Hi Bragh! Just abusing you to see what a wall is/does. Nice wall you have here. See you around!

Purplish muck oozed up into the crevices of his hooves.  Each step brought the scent of water, mold, and rot to his nose.  Easily he found purchase with his cloven feet, and balanced himself carefully with his tail as he climbed the hillside.  Stopping to turn; he took in the view of the Zangarmarsh.  Blue and purple mushrooms, many with some sort of colorful phosphorescence, rose overhead and as far as the eye could see.   Their glows reflected in the murky blue shallow lakes and coulees.  A faint warm mist fell from the ever grey sky, causing his cloak to cling damply to his armor.

It reminded him of his childhood, what little joys he had found, while exploring the edge of the marsh near Shattrath.  The stories of elders about...

Do you dream while you sleep or is it an escape from the horrors of reality?

It never ceases; the whispers, the half-heard voices, the incessant monotonous susurration punctuated by distant screams. Concentration may cause the whispers to fade,  ecstasy may blot them out for a moment, but they are never truly silent.

Sometimes she answers them.

All that you know will fade ...

“It already has. This world is not the one I remember. It is shattered, broken; nothing is the same. And no one remembers me.”

Ny'alotha is a city of old, terrible, unnumbered crimes ...

“And so is Silvermoon. Is the Sleeping City so different? What madness walks there that does not walk here?”

She arises from her pallet and considers the...

Hurriedly, Shylmenra was led away from her companions as they faced down the mad Magistrix Lyrenna Leywhisper. Through a labyrinth of stone hallways the two Elves disappeared, she and the Highborne who pulled her along, around corners and up and down staircases. Finally, they stopped in a medium-sized round room full to the brim from floor to ceiling with curved shelves of books. Only then did the elder male Highborne release his deceptively strong hold upon Shy’s wrist, ushering her to sit down upon a soft chaise. The younger arcanist did as she was bid and peered around the room, taking stock of where she was.

They were now deep in the interior of the intact section of Eldre’thalas, in one of the auxiliary libraries....

Marachius sat next to a young man in the healing wards. Carefully, he wrapped a cloth bandage around the man’s arm where he had received several cuts. Reaching the end of his bandage, the paladin tucked it in at the edge and then looked up.

“Very nice,” the priestess said, standing across the bed. She nodded and leaned closer to inspect the paladin’s work before looking at the young man. “It will hurt for a few days, I am afraid. But we can prescribe some medicine that will help make the pain more manageable.”

“Thank you, priestess,” the young man said, gently cradling his arm.

“With me, young paladin,” the priestess said as she turned to leave the bedside. Marachius whispered his well-wishes to the young man and...

Dear Elly,  

I do hope this letter finds you well. I am sorry for the way things ended between us and hope that one day we can rekindle at the very least a friendship. This, however, is not why I am writing. I am writing to inform you that I am giving you the Deed to the Estate in Pandaria. I will be returning to Quel'dannas as I am finding myself slipping. The Estate will remain fully equipped and manned for at least a year, after that we can discuss it further.

With love,

S.A.

The paper had several refold marks on it by the end of the weekend. After the holiday vacation to Pandaria with Azzai, she’d found herself with a renewed vigor for her day to day activities. For example: writing a rejection letter, to an ex-lover that...

Rivannah sauntered into the room, approaching the check-in desk with the hood of her cloak securely raised. Given the lateness of the hour, her effort was somewhat wasted as she seemed to be the only visitor. The young orc at the counter–dark hair held back in short pig-tails, covered in tattoos and gum-smacking as she organized papers and files–peered up momentarily with a bland expression.

“Greetings ma’am,” she said quickly in Orcish. “Sign in here please and take a seat.” She tapped the clipboard and gestured toward the waiting area full of chairs. “Someone will be with you shortly.” At that she went back to her paperwork.

Rivannah noted the runic tattoos on the orc girl’s neck, revealed more clearly...

(( A response. ))

Winter’s Veil had passed in evergreen splendour at the Evenlight estate, which presently settled into an extended night’s sleep amidst the twinkling faerie lights, end of year excitement, and far too much wine. Feywren’s own glass, brimming with a rather generous portion of their family’s best chardonnay, courtesy of her cousin, sat largely untouched where it perched on her nightstand. 

A soft sigh ended in an amused smile as she recalled Vivlian’s expression upon glimpsing the assortment of gifts laid out on the quilted bedspread between the two of them. One after the other, everything Tori had sent Feywren was so lovely, with each carefully chosen item honouring the woman she was, even as they whispered...

Kissed by sunlight and cocooned in silk, Leanri lazed. It was glorious this, the morning off. Since she’d arrived back under Kaereah’s roof, she’d been delegated to work the morning shift, sequestered from the better pay and more interesting members of the staff. Instead of the Knights, Nobles, and Magisters who came to partake in the evening hours, she plied her trade with the overnight laborers, the old men, and the rakes who made their coin in the cover of darkness.

 It was punishment of course; Kae knew how she loved the music, the dim lights, and the intrigue. How she sparkled and shined among the upper crust. This was akin to keeping a candle under a bushel basket, and it was growing thin. She understood, of course, she...

The calm evening shifted and the wind picked up, frigidly buffeting the stalwart stone structure. Fortunately, dwarven craftsmen know their trade well and thus the inside was cozy and warm.

Elaeryn reclined in deep thought, sipping at a glass of whisky as he enjoyed the warmth and glow of a crackling fire. The drink was watered down these days; the Ranger-Lord found that, ensconced in the wilderness, he had less need of substance to induce relaxation. Around him were scattered a few cherished gifts: the results of he and Neri’s little Winter Veil exchange. A new blank journal for her to record her naturalist information; the beveled highball glass from which he currently drank; a pie with two slices missing; fresh salted...

“And that is all, commander!” the priest said with a snarl before turning an storming away from the paladin. Braghaman stood quietly, as he had during the entire tirade, and waited until the priest had turned the corner in the hallway of the ship. Once the priest was out of sight, Bragh let out a quick sigh and shook his head.

“This man really does not like you, friend Braghaman.”

Bragh turned to see the large form of a Draenei walking towards him. His armor was clean, but dented, and he rested a massive polearm on his shoulder.

“I think he really doesn’t, Heradus.”

“What did you do, my friend, to earn that much enmity?”

“He didn’t like that I wasn’t in his chain of command.”

“That is all? Did you...

(( This story is from early 2010! I'm reposting it here with only minor edits so I can gather her stories in one location. This post also mentions the still active Fancy Cakes event! ))

A Dream.

“If I said your assumption are true, would you ignore me for the rest of your life?” Delamontre’s voice was deep and low, almost a whisper. His bright blue eyes, those eyes that all death knights shared, looked at Moriurya with concern and … love?

Moriurya shook her head and closed her eyes, not wanting to look into the bright blue again, to see the love that seemed to look at her behind a Death Knight’s cold stare. She hated that feeling, hated knowing that another of those whom had been made undead by the Lich King had feelings...

The city is old, a place of terrible, unnumbered crimes where darkness and blood have seeped into the brickwork. Railways and subways and sewers lie atop plague pits and temples to forgotten gods. A rat’s maze of half-remembered tunnels threads in and around the channels of buried rivers. Glass and steel are rooted in the brick and stone and mud of an older city; leering stone faces peer from the walls of underground parking garages. There are courts and alleys that are not on any map; mere cracks in the brickwork that burrow behind the glass facades. Dingy, tattered places unknown to the rush hour hordes that stream past twice a day.

She wakes and the dream of the city dissolves as she stirs. There are so many cities in her dreams....

Marachius stepped up to the doorway of the trainers and paused long enough to knock on the frame. Inside, sitting at one of the desks, was one of the paladin trainers. She looked up from her paperwork and locked eyes with him.

“Ainsley. Thanks for coming. Come on in.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Marachius answered and entered the office.

“Have a seat,” she said, pointing to the chair across from her desk. “We’ve been looking over your results lately. Your training exercises.”

“Ma’am,” Marachius nodded slowly.

“Your work on the dummies is strong. You definitely have a good arm.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“But the healers got word to me as well. They think you show an aptitude in that area as well.”

The...

The flat was dark. The sunlight glittering in through the living room window illuminated the presents in various stages of wrapping.  Tris ambled out of her bedroom holding her head with one hand and the wall with the other. “Sun above, what have I done?”  She looks at the timepiece on the wall and squints to try to see only one set of hands and numbers.

The banging on the door which had originally roused her continued. “Ooph…okay okay…you can stop now,” she murmured, clearly not loud enough for the person on the other side to hear. “I’m coming, I’m coming.” Slowly, she made her way to the door and opened it to find a relieved Ande.

“Bout fuckin’ time. Where ‘ave you been ‘n why ‘aven’t you been...

The room was dark and cold, the fire having gone out from inattention. While the porters were good to keep the other rooms toasty, silently slipping into each through the night to bank the fire- places against the chill of a Winter eve. Yet, Greneda's room had been barred, a small sign hung upon the door, “Do not Disturb.”

If any save Kaereah had entered the room the carnage they encountered would have been shocking. Across the floor were puddles of clothing, tables topped with empty bottles of Neal’telore Apple Brandy; drained of the contents and ashtrays full to spilling found home on nearly every surface of the room. It had all the evidence of a party but the chill and the darkness put one in mind more so of a wake.

The cracked walls are covered in writing. Names, dates, places, comments, obscene graffiti, drawings, nonsense words in half a dozen scripts and twice as many languages - all connected by lines that swoop and swirl and form dizzying patterns that seem to disappear into the flaking plaster if you look at them the wrong way. Or perhaps, if you look at them the right way.

The mad girl rocks herself, thin arms clasped around boney knees as she studies her handiwork. “It connects.” She mutters to herself, “It all connects. Just like last time.”

She tilts her head, listening. “No.” She says, “They don’t know. They don’t want to know.”

A pause, “They only know one name. Just one. They don’t know all the names.”

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