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[gloomshrike]

bruins suck and david pastrnak is a punk bitch

[gloomshrike]

[RP] The Great Divide

Beathan leaned against the Portal Ciela’s railing, resting on his elbows and looking out over the water. Even on a nice day in Hingashi, the Ruby Sea’s nighttime breeze threatened him with a slight chill, and he pulled his tunic tighter over his chest as he stared at the water.

“I thought you went to bed.” Pepper’s voice broke him out of his meditation, and he looked over to see the tall Rava had happened upon him on her own way to the staff quarters. Her expression was neutral, if just a tad inquisitive, as if whatever explanation Beathan gave for still being up was of no actual consequence. 

He answered nonetheless. “I’m on my way. Just unwinding, it’s been a busy night and my ears are still ringing.” He offered his reply with a slight smile.

Pepper gave an understanding nod. “Well, you’re a big hit, it seems. So much bullshit I doubt you’ll know what to do with all the flies.” She turned the corners of her lips up in a taunting mien.

Beathan replied with a quiet chuckle. “Well, vinegar or not, as the resident auspice, you’d think you were showered in equitable niceties. And offerings of treasure.”

Pepper offered an actual laugh at the visual, and leaned her back against the railing next to Beathan. “I'd be careful milking kind words from people who, more likely than not, have no intention of living up to said words.”

Beathan looked back over the water, before turning around and hopping up to sit on the railing, letting his crossed legs swing underneath. “Hmm,” he hummed, “It’s not really about being nice. It’s about leveling the playing field, I guess. Though never confused with an auspice, I’ve seen my share of strange looks, not to mention the agape expressions when I talk about home.”

Pepper nodded. “We’re stranger strangers than most.”

Beathan gave a small sigh. “It’s as if there’s a glass wall twixt myself and the people beyond Skatay. Even after all this time. We are long-lived, strong folk. Connected to the ecosystems of our homes in ways few others can imitate. The people here regard me as… almost ethereal. And I regard them as ephemeral in turn. Most of the people I’ve met tiptoe around me at first, as if afeared of the pity I might offer them.”

Pepper shrugged. “They are short-lived. No one could fault you for that.”

Beathan shook his head. “But I don’t pity them for it. Nor do I think those lives are of lesser value. But they can feel like I do, just knowing how differently time passes for me. For us. Being nice, and welcoming, it’s all in an effort to…” Beathan paused, searching for the right word. “Bridge the gap, I suppose. I can’t well say I’ve seen the world if I wander it absent of any connection.”

Pepper cocked her head slightly as Beathan spoke. “I suppose. But that wall makes it easy to create some healthy distance, too. I don't give a shit what people think about me. I won’t change for them, so what does it matter?”

Beathan hummed. “I guess I don’t care how I’m perceived either. But I care that what I say is heard in the way I say it. That’s what it’s about.” Beathan offered a slight smile to Pepper. “Not being nice for niceness’s sake. But laying the groundwork to be understood. That is important to me.”

Pepper gave another shrug. “Fair enough. But I figure we’re understood the way they want to understand us. Never saw the value in changing their mind.”

Beathan smiled and hummed again, lazily swinging his legs as he looked up at the sky and mused on the idea. 

“I suppose that’s something to think about. But, at last..” He hopped off of the railing and dusted off his shorts. “It is time for actual rest. I appreciate your thoughts. Good night, Pepper.”

Pepper nodded, and replied. “Yljd, if you prefer.”

“Pardon?”

“Yljd Grimtir.” Pepper repeated.

Beathan smiled, and tilted his head forward, placing a hand courteously on his chest, and replied, “Benji Paharo,” before turning and heading to bed.

[gloomshrike]

The Sluicide Squad Part 1: Some Assembly Required

Zadnor, above Bozja, 19:48

Taknark sat in the command center with his legs crossed, lazily tapping the ash from his cigarette. The dim light of the tent cast a pathetic glow over himself, the commander, and a hooded lalafellan figure sitting in the corner. He was sick of Bozja. He’d been in and out of enough battles for less-than-reputable reasons to see that the war was coming to an end. The Garleans gave more ground every day, and the battles on Zadnor were barely incurring losses for the resistance anymore. The stress lines in his cheeks would have aged him if not for the constant poor lighting of the Bozjan winter, and the unkempt stubble that flecked his cheeks.

“Who’s the lalafell?” Taknark asked, gesturing to the hooded figure in the corner.

“An associate.” The lalafell replied dryly, his face still obscured by the hood.

“Well, ‘associate’, what are you doing here? I have a private meeting with the commander.”

“Resting.”

“You usually come to the command center to ‘rest’?”

“No, I usually visit your mother, but there’s a line at the glory hole.”

“Why you little shit-” Taknark stood and stepped aggressively toward the cowled lalafell.

“Sit down, Bryrsig.” The command came sharp and gruff from the commander, who finally looked up from reading Taknark’s leave request. “And Razenpip, shut your trap.”

Taknark scowled and sat down again, looking back towards the commander.

“Well?” Taknark asked the man, a hulking Hrothgar, who gave a sharp look at Taknark with his uncovered eye. The scar from beneath the patch above the other stretched far and up into his forehead, giving the commander a severe countenance before he’d even spoken.

“Well what, Bryrsig? You’re here in a semi-official capacity, and I’m being as generous with the word semi here as a garlean with ED. If we let you just keep coming and going you might as well stop coming at all.” The commander grumbled, leaning back in his chair.

“That’s the idea.” Taknark replied. “I’m done, chief. Everything’s large-scale now. You got no place for a man whose talent is smugglin’. I’m done. I gotta get home.”

The commander grumbled again, scratching his chin, before his one eye lit up with something akin to inspiration. He leaned forward over his desk, shuffling through papers, until he found a map of Zadnor. He smoothed out the edges and looked up at Taknark. “I’ll make you a deal, Bryrsig. One last ride. You do one more mission, well in line with your skillset, and you can fuck off home while the rest of us clean up.”

“What kinda mission are we talkin’?”

“Oh, nothing too bad. Just you, a small team, and a ceruleum flowgate that’ll tie this whole operation together.”

Taknark perked an eyebrow, stubbing out his cigarette and leaning over the map. “I’m listenin’.”

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Goblet, Ward 9, 12:04

♫~Now I’m dangerous and outspoken

And the Green Word’s dead and broken

Ain’t no jungle babes in this society

Oh, but I still got my aether

And I’m lyin’ down beneath ‘er

Hey big woman, you gonna make

A big bun of me~♫

The tall Viera moved his body to the rhythm playing from the radio as he fished more leaves out of the pool. Sweat moved slowly down his bronze skin as he danced, deftly twirling the pool net as he lifted out more refuse and dropped it in the small pile he’d collected. He wiped the sweat from his brow before it dripped onto his sunglasses, tucking his long braid over his shoulder with the same motion, where it rested on his muscled, exposed back. 

♫~Ohhh you’re gonna take me home ton-♫

“Moose! Moose, hun!” The voice interrupted his chorus, and Moose reached into the pocket of his yellow hotpants, struggling to fetch the remote on account of their tautness. At least, he succeeded, and paused the radio. He turned to face the voice as he lifted up his sunglasses to rest on his forehead. A roegadyn woman had poked her head out of the sliding glass door of the house. “Moose, I’m going to the market. There’s some orange juice in the fridge if you get thirsty, hun, just help yourself!”

Moose smiled and waved, “Of course, Miss Barageim. Hurry back!”

Miss Barageim gave a slow, deliberate exhale, blushing as she unconsciously played at the pearls which hung above her blouse, before collecting herself and waving back, then turning to leave.

Moose pointed the remote back at the radio, before stopping. He waited a moment, his keen ears listening for the sound of the front door closing, and then the heeled steps of Miss Barageim disappearing down the street. When at last he was satisfied with her distance, he put the remote back in his pocket, and moved the grip on his pool net from near the end to the center of the rod.

“I’m warning you,” he began, pressing the play button on the remote again, and starting to tap his feet, “I’ve pulled live star marmots outta this pool, so you better put up a good fight.”

Without hesitation, two shinobi descended from the roof. Moose moved with unbelievable speed, scattering his carefully-gathered leaves to wind as he leapt to meet his assailants. He drove the far-end of the pool net into the first ninja, knocking him windless as he fell to the ground below. The other shinobi turned to face Moose in the air, who brought the pool net around to strike him. The assassin blocked the strike and both combatants landed on the ground.

The shinobi leapt quickly back, pulling a smoke bomb from his tunic and hurling it at Moose. Moose spun his weapon, catching the bomb in the net and casting it back at twice the speed. The bomb exploded at the assassin’s feet, and as he coughed, two more of his shinobi friends leapt over the pool gate with knives brandished. 

Moose jumped again to intercept one, flourishing the pool net and driving it towards the ninja. He hooked the pole through the intruder’s sash before flinging him forcefully against the pool gate. The final ninja landed and ran with speed across the surface of the pool and began to frantically weave handsigns, while muttering quietly. Moose jumped back to the opposite side, threading the pool net’s pole into the handle of the radio, and snapping it quickly in the ninja’s direction. The blow caught the shinobi square in the chest and sent him careening to the far edge of the pool, where he lay winded with the radio on his chest still playing the timeless tunes of Fredward Merycidia. 

A slow clapping broke out as a small man stepped out from the shadows. His bright blonde mullet waved gracefully in the wind, and the sun reflected off the rims of his aviators, such that the rays danced atop a neatly-trimmed handlebar mustache. The man stopped clapping and put his hands back in the pockets of his trenchcoat. “Look at you go, sonny.” He snarked.

Moose drove the pole-end of the pool net to the ground and placed his free hand on his hip, accosting the newcomer with both bewilderment and familiarity. “Cage Fingerbang. As I live and breathe.”

Cage took out a cigarette and lit it, taking a long drag. “You were always good at livin’ and breathin’, Moose. Hope you don’t mind my little test. Had to make sure you still knew the steps to the dance o’ death.”

Moose looked over at the battered, but mostly alive shinobi littering Miss Barageim’s yard. “You know I never forget a dance.”

Cage chuckled out some smoke, coughing a bit as he went. “S’pose I do now. Listen, Moose. I got a friend who needs some help with somethin’, and set me recruitin’ for some big shindig in Ilsabard. How about it, partner? You still lookin’ for some easy money?”

Moose raised an eyebrow. “How easy?”

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

1 Week Later. Zadnor, Above Bozja. 0800 Hours.

“Folks, meet Taknark Bryrsig. He’s running point on this mission, so for all intents and purposes, he’s me for the next twelve hours.” The commander paced back and forth in the tent in front of the newly assembled team.

“All of our purposes seem to be in tents, chief.” The lalafell piped up.

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth, Razenpip. And it’s ‘Commander’. Actually, we can start with you.” The commander gestured to the lalafell, who was short even by plainsfolk standards. He had unkempt brown hair, giving him a wild appearance. A trimmed goatee adorned his face, as well as the scattered stubble of a man who long since abandoned the art of shaving.

“This is your support.” The commander continued. “Benpip Razenpip. Known by some as a retired Flame Colonel who fought bravely in the liberation of Ala Mhigo. Known by the extremely few and privileged as a surviving resonant.”

Benpip nodded towards Taknark. “I’ve heard of some of your feats, big man. It’ll be interesting working with ya, if you can forgive my rascal-ish demeanor.”

The commander turned to Taknark. “Rascal my ass. Razenpip is a gods-damned monster, but he’s too proud to leave a spot on his mission record, so I can’t imagine a better support for your fireteam.”

Taknark nodded to Benpip, then motioned to a midlander hyur standing next to the lalafell. “And who’s this?”

Before the commander could speak, the hyur started talking excitedly. “I’m really excited to work with you, Blade Bryrsig. The tales of your espionage and danger-close work since the campaign began, well, it just kept me and my squad in the trenches motivated.”

“Oh, well, uh, thanks.” Taknark replied, “What-”

“I couldn’t believe they wanted me for this covert op. I’m a shieldman, sir. I’ll be your frontline when the fighting gets going in earnest.”

“Great. Glad to have you alon-”

“I mean, what a way to go out, right? You see, this is my last mission too, sir. I’m going home right after debrief. I got a girl waiting for me with a ring on her finger!”

“Byregot’s balls.” Taknark muttered. “What’s your name, kiddo?”

“Jonathan Gunnadie, sir!” He said, with an enthusiastic salute. “But you can call me John!”

“Thank you, John.” Taknark sighed, lighting a cigarette and moving over to the silent, stoic Viera. “And who are you?”

“Moose Hardchop.” He replied. “I’m the pool boy.”

The commander pinched the bridge of his nose, but Taknark shrugged and nodded. “Great. Glad to have you along.” He walked over to the mission table and motioned for the others to follow, while unfurling a map of Zadnor.

“Alright, fellas. Here’s the mission.”

[gloomshrike]

Au Ra Aria

Taknark stepped off of the shuttle onto the stone landing, stretching his arms out as he looked down the long queue outside Kugane customs. He sighed, throwing the strap on his duffel over his shoulder and lighting a cigarette as he joined the line. He patted his coat several times, making sure the letter was still safe in the inside pocket.

“Sir, you can’t smoke here.”

Taknark looked over at the hingan attendant, who pointed at the ground while maintaining a stern glare in his direction.

“It’s outside.” Taknark said, as thin puffs of smoke escaped his lungs with the protest.

“It doesn’t matter. There’s no smoking on the landing.” The attendant snapped her fingers. 

Taknark shrugged, and flicked the cherry to the ground. He closed his hand around the field-stripped butt and let it roll into his coat sleeve before opening his hand with a flourish to show the attendant it had disappeared. He wiggled his fingers mockingly and gave a dry “Ta-da.” The attendant rolled her eyes and left.

Taknark patted his coat again, and felt the letter safe and secure. He sighed and scratched the back of his neck as he waited in the queue. When he finally got to the booth, he handed his papers over. 

“John Johnson?”

Taknark looked through the smudged glass at the inquisitive man in the booth.

“Midlander. On my dad’s side.”

“Right.”

The man stamped Taknark’s papers and passed them back through the slot. He placed them in his coat pocket, and gave it another pat, finding the letter safe and secure. The attendant opened the gate out of the landing, and ‘John Johnson’ passed through with a lazy wave. 

Taknark walked out into Kugane and beelined it for a nearby bench. He placed his duffel on the ground, sat down, and looked around, peeling his sharp eyes for any trace of a No Smoking sign. Absent of one, he let the half-smoked cigarette roll back out of his sleeve and set it alight. He patted his coat pocket again for the letter, finding it safe and secure.

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Taknark walked out of the Kugane night into the bar. The door closed behind him, and the walls cut the noise and bustle of Kogane Dori to nothingness. He glanced through the window to the markets as the people moved silently past. The air inside was still and, for a change, so was Taknark’s mind. The bar was empty save for a few patrons one drink past ‘one more couldn’t hurt’. He made his way to the bar, motioning to the bartender without taking a seat. The bartender walked over, polishing a glass as he went.

“Do you do bottle service?” Taknark asked.

The bartender nodded. “Only sake.”

“How about fish?”

The bartender stopped polishing for just a moment, then resumed. “Sure. Fifth room on the left.”

Taknark nodded, leaving a gil on the counter as he left. He turned down the VIP hall, counting the doors on the left in his head, until the giggling and jovialities behind the paper walls faded by the silent fifth door. He slid it open, and sat on the floor was an old lalafell wearing a hingan robe. On the floor next to him was a conical straw hat and an opened bottle of whiskey, the first quarter of which had already rosied the cheeks of the old-timer. The lalafell looked up, and a surprised expression waxed across his handlebar mustache.

“Taknark!”

Taknark put a finger to his lips in a shushing motion as he slid the door closed behind him. “It’s John, actually. Don’t remember me, Cage?”

Cage hiccuped, pouring a glass of whiskey for Taknark and one more for himself. “Of course. John. How could I not remember? You look just like John.” The old lala couldn’t help but let out a few amused snorts as he slid the drink over.

Taknark took his seat across from Cage and reached into his jacket, producing the letter. He passed it to the old lala, took a sip of the scotch, and winced. “Tastes like Doma’s been free longer than this has aged.”

Cage unfolded the letter, downed the rest of his drink, and shrugged. “Cop salary. What’re ya gonna do.” He looked down at the letter, and in a barely-legible scrawl, read:

I’m all outta fish.

Cage sighed. “Well at least he’s talkin’ to somebody.”

Taknark raised an eyebrow. “He hasn’t been in contact?”

Cage shook his head, and poured another glass. “Nope. The man’s a ghost. Dunno why you came straight here, though. I can think of someone you should’ve asked first.”

Taknark sighed. “Yeah, but I’d rather leave that option for when all the others fail.”

“You and Vyl have a falling out?”

Taknark shook his head. “Not as such. But Vyl’s not the kinda guy you notify when he has something you want.”

Cage let out a chuckle as he took another sip of his drink. “True enough. Look, I don’t have anything concrete, but in your shoes I’d check the Steppe.”

“The Steppe?”

Cage nodded. “He’s half-xaela. Taken as a kid by the empire and trained as a conscript in Othard. He used to talk about getting homesick sometimes.”

“Shit.” Taknark leaned back, resting on his palms. “That’s quite a trip.”

Cage nodded in reply, topping off Taknark’s drink. “One for the road?”

“Might as well. Road just got a lot longer.”

Cage lifted his glass. “To fish.”

Taknark lifted his in turn. “To the long road.”

The glasses clinked and the pair took a drink. Taknark pulled out his cigarette packet, bumping one out and lighting it, letting the smoke wash over the dry taste of cheap whiskey.

“You can’t smoke in here, John.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next few days passed with an agonizing dawdle. It was an unremarkable week of constant rain over the Ruby Sea, gales of wind over the plains of Othard, and a series of innkeepers unenthused with the soaking wet highlander showing up on their doorstep. By the last night of his trip, Taknark found himself convinced that in addition to hosting his quarry, the Steppe may be the only place left in Doma he was allowed to smoke.

At last, the morning after another fatigued, sleepless night, he found himself in the Azim Steppe. He walked through the bazaar in reunion, doing whatever one could call window shopping along a series of tents and yurts. He asked a few of the locals where to find information, and after some pointing and awkward charades with his Questir hosts, he was finally directed to a covered yurt with two xaela standing watch outside. They stood at least 80 ilms tall, with grim faces, large black horns, and armor adorned in the bones of Steppe tigers they’d likely killed themselves. Taknark scratched the back of his head and approached the yurt, expecting no shortage of difficulty getting in.

To his surprise, the warriors left their spears upright, and each placed a hand on the entrance curtain. “Am I expected?” Taknark asked. The guards answered with only a stare, their grim faces unmoving. Taknark shrugged and entered the tent.

It was dark, with only small sunrays being let through gaps in the tent’s construction. An ornate rug covered the floor, upon which sat an elderly xaela, with wrinkled, green skin and the enamel fading from his black horns. He sat in front of a circular tray with an overturned cup in the middle of it. The tent was hazed over with the smoke from the curved pipe the xaela puffed on, looking up at Taknark.

“Gods be good.” Taknark muttered, producing a cigarette from his coat and lighting it. He took a long drag, and looked down at the elderly man before him. “The trademasters told me this is where to go for information.”

The elder took another puff from his pipe. “Liar.” He said, with the ragged voice one would expect from an aging smoker. 

“Excuse me?” Taknark replied, bewildered.

“The trademasters are Qestir. They tell nothing, to anyone. They believe to speak is to lie, and you’ve barged into my tent to testify on their creed’s behalf.” The old man let out a chuckle.

Taknark sighed. “Semantics. I was directed here. Can you help me or not?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.I read a tapestry I cannot change. How could I? How could you? We are but tiny stitchings in that selfsame weave. Help may not be the right word. Are you sure I cannot interest you in semantics?” The old xaela let out another raspy giggle.

“Not today.” Taknark replied, exhaling another cloud of smoke. “I’m looking for someone.”

With a quick motion, the elder snatched up the cup, covered it and shook it, and let a handful of dried bones fall onto the tray.

“Ohhh. A beloved child.” The elder gave a whimsical whistle. “Both Father and Mother for an Au Ra. A true rarity.”

Taknark’s eyes widened. “So you know him?”

The elder sighed. “No, but the bones do. The weave does. Nhaama knows her son.”

Taknark sighed. “You’re not a broker, you’re a fortune teller.”

The elder narrowed his eyes at the bones. “No lies here.”

“No truths, either. Just riddles and magic tricks. I shouldn’t have come here.” Taknark turned to leave the tent.

“You did not choose to come in here. It was the will of Nhaama. Or perhaps, the Will of Karash.”

Taknark stopped and turned around. “You’re a Qerel, aren’t you? Isn’t the Will of Karash a boon of bloodlust for your tribe?”

“Ohohoho, you’re awfully knowledgeable.” The elder remarked with a grin.

“I’m well-traveled.”

The elder picked up the bones and rattled them lazily in the cup as he took another puff from his pipe. “Not exactly. The Chaghan are those who lose themselves to the Will of Karash. They slaughter indiscriminately, and lose themselves to hate.”

Taknark took another drag. “And why would the Will of Karash bring me out here to bicker with you?”

“Heeeeehehehehehe,” the old man wheezed another smoky laugh. “What would drive you to do what you do if not bloodlust and hate?”

“Money.” Taknark answered, dryly. 

“Hehehehe, simpler to open a fish stand. You could make money, and find your friend.”

Taknark’s jaw went slightly agape, nearly letting the cigarette tumble to the ground. “So you do know him?”

The elder slammed the cup down on the tray, lifting it up and looking at the bones. “Yanxia, traveler. Back the way you came. Where chains are broken and fisheater’s fly.”

“Could you be a little more specific?” Taknark asked with a sigh.

“Hehehe, no, traveler. I’ve seen nary of the outside of this tent in a decade. I only know what the bones tell me.” The elder giggled again.

Taknark turned and placed a hand on the entrance flap to the tent. “Thanks for the help.” He said, and exited. After he’d gone, one of the Qerel guards put his head into the tent, finding the elder’s head bowed and his hands folded together. 

“Is everything alright?”

“I am praying to Nhaama, child.”

“For the ijin?”

“For her. No mother should outlive her child.”

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Taknark stood on the cliff overlooking the Gensui Chain, in the middle of the cemetery above The Heron’s Way. He smoked a cigarette, and stood over the crumpled butts of a few already smoked. The fading sunset illuminated the slate gravestone.

Khaishan Ittetsu

“Didn’t make it all the way home, I guess.” Taknark remarked, taking a long drag from the cigarette. “They coulda put something on your stone, though. Maybe a fish, or a sword. A swordfish would have worked nicely, now that I think about it.”

Taknark heard the distinct sound of a slider being racked. “Put ‘em up, Taknark.”

The highlander raised his hands slowly, the smoke drifting off of the cigarette burning in his hand. He turned his head to see a small group of men, plainly dressed and brandishing a firearm each. Seven, he thought to himself.

“You’re a hard man to find, Bryrsig.” The voice called out to Taknark from the rear of the group. “How’s Bozja treatin’ you?”

Taknark didn’t move. “Well enough. Better than Othard nowadays.”

The man moved from behind one of his gunmen, training his own pistol on Taknark’s back. Taknark could feel his gaze drilling into him from behind a pair of cheap sunglasses. “You didn’t give my money to the resistance, did you?” He asked, gritting his teeth.

Taknark sighed. “Two rules, Vepar. No people, no bioweapons. You think I wouldn’t find a case of Black Rose at the bottom of a barrel of spice?”

“You take the money, you do the job!” Vepar yelled. “Where is it?!”

“The Rose? Destroyed it, ‘bout as soon as I found it.”

“Great. An arms smuggler with a conscience.”

“What’s a conscience?”

“Shut it!” Vepar gripped his pistol and snarled. “Turn around. If I can’t recoup my losses I’ll take your fucking head instead.”

Taknark did as he was told, turning around with his hands still raised. “Did you kill Khaishan?”

Vepar chuckled, “Nah. That headstone’s news to me too. I fucking wish I did, though. You and that reeking confederate never gave me shit but trouble.” He gestured with his weapon to the surrounding graves. “At least I won’t have to carry you very far.”

Taknark steeled his gaze towards the group of gunmen. “Here’s as good a place as any.” He looked up at his cigarette, nearly extinguished. “One last drag for the road?”

Vepar thumbed the hammer back on his own gun. “Fuck you. Kill him.”

The lead gunman placed his finger on the trigger, and saw the projectile flying at him. He moved his arm up to shield his head, expecting the hidden knife to strike, or a hidden flashbang to detonate at any moment. Time slowed to a crawl as he ducked, and looked up at the flicked cigarette flying overhead, its dim cherry leaving an orange trail against the fading light. He had just enough time to register the sight before the hole was ripped through his chest.

Bang.

The gunmen fell, and Taknark fired two more shots at the leading lackeys. 

Bang. Bang.

One fell clutching his chest, and the other fell like a bag of concrete as the bullet passed through his eye. Taknark vaulted over Khaishan’s headstone as the group opened fire. Pieces of slate chipped off, and a bullet came whizzing through the stone, grazing Taknark on the shoulder. He rolled out of cover with his palm on the hammer of his revolver, and fanned it.

Bang. Bang.

Two more shots rang out as two more fell. Vepar and the last henchman fired wildly as Taknark rolled between the graves. He heard the click of the rack sticking to the slide release, and the distinctive shlick of the magazine falling. Taknark rose over the graves, drew a bead, and fired.

Bang. 

Between the eyes. The last henchman fell backwards into the dirt as the blood ran down the hill. Taknark moved back from the graves onto the cemetery path, and trained his revolver on Vepar.

“Got time for a couple of questions?” Taknark asked, using his free hand to light another cigarette, keeping his eyes steeled on Vepar.

Vepar chuckled, then laughed loudly, raising his weapon back up towards Taknark. “What is it they used to call you? The Six-Shot Smuggler? Stylish.”

“I haven’t heard that one in a long time. You’ve got a taste for old history, Vepar.”

Vepar grinned. “You’re out, Taknark. I counted ‘em. Any last jokes you wanna make before I vent your fucking skull?”

Taknark took another long drag. “If you didn’t know Khaishan was dead, why risk impersonating him? Why send the letter?”

Vepar shook his head, and placed his finger on the trigger. “What fucking letter.” And squeezed.

Before the trigger moved, Vepar’s hand fell to the ground, still gripping the gun. His jaw dropped and he didn’t have time to make a sound before a katana passed cleanly through his neck. His assailant had his sword sheathed before he’d fallen, and his head rolled off, his face still in stunned silence.

The man stepped forward, resting his sheathed blade over his shoulders. A pale-skinned Au Ra with black horns, brown hair tied in a braid over his shoulder, and piercing blue eyes.

Taknark hummed, and lowered his weapon. “You look sprightly for a dead man.”

Khaishan shrugged. “IVth Legion found out I survived the rebellion. Figured it was easier to die than fight for no money. Again.”

Taknark took a final drag from his cigarette and dropped it on the ground, stamping it. “Well I’ve been chasing you across this continent for no money, and found your headstone instead. I hope you’ve got something really good, otherwise you’re a bigger dick than I ever gave you credit for.”

Their bickering was interrupted by a sound, like a spell failing to cast or the air being let out of a balloon. The pair looked down at Vepar’s corpse, its midlander features blurring as the corpse began to contort. Afterwards, a taller corpse and the distinct head of an au ra lay at the pair's feet.

“Fucking fantasia. I guess Au Ra do stick out nowadays.” Taknark sighed. “I should just avoid horned beings in general.”

Khaishan laughed. “A lot of attitude for someone who just had their life saved.”

“I had it under control.”

Khaishan perked an eyebrow. “How’s that?”

“Do you know why they used to call me the Six-Shot Smuggler?” Taknark asked.

Khaishan tapped his head with his sword sheath. “Sounds self-explanatory.”

“Alliteration.” Taknark replied, releasing the cylinder of his revolver and showing two brass bullets still loaded. “Eight shots. Never carried less.”

“They should call you the Eight-Shot Asshole instead.” Khaishan said with a laugh, turning to leave back down the hill. “I’ve got work, if you’re not too busy playing soldier. Let’s go to Namai before the tigers come to clean up this mess.”

Taknark clicked the cylinder back into place and placed the revolver back into the holster beneath his shoulder. As he moved down the hill, the last light of the day passed behind the cliffs, catching the engraving on Khaishan’s sheath.

Karash

[gloomshrike]

Fortunate Gnome

November 22nd

12:42 PM

Recon Base Camp Alpha, Somewhere on the Icecrown Border

T-138 minutes until rift breach.

The young gnome squinted against the onslaught of cold, fluorescent light. The lamp hung from a steel ceiling over a steel table, and illuminated the steel chairs and steel floor and steel walls, save for a large mirror pane. He sat at the aforementioned steel table, in a steel chair, across from two other steel chairs, where two aging gnomes in two-piece suits sat, looking over two stacks of papers and occasionally glancing at the young soldier. 

“Ensign Allen Wrench, correct?” One of the old suits asked in a gruff voice.

“Hexkey, sir.” The soldier responded nervously.

“Allen Hexkey?”

“I got married, sir.”

“You took your wife’s name?”

“I think she still has hers, sir.” 

The old suit hummed, turning a page in the file.

“This was your first G.E.A.R. Op, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir. I was with the Ironforge Keg Enforcement Agency before the scourge attacked, sir.”

“Mm. I see.” The old gnome turned a page in the massive file before taking out a pack of cigarettes, sliding one over to Ensign Hexkey. The soldier didn’t smoke often, but his nerves had gotten the best of him. He lit the cigarette with shaky hands, breathing deep, before exhaling and looking back at the two suits.

“Am… am I in trouble, sir?” He asked.

The old gnome looked up again. “No, you’re in Base Camp Alpha. Forward Outpost Troublesir was destroyed last night.”

The other suited gnome looked over at his companion. “Are you serious? I hadn’t heard. What happened?”

The first suit lit another cigarette. “Wandering packs of vargul have splintered off from the main host, seemingly pursuing their own goals of destruction. Headquarters calls them Blight-Errants. Attacked Troublesir and dismantled it in a matter of hours.”

“Mother of god.” The other gnome replied, lighting his own cigarette.

The first suited gnome sighed, striking a match and lighting a cigarette. “Ensign, my name is Captain Torquehammer. I’m working with the gnommish SOC commission, and my job is to debrief you on yesterday's mission.” 

Captain Torquehammer took out a monogrammed lighter, kindling another cigarette as he gestured to the suit on his left. “This is Agent Spannerscribe. He’s an analyst.”

Agent Spannerscribe nodded. “But my kinks have nothing to do with this. This is about the facts of the mission.” He leaned over and placed a tape recorder in the center of the table, pressing play.

“~It’s fun to stay at the R B C A, it’s fun to stay at~” 

Agent Spannerscribe hastily hit the stop button, coughed, and hit the record button. “Young man, start at the beginning, from when you reported to Commander Knucklevolt.”

Ensign Hexkey sighed. “Some part of me wishes I’d never met him.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ensign Hexkey trudged through the snow that covered all but the tarmac until he found the group of gnomes he was looking for. The three stood near their painted aircraft, performing final checks and shooting the breeze. One had a shock of unkempt, orange hair and a great big bushy beard that seemed to glow in the daylight. Beside him was a leper gnome of unusual height, with glassy, pupil-less eyes and wild black hair. By comparison, the last member of the squad looked almost mundane, with swept-back brown hair held in place by goggles, and brown sideburns adorning his cheeks.

Hexkey walked up and saluted. “Ensign Allen Hexkey reporting for duty, sir!” He squeaked.

The brown-haired gnome walked over and returned the salute. “At ease, Hexkey. I’m Commander Benpip Knucklevolt.” 

He gestured to the orange-haired gnome. “This is part of my fireteam, Lieutenant Gerald Esstier.”

The orange haired gnome tipped an invisible hat towards Hexkey. Knucklevolt swept his gesture to the leper gnome next. “And Sergeant Dominic Slimeswine.” Slimeswine flashed a grin, and bile dripped from between his jagged teeth and onto his tabard.

“We’re short one for our attack run. The casualties are mounting. That’s why you’re here, Ensign.”

Hexkey gulped. “The squadrons are three-man, aren’t they sir? You have three men here.”

Benpip shook his head. “Sergeant Slimeswine will be leading the infantry on the ground.”

“Why’s that, sir?”

“Well, he can’t fly, ensign.”

“Why not?”

Benpip narrowed his eyes, peering at Hexkey and folding his arms. “Why can’t he fly? Do you know who Sergeant Slimeswine is, Hexkey?”

“I’ve… I’ve heard of him, sir, he, he survived radiation-”

“That’s right, ensign.” Benpip interrupted. “He ‘survived’ the radiation. His mental capacity for service is the subject of constant debate by our foremost military phrenologists. His appetite for destruction rivals the enemy we now face, and he’s earned the nickname ‘The Juggergnome’ for his insatiable bloodlust. He’s said barely a word since Gnomeregan fell and my best jokes can’t get a giggle out of him unless it comes after a bloody, ruthless victory on the battlefield. And you want to know why they won’t license him to fly an airborne war machine?”

“Y...yes, sir?”

“He’s colorblind.”

Hexkey nodded. “So he sees the world in shades of grey, sir?”

Benpip walked back over to his plane. “That’s not how colorblindness works, recruit. But he’s also a nihilist, so yes.”

Slimeswine grinned again, and Benpip gestured for the other three gnomes to close in. “So, my team’s been briefed a couple dozen times. What about you, Hexkey, you know the plan?”

Ensign Hexkey nodded. “It’s a payload escort, right sir? Ground team is walking ordinance towards one of the plague-manufacturing centers northwest of the citadel, we’re there to keep the way clear.”

“You’re half-right.” Benpip replied. “The payload Slimeswine will be escorting is a dud. It’ll pull scourge attention to the bulk of our forces, and the dragonkiller harpoon guns at the rear of the regiment will give the frostwyrms something to focus on. Meanwhile, we’re likely gonna get hit with a couple throngs of gargoyles.”

“Won’t they be wearing them, sir? It’s cold out.”

“Maybe. But either way, their small flyers are gonna be sent up to distract us from our escort duties.”

“I think it’d take more than a flyer to distract me from an escort, sir.”

“That’s what I like to hear, recruit. Because after the dogfighting’s done, we’re going to deliver the payload ourselves.”

Hexkey gave a surprised look.

Benpip nodded. “That’s right. The ground team is a distraction, made to make the scourge expect a siege. But it’s not actually a siege, it’s a bombing run.”

Hexkey scratched his chin. “So the ordinance is on our planes?”

“An inordinate amount of ordinance.”

“If the ordinance is inordinate will the plan work?”

“Soldier, we need inordinate ordinance in order for the plan to work.”

“Who ordered this inordinate ordinance?”

“Headquarters did. We’re under orders to escort this inordinate ordinance in order to win this battle.”

“I can’t imagine having to order this much ordinance, sir.”

“You’re out of order. Whoever ordered them to order this inordinate order of ordinance is none of our business.” 

Hexkey shook his head. “I’m a little confused, sir.”

Benpip sighed. “Let me explain it plainly. We’re under orders to bring this inordinate amount of ordinance to the plain. The scourge thinks the ordinance is on the plain, but the ordinance is actually on our planes. If they think this inordinate order of ordinance is on the plain, that’s out of order, and they’re just plain wrong, but if they think the ordinance is on our planes, then our plan is plain insane.”

“That makes more sense, sir.”

“I should hope so. I came up with this strategy reading old northrend expedition tactics from the third war. I call it a Double On-tundra.” 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Captain Torquehammer took a long drag from his cigarette and, reaching beneath the desk and pulling out a tinderbox, lit another cigarette. “And then what happened?”

Hexkey slammed his fist on the table. “I’m tired of these goddamn suits!” He yelled, slapping the deck of cards from the table and watching them scatter to the floor next to a broken tic tac toe board.

Agent Spannerscribe sighed. “Okay, kid, looks like poker’s not your game, either. But we’re getting distracted. So the mission was explained to you and you were all set to go.”

Hexkey breathed deeply, calming himself. “We fueled up, and inspected our aircraft. They were Rmaxed Ordinance Convertiplanes, but the pilots called ‘em Rocs, like the bird.”

Captain Torquehammer nodded and, igniting a propane torch, lit another cigarette. “Popular military jargon.”

Agent Spannerscribe shook his head. “No, they found it. It was in the wrong cupboard.”

Captain Torquehammer raised an eyebrow, walked over to the stove and turned the burner on, and lit another cigarette. “That’s great news. And Rocs is popular military slang for G.E.A.R. pilots. This Double On-tundra plan was Commander Benpip’s brainchild, and had the full backing of both the ground and air units. Part of our new ROC’em SOC’em Rogue Ops initiative.”

Hexkey nodded. “Everything was standard until takeoff.”

Agent Spannerscribe turned the page in his notes, and reached beneath the desk, taking a chessboard out and placing it on the table. “And then what happened?”

[gloomshrike]

Darkreach

Still upon the ridge they waited,

Black hooves treading verdant seas,

Hints of fear in breaths abated,

The winds of war blew through the trees

The muted blues and violet hues,

Cast their light across the Weald,

The Fae-lit Forest’s Heart suffused

And shined within their gazes steeled

The mortal mongrel gripped his blade,

His eyes transfixed upon his mark,

In silence to the Light he prayed,

That it still would reach him in the dark

The Reach foreboded beneath the slope,

There, by shadow’s grasp engulfed

It swallowed light, devoured hope

Whereby weald’s beauty was repulsed 

And from the wither, wretches stirred

Drust lined their tainted battlefront

Afeared for from on high they’d heard

The horns had called the Wild Hunt

Herne charged first; the mighty Lord

Roared and thundered t’ward the breach

T’ward the Blightland’s twisted horde

Vengeance nigh within his Reach

In spite of plate and pike, his speed

Left swathes of tallgrass in his track

And the bellows of his lone stampede

Stirred the banners to attack

The Queen’s seals fluttered in the race

Which galed behind the Huntlord’s Haste

Though fey were fae who gave him chase

Through no means could Herne be outpaced

The lines flew down t’ward blood and blight

And the paladin rode alongside

He called to that which breaks the night

And hoped the forest would abide

The power lay in every breath

Incandescent as it did arrive

He found, even in the realm of death,

The Light of justice still alive

And so came sunrise to the storm!

And fae rode with the beacon’s shine 

Every mortal, sylvar, vorkai, gorm

Spurred for death and the divine

Monsters emerged from in the Reach

Dark tendrils poured from broken bark

They shook with a haunting, eldritch screech

And called to war fiends from the dark

The Hunt lost no celerity

And rushed the blightland barricade

And with tempestuous temerity 

Crashed against them, unafraid

Splintered wood and shattered shield

The sound of blood began to flow

The dance of war in Ardenweald

To the rhythmic snap of Korayn’s bow

Herne, his spear a whirlwind, scorned

The Drust and reaped ‘til they lay cleft

And broken on the ground, adorned

In splintered bone and of blood bereft

Such was their anguish and their ire

No further mirth found in their gaze

Instead brows furrowed o’er eyes of fire

Would that wrath alone could set the Reach ablaze 

The din of battle, blood and steel

Quietened to scattered rows

The Goraks, at last, brought to heel

A coda played for broken boughs

Beneath the masks of foes destroyed

Stared the friends of the bereaved

The fae stared elsewhere to avoid

Countenances already grieved

The poles were planted and banners flown

And the horns blew loud for all the Fae

But by their melancholy miens alone 

You’d never know who won the day

[gloomshrike]

But There is Also Life

The black bear stared at Raharen, the ageless wisdom it possessed shining behind its unblinking eyes. It moved its right paw forward one step, the grey fur on top of it ruffling as the single, smoky break in the bear’s otherwise coal-colored pelt. The warm sun shined through the canopy of leaves, illuminating the pair in the breathtaking palette of a summer’s day in grizzly hills. The green of the trees stretched back for miles in every direction out of the clearing, and the dots of red and purple of berries hanging from the bushes danced against the brown of the trunks. A cool breeze swept through the woods, blowing Raharen’s hair from its tidy backsweep and peeling apart the strands, which floated in the wind. 

The bear looked up to the canopy, as a chorus of screeching came crashing down from above. Raharen looked up as well, and birds swarmed above the treetops by the clearing, until they swarmed at the center, forming a rotating mass which blocked out the sun. Through the new dimness, Raharen could still see their empty eyes, as if surgically plucked from their sockets, yet they stared down at the two nonetheless. Their beaks did not close, and they did not caw. They simply hung open, screeching without end, long past any living, breathing being could hold such an eldritch note. Suddenly, the center of the circle dropped into a cone, as the birds poured into the clearing, swarming both Raharen and the bear.

Raharen opened his eyes. He sat, meditating in the Hinterlands forest next to Quel’danil Lodge, only about thirty meters in from where the Lodge itself was. He reflected on the vision he’d had in Grizzly Hills, when Smokepaw had touched his shoulder, and struggled to ascertain any meaning. He wondered if it was just an accident; a by-product of an ancient, magical being’s touch, or if the furbolg had tried to impart some wisdom to him. He sighed, as bereft of an answer as when he’d come north for enough quiet to find out.

He stood up, grunting, but he didn’t clutch his wounds from the fight with the drust hawk. He clutched his chest instead, which now ached with pain that had long since become a dull throb for many years. When he held the petrified root of Nordrassil, he had been filled with warmth, as if every single thing he felt was missing was suddenly there. More than happiness, it had given him a sense of contentment, as if for the first time in his life he was complete. With that feeling had come hope, certainty, and a familiarity for the world around him. He had suddenly felt connected to everything, and when he relinquished the root to store at the Station, that connection was severed. Now, the holes in his sense of being which had become the ambient noise to his march through life were blaring alarms, and the cacophony weighed on his soul like his armor first did, before he took the oath.

Raharen walked back to the Lodge, taking a seat at one of the tables outside the inn. His father was conspicuously missing, but he felt some relief in that. It’s unlikely the brief quiet he sought here would be enhanced by the sharing of poetry and sipping of wine. Raharen looked up at the sky over the lodge; it was a clear night, and the stars peppered across the twilight dome seemed as still as the air around him. He hoped the war would never come to the highvale lodge, for even in peacetime it seemed like the stillest place in Azeroth. 

The sound of laughter erupted behind him, and he turned his gaze from the sky to the source of the noise. A group of dwarves, draenei, and elves sat at a nearby table, having a drink and a laugh while two draenei children played nearby. Raharen was suddenly aware of everything that was not still in the Lodge: the families still making homes despite the Revantusk raids, the clanging of the armory, always in motion with the forging of new armors and repairing of blades, and the subtle shifting of mail as the guards saluted one another in passing. The Lodge was, in fact, teeming with life, and each of those lives had their own battles. He felt a sense of kinship with the strangers, wondering what answers they, too, sought against all odds of finding them. 

He pulled a journal out from his bag as well as a fountain pen. The words Anaria Alann were carved into the side of the pen, and he twisted off the cap and placed the tip on the blank page, smiling to himself that, had he a glass of wine to hand, he’d have been entirely wrong about how to seek peace.

Death fell from beyond the pale

As the northern sky was rent

Not even Light could pierce the veil

Nor shining beacons heavensent

Blood and bile tinged the snow

Blackening the frigid banks

Every soul struck by a mortal blow

Shall march again within their ranks

Our hope may waver, but never die

As we crash against the tide

Our souls forever tempered by

The Light enkindled deep inside

A torch inflamed and held aloft

As we step ever nearer death

Its message may be whispered soft

But it sounds within our every breath

To say that those who breathe their last

Have one thing left which they can give

Life will endure once they have passed

They who died so we may live

[gloomshrike]

Pieces

Blood poured from the wound on Raharen’s head and onto the snow where he kneeled. Through the red drops he looked around, shaking as the stench of death overwhelmed him. The gored bodies of crusaders and soldiers were scattered across the banks, and the main host of Scourge still bore down on the border between Dragonblight and Zul’drak.

Brothers.

The blight continued to shell the battlefield, further mutilating the corpses, melting both the departed and snow alike. The acrid smoke which rose from the crystalline ichors filled his nose and inflamed his windpipe.

Sisters.

The icy wind tore another gale through the desiccated treeline, penetrating the plate and furs he wore. The safety he had felt inside his armor froze away, and as the undead began to approach, he could no longer feel the comfort of its weight. He was naked in the blizzard.

Daughters. Sons.

His wound continued to pour, and the fletchings of arrows caught in the links of his armor danced in the wind, taunting him. His weakness, his powerlessness, his arrogance.

Fathers. Mothers.

He stared at the wide, cold eyes of the crusader nearest him. The shock, the veins popped from lid to pupil, a dead stare for help that could never have arrived in time. The frozen lids of the dead man twitched, and a black liquid poured from his horrified mouth as it began to chitter. The whites of his eyes grew a sickly red and yellow, as he turned over and began crawling towards Raharen.

This…

“Raharen, oi, we’ve got tae go! We’re retreatin’ to tha pass, on yer feet!”

Taknark’s voice was drowned out by the shuffling of snow as the top half of the crusader inched closer and closer. Raharen stared in awe as his fallen comrade growled and crawled towards him, his innards leaving a thick smear of blood as he went.

This…...

“Raharen! Are ye listening ta me!? RAHAREN!”

This is the end of the world.

“Raharen? Are you alright?”

The half-elf’s gaze towards Westfall broke as did his daydream. He turned to face Kaerlic, rubbing his eyes and offering a soft smile. “Yes, captain. I was distracted.”

Kaerlic nodded, as beleaguered as the rest of the party after what they had just witnessed; What they had just partaken in. He spoke to Raharen about mending, and bites, and infection, and Raharen nodded, the words passing through him like air. He pointed at a red-haired man sitting off to the side, and Raharen caught the word “Elros”.

Raharen understood, nodded again and set off towards him. Elros. Not common, not Thalassian. Must be a name. Mending. The man named Elros, like the rest of the group, was burdened with much to think about and not much at all to say. Raharen passed him some bandages. Elros gave him what seemed like a smile behind the mask, with eyes that stared straight through him. 

Next was Fadoma, a Kaldorei that had been pierced through the ribs with a pair of arrows. He snapped the arrowheads off and gave his usual counting-back-from-three speech, before smoothly pulling the arrows out before the countdown finished. “I don’t like tricking people, but everyone tenses up on one and it makes it much more painful.” The words rang hollow in his ears as he spoke them. He still found it cruel, even in the wake of redefining what cruelty is.

After all were stabilized, the wounded began moving into the city. Baron Lane smiled at him, and commended him for his work. Raharen thanked him, and offered condolences. Words. Air. Motions. Always going through the motions. Is that all the kindness there was in the aftermath of this? Is that all the love he can offer?

Raharen was dismissed, and walked back through the city gates, passing Abighail and the two stromic bodyguards offering comfort to Lane.

Brothers. 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 A knock on Raharen’s door woke him from his thoughts. He turned to the door, wondering who would make the journey to his house in the middle of the afternoon. The struggle to sleep had afforded him the perfect opportunity to take night’s watches in Stormwind, and he took his downtime to try and piece together as much of himself as he could. He sat up in bed, groaning as his shoulder wound throbbed with pain with the movement. He grabbed his tunic and hastily put it on over the bandages, and groggily walked over to the door, opening it.

Gloomshrike stood at the door, waving hello with a bottle of wine. Raharen rubbed his eyes, the circles underneath them darkened from exhaustion and convinced he was dreaming. 

“You look like shit. Gonna invite me in?”

Raharen just stared through the threshold before shaking his head, stepping aside and gesturing for his father to come in. Gloomshrike stepped past the threshold and began looking around the sparse room. 

“Ever thought about, you know, decorating? At all? I know you hate flowers apparently, but maybe curtains.

Raharen sighed. “I don’t hate flowers. What are you doing here?”

Gloomshrike whistled as he ran a finger over Raharen’s desk, rubbing the dust off of his fingertips with a grimace. “Just stopping by, wanted to check how things were going.”

“Cupboard over the sink, top right.” Raharen replied.

Gloomshrike moved over, opening up the cupboard and producing a wine glass. “Ah, my son knows me so well. One for you, too?”

Raharen squinted in disbelief. “I’m doing six on, six off patrols, I shouldn’t drink.”

Gloomshrike shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Raharen watched as Gloomshrike poured a generous glass of wine, and began sipping it.

“I thought you wanted to stay away from all this. Elwynn hasn’t gotten any better since I was at the lodge.” Raharen maintained an inquisitive glare at Gloomshrike.

“Well,” Gloomshrike began, “Your stubby little friend Taknark stopped by the Lodge and said he was being dispatched to Icecrown, and said I should pass that along to you next time I see you.”

Raharen squinted again. “You took a message from a friend of mine, who you don’t even like, and decided to rush down to the thick of this mess to inform me on a day’s notice?”

Gloomshrike took another swig of wine and gulped. “Well, and I’d heard a whole lot of undead moved from Duskwood to Westfall. Seems the situation is getting worse, like you said, and I just wanted to check on you.”

Raharen shook his head. “First time for everything, I suppose. Westfall is becoming a ghoul pit. We fought there yesterday.”

“Ahh.” Gloomshrike mused. “That’ll be why you look like shit. Not spending those six hours off sleeping, then?”

Raharen gave an irritated grunt. “Not easy to sleep. I feel like I should be doing something, even right now. Every second it’s getting worse.”

Gloomshrike sighed. “I never thought the army gig suited you, kiddo, but the one man army gig definitely doesn’t. If you’re going to war, you’re going to have to let some other people do something.”

Raharen gave a sharp, nasal exhale. “I’m aware. I’ve done this before.”

Gloomshrike began pacing around the room again. “Which is all the justification you need to not do it again, you know.”

“What? And just let people die?”

“Are they not dying right now?”

Raharen gritted his teeth. “You think I’m being cowardly? Lazy?”

Gloomshrike turned to face Raharen again, raising an eyebrow. “Not at all. You really are unbelievably irritable when you don’t sleep.”

Raharen’s jaw dropped just a bit as he furrowed his brow. “We’re on the brink of war. What is the matter with you? What do you want?”

Gloomshrike swirled his wine and frowned. “I told you, I wanted to check on you. And I’m glad I did, you’re on your last nerve, Raharen.”

“So what, I’m not up for the war this time?”

“Maybe not.”

“Great. I’ll just take a page out of your book and sleep all day, get wasted, and write poems about my mortal fling before the next one dies off.”

“I told you you’d make a good writer.”

Raharen scoffed, his anger rising. “I don’t have time for you right now.”

Gloomshrike took another sip of wine. “For someone who outlived his mother, you complain a lot about not having any time.”

Raharen snarled, and smacked the glass from Gloomshrike’s hand. It flew into the wall, shattering and dousing the wall in wine. “Enough!” He yelled, his fists clenched as he stared daggers into his father’s eyes.

Gloomshrike’s posture changed. His relaxed shoulders were squared, and his normally animated, half-smiling face was stone. Both of his hands hung at his sides, and his eyes beneath a furrowed brow stared at Raharen, as if straight into his mind. That mind raced with memories of a thousand lost spars as the man who taught him how to fight took shape in front of him. The commanding aura of his change in demeanor washed over Raharen, and he knew he was no longer face to face with the bumbling, drunkard minstrel Gloomshrike, but once again in the presence of Ranger-Lord Zelian Thas’alah. 

Raharen clenched his fists tight, and his snarl grew as he braced for whatever would come. He was ready to unleash hell for his slights, and all the rage he could muster swelled in his chest as he prepared for whatever selfish, indulgent anger his father could conjure for the pointless insult of some spilled wine-

“Let it out, boy.”

Raharen’s rage caught in his throat, and he found himself without breath. His arms, trembling with rage subsiding, still trembled nonetheless.

“You want to be an elf so badly. You think that the composure and the grace are side effects of a long life, that every shitty thing that happens to us will run off like water on a duck. And you think if you just inject a little bit of humility into your pain that you handle anything the world throws at you. But you can’t.”

Raharen’s snarl fell away and he took a step back. “Ann’da-”

“Because it doesn’t run off of you. Not like it does for most of us. Your heart is human. A living, beating storage for everything you don’t want or feel like dealing with. You bury everything in there and convince yourself you’re rid of the burdens. But you carry it with you like a packmule.”

Raharen struggled for words. “My heart is-”

“Your mother’s. The greatest thing about her, and the greatest thing about you. But if you push everything inside it until it bursts, there’s no room for you anymore, son. You want to be unfeeling? Unaffected by the passing of time? You can’t. You’re too human, and you should be damn grateful.”

Raharen felt sick. The nausea crawled up from his stomach and his whole body shook.

“Your rage, your sadness, your fear. For gods’ sake, boy, let it out.”

Raharen’s vision flickered as the nausea reached boiling point. He doubled over, falling on his knees. He wanted to scream out, but his wail was stifled by the rising bile, which fell to the floor and parted with the tears that fell soon after. He felt a hand on his back, his vision blurred, and time lost any sense of meaning, before eventually, nothingness.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Raharen? Raharen, are you there?”

Raharen opened his eyes slowly. His small room was illuminated by moonlight pouring in through the curtainless windows, and his commstone glowed on the desk.

“Raharen? Do you copy?”

Kaerlic. He stood up off of the floor, the blanket falling off of him. He looked down at where it fell, wondering where it came from. He grabbed the commstone.

“I’m here.”

“You’re up for patrol, you nearby?”

“Yes. I’ll be there soon, Captain.”

Raharen looked over the room. No wine, no glass, nothing at all.

Am I hallucinating? Was it a dream?

He placed the stone in his pocket and moved towards his armor trunk, equipping it in a hurry and moving to grab his sword. Sticking out of Rovhathel’s scabbard was a small piece of folded paper. He removed it, and opened it up to a flowery script.

Back to the lodge, kiddo, the ghouls hunt at night around here.

Don’t stay out too late! (Get it, because you’re going on night patrol?)

-Z.G.

P.S., I picked up the pieces for you.

[gloomshrike]

Rovhathel

Raharen dismounted his gryphon by the lake, prompting him to drink up. 

“It’s going to be a quick turnaround. I promise you can rest once we’re back in the city.”

The gryphon bowed his head and drank deeply from the lake, as Raharen moved towards Quel’danil lodge. Please still be here, he thought to himself, as he briskly jogged into the highvale settlement. 

“AHA! I knew that were Thorondir flyin’ inta the lodge, an’ no even a hello to be found, ye bastard!”

Raharen halted his gait and turned around just in time to be jump-headbutted by a heavily tattooed dwarf. The half-elf recoiled, and rubbed his forehead, and the dwarf gave a hearty laugh.

“Holy hell,” Raharen replied, still rubbing his head and looking down at the dwarf, “Taknark Featherbeard. It really is the end of the fucking world.”

Taknark roared with laughter. He was tattooed from head to waist, and likely beyond, were his delicates not covered with a chainmail war-kilt. He wore two stone maces at his side, and his braided, fire-red beard was nearly as long as his height. He straightened out his mohawk where the headbutt had disheveled it. 

“Raharen. Have nae seen hide nor hair o ya in some time. I missed ya somethin’ sore, ya know.”

Raharen sighed. “I’ve missed you too. Every time I’ve meant to visit the Peak I’ve just been caught up in something. Glad to see time refuses to change you.” He smiled.

Taknark’s face sterned for a moment. “Ne’er mind that, now. Ya been ta the capital?”

Raharen nodded, his face solemn again. “I just flew from there. And Icecrown before that.”

Taknark huffed. “Aye, tis true then. I been meanin’ to go ta Ironforge ta check in but the Peak’s in a right state. Been ordered ta keep watch o’er the Hinterlands, from there ta Stormfeather.”

“It’s a sound plan. We have no idea how bad this is going to get, or how far it’ll stretch. I’m actually here to pick up my old armor, and tabard, if the armory still has it. I’ll then be returning to Stormwind to mount a defense.”

Taknark spat on the ground. “Pah. Highvale elves would ne’er throw somethin’ like that away. I’d come with ya ta tease the smithy, but there’s someone else in there ya might want ta talk to. Where’s yer bird? I’m gonna go make sure ya have nae been feedin’ him crap the last few years.”

Raharen gave Taknark a puzzled look. “He’s at the lake to the east, running distance.”

The dwarf nodded. “Aye. See ya before ya go, then.” He trotted off back to his own gryphon, and flew off in the lake’s direction. Raharen turned back towards the lodge and walked inside, taking a look around, until he found what Taknark had been talking about. At a table outside, glass of wine in hand, was a high elf in casual silks, with his feet propped up on the opposite chair, reading a book.

“Redridge finally kicked you out?” Raharen asked, and the high elf looked at him over the brim of his book.

“No, but there are ghouls there now.” The man replied dryly.

“Not going to help beat them back?” Raharen asked, knowing the answer.

Gloomshrike took his feet off of the other chair and motioned for his son to sit down. “Nope. I came straight to the lodge, filled a cup of wine, and I’m going to wait for this whole thing to blow over.”

Raharen took a small book out from his pack and put it on the table. “It’s not going to blow over.”

Gloomshrike raised an eyebrow and motioned to the seat again. “Then you’ve got plenty of time to chat?” He took notice of the book and his eyes widened. “Ahh, you finished it! Well, what’d you think?”

Raharen looked around the lodge. “It was good. A lot of floral imagery, you should mix it up a little for the next one. Where’s the smith?”

Gloomshrike scoffed. “No idea. And you’re worse than Tysten. Flowers are pretty, why wouldn’t I write about them?” 

Raharen shrugged. “I don’t know. And you haven’t seen the smith all day? Is the armory open?”

Gloomshrike rolled his eyes, “Maybe. I don’t know what your hurry is. Just sit for a second and have a chat.”

Raharen furrowed his brow. “I have to get back to Stormwind. I don’t have time to chat.”

Gloomshrike stood up and hummed, moving towards the armory as Raharen followed. “I thought you gave up the grandiose causes after the Third War.”

Raharen gave an irritated sound. “Yeah, well, I might have to fight it again.”

Gloomshrike sighed, and the pair moved in silence towards the armory doors. The lodge was tense, and guards were leaving the armory with freshly sharpened weapons.

“Don’t fret.” Gloomshrike said, nonchalantly. “Everyone’s preparing for the worst. We’re close to the plaguelands.”

“I’m not fretting.” Raharen replied. “You’re not easy to kill.”

Gloomshrike feigned a pout. “Not a single worry? For the well-being of your old man? What if I were to perish in a horrific night raid?”

Raharen gave an irritated look. “Then come back to Stormwind with me, and I’ll keep you safe.”

Gloomshrike laughed, the leftover wine in his glass sloshing around with the motion. “That’s funny in so many ways. You really should write.”

The pair reached the armory, and Gloomshrike gave a knowing nod to the overworked smith. He moved to a section in the far back left corner and motioned to a large, dusty trunk. “There you go, kiddo.”

Raharen rushed over and popped the trunk open, removing pieces of silversteel plate from the trunk, as Gloomshrike walked off. The armor pieces were of elven make, and high quality. On the shoulders, the same symbol of a gryphon which adorned Raharen’s waistcloth had been carefully carved into the metal. Raharen pulled off the aging, dented brass armor he had been wearing and placed it in the trunk, and set to work equipping the old, now new, armaments.

Gloomshrike walked back from the cupboard holding a long item, wrapped in an embroidered cloth, and as Raharen finished fastening the last clasps on his armor, offered it to him.

Raharen regarded the item with wide, cautious eyes. “You… you kept it?” He asked.

Gloomshrike nodded. “Your mother had this commissioned when you enlisted with the crusade. I wouldn’t part with it. I’m not sure I ever forgave you for doing so, either.”

Raharen tugged the cloth off of the broadsword. Its handle was treated and wrapped leather, dyed a dull blue as it led to the hilt, which was white gold carved into the silhouette of a bird. The same gold adorned the pommel in the form of a large counterweight. The metal was inlaid with blue stone, where it flexed against its sheath. Raharen grabbed the handle, and pulled it from the scabbard.

Thin, gold lines ran from the blue, up to the point of the blade. Inside these lines was the thickest, heaviest part of the blade, and extending outside of them were the two sharp edges. The lines formed a triangular setting just beneath the point of the blade, where a single sapphire sat.

“Rovhathel.” Raharen barely uttered the word, almost simply mouthing it. 

“Wingblade.” Gloomshrike echoed Raharen with the name’s translation. “Still suits you.”

Raharen returned the blade to its sheath and strapped it onto his back. “Thank you.”

Gloomshrike let out a single chuckle. “It never should have left you. Well, if you can’t sit for a drink and a chat, you’d best get going. I’ll meet you outside.”

Raharen nodded and left the armory. Gloomshrike closed the trunk and walked back over to the cupboard, where an elven bow hung above a leather quiver. His eyes lingered for a moment, and he shut the door.

Raharen waited patiently as Gloomshrike left the armory, his glass now empty. “So then, what should I write about this time if it’s not flowers, Lord Critic?”

Raharen offered a soft smile. “A lot of things are pretty. Write about history, or the human spirit or something.”

“Boring.” Gloomshrike shook his head, then met Raharen’s gaze again. “Don’t die.”

Raharen nodded. “I don’t plan on it.”

The pair walked back to Gloomshrike’s seat, which he took once more. “The world’s getting nastier by the minute, Raharen. I hope you can save it this time.” He said dryly, filling another glass.

Raharen’s eyes drifted off to the ground. “Take care of yourself, Dad.” And he walked out of the lodge.

Taknark was waiting just down the hill, with Thorondir and Gwaihir behind him. “O, now there’s the ol’ crusader I hunted ghouls with, eh?”

Raharen chuckled, and hung his bags from Thorondir’s saddle again. “Well, hopefully I leave some for you.”

Taknark gave a serious nod. “I’ll be out there meself before ya know. Stay. Alive. Y’hear?”

Raharen kneeled down to the dwarf’s height, and they headbutted again. “Be safe, Taknark. I’ll listen for the thunder.”

Taknark grinned, and Raharen mounted his gryphon and flew off south again.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As Raharen flew over the mountains that preceded the Thandol Span, he heard a deafening screech from above. He turned his head to see a young frostwyrm bearing down on him. He yanked his reins, and Thorondir dove towards the mountain as the skeletal wyrm gave chase. He pulled the reins again and his gryphon swooped, halting their descent and carrying them upwards. As the frostwyrm spread its wings to slow its own fall, Raharen hurled a spear of crackling Light, severing its left wing at the joint. The wyrm roared, and breathed a torrent of cold, necrotic magic at him. Thorondir avoided the attack, and dove towards the frostwyrm. Raharen dismounted as they flew over the dragon’s hard landing, and pulled Rovhathel from its sheath. The blade hummed to life at his touch, and Raharen brought it down on the construct’s neck.

The wyrm unleashed an eldritch screech as its head struggled to stay attached, and Raharen’s hands glowed as he poured a beam of fiery Light into the creature. The screeching stopped, and the rest of its twice-killed corpse began to fall apart into ash. 

That’ll take care of the rust. Raharen mused, as he caught his breath, mounted up again and continued his flight.

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Gloomshrike tapped his chin, staring down at the blank page of the book in front of him.

The human spirit. The human spirit? Human spirits… spirits… He amused himself with the wordplay as he poured another glass of wine. He kicked his feet back and watched the clear skies over Quel’danil.

His eyes widened, and he took his feet off of the chair, and snatched up his quill.

In sickened, stagnant waters still

In darkness even Death forbade

Is life and light and unwavered will

On winged beast and winged blade

[gloomshrike]

Ere the Son Rises

Raharen sat on a portion of Auberdine’s rubble, book in hand, periodically lifting his head to scan the enemy approach before returning them to the pages. He was apart from the rest of the company, which had also relaxed during their watch, but close enough to one another to form ranks at a moment’s notice. His armor was worn and marked, and offered neither the full coverage of a typical paladin’s plate nor the exquisite craftsmanship of elven smiths. It consisted of a steel sleeveless breastplate, with one solitary pauldron still attached. The leather strap which once held the other shoulderplate hung dejectedly underneath Raharen’s arm, where it had hung ever since the pauldron was lost. Where a gambeson or chainmail shirt should have been worn beneath the plate there was nothing save for a cloth tunic. The links in his greaves were starting to widen with wear, creating gaps in the armor, down to his boots which were likely in the best condition of all his armor. There was no helm to be seen, and a facecloth hung around his neck, with long brown hair tumbling over it. As thick as his mane had become while on the road, it still couldn’t hide the long, pointed ears that stretched from his otherwise human-looking face. From underneath his breastplate dangled a waistcloth, clean and well-maintained, with the silhouette of a gryphon and one of its talons stitched onto it. The Alliance military members called him “half-measure”, which he found to be a surprisingly clever way of mocking his equipment and his half-elven lineage in one go. His sword and shield leaned against the rubble he sat upon, and he lost no time fretting about the company’s jabs while enjoying his book.

“What are you reading, Sir?” A young voice piped up from behind Raharen, who pulled his eyes from his literature and turned around to see a young soldier. His armor barely fit him, and the voice through which he pried into Raharen’s readings sounded like it finished squeaking just before he enlisted.

“Gnommish Engineering for Dummies: The Moron’s Manifesto to Weapons of Mass Destruction” Raharen replied.

The young soldier scratched his head. “Oh.”

Raharen turned to face the soldier, propping his legs up onto the rubble and offering a soft smile. “Kidding. It’s a book of prayers,” he said, closing the tome and resting it on his lap. 

 “Oh!” The lads face perked up. “Are you with the Order, Sir?”

Raharen shook his head. “No. I’m not actually enlisted, I’m uh, lending a helping a hand. Once the loyalist attacks slow down, the Kaldorei have a shot at rebuilding.” He emphasized the last word by rapping his knuckles on the rubble. “I am a paladin, though. Like you, I’m guessing.”

“Oh uh,” the soldier stuttered, “yes. Well, not yet! I’m training still. I’m with the Chaplain’s guard and I’m meant to tend the wounded between battles, Sir.”

Raharen perked an eyebrow. “A worthy cause. Did you need something?”

“Yes, sir! I uh, well, are you a good paladin?” The lad inquired.

Raharen gave the soldier a quizzical look. “I suppose that depends on who you ask.”

“Oh of course, sir, I didn’t mean to-. Er, I just wanted to ask you something, Sir.” The boy stammered.

Raharen held up a hand. “I’m not really a Sir of anything. My name’s Raharen, what’s yours?”

“Oh, uh, I’m Private Daniel Emerain, Sir!” The boy quickly saluted, his oversized armor shifting around his form with the effort.

“Emerain?” Raharen scratched his chin. “I met a man named Emerain at Hearthglen before we headed up north. Any relation?”

Private Emerain’s eyes drifted to his feet and he nodded. “That’s my dad. He died in Northrend, during the Third War. It’s why I signed up. I want to be a paladin like him.”

Sins of the father, Raharen thought, sighing and nodding back to Private Emerain. “I’m sorry to hear that. He seemed like a good man.”

“Thank you, Mister Raharen. Is your dad a paladin too?”

Raharen’s eyes widened as if staring into the abyss, forcing his expression to remain blank as to not laugh. “Uh, no. My dad’s a bard.”

“Oh.” The lad replied.

“Though he used to insist we were in the same line of work.” Raharen continued, quoting, “‘Warrior poets, looking for simple truths in a complicated world.’”

Private Emerain scratched his head and chuckled. “He sounds dramatic.”

“He’s well suited to his brand of warrior poetry.” Raharen replied dryly. 

The pair were silent for a moment, and Raharen, still half-lying down, reopened his book and resumed his periodic scanning of the approach. Private Emerain shifted nervously in the silence, until he broke it with the question he’d be holding back.

“Mister Raharen, have you been in a lot of battles?” He asked, scratching the back of his neck.

Raharen looked back in the lad’s direction, “Quite a few, yes.”

Private Emerain hummed. “What is it, well what is it like?”

Raharen turned his eyes back to the book. “This is your first one, then?”

The mail coif slacked over Private Emerain’s head jingled as he nodded. “Yes Sir, er, I mean, Mister Raharen.”

“There’s not a good way to describe it,” Raharen mused. “Some of them are awful, drawn-out slugfests. Others are quick and orderly, and everything goes according to plan. Each one is different. None of them are pleasant.”

Private Emerain audibly gulped, and hummed again.

Raharen kept his eyes fixed on the book. “Are you nervous?”

Private Emerain’s armor clinked again as he stood up straight. “Not at all! Our faith is our shield!”

“True.” Raharen replied, pulling his eyes off of the book to peer up at the young initiate. “The, uh, quartermaster gave you a real one, though, right?”

Private Emerain lifted up his shield, emblazoned with the traditional lion of the Alliance. “Yes Sir! Uh, Mister!”

“Good.” Raharen closed his book and patted the rubble, motioning for the Private to sit down, which he did. “Faith is a powerful, but complicated weapon.”

“Complicated?” Private Emerain asked.

Raharen nodded and smiled. “If faith was all that was required to survive, they wouldn’t have given you one of these.” He tapped the soldier’s shield. “But battling wears on the soul as much as the body. I’ve found faith to be more useful for reminding me why to fight more than for fighting.”

“But I was taught that my faith in the Light would protect me in the coming battle.” Private Emerain replied.

“And it may.” Raharen began again. “But the Light is a power that we don’t fully understand the motivations of. It seems even fickle sometimes. If we entrust our survival to the Light, and die, then our faith was misplaced. If we entrust our survival to the Light, and survive on the sacrifices of our comrades, then we are arrogant, not faithful.”

“And if I’m arrogant, the Light will leave me?” Private Emerain asked.

Raharen’s eyebrows perked and he made a face. “Definitely not. I’ve met many arrogant, capable paladins, and I’ve found myself behaving similarly. But the more arrogant you are, the less respect you have for death. And without respect for death, you can’t appreciate life.”

“Life?” The Private asked again, barely following.

Raharen nodded. “We become paladins following the lure of stories of noble causes: heroism, truth, oaths, and other things the tapestry of paladins is woven from. But all of those things we’d like to become are in the interest of protecting life. We want to become heroes defending the weak. We ponder truths to guide people to a better future. We swear oaths to cement our conviction to our cause, and that cause should be to protect life.”

Private Emerain, his eyes growing wider, nodded as Raharen continued.

“If I lost myself to arrogance, and in doing so became the most powerful paladin in history, it no longer has any meaning.” Raharen breathed a sigh. “Our compassion should inform our faith, and these days everyone seems to have it the other way around.”

Private Emerain scratched his head again, jingling the oversized coif. “That’s a lot to think about, Mister Raharen.”

Raharen opened his mouth, then closed it, offering a half-smile. “Forgive me, I got a bit lost in my thoughts.” Raharen picked up Emerain’s shield and handed it to him. “Keep that on your wrist, and I’ll keep an eye on you.”

The young paladin smiled, and pulled up his shield. “For what it’s worth, if anyone asks me, I think you’re a good paladin.”

Raharen stood up, his ears having picked up the movements of their expected assailants. “I appreciate that, Private Emerain, but let’s not write the ballad before the war.”

Private Emerain gave a confused look, before the scouts called out “Enemy sighted!”.

Raharen pointed back to the company. “Go rejoin your ranks, Emerain. Time to make your father proud.”

Private Emerain nodded and ran the short distance back towards the Chaplain’s unit. Raharen placed his book back in his pack and pulled the cloth at his neck over his face. He drew his sword, which hummed as energy began to course through it.

And give mine something worth singing about.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Raharen stepped through the aftermath, the shores of auberdine strewn with corpses both forsaken and human alike. They had emerged victorious, and the ever-dwindling number of forsaken loyalists took a heavy blow, though at a great cost for the alliance company. He noticed movement where the sand met the grass above the shore, and made out the shape of a forsaken survivor crawling towards the treeline. The undead had avoided the gaze of the soldiers and Kaldorei alike, who now walked through the battlefield executing the survivors. Raharen walked up the hill, and pulled the now-bloodstained facecloth back down to his neck. 

The forsaken was crawling slowly, having only one remaining hand with which to move. Raharen’s face was stone, and he moved into the path of the survivor. The undead’s crawl halted as Raharen’s boot stepped on his hand.

“Still alive, huh?” Raharen said, his face expressionless.

The forsaken grinned, and rancid fluid dripped out from between his teeth. “More or less.”

“Raharen!” A voice cried out, and the heavy trudging of boots grew closer to the paladin. Private Emerain came up beside him; his coif had fallen from his head during the battle, and his face and hair were caked in blood. The boy was wide-eyed and frantic, and his teeth were gritted in rage.

“What are you doing here, Emerain? You should be tending to the wounded.” Raharen asked.

“I will!” Private Emerain growled, “After I kill every last one of these scum!” He pulled back his arm to swing at the forsaken, but Raharen grabbed his wrist, and his sword fell from his hand.

“The spearmen are handling this. You need to go back to the mender’s camp and help the survivors.”

Emerain pulled his arm away and roared, “They killed everyone! They just cut them down! They clawed and tore them, melted them with plague! They deserve to die!”

Raharen grabbed the neckguard on the boy’s oversized plate as he lunged again. “Private Emerain, please. You have a duty-”

“LET GO!” Emerain roared, and pounded on Raharen’s breastplate. “I WILL HAVE JUSTICE!”

Raharen snarled, and pulled the boy off of the ground to his eye level.

“Do you hate the dead enough to abandon the living?” The half-elf growled. “Will you sacrifice your comrades for one more drop of blood?”

The boy’s gritted snarl faded away, and tears began to well in his eyes. “They killed them. Ripped them to pieces like they were nothing.”

Raharen let go of him and placed a hand on the boy’s head, leaning down to speak. “Then their sacrifice should not be forgotten. Return to the Chaplain and uphold your oath. I’ll help you with the wounded in a moment.”

Private Emerain nodded, turned, and walked slowly back towards the encampment, leaving teardrops in the sand as he went.

“How touching.” The forsaken offered a guttural laugh. “Not that his faith will last. Young soldiers grow into old bastards. Speaking from experience, dying young has its benefits.”

Raharen turned back towards the undead, his face stone once again. “He hasn’t seen enough death to bestow it without hesitation.”

The forsaken cackled again. “Good. Keep the whelps soft and we can set the torch to Stormwind ne-”

The forsaken’s taunts were interrupted as a bolt of Light flashed into his back. He gurgled as it coursed through him in an instant, leaving gold and white lines through his rot before he was scattered to the wind as ash.

Raharen stood over the black soot where the undead had been, the remnants of his judgement still crackling in his hand. 

I’ve seen plenty. 

[gloomshrike]

Rather Be

There’s storms-a-brewin’ they say to him

Wind’s bout to start galin’

Doesn’t matter one whit when hit by the whim

The man would rather be sailin’

To Quel’danas, there’s a war to be won!

The elven forces are failin’

The fuck does he care ‘bout a Shattered ol’ Sun

When there’s isles he could be sailin’

Northrend bound, there’s scoutin’ to do

Midst the snow and the ice and the hailin’

But he’d trade these boots for an open-toed shoe

If it meant gettin’ back to sailin’

Pryin’ eyes on his back and his eyes on the street

Folk shiver, starvin’ and ailin’

He’ll buy them a blanket an’ a small bite to eat

But he’d still rather be out sailin’

His instructions’ intact, details exact

For the mark he’s stalkin’ an’ tailin’

If it’s government backed what’s one more contract?

He’ll take the money and go on sailin’

That bagman’s garrote makes a rip and a splatter

And his mark’s arms are frantic and flailin’

But the chokin’ and gurglin’ don’t even matter

Soon he’s gonna go out sailin’

He’d turn into a lout if the man went without

A bit of lovin’ and a good bit o railin’

But it ain’t just about if he blows their back out

Now he wants to take ‘em sailin’

No ocean’s the same an’ it ain’t just a game

These adventures I am detailin’

There’s no shame an’ I can’t really blame

A man who only wants for sailin’

Between you and me it’s the best place to be

Clear water and winds prevailin’

Cuz if the Great Sea’s the last place to feel free

Wouldn’t you rather be sailin’?

[gloomshrike]

Martyrdom and Madness

Sparks tore themselves from the torches, floating in the steady Westfall breeze before flickering out. At least two dozen torches illuminated the clearing, as well as almost fifty people. A crude deck stood at the back of the clearing adorned by a wrought-iron brazier at each end, and a podium of hasty and shabby craftsmanship was affixed to the center, where a man stood. Dirt, dust, and oil clung to his robes, down to the tattered edges which fluttered in the wind. On the breast of his tunic was torn spot, where an insignia had been unceremoniously ripped from the garb.

As the last of the audience filed into the clearing, the man pulled down his hood, letting a mess of dark-brown hair fall over his blue eyes and down the sides of his face, most of which was covered by a red bandana. The crowd recognized the symbol wrapped around the man's head, and regarded it with caution. Through the crimson cloth, the man began to speak.

"You are wise to scrutinize this visage, people of the Alliance," he began, gesturing to the bandana, "for what could this sanguine cloth represent for you starving and suffering people than the blood of those who have failed you. Wrynn blood. VanCleef blood. My blood."

Furrowed brows washed over the crowd of farmers and workers as they listened.

"Your presence here warms my being, and brings a nostalgia I haven't felt in many years. You see, I grew up like you. Working families, toiling through the day to provide for our great kingdom. I never appreciated what we did, what you do. I clung to dreams of escape, dreams of rising to newer, nobler stations. I was, more than anything, a... sycophant. I believed in this kingdom and believed they had won the hearts of the people through valor and triumph."

Many people's nostrils flared, and the sounds of spit hitting dirt echoed through the clearing.

"But they didn't win it, did they? It was given to them. The right to oppress, the right to deny, the right to start wars, the right to claim the food you grow for the /privilege/ of growing it! Land your families have owned for this entire sickening dynasty! It is all one bad harvest from being taken from you, as it has been taken from others!"

The people grew heated as shouts and claps of agreement spread through the audience.

The man sighed, his expression softening.

"I fulfilled my dream. I left our farm and studied, trained, worked in a manner only people like us know. My family succumbed to illness, as poor as they day I was born into their life. I did not attend the humble service our friends had for them. I was at war. A young Alliance battlemage, fighting side by side with the Kirin Tor in Northrend. My dreams of glory and valor and blood being fulfilled! I was a hero! And I was welcomed back as a hero!"

Jeers erupted from the crowd as the rest shook their heads. The man raised his hand, quieting the clearing.

"But I never forgot my roots. After the destroyer set this land ablaze I came back. To rebuild. And what did I find? Here in Westfall? Starvation. Drought. Oppression. A Garrison with overflowing stockpiles of food who let their charges sleep outside with the horses. A new defias kingpin, touting her father's name and using your suffering as a facade for her petty vendetta. Another claimed bloodline shitting on the people they claim to represent!"

Solemn nods from the crowd as a few raised their torches in agreement.

"I sought to use my new station for good," the man continued, "and I asked them. Noblemen, church officials, ranking military I fought and nearly died with, I asked them! 'I thought we won?' I pleaded, 'why does their suffering endure?' Do you know what they told me?"

A few voices piped up in the crowd. "Price of war!", they cried, knowing the tired platitude of the haves.

The man slammed his fist onto the podium, gripping the edge of the wood until it began to crack under his whitening grasp.

"THE PRICE OF WAR!?" He roared over the crowd, tearing the bandana from his face, revealing a burn scar that covered most of the lower half of the right side of his face. He gestured to his disfigurement, continuing his wrathful sermon.

"WE PAID THE PRICE OF WAR! DID WE NOT!?"

The crowd roared back in unison, their cries chasing the birds from the trees surrounding the clearing.

"DID YOU NOT GIVE YOUR SONS AND DAUGHTERS TO THE WAR!? YOUR BROTHERS AND SISTERS!? YOUR FRIENDS?! DO THEY CARE!? CAN THEY SEE BEYOND THE COLD OPPORTUNISM OF FEWER MOUTHS TO FEED?!"

The crowd's voices echoed louder in the night, as the man raised his voice over them again.

"THE PRICE OF WAR IS MEASURED IN THE EMPTY CHAIRS AT DINNER, IN GRIEF, IN THE COURAGE TO PERSEVERE! THEY WANT TO MEASURE IT IN GRAIN?! I SAY WE MEASURE IT IN BLOOD!"

The crowd began to roar once more, but a single voice shouted them quiet as he moved to the front of clearing. The farmer spat on the ground, staring up at the robed man. "We don't need another bloody kingpin. You're all the same, you revolutionaries, comin' 'ere and shoutin' about hatin' war while lookin' for soldiers for yours!"

A few the crowd nodded in agreement, turning to the man at the podium for rebuttal, who nodded solemnly.

"No, you do not. I never liked the word kingpin. What respectable revolutionary dubs themself a title of the system they seek to overthrow? I am no kingpin, and I am not in need of soldiers. I have the people I need. I have people, but what I need, is /the/ people. To be ready. To be assured they are not forgotten, to lend me their spirit and their will." the man tied the bandana around his face again before he continued, "This world has lost its mind. Sometimes I believe it is well and just that the Old Gods and the Legion and whatever else continues to rise up to wipe us out. But as long as the human spirit endures, so will I. It is my duty."

The man looked down at the skeptic farmer.

"Would you prefer a donation? Another rich nobleman to toss coins into your basket? To bring you alms in your time of need? Do you ask for charity?"

The crowd scoffed and jeered again.

"Maybe I stand alone, but I /HUNT/ for my food!"

The crowd roared again.

"I will find your tithes, I will kill the thieves, and I will return them to the people!"

The crowd roared again, and the skeptic farmer looked up at the podium, "Who are you? What do you want from us if not to fight?"

The man stepped back from the podium, lifting his arms towards the crowd.

"My name is Mordbrand, and all I want is to deliver a message."

The crowd erupted a final time as Mordbrand opened a portal behind him, stepping through to the other side. The cries of the crowd fell away as the portal closed behind him.

The air was colder here, and the woodland thrived around him. Elwynn's forests grew in brazen protest to the weather. Mordbrand stood in the center of a small outpost, where a wagon of grain, vegetables, meats and pelts stood parked outside the barracks, ready to be moved into the capital.

A guard spotted the new arrival, drawing his blade before a blaze erupted underneath his plate, killing him instantly. Mordbrand moved fluidly, almost gracefully as his hands began to unleash spells. The alarm sounded as more guardsmen rushed out to meet him, several meeting their end instead as Mordbrand ran them through with a storm of sharp hail. Methodically, and effortlessly, he tore his way through the rank and file, until the last guardsman stood against him.

Mordbrand's gaze met the guard's, who stood defiantly with his greatsword drawn. "You must be up for a promotion." The mage teased.

The guard didn't offer a reply, and began moving towards the invader. Mordbrand tested him, throwing fireballs and small icicles as he blinked out of the guard's range again and again. The guard dodged the spells that came his way, gaining ground on their caster. Deftly, the guard swung his blade in a wide arc, forcing Mordbrand to blink away again. No sooner had he reappeared some distance away that a throwing knife whipped past his face, shredding his mask and drawing a thin line of blood.

Mordbrand stopped moving, staring at the charging guard. He lazily lifted his hand as shadowfrost shards erupted from the ground, piercing through the guardsmans greaves. The guard dropped his sword, crying out in pain as blood began to pool at his feet. Mordbrand approached him, removing the man's helmet.

"Very sneaky," the mage said coldly, "dress like a soldier, fight like a brig-"

"Like a brigand?" The guard gasped, looking up at his enemy as the red cloth began slipping from his face. “I’ve heard that before. Is that- is that you, Logan?”

Mordbrand looked at the guard, peering past his beard and a new set of scars, until a look of recognition passed over his face.

"Private Adams. Oh, this world truly is so small for one that enjoys a new apocalypse every year."

"It's Sergeant Adams," the dying man coughed.

"Congratulations."

A stream of blood poured from the guard's mouth as he stared daggers into Mordbrand.

"Why? Why all this, what's happened to you? What have you done?" The man struggled for consciousness.

"What I've done I have done for the people from whom you stole," came the reply, bluntly, as Mordbrand gestured towards the wagons.

Adams looked around at the slain guards strewn about the outpost, "This is about the tithes? What about those people? The ones following their orders, their duty?" he gasped.

"I'm saving them the disappointment of living in a world where duty absolves us of responsibility. Besides, you and they have a new duty."

"And wh-" Adams's reply was cut off as Mordbrand's hand covered his mouth, muffling screams as the flames flew down his throat.

"Harbingers."  

His grim work done, Mordbrand hitched the wagon to a horse, and prepared to ride out towards Westfall, where his defias waited. As the sun began to crest the Elwynn hills, he looked back to admire the burning barracks, the red glow of the flames reflecting and dancing in his eyes, before mounting the horse and riding out.

All that was left of the outpost was a smoldering building, untouched barricades, and a platoon of impaled guards lining the edges, with the bloody points of unmelting shadowfrost poking from their mouths.

--------------------------------------------------------

The man walked briskly through the Mage Quarter, with his clean and pressed robes fluttering in the breeze, and his oiled dark-brown hair swept neatly back. A golden lion was emblazoned proudly on the chest of his tunic. He climbed the steps to his floor to answer his summons, entering the door to find a few of his colleagues gathered around a map. One of the mages waved Logan over.

"It's good to see you, Logan, how ha-," he paused, looking at the newcomer, "your scars, they're gone?"

Logan shook his head, "Some trivial illusion magic. I grew tired of frightening the children on my morning walks."

The man nodded and gestured at the map, "I didn't want to call you for this, as far as I'm concerned you earned your retirement. But.."

Logan cocked his head slightly to the side, "But?"

The mage sighed. "Someone hit a small outpost outside the Westfall border. Burned the place down, stole our supplies, and stuck the damn guards on icicles for us to find."

Logan scratched his head, "So Horde, then? It's a supply line disruption, classic tactic. It explains neither why I'm here nor why this conversation is happening here and not at SI:7."

"Because some very concerning magic was used. Both very advanced and very dark."

A man stepped forward from behind the mage, towering in stature and equipped in full plate. The mage gestured to the newcomer, "This is Commander Vandryck, he's the Paladin Order's liason to the militia."

The paladin nodded towards Logan before continuing.

"The barricades were left intact. No forced entry, no signs of battle at all until the barracks, near the back of the outpost. It was done almost line for line like-"

"Operation Ibis," Logan interrupted, staring in awe at the map "the portal hit and runs we used to disrupt Hand of Suffering lieutenants in the Third War."

Another mage piped up from behind the two, "Except we had Silver Covenant mages conjuring those portals. Who besides the Kirin Tor has the resources to cast such pinpoint translocomotive spells? I'm telling you, the Sunreav-"

The first mage snapped back, "this is the last time I'm going to tell you, we are not presenting an accusation of murder to the Sunreavers without proof. What would they want with meat and pelts?"

"It's like Logan said, disrupt the supply lines, it is an act of war!" The other mage replied.

"To what end? None of this-"

Logan raised a hand, his gaze unmoving from the map. "Who has the capability to do this is academic. It's been done. It's going to be done again."

Commander Vandryck looked at Logan, "So I take it that means you're going to help us?"

Logan offered a soft smile to the paladin, "I've never shied from doing my duty."

[gloomshrike]

Speaker for the Dead Pt. 1: The Auchenihilist

Temek’s hoofs parted the ash as he walked into the headwind blowing through the Bone Wastes. The gale kicked up the gray dirt of the landscape, but even over the clouds of obfuscating dust he could see the arches of Auchindoun rise over Terokkar. The once gilded architecture adorned with crystals of the light were bare and gray as the ground which threatened to swallow them. The metal beams which once towered high enough to cast shadows over Shattrath at sunset leaned twisted, bent, and rusted, coming ever closer to tumbling into the Wastes below. Auchindoun was the center of spirituality for the Draenei, a bastion to the Light and a monument to their resolve; it was a testament to what could be rebuilt in the wake of the Eredar’s betrayal and a conduit for the cycles of life.

Now, it was dead. Auchindoun was another corpse among the countless that littered the Bone Wastes, and the bones of its central dome chipped against the wind, falling into pools of foul substances which rotted its innards. Temek dreaded his annual pilgrimage; it was a futile attempt at repairing the spiritual damage done to this place, and an equally futile pass at speaking to the dead who had long since grown comfortable wandering the hollow shell of the Auchenai. Every year he sat in Shattrath considering ending his tradition, and every year he would stand on the balconies of the Aldor, staring at the husk of Auchindoun until the guilt gnawed at his very soul, and begin his long march into the Wastes.

Temek entered the hallway that ran through to the Ring of Observance, gently moving the ever-growing cobwebs out of his way so they wouldn’t get tangled in his crest. There was a dull hum from the crystal torches as he walked by; their soft glow flickered with greater frequency each visit as they, too, neared death. He continued until he reached the ring, and stepped out into the dust. He looked up and took stock of the destruction once again: the rocks which had fallen into the dust below, the iron scaffolding that once bound the crypts together lay exposed and eroding and what were once bright, clean hallways of the mausoleum were balconies and empty tombs, blasted to rubble. Temek sighed and moved to the center of the Ring where the view of the surrounding wastes was now fully obscured by the remains of Auchindoun. He took a deep breath, and raised his arms slowly from his sides until they were outstretched, his hands dangling lazily from his wrist. 

He reached out, feeling for an anchor in the earth which stretched endlessly in every direction until at last he found it. He stomped his right leg into the dirt, and his hands snapped upwards, palms facing out. Four pillars of earth rose from the Wastes: two at his sides, one at his front and one behind him. As they ascended, they trembled and cracked as they were shaped: their surfaces became smooth and a concave impression was molded into the tops. The earth from the bowls at the height of the pillars joined the rims becoming sharp, curved adornments. Once the pillars reached Temek’s height he halted their movement, closing his eyes and moving his palms inward and curling his fingers like claws. Runes began to carve themselves into the plinths: symbols of life, death, rebirth, of finality and infinity covered the pillars until Temek raised his arms skyward, prompting flowers and vines to begin climbing the pillars and filling the bowls at their crown. The flowers filled the top of the pillar, and as they settled Temek severed his connection with the dwindling vestiges of life in this dead place, causing their petals to wilt and dry as if exsanguinated by the air itself. With a final motion, Temek opened his eyes and gritted his teeth, calling upon the sky and bringing his hands back down to his sides. The sky replied, as four bolts of lightning heeded the call and struck the torches, setting them aflame. 

Temek wiped the sweat from his crest and breathed a sigh of relief. He sat cross-legged in the circle of torches and touched his fists together at his midriff as he began to meditate.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hours passed in Auchindoun as Temek sat motionless in the circle. He connected, distanced, and reconnected with the world, testing his connections to the Astral plane, to the elements, to the spirits and the dead as if plucking the strings on a lute as he waited once again to be spoken to. The silence of the dead had long bothered him, and his inability to help them pass on had bothered him longer still. He had tailored his expectations every pilgrimage and ended up disappointed every time, and this time would be no different. The flames of hope kindled by his torches would be snuffed out by howling winds of the Bone Wastes, and he would once again realize it was the only sound Auchindoun had left to offer. 

As if on cue, a blast of wind buffeted the circle, extinguishing the torches and breaking Temek’s meditation as he brought his hands up to shield his eyes from the dirt. He shook the sand off of his hands and sighed, opening his eyes and rising to his feet to find himself staring at a row of razor-sharp teeth, lined in a jaw that could easily bite his head off. The snout of a great wolf with auburn fur had stretched between a pair of the torches and Temek’s gaze met the white eyes of the beast. It was sitting on its hind legs and still towered over the shaman. Its form was incorporeal, and despite its size Temek could see right through the wolf into the Auchenai Crypts behind it. 

“Friend… or foe?” The voice was deep, ancient, and unbelievably loud, but its tone was calm and aloof. The wolf spoke like thunder from a faraway storm.

Temek struggled for words. “Friend.” he managed.

The wolf raised its head, looking down at Temek with no emotion. “That question was not for you to answer.” it spoke, accusatively. 

Temek looked around the pit in Auchindoun before meeting the wolf’s gaze again. “Who else will answer it?” he asked.

“Time.” Came the reply, dry as the air in the Wastes. 

[gloomshrike]

I think I’ll keep hiding poems in my stories best I can. It helps motivate me to write them and pay attention to their structure, and the scavenger hunts might be fun for someone. Last story’s is under the cut, spoilerz

Bubbly interrupts Benpip’s vigilante story three times, and the first lines of him continuing to tell it create a haiku

The first night of Spring

Thick rain drumming on the doors

Sounds like an old friend.

(next one will be better)

[gloomshrike]

Gno Glory in the West

The gnomes are not alright

New Tinkertown was uncharacteristically lively for a late night. The humming of steam-powered machines was drowned out by passers-by, on their way to any one of a dozen different Ironforge taverns to celebrate a Friday night in peacetime. Lost in their own conversations, the Ironforge populace would miss the spirited, comedic conversation of two battered gnomes, who sat up in their cots across from each other in the Tinkertown medical station, laughing and wincing through the night.

Benpip finished his raucous laugh, cringing and holding one of his broken ribs, trying to keep the bandages from ripping. He leaned against the wall behind him, breathing a heavy sigh. His messy hair, usually held at bay by his goggles, hung unkempt down to his shoulders. A purple flower, picked from the lifeblooms that Evain had likely saved his life with, was tucked behind his ear.

Bubblygum sat upright across from him, similarly bandaged, and finished her giggles before tossing her flask back to Benpip. “Okay, your turn!”

Benpip caught the flask and unscrewed the cap, prepared to keep losing this game. “Hit me.”

“Hmm…” Bubblygum thought, staring at the ceiling in thought. “Never have I ever… hooked up with a girl in a broom closet.”

Benpip gave her a deadpan stare, before perking an eyebrow and screwing the cap back on the flask. “Don’t remember mentioning a girl.” He chided, tossing it back to the pink-haired agent.

“Cogs-dammit, you loopholed me!” Bubblygum laughed, uncapping the flask in turn. “Alright, smartass, whaddya got?”

“Never have I ever…” Benpip began, “stolen from anyone.”

Bubblygum shrugged and took a drink. “Your turn!” She chirped, tossing it back.

“Scandalous!” Benpip teased. “Alright, hit me.”

“Never have I ever made a joke when I thought I was gonna die.” Bubbly smirked.

Benpip took a nip from the flask, and tossed it back. “That was an easy one. I actively plan to die on the punchline of a quality joke.”

“Commander Knucklevolt!” Bubbly mocked. “You wouldn’t be deflecting any real thoughts or opinions with humor, would you?”

Benpip feigned shock. “Never!” 

He laughed and leaned his head against the wall, staring at the ceiling. “They’re as much for me as anyone else, y’know.”

“A selfish artist, who’d have thought!” Bubbly giggled. “Okay, hit me.”

Benpip hummed in thought. “Never have I ever been sailing.”

Bubbly took a drink, and tossed the flask back. “Booo-riiiiing.” She quipped with a hiccup.

Benpip caught the flask and pouted. “Alright then, keep this one interesting.”

“Hmm… oh, I got one.” She said. “Never have I ever been arrested for vigilantism!”

Benpip’s jaw dropped for a moment as he squinted at Bubbly. “That’s cheating. You pulled my service record?”

“This game doesn’t have rules,” she smirked. “Drink up, ‘Hydraulic Fist’.”

Benpip rolled his eyes and took a drink. Bubblygum shook her head. “There has to be a good story behind that one.”

Benpip let out a heavy sigh, “Not that good, if I’m honest. Just one night in Stormwind I-”

“No no no!” Bubbly interrupted him, hiccuping. “Setting, Benpip! You have to set the stage!” She made grandiose movements with her hands as she spoke, before laughing again.

Benpip gave a bemused look, then mimicked her hand motions as he began, “The first night of spring!” He leaned back against the wall as he continued. “ I was on indefinite leave from the Skylancer Division, and adjusting to non-combatant life was...difficult for me. I was tying one on in one of Old Town’s lovelier drinking establishments, and getting ready to head home. I put on my cloak and pulled my hood up; I could hear the thick rain-”

“Oooo it was raining? How exciting!” Bubbly interjected. “All good vigilante stories start with rainy nights.”

Benpip offered an amused smile as he continued where he’d left off. “-thick rain drumming on the doors. I stepped out and began walking back to my lodgings, but as I passed by cutthroat alley, I saw three masked figures in the middle of some kind of shakedown. They were wailing on this passerby, and before I’d even thought about it, I intervened. Sent all three to the healers, gave some modest healing to the victim, and ran.”

Benpip took another drink and continued. “Thought I was going to get caught for sure, but nobody saw my face.” Benpip shook his head. “And I realized it felt… good to do some good again. But only after the fact.” 

Benpip hummed in brief thought. “I didn’t want to be a vigilante that night. I think I just wanted to hit something, and something fell into the sights of my moral compass. But afterward, I just.. kept going.. Invented the ‘Hydraulic Fist’ moniker and cleaned up the streets until I got caught. I was discharged and chucked into some holding cell in Dun Morogh. Until I heard a visitor passing by.”

Bubblygum stared at Benpip, nodding as he recited the tale. “Who was it?”

Benpip leaned his head forward, “‘Sounds like an old friend,’ I thought to myself. And sure enough, it was Captain Spannermace, the guy who recruited me into the M.O.N.K. program and recommended me for the Skylancers. He made me an offer: jail, or G.E.A.R. And since I’m in a hospital cot drinking -hic- whiskey and not a cell drinking toilet wine, well, the end.” Benpip gestured to the room around him.

“Wow.” Bubbly nodded sagely. “I think that’s the longest you’ve ever spoken without making a joke.”

Benpip coughed and laughed, clutching his ribs again. “True. I have to think of one soon.”

Bubbly took a nip from the flask, nodding towards the bandages. “Whiskey not helping yet? You’ve been losing the game badly.”

Benpip winced and leaned back again. “Gnomeregan excursions take their toll. Came out of the Broken Shore with nothing but a fresh scar on my cheek, but hordes of troggs get me every time.”

“Sounds about right. No place like it.” Bubblygum said, taking another drink.

Benpip snapped his fingers as an expression of enlightenment broke through the inebriation. “Armtroggeddon!”

Bubbly stared at Benpip before snickering quietly. “Not your best, but I guess ‘trogg’ isn’t an easy word to play with.”

“That’s true.”

Bubbly nodded. “So why the uh,” she pointed to where the M.O.N.K. implants were exposed on his wrists, “the M.O.N.K. program. You were a medic before that, right?”

Benpip raised an eyebrow, and rotated his wrist to show the stim module. “I became a medic to help save the irradiated back home. I got these for a similar reason.”

Bubblygum tossed the flask back to Benpip. “And how’s that going for you.”

Benpip caught the flask and lingered with thought before taking another draught. “Killed more than I’ve saved. You?”

“Same.” She leaned back and stared at the same part of the ceiling Benpip did. “You ever think we’ll take all of it back?”

“Depends on how long.” Benpip responded.

“How long it’ll take us?” Bubbly mused. “We’re closer than we’ve ever been.”

“How long we’ll live if we keep going back.” Came the reply.

Benpip raised the flask. “To humor.” He took a drink and tossed it back.

Bubblygum caught it, and raised it herself. ��To home.”

Tinkertown was quiet now, the last of the late-night bar-hoppers having hurried back home. The dwindling hearth in the medical station crackled with the humming of the district’s machinery, and the two gnomes drank in silence until it flickered out, and sleep came over them.

[gloomshrike]

Schisms

(ambient warcraft priest noise)

Two gods, two fonts, two disciplines

The divide is rent and torn

Charity, mercy, vices, sins

Indistinct for the forlorn

For power reach into abyss

But beware; we will atone

Its allure is like a springtime kiss

But it’s cold as winter spent alone 

For grace reach up towards the Light

Its mercy you shall know

But vengeance too burns cold and bright

In its soft and violent glow

Forever drawn ‘twixt dusk and dawn

Forever juxtaposed

The motives of the gleam and yawn

Behind a door forever closed

Do they not war? Do they not spite?

For opposites are they

I was told that shadows are cast by light

But neither have a word to say

Will either triumph in the end?

Is there no strife at all?

What shall become of us if, gods forfend,

Both should break and fall

Their silence deafens like an eldritch scream

My faith leaves me betrayed

In a nightmare painted as a dream

I am affixed; I am afraid

Afraid my doubt will soon invoke

Their feared, prodigious wrath

That in a single, silent, thund’rous stroke

I will be stricken from the path

A path of questions without reply

Bare and rotten to the core

A path I’ll walk until I die

Knowing not what it was for

A path carved by the pure and vain

Swathes cut with scythes of scorn

A path for the penitent and insane

To be walked by the forlorn

[gloomshrike]

Love, Death, Belief

I can’t say I believe

That my skin is thick and my heart is stone

That mistreatment fortifies the bones

and the friendly worries are overblown

That newfound strength runs cold inside me

But my feelings are not, to me, unknown

An empty bed’s why sleep’s denied me

It does me ill to be alone

In love I am beyond help or hope

And I can’t say I will ever learn

Even now I dream of you and I

My affections you did naught to earn

Neglect, resentment, romance spurned

And I yet happy enough to die

Never knowing if your kiss had uses

Beyond brief respite from your abuses

I am not whole

Nor am I apart or incomplete

I am in the limbo’s somber, sweet

Embrace, the in-between’s replete

With grace all on its own

With seeds of hope in soil sown

With refusal to admit defeat

At the hands of the greatest feeling I’ve ever known

I still believe in it

There is much to process, much to mourn

But my hopeless, stupid heart has not

From my thin-skinned chest been shorn

And I will not cave to the thought

That a loveless life is easier won

So when my life is tried and done

Place a rose inside my rotting teeth

A mocking smile I bequeath

To powers, stars, and gods above

They will know the depth of my belief

They will know despite their proffered grief

I refused to live bereft of love