#jaegerwrites

[jaegertango]

Writing the Rite (for Right)

Remember that time I used to write things? I sure don’t. I just found this laying on the ground outside, so I’m gonna post it.

He couldn't sleep.

Vykaenai had been awake for some time now, blearily staring out over the vast sea of clouds that surrounded the realm of Bastion. As was his wont, he was seated on the very edge of the world, his feet hanging perilously above the endless dirge that was the Maw so far below. Yet, he hardly seemed worried that one unbalanced push would send him to his demise – maybe because he was too tired to care. His fiery eyes were focused on some unfixed point on the horizon, and even if his face was calm, his mind was racing. The Rite of Purity had occurred several hours earlier, but it was still fresh in the dragon's mind. Not because Helteon had failed, not because the Forsworn had attacked, but because the images he had seen during the Vesper's ringing were far too realistic.

He closed his eyes – and once more, he did not see the reassuring calm of black, but the flames burning all around him.

The Grandmaster let loose a growling sigh, a furl of smoke puffing from his nostrils as he flexed his knuckles. Even though he understood the importance of sleep, he didn't want to close his eyes longer than he needed to.

“Do all of you dragons do that?”

Another tired, albeit commanding voice spoke out to Vykaenai, and he lazily turned to look up at Lady Firehawk approaching him. She was still wearing her armor, complete with her helm hiding her eyes, and the dragon mused if she had taken it off since they had arrived in the Shadowlands. It was ironic. When he had first met her, she was clad in farmer's garb, in a comfortable atmosphere, and she looked well-rested. She did not want to return to the life she had given up, and yet. Here the Blood Elf stood, looking far more comfortable in layers of platemail, in a death realm that knew not sun or moon, in a voice that sounded as exhausted as the Grandmaster felt. And despite that, it seemed to suit her.

“Do what, Lady Firehawk?” Vykaenai replied gruffly, staring her down.

“Find some dramatic perch to roost yourselves upon,” she continued, shaking her head at the very edge that the Grandmaster sat upon. “First the bow of the airship, now here. And I heard that when Deathwing attacked Stormwind, he made sure to land upon the towers of the gate.”

“'Tis a black dragon sentiment, surely,” Vykaenai grumbled with such a dry tone that even Lady Firehawk smirked at it. “What brings you up at this hour?”

At first, the Sin'dorei did not respond. She walked up towards the dragon, her boots crunching onto the golden grass that seemed to crackle with resplendent life unlike anything the woods in Azeroth had ever gotten to enjoy. When she stood behind Vykaenai, he returned his eyes forward, keeping relaxed as silence fluttered between the two, leaving only a melodic wind to hum between them. Despite that, it was not awkward, the quiet almost relaxing as the two stared into the clouds beyond.

“Helteon is healing quickly,” Lady Firehawk finally stated, crossing her arms over her chest. “He had few wounds worth noting, but he is resting at the least.”

“Mm. Very good. His Rite was not what I expected,” Vykaenai grunted brusquely, but the corner of his mouth pulled upward slightly. “A shame the Forsworn attacking failed his Rite.”

“I don't think so,” Lady Firehawk spoke, and the Grandmaster turned his head up curiously at her.

“Oh? These creatures happened up as his Rite started to go wrong, and you do not believe them culprits? I may owe their leader his wings back.”

“The Forsworn didn't help Helteon, no. But his Rite was failing before their arrival,” the Blood Elf replied, pursing her lips. “They saw opportunity, and leaped at the chance.”

“Attacking a single Aspirant's Rite at a moment's notice. Harumph,” Vykaenai snorted, looking somewhat annoyed at the explanation. “Their desperation reeks of hypocrisy.”

“Is it hypocrisy though?” Lady Firehawk replied, leering down at the back of the Grandmaster's neck. “To give up one's memories for this 'greater good.'”

“Not all of their memories, Lady Firehawk,” Vykaenai answered back smoothly. “Just the ones holding their true nature back.”

The Sin'dorei made an exasperated noise, much like a groan and a sigh combined. The dragon believed the conversation over, so he turned around so he could stand up and get some quiet – only for Lady Firehawk to instead grip him by the shoulder and force him back down.

“Memories are what define us, Vykaenai. What would we be without them?”

“Probably a lot happier without those bad memories plaguing us.”

“Don't give me that horseshit,” the Blood Elf hissed, and for a fleeting second, her armor seemed to radiate with fire and smoke not unlike the fury that occasionally roiled from the dragon. “All your blustering about being so old, knowing so much, but I know you'd never give those memories up.”

The dragon glared back at Lady Firehawk, his teeth gritting together as he did so. He didn't want to admit it, but she had a point. When he first joined the Kaldorei in their stand against the Legion so long ago, it was their memory of standing against their immortal enemy, and his own memory of standing against his father, that gave him strength. But that wasn't to say it was pleasant. The Night Elves, even in their eternal vigil, still had its singular Illidans big enough to damn the entire race. They still hated the black dragons, even as he, Hakurion, sought to uphold their legacy as stewards of the Earth. And his kin, the very beings that shared his blood and pride, wished for all life – including the other Dragonflights, to be buried under magma and soil. They were not happy memories – but they were the very sources he needed to remember why he continued to walk Azeroth.

His eyes closed again. Fire. Smoke. Screams. Murder. Mortals could not be trusted. They were greedy and violent. The dragonflights had never been wrong about mortals as a whole. Everything was burning. Everything was dying. Everything was under the purge of a tyrant. So much pain. So much heartache. It had happened seven-thousand years ago, and yet flashes of that nightmare still found themselves plaguing the dragon at random. This was the worst it had ever been in a very long time, and Vykaenai found that seven-thousand years had done little to heal the wound. The Vesper only made him realize just how much he still hurt inside. When he finally opened his eyes again, there was a resonating wrath blazing in his gaze.

“I would never,” Vykaenai started, an ominous snarl booming in the back of his throat. “I share your pain, Lady Firehawk. I know the power of memories, and I stand strong in them. But do not mistake my resolution to honor them as not wanting to be rid of their pain either.”

“If you can't handle their pain, then you're not doing them good,” Lady Firehawk growled icily, clearly not amused.

“Do not test me, Sin'dorei!” Vykaenai abruptly snarled, very suddenly standing up despite her grip and looming dangerously over the woman. “You, who have been here a fraction of my time, who know nothing of my pain, claim that I should not be allowed to be free of it!”

Lady Firehawk said nothing, but she did not back down a single inch even as the dragon towered over her, flames crackling at his shoulders.

“You...,” Vykaenai hissed, only to sigh, pinching at his brow and allowing the primal heat resonating around him to simmer away lightly. When he returned his gaze to the Blood Elf, he gave her a long gaze – not that of a young Kaldorei, but that of millennia-old man.

“I know not of your pain either. Nor do I deny its worth. Use your pain as a focus for now, while you can,” the dragon rumbled, keeping his eyes stoically on Lady Firehawk. “But you know as well as I do: a temperance to pain does not make greater torment any easier. It merely makes you numb to everything else.”

The Blood Elf kept quiet, her impassive features having not changed no matter what the dragon did. Her arms merely kept crossed, not even being enough of a threat for her to attempt reaching for her lance. Vykaenai continued to gaze at her, as if waiting for a reply, but she gave none. He finally sighed, shaking his head and turning back around to sit on the edge of the world once again.

“Keep an eye on him, Liniadel,” he murmured, continuing his sight towards the clouds ahead.

“I already am,” the woman answered, but as she waited for him to give a snarky reply back, he said nothing. The silence returned, and this time it was quite awkward. Several heavy seconds passed as the Grandmaster sat upon the edge, and Lady Firehawk leered at the back of his head. Finally, she gave up waiting for a response, turning on her heel to instead go elsewhere, where a dragon wouldn't be condescending towards her. As the footsteps faded, Vykaenai held a hand up to his eyes, rubbing the itchy orbs gently.

He couldn't sleep. But it was a nightmare regardless.

[aaliyaeger]

The SilverStripes

A long ass time ago, my girlfriend and myself made OCs: legit OCs in a world that is still nothing more than a concept, and could more than likely fit in a DnD very easily. I never write about them because I’m usually writing about my WoW ones, but today I got something out of both of them. Have some self-inserty goodness.

“They're getting braver, aren't they?”

Silvers spoke the snide sentence knowing he'd never get an answer from his partner, and he instead followed through with his previous motion of snapping the Spawn's neck idly. The horrible amalgamation of flesh and shadow nearly exploded as its spine crunched under his left hand's wicked grip, and the wispy flames of its gangly body immediately dissipated after its fiery death. Yet, the man showed no signs of being injured or slowed thanks to the dark gunmetal gray power armor shrouding his entire form. Complete with a mighty halberd swinging around in wide arcs, he was an absolute engine of destruction. Despite his intimidating visage though, his size still paled in comparison to the colossal orange tiger beside him, who was disemboweling one of the horrors with her back paws as her front ones pinned the screeching Spawn to the ground. Everything in a ten foot radius around both man and beast had been ravaged into a gruesome display of black-tinged blood and splattered gore, and the two bore the brunt of such violence.

And yet the Spawn kept coming.

Watchpoint Free had been under assault for at least a solid hour now, and the legions of corrupt beings that crawled and scrambled their way towards the walls seemed unending. Fatigue was starting to take its toll on the fresher recruits of the Watchpoint, their arms still shuddering from constant recoil even after they had given control of the defensive gatling guns to someone else. Much of the arid grass had been washed so thickly in black and red blood that it was hard to see their yellowing blades underneath the slick coat. And yet those creatures kept arriving, stumbling over the corpses of their fallen with the same mindless fury that lead them to the Watchpoint. Just how many did they have...?

“...No, something's definitely wrong,” Silvers grunted mostly to himself, impaling a Spawn through the chest with ease. The tiger beside him growled gruffly, but seemed to agree as she held her ground, circling around the knight almost protectively as he searched the waves of Spawn marching towards the base. These things liked to attack in huge numbers, but nothing of this variant – there had to be something bringing them in. A dropship? These things never showed enough intelligence to fly a rig before...

“Stripes, we need to check out that back line,” the armored figure called to the tiger, gesturing towards a vague direction somewhere behind all of the Spawn. “If we move fast, we can probably hit it before this point gets overrun. Let's head east and-”

Silvers was politely interrupted as the tiger immediately bounded straight into the Spawn front line, barreling passed the legions of demonic figures with the velocity of a lightning bolt.

“OKAY, THAT WORKS TOO!” the knight hissed, slowly starting to charge as he settled his halberd to his right and began to pick up speed. He wasn't anywhere near as fast as Stripes was, but as he crashed into the line of Spawn, the entire row of shambling creatures faltered as the centurion slammed into them, and went well beyond them. While the tiger could practically bound and bounce atop the Spawn with the same grace that belied her mighty claws, Silvers instead kept smashing through the ranks with unstoppable force, waves of vermillion sparks coursing over his armor as he kept plowing through the Spawn endlessly. For several seconds, the horrid beings somehow tried to slow him to no avail, and it was only after the knight found his tiger friend once again that he realized he was having a hard time slowing down as well. Where she had long since paused in a surprisingly open spot, Silver kept rushing through, halting only when he (and the three Spawn he had stabbed his halberd through along the way) crash-landed into the side of a wall-

Wait. A wall?

There were no other buildings in the once-lush region of Lune Foret besides Watchpoint Free, but Silvers couldn't deny that what he had just slammed himself into was definitely made of steel. When he finally was able to yank himself free of the crater he had made of the wall and the Spawn he just piledrived, he took a step back in confusion to gaze up at the colossal slab of metal. It was definitely a mobile base, but this thing was huge! How could he have possibly missed this after so many days of scouting around? Though, that bafflement paled when Silvers glanced to the middle of the wall, and noticed a crescent moon intertwined with a C:

The same PMC that owned Watchpoint Free.

“I gotta be seeing that wrong... that's not Crescent Commandos, is it Stripes?” Silvers spoke to the tiger lowly. The titanic cat merely growled in the same dark tone, her green eyes locked on the symbol as well. Mobile bases like this were common for science excavations, but were definitely not defensive enough for military conduct. And they weren't easy to pilot – surely the Spawn couldn't have driven it here. So what could have...?

A bellowing screech from behind the two warned that the same creatures weren't so pleased about two mercenaries being so far in their back line. With that, Silvers immediately reached for the keypad, and was surprised when the door opened easily for him. Regardless, he made the motion to enter inside the traitorous vessel – only to come face to face with even more Spawn. They were easily ripped apart by Stripes tearing through them, her long, razor teeth chomping them to shreds as the knight shut the door behind him.

“There's not enough room here to hold that many Spawn,” Silvers murmured gruffly, glaring around the dim halls warily. “How in the hell did they-” was about as far as he managed to continue before he halted himself and sighed wearily. Of course it had to be that simple.

The Spawn had to come from somewhere, and usually it was from their rifts in space that allowed them to enter the earth from their void of chaos and nonsensical energy. There was no possible way to enter such voidspace without being ripped apart by the millions of Spawn within, but at least the portals could be destroyed if the fleshlike gateways were butchered. Though, Silvers had never seen one so purposefully built for the interior of a Commandos' base, despite the one sitting so comfortably before him. Worse yet was the large hole-like depth into an eternal void of black sitting in the middle of the fleshy rift, which was warbling and shifting at random like a dark star. The knight wasn't sure how the Spawn were able to form a rift of this size inside of Commandos equipment, but there it was – and it needed to be destroyed.

“Go clear the way Stripes,” Silvers growled, hefting his halberd downward and cracking his neck. “I've got some cleaning up to do.”

The tiger grumbled dangerously, as if irked she didn't get to enjoy the killing blow herself, but the mighty beast regardless slinked away simply, that long tail of hers whapping against the square of his back as the knight snorted a laugh. Hopefully she wouldn't take that too much out on him later.

Whipping his polearm to the side, the mighty weapon suddenly rearranged loudly, the entire axehead suddenly cracking to the right to reveal a gun barrel, the wide bore ominously pointed at the warbling rift. Despite the sounds of slaughter and angry tiger behind him, Silvers hummed almost merrily, setting up his combine halberd with nearly mechanical speed. The void before him began to also angrily shift about, and snarls similar to those far outside were echoing from deep within. Yet, the knight seemed to have no such hurry, aiming up his modified rifle towards the base of the flesh arch almost casually. He tapped his foot almost idly, bobbing his head as if waiting patiently as a Spawn head splashed out of the rift viciously-

-and he pulled the trigger.

The knight barely had any time to register the explosion before he was hurled back from the force of it, the only reason that his halberd had not abandoned his grip was the magnetism forcing it to his palm. It was lucky that Stripes had left the door open, otherwise his back would have crashed against it. For quite awhile he flew, his power armor blaring warning signs of the heat and corruption smashed into the metal before his back hit the ground, and he skidded like a meteor into it. Several more feet were entrenched out before the man finally halted, and there was smoke still wifting off of his as he gasped in confusion. Usually those rifts weren't quite so explosive. Maybe he used the wrong round...?

Whatever the case, he was definitely dazed. It took him several seconds to realize there was a familiar furry head pointed curiously at him, and Silvers managed to wheeze out a short laugh.

“Hey babe. How was your day?” He mused jokingly, groaning a bit as he ignored the critical power warning on his armor. The worst enemy to his power suit tended to be himself.

Stripes growled dangerously, and then reared on her hind legs – and suddenly shortened. In only a scant second, where there was once a colossal orange cat about to maul the knight of the rest of his life, instead stood a red-haired woman in dark, nearly skintight leathers. Her green eyes, far too feral to be regular human eyes, narrowed even more lethally.

“Most of them scattered when the Rift dropped,” she replied almost with a hiss, kneeling down to dig one of her fingers into the center of his chestplate. “You're going to die doing that someday.”

“Hasn't -hah!- killed all of me yet,” Silvers laughed despite himself. It wasn't a humorful one – something about the ache in his chest forced the chuckle out of him. Regardless, he made no move to stop Stripes as her scarred, sharp-nailed hands reached for his helmet, and gently pulled it above his head. Silvers' own scarred visage came into view, complete with a tidy black beard and unnaturally crimson eyes. He smiled feebly, closing his sight as the other mercenary stroked his face.

“Do that and I'll pull you out of the grave just to beat your ass again,” she growled, but her green eyes flashed warmly. She leaned down to nuzzle her cheek against the man's own, another gentle catlike purr echoing from her as she did so. It was hard to tell if she was human first, or feline.

“Fair point. Just. Let me. Stand up so...,” Silvers started, and attempted to bring himself upward, only to give up halfway. He attempted this again, and then a third and fourth time. “Would LOVE to actually go back to base now.”

“I'll zuk ya deek if you-” was about as far as Stripes managed to tease before the knight suddenly pounced up as if there was a rocket in his back, apparently entirely reinvigorated by half of that sentence alone as he already rushed back to Watchpoint Free. Rolling her eyes with a sigh, the fiery-haired woman soon followed after him with a small smirk.

Too bad she meant if he helped clean up the base so she could sleep.

[koldraigzharr]

*BANGS HANDS ON TABLE* LUST AND/OR DATE DO IT DOOOOOOOO ITTTTTTTT

*grumble grumble*

Lust:

Life was hard - it was a fact that couldn’t be denied.

And yet Sigmaine found the pleasures of it amidst its tough endeavors. Even now, as his body ached with exhaustion and his great, scarred musculature was stricken with sweat, his orange eyes locked deeply with a pair of lucent blue eyes, Xolphiea’s own gaze returning the silent, warm embrace back to the zealot as her dark body rubbed up flush against his own. Her own form was riddled with scars and perfectly etched with muscle, a true brawler’s body that was put on intimate display with Soren’s own. Even though the Draenei, in all of her confidence and agility, had chosen to wear only what barely covered her usually, seeing her body now was far different than when the zealot would fight alongside her. Now, as one of her arms wrapped around his neck to pull his bearded face closer to her happy features, could Sigmaine see Xolphiea with all of her power, all of her beauty - and all of her affection.

Granted, it may have also been because she was trying to get him to go deeper in her wanting pussy as the man’s fat cock rubbed against her sensitive walls, but Soren liked to think it was the former.

“Sig…” she whispered in a low, husky growl to him, her forehead kissing against his own, their free hands entangling together on top of the bedsheets as the warrior once more, hilted himself as deep as his thick member could stuff within her. It was only a single syllable, and yet Sigmaine took more love out of it than he could from an entire poetic response. He began to grind his hips against Xolphiea’s, his fierce gaze never leaving her own as his low growls murmured out just inches away from the Draenei’s lips.

“Xol…,” he grunted back, his body packing quite the hammering force behind his thrusts, despite the other brawler being  taller than him. Any other pereson might have been struggling to hold back his raw strength - and yet Xolphiea seemed to welcome his stress, and coo for him to try harder, and go faster. Her moans, sweet and silky, echoed louder and more frantic in his ears, nearly drowning out his own growls and groans of delight. They were both tired, and yet their bodies yearned so dearly for each other, crying out for each other mentally as well as physically. Yet, just as quickly as their romp began, Sigmaine was already tensing up, his fingers gripping into Xolphiea’s hand, but not nearly as tightly as her nails carved into his hand as she gasped out in pleasure, her legs eagerly trying to tie up around his waist as he came.

The human had nowhere else to go but the Draenei - exactly the way he wanted it. His climax unloaded fully inside of Xolphiea, jet after jet of hot, thick spunk flooding inside of her velvet walls as the man groaned out his delight, the taller woman’s hand coursing through his messy black hair eagerly as he drenched her womanhood. They seemed to be locked together in that tight, intimate embrace so dearly that moving even an inch from each other seemed like it would cause death. Even as Sigmaine fell to his back next to Xolphiea, she merely rolled with him, still facing the man with his girth still buried deep inside of her, still goading out his monster of an orgasm as her hand left his to massage her taut tummy.

“Sorry…” he panted gently, his pleased, tired breathing dancing in line with the Draenei’s as her hand then snaked down to cup at his swollen sack, as if to squeeze out every drop he had to offer.

Xolphiea simply giggled, her exhausted expression warmly regarding Soren’s own as she rested next to him, cuddling dearly onto him. 

“Don’t be stupid…” was all she said as her eyes closed, her own sweat-covered form still flush against the zealot’s as, for the first time in a very long time, he felt secure without his armor on.

Life was hard - and Xolphiea made him it not hard.

Date:

Sigmaine looked about uneasily, sitting awkwardly in the Love Boat as his blind-date was seated next to him. The Elf did not look at all pleased as she tossed her mane of bright hair over her shoulder, glowering in disgust directly ahead. Soren started to make a move to talk, and then froze as his date suddenly snapped over to glare at him due to her catching out his motion like a hawk.

“What? What do you possibly have to say to make this less awkward?”

Demurely, the human slowly lowered his hand, and shook his head.

Grumbling, the Elf returned to leering forward, resting her hand on her cheek. She was quite pretty, with fair skin, and an elegant dress that hugged to her toned form and curves, despite it also covering her neck. She had definitely dolled herself up in an effort to look even more beautiful than she was. Though, the fact she still wore platemail boots was more than enough show that she was a warrior by trade. Sigmaine had even done the same for himself, having abandoned his usual surcoat and dark armor in favor of a black suit, tinged with hints of crimson and a pinstripe shirt of the same color, definitely showing off his own mighty form. Soren would have looked quite good - if not for that he had kept that silly, horned helmet of his on.

“I guess that’s what I get for trying to have a nice time - I get paired up with a human,” the Elf hissed, shaking her head derisively at Sigmaine. He simply held up his hands in arrest, and shrugged innocently.

“Not a good man-euver?”

Liniadel Sha’qelas immediately stood up from her spot, the Blood Elf even more enraged at the pun as she towered over the zealot. Without so much as a second thought, she immediately booted the man out of the Love Boat, kicking him into the waters of Darnassus as she sat back down, fuming even more in disgust as, despite a Horde soldier being in the capital of the Kaldorei, she kept her territory protected. Sigmaine merely surfaced back up, sighing deeply as he floated his helmet just above the surface of the water, waiting until there was no way the woman could possibly throw a boot at him from such a distance until he called out-

“WATER YOU DOIN’, I FELL OUT!”

And then Liniadel literally ran on water to kick his ass some more.

[jaegertango]

An Invitation

Sometimes me write. Not very often, but sometimes. This is actually a precursor to what’s (probably) going on this Sunday in the Skyhunters but y’know. I’m impatient so I am posting it now.

He needed another moment to himself.

It was funny, wasn't it? After so many years of spending time in isolation, far from other mortals and kin alike, now Vykaenai found himself surrounded by so many young, proud and capable faces – and he still wasn't sure if he liked it. They were endearing, yes; so many of them from different parts of Azeroth and even beyond, all united under a singular standard and cause. Yet, their incessant bickering, their inability to trust his wisdom, their concerns on morality akin to a child crying over spilled milk: that tended to frustrate the dragon to no end. Ten thousand years had tempered his patience into a hardened slab of steel, unyielding and staunch against even the grandest of hammers, but somehow the complaints of mortals always sundered it like a rock through water. It made incredulous laughter escape the Grandmaster as he stroked his beard.

Bah. Mortals. Couldn't live with 'em, couldn't live without 'em.

The play was still winding down in Ardenweald, but even as much as Vykaenai was enjoying himself, he couldn't bring himself to stand one more second between Lady Firehawk and Araane. He had great respect for both women – but no patience whatsoever. The utter and complete awkwardness between the two every time their actresses came onto the stage together was as thick as sludge – and it only got worse as time went on. The only thing keeping them from trying to kill each other on the spot was the sheer secondhand embarrassment strong enough to even make a fully grown black dragon run away in disgust. Granted, he didn't doubt they would try to take each other's head off just to avoid sitting through the play any longer. Vykaenai respected the two of them, but having them both in the same room was such a headache.

He grumbled darkly, looking up towards the sky. There were no stars, but it seemed to last in perpetual night, here in Ardenweald. It reminded him of home – or rather, a home he once had. A time ago, when he was just a fledgling drake and his dearest friend first taking up her glaive as a Warden, Vykaenai called his home in Ashenvale. When he was able, he would look up towards the night sky, seeing the many colors reminiscent back in Highmountain, and feel at ease. This sky made him feel the same way, but bitterly so. He missed Ashenvale – before it was ripped apart by the Destroyer, then stamped underfoot by the Horde. He shared Araane's rage at the forest's desecration – but he shared Lady Firehawk's disdain of the world's politics at present too.

Back then, he used to just eat the bad people.

A tumultuous sigh. Vykaenai kept his gaze upward as his powerful arms crossed over his chest. Times seemed easier back then – even only a thousand years ago, with the War of the Shifting Sands. The greatest of all dangers, the Old Gods trying to make their presence known above the earth. Their threat was so great that neither the Kaldorei, the Shu'halo, and even the many tribes of Furbolg could deny it. They stood to fight against an endless swarm, readily and willingly, and heeded the warnings that only a dragon could give. There was no argument, no fallacies between soldiers, no backstabbing traitors that Vykaenai could not dispose of-

*snik*

His brooding was interrupted as a shiv was suddenly stuffed into his jugular – or at least attempted to be. The knife instead was pricked against that vein as if it was made of iron, and no blood even spilled from his exposed throat. The towering Night Elf did not even have the courtesy to flinch or gasp, his fiery eyes instead peering down to that long-nailed hand gripping the assassin's blade uselessly at his neck. There was a very concerned second of silence as it became awkwardly clear Vykaenai was not injured, before the dragon turned his neck slightly to try and face his would-be killer.

“Can I help you?” He grunted simply, sounding quite annoyed.

The Grandmaster did not manage much of a glimpse before the shade leaped backward several feet, hissing lowly with that dagger in hand. As he landed though, Vykaenai could far more easily see the detail in that assailant. To his surprise, the figure was absolutely as big as the Night Elf was, if not a bit taller, but definitely not as built. The creature had pallid gray skin and bloody red eyes, along with teeth like the razor needles of a murloc. For all intents and purposes, he seemed just as deadly without a knife, but his clothing denoted a far greater intellect. In fact, it was some of the finest garb that Vykaenai had seen – and he was familiar with the Highborne garb of eld, even before the Sundering. Whatever he was, he definitely was not an Ardenweald native.

“Cursed walker,” the creature spat, reaching to his belt to also draw a rapier. This surprised Vykaenai, for the blade looked even more intricate and beautiful than his clothing. For such a vile abomination, clearly he had taste!

“If you hope to kill me with that,” Vykaenai snorted, keeping his arms crossed. “It better be much nicer than your dagger.”

The assassin did not reply. Instead, he dashed forward with shocking speed, surging forward with such swiftness that he was barely visible in that flash. Yet, for all of his agility, with that mighty thrust aimed to Vykaenai's heart, the dragon reacted without fear. One of his arms untucked from his chest to instead snatch at the killer's wrist, pulling his sword away uselessly from the dragon. His other punched to his throat, a powerful hand choking the creature out easily. In that same swift motion, Vykaenai had disarmed his assailant, and also pinned him as he held the ghoulish man aloft effortlessly, glaring at him.

“Would you like to play nice now?” Vykaenai asked, cocking his head at his killer.

The creature gurgled a growl, those sharp teeth gritted together as his free hand tried to stab his dagger at the side of the dragon's temple – to no avail.

“Incorrect,” the Grandmaster replied coldly, and his hand on the creature’s wrist pulled outward. The result was a terrible ripping of cloth and flesh, the dragon easily wrenching the assailant’s entire arm from his shoulder as if made of tissue paper, leaving only a few strands of bloody sinew and muscle fiber hanging uselessly from his right side. The assassin shrieked out wretchedly, his call reverberating around the trees even as he was being strangled. Vykaenai mostly looked irritated, and he had to chide himself as he realized he had overdone it - again. He wanted to hurt his would-be slayer, but he wasn't planning on killing this thing – at least not yet. Lady Firehawk's advice to not instantly slay everything he came across was proving itself useful, and he did not want to-

The assassin then suddenly vanished in a cloud of ruby smoke, dissipating from existence.

Vykaenai groaned in even greater derision as his only source of information ran away. He pinched at his brow, letting his guard down once again at how aggravating this night was turning out to be. Yet, nothing came to slice at him once again. It seemed his would-be killer was gone. That probably wasn't good; leaving an assassin alive never tended to be. Now Lady Firehawk was going to chew him out for endangering the Skyhunters. Hopefully whatever it was, it wouldn't dare go to Oribos...

When he was done pouting, Vykaenai returned his gaze back to the space in front of him – only to find that beautiful rapier still laying in the grass. Reaching down, the Grandmaster picked it up, examining it. There was a sense of comforting weight to it, but still just a tad too light. The metal felt warm to the touch, and... it was pulsing. That was kind of gross. The blade seemed to be manifesting a heartbeat of sorts. Well, it was at least a clue; if Vykaenai could find out where this sword came from, it was a start.

“Vyk! Vyk, I heard a scream!”

The dragon turned to see Visscera running up, a mixture of concern and excitement on her face. Vykaenai kept the sword clutched in his hand, and as soon as he recognized the other Night Elf, he felt the blade seethe in his hand eagerly. Despite that, the Grandmaster smiled to Visscera, shaking his head as he shifted the blade's grip around so it wasn't so threatening in his grasp.

“Indeed. I will have to talk to Lady Firehawk about it,” Vykaenai grunted, but he still winked at Visscera as he held up the rapier. “It seems I have attracted company.”

“Do swords count as company?”

“Nay, but those that wield them do.”

“...So you stole that from them,” Visscera answered, and she looked disappointed. “I didn't think you were one to steal.”

“I would not say I stole this as much as I...” Vykaenai started, but then shrugged. “Rightfully earned it from them.”

“Oh!” Visscera stated, her eyes brightening as she thumped a fist into her hand. “...So if I fight you for that-”

“You are not fighting me for this,” Vykaenai snorted, but his grin widened as he walked back to the play stage. “Come, little shadow. I just needed a moment of space.”

He was probably going to need another one once he explained what happened to Lady Firehawk.

[jaegertango]

Contract

I return to Tumblr after almost two years because fuck learning how to do Ao3 and Twitter puts me in a rancid mood. Have some OC writing with a goblin.

Quel'thalas, home of the High Elves, was a region of legendary beauty and stupendous magics. Its radiant forests and mana-filled skies made it a haven to all spellcasters, as well as made sure every child of the Quel'dorei bore the boon of magical prowess. Being such an effervescent garden of study and bastion of delight made it most of everyone in Azeroth's number one wish to visit – but it was not so easy to travel towards. The High Elves, massively proud of their homeland, were also infamous for their xenophobia, and barred all outsiders from “defiling” their blessed region and taking what was theirs. Not one member of the Alliance, traveler of the Horde, even splendorous mages from Dalaran, were allowed passage to the golden land. For many years, only a scant few outsiders were given permission to enter the borders of Quel'thalas, and even fewer returned back from those woods.

And their xenophobic ways only grew more paranoid after the assault of the Scourge.

Arthas' crusade to the Sunwell, the crown gem and source of power for the Quel'dorei, had left the capital of Silvermoon and much of Quel'thalas in ruin. Their eternal font of magic had been corrupted into an amalgamation, capable only of poison, and the city had been sundered into two razed sides. Most of the Quel'dorei perished horrendously, only to be brought back as wretched shadows of their former selves, seeking only to appease their baser instincts. Only in the recent years, with the arrival of the Alliance and Horde banding together against the greater evils of the Scourge and Legion, could the newly dubbed Sin'dorei – the Blood Elves - attempt to heal their devastated lands and rebuild their ruined city. Despite their fears of outsiders, they demanded help, desperate for even the aid of “barbarians” to return themselves to their former glory once more.

“Mister” Jashuo Blasternut knew better, but he also understood their plight. As he sat in his Shredder, the Goblin was amazed at the sheer magnificence of the city of Silvermoon. He had seen plenty of tall buildings before in his time, but never could he have expected the spires of the Quel'dorei to lance the heavens so proudly, nor enjoy the tidy stone of the streets. Gadgetzan prided itself on its own technology and access to buildings made of metal and stone over wood and mud, but in comparison to how Silvermoon stood, he would've been breathless – were it not for the literal black scar ripped into the capital of utopia. It was the most obscene comparison, as the pilot gazed from extravagant splendor in the shapes of gold, scarlet and emerald – to a twisted artwork of unholy soil and desecrated treasure. It was almost laughable how obvious the comparison was: Jashuo could see a Magister walking in his silk robes of glorious azure, promptly ignoring the wicked burn lashes scorched into the streets not far from his right. Rather than try to admit that their city had been sacked, they instead hid away in what remained of the city, and refused to look at what had been destroyed. Perhaps it was too traumatizing, or perhaps it was an eyesore; perhaps it was both. Mister Blasternut would've understood either one, but that was why he was there: to make sure that Silvermoon City got the supplies it needed to repair itself.

So he waited on the streets in his Shredder, which was continuously coughing out smoke from its double exhausts thickly. Combined with the meaty grumble of its engine, every single Blood Elf in the city was giving Jashuo a wide berth. He definitely stood out among all of the glitz and glamour, and they refused to give such an obnoxious blemish to their amazing city. The Goblin frankly didn't care, though he was annoyed that they weren't giving his crisp suit the time of day. He dressed up for this! The least that the Sin'dorei could do was accept that he was there to help them and not “embarrass” them. At the same time though, it didn't matter. All that did matter was that his contact showed up and recognized that he was there to plot this contract with them properly. Being a benefactor still demanded the proper respect, and the pilot could only hope that the pride of a noble would not get in the way. It certainly would not be the first time...

Eventually though, he was greeted with a small contingent of Sin'dorei riding upon their daintily-decorated hawkstriders. The only reason that Mister Blasternut recognized them from any other clique of elves was due to them walking straight *at* him, definitely showing that they recognized his presence. The Goblin counted five of them – four guards surrounding a fifth. Too many for him to fight; rather, too many for him to fight and get out alive. His Shredder was equipped with enough state-of-the-art weaponry and thick armor to get him out of (and into) any scrap comfortably, but fighting five well-trained Mages would take too much time for him to make a victorious escape. At the same time, this was making the Goblin somewhat nervous: he had neglected to hire any goons himself. The Blood Elves might have been affiliated with the Horde, but he had a hard time trusting uneven numbers. Regardless, he was there to do a job, and all he could hope was that these Sin'dorei weren't trigger happy. Keeping his sidearm pistol tucked into the back of his pants, Jashuo smoothed out the front of his suit and tie, swept his brown hair back and adjusted his aviator glasses. With an easy step, he moved forward to make the drop from his Shredder-

-only to hastily dart to the right as a fireball exploded a foot in front of him. Even if he hadn't made the dodge, the sparks wouldn't have touched him, but the Goblin still yelped and made the effort to move away.

“Not another step, greenskin!” One of the guards growled, his staff held aloft. “Where you stand is already close enough to the Magistrix.”

“Close eno-  I'm twenty feet away!” Jashuo hissed, his hand behind his back in a clumsy attempt to snatch at his hidden weapon. He was unable to do so, and now it was obvious that he was reaching for something without actually drawing it. This only made the Sin'dorei more irked, and the other three were now drawing their respective staves and swords. With every second, the Goblin was highly regretting this meeting: these guys were thirstier for blood than Orcs!

“Perhaps once you've tossed away your weapon, we can assume you can be closer,” the first spoke again, his gaze tempered on Mister Blasternut. The woman in the middle merely sat silent, her eyes clearly concerned as she leered at Jashuo. It was not an argument that the Goblin wanted to lose, but he didn't have much of a choice. If it got bad, all he could hope for now was to scramble back to his Shredder before he got too ablaze. Surely they wouldn't do something so brazen though, right? Despite his instinct demanding that he not be that stupid, Jashuo once more paid them no heed, sighing as he pulled out the pistol and set it onto the ground. He held his hands up, trying to pass off his face as stoic, but he could feel his brows knitting together.

“Ya know, ya ain't makin' the best first 'mpression here!” He retorted back, flipping his hands back and forth to show he had nothing in his sleeves either. “I'm just a businessman here!”

The captain of the guard scoffed, but nonetheless nodded as he looked towards the Magistrix. She nodded in turn and began to dismount, her guardians following suit and forming up around her. While they all wore the garb of Spellbreakers, clad in intricate platemail, their lady wore a brilliant yellow dress definitely not for combat's usage. The fabric fluttered and glittered in any ray of light that touched it, giving it an ethereal appearance like that of the sun. She wore a mask in the shape of a phoenix's beak, but Jashuo could easily recognize she was a woman. Her hair was long and brown, a definite mane of well-kept locks in comparison to the Goblin's scruff. The two could not have been more different, the Blood Elf's tall and graceful to Jashuo's short and sleazy.

“Pray forgive the aggression,” she spoke in a polite, but curt tone, keeping her hands folded in front of her. “It is hard for anyone to trust outsiders, especially after our Ranger-General has seemingly returned from the dead.”

“...Seemingly?” Mister Blasternut grunted, and was luckily able to bite back any more sarcasm he had. He didn't need to give these Sin'dorei any more ammo to use on him. “I'm guessin' you're uh... Lady D'anthius then?”

“Indeed – and you hadn't even butchered the name! Consider me impressed,” the Lady D'anthius spoke, and even though she claimed it a compliment, the Goblin was somewhat annoyed at her words. Her tone could have sounded as pleasant as she wanted: it did not change the toxin her words meant.

“Yeah yeah yeah, I'm honored. Let's cut to the chase: you need metal for your city, aye?” Jashuo grunted, folding his arms over his chest. His bluntness seemed to take the Magistrix aback, for she visibly recoiled and responded quickly.

“Yes well I... ahem,” the woman spoke, and instantly the Goblin knew something was wrong. Those three words, combined with how she cleared her throat, wasn't like her previous tone. It sounded unsure and hasty, as if quickly being taken off-guard. Mister Blasternut was oh-so familiar with such a state of being, and even that cough was reminiscent of the many times he had to clear his head to properly talk. Yet, what most astounded him was how natural it sounded, as if the Lady's voice had only just started to make its arrival. When she spoke again though, it was with that same level volume and politeness.

“Indeed. The Scourge brought forth nightmares that have devastated our homes and left our people divided – but not broken,” she spoke firmly, keeping her eyes on Jashuo. “To that end, we need only the supply to return our people to grandeur once more.”

That tone returned, and the Goblin wasn't sure what to make of it. Now that he heard it again, something about her voice didn't sound correct. The words made sense, and they were definitely admirable, but now her tone sounded wrong. The Goblin kept quiet for a handful of seconds, trying to process what he could make of her statement to no avail. Maybe he was just overthinking it.

“Right... so metal for buildings and weapons and all that. Well, bulk's what I specialize in, so ya came to the right Goblin,” Jashuo replied finally, looking towards the destruction of the city to his left. “So uh... how much are we lookin' to buy here then?”

“Buy...?” the woman murmured blankly, though she instantly lit herself up to try and hide that question. “Oh! Well, that is what the contract is for, pray tell!”

There it was again. That tone of voice. It was striking the pilot in such a bizarre way that he couldn't put his finger on. Despite Lady D'anthius having spoke three times the amount of words in that “usual” tone of voice, hearing these other words was ringing in Jashuo's mind. Something was “off” about this woman, like she was putting on a different face and attitude. For some reason, this was gnashing hard against the Goblin, strongly enough that it was only when one of the guards cleared his throat that the pilot finally realized what the Magistrix had said.

“Aye, contract – y'know. Usually has cash to it. Ya are plannin' to pay for this, right?” Jashuo grunted, unable to stop himself from being somewhat snarky towards the Blood Elf as he raised an eyebrow at her. However, despite his own aggression, the woman nodded easily, and motioned for one of her protectors.

“Indeed! This legally-binding contract will confirm that, in exchange for your goods and partnership, Silvermoon shall pay you warmly for your services. The parchment requires only your signature!” Lady D'anthius spoke up as the guardian walked towards the Goblin with a roll of paper and a quill. After reaching upward quite a bit to actually snatch the contract, Jashuo unfurled it, and instantly heard a murmur through the Sin'dorei. He ignored it, quickly scanning the document.

“Er... that is to say, at the bottom,” the Magistrix continued, and it was only when she spoke that the Goblin looked up curiously at the group. They quickly silenced, and it was because of that sudden quiet that Mister Blasternut felt the disturbance in persona once more. This time though, he could see flashes of concern in all of their faces, namely the protectors, and a cruel thought entered his mind. Did they not think he was going to read it?... or did they not think he knew how?

“...Seems all in order,” Jashuo answered lamely, and he could feel a plan forming in his head as he read more of the contract. Any of his former cowardice was quickly being melted out in favor of spite. If there was any way to give him the bravery to do something, it was entirely out of implication that he couldn't. He raised the quill to sign, and now that he was more aware, could sense the tension as thick as the smog belching from his Shredder.

“Yannow, actually...,” the Goblin spoke up as the quill touched the paper, and he looked up just in time to see one of the protectors inhale slightly. Instantly, that reaction made it worth being shot at. “I gotta quick question here, Lady D'anthius.”

“You... do?” She asked, at first trying to keep up that air of significance, but quickly deteriorating back into that gentler tone. Now there was no denying that false attitude, and it brought a genuine grin to Jashuo's face, full of shining, sharp teeth.

“Ayup! Ya'see, I ain't just a goblin of fortune here – I do what I do for a good cause, ya'hear me?” He spoke idly, gauging their reactions curiously. Lady D'anthius seemed unsure of what to make of him right now, but seemed to be agreeing with his words.  “When I heard that I could be helpin' rebuild one of the greatest empires ever been 'round Azeroth, I knew what I had to do, see?”

“...Indeed?” The woman replied uncertainly, that fake tone trying to return, but the smugness of the guardians already coming back in full force. She seemed to be catching on that Jashuo was plotting something. He had to admire her thinking so quickly on her feet.

“Aye! So I'm here to help, I'm even here to take you tryin' to hose me with this cheap payment of a 'contract.' But here's the thing, Lady D'anthius,” Jashuo continued idly, then coldly insulted just quickly enough for him to segue into the next part of his explanation. The guardians instantly looked angered at the statement, but the Magistrix kept steady, seeming to predict the Goblin's tone as he kept talking.

“I ain't here to bullshit ya, so I'll make ya a deal. I'll leave ya this supply as goodwill, not a gold piece charged! But it ain't gonna be 'nough to fix even a tenth of what's busted here, or any of that crap I had to pass just gettin' here!” Mister Blasternut stated firmly, his bespectacled gaze now burning into Lady D'anthius' mask. “So I'll be here next week, with more metal for what ya need, and if ya play ya cards right, ya'll be back here next week with an actual contract that assumes I'll read it. I ain't here to bullshit, babe, so ya better not bullshit me back. 'Cause ya should know the first rule of business, Lady D'anthius:”

Jashuo took off his shades, his crimson eyes boiling into the Magistrix's mask as he leered at her.

“If we don't see eye-to-eye, there ain't even a copper to be made here outta yer Silvermoon.”

It was deathly silent as the Goblin glared at Lady D'anthius, and he was surprised in himself that he wasn't fidgeting or squirming under the collective gazes of all five Sin'dorei. Yet he managed to hold on, keeping his eyes fiercely on the woman as he waited for her response. She seemed to be scrutinizing him carefully, as if debating whether to even bother replying to him or simply sending her guards after him. Finally, after what seemed like months, she reached up to her mask to take it off softly, revealing her extremely attractive face, and very piercing green eyes burning back into Jashuo with laser focus as he was somewhat taken aback by her reaction. When she spoke, it was in a capable, natural tone of voice:

“Very well. I... graciously accept your donation, Mister...?”

“Blastanut! Mista Blastanut, please,” Jashuo smirked toothily, getting over himself as nodded in return. “I think we'll be getting 'long just fine, Lady D'anthius!”

“Then I hope that next week marks the... proper start of our agreement,” Lady D'anthius paused, then smiled as she bowed her head politely. Jashuo managed a short bow of his own back before clambering back into his Shredder and closing the lid. With a loud sigh, he felt his nerves instantly relax, but not nearly enough to stop him from making as quick of an exit as he possibly could from the city. It was only when the Shredder had turned the corner that Lady D'anthius shook her head, her captain gazing at her.

“It was probably wiser to detain him, milady,” he grunted, looking supremely tired suddenly.

“He caught our ploy. It was a mistake on our own parts, and thus should I pay the price,” the Magistrix replied, that “familiar” tone of curt politeness returning once more. “These Goblins have proven more cunning than expected: we will be smarter for next time.”

The captain looked satisfied with the answer, but as the woman placed her phoenix mask about her face, she looked back in the direction of where the Shredder had departed, and felt a soft twinge in her chest.

He was a curious one, that Blasternut...

[jaegertango]

Blood and Blossoms

Boy oh boy, we getting full anime now. Here’s a fight that happened around Cataclysm between @adries Sel’ythae and my new shithead Void Elf. With any luck, I’m not too rusty at writing, but WE’LL SEEEEEEE

Even when the world had been brought to its knees, the Horde refused to understand that.

It somehow wasn't a surprise to Sel'ythae Nightstriker, but she still felt her insides writhe at the dull audacity of them. How could anyone – be they Kaldorei or Orc – watch Azeroth nearly rip itself in half under the duress of a mad, ancient dragon Aspect and not turn their attention towards it? But then again, what could the Priestess have truly expected from a race of savage, honorless brutes who only knew destruction? That was why the Night Elf was there though: destroy the destroyers trying to put Ashenvale in their history. If she could survive demon invasions, undead uprisings, and a dragon-born apocalypse, she could survive a greenskin invasion.

Her silver eyes narrowed as she gazed out before the leveled forest. It once had been as dense and lively as the rest of the towering trees surrounding her, but the plateau before her was nearly barren. Sad trunks ravaged nearly to the roots stuck from the grass lamely, and the moonlight was shining down far more brightly now that there were no leafy canopies to obscure it. Sel'ythae felt almost too warm: that familiar coolness of shade was no longer here. She almost wanted to pull away her loose hood and push the thin veil from her face, but the Priestess abandoned that thought as quickly as it came up. No, she didn't need to broadly show her face, even if her long, great braid of white hair was hanging from the side openly. The less people could recognize her, the better. Not that any of the group she was with would know her face anyway: they were all Draenei shamans, seeking to heal the damage dealt to Ashenvale by Deathwing. They didn't look twice at Sel'ythae, just knowing she was one of the hired muscle to deal with any Horde or elemental attacks.  It was almost an irony in itself – the Kaldorei was more known for her elegant, revealing dresses and robes of Elune, and wearing the more concealing, darker vestments of a mercenary felt more uncomfortable for her. It wasn't that she had a problem with either of the garments, but Sel'ythae had a visage she needed to uphold. Any deviation from that was unthinkable.

Still, the disgust she felt as she saw a Kaldorei corpse, with two orcish axes embedded in his sopping skull and his stomach disemboweled made her truly want to break face for just a moment...

She couldn't dwell on it for long though, as a loud horn suddenly broke out, the many Night Elves and Draenei either moving forward onto the stripped or scrambling for safety in the opposite direction. The Horde were coming, and now Sel'ythae could get enact some vengeance.

Her fingers drew across the wrapping to her sword sheathed to her hip, comforted by its cold weight along her. It had been awhile since she had drawn its steel, and feeling the leather grip on her fingertips was almost nostalgic. Even after all of the years that had passed, the Night Elf didn't feel discomforted by its presence – she knew that time was no barrier on her skill. As her fingers closed around the handle comfortably, her stride grew even more confident. With her hood drawn and her body covered by layers of green and brown, it felt like another mask drawn. A new character that she could play.

And this one wanted those Orcs dead.

They were on the horizon. A row of green, more sickly green than the trees around them. Horde berserkers wrapped in red, howling and roaring at the Alliance maniacally. The wind was starting to shift in the direction of the open deforestation, and Sel'ythae could smell the scorched and burned leaves in the air. She closed her eyes momentarily, picking up her pace as the two sides closed in upon each other. She moved elegantly, almost making no noise upon the grass as she rocketed towards one of the Orcs, who was rearing back to time a swing on her-

-only for his head to separate from his shoulders with the same focused expression, falling backward with the same momentum as his swing. The Kaldorei's slash was so swift that the barbarian had not even realized he had died, Sel'ythae swinging her blade once more to rid herself of the blood upon it. Foul and wretched – it didn't deserve to even be tasting Ashenvale's air, much less so staining her sword. The curved edge glinted brightly, as if overjoyed to be unsheathed once more as the Priestess turned her gaze towards another Orc, who broke off from the main attack to avenge his fallen comrade. He hurled an axe at her, which Sel'ythae silently parried with the tip of her blade and catching it with her free hand. Now armed with a hand axe and her katana, she counterattacked by hurling the brutish weapon at the Orc's foot while aiming high with her sword. Her speed bore more fruit: the axe ripped through a few of the greenskin's toes, and as he bellowed in agony, she separated the top of his skull from his jaw in a gruesome arc.

Two dead – two very easily dead. Something about it wasn't satisfying to the Priestess. There was no rush, no attempt to protect themselves or chance at injury to herself. It was as mundane as taking out the trash, and she was a bit disappointed... wait, why did she care? This was a fight, not a hobby! She had to clear her mind even as she carved into a Troll, gouging a heavy diagonal slash into his bare chest. Yet, she couldn't deny that twinge twisting her stomach slightly – a part of her had been excited to take up a blade once more. Was this really what she had been missing, just mindless cutting?She was sure there was more to this than slaughter such as this. She was winning, but Sel'ythae didn't feel happy about that. As she turned her eyes on a Blood Elf, she regretted thinking there could be any more to this than a psychopath's-

*shNNG*

The loud clash of metal on metal startled the Night Elf from her melancholic reverie. Her entire slash had been stopped, what was supposed to be a full-body cleave halting against her foe's own blade. There was a definite pause as she gazed at the Sin'dorei man, his sharp features looking decidedly bored as he shoved off the woman, his countering swing missing by a mile by Sel'ythae backflipping gracefully. When she landed, she got a more focused look on the Blood Elf, who now looked mildly amused at the display. With only a loose haori revealing his limber chest, and his arms entirely devoid of protection from finger to strong shoulders, he was no more protected than any of the other Horde brutes were. And yet, the long-handled sword he wielded had stopped the Night Elf's blade from ripping him up, which he now whipped about readily. Ash and flower petals rained gently from the burning sky, and the battlefield suddenly seemed ever-so-silent as the two eyed each other up. Stroking his tidy beard with a free hand, the Sin'dorei then gestured at Sel'ythae with his weapon, popping his neck in challenge at her with the barest hint of a smile on his face.

The taunt succeeded. The Priestess charged, her katana slung low so that she could tear it upward towards the Blood Elf's face, which he blocked. But as soon as the parry connected, she whipped around to slash at his other side, to which he angled himself to barely halt her blade once more. Sel'ythae did not stop though, feeling more annoyed now that her fast strikes were not piercing this Horde soldier's defenses. Even more irritably was how his face was starting to split with an even wider grin, revealing wicked teeth almost too sharp even for an elf. For all of her previous thoughts about how boring it was to fight these Horde freaks, now she was getting more and more irked over this one that was not letting her cut him. And yet, feeling the reverberating weight of his sword bouncing back her blows was shaking Sel'ythae in a way that was somehow familiar to her. It was an almost primal feeling, vibrating in her core deeper than her pale skin allowed. As their swords crashed against each other once more, so tantalizingly close to the Blood Elf's throat, the Night Elf grit her teeth together in focus – though she wasn't sure why. Her opponent was now nearly cackling, his fel-green eyes wide with bloodthirsty glee as their swords grinded together, sparks trying to shower onto their faces. Sel'ythae wanted to pull off for another swing, but the sheer force that her opponent was bearing down on her was making it hard to move. She tried to shove back against him-

-only for him to snarl out and push harder against her.

The realization she had lost the trade was made even more apparent as she felt a searing bite rip at the left side of her neck. Agony unlike anything she had felt for some time rippled through her skin, igniting like fire around her entire head and electrifying her down to her toes. Crumpling to a knee, her free hand clutched to the open wound, and she could feel blood spurting wetly against her fingers. Her vision went hazy for a few seconds, but refused to darken – she wasn't dead yet. But the pain was reminding her of how close Sel'ythae was to death, rocking her senses to full clarity as she could see the boots of her foe standing before her. She looked up towards the Sin'dorei, who was still smiling broadly as he held his blade aloft-

-but it faltered considerably as he saw her face.

With her hood hurled back and the veil uncovered from her face, the Night Elf's expression was on full display. Nude, hungry bloodlust ripped on her beautiful features, contorting a serene smile into a grotesque grin of sharp teeth. Her silver eyes blazed with crazy, almost wanton light, even as she gripped at her bloody throat in a clawed grip. A giggle started to form in her chest, but was choked out by her own hand, causing it to come out with an ugly and brutish shudder. As she began to stand back up, the Blood Elf looked stupefied as she held up her bloodstained hand, and then drew her hand along the entirety of her sword, from the engraved hilt to the very tip in her own crimson life fluids. Her blade then exploded into a brilliant silver light, the very radiance of Elune blessing her sword as Sel'ythae brought the little bit of blood still on her fingers, and licked up tenderly. That motion was enough to garner a ferocious, toothy smirk from the Sin'dorei, readying himself for another swing – had Sel'ythae not moved first.

Even though her body was still shaking with those unnatural laughs and her neck was bleeding profusely onto her armor, the Night Elf was attacking with even greater speed. Both of her hands were now clutched onto her sword as she swung in fluid, monstrous arcs. The Blood Elf was once more on the defensive, but he was obviously being whittled down by her invigorated power and speed. Their grunts were getting louder, and the Sin'dorei more surprised that no matter how many attacks he blocked, the Kaldorei always had another one lined up for him. Yet, even with his eyes widening, his laughter was only getting more wild, more pleased over the roaring fury of the struggle. He slashed ferociously, trying to bash away her blade and get his own slash in, but it wasn't enough. Even with his succeeded move, his opening wasn't as large as hers was.

Her blade ripped into his right cheek, the tip slashing downward until it left his jaw, then tore into his bare chest as well. No amount of muscle could halt her advance until her blow was complete, a tremendous cut marking two bloody gouges into the Sin'dorei. The enemy bladesman finally froze in both movement and noise, gazing at Sel'ythae with an almost lustful smirk splitting his face. Even as he began to crumple to the ground, his smile was still wide, green eyes rolling back almost delightfully as he fell to the grass, bleeding even more openly than the Night Elf was. The Priestess watched him with heavy breathes, knowing she had won, and feeling her heart thundering in her chest. Even though the fight was over, the adrenaline had not subsided. The high of her victory was still winning out over the pain in her neck, but then it came crashing back to her abruptly.

Sel'ythae winced, snatching at her throat and feeling all of her euphoria dump itself as dead weight into her stomach. This was bad – she needed to get treated. Wounds like this bled too openly, and she had stupidly prolonged a fight that didn't need to be as long as it was. Yet, even with the choking feeling in her gut and chest, everything felt so clear and bright. Was this because of the blood loss? What other high could this be from? There was no way she was as sadistic as that Sin'dorei was...

Shaking her head, she moved as quickly as she could back towards the Alliance base. That wasn't her, she couldn't be like that... could she?

************************************************

What a fight!

Aerthul Anar'serrar felt his breaths wheeze out painfully, the gift of life not coming comfortably to the Blood Elf. Consciousness only came in short bursts for him – he knew because he was getting more and more coated by fallen ash and pink flower petals. The way he was bleeding, surely he was a dead man. And yet, the Sin'dorei swordsman kept surviving, gazing blankly towards the dawn of morning light. It had been a few hours since he had been beaten, and yet the rush of that fight had not left him. The adrenaline coursing in his veins, the rush of landing that blow, the agony torn into his face and chest-

-and that look.

An almost-drunken laugh grunted from Aerthul weakly. That woman's face was burned into his retinas. He could never forget such a beautiful, starved-for-blood look. The only thing keeping him alive was the desire to see that face once again. Who knew what her name was, or what she did, but he didn't care. He'd find that Kaldorei, and he'd fight her again – and again, and again, and again. After so many years of mindless fighting, he was finally on death's door, and Aerthul refused to knock. No, he wouldn't die – not while that woman still drew breath with the same might she drew her sword!

His hand clutched his own blade lightly, and another wry chuckle echoed from him as his wounds throbbed viciously.

Not even the Void could stop him from finding the Moon once again.

[jaegertango]

Crimmus stuff I never posted

I was originally gonna write a bunch of Christmas drabbles for my OTPs and stuff - and then only actually completed one of them. Whoops. Here’s the only one I actually got done because it’s super short and kinda lame, but. Yaaaay for Rex.

Quiet was not Rex's forte.

He bit his lip, and then had to force back what would have been an even louder hiss as he realized how sharp his teeth were. Trying to be as silent as possible about the Iron Raider was not an easy task. The Draenei captain towered far too massively to make any of his steps quiet, especially with those mighty hooves of his. He had to time this correctly, and he only had a limited frame to do it in. While he and his Raiders had taken on much harder tasks before, this one was important enough that Rex actually felt *nervous. He hated that – the pirate was never nervous!

So why did he feel like if he messed this up, he would absolutely die?

Grumbling, the huge Reaver tilted the barrel on its side, walking as carefully as he could manage as his gaze turned upward. A sea of stars matched the ocean reflecting it, those endless lights and nebula twinkling merrily in the frigid air. It might have been chilly, but Rex hadn't taken any precautions: his chest was still as bare as when he was still in Hillsbrad. Apparently, the Draenei was too worried to even care about freezing, for even as another layer of shivers rocked his muscular body, he ignored it bluntly. The cold meant he was going the right direction – the Kaldorei sailors had taught him that long ago. Cold winds were North winds – and this special stop he needed to take was as far north as he needed to go.

All of the other corsairs had fallen asleep. Chief among them was Kyleri, the one that Rex wanted to keep asleep the most. She deserved the best night's rest possible, especially after the day that he and his Raiders had just put her through. While not necessarily bad, it was definitely eventful – a true life of a Raider. The Kaldorei seemed pleased to be aboard his ship though, and it made the Draenei's heart sing like the Naaru back in Shattrath. He hated to admit it, but the pirate did miss those tunes – and the fact that he had condemned his Raiders to a life of crime only made him regret it more.

Shaking his head, he pushed away the bad thoughts. There was no time for brooding – Rex had a job to do! Setting aside the barrel, the titanic Reaver observed the ship's deck with a one-eye leer, making sure everything was settled. Pleased with his inspection, he turned towards the doorway to his cabin – and froze.

It was fifteen feet away – and if he moved from his spot, he would destroy all of his hard work.

Rex kept halted, looking around anxiously as he realized he had just trapped himself. He probably should have thought this through a bit better, but the Draenei was never one for thinking too hard – the first thought was all that counted most. Now though, he wasn't too pleased with that line of thought. The pirate needed to get back to his room, and there was no way he could move to there without outside help. Maybe if he jumped? It was worth a try. The corsair inhaled deeply, bent his legs and-

“Rex?”

The cabin door suddenly creaked open, and the Draenei hastily moved back up into a standing position, grinning eagerly as if he wasn't about to cannonball directly at the open door like a missile.

“Kyleri! Rex thought you were asleep!”

“I was – I missed the teddy bear that kept me warm,” the Night Elf murmured gently, starting to open the door more than a crack. “What are-”

“Uh! Nothing! Rex is just-”

But Kyleri had already opened the door broadly, her silver eyes wide as she gazed onto the deck of the Iron Raider.

He had somehow taken the snow he had collected, and multiplied it by six. The deck was coated in a cloak of white, unblemished by any footprints, and the only part left uncovered was where Rex stood trapped. Small strings of tinsel fluttered in the cold wind, and the brilliant light of the stars above made the white snow dance with color. An aurora gracefully shimmered along that frost, creating so many different colors that there had to be entirely new ones undiscovered by mortal eyes before. Kyleri could only gape as Rex tentatively tried to move forward, only to realize he would destroy his creation if he did so.

“Rex was supposed to surprise Kyleri later,” he grunted sheepishly, scratching at the back of his head. “He knows the aurora is prettiest near Winter's Veil, especially on snow.”

“Rex...” the Kaldorei started, but with her hands over her mouth, she seemed at a loss for words. The Draenei only smiled simply, holding his arms out broadly.

“Rex wanted to give Kyleri a gift. This is-”

He was interrupted as the Kaldorei suddenly rocketed through the air, landing in his outstretched hands and clinging to him happily, hugging tightly.

“It's so beautiful! Rex, you shouldn't have-” was all she could do as Kyleri pressed her face into his neck, nuzzling against the Draenei eagerly as he held her. This affection was enough to bring some strength back in the corsair, for he chuckled raucously and looked down to her merrily.

“This? Just the background setting! HERE is Rex's gift for Kyleri!”

With a surprising amount of dexterity, his tail scooped up a parcel, and then offered it to the monk. It looked very messily wrapped – it was a bundled mess of giftwrap shrouded haphazardly around it. There had to of been at least ten feet worth of gift paper used, and that also included at least four different gaudy bows of different colors. When the Night Elf finally managed to shred through all of the paper, she held up a very big shirt – definitely in Rex size. It was far too massive for Kyleri to use, and yet she held it up ecstatically as she flipped it over to the front, which had a treasure chest symbol on it, and big bold letters emblazoned upon it: Keep yer eyes off me booty!

“Rex knows it isn't much, but he is happy to give Kyleri the shirt off his back if it means keeping her on his ship!” the Draenei spoke fondly, grinning widely. “That one is one of his favorites too!”

Kyleri looked utterly dumbstruck as she looked down to the shirt, to the pirate clutching onto her ever so tenderly, to the sky dancing with an infinite amount of colors above. Her silver eyes almost seemed to well up, and suddenly Rex looked highly nervous – he didn't want her to cry. Luckily though, she dove back into his chest, hugging him tightly and laughing as she did so. It brought a rumbling chuckle to the Draenei as well, and he held her warmly, enough to keep away the chill of the world around them. When they finally broke away from the hug, the Kaldorei looked back up towards Rex's scarred face and smiled gently.

“I wanna try it on.”

“Rex isn't sure if he can destroy the snow though,” he grunted a bit offhandedly, gazing at the perfect layer of ice worriedly. “He wanted it to be perfect for Kyleri's-” “If you take me back now I can show you your gift.”

Within two seconds, Rex had thundered across the deck and into the cabin, making it to the bedroom in record time as the Iron Raider now had several massive hoofprints marking its snowy deck, but all had gone silent in the night – at least for a few moments.

And then they banged for four more hours.

[jaegertango]

WoW: Noire

I had this idea that I wanted to experiment with, because it sounded kinda neat. I wanted to write a story that was done in a narrative-style similar to how those noire comics were done in. The problem with it is that those comics at least offer pictures to set a cool atmosphere in, and the narrative sets the overall mood. Still, I wanted to give it a try, and I think it came out kinda cool, even if it’s dialogue-heavy and not much of a story.

So here’s this thing, it’s a lot different from my usual stuff so it might not be as good.

           There ain't no room in this city for heroes. Not anymore.

           Underyork's been a shithole for years. It's probably always been like this; I can't remember the time anyone's said anything 'bout “the good 'ol days of Underyork.” If they're there, the people around for it are all dead. All that's left are the murderers, the swindlers, the murder-swindlers, and the lawyers. Only way to survive in this place is to be one of those four, or learn that the last is no different from the rest. There ain't no room in this city for heroes, and the ones calling themselves that are lying to themselves.

           My name is Rasputen Tarsalai. And my job's to find the liars.

           I don't make an easy living. Sure, I could just blast my way into fortune with my friends Smith and Wesson, but I didn't want to be like every two-bit bastard calling themselves a detective. They're like roaches in this city – detectives for killings, detectives for love, detectives for metal; you can't walk two feet in Underyork without tripping on some stiff's card. Me, I keep my class. I don't draw attention unless I need it, and I ask the questions that matter, not that ones people wanna hear. All it's gotten me so far is this shitty office space on the corner of Rogue and Quarter, and a constant fucking headache.

           Until that dame came in.

           That's what she was. Sensual, graceful, like brandy gliding on ice. Only a dame moves like that – no broad or whore could smile like that at me. She had blonde hair like platinum gold, and wore a black dress darker than gunpowder. Even the blood on her face, splattered across her cheeks like ruby red lipstick, was more intimate than a lover's kiss. It was all I needed to pay attention to her.

           “I hear you can find people, Mister Tarsalai” she spoke as breathlessly as I was. She was dangerous – and I liked that.

           “I can. Is there a reason I should?” I spoke back, offering her a glass. She refused – I knew she would. Nobody with half a brain in their skull would ever take a drink from a stranger.

           “I've got two thousand right now – and eight thousand for later,” the dame charmed, and I could see a flash in those bright blue eyes. Those were a killer's eyes, no mistaking them. This wasn't personal enough for her to do the job herself.

           “Looking for a hubby or somethin'?”

           “Oh no no, let's call it a... misunderstanding between friends,” she replied like silk, and I was following along like the needle. “Maudy was a man I've had my eyes on for some time. Truly a man befitting of many gazes. A shame that he died.”

           “I'm... sorry?”

           “Don't be darling, I was the one who wanted him dead – and that was taken from me,” her voice returned, and I shot back my whiskey. I needed the edge to keep back the shivers. This dame was getting more and more poisonous by the second – and I was getting drawn in like a mosquito to fire.

           “You got any clues?” I growl back, knowing better than to try and shut down a job that already had payment on the table. The only thing worse than picking up a dead-end job is refusing one that's already confirmed.

           “I know Maudy used to always spend all day at the Crow and Cross, maybe that helps you?”

           The Crow and Cross. Typical – he was a fuckin' lowlife. No wonder she wanted him dead.

           “All I need, sweetheart. So what do I call you when I come back for the rest?” I spoke, snatching at my first fee before the dame could get her fingers back.

           “Well Mister Tarsalai, you can call me... Kitten.”

           Kitten. Whew. I needed to get out of there before the lamp or I blew a fuse.

           If Underyork's good for anything, it's a decent walk – so long as you knew how to. A lot of people have forgotten how – you'd think they wouldn't, but then they end up in the wrong alley, and then later in twenty difference pieces on the market. It's all about reading the environment, and blending in. Keep your coat closed, your hands in your pockets, and your eyes straight ahead – if you know how to walk, you don't need anything else to look around. Not like Underyork itself is much to look at. There's rubbish thrown everywhere, roaches are always in the street, and you're having a lucky day if you pass by someone in this hazy daylight. Funny, how in a city of thousands, it's rare to see another soul not slinking in the shadows. Either you live well enough to enjoy the smog of Underyork, or you struggle to live in the alleys like all the other dogs.

           And the Crow and Cross is a haven for those mongrels.

           It didn't take long to find that tavern. It's a sleazy little pile of brick and broken glass that should've gotten bulldozed years ago, but even the tractors don't wanna dirty up their tracks with that toilet of a bar. Trash attracts trash, and this place prides itself on being the biggest magnet there is. 'Course, it's because of that reputation that it's also the most lawful place in Underyork – for what that's worth anyway. Thief's honor is about as trustworthy as a rubber bullet, but that's still more trustworthy than anything else.

           When I opened the door, it looked exactly the same as I last saw it – a fucking mess. Cretins and bastards on all sides, playing their cards or nursing their drinks. I can feel their eyes on me the instant I walk in – they know who I am, and they know I don't belong here. I'm not stupid enough to come in alone though, I always bring my friends with me wherever I go. They know that too, or else I'd be gutted for my liver by now. There's only one person who's not looking at me when I walk in, but I only need to see the back of his stupid goddamn head to know exactly who it is.

           And I know that he'll be my best shot at figuring this dame's rival out.

           “Shouldn't a bleedin’ shitbird like you be outside crapping off the roof?” I call to that goofy red undercut, and he responded immediately. That thin little face, so enraged until he sees it's me – then he relaxes and smiles, like nothing's wrong. Otis “B.” Fucking Aderry – full name. Nobody knows what that “B” stands for, besides me. Pah, bastard – a cowardly little goblin like him suits the name of this bar.

           “Shouldn't a dogfucker like you be kissing up to the hair of it again, you sad drunk?” he scoffs, expecting me to react. I don't. I'm not here to repaint the Crow and Cross with his intestines – I'm here for information, and I know he has it.

           “You hang around here a lot, Aderry. It suits a bastard like you. Happen to know a guy named Maudy?”

           “Hmf, I know a lotta guys, dogfucker. Maybe you can refresh my memory, huh?” he spits back, and he grins those yellow, jagged teeth at me as he rubs his fingers together. Otis is nothing more than a rat among wolves, not enough meat to even consider eating. But just like the rat he is, he's got his paws in everyone's shit, and nobody wants to bite a shit-covered rat. There's only one way to deal with them.

           “Try not to spend it on that crappy wine of yours,” I say as I toss a roll of the bills at him. Now the bar knows he's got cash – he'll have to fight to keep it on him, and he knows the only thing standing between him and a junkie starving for his next fix is me. I can see it in his posture – he's excited, but now he's in the spotlight. He needs to give me just enough of what I want and scuttle out, or he won't have that cash for long.

           “O~h yeah, I think I remember a guy like that. Tall, big, fancy-clothes, Aquarius?” He snickered after he took a long whiff of the cash. “He your type?”

           “He's dead, so now he's your type,” I growl back, keeping my eyes on his hands. I don't need him trying to make a quick getaway. “I want to know who killed him.”

           “If I'm telling you, you didn't hear it from me, dogfucker,” Otis murmured seriously, stuffing the roll into his vest and smoothing that stupid undercut of his back. “I got enough people wanting me dead.”

           “You don't tell me who it is, they won't have to wait much longer.”

           “Fine! His name is Haarithur Yedelryn – he freelights as one of those shitty bluebloods, but he's as filthy as the rest of us,” Otis grinned widely, picking at his teeth. He thinks I can't see the way his weaselly little face scrunches up when he lies “You got your name, now leave me alone.”

           “You can't lie for shit, Aderry,” I chuckle, and I can't help but smile at his horrified reaction. I take another step closer to him, and when he backs up a bit closer to the bar, the other patrons look over curiously as well. They know I can't just kill him so easily – but there wasn't anything against bloodying him up a bit. Which only made getting the money from him that much nicer...

           “Alright fine! So it wasn't some damn blueblood – that was too good for 'ol Maudy! No, you think one guy got him? Pfeh!” Otis spat in the bar, looking disgusted, which had to say a lot for how he already looked. “Only way any of us recognized him was one of his arms – still had his signet ring on. Betcha whoever's got the matching one knows what happened to him~!”

           “You happen to have the other ring still?” I ask, but I already know the answer. I had to ask though – it was the only way I could get that slimy cretin to confess.

           “You think I would? First-come, first-sell babe! The Legion’s signet always gets good cash!” Otis snickered, waving me off knowing I didn’t have anything else to ask him. It would have been worth the stab wounds to beat that sick grin off of his face, but I still had a job to do. Knowing this case, it wouldn’t be the last time I see his shitty mug again.

           “Try not to drown in that bottle, shitbird,” was the last thing I spoke to him before I finally got to get out of that mess of a bar.

           It was a dead-end, but it was just enough to go on. That dame, that Kitten, never decided to mention that Maudy was part of the Legion family. Everyone’s got a family in Underyork, but they’d sell their own mothers out to be a part of the Legion. There’s money, there’s power, and there’s security in being part of the Legion – but it wasn’t easy to get into, or get out of. Once you were in, you were in – and a bodybag wasn’t enough to get you back out. The Legion protected their own, but they also used them ‘til there wasn’t anything else they could bring back to life. No detective would be stupid enough to sneak around Legion territory, especially on a hit like this. Suddenly I knew why this dame didn’t want to risk her neck so broadly – one wrong move, and the whole family would be after me too.

           Turns out I’d already made one.

           I knew I was being followed. Knowing how to walk in Underyork means knowing you’re not truly ever alone – and also knowing when something’s about to go down. I could practically smell it amongst the smog and rain; bloodthirst. Somebody wanted me dead, and I had a good idea why that was. There was no need to go back to my office just to bloody it up – not when the streets are filthy enough I could make some extra mess there.

           “Let’s just cut the bullshit lads,” I stop and call out, turning around. Sure enough, even though the streets behind me are empty, I could choke on the tension heavy in the air. They’re worried – they expected me to find an eventual alleyway on my way back. But now that I’m calling them out, they have to either kill me now on the streets, or risk their pride getting stepped on. Ruining someone’s professionalism is what I live for.

           I wait an entire four seconds. I know it’s only a matter of time. No Legion hitmen could stomach someone taunting their jobs. My hands hover by my coat. I know I’ll move faster; they’d have to get behind me to-

           I whip around myself, backhanding the sneaky fuck about to ambush me. His mask warbles, and his cloaking device shimmers in defeat. I can see the outstretched cloth in his hands: chloroform. They wanted me alive, and that was their biggest mistake. Obviously they had questions for me, but I couldn’t care less about talking to them. It was time to introduce them to my two friends.

           Both of my friends have been hungering for some warmup time. Of course, when you feed them nine-millimeter slugs all day, of course they’d love nothing more than to vomit them out at full force. I rocket three shots at my closest assailant, but only one of them nails him in the leg. The blood spray is all I need to know he’s wounded – and the steady barrage of shots firing my way signaled there was more than just him. I duck behind a truck, but the bullets don’t stop. Whatever firepower they brought beat out my Smith and Wesson. I’d have to guess a P90 – that staccato tapdance of gunpowder was both violent and long-lived. But I also knew I had an opening when the bullets suddenly halted, and I took my chance.

           I round the truck to get a proper shot – but there was someone in my way.

           People don’t help others in Underyork, that’s a rule of knowing how to walk. Those in trouble have to get out of their problems themselves, or else they’ll drag everything down with ‘em. But there that other guy was, that brute of a man closing the distance with those loud, thundering gunshots. Shotgun blasts; judging by how fast he’s pumping those bad boys out, I’d say a Spas-12. Whoever he is, he was distracting those bastards from gunning me down. So I went to find the first of my would-be killers.

           I can see the blood trail leaking on the ground. The fact he didn’t try to jump me after getting shot is proof of how amateur my ambusher is. Pain had him conflicted, and now I was the hunter. Even with his cloaking device, I can practically smell his fear. He’s close – and soon about to be dead. I look over to the side of the street, where I could see the blood abruptly veer off to the left in a smear. I grin – and then fire a round to the right. The sidewalk erupts suddenly with blood and brain, a black-tressed figure appearing from nothingness with a giant hole in the middle of his breathing mask. Trying to fool me with a fake bloody trail – a nice try, but not good enough. As he struggles lamely for life that won’t come, I don’t hurry his death for him; there are more important things than his mercy. I look back to the man who helped me, and I need only to see his face to groan.

           “You know you’re being ratted out for killing Maudy?” I snort, glaring at the man with his smoking shotgun.

           “Ironic – I’m looking for the ones that actually DID kill him,” Haarithur Yedelryn growls at me. He may be the only blueblood in this city worth a damn, but he’s still a blueblood. Being connected to any of the police force is as dangerous as having bonds with any of the families in Underyork, but Haarithur’s come through for me several times.

           “You know he’s Legion, right?” I question him, setting aside my friends so that I could better talk.

           “It’s why I’m here Tarsalai. The whole family is up in arms,” the blueblood grumbled, setting aside his shotgun as well.

           “Over one of their brothers dying? They kill their own bloody lot all the time,” I ask curiously, now more interested.

           “Not quite. Maudy was ripped apart by someone outside the family by the looks of it – and even they don’t know who did it.”

           The image of Kitten’s bloody face ran through my mind. I knew the dame was dangerous, but suddenly she seemed even more threatening. Inter-family betrayal getting out to the commonfolk was bad – there was going to be far more blood in the future, and that might be too good for business. I look towards the corpses that Haarithur had blown up in the streets, and I know they’ll only send more.

           “I’m looking for the right half of one of their signet rings – happen to find anything?”

           “How about this Tarsalai – share what you got with me, and I’ll share what I know. Like old times, egh?” Haarithur grinned, and even with that handsome look of his, I still leer at him. Bastard – there’s always an angle he’s working. I don’t know why he insists on breaking the rules of Underyork as a blueblood, but working together was sacrilege. Still, he had information I wanted, and I only had just a bit to offer – it was a win for me in the end.

           “Fine – like old bloody times. Let’s head back to my office,” I grumble, knowing this was only the beginning to yet another headache of a case.

           There ain’t no room in this city for heroes. What it needs is less-evil villains like us.

[jaegertango]

Noire: Infirmary

Kind of a partial followup to the previous thing I did, featuring one of @yung-rage ‘s old characters. Tone-wise, it’s not really as noire-feeling as before, but. I felt the inspiration to try and do something else with this AU, so here we go. Someone’s gotta help fix up all the people getting beaten up in Underyork, and those wounds aren’t always legal. Sometimes you need a doctor just as deep in the muck as you are - and this Doctor ain’t always so Feelgood.

The start of a new era of bloodshed. Pfft.

I’ve read that newsline so many times that I wouldn’t be surprised if I had first seen it in the childhood fairytales. Everyone in Underyork is so quick to jump on any violence the mob families like to throw around – as if yesterday’s agony is any different from today’s joy. It’s such a shame; the print doesn’t want to write news any more, they would rather parrot the same six headlines they’ve had ever since Underyork was given its first brick. I’m not sure why I bother picking up a newspaper anymore.

Oh. Right. I guess I need something to wrap the lost fingers and appendages in before I put them on ice.

I’ve had this infirmary hidden along Moonsilver Street for ages now. Hidden means I won’t get any police knocking on my door; hidden also means I won’t get any medical benefits without any police coming as well. So I’ve had to improvise a lot in order to keep my patients happy. Or rather, alive. It’s more of an annoyance than anything – I don’t think any of them realize that the brand-new happy juice called Morphine is so much more difficult to get than any of the guns they’ve been shot with, whether by legitimate checkbook or on the black market. So I have to ration it – and mix a lot of it with THC. Weed is a lot easier to get my hands on than that happy juice, and what my patients don’t know won’t kill them – not that they’re any more legal than that happy juice.

They’re not here for licenses. They’re here for Silane “The Doc” Falorus.

I hate that nickname. Every time I have someone under the knife, I always get some snarky “Oh hey Doc, guess I’m ready for your cutting-edge technique hurrhurr.” They’re so funny – it’s all just a game to them, it seems. Everyone has their nickname, and everyone has their practice, but only I take my duties seriously. This is my God-given duty to help these wounds, and so I help these victims in their plight.

Fervently.

I hear the bell to my door chime, and I hear a mess of scuttling and gasping. I don’t even need to turn my head to know I’ve got more work – and if the last three patients have been any record, I’d say it’s another Legion attack. The news might not have any idea why the string of assaults was bombarding Underyork at random, but being “The Doc,” I’m privy to much better information. One of the Legion cleaners was apparently murdered – and not in one of their pseudo-religious hits. It has the entire family up in arms, and I’ve had to fix up the majority of their mistakes because of it. Branding irons, glass bombs, toxic gas cannisters, and those are just the ones that survived. If I had to guess among those yells of “MY FUCKING KNEE” and “IT FUCKING HURTS, YOU COCKSUCKER” I would guess this one had one of his kneecaps bashed in. Old-school – maybe this was Mafia Rex instead. Turning towards the entrance, I smile as sweetly as I can towards the three men holding up a fourth, whose right leg had been so mangled that I could see his shin bone poking out of his skin, and his kneecap had nearly been entirely removed. Still, I’ve seen a lot worse than that – he had little reason to be crying.

“And how can I help you boys?” I greet them happily, making sure to reach for my “World’s Best Mom” mug.

“Doc, you gotta help us! Reggie’s got hit real bad!” One of them speak desperately, and I can see the terror in his eyes. Young – he was definitely new to this crime world, with how fast he was speaking. Another one of them looked frightened as well, but the last one looked more tired. She was a more recognizable face – Nandine the Breaker, one of the Queen’s hitwomen. The Queen was newest to this scene, but she deals with an iron fist, and I enjoy her respectful posse. She was once a part of the police force, but she learned as quickly as I did that the government doesn’t do a damn thing for you. I can see it in her green eyes – I don’t even need to question who did this attack, so I simply brace for the inevitable shout regardless:

“So where were you boys at when the Legion beat you up like a schoolyard bully?”

“DOES IT FUCKING MATTER, DOC!? FIX MY FUCKING LEG!” Reggie roars at me, and it’s only now that I realize he’s got his handgun pointed at me. I just keep smiling at him – these children really needed to learn their place. Sure, I could just kick him out to the curb to die painfully, but that would go against my doctor’s morals. God had delivered them to my doorstep, so it was my job as “The Doc” to do what I was put in Underyork to do.

“Bring him in,” I speak to Nandine, and I can see the barest hint of a smirk cross her face. I whistle happily, turning on my heel and setting aside my medical tome and bible so that the mafia has room to huddle inside. The infirmary, once filled with my other patients’ groans for life, now went silent. They know what’s coming, and it’s respectful of them to be quiet – I appreciate them for it. Reaching for an IV drip, I keep whistling as I turn towards Reggie, who was still hissing and snarling all the same as I look to him.

“If you’ve any prayers to God, we can sing one together if you’d like,” I offer towards him, gesturing at my bible. In response, he fires a shot by my left ear, the bullet embedding itself in the wall behind me.

“I will FUCKING-“

But I didn’t care what he “fucking” did. I immediately reached over with my bible and brought it down on his shattered shinbone. He howled so loudly that the previous gunshot seemed like a whisper, and he immediately dropped his pistol. Deftly, I reach for it with my forefinger and thumb, and daintily place it in the cabinet along with the rest of the confiscated weapons I’ve had to take. Reggie was still screaming bloody murder the entire time, his eyes bulging as I sat patiently, keeping constant, unblinking eye contact with him as he erupted a constant stream of “YOU BITCH!” and “I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU!” I watched him quietly, waiting for him to get all of his obscenities out dutifully until he finally seemed to run out of breath, giving me time to talk once more.

“So since you’ve declined the prayer, let’s allow the doctor to work, yes?” I reply happily, looking towards his leg. Up close, it's no different than when I looked at it earlier – the tibia had entirely pierced through his skin, and his patella was almost fully gone, save for a few destroyed fragments clinging to his cartilage. There was no reason to look any closer than that – even if I could reset the tibia back in place, there was no more kneecap to connect it to. The amount of muscle atrophy by the time the bone could reconnect to a metal ball socket would reduce Reggie's right leg to nothing more than a sickly, shriveled stick. I look back up to his enraged face, and I solemnly shake my head, enough to make his red face immediately turn white.

“You can't be serious-”

“I am. Deathly so, Mister Reggie,” I speak softly, looking back to his ravaged leg. “There's no way you'll be walking again, I'm afraid.”

“NO WAY!” He howled, gazing down to his devastated leg and wincing at the bone jutting from it. The poor man was little more than a storm of emotion as he looked to me desperately for any sort of help, his hands shaking as he held them out before his leg.

“Please... just. Fix it, please...!”

“Lucky for you, I do have such a fix!” I sing joyfully, and I can see Reggie visibly relax – until I pull out the saw. Immediately, his face turns even paler, and his friends gasp in fear while Nandine tuts loudly. She's all-too familiar with my work.

“No!”

“Nein? Yes, I think a nine is about fitting on the pain scale!” I reply with a hum, and I motion for Nandine to help me restrain him. She sighs explosively, but I know she'll help. Reggie is lucky she's bigger than him, or else this would be a lot more painful for him. While she holds back his struggling limbs, I reach for the IV drip, and I aim up for his vein. Even as wild as he, I'm familiar with that fat tube of blood – and it's all-too easy to stuff the needle into it. He flinches, and almost immediately begins to relax; the happy juice does its job quickly.

Still, I rate my pain scale based on the morphine I've already given.

“Now Mister Reggie, you may not be religious, but I am – so allow me to speak this verse,” I speak freely and while his eyes have glazed over with the euphoria of obliviousness, I know just what is about to come. Readying the saw and flipping open my bible to a familiar verse, I nod to Nandine, and she steadies her hand on the man's wrists. One of the other men jump to land on his non-wounded leg, and I waste no more time. With zealous possession, I drive my hand forward and rip into the sundered kneecap, knowing I have only precious seconds to spare.

“Thirty-two, twenty-nine!” I call firmly, but I cannot help but feel the notes uplifting in my voice. Reggie screams loudly, not even the gentle embrace of morphine saving him from the nine of agony. But God is on my side, which means that God is on his side – I will not let him die, nor will I let him be plagued by this devil of a leg!

“See now that I, even I, am he, and there is no god within me,” I command loudly, but my joy drives me to greater fervor. I find no pleasure in causing harm, but I do find bliss in saving lives. Reggie may be howling bloody murder, but I know it is only the demons leaving his body. My saw shreds through his flesh true and fast – the lack of bone makes my dire task much easier.

“I kill, and I make alive; I wound, and I heal,” I pray at my fullest, and I can see that my job is nearly complete. My patient screeches his foulest, and his friends are paler than the sheets beneath them, but Nandine, bless her heart, stays true. She knows better than anyone else that my quest demands her fortitude, and I silently thank her for her strength. As the final strands of flesh start to part under my bloody saw, I feel the Lord's renewing energy in my fingertips as I finally finish my prayer:

“Neither is there any that can deliver out of my hand!”

My saw bites into the top of the bed, and I sigh explosively as the gruesome task is complete. Reggie looks to be on his final breaths, but I can see the crazed relief drooling out of his mouth – the worst of his agony is finally gone. I have cleansed him of his devils of pain, and that vile leg now sits useless and decrepit away from him. I can feel his friends' terrified eyes upon me, but I care more for the steady gaze Nandine offers to me. With a thankful nod, I relieve her of her stressful job, and wave her off to depart. Moving towards Reggie's IV drip, I increase the amount just a little bit more before I look back towards his companions.

“Move him to that spot, just over there, would you two?” I ask kindly, but I might as well should have screamed with how they flinched. Nandine snorts, but nonetheless offers a soft pat on my shoulder for a job well done. The Queen's veterans always have been so gentle around me – God truly watches over her.

“Hmph. You rushed that verse.”

The sudden voice speaking up startles me slightly, but not enough for me to do more than look over at the owner of the noise. Sitting in the closest cot to me lays Soren Sigmaine, maybe my most familiar patient. I have a story for at least half of the scars on his body – and he might as well could be a tiger with those stripes. His eyes regard me curtly, and while his bloodied uniform might demand him to be silent, that leer commands him to watch me as a healthy man. A prideful man – if it wasn't for that willpower, I would have chained him to this infirmary to keep him from getting more scars.

Besides, a man of the law like himself didn't belong among all of these criminals.

“Perhaps God commanded me to speak quickly,” I reply easily, walking over towards Soren and checking his machines. His pain levels were still as low as ever – even with a fractured rib and bullet wounds, he never seemed to complain about his agony. Perhaps the Lord was his own personal guardian angel.

“I hope God enjoys a fast prayer,” the cop chuckles, and he returns to his previous grip exercises. He knows I hate how he tries to work out while kept in bedrest, but I've given up trying to stop him.

“I've never known you as one for small talk, Sigmaine,” I shake my head bluntly, looking back to his fierce gaze.

“That's another Legion attack, isn't it?” He grunts curiously, pointing in the direction of Reggie's cart. I look over lamely towards it, and then nod silently. A sudden, foreboding feeling overtook me...

“They're planning something. This is just the tip of their iceberg they're cracking off,” He growls brusquely, leaning back into his pillow solemnly. I can't help but listen to his words – I've never trusted the advice of a blueblood, but Soren's gut feelings have always proven to have some merit to them. He would make a good mobster if he wasn't so foolish.

“Any ideas what that is?” I ask mostly out of idle interest, finishing my checkup on his health machines. Typically, he just shrugs darkly and shakes his head, closing his eyes.

“Dunno. But I can feel it. This and that fighting pit. Everyone's even more on edge – it's not like the old Underyork anymore. Everything's about to be shaken down...”

I wait for him to continue, but he never does. With a sigh, I turn my back on him and look back towards the entrance. Nobody else seemed to have any idea about the state of the mob, but I couldn't bring myself to fully deny Sigmaine's partial prophecy. If what he said was even remotely true, I wouldn't have enough beds to suit God's healing will.

Ugh. I suppose it didn't matter what happened next. I am an instrument of the Lord's will, no matter what.

Taking a step away to leave Soren to his peace, I return back to my desk, where I can hear the groans of life once more singing like a choir behind me. Something about the lack of silence soothes my nerves, however morbid they may be.

The start of a new era of bloodshed. Perhaps Zalaena needed to be warned...

[jaegertango]

TrueAU stuff

I don’t really have a legit name for this AU beyond just “typical” AU scene in which a random event in an OC’s life is changed drastically. No “evil” AU, no “sci-fi” AU, just something different applied to their lifestyle that really changes a lot about them. Mostly done for my own reading later on, because I don’t wanna forget about whatever detail I got right now.

Alastair Pentarus does not meet his fated end in Lordaeron. Managing to escape with his fiancée and his best friend, he survives the siege and starts a new life in Ironforge acting as the front gun man and bounty hunter for Enfinite Arms. The real Zolfos Enfini creates impressive new weapons and does not meet depression without the death of his father and best friend. Faerina, having not needed to remarry with her own fiancé still alive, stays at Alastair’s side faithfully and happily. Together, the three create a capable mercenary band tighter-knit than any net, and spend their years taking whichever missions they please. As Pentarus does not die – and therefore does not meet the Death Knight destined to brand him with Blood Runes – the art of Bloodhunting is lost to him. Instead, he sticks to his roots and simply uses as much gunpowder as possible, relying more on various arrays of bullets, as well as enhanced metal armors to improve his physical capabilities. What else more could he want in his blessed life?

Pentarus (as he still lives and does not feel the need to become Rasputen Tarsalai) is about equal in power as his undead self. What he lacks in magical power, he instead surpasses with technological might and an array of different tools for the job. His rifle, Songstorm, is even more finely tuned than his Kitten is, as now it has Zolfos’ expert touch improving it. The rifle has a heightened rate of fire, holds a clip instead of a bolt-action mechanism, and he can modify his bullets based on the desired effect he needs – such as explosive rounds, sniper shots, or crowd-control zaps. He also has several different weapons hidden in his armor, such as hidden blades and bombs. While he might not have the raw explosive (and portable) might of his Elementium Deathcannon, there is enough sheer firepower strapped to Alastair to obtain the same result if need be.

Haarithur Yed’elryn does not betray his Prince when he is branded a traitor. Sticking wholeheartedly to Kael’thas’ demands, the enfeebled Blood Elf drinks deeper into the Fel, his body eagerly absorbing the energy he so desperately needed. His enhanced prowess and savagery attracts the attention of the Illidari, and he in turn happily joins their ranks thanks to his addicted thirst for the Fel. When Kael’thas falls, Haarithur sheds no tears for his once-great Prince, his only thoughts dedicated towards feeding on demons and the most primal of his desires. After the fall of the Illidari (and the subsequent reawakening), the Sin’dorei begins to regret how wracked his body has become with corruption, and how his only reasons to live were either long since gone, or simple necessities of life. Attempting to find some other reason to give himself to this world, Haarithur now walks as a stain upon Azeroth, a fel-infused monster brought forth solely to slaughter demons or fuck the life out of them. With his normally calm temperament now blazing with demonic energy, the Demon Hunter takes his fire prowess to a whole new level, setting everything around him ablaze as he takes very vigorously to his Infernal demon within. If he can’t find his reason to live anymore, he’ll survive simply to spite whatever gods seem to want him dead.

Bound to the Infernal soul Immolus, Haarithur took his fiery crowd-control prowess to a much more aggressive height, and is also about equal in power to his original self. While the demon soul is simple-minded, its sheer rage and emotional value is in constant struggle with the Demon Hunter, making the Blood Elf much more hostile in combat. His skin seems to split with fel-green fires, and his Metamorphosis nearly sets him fully ablaze. Complete with his slow, thundering attacks and ground-shattering leaps, Haarithur terraforms the very battlefield with his actions, leaving nothing but a craggy waste of scorched earth in his wake. This also makes him much harder to control, as he turns from a stalwart vanguard bringing the fight to himself to instead chasing the slightest foe down with eager bloodthirst. The Demon Hunter in the excitement of a fight is unstoppable, but also impossible to lead without casualty. Such recklessness also keeps him wide open to attacks, forcing him to simply tank through blows he could otherwise dodge or block with ease.

Soren Sigmaine is not the sole survivor of the Vermillion Verdict. He instead perishes at the Enclave, killed by the Scourge as he protected his High Priestess Luxford. He is later raised at Acherus, and though his connection to the Light is strong, his inability to channel it into physical form also reflects in undeath – there is no way he can form death magic. Deeming the raised knight a failure, they condemn him to die by the other Death Knights who were able to prove their magical abilities. Yet, the knight never is killed once again; in a fit of supernatural defiance and zealous fury, Sigmaine slaughters every Death Knight seeking their title, tearing into them like paper and even ripping them apart with his bare hands when his blade was taken away. Deciding that it was too great a waste of resources to keep sending capable Death Knights to their violent ends by a “failure,” Rasuvious instead demands they arm up Soren and instead give him a fitting title – The Doomslayer, a stolen honorary of a disgraced Paladin sent on perilous missions bordering on suicide. As he lacks any ability to cast the death magics of the Ebon Blade, many believe him to be killed very quickly, but his inhuman rage and fanaticism drives the silent, seething knight into many bloody victories. While his memories have been blurred and corrupted, Sigmaine’s faith in a cause has not dwindled in any sense. There is no foe too mighty nor too numerous for the Doomslayer to kill.

Soren Sigmaine and the Doomslayer are not much different in fighting prowess. They both lack the magical might of their peers, and both prefer the aggressive, overwhelming might of their claymores in a storm of steel. However, the Doomslayer is much more wrathful in a fight, and is not against using every ounce of his extreme strength to utterly rip apart anyone and anything he fights. Sigmaine’s zealotry is the same, but his inner morality usually does not have him savagely tearing his foes to pieces so brutally. Either way, the knights prefer a fast paced style of attack, seeking to overwhelm their enemies and beat them back with obscene strength and body checks alone.

Shenvol Stormshade turns towards envy and corruption as many of his brothers had done before. Sickened by his constant rejection and worthless patrols of Malorne, he is wiled over by the temptations of the Flame. Entirely tossing away the ideals of zen the White Stag once enlightened him with, Shenvol reverts to his old passions of hasty and emotional fire, taking quite acutely to the teachings of the Firelord and Majordomo Staghelm. His compassion to fight and his eagerness to be noticed for his strength quickly give him the infamous name “Ashen Dragon” for the sheer amount of scorched earth and life usually seen in his presence. When the Firelands are besieged, he greedily fights back against the forces, preying especially on the members of the Cenarion Circle or the Sentinels themselves whilst ignoring everyone else. Though he fights hard, the effort is for naught, and he is forced to go into hiding as a result. Rumors of the Dragon’s whereabouts seem to skirt everywhere around Azeroth, though reports have now placed him against the Legion’s forces. Whether he is trying to rectify for his past actions or simply belying to his baser nature, it is much harder to tell. As his powers are amplified as a Master of the Flame, Shenvol takes a much more aggressive and flamboyant style of fighting, usually setting everything around him on fire with explosive palm strikes and burning kicks. He may have once been Nature’s warden, but now he walks as its betrayer.

Shenvol the Waywatcher prefers a precise, but fast-hitting form of martial arts that involves several blows to pinpoint areas where they will matter most. These barrage of attacks do not do much by themselves, but when combined into a flurry, the final hit always multiplies the attacks together into one mighty finale, destroying the target before they even have a chance to realize the damage they’ve taken. His Master of the Flame self, however, relies on simply using extreme amounts of explosive damage, including long-winded kicks and punches to simply smack through defenses through sheer (literal) firepower. He is much easier to block, but blocking also causes a gout of flame to burst from his fists with every punch. This style of martial arts, unlike his Way of the Hundred Blows mentality, is violent and puts more emphasis on singular attacks that chain together, rather than long combos that always end on a particular blow.

Rex tries to instead follow the orders of his people by sacrificing his Raiders to hold off the ensuing Orc masses on their march to Shattrath. In the end, it is inevitably for naught as the Orcs regardless pillage and slaughter the majority of the Draenei people through sheer numbers. While the Prophet personally tries to consult him that the Reaver had done the correct thing, Rex is heartbroken and disillusioned by his crew’s senseless sacrifice. Despite the many honors and praises attempting to cheer him up, the Draenei eventually goes on a suicidal quest to slaughter as many of the greenskins as possible, seeking repentance for his failure as a leader. Upon a lone hill in Hellfire Peninsula, he stacks the corpses up high, stomping above the mountain of dead as Rex keeps killing more and more of the corrupted Orcs. It is only through the intervention of a powerful Fel presence (possibly that of Kil’jaeden himself) that the Draenei’s mind is fully turned – and with it, his body. Twisting himself into a mighty Eredar, Rex’s thirst for blood and sex is tripled as he becomes one of the Legion’s most powerful and capable juggernauts. Some even claim him to be as demanding and strong as Broxigar himself – to which he gains the name Rexarath the Red. With huge amounts of Fel energy coursing through him, Rexarath now commands both indomitable magic as well as his unrivaled strength. Woe betide any who see Rexarath the Red looming in the distance…

Already the most powerful of the characters naturally, becoming an Eredar only boosts Rex's strength to even greater levels. He does not lose any of his extreme skill with a weapon, and now he also boasts powerful (albeit amateur-trained) prowess with Fel magic, simply hurling colossal balls of demonic flame at targets. Combined with his further-enhanced vitality, as well as the destruction of his personality to only desire destruction, and Rexarath is made into a being that would take armies to defeat.

Erendiir Ravenlight does not fall for the temptations of the Legion. Rather than lustfully seek more power, he instead turns against his Queen in a snide and prideful attempt to keep the Highborne people “at the top where they belong.” Being the powerful mage he is, he manages to escape even with his roaring betrayal against Azshara, and he takes several of the Highborne caste with him into the hands of Malfurion and the like. Because of his self-centered betrayal, Erendiir is on the winning side when the Legion is repealed, which only fuels his xenophobic ego even more greatly. For thousands of years, he absorbs the praise he receives as a hero of the War of the Ancients, gaining even greater power as a Gran Magister. His influence amidst the Highborne makes him a tremendous ally or a dreadful foe – but an asshole all the same. Regardless, there is no doubt that he stands as one of the most powerful and spellcasters to walk Azeroth, seeming to blur the very strands of time around him. All Night Elves are welcome under him – and everyone else are but paving stones for the Kaldorei empire to rise once more.

Erendiir loses out on the Fel-enhancement of his Satyr being, but spending ten-thousand years honing his magical craft and devouring magical rarities have made him an extremely powerful Mage that would actually surpass his demonic form. His magical content is so condensed with mana that the very fabric of time wilts around him at his will. This means that while his Satyr form was a definite upgrade, now he is a supercharged version of everything that already made him powerful. Ironically, this also makes him more mentally unstable than his demonic form does as well – so much magic coursing through his veins has made him even more hostile and xenophobic than ever before, and there are few people even among his own kind that he inherently trusts or likes. What he has in paranoia though, he also possesses in raw power – it's hard to find someone or something strong enough to keep their form after meeting Erendiir on the fields.

[jaegertango]

The Hall of Tarsalai

So I wrote a thing with Pent in it. I haven’t written combat in fucking forever, so I’m definitely rusty. This also has Amilaine in it, because why wouldn’t she be there hunting with him? Anyway, stuff in Gilneas happens, and it’s pretty damn important, so I got off my ass so I could actually do the thing. 

With a ragged inhale, Rasputen Tarsalai took in the cold, wet air of Gilneas that his body had long since deemed unnecessary. Even over ten years since he had last needed to breathe, and the oxygen slid through his lungs like slime, the Huntsman still reveled in the chill that grasped within him. Few things could still bring him happiness in his new existence as an Undead, and the weather of the rainy, dark region of the Worgen was amongst them. Even better was the rifle he held in his hands, his sharp, bone fingertips cradling the firearm lovingly as the stench of gunpowder clung to the barrel warmly. Storm clouds and bullets – what could possibly be better?

Probably the pale-haired woman close behind him, Amilaine’s nimble fingers testily rolling a knife between them with ease.

“Any luck?” She whispered curiously, and there was a hint of excitement testing in her gentle voice, an edge of sadism as warning as the glint of steel in her hand.

“Lotta blood in the air,” the Deadeye grunted back gravelly, his only-working eye lazily glancing around the foggy tree trunks. Even if the Forsaken woman could not see as well in the mist, Rasputen could easily leer at the splattering trail of red soaked onto the white like a painting. His initial shot had only grazed the beast’s shoulder, but a graze was all he needed; the brute was bleeding. There was nowhere in Gilneas the two undead wouldn’t be able to hunt the Worgen now. “Keep an eye out, Kitten.”

“I’ll keep out two~” Amilaine teased, to which Tarsalai grumbled loudly, but affectionately as he trotted along. His boots crushed the damp grass underfoot with muffled thuds, while the woman’s bare feet were not even audible in comparison. Even as the two descended deeper into the woods, and the fog devoured the leafy canopy overhead, Amilaine moved with such fluidity that she seemed to nearly vanish like a ghost in the mist. A true wraith – she was the polar opposite to the Huntsman’s heavy step and menacing aura, and she was excellent at being his spotter. As Rasputen looked down, he gestured towards a scattered trail of blood drops, only growing thicker with every few feet. Perfect.

“Watch my arse, gotta bad feeling,” Tarsalai murmured, his brow narrowing as he shouldered his rifle.

There was an audible pause before he felt a sharp nip in his backside.

“OI! WATCH, NOT TOUCH!” Rasputen hissed, but he couldn’t retaliate with his own pinch before Amilaine giggled mischievously, practically disappearing into the fog where not even his enhanced senses could track her. Growling more in exasperation he couldn’t get the butt-touch he wanted, he bolted off after her despite knowing he’d never catch up. Worgen hunt be damned, he had his lover to bother-

-as he ducked just in time to avoid an outstretched hand bigger than his entire head sweeping at him.

The Huntsman’s reactions flared, and his scarred face twisted into a horrid grin to match the savage maw of the wolf-man gnashing his fangs at him. His firearm aimed up, but the Worgen was already lunging forward with a rabid snarl, towering over Tarsalai easily. Swearing colorfully, the undead shifted to the right, just under the beast’s outstretched arms. Yet, even with that dodge, the Worgen was already twisting around under the same momentum, ready to cleave at him with a vicious claw; as Rasputen instead also charged forward, upsetting his rifle’s position to instead bash the furry brute across the jaw with the stock of his gun. The sudden attack was all the Deadeye needed to surprise and stun the Worgen as it yelped, but he wasn’t fast enough to aim properly as he squeezed the trigger. The round gouged itself harmfully into one of the beast’s arms, but not lethally as he howled in pain. Another curse left the Deadeye as he reached for another bullet, slamming the round into place with mechanical precision. Taking that time was not good for him though, as even with its injured limb, the Worgen surged at Tarsalai, tackling him and trying to snap at his gray throat. The wolf-man had weight on Rasputen, and one of his arms was already occupied trying to keep those teeth from chomping his neck out. Enraged spittle showered onto the undead’s face, and he bellowed furiously back as he struggled to aim. This was turning into far more of an annoyance than it needed to be, and the Worgen was starting to gain the advantage. Inch by inch, it was getting closer to the Huntsman’s throat, claws trying to hold back the barrel of the gun as it roared victoriously-

-and Tarsalai immediately jammed the rifle into his open maw with a surge of strength, the Worgen practically helping him shove the weapon there. The beast choked on metal – and then on blood and bone as Rasputen immediately transformed the back of his head into an eruption of brain and gore. All life in the beast dissipated on the spot, and the Huntsman instinctively kicked out at the brute to shove the corpse away. A new shock of pain washed through his right side as the claws that had embedded themselves in his side were yanked out, the sacrifice he had to make in order to aim at the monster. Grumbling in disgust, he clambered to his feet, cocking his smoking rifle back and gazing out around him – to notice that Amilaine had appeared at his side again.

“Where th-“ was as far as he managed to get before he realized that her appearance had become far more vivid – she was now utterly soaked in vermillion life fluids, staining her chest and even bits of her cheeks and hair as she stared at Tarsalai with a bewildered expression.

“What the fuck HAPPENED?” He growled, now concerned for his Kitten as he glared at her gorestained visage. “Is there another bloody one!?”

“No, no! This is-“ Amilaine started, holding up her fingers to a trickle of blood leaking down her cheek. The barest hint of a smirk crossed her face as she looked at her soaked fingers, and lapped at them curiously. “I went to help you with it, and just as I was about to stab him in the back, he kinda…”

She made a finger-pistol motion, complete with its own “pschew!” sound effect. This apparently made no sense for Rasputen, for he kept gazing dumbfounded at the Forsaken woman.

“The dogs don’t bleed THAT goddamned hard, do they?” He hissed, shaking his head and turning towards the Worgen corpse. “Dunno how they could-“

He stopped himself as he realized that there wasn’t actually a back of the Worgen’s head anymore – everything passed its muzzle had been blown clear out by the force of the Huntsman’s shot, and that there was a conical spray from the gore geyser – and a definite gap of someone standing right in the blast zone.

“Oh. Never mind.”

“It’s okay, I thought it was funny,” Amilaine spoke happily, sidling up next to Tarsalai and rubbing her cheek along his shoulder – probably to also clean herself up of the blood. “His heart will be intact too~”

“Yeah yeah Kitten, I know how much you love your ruddy-“

That Worgen wasn’t the one they were hunting.

It was only when the Deadeye noticed the absence of his first tracking shot on the slaughtered beast that it occurred to him this wasn’t his initial prey. The realization hit Rasputen nearly as hard as the actual Worgen they had been hunting, the wolf-man sinking his claws into each of his already-maimed shoulders. Roaring in furious pain, Tarsalai barely avoided his second death by stuffing his rifle sideways into the Worgen’s vile maw, its fearsome jaw unable to clamp down passed the steel holding it in place. Unfortunately, there was now no way for the undead to fight back as those fangs winked ominously at him, and those claws kept their knifelike digits in his shoulders. It was taking all of his strength just to hold this brute back from yanking away and shredding his throat to pieces. With boots kicking wildly to no avail at the Worgen’s gut, the hunter was forced to think far quicker than he wanted to. The Deathcannon wasn’t aimed correctly in this position, but he could certainly use the explosive force to free himself; if the blast didn’t kill him anyway. That could-

-The Worgen surprised him by suddenly rearing back, tugging the rifle out of Tarsalai’s hands and bringing a final set of claws upward. Oh FUCK-

But fate never arrived for Rasputen, for just as the beast started to seal the undead’s fate, a bullet suddenly rocketed into its left eye, crashing out of the side of its snout grotesquely. The Worgen howled in agony, but not before five-foot-two of pure rage pounced onto his back, the glint of a dagger moving so fast that it seemed to sway like water. The assailant immediately jammed it into the beast’s jugular, nearly hilting it before drawing it in a precise arc across the Worgen’s throat. The smoothness of the strike was almost unnatural – as was the obscene amount of blood that came gushing out of the open wound noisily, splashing onto Tarsalai thickly. He grunted mostly in annoyance over revulsion, but couldn’t hold back a wild grin as he looked towards his slain foe – and how his Kitten was still stabbing the corpse’s chest in a berserker delight.

“Oi Kitten! Ya got him, he’s – OI! You’re GONNA BUST THE HEART!”

It was only when Rasputen made mention of the organ that the Forsaken woman froze, and she finally stopped ripping into the Worgen needlessly. She was panting heavily, though judging from the bright gleam in her eyes and the way she was biting her lower lip, it wasn’t entirely from exertion. Her hands were now as coated in blood as the rest of her torso, entirely matching Tarsalai’s own gore-splattered visage thanks to her killing blow. When she looked over at her lover, she smiled cheerfully, looking quite innocent despite the sheer amount of red soaking her form.

“I’ll let you do the honors, since you gave me the kill~” she teased, booping the Deadeye on the nose with a bloody fingertip and offering her dagger hand towards him. He snorted gruffly, but kept smirking as Tarsalai accepted the knife, and gazed up the massacred brute.

“Bleeding hells, not like there’s much holding this fuck together anymore,” he grumbled in amusement, his own ministrations with the dagger clumsier. He lacked the dexterity that Amilaine did, but that didn’t stop him from carving up the Worgen’s insides regardless. It didn’t matter if the rest looked like chum and dog food – there was only one part that he needed to get towards. And as he approached the meaty, bulging heart, his single eye lit up eagerly. Perfect.

With a few quick slices and a wrench of his hands, he yanked the beast’s heart out grotesquely, bits of blood and shredded organ spraying out with the motion. Chuckling to himself, he reached into his longcoat pocket with his free hand, yanking out a handkerchief to hold the heart in place, as if to present it in a more delicate way for his lover. Looking over towards Amilaine, he now held the heart with both hands, starting to kneel as his gaze shined brightly towards her.

“For you, Kitten. My heart, I give to you,” he spoke with a surprising fondness, offering her the heart tenderly. A sparkling sheen even drove itself along the side of the organ in a pristine fashion as he offered it to her. Amilaine smiled widely, eagerly snatching it from his hands as she nodded towards the Huntsman.

“Ever the gentleman,” she cooed, to which the undead looked shocked. His eye shot from the heart to her hands, and as she began to dip down, he began to stand up in confusion.

“Wait, hol-“

It was too late – she was already biting down onto the heart hungrily, its juices and bloods squishing outward wetly. Her eyes closed blissfully at the taste of it, oblivious to Tarsalai’s surprise – until they shot open as her teeth tried to crunch on something much harder than flesh. Gasping, she froze with a mouthful of flesh still in her mouth, and gaped at Rasputen, who was still halted in shock. She looked down towards the heart, and then tried to politely dig in her mouth without showing off the contents. The half-chewed chomp looked the same as all of the other hearts did – a dull crimson, several valves, oozing with blood-

-a gold band sticking out of the side of it.

Everything turned still. Not even the branches or the walls of fog within Gilneas seemed to move. With shuddering fingers, she reached towards the ring, pulling it loose of the heart-chunk with an excess of shivers. Even in the blood, even when it was soaked in those thick life fluids, her eyes could just make the engraving within the band, making out her name within. Almost bemusedly, she turned towards Rasputen’s wide-eyed expression

–and she wailed at the top of her voice.

Holy fuck, this wasn’t what he was expecting. Tarsalai even shouted back in surprise, to which Amilaine was still yelling incoherently, but not before she had tackled onto him tightly. His arms came around her in confusion, but she was already pelting his scarred face with kisses, the little lady easily beating him into the ground with her affections.

“Kitten, you gotta say-“

“Yes, yes! Of course, yes!’

“Yes?! IT’S A YES?”

“OF COURSE IT IS!”

For as wild and as confusing as the proposal was, Tarsalai no longer cared. He had gotten the answer he wanted as Amilaine clung onto him as if releasing would send her off into space. He hadn’t expected her to actually take a bite before seeing the ring, but it all worked out. When she had finally calmed down, she was still cradling his face gently, the utmost affection marking her own cheeks as she intertwined her hand with his own, her new ring shining in the dim light of the forest.

“I don’t think I could be happier now,” she murmured breathlessly, squeezing the Huntsman’s hand warmly. Her smile was the widest Rasputen had ever seen it, and he had a feeling his face was doing the same. Euphoria surged through his body, easily beating back the pain his shoulders were going through, and nearly forcing him to his feet. He doubted he could be any happier himself as he rested his nose against Amilaine’s-

-as a bestial growl echoed from around them.

Immediately, the two undead looked up from their surroundings, and saw that they were not alone anymore. Three more Worgen had come across them, and their hateful eyes were tracked viciously onto them. Their snarls grew steadily louder as Tarsalai looked back towards Amilaine, and a sadistic gleam fired through his eye.

“Ready for dessert, Amilaine Tarsalai?”

“I’ve never been hungrier, husband~”

[jaegertango]

The Moonbreaker Presence

Attempting to get back into the habit of writing. Here’s something of Pent getting himself back into the fight on the Isles. Is it up to date with now? Absolutely not, there’s no Argus floating in the sky yet, so don’t bother thinking that. Anyway, here’s Rasputen, an old friend, and the RETURN OF ZOMBIE-PUP ZOLFOS YEEEAAAAAH

Well, so much for going quietly.

Rasputen rolled his eye as he kicked at one of the Alliance corpses, the dull smack of his boot smashing against the human's skull lamely. Definitely dead, as if the smoldering bullet hole in his gut wasn't enough proof of that. Though, that wasn't about to make up for the slaughtered caravan driver beside him, the Orc's lifeless red eyes blankly staring into the smoky cyan sky above. The Deadeye was the only survivor, save for his hound joyfully tearing into the scattered food stores as beat a sack of onions against the ground merrily. Zolfos didn't seem to mind that his prey was about as alive as the human the hunter was looking at, nor did he seem to care that the two of them were now entirely without transportation.

Tarsalai, meanwhile, was pretty fucking pissed off. Not even ten minutes had passed since they set off, which meant he still had the entirety of Stormheim to traverse before he could get to the Dark Lady's camp.

Grumbling to himself, he lowered his rifle from his shoulder and began cleaning the bloodied barrel with his ragged longcoat. He could still hear Haarithur's words ringing in his ears, his gruff tone almost daring him to try and argue back towards him. As his “finest marksman,” he was to offer Sylvanas Windrunner his support, as a gesture of goodwill from the Sin'dorei on her hunt for the Valkyra. He, along with three more Shattered Suns, made up the proper hunting cell specifically for tracking down and capturing or killing supernatural entities. A Warlock, a Priest, a Blood Knight, and a Deadeye. The first was mercilessly ripped to pieces by a colossal Kaldorei bear, the second and third had vanished by the end of the battle – and the fourth had technically been dead for some time. Sighing loudly, he began to walk down the main road deeper into Stormheim, the damp air mucking around his cheeks thickly. With a whistle for his dog, Tarsalai's brow narrowed as his only working eye glared down the winding expanse before him, the mountains twisting in the distance along with the path endlessly. It wasn't even that good of a fight for how long this journey was going to take now-

*fwOOSH*

The Deadeye halted abruptly, his warning instincts flaring dangerously just before an arrow suddenly rocketed roughly a foot from his face. Immediately regarding the direction, Tarsalai whipped in the direction of the shot, quickly aiming his rifle and firing up into the adjacent cliffside. His sight had not even registered his attacker before he had counterattacked, but being a quickshot was what he was all about. Sure enough, his right eye quickly caught the sight of a figure ducking away from a smoking hole gouged into the stone, roughly the same distance from their head as their shot was to the hunter. With a snort, he cocked back the spent round to better aim a killing round for that bastard-

“You're not supposed to fire BACK, YOU ASSHOLE!”

The sudden shriek directed at Rasputen was enough to entirely halt his reload. Incredulously, he squinted at his assailant who had bellowed at him, their bow lowered as furious green eyes burned back at him, mocha-colored skin littered with so many vivid tattoos that it wasn't immediately obvious what their natural pigmentation was. Though, such a cacophony of ink was also just as recognizable to the ranger, who looked even more explosively annoyed at the sight of the woman.

“Nadine-bleedin'-Moonbanger,” he called up to the Sin'dorei huntress darkly as he set his rifle over his back securely. “Who DOESN'T shoot back at someone trying to make 'em a pincushion?”

“Learn to take a joke, you rotted fuck!” She spat back just as viciously, causing a wild grin to rip across Tarsalai's scarred face. “And it's NaNDine MoonBREAKER!”

“Ain't that what I ruddy said?” the undead snorted brusquely, cocking his head at Nandine in partial confusion. “How 'bout you come down and talk like a regular goddamned person!”

“If I come down there, I'm kicking your ass!” She growled back, but nonetheless was definitely reacting a lot more positively now that the Deadeye had set his rifle away. The elven ranger took a minute to ready herself along the slope, though she looked visibly disgusted when Tarsalai licked at one of his fingers and pressed it along his backside tauntingly. Snickering to himself, he turned his gaze behind him – and nearly jumped out of his skin as a monstrous tiger sat on her haunches, ready to pounce onto the undead marksman with a decidedly bored look in the beast's yellow eyes. It was enough to make Tarsalai flinch and bellow out “HOLY FUCK” at how Nandine's pet tiger had snuck up on him once more. Somehow, Sangha had done it again to him, even with Zolfos following him. At the thought of his hound, Rasputen looked around for his zombie dog, only to see that he was still playing with his makeshift toy of the sack from before. So much for guard mutt, he was more interested in disemboweling the onions than protecting him from the tiger-

-Or the Blood Elf's boot firmly slamming itself against the Deadeye's right ass cheek, the kick having enough force to knock him to the ground with such a mighty blow.

Tarsalai roared more out of surprise than actual pain, which was immediately met by Nandine's crazed cackling. Whipping himself around, he realized that the Sin'dorei had followed up on her promise, and was doubled over as well as she laughed and snorted into her hand.

“I warned you, fuckboy! Shouldn't have made it so easy!” She gasped into her hand, attempting to breathe through her laughter. Even her tiger seemed to be chuckling, with guttural grunts echoing from the beast as she watched the two of them almost expectantly. Cursing under his breath, Rasputen propped himself up to his feet gruffly, glaring at the Blood Elf as his sharp fingers flexed testily.

“What're you doing here, Moonbreaker?” He growled to her darkly, eying up her form once more. Same exposing armor that revealed her tough, toned body, same multitude of tattoos, even the same, shitty bow he hated having to look at. There didn't seem to be any other sign of Highguard members around – or that she had just gotten done bedding someone else. Maybe she quit...?

Unfortunately, there was no way for him to know, for she simply shrugged loudly and wiped away the tears of mirth in her eyes. “Maybe I just wanted to visit an old friend, hm?”

“You bloody elves gotta weird sense of friendship if you try to kill each other for friendship,” Tarsalai snorted, though the memory of Liniadel chucking her boot at his head filled his mind warningly. Maybe she had a point...

“Oh? Would you prefer I greet you the other way?” She snorted, though her eyebrow raised teasingly at him with a waggle. Rolling his own, the Deadeye whistled for his dog once more, who tried to bark with a maw full of linen sack still.

“Spare me your blasted whoring, I'm taken.”

“Yeah, that's what's stopping me from fucking you,” Nandine replied with such a sardonic tone that even Tarsalai grunted a laugh. “What's got you down here?”

“Got sent down here to hunt the Valkyra,” the undead snorted, shuffling back down the road with no regard as to whether Nandine followed or not. “Orders from the boss, so y'know. Gotta go now.”

“How 'bout I join you, huh? I'm looking for some Sin'dorei paladin gone rogue,” the huntress murmured casually, quickly catching up to the Deadeye and slapping him on the shoulder with a rolled-up poster. “Heard he tried to sneak out of Dalaran into Stormheim, we're basically going the same direction.”

With a grunt, Tarsalai grabbed at the parchment and rolled it out. Within, the mugshot of a Blood Elf man grinned at him, his clean faced visage smugly smiling at him from the inks, and the name The Daybreaker etched below. Everything about the face was irking Rasputen, to the point of which he wasn't sure if one hundred and fifty gold was worth even seeing this bastard's decapitated head. Well, maybe shooting a Paladin would make him feel better about this whole escapade.

“Any idea where IN Stormheim?” Tarsalai grunted, offering the poster back to Nandine. To his dismay, she rolled it up and shrugged in the same rough manner as before.

“Dunno. Usually you flaunt enough ass, the men come to you instead.”

“Huh. Last time I tried it, everybody took the hell off instead.”

“Yeah, how about we leave that to the professionals, huh?” the huntress smirked, patting the top of Rasputen's hair delicately. With a grunt of disgust, the man battered her hand away and tried to smooth his dark hair back into place.

“Any idea why you ain't doing this with the Highguard?” He grumbled, rolling his shoulders lightly. “They'd be 'bout as professional as you can get at that.”

He expected an immediate response, but it never came. Surprised, Tarsalai turned his gaze to leer at Nandine, but she was still staring straight ahead with a strange fire in her green eyes. For a second, Rasputen wondered if he had actually spoken the question, but he absolutely knew that he did. Shaking his head, he returned his gaze and lack-of-answer forward, deciding not to press the issue any more. It was only after several seconds that she finally spoke up.

“Sorry, what was that?”

“Nothing, don't waste your breath. Let's just get to-”

“HEATHENS!”

The pair halted in place as a third voice yelled out from above, demanding their attention. Both of the rangers turned their gazes upward, noticing a figure standing proudly upon a rocky outcropping. His brilliant armor glinted in the rays of the sun behind him,and his cloak billowed stoically in the wind. His sword, however, was thrust dangerously in their direction, pointed ominously at the Blood Elf in particular. Both Zolfos and Sangha jumped to attention, hackles bared and low growls echoing from the both of them. Their owners, however, seemed more bored than worried as they gazed at the figure yelling at them. It was only when the glint of his blade shone across his face that his handsome visage was shown, twisted in rage – The Daybreaker himself.

“First you steal my heart... and then you leave to, to...” he started heroically, then paused dramatically as he gaped in revulsion at the Deadeye, who cocked his head in annoyance at the speech. “To leave me for some filthy Forsaken! How could you!”

“You two got history?” Tarsalai grunted, though he made no motion to actually draw his rifle. His casual air was matched by Nandine, who squinted up at the Sin'dorei man to somehow get a better look at him.

“...Maybe?” She replied carefully, though it was more out of confused exasperation over actual worry. “I hear this a lot.”

“Can't be too goddamned important if you don't remember.”

“That's – yeah, that's usually the case. Maybe it was with the cake...?”

“SILENCE!” The Daybreaker bellowed, and he shook his head in profound emotion. “My dear, sweet Nandine – to think you could have had it all with me! Money! Protection! A man who truly loved you at every step!”

“No wonder you left this mad fucker,” Rasputen growled under his breath, causing Nandine to snort.

“Alas! I cannot save you now, my former love, my dearest flame,” the Blood Elf man continued sadly, wiping away a tear from his eye. “You have chosen so poorly, a man whose evil is as clear on his skin as in his heart!”

He shook his head in melancholic memory, and then thrust his longsword in the direction of the two hunters. “No matter! A woman is destined to be attracted to such evil! They want only the bad men that would do them wrong, but makes their loins lust after them! Such is their nature, to be-”

The Daybreaker was interrupted as an arrow crashed into his left shoulder, a spray of blood splashing outward from the force of the shot. He gasped, but stood his ground, glaring at the Blood Elf as she held her bow outward. Her arched eyebrow was proof enough of how surprised she was to see him not die from the arrow.

“And so I am proven correct! She cannot hear the truths straight from my mouth!” The Daybreaker called triumphantly, despite bleeding profusely from the arrow jammed in his shoulder. “She cannot bear my words, knowing that they stand victorious above her, that the actual best choice for her would have been Sai-”

He was interrupted once more as his head suddenly exploded, the sheer force of a gunshot making his entire skull erupt outward in a gruesome display of blood and brain. Now actually dead, the Blood Elf collapsed off of the outcropping, falling several meters in a graceful tumble before crashing onto the ground and shattering several more bones in a horrible crunch.

“You elves talk too goddamned much,” Tarsalai grunted, more regarding the Sin'dorei beside him instead of the pile of crushed flesh once called The Daybreaker. She simply shrugged, sheathing her longbow and scratching at her chin thoughtfully.

“He probably spoke a lot during too,” she mused aloud, to which Rasputen laughed gruffly and gestured towards his longsword, which was uselessly stabbed into the ground from the fall. Both Zolfos and Sangha, who had visibly relaxed now that the Sin'dorei was dead, were now sniffing the corpse curiously.

“Gonna take your reward and go now?”

“Please, I haven't bothered you nearly enough,” Nandine scoffed, and strut off before the Deadeye, yanking the blade out of the ground easily as she ignored the gory mess splattered onto the ground beside it. With an exasperated chuckle, Tarsalai settled his smoking rifle on his shoulders, and followed the Blood Elf huntress without another word, knowing he couldn't make her leave now anyway.

Maybe this wouldn't be so bad a trip.

[jaegertango]

The Right Ship

I HAVE ANOTHER DRABBLE BECAUSE I’M FEELING THE WRITING MOOD. So in order to keep my writing train rolling, here’s the other side of what’s happening while Pent is in Stormheim doing Forsaken things. Haar’s got his own agenda to fill, and he’s got his own way of skirting about the many rules and eyes of Silvermoon.

She usually wasn’t late.

Haarithur sighed for several seconds, shifting his weight and readjusting his greatshield along his left arm. Being the Royal Vanguard meant looking as intimidating as possible for the longest possible time, but now that he was actually waiting on the person he was meant to be protecting, time seemed to flow twice as slowly. Eversong’s warm sun now seemed to glare like a laser upon his heavy ebony platemail armor, which only magnified the heat blistering within it. Even with his horned helm discarded, a few beads of sweat were noticeable upon the Blood Elf’s handsome face, his strong brow knitted together in focus as if fighting the heat itself. It was important that she arrived at this time before they did, or the consequences would be too dire even for himself.

Even now, he had taken precautions to have as few people upon the docks as possible. Many of the laborers had taken their lunches, and most of the other ships had already departed, whether to find their trade or reinforce the Broken Isles. There was only one other ship that the Royal Vanguard was expecting, and it had been purposefully omitted from the rosters with enough gold. It wasn’t Haarithur’s favorite plan, but he and his Magistrix were in a tight spot – and sadly, it wasn’t one that he could simply run through with his lance. Hopefully there wouldn’t be any extra bad news to make this situation worse-

-Ah. There she was.

The bulky Sin’dorei made the motion to salute towards the approaching carriage, despite it being several meters away. Even from that distance, the grand golden crest of the Sin’dorei was noticeable upon their floating palanquin, as well as a lesser House emblem emblazoned proudly upon the side doors. With pleased surprise, Haarithur realized that there was no usual contingent of guardians at its side; his Lady shocked him every day with what she could get away with. Normally, no lord or lady of Silvermoon could dare leave the capital without at least three to accompany them. Regardless, it was a good thing she had managed to arrive so singularly – less witnesses would be better for the both of them. As the levitating carriage floated gracefully up to the Blood Elf, he waited until it settled onto the ground easily before reaching for the door handle firmly. As he pulled it aside, he couldn’t help but smile crookedly at the patron within.

“Busy day at work, I take it.”

“There aren’t enough sweets in the world to make up for it,” Zalaena D’anthius sighed massively, pulling herself from the palanquin at the offer of the knight’s hand. Though her brilliant yellow robes flowed like water and danced about her form as elegantly as a fire, her movements were tired and exasperated. Even though her green eyes burned with intelligent and curious light, the rest of her beautiful, cherub-like face looked exhausted. When she regarded Haarithur though, it was with a quick moment of warmth before she looked towards the near-empty docks almost expectantly.

“So, you said you have a plan?”

“It’s… definitely an idea, yes.”

That immediately didn’t sit well with the Magistrix, for she turned to raise an eyebrow at her Vanguard. That one motion was enough to make the knight shirk down a bit, as he hastily nodded towards her.

“It’s a clear plan! The Magistrate will have no idea of this trip, and my second has already been sent to Stormheim,” he added on smoothly, and then gesturing with his shield towards the open ocean. “As far as they know, the time they’ve given me to heal is still being used – and by the time it’s up, I’ll be back in Azsuna.”

It sounded confident leaving the Sin’dorei’s mouth, but the Lady beside him did not appear entirely convinced. Several seconds passed in silence as they stared out into the sea, before she eventually spoke up in a clear, concise tone:

“If they find out… you know I cannot help you. You’ll be deemed a traitor of the Sin’dorei,” she replied firmly, her eyes blazing. “You won’t have anyone. Not your soldiers, not your second, not your family… not even me.”

The hot air felt as thick as concrete, neither of the elves moving much as the tide lazily rolled against the dock. It took even longer for Haarithur to respond, and when he did, his voice was a mere fraction of what it once was.

“How are Sera and Sal?”

Zalaena’s eyes visibly widened, but she corrected her shocked face as quickly as she had done it. When she answered, her voice had softened considerably as well.

“They miss their father. Sal said his first word not too long ago.”

Haarithur looked as though he had been stabbed by his own lance, his hard eyes seeming to burn painfully as he coughed slightly to himself. “…What was it?”

“Mama,” the Magistrix replied, and there was a barely-contained surge of joy rushing in her voice. The pure happiness in her tone was enough to make Haarithur chuckle as well, his colossal hand reaching for her own. Tentatively, she squeezed back longingly.

“I’ll be back soon – I can promise you that-“

“GRRRAAAAAHAHAHAHAH!”

The sudden booming laughter was enough to easily shatter the tender moment, as well as separate the two elves as if electrocuted. They turned about wildly, and quickly caught the sight of the tremendous galleon bashing its way through the waters to pull up beside the docks. The sheer scale of the ship was monstrous, but most alarming was not the size, but the only individual in sight. Over nine feet tall, the gray-skinned brute was clad only in a patterned kilt and a strap to sheathe his mighty greataxe, his black hooves securing himself on the deck of the ship. A single cobalt eye regarded the two elves eagerly, and before the ship had even come to a proper halt, he leaped from the side to crash down before the two of them, towering over even Haarithur ominously. A razor maw of teeth winked at him in the light as the captain of the ship made himself known.

No Draenei should have been allowed in the port, but nobody else was there to stop him.

“Haarthur Yuhdellrin!” The humongous corsair thundered, and his wide grin was whole-natured, but his sharp teeth still made him look terrifying. “Rex is pleased to see you again!”

“I still don’t think pirates are the smartest traveling idea…” Zalaena spoke nervously, though Haarithur immediately snatched at the Draenei’s outstretched hand and sought to crush it in the same friendly manner he was trying to.

“Pirates are off the books. Can’t even teleport without the Magistrate knowing,” Haarithur murmured simply, though he smirked at the Draenei warmly. “Rex might be loud – but he’ll take me wherever I need to go.”

“Oh! This is Haarthur’s boss then!” The titled “Rex” spoke fondly, and he bowed his head in a polite manner towards Zalaena.  “I am Rex, of Rex’s Raiders! Don’t worry, Rex always returns him alive!”

The overwhelming aura of the Draenei was not making him seem any more trustworthy for the Magistrix, but as the ship started lowering the ramp, Rex was already practically dragging the Vanguard on-board. Haarithur may have been huge for a Sin’dorei, but the Captain of the Raiders was even more gigantic for a Draenei.

“It’s okay! I’ll be back soon – this will all work!” Haarithur spoke hastily, trying to walk and reassure Zalaena at the same time. “Worry about yourself first!”

Zalaena opened her mouth to speak, but the Draenei’s jovial laughter drowned her out. The Blood Elf smacked him in the shoulder to try and silence him, but the corsair merely cackled away and kept the ship moving. It seemed as though they were on a tight schedule, even if the Draenei was not at all being quiet. Deciding there was really nothing she could do at this point, the Lady moved back to her palanquin, hoping that none of the dockhands were able to catch sight of her or Haarithur boarding the pirate ship as the two made their departure.

Hopefully he wouldn’t be late…

[jaegertango]

Lunch Break

Wrote this drabble a little while back to get into the swing of writing Elksy’s soup mum. It didn’t really go anywhere, but it was nice to get into more of Panthe I MEAN SIGMAINE’S history as a cook. So here’s a small something with Soren and Shaethea shooting the shit.

Every soldier needed a break, no matter how skilled or capable they were.

Soren had learned this fact early in his life as a Zealot, and he had a feeling that he was still alive because of it. There were too many times that he and other like-minded templars pushed themselves beyond the brink of exhaustion to prove themselves to the Light, and would collapse not due to their wounds, but their bodies giving out instead. There was no valor in dying on one's knees, and Sigmaine quickly realized that if his soul was to join the Light in the great beyond, he could not face them if he died so miserably. So he took to making the most of his times of silence, to allow his muscles to relax and his spirit to temper itself in readiness for his next show of bloody devotion.

It also gave him plenty of free time to learn how to cook.

With a pronounced inhale, he examined the smell of the bubbling broth within the pot before him. The human frowned slightly as the familiar bite of paprika refused to nip at his nostrils – it wasn't spicy enough. Reaching towards his several bags, he threw in yet another pinch of the red powder into the pot, the thick soup quickly swallowing up the spice eagerly. Stirring idly, the Zealot carefully eyed his surroundings once more as the chunks of chicken, potato and celery tumbled over the spoon. One more inhale, and Sigmaine smiled fondly: there it was.

Pleased with the results, he let the pot sit as he pulled away to tear off chunks of the loaf of bread he had brought along with him. It was a bit too roasted of a crust, but that would make it easier to eat with the thick soup he was crafting. A balanced diet would revitalize him much faster than just one food group. No matter what Leohart wanted to tell him, Soren knew better. That was why he was the designated cook of the Verdict, and nobody else was allowed into his “kitchen” unless they wanted to get decked by a very angry Zealot. At first, he felt he was too clumsy to handle any of the small knives and stirring utensils necessary, but after a few weeks, the man was indisputably the best cook of the Crusaders, even if Bird kept attempting to challenge him on that fact.

Despite himself, Sigmaine's smirk widened crookedly as he remembered the first dish he had mastered – stew. Stew was easy to make, and all he had to do was dump the chopped ingredients he had into the mix to make a hot meal. Meat, potatoes, vegetables – it all sat nicely in the pot and kept the Verdict warm and eager for their next Crusade. Though, the Scarlet Stew he was used to making certainly looked a lot more volatile in comparison to the tame golden glimmer of the chicken gumbo he was cooking for now. Suramar did not have many natural ingredients, but thanks to the close proximity of Dalaran lurking in the heavens above, it was not hard for Soren to get all he needed to properly maintain the delicious viscosity of the soup. As he returned to the broth, he reached for a bowl to prepare his dinner and finally begin his break for the night-

*crack*

Soren's body tensed up, immediately dropping the bowl and brandishing the knife in his hand threateningly in the direction of the branch snapping. His orange eyes glared behind the protective steel of his helm, even if the rest of his armor had been discarded to his tent. He might have been imposing back in Stormwind, the six-foot-four human wearing only a tank top and pants to reveal his darker complexion and bulky muscles as scarred as a tiger's stripes; but the Broken Isles had monsters easily twice his height and girth. Carefully, he eyed the brush that he thought was concealing his camp's position, ready to jump on whatever Broken Nightborne was about to shamble where they didn't belong. His fierce gaze flitted in the direction of his fiery greatsword over ten feet away with the rest of his gear – at least he knew where to jump if that cutting knife wasn't enough. The crackling of leaves and plants intensified, and a pair of elven ears poked out first – and it was far worse than any zombified addict of mana ever could have been.

Her face was rounder, and more mature than any other Kaldorei face that Soren had ever seen, but that familiar silver look of determination immediately sent the man on attack. He took an aggressive step forward, raising the knife up high in order to get a surprise stab down on the intruding woman's neck, but he never connected. Before he could properly take another stomp after the first, the Night Elf moved with far greater speed, suddenly rushing forward to jab the human in the eyes through the open visor of his helm. The precise motion was not at all what Sigmaine was predicting, and his entire attack was halted as he was momentarily blinded. A gruff snarl of confusion left him before he felt something heavy and mighty crash against his armored forehead – something that had enough force to easily knock him to the ground and the knife out of his hands. Within the space of only a second and a half, Soren had tried to attack the assailant, and was laughably countered and disarmed. As he felt a boot press on his offending wrist, he tried to squint up at the Kaldorei's face just so he could glare at the would be killer of-

...not Eclipse?

He was dumbfounded enough to not struggle, which was enough for the woman to also stop. Her silver eyes narrowed at Soren, and even in the haze of his watering sight, Sigmaine knew that this wasn't the Night Elf he thought she was. Her facial tattoos were sharper, and her long white hair had an older gleam to it – definitely not that of a wig. Combined with the deep lines and wrinkles etched into her cheeks, now the human was surprised he confused her with Eclipse in the first place. He simply paused in defeat as the woman dug her heel a bit more roughly into his arm, just enough to warn him that there was no way he was getting back up.

“You should know I'm no Shal'dorei, child,” she spoke in a low tone, definitely not that of the assassin that Soren knew.

“You're not Ec... You're not Roraelis, no,” Sigmaine grunted, finally feeling his vision clearing up a bit. Well, hopefully she would be more merciful than-

-The Kaldorei suddenly raised her boot up from the human's wrist, and the surprise in her face was obvious. “You know my daughter?”

Holy shit.

“D-daughter?” Soren growled in shock, cocking his head partially to the side as he kept laying on his back. That certainly explained how similar they looked at a glance. He had simply figured that Eclipse's mother had died – it sure seemed that way for most Elves. This apparently seemed to hurt the woman a bit, for she smiled a bit sardonically and cocked an eyebrow at the Zealot.

“I know that she's taken fondly to her new job, but to not even mention her own mother? What must I have done to harm my dear child...” she spoke gently, shaking her head. “How do you know her?”

“...Tried to kill me,” Soren grunted, sitting up slightly and not bothering to reach for the knife. He decided to omit the particular reason why she wanted him dead; if her mother could knock him on his ass so easily, he wouldn't be able to beat her even with his armor and sword.

Yet, this fact hardly seemed to worry the woman. She simply sighed, and reached down to offer the human a surprisingly friendly hand, helping him up off the dirt casually. The Zealot could feel her strength in both her careful grip and how she still stood a foot taller than him. This was definitely an older Night Elf, but she had to of been a Sentinel for several thousands of years as well. Luckily, she seemed to be warmer towards him than her daughter was, and she nodded towards him curtly.

“You and plenty of others,” she spoke ironically, hefting her heavy shield over her back easily. She moved as gracefully as if she wore leather, and yet she obviously wore platemail. The Zealot could only wish that he had that sort of agility. Yet, even with her distinct advantages over Sigmaine, she suddenly frowned apologetically and bowed her head. “Trust me, any grudges of her are not followed by me... unless you've done something really stupid, have you?”

“...Baradin's Wardens never lie,” Sigmaine grunted, once more deciding not to mention the real reason why Roraelis wanted to hunt him down and rip his kidneys out. Technically, it wasn't a lie, but it still made the human's lungs feel twisted. “Just... misunderstandings.”

It was a lame excuse, and it was one that the woman didn't seem to fully agree with, but she shook her head all the same and extended her hand politely. “Then I will allow you to prove me wrong. I am Shaethea – you are...?”

“Sor... Sergeant Soren Sigmaine,” the human responded hesitantly at first, and then remembered his duties and saluted with crisp precision. Even if this was the mother of the person he trusted the least, she was still more than worthy of his respect. This was apparently the correct decision, for Shaethea nodded pleasantly and waved him off.

“Please, I am no officer to you, Soren. I apologize for striking you – caught me by surprise!” She laughed lightly, as if she hadn't just totally grounded a man in his prime. Still, Sigmaine took it in stride, shaking his head to better clear his vision – and then remembering that his soup was definitely more than done now. He hastily moved over to the pot to re-stir the chunky contents, taking the whole pot off of the flames to settle it to the side. At that motion, Shaethea chuckled once more.

“That was the reason I found you, you know. You'll attract predators for miles around if you cook something that good smelling!” She mused happily, to which Soren actually froze in surprise. The only thing that was apparently weirder than a Kaldorei trying to slay him was her mother complimenting him. Yet, it was touching enough for him that as he poured a healthy amount of the gumbo into the only bowl he had brought, and the Zealot instead offered it to Shaethea curiously.

“Want a try?” He asked with a bit too much gusto, apparently excited that someone else was interested in his cooking again. Only Xolphiea had shown any sort of curiosity towards his food, and that was already enough to make him cook as many sweets as he could for a week straight. Shaethea paused, a bit surprised, and then slowly extended her hand outward to accept the bowl from him.

“Well, thank you, Soren! You didn't have to do that, this is your meal, after all.

“It's nice to cook for others,” Sigmaine growled a bit lamely, but there was a definite proud tone to his voice. It was even luckier that he had his helmet still on – his blush would not have been able to have been hidden otherwise. To try and mask his pride even further, he reached towards the pot to pick up the spoon, stroking at it with a finger to try a bit of the chicken gumbo. Hearty, a bit spicy, and tones of garlic and potato mixed in fondly with the chicken broth – just the way Soren liked it. It was only after he looked back over to Shaethea that he realized he was already sitting down – was he actually relaxing?

“I am so used to doing the cooking myself, this is a welcome change!” The Kaldorei murmured fondly, taking a spoonful of the gumbo and smiling a bit more widely. “...Though, you will have to try my soup now, just so you can make yours better.”

Sigmaine snorted a laugh so loudly that he even surprised himself. To think that only a few scant minutes ago, he was pinned to the ground and expecting a very painful death. Apparently, the humor he found was just as funny to Shaethea, for she chuckled just as well, eating more of the soup as Sigmaine reached for a chunk of bread for him to dip into the soup.

“...Good to meet you, Shaethea.”

“And to you as well, Soren!”

Another gruff laugh, and Sigmaine took a bite out of the bread with his helmet still on, the soup-splattered chunk disappearing into the inky void of his helm ominously as he exhaled sharply, finally feeling his shoulders relax.

Every soldier needed a break, no matter how old or new they were.

[jaegertango]

Desolace Dangers

My inspiration comes in brief, short-lived bursts. One of them demanded that I write about Shenvol decking someone, so I did. That burst also commanded that I include @stromtheicequeen‘s Ilsevel, because every showoff needs an eager audience. So uh. Here’s a really short fight scene with Shenvol and Ilsevel.

To think that the Cataclysm could actually make a region look nice.

Shenvol hummed simply to himself as his silver eyes met with the healthy vegetation of a nearby oasis, the long stalks of grass tickling at his ankles as he trotted along Desolace's once-beaten path. Normally, such an area was utterly devoid of anything that wasn't dead or dying, and the majority of the wastes still looked that way. However, after the Destroyer's apocalyptic entrance from Deepholm, water had spat forth from underground reservoirs, and life found itself quickly entrenched into pockets around Desolace. Aided by the hands of the Cenarion Circle, the Monk had to admit that not even a Waywatcher of Malorne could have done the job better than those Druids. One such acolyte was walking beside him, her amber eyes also taking in the beauty of such vivid greenery now accenting the usually-gray landscape. A portion of Ilsevel wanted to explore some of the flora that now gracefully lined the clean pools, but the other was firmly anchoring herself to Shenvol as her arm wrapped itself around the crook of the Monk's.

“I never thought that there could be so much life here,” she murmured almost wryly, reaching up to adjust her baggy hood carefully along her white hair. While Ilsevel had dressed as a traveler would, complete with a protective cloak and a short dress for mobility (and because it looked really cute), Shenvol had not changed his attire since she had met him. The Kaldorei man was still clad in his usual loose pants, complete with a rope belt, and a colossal prayer bead sash that was slung around his left shoulder. He still had not bothered to wear a shirt, letting his scarred purple chest sit broadly outward to reveal his tough, toned musculature. The Waywatcher was definitely a handsome rogue, though not quite as much as the Druid was beautiful. Still, the two seemed like a mismatched pair, with Ilsevel's soft, graceful steps from her boots quickly being drowned out by the loud clacks of Shenvol's blocky sandals. Still, that didn't change the way she warmly looked back up to the Monk as he laughed gruffly.

“The Cenarion Circle knows a golden opportunity when they see it,” the Waywatcher replied easily, nodding towards some of the herbs growing steadily along the new trees. To think that only a short few years ago, Desolace had absolutely no green in it whatsoever. It truly showed to the wonder that the Druids could work upon a war-blasted world.

“Maybe there is hope for Azeroth,” Ilsevel mused softly, her arm squeezing a bit more tightly along Shenvol's own. “I know it could use some good news.”

“There is always hope,” came the other Night Elf's gentle reply, nuzzling his moon-white beard along the top of the Druid's hood. “No matter how much bad there is-”

*fwip*

Shenvol could not properly finish his sentence before a whiplike sound cracked before the two, and suddenly a colossal, teal form came rocketing from the brush to their right.

Though it stopped a few feet short, the ambushing creature stood taller than even Shenvol did. Worse yet, no sooner did the tall, lanky assailant appear from seemingly nothing that four more immediately followed suit. Deep, guttural laughter echoed in the Kaldoreis' ears as the strong figures thrust their axes about hungrily, and five sets of crimson eyes bored into them with even greater thirst. Normally, it would be impossible for one Troll to try and sneak up on someone, let alone five of them, but Desolace had changed dramatically from before.

“Biz'nis's goin' good!” The first cackled wildly, craning his neck to glare at the two as his tusked mouth was partially hidden by his long cloth mask. Ilsevel had instinctively clutched closer to Shenvol at first, who merely froze more out of politeness than surprise. However, the instant that she had seen the bloodthirsty desire behind the bandits' weapons, she suddenly bared her teeth defensively, her canine teeth far more pronounced as if to warn them of just how nasty she could be when cornered. Yet, the effect was a bit ruined by how she was still hiding a bit behind the Monk, who didn't look properly surprised as he scratched the back of his head lamely.

“Are we buying something?” He commented curiously to Ilsevel, who chirped in confusion at him.

“Wh – yeeaaaah, ya could say dat!” the first began to stutter, and then grew just as menacing as he brandished one of his dual axes at Shenvol. “Here's Gaz'jinko's price – ya gold, or ya life!”

The other four Trolls snickered eagerly, drawing in closer to the two elves. The Druid hissed worriedly, trying to creep closer to the Monk as she did so. Yet, the man himself simply frowned, now rubbing at his beard a bit tiredly.

“I usually do not carry gold. Would food be okay?”

There was another squawk of annoyance from the Troll leader, but he nonetheless snorted and spat a fat loogie onto the ground before the Waywatcher.

“If it ain't ya ribs, what could it-”

But just as this 'Gaz'jinko' began to point his axe at Shenvol, he dove forward with blinding speed, breaking away from Ilsevel so quickly that she didn't even register the sound of the axe slicing through the air until later. In that split second, the Kaldorei had dashed forward, and suddenly slammed his palm against the bottom of one of the Troll's long tusks, snapping it off nearly at the root. He howled and recoiled back several feet, blood seeping from the gaping hole in his jaw as the shorn tusk collapsed uselessly to the grass. Shenvol, meanwhile, held his hand aloft, both the Troll gang and Ilsevel gaping in awe at him as he curled his fingers into a fist slowly, and his calloused knuckles popped with eager anticipation.

“It is my famed Knuckle Sandwich.”

And with that, everything exploded into chaos.

One of the trolls roared furiously, but Ilsevel was already pouncing. Her body, at first lightweight, suddenly rocketed outward into a more ferocious form as where once stood a Kaldorei woman now bounded a giant Frostsaber, the Druid effortlessly transforming into a massive white saber cat. The Troll she was leaping at was not at all prepared for the sudden transformation, and fell easily under her paws as she tackled him. Her claws immediately gouged into him twice with two fast swipes, but she instantly hurtled away from her victim before she could deliver the death bite. One of the other Trolls had come to his brother's aid, while the other two Trolls rushed towards their wounded leader. With a defensive growl, Ilsevel felt her mind racing as hard as her heart, her eyes shifting towards Shenvol as he almost lazily looked behind him. Yet, before she could even consider giving him any help, he moved again with the same incredible speed, flashing back towards one of the fortifying Trolls with another punch. The Monk's blow hit against the Troll's forehead so hard that any forward momentum the tall bandit had was instantly halted, and the back of his head smashed into the ground long before his back did. Such a sickening crunch was enough for the Druid to know he had been knocked completely cold as he was effortlessly bodied by Shenvol, a teasing “Boop” laughing from him as he looked down towards his fallen foe. She was beyond excited to see more of his fight – had one of her own foes not bellowed out in rage at her.

Scrambling to her senses, the saber returned her own snarl back, her yowl much louder than the Troll's own battlecry as she swatted at her attacker. Her first victim was still getting himself back to his feet; he was still a bit dazed by her attack, but he was still alive, and he was definitely angrier at how much of his bright crimson blood he could see. Her second foe's assault was delayed by Ilsevel baring her fangs and her paws slashing dangerously at them. She was still worried about Shenvol: if the leader got into a tussle while he still had to deal with his other lackey, he would definitely get hurt. Not wanting to chance that, the Frostsaber suddenly leaped at the second Troll, unable to harm him as he held up his furred arms defensively, but then getting knocked to the grass as she used him as a launching pad to soar well over the head of the first bandit. So graceful was her flight that when she landed, she was not far from the Monk as he cracked his neck about-

-and she realized that he had already dealt with the other of the Troll leader's gang. Maybe she didn't need to worry.

“Ya gonna pay fa' dat!” The Troll huffed, his long tongue lashing at his bleeding tusk-hole savagely. “Ya gonna-”

But Shenvol didn't waste time with battle chatter. He had rushed forward again, and suddenly began to storm the Troll leader with a barrage of punches across the entirety of his upper body. They were all coming so fast and so wildly that only the blurs of his arms striking his foe were noticeable, all while the Monk roared his own combat mantra. Whether it was the Troll's chest, his abdomen, or especially his face and throat, there was not a single inch of his tough body that was left unpunched by Shenvol as his fists hammered almost comically into the bandit leader. After four solid seconds of nonstop punching and fist crashing against flesh, the Monk abruptly halted by swinging his arms out to the side and – with sudden poise and calmness – pressed his palms gently together as if to pray, the beaten form of the Troll leader's barely-conscious form groaning weakly as he collapsed onto the ground weakly.

Ilsevel could only gape, entirely too baffled by the scene. Even her enraged foes behind her were frozen in place, and even when they recovered first, their initial thought was not to attack, but to scramble. They broke rank immediately, leaving their captain and two of their numbers unconscious in the grass as they took off towards the coastline, hooting and hollering for help. The Druid still couldn't properly move or even change form, merely staring at Shenvol until he finally broke his pose, and exhaled shortly.

“Okay. We should go,” he responded curtly, turning towards Ilsevel and smiling brightly at the saber. “Thank you for your help, Ilsevel.”

“Ghwgrhgwhrwwwwwwait!” Ilsevel at first growled uncontrollably at first, but then found her actual voice as she shapeshifted back into a Night Elf. “How did you do that?”

“'Make each punch count like a hundred, or punch a hundred times in one,'” Shenvol replied lazily, offering his arm out towards Ilsevel as if nothing had just happened previously.

“But – that's not... I thought you said you weren't much of a fighter!”

“I am not,” Shenvol chuckled sagely, looking towards the Druid fondly. “I would much rather love. Unfortunately, you cannot love everything to win.”

It seemed as though there was little reason to argue. Besides, it was an incredible display. So Ilsevel simply kept her growing questions to herself, and instead hooked herself along the Monk's arm warmly, cuddling herself closer to him as the two Night Elves walked back down Desolace's path, one of them humming to himself once more. She was just fine with this moment alone, even if the thoughts were endlessly nagging her:

To think that the Cataclysm could actually make a region so violent.

[aaliyaeger]

Stowaway

Every ship has its case of stowaways, whether trading ships, military ships, or even amongst the crews of pirates. Rex and his Raiders are no different. Though, this particular stowaway might end up giving the Draenei captain more of a reason to keep her on-board...

“You would think that this would be... Rex? Are you okay?”

The Reaver suddenly glanced up from his desk, grinning toothily as he nodded. “Rex is all good! Why does Nialei ask?”

The Soul Tender raised an eyebrow, seeming a bit nervous. “You just kicked your desk. I'm not boring you, am I?”

“No no, Rex just forgot how... big he is, yes!” he replied with a bright smile, those overly-sharp teeth winking in the dim light of the cabin. The inside of the captain's quarters were purposefully kept shady in order to keep it cool within the ship, even if the rest of the expansive room didn't look much like an officer's bedroom. The bed was tremendous even for a king-sized bed, and the desk had to be just as massive for Rex's colossal frame, but there were no expensive paintings or rugs or anything of the sort. If anything, it looked simply like a casual bedroom back on land, complete with a messy corner of random scrolls and crystals needlessly tossed aside after the Draenei was done with them. He certainly wasn't the cleanest of Captains. Yet, something about it was definitely off – and Nialei wasn't sure what it was.

“Did I come at a bad time?” She asked uncertainly, eyes checking around to make sure she hadn't interrupted anything. There was no mound in the bedsheets, and the boudoir definitely didn't have enough room for a person. The room was definitely only including Rex and Nialei. Yet, as the Soul Priest brushed back a lock of her white hair, she couldn't help but think something was wrong with the Reaver, her eyes digging into his colossal form curiously. He merely grinned as openly as always, complete with that bizarre spirit aura of his. His posture was a bit stiff, but that could have easily been due to the chair he was sitting back against.

“Rex is always happy to see Nialei! Though, he may need to send her off. Rex has... a member of his crew that he needs to punish, and he does not want Nialei to see how loud he can get.”

That was worthy of suspicion. “You mean louder than you usually are?”

“EXACTLY!” the Reaver boomed as if to prove that, causing the Draenei to jump a bit. Well, that was a fair point. If Rex had never actually been “loud” in front of her yet, the Soul Tender preferred to be able to hear things still. Even though that nagging feeling yanked at her otherwise, she stood up and bowed her head politely, extending her hand.

“Very well. Please don't be too rough on them, Rex,” she replied warily, though a genuine smile at least was able to grace her features. The Draenei brute didn't seem like the type to be dangerous or cruel – though she was reminded of how immensely strong he actually was when he squeezed her hand, and the vicing pressure made her wince. Immediately, the Reaver released her worriedly, and he shook his head apologetically.

“Rex will do what he can. He promises to bring back tea from Pandaria the next time he visits Nialei!”

Rubbing at her hand gently, Nialei turned around towards the doorway and exhaled shortly, hoping she had made the right decision as she opened the heavy doors before her, and then closed them firmly behind her.

It was – no sooner did the doors close did Rex groan heavily and roll his seat backward, his huge hand gripping onto the side of the desk as he looked down towards the Night Elf that was seated between his thighs, suckling happily on his fat cockhead and seeming oblivious to everything else in the world as her saliva shined across the entirety of his monstrous length.

“Rex nearly got caught by Saebele's excitement,” he grumbled, though a laugh still burned in his tone as his other gigantic hand reached down to stroke along her face. Saebele merely hummed, sucking around around the tip of his thick dickhead before pulling her lips off with a loud pop!

“But it was just sitting there, so lonely...,” she purred gently, both of her hands stroking his wet shaft lovingly. Even with such long pumps of her hands, she couldn't properly jerk such a tremendous prick, which would have put Tauren to shame. This certainly wasn't what the Reaver was expecting when he caught the Priestess trying to sneak aboard his ship in the dead of night. She simply said she needed a ship to travel to Suramar – and Rex was pleased to do so out of the kindness of his heart. She seemed like a nice lady, and he kept her in his quarters so that none of his Raiders would bother her.

But now that she was affectionately kissing along his pillar of a dick, her robes long since abandoned so that her voluptuous body was on full display, Rex was starting to wonder if she had gotten on the right ship.

“Saebele really likes Rex's dick, does she?” He commented easily, his hand reaching over from the table so that he could better roll his thick cockhead against her plush lips, his pre now splattering along her mouth. She eagerly drank him up, one of the Priestess' hands gliding from the Draenei's colossal fuckrod to her intimate folds, already slick in anticipation as she sucked him off. He was no Satyr, but the sheer size of the Reaver's cock outmatched them easily. Would she even be able to sit on this properly? Even Saebele was a bit doubtful, but that only made her more excited, a low coo vibrating against the Reaver's monstrous shaft as Saebele sat higher up on her knees, and wriggled her humongous bust across Rex's titanic prick. Even as snugly as she tried to trap such a slab of cock, there was still so much of his size still jutting out from her cleavage, enough for her to give a long, wet smooch to the back of his dickhead fondly.

“M~mm, I can't even hide it all the way,” she giggled girlishly before ducking her head onto his fat cockhead, lips already stretched a bit just to fit around it. Her master Azdraeth may have had the perfect-sized shaft to fit between her breasts, and the rogue lord Erendiir was nearly comparable, but Rex definitely had size on both of them. Even though she had goaded a delighted groan from the Draenei, there was still so much of the warrior left over for her pillowy jugs to hug and vice along. As a jet of his thick pre burst into her throat like a hose, the sheer richness of the shot was nearly like that of soup, ever so savory and full of flavor – while it lacked the sweetness of her master, there was a fuller taste to that clear liquid that she couldn't get enough of. In order to speed up that process, Saebele began to hum and drag her chest along Rex's colossal shaft, expertly pushing him into the back of her throat even as the bottom of her gigantic boobs had just started to pillow out onto his lap. She could feel just how heavy and hot those mighty balls of his were as well, and she could already sense him tensing up. There was something more primal and less-controlled about the Draenei, and the Priestess barely had any time to consider that before Rex's meaty hand suddenly clutched onto the back of her head, steadying her as his hips pulled back abruptly – and as he hammered up both between her breasts and into the back of her throat, he came just as powerfully!

Both Azdraeth and Erendiir had loads that blew Saebele's mind, but this Reaver was in a whole new class. A total torrent of his delicious, hot seed erupted down her throat, her body needing to do minimal effort to swallow down such an impossibly massive load. Her eyes rolled backward joyfully, and she was dimly aware of Rex hissing and grunting out in delighted orgasm as he secured her head, pulling back only when his unstoppable cumshot became too big. Before she could even choke on it, the Draenei had wrenched himself downward so that the last portion of his heavy load instead stuffed itself into her cleavage, still enough of that pearly-white, chunky jizz unloading out of the brutish captain to sloppily puddle up atop her breasts even with his dickhead buried between them. It was only after several seconds that the Reaver pulled back, breathing a bit heavily and Saebele looking as though she had already fucked ten men continuously, but still just as rigid as ever.

“Rex apologizes for the surprise,” he grinned toothily, and with how sharp those teeth indeed were, he might have even been passable as an Eredar. Maybe that was why his spunk tasted so good. There was definitely a lustful and eager gleam burning in his single working eye as he pulled away from his desk, and helped the Priestess up to her feet, the insides of her thighs utterly soaked with her juices.

“Is the Captain going to punish his stowaway now?” Saebele piped up with such feigned innocence that even Rex rolled his eyes. Another giggle echoed from her as she bent herself over the other side of the desk, wriggling her curvaceous rear at the Draenei teasingly. “How ever can she change his mind...?”

“Rex thinks he knows a way,” he grunted gruffly, obviously all too eager to continue his time with the Priestess. One of his massive hands spanked down on one of her ass cheeks with a crisp clap, that thick butt cheek one of the few portions of Saebele's body that Rex could not fully encompass with his grip. His other hand found anchor not on her hips, but instead found a great fistful of her moon-white hair, not yet pulling, but warning the Priestess of what was to come. She barely would have even gotten the time to prepare for that – before she could even coo or groan out needfully, the Draenei was already pressing into her delicate pussy, ready to test her limits!

Neither of the Satyr were slouches, but the Reaver was just so damn big. His cockhead alone was enough to stretch Saebele beyond what she ever thought possible, her mouth widening dramatically as her fingers desperately sought to gouge themselves into the sides of the desk eagerly. Her body quivered in anticipation, and low gasps of “more...” quickly became desperate calls of “MORE!” as every time that she thought the Draenei had run out of shaft, he found two more inches! All she lived for now was to be a cumdump for her Satyr master and his friends – but if this Draenei happened to be around, she could definitely make an exception for him as well. Eventually, the heavenly pressure became too much for Saebele, and her knees nearly buckled as she cried out and tilted her head downward; only to see that her usually taut tummy was now obscenely bulging outward in the shape of Rex's dick, far moreso than she had ever seen Azdraeth's or even Erendiir's. The sight of it nearly sent Saebele over the edge – and when the Draenei pumped his hips abruptly to make his balls slap against the back of her thighs, she actually did finish gracelessly. A wanton shriek tore through the cabin as her velvet folds slammed pleasurably around Rex's dick, practically milking and massaging him almost too tightly for comfort, but the Reaver was only goaded on. Even before she could properly calm down from such a high, the Draenei began to lurch backward, sawing himself out of the Priestess before pounding forward, yanking on her long locks easily as he did so.

The woman's head bucked backward, but her body was wracked only with bliss as she moaned aloud, and Rex already began a pace that put every inch of her to work. Even with how tremendous the Draenei was, and how her body was still struggling with the tail-end of her orgasm, Saebele only wanted more. Her cheeks were a bright red as she arched her back expertly, pushing herself back onto the Reaver's powerful thrusts with every brutish pump of his hips. What had once been a quiet romp had quickly exploded into full-scale loudness, noise erupting from the cabin whether it was from the mewling Priestess, the Draenei cackling and grumbling as he pounded into her, or even the way that his hips and balls crashed against the Night Elf mightily, testing her own endurance with every thrust he gave into her. Already, her mind was assaulted by such sex-crazed thoughts, all without the druglike corruption of the Satyrs dragging her mind there. This creature, without any of that delicious, demonic cum, was driving her into the greatest of heavens already. There was no way he could possibly make this bliss any more incredible-

-as he suddenly picked her up mid-thrust, and swiveled the Kaldorei around, holding her in a full-nelson while standing before both slamming upward into her and wrenching her downward with a colossal thrust.

Even if her first orgasm was only a few moments ago, Rex was able to ruthlessly quake another out of her, Saebele whining and gasping openly as she was unable to properly grip or control herself under the ferocity of such a position and climax. The Draenei wasn't letting himself up either, going just as monstrously and quickly as he had before without missing a single breath in the meantime. For someone who took such pride in his fighting, apparently fucking was something he was also second-to-none in. All the Priestess could do was groan and mewl weakly as her fingers clutched at his broad shoulders, eyes long since having rolled back and her tongue lolling from her mouth as though it was made of lead. Thunderbolts of sheer heat were still exploding from her core, and every thrust the Draenei made her stomach bulge lewdly outward with was only make it worse. She could live like this forever-

“HEY!?”

The sudden bellow snarled across the cabin as Rex looked over towards the doorway, all without missing a single beat of his powerful rhythm. Saebele was too far gone to properly notice the newcomer – which was probably for the best, for there was no proper dignified expression she could give that person at this time:

Azdraeth, her dear master, had found her once again.

“Oh. Hey!” Rex called back easily, as if he was talking to a fellow friend and not a fully-grown Satyr fuming in his doorway. “Give Rex a moment, he just – needs... to...”

“Don't you fucking dare-”

And then the Draenei fucking did by slamming himself upward into Saebele, and cumming with the same thunderous force as before.

For as far gone into bliss as the Priestess had gone, Rex's second finish reminded her of her existence once more, her toes curling and another pleased cry gasping from her as thick streams of the Draenei's spooge unloaded within her. Saebele's tummy was already bulged outward obscenely, but it still had just a bit of extra room left to paunch outward as the Reaver came into her, quickly running out of room as those rich rivulets of cum began streaming down his balls. Most impressive was how Rex was able to cream into the Kaldorei hard enough to not only get a reaction from her sex-drunk feelings, but also gain enough velocity to shower a few ropes onto Azdraeth himself, who snarled horribly and quickly seared away the semen furiously. His eyes burned with utmost rage, but he seemed too stunned to do another about the Draenei making use of his pet. It was only when Rex had finally stopped jizzing inside of her, and gently pulled her off of him and laid her onto the table that he smiled brightly to the Satyr.

“Right! What can Rex do for you?”

“You're dead, Draenei,” Azdraeth hissed, his palms licking with reality-burning embers as he took a dangerous step forward. “Nobody defiles my pet – none but me!”

“Defiled? Rex does not – OH!” The Draenei sounded confused at first, but then his expression quickly turned even more joyful as he clapped his palms together eagerly. “IS REX FIGHTING??”

Now it was the Satyr's turn to be baffled. “What? You blasted-”

“First a good romp, now a good brawl! Rex is so pleased to have met Saebele!” He grinned so widely that it threatened to leave his cheeks. The gigantic Draenei then cracked his neck about readily, and began to strut towards the Satyr, entirely nude and with a still-stout pillar of cock waving dangerously close to him. Was Rex even harder than before? Azdraeth took no time in chancing that – as soon as the Reaver began to approaching with such a jovial smile and his club-like cock swinging about heavily, the Satyr took defensive actions.

“I WILL NOT FORGET THIS, DRAENEI! Your soul will BURN!” He roared before making a dive at Saebele, and suddenly vanishing in an explosion of smoke along with the Priestess. Rex merely gaped dumbfounded at the entire display, eventually scratching at the back of his head as – with a very sad realization – he learned that there wouldn't be any more fighting or fucking for the night, his turgid dick quickly deflating with the same sad swiftness like a balloon with the air running out. With a forlorn sigh, he walked over to his bed, deciding that there wasn't anything else to do for the night now that his feelings had been toyed with, and he laid down on the bed sorrowfully as his eyes closed.

Hopefully he would see this Saebele soon again...