For Coin and Combat! @slaughterjaw - Tumblr Blog

#writing prompt #my writing #ic

Prompt: Abandoned Theatre

An abandoned theatre, wood of the stage splintered and broken, the curtains slashed and burned.

An abandoned auditorium wasn’t her first choice, but drenched in the rain and wounded in two places, Celaryn had no choice. She flung the door open and stumbled into the open chamber. The wounded warrior scanned her surroundings.

An ornate piano sat alone on the stage ahead, its only audience were rows of ruined seats. The once bright and proud banners torn apart, by vandals or by age, who can say? Celaryn dragged her feet as she forced herself to move, dropping her weight into one of the seats with a grunt.

She loosened her gauntlet’s straps, revealing her bandaged, porcelain-like hand. The middle and index fingers dangled, half of the sutures undone. Incidents like these were a pain, but they weren’t uncommon. The undead slid a small tin box from one of her waist’s pouches. Peeling the cap open, there laid a spool of red twine, a smattering of disorganized needles, a needle holder, and a pair of short-bladed scissors.

Unwinding a length of twine, a shaky grip was the bane of threading a needle, even more with clunky gauntlets and lack of feeling. Still, Celaryn persisted. After a few minutes of mumbled curses, she’d finally looped the twine through the needle. The stitching process, the Forsaken veteran performed dozens of times. Most of those were on herself, and the remaining few, on the deathguard under her.

Always suture toward yourself. That way, you can see what you’re doing and can control your force.

Thank the Shadow attending the Royal Apothecary Society’s combat medicine lectures were a part of officer training.

Piercing the skin, Celaryn pulled the twine through. She wedged the needle into the gap in her partially-damaged finger and pierced the top part. She continued this process until she could bend the fingertips without them dangling. The resulting zig-zag suture pattern held a morbid elegance as she inspected her work.

With her self-care complete, Celaryn only now noticed the eerie silence of the chamber. No wind. No creaking floorboards. No scurrying rodents. There was only the pattering of rain outside and the lone piano on the stage ahead.

Reflecting on one’s past was a controversial topic among the Forsaken. Yet as Celaryn stared at the piano, she couldn’t help but find herself stepping up to it.

This was useless. She’d been out of practice for decades. Still, that didn’t stop her something within guiding her up the stage’s steps and placing her in the seat. The weary warrior rested her repaired fingers on the dusty keys.

“Play us a song, Cel!”

Celaryn jammed her eyes shut, her gauntlet’s leather palm rising to rub her forehead. An echo of a memory. Thoughts like those were distractions. They’d get you killed. But she fought for no one now. She could entertain those thoughts. The realization was a mixture of melancholy longing and relief.

The undead took a slow inhale through the nose and let her mind wander.

“You’re always the best at it.”

A quel'dorei girl sat at the piano’s seat, legs too short to reach the ground. She shyly scratched at the back of her nape.

Beside her, several friends sat around the pristine piano.

“Just one. Please?”

She could feel the tingling in her stomach as her shaking fingers rose to rest on the keys. Performing before a crowd was a large leap from playing for one’s self. She’d never have this chance again. She needed to do this right the first time.

“I-I’ll try.” The blacksmith’s daughter lifted her soot-covered fingertips to hover over the spotless keys. She held her breath as her pinky and index finger pressed down. Two gentle hammers within descended and tapped two strings. The piano made a soft hum.

Her hand shifted right, playing another pair of delicate note followed by a soft flourish of a third. The rhythm was simple, but joy lifted her up as the graceful sound brightened the faces around her. Muscle memory took over, and she closed her eyes.

Imagined instruments joined her modest song. The rumbling cello was the first, then the second, the empowering organ. Each instrument crescendoed as her rhythm quickened. At the apex, the supporting instruments silenced. The girl’s solo returned to that two-note tune.

Her crimson eyes opened. The faintest hint of smile lifted her scarred lip. Her index and pinky pressed on those two keys.

#afternoon reblog

Prompt: Abandoned Theatre

An abandoned theatre, wood of the stage splintered and broken, the curtains slashed and burned.

An abandoned auditorium wasn't her first choice, but drenched in the rain and wounded in two places, Celaryn had no choice. She flung the door open and stumbled into the open chamber. The wounded warrior scanned her surroundings.

An ornate piano sat alone on the stage ahead, its only audience were rows of ruined seats. The once bright and proud banners torn apart, by vandals or by age, who can say? Celaryn dragged her feet as she forced herself to move, dropping her weight into one of the seats with a grunt.

She loosened her gauntlet's straps, revealing her bandaged, porcelain-like hand. The middle and index fingers dangled, half of the sutures undone. Incidents like these were a pain, but they weren't uncommon. The undead slid a small tin box from one of her waist's pouches. Peeling the cap open, there laid a spool of red twine, a smattering of disorganized needles, a needle holder, and a pair of short-bladed scissors.

Unwinding a length of twine, a shaky grip was the bane of threading a needle, even more with clunky gauntlets and lack of feeling. Still, Celaryn persisted. After a few minutes of mumbled curses, she'd finally looped the twine through the needle. The stitching process, the Forsaken veteran performed dozens of times. Most of those were on herself, and the remaining few, on the deathguard under her.

Always suture toward yourself. That way, you can see what you're doing and can control your force.

Thank the Shadow attending the Royal Apothecary Society's combat medicine lectures were a part of officer training.

Piercing the skin, Celaryn pulled the twine through. She wedged the needle into the gap in her partially-damaged finger and pierced the top part. She continued this process until she could bend the fingertips without them dangling. The resulting zig-zag suture pattern held a morbid elegance as she inspected her work.

With her self-care complete, Celaryn only now noticed the eerie silence of the chamber. No wind. No creaking floorboards. No scurrying rodents. There was only the pattering of rain outside and the lone piano on the stage ahead.

Reflecting on one's past was a controversial topic among the Forsaken. Yet as Celaryn stared at the piano, she couldn't help but find herself stepping up to it.

This was useless. She'd been out of practice for decades. Still, that didn't stop her something within guiding her up the stage's steps and placing her in the seat. The weary warrior rested her repaired fingers on the dusty keys.

"Play us a song, Cel!"

Celaryn jammed her eyes shut, her gauntlet's leather palm rising to rub her forehead. An echo of a memory. Thoughts like those were distractions. They'd get you killed. But she fought for no one now. She could entertain those thoughts. The realization was a mixture of melancholy longing and relief.

The undead took a slow inhale through the nose and let her mind wander.

"You're always the best at it."

A quel'dorei girl sat at the piano's seat, legs too short to reach the ground. She shyly scratched at the back of her nape.

Beside her, several friends sat around the pristine piano.

"Just one. Please?"

She could feel the tingling in her stomach as her shaking fingers rose to rest on the keys. Performing before a crowd was a large leap from playing for one's self. She'd never have this chance again. She needed to do this right the first time.

"I-I'll try." The blacksmith's daughter lifted her soot-covered fingertips to hover over the spotless keys. She held her breath as her pinky and index finger pressed down. Two gentle hammers within descended and tapped two strings. The piano made a soft hum.

Her hand shifted right, playing another pair of delicate note followed by a soft flourish of a third. The rhythm was simple, but joy lifted her up as the graceful sound brightened the faces around her. Muscle memory took over, and she closed her eyes.

Imagined instruments joined her modest song. The rumbling cello was the first, then the second, the empowering organ. Each instrument crescendoed as her rhythm quickened. At the apex, the supporting instruments silenced. The girl's solo returned to that two-note tune.

Her crimson eyes opened. The faintest hint of smile lifted her scarred lip. Her index and pinky pressed on those two keys.

@slaughterjaw || cont. from here

With a wet and heavy thunk, the newly double-deceased scourge soldier falls to the ground. Quickly looting them, Zatna checks if they’ve got anything of use to her; a few silver pieces and a pickaxe but otherwise nothing.

Footsteps echo down the underground tunnels. For just a moment, she spares a glance down the way. The piercing blackness of the underground workspace suited for undead, mindless soldiers doesn’t leave much for her eyes to see. Luckily, however, the soldiers’ eyes glow vaguely with lich frost magic. Unfortunately for her, that same vague glow is nearing the edge of the corner that she came from.

Damnit, she curses, fiddling with the inventory of her bags for a way out. She’s backed up against a wall of an unfinished tunnel with nothing but a frost prince’s plans for alchemic bombs, two swords, several daggers and poisons and food, and chemical samples of-

Oh.

Putting her ear up against the walls of the tunnel, Zatna follows them until she hears noise; buzzing wings. She has never so happy to hear the sound of nerubians before now.

Turning her back against the incoming scorge soldiers to cover the light, Zatna kneels onto the ground and lights a small arcane flame in her hand. She fumbles with the parchment the plans is written on, and then the chemicals, following the instructions and notes carefully. The liquid sputters and bubbles wildly and, when she hurls the vial at the tunnel wall, it explodes. A huge, green-blue cloud of smoke covers the hole and the tunnel she’s in in no time, and, taking her chance, she sneaks through the hole, stealthing in the process.

Snaking through the nerubian tunnels, Zatna eventually finds her way up to the surface. There, she finds a nerubian-blood covered warrior of some description.

“I’m Zatna Mirthheart, and a bunch of scourge have planted explosives in the ground beneath Venomspite,” she introduces herself to the warrior in front of her. “I kind of fell into the operation’s headquarters and had to kill the frost prince in charge and then while escaping I stole the plans and some samples of the chemicals they’re using to make the bombs.”

Looking back for a second, Zatna’s hand clenches around the parchment. “It’s, uh. Rather effective. Blew a hole into the nerubian tunnels to escape.”

A grin spread across her face. “I was never good at the whole formal thing, though catch me calling you Captain Slaughterjaw in jokes. The title has punch and gives off lot of character,” Zatna explained, already imagining the rounds of beers passing between her and Aoaran as she retold the highlights of her time with Celaryn in a more humorous light.

At the question, the humor in Zatna’s eyes was snuffed out. It died as quickly as it came, her eyes settling to look at the snow as they truck along.

Light, she had no idea how to answer that. Not without accidentally revealing that she was technically trespassing and breaking multiple military laws to, what she assumed, was a Deathguard.

Fuck.

Thinning her lips, Zatna looked back up, the golden glow of her eyes hiding the red, sore edges.

“Yes and no,” she admitted. “Fuck the Scourge, and fuck anyone who stands in my way to kill every last one of them. Both the nerubians and the Scourge are dead to me, however I’m not quite reckless enough to rush in and sacrifice an entire town. No amount of vengeance is worth the lives of people who are not in the direct fight themselves, innocent or not.”

Frowning, Zatna thought for a second. Then she snarled, anger fuming at the corners of her mouth: “Oh, and I’ve got an appointment with the Lich King. My blade belongs wedged into his face, and dying before I can return it would be stupid.”

@slaughterjaw

Raw anger and vengeance. The corners of Celaryn’s frost-bitten lip curled into a smile, pleasantly surprised. The Forsaken wanted the Lich King’s head on a pike. It was a unanimous sentiment, one that genuinely did unite them all. Seething anger hot enough to drive one to these frozen wastes and murder all Scourge? It was a refreshing sentiment, one Celaryn shared in spades.

“You’ll have to get in line,” she responded with an amused chuckle, voice cutting through the icy breeze. “Though I can say the Executor shares your murderous sentiment. You can find assurance in that. Ironic that a villain united the efforts of both Alliance and Horde rather than any peace treaty.”

She tirelessly marched on toward Venomspite, sabatons crunching through the snow. It wasn’t far now. The tattered banner depicting the Forsaken Icon of Torment fluttered in the frigid winds atop a watchtower. Its height loomed higher and higher over the two with each step.

“Have you practiced your pitch? Deadly nerubians are scattering explosives underground. You stole the assembly plans and have the chemical recipe, which the Apothecaries will likely study and find a counter or sabotage to make it inert. And from there, we take the fight to the bugs. Was there anything else?”

@once-upon-a-memoir

A grin tugged at the corner of Zatna’s lips, which only served to make her look like someone enjoying a freshly done murder.

“Having one’s people unceremoniously murdered and then revived, no matter who and where you are, does that to you, I suppose,” she said nonchalantly, both shoulders lifting briefly in a somewhat of a sharp tug. The Alliance versus Horde conversation was never a topic Zatna enjoyed, not even remotely; she had her own set of opinions on it, and, as a child, she learned rather quickly that that these opinions are most often not shared.

Now, however, her mind dwelled on something else. A frown dawned her face, memories of her first encounter with the armies of the Scourge rolling through her mind like an extremely uncomfortable Darkfaire ride hurling you into the abyss.

When she blinked and readjusted her posture to look less, well, depressed and absent-minded, Uriel’thos and Itillan’s dead bodies still clung to her vision like ghosts. Mangled, horrible, one of them sword-swinging, ghosts.

“Aside from the fact the Nerubians are as much in danger of blowing up as the rest of us because the Scourge are the ones planting the bombs? No, nothing you missed,” Zatna jokingly poked at the Deathguard, her genuine expression of amusement brightening the moment, even if only for a second. Because, then, Zatna sighed, and said in a serious tone: “But, no, I haven’t planned that far. I don’t plan speeches, they always go worse when I do. Literally blew up an exam once because I prepared too much.”

@slaughterjaw

"You're overthinking it." Celaryn turned over her shoulder to Zatna. "Just tell the Executor what you know, as you understand it, and we will take it from there. I assure you: Talking to him won’t be nearly as stressful as taking a test. Fortunately, he's one of the rare commanding officers that doesn't have a stick up his ass.“

A dry chuckle escapes the undead's cold throat. As the two approach the town. The two deathguard posted at the entrance squint at Celaryn and Zatna as they approach. As the former gets closer, both soldiers straighten their posture and cross their arms in an 'X' shape across their chest in a salute. "Captain," both of them acknowledge.

"At ease,” Celaryn waves dismissively. “No need for the formalities. We have information High Executor Wroth will be interested in hearing.”

One of the deathguard motions over to one of the buildings within the town. “He’s in there. Caught him at a good time. Last I saw, he’s only doing paperwork. No interrogations today.”

Celaryn chuckles. “Rare for him.” With that, she enters the town. As she pauses before the entrance to the Venomspite command center, she turns back to Zatna. "Is there anything else you require before we head inside?"

@once-upon-a-memoir

#zatna #rp #ic

@slaughterjaw || cont. from here

With a wet and heavy thunk, the newly double-deceased scourge soldier falls to the ground. Quickly looting them, Zatna checks if they’ve got anything of use to her; a few silver pieces and a pickaxe but otherwise nothing.

Footsteps echo down the underground tunnels. For just a moment, she spares a glance down the way. The piercing blackness of the underground workspace suited for undead, mindless soldiers doesn’t leave much for her eyes to see. Luckily, however, the soldiers’ eyes glow vaguely with lich frost magic. Unfortunately for her, that same vague glow is nearing the edge of the corner that she came from.

Damnit, she curses, fiddling with the inventory of her bags for a way out. She’s backed up against a wall of an unfinished tunnel with nothing but a frost prince’s plans for alchemic bombs, two swords, several daggers and poisons and food, and chemical samples of-

Oh.

Putting her ear up against the walls of the tunnel, Zatna follows them until she hears noise; buzzing wings. She has never so happy to hear the sound of nerubians before now.

Turning her back against the incoming scorge soldiers to cover the light, Zatna kneels onto the ground and lights a small arcane flame in her hand. She fumbles with the parchment the plans is written on, and then the chemicals, following the instructions and notes carefully. The liquid sputters and bubbles wildly and, when she hurls the vial at the tunnel wall, it explodes. A huge, green-blue cloud of smoke covers the hole and the tunnel she’s in in no time, and, taking her chance, she sneaks through the hole, stealthing in the process.

Snaking through the nerubian tunnels, Zatna eventually finds her way up to the surface. There, she finds a nerubian-blood covered warrior of some description.

“I’m Zatna Mirthheart, and a bunch of scourge have planted explosives in the ground beneath Venomspite,” she introduces herself to the warrior in front of her. “I kind of fell into the operation’s headquarters and had to kill the frost prince in charge and then while escaping I stole the plans and some samples of the chemicals they’re using to make the bombs.”

Looking back for a second, Zatna’s hand clenches around the parchment. “It’s, uh. Rather effective. Blew a hole into the nerubian tunnels to escape.”

A grin spread across her face. "I was never good at the whole formal thing, though catch me calling you Captain Slaughterjaw in jokes. The title has punch and gives off lot of character,” Zatna explained, already imagining the rounds of beers passing between her and Aoaran as she retold the highlights of her time with Celaryn in a more humorous light.

At the question, the humor in Zatna’s eyes was snuffed out. It died as quickly as it came, her eyes settling to look at the snow as they truck along.

Light, she had no idea how to answer that. Not without accidentally revealing that she was technically trespassing and breaking multiple military laws to, what she assumed, was a Deathguard.

Fuck.

Thinning her lips, Zatna looked back up, the golden glow of her eyes hiding the red, sore edges.

“Yes and no,” she admitted. “Fuck the Scourge, and fuck anyone who stands in my way to kill every last one of them. Both the nerubians and the Scourge are dead to me, however I’m not quite reckless enough to rush in and sacrifice an entire town. No amount of vengeance is worth the lives of people who are not in the direct fight themselves, innocent or not.”

Frowning, Zatna thought for a second. Then she snarled, anger fuming at the corners of her mouth: “Oh, and I’ve got an appointment with the Lich King. My blade belongs wedged into his face, and dying before I can return it would be stupid.”

@slaughterjaw

Raw anger and vengeance. The corners of Celaryn's frost-bitten lip curled into a smile, pleasantly surprised. The Forsaken wanted the Lich King's head on a pike. It was a unanimous sentiment, one that genuinely did unite them all. Seething anger hot enough to drive one to these frozen wastes and murder all Scourge? It was a refreshing sentiment, one Celaryn shared in spades.

"You'll have to get in line," she responded with an amused chuckle, voice cutting through the icy breeze. "Though I can say the Executor shares your murderous sentiment. You can find assurance in that. Ironic that a villain united the efforts of both Alliance and Horde rather than any peace treaty."

She tirelessly marched on toward Venomspite, sabatons crunching through the snow. It wasn't far now. The tattered banner depicting the Forsaken Icon of Torment fluttered in the frigid winds atop a watchtower. Its height loomed higher and higher over the two with each step.

"Have you practiced your pitch? Deadly nerubians are scattering explosives underground. You stole the assembly plans and have the chemical recipe, which the Apothecaries will likely study and find a counter or sabotage to make it inert. And from there, we take the fight to the bugs. Was there anything else?"

@once-upon-a-memoir

#ic #rp

@slaughterjaw || cont. from here

Ever since N'Zoth broke lose, Jasculs has spent his days fighting the Old God’s forces wherever he’s needed; the Vale, Uldum, the Emerald Dream, any other dragon flight, and any other place Void forces show up, so does Jasculs.

And before that, when Sylvanas - what was it Nali said she did? Vanished into smoke? - Jasculs and his family had taken the opportunity to get his bounty revised. Progress is and has been slow, Orian still quite badly wanting Jasculs’ head - and so, fighting alongside the Horde and the Alliance to take down N'Zoth is a huge risk; a risk Jasculs deems necessary to restore his emotional and mental stability and, if he’s lucky, to have the reward of his head drawn back.

However, it also means more bounty hunters have found way to him or his family. The current ones - a group of four slithering along in big, alligator-like lizards as mounts - have found their way to Stormheim and uncomfortably close to the village his home is in.

The Stormdrakes will cover for him and Mo'hir, he knows that, but they still need to get out of the danger zone. Still, they can’t leave their house unattended and unprotected - and, besides, Jasculs’ mom isn’t strong enough to make the trip to the safe-house. Thus, much to Kina’s disapproval, Sol'alore, Egg, and Werythra stay behind. It doesn’t sit well in Jasculs’ stomach.

Arriving at the safe house - a big, abandoned Vrykul house of rotting, wet logs up in the mountains, nestled in the crevasse of the mountain-side - all three of them are feeling glum. Kina is silent, clinging to Jasculs’ neck, and Mo'hir keeps a guarded eye out. All three of them are soaked and rattled by the thunderstorm, Kina muttering she wish they would’ve flown again and again while trying to find cover under her father’s hair and coat. It’s highly ineffective.

The sound of the piano reaches them when they’re about to open the door. Jasculs and Mo'hir lock eyes, silently asserting the situation. Jasculs lays a hand on Kina’s head, massaging her scalp, as Mo'hir opens the door and they sneak inside.

Jasculs, carrying Kina, go to the right, and Mo'hir goes to the left. The planks creak under their feet, but only Mo'hir isn’t alarmed.

The stranger calls from the piano room. Assertive, confident, attentive, maybe a bit embarrassed and taken aback, Mo'hir deduces. She steps out into the light of the piano room, her eyes immediately finding the silhouette of metal, red eyes glowing under the helm. The description feels familiar.

“I’m Mo'hir, and this is my family’s safe house. Who are you, what are you doung here, and are you a threat?” Mo'hir says with a steady and clear voice, her glare cold steel.

That steely glare glanced off of Celaryn’s armor as she rose to her full, towering height. She matched that gaze with her own, two red, unblinking eyes peering through the dark, left hand wrapped around her sword’s hilt, the other resting on the dusty piano keys. So much for nostalgia.

Am I a threat?

“Do you intend me harm?” she countered, a question for a question. “If so, then, yes, I am a threat.” Her tone was unusually eloquent, even for someone with a metal jaw. “If you do not, then no. I am a traveler, a drifter wandering from place to place.”

An unmistakable artificial hand half-rose, gesturing lazily and unsure before falling limp at her side. “I walk a vain journey. Enlightenment may be at the end of it, though I have my doubts.”

She hauled up her heavy sword with ease as she took a seat with her back facing the piano, setting the blade on the crook between her pauldron and neck. It was a relaxed position, yet one that allowed her to go on the attack or defense at a moment’s notice if needed.

If this was a family’s safehouse, that implies that family may be nearby. That either meant that Celaryn was in for an outnumbered fight, or, at best, she’d likely be forced back into the rain. One cannot hide the crimson eyes nor the pale, deathly skin, and most living were not kind to the dead.

“I’m here for shelter against the elements.” The statement wasn’t a lie. “A roof over my head here, no matter how old nor abandoned, is better than rotting out there.” She tipped her metal chin to the rainstorm visible through the nearby window’s foggy glass.

“Celaryn,” she introduced. “Now you know my purpose, and now you know what I am.” Her crimson eyes looked back from the window to Mo'hir. “Now what shall you do with it?”

@hugs-not-anonymous

Silently and watchfully, Mo’hir observes and listens. The stranger - Celaryn, Mo’hir corrects herself - is clearly calm but expectant of all possibilities. A faint smile grows at the corners of her lips.

She looks to the floor briefly, Werythra’s teachings echoing in her head, before looking back up at Celaryn. Mo’hir’s hands are cupped together, a faint, green glow emitting from her palms. From it, a purple flower with blue veins and a red accent and stem grows.

Elegantly holding the flower by the stem, Mo’hir steps forward and offers it to Celaryn. The flower glows faintly blue.

“Druidic symbol of peace,” she explains, voice soft yet firm, “We, too, were wanderers, up until the faction war made the world too dangerous to traverse while raising two children.”

“Stay. This weather is unkind to all beings, no matter which kind of alive we are.” Stepping back, Mo’hir turns toward a door to the right. The gentle, warm light of a fire shines from behind the door, creeping under it. “Jasculs should have started dinner by now.”

@slaughterjaw

Celaryn’s fingers wrung around her weapon’s hilt as that green glow lit up the darkened room, expecting a spell flinging in her direction. Though, at the flower, she couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow, both out of surprise and skepticism. A flower offered to a red-eyed forsaken staring through the dark. How quaint.

She extended a cold hand out, accepting the flower in her gauntlet’s scarred leather palm. Celaryn rotated the stem in her grasp. It felt like it could snap in her fingers. Regardless, the ex-soldier couldn’t help but stare at the petals. It had veins just like a beating heart.

A symbol of peace for one who had dedicated both of her lives to warfare and death, one who left so much destruction in her wake. She felt undeserving. Crimson eyes drifted downward at the mention of the war, a sharp twinge of guilt jabbing through her breastplate at the mention of the two children.

She eased the sword off of her shoulder, sliding it into its scabbard with a grinding rasp. There was no need to fight–Celaryn didn’t want to fight. It was a feeling the ex-soldier still needed to grow used to.

Celaryn looked to the warm orange glow shining beneath the mentioned door. Dinner? The forsaken shook her head. “I do not eat. You should instead give whatever portion you intend to share to your own, those who need the sustenance. Though you may not fear me, your children may. I do not wish to frighten them.” She knew how villainous she appeared in her scarred, blackened armor, much less her unmistakable undeath and deathly pallor.

“I intend to depart after the storm ceases. Though, until then, I suppose I can offer my protection for you all in exchange. I have no coin; all I have is my old companion.” She thumped the tip of her scabbard into the creaky floorboards, resting her hand on her weapon’s crossguard. “You mentioned this is a safehouse. Why are you taking shelter here then rather than in your normal home?”

@hugs-not-anonymous

A soft chuckle comes from Mo'hir. “I know undead - Forsaken, Death Knight or otherwise - don’t require sustenance. However, dinner is about more than food; it’s an atmosphere of companionship, be it old or new. It would be nice to have you join us.”

Walking towards the door, Mo'hir chooses to let the silence hang for just a bit, partially for her words to sink in and partially to ponder how to explain the… children. Itillan is still not easy to talk about or even mention, despite it having been months since his demise and Zatna having found a new, albeit emotionally questionable, path. And that’s not even the only hurdle- Mo'hir has already mentioned both children, so Celaryn will expect two. Only one of them is here, and she is slowly growing into her moody teenager dragon phase.

Sighing, Mo'hir stops in front of the door and turns to Celaryn. Jasculs is a lot better at explaining these things, especially the safehouse part.

“Only one child is here,” Mo'hir begins, carefully choosing her words. Her voice shakes, tone unsure of where to put itself, wavering between firm and unsure, “and she is used to undead and other odd company. A dear friend of ours is Forsaken, and so was his boyfriend. Believe me, she will not bat an eye at your presence.”

Mo'hir looks at the door. Then she corrects herself: “Actually, she absolutely will. She’ll shower you in attention and questions in Draconic and spotty Thalassian, Orcish and Common. She’ll back off if you ask her to, though- and she might not have her usual energy right now anyway. It was a tough trek up here.”

“As for why we’re here…” she trails off, the pit in her stomach clawing at her insides and slowly turning to stone. She must not- cannot be alone with an armed stranger when telling that. Plus, Mo'hir is still not quite emotionally stable enough to talk about her own situation or answer what possible questions the “was his boyfriend” and “only one of two children are here” things will inspire.

She shakes her head. “That is not my place to explain. It’s sensitive information, and Jasculs is not comfortable with me sharing it without his permission. You’ll have to ask him yourself.”

Mo'hir opens the door, the cold and corroded silver doorknob turning with loud protest in her hand. The light and warmth of the crackling cooking fire in the fireplace hits her like a wave, immediately soothing some of her worry. The smell, on the other hand, hits her lick a brickwall screaming “I’M HUNGRY”, and her stomach growls in agreement.

Jasculs and Kina both look up at the same time. His blank, scarred, and blind eyes are bleary but alert, and Kina’s are watery. She bolts at Mo'hir, all blue scales and wings and claws and German Shephard sized, for a hug.

With a loud OOMF, Mo'hir is hit by a torpedoing dragon child. They both land on the floor - which protests loudly at the sudden crash-land party - limbs all tangled together in a make-do fullbody hug. Mo'hir grunts loudly along with her bones, but Kina appears more than happy as she snuggles her head into Mo'hir’s chest.

Opening her eyes, Kina peers through the door at Celaryn. “Who are you?” she asks in Draconic, then Orcish because Mo’hir tells her to.

@slaughterjaw

Celaryn winced as that orange glow shined into the darkened piano room. That fire was brighter than it had any business being. She was surprised that she could even feel the sting in her eyes. So much for subtlety. Though even the cynical ex-soldier herself couldn't help but try to force down a smile at Kina's antics.

Well, if this family knew she was here. There was no use brooding in a corner. For all the challenges Celaryn welcomed, the challenge of social grace was one she dreaded and often failed at. But, well, here goes nothing.

She took unsure strides toward the room, armor clanking with each step. The tall, black-armored warrior loomed in the doorway. The flames illuminated every battered and scarred section of her decade-old armor, only kept whole by constant maintenance. If there was a test for being used to the undead, then this was it. The forsaken stared, crimson eyes unblinking as she swept her gaze across the room, only breaking it at Kina's question. A child was speaking Draconic? Strange, though not unheard of.

Celaryn gathered her words, piecing out a rough Draconic.

"A wanderer," she answered. Her pronunciation was a bit off; she wasn't fluent, but she could at least hold a conversation. "My name is Celaryn. Just Celaryn. I sought shelter against the storm, unaware a family already staked their claim. Mo'hir found me playing in the piano room. And now, after a tense introduction, I am here--for the 'atmosphere of companionship.'"

She looped her sword in her belt and swapped back to Orcish. "Of course, I can always speak in this tongue if you would prefer. And who are you, child?"

@hugs-not-anonymous

#ic #rp

@slaughterjaw || cont. from here

Ever since N'Zoth broke lose, Jasculs has spent his days fighting the Old God's forces wherever he's needed; the Vale, Uldum, the Emerald Dream, any other dragon flight, and any other place Void forces show up, so does Jasculs.

And before that, when Sylvanas - what was it Nali said she did? Vanished into smoke? - Jasculs and his family had taken the opportunity to get his bounty revised. Progress is and has been slow, Orian still quite badly wanting Jasculs' head - and so, fighting alongside the Horde and the Alliance to take down N'Zoth is a huge risk; a risk Jasculs deems necessary to restore his emotional and mental stability and, if he's lucky, to have the reward of his head drawn back.

However, it also means more bounty hunters have found way to him or his family. The current ones - a group of four slithering along in big, alligator-like lizards as mounts - have found their way to Stormheim and uncomfortably close to the village his home is in.

The Stormdrakes will cover for him and Mo'hir, he knows that, but they still need to get out of the danger zone. Still, they can't leave their house unattended and unprotected - and, besides, Jasculs' mom isn't strong enough to make the trip to the safe-house. Thus, much to Kina's disapproval, Sol'alore, Egg, and Werythra stay behind. It doesn't sit well in Jasculs' stomach.

Arriving at the safe house - a big, abandoned Vrykul house of rotting, wet logs up in the mountains, nestled in the crevasse of the mountain-side - all three of them are feeling glum. Kina is silent, clinging to Jasculs' neck, and Mo'hir keeps a guarded eye out. All three of them are soaked and rattled by the thunderstorm, Kina muttering she wish they would've flown again and again while trying to find cover under her father's hair and coat. It's highly ineffective.

The sound of the piano reaches them when they're about to open the door. Jasculs and Mo'hir lock eyes, silently asserting the situation. Jasculs lays a hand on Kina's head, massaging her scalp, as Mo'hir opens the door and they sneak inside.

Jasculs, carrying Kina, go to the right, and Mo'hir goes to the left. The planks creak under their feet, but only Mo'hir isn't alarmed.

The stranger calls from the piano room. Assertive, confident, attentive, maybe a bit embarrassed and taken aback, Mo'hir deduces. She steps out into the light of the piano room, her eyes immediately finding the silhouette of metal, red eyes glowing under the helm. The description feels familiar.

"I'm Mo'hir, and this is my family's safe house. Who are you, what are you doung here, and are you a threat?" Mo'hir says with a steady and clear voice, her glare cold steel.

That steely glare glanced off of Celaryn's armor as she rose to her full, towering height. She matched that gaze with her own, two red, unblinking eyes peering through the dark, left hand wrapped around her sword's hilt, the other resting on the dusty piano keys. So much for nostalgia.

Am I a threat?

"Do you intend me harm?" she countered, a question for a question. "If so, then, yes, I am a threat." Her tone was unusually eloquent, even for someone with a metal jaw. "If you do not, then no. I am a traveler, a drifter wandering from place to place."

An unmistakable artificial hand half-rose, gesturing lazily and unsure before falling limp at her side. "I walk a vain journey. Enlightenment may be at the end of it, though I have my doubts."

She hauled up her heavy sword with ease as she took a seat with her back facing the piano, setting the blade on the crook between her pauldron and neck. It was a relaxed position, yet one that allowed her to go on the attack or defense at a moment's notice if needed.

If this was a family's safehouse, that implies that family may be nearby. That either meant that Celaryn was in for an outnumbered fight, or, at best, she'd likely be forced back into the rain. One cannot hide the crimson eyes nor the pale, deathly skin, and most living were not kind to the dead.

"I'm here for shelter against the elements." The statement wasn't a lie. "A roof over my head here, no matter how old nor abandoned, is better than rotting out there." She tipped her metal chin to the rainstorm visible through the nearby window’s foggy glass.

"Celaryn," she introduced. "Now you know my purpose, and now you know what I am." Her crimson eyes looked back from the window to Mo'hir. "Now what shall you do with it?"

@hugs-not-anonymous

Silently and watchfully, Mo’hir observes and listens. The stranger - Celaryn, Mo’hir corrects herself - is clearly calm but expectant of all possibilities. A faint smile grows at the corners of her lips.

She looks to the floor briefly, Werythra’s teachings echoing in her head, before looking back up at Celaryn. Mo’hir’s hands are cupped together, a faint, green glow emitting from her palms. From it, a purple flower with blue veins and a red accent and stem grows.

Elegantly holding the flower by the stem, Mo’hir steps forward and offers it to Celaryn. The flower glows faintly blue.

“Druidic symbol of peace,” she explains, voice soft yet firm, “We, too, were wanderers, up until the faction war made the world too dangerous to traverse while raising two children.”

“Stay. This weather is unkind to all beings, no matter which kind of alive we are.” Stepping back, Mo’hir turns toward a door to the right. The gentle, warm light of a fire shines from behind the door, creeping under it. “Jasculs should have started dinner by now.”

@slaughterjaw

Celaryn's fingers wrung around her weapon's hilt as that green glow lit up the darkened room, expecting a spell flinging in her direction. Though, at the flower, she couldn't help but raise an eyebrow, both out of surprise and skepticism. A flower offered to a red-eyed forsaken staring through the dark. How quaint.

She extended a cold hand out, accepting the flower in her gauntlet's scarred leather palm. Celaryn rotated the stem in her grasp. It felt like it could snap in her fingers. Regardless, the ex-soldier couldn't help but stare at the petals. It had veins just like a beating heart.

A symbol of peace for one who had dedicated both of her lives to warfare and death, one who left so much destruction in her wake. She felt undeserving. Crimson eyes drifted downward at the mention of the war, a sharp twinge of guilt jabbing through her breastplate at the mention of the two children.

She eased the sword off of her shoulder, sliding it into its scabbard with a grinding rasp. There was no need to fight--Celaryn didn't want to fight. It was a feeling the ex-soldier still needed to grow used to.

Celaryn looked to the warm orange glow shining beneath the mentioned door. Dinner? The forsaken shook her head. "I do not eat. You should instead give whatever portion you intend to share to your own, those who need the sustenance. Though you may not fear me, your children may. I do not wish to frighten them." She knew how villainous she appeared in her scarred, blackened armor, much less her unmistakable undeath and deathly pallor.

"I intend to depart after the storm ceases. Though, until then, I suppose I can offer my protection for you all in exchange. I have no coin; all I have is my old companion." She thumped the tip of her scabbard into the creaky floorboards, resting her hand on her weapon's crossguard. "You mentioned this is a safehouse. Why are you taking shelter here then rather than in your normal home?"

@hugs-not-anonymous

#jasculs #mo'hir #ic #rp

@slaughterjaw || cont. from here

With a wet and heavy thunk, the newly double-deceased scourge soldier falls to the ground. Quickly looting them, Zatna checks if they’ve got anything of use to her; a few silver pieces and a pickaxe but otherwise nothing.

Footsteps echo down the underground tunnels. For just a moment, she spares a glance down the way. The piercing blackness of the underground workspace suited for undead, mindless soldiers doesn’t leave much for her eyes to see. Luckily, however, the soldiers’ eyes glow vaguely with lich frost magic. Unfortunately for her, that same vague glow is nearing the edge of the corner that she came from.

Damnit, she curses, fiddling with the inventory of her bags for a way out. She’s backed up against a wall of an unfinished tunnel with nothing but a frost prince’s plans for alchemic bombs, two swords, several daggers and poisons and food, and chemical samples of-

Oh.

Putting her ear up against the walls of the tunnel, Zatna follows them until she hears noise; buzzing wings. She has never so happy to hear the sound of nerubians before now.

Turning her back against the incoming scorge soldiers to cover the light, Zatna kneels onto the ground and lights a small arcane flame in her hand. She fumbles with the parchment the plans is written on, and then the chemicals, following the instructions and notes carefully. The liquid sputters and bubbles wildly and, when she hurls the vial at the tunnel wall, it explodes. A huge, green-blue cloud of smoke covers the hole and the tunnel she’s in in no time, and, taking her chance, she sneaks through the hole, stealthing in the process.

Snaking through the nerubian tunnels, Zatna eventually finds her way up to the surface. There, she finds a nerubian-blood covered warrior of some description.

“I’m Zatna Mirthheart, and a bunch of scourge have planted explosives in the ground beneath Venomspite,” she introduces herself to the warrior in front of her. “I kind of fell into the operation’s headquarters and had to kill the frost prince in charge and then while escaping I stole the plans and some samples of the chemicals they’re using to make the bombs.”

Looking back for a second, Zatna’s hand clenches around the parchment. “It’s, uh. Rather effective. Blew a hole into the nerubian tunnels to escape.”

A muffled hum was all the armored forsaken offered at the literal explosive revelation. She said nothing and allowed several quiet moments to pass. Wide crimson eyes watched the elf’s posture, gauging body language. Her gaze fell to the paper in the woman’s grip. Tilting her head, Celaryn took a deep inhale through her nostrils. The chemical scent lingered, though the scent was faint in the frigid wind. This one spoke true.

“Impressive,” the soldier acknowledges with a somewhat curious tone. Celaryn rotated toward Zatna. The forsaken raised a gauntlet to her pauldron and brushed slimy viscera off it. “Venomspite, you say?”

Celaryn ambled toward her, boots scrunching in the Northrend snow. With each heavy step, the deathguard’s stature grew. The black-armored forsaken loomed nearly two feet over Zatna as they stood face-to-face. “Today is my lucky day.” A low chuckle escaped her. “Celaryn Slaughterjaw, Deathguard Captain,” she introduced with a slight bob of her helmet. “I happen to be stationed in Venomspite, and I would very much love to hear about these explosives.”

“Tell me more, Zatna.” The deathguard raised her longsword and dragged its length across her cloak’s fur. Blackened blood smeared across the fabric, cleaning the blade. “Can you show me where the Scourge planted these explosives? Our sappers will do the rest.”

@once-upon-a-memoir

Zatna glances behind her.

“Well, uh, here’s the thing-” her gaze finds the red eyes of the armored figure. A slight scent of rot hangs around them - Forsaken Dark Ranger in armor?

Zatna has seen undead elves - sin'dorei, kaldorei, quel'dorei, or otherwise, without the red eyes. But this is new.

She blinks and shakes her head to clear her head. Too many scattered thoughts.

“I don’t know the location of all of them, or how big the tunnel network is, only the chemical formula for the different sizes of the bombs, that they go off immediately when the chemicals, and that I saw at least seven places ready to explode on my way out, and that was away from Venomspite,” Zatna hurriedly explains. She can’t help glancing behind her every now and then. “I didn’t have much time to grab stuff, so I only got the bomb assembly plans and a sample of the chemicals they’re using.”

Again, she turns back to the warrior. “It’s, uh. Very effective. I got a vial of each and that alone blew the hole into- uh.” She loses her words and motions in the direction of the nerubian nest. “That.”

@slaughterjaw

Seven explosives, and those were the ones away from Venomspite. She knew the Nerubians weren’t stupid. Heavy plate thumping around on the surface meant that the bugs knew exactly where to detonate them. Celaryn tilted her head. Sport could wait. Losing Venomspite meant the Hand of Vengeance losing their grip on Dragonblight. The town was too crucial to risk.

“Then I believe we have our work cut out for us,” Celaryn mused, looking over the blown-open hole. Her heavy greatsword grinded into its scabbard, and the captain hefted up the weapon’s straps and slung it across her back. “Venomspite must be evacuated. The High Executor must know. He will likely send us back down, with other squads to fight their way to the other explosive sites.”

She pointed a clawed, plated finger in the direction to the Forsaken town. “We cannot tarry.”

@once-upon-a-memoir

Zatna’s face relaxed in shock, mouth slacking open slightly and eyes wide. It didn’t tale anymore than that? Only that, to convince this Forsaken warrior of the danger they’re in?

Again, she shook her head like a dog to clear the clutter of thoughts from her head. She must be hanging with the wrong crowd.

“Yes- yes of course,” she said with a shaky tone. Her eyes couldn’t find a spot to rest on, her mind still circling around how easy it was for people to believe her when they don’t actually know her. Was she that untrustworthy? That unreliable and chaotic?

The image of Itillan’s chest pierced with arrows flashed across her eyes. She blinked rapidly.

“Uh, you-” Zatna motioned towards the direction the warrior was looking at, which she assumed was the direction Venomspite was in. “It’s been a while since I was in Venomspite. Could you show the way?”

After a while of walking, Zatna’s skin began to crawl. That day was not a good day, with everything turning difficult or overly complicated, sudden issues shoving themselves down her throat, and the recent months plaguing her memories.

To focus on something else, she asks: “Uh. What can I call you, and what pronouns do you use? Just to make whatever happens from now on easier, y’know. I use she/her pronouns, by the way.”

@slaughterjaw