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About Daedraug

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  1. Hi all, I know this won't resonate with the great majority of folks still posting here, but my dear friend Matt, who played on TN for around a decade as Eudos and Miltonian, passed away last week after a relatively short but fierce fight with cancer. For those of you who knew him, I shared some words after his service. For those of you who didn't, you really missed out. He was 37.
  2. We're moving over to Jung Ma - I'll be on Daelin to start, not sure on Milt's new toons yet.
  3. RP-PVP Ven Zallow with Eudos/Milt and eventually Haldren. Taking things very casually for now.
  4. Long are these days spent in drink and remembrance. It's strange to think of how much energy I've spent over the years attempting to remain anonymous. I am a ghost, an encryption, and a fabrication, but never a man. All of it my own doing. My ultimate goal. I am feared and fed by scores of scuttling shadows who would not recognize me if we spoke face to face. I am the wind; only made real through my effect on the world. And yet, somehow, I find myself unable to overcome the melancholy brought about in realizing that no one will remember me. It is a hard thing to know that the great majority of intimacy which I have experienced has been the bond between killer and victim, that nearly all the men I can say I knew well only revealed their true selves to me because I was present for their final moments. You would think, being the sentimental wreck that I am, that I would dwell on those few souls who have actually known me before our paths diverged. Often this is true. Haldren, Kurohane, Netherlyn...a twisted compilation of love, trust, deceit, and loss, but nonetheless the closest thing I have known to friendship. My sister, floating in the unknown for all these years, coalesces from the night mist and walks beside me some nights. Memories of my brother and twin burn fiercely. I sometimes think that we were born separate halves of what should have been one man. That no matter how I tried, the path of life and light was his alone, cut short as it was by the wretched enemy. In his absence, free from the balancing force of his personality, always the greater part of our whole, how could I have become anything but what I am? If he had lived, if we had grown together, perhaps I would have been something greater. Something good. Strangely, in recent nights I have been unable to shake the thoughts of an associate who I knew only briefly, and never completely. The Scarlet Scorpid - an ally from the enemy nations. Why did I feel such a connection with a contact I knew as so much ink and vapor? I think perhaps it was the thrill in finding a kindred spirit. The realization that I was not uniquely flawed. The hope that even through the darkest of paths some benevolent destination might be reached. Could we have been friends? Lovers? I only know the shape of the character, never the form it occupied, so who can say? In the end, that thread was cut as all others - suddenly and without hope of knitting. If I knew the Scorpid had died, I would have risked my life to pay respects. Captured, I would have cut through all the world in the name of liberation. Instead there is simply another keen absence to set beside the others on my shelf. When was young all I wanted was to write. To compose epics and verses on love that would inspire and move. Instead, all the things I have written which bore any weight in the world have been in blood. How could I hope for an epitaph marked in anything else? I have packed for travel, though my supplies are light. I cannot see this journey extending to any great length. The world shakes, promising great and terrible things for the heroes fit to rise to whatever challenge is imminent. I have never been much of a hero, and so I will surrender the stage. Remember the Ebon Banner, crisp and snapping in the wind. Captain Daedraug Nightwing The writing on the parchment is neat and compact. Holding the letter down against a breeze which never comes is a cloak pin, a silver sword resting on liquid black onyx. It rests on a dust-covered table in an empty room, witnessed only by the spears of sunlight which knife through the window day after day. There it waits, hoping that if it is found it will be by one of those many who never knew the author, and will not be urged to follow.
  5. I'm race-changing my main character to a Worgen in hopes that some new RP life will make the game fun again. From an RP standpoint, I'm having a tough time figuring out if my old Knight-Captain rank is something I can display in-character, though. Part of it's from the fuzzy time line regarding Gilneas. Is my math/timeline correct here? (Based on Wowwiki) The current year is 36 The Alliance formally broke up around the year ~20 It would have taken at least a few years to actually construct the wall, recall all the soldiers, and seal Gilneas. For reference, Hadrian's wall took 6 years to build, so a conservative estimate of 2-3 puts us at 13-14 years since the kingdom's been shut off from the world. Other sources say ten years since a Gilnean's been seen, though. Either way, I think it's reasonable to say that an officer in the Alliance who lingered as long as he could until rumors of unrest back home finally pulled him back to Gilneas, only to be trapped when the poo hit the fan would still be in prime fighting shape (mid-30's ish). Am I off base?
  6. I believe I'll be back soon after Christmas...I was told not to buy Cata by Eudos, quite soon after my wife said she was calling him for Christmas ideas. He's excellent at keeping secrets.
  7. I found myself looking toward the night sky, focused on a wonderfully yellow moon just short of full framed by tendrils of gray clouds. I put forth no false pretenses that the sight moon often sets my mind to romantic or nostalgic tangents, but I consider it an understandable indulgence given the circumstances. My revelry was short, however, as I was snapped back to more mundane matters by a voice inquiring as to my identity. "Mr. Grey?" The voice was a woman's, sheepish, though pure in tone. I must admit that the heart-shaped face from which it sprang was quite lovely in the wavering lamplight, though the rest of her form was concealed by door to the squat stone shop which she hid behind, in case my answer was not the one she sought. "Quite," I replied, because I was indeed the Mr. Grey she was expecting, barring any infinitesimally unlikely coincidence. "Villem Grey, Investigative Services in the Areas of Difficult or Unusual Happenings and Predicaments." She gave a curt nod and opened the door fully. "You came highly recommended by Sgt-" I cut her off with a raised hand and subtle clearing of my throat. "I think we're all quite familiar with the identity of our mutual friend, madam. No reason to dwell on details beyond that." The interruption furrowed her brow, but the number of passers-by and porters on the shop row made it quite necessary. I stepped through the threshold, removing my hat and resting it on the head of my cane. It was quite warm inside, a mark of a lady living alone with no masculine voice to complain of the heat, so I tried to loosen my tie in as careless a fashion as possible, so as not to add any distress to this woman who, if she was the very Mrs. Lannister who had requested my services, had already endured much. "Mrs. Lannister, I presume?", I asked her, for I am exceedingly impatient when it comes to confirming my suppositions. She nodded, motioning toward a table in the dining area lit by a small lamp. I stood next to a chair as she gathered a small number of what appeared to be parcels and a well-worn brown journal of some sort from the mantle above the crackling fireplace. As she set them on the table and gently took her seat, I retired to my chair in-kind. Introductions to new clients often involve one of two strategies. In the first, your credentials are of ill comfort to the client or your skills in need of demonstration. In the second, the client is more desperate, and you are seen as the last hope for achieving their ends. I surmised Mrs. Lannister to be an example of the latter, and so waited for her to explain to me what the materials were exactly, despite the fact that I could with all certainty have put forth their purposes - a strange letter addressed to her or another loved one indicating that her husband new he was in trouble, a request from some mysterious stranger or business associate, and a ledger of some sort, likely detailing the individuals her husband - a cobbler working out of this very structure - had met with, provided services for, and the like. As she reiterated the information aloud which had already been cataloged in my mind, I thanked the stars that my skills were sharp as ever. I also gave silent thanks to the aforementioned mutual friend, who had briefed me on the pertinent evidence. I took a few moments to examine the specifics of each offering. "So, Mrs. Lannister," I began, "If I am correct, you believe that your husband was engaged in some business of a custom nature with this 'Mr. Fin," and, shortly after delivering, was killed by this customer despite an apparent lack of motive." "Yes, Mr. Grey. The agreed-upon price was still in his cash box, and I saw with my very eyes the cursed boots for which he was contracted." I withdrew my notepad and a sketching pencil from the inner pocket of my jacket, careful not to reveal the blade concealed on my person and instigate discomfort in poor, frail Mrs. Lannister. "Perhaps we should start there, if we could. Could you describe the exact nature of these boots?"
  8. You shut your mouth when you're talking to me. The Crow (comic and first movie) is ace. I challenge anyone to find a better villain one-liner than, "KAW! KAW! BANG! Fuck, I'm Dead!"
  9. It's even more heroic when you look at the statistics for how often a person naturally swerves away from impact to save themselves out of pure instinct. Overriding your own survival mechanism is awfully impressive.
  10. A family facing foreclosure on their home found the Holy Grail of comics in their basement: Action Comics #1, AKA Superman's first appearance. Discovered while the family was literally in the process of packing up their things to move out, the VG+ (Very Good) quality rating of the book should fetch around $250,000 at auction. In better Condition, other copies have sold for between $1-2 million. http://www.asylum.com/2010/07/23/superman-action-comics-1-saves-family-from-foreclosure/
  11. There were massive creative differences during the filming of the last Hulk movie, so it was never very likely that he was coming back. Most fans are pretty disappointed, and the root of the problem was Norton's cut of the film which was by all accounts a much better, more character-driven piece than the popcorn flick that Marvel wanted being discarded.
  12. MMO's are unique in their combination of social, recreational, competitive, and creative aspects of entertainment. By far, the hardest of the four to grow and sustain is the creative portion of that equation. The others are easier, full of tangible (some irony there) rewards and instant gratification within the codified system of the game: your guild gets bigger, your chat channel busier, the other guy gets deader, your pixels become shinier, and arranged in progressively uglier shapes. To be creative in an environment that at the same time offers inspiration but refuses to support artistic endeavors is a rough road to travel. Enter Mort, on her road of the righteous. I've been a part of TNG for a long time, not as long as a few, but a lot longer than most. The site was three months old when I found it. In that time there have certainly been a lot of changes, but the most frustrating has been the shift in focus. What the people who are granted the privilege of enjoying this site need to understand is that there is a passion behind its creation, and a very clear goal being worked toward. That goal is the growth of role playing on our server, and the existence of a place where like-minded people can gather and collaborate to help make that dream a reality is a necessity given the lack of support from the game's makers. Despite the fact that all the ancillary features which have been created, removed, and replaced again - the off-topic forums, discussion forums, blogs, etc. - were put into place with the best of intentions after the people who flocked here in the early days became friends beyond the scope of Warcraft-related pursuits, they are still exactly that: ancillary. They can be allowed to exist if they do no harm, but at the point when they begin to detract from or run counter to the actual purpose of this place, they no longer need to be around. The same can be said for those members of this community who continually use it as a stepping stone on their path to trolling, bullying, and doing all the other things that pathetic people do on the internet to stave off their feelings of inadequacy toward their real lives. Not everyone who frequents this site needs to be actively role playing within the game, but if your role here has become one that distracts from or disparages the community centered around furthering the actual purpose of this site's existence, you need to leave. If you're one of the people who causes no trouble, but had come to rely on this site as an outlet for your own personal expressions outside of fiction, then don't let that function being stripped away be a reason for resentment. There are lots of places for that sort of thing, but only one TNG. Perhaps they'll come back, and you're certainly welcome to ask nicely, but at the moment you start throwing language around about your rights, or what the site owner and her team of mods do and don't have sway over, you've become a part of the population which is best referred to as 'wrong.' Maybe some of you have never worked on something, poured your free time, energy, and sanity into a project that you truly had a passion for. In that case I don't blame you for not understanding. But understand this: this is not a movie or a book or a song, or any of the more common artistic creations which, once put into the world, are free for you to use, consume, and interpret as you best see fit. This is someone's home away from home, and she's nice enough to invite us over. Best remember that she pays the mortgage, and if she tells you that there's no rough-housing, or poetry jams, or pity parties, lovers' spats, or anything else she might decide doesn't fit into her vision of how she wants that house to run, then its time for you to move on if that's what you aim to do. So think about why it is that you still come here. What are you gaining from being a part of this community, and what are you giving back? Think about why it is that we've been invited over, and quit fucking about before she changes the locks on all of us.
  13. Mark Ruffalo is confirmed as the Hulk. Good actor, but I'm still cheesed that Norton couldn't be kept on.
  14. ((The idea behind the shift is that the third-person portions (of which there might only be the one) are reliable narration, meant to give short glimpses into scenes that represent recurring motifs of the story as a whole. The first-person views are suitable biased as they're from a character's perspective, and thus less reliable and prone to supporting mysterious aspects of the story.)) ((More soon.))
  15. One The fort on the coast had been growing for hours on the horizon, its beacon shining out across the water, a snake of light rippling back toward the coast. The days in the marshlands had left me stinking of mud and something vaguely fish-like, and Tiri was worse by degrees. She stirred on my back in the early morning's blue glow, let out a croak of a breath before setting down again. Rain had given way to a thick fog at some time during the night, and I drank every breath as I crossed another of the knee-deep rivulets that cracked the soggy landscape. As I reached the high ground my boot caught on a thick reed among the tall grass and snapped it. There was a soft groaning sound and a blur of movement from the gnarled tree at the edge of my vision. I threw myself to the ground, shedding Tiri and rolling to my side like a cocoon around her as a spiked log the size of a man hissed through the air where we had been standing. Where Tiri had been standing. Had we been traveling toward the water it would have claimed us. I hugged her close and let out a release of breath. “Papa,” she said, her voice low. “It's alright Tiri. Just some huntsman's trap I was foolish enough to trip.” “Papa,” she hissed, her whispered voice near-bursting with intensity. My gaze traced a path from her shoulder down an outstretched arm, passing over the pale skin of her hand, and setting off down the road laid out by her pointing finger. Eyes. They were on our inland side, a line abreast of black orbs, each filled with a mad spark of light from the reflected beacon. I did not dally to count them, but there were many more than we. “Run, Tiri,” I forced through clenched teeth, dragging her up by her disheveled cloak and pulling her along as I broke into full flight. Her legs skipped and bounced along the ground, feet scrambling for purchase at a speed she had not chosen. Noises broke the rhythm of my pounding feet and heart like the children of loon's calls and a madman's cackle. I took the downslope of a ditch too fast, a sharp stick carving a bloody line up my shin, nearly fell. My hand plunged into the creek to keep my balance. Too-warm water splashed my face. I pushed off the muddy bottom, feeling their hot breath on my back, but the arm in the water refused to resurface. Tiri was tugging on my cloak, her heels digging troughs in the bank as she scrambled for purchase from her backside, anything to set us back into motion. Anything to end the stillness that meant death. Every popping stitch on the seam of my cloak was a snapping timber in my ears. So strong. She screamed for me, pulled with all her might, and I drove with my legs toward the crest of land. A sound like the shucking of corn ran through my body as I tore free from the water and fell face first in a heap next to her. A terror dropped from the sky. It landed next to Tiri, a twisted javelin in its clawed hands. It was of a size with her, but its head was as big as a man's chest, all bulb-eyed and needle-mouthed like some urchin of the deep not meant for the surface. I struggled to my feet, lunged to grab it by the stone and shell necklace that hung around its neck, but my hand did not grip. Did not work. My palm and dead fingers smacked weakly on the back of its neck instead, the beads visible through a ragged hole in my hand like quarry in a hunter's scope. It spun at the rude shove, javelin arcing. The jagged stone point slashed a line across my forehead and my good hand shot to the wound in reflex, opening the path for a straight plunge into my thigh. I pushed off my healthy leg as I fell to my knees, torquing my body wildly and smashing the point of an elbow into one of its eyes. Something at the point of impact caved, and it staggered backward with a gurgling shriek. My good hand pawed for the knife in my opposite boot, yanked it free as more of the monsters crested the lip of the miniature valley. They spread out warily, crude spears, axes and clubs of bone and flint prodding at the air. I planted a good foot on the ground, the knee of my crippled leg screwed into the ground, twisted at the waist to try and face each one in turn. The blade in my outstretched hand felt woefully small. Tiri hugged tight to my body, her eyes buried in my cloak and muffled screams buzzing into my chest. The one I had wounded gibbered at the newcomers madly, pointing a finger at us in pantomimed anger. Still they stalked cautiously. They were hunters, and an animal cornered and wounded was a danger they knew well. I was the bleeding wolf, back to my den, cub within. I snarled and swiped at the first to shuffle toward us and it skittered back to the line. They closed the circle around us, five in all, inching ever closer. The ground began to hum like the earth was quaking, a small tremor building slowly. The two I could see snapped their eyes to the road east of town, began shifting nervously, babbling between each other. I stole the briefest of glances and found that our flight had brought us to the edge of a road. A mass of shadows was taking up the full width, and I pulled my cloak tight around Tiri. The circle hunched down and hustled to the tall grass as the horses drew near and sped past at full gallop, few riders sparing even the briefest of glances. They wore the livery of the Alliance, blue tabards nearly black in the low light, and in there hurry there was no time for an injured man and his child. A bark from somewhere in the column sent the final rider in the mass wheeling his horse apart from the group, plumed helm turned in our direction. One good soul in two dozen seemed right on odds. The wounded creature still stood in the open, too enraged to follow the example of its cohort. Its chittering grew ever-angrier, shaking its fist at the heavens while it danced about and leveled what I'm sure were the vilest of curses on all of us. The rider calmly leveled an opinion of his own, and the little beast snapped silent as a cruel iron quarrel sprouted from its throat. The rider, content that the only threat had been dealt with, continued on his business and thundered at full gallop to rejoin his fellows. I leaned on Tiri to make my way to the road and we pressed toward town in their wake, our pace too-slow to keep the eyes from shadowing us from the reeds all the way to the gatehouse.