[Storytime][Bellerona] Forever Girl

(( Bellerona is my Undead Warlock on Thorium Brotherhood. I’m putting this below a cut because it does have hints of ritualized murder, ritualized sex (hints, HINTS) and such. ))

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[Storytime] Patchwork Sin’dorei

[ I'm not sure how I feel about this, to be honest, and may try to tackle it from a different perspective, but it was an idea I wanted to get out there. ]

It was not a Sin’dorei that ambled through those sweltering woods on that summer night. Perhaps, at one time, it had been one, but there were very few distinguishing features left save for the faintly glowing yellow-green eyes that were embedded in the creature’s skull. The figure that slowly made its way through the trees was vaguely female, though time and ghouls had ravaged the body to the point where it was difficult to tell, save by what remained of the shape of the hips and the slight bumps of the torn shirt.

The Once-Sin’dorei traveled for days, perhaps weeks, even months, slowly made its way through wood and over field and past tall, sickly mushrooms and through forest again until it found its way to a ruined farmstead. In the trees just at the edge of the clearing, just before what was once the house of the property owner, a makeshift wooden enclosure stood. Its beams were falling from the nails that held them together and the grass was tall, past the creature’s waist. The Once-Sin’dorei paused as it approached the cage and it sniffed loudly before ducking down into the grass. Something glinted in the moonlight, the creature’s head snapped to the right, and its clawed hand closed around something shiny that was embedded in the dirt.

A chain.

Soft whining carried upon the wind, canine, as the Creature followed the path of the chain to another, smaller chain collar – and then it pulled.

The soil came away, pulling up a vertebrae or two, and that was when the creature noticed the pale skull of a dog in the grass near where the collar had been. The Creature tilted its head, reached forward, and slowly, gently, petted the exposed bone.

Barking. It wouldn’t stop barking. The dog crashed against the walls of the wooden cage that held it in, but the beams were sturdy and would not budge. He whined, he paced, he circled, but nobody came. Nobody came. The air was heavy, he was hungry. He was thirsty. When he finally curled up to die, his last thought was of the master that had betrayed him and left him to his fate.

Each bone was carefully pried from the ground and gathered up into the tattered satchel that the Creature carried. Once it was sure that everything had been taken, the Creature slowly stood and ambled from the woods and into the overgrown yard of the farmstead. It entered the barn where it paused in the doorway and took in the sights – the hay that was strewn across the floor, the bones of horses that lay in the stalls and the tools that had been abandoned. The Once-Sin’dorei set its satchel upon the ground, selected an empty stable, settled down on the dirt floor and began to dig, and dig, and dig.

When a hole had been made that was of the appropriate size, the Creature pulled its satchel close and began to re-settle the bones within this new, makeshift grave. Each bone, starting with the skull, was put into its proper place, and then a small bag of black powder was pulled from the Creature’s clothing. It paused over the grave, grinding its jaws with thought, before fishing out a handful of powder and sprinkling it upon the bones. With that task complete, the bones were buried and the Creature left the barn.

- – -

Every week the Creature returned to the grave, dug the dirt from the hole, and stared at the bones within. Every day it muttered gutteral words in Thalassian, words twisted by Undeath into a horrible spell, and every day the bones changed. At first, the changes were gradual – the position of the skeleton shifted until it appeared as if the corpse lay upon its side and a red film formed upon the once-white bones. Organs and muscle and tendon slowly grew in their proper places. At the end of the third month, something shifted within that grave, and the Creature – more ragged than ever – lifted the results of its work from its resting place.

The corpse was that of a gray-furred dog, obviously of Worg descent, with patches of rot still visible on its hide and a ragged appearance that one would expect from a deceased animal. The Once-Sin’dorei tilted its head to an awkward angle and ran its clawed hand over the fur with jerky strokes.

“Live.” The Sin’dorei-Creature rasped in a voice that, in life, would have been female. “Live.”

The animal did not move, but the Creature had much patience, and repeated the word again, over and over, “Live. Live.”

It happened gradually. Muscles long dormant twitched beneath the beast’s fur, then its lips jerked back from its teeth in a silent snarl; the eyelids flickered open to reveal golden eyes and the half-Worg stood.

“Find… him,” the Sin’dorei-Creature hissed and pointed north-east.

The large dog took off with unearthly speed, its haunting howls echoing through the forest.

- – -

Thom Waite was a survivor.

He had managed to outrun the Scourge when they took over his farm, he had made it out of many a battle against the enemy and, that evening, he was recovering from another near-miss. His time, however, was running out.

He lay alone within his tent in the Argent Dawn camp. He was just on the fringes of sleep when he thought he heard shuffling outside his tent and he barked, “I’m tryin’ to sleep, kid, go back to your own damn tent.”

There was no response. The shuffling stopped rather suddenly and Thom rolled onto his side to try sleeping again.

Then he heard it – the low growl right next to his head, behind him, that made his hair stand on end.

He didn’t have time to scream. The beast went straight for his throat, and the last thing he saw was the very familiar Worg standing over him, its muzzle soaked in blood, watching him die.

- – -

A year passed.

For the Sin’Dorei-Creature, time did not exist. For all it knew, it had been a decade since it had awakened and clawed its way from the pile of rotting corpses that had been thrown into a pit somewhere in the Plaguelands. It knew nothing of who it had been in life, nor did it have any inkling of just what it had meant to be alive – all it knew was this, the open road and travel alongside the rotting Worg that it had raised from the dead.

One afternoon, as the sun ducked behind the sickly clouds, the Sin’dorei-Creature found itself in one of the abandoned towns of the Plaguelands. Curiosity overcame it and it made its way through each and every home, checking drawers and closets and every possible surface for shiny, interesting objects for it to collect. As it reached the upstairs bedrooms of the largest house in the village, it found itself faced with a very unusual object.

A full-length mirror sat upon the wall of the smallest room, reflecting to the Once-Sin’dorei, for the first time, its own appearance – and the Creature screamed, a horribly unearthly sound that seemed to stay in the air for an eternity.

Pale yellow hair hung in clumps from a skull that was barely covered in tattered, ashen flesh. Sickly yellow-green eyes stared out at the Creature, and the arms that were held up in a defensive stance were missing much of their flesh, as if it had been clawed and eaten away, leaving only a little muscle and tendon; the torn clothing that was draped over the Creature’s frame did little to hide any of the exposed bone and torn flesh that made up its body.

Her body.

Flashes. Brief, but certain, of ideas of itself. Female. Rot. Ugly. Single words, simple thoughts.

And she kept screaming.

- – -

Every day, the Once-Sin’dorei sat before the mirror to trace her image with one bony finger. Every day, she wracked her rot-addled brain to figure out just what wasn’t right about how she looked. Face? Wrong. Hands? Wrong. Arms? Wrong. Everything? Wrong.

She raked her claws through her Worg’s fur while he happily chewed – wait.

The Once-Sin’dorei’s gaze snapped to the Worg by her side and the human arm he was chewing, and with a single hissed Thalassian word he stopped and stared at her. She growled. He growled. They growled until the Once-Sin’dorei snapped her teeth at him and he backed down, allowing her to take the arm. She snatched a dagger from the floor in front of her and cut a chunk of skin from the human arm, then held it to her face over some exposed bone.

If she had the facial muscles to smile, she would have.

- – -

A sewing kit from an unfortunate Dwarf. Several limbs. Several sets of breasts (if others that seemed female had them, why couldn’t she?). A couple of torsos. Some legs.

The Once-Sin’dorei sat before her mirror many months later, needle and black thread in hand, with an odd smile upon her brand new lips. She could smile. Though the necromantic spells and spell regeants that she had used to bind muscle to bone and animate it were running low, she was satisfied with her work – for the time being. She set down the needle and stood up straight, planted her hands on her hips, and beamed into the mirror.

The image that beamed back at the Once-Sin’dorei was fully fleshed: patches of various shades of ashen, pink and tan were connected to one another with neat, black stitches; borrowed eyebrows sat a little too high up upon her brow; small, round-ish breasts sat a little too low upon her chest (and neither one was the same colour) and her thick lips were parted in a crooked grin made even more crooked by the fact that they had been attached a little too much to the right.

Female. Beautiful. Perfect.

The Now-Sin’dorei bent down to retrieve a set of dog tags from around the neck of an earless, lipless, browless Once-Sin’dorei woman and put them around her own neck.

Simone.

For the first time in her Un-life, the patchwork Sin’dorei, Simone, could not stop smiling – and perhaps she never will.

[Storytime/Journal] Delplas Rockhide: On Names

Our names have meaning. What they mean to us is what matters – whether or not they have meaning to those who speak to us means nothing.

Delplas Rockhide sat upon a hill that overlooked the ocean that bordered Ratchet. She only had a passing familiarity with the customs and beliefs of her Horde allies, but she had learned several things in her few run-ins with the other races. One, that the pink elves – Blood Elves – seemed to enjoy appropriating the cultural practices of others and two, that some Orcs seemed to believe that the vows they had made meant they could re-name others as they saw fit.

For Delplas, the refusal to use the name someone had been given was disrespectful.

Our ancestors received their names for the things they did and we carry those names with honour and pride because they make up who we are. They are not a lie. We make certain the meanings of those names are remembered in story and song, we pass on those tales so that others may be reminded. When we earn new names, those names have meaning, too. Some meaning is impossible to translate to Orcish – the Orcs’ tongue is too harsh, too unfamiliar, too primitive to truly understand.

The druid adjusted the tiny pair of goblin spectacles that were propped on the end of her snout and that she squinted through in order to write in the small leather-bound book that she held in one large hand. Everything was too small for Delplas, from the armour she wore to the charcoal she was writing with. Wrinkling her nose in disgust, she added,

The Orc Gorteta is, I would wager, a child and lacks the understanding of an adult: the name one has been given or has given to himself is the name that must be used when communicating with him. To do otherwise is showing a lack of respect toward that person and to his ancestors, who have blessed the name. It does not matter what that name means to the speaker – but it is vitally important to the Named.

My name is not Druid, it is Delplas Rockhide. My first name was bestowed upon me by my mother at birth, Earthmother bless her, and my second name given by my Ragetotem elders when I sought to break from tradition. I am “Bear-Sister of the Impenetrable Hide”. My name means everything to me.

Delplas snorted as she pushed her little spectacles up onto her snout again and squinted at the words she had written. Her scrawling continued soon after, interrupted by occasional pause as she glanced skyward to track the sun’s progress on its trek across the sky.

It is extremely disrespectful to refuse to use the name that I, or anyone else, was given. It offends me that my name is going to be treated as meaningless by this woman because she does not understand it and because she disagrees with it.

The woman tapped her charcoal against the page. Since setting hoof among civilization she had found some very odd, but interesting, situations – and this one she was having trouble writing about. Delplas carefully closed her book and tucked it under her arm as she pulled herself to her hooves and made her way for the inn. Perhaps some sleep would give her some mental clarity and she could better form her thoughts later on.

[Storytime] To Die Like a Warrior

[ Krillek and Kohle popped into my head just... out of the blue, as these characters tend to. I can't quite put a name to who Kohle reminds me of, but Krillek - at least in my head - plays like Detective John Munch (played by Richard Belzer) of Law and Order: SVU. The voice does not fit a Tauren, I know, but he's punchy and quick-witted and that's just how he represents himself. ]

When Kohle Ragetotem was born, it was not her father that stood with his arms crossed outside her mother’s tent. It was not her father who waited impatiently for the child’s arrival and who paced back and forth before being told by the Greatmother to just stand still.

Krillek Ragetotem was of no relation to Kohle, nor her mother and father. They were tribemates with little aside from their tribal names in common. Krill had no mate, no children of his own and no living family – the calf that was born on that humid summer evening’s only connection to him was that he had been asked to train her when she reached the proper age.

As soon as Kohle’s cries began to echo from that tent, the Greatmother approached the old warrior, patted his arm and told him, “You take care of that child as if she were your own.”

And that was what he would do.

- – -

Kohle did not look like a Ragetotem.

She was short, with black-spotted fur and white-horns. Her hooves were sharp, as were her reflexes, and her eyes were dark. Krillek was no fool, he knew exactly where she came from and he made damned sure that she understood that no matter what anyone said, she was Ragetotem.

Even if she didn’t look like the other children.

Even if her discipline was a little lacking.

Well, that was mostly his fault.

It took every ounce of Krill’s own discipline – not that he had much – to avoid grinning as he asked the grumbly little Tauren girl, “So, why’d you punch him?”

Her mane was cropped – two little tufts of black hair stuck out over her shoulders, the remains of the braids her mother had forced upon her, tied with Kodo hide – and she was dressed in very simple brown garments. Smudges of white war paint were haplessly smeared beneath the child’s eyes, and her arms were crossed over her stomach. Kohle was scowling, her tail twitching impatiently, her hooves grinding into the dirt under the scrutiny of the older male.

“He called me Grimtotem,” she said.

“So you punched him in the face.”

The girl nodded firmly.

Krill grinned broadly and put his arm around the girl’s shoulders, tugged her into a hug and laughed. “You should’ve kicked him in the shin first, doll,” he said. “C’mon. I’ll show you how to do it right.”

Immediately Kohle cheered up and the pair wandered off to train.

- – -

“Graaaaaaaaaaaaah!”

The Plaguelands were unforgiving. Kohle swung her blade in a wide arc that caught the Scourge and sent parts flying everywhere, splattering her armour and that of her partner with ichor. The elder warrior glanced toward her and growled, “Watch where ya wave that!” as he slammed his shield into the face of a ghoul.

Both had grown into respected warriors of the Horde. Both wore the colours of the Argent Dawn, right down to the symbols and etchings of their armour; they fought side by side and advanced through the waves of Scourge with little care for their own safety. Krillek and Kohle Ragetotem were Scourge-crushing machines.

The years had changed them both, naturally: Kohle had grown into a powerful young woman, built more like a young male and lacking in many of the curves of femaleness that most of her fellows would have. She was a tomboy. Where her hair and fur were richly coloured, black and white like the tabard she wore, Krillek’s was streaked with gray. He was showing his age. Though he was still quick on his feet, it was growing obvious to him and most of his comrades that his fighting years were drawing to a close.

As the pair ducked behind a ruined building to rest and Krill offered Kohle a drink from his canteen, he said the words that she had never wanted to hear:

“It’s time for me to die a warrior’s death, Kohle. I don’t wanna get feeble and die in my sleep in a tent – I wanna die at the end of a blade. Your blade.”

The young woman was taken aback; she gasped, then shook her head violently. “I’m not doing it, Krill, I’m not,” she insisted, and he grinned slightly.

“I knew you’d say that,” he replied as he slowly got to his hooves. “but you’re gonna hafta do it sooner or later.”

Kohle snorted as she stood and slid her sword from her back. “I doubt that, Krill,” she said. “You have a hard enough time getting me to listen to you as it is.”

The old warrior laughed and shook his head. When he looked to her again, however, his eyes widened and he pointed. As he started to shout for her to look out, Kohle spun and swung her blade through an attacking ghoul.

“Ambush!” She exclaimed, and charged into the fray. Krillek took up his shield to join her, and both raised their voices in unison.

“For Kalimdor – for the Ragetotem!”

- – -

By the time the fight was over, both warriors were in horrendous shape. Kohle was the only one of the two that could still stand and it took all the strength she had to haul her mentor from the scene of the carnage. Their tabards were torn, their armour wrenched asunder, their weapons – save for Kohle’s shortsword – abandoned. Krillek’s wounds were extensive, but she could not tell how bad it was until she set him down in the shelter of a sickly stand of trees.

Kohle lowered the older man to the ground as gently as she could and crouched before him. She wiped the blood from her face with her forearm and took a very careful look at the man’s wounds, then frowned and mumbled, “We’ll have to get you back to the chapel.”

Krillek slowly raised his head. Half of his face was caked with blood, she could see the bone peeking through depending on how the dim light hit him, the flesh was shredded. A thin sheen of red coated his armour and he was listless.

“Kill me,” the old warrior whispered. “I’m not gonna make it.”

“No, no,” Kohle replied as she grasped her mentor’s shoulders. “just a little longer, I can get you to the chapel, you just have to–”

The dying Tauren suddenly grasped the younger woman’s armour and growled, “Kohle, if you try to take me we’ll both die out here. Kill me, let me die a warrior’s death, and save yourself. There’s no other way, kid. I’m sorry.” Krill coughed, leaned back against a tree and closed his eyes. His breaths, short and quick, rattled in his chest.

Kohle reluctantly drew her shortsword from its sheath.

- – -

Thunder Bluff was a dizzying cacophony of noise. Kohle Ragetotem stood before the weaponsmith, frowning at the meagre coin in her hand and the selection on display. Her eyes flicked over the sharp blades, axes, polearms…

She drew back. His breaths were slowing, he couldn’t possibly have much time left – but the will is strong. A man so strong-willed could hold on for hours whether he wanted to or not. All it would take would be one thrust.

The young woman ran her finger along the flat of a broadsword, frowning with intense concentration.

That was all it took; Kohle thrust her sword into the exposed belly of Krillek Ragetotem, her friend, mentor and the man she called papa. She shoved the blade in as far as it would go, until she felt it thunk into the tree behind him – and then she let go.

A wave of disgust washed over her and she reached for something else – a staff, made of sturdy oak and decorated with bears and dyed hemp, some feathers and beads. “How much?” Kohle grunted, though the answer did not reach her ears and instead she fumbled, offered the merchant her coin purse and muttered for him to take what he needed.

Death came quickly for Krillek. His eyes shot open and he let out a sharp gasp, then his body went limp. No final words, nothing, just silence. Kohle did not have the strength to say a prayer or offer any words herself – she turned and started on the long, slow walk back to Light’s Hope Chapel.

When Kohle took her money back, she quickly retreated back to her temporary quarters on the Bluff among the Ragetotem where she kept her brand new set of armour and the meagre supplies that the Horde had given her for her post-war rehabilitation. There was still work to be done on the home front. There was no time to mourn.

Not even a year later.

[Storytime][Taashti] Honest Work For a Dishonest Woman

The first morning of the journey to the Airstrip was mostly a blur. Breakfast was eaten in silence – Aldrovik was a good cook for a dead man – and the trio piled onto the Death Knight’s massive Mammoth.

Taashti watched the world go by from her perch upon the Mammoth’s saddle. The shaggy beast ambled along at its own pace, occasionally allowing itself to move faster when its rider urged it forward, but otherwise the trip was relatively slow. When night fell, there was no need to stop – Aldrovik did not have to sleep, and both girls could rest by huddling close together on the back of the Mammoth.

It was Valreya that pointed out the Airstrip upon the start of the second day.

As the Mammoth lurched forward at Aldrovik’s encouragement, Taashti leaned over to stare at the Airstrip. There were several flying machines lined up along a short patch of land that had white stripes on it, with many gnomes tending to them. There was only one decently-sized building, she noted, and when the Mammoth stopped, the shaman was the first one to clamber to the ground.

Aldrovik watched Taashti make a beeline for one of the flying machines, then turned to pull Valreya closer. The girl was pouty but otherwise cooperative and climbed onto her father’s shoulder.

“When you get to Dalaran,” he said, “seek out your aunt. Her name is Bellonah and she… used to study the arcane magics. If you two stay with her you are sure to be kept safe and fed. She will love you as her own, just as she loved me when I was a child in her household.”

Valreya just pouted some more and remained silent, even as her father descended from the Mammoth’s back. Taashti didn’t notice the man disappearing, with his daughter, into the Gnomish Flight Tower (as she dubbed it) and instead she concentrated on the machinery she was looking at.

Tecila told me about these. She told me about airstrips. The flight controls are simplistic in nature and she said they’re fairly easy to maintain. I could build a two-seater, get us both out of here in time and use the money I earn with repairing these things to–

“Excuse me,” a small voice piped up behind Tecila, which nearly made her leap out of her skin. She spun, the gears in her hair clattering together as she moved, and she looked down at the person that had interrupted her thoughts.

A gnome in flight goggles, wearing a green tabard with a golden quill upon it and with her dark brown hair in a ponytail, stared up at her. The gnome woman’s clothes – even her shoes! – were ink-stained.

“That’s my plane,” the gnome said. “there somethin’ the matter with it?”

“Um,” Taashti scratched her head and mumbled, “I was just admiring it. I love machines and I – perhaps I get job here?”

Suddenly the gnome grinned broadly and shouted, “Zhar’dok! BRING MY CLIPBOARD!”

From behind another plane a plump Voidwalker emerged, loaded down with bags of parts, herbs and the occasional tool belt. It held a clipboard in its purple hands and had a quill suspended in the inky depths of its body. The gnome woman snatched the clipboard from the demon and expertly pried the quill from within, then turned to Taashti and said,

“Name? Age? Can you carry up to fourty pounds of weight? What forms of gnomish technology are you familiar with? Do you have any references?”

The young woman made a surprised noise and exclaimed, “Am Taashti and not very gold, not carry much heavy but am know lots of gnome gadgetry! Tecila Shieldwall is instructor in things engineering, she teach all she know and all I know! Am seek job, make money so can fly to Dalaran and make way back to post in Outland. Is all!”

The gnome grinned then, stuck the quill behind her ear and extended her hand. “Name’s Tristynne Inkfoot of Inkfoot Scriptorium, Incorporated,” she said. “an’ I’m temporarily handlin’ job recruitment here ’cause that’s one of my many talents. Y’see, miss Tash-tee, we’re in need of mechanics down here ’cause they keep gettin’ taken away by those uh, mechano-gnomes.”

“Mechano-”

“I’ll ‘splain later,” Tris continued, waving dismissively. “Important thing is that I can put ya right to work an’ pay starts at five gold per week for the first six weeks, then increasin’ to eight-fitty for another six weeks before you can get to workin’ up. Danger pay of ten gold per week kicks in after the first month – how’sat sound?”

“I, well-” Taashti started, but was interrupted again by Tris’ shouting, “Good! You start tomorrow!”

The shaman sighed and rubbed her face as she was lead back to the Flight Tower. She just hoped that she’d be able to get out long before the ‘danger pay’ kicked in.

[Storytime] The Lost Child

[ This is about Matojo's first daughter, a girl that he thought was dead.

Karn: The High Priest that spent a lot of time making Matojo's life hell, he was a vengeful bastard that held much hatred against Matojo's father, Matujo, and demonstrated this with how he treated Matojo and his family. He was killed a couple of years ago by Matojo's brother, Majuto.

Afsan: Hermit-like tracker who lives just on the fringes of Skullsplitter society. Feared to the point where he is often left alone, but respected enough to be called upon to track down those the Tribe wants caught. He is missing his right ear. In the present day, a smelting accident took his left "middle" finger and forced him to start using a gun.

Lonabi: Karn's head wife. A gentle woman with a heart of gold and a very special healing gift. She pays mouth service to Hakkar while quietly working behind the scenes with Lukou to lead some of her people away from Hakkar's service. In the present day, she lives in the relative safety of Booty Bay, offering her services for a small fee. Trolls, however, never have to pay.

Taashiki: The Lost Child, Thunderfists, a dedicant to Shango and daughter of Matojo. She views Afsan as her father and has been raised by him over the past twenty-nine years. In the present day, she has just graduated her trials and has just left home to perfect her skills as a leatherworker and engineer. Her first love? Exploration. She will have to continue to battle the challenges that living with frontal lobe damage have brought, however, and this is really my first attempt at trying to play out such a thing. ]

When High Priest Karn the Shadow-Walker heard that Matojo, son of Matujo, had gone missing and taken his first-born with him, the old priest saw an opportunity. For years he, as Trolls are wont to do, held a grudge against the old tracker that had taken his own father from him. As easy as it would have been to kill the boy and be done with it, he didn’t want easy – he wanted the boy to suffer.

- – -

Zul’Kadan and the Hunt-Master Matujo circled one another like a pair of caged panthers. There was murder in the Battle-Priest’s eyes, he would be aiming to kill.

With a bellowing roar, Zul’Kadan raised his hands skyward to call the Spirits’ power to him – but a single throwing knife from the Hunt-Master silenced the Battle-Priest forever. As the dying man fell, his gaze met that of his terrified son – and he demanded vengeance. “Make him pay”, he scrawled in the dirt beneath him, “forever.”

Karn would do just that … but not directly.

- – -

The first person that he called to his side was Afsan. Afsan was a tracker and Karn’s elder by at least twelve years – putting the man into the beginnings of his third decade of life. Despite being ordered around by a youth, however, the tracker was extremely patient, often frustratingly so. He stood before the High Priest with his arms crossed over his chest and a scowl upon his face. Ever the actor, Karn put on his best ‘I-am-very-polite-and-good’ performance as he circled the older man, smiling pleasantly all the while.

“Afsan! It has been some time since we met,” the High Priest exclaimed. He clapped his hands together and paused just within Afsan’s peripheral vision. The tracker’s scowl grew more apparent.

“What do you want, Karn?” He asked. The younger male immediately stepped in front of Afsan, his fingers steepled before him as if he were about to pray, and his voice deepened into a purr.

“There is a whelp on the loose,” he said, “a whelp that has stolen one of the Tribe’s children. I want him caught and brought back alive. The payment will, of course, be as you always expect.”

Afsan was no longer scowling by that point – or at least not as much – and his stance relaxed slightly. “Lonabi is aware?”

“Always,” Karn replied.

The tracker grunted. “I’ll have them back by sundown,” he said. With that, he left, and Karn couldn’t help but grin.

- – -

As always, Afsan was true to his word. When he returned, he had his prey – young Matojo of the Skullsplitter Tribe – over his shoulder and the stolen baby cradled in his free arm. Matojo was dazed, having suffered a blow to the head, and the baby was quietly gurgling at the elder tracker.

Naturally, Karn could not help but grin. He steepled his fingers again, then gestured for the older tracker to set his prey down; Matojo was dropped next to Karn’s fire pit, where he let out an oof and lay sprawled in the dirt.

Afsan crouched nearby and watched the pair as he bounced the little Troll baby on his knee. He could see the younger man’s gaze was locked upon the child and he could smell the boy’s fear. He also knew why.

“You didn’t tell me he was taking his own child,” the tracker said, snapping his attention to Karn.

“If I did, would you have brought them back?” The High-Priest asked, grinning. “Now, let me see the child. I must be sure he didn’t damage her.”

Everything in Afsan’s being, every instinct, perhaps even his ancestors told him not to, but something about Karn and the way he as smiling, the way he was holding out his hands so expectantly, drove him to hand the child over. He felt like some fog had come over his mind, and it only lifted again when he heard the screaming of the baby suddenly cut off, and her father’s sobbing cries rise above the noise of the jungle in response.

What the tracker saw made his stomach turn. The little Troll baby lay upon the ground with Karn kneeling over her; she was covered in blood, a deep gash over the left side of her face, and the High Priest had his stone axe raised above his head. It, too, was bloody.

But the baby wasn’t dead.

Afsan wasn’t going to let that happen.

All that could possibly have stopped the tracker – the two bodyguards that Karn kept with him at all times – was occupied keeping Matojo still. The young man was sobbing and screaming at the High Priest to stop, oh please stop, but with a curt word of the old tongue of the Gurubashi from Afsan the boy’s screams, too, were suddenly halted. This made Karn turn his head, which gave Afsan the pause that was needed to save the little baby’s life. For, when Karn saw one of his bodyguards returning his club to his belt, he decided to turn fully toward him.

That was when the tracker struck.

Afsan lunged for the High Priest, knocking the man sideways and into his own bonfire. Karn’s shouting and cursing gave Afsan a head start – he snatched the wounded child then and disappeared into the jungle.

Karn knew better than to send anyone after him.

- – -

Lonabi was a pretty girl with pale blue hair and blue skin, as well as the gift of mending flesh. She was also a wolf in sheep’s clothing – a priestess of Lukou in the vestments of a priestess of Hakkar.

She was not surprised when Afsan burst into her hut and presented her with the dying baby, and he was not surprised when she gingerly took the child into her arms and began to anoint her with oils from her secret stash. The incense was lit and a sacrifice – a jungle bird – was prepared. A life for a life. It was Afsan that held the bird as Lonabi slit its throat and offered the fresh blood to the Loa.

The woman shooed Afsan from the hut and pulled the curtain of dried leaves shut behind her, leaving the man to pace in the fading light of day with one eye on the jungle and the other on the hut.

- – -

The tracker awoke to the feeling of a warm hand upon his shoulder and the soft gurgling of a baby in his ear. He twitched, then slowly sat up and opened his eyes. Lonabi’s grin was wide, she was cradling a little bundle in her arms – a bundle with a matted shock of blue hair that was wrapped in a white blanket.

Afsan’s eyes widened slightly and he straightened his posture as the priestess bent down to show him her work.

The tracker was speechless.

The little baby looked, aside from the wrappings about her head, relatively healthy and happy. She squealed when the man looked at her and reached for his tusks; Lonabi gently eased the baby into the older man’s arms and whispered, “She is all yours now, friend. Take her deep into the jungle and raise her as your own.”

Afsan blinked rapidly and looked to Lonabi. He didn’t believe it.

“I’ve never raised a child, Lona. I wouldn’t know what to do,” he pointed out.

The priestess smiled as she reached toward him and tapped his forehead. “You’ll figure it out, Afsan, and I will help you as much as I can to start. She cannot stay here – Karn will kill her and you know it. You will have to keep the wound over her face clean, I will give you a salve to help you treat it. Her eye will regenerate over a month or two.”

“H-her eye?” Afsan looked down at the baby.

“She feels no pain,” Lonabi assured him. “At least, for now. Take her home and get comfortable – she will need all of the comfort that you can provide.”

- – -

The first year of raising the baby was hell. Afsan had little idea what he was doing and Lonabi couldn’t spend all of her time teaching him, but he managed to pull it off and get the child through that pivotal year mostly intact. She would always be scarred by her run-in with death – physically, mostly – but at least she had her sight and her health.

And, partway through her first year of life, a name: Taashiki.

- – -

It was very early in the morning. Afsan was poised over the forge, hammering out yet another design for a piece of jewelry that he could sell to adventurers on his trips to Booty Bay. Occasionally he would raise his head to see if he was still alone, but finding that all was quiet, he would grudgingly return to work on his masterpieces.

As the sun’s rays touched the ocean he suddenly heard something – chanting.

“Asane sana, squash Papaya! We we nugu – mi mi APANA!”

… Immediately followed by giggling.

“You are a baboon!” Afsan shouted.

More giggling, closer, “No I’m not! We we nugu!”

Taashiki burst through the foliage with her arms spread and Afsan immediately dropped what he was doing to scoop her into a hug.

“Papa!” She shouted, “I passed my trials! I’m a real Shaman now!”

Grinning broadly, Afsan leaned back to get a better look at the woman that he had taken under his wing so long ago. At twenty-nine years of age, Taashiki had a much younger mentality – the damage done by Karn’s axe blow, though mostly healed by Lona’s administrations, had impaired the girl’s mental development. She was sharp as a panther’s claw, for certain, but she had difficulties with problem solving and occasional speech issues. Her fine motor skills were lacking – perhaps why she better took to bashing things with large hammers than mending wounds or flinging lightning – and she had a very short attention span and problems remembering things. If not for these impairments, her trainers had said, she would have completed her work a decade ago … but her father did not care. She wore a big smile, she was proud of herself, and that was the important thing to him.

“What do you want to do, then?” He asked.

Taashiki fidgeted, looked about, then back up at him and whispered, “I wanna… I wanna see the world and be a good engineer like you and make my own armour.”

Oh Shango, he thought, not an engineer, but he smiled still and replied,

“Whatever you want, you can do.”

- – -

It was Taashiki’s last night in her father’s hut. She stood before the mirror he had purchased for her in Booty Bay and examined herself. She had difficulty with fine facial movements, that was why she had trained herself to smile so big when she was happy and frown so deep when she was sad; it was why she didn’t smirk and why she looked so serious when she wasn’t constantly grinning. And then there was the scar, the thick ugly scar that started at the top of her head, cut through her eye socket and trailed off down her cheek to end at her jawline. When she was little, she was told, someone had hurt her with an axe and she almost died. The priestess Lonabi said she did die, but Lukou didn’t think it was her time yet and let her spirit come back to her body.

Taashiki ran her fingers along the length of the scar, up to the top of her head, then through her hair. Her thick mop of Skullsplitter Blue hair.

And then she grinned, took her dagger in hand, and lopped it off until she had a perfect little mohawk. Using the salves that her trainers had given her for the task, she set about dying it until it was just the colour she wanted – a bright, bold pink.

- – -

As Afsan watched his pink mohawked little girl amble off down the road toward Booty Bay, he wondered if he should tell her anything. She had lived for twenty-nine years thinking that he was her father, and as far as he was concerned he had earned that right, but something about the terror in her biological father’s voice had haunted him for all those years. He wondered, too, if the boy was still alive. Maybe he was dead? If he was, all the better for them both.

What if he wasn’t?

It didn’t really matter. As far as Afsan was concerned, Taashiki was his daughter and always had been. It was now her turn to spread her wings and fly and if she found out on her own? Then it would mean she was meant to know.

Until then, Afsan was comfortable with how things happened to be.

[Storytime][Zul'Tale] What It Means To Be Troll

The dancing seemed to last for hours. The Mossflayer Zul’Tale, Knight of the Ebon Blade, Exalted of Sen’jin, once Wolf-Brother, he no longer grew tired from such extended activity; instead he would stop simply to watch the others dance, to marvel at how it felt to be surrounded by other Trolls and to be accepted as brother, to not be treated as a monster and something so unnatural. He felt alive.

This was what it was like to be Troll: dancing, swaying, raising one’s voice to join the others in ecstatic praise of the Loas or just to express joy over simply being. For Zul’Tale, for Tale of Sen’jin, the man with the slit throat, this was the way life – unlife – should be.

It was late evening, long after the party had ended and the Trolls had all gone their separate ways. Tale perched upon the roof of one of the buildings in Sen’jin where he had a good view of the ocean and of the village below. The Knight wore very little – a simple pair of cloth pants and his Sen’jin tabard from the tournament – to better enjoy the evening breeze.

I have a soul. I am not the mindless dead.

He had asked the question that had been haunting him since news of the Lich King’s death: Was he really a child of Samedi? Mel’Lodi had said as much before he found himself, so ‘Tale had to make sure. He needed to know – and he had found out. He was one of Samedi’s own and that … that made him feel good.

Better than he had felt in a long time.

Zul’Tale slid from the roof and landed with a dull thud in the dirt below. All was quiet, save for him, and he slipped off toward the ocean. The breeze picked up just slightly, carrying with it the scents of the blooming flowers on the distant Echo Isles.

Grinning faintly, Tale hiked up his pant legs before wading into the ocean and he stood, ankle-deep in salt water, simply gazing out across the sea.

“I have a soul,” he said slowly. “And I pledge that soul to Samedi. I will do His work.”

The Knight bent to scoop up a handful of salt water, then proceeded to splash it over himself – his face, his chest – not caring that he was soaking his precious tabard.

“I, Tale Scourgebane, pledge my … life and sword to Samedi. I will be His blade, His hammer against the mindless dead that remain and I will gladly do His bidding.”

The young man paused and looked around  before wading deeper into the water, until it was waist-depth, then he leaned back and allowed himself to fall in. For some time he lay in the water, floating, gazing up at the moon that perched overhead. When he felt the time was right, he returned to his feet and made his way back to shore.

As soon as Tale returned to Sen’jin he was greeted by Master Gadrin, whose expression was difficult to read beneath his mask.

“Something is different about you, Tale,” Gadrin said.

The Death Knight grinned and replied, “Somethin’ is different – I finally understand what it’s like, what it means to be Troll.”

Gadrin’s only response was to nod as he watched the Knight settle down by the fire – and that was where Tale remained throughout the night.

[Storytime][Taashti] Gnomeward Bound

Aldrovik’s campsite was tucked beneath the cliffs that overlooked the great northern sea; it allowed for one to watch the ships coming in and provided some limited shelter against the winds and weather. A lean-to had been constructed out of driftwood planks, covered in canvas and leathers and secured in place by heavy rocks; four foot high, flat-sided rocks were arranged in a semi-circle in front of the lean-to and sheltered a fire pit from the wind as well. The floor of the makeshift shelter was covered in furs and books with a wooden crate tucked into the far, enclosed end. Taash and little Valreya were set down by the fire pit, which the child immediately set about to preparing. The shaman was relatively impressed with how quickly the girl set up the bonfire pit – and even more surprised when the child knelt before it, held her hands over the bundle of sticks and the logs she had tucked into the alcove and muttered low words in Draenic.

The little girl’s hands immediately caught fire.

Taashti let out a shriek, which prompted a grunt from Aldrovik and no response from Val – instead, the girl stuck her hands into the pile of sticks, waited for those to light up and then pulled her hands away.

Within moments, the flames around Valreya’s hands died out, and the young Shaman was left panting and confused.

“Warm up by the fire!” Val exclaimed. “It gets cold out here.”

It took Taashti several moments before she could get her mind to work again and, when it did, she turned toward Aldrovik and exclaimed, “Your daughter just set herself on fire!”

“I know,” Aldrovik responded tiredly. “she was training to be a mage before her mother died.” He paused, frowning thoughtfully as he started to remove his armour – which he piled neatly to one side of the lean-to. “Her teachers were very, very concerned over her affinity for fire. She is good, it has been of benefit to us here.”

Valreya simply beamed.

“But she’s a child,” Taashti said, “and she set herself on fire.”

The Death Knight looked toward the young woman and smiled bitterly. “You are a child, and you were in the middle of a war zone with a murderer.”

The shaman shot her new companion a glare and exclaimed, “I didn’t know she was a murderer! I thought all undead people were screwed up! I mean, I would be, too, you’re not supposed to come back!”

Immediately the young woman clapped both her hands over her mouth when she realized how what she said really sounded, but neither of the Draenei she was with really said anything. Valreya continued to tend to the fire with a look of fascination upon her face and Aldrovik set about to polishing his armour while Taash knelt between the two and meekly squeaked, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean – ”

“You are right,” Aldrovik said cooly. “we are not supposed to return, but here we are. The Naaru work in mysterious ways, however…”

The man trailed off and looked to his daughter.

“If I did not return, what of my child? She would be an orphan. Perhaps our case is strange, and perhaps she would be better off without me in my current state, but this is how things are. We do what we can with what we have, child.”

Valreya raised her head and glanced toward her father. Taashti looked between the two and frowned thoughtfully; she noted the fondness in the child’s eyes and the faint smile upon the older man’s face when he looked at the little girl and she thought, perhaps, in some cases, they were supposed to come back. Maybe not all the time, but in this case, just maybe…

When Aldrovik spoke again, his tone was serious – yet concerned. Seriously concerned. He continued to idly polish his armour as he addressed the young shaman.

“You cannot stay in Northrend,” he told her. “and you cannot go back to town. It is far too dangerous with Sanajeh prowling – she will try to take you back, she does not let go of her prey too easily.” At that, Val pulled up her sleeves and held out her arms to Taashti, showing off long scars that cut across her forearms and smaller, semi-oval markings that marked her wrists. When she pulled her tentacles back from her neck, Taash could see that something had cut her there, too.

“She didn’t want to let go,” Val said quietly, “and when dad got me out of her grip she pulled a knife.”

Before Taashti could ask any questions, Aldrovik interjected with, “This is what I refer to. You will need to earn your keep in order to pay for transport to Stormwind or whatever other city that you choose. From your choice of hair decoration and the devices that you wear, I am going to assume that you are an Engineer.”

The young shaman nodded.

“North of here is the Fizzcrank Airstrip,” Al continued. “the Gnomes maintain flying machines. I am certain that you can earn your way out of Northrend there.”

He looked to his daughter for a moment, then turned his attention back to Taashti.

“And when you can leave, you will take Valreya with you.”

The little girl’s eyes widened and she shrieked, “No! I’m not going!”

“You are going, child!” Aldrovik barked back. “The war rages on and I will not have my daughter in the middle of it!”

Taashti could see that Val was furious – and maybe a little scared. She reached out, placed her hand lightly on the girl’s shoulder and whispered, “I’ll take care of you. I’ll take good care! I’ll let you meet my uncle Daniil, he’s a mage like you. A good man. And when your father is done fighting he will take you home and – ”

“It is for the best, Valreya. I’ll be back for you when the war is over.”

The rest of the evening was spent in silence.

[Journal][Tuhina] Changing Tides

[ Most of Tuhina's journal is located here. Tuhina is - or was - a Warlock on Thorium Brotherhood. This is to explain why she's going to disappear off the server 'til Cataclysm. ]

As I use – and perhaps abuse – Fel Magic more and more, I find that it becomes harder to see. The physicians in Silvermoon tell me that channeling Demonic energies much longer will rob me of my sight and my health. If Grub is still alive out there, somewhere, and I keep this up, I will probably die long before he returns home.

Perhaps that is what gave me pause, that understanding, as I sat and thought about it upon returning to the flat that I recently re-rented. I moved back to Silvermoon, sans much of the belongings I had accumulated over the past two years, at the end of January. Its familiarity and garishness is comforting, in a way, despite the lack of friendly Trolls. With everyone in Northrend it has grown quiet.

That… is fine by me.

[ The entry continues in slightly darker ink. ]

I have asked my previous trainers for a favour – I want nothing more to do with the Demonic, nor with Fel. The process of eliminating the results of my training from my body will take a long time, and I will never fully recover from it all.

I will also require the aid of a shaman or druid to cleanse my body. I refuse to have a Light-stooshing wielding zealot such as that half-elven mongrel woman lay a hand on me.

The months have seen me grow weak of body but stronger of will. Once all that binds me to the Demons at my command is eliminated, I will be returning to the Colonel to see about physical training and, perhaps, discuss with the magisters the possibility of returning to my original vocation.

Rest, and more tea.

With the Lich King now dead, all I can do is wait. If he ever comes back, I’ll still be waiting. If he doesn’t

[ The entry tr

[Storytime][Kombeya] Lukou’s Way

[ Context is here, which is a little NSFW for sexual content: http://matojo.livejournal.com/171955.html ]

Kombeya – once Kombe – had not tread the beach in a long time, but she had no idea what else she could do. She needed to get away and think  and pray, because she didn’t quite understand why this – the change from a man to a woman – had been deemed necessary for her to continue to be able to use her magic.

It was a foggy evening. The moon was full and its reflection on the water rippled from the light breeze that occasionally wound through the trees. As Kombeya peered across the bay she could see a figure sitting on the remains of the crow’s nest of one of the many wrecks that dotted the sea around Stranglethorn Vale. The woman was watching her.

The young mage puffed out her chest, hiked up her robe and set one foot upon the surface of the ocean; immediately the water froze, just enough for her to put her weight on the sheet of ice that developed there, and the water beneath Kombeya’s feet continued to freeze with each step she took toward the strange woman. When she finally pulled herself up onto the Crow’s Nest, the ice melted away, leaving no trace of her journey.

The woman that sat there was white-haired, pale-skinned and dressed in a loose white, green-trimmed robe. Her tusks were large and carved with ancient Trollish symbols and her hair was strung with green beads. She regarded Kombeya with gentle eyes and a faint smile, which put the young mage at ease.

“Talk, girl. None of the others can listen to you here,” the Troll woman said. Kombeya fidgeted.

“Not even Shango?”

“No, child, not even Shango,” she replied. “He’s got no hold on my realm.”

Kombeya cleared her throat. “Mama Lukou, what’s the real reason I had to go this way?”

Lukou turned toward Kombeya and took hold of her hands; her grip was gentle and warm, which put Kombeya more at ease.

“Every Troll that’s born is given a way that they gotta walk,” the Loa said. “Every Troll walks that path as they grow. Sometimes, they stray from that path and we have to lead them back onto it again.” Lukou smiled faintly. “You weren’t meant to get married, child, and you were not meant to start a family. You were always to become a student of magic – Hakkar made that happen far, far more quickly than we intended.”

Kombeya frowned and nodded slowly as the Loa spoke up once more.  “The moment you met Ti’rae, and every time you chased her, you wandered far away from us; every obstacle we threw in your way to put you back on your path, you went around it, you were so thoroughly bewitched.”

Lukou paused and gave Kombeya a thoughtful look before continuing again. “You were what we envisioned when you worked so hard to save Juni’andi,” she said. “but that was not enough.”

“So, you all made me change because…?”

The Loa smiled faintly once more and lightly patted Kombeya’s hand as she stood. “It was the right thing to do. Tell me, how do you feel now compared to before?”

Frowning thoughtfully, the mage replied, “I dunno – free? Nobody knows who I am, I’m not ‘that nervous boy that runs away from everything’ really. I don’t have to deal with Jeria’s questions or, well, anything like that. The only one that has any clue is dad and that’s because well, he’s… dad.”

“And your magic?”

“Better,” Kombeya said. She became more animated as talk shifted from destiny to the arcane, her solemn look changed to a smile, there was a twinkle in her eyes; she explained how magic felt right now that she was not in a body that had been tainted and weakened by Hakkar’s influence, how she could see everything so clearly compared to before. She felt that she knew what she was doing because she felt brand new.

And that was when Lukou smiled and said, “Now you understand.”

Next thing Kombeya knew, she was alone on the Crow’s Nest, watching the moon make its journey across the sky.