Her words floated through his mind: “Forsaken are scary, I don’t want to be scary. Vivian wants to be good.” Had he the breath to sigh it’d be the sort that came before any meaningful thought. He held his cup of tea all the tighter, cradling it’s warmth in his otherwise cold dead hands. “How can I raise their self-esteem if they don’t believe themselves worthy?” He asked of himself.
The moon rose over The Sepulcher, it’s face shining back from every puddle left by the evenings downpour. His gaze lingered on the mirror cast by the puddle.
“I am a reflection, like the moon on water. When you see me, and I try to be a good person, see yourself.” He smiled softly, bringing the steaming cup close to his chest, cherishing the warmth.
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Kaiyu knelt before the road shrine she had built to the Jade Serpent. At first a humble, haphazard collection of rocks and wood, over the weeks she had begun to refine it, carving words and imagery into its surface and shaping it into something worthy of her old patron goddess.
It had been… Months since she began her self-imposed exile? She was losing grasp of time. She did not sleep, she did not rest, and she did not eat, and the cloudy days left even the sun as scant help to follow the passage of time.
She had journeyed west, beyond the wall and into the steppes, to tame this unholy hunger for death that the curse of unliving had placed on her, and promised not to return until that taming had been found. There was yet no sign of it, even after many fights with roaming yaungol and mantid.
She carved a honourary prayer to the Serpent into the stone, one to join the uncounted others, and began to ponder how the shrine would be protected once she’s gone.
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An old Pandaren legend speaks of “Ji-Hun Lastsleep”. Amply named the Pandaren will point out.
The legend goes that Ji-Hun while living with his family in the Kun-Lai mountains fell into a deep sleep one cold winter. The cold chill of winter came to be replaced by the life of Spring and still Ji-Hun remained sound asleep. His family attempted to stir him from his slumber, with the smells of a grand feast! They wafted Ji-Hun favorite meals under his nose, Hand-rolled Noodles, Succulent Soups, and Stews but it was to no avail. To their surprise the aroma of the feast only made Ji-Hun turn onto his back, opened mouthed!
Soon Ji-Hun began snoring loudly! The bellowing of Ji-Hun’s powerful snores shook the ancient family home and the surrounding ice-tipped mountains causing snow and ice to crash around the house. Ji-Hun’s family had no choice but to flee, leaving their belongings, the feast and Ji-Hun behind.
The Grummle and Mountaineers will tell you that during Spring, Ji-Hun’s snores can still be heard bellowing throughout the mountains. Suggesting Ji-Hun remains in his deep slumber.
The legend ends with the lesson, a warning of deadly and unpredictable avalanches caused by loud noises during spring. A lesson which Xueyan has forgotten, as the bellowing sound of Pandaren snoring echoes out the tower of Conquest Hold.
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Autumn leaves blanketed the earth below as a crisp carpeting, crunching beneath every heavy step from Xav’s boots. The scarf lopping down his person did little against the Fall-kissed chill, but the bard didn’t mind; goosebumps were the wind’s caresses leaving their mark. Every step forward was away from that forsaken cabin, from that traitor’s hideaway. The door was left ajar, so that nature may reclaim it with time; may a badger make her home there for her cubs, may the straw-thatch roof be a nest for robins, may the ivy grow and envelop its pearly-pink bricks like a warm hug around it. The gleam of mother moon above led the way, and for as long as the wind swept up leaves to the west, he knew there was a promised destination.
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-… The assembly cheered joyfully as the traditional bishop’s headpiece was placed firmly on top of Father Rolphus’ head. A slight smirk would form on his face, as he dips his chin to the councillors that had vouched for his leadership. Soon after, he performed a half rotation with his body, now facing towards the assemblage of clergymen & women that had gathered for the enthronement cermony. He proceeded by stomping his staff against the wooden floor, as a means to quiet down the cheering crowd - the announcer then proclaimed; “Allow me to present the new head of the congregation, His Excellency, Bishop Rolphus of Stormwind!”
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The rain poured harshly that morning. Valariel glanced up at the once beautiful clear sky, now bathed in the darkness of the clouds that enveloped the sun.
“One could mistake it for nightfall…” She whispered to herself, and she reached out her naked hand for the pouring droplets. The cold jabs they gave her skin made her shiver. She inhaled, and then sighed quietly, feeling a bitter knot forming in her stomach. In her other hand, she held a small envelope that had yet to be sealed. Every glance she gave the piece of paper flooded her mind with doubt, perhaps even regret. Her jaw clenched, and she turned around to find her quiver and bow resting against the wall by the bookshelf. Without hesitation, she slung the empty quiver over her shoulder, and reached for her bow, her hand tightening around its handle. And with that, she left the Lodge to head for the city of men; Stormwind.
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Another dawning at the desert of Durotar aproaches as the Zandalari once again stands on the deck of his ship, gazing towards the vast sea before he turns around and jumps off the vessel, heading towards the city of Orgrimmar then requesting a portal to an unknown location and paying the mage to keep quiet to where he was going.
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Just awoken she studied the morning breeze parting way for the rising sun in the horizon as it slowly peaked behind Sardor Isle from atop the balcony of Feathermoon Inn. The forests were quiet, though she knew they’d be full of life in but a few moments. But just so as she reached for her small cup of tea she noticed a vibrant butterfly land on her forehead without warning. Contemplating her options she sighed gently and relaxed, leaning against the wooden frame behind her and slowly fell back asleep…
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Yet another sun sets in Durotar, making the desert as cold as the night that follows. After having finishing business on his ship, Zag’kush heads towards that very cold desert, scouring it for every herb or root he could find, meeting and slaying some of the wild life that threaten him. After a couple of hours he returns to his ship, covered in wounds, one of them seemly infected, and retreats to his room where he begins working.
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Resting in the canopy of Karnums glade, the monk stared out at the distant Centaur camps where small cords of smoke lifted into the air. without blinking, he drunk some mead as he continued to gaze out. his vision however went beyond the current and instead gazed at the past. of all the times he had done combat with the Centaur, sometimes with just his kin, other times alongside the Tauren long before the horde landed on Kalimdor’s shores.
Fighting the Centaur wasn’t a new experience, it was one that had come time and time again. all following the same pattern, a khan rising to new power, striking out against whatever it can like a rabid wolf. it was a cycle that repeated over and over.
a Cycle he once again had been pulled into.
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After almost dying, Mar’krog rests for a few hours in the barracks in Orgrimmar, although, being the stubborn warsong that he is, he gets to his feet upon waking up and walks towards the gate to Azshara, beginning to fix his armor in the company of his bear, grunting in pain still but determined to finish his work.
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Having made his way back to Orgrimmar after a long time in Outland, the old Shadowmoon Seer heads towards the Valley of Wisdom, to a secluded corner where he meditates on the recent events and calls his ancestors for guidance, only to be meet with a vision of an orc shrouded in void, with a grin on his face.
“So… you saw what I saw, felt what I felt… that power…” the mysterious orc approaches “Embrace it, as I have. Glory awaits if you do.” Zog’nal abruptly interrupts the vision, looking pale.
“I had sworn… not to fall to the Black Star corruption but…” the old seer shakes his head and rises up “Like father, like son.” The mystic leaves the Valley, and Orgrimmar.
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The Reverend quietly packed up his stall, his first at the Sepulcher Night Market. The last of the guests who had come to say their farewells and pass on their thanks had begun to thin out and only his fellow Undead were the only people left in any great number, aside from those staying the night at the makeshift guesthouse.
I’ll run over some spare blankets he thought to himself.
Bless Your Woollen Scocks, the Reverend’s very own stall selling his knitted wares of varying degrees of taste and success had, itself, been a big hit. He counted up the coppers and silvers from the night and began to bag equal ammounts into small purses he’d be giving to the refugees next time he was in Orgrimmar.
He’d even sold the three-armed woolly jumper, a personal victory considering it had started life as a sock.
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"On town square is where we stood
All aligned, as best as we could
Did not know what awaited us
Words and song had long been lost
Oh, I was but a child
Not knowing Void from Light
But when the drums called out to me
I marched to their demanding beat
And I followed their every shout
Never looked back in doubt
Soon then I stood on a field
Forgot about pride and shield
Fear took my heart, I started crying
Ran so fast then past the dying
Soon I was full of doubt
The drums cried out far too loud
At night I still hear what they sung
Hear the thundering of my lung
And in terror I lie awake
I will hear them till I break."
In Stormwind’s old town, a human, maybe in his thirties, was singing these words. His voice cracking, lost to alcohol and other toxins.
The old Lightforged watched the man, her face impassive as ever.
The sunshine yellow right remaining eye was following his lip movement.
She was recovering, healing, and thinking; always thinking.
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While on the search for his missing sister, Rankei had strayed from the caravan and gone on his own. Sometime on his long search, he heads towards the Southern Barrens, only to be found and chased by a group of Burning Blade cultists, although the vulpera ends up being cornered but manages to send his hyena away as his attackers approach.
“You are cornered rat, come quietly and you won’t get hurt… too much…”
The vulpera sighs while draws his blades with a smirk “Not a bad way to go down I guess.” Rankei jumps towards the orcs and manages to wound one of them but is quickly overpowered by their size and numbers.
The Burning Blade cultists grab the vulpera and toss him into a cage, but not before punish him, leaving several cuts on his body and taking away his belongings. The group moves and makes camp nearby, laughing and taunting their new captive.
As they were taunting, the fire of their camp had alerted a group of centaurs who ambush the orcs as a battle takes place, one not in the orcs favour. As the centaur subdue the orcs, one of them heads towards and busts open the cage Rankei was in, picking the vulpera by his neck only for the latter to bite his hand.
Enraged, the centaur pins down the vulpera and makes a large gap on his chest with his spear but before the centaur could kill him, one of the orcs mounts his wolf and rides off, with the centaur chasing after him, leaving Rankei to bleed out.
Moments later, Rankei is found by the rest of the caravan although with no hope of survival, the vulpera’s life is snuffed out, but he dies with a smile, having been in the company of friends when he died. His body is then taken back to Orgrimmar.
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Dark were the ruins of Alterac. Galassar spent the night watching the crumbling walls of a once-great kingdom. But it was not dead stone that had called to him, and bid him there. Things there were, in the shadows; this he knew well. And, through the thin strands of pipesmoke, he saw the darkness twitch like a living thing. He would move with the dawn’s light, for the night’s unrest offered no refuge to the curious.
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This was years back, when I was still kind of unclear as to what I should be doing within the hobby, and I don’t remember exactly the context to this.
However, there was someone choking in the Cathedral, I think. Priests didn’t seem to know how to fix it, but my warrior, being the brute that he was, just decided to ‘pat’ their back.
I somehow knocked them unconscious there. To top things off, a woman that writes for a newspaper IC witnessed it.
And so, “Sul the Slapper” was born.
Wish I remembered what gave me that title, but it was bloody hilarious.
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Perroy giving me a personalised experience during the Song of Soggoth and making my Lynx crap itself.
It was great.
A small Vulpera moves quietly around the Horde camp in Stranglethorn. She seems to be looking for something but it’s taking a while to find it.
Suddenly she does a little dance of glee, picking up some bright blue feathers that have fallen out of the gear of a member of the Painted Shield’s.
Deciding she needs them more than the trolls do she pockets the feathers and scurries back to her place in the camp.
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