Yva
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Zombie Yvas
Posts: 684
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Post by Yva on Oct 24, 2008 15:35:31 GMT -5
He held the blanket in his lap, tears on his cheeks. The bundle was too light. He knew he should give it to someone to take away, but he wasn't ready to relinquish his hold yet. It was bad enough that he hadn't told Laurus. The poor father-to-be was sitting in the hall, waiting for the good news.
So much hope inside, so many plans, all dead.
He'd had to call the priestess in at the end. Something had gone wrong. Tara was bleeding too much, and the baby was out of position. He didn't have a hard time turning the infant, that was the easy part, but the blood . . . she hadn't even torn. Fells hadn't even torn, and yet the blood was everywhere. On her, on the baby.
So why?
He wracked his brain, wondering where he'd gone wrong. The infant was blue when it came out, already dead, far too thin and far too weak to survive the birthing. When she'd asked for her son, asked to hold her 'littlin', he'd had to shake his head and walk away with her baby in his arms. He said he needed a few moments to work his magics, that he'd be back.
Desperate, unsure of what else to do, Indarra Leafwhisper had come in, the closest midwife he could find in Stormwind.
She'd arrived within the hour, her medical bag in hand. Shad was still holding the infant in his arms, knowing it was too late, but hoping for a miracle anyway. She'd taken one look at the boy and shaken her head, sadly making the symbol of Elune on his tiny forehead.
Seeing his pain, she'd put her hand on his shoulder and done the right thing. She was in there now, in with Fells trying to cure the bleeding. His own nature-born powers weren't touching the problem, and he'd studied so hard. So many different approaches – holistic, trollish, druidic, simple midwife lore. None of them had helped the one woman he swore to help.
"What did I miss?" He said to himself.
As if on cue, Indarra walked out of the delivery room, wiping blood smeared hands on a towel.
"Is she all right?"
Indarra nodded. "May I ask you something, Mister Haemon?"
"Yes, of course."
Indarra opened her mouth to speak, but then thought better of it, rewording her question. "She didn't . . . get exposed to any disease? Scourge, unsanitary conditions, hospitals with illness around? Even, oh I don't know. Rats or insects. I wouldn't assume the Drachmas's lived in squalor"
"No, none of it. Nothing."
"Nothing?" she said, gently.
"Well she . . . " He paused, and his eyes grew wide. "She was imprisoned early on, in the Stockades. I suppose there were . . . possibilities at that time, but she was so early on. "
"I see."
Indarra turned to her bags, her shoulders sagging some. "I'm sorry. She will be fine, the bleeding has stopped, but . . . I don't know how well she'll carry again. There can be after affects if it's not treated early."
"But how? Why?"
"Disease, Mister Haemon. She had Wasting Disease. No infant will survive that. We're lucky, then, that Lady Drachmas will."
Shad sank to the floor, the dead infant in his arms, swallowing his sob.
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Yva
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Zombie Yvas
Posts: 684
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Post by Yva on Oct 24, 2008 15:46:49 GMT -5
Bellesta’s feet touched ground at dawn, just as the sun was snaking its way over the treetops of Moonglade. They’d called her here, where her family had been buried, for something the Circle said ‘was better discussed in person, and not for the ears of the uninformed.’ She wasn’t sure what they were going on about, but she wasn’t surprised by their tight lipped approach to official elven business. The elder kaldorei were notoriously distrustful of most technology, and gnomeboxes weren’t as readily embraced as perhaps they should be. She felt the shift coming on, and her muscles tightened and throbbed as the bear overtook her. There was comfort in the berth of this form, of the way her heightened senses allowed her to better see the blue skies, to better feel the wind through her fur, to better smell the earth and . . . Taint. To better smell the fetid, rotting taint. She lifted her nose to the air with a growl, trying to pinpoint the source of the wrongness. There were footsteps behind her, and her body tensed, rigid with coiled muscle. She was ready to bite and gnash and maul, she was ready to war. “I’m glad you could come, Bellesta.” The Darnassian was soft and precise, the end notes of each word almost musical. It was Larian Truegrace, an up and comer in the Circle, and she was standing with her hands folded, a frown splitting her face. A soft breeze made her dress flicker around her ankles.
“Something is wrong here,” Bellesta said. “Yes, very. We think perhaps you should come with me. Something’s been done that’s . . . very disturbing.” She’d have demanded more details, demanded that the woman expound, but as they began to walk and the smell got worse and worse, the words didn’t seem to matter. She’d find out soon enough, though she wasn’t sure she’d be better for the knowledge. They went north, and then they went west. The air was warmer here, almost molten hot compared to Nightglade, and Bellesta grunted, realizing they were approaching Omen’s glen. The air quality deteriorated, the stench was almost overhwhelming.
Something had died here. No. Not Him. It’s not possible. “What has happened,” she said, causing Larian to stop in her tracks. “What has happened to Him?” Larian’s composure broke, and Bellesta could see the fear the younger druid’s stance. When she raised her hand to her face to sweep a lock of hair away, her fingers were trembling. “Something’s destroyed Him. We don’t know what it . . . “ She never finished the sentiment, because Bellesta was no longer a bear but a cheetah, and she was running, running as fast as her spotted legs would carry her. The air was syrupy thick with decay, and there was a strange hum that reminded her of Silithids in their hives. I should have protected him. It took her less than a minute to find His Corpse. The magnificent head was a lump of meat on the ground, the tongue blackened and covered in rot. The humming sound was identified when she saw larvae falling from the empty sockets where his eyes used to be. He was infested and they were eating Him. They were EATING her patron, her charge. “No, NO!” She growled, and once again she was a bear. Her massive paws began to squash the insects on the ground. Every step closer to the corpse made her stomach twist in on itself. She felt light headed and sick, and her rage was an endless wash of red. As she pounded the bugs to death, her eyes were captured by the sight of something green protruding from Omen’s side, and she whined, her ears flattening to her head. It was a root – no, a vine – and there were tiny thorns and buds about to burst into bloom. She skimmed Omen’s back and saw that there were holes riddling his hide, and the strange vines were everywhere, like they'd grown inside of him and, when they were too big for his body, forced their way through in an explosion.
Was that what killed him?
He couldn't be dead, could he? No, things like him never truly died, and . . .
She inched closer, trying to sniff one of the flower pods, but Larian's voice and a warning hand on her flank stopped her.
“DO NOT TOUCH HIM.”
Bellesta snarled as she swung her head, but the younger woman didn't seem concerned. She was almost frantic as she beckoned her back, pulling on her fur, her tail, anything she could grab.
“Why? He was mine. Why should I not?”
“. . . it's living nightmare, it lives in the veins, and it's contagious. It's killed others, and you will contract it. Do. Not. Touch. Him or you will die.”
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Yva
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Zombie Yvas
Posts: 684
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Post by Yva on Oct 25, 2008 8:28:35 GMT -5
The party was at Lady Marrin's, in her newly renovated loft near Stormwind Keep. The old woman had taken a warehouse and turned it into the most modernized, sprawling apartment in all of the city. She had the flash, she had the flair, and now all she needed was the adoring throng to tell her what a marvelous thing she'd done with her late husband's estate money.
And so she'd jingled her purse and sent out a hundred invitations to the richest, most respectable business men and women she could think of. A Lovely Tea Party was how she penned it, promising her guests ten different types of tea, imported from the north, Darnassus, and even as far as Zangarmarsh in Outlands. There would be pastres baked by Lord Remy's Kitchen, and desserts from South'ron's Pie Shoppe in the Trade District.
It was said, then, that this was the event of the season. Lady Marrin, considered by most of Stormwind to be a social lioness if there ever was one, could make or break a reputation with a few well placed rumors and a cold smile, which meant most people were wise enough to stay on her good side.
Delion Orweave was one such man, at least he'd thought.
He'd carefully chosen his white robes to stay current with the newest styles. The embellishments on the fabric weren't ornate. After all, it was a social faux pas to wear anything that could even remotely outshine the hostess-of-honor, and he more than anyone knew how Lady Marrin's tastes ran. He'd been her dressmaker for almost ten years.
He opted to arrive by carriage, as most of the other guests would, not because he couldn't walk there from his own home, but because walking was considered 'low brow'. You could live next door and you'd still be expected to hire a halfway decent driver to move twelve feet. It was a stupid rule, but one everyone played by all the same.
Delion swept past the front doorman and ascended red carpeted stairs. At the top foyer, he handed his gilded invitation to the doorman. The man read the name there, lifted an eyebrow, and a smile oozed across his lips.
“By all means Mister Oreweave.”
The way he bowed, the way he swept his hand to the side was almost mocking, and Delion couldn't stop himself from wondering why Lady Marrin would have such an odious twit manning the door. It wasn't his place to ask, though, so he'd just swept past him with an aloof sniff.
I'd dock his wages for rudeness.
There were at least sixty people already assembled, and Delion nodded to those he was friendliest with. The noise in the room seemed to stop as he approached the tea table in the corner. As he held his sleeve up to retrieve a teacup, he could almost feel their stares on his back. There was something very very uncomfortable going on, and the tailor wasn't sure what the fuss was all about. He craned his neck, and was dismayed to see most of the eyes upon him.
Have I done something off colour?
No, he knew he hadn't. He smiled and nodded at his spectators and turned back to the tea table, busying himself with the kettle holding Northrend Red Tea, a fragrant tea with just a hint of Khadgar's Whiskers.
“I'd heard he's living with that man, can you believe that?”
The first whisper was hardly a whisper, and Delion's long ear twitched as he dropped a single cube of sugar into his teacup.
“They're living together and flaunt it. Vulgar, isn't it?”
“I'd heard that. Lady Marrin's found out and it was too late to rescind the invitation. Can't believe he'd have the audacity to show his face, though. Of course, most of his kind don't have a lick of sense.”
Who are they talking about?
He found the steamed milk, feeling a strange heat rising in his neck as he poured.
“Well, I think the other one is at least more honest about it. This one tries to pretend, you know. Took up with that Viridiant woman a while back.”
Delion's hand began to shake.
“Well, I wish he'd just leave.”
“I'd heard . . . “
“Perversions.”
“I'd heard . . . “
“Sol'Remy, you know.”
“I wish he'd just leave.”
Delion put his teacup down on the table and lifted his chin. His hand smoothed the cuff of his new robe. With a ragged sigh he turned to face the crowd, who was forming an insidious half circle around him. They all spoke with their hands cupped over the other's ear, their whispers supposedly quiet, but he could hear every word. He caught everything.
I'm ruined.
“Do have a good evening,” he said, and he managed to keep himself from running for the steps. He felt the weight of their stares all the way to the front door, and all the way to the street below. It wasn't until his feet touched the cobblestone that he would even register that he hadn't been breathing.
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Yva
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Zombie Yvas
Posts: 684
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Post by Yva on Oct 27, 2008 10:02:56 GMT -5
There was a little girl, and she stood in a home with an overturned table, a broken chair, and cobweb infested rafters. Dust blanketed everything in sooty gray.
No one had been here for a very long time.
The little girl walked through the house, running her finger over once-familiar furnishings. She saw a book abandoned on the floor, and she stooped to pick it up. Nursery rhymes and fairy tales, stories suited for a child’s ears. She could hear her mother’s voice reciting some of the favorites: blackbirds in pies, pumpkins to princesses, and finger pricks on spinning wheels.
Her mother had a lovely voice. It was even lovelier when she’d sing lullabies. Sometimes, she’d sing tavern tunes as she kneaded bread that’d make everyone laugh. Her mother had contagious humor – it had been her gift.
The girl moved to the staircase, to rickety steps that creaked with her weight. The second floor had two bedrooms and another small sitting room. Mice had moved into the remnants of an old mattress, and she could see their faces poking out of the holes they’d chewed.
It had been her bed, she was fairly sure.
She drifted through the house, exploring the remnants of her past, remembering the good that had existed before so much ugly. When she reached the front door, she felt a tightness in her chest. Sadness, and a longing she’d tried to forget about. It wasn’t a happy moment.
She walked through the yard, towards the back where she’d played as a child. There was a rustling in the leaves beside her, and she started, feeling her heart thudding in her chest. She shouldn’t be so afraid, but then, she was a child here, not a paladin of the light. She was not a hardened fighter. She was so young . . . so young at this house.
The rustling leaves became a scratching noise.
It reminded her of rodents running through walls, the sound of rat’s claws against flat boards, but it wasn’t coming from the house. It was coming from the ground beneath her feet. The dirt began to shake free, the packed earth becoming loose soil. Something was under her and fighting its way up. Something big, and insistent.
The girl began to run, to flee from the house she’d tried so hard to forget, but the scratching followed – she never got far. Every step was slow and lethargic, like she’d forgotten how to move, and the thing beneath her followed as dream creatures were wont to do.
The arm snaked up through the dirt, skeletal with bits of green meat still clinging to the bone. A tattered shirt waved like a banner. The little girl screamed, backing away from it. Something else shot up through the ground behind her, another rotten hand grabbing for her ankle. The dead fingers wrapped around her, pulling down – dragging her down to the grave below.
Smoke. She smelled smoke.
As she tried to kick the creature away from her feet, a greasy black cloud wafted her way, and she turned her head back to the house. She saw the fire licking at the sides, climbing higher, eating the wood far too fast. Everything was burning, and she thought she could hear screams from inside. One of the screams was high pitched – a wail – and the girl recognized the voice that had sung lullabies, that had sung bawdy tavern songs. She couldn’t see through the windows, but she knew someone inside was burning alive. She knew her mother was burning alive.
I shouldn’t be here. Light, I shouldn’t be here.
“NO!” The little girl roared in a voice far too old to belong to a child. She stomped on the hands clutching at her, realizing too late that the entire yard was a sea of those arms, clamoring up through the dirt to pull her down into the ground, to lay with them beneath the cold earth.
She was supposed to die here. She hadn’t, but she was supposed to. She knew that as she knew that mattress had belonged to her, as she knew that screaming voice was her mother’s as she burned to death.
This had been her grave.
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Yva
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Zombie Yvas
Posts: 684
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Post by Yva on Oct 27, 2008 19:45:26 GMT -5
“Oi, drag her up here yeh tosser.”
The voice was as unmistakable as the red hair. Bricu Bittertongue led a small army to the steps of the Temple of Elune. He took a long drag off of his cigarette and tossed it aside, his fingers wiping at the sides of his mouth.
In the middle of their formation was a tall, slender figure wrapped in a coarse bag that covered its head. Bittertongue shoved it forward, and the person inside stumbled with a small whimper. She tried to walk faster, but her feet were bound, and all she could manage were tottering steps. Her balance was precarious at best.
On the front steps of the temple awaited a tallish woman with long white hair, a severe brow, and a pale blue robe. Flanking her on either side were two priests, one somewhat crippled and hunched over, a cold frown on his face, the other young and fascinated by the happenings. He was writing the events in his book with a frenzied pen.
“Got yer minx, Alathea,” Bricu said, standing aside. The figure was pushed forward, the woman falling to her knees. He slashed a knife through the rope bonds to pull the sack aside, revealing a disheveled, abused Indarra Leafwhisper. A rag was stuffed in her mouth, a prisoner's shackle was clasped around her neck. Shadows slicked up and down her frame, twisting around one another like snakes.
The great priestess nodded to her associates, and they stood straighter, the younger putting his notebook away.
“Priestess Leafwhisper, you are the property and prisoner of the Temple of Elune. The edicts have been signed for your incarceration, as witnessed by myself, Lady Tyrande, and Staghelm himself.”
Indarra said nothing, just looked straight ahead, her shadows swirling around her in frenzied dance.
“Ye got her, now ya let Kaidos go,” Bricu said. “Was the deal, an I kept me part of it. Keep yers, or I'll have to let those books out, an that'd be unfortunate. ”
“No need for threats, Mister Bittertongue.” Alathea flicked her wrist and a wad of papers appeared, seemingly from nowhere. “He is as free as the day he was born.” She tossed them at his foot. He skimmed the contents, grunted, and tucked them into his shirt pocket.
Bricu nodded, the high priestess nodded, and the two groups parted ways.
It was the last time anyone saw Indarra Leafwhisper.
*****
He built camp in Feralas. He'd been here before, many times before - that he was sure of - but there was something about this particular place that bothered him. He felt he was forgetting something important.
His whistle was shrill but effective. No sooner had it left his lips than a large wolf padded from the trees. It had a rabbit twitching in its jaws, which it came to drop by the fire. Ulthanon set about skinning the creature, mindlessly tossing the useless scraps aside. It'd make a fine stew with a few potates and an onion.
The wolf settled down and whined, its ears flat to its head. Ulthanon peered at it, and his eyes skimmed past, to the water beyond. There was something familiar about the pond too, but it was a shadowed recollection at best.
Why? Why do I know it?
The answer flickered through his old mind. A perfect face, hair almost long enough to touch her knees. She moved with a dancer's grace. Her chin was too high, her posture just a bit too rigid, and she was bathing in a white nightgown, wading through the waters to clean herself of the Feralas mud. She lifted her head to smile at him, covering the curve of her breasts with her arm.
“Quite improper to watch me bathing, Ulthanon,” she said.
He smiled at the illusion, wishing that he'd had the pleasure of this woman's company, wishing he knew her name.
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Yva
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Zombie Yvas
Posts: 684
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Post by Yva on Oct 27, 2008 20:28:27 GMT -5
The baby had been sleeping well.
Since their move to Feralas, Khallar had been able to keep his magnificent eyes from seeing the dream. Aleros had taught him how to shut the dream down, to just keep himself from dreaming at all when he stumbled into a particularly brutal nightmare. Since the simple, yet important lesson, Khal had slept through the night, sparing his parents the worry over a son who could not rest peacefully.
Then, one night, it changed. Regression, and it was strong and it was terrible. The boy began to scream in his sleep, scream so loudly and so severely Seylon had fallen out of bed and grabbed an axe on the way to his room. Aleros was right behind her, a growl low in his throat though he hadn't shifted into his forms yet.
Sey approached the crib, the axe a heavy weight in her hand as she skimmed the darkness for signs of an intruder.
“There's nothing here,” Aleros said, lifting his nose into the air. “Nothing at all.”
“Ya could fuckin' fool me.” The axe dropped to the floor as Sey scooped her son into her arms, pressing him against her naked chest. The baby woke from his sleep, his eyes mashed closed as the tears drizzled down his cheeks like rain. He fidgeted and fussed, and Sey and Ale both crooned, trying to calm him.
“Thought he was fixed. He wasn't gonna do this no more.”
“He was.” Aleros frowned, his thumb sweeping over his son's forehead. The gesture appeased the baby, and the crying stopped to pathetic hiccups and moans.
The quiet didn't last long.
Skyborne padded into the room with a large feline yawn. She blinked her golden eyes at her mother, then her brother, her tail lashing with a thud against the doorframe.
“What's wrong with him?”
The moment the baby sensed the cat he began to shriek. He wriggled so hard Sey almost dropped him, and she had to hand him to his father to keep him safe. Aleros began to pace, shooing Skyborne away with a gentle flick of his hand. The girl was smart enough to do as he wanted, backing from the room with a plaintive mewl.
“Titty, ktitty, titty NOOOOO,” Khallar screamed, and Aleros rubbed his back in soothing circles.
“ . . . our son's afraid of a cat?” Seylon sounded confused, and she raked her fingers through her hair with a frustrated grunt. “That ain't gonna wash, Sugar.”
Aleros's brow furrowed, his teeth gritting so tightly that his cheek began to tic. “No, not just any cat. That goddess damned druid.”
Considering Sey had heard him swear only a few times in their years together, the profanity alarmed her, and she approached her baby, kissing the green fuzz atop his head. “Ain't gettin' ya, Darlin'.”
“Earthsprung. Fedwyn Earthsprung.” The name made Khallar whimper, and Aleros handed him back to his mother, going to the closet in the hallway and coming back with a dreamcatcher and a tiny green scale. He sat on the floor, weaving the scale into the web with some pale green threads.
“What's that?”
“A dreamcatcher. He won't hurt my son.”
She didn't ask questions because she wasn't sure she wanted to know the answers. An hour later, the baby was in his crib, the dreamcatcher hanging above. The parents waited until he fell asleep, waited til he could dream, and when he went undisturbed, they returned to their own bed. Seylon slept fitfully, and Aleros . . .
Aleros went into his son's dreams and repaired the damage.
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Yva
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Posts: 684
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Post by Yva on Oct 28, 2008 9:49:15 GMT -5
He’d gone to Hyjal, some unfinished business he’d said, and she was left waiting for him.
It wouldn’t have been so bad if their son wasn’t here, but he’d been adamant that he needed to do this now, to go back there and get the ‘last of it taken care of’. She remembered Seylon saying something about her brother going there before, but Sey had said it in the context of Elyle doing something stupid and suicidal because the Catrily situation had gone awry.
Why was he back there then? Was he unhappy? Was there really some unfinished business he hadn’t talked to her about? Was he escaping?
It made her worry, and she wished he’d just sit down and talk to her, but there were things he would never discuss. There was a part of his life he still wouldn’t share. She supposed it was the nature of his beast; he was a fighter and a killer. He shouldered the emotional baggage of his past. She was fairly certain he kept his thoughts to himself not because he didn’t trust her, but because he didn’t want to burden her.
Elyle Jh’Talith was not, and probably never would be, ‘a nice man’ and the less she knew about that side of him, the better for both of them.
Or so he thought. She thought differently.
He’d left at dawn and would be away for three weeks, he said. He’d kissed their baby, kissed her, and was gone, his cat carrying him towards the gryphons and the docks that would thrust him back into his past.
That had been six weeks ago.
The box had been silent. There had been no letters, there had been no news. Week four had seen her raising the alarm to friends and family: Elyle’s missing, he went to Hyjal, I don’t know when he’ll be back. The Riders told her it’d be fine, Elyle went away sometimes and it took him a bit to come back. The only one who hadn’t brushed it off had been his sister, who glowered and got drunk.
“Ya don’t go to Hyjal an’ not call to say your fine. Even Elyle’s smart enough to know that.”
Week five, week six . . . the encouraging pats on the shoulder went away. People weren’t so sure Jh’Talith was fine any longer. In fact, they were fairly sure he wasn’t fine, but no one wanted to say it. Saffy was a new mother, after all, and upsetting her on the off chance the bonehead showed up again didn’t’ seem like the right thing to do.
The pity food and visits started shortly thereafter. Everyone was trying to ‘help’ her through things. She almost wanted to ask them what they were there for. She wanted to see if they thought he was dead, and if they were paying the young widow respects. She didn’t say it though; spurning kindness wasn’t right, either.
It took eight weeks for his blades to find their way home.
There was no note on them, no blood. There was nothing noteworthy on the box outside of her name scrawled in a pen she didn’t recognize, which meant he hadn’t mailed it. Someone else had, but who? She’d gone to the Pig with the box, she’d dropped it on the table without a word. Everyone stared at the swords, knew who they belonged to, and they said nothing. The Riders were never silent, so why now? Why when Elyle was either dead or running away from her and everyone else?
Eventually, Sey croaked out that a body would have been better than that. There wouldn’t have been so many damn questions. Saffy initially got angry, but when she’d calmed down, she understood what her sister-in-law meant. A body would have told them what had happened, while this was just an ominous reminder that Elyle – if he was alive – was in dire straights. Or being a coward, running from responsibility.
He wouldn’t do that.
She knew he wouldn’t, so then why was she so damned afraid he had just done that?
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aleros
Honorary Guildie
Posts: 104
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Post by aleros on Oct 28, 2008 14:16:39 GMT -5
How do you catch a cat who only appears in dreams? Simple, you become a dream.
Aleros calmed his son down spending several hours setting up the dream catcher and making sure that his son realized that the terrifying kitty was only a bad dream. Once his son was calm and safe, it was time to go on his own hunt.
He pulled a large wooden box out of the back of the closet, setting it up in front of himself. He pulled open the lid; it creaked back and an eerie green glow filled the room. Out of the box he pulled robes, crafted from hundreds of slightly transparent green scales, dreamscales. Dreamwalker Armor. He pulled the robe all the way up so that it hung down to the floor and looked over it. This was how you went into someone's dreams when you knew they didn't want you there. This was how he would observe and bait Fedwyn... but bait for what? He wanted to make sure this didn't happen to his son again, but he had no plan yet. Most of all, he didn't even know of all the nightmares that had occurred that night. He knew that Fedwyn would be back, but he did not know the magnitude nor the malice which the cat now had.
He hadn't worn the armor in so long. He hadn't needed to. Now, there was a need.
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Post by Threnn on Oct 28, 2008 19:38:54 GMT -5
Annalea hit the floor with a muffled thump, hands splayed out against the cold wood, the chill seeping in past the thin fabric of her nightdress. Her harsh coughs were broken only by ragged, choking gasps for air -- Elune, her throat felt like it was on fire.
Where am I?
The light was wrong; this wasn't Stormwind. None of the shadows made any sense. It wasn't her room. It wasn't her bed. It wasn't her floor. She lay there for a moment, every breath an agony, her mind reeling.
Hands touched her shoulders.
"No!" What should have been a shout came out a whisper. For a dreadful moment, her legs refused to obey. She kicked - once, twice - and broke free from the tangle of blankets.
The hands tried grabbing again. She threw an elbow out behind her, eliciting a grunt from her assailant while whe scuttled away on her hands and knees. There had to be a door. Where?
In her panic, she didn't see the table leg. Pain blossomed in her shoulder when she collided with it. Something above her wobbled and crashed to the floor, sending a piece of shrapnel flying up to cut her cheek, but she didn't dare stop moving. Tiny pieces of glass ground into her palms as she continued crawling through the debris.
Somewhere, a child started to cry.
Whose baby is that? Threnny's?
...mine?
But her child was long dead. It had never had a chance to cry like that, not even once.
Away. Away. Just get away.
Whoever was in the room with her had gained his feet. His footsteps thudded swiftly across the floor. It wouldn't be long until he had hold of her again. She came up against a wall and stretched her arms to either side, fingers desperately straining for a break in the smooth plaster -- a molding, a doorknob, a windowsill, anything.
Nothing.
Anna turned around, pushing herself against the wall so she was sitting up. If she couldn't run, she'd fight.
The shadows came when she commanded. They made her throat burn ten times worse, but they were a comfort all the same as they swirled around her. She drew on them and whispered a single word: "Talah."
Death.
The looming figure stumbled back a step, but the sudden ache in her bones told her she hadn't taken him completely out of commission. "Ow! ...the nether?" he muttered, his words husky with surprise and pain. She almost knew the voice, but chasing after recognition would cost her precious time.
Standing took a mighty effort, but Annalea gained her feet. "Come on, then," she rasped, gritting her teeth and resisting the urge to lean against the wall. Speaking set her coughing again and bent her double, destroying her attempt at bravado.
A match flared. Anna looked up, squinting in the new light, wanting to see her attacker's face before she released her spell. The wick of the oil lamp caught.
Words of death died on her lips, replaced by a name. "...Fin?"
"Anna?" He shook out the match and held his hands out, palms up as though he was approaching a skittish dog.
Fin and Fane, Fane and Fin... She tittered -- or would have, if her throat didn't feel like she'd swallowed a bucket of broken glass. Instead her laughter came out in a series of short, dry huffs.
What if I can't sing anymore?
The dreadful thought dragged her away from madness' edge. Her mouth closed with a snap and she slid back down the wall, the fight drained out of her.
Fingold came and crouched by her side. He moved with deliberate slowness, trying not to frighten her. "Anna? Can you let the shadows go?"
She did, reluctantly, though she felt safer wrapped within them. The pain in her throat diminished, but it didn't go away completely. She sagged against him as he healed her hands and cheek, the magic weaving around his hands the way the shadows twined around hers when she held them. The warm golden glow of the Light was nearly the same color as the druid's eyes. Don't think about that. Don't.
When he lifted her chin, his sharp inhale made her sit up straight. "Sweet Light," he said, pulling her to her feet. "Come over here and let me see."
She realized where he wanted her to go and balked, leaning away from him even though her legs threatened to give out on her. "No, Fin. No."
He blinked at her. "I just want to look," he said. He reached for her hand, but she snatched it away.
"I don't want to go back to sleep. Please don't make me. Please don't..." She was babbling, and she knew it, but the terror had climbed into her throat and made it throb, driving out rational thought. The cat might be there when she closed her eyes, or Fane, and she didn't know which was worse. It might be both.
"I won't. You don't even have to lay back, no," said Fin. "I just want you to sit so I can see." This time when he reached for her, she let him guide her to the bed. She perched on the edge while he knelt before her, tilting her head this way and that with the gentle pressure of his touch. While his troubled silence stretched, Anna peered at him.
He looked haggard, his eyes tight, his mouth a thin line. Now that there was light in the room, Anna could see the door. Fin kept glancing at it with something very near dread.
Oh, blessed Elune. Not even here a day and I've made us unwelcome. "The vase. I broke your sister's vase," she said. "And I woke the little one..."
The crying had stopped; from the other side of the wall, they could hear Celine and Lucas' murmuring voices as they soothed their startled son. Lucas hummed a Northern lullaby, one Anna remembered Padraig singing when she and Threnn were little. Floorboards creaked as one of them left Gilles' nursery and tapped on the guest-room door. Fin stiffened at his sister's voice.
"Fingold? Is everything all right?"
"Aye. I'll... I'll come out in a moment."
"Shall I put on water for tea?"
"If you would, yes, thank you." He swallowed past a lump in his throat and turned back to Anna as Celine's steps padded away.
"Fin, I'm sorry, I--"
"Hush." He shook his head, clearing his thoughts, and called the Light to his hands, guiding it to her throat. When his fingers brushed the places Fane had touched in her dream, she flinched, but didn't pull away. "It's not healing," he said, half to himself. "Anna, these are shadowburns. And they look like... like someone tried to..."
"Fane," she said. "In my dream. He held me down while the druid... Oh gods, Fin, Fedwyn has the book." A flash of the dream came back to her; her eyes went wide with it -- Fane pinning her down, the cat tearing through her memories, searching for the one he wanted. Taking it word by word, letter by agonizing letter.
"Anna? Anna!" Fin took her face in his hands, waiting for her eyes to come back into focus on his own. He looked so tired, so worried. "Let's leave it until the morning, aye?"
She forced the images away. Something else occurred to her. "I hurt you, didn't I? When I was..." She squirmed and pushed his arms down to his sides, examining him for signs of injury. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know where I was, and..."
"I'm all right."
"But--"
"Sssh." Fin shifted from his kneeling position to sit beside her, gathering her into his arms and stroking her hair as she began to tremble. "You're safe now," he said, and she almost could have believed it.
But she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, at the black marks on her neck. They were shadowburns, all right; the purple-black smudges stood out clearly against her milk-pale skin. On the left, the distinct shapes of a man's fingers marred the flesh. The right side was worse, one thick dark bruise covering the whole side of her throat.
Just exactly the shape that would be made by a hand twisted into a claw.
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Post by Aelflaed on Oct 31, 2008 16:07:34 GMT -5
Aelflaed woke, clawing at her face - trying to get them loose - they had to let go. Hands of the dead - but they kept coming, fingernails raking down her face as she tried not to scream; her mother's shrieking death wail still ringing in her ears.
She tried to get up but her legs wouldn't move. They had hold of her - she could feel them, arms and legs, twined around her, pinning her to the little cot she was sleeping on. In a panic, she tried to roll off the bed - hitting the floor hard, her skin catching on the rough wooden boards.
She clawed for traction, ignoring the splinters that dug themselves firmly into her fingertips. Pulling herself to her knees, she could taste smoke in her mouth, and blood - whose blood? Light - had they gotten her?
She managed to pull herself standing - would they never let go? was she theirs now? - they were still there, hands dragging at her legs, holding her feet, rooting her to the floor - she kicked out at another of them and ran.
Two steps and she tripped over something soft on the floor, slamming into the wall - her hands tearing at the blanket still wound tightly around her legs, as she sank, sobbing in ragged gasps, to the floor.
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Post by Phileas on Nov 1, 2008 6:10:23 GMT -5
Phileas was more than accustomed to being jerked from sleep by a kick in the ribs - such occurrences were par for the course when you slept on the street. Since he'd begun bedding down on the floor of Aelflaed's small room at the Pig and Whistle, though, he had been able to rest unmolested.
That being said, being once again awakened in that particularly violent manner brought the rogue scrambling from sleep, instinctively trying to simultaneously move away from the source of the blow and grab a weapon, just in case what kicked him was another one of those damn zombies. One that made an odd howling noise that his sleep-fogged brain couldn't identify.
The second blow he was expecting never came, but Phileas had no chance to disentangle himself from his bedroll and confront whatever was in the room, as a weight pinned him to the floor as it landed with a muffled "thud." Slowly, the rogue's mind cleared of sleep-haze, and he realized that he wasn't under any sort of attack.
He had been pinned down by Aelflaed, collapsing beside him, landing on his blankets, sobbing hysterically. In a heartbeat, his irritation at being awakened evaporated...he realized that, in all likelihood, the paladin had yet to realize he was even there.
Phileas was horrified. Aelflaed was the one who could make all the logical decisions, the one who could keep him out of trouble, oftentimes just by giving him that "ye better not" look. Before he fully realized what he was doing, he grabbed the paladin and pulled her closer to him, hoping to give her a measure of comfort, of something to bring her back from wherever she was that caused such terror. "Aely? Aely! Wake, lass...wake."
Gently, he shook her, hoping this would work. An' if it doesnae, what d'I do then? I'm nae healer... After several frighteningly long seconds, Aelflaed's sobs hitched and changed. Phileas felt her muscles tense as she came completely awake, not fully aware of where she was. "Be tha awake? Ligh', tha frighted me."
He heard her breathing change again...now she was awake, and could perhaps explain why she had tried to jump on him in the middle of the night. Instead, Phileas found himself squeezed nearly breathless as the paladin buried her face in his shirt and clung to him like he was the last icon of safety in Stormwind, starting to cry again.
In his career, Phileas had, indeed, driven a dagger into the hearts of more than a few people. Now he imagined he knew what that felt like. It made him feel helpless, to know that all he could do was lean back against the wall and hold her, stroking the paladin's hair and murmuring reassurances in the tongue of a town full of dead men. "I'll look after thee, love. They can' get thee. I'm here..."
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chelody
New Member
I like huggable better than squishy.
Posts: 7
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Post by chelody on Nov 6, 2008 19:45:18 GMT -5
A gasp, a shudder. Long lithe fingers grasped at blankets as the wife O’Connaugh jerked awake in a fit of coughing. Once fully conscious her mind went to work. She was in bed but it was not her own... Shael was gone, Avers was gone, and... There came the squeals from the small crib directly behind her bunk. Gingerly she sat up, her head not even brushing the bottom of the bed held above her.
The small woman examined her hands and arms. No, no, it all –looked- normal enough. Not even a single freckle out of place. For several nights now she’d been having this dream. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have nightmares. She groaned and stretched, tiny bare feet touching down on the cold stone floor. No, Norra was used to nightmares... but they were all familiar horrors. Spectres of the recesses of her mind that she had grown accustomed to confronting on a nightly basis.
“Good morning Neri.” Already sitting up in the crib Nerida burbled and cooed, dribbling as she held up something small and shiny. This in turn caused her mother to shout and recoil in horror. Both were startled, but only Nerida began to cry. Her mother kept a distance away, staring appraisingly at what the child held in her tiny hand. Slender little digits grasped... what appeared to be a button. Upon realizing what her daughter held Norra let out a grateful sigh and swept the tiny girl into her arms, kissing her cheek softly.
“That must have come off your pyjamas.” She concluded with a firm nod. Yes, it was just a button and certainly nothing to get worked up about. Lifting her daughter in the air (much to Nerida’s giggling delight.) Norra looked her daughter over appraisingly. A few tears had stained her rosey cheeks but she seemed no worse for wear.
“Now listen here young lady. You don’t get to try and kill me until you are at least thirteen.” It would most likely be from a heart attack. Norra looked her daughter in the eyes and Nerida’s only response was;
“Bbbpppttt!”
“Touché.”
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Yva
Guild Member
Zombie Yvas
Posts: 684
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Post by Yva on Nov 8, 2008 10:12:51 GMT -5
Evanaya watched the old hunter go, charmed by the grace in his steps. He was from a different era, her era – an ancient time when things were all together simpler and more pure. She didn’t often like company, but his had been appreciated, even if it was for just a short time.
Grizelle Kinslayer - once known as Leafwhisper, the bitch of Azshara and a Earthsprung’s she-cat - was not only alive, but this hunter claimed she was different, changed and wanting to speak with her. Evanaya was too old to believe that a leopard could change its spots. Even if the coat was clean, the creature was still a leopard, and the fangs and claws were still sharp.
Her hand went to her side, her fingers running down the long scars, the living reminders of her last interlude with her sister. It had been three thousand years ago now, and she still remembered the pain of the shadows, she remembered the pain of the twisting flesh and the smell of her body burning from the inside. Their fight had been over the boy, the young boy Grizelle had adopted and in her own sick way, loved. Evanaya had taken him from her; Grizelle was no mother. She was a murderess and a mad woman, but never a mother. He’d have grown twisted under her tutelage. It was no way for a child to live.
Grizelle had not taken well to the intervention. When Evanaya wouldn’t tell her where she’d taken Richter for safe keeping, Grizelle tried to pry it from her mind, and when that failed, from her flesh. Evanaya had escaped, but she’d dropped her family name and ties that day.
She’d sworn long ago their next confrontation would be their last. One of them would not stand after the dance. Now, she was given the opportunity to make good on that promise. The hunter could not know that there was murder on her mind. It was obvious he cared for Grizelle, was another fool hanging on her words, and Evanaya was sad for him. He seemed a decent sort. She could tell much of a man’s character from his choice of pet. Ghost was a wise old wolf, a loyal companion. She approved.
She stood from her camp and pulled the pipe from her mouth. A shrill whistle later, a small hawk owl swooped by her head. It was not her great owl, her hunting owl, but it was still loyal to her and would serve her well.
“Follow him,” she said in her gritty voice. “Lead me to her.”
She watched the bird flap away, disappearing into the trees, and she set about packing up camp. Her bow strapped to her back, the tobacco lingering on the air, she began to hum an old Kaldorei war song. Atasha stirred above her, cooing curiously, but she simply filled her saddle bags and readied for her journey.
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ulthanon
Guild Member
A ruffian, rabble-rouser and roustabout
Posts: 302
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Post by ulthanon on Nov 8, 2008 12:37:05 GMT -5
The woman had been exactly as Indarra described her; a spitting image of the priestess, if not more rugged. Broader of the shoulder and quieter by far, she reminded him of himself when he would spend years on his own in the wild. Her voice had sounded hoarse- she probably hadn't spoken to anyone in some time. As he swung up into his Frostsaber's saddle, Ghost looked up at him expectantly.
Ulthanon watched idly as Ghost approached the woman, licking her face and sniffing clumsily all over her neck and hair. She's cracked a small smile, ruffling the fur on the scruff of his neck and behind his ears.
"You get her scent, boy?" Ghost gave a soft grunt. Ulthanon smiled, and tossed him a link of blood sausage, which the wolf devoured in seconds. "Good boy. If she makes a run, we'll have her."
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Yva
Guild Member
Zombie Yvas
Posts: 684
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Post by Yva on Nov 10, 2008 11:24:59 GMT -5
Ulthanon stopped in Darnassus for supplies. Her owl led her to the Trade Terrace, but that was where the hunter's trail ended.
Evanaya found the city itself distasteful, but to finish her task, she knew she had to reacquaint herself with the people she’d tried to forget in the wilds. She wandered around, trying to learn more of Ulthanon. For a long while there was no news or recognition, but then an acolyte in the Temple of Elune knew the name, smirked, and said he was Priestess Indarra Leafwhisper’s lover. The priestess was often found in Stormwind, and in the company of the Wildfire Riders - last she’d heard, at least.
Evanaya nodded. She jingled her coin at the portals mistress and stepped foot – for the first time – in the city of Stormwind.
It was everything she loathed. The streets were overly crowded and smelled of dank water and piss. The people were loud and rude. The kaldorei she saw were not what she was used to; they were as boisterous as their human brethren, dressing in scanty clothes, drinking ale to excess. She wasn’t sure if this was a bad thing, but it was definitely different. She lowered her face to not have to look them in the eye, knowing they shared blood but nothing else.
She was not like them.
Though the city was foreign, Evanaya knew her sister’s propensities; she’d be found in one of two places – a ritual room or a temple. Both were places of power, and Grizelle flocked to power like a hummingbird to a fat blossom. She siphoned magic from its source. In that way, it was almost unfortunate that she hadn’t fallen with the well with the rest of the monsters. It would have served her right to become one of the twisted naga.
She didn’t speak a word of common, but fortunately there was a guard somewhat versed in Darnassian, and she was directed to the Cathedral of Light in the northern quarter. Atasha swooped up to the cathedral top to stand sentry beside one of the gargoyles, and Evanaya clicked her tongue at her.
I will call if I need you old friend, she seemed to say, and the bird quietly cooed as she groomed her feathers.
She walked inside, nodding to a young clerk, her old eyes scanning the flocks of bodies.
The white head was hard to miss.
The shorter kaldorei knelt before a table of icons, her eyes closed, her mouth moving in silent prayer. Her robes covered her from head to toe. Though the form was the same, the countenance was not – the way she held herself, so rigid and proper – it wasn't right, and Evanaya doubted for a moment that she’d found the right woman. The perfection of the face, though . . . that was ever unchanging with Grizelle, wasn’t it? The things her sister had bargained away long ago to attain her beauty . . .
She wasted little time going to her sister’s side, her gauntlets digging into the upper flesh of her arm through the robe.
“Come with me,” she growled. “Somewhere private. Lead me.”
The priestess lifted her head, her eyes going wide in shock and recognition. “Evanaya?” Her mouth formed a little ‘O’ as she stared into her face.
“Somewhere private, witchling. Now.”
“Yes, of course.” Grizelle – now Indarra – blessed herself at the altar. She led them away, down a set of stone stairs and to a stone room. As soon as they were inside, Evanaya thrust her away, watching dispassionately as her sister slammed into the wall.
A length of silence stretched between them.
“Tell me what you want before I end this,” Evanaya said. She pulled an arrow from her quiver and prepared it for the bow, readying herself for the end of the dance that began three thousand years ago. Her palms were sweating, her hands were shaking. Anger boiled in her stomach.
Staring down the end of the arrow, the only thing Indarra could do was whimper.
“I remember. All of it. He was right, oh gods I remember.”
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