#gorwatha

[rasekstories]

Daydreaming in Darkshore

There was hardly a place more beautiful than Darkshore in the thick of night, she thought. Dense pines, not unlike the forests of her home, lined the mountain range that formed a spine along the coast. The ins and outs of the tide breaking against sand, seafoam fingers reaching inward. The stars like eyes, watching them from up above.

The land had cracked open years before and left it vulnerable, but the quiet and the comfort had kept it safe, like one of the elven swan boats rocking in a gentle wave.

Until now.

It would have been easy to forget what she was there for. She could slip into her cat paws, make her way up one of the ancient trees and lie down, drinking in the sound of crickets and the winking of fire bugs until she fell asleep, and wake up in the morning like nothing had changed and nothing ever would.

But the scene before her was a scar on her little daydream; or a festering wound, threatening to burst. She adjusted her gloves out of unease more than anything, and stepped into the grove.

Several bodies had been strung up, as far as she could tell, by their entrails. Some of them had simply fallen apart under the strain, leaving piles of mangled and mutilated corpses at the bases of trees bent in mourning. Some had been cut nearly clean through, probably by a greatsword or an axe. Others had been gored, some were so pulverized she could only assume they'd been beaten to death.

They were all silent, swaying, dripping. The smell was almost too much to bear, but she closed her nose and locked away her disgust to the deepest part of her mind. Druid. She was a druid, and a healer. She'd seen it before. These weren't even her people. Besides, she was looking for someone, and that came first.

The movement in one of the trees nearby surprised her, and she instinctively hunched down, ready to run. A pair of cool eyes fixated on her, so bright in the darkness it made the rest of him hard to see. She saw his head tilt to one side, hands bigger than her head wrapped around the branch beneath him.

He was loaded like a spring, ready to strike.

Tiombi held her hands up and offered a small wave, trying her best to exude confidence in the circle of carnage around her. Unfamiliar death knights were dangerous. She was hoping this one remembered she was familiar.

The branch beneath him sighed in relief as he swung to the ground, landing lighter than a troll his size had any right to. Tiombi hadn't noticed the sword propped up against the tree until then, but he didn't touch it, and stepped out of the shadow of the forest into warm, forgiving moonlight.

“Mahuak?” She smiled, reaching out to him, to the metal tusks bolted to his head. To the death mask helmet, the collection of bones that rattled on his armour, the patchwork skin, the layer of blood that covered him like a fresh coat of paint.

“Come on, den.” Her voice was low and smooth like dark glass. “I've been lookin for ya.”

[wigglesartcollection]

Just today I decided to purchase a character that @zappy-boy put up for sale. From all my double checking it’s as legitimate as can be, he owns each piece of art and the character, if one of the artists isn’t actually okay with me having bought the character/art from him please contact me, I don’t want to upset anyone! I’ll provide as much of a source as I can (from what he gave me) for each piece and artist. 1st: “Artist doesn’t have original social media names, but is the co-leader of Gorwatha Warband on WRA Horde I believe still.” If they end up making a profile or already have one please tell me so I can source credit! 2nd: Artist is called Mudmask, which I believe is @wethatkindoforc ?  3rd: The third is done by @fusspot! Just to reiterate: The original owner was @zappy-boy, I don’t claim to have drawn any of the art and if there’s any issues from the artists or zappy boy, please talk to me either here or on @drwigglywiggles my main tumblr.

[dykes]

ah i miss the heyday of gorwatha warband. so many of my old screenshots are of with that guild.

[tazjindarkspear]

[RP] Just Another War

Tuesday August 9 Bladefist Bay 

Taz shuffled aboard the landing craft, shouldering his way to the head of the green and gold tabarded contingent that was this vessel’s vanguard. Three days ago, the thought of being near the ocean—of being on a ship—would have been unspeakably terrifying, but as it was, that was quite low indeed on the list of things that were currently loosening his bowels. 

Perhaps first on the list were the voices and faces behind him—so many, and so many that were so very, very young. And so many that wouldn’t be coming home; that would scream their lives out in agony, begging for their mothers, on the loa-forsaken rock ahead of them.

 He knew that sound well. And he knew hearing it again would break him.

I beg you Papa Samdi, please…if you do nothing else this day, please, please, please, give me no more ghosts to carry today. They’re so heavy, and I can’t bear any more of them.

 He reached above him, snagging a handhold as the vessel crashed through another wave. They must be getting close now. He glanced to his side, and shared a quick smile and nod with an old, long bearded orc beside him. He knows, Taz thought. Her too, seeing the large elderly tauren looming over his other shoulder. In fact, he noted with grim satisfaction, all the soldiers around him were near his age, or even older; all of them had slowly, quietly migrated towards the front of the vessel and stood together in a steadfast, silent agreement: when the ship’s door dropped, and the charge onto the beach began, it would not be the young ones behind them that would take those first initial, deadly volleys.  

 Almost as if the thought had conjured the event, the vessel slammed to a halt. There was a moment of abject, absolute silence, and then light flooded into the troop compartment, and the world exploded. The orc kept pace as Taz drew his glaive and leapt off the ship, bypassing the ramp entirely. He cried out, hitting the ground behind a small berm as a fireball roared by him, singing his arm and nearly causing him to drop his weapon. “GOR’WATHA! BRAH BRAH OI OI OI!”

 And yes! There they were—Juzmik leading the river of green and gold that began flooding out of the ship. There was no plan, no time to communicate, no time even to count heads or mourn the noble, elderly tauren lying at the base of landing craft, fel fire still sizzling where her head had once been. There was only time to run, sprint, to follow the Warchief as he charged forward, and to pray to every loa he knew in the hopes that Vol’jin would spend their lives dearly, and well.

 A shove from behind, and a wild, gesture filled shout from Juzmik, and Taz was charging up the ridgeline, cutting his way through demons and things worse than demons (I didn’t think there could be things worse than demons…) to try and prevent the swarm of fel beings from encircling the Wathans that had moved higher up. He flew between the flanking creatures, stepping through shadows from one to another in a silent dance of steel and loa’s magic.

 “GET BACK! GET BACK GET BACK FALL—“

 An arrow slammed into Taz’s back and he fell to a knee—demon arrow, Horde arrow, Alliance arrow, it didn’t matter. Is this where I stop? he wondered, almost outside of himself. Is this where I can lay down and—

 “Warchief!”

The icy, terrifying voice startled him back into himself, and the word jerked his attention to the top of the ridge. Sylvanas had called for the Warchief. But he wasn’t there. Why wasn’t Vol’jin—

 And then he saw him, half blind, tusk cracked, sprawled limp on the ground—the only father he had ever needed or wanted.

“WARCHIEEEEEEEEF!” the scream tore from his throat, and it burned far brighter than the fire on his arm or the arrow in his back. He started back up the hill without thinking, slashing demons aside, punching, kicking, casting—anything that would make them move move MOVE GET OUT OF MY WAY!

 Sylvanas had him now—she had Vol’jin! She was going to—

Taz stumbled towards them with a roar that was lost in the cacophony of the battle, vaguely intending to—what? Slay the Banshee Queen? Far better than him had tried, but it didn’t matter; all that mattered was Vol’jin, all that mattered was that she had her hands on him—!

A horn pierced the air—a retreat! He whirled wildly, looking for Gor’Watha, looking for his boys—

And Juzmik’s voice cut through his desperation, as the young man screamed across the field. “I GOT DIS! I GOT DEM! GO!”

It was like releasing the chain of a rabid, slavering dog. Taz turned, and sprinted—damn the arrow, damn his arm, damn the Alliance and damn the demons—he sprinted after the horse that had taken his Warchief away. Ghostly things were around him suddenly; terrible, chilling things lifting the bodies of the dead and dying—but he was used to ghosts; he was used to ignoring them. And nothing, no thing dead and no thing living, would stop him from reaching Vol’jin. Nothing.

  ______________________________________________________________

The ride back was a nightmare. He was in the right ship, he knew that much, but the Elite Headhunters wouldn’t let him out of the hold that was carrying the wounded, and no amount of credentials from the Spear would convince them to let him pass. So he waited in the darkness, pacing when pain allowed and lying when it didn’t, listening to the cries and moans of children who wouldn’t live to see the shores of their homeland again.

He was first off the ship when it docked, stumbling down the pier and towards the city. They wouldn’t take the Warchief to the clinic, not the public one; too dangerous; Vol’jin wasn’t stupid and neither was Sylvanas. There was only one impenetrable place in the city, designed to keep out anything and everything that might attempt to breach it—and that was the Hold itself.

He threw on the tabard of Vol’jin’s Spear, the one he wore almost as proudly as Gor’Watha’s; blood soaked through almost instantly, but he was far beyond caring. He joined the throng outside of the Hold, shoving his way through the mob of people clamoring to be let in, clamming to know, clamoring for protection, and just clamoring.

The poor guards trying to sort through the mess never had a chance. Between the blood and his tabard, Taz disappeared—not with shadows or with the loa’s magic this time, but in the way that only a uniformed man in a crowd of uniformed men can. He entered the Hold between two other far more important looking soldiers, and immediately melted into a dark corner, watching, and listening.

Vol’jin was dying.

Taz had seen death enough to know when it would be claiming someone—and Bwonsamdi’s presence permeated the room. Though always fearful, the loa’s presence was secondary; all Taz could do was stare at the Warchief’s face…into Vol’jin’s blind right eye, and shattered tusk.

He’s going to leave us, The thought occurred to him a split second before the Warchief announced it himself, and it was all Taz could do to remain silent and motionless and he lurked in the shadows. He wanted to rage, to scream, to cling to the Warchief’s knee and beg him not to go, to draw his glaive on Bwonsamdi himself if it would buy Vol’jin another hour, another minute, just one more breath. But the loa’s amused laughter, echoing in his head suddenly and with more finality than a thunderclap, quashed such thoughts instantly.

Vol’jin was dying. And there was nothing in this world or the other, no battle, no deal and no sacrifice, that could stop it.

The Warchief’s words washed over him like a warm embrace, and it wasn’t the weakness, or the coughing, or even the words themselves he was really hearing…it was his voice, the voice, the voice of his beloved leader’s son, who had grown into the greatest leader Taz had ever known in his own right; the voice of a troll who, if Taz could be a fraction, just one small piece, of what Vol’jin was, someday, he would enter the spirit world with no regrets left behind him.

And then the spark that was the life of his Warchief went out.

He felt it go, tried to cling to it as it extinguished, as the room around him erupted into chaos. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t.

He stared at the throne, now empty, for a long time, finally sinking to the ground when his knees would no longer hold. He wasn’t the only one, of course; he couldn’t help but be aware of the icy chill of her presence as she too stared at the throne that was now hers. She turned on her heels abruptly, and walked out of the room with features frozen and head high. And if the Banshee Queen—if his Warchief — spared the troll quietly sobbing in the shadows a glance on her way out, neither of them remembered.

[tarenor]

We’ve Started our new campaign! 

[atrickyzergblog]

August 16th, the Spirit Walker attempts to commune with the Raven God Anzu with his hired arms at hand. Will the shadowy god answer his call? Or will the Spirit Walker be consumed in the darkness?

[el-scorcho-locco]

I am so frustrated at my whole gaming situation right now. Nothing that I used to play is any fun anymore. Hearthstone has turned into me logging in just to hit Rank 20 by the end of the month. GW2 is fun, but I am afraid that once I hit max level, there will be nothing to do. WoW is probably the game I'm most disgruntled with. I don't have the time to devote to it, to keep up with PvP progression. I don't have time to RP, and when I do, I just feel awkward and I don't enjoy it nearly as much. I just don't have anything I want to do anymore. So, my sub runs out Feb 15. and I'm going to let it drop. I just don't know why I want to pay for a game I'm not having fun with anymore. I am going to maybe try Heart of the Storm or maybe League, but I don't know... I'm just annoyed that my main outlets to have fun aren't fun anymore...

[rasekstories]

Two Dudes Into Darkshore

It was hot, and the salt air from the sea carried the stench of smoke and death down the length of Darkshore. The long familiar quiet of cats and sentinels was forced aside by the sound of the encroaching Horde, armed to the teeth with the siege engines created several years before, veterans from conflicts the world over, and if the rumor was true, the Banshee queen herself.

They'd hit it quick and they'd hit it hard, with most of the elven troops further south, and the biggest threat deeply rooted in the land itself. So far, everything was going well. Tales of heroism and victory would be told in every tavern across Horde-controlled Kalimdor in the months to come, but not all who travelled with the vanguard were heroes.

Rasek struggled with a rope looped around his foot, dangling several meters above the ground from a tree branch. His grappling hook, something he only recently learned how to use, had failed him spectacularly.

He cursed to himself, fingers pulling clumsily at the knot, feeling the blood rush to his head.

“Ya wanna...” He swatted at the Forsaken close by. “Ya wanna help me out a little bit dere, Nyd?”

The Forsaken shot him an impassive look and turned back to the overlook he was perched on.

“You look like you've got a hold on it, sir.”

“Well I-- Well I don't!”

When the news broke that the front line was marching from Orgrimmar to the coast, Rasek jumped at the opportunity. A chance to get their warband back in the good graces, a chance for a little boasting, a chance to swipe some of this azerite stuff from the coffers and see what the hubbub was all about.

Former Sergeant Nydairus was one of the only loyal men he had left who wasn't otherwise occupied. The two of them left with the first wave, and made Darkshore before nightfall.

The body of a sentinel lay not far from them, bleeding from the arrow wounds in her chest. The arrows themselves had returned to the forsaken's quiver, covered in gore as they were.

“I jes don-- Nyd! I can't-- we can't get any closa if I can't get outta de damn tree. An my daggas is eh, jes... outta reach.”

Rasek swiped at his weapons, fallen out of their sheaths, on the ground below him.

“That's correct, sir.” Nydairus shouldered his bow and looked over the lip of the ravine. “WE cannot do anything with you in that state. I'll go on ahead and see what I find.”

The old hunter was over the side of the rocks before Rasek could protest, suddenly deaf to the litany of complaints that followed behind him.

And later, much later, when the chief sat around the fire and told the story of how he fought in the War of the Thorns, he'd leave that part out.

[tazjindarkspear]

[RP] What Are the Odds?

((This is a…rather different take on the theme of ‘overcoming the odds.’  But I do believe that by the end, you will agree that some pretty severe odds have indeed been overcome!))

The Ghostlands July 5 

Tythanion Sunborne hummed quietly to himself as he cut his way through the brush of the Ghostland’s forest. He wasn’t entirely sure where he was, but this did not concern him greatly. The great towers of Zul’Aman, and the thrum of arcane magic from the direction of Eversong, was all the compass he required. That, and the Light of course; the one thing that would never, ever steer him wrong. 

His ears twitched as a soft chant in an ancient tongue drifted to them across the darkening mist. He could feel the age of those words, and the power in them, as surely as he felt the purity of the prayers he repeated every night without fail. But where his own prayers filled his mind with peace, and Light…these words had the sound of drumbeats in them…bone striking taut leather, and naked feet stomping frantically against dirt and rock. 

The elf swallowed hard, raised his chin, and continued deeper into the forest. 

The chanting grew steadily louder. 

Tythanion continued on. 

By and by the trees thinned, and he came upon a small clearing in the woods. He was no Farstrider, but even Ty’s unpracticed eye could see the remnants of long-overgrown tree stumps--no doubt cut down ages ago to make room for the small temple squatting at the clearing’s center. He stepped lightly now, approaching the sacred place (at least he presumed it was once sacred to someone) as quietly as his heavy boots would allow. 

The chanting grew steadily louder. 

Just on the other side of the wall, now, it was. Ty paused in the stone archway, held his breath as he poked his head gingerly around the— 

A great hand shot out of the deep darkness within, securing itself around Tythanion’s neck before the elf could let out a gasp of surprise, let alone scream. Burning eyes glowered at him from the shadows as he clutched at the arm, battering at it ineffectually with plated fists. A face, features twisted in unnatural, horrible ways, leered at him, offering no hope of respite. 

Light shield me…! 

The thing growled at him in that same primordial language—even if it hadn’t been crushing his throat, Ty wasn’t sure he would have been able to respond to this…thing. 

The thing narrowed its eyes, cocking its head in an almost curious gesture. A blink, and then a free hand pushed up the ritual mask to reveal the face of a middle-aged troll glaring at him. “Wat ya doin’ ‘ere, elfy?” the troll asked, relaxing his grip on Ty’s neck. “Dis ain’ your land.” 

“Well ah. Technically according to the political boundaries established by theeeEEEKKK--!” The rest of the thought remained unsaid, as the troll oh-so-casually cut off his air flow again. 

“I don’ care wat ya maps say, elfy. Dis land be holy ta de loa, an’ dey don’ give a shit about ya ‘boundaries’—an’ neidder do I.” Ty gasped as the troll let go of his neck, fully this time, and allowed him to fall to the ground in what would have been a quite embarrassing heap, if the elf had been focused on appearances rather than breathing. The troll crouched down, nonchalantly balancing a long, thin dagger in his palm as he loomed over the smaller creature. “I gonna ask ya again. An’ dis time ya don’ get a second chance: wat’er ya doin’ ‘ere, elfymon?”

Oh Light, Light, banish from my heart all uncertainty and fear… “I ah…I was seeking…information…” For my faith is a shield though I come before my enemies naked and innocent as newborn babe…

 The troll’s mouth twitched—in amusement or annoyance Ty couldn’t begin to guess. “Dat so? An’ wat infamantion be ya seekin’ in an old Amani temple, eh?”

Trust in the truth and speak without fear… The elf cleared his throat, gingerly pushing himself into a sitting position without taking his eyes off the knife’s blade/ glinting in the dim torchlight. “I was ah…” He shuffled uncomfortably, and took a moment to compose himself since his…captor? Companion? Seemed equally unhurried. “I was attempting to learn about these ‘loa’ you spoke of, actually.” For the path of truth is ever righteous and uncompromising, and shines brightly in the most holy Light. 

The troll blinked again and, incredibly, burst into a loud, hearty peal of laughter that was so unlike the primitive snarl of a few minutes before that Ty could scarcely believe it came from the same being. “Elfy, dat’s too stupid’a answa ta be’a lie.” Still grinning (at least, Ty thought it was a grin), the troll reached down and offered a hand to help the elf to his feet. “Taz’jin Darkspea.” 

Ty accepted the hand, and clambered up, feeling much more himself as he straightened his tabard and began brushing off his armor. “Oh—Light bless you. It is quite dusty in here, isn’t it? I’m very glad I’m not allergic—would you like to go outside, perhaps?”

 “S’my name, elfymon.”

 “Hm? Excuse me?”

 “Taz’jin Darkspea. S’my name.”

 “Your—OH! Oh forgive me, I didn’t mean—that is—erm—I’m not quite, you see, and—and—”

 The troll that called itself Taz’jin let out that deep laugh again, and nearly bowled the elf over with a friendly slap on his armored back. “S’arite elfy. Wat’s ya name, eh?”

Ty’s chest involuntarily puffed as he recited, “Adept Tythanion Sunborne, first heir to House Sunborne and Adept of the Blood Knight order!” He couldn’t help a proud grin and added, “but you can call me Ty.”

 Taz’jin watched the elf, chewing his tusk thoughtfully. “Ty. Righ’. An’ a Blood Knight…so ya say.” His practiced eye took in the armor, the tabard, the sword, the satchel of books. “But de arma fit, an’ de tabard’s tailored. F’ya be a fake, ya be a good one.”

 “I am NOT a fake! A holy paladin of the Light does not lie!”

 Taz’jin almost laughed again, but caught himself as he looked into the fiercely earnest face. “…Righ.’ How old be ya, Ty?”

 The paladin winced for the briefest moment, but drew himself up quickly, and met the troll’s eye to answer, “eighty-two.”

 “Eigh’y two? Das barely a child fa ya mon, eh?” His lips twitched into a small smile, and there was no mistaking the challenge behind it.

 But instead of insult, or even indignation, the elf’s gaze dropped to the study the toes of his impeccably polished boots. “Aye. I am not yet of age.” There was a pregnant pause, and he set his jaw, meeting the troll’s eyes again. “But I have passed my trials, I have earned the right to call myself paladin and Blood Knight, and I serve the most holy Light!”

Taz absorbed this small diatribe, gnawing pensively at his tusk as he eyed the proud boy. (For whatever age he might be in years, there was no mistaking that he was a boy.) “So ya be,” he said finally. “An’ so ya do.”

They stared at each other for what seemed like several minutes, and it was the elf that finally broke the silence between them. “Why do you come to these old ruins, troll? Are you a member of the Reliquary, or…?”

 Taz bit back several indignant and colorful curses that were on the tip of his tongue—boy, he’s just a boy!—but couldn’t  help a sneer. “I done work fa dem in my time, but I got no need ta ‘study’ dis place—or lead anya ya kind ta it.” Off the elf’s absurdly quizzical look, he added, “dis be a sacred place, a place’a worship an’ bargainin.’ Dis be why I come.”

Unexpectedly, the elf’s eyes lit up, shining green and bright in the torchlight. “You are a priest! A troll priest! A priest of your…your…” His teeth clenched as he fought to pull forth the proper word. “…a priest of your spirit creatures!”

Taz almost corrected him, almost began to explain the difference between mere spirits and true loa, between a priest and a shadow hunter…but the elf’s eager face told him that would end in a barrage of more questions than he was prepared to reasonably field at the moment. “…Sure. Sure, I be someting like a priest, ya.”

“And you’re here honoring your tribe’s spirits?”

The troll passed a hand briefly over his face, massaging his temple for a moment. “Close enough, ya.”

“WELL then!” Ty grinned triumphantly, and began unclasping the fasteners of his boots. “Well! It seems that the Light has guided me truly once again! I am not too late!”

Taz cocked his head, eyeing the elf suspiciously as the latter continued to busy himself with removing his footwear. “Too late fa…elfy, why de fel ya takin’ off ya shoes?”

Ty glanced up as he pulled a boot off, and set it neatly outside of the temple’s entryway. “Well. You are not wearing foot coverings. I assume it is customary to remove them before entering your spirit’s holy place?”

“Elfy. Ya ain’ comin’ inta Nalorakk’s temple. ‘Specially not while a shadow hunta be makin’ offerin’s ta ‘im.”

The elf stopped, halfway through the motion of depositing his left boot alongside the right. “But…I mean no offense…”

The plea was so abject in its honestly and confusion that Taz found himself speaking gently, rather than with the mocking tone that the elf’s statement deserved. “Elfy…” he sighed rubbing his face again as he slid down into a confortable crouch in the temple’s entryway, “look elfy. Watcha say ya name be again?”

Ty raised his chin. “Tythanion Sunborne.”

“Tyh—Tithan—Ty. Look Ty. Ya elfies an’ dere troll wars be de reason dis temple be abandoned, an’ why our sacred land—“

“Your people?” Ty snorted. “But you’re hardly one of those Amani savages—you’ve no plants growing on you.”

Taz’s eyes narrowed, and his voice became suddenly very calm, and dangerously precise. “All trolls be bruddas, boy, an’ de loa look afta us all. Jes because Vol’jin be wise, an’ chose ta hona de Darkspea oat’ ta de Horde don’ mean dat Zul’jin’s dream be wrong—or dead. It jes ain’ found de righ’ time yet. …But it will. Do ya undastand wat I be sayin,’ lighty-elfy? Or do dese tusks make it too hard fa dose pretty elfy ears ta really hear wen onea my kind speaks true?”

The elf remained standing during this monologue, frozen in fascination rather than fear. Though the words were twisted and garbled in that awkward trollish accent, still Ty could feel the undercurrent of power—of power and of longing--under them; like some small piece of the ancient words carried on the wind that had drawn him to this site in the first place. “…No,” he said finally. “No, I don’t understand.”

 Taz blinked, the simple and honest answer draining all the righteous indignation from him in a heartbeat. “No, elfy. No ya don.’”

 There was another silence, and again it was the elf that spoke first. “What were you praying for, priest?” he asked. “Why were you appealing to your spirits tonight?”

 “Eh…” Taz shook his head, pushing himself to his feet and stretching as he spoke. “Eh. I was honorin’ Nalorakk. De Great Bear. Askin’ ‘im ta guide a mon I’d see as Chief’a my Warband. Ta grow in’s heart an’ give ‘im de courage ta lead like a Warchief gotta.”

 “A good prayer. A worthy prayer.” He nodded once, almost to himself, as if a decision had been made. “Very well. Troll: I would pray with you.”

 “Ya—eh. …Wat?”

“It is a worthy and honorable prayer you send to your bear spirit. I would pray with you, in the name of the Light, on behalf of your noble supplication.”

“Elfy, I don’ tink de loa an’ de Light—”

“Not in your temple of course. I understand that is not open to those not of your faith, and I respect that. Out here is perfectly suitable.” He gestured to the forest behind him. “Assuming that your spirit animals do not require a temple in order to hear you.”

“Uh…no. No dey don.’ …Elfy…”

“Good. The Light does not either. Though certainly a holy place helps put one in the right frame of mind, the Light is, of course, omnipresent.”

“Righ’…elfy…”

They were walking now, deeper into the forest, until they reached what Ty judged would be a safe and respectful distance from the troll temple. Taz watched, somewhere between awe and utter confusion, as the elf, still barefoot, fell to a knee in the cool grass and reverently removed an old, battered tome from his belt. “Light that shines upon all bel—ah, upon all creatures: hear the prayers of this noble troll on behalf of his fellow, as his troll-spirits hear him. Give his Warband the strength and courage…”

As he prayed, before Taz’s disbelieving eyes, the elf began to glow. Not so brightly that it would have been notable had it not been so dark…and of course the troll had seen more than a few paladins in battle that shone brighter than the sun itself. But a paladin—an elf paladin!—here, outside of Nalorakk’s temple! Shining with the Light as he prayed for some strange troll! It was almost enough to make him think that Jan’alai was playing some kind of trick, trying to drive him mad.

But this ‘vision’ did not fade, and the elf continued to gently glow, and pray. Finally, in wonder, Taz sank to his knees beside the elf, pulling out a small bit of raw meat and an incense burner that was quickly and reverently lit. None of these preparations stopped the soft torrent of prayers from the elf, and very shortly, the sound of deep Zandali chanting rose to mesh with the Orcish in harmonious counterpoint.

And there they stayed, the child of Light and child of shadow, willing their prayers into the wide open heavens until the moon rose high, and the incense was little more than a memory on the biting tongue of the wind.

[highmountainhuntress]

The Belly of a Storm (1/?)

The streets of Silvermoon flicker with the cold glow of arcane and moonlight, and no sight has ever made Miggu's teeth grind so painfully. He pushes the raw sides of his tongue against its cage of bone for the umpteenth time, then hisses out a breath and pushes himself up to his feet, stalking tight circuits in his little corner of the Royal Exchange and clenching the already worn letter in his fist. The audacity.. His heart thuds painfully as he thinks of the familiar, elegant script, and the faint smell of spice that accompanied the letter.

I need your help again. Annabeth is ill again, sort of. We encountered something bad in Talador, and there's no way we can go back to Dalaran to try and find Mora now. Well.. more that I tried and I can't find her. Please, I know you didn't want to be around me much anymore, but it's getting worse, and I wouldn't send this if it wasn't one of my last resorts. I'm sorry.

That was it. ...Well, no, he was being unfair. Simon had inquired after how he was doing first and he hadn't actually been so demanding in his letter, but... Miggu growls again and clenches his fist tighter, stopping his pacing to squeeze his eyes shut and take in a steadying breath. A soft groan slips out from the gaps between his lips, and he lifts a hand to massage slow circles into his forehead, a distressed sort crease settling between his brows as his shoulders relax and his hand stops threatening to shred the paper in its grasp. He understood why Simon was coming to him again. A blood elf and a human couple was already enough to get seriously punished for, and coupled with how many rules Simon had broken in the past, he'd probably be under threat of his very life. And in some bitterly ironic way, Miggu of all people had ended up helping them the most. It draws a sardonic sneer to his lips and he has to suck in another breath to steady himself and shake the resentment off.

Pushing back his thoughts for a moment, Miggu lifts his eyes to peer across the empty square. Empty, save for the chirping of insects and the occasional drunken person stumbling out of the inn across the way. Even the trolls of Gor'Watha had retired for the night. Though he seeks this isolation when sleep refuses to quiet his thoughts, the loneliness gathers around him oppressively and make him want to shrink so far into his own body in hopes that, at least for a little while, he could disappear. Blowing out a defeated sigh, Miggu drops his head again and curls up in his familiar niche against the tall, pale tree and its sheltering roots, quietly slipping the letter back into his bag. He'd already sent a reply saying he'd help, he couldn't back out now. Simon would be in Eversong in just a few days, and Miggu would have to... He wraps his arms around his knees and slumps against the warm bark, inhaling slowly as if the soft, woody smell of it would finally overpower the thrum of arcane energy that kept it alive. He didn't have to think about it now. He wouldn't..

“..Miggu... Miggu!”

The troll jolts awake to a hand on his shoulder and large green eyes staring worriedly at him, framed by sleepy shadows and tightly curled hair as bright as the sun shining in his eyes. He blinks rapidly and winces as he shuffles up to a sitting position, his muscles groaning in protest after the night spent curled up against the tree so haphazardly. “U-uh- Lera, what are you..?” He fumbles for words, rubbing his eyes hastily and squinting again up at her.

“Oh, thank the Light!”

The elf drops to her knees and wraps her small arms around him tightly before he can hardly process that it's morning now, and it's all he can do before she starts talking quickly again in Thalassian he has to strain to keep up with.

“What were you doing out here? Did you sleep outside against this tree all night? Why didn't you come in? Is something wrong?”

“Lera, Lera-” Miggu huffs groggily, cracking a faint smile at her exuberance and laying a hand firmly on her back to stop the stream of words. “I'm fine.. Just- jeez, what time is it?”

The hoarse chuckle draws Lera out of her sudden deluge of worry and she releases him immediately, tugging on her curls in chagrin and biting the inside of her lip. “Uh.. sorry Miggu. It's dawn- shortly after dawn. Sorry for waking you, I just..” She looks to the side with a frown, but her spiral of doubt halts when Miggu chuckles again and brushes her arm with his large blue hand. She looks back at him hesitantly and can't help the smile that tugs on her lips when she sees the fond look that greets her in those sleepy eyes.

“Aww, only dawn..? Mmh, I haven't been sleeping out here for too long then... I take you're going to shepherd me inside now so I can get some proper rest?”

Lera's smile widens and she nods a bit shyly. He draws a soft laugh out of her when he ruffles her hair, and with a more comfortable smile, she stands and offers a hand to help him up to his feet, despite the fact it hardly actually does anything. She yawns widely as he rights himself and stretches into the sun, holding both of her arms gently- he was so tall... The yawn hiccups into a peep of surprise as Lera blinks rapidly back into the moment and to the sight of Miggu peering at her with a curiously raised brow, cheeks filling with mild embarrassment as she realizes she must have spaced out again. “Sorry.. I'm-” she yawns widely again, another squeak pushing out through her throat. “I've been really tired lately...”

Miggu smiles fondly and strokes her messy curls again, chin bobbing gently. Then, with a gentle touch, he takes the back of her arm and steers them both back towards the inn across the way, their footsteps soft and unobtrusive on the sun-warmed bricks as the city starts to wake up around them.

“What are you doing up this early anyway?”

“..I had to pee.”

The troll's resulting laughter fades into the morning mist, and the last vestiges of Silvermoon's silence retreat with them back into the inn, sheltering them in their slumber from the world for just a few hours more.

[el-scorcho-locco]

The lore for WoD is really stupid like I think time travel is absolute garbage especially if there are people who could potentially exist in modern Azeroth and Draenor (like all the important Draenei). It just doesn't make sense, or there are too many holes that need to be explained/filled in and it just makes me angry.

[rasekstories]

Rasek’s Dad Dies

The sky over Revantusk was clear. It was unusually still in the morning; the sea at the edge of the village was like a looking glass, though the sun at dusk the night before had been blood red, bathing the trolls beneath the Overlook cliffs in its foreboding light.

Rasek sat at the edge of the dock with a cigarette between his fingers, staring out at the horizon, at nothing, at the pattern of gulls that dipped in and out of the surf, completely unaware of him. He looked older than he ever had. Crow’s feet pulled at the corners of his eyes with bags beneath them; disheveled grey hair and a scruffy beard to match. He was not yet even thirty.

He’d been expecting it for some time. Years ago, when that self-proclaimed king from some long forgotten human house drove his men to the village like a wave against a wall. Revenge for something the warband had done. Rasek forgot. His father had taken a spear to the leg.

His limp after that kept him walking with a cane, and as the years dragged on he moved slower, left the hut less, relied on his wife more and more. He hadn’t said two words to his son in weeks, months, years, and when the former general visited home he noticed his father ate and drank only broth and hooch.

When Riska was born he was excited. Prouder than his grandson than he’d ever been of his son, and quick to say so. A boy with dark hair and red eyes bouncing on his knee. His good knee. Leave him here with your mother and me for a little while, Rasek. You have so much to do. You and your shitty little warband.

But no troll lives forever, and Rasek’s father was no exception. His mother firmly denied it, but he knew. The last few weeks were the nicest he’d ever been. He couldn’t remember where he was or who any of them were, but he was happy to see them, and sat with Riska in his lap and looked out at the ocean, a pipe between his lips.

Gentle. Kind. Almost like a different person.

Rasek flicked the remains of his cigarette into the water. What was he going to do now? His mother hadn’t lived alone his entire life. The village would take care of her, sure, like they were doing now. Comforting her as they wrapped his father’s body, his organs carefully jarred beside him, ready to be moved to the catacombs.

She had Juzmik’s mother with her as well; the two old women fast friends in their later years. No doubt the tattered remains of the warband were just waiting to offer their condolences to him and the family. To Riska even, though he was just turning five and wouldn’t really understand.

Sorry to hear, man. Death is hard, you know? I remember when my dad died. Need anything, you let us know. Drinks on me, man. Need any help with the kid, we’re here for you. Man. He was a great guy.

Same shit everybody says at funerals.

Footsteps on the dock brought him back to reality, and he turned his head just enough to nod in greeting. Juzmik, his hair tied back in a dark braid, his oiled leathers traded for an old lace down shirt and a pair of travelling pants.

“Thought I’d find you out here.” His accent was thick and more northerly than was typical for Revantusk, betraying his origins every time he opened his mouth. “Bout time to get movin, Ras. Mom’s lookin for ya.”

Rasek nodded again, absent-mindedly patting his breast pocket in search of another cigarette. Empty.

“I was thinking, if you want, we could try to get the old chief down here to come. Help him walk down, or whatever.” Juzmik continued. “He probably ain’t been outside for a good couple of months, yeah? Wouldn’t hurt to get him some sun, and I think some of the guys would like to see him.”

His friend snorted. Old men, crippled by war, their minds gone with the tide, being dragged out to a funeral for someone they probably couldn’t remember. That was sure to cheer everyone up.

“Whatever man. If you want.” Rasek looked back out toward the horizon.

He barely heard Juzmik’s response; the soft clarity of his voice, encouraging him not to make his mother wait much longer. She probably needed her son now, today more than any other. And her grandson, Riska, a chubby hand curled around her finger.

It would be easy not to go. It would be easy to slip around the gate by the beach, outside the walls of Revantusk and around the gathering pines that protected them from the northern winds. The path up the cliffs was scarcely guarded these days. If anyone were there at all it would be one of his own, some relic of the past that refused to believe it was over.

He could run to the steps of Jintha’alor like he did when he was a boy, and lose himself in the twists and turns of the old city until the day was done, his father buried and forgotten.

He could run to the foot of Aerie Peak, daggers drawn and sharpened and fall upon the first dwarf he saw. Patrols. Hunting. Out for a piss. A scalp was a scalp.

He could run to the elven ruins to the north, across the rickety wooden bridge that sagged beneath the weight of moss and time and rot, and wait for nightfall to beckon old ghosts from empty temples.

He could do any of that, and no one could stop him even if they wanted to. It would be easy, and painless, and maybe even a little fun.

But, what the hell. Rasek stood, rolling his shoulders and running a hand through his unkempt hair. If the old man was finally gone, some last respects for the sake of his mother wouldn’t hurt. Not too much, anyway.

He turned towards the town and began to walk, breath carefully measured, the sound of gulls overhead like the ocean’s own farewell.

[tazjindarkspear]

[RP] Warchief, My Warchief

((First: spoiler warning. Using some potentially leaked Legion information in this write up, if you care about such things.

Second: this is AU, obviously, for the RP day theme.

Third: I don’t write trolls with accents when they’re speaking Zandali. Cause…it’s their native language. So. Yeah.

Fourth: I’m changing up my style a little, since this is such a different kind of story—ripping a page out of Theenie’s book and trying to write in the active voice. We’ll see how well that works for me.))

________________________________

Broken Isles Eight months post-assault

Exhaustion. That's all he feels, now—all he has felt for…how long? He has long lost track of time. His rations had run out ages ago, and the gnawing hunger pangs have subsided enough by now that such feelings are no longer reliable timekeepers. His feet don’t hurt anymore, either, neither do his sides from running, or his legs from walking until unconsciousness stopped them, then immediately standing to move again.

Taz’jin doesn’t even know where he is, anymore—a cardinal sin for any self-respecting shadow hunter. But none of that matters. The loa have been silent for days, weeks—and it doesn’t matter. All that matters is the Warchief. All that matters is finding Vol’jin.

Because Vol’jin can’t be dead. It isn’t that he refuses to accept such a thing; it is simply that, objectively, Vol’jin could not be dead. Even knowing nothing else, now, Taz’s weary mind knows that much. With utter and complete certainty.

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

Two months post-assault

”But he’s dead, Tazzy,” Umcha says, gnawing his lower lip as the shadow hunter grimly fills a large rucksack with everything he would need for an extended time in the field. “We went to his funeral, remember? You remember that, don’t you?”

Taz glances over at the boy, forcing a smile for his benefit. “They didn’t have a choice. He’s gone yeah, and they had to have closure—there always has to be a Warchief.” He sighs, and shoulders the rucksack. “But I don’t believe he’s dead. Not until I see a body. He deserves that much, after all he’s done for us.”

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

Strong hands—surprisingly strong, for such a small troll—shove Taz roughly against the hard stone of the Dalaran sewer. “You think you could just sneak off like that?” Juzmik spits, voice raised in anger, eyes betraying the true pain, the betrayal that underscores the accusation. “You think you can just leave us like that? Leave the Warband—and you don’t even have the fucking balls to say goodbye?”

Taz’s hands wrap gently around the younger man’s, and he smiles—ghastly. “It was—it would have been easier, that way. For everyone.”

“You stupid sonofabitch!” Juzmik snarls, and punches him in the chest—but there’s no force behind the blow this time. “I know he’s important to you—@#$%, Taz, he’s important to all of us. But he’s not more important than the Warband!” Taz doesn’t answer, and Juzmik’s mouth falls open a little. “…Is he?”

Taz is still silent, merely removes the young man’s hands from his shoulders, and ruffles the wild blue hair—an old gesture, one that causes both of them to break eye contact suddenly, for fear of what the other might see there.

He turns, and begins walking down the large pipe, towards the city’s secret exit. He pauses at the edge, fingering the glider trigger on his belt—he hates this part.

“The Horde can’t afford to lose two shadow hunters!” Juzmik practically screams at him, in desperation. And it IS desperation, if Juzmik has been reduced to appealing to Taz’s sense of patriotism. “Not now! Not in the middle of a—”

The shadow hunter jumps, without looking back. 

_____________________________________________________

It is the sound of voices that bring him him to, jerking him out of the dream/memory/vision—there is no point in distinguishing between those, now. Not real, he thinks, performing the waking ritual of washing the dirt, mud and crawling things out of the socket of his right eye. No people here. No one to speak…Zandali?

He gasps, dropping his canteen as he realizes he is hearing no dream. The trail he has followed, half asleep and half crazed for the last…it hasn’t been for nothing. I’d know that voice anywhere.

Taz staggers to his feet, moving towards to voice without being consciously aware of his body propelling itself. “Warchief? WARCHIEF!” He can’t see, but he feels the point of a glaive at his neck, and falls to his knees, sobbing in exultation and relief before the great, bearded troll.

The tears finally clear his vision, but the Warchief, oddly, isn’t looking down at him. “What do you make of this one?” Vol’jin asks the tall, upright troll standing across from him.

“A spy?” the Zandalari asks, eyeing the filth covered creature trembling at the Warchief’s knee with doubt.

Vol’jin shakes his head, sheathing his glaive as he squats down to meet Taz’s eye. “A shadow hunter…perhaps.” He notes the ceremonial dagger on the troll’s arm, the one that mirrors his own, and the simple spear tattoo on the other arm. “Did you earn this, Darkspear? Or is it a trophy?”

“Earned, Warchief,” Taz whispers. Vol’jin’s eyes narrow for a moment, skeptical, then he glances up, seemingly at nothing, and his expression softens abruptly as he looks back down.

“You’ve come a long way, Darkspear. For a…very long time.” He blinks, surprised, and looks at the Zandalari, almost questioning. “He’s no threat, I think.” His hand comes to rest on Taz’s shoulder, and Taz’s forehead falls on top of it almost unconsciously. “Just a fool. A very loyal fool.”

The Zandalari shifts his weight from one large foot to the other. “I won’t have a fool knowing of this meeting…who knows how much he heard, before he revealed himself? Besides…even if we sent him back to the city, in this state…”

Vol’jin’s eyes narrow in challenge, and his hand tightens protectively on the troll now leaning against his shoulder. There is a pause, much longer than it should be, as the Warchief’s eyes flit between the two. Then he exhales sharply, and looks to Taz, raising the exhausted troll’s chin and speaking softly. “You’ve come a long way, haven’t you Taz’jin Darkspear? Spent a long time looking for me.”

“Yes, Warchief.”

“You’re a loyal mon. And you’ve got a great love for me, haven’t you?”

“Yes, Warchief.”

Vol’jin’s eyes lift to the Zandalari again, for just a moment, and drop back to Taz. “And you’ve served the Spirits faithfully. Never betrayed them. Always honored them. Is that right?”

“I’ve tried, Warchief. Sometimes failed. Always tried.”

“I can see that. Not even a shadow hunter’s expected to be perfect.” Vol’jin chews his tusk contemplatively, and Taz smiles as he watches the gesture he’s unconsciously imitated so many times. “We have a problem, my foolish, loyal friend. I can’t let you go back to the city, seeing what you’ve seen and hearing what you’ve heard…it’s not the proper time. And time, for what is being planned, is very, very important indeed. Do you understand me?”

He nods, eye half-closed, basking in the sound of the so-long-sought voice, the touch of approval from the father he never had, but always wished for. “Yes, Warchief.”

“Bwonsamdi’s coming for you, Taz’jin. Don’t worry—there won’t be any pain.”

Taz struggles against the firm but gentle hand. “It’s not time—Juz—the kids—I gotta—”

“Your responsibilities are discharged, shadow hunter.” There is no pity in the voice, only a simple statement of truth. “It’s time whether you will or no. Do me a last service, and go in peace. Don’t make it difficult.”

“But—” his struggles are token now, and his face is already relaxing as blood spills out of the glaive wound in his stomach. True to the Warchief's promise, there is no pain—he only feels the touch of lips brushing against his forehead as his eye closes…and opens again, both of them this time, to follow Papa Samdi wherever he leads.

[stuchsstories]

Opportunity Knocks

Mutually assured destruction is a strong, if brittle, foundation for business. It may hold fast for years, forever, but if it were to fail the results would be swift and spectacular. Pandaren, commonplace throughout Azeroth after the brief (though some argue continued) colonization by both factions, found themselves in the unique position of travelling as they pleased. So long as they remained wary of insignia, dialect and being personally recognized. And for Pandaren used to the company of the Horde, there was money to be made from the right Alliance trader. Allegiance to the coin can be the strongest of all. In Sheetotum’s case, a dwarf. The very same dwarf for whom he had worked after the dissolution and disillusion of the Gor’Watha Warband and claimed to have escaped from upon his return.

Booty Bay creaked on the shore and clanged out at sea. The waters around the cape still but for the pull of the moon, high tide evaporating from the port’s timber struts. Empty sails meant the bar busier than Sheetotum or the dwarf might have liked, but numbers meant noise to hide a quiet word or two. He hulked with his back to one corner, eyes to the room and cohort the opposite. To reverse their positions would result in little but comedy. They sat in silence through two drinks and a full turnover of patrons, anybody remaining too long presented a target for their suspicion.

"Yer lucky, still aw look the same tae aw’body," the dwarf eyed his tankard as though about to climb inside for cover, "Of the tae o’ us it’ll be me that’s kent fae some drunk."

"Ease yourself, Tavish," Sheetotum leaned back with open arms, "You are so tense the barmaid may lift you along with your empty mug."

"Yer awfy calm fer a trai’or. Ye sure ye wer’ny follow’t?"

"Do not confuse my joviality for that of an amateur in matters of subterfuge," with elbows on the table, Sheetotum hunched over, shoulders taught, "Consider my good mood a measure of my surety." The barmaid appeared and lifted their empty tankards without a dwarf attached.

"An’ naebody asked where ye were off tae?" Sheetotum shook his head. "Naebody asked to go wit’ ye?" Another shake of the head. "Naebody asked where ye’d been when ye returned aftae six months?"

"They accepted my story of doing menial work in Aerie Peak. What need had they to question it? I came bearing gifts with a story of bounty hunters and a showdown in the mists around Lordaeron Ruins. If I have learned anything in the company of trolls, it’s that they love such tales," Sheetotum paused and continued in a lower tone, "Frankly? They do not care for me, I feel. So long as the grunts are paid - and they are, mind - they ask very little of me."

"An’ if that Yarbo finds oot yer a-"

Sheetotum let out a hearty laugh, “Yarbo? How old is the Peak’s intelligence on the Warband exactly? Yarbo is but a name used to scare those who remember a him. As much of a ghost-“

"Ye sayin’ he’s deid?"

"Dead? No, no, no," and after a very quick thought, "Well, for all the average member of the ranks knows, he might very well be. Only the generals who bring word from him know for certain. And if he is gone? I think they all fear the other taking his place. You can see them sometimes, the officers, looking off into the distance at empty thrones. For now, even they benefit from at least pretending he remains in charge." After a long pause, spent imagining an empty throne, Sheetotum spoke, "Another drink? You’re paying after all."

"Aye, why no?" Tavish motioned for the barmaid, "An’ what if one o’ they pretenders finds oot about aw this?"

Sheetotum rubbed a palm down over his beard and shook his head slightly, bemused at his own, sudden honesty, “Part of me wants them to find out, I fear. Just to feel relevant. I told one officer I would be gone for a few days and his disinterest was palpable. They think I sit around counting coins.”

"Aye, well why no switch sides? Yer halfway there," Tavish laughed and thanked the arrival of a fresh beverage each.

"Ah, my friend," Sheetotum wiped the froth from his whiskers, "For all my griping, I am settled with them. Comfortable."

"Oor mystics," Tavish stifled a large belch and continued, "Sooth-sayin’ folks, say a great trouble is comin’. Ye may want tae consider who yer comfy wit’." Tavish punctuated his warning with a nod.

"Mystics? Seers? Speakers for the Loa?" Sheetotum fiddled a button on his ill-fitting (and one off) Panadren garb, "You think we don’t have our own harbingers of doom? Every day seems to hark some new horror that rarely appears. Besides, being with those who pay so little attention to my comings and goings outside of their own pockets is rather lucrative. There’s always something to skim off the top. Speaking of which."

"Aye, o’ course. Business." Tavish slid a tattered invoice over the hardwood, "Arms. Loads o’ ‘em. Fresh-forged an’ forgotten. I pick ‘em up."

"The Warband has little need for arms, we are in the official employ of the Horde these days. Barracks in Orgrimmar and all."

"Horde weapons?" Tavish scoffed, "Aye, dented fae battle or smithed by they green-horns that replaced they experienced dead? An’ even they troll friends o’ hae nae use o’ ‘em, I dinnae doubt ye can find a buyer."

Sheetotum considered for a moment before seeing the sense of it. The civil war amongst the Horde had a greater cost than most had foreseen, and giving the Alliance time to gather strength of arms. “You speak truths I was happy to ignore. But I wonder if your mystics are not as convincing as you. Their tales of woe not enough for back-up steel?”

"Aye, they been wrong afore."

"I don’t doubt it."

"Takin’ they weapons?"

"I will accept only those without eagles, griffons, lions and whatever other ridiculous creatures you people adorn your steel with. I will be here until the wind picks up again, tomorrow probably. Bring them here and I will pay."

"Aw’ways a pleasure workin’ wi’ troll scum." Tavish drank deep and hearty.

[scuttlebuttstuch]

Why can't I rp?