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Nymare last won the day on March 22 2017

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About Nymare

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  1. Well then. I do believe I have an accurate grasp, now, of what exactly it feels like to have all the shards within myself ripped from me at once; though not in quite the situation I'd fantasized over. There was only one victim, and she endured it willingly. And, gods below, was it far more painful for me than cathartic. She had the good sense to leave as soon as it was over. I wouldn't trust me in that moment, either. It wouldn't serve me to drain every last bit of fel from her before I get what I need from her friend, anyway -- assuming he is capable of being of any use -- though, for a moment, it almost looked as if I wasn't going to give her or myself the option. I haven't felt that particular brand of crazy in quite some time. Even now, I can hear its siren song when I close my eyes, keeping me from surrendering to the rest I so desperately need, urging me toward inclinations I've long since shed. Luckily, any movement whatsoever quickly dissuades me from following my dreams. That man, though. Wasteful, dismissive, inattentive, far too excited by shiny objects. He actually assumed my injury was the result of some negligence on my part -- and, to be fair, it was, though not in the manner he was assuming: that I were some overreaching novice that called too much upon herself. He asked for clarification. I offered a more thorough representation of the facts, and suddenly it's a sob story? How? Why? Did *he* want to cry? I will take his reactions to mean he has no idea what I am capable of, which is exactly how I would prefer it be for the world around me, so I suppose I shouldn't fault him for that. In fact, it was a sobering reminder of Silvermoon's nobility culture; one I obviously needed, despite how disappointing it was. As long as he can deliver on what I'm paying him to do, what should I care? But if all he teaches me is how to open a pocket to some candy store dimension because he believes me to be some lost little princess dabbling with demons to shock mommy and daddy, I will gladly show him how wrong he is.
  2. It’s not as easy as it looks. When it’s quiet, and it often is, I can feel it scratching at the back of my skull, twisting in my gut, clawing at my heart, and it all comes together in a scream welling up within my chest with a madness that tears through my body, demanding expression. Demanding release. But I can’t. I can’t let it out. I can’t, and then the rage sets in as that feeling gnashes at its prison bars and paces away again, trembling with frustration and the promises of what it’ll do once it gets free. And it’s not this *thing* I was left with from the Hold. Or, it’s not just that thing, though that thing does not help. Is it heartache? Is it boredom? Impatience? Doubt? Grief? I have experienced them all before – some more than others. I am familiar with them in cleanly cut doses, meted out over time. But what is time, now, other than a joke? Nothing has its place anymore. There is no outlet. And neither is there an end. And this thing is a razor wire tangled and twisted around on itself, coiling ever tighter, snapping and lashing. I am its center, and it is mine. So I have to wonder what they see when they see me moving through the crowds. Can they feel the shards within myself stirred to a frenzy, longing to explode outward and rip through all of the flesh and bone and candy-coated complacency around me with exquisite, cathartic violence? Or am I a picture of normalcy with nothing but my scent to give me away to a select few, who, even then, don’t seem to notice my overwhelming desire to rend the universe in two in order to find my way home. Ignoring all of that. Being mundane. None is as easy as it looks. Maybe it’s this awful hair color.
  3. ...how I’ve missed the violent and unbalanced. Manic, broken thing that he was, he provided moments that reminded me of the life I’ve been exiled from and the people left behind. Why can’t I recall their names? Frustrating. Though, perhaps that isn’t a surprise. They, like this one, flitted in and out of my gravity like little butterflies in a bloodied and burning garden. It’s best not to name the things that aren’t meant to survive.
  4. [The words seem to burn up from the page itself, the book absent of an owner.] Ha! Of course HE doesn't know who I am - that is not surprising. But it would seem that no one knows who I am. Oh, the mischief I could make... Assuming I live through this. It's quite freeing. Though, I don't recall freedom feeling quite so... empty.
  5. [Tucked between two entries is a tiny slip of paper.] Sayge's Fortune #26 - Time is nothing; timing is everything.
  6. ♫♪ Where do warlocks go when they die? ♪♫ ♪♫ They don't go to Stormheim where the Valkyr fly. ♫♪ ♫♪ They go to the twisting nether and spy. ♪♫ ♪♫ Won't see 'em again til they're making you cry. ♫♪ If only it were that simple. This would be vastly more convenient under different circumstances.
  7. [a previous entry is bookmarked by two pressed flowers - a narcissus and a tiger lily] A drop of rain. A gentle breeze through the window at night. The flickering of a candle. Should any of these become a flood, a tornado, a wildfire, who comes forward to decry the evil of the situation and demand these things cease their destruction? No one. They may turn to prayer, desperate utterings to some power outside of themselves, begging for these things to end. But, in the end, isn't there an understanding that these things are gods unto themselves? Indiscriminate. Necessary, even. Where life is taken, it is also refreshed. They are also forces that stand in opposition to each other. A damn might stop a flood, a flood might stop a fire or bring new life to a desert, a fire might stop an overgrowth and let the nutrient starved soils replenish themselves. Those who pray have no way of conceiving what it is like to embody such a force, and those who beg for mercy and scandalize these forces as being evil have no respect for what stands before them. Do not pray. Do not beg. Do not fear. Fight. Or, be consumed - that is acceptable as well. But we, all of us, exist to be opposed. What is it the goblins say?-- Don't hate the player, hate the game.
  8. A breeze stirs to life around the book, carrying on its weak current a fluttering of whispers cutting in and out with all the fragility of the dance of a butterfly's wings. Pieces of me. They are mine to give as I choose, spread out far and wide to keep anyone from being able to put them together.
  9. All I really need is time and a suitable... vessel.
  10. What sorcery is this?!

    1. Xaraphyne


      Hey there old timer!

  11. The mage helm looks more warlocky than the warlock helm. This is an injustice.
  12. After everything, it is difficult to believe we might have missed something that important. All of the travel. The excavating, cataloging, researching. We picked up countless threads, untangled and re-wove them, traced through patterns that ran from Suramar to Auchindoun and back again, spanning across time and worlds. Cho'gall? We were so close. But we were also so close to the mistakes they had made, the mistakes we sought not to repeat. We had to have walked the same paths, stepped through ghosts and memories, disturbed their bones. And now it is as if they are giving us precisely what we wanted. And I wonder at just exactly what part we have played in all of this.
  13. <p>okay so i tried fire and so he turned into a bear a bear that was on fire and then he bit me so then i was on fire and now i think i need medical attention</p>

  14. <p>I tried. By the time I'd finished with the last part, the first part had regrown. It was Sisyphean.</p>