IC Stories http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/list.php?2 Thu, 09 Sep 2010 08:50:54 -0400 Phorum 5.2.15a http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,150138,150138#msg-150138 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,150138,150138#msg-150138 Just focus on the energies contained in the cube, the spellwork will do the rest.

The little red-haired elf fingered the black-and-silver cube dangling from a chain around her neck for a moment, then held it up and watched the sunlight glinting off the little trinket. It was hard to believe that something so small, something that looked so insignificant, like a simple piece of pretty jewelry, was the key to everything. She took a slow breath, eyeing the small cube solemnly.

Be careful with it, Mira. The first few times, it's going to leave you weak, until you become acclimated to it. You may want to be someplace where you can lie down when you try it out.

That had been putting it charitably. In fact, after focusing her will into the cube, channeling the energies it contained, she fell to her knees and the world went grey for a while. She'd just had the strength to give quiet thanks for the forewarning to rent a room and take her clothes off before she fell unconscious across the bed, in an inn in Ratchet where no one knew her face.

She found herself in familiar, but disconcerting surroundings. Perched on a frigid rock on a ledge high above an oasis of green, she recognized immediately the snowy wastes of the Dragonblight, and the dragonshrine that lay below her. A dream, she knew, just a dream while her body lay unconscious many miles away in Ratchet. There was a twinkling, crystalline sound beside her as the green owl lit on a tree branch a few feet over her head.

"Bes," Mira said softly without looking up. "It's been a while." Tilting her head, she listened to the voice only she could hear, then nodded and smiled faintly. "Yes, I had guessed that. I'm too close to touching a dream to expect that I wouldn't hear from you, or at least one of Her messengers."

Casting her eyes back down to the green below, the flowers, the little lake, the half-transparent form slumbering in the midst of it, she sighed. "Maybe. Maybe not. I'm still not sure I belong there. I've been weak. Lost my way. Lost my child. Lost my strength. Lost my heart. Lost my faith."

After a moment's silence, she snorted. "Trials. What if I didn't ask for trials? What if I don't care if I'm strong enough to face it? Maybe all I want is a life, a home and family with no one's battles to fight but my own. Maybe I'm tired of trials, tired of giving all I have to people who don't matter, maybe I just want to spend the precious few years that are left to me with the only person who does."

Laughter, then, though there was a sadness to it. "Of course I know it's a devil's bargain. I give all I have, knowing it's only for a few short years, and then I lose the only one I've always been able to trust, the only one who's never turned his back on me. But it's worth it. This is... this is..."

Her gaze flicked downward again, to the half-seen form. "This is my dream, Bes. And even if I know it won't last forever, even if I know losing it is going to kill me inside... it's the one dream that matters, the one dream I'm willing to risk everything for, even my future. Just this one dream..."

Her voice took on a tone of pleading, and she looked up at the emerald owl. "Let me have this one dream, just this one... and I'll let go of all the others. I'll serve, and I'll fight, just let me have this one damned dream without it falling to pieces around me. That's all I ask. And when the dream is gone... I'm yours... and Hers."

The owl fluttered its wingfeathers, once more making that crystalline, musical sound, and let out a low hoot before it soared away, spiraling down on the currents of the cold wind and disappearing into the green below. Before she had time to ponder the response, Mira opened her eyes.

She woke face-down across a narrow bed and pushed herself up with a groan, shaken by the sudden return to reality, and by the time that had passed in what seemed like only a few minutes' conversation. It was nearly sunset when she came to her senses and hauled herself up to her feet, stumbling unsteadily across the room to take a cautious glance into the looking-glass.

Correction; hauled herself up to her hooves. Staring back at her from the looking glass was a short, busty Tauren girl with white fur, a thick dark mane with a faint reddish cast, and wide green eyes. The thin gold hoops still dangled from both ears, and if she looked closely at her left forearm, she could still see the tattoo through the pale fur. Thick black characters spelled out a single word, barely visible through the layer of white.

Asha, the name Jai's tribe had given her... It was Asha looking back at her from the mirror now. The trinket, and her transformation, had to be a secret, and a Tauren girl calling herself Miranya Silverbrook would be bloody conspicuous. There were only a few people though, close friends and family who could be trusted, who would know that Miranya Silverbrook and Asha Emberhorn were one and the same. The tribe would know, of course - that was the entire point - but the Emberhorns protected their own and she knew the tribe would never betray her.

There were practical considerations to take into account, too, but for the best part of half an hour, those were miles away. She simply stared at her reflection, at this pretty stranger. The tears surprised her, glittering drops from the deep-green eyes - eyes that were still faintly luminescent, something no amount of magic could ever completely disguise - trailing their way down the snow-white muzzle. This was impossible. Delightfully, perfectly, amazingly, wonderfully impossible, and yet there it was, a dream given form looking back at her from the mirror. Even that, though, had come with a caution.

It's like any polymorph spell. You have to be careful how long you use it. If you stay that way long enough, one day Asha will forget she was ever an elf, and Mira will be gone forever.

At this moment, looking at the Tauren staring back at her, with a heart full of hope and possibilities, a part of her thought that maybe staying this way forever wouldn't be so bad. There was still her family, though, and while maybe Cat would understand, her parents certainly wouldn't. She had to keep herself grounded in reality, no matter how tempting the prospect was. That was where practicality took over, as she wound a loose leather kilt around her waist and tied a matching halter to cover her chest. It took several attempts to tie the halter's straps correctly, as she tried to force the new strangely-shaped hands with fewer fingers to work right.

I'm going to need clothes. New gear. Armor. Maybe even a new bow. And a bigger saddle for Biscuit... Good thing you can buy anything in Ratchet if you throw enough gold around.

Where a tiny, stick-thin Sin'dorei had entered the room hours before, a small but busty snow-white Tauren girl left it. She tripped over her own hooves and nearly fell on the floor a few times walking down the hall, but eventually her gait straightened and steadied, and she raised her head, smiling confidently. If everything went according to plan, soon Asha would be as real, as established a soldier of the Horde as Mira had ever been, and she'd finally, finally be on her way to realizing the dream that would actually let her be free.

The first step was to stop at the Inn's front desk and pen a message in an unsteady hand, then drop it in the mail.

Jai,

Meet me tomorrow evening at sunset, at the lake outside Bloodhoof where the Dreamwalkers used to meet. I have a surprise for you.

All my love,
Asha

]]> Mira Storytelling Fri, 03 Sep 2010 05:30:43 -0400 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,149944,149944#msg-149944 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,149944,149944#msg-149944 The following events took place roughly between April 26th and May 16th 2006.))


Deep in the hidden archives of one of the Frostmane sanctuaries, there is a paper written in Trollish. Copies have been made in both Taurahe and Orcish, but they are now in the hands of the Head Speaker.
---------------------------------------------------

The Investigation of the Church of Sanguis Nox

Introduction: The Church of Sanguis Nox, formed and formerly financed by Bishop Tarenmor, is a group that reveres the night, moon and stars with a great respect. At least this was the premise at the start of the investigation. As of late, the actions of several members have been called to my attention. At first glance, it would seem that the Church, under new leadership, is slipping into darkness. This investigation will take a closer look at some of the allegations and predict the future direction of the Church.

Subject One: Aquenda Tenderhoof

In past experiences, Aquenda has proven herself to be a good friend, in combat and in simple conversation. All in all, she was a good person and had a relatively good sense of judgement. In recent weeks however, the former Bishop Tarenmor alleged that Aquenda had been consuming the flesh of the living... or undead as the case may be. With my prior positive experiences with Aquenda being recalled, I sat and listened in disbelief. He accused Aquenda of fully consuming two beings, and failed in an attempt to consume a third, most know this third as Arbert. So that was to be my next move.

I struck out to find Arbert. When we met, he confirmed Tarenmor's allegations. In fact, Arbert had nothing but ill-will towards the Tauren Shaman. Almost to the point of madness, though madness is not all that uncommon in the Undead I have encountered.

In a final act of confirmation, I went to a ranking member of the Church. I approached No Grimtotem and asked about Aquenda's new condition. He said that the Church was doing all they could to help her and that she, herself, was tring to stop these foul actions. This leads to an interesting question: What if she cannot stop?

Subject Two: No Grimtotem

No Grimtotem has shown maturity and wisdom on several different occasions. Whether it was diffusing a tense situation in one of the local taverns or engaging in meaningful discussions on the different cultures of our world, No seemed to be a respectable Tauren. He is also a staunch supporter of Magatha Grimtotem, the Elder Crone of the Grimtotem Tribe. Which in turn reflects his support for the Grimtotems themselves. This is where his character comes into question.

Recently, on a covert operation I was hired for, I discovered three secret notes in the tents of the Grimtotem at Darkcloud Pinnacle. They implicate the Grimtotem in secret dealings between themselves and what seem to be an Undead group. This cannot be confirmed, but I cannot think of any other group that would want to meet in Lordaeron. Attached to this report, are copies of the notes I found.

I asked No what these notes meant, and he gave smirk, as if expecting such a question. His response was fairly logical, in that the Grimtotem are known supporters of the Forsaken. In fact, it was Magatha's encouragement that resulted in the Forsaken joining the Horde. It is also common knowledge that the Bloodhooves that follow Cairne, are less accepting of the Forsaken because they are unnatural. So naturally, the deals that take place between the Grimtotem and Forsaken are kept relatively secret, so that they do not further enrage the other Tauren Tribes.

For now this is a satisfactory answer, but I still think that such things should be kept in the public eye, as both groups are known for their underhanded methods.

Subject Three: Xa'ru of the Atal'ai (Family name currently unknown)

When we first met, Xa'ru was a Troll Hunter who did not know much of his past. He was a friendly mercenary, who loved the sea and sailing. We fell out of touch, and when we reconnected, it was clear that he had undergone a change. He no longer had a pet that followed him and he bore the markings of a Warrior. This was not the only change, more importantly, his speech and tone of voice had changed to a more cryptic and sometimes aggressive manner.

A group of us met in a local tavern for a few drinks. A discussion on Tribes and culture got started, and everyone went around the room explaining their roots and their beliefs. Xa'ru stated that he was the child of the Atal'ai, notorious for their dealings with the Bloodgod, the Soulflayer... Hakkar. Whan asked if he was a follower of Hakkar, the room got silent and all eyes fell on him. He never answered, but it was implied that he did, through his riddles and talk of the Atal'ai.

Later that week, I was sitting at the bar with my head down. Xa'ru and a Tauren were discussing religion. He must have thought the Tauren ignorant and that no one else was around, because he said it plain as day. Xa'ru does indeed follow Hakkar the Soulflayer. The Betrayer of Trolls. I darted out of the tavern as quickly as I could to begin my writings.

Xa'ru and his people, the Atal'ai are a danger to -all- races. Hakkar wishes to cover the world in Shadow and Blood, and they support him with their lives and their very souls. Any intelligent person would know that this cannot be permitted. Xa'ru must be stopped.

Here is where the investigation takes a turn for the worst. No Grimtotem stated that Sanguis Nox is aware of Xa'ru's belief in the Bloodgod. He also stated that if threatened, they would defend Xa'ru or any member of Sanguis Nox for that matter.

Conclusion:

The Church of Sanguis Nox is trying to help Miss Tenderhoof cease her foul habits of consuming living flesh. For that they are to be commended. No's Tribe seems to have some sort of shady deal going on. Whether or not it is a noble one remains to be seen. Since I have no further evidence apart from the notes, I cannot pass judgement so quickly.

However, Sanguis Nox not only harbours a follower of Hakkar but a ranking member states that they will defend him to the end. Which in turn means that Sanguis Nox and its followers condone this type of behaviour. I have no choice but to condemn them and extend a plea for help to all Tribes, Clans, Organizations and other groups. We must end Xa'ru -now- before it is too late!

I also extend an offer of amnesty to any member of Sanguis Nox that leaves the Church. Should they do so, it is a sign that they do not tolerate such irreprehensible behaviour.

Thank You for taking the time to read this.
Trinda To'Baga.
Frostmane Mama.

-------------------------------------------------------
Attached to the report are the following letters:

Agasham,
Our plans must be kept secret at all costs! It will be disastrous if the other tauren tribes discover our affiliation.
Signed,
Harbinger Elm

Agasham,
Working together, our forces will be more powerful than all of the tauren tribes put together! Yet, we require your total obediance. Remember, your people will be rewarded only after our plans come to fruition.
Signed,
Harbinger Rex

Agasham,
Our agents from Lordaeron will meet with your delegates. Soon. We will notify you once we've found an appropriate location for our summit.
Signed,
Harbinger Grakus]]> Trinda Storytelling Wed, 25 Aug 2010 08:25:44 -0400 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,149863,149863#msg-149863 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,149863,149863#msg-149863
I'd been planning to play my eventual Gilnean there too, but as time goes on and the people I'd been thinking were going to roll around me in the Worgen scene are kind of dropping off, I'm burning out on that idea, and thought I'd try to get a feel for how TB is doing these days, and how welcome I might find myself in a potential return.

I apologize that over time I might post some of these stories in a manner that seems... out of order. I unfortunately have jumped around the timeline of my Gilnean in my writing and I'm trying to correct it if I repost here to string everything together nicely, but it's harder than anticipated.

But without further ado:


The Dying Days of Archibald Covington

Archibald Covington had always been an imposing man. He towered above most of his companions, six foot tall and sinewy muscle through every limb. Never an enlisted soldier, he still kept himself what might have been called a military mien – dour, humorless features, closely cropped hair and a never ending array of plain black suits, diamond-tipped cane of foreign wood no longer obtainable more for show than any impairment to his gait.

The tone of his voice was more of a growl, which he used to precise ends in business, gaining a notorious reputation as an unrepentant intimidator of weaker men. He was considered a remarkable ascetic; especially given the oft-guessed scope of the Covington fortune, never given to the earthly delights that waited only at the clasp of his wallet, could he ever be persuaded to open it.

To his detractors this nature of thrift signaled a sort of joyless, miserly existence. To his supporters it was proof of a keen understanding of what was truly necessary in life, and to those with a religious fervor, a pious observance of self restraint. To all that were pressed on the question, however, the common consensus was that a man who so fully refused the products of societal turpitude was guaranteed an exceedingly long life.

Funny, then. Fulbreth Covington mused to himself, that he should find himself upon his deathbed at the age of fifty-two, and I parentless at eighteen.

The bed in question was a massive structure of oak, stained dark and holding an aged, thin mattress which supported its owner. Archibald had been unable to rise from this bed for two days now, as fever ravaged its way through his body. At times his sweating had been so profuse that his sheets had grown sodden, to the point that the servants were sent to obtain more as the household’s clean stores ran empty. But now his skin was dry, like a crisp sheet of parchment, turned a sallow shade of gray that absorbed the dim light from the sputtering lamp at the bedside.

Doctors had been called, of course, when his father fell sick. Some of the finest doctors in the kingdom of Gilneas, doctors with practices on Fairmount Street and Greymane Square, doctors whose eyes almost seemed to turn the color of gold as they took in the home of their new patient. They had poked Archibald, weighed him, measured him, bled him, poured everything from water to oil down his throat, and at the end of each visit they came to Fulbreth, always with the same apologetic half-smile and deflecting words.

But you see, it’s spread from his lungs…

Perhaps if I’d been called sooner…

Best to make sure he’s comfortable…

And then they had gone, and Archibald continued to die. An infection, it seemed, had toppled the tyrant. A chill in the damp air which led to the cold, which led to the phlegm, which led to the collapse, which led to the fire that burned through his lungs, which led to his chest, which led to his brain. And now Fulbreth stepped into the room cautiously, a pillow gripped in front of him like a shield, as his father’s head lolled to the side, examining his son.

To counteract the aforementioned damp chill that was to be the better of Archibald, the room had been made insufferably hot via the fireplace; sweat beading down the nape of Fulbreth’s neck as he moved forward. The pity that had coursed through his veins was quickly dissipated by the familiar flush of fear, and longing, as the son looked into his father’s eyes, at their familiar expression of distaste and muted contempt.

“I-ah…” He began meekly, before taking a breath. “I’ve brought you a new pil- a pillow, Father.”

“…Sit…”

Archibald’s breathing was erratic, each drag into his lungs a rattling, sickening thing as his chest slowly expanded, then fell, air sputtering out through his lips. Fulbreth dropped the pillow to the side, pulling a chair close to the side of the bed, as his father continued.

“…You… you will be my heir, Fulbreth… you… hrrk!”

As he spoke in his new rasping tone he wheezed, flecks of blood spotting his lips. Fulbreth snatched a handkerchief from the nightstand, dipping it in a small bowl of water and carefully wiping away the stain. Through it all his father glared at him, eyes burning such hate that his son was unsure if it was emotion directed towards his progeny, or his newfound condition – one he had no plans to surrender to quietly. But he was shaken from these musings by the resurrected strength of his father, who continued slowly.

“Must… must put aside childish things. No choice… you are my only son, Fulbreth, you are the… the last Covington son. The business… the business must…”

Impulsively, Fulbreth reached out, grasping the hand of his father, intertwining their fingers, his father’s grown like sharp talons in his wasted state. He ignored the revulsion that shook through him at the realization and leaned forward.

“I know, Father. I- I’ll make you proud, I swear. Not just the business, but the family.” Excitement at this late moment of bonding quaked through his voice as he continued. “I’ve- I, well, I’ve met a woman- no, more than that! A deity! Vic-Victoria. Briarbone! I’ll make her my wife, and we’ll have children, heirs to the Covington Empire! And I’ll name our first son after yo-ach!”

Archibald’s fingers had sunk into the palm of Fulbreth’s hand, his nails digging deep into his son’s flesh, causing the exclamation of pain. With a feeble effort, Archibald still managed to wrench his hand free from the clutch, grasping at his sheets. Wheezing, his voice filled the room, shaking through Fulbreth’s body.

“…Don’t be so… hrrk… stupid, Fulbreth. She… the Briarbone girl is beyond you. She’s… impetuous, powerful. You won’t have the… the capacity to make her yours, to...”

His lecture dissolved into a new wracking fit of coughing, shaking his body like a leaf in the breeze. Fulbreth was on his feet, his ears ringing with his father’s words, made no move to the blood-spotted cloth. His hands clutched at his hair, and then to the high collar of his shirt, tearing a button free as his voice rose, a plaintive wail.

“I… she… she can be mine! You- you must believe me, Father! I’ll make you proud, I’ll- I’ll-“

“…Whining, again.” Archibald had struggled upright, his torso resting against the headboard, contempt dripping through his voice. “I tried, Fulbreth. I… tried to keep you from being weak… from your natural disposition…”

He raised a hand, weakly pointing a judging claw at his offspring.

“You always… disappointed me, son. I pray… to the Light that you will… hrrk… surprise me in death. That you... you will not destroy this business I have slaved my entire life for...

The words ripped through Fulbreth like shots from a rifle, staggering him back against the wall as Archibald slumped back down, his eyes closing with exhaustion from his exertion. He finally moved forward, stumbling back towards the bed.

“You- you’ll see, Father…”

He kneeled next to the prostrate form of the wretched man, reaching out with his hand to lift the earlier discarded pillow.

“…I… I’ll make you-“ The pillow hovered above Archibald’s head, his son shivering from a phantom chill, but his face expressionless.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Eugenia Morrison shuffled in small circles outside the bedroom of Master Covington, her heels making sharp clicks with every step. Every few rotations she would pause, staring at the imposing door barricading the lord of the house inside with his illness, wringing her hands nervously.

“…A mistake…”

She murmured the words softly in the otherwise empty space, to herself. She knew that’s what it was. He had made her swear that she wouldn’t come in, had told her he was too worried she may fall ill herself by exposure to Master Covington, and that he would be the only one to see his father. It was a horrible idea, she fretted, and she swore at herself quite crossly for agreeing. Fulbreth and his father had never gotten on well.

But the words, the appearance of his concern for her… it had tugged at some damnable string affixed to her heart, which she’d tried long ago to convince herself was not there for him to tug, and she hadn’t stopped to think clearly…

But the sudden creak of protest as the hinges of the door swung open stirred her from her worries, as she spun around to face the bedroom.

“Fulb- Mister Covington, you’re- oh!”

Eugenia marveled at the transformation. Fulbreth had entered the room in his holiday finest, a cleanly pressed suit that she had thought to herself gave him a rather dashing look. It was ruined, now – buttons from his collar ripped open, exposing the bobbing apple of his throat. He was drenched in sweat, his thick black hair matted heavily to his head. At her first words he had started, as though awoken from a deep sleep, before his eyes seemed to focus on her and recognition dawned in his eyes.

“Eugenia. He- I…” His voice quavered here, as he looked down for a moment before lifting his head again to meet the other’s gaze. “…My father is… gone.”

A sharp sob rose from her throat – although she would have been hard pressed to confess why, as she had never cared much for Archibald Covington. Without thinking, she moved to Fulbreth, throwing her arms around his neck and pulling him into a comforting embrace. He stiffened for a moment, and then went limp, his arms dangling in the air.

“Oh, Fulbreth…”

Eugenia had barely more than a few seconds to savor the moment, as she felt Fulbreth finally raise his arms, disengaging her lock around his neck and step backwards, clearing his throat heavily. She blushed, furiously, as she stared pointedly to the floor. Stupid, stupid girl!

“I, ah…” He began, stammering nervously. “I’ll take care of contacting Father’s lawyers, to begin transferring his affairs…”

Of course… she mused as he spoke. Fulbreth was the Covington son, he was the heir. This was his house, now, she was his servant. He is Master Covington now, no longer Fulbreth, not her childhood friend…

“…order a new set of luggage…”

Her ears were ringing with her thoughts, making it difficult to follow his words, but her attention was perked expeditiously by these words. Her head snapped up, her voice raised an octave above her usual range.

“…Lug-luggage…?”

Fulbreth cleared his throat, uneasily.

“I… yes, luggage. I need to prepare a tour of Father’s holdings once affairs are settled here, outside the City. I… I shouldn’t be gone long, not more than a month…”

She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came, and instead she just nodded, mutely. Fulbreth stood there, wavering, a hand extending out a moment before pulling back to his side. Finally he moved, stumbling towards the spiraling staircase that led down to the main level of the house. He looked back, his foot on the top step, his voice nervous.

“Perhaps… perhaps you can also send a messenger to Mister Clayton Briarbone. I’d, ah… I’d been discussing some… business with him. We, well… we likely won’t talk again before my trip, as I’ll spend the next few months straightening Father’s holdings. Please let him know… my interest has not diminished in our arrangement.”

He cleared his throat as Eugenia nodded again before continuing.

“Also… please, ah, please see if you could have a firearm ordered for me? This has been a… a draining time, Eugenia. I think I should like to take some time while I’m in the countryside to hunt…”]]> Haelin Storytelling Tue, 24 Aug 2010 21:40:06 -0400 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,149689,149689#msg-149689 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,149689,149689#msg-149689 Written as an entry in Mel's journal.

A few weeks ago, Det approached me regarding a curse that he had been dealing with by himself for close to two years. Ever since he had killed a Bloodscalp Troll who had "known" his mate, Det had been hearing a dark voice deep within. The voice commanded him to kill his mate and his children. After this, the original voice was joined by a chorus of children. His children. Det spoke of nightmares while he was asleep and while he was awake. They mostly consisted of the tortured screams of dying children and hatred laced accusations of murder, weakness and many other horrible things.

In the last six months to a year, Det searched for help from Trollish priests, shaman and witch doctors. Each turned him away with a different excuse. They were either too busy with other Trolls' problems (this one being most common, in these troubled times), it wasn't their area of expertise, or they simply didn't want to help him because Det is Amani. One shaman eventually referred him to me, as I had just recently begun practicing rituals for the general Trollish public again.

He hunted me down one night at the Drunken Kodo. After hearing fragments of the story from the inebriated behemoth, I decided that he was not prepared enough for the rituals to come. So, I sent him away to begin the physical cleansing of his body on his own through fasting. I also recommended at least a week of intense prayer and offerings to the Loa. I followed suit with the same, so that I would be an appropriate vessel for the spirits if it came to that.

Knowing that this would be difficult to do alone, immediately after he left, I headed to the Valley of Spirits to ask for counsel. The spiritual leaders of the Darkspear barely had any time to speak with me. It seemed as if they were gearing up for something big. However, when I was finally granted an audience, they promised they would spare one person to assist me.

A week turned into two weeks. Two weeks turned into three. I was fairly close to deciding that the curse had gotten the better of him and drove him to suicide, when at last a letter came. Det felt he was as prepared as he would ever be and wanted to perform the cleansing. I scribbled off two notes: one to the Valley of Spirits and one to Det, outlining where and when the ritual was to take place.

So, the day had arrived. At the time of this writing, that day was yesterday. Of course, when I read it again, it will likely be years ago. Anyway! The day had arrived and I waited on the banks of the Southfury. I had just finished completing the wards I would be placing around the hut when Det showed up in his Amani war garb. I think it was quite fitting, since he was about to fight for his soul. I didn't want to start without the aid the Darkspear spiritual council was sending. Using the skills I picked up when performing, I stalled for time and it's a damned good thing I did.

I insisted that he go over the story once more, without leaving anything out. So he started from the very beginning.

~~
He and his mate had entered into the union of sepanja. While under normal circumstances sepanja does not prevent either partner from taking another, it seems that this particular union included vows of fidelity. His mate then encountered a Bloodscalp berserker. I'm still unsure whether she was raped or if she was willingly bedded, but the fact is that they knew each other in the most physically intimate of acts. This enraged Det when he found out and he sought out the Bloodscalp. When begging for his life, he reported hearing voices that drove him to do things. Det did not care and killed him.

Apparently, the Bloodscalp was telling the truth because shortly after Det dealt the killing blow he started hearing whispers. The whispers crept into his mind and slowly turned him into a puppet. Like a good little puppet, Det danced. He killed his mate and then turned his anger towards their children. The following little detail is something he initially did not tell me and it changed my entire approach.

The Amani warrior killed his children by eating them and from that day onward, he has been troubled by their lingering spirits. As if that was not bad enough, they were themselves twisted into horrible apparitions by the existing curse from the Bloodscalp.

Det was now doubly cursed.
The first curse was Hakkari in nature. Likely a blood oath that the Bloodscalp had taken to enhance his natural power. For the Bloodscalp, it likely helped him overcome his conscience. Most who serve Hakkar need a little persuasion, you see. Since Hakkar's taint is a spiritual contagion, when Det killed the Bloodscalp, it transferred to him. Unfortunately, unlike the Bloodscalp, Det did not want to do the things the voice of Hakkar (or his servants) drove him to do.

The second curse was due to Det eating the children without a proper ritual. This meant that he was for a lack of a better term... haunted. When their spirits lingered within him, the voice spoke to them as well. So, if you can think of 'normal' lingering spirits... multiply their agony twenty-fold and this is the kind of thing the poor Troll was dealing with.

So there it was.
~~

I immediately began arguing with Det. He never should have left out that he ATE his children. He didn't think it mattered how they died, he said. AND THIS IS WHY I NOW PRACTICE PUBLICLY AGAIN...

How could any Troll, spiritual or not, not understand the significance of what is now known as "cannibalism"? I suppose that's half the problem right there. That word is all wrong. It implies that we just eat people willy-nilly. The proper term has always been "ritual consumption". We are supposed to perform rituals to treat the spirit of the dead with respect before consumption of their flesh. Even in the heat of battle, a small marking is made and a prayer is said. Without the ritual, it is very dangerous to consume the flesh of another. By consuming the flesh of his children without the proper procedure, Det had damned his soul to a lifetime of torture.

It was around the time of this argument that a shaman made his way to my little camp. He introduced himself as Naoda, a shaman whose specialty is in dealing with water spirits. We welcomed him and I quickly briefed him about Det's situation and gave him my theory. The shaman agreed with my assessment and I directed him into the hut. Det went to enter as well, but I stopped him and handed him a coconut. I told him it was blessed by Legba, so it was now called Obi. I then gave him instructions to roll Obi around the inner walls of the hut and across the doorway. A necessary ritual to ensure that only the spirits we wished to deal with were in the hut. Det did as I asked and set the Obi to watch the entrance.

Naoda instructed Det to lay down once he was inside. Next to him, I scraped Legba's vévé into the ground, sang praises to Legba and begged him to open the crossroads between our world and theirs. Following the song, I rattled my voodoo shaker. The echoes inside the hut indicated that Legba had answered our call. The spirits we called on would now be able to travel with ease to and from our location.

Deciding to take care of the children's spirits first, the shaman set up his water ward and called on the cleansing powers of the seas. Meanwhile, I set a small fire and threw the appropriate herbs in so that the smoke would help Det relax. I quickly shared some jungle tea with Naoda so that we would not be affected by the smoke. He conjured up imagery of an ocean and Det floating in it. He urged Det to relax and invite the cleansing spirits to his own. Naoda tried to coax the children's spirits out so hat they could speak, but they resisted.

Sadly, simple cleansing did not work. So, we cut Det's face and used his blood to paint the vévé of Samedi on the mat. I danced and chanted and invoked the Loa of the Dead. While I danced, the spirits within Det began to taunt us and tried to get us to kill Det. What happened next is hard to explain. In fact, I can't explain it at all. I was only barely aware of what was going on. I just remember stretching out my arm towards Det. Naoda later told me I was engulfed in shadows and my voice changed. I suspect I had become a vessel for Samedi or one of his servants. When I came to, the air was a little lighter and the others confirmed that the children's spirits had left.

With little time to waste, Naoda and I prepared Det for the second cleansing. This one, he would have to do most of the work. The shaman and myself could only assist. I mixed the blood of an Amani warlord with the blood of a Gurubashi legend and let him drink it. Their essence would aid in purging the Hakkari taint. The remainder of the mixture, I threw into the fire along with primal tiger leather and war raptor feathers. I handed my fetish for the Primal Gods to Det and commanded him to begin willing the spirits out.

Naoda knelt before his water ward and mumbled prayers to the water spirits to help cleanse. I danced and rattled the shaker again to intimidate the evil. Det clutched the fetish, cringed and squirmed. All of us were sweating profusely despite the cool breeze that was now blowing through the hut. Finally, I raised a voodoo doll that was smeared with Det's blood into the air and stabbed it.

A glowing wind serpent burst from Det's body. I looked down to see if he himself was burst open, but there wasn't a scratch on him. The only evidence that anything was happening was the deep red blood that Det was vomiting up. It didn't look like Troll blood, rather, it was probably the foul essence of the serpent that he was expelling. The serpent lunged for Naoda, but the spirits of water shielded him from harm. Seeing no hope of victory between the efforts of all three of us, it started skyward for the large space in the roof.

I rattled the voodoo shaker over Det's body one last time. Det grit his teeth and let out a primal roar and Naoda, with the aid of his water spirits, pulled the serpent back down. The water spirits dragged the serpent down and into the totem. When they disappeared, the fire out itself and the breeze stopped momentarily. We all collapsed and sat or lay there panting.

I wiped the sweat from my brow and asked Det what he heard. He did a double take at himself when he realized there was nothing. No voices anymore. He grabbed the two of us and just about crushed Naoda and me with a bear hug. When he released me, I gave poured alcohol onto Legba's cross still in the ground and asked him to close the way. The ritual was over.

We all thanked each other and went our separate ways.
I went to sleep for the next fourteen hours or so.

---------------------
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((As it is written in character, any errors or omissions can simply be attributed to Mel forgetting something or perceiving something the wrong way.

Big thanks to Detnarash / Tulnin for allowing me to take such liberties with his own personal story.
Big thanks to Naoda, who I randomly pulled out of the blue to join us in this improvisational adventure.

Some pictures can be found in this album: [s752.photobucket.com]
They're the only ones of three Troll men in a hut, so you can't miss them.
Direct links are in my LJ. See the links in my signature.))]]> Trinda Storytelling Mon, 23 Aug 2010 16:55:01 -0400 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,149648,149648#msg-149648 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,149648,149648#msg-149648
"I see you come with excellent references. Of course, my husband will be verifying your references and your history, but in the meantime, I see no reason why you can't begin right away." She led the way through the halls of the great house, walking briskly, a fashionable-yet-formal dress swishing around her ankles. She didn't wait to see if the woman to whom she was speaking would follow; that much was simply taken as read. "I will be returning to active duty with the Blood Knights in Northrend, though by the mercy and miracle of a mage's portals I will be home to see her every day if possible."

In her wake, a much younger, rather mousy-looking elf hurried along, cloak folded neatly over one arm. "Of course, Lady Sunsong, and I thank you for the opportunity..."

"Yes, yes..." Aliksandra Sunsong waved a hand dismissively. "Thanks are not necessary, all that's necessary is that you do a good job. Now, the nursery is in the south wing, just down the hall from my and my husband's rooms. Your suite will be just off the nursery. It's been cleaned and prepared, and if there is anything which has been overlooked, you may submit a list to the steward and it will be seen to."

Ticking off the important points as she walked, Aliksandra continued. "Sarya sleeps through the night, but she wakes before dawn. She goes down for the night at sunset. She is to be walked in the garden every day, and I assume you at least have enough education to read literary classics and children's tales to her? Good, good... Alright, then." She swung open a single, heavy door, sweeping through and lifting the silver-haired blood elf infant from the arms of a maidservant. She cooed at the babe for a brief moment before passing her into the arms of the new nanny.

"Right, then, I'll just leave you two to get acquainted. Her father will undoubtedly be by to introduce himself later." A flicker of amusement crossed her expression, and she chuckled as she added, "Mind that one, he can be... quite charming." Once more not waiting for any response, she turned to go, her mind already on the tasks before her.

Later, it was Aliksandra's turn to sit quietly while another Sin'dorei's eyes looked over the papers she presented. She still sat tall, her head held straight, hands folded on her lap next to the heavy gauntlets that matched her city uniform.

"Well, it looks like all your papers are in order, your personal physician says you're fit for duty again, and you've passed all the tests of capability. I see no reason why you can't get right back to work." The commander tapped the pages on the desk to straighten them, then sat them carefully aside to be signed and filed later. "Provided it's what you really want, of course. Your daughter's not even six months old, Aliks, are you sure?"

"If I weren't sure, sir, I wouldn't be here," Aliksandra purred, hands still folded on her lap. "I can hardly sit at home with my family when my brothers and sisters in arms are still on the front line."

The commander shrugged, then nodded. One hand stretched out and thumped the heavy red-and-gold insignia down on the desk. "Then the Knights will appreciate your dedication. Good field medics are worth their weight in gold, Sunsong, and it's good to have you back."

"Dedication?" She laughed merrily, picking up the badge and fastening it to the red-and-black tabard that marked her as a Blood Knight. "I haven't had an hour's respite from that screeching child in six months, or from her father since the wedding, nearly a year before that. Patching up the wounded, surrounded by the Scourge, in a howling snowstorm... will be a vacation by comparison."

She regarded the commander's shocked and bemused expression with a smirk, tipping him a flippant salute as she took up her gauntlets and her medic's satchel, rising to her feet and leaving the office without waiting to be dismissed.]]> Mira Storytelling Wed, 18 Aug 2010 17:38:45 -0400 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,149555,149555#msg-149555 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,149555,149555#msg-149555
Leaning casually against the wall in the forecourt of the Undercity with her arms folded, Sarcona nodded once. She'd already checked the area for listeners before taking up her position, and had no doubt that the woman she was speaking with had done the same.

"I wish to know the location of the home of a couple who reside in Thunder Bluff," the woman continued, offering an unsealed envelope. "Here are their names and descriptions. Additional information about their habits - the places they buy food, the times they can usually be found at home, any other places they visit regular in Thunder Bluff - will be looked upon with gratitude."

Sarcona nodded again as she took the envelope from the elf's loose grasp. It was understood that by accepting the envelope, she was also accepting the task. Also understood, in the shadowy language of notes and favors, was that "gratitude" translated as "additional gold."

"I am already aware that they are both regular attendees of the establishment known as the 'Drunken Kodo.' I am also aware of where the - female works, at a tavern in Booty Bay, and of the military unit to which the male is attached. I am only interested in their location and habits within the territory of Thunder Bluff."

The yellow glow that had replaced Sarcona's long-rotted eyes flickered slightly at the mention of the Drunken Kodo, but her expression didn't change.

"Do not call attention to yourself. Do not go out of your way to engage either, but there is no need to avoid them. Let me know if you are unable to avoid interacting with them, as that may factor into my decisions on how to proceed."

"Is there a time limit?" the undead woman asked, tucking the envelope into a pouch unopened.

"No hard limit," the elf replied. "There is no rush; in fact, I would much prefer thorough investigation to quick results. Ideally I would like to have the information within the month, but if it takes longer, let me know and I will adjust my plans."

Sarcona's face twitched in an approximation of a smile. "Very well. How will I address messages to you?"

"Box thirteen twelve, at the Undercity vault. Its current contents are yours to do with as you wish."

There was a slight creaking of dried flesh as Sarcona's smile widened. "Anything else I need to know?"

"No, that is all."

"All right, I'll get to it. Pleasure speaking with you." The Forsaken gave a rough approximation of a salute before strolling in the direction of the zeppelin towers, already making plans in her head.

The elf woman waited a few minutes longer, then drifted back in the direction of the Undercity. A quick trip to the barber to remove the glamour and restore her natural hair color; then back to Silvermoon, to make the official report of her dear husband's unfortunate, untimely demise. Tucked in her pouch was the officially sealed and signed report of the Falconwing Square guards who had witnessed his murder at the hands of a mana-addled Wretched, who had foolishly attacked the soldiers instead of allowing himself to be captured alive. Within a week, the series of events begun with handing the scroll to the record-keeping officials of Silvermoon would result in a substantially increased amount of gold available for Delannia Canning to withdraw from the family's vaults.

There was indeed no hurry. Once she had the information and the money, she would construct the next step of her scheme. For now, Delannia was content to play the (not too) bereaved widow, and warm herself with a tantalizing shiver of anticipation.]]> elynne Storytelling Mon, 16 Aug 2010 17:22:30 -0400 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,149543,149543#msg-149543 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,149543,149543#msg-149543 All he had to do was hang back for a minute, while I gave a couple of the casters love-taps on the head to put them out of commission, but oh no, Mr. Future Warchief charged in axe swinging, yelling a war cry I bet he thought was original and awe inspiring. That of course got the attention of the whole lot of cultists, and he was mobbed. With a sulfuric curse, I waded in, trying to keep the idiot from being killed. His friends just about held their own, I was proud to note, especially the lanky troll boy with the bow and the pet scorpion.
We’d almost made it out when I saw a downed caster winding up a last fireball to pitch at the back of Hellscream Jr.’s head. Time was, I would have just let the young moron take the shot, and let him learn his lesson the most painful way possible. If he lived, that is.
But now I got a flash of Tyr’s face, looking sad and disappointed. Dammit.
I put the last bit of my energy into a Sprint and tackled the fool out of the way just as the fireball went whizzing by. I could feel the skin on the back of my neck tighten from the heat. That, with the reek of burning hair and the searing pain in my left ear let me know just how close that had been.
I got back to my feet to make sure the cultists were all down. They were, and miracle of miracles, we hadn’t lost anyone except the hunter’s scorpion. The injuries were pretty severe, and the healer of the party, a sweet-faced troll girl, looked to have gotten the worst of it. She was being propped up and given some water by the other warrior, an orc lass whose deep gash over one eye and still-streaming bloody nose made the thunderous scowl she was wearing look even more ferocious. I dug in my pack for some bandages and a few baked eggs and passed them over, murmuring a kind word to the priest and giving the hunter a sympathetic clasp on the shoulder.
Then I turned to my problem child. “You,” I said with all the cold fury I could muster. Which was a lot at the moment. “Almost got your friends killed with your recklessness.”
He opened his mouth, probably to spew some nonsense about glory and honor. I really didn’t want to hear it. “Save it. I know your type. You dream about being the famous mighty hero, talked about in the same breath as Hellscream and Thrall Warchief. You want to lead great armies and fight in glorious battles, and be sung about around the fires for the next ten generations.”
The kid looked a little surprised, like he didn’t expect someone like me to know about all that. That was another lesson he was gonna have to learn. Underestimating anyone based on their race or class was, at best, a disadvantage, and at worst, a good way to come down with an incurable case of death.
“You won’t be leading a herd of SWINE if you don’t shape up, boy. Being a warrior, being a leader, isn’t about charging in headfirst and racking up the most kills. You have to care about your people, even if only as valuable resources. You have to LISTEN to the people who know what they’re talking about. You have to use your brain, even more than all those green muscles. It’s only by sheer dumb luck and the incredible skill of your friends that you lived,” I pointed at the others, the hunter crouched over the body of his pet, head bowed and unheeding of his own injuries, the priest, her face pale and twisted in pain as her friend bound what I was sure was a broken arm. Bless her, even through all that, the child was trying to muster some healing magics for the warrior girl’s broken nose and head wound.
It seemed to make an impression on the boy, as his face took on a look of realization and a little guilt. Well. There might be hope for him after all.
“We’re going back, now. You will make do with bandages until we get out of here and you can find a healer to take pity on you,” I turned away, going to help the priest to her feet. The hunter looked up, and then hurried to loop the girl’s good arm over his shoulder. I thought he would stop with just helping her walk, but he leaned down and gently swept her up into a cradling carry. Almost instantly, the poor girl fell into an exhausted sleep.
Slowly, we made out way back to the cave entrance. I took the lead, with the orc girl and the hunter behind me, and the now-quiet warrior lad taking rear guard. Limping and leaning heavily on her sword, the she-orc drew up beside me.
“How did you know,” she kept her voice was quiet, both to not disturb her sleeping friend or cover the sounds of approaching enemies. “All those things about the Warchief and Grommash?”
I grinned at her. “You spend enough time drinking in Orgrimmar, you learn all kinds of interesting things,” then I sobered. “It’s a good thing to find out what makes someone you’re fighting with WANT to fight. You understand them better, you work with them better.”
She was silent for a moment, chewing that thought over. Then she spoke again. “And all the things you said about being a good leader, where did you learn all that?”
I thought of Mum, armor tossed aside and sprawled out on the floor with me and all my toy soldiers, her smile and voice warm as we marched the little rangers and mages and knights over the book-and-pillow terrain.
“I listened to someone who knew what she was talking about.”]]> Azraphale Storytelling Sat, 14 Aug 2010 10:15:51 -0400 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,149536,149536#msg-149536 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,149536,149536#msg-149536
It wasn't far from here either... Inassa could sense the beast. Her aura was foul and sickening. As she came to her feet, she heard a rustle that couldn't be natural. She spun on her heel and took a mighty swing with her mace, catching a shadow beast in the skull dispersing it in one blow. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on endand she found herself on her knee. She barely managed to raise her head high enough to see her antagonist.

"What do you hope to gain from killing me Banshee? Will it bring you strength? I think..." Inassa winced as she forced herself to move against the searing in her brain, "I will not give it to you!" Both hands came together, wrapped in the luminous glow of a sphere of magma. The rather dead looking elf fell out of her mid air drift and slammed into a snow drift before vanishing in an etheric purple cloud. The shaman threw her mace towards the ground and canted aloud calling a wave of electricity out from her body. The Banshee came solid again and fell to the ground.

"You've come to the end of the line Siloquay! As of this day you kill no more!" Inassa raised her shield and mace to the sky and cried out, "Great spirit of flame, com forth and exact vengance on this savage whore! FOR THE HORDE!!"

"Just had to throw that in, didn't you wretch?" Siloquay snarled. As she did a mighty fire elemental rose before her. It raised it's fist and smashed against another cloud of shadow. The elfs body drifted back as the cloud coerced into another shadow beast. Inassa struck it down with a shock from her left hand and her mace before it got far. As Silo began to cast again a burning fist grasped her and she found herself suddenly out of tricks. A pillar of flame so bright and intense rose from the mountain side that it could be seen far away in K2.

Inassa sat on her butt, her chest heaving and realized it wasn't so cold next to a smoldering pile of ash.

"I couldn't do that again if I tried..." she mumbled grasping her wolf skin pancho again.


Suddenly she was overcome with a deathly chill she had only felt in and around the citidel in Icecrown.

"Good, that makes this easy." She heard only in her mind. At once all was black. She screamed and thrashed, but nothing happened. "Don't worry, I'm not killing you. I need you..." She heard a wicked laugh then once more, black and silence.

The young troll rose from the snow and shivered. That would take some getting used to. She felt about her person and decided that she could stand being cute.

"Bit of a loose fit, but it will do." Slowly 'Inassa' made her way down the mountain once more, yet never again.]]> Siloquay Storytelling Sat, 14 Aug 2010 16:51:32 -0400 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,149322,149322#msg-149322 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,149322,149322#msg-149322
Part One: A Night at the Opera

Vinge had come to love the cliffs the best. The hills of the Arathi highlands were scarred with ravines here and there, and the small valley over which the Defilers and defenders of old Arathor now fought was not an exception. The tall cliffs on either side of the depression overlooked chokeholds where the combatants clashed on a daily basis. Thrown down from the heights, logs, rocks, even small stones became deadly weapons that struck with crushing force. The arrival of Dwarven artillery teams, Northrend veterans now freed to continental service, meant that control of these lookout spots was even more vital for the Defilers. The most important thing for Vinge, however, was the sound.

Day and night, the valley resounded with shouts, explosions, and the clatter of arms, but Vinge had come to love a particular, slightly rare sound: a long scream originating at the cliffs' tops and ending at their bases. Amidst thrusts, slashes, and the more mundane moaning and whimpering of his butchered foes, the wretched Forsaken would crane his neck, hoping to hear one of those delightfully extended wails. Pushed, tripped, or blown off the edge, the authors of these villains' lullabies began with a sharp cry or a shout as the sudden disappearance of solid ground surprised them. This amazement melted swiftly into despair, and sometimes cries for help would be intermingled with the ensuing series of short, shocking yelps. Then came the long wail, the crescendo, and, although Vinge could only hear it occasionally, the final crunch. Every race, every species, they each produced their own version of this song as they took their last leap.

Vinge was tired of hearing this symphony of terror from afar. He knew that he was missing the undertones and the best details. Late one evening, about a week after he entered the battle for the fertile valley of Arathor, he crept up onto a cliff near a lumber mill to secure himself a front row seat.

--

The mixed Dwarven and Gnomish strike force gained the upper hand against their Forsaken foes just before nightfall. The Defilers, missing a limb here and there, quit the 'Mill Hill', as it was called, and ducked into the surrounding ravines for cover. With riflemen on the watch and Dun Morogh bear-trainers posted at the entries from the old road, the mortar teams began to set up on the cliff edge. The raid's leaders were a wizened old Gnome wearing a velvet robe and brutal-looking Dwarven woman. She kept on shifting as the two kept watch over the movements on the cliff edge, trading her axe back and forth between meaty fists.

"Bizzle, ya know they be back in less'n an 'oor. Once they got tha darkness ta guard 'em, those dead fellers will be a'crawlin' all o'er this hill." The Gnome waved away her worry, but the woman shouted out, "Oi! Hurry up, ye damned fools. 'F'we dunnae get tha surroondin' hills covered in craters before tha moon's above us, yer goin' home in boxes."

The Dwarves on the edge of the cliff grumbled, and a few of them shouted out an energetic curse or two, but they picked up the pace. The Gnome, Bizzle, sighed and turned to the woman. "Bralla, you could be a bit easier on our charges. Explosives and anxiety do not make beautiful babies."

Bralla spat on the ground. "Once they got tha darkness, hear me? Aye, if a little fear gets tha job done, saves their lives, they won't be complain-URK!" Bizzle screamed as the Dwarven woman collapsed in front of him under the weight of a Forsaken man bristling with weapons. The creature looked up at the Gnome and yanked his jagged swords out of Bralla's back. He clacked his fleshless jaws twice. Sharp, gore-slicked spikes of hair, sinister glints in his eyes, and a ragged face that was effective a covering for his skull as a Silvermoon ball-gown would be for a Tauren: every feature of the monster's appearance seemed crafted to terrify.

Bizzle did what any sane person would do in such a situation: he jumped off the cliff. As the Dwarves began shouting, crying out for arms, and approaching the little rise where the Forsaken had just killed one of their leaders, Vinge stepped off the woman's corpse and approached the cliff edge to hear Bizzle's scream. Much to his disappointment, the Gnome was falling far too slowly and with far too much control. Vinge hissed with annoyance and, taking a second to aim, leapt off the cliff.

The Gnome was busy analyzing his projected landing zone when Vinge caught him around the middle. For a moment, the full pressure of the falling Forsaken knocked the wind out of Bizzle, but the spell he had cast to slow his fall extended to accommodate and lighten the unwelcome passenger as well. That was, of course, little comfort to the grappled mage, who began to scream.

Vinge hissed as he struggled, climbing around the Gnome until he could hiss right into his screaming face. "No, you ssstupid little thing. That'ssss not the lovely ssscream. You're doing it wrong!" Holding the little mage tight with one clawed hand, Vinge drew a short dagger and used it to punctuate his next demand. "Sssscream right, you idiot!"

Bizzle stopped screaming and began gurgling. A moment later, the old Gnome was dead, and his spell followed suit. Suddenly heavy, Vinge's eyes went wide with surprise. He began to fall, and let out a cry, but his right hand instinctively went to his gorget. There, beneath a small flap of leather, was a button which would activate a small parachute tucked into the back of his armor, a little trick of his own making. However, Vinge stayed his hand and deftly tore off the little device. Now helpless, he felt waves of fear wash over him. A scream erupted unbidden from his dry throat as he flailed. It was a long way down, and a rapid stop at the end.

All across the basin, sleeping soldiers were awaken by a terrific scream. They left their tents, looked at each other, then around at the surrounding hills. "Definitely a cliff-tripper," they said to themselves. At the base of Mill Hill, lying in a heap of his own broken bones and torn skin with his skull half-shattered, Vinge contemplated his performance. Raising his unbroken hand before his eyes, he gave himself a thumbs-up. "Full markssss..." he hissed, then collapsed.]]> Vinge_ Storytelling Sun, 08 Aug 2010 18:56:35 -0400 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,149299,149299#msg-149299 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,149299,149299#msg-149299 (( Bellerona is my Undead Warlock on Thorium Brotherhood. For the sensitive, this does have hints of ritualized murder, ritualized sex (hints, HINTS) and such. ))

The Sainte-Claire estate was made up of a sprawling country home that was surrounded by vineyards and sheep pastures, and paid for with fine wine, racks of lamb and wool products. The lone home owner, Lady Bellerona Sainte-Claire, was a voluptuous woman with rather unusual tastes - and a preference for a far different line of work than running a farm and vineyard. While she spent her time around her home and visiting other rich types, she allowed other people to take care of the businesses that carried her family name.

This knowledge was what John Dawson, a simple man who acquired his wealth by honest means, concentrated on as he approached the heavy wooden door of the wine baroness' home.

He wore a simple brown woolen vest and trousers and a light gray long-sleeved button-up shirt. He occasionally tugged a stray strand of pale brown hair behind his ear before finally - after what seemed like an eternity in his mind - taking the bronze knocker in his hand and rapping it upon the door.

It wasn't the Lady of the house that met John, but instead a nervous-looking maid who lead him into the house. Despite its apparent size and the wealth of its occupant, the building was decorated rather simply - dark woods and fabrics, no unnecessary trinkets or trophies, just what was required to live and entertain.

"She's - she's upstairs," the maid whispered before scurrying away. John watched her leave, then looked to the massive wooden stairway that sloped up to the second floor and split off to either side. He slowly mounted the steps, glancing about on his way up and examining the various portraits that lined the walls to distract himself.

Lord Belmonte Sainte-Claire, Aged Fourty-Seven
Lady Isabella Saint-Claire, Aged Thirty-Two
Lady Arielle Saint-Claire-Beaumont, Aged Twenty-Eight
Lord Victor Sainte-Claire, Aged Eight

The odd thing about each portrait were the eyes: each an identical set, all the same colour, all the same size. John was a rational man, he knew this shouldn't have bothered him - but it did. And instead of those eyes appearing to watch him, they seemed to stare right through him, into his very core.

"Come right in," a voice from down the left hall cooed, startling John slightly. He adjusted his collar as he reached the top step and made a beeline for the appropriate room, where he stopped dead in the doorway and simply gaped.

Lady Bellerona Sainte-Claire reclined upon a luxurious red plush couch, clad simply in a red silk robe that left very little to the imagination. Her eyes - the same round, deep green eyes of the portraits - were lined with kohl, an expensive import from the desert, and her plump lips were reddened. John tugged at his collar and smiled widely at the woman, who slowly sat up in such a manner as to partially expose her chest to the shell-shocked merchant.

"Madam," Dawson rasped, "my fellows are rather... concerned regarding rumours of certain activities to take place here. Some have left their homes to meet with you on business matters only to... not return." At this, Bellerona stood and circled the merchant in a manner that reminded him vaguely of the carrion birds of Redridge, but he said nothing. John Dawson stood tall and tense under the scrutiny of the wine baroness, whose husky voice contained traces of amusement when she finally chose to respond.

"More rumours of the dark arts, Dawson? The only dark art I practice here is the art of pleasure, as I know you're aware."

Dawson scowled.

"I can't offer your fellows the comfort that they seek unless they choose to meet with me themselves," Belle added, then she offered John a wide smile. "But I can put your mind at ease~"

The merchant stepped back as Belle stood and started to move toward him; he stammered, "I've got no business with a woman like you, Sainte-Claire! I know you're up to no good! I-I know there's more going on here than what anyone dares to think and you'll - you'll pay for your sins one day!"

Bellerona's laughter was sharp, mocking; she stopped in front of John, her robe falling open enough to expose her, and she scoffed, "You're just like any other man, John Dawson, you'll see. You can't resist me forever."

He couldn't get out of there quickly enough for his tastes - and Belle's laughter followed him all the way back to his home.

- - -

When the Scourge fell upon the land, most of the village evacuated while Lady Sainte-Claire locked herself away in her estate with most of her staff and some supplies. None bothered to check on her - this was viewed as a 'good riddance' case - until John Dawson, then under the banner of the Silver Hand, marched deep into what would become the Plaguelands to investigate reports of strange activity from the estate. He traveled alone, as he often did, and never veered off the roads until he came to the familiar stone fence that marked the boundaries of the Sainte-Claire home.

The house itself was in disrepair and most of the outbuildings had fallen in upon themselves. The hand-built stone fence had also fallen apart, and the skeletons of sheep were scattered all over the landscape.

Breaking into the estate home was far too easy for the merchant-turned-paladin, and he found himself wondering if he happened to be stepping into a trap; the blood-smeared walls and bloody footprints that led to the basement only strengthened this feeling, but he went anyway, as it was his duty. He crept down the stairs as quietly as a plate-clad man could, and upon reaching the bottom, he found himself faced with a long, narrow hallway with an open door at the end of it. A dim light emanated from that open door, and he slowly advanced upon it.

What he found was unsettling.

Lady Sainte-Claire was alive, but it seemed she would not be long for the world. She was wearing a faded red robe that was tattered and torn, though it did nothing to hide her thin, pale body. She was straddling a man atop a stone altar, and her hands were wrapped around the black handle of a knife that was lodged deep in the heart of her consort. Belle was panting, and all of it together lead John to believe that he had walked in on something rather horrible.

The once-beautiful wine baroness gracelessy pulled herself off her victim and strode around the body to his head; a faint smile crossed her gaunt face as she yanked her knife from the man's chest, then sliced his throat from ear to ear - and her manner suddenly changed. As blood poured freely from the neck of the most certainly dead man, the lady Sainte-Claire dove to her knees to catch the it in her mouth like some ravenous nightmare hatchling. The paladin was too shocked to do much but watch until the woman finished gulping down her meal, and then she slowly stood and turned toward him.

The woman that stood before John was a ghost of the confident, beautiful woman he had once known: her black hair hung limply about her thin, round face; her eyes, though still as dark as ever, had a desperate look to them and appeared sunken into her face; her chin was slicked with blood, as were her breasts and hands and she was so pale, shivering, thin and sickly. The paladin knew that she was ill with the plague, but there was something else. This ritual he had witnessed - was this how she had survived for so long?

"See what you've missed, Dawson?" Bellerona rasped. "Do you see? I am terrible and beautiful and feared and unlike you I will live forever!"

John laughed nervously. "No, m'lady, you won't," he whispered as he raised his blade. "No amount of boffin' and drinkin' blood's gonna save you from what's got you sick. Looks like you're outta servants, and it's about time you got put outta your misery. I'm sorry for what I've gotta do."

The paladin raised his sword and slowly advanced upon the once-Baroness.

- - -

"Not again."

A sigh of irritation escaped the paladin's lips as he raised himself from his chair. His comrade - a Dwarf of Ironforge - raised one fuzzy eyebrow, and his mug, and asked, "What's tha matter, Dawson? 'nother letter from yer mother?"

"Not quite," Dawson, who sported a Tirion-esque beard in his advancing age, replied. He handed the letter to his friend, who quickly read it over and immediately guffawed.

"They're sendin' ya home ta clean up yer mess, huh?" He asked. John Dawson snorted.

"It's my duty to kill the Scourge where I find 'em, but my old home got cleared out years ago. If they want some ghosts taken care of, though, guess I gotta do it, Angus."

It was the flame-haired Dwarf's turn to snort. "Not without yer old pal," he said.

John narrowed his eyes at Angus for a moment before shouldering his shield and sheathing his sword. "No," he said, "you don't wanna. It was a place hit real hard by the Scourge, worse than anythin' you've seen. Just trust me, and if ya don't hear from me in a few months, declare me dead an' get on with it."

Naturally, John lost that debate, and two weeks later he found himself at the door of that old mansion with his friend. Things had changed - namely, the door had been repaired, the windows bore fresh curtains and some of the bits that had fallen off the building were either gone or haphazardly nailed back into place. Both men unsheathed their weapons, but only John went in.

And it wasn't long before Angus was nearly bowled over by his friend bolting out of the house in a show of terror that he had never seen before. Angus watched John trip over his own boots, saw the wide-eyed stare, and followed his friend's gaze toward the doorway.

A woman stood there, pale-skinned and dark-haired, her glowing yellow eyes directed at John and only John. She was grinning. Her black and purple dress accentuated her full, voluptuous figure and she held a long cigarette holder in one hand. The other clawed hand rested upon her hip. Something was horribly unnatural about her, about how pale she was, about everything.

"'Ey John, good t'see ya," the woman purred. "Remember how you were sayin' that drinkin' blood an' boffin' folks wasn't gonna save me from what got me sick? Well, whaddya gotta say now, sweetheart?"]]> Matojo Storytelling Mon, 16 Aug 2010 05:32:37 -0400 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,149240,149240#msg-149240 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,149240,149240#msg-149240
Another night at the Kodo. Another night of sitting by the fire, watching that bunch of Death Knights behave like their brains had gotten freezer-burned while knocking back whatever the kindly barmaid brought me. Well, there were worse ways to spend an evening, and at least the entertainment was free. I chuckled quietly to myself and took another swallow of the port I had bought from sweet Sara. A rather good ruby, the sweet wine blended well with the taste of the fragrant spice cigarette I had just finished. The things were expensive, I had to travel all the way to Booty Bay to buy them, and it’s generally a bad idea for someone in my line of work to smell too strongly of anything, even something pleasant, but I figured indulging in one every now and again couldn’t hurt. Combined with the port, it went a long way towards satisfying that sweet tooth of mine.
As I was lowering my glass, a strange mix of light and shadow caught my peripheral vision. Turning my head, I was greeted with the most strangely adorable thing I’d ever seen. A core hound pup, both rock-like heads grinning and panting, trotting before a priest whose features were obscured at this distance by the swirly dark fog of shadowform.
As the unlikely pair walked past me towards the inn the priest did something I’d never seen before. His shadowy aura extended itself in long, spindly “fingers” that tapped and felt their way along the ground in front of him. I was still puzzling that one over when I noticed the way the fellow Blood Elf carefully ran his hands over a chair before sitting down.
Understanding dawned. I went back to my wine, but kept one eye on him, partly out of curiosity, partly out of what I was sure was misplaced concern. His robes and staff told of deeds done and enemies vanquished that I couldn’t even imagine. Blind or not, my head knew he could very well take care of himself, even if my stupid over-developed protective streak said otherwise. I tell ya, if my life had gone just a little differently, I’d probably be a paladin like Mum was right now.
Only a little span of time had passed when that nutty paladin who sometimes bounces at the Kodo apparently decided that the tree had looked at him funny one too many times. He charged the hapless plant with his sword drawn and a mighty yell that made the priest jump and give an exclamation of alarm. The words were out of my mouth before I could think.
“You’re freaking out th’ blind shadowpriest, Tendaros,” I called out in a voice I hoped would carry over the sounds of dendral mutilation. “Think you could bring it down a notch or two?”
I guess he was too far gone in gaining vengeance for every splinter lodged in a finger and every eye poked out by a stick to heed me, but evidently the priest had heard. “Thank you, but I am fine, Lost One.”
*Lost?* I thought. *I’m not lost. ‘M taking the scenic route. Yeah.* Shrugging, I turned to the fire I'd been tending. It had died down a lot, so I threw a couple of logs on and gave it a good prod to stoke it.]]> Azraphale Storytelling Fri, 06 Aug 2010 21:39:19 -0400 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,149171,149171#msg-149171 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,149171,149171#msg-149171
On the opposite side of the door, her clawed fist poised to knock, stood a rather short Forsaken woman clad in heavy plate armor, a large axe swung over her back. In her free hand she carried a bound set of documents bearing the seal of Undercity Public Relations. The Forsaken’s dark hair covered the holes in her cheeks, the edges of which were stained brown from tobacco smoke. With a wide grin growing over the woman’s face, she lay down three enormous knocks on the reinforced door.

“OPEN UP!” Audre Day bellowed, “In the name of the Undercity!”

There was a sound of things falling from the other side of the door, muffled through the door and walls. Ball bearings scattered over the floor, causing the huge animal at the hearth to simply raise his head before turning over to warm his belly against the fire. Audre heard the scraping of a chair and cursing as the door locks turned in rather quick succession from top to bottom, the door opening at last.

Audre looked up upon the face of Caeryn Peyton, who was not looking at her, “What is it?” asked the Deathstalker, who was dressed in some sort of robe.

“Nice dress, I got somethin’ for ya,” Audre said, peering into the room, “’Ficial business an’ all that. Kinda sensitive. Can I come in?”

Caeryn sighed, still facing forward over Audre’s head, “No. You may not. Give me what is needed and I will see to it that whatever it is, is dealt with.”

“Nuh uh, no can do,” Audre’s foreclaw tapped the wrapped documents, “Need siggies. Your siggies. However th’ fel you write yer name anyhow. An’ I, Audre Day, am yer witness. How’dja like that?” Audre smiled a wide smile filled with yellow teeth.

Caeryn sighed again and left the doorway, saying as she turned her back, “Fine. Enter. Do not touch anything.” Caeryn made her way toward her desk, seemingly to make some order out of the mess that was caused when she was startled from her work.

Audre swaggered into the room, looking around, “Shadow DAMN girl, you sure as hell don’ even make it welcomin’ in here one bit. You don’t got no chair or nothin’. Don’t you ever got guests?”

“No.”

Caeryn slowly and carefully went back to work at her desk, picking up ball bearings and other materials and putting them back into their appointed place with painful precision. Audre made her way over to the made bed and flopped down upon it, causing a cloud of dust to rise from the coverlet. Undoing the tie from the documents, she licked a thumbclaw and started to count the pages.

“Yeah, you had dealings with one of our Agents, an’ th’ head of our department would like a debriefing on that in’neraction,” Audre said, “An’ I’m here t’do th’ in’erview.”

“Joy.”

Caeryn stood from her chair, placing her hand on its back, “If I am to be grilled on a simple interaction from a simpleton, I suppose it should be as awkward as possible.”

“Yeah, why not?” Audre smiled a predatory smile up at Caeryn. The rogue’s gaunt robed frame cast a grim shadow in the firelight on the Inn’s dingy wood floor. As Caeryn moved her hand from the back of the chair to push her hair out of her face, Audre followed the shadow’s macabre imitation and caught sight of a large heap by the fire.

“Ugh! Disgusting! D’ya jus’ leave dead things on th’ floor! Thass foul!” Audre dropped the papers onto the bed moving over to where Cleveland, the obese cat lay.

“What?” Caeryn asked, halting her action and listening to the plate armor clamoring over hearthwards. In the din, she also heard the ream of paper hit the hard, disused mattress.

Audre had made it to her target, who seemed rather surprised at this rather sudden intrusion of its personal space. It showed its surprise by rolling languidly onto its back, exposing its expansive stomach for affection.

“You …. You got one fat-ass cat,” Audre chortled. The chortling turned into a giggle, and then the plate armor coated warrior hit the floor rolling in laughter. The robed Deathstalker took this opportunity to leap across to the bed, snatching up what she could of Audre’s documents in her left hand. As quickly as she grabbed them, she flung them toward the fire, which flared quickly with its new fuel, consuming the Appropriate Agent’s entire reason for intruding in the first place.

“Out,” Caeryn barked.

Audre was still beyond comprehension of Caeryn’s choice of companion, “You …. YOU got a fat cat!” She continued laughing as she tried to lift herself off the floor. Cleveland stared at her blankly before making a futile attempt to groom himself.

“OUT!” Caeryn roared.

Audre froze, “Okay. Okay. I gotcha. Where’s my stuff?”

“In the fire,” Caeryn threw open the door gesturing swiftly for the warrior to leave.

“Ya burned it?” Audre said, narrowing her eyes at the rogue.

“Quite. You were rather occupied with my … ward. Now go.”

The warrior hastily grabbed her axe from the bed where it was leaning, adjusting her grip on it with her right hand, “Yer a real bitch, ya know that?”

“I learned from one of the best, Miss Day,” Caeryn replied as Audre stepped over the threshold.

“What’s tha-“ But Audre Day was cut off as the door slammed in her face, the nine locks quickly shutting themselves in a familiar quick succession, “… that s’posed to mean?”

“FINE!” the warrior yelled through the door, “I know yer secret! Ya can’t hide from me no more!”

The Deathstalker stood motionless on the other side of the door, arms folded across her chest, waiting patiently as she heard the Inappropriate Agent’s heavy stomping footfalls make their way down the hall and down the stairs.

Somewhere in the apartment came a lonely meow, the Deathstalker’s shoulders visibly de-tensed and her arms fell from their sentinel position. She was at alone.]]> Caeryn Storytelling Mon, 16 Aug 2010 05:42:25 -0400 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,149156,149156#msg-149156 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,149156,149156#msg-149156 now is because I took ten days to enjoy myself in Walt Disney World. ... details.))

She stretched, the burn marks and frozen land of Azshara filling her with a joy she had missed since her attack. Her magic was fixed. Then, all the joy she felt fell away at the snarl that sounded behind her.

"Sellinda,"

Sellinda stiffened, and looked over her shoulder. The brilliantly burning fel green eyes of Zakas glared at her, the dagger he had stolen strapped to his belt. She shuddered for a moment as she realized that the fel energies pulsed in the very veins of his neck. She shook herself, and stood firmly to her spot, asking in a strained voice, "What do you want,"

"Your moronic friends interrupted me as I was working to unlock the full potential of this blade," He replied, "So your's shall be the first soul I take,"

With that, he raised a hand. His hand pulsed red, and flames ignited around the mage. She jumped, and a thin shield surrounded her. The flames started to eat away at her mana.

"Your life would be spared if you would have only obeyed me!" He snarled. She shuddered, then threw her hands out before her. They glowed red for a brief moment, and a burst of fire broke at Zakas' chest. The warlock didn't even flinch, as though something else had taken the attack.

"Like hell I ever would! And I'm getting that damn thing back!" She growled.

"You should have given me the blade and left me ALONE!" He raised a hand, and shadows surrounded it. A mirrored effect surrounded Sellinda. She let out a small grunt, and a ribbon of flame spiraled around her chest from her hands.

" But now... Now you will PAY!!" A burst of shadows appeared in front of his hand, and a cackle escaped his throat.

"Burn in hell!" She yelled, then bit back the scream as pain slowly started to build in her body. A pulse of blue ran down her arms, and she pushed her hands out towards Zakas once again. A barrage of violet and white light was sent spiraling towards his chest just before she grabbed her own and fell to a knee, the pain still building.

Zakas staggered back, then glared at her, "I've bound a new demon to my soul,"

"Damned yourself to Hellfires already?" She grunted, looking up at him.

Zakas eyes flashed a brilliant green for only a moment, the demonic runes of summoning appearing and disappearing at his feet in the blink of an eye. Sellinda let out a shocked cough as she looked to the felguard that loomed above her, its axe raised above her head. Zakas said something in a hissing tongue. The felguard glanced back at his master, then lowered its axe. It gave a swift kick with a heavy, plated boot to Sellinda's stomach. Her eyes went wide as she crumpled, coughing and holding her stomach. Zakas walked to her, and knelt down in front of her. He grabbed her chin roughly, and took the dagger in hand. He placed the blade against her cheek. He hissed something in demonic, and she glared, her breathing ragged.

"This demon only took a fraction of a soul to call," He said quietly, holding her gaze with his, "Imagine, Sellinda, what sort of power your entire soul could wield,"

Sellinda gasped, her eyes widening, "W-Whole.."

"That warlock you fought before was a fool. She had no idea the power she was meddling with," He said, releasing her, " I do. And, now," He waved a hand, and a dark, fel runed circle appeared around Sellinda, "Your's will be the first,"

He spoke in the hissing tongue once again. Sellinda started to move, tried to get up, then froze. The felguard's axe rested at her knee, and she stared at the demon's weapon, trying to even out her breathing.

Out of her vision, Zakas raised a hand, "If only you had not gotten in my way. If only you had just left me to my designs, perhaps you would have survived,"

He muttered an incantation. Sellinda froze as the shadow energies surrounded her, then screamed in agony as her very essence was tugged. The ties between her soul and body were pulled, and her mind raced. Her scream ended as arcane surrounded her, and she disappeared from the runes. The spell broken, Zakas looked further away to see the mage kneeling, holding her stomach.

"So," He said quietly, "You still want to play,"

Sellinda stood, and turned to face him. Her fingers sparked in a violet light, "I'm sure as hell not dying to the likes of you,"

The felguard rushed at her, shoulder aimed for her chest. For a moment, she waited, then pushed her arms to the sides, a wave of frost emanating from her feet. The demon stopped dead, and looked at the ice around its feet. It tugged at them, and the ice cracked, but still held it firm.

Zakas' hands lit aflame, and he began to murmur in demonic. Sellinda steped back and to the side. Flames danced around her again, and a thin lance of ice shot towards Zakas. As his spell continued, Sellinda sent a pulse of arcane at him. It wraped around his hands, and the flames faded, a thin stream of arcane circling his throat. He opened his mouth to speak, then frowned as no words came out. The mage put the base of her palms together, and several missiles of Arcane light headed for the warlock. He staggered, but it didn't seem to do the damage it was meant to. It was then the ice shattered around the feet of the demon and it rushed at Sellinda, sweeping its axe in a great, arching cleave. Zakas' hands were surrounded by shadows as he started to cast once again. Sellinda put a thin shield around her once again, then was knocked back at the sweeping blow of the felguard. The demon began to swing its axe repeatedly at her shield, trying to break it. Zakas sent a bolt of pure shadow energies towards the mage's shield. Sellinda put her hands towards the demon's chest, and sent the spiralling violet white lights into it. She shook her head as the shadowbolt broke her shield, some of the energies hitting her. The felguard stumbled back, then charged to resume its attacks. Zakas began to cast again, his hands lighting on fire. Sellinda put the thin shield between her and harm once again and looked at him. Then shimmered and disappeared.

Zakas looked around as his felguard swung at hair. He murmured a spell, a small flicker in his eyes. Sellinda faded into his sight, scrambling away from the demon. Once she had gotten far enough away, she turned in Zakas' direction, as though she couldn't truly see him. A wicked grin took the warlock's face, and he raised a hand. A swirling orb of fel green and black flew towards her. Once it hit, she screamed in pain, curling in on herself. The felguard whipped around, and rushed towards her once again, branhishing its axe. Zakas seemed, almost amused by this show, and left his spells uncast. Sellinda snapped her gaze to the demon, and quickly waved a hand. Glowing chains wrapped around it. It hestitated, then started its swing regardless. Its movements were greatly slowed by the spell. Sellinda almost danced backwards away from the felguard has it hesitated, then swung. She began a chant in Thalassian, a brilliant violet light surrounding her hands. She releases it at the felguard, a blast of Arcane hitting it in the chest. The Felguard staggered back, and Zakas began to cast another spell. Sellinda 's eyes glowed a bit brighter, and she gave the same chant, and once again hit the felguard with a blast of energy, that was quickly followed by a barrage of violet light. The felguard staggered back, then when its hit by the barrage of light, it pummeled to the ground where it laid, lifeless. Zakas' spell finished, he sent a line of flames towards the mage. She let out a surprised cry of pain and waved a hand at Zakas. The chains that had encircled his felguard surrounded him. He fell to a knee, then began to cackle manically. An overpowering demonic aura surrounded him, and she stumbled back, shocked fear reaching her face.

He began to change. Wings tore through is robes, and his pale, green tinted skin turned ebony black, shadow energies pulsing along it. Horns and claws grew from his head and hands, his maniacal cackle never ceasing. It was then he suddenly rushed at Sellinda, and grabbed her by the throat, lifting her from the ground. She gagged, and clawed at his hand. His entire body ignited in flames, and the grass around them withered and lit on fire. He stared at her with eyes that burned like shadowy pits, hissing in demonic. She let out a noise that may have been a cry, then goes still, staring at him in pure horror. His grip begins to tighten, and she squeezes her eyes shut, renewing her clawing at his hands. He growled in demonic once again, and continued to try and crush her neck. Her hands suddenly pulsed in energy and his hand closed around the fading white light. Sellinda knelt down several yards away. She put a hand to her neck, coughing. The elf in demonic form whipped around, and stalked towards her, hissing in demonic. She looked over her shoulder, then spun around. She released a quick blast of arcane. Zakas' demonic form faded just as that blast of arcane is launched towards him, and struck him full in the chest, and sent him reeling backwards.

"No... NO!!! I WILL KILL YOU!!" He screamed, and ran at her, dagger drawn. He tried to make a stab at her chest, but she let out a spiraling barrage of arcane just before he was close enough. He staggered back again, and stood there, watching her. The dagger dropped out of his hand.

"I was..." He fell to his knees, "So close..."

Sellinda stood there, panting. Her eyes glowed just a bit dimmer then they had.

"… Why..." She asked in a slightly hoarse voice, walking towards him. She sent a blast of fire to knock the dagger away from him. He raised a hand and started to cast, his hand igniting in flames once again. She sent the blast of energies to his throat again, and he lowered his hand as the flames went out.

"... What the hell makes someone want a sick power like that..." She asked quietly.

"You could NEVER UNDERSTAND IT!!" He roared, then staggered to his feet and tried to wrap his hands around her neck. She stepped back, three images exactly like her breaking away from her. His eyes burned, "I'm taking you down with me!"

His body ignited into flames that burnt everything around them. She screamed in pain, and stumbled back as a shield of flames surrounded her. His spell stopped, and he tried to cast at her once again. She sent two lances of ice straight at him, and he gasped as they struck. One went through his shoulder, the other imbedding itself deep just below his ribcage. He fell to his knees, and coughed, blood splattered on the ground from his mouth. He gasped for air. He raised a hand, a flicker of fel green surrounding them. Sellinda's fingers sparked violet, and then his hands fell to the grass to support him. She sent a blast of fire towards him. He shuddered, but didn't fall. He coughed up more green-tinted blood through burnt, cracked lips. She began to cast, then froze.

"I was... So close... To getting them.... Back..." He muttered. Then, Zakas fell to the ground, the shards of ice pushing all the way through his torso when he landed, protruding out his back. She swallowed hard, and moved towards the completely still body at a slow walk, the thin shield coming up around her form. She knelt before him. Then, a circle of shadow appeared around his body and he lunged at her. He clawed and scratched at the last, hopeless effort to kill her. She yelped in surprise, and took a step back before hitting his with a blast of arcane energy. He started to cast, but the arcane caught him full in the face, which caused his neck to twist with a loud crunching sound, and his body fell limp once again. She winced, and stared at him for a long moment.

With no movement from the warlock's corpse, she stood and walked over to the dagger, picking it up. She looked back at him, and walked over, looking at the mutilated corpse. One thing caught her eye, undisturbed by the battle that hand taken place, and the elements of the world. A mundane journal surrounded by arcane-based enchants. She looked at it, then at the face of her rival, then once again at the journal. She finally took it up, and set it to the side with the dagger. With one last look over the corpse, she rests her hands barely an inch from it, and chants quietly beneath her breath. Fire bloomed, and consumed the corpse, and with that, she stood and took up the dagger and journal. She pulled out a rune, and began to murmur under her breath in orcish, her energy waning. As the fire continued to feed, Sellinda Sunfire disappeared from Azshara.]]> Sellinda Storytelling Wed, 04 Aug 2010 14:04:48 -0400 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,149133,149133#msg-149133 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,149133,149133#msg-149133 Note: This isn't a fic so much as it's just a scene I wrote for the two of them following a scene I co-wrote with Andrefen. It therefore has no title, and is not particularly interesting unless you have an affinity for either of these two. I posted it in the rp LJ, thought I'd post it here, too.


Zen had not returned last night. He’d been and gone so quickly, Fin could almost believe he’d dreamed it, if not for the look on Andre’s face when he’d come to. Fainting had been…unintentional. Though Finwë supposed it usually was, given the choice, it would not have been his first pick.

The next morning, he waited, glancing at the door every four or five seconds, but Zen did not return. In a way, Fin wished he would. As much as Andre tried to get him to eat or do something constructive, it was impossible to concentrate on anything else with the possibility hanging over Finwë’s head. Finally even Andre’s patience ran out and he retired to his study with his parchments.

Finwë paced back and forth in the sitting room, stopping every so often to stare accusingly at the door. When it made no reply, he went back to pacing. He briefly considered getting a bottle of wine to keep him company, but he had done so well avoiding his old habits lately—with the exception of the sapta trip at Midsummer, which had not been entirely his fault. Instead, Fin gave in to his restlessness and decided to leave the house. He did take the time to say goodbye to Andre, but gave no instructions as for what to do with Zen should he return; Finwë knew Andre would handle it his own way regardless. And likely Fin would not want to know the details, which might risk getting upset with one or the other of them.

Out on the Walk of Elders, he retrieved his hawkstrider from the stables and summoned Cyril. That cat needed outdoors time whether he wanted it or not. He was becoming thicker around the middle since Finwë had brought him to Andre’s. No doubt his lover had been spoiling Cyril in spite of his alleged dislike of the Siamese cat.

This day was almost as hot as the last, and Fin’s back was dripping with sweat even before he’d reached the gates of the city. Out in Eversong, he let the hawkstrider run as fast as it pleased, enjoying the cool breeze the bird’s speed generated. When Finwë
reined it in at the first pond, Cyril was nowhere to be found—which was really no great surprise.

Fin had tethered the hawkstrider and was preparing to disrobe for a swim when the foliage to his right began to rustle suspiciously. He prepared a frostbolt for the lynx he was certain would emerge, but the ice melted in his hands when a suit of armor emerged instead. “There was a time you would have drawn your weapon first,” Zen said. “You’ve come a long way, little brother.”

Finwë shrugged. “Father would be proud,” he replied sarcastically, lips twisting into an ironic half-smile.

“Maybe,” Zen said, serious. He’d always had that infuriating way of trying to turn negatives into positives.

“He would not,” Fin said sharply. “He hated everything I ever did.”

Zen shrugged, indicating bygones were bygones. “He’s dead now.”

Finwë spoke without thinking, “So are you.”

Zen nodded stoically. “Only a little bit.” That surprised a laugh out of Fin, and Zen joined in a moment later. The mage’s laughter was more nervous stress release than anything, and didn’t last long. When it had died out, Zen looked at him for a quiet moment. “Don’t I get a hug, little brother? It’s been a long time.” Finwë hesitated, and Zen watched the expressions of fear and trepidation cross his face, causing the mage to look younger than he was. At last he just threw himself across the clearing and flung his arms around the death knight, pressing his cheek against the cold plate of Zen’s chest piece. Too late Zen realised he should have taken off his armor. But it had become so much a part of him, he hardly noticed it anymore. Zen put his arms around Fin as gently as he could, one hand reaching up to stroke his brother’s hair. “I know this isn’t easy,” he said. “But I want to be your big brother again…if you’ll let me.” He felt Finwë nod against him.

The mage let go and stepped back, scrubbing at his eyes a little. “To me, you always were. You just…went away.” Zen wondered how his brother could look 50 right now instead of 150.

“I’m sorry,” Zen said. Fin just nodded and clung to him again. Zen held him close and rubbed his back. “Stop crying, you big cry-baby,” he teased him gently.

“Shut up!” Finwë told him without looking up.

“You’ll rust my armor.” That earned him a punch in the side, but Fin refused to let go. “All right, you asked for it.” Grabbing him around the waist, Zen started to walk toward the water.

“For wha-?” Finwë looked up just in time to be hoisted into the air and chucked into the water. He sat up in the shallows, spluttering and looking like a drowned rat. “Now, I really will rust your armor!” He made a gesture and a water elemental appeared at Zen’s side. The death knight drew his axe to fight, but that didn’t seem to be the creature’s intention. It rushed at him and exploded in a gushing spray, soaking him all the way through.

“Oh, you are dead.” A wide grin stretched across his little brother’s face as Fin began paddling for deeper water. Zen shed his armor as quickly as possible and dove in after him, intending to grab him by the ankle and pull him under for some wrestling.

An hour and several drowning scares later, the two of them sat on the bank, drying their clothes by a small camp fire. Finwë lay on his back in the grass, gazing up at the clouds, exhausted but happy. “What happened to you?” he asked softly.

Zen shrugged, not entirely comfortable with the question. “He tried out a lot of soldiers. Some were too weak. Some told Him right where He could go. I was just happy to be alive again.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Fin turned on his side to look at his older brother, pillowing his head on one arm. “When I last saw you alive, you were fighting your way to Chante.” The grief in Finwë’s eyes was palpable. “You didn’t make it?”

Zen was stunned into silence. It was as though he’d been turned to stone. Did Fin really not remember what had happened that day? Was this what Erenar had been referring to? It took Zen no time to decide. If the trauma of everything had wiped actual events from his brother’s memory, he was not about to bring them back for Fin. “He was gone,” Zen began carefully. “You know that.” Finwë nodded and looked away, hiding his expression with his hair. “There wasn’t much—“ Zen stopped himself. He didn’t need to repaint that grisly scene in his brother’s head. Chanterelle’s body had been chewed to the bone in places. He’d been nearly unrecognizable when Zen had torn Fin away from the corpse. “There wasn’t much I could do,” Zen corrected himself. Once more, his brother just nodded. “With the priests gone, we didn’t last very long.” And that was a good enough guess as to what had happened after Zen had been killed. Scourge strategy dictated that the second wave take the healers while the first wave engaged the enemy infantry. Necromancers focused on the damage casters and raising the fallen while special troops like the death knights took out paladins and artillery. Civilians, like dessert, came at the very end. Thinking about it made his blade hungry.

Zen was shocked out of his grim reverie by the act of Finwë clambering into his lap. They weren’t children anymore, and yet Fin seemed unconcerned by their state of undress. He leaned against Zen in that needy way he had as a child, wrapping his arms around his older brother’s chest. Zen patted his shoulder and loosely put his arms around Finwë, trying not to think about it. The sensation of skin on skin felt odd now, almost like butter rubbing against sandpaper. Zen didn’t seem to have all the nerve-endings he used to, and Fin’s body felt red hot against his frozen hide. As an afterthought, Zen shifted to blood presence so that his embrace wouldn’t feel too cold. “You’re warm,” Finwë said after a few moments. “Change it back. You were so nice and cool before.” Zen had to think about this for a minute before he understood. It was a hot day. He hadn’t even noticed.

He poked Fin playfully. “Can’t you just make ice with your magic?” Fin grinned up at him wickedly.

“You mean like this?” Something cold and wet was shoved against his ribs, causing Zen to start. Apparently blood presence did something for circulation. He glanced down just in time to see his brother shoving a rough ice cube against him again.

“Oh no you don’t.” Zen caught Finwë’s wrist, twisting it away and pinning his brother so that he could take it away. The ice began to melt the second Zen touched it, and in the meantime, Fin’s other hand had formed another and was poking him with it again. “You little brat!” Another struggle ensued, which ended with him sitting on Finwë, holding both of the mage’s hands over his head by the wrists.

“You’re squishing me!” Fin objected, kicking his legs in the air behind Zen.

“That’s what you get,” Zen told him, grinning.

“Let me go,” his brother pouted up at him.

“What, so you can cast another spell at me? I don’t think so.”

“Just a little one?” Fin joked.

“Nope.”

“But my arms hurt!” Finwë whined.

“Should’ve thought of that,” Zen told him in the cruel matter-of-fact tone of older siblings.

“You’re mean!” Fin declared, kicking his legs in a brief tantrum.

“Yup,” Zen answered, grinning, leaning down to place an affectionate kiss on his brother’s forehead. He’d been afraid to miss this; it hurt too much.

Finwë seemed to gather some of his lost years back, smirking up at his older brother. “People will get the wrong idea, you know.”

Zen shrugged, trying not to look as embarrassed as he felt. “Yeah, I guess.” He climbed off of Fin, letting go of his wrists last. Zen reached for his pants and hurriedly pulled them on, knowing no one was watching them, but self-conscious now in any case.

“How long has it been?” Finwë asked, tilting his head curiously.

“What do you mean?” Zen asked, feeling blood--or something—rush to his cheeks as he pretended ignorance. Fin leaned back casually, making no effort to dress himself, musing.

“Do death knights…” he made some nebulous gesture, “…find release…with one another?”

“No,” Zen said gruffly, starting to get angry. This was not the time for this conversation, and he wasn’t about to explain that a death knight found mass murder far more satisfying than the best multiple orgasm.

“Why are you mad?” Fin asked, finding that button with the speed of a little brother and jamming down on it hard.

“Because you’re asking me about my sex life.”

“I just want to help,” his little brother replied, looking hurt.

“Since when did you become a sex counselor?” Finwë grinned and was about to reply, but Zen cut him off. “Nevermind. Just mind your own beeswax, okay?”

Fin shrugged coolly. “You’re afraid you can’t perform anymore.”

Zen turned to stare at him. “How did you—nevermind. We are not having this conversation.”

“I’ve a friend who’s a death knight,” Finwë explained. “His case is even worse than yours. But I haven’t given up hope for him.”

Zen’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You’re a matchmaker now, too?”

Fin laughed. “Perhaps.”

“Well maybe your friend knows more about his situation than you do,” Zen warned. “Maybe you need to learn to mind your own business.” Finwë extended a leg to poke at him with his toe.

“Maybe in his case. But you’re my brother.”

“Leave it,” Zen growled, grabbing Fin by the ankle.

“It’s not healthy, you know,” Finwë persisted.

“I’m dead,” Zen pointed out. “I don’t think you’re the authority on what’s healthy for me.” Then a disturbing thought occurred to him. “Have you been with a death knight before?” Finwë opened his eyes to give Zen a sharp look, making a disgusted face--likely without realizing.

“No. Why would you ask a thing like that?” A thought seemed to occur to Fin suddenly.

“Well you acted like you knew something about it.” Fin sat up and huffed, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Just because you’re dead doesn’t mean you’re dead.” Zen couldn’t help laughing at the look on Finwë’s face. “Shut up.” He kept on laughing. “It’s true.”

Zen sighed. “Look. I never said I wasn’t interested.”

“You see?” Fin insisted, triumphant.

“But I’m not going to climb into bed with a woman until I know I can do more than just stare at her.”

“But darling,” Fin vamped, “You can always do more than just stare!”

Zen made a closing motion with his hand. “Shut it.”

Finwë grinned. “Shall I draw a picture for you?”

“Shut. It. Right now.” Zen clamped a hand over Fin’s mouth before he could go on. He felt his little brother frown.

“You’re no fun at all.” The words were muffled, but discernible.

“That’s what big brothers are for,” Zen told him, giving Fin a little kiss on the cheek before letting go.

“How will you know if you don’t try?” There really was no discouraging him, Zen realized.

“Black card.”

“But Zen.”

“I’ll weld your lips shut. Not even kidding.” Finwë seemed to give in then, chuckling.

“What about a prostitute?” Perhaps not.

“Oh, FEL!” Zen sighed, falling backwards onto the grass.

“I’ll give you the money if you need it.”

“Will you just. Stop it!?”

Fin pouted and crawled over to snuggle against him. “Don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

“You sound mad.”

“That’s because you’re annoying.”

“So you are mad.”

“Only for putting up with you.”

Finwë pushed himself up, indignant. “Hey!” Zen dragged him back down to lie in the grass next to him.

“Take a nap or something,” Zen told him. “Clothes aren’t dry yet.”

“’kay.” Fin settled in, resting his head on his brother’s chest. Zen quietly stroked his hair, enjoying the summer afternoon and the fragrant breeze, just watching the clouds.

“I’m glad we’re together again,” he said softly, when he was sure Finwë had drifted off to sleep.

“Me, too.”]]> Finwë Storytelling Tue, 03 Aug 2010 20:02:12 -0400 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,148954,148954#msg-148954 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,148954,148954#msg-148954
I am new to the server, and sorta noobish to RP. My mains reside on a RP server though it's been many of years since I seen or even partook in it. I was recommended to give TB a try so here I am! I figured a proper introduction is in order to get my feet wet, so here my newest addition's story. I will warn you, this is my first time writing and posting on the internets.

I hope you enjoy!))

“Hell hath no fury like a woman’s scorn.” She purred in his ear as her blade tore through him. His baby blue eyes that women in the village had coveted for so long now stood open wide with so many emotions. Horror, disbelief, FEAR. She loved that emotion best. She relished that look in his eyes as his life essence flowed freely down her blade, watching till the last bit of life left his eyes.

His body finally collapsed into a lifeless heap on the ground, her blade soaked with his crimson blood. Her eyes burned in rage. Revenge was hers, but she wasn’t sated. She still yearned for satisfaction.

“They all wronged you… They all knew and did nothing…”

The dark whisper swirled her thoughts again. Fuelling her hunger for more blood…

“They left you to die…and suffer. It’s time to repay them the favour. To all of THEM.”

Darkness creep over her as she savoured the dark whisper. The dim glow of her eyes faded as they closed, as she remembers, she let the dark whisper take her back to a not so distant past…

Nothing could hold a candle to the beauty of the land as spring embraced it. Birds singing a welcome to the warm weather, flowers greeting the sun’s warm kiss. Absolute paradise.

Iselia was full of life then. Her hair seemly spun from long threads of gold, glistened in the sunlight. Her emerald eyes glittered with life, youth, and excitement for the future. She was her father’s gem; more so since her sister died. She had barely seen her third winter before the gods welcomed her back.

She sighed lightly, as she picked fresh berries from the garden. Iselia mind was lost and wondering in the future. She was betrothed to someone she loved. If it wasn’t for her father’s love, and her stern protest, she would have been with another. He was wealthy and very handsome, that she couldn’t deny. His father very influential in the land. That arrangement would of done well for their little family. Would of elevated their village “status”, but he was an ill tempted spoiled child. As most are who’s up bringing never required them to get their hands dirty. His charming looks could hide that fact well enough.

Her betrothed was a childhood friend who also was a farm hand on her fathers farm. Best friends turned lovers when the spring of adolescence bloomed. She was mortified when her father told her the “good news” that Eric had chosen her for a bride and her father agreed. She cried hard as she told her father of her love for Sebastian. How she wanted to be with no other but him. Nothing moves a father more then the tears of his only daughter. That night he informed Eric’s father there was a change of plans. She had over heard that Eric’s father had offered a handsome some of wealth to change Iselia’s father’s mind. But no amount of gold could change his heart. His love.

Now the future was right again. Sebastian and Iselia’s wedding planned for midsummer harvest when everything would be ripe and ready for a grand feast. Villagers whispered that Eric didn’t take the rejection well, but she paid no mind. Even the wealthiest needed to be humbled once in awhile. Money can not buy you everything.

She smiled as the last berry filled her basket, her lips also had a tell tale sign of blue that not only her basket had it’s fill with the sweet berries. Today she planned to make the sweetest pie for supper. Her father deserved nothing but the best tonight for all that he has done for her. Iselia looked up to the sun as she stood. Noon was soon approaching, She needed to get back to the farmhouse if the dessert was to be ready for this evening before her fathers return.

Her head jerked to one side. A shadow had caught the corner of her eye. Animal perhaps? She reasoned, though it didn’t settle her heart. That was a big animal then… no fox, or coyote. “Time to go” she whispered under her breath as her pace quickened. Nearly breaking into run back towards the house.

She gasped as an unseeing force grasped her arm. She was moving so quickly that she was suddenly jerked to fierce halt. The basket slipped from her arms spilling onto the ground. Her scream was lodged into her breathless throat as she turned to see what force stopped her and pulled her back.

She sighed deeply as her emerald eyes met with Eric’s blue orbs. Feeling foolish now but still unsettled that Eric was in the field in the first place…

“Eric, good morning… is this a proper way to greet someone? What are you doing out here?” She straightened her dress and then kneeled down to retrieve her basket. She didn’t look up to him, she knew she rejected him and couldn’t look into his eyes for long.

Eric stood silent for an uncomfortable moment, he watched her as she tried to get as much berries back into the basket as she could. “I wanted to congratulate on your up coming wedding…personally.” His voice was hard as stone. She looked up to him, suddenly not caring about the berries and the sweet pie she was to make for her father dearest…

“oh..” she fumbled for words, her fear becoming very real once more. “Thank you, Eric. I…I…” Her eyes never left his cold orbs as she slowly rose to her feet. Taking one defensive step back.

He took a step forward, “I had my eyes on you for so long Iselia, you are such a prize.” Eric’s finger tips rose to gently touch her soft and flushed cheek. His eyes seemly warmed for a moment as he felt lost in her radiant beauty. “You could of lived a very satisfying life, had anything you ever wanted….”

Like a sudden summer storm ragging, his face twisted into anger. His soft caress on Iselia’s cheek, hardened swiftly and forcefully entangling his fingers into her gold silk woven threads. She found her voice then to scream as her head was force back. Those glittering emerald orbs now stared back to him in fear, absolute and utter terror. Eric leaned in, his lips touching her neck. She closed her eyes as she felt his hot breath. She struggled, he held her tighter. The pain overwhelmed her.

His lips made it’s way to her ear, in a deep dark whisper he purred, “If I can’t have you, no one shall. No one says no to me…and lives.” A sudden spark came to her vision before darkness over took her. Her body falling limp into Eric’s arms as he held her for a moment. Running his fingers lovingly through her hair before lifting her into his arms. Carrying her off towards the ravine, off towards her final moments.

Her eye fluttered open as consciousness returned to her, a pain stunned her face. Her left eye refused to open. She can feel the swelling. Her mind is lost in utter bewilderment as she remembered Eric in the berry field, panicked she thrashes but her hands are bound above her head. Her screams muffled by a crude rag tied tightly around her head. Eye wide she searches around her. She by the ravine, the very place where her and Sebastian professed their love to each other. Where’s Eric? Did no one hear my scream…

Million of thoughts ran rampent through her bewildered mind. All come to a sudden stop as Eric stepped into her vision. Cold fear freezes her as the blade he holds shins it’s light towards her. Reflecting the springs light that she enjoyed not so long ago…

With a cold look in his eyes he kneels down beside her, caressing the sharp crude blade against her check.

“You should of said yes, now your mine puppet. I shall pull your strings to my delight and you will not enjoy it one bit…”



It was 3 nights before her father and Sebastian found her mangled lifeless body by the ravine. The very one where the two lovers once planned their future together. The very place where it all came to an end.


The funeral was held the next evening for Iselia. Her father had lost his mind, he couldn’t get the image of his daughter out of his mind. How he found her by the ravine. It wasn’t long till his grief over came him, consuming him. He was found hanging from the barn less then a week later.

The Village knew who did it, everyone whispered it. No one acted. No one had the gal to come forward and accuse Eric of the heinous crime he committed out of rage and jealously. Even Sebastian kept silent and to himself.

They all knew, they all did nothing.

Eric walked guilt free. His dominance assured. His ego greater then ever.

Iselia’s spirit churned restlessly. Consumed with rage, anger, and hunger for revenge. How could no one do anything? How could the man she choose to be her husband deny her honour? How could she become so easily forgotten…

Then came the dark whisper. The sweet nurturing dark voice, lulled her, comfort her, gave her strength.

“Rise my child. I have answered your call, your wish. Go forth and fulfill your hunger.”

The long dead flowers part the soil as a hand dug itself free from the grave. Iselia rose from the grave. Standing in the moonlight. The dress she was to be wed in, stained and soiled. Her eyes raged with hatred.

“I live again” She purred to the moon. No life stirred this night, no creature or insect sung the summer night song. The restless spirit had emerged; nothing was brave enough to block her path…



Her eyes open, the glow of rage still burned brightly in her eyes. She glanced down at Eric’s lifeless pathetic corpse. With one gracefully movement of her blade, she defiled his corpse. Parting it of it’s head.

The dark whisper gave her life and unnatural strength. It granted her the strength she could of never had in life. She loved it.

“Go punish them all. Seek justice. There is no innocence sleeping tonight. They will be judged by you.”

The Dark whisper purred. Like a father cooing his baby daughter, it fuel her lust for death.

“Then return to me, my dark champion. I will keep you sated for all eternity”

“Yes my love” she purred. With Eric’s head in hand, her blood soaked blade in the other. She made her way towards the village… first Sebastian’s house… His death will be bittersweet and savoured,

Then the Village will burn. Burn like her rage.]]> Iselia Storytelling Wed, 04 Aug 2010 21:40:52 -0400 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,148748,148748#msg-148748 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,148748,148748#msg-148748
That was why he'd returned from exile, he supposed.

With a shake of his shaggy head, he turned back to the message board and placed his own poster in a bare spot:

SPIRIT WALKER AVAILABLE
Experienced spirit walker available for communion with the dead and other related
duties of the title. Will advise. Address letter to "Spirit" Walker or post on board.
No payment required.

He glanced over the message and gave it a short nod before stumping off to the gate, ears flicking subconsciously in response to sounds only he could hear. The world had long since stopped respecting or recognizing their dead; perhaps he could help nudge them back on the proper path.

((As I'm sure you've ascertained, this is a post stating that a spirit walker is available for hire. I know the role well and I'll play it in a manner that will hopefully enhance whatever you're looking to do. Shoot me an in-game mail, PM, or post here IC if you'd like to hire the spirit walker for something.))]]> No Storytelling Mon, 06 Sep 2010 20:14:34 -0400 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,148634,148634#msg-148634 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,148634,148634#msg-148634
A young Tauren girl stood, a massive axe in each hand, and bellowed a challenge at three dark-clothed humans before she lunged in and swung the axes, left hand then right. The left axe missed, the right cleaved deep into one human's shoulder and sent him sprawling in the thick grass, clutching at a gaping wound that would likely prove fatal in just a few more minutes. With one already removed from the battle, the two-on-one seemed like a bit more of an even match, and the Tauren girl grinned a wild, almost bestial grin as she swung again.

The cat's eyes caught what the furious warrior missed, however - another three creeping quietly up on the battle from behind, weapons at the ready. Another moment, and the girl would be surrounded. Another moment after that, and in all likelihood this afternoon's battle would be her last. The grey-maned black lion crouched and slunk closer, and just as one of the newcomers raised his swords to strike the girl from behind, the cat launched herself from the tall grass.

She roared, from jaws open wide. Thudding into the attacker's back, she bit down savagely on the back of his neck, vertebrae cracking and flesh tearing as she gave a ferocious twist and shake. The man was dead before he - or the cat - hit the ground. The cat's form blurred as she returned to the ground, lighting on feet that were more like the talons of a bird, beneath a round body covered in thick, stiff feathers. She threw one feathered hand out, hooting something that sounded angry, and a beam of searing blue-white light, the color of the twin moons, fell from the daylight sky to set the remaining two assassins alight.

The cat-turned-owlkin blurred and shifted form once again, revealing now her true nature - a grey-maned Tauren woman clad in heavy leather robes. With a stern invocation to the Earthmother and Cenarius, she thrust a hand out at the girl, enveloping the young warrior in a soothing swirl of green that sealed her wounds. The druid turned and finished the two attackers with another burst of moonfire, while the warrior's heavy, sweeping axes made short work of the first two. The wounded man lay on the ground, gaping up at the two Tauren women, and the druid shook her head, grimacing.

"Get you gone, boy, and if you're smart you won't come back here." With a contemptuous wave of one hand, she set a whirl of green energy upon the wounded human, enough to hold him back from death's grasp. With the other hand, she pointed off into the distance, while she glared at him pointedly. He scurried away, fetching only his own weapons, leaving the two Tauren alone in the sudden silence of the grassy highlands.

The young warrior turned to the old druid, looking her up and down with wide, surprised eyes. "Mama Tadewi? Wha-what are you... I could have taken them, you know!"

Amusement sparkled in the old druid's eyes, and she laughed, low and rough. "Aye, little Kai, might be you could have... but you needed reminding." Leaning upon her old, gnarled staff, she huffed a breath, then stood tall on her hooves and looked the girl steadily in the eyes. "Don't you ever get too big for your britches and try and tell me again that I'm too old to fight, or I'll put you over my knee. Is that clear, little missy?"

The warrior scuffed one hoof in the grassy ground and bowed her head, like a child being scolded, and a blush even showed through her pale fur as she mumbled, "Clear as goblin glass, Mama Tadewi."

"Good," the druid said, and her form blurred and shifted, once again to that of the big black cat. She padded off into the tall grass again, soon disappearing from the young warrior's sight, and only when she knew she was well out of sight did she slow down, slightly favoring her sore paws and aching joints and muttering to herself in a growl, "...I'm getting too old for this shit..."]]> Mira Storytelling Tue, 20 Jul 2010 17:04:39 -0400 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,148632,148632#msg-148632 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,148632,148632#msg-148632 The next thing the young Orc senses is a Dagger at his throat, the smell of coffee an tobacco are strong, The poisons applied to these daggers will not only paralyze you, they will eat you from the inside out. The older Orc pushes the scared youngling away an chuckles as he see a small pool where the young one was standing. S..Sorr,sorry Sir, I..It won't happen again. Hmph..The older Orc walk back to his chair. bck to your lessons.
As I stand here watching the new batch of students, I will never forget the lesson that day. Hey Myyth? I hear you couldn't sneak past a sleeping Tauren. An evil smile spreads as I turn towards the student. May the lesson begin





((( My writing isn't all that awesome, but I gave it a go, ~Myyth :) ))]]> Myyth Storytelling Tue, 20 Jul 2010 14:02:14 -0400 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,148601,148601#msg-148601 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,148601,148601#msg-148601
"These allies, both members of the Horde, were a Tauren and an Elven paladin, of which we know that the former's race mostly views our condition as an affliction and that the latter's profession is often biased against our interests. Yet these two, Khydann Thistledown and Tendaros the White, risked their lives in order to defend me and to advance the cause of the priesthood in the Plaguelands."

"The entire tale is too long for this sermon. Suffice it to say, the Plaguelands are haunted by many souls deprived of agency. Some were imprisoned by the Scourge, others corrupted by it. It was my mission to purify and release the soul of one Joseph Redpath, a stalwart enemy of the Lich King who was killed during the Battle of Darrowshire, rose again as a Death Knight, and slew his former friends. Should such a being be left, tormented, under the control of the Scourge? Of course not! This injustice called out for rectification."

"However, the righting of this particular wrong called for a reenactment of the battle itself. Alone, I would have had to defend Darrowshire from hordes of Scourge led by twin terrors, Horgus the Ghoul Lord and Marduk the Black, of whom the latter still lurks within the Scholomance to this day. Yet, I was prepared to do so in order to reclaim one strong soul from the clutches of the Scourge. The Shadow was with me. I had faith that Its will would be done."

"And so it was! But alone, even with the Shadow's blessings, I may have fallen before the might of villains past. No, Its Dark will was manifest in the arrival of the aforementioned champions. Khydann peppered the vile Scourge with ammunition as Lord Tendaros held back Horgus and Marduk with mettle and metal, if you understand my pun. I, for my part, drew back Joseph Redpath's soul from the brink of corruption. The Battle of Darrowshire was, in the minds of the spirits there gathered, rewritten as a victory for the enemies of the Scourge. In reality, too, the Lich King's banners were torn down (an overdue redecoration) and the ruined village fell silent for, I hope, a long time."

"Darrowshire's holds several lessons on which I hope to expound in the coming weeks. For today, however, let me focus on its more recent past, and the exploits I have just mentioned. Let us consider, brothers and sisters, the ways in which the Shadow is manifest in our lives. We exist, we think, we act: these are gifts of the Shadow. Our membership in the Horde, our Elven, Orcish, Tauren, and Troll allies, these, too, are the gifts of the Shadow."

"We are the Shade's Beloved, the favored children. How can that ever slip from our minds, when we exist in such a blessed state? It takes more intellect, more consideration to recognize that the Shadow is present in creatures who have yet to be inducted into the ranks of the Undead. These, too, can be guardians of the Darkness. Khydann Thistledown and Tendaros the White: these I name children of the Shadow. Look about you. See the Kor'kron Honor Guard, strong Orcs who protect our beloved city and our Dark Lady: they, too, are children of the Shadow. Open your minds, brothers and sisters, and recognize Its prophets, Its puppets, Its cherished ones within the Horde. If you can do so, we will avoid the errors of the past and further our common work."

--

Prester John bowed his bald head before his Banshee mistress. Cultists of the Forgotten Shadow flanked him, their long black hoods casting their faces in impenetrable darkness. The two Forsaken, toting their accustomed steel staves, had gathered the kneeling priest up after his recent sermon and brought him directly to Aelthalyste in the War Quarter. Without the slightest hesitation, Prester had complied with the summons. Now, however, he sensed a certain dissatisfaction from the spirit before him, as well as a bit of anxiousness in his two guards.

"Prester John, slave of the Shadow, now… Hero of Darrowshire, should I call you?" Aelthalyste mocked the priest with her airy voice. To Prester's vigorously shaking head she replied, "Oh, do not be so modest. After all, your sermon made it sound like quite a victory. Certainly, 'holy man,' you have mastered the principle of Compassion."

At this, Prester could not keep silent. "Which is, my dark mistress, an accepted pillar of our religion and a form of worship for our Cult," he insisted, although he was certain that this outburst would not help his case. For whatever reason, it was now clear that Aelthalyste, his superior in the Cult of the Forgotten Shadow, was decidedly dissatisfied with something. The Banshee considered the kneeling Forsaken for a moment.

"That it is, Prester John. However, it has become clear to me that you are distinctly… unbalanced, should I say? You have clearly been blessed by the Shadow, but you have been afflicted with an extreme sense of kindliness, a most distasteful penchant for the weak. The soul of Joseph Redpath was corrupted because it was weak. The physical form with which the corrupted Redpath wreaked havoc was long ago put down; your intervention in Darrowshire served nothing but the interests of his pathetic ghost and… his mewling daughter, Pamela, as well, yes? I am well aware that she haunted those ruins. She, too, was a weak little wispling, who deserved her damnation for her inability either to let go or effect her desires."

"Yet, mistress, her desires were effected through me. Her tenacity, another principle of our order, was evident in her dedication to her father's cause, many years now since his fall and her death. The Shadow sent me to reward her-"

Aelthalyste's essence swooped a little closer, and Prester could sense her cold breath upon the crown of his still-bowed skull. She hissed at him. "The Shadow, Prester John, now sends you somewhere else. Somewhere, I think, that will bring you to an understanding of Power and Respect, of which you seem to be entirely ignorant. Perhaps there you will come to recognize those who are useful, those who must be feared, and how you can gain by the balance between them. Only once you have come to an appreciation of these things will you be ready to truly serve the Shadow."

Prester John kept his head lowered. "I go wherever the Shade beckons, mistress. Where would It have me?"

Aelthalyste hovered slightly higher, her hands spread as she began to provide some exposition. She talked of the simmering war, of battles spilling out of the valleys of the Alterac Mountains and into the Hinterlands, as well as the dangers now faced by the Defilers in the Arathi Basin. There, it was suspected, the Humans of Arathor would soon be importing siege weaponry from the mountains to the northwest, aided by the Wildhammer Dwarves. "There," Aelthalyste concluded, "you will find a great need for the Shadow's blessings. You will leave immediately."

Prester John nodded again and stood. After his recent service to the pan-racial Argent Dawn, the idea of factional battles did not please him. However, he was nothing more than the slave of the Shadow, and Aelthalyste Its mouthpiece. He went where she willed. An expression of concern flitted over the Banshee's face as she added, "And, Prester John, please… do not hesitate to melt a few faces here and there. No matter how pitiful and wretched the average Gnome or Draenei looks, they will gladly flay you to ribbons if given the chance."

"Of course, my dark mistress. May I be an efficient instrument of the Shadow's will."

"Dark blessings upon you, Priest of the Shadow. Now go."

--

Vinge stalked warily through the halls of the Undercity, his wretched appearance and furtiveness attracting the stares of bystanders. To each and every, Vinge replied with a menacing clack of his fleshless jaws. The ziggurat of the War Quarter was in sight when the Forsaken creature paused. He ran his clawed fingers over the ragged edges of his facial flesh, still a bit jagged here and there from when he tore off the skin grafted on by the Doctor as a disguise.

"Sss… and so, here again I am. Ready to sssign my name once more. This entire affair has revolved around regissstration, it seems, and… unssurprisingly, it has all come full circle," Vinge mused aloud, hissing to himself. His hands fell to his sides and grasped the hilts of his jagged swords. He continued across the acidic moat, half-expecting a trio of Deathstalkers to pop out and make an attempt on his unlife after every step. Much to his disappointment, they did not, and, after demanding directions from a few Kor'kron guards, Vinge found himself safely at the recruiter for the Defilers.

A chipper Forsaken woman, wearing the colors of the Defilers, had settled into a large leather chair near her force's banner. It creaked unhappily under the combined weight of her and her massive platemail armor, but seemed to hold. She hopped to her feet with a clank as Vinge, her first recruit of the morning, approached. "Oh, hello there! You look like a dangerous one. Are you here to sign on for the surge?"

Vinge hissed loudly at the woman for a good three seconds, trying his best to convey just how little he liked any of this. She paused and gaped at the rudeness. "Jusssst tell me," the wretch said, taking advantage of her stunned silence, "where I have to sssign my damned name, creature. I'm here for ssssome nice… legitimate… upsssssstanding-member-of-the-Horde Gnome-ssslaughter, not chit-chat."

The woman frowned, at least with her intact upper jaw, and nodded to her left. There was perched, at a desk not far away, a clerk wearing the distinctive orange-and-black uniform of a Census official. Vinge swore loudly, again for several whole seconds, and stalked up to the small Undead man. To his surprise, under the fold of the Forsaken's hood he found a pair of defiant eyes fixed upon his form. The book in front of the Census minister remained closed. For a long minute, icy silence reigned between them, and the Census minister was the first to speak. "You are Vinge."

"You are a disssgusting little paper-pushing rat. Now open your book and let me-"

"You are a wanted murderer."

Vinge paused. As much as he had been hoping for trouble, he was by now looking forward to gutting members of the Alliance. An ambush or two along the way would have been preferable to extended arguing with administrators. He tried to be diplomatic. "Was. Made arrangements. Deathstalker business."

The Undead man scowled and leaned forward, then caught a glimpse of Vinge's arsenal and sat down again as defiantly as he could. "Proof?"

Vinge produced a small scroll. "Got a Deathsssstalker's letter of approval right here. Read it." He couldn't help but add, "Ssswine."

Unrolling the scroll with his bony fingers, the man simply stated, "Lorik, the huntsman you killed, was a friend of mine. I got him that job, and you murdered him, you… murderer." He began to read the scroll.

"I kill lotsss of things. I'm here to kill people that want to kill you. Doesss that, and thisss letter, convince your little mind to let me sssign in your damnable book?" A note of begging, but only a hint, crept into Vinge's ragged voice.

The Undead man looked at Vinge with anger, then at the scroll again with an even more violent look. "I do not have the authority to stop you here, wretched villain, but if I-"

"Good. Open the book." The Census official continued to sputter as he opened the book and offered a bone pen. Vinge signed neatly, using, in fact, the handwriting of Karol Duhan. 'I wonder if they'll figure that for a forgery,' he asked himself with annoyance.

The Census official nodded over at the Defiler officer, who prepared to deliver her 'Welcome Aboard' speech. The little man hissed at Vinge, "You can go receive your marching orders, 'soldier.' I hope the Alliance tears you to shreds out there."

Walking back to the warmaster, Vinge replied loudly, "Oh, I hope they do indeed… They'll give me the sssame posthumousss medal they did your friend, the tracker. Imagine that: Vinge, war hero of the Underssssity!" The Forsaken let out a hacking cackle, at which the armor-clad woman winced.

'Beggars can't be choosers,' she told herself, then began her speech: "As you no doubt have heard, the League of Arathor is sending large numbers of troops into…"]]> Vinge_ Storytelling Tue, 20 Jul 2010 20:51:10 -0400 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,148497,148497#msg-148497 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,148497,148497#msg-148497 ((This piece was written by Ujanda for his Death Knight character, Requias.
Ujanda wanted to share it with folks, so he posted on the official forum.
Since some of you don't go there, I've brought it over to share the story.))


Grolar pulled his cloak tightly against the Northrend night. The fire crackled gently, as barren of warmth as the land was of food. He and his companion had exhausted their rations two days past, and their water was two days left. It would take at least a day to reach the Crystalsong Forest once again, and likely another day still traveling downriver to where the water was drinkable. The corruption of Icecrown, coupled with the pollution of the floating city of Dalaran, made much of the northwestern lake unsafe for consumption without magical purification. Such things were beyond the young hunter's grasp. He could offer to the spirits only apprehensive thanks for the few things he tried to consider small blessings: that the mountainous tundra of Icecrown was home to scores of undead creatures as capable of tracking as they were of dressing themselves; that the threat of attack by Alliance armies - or even wildlife, for that matter - was a virtual impossibility in this area, for better or for worse; that the elven warrior traveling with him was, in fact, himself undead, and had freely offered his share of rations to the orc. In such troubled times, blessings were few and far between, and he was glad to get what he could.

"That's Mord'rethar. The Deathgate," he said quietly. The elf showed no outward sign of acknowledgment; he stood straight in the darkness, back to the fire, gazing into the war-torn distance. Bursts of light flared in the black clouds above, chased by muffled thunder. "Gunnery," remarked Grolar, his expectant gaze falling to the fire, fading to disinterest. "The Hammer is in combat again."

The elf's voice was sharp and hollow as he spoke. "I know," he uttered.

"I've been aboard. She's a tough ship. Tough crew," Grolar continued, concealing his feelings of dismissal.

"Mord'rethar. I know." Something about the way he spoke bothered the hardened scout; he had met other undead, as both allies and enemies, and he was aware that such an affliction took its toll on the mind as much as the body, but in the case of the heavily-armored blood elf he had brought to this place, there was nothing typical about it. His thoughts were clear, his words concise, but none of it seemed directed at anyone in particular. He had hired Grolar as a guide, purchasing direction to Icecrown and the mighty gates the Scourge had erected from which to launch their most recent assault on the world, perhaps on life itself. From the moment they closed the deal, upon the docks of Vengeance Landing, the elf had exhibited this disassociated behavior. His handshake was well off the mark, requiring an awkward adjustment of position and a casual forgiveness of the gaffe, on the part of the hunter himself. He paid not with conventional coin, but with ancient and beautiful works of precious metal and stone, draped with intricate etchings as of yet unidentified, and seemingly without the slightest sense of accomplishment or loss, as if the transaction was not a transaction at all, but simply a statement of intent: you will do as I instruct, and your efforts will be compensated. Even the simple act of exchange seemed forced, as obviously valuable jewelery slipped from the warrior's gauntlets, splashing beneath the surface of the frigid waters and fading into the murk. As the loot that Grolar had managed to hold onto far exceeded the fee they had discussed in their weeks of correspondence, he decided to leave it for one far luckier than he.

Now, as the elf stood silhouetted by the fire, that same awkwardness seemed to creep carelessly from very shadows he cast. It had been a harrowing week for Grolar, this week of travel through turbulent Northrend, through the eastern fjords, the rolling boreal forests of the Grizzly Hills, dodging winged patrols through the arctic reaches of the central Great Dragonblight, all with an undead warrior who seemed as self-aware as the creatures they sought to destroy. By firelight, Grolar grappled with bad dreams already beginning to haunt him; he had attempted conversation again and again, hoping to stave off the madness this elf seemed veritably contagious with, but his cheeks were quickly becoming too cold to turn. "Apologies, my lord. I thought you weren't familiar with the territory," he offered in exasperation.

The elf turned to face him. Milky eyes flickered with energy the pallid blue of suffocation, the infectious green of contamination, the nauseating off-white of decomposition. His runed mask reflected the dead light playfully, casting shadows that skittered across the stylized leather straps. He spoke directly to Grolar then, with an intensity that strangled the sass from the orc. "That is not my name."

Grolar shifted uncomfortably, averting his gaze with a shame that he knew was undeserved, but that he was incapable of casting away. "...I...am sorry...Lord S-...Sayal..." His fumbling grasp of Thalassian, and the words the blood elves claimed as names and titles, only exacerbated the thorn in his brain, helping to metamorphose that shame into embarrassment.

"Requias..." the elf said slowly, sitting nearer the fire, again lost in some distant place. Grolar repeated him slowly.

"Requias..."

"...ce..."

"T-...T-say..."

"Ce."

"...ce..."

"Alerashid."

"Alay-...rasheed?"

The elf spread his hands in display. "Requias ce'Alerashid."

"Forgive me, Lord Ale...rashid. I..." Grolar stumbled as his cheeks flushed with blood. The warmth of his blushing chagrin crept into his face. Small blessings, he thought.

Requias gently traced the stark lines in the leather on his face, as he pondered aloud. "It is said to mean, 'to achieve what will not be achieved."

"My Thalassian is not good," Grolar replied.

"I know."

Grolar exhaled sharply. "Of course."

"I studied such things, as a boy. Linguistics. Words." His fingers stopped at the slats in the mouthguard, gently fondling his charcoal lips. "Such beautiful magic."

Grolar's eyes pointed up inquisitively. "You studied magic?" he asked.

"Yes," Requias said absentmindedly. He deftly searched his pack as it lay beside him, his disconcerting gaze never straying from the gradually receding fire, as though it were equally unsettled by the elf's intensity. Without once averting his eyes, he removed a well-worn whetstone and one of the two softly throbbing blades at his side, his hands bringing the objects together and to activity almost autonomously. "It was necessary to pore through my volumes. No words ever truly die," he mused, "they are simply forgotten until they are needed once more."

"Spellbooks, I take it?"

Requias' attention seemed to snap suddenly to the orc, like it was never there at all. "Spellbooks?"

Grolar narrowed his eyes slightly; "...volumes? Of magic, I assume?"

The elf narrowed his own eyes challengingly. "I have never studied magic. Such assumptions can be dangerous." His sensibilities apparently offended, Requias focused instead on the sharpening of his blade. The sound was a thing that Grolar had never heard before a few days ago; not the simple scraping of stone on steel, the descending whine of friction and heat grinding razor edges to the weapon. These darkly magical blades, they did more than whine, they almost begged, sharply rising sounds he was certain he had heard more often in bedchambers than on battlefields.

Although the tolerant type, the death knight's erratic behavior had pushed Grolar to the edge of his patience. Early in their journey, he had given up considering the habits mere eccentricities, conceding to the possibility of genuine madness; he had begun keeping his distance then, and it was only days later he had started to think that his new-found wealth was not worth the risk of injury, or even death, at the hands of the undead, friend or foe. He had shortly thereafter became unsure as to whether it would be worse to be an immortal lunatic's plaything, or simply mindlessly Scourged.

He placed his hand on his head, his elbow on his knee, and said nothing more. Conversation with this...man, had become a fool's errand to the orc. Alone or otherwise, Requias continued. "Beautiful, magical words," he uttered, gently caressing the gasping blade. "I was given these words when I was born. They were given theirs. They are ancient words, hidden truths of powers buried beneath the dust of ages, spoken only by tongues devoured, whispered on stale breath, learned without ever being heard, taught without ever being spoken..."

"Theirs?" Grolar asked incredulously. "Whose?"

"Be quiet!" Requias hissed suddenly, his face twisted in rage for a moment so brief, the hunter was unsure he had seen it at all. "I cannot hear you when you speak."

Grolar stared at the elf a moment, attempting to make sense of what he had heard. What he thought he had heard. He blinked a few times, his eyes darting back and forth, searching his weary mind for some form of translation. Finding none, he stood, turned, and unfurled his bedroll. He laid on the thick blanket as Requias continued to speak.

"Earlier dialects explained identical but more modern interpretations of concepts using different phonetical principles; centuries ago, ce'Alerashid meant literally - by current principles - 'to reach what will not be reached.' Notice the similarities between the words - to reach, to achieve. The protracted vowels, the velar consonants." He held his blade to the firelight, which grew shallower with every passing sentence, and rambled on as he set the weapon in his lap and began on the other. "Words are like flesh: they twist and convolute as they age, becoming crevassed with experience and gnarled with alteration..." The disturbingly erotic sounds of this smaller, shorter sword sent shivers down the orc's spine. "...but if you tear shapes to pieces and cut away the letters like so much rotting meat, only the ideas remain, as raw and uncompromising as the heart itself." Sparks danced down his mask, illuminating the perverse grin through which he digressed, as he lifted the blade high and tore the smoking whetstone across the cutting edge. A cry rang out, indistinguishable by gender. Grolar rose to sit, unwilling to allow his companion to sing him to restless sleep with sorcerous lullabies.

"You should rest," he said, fighting to restrain his discomfort and irritability. "We'll have to make our way to the Argent Crusade's vanguard fortifications at first light - such as it is in this place. We'll need to resupply before we penetrate the gates."

Requias set the stone beside him, held the blade straight for examination. "We must. We cannot turn back. We have come far. We must."

"What? No," Grolar sighed, eyes heavy, vision blurred. "We're not turning back, we're just going to resupply. I can't live off the land like you - such as it is, anyway..."

"You do not consider what I have to be life?" the death knight asked unexpectedly. Philosophically. Although the orc understood Requias' question, the tone of it was all wrong. The sense in offense at innocent questions and obeisance for unfettered cynicism was lost on Grolar, who considered himself quite reasonable. Under normal circumstances.

"Spirits' strength, that's not what I meant. I just - "

"Be quiet!" Requias barked, immediately enraged once again. "Can you not understand me!? I cannot hear you when you insist on speaking so loudly!"

Grolar scrambled to his knees, startled to wakefulness by the outburst. "Ssh!" he hissed, nearly panicked. "Please! There are scouts - "

Requias shot to his feet, taking a blade in each hand, and rising in both tone and intensity. "I will not play matron to the simpering fears that drip from your mouth!" Grolar pleaded for silence with tired eyes, begged with a clenched jaw and an open frown. The elf seemed to calm himself, his armor glinting darkly in the dying firelight. Slowly, deliberately, he sheathed his swords, then continued to ramble softly, although with a hard and angry undertone. "Centuries earlier still, the words bore an even more primal meaning, before anything could be thought of as having been 'achieved', before one's 'reach' was simply an affectation. The word we know as 'reach' grew from the word they used to describe the end of one's reach, the purpose of having to reach at all." His fingers found their way to his face once more, stroking and caressing even as he spoke. "In the beginning, ce'Alerashid meant - no, not just meant, but represented - a touch. To touch what will not be touched. Requias ce'Alerashid - he who will touch that which will not be touched, who would physically feel what refused to be felt by hands so crevassed and gnarled." His voice began to rise with angry excitement. "I have embraced, in terms as literal as you can conceive, a thing that cannot be comprehended by a mind as tethered as yours! A creature that is nary a creature at all, but the raw and uncompromising essence of itself! Alive because it believes itself to be, and as dead as it may please, whenever it so desires! I will not be turned back now, chased from my purpose by the cries of a child! You think your terror a privacy, but it is a salient thing that smears itself upon my thought like the oily filth of cowards and thieves! I cannot wipe it clean, I cannot burn it dry, and I cannot hear their scouts when you insist on straining your hate through your chattering teeth!"

Grolar slowly rolled to his haunches. He carefully positioned his arms in front of himself for balance, stealthily palming a small blade of his own. Requias heaved his chest, not with breath but with violent and choleric animosity. Grolar had feared this moment from the very beginning; he had tried to warn himself of the perils of association with the undead, had convinced himself otherwise. His own avarice had brought him here, and his very acquiescence had allowed this to happen. He had made a mistake, and his heart sped its pace with the ghastly realization that the situation could no longer be avoided.

The two stood in silence for long, defiant moments, Grolar cautiously rising, Requias warily calming. The orc raised his empty hand, showed his palm as a gesture of peace. His muscles tensed from years of overcoming and escaping danger, but this night, exhaustion nudged him on: "Please - " he breathed.

Requias roared and lunged through the fire, kicking a cloud of logs and ashes; scattering cinders burst to life in a searing blaze that dazzled the orc's hazy sight. In an instant, the elf was on top of him, gauntlets filled with unearthly rage crushing the life from his throat. "...p-...p-lease...m-mah..." he choked. Requias no longer spoke, plainly or cryptically; only guttural sounds strained through clenched teeth. Thick and foul blood began to drip profusely from his lips, from his nostrils.

Grolar brutally forced the dagger through the mail beneath the death knight's arm. He felt burning, sticky fluid run in streams down his hand. Requias jerked as the blade penetrated, but did not loosen his grip; he shuddered, smiled, and looked to the sky. "Yes," he said softly, "speak to me...cut away your words and let me hear you!"

The orc struggled with every ounce of adrenaline his body could produce, pushed the dagger further until his fingers touched ribs. As he felt himself grow weak, and he saw his vision darken, he placed his free hand on the death knight's own neck. It fell away a moment later, coming to rest on the ash-covered ground. His death grip on the dagger remained.

Requias maintained his stranglehold on the corpse for long, defiant moments. Slowly, he leaned in close, heads side-by-side, lips to ear and ear to lips. Almost inaudibly, he whispered, "Now...speak to me..."

He released his grip. Stale breath rattled through the dessicated throat. Then, only silence.

"...speak to me..." Requias said at length.

The corpse gurgled. Requias started, and jumped back.

One of the eyes blinked randomly, more a deliberate movement than a nervous twitch. Guttural sounds trickled past lips gently turning pallid blue. Infectious green bruises spread quickly, and the eyes faded to a nauseating milky white. Grolar pulled himself to a sitting position, then rolled to his haunches. Requias stood before him, darkness descending upon the pair as the glowing cinders burned themselves to extinction.

Requias pointed towards the colossal gates in the distance. "Mord'rethar," he said softly. "The Deathgate." Soft light flashed in the sky. Explosions rumbled. Grolar pointed clumsily, a silent moan smoldering in his mouth. "Gunnery," Requias explained gently. "The Hammer is in combat." Grolar gasped in agreement.

"Come. Friend," the death knight said, a bloody smile darting between the slats in his mask. "We cannot turn back." Grolar looked at him with dead, rotting eyes.

The fire was gone, as barren of life as the land itself. Grolar's supplies, his equipment, even the blood-stained dagger was left behind to the darkness and the undead. Together, the pair disappeared into the Northrend night, the flashes of the gunship above carelessly casting their shadows to the frozen winds.]]> Trinda Storytelling Sat, 17 Jul 2010 01:19:59 -0400 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,148400,148400#msg-148400 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,148400,148400#msg-148400
"Tell me, Nerzosh, when you spilled the noodles over Ihiri's head and what not, did he get back at you in any way?" Laughter stifling her sentence. She loosely held the mug of bourbon to her lips, slightly tipsy.

"No..." The emerald-skinned orc let out a fit of chuckles, "I just backed away and he threw out the noodles, because he knew no one would ever eat a meal prepared atop an undead's head." Both he and the elf burst out in laughter, Nerzosh slapping the table in the amidst his drawn out laughs. Within the minute, they both settled down and began drinking from their mugs.

"So," the elf finished off her drink, "what do you think of him becoming a Hunter? Doesn't it sound a little odd? I mean, being a Warlock certainly has more positives than a... gun toting Hunter, wouldn't you say?"

"I wouldn't say that... you've got your Fel magic, and I definitely understand the ecstasy one draws from that... but to connect to the beasts of nature, the thrill of the hunt, and the joys of pointing a gun..." Nerzosh emptied his mug and wiped his mouth. "An Uncorrupted Warlock doesn't feel what you feel, Miken, that pleasurable addiction, that rush of Fel energy... he needed something else, something that wouldn't erode his old soul when he gave into it."

"I guess certain people can't handle it, huh?" She smiled, and the orc shrugged.

In almost a flash, an undead rushed into the inn, approaching their table with a letter in hand. He saluted them both, holding up the parcel.

"I have a message, from Naoda Darktide and Iskae Darktide, addressed to Nerzosh Darktide. Are you the addressed?" The undead stretched his back.

"Yes, I am, please read it to me..." Nerzosh pinched the bridge of his nose, attempting to clear his dizziness. The undead opened the letter, unfolding the parchment inside and clearing his throat.

"Your spirit is with us, Nerzosh. We keep you in mind daily. Ihiri has taken in a new member in the name of the League, and insists that you visit him in Feralas to accept him in. Also, there is some concern with the recent earthquake activity, and it must be discussed also. Regards, Iskae. Five silver, please." The undead held out his hand, watching Nerzosh reluctantly hand over five silver coins. The envoy ran off, with no other word to either of them.

"Well. We should head out." Miken rose, only to fall over onto her face. Sighing heavily, Nerzosh picked her up and slug her petite body over his shoulder.

"Come on, on to Orgrimmar." He walked with extreme caution, wobbling all the way to the Dalaran portals.]]> Ihiri Storytelling Wed, 14 Jul 2010 14:37:50 -0400 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,148376,148376#msg-148376 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,148376,148376#msg-148376
She sat on a hill, her fishing line in the river that ran throughout Grizzly Hills. She felt the presence of the other elf before she saw him.

As Sellinda Sunfire turned her head to look over her shoulder at this robed figure, a boot escaped the dark red robes surrounding him. He kicked her gun, and she jumped. Just in time, her hand grasped the leather-bound handle, and she scrambled to her feet, glaring at the sin'dorei before her.

"What the hell was that for?!" She nearly shouted.

The brilliant green eyes stared at her from under his hood, and he spoke in an even and firm Thalassian.

"You have something I want, Sellinda,"

The familiar voice of Zakas made the tracker freeze, and the blood drained from her face, leaving her a bit pale.

"I... W-Wh--" She stumbled over her own language in shock.

The warlock held his gaze, "Give me that dagger, and I will leave you be. This is your only chance,"

They held the gaze. Something clicked in Sellinda's eyes, though the dawning of a thought never reached her face. Very carefully, she replied, "I-I don't... k-know what you're... talking about,"

He peered at her for a moment, then glanced idly to the side, "I don't want to have to jog your memory, Sellinda. Just hand over the dagger. I can sense it is here."

"W-What dagger?" She asked, but in her eyes, it was reflected that she knew the exact thing he was speaking of.

"You know whch. Give it to me," He stated.

Sellinda grinded her teeth for a moment before snapping, "Like hell I would,"

The man quietly raised his hand, remaining calm as he stated, "I told you that you would only get one chance,"

The short sin'dorei stood to her full five feet of height, tightening the grip on her gun. She remained silent. Zakas murmured a dark word, and his raised hand glowed like an ember for just a moment. A fire was set inside Sellinda, and went rigid. Her gun fell from her hands as they went to grasp at her chest, a shriek of pain escaping her throat as she fell to her knees. Zakas leaned over and picked up the discarded weapon with a single hand.

"Whose stone was that?" A female voice floated from her hearthstone.

Zakas blinked, and between Sellinda's pants, a small curse was muttered in orcish.

"Someone yelling in elvish," Came a rough, orcish reply.

He threw her gun to the river, and stared at her. He held his hand to her again, and symbols of a curse floated around her for a moment.

"There weren't any words, trust me," The first voice spoke again.

"Whuh, huh?" A trollish reply followed.

"Does anyone know whose stone this came from?" The female voice asked.

"No idea," The orcish one replied.

"I haven't a clue how to tell, unfortunately," Stated a new female voice.

Sellinda looked to her hearthstone and started to yell for help. She cut off her own words as hisses and spits of the demonic language replaced what should have been orcish.

"What the -nether- was that? " The most recent voice asked.

"... that does not sound good."

"I have no idea,"

Zakas placed a hand on her head and pushed the small elf back. She let out a yelp, landing on her back. The warlock plucked her hearthstone from its resting place on her belt, and held it up to be level with his eyes. A brilliant, fel green flame surrounded it, and the hearthstone disintegrated. The tracker shifted, and sat up, then froze in horror as she watched the ashes of her communication to her unit fall from the man's hand.

"S-Shit!" She gapped.

"Now, hand over the dagger, I might still spare your life,"

"Like hell I would!"

A grin slid onto the man's face. Sellinda stood, grabbing her spear from beneath her satchel as she did. Before she could move to defend herself, he thrust a hand out in front of him. An explosion of shadow energy fell on top of her. Pain of the weight washed over her, and the scream of pain was suppressed by the feeling of the shadows holding onto her. The grip on her spear loosened only a bit, then fell from her hand as the warlock grabbed her by the throat. She gagged.

"Come with me," He said in a dark, low voice.

He dragged her towards the road by her throat, and she stumbled to keep herself from choking. He stopped, and grabbed her satchel, then continued towards the road, never letting her go. At the road, he called forth a flaming steed with a demonic phrase. Once seated, he pulled her onto the saddle in front of him, the firm grip still on her neck. As they started to ride, she tried to claw his hand, then felt fel energies pulse around it in warning. She sat there, shivering, and a wave of helplessness fell over her.

She watched the trees fly by, and saw troll villages in the distance. A great wall started to appear beyond the trees, and the dreadsteed ran towards a clearing. Trolls were resting, and fighting Scourge, and all of them ignored the two elves that took to the stairs leading up into the Empire of Zul'Drak. Zakas pulled the steed to a stop at the dead wastes around the fallen Necropolis, and threw Sellinda to the ground. She sat up, and shuddered.

"Now," He dismounted, and walked menacingly over towards her, "Give me that dagger," She spat at his feet in reply, and he shook his head, "If only you had sense,"

" I have the sense not to tell you where it is," Sellinda snapped. Zakas raised a hand, and it glowed as an ember would once again. The pain she had felt before returned, though only a grunt escaped her. Anyone could tell she was fighting the pain. The warlock grinned. A wave of desperation fell over Sellinda, and scrambled to her feet. Without pause, she ran over to Zakas and punched him across the face. She didn't wait, her other hand coming to punch him again. Once it had landed, he pulled the mask away from his mouth. He spat a mouthful of his own blood to the side, and then turned to grin at her malevolently, his teeth glinting red with his own blood. She stumbled back a few steps, taken off guard. He raised his hand again, and muttered coldly beneath his breath. Flames appeared around Sellinda, and her arms and torso burned in a magical fire. She went stiff, and rigid, biting back the pain.

"Now tell me where you are keeping the dagger!"

"No!"

Zakas' malevolent grin turned instantly into a wicked scowl. He murmured a word, and the flames that clung to her suddenly burst into a conflagration. She screamed, falling to her back. She clamped her jaws shut to quiet the screaming, and held onto her hurt arms.

"Tell me now, or this will continue," He threatened, hand still raised.

A shudder ran through her, then she glared up at him. He lowered his hand, then leaned over, reaching for her satchel. She froze for a moment, then scrambled up and started to barrel towards him to knock him away. The succubus that had followed her master shifted into the visible realm, taking on the form of a young elf, and called out to her in a familiar, long unheard voice. Sellinda froze and then looked over her shoulder. She stared, transfixed. Zakas grinned at his demon's work.

"I-I... Y-W-Why--" She stuttered. She turned fully to stare at the image, and Zakas raised his hand once again. This time, it was aimed at his minion.

"Sellinda," The disguised demon said in someone else's voice, "Come back to me, Sellinda..."

"I-I... C-Co-- B-Bu..." She stumbled uselessly over incomplete words. Out of her sight, Zakas sent a bolt of Chaotic fire straight towards the succubus. It collided, and left a horrible, ruined and twisted mass, yet somehow, still resembled the face of the man she saw. She screamed out a single word, then stumbled as she reached for him. She fell to her stomach, and curled up, holding her head and shivering in fear.

"No! No, nonononono, C-C-- It wasn't--"

Zakas watched the femon fall to its knees, then land face-first on the ground, the disguise still held. She looked up, horrified, unaware as Zakas picked up her satchel. He turned it over and dumped the contents. Two leather bound books, herbs, a silver box, a necklace, a mortar and bowl. The last thing to fall from the green cloth was a dark, jagged dagger that pulsed with the energies of the fel. He picked the dagger up with two fingers, and grinned. He held it at eye level and examined it for a moment before muttering, "At last... At long last,"

He looked over towards the demon and the girl. The elf still lay curled on the ground, muttering wordlessly. Anyone could tell tears were falling. He shook his head, and pulled a violet shard from a pouch on his belt. He began to mutter lowly, a deep violet light surrounding him. The soul shard shattered as his succubus disappeared. In her place, a felhunter walked onto the realm next to him. He looked toward Sellinda once again.

"Feed on her, Luuzhum. Make it slow,"

Without a moment's pause, the demon ran to her and started to consume her mana. Sellinda had just enough time to look up, then turn. She let out a horrified gasp as the felhunter started to feed, and a scream of agony escaped her throat as she started to writhe in pain. Zakas resummoned his steed from the nether, and ran out into the frozen lands of Zul'Drak, leaving the young elf to twist and flail in agony, completely helpless against the felhunter's hunger.]]> Sellinda Storytelling Wed, 14 Jul 2010 22:10:39 -0400 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,148308,148308#msg-148308 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,148308,148308#msg-148308
After about two hours of monotonous work that seemed to never end, Detnarash was interrupted by a knock on his bench. He looked up slowly, his eyes practically glazed with boredom, and beheld a figure all dressed up in the garb of a Battle Mage. The not-so-flowing red and gold robes mixed with the intimidating cowl and mask was quite a sight to see. Det was naturally dismissive of this sort of display, but after noticing that this mage was in fact a female Blood Elf, he couldn’t help but be infatuated, after being used to seeing so many Elves walking around in nothing more than tiny pants and shirts that couldn’t be used to wrap a small infant in.

Detnarash raised an eyebrow at the woman, smirking, “’Ey dere, ladeh. Ya lookin’ mighteh scareh in dem robes, ‘ow can dis Troll be ‘elpin’ ya?”.

The woman’s eyes stared through him, and she stated coldly, “I understand that you are a bounty hunter.”

“Ya be right, but I-“

She interrupted, “And one of the best, so I hear. Your success and penchant for ruthlessness has caused you to become a household name in my family’s circle. And I am overall impressed by what I see here right now.”

Detnarash laughed, rubbing the back of his neck, “Well, dat’s flatterin’ an’ all-“

The mage interrupted again, “I also understand that your services are not cheap. I hear your last successful hit was around the area of five thousand gold, well I-“

This time it was Det who interrupted, “Look ladeh. It be true dat I be a bounteh killah, but I not be lookin’ fo’ no bountehs right now. M’dutehs at present be ta m’unit, so I don’t ‘ave time ta-“

“I will offer you ten-thousand gold for this job, Mister.Tul’nin.”

Detnarash’s eyes widen, and his pupils practically turned into two gold pieces themselves. He swiftly cleared the table of his paperwork and prepared to take notes, “Give me da name an’ I’ll give ya blood.”.

The woman let out a delicate, yet frightening laugh. She shook off her cowl and mask and grinned at the troll. Her features were sharp, yet beautiful. Everything about her screamed ‘military brat’, and Det, being a man and soldier, was completely under her spell. “That is what I thought. Now, I am sure you have heard of this man before, as he frequents this very establishment every week, and if my sources are correct, he even has a job here now.”

Detnarash raised an eyebrow, scribbling down the information, “I can’t t’ink of anehone off da top’a me head, can ya give me mo’ info’mation?”

“His is of my kin, and a paladin. If I’m remembering correctly from the last time I saw him, he had mid-length very light blonde hair done up like a soldier. A Blood Elf soldier, mind you. He probably will be wearing lots of heavy plate armor, even in this heat, and he has a sort of strange scar on his left cheek. Like some sort of sick tattoo.”.

Tapping his fingers on the bench, Detnarash mumbled to himself, thinking, “I gettin’ a pic’cha ‘ere…light blonde ‘air…Elf paladin…lots’a armah…OH! Ya be talkin’ ‘bout dat Benpardos fellah! Right?”

“Close. His name is Tendaros. I want him. If you can find him, capture him, and bring him to this location alive, I will pay what I owe. Ten. Thousand. Gold.”, the elf grinned, handing him a slip of paper.

Detnarash almost swooned, but he kept his composure, “A’right. Ya say ‘e work ‘ere…then I’ll do da job t’night. ‘E nevah gonna know what ‘it ‘im.”.

“Good. I am glad your reputation precedes you. You will not regret taking this job, Mister.Tul’nin. And I assure you, if you succeed, you can expect a cessation to all the offers inquiring about your house.” The woman replaced her mask and cowl while she indicated that the seal on the slip of paper she gave him, and the seal on the various letters were one and the same.

“Oh I be ‘appeh I took dis job alreadeh.” Detnarash grinned, looking over the information he scribbled down.

“Good. Now do not fail me. It’s unwise to upset a lady, you know.” The mage let out another frightening laugh, winked, and immediately disappeared in a puff of Arcane magic.

Detnarash looked toward the Kodo’s entrance and spoke in a low, menacing tone, “About twelve hours from now, Tendaros…ya be mine. Dis troll always be gettin’ ‘is prey…”]]> Rivelli Storytelling Tue, 24 Aug 2010 06:18:01 -0400 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,148295,148295#msg-148295 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,148295,148295#msg-148295
"I attempted to reassert my will, but I was too weak. My sight dimming, I could barely see the outline of my rotting body. Slowly, but surely, the decay that had corrupted it was affecting my soul. Blind, I nudged my body here and there, trying to herd it to safety and find a proper tomb before I faded completely."

"With great effort, I could open the puppet's mouth. I made it speak, but all that came out were memories, impressions that has been made on the flesh. My own thoughts remained caged, starving. In my hunger, I turned to the void. I abandoned my failed mortal vessel as it had apparently discarded me, and I prodded. Reaching into oblivion for something real, something with which to quench my thirst for feeling, I found a hand. It closed around mine, warm and welcoming, and it invigorated me."

"My eyes opened. My real eyes. Well, as you can see, hah, not my old eyes. These had rotted away, along with several parts of my body I would, if I had the choice, prefer to still bear. Despite this, I could see. Oh, could I see."

"I had been drowning, my fellow Forsaken, and in my madness and terror I made the fatal mistake of diving deeper into the abyss. I stretched into the void, hoping to find some end to it. As I know now, I would have found nothing there. Searching for a bottom, reaching for the riverbed I would have been consumed utterly, my life force absorbed and used for others' purposes. Something, however, saved me from that fate."

"I speak of the Darkness, the Looming Shade, the Shadow. It has many names. Most of them have been twisted into words of fear by the machinations of Its enemies. Those enemies hold forth the image of the Light or of the Natural Order. Decay, death, and the departure of spirits to a mythical beyond. Is it possible? I will never, my friends, deny the right of another to his or her personal view of these things. However, we have experienced something different."

"Imagine, if you can, a world in which sentient creatures existed without death and without decay. Unnatural, some would say! We will get to that. For now, just imagine such a world. That, my brothers and sisters, is the world of the Shadow. In it, the spiritual energy of each and every creature remains forever bound to his body. The actor is never deprived of his or her method of action. The Shadow has broken the bonds of our servitude to the Natural Order. It has restored us, the Forsaken and other sentient Undead, to our original state, the unity of thought and action with which we entered this world and from which we were never meant to depart! This is the Dark Paradise! Here, on Azeroth!"

"And what is this Natural Order? It severs the soul from the body by means of decay and death. It forces our minds to depart. But do they permanently depart? That depends. We have seen many examples, and they surround us still, of individuals using vile magic to oppress and manipulate the souls of the dead. Souls can be transformed directly into a source of power. Imagine that, a sentient mind, an actor, turned into a tool for action. That makes no sense. That, my friends, if anything, is 'unnatural.'"

"And if one's soul is not manipulated by such powers, it fades into the void. I almost fell there, and many of our former friends have done so. To what end? What benefits this departure? Who gains?"

"Who, indeed. I have my own suspicions about that, but I will lay no accusations without firm grounding. It seems clear, nevertheless, that many agents of the Light or the Natural Order act out of superstition or misdirection. Do not hate them! Most of them have good hearts and kind souls. Were they to sense any treachery behind their own mandates and laws, or behind the forces they defend and advance, they would rebel! However, the time for that enlightenment has not yet arrived."

"We need not be militant, my brothers and sisters. Our greatest foe is already vanquished! We, here, have been saved. The Shadow scooped up our souls and bound them back to the bodies they were meant to inhabit. For some of us, these had changed greatly, and not all have been given gifts to replace what was lost. We all, however, have received this rightful reunification. Those who have been doubly blessed must recognize that and appreciate the Shadow's special love."

"It is our duty to serve. Our duty to protect. I speak not only of this holy Undercity or its agents and denizens. Recently, too many of our brethren lost their lives in such selfish pursuits, after they turned to villainy. We are members of the Horde, as curious as that notion may be to former Humans and Elves such as us. Our allies must be warned and warded, they must receive the blessings of the Looming Shade, and they must know that, if their will is directed, they can return from the void after their death."

"We are no longer the slaves of nature, the naive lovers of the Light. We are the Shadow's children now, and we have seen the lies buried in the endless cycle of life, death, and decay. It stops with us. Let none of our allies believe that death holds an end for them. Give none of them any reason, in word or in action, to believe that the interest of the Shadow and their own are opposite each other. Be a proud member of the Horde, and help lead it steadily into the land of the Darkness. There, someday, hopefully all will join us. The Dark Paradise will cover the whole world!"

--

After the crowd had departed, Prester John sat down on the ledge of the top ring of Undercity's Trade Quarter. He looked down upon the bustling city. He would have smiled with benevolence, but his lips had long since rotted away. He was dressed in fine, if not extravagant, purple robes, costly enough to attract attention without seeming completely out of place for a middling member of the community. Prester looked down at the large cockroach creeping across his lap.

"I liked your speech, Mr. John," Jeremiah Payson said bluntly. Prester looked up, the points of shadow hidden deep within his empty eyesockets shifting to consider the Undercity's insect vendor. Jeremiah leaned down and joined Prester on the edge of the walkway, dangling his bony legs above the drop. "Is any of it true?"

Prester breathed out a little sigh. "Jeremiah, you know that I would not willingly mislead any Forsaken. However, you make a good point. All of it was what I believed, but perhaps I expressed my beliefs as facts. I should have couched such uncertain things in less direct statements." His wrinkled brow furrowed with concern as he held up his copy of the speech and looked over a few points.

Jeremiah let out a hacking laugh, then slapped Prester on his nearest shoulder. "Hagh, Mr. John, you're too serious. No, it was a good speech. I meant that. Gives some of us pride, you know. That's missing around these parts a lot these days. With those filthy Orcs every-"

"Master Payson!" Prester snapped, the points of shadow in his eyesockets growing in size and spilling over onto the pallid flesh of his face. "Such discourteous behavior, such short-sighted racism was at the root of a very recent problem, the one that led to this current lack of pride. Do mind yourself, sir."

Jeremiah shifted to the right, then hopped up and made ready to go. "Of course, Mr. John. You're right. I'll be more politer in the future, and all." He left, but the cockroach in Prester's lap made no effort to follow. Again, Prester sighed deeply.

"I am sorry for that sharpness, Master Payson," he said softly, well after Jeremiah was out of earshot. The tendency of his Shadow-given strength to flare with strong emotions slightly disturbed him at times. It seemed to feed upon his anger and other violent feelings most of all. Doubts about the Shadow's benevolence crept into his mind in these moments. The Shadow was so loving, he thought, and yet again so frightening.

Prester looked down to consider the brave cockroach. "But you, little one, can sense the kindness that flows from me, the goodness that emanates from the comforting Shade. If it seems good to one of your kind, so wise, so long-lived, and so apparently resilient before the forces of the Natural Order and its cycle of life and death, evolution and extinction: well, then, who are we to argue?" Again, Prester John would have smiled. He tucked the tamed roach into the left pocket of his robe, stood, and headed home.]]> Vinge_ Storytelling Wed, 14 Jul 2010 03:17:09 -0400 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,148204,148204#msg-148204 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,148204,148204#msg-148204
“Dis be da druid who deliva ya letta?” A troll donning loosely fitting linens pointed to the sitting cat.
“Yes, that’s her. She’s charging me 15 gold just to send a small package of spices!” An orc in chainmail cried out. He scowled at the druid, watching her tilt her head.
“She be special delivery, mon. She brings da package, only, she shows up a cat an’ does a little dance for whoeva gets da ting.” He crossed his arms.
“How do you know, troll?”
“Don’ be disrespectul, mon, I’m a Corporal for da Horde, rememba’. An’ I be just enjoyin’ de Crossroads like you are, so don’ be makin’ trouble. Now, dis’ young Tauren girl come up ta me an’ tell me ‘bout her business, an’ dat you got a prol’em wit it, even though ya told her ya knew about who she was workin’ for.”

Iskae poked her head out of the tent, eyes half-opened and mind clearing. The tent rested on a grassy knoll, neighbored by a blanket of snow. Above were hippogryphs soaring around the treetops, as well as the Howling Fjord’s aurora borealis dancing flawlessly across the sky.
The troll corporal batted around the orc’s frugal argument for a short time before giving him an ultimatum.
“Be givin’ this young lady double pay, or else I be takin’ you to Orgrimmah for thievery.” The orc stared at the troll, looking upwards with defeated eyes. The orc ripped a bag from his waist and thew it at the sitting cat, coins spilling out at her feet.

“Take everything, swinders…” The orc calmly stepped out of the inn, disappearing as he sharply turned out of sight.
“I’m happy ta help, Isake. Now, be tellin’ me if ya need any more help…” He followed the orc slowly, waving at the druid. Iskae stared at the bag that the orc had dropped, shifting into her tauren self and scooping the gold into the bag.

Alone.

Everyday this month… no friends, no family.

The cat shifted into a tauren, whose back lied partly on the tent’s bedding and grass. Iskae stared at the sky above, head cleared save for a few words.

What am I doing?

She turned her head.

Running across the world...

A small breeze brushed the fur on her forehead.

Is making deliveries my life? Is gold my purpose?

She sighed and closed her eyes.

I didn’t expect this…

The aurora's beautiful ballet stretched not only across the Fjord, but also in the darkness behind the young druid's eyelids, soothing her into sleep.]]> Ihiri Storytelling Sat, 10 Jul 2010 12:47:12 -0400 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,148095,148095#msg-148095 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,148095,148095#msg-148095 { I'm not sure how I feel about this, to be honest, and may try to tackle it from a different perspective, but it was an idea I wanted to get out there. }

It was not a Sin'dorei that ambled through those sweltering woods on that summer night. Perhaps, at one time, it had been one, but there were very few distinguishing features left save for the faintly glowing yellow-green eyes that were embedded in the creature's skull. The figure that slowly made its way through the trees was vaguely female, though time and ghouls had ravaged the body to the point where it was difficult to tell, save by what remained of the shape of the hips and the slight bumps of the torn shirt.

The Once-Sin'dorei traveled for days, perhaps weeks, even months, slowly made its way through wood and over field and past tall, sickly mushrooms and through forest again until it found its way to a ruined farmstead. In the trees just at the edge of the clearing, just before what was once the house of the property owner, a makeshift wooden enclosure stood. Its beams were falling from the nails that held them together and the grass was tall, past the creature's waist. The Once-Sin'dorei paused as it approached the cage and it sniffed loudly before ducking down into the grass. Something glinted in the moonlight, the creature's head snapped to the right, and its clawed hand closed around something shiny that was embedded in the dirt.

A chain.

Soft whining carried upon the wind, canine, as the Creature followed the path of the chain to another, smaller chain collar - and then it pulled.

The soil came away, pulling up a vertebrae or two, and that was when the creature noticed the pale skull of a dog in the grass near where the collar had been. The Creature tilted its head, reached forward, and slowly, gently, petted the exposed bone.

Barking. It wouldn't stop barking. The dog crashed against the walls of the wooden cage that held it in, but the beams were sturdy and would not budge. He whined, he paced, he circled, but nobody came. Nobody came. The air was heavy, he was hungry. He was thirsty. When he finally curled up to die, his last thought was of the master that had betrayed him and left him to his fate.

Each bone was carefully pried from the ground and gathered up into the tattered satchel that the Creature carried. Once it was sure that everything had been taken, the Creature slowly stood and ambled from the woods and into the overgrown yard of the farmstead. It entered the barn where it paused in the doorway and took in the sights - the hay that was strewn across the floor, the bones of horses that lay in the stalls and the tools that had been abandoned. The Once-Sin'dorei set its satchel upon the ground, selected an empty stable, settled down on the dirt floor and began to dig, and dig, and dig.

When a hole had been made that was of the appropriate size, the Creature pulled its satchel close and began to re-settle the bones within this new, makeshift grave. Each bone, starting with the skull, was put into its proper place, and then a small bag of black powder was pulled from the Creature's clothing. It paused over the grave, grinding its jaws with thought, before fishing out a handful of powder and sprinkling it upon the bones. With that task complete, the bones were buried and the Creature left the barn.

- - -

Every week the Creature returned to the grave, dug the dirt from the hole, and stared at the bones within. Every day it muttered gutteral words in Thalassian, words twisted by Undeath into a horrible spell, and every day the bones changed. At first, the changes were gradual - the position of the skeleton shifted until it appeared as if the corpse lay upon its side and a red film formed upon the once-white bones. Organs and muscle and tendon slowly grew in their proper places. At the end of the third month, something shifted within that grave, and the Creature - more ragged than ever - lifted the results of its work from its resting place.

The corpse was that of a gray-furred dog, obviously of Worg descent, with patches of rot still visible on its hide and a ragged appearance that one would expect from a deceased animal. The Once-Sin'dorei tilted its head to an awkward angle and ran its clawed hand over the fur with jerky strokes.

"Live." The Sin'dorei-Creature rasped in a voice that, in life, would have been female. "Live."

The animal did not move, but the Creature had much patience, and repeated the word again, over and over, "Live. Live."

It happened gradually. Muscles long dormant twitched beneath the beast's fur, then its lips jerked back from its teeth in a silent snarl; the eyelids flickered open to reveal golden eyes and the half-Worg stood.

"Find... him," the Sin'dorei-Creature hissed and pointed north-east.

The large dog took off with unearthly speed, its haunting howls echoing through the forest.

- - -

Thom Waite was a survivor.

He had managed to outrun the Scourge when they took over his farm, he had made it out of many a battle against the enemy and, that evening, he was recovering from another near-miss. His time, however, was running out.

He lay alone within his tent in the Argent Dawn camp. He was just on the fringes of sleep when he thought he heard shuffling outside his tent and he barked, "I'm tryin' to sleep, kid, go back to your own damn tent."

There was no response. The shuffling stopped rather suddenly and Thom rolled onto his side to try sleeping again.

Then he heard it - the low growl right next to his head, behind him, that made his hair stand on end.

He didn't have time to scream. The beast went straight for his throat, and the last thing he saw was the very familiar Worg standing over him, its muzzle soaked in blood, watching him die.

- - -

A year passed.

For the Sin'Dorei-Creature, time did not exist. For all it knew, it had been a decade since it had awakened and clawed its way from the pile of rotting corpses that had been thrown into a pit somewhere in the Plaguelands. It knew nothing of who it had been in life, nor did it have any inkling of just what it had meant to be alive - all it knew was this, the open road and travel alongside the rotting Worg that it had raised from the dead.

One afternoon, as the sun ducked behind the sickly clouds, the Sin'dorei-Creature found itself in one of the abandoned towns of the Plaguelands. Curiosity overcame it and it made its way through each and every home, checking drawers and closets and every possible surface for shiny, interesting objects for it to collect. As it reached the upstairs bedrooms of the largest house in the village, it found itself faced with a very unusual object.

A full-length mirror sat upon the wall of the smallest room, reflecting to the Once-Sin'dorei, for the first time, its own appearance - and the Creature screamed, a horribly unearthly sound that seemed to stay in the air for an eternity.

Pale yellow hair hung in clumps from a skull that was barely covered in tattered, ashen flesh. Sickly yellow-green eyes stared out at the Creature, and the arms that were held up in a defensive stance were missing much of their flesh, as if it had been clawed and eaten away, leaving only a little muscle and tendon; the torn clothing that was draped over the Creature's frame did little to hide any of the exposed bone and torn flesh that made up its body.

Her body.

Flashes. Brief, but certain, of ideas of itself. Female. Rot. Ugly. Single words, simple thoughts.

And she kept screaming.

- - -

Every day, the Once-Sin'dorei sat before the mirror to trace her image with one bony finger. Every day, she wracked her rot-addled brain to figure out just what wasn't right about how she looked. Face? Wrong. Hands? Wrong. Arms? Wrong. Everything? Wrong.

She raked her claws through her Worg's fur while he happily chewed - wait.

The Once-Sin'dorei's gaze snapped to the Worg by her side and the human arm he was chewing, and with a single hissed Thalassian word he stopped and stared at her. She growled. He growled. They growled until the Once-Sin'dorei snapped her teeth at him and he backed down, allowing her to take the arm. She snatched a dagger from the floor in front of her and cut a chunk of skin from the human arm, then held it to her face over some exposed bone.

If she had the facial muscles to smile, she would have.

- - -

A sewing kit from an unfortunate Dwarf. Several limbs. Several sets of breasts (if others that seemed female had them, why couldn't she?). A couple of torsos. Some legs.

The Once-Sin'dorei sat before her mirror many months later, needle and black thread in hand, with an odd smile upon her brand new lips. She could smile. Though the necromantic spells and spell regeants that she had used to bind muscle to bone and animate it were running low, she was satisfied with her work - for the time being. She set down the needle and stood up straight, planted her hands on her hips, and beamed into the mirror.

The image that beamed back at the Once-Sin'dorei was fully fleshed: patches of various shades of ashen, pink and tan were connected to one another with neat, black stitches; borrowed eyebrows sat a little too high up upon her brow; small, round-ish breasts sat a little too low upon her chest (and neither one was the same colour) and her thick lips were parted in a crooked grin made even more crooked by the fact that they had been attached a little too much to the right.

Female. Beautiful. Perfect.

The Now-Sin'dorei bent down to retrieve a set of dog tags from around the neck of an earless, lipless, browless Once-Sin'dorei woman and put them around her own neck.

Simone.

For the first time in her Un-life, the patchwork Sin'dorei, Simone, could not stop smiling - and perhaps she never will.]]> Matojo Storytelling Tue, 13 Jul 2010 15:00:40 -0400 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,147990,147990#msg-147990 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,147990,147990#msg-147990
“Come on then, son, pick the sword back up.” The knight grunted at the pitiful sight before him. His son, a runty kid of bronze skin and blondish-orange hair, clutched his nose and whined as blood poured into the crevasses of his hands and out onto the dirt. Tears leaked down his face as he wept softly to himself.

“Stop crying and pick up the sword, boy. You wonder why your brothers laugh at you. Why everyone laughs at you. Pick up the blasted sword and face me.” The knight spat on the ground near his son and kicked the boy onto his side, hoping to motivate him. Sniffling and wiping the snot and tears from his face with the backside of a bloody hand, the boy grabbed his own training sword up off the ground beside him and wobbled. His eyes were blood-shot and tear-stained, and full of raging anger, and they were fixed on his father. With a bestial snarl, the boy charged forward, sword raised high above his head, he sought to bring it down hard on his father’s chest, but the blow never struck home. His father parried the sword with his own and in one swift motion, disarmed the boy and cracked him across the face with the pommel, knocking his son unconscious.

The knight shook his head and kicked the motionless body of his son, cursing, “You are pathetic, Zachary. I’m ashamed to call you my son. Thank the Light I was blessed with two useful ones.” And with that, the knight strolled inside to enjoy dinner with his family, but not before locking the door to keep his biggest shame outside in the cold dark.

The boy awoke several hours later. The moon was full and high in the sky, its beautiful pale light was comforting, and it enveloped the boy in its lonely embrace. Crawling over to a nearby rock and propping himself up on it, the boy groaned and rubbed at his temples, his entire face covered in dried blood that cracked and peeled off with every blink and wince. He glanced at his house and noticed the peaceful billowing of smoke from the chimney. ‘It must be warm inside’ he thought. ‘They must all be asleep by now, unless mother is watching me…but you’re always watching me from where you are, mother... ‘ Looking up at the night sky, the boy smiled slightly and a few tears began to roll down his bloody face, paving their own little roads through the cracking blood and down his neck. He didn’t try to get into the house, he knew the front door and every window would be locked, and if he dared to wake anyone up inside, he’d have his father or his older brothers to deal with, so he sighed gently and splayed himself out over the rock.

A curious praying mantis looked up at the boy from the grass and fidgeted its mandibles impulsively. It gracefully climbed up the rock and peered at the boy, its long praying appendages rubbed together, like a butcher preparing to carve up some meat.

Noticing the mantis, the boy let out a small quiet laugh and herded the bug into his palm and placed it in his lap, where it perched motionlessly. “Why do they all hate me so much, little bug?”.

No answer.

“Is it because I can’t ride the horses without losing control?”.

No answer.

“Maybe it’s because I don’t know how to use a sword like my brothers. Do you think that’s it?”

No answer.

The boy grew angry with the bug, “I told father that I like to read, that I want to study to be a mage like mother. I…I can CONCENTRATE on that sort of thing. I know I can do it, but he won’t give me a chance to prove myself. He’d send Phillip off to Dalaran to fetch EGGS but he won’t send me to study?!”
The mantis opened its mandibles as if to speak, but began to clean off one of its ‘hands’ instead.

“They…they treat me worse than the animals when they misbehave and I haven’t even done anything wrong…they leave me out here in the cold just because I’m not the person they want me to be. I’m only twelve years old, friend…why are they doing this to me?”.

The bug swayed from side to side and waved its front limbs around like a boxer putting up his dukes.

“I…I should hurt them…you’re right…I should make them pay for all of this…I…I can make bad things happen to them, little guy. There’s a reason I want to go study in Dalaran, you know. That crazy Helcular guy that does those crazy dances in that cave out there…I’ve talked to him. He says he sees what father does to me, how Phillip and Mattes laugh at me…he says there are people in Dalaran who are like me and they can help…”

The bug stared silently, but to the boy it seemed to be strongly and violently disagreeing with him.

“You’re wrong. You look at me the same way they all do…they’re all like cattle. They’re all like the dogs that guard the hen-houses from snakes or mountain lions or wolves. But you know what…? They should have killed the snake when it first showed up, my little friend, because for every time they’ve milked me for my venom and…and…tried to de-fang me, my fangs have grown back longer and my venom has grown more potent each time, and soon it will be time to nip the dogs at their heels and watch them SUFFER AND DIE.” The boy grinned and held the mantis up high until it was silhouetted by the moonlight.

The mantis stood still.

“But you’ll just desert me like the rest of them…like mother…you’ll just come to hate me like everyone else.”
The mantis looked like it wanted to object, but before it had the chance to, the boy closed his eyes and scowled menacingly and the majestic insect began to smolder before it burst into a shadowy flame in the boy’s very hands.

Placing the dying mantis on the rock, the boy grinned at the sight and airily stated, “I’m sorry, friend, but I simply did to you what the world did to me. The strong must prey on the weak and that sort of thing.” The boy began to walk in the direction of Helcular’s cave, but suddenly stopped and smirked, “Or should I say, ‘praaaay’.” And with that, he let out a hideous giggle, one that could be classified as ‘ghoulish’, and continued on his way.]]> Rivelli Storytelling Tue, 06 Jul 2010 14:07:36 -0400 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,147667,147667#msg-147667 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,147667,147667#msg-147667
Back in the Undercity, the unpackaged report sat on Sub-Minister Jone Mauvais's desk, a neat stack of parchment sheets covered on both sides by a neat hand writing a tight cursive. The Sub-Minister, a fairly tall Forsaken woman with sunken cheeks and no nose, was now perusing the cover letter. Judging by the ink smudges, it had been written only moments before being stowed in the mail along with the attached report.

The handwriting was definitely off, Mauvais concluded after finishing the letter, but the diligence and thoroughness were distinctly Duhan's. Two large regions which saw a fair amount of Forsaken traffic, Durotar and the Barrens, had been successfully surveyed, and the attached emendations and updates to the Census files looked to be in top form. The handwriting, though…

Mauvais went through a few files in the bottom drawer of her polished oak desk. She found one of Duhan's Undercity reports and compared the handwriting. They were close, but Duhan's ductus on this older document was a bit less professional, more of a bastardization of a personal cursive and subject to associated irregularities. The hand on the new report was much more precise, an improvement on the original, as though Duhan had studied his own handwriting but put extra effort into refining it. Mauvais smiled. She was a stickler for penmanship, and this new turn pleased her.

Suddenly, the door to the Sub-Ministry swung open. In marched Minister Bauhaus, his aide in tow. All of the Sub-Clerks turned around and eyed the fuming figure as he marched towards Mauvais seated on the far end of the hall. Slapping a piece of parchment in his left hand, Bauhaus shouted, "He's alive! That murderous bastard, this proves it, he's alive out there! We're ruined! The Kor'kron will tear this whole damned Ministry down!"

At this point he was close enough that Mauvais thought it wise to spring to her feet. Bauhaus slapped the paper on the desk, a short memorandum bearing the seal of the Apothecaries. It looked like a cover letter, but the attached autopsy report had been discarded in Bauhaus's office. The important words were on this sheet: 'Corpse is anomalous, does not match the description given for subject. Results have been overseen by representatives of the Kor'kron Elite, including Master Bloodfist.'

Mauvais looked up, panicked, but the corresponding emotion on Bauhaus's face moved her sympathy more violently. She set one thin hand on his twitching shoulder. She soothed him, "Minister. Please, you can't get yourself worked up like this. The Kor'kron already know that, let's face it, the capture operation was botched. I think we've already gotten the worst of it, right?"

Bauhaus, however, was implacable. "Do you honestly think that, Jone? Because right after this memo came another: Bloodfist already set the Deathstalkers on the case. Every one of them has an axe to grind with us now. If we made a single procedural error beyond the ones they already know about… and they determine that Forsaken lives were lost as a result, then… Ugh. We should never have tried to deal with this Vinge creature in-house." Bauhaus began to rub his temples, hoping that it would have somewhere near the effect that it had when he was alive. It didn't.

Mauvais wasn't one to offer soothing lies, and she realized now that her job might be on the line too. "Do you know who's handling it? I have some contacts, you know, from my-"

"It's Rosse, Jone. Marcus Rosse." Bauhaus's eyes bored into the Sub-Minister's. "Do you have any contacts able to handle him?"

"N… no, I suppose not," Mauvais replied limply. "We might want to start preparing for retirement. Literal… or figurative."

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Back in the Barrens, a vile creature wearing the clothes of a dead man perched on the edge of a bed in Ratchet. He smirked at the new patches on his robes, gifts of the Alliance marauders who invaded the Crossroads earlier. If anything had fortified his cover, even in the mind of the extra-suspicious Peyton woman, it was that display of weakness. He had wandered into the fray aimlessly, taken a few hits, been trampled under hooves and boots- all in the sight of patrons and associates of the Drunken Kodo. How could they even consider that the weak, injured paper-pusher from the Undercity, Karol Duhan, was actually Vinge, murderer extraordinaire.

Still, the wretch could not rest. That Peyton woman was too sharp, and, according to her, the Apothecaries were beginning to see through the Doctor's ruse. It might only be a matter of days now before the hunt was on. Vinge was already buried deeply into his cover, but he would need to burrow much deeper before he could be safe. Then, at last, the Bloodless could begin to set out his own snares again.]]> Vinge_ Storytelling Wed, 07 Jul 2010 13:08:23 -0400 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,147615,147615#msg-147615 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,147615,147615#msg-147615 (This happens after last Thursday's Kodo. Also, some nasty language, be warned, yadda yadda.)

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Bush by bush, Nadogi shoved his way through the thick foliage of the Lushwater Oasis. Aside from his own movements, the oasis was unnaturally quiet, even for the late hour of night. Eventually he pushed aside a twisted clump of leaves and saw a small clearing, maybe two dozen feet from the water's edge. At the far end of the clearing lay a corpse, most likely a kolkar, permanently deformed by the lack of its skin and soaking in a pool of blood.

Kneeling over the corpse was his sister, skinning knife firmly in hand as she carved long lines into the kolkar's flank.

Nadogi took a step forward, letting the branch snap back into place behind him. The sound echoed through the quiet glade and Tandali's head snapped upward, her eyes settling angrily on her brother's form. Her arm jerked one last slash into the dead meat before she settled back on her heels, and her lip curved upward in a feral snarl.

"I'm not soft!" he began in their native tongue, pointing at her while abandoning any façade of toughness.

The snarl grew, and Tandali's eyes lit up like a sudden fire blast. "You kept me from killing the bitch!" she exploded as she jumped to her feet, knife twirling impatiently in her hand. "Next you'll be off fucking those pink little things."

A wave of nausea swept over Nadogi at the suggestion and his face twisted into an ugly grimace. "You think I don't hate them?" he asked, his voice choked. "And you think it's going to be that easy?"

Tandali took a half-step backward, wary at his words. "What's going to be easy?" she prodded, looking for clarification. "I think that bitch's neck would be like snapping a twig." She spat at the kolkar's corpse. "Maybe easier."

Idly, Nadogi leans over to pick up a discarded palm leaf. He turns it over and over again in his hand as it starts to smolder. "Yeah, well, if it was that easy the Amani would have snapped all their twiggy necks long ago." The leaf finished burning, and he dumped the ashes out onto the ground. "Anyway. I think we both want them to hurt first."

A low growl rumbled from his sister's throat. "I don't have patience to make them hurt. I just want them dead."

Nadogi took a few more steps towards Tandali, glancing down at the mangled corpse as he moved. Now that he was closer, it was much easier to read the troll word for 'coward' carved messily into the kolkar's flank. "You don't have enough patience ever," he sneered and spat on the bloody meat. His eyes swiveled up to pin her with a mean glare. "And you have to remember that elves are as tricky as they're evil and crazy."

"That one wasn't tricky," Tandali pointed out sharply. "Just stupid. She would've been easy to kill. Her 'companion'" - she spat the word like a gob of phelgm - "probably didn't have the balls to defend her." A smile played at the corner of her tusks at the thought.

Water swished from the oasis proper, and Nadogi saw a turtle tentatively pop its head above the surface. "That's the crazy part," he warned slowly, turning his eyes back to his sister. "Who knows what kind of defenses..." A small splash pulled Tandali's head towards the water and Nadogi sighed. "Whatever. I'll let you go at her next time." The words - and a lack of turtle - pulled her attention back to the conversation at hand. "They've both been around longer than us, though, and that whole time they've been lying, lying, lying."

Tandali glared at her brother, the distraction already out of mind. "And they'll keep lying until we see them again, thanks to you," she reminded him scornfully. She turned slightly and kicked at the corpse until it plopped over, oozing through the puddle of blood towards the nearby water. "And who knows what trouble they'll make for the funny pink one," she said as a definite afterthought.

Nadogi frowned. "That's the other thing," he said with obvious concern. "You like Zurali's little pet, don't you?"

A gob of spit landed at his feet, and Tandali furrowed her brow angrily. "She's funny. What she's doing is disgusting."

"I know it!" The agreement hung in the air for several moments before finally falling flat. "Forget that part, though, and she's alright for an elf." He fixed Tandali with a level stare that almost made her flinch. "But she's never going to be anything except the silly pink one if she doesn't get some bloodthirst in her. And the silly ones all die."

Tandali broke the gaze to sneer down at the toppled corpse. "Maybe I should bring her with me when I kill those elves." She fingered her blade, idly spinning it around her thumb. "Let her get a few stabs in after I cut their eyes out and break their legs."

Nadogi nodded approvingly. "Now you're seeing what I meant." He looked eastwards, towards Ratchet and the Kodo, and reminded, "And if you ever want to go back, it shouldn't be at a restaurant."

She cast her eyes northward, towards the dark entrance to the caverns. "...I was gonna follow them out before doing it."

"I'm sorry," Nadogi found himself saying. "I worry. I want to fight them, and I want them dead." He looked back to his sister. "I just want it to be done right."

Tandali snorted, something more akin to a rushing bull than indignance. "Nothing's more right than a smashed face."

The smirk that spread across Nadogi's face did not go unnoticed. "You just like it simple. Like you."

Before her eyes had time to narrow she was already striking outward with one foot, sending it hard against his unprotected ankle. It wasn't until about a foot away that she began to notice the ice shield, freezing her foot as it pushed further towards her brother. She managed to hit him with light tap before yanking her foot away hurriedly. Giving it a brief glance to check for frostbite, she couldn't help but smirk. "About time." She shook her foot roughly, knocking off bits of frost before walking off gingerly. "I'm going to turn in for the night."

"Alright." Nadogi feigned a yawn as he watched her turn away. He waited until she'd taken several steps before calling out, "Your crush was asking about you, for the record."

Tandali froze in mid-step, as if the shield had hit her entire body at once. "...Tul'nin?" she ventured meekly.

"Yeah." He jerked his head towards Ratchet, as if Tandali wasn't turned away from him. "He told me to go get you." Sighing, he lifted his eyes to the moon hanging high in the black sky above. "It's been hours, though."

She only winced because she knew he couldn't see her face. "...right then." Her eyes also went to Ratchet, but her legs took her north, far and fast away from her brother and the realities he always brought with him. He said one more thing before she left, something about attached girls and pretending to be elves, but put it out of her mind as she scrambled up the hill until she could easily see the tiny city by the eastern waterside. And then she squeezed her eyes shut and screamed.

"FUCK!"]]> Tchann Storytelling Fri, 02 Jul 2010 02:03:28 -0400 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,147569,147569#msg-147569 http://thoriumbrotherhood.net/read.php?2,147569,147569#msg-147569
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Burningsteel tossed the bag of his bloodied armor and weapons down on the shore of Stonebull Lake. Dismounting, he opened the bag, removed the top piece of equipment, and began to scrub the caked blood from it. Large pieces of dried gore detached and floated off into the lake for a moment before the water pulled them into the depths. The blood had not come from the assault, for the most part, but rather from stacking the bodies of the Grimtotem onto a funerary pyre in the center of their seized land. That respect was likely more than the Boghoof had received, he thought as he cleaned his equipment.

As he turned to the next piece of armor, Burningsteel heard light footsteps running in his direction. He looked up to see a cheerful young blood elf coming his way. Thierry called out, “M’sieur Burningsteel,” as she ran along the lakeshore.

The hunter silently swore to himself. With Thierry now residing in Thunder Bluff with Zurali, they spent a good deal of time around the lake. He would have to be social and go over, so as to not raise too many suspicions. Picking up his sack of equipment, he walked along the shore and continued cleaning as he chatted with the couple. When the subject of the mess all over his armor came up, it was eventually written off as resulting from a hunt, though they likely remained somewhat suspicious.

Eventually, more people gathered around the lake. Once his equipment was cleansed to his satisfaction, Burningsteel rode off, only to be followed by the young blood elf, ensuring he had not been insulted or chased off. The hunter replied that it was only fatigue from not sleeping the night before and proceeded to the inn.

The next morning, Burningsteel left the inn and checked at the mail station before leaving town. The only new item was a simple handwritten note with no signature. It read, “You are not as invincible as you believe yourself to be. Sleep with one eye open, little hunter.” No signature was necessary. The hunter had encountered that tone several times before, and knew Magatha Grimtotem was the source of the missive.

The large Tauren crumpled the letter in one fist as he rode out from Bloodhoof Village. “Do not kill. Do not steal. Live in harmony with the Earthmother. These are the principles our people have embraced. They are not suggestions, they are codes of behavior. You have ignored them, and have paid the cost for the transgression.”

Burningsteel was glad his armor was newly washed and oiled as he left town. He didn’t think he would be taking it off for quite some time.]]> Burningsteel Storytelling Thu, 15 Jul 2010 21:33:14 -0400