mortals for failure. Immortals even less so." Brinnea's eyes narrowed skeptically. "You want her dead as much as I. Dead, for good and all. If she were to return to our world, she would not rest until she brought her revenge against us. You and I most of all. We were more instrumental in her downfall than any, except perhaps Charlotte." Shanoris chuckles under her breath. "And how is the little one? Still full of fire, I hope?" "If I didn't know better, I would say she really took after you," Brinnea smiled despite herself. "She still asks about you at times. You left an impression." "And if I didn't know any better, I would say she could make for a powerful Illidari someday. But I know you would never allow it." The huntress grinned as if the thought of denying Charlotte anything were a hilarious joke. Brinnea shared that smile. "Indeed. Would you lay our worries to rest, Shanoris? I may not live long enough to make sure myself. I know you have the means to find out. Perhaps moreso than anyone else I know." Shanoris nodded without hesitation. "Consider it done. If that witch still lingers, I will tear her soul into enough pieces that she will never reform, even if the Dark Lord himself were to try and stitch her together." Brinnea nodded gratefully. "That is a load off my mind. If you wish to see the girl again, ask around for one of your countrymen, a Sentinel commander named Sorel Crescentsong. He'll know where she is." Shanoris stood, nodding. "Perhaps I shall seek her out. But only after this matter is resolved. You can rest assured it has my undivided attention. I must attend to my business before the way to Argus is opened, after all." She began towards the exit, and the guard opened the door for her. Shanoris turned back for a moment, saying, "One thing you should know about life in a cell, Brinnea: it isn't the bars that trap you. Not the chains on your body. The prison of the mind is the greatest cell of all." She left the room, and the door was shut behind her. *** Brinnea Velmon Shanoris Fargaze