wow-such-squirrels

[wow-such-squirrels]

Sherbourne 03: New Partner

((So after, what, two years of not writing a single story about her, here comes some more of Sherbourne’s story - this time it’s how she got the new Gerrard. Warning for violence and some cruelty towards animals by antagonists.))

Laying on her stomach at the top of a ridge overlooking Blackrock Mountain's entrance in the Burning Steppes, Lillian Sherbourne propped herself up on her elbows in the red dust and twisted her spyglass a bit to focus the lenses properly. She had been watching the orc patrols for a few days, looking for the best time to slip into the fortified halls – a hole between guards, a lack of traffic. Anything. After all the observation she could only reach one conclusion: that time did not exist. There were always new patrols and supplies runs heading into and out of the mountain stronghold, a constant overlap in scheduling to ensure fresh fighters. There was never a situation with less orcs than any other. It would have to be the hard way, then. She unslung her rifle carefully, shifting her body to allow her a prime sniping position. As she set herself up, her father's words echoed in her head. Slow your breathing, Lilly, he said. That's it. Complete control. Now watch your heartbeat. Pay attention to it, girl. Listen. She propped herself up, settling the rifle barrel on a rock just in front of her. Now sight it...that's good...steady. Wait until you're just between beats and take your shot... Lillian smiled despite herself. Being dead certainly made precision sniping simpler. No breathing, no pulse, no heartbeat to account for. She could fire any time. Her finger grazed the trigger slightly, almost lovingly, before she pulled it. Downrange, an orc dropped out of his saddle and hit the ground as the bullet slammed into her target's head. The effect was immediate. The worg he had been riding flew into a frenzy, looking for an attacker. The other orc who was with him put a horn to his lips and began a signal – one that was cut short by a second bullet from Lillian's gun. The snarling worg mounts were the next to die; Lillian was certain they'd be hostile to an outsider regardless. She needed something more malleable for her purposes. She slid down the ridge and made a break for Blackrock proper, sure she would find a proper kennel inside based on the number of worgs she had seen leave and enter. If there was one, she would surely have a good chance at finding what she wanted: Something bred for ferocity and cunning, but something she could easily mould into a new, stronger partner. A second Gerrard. Darting and dodging patrols in the broken corridors of Blackrock Spire, Lillian followed the signs of passing worgs straight to what should be a kennel, but rounding the last corner, she found something completely different than what she had expected. Underfed worgs slumped wearily, chained to the walls in an open pit, desperately straining at the limits of their chains-lengths for bare, dry bones. They were starved, angry, and desperate. Several had fur patches missing, probably a result of malnutrition. Her anger rankled. No dog should be treated this badly, especially not one you have as a partner. The one responsible for this travesty had to die. First, though, was the question of getting these animals as taken care of as she could manage. She lowered herself into the worg pit soundlessly, creeping from shackle to shackle, pulling the metal pins out and letting the animals free. Several growled at her, but there seemed a general consensus that being loose was a far better situation than they'd been in before the tracker had entered their pen and none attacked her despite the starvation. .When the dogs were free, she dropped her pack to the ground and took out a few hunks of meat. Her rations wouldn't be enough to feed them to satisfaction, but at least it might take the edge off. As the dogs fed greedily on what little she could offer, a large orc male rounded a corner. Spotting Lillian in the midst of a pack of feeding dogs, he tore a huge axe off a nearby weapon rack and bellowed in gutteral orcish "YOU! WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO MY DOGS," opening the main gate of the pit as he did so. Lillian snapped to attention and stared the orc down, narrowing her eyes behind her goggles. Several dogs growled as she did, clearly unimpressed with the orc handler. "You admit this is your doing?" She hissed in the same tongue. "Then we owe you our thanks, don't we?" She grinned evilly, petting a nearby worg. Its hackles immediately rose. "You can't starve a dog and expect loyalty, you savage," she spat. "KILL." With the single orcish word every freed adult worg barreled into the lone orc, all claws and teeth. They tore chunks out of him before he could even swing his weapon, ripped his throat out before he could scream for help. Lillian stood back and watched as an adult orc was reduced to nothing but a few scraps of loincloth and some random body parts by hungry, angry dogs. A fitting death, really, she considered as the worgs fought over the last few scraps of meat. When the dust settled on the frenzy, she eyed the dogs critically. Most of them were too old to take to the training properly; what she needed was a young pup. Given their starvation, there were not many pups available and the lot was fairly anemic. Runts. Shrugging, she picked a tiny male up by his scruff and inspected him. He was formed, but small. All his teeth. Musculature functional, joints good. He would need some care, but she had no doubt he would do well with her. Cradling the puppy, she left the rest of his pack to run free through the halls of Blackrock Spire to get their revenge as she exited the mountain with her new partner. "Welcome to the team, Gerrard," she said as she ran for the freedom of the Burning Steppes, smiling. The little worg barked.

[wow-such-squirrels]

What would your OC's last choice for a final meal be before they die?

Zibbit (WoW) - The same as every other meal; candy, cake, cookies, pie. Basically anything and everything sweet. The only discrimination she has is that it has to be the sugariest version of everything she gets. More sugar is better food!

Serata (WoW) - She doesn’t eat anymore. There will be no last meal. She’s kind of boring af that way now.

Eddy Gale (Fallen London) - Oh lord, prepare your wallet. You’re shipping in the finest actual cow meat in the form of roast beef from the surface. Proper gravy. Wines the likes of which do not get made in the Neath. Actual fresh vegetables, cooked to their exacting standards. Real Yorkshire pudding. Probably a bunch of Parisian dessert treats as well; they’re apparently quite fond of little fruit tarts. Brandy and a nice cigar after the tarts. Might as well go out with a bang.

Feng-Huo (WoW) - She’d want something family-made, as a way of feeling closer to home in this awful circumstance. Probably her mother’s mushan dumplings and/or hot pot spread, and as much of the Ironflask family brew that she could have shipped in. She’s intent on going out drunk and jovial, if she can.

Squired (APB) - She’s not going to get caught for any of this shit, and if she does she’s her own best lawyer. Good luck getting her as far as a last meal; death penalty will be argued off the table in the first round of bench discussions.

[wow-such-squirrels]

A selection of my finest Forsaken ladies for your perusal. First to last is Lillian Sherbourne and her blight hawk Dundas by Kokoronis , Ellorianna Icegrip by SomaticSilence and Sister Serata MacDermott by GaiaOnline user Enriix!

[wow-such-squirrels]

UCN Monthly Prompt: Midsummer Fire Festival

"I don't know who thought this was a good idea in the first place," the goblin said, chomping on his cigar butt and staring at the now flaming circle of tents as the fire jugglers tried to make themselves invisible in the crowd. The fire had spread fairly quickly once the first tent had gone up, canvas and fur catching as sparks hopped around the half-circle. Now the flames easily dwarfed the nearby bonfire and the heat had driven the crowd back several feet. Some ran for buckets of water from the nearby lake, but most people just did what crowds always do and got in the way. One elf was taking SELFIES with the fire raging in the background. Sighing, the cigar-chewer turned to the purple-plated patchwork girl next to him. "You don't get to have these anymore," he said, snatching the remaining juggling torches from her hand and stomping away. Zibbit's lower lip trembled. "But I was just getting good!"

[wow-such-squirrels]

An Outing

((In which the universe at large, or at least a few bandits, meet The Help head-on. This does get violent, you were warned. :3 ))

Having spotted their marks at a market stall with parents not in sight, the small gang had immediately made a grab for the DeVin children. The boys had naturally separated, Sahir running down the road and John using his smaller size to attempt hiding in the throngs. The gang’s leader, a man with two swords, had sent the other three after John and given chase after Sahir immediately, managing to drive him into a corner after a minute or so of ducking and weaving around buildings. The masked man laughed as the half-elven boy in front of him put on airs, puffing out his chest and resting his hands akimbo on his hips. Sahir DeVin stared the bandit down, the man had to admit, with no small amount of courage considering he had two swords drawn on him and no way out of the cramped, dirty alley he had run into. He was clearly his father’s boy, and his small features held little more than a casual disdain for the lower-class man currently threatning him and a massive amount of bravado. Waving one of the blades menacingly as he advanced towards Sahir, the bandit addressed the child with a hissing, low voice. “Now listen here, boy, we knows who you are an’ that your mama will pay dearly for your safe return, so just shut your stupid mouth an’ come along quiet-like an’ I won’t have to slice off a finger or nuffink as proof we gotcha,” he narrowed his eyes as he spoke the last two words, poking the sword into Sahir’s tunic for emphasis. The boy frowned, his gaze traveling slowly from the tiny hole the bandit had put in his shirt up the sword blade and to his masked face. “You put a hole in my shirt. Mama is not going to be nice to you at all, I think,” Sahir said, his words dripping with arrogance. You mouthy little shite, the bandit thought, immediately backing off as he raised his sword again, shifting his grip slightly and aiming the pommel at the child’s head as he swung downward. Certainly no one would fault him for a small knot on the boy’s head, transport would be far easier, and the boy would still be intact when he got back to the camp. Sahir closed his eyes and covered his head with his hands in an attempt to brace himself for the impact, but the blow never landed. “I apologize for my lateness, young master. I was forced to secure the safety your brother before coming to your aid; he was snatched up before you had run a city block. I trust you are still well?” A familiar friendly voice caught Sahir’s attention and he lowered his hands to see a towering, pale white draenei man practically made of muscle smiling pleasantly as he stood directly behind the bandit. The draenei had caught the bandit’s swing with a single hand, and he showed no strain as the human man fought against him. Sahir immediately resumed his arrogant pose, closing on the bandit’s face. Out from behind the looming draenei, a smaller half-elven face appeared. John waved sheepishly at his older brother and Sahir all but laughed. “You’re going to be sorry now. The Help is here, and mama said he will do whatever it takes to keep us safe,” Sahir intoned mockingly at his former captor. The Help retained a tight grip on the bandit’s arm even as he attempted to gain leverage by twisting around and planting a foot on the immense man’s leg. “Please do away with this person, Help. He put a hole in my shirt with that sword!” Sahir waved a hand at his newly holed tunic. The Help looked from that hole down to his desperate captive. His other hand shot out with lightning speed and grabbed the would-be assailant by his throat, hefting him off the ground as if he were a rag doll and bringing him to eye level with The Help. “No one may harm the House of DeVin,” the draenei explained in the same calm, serene voice one might lecture a child as the dangling man kicked and thrashed, gasping for breath. “That is my protocol,” his smile remained unchanged as his grip tightened on the man’s neck well past the point of safety. “Threats will be eliminated,” he continued as gasping noises at first intensified, were replaced with a hiss, and eventually ceased altogether as the bandit’s airway collapsed and his face had purpled entirely. The Help continued squeezing until long after all movement stopped – which, conicidentally, was around the same time the bandit’s throat had been permanently crushed down to about half the size it had started. Throwing the corpse to the ground with no ceremony whatsoever, The Help cleaned his hands on a nearby rag and offered a bow to Sahir. “Shall we depart for the Estate now, young masters?” Sahir offered the corpse a kick on his way past. “Serves you right,” he sneered. Looking up at The Help, he sighed. “Next time it should hurt more. He didn’t look scared nearly enough,” he said. The Help bowed again. “Yes, young master. DeVin will be done.”

[wow-such-squirrels]

Did any of your characters serve under the Scourge? If so, what was the experience like for them?

Serata was raised during the Third War; she was part of the Fall of Stratholme. Basically used as a walking artillery platform, she was mentally destroyed by the Lich King’s necromancers and the Scourge twisted her faith-based powers to throw as much mind-rending Shadow magic as they could down range. They could have used her as a Shadow-mender, but it was easier to break her entirely and use her for this than try to reeducate her as an ‘evil healer’.  She doesn’t remember any of it, but she took - and dealt - a tremendous amount of battlefield damage and was eventually laid low by a former friend and leader from her human life.

Zibbit was still in a tank of green goo and never achieved functionality under the Scourge, but she was designed and built by their labs in Icecrown Citadel. Had they gotten her working to original specifications, she would have been deployed undercover to Orgrimmar as a ‘severely injured party’ being sent back from the Icecrown front, where she would have been given instructions to spread her plagues inside the city. It’s probably for the best that she ended up the way she did instead.

[wow-such-squirrels]

Zibbit 04 - Outrider

((In which Zibbit looks out for the Nexus’ stuff while they’re hunting cultists in Uldum...))

As was fast becoming the norm for the tiny outrider, Zibbit was somewhat late to the original deployment of Undercity Nexus to their latest target. She had been out on the plains of Frostfire Ridge when the decision to travel to Uldum had been made, securing the little frontier fort the group had carved out in her own plague-riddled way, and no one had sent word to her that their forces were briefly on the move to somewhere on Azeroth. She found out when she returned to the garrison for some cake one afternoon and found it empty of the usual suspects; a guard had let her know they'd gone to meet an explorer and sent word they were off to the desert to 'deal with an old problem'. Zibbit had thrown as many wrapped sweets into Mister Fancy's pack as she could and ridden for the portals at Warspear immediately.

She arrived in Uldum to find no trace of her fellow Nexus members aside from some  rumors - the local Tol'vir made mention of a camp somewhere south of their city that was recently set up by some very thin two-legged people, but Zibbit couldn't find a single one of them when she arrived. She decided the best course of action, lacking proper orders, was to wait and guard the tents. Zibbit wasn't even sure the camp belonged to the Nexus at all, but she was sure as Fel going to protect it with her tiny little unlife. Tugging at Mister Fancy's hair, she reigned him in and fell into her usual pattern for the garrison watch - a circular sweep of the surrounding area.  These crates and empty canvas tents were hers now, and no one else was getting close to them.

---

A few short hours later, Zibbit  stopped Mister Fancy and dug a hand into one of his backpack's pouches. She tugged out a slightly mashed cupcake as she grinned, unwrapping the paper carefully with two fingers and licking the frosting off before letting it go in the desert wind. Right as she was about to take her first bite, she noticed them: A pair of men on the backs of giant desert cats. She squinted and peered into the distance - no, it was two of the Tol'vir, armored up and ready to fight. Shoving the entire cupcake into her mouth, she wiped the remaining crumbs on Mister Fancy's shoulder and booted him as she unslung her scythe. 

The ghoul roared and charged forward in a strange, loping gallop, Zibbit laughing manaically as he ran. One hand held tightly in the ghoul's hair and the other dangled the scythe like a polo mallet, larger blade down. "Get 'em, Mister Fancy!" She yelled as the ghoul ran right between the two cat men, swinging her weapon in a wide upward arc and catching the one to her right with it. Had he been flesh and blood, she would have opened a wicked gash from his underbelly up towards his spine. Unfortunately the Tol'vir are made of stronger stuff. Her scythe lodged in his rocky stomach and she was pulled from Mister Fancy sharply by it, thumping into the sand on her back with a fistful of ghoul hair. 

Blinking, she recovered in time to dodge the swing of the second Tol'vir's kopesh, rolling towards and under the blade's wielder and leaving her scythe where it was - imbedded in and dragging from her first foe's stomach as he tried in vain to reach the haft and pull it free. Reganing her feet at the side of the Tol'vir who had taken a swing at her, she reached up and grabbed his sword arm with one hand, yanking it down with tremendous strength as she jabbed upward with her other plated fistful of hair. She nailed him in the armpit with her balled fist, cracking the stone with the force. The Tol'vir roared in agony and dropped his sword, his arm hanging limply at his side. 

Seeing her chance, Zibbit rolled under him and popped up on his other side, kicking his hind knee sharply and causing the leg to collapse under him.  She scrambled up onto his back, lunging at his neck and shoving the ghoul hair into his open mouth as she wrapped her legs around his throat. Jamming both hands into his open mouth, she proceeded to prise his jaw open to the full extent. With a single swift yank, the bottom half of the Tol'vir's face disconnected entirely from his skull - Zibbit tore it free of his body and threw it at the other cat man. It imbedded several inches into his head and he slumped forward. Zibbit brought both her hands together and drove the fists into her remaining opponent's head, shattering it entirely. The corpse collapsed under it's own weight and hit the sand. 

Dusting off her gauntlets, Zibbit scowled as she looked around - Mister Fancy had trundled off into the distance, apparently not bothering to return to the fight at all. She sighed overdramatically and climbed over the two cat men, pulling their packs and money pouches from the rubble. It took her a few minutes to free her scythe from the one corpse; her swing had been very solid and so had the corpse - she was used to dislodging the blade from something much softer. She whistled sharply and sat down with the packs to wait for the ghoul's return.

At least she did a good job this time. All their stuff would be there when the Nexus got back.

[wow-such-squirrels]

Zibbit 03 - Brand New Hero

((In which Zibbit figures out how to be a hero and the death knights of Shadow Vault decide to send her questing...))

Within a howling blizzard in the glacial tundra of Icecrown, a lone goblin sat perched on a ledge overlooking the stronghold of the Ebon Knights. Her legs swung back and forth in opposite times to one another, heels kicking the shelf under her as she watched the snow fall down.The cold never bothered Zibbit; cold rarely bothers the dead and the little death knight certainly counted as dead, if at least skin-wise. Sighing, she leaned back and looked up at a ghoul who seemed to ignore her entirely and stare blankly into space. "Mister Fancy, no one takes us serious. We gotta do somethin' about this," she finally said, managing to clambor to her feet in a clatter of armor. "Come on, we're gonna take some notes and see what we're missing," she took the ghoul by his claw and tugged on his arm as she walked away. When his arm was pulled to full extension, he finally picked up his feet and trundled after the tiny girl.

---

A week later, the knights of Icecrown were more than tired of the little goblin. She had been underfoot (and underhorse) the entire time, scribbling notes in a small book and nodding like some kind of Dalarani scholar. She refused to let anyone else see the book, but questioned them all intently on the specifics of being heroic, a knight, being respected – all sorts of things that children learn about soldiers. At first they had all indulged her questions, but in short order she had become so annoying to the lot of them that they had started to ignore her entirely or throw things at her when she tried to approach. Zibbit, in her infinite wisdom, just kept what they threw and assumed that meant she was doing something right – real heroes got presents, right?

Finally one afternoon she sat on the steps leading to the Shadow Vault and poured over her new store of information with her ghoul by her side. "Okay, so what we got is this. I need better, nicer armor. Something that matches right and fits good. I'm thinking purple would be good; purple is the best colour," she clanked a fingertip against her spiky black breastplate and sighed as her slime-green shoulderguard slid down her right arm. "And a good cape too, all the best heroes have good capes, right?" She looked at the ghoul, who growled. Zibbit nodded. "Well yeah, of course you need new clothes too. I was thinking blue maybe for you. We can see what the vrykul have; their ladies got all the nicest stuff," she nodded solemnly, flipping the pages to another set of notes. Stopping, she tapped a page with her finger.

"Also I need a new weapon. This axe is crap and it isn't mine anyway. We'll go shopping and get a nice one. Maybe they can match my armor in the city or something," her face screwed up in concentration. "Elves do pretty stuff, I think. I've seen some really pretty elves come through. Maybe they'd be good for armor and things," she scribbled a note in the margin of the weapon page and snapped the book shut. "Let's go see what we can get done," she grabbed the ghoul's arm and practically dragged him to the flight master.

--

Admiring her brand new suit of purple armor in a mirror propped against a wall of the smith's shop, the goblin grinned ear to ear as the shop's owner attempted to busy himself on the exact opposite side of the tiny store. Zibbit turned left and right, examining the craftsmanship from all angles, flexing and swinging her arms. Everything was perfectly fitted to her tiny frame; plates interlocked and moved fluidly without exposing more skin than was necessary. The laquerwork and detailing on all parts of the armor was beautiful and a work of art unto itself. But most of all, it was very, very purple. "I love it! I love it I love it I love it!" Zibbit exclaimed, jumping up and down and creating a series of loud clanks. She climbed up the ghoul's side using his new oversized blue bustier for leverage and dove headfirst into a large pack that was strapped to his back. She resurfaced with a big bag of coins. "How much?" The elf looked up sharply from his busywork, paling.

"Well, it was several weeks of careful work and I had to fit it down to a --" he rolled a hand at the wrist while he looked for the correct word. "Petite frame. You understand that makes the cost go up, of course," he trailed off. Zibbit stared at him blankly. She took a grubby handful of coins out of her purse and shoved them into a side pocket of the ghoul's pack. She tied the sack closed and dropped the remainder on the counter.

"I think there's probably five hundred gold there, maybe? If it isn't enough, send me a mail. I like mail!" She climbed up to the ghoul's shoulders and sat behind his head. She tugged at his braided hair and he turned, walking towards the door. The elf watched warily before sliding to the counter and dumping the bag. Just as the ghoul was almost over the threshold, Zibbit shrieked. The shop owner jumped and scattered gold across the shop floor. "Stop, Mister Fancy, stop!" As the elf tried to gather the coins again, Zibbit climbed down her ghoul deftly and ran to a weapon rack. Her eyes somehow looked larger as she ran a hand over the haft of a purple-bladed scythe that sparked with magic from runework on the blade. Turning slowly, she smiled what she thought was her most pleasant smile at the shopkeeper. It just succeeded in looking like a hungry animal and unnerving him. "How much is that?" She pointed at the weapon. Shaking his head, the elf waved his free hand at it.

"Take it. Please. For your... good patronage," he managed, backing up slowly as a beetle skittered out from under the goblin's breastplate, crawled up her front and ducked into her collar again. He swallowed hard, fighting the urge to vomit on his own wares. Zibbit squealed again and tugged the scythe free of the rack, spinning it around and testing the balance before strapping it to her back and climbing back onto her ghoul mount. She flashed one last smile at the shopkeeper before she drove the ghoul back into the streets of Silvermoon.

"Mister Fancy, this was a great idea! Everyone is nice and this armor is so purple and I..." she stopped and her face fell. "I didn't get a cape, did I? Darnit," she leaned back and dug a hand  into the pocket where she'd put her remaining coins. "57 silver and a coat button. This is not gonna be a nice cape, Mister Fancy," she sighed. She spent the rest of the afternoon searching desperately for a cape in the trade stalls with no luck – everything pretty was out of her range. She had consigned herself to not having a cloak at all when she spotted it. The one. Purple, intricately woven and beautifully detailed – it even had a stylish fringe. She was positive she didn't have the money for it, but when she had tried to pay a nearby elf for it, he smiled at her as he closed her hand around her money and helped her tack it to her armor properly. She never heard him laugh under his breath as she left the city on ghoul-back.

--

"We can't keep her here. She's a menace."

"She's always underfoot and I don't believe she's ever done anything to advance the cause."

"I just received word from Silvermoon that she stole a rug – a rug! - from the throne room while she was there on leave. We need to get her out in the world and out of our hands," the death knights talked over one another in Shadow Vault, one waving a letter at Duchess Mynx. She held her hands up and shouted over them.

"She's on her way back here now. Just bear with me; I have a plan. Someone find me some parchment!" The other death knights scattered before her, one handing her a quill as several others hunted down parchment and some wax. The Duchess penned a quick note and waved it dry. Folding it carefully she applied the seal of the order to the back and waited.  Zibbit would be back soon, and this new 'quest' to join a group of undead in Undercity was the perfect way to get her out of everyone's hair.

[wow-such-squirrels]

Serata 16 - Be Our Voice

((In which Serata finally Ascends. Start running, people. :3 ))

More than anything else since she had arrived in the Nexus garrison on the frozen tundra of Frostfire Ridge, Sister Serata had spent time with the dead. Not the living dead she normally spent time around, mind you, but the actual dead and occasionally buried - people too far gone to rot to be useful as replacement parts for the ever-pragmatic forsaken, bits that were buried in lieu of entire corpses, the ashes of those who didn't survive Iron Horde bombardments. She had tended the small burial yard behind the garrison proper, commissioning headstones when she could and ensuring containers for individuals when they could be had. Her children had to be looked after. The Shadow wanted them all safe as they could be, and she would ensure that they kept their names and dignity in final death. She had spent some time in the field before she stationed herself here; she had hoped to find some way to increase her understanding of the Shadow and the reaches of her own power. The tenets of her own faith and the strange level of connection so many tribes here seemed to have to the very same thing she did. Even the draenei here seemed to recognize it - while she mentioned the Light frequently, the woman called Tuulani was clearly of Shadow itself and manifested some very strong effects when pushed. Tuulani understood the virtue of death; she did not fathom the rest. She was of no use in the long run. She walked among the arakkoa sometimes and they seemed to welcome her as if she were one of the Raven's own children, sharing with her their own practices and understandings of the Shadow - but she knew as she looked at the bent bird men that she was not what they thought; the Raven Mother they swore fealty to was an intermediary, a demi-god to her people who was simply a raised priestess of a sort in a feathered body. Ka'alu was a nearly Shadow Ascendant, though she fought it fiercely and denied her gifts. Serata wondered after meeting her how something so blind could be so gifted and not recognize it. Her children were stunted in their growth for her denial, and there was little there for her.

She had also seen the Shadowmoon clan worship at the altar of the so-called Dark Star; though many of the clan bowed down to it and manifested powers, the Dark Star felt like nothing but a husk to Serata. It held power as a bloated corpse may hold larvae; eventually it would pop and leave the worshipers of this twisted Shadow-faith with nothing. None of them had a grasp on power and not a one knew how to use what they had. They all pushed for too much too quickly. They would be extinguished. She left them to their ends. Disillusioned by the failure of this world's Shadow adherents, she had turned inward and begun meditating - sometimes for days on end. Passing the onyx beads of her rosary through her fingers, she nodded her head in time with prayers and litanies of faith as she sat among the little tombstones for another afternoon. One of her ravens pecked at the ground as she did so, desperate for some kind of meal. They only ate well when she was out in the field, and several of them were becoming angry at her perceived laziness of late. Rather suddenly, the priestess sat bolt upright. Her face contorted in an attempt to scream, pulling against the stitches in her mouth until several pulled out entirely and the metal chunk in her lower jaw fell to the ground between her crossed legs with a sharp thud. Her bird, and the few that were left around the garrison echoed the scream in her voice until Serata's yellow witchlight eyes flickered and went out. She flopped sideways unceremoniously, landing hard in the snowy dirt. Power. Tenacity. Exercise restraint, but become stronger. Spread our will. Continue on. Respect - gain and garner. Teach them of the power of death. Be. Our. Voice, the words echoed in her head. She was alive, such as the case may be. She felt stronger. Faster. Be. Our. Voice, the words said again. Serata sat up, looking at her body to assess the damage. There was none. Her body had all but vanished - at least physically. All that remained was Shadow; a blurry, indistinct image of a priest in her full regalia. And the words in her head, repeating and talking over each other over and over again. Be. Our. Voice,they said in an offtime chorus. And the Shadow Ascendant knew then and there she would be. Eternally. For the first time since the worgen had broken her jaw and the medics had sewn her lips shut, Sister Serata laughed with her own voice from her own mouth. Such as it was.

[wow-such-squirrels]

Happy Monday! If your characters were a piece on a chess board, what would they be and what would they look like? What color would they be?

Serata is definitely a Bishop; her piece is thin and regal, clutching her new winged staff and holding it upright with one hand and harboring one of her birds perched on the other. Her robes seem to flow from her slender frame and curl into little tendrils at the base of the piece. They make it look like she’s fading away. She is black and carved from a dark smoky quartz so she’s a little transparent and looks like the Shadow she so loves. 

Zibbit is, believe it or not, a Knight. She sits laughing on the shoulders of her much-adored ghoul, Mister Fancy, pointing forward with her scythe while clutching his hair to keep balance. The ghoul looks like he’s going to leap forward and the general effect is one of motion and action. She is also a black piece, but some of her detail work is painted in purple.

Gloriarn is a pawn. Those who know her only peripherally might question this choice, but she agrees it’s the best place on a chessboard - frequently overlooked and tremendously dangerous as a result, capable of rising to queen when left undetected. She’s in leathers and a set of her signature goggles, bent over in a sneaking pose with her knives at the ready. On the back of her belt, her tools and explosives are evident. She’s  a black piece as well.

[wow-such-squirrels]

Do your character(s) believe in the afterlife? When they die what do they think will happen to them?

Serata knows, absolutely and with certainty, she isn’t going to die again. She’s just going to shuck her body entirely and become an eternal part of the Shadow, much to the terror of everyone who fears the concept of a Shadow Ascendant. 

Zibbit doesn’t think much about it. She mostly considers cake and friendly people, and sometimes the neat things her diseases do when she lets them play with people. Sharing is caring!

[wow-such-squirrels]

Zibbit 02 - Plaguebot?

In which Zibbit gets a new family.

Shadowvault, Icecrown.

One month after Putricide's downfall.

Her skin dangling from her arm and flapping slightly in the breeze as she swung an axe that was twice the size of her own body in a wide arc, Zibbit laughed. The axe struck her target, cleaving a leg from the training dummy and carrying her into a pirouette on the ball of her forward-placed foot by momentum alone. She immediately grinned at the now amputated dummy and smacked it in the chest with her hand. A swarm of diseases puffed out around the spot in a greenish-yellow cloud which immediately forced it's way into any available open spots. The dummy's remains began to rot almost instantly, blackened areas spreading out from the spot she had struck. Her foe crumbled from the center outward, leaving a gaping, sizzling hole in its chest. The little goblin smiled and looked back to her trainer, who patted her on the head approvingly. A little ways off, her brother sat with the woman known as Duchess Mynx and watched with a mix of awe and horror on his face.

"She's come quite a long way since you last saw her, Grazix," the Duchess folded her hands in her lap and smiled a little. "Your sister is quite something, though we're still not quite sure what," she looked to Grazix directly. He paled a little.

"What do you mean? I thought you guys knew all of this...kind of stuff," Grazix waved his hand at Zibbit, who grinned widely and waved back with gusto, her arm jerking in odd puppetlike motion. Grazix shuddered a little at the sight. He lowered his voice. "What do you know? I mean, can I take her home or not?"

"In all honesty, Mister Twochains, we can't let you take her from our care just yet. We've been working with her for a month now, and while she clearly takes direction well and is quite eager to help, we aren't certain she won't just help -everyone- who asks her to. We need to make sure her programming is stable enough to be let loose on the world before we let her leave," Mynx sighed a little.

"Programming... so what, she's some kinda robot then? And not my sister after all?" Grazix frowned and looked at Zibbit, who was playing with a ghoul's hair. Mynx nodded.

"An automaton, yes. We've looked over the recovered notes from Putricide's lab and called in an expert on these matters from Dalaran. It would seem that what you brought us is simply wearing your sister's skin; her interior is a complex ball-joint saronite frame and a network of tubes and containers to pump and house diseases. Her brain, such as it is, is a mechanized network housing a virtual cloud of plague as a neural net of sorts. She's a magnificent creation, really," Mynx sounded almost enthralled as she watched Zibbit, ignoring the disgusted look spreading over Grazix's features.

"That sounds.... no, I don't want anything to do with this anymore, I can't. That's not my sister!" The goblin yelled, suddenly turning on his heels and running for the flight master outside the Shadowvault. Zibbit immediately let go of her ghoul-friend and took off running after him. She lunged as he was climbing on the back of a gryphon that had carried him there, pulling him to the ground and landing on him. She laughed.

"I want to play, brother! Play with me!" Grazix immediately panicked and shoved her aside, screaming incoherently as he kicked the Dalarani gryphon into the air and made for the city. Zibbit frowned and sat on the ground, watching him go. Mynx slowly approached, kneeling down and patting her on the shoulder. "Why did he run away?" The little goblin asked, looking at Mynx pleadingly.

"He doesn't understand you, dear. I think we're your family now," she stood up and offered Zibbit her hand. Zibbit smiled widely and took it, and the pair walked back into Shadowvault.  

[wow-such-squirrels]

Zibbit 01 - Little Sister

The 'birth' of Zibbit Twochains, aka Zibbit the Plaguewalker. Yes, I know that technically Goblins weren't Horde until Cata but dammit, work with me here.

Tail end of the Icecrown Citadel invasion, just prior to the death of Arthas.

The Plagueworks.

"Bad news, everyone..." Professor Putricide gasped his last and collapsed on the floor of his lab, surrounded by broken glass and upturned tables. The Horde strike team that had been sent in to disrupt his construct production breathed a collective sigh of relief, healers tending to the wounded and the more scavenge-prone members rifling through the wreckage in hunt for anything they could take home. A goblin hunter kicked the wooden table he had been using as a shield aside, scattering note pages and a few stray beakers. He prodded the corpse of the Scourge chief engineer with the butt of his gun as if ensuring Putricide was really dead, and once satisfied the mad genius was really down for the count, stepped over the corpse entirely and squinted at the glassware on some nearby shelves as if he was looking for something in particular.

"Alright everyone, you know the drill. Everything that isn't nailed down is fair game unless the priests or druids think it's contageous, everything that is nailed down... talk to Fasthands and get the pry bar. We're taking it all," said a brawny tauren warrior, hefting his two-handed hammer onto his back as he surveyed his team. Rogues were already stripping anything shiny from the shelves into a sack, two mages were fighting over tomes and a warlock was off swirling various flasks that had survived the brawl. If nothing else, this was virtually guaranteed to be worth the trip to Icecrown and the hassle of working for the Argent Crusade in cash value alone. The tauren smiled to himself.

"Hey, what's that?" Asked an orc, picking her way through the collateral wreckage to stand at the base of a large glass tube filled with green goop. "Oh, that's not right. I think there's someone in there," she cleaned some grime off the surface with her shirtsleeve and peered inside. The goblin hunter jumped over a broken lab kit and bounded to her side, almost jumping on her back to look.

"Let me see!" He nudged his way between the orc and the glass, breathing on it and wiping it down. He immediately backed off in shock. "Zibbit. That's my little sister! We've got to ger her out of there!" He exclaimed, more to himself than anyone in particular. He prodded at the base of the tube desperately, hunting for some sort of control panel. The orc tried to pull him away from the tube and looked around, hoping for help with holding the little hunter back. He squirmed out of her grip and lunged at the capsule again, beating his fists on the glass.

"Grazix, back off. She's going to be long dead; we need to leave her here. There's no telling what kind of things this idiot did to her," she attempted to reason with the frantic goblin to no avail. The hunter glared at her and swung his gun butt-first like a bat, shattering the tube and flooding the floor with viscous green liquid. The limp, naked body of a small goblin woman spilled out with the fluid, dangling from a series of hoses and tubes plugged into her like a marionette without a puppeteer. The hunter dropped his gun and hugged the suspended corpse desperately, crying.

"Grazix, this is a terrible idea. I found his notes; we shouldn't have even broken that glass let alone touched that thing. It's not your sister anymore," the blood elf warlock approached the sobbing goblin with a sheaf of papers in his hand. "It's a plague bomb. A walking, talking, plague bomb," he stated factually as he flipped through the pages. He stopped on a diagram and held it at the goblin's eye height. The hunter shoved the warlock's hand aside.

"I don't care, Jarrenth. She's my sister! I have to take her home," he began snapping tubes out of the corpse, pulling it from the support systems. As the last hose popped free, the corpse's eyes fluttered open. The warlock's hand went limp and he took a few steps backwards, the pages fluttering out of his hand and cascading across the floor. He spun on his foot and ran for cover, diving behind a toppled bookshelf.

---SYSTEMS ONLINE---

---PLAGUEOMATIC THINKING ENGINE 2.0 BOOT INITIALIZED.---

---ENTER COMMAND?---

Grazix's face went from sad to confused. He backed up a little, holding the corpse at arm's length. His sister blinked at him, cocking her head slightly. "ENTER COMMAND?" She repeated in a somewhat tinny voice. The tauren in charge of the expedition closed the gap between himself and the two goblins in a blink. He took the small girl from her brother, separating them and shoving the talking corpse back. She fell to the floor, blinking. "ENTER COMMAND?"

"Grazix, are you mental? You can't just walk her out of here. There's clearly something wrong with her, and she was in his lab up in a tube. Your sister is gone, you need to walk away!" The tauren's voice rumbled through the room. The little hunter looked up at him in a rage.

"NO. I've already lost her once, it ain't happenin' again. I'm not leavin' without her! Sort it out or go without me, I don't care, but I'm not goin' home without my little sister again!" He removed his cloak, slipping it over the shoulders of the naked form of his sister. The automaton corpse stared at him, unblinking.

"Sis...ter?" She asked. Grazix hugged her again, brushing the grimy pink hair that was plastered to her skin from her face with a careful hand.

"See? She's just loopy from bein' in that tube. Zibbit will be fine. I just need to take her home, and..."

"Okay, okay. Hold on," Jarrenth slowly rejoined the group from his hiding place, picking up some of the pages he had dropped in his earlier panic as he did. "Look here," he shuffled the papers and handed one to the tauren. "She's supposed to be some kind of walking plague bomb or something, right? But according to this, she's controllable. She just needs someone to give her orders. An operator," he pointed at the page in the tauren's hand. "I don't think we're suited for it, but I bet the Ebon Blade's got someone who would know how to do this properly," he smiled a little, hoping Grazix would be okay with this.

"That's not a bad idea, actually. Grazix, is that acceptable to you? We could take her to the Ebon Blade's stronghold and they could help her. You could stay there, or visit whenever you want, I'm sure," the warrior looked to the hunter, his eyes hopeful. He really didn't want to leave the goblins here alone, but he knew better than taking the plague bomb back to a major city. Grazix bit his lip and looked from his sister to the tauren, nodding slowly.

"Y..yeah. Zibbit, we're gonna take you somewhere there's people who can help. Is that okay?" He asked. The corpse stared at him and Grazix sighed. He managed to get himself to his feet and held out his hands. "Come on, if you can walk, we'll get going," the corpse lifted her arms slowly, the movement jerky and abnormal, and Grazix took her hands in his. "Up we go!" He said, pulling her to her feet. Zibbit tottered unsteadily, but managed a slow shuffle.

"Alright everyone, grab your gear. We're heading out to the Ebon Blade's stronghold, then to Dalaran!" The tauren bellowed. Jarrenth stacked the notes on the plague bomb and tucked them under one arm, watching Grazix and his sister shuffle out of the room together. He was certain the death knights were going to need the papers, at least, and if they didn't... maybe some Forsaken would buy them.

[wow-such-squirrels]

So Zibbit made some ‘friends’ at the Winterveil party last night; a tauren druid who showed her bear form shapeshifting for the first time and a friendly blood elf in a purple mage hat. Today, she demanded I send some sugary treats on her behalf. Here’s what landed in their mailboxes…

[wow-such-squirrels]

Things I have learned about Zibbit today that I did not know previously thanks to this date auction event:

When surrounded by tall people, she will not hesitate to climb Mister Fancy and sit on his shoulders so she can see eye-to-eye with them.

She has a fear of illusions being cast on her when she’s on Mister Fancy - she can’t seem to separate illusion from real, so when she’s suddenly a Tauren she’s afraid Mister Fancy is going to drop her.

Mister Fancy has a backpack; he carries all her important things. Like her money pouch.

Zibbit doesn’t understand what dates are. She understands ‘date’ as a food product, she understands people hanging out together. She doesn’t get the concept of two people going on a date though. What she pieced together is that people go somewhere, there’s explosions and cake. She wants one now.

Zibbit adores nice, friendly people. A lot. She pretty much latched onto anyone who spoke to her for more than a minute. 

She really, really likes night elf ladies. They’re generally her favourite color (purple), really tall and very pretty.

Druids fascinate her and she wants to be one. Really badly.

She would honestly love a neat hat more than anything else and was almost willing to spend all her gold on the date auction so she could maybe wear someone’s hat.

[wow-such-squirrels]

Happy Truthful Thursday! Have your character(s) ever faced harsh discrimination or racism? If so, how did it effect them?

Gloriarn, oh lordy yes. She’s a Dark Iron who came to Ironforge as a defector before the Dark Irons came back a la Council of Three Hammers-time. She tried to buy her way into safety with information, but the initial reaction to her was ‘throw her in prison, she’s obviously a liar because she’s a Dark Iron and they’re all bastards’ - she was tortured and branded by the Bronzebeard penal system and would be rotting in a cell still if not for SI:7 deciding they needed a deniable asset in play. The whole thing made her a lot more misanthropic and personally-interested. Clearly they all hate her, why should she bother looking out for anyone but herself?

Serata has as well, just based on being Forsaken and part of the Cult of Forgotten Shadow. She tends to take it in stride as well as she can, but of late has really been considering an exercise in Power based on the Council of Bishops’ treatment of her flock…

Ellorianna probably gets some racism based on being a Forsaken who lives in Silvermoon and sells cosmetics for a living, but she lets it roll off her back. Girl looks good and she knows it, haters can hate all they want. She’s living the unlife and doesn’t care what the people say anymore.

Zibbit has gotten all sorts of gross comments - and fruit - thrown her way in her time for being a small, unwashed, plague machine. She took the fruit as a gift and thanked the guys that threw it, and she doesn’t seem to understand sarcastic commentary made about her smell or physical condition, so she soldiers on happily thinking people like her far, far more than they do, the poor dear.

[wow-such-squirrels]

Which would your character(s) enjoy more? Attending a formal celebration for nobility, or a wild party with commoners? Why?

Serata doesn’t have a preference; she does better at formal situations but she likes seeing ‘her children’ happy so she really likes hanging out at pub to watch them revel.

Sherbourne is a lowborn soldier, daughter of a beat cop who became one herself while she was alive. She hates stuffy formal occasions and if she’s going to party she “does it right” and tries to get blasted at a wild and rowdy party. She’s also prone to attempting trick shots for other peoples’ amusement.

Gloriarn would rather everyone left her the hell alone. She’s here to get drunk and doesn’t need nobility or the rest of you idiots fucking it up for her.