#children's week

[wraheathcliff]

Children's 'Weak' Donations

Emmet braced himself against the gloom of the Ghostlands, determined to expand their organization’s reach during Children’s Week. The cross-faction celebration was an acknowledgment of the real price of war. Orphans. Separation. Destroyed families. And despite the nervous refusal of some of his kin to solicit a donation from one of these very houses, he would not hold himself from reaching out. He had heard of the ominous Dracone Castle. Most likely paranoid rumors born from plotting and politics. What rubbish. If the Castle was actually that dangerous, surely it would have been handled by the vigilant magistrates that kept a steadying hand on elven law and order. 

He was able to recruit two others, more priests from his brotherhood. Jonathan had the brilliant idea to bring three mastiff puppies with him in a basket folded in with soft blankets. He had heard about the occupants preferred pet companions. Their sweet, warm whimpers wiggled when he slipped his hand in from time to time to check on them as they traveled by foot. Cal brought honeyed rolls and some simple mead for later, a fresh-faced youth ready to brave the elements for the Light. Purpose gave them courage, much of which they kept close to their chests as the fog crept in around them. 

It was a long walk, but it was a good time to reflect and observe the real effects on this twisted land for themselves. Something really should be done about the still walking dead and equally lost wretched as they appeared caught in loops of madness, wandering through the broken forest. But as their steps neared the gates, warning of beastly inhabitants within, they slowed down a bit. 

All the vegetation was dead, except for strange, intoxicating black roses that vined like broken threads throughout the damp dark stones. The shadow of the front entrance loomed in front of them like an accusation. The wide-eyed priests steeled their nerves, approaching the heavy wood door carved with a hideous screaming face. Ghastly. Perhaps the architecture was merely all the origin of rumor. 

Emmet knew better. This was probably all a front meant to scare away the cowardly riffraff. He was not deterred. They had a mission and the Light had guided him here. Perhaps softness was all that was needed here. Understanding. Something to soothe the bristled ghosts and unhappy inhabitants. The wealth here looked incredible, and he was determined to appeal to the better angels of their nature as he knocked confidently on the door. 

At first, nothing happened. This wasn’t unusual for their line of work. But his faith drove him to pursue, and he knocked again.

A small scuffle was heard behind him. Emmet turned around, confused. Where were his companions? The basket was on the ground, puppies drunkedly spilling out on fat little legs, confused and whimpering. 

Emmet didn’t have time to wonder. He looked down at his chest, a sharp burning sensation filling his lungs. He couldn’t move. A hundred iron spikes pierced his flesh from head to foot. Blood sputtered out of his mouth as he tried to scream, but his lungs were already drowning. The spikes retracted quickly back into the door. Emmet tried to look up at the sun, look for the Light he gave his heart to, someone to save him but all he saw was a strange cloud moving elegantly in the sky, circling with predatory intent.

The crows dove like hawks, attacking his body with vicious pecks meaner than stab wounds, pinching and ripping at his flesh, destroying the last of his vision as he slumped heavily down the front steps into heap. 

If he had eyes left, he would have seen his companions in pieces, every limb ripped from their bodies in trails of sinewy blood throughout the hedges and entry stones. The rose vines moved like snakes, pulling the flesh apart with crunching, ripping slowness as it dragged each severed part into the earth to become delicious fertilizer. 

The crows devoured the rest, moving hungrily to any bit left behind, removing every piece of cloth and bone. Water rose from stagnant fountains to spill and flood the bloody stones with a rush and retreat, further watering the hungry foliage while hiding the blood. After the bloody water drained into the earth, all that was left behind was a slick wetness at the front entrance and the overturned basket. 

It was Dr. Dracone himself that opened the front door. He looked around, saw no one. He picked up the basket, scooping the pups back in. A gift? Also, did it rain? How odd. There was no note. He had no time for more hounds, as charming as they were. He could donate them to someone in Silvermoon City, perhaps. It would be an effortless thing to send Leonardo along with some additional donations for Children’s Week. He could even throw in some coin to match anything needed for the next few hundred years. 

The doctor paused after picking one up. It whined, gnawing at his finger. The doctor cracked a small smile. No, he would keep them for himself. After all, they were a gift. 

[ladymuffy]

A little project I was working on for the last 3 days for the children's week at World of Warcraft. ^^

[quinn-varden]

Children’s Week

She passes this building every day.

Taking up the second floor of a corner street in Old Town, Hathaway’s Orphanage and Halfway House for the Lost is a run down bit of structure.  The business below it, selling clothing and textiles does better, enough to keep the Orphanage alive. 

Quinn does her best to forget its there.  Some days she even succeeds.  Walking right past it on her way home from work without so much as a glance up at its cracked facade and candle lit windows.  Wrapped up in conversation with Sam, or hurrying through the rain, or any number of other reasons to forget this place she lived for a short time ever existed.

Today though, she stands at the street corner, and looks down at the flyer in her hands.  ‘Children’s Week.  Visit Stormwind Orphanage in the Cathedral District, spend some time with someone who has no one.’.  That’s the gist of it.  Stormwind Orphanage is the biggest, it’s the one Quinn spent the longest in, it’s also the one that gets the most time and energy from bleeding hearts this time of year.  No one remembers Hathaway House.

Without really thinking about it, she finds her feet carrying her across the street, opening the side door that leads up the interior steps alongside the textile store.  Ascending stairs that still creak in all the places she remembers, though it feels strange until she realizes it’s because her feet were much smaller last time she tread them.

Through the door at the top of the steps into the small reception like room at the front of the small second story orphanage, and the familiar smells of too many people, the chattering sound of running looms and animated children.  It all washes over her, leaving her standing a bit stunned in the doorway for a moment.

“Can I help you Mis...” a familiar voice trails off as the woman behind the desk in the room rises, looking over the rims of glasses.  “Well as I live and breath.  Quinn Varden.”  Before the young woman even has time to react to being recognizes, Alice Hathaway has swept around the desk, wrapping arms around Quinn and spinning her once, before holding her at arms reach.  She grabs Quinn’s wrist and checks her pulse, pats her cheek, pinches her bicep, a quick check over the woman.

“Hello Miss Hathaway,” Quinn stumbles out as she’s examined, and for a moment once again she is twelve years old.  It doesn’t feel so long ago.  “I didn’t think you would recognize or remember me.  I wasn’t here long.”  She finds herself fumbling for words, and that’s what spills out.

“Little Quinn,” even if at 5′4″, Quinn is taller than the stout Alice Hathaway.  “I never forget the face or name of a child who has passed through my walls.  I treasure every one.  Even those that decide we can’t be the home they need,” said very pointedly.

Her words make Quinn feel very small, and she looks down at to the side, embarrassment in her cheeks.  “I’m sorry Miss Hathaway,” she mumbles.

Alice reaches up, putting a hand under Quinn’s chin, lifting it.  “Speak from the diaphram Quinn.  Clear and distinct.  Don’t mumble or speak under your breath.  Presentation is everything.”

“Yes Miss Hathaway, of course,” Quinn replies.  So easy to fall into an old life.  “I only wanted to stop by and wish you the best this Children’s week.  And thank you for taking me in for the time you did.”  Her hand falls without thinking to her belt pouch, half her latest paycheck withdrawn from the bank.  She’d planned to finally buy a new table, maybe a frame for her bed.  Without fully putting thought through, she withdraws the small pouch, and places it in the stout woman’s hands.  “And a small donation, somethin’ to help keep you goin’.”

A surprised look on the older woman’s face as she hefts the coin pouch, undoing the drawstring to glance inside.  “Well that’s very generous of you Quinn.  It’s appreciated, every donation, no matter how large or small helps.  I always knew you were a good girl.”  As she speaks she turns her back to move back towards the desk, setting the pouch on it.  “While you’re here would you like to meet some of the children?  Maybe tell them your inspirational story of how you came to be able to...”

Alice pauses in her speech at the sound of the door closing and the rumble of feet rushing down the stairs.  A glance over her shoulder to find Quinn has already retreated while her back was turned.  A faint smile settles on the Matron’s face.  “Better than she wants to admit, that one.  Good luck, Miss Varden.”

[damien-ward]

Holy crap! I can't believe it is Children's Week in WoW already. Geez... I can't believe it was a year ago that I started writing Dardillien meeting the orphan kid Jason. That blows my mind.

[empressofthesix]

Children’s Week is Coming

Non-WoW folks disregard or keep reading if you’re curious.

I’ve been biased to Horde, and since my second Children’s Week during Wrath of the Lich King or Cataclysm, something has bothered me to no end. As part of Children’s Week, you can take an orphan from several capitals and travel around the world(s) to fill their wishlists. The orphan that bothers me is Salandria, a Blood Elf child from the Shattrath orphanage. Being separated from the wars and conflicts that plague Azeroth, I’m not surprised that she’d raise the question.

So I’ll take my Blood Elf Death Knight “Hyo” and give Salandria a field trip through Outland. We’ll arrive at the Dark Portal as our last stop. After a moment of awestruck gazing to the massive dimensional doorway, she’ll prattle on about the second half of her list.

“When you were my age, did you know you wanted to be a Death Knight when you grew up?” She’d ask innocently, completely and utterly unaware as to just how Death Knights became a rank and class.

If Hyo wasn’t assigned to be a mostly mute protagonist, her response would be of extremely thick sarcasm after having flashbacks of her servitude to the Lich King. “Oh YES! I’ve always dreamed of being slain by my enemy in life and be raised in his service in death! Sure, wreaking havoc on the Scarlet Crusade was fun for a while. But then my so-called master leaves me and the rest of my risen brethren for dead, just to get back at some damn paladin!” She’d rant on while a forced smile would cause the decrepit skin around her cold chapped lips to crack significant fissures into her cheeks. And that’s how Hyo gets the rest of the Death Knights banned from Children’s Week.

Since Legion and Demon Hunter became a class, I don’t think they’ll fair the answer any better.

[zabchan]

me at the beginning of children's week:

me after the first quest: 

[tiefsterwinter]

this and General Rakera & Bladeguard Kaja are probably the only good things to come out of bfa

[shadowphoenixrider]

Draggka’s decided she’s gonna start getting experience in being a mum early, and this lovely little tyke with her for a little while. Her name is Azala, and I already love her.

She also rides a saurid when you’re mounted!