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Everything posted by RiktheRed21

  1. I have tested world pvp to a small extent, and from what I can tell, pvp gear no longer switches stats when entering pvp combat, and stats do not scale outside of BGs and arenas. Despite this, I find that around level 100, even with significantly less gear than others, I am able to put up a better fight than I was able to prior to the patch. From what I can tell, things were balanced a bit, but I haven't tested extensively.
  2. Gilneas, 27 years ago. Two figures sit apart from one another in a dark room. One a young man bearing a bundled infant, the other a dark-robed woman with fire in her eyes. A storm echoes outside; the patter of rain drones like a tired beast. Cynthia tapped the wooden table with a painted nail irritably. The man sitting in the chair by the crackling fire with the child in his arms was the source of her frustration. He had finished telling a rather unpleasant tale. Her husband was dead, as were all her children. All but one. He sat cradling the child as if it were all that mattered in the world. He’d spent months adrift at sea, the memory of his family’s downfall slowly turning stale in his mind. Yet the news was fresh and raw for Cynthia. She, who had been left in the misery of Gilneas to watch after the household while the fruit of her loins gallivanted in Stormwind territory, hunting for glory. Arthur Blackmane, that fool of a husband, had brought ruin and misery on all of them. All to earn favor in the eyes of the king! What would his favor do for them now? Now that only her youngest and frailest son had returned home, his young wife with child and another in his arms, brought home from some Light-forsaken island. It was all in ruins. Cynthia stood abruptly, the squeak of her chair’s legs on the stone floor disturbing the droning quiet. The child stirred in the man’s arms, but did not cry out. Cynthia turned away from them both, facing the storm. Biting back her anger, she spoke to her son, “From henceforth, you shall be the heir of House Blackmane. That means you will learn to rule as an alpha wolf rules his pack. You survived the war, and you survived the wilds. But intrigue and plotting is another beast entirely. One misstep and you will bring death to everyone you love.” The man replied, his voice steady, “I am ready, mother. I will do what my father could not. I will bring our House back to its former glory.” Cynthia shook her head. “No,” she said sternly, “You will achieve so much more.” The woman turned again, slowly approaching the man, her son. Her presence brought an unpleasant chill to the room. “You will,” she continued, “Or you will die trying, hmm?” Three years later… Cynthia sat in a rocking chair, knitting a scarf with a cloudy grey pattern on it. The scarf would keep her warm when the winter chill came this year, but it would not do her any favors in standing out among the popular fashion. Everything in Gilneas was so dark and moody, never a ray of sunshine or a drop of color to be found anywhere. It hung heavily on her heart. She, who had come to this land an outcast from her home. She had not been born into the House of Blackmane, but she had brought changes to it that would lead it to great glory. From what she had been told of its history, the family traced its lineage back to the progenitors of the kingdom Gilneas. They had been powerful huntsman and warriors, revering a pair of wolf spirits called the Lycan and the Paragon. One was dark, while the other was light, respectively. The family, in its tribal stages, had two leaders: brothers who represented the spirits. It was custom to this day to name children after the great spirits who had forged their legacy. However, little of their former strength and influence remained in modern times. Only a single thread held them together: Cynthia’s son, Mayes Blackmane. Mayes entered the room where she sat knitting and stood behind her. He spoke a greeting, “Evening, mother.” She replied, “Have you done as I asked?” “Indeed. Roland Smithe has been dealt with, and his mines will soon become part of my holdings in the highlands. The crown will not suspect me, as the incident shall be chalked up to a robbery gone wrong.” He reported the end result of their plan dutifully. From what he said, it went off without a hitch. She smiled despite herself. “Excellent,” she said flatly, not wanting to shed too much praise on the boy. He had been merely a tool of her plan, after all. “The mines shall account for our wealth to cover the expenditures in the coming years, hmm.” She let out a hacking cough without warning. Mayes remained where he stood, ever obedient. Cynthia did not like to be approached without asking. “Are you…well, mother?” he asked carefully. She looked down at her scarf-to-be, now stained red with a few droplets of blood. She lowered her eyes in a glare. “Do not concern yourself, child,” she said dismissively. “I have a new task for you. With the Smithes crippled, it is time to make a move on bigger targets. Houses Greatfang and Hunter must become loyal to us if we are to have the manpower to rule the city and the Blackwald. Convince Walden Hunter to come to our side with the promise of split profits on the fishing industry. As for Greatfang, promise him your firstborn for marriage. His only daughter will be of the age about the same time.” Mayes absorbed the instructions wordlessly. When she had finished, he replied, “It shall be done, mother.” She dismissed him, and he went. Glaring at the blood once more, Cynthia clenched her frail hands around the stained cloth. Smoke slithered from beneath her grip. Fire caught where she held the scarf, and soon the entire weave had come alight. She tossed the ruined piece in the cold hearth and watched it burn. The following Winter… Cynthia sat in her bed, breathing heavily and gripping her blanket tightly around her boney frame. The sickness had spread through her like wildfire. No physician or healer could find a cure for it, and every attempt had left her tired and humiliated further. After months of treatment, she had told them all, “Enough.” She was done fighting it. It was her time to pass, at the ripe age of 57. She should consider herself lucky she would go out peacefully, instead of hanged for her crimes. Years of her life spent building her family up would not go to waste. Mayes, at the very least, had become competent enough to keep moving in the right direction. He sat by her bedside, his dark brown eyes never betraying his thoughts. Cynthia’s own fiery golden eyes had dimmed in her darkening hour. She looked upon her son’s face and saw her late husband. He had always kept his thoughts secret from her. His hidden desires had taken him from her. In her last moments, she wanted to make sure the same would not happen to her son. She would not die full of regret. “My son…,” she spoke to him. He took her hand between both of his gently, and listened. “You have something…you wish to say to me. Do not deny it.” She was interrupted by a coughing fit. Mayes offered her a handkerchief for the blood. When she managed to breathe easy again, he said, “Mother, all my life I have wanted only to make you happy. My every desire, I had only because you willed it. And now you will be taken from me. And yet, I do not feel the same sadness as when I lost father and my brothers.” Cynthia’s eye narrowed, but her once proud and threatening face lacked the intimidating luster it once had. Mayes continued, “I feel relief at your passing. At last, I will be free of you. I can pursue my own desires; watch over my family the way I choose to. But know that I am thankful for all you’ve shown me. I’ve seen the world as it truly is: a savage world where only the strong survive. Only by my wits and my will will I make it for myself and my family. Clinging to your rotting dreams will not keep me strong.” Gazing into her son’s eyes, Cynthia felt her heart churning with hatred. This boy, this mere puppet of hers, had become ungrateful and betrayed her! In her final moments, he mocked all she had accomplished! And yet, with no strength left in her, she was powerless before him. He was free of her. Something burned at the back of her mind. A voice, perhaps? Yet, her traitorous son went on, “I am not sorry, mother. I know you would do the same if our situation were reversed. You are a wretched woman, and the world will be better without you.” He stood and walked out of the room. Heaving and retching, she crawled her way out of her mortal prison She clawed herself free of the shackles that bound her Never stopping to ponder the consequences, the Lady set herself free And all stopped to watch as the home she had built burned to ash. The Lord of All Things called her by name. ‘Cynthia,’ it said sweetly, ‘Do you seek the will you have lost?’ ‘I do,’ she said back. ‘Then let my fire into your heart,’ He told her. ‘Let me in, and you shall never go wanting again.’ Her youth, her fire, it came back to her now She looked back upon the home she once held so dear, And swore by her new Master that they would all burn.
  3. Kazarak perched himself over the center of Thunder Bluff, on the large totem pole in which the Tauren based their flight services. The troll held an odd purple heart to his ear. It beat faintly, and sometimes in between the beats, he could hear the spirit of the dwarf he had cut it from speak. Tonight, it was rather quiet, but he listened nonetheless. His hunt had ended in a dead-end after that dwarf in the Badlands had fallen to his axe. He had somehow escaped Kazarak’s notice during the attack, but he had known Morig Leadfist, so Kaz had hoped he might learn of the whereabouts of the remaining two targets from his spirit. So far, the dwarf had told him little and less. When he had first begun his hunt two years ago, Kaz had tracked one human that had remained in Pandaria following the ambassadors’ deaths. She had been easy to track. The caravan she’d joined up with left a trail for miles on a main road through Kun’lai. When he finally found her and the new party she had found herself in, he butchered them all without remorse. Even though they had nothing to do with it, they were the enemy. And they were in his way. The woman had lost her leg to one of Kazarak’s spirit raptors and was bleeding out. He asked for her name. She had given it, holding on to the hope she might survive if she did as asked. He asked her if she remembered him. She had said yes. He asked if she was sorry. She nodded. He had told her it didn’t matter. Then he put his axe in her skull. Hers was the first heart fetish he had crafted to track the remaining targets. The girl had known where some of them intended to travel, and she knew all their names. He had made a record so he could find them by name. Some of them were assumed names, but enough of the targets knew one another well enough that the trails had remained for him to find. Now all that remained were a human named Braddock Stone, and a night elf named Twinsnake. Stone was a businessman in Stormwind, having made himself rich off the rebuilding efforts for the former Stormwind Park. He had himself a cozy home in Stormwind that he stayed at regularly, but currently he found himself in a summer home Kaz had yet to get a location on. All this he had learned from asking around, listening to conversations, and bribing those who knew the man from less than respectable business deals. Twinsnake, on the other hand, remained an absolute mystery. All he knew was the elf was a huntsman, and always wore a shawl to cover his face. The elf had been a terror for everyone on the base they shared, always watching their every move and barking at them with insults and threats if they stepped out of line. He had served as a personal escort for Braddock, who had been their leader. If anyone were to know how to find Twinsnake, it was Braddock Stone. So he was the next target. A whisper from the heart sent a shiver through Kazarak’s ear: “My deepest regret…is I never got to feed my ram Nessy that night…” Kaz sighed. The dwarf’s soul had been spouting nonsense for days. Spirits drifted further away from material desires and information the longer they had been apart from their bodies. After a week and half, Kaz had nearly given up hope the heart would be of any use to him. Just as he considered destroying the heart outright, he heard a clop of hooves behind him. He stood and whirled about to face the new arrival. Unsurprisingly, it was a Tauren. A young man, at that. He wore an average tracker’s garb of dirty leather and carried a large burden on his back, wrapped in a brown cloak. He huffed and puffed as if he had climbed all the way to the top of the totem. Kaz knew him, but not well. He was the son of a Sunwalker called Quaran Goldfield, who had been an old war friend of his. The kid bent over, panting still. Kaz regarded him from behind his wolfskin hood. “Nagoda Goldfield, is it?” he questioned calmly. “Indeed,” the boy panted, “Well met, friend Kazarak. My father spoke highly of you, and of the rest of Team Six, of course” Kazarak remembered Team Six fondly. Before the Siege had turned them against their leader, Team Six had been an elite squad of soldiers sent on dangerous missions for the Horde. They had a representative from every race. Kaz had been their troll, and Quaran their Tauren. He kept in touch with them, but not regularly. They had all grown distant in recent years. Kaz replied, in his typical ragged, slow speech, to Nagoda, “And how is your father? We have not spoken…in some time.” Nagoda’s panting ceased, and he frowned deeply. He slung the bundle off his back and unwrapped it while Kaz waited patiently. As the bundle unfurled to reveal a large stone sledge bearing the marks of the Sunwalkers, Kazarak’s heart sank. Nagoda sniffled, but managed to say, “He’s dead. This is…all I have left of him. The rest burned away at his funeral pyre.” Kaz stepped forward to the kneeling Tauren and bent to give the boy a heartfelt hug. “I am…truly sorry. He was a friend. Tell me, if it is…not to painful, how did he die?” Nagoda wiped a tear from his eye, and replied, “You heard about the death knight who attacked the village down by the lake, I assume?” Kazarak nodded, and Nagoda continued, “The death knight responsible was taken prisoner. Brinnea Velmon.” He seethed at the name, and continued much more angrily, “She escaped her execution, and my father gave chase, following after her all the way north to Winterspring. There was another warrior alongside Brinnea Velmon that fought all the hunters that followed Father. He killed them. All of them! Even Orgog was with them, and he died too! No one ever beat Orgog.” The Tauren cradled his head in his hands. Kaz’s scarred face wrinkled with displeasure. Not only had Quaran fallen to this warrior, but Orgog as well, another member of their Team Six. Orgog had been a fearsome warrior, never bested by anyone in a one on one battle. Yet somehow, another warrior had bested him as well as all those following Quaran. This man seemed a true terror. Nagoda went on, “No one else was able to find the after that. There was a lead on the warrior. Some blood left behind at the site of battle. The alchemists told me it was a Forsaken. And witnesses from the execution said he was garbed all in black, and carried a huge greatsword.” Pausing, the Tauren looked Kazarak in the eyes. “My friend, these undead savages…they must pay! If anyone can find them, it is you. My father told me you spent years hunting targets you had only met once, and that you found more than half of them in the first year alone! And you were the only one who ever came close to beating Orgog. You are my only hope of finding them. And… you are a Grim now, are you not?” Kazarak looked down at his tabard, which bore the mark of the guild in question. “I am, Nagoda. Why?” he wondered. The Tauren replied, “The Grim were responsible for overseeing the execution. It was them the death knight called for when she slaughtered our people. You are one of them now. Answer her challenge! Find her, and give her the death she deserves. Her, and the black swordsman with her.” Kazarak did not take long to think it over, “I will do this. The Horde is…endangered by their lives. I will end them. When it is done…I will bring you their corpses.”
  4. Apologies for the potato quality. I don't actually own all of the items used.
  5. ((Then, everything changed when the death knight attacked!)) The death knight Brinnea would sit in silent contemplation. "Megeda is...," she would begin, "...He is myself. Everything that ever happened to me, all of the hate and violence, it has only been passed from one to another. He was a victim of a terrible crime. He was robbed of his family and home, as much as I was. It's a cycle of hatred, that's just the way life works. But I can't stop thinking about him. About what I did to him. I have become the very thing that robbed me of everything I loved." She would pause, looking off into the distance with a far-off look in her eyes. At last she would continue, "I know that nothing could ever make him truly happy again. There is a void in his heart that I caused. Killing me wouldn't make him feel any better. It would just be one more murder on his conscience. Yet...I feel that every day I live on is a day he has to live without closure for everything. He deserves his vengeance. And perhaps I should grant it to him. If only I could."
  6. Brinnea would smile when asked about Katelle Larmont. "The General," she'd say, "She's always looking out for people. Whether they're her people or not, it doesn't matter. She's smart, and brave, and a natural leader." Brinnea would pause then, in silent contemplation. Before long she would speak again, "She may not know it, but she saved my life. If anyone can aspire to bring peace, it'll be her."
  7. Parigan stood in the shadow of a tall, purple spire-tipped apartment building on the fringe of the Alliance and neutral districts of Dalaran. He stared up at an open window, high above, where he knew his daughter would be gazing out the window at the glamorous view of the city below. That was part of what made the place so damned expensive to rent. And also part of why Parigan had wanted to advise against choosing it. Though he hadn’t said anything, he wanted to warn Brinnea of the dangers of having such an obvious and luxurious home in the city. If ever someone came looking for them, they might as well have painted targets on their backs. He had deigned not to speak on the matter because he knew Brinnea shared his thoughts. They always thought alike these days. Always looking for the best path to take to survival, for safety. But Brinnea had settled for this beautiful beast of a place because she wanted somewhere nice for their daughter to grow up. A place of beauty, and peace. High above the city streets where rioters and murderers stalked, she could look down and see only what was beautiful. It was all a lie, an illusion. But it helped both parents live with themselves. He stood there in the building’s shadow, on the perilous streets, watching to keep it safe and free. But he was also there trying to convince himself to climb the steps of the towering structure, walk into the apartment, and see the daughter he’d sought after for so long. With all his might, he struggled to move his legs; to take the first step. Yet he remained glued to that spot in the shadow, out of sight. Was it fear that planted his feet firmly as blurred faces passed him by? Fear of the unknown, perhaps, or fear of the inevitable? Was Parigan afraid of what might happen when he opened that door, that his own living daughter would cast him out as the rest of his loved ones once had? Or was it that he knew someday, maybe many years from now, he would lose her again, lose the only thing that kept him anchored to sanity, perhaps life itself? His thoughts were scattered when through the window he watched over, fire spat and glass was shattered by the force. His eye widened, his muscles tightened, and every fear that kept him anchored faded like a storm carried away by a fierce wind. He charged forward, barreling through the front door of the apartment. He ignored the attendant at the front desk and leaped up the stairs, taking them three at a time. They spiraled up and up and up, and up he went for what felt like hours upon hours. The agony of not knowing spurred him on. He had to see, to make sure she was alright. To kill anyone that would harm her. Nothing, not even his own fear could slow him down now. He turned sharply into the hallway surrounding the staircase at the fifteenth floor, and raced down the circular passage to apartment number 1510. Not bothering to slow down, he kicked the door off its hinges and quickly looked around the smoky room for threats, his blade already flying from his back in his hand. What he saw surprised, and confused him. Brinnea’s father Torven gaped at him from the nearby window. He had just opened it, apparently to let the smoke dissipate into the outside air. Glass shards fell to the ground as he lost his telekinetic grip on them. A trash bin sat in the middle of the floor, where the shards were supposed to land. The entire kitchen was scorched by fire, but by all appearances no one had been hurt. Charlotte sat on the living room sofa. Her once pale delicate face was plastered with soot, and her short auburn hair was in tatters. Her wide grey eyes beamed and her thin lips twisted into a devilish grin. A fire spell floated above her hands, flickering like a candle fire. Parigan’s grip on his blade loosened, and the sword fell back onto the hook draped from his back. He gnashed his teeth against his metal jaw and muttered at Torven, “What the hell is going on here?” The mage stood quickly, clearing his throat. Charlotte eyes Parigan curiously. Parigan’s blackened heart skipped a beat. In that moment, she seemed not scared, but more fascinated, as if Parigan were a specimen for study. Torven spoke, “Parigan! We were just, uh, cooking! Yes, that’s right, cooking. Our turkey got a little overcooked is all!” Charlotte sat up on her knees, hiding her hands behind her back. She added, “Yeah, we were makin’ dinner!” Her adorable high-pitched voice, so full of innocence and wonder, melted Parigan’s resolve. It had been too long since he’d been in the presence of one so young, for obvious reasons. The undead looked back and forth between the two humans, man and child. He softened his tone, saying, “Right, turkey.” His one-eyed gaze settled on Torven. “We’ll talk later.” He turned his full attention to Charlotte. “Are you my daddy?” the little girl asked Parigan. Her eyes were giant pools of light, and he was getting lost in them, just as he did his wife’s years ago. He chuckled softly. “Yeah, guess that’s me,” he said quietly. Charlotte’s mouth opened wide, along with her ever widening eyes, somehow. She sprang up from the couch and ran to her father, jumping into his arms. “I waited for you! Miss Thalia said you’d come for me someday, and you did!” Parigan caught the tiny girl, careful not to crush her. Handling something with such care was odd, but put him at ease. The vision in his eye blurred. Was he crying? He’d thought it was physically impossible. He knelt, embracing the girl while she stood on the floor. Orphan Matron Thalia had watched after many orphaned and alone children in Lordaeron following the Third War. Charlotte had made her way into Thalia’a care after a member of the Gilneas Reclaimers had found her alone, surrounded by corpses. The worgen had passed her on to the makeshift orphanage at Chillwind Camp, where she had grown for four years. Thalia was a good-natured dwarf, and great with children, but more importantly was a former paladin, who had left her holy order when it swore service to the Scarlet Crusade. She had defended the children with her life ever since, and never lost a single one. Parigan had never felt so grateful for someone’s courage before, and still felt indebted to the woman, an uncommon feeling for him. Choking back a sob, Parigan replied to Charlotte, “Of course I did, sweetheart. I’d never leave you. I’m sorry it took so long to come find you.” The girl wiped his tears away with her palm. “Don’t cry, daddy, you found me!” She giggled happily, and hugged him again. Later that night, after the Violet Watchers had investigated the explosion, (and left somewhat satisfied with the cooking accident story, since Torven was well known as a clumsy mage), Charlotte was in bed, tired from the day’s antics. Torven exited the girl’s bedroom after completing their nightly story time. Parigan sat waiting for him on the living room couch, tinkering with his metal leg. He looked up from his work, saying, “Just like her mother, isn’t she? Loves her stories.” Torven nodded, plopping himself down on the couch beside Parigan. “She’s a handful just like Brin, but that means it’ll be worth it, too. No complaints here.” Parigan allowed silence to descend on them as he continued his work. Torven poured himself a glass of grape juice, lamenting the lack of alcohol, and took a long drink. He added belatedly, “I forgot how parched I get after one of those stories.” “I know you were teaching Charlotte how to use magic,” Parigan said plainly. All trace of the heartfelt dad from before had receded and was replaced with his usual suspicious self. Torven paled and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I know I should have asked first. She saw me use my fire magic for dinner and wanted to learn. I didn’t think there would be any harm—“ “You’re going to keep teaching her,” Parigan interjected, “She needs to know how to defend herself.” Torven’s grizzled face was written with worry. He replied, hands fidgeting with his mug, “Shouldn’t we ask Brin first? I don’t want to do anything without her permission. I only just got her trust back.” Parigan responded, “You leave her to me. I’ll make her agree with me. She has to see that we can’t be there for Charlotte all the time. The greatest defense is one’s own ability, after all. Besides, she clearly has a knack for it.” He gestured to the blackened mess of a kitchen. Torven sighed loudly, just now remembering he had to clean all that, still. “Yeah,” he said reluctantly, “I agree with you there. She’s a natural with fire magic, though she as of yet lacks restraint. I’ll show her some basics and teach her how to control it, but I’m not doing anything advanced until Brinnea gives me the ok.” Parigan tapped his metal chin and said, “Deal. I’ll give her some lessons on how to use a knife when I visit again. She’s got the energy for it, certainly.” Torven rubbed his forehead. “I won’t allow that. Not unless you agree to move in. No more lurking in the alleys and the Underbelly. You look like hell. Take a break, and get to know your daughter.” Parigan tenses up at the sudden commands from Torven, but loosens up with a long exhale. “You’re damn right, I’m moving in. It’ll be easier to watch after her, anyway.” He smiled despite himself. All it took was the thought of Charlotte being in danger, and it didn’t matter anymore how different they were. She was his daughter, and he would do anything to protect her. And besides, she had accepted him, scars and all. His fears were alleviated. At least, for the most part.
  8. Second entry. Dalaran. The city of magic and mayhem. When I was but a child, I heard tales of its grandeur. It was always the center of Brinnea's fantasies when we were in Gilneas. "Someday," she'd say hopefully, eyes full of gleam, "Someday I'll go to Dalaran and learn magic from the masters." That dream she'd gotten from her father, though at the time there was no one she wished to imitate less. Still, it might have been for that reason she desired magehood so badly. She's always felt the need to forge a path that she knows will be hard for her. She would rather take on a challenge that no one else will just to lend a hand where she can. In any case, I have taken up residence in Dalaran, in the Underbelly of all places. It was Brin's request that brought me here, to watch after the city for Charlotte's sake. The girl is still young and vulnerable. And the situation in Dalaran is unstable. A demon hunter has taken to hunting Alliance mages instead, draining them of their magic, and their lives. I fought against the devil, even blasted him into a wall. Yet, it seemed little more than a nuisance to him. He almost drained the life from that warlock, Ophinnia. I wasn't about to let that happen. Seeing it jarred something loose in me. I haven't felt anger such as that since that night... The devil tucked tail and ran in the face of our onslaught. Borrowed Time has some impressive fighters, but they lack true resolve. When the time comes for them to face a genuine hardship, I doubt I could rely on them to keep me alive. Not that that's anything new. I've been on my own for years, now, and I don't see how that would change now. I wonder to myself if I still write this journal for Charlotte, or for myself. Who do I address it to? Who will read this someday down the line, if anyone? I've revealed more of my life story to Deathrage and that other orc at the Faire. I cannot seem to restrain myself anymore. It is imperative that the truth never be told, to any of them. If so much as a whisper of it reached the Grim, I'd be hunted. And so would Charlotte. I cannot put her at greater risk because of myself. When I was alive, I didn't have much in the way of friends. I had my brothers, and Esmerra, but no one outside the family, really. I shared my first drink with Ersolon. We always went out to our favorite bar together. We would talk for hours about the stupidest things. Women we knew, who we'd like to marry most, hunting, going outside the walls, our frustrations with Father. I was always able to just talk with him. It didn't matter if I felt what I said was inappropriate, out of place, or disrespectful. I said it, he listened, and we would drink on. Of course, nowadays the drink does nothing for me. It's just an exercise I find puts people at ease with my presence. Why I've even bothered trying to make them comfortable with me I don't even understand. I suppose I just miss having someone around to talk to. Ridiculous. I'm not some foolish school child lost without a friend in the world. I don't need anyone. I shouldn't need anyone. I used to enjoy playing with children. Their carefree attitude and innocence put a smile on my face and a warmth in my heart in even the darkest and coldest of times. I remember it well when Esmerra and Terenas were young. And when Ersolon had his first child. Those memories are what kept me going with Brinnea when she almost walked out on me. I deserved it, of course, but part of me is glad she collapsed on her way out. That we found out, together, that we were going to be parents. And now, we have that chance again. It excites me, and terrifies me. I know that's supposedly normal, but I'm not really normal anymore, anyway. I have to take the chance and see her. Just not tonight. When that demon hunter ran from us at the bordello, I went after him alone. Damn anyone who declares that foolishness. When an enemy that can do you harm flees, you follow and put an end to them. It's simple military tactics. I figured mercenaries would understand that notion, but they gawked at me like simpletons at a magic trick. Even Deathrage did. I had her pegged differently. In any case, I gave chase to the coward elf until the trail went cold in the Underbelly. Two more humans died down there while we sat and waited at the bordello. Whatever sha magic kept me from leaving right away is responsible for those deaths. But the demon hunter is the one who must die first. That dark presence can wait. Drunken Alliance citizens found me with the corpses. They assumed it was my doing. That's also nothing new. It's the same every time I try and help people. They always think I'm the one trying to hurt them. They can't see clearly. Not where an undead is involved. The fear of my kind runs strong in the Alliance. The drunks tried to restrain me, to get the guard. They wanted to see me put away for crimes I didn't commit. They gave me no other choice. I can't leave the city, and I'm not letting myself get thrown in the Violet Hold for the sake of a few worthless drunks. So I cut them down where the stood. I'm not sorry for it. They weren't just in the wrong place at the wrong time, they made the wrong decision. I'm not sorry. I can't be sorry. Not with so much at stake.
  9. A small dwarven bunker recently constructed in the scar between the Badlands and the Bronzebeard dwarf territory of Khaz Modan… A blood-colored sun rose over the mountains of the Badlands. As light pierced the cleft carved by the Cataclysm, the entrance to the bunker flashed white on a soot-black environment. Glittering armor indicated where guards had been set on the outside to watch for attackers. Far, far above, watching from the face of a cliff, sat Kazarak Bloodskull, the Darkspear shaman. He had been waiting for his opportunity to strike, and the spirits told him it would come soon. Through the eye sockets of the trophy Zandalari mask he cast his far sight upon the scarred landscape below him, watching, waiting for his target to arrive. Years past, following the Siege of Orgimmar, Kazarak had been sent on a mission of diplomacy on the behalf of his new Warchief, Vol’jin. His group was tasked with speaking to the local military units of the Alliance and Horde, to spread word of the ceasefire. Though they sent word of their coming, an Alliance outpost occupied by men and women with a history for brutal tactics set a trap for the Horde diplomats. They were lured in, and their throats slit, Kazarak’s included. Though they were piled in a mass grave and condemned to be picked apart by carrion, Kaz returned to life by the grace of the Spirits, and in his mind only one goal would be considered. He returned to the outpost, this time with his weapons in hand. But the cowards had already fled, or been recalled by those who were supposed to control them. Kaz spent years tracking them down, one by one. He gathered their heads and would leave them at the entrance to Stormwind City along with a note. They always said the same thing, “Enemy of Peace.” Now, Kazarak had tracked another of them. A dwarf by the name of Morig Leadfist. The man had earned blood money all his life, but Kaz was still able to trace where the money came from, and where it was going. Morig had bought himself a place with a group of borderland mercenaries called the Band of Soot. They made this bunker using cheap labor. Cheap, because it was forced upon captured peons from New Kargath. After construction of the bunker, they were all executed, naturally. Kaz mourned their loss, and promised their spirits rest as soon as he claimed justice against their killers. Today, at sunrise, the new recruits would arrive in a caravan from Khaz Modan. Morig would be on it, as would numerous other mercenaries and unsavory types. Kaz planned to kill them all. As if on que, the timely dwarven caravan, comprised of three carts packed with a dozen troops each, pulled by two hulking mountain rams each, arrived just as the sun lit up the cart path in the scar. Using his enhanced senses, Kaz narrowed his vision in on each cart, until at last he found who he sought. Morig Leadfist, in the flesh. He clomped his way out of the middle cart, a spiked mace draped over a mail pauldron. As the new arrivals approached the bunker, unpacking gear from the carts, Kaz shifted his form into that of a spirit wolf, and padded his way down the steep slope into the scar below. In his ghostly form, he would be nearly impossible to spot until he got in close. By then, it would be too late for his foes. After several minutes of descent, Kaz at last made it to the bottom, and sprinted for cover in the rocks along the side of the cliff face. Two dwarves were chatting in their native tongue while moving crates from the third and final cart, the furthest down the road from the bunker. These two were out of sight from the rest. Kaz moved in quickly, drawing an axe and a mace as he did so. By the time the dwarves turned around, his weapons were raised, and it was too late to call for help. Kaz called to the spirits of earth with a silent command, ushering in a dust storm. The cloud of dust was enough to limit vision for a normal person. Kaz, however, used the wind to sense and feel his way. As the dwarves barked angrily in their stout and simple language, Kaz picked them off one by one, making his way in between carts unseen before striking. When at last he found his target, Morig was feeling up a female dwarf, who seemed accepting of the man’s advances. Kazarak frowned angrily behind his mask. Not only was the man a disgrace and a dishonor, but he did not even pay attention as his comrades were slaughtered around him. He, who was too busy scoring a piece of ass to watch for his allies. It made Kaz sick. He struck like a viper, smacking Morig in the back of the head with his mace. Hard enough to knock him out, but soft as to not kill him yet. The female opened her mouth to bellow a warning, but Kaz tossed a knife into her gaping maw and took off for the next target as she gagged to death on steel. The remaining dwarves had had the brains to gather in a formation resembling a defensive line. Half of them smelled so drunk, Kaz didn’t need the wind’s guidance to tell, even from a distance of several dozen yards. The officers were barking over the rippling wind Kaz had summoned for cover. The grunts of the band were watching Kaz’s position too carefully for comfort. He thought quickly and came up with an idea. First, he called upon the spirits of air, using a totem as a focal point. Once there was enough power to serve its purpose, he tossed it, using the winds to guide the totem to the center of the dwarves’ line. They stared, baffled at the totem. And just before an officer could warn the fools to move, a thundering boom echoed through the scar in the earth. The totem had generated enough force to knock the dwarves over. It was chaos for them, and a target-rich environment for Kazarak. He darted into the fray, weapons flying through armor and flesh with ease thanks to the melting power of fire and the shocking power of lightning. The dwarves fell again, this time for good. All except one, a warrior adorned in heavy mithril armor. He carried a massive shield that covered his entire body, and wielded a halberd, which he threatened Kaz with as he approached quickly, despite his burden. Kaz ducked toward the dwarf’s shielded side, avoiding the halberd as it came down where he had just been standing. The dwarf barked some taunt, and Kaz returned the favor with a swift, lava empowered strike to the shield. It glowed bright red under the immense heat. By now, the dust had settled and the pair could see each other clearly. The dwarf’s helm was modeled after a titan’s face, or at least, what a titan’s statue normally looked like. His shield was decorated with the image of a dragon, and dwarven glyphs had been carved into it, which began to lose their shape under the extreme heat of Kaz’s attack. The shaman stepped back as the halberd swung again, this time giving him no room to sidestep. He capitalized on the swing, ducking back into the fight with a heavy stormstrike, clipping the polearm in half and sending a jolt up the dwarf’s arm. The dwarf shouted some curse and charged the troll, shield first. Kaz dodged to the side, and clipped the dwarf’s legs with an extended leg, sending him plummeting into the ground. There, Kaz plunged his axe into the back of his helmet, and poured the essence of storms into it until the dwarf’s head vibrated from the electricity. Twitching, but clearly dead, the warrior was left behind to rot in the dust as Kazarak strode back to where he had left Morig Leadfist. The shaman sheathed his weapons, and produced rope with which to tie the dwarf’s hands, and a large bag to stuff him in, which he also tied. Whistling sharply, Kazarak awaited the arrival of his mount as he secured the dwarf in his bag and lifted it partly over his shoulder. A groan from one of the fallen mercenaries took Kazarak’s attention. He spoke in the Common tongue, which Kaz had limited knowledge of, “Help me…please.” The dwarf clutched a shallow wound at his neck, from which blood poured across the ashen ground. Kaz lowered the bag from his shoulder and stepped toward the injured man, regarding him passively from behind his off-putting Zandalari mask. The dwarf reached out with a bloody hand, and said again, “Help…me.” The shadow of Kazarak’s rylak drew closer as he crouched down, drew a knife from his belt, and slowly lowered it into the dwarf’s heart. The dwarf pleaded with him through every agonizing second, asking, “Why? Why?” Kazarak replied in his slow voice, impeded by the injury sustained in Pandaira, “You…ask for help. Only death…can save you…from me.” Then he plunged the knife deep into the dwarf’s chest, withdrew it in a swift motion and returned to his captive. Morig was why he truly came, but it was not to kill him. For tomorrow, Kazarak would stand before the Grim and be judged by the Inquisitor. Kazarak wanted, no, needed to show him that his will was great. That he was a Grim by heart. He would bring this captive as a display of why he chose to fight, and how he chose to go about fighting. That would show them exactly the sort of man he was. The sort of man he had become.
  10. In Dalaran, there have been murders, all committed on Alliance races. The Horde had only just recently been allowed entry to Dalaran following Jaina Proudmoore’s banishment of the Sunreavers and their allies. In the wake of the city’s re-opening, Parigan went to work ensuring it stayed that way. With the corpses of Alliance residents piling up, the streets became packed with rioters, all berating the Kirin Tor for their decision to allow the Horde back in. The Horde-based mercenary group, Borrowed Time, extended an invitation for Parigan to join in their efforts to bait the killer out of hiding. A bordello in the neutral district of Dalaran was used as the location for the trap. Following a riot at the doors of the bordello, the mercenaries were assaulted by the murderer, a demon hunter of great power, who revealed himself to be more demon than elf. After a difficult battle, the demon was forced to retreat. Before any pursuit could be mounted, a strange shalike creature blocked Parigan’s path out of the bordello, seemingly wanting to feed on the mercenaries’ emotions. After the sha’s trap was released, Parigan alone pursued the killer, much to the chagrin of the other mercenaries who still tended to their wounds, and followed a trail of fel blood into the Underbelly of Dalaran… Where the trail ended, the corpses began. Their bodies had been drained of life by fel magic, same as all the others. Two humans, a man and a woman. Perhaps lovers, or brother and sister. It mattered little to Parigan. What was important, in that moment, was the demon that had escaped his grasp. His right hand balled into a fist, knuckles cracking angrily. ‘Not only are the streets still unsafe, but the demon’s trail is cold again. Some of those mercs might have been able to track him further, but they opted to sit around like slack jawed idiots!’ he thought to himself, enraged by the thought of them. Shokkra especially had been a disappointment. Of all the people he had fought alongside today, she was the one person he expected not to give up as soon as the killer turned tail. Leveling his emotions, Parigan thought back to the encounter. The demon had gotten hold of Ophinnia and tried to drain her life like he had done the Alliance in the streets. Seeing her, unconscious and helpless, had triggered something in Parigan that he hadn’t expected. A rage he hadn’t tapped into for years. It hadn’t burned hot like a normal anger, but dark and cold. It cast a shadow on his heart and darkened his thoughts so he was blind to all reason. The last time that sort of rage had bubbled to the surface was the night he had died. He shook those thoughts off as he turned to walk away from the bodies lying in the sewer water. As he whirled around, he came face-to-face with three men: a human, a dwarf, and a night elf. They each carried a stein in their hands, were clearly drunk, and were staring at him in shock. Parigan grunted and spoke to them in Common, “It’s too late for those two.” The dwarf’s face contorted in rage as he yelled out, “Murderer! You killed them!” The human dropped his stein and murmured an incantation, frost appearing on his fingertips. The elf started to take off, saying, “I’ll get the watch!” Parigan scowled. “You idiots!” he barked as he drew his blade from the hook on his back. “Does it really look like I cut them down?! I was chasing the real killer!” The human mage threatened the undead with a spell, saying, “Put that down before you make things worse for yourself!” ‘They’ve already made up their minds,’ Parigan thought to himself, ‘But that doesn’t mean I’m taking the fall for this!’ He charged the mage, deflecting his spell with the flat of his blade. He smashed the human’s jaw with the sword, then spun rapidly, his blade slicing through cloth, flesh, and bone. Upon clashing with the human’s bones, the sword made a clanging noise that echoed through the wide stone pipes of the city. The top half of the mage's body flew deeper into the sewer through a hole to Parigan’s left as his lower body collapsed on the ground. The dwarf’s eyes widened in fear and the elf slipped on the wet stairs heading up and out of the Underbelly as the greatsword made contact with his friend’s body. Parigan turned rapidly, slicing the dwarf’s head clean off before he could shout again. The elf was scrambling and babbling pleas for mercy as the undead lined up his final swing. The blade came down, blasting its way through the elf’s body and the wooden stairs with a sickening crunch and a mighty spray of elven blood. Then everything went quiet. Looking around at his work, Parigan thought to himself, ‘They gave me no choice. I’m not leaving this city, and I’m not getting myself locked in the Hold, either. It was them, or me.’ He let the waters of the sewer wash some of the blood off his sword before he started to hear voices approaching. He looked down the hole the human’s body had flown through and saw only sewage below, so he jumped. His heavy plate armor weighed him down, but using all his strength, Parigan climbed out of the filthy water and sprinted until he couldn’t hear the voices any longer. On his way, he saw blood in the water. The human’s terrified face appeared to gawk at him as he ran past. Then it sank into the water.
  11. Brinnea sat still and silent in the dimly lit hallway of her apartment in the floating city of Dalaran. Thanks to her sister-in-law Esmerra’s support, she was able to afford the place to house her father, and her daughter. There was enough room for four people to live there comfortably. Brin suspected Esmerra had picked the place specifically to push Brinnea and her husband, Parigan, to try living as a family for the first time since Gilneas. But Parigan had left, unable to subject his daughter to the knowledge of what her father had become. An undead could not be a father to a human child. Before he departed, he promised Brinnea he would send all the money he earned to help raise their Charlotte, and he had lived up to that promise. Brinnea hated the thought of separating from one another after finally being reunited. Yet she stayed to watch over Charlotte. She wanted to try. To be the mother she had dreamed of being for almost six years. She listened to the sound of her father’s soothing voice as he read to Charlotte before bed. Memories flew past, raining down on her mind like arrows on a battlefield. Torven, her father, had once read to her as a child as well. Her earliest memories were of the stories he used to read by the side of her bed every night. Tales of knights, wizards, dragons, and heroism. She always wanted to be a hero like in the stories, like she believed her father to be. But he had disappointed her back then. He had more than made up for his mistakes since then, yet she could not shake the worry she had for her daughter. But she couldn’t make herself enter that room. After a long time sitting and listening, the voices stopped, and the door to the bedroom opened. Torven walked out, his aged face gaunt but happy. He had become considerably more joyful since Brinnea had asked him to watch after Charlotte for her. He’d lost his chance to take care of his girls years ago, and had always tried to make up for it since. As soon as he laid eyes on Brin, however, his smile faded. He walked over to her and took a seat beside her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I know it’s hard,” he said quietly, “But you are her mother, no matter what. She is a bright child, you know. She knows you’re different from her, but she still knows who you are.” Brinnea cast her icy blue gaze on her father’s rugged face. His wrinkles were more defined than in years past, and his brown hair was streaked with silver. His calm grey eyes regarded her warmly. “She doesn’t. And you don’t, either.” She broke her gaze with him and looked down at the floor. “I don’t know if I can keep her safe.” “Of course you can,” her father replied, “As long as you’re here, nothing can harm her. You’d never allow it.” Brinnea brushed his hand off her shoulder and stood suddenly, turning to walk away. Torven stood and moved to follow her, but she stopped, saying, “It isn’t just the things out there. I don’t trust myself anymore. Not after everything that’s happened. My blackouts, the bloodthirst…” Torven stepped closer, reaching to grab her shoulder again, but she pulled away. He replied, “You can control it.” “I can’t. I couldn’t before, and I can’t now.” “Then we can help you. With Esmerra’s resources, and the people I know, surely we can do something!” “No!” she insisted with a harsh whisper. “Her resources are nit unlimited, and they are better spent keeping her safe. And you must stay here to watch over her. I have to go.” Torven’s eyes widened, and he spread his hands wide in a beseeching manner. “You can’t leave now, you just found her! How could you bring yourself to take away the only parent she has?” Brinnea turned to face him, now stern and direct. “I must go, father. There is only one person I trust to help with this. If I am ever to be a mother for that child, I must find a way to pacify my need to kill, and I must overcome whatever darkness lurks in my mind. Only the Empire would ever understand and offer help. There is no one else.” Her father rubbed his head with both hands, at a loss. “I know I can’t stop you. I think it is a mistake, leaving again. But I will do what you ask. Charlotte will be safe with me, I swear it. But…you have to talk to Parigan.” Brinnea paused for a moment, before replying, “He won’t come to see her. He isn’t ready to try.” “Even if he’s in the city, I’ll feel better about you going. Charlotte needs a parent around for her, not just her grandfather.” “Very well, I’ll talk to him.” Brinnea came across Parigan as he departed from the Darkmoon Fairgrounds. He seemed surprised to see her, but his guard was down more than she was used to. He was more relaxed and at ease with his surroundings. She had a hand on her sword hilt, looking around at the familiar environment. As he approached, she said, “The last time I was here, Accalia nearly tore me in half. Yet the party still goes on.” She gazed around at the festivities, the fireworks, and listened to the shouts of delight and excitement. Parigan stood at her side, similarly glancing around. “You hear all the talk about the Legion’s return? Evidently some Dreadlords ran amok recently, spouting off about an invasion within the year. They had a map marking the Broken Isles.” Brinnea took the news in stride, though it troubled her some. She replied, not allowing her face or voice to be disturbed, “I’ve heard only a whisper here or there. At least, until just this week. Magni Bronzebeard awoke from his slumber, and news is traveling fast of what he saw in his dreams. Azeroth in flames. Demons raining from the sky. I’d wager the world is in for more hurting soon. But…that’s not exactly why I’m here.” Parigan cast his one eye on her, studying her face. He could tell sometimes when something bothered her, even when her face was void of all expression. He had a talent for reading people, or reading her, at least. “It’s about Charlotte,” he said, rather than asked. “I want you to go to Dalaran. I have something I need to take care of, and it shouldn’t take long. At most I’d be gone two months, maybe three. But hopefully not that long.” By the look on Parigan’s face, Brin figured he didn’t like her request much. “I can’t be boxed up in Dalaran that long. I have to keep my eye on the Grim, and they don’t always meet there. If I’m not watching our backs on Horde-side, then what good am I?” “You aren’t just a warrior, Pari,” Brinnea said, “You are a father. You have to keep Charlotte safe; that is the priority. If the Grim were still looking for us, you would know by now.” Parigan clenched his fist. He sighed, exasperated. “Fine. I’ll find a place to hole up in town—,” “You can stay at the apartment. She understands what we are, Pari. You have to talk to her.” He bared his teeth. “I’m not ready, ok? I will find a place.” He looked away, as if he were ready to storm off. Before he did anything, he turned back, asking, “What the hell are you doing for two or three months, anyhow?” Brinnea looked him in the eye. She was determined not to reveal anything. She kept her face and voice as level and calm as possible. Yet, when she said, “Some errands, stuff to get the new place set up,” she could tell he knew she was lying.
  12. RiktheRed21

    Kaz

    Full Name: Kazarak BloodskullNicknames: KazDate of Birth: May 20Age: 39Race: Darkspear TrollGender: MaleHair: Bright RedSkin: BlueEyes: CrimsonHeight: 7'2''Weight: 270 lbsPlace of residence: Orgimmar Valley of WisdomPlace of Birth: Stranglethorn ValeKnown Relatives: Makaba (Grandmother), Harubo (Father), Molira (Mother), Kubo (Brother), Kibari (SIster), Melisha (Wife), Naavi (Daughter), and Ramo (Son). All deceased.Religion/Philosophy: Loa worship, ancestor worship.Occupation: Shaman, soldierEnemies: The Alliance, and any who claim allegiance to Garrosh Hellscream or the Zandalari EmpireLikes: Fish, swimming, and smoking his pipeFavorite Foods: Fish, any fish will doFavorite Drinks: Cocunut RumFavorite Colors: Blue and greenWeapons of Choice: Hand axeDislikes: Dry food, cold places, deserts, and the smell of corruptionHobbies: Fishing and cooking fishPhysical Features: His face is a tattered mess of scars and burns. His throat has clearly been slashed deeply by some cut. He comes off as highly intense and threatening. All across his body, he is decorated with tattoos and scars alike. His body is lithe and agile. As a troll, he carries the trademark build of tall and thin, but is by no means brittle. Signs of age can be seen in wrinkles and pockmarks across his body. He keeps his bright red hair tied in several braids draped down his back. His tusks jut straight out in front of him.Special Abilities: As a shaman, he has been trained in the use of the elements, and spirit magic. He can utilize the water, wind, fire, and earth as an extension of his body. He demonstrates a trollish style while bending these elements to his will, almost dancing with the world around him as he fights.Positive Personality Traits: Kaz is honest, and truly kindhearted to those he trusts. He often dotes on young children with gifts and food, and sometimes even prepares meals for adults as well. Negative Personality Traits: Once he has been wronged, Kazarak will never forget his grudge. He would stalk his foes to the end of the world to return the favor, even for what might seem a simple slight. He is also very traditionalist, and will vehemently defend "the old way" of doing things, even when he is clearly wrong. A staunch believer in staying true to who he is, no matter what. Often called stubborn for this.Misc. Quirks: Likes to smoke, and gut fish even in the midst of conversation. Will often take the loftiest -- or most comfortable -- seat available unless at a formal meeting.Theme Songs: History: Before he was a shaman, he was a warrior, and before that, he was a simple fisherman. As he aged, his life began to lean more to the violent. His body is a mess of scars, displaying the great pain he has endurerd. Born to the Darkspear, Kazarak wished for a simple life, but with the persecution of his people by the other jungle troll tribes, and the immigration to Kalimdor, Kaz rose up to fight for his people, and lead them to spiritual purity in a time of great suffering. After losing his family and friends, Kaz became erratic and seperated himself from the Darkspear. Some say he was possessed by an evil spirit, and enderwent a pilgrimmage to cleanse himself. Others say he went to grant death to those who had robbed him of his loved ones. Though the truth is unknown, Kazarak returned a different troll altogether. Where he once sought to avoid violence where it could be avoided, he now seeks it out, to purge all threats to those he still cares for before they can give rise to further heartache.
  13. Hello, and welcome back! It's always good to see returning players on the forums.
  14. Brinnea Velmon - "The Troubles" by U2 Parigan Blackmane - "Raised by Wolves" by U2
  15. Brinnea Velmon: Taking care of her daughter in Dalaran. Parigan Blackmane: Taking mercenary contracts to earn money for his daughter's care.
  16. The following is written in High Common, in the distinct style of a Gilnean scholar. To be deciphered, the reader must have knowledge of such script. I've never kept a journal before, as I never found any use for keeping a documentation of the events of my undeath before now. Why I've decided to start might have something to do with my little Charlotte. Perhaps someday she will want to know what became of her father, if I never get the chance to tell her myself. Let's see, where to begin... Last night I ventured to the Cantina at the Orgimmar docks. Tahzani and Lilliana were the only diehards left after what was clearly a long, challenging night of drunken brawls. The two of them were evidently discussing some recent radicals of some sort, spouting on about their blind faith. I can relate to the irritation they both displayed at the notion of belief for the sake of it. However, I did not expect Lilliana, a troll of the Grim, to be so against radical behavior. From all I've witnessed, the Grim is full of those similar in mind. Perhaps she is different from the rest: more reasonable at the very least. Our few short conversations together have led me to believe she is more childlike than brutish. In any case, I must continue to observe their members for the sake of learning who I may one day deal with. Tahz and I spoke at length about our lines of work. He expressed a dissatisfaction with his own, which I discovered was bartending. Evidently he owns the Cantina, not that it comes as much of a surprise. He is rather personable, despite being proficient in the arts of a warlock. There aren't many fel casters I have met able to hold a normal conversation while restraining themselves from mentioning the dark arts. It is refreshing to find a new perspective on the matter. Tahz does not seem to like the demons much, and in fact made it clear he preferred to fight them to keep the world safe from their wrath. Behind that very troll-like exterior I believe lies a heroic soul. It'll probably get him killed someday. A pity. Speaking of demons, when I mentioned the recent outbreak of vocal doomsayers in the Barrens, Lilliana seemed upset about all of it. I can sense she was involved with the Legion in the past, and that whatever occurred soured her to the very idea of another attack by the demons. I suppose I can't blame her, but this again surprised me. She is turning out to be a far gentler soul than I expected. My theory is that she hates the Alliance above any others, which is why she joined the Grim. In any situation where the Grim turns against those of the Horde, or other potential ally, I suspect she may be reluctant to fight. It's a work-in-progress theory, and I need to investigate further to come to any conclusion, but it gives me a small sense of that dreaded emotion I've tried living without these days. (Hope) The two of them now know I earn gold for someone else. I must be more careful what information I divulge to these people. If I were to ever let slip a name, the whole plan would fall to pieces. Not to mention it would put Brin and Charlotte in danger. I've been playing with the idea of visiting them, but I haven't quite gotten around to it yet. Hopefully soon.
  17. ((For lack of full gear sets, I'll sign up for the honor tournament. I'm still tentative, as my work schedule has yet to be released.))
  18. Parigan happens upon the advertisement and looks it over with vague interest. "How humane. Guess I'd better get back to training." He looks down at his battered armor. "And maybe get myself some new duds."
  19. Full Name: Parigan Wolfram Blackmane Nicknames: Pari, Wolfblood, Bloody Berserker, Black Swordsman, Iron Undead Date of Birth: September 1 Age: 27 Race: Gilnean, Undead (Forsaken) Gender: Male Hair: Black Skin: Pale white Eyes: Brown (Living), Yellow (Undead) Height: 6'2'' Weight: 184 lbs Place of residence: Dalaran Place of Birth: Gilneas City Known Relatives: Mayes (Father), Ersolon (Elder Brother), Terenas (Younger Brother), Esmerra (Younger Sister), Sarah (Mother), Brinnea (Wife) Religion/Philosophy: No Affiliation Occupation: Mercenary, Demon Slayer Group/Guild affiliation: Knight of Beryl Falconia, Associate of Borrowed Time Enemies: Most of the Alliance, The Grim Likes: Dark, cool places and the sound of a whetstone scraping against a blade's edge Favorite Foods: Gamy Meat Favorite Drinks: Dwarven Stouts Favorite Colors: Black, Purple Weapons of Choice: Greatsword, Greataxe, Shield Dislikes: Bright, hot places and nosy neighbors Hobbies: Sparring, Blacksmithing, and Tinkering Physical Features: Tall and muscular, covered head to toe in wounds. His right eye was gouged out by an axe strike, leaving a long scar down the front of his face. His black hair is long and unkempt, coming down below his shoulders and drapes across his face. His lower jaw has been replaced with a black iron prosthetic. His left arm from the elbow down is also iron, and hides a cannon and a serrated blade that can be quickly drawn and retracted. His right leg from the knee down is iron, and adjusts fluidly based on his movements, which helps in battle. Special Abilities: Insanely strong, able to wield weapons as tall as he is in either hand. He is a master swordsman and capable of doing battle with foes physically stronger and faster than himself. Due to his undeath, he never tires, and is not slowed down much by his wounds, making him a fearsome and relentless adversary. When he goes berserk, he is unstoppable until his body is torn asunder, or everything near him is dead. Positive Personality Traits: Protective and caring. He has a soft spot for children, especially young girls. Despite his talk of not caring for the weak and defenseless, he often risks his own life to save those unable to protect themselves. Negative Personality Traits: Easily annoyed and abrasive. He does everything in his power to shove people away so they don't get involved in his problems. Misc. Quirks: Often scratches his wounds when they get itchy. Bleeds a lot without noticing. History: Born to a noble family in Gilneas, his only passion in life was for his wife and child, both of which were taken from him before he died. Once raised as a Forsaken, he betrayed his family and native land so that he might be reunited with his wife and daughter.
  20. For those of you who haven't heard, there's an online petition asking Blizzard to make official legacy servers for WoW, (severs hosting Vanilla content). For anyone interested, the petition currently has over 161 thousand signatures and the support of Mark Kern, one of the developers for Vanilla WoW, (now not working for Blizzard). I personally would enjoy seeing the game as it was originally produced, so if any of you feel the same way, consider throwing your name in the hat at change.org, (search for "Nostalrius Petition" ).
  21. I appreciate that you're using the last one you drew for me as an example
  22. Just wondering if any artistic folks were interested in doing a commission for me. I'd like a decent drawing of my undead warrior Parigan, so if anyone is good/interested in drawing a super metal undead character, hit me up through PM or on this thread and I'll write up a description for you. Thanks for your time
  23. Brinnea and Parigan were just random names I sounded out and decided they seemed unique enough to use.