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Sulajin

An end

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Sulajin lay in his bed. It had been quite some time since he had actually moved from it, there didn't seem to be much point. It hurt too much. All he did now was continue, and even that was failing. He could still remember, however, remember and dream of days gone by.

On a beach of sands rich, dark and purple in colour, three figures sat together before a sea of glimmering stars. Bloody, bruised, and hurt they sat. Vilmah had been attacked, his apprentice had been attacked. Sulajin had come to answer the call. He had come to stand by his companion and apprentice in spite of the harsh words of earlier that night. Together they talked, free from interference, free from prying ears and judgemental eyes.

"Damnit Sulajin! I love you! I want to please you, and to be pleased by you! I want to sleep with you and just be with you! And I hate you so much for making me feel that way, on top of the other things you do."

More discussion, more words, some outbursts, mostly quiet.

"How can you say that? Didn't you hear him? He loves you! It's you he wants, not me."

"But I love him too, so that's allright, and I love you as well. So does he."

A night of quiet confrontation. He had thought they'd grown stronger for it, hopefully they'd have solved these issues. They talked for what felt like hours, who knew how long it really was though.

"I have to go now. I'm tired and need to be with my wife. You are free to come with me, to claim solace in my house. Remember this night. Once we leave here there will be more fighting in the future, there will be pain and poorly thought words, hurt and happiness will follow us."

And it had. How could it have been otherwise? Eventually it had proven too much. Vilmah Bloodborne, his apprentice and ally had dissappeared after a particularily heated argument. Sulajin hadn't cared. His own pride had told him that he was in the right, that if an ungrateful orc couldn't except the responsibilities she'd accepted and actively opposed them, then he'd be better off without her.

"Damn you, Sulajin... damn you and your Loa. Damn your magics, your schemes and your lessons. I'm tired of it. You've said that I cannot retreat from my duties, but I do not need them. I've shown that I can live by your cursed 'juju' alone... I'm done with it, and I'm done with you."

She'd kept to her wordfor once. That was the last Sulajin had seen of her. No more her laughing face, her cries of battle and simple joy in childish things. He hadn't realized how much she ment until it was far too late. The Grom'ja could still find her, but he didn't want his old friend brought against her whims. He'd told his children of her, told them of the work she did.

Gom'zal had laughed, as he allways did. A wretched high pitched giggle. There was something wrong with that boy, but he was clever and quick witted. He'd survive and make a name of himself, in time growing beyond the shadow of his father. He loved his son, though the fool had no taste for any form of magic. He was quick witted, and equally supple of limb, however. Flexible as a snake in the grass, and twice as deadly. His daughter, Kin'tala, was different. She was a dilligent student of the Juju, and it flowed to her as readily as Sulajin could call it. She had gone out into a world that had forgotten where it had come from, a herald of a dieing age, much like her mother and father before her. He'd heard great tales of her, valiant exploits and feets of cunning.

Khiskiva would have been proud of her children. She'd allways been a fierce and savage thing, full of life and love. Sulajin had long ago stopped almost all of his magic, save to view his deceased wife in the dancing image of the flames he had wielded so fiercely long ago. Had fought fierce battles with...

Niethan had not taken the departure of Vilmah well at all. The poor thing tried to carry on, but the grief had eventually consumed him. Sulajin had brought him into his house, but it had done no good. He had plyed the boy with drink, comraderie, friendship, hospitality, scorn, pain, and combat. Nothing helped to bring back the spirit he had once known. Sulajin had begun to ache for even the chance of an argument with Witness, though he had grown quiet. A few years back Niethan had grown careless, and fallen beneath the claws of some nameless beast somewhere.

He was getting cold. The Grom'ja would bring it's master food when commanded, but mostly stood idly in a hallway.It stood and watched while the lair of Sulajin Bloodbreaze of the Darkspear tribe's house crumbled away. The magi's weakening strength allowing it to drift off into areas unknown.

And so, alone and unnoticed, Sulajin stood one last time. He went to the front doorway to greet his guest, a tall, elegantly clothed hunter stood before him.

"You see? Everyone comes in the end, even if because they give up the chase."

((Open stories of a character's end. Be it through age, combat, or just leaving. Not intended to be posts that draw on each other, or critiquing/predicting another player's future. Just ideas of what could be. Have fun!))[/i]

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She was all alone, now.

"Do not fall!! Drink in the blood of the enemy and show no mercy!"

A cheer went out. All around Vilmah were orcs, trolls, tauren, undead, and elves. They followed her decorated raptor in scores, weapons held tightly or spells at the ready. As she finally came to a halt, they could see enemies in the distance. The cursed Alliance, running full speed towards Vilmah and those she commanded. Her raptor's beaded reigns tinkled against his neck, and she felt their cool glassy texture beneath the plate of her gauntlets.

The men she commanded were diligant, and trustworthy. There was no comrarderie, however. There was no happiness in their union, no smiles, and no laughter. Only the common view that the Alliance must be exterminated at all cost. They had killed too many. Thrall had sent them back into war. This time, the Horde would conquer and win.

She didn't remember how old she was. The only thing that marked Vilmah's age was the streak of gray in her black hair, and the scars that adorned her tightly muscled thin body. She was small, but not frail. There was a toughness in her skin, developed after years of hardship and loss. One of her eyes was missing. In it's place, a black eyepatch that had seen much use.

"They outnumber us, ma'am!" Said a young troll mage, her face full of both panic and excitement.

Vilmah turned to the girl, her expression grim. "Numbers mean nothing. You are trained beyond them. This army is the stuff of farmboys and milkmaids. You will make quick work of them, now GO!"

The trolless ran back to her position, and soon there was fighting. So much fighting, more than anyone was prepared for. It was becoming commonplace, however, to end a day bathed in blood. Vilmah relished in the feeling of bones being broken against her large warhammer, the only symbol of Sanctuary to survive after their guild was torn asunder by Thrall's declaration of war.

Nobody had ever seen Vilmah cry so hard.

Here, on the battlefield, she was numb with grief. The only thing left to do in this world was fight, fight for the Horde, fight for her people. Sulajin had died, so many years ago. She had left his tutilege in anger, his betreyal having cut her one time too many. Sometimes, she would visit the place where he and Khiskiva raised their children. Where hard memories mixed with happy ones. Sometimes, Niethan's face haunted her dreams, even though she knew that the hunter was long since dead, and his devotion to was Samedi complete.

Nojinbu's voice echoed throughout the battlefield. She heard him in every rogue's slice, every gurgled voice who's throat had been slashed. She felt the heavy weight of his eyepatch over her face, and remembered his words of wisdom.

The children her friends had borne sometimes found their way into her ranks. Never did she acknowledge their existence. She sometimes smiled at them, when they could not see. It hurt too much to think that they could have known her, if only she'd been stronger in her resolve. If only she hadn't been so weak. If only she could have been the person she'd set out to be, instead of becoming a merciless warrior on the battlefield.

The Horde respected her, but she hated herself.

Blood rolled down her throat as Vilmah bit into the arm of a human, and chewed on the tough meat. Raw, invigorating. A vein here or there, no matter. This was the taste that she'd become used to. It was the taste of victory, but no means sweet or pleasant. Simply bitter, like her heart had become.

"Ma'am, we've won, we--"

A slap. The dull throb in the young orc's cheek stung, long after Vilmah hit him with the back of her gauntlet dressed hand. He held his swollen jaw with one hand, and got on his knees.

"I-I'm sorry, ma'am.. I was.. only coming to report that.. w-we've won."

"Fool," Vilmah spat. "I can see we've won. As if there was any doubt. Out of my sight!"

He didn't hesitate; the boy ran off, rejoining his comrades. Vilmah wondered how long it would take for him to grow tired of her treatment. How long his orc nature would hold up against her angry blows. How long it would take Kalgor, before he would spring into action and kill the former Warboss of Sanctuary.

She hoped it was soon.

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((I'd always thought of what would be the end of Fallacy.))

Eons stretched across endless lines of time, crossing each other in perfect conjunction. It was all well in Fallacy's sight. The world had long passed and changed, leaving him behind. He was no more than a phantom lost to ancient times, yet he would always be, no matter if no one remembered his deeds or his name, but it was different for his son. Diandro'ei Absalom had pioneered the way for the Blood Elves after the defeat of Illidan and their freedom from their magic lust, even up to striking a pact with the Draenei. He had followed in his father's footsteps, however, leaving his esteemed position and disappearing with a venturing party of Naaru. His friends, if they could be called as such, were long gone when he had reemerged for the last time from the Caverns of Time.

His body had been changed greatly from what he had once been. If anything, it was a conglomeration of artifacts stretching across all time, but his form was simple, having the shape of a lightly defined human. His "flesh" was golden, bearing various runes and symbols of power. From his shoulder blades, two long, triangular spines extended upwards, nearly as if they were decrepit wings. Otherwise, he bore no other remarkable traits and wore no clothes, besides the brown hair that remained intact on top of his head. His movement was fluidic and clean, as if he moved with no friction at all.

"So, it is done." A venerable, strange-colored dragon greeted Fallacy as he emerged from the time stream, which closed immediately behind him. He simply nodded to the dragon.

"The end of time, I found it. Such a glorious moment." His mouth did not open when he spoke, but his voice was one of such confidence and power, it nearly shook the cavern walls.

"Then, you will go to her, now?" The old dragon rested its head on the ground, bringing one of its large, blue eyes to meet Fallacy's gaze.

"My duty is done. At last, I can have my rest..." He placed a hand on the snout of the dragon. "Danakh, you have been a valuable companion to me for so long. I'm sure you can understand why I want this."

"You are merely a mortal." Danakh snorted at his own contradictory statement. "But, even the immortals must know when their time is at an end."

"We both deserve it, old friend." Fallacy looked out from the Caverns, studying the vast jungle that had spread out from Un'Goro to cover Tanaris, teeming with life. "I had nearly forgotten what this area once looked like. Now, it seems the Titans finally achieved the world they had been seeking to make."

"Aye..." Danakh yawned, creating a roar that riled up a nearby flock of parrots. "It's a world that no longer needs our kind."

"Well, shall we go to where we belong, then, old friend?" Fallacy stepped out into the open air, holding up his arms to the sky. Danakh yawned again and clambered up to his feet. The markings on Fallacy's body began to glow a brilliant white, and the light grew to envelop his entire body. He placed a hand on Danakh's leg, and the light stretched over the rift dragon as well. They became like a single entity of light, stretching out until it was as if it had become a single line, existing in only one dimension. It wasn't long before the light completely disappeared from sight, leaving a caved-in entrance to a place no longer in the thoughts of men.

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((This is a very interesting topic, especially considering that with RP, you control your character but still cannot control their demise. It's kind of a reflection of what you expect your character to become.))

The grassy plains of Mulgore stretched out, the long green grass swaying lightly in the breeze as the old Tauren stomped his way down the main road. His armor was shining and brilliant, reflecting the bright Mulgore sun, as did the large two-handed mace the Tauren supported on his shoulder. On his back was strapped an odd totem, glowing white rather than the other elemental colors, and from the top grew leaves, flowers and blossoms of unknown names. It had been so long since Diomades had last been to Mulgore, not since the death of his father had he returned. He’d come to find himself spending his life winding up in danger, but he pulled through, and came to find himself a proud defender of the Horde. His adventures had seen him travel all over Azeroth and even beyond. But now was not the time to reminisce, he would have plenty of time to do that in the days to come.

Traveling up to the mesas of Thunder Bluff, it had not changed much since he was last there, the Tauren were always picky about that sort of thing. He could at least say for himself that he had changed a lot over the many years he had spent away from home. He went from a slightly arrogant and unpredictable young Bull into a respected member of society. He’d grown a lot, and he was proud of his achievements. His totem of the wilds had become a bit of a symbol for himself, not only for others to recognize him by, but for him to recognize himself by. The Totem had grown like the elemental that handed it to him had promised, and it had blossomed just like he had. He had only just begun to unlock the secrets of the elements of the wilds, and it would take many generations of Shaman to fully understand its powers, but he had finally bought it to light, and maybe now, one day far off, it could be put to use.

Smiling as he looked around the lower rise of Thunder Bluff, he took in a big, long breath before a beautiful female Tauren came dashing up to him and wrapped her arms around his waist in a tight hug. Diomades let out a surprised noise before chuckling softly and hugging her back. Her fur was a silvery color much like his own, her body was that of a Tauren in her later adult years, but was covered in the thick metal of plate armor.

“Dio! We were wondering when you would get home!” She said, looking up at him with big, blue eyes. He couldn’t help but chuckle softly.

“Yes, yes… I’m home, Cherry. How have things been going?” Diomades asked quietly, tilting his head slightly.

“Oh, it’s been great big brother. The Shaman have all been given their own Totems of the Wild as you had hoped.”

“I don’t mean that, silly… I mean you and your mate. I’d hope at least somebody would carry on the name of Riverhorn.” Diomades replied, smiling softly as the two began walking slowly. Cherryna blushed beneath her fur.

“Eeh-hee… it’s going good… but I still don’t understand why you didn’t get a mate, Dio. You’ve had that many chances but it just hasn’t happened.”

“I’m just not the type to settle down is all… you know me. Even now I can’t bring myself to stay at home for long periods of time… I learn more from my environment if I wander, and I will not be putting a family in danger like that…” He said quietly before looking up. Before them was the tent of the Chieftain.

“… Are you sure you want to do this, Dio? Baine… The Chieftain said it could be the most dangerous thing you’ve ever done… that he’s ever known anybody to ever do. You wouldn’t just throw your life away, would you, brother…?” Cherryna asked, looking up at Dio with a worried expression. Dio gently pat over her head before walking into the Chieftain’s tent.

“Cherryna, one day you will understand that we all have a purpose in life… and my life is all I have left to give.”

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(First ever Okhu story on TnG....Oh snap....be gentle o.O...)

*Okhu stood silent, her blade twitching eagerly as she prepared herself for the first attack.....*

"They'll know where I am after this....no use running......." she murmurs quietly in her head, like the shadow in front of her could possibly hear her...

The rank odor that permiated from the shadow was overwhelming her senses fast.....the scourge had come back alright, after a long absence after the fall of Kel'thuzad they had came back enforce......many had already been slain trying to defend from the onslaught... the Citadel had crumbled the warriors scattered or fallen.... her lover...Ayashe one of the casualties during the battle....risen up with the others to serve the new master....she had managed to fight her way out of the onslaught with a couple others...but during the confusion she had gotten broken from the escape party....

"Damn it all....." she hissed loudly before striking......the death-wail of the ghoul pierced the shattered halls of the Citadel.......following soon after....gurgles and groans from the dark halls began.........they were comming....ready to exterminate the last of the defenders.....claim the body....consume.......

"I'll die taking this message to your mast-.." she doesn't have time to finish her sentence....they are already upon her...former guild-mates......others.....friends of hers....all fallen....and brought back......servants of the Lich King...

"NO!...."she shrieks and slashes out at them...thier attacks unrelenting.....she can see into thier eyes.....nothing......cold listless stares upon her.....a hunger for the warm flesh of the orc.....they would not bring her into the ranks like the rest.....she would fuel the others.....sustain them for thier complete control over the land....

Somewhere though....between running and slashing......Okhu stops.........before her, her lover...limping slowly towards her...face towards the ground......

"Wait....didn't she..?....no....its her....."

"Love!....I'm comming!...I...."

Okhu wraps her arms around the tauren...who feels limp to her embrace....she looks up...her face twisting into sorrow and horror....the same dull listless stare having taken the once beautiful eyes of her lover....Okhu sighs a moment...simply burring her face deeper into the taurens chest...tears staining the ruined leather armor......

"I'm tired of this....all this running....."....

the army of ghouls caught up finally, only to be met with the fallen pair on the ground........the tauren shaman Ayashe......and her lover nestled in her arms....the lifeblood slowly leaving the orc from a sword wound by her own blade....

Darkness swept over her vision.....then nothing......

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A cool brisk wind stirred up the fallen leaves in the small, secluded valley nestled deep within the tall peaks of the Stonetalon mountains. The sun had just passed it zenith and was beginning its slow decent towards the faint glimmer of the Western sea.

The old man drew his heavy woolen cloak tighter around himself. Not that it made any difference. He always felt the cold of late, even when the fire in his small stone cottage was stoked to its fullest. A rasping cough broke out, shaking his slight frame with its force.

His rheumy eyes watered when the cough subsisded. Eyes nestled within creased folds of skin, leathery with years of exposure to the elements. Still, those irises glimmered with the same brilliant blue and gold of his youth. Eyes that had captivated and disturbed more people than the old man could remember.

How long had it been that he left civilization behind, to live his secluded life high in the mountains? Forty? Fifty years? He couldnt recall. " The Old Man of the Mountain" the Cenarions down in Stonetalon Peak called him. The Horde stationed at Sun Rock called him the "Mystic of the Mountain." Over the many years many had made the trecherous and difficult trek through the hidden mountain passes to his little secluded refuge, seeking wisdom and healing. They brought him foodstuffs, provisions and sometimes news of the outside world.

Those pilgrimages had become less frequent of late. Why the old man couldn't say. Maybe folk had simply forgotten him. Or he had become simply a legend, a fireside tale to entertain travellers in the mountain passes.

One thing was certain, there would be no more pilgrims. No more visitors. He was dying. His time had come. He had forseen it.

The sun continued its march downard, growing dimmer as it did. Long shadows were cast by the trees lining the clearing he sat in. His breath growing weaker to match the failing light.

Then just as the sun dipped below the horizon, to cast its final flash of glory to the east, breath failed.

In the little secluded mountain valley, the wind stilled and all was peace..

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((Still havn't decided, and I'll try not to give away too many... Plot details come TBC and 70. This is how I'll expect Lupen to "die", time will tell. Time for improv-shitty-Lupen's-writing-block!))

Dust hovered gently across the now scarred worlds, Azeroth, Outland, Xoroth... All victims of The Crusade, The Revolution, and The Purge. His kind had become far too destructive as time trudged onward. Each grain of sand which fell from the now all but decimated Dragonflight spilled outward into nothingness. Of course, the Nether was the grand perfection in null, no life, no joy, nor sorrow. Each moment in the Nether was but a blink of the eye, a fall of these grains.

Azeroth; Purged. The lands of the once proud Horde and the formerly valiant Alliance... The murderous Scourge, the Genocidal Qiraji, The Great Old Ones, Ravaging Furbolgs, Murlocs, Trolls, Orcs. Purged of these inperfections.

Outland; Purged. The Netherstrom contained, Darkness' fury turned full gale force forward, fringe groups wiped clean off the barren rock.

The final days of the now Nathrezim Lord recorded by spirits eternal, not by scribes or scholars. Once anchored to the Physical Plane, no longer. Once known only by the title of "Lupen Vakov", he bears a mortal name no longer. The now long destroyed mortals revered him as "The Third and Final Dark."

Atop his Dread Citadel, the once child sat, waiting, watching... Preparing for time.

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Clys sat before an elegant mirror, brushing her long dark hair. Her full lips curled up in a gentle smile, and her eyes glowed gently as she hummed to herself. A gentle hand came to rest upon her shoulder, and she turned her head to look at her beloved Danlily.

"Is it time?" Clys asked, her voice liquid and melodious.

"Yes, Mistress," said Danlily, smiling, her small white tusks glinting. "I'm ready if you are."

Clys rose and pulled Danlily close, embracing her tightly, breathing in the familiar scent of peaches. Together they walked slowly out of the room, and down a long hallway. The polished marble floor reflected the two lovers, their long skirts swishing as they walked. Each wore identical garnet earrings, with gold settings. Danlily also wore a jeweled collar, ostentatiously ornate.

At last they came to a large chamber. It was empty except for two coffins on pedestals at the center. Danlily walked over to one of the coffins, and Clys to the other. They raised the lids, and then looked up at each other.

"You're sure you have no regrets?" asked Clys, her face serious.

"No regrets, my Mistress," said Danlily.

"On the count of three, then," said Clys. Danlily nodded, and Clys began to count.

"One."

"Two."

"Three!"

At that, they both spat into the coffins, and then slammed the lids shut, breaking into merry laughter.

"I never tire of doing that, my dear," said Clys, as Danlily came over to hug her again.

"Neither do I, Mistress," said Danlily. "Neither do I."

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She dances, her sand-pale hair long and her skirt full and crimson. With each turn, her skirts russle against the floor of multi-colored stone, leaving little patterns in the sparkling snow that flutteres to the ground. Above her, the sky is as dark as black silk, littered with diamonds.

And there, before her, is the man whom she once loved, whom taught her the meaning of the word. He takes her hand, and they dance, turning and twisting. He dips her, trailing his lips across her bare, pale throat. He whispers sweet things, words of love and eternty to her, and his lops move upwards towards her mouth.

Their feet do not stop moving, though the sceen just seems to fade away.

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"On the count of three, then," said Clys. Danlily nodded, and Clys began to count.

"One."

"Two."

"Three!"

At that, they both spat into the coffins, and then slammed the lids shut, breaking into merry laughter.

"I never tire of doing that, my dear," said Clys, as Danlily came over to hug her again.

"Neither do I, Mistress," said Danlily. "Neither do I."

((( :D:D Priceless! I expected something of the sort! :lol: )))

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