Crimson

The adventures and/or misadventures of our favorite closet worgen. DISCLAIMER: The art I use, as well as any image from a TV series or movie that I may use, does not belong to me. I will definitely try to place credit where I can.

[chavent]

Tired

“Stormwind... I fuckin’ complain ‘bout it all th’bloody time. Yet I stay... waitin’ in bars f’someone t’come an’ say ‘ello or somethin’. S’funny, really. I s’pose mos’ people wouldn’t consider me t’be tha’ sort o’ person. They might think tha’ I prefer t’be alone; tha’ I don’t ‘ave this drive t’have friends. Th’truth? I’m lonely. Any friends I may ‘ave made since I left Gilneas are all either dead, missin’, or enemies.

I did make a new friend relatively recently. Hell, it started t’become even more than tha’. I’m no’ sure wha’ ‘appened. We kissed an’ we ventured off t’Boralus together. Seems she got in with th’wrong crowd. Started treatin’ me differently, makin’ fun o’ me. It didn’t hurt, really, jus’ proper pissed me off. I take ya’ under my wing an’ tha’s wha’ ‘appens? S’fine. I should know t’be more careful by now... t’keep everyone at arm’s length, never lettin’ ‘em in...

But it gets so tiring...

Folks wonder why I go by such a curious moniker. I tell ‘em tha’ I ain’t th’same man tha’ I used t’be. Tha’ bloke was ‘appy; ‘e ‘ad everythin’ goin’ for ‘im: a beautiful wife o’ nine years with three perfect children. We ‘ad finally saved up enough money t’move into a nice ‘ouse in Duskhaven... tha’ bloke died with th’rest o’ ‘em. 

I’ve told a handful o’ people m’real name. I cannot explain th’euphoria tha’ washes over me when it escapes their lips. It makes me feel like I don’t need t’hide anymore; tha’ I can truly be m’self. I can tell ‘em all th’shite tha’s goin’ on in m’head... but I don’t ‘ave anybody like tha’ anymore. Nobody tries t’get close. Nobody’s interested. S’pose it ain’t all their fault, though. 

It’s burned into my very soul tha’ I need t’hide who I really am. My line o’ work can’t afford anythin’ else. I’ve been conditioned t’strike clean an’ true with no’ even a second thought. It bleeds into whatever social life tha’ I may ‘ave, if ya’ can even call it tha’. My fingers tend t’reach for th’hilts o’ my blades without m’brain’s say-so; it’s especially difficult when I’m treated poorly. 

I often consider jus’ retirin’. I could hang up m’leathers an’ blades an’ be a regular ol’ person. I know tha’ ain’t ever gonna ‘appen, though. I’ll only be finished when I’m dead. There’s people lookin’ t’spill my blood an’ th’second I let m’guard down is when they gather gallons. It’s appealing, though... t’jus’ let go an’ finally be done.

S’pose my only friend now is this lovely Kaldorei I’ve known for a bit. We get real drunk together an’ run in to all sorts o’ mischief. I’ve even shown ‘er where I live an’ we’ve spent th’night there a couple o’ times. S’been quite a while since a woman’s gotten m’heart racin’ like tha’. I wasn’t even sure if th’damn thing could beat anymore. I’m no’ even sure if she feels th’same way.

But ‘ere I am... sittin’ in th’Keg every night, waitin’...”

[chavent]

Crimson stands atop the mountainous ridges of Elwynn Forest, arms crossed with his mask squarely against his face, and twin daggers gripped tightly in his leather digits. His eyebrows furrow and his lips curl to the left,

“Soon.”

His gaze trails all across Stormwind City.

[sheltips]

Keening

The fight yesterday could’ve gone…much better in hindsight. The elf recalling the series of events while making their way to a safe zone on Argus. Most of her wounds were closed up, though a few fresh scars and gashes remained. While for the moment stumps were where wings had been. 

Fortunately, this place exists. In a sense at least, given the massive amount of fel that suffused this planet. Pausing besides a pool of liquid magic that rippled angrily, she’d settled down. Meditating quietly to herself as the runes over her body began to activate. Going from a dull green to a steadily more vibrant sheen, the fel from the pool began to flow into her form.

A strangled cry of pain punctuated the environment as she tensed up. Form twitching quietly as the energy hit her back. Channeling the fel outwards as the two nubs seemed to begin extending. Glowing a brighter green, her screaming began as she felt nerves begin to grow back.

Destroyed and reformed several times a minute, the fel began to slowly take the shape of extended wings. Fire perpetually cleansing the surface of flesh to bone before rebuilding it more steadily. Her body locked up from the pain of rushing the process, but it was necessary.

At some point in the act, she must’ve blacked out briefly. Seeming to forget where she was, focus drifting around the area. Wings stretched out slowly, sensitive to the air still. Back to their leathery original condition, lacking the scars that had developed over the last year or so since she’d grown them the first time.

Clutching the the side of her head, shely began to draw herself up. Accidentally scratching the side of her face and drawing her thoughts to the moment. “…What…?” she’d whispered quietly.

The elven claws on both her fingers had elongated a bit more. Becoming sharper and sturdier, and shifting to a black color. “Another mutation…lovely.” mumbled to herself while briefly worrying her lower lip. A more pronounced set of canines digging into it and drawing a little blood. With a startled cry of frustration her body fell back into a seat on the ground.

“Been doing so well for so long, and now two mistakes at once. Damn it all, I bet this is permanent as well. Fucking mutations…” slumping forwards tiredly, the effort of regrowing herself taking most of her bodies energy. Mulhek chimed in rather lightly on her thoughts. ‘Let’s…not repeat yesterday again, yes? Another second and you actually blacking out entirely and our little guest would’ve had just the chance he’s needed for a long time.’

Vague memories floated back to her mind, the searing pain of her wings being pulled from her back. Then Crimson reaching out for her before her vision had gone dark. The next thing she remembered they were in the pits. ‘I know we have a bit more of a friendly arrangement at this point, but, if you become weak enough that I can take over for a minute…Then he would’ve torn both of us to shreds given a few more seconds. So…careful, hm?’ mildly worried sarcasm veiled his voice within her head.

‘…Right, okay, orders are orders. But I’ll try not to take on someone like that alone again. Also, no more wasting energy on fire. We’ll be ready next time, if there is a next time.’ pulling herself up with a tired sigh. She began to drag herself back towards the camp. Feeling like a horse had kicked her a dozen times in the head. ‘At least it wasn’t hooves.’ she lamented internally, feeling herself accidentally scratch her palm with the demonic claws.

@chavent

[chavent]

(Ask me anything prompt). "Where've you been, thief?"

“I’ve been around. I’m a busy man, I’m afraid. My presence in Stormwind is limited, stripper-pirate.”

[chavent]

Want.

Crimson deadpans, staring at nothing in particular, "... Three things I'd do t'Verlai if I were alone with 'er?"He clears his throat and shifts his eyes left and right, "I dunno. I'd probably give 'er a hug or somethin'. I'd want t'talk about what went wrong with us an' where she's been all this time. I'd also share a drink with 'er, for old times' sake."

[chavent]

Psst.

The masked Gilnean crosses his arms and shifts his weight to one leg,

“Three things I’ve always wanted t’tell Adhelin, eh?” he runs his tongue across the front of the top row of his teeth, “I’m often unsure of how t’act around ‘er. She’s jus’ this enigma an’ ‘er presence is... enrapturing.”

“I’m not satisfied with th’way our relationship ended.”

The shadowmancer straightens his posture; his shoulders rise and fall in a deep, obvious sigh,

“I miss ‘er, too.”

[chavent]

Dream: Three wishes they have.

“I wish for Gilneas t’be returned to its former glory.”

“I want t’see my wife an’ children jus’ one last time.”

“I wish I didn’t ‘ave t’turn out th’way that I am.”

[chavent]

Blab: Three secrets they're keeping.

Crimson lofts a brow, then reaches up to rub at the back of his neck, 

“Fuck if I know. I keep so many damn secrets I don’t even know what I’m s’posed t’hide an’ what I can talk ‘bout freely.”

The Gilnean drops his hand and interlaces both sets of fingers against the front of his waist,

“All right, well,” he holds up his fist, then snaps out his index finger, “I killed my uncle,” his middle finger follows suit, “I’m colorblind,” finally, his ring finger joins the others, “An’ I keep a mask on all th’time because I’m self-conscious about m’face.”

[chavent]

My Character Must Confess in Threes

Blab: Three secrets they're keeping.

Mwah: Three people they'd like to kiss.

Similar: Three members of the same sex they find attractive.

Different: Three members of the opposite sex they find attractive.

Pastime: Three hobbies they have.

Doing: Three habits that they have.

Psst: Three things that they've always wanted to tell your character.

Shh: Three things they wouldn't want their parents to know.

Dream: Three wishes they have.

Want: Three things they would do to your character if they were alone.

[chavent]

Origins: Gilneas

Crimson stands atop the shattered mountain leading to the well-known Greymane Manor. With his hood pulled down and his faceplate tucked into his belt, his arms extend to their full span, feeling the wind battering at his body; the salty gust of the ocean rapping against his form. His heart races as his leather-clad feet teeter on the precipice of the broken earth, only inches from plummeting to his death. In his mind, he pieces together the desecrated town that was sent to a watery grave: Duskhaven, his home. The place where his wife and children were supposed to live and lead long, happy, fortuitous lives. 

What sort of man would I have turned out to be? This question often surges through his mind. He was but a simple person who took odd jobs to get food on the table. He would go on month-long expeditions out to sea to return with barrels of fish. He would work in the mines for a few gold an hour. He helped his uncle in his blacksmithing shop. This was not uncommon for the lower class of Gilneas. 

Crimson brings his eyelids down tightly as if something very bright and intense had just violated his vision. He remembers the inimitable, gut-wrenching, and blood-curdling screams that never stopped that day. He remembers the sounds of bones being ripped from their joints; the sounds of people gurgling on their own blood as dagger-like claws ripped their jugular veins from their throats.

He fought. He fought so fucking hard. 

But it wasn’t enough.

Chavent stands in the middle of the Military District, absolutely shell-shocked from the Forsaken bombardments nearly threatening to obliterate the man entirely. He rubs at his eyes groggily, removing the dirt and soot that irritated them. A guardsman rushes towards him, throwing a sword with a hand-guard in his direction. With little time to react, Chavent thrusts out his palm to catch the blade. The guard opens his mouth, but Chavent hears nothing, save for the constant ringing in his ears. With his eyebrows furrowing down, he points to his ear and makes a swipe towards his throat. As the sound slowly pours back into his brain, the guard is tackled by the biggest, most monstrous being Chavent had ever witnessed; the guard’s head is plucked clean off in no time.

“Shite!” The man shouts and spins on a heel to burst away in a full-blown sprint. He looks around as the guardsmen, one by one, are tackled and annihilated by these feral beings. Two armored men stand behind the two large doors that close off the barracks, waving their arms wildly as the straggling Gilneans try to escape the blood-thirsty wolf-like creatures after them. Chavent makes a dive as he nears the door and slides into the building. The two men guarding the entrance quickly close the door and attempt to latch it shut, but they are far too late. 

En masse, the invading creatures barrel into the door and flood into the building like water filling up a large vessel. With barely any time to react, Chavent clambers to a stand and trips over himself as he tries to rocket from the foul beings. He narrowly misses a set of claws to his back as he races up the stairs, sword in his right hand as the left grabs onto the posts to make his ascent easier. Upon reaching the top, he meets other citizens and guardsmen who had made their way up. 

Unfortunately, they were already dealing with their own set of ravenous, flesh-hungry aberrations. Chavent pivots on his heel and digs the opposing one in, assuming a defensive stance. He tilts his head to the left quickly before returning it to its normal posture, 

“Very well.” The Gilnean narrows his eyes as the beasts just... stand there and heave, as if waiting on a cue. As if from absolutely nowhere, a creature more than double the size of the normal ones drops from the air and lands gracefully on the ground, eyes snapping up to look dead at Chavent’s. The beast quickly glances back at his compatriots, then points a claw accusingly at Chavent. 

One of the horrors dash at the man as the others move around him to begin their onslaught on the defenseless denizens of the falling city. The fur-laden humanoid pounces towards Chavent, both claws raised menacingly as its jaw snaps with an audible crunch every time those jagged teeth meet. Unfortunately for this beast, Chavent had been trained in close-combat by his mentor, his uncle. He remains calm and absolutely composed, aiming the sword at the creature’s midsection. Upon nearing his person, the Gilnean uses the great momentum of the beast to thrust the blade into its stomach, slinging it upwards and completely gutting it. Cursed blood spills all over the wooden deck beneath his feet; organs fall and thump against the ground as the canine-resembling brute smacks against it. 

The largest of the pack lurches for Chavent, but it doesn’t pounce. It rushes towards him with nearly imperceptible speed. The man swears he hears a sinister, beastly laugh. Before he can discern where the sound is coming from, his field of perception is suddenly flooded with the nearly nine-foot-tall leader no more than a foot in front of him. The beast cocks its head, sizing the human up before its eyes narrow. If these things are capable of grinning wickedly, the morphing of its lips and teeth might indicate just that. 

The feral being swipes its right paw towards Chavent’s palm, beating directly against the guard that protects the hilt of his sword. The blade flies out of his grip, blood casting off of the steel as it sings through the air and plunges into the wood near the edge of the walkway. The creature’s other paw comes up to meet the man directly in the face, claws prodding against his skin, but they don’t move beyond that. Chavent, frozen with fear and with his life flashing before his eyes, can only stand there and watch.

To be continued.

[chavent]

Ask me anything.

[chavent]

A Black Rose

It was an innocent incidence. A broken man met a peculiar elf. Gods forbid anyone knew he was broken, but what else was expected of a Gilnean? They stood just next to the constantly rushing water of the Canals, overlooking the recently rebuilt Park. Crimson greeted her the same way he greeted all individuals, 

“‘Lo.”

“Evening,” the elf responded, giving the Gilnean a look of indifference. 

Crimson, clad in a red and black suit of armor, had a mask drawn up to hide his guise; he also wore a hood, exposing only the slightest hint of his eyes.

“How’re you?” It continued as such, exchanging pleasantries and subtle flirtations. 

Days and nights had passed. The two spent time in his home city of Gilneas, met up a few times to have drinks; she even started spending nights at his residence in Ironforge. Crimson quickly learned that being with her was just... easy. He found himself adoring the way her purple and white hair fell to rest just above her rear; how she carried herself in such a confident and carefree way. Though his eyes cannot see color, he could see many of them in her own cerulean orbs. Her dark skin was to die for; so was the way her womanly curves adorned her adorably short frame.

She didn’t care about his marred visage which Crimson so often hid. She didn’t care that he had lost all that made him human, nor did she care about who he truly was. The truth is: she was no different than he. She was just as ruthless, just as brutal, and just as loving of it. Seeing her handle the breaking of Sweet William had pushed any doubts away and locked in a feeling of assurance.

He wanted this woman.

Though she kept her two lives separate, just as he did, he was readily welcome into both; so was she. Crimson could see it then. He could see everything the two of them could accomplish together. He found it so easy to tell her things he had kept a secret for such an agonizingly long time. 

Look out, Azeroth.

[blizzardwatch]

A large portion of roleplaying comes from the creation of a compelling character. You want to make a well-rounded character with an interesting background, for any potential exploration into that character’s past. You want to give them good motivation for everything they’re doing in the present. And you want to give them a good reason for moving on into the future, and dealing with future events.

But beyond character development, roleplay is about writing. That’s how you interact with people, and how you tell your stories. One of the common misconceptions with roleplay is that longer replies = better writing. There’s nothing wrong with a lengthy post, but it doesn’t automatically make you an amazing roleplayer. You don’t need to be an award-winning writer to roleplay…and you don’t need to write novels while you roleplay, either.

So how do you know if you’re going overboard? How do you dial back your writing? And when is it acceptable to write paragraphs at a time?

— Role Play: The logistics of length in roleplay

[chavent]

Origins

It was there that the worgen stood, clad in a much simpler set of leather armor. Demetrius was a gracious man, having been the sworn enemy of Crimson for quite some time at that point. Numerous attempts on one another’s life had been made, each to no avail. Adhelin wanted Blank dead; she wanted to spill his blood for all the gallons he had caused her eyes to drink in. 

It was there that Crimson stood, the crossroads that would determine the course of his life. Leave behind the life of playing it safe; playing nothing but the stupid fucking politics within the court of the Nobles, or join a cause much higher than he. The concept was foreign, for Crimson was a proud man. He knelt before nobody, as he was to be knelt to. Leading a misfit band of “Shivs” just didn’t cut it anymore. They were to sit there and spy on the Crows for hours. 

It was there that the Gilnean stood, sitting on the final ramp that lead to the top floor of the Tower, listening to Demetrius and his playthings ramble about rushing to the Plaguelands to gather poison. Crimson hadn’t been an evil man, no, but something about this just... aroused him. He was to stand there, concealed by the shadows, jotting down notes to report back to his Matron. That was what he was worth? The gold lining his pockets was slim-to-none.

Hours passed. The Crows had finally conceded their meeting. He returned to Stormwind, turned in his notes, and found the closest homing pigeon. Crimson allocated a writing utensil, tore a small scrap piece from his notebook, and began to scribble. He rolled it up and tucked it into the small cylindrical container on the bird’s leg.

That was it. 

That was the deciding moment.

The moment that would bring him to levels he could never have foreseen.

The scrapped parchment read:

“Blank,

                Let’s talk.

                                     — C”