Qabian

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Everything posted by Qabian

  1. Qabian sat turned around in his chair, chin resting on his arms folded across the back, and stared at the panther cub sprawled out across the dark pillows of the once neatly made bed. In other lighting, it would have been nearly invisible in the rumpled mess, but the sunbeam from the half-drawn drapes lay right across the creature. It wasn't irritating enough to do anything about, but it was more of a problem than the solution he had initially hoped for. When he had first come across the spellwork to create a weapon, he had envisioned something far more literal. Ruuki was no longer High Inquisitor, so Qabian hardly felt indebted to her for his theoretical failure regarding this project, but he had still wanted something more than this lump of an inconvenient cat. Lately, he had considered offering it to Syreena. She seemed to always have some task or other that needed doing, someone who had legitimately offended her in some way. Maybe she could find a use for a cat that you could set on fire and send into a building only to have it return a few hours later. But then there was the issue of the words. Qabian didn't believe he had ever put words to paper that he would regret, that might come back to haunt him, but that didn't mean he wanted just anyone having the capacity to read and connect anything he had written back to him. Given the nature of the magic that had created the thing, the possibility existed that a change of ownership would result in a change of words, but what if it didn't? That wasn't something he particularly wanted to risk. Qabian sighed. Nothing was going quite right lately, but nothing was going wrong enough to make trouble about either. He had missed the opportunity to simultaneously confess to murder and grind the new supplicant into the dirt. On the one hand, it always felt better when they came to understand themselves before the trouble started. On the other, it would have been good, clarifying, to have been the one responsible. Perhaps it had been a mistake to want to show him that there were those who truly believed in the Mandate before laying out how it was all bullshit but worth every ounce of chaos.
  2. Qabian pulled the hood of his plain, dark robes down over his face as he leaned against the cleanest wall he could find in the lower section of the Apothecarium. He didn't want to be recognized, and his distaste for the locale made him even more tense than necessary. Three days past, the banshee had directed him to wait here for a shadow hunter. Waiting for some unknown troll likely to ruin everything he was planning only added to his irritation, but Qabian was determined to at least see this part through. The expected shadow hunter strolled in, carrying herself with a sort of tall formality, but her skin was drawn and wrinkled and her hair thin, showing age in a way Qabian rarely encountered in trolls. Skulls of varying sizes clicked where they hung around her robes at her hips and shoulders. She saw him immediately and nodded toward him, grinning around her tusks while somehow seeming serious. "Elf." Qabian bowed his hooded head slightly lower and stood forward from the wall by way of acknowledgment. "I heard you have a request for me." Qabian took a deep breath, managing not to sigh overtly, and held out a scroll from his heavy sleeve. The troll took the scroll from him, then unrolled the parchment and narrowed her eyes at the script. "Who wrote this?" "I did," Qabian said without looking up. "You know this tongue?" She sounded incredulous. "I do." "How--" "It's a long story," Qabian interrupted. "I have time." "I don't." The troll cocked a hip, then shrugged and tucked the scroll under one of the skulls at her waist. "What do you want?" "To forge a weapon," Qabian explained. "What weapon?" The troll's tone shifted to suspicion. "A weapon of collective will." "That needs more than this." She tapped the scroll. "I was told it does not, at least--" He stopped mid-explanation, waving one hand in a dismissive gesture. The mage finally looked up and pulled back his hood, revealing his missing ear. "The collective cannot be gathered in the usual capacity. I will do what it takes with what I have." The troll paused, then nodded, her fingers still on the scroll. "You want to make these words a weapon." "Yes," Qabian confirmed. "But this is, as I'm sure you understand, experimental. This will be the first of many." She shook her head. "No. Not from me, but a favor is owed. You will get your first... experiment." Qabian tensed his jaw, not willing to push the argument. With one result, perhaps he could reverse engineer the spellwork, unravel it until he understood it enough to continue on his own. "Fine." "I will need blood." Qabian flinched. Toying with his blood had a history of ending badly. "Whose?" The troll grinned, less serious, more devious. "Not yours. Yet. Dragon blood is best." Slowly, Qabian's lips stretched in a grin that mirrored the shadow hunter's before him. "That I can happily provide."
  3. Recent developments in the Tirisgarde are curious. Sunreaver has made so many awkward decisions. He has always been far too cooperative and diplomatic for his own good. He still is. All the decent things that happened under his guidance have happened despite his actions and intentions, if history represents him correctly. And yet, it is better to at least have a presence if we can no longer have the command we deserve. Isn't it? Despite all his problems and significant weaknesses, I confess he has good taste in some respects, especially when the louder Grim rant about felsuckers while surrounded by orcs and sin'dorei who have sucked more fel than the nightborne collectively have even seen. No one needs to be in league with the Legion to understand how to use and abuse power to one's own ends.
  4. Don't ask. Just... Don't. That... thing is to blame for this. That thing and the Infinite. Or the Bronze. They're the same, yes? I was trying... I was... We were...? What was it? I hate him. I have always hated him. I will always hate him. It's refreshing. This hate. Everything and all the rest of dulled fragments of reflection. Hate is what slices through. Sweet, small, slicing through shadows, tiny candleflame hate. Nothing else. The rest is gone. Not even darkness. No shadow. Only blank, empty nothing. The rest is scattered, irretrievable, swept into a delirium vortex, unreal in every sense, and yet all of what is gone, what is lost, what is missing is the only real there is, ever has been, or ever will be. Except the hate. The hate burns through. I've missed this. Haven't I? I hate that, too.
  5. I have no idea what I'm doing, but I also did a thing.
  6. I've learned rather a lot of disappointing things this week. Disappointing as they are, though, they are things I needed to know. Knowledge doesn't need to be good or encouraging to be important and useful. Sanctuary is not what I remember. The warlock implied a great deal happened while I was away, though he gave no details. I should have judged the truth from the things Ninorra said, but it took Syreena to make me understand. It is, however, hilarious to me that they are now essentially everything they once hated. May they fester and burn under that pious golden lion they sweetly worship. The new supplicant, his family name sounds familiar, but my research has afforded nothing of note. Perhaps it is just a similarity. Or perhaps it is a remnant of days long past, given those he mentioned he once worked for. I shouldn't have difficulty believing what he said, but I do. The man was an outright fool, too stupid to dress himself I'm sure. And no one else could see that and turn him away when he showed his face on their doorstep? The Grim have made errors. But I also made errors while I was Grim. They correct them in the end. The supplicant himself has made an error if he underestimated Syreena. That may cost him more than he bargained for. The shaman's insistence on inviting everyone within earshot to some sort of strange orcish springtime fertility orgy was concerning at best, horrifying at worst. If it's as bad as it sounded, there may be considerable opportunity for blackmail. I suspect it will be far more innocent than innuendo would imply, and simple curiosity and an observation post at some distance will be sufficient.
  7. Excerpts from a notebook 3.TI.P2.017 "...expected to learn self-sufficiency shortly after I had..." "...despite their determination to defeat Kael'thas because of..." "...stands between us and our peace, we will stop at nothing to see..." "...have the opportunity to correct my assumption..." "...one of necessity. Theirs was simple spite and malice..." "...Garithos' actions did not teach me fear. Those events..." "...intrinsic property in all of our important decisons, individually and..." No, no, no. This isn't right. These are not the words I gave to the troll. These are not Grim words. I know all these words. They are mine. All at one time were committed to paper, but most were burnt or destroyed in water years ago. Divested of its fur, these are the marks that move across its flesh. Why? I did not give her my blood. Did she take it somehow? This makes no sense. I've never been incompetent enough to leave anything incriminating to paper, but this development is highly unsettling. == Qabian flipped the notebook closed with a little more energy than he intended when he finished recording his notes, pinning the quill between the pages. With the crater that was once the city of Theramore at his back, Qabian placed the notebook in a satchel and removed what appeared to be a fist-sized ball of glass set into a stand decorated with a curling bronze dragon. He snapped his fingers before the ball and for a long time, stood motionless, watching tiny shadowy figures moving inside it. Eventually, he slowly took a knee, and held the glass ball out to the greyish, hairless panther cub with the curious purple scrawl trailing over its skin. The creature sniffed at the relic, then stared up at the mage, its curious pale eyes blinking. "This," Qabian explained to the animal as if it could understand, "is who I used to be." He stood meaningfully, then threw the glass ball as far as he could out to sea. The cub leapt out into the water with a splash and paddled after it. "You idiot!" the mage called out, then sighed. "I thought cats didn't like water."
  8. I am arrogant. That is not in question. However, I immediately distrust anyone who shows humility in response to my arrogance. I wish to be responded to with equal or greater arrogance at all times. I realize now that this is projection. Early in my life, I learned that responding to the arrogant with false humility is a highly effective manipulation tactic. I used it frequently when I first joined the Grim, and gained power much more quickly than was reasonable, until the point that I no longer felt the need for false humility. Even my recent application to the Grim, I donated an ear to the cause of false humility, and now that I have what I want, I find no need for it. The mindlessly arrogant are more likely to grant requests and let down their guard around you if they believe you know your place, especially if they believe they are the ones to have shown you your place. I am not so thoughtless. How else then should I react to those who show me humility, except to assume attempted manipulation? I think that is why I responded well to the Pandaren. While he was not arrogant, he also showed no weakness, no deference, no humility, only responsiveness, and a willingness to learn. Or perhaps I was simply inclined to give him the respect he had earned in advance with the Legionbreakers and he managed to avoid simpering in front of me. Chasing the dragon, indeed. True humility is worthless, and if you show it to me, I lose all faith in you. You are either attempting to manipulate me or you are pathetic, neither of which speak in your favor.
  9. Qabian was far from a surgeon, but he was an academic, so he was willing to give a laparotomy the old college try. Given everything he'd subjected the creature to so far, he was confident that it would survive anything he did to it. After the application of a carefully dosed piece of meat, by the time the mage had made his way to the laboratory facilities someone had set up in the basement of the Grim Halls in Tirisfal, the panther cub was sleeping soundly. The wide, low-ceilinged room's lighting was a disturbing cold white, despite the dark stone of the walls. The available equipment was a strangely random assortment, but Qabian brought his own kit, a set of scalpels, forceps, syringes full of liquid mana, pins, needles, and some thread, cleaned and disinfected, then rolled up in a leather case. With the sleeping cat laid out on its side on a table, Qabian tugged on a pair of specially coated white cotton gloves. Leaning carefully over his victim, the mage pressed his fingers below the creature's jaw, then slid one of the syringes into its neck. The slightest draw on the plunger and a flash of red pulsed through the blue liquid in the syringe. Qabian tilted his head, surprised at the ordinariness of the creature's blood. He pushed some of the mana into the creature, and violet flickers shimmered beneath the black pelt. He gently turned the creature onto its back, leaving the syringe dangling from its neck. When the mage touched the scalpel blade to the creature's torso, a jolt of violet lightning knocked the knife out of his hand and across the room. Qabian sighed and retrieved the blade from the floor. He moved to the sink to rinse it, only to find no taps. A sink with no taps? Just a basin? Who builds a lab without running water? No one. That couldn't be right. "I hate this place," he muttered. There must have been some water somewhere, but he didn't have the time to figure it out. He flicked the dirty blade into the basin and grabbed a new one from his kit. With a firmer grip on the instrument, Qabian sliced into the creature's flesh. Excerpts from a notebook 2.TG.P1.011 The symbols on the creature's insides are expected and familiar, part of the ritual I had hoped the troll would perform. In the future, I must make a better inspection of the facilities before engaging in surgical exploration. In the future, I don't intend to ever explore surgically again, but this is my project and I remain uncertain of its value. It would not suit me to have hired someone else for this particular task. I do what I must. I could not force my way past its bones. I expect they have been enhanced with arcane power, but I don't believe I would learn much more if I could, though it's possible that what hides there has value if the rest of the project ultimately fails. Its healing capacity provides further evidence of its unnatural origins. Stitches were not required. And yet, its blood appears normal in color and consistency.
  10. Qabian had ingratiated himself with a certain circle of the Suramar elite. While the rest of the Horde and Alliance busied themselves aiding the needy shal’dorei affected by Legion rationing, Qabian positioned himself as a provider of new indulgences to those who needed no help. It wasn't that he had found the open-minded crowd. Far from it. They looked down on him as all good xenophobes do those they aren't raised alongside. But there was something comforting in their arrogance, like a childhood blanket. This was a world he knew and that he could operate within, reminding him of the days when he was not an orphan but said he was to make himself seem more exotic. What he brought them was bloodthistle. There were other sources, of course, but few as accommodating. And for those with a masochistic bent, higher in number amongst the powerful and bored, he showed them what Kael’thas taught Rommath the last time the Legion had been so destructive. Most found it horrifying, but a few asked for subsequent demonstrations. Repeatedly. The mage took to accepting every invitation that came his way from the city below, and they were frequent, having him in Suramar nearly as often as Dalaran. Any time he entered a room, even when his presence had been directly requested, half of the courtiers would leave, looks of disgust not remotely disguised. But those who remained would treat him to lavish feasts of seafood and abundant arcwine. It was the baths, though, fragranced, salted, and laced with ancient mana, that drew him back time and again, encouraging the mage to keep his thistle supply well stocked. Each time he indulged, the repeating nightmare of suffocating in a world without mana was deliciously reversed for several days. It was after one such bathing session when he was wrapped in a soft robe, a thistle leaf under his tongue, lounging on a balcony overlooking the city, that a shal’dorei woman approached him. She perched on the arm of his chaise, but did not touch him, breaking from the deviance he had grown to expect from those who dared to get so close. “Is it true? What they're saying about the Nightwell?” she asked. “Hm?” The heat of the steam still clung to him, and he found himself thinking through a pleasant, mana-heavy haze. “Most likely.” “What will become of us?” Not all of those eager for his services understood what was happening outside the city. They were sheltered, believing that those who had always held the power would continue to protect them. “You will adapt,” Qabian said matter-of-factly. “Will our eyes change? Like yours?” She was a grown woman, but Qabian found her childish questions off putting. “Don't you think that would have already happened?” She shrugged. “I don't think it will. Though I suppose that chapter is not yet over.” “Will we starve?” Qabian sighed. “Do you want to?” Given the sort who kept his company, the answer was not a given. “No.” “Then you won't.” “Will we have to do what you do?” Qabian grinned wickedly. “You mean feed on each other?” She nodded, looking away. He laughed cruelly. “Perhaps.” He knew the truth, but he saw no reason to correct her misconception. “My people have not needed to do that for some time, but some of us, most of us, continue. Why do you think that is?” He reached for the glass of arcwine on the small table beside him and took a sip. She took a while to answer. “Because you're horrible.” He laughed again. “And so are you. Everything will change, and nothing. In the end, you will always be who you are.” She glared at him, then her expression softened. She was, after all, willing to get close to him, to be alone with him, to inquire as to his thoughts. She was already one of the deviants. She knew he spoke the truth. “Thank you.” Usually he found those words distasteful, but not in this place. He lifted his glass in salute. “Any time.”
  11. Excerpts from a notebook 2.NS.P2.004 There are memories in this place. I'm not certain which of them are real. Some of them I know are not, cannot be. They're distracting. I used to speak of memories as ghosts, but then they actually involved the dead. These ghosts are not dead. Or they never lived. Somehow, that's worse. The creature is reacting. Something changes, flickers of arcane, violet sparks when it walks through the fractured ley lines. Parting the coat shows there are patterns in motion, but they are impossible to distinguish. The fur will need to be removed to get a better look. I left it with a tracker to see what would happen over an extended period of time. The hunter expected I would kill him when he told me he lost his target. Perhaps I should have. But I had foreseen such an outcome, and merely docked his pay. I found the creature back in the apartment, sleeping as though it had never left, able to vanish while under observation, cross portals, and return through a locked door in a floating city. I am at least reassured that the troll didn't simply toss an ordinary animal into a crate to get me to leave her alone.
  12. It's not my business anymore. I'm not going to make it my business. I'm going to follow my own sun damned advice for once in my life. Not my business. Let it burn.
  13. I've always been of the feeling that a community is what you make it. If you want it to be better than it is, you add to it yourself, and I think any addition, no matter how small, is good. As a result, I'm frequently mulling over ideas for events in my head, but the way real life goes for me right now, I'm extremely unlikely to get the opportunity to make any of them happen. Even my forum postings around here don't happen nearly as often as I have the ideas for them, because life gets in the way. When I'm thinking up ideas, they're usually events my character would run, which... is not necessarily the same thing as what I would like to see or attend. Academic presentations, historical tours, PvP mischief, that kind of thing. I would of course like to see more events in general, with for me the only qualification being that I have the opportunity to attend them, which... gets stomped on by real life more often than not. I don't even care if they're the kind of event I enjoy or that my character would reasonably go to. I can force him to go to almost anything. Hell, I'd even attend Cavanaugh's if I could, either as a secret Alliance or to add to the mess. All I really need is the block of time to participate. In an attempt to be more fruitful, back in FFXIV, the pantheon had 12 gods, each one associated with a month, and each also had a shrine somewhere out in the world, so each month for a year an unaffiliated RP group would go out to a stone and characters would volunteer to do presentations (poems, sermons, stories, songs, dances, whatever) related to the particular god. WoW doesn't offer anything I can think of that's so brazenly obvious, but I suppose a series of 12 anythings could be a jumping off point for something for someone.
  14. This artist I've commissioned a few times is asking for signal boosts, so I thought I'd toss this out. Feel free to hop on the thread with other artists if anyone wants. TenNine deviantArt She does batches of cheap $10-$15 portrait sketches fairly regularly and currently has one on the go. TenNine tumblr These are some of the things I've gotten from her: $15 color sketch of Kiannis $15 color sketch of my emo Miqo'te assassin from FFXIV $30 color portrait of Q with his ear cut off
  15. Excerpts from a notebook 2.DL.inc.001 Considerations The Broken Isles are where the magic is. I've known this for quite some time. Even the briefest analysis of history would make that clear. I believe it is why I spent so many hours staring at the horizon. I knew it was there. When you search for magic, you hunt the Blue. And the Highborne. That means Azshara, Winterspring, Quel'thalas, Coldarra, and the Isles. I have wondered if that is why the Bronze hold on me broke when it did. Perhaps the Legion's latest ventures prompted the Messenger to act as the hand of Malygos. The Isles have become unchained. Movement is not restricted to the shores. And what remains of Azshara's city is open to be explored. The Nightborne mean a great deal more to me than I would let on in public. Logically, the best place to take this thing would be the Isles, run it alongside the Kirin Tor's manasabers, toss it in the Blue's pools in Azsuna, or use it to trace the ley maps in Suramar. However, given the Alliance seem to find earned but inordinate joy in trying to crack my skull lately, spending any length of time on the Isles will require extensive planning to be certain of any results whatsoever. So all other tests will be made first.
  16. I chose my words carefully, and I meant them, but I am not sure the nuance I intended can be understood without explanation. Still, he did not argue. Did the Commander... cow him so much that refutation was not required? He doesn't seem like the type to take a thinly veiled insult with only the slightest sound of retort. I know little of him, having met him once, maybe twice at the Inquisition before his disappearance, maybe briefly on occasion before, but I'm under the impression that in all the time of my absence, he was a presence, built and molded by the Mandate. The Grim archives are useful and should be maintained if they are in disarray, but they are not a place I would spend any time more than necessary. The archives are needed, but they are not enticing, no. They are not intriguing. They are not entertaining. They are required, like laundry or dusting. You have them, because when you do not, life itself begins to fall to pieces, but you do not have them because they bring you joy. Unless you are odd. There are enough bookish Grim who may enjoy surrounding themselves with the curious words of those who wore the tabard before them. I am not one of them. Bookish, yes. A lover of Grim lore for the sake of Grim lore? No. There are far more fascinating stories and far more intriguing powers to be discovered outside of the Mandate's halls. Then they can be brought into the Grim and stored for the future. I would rather create and construct Grim lore. It would certainly be productive to add to the archives, but to constantly review and rework what already exists? I would tire of the exercise quickly. I'm not sure if he was hoping I would volunteer. I'm more than capable of such a task, but it is one that I would do upon request, rather than conjure of my own free will.
  17. I hate this holiday. Given that I hate all the holidays save one, that's not much of a statement. But this one I've hated since the first time I tripped across its vile scented pink sugar decor and nearly vomited in the street. Now at this distance, at this vantage, I only have more and stronger reasons to hate it. But there has been one light this season. I am at least slightly more proud to be Grim than I was yesterday. Very slightly. I've had the opportunity to listen uninvited to two sets of sin'dorei while they make eyes at each other, one set Grim, the other not. The not-Grim made me ill. The way they spoke, I suspect all those wearing their tabard are infected with the diseases once rampant in the streets of Silvermoon. They clearly do nothing but bed each other in all directions, all the time, all day long. It's a wonder they haven't all wasted away, forgetting to eat or breathe. But the Grim, while I absolutely question Kiannis' sanity and would have recommended that his "comfortable companion" -- I'm not sure he has the slightest idea what a compliment is -- give him a hard slap across the face if not a knee to the groin for the indignity of his presumption, they at least took the holiday in stride, were polite, relatively solemn, and dare I say even, by the sun, witty? And I felt transported back to a time when keeping an ear open for blackmail material was one of my greatest joys. I suppose therein lies the silver lining to celebrating the worst society has to offer.
  18. Qabian sat backwards in his desk chair, arms folded on top of the chair back, chin resting on his wrists, and glared at the black panther cub curled up asleep on his bed. It was a curious thing. He'd had a "pet" once before, and it wasn't in childhood. He had a blue dragon whelp that needed regular feeding or it had fainting spells and crapped everywhere, but this thing was tidy and while it bothered him whenever he was around the apartment, acted as though it owned the place, and ate anything edible that ever passed into its vicinity, it didn't seem stressed when the mage left it alone most of the time, and it hadn't changed the smell of the place. He wondered if it had found a way out of the apartment and stalked the sewers for rats while he was gone, but if that's what it was doing, it always returned before Qabian did. It almost seemed more likely that it just wasn't quite real. Qabian narrowed his eyes. "I'm going to dissect you," he muttered in the animal's general direction. It kept sleeping. He considered whether he should tell any Grim about this at all. It was their words that created this thing, technically, their words and his interference. But he was no longer playing the silly game of pretending he was new to the organization. He no longer reported to anyone, and short of someone with a title demanding to know what had come of his little project, there was no reason to keep anyone informed. It seemed everyone had forgotten or had never cared in the first place, and that was for the best. "I'm going to inject mana into your veins, then slice you up into little pieces." The cub rolled over in its sleep with a mrr. Qabian raised an eyebrow. "Then I'm going to set you on fire." A high pitched nose whistle started up from the indistinguishable black lump of fur. "As long as we're both agreed."
  19. The pandaren had the opportunity to call me out for my nonstandard views on the Mandate, but he did not -- another sign of there being an actual intellect behind that jovial, improper facade. I do wonder if he would have said something else had I not been there watching, but the point stands. He tried to share the other lesson I taught him, but I don't think he conveyed it well enough to cause understanding in others. Nevertheless, I believe he understood it and may even take it to heart. There is hope for him yet. I sought out that Cantina. I don't drink, but the very act of seeking it out made me reflect on the reasons I ever attended such events. I learn so much more about others when they are not speaking with me. Participating in conversations has never been my forté. Deriving meaning and opportunity from the conversations of others, however, has always been worthwhile.
  20. All my character names were randomly generated. That's my story and I'm sticking to it, even though it's occasionally a blatant lie. I give them the stories after the names, not before.
  21. Qabian paced back and forth, threatening to wear a path in the stonework, waiting for Kaelystia to arrive. He had stopped by the Mage Quarter every day in anticipation of the results of his test. He tried not to let his imagination run away with him, but that was difficult at the best of times. He knew some of what had come from the true version of the ritual, but that had involved true sacrifice interwoven with words, more than mere blood and magic. People died in the real version. In trying to recreate a minimal variation on the theme of an ancient, mostly forgotten ritual, Qabian was utterly uncertain what would result. Perhaps there would be a simple size reduction. Maybe he would end up with an enchanted hatpin or needle, useless as weaponry, certainly, but an excellent starting point for research. Floating silently as she did, Qabian was lost in his own mind when Kaelystia arrived and jumped as he nearly walked into her. "Lady..." She bowed slightly. "Your package has finally arrived, Magister." "Excellent." Qabian straightened his robes, avoiding acknowledging the brief moment of shock. "Where is it?" "Did you bring any meat with you?" Qabian stared at the banshee, blinking. "Meat?" "Yes. Meat." Qabian's mind turned somersaults trying to consider what she meant. Did the conjured weapon need to be encased in flesh at all times. That would be exceedingly awkward. "No." "I recommend you go acquire some first." "A-all right." He returned from the auctioneers a few minutes later. Kaelystia said nothing, but beckoned him down one of the many passages found in the Undercity. Tucked into an alcove of one hallway was a small crate full of holes. Kaelystia made a motion with one hand in the air and a small latch on the top of the crate flipped open. Immediately, a black blur jumped from the crate towards Qabian, causing him to stagger backward, dropping the paper-wrapped package of meat he held in his hands. "By the sun!" the mage exclaimed. A second surprise in so many minutes was less than welcome. He took a deep breath as he mentally admonished himself for being so distracted. He needed to focus more on his surroundings, even when they were relatively safe. A small, black panther cub tore at the paper package and hungrily attacked the meat inside. Qabian narrowed his eyes at the panther cub, then turned his glare on Kaelystia. "This... is the package?" She shrugged translucently. "This must be some kind of joke." "Perhaps, but if so, it is not mine. The shadow hunter?" "Maybe." Qabian scowled. "But I doubt it." He crouched down, peering at the cub that steadfastly ignored him in favor of the food. "Too many words from rogues?" His research was going to be considerably more messy than he had initially assumed.
  22. Pfff, hahaha. Alignment: Lawful Good ----- X (1) Neutral Good ---- XXXXXXXXXXXXX (13) Chaotic Good ---- XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX (15) Lawful Neutral -- XXXXXXXXXXX (11) True Neutral ---- XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX (23) Chaotic Neutral - XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX (25) Lawful Evil ----- XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX (19) Neutral Evil ---- XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX (31) Chaotic Evil ---- XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX (33) Law & Chaos: Law ----- (0) Neutral - XXXXXXXXXXXX (12) Chaos --- XXXXXXXXXXXXXX (14) Good & Evil: Good ---- X (1) Neutral - XXXXXXXXXXX (11) Evil ---- XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX (19)
  23. I will dutifully inform my entire "elfy harem," as you put it, a harem that I believe I explained numbers a very impressive zero. I am not telling Kiannis anything. I have no interest whatsoever in his milk, verbal or otherwise. Frost, however, I may consider. Although I will not be asking anyone outside the Tirisgarde to "set me up," and at this point, it is no doubt an egregious waste of power, perhaps I can afford the luxury. And we will not be arm wrestling.
  24. There are places along the coast of Azsuna where you can hear her voice. Not echoes, not reflections off the waves, not memories sunk beneath the sea, not the false replays the Bronze deign to allow us to witness, but her actual voice in the present. Her voice is here. I have been here before (have I?), but I did not hear her then. She lives. She is the only thing I have prayed to. I was given to the Light as a child, but I never believed. I never knelt at an altar with a full heart. But her image I have knelt before for hours at a time, desperate for answers I truly believed she knew and could impart if only I could decipher what she needed from me. She knew the touch of demons. She had buried her heart as I had. She had come out stronger and still led her people, where my Prince had failed mine. That was a flaw in me. I don't remember how I finally came to that conclusion, how I realized that she was not a symbol of strength, a symbol of how to live through the worst of tragedies and stay strong, but that she had in fact swapped one set of slave masters for another, but I did learn at some point. Perhaps after I realized Vashj did not follow through on her actions in Dalaran. I have killed a great deal more of her people than she ever saved of mine. Based on what I thought then, the Nightborne should be a sufficient stand-in for her, but somehow apart from the moon and the sun both, they grew into a weakness that remains curiously kaldorei. That makes me question how much we actually received from the sun. Perhaps there is more to the power of simple daylight than I previously considered. Still, to hear her voice, outside of dreams, unaccompanied by the Bronze, chills me to the core. The voices Aegwynn sends among the Tirisgarde are oddly compelling but disappointingly tainted by her humanity.

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The Twisting Nether Gazette is a role play forum for characters on the RP-PVP servers Twisting Nether and Ravenholdt.  We have been active since November of 2005, a few months after the Twisting Nether server originally went live.  Our purpose is to provide a safe and inclusive environment where role players can meet and interact with each other, and, of course, post their amazing role play stories, art, bios, and journals.

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