((Egads! That update was long overdue))
It would be difficult for anyone to call Kinza pretty. Although her plain oval face is relatively comely, her features have neither refinement or definition. A wide toothy grin dominates her face, somewhat rectified by a persistent natural smile. Her twinkling silver eyes are another good feature, always holding a spark of light in them. Overall she is a plain enough woman, with a suggestion of youth in her soft expression. However Kinza's good points are overshadowed by a strange lopsidedness. There is a noticeable unevenness to her features. The corner of her right eye droops down. Her left cheek sags when she speaks. Even her smile is slanted to the left. Her entire left side seems to lag behind, never quite matching the movements on her right. From her smile to her gait, small discrepancies make her stand out awkwardly amongst her more graceful sisters. This unbalanced look is increased by the absence of her right horn. Someone has recently shaved most of Kinza's head, and her dusky purple hair is just beginning to bristle across her scalp. However where Kinza's right horn should have been there is only a ragged skin graft, with a fresh blue scar across it. Kinza is just slightly shorter then the average Draenei, with broad shoulders and straight lanky legs. Her body hints at past strength, though at the moment she is simply thin and awkward. She walks unsteadily, with an obvious limp on her left side. Her left arm is usually held close to her side. At times she seems to have forgotten that it is there. When speaking common, Kinza has a thickly slurred Draenish accent. However her words are indistinct even in her own tounge. She has a quick and easy laugh, that bubbles up often in conversation. Kinza dresses modestly enough, seeming to embrace the styles and colours of Stormwind. Although she often carries a weapon at her side, her heavy armor is usually reserved for training.
((Art done by Oliver))
((The big conclusion of Kinza and Lorcian's trip to the Outlands was bittersweet.))
There is a little dirt path running through the Terrokar Forest, which is too large to be called a trail and too small to be a proper road. In places it is completely overgrown, with herbs and shrubbery. The tracks of wolves and warp stalkers line it, and moths have spun their cocoons overhead. Lazily it winds its way South and East, drawing ever closer to the Twisting Neather. Eventually, it turns a corner and drops away into shattered space.
It was exactly how she remembered it, but everything was different. Already the fine red dust was working its way into the joints of her armor, blown on hot gusts of air which were dry enough to make her lungs burn. Beyond the thick meaty smells drifting up from the kitchen, lay the metallic tang of fell iron, and spilled blood. It seemed so strange to climb a set of rough wooden stairs, and swing open a human sized door, which creaked from the ever present grit....
Kinza brushed one dark and across the brown paper package, listening to the crinkles for a moment. Then she slowly pealed it away to reveal the long gleaming blade. Ravager's End was so long that Kinza needed both hands to swing it.......
((Sometimes when Kinza's voice starts writing it goes into place that I would never ever expect.This one started innocently enough, and then struck out into deep uncharted waters >.<))
For the time being, Kaniffler has been confined to Ironforge, a small relief for me. I have had some time to train a little, and do a bit of crafting. Last night Lorcain took the tram up to visit. I never realized how badly he had been injured by that scourge, although I should probably have guessed. Lorcian is the man who dug a bullet out of his own side with a claw after I was too nervous to attempt it. However the recent injury left him confined Dalaran for weeks, and still troubles him now..........
I had a strange yet lovely supper last night. Venison seared in an open fire, until the outside was charred black, and the meat inside dripped with sweet juices. It brings back memories good and bad. There were the tense nights in the demon infested wilds, roasting talbuk steak over the flames. There was also the first beautiful night when Akayla brought me out of the Exodar. She had a fire burning, and a stag cooking upon it. That was the first night that I saw the stars of Azeroth. We lay about for hours, nibbling on the meat, and catching up on the long years that we had lost in separation. I was giddy with happiness that night, and drunk on the wine of my sudden freedom. I had to return to the ship in the morning. For I was still badly crippled at that time. However I will always remember that beautiful night for the joy that it brought through the dark.
In her mind's eye she was back on Draenor, standing over healer Janeezra. She would always remember that night, during the last stages of the war when the entire land had been overrun with demons. One of the foraging parties had stumbled across a pack of wild fell hunters. Five still breathed when the healers had reached them and none had lived out the night....
I need to be quick while writing this for my patient has begun to stir. He is the second severe casualty that I have healed in as many weeks. I had just returned late from the fairgrounds, when Dyna brought a woman named Diane to our doorstep. She had been tortured by the forsaken, bones broken, skin pealed away, one eye gouged out. I could write here of how the sight of those injuries gripped me with fear, or of how I struggled to summon the light to me. Yet I know full well that I have teased that night apart in my mind, until the last detail has been set out for display. The girl lives, she sees, she walks, she is mending, which I suppose is all that any healer can ask....
I am not a healer.... I am the eyes of an artist, and the hands of my craft. I am not a healer.... I am a sharp blade, and a solid shield. I am not a healer.... I am defense of my friends, and revenge for my people. I am not a healer.... I am twisted, and crippled beyond any use. I am not a healer.... I am the mind of a youth, and the experience of an elder. I am not a healer, I never was, but I do what I can, I always have.
Lunge. Parry. Withdraw. Adjust stance. Lunge.... leg wobbles... slash. Retreat. Lunge. Parry. Jerk back... leg shaking... shift weight. Lunge.... jerking left... lurch sideways... withdraw, barely. Sword flailing. Balance regained. Lunging again.... to far...staggering... sliding left....falling... arm jerking.... that frozen second before impact.
((Another very short story about Kinza. Her conversation with Kaniffler has forced her to rethink some perspectives.))
((This post is a little different from Kinza's usual journal entries, but I think that it came out all right. She certainly found more excitement last week then she has had since Christmas, but being Kinza she didn't like it one bit.))
There were still half a dozen bruisers inside the stall, and they met Kinza's protests with clubs.She was still bruised a week later, although it was less physical now. It was the humiliation...
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