“I insist you open this cell now. This instant.” her voice was low and sharp as the executioner’s axe while her pale blue eyes were as cold as the ice on Anvilmar Lake.

The guard swallowed thickly but stood his ground. “Orders are no one sees the prisoner.”

The woman took a deep breath, leaning menacingly close to the guard. “He is my brother. I demand to see him.”

“Begging your pardon ma’am but you’re being another priest and all don’t give you pass to see the prisoner.”

“He is my brother by birth you dolt. We share parents, we share blood.” she straightened, bringing her several inches taller than the guard. She peered down the length of her narrow nose, her expression leaving no doubt as to her lowly...

(Warning: not sure there are triggers, but this does get a bit dark.)

Braghaman shook his head and let out a groan. Everything was blurry when he first opened his eyes, but he sat patiently and took a couple of deep breaths and waited as his vision came back into focus. He looked around and saw that he was in a small room, about the size of a novice’s bedroom in the Cathedral. There was no furniture in the room, just shadows cast by the afternoon sunlight coming through the small window.

He looked down and saw that his armor had been removed while he was unconscious. He had been left in his leather pants and cotton shirt. He started to bring his hand up to his head to rub the spot where he had been hit and realized that he...

There were no new patients, everyone had been seen to. They were resting as comfortably as possible in a field hospital; all was quiet save for the soft snores and occasional muttered word. Niviene stood, her gaze locked on the tent flap, her body poised as if ready to spring into action. 

“I can’t believe we actually get a chance to breathe.” the night elf commented as she pushed a lock of dark blue hair from her eyes. She looked at Niviene with a weary smile. “I think you’d best rest miss. This lull isn’t likely going to last long.”

She frowned slightly when there was no response from the blonde woman. “Miss? Are you alright?” she asked, moving to stand in front of the priestess. Niviene didn’t move, she...

It took her a few moments to realize that the rumbling had actually come from her stomach rather than the battlegrounds just outside the confines of the tent. Niviene pressed her hand to her belly briefly, willing it to cease its grumblings before she turned to the next patient that demanded her attention.

It had been several days since she’d eaten, refusing the food that her “hosts” had provided. Being kept against her will, the priestess was never sure if the food was drugged or not. She knew that she had been much more docile upon arrival than was her nature, and the food had been the only means of which any drug could have been administered. Or at least that was her reasoning.

Niviene stood at the tent flap, peering into the...

Lixxil clutched her cloak tighter around her shoulders, glancing upward from under the foot bridge over the canal. The guard paused as he passed above before continuing on his way, and Lixxil let out a small breath. They wouldn't shoot her on sight, but Kezanians definitely weren't welcome in Stormwind after Gallywix sealed their fate by siding with the Horde. Checking again, she made her way up the stairs, nailed a poster to the bulletin board, and then made her way toward the tram. She'd feel a lot better on the Dwarven end of the tunnel.

RUMBLE IN THE TRAM BRAWLER'S CLUB
Deeprun Tram, Ironforge entrance.
Every third Wednesday, fights begin at the eighth bell.
No weapons. Healers and medics on site.
100g entrance fee. Cash prize...

“You don’t belong here.” 

Niviene raised her head, shoving a mass of dirty, tangled hair from bloodshot eyes. She looked around, her unfocused eyes finally settling in the general area of the one who spoke, “I don’t even know where here is.”

“Yeah? Well I’ll give ya odds it ain’t where you’re supposed to be.” the speaker stepped closer to the priestess, sniffing lightly at the air around her, “You’re a healer ain’t ya? You smell of camphor, and blood.”

Moving away from the diminutive woman, Niviene was finally able to clear her head enough to take in their surroundings. Her companion was a goblin with hair the color of ripe strawberries, pulled up in a ponytail that bounced when she moved, her bangs...

“I want her to go with the next group out.” Bishop Lancaster glared at Niviene from across the way. “She must be made to serve the Light as is her duty. Do not give her time to think, time to pine for her family. A priest’s first, and only, duty is to serve the Light. She has forgotten that. We will remind her, even if it breaks her in the process.”

The underling priest glanced at the Bishop before nodding his head, “Yes sir. Of course sir. Might I suggest Maldraxxus. There should be more than enough going on there to keep her occupied. It is not the place for the faint of heart. She will be kept on her toes, she will either see the error of her ways, or break.”

Lancaster chuckled merrily, “Yes. That will do nicely....

Children ran around the court square outside of the orphanage in Stormwind. From time to time, the matron of the orphanage would look out the door to make sure that everyone was safe. Some children played near the fountain while others ran along the street. Most tried not to get too close to the Cathedral to risk disturbing the priests and paladin there. For that reason, none of the young people noticed the lone figure who stood in the shadow of their home.

Erik watched the front steps of the Cathedral. He stood quietly in the shadows and took care to not be noticed. His leather armor blended in with the darkness beside the building so that most passersby never saw him. His gaze never wavered from the entrance. He seemed intent on the...

Niviene raised her head as yet another stretcher bearing a gravely ill soldier was jostled into the crowded space. She heaved a sigh, shoved a dirty lock of hair from her eyes and moved on to her next patient.

She’d left Oribos, against her will, and entered Bastion. The locals had been kind enough to alot them a space near Aspirant’s Rest in which to make a triage space. The wounded came in steadily and she was one of the ones to determine who would be treated and who was too far gone to be saved. She hated it. And she hated Bishop Lancaster for putting her in this position.

He had given her a choice, be locked up in a cell to stew, or actually make some good out of the circumstances she found herself in. At first she had planned...

There were few travelers on the road leading to Stormwind. A few merchants or adventurers were riding towards or away from the capital city. None did more than nod to Braghaman in greetings as he rode past on his winged lion. The paladin didn’t seem to care and made no real effort to strike up conversations as he traveled closer to the city gates.

Bragh gently swayed in the saddle as Valiant took him beyond the walls and onto the bridge leading into Stormwind. Waiting at the other end of the bridge was a group of people who were all wearing plate armor. He could tell by the barding on the horses that they were representatives of the Cathedral well before he was close enough to make out their faces. He broke out in a big grin once he...

Niviene glared at the bruisers on either side of her while they, with an air of familiar boredom, sat sharpening their blades. She rubbed the sore spot on her arm gingerly, certain a bruise was forming where one of the men had grabbed her to drag her away from the portal.

At the sound of approaching footsteps her guards scrambled to their feet, snapping to attention. Bishop Lancaster sneered down at the priestess, “Of course it would be you Sister Larethian.” the title he’d used dripping with sarcasm and malice. “You have ever been a problem for the cathedral, from the first day you came to Stormwind.”

Niviene’s eyes widened slightly, making the bishop give a mirthless chuckle, “Oh yes. I know all about you. You married...

“I’m here to see Bishop Lancaster, he sent for me.” Niviene said to the third priest she’d been directed to, her voice taking on an impatient edge. It had been ages since she’d been to the Stormwind Cathedral and longer still since anyone there had thought to ask for her specifically. Unable to determine what the summons was about, the priestess had agreed to make the journey to the capital, certain she would be home before the school day was over.

“He’s just through there.” the priest motioned vaguely toward a door, his expression harried and dour. Niviene opened her mouth to speak but the man glowered at her and walked away. With a sigh the priestess walked through the indicated door, startled to see a bustle of...

Whispers about the Maw spread like a dark fog rolling in from the sea. She’d heard them in the marketplace of Stormwind, but it wasn’t until the rumors had made their way to Darkshire that Venibeth paid them any heed.

“The souls of all who die are trapped in the Maw.” 

“They don’t move on. They’re all there. Everyone who died.”

She tried to shake the feelings these words engendered. Tried to go about her day, her mind on the tasks at hand. But each quiet moment was filled with them. The whispers invaded her dreams and she would wake in a cold sweat, certain she’d heard him calling her name.

Finally, unable to move passed the nagging hope, Veni was determined to find the answer. If he was dead she would find him....

The wind blew Nea’s purple curls across her wet cheeks as the overcast night sky loomed above. Nea was not usually one for normal social gatherings but this was far from normal. She sat on the cold cobblestone sidewalk, her kin peppered around her. Some Kaldorei had been living in Stormwind for quite some time and had adapted themselves to a more human schedule of sleeping at night, but it seemed even those who had the ability to do so weren’t sleeping right now..

Nea looked up. The luminescent eyes of those around her were dimmed with tears as well. Some tried getting rest, while others murmured prayers to Elune in hope of comfort. Nea looked down at the small bonfire before her, its flames dancing with wild abandon. While it was...

Fear is for the weak.

Her father had taught her that. Fear, in the moment of combat -- in the heat of action, the moment before the kill -- would make one weak. Hesitation would stop a blade faster than any plate or magic. If she stopped to be cerebral; if she hesitated on her course of action, then she would be lost. The Light only reinforced this teaching: it, too, required absolute certainty. Eleeria had never felt the sudden chill of her holy magic pulling away from her, and she was not interested in ever seeing it disappear. So, she made herself believe. Every choice, every difficult decision, backed up with mental certainty. She did not act until she was certain of purpose.

She had no doubts about what she had done.

The ensuing...

I took a step back, my hand still clasped on my shoulder, where I could still feel the sting of the Light in my flesh, trying to get a bead on my assailant’s position. It wasn’t often that I was on the back foot in the darkness.

I let magic flood my senses, the deep twilight of the night becoming less saturated by color, the edges between things becoming fuzzier and bleeding together. The aura of fauna and flora began to glisten and glimmer, and even in the stormy, midnight darkness in the midst of heavy rain, everything living and dead became more clear.

And I saw those twin knives, blazing bright with divinity, drawn and ready, but I still didn’t fucking see them.

In the darkness I only saw a shimmer, the smallest...

 “Stormheim” certainly lived up to it’s name. I don’t just mean in it’s weather, but in it’s spirit, and I mean “spirit” in both senses of the word.

Where Northrend was a solemn, dead place, a frigid frost-scape where the living struggled constantly against the symbolic and literal creeping death of winter, where at it’s heart sat the seat of power for all undeath on Azeroth. Stormheim was alive.

It was alive with old magic, thunderstorms, and raging battles fought between the dead, the living, the near-dead, and the eternally damned.

Rain pelted down around me as I rode towards Haustvald, the patter of the heavy rain hammering my cowl down in front of my eyes. Each hoof-beat that the horse-shaped pile of...