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  1. Kumai


    Full Name: Kumai Race: Orc Gender: Female Hair: Long, henna colored. Eyes: Light brown Height: A little on the short side Weight: A little on the round side. Notable Physical Features: A massive burn scar covers most of the left side of her body, including most of her neck down to her hips, though it is usually only visible if intentionally uncovered by clothing She refuses to speak, though whether she actually can or not is debatable, and instead either creates images with ash and heat or signs with her hands Place of Residence: Dalaran Place of Birth: Nagrand Known Relatives: None Occupation: Errandmage, apprentice enchanter Guild Affiliation: Sanctuary Known Associates: Qabian Grimfire Known Nemesis: Always wary of Twilight cultists and current members of The Grim, but no sincere enemies Special Skills: Extremely delicate manipulations of fire and heat, especially shadow, light, and ash directly within a flame source. Positive Personality Traits: Determined, independent, intellectual, curious, carefree, easygoing, tenacious Negative Personality Traits: Overly cautious, naive, proud, selfish, stubborn History: When Kumai joined the Grim, she confessed her Bleeding Hollow clan origins and her past interaction with the Twilight cult that resulted in her scarring and her disconnection from the elements. She was born and raised in Nagrand, but she is very far from Mag'har. She just had her rite of passage into adulthood when the portal to Azeroth was opened permanently, and ended up with the Twilight not long after. She was only with them a very brief time before being rescued from Blackrock, though her rescue did not go smoothly. After a slightly awkward admission interview with the Grim, she faded into the background quickly and remained there, hidden and untested. Not long after Qabian returned during the campaign in the Broken Isles, Kumai asked him to teach her. He took her under his wing and became unusually protective of her. Eventually, he cut ties with her publicly when her capacity to follow The Grim's Mandate became questionable. In the present, Kumai has fully abandoned all of her connections and past with the Grim and the Twilight. She seeks knowledge and companionship with Sanctuary, a hard turn from her previous associations, but she tries not to belabor her past too much, looking instead to the future. STORIES: Beginnings and Beginnings: Letters to a friend, current character journal ((Letters Unsent: Kumai's old Grim journal)) What Friends Are For: It's hard to know sometimes Rescuers: Not the main character
  2. Cobrak


    Durotar’s sun was hot as always; the bright afternoon star baking the orange soil beneath it to a degree that to the naked eye it would play tricks in the distance, shaking and distorting the path ahead like running water. A foreign entity to the natural world distorted one such area, barely size enough to fit a man’s shadow. The stillness of the air was ruined by a few hundred echoes of shifting armor and weapons, wheels grinding through the rough dirt of the roads. War cries of all languages erupting in unison amongst the cacophonous din and carried through the winding paths of Drygulch, mimicking the sorted calls of the harpies that once infested it. The same ones Cobrak used to hunt for pittance in the days of his younger years, freshly divorced from the one man he truly called Father. Today, there was a different prey to be had. The dam had finally broken, and from Razor Hill, a tide of blue and red clad figures burst forth to crash onto the gates of his peoples’ home. Figures of the enemy forever sworn, and those who were misguided into naive notions of peace and harmony. One figure had her head replaced with a spray of blue and grey matter, the heavy armor she bore offered no protection from a high impact bullet. Not even a last prayer to the Light before she was sent to it, her hooves upturned into the air from the force of her death. The rifle’s cylinder clacked as it slid the next round into place. Green and red intermixed, flesh and blood splaying onto the ground as a figure collapsed to the ground, clutching the ruined remnant of his calf muscle. An orcish cry of pain of fury, unable to press on with the rest of his wayward brothers. Click, goes the rifle. A ram ceased its charge when its rider’s Dwarvish cries ceased, the grips loosened upon its reins and letting meander freely. A heavy thud behind the beast was ignored, a corpse now kicking up a small cloud of dust from its impact. Click. Thalassian curses were shouted, the feminine wail came with a freshly-bloodied hole through a scarlet silk boot. The tabard of Silvermoon dusted brown from the dirt she was forced to crawl in to tend this new injury. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Many times did that sound mix in with the chorus of two armies on the march. Many times a figure in blue lay in bloodied heaps, a body lost among hundreds for the undertakers to once the chaos ceased. Many times did a figure in red cry their pain to the sky, nursing a fresh wound that would leave them without the honor of battle. Many times did Cobrak wish these idiots had focused on the enemy at hand, the one they now willingly ran alongside. How many times must they be taught this lesson? How many times will they continue to trust these slaver, king-making dogs? They had signed this death pact already with Teldrassil, and already they were backing out of a deal they had made, scared of the ramifications that would come with a world free from the Alliance. No one had found him yet, perched high upon the rocks that dotted the canyon’s peaks, his very being shrouded in the runic magics laid into his armor. He was as one would perceive a mirage, a distortion of air that would one associate to the high noon sun rather than a rifleman in wait. His good eye filled the scope once more, a shot rang out a moment later, a Nightborne let loose a surprised cry of anguish. He would no longer fight with that wound in his thigh, but he would live. Live to learn from his mistake. Another shot, another human lying in the dirt, red pooling under his crawling belly. Destined to bleed out there, never again able to kill a Horde soldier when his Boy-King inevitably decided to wage war on them again, to loose his dogs on them. The Kul Tiran bitch and his mutt of a broken king, if only he could see them in this throng of soldiers; put a bullet in them to spare another disaster like what befell Zuldazaar. A new victim filled his vision, an orcish woman that knelt beside his last victim, a hand on her axe. He watched silently, to see if she would come to her senses and end him, as any proud soldier of the Horde would. The axe was lifted, a sense of hope came over him that she had realized her mistake. Instead of the biting claw of a feral beast that tore into the wound, the axe instead laid a spell upon it as though a tender kiss. Cobrak could barely see through the rage as the human stood up, nodded his thanks and pressed on. Why. Why didn’t you kill him?! Why are you helping each other?! Are they so blind to the truth he knows?! That each of them would gladly clap their children in irons as he had?! "The more you believe in your own reality, the further you step towards becoming the same monster you think you are fighting. I bet you believe that there are only Alliance slavers out there, or that the Horde is innocent of equivalent atrocity.” Naivety as its finest! These were steps that had to be made! To ensure that another family wouldn’t be lost to these self-righteous crusaders! There were bad ones in the Horde, of course, but that doesn’t compare to a fraction of the evils the Alliance has wrought! Of course, there were some- “I’m not your enemy.” "Because this whole thing is bullshit. Every last piece of it. If I had an army at my back, I'd take care of it on my own, gladly, without you." No, there was an angle for her. Something was there for her to take, something always is with women like that. Shouldn’t have trusted her, the whole operation was compromised because of it; or was it helped? The scope pulls away from the scene, its glass beginning to fog for some unknown reason. He reached a hand to his head, pulling back a slickened surface of sweat upon his brow. The sun must be getting to him, that was it. “Chieftain, I know you speak from pain and rage. Something you have more than earned in this lifetime, but using it to color your outlook on everything will only lead to further suffering.” A scowl fitted his face, eye trailing from the rifle to the encroaching army underneath, to follow it upward to the horizon just beyond; what little air support remained on the loyalist side was beginning to withdraw, and that would mean he would be exposed soon enough. Cobrak muttered a curse under his breath, the camouflage he bore fading away with each step in retreat, heading for Orgrimmar; or more likely, a more reasonable spot to ambush those who opposed his ideal of the Horde.
  3. Name: Shokkra Deathrage Nickname(s): Shokk, Stoosh, Demoncleaver Age: 23 Race: Orc Clan: Warsong Class: Warrior Affiliations: The 37th Infantry, Kor'kron, Warsong Outriders, Warsong Offensive, Dominance Offensive, Sanctuary, Dragonmaw Clan, Hellscream’s Reach Special Possession(s): Sanctuary Tabard, Drokognir, Dora's Pendant Occupation(s): Soldier, Blacksmith Birthplace: Warsong Caves following the Second War Known Languages: Orcish, Common Skills: Built like a tank and could lift a couple, can forge and repair all levels and kinds of armour and weapons, skilled with all kinds of weaponry excluding staffs Combat Tactics: RAGE Likes: Angry people, strong people, alcohol, blood, beating the living hell out of people, rain, helping people, war drums, flowers, dragonslayers, Orcs Dislikes: Traitors, magic, demons, the Alliance, dresses, snow, demons, warlocks, liars, demons, dragons, Scryers Pet Peeves: FUCKING HUNTERS Phobias/Weaknesses: Fear of commitment, pushing people away, rage gets in the way of sanity, the Twilight Nightmare Physical Description: Shokkra's really good looking, especially by Orc standards, by elf she's pretty decent. She's extremely muscular and built like a Tauren on steroids that’s been weightlifting tanks. Almost always covered in full heavy plate armour. Shokkra’s back and arms are nearly completely covered in tattoos marking achievements and loyalties. She carries a massive halberd on her back, Drokognir, along with two varying weapons on her belt and a boot knife. The blown casing of a bullet, inscribed with her own and Dora's name with a bloodstone in the middle is hung on a necklace around her neck. A carved war horn is hung from her waist. A large scar runs from the right side of her jaw up the side of her face, jagged and visceral. Personality: Shokkra is fueled by her emotions. Usually angry, letting her actions go faster than rational thinking the majority of the time. She fights viciously and ruthlessly, using the full effectiveness of her rage as an orc. Shokkra tends to get attached to people she spends time with fairly quickly, though she probably won't show it. She is extremely loyal, once she devotes herself to something or someone nothing will make her faith falter. Shokkra is a very honest individual, the most lying she does when joking around drunkenly. History: Shokkra was born in the Warsong caves after the second war, growing up hunting and fighting with her father Azilrog and brother Karthok. Shokkra later joined up with the military and was assigned to the 37th Infantry, where she was placed under the command of Konro Stormreaver. She fought with Konro and the 37th for several years until she was recruited into the Kor’kron following her deeds of valour in Northrend and Garrosh Hellscream’s acension to Warchief of the Horde. Shokkra proudly and loyally served Warchief Hellscream throughout the Cataclysm and fall of Deathwing, the Theramore Campaign, the Pandaria Campaign and the Siege of Orgimmar. Following the fall of Warchief Hellscream and the sacking of Orgrimmar, Shokkra went into hiding with an old friend of hers from the Northrend Campaign. She stayed in Silvermoon with his family until being called to Konro’s side during the Second Eclipse. After Konro’s death, the destruction of the 37th’s base, the mutilation of her brother and the obliteration of Accalia, Shokkra hit a low point. She had lost two lifelong friends within the span of a month and her brother fell completely to his psychosis. Seeking a form of stability and a belief to change her ways, Shokkra sought out Sanctuary. She found friendship and strength in Sanctuary, eventually feeling better and reverting to her violent, if extremely reduced, self. Shokkra spent a lot of time with Sanctuary, which proved to be taxing, constantly testing her resolve in the face of Hellfire Citadel and the Grim. But she continued to try. She continued to try and conform to Sanctuary’s vows, their beliefs and the beliefs of its members because of their belief in her. It was hard fought, but she eventually became a full member of Sanctuary. Shokkra later fought alongside Borrowed Time and Sanctuary against Serinar and the Infinite Dragonflight, where she faced off against the Shokkra she could have been if Hellscream won. Shokkra tore off her scalp by her oversized spiked mohawk. She changed her own hair to a braided mohawk following that. When the Quorum threat arose, Shokkra fought the Dreadlords relentlessly with Sanctuary, gaining both Drokognir forged from the shards of the Sword of a Thousand Truths and the Ring of Oveigle Form, and Konro’s Gorehowl replica. Shokkra killed three Dreadlords herself, also destroying a portion of Xelkorak in the Twilight Nightmare.
  4. The drowned morass beyond the ruins of Tideskorn Harbor clamored with the sound of battle. A warband of mortal warriors had descended from the Valarjar post of Valdisdall to cull the Kvaldir which perpetually amassed throughout the fog ridden marsh. They had waded deeply from the cliffs and toward the mire until the tower from whence they had come was lost to sight within the mist. The Kvaldir were not long to emerge. The fighting was brutal and swift with the tide turning in favor of Helya's foul servants. The formation of the warriors had broken, and retreat was sounded. However, not all could answer or follow suit with how scattered their band had become... One such left behind was a Knight, Rorrek Therrien, bearing Valarjar armaments of bronze and gold. Within his gauntlets were held apart immense cleavers which were wielded with peculiar ease that was belied by their size. The runes and stones upon his weaponry shone fiercely through the chilling fog. His sabatons waded through the water in silence whilst he kept wary watch upon his surroundings through the restricting view of his helm. His course was clearly made toward the cliff face beneath Valdisdall as to regroup, but this was not to be. Looming shadows within the fog soon halted his steps. The Kvaldir were closing in on his position and soon would have him surrounded. He was forced then to retreat further into the marsh in the hopes of evading the marauders, lest he be caught alone. The warrior eventually came to an outcropping of stone jutting from the water and mud. With effort he hefted himself atop this formation, thereafter surveying the fog downward and around the rocks. He could faintly still hear the sound of far off blades clattering from distant skirmishes. He was not the only one that was unable to follow the retreat, and yet such echoes were quite far from where he stood now... He waited and considered his options. The fog was dense and brutally cold. It had a way of seeping into one's skin, through clothes, through armor. Without either, it bit into flesh and hung there with dripping moisture. It would be easy to lose grip of a weapon in the dense fog, but fortunately for Vilmah Bloodborne, her plate mail covered gauntlets were padded enough to keep hold of the enormous Valarjar sword she used to fight off the Kvaldir around her. She'd been sent to help thin Helya's servants, along with many others from the Horde who fought for coin and glory alike. Clad in what most would have considered an indecent amount of armor, the orcess splashed through the foul seawater and fought with the speed and ferocity of the Blademaster she trained with. She wore only plate covered pants, boots, and gauntlets. Her left arm, mechanical from mid-bicep, was held to her body with a series of leather straps across her chest and back. Her torso was, for the most part, completely bare save for the fabric wrapped around her chest. Like most Blademasters, she would forgo upper body armor. Unlike most Blademasters, however, she was female. Quick though she was, the Kvaldir soon outnumbered her. Vilmah sped between them, hacking at their bodies with her weapon and taking down enough to clear a path toward what looked like a decent place to lick her wounds. Sinking her sword into the meat of a Kvaldir's shoulder, she kicked him into the water and ducked through the mist to make her escape. There were a few wounds on her side and shoulder that she could bandage, though she cursed the fog and its tendency to make everything wet. Moist bandages were even more uncomfortable than wet boots. Rorrek crouched low as he heard the distant sounds of combat resume, his sight honing in upon the direction from whence came the splashing and hurried approach. His muscles grew taut beneath his armor whilst he stared piercingly to glimpse any impending silhouettes nearing his position. The outcropping of stone he had found purchase upon afforded him both the high ground and cover should he desire. The footfalls hastened and soon a shadow emerged. The Knight immediately dropped from sight, concealing himself by the angle of the rocks opposite to this impending presence. The footsteps were not as heavy as any Kvaldir he had encountered. He pondered for a fleeting moment if it was another that had been caught within the mists, severed from any possible retreat. He slowly began to rise until he stood atop the stones and in view once more. His stance was bent, cleavers held at the ready, should he need initiate the attack with urgency. However, the sight beneath him led to a wary pause. Through his helm the man watched warily the orcess in silence, observing every facet of their person as to glean all that he could. She was not among the warband of mortal Valarjar that he had accompanied. Her garbs seemed to be vaguely familiar to him, but Rorrek could not place exactly that she resembled. He stood wordlessly while poised for battle should they prove foe and waited for them to take notice of his person above them. Vilmah caught sight of a rock formation in the water. Somewhere dry to dump the water from her boots and bandage her wounds seemed almost too good to be true. She glanced back to make sure that the Kvaldir behind her were gone, and ran for the tallest of the rocks to climb. She was a small orc, smaller than many humans, though her green skin and tusks were a dead giveaway for her race. Using her good arm for most of the work, she grabbed hold of the cold rocks and scrambled her way from the water. Once finally done splashing, she took stock of her situation; momentarily safe and hidden behind the fog, but for the most part, surrounded by Kvaldir. Muttering to herself, she slid off her boots and emptied them of the water she'd collected while running. A fish fell out of one and splashed gratefully back toward its home. Vilmah wasted no time and went about bandaging herself, though the wet air dampened the thin strips of fabric almost immediately. They weren't deep cuts, but they would eventually scar. Additions to her growing collection, which covered most of her bare torso and cris-crossed her throat. "Well this isn't the afternoon I expected," she said to herself in Orcish. The Knight, seeing as he had emerged upon the higher stones whilst Vilmah began tending herself, remained unnoticed. He continued to patiently observe downward as his brow furrowed in thought as to translate the brief muttering of Orcish. Rorrek did not relinquish his prepared stance or guard in spite of the orcess' vulnerable state. Eventually, after piecing through the foreign words, he responded aloud in a measured tone in common. "Yes... unexpected." Vilmah jumped at the sound of another voice, slipping precariously close to the edge of her rock. She managed to catch herself before splashing after the fish, and hanging on with her mechanical arm just long enough to regain her balance. Carefully, she approached the origins of the sound. Your typical orcess may not have understood Common, but Vilmah had enough experience in her short lifetime to understand and communicate a few words. Looking at the Knight, she raised her eyebrows in surprise and gave a careful wave. "Sorry," she said carefully in Common, the rest of her words somewhat muddled and broken. "Not know there. Kvaldir run. Wet. Bad." He made certain that there remained a respectable distance between them as he judged Vilmah's person. The sudden amount of surprise the orcess displayed was certainly not expected. Rorrek straightened himself as combat did not seem imminent, lowering slowly his great cleaving blades. He turned the handles within his gauntlets so to hold the weapons downward and rest their curved ends against the stone. Yet, his plated hands did not rest against the pommels and instead remained gripped as to indicate the ability to immediately return to action if need be. After a short time of contemplating an answer again came from his otherwise statuesque form. "Surrounded," he spoke simply. His hidden eyes then glanced toward their large sword for a moment. "Foe?" he inquired toward them now that they stood face to face. His knuckles shifted atop where he gripped his blades should the answer be unsavory. Vilmah blinked, searching through her vocabulary as he spoke in simple terms. The Knight's body language certainly helped. Shaking her head quickly, she lowered her own sword in a show of good faith. Time would tell how foolish a move it would be, but she was used to being wrong. "No. No foe," she replied, using her mechanical hand to hold the sword as her good hand pointed toward her own face. "Vilmah. Sanc-ury. No foe, All-ance. Honor." Rorrek's helm tilted slightly to the side as his thoughts caught upon one word within their broken speech. "Sanctuary?" he spoke clearly and with gradual enunciation. There was a shift in the atmosphere about him as if the orcess was then regarded much differently. However, this subtle change did not dispel the apparent wariness which girded him. "Twilight Empire," he stated. He did not return his name. Vilmah blinked and digested the words. They were familiar, but unknown to her. She gave a helpless shrug and shook her head, smiling in spite of the situation. Despite her scarred and somewhat dischevelled appearance, the orcess seemed even more young as her tusks helping to deepen the dimples in her cheeks. "Okay, Twi-li. You okay fight?" She asked, nodding toward the mists, where the Kvaldir could still be heard a short distance away. "Find here, very bad," she attempted to explain, using her good hand to illustrate the situation by sliding her thumb across her scarred throat. The Knight understood. He shifted the cleavers within his hand from their resting and unto a more readied position at his sides. His person indicated no injury as of yet, though the grand armaments were riddled with shallow cuts and indentations. Yet, he did not seem to agree with her explanation. He lifted one cleaver in the direction he assumed Valdisdall to be. "The way is shut," he affirmed. The cleaver was moved to gesture as well toward the mist around them. "Surrounded," Rorrek repeated. He then tapped the end of the cleaver against the stone beneath them. "High ground. Wait." Vilmah cocked her head as she attempted to decipher the meaning of his words. He didn't seem to be in any rush to move, which she understood as his signal that they shouldn't attempt to fight their way to freedom just yet. Nodding, she tapped her sword against the rock and pointed down. "Wait," she repeated, rolling her eyes and smiling as if to suggest that she did not enjoy waiting. "Wait cold. Wet. No good," she explained, indicating toward her bare torso, shoulders, chest and arm. "Blademaster bad clothes pick." The warrior could not relate, fully armored as he was, nor had he any articles to offer the orcess. The softly smoldering runes which were engraved throughout his armor and cleavers seemed to further attest to his person being far more suited to venture unto the unforgiving cold. He shrugged his pauldrons with brief sympathies as naught could be done. Rorrek made to speak again, but he then abruptly ceased his words and listened. A slow tide of shuffling could be heard approaching from all sides of the outcropping of rock. Intermingled therein could also be heard the clattering of chains and the dragging of nets. "Kvaldir," he spat under his breath. He crouched slighty once more and stared out into the mists. "Blademaster, hrm?" He pondered aloud. "...Good." Vilmah's ear twitched at the sound of nearby water being disturbed. It was followed by deep voices, which she quickly recognized. With her back to the rock formation, she crouched down low and held her sword in an angle above her head. The lack of armor allowed her to move in such a way that she could position herself close to the stones, making her small body even smaller within the rock's crevices. Turning her hazel eyes to the human, she flashed him a grin with almost impossibly white teeth and tusks. "Good," she repeated. Rorrek glanced back toward the jutting stone where he had concealed himself briefly before, though the musing was dismissed as soon as it had come. His gaze craned upward to the farthest end of the outcropping. The stones were steep and tall, enough to perhaps halt the Kvaldir entirely from approaching from behind. The Knight's armaments did not afford him likewise usage of the rocks as Vilmah displayed and so he stepped forward and prepared himself for that to come. The shapes slowly emerged in a semi-circle before where the two had made their stand. Yet more silhouettes shifted in the fog toward the farther sides and back of the stones. The Kvaldir grinned as their brackish line formed with cruel instruments kept in hand. However, they halted in the distance and did not immediately approach. Their prey held the high ground and with two present it would be difficult to overwhelm either at once. None of the cowardly drowned men were eager to be cut down as the vanguard assuredly would be. Vilmah looked toward Rorrek and pointed toward the human before she slammed her fist against her chest, a gesture she hoped that he could translate. Larger and more covered than she was, he would be able to take the brunt of their attacks while she picked off the Kvaldir individually. "You go," she mouthed silently, then pointed at the approaching enemy, then dragged a thumb across her throat. "I kill." Rorrek watched Vilmah's gesturing and understood at once. Yet, the Knight again found himself at odds with her reasoning and instead but stared with eyes that shone of disagreement through the opening of his helm. It was in that moment that he began to regret his former words as he remembered exactly why so few Blademasters remained. Admittedly that she proposed called to his heated blood as to cleave unto foe despised, striding boldly forth with wrath in hand; however, his experience combating the Kvaldir reined him back to his senses. He remained firmly where he stood, refusing to surrender the high ground and wade unto the marsh just to be overwhelmed at the hand of giants. It was this hesitation that provoked the Kvaldir as they saw their opportunity. A frail sounding horn was blown and the coral encrusted vrykul surged forward. Though, some purposefully fell behind in the pace of the charge as to allow others advance before them. Rorrek cursed beneath his breath as the splashing figures forced his attention forward again. He lifted one cleaver forward and pointed it toward the incoming enemies. The other immense blade was held near the hilt of the former with ease in spite of the length, attesting to the enchantments therein. He waited for the foremost Kvaldir to begin his ascent upon the stone outcropping and leveled his swords at the vrykul's eyes. It was then that the warrior struck along the edge of the former sword with the latter as one would strike flint. An eruption of flame ensued as the oils which coated the cleavers ignited. A cascade of embers were thrown forward, blinding the Kvaldir which formed the front of their advance and forcing it to stumble back into the water below. The others gave way and stepped back before the display and shower of flames. The air became suffused with the pungent scent of blazegrease that emanated from his weapons, an odor perhaps familiar to Vilmah as the tactic originated from the Blademasters themselves.
  5. *** The Mad must've been let loose on a retarded field trip to the Brokenspear Tavern... *** *** Derecho buys her drink and takes it elsewhere to enjoy. *** Shokkra grunts. [Derecho]: Hi dere [Shokkra]: Hey. Shokkra eyes you up and down. [Derecho]: Did ya be thinkin to get drinks for yaself before leavin da bar? [Shokkra]: Nah. Good for now. Drink after I fight. Aaren tilts her head to the side. [Derecho]: Oh ay [Derecho]: WHo ya be fightin? [Shokkra]: Alliance tonight. [Derecho]: Be picturing that bull's head on a few o dem for me, okie dokie? [Shokkra]: ...what? [Shokkra]: OH. [Shokkra]: Right, yeah. [Derecho]: And be punching him hard. You cackle maniacally at Shokkra. [Shokkra]: Sure thing. [Derecho]: Who ya be? [Shokkra]: Shokkra Deathrage, Guardian of Sanctuary. You? [Derecho]: I be not havin shuch fancy titles. Just Derecho. [Shokkra]: Aka'magosh, Derecho. Aaren smiles a little and nods. "Aaren." You greet Aaren warmly. [Derecho]: Ya be fightin too elfie? [Aaren]: Nah. Not tonight. [Derecho]: Ya can be sittin here by me den. [Derecho]: Ya got ya a drink? [Aaren]: Yeah, I always got a drink. [Aaren]: Drink's better too when it's quiet, like over here. Aaren looks around at the fog covering the ground, but she refrains mentioning it. [Shokkra]: Prefer places where I can fuckin' see my feet at least. Aaren quietly snickers to herself. [Derecho]: It being better than wit sourpusses like dat oder guy. [Derecho]: What, ya be fearing they run off witout ya? Aaren grins wickedly. [Shokkra]: I weigh these fuckers down too much. Wouldn't get very far in the boots. [Derecho]: Best not be falling in any deep water holes [Aaren]: Plate and water don't sound like friends. You cackle maniacally at Aaren. [Shokkra]: Bah, we get trained to swim in fuckin' plate. Shokkra flexes her muscles. Oooooh so strong! [Derecho]: Be f-fallin to da bottom like ya be an anchor. [Aaren]: Well, always a use! Aaren taps her foot on the ground a couple times before sitting down. [Derecho]: Ya be fightin alliance all of de time? [Shokkra]: Eh, gives me shit to do. Good training. [Derecho]: May it be I be doin dat after I get de idea o tings better. [Aaren]: I don't really fight much myself. But I never stood on the front line either. Shokkra grunts. Aaren points to Shokkra. "That one just gets mad when people hit her." She follows her comment with a snicker. [Shokkra]: Like any normal fuckin' person. [Derecho]: Ya be gettin mad too bitty elfie! It be hurtin [Derecho]: Want me be showin ya? You cackle maniacally at the situation. [Aaren]: I'm always mad, though! [Derecho]: Really? [Derecho]: Why dat be? [Aaren]: Probably. That's what I hear, anyway. [Shokkra]: You mean bitchy, Aaren. [Shokkra]: I'm always angry. [Aaren]: Same thing! [Derecho]: No no NO [Shokkra]: Bitchy's more elf-y. [Aaren]: Hey, I know this one troll that's pretty bitchy! [Derecho]: Who be? [Shokkra]: Oh yeah? Who? [Aaren]: I ain't shayin any names. Then they'll find out and come try to cave my face in. Shokkra snorts. [Shokkra]: Coward. [Aaren]: I'm not a coward. I'm shmart. [Derecho]: Hmm Aaren grins wickedly. [Derecho]: Ya be sayin anyting ya want. It not like words be sticks an stones, ya be knowin? [Shokkra]: Yeah, coward. [Aaren]: The words are harmless until the wrong people hear them. Shokkra snorts. [Derecho]: People be offended by every stray word flying in dere ears, may it be dey should stuff dem full of cotton balls. [Aaren]: Oh I don't give a fuck about people being offended. Sometimes they just want to act on it and I don't feel like dealing with it. [Aaren]: I got enough bullshit to deal with, enough people to watch my back around. [Derecho]: Let dem be tryin! You growl menacingly. [Shokkra]: Most of 'em are good at it. You peer at Shokkra searchingly. Aaren shrugs. Who knows? [Derecho]: Ya be tinkin like an orc. [Shokkra]: Well I am a fuckin' orc. Aaren quietly snickers to herself. [Aaren]: A damn good one to pay some gold and throw at your problems, sometimes. [Derecho]: I be knowin! Always so fixed on de enemy ya be seein right afore ya eyes. Ya be missin da rapta dat come at ya from de shadows. [Shokkra]: If a raptor comes from the fuckin' shadows I'll throw it at the fuckers in front of me. You smile at War Raptor. You cackle maniacally at Shokkra. [Derecho]: If ya be livin long enough to be seein it. [Shokkra]: That's what the damn armor's for. You eye Shokkra up and down. [Derecho]: Relax mon. [Derecho]: No raptas be huntin ya here. Shokkra grunts and rolls her shoulders. [Aaren]: Beasts, demons, what else have you been killing lately? A sly smirk spreads across Aaren's face. [Shokkra]: Eh, my liver. [Aaren]: That one'sh easy though. [Aaren]: Maybe the rest of it too. Shokkra shrugs. Who knows? Aaren peers at Shokkra searchingly. Aaren shrugs. Who knows? [Derecho]: Ya be lookin bitty. What ya got to be drinkin hard enough to hurt ya liver for? Ya don't be regeneratin like I be doin. Aaren waves. You wave goodbye to Aaren. Farewell! [Shokkra]: Just a joke. But mostly firewater, slammers, Blackrock Ale, Cherry Grog, Nitro-Fuel. [Derecho]: Sure ting, but why? [Shokkra]: Helps take my mind off shit mostly. [Derecho]: What ya be avoidin wit ya mind? May it be talkin can help just as good as da drink. [Shokkra]: Crushing stress. The threat of mortality. Normal shit. [Derecho]: Ya not be likin de idea of d-dyin someday? [Shokkra]: Not anymore. [Derecho]: Ya be not likin de idea anymore, or ye be meaning not anymore like it be okay now, it don't be botherin ya anymore? [Shokkra]: Don't like the fuckin' idea of dying anymore. Glorious death in combat seems... not worth it. Derecho snorts. [Derecho]: Death be not glorious. [Shokkra]: Sure as hell is sometimes. [Derecho]: May it be the act dat got ya dere was, but dyin itself be lonely and just bad, mon. [Derecho]: I can be seein why dat be a reason for drinkin [Shokkra]: Yeah. [Derecho]: But everybody dies, okie dokie? [Derecho]: Why worry? [Shokkra]: Too many people I care about. I want to live, with them. For them. [Derecho]: Well den, what da spirits ya be doin gettin drunk den? Knock it off, pour it out, and go get to bein wit dem! Dumb orc. [Shokkra]: Well I fuckin' can't be with them every fuckin' second of my life and when I'm not I think about all the crazy shit and start drinking again. Derecho mimes crying. [Derecho]: Oh boohoo! [Derecho]: I be so sad I can't be findin new friends to be fillin me time wit, so I be so sad I drink meself to my death dat I be so scared of! [Shokkra]: Oh fuck off. I get enough of this shit from other fucking people. Last thing I care about is some random fuckin' troll's opinion on my damn life. [Derecho]: Well ya either be wantin ta fix it, or ya not be. Not like one random troll bitty gonna start spouting wisdom ya be listenin to if ya don't be wantin to hear it. [Derecho]: I be hearin way worse tings to be drivin moods low, any how. [Shokkra]: I get all the fuckin' wisdom I need from every other self proclaimed philosopher. You cackle maniacally at the situation. [Derecho]: I not bein any philo what ever. [Derecho]: I just be talkin. [Derecho]: Just be words, mon. [Shokkra]: And giving out advice like everyone else. [Derecho]: Ya want be confirmin a rumor for me? [Derecho]: Oh ay. I can be shuttin up. [Derecho]: Me momma be sayin I talk too much. You shrug. Who knows? [Shokkra]: Might be. Derecho stays quiet for a long while, sipping her cocktails, but it's quite obvious she's itching to open her pie hole. [Shokkra]: That doesn't mean you have to completely shut up. [Derecho]: Okie dokie. [Derecho]: Well be tellin me true- dere really be like a legion of demons comin for us all? [Shokkra]: Yeah. [Derecho]: And den [Derecho]: Hmm [Derecho]: Ya be Sanctuary, ya said. Ya really be gettin fought on by dat odder guild? I be forgettin which [Shokkra]: The Grim? Yeah, almost a year ago. [Derecho]: A whole year ya two been goin at it?! Shokkra laughs. [Shokkra]: No no, almost a year since we made a treaty. [Derecho]: Oh [Derecho]: So dey be playin nice like now? [Shokkra]: No. Just not open warfare. [Derecho]: I be hearin bad tings, mon, and I not be knowin what all to be believin [Derecho]: Hmm Lupinum points at Shokkra. [Shokkra]: My turn? Lupinum nods at Shokkra. [Shokkra]: Attune me bitch. [Lupinum]: Make me proud, you worthless, dried gronnsack. [Derecho]: Oh ay! [Derecho]: It be de voodoo peeper. You grin wickedly at Lupinum. Lupinum blinks at you. [Shokkra]: I always fuckin' do you fucking piece of shit. Lupinum snorts derisively at Shokkra. [Derecho]: I sorry I be makin her grumpy I tink. [Lupinum]: Her? [Shokkra]: I'm always fuckin' grumpy. [Lupinum]: Took the words out of my mouth. [Derecho]: She be fighin better dough, most like. You shrug at Shokkra. Who knows? [Derecho]: Ya be havin any advice for a bitty troll den, afore ya be l-leavin? Lupinum blinks at you. [Shokkra]: Kill shit quick. [Lupinum]: Keep your tusks sharp? You salute Shokkra with respect. [Lupinum]: That's a thing you people do, right? You cackle maniacally at Lupinum. Shokkra salutes you with respect. [Shokkra]: Mok'rah, Derecho. [Derecho]: I be strikin like a rapta soon, don't ya be worrin none. [Lupinum]: Like a raptor? Lupinum giggles at you. [Derecho]: Tell ya friend. She be knowin Lupinum raises an eyebrow. [Lupinum]: Alright. Stay safe. Lupinum smiles at you. Lupinum turns on his heel.