#razail

[razxion]

Razail: A Little Faith

[Ley-Walker Prestige Class Story for Razail Dusksinger]

I can do this.

Emerald eyes gazed out towards the Sunwell from a small island northeast of Silvermoon.  He could have gone somewhere else with someone to assist that could have watched over him, but right now Razail felt this was the safest place he could be away from home.  No one would be put in danger if he messed up out here.

I just have to remember what Afina said.

Razail started to focus on the magical auras around him to see what he knew was there, what he felt was there.  He never knew what he was using before to go from place to place while he was growing up on his own.  There wasn’t another elf around for him to learn from, or to have asked questions of.  He had been able to see where he was going, who was there, where the walls would be or any other obstacle that could have been in his path.  Now the magic flowing through the ground and lingering in the air was all that could be used to see.  And he looked at the vast network that laid out before him.

It’s just another kind of river.  Dip my magic into the ley lines to connect.

He closed his eyes so he could concentrate better on what he was doing, on what he was seeing as part of his own magic flowed through the web of ley lines until he would find a place he could not have walked to any other way.

Look, assure of the path… Like shooting an arrow.  Lock on and...There!

Within seconds he was standing on a snowy mountain peak.  Silvermoon and the Sunwell no longer able to be seen but there was a place he recognized when he looked upon the landscape below.

Wow, the tournament? I really moved far this time. Oh, cold. Icecrown’s still cold.

Hidden lines barely glowed on Razail’s skin as the young druid changed into a form better suited for this weather.  A soft poof was muffled out into silence by the snow which fell all around him.  White flakes dusted the blue bear fur more and more as he sat in the snow for some time, amazed at what he had done.  A few snowflakes that landed on his big, blue nose were admired before he had shaken off all he could to resume his practice.

Okay. So I can do that to get myself very far away from danger, or to travel where there aren’t any portals to the Dream.  Should help me not be in the infirmary as much.  I don’t want to die again.

Large paws and claws dug into the snow before Razail laid down.  Once more the cool white snow blanketed him.  His body had started to hunger after such a great distance was covered by magic that he was not used to using.  It hurt differently from the hunger he had grown up being used to, as before he only felt it from a lack of food.

I don't want to see the disappointed looks from any Dawnmender again.  The druids believed in me when I showed them how I learned to heal after I had died. They believed I'd use it for good… Even if it's usually something warlocks or necromancers use...

A few moments pass before arcane magics were leached out of the ley-line, as well as the life out of the plants nearby for that hunger to be sated.

I'll use everything I can do for good!

Razail stood back up with more determination than before.

I know there's more I can do.  Windsong said I could eventually make portals like her.  I can help people with portals. I can protect people by having a safe way for them to escape.  What did Afina say about portals again?

His eyes closed as he concentrated to remember when Afina had instructed him and taught him more about the ley-lines and portals.  It had been a few months, but it hadn’t taken long for him to remember.

It was something about how they’re connected by one ley-line.  Through time and space.  Hmm, I’ll start small.

Emerald eyes gazed out once more to his surroundings.  It was a mountain peak that didn’t have much area, but also was without anyone that could become hurt if things went wrong.  All four paws dug into the snow while Razail dipped his own magic down into the ley-lines again.

I. Can.

Arcane lifted as small motes out of the ground, and what had been close in the air coalesced and sparkled.

Do. This.

All was drawn to him, statically clung into his fluffed out blue fur.

Come on…

Four paws shifted in the snow and Razail braced himself as he pushed all the magics out in a straight line before him.  A blue blast of arcane cracked outwards, sending him back a foot away even as his claws had scrapped through the snow and ground to stop himself.

What was that?!

The snow that had been kicked up was brushed away by big paws before those emerald eyes examined what he had done.  A line of melted snow marked his attempt, and it went passed the edge of the mountain peak.  He stood there and looked out into the snow speckled air, once more amazed at what he had done.

That wasn’t what I wanted but I could really hurt an enemy far from me like that.

Razail turned back to the spot he had arrived at and sat back down to think.

I should practice more before I use this around others. I don't want someone to get hurt on accident.

He hungered again, and this time it was the pain he was used to.  A cold breath was drawn in before he sighed.

I’ll ask Windsong about making portals and try them again later.  Time to go home before I get stuck out here without anyone knowing where I’m at.

Emerald eyes glanced down at the tournament grounds while Razail focused again, and in the time it had taken him to blink slow, the scenery had changed.  He sat there, staring out at the streets of Silvermoon from the apartment balcony he called home only to be called inside for dinner.

@thesunguardmg

[raz-xion]

Another 1AM doodled!  This time of my rogue turning druid, Razail Dusksinger!  Pencil and copic lines plus a fat black marker!

I’m kind of liking doing these.

[dalheim]

Birthright

[Is it pretty? The Sunwell.]

The question was signed by Razail as the pair sat in each other's company on a crumbling wall of the ruined outskirts of the Dalaran crater. Dalheim smiled at the question,  the conversation mindfully baited. It was time for another story.

“It’s beautiful, Zail. And the grounds that surround it are like a palace. Winding halls, sculpture gardens, topiaries, courtyards where you can just sit and think and watch the clouds slide in and out of view. You should pay it a visit while you have some free time. Go see the treasure of the elves.”

[Is it prettier than that Dawnspire? I don't know if I can go there, or if I'm allowed to.  I probably shouldn't. I don't want to get in trouble.]

“The Sunwell is the birthright of the elves. They even let the Quel’Dorei travel to see it. You’re absolutely allowed to.”

[What even is it?  I've only heard it's something magical?  I think.]

“It is. It’s a font of arcane energy, established by Dath’Remar Sunstrider. There was... Mnh.” A story would make for a good opportunity to sketch. “Long ago, before the continents were split, there was the original Well of Eternity. The elves were attracted to this source of power and learned to use it, our kingdom flourishing on the shores, lead by Azshara. However, the prosperity didn’t last. Azshara grew possessive of the Well, she tried to limit the elves access and save its power for her chosen few.”

“Well, unbeknown to her, Illidan Stormrage snuck into the palace grounds and he took several vials PF water from the blessed Well. Azshara slipped into madness, the original Well was destroyed, and for some time the elves suffered from its loss. The elves with no magical talent to speak of said it was better this way, that we would be best to give up with our defeat and live a simple life. But there were dissenters, and Illidan and Dath’Remar Sunstrider were among them.”

[Illidan took water from the original Well and Azshara didn't notice?]

“He was a mage at the time. He looked different from the way he does now. He looked just like any other elf. I think the state library still has an old restored painting of him in its collection. Illidan decided he would use the waters that he had taken to create a new Well, right at the summit of mount hyjal, in the city that curled around the base of the world tree where it would belong to everyone. He knew it was risky and so he only took some of his supply. He told his trusted companion of the vials, in case anything should go wrong, and set out to create a new Well.”

[Where's Mount Hyjal again?  And the world tree?]

"Northern Kalimdor. The tree and the Well were destroyed a little more than a decade ago.”

[Are there things there now?  I want to see where it was someday.]

“There is, yes. I think it’s the Cenarions that run a town up there, so you should be able to visit if you want to see it. They might not let you access the pool directly. It’s weak but still feeding the Ley over on Kalimdor and the Kaldorei don’t like it. Shortly after Illidan created it, they imprisoned him for it and they forbade any elf from using its magic.”

“Many elves didn’t agree with the new law that magic could not be used. It created a needless burden in our struggle to rebuild, it left our borders exposed, and our mages knew it would leave us powerless should the Burning Legion return. Several of the Highborne continued to practice and pass down the tradition of magic in secret, knowing that if they were found out, they might suffer the same imprisonment as Illidan. Endless life, caged, with no hope or promise for release.”

[That's terrible!]

“It was. They thought if the punishment was terrible enough, the Highborne would live in fear and obey. But they were wrong. The Highborne rebelled against them, lead by Dath’Remar, they stood up to the harsh laws united as one. The Kaldorei realized there were too many to imprison, but they were unwilling to move on the laws they had set forward. Instead they banished the Highborne. They would have to leave their homes and their family lands and the lives they had known and never return to Kalimdor or the power of the Well of Eternity or the ley lines it fed ever again.”

[They're alive to live their lives, better than being imprisoned!]

“It was better, but it wasn’t a mercy. There were only hopes and guesses that parts of Kalimdor to the east had survived the sundering. Nobody really knew. All ships that had tried had been lost entirely, or turned back at the Maelstrom. After the sundering, the oceans churned and surged  over the sunken land, and the further east one tried to to venture, the worse the storm grew. Many thought they were just being sent to their deaths away from the Kaldorei’s eyes. A massive fleet of ships was built, imbued with magic in an attempt to weather the Maelstrom. The Highborne took what little they could, and set out onto the sea.”

[The Kaldorei seem a little mean.]

“Mnhm. They do seem that way. But the Highborne were cunning. Where the mundane vessels of the Kaldorei had been smashed or dragged under the sea, the Highborne persisted, and at the very head of the fleet was Dath’Remar Sunstrider, carrying the sacred vial he had been given by Illidan, its mana powering their spells as the magic of the ley lines withered away.”

“The Journey was long, and hard, but finally the waters began to calm, and at long last the Highborne found surviving land. Some were tempted to establish themselves on the shores, but Dath’Remar knew it wasn’t the right place. He had less water than Illidan had used when establishing a well, and so he would have to be more careful. He would have to find the dormant ley lines from the first Well of Eternity, and to find the place where they converged. For centuries, our people were nomadic, searching for the right place to establish a new Well , until we found it, an island at the very Northernmost tip, which we named Quel’Danas.”

[Just realized Quel sounds like well.  Seemed smart to wait for a better spot to start the well.] 

“It was very smart. Dath’Remar had a keen mind for the future, he was always planning for the long term future of his people, rather than reacting only to the present. Similarly, he realized that the island where the Well had been established was far too small for a flourishing nation. Rather than hoarding its power for the elite in the way Azshara had done, he went South back across the waters, establishing Silvermoon on its shores. We were all free to visit, but none would own it or deny its power to others.”

[Could I go with you someday to see it?]

Dalheim smiled at the question, a welcome change from the young soldier thinking he wouldn’t be permitted. “I would love to go with you, Zail.”

[thanidiel]

A Return

       striding and slipping in piss

                                                        YOU’RE DOING YOUR JOB.

                                                                       and shit and blood and there’s bone

           THEY ARE ALL INFECTED.

                                      grey mush ─ brains? ─ and

                                                                                  THEY CANNOT BE CURED.

intestines and I can’t

                                  THIS ENTIRE CITY MUST BE PURGED.

                                                                                             copper is in my mouth

THE PRINCE WILLS IT.

                                           I need to wash it out with a draught

             YOU HAVE THE WILL TO SAVE THIS LAND.

                                                                                   crimson smearing my vision

                                        TOO LATE. TOO LATE. TOO LATE. THE GRAIN.

this deafening CRACK!

                                                    YOUR DUTIES ARE CONFLICTING. AGAIN.

                                            and all of this blood pours out

YOU WERE A KNIGHT OF THE SILVER HAND.

                                                                           and I see his ribcage tear

                                                   YOU HAVE BROKEN YOUR TENETS.

                       I hear someone call for me

                                                                   FOR WHAT?

                                                                                     I see Cayvia on her knees

HOW COULD YOUR LIGHT LET THIS HAPPEN?

           and that was my father

                                                     WHY ARE YOU FIGHTING ALONGSIDE HIM?

                                      huge blade sticking out

                 YOU HAVE KILLED SO MANY, PROTECTED SO LITTLE.

sticking everywhere.

                             YOU ARE RETURNING TO WHERE YOU LOST YOURSELF.

                                                                                              will I fail here again?

WILL YOU FAIL HERE AGAIN?

She cannot sleep. She cannot fucking sleep. The nightmares roil through her mind in caustic flow whenever her thoughts grow hazy. She cannot fucking sleep. She is accomplishing nothing but disturbing the sleep of the other at this point. She gets up. She cannot fucking sleep. She does not adjust the furs.

The light from the tent-center is dim and eery. The sun has not had chance to break the horizon in full. She cannot fucking sleep. She upturns the hidden whiskey-flask from the disturbed earth. She stares. She cannot fucking sleep. She drains it.

She looks at the clothing strewn to the end of the bed. She cannot fucking sleeping. She dresses; gathers what she needs. The cold of Eastweald is biting. The quiet bright that etches out from between the tent-flaps shines achingly like a halo: beckoning. She cannot fucking sleep. She exits. She does not secure the opening.

She cannot expend her energy. Battle looms too closely. But neither can she fucking sleep. She unpacks a full ration. She has allowed full-rations for the unit for the past three days. Soldiers cannot fight to their fullest when they are hungry. They will resume rationing until estimate is given on when they will leave this hellhole.

She sucks on the allotment of salt pork, pulling what flavour and satisfaction from it that she can. She smashes the hardtack into crumble with Dusksinger’s dagger-hilt. Water from her ‘skin moistens it. It goes down easier than it would have if she had tried to break her teeth on it whole. She managed to forage a handful of chanterelles for herself two days past and eats them raw. She finishes her meal. Wets her mouth with a swish of water. She cannot fucking sleep.

Duty and its obligations will call to her soon. The thought of working alongside the Guard makes her bristle. Is she soldier or cage-wolf to them? She’s lost faith in some of them. Even in Ithanar, a little. Will they value their duties as much as they ought to when the time comes? Unite as they ought to? Push for their objectives as they ought to? Or will glory blind them? The burn of humiliation runs viciously through her blood still. She cannot fucking sleep.

She dislikes this feeling of spectacle; oddity. Of being watched in the same fashion as gladiator - appraised. She doesn’t think there is anything to appraise; she is a soldier. She is doing her fucking job. More of which can be said of the rest, for now.

Coldness settles over her. She cannot fucking sleep. A resolve crackling into place like the way thick ice settles over glass, slowly but surely. The anger is not over, not quenched in any manner. She cannot fucking sleep. It is only pushed down. Contained. The press of viscous, flowing metal into mold. The closing of the furnace’s hatch. The way a muzzled hound can only express its ire through the glint of yellow eyes. She cannot fucking sleep.

She has to do her fucking job. Others will be inadequate, unresolved. Everything will count. This coming battle screams so much of the past that she can scent the burnings of sickly grain; living and dead flesh; a city falling; a Prince falling; a Kingdom falling; her faith falling. The failures.

Determination touches her. She will not fail Stratholme a second time. It is decided. There is no other option. She must mobilise as she normally does. She must follow orders as she normally does. She must fight as she normally does. She must succeed as she normally does. She feels as though she can sleep.

She returns to the tent. She enters. She secures the tent-flaps. She buries the emptied-flask once more. She takes off her boots. She returns to the bedroll. She adjusts the furs. She does not rise until the other does when the sun begins to descend from its highest point in the day. She sleeps.

[sonofkhaz]

Sunspear Challenge: Come and Face Me - Razail Dusksinger

The sun was at its zenith as Muroco Rockhoof neatly arranged his practice weapons within the training grounds of the Dawnspire. He would have preferred to use his actual armaments, but the Sentinel made it clear that he did not want anyone to be maimed, crushed, mauled, dismembered, severed or even killed during dueling sessions. His inspection was interrupted by the sounds of boots pressing against grass. Turning, the tauren saw two figures walking towards him; one was a young blood elf, with long blonde hair tied into a ponytail and a mask concealing his facial features. The other was a troll, a perpetual smirk hiding behind long tusks with intricate carvings etched onto their surface.

“So,” Muroco said, straightening himself, “I see you two got my letter.”

The troll nodded in assent. “Ya, anna’ we come togetha foa da fun,” he said as he pushed Razail forward. “Ya be goin’ first.” 

Razail stumbled forward, looking up at the tauren as he straightened himself. “It’s...it’s all for fun, right?” He smiled behind his mask as he drew his daggers from his belt. “Guess I’m ready when you are.”

Muroco nodded, turning to retrieve one of his weapons. “It can be fun, but I’m hoping you will at least take notes from these duels. I am willing to teach what I know if you’re willing to learn.” The warrior picked up a practice battle-axe and tested its weight in his hands before pulling the visor of his helmet down. “We’ll go best two out of three. Begin.”

Razail nodded and crouched slightly before rushing at Muroco, phasing out of sight by pulling shadows around him. Muroco moved to the center of the ring, his blue eyes scanning the perimeter. The elf reappeared on Muroco’s left flank, lunging at the tauren. Muroco raised his battle-axe to defend himself, parrying several of the strikes only to be hit by the last two. Striking out with his battle-axe, Muroco forced Razail to the edge of the ring, clipping the elf’s shoulder with a counter attack.

“Not bad,” said Muroco. “Remember, when you’re facing an opponent with a two-handed weapon, they have the advantage of weapon reach. However, that advantage can easily turn against them if you get close enough.”

Razail nodded, his emerald eyes remaining locked on Muroco’s weapon. “Quickly in, quickly out. I’ll try to remember.”

The remainder of the duel remained brief. Razail would use his talents to hide and reappear to strike at Muroco’s flank. The tauren, in turn, would make the effort to keep Razail in striking distance of his weapon. Muroco was pleased to see that the elf took his advice to heart; the round concluded when Razail scored a blow against Muroco’s thigh. “Alright, that’s enough.” Muroco rumbled, moving back to swap weapons. “You win this round, well done.”

Razail jumped backwards and hopped a little. “Next one, then?” he said, smiling wide enough that a scar on his left cheek appeared above his mask, “This is kind of fun.”

Muroco nodded, picking up two wooden longswords. The weapons were typically weighted and crafted to be fought with a shield, but Muroco’s size and strength negated those handicaps. “Next one. This time, I will be dual-wielding weapons. I might have speed to my advantage this time, but a big guy like myself can be trounced if we don’t watch our flanks.”

Razail tilted his golden-haired head to the side. “Trounced?” 

Muroco paused, checking his vernacular. Did he really just say that? “It’s a word I picked up from some goblins when I worked as a bouncer in Ratchet.” He shook his head. “Anyway, let’s fight.” 

The two combatants ceased their talk and surged at each other. Muroco swung his left sword at Razail, only to feint at the last minute and lung with his right. The attack clipped Razail as the elf rolled to the side, striking at Muroco’s right flank. The tauren moved to guard himself, blocking the first two attacks but getting struck in the leg by the third. Muroco brought both weapons down upon Razail, only for the latter for disappear into his artificial shadows. Muroco held his weapons aloft, the sounds of his beating heart hammering in his ears. He counted to himself, waiting for the rogue to strike.

As Razail reappeared from the shadows, Muroco spun on his hooves, lashing both weapons out in a full circular swing. Razail was struck square in the chest, leaping backwards to regain his balance, but Muroco was already upon him. The tauren lunged his left sword forward, striking Razail in the leg and causing the elf to trip on fall on his backside. 

“I win the second round.” Muroco announced, hearing the troll chuckle to himself on the sidelines. “A good effort, but the principle of our previous fight still applies. Warriors like myself will often carry long, heavier weapons into battle, even when dueling. Use that knowledge to your advantage and try to force your opponent to overextend.”

Razail scampered from the ground and dusted himself off, his ears twitching as he listened to Muroco’s advice. “Okay,” he said, nodding. “Force to overextend or get in really close.” He positioned himself for the next round. “I think I can do this!”

Muroco traded out one of his longswords in exchange for a wooden pavise shield. Pavises were often used to protect crossbowmen and archers, but Muroco’s size allowed him to use it like a normal shield. “I admire your enthusiasm. For this last fight, I’ll be using a shield. Remember, a shield is not exclusive to defense; it can be used as a deadly weapon in the right hands.” 

“Oh yeah, I know,” Razail said, nodding. “Got whacked by one the last time I tried to duel. Got a new...scar!” He rushed at Muroco on the last word, opting not to vanish before striking. Muroco held his shield aloft, attempting to block the flurry of attacks, but one clipped him on his blind side. Muroco brought his sword down in an overhead strike, grazing Razail’s calf as the smaller combatant attempted to move away.

The duo moved back and forth across the ring. Razail bobbed and weaved through Muroco’s attacks like quicksilver, the latter having difficulty landing a telling blow. Muroco was impressed by Razail’s prowess; most combatants broke themselves upon the shields of their opponents, but the rogue was cognizant of this fact.

Near the round’s end, Razail lunged at Muroco’s legs in an attempt to feint and strike at his chest. Muroco heaved his shield upwards, sweeping it across the air in a horizontal sweep. It was a trick he learned from fighting against Kul Tiras marines years ago. The pavise made it difficult to perform, but the shield struck true and swatted Razail away. Razail landed a few feet away from Muroco, doubling over in laughter.

“Alright, we can stop now.” Muroco nodded in approval. “You fight very well. I am impressed. I learned that last move from the pink-skins -- I mean, some Kul Tiras marines a few years back.”

Razail couldn’t stop laughing for a moment. “Well, it worked against me!” He mused, offering a thumbs-up to the tauren with a big smile under his mask.

“It was a close fight.” Muroco concluded. “Often times, a fighter with a shield will stand in one place, expecting their opponent to crash into their defense. You demonstrated knowledge of this, so the best method is to out-maneuver them.”

Razail nodded. “Right. Okay! I just need to get quicker then...I think.”

Muroco smirked behind his visor. “What was your name again, if you’re done giggling?”

Razail tried to calm himself. “Razail. Razail Dusksinger!” He put his daggers away in their sheathes and wiped a tear away from his eye. “Duskward in the Pathfinders.”

“Alright, Razail, I will make sure your superiors know that you fought well today.”

All traces of laughter drained from Razail’s face at the mention of “superiors”.

-

@curiouslich @razxion

[monster-pirate]

This letter shows up tied with a red ribbon and in the mailbox of Razail Dusksinger with no post mark on the outside. 

To Elleynah Stormsummer,

I write to you because I wish to have a conversation about joining the guard. I have many questions and from the words of a mister Razail Dusksinger, you would be the perfect person to answer them. I would write a few of those questions down, but I fear they would take up the entire page and then some. I hope that you will be able to meet with me soon sometime. I’m sorry for the way that this letter reached you, but please take no offense. 

I can be reached in the flats nearest the Farstrider’s Square in the Everblaze rooms.

I will be very relieved to hear from you, 

Breenaii Everblaze

@razxion @stormandozone

[moonunveiled]

of will

The whirring growls and expressive yips that began as soon as he entered his tent brought a smile. The white kit raised up on her back legs and hooked her paws on the edge of the crate that served as her bed. She’d picked up on the routine of Lyrenn’s departures and returns and seemed to celebrate every time her elf showed back up. Crumbling to his bedroll, he scooted until he could lift her from the wooden box filled with blankets and makeshift toys. “Hi to you too sweetpea.” The kit wiggled as best she could, still not quite coordinated enough to preform the acrobatics he was sure she’d get into as she aged. He curled her onto her back and pressed his face into her soft belly. Tiny paws pushed against him, and he could feel her stretching to try and grab a tasty looking elf ear with tiny teeth.  “Hungry?”  Setting her down he reached into his pack and withdrew a tin box, inside the many portions of dried meat from his own rations, set aside for her. He’d been hard pressed to find any milk supplement when she’d been found, and he’d been worried she wouldnt take to the powdered stuff reconstituted in water. Between them there was diet not easily accommodated by war.  “We might be puny but we’ll tough it out hm?” She growled seemingly on cue. Her presence eased the sadness of his tent mate’s death and added levity to otherwise bleak surroundings. But a glance at the empty space his fellow soldier had once filled turned his mind to thoughts of preparation. With Quel’danas on the horizon, perhaps it was time. 

Twisting where he sat, he picked up the journal and pen that had been gifted to him before all this began. Carefully he tore a page from he back and moved it to the front of the book, the first thing someone would see if it were opened. A glance at the fox kit and he began to write.

I, Lyrenn Moonveil, of sound mind, write this as my last request upon the event of my death. I do not name an executor but humbly ask whoever finds this to fulfill these few requests.  As I have no one to receive my belongings they may be distributed as needed, or wanted, if any should want any of it. Aside from this I ask:

My bracers be returned to Tyleril Silversword, as they were a gift. If he is not able to receive them I ask they go to his son, Samiel.  My journal be given to Rythriel Kel’thear.  My fox, Scritches. This is the most important, if nothing else is done please see her somewhere safe. Among my friends, we all march with the army and I do not know who may survive.  I will not make a last request that any care for her forever, as even a fox’s life is a long time for a request. But maybe they can see for her best interests.  Tyleril, as he found her first and has many adopted children.

Dalheim Windchaser, as a dear friend and keeper of promises.

Razail Dusksinger or Ashzouren Summerfall, both lovers of animals with the kindest hearts.

or Caelinda Dewfall, who I know knows foxes and has a soft spot for those in need I have no wishes for my remains.   Shorel’aran

@tyleril-silversword  @ash-summer @razxion @dalheim @caelindadewfall

[r-dusksinger]

Razail’s Colors

Rules: Pick four colors you associate with your muse. Then use the gif search-function and search for the color. Post one gif for each color. Tag other roleplayers to do this. (This was an older thing I decided to redo for here.)

[xuzffxiv]

Spellcraft and Glass

Spellcraft and Glass

    “Can anyone tell me the similarities between glass and the beginnings of a spell?”

    No voices bore an answer. The silence in the courtyard broken only by the clamor of the city. Muffled shouts too far to make out, the clang of craftsmen at work. No answers though. The circle of shifted, wavered in discomfort, glances shared between neighbors. None of them bothering to meet the cold gaze of the magistrix in the middle of them. A woman’s voice finally called out,

    “Enough force and they both will shatter.”

    “Close enough. What’s your name?”

    “Vyriali Cinderspear. House Cinderspear. Battlemage.”

    “Ah, a Magister’s daughter. If you didn’t know that, I bet your father would be rather displeased. You have any further insight?”

    “Spells are crafted, they are fragile. You can break them with so little if you know where to put pressure. Unless the spell is tempered, all you need is a nudge in any direction and it disrupts.”

    The magistrix raised her chin, cobalt eyes focused on Vyri. Slender fingers clasped behind her back before she spoke again, “Good. Come by my office later, would you? There are some things we need to discuss. But before that, can anyone else tell me how to stop a spell?”

    Once more the muffled sounds of Silvermoon filled the court. Vyri clenched her jaw before she opened her mouth to speak, but before the words were even on her tongue.

   “You silence them. You bend the arcane in their bodies and wrap in around their throats. Or you starve them, siphon away any mana they attempt to turn against you.” The voice echoed from a far hall, each word followed by the sharp clatter of metal against stone. Nervous chattering erupted in hushed tones as attention wavered from the woman in the middle. Her sapphire eyes closed into narrow slits, brows bending in as one corner on her lip curled in a snarl. The circle parted, a wide opening as the white-haired man came close. Each step sang like the shaking of chains, each footfall was a metallic stomp. Red and gold encased his form that towered over most by a head.

  “So, the Spellbreakers show once more. Lovely, so I assume you are her for --”

   “For her.” The armored and robed man’s final bootfall brought him looming over the magistrix. A thumb hooked over his shoulder, leveled at Vyri. “Knows what she is doing. Don’t know why she even attends these, she’s proven.” A faint azure glow peered over his shoulder towards Vyri, “You want to be a spellbreaker, girl?”

   The darkness broke, a faint green glow just barely visible as it spread over white. Vyri pushed herself up onto her elbows, the glow swiveling about. Silence. The light blinked out as the quiet was ruffled, a sigh so quiet it almost didn’t manage. She shifted, the shush of the sheets following as she tried to pull herself over the edge. Just the right twist made her bite down on a groan. Fingertips trailed over the bindings she felt over her ribs, over the uneven tightness of a not-so second skin. Bare toes pressed over the smoothness of earth and rock.

   How long had she been doing this? Was this how it was always going to be? Traitor princes.. The world seemed to be gathering them. Arthas, Kael’Thas.. Who was going to be the next to throw their people out a window? A sharp hiss press from between her lips as she tried to stand. But she still did, the darkness hiding away the muscles of her jaw working to keep any more noise down. Her gaze just slipping over to the edge of the tent. Another light, a dim purple line. Each step grew the light, made it brighter until her eyes narrowed and she pushed open the tent.     “Cinderspear.. What are you doing up?” The voice familiar, one that had barked at her, called her out, snapped at her. Older, rugged and harsh, time worn from decades of doing what he did best. “Get back to bed, girl. Don’t be daft.”

   “Captain Morrowmourn, Wh--”

   “You don’t want to hear about this now.”

   “I think I do, sir.” Vyri’s jaw set, squinting up at the captain. “What. happened?”

   Morrowmourn’s gaze bore into her, harsh and hard. It lingered there, unmoving, as he chewed on nothingness. Until a grunt broke the silence, “Fine, kid, fine.” One of his gauntleted hands grazed over the short white stubble, “You’ve been… out a while. No idea what actually happened, probably some mechanical bullshit. Point is, we found you. A few others. None of you were in great shape.” Vyri stared up at him, her eyes darting over a stoic face. It was like trying to read stone.

   “Captain… what else?” She stumbled forward, legs still not quite steady, but she kept herself up.

   “The last one, Freeburst, passed. About a night ago.” His hand came down onto her shoulder, “Sorry, kid.” The smooth plate pressed on her shoulder as his hand closed, just enough to be there.

   Vyri shook her head, but it didn’t hide how her brow drooped, it didn’t hide the way her ears fell. Fists balled up into the fabric of her pants, but she didn’t speak. Not for a while. When she finally opened her mouth to speak once more. She was cut off just like that evening.

   “Nothing you could of done. No one could of seen it coming. You’re on leave, my orders. Go home, Vyri. Rest, recover, do whatever you have to, but nothing left here. We got this. So. Go. Home.” Morrowmourn’s hand double tapped her shoulder, thumb digging below her collar and fingers clamping down for just a moment. Then the captain turned away, those unchanged eyes glancing over his shoulder as he walked off. The clattering of heavy armor muffled as if it were coming through water. Vyri looked up then over the Eye. 

   Flurries and swirls of fresh snow cascaded from the trees above. The sounds of the warcamp ringing out and drowning the sounds of the forest. From the clatter of crashing trainees to the call of criers, shouting out wears and news. Vyri sat the the edge, the head of her spear lost in a sea of white. Soft creaks and protests came from the crate below her, but all these sounds never reached her mind. The spellbreaker’s eyes shifted about under closed lids as if reading something long forgotten.

    Scenes from the past few months. The battle of the beard, her holding a choke point. Her company starting to falter, but the Sunguard helped her. The Siege of Sundial, the blood of so many over the stone roads leading to the point, not of the fresh from innocent veins. And once again, she threw herself into a choke point. She flung herself into danger. Blood ran down her face and three Kul’Tirans beared down on her, but the Knight-Commander, Corinth, Zana all came to her aid. Brawling during Mistlefoe and meeting Razail and Thordemar, laughing as she shoved snow down Narridel’s shirt, then winning the tournament.

   The cacophony of to two different worlds collided back into her sense, a sharp blink that shook her from her daydream. Golden eyes looked around at the mask of her home, studying or searching, for a moment. The cold air bit all the way down her throat as she took in a deep breath and slowly brought herself back to her feet. Shouts of familiar people and friends came to her ears. The effort of the smiths and the people around her in a home that is no longer intimate.

   It’s been too long.

   Her feet carried her, sabatons clawing through the stark white sheet, towards the heart of the camp. Faces that were once unfamiliar smiling up at her as she passed. People that were once characters of a completely separate book now friends she saw daily, that she bled next to.

   Enough of this. They fight with everything. They do what must be done. And you, what have you done? Tried to throw yourself away.

   The war council’s tent came into view as she straightened herself up to her full height.

   If you are to protect them, then do so as they do you.

   “Archon, if I may.” Vyri spoke as she raised her chin. The talon tips of her gauntlets scraping along the chainmail of her palms.

   You will not lose them, not again. They’ve done so much for you. Return the favor, kid. Or else, go home and cower.

   “I formally request my own unit of Spellbreakers once more. Allow me to show our enemies that the only thing they hold against us is glass.”

[caelindadewfall]

Requisitions

“Azerite.” The twinkling little stone in Caelinda’s hand hums like a resonating song in the air. This simple, golden-blue crystal holds more secrets than a boat full of spies, though it was much easier to obtain than such allegorical purveyors of espionage. In fact, these days, it seems that it’s easier to stumble over a protrusion of azerite than it is to trip over a rock. Obviously, that isn’t necessarily a good thing. Many would argue, Caelinda included, that it is a very, very bad thing indeed. Catastrophic one might say. Certainly worth putting down arms and finding a way to fix the issue, but apparently the whole world has gone completely off the rails. Again. 

“Azerite.” Caelinda repeats again. She twirls the shining stone in her hand. It’s no normal rarity, no. It can’t be judged for imperfections or cut like a gemstone or polished up like an old vase. It is something entirely new. But Caelinda is no goblin. The mere thought of exploiting azerite for profit makes her sick to her stomach. “The lifeblood of our home, our mother.” She whispers. “And we’re usin’ it to make weapons and kill one another. What in the hell is wrong with us?”

Caelinda sets the shard down and runs her right hand through her loose, orange hair. “We need it. We have to have it to protect ourselves.” She stands up suddenly and turns around to face the wall-covering window along the back of her office. Outside, the woods of Quel’thalas are at peace. These wilds, this simple place, isn’t concerned with war or slaughter. That’s the truth of the world, Caelinda silently reminds herself, it spins on. 

“I signed on for this.” She says to herself. “I wear my tabard, I took my oath, and I love my home. I swore to use my power, my coin, to protect this place. But this...” She stops, the weight of her words baring heavily on her mind. 

This is hypocrisy at its finest, and she knows it. To denounce the use of azerite with one voice and to trade for it with another. How could she have let herself come to this? She already knows the answer: to protect her home. It is her duty, to the Archon and her home, and she cannot walk away from it. 

“Angela,” She mutters. “What would you think of this? Kayla, Kadan, Afina...how can I face any of you? How can I break bread with Tulla and Leone when I’ve become two-faced?” She stares out the window, gazing at her reflection in it. She looks older. “How can I give anyone my smile?” Her eyes drift over her shoulder, and she turns back around towards her desk. A stack of forms lay neatly there. They bear her insignia and signature. Requisition orders from her contacts. All for azerite. 

“Ten crates.” Caelinda sighs. “What will we use them for? Weapons? Armor? Siege engines so powerful they can break through a city wall in just one salvo?” She clenches her fists tightly at her sides. “Mother Azeroth, please forgive me.” Those very words drip off her tongue, a sign of her changing nature. Fitting, perhaps, that she would find faith just as war comes upon the horizon. 

She turns away again, she can’t look at the papers any longer. She does not need the reminder of what she is about to do, it isn’t as if she can forget. But, she always rationalizes, this is for the Sunguard. For her people. Surely that is enough of a reason to continue. 

“I already know what the others would say.” She says aloud again. “Aestus would likely tell me to carry on despite my doubts. Thinariel, well, I’d bet she’d be all for it. Vaelrin and Esme,” She actually winces when she refers to them by their first names; it’s unusual. “They’d likely have ordered me to do it anyway.” A hand goes to her chin as it always does when she dives deep into thought. “But wouldn’t some stand by my other choice? Razail might, he’s always been a peaceful one. Afina too, perhaps.” She raises a singular eyebrow. “I wonder how Monax feels about all of this?” She shakes her head and gives herself a tap on the cheek. “There you go again,” She chides herself. “Always divertin’ the subject. This ain’t about them, it’s about you. Your choice!”

And she’s right, it is about her. This is her decision. The consequences of which will lie entirely on her shoulders. Every death will lead back to her choice. The blood will fall on her coin, and she’ll be no better than every other wartime profiteer. 

But she would also be responsible for every life saved by her choice.

Caelinda returns to her seat. She slumps down, the great weight of her choice hovering over her. “Will I be remembered as a merchant of murder,” She ponders. “Or as the defending dealer who helped save her home? History is ever so fickle, especially when you can’t be sure who’ll win.” She clenches the bridge of her nose. “We could all be dead tomorrow.”

But, of course, that’s just war, isn’t it? There’s never a guarantee of survival. All that’s certain in war is change, good or bad. 

Her eyes stare at the requisition forms again. They’ll either be her grave or her saving grace, and she honestly can’t be sure which. 

“This isn’t a war we can win with conventional weapons.” She acknowledges. “The Alliance will come at us with everythin’ they have, and we’ll need every advantage we can get to survive. Even if the cost is high, we have to survive.” Caelinda grabs her pen and swipes the final, condemning signature on the top sheet. They’ll have their azerite, she’ll make sure of it.

“Forgive me, Mother Azeroth, for what I have to do.”

Mentions: @angelarria-and-joura @thisnameistakenpleasetryanother @magistrixvoidchaser @razxion @jessipalooza @shampoocommercialelves @forever-afk @pyrosophist and all the friends who inspire me to write. Hopefully half of your characters aren’t dead by the end of the Phoenix Wars.

[razxion]

Ra’zha: Family Protects

Navigating the world without my eyes has been difficult, but I am thankful for the sight I do have as it has helped me greatly to adjust.  Thankful too for my friends’ help and my family continuing to stay with me, both alive and in literal spirit.

The words, written as neatly as they could be, transcribed into a journal for the troll shaman Ra'zha by the little elf he helped save, Razail.  They have been spending time together whenever possible after the shaman's capture and torture by the Alliance during the battle in Tirisfal Glades.  Learning, growing, and sharing are all easier now that Razail has his voice while Zha lost his eyes- makes it rather hard to communicate with sign language!

They playfully fight over the last small rib of meat on the plate they were sharing within the Dawnmender’s setup infirmary in little Tortolla, with the troll the victor.  Razail decides to speak in Thalassian while the other eats to help him with learning the language and all.

“So I heard the Falcon company is going out to deal with things in Uldir.  I should be going with-”

“No.”  Zha interrupts Razail in Zandali, doing the same for the other to brush up on his language.   “You're off duty. If anything I'll go in your place. Get myself back on the field.”

“But-”

“No buts!  As a mender, and your big brother, I say no.”  Ra’zha sets the striped bone back on the plate and the cleans his hands with a little water from the surrounding air before pointing to the journal- or at least where he believes it to be.  “You take this back to the Dawnspire and put it in my desk.  When I get back I'll tell you all about it so you can write it in the journal for me, okay little brother?”

Razail sighs and nods even as he knows the other does not see.  “Alright.”  He picks the journal up and the young druid gives the shaman a hug as he changes to speak in the other's native tongue. “Please be careful.”

The troll chuckles, smiles, and hugs back.  “I will do what I can, promise.  Now go home before your Pop realizes you're here and not there in Silvermoon.” A playful rustle of the other's hair and a push away cause them both to laugh before Razail runs off to do what he is told.

~~~

‘Breathe.  You’re safe now.’

He can hear her.  He can see her.  The form of his mother breaks through the pure darkness along with the softness of her voice.  Ra’zha does as she says by breathing in and out for a long while until eventually he calms down.  The sounds are different now and he takes them in.  No longer within an underground facility built by the Titans, the troll realizes he’s at his desk within the Dawnspire’s infirmary.

When, and how?

The last thing he recalls is fire at his feet from a Titanic Maiden.  Panic setting in and then… he remembers nothing more of the Maiden, nor of the facility.  The carvings on his tusks, and bones on his helm, all glow brightly with the full presence of his family around him.

‘We did the best we could.’

‘I like ta think I handled those bugs real well.’

‘...’

‘C’mon now, Jul!  Dun be like that!’

‘Zenki.  They were bugs.  I had to handle the rest AND get Zha back to safety.’

‘Enough now you two!’

His mother, like always, handles the situation with Ra’Zha’s twin and older brother both disappearing back into the bones upon his hood.  He sits there in confusion on the short conversation and his mother notices.  She sits upon the ground beside his chair, gently resting one hand upon his as she speaks.

‘…  How you feelin, Zha?’

“Fine ‘nough.  I think.  What happened?”

‘I saw you panic and took over your body.  I am sorry I did not ask, but it was for the best.’

The shaman nods slowly, once, twice, three times then takes in a breath to release slow.  It all aches.  Leaning back in his chair and examining his own body as best as he blindly can, the shaman’s brows crease behind his long hood.

He can feel minor burns upon his feet, easy enough to heal himself with some rest, but other parts of his body.. Feel wrong.  Something in his lungs is causing irritation with every breath, and the worst is his blood.  It’s bad enough he can no longer regenerate his own body parts due to a Loa’s curse but something will need to be done with his blood- a transfusion the best possible answer.

Though with a familiar knock on the nearby door, Ra’zha pauses examining himself further as his mother runs over to hug Razail.  The spirit of his druidic mother slowly disappears into her bone upon his hood as well after giving the shaman a hug of his own.  Each of Razail’s soft steps cause a slight panic; what will he say to have written in the journal?  The panic ceases as Razail hugs him.

“Glad you’re back, big brudda.  Let me know when you’re ready to for me to write, okay?  I know you’ve got to rest up.”

That’s all he needs to hear and with a big grin Ra’zha hugs his little elven brother back as hard as he can to cause them both to laugh.

“Though you should probably take a bath.. Me too.  Whatever you have on you is kind of nasty.”  Razail points out as they separate.  Blood, goo, guts, and other lingering materials that even Zha isn’t fully aware of due to the lack of eyes to see it all.  Though now he feels it more.

“Ya right.  Go home. I call ya when I be ready.”  The troll slowly stands up, grinning as he hears Razail run off with a quick, “Okay!”  A bath doesn’t sound too bad, it will give him more time to think on what to do, and whom to ask for help.

@curiouslich   Uldir Reaction Piece! \o/ @thesunguardmg

[iiloridansunshard]

Mission Report: Curse of Withering

While the original copy of his report is sent out to the Archon, a solid half-dozen more magically copied...copies find their way out to other, relevant parties via Hawks.

Title/Mission Title: Curse of Withering Date: 4/26/18 Author: Dawnward Iiloridan Sunshard Involved Enemy Parties: Cult of the Bleeding Eye Involved Friendly Parties:The Sunguard; The Dying Suns; Mistybrook Village civilians and Magister Swiftbreeze Content body of the report:

Archon,

Upon our arrival ot Mistybrook, Magister Swiftbreeze informed us of the true dire nature of the illness, as well as the fact that we were apparently not the first to arrive. The plague that had taken the town was most virulent in nature, leaving hawkstriders literally crumbling where they stood, with hatchlings and foals and even sin’dorei children dying in the womb. The towns situation was beyond dire, and I find that this cannot be overstated.

Lightward Thinariel Farmight, along with Duskward Razail Dusksinger and Emberward Sanarissa Firewing lead the attempts at examining the blood of the affected hawkstriders, while a second group ventured into the woods for the blood of wildlife for comparison. This seemed to go well, as the analysis was able to give us a direction to go on for a possible source of the plague.

The previous arrival, who was mistaken for a member of the Guard by the townsfolk, was a cooperative but markedly suspicious woman named Sythise Coldspell. She rendered us enough aid to stay our hand, but her very speech and mannerisms raised hackles all around - for good reason, as we quickly discovered, when she brought us to her mentor, a ‘Blood Seeker’ Vannon. The suspicious individuals turned out to be openly confessed former members of the Bleeding Eye.  As you might imagine, despite their offered aid, this revelation did not go over well with the majority of our party, myself included.

They expressed interests in striking a deal, as Coldspell and Vannon implied they were somehow bound and wished to be free of their former master, but their trustworthiness was obviously difficult to decisively uncover. Dawnward Dawnsworn attempted to make a deal with the pair, to force them to atone for their past sins, but Dawnward Islesun and myself felt that we lacked the authority to authorize any such deal in the Sunguard’s name, and the very idea of doing so with members of such a damned order stirred our ranks visibly - and thus we reached a tense impasse, until it all went to hell.

From what I understand, the Illidari Kebha Bloodsorrow attempted to either examine or secure the tome the cultists were utilizing, but violently fell under its sway instead, launching an assault on the cultists and bystanding guard members alike.

As chaos broke out, Emberward Sanarissa Firewing launched an attack upon Vannon, as did Kyranyx Ryther against Coldspell, both against direct orders. Bloodsorrow, Firewing, and Ryther were all subdued, but only after a great deal of struggle.

I myself was preoccupied with quelling my own impulse to strike down the members of the Bleeding Eye, so I commend Dawnwards Dawnsworn and Islesun for their far more vocal attempts at maintaining order when tensions finally snapped and chaos broke out. Unfortunately, their attempts were for not.

While neither cultist was killed in the initial, defiant attack, Dawnsworn accidentally finished off Coldspell with an attempted healing spell, and Vannon later expired from either his wounds or the magic of the High Necromancer- who sprung a trap that we all stumbled into. The High Necromancer Akhlain’s spirit/shadow/memory somehow lived on in tangible form, much to our collective horror, and was seeping into the very roots of Mistybrook. The Cultist’s plans were apparently to absorb this fragment of their ‘former’ master, somehow gaining freedom for themselves in the process, as well as purging the town from his influence. Without those two willing hosts, however, we had no way to remove the shade of the necromancer. The foul magics there were beyond our ken to grasp or dispell. Dawnward Dawnsworn attempted to offer up herself as host - but thankfully, a Sunguard Revenant by the name of Gronnash stepped forward to take up the task. I am not at all familiar with the ways of Revenants. but from what I understand, wrangling spirits is their very purpose, and in this case his attempt at containing the shade was successful.

Special details/concerns:

All in all, it was not our finest hour - but the objective at least was secured and all of our party returned intact. Mistybrook was freed from the grasp of High Necromancer Akhlain, but the Revenant Orc Gronnash now hosts the necromancer’s spirit-remains. He should be of course be closely observed, and is wisely already aware of the fact that he may need to be struck down should the spirit wrest control of his form. While the situation was a highly emotional confrontation with no clear ‘correct’ answer, and I myself was hard pressed to stay my hand from such foul beings, the previously mentioned members of our ranks went against direct orders, escalating the situation beyond what could have been resolved with further intelligence gained. As such, I am forwarding copies of my report to the relevant officers, and leave any further orders on the matter in your hands. Should you have any further questions on the matter, I am at your disposal. Dawnward Sunshard

@thesunguardmg | @felthier | @azriah | @cynfuldax | @forever-afk | @jessipalooza | @sakialyn | @curiouslich | @stormandozone | for mentions: @thenaaru | @pyrosophist | @theislesunfamily | @dorksworn | @commander-ryther | @razxion | @voidcallxr | @rambleverse

[brothersemberfell]

All damn questions for Orion b i t c h

AIIGHT HERE YOU GO. @pyrar and @ocarina-of-what @razxion

BLOOD. -What types of injuries has your muse sustained? What was the worst?

Orion has had a myriad of cuts, bangs and bruises in his time, none of which have laid into him enough to linger physically. However, on the few occasions he’s stubbed his toe or been hit in the balls, he’s gotten teary eyed.

DNA. -What was your muses home life like?

Orion remembers his home life a very loving one to begin with. He was the first child truly biological between both of his fathers and was raised with his older sister in a quiet manor deep within Eversong Forest- a home his uncle Thordemar and An’da had built to accommodate their growing family. Though, like his Papa, Orion wasn’t one to stay inside for long, and many of his early adventures were spent racing through wooded paths, bonding with wildlife and taking his first steps to become spiritually connected with the forest.

YAH. -Something your muse agrees on 100% of the time.

No one should ever be left hungry. Such is appalling and should be amended immediately!

ELEMENT. -What is your muse “made of”, what is their character like? Courageous, loving, scared, etc.

Compassion, reflection, generosity, vigor, honesty….. and at least 10lbs of fresh hot Pandaren noodles.

FEEL. -How does your character react to a persons touch? A random stranger’s? A loved one’s? A friend’s?

Orion is like a cat, he will tolerate touching on his own terms only. He will grab someone’s wrist when he doesn’t want to be touched and gently (but physically) push them away. Usually it’s strangers that see this reaction. But occasionally friends will to. For a loved one, Orion is very comfortable with them in his personal space. If fact, it’s rarely seen but he can be very cuddly.

LOYALTY. -Does your character have any loyalty to any group?

Outside of the Sunguard where he is under oath to protect his homeland from threat and carry his ulterior motive of altering his father’s timelines, Orion is extremely loyal to the Disciples of Yu’lon. These are a sect of monks, that follow a strict code of ethic, combat and healing practices that Orion dares not to break, despite his current time displacement.

PRIDE. -What is your muses biggest flaw?

Sometimes Orion’s pacifism leads him to being a pushover, talked over, and otherwise a quiet voice that goes unheard.

HUMBLE. -How does your muse handle praise?

He is a humble bumble, will bow and express his deepest thanks, recalling names of those who helped him and expressing his gratitude with praise of his own.

LUST. -Who does your muse find attractive?

Orion has presented pretty ace throughout his life so far and he’s not yet at a point to declare a specific individual in which he finds attractive. (Unless you want to count a steaming bowl of Karazang spiced Ramen). Though a recent discovery of his rather questionable collection of  manga may suggest his intrigue with highly detailed, deliciously drawn food and the voluptuous Pandaren women that serve it.

LOVE. -Does your muse have a “special someone”

His 4qt iron wok of course! What would the man ever do without the love of his life?? Okay but more seriously…He cherishes his closest friend, Sahildivit, and grows ever fond of his friend Razail.

XXX. -What’s the raunchiest thing your muse has ever done?

I mean… he’s humped a pillow. Maybe a few pillows.

FEAR. -What are your muses biggest fears?

Orion does a pretty good job with constant meditation to avoid the burden of fear. But when he is overdue to meditate, he does find himself afraid of losing the friends he’s made in this timeline, and what is to become of him if his mission is completed. He fears tampering too much with time will bring about him not existing at all. He worries of growing too close to others for this reason…but it is lonely in this timeline otherwise.

GOD. -Does your muse believe in a god? If so, describe it.

Growing up with a father who drew strength from Belore, and the other who found strength in Elune, and the way both of them hailed and respected one another, Orion has learned to trust that belief in a greater power is one’s personal doing. He believes many exist, but he listens closely to the Celestial Yu’lon for the great serpent’s wisdom.

DUCKWORTH. -Has your muse ever thought about committing or committed a crime?

Orion has never broken the code of the Disciples of Yu’lon and the laws of time travel, which are the only laws he firmly cares about. He continues to honor Thalassian law and that of The Sunguard for his mission’s purpose. But should either disrupt his purpose, he would not hesitate. Fortunately many of the code of the Disciples prevent him from doing so.

[sonofkhaz]

Sunspear Challenge: Come and Face Me - Ra’zha

(Follow up story to https://sonofkhaz.tumblr.com/post/161711870820/sunspear-challenge-come-and-face-me-razail)

Muroco looked at Zha, who was chuckling to himself in the grass. “I hope you’ve been paying attention to everything I’ve said, because I don’t like repeating myself twice.”

Zha nodded once, walking past Razail who was taking his place on the sidelines. “Ya. Dough it be foa fun.” The troll smiled behind his tusks, removing a shield from his back and setting it on the ground. He unsheathed two axes from his belt, readying them as elemental water coated their edges. “Eitha way, doin’ be easier den talkin’.”

Muroco nodded in agreement, readying his sword and shield. He was glad someone finally spoke his language of action over words. “You’re a man after my own heart.”

Muroco and Zha surged at each other, weapons raised to strike. Muroco blocked the first two attacks with his shield, the third with his sword, but the last two broke through his guard and struck him. In turn, the tauren lashed out with his shield, following with an upward slash, forcing the troll to retreat. A carving on Zha’s left tusk began to glow, the shaman moving with greater speed as he rushed for another attack. Muroco’s shield kept the troll’s onslaught at bay, and he retaliated by pushing his weight forward, knocking his opponent to the ground.

Zha straightened himself, making a brief gesture with his hands. His form began to blur in change as he transformed into a spirit wolf, his ethereal form shimmering in the afternoon sunlight. Muroco recalled his days in the Grimtotem Tribe, when the shamans would prowl as ghost wolves on the edges of camp in the middle of the night. Zha bounded forward like a thunderbolt, darting around Muroco’s flank and slamming into his back with the force of a cannonball. Muroco was knocked down by the lunge, his eyes blinking up at the clear sky ahead.

“I think,” Muroco said as he sat up, “that you’ve won this round.”

Zha transformed back to his normal troll self, extending a hand to help the tauren up. The yellow glow on this tusk carvings disappeared. “Ya. We go ‘gain?” 

Muroco stood up, setting down his shield and picking up his other practice longsword. “Indeed. You know,” he said, “when I was growing up, Grimtotem shamans in my tribe would always prowl around the edges of camp as ghost wolves, waiting for unwary travelers to come too close. Always disturbed me as a child.”

Zha looked over towards Razail, who was passed out cold on the grass. He shook his ahead, returning his gaze to Muroco. “I canna undastand. When ya ‘lil, tings ya dun know be tings ya canna be ‘fraid of.” He glanced down at his axes, the water enhancements reforming on their edges. He smiled and took his place on the opposite end of the ring. 

Muroco held his swords in a cross. “I had to learn quickly.” The two combatants started their next round, sword meeting axe as they whirled and weaved around each other. Zha leaped back, swinging his axes in the air in front of him. Three water globules appeared, hurtling themselves forward. Muroco had seen this tactic before; Naga hydromancers often employed their magics to freeze their opponents and drag them into captivity. Muroco swung his swords, destroying one of the globes, but the two struck him in the chest. He gritted his teeth as he felt a chilling sensation creep through his limbs, threatening to freeze him in place.

Muroco roared in defiance as he charged forward, commanding his limbs to fight through the chill. Zha’s eyes widened in alarm as the tauren bounded towards him; he had expected the him to be frozen in place from his spell. He veered to the left, the warrior’s swords missing him by an inch. Muroco did not stop his onslaught - he needed to stay moving in order to stave off the chill. Employing the same move he used against Razail, Muroco spun on his hooves and swung his swords in a full arc, catching Zha twice in the ribs. The troll sprawled out against the grass as Muroco dropped a sword to extend his hand. 

“Looks like I win this round.” said Muroco.

Zha took the tauren’s hand and heaved himself up. “Ya. It be a long time since I do dis last.” Zha moved to where he set his shield down, picking it up and dropping an axe in its place. The water enhancement glittered across Zha’s remaining axe once more as the shaman positioned his shield. “Dis be new ta me. But it be worth a try, ya?”

Muroco nodded. “A good attitude to have. Many Sunspears focus on offense, so I focus on defense to balance it out. However, it’s good to have an expanded expertise on martial combat.” Muroco dropped his swords and picked up his battle-axe for the last round. “This is just a practice axe, of course, but be mindful when facing an actual battle-axe while using a shield. A sharp one will turn a shield to kindling. The troll nodded and the final round began.

Muroco bounded forward, swinging at Zha with his weapon. The troll retreated around the ring, holding his shield up to guard. Muroco brought his battle-axe down in an overhead chop, lodging itself in the shield. Zha braced himself, shoving forward with all his strength to disarm his opponent.

A tangle of reactions went through Muroco as he struggled to maintain his grip. The first was exasperation. No wonder Zha chose to duel after Razail; that sneaky little troll was watching every one of Muroco’s moves! The second reaction was pride, knowing that a colleague was employing one of his methods.

Muroco staggered back as he wrenched his weapon free from the shield. Zha didn’t give him a chance to breathe; he rushed forward, bashing Muroco with his shield before swinging his axe. Muroco blocked the strike with the haft of his weapon before pivoting, swinging his axe in a crescent sweep. The swing hit home, pushing Zha back several steps.

The warrior pursued the shaman, intending to make one last blow to win the round. Zha muttered an incantation under his breath, dropping his axe and shield at the last moment. Before Muroco’s axe could connect, Zha extended his arms, sending a bolt of lightning at the tauren. The lightning coursed around Muroco’s armor, stunning the tauren in place for a second before he fell to the ground with a resounding thud.

“Looks...like you win,” grunted Muroco as he tried to shake the stiffness from his limbs. Zha strode over and helped the tauren up, calling upon the element of water to heal their nicks and bruises. “That was a good feint you did there, just be cautious of whom you use it against.”

Zha nodded once. “It be good practice. Ya did good too.” Removing the healing waters from Muroco, Zha turned back to the rogue napping in the grass. A gesture of his hands caused a surge of water to hit Razail, a squawk of protest coming from the elf. The troll laughed as he returned his attention to Muroco. “I be Ra’Zha, Lightward of da Dawnmendas. I hope to be seein you on da field an’ not in da infirmary, ya?” A big grin went across his face. “Ya be needin’ us for anything else?”

Muroco removed his helmet and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “No, that’s it for today. You both fought very well - take pride in that. Take my advice to heart, and you’ll both go far.” Zha and Razail said their farewells to Muroco, who turned and made his way to the Dawnspire’s interior. He felt famished from the fighting.

-

@razxion @curiouslich

[monster-pirate]

Full Name: Vivvienne Duskcatcher Other names: Viv, Sha’tiel (once upon a time)  Universe They Exist In: World of Warcraft Gender and Sexuality: Straight Female, Possibly bisexual but the jury is out. Ethnicity/Species: Sin’dorei Birthplace and Birthdate: She was born 155 years ago in a little hamlet in the forests of Quel’Thalas. It was destroyed when the scourge came. Guilty Pleasures: Taking baths by herself, swimming, alone time. She knows that she’s got so much other stuff to be doing but it’s time that she gives herself to indulge in the quiet.  Phobias: Physical degeneration from Fel usage, FELHUNTERS (kind of)  What They Would Be Famous For: She would be famous for her mothering, taking care of her friends and just generally being the mom of the group. She never would have thought that either and secretly that hurts a bit of her pride.   What Have They / Would They Gotten Arrested For: Being a vagrant on drugs.

OC You Ship Them With: With @kitzy ‘s Scynthe! They are married and so very in love with each other. Their plan is to stay together until the end of time and they mean that as literally as they can.  Your Favorite OC Relationships: I would say....Razail ( @razxion ), Avada ( @emberfallen ) and Basarann ( @rahveth ) are her three musketeers, her Charlie’s angels, her three amigos. She wants to help Razail, learn from Avada and lift up Basarann. They have been some of the first and closest friends that she’s made within the Sunguard and for them she’s grateful. Faervell ( @pyrar ) is a pretty good foil to her ego and I think they’re oddly more alike than they would like, but they’re pretty great warlock buddies! Esme ( @jessipalooza ) is one of the few officers that she has been able to befriend and even though she’s a little resistant some of the time, I think they’re getting along! I enjoy @vaelrin and Viv’s interaction just because it’s so nice to have someone to just annoy the piss out of Viv and Vice versa. Westel ( @westelfirewing ) is also along those lines, but he is much more like a brother who picks on her from time to time. I love the dynamic between Feyrintha ( @she-wants-the-d20 )and Viv as well! She didn’t know what to think of the advances at first but now she feeds on them. Felo’Thore ( @brothersemberfell ) is a new one, but I enjoy the parental bond that she’s able to share with him. Last but not least, Rythaen! ( @azriah ) is just a fun little duo to jab back and forth as well as a fun little crack ship :P  

OC Most Likely To Murder Them: PROBABLY @kitzy ‘s Jaymeson if he ever finds out what actually happened to Sev. Favorite Book Genre: Currently it’s the histories and practices of the dark magics. Her favorite leisure reading however would be tasteful romance. Least Favorite Book Cliche: “Flighty” women that don’t know what they want. Talents and/or Powers: She’s got a way with the Fel, for just feeling it out and using it as she sees fit (it works against her however when it comes to more delicate spells). She’s also pretty good at sewing and enchanting little stuffed animals even though she’s barely done it lately.  Why Someone Might Love Them:  She’s warm and inviting to most, no matter their place in life. She takes care of her friends as much as she knows how and isn’t afraid to show her love towards them.  Why Someone Might Hate Them: She can be a little bitter or a bit of a curmudgeon when she doesn’t get her way. She’s got a rapid temper that she isn’t able to hide.  How They Change: Vivvienne has gone from a simple mage, looking towards the greatness of Dalaran and plunged head first into the dank basements of Silvermoon and the Fel arts. I would say that the thing that brought her there is her wild temper and her inability to control/recognize her emotions while they’re happening. She’s working on that as well as refining how she deals with magic and once more setting her sights back on the greatness that she could achieve should she practice good form.  Why You Love Them: I love her because she’s my oldest baby, the one that I’ve held onto the longest and will always be. She’s got a big heart and it’s in the right place most of the time. I love to watch and write her succeed from pitfall after pitfall to see just how resilient she is despite her circumstances. 

Why you Hate Them: She’s so old that she’s fallen into a story hole many times as I’ve grown as a writer and have tried to continue her story. She’s kind of a comfort zone for me and I need to remind myself to not get too comfortable in my writing. As a character she’s a brat. It’s that simple. She’s often self-centered and can be a little manipulative when it comes to getting what she wants. 

Tags: Anyone that wants to! 

[ao3feed-toukenranbu]

Lazing on a Sunday Afternoon

Read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2K8XYft

by Razail

Simple fluff.

Words: 733, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 1 of To Call My Name

Fandoms: 刀剣乱舞 | Touken Ranbu

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: Other

Characters: Higekiri (Touken Ranbu), Saniwa (Touken Ranbu), Reader

Relationships: Higekiri/Saniwa (Touken Ranbu), Higekiri (Touken Ranbu)/Reader

Additional Tags: Fluff, Gender-Neutral Saniwa (Touken Ranbu), Gender-Neutral Pronouns, highly self indulgent

Read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2K8XYft