JOHN MARZON

Once and perhaps future captain. Not a good person. Marzon-WyrmrestAccord. (Icon by Rasek)

[sons-of-strom]

First Contact

Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, "Cuirassier", 1881

The knights on horse stood quietly in the copse, one of them peering deeply into Lady Radia’s black mirror, the one ringed with stones. 

All along the winding of the Shattered Road he could see dozens of workers, and a handful of riders, dressed in Lord Trollbane’s colors. A lesser man might have thought they were the king’s men, but he knew better. These were outlanders, islanders.

Disbelievers.

“There they are,” he said. “The head of the snake.”

“Aye, Sir Varn. One head of many.”

“They were warned, as Lord Uther commanded,” he said, the mirror carefully wrapped and placed back into a saddlebag. “They have rejected mercy, now justice falls.” 

The paladin raised his sword, and looked each of the circle in the eye.

“The Light wills it.”

“The Light wills it!"

-

“There’s a reason it’s called the ‘Shattered Road’,” the foreman said, adjusting her scarf as the three of them watched the crew dig. “Time and orcs and the dragon’s doom beat the life out of this thing. It’s going to take a lot more time, more bodies. Lot more money.”

The dragoon with the red feathered crest shook his head, taking a moment to adjust the chew in his cheek. “Count won’t like that.”

“Don’t care what he likes,” she replied. 

“He won’t like that, either,” the dragoon said.

“Well, that’s how it is.” The foreman was as plain spoken as any southerner, and wore her years proudly. “Not many people know roadwork, not many people willing to come out here for what you paid. We’ll do what we can, but it’ll be a slow going without more of what we need.”

The dwarf next to her nodded his vigorous agreement with each sentence, before adding two of his own.

“Aye, let’s see that fucker build a highway, eh? Prissy cunt thinks we can do the impossible with less, and we can, but not on credit.”

The sergeant thought his reply through before answering, and then found his thinking interrupted by the call of his name. He shifted in the saddle, limbs stiff from the cold, not seeing from where the question came.

“All I’m saying is,” the dragoon began.

“Sergeant Dorn, sir!”

“Riders on approach, sir! Don’t look like ours!”

The dragoon pulled the glass from his side, pressing it to one eye. He could see dust drifting up on the plains, no banners red or gray behind. Whoever they were, they were moving with a furious haste.

“Aye,” the dragoon said. “Not ours.”

Banditry was common in Arathi, and there was plenty worse that was common, too.

The sergeant’s mind spun the wheel of choice, around and again. Draw steel and charge, that was the first, but the poorest against an enemy heavy in armor. The bandit lord in plate was not an uncommon sight, here and in the north.

Dig in and shoot, that was the second. Guns would scare off brigands, and they’d kill anyone heavier. 

They’d have to kill, though. Break the charge or be broken by it.

“Dragoons, dismount, dismount!” The sergeant bellowed the word as many times as it took to get every one of his command moving. “Dismount! Take positions!”

He rode the length of the road’s bend, noting with pride that even the newest mainland recruit heeded and moved like the old guard, each racing to the gentle dip on the side of the way, hefting handcannonry and aiming.

“Lidia, get your people back to the station,” he shouted, but the foreman was already gone.

One less problem now

Glass back to the eye, and the sergeant’s steady mind focused on the calculation, not the consequence of mistake. They had to shoot, but not so soon to miss and waste. Not too late, either. Shoot late and you might not get to shoot again.

“Fire now,” the sergeant bellowed. “Fire!”

There was the expected eruption rippling across the line of barrels, deafening to the ear. The reload was faster than had been practiced, and the second volley came soon after. And a third. 

What was not expected was that the line of horse did not grow smaller. 

It only shone brighter in the midday sun.

Fuckin hells

It was one thing to know of the paladin. It was another to face them in a battle. Dorn’s heart sank as he watched the paladins crash into his line of gunners, hands and swords blazing.

The sergeant fired his pistol a final time and drew his saber.

-

Telgus Varn watched as the man in the black and red charged toward him, sword held high. In another time, another age, perhaps he would have admired this courage.

Be stopped

The Light ripped the dragoon from his saddle, tossing him onto the dirt below, his horse continuing on for a few more confused strides.

Be gone

The horse turned and fled faster than it had come.

The paladin dismounted, and watched the dragoon gamely try to rise to his feet, eyes searching vainly for his sidearm. The paladin put his own blade back on belt, walking towards him with slow, deliberate steps.

His arm and hand rose to shoulder height, then extended out, his mind grasping, then wielding, face still and calm.

Serene.

“The Light shines over Karsbrad,” the paladin said, though the sergeant would not hear it as he burned, from the inside out.

“Shines eternal.”

[sons-of-strom]

The Castellan

Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot, "Homme en armure, dit aussi", 1870

“Agastos, son, we’ve got to have a talk.”

There were long faces on the footmen, and one of the northerners held his head in his hands. 

“Got word the Grand Marshal’s dead. The whole of the army too. It’s done, there’s no Lordaeron left to fight for.”

He wasn’t sure what to say to this, so he nodded, and waited.

“Agastos… Lord Gade’s going to need you home.”

“What about you?” The boy already knew what the man had decided, but his heart still had hope.

“Cynar said…” The castellan rubbed his rough bearded chin. “Said he wants to hold the bridge, give these people a chance.”

These people, these Lordaeronians that had fled their own son and heir. Fled through the rolling hills that met the plains of the south, to this town.

The last one that flew the banner blue. 

“This road meets the one to the king’s wall. If they can make it there, and Trollbane’s men still hold it… it’s not much of a chance, but, shit. Give ‘em something. Hope, if that's all it is.”

“What about you…”

The old knight gently put a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“A man is his word, Aggie. And Cynar was right to say what he said. He might be a northerner, but he’s one of us… we sons of Strom.” The knight smiled as he said it, a sad smile but proud. 

“This fight is ours, and we’ll give it what we have.”

[dog-in-a-doublet]

Holger Drachmann, "Sunset on a January day at Skagen", 1907

[sons-of-strom]

Out with the Tides

Previously

Montague Dawson A Night at Sea

The knight stood on the Falconer’s deck, the dampness of the night clinging to his skin. A place and feeling dark, but not unfamiliar. 

Even in death, with her sail stripped and masts shorn, he knew what she once was, and he felt a sense of sadness, and shame, for what she had become.

For a moment he remembered the sound—the smell—of cannonry, of death, of guns firing at orc, at demon. 

At human.

The better days.

The knight lifted that heavy helm off his matted hair, giving himself a moment’s rest. A moment to breathe easier, to let the mind consider.

It would be only that moment, though, for he could now see a lantern swinging, dousing the deck with the faintest light. A lantern drawing closer, with boots he could hear and faces he could almost see.

Two men of the Admiralty’s Prison Service, in overcoats with too many buttons, one with a sidearm he could see belted, the other a saber with a guard too fanciful for his station, swinging loosely.

His eyes were caught by the blade and the metal, and moved too slowly to the details of the face, the one with reddish brown hair and familiarly haggard look.

The one who knew exactly who he was.

As the two locked eyes, the knight knew the play was over. 

It was time to dance.

Ashvane.

That’s what Harken would have shouted, but the knight was too fast, a crossbow in hand, a bolt in flight before that thought became words.

The watch officer stumbled back, and the knight closed in, fist connecting with skull, knocking the man down.

He pivoted, aiming the weapon at the other, at a young face laden heavy with fear.

“Son,” the knight began, speaking now with the confident drawl of a backwood sheriff. “Promise you’ll see the sun rise one more time, at the least… just keep those hands empty, those feet quiet, and your words in your pocket.”

He took a slow, steady step forward, seeing if his warning would be heeded.

The guard ran.

The knight cursed as his finger pulled again, the bolt flying faster than the runner could run, and he fell, bones colliding, scraping against the Falconer’s skin.

Behind him, he could hear the pained groan of the watch officer, and he met the eyes of the wizard as he pulled himself onto the deck . 

“Do something about him,” the knight roared, heavy hands struggling to load the crossbow again, and the wizard obeyed, desperate fingers clutching and ripping open a scroll from his belt, spell slowly forming as the letters tumbled off the page. Ice rose from the deck, a glacier that slowly covered, choked and silenced.

But only the one.

From the far end of the ship, they heard the sound of the ship’s bell, tolling once and again. And again.

And again.

“Well,” the knight said. “Guess we’re takin’ the fuckin’ ship.”

[sons-of-strom]

Out with the Tides

In the deepest black lies what remains of the sea priestess. 

Cold iron binds her wrists, her neck.

A voice that sang has long been silent.

Once kind eyes have been dulled, staring at nothing, into nothing.

Hands that held, hands that mended, sit idle.

A heart and soul that loved.

Gone.

But something still lingers, something yet defies.

In what remains of the sea priestess, a fire begins to burn.

William Adolphus Knell The Old Hulk 

The Falconer sat in the harbor below, a survivor of the Blood War but not the afterward. 

In life, she had been the pride of her people, a towering lady-o-war whose roar shook the waves, and sowed terror in her enemies.

She had braved—survived—the cannonry of the Horde, from sea and sky. 

But bravery alone was no match for the treasurer’s quill, and she was struck down, the admiralty board failing to come to her defense. 

Condemned, to a fate unwanted, unearned.

Now she lay in the shallows, stripped of all beauty and adornment. A slow death, rotting away, like so much else on Kul Tiras.

-

“Should have let ‘er sink,” said the old sailor, in between puffs of smoke. “Dredgin’ it up, ain’t right. Like a dog that can’t see or walk.”

The woman in the brown robe shrugged, rubbing her shoulders as the wind whipped the cliffs. 

“Would you rather the pretender spend the people’s coin on another prison? I’ve nothing kind to say about most of their ideas, but turning that,” she said, gesturing down at the hulk. “Turning that into cells is almost clever. And cheaper than hiring masons.”

The sailor shrugged and grunted his disagreement, but the cold seemed to finally buy his silence.

–

Around the fire sat the dozen that had been chosen. Cold faces watching the flames dance, most metal-clad but some not. There was the old sailor, in a knitted cap and worn but warm overcoat, and the two in robes, each with dirtied blonde hair kept neat. The woman in brown and the man in the wear of the sea priest, worn with a novice’s unfamiliarity.

Further along the cliffs, the knight in blue and silver and steel stood watch, eyeglass pressed tightly to bone, sturdy frame braced against the wind, unmoving.

Some of the faces watched the watcher, others waited. Some moved closer to the fire’s warmth, but the warmth was no ward against impatience.

Against fear.

As dusk drew ever closer, the knight finally abandoned his post, hands clapping shut the eyeglass, and then carefully capping it.

At the fire, some stood up, others sat and watched with interest. 

One spoke.

“What’s the word, boss man?” The marine’s call wavered in the wind, and the knight did not answer, though he drew ever closer, heavy strides quickened by purpose.

As he came into full view, the knight stopped, and breathed deeply, closing his eyes. 

“Feel that, men?”

He opened his eyes to confused silence, and grinned.

“It’s freedom… freedom makes sail tonight.”

-

The plan was a good one, as good as could be made. And he had explained it well, pieces and reasons lined up on parade.

He could sense, though, with each etching in the sand, each delicate instruction, he was losing his hold.

The war had been lost, but he was asking them to fight yet another battle. 

An ask some wished they could turn away.

“I see doubt on faces,” said the knight, putting his hands together. “Doubt like the tide, always there, always comin’ in and goin’ out.”

He paused.

“But the tide is what we work with, sometimes with what we fight, by stone or by spell. And if we fight tonight, it is not on violence’s behalf, but to unmake the wrong. We come here, with righteous cause that we will make deed.”

The settling dark made it hard to see faces, but he could hear the shifting of booted feet, hands clasping.

The sermon continued.

“But even what is righteous can be made ugly…  if they, on that ship, choose ugly, if their lives are the cost—of the job, of keeping yours—you take as many as need demands.”

“But we are spendin’ none of these lives here tonight,” the knight said, in a voice that betrayed no uncertainty, green eyes shining with determination. “We will free them, we will take them, but our book stays black.”

-

They couldn’t see the other boats in the water, now. It was just the knight, the hedge wizard, and the old sailor at the tiller, and the faint splash of wood meeting water, and again.

The knight leaned into the oars, strength and intention making up for a form imperfect. Breaths became heavy, as did cuirass and cuisse, but he continued, ignoring the weight, the sweat.

The Falconer grew ever larger, that dead carcass looming in and over the dark, and the knight began to pause, a stroke at a time, turning his neck to try and see, but there was nothing, no light, movement, nor sound.

Can’t be afraid now. 

She wouldn’t.

The old sailor’s glance warned him to slow, and he did, their wake turning into a slow trickle and then barely anything at all. 

They were close, now, close enough to see the scars, close enough to hear the groans. Close enough to reach out, and touch.

Touch the ladder that was where it was expected.

Now’s the time for words.

He took a deep breath and then bellowed with all the force left in his plated chest.

“Permission to come aboard!”

The moment stretched on too long for comfort, just long enough for doubt. From doubt’s font seeped myriad futures, and the knight gamely fought to stay in the present, gripping the gunwale tightly enough to cause pain.

“Who’s down there?”

It was a reply sharp and sudden, but one that was welcomed.

“Tideguard Wellson,” the knight said, his voice twisting, contorting itself in an effort to sound more Tirasian and less like his own.  “Here on Council business. Prisoner transfer. Got the orders signed and sealed, by my shrine and your warden.”

“I’ve not been informed about this,” came the guarded reply. “You said these are the warden’s orders?”

“Aye, Warden Celia’s. By mark, seal, and ink.”

“… Warden Celia’s been relieved of her duties. I’ve instruction to disregard any orders in her name.”

The boat swayed as the knight shifted, staring above, squinting to see if he could pair a face with the voice.

“Council speaks what the sea demands,” he finally replied, his shout firm and commanding. “Understand what you’ve been told, but there’s no leavin’ this task undone.”

There was a long pause before an uncertain answer.

“… I’ll need to get the watch officer. Stay as you are, Tideguard.”

The voice disappeared, and soon with it the lantern’s light.

The knight took hold of the ladder, and made a first, certain step onto the bottom rung.

“Boss?”

The hedge wizard watched as the knight continued his climb.

“Boss? He said to wait.”

The knight stopped, swinging his body outwards for a moment, looking down before he spoke.

“Time waited is time wasted. Don’t have enough as is. Asides, you’re a tidesage now, brother. You answer to a power higher than law. And law knows it.”

“Knows it either bends or gets broken.”

The knight grabbed the next rung. And the next, sidearms swaying as he climbed further into the dark.

The hedge wizard rubbed his hands, shaking his head.

“Mama, give me some good luck,” he said.

The black water below gave no reply.

To be continued...

(An honest promise this time)

[mozelledeliond]

We Made Our Peace With Weariness

A dull click sounded the latching shut of the case, everything inside still perfectly intact from the trip and in its assigned place.

Despite everything that had transpired, the Tournament of Ages would proceed as scheduled — not hell, not high water, not even the shattering of the world's crown would bring the festivities to a halt this year.

A heavy, fur-lined coat was tossed over one of the other suitcases—doctors did not travel lightly, when going to such places—ready to be donned when it was time to step out to the cold beneath a shattered sky Mozelle could find no words for.

It only made their chest ache to behold the sight, made something twist in the pit of their stomach.

How the Argents could stay beneath it for so long without going into a frenzy, Mozelle could not begin to fathom. Perhaps it came with the territory of raising a tournament ground during the war against the Lich King — already driven to madness, worry not about the sky itself shattering above their heads.

It felt something beyond just strange.

Still, Mozelle was there.

Perhaps for longer than the week the Tournament of Ages would run for. Things were still messy from... everything. Scourge, Cultists of the Damned, any number of deathly patrons and benefactors...

Perhaps.

[frrrozi]

Commission for @dog-in-a-doublet, thank you! ❤️

[foxglovethings]

LOOK AT OUR KIDS IM GONNA BLOW UP

[foxglovethings]

Mary with her hair up and her pair of scars visible. One is a bullet wound and the other is a chomp.

[atvir]

Crossing the Threshold, Part 1 - Day 3

(Full image found here [Haven: Maker Outpost])

I close my eyes monetarily as I begin to walk upon seas of green, rolling hills, and trees that dance and twine the branches between another, creating a canopy where the effervescent light pierces the cracks not protected by wood. Creatures of great mystery catch my attention for a moment, but I cannot ascertain their intent. Yesterday was reinforcement of the lesson that trouble can come without warning in the Dream. I take in the scents of what is around me...the flaming rose is still present, and such is all I care for at this time.

Suddenly, I see all matter of flora and fauna scatter away from the center of the field I am in. Soon after, I can sense a flow of magic surging towards me.

With no time to even react, the source is already present. A blast of wind expels away from its stopping point, carrying a strong gust that billows the grasses and nearly knocks me over. A loud groan emits from the branch, taking form of a giant hand. I am quite concerned; what do I make of this? My prior days have been polar opposites of each other. However, to learn is to grow, and I must move forward to understand.

I sit on the hand, which then closes its fingers ever so slightly. I unsling the staff from my back and rest it on my shoulder as I sit upon the wooden palm. I give a nod as the arm recoils at an incredible speed. It is difficult to determine how fast this is going, but I can tell you that the venture it took me on was a long one. I sat in thought, thinking of the wonders I have seen, the uneasiness I have felt, and all other trivialities within and without this journey. Most of all, however, I was wondering what would be presented to me. The burning of talandra’s rose just exits my periphery of smell and is replaced with the incredibly familiar scent of camphor set alight.

All but the hand has receded into the earth as a door is presented to me. It is of a remarkable oak, trimmed with various hues of brown as if to represent various stages of its life. Whatever the source, it has withstood the test of time.

I step towards the door and observe tendrils of blue-white energies following the patterns effortlessly, as if skittering over the trimmings in its own improvised dance. I follow them down only to realize that there is a handle and lock made of silver, sizable enough for me to use. A lock. The Oak?

This seems almost too inviting, but doors are made to be opened. I reach down to the handle and the door contorts away, barring me from entry. The stirrings of energy that felt like a tranquil calm have been replaced with something of unease.

I am growing concerned as the tingling in the back of my head dampens further than before.

As the door warps to avoid my touch, I take in a waft of horrible smells - a macabre dance of mulched plants, poisonous fungus, decomposition, those that are associated with decay. The energy begins to feel sickly. I start to feel this too.

The staff I am carrying slumps down towards the earth as my opened hands are now facing the door. I blink. These are not my hands.

Tendrils of a sticky, blackened yellow spray out from these...my fingers towards the door, canvassing my view with the patterns of an unnatural, foul web. What was once a web transforms into something even worse, as strands of pure black take over the original hue. These expand further outward as the blackness proliferates with tentacles, appearing with a scale-like pattern. Following on cue, barbs spawn from the appendages, which dance violently between colors. The yellow ichor from before drips from the razors.

As I bear witness to the ascendance of this decay, the door is destroyed with a blast of unnatural flame. Beyond the decay, only the stirring blues once covering the gate remain. A feeling of gluttonous satisfaction takes over the sickness I had mere moments ago.

The tingling in the back of my head dampens further than before.

Before I can react to such an affront to nature, to the Oak, my hands are my own, and the image evaporates. I collapse to my knees as my hands clutch the grass in front of me. I wish to say something, cry, feel anything. Alas, I cannot.

I sigh. The aroma of burning camphor is no more. Thus, I utter the only word to be spoken of this day.

“Telana”.

I feel the great pull as my Dream self takes a corporeal form. I am entering the earth. I hit the mirror’s glass.

I open my eyes. I am now awake in the Tel’Andu Barrow Den.

(Huge thank you to @weslynnegoldmeadow for giving me something to write regarding the Sacred Oak for this!)

(Other parts/days are below)

Preparation

Day 1

Day 2

[foxglovethings]

Evain ( @kissingplants ) is Team Relax for STVBB this year!

[lanerakes]

Wow, has it really been one year since we opened the Filthy Warg? Sure has! Which means next month we’ll be extra large. But this month? This month is sangria month.

When: 9pm MG/7pm WrA Where: The Raven’s Flock Tavern, Boralus Anchors: Just whisper Laneval or Abighail on MoonGuard for an invite!

[dog-in-a-doublet]

Say hi to my friends!

[foxglovethings]

Time for Lunar Fest. Evain’s ( @kissingplants ) favourite.

[kissingplants]

The Long Path Revisited

Darkness had come over the forest, and all was silent save for the fluttering of bat wings and careful footsteps of night hunters. There was no moon to show the long path between the mountains. There was no breeze to rally the chorus of branches and their few clinging leaves. There were only the stars and the memory of a road that hugged the great grey rocks growing like teeth from the jaws of Drustvar.

There was a den at the end of that path; a home for a Thornspeaker who called himself Gandril of Thorns. He was old, the first time they met. A stout man built for the winter, with milky eyes and a beard that reached his belly. Gnarled fingers still held traces of faded blue ink, the patterns smudged beyond translation by the cruel, cold years of Kul Tiras. He was a good man. An honest man who parted with knowledge and aid to any who came to see him.

And he was dead.

His body had been unattended for some time, though it looked though he anticipated his passing. He was slumped over himself at the edge of the cool clear well that fed a spring trickling down the mountain side, one hand open and filled with dirt, a sprouting sapling, and the other clutching a well-worn sickle. Weeds and flowers sprouted from his flesh and eyes and nose; the greedy earth already reclaiming those that asked to borrow from its plenty. It had not been that long since his death. These seeds were planted knowingly.

Evain knelt by the spring, eyes the colour of marigolds half-lidded and downcast, a gloved hand covering her nose to mask the stench of decay. She’d come to give thanks to the druid of thorns. To tell him all that had happened since they first met, and the beauty of the growth that he himself allowed in the Wetlands from afar. 

Winter takes too much, she thought, especially this winter. Would his soul find its way to a good home beyond the veil, as it should? Would he be awarded a life tending to these mountains in the Emerald Dream, as all of nature’s guardians should? Or would he be consumed by the sucking emptiness of the maw, and languish there until his spirit broke, and shattered, and was lost?

The water was biting cold, even through her glove, and clearer than any looking glass. Fitting, she thought, that the progenitor of life should be so pure at the sanctuary of a druid. And fitting that the Thornspeaker would choose to die beside it as a Kul Tiran, whose spirits are carried by the current out to sea. Evain hoped this current would take its time.

“Please,” she spoke quietly, to no one, to the trees, to the sky and stars and the world itself, “If ever there was a time for souls to linger… please let this be it.”

Morning would come as comfortably as it always did; a slow rise of pink and orange and blue against the black wash of night. Birds heralded its arrival, and their cries roused the other creatures of the great wide wood, and the men and women who lived beneath its bows. The sun would cast long shadows over the mountains and into the groves below until it reached the den of a druid, sleeping, gone, remembered. And life moved on with one less person in it.

[im---deleted]

Autumnhearth: a rugged, beautiful land gifted with fertile valleys and lush forests. This beauty is unfortunately entwined with horror both hidden and overt. The woods are plagued with fell influence, and the caverns beneath hold yet more threats. Ever so surely, this land decays as dark powers rot it from within.

Hope still remains for this isolated region, lying with a small band of heroes determined to restore it. As they journey these mist-shrouded valleys and cursed forests, they will contend with the consequences of ancient sins and right old wrongs. River, Forest, Mountain- the three sisters must be restored. 

Photos:Johannes Plenio, Jessica Furtney, Eberhard Grossgasteiger

[levigosa]

Lithraea Wavebreaker 

by @the-zombee-cat as a patreon reward

Gift for @dog-in-a-doublet

[the-other-roseshadow]

Confrontations

Keerian let out a grunt as he struck a final blow against the wooden dummy before him, causing splinters to shoot out in all directions, one catching the elf in the neck. The shock of having been hit back by the dummy caused him to pause in his onslaught against the wooden targets. A hand rose to his neck and plucked out the large splinter, earning itself a scowl before being flicked off to the side. 

He had blindly stormed his way back to Stormwind after his confrontation with John at the bar. It was the first time he was actually able to tell him how he felt about the man. Any other attempts, employment was held over his head by the Duchess, and though he didn’t need the job with Anchor Trading, he did need the people that Ciralin had come to know, and a few of those she hadn’t met yet. 

Keep reading

[strawberdii-art]

Lithraea Wavebreaker

First Mate of the Golden Banana

100% BAMF

For @dog-in-a-doublet