#gor'watha

[theeniebean]

I miss Theenie so bad my girl my child my original wow toon I'll never forget you

[archmagekhadgar-blog]

Eldie, put your hair back up. You might cut it off. Please.

[archmagekhadgar-blog]

Please enjoy these naked deaders while I go die of shame.

[theeniebean]

this is all I got I guess

              They never made it to Icecrown. He’d not gotten to peer inside the great, broken doors of the citadel. Instead, Juzmik strode dusty streets and glared at the hateful sun overhead. Sarjen remained with the men who chose to stay in Dalaran, unwilling to make the jaunt across the world for something as lackluster as the repetitive bar that their boss ran.

              His world had changed from blues and purples tarnished with the worn white stains to the colors of sunrise, from the ground to their hair of the Darkspear that had come from seemingly nowhere with the rise of Vol’jin. The girls and boys with tight braids and sweet smiles, kicking their feet in the ponds that dotted the landscape of the Valley of Honor.  Their skin reflected the sky above, while his own outlandish lilac a welt of shadow. Still, with a smile and a firm grasp of his flask, he settled along the shoreline with them; deep blue braid flicked over his shoulder, the tail of it licking the water.

[theeniebean]

[Story] This is probably murder porn

              He’s far too drunk, blurred at the edges, when Sarjen tells him that he needs to leave for a few hours. Hungry, that is. The general knocks back the rest of his pint, loose in his hand and heavier than he remembers – he’ll go too. They haven’t done it in a while, he maintains, rising. Sarjen says nothing, better-than-weak protests dying down two years prior. If the boy wants to come, the boy comes; he knows the risks, and it’s better to have him on hand for the aftermath anyway – less euphoric clarity wasted on travel.

              Hardly a boy now, though – stubble on his chin and more to him than a pretender in armor these days. He jokes and jests through Dalaran, comfortably silent once they hit the golden floor of Crystalsong; less fidgeting and more assured flipping of his blades as the silence descends, as Sarjen cracks his neck in the deafening roar of Icecrown’s call. Their bears know the way – the path is beaten into their memories. Off the beaten path they trod, veering west when their usual path lay farther north than even the Crusaders tread.

              Sarjen dismounts first, while the Amani hangs back, snow on his spaulders as the knight blazes his own path through the dusting snow and debris from an all too recent war that’s long since been pushed from the minds of the laymen. He knows where he wants to go, what will satisfy him the most. A pair of Vykrul, girls at best, hunting pitiful game in the frozen wastes. They won’t be home tonight, more expected victims of an unnecessarily cruel life.

              The death knight grabs her by the hair, stutters lost to the scalding winds; Juzmik cuts off the eldest’s escape, wrists warped, blades against his forearm as he forces her into a dance. Why not have fun with it? He imagines they’re glaives, even as she screams in outrage, even as she swipes at his unprotected side. She misses, of course – untrained, raw, so much potential shed on the silver snow by the time he’s done with her.

              Sarjen, wrist deep in the stomach of a still screaming girl.

              The general wipes a steaming palm against his face, blood mixed with paint smeared across his cheeks. His girl is dead, discarded beside her unfortunate sister; the boy almost wishes they had reversed – better the elder sister endured, sparing the younger the torment. Still – it wasn’t his game to play, not now. Instead, he crouched in the red and watched Sarjen meticulously dissect the girl.

              Without warning, bloody fingers clutch his jaw, far too tight, pulling him close. He expects it now, the slick feeling between them as the mangled corpse squelches as they pull together. Juzmik leans into it, listing toward the slurs on the tongue of his partner. It’s the only time they’re on the same level – drunk on their own vices, guided only by the sensory input. No thoughts, no doubts, no questioning; the scout imagines this is what it would be like if they were normal, if they were them and the rest of it was left by the wayside.

              He’s wrong, of course.

              Instead, masking the gaping wound, Sarjen whispers madness and vines, anything, riding the high of a satiation he could barely begin to grasp. They’re at the ruins again, dusted with elven decay; blood on stone and so many promises. He had been so young, the whole experience – the whole of Sarjen, baring himself raw, terrifying and new. He’d believed all of it, then, even as he shoved aside his jealousy of Ezzran, of the moments they had shared without him.

              Instead, now, the chill bites through the thick soles of his feet and he wonders if they had been born at another time; if he had been older, or Sarjen younger – the war amiss, bypassing two flickering lights that might have made it without such a divide. Juzmik leans into the lips at the nape of his neck, knowing that’s all wrong, knowing that they’d never have made it any other way. Instead, the stains on the snow unite them more than any breath and heartbeats could.

              His forehead collapses against Sarjen’s spaulder, hot tears fueled by beer and sickly sentiment crushing against everything. Gauntlets against his biceps, squeezing too tight, shaking him, demanding to know – but his lips are pressed against the joint of Sarjen’s tusk, his own curved bone against his exposed neck, bloody gloves in rusted pink hair.

              Juzmik wraps himself in Sarjen’s ebon cloak, afterward, slumped against the man’s back as the knight leads both bears back to civilization. His eyes drift closed and he can almost feel the man’s chest rise with breath that isn’t there.

[theeniebean]

Lera Wanted This WIP

It’s garbage 

              The gnome at his side wore her bubblegum pink pigtails high, though the sticky sweetness ended there. She had her disgustingly tiny hands jammed into her pockets, shielding them from the biting wind that threatened to bowl them both off the edge of the floating city. He wondered idly if the mile descent would kill them, or if only the ground would bring relief from the gut-smashing fall. It hardly mattered; he couldn’t afford to fly right now. Instead, he skimmed the document that the smallest woman ever had ruefully delivered.

              Her Orcish borderline better than his sister, Lucy Kettlefuse chirped with the pitch of a chubby bird. “Last piece of intelligence, Juzmik.” She said with a frown, petite lips glossed and pursed. “No more favors.” The troll snorted, folding the findings into neat little squares, each in a different pocket, a different piece of the puzzle safely scattered until he could piece it together somewhere far safer.

              “You said dis last time, Fusey.” He retorted, rolling his shoulders. Their ties went back several years – before the Warband, before he had even been able to speak with her. Sparring partners – and she usually won, but he maintained that tiny things with clear shots at the nethers couldn’t really play fair. Master Kang always told him to stop being a baby and punt her if he had a problem.

              The trick had been catching her, though; so far, she always slipped through his fingers. It had been a good enough rivalry, though – the lowly, inept, prick troll versus the cocky gnome with a touch too much cinnamon hidden in the sugar.

              The micro-spy wobbled slightly, pulling back from the edge of the sewer pipe, opting instead to lean against the damp, chilled stones. “And you said you stop asking me when the bad boxes fell into your lap.”

              He waved a hand, dismissive, spitting into the abyss. “Nobody died.” Which, arguably, was true, but he certainly had been sick for weeks. “’sides, it wasn’t your fault, hmm?” He didn’t look, and if she smiled, he certainly wasn’t going to acknowledge it.

              ---

              Athena spied him as she idled beside the Alliance inn. Brawny as ever, dressed like he’d seen better days – the glamour he had adorned himself with vanished like everything else, but the way he carried himself remained. Her normally whirling mind froze with such sudden certainty that she felt the memory of her heart seize in its chest, breath lost to the magic that hung in the air. The way he leaned against the doorway, blocking the bulk of the entrance as he spoke in low tones to the stammering girl trapped in his sights. A bully and a brute, now, in hindsight and in the crystal clear clarity of years and death.

[studiofruke]

Commission for @archmagekhadgar!

Commissions opening again tomorrow :D