taatje

[taatje]

Carnr

The medium-sized black dog whimpered and pawed at the door. The scratch marks had accumulated over the last few days as the canine haunted the entrance relentlessly. The thickly-furred dog only stopped for periods long enough to pull itself beneath his owner’s bed for a few restless hours of sleep before returning to it’s vigil.

It’s water bowl was long dry and it’s food bowl too, was empty for nearly as long. The bowls sat in a kitchen that still had the table set from the night it all began days ago. The plate, left resting with food still on it had been devoured by the hungry animal two nights ago.

In a small room sharing the kitchen wall, a small, home-made bed sat with the sheets and covers resting in disarray. On the left wall, sits a dresser with it’s drawers open, some clothes still laying on the wooden floor; forgotten, as if the packing was done in haste.

Near the door, a wood axe normally rests after long days of hard use when the man returns. The reposing axe marks a joyous time in the dog’s day, that his friend and master returns home from his labors; that ever present smell of pine pitch the dog has associated with him was now gone too, the axe having been repurposed and taken in panicked fear.

The dog slinks back from the door with his ears laid low when a resounding thud from the other side answers him. His lips raise in a silent snarl when the thuds continue and escalate until a crack begins to form in the wood. They outside, have heard the dog’s scratching and come.

[taatje]

[taatje]

Retribution

The gate boomed loudly and buckled inwards with a piercing shriek of it’s iron. The black iron was still vibrating when the next loud impact shattered the hinges and sent the gate pinwheeling across the well-manicured garden surrounding the expansive villa. The gate comes rolling into two shocked aspirants; one tossed away to slam into the building’s wall and the other, pulled under the rolling gate and stitched with deep punctures from the top of the sharply-pronged gate.

The loud booms and shrieking are like kicking an anthill, Blood Knight aspirants come boiling out of the adjacent guardhouse. Some of them are still buckling on their armor with sleep still heavy in their eyes, while still others are chattering amongst themselves in angry confusion. The more capable responders spot a glowing light, casting off skittering shadows as it nears the grounds. A hellish-looking Paladin finally strides into sight, a great glowing sword held in his right hand, a massive magical hammer held in his left.

The hammer sends even more shadows crawling off into the gloom when the Paladin whips his arm forward and sends the hammer spinning toward the approaching aspirants; the golden-glowing hammer splits into four smaller hammers and sends four of the nine charging aspirants crashing backwards onto their backs. Their crimson armor failing to turn aside the magically divine projectile.

The broad, densely muscled Paladin surveys the remaining five aspirants from behind his foreboding helm; cruel dense metal spikes wrap around the Paladin’s lower face and neck, while the top is smooth to deflect blows. Only the Paladin’s spitefully-glowing eyes are visible as he sends his sword whipping out in a deadly hum that parts one brave aspirant from his sword arm. The great sword cuts through metal, flesh and bone alike as a pair of wings begin to slip free from the Paladin’s back. They are incorporeal, twin growths of Light manifested.

The wings grow steadily larger as the Paladin’s crusade begins in earnest. His hands and eyes take on a harsh white glow as his swings come, the speed of each building on the last until severed limbs, cloven shields and exsanguinated corpses litter the ground at the Paladin’s bloodied sabatons.

One tall Blood Knight aspirant pulls back his hand and attempts to manifest his own glowing hammer, but the Paladin flaps once, his wings now majestically suspended above him, and rushes the tall man with his great sword held behind him in preparation for another swing. The strike parts the aspirant from the groin all the up to the shoulder in a crusader’s classical strike.

As the now-blood drenched Paladin pulls his great sword back down from the previous swing, a sword tip explodes outwards from his stomach; one opportunistic aspirant having held back from the others, waiting for the ideal time in which to strike.

Taatje bats the man away with a flip of a wing, the sword making a sucking squelch as it’s pulled from his body. The Paladin turns and the pain almost sends him to the ground, he clenches his teeth, grinding them together as he cuts through the elf’s shield, armor and body in one singing swing.

The burly Elf turns at last to the villa and steps toward it on suddenly treacherous feet, his body starting to spasm from the grievous wound. The Paladin makes it far enough away from the corpses and those soon to join them that the moans are only barely audible when the main entrance to the sprawling house comes open. The elf is tall and well-built and it’s difficult to tell whether the elf’s body matches the armor, or vice-versa.

The Blood Knight Captain doesn’t pause as he closes on Taatje’s swaying and hunched form. His saber erupts in flames as he both swings and raises his shield in practicing familiarity. The Paladin brings his greatsword up and catches the swing, only to be shield-rushed and sent tumbling backwards in a loud clatter.

‘You villain! Murderer! I will have you placed in inquisition! Name yourself at once! I will cut of-,’ Taatje thumps the pommel of his sword on the ground and a great glowing rune-covered blade erupts from the ground and shears Zarachiel’s leg off at the knee.

The Paladin grunts in pain as he drags himself up to a sitting position and pulls himself forward on to his hands and knees. He painstakingly drags himself over to the screaming Blood Knight and locks his hands around the old elf’s neck, cutting the piercing wail short.

Taatje leans into the choke with deadly intent while Zarachiel starts fumbling at his belt and produces a small knife which he uses to stab Taatje twice in the arm and once in the chest. Eventually, the elder Blood Knight panics even as his leg spurts, drumming the stump and his good leg in a last-ditch panic.

The Blood Knight eventually goes still even as Taatje’s vision starts to blacken. He slowly produces a bloodied scroll, every motion requiring extreme effort as he unfurls it and tears a portal open; just visible are the bent and warped structures of Shattrath.

The bloody and grievously wounded Paladin slumps through the portal as he passes out.

Some time later, long after Taatje is gone from the portal site, a Death Knight marches up to it, having found Shattrath to his dislike, and expressing that by murdering a few city guard. He steps through the other side and surveys the area appreciatively; a plan forming in his wicked mind.

[taatje]

Zarachiel

The Paladin rests on a bench in Silvermoon’s bustling Bazaar district. His armor gleams, the deep cobalt blue accentuated by the thick golden mass of braids resting over his right shoulder. The pile of braids partially obscure the raised scar on his right cheek that marrs his otherwise handsome, broad face. He scans the energized crowds, the successful merchants stand in their colorful silks with fine cloth overhead, shading their wares in their portable wooden stalls. They hawk their wares, their vigorous, but polite shouts encouraged by the frequent exchange of gold occurring in nearly every stand.

His gaze traces along, similar scenes playing out over the expansive space with polite bows here, and red-faced apologies offered there. His eyes stop on a large, heavily-armored retinue forcing their way through the crowds, a few shout in dismay, but are swiftly silenced when one of the guards steps away and backhands a crier with an armored hand.

Taatje watches impassively until he notes a banner being held aloft by one of the crimson-armored guards. He sits up, a scowl deepening on his face as he notes the black eagle. ‘Blood knights. Quite typical of that dreadful lot,’ he rumbles to himself, no one around to hear the edge on his voice.

The formation surrounding a scarcely-visible figure marches forward in lockstep, their armor rhythmically clattering along. They continue pushing their way through the crowds on the meandering circular path that snakes through the entirety of the Bazaar.     They eventually pass a dozen yards from Taatje’s position, only one with a hawk-face glances briefly at him. The burly Paladin holds his eyes with a faint scowl until the neat, well-disciplined rows of the formation draw even and he catches a glance in passing at the surrounded figure.

Zarachiel, The name pounds in his head like a gong while the scar on his face flares up painfully. His eyes remain locked on the center of the formation as he slowly stands, catching only scant glimpses at the Blood Elf’s black hair. The sounds of the busy market have faded entirely. All other thoughts gone except for the memory of his branding at Zarachiel’s hands.

He still smells the sickly-sweet burning flesh as he begins to trail the formation from a distance. The Paladin’s hands tremble slightly at his sides until he clenches them, the armor of his gauntlet’s groaning softly under the pressure.

The retinue is easy to follow, large tower shields hang suspended from the guards’ back, covering most of the entourage except for their shining crimson greaves visible below. From behind, it appears a monolithic ebony mass plowing; the visible crimson of their greaves seems bloodied in the light as if the crowds were trampled instead of shunted aside. He continues stalking behind, patient, yet tempted as the lion creeping on the hawk. The large retinue stops in precise unison outside a large ornate building; one of many that ring the outside of the bazaar. A few of the otherwise stone-still guards move aside as Zarchiel steps through and ascends the flight of stairs leading into ‘Sunbeam’s Wine & Spirits.’

The broad Paladin meanders to a nearby curiosities stall when he sees the retinue stop. He languidly strolls up to the wiry merchant swathed in an orange and red billowing gown. ‘Just stopping a moment,’ Taatje rumbles softly as he begins surveying the arrayed miscellaneous wares. The tremble is still in his hands as he feigns interest, but without truly seeing the items. He raises them and tucks them under each arm as he attempts to keep an eye on the retinue from his peripheral.

Taatje’s thundering heart marks anxious time while he waits and is soon rewarded with Zarachiel’s hated figure descending the stairs and rejoining his cloistered retinue. The figures depart, much as they came as the Paladin strides from the stand; the relieved merchant visibly relaxes at the strangely-behaving male’s calm exit.

He ducks into a gloomy alley and accidently sends a bottle clattering down the passage. A vagrant sits up shakily, obviously hungover and immediately draws a knife. The thickly muscled Paladin casually boots the would-be thief in the face mid-stride and lays him out flat on the ground as if he were reaching with both arms towards the far end.     Taatje eventually reaches the opposite end of the alley and stops, hearing shouted orders and dull thuds. He leans, just enough to peek around the corner as a squat, hirsute manager shouts at a few wiry laborers working quickly to fill a wagon.

‘Faster! This should have been done sooner you loafers! For what am I paying you? Get it done!’ The little red-faced man goes to turn, but then stops and turns back with a soft click of his well-heeled shoes. ‘You oafs do know where to take these, right?’ The little man rolls his eyes and huffs. ‘It’s the largest manor outside “Starbreeze Village.” Though I should guess even you two can botch a simple delivery for one of our most important clients. Go!’

He turns and stomps back through the service entrance, his paunch visibly jiggling through his suit. Taatje turns on his heel and strides past the still-unconscious vagrant and back out into the bazaar. His hands have resumed their tremble and his heart beats as loudly as thunder.

Spotting his shop in the distance, he slowly approaches it, the blood draining from his face by the minute. Mortal terror and black fury rage in his chest as his plan begins to form. The little silver bells tinkle coldly in his thick mane of swaying braids as he ascends the stairs and heads for his office.

He must die, the Paladin thinks to himself as he seats himself at his desk and begins scratching out shakily-written instructions for his associates in case he fails to return. He turns, the form complete with the ink still drying on his large desk and peers into the fire for a long spell. His heart continues thundering along in fear, the fire having long cooled to mere ashes without his notice. Or I will die trying.

[taatje]

(( I was lucky enough to win a spot in a giveaway recently and here’s the result!

Art of Tristana by @pirate-cashoo! I LOVE THIS SO MUCH.

Trist looks like a proper bad-ass. ))

[taatje]

I’ve been bitten by the WoW bug again with all the BFA hype. So I finished a sketch I had laying around of my precious Sae’tvean. My lawful good Paladin of the Silver Hand turned Demon Hunter. 

[taatje]

Date Auction Farah

Friday, February 16th, we are auctioning off this fellow for some lucky person!

All auctions will start at a minimum of 20 gold!

Date Auctions do not require the participants (whom buy their dates and are the dates) to erp or perform any sexual conduct. These are merely dates (identified as social or romantic appointments or engagements).

@farahblackfyre

Details of your future date - -

Name: Farah Alleria Blackfyre Age: 18 Gender: Female

Farah Blackfyre is a petite young woman. She’s blessed with cream colored skin that is blessed without any obvious marring, save for whatever lays under the eye covering she wears.

Her hair is a fine mix of copper tones with fiery reds. Her lips naturally full and carry a rather distinctive pout at all time.

She is known for being witty and rather brash at times, so bet for this lady being in the know that you’re in for a fun evening of lively conversation.

[taatje]

Sounds fun!!

Love is in The Air; Applications and Information!

The Sisters in Sin are bringing quite the treat to the server this February, with the aid of a few folk willing to lend a hand to make February the 16th a memorable night!

What are we looking for?

Spunky, cooperative individuals and groups to bring a bit of fun and festivity to this server-wide event! To ensure things go smoothly and all the spam is evened out we’re using the whole Mistfall Village!

A fun little tip for our event February 16th? It’s gonna be themed! A Burlesque theme, actually! That means boas, corsets, fishnets and hosiery, pasties, laces, ruffled panties, body suits, body harnesses and garter belts and suspenders and thongs galore!

Outside of the Brothel’s Main Events will include the necessity that someone, or some folk, fills in these roles:

5 to 10 vendors to sell Love is in the Air wares appropriate to the holiday like jewelry, sweets, clothing and accessories, decor, toys, wines, and spirits, etc., etc. (after the first major event there will be a rotation in vendors if we have a full 10!).

At least 2 cooks to provide food for all the guests – mostly small entrees and finger foods!

Game directors! If you have your own little fun game and tricks you’d like to bring to the table for people to participate in you’re welcome to do so!

Fortune tellers/parlor trick performers!

Race announcers and trackers (someone to follow the racers as they rush through the trails set up by markers and make sure they stay on said trails)!

Pet battle director!

We request all vendors get into contact with Tarvasha ( @the-wolfs-raven )) for IC interviews!

Otherwise, all other applicants please contact the Madam ( @susan-gampre or @renlavaye ) for IC interviews!

We request only serious applicants!

  One of our events before the first event and before the second event includes “Lover’s Quarrel”, a series of hand to hand fights. We request a maximum of 8 fights – And the prize for the winner? An all expenses paid trip for two to the Steam Pools Resort in Feralas! All participants are requested to fill out one of the follow and send it into the SiS’s Security Captain Giltithos ( @henroth-valdemar ): 

Name: Age: Weight: Title( “The Defiler”, “Hyena”, “The Mountain” ): Wins (How many fights have they won?): Losses (How many fights have they lost?):

We request only serious applicants!

For the first major Brothel event, it includes a date auction! This requires at the bare minimum an amount of 5 participants and no more than fifteen! The following form must be filled out and sent to the Madam Gampre ( @susan-gampre ):

Name: Age: Gender: Picture of Participant (a photo of their faceclaim or a piece of art you’d like to use!): A basic description of the Participant (3-4 sentences on what kind of individual your character is to convince the buyers on why they should bid!):

All proceedings and earnings from the date auction will be donated to a charity, which is to be decided!

All transactions will be through ic gold, all auctions will start at no lesser than 20 gold!

We request only serious applicants!

For the second major Brothel event, it includes a series of performances of the Burlesque manner as this is a “Burlesque themed” event! We request all interested performers fill out the following form and send it to our resident Head Diva, Kendari ( @thevivacious ):

Character’s Name: Preferred Performer Nickname (optional): Length of performance: Music: Introduction (ex: “Ladies and gents, she’s sassy, bratty and a lil’ bit smart assy, please help me in welcoming the Vivacious Kendari”): OOC (toy box or spell) Special/Visual Effects? (optional):  

We request only serious applicants!

We look forward to hearing from you guys!

We will end our search for volunteers and helpers February 14th! Get in while you can!

[taatje]

Charlisse

Taatje is soaring across the blighted Western Plaguelands with the Vindicator’s sermon fresh on his mind. He sits atop the saddle of his great Nether Drake Ohnaku, his powerful sides rising and falling in time with his grand wing strokes. The night air is cold on his face and the sky is clear tonight, the stars dazzlingly present.

He isn’t paying particular attention, thinking hard on the Vindicator’s words. He had talked at great length about the contrast in the ways in which the Light is used. On one end, soft golden Light that stood for all the kinder things. The knowledge of when to stay a weapon and instead offer healing and comfort. Still another, the need to protect one’s self and companions in the face of evil or danger. The stalwart shield against the imminent night.

He also talked about the harder aspects of the Light; the drive to mete out justice against those unpunished transgressors. A stark white light, spiteful in it’s judgement of the sinful. The last part resonated deeply with Taatje, his greatsword an ever-present part of his armament.

He is almost flung from his saddle when he hears it. ‘Help me,’ the voice is quiet and almost wavering. A child’s voice, but distorted and warped. Ohnaku, already sensing Taatje’s distress, pulls himself into a holding pattern; a low grumble issuing from his chest as his eyes search, his long sinuous neck sometimes turning to look back at Taatje.

‘Help me, I can’t find anyone…’ Again the voice, wavering and trailing off as abruptly as it started. Taatje is turning in his saddle, the voice right in his ear, yet he flies sixty feet above the ruins of a small village. He again turns about, this time catching a white shape on the ground outside a small house, waving up to him. He squints for a moment, mind trying to fit together the disjointed information.

Ohnaku is already banking and diving down lower to investigate before Taatje can open his mouth. The deep purple drake spreads his amethyst wings, slowing their descent; his strong strokes shove away the corpse-light fog, great eddies of it swirl off in every direction like liquid smoke.

The drake lets out a warning rumble from deep within his chest. Taatje feels the vibrations bodily, teeth chattering minutely. He distractedly looks to the specter, the form of a little girl with a terrified visage. She’s wringing a small stuffed bear in her minute hands whilst looking to Taatje, ‘I’ve looked everywhere….I can’t find anyone. I checked in our house for mommy and daddy and they are gone too.”

Taatje opens his mouth to reply when Ohnaku again growls deeply with menace, his great tail thumping the ground and sending more eddies of the corpse-light fog swirling away. A crowd of the undead have gathered and begun to draw near. Their clothes and skin are tattered, bone sometimes showing through the dessicated flesh. The nearest appears to be wearing coveralls, typical farmer apparel. They are the deceased villagers, reanimated by the dread magic blighting the region.

Taatje swings his leg over the saddle and hops down with a dull thump, his well-crafted armor hardly making a sound. The greatsword swings free from it’s sheathe the next moment, right in-time with Taatje’s stride toward the nearest undead.

As he closes with the shambling corpse, he swings the sword in a humming horizontal arc that parts the zombie cleanly in two. The two halves falling to the ground; the torso with it’s arms still reaching and teeth gnashing is then bathed in a soft golden glow that stills it’s movements.

Taatje raises his head, peering at another three corpses as they shuffle toward him unflaggingly. He raises a hand and another wave of golden light flies forth and envelopes the figures. They shake in exorcism and drop to the ground, a final rasping wrattle escaping the torn lips of one.

Taatje strides manfully to the last; a great ruin of a man. He was likely the blacksmith of the village, his size remaining apparent even unto death. The keening sword whips through the air, the blade assuming a soft golden glow as is it neatly divides the zombie’s head. It’s body crumpling to the ground thereafter.

The Blood Elf is calm throughout the brief sortie. He has specialized training from his Order for dealing with threats of this nature. His mind is instead still lingering on the sermon and vacillating to the ghost of the little girl.

‘Part of our mandate is to provide Judgment and retribution as Paladins. There is a time for mercy, but there is also a time to punish those villains and criminals that would otherwise walk freely.’ He hears the Vindicator’s words as he walks back to the house where the little girl yet stands. His head swivels around as he strides, a brief reprieve has been earned if the apparent emptiness of the village is any measure.

Taatje nears the little girl and drops to a knee in reassurance. He removes his helm and peers at her with sympathetic eyes. ‘I am Taatje Morningdew, a Paladin. What is your name child?’ He asks in the most soothing voice he can manage, worried about startling the incorporeal child off. The little girl raises her hands until the small, ragged stuffed bear is in front of her face. She peeks around it, ‘I’m Charisse….’ Her voice trails off shyly. The little girl’s eyes suddenly widen and she takes a few faltering steps backwards. She turns abruptly and bolts into the house, the ribbon in her hair desperately trailing in pursuit.

He feels a sensation creep over him, something like the cold legs of a hairy spider. Goosebumps raise in response as his gauntlets groan slightly in the grip of the greatsword. Taatje turns to Ohnaku and gives him a faint nod, his eyes meeting The great Drake’s. The Drake lets out a warbling roar, the sound seeming as if to come from multiple Drakes as his four powerful legs thrust him into the air where his wings catch and bear him aloft into the night sky.

The Paladin steps through the entry,deftly avoiding the door laying to the side, it’s hinges shattered. The sickly-orange glow reflecting off the Paladin’s armor, giving him a vaguely nightmarish outline.

He’s steps into a large open room that seems to serve as the both the living and dining room. There is a small kitchen adjoining it on the far left corner and on the far right, a narrow flight of stairs lead upward into darkness. There rests a dust covered table to the left, the ends of it’s legs disappearing into the fog that rolls through the open doorway; blanketing the wooden flooring.

The floors groan and squeak as Taatje strides into the structure. His gleaming sabatons leave clear depressions in the deep dust beneath the fog. He walks almost soundlessly, his steps cushioned as he advances inwards. There is nothing inordinate about the lower portion of the house except the kitchen cupboards which have drooped and the deeply rusted stove.

Taatje, still scanning, makes his way toward the stairwell. His softly glowing sword sending shadows skittering about in every direction, only for them to again close hungrily as he shifts in yet another direction. He begins his ascent, eyes peering upwards into the shadow. The sagging stairs groan as Taatje mouths a silent prayer for safe passage upwards.

He alights at the top of the stairwell which terminates to the left where a wall runs along with three consecutive doors. He stops at the first door, the sudden silence seems to press in aggressively, seeking to swallow him. He turns the knob and pushes the door open. Inside resting against the far wall is a small bed with two pillows on it. The coloring of the material is difficult to discern with so much dust, but this is clearly a pairs’ room. He can see two nightstands on either side of the small bed and a large dresser on the opposite wall.

His eyes continue to sweep the room, his glowing sword buffeting the shadows back. His eyes come to stop on an ornate loom, it’s delicate swirls and silver trimming indicate the clearly-valued item. It is well-maintained and was obviously loved by the previous owner. ‘Taphrina.’ He whispers softly, an image of their last interaction coming to mind; her sitting on the edge of her large bed, doing her best to choke back a sob.

His heart drops in regret at the memory of his departure as he softly closes the door. He will later return for the item and take it to Chapel for cleansing and restoration. He takes a few muted steps and stops at the second door. This one is slightly ajar when he pushes it open, the hinges squealing loudly in protest. Taatje hisses softly, the shadow swirling about him in agitation as he brings the sword forward into the room; shoving away the crawling shadow.

The room is a standard washroom, a thick coating of dust blanketing the fogless floor. Inside, attached to the left wall is a sink with a polished steel mirror afixed above. There is also a also a small clawed bathtub with lantern grilles on each corner for heating. Taatje surveys the room and backs out, but is unable to pull the sagged door closed.

He turns and makes his way to the last door. The door is wedged closed, having warped inside it’s frame. With a grunt, Taatje shoves the door open, the wood of the door squealing against the door frame. The room is swathed in gloom, inside it contains a simple bed, nightstand and an armor rack with a grey cloth suspended from it. The room is spartan and without much decor. Except for Charlisse.

She is crouched behind the large rack, her incorporeal form shivering. Taatje sees and steps into the room slowly, afraid of again sending the little human fleeing. ‘Hi Charlisse. Can you tell me what’s wrong?’ He softly asks as he draws a little nearer and again takes a knee. Charlisse looks at him, her eyes are wide and her mouth set in a line. She has an odd clean scent to her, a stark contrast to the ever-present smell of mold and decay of the town.

‘Big Tom always let me hide here when I get scared. He is the town guard, but I can’t find anymore either.’ She whispers, still shivering slightly, her hands gripping the small ragged bear. As Taatje extends his hand to her, that sensation of a large spider crawling about him again seizes. He looks up, only to see Charlisse’s form vanishing through the wall as if it were not there.

The sensation is stronger this time, he can almost feel the individual spider hairs on his flesh. A sudden urge takes him to remove his armor as he sags into his kneeling posture. It feels so heavy; he can hardly move in it. And the cold sweat now soaking his body, it runs into his eye from the stifling helm. He feels weary, his eyes growing heavy.

But a small alarm is blaring red in the back of his mind. The warning bells are sounding and something alerts him to the assault. He shakes his head, teeth gritting when his eyes shift like a strobe from fel-green to stark white. As suddenly as it began, the assault is over and the sensation gone.

Taatje stands firmly, the lethargy shaken off like so much dust. He turns to depart, an ember of flame alighting in his stomach. An idea of what is afflicting Charlisse beginning to take form.

He exits in time to see Charlisse vanish into yet another house, this one diagonal to the desecrated home he just left. Taatje strides manfully across the paved street, his sabatons clicking mutely over the dust covered-paver stones toward a lurking armored zombie standing vigil near the house. It dawns on Taatje, so much like a struck torch in a dark room. The armored zombie was Big Tom. His stride doesn’t slow as he strikes the risen man down.

His heart is heavy, but anger at the blasphemy spurs his movement. Taatje strides into the gloomy home, his Light-given sense allowing visual clarity in the gloom. His speckless white eyes scan the room, he can sense great evil in a small room, set just below the stairwell. His stride lengthening, he covers the distance and sends a sabaton crashing into the door. The hinges shatter and the door explodes into flying shrapnel.

Inside, he notes a small bed, covered with a thick layer of dust and more of the small stuffed animals. Small pictures on thin, cheap vellum adorn the walls. ‘Charlisse!’ Taatje nearly shouts, his eyes scanning the room until they come to rest on a small pile of bones resting on a softly glowing mark.

A feeling of dread washes over Taatje as his eyes focus on the fel thing. He recognizes it as a sacrificial rune, the elegant swirls of the thing hide it’s foul nature. Taatje lets out a low growl, now understanding why Charlisse has been stuck. Taatje resumes surveying the room, confusion mounting by the moment.

Taatje strides just inside the room and not far from the rune rests a much larger skeleton, still garbed in decaying purple robes. There is a clear slit in the robes, the skeleton’s hands almost seem to cup the slash. The paladin lets out a weary sigh, the corpse of the town guard had been lurking near the house, almost as if standing vigilance. ‘I see ‘Big Tom’ brought you low before you could finish, you damnable creature.’

As soon as Taatje closes his mouth, he again feels the crawling sensation. This time it brings him straight to his knees and then onto his face. His eyes slowly close as they fix on a small ornate pot just hanging from the deceased necromancer’s pocket. Taatje drags his sword arm forward with a grunt, cutting arcing lines into the deep dust until his blade is oriented point-first towards the small pot. He can see a red shroud of guilt, almost a veil swaddling the pot like a newborn.

Taatje’s hands and sword take on a stark-white glow of divine judgement. The suddenly explodes forth, growing in size until it parts the ornate pot into halves. The glow diminishes and the sword retracts, having cleaved a surgical line into the base of the house. Taatje blacks out to an unearthly wailing as the necromancer’s soul is destroyed; purified by both the Light and the destruction of it’s vessel.

The Paladin awakens some time later to rhythmic tugging on his pauldron. He slowly opens his eyes to Charlisse leaning over his form. ‘I just want to go back, why can’t I go back to how things used to be?’ She pleads between great choking sobs. Taatje sits up, his own throat clenching. ‘I want to see mommy and daddy again. I miss them so much.’ She continues, great tears rolling down her incorporeal cheeks.

‘I will take you to them, child,’ Taatje replies with a grieving heart as he stands, slowly making his way to the glowing rune. His back hurts, the flesh burnt right in the center of his back where the Lich attempted to usurp his body.

Taatje kneels at the rune and beckons the little girl over. She tearfully approaches, great sobs still rocking her small body. As she closes, Taatje wraps a thick arm around her in a half-hug. ‘Sometimes we can’t go back child, only forward.’ He whispers softly as he brings a gauntleted hand up to muss her hair softly; the other glowing hand he runs across the rune and destroys the fel binding.

Abruptly as she appeared, she vanishes. The only proof that she was there is a strip of ribbon caught on his gauntlet. The cloth is almost translucent and glows a soft white. He slowly collects the small pile of bones into a cloth and then plops wearily onto her small bed. A small cloud rising to greet him as his weight settles.

Regret, like a swallowed brick rests in his stomach. He can see her her still in his mind, the image frozen of Taphrina collapsing into herself as if trying to vanish. He wanted so much to reach out to her, to make it ok, but he couldn’t tamp down his anger and instead walked out of the door. He sighs, not even sure why he was upset in the first place. He had done for her, what she had not asked of him. He had placed expectations on her, almost nearing personal divinity. Her confessions, brought that burning down to the ground. A nation’s flag set aflame, some inscribed truth marred. Reality, like a warhammer, shattered all of that.

But what he wanted so much to say, yet failed at in the moment. Was that cared more for her as she is and that what had happened, did not diminish her in his eyes. He pulls a gauntlet off, eyes still fixed on the damning comb; his still-unbraided hair tucked into his armor.

He pulls himself off the bed after peering at the comb for a spell. He again equips his helm and strides from the ruined home without ceremony. He lets out a piercing whistle and mere moments later, Ohnaku’s great form descends to the ground. He nuzzles Taatje briefly, clearly happy to see him. ‘Wait just a moment, I need to grab something before we leave this cursed place.’ Taatje disappears into the first structure he entered previously and leaves a minute later, a curious shape wrapped in an old curtain torn from a window.

He lashes the parcel to the Drake and then turns back to the village after retrieving an unlit torch from his saddlebag. He turns and surveys the ruined village for a long moment. The vaguely orange fog rolls and coils about his greaves as if hungry for life in the oppressive silence of the place. He finally strikes the torch and commences to setting flame to each of the former homes. He returns to the Drake just as the heat and smoke of the collective pyres thickens. He swings himself up onto the saddle with heavy eyes.

‘To the Chapel, Ohnaku. We have a little work to do before Silvermoon. Before Taphrina.’

[taatje]

Laundry Day

Taatje woke up this morning covered in sweat, thoughts of his persistent dream his ever waking companion. He pulls a few braids from his face and examines one, it’s normally lustrous sheen dull. The little silver bell interwoven into the braid sounding dolefully back at him in the motion. He reaches a cut and bruised hand for a thick tunic, but pauses, noticing the dirt and off-colored splotches on the leather. His armor too, winks at him from the corner of his eye, it’s normally resplendent gleam tuned down to foggy shine, the dents and scratches apparent.

He gets up from his bunk silently, pausing only momentarily on seeing Alexander, the odd floating little skull that normally accompanies Mourne, silently chattering in glee as it nudges someone’s bric-a-brac off a nightstand. Ravias, the unpredictable felblood lounges nearby, head buried in a pillow. He appears morose, but Taatje knows he could gleefully start a forest fire in the next moment.

Passing the odd pair, and entering the kitchen, he makes his way to the sink where he fills his canteen with cool, clear water. It’s an odd and small thing, but the water tastes better here. It’s cleaner and lacks the hint of metallic tang one finds in Silvermoon. Near the sink, a heavy cast-iron pan sits cooling, egg still barely apparent on the bottom. His stomach growls a bit, but he does not feel like cooking this morning. The dull-gray weather outside seems to reflect both his energy and vigor.

He makes his way back to his bunk, the strange pair still behaving oddly, the sound of something shattering against the floor or something else clattering and rolling off the only real noise in the sonorous room. He holds open a thickly-stitched heavy canvas bag and begins unceremoniously stuffing it full of both his clothing and armor. His great gleaming sword he leaves resting against his bunk. He does not want to touch it today.

Clad in moccasins and simple cloth shirt and pants, he slings the great bag over his shoulder, dense musculature absorbing the weight effortlessly. He silently makes his way to the washroom. He pushes the smooth wooden door open, the humid air rushes past his face in greeting. The interior is unlit and swathed in gloom until a simple snap causes mana-infused lights on the ceiling to bloom into incandescence.

The lit washroom reveals walls that are lined with wooden benches with long pegs above the rest from which to hang gear or clothing. There are occasional breaks in the benches where  spouts protrude from the walls and below these rest small wooden stools. On the wall to the right of the door, a large winged spout hangs and below sits an assortment of wood buckets and stiff-bristled brushes. To the left of the spout, a wooden bin sits, ready to collect the previously clean cloths which hang above the bin on a great rack. Their stark-white, neatly-folded shapes a sharp contrast to the otherwise subdued room.

Taatje enters, the only other sound in the room is the occasional forlorn drip from one of the faucets. He takes a wooden bucket by it’s cloth handle and a brush. He hoists the bucket up and depresses the red, soapstone button which dispenses hot water and fills the bucket almost to the rim. He then quietly sets the bucket on the floor close to a nearby bench. He also sets down the heavy canvas bag softly; reluctant to break the general silence in the washroom. He pulls both his moccasins and shirt off. He rolls his pant legs up, great corded forearms rippling with the motion.

He leans back, eyes roving over the opposite, pale wooden walls as he takes the first braid, unfastens the end and begins working it loose. He’s careful to remove each bell and strip of silk as he runs his hand up the braid, forcing the bunches of hair apart. He repeats the process for each braid whilst deep in thought.

He does not know what the future holds for him with the Regiment, only that there is nothing to which he can return. He finds the members strange and sometimes more than a little alarming, but feels as if he belongs. Larger Sin’doreii society has made it quite clear that his disfigured presence is unwanted. And it’s because of that awful scar that he must continue training and fighting. He must be ready because in his near future, there is a group of elves responsible for his damning scar. And those elves he intends to bring to screaming end.

He places the last of the blood red silk strips next to his hip with the others and then pulls the cloth pants off, retrieves his steel comb, clothe, lye soap and scented oil vial and takes a seat on one of the stools beneath a spout. Once the water is steaming, he works a thick lather into his hair and scalp before rinsing it out in great sudsy streams that slide their way toward the central drain. He then cleans his body and rinses, a small stream of blood washes too down the drain with more of the suds.

He shuts the water off, takes the vial and unstoppers it. A scent of mildly-sweet Elderberry reaches his nose in the steamed air. He takes a few drops in hand before rubbing himself down with the scent. He does likewise with his hair, but uses the steel comb to work out knots and distribute the oil.

With his hair now combed back and down his back, he rises and returns to his things where he pulls on a clean pair of shorts. He sits on a stool, powerful thigh muscles flex; a testament to the weight of his gear.

He reaches over and starts by emptying the canvas sack. Armor pieces in one pile, dirty clothing in another. He pulls out a heavy pair of pants with dried blood and various stains on them and dunks them in the bucket. He then takes the bar of lye soap and works up another lather, spreading the now activated soap over the material. He lays them flat on the bench, takes up the brush and begins scrubbing the pants in long up and down motions. In the rising bubbles, grime and blood are visible.

He takes the next item of soiled clothing and repeats the process. He finishes each by dunking them in the water-filled bucket until they come away free of soap. The water in the bucket is changed out periodically, grey water, blood and grime washing away down the drain like so much of yesterday. After washing each item, he hangs them on the pegs until only his armor remains.

He first selects his chest-guard, the item that normally sees the most abuse. The item is dinged in several places and has a long furrow running the width of it. It’s still serviceable, but only so. He takes more of the soap and applies it both to the face and the padded underside. The brush again sees work and more of the same blood and grime are cleansed.

He works his way through the pile of armor until each piece is clean. The vambraces and gauntlets in particular bleed during the wash as if they were living. He will buff them later at his bunk with some oil. With the armor and clothing all clean, Taatje stands and once again fills the bucket with clean, steaming water and sets to rinsing both the floor and his feet of the grey water. He then washes his hands, and returns to his things.

Into the bag goes the armor. He then pulls on a mostly dry form-fitting shirt and a heavy pair of pants. He pulls through the pants a thick leather belt which he synches to his powerful waist. The now-folded clothing too goes into the bag, resting neatly atop the armor pieces. The bag is packed in the manner of a professional traveler.

He makes his way back to his bunk, where he sets down his bag and stops, eyes locked on his great sword. He draws nearer to it, feeling oddly reluctant about the familiar weapon. He reaches out a calloused hand and pulls the weapon free from it’s sheathe, the last item to remain dirty. The blade itself is well-maintained and catches the low-lighting in the bunk room hungrily.

He peers at the keening blade, searching for any cracks, but it’s only his reflection he finds. His fel-green eyes peer back, they follow him as his eyes trace the rest of his face. His face is handsome otherwise, with a defined jaw and full lips. But his eyes stop when they reach the scar. That awful scar that has caused so much difficulty already. His face blackens a moment, eyes hardening with grim resolution. He whispers softly to himself, voice like the deep crack that precedes an avalanche. ‘Zarachiel Redsun, I am coming for you.’

He strides from the bunk manfully. Heavy boots on his feet in search of someone that can rebraid his now dried hair. The sonorous bunk room seems to amplify each of the heavy departing steps. He had to train and he had to get ready.

[taatje]

Sojourn Prelude

Raptors wheel slowly overhead,  predatory black dots against fleeting blue sky in Stormheim. The waves can be heard crashing mightily against the cliffs not far away, shoving as if to topple the land from it’s proud repose.

‘So beautiful in it’s savagery,’ remarks Taatje as he rests on a grassy gnoll, speaking aloud as if to claim his place lest he be swept away. His eyes trace the imposing mountain-peaks, too numerous to count with their great size reaching into the sky as if to pull down the elusive cumulus. The clouds frequently blacken with outrage in response and pour down great raindrops, throwing lightning and shouting thunder angrily.

The Blood Elf remains seated, eyes perpetually scanning. Great wolves stalk the ancient forests and craggy cliffs of this land. They run the mighty Elk to chest-heaving exhaustion before closing and shredding tendons and soft pieces. Aurochs bed down in the thickets, their matted and shaggy coats shielding them from the elements. They are proud beasts, trampling and goring those smaller when they dare impose.

The unflagging bear meanders hungrily. Their powerful claws rending tree bark and flesh alike in the quest for food. The hunter’s bane, for one cast arrow delivers terrible reprisal. The eagle too, kingly in his hunt in all other skies. He descends down on unwary prey, powerful grasping claws hold fast, waiting for the beak.

But in these particular skies, he is usurped. The majestic Storm Drake rule with absolution all sky in her queendom. Regally purple and zeppelin blue, they soar by, each flap of the wing heralding lightning. Their scales rough as tree bark, hard as marble and as fine as alabaster. Each inhale a gift to friends, every exhale; ruin to enemies.

Lastly are the Vrykul, tall, ancient and just as imposing as their homeland. Their language is runic, but it is with axe and sword do they speak the loudest. A people steeped in ancient rites and old magiks. Ever do they seek the gleaming Halls of the Father, their foes’ heads booming loudly on the doors. She too dwells there in the darkest place where no living dare tread. No succor does she lend, only woe in her gloomy house.

It’s in these lands of extremes that Taatje has sojourned, resting on a grassy gnoll, eyes scanning and awaiting the Vrykul with whom he will soon quest.

[taatje]

Dream Log

Taatje awoke suddenly and jolted upright. He brushed his braids back out of his face, causing the small silver bells to chatter angrily at having their rest disturbed. The world was black and ominous, pitch shades seemed to drip from the corners and run everywhere like dark watery paint. There was an absence of sound except for what sounded like great bellows. He was in garrison and sitting on the foot of his bunk was the largest raven he had ever seen.

He looked to see if anyone else was too, seeing the great bird, but his comrades were wreathed in such deep gloom that he was unable. He turned back to the raven, his calloused hand tracing and catching on the standard-issue wool blanket and it peered back. The raven turned it’s head in the other direction, it’s other inky-black eye now peering at Taatje in his totality; weighing and measuring. The raven left out a soft croak and everything went black.

In the next moment, Taatje was high aloft just outside of the Garrison, his breath caught in his chest for a moment as panic gripped him, but he knew intrinsically he was in no danger and quickly settled. He watched myriad landscapes pass below as he hurtled above until in the far distance, great foreign peaks wreathed in storm clouds could be seen.

He woke up coated in sweat, braids matted to his face and winded. In his mind, runes blazed:

ᛊᛏᛟᚱᛗᚺᛖᛁᛗ

[taatje]

Any Less Would Have Been Quite Rude

Taatje strode boldly down the treacherous path, descending into the jagged canyon that flickered from deep within like some hellish maw; illuminated by the viscously bubbling pools of fel resting at the bottom. The ethereal green lights casting shadows that crept across the walls, dancing along to the faint whispers escaping the fluid.

The Blood Elf is average in height, but broadened from years of arduous activity in heavy plate armor. He has a thick lustrous mane full of neat braids that cascade down to the small of his back like rivulets of molten gold. The elf is marred by a savage burn scar on the right side of his face that could at times turn a warm smile into a disturbing rictus.

‘This damnable planet!’ Taatje curses as he strides along, having descended to the nightmarish bottom and circling around the rim of the hazardous pool; doing his best to avoid touching any of the phosphorescent matter. Taatje shook his foot with a reddened face as flying splatter from the noxious pool strafed his otherwise gleaming sabaton.

‘And there goes another trip to the Blacksmiths I daresay,’ grumbles Taatje to himself. He had prior to departing for Argus, the ruined world on which he now traversed, ignorantly had his armor buffed into resplendence. ‘I should simply hire a servant to accompany me at the rate this accursed place is despoiling me! And here I am in Hel, howling to myself like one of those ghastly Alliance dog-men over it’s favorite stick!’ Taatje finished his rant by kicking a loose stone and sending it clattering down the ominous passageway that snaked it’s way hungrily through the canyon.

Almost immediately after the clattering stone comes to respite, a low hiss that seemed to humm up through the craggy ground causes Taatje to halt and reach a gauntleted hand towards the extended grip of the great brutish sword strapped to his back. His face serene as he peers ahead, awaiting his hunter.

A low grinding as of stone rubbing stone becomes audible as a massive Basilisk rounds the corner. The long squat creature sits low to the ground on four thick stubby legs that support it’s great bulk. It swings it’s long head towards Taatje, it’s small, demon-fire lit eyes resting above an elongated snout filled with great teeth. It thrashes it’s long tail, snaking away behind it and releases another bassy hiss as it explodes forth in terrible speed.

Taatje takes one manly stride forward and meets the beast mid-charge. He swings powerfully, neatly severing the beast’s upper jaw and neutralizing the beast’s bite, but he is still thrown backwards by the great momentum of the Basilisk. He rolls to his feet, his now dented and scratched armor coated in the thick viscous blood that resembles the noxious fluid in the surrounding pools. He again steps forward and brings the greatsword down in a terrible overhead swing that comes to rest with the blade halfway buried in the demon’s skull. The beast’s thrashing goes still, all the while thick blood spurts from it’s ruined jaw.

Just as Taatje opens his mouth, undoubtedly to curse the beast for ruining his armor, bassy hisses emanate from all over: around the corner, from previously unseen holes in the desolate canyon walls and from the lip of the noxious pool whence more Basilisks pull themselves.

The elf stands alertly, ears twitching slightly as he peers around, seeing his foes’ numbers. He smiles calmly, the scar twisting the display into a grimace. From his back, two great golden wings erupt and flap grandly in the air above. He steps forth gamely and growls: ‘A fitting reception, any less would have been quite rude.’

[taatje]

Criminal vs Dark

So this is something that I encounter often when it comes to my own characters and my own guild as well, given that we are a criminal organization who is -not- primarily a dark guild. Note that this is not to say that dark RP is bad, nor that the two can’t be done together, but it’s often forgotten that you can have criminal RP -without- also being dark.

You can have criminals with moral codes. You can have a killer who refuses to go after children. You can have a thief who only steals from the upper class. You can have a drug dealer who only sells non-addictive substances.

Too often, I see criminal and dark lumped together. And there is nothing inherently wrong with that, but it’s important to remember that there are criminal RPers out there who are -not- mega-dark. Who don’t go all the way to the darkest RPs they can get their hands on and instead run the line of a mafia or a street runner with morality, family, and codes.

It’s just been more then once where folks have been surprised to learn my criminal characters don’t immediately delve into the avenues of mass murder, rape, and soul ripping torment. Maybe a homegirl just wants to grab some bread to feed their family.

Criminal does not always mean dark.

[taatje]

Commission W.I.P for @euphemiacrowsong / @xiviadanes 

[taatje]

Very cool idea!

[ Tagged by: @swordandsaddle, @galenthraece, and I think one or two others?]

[ COLORS ] || red. brown. orange. yellow. green. blue. purple. pink. black.white. teal. silver. gold. grey. lilac. metallic. matte. royal blue. strawberry red. charcoal grey. emerald. indigo. ruby. navy blue. crimson. cream. mint. pear green.

[ ELEMENTS ] || fire. ice. water. air. earth. rain. snow. wind. moon. stars. sun. heat. cold. steam. frost. lightning. sunlight. moonlight. dawn. dusk. twilight. midnight. sunrise. sunset. dewdrops. fog.

[ BODY ] || claws. long fingers. fangs. teeth. wings. tails. lips. bare feet. freckles. bruises. canines. scars. scratches. wounds. burns. spikes. feathers. webs. eyes. hands. sweat. tears. cheekbones. feline. chubby. curvy. short. tall. muscular. slender. trained. piercings. tattoos. strong. weak. struggling. athletic. lithe.

[ WEAPONS ] || fists. sword. dagger. spear. scythe. bow and arrow. hammer. shield. poison. guns. axes. words. throwing axes. whips. knives. throwing knives. pepper sprays. tasers. machine guns. slingshots. katanas. maces. staff. wands. powers. magical items. magic. rocks. mud balls. rifles. cannons. mind.

[ MATERIALS ] || gold. silver. platinum. titanium. diamonds. pearls. rubies. sapphires. emeralds. amethyst. metal. iron. rust. steel. glass. wood. porcelain. paper. wool. fur. lace. leather. silk. ichor. velvet. denim. linen. cotton. charcoal. clay. stone. asphalt. brick. marble. dust. glitter. blood. dirt. mud. smoke. ash. shadow. carbonate. rubber. synthetics.

[ NATURE ] || grass. leaves. trees. bark. roses. daisies. tulips. lavender. petals. thorns. seeds. hay. sand. rocks. stream. roots. flowers. ocean. river. meadow. forest. desert. tundra. savanna. rainforest. caves. underwater. coral reef. beach. waves. space. clouds. mountains. woods. hills. highlands.

[ ANIMALS ] || lions. tigers. wolves. panthers. eagles. owls. falcons. hawks. vultures. swans. snakes. turtles. ducks. bugs. spiders. songbirds. whales. dolphins. fish. sharks. horses. cats. deer. dogs. bunnies. praying mantises. crows. ravens. mice. jackals. lizards. werewolves. unicorns. pegasus. dragons. foxes. phoenixes. peacocks.

[ FOODS/DRINKS ] || sugar. salt. candy. bubblegum. wine. champagne. hard liquor. beer. coffee. tea. soda. spices. herbs. apple. citrus. orange. lemon. raspberry. cherry. strawberry. watermelon. vegetables. gingerbread. fruits. meat. fish. pies. desserts. chocolate. cream. caramel. berries. nuts. cinnamon. stew. venison. rice. ambrosia. bread.

[ HOBBIES ] || music. art. watercolors. gardening. smithing. sculpting. painting. sketching. fighting. fencing. riding. writing. composing. cooking. sewing. training. dancing. acting. singing. martial arts. self-defense. technology. swimming. theater. libraries. books. magazines. piano. violin. cello. guitar. lute. mandolin. bass guitar. harmonica. harp. woodwinds. brass. trumpet. flute. drums. bells. playing cards. poker chips. chess. dice. eating. climbing. running. hiking.

[ STYLE ] || lingerie. armor. cape. dress. suit. tunic. vest. shirt. boots. barefoot. heels. leggings. trousers. jeans. skirt. shorts. jewelry. earrings. necklace. collar. bracelet. ring. pendant. hat. crown. circlet. helmet. scarf. neck tie. brocade. cloaks. corsets. doublet. chest plate. bracers. belt. layers. bandana. sash. coat. jacket. hood. gloves. socks. masks. cowls. braces. sweaters. watches. glasses. sunglasses. visor. eye contacts. makeup. implant. artificial parts. robes.

[ MISC ] || balloons. bubbles. cityscape. landscape. light. dark. candles. war. peace. money. power. percussion. clocks. photos. mirrors. pets. diary. fairy lights. madness. sanity. sadness. happiness. fatigue. energetic. manipulation. faith. optimism. pessimism. loneliness. family. friends. chronic pain. assistants. somnambulism. co-workers. enemies. loyalty. devotion. smoking. drugs. drinking. kindness. love. hugs. time. questions.

[ Tagging: I’m super late to the party and have no idea who’s done this already. If you’ve been tagged and keep meaning to get to it like me, here’s a reminder!]

[taatje]

You are cordially invited...

Printed on paper purple as an eggplant, the flyer bore a white mask that wore two different expressions: one half of the face grinned like a fox, and the other wept as though its heart had been broken. The following message had been written in silver ink:

The Brydydd Theatre wishes you a happy holiday and invites you to join us for a sentimental soiree. Bring your friends, bring your bae to our satirical play. The admission ticket is https://discord.gg/22xmcEJ.