vyvienne

[vyvienne]

“I’ve been watched you from afar and am consumed by the beautiful horror you portray. Tell me, does the sorceress cry out between the sheets as much as she does when silencing her enemies? I would very much like to find out…”

Beautiful Horror

A paradox… but that does not detract from its validity.  Beauty is, after all, in the eye of the beholder, and this individual’s perception is obviously...

...w̶̡̢̱̼̭͖̣̟̉̕͘͜͝a̸̧͔̺͕̅̽̔͐r̶͇̖̦͙̠̈́̓͑̄͛͘͜͜p̴̻͈̯͒̓̅̀e̷̫̝̜̟͉͖̺̦̍̏͊d̶̛̩̠̣̭̖͉̱̬̫̦̽̊̈̐̓̏́̂̀.

A pariah to all factions, the ‘kill on sight’ order forces Malakortana to become a wandering recluse.  So elusive is she, that many liken her to folklore— the scarlet wraith of the Ghostlands— although this is not the only place she can be found.  Everywhere, yet nowhere in particular, she haunts the spaces in between, listening for the desperate plea of a wayward soul.  Woe to those who beseech her aid, for it is unwise to place one’s self in her debt.

An encounter with the Sanguine Sorceress is improbable… but not impossible.  Especially for those privileged enough to be granted the means of contacting her.  Dare to speak her name aloud, and the Devil in Red will appear if she deems your cause a worthy endeavor to pursue.  Even still, this is a far cry from what one might consider ‘trust.’  It is merely the first tentative step down the treacherous path that ultimately leads to one’s undoing. 

Worming one’s way beneath the crimson hood that shrouds her visage is something that takes years, even decades to accomplish.  Those who seek instant gratification will not only find themselves disappointed, but disinterested as their ambition gradually wanes.  Given enough time, intrigue—like all things— eventually succumbs to decay.  It is the natural order of things, yet she can be described as anything but natural.

To know her is to embrace madness, as everything she touches ultimately breaks… including people.  Only a fool or a madman would be so reckless as to invite ruination to cast its shadow upon his door, even if it is wrapped in such fine crimson silk.  Her affection is a form of rot that embeds itself beneath the skin, laying dormant— biding its time— festering unseen until the day arrives where noxious pustules form.  By then, it is too late.  There is no cure for obsession with possession.

You belong to her.

Few individuals possess the determination to realize such a feat, and fewer still manage to survive the encounter.  Where others may break hearts, the Sorceress breaks bones… and eventually wills.

[vyvienne]

"Do you fear witch hunters? Monster hunters? We are all vulnerable in some way, and if there were anyone brave enough to try and find that weakness it'd be those with the gumption to face off true evil regularly."

“I have no doubt they possess the bravery to pursue one such as I.  The greater question is… do they have the knowledge?”

If one wishes to pursue a creature with the intention of capturing, or even killing it, one must be absolutely certain if they are to be successful.  A monster hunter must know what they are hunting before they can understand how to kill it.  Assumptions will only ensure their swift demise… as we have already witnessed in the past.

[vyvienne]

Anonymously tell my muse something you'd never say to their face.

[vyvienne]

https://pin.it/4oDWjWcs0.

[vyvienne]

The Masque of Red Death, sculpture by Emil Melmoth

[vyvienne]

Turbulent Signals

[ This is story part of a mini series I'm writing and will end up involving my other character, @frostahesmegabite , as such I'll be putting these stories on his blog as well as it will begin forcing stories to collide once again that have been building for roughly 14 years now. I hope you enjoy a little bit more about Jimothy as well! ]

How long had it been now since Gallywix and the Rebellion came to a close? Weeks? Months? Undermine was always hard to tell since the sun never actually came up, and planning days and sleep in a culture where people ran around screaming time is money, made it harder still to keep time organized beyond 'everything needs to be done ten minutes ago!'. Jimothy was no exception to this, and maybe it was the fatigue or maybe the nightmares, when he finally did find sleep. He had been having the same recurring dream as of late. Him in his youth, listened to a story that slowly became twisted from what he knew, just to run from whatever his parents had become, only to run away, hide under the blankets, and wake up right before they took him. Maybe it was for the best that he never really got a good look at whatever it was that chased him or masqueraded to be his parents, at least this way he could convince himself it was just the dreams that was doing it and that the radio downstairs that his family was practically glued to wasn't honestly related. It was all purely a coincidence, and the fact that all of them were eating less and their bodies were starting to bruise was due to the smoke and more toxic fumes as of late, due to the shifting responsibilities and positions being overlooked as the Cartels got reorganized. His kids didn't laugh and play the way they liked, and the kids in the streets weren't doing as they typically did. Jimothy went to work and came home and on both exit and entrance, he'd find his wife doing some chore about the place with the radio playing, that was provided she wasn't just enthralled with whatever music she was listening to or story was being told. He wasn't fairing much better either, he found himself latching onto his fear-riddled dream and desiring to come home to hear those same stories on the radio too. A hunger, a craving to hear more despite the rippling fear that climbed up his back and into his hairline just to give him a warning that something was wrong, something was off, only for him to disregard it as paranoia all the same. People here in the slums weren't as active as they once were, some of them, the only real ones he saw outside of those running about for work, were the ones fighting for a new radio and often times, it'd result in a full blown assault with medics being required to pick someone else after. It was a mess to be sure and despite earlier attention, nothing could be found magically or otherwise, to be faulty with them. People just... they seemed to authentically need them, like air to breathe or water to drink and Jimothy was realizing that each day he'd come home, just being able to caress its case or turn its knobs would also give him the feeling of safety and security as well. It was working as intended.

============================================== How many years had it been since the Demon Hunter assaulted him, burning into his chest and melting the Lightforged Iron out of him that was keeping the curse in his body from growing and killing him? Two years? Three? It'd been some time, Megahes knew that too, and when you become semi-retired or at best a pencil pusher instead of a world-travelling weapons manufacturer and dealer, the days begin to melt together and you forget yourself. Sometimes he'd find himself looking about at the pictures in his office, seeing what all he'd accomplished in his life before he was forced into this position. The kids, Naturasu, and he shared all the accolades and reviews. The medals, awards, and trophies. Prototypes that made his company's name soar into the stars, and now how they treaded as 'standard' anymore, forgotten to some. A pang of sadness shoots through his chest, causing his heart to literally ache to the point he'd inhale sharply and grab at it. He'd become so much frailer since the attack, it was a miracle some days he could keep up with Naturasu's desires and if it hadn't been for some damn fine alchemical enhancements and a good surgeon, he wouldn't even be able to do that. A small smile comes to his face as he finds himself laughing, knowing that if Nat had seen him just now, she'd make some joke about how she hadn't even taken off her clothes yet for his heart to start racing.

That smile, though, was quickly replaced with a yelp as Solomun toppled into the office, dropping some item in his hand just for it to hit the ground and practically explode into pieces as the casing busted and various wires and circuitboard pieces went in a series of directions. "Gold be damned Solomun, what're ya doing ta me? Tryin' ta make Nat think I need another doctor?"

The Goblin shouts before standing up, holding his chest as his breathing races, while he circles about his desk to go help him start cleaning up the mess. Something he'd learned well over time, no matter his successes as leader of the FBC, everyone deserved a fair shake and was treated on fair ground. He kneels down and begins to collect the pieces.

"What's all this now?" He asks, putting some of the larger casing pieces into a pile as Solomun works on what he has closer to his falling point. He stops and lifts up what appears to be a radio dial for an older box radio. "Custom order for one of those gobs who wants to scream about how 'back in their day' cause they can't get used to that new Samophlage designs or sommm..." His words trail off as he picks up a particular metal-plated piece with a simple branding placed upon it.

Brought to you by Sanctum Enterprises

Megahes' breath hitches, catches in his throat. His heart seemed to pound in his chest, and all he could do was try to catch his breath as it pulsed in his ears louder than any goblin explosive ever made. Memories come flooding back. Twilight Highlands and the Battle of Dorn.

Northrend and the Scournical.

The Defiler and The Fallen Temple.

The Defiler.

Panic began to set in as air started to flood his lungs, his cheeks and face started to tingle as his hands began to quake, and he'd scramble for his desk to pull himself up.

"Where the fuck did that come from?! Who put that together?!"

He found himself screaming, demanding answers, and his workforce outside came to a halt. Eyes began to peer in through his doorway, and everyone watched as the Goblin began to have a panic attack.

"I-I never met tha guy myself. One of tha interns took up a big radio order for Undermine for emergency broadcast systems ta help out tha slums. We thought it'd be a job you'd be proud'a, so we took it. They supplied everything, including tha frequency codes and all'a that. Seemed reall--..."

"WHO PLACED THE ORDER GOLD DAMN IT!?" Megahes interrupted, slamming a fist on the desk that made several people jerk and twist, trying to pretend like their ears weren't bent to keep listening.

"So-some guy by tha name'a Den tha Calf. Tha intern said it was weird he had a cows name despite bein' an elf wearin' some fancy duds..." Whatever came after that name, it didn't matter. Megahes felt himself get dizzy, and he forced himself to sit in his chair once again. The small metal nameplate rested in his palm, a trigger for an explosive series of memories.

He was back, and this was his way of telling Megahes he was moving pieces on the board once more.

"I need'ja ta move all'a my appointments, cancel 'em all. If anyone calls, tell them there was an emergency at that plant and I'm unavailable..." He stops and squeezes his hand around the little piece of metal. "Ma wife included, and if any'a ya say anything, ya fired for breaking contract."

Megahes had a red-haired light slinger to track down...

[vyvienne]

I found my way from the Damp back to the Silvermoon Inn after spending time with Vivid. A place that wasn’t a place in a time that wasn’t a time, that is exactly what it had been for me. I couldn’t figure out quite how it worked in our world. Was it minutes? Hours? Weeks? I have no idea. Things had went on around his little room but I couldn’t quite place how long it had been. It was common for me to be missing from the Damp so I couldn’t even ask others when they had last seen me. I tried to discuss it with a Nameless before I left but they were not sure when they had last seen me so I gave up.

The task before me was clear. Speak to the Defiler, discuss what needed to be done to save Varethuun and hope he would understand and agree. If not, well...I would cross and hopefully not burn that bridge as I came to it. It was obvious, to me at least, that Dinthoqaf cared for his acolytes. All I could do now is explain as best as I was able what needed to be done and proceed from there. I was free from the entity and could hopefully help free the others.

A maid knocks and enters as I sit here worrying over what I think may be a monumental task. She hands me a note. “For you, Priestess” she says softly. I always want to laugh when I am addressed as such. Priestess of what, I wonder? But I find it easier to go along so I simply nod at her. She leaves the same way she came.

As she leaves, I open it, reading the contents. I loft a brow at the words. Why is Skormosh looking for Kelan, and why is he threatening those who aid him? I mull over this for a bit and then let out a hiss. “Blood and damnation” I mutter under my breath. The entity. Skormosh must think Kelan is some kind of threat. As if things aren’t complicated enough.

How much time has passed that this has been going on while I was knee deep in Vivid’s insanity trying to help Varethuun? Again, my sense of time was skewed and it nerved me. Was the Defiler allowing this? One more thing to muss up the mix of issues already swirling around me. I find myself kneading my temples, using my fingers to push down the headache that felt like it was beginning. These were rare, headaches, and I find myself wondering if it was my link to the Sanguine, the voices in the background and my push to keep myself in some small way separated from the voices.

As the headache eased with the massage, I realized how little I actually used that link with the others. It dawned on me how silly it was to hold myself back when the power to find the others was just one voice away. It is time to break the silence, I suppose, and attempt to see where things stood with all those I am concerned for. That list seems to be growing daily.

@the-warmaster @dinthoqaf

When we decide to take a moment to ourselves, is when duty calls. Thus, it will often seem that we never have that personal time, for it is always forgone. It is important to remember, that while many may rely on us, we cannot help them if we falter.

It is no different for Skormosh, for when he decided to seek knowledge of his past, a foul treachery calls his keen skills.

JOURNAL ENTRY #15

Skormosh, the Warmaster, The ForgeMaster…The breaker, has once again found his way to Silvermoon, knowing that his quarry would be wise to seek familiar ground. Heavy boot falls abound in the paved roads as steel meets stone, his eyes glancing from both familiar face to shadowed visage.

Taking a pause, we find him at The Wayfarers Rest.

“He is crafty, I will give him that, and for this reason alone my guard shall not fall. He knows I hunt him, and I only hope he is not being harbored, for there must be no trace left to infect. I admit, I treated his condition casually, thinking it was under control, but now that I see the influence spreading, it must be purged.”

“I am no stranger to what ails him and, and I know that it may be removed, through flame or by great force, or death. That is why I take it upon myself, to find Kelaniron, and subdue him. I am sure The Headmaster would wish for me to show restraint, but I find it difficult to fathom. I hope he does not surrender, as it will make my task much easier.”

He orders a rum and cola as the bartender approaches and glances about the room, catching familiar glints and would nod before returning to his business.

“The hunt is never over it seems, and it shall not be so long as I allow it. Kelaniron, I only have one regret, and that is that I should have stopped this before it spread. In my mind, There is no beating the entity which befouls him, and in the end, all shall be taken. Ill portents indeed..”

Skormosh finished the drink in less than a couple swigs and set the glass down heavily.

“I expect anyone to do the same for me, for being tainted is an unworthy condition. Unbefitting for a warrior to be taken in this way. I will give him a clean, honorable death.”

He stood and placed his menacing helm atop his head and addressed the crowd before he left.

-“Some of you know me, and some of you may only know of rumor or likeness. Hear this, I am looking for one of elven kind, his name is Kelaniron, and is one of the Ebon Blade. Clad in red and black. If you see him, bring word to me, Skormosh, at once. It is imperative that you do not associate, for he is dangerous.”-

He turned to leave and turned his head, his voice ringing out in a heavy, apocalyptic metallic tone. -“And, if you choose to aid him, I will find this out too..”- The large, tank-like orc, heaved his giant axes over his shoulders and continued his search.

(This post is meant to be interactive both here and in-game, to all who frequent Silvermoon! If you feel you’d like to add to the story, feel free to approach Kelaniron or Skormosh in game, or write out a post of your own, tagging me!)(P.s., I have tagged those Skormosh has come in contact with in any respect.)

@faydera @vyvienne @dinthoqaf @zalilirah @chillfos @nahisummerhold @nezzokthecollector @sanguinesorceress

[vyvienne]

☂:  what my muse does on a rainy day

Oh! Now that's something Dinthoqaf and I actually share in common! (Well, except for his love for tea. Blegh, no thanks on my end.) But, Din's a fan of sitting back and relaxing on those days. No actual work gets done on rainy days, especially hard rain. People don't like to travel, and the streets go quiet except for the occasional skittering. Most work comes to a halt, and even work indoors can be hampered as supplies slow to a crawl due to movement. So, he sits back and reads, writes, and commits to his magical theories and lore-based research and at the end of it all, will take to his teapot and spend time with Zalilirah. He also has lots and lots of tea to help the time go by. ( Fantastic question @nixalegos! Thanks for sending it along! )

[vyvienne]

It's been a bit since I sent something proper, so let me try to throw something tough that you can write to or answer! The end arrives for our dear Sanguine Sorceress, what is it that brings the axe down and how does she go? Is it on her own terms, was she caught and caged? How does 'the end' look and play out in your mind for the current state of affairs?

Fingers buried deep in wetness, soaked to the second knuckle, he reaches for a sound— anything he can pry from her lips.  He wants more than anything to hear her cries… her inevitable screams.

He has waited a long time for this.  Has fantasized about this very moment, and will stop at nothing until he has gotten what he came for.  “Scream,” he whispers hotly against her cheek, his breath washing over ashen skin. 

It is not a request.

Sable lips part, daring to brush against the corner of his mouth but no sound escapes them.  Instead, she torments him with a defiant smirk.

No... I think not.

The unspoken taunt causes him to redouble his effort, and he buries his fingers deeper still, curling and flexing them in hopes of coaxing a sound from her.  “You will scream for me,” he demands.

Silence reigns.

His fingers make a wet ‘schlick’ sound as he withdraws his hand.  There are other ways to get her to scream, and he resorts to unclasping something at his belt.

Then… he thrusts, over and over.  Hard enough to crack ribs, grunting with exertion all the while.  Baring down on her with his full body weight and jarring her lithe frame with each determined plunge.

Still, she denies him.

Rivulets of sweat form at his brow, and he questions how much longer he can continue at this pace.  His breath grows uneven, coming in ragged gasps as his heart thunders in his chest.  Then— unexpectedly, and far too soon— it hits him.  “Oh… fuck!”

It’s all over.

His body slumps, heavy with exhaustion as his gaze is transfixed on hers— glassy and devoid of life.  The knife falls from his limp hand in a clatter of steel before his body hits ground… followed by his severed head.

Eyes as black as a moonless midnight sky stare at the gaping hole in her chest, now oozing blood at an alarming rate.  The wound is vexatious, but far from fatal.  The Witch Hunter managed to make quite a mess before she grew tired of him.  Had he the actual knowledge and means to end her, he would have done it as swiftly and efficiently as possible instead of getting close enough for her to decapitate him.

Whoever sent this fucking moron had better get it right next time, or she will go out of her way to find them and finish it… one way or another.

@dinthoqaf

[vyvienne]

the spirit minstrel a gift for @tarellia

[vyvienne]

Heathcliff being a goth boy while writing in his journal with a scowl on his face on his new bikeeee

[vyvienne]

longing for @tarellia

[vyvienne]

[vyvienne]

Slave, weapon, outcast…monster. Our beloved Skormosh had heard it all. All the titles bestowed upon him that he did not ask for, and yet the only ones he allowed to define him, were the ones he had earned through hard work and determination.

Warmaster, Forge-master, guardian…friend. Yes, it was these simple values that kept him going through all he has encountered within the sanctum. In truth, Skormosh was very close to discovering the missing piece to his past, and he knew that it was only when he did, that he would be able to find what he was longing for.

JOURNAL ENTRY #14

“Crashing to the earth from a fall hundreds of feet, only to emerge unscathed. This does not happen, and yet here I am, writing about it. I do not know what moved me to leap after Nezzok, to take that jump without knowing if I would live or die. Maybe it was the drive to save him, and putting my personal safety aside. Yes, as rash of a decision as it was, looking back, I would do it again.”

“Maybe I felt I had something to prove to the others. That I am not just a title, and that I truly am everything I appear to be. Orcs have a way of putting themselves and their closest kin through trials of life, so perhaps that is what I was doing.”

“Or, maybe was it that I genuinely do not care for my own well being, and am acting out recklessly to confirm that. I have asked others that do the same, and their stories differ, though one detail remains the same. That they did not have anything tying them to this world, so they would utilize themselves as tools, rather than living beings. The more I hear it, and think on it, the more ridiculous it sounds.”

“Still, imagine the looks I would have gotten if others had witnessed. Fully clad steel plate, like a meteor crashing through to the ground. Standing tall amongst the dust and debris, like a true Orc.”

“I am proud of who I am and what I have become, and so I will now chalk it up to personal boasts of glory and feats of strength. For what is an orc without his tales of grandeur and victory?!”

Skormosh leaned against his bed, sitting in the floor of his room, listening to the rain pattering against the window.

“What is an orc…?”

He sighed heavily and realized he had far too long, put aside his own goals and path.

“I have made my decision. I only hope that the others understand and are supportive. I hope bonds are made stronger, and not cast aside.”

“Though, this means seeking new allies, this means throwing myself to the wolves, and allowing judgement be passed by my kin.”

[vyvienne]

Musings

(Self Harm ahead)

I have found myself wandering through the Damp lately, feeling rather aimless for a change. Since Kelan was fully healed there was not really a reason I needed to stay so close, but I feel like I should. The entity had still not reared its head, not since my own experience when attuning my new dagger. This one was larger than my last, large enough that it was difficult to hide it on my person so I stopped trying. The dagger sat on my hip, close enough to reach at a moment’s notice. I allowed my fingers to graze it lightly, the thrum of power each time I did made me smile. I could no longer be sad about losing my silver one when Skormosh had crafted such an excellent replacement for me.

I keep wondering how the others are faring. If they had been swarmed by the entity as she had. Had it shown itself to them? It was not as if I would not know. I had been paying more attention to the Sanguine lately, allowing myself to tap into it as the resource it was always supposed to be. So I at least knew their minds did not seem distressed but that was not always a full picture. I could keep my feelings from flooding the Sanguine. I was certain Varethuun could as well. Perhaps Kelan and Alistaer had the ability but I wasn’t certain.

I walked past the forge and did not see Skormosh inside so I made my way up to the lounge. Again, it was quiet. No one seemed to be around today. I settled into a chair by the fire, book in hand. A Nameless came over and took my order. It was simple today, just Honeymint tea with a quarter twist of lemon and scones. The book was about proper techniques of Blood Magic for combat. I had been devouring it recently but the tome was very large, providing plenty of insight into my newest power.

The Nameless brought my meal while I read. I found myself wondering if anyone would join me as I nibbled my scones and sipped my tea. But once I was finished and no one had shown, I decided to take my book back to my bedroom and read there.

I wandered through the halls back to my room, deciding to put the book down and actually work on my skill with blood. I felt the dagger on my hip, pulsing with power and I wondered if it could feel my moods as it seemed to pulse and flow the more I considered working with blood.

I settled into my chair, placing the book to the side, and pulled the dagger. It flared and thrummed in my hand. I sliced open my arm, barely wincing I was becoming so used to the pain and the blood began to flow. I pulled at it, allowing it to rise up in a few tendrils before making them move in an attack motion. It was difficult to do, shoving the Light down inside of me as it wanted to come up and heal. I had to focus on making the blood swirl and swish around my other arm, having it stab into my flesh instead of weaving it through flesh. I wondered if this was how Lady Zali did it, but I felt like she was a master and had her own way of making the blood work. After several minutes of pain, I was content that I had gotten minutely better at attacking and allowed the Light to flow up and heal me.

Thanks to Angeline, this was an immediate action, one that seemed to flow without my needing to call it and it could be incredibly annoying when it came to trying to do any form of self harm as I had been working on. But it was a power that I had cultivated beyond what many could do so therefore I was proud of it. Proud and annoyed. I laughed at myself, as I tended to always be a dichotomy of my own mind. Perhaps I was simply insane and didn’t know it.

My thoughts drifted to Alistaer and his seeming desire to accept the Defiler as a god. His faith reminded me of many I had known in my youth, the Light being alpha and omega to them and I had never understood it. Part of me always wished I had faith in something (other than myself of course) because I was not sure if it was a boon or bane. But I had found that I looked at the Light in a similar way as many Sin’dorei did. It was power. And power is important. But I could not deny that Dinthoqaf had proven himself again and again in relation to his people so I found my trust growing beyond what made me comfortable. Not just in him, but the others around me.

It made me ache. Ache to think of the last time I had allowed myself to trust people and how it ended up in marriage and a child. How I had gained friends only to lose them through my own rage after Drex left. Even Ham had thought I was coming to kill him, not to simply search him out. I flowed between having a hard heart towards others and feeling care and concern for them. Perhaps this was simply my way.

I looked down, noticing that all of my skin had healed back to its original perfection. I wondered at times if I could use the blood to remove the scarring I had on my shoulder and arm. Others may not be able to see it through the magic but I knew it was there. However, scars make us who we are I supposed and I didn’t want to erase who I was.

I missed Thorne. I missed Ham. I even missed Drex. But instead of allowing this to weaken me, I realized I have new friends and I needed to spend more time getting to know them. Skormosh, Alistaer, Kelan and even the recluse Faydera. She was an enigma, one that made me want to find out more about her. Perhaps instead of thinking about the past I should focus on the future.

@dinthoqaf @the-warmaster @nezzokthecollector @faydera

[vyvienne]

It started much the same as it usually did. He’d wake up in that empty wide bed, the sun tracing patterns across sheets and wooden floors, fingers spread in golden light to welcome the day through curtain windows. He’d lay there, quiet as he’d listen to the birds' sweet songs outside, the sounds of that lush expanse of a forest surrounding the small cabin in the woods buried deep in the heart of panda land. In this place of emerald greens and deep vibrant colors of purples and yellows and rich browns, he had built a home, raised the twins, and created a simple, quiet life. In the morning sun he would thank everything that brought him to this moment… And mourn the things he lost along the way. Once settled up and ready to move, he’d make his way to kitchen, start coffee and enjoy the quiet once more, toxic hues of green tracing over the dining area that connected to the quant kitchen, some herbs lining walls to dry, while plate were stacked neat and clean against the side of the sink. Echoes of children's laughter played across the walls of the house, and flashes of memories danced through the hunter's mind. A spilled drink, one chasing the other through the kitchen as dinner was being made. Home work at the table, or a spider to scare a sibling. SO many wonderful things he cherished with all his heart. As the aroma of coffee would fill the air, he’d move to pluck a mug from its home in one of the cupboards, fingers idly tracing the handle. The hunter had hardly aged, the life of all elves extended far more than most, having the ability to be hundreds of years, and not looking a day over thirty, but he felt the years hang on him. Bones that once could move one way, now protested and ached if he dared to try it, muscle much the same, though he never lost that muscled physique that he was known to have. Days in the sun kept flesh tan, and as his skin was still a map of art, he’d have acquired a few more to add to the collection.. One in particular, a snowflake on his left inner wrist. Incredibly delicate in nature, it almost seemed out of place on the man. Hair that was a rich color of auburn, thick and that fell down to middle back if let loose from its prison of a tail, now etched in grays and whites, peppering through the sides of his hair, and then following down further. While it wasn’t completely noticeable at first glance, the red of his hair hiding some of this age, they were earned marks of life. His five o'clock shadow that he kept also had the same peppering. He’d have a few wrinkles at the corners of eyes, and a small wrinkle across brow. He’d be himself, just a little bit more tired, a little bit more wise. He’d then take to the porch, watching the world wake up as the sky, dotted with a few fluffy clouds littered its blue space; Man enjoyed the smell of earth and plants alike, a soft breeze drifting through the forest. The cottage was two stories, with a living area, a kitchen and a dining room on the base, living area and bathroom at the top. Outside was a small fence surrounding the place, a garden with vegetables and fruits growing, an apple tree and a cherry tree now coming into fullness, the trucks now growing thicker, as if they’d been there for quite a few years. Soft sigh escaped hunters lips, before he’d take a sip of his drink, toxic eyes now closing as he’d breath out, quietly speaking as if someone else was there. “ You’d of loved this place…..”

[vyvienne]

All at once, there may be times that cause one to reflect. Perhaps on past deeds or choices, or maybe simply a choice not made while the offer was there. It never hurts to think back, but no good ever comes from dwelling on things that could have been. Not even our massive Mag’Har is free of these thoughts.

JOURNAL ENTRY #13

High above the ground, his bike stowed in the cargo hold, Skormosh finds himself sitting on the deck of a massive airship, heading towards familiar ground once more. He peers down and wonders how many thoughts he could perceive before he came to that sudden stop. Not a dark thought mind you, but simple curiosity.

“There are times when I question what could have been. As I sit here looking down, the clouds passing underneath, and the brisk air wafting through my hair, it brings a level of clarity that only death can match.”

“What would have happened if the timelines were never disturbed? What could have been, had I lived the life every orc dreams. Knowing kin, a home, a family..? Such things are not beyond me, and yet is it truly responsible to yearn for it?”

“There are moments that I wonder what would happen should I step away. The Headmaster mentioned that the Sanguine would be stripped away, and all memories gained whilst influenced, would gradually fade until you are left with what you were the moment before partaking.”

“Is it worth it? To begin all over at that very moment before you chose a new path, as if to awaken from a great slumber. Personally, I know I would be no better off. I would still be alone, but with no path.”

“What’s more, to lose memories of all those I have grown to know. To never know The Headmaster and his clever quips, to not have witnessed Varethuun and his abilities, to have gone without meeting Vyvienne, and know grace within chaos.”

“Chilfos, Aethas, Ryo, Nezzok, Zali, and even some of the new bloods I see coming into their own. These are faces and potential bonds and memories I would die to protect.”

“I sound like my father. Always the wise chieftain, reminiscing about the past and thinking about the future. I miss them…”

Skormosh sighed and let the chilled air fill his nostrils. He looked to the setting sun, an omen of good will, that another day was gifted to them all.

“I don’t know how the others deal with me. I am two sides of a very blunt instrument. Chaotic and full of Ill intent, ready to charge into an onslaught should the need arise. And yet, equal parts philosophical, always reflecting and wondering what the meaning of life is.”

He leaned over the edge, slowly letting a tendril of spit leave his lips as he watched it fall all the way down.

“Then there’s that part of me. The mischievous part.”

He chuckled and walked into the cabin.

“I will not trade the memories and relationships for anything, however I do not think I stand alone in wishing some things could be forgotten.”

@dinthoqaf @zalilirah @vyvienne @nezzokthecollector