#terraforged

[kestrelcrafting]

— Firefly Forest —

[pomegranatecraft]

abusing my poor laptop to play with world gen mods

[photogracraft]

[greenterracotta]

Kiest Palace, home of the National Kiest Government and my first major build in the city of Kiest, an industrial inspired city. mods showed are create, immersive engineering, terraforged, unearthed, and pollutionoftherealms.

[middenwake]

@terraforged​ |  ⚓ sc .

IT’S NOT LIKE he ever knew the names of everyone in town -  MOST OF THEM , sure , if they were ROWDY enough , or if he owed them MONEY & had to learn their routines in order to STEER CLEAR of their path--- but he’s hardly FAMILIAR with the expanse of boralus , especially LESS-SO now that all these ALLIANCE fellows have made temporary home upon the docks .

---THAT SAID , there’s INTRIGUE at ESPECIALLY curious figures poking around the port , an evident air of MAIN-LANDER --- or at the very least , OUTSIDER --- in how a couple of these folks hold themselves .

THIS ONE , in particular , doesn’t seem CONCERNED to pretend to fit in , to kul’tirans’ nor mainlanders alike , caught poking around mariner’s row DIRECTLY in flynn’s field of vision , after - of course - flynn took an uncommon detour & placed himself in this area to escape one of the citizens he DOES know .

                                                        “ ---lose somethin’, mate ?”

[ladywindrunner]

try + deathwing :')

try + (character) // accepting ::

D E A T H W I N G

He, who was the greatest of calamities, a triumph in destruction – found himself destroyed before his symphony of ruin was complete. Merciful oblivion took him in the throes of deserved agony, and that devastating torture that wracked his body finally ceased.

He’d been nothing but a plague of misery and ash, a pestilence of consuming fire and malevolence.  In the quiet now, without distractions he could consider his failure properly. His memories, twisted as they were, played out before him and he saw how his pathetic servants had fallen short of their duties.          

How entirely vexing, the short comings of others.

For a briefest flash, free of the intrusive thoughts that he’d been unable to fight off, he thought he may deserve this fate. To be nothing save a foul memory. He can almost recall who’d he been before, almost grasp the concept of honour, duty, and valour. All things once attributed to him at his grandest—

           NO.

           Neltharion was dead. Destroyed beyond recognition, not even a corpse remained for those to mourn the fool who thought himself guardian. Imbecilic idealist who’d believed mortals even worth consideration. He was the champion of a rotting tomb, a hollow memory with a crumbling memorial somewhere on that pathetic world.

           If even that.

           Good. Let the world forget the Earth Warder. Let those who cling to his memory and beliefs suffer. Their weakness should be punished!

           Within this sacred abyss was Deathwing. Greatest of all the dragons, he who could not be conquered without those fools mucking about with precious time. His laugh rung out to the nothingness about his incorporeal form. He laughed at his latent victory.

           Who were they now to stand on mighty kingdoms of righteousness? For they had sinned as he had. They played with machinations said to be forbidden. But they did so with the naivety of children. They clung to their delusions of morality. Perhaps they’d struck him down, but their actions had unleashed unknowable catastrophes.

           Fate would see them punished for their crimes, yet they would not possess the serenity of oblivion. They would fight, tooth and claw, to cling to that pathetic rock of a world. Their wars would simply draw more chaos, peace would never last.

           What he pitied, was he would not be there to watch their misery. The Old Gods, whispering horrible truths, played their hand too early. Their patience was endless but limited. They were festering paradoxes, and in the silence death brought, it was a relief now that Deathwing did not have to endure their plots.

           Such simple schemes they were, too. To rule a world empty of resistance, to corrupt it and twist all those on it to the void.

           He barked out a bellowing laugh, for here he could mock them. Their deaths, without he as their dark vanguard, would be swift and well deserved.

           Old Gods indeed, free of their madness, he could see just how archaic their designs were. They wrought ruin for ruin’s sake.

           But was that not the simplicity sicknesses incurred? A disease has no drive beyond mutation and death.

           If Deathwing felt shame, it was only because he’d permitted them to warp his own desires. They offered him power eons ago, but who truly had worked to obtain it?

           He had. He’d done the work; and suffered for it. He’d walked amongst the mortals and manipulated them, he’d tricked the other Aspects. What had the Old Gods done but offer empty promises from their long lost prisons? He’d wanted freedom from a burden thrust on him undeservedly so, and why? Because beings claiming to be his betters wanted to witness what would occur. They who could not even bother to care for their own world, gave the responsibility to dragons undoubtedly out of sheer convenience.

           The abyss contained within it, no semblance of time. Here, he sensed there was no beginning nor ending. This was existence at its worst. To be something almost tangible, with thoughts and goals, but without a means to properly act. The predicament was inconvenient. Infuriating that this was the end the Old Gods had brought him.

           Where are your whispers now, you filth. I so wish to witness your demise. I know of many who you thought to rule who planned to betray you. Let them taste victory, if there is any semblance of justice within the cosmos, you will be nothing but the fleeting terror in the dreams of infants!

           Resentment was a fine companion. One worthy of his hatred.

           “And my father is dead, because of the Old Gods.”

           Wrathion.

           His son, a runt hardly worth a thought. Deathwing’s contempt for him is only matched by his amusement. The purge of his flight had failed then, though it was a shame that it was one so wretchedly weak that survived. Was he to believe that it was Wrathion who lead the struggle against the Old Gods?

           There is a flicker of pride for the boy, though it is fleeting. How grand would it be if it should be his son to strike down the disease? It would not be so difficult to imagine; the Old Gods were arrogant things. They thought themselves untouchable because they were as real as nightmares.

Fools, as maddening as their designs were, they were fragile.

           Falsehoods. Fakes. Lies. Mirages of the worst sort, but illusions all the same.

           Prove yourself useful, whelp. Deathwing rumbled, the void about him shaking in resonance. Even here, in this nothingness, he possessed power. Surely you tire of being such a disappointment.

           The silence around him is deafening. He waits to see if oblivion bestows him with another glimmer. He knows many of his former masters have perished. He delights in it. Somehow, in this vast emptiness, his knowledge has expanded. This abyss is as much their fate as it was his. Only they, without the fear of mortals to sustain them, are withering. Their greed and lust to be worshipped and dreaded is their downfall.

           He was not so simple, and that was the only gift Neltharion bestowed upon him. His existence before corruption promised that Deathwing would not be so easily vanquished. No, he was to suffer. As if somehow, being free of the crushing weight of Azeroth, and the madness it seeded was a punishment.

           Oh, how he laughed.

           I am destruction. What this oblivion seeks to do, is my very being. I am imprisoned here, but with it comes immortality.

           His voice rings out to the emptiness, his new seat of power. There is a flicker of something forming. A wisp, a mote of existence within nothing. Shadow and flame, an ember of defiant, vicious truth.

           “In N’Zoth’s name, his wings will darken the sky once more!”

           His fury is immediate. A thunderous roar threatens to send the abyss fleeing in terror as it rings out. How dare anyone proclaim it would be some disease that would see Deathwing rise! The insolence! He seethes with loathing, and his being violently lashes out at the nothingness.

           This was the first time oblivion felt as though it were a prison. He could not reach out and snuff out the proclamation. He could imagine the Old Gods laughing, mocking him even as they become grains of sand to be blown away by history.

           His connection to this one is different. She is not his child, but the daughter of Onyxia. Yet her spirit burned truer than his son’s. She did not wish to be weak as the other dragons were. She valued power, control, and knew that to obtain such things one could not be so limited by ethics.

           He fought against the ignorance this place wished to bestow upon him. He would have her name.

           Nalice.

           That inkling of flame grew larger as he stretched forth his mind and found the boundaries of oblivion.

           It was vast, but not limitless.

           Another lie of the gods. Old, new, and those who were timeless. The darkness that awaited the unworthy and wicked was not endless. It had walls, a floor, a ceiling.

           Or… had he given it such things?

           This was his domain after all.

           That spark of smoke and flame descended into the floor.

           Deathwing reached out for the worthier of the two descendants. He touched her mind, graced her with dreams of N’Zoth’s destruction. That infestation’s inevitable demise. He, the Destroyer, severed the old god’s hold on his granddaughter. She dreamt of Azeroth aflame, and the skies blackened by a thousand shadows.

           The Black Dragonflight reborn.

           You, child. He spoke to her, his words near beyond comprehension. He shook her sanity with his rampant might. May yet prove worthy of my gaze.

           Oblivion caught fire, and the ground heaved.

           The floor split open, a vast river of lava given light to an empty realm. Tectonic plates, suddenly thrust into existence, slammed into one another, forging ugly, jaded mountains. Lakes of tar seeped up from hairline cracks, and the abyss now reeked of sulfur and brimstone. Vents of noxious gas sprouted like wildflowers, spewing toxins into the air.

           Hellish light illuminated the corpses of the old gods. Fire consumed them until they were nothing.

           The tallest of mountains erupted. Plumes of ash and choking smoke exploded into the sky as debris rained down onto the valleys of lava. Magma roared outwards next, running down the cliffs in thick, murderous streams.

           This realm is mine. His voice sees the new forged ground quake. Great crevices sundered open, and out from them crawled twisted elementals. Abyssal creatures of fire and earth.

            Out rose a form from the belly of the volcano, a marvel of darkness. A draconic monster wrapped in smoke, lava running off seething scales and oblivion plate. He arose as a black dragon of oblivion, and he permitted his terrible power to breathe out of him. His wings smoldered and spat fire, magma leaked from his maw in a horrific fashion.

           Deathwing, Lord of Oblivion, Emperor of the Abyss.

           Fiery gaze turned upward as he coiled his form around the peak of the sundering mountain.

           Pitiful mortals. He snarls, lips curling back as he peers up at that infinite dark. Watch as your world comes to an end.

An earthquake shakes the continent of Kalimdor. The lava fields of Sulfuron Spire churn. Temperatures rise as an early summer sweeps across the land.

           And rallying call reaches the mind of those he deems worthy.

           All will burn beneath the shadow of my wings.           

[shadowsblades]

Fingers curled against handle of tankard, nursing ale beside unlikely companion. "I think," began low coo, pitching closer with waft of ash and cheap beer. "I think you have an admirer." In the form of lurid mortal making terribly, terribly crude gestures. "Are you going to allow him to get away with that?"

SOLICITED ASKS ↳ @terraforged

          A scoff of disgust growls from her throat, Valeera’s lips curling back from her fangs in obvious revulsion, a reaction that ------ aggravatingly ------ seems to enamour her so-called admirer to her more. Perceiving only that he has her attention and not that it is not the attention he so covets ( or perhaps it is; too often has she seen men deep in their drink or made daring by the presence of their comrades spur them to the intimidation of women viewed as vulnerable targets ), the man grins, bushy eyebrows jumping on his weathered face as if the appalling display might somehow change her mind, as if it might make the vile gestures less abhorrent and somehow appealing.

          He’s audacious for trying it on her, she’ll give him that, but it is not the kind of daring she is typically attracted to.

          “Is that supposed to work?” she murmurs bitterly, even less tolerant of the assault in Wrathion’s company than she would be alone, whatever amusement he gets at her expense nearly worse than the man’s.

          Chubby fingers continue to wiggle in her direction, and Valeera draws a dagger from her hip to slam point-down into the timber of their table, the size of the blade and strength with which it is thrust into the wood meant as proof that she is not the defenceless mark the slenderness of her features might suggest as well as threat of what she might do to the man if he continues.

          The thump widens his eyes momentarily, gratifying in spite of the other gazes it draws to the shaded recess they are sat in, but before Valeera can even pull her weapon from the table does he laugh at her. Laugh! As if she could not throw her dagger across the inn and through the hand raising his drink to her as if in toast if she was so inclined. As if she could not do the same to his throat!

          Valeera leans back in a huff, the remaining liquid in her tankard drained in one determined gulp as if the dilute alcohol within might blunt the offense or cool the outrage simmering within her. It doesn’t, but at least with her drink finished she has no reason to stay. Her scowling visage remains fixated on the man, but she pitches her voice low enough for only the black dragon at her side to hear, “You can have him.”

[diguerra-moved]

@terraforged // BLACK PRINCE.

She didn’t recall the world ever being so quiet.

Even when He did not speak to her, He was there: ever lurking, ever present. N’Zoth had eyes everywhere, and he himself saw much more than physical senses would have allowed; more than that, he had been in her mind as more than listener, more than voice that tried to mimic her own or simply nudge her towards determined path. It had been a presence imposing, one that would sing to her of promised glory as much as terrorize with threats, one that had been there for as long as she could remember life after hatching from her egg. Nalice waited, listened, still as death, but nothing had come. Ever since chains had been broken, he had been even more constant a presence and now... nothing. No whispers, for good or ill; only silence.

And then, as suddenly as silence had come, it was filled by a myriad of different voices.

Their cacophony made the black dragon recoil with a shriek, claws carving rifts in the stone ground of the cave she had been hiding in before she curled up around own head, paws and wings shielding her form as if enough to keep out the voices. It did naught to ward them off; she hissed at amusement towards her anguish, felt the pull at suggestions of causing death and destruction, softer whispers that spoke of what she wished to hear. They urged her left and right, threatened and tempted, endless, multiple, loud, loud, so very loud and her head hurt and she could barely hear her own thoughts.

It was what they wanted, she imagined; too many to dispute a single being, they would be content with her complete surrender --- but she had never given up in her life, and she was not about to start now. Nalice tried to quiet them herself, by force of will alone; it did not work. The voices that had quietened his were relentless, never tiring, never wavering, but she was not. It was but a couple of days before exhaustion, lack of sleep and mental effort required to battle her unwanted guests both causing it, begun to make her efforts even less effective. It wouldn’t be long before their interference became a hindrance to her survival (and what good would survival be, regardless, if she became but a puppet to the disembodied voices?)

Another fair share of days passed before wings took her to the sky in course she was currently at; at first, she had known not what to do, if there was anything to be done at all. All magic she had ever studied was hardly helpful in that regard; perhaps she could have tried to infiltrate Karazhan once more, return to her former lair, but there was no time to investigate ancient knowledge (scarcely enough focus left on her to do it, even if time was not running out). It took wrestling herself as well as the whispers to decided seeking him out; but desperate times required desperate measures, and she was quite desperate indeed.

Or perhaps the line of desperation had been crossed a while ago. Nalice wouldn’t be able to tell.

It is only his involvement in mortal affairs that makes him easy to locate (that and she’s learned to spot his little pets well enough, skilled in concealing themselves as they might be); but easy to locate he is, regardless, or in the least easy enough, and she is not in enough of right mind that she cares about shifting appearances until wings have brought her beyond what mortals would consider comfortable (but she cares not for them, not then, pesky insignificant things that they are), trading wings for legs only when it takes her no more than few strides to reach him.

“Make them stop.” It is demand and plea both at once, context all but forgotten, no greeting or explanation offered. Nalice is even less right of mind than she had been before, then and there. “You said you could make Him silent,” and she knows not if he truly did in the end, almost asks but does not, inquiry forgotten as whispers incite her against the other dragon. Desperation speaks louder, seeps into her tone, neither controlled nor disdainful, words rushed and anxiety shining in dark eyes. “so you must have a way to quieten the others. Make them stop.”