Kaerlic Ironshield. Noble, Duelist, Gentleman.

IC and Aesthetic blog for Kaerlic Ironshield, Captain of the Grey Maiden.

[foxglovethings]

Shields for @abighail-stalsworth / @elaianna and @kaerlic-ironshield

[lavender-melancholy]

ig: matialonsor

[fagflint]

pirates really had it going on man...... high waisted skinny jean lookin ass pants........ loose fitting and often deep cut shirts........ tall boots.... the belts.... swords....... long hair a lot.......... where did it all go........

[valorensails]

@kaerlic-ironshield​

[captainflirt]

“The Crescent Moon” by Montague Dawson (detail). Source: Sotheby’s

[lanerakes]

Two Birds

It was a Gilneas hardly remembered; long ago, before the great grey wall went up and split their kingdom from its fringes like a giant’s arm with a gate of bones at the elbow. They’d fight a war over it, much later, but even the grumblings at court over Lordaeron and its orcish problem couldn’t have foreseen that. And their children, though they’d suffer the brunt of it, saw even less, and only through the eyes of their equally grey parents.

Lord Karfrost seldom came into the city. They lived along what would become the border, in the woods, and there would be some distress from his house about their lands being split. But for now they were simply far from civilization, and came only to attend court or festivities or urgent calls, and when they did they sat in the Cathedral for the weekly sermon, and were made to be quiet.

Lady Karfrost, quiet with her dark hair and sharp blue eyes, had more than a few children to look after. Erec was a toddler with stubby legs and wet eyes, and Evain, though mirroring the countenance of her mother, was little more than two herself. Women would gather toward the end of mass with their little ones and trade stories and favours and tips, welcome or otherwise, for the youngest of them.

Older children were released from hymns and lectures and the tall wooden beams and uncomfortable pews of the cathedral and set to play in the courtyard that spilled into the harbor on their own. Not too far, Lane. His father’s voice was whiskey coarse. The docks are no place for a lad your age.

Keep reading

[lanerakes]

The Hours

There had been, at one point, a request for a vacation. When was that, not? Two weeks ago? Two months? First it was to Netherstorm, or… to the Storm Peaks, or storm something. Then it was to Ardenweald beyond the veil of death, to see the great trees and the spirals of stars caught in their canopies. A chance to explore something never meant to be explored by humans, not that he was fully human. A secret for those whose wicks outlived their flames.

And when had Arlys passed? Was that weeks too, or months? When had the last report of scourge breaching the city gates come across his desk? When was the last time he’d seen one with his own eyes?

Time moves differently in the Shadowlands. Kaerlic held a glass of whiskey with his pinky out; some remnant of their upbringing. Life at sea scrubbed a man to his bones and left him bare and new and touched by the sun and surf, but there he was, ginger-haired and smiling with his mouth only, holding a glass in such a painfully Gilnean way it almost made the man beside him laugh. Strange, what little things the mind chose to focus on.

Feels like I’ve been away for months. He sounded like Evain. She’d come home the night before at the behest of her captain. To see the funeral, she said, though when the time came she stood back among the trees by his squire, and said nothing, and left the way she came.

Distant, like little ghosts, like dust in the haze of a sunny afternoon. Like the drowsiness of a spot by the fire, or the hum of summer bugs between the grass. They knew something he didn’t now. They held some firmer grasp of things, some missing piece of a puzzle he couldn’t even see. Kaerlic’s voice, a bow against strings that normally calmed him, set him in a state of unease. 

Fingers twitched against glass.

Maybe that’s just the way it would be, moving forward. Abby wanted to expand the business. She wanted a busier port and bigger trade, with more ships and more captains and a face a smile at every market between Stormwind and Northrend. She was ready for the hall to be built and all the little bumps and bruises to yellow, and fade, and be gone forever. Maybe Amelia’s hand would mend. Maybe the land in Westfall would be successful, and every tenant who lived there would be happy and healthy and safe, unaware of the men and women whose blood paid for its occupancy.

Maybe the world moves on, whether you’re ready or not.

Well. Lane down the last of his drink and set the empty glass on the bar. Only thing left to do is get ready.

[lanerakes]

Expectation

There was a quiet in Ardenweald unlike any other. A comfortable hush of whispered voices under a blanket of starry nights, reflecting off impossibly clear water and sinking into soil so rich and good it would be the envy of anywhere on Azeroth. Great arching roots and the spirals of branches tangled with constellations swirling overhead, lulling wandering souls into a dreamy stupor beneath their yawning canopies.

Lane was one of them, sitting in a form unusual to him by a pool of still water not far from Claw’s Edge. He’d been told to experience it in his worgen form. How much more natural it felt, devoid of rage and hunger and the need to run and breathe and move. An exploration of rest with paws and claws bigger than a human head. Clarity for the mind and soul.

Little nightmares lingered there still, just at the corners of his vision. Grabbing hands wrapped in rotting flesh, muscle dripping from bleached bone. The unmistakable stench of rot that travelled with the scourge and forsaken alike, not that there was any difference in that mingling of memory. Exposed teeth and hollow eyes, hair that fell away in clumps. The sudden sharpness of their claws and the threat of exposure. His brother pulled apart in the middle of a golden field.

The fear that kept him awake was quiet too, even if the lingering remnants were not. He slept easily on a bed of leaves, comforted by the fur covering his body. It was the first time he hadn’t had a drink before bed in a decade. A sliver of tranquility among the rampant shit of the waking, living world, free from the responsibilities waiting for him back in Stormwind and peppered with Abby’s pleas for them to take a break and explore. Live, she said, as if he teetered on the brink of death more thoroughly than the rest of them.

But that wasn’t his draw. He was good at dice and lucky with cards, blessed by a luck he must have shared with his childhood friend, shielded from that finality regardless of the world around them. The burden of survival. And what was worse: To live lavishly, indulging in a world that rejected those who stood beside you? Or to put your heart into making it better for those left standing, even if it meant a stretch of misery longer than the shore?

He would have praised indulgence when he was younger. Hell, he would have praised it a year ago, and happily spent his nights bruised and bloodied in whatever bar let him stay latest. Funny how much can change in a year.

Lane pulled himself to his feet with a groan, feeling the stiffness in his joints that came with too many birthdays and straightening the soft cotton of his Gilnean tabard. Other people could take a break. Other people could explore and drink and laugh and party as much as they wanted, and he wouldn’t hold a bit of it against them. But there was work to be done, and with survival came expectations and duties he could not ignore.

The lord of the house turned on his feet and shifted back to a form more comfortable, relishing in a lingering sharpness in his ears and eyes and nose, up the beaten paths of Ardenweald toward Oribos and the shimmering portals ripped open to the realm of the living. To Stormwind. To home.

[paladad]

“I want you all to know that it’s very dangerous to face the Drust, and seldom few have ever come back from this. If you decide not to enter the portal, no one will hold it against you.”

The world around them is in ruins. His people injured. Himself too. The portal opens with a crack; a great light seeping out onto the land. They are quick to flood in, away from the bird and the rot and the evil at their heels. But Campbell falters.

He has a life here. A child. Few others of the Foxrun can say that. Was he just meant to leave them? Evain had said…

It doesn’t matter. The bird makes the choice for him. He’s turning to regard Mozelle, still here with him, when Sparrowhawk launches itself towards the portal, one talon reaching out to rip him through with them. 

There’s a terrible pain and then, as quickly as it starts… Nothing. He feels… nothing. A cold and empty desolation swaddling him and pulling him through. And then, with a flash of blinding light, he feels everything.

Every pain and agony he has ever suffered suddenly multiplied tenfold, caving in on top of him one after the next after the next. His fears and wants and cravings and awful desires, seeping blood red fingers into his chest and pulling his essence from within; feeding on it. Gorging themselves full.

Campbell sees himself and all selves of him that might have ever existed, floating in the endless dark. Each of them tortured for sins he has never seen transpired. Campbell sees his wife and his child and his dog… Oh he never asked someone to take care of the dog… Hopefully the staff at the Hall will take care of her…

He closes his eyes. Breathes. And opens them again to warm light. Sun. Wind. The ground beneath him is soft. Lush. Endless rolling fields.

“What… where…where am I?” he groans, managing to sit up; his arm held against his chest. Still injured. “Captain?” he calls, struggling to his feet. “Lady Evain? Where…”

Campbell’s cutoff at the sound of beating wings. Deafeningly loud but not painful. No. Reassuring. A great being, blue and shining and shimmering against the light; wings of white and gold.

“Do not fear, mortal,” the great creature calls. Voice melodic and calm. “Welcome… to Bastion.”

[theodorebennas]

Defenders of Stormwind- Foxrun Hall operating the Filthy Warg

@abighail-stalsworth @mozelledeliond @wrahaleth @ameliarabon @brandstonethings @foxglovethings 

Thanks for making the pre-launch event fun!

[foxglovethings]

Thanks Teddy! <3

[abighail-acquati]

<3<3<3

[kaerlic-ironshield]

People Die

And in the end, that is to be expected. This would not be the last loss, and it sure as hell wasn't the first.

Everyone knew their dangers, and everyone was at threat of a similar demise. This had happened time and time again, and there was so little to be unexpected.

He had a bad feeling going into it. His expressions were cold and focused, a skill practiced for decades in the face of failures and regrets. That coldness would keep the majority of the pain from spreading, from leaving the pit in his stomach and infesting his body entirely. The pain would swell into his clenched jaw and his tense hands, into the knees he focused on keeping high as he walked through the night. It would, still, find his hands and force them to cling to his hair and chest, force them to batter himself and bruise the body.

He barely knew the lost. But he knew what it was to lose a brother. There were frustrations for those that became casualties, angers that if shown to others would portray themselves as hostile and unacceptable. Perhaps even intimidating. But the true core, the maelstrom that stirred long settled chances to feel something, was made from guilt and empathy for the survivor of the family. That was a pain he knew all too well, and a pain he was going to have to watch a dear friend or two go through all the same.

The walk back to the office would slow, every moment filled with the mind's hands reaching out to grasp all those pieces loosened by the shaking of the world beneath the Captain's feet. A few sips of banana rum fueled the effort to contain the fires, and an adjustment to his ponytail while staring into the probably infected waters of the city's pond would take but a few long moments. By the time he'd return it would be back to business. He would do what must be done, and perhaps so others did not have to do it at all.

[dagasii]

Lend a Hand?

Adrenaline and shock are wonderful things, and Tides knew Amelia was coming off the tipping point of the latter when the sun rose Friday morning. Adrenaline had left her long ago, leaving her with an arm that throbbed and pulsed with pain. Shock was still grappling on.

The sky was clouded, to the point that Amelia couldn't see the colors that dawn normally brought as she stared out the office window. She rested upon her left arm, propped up just enough to see. Nothing outside.

Her right arm throbbed, but considering the damage that had been done to it the night prior, Amelia would be more shocked if it didn't. After all, when Abby had started upon it, it'd been all but shredded, thick gashes criss-crossed across her skin. With Abby's help, the skin was paper-thin… but healed. Amelia wasn't gushing blood, and that was what mattered. Who cared about scarring, or the fact that the injury was caused by an ultimately fruitless effort to save someone's life, but surprise! It didn't matter because he was still ripped apart by ghouls before her very eyes even as she reached for him again?

Obviously no one cared about that.

She was glassy-eyed, shuffling through the office like a zombie in her own right. She'd get up, make tea, go on patrol, come back, stand watch, head to classes, come back, stand watch again, and repeat. It was all she could do. If she wasn't at school, she was standing watch. Four days since the invasion began and she was on seven hours of sleep. Eight? Seven or eight.

She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and picked up a kettle to boil water in… only for it to slip right through her fingers. It clattered across the floor, and she hissed sharply through her teeth, praying to every deity she could name that it didn't wake anyone.

She stooped as it came to a rest, lifting it again with her bandaged arm. And again, it fell through her fingers. She couldn't hold it, couldn't grip it tight enough. That didn't make sense. Last night, she'd been able to function fine enough to write her letter, wrap it in a bottle, and send it off without any trouble.

Except not. Vaguely, she remembered dropping the bottle, over and over again, and having to cork it between the table and her left hand. She'd been too shell-shocked to recognize the obvious muscular damage underneath her mostly-healed skin. Figured she was just tired.

Oddly, Amelia found herself not caring. Or maybe she was just forcing herself to suppress it. But… The left hand was her dominant one anyway, she could get by with a weak right hand. And besides, after what happened last night, who gave a fuck about Amelia's hand?

Looking at it, she felt a twinge of something in the pit of her stomach, felt herself tear up as her vision blurred.

Okay, maybe Amelia cared a little about Amelia's hand.

[the-moonlit-keeper]

Infirmary Visits

Fadoma stirred, slowly opening her eyes and taking in the din of the room around her. It didn't take long for the pain in her sides to remind her why she was here, rather than nestled up with the chickens of Foxrun. The smell of antiseptic stung her nose and she rolled onto her side, using an arm as a shield to the potent stench. The last time she had awoken in the infirmary in Stormwind was after Teldrassil.

A lump caught in her throat, as the imagery of burning elves collided with the mess of scourge battled earlier that evening. She pushed the pads of her fingers against her thumb, trying to bring any other feeling back into her hand outside of the sickening sensation she felt as Arlys had died. Her hands had been connected with the earth, she could feel every living thing surrounding her. She felt life leave. Again.

It was all happening again.

A great event that shakes the core of Azeroth, condemning lives to an early grave, or worse, to be brought back as a mindless minion to supply an endless army. The parallels were gut wrenching as she considered it.

The Kaldorei leaned over the edge of the bed and grasped for a bucket, as the contents of her last meal emptied inside of it.

How many times has she seen this happen? How many more times until it would stop bothering her? Her long life was a curse, and she despised it.

Fadoma rolled onto her back once more and stared at the ceiling blankly, eyes glazing over and her lips pulling into a frown. Despite being so tired and drained, she was restless. Sleep eluded her for the rest of the night as her thoughts wandered, counting all the faces she could not save.

[phy-the-pestilent-parade]

Your Favorite and Only Brother

“Sorry friend, I know you only just arrived…” Lindsey growled to himself, and adjusted the sight on his rifle with a steady hand that was more callus than not. The ghoul in his scope hobbled through the gardens behind the cathedral, and bumped into a stone bench. The evil thrall of the scourge swiped at the bench and let out a “BREAGH!” before turning to head in another direction. “But we ain’t got no room fer the likes of you ‘mongst us fine livin’ folk’.” He exhaled a plume of cigar smoke and pulled the trigger. The ghoul’s head exploded like a rotten fruit and the body collapsed, arms flailing weakly in its death throes. The woodsman watched the heap of flesh and bones until it stopped moving entirely, and then sat up straight and propped his rifle up. 

Keep reading

[alder-and-cedarwood]

w a r d u n a

[leeshalocks]

♡ sea lockscreens  ♡

feel free to use maybe like/reblog if you do, please don’t repost

[oldfuzzywizard]

Mister Cho

From the purple skies on the watery horizon, dawn reached across the sea, creeping over the hills and rocks of the island. The mists of the morning stood defiant against the warmth of the sun, but it still slowly gave way. The earliest song birds orchestrated their melody this tiny corner of the world their only audience.

SCREEEEEE

Four hulking reptiles skittered after a fleeing gnome. The short male gnome tried to out pace his saurok attackers, but there was little hope of that. The gnome huffed as he approached the two boulders which could provide momentary illusion of safety. He managed to pass between the rocks, and continued his running. The attackers grew closer as they followed between the rocks, narrowing to a foot on each side.

THUNK!

The lead saurok skidded in the sand, a feathered stick sprouted from its chest. On the other end of the arrow, just below the head, a small blue apparatus beeped. The blue eruption of electricity shot out in all directions, engulfing the lizard beasts, until they simultaneously dropped to the ground.

“Really waited until the last second with that one Mister Cho.” The gnome shouted to a figure standing atop the nearby hill. 

Mister Cho, a pandaren with a fiery mane, returned his bow to his back, the metal plate humming to life as magnetic forces gripped the weapon. “You were fine.” As he approached the gnome, Cho turned his gaze back along their previous path to the spires of pure azerite jutting from the sand. “That was the last of the sauroks, we had better get to work.” 

The gnome plopped into the sand at his feet. “Easy for you to say, you just got to sit and wait. Can’t we just let the extractors figure it out?” 

“We don’t get paid to take breaks, Spraz.” Mister Cho stated flatly, giving the gnome a slight nudge with his foot.

Spraz sighed and hesitated for a moment, “Okay Boomer. OUCH!” A sharp kick instead of a nudge.

“Keep that name to yourself!” 

“What?!” Spraz stood up rubbing where the clawed foot had struck. “Who’s around to hear it that would actually remember you by that name? I guarantee you I could tell every Stormwind sailor on the ship your real name and they wouldn’t know who you- OUCH!” Another kick to the tiny shin. 

Together the questionable companions round the bend to their Alliance, unaware of the invisible eyes and ears in the shadows. Eyes that observed as the two guided heavy machinery and azerite extractors from their vessel and ears that heard every word spoken between the two. 

As the sun soared across the sky, the piles of azerite shrank, chunk by chunk. Gnomish technology burrowed deeper into the ground. Beasts of burden hauled wagons overloaded with the golden blue treasure back to the ships. Boomer and Spraz shifted between the different machines, pulling out their tools to make small touch ups here and there. 

Blue daylight gave way to the orange and yellow hues of evening.. Gnomish lights mounted on poles were erected around the sight. Workers carried their final loads of azerite and tools back to the ship, as fresh peons left their daytime slumber, trading empty hands for the tools of the exhausted first shift. Cho and Spraz lingered a little longer.

“Any second now…” The pandaren mumbled to himself.

CLUNK! VROOVroovroo…. The closest extractor sputtered down as it collapsed off it’s legs. Curses from the workers overtook the sound of a dying engine as smoke drifted from within. Cho only grinned for the briefest of moments before forcing a scowl. “This hunk of shit! Every time the same thing happens.” Cho shouted.

Spraz followed in the gripes, “Captain Brightford just won’t foot the bill to replace it, let’s get it back to the ship. The two barked orders at the various peons, who instead of jumping to action, looked to a dwarven female, but looked to a dwarven female who had previously been studying a heavily marked map. She nodded to the workers who then did as commanded.

The dead extractor was drug through the sand by crews and horses towards the ship. A massive crane hoisted the machine aboard the ship and down into the hold. As all eyes were on the lowering metal hunk, Cho looked down. Seconds before the process was finished, Cho stomped the floor board. No eyes noticed as a section of the floor swung down on a hinge. Once the extractor rested in the hold, most of the crew cleared out, leaving Cho and Spraz alone. 

Cho flipped the switch on the nearby auto-hammer, filling the room with the sound of metal on metal. Spraz started up different motors, adding to the mechanical orchestra. The pandaren pried open a small almost invisible hatch on the side. Inside a single switch. Cho flipped it and replaced the hatch. “Let’s take it easy this time.” He spoke with a new accent as he leaned down to the gnome. “Give it a few hours and we’ll head up to tell them the usual ‘I don’t know how long this time’ crap.” 

Spraz nodded “Looks like it was able to get a pretty good load before the kill switch kicked in, more than what the buyer asked for.” 

The pandaren grinned at this, revealing his faded gold colored tooth. “We’ll hold onto that, build up our personal stock.” He placed a palm on a weathered painted surface. “I s’pose it’s my turn to take it to the drop location.” 

Spraz unleashed a laugh, “It’s about time. You’ve made me do the last five since you started getting spooked thinking some ponytail human is stalking you.” 

“If I get found out, it’s back to the stockades with me, and I doubt I’ll get another chance to blast my way out.” He took his hand off the extractor. “Until we take down the capt’n, my old life needs t’ stay dead.” 

Night had overtaken the island when the sounds of repair died away. Cho stood above deck staring out at the island. He clipped the end off a cigar, letting it drop to the shore. The hidden eyes observed the spark of a match and the soft glow of the tobacco. 

[lifeinpoetry]

              born perpetually lucky or so the story goes

the monsters left their teeth burrowed in my body               those hidden treasures took root in my blood

& luck followed me into the dark picked my bones               into tuning forks

— Laura Villareal, from “(My)thology,” The Cartography of Sleep