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bloodwakesfieryspirit · 7 years

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Wrap Up: No Time

[ Music: The Guess Who - No Time ]

In the closing hours of Dawnwatch’s rousing success the final loose ends of the Legion plot comes into view. Da’na’shan, the eredar haruspex, offers little at first in the efforts of Sunsheer and Pratchett, leading the two to find a proper prison to hold the Legion commander.

A proper prison surrounded by Illidari all-too-happy to interrogate.

By morning they have their answers. The vague concept of elemental energies and temporal powers aligning was more than correct; it could have even been possible by all accounts. Taking raw, empowered elements from various points in time aligned to their natural resonance (timeless fire, drastically-changed water) combined with key moments of the Burning Legion reaching into Azeroth (earth from the Well of Eternity during the War of the Ancients, air from the very top of the canopy of the World Tree, Nordrassil during the conclusion of the Third War) and combining them with aspects of Azeroth’s parallel-connected dimensions (living essence from the Emerald Dream, essence of undeath from the Shadowlands, mana from the Twisting Nether), could very well have caused the artificial timeways generated by the Kiel-Succor to have become permanent and expansive. A single Burning Legion is infinite; multiplying the Burning Legion any number of times could lead to their immediate victory.

The Illidari consider it to be an insane plan, destine to fail because of temporal mechanics and general chrono-problems. But the risk was too great.

If only people had listened the first time.

The information, corroborated by the supporting cast of Timewalkers, Kirin Tor, Call of Azeroth, Illidari, and various other groups helps to solidify a very important observation from all of the above; Hamathiel Sunsheer was right. By chance or by decision he was the first person to identify the problem and address it. By all counts, he is the reason this scheme didn’t come to fruition.

It’s leverage for the future, in assets and credibility.

The combat itself might not have been constant, honorable, or even remotely fair at times; but the willingness to engage in it is enough. Though he may not have landed the killing blow, Akitear Blackvale is at least recognized by his peers among the Order of the Broken Temple. Avenging the deaths of so many by helping to defeat Tei’shan Reh'zah, it affords the grumpy monk a modicum of respect. And potentially access to greater teachings on chi and its application, if he can sit still long enough. Maybe even a sip of Stormbrew...

With no real desire for fame, fortune, or glory through the entire mess, there isn’t much for Syllandra Emberdawn to get out of the entire experience; except for the experience itself. Alchemic resources in the form of the raw elements gathered by the Da’na’shan. Exposure to further forms of alchemical and magical transmution from Tei’shan’s encounters (transmute pants to meat!). And a glimpse at what might have been thought possible only under the guidance of Elune.

Despite taking a beating every step of the way, there is even less to come back with for the wayward young human. Spending resources with the draenei, the Call of Azeroth, and his few friends among the kaldorei, Willaude Pratchett comes out the entire experience none-the-better. Having lost his magic at the outset of the time-hopping mess, Will is left to brood over the appearance of Argus in the skies of Azeroth seemingly just as he loses the one weapon he had in his fight against the Legion. After years of preparing, everyone else is ready while he struggles to even keep up with his friends; much less Dawnwatch.

#Hamathiel Sunsheer #Akitear Blackvale #Syllandra Emberdawn #Willaude Pratchett #dawnwatchwra

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mozelledeliond · 3 years

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Defining Deliond

(art by Noirsnow)

Name:: Mozelle Isadora Deliond Alias/Nicknames:: Katrina Inkwither; Veronica Jaspers; Mozzarella Pronouns:: She/Her or They/Them Age:: 27 (December 17th) Western Zodiac:: Sagittarius Eastern Zodiac:: Water Rooster

Abilities/Talents:: Archery; Medicine (Battlefield, Wilderness, Toxicology); Leatherworking; Occult Knowledge; Trivia.

Alignment:: lawful / neutral / chaotic / good / neutral / evil / true Religion:: N’Zoth, God of the Deep; publicly a follower of Aviana. Sins:: envy / greed / gluttony / lust / pride / sloth / wrath Virtues:: charity / chastity / diligence / humility / justice / kindness / patience Languages:: Common (Fluent); Orcish (Conversational); Shath’Yar (Liturgical)

Family:: Samantha Valarie Deliond née Rhoden (mother, deceased); Avendral Deliond (father, deceased); Elsa Helene Deliond (older sister, deceased); Seth Jasper Deliond (twin brother, deceased) Friends:: Karthe Surick; Mary Foxglove; Avannaril Violetbirth; Tavarres Stagheart; Sarah Hadley; Willaude Pratchett

Sexuality:: heterosexual / bisexual / pansexual / homosexual / demisexual / (gray) asexual / unsure / other Relationship Status:: single / partnered / married / widowed / open relationship / divorced / not ready for dating / it’s complicated Libido:: sex god / very high / high / average / low / very low / non-existent

Build:: slender / average / athletic / muscular / curvy / other Hair:: naturally black; dyed deep ultramarine. slight messy wave. Eyes:: sky blue, too reflective of light; to those who can see the Gift of N’Zoth, Mozelle’s manifests as a replacement for their missing left eye. Skin:: ashen-pale, veins visible beneath the skin. Height:: 5′3″ Scars:: a novella’s worth. aside from what is plainly visible on the face, there are claw marks going from the top of the scapula to the collarbones on each side of Mozelle’s shoulders; a silvery stabbing scar over their solar plexus, the skin around it mottled as if bruised; mild acid burns on left arm; ghoul claw scars on right forearm; a sizeable gash across the abdomen from multiple passes of a blade.

dogs or cats || birds or bugs || snakes or spiders || coffee or tea || ice cream or cake || fruits or vegetables || sandwich or soup || magic or melee || sword or bow || summer or winter || spring or autumn || past or future

Five songs that remind you of them: i. Hollow — Cloudeater | ( and I’m ill with all that I know / ‘cause it shows what little I know / I want sacred / I want final ) ii. Metaphor — The Crane Wives | ( I’ve gotten good at making up metaphors / I’ve gotten good at stretching the truth out of shape ) iii. The Wall of Sleep — Aviators | ( what horrors have I dreamt of? / will I shudder if I stare? / am I strong enough to transcend? / am I brave enough to dare? ) iv. Fly By Night Only (Yaarrohs Cover) — The Glitch Mob | ( feel the wind brush back the road and clean you of your lies ) v. In This Twilight — Nine Inch Nails | ( night descends / could I have been a better person? / if I could only... / do it all again )

Tagged By:: @longveil Tagging:: @ms-winford • @cerusaniduskbinder • @opliscadumere • @aldoreth • @merelliahallewell

#tagged in #about

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karthe-surick · 4 years

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Role Reversal

A gaping yawn protested the lack of sleep Karthe had, reminding him that his body was running on fumes. Last night had been a long one, and it was unfortunate that the greatest tragedy was wrought by a man in socks and sandals.

Karthe dug through his robes to find an older, slightly smaller one that could fit Mary. Her clothes had been drenched in the disgusting canals and it was only polite to return the favor. He finally came up with a simple blue robe from his apprentice days,

“Cinch it a bit tighter and this should be fine enough.”

He folded the robe into his little care package of chocolate covered pretzels and the freshest, trashiest novel he could find in the dead of night. A Willaude Pratchett classic.

To think he’d suddenly be visiting someone in the hospital mere days after he just got out of it. Two was a coincidence, but a third would be a pattern.

“We leave the next person for dead.”

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daerenbenneth · 6 years

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Page of Swords - the most thoughtful/intellectual youth your character knows.

That would have to go to Willaude Pratchett. However misguided he can be, wherever his poor choices tend to lead him, no matter how often his heart ends up in the wrong place despite seeking out the best, the young man always means well. Though he continues to stumble, Willaude has even grown to better embrace that bleeding heart of his in the years he has known him. A worrisome observation, knowing where that can lead, but one that is at once a relief to see intact despite how coarsely the universe has treated him. Between that and a frightfully keen intellect, it gives Daeren some hope for the generations following– so long as the hapless writer can avoid reckless choices like tangling with these Dogs of War Willaude has mentioned, anyway.

@thetheshadowofwestfall for mention.

#asks #OOC answer #whimsicallyart #Thank you!

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theshadowofwestfall · 9 years

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Onomastic Metallurgy

He couldn’t remember the name of the writer that asked the question; What is in a name? Proof positive that he didn’t pay nearly enough attention in his classes in Dalaran.

It had to be good. Not just something that had the right sound, but something that could inspire. Brotherhood of the Horse. Argent Dawn. Knights of the Silver Hand. Maybe something silver? The Silver Mantle? Song of Silver? Silverforged?

The young writer could only sigh and slouch in his chair. If he were writing a story, using fictional characters and carefully crafting a plot through all of it, then he was sure he could come up with a fitting name. But reality? Everyday interaction? Will wasn’t sure he could just choose a name like that. Not for something he wanted to make his own; certainly not something he would be judged on at a glance.

Just as long as it didn’t sound like a mercenary company.

#willaude pratchett #wyrmrest accord #role play #world of warcraft #itsanaeth #the shadow of westfall

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thetheshadowofwestfall-blog · 6 years

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Somewhere Out There On That Horizon

An Interlude - Something’s In The Air

A pair of boxes lay on their sides, hastily opened with their contents scattered across the wooden dresser. A little bead of light metal sat against a pile of brilliant blue enchanting dust, while the rest of the contents of the other box were collected in a little pile beside it. Chocolates, with a bite taken out from one already. The center of the confection was a blended, sugary paste of fruits fit for baking into strips. The hint of lemon juice helped it to smooth out, making a fine little gift that would survive outside of a cold box.

The young man tilted his head to the side and left a bit, trying to get a look around his hair to the leather thong tying it up. Thickening braids and dreadlocks interwoven with tungsten beads, clips, and rings made for a unique style; an ever-changing assortment of jewelry and hidden spellwork on each piece.

His fingers shot back finally to the leather thong, untying it quickly. He shook out his hair slowly, avoiding bruising his face with any vigorous motion from the heavy metals, before working to add the latest piece to his collection.

A little spiral-shell pendant, larger by far than the rest of the metal in his hair. With the shape of a nautilus and a loop to help keep it in place, the young man quickly set about to weaving it into one of his dreads in a spot that wouldn’t jingle or rattle too hard. Around a third of the way up one of his longer dreads off from the back of his head, just underneath the matted-down crease where he tied his hair up. A bit of twine and some careful tying with the aid of a mirror led to the finished result; tucked away against the thick dreadlocks.

Retying the leather thong around his hair and making sure he had room to shift and move his hair a bit, the young man adjusted and fret over the appearance and facing of the tungsten shell before finally dropping his hands to the edge of the dresser. He nodded once, firmly, at his own reflection in the silvered glass. Well, aluminum. It was the Keg after all; no dwarf would waste the silver without good cause.

He spent a few long minutes there, just looking at himself in the mirror. There wasn’t any sense of vanity or admiration to it; he knew those were emotional traps for himself to fall into. The little divots where his glasses once rested were finally gone, though his nose was still off by a few degrees. The bags under his eyes had disappeared as well, with the general luster of his complexion coming back from such a long time of being abused for the sake of work.

Work, he thought. Gallivanting across the countryside. Getting in trouble where I should simply avoid it. Risking my life needlessly. It drew an exasperated sigh.

The young man’s hands moved to the side finally, past the enchanting dust and spent bead of tungsten and runes, to pluck up a small book from a pile of papers and scrolls. Weathered leather, a spine which no longer held the title, and bindings which had seen better days. He promised to rebind the book for the owner, in exchange for studying it.

Silverblade’s Guide To The Modern Duelist. A dry read in his own opinion, but ultimately another of many resources. Penned in Thalassian, written in the time since Deathwing’s Cataclysm, it was a fine study on the current use of a single blade in combat against the countless foes of Azeroth.

And for the next few hours, it was Pratchett’s entire focus.

... save for an occasional chocolate, resting as he read through the codex on a little parchment note card with a brilliant ruby red lip print on it. Beneath the lipstick read, “Happy Love is in the Air.”

[ Mentioned: @tirasiantrouper ]

#Willaude Pratchett #the shadow of westfall

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thetheshadowofwestfall-blog · 6 years

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Willaude’s writing is concise and clean, all sharp angles and uniform characters. Black-navy ink on a new set of parchment in a new journal, it has all of the hallmarks of a student taking notes for future study.

Pratchett’s Journal January the 29th

Well shit.

It did not take more than a few days in Stormwind for things to go back to normal. At least, the normal I was used to living within the city walls.

Distributor turned out to be dealing behind my back. The threat of getting others involved was enough to handle that.

Some old contracts with the Mage’s Guild should be enough to get temporary gold going.

I have my investment with Deadhead’s SWORD, as well as the residuals from the Emberslags. So I will not go hungry at the very least.

The problem, to steal a phrase, is not within my stars. It is within myself.

I don’t know. Maybe I’m just not thinking about it right. Maybe I don’t want to come to grips with the reality of it. Maybe I’m just worried that my own personal happiness and gratification will attract more trouble and plight. But things have gone very, very well since coming back to Stormwind. Maybe it’s the paranoia of an addict surfacing, or the fact I haven’t gotten comfortable anywhere without something terrible happening.

Still. It could be worse.

Where I had expected to return to grim looks and rude welcomes, I have at least managed to find some glimmer of hope. More than I could have expected, and certainly more than I thought I deserved so soon. So I’ll play, again. See if I can avoid getting thrown in the Stockades or worse for it. For the time being I will avoid my slanderous, hot-blooded opinion pieces. Maybe a new novella while I tread water and see where this takes me.

It’s a good thing I had business this morning at least. I can pick up my key at the bar once my room is empty again. And seeing to Terry’s unfinished business seems as good a use of my time as any.

Write from the heart. I think I can do this.

#Willaude Pratchett #the shadow of westfall

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thetheshadowofwestfall-blog · 6 years

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#Willaude Pratchett #The Shadow of Westfall

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thetheshadowofwestfall-blog · 6 years

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Pratchett’s Journal January the 5th

Ask a dead man for guidance.

I watched a man gripped by unholy energies and an unquenchable desire to inflict suffering on others strive to be a beacon of hope and honor among monsters reflected in his circumstance, if not his nature.

If he could be a paragon of the Light, I can at least be a decent human being.

She’s not the first Sarah I’ve disappointed. I just hope this one doesn’t hold it against me for as long. I don’t think I have years.

Something keeps bothering me. Something in the back of my head.

Who said they fled? The kidnappers? Which of the many people that left Daeren and I behind in the alley claimed ‘Oh no, they turned into birds and flew away!’

I intend to remove that person’s teeth. Better than Alurius would do. Decapitation is harsh, if not effective.

[ Music ]

#Willaude Pratchett #the shadow of westfall #daeren benneth

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thetheshadowofwestfall-blog · 6 years

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Pratchett’s Journal January the 4th

It has been jokingly stated a few times already. “Welcome to Stormwind.” The drama never ends, the suffering is never far, and the strife is rarely gone for long.

I bring it on myself. I understand that, a lot more than I used to. I see bits and pieces of myself in other people; little glimmers of the past in the actions and expressions of people around me.

My problem with black tar is never far away enough to really shake. Sometimes I can feel it in the back of my head, urging me on. Other times I get this flash through my body, as if I just got a touch of the needle again. Sometimes I see someone in the throes of their own addiction, and it brings me back to my own highs.

But it is always fleeting. Always just out of reach. Chasing it down was the action, without any closure behind it. You could never really put it to rest, even in your sleep. I had to give it up; to put it down.

There is the spoken, and the unspoken. The things people need to say out loud for the sake of others, or communicating themselves fully. And then there are the things that need not be dwelled upon or drawn up. Especially in the heat of the moment.

I did not give myself the chance to discuss it further. Though mostly due to the circumstances, I opted instead to walk away first. I was not about to sit there and be berated for not succumbing to the starstruck awe and captivating draw of someone in exchange for doing what was needed. But it is important that I put it to words; for myself as much as for anything else.

The Deacon and I addressed the wounds as quickly as we could. I do not know what was on the blades of the man with the daggers, but whatever it was played havoc on the kaldorei’s body. She was on the edge of death, and we opted to do what we could to ensure she did not pass.

By the time she was stable, we were alone. Her companions, the blind druid and the ren’dorei in leathers, had seemingly escaped as we took stock of the situation we were in. As it was there were two of them and one of myself when the man with the daggers had departed, and I chose to not stand idly by while the kaldorei woman fell from the rooftop. Now that she was sure to survive, Daeren and I had a decision to make which I was not pleased with.

Kidnapping and the show of violence in Stormwind are crimes, obviously. Threatening ones life is not to be taken lightly. But in contrast, neither myself nor The Deacon were in a position which we could properly defend ourselves. He was expended of his own energies after healing so many wounds, and I was already battered from earlier in the evening. My shoulder had grown worse, and were it not for Joe and the man with the daggers I could never have stood a chance against a drugged-up druid of the claw.

There were two reasons I let the kaldorei woman go. The first was that, plainly, I was unsure if we could have made it away in the first place. With the crowd outright abandoning Daeren and myself to the Mage Quarter alley, I could scarcely have taken on a bottle of rum; much less a ren’dorei with claws as long as my forearm. Secondly, I knew that look she had. The kaldorei woman was unhinged, in a serious way. Whatever she took for her addiction was holding her in it’s grip, and I knew she could not put it to rest like this. Certainly not in the Stockades, after offering nothing of her intentions or whom she worked for at the threat of being eviscerated.

A certain blend of terocone and other natural ingredients, when properly combined and distilled, give the user great strength and fortitude for a period of time. But it fades, and leaves the user with a bodily need for more. The milk of the poppy was my crippling vice; I do not know what the kaldorei struggled with. But the look of sheer terror, the way she trembled, and the collar around her neck made it more than apparent that the authorities were a true last resort. If we could even get her to them.

And then there was the voice somewhere in the back of my head. I don’t listen to it often, because it tends to be the most manipulative thing that can come to me in any circumstance. I do not use people and discard them. I do not throw them away when I am done with someone. But the voice rang true, The Sound of Her Voice. The haunting sound made a very salient point for the first time in many years.

“Use her.”

It is... a long shot. To say the least. But I can only hope, through the circumstances presented and what Daeren and I did, that we somehow can find out more of what was behind this. Be it karma, fate, or the will of the Light.

Write from the heart. In my heart, I believe I did the right thing. That ultimately, everyone deserves the chance to be saved. In my heart, I believe it can answer questions and give us closure, if not a path ahead.

Fuck the rest of it. Hold a grudge, be pissed, have your little knee-jerk reaction and leave when you’ve been fed lies and bullshit already. Don’t like hearing the whole truth? I’ll save you the time and leave of my own accord. Give you a chance to collect your shattered expectations and clear some space so you can jump to the wrong conclusions. Reinforces my beliefs when it comes to the ‘upper-echelons’ of society when you hear something conflicting and decide to leave before getting your context.

Worse than the fucking Kirin Tor.

#Willaude Pratchett #the shadow of westfall

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thetheshadowofwestfall-blog · 6 years

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An Iron Chrysanthemum In Her Hair

Part Two: The Space Between Two Worlds

Big place, Azeroth. Lots of people. Lots of places. Lots of points of view. Hard to imagine all of the little stories across the planet and beyond playing out day-by-day. Drops of feelings and desires in an ocean of emotions.

The hippogryph came to land on the platform without any fanfare or flash, brilliant blue feathers and graceful steel barding a far cry from the wyverns and gryphons typical of the port. Much of the morning activity across Booty Bay was in full swing, numerous ships and merchant caravans putting together the last of their shipments and supplies for the high seas and road to come.

Pratchett made no effort in putting in small-talk or any discernible amount of friendliness in the port; by all appearances, he was on business and little more. The human, not so young a man anymore as he self-described, quietly shifted though the crowding of dockworkers and sailors on his way down level after level of Booty Bay’s twisting and stacked terraces.

His destination was close-by; the official Port Authority building. Pratchett wasted no time outside, forcing his way through numerous burly-looking men and work as he picked his way through the crowded interior. Much of what was going on was official business; as official as a goblin port could be. Some shipments were inspected as they were claimed, with smaller batches being hand-surveyed by gregarious green goblins and their profit-inclined subordinates. Pratchett made his way around a group with quartz crystal in a massive chest, the cliche of the container enough to give him pause for a moment as the goblin overseeing it proclaimed its authenticity as ‘high-grade Azerite.’

Pratchett slipped into a side-alcove away from the crush, bobbing his head in a quick jingling nod. The gesture didn’t catch the goblin’s attention, but the sound of tungsten certainly seemed to grab him. “’ey, wha’cha need?” Will took a seat on the stool before the goblin’s little makeshift counter, noting that there was nothing comfortable about his position so low to the ground. “Inquiring on a pair of ships coming in to dock today. Steamscar’s Snarl and the Brinedragon.”

The goblin gave the human a look of brief confusion, before shrugging uncaringly and going for a set of paperwork before him. The green dockworker rifled through his paperwork before pulling out a brief manifest, scanning it over before turning it around and showing a pair of entries mid-list with a stubby finger. A few ship’s entries separated them, but not enough to make them difficult to group together visibly. “Here. On time. The Snarl is gonna be later in the afternoon, but the Brinedragon’s gonna get in sometime soon, once we get these FRIGGIN’ JABBERING GIMPS OUTTA HERE!” The yelling was directed outside, causing a crash of crystals and wood. Will simply nodded once, a firm gesture to cut the pleasantries with the goblin dockworker short. “Very well. Ah, keep it real, yeah?” Will offered a weak smile to the goblin as he stood from the small stool, immediately stepping out from the alcove as quickly as he had descended into it. The goblin just gave him a raised eyebrow and bland look, obviously not entirely enthused by the brief moment of cultural appropriation by the human.

Brinedragon was a ship of the line first and foremost. The sin’dorei fielded a great number of smaller ships across Azeroth for their work in the war and elsewhere, with the vast majority of their efforts going towards back-and-forth travel to Quel’Danas and supplies for their research outposts and what few townships they claimed. Seeing a full-sized vessel on the open seas sporting the colors of the Blood Elves and their styling was a sight to behold. The Brinedragon did not disappoint. A 128-gun first-rate ship, it was clearly from another time and another place beyond the current politics and industrialization of the Horde and Alliance conflict.

Will didn’t bother going to the ship himself. He stayed abroad in Booty Bay, settling in to a small bar with cheap ale and simple bar food for the sake of keeping a low profile while awaiting his first point of business.

“‘ey, yo! Get outta the way! Who do ya think ya are, standin’ around like an idiot huh?!” The voice outside was loud, clearly goblin, and very agitated. A few other voices spoke out in protest, only for the goblin to let out a stream of his native language before continuing. “And ‘yer mother!”

Will sighed.

This was not your standard example of a goblin. Molten gold eyes and light green skin aside, he just didn’t look much like the standard example of his people. A big, beefy green male humanoid, he wore a constant shit-eating grin and always seemed to be at ease wherever he stood or sat. Decked out in mail webbing and thick plate enough to crush a mortal figure, adorned in fiery regalia and engineering marvels, wielding a backpack of weapons at any given moment; Jax Deadhead was a pariah among goblins. Charitable work! Donations of goods to those in need! A bottom-line for his shipping interests that didn’t add unnecessary tax?!

These reasons and more were why Will could handle the goblin. In small doses, but handle him all the same. The human shifted in his seat as the goblin posed his question, draping an arm over the back of his chair as he looked to the not-so-diminutive man across from him. “I have seen no sign of them, myself. It could be the Dark Lady’s work, but I suspect the Disputation would have a number of emergency plans for such a situation.” Jax spit hot fire in response, his words coming out in very quick Common with the accent one could only dread to expect from a goblin. “So wha’cha sayin’ is, they done goofed or they straight-up bailed on everybody else?”

Will sighed. “I do not think it is that simple, but yes. Frostcowl would not be caught so unawares. And I seriously doubt, with all of my familiarity on the matter, that he would simply die ingloriously. He adores his plans and scheming for whatever reason.” The goblin threw his hands into the air and kicked back in his seat, almost toppling it over before throwing his weight forward and almost climbing on the table they sat at. “Thrall’s Heaving Man-Sack, so what’s the point? Ya think they’re gonna just pop up outta nowhere like ‘ey yo ‘sup bitches, we’re here to say the muthafuckin’ day’ or somethin’?”

Will just gave Jax a look; eyes staring straight at the goblin as he tilted his head down slightly and to the left. His face was expressionless, save for the small amount of disapproval in the corners of his mouth. “Yes. Absolutely. Unquestionably.” Jax threw his hands in the air again, a repeat performance of his prior response. Expect this time he did not lean forward; the goblin simply stayed up against the back of his chair, arms crossing over his chest and pouting visibly. “Fuckin’ drama queen. So what about you, kid? Ya fuckin’ bitches and makin’ it rain in Stormwind? Find any sayaad to neck yet? Any sign of the folks from The Call of Azeroth ya thought ya lost?”

Pratchett waited for the list of questions to end, greatly admiring for a few long moments the sheer patience and resolve Sunsheer must have shown to be able to share a building with the goblin; much less a table. Once Jax stopped Will shrugged, a helpless sort of questioning motion on his own answer as he gave it. “Not exactly. I am tracking down what I can of my publisher and printer; the both of whom have decided to continue producing my work even after I left. Residuals and payment are coming, thusfar. As for the rest... I don’t know.” Will lets out a breath at his own admission, looking to the side as he speaks. “I am in Stormwind to relax and figure things out. Met a few people. Been drinking as well, for better or for worse. Brief contact with the Black Harvest and running into The Deacon aside, I haven’t really been up to my usual. Met a lovely woman; a contortionist and dancer. Fairly skilled performer actually.”

“Aw shit,” Jax starts as he rubs his gauntleted hands together. “Now we’re gettin’ into the good shit. Give’er the ol’ One-Two Guitarist Special yet? Or ya just get shitfaced and went to pound town in that dwarf trash heap ya stay in?” “Light, no. No, nothing like that. She’s a good person, very friendly and good company. She has her own problems and difficulties going on at the moment, so I don’t...” Will takes in a breath, looking for the right phrasing for the goblin. “I’m not looking to go deep or go home on this, Deadhead. Intellectual companionship isn’t a foreign concept for you, I know.”

“Yeah well, the last chick I got that with got melted by Ember’s pet not-a-fuckin’-dragon, so I ain’t THAT familiar with it anymore man. Still though, ya ain’t gettin’ yer dick wet in the big city? Plenty of ‘fugees from across the world there! Enough strange to go weeks without tappin’ the same thing twice!” Will just blanked at Jax again, the corners of his mouth showing far more disapproval than before. “Light, please, change the subject. Got anything to smoke?”

#Willaude Pratchett #the shadow of westfall #Jaxtox #Randrice Frostcowl #daeren benneth

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