So, um, about thatâŠ
https://i.gyazo.com/5eb528efb86a5cffe8845638ab427bba.png
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NOOO
How could you?! You probably did this so that you could RP in the Shadowlands next xpacâŠ
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See ya on the other side, heh hehâŠ
Sitting against a cold stone wall, a Farstrider. A journal resting open on his thigh, a pencil in a hand that refuses to move. Trying to force words that he could not speak, onto paper. Watching the blades of light creep over the stone floor beyond the curtained archway. A tiny frame buried against his side, both knew the other were awake. Both too deep in their mourning to talk to one another.
The thoughts sprinted back and forth across his awareness, all of them fleeting but some louder than others. Never staying long enough to grasp hold of them and interrogate their meaning. In the morning silence he felt as though he was surrounded by a mob, some muttering potent words whilst others screamed wild nonsense in his ear. The voice that kept raking his mind only served remind him of his failures. The training, the preparation? It failed her. The support, the encouragement? It failed her. Hours of repetition and intensive mind games. Hours of fun, games and fidgeting. Hours of perseverance and pig-headed stubbornness. It didnât matter, it wasnât enough. It was all going cold just a couple feet from where he sat.
The spirited, feisty, day-dreaming, compassionate, awkward, gangly bean-pole of a young woman was going cold just a couple feet away from where he sat. And the voice that spoke the clearest, was the quietest. She was his responsibility, and he failed her and every other Raven enduring this trauma.
The words never did find their way to parchment. As the birds started to sing he slipped himself away from the pair of Ravens, taking a moment to glance back at Morrowind and Deâmorae. With a short sigh he mutters beneath his breath âInto the morrows breeze.â before setting his mind to work, making his way out into the town to tend to his menial duties.
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I love love love the guild and all of its members.
The events are frequent and engaging, although the last one was fairly traumatising. RIP Aide you sweet beanpole </3
Thank you for taking my little Daisy in and looking after her so well Ravens, here is to many, many more happy days.
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Such a heartfelt and personal story, Thurrai. 
Aide smiles upon you all from the afterlife.
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Somewhere among the piles of papers, treatises and books that line every spare inch of space in Tharadeiâs remarkably disorganised room, thereâs a rustle and a thud. Muted swearing filters between the book-pillars, one of them swaying precariously before being steadied by an unseen hand. The figure that emerges from the library maze, however, bears little resemblance to Tharadei the Ranger, normally a proud, if squat figure with that almost permanent wry, sarcastic smirk. His shock of orange hair, for which he is named, lies unwashed and unbrushed against his back. His eyepatch lies discarded somewhere, his remaining eye glowing a dull, tarnished gold, ringed with the evidence of a sleepless night.
His footsteps, so easily carrying him silently through the forest, are reduced to stumbling and staggering through his room, finally locating his workdesk. Empty bottles litter the immediate area, and he knocks another empty one to the floor with the fresh bottle in his hand. Tucked under his other arm is a massive, archaic looking tome, the gold filigree title revealing it out to be âA Study on Curses and Corruption Volume Four - Beyond the Demonic and Necromantic.â He lets it thud to his desk with all the care one would show to a latrine manual.
âYou donât get to take another one from me. Not again.â The drunken Ranger all-but falls back into his chair, prying the cork out of the bottle with his teeth and spitting it into the drinkerâs detritus around him. He takes a few hard gulps and grimaces, opening the cover of the tome with a more appropriate reverence.
âNot again. ⊠Sorry Aide.â
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The moon rested high in the nights sky bathing a fountain memorial before the Thalassian Skyguardâs base in a pale ethereal glow. The fliers of the Skyguard stood together in a line surrounding the stone figure of a Dragonhawk with its wings wide and a child sat upon its back holding a dripping orb of water. The sound of the water trickling down from the orb and into the pool beneath was the only sound that could be heard for a long time. Verdant spheres and others speckled with gold inlay looked on in abject horror at Vianea, unsure of where to look, uncertain of what they had heard. âAide Morrowind is dead.â
Later that night in the dark company of the Lodge, Captain Autumnvale stood beside the pigeon hole for Captain Stardreamer, fingers tracing over the words he had scrawled upon a crisp new parchment letter.
'Word has reached our Rookery⊠and it falls to me to pass on our condolences. I donât know when her funeral will be held and I do not doubt that I shanât be able to be there as much is taking our unit to the skies. But, I would hope, that someone may read this in her memory for us.
Aide Morrowind - and who she was to the Skyguard.
Did you ever hear her laugh? When she laughed you swore youâd never cry again. Did you ever see her smile ? Her smile was like a glass of sun-touched wine, crisp and light and filled with bubbles, and she said funny things. She soared on wings that no other elf possessed. She liked to make up orchestras using the Skyguard and Ravens unknown talents. She loved the idea of riding Dragonhawks. But we think she liked people best of all.
We can only imagine what thoughts are filling your hurting hearts this night. And they are echoed in ours and our flight brothers and sisters. No, it doesnât make sense to us, that she wonât be around, it doesnât make sense that someone with such a zest for life lay cold upon the hard ground. It doesnât make sense to us, the way the world can let someone like that fall, it doesnât make sense at all.
âShe had cropped blonde hair. She worked next to me in Ghostlands. Every day we used to talk. She saved me from Arathi. She would smile at the Captain. I canât believe our friend has been taken away.â
These are just some of the things that my soldiers are feeling. I hope it shows just how much she touched the people of our homelands hearts. We in our own way will remember her and await the hatching of our blue eggs for one to be named Morrowind.
Signed Captain Deâvontae Autumnvale on behalf of the Thalassian Skyguard
The fallen shall not be forgot.â
The letter would be placed within the pigeon hole for the eyes of whomever it falls to first.
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Personal journal entry - F. Firewalker
15th Ranger Group aka âthe Blood Ravensâ
1 day since enlistment
As the coming days will be turbulent and filled with new information and impressions, I will collect my thoughts here in this notebook.
Two or three months have gone by since I met Captain Feanor and his Rangers, who set me onto my current path. However, I will be walking it without them. Nobody has seen that team in recent times and it appears that the night I ran into them was the eve of their final and fatal deployment.
Itâs unfortunate but no matter to me, because Farstriders are Farstriders and I know thatâs what I want to do. So yesterday I enlisted myself into a local unit dedicated to protecting the High Kingdom: the 15th Ranger Group.
The Blood Ravens.
A small drawing of two crossed arrows breaks up the page.
So far, things are largely going as expected, with a few surprises.
Two officers lead the team, a Captain and a Lieutenant. The captain comes across as professional and to the point, as affirmed by one of the initiates when I spoke to them alone. She strikes me as rational, soulful and protective of her âMagpiesâ as weâre called.
The lieutenant is a different animal, more hands-on and commanding, averagely tempered for someone in his position. In addition to his officer rank I noted that, practically speaking, he also observes the role of senior NCO.
Furthermore the team consists of Rangers, and Initiates such as myself.
Weâre just short of a dozen: a nice but slow young woman, a brash pale-haired one I only know as âPaeâ, and a good number of generally competent men and women Iâd like to get to know.
So far the only names Iâve memorised are Deâmorae and Whitemoon; Deâmorae because she was my training partner, and Whitemoon because she stayed back to talk with me afterwards.
There's a pencil sketch of two female elven faces.
One looks soft and sorrowful, the other more weathered with an amused half-smile.
As it turns out, this unit suffered a loss only a few days ago, and everyone is still reeling; Iâm pretty sure I saw tears in the eyes of more than one when the captain spoke a few words, and both of these people spontaneously opened up to me about their emotions.
Most of the others act aloof about it.
One was hungover.
The openness of trust and sharing came as a surprise, but otherwise I can see myself fitting well into this unit. Teamwork is encouraged, if you let someone fall behind you get reprimanded, and the training exercise was purposeful and productive.
A strange time to be entering this circle, but thatâs life.
Iâll be here for it.
Signed
Firelle
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I was informed that as Guild Master it is my duty to bump my guildâs thread.
OK Iâm lying, Firelle blackmailed me with cookies⊠
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Did you get the cookies already?
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Actually, Daisy is the best baker of the team! Iâll have to bribe her too.
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Heart eyes at Firelle <3
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That was easy.
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Any chance you convince her to organise a bake sale? Would be a good way of raising funds for the unit.
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11/10 guild, would get Shade shot again by those guys.
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I canât help but post this hereâŠ
Ahem!
DraculaLaugh.GIF
And those who know understand what it is⊠
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Word on the street is that Aeranthiel has been gaining weight.
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Did she have too many of the Firelleâs cookies?
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âI donât get why I have to move to the Lodge before we get deployed, Iâm perfectly capable of receiving a summons here.â Thereâs an unhappy muttering emanating from between Tharadeiâs book pillars, before his squat, powerful form emerges. Heâs topless, though more from laziness than design, struggling to heft a large oak chest onto his bed without destroying the organised chaos of his study.
The chest is battered and old, clearly not of Elvish design, with two medallions adorning the top. The symbols of the Shattered Sun and the Argent Crusade match those tattooed onto each of his pectorals, and he touches each one with a quiet reverence before wrenching the lid open. Inside sits an Paladinâs dream - velvet lined boxes of relics, tomes with gold leaf pages and crystalline bottles of Draenic origin, glowing softly with holy energy.
He keeps muttering to himself as he selects a few of these trinkets, wrapping each one securely with silk and more velvet before stowing them into a stained, weathered duffel bag. He looks across at the selection of thick cloaks and underclothes laid out beside him, then back at his duffel, and sighs. âWhat I wouldât give for a horse to carry this crap for me.â
Several hours - and a lot of swearing - later, a loaded down ginger medic emerges from his apartment and starts the long trudge to the Farstriderâs Lodge.
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