Lilliana Whitedawn

She stumbled into her apartment, post-Cakes.

The night had been going so well, and...the circle of Tarts at Fancy Cakes reminded her of being on the Barge. Of crew laughing, and partying, and gossiping. Their friendship was a beautiful thing to witness, even as it cut old wounds deeper, watching this in a place full of so many ghosts for her.

And then a man came to sheepishly apologize to the Tarts; for lashing out, and walking away. For acting out without talking to someone first. The horned blonde about choked, her blood going cold as she watched.

It was her. Sobbing to Iloam. Crying, begging. How many times had she fucked up? How had she let it get so bad? 

She chimed in. Told him to back it up - that the refusal of some of those...

(( I already posted this on Tumblr, but I definitely forgot to slap it down here. ))

I haven’t had a man treat me as an honest-to-gods equal in so many years that I tore him apart at first, vicious wit at the ready.

And when he kept trying, and pulling that first wall down brick by brick not by prying…but by laughing, and being so genuinely accepting that it hurt, I didn’t know what to do but laugh along with him.

I’m so used to the pushing, the demanding, being physically pushed around, and demeaned…that being asked out on a real date - to a place I’m dying to go, in enemy territory - took me off guard.

What does he want? What’s he after? He made some comment about having a taste for darker things, but is an...

She wasn’t sure if it was her heartbeat, or the bass, that rattled her ribcage; if it was the flashing lights that kissed the tops of her tanned shoulders, or the lithe elf with the high, hollow cheekbones that flashed with glitter; if that taste on her tongue was his lips, the memories, or the drugs.

Like a flea-ridden purebred, was the magic city - or was it more like a whore too prettily painted? Dalaran, proper and upstanding. But all those mages had to cut loose somewhere...as did the innumerable members of Horde, and Alliance looking for a break from the constant war. Tomorrow, they’d cut each other’s throats. Tonight, they’d drink and fuck and forget...

In a place like this, the more exotic, the better - thus horns and...

Another letter is dispatched - this time, to another old acquaintance - once more is it sealed with golden wax bearing the depiction of a half-sun rising. Within is no more than a letter, albeit one written in a flowing and well-composed hand that seems almost strange, compared to the woman whose words it conveys.

Aelberyn,

If I may be so informal with you, still. I know we weren’t…terribly close before, but I still owe you an apology – more than one, in truth. Explanations, as well, if you so choose. Honesty is my aim, and a fresh start is my goal. If you’ve no interest in as much, then I will understand. My actions some years ago left something to be desired, I know. That said, I cannot move forward without guilt, knowing what...

I died a little death as I rounded the corner - cigarette dancing in my fingers, singing them with searing little kisses after its fall from on high. 

Aelberyn’s voice, and...Iloam. And atop the steps like a vision - the Ranger Lord, himself. All the other faces blurred, and I couldn’t breathe. I came for cupcakes, and...hadn’t I known this was inevitable? I got the letter to Elaeryn, but perhaps I’d become complacent in the absence of a response. And I’ve had Iloam and Aelberyn’s letters gathering dust for ages, now...but the words spilled from me like blood from a wound, all the same.

There are days I feel powerful...and days I remember that I am also very tender in places. With the three of them gathered before me -...

Drugs only keep the urges numbed - quiet, and well-behaved. But it grows more and more - like treating hunger with handfuls of candy...it's instant gratification, but it doesn't do much for your actual hunger. Eventually the taste of sugar makes you recoil, and all you can think about is the meal you've been putting off.

That's what it's like on a daily basis - a pervasive itch I can't reach - though it used to be drugs, before I was corrupted. I was addicted to mana, and I thought that was bad. And it is - I'll never say it isn't. But that's a thing one can have treated, and overcome with time and effort. Now? Am I more demon than elf? I don't know anymore, but I know what demons feed on. I know what they want, more than anything. I...

I am flanked by thirteen men. I do not need to look behind me, to know this. It is a fact, much like the knowledge that the sky is blue, or grass is green; which it is, here - the field around us stretches on, flowers waving in a breeze. Silence stretches just as far as the field of wildflowers, however - for these men do not speak, and our steps make nary a sound upon the earth. They are soldiers - or so they seem, per their mode of dress - uniforms tattered, splattered with old blood. They are efficient killers, these men.

I hold a mace - no, I strangle this mace, my grip is so tight. Knuckles whiten with the force of my grip, as I stare at the small village across the way. Traitors. The thought makes me burn with rage, with zeal...