Submitted by ellyflowers on February 4, 2012 - 3:26pm
Well, I think it's about time I write about a new friend of mine...well, a new old friend. I met Pamina's cousin, Riaevis, in Thunderbluff, in the early season of my friendship with the warrior and her death knight. I was smarting from my girlish crush on Atna, a silly reaction to his kind words and gestures towards me. Riaevis provided an ear for my sorrows and helped to set my thoughts on the right track regarding Atna.
Submitted by ellyflowers on February 4, 2012 - 3:07pm
After weeks of separation and a small confrontation in Thunderbluff, we are standing in the courtyard of the Scryer's fountain. I told him of the recent developments with my mother and a bit more of exactly what my father was. I also spoke of my half-brother. He offered to ...take care of him. Is that the type of person Arinil sees me? Is that really who I am? I have never felt more misunderstood. How dare he...how dare he presume that I would want Sathaenlor killed. I don't even know him. I don't know if he wants to know me.
Submitted by ellyflowers on February 4, 2012 - 2:52pm
What is love? Is it a...*scribbled out* I survived the Cataclysm on a raft made out of driftwood and my own skill at knot tying. Arinil was little to no help at all, save for giving me something to focus on. I've always been the one to support us. In surviving the trek through the Barrens, I was the one who hunted, prepared the meals and defended us from the wildlife and centaurs that roam that wilderness. Anyways, back to the surviving of Deathwing's appearance back on Azeroth.
Some things are not welcome in the mind. Against those, there must always be the eternal vigil.
(( A short one-shot for Tyro ))
Try as he might to ignore it, he was still shaken. That madman had come into his own home, put a dagger at his throat, and threatened him. Those sort of things weren’t supposed to happen anymore, certainly not in Dalaran.
Teldrassil, the Great Tree. Here amongst the ancient boughs, the sound of heavy footfalls pound slowly against the springy turf, clad in decaying leaves and an amalgamation of roots of countless flora. A dark figure waves mechanically between the tight-knit trunks of a secluded glade. The rusty scrapes of his armor bounce along with his stride. The air always feels so thick here, clad with a what seemed like a purple fragrance-less mist. One could only smell the earthy scents of a typical forest-scape, with the chitterings and tweets of critters unseen in the close vicinity.
He looked into the orbs of those to foolish elves. Their blue swollen skin seemingly withering away as he siphoned the necrotic energy that fueled their corpses into unlife. He watched the blue glow that surrounded the orbs fade away, their bodies falling to the wet dark cobblestone that created the floor of this basement. Their essences, glowing blue surrounded the Twisted Souls and fed them all.The sweet delectable necromantic magic that Nerothos himself placed into the "Chosens" now were placed in their proper hosts.
((Kinza reflects on Lorcain's impulsiveness, and Taveston's eagerness, finally coming to some more positive conclusions.))
Spidery fingers ran across the weathered stack of papers. One by one, they plucked at them, like strings, as if the sheets would respond and the darkened room will vibrate with the sound's resonance.
But the papers stayed silent. Like tombstones, like secrets.
SUBJECT: HAMMERSTORM
(What follows below is pure speculation and result of over a year of development of the subject, both IC and OOC, with AUSPICE (<3). By no means do I claim to provide a solid guide and dictate the rules. However, any and all are welcome to pull ideas and re-use the material provided - let me know if you do so! I'd be delighted.)
