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Played with my wife’s hair.

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(( Alearah Duskgrove's guild's IC/OOC tumblr! Come check it out, pester her men and embarrass her in front of her friends! ))

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Just a little of the runic work on the back of my left arm. An homage to the mother of wolves.

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Home 3 by HOKarlsson on Flickr.

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001. Toxic | Melanie Martinez

I took a sip from a devil’s cup Slowly It’s taking over me 

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It’s a very Greek idea, and a very profound one. Beauty is terror. Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it. And what could be more terrifying and beautiful, to souls like the Greeks or our own, than to lose control completely? To throw off the chains of being for an instant, to shatter the accident of our mortal selves? Euripides speaks of the Maenads: head thrown back, throat to the stars, “more like deer than human beings.” To be absolutely free! One is quite capable, of course, of working out these destructive passions in more vulgar and less efficient ways. But how glorious to release them in a single burst! To sing, to scream, to dance barefoot in the woods in the dead of night, with no more awareness of mortality than an animal! These are powerful mysteries. The bellowing of bulls. Springs of honey bubbling from the ground. If we are strong enough in our souls we can rip away the veil and look that naked, terrible beauty right in the face; let God consume us, devour us, unstring our bones. Then spit us out reborn.

Donna Tartt, The Secret History  (via eyesofwolves)

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They were all adults, the men and women of the company. Some certainly showed it more than others and some were newer to the concept, but they were all of them of age to know better than to run about stirring up trouble. Save one, of course, but Jonesy Dawes was a situation all his own, and she owed it to him to loosen his reins. If anyone had earned her lenience, it was him, somehow. 

Half of the company was getting organized in Astranaar, becoming acquainted, while the other half prepared to travel with the horses and cargo in two days. For the moment, things were quiet. Not silent, not calm, but quiet. It was acceptable. Alearah thought to shuck off her heavier armour, knowing well enough the terrain of Ashenvale, but something coaxed her to leave the mail on. Leather was her first choice for this environment. It felt so much more organic. But even more real was the anxious pull that told her she might need the extra padding, so instead of leaving precious protection behind, she slipped out of her bags and satchels, exchanged her rifle for a light bow and quiver, and pulled away from the questionable safety of Astranaar while the Doctor loudly 'charmed' the women around him.

There was an odd sort of mist that hung in the air, a wet chill that was likely the result of hot volcanic breath meeting winter's grasp on the forest. Nearer the volcano, understandably, it was warm, and then unbearably hot. But further away there was only mist, a thick and sorrowful fog that clung to the areas where trees were torn from the ground and animals displaced. The barren patches stuck out on the lush land like bald spots, and in them the Horde sat. They'd torn down sections of forest and made hard the earth that once bore greenery. Their hammers and forges were heard throughout, the making of weapons and the beating of gauntlets on thick chests resounding off the ancient trees like the pounding of not-distant-enough war drums. The Horde was upon them, and their roots were digging deep.

The company was not enough in numbers to overtake the remnants of Hellscream's brutal Horde in the area, but it did have the fortune(or misfortune, depending on perspective) of an incredibly tenacious leader. One near defeat was not enough to drive her from the area. In fact, it spurred Alearah Duskgrove onward. while the company got organized in the relative comfort of Astranaar, she was tracking new prints from Aszhara. 

The prints were large and similar to those of a drake - great back feet and wings with worn nubs and single deadly claws at the joint. The creature they belonged to had a heavy tail, with spikes perhaps, that it dragged in the dirt and knocked into nearby trees, leaving great angry dents. It was also accompanied by a party of orcs, maybe four or five including one on the beast's back. By the tracks, it'd reared up and shuffled back often. Leading the animal along was clearly a struggle for the small party, but orcs were not ones to be beaten by a willful creature. It would be tamed or it would be killed.

Up ahead, the beast roared in its fury. She could hear orcs beginning to yell in their own language, bits and pieces of which she could pick up, though she hardly needed to be fluent in Orcish to understand their cries. They couldn't control the animal, and by the sounds ahead, it was making quite a show of things. Bark could be heard splintering after a particularly vicious impact, a sharp yelp cut short. Trees provided ample cover for the approaching elf, whose curiosity was greater than her sense of caution. 

On the road was her party, as predicted. Their numbers were shorter than she expected, however, with one of three having been made part of a nearby tree, his entire midsection collapsed into the bark. The other two were yarding on great chains hanging from two massive rearing heads. it was a familiar creature, characterized by its two heads, but it was dressed much differently. The chimaera's body was armoured heavily, machinery bolted and screwed to its form like some half-engineered creation, as much animal as metal. It pushed onto its legs, spouting a few furious gouts of flame into the air. The orcs, with their combined strength, managed to pull the beast down to its belly on the road, its sharp wails of distress falling on too many deaf ears. 

Its song was joined shortly by another harmonizing voice, this one belonging to an orc, its shriek ringing above that of the armoured chimaera. The green-skin stared down in horror at the barbed blade protruding from his middle, bathed in his blood. Alearah drew a portion of his digestive tract through the entry hole as she pulled back, causing the unprepared foe to crumple in his final, agonizing moments. The other orc, grasping the chained chimaera for dear life, reached for the axe at his belt. It met with one blade, deflecting the blow, and his other hand used the thick chain to parry another potentially deadly strike. Three weapons met and bounced away for a short time, blows falling on armour without lasting damage. The orc's plans were foiled when the  furious beast began to rear up, lifting him from the ground just long enough for a strike to peel open his inner thigh and let loose a torrent of blood from his femoral artery. His hand slipped, and when he collided with the ground, he found his own axe embedded in his chest.

Alearah turned her attention to four bright orange eyes in just time enough. The chimaera's great chest was expanding, wings unfurled. Swirling flame could be spotted at the back of both heavily-toothed mouths, each directed at her. In springing off to dive behind a great trunk, the elf was forced to leave her blades behind, and her thick boots caught fire before she could fully disappear. Hurriedly, she batted them out. Around the trunk, the animal let loose another great roar, its leathery chest exposed. The weapons of the orcs had obviously fallen upon it many times. Very fresh, bloody lacerations were carved over old scars and still healing wounds, jagged and swollen with infection. Its eyes were searching for her, four chasmic nostrils flaring, sniffing out fear. 

This was a creation of the orcs like she'd never seen before. It was like those that flew overhead attempting to lay waste to Astranaar, but larger, sturdier. It radiated bitter hatred, a demanding fury. This was a monster of destruction. 

Alearah moved from the brush, ducked low, her dark shape shifting in and out of the evening's shadows. The beast was hardly aware of her presence until a strong hand grasped one of the head's chains and gave an almighty tug. As it was brought back to the ground, it inhaled her scent, orange gaze searching her own for apprehension. The elf met his determination. Swiftly, the second head came down to snap at her, catching her defensive right arm in its great scissoring teeth. Her thick gloves kept them from delving too deeply into her flesh, but she could not keep that second head from tearing her away from the chain she held and hurling her a good few feet, sending the huntress tumbling off the beaten path and into a small valley. Along the way, as well as losing her glove to the chimaera's jaws, her bow and quiver fell from her. Her head rang and her vision swam as she struggled to her feet, the vibrations of the great creature's steps toward her vibrating through the ground and up her legs. 

It took little more to get her moving again. Slightly breathless, the wind having been knocked from her, the elf took off into the brush again. She was circled around the beast, back up to the road, and it was following her scent noisily. Its blood stained the stone pathway where Alearah paused, stooping to fetch up a weapon. It wasn't one of her blades that she grabbed, however, but the sturdy orcish axe that'd cut into her own armour. 

A sapling crumpled under the snakelike body of the approaching chimaera, slithering back to the road very nearly on its damaged belly. It huffed, and each head craned in the opposite direction, sniffing the air for her scent. She had no fear hanging off her garb. Neither did the orcs, but their fear was replaced by hatred. what this creature circling it felt, the chimaera could not quite place for some time. Not until the elf grabbed at the chain once more, springing from the growing darkness, and dragged it to the ground, did it understand. Despite his struggling, she planted a foot on the chain, pinning it to the pathway. One determined strike from the blunt axe broke a link in the chain, cutting it short.

How curious a creature, to free it not out of fear, but of respect.

Alearah Duskgrove tended the chimaera's wounds by a fire that night, constantly under the scrutinizing gaze of both heads. Its rumbles of discomfort silenced nearby owls, gossiping to one another in the dark. Neither combatant slept. They sat on either side of the slowly dying embers, six bright eyes in the darkness examining each other. Up closer now, having touched its hide and smelled its metal, she understood how strange a creature this was. It was unlike the chimaera of the present day, though depictions of massive violet chimaera spitting acid down on their foes were not lost to the world just yet. These creatures could be descendants of some sort, but how? And, more importantly, why? Regardless, it was masterless. Not due to the loss of the orcs and not because none had yet tamed it - the beast chose none. Alearah only helped to facilitate its freedom.

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Wolf First Aid Kit Wolf - Single

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(via Trossachs light… |ouldm01)

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30 Day Character Development

Day 1.) Describe your character’s relationship with their mother or their father, or both. Was it good? Bad? Were they spoiled rotten, ignored? Do they still get along now, or no?

"I can't say I entirely recall. The space in my memory where childhood must have been is dark and silent. I know I had a mother and a father - to say anything else is ridiculous - but I recall very few details of that time of my life, of those people. My memory moves instead to cold nights alone and bright mornings, to nesting in furs in the snow and racing through the forest with brilliant moonlight filtering through the canopy. The wilds were my parents more than those that birthed me. That said, I do have some recollection.

My mother used to braid my hair. She would sit me on her knee and tell me stories about our world while we watched my father work. As far as I remember, he was a craftsman of sorts. He worked with wood and with leather. My mother was not wrapped up in gowns of the finest silks, nor did moonlight hang from her hair, but she was as fair as my father was large. I remember his form hulking before the fire, his great shadow suffocating the walls, smothering them in his darkness. It was he who taught me to hunt, who put a bow shaped by his own strong fingers into my hands and guided my grip on a blade up from the belly to the sternum of a fresh kill. He spoke so little, I can barely recall his voice. But I do remember, very clearly, the smile he wore that crinkled his great face. I do remember watching my hands disappear into his beard and seeing his bright amber eyes become slits and hearing the deep rumble of a chuckle in his massive chest like the rolling of distant, heavy thunder.

I've not had a relationship with them for a very long time. My memories suggest that they did love me, but I can hardly be sure. I was alone, after all. Orphaned or lost or abandoned, I could not say. But I was entirely, wholly alone."

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