#the fireborne

[starcunning]

Uh. Hm. Well then. I have an alt in the Fireborne, and while I'm probably not very active enough in that guild to really comment on this, I'm still surprised to hear this amount of drama. Everyone I've spoken to has been cool. Isario has always been friendly to me.

When I left DOTS my final words were “Thank you for all the good memories, but it’s time we parted ways.” My departure from DOTS was announced on tumblr with the somewhat understated "Super cool astromancer LF guild." Madelynne asks if it’s because of Tendael’s return. “I would rather discuss [that] privately if at all.”

Azshara, a close friend of mine, also left, and almost immediately the mudslinging started: "Some people don’t like change." Ethelinda (a high-ranking non-officer of the Dominion) offers her two cents. Ruvias, then a logistics officer of the Dominon, wants to condemn the airing of dirty laundry. This post features Tendael’s announcement and version of events (which was exactly what we were told happened by Volanaro, the sitting GM ousted in this instance). Syrinthia, Isario’s future life coach, insinuates Volanaro has an anger management problem in the reply she registered to tumblr to post. Anashae was the “against” in this instance, by the way, and Syrinthia is being disingenuous: she vented her spleen repeatedly to Tendael, saying things like “I wish you were in charge again, we wouldn’t have these problems.” Syrinthia’s direct sub-officer Aloridan (who is also her ex-boyfriend) also registered a tumblr (he claimed to have had it and been lurking; he had no previous posts or Likes) to come in and make mock of our unhappiness; he deleted it later and no record of his posts exist as far as I am aware.

Other people left; I offer my defunct guild as a safe space. Ruvias contacts me with pointed questions about why I felt DOTS was not a safe space. Word will get back to Syrinthia; I politely brush her off.

A short while later, Ruvias gets an anon asking if people are still “spewing bullshit” about DOTS. Astralune makes a rebloggable version of her reply, noting that the issue was not the change in leadership. I elucidate, somewhat anonymously, on my unhappiness with the guild prior to Tendael’s coup. Ruvias never acknowledges my position. She never will.

I forget about DOTS for a while.

Felthier, GM of the Sunguard, discovers that on WRA there is a level 58 DK named Felthier that looks just like his character and is the GM of .  I identify the player as Colius, part of the August 2013 Coalition of the Willing and the officer in a direct position of authority over Isario. Ruvias (who had previously held the post Colius occupied at the time) pipes up to offer her opinion of Colius’ character as “a nice, laid-back guy.” Felthier posts the chatlog from when he’s contacted Colius/Colius later discovers this is more of a kerfuffle than he realized. Ruvias recants her opinion to express her sympathy.Shirexia, the last good apple in DOTS, expresses her disappointment even though she was uninvolved. Aloridan (who has deleted the tumblr he used in August, and registers a different URL) jumps all over his own guildmate. I point out he is being a shithead and remind him he should post on his main. He trots out “it was only a joke,” as Colius did in the chatlogs Felthier posted. Astralune snatches his defunct URL to prove a point about impersonating people, which means Aloridan’s posts this time are preserved in posterity, because he’s since deleted them.

A while later, Shirexia leaves DOTS/Fireborne and I no longer have to give even the remotest semblance of a shit about that pack of pond leeches.

Here is the most complete post-mortem I did on my departure, December 2013, at the prompting of a curious anon. I finally attach a name to my accounts of ill treatment: Syrinthia behaved in a reprehensible manner to me. Volanaro relates some of his thoughts about the coup that ousted him.

Isario figures small in these stories, but he has surrounded himself with the people I mention over and over: he was particular friends with Aloridan and mentored by Colius, and Syrinthia protected him when Tendael came to look at his behavior. Lie with dogs, get up with fleas. All of these officers were personable and at least appeared to be well-liked, even when they were undeniably guilty of the accusations levied against them.

Isario’s lack of filter is so well-known it’s the butt of jokes …

But you’d know something about inappropriate sexual comments, wouldn’t you?

[thefireborne]

June 2014 Story Contest: Isario Brightweave

9: Florence and the Machine - Breaking Down 10: "Bitterness is like cancer. It eats upon the host. But anger is like fire. It burns it all clean." - Maya Angelou This really has no plot whatsoever, though it wasn't intended to, either. I also listened to Regina Spektor's version of No Surprises and Old Money by Lana Del Rey while writing it.       Twigs snapped effortlessly beneath the balls of his feet; they had grown damp with blood, but adrenaline numbed the wounded flesh. He soared across the forest floor. His only joy was in speed; otherwise, his heart weighed his chest and acid boiled up in his belly. If he stopped for even a moment, he knew he would retch, and so he kept running.       Red and orange and yellow, leaves green and brown blurred into an endless canvas overhead, and the thinnest trunks passed his peripheries in flashes. He could hear life stirring around, the occasional growl of a predator whose territory he intruded upon, but none gave him pause. He was too swift not to be caught; when he looked upon himself, he saw his legs were a blur as well, lifting him up so that he flew o'er the woods.       I'll be there soon. That thought was like honey in his mind; he could taste it sweet on his tongue, and it made the horizon lighten.        The bell calling him struck faster and nearer; he could feel it in his chest, and it quickened his feet. Do you hear me? I'll be there soon!       He opened his mouth to speak it aloud, but the sound stopped in his throat and left only as air hissing out wordlessly. His lungs clenched as if they, too, wanted to keep the words within. When he tried to call out again, he could feel his feet had started to burn.       So, rather than speak, he ran. When he glanced again, though, he saw his feet were gored; they trailed blood along the broken leaves, and his legs were growing heavier.        The bell quickened, but seemed somewhere deep within the forest's bowels. Each strike set his chest to shudder until the tolls elicited a sharp crack.        He fell to the earth, then, as his ribs were shattered, and realized that the bell had faded: instead, his heart drummed in a way that shook his mind and tore his body asunder. Was it just my heartbeat all along? Please don't go, I'm coming! he thought, but he could only gasp out. When he tried to pull himself up, the wet earth gave way and from its tear spilled a great font of magma. "Wait!" he finally screamed aloud, but it was too late. His flesh was melting from bone and his arms gave out in agony. Wait! he thought again, but then his face struck the forest floor, and both mind and body were silenced by darkness.       Darkness. Yes. Cold droplets splattered 'cross his cheeks. Thick storm clouds had gathered, and those further out to sea were torn regularly by lightning. Waves crept higher momentarily, sending the boat to rock; soon they would topple over the wood and cover him, he knew. Perhaps they would send his ship down to the sea; he wondered a moment how it would feel to hold ocean water in his lungs and what spirits lingered below.        Moonlight illuminated the thinner clouds and turned their wisps silver, but those weeping consumed the night. He stared up into the blackness, blinking only when rain struck and flooded his eyes.       The storm soon turned him numb; he could feel muscle and flesh tightening until its surface was hard with goose bumps. He inhaled sharply to fill his lungs with the cold air, and that made him smile.       Thunder sounded. It filled his head with furious song and set his vision aflame. It was closer; the storm loomed overhead and sent harsh strikes into the surrounding sea. Fear wakened within him like a great chill; it sent him to a shiver and raised his testicles so that they laid flush against his pelvic floor. He'd stripped himself bare and used his balled garments as a pillow, but still cradled a crown sewn of a satyr's fur in his lap, fingering lovingly at its steel visor. The metal was icy even against his dull, numbed fingertips.        He closed his eyes and thought of how alike it was to be cold and to be afraid, but beneath his eyelids was the red beat of heart and sky, flashing pink with each crash of lightning to the sea. He thought of the stars beneath the veil and moons mother and child. He thought of all those he loved and all those he loathed. He thought most, though, of the last time he rowed to sea.       The Sunwell had been restored, though his ilk were recovering sluggishly. They had learned that their lands were ever-tainted; that the Wretched were doomed; that those who had indulged too greatly in fel were accursed. He had interred his lover months past, and a vast apathy had plagued him. It weighed his smiles and clawed crow's feet into his eyes; it deflated his cheeks and lightened his flesh. When eternal spring next warmed his flesh, he was a changed man.       Somewhere within that interim, he borrowed a rowboat from the docks and made his way out into the dark waters; he had seen a great, black bruise in the sky to the northeast and decided to transcend the protection of Quel'thalas. He had longed for a storm, and one had loomed so near, but so far.       A sad smile crept up his lips. Eversong had felt so cold in the war, as if the undead ravagers were icing the land, but as soon as warmth had returned to the earth he had fled it; now as strength returned to his body and warmth to his heart he sought to chill it in a storm again.       Everything is a cycle. He had gone 'round the bend once and now again. Goodbyes were still bitter on his tongue, just as illness and injury soured his muscles and made him weak. Yes, everything is a cycle, he thought, opening his eyes against the downpour until it they flooded over. He breathed in sharply, and his body was wracked with a sudden quake. The sun sat beneath a particularly shallow swath of cloud and glowered down at him while the storm ensued all around. Do not weep.       The droplets and clouds and water's surface alike had all turned to gold, so that a thousand coins were rocking him left to right and left to right. He reached over the boat's edge and tried to pull the riches up, but they merely spilled through his hands and dripped from his fingertips back to sea.        It's over, he saw. The storm had moved out into the northern sea, drifting toward the horizon faster than he could chase it. In its wake were golden tides and, as the sun chased the storm but the storm fled the sun, a great rainbow that disappeared just beneath the clouds. The sight brought a smile across his lips; he was in a land of beauty and paradise, when he'd wanted no more than to drown within a cold, northern storm. He wanted his lungs to fill with salt and ice and he wanted to disappear beneath the waves.       If the world is so beautiful, why do I loathe it so? He ran a hand down his body, which loosened as warmth returned and the sea calmed around. He peered down at his scarred flesh, flesh that had been whole when last he rowed to this place but was now risen in horrid blisters and gashes. His testicles grew loose as his scrotum relaxed, though the rest of his body grew pained as feeling returned to muscle. He closed his eyes and let the weak, warming rain wash him. Why do I loathe it so?

[thefireborne]

June 2014 Story Entry: Darelia

1: Frory • frozen stiff with cold

Dark, cold, alone. The wind was the only thing that was making a sound. Surrounded by death and destruction, and the smoldering remains of what used to be her home and life. Her family, gone, murdered. To think this all happened within mere minutes, when life was fine moments before. Darelia stood, clutching onto what remained of her tattered robe, her blonde hair fluttering in the biting wind. ---------------------------------------------------------------- "Darelia! Wake up, you lazy thing! Breakfast is ready." Her mother's smooth, honey-like voice rang through the small house. Darelia let out a muffled groan, her messy curled hair spread out on the silk pillow she laid on. She pushed herself up, before ending up lazily on the floor. "Urgh.. coming!" Darelia shuffled over to her window, rubbing her eyes. She suddenly paused. A large black mass was on the horizon.. No. She was just imagining things. Just now, she began to feel the coolness of the house stinging through her nightgown, as she managed to climb down the stairway. Immediately, her mother's soft smile and unwavering gaze fell upon her. "It's about time you woke up, darling." Darelia stretched, before collapsing onto the crimson chair. "Yeah, well, if someone hadn't kept me up all night with their fancy studies." The thought of the black mass continued to disturb her mind. The only thing that roused her was the thundering roar of hawkstriders parading forward, heavily geared soldiers upon their backs. "...Mother? Why are there soldi-" Her mother cut her off. "Probably just training!" A hint of worry fell upon her voice, a trace of uncertainty heavy. Several hours had passed, and the patrol numbers had began to grow to a questionable amount. Darelia had changed out of her nightrobes and into her usual priest garbs, and was now reading a book of studies. Rather boring, one could say. Heavy thudding on the door made her snap to attention. "The Silvermoon Guard! Open up!" She stumbled over to the doorway, sighing as she opened the door. In front of her stood a tall, muscular male warrior. He had a stern look on his face, as if the bearer of bad news. "My apologies for disturbing you, miss, but there has been some.. issues, at the gates. We advise you to lock your doors and prepare any weapons you might have.With that, he disappeared. This sent Darelia into a stage of panic. How was she supposed to prepare? Why hadn't she known this sooner? Her mother had gone out of town to visit a client.. how was she supposed to come back?! These thoughts ensued her mind, as she locked the door. Only time would tell what horrid things would occur. The growing chill had begun to make itself noticeable, nipping at Darelia's arms and neck. Her mother was still gone. There was almost no hope she would return. Now, she awaited by a hawkstrider along with panicky house-wives worried about their sons and husbands sent to defend off whatever horrors that awaited them at the gates. A wave of a guard's palm issued the order, to mount up and prepare for departure. That is, until the beast came. It ripped through flesh and bone, tearing the guard's neck open as it stuffed it's fiendish maw with blood and skin. More came. It was obvious there was a breach in the gates, and there was no stopping it. She had managed to escape. Her beloved home was no more, torn ablaze and run rabid with those undead.. things. Through the cold she wondered, shivering. She wanted to ignore the growls of the beast, to hide away in her home, to be with her mother and father and everyone else. Why did she have to go through this? Why? Suddenly, one of the undead behemoths she had seen before lumbered from the bushes. Darelia's body locked up, with both the cold and pure fear. She couldn't move, couldn't run, and was left defenseless in the dark. It's gaze turned towards her, and she fell to the ground, crawling back on her arms."N-no! Please! Anything, I'll do anything!" This only seemed to enrage it further, as it charged towards her, raising it's broken and shattered sword. Darelia let out a sob as she welcomed the inevitable death that awaited her. A sword was pierced through the skeletal creature's head, causing it to collapse. Behind it stood the same man she had seen before, the one who had come to warn her. He grabbed her hand wordlessly, almost dragging her. "W-who are you?" Darelia managed to rasp, her body still shaken with frost and fear. He remained silent, as he trudged on. He sat her down, once they had reached what shelter they could find. "Stay here, and don't make a peep." He finally spoke, as he went off in the opposite direction. She was alone again. And alone she would stay, as an agony filled, bloodcurdling scream of a man's voice rang across the land. A shudder wracked her body, as she felt the reality of her situation fall upon her. The cold, was a bitter thing, harsh and unrelenting.

[thefireborne]

June 2014 Story Entry: Saeval

Acumen:

keen insight; shrewdness; quickness of perception or discernment

Saeval pursed his lips as he considered Konvyr’s revelation. It had been as the bard expected since the beginning, a ruse, cleverly disguised as malevolence where none should exist in any rightful means. Clever, too clever to be real, the Private was nothing more than a novice. But it all served only to remind him, Saeval that he too hadn’t played the game of plot and intrigue for too long. Had it not been for his keen taste for poison and wine he himself may have fallen under Konvyr’s sway of lies. The others seemed likewise immune, but that was no matter. It was a dangerous game that could have ended badly on all fronts.  “Yes, very well played,” he murmured absently, seeing Konvyr for perhaps the first time. The man with his gorgeous black locks and ready smile only stared back with a network of confusion disguised oh so charmingly beneath confidence laced with concern, and Saeval pressed home his point. It bubbled from within, an ancient memory from an ancient man, the words he’d learned harshly unto breaking. “But if you declare ‘check-mate’ before it is truly so, you forfeit the game.” Not knowing what he meant, not sure why he dared reveal that bit of his knowledge and accumulated skill, Saeval turned and walked away as swiftly as he could dare from the gods-forsaken pavilion.  It heralded far too many memories for his comfort, and for all his concentration, for all his effort to ignore the suffocating sweetness of the Sunwell, of the magic’s siren call, he was drowned beneath the weight of all that memory.  ***** He twisted his finger through a red-gold lock, just past his shoulders, and stared with big jade eyes at the chess-board. Its checkered black and white tiles were matched by the carnelian and onyx pieces – queens and kings and knights and pawns, all arranged perfectly in a unified front of brilliance and shock. His father was a master of the game, and had forced it to all his children to learn. Saeval, barely a decade and one, stared with undisguised awe as his father manipulated the pieces with that tantalizing glow surrounding him, the freezing cold of arcane magic. Saeval eyed both father and chess board longingly. If he could just master both… If he could just prove to his father that he was intelligent… His father’s magic heralded the moving of a silky black queen piece. Saeval felt his eyes go wide as the same grip of magic delicately plucked the smooth pearl of his knight. The last line of defense for his king and queen, the two pieces Saeval was so afraid to lose. One was his most powerful, the other, his most vulnerable. But his Lord Father wielded the queen so easily, moving it past all his pieces to target the most important of Saeval’s defenses. And he did so then. “Check,” his father’s cold, aloof voice portended, akin to that of the funeral bells Saeval remembered for his uncle just a few months ago. Promising grief and death, reminding Saeval that he had utterly and irrevocably lost to a true player of the game. Saeval licked his lips and dared not look into his father’s brilliant azure eyes; eyes that since Saeval was a boy had bore on him as the bird does the worm. He frowned –he wished his father would stop using magic to move the pieces, it was so hard to think when he did that, it was like cheating—and considered. His queen, after a few moves and countermoves, could remove his father’s opposing queen. But in retrospect, Saeval knew that without his knights and magisters he was lacking in any offensive power. His pawns certainly could not remove his father’s king. Saeval needed his queen, it was his strongest and most versatile piece… and the last real defense for his king. He could all but feel his father’s bitter triumph, the glistening disgust in his eyes as Saeval lost yet another game; the same disgust when Saeval failed to cast even the most minor of spells that boys half his age could learn. Saeval tried not to think of that. He saw his father’s shiny obsidian queen.  Saeval frowned further, not sure what he was doing would be worth it, and he slid his queen in between his father’s and the white king.  He could almost feel Del’Ador Tel’Knozz’s ire and ill-amused frustration. His voice cracked like a whip that had Saeval flinch to himself, holding his arms across his small chest. “Foolish, boy. You sacrifice your most powerful piece to merely delay the inevitable. Is that truly wise? You realize that you cannot revoke your move. Foolish, as ever.” And the magic flared around his father again, cold as the snows Saeval had felt only once when his brother Garedwynn had done for him on his fifth birthday, cold enough to make Saeval shiver. And the onyx queen toppled the carnelian.  Saeval couldn’t bear to look at his father –his ruse had worked—and he slid his rook across the board. In direct line with his father’s king, which had been exposed by the movement of his queen.  “Check-mate!” Saeval cried, shocked and surprised. He’d won! He’d won!  Cold, so frigid and biting, slapped him across the face. He was sure it was magic, it felt too sweet despite the pain and he clawed at it in his mind, trying to devour it, but his Lord Father Del’Ador retracted it. The suffocating glow ceased, and Saeval looked up with wide and terrified eyes as his father loomed over him. Tension could have cracked ice, here, Saeval knew that. Was his father angered that he had lost? Did he feel… ashamed… that an idiot boy like he had beat him? Saeval whimpered and began to cry, and again came that sweet, stinging slap across his face. Bittersweet as his mother’s wine.  “You idiotic, simpering, useless offal I am forced to call a son,” Del’Ador sneered, his hawk-like nose wrinkling as though smelling something particularly foul. Saeval cried again, which earned another eldritch slap. “Enough crying! The men of House Tel’Knozz are proud, regal, poised. We do not cry when we make mistakes or are made fools of. We do not whimper and beg. You are a failure, a useless weakling that even the buzzards would ignore should you fall in the field of battle. You cannot use magic, you are frail and small, and your stratagem is pitiful. Do you know what you did?” Saeval shook and stuttered, “I-I… I beat you, my Lord. I won.” He drew himself up, feeling a hint of pride for the first time in years. He –had--- defeated his father, he could not deny that. But Del’Ador only sneered again and folded is hands together.  “Get up and look at the board,” his father whispered, voice soft and deadly. Saeval knew that voice, it was used to punish even the lowliest of servants. The quieter his father grew, the more vicious his ire. So the boy scrambled to his feet and looked at the board, searching. There were more black pieces than white. He didn’t know what his father meant, he… Saevel looked. A pawn. A meaningless pawn could have been moved forward to block his move. But why was that so bad? His father could do that.  “You could have blocked my rook,” Saeval admitted sheepishly, and the seduction of the arcane stung his cheek again. He would be bruised, for true, but it felt so… “Father, please- “You will not call me that!” Del’Ador roared, and Saeval fell back in another fit of sobbing. There was silence but for his sniveling and weeping, and Saeval never felt more pathetic than he did when crying in front of his father. Even his mother, who was as cold and aloof as her husband but for her beloved daughter. Saeval didn’t care. It was too much, why was this so wrong? His father could have just blocked it and moved on, why… Del’Ador suddenly knelt beside Saeval and he had to fight tooth and nail not to shrink away. His father wasn’t about to use magic, he would have felt it like a cool caress. Saeval met his father’s vicious blues, which bored into his heart and mind without reluctance or mercy. His words flicked like a serpent’s tongue, stinging and venomous and filled with cunning knowledge and truth.  “When you declare ‘check-mate’ before it is actually so,” Del’Ador whispered coldly with a malice that could only matched by his severity, “you forfeit the game.”

[thefireborne]

June 2014 Story Entry: Samaroii

In response to prompt #10! Hope you guys enjoy the read~ Samorii was only a young boy at the time the alliance had banded together to fight against the orcish horde. Samorii dreamt of fighting beside his father all his life, gaining his respect. Sadly, Samorii did not have a female role model in his life, his mother walked out on his father and him for an unknown reason.  Samorii had no battle experience, or no motivation from his father to join the Horde's military. His father was going through a depression at the time, so this forced Samorii to go train alone. Samorii would use a stick and purposely find forest wolves to engage in combat with. He'd come back home bloodied and battered but he came home a bit stronger each day. No one would train him. They saw him only as a weak child with no mindset of a true warrior.  It was dawn. Samorii was just walking home after fighting off two wolves with a small stone sword. He was at the peak of collapsing with exhaustion, but that did not stop him from wanting to go home. As he strolled down the cobble path leading to his village he saw an gray haired orc, blind folded and carrying a large katana, sitting on a rock.The old orc as well had the exact outfit of a Blademaster...along with the horde standard strapped to his back!  Samorii tried his best to avoid the blademaster, not wanting to waste his time with his questions about his battles or journeys, but he was stopped by his voice. "Still fighting wolves, boy?" he asked curiously. How did he know about that? Samorii thought. He never did notice anyone following or watching him..but this orc is blind so how could he... "You walk home everyday battered, your wounds are poorly treated, and I can sense your despair. Why do you try so hard to become something you're not?" he climbed off the rock and approached the Samorii. Samorii grunted. "I am warrior, a proud one to be in fact! I am nothing else -BUT- a warrior." This would make the old blademaster laugh. "Are you now..? Raise your blade then, boy. Challenge me, Blademaster Junchi, to a duel. If you win..you may have my blade." He'd grin. Samorii rose his blade in response. He wasn't going to back down to someone mocking him, even if they were a blademaster! He'd then leap at the man swinging to tear a hole in his unprotected shoulder. However, Junchi easily parried the swing and forced the boy onto his knees with a single swipe of his blade. Samorii bowed his head in defeat..his knees would no longer allow him to get up. He was ready to acceot his death, honorably. To his surprise...he was not killed. "Boy...what is it that you want most..in this crucial world we live in?" Junchi asks. Samorii looked up at the old orc...dead in the eye and spoke with full seriousness. "To impress my father." "It shall be done then, I will train you." Junchi simply replies.  Years have passed and the second war is close to its end...An alliance raiding party eyes Samorii's village. They are preparing to slaughter every orc in its population. During this time Samorii has grown largely and has nearly completed his blademaster training. All he had to do was forge his own blade with his master, Junchi. Junchi would speak these words. "I am proud of you Samorii, boy. You've proven yourself not the be the monster the alliance makes us out to be..." his voice trailed off as the sound of a war-horn filled the air. Alliance were coming. "Samorii! Go retrieve your sword! We'll have to finish this later!" Junchi commanded. Samorii would only nod and rush off to his home to retrieve his sword. His father would not be home..only fighting the alliance inside their village, breaking skulls left and right. Samorii would run back to where his master was and found Junchi fighting a paladin. Junchi would then spin around on his toes creating a small whirlwind of blades. The paladin could not handle the strength of said attack and fell to it. Samorii started to run to Junchi but tripped over a rock. He'd hear the cry of a human warrior charge at him with a spear. He'd close his eyes accepting death once more..but it never came. He opened his eyes slowly to see Junchi..impaled protecting his body. The warrior however did not have his head attached to his body...perhaps Junchi landed the first hit..but the warrior landed the last. "M...Master?" He'd stutter but their was no reply. Junchi was killed..but he stood so proudly even in death. The rage and hatred Samorii was filled with had no limits. He'd take up his master's blade and charged into the alliance raiding group, slaying any who stood in his way. After finishing off a helpless cleric he'd shout at the top of his lungs. "BLOOD AND GLORY!" The aftermath of the fight..many orcs and humans have died. The village's homes were ruined..but they can be easily rebuilt. Not the families though. Samorii was surrounded by the alliance soldiers he had slayed. Kneel'd down he stared at his master's blade...It was his fault he had died...he thought. His thoughts were quickly diminished when a hand rested on his shoulder. "Doesn't it feel good...son?" his father grinned at him from above. "You made a lot of human children orphans today...You've proven worth to me..come. Let us shine that blade of yours, you've earned it.." He'd help him up. "Yes father.." Samorii would only answer.

[thefireborne]

June 2014 Story Entry by Grace Dragonsong

9: Florence and the Machine - Breaking Down 

It was night when the scourge arrived, their forces innumerable. The air seemed to grow colder and the moon slipped away behind the clouds. Grace awoke to a flurry of movement, her mother standing over her with wide, frightened eyes. Her siblings flitted around the house, packing things and yelling in different rooms to each other.

"The scourge," her mother whispered in a defeated voice, before moving out the room.

Clumsily, the young girl clamored out the bed. She shoved boots on her feet and raced out of the room. Her elder brother stood in the hall, guiding his siblings in a calm voice. When he saw Grace he pointed to her room, shaking his head. "Grace go pack. Why are you still wearing your nightgown?"

"I like it," she replied back annoyed, "It's white silk, it's pretty."

"It won't help you in the cold, change Grace."

Grace stalked back to her room, slamming the door shut on her brother. Her room was extremely messy, the floor hardly visible under the various piles of clothes, toys, books, papers and random dishes. In the corner stood a large tank, filled with dirt and plants. She crossed over to the tank first, casting the lid aside with no mind to where it landed. She scooped out a small mouse, patting his head before placing him in her pocket.

She did not pay attention as she shoved random clothes in her bag, her mind now on the village and what would happen to her friends. She stifled tears, she didn't want to seem weak, her mother and siblings were frantic enough without anymore crying children. When she left her room she still had on her nightgown, bugger her brother, she would be fine.

Her brother rolled his eyes at Grace, noting she had not taken his advice. "Grace, if you're done, go wait for the others in the stables, also, I hope you packed useful things, you're the only one whose managed to pack under five minutes."

Grace replied with exaggerated eye roll, flipping her hair dramatically. She avoided the rest of her family as she traveled through the house, she wasn't too keen on speaking to anyone at the moment. She carried her rucksack on her left shoulder, using her right hand to make sure the mouse in her pocket was safe.

Outside, she leaned down, releasing the mouse onto the grass. The small rodent peered up at her, almost like it was sad. Grace pushed it gently away, frowning as the creature scurried off. She hoped the mouse would stay safe.

As soon as Grace entered the stables, she placed a saddle on a pure black hawkstrider. She ruffled the feathers on it's head, receiving a friendly nip back. Feytrea was her favorite hawkstrider, she ran the fastest and Grace was sure she listened when she talked to her.

Her family came in slowly, her father arriving last. He gave a smile to everyone, but it didn't reach his eyes. Grace knew he wouldn't travel with them, he was in charge of the village's protection and he would stay while families evacuated. He spoke to everyone individually, when he arrived to Grace she tackled him in a hug.

He gave a hearty chuckle, patting the girl on the back. "Love you too, Graceling."

"Don't go," she begged, she wasn't foolish, there was a small chance he would come back.

"I'll return, I promise." Her father slid off his wedding band, handing it to Grace. "Keep this safe for me, when I come back, I'm going to want it. I'm trusting you with this Gracie."

Grace nodded solemnly, wrapping her hands around it protectively. She mounted her hawkstrider, and guided the creature out of the stables. She watched her father ride away, clutching the ring in her hand for dear life. He wasn't coming back.

As her family rode away to safety, she kept looking behind. In a split decision, she ran from the group. Her mother yelled behind her, but Grace ignored her, spurring her mount towards the village. Her brother broke away after her, but her hawkstrider was faster, she always chose the fastest one.

When she reached the village she stopped, dismounting in a smooth fashion. She ran forward, trying to find where the fighting was. No one was in the streets, and the buildings stood with doors open, lights out. She heard her brother behind her, and sprinted forward, she could not let Ignatius catch her.

The battle was by the village gates, archers shooting atop the walls while the melee pushed the scourge back. The sin'dorei were vastly outnumbered, but the soldiers were talented, they were not shopkeepers or farmhands. She spotted her father in the middle of the fray.

With horror, she watched a death knight's blade slice across his neck. The man fell backwards into the dirt, blood flying through the air. The undead turned away, moving to the next blood elf to murder.

A blur of silver hair and white fabric fled across the ground. The young girl ran as fast as she could, her feet hitting the ground at an unnatural speed. She stumbled over a dead body, her breath catching in her throat as she fell, but she immediately stood up and continued forward. She surged ahead, dodging a ghoul, the monster turned and watched her with beady eyes. She had gained some distance before it decided to follow her, scrambling on all fours towards the sin'dorei child.

Her brother spurred after her, not daring to scream Grace's name and draw even more attention to them. His eyes were wide with fright and he gripped his sword tightly, afraid of having to use it.

When Grace reached her father, she crouched down near him, placing her warm hands against her father's face. Her father looked ghastly. His face was drained of any color, blue veins pushed against his skin, frost etched on his armor. That was not the worst, it was only the beginning. Blood pooled beneath his head, his lips leaked red, the gash in his throat rippling with fresh blood. He stared back up her, a glint of recognition in his dying eyes. His skin was already losing heat, and his breathing became hitched and unsteady. Grace bent the Light to her will, trying to repair the damage that had been done. She was just a child however, and lacked the talent to save one from imminent death.

The ghoul crept forward, no emotion for the scene before it, not that it could manage any. It lurched forward, it's sinewy hands clawing the child's arm. Grace turned around and cried out with alarm. In a sudden movement, she clutched her head in her arms, caving inwards in her crouching position and let out a blood curdling scream. The sound pierced through the air, ringing an abnormal amount. The undead that gripped her crawled backwards, spinning around in fear.

Her brother arrived and sliced the ghoul in two, his eyes filled with fury. Grace returned to her father, who was losing blood at a faster rate. The child bit back sobs, watching the life disappear from her father. Ignatius yelled at her, but she did not hear him, reaching out to touch her father's corpse.

Her brother yanked her away by her collar, dragging the girl from the body. Grace got to her feet and shrugged her brother off.

"I-i can run Ignatius."

He screamed back at her, "then let's go!"

The carnage around them passed in a haze, the siblings trying not to look and simply get to safety. Halfway back to the hawkstriders, they were stopped by a death knight. Ignatius stepped in front of Grace, motioning for her to run. Instead the child screamed again, the abhorrent sound sending the foe into a confused state. The death knight walked back and forth, shaking his head as if to rid it of the screech. The two children used that as a time to escape, narrowly missing death and joining their father on the battlefield.

When they reached the streets, blood was spattered on the stone and a warped corpse laid on the ground. The little girl took in the sight. The skin of the being was wrinkled and blackened, a large gash spilled it's innards and the eyes were torn out. Grace looked away in horror. They veered away from the path, not risking meeting the being that had created the gory scene.

With ease they made it to the hawkstriders. As soon as both siblings mounted, they tore off again, sprinting through the town. The gardens that used to be lush and green, filled with lively critters were silent. They left the streets, moving through the forest instead. Another hour passed before they slowed down, their legs covered in bruises and scratches where the foliage had torn through clothes. Grace had lost her bag, and Ignatius his sword. The little girl still clung to her father's jewelry though.

"It's gone," she said, stopping in her tracks, her eyes brimming with tears, "I will never see our home again, or our village."

Ignatius wrapped his arm around his sister, "We've got to get meet mother and the others at uncle's house, Graceling. You should never have ran away, you know that."

Grace bowed her head in shame, "I wanted to see father."

"You could have died, Grace."

The girl didn't reply, instead moving forward, death would at least spare her the memories of what she had seen.

[thefireborne]

Story Entry: Konvyr

Response to Picture Prompt #2 and slightly inspired by Word Prompt #2 (heresiarch)

Prior to the events of 'The Burning Crusade'

He awoke to the warmth of the sun on his face. Lids opened, fel green eyes sliding across the field of silken sheets to his red haired companion, his lips curving into a smile as he marvelled at how the sunlight made the curls of her red hair glimmer in the morning haze. "Dayanara," he whispered, his hand rising to grace upon the pale ivory of her shoulder, "Dayanara... wake up."

The woman moaned beside him as she turned her face towards him. Konvyr felt his breath catch in his throat, her dazzling beauty catching him by surprise. She smiled, setting her elbow on the bed to prop her head up. 

"I was having the most lovely dream..." she murmured, "You were there, and we... oh," her features lit up, "Oh, Konvyr, look!" She was staring out the window, so the Blood Knight turned as well. "It's so beautiful..." she whispered. And it was. An early morning sunrise, those first rays of light blazing on the horizon, filling the world with a pleasing reddish gold haze. Dayanara shifted beside him, resting her head of curly red tresses on his chest, gazing dreamily out through the window.

She loved to watch the sunrise. Every morning they watched, and every morning she was filled with awe. Konvyr couldn't keep the smile from his face as he watched her, she was so pure and radiant. In truth, the sunrise paled compared to her.

Konvyr slipped a hand under his pillow while she lay upon his chest, fingers curling around a small box he had hidden there. He opened the box with his thumb and palmed the object within. Dayanara did not seem to notice, or if she did, she said nothing.

"Daya," he whispered, his free hand sliding down over her arm until he reached her hand, his fingers fitting inbetween hers. Her hands were so soft. "I have something for you..." 

The woman turned, her glowing green eyes grinning. "Oh really?"

"Yes." He brought his other hand out and slowly, gingerly, slid a ring onto her dainty finger. The band was silver, polished to a brilliant shine, but that glow was nothing compared to the luster of the blood red ruby set in the middle.

"Konvyr..." She whispered, "Anar'alah belore, it's gorgeous."

He leaned in, kissing her deeply. Her lips were soft, sweet.

"What is the occasion?" She asked, her smile turning into a mischevious smirk, "What manner of trouble have you stirred up that you need to bribe me with such gifts?"

"No trouble... yet," he said, grinning. "Just a reminder of me, should any other suitors come calling," he teased.

She laughed and stuck her tongue out at the dark haired elf. "You silly fool, you're the only suitor I have eyes for." 

Konvyr smirked. "Well, now that I know that, you should give me that ring back. It cost a fortune!"

"Ha!" She laughed, "I think not, Sir Knight! It's mine now! You'll never have it back!" She squirmed away as the male elf made to grab her wrists, giggling and swatting his hands away. "You... get... BACK!" She squealed, "It's mine!" 

The silk curtains drifted lazily in the breeze of the open window as the sound of the couple's laughter turned to lovemaking, golden sunlight filling the room.

++++++

The scent of burnt wood filled Konvyr's nostrils well before he reached the small cabin in the woods. He frowned, tightening his grip on the reins of his mount. The missive had reached him late in the day, the Blood Knight had been out on exercises when the messenger had found him. Apparently the young elf had been trying to find him for hours; the efficacy of the the Order's clerks left something to be desired, to be sure. Konvyr had not been pleased.

The missive carried the unbroken seal of Magister Eldamar. It had been a summons, the Magister calling upon the Knight with the utmost urgency. For months, they had been trying to uncovered a hidden cell of mutinous Blood Elves, speaking out against the Sun King and the repercussions of his new arcane teachings through posters and secret assemblies. The Magister wanted to put an end to this heretical thinking, before more of their brethern were led astray.

A covert message had been intercepted by one of the Magister's agents and a potential meeting place had been discovered. The Magister required Konvyr's presence, immediately, so that the lead could be followed up on 'with extreme prejudice'. By the smell upon the air, Konvyr knew he was too late, and the Magister had been forced to move ahead without him. The Blood Knight would see that proper punishment was dispensed for this gross incompetence.

Fel green eyes narrowed upon the little cabin as it came into view, the eastern half had been blown apart, tendrils of smoke rising from the smoldering ruin. There were no sounds of battle, all resistance had since been ended. Nevertheless, the Knight pressed his spurs to his charger's flanks. 

"Ah, there you are!" A familiar voice called as the Blood Knight dismounted, "Good of you to join us!"

Konvyr turned, nodding his head to the Magister. He gave no apologies or excuses; his long experience with the magister had taught him that Eldamar despised such things. If the Magister wanted to know what had kept the Knight, he would ask at his leisure when the time was right. "They put up a bit of a fight, I see." Konvyr spoke, closing the gap between himself and Eldamar.

The Blood Mage nodded, casting a hand wide at the destruction and the other elves milling about the place. "Those who answered my call... in a steadfast manner," he began with a narrowing of his eyes, "Were a little too liberal in their use of force. Clearly, a bit more training in the art of restraint is needed. But, I was fortunate enough that two of these malcontents managed to survive long enough to be questioned."

The Magister beckoned for the Knight to follow and stepped inside of the cabin. There were three bodies piled in a corner, with a fourth being dragged across the floor by an elf wearing a black hood and mask. In the middle of the room was a chair with a slender figured sitting there, bound at the wrists and ankles, a hood over her face. 

"She just died on me," Eldamar explained as they approached, "She put up quite the fight. Barely gave me any information at all..." the Magister sneered with distaste.

And that was when Konvyr saw it. On the woman's pale hand, glimmering in the dim firelight. A large, red ruby.

"All she would tell me was that she was the cell's leader and that there were others 'just like her'," he said, mockingly. 

Fear and despair gripped the elf's heart, but he somehow he managed to keep his face still. He recognized the ring. It was the one he had given to Dayanara that very morning. His jaw tightened, battling the emotions within.

"We have uncovered some documents, however, and some encrypted messages. We will learn what we can from these and resume the hunt for this malefactor's companions. None will escape our grasp."

He nodded, his face hard and stern, unreadable. He was horrified, but he tore his gaze away from that ruby to meet the Magister's eyes. 

"Now, due to your inability to be punctual, I am going to leave you in charge with disposing of these bodies," the Magister said. "No trace, whatsoever. I do not want any questions asked or any warnings given to her comrades. Let them wander about in the realm of uncertainty for a while." 

It couldn't be her. It couldn't be Dayanara. She was sweet, proper. She wasn't a fighter.

The Blood Knight nodded, "I will see it done, Magister."

But he was filled with dread nonetheless. That ring... that damned ring... It was the same. He knew it was the same. 

"Good. Report back to me in Silvermoon once everything is cleaned up here."

And with that, the Magister left, leaving three of his men behind to help Konvyr with the removal of the bodies. They shuffled around on the other side of the room while the Blood Knight slowly moved closer to the woman bound in the chair. There was blood splattered on her robes, a tear in the cloth on her left side. The Magister had let her bleed out, knowing that she would give him little information of use.

A hand reached out, shaking at first until Konvyr forced it to settle. He could feel a pair of eyes set upon him, one of the Magister's men having turned to come and help the Knight. Konvyr's throat felt dry, tight. He was filled with horror, nearly paralyzed with it. But he forced himself forwards, his face a cold mask. Everything hinged on this moment.

Fingers grasped the hood and he tugged it off the woman's head. The first thing he saw was a head of curly, crimson hair, cast over her face. The sun no longer shone from the morning light; it was dull and sooty from the ash. Konvyr wanted to scream, but instead he continued, his body seemingly taking over from his mind. He let the hood drop as he stepped forwards, a knife appearing in his hands, cutting at the woman's bounds, freeing her. 

She slumped forwards but he caught her, gently pushing her body back in the chair. That mass of red hair still hid her face. He knew it, he damn well knew it, but he had to know for sure. He reached out, fingers gracing her chin as he tilted her head back, crimson tresses falling away from the woman's face.

"A shame, isn't it."

The voice of the masked elf came over Konvyr's shoulder as the Blood Knight stared down at the cold, dead face of his lover. He said nothing, could not bear to move or do anything at all. He felt his composure cracking under the weight of these revelations, his own face-- seemingly as expressionless as Dayanara's-- ready to contort into mindless grief and anguish. 

"So pretty... What a waste."

Rage filled the Knight. He wanted to turn and grab the masked man by the throat and squeeze. Squeeze, and squeeze, and squeeze...

"Here, I'll drag her over--"

"You will do no. such. thing." Konvyr said, his eyes blazing in fury. He paused a moment, checking himself before proceeding. "I do not require the aid of some shadow skulking bandit," he turned, letting go of the woman's chin to confront the rogue head on. "Get away from me," the Knight growled, "Your very presence is an affront to my nature. I despise you and your ilk, and detest that your given skills are a necessity to our endeavors. But I will not have you looming about me like a rat awaiting a nibble of cheese. Go and help the others."

The masked elf's face twisted in anger, but he seemed to think better on the situation and nodded before stepped back. No one wanted to enrage the Magister.

Once the masked elf was gone, Konvyr turned back to Daya's body, so cold and lifeless. He wanted to fall to his knees, wanted to scream. What was she doing here? How had he not known? Why hadn't she told him? He was painfully aware of the eyes set on him from the other side of the room and kept his face set as stone. One word, one misstep, and Konvyr knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the Magister would find the association too suspicious and the Blood Knight would be made to disappear.

Konvyr leant forwards, arms wrapping around the woman and hoisting her up, cradling her against his body. She felt so light in his arms, almost as though there was nothing to her at all. 

There a large, hard lump in his throat, threatening to strangle him. He turned, knowing he would see three sets of eyes on him, staring questioningly. Konvyr had to remove that question. He took a step forwards, the thump of his boot against the floorboards echoing in his ear like a solemn funeral bell. He needed to show them he did not care. Needed to show them he was stone. 

He took another step, another chime. Every muscle of his body felt tight, tense with an array of intense emotions. He was angry, he wanted to kill them- all of them- for snuffing out her life. He was filled with heartache and wanted to fall to the ground and cradle his lost love. He was even afraid, knowing full well that not a single of them would hesitate to expedite his downfall. 

Konvyr reached the pile of bodies, his fel green hues burning as he gazed at the three blood elves. Somehow, he managed to summon the last words, although he knew not where the strength to say them had come from.

"Destroy the bodies. Leave no trace." He spoke, and let go of Dayanara's body. Everything felt like slow motion as she left his grasp, falling to the ground without ceremony or grace. Konvyr's gaze flicked down to her, laying haphazard at his feet, strewn about amongst her dead companions. His eyes settled on her ring, the ruby he had given her, and he knelt down, fingers grasping it and sliding it from her cold, pale finger. The three stared, watching as the Blood Knight stole jewelry off the dead. Heartless. Finally, the masked one nodded.

"Good," Konvyr spoke, rising to his feet. "If you fail in even the slightest capacity, I will nail your wrists to a post and drag your bodies behind my horse through half the Eastern Kingdoms. Do you understand?" Three nods. The Knight nodded in return and left the cabin, not daring to offer Daya's body a last look.

Once he was outside, the Knight felt his hands begin to shake. He balled them up into tight fists, so tight he felt the steel grinding against itself. He moved across the yard in a daze, hardly present as he grabbed hold of the reins of his charger and mounted. He pressed his spurs in, needing to be gone from this place. He was cracking, shattering under the weight...

He rode until morning.

++++++

The sun cast it's light upon the Blood Knight's face, but it did not warm him. He sat upon a cliffside rock, staring out at the Great Sea. The first rays of light blazed across the horizon, staining the sky red. It was ugly and filled the elf with hate. Dayanara was gone. Her secrets had killed her. He felt as though he were living a nightmare and knew that he would not awake. 

He looked down at his hands, unable to look at the sunrise any longer, and saw her ring resting in his palm. He stared down at it a long time, rubbing the silver band with his thumb. 

It was a beautiful piece, it had cost him a fortune...

Finally, he slipped the ring onto his small finger and pushed himself up to his feet. He mounted and began riding back to Silvermoon, his face a stoic, emotionless mask. All the hate, the pain, the sorrow... it was gone. He was nothing. He was stone. 

And so he rode, with the angry red sun rising behind him, glinting off the ruby with the shade of bad blood.

[thefireborne]

Story Entry: Xerevies Vara'nel

… the act of summoning itself is easy, deceptively easy, Cousin. As you should know, there is no sight. No visual sight. It is the sight of the mind that guides you to the creature; the scent of their composition floods your senses. 

It is an experience that I feel I can only compare to this… there’s this strange disorder of the mind you should be familiar with; where stimulation of one sense leads to stimulations of another. Tasting colours, feeling hatred when a broom clanks to the floor. Familiar, y---

--- no, that’s not it. I’m trying to make sure we’re on the same page here, not ta--- I should just keep going? Consider it done. Matter dropped… as I was saying; it is similar to that. Intrinsic sense of… everything. Don’t know where you’re breaching the other realm of wherever the creature lays, but you do. You simply… tear some section of the Material Plane open like that, then you stick your metaphorical nose--- in this extended metaphor, we will have a gigantic nose. A troll nose, maybe more a snout. There’s a breed of hunting dogs with a thin, narrow and long snout, they’re called--- 

--- oh, I apologize, Cousin. Back onto topic! You stick your snout in and look for whatever realm you are seeking to draw from in the Nether. Then you tear that open and stick your muzzle in further and you just… sense the beings within. You feel them; you smell them; you taste them, even… or maybe that was more of the brimstone-y nature of the ream where this story takes place.

And as I said before; the act of summoning is, in itself, simplistic and facile. Open the barriers from you to them, then reach in and grab them. The process of grabbing said creature, however, is terrifying. T’is for a reason that most summoners start with something benevolent or otherwise inconsequential. Like imps and similar little creatures.

…I was not so prudent. I was… mmm. Was six decades ago. Early twenties. And is in the nature of individuals in their early twenties, or really any of their years before their seventieth; I was absurdly reckless and confident in my abilities. I have no such confidence now, which will tie into my conclusion and entire point of this story.

So, for the most part, until this point of my life, my studies within the eldritch had been tame, as tame as arcane can be, I should say. And then I got curious, experimental. Like most adolescences and their sexuality, except not quite as innocent. Decided to try more than invoking little elementals. Demons. And more than some fickle little sprite! Wanted some sort of physical example, some sort of display of the sheer power I could control as easily as breathing. 

Was not prepared--- can you please refill my tea-cup? And pass the griddle-cakes--- for, I had no idea what plane, realm, world, I had entered; didn’t bother with a predetermined destination.

I should say here, that such exploration is often heavily dependent on the explorer’s own knowledge of the worlds outside of their own, due to the laws of the Nether; a plane of pure arcane, your entire vicinity and boundaries are limited and shaped entirely by your conscious and subconscious knowledges.

Sometimes, through chance or pure effort, you can find something beyond what is known to you. Cannot usually find a world of dogs, for example, if you are unsure what a dog is. Possibly why we’ve yet to apparently discover more than caches and so on of the Titans. Don’t personally try to do it anymore, better to have a destination pin-pointed; the longer one stays, the more time one gives for unsavory beings to track you down.

All that I knew was that there was a being quite close to wherever my metaphorical snout had stuck itself into. As the reckless youth I was, my only study of the creature took milliseconds, enough to identify the thing as otherworldly.

Did not have the characteristics of say, a man’ari or any other common demon. Something unknown to my collective knowledge, which was extensive, so by logic, I declared this to be a being from some unchartered planet that was unfortunately crushed by the Legion. Unsure of my level of correctness, but have yet to read upon anything similar to the creature I soon plucked out of this unknown world.

And as you are expertly aware of; dominating and wresting the control of another being is not done as one may think. One cannot crash upon its mental barriers. T’is a shocking blow, but cannot cause an equal creature’s defenses to come tumbling down. The matter of domination is a subtle, pressuring exertion upon the mind. Like stressing a large bubble. You must probe and prod until a weakness is displayed; a duel of swords, not of warhammers. Then you must surge into the threshold and fill its mind completely.

As is a common theme in this story; this I did not do. Sought to smother it under the weight of my will. Effective, if you are, say, a two-hundred and fifty pound man murdering someone half his weight. But, in this situation, I struggled with an equal being.

… equal, being in power, nothing more. The creature was, unsurprising, more intelligent and thoughtful than I was at the time. Did not at all consider the thought that the same that I was doing to it, would be done to me. Terrifying mistake.

You see, I felt the panic and surprise of its mind during the first few seconds of the battle and thought victory was impeding; for I sensed zero signs of recovery from the force I was applying unto it. So I lost what little reservation foolish twenty-or-so-years-old-me still possessed at the time. And why wouldn’t I? I could almost feel its ribs cracking under my dominion, I felt its ethereal talons dragging helplessly across my arms in futility.

Suddenly, it was missing from underneath my mental grip. And then I felt--- lemon squares? Wonderful! And let’s eat that with that strange fruit I bought from that Pandaren; the big spikey one with the little orange fruits inside… wait, where was I, Cousin? Inform me…. ah, yes. Thank you---! …so, then I felt myself assailed as I had assailed. 

It was a crushing force upon the mind that manifested itself in a physical-but-not-physical sense. Of course, the creature wasn’t there in person and vice versa, but you tend to feel its phantom grip in such struggles. It felt as though I had been smashed to the ground with a heavy paw. Surprised, I gasped, and it was as though I were drowning and in my panic, had sucked in the ocean.

My mind raged in a flurry of sensation and emotion, partly due to my own anxiety and terror at this deadly reserved situation, and partly because the creature was befuddling my functions to further gain the upper-hand; for a cornered animal is exponentially more dangerous and fearsome than an animal that still have cards to pull into hand.

One moment, I would find myself in sudden excruciating agony. The next, a bubbling laughter would consume my form. Then, I would myself utterly consumed in a fevered ecstasy. So on it went. I have yet to fully understand how it was that I was not dominated in these moments. I assume that something within my inner mechanisms had held the line. My saving grace, it allowed me to mount a counterattack.

I do not know where exactly this last vestige of my self-control and willpower had laid, but it was there. And what little of my myself that was still mine, fled to it. Once gathered, I led the sortie in a ferocious resistance.

I struck hard, unrelentingly. The arms of my will enwrapped the intrusion and I squeezed, I twisted. I could hear the bones of its immaterial limb breaking and shattering, I could feel it’s ghostly spasms of resistance as I crushed the offending arm that had tortured and clawed my mind so.

Babblings flooded my conscious. Not a verbal babbling, but the kind of babbling as though… you know how when you are thinking? And you are thinking something that cannot be expressed in language and it’s more of an intrinsic, natural and incomprehensible thought that doesn’t make sense but at the same time it does like how you can smell something vaguely sweet but…---

--- Apologies, Cousin! Continuing on, I knew it had been surprised by my ferocity and my attack upon it. I know that it had been attempting to submit to me with these babblings but I must admit; I did not care. As the youth I was, eye for an eye was much too tame of an idea. In the meaningless aggression that consumes many youths, a head for an eye was a more fashionable concept.

The reach of my conscious pushed outward, it shoved aside the useless limb-that-was-not-a-limb and I clutched onto the creature’s body-that-was-not-a-body. It was a brutal beating. A barbaric torture, even; mangled the cavities. Rib-bones were split apart, snapped, pulled outward. Collapsed the organs-that-were-not-organs.

The babbling had grown to incessant levels. It was a discordant orchestra of transferred thought that begged and pleaded for a halt, for me to simply take my prize already. It was only once I had delivered unbearable trauma upon the creature that I finally did so. I wrested the dominated creature from its realm and into the rune circle that I had prepared for its capture.

And here is where I regret to say that, once more, the senselessness of my youth took over. The thing was alive and whole in physical body, if traumatized in mind. Perfect specimen of a creature unknown to the world. Rather, I forced a sort of finality to my gloriously won battle. Severed the artery of its throat. I snuffed its life for daring to resist the rape of its will and then threw it back into wherever it came from. Wasteful, thought I do admit that it would make a pretty story to children. Like stories of rugged fishermen battling sea-monsters, or knights fighting off ogres.

…why are you looking at me like that? I am done, all that needed to be said concerning the account has been said… what do you mean I was supposed to have some sort of moral, this is not a child’s--- oh, so I did say. Can’t we just end this with some quick phrase, “don’t be foolish?” Our dessert is done. I want the spiced wine now… why not? Please? ...thank you, my dear Cousin.