RP Stories

If any of you have any stories/journal entries/whatnot concerning your RP characters that you wish you share with the rest of us, then this is the place to post it!

It will also be a topic where one can ask for/give criticism (of the constructive sort) and advice.

I will try to put up something of my own creation here as well, but so far I only have a single chapter of Eihrissa's background, as well as some tiny random story that I wrote a few days ago laying around. I might put them up, but I am quite the perfectionist when it comes to (my own) writing.

Post away, please!

D'you mean that OOC Discussion is for posting the stories, or that this post is?

Ewyllyn wrote:D'you mean that OOC Discussion is for posting the stories, or that this post is?

This post, of course. I didn't find a more suitable place to put it than the OOC Discussions forum.

In that case:

I wrote a single story way back when (aka Friday March 7th 2008) in regards to how Ewy was originally blinded, and so without further ado, here it be.


An odd thing.


It was strange to be back in Westfall. It’d been so long, longer than she could remember, at least. The fields of ripe wheat were nowhere to be seen. The green grass was hardly around, either – just deserted farms and some occasional wagon taking yet another family from that place. “Westfall is cursed,” they said. “Haunted,” as well.

She frowned at them, and felt a chilling sensation slowly creep down her spine at the thought of it. Walking scarecrows with razor sharp claws and fiery red eyes were abounding in the area – the very stuff nightmares are made of. She’d seen them, oh, yes. She’d seen them, alright, and nearly went stiff with fear. And at that moment she wondered how in the name of the Light the local militia had talked her into accompanying them to Moonbrook.

“We need one with your skills,” they’d said. “If one of us gets injured or worse, it’s handy to have a priestess along,” they’d argued. How was she to turn down people in need of her help?

She always loved to help – she’d done that so often in Elwynn Forest, after all, albeit that included helping with the harvest, leading the cattle back into their stable – heck, even milking. And she’d asked for nothing in return, glad for the chance to spread the word of the Holy Light. Of course, she could ill refuse when they’d offer her a piece of bread or a bottle of cool water from the river. It was bliss, to say the least.

And now she found herself, here in Westfall, watching in admiration the brave men and women of Sir Stoutmantle’s ragged band of protectors. Some were scarred from previous engagements, but their faces seemed so determined. Their equipment was also quite varying, but they almost looked less ragged than she did. She’d felt like giggling at that fact, but somehow felt that was improper. These people didn’t look like they were in a laughing mood.

It was getting darker, late in the day after all, and the rays of the sun cast long shadows from the buildings of the ruined Moonbrook town. It looked ghostly – oh, yes, definitely haunted. She felt how she shivered, but kept her peace as they’d ordered that all should be silent as they approached. Defias were still at large in the area, despite the many mercenaries that had aided the militia. They were almost equally as scary to her, with their red masks and cruel approaches to the unwary traveller. She eyed the broken windows carefully, noticing that the militia people were doing so as well. They kept moving in silence, almost crouching at times. Sweat droplets slowly made their journey down her brow and the shivering only increased, it seemed. She really, really didn’t feel like being here – much less doing this.

A cry of alarm was heard as one of the militia fell down on his back with an arrow piercing his shoulder. She almost cried out as well in surprise, but had no time to do so as she was pushed down by someone. Arrows were flying around them, battering shields that were raised to take the brunt of the surprise attack. Yet for some reason, the only thing she could think of was to help the injured man. He needed her help!

Crawling on her belly she made her way over to him and tore off a segment of her sleeve to bandage him. He was wincing, bleeding, but that was okay – she’d seen blood and pain before, though…not an arrow sticking out of a person’s shoulder.

“Return fire!” the militia captain barked, and his soldiers complied, taking out bows and arrows, even a gun or two, and replied in turn to the Defias ambush. She didn’t really pay attention to that, but kept focussing on the injured man.

It was when the captain yelled suddenly, “Take cover!!” that she looked up, kneeling as she was trying to channel the healing power of the Light into the man’s shoulder to ease the pain until they could dig out the arrow.

It was an odd thing, really – a fiery ball flying through the air all by itself. She’d never seen it herself, but heard that it was possible for conjurers and the like to produce such marvels. The only thing she was regretting as she saw it flying towards her was that it’d not been at a more relaxed atmosphere, like a faire or something of that sort.

All thoughts evaporated as the fireball passed her head – and the pain that flared across her eyes and brow became too much.

She thought she could hear herself scream as everything turned pitch black.

But it’d sadly turn out that not even black would be visible when Ewyllyn would finally regain consciousness.

*Jealous of Ewy's story and writing*
Well written and it was nice to learn how she did lose it all, eyesight and stuff. Cleansed by fire, as they say! Salut!

I actually made this when bored at work, so the quality is nowhere near Ewy's, still, here it is!

This is a dramatisation of the Lauf kidnapping, on Sindri eyeview.

Journal Entry 8#.
It was already late at evening when I noticed Brother Theodor come up and speak with me, it had happened several times before that the brother would seek me out to talk, nothing important in particular. He had transferred here from the north after its complete fall by the forsaken horde. However I had my suspicions about him ever since he appeared, every time we talked, I felt.. can you possibly claim to feel actual killing intent? If such a skill exists, I believe I felt it from him clearly. The odd brother had also taken a great interest in Lauf, spending much time with her, considering many people consider her a pain because of her childish behaviour. I am worried that if I am right, Lauf could be in danger.
"Such disrespectful people around the infirmary these days, huh?"
I heard him say suddenly, responding with a short nod, I looked around the hall as to my duty as a protector. Soon enough after telling a few people off for their behaviour, brother Theodor descended away to the kitchen. I left him be for now, but I changed my mind when he reappeared with Lauf in tow, they were talking about going somewhere, I didn't clearly get where or even why. My ears did pick that he claimed father Iko had granted them permission, but to me it stink nothing aside from lies. With a moments hesitation I took off to lighten my gear, strip myself of most of my uniform and take less noticeable equipment, my sword and shield I kept. The two were rather easy to follow, Lauf being rather noisy in asking when they would arrive at their destination, and the mysterious brother claiming all the time to be close. Close wasn't half of it, I grew all the more concerned once we left the city walls behind us and grew all the time closer to the border of elwynn, it was a really long walk, even if the two took a path near the shoreline of Westfall. It was odd, what on Azeroth were they doing this far from the cathedral? I was lost in thought for a moment, trying to figure out his objectives for the little girl, some rather obscure possibilities coming to mind. I tried to hurry my step, but afraid the odd man would notice me I had to stay a clear distance away. It was a hard time trying to convince myself it was nothing, that this man wasn't dangerous, but something kept telling me otherwise. There was no proof of anything bad occurring however and I couldn't exactly just attack the man, and confronting him by talking would be out of the question if the man did indeed mean harm. After a while, a large tower came into my view and my fears rouse up again, I saw them both go in and tried to follow more quickly. I hurried to the door, but suddenly stopped in my tracks. I bend to pick up a small rock from the ground and threw it towards the doorway, which seems to have been a wise move. The doorway was warded with magic, and deflected the rock, hurling it far away into a wandering tornado. Noticing that if I had continued, it would have been me who flew, I decided to unward the door first before trying to save Lauf, it was now clear as day that the intentions of the man weren't good, and obviously from the start they weren't. I ran across the tower once or twice, poking at things with my sword. I had heard that some wards need a "Link" to stay functional, such as a crystal or an object that channeled the ward to stay active. For most of these, the ward had to stay outside of the actual barrier to be effective, yet exposed it to enemies, so it was hidden. There was a possibility that some other ward was used, which would mean I wouldn't be able to do a thing, since I have no magical power whatsoever. After a while of mudwrestling with a couple of badgers and trenching through the nearby landscape, I was able to cover such a warding crystal, I raised my sword and brought it down on the crystal, effectively shattering it. The ward from the door was gone and I rushed in, afraid of the things possibly occurring inside the tower. When I came in I noticed several skeletons of dragons hanging from the ceilings, becomming a bit more cautious, I sneaked up the stairs like a professional thief at least, noting the many books and liquid experiment flasks, and more skeletons. After a while of climbing the stairs and encountering no one, I came to the last floor of the tower, the uppermost peak of the giant structure. As I came up, it was not brother Theodor who greeted me, but it was someone far, far worse than that. It was Nathan, the most despicable man I had ever laid eyes on my life. Nathan Moltenheim, "Miser", pyromantic fire mage and a murderer of the worst kind. Not was this only a shock to me, but he had chained poor Lauf to a wall, and was trying to hit her! I couldn't keep my calm, I practically screamed bloody murder at him.
"Let her go you rat!"
I screamed as I ran to the villain, sword and shield raised. My emotions took control of me and I couldn't hold back. It was a stupid mistake, Miser had of course heard me and notified me of this, mocking me on revealing myself to him. I never got to him as a fireball threw me off balance, even if I was able to somehow block it with my shield. As I lay on the ground I could hear Lauf's voice, and the man keeping on mocking me. I couldn't stay there, past had teached me that if I stopped moving with this "demon", I would die. With a tighter grip on my blade and protection, I stood up and began to run at him again, this time it was three fireballs, but I was ready for them and dodged each one, ending my motion by kneel positioned uppercut with my sword, which sadly didn't land, grazed his cheek if I saw right. Getting him to close quarters was my best option, Miser wasn't physically as able as he was a fire mage, and he couldn't use his flames if I was too close, is what I believed at the time anyhow. Miser kept mocking me as I tried to land blows on him, but the bugger was quick on his feet, evading and trying to take distance. Unluckily for him, I had always been credited for my speed and agility, not for my berserker like strenght or my archmage class magic abilities, which I had none of. I sped up my pace, and suddenly landed several blows on the bastard, as his side bled and several kicks and shield bashes smacked him in the stomach and face, victorious cheer came from Lauf, and I smiled. I damned well smiled at that, seeing the murderer of my past love get pummeled, there wasn't a better sight on by lights side or in nether. At this point I had already figured it out that brother Theodor never existed, it had been Nathan all along, taking the illusionary form of brother Theodor. Sadly it seemed that Miser grew furious with each blow, and I decided to try and end it, payback had been enough. I was too late however, he unleashed a pillar of fire at me by taking a slight jump backwards, this pillar however came at me straightly from the palm of his hand, if it had hit, it would have been so that the pillars peak would've hit me in the stomach. Again, I was able to block it with my shield, but it wasn't nearly enough. My arm twisted and the shield melted as I flew back violently across the floor, ending up near the edge of the floor, almost falling down on the floor below. As I grieved in pain, Miser was attempting to stop minding me and return to torture Lauf for whatever reason he had, I took my throwing knife from my belt and threw it with a loud, hate stricken yell, I don't even remember anymore what i shouted, I just did. The knife hit the rogue pyromancers shoulder cleanly, allowing me another satisfied grin. No matter how I had grown to the cathedral, this man deserved to suffer. Miser did indeed show great signs of pain, but was still able to lodge the dagger from his shoulder. I staggered to my feet to continue fighting, my shield was gone but I wasn't going to give up or surrender just for that. Nathan walked towards me, talked, he always bloody talked, so I don't even want to remember what he said. However the fire dragon that suddenly appeared above his head, I remember. It was an odd shaped dragon made entirely out of fire. It coiled around itself in the air, until it extended towards me and spout a great cone of flames, it was one of Misers spells. I shielded the flames with my arms while backing down, feeling the intense burn of the flames, I suddenly tripped on the edge railing, and fell down. My terrified eyes saw the smirking face of Nathan as I was falling to my death, as I descended to the floor above, the last sight I saw was the figure of a man, so cold, emotionless white eyes... Was someone else there as well?

I cannot know how long I was out of it, but I remember that at one point I felt something warm, it was perhaps my rescuers, since I woke up to find myself alive in the cathedral infirmary, mostly treated of my wounds, of course still in recovery.

I later found out that I was rescued by Cedric.


( I will sort out this mess later, until then enjoy this block of text.)

I'll give a tiny review of Ewyllyn's piece at first, since Sindri's wall of text does not look particularly inviting right now! I promise I'll get to read it as soon as those paragraphs are sorted!

As for your story, Ewyllyn; it's a nice chronicle, no doubt about that. Insightful and effective writing, leaving little space for rambling; well done. I personally believe that some more elaboration would do here and there, though - perhaps a more detailed account of the fight, and the fireball incident itself?

There are a few spelling mistakes here and there, some misplaced words, but those are common mistakes, easily bypassed. A pleasant read!

I dug up my old account of the commence of Eihrissa's journey across the sea, but I'll wait with posting it. I want to look through Sindri's piece of work prior to doing so.

I have one... A day from Rhadegar's past, who was the inquisitor of Stormwind. Was pretty high-rated back when I wrote it. Perhaps here it will be liked too.

And for whoever wonders, the employer was Eccerion. Always has been.

A day as inquisitor in Stormwind

Rhadegar woke up in the inn he resided, his head was killing him and his arms felt like they had stones attached to them. Yawning and stretching, he went to the mirror he had in his room. His beard had grown even bigger. Soon, Rhadegar would have to get it shaved. Else it wouldn’t fit inside the mask.

It was the usual late summer day outside his room. The sun burning, making it as hot as in Ragnaros’ mouth, and in the evening was twice as cold. Unpleasant weather. If you asked Rhadegar, he would have told you that he likes nothing best the late autumn, with a pleasant cold, but not freezing winds and rain, which had such nice effect on his mood. While others often felt sad during rain, he never did. Rhadegar always felt empowered when it rained. He kind of hoped it would rain today. He sure needed it.

After washing his face from the small bowl he kept on the table, he started putting on his dark armor. The room Rhadegar had was the largest they had in the inn, and it cost him a fortune to keep paying the monthly rent, but it was worthy it. At least, he had all the space he wanted to keep his items.

He sighed with relief after putting on the shoulder pads. They were huge and uncomfortable, but they were part of his uniform. With a last sigh, Rhadegar put on the mask. He was forced to never leave the building without it. It was an old ritual, and a nice politic to have the city’s Inquisitor move around in his costume – people were on guard always, and the bandits would think twice after doing something stupid after seeing him walk the streets with his axe.

The last piece of gear he wore was her. The axe named Annette. It was short, curved axe, with runes of power all over it. The runes of the harbingers. When Rhadegar bought it, he got promised that it would do the job well thousand and thousand of times, and the edge would never get blunt. Maybe it was the magic, the runes, or just the bind the axe had with her master, but the promise from the seller was kept.

“Another day, another prey… Was that what them hunters say? Don’t you think it is kind of matching our business, eh?” – With a sigh, he put the axe in the scabbard on his back. Usually, if was to battle, he would put the weapon on the waist for a quicker withdraw, but now it was not needed. And besides, it was being scary, not accurate. After stepping out of the door, he looked behind his shoulder at the axe, saying: – “I do have to thank you accompanying me once again, milady. I could never do it without you, Madam Annette.”

As he came down the stairs, he nodded at the inn keeper, who nodded back while cleaning up a glass, which only got dirtier. The early visitors all nodded at Rhadegar. Some because not burning with desire of getting on the Inquisitor’s bad side. Others, because like him, also never showed up in the evening, and only drunk during the day. Rhadegar was certain that he was not the only one who did not enjoy the fights, yelling and noise during the evening. He preferred to walk around the park at that time. It was so damn more pleasant. And besides, with everyone in the pubs in the evening, there was no one to run away when he walked on the streets.

As Rhadegar walked his path to the harbor, which turned out to be the best place for any type of executions, he mumbled a quick prayer of gratitude to the Light for only being called for execution today. Usually, he was called for other kind of business, mostly un-official, in the deepest quarters of the prison in the Command center. A place, from where screams never reached up. Not bothering the citizens, no sir, we are not doing that. Let them think that that we are wise and judgmental, and when someone deserves a punishment, we regret it deeply and only do executions when the criminal really deserves it. We never torture them for information, no, that is against the law, and we would never do that. After all, we are really a good society; we would never do such a terrible thing.

“They only know the light side… if this can be called a light side, that is.” – Rhadegar mumbled to himself. – “They don’t know how they beg me to finish them off while tortured. And they think that executions are the cruel part.”

He suddenly looked around, afraid of being followed and heard. It was dangerous to say things like that these days. It was not the best idea to think for you, either.

When Rhadegar got down to the harbor, he saw that everything was prepared. He climbed up on the improvised scaffold, observing. The victim, currently a young lady from the Scarlet Onslaught, was down on her knees, with a stump beneath her. When she saw him coming, her eyes let out so many feelings at once. Hatred. Fear. Hope. The last one was the worst. It was worst when they started begging him.

But she didn’t. Rhadegar stood above her, withdrawing his axe. The speaker, some human with a bright yellow armor, which probably never saw a real fight, was speaking out loud for how the people of Azeroth have decided to punish the villain for her crimes. Rhadegar wondered when in the history of the world the people of Azeroth had any say about these things, but he kept it for himself. He always thought that he did not enjoy, nor hate his job, which was the reason to do it so good. If he liked it, he would be a sadist, who would do worse things than paid for. If he hated it, he would do things worse than paid for. Still, he trembled inside as the speaker finished his speech. He disliked this part.

“Are you ready, Inquisitor?” – The speaker asked.
“No, I am not. Nor is she, she is just a young girl, she deserves a second chance. How can you be so cruel? Death is not the answer for anything. She told you everything when you had me torture her. She is out, beaten, destroyed, why end her life? She is not an animal. For Light’s sake, she deserves to live!” – Rhadegar wanted to yell it out loud. Instead, he just nodded. He couldn’t. Wrong things said on the wrong time… or maybe, at any time, would get you at that woman’s place. And Rhadegar feared that whoever did his execution may not be skilled as he was.

The speaker swung his hand down. That was the awaited signal. Rhadegar raised his axe above his head. He was holding the edge up, pointing the sky, that way the center of gravity weight were his hands, and in the moment he would swing the axe down, all that weight and energy would come down to the blade of the axe, getting the decapitation done in a single hit.

As Rhadegar prepared, the Scarlet Onslaught raised her head. There had not hate in her eyes. Just sadness. And some insane kind of happiness. She was getting out, she was realizing it now. She winked at Rhadegar. “See you at the other side, mister Hardtime. Keep your wealth. I hope it brings you happiness there.” Rhadegar wanted to answer to the things he saw in her silent eyes, to say that he is just doing his job… But was that really an excuse that is good enough? He swung down the axe. Blood spread all over the scaffold. Some was even on his face. He ignored it. He would wipe it off in home. Until then, he would wear it as a punishment for his deed. As a reminder.

He turned his back to the scene, and jumped off the scaffold, putting the axe on his back before that. The people who were watching, some with fear, some with hate, and others, sadly, with joy – all of them moved out of his way.
”Hey, Inquisitor.” – Rhadegar turned around. A pouch flew his way, the gold coins inside it ringing pleasantly, as a dark reminder what he is sacrificing for this profession… and for what. Rhadegar raised his hand quickly and grabbed it, then saluted with the other hand. His employer returned the gesture. It was job as any other. It wasn’t pleasant, but somebody had to do it. It wasn’t something new. It was just another day as Inquisitor in Stormwind.

Thanks for the feed back.

The lack of elaboration of the fight itself is purely due to Ewy's point of view and what she focusses on. Therefore due to her sole attention being on that of the soldier, she doesn't pay attention to aught else, which therefore leaves her short of explaining how the combat progresses.

As for the spelling errors and misplaced words, yes, I've actually never really proof-read it since I initially posted it, and really should get to it. All I need is getting arsed to.

In any event, I think I might just scrounge up more of this stuff at some point.

So, thanks again for the feedback.

...


Lauf is Lauf.

I'm not a terribly good writer and tbh what I am about to write is kinda cheesy as it is just a first person recount of Elcia's last moments before the stratholme disaster, a monologue of the experience and a little more after.

"There are quite a few people in the world who have days worth remembering because they want nothing more than to remember. Unfortunately I have far too many memories that I remember because I want nothing more than to forget. So far as I can tell the worst was the day that Mother died, but I think the one which left the biggest scar happened a good few years before that...

From what I can remember Father had taken me to the Library as he did so often. The fountains in the city glistened as they rained rampant down onto the basin, wishes scaring the marble stones with copper spots. There was never any more than copper in the fountain. Those poor enough to wish could never waste any more and those rich enough to afford it had no needs for wishes in the first place. Father and I scanned the oaken shelves until we found a suitable adventure for the day. It was a little higher than normal but Father allowed me to sit on his shoulders so I could be the one to take it down. He knew how much I loved that. Together we delivered the book to the same chair we always did, Father sitting down in it after a hard day's work. I would sit on his lap and read to him when we came here. I was a small child and Father was a large man so even though I had grown fairly since we first started our readings, I had not outgrown him. I did not know it then but now I realise that my reading was one of the greatest joys he had. He would cancel all other arrangements just so we could share this time.

We sat together for about an hour or so, following the same procedure as we always did. Father was a family man at heart but that is not to say he was not punctual. We were regulars to the library and Jude let us borrow the book. Jude always let us borrow the books because she knew we would bring them back every time in a better condition than they left. Father pressed open the Library door with one hand whilst I sat in the crook of his arm, one more thing I had not yet outgrown. He walked through the market on his way back to Mother's clinic, nodding to the butcher, the baker and candlestick maker. He was respected well throughout this part of town, there was hardly a building there he had not helped to construct or repair in some way, and before my birth, Father was a member of the Silver Hand. He was seen as the most basic of great men. He had glory and fame but gave it up for a daughter.

As per convention he would take samples of this and that that were offered to him, he used to refuse but like the waves of the sea the merchant's insistence drove through his defenses. Not that I would ever complain mind you, I would get an equal a helping as he would. Oddly enough he avoided the grain. The shipment fro Andorhal had arrived recently and Father usually took the best pickings whilst they were there. It was unlike him to pass up such an opportunity but my youthful mind was preoccupied on a blackberry to analyze Father's actions. Of course the gift of hindsight proves the reason Father declined the grain. Perhaps it was in his holy training but it seems he knew that something was amiss. His stride too was longer than normal and slightly frenzied. He was as sharp as his sword even after a decade out of service.

We arrived home earlier than normal and Mother was in the process of making tea for Father's return. She knew him well enough it seems that the early arrival of a man of such method and punctuality as Father meant news of some description. She came to meet us as we entered the kitchen where Father passed me to her. I caught it for an instant but could not divine it's purpose at the moment, but Father passed a message to Mother along with myself. An entire conversation in a single look. He left upstairs at quite a pace as Mother saw about placing me at my chair and collecting certain valuables from the kitchen. In our family gold was not a valuable however, to us memories were far more valuable.

In less than a while but more than a moment both Father and Mother were ready to leave, a red hood coating Mother and me and a layer of metal coating Father. It was at this point where I had my worries. Father had never worn his full armour more than once in my life and that time was to show me what it looked like so naturally I was curious. Then in a single moment my worries turned to peril as hell itself broke loose through the streets. I could see through the window the raging hordes of people charging forth to the gates of the City, Father look Mother's hand in his and led her along side alleys and secluded routes to escape the throng of panicked townsfolk. I said nothing throughout this journey, it was terrifying. The sky which was a calm blue only so long ago slowly became bleached with red and smoke rose from windows rather than chimney stacks. Our route opened out onto the market of earlier. Only it was not the market of earlier. The stalls were upright and the people seemed to be half awake. Pale skin and glowing amber eyes. I maintained my silence throughout this as well... what was I to say? Father brooked no waste of time gawping. He charged through the sparse numbers, sending them to the floor with reckless abandon. They all fell... except for the ones who were getting back up, immediately.

Father took us quickly before the creatures had a chance to get back onto their feet and he pulled us even faster than before. Exit in sight we rejoiced. Jubilant to see the guardsmen at the entrance keeping the wretches at bay. We ran to the and,funnily enough, they ran to us. Their blades and intents raised clearly Father saw fit to end their hubris. Our salvation was not clear to us, a small service entrance that was used by the Silver Hand sometimes due to it's proximity to the chapel. Mother used Father's keys to unlock the gate and the portcullis rose upwards to greet it's niche with a little persuasion from Father. Mother was the first through with me when the Iron bars failed to slam behind her. No matter how much force Farther placed onto the frame. The gate was jammed and Father was too tired from work, stress, battle and age to push it back down. The hordes were encroaching now. Blood on their lips and eyes glowing their monstrosity at us. Father pushed Mother away, down the corridor. He told her that she was to take me and run. That he would do what he could to stall the beasts. Mother protested once, knowing how arguments with Father often went, before speaking her last words to him ever "She is beautiful" to which my father nodded, turned his face to the stampede and forced his way into them, blinding light thrown left and right as he struggled for his honour, his wife and his child. I saw very little though, mother turned as he did and what I was was blurred by motion. We reached past the walls of the city and continued on into the future...

I pondered very hard on Mother's choice of words that day. I spent years thinking of more appropriate things to say, trying to discern the meaning of the statement. Some time after my fourteenth birthday I understood finally what she had meant. I knew all along that she was referring to me of course but I misunderstood the meaning I posed to the two of them. I was their family. I am their family. I am the one thing in the world that meant more to them than anything else. Mother's words were a thank you, a congratulations, a reassurance and an elegant flourish to the end of a great man's life"

I just sat down to read a little bit, and I decided to undertake an analytic survey of some of the stories posted here so far!

Elcia, your story is supplied with nice narration & storytelling, but if I were you, I would make use of the comma more often. Some sentences tend to stretch quite far (e.g. It was a little higher than normal but Father allowed me to sit on his shoulders so I could be the one to take it down.) and they would appear a lot better if you threw in a comma at plausible locations.

Rhadegar's story has gotten the commas right, and save the odd misspelling (at-on & other minors like that) was a rather enjoyable read. Both were, in fact - especially your quite eldritch references towards the other characters in the story ("Mother-Father", "the speaker"). It helps set the mood.

I also took myself to read Sindri's piece (at last) as I promised, and, as to not further strengthen the (not entirely undesired, admittedly) image of me as a linguist, I will not dwell on grammar terms. It is a good journal entry, and it gives me a clear overview of what has been going on, while her grudges and curiosities also shine through, albeit indirectly.

*puts square glasses aside* Alright, I will throw up a vignette of my own soon enough for you bunch to lay your eyes on.

Alright, here we go. An account of Eihrissa's return to Eastvale, where she resided as a neophyte up until her ordinance, which is when she was relocated to the Cathedral. Hope you like it.

The sun, enclosed by the blue, unspoiled sky, cast its propitious rays over the settlement, itself framed by a lush frith that echoed with the soothing song of sparrows. The trees found themselves in the fecund blossoming of spring, looming over the blue-roofed buildings, but they were in turn outmatched by the rufous hills that towered steadfastly over all else.

The lumbermill had remained the anthill it had always been in her absence; busy and lively as ever, loggers darting about their business mechanically, seeming more like the spinning cogs of a factory than human beings. The foreman was easily distinguishable in his wide-brimmed hat, bellowing orders and commands seemingly at random. His stubbles served only to strengthen his virility, and it was apparent that he felt great satisfaction at being able to pick down upon any overworked John Doe that happened to be within range.

The ebontop beheld all this with her analytic emeralds, cut short as usual by the coy descendence of the eyelids. The exotic complexion that made out the majority of her facial countenance was framed by stray tresses of charcoal that had deviated from the bun which crowned her, rolled back practically and with little regard for enhancing her natural beauty.

Her leer fingers tugged at her cloak - white as snow, almost as if to act as the last reminder of the winter that had just been substituted by the re-emergence of sunlight and green meadows. She ambled down the dale in which the logging camp and its workers' homes were situated, gait unswerving as her legs made their way to the chapel - situated in the centre, it served as both the religious and social nucleus of the camp, or at least so would a small concentration of people suggest. Young and lively tottered around and about while the old and frail spoke amongst each other, the occasional chuckle sprouting from their conversations.

The ebontop bypassed them and entered the chapel, where she stalled to observe the familiar surroundings. Time had stood still - the pair of benches at each side were still weathered with age, its boards hardly more than a collection of splinters The altar itself held only a square table, upon which the ebontop saw a lone candleabrum, whose trio of sticks were reduced to naught but butts, unfit to bear flames since time immemorial.

Some things never change. A faint smile tugged at her lips, though did not fester itself entirely; her squint held a substantial tinge of unexplained fear. In lieu of fond memories and nostalgia, a likeness of horror gained dominion of her comportment, and only the feeling of propriety kept her from scampering out at that moment. Instead, she turned with a thorough sigh, and chose to make her way out as discreetly as possible.

It was then that familiarity struck one last time, and a sturdy fellow with shoulder-length hair stood before her, a nigh malign smirk tainting his hideous appearance; not only was it fundamentally ugly, but enmity was as if imprinted upon his lined forehead, co-existing with the shrewd intellect of a villain. He spoke, tone unctuous and slimy.

"Ah, Sister Scolven. I thought you left for the capital with your ordinance."

She forced herself to speak, tongue uneasy as it crafted the response. Her smile was half-hearted, and she did little to conceal that fact.

"I did, Brother Callas, but I am simply stopping by. I am on my way to Darkshire."

"Oh, are you now," came the response. His counterfeit smile faded, substituted by a glower. "Be careful, crime is consistent in that area. Though perhaps that is what Her Negroid Majesty's purpose is there? Perhaps warm the sheets of some poor, aged priest while you're there, as you so shamelessly did here?"

It was more a sledgehammer than an inquiry - the words were spat out sans mercy, and the ebontop shrank before the already much-taller man. She tried to respond, but her meagre voice was overrun by his relentless bellow once more.

"A harlot of the sands, whose venomtongue and honourless seduction paved the way to her ordinance. Where us honest, good-willed neophytes worked hard for our privileges, the tawny slut formed lies and deceit to acquire hers. The person I speak of, if she can be called a person, is 'Sister' Scolven."

"I did no such thing, Brother Callas," said the ebontop, finally managing to formulate a sufficient defence. She resumed, blessed with silence from the man's side.

"Do you not remember how I was scorned for my work, and how my ordinance came only long after I had completed the tasks laid down before me? I was ordained because Father Ebenezer was obligated to, and also so that he could be rid of me!"

"Your slippery lips won't work on me, whore," was then uttered, the man raising his chin domineeringly. "Father Ebenezer was a good man, but alas, he had a widower's weakness that you exploited to the fullest extent. You're a thief and a liar, nothing else, doffing your skirt and swinging your hip whenever it serves whatever malevolent purpose of yours." He took her by the shoulder now, his cinch strong and unyielding. She did not resist - could not, even - and a tepid attempt at wiggling herself loose yielded no result at all.

He tossed her out of the chapel head-first, and she landed upon her knees in the wet grass. Thump. Rainfall had come upon the settlement, and the damp air was hardly diaphanous enough to let through the shrouded light of sun. Green had become grey, and a lively anthill had been made desolate, its denizens having rushed back to their homes upon the first droplet of rain, most probably.

She stumbled back onto her feet, breathing heavy as it came through parted lips. She looked back to the chapel's doorway, emeralds wide and horrified as they beheld a balled fist and the hateful silhouette of a man. His thunderous announcement rang through the air, silencing the rainfall for but a moment.

"Begone, you swarthy trollop! Go back to whatever cavity you came from, and rot there until vultures devour your unholy skin!"

The whole world gloated cruelly at the ebontop as she scurried over the taupe-coloured gradient that led out of Eastvale, emerald eyes dismal and moist.

© EJE

This is a short one, but I find it's a nice little reason as to why she moved to Stormwind! Plus, she spoke about the story ICy before. Here you go ^_^!

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As the soft breeze whistled, hushed, past the calm emerald green, Tsami sighed faintly. Snow and Cane were sleeping at home while she went out into Darnassus. A feeling she always kept was a need for antiquing, confusion always crept over the Huntress on that fact. As she blankly stepped into Arkanites Armory, Tsami was greeted with a forced smile, '' Morning, Tsami. All is well I assum-- '' ... A glance was put forth to the surroundings of the young elf, silken hair trailing from the tip of her forehead, down a thin feminine neck and soon reaching a small, slim waist. Tsami bore beauty in every inch of her, it was simply a family thing. Something wasn't right, however, only the older elf did not realise what exactly was the matter. Actually, it was a rather hard thing to spot, she looked so normal, so happy - but she wasn't. '' Hmm? Is anything the matter, Ark? '' The girl questioned, brushing snowy locks out from before her eyes. The silvery locks matched her glimmering eyes that especially lit up in the sunlight, beaming down on whoever dare disturb her. A sympathetic gaze was given to her friend, large white brows lowering to add effect to the look. '' ... You know. You actually know, do you not? ''
'' I do, Tsami. The animals you own are dying and your shelter is failing. What's worse, is there is said to be danger soon - big danger. Which is why I offer discounts, large discounts.''
'' ... How did you know ... '' Confusion snook into her expression, tears threatening to fall. Just one slip up, and she could be in tears. Hardly any elves were as bad at hiding emotions as she was. If she was upset, she'd show it there and then. And Ark noticed as soon as she spoke. Hair fell daintily into her eyes, their dance slow and subtle, while her tears fell absently down her gentle cheeks. Striding in a formal matter like always, Ark reached out and touched her hands with his own, skin brushing skin for a brief moment. '' I can never tell you how I knew. I can only say that you can put your trust into me. '' His eyes steadily watched the younger elf, gaze sharp and somewhat fierce. ''You need to get home, Tsami. Before it is too late.''
''Come with me, Arkanite.'' She commanded, turning and hurrying off. The older elf gave a nod and followed her elegantly through the forests that were Darnassus. Ark's movements were agile, however at the same time lacking something.

They ran and ran until they reached a small flat-like structure, after dashing in they swerved into a corner and covered themselves with the empty chestnut dresser. Screams were audible outside the home, blood splattering across the walls and grass outside. They both heard fragile glass smashing, wood snapping - or bones, screams of the young. Snow and Cane were under the bed, Snow a pure white owl with silky smooth feathers, her swiftness and good reflex making her one of the fastest birds in Azeroth. Whereas Cane was a deep grey, close to black worg - furr thick and bushy, eyes like beads and teeth big - fierce, sharp. The Horde had created a large hole in the side of the wall by now, several figures roaming the flat for something to break or kill. First came Snowy ... A bright-eyed Blood Elf with long flowing raven hair stepped forth, the owl all too scared to move. She took out a large glowing sword and another one the same - both green and coated in poison. Charging forth, the
owl was hit straight under the wing, laughter arising among the raid of blood elves and trolls. Next came Cane. A large blue troll pushed through the crowd, sniffing the air and briefly glancing to the book case. Some words were spoken in his native language, before a blood-splattered polearm was unsheathed. The worg emerged, growling and baring its fangs. But with no master for aid, or common sense, the troll had his polearm through the head of the wolf before he could say 'Please save me'. Everyone there was too busy destroying the home, eating the animals flesh or chatting to notice them, thusly Tsami had commanded Ark to follow him out. Only, Ark hadn't heard. By the time everyone found Ark and attacked him, Tsami was out in the forest with the only companion she had left to fight with - Shy. An aqua sabre striped with snowy white, furr tipped in deep grey in the official moonlight. Upon turning, the young elf bellowed a cry of grief as she realised what she'd done. Ark was left alone, because of her, and most likely killed in the process. Tsami was forced to move to Stormwind, home completely destroyed and apparently blamed on her. The Stormwind citizens respect her fairly, and cope with her rather well, though her story from there would be a peculiar one!

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Hope it was good enough

Cut this one out, I honestly didn't think it was worth keeping.

Hmpf, Zeeri, I r disappoint. You could have made the death of Belano a little more detailed, now it feels as if it misses something.

Anyway, another one of my own - "For Nature", the storyline behind Garelas "The Lone Wolf" Wintersong, one of my most loved RP chars.

“What are you waiting for? Shoot already.” – The poacher pointed at the fawn. Garelas aimed once more, then again lowered his crossbow. Nesingwary would pay great amount of money if he finished this task, but he just… Just couldn’t. Garelas took another look at the animals infront. Three fawns. Two of them were staying by the last one, which had it’s leg broken and from what Garelas heard, was lying over there for over three days. But the deer’s family did not left him die alone. Mother and daughter both were running around for the whole day, getting food of any sort they could find and bringing it to him, risking to starve to death, but still doing their best to keep him alive. In the night, nights like this one, they stayed to protect him for predators. But not all predators walked on four feet.

“Kill him already!” – The Nesingwary henchman was loosing patience. Big mistake. When you hunt, you need patience. No matter what. For the right moment. Garelas took another look at his crossbow. Rumors said that it was made in the Black Temple, and since then used by the best of the best demon killers. The spikes coming out of the back of it and the ever-burning tiny flames in it were just part of the proof of these rumors. It was a weapon, designed to hunt evil creatures, demons of all kinds, if you will. And demons took many shapes. But they certainly were not those fawns. Not those fawns.

Turning around, Garelas quickly aimed the crossbow at the henchman and shot. The man was pushed back from the energy of the close-range shot, and landed a few yards back, dead. Garelas finally felt a cloud, darkening his mind for years removed. He could now hear straight, see straight, understand everything the right way. Nesingwary was a monster, and a fool. And he deserved a punishment.
“Hey, what are you doing… Wait… what have you done to Renold?” – Garelas turned around, just to see Harold Lane, whose eyes had become twice as big. – “What have you done… Why? You filthy animal!” – With a last roar, Harold grabbed one of the furs lying nearby his legs and threw it at Garelas.
“Bear fur… You dare throw the skin of defenseless animal which you killed just to have a trophy? YOU DARE?” - Garelas quickly stepped out of the fur’s way, then slowly started walking towards Harold. – “I am Garelas Wintersong. I now see the errors of my ways, monster. I am the Lone Wolf. You say that I am an animal? Well, this animal you won’t kill!”

Garelas shot towards Harold. The man dodged the bolt, then quickly moved forward, withdrawing his sword at the same time. Garelas half-closed his eyes, concentrating. If Harold got to him, he might lose this fight. That loot-crazed savage was known for his weapon skills. There must have been another way.
Garelas remembered the dying druid he met some days ago. That druid gave him a special horn before dying, saying it was not his burden to bear anymore. The druid told him to only use it when he fights for Nature itself. Well, perhaps there wouldn’t be a better time than this.

Garelas jumped back, withdrawing the horn, and blew it. As the thundering roar coming from it stopped, the horn vanished into pieces. Garelas looked at the hills with hope in his eyes, while Harold was coming, with lethal danger in his eyes. Suddenly, a ball in white-spotted color charged itself into the man, who just swung, parrying it’s attack, without looting.
“Matheas, no!” – Garelas roared, as his companion lied in the grass, with blood bleeding out from his neck. The spotted saber was a Garelas’ companion for many, many years, and in all his travels, the six hundred year old elf had never had such good friend as this cat was to him. It’s wounds were maybe still healable, but he would never live to see if so if Harold wasn’t stopped.
“Pretty fur this kitten has, wouldn’t you say?” – Harold smirked with grim expression. – “Will make a wonderful new clothing for my… What in the name of hunting is that?”

Garelas listened. He felt it, before hearing it. The stomp of a thousand hooves. A whole herd of mammoths and rhinos was charging Harold – the force of Nature, wild, uncontrolled, forcing against Nesingwary.
Still, the human was not stupid. He jumped behind a cliff and awaited for the herd to pass over, then slowly drew himself out… Only to get an arrow through his chest. Spitting a large cough of blood, he felt on the ground. Garelas took a few steps and looked down upon the man. Harold was in his last moments of life, coughing and spitting.
“Why… Why are you doing this? You… you helped us! You were a great hunter… You helped me in Nagrand! Why would you join these crazed fanatics?” – Harold looked at him, with confused impression on his face.
“I have seen the error of my ways. To kill an animal once, twice, three times to feed yourself is alright. To kill thousands and thousands and leave their bodies to rot just to have a trophy of some sort is no manhood. It’s a monstrosity. And I may be anything… but I am not a monster.” – Garelas took a deep breath before continuing. – “You would never understand. You broke the circle of life far too many times. Now, I shall restore it as much as I can… By ending your pointless life!”

With the last words roared, Garelas aimed and shot an arrow through Harold’s chest, piercing his heart. He then turned to the moon and the horizon and yelled:
“You hear that, Nesingwary? You are next, old chap! The Lone Wolf has marked you as his next target!”
Tilting his head to the left, Garelas looked and the lying man and while withdrawing his skinning knife, mumbled:
“Perhaps you are still of some use yet… I know certain individuals that would like to have certain possessions of yours as trophies…”
Kneeling down, Garelas started removing Harold Lane’s ears.

You missed quite a bit :3 there was more than one attackter and a big fight before Belano finally died, or Ced even got there!

*Has a sad*

Another story of mine, penned just now. It details the induction of Eihrissa as a neophyte at the Eastvale chapel, set seconds after she has told her tale of emigration from Tanaris to Elwynn, much of it undertaken barefooted.

EDIT: Fixed some horrid typos that only a dozy one like me could have made late at night, which was when this story came to be. Also cleaned up a few sentences.

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"I see," came the high priest's nonchalant response, dour eyes watching the countenance of the ebontop with about the same amount of interest as a spoilt, obstinate child getting a load of some cheap play at the theatres.

She smiled languidly, anaemically, but it did not prevent tumbleweed silence from settling through the rectangular room that was the high priest's. The chamber was rendered dark and dismal by the lack of sufficient lighting; the only one to be found was the dim illumination provided by the candles, and that did little but perhaps enhance the intimidating nature of the room and its inhabitant, for it cast an ominous shadow over portions of the high priest's face.

That maculated face was little to be proud of; hideously ugly, the man was long past his prime, lines imprinted over the majority of his face, often flanked by a mole or two. He was callous like a veteran soldier in the midst of fresh recruits, but lacked any scar or wound to grant him the allowance to bear such a comportment. He was a coward; almost always found behind his desk, where he could hide his obese tummy underneath the rectangular surface.

In contrast to him, the ebontop was certainly not uncomely; though some might find her physique odious for its tanned quality, she had been ogled at several times throughout the span of nigh twenty years - not that said leering was met with particular joy from her bashful demeanour, but it certainly spoke against the assumption of her countenance as homely. Supplied with a somewhat rotund chest and blessed with a slim body - one could probably fit three of her in the high priest's massive belly alone - she was not a model, far from, but worthy of a peer from anyone not a bigot.

Nonetheless, it was not there that one found the nucleus of her petite appearance; that rested in her eyes, those mystic, eldritch emeralds, where the pupil served as an oasis, surrounded by the iris that played the role of a green frith splendidly. Finally, one found both the oasis and growth enclosed by the dominating white; it resembled an everlasting desert in its depth, in its emptiness.

The high priest eventually cleared his throat and followed up, but his voice bore no enthusiasm this time around either. The reply was forced, and he broke the silence only because he was obliged to do so in his position.

"You wish employment here at the chapel, then. Do I understand you correctly, miss... Scolven?"

The ebontop gave a simple nod, though it was sparse and dim, lacking the flaming ardency one could find in her eyes. That was part of her mystic nature; she rarely conveyed any emotion, positive or negative, onto her expression, and instead chose to keep it restricted to her insides. She listened intently to her plump counterpart when he continued.

"Very well, we are in need of someone who can help out with the menial tasks around here. Sweeping, cleaning, shifting candles and all that. I guess you can help out with that?"

Another nod. She was either excessively subservient, or utterly desperate; it was hard to tell which, due to the evasive characteristic mentioned earlier. All emotions, save the odd smile to enhance her sincerity, were veiled under a compliant mien.

"Very well. We have some wards in the cellar, with a free room intended for travellers. You can take that one - here, have the key." And with that, he opened a drawer - to perform this task, he had to pull back his chair slightly, so that his orbicular abdomen would not jostle with the container. He procured an elongated object, a key indeed, and held it out to be taken. He knit his brows together impatiently.

Luckily, no rebuke had to be given - the high priest would probably have loved to give it, though - for a tawny hand stretched forth to relieve him of the object soon enough. A "thank you" came, and it was evidently genuine, for the ebontop was alleviated at this token of acceptance. Or, at least, official acceptance.

"Go now, and come to me in the morrow. I will have some work laid out for you." Narrow eyes adjoined his smile, which was bordering on a smirk with its dormant maliciousness. Oh, he would have work for her, indeed. Plenty of work.

"Thank you, Father Ebenezer. I will do so." The ebontop performed a curtsey, and turned around to leave. Her lissome steps were inaudible, despite the floorboards' weathered quality - one could hardly blame them for being so, after seeing who kept his home upon them. She opened the door, but did not need to close it, for another stick of a man was about to enter. Mumbling an apology, the ebontop slipped outside with a wan smile, and ambled down the corridors, key tight in hand.

The slender man, young by the looks of it, saw her off with a dubious squint. He eventually closed the door behind his back, and it creaked. He inclined his head towards the high priest, and spoke.

"Ah, Father Ebenezer. Just here to deliver the weekly report. A bit late, but I could not help it - had a passer-by in need of treatment."

He held out a pair of documents, kept together by a makeshift clip, upon which was the seal of the Eastvale municipality. The high priest accepted them with a thankful nod, and laid them to rest upon his counter while responding.

"Do not worry, Brother Callas. I am glad to see that you carry out your work with such eagerness." He paused briefly, and surveyed his subordinate's expression more closely when he continued. "Though you might find yourself some competition soon. You saw the one who just left? She will be residing here from now on, as a neophyte, just like you."

"Ah, of course. I am sure I can co-operate with her to make the chapel function better, Father." came the response, embedded with good-willed honesty, though he stammered a bit.

"Oh, my dear Callas," said the high priest, bordering on a light chuckle. His timbre was quasi-compassionate, like the one of a nefarious trickster. Sadly, the one addressed could not see through the treacherous mask of his superior, and obliged in his ignorant simplicity.

The words were conducted in a deceitful whisper, which was hoarse, as if held in check by the double-chin that he wore beneath his malign grin; a perfect veneer to complement his words. "You agree with me that this... this creature that we now have in our fold is to be put to good use, now that we have one. Right?"

"Of course, of course. That is her purpose here, isn't it?" asked Callas, and, knowing his dog-like obedience by now, it is evident that he already knew the answer to that question; it is sad how such pitiful, non-autonomous cretins exist, and how they foolishly aid their reprobate masters, until treachery dawns and casts them off into oblivion, and only then are they belatedly enlightened from their idiocy.

"Indeed, it is its purpose," said the high priest, forefinger parting to gesture the emphasis on the fourth word. He sniggered, and Callas gave a grin to signify him being in on the scheme. "There's a lot of unsavoury tasks that I considered above you and the others that we can get over with now. Use that creature for them; it will not mind. Oh, you should have seen how desperate it was. Probably tossed away like an outsmoked fag by its previous master, the drab. You know how they are."

"Yes, Father. I will make sure to do so." came the answer, and its eager compliance no doubt satisfied the high priest, ever wallowing in his vainglorious conscience. "I'll give her - it, pardon - the broom tomorrow, and the stables, too. You know 'em darkies, they will gladly lick horseshit for a blanket when the client tosses 'em off."

The two men gloated maliciously at their dark humour, at the ebontop's expense as it was, and resembled more two villainous conspirators than actual clergymen where they sat in their room. It was bereft of light, now, for the candles had been snuffed out during the course of their conversation. Equipped with diabolical smirks, they burdened the joists through the night while sharing their vicious ideas concerning this human being's perdition with each other. Ideas whose pernicious quality grew consecutively; whose length stretched from weeks, to months, on to years ahead.

Oh yes, onward to years. Those long, long years of spite that were to follow.

© EJE

Inspired by Eihrissa's wonderful vignettes, and encouraged by her player, I decided to abide to the request and post one of my own.

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The night bore south-western winds towards the massive platforms of grey, so distinctly characteristic for the famed harbor. Sweeping in intervals, filling discolored, tarnished sails belonging to the few trade ships that made it to the docks that week, the winds bore a warmer temperature to the frigid maze of stone and filthy canal water. They rebelliously refreshed the thick air polluted with ash and cinders, a result of the spreading industrialization and warfare preparations. Heralding words of the forthcoming springtide and tinted with mild aromas of the south, the winds arrived from the harbor, finding no other entry in the cold walls once build to protect the city’s denizens, now ever a reminder of the boundaries – the distinct contours separating the pit from the outside realms.

Empty were the streets, those crooked, uneven paths of cobblestone and mud, littered with broken glass and torn posters crying for resolution and loyalty to His Majesty’s kingdom. Hollow words painted on fine parchment and strung up for display, only to be brutally shredded by a vagrant’s gnarled hands within the passing of a few days. Dirty, yellow light from the rusty lamp-posts fought for dominance with pitch-black darkness, for the grimy glass on many of those posts were long shattered in a brief, dazzling rain of shards, tailed by darkness. And the darkness hid them well, those who savored its shelter. Clad in rags, filthy and marred with emaciation, they crawled, flinging their bony hands, tattered hats or chipped mugs out from their dens for the more fortunate bypassers in thin hopes of receiving spare coppers. On lit corners stood more meretricious figures, scantily clad in bright fabrics, soft, lustful voices parting with honey-coated words and amorous caresses for a few scarce crowns. Two-faced they were, battering their lashes and pursing their voluminous lips in artificial light, snarling beasts when facing their own in the shadows, not unlike starved dogs that shred each other for scraps of meat. The stench of still water lingered on them as well, the reeking, grubby canal water that once served to fascinate foreigners and now bore repulsive taint. It penetrated the steam-filled air, weaved itself in fabric and filled lungs and mind.

But the higher sections of the harbor were quiet and unsoiled, kept fresh by the turbulent air. Faded draperies of blue and gold waved like victory banners on grey walls, far above the small, moving spots of firelight in the abyss beneath. These originated from torches borne by honest and dishonest hands alike, down below where trade and warfare preparations never ceased. And because these sections were unsoiled, they were his domain, the domain of the uncrowned sovereign of the windy heights, so far above the dregs and filth of the city. Oh, how he laughed of them, watched their scampering and scurrying with malign amusement from where he so frequently chose to linger. Pathetic creatures they were, knowing nothing of dignity, of worth, succumbed to their struggle for survival in a dying ruin.

Before him sat another such creature, huddled against one of the lamp-posts close to the edge of the landing. Still he was, the back of the long body pressed against metal, partly sitting, partly laying down. The unkempt hair covered his eyes, obscured all but the dry, thin lips and stubble-covered cheeks. He watched him with condemnation, an amused glimmer appearing in merciless eyes. This wretch, daring to think himself worthy of sharing his ledge, thinking himself equal, would serve as his entertainment for the night. The hunched figure was a sight, the tall, snake-like body clad in dark robes. Ornate, yet washed out, colors faded and threads ripped up from frequent and careless use. Long digits, etched with a white webbing of scars, held a lit cigarette, the smoke swirling languidly in the air, curling and drifting away until the winds swept it off.

The figure turned his head, suddenly aware of him, aware of his blunt observation. He made no attempt at concealing it, upholding the stare, eyes gleaming smugly, and the wretch returned the favors, his own eyes fiery, revolting despite their dark and melancholic color. He contested him, the message in those vivid orbs clear enough, the arrogance reaching new heights. And thus they remained. He did not budge, watching the growing frustration within the other, the increasing anger of his challenger displayed through lips curling downwards.

In a last, desperate attempt, the figure flung his cigarette at him, the red, glowing ember flying in a graceful arc towards its target. He responded with a screech, expanding the white, mighty wings and reveling in the sensation of energy that spread out to the very tips. The cigarette never reached, barely grazing a curved, sharp beak. If only he shared their voice, why, he’d throw his head back and laugh in delight. A strong sweep downwards with his wings, and he took flight, the winds lifting and carrying their master. He could escape, soon enough so far above the rubble it mattered naught anymore as he drifted towards the horizon where royal velvet touched dark void.

But the wretch down below?

He couldn’t.

To comment on Eihrissa's and Cedric's stories.

Eih's story was very nice indeed with its diabolical church folk and dictionary! Even though I am not sure if we should be potrayed by such vilety! I mean, we are nice folk! Honest!

Cedrics story was very described, and even if it lacked dialog I found it interesting... I was fooled the whole lenght of it that it was a man xD.

Critics? None! I can only read in awe!