Dusk rolled over into nightfall, and a lone hunter strode through the ashen forest, head bowed and back straight, his hand curled against the smooth, hard shoulder of a sturdy, young gelding. The dark horse made not a sound, save for the steady huffs of breath gradually growing visible in the cool, evening air, and the steady grind of each of their footfalls in the dead leaves through which they walked. The hunter, likewise, moved in a seeming silence that was really only skin-deep.

Brittle bones left behind. That’s what they were. At one time, he knew, they were bright and golden, flecked with red, like those that had thrived out in the gilded acres of Eversong for as far back as he could remember. But everything dies, one way or...

The letter to Ashideena was perhaps longer than she had anticipated. Written on good quality paper, the handwriting was terrible — but legible. As if the author had taken great pains to try her best to make it so.

--

Five years ago, I was an assassin who was out of work due to an accident I walked into willingly. I had changed my name; most people thought I was dead, but really I was moping — trying to drown out the ghosts with any drug I could get my hands on. Unremarkable. I wouldn’t tell you this normally, but you don’t seem the type to give pity. Which is good, because I don’t want any.

Four years ago, my sister convinced me to join a paramilitary organization that served Quel’thalas’s interests. I agreed,...

“Where is that blasted paladin?”

The death knight struck his gauntlet against the tree beside him causing pieces of bark to fly off. It kept its gaze on the darkened house that sat on the outskirts of Darkshire. No lamps shone through the windows to show that someone was present. The shelter behind the house was empty of those annoying felines, he thought. The home was dark and still.

“Where did he run off to?” the death knight seethed as he began to pace behind the trees that marked the border of the property. “How could he have known?” The death knight stopped and turned his back to the house. 

“He could probably smell you. Ya’ smell like death.”

“What?” the death knight asked incredulously, turning back...

What’s that? What’s that noise? Is it over there?

There it is!

What’s that smell? Where’s it coming from? Is it this? IT IS!

This is the most wonderful smell. I must tell the others!

Wait!

What was that?

That sound? Something’s happening! Where?

Nearby.

There!

A fight!

He needs help!

I can help!

______

The militiaman swung his sword again. His blade tore into the arm of the skeleton that had wandered from the cemetery down onto the road. He had called for assistance, fearing that more skeletons might follow suit, but for the moment none did.

Yanking his sword back, the skeleton’s left arm was pulled free from the body and clattered to the ground. The militiaman raised his sword high and brought it down on the...

Sister Anetta glanced at the young lady sitting beside her as she guided the horse along the path through Elwynn Forest.  Sabina Jensen sat quietly next to the priestess as they passed the trees and crossed the rivers. Even though Sabina would answer as briefly as possible, Sister Anetta continued to talk as they traveled. On occasion, Anetta would give the young lady a sad look, but she would then continue on with the mostly one-sided conversation.

“Have you ever been to Goldshire?” 

“Twice,” Sabina answered quietly.

“I’m always amazed at how lively a village it is,” the sister offered, looking down the road to the outskirts of the settlement. “It seems like everyone comes from all around to see it.”

Sabina...

My Story in Full

With many of the remaining orcs freed and the orcs becoming a sizable force within Azeroth, Vraul joined the clans as they assembled to establish a new base for all of the united orcs to remain within in relative safety. However, the orcs were not to stay, as the orc liberator himself, Thrall, had been given a vision by a mysterious prophet to sail the oceans westward towards Kalimdor in order to escape the humans and find their own destinies. Vraul was apart of the force that assaulted a human base that not only held a plethora of ships, but that had also encaged the great warrior, Grom Hellscream. After freeing him from his bonds, the orcs swiftly boarded the human ships and fled the Eastern Kingdoms for good. As the ship...

For many years, the orcs had been entrapped within internment camps, seperated from the rest of their brethren who, while free, were facing life nearly if not rougher than that withn the camps themselves. That is, until a remarkable young shaman soon came upon his people and became the first shaman of a new generation that the elemental spirits accepted. Soon, this newcomer - branded by the humans with the name "Thrall" - proved to the clan his capabilities when he was able to best Orgrim Doomhammer in single combat. Vraul, hearing of the plan that Doomhammer and Thrall had concocted against the humans, was eager to join in on their idea.

It was not until Durnholde Keep that Vraul was allowed to fully join in on the...

After many years of being able to successfully escape this terrible enemy, Vraul's father's health had started to decline. A former warlock returned to shamanism, Soran Jawrip's body had taken a massive toll from such drastic changes in his use of spellpower over the years. With his physical body aged to exhaustion, his spirit quickly began to wane.

One fateful day, while scouting the Hillsbrad Foothills for food, Vraul and his father had caught the attention of two Lordaeron soldiers, who began chasing after them. Soran attempted to fight back, but the elements refused to call to him. He quickly became exhausted and was barely able to remain conscious. Vraul refused to let his father give up, but he found himself...

Vraul decided one morning to inquire his father about the figure that had questioned their family's honor. Soran grunted and refused to answer for some time, but as sunset grew close and they had managed only meager scraps for the day, he sat Vraul down by the campfire with a sigh. Soran admitted that their family does indeed hail from the Laughing Skull clan many ages ago, and that they were exiled from Tanaan due to terrible circumstances. However, he informed Vraul that it was not their family that had done any deceiving - rather, one night, during a terrible storm, their ancestors joined up to take down a tremendous saberon and its ilk that were threatening to encroach upon their orcish huts. As the Jawrip ancestors came...

After exiting the portal, the orcs found themselves in a vast swamp that was known as the Black Morass. A new world had been opened to them, while at the same time another change was becoming common amongst the populace: their skin color was quickly changing from brown to green. Soon enough, any brown orc that had traversed through the portal had either caught the contagion of the fel aura from the other orcs, or had been killed. However, while their appearance had been altered, Vraul began to notice a positive change in the methods that the shamans practiced as the Frostwolf clan traveled farther north to a valley within the Alterac Mountains. Soon enough, he once again felt a great pride in his people.

Unfortunately,...

While he felt accomplished in proving his worth as an orc, he was not quite blind to the sharp changes within the ideals of his people. The Frostwolf clan was becoming much more secretive and divided, as Drek'thar and many other powerful shaman were convinced to practice warlockery - not knowing of the terrible force behind such power. Soon, the first Horde had been formed with the combined might of numerous orc clans, including some orcs from the rebellious Frostwolves. Under orders by the puppet Warchief, Blackhand, Vraul had joined an orc offensive that included great warriors such as Durotan himself in an attack against the draenei holding of Telmor. Vraul, having the choice to either obey his people and live or dissent...

After many months of harnessing his combat skills in the arena against his own kin, Vraul awoke within the floor of his tent to find his father standing up nearby, uttering to him, "It's time", as he offered Vraul a hand getting to his feet. Seeing his son's confused face, Soran reminded Vraul that he was now not only of age but of experience to finally prove himself worthy of being an orc - it was time for his Om'riggor. Hearing of these tales and minor details in the past, Vraul arrogantly smirked at his father, claiming that it would be no challenge. Scoffing at his son, Soran reminded Vraul that he was to wear no protective gear nor bring any provisions, and he was also only allowed one weapon for the kill.

The weight of...

Growing up within the Frostwolf clan, Vraul was encouraged by his people to become a shaman, much like his own father, and join tremendous battles in the name of the clan. As Vraul became of age to begin the initiation, he was sent out on a trek to the sacred "mountain", Oshu'gun, in a mission to seek out the ancestors. If Vraul had been able to see the ancestors appear before him, he would be able to communicate with them and hear firsthand their wise guidance. However, Vraul arrived and saw nothing of the sort, and returned with the grim news. His father, along with the rest of the clan that knew him, had been heavily disappointed for some time. However, one of the elder shamans advised Vraul not to seek sorrow in such...

Prior to his birth, Vraul had taken quite a toll on his mother, who was constantly dehydrated and required constant attention through the second half of her pregnancy. While his mother barely survived the event, Vraul was nonetheless born a healthy child within a Nagrand village near the tremendous Oshu'gun mountain to Soran and Grima Jawrip. He was a rather large infant compared to the usual orc, but what certainly caught his parents' attention was the clarity of Vraul's eyes. Like milky eggs they were, complimented by large, dark pupils, which stared at his parents endlessly, curious of the figures that had brought him into the world.

Vraul's development was rather slow at first, as...

The blue glow of the usually steady runes strobed in her vision, through no fault of their own.

Ah. It was one of the flickering episodes. The tiny breakfast nook bench she sat on was beneath her, then not, then there, then not--and so on. For the span of about five seconds Khaeris flickered in and out of that reality. Too fast to even have her teacup tumble from where she had lifted it, but not fast enough to pretend it wasn't happening. And happening inside her vardo, where Helal had so painstakingly runed nearly every inch of walls. The episodes were getting stronger.

She reflected on the last few months. The attacks had been ramping up in both frequency and intensity. From a fraction of a second gone, beginning months ago, to...

“Ready to head off to Stormwind?” the captain asked, looking up to the two women sitting in the front of the cart.

“I believe so, Captain. Thank you for your assistance.”

“Not at all, Sister Anetta,” the captain of the Night Watch said with a nod to the priestess. Then he turned his attention to the other person in the cart. “Miss Jensen. Once you have had a chance to recover, I will need to speak with you.”

“Yes, sir,” she answered meekly. 

“Are you sure that you don’t want an escort to the city?” the captain asked, his gaze going back to the priestess. “I could send someone along with you.”

“The offer is much appreciated,” Sister Anetta answered. “But I would hate to deplete your forces here....

Dokholkhu Skullcleaver lounged upon his fur-draped cushions on the raised dais of the massive timber and stone hall in which he held court. As he drank the fermented wolf’s milk he favored, he smiled as he watched his warriors in revelry, celebrating a successful foray against an ogrish incursion into Warsong lands. He glanced at the empty cushions beside him and wished his mate was here to enjoy the merrymaking with him, but Chakka was absent from the night’s festivities. They had quarreled again over their wayward daughter, Yesui, and Chakha was brooding in their sleeping quarters. Dokholkhu was a feared warrior and cunning strategist who had earned his surname on battlefields the length and breadth of Nagrand, but now his brows...

It was another sunny day in Stormwind. The summer heat was starting to build within the city, but that didn’t stop the citizens from going around from shop to shop, looking for the various items on their lists.

Outside the Cathedral Square, Marachius sat on the side of the canal with his fishing rod in hand and a small cup, bucket, and an extra rod sitting on the ground beside him. The water in the canal slapped against the side as the day’s breeze moved the surface around. Marc had already cast his line a couple of times when he heard footsteps coming up behind him. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw a familiar teenager walking towards him with a fishing rod in his hand.

“Nice fishing pole,” Marachius offered as the...

“And that’s all you saw, sister?”

“I’m afraid so, captain,” Sister Anetta answered. “I never spoke with the poor man.”

“What about Miss Jensen?” 

“She’s still in her room right now.”

“Did she see this guy before the accident?”

“She said she hadn’t spoken to him. Have you found out anything about him?”

“Not much,” the captain said, his shoulders slumping a little. “He apparently came into town early this morning.”

“Do you have any information why?”

“No. If he told anyone why he was here, they haven’t come forward yet.”

“Any idea what happened?” Sister Anetta asked as she leaned back in her seat.

“None. The door to his room was locked. No sign that anyone else was in...

They had waited until the blood had dried on the ground, the fickle half-light of a dying fire casting deceiving shadows across the canvas tent and causing the crimson ooze to gleam. Three tall figures stood around the hunched over, chest billowing form of a Kaldorei male. Even in the dim glow it was clear this unfortunate individual had been worked over in an attempt to procure some tantalizing bit of information, but the murmering between two of the three signaled that it was turning into a failure.

“ I told you this wasn’t a good idea and you couldn’t be bothered to listen due to your hatred.”

Came in hissed agitation, the dim flare of Sin’dorei gaze cast sidelong in an undercurrent of disgust.

“ This is how...

Sorry for the story spam!

Obsolete shadows moved out of the corner of her subjugated mind. Overcome with whispers many, silent babbling prayers to any and all that might take it upon themselves to listen. Effortless chill, the permeating damp of a musky reptilian slither crawled slippery smooth through magically intoxicated veins. Palms pressed flat against the glossy surface of what appeared to be a slowly churning riverway, black obsidian ripples expanding with the simplest movement as Leonaess Dawnbinder stood from where she had been crouched in a rabbit-like fear in this dank oubliette.

She had been here before but never had it been so void of colorful expression.

There was no light, but eyes adjusted to the gloom with amethyst gaze casting over the...

It had been awhile since she stepped foot in Dalaran, the humming vibe of the city glittering electric such was it’s magical foundation. At any other time, memories would have caused her to smile but Leonaess was on a mission that started to grow more urgent by the minute. Fingers teased the hood of her cloak ever lower to conceal all save those beckoning lips, hand dove into her pocket to press against the burning letter from Cassimir where a name was silently sung. In a spire with minimal traffic set apart on an allotment of grass, resplendent in crimson and gold, was where she could last recall the public office of this particular Kirin Tor official and it was with very little excitement that she entered. The cool rush of a ward...

There was many a thought that lurked in her mind some that invoked smiles to pass private and fleeting on her lips and others...well they brought on a stinging pain that left her hand coming to clutch at her breast until the moment passed. With conversations having been had, events that left her feeling as if something brilliant was now lost, something that truly was never her own to begin with. When such a notion weighed heavy on shoulders, to a little jar of salve, settled on the table did gaze travel towards from time to time - as if it served as a reminder.

Time. It  trickled by in agonizing miniscule grains, leaving the aura soother and warper of energy doing anything to keep her busy. Soon, the entirety of her island was...

Fingers fiddled and teased at a velvet lined tin, retrieving a pre-rolled cigarillo and placed it eagerly between lips. A snap of her fingers produced a spark tinged in violet, enough to light the joint that was now puffed to life.

Breathe.

It had become difficult to do even that. As if sucking air into her lungs only reminded her how constricted she felt. The past few days were a whirlwind of unnecessary happenstance and so much had prodded at all the disastrous parts of herself that were riddled in self-doubt. The bruises finally reflected the torment that was in constant battle inside caster’s svelte figure; beating bloody that heart.

Not once had she a chance to explore her new home without the watchful care of a...

How long she had been staring at her hands was uncertain but lengthy were the shadows she recalled crawling behind her; looming reminders of what could happen if all light was snuffed out. Fingers flexed, slender and pale extensions of herself that were a seeming collection of digits to be held in delicate regard.

But how foolish is the person who makes rash assumptions?

Drawing from her cocoon, shoulders drew back to straighten spine as if wings might sprout. Exhaling a shuddery breath Leonaess shifted from where she had sat quiet in a curtained alcove, shielded from the rest of the library and outside was a view of the thick, mist wreathed forest that surrounded Darkwood Village. Often she wondered if Gilneans secretly brought...

Scrutinizing gaze swept over the parcel, the tips of tapered fingers teasing at the boisterous red bow that sat atop a wrapped present. Was it too much? Lower lip was chewed in worried thought, aureate mane canting this way and that as if trying to find some hidden meaning in the brightly colored paper. Huffing an agitated puff of breath upward, shifting several messy wayward curls, the ribbon was done away with; plucked swift and clean. Instead, was a bit of lace then wrapped about the gift and a sprig of balsam fir nestled securely in place. Pleased now, a smile curled the usually joyously tilted lips of Leonaess Dawnbinder.

Attention drew away from the treasure on the table to cast an eye over the now empty cottage with only...