#tragedycraft

[gumifan222]

DW silly doodles

idek, these were fun to do

[cloakoflame]

Text: Are staves supposed to speak because I found one and its talking smack. I don't like it :/ (Finnall)

Kael’thas was in a meeting with the Council of Six when the vibration of his cell phone went off. He looked at the other five members in the meeting and then took a quick glance at the phone notification. He raised an eyebrow. Just what had Finnall gotten herself into? After one quick look at their faces, he opened the app while Kel’Thuzad gave his long-winded opinion on the matter of Alliance politics.

“Most staves are not able to speak at will unless they were enchanted,” he started his text. Of course, few staves could speak. Aluneth, Greatstaff of the Magna Aegwynn, was famously known to be one such example. Part of him was curious as to what “smack” this staff was giving her, but he would have to ask these questions in a freer environment. Surely it couldn’t have been anything too harmful?

He added, “Anything enchanted can be disenchanted. Just use your dispel, and it should cease coming to life.”

Unless its owner found a way to block dispels, but such skills normally wouldn’t match up with the personality of a mage seemingly letting the staff go astray and vehemently harass fellow citizens. Master or novice, such actions should be reprimanded and revoked.

“Would that be Lady Proudmoore?” Kel’Thuzad suddenly asked, bursting into laughter as the high elf looked up. “Another question about her fire spells before she blows up the library? Apprentices can be such joy, Antonidas.”

Before Kael’thas could retort, Antonidas waved his hand at the elder. “Enough. Kael’thas,” he said, turning to the elf. “Is the matter urgent?”

“No, Grand Magus,” Kael’thas said, putting away the phone. “In fact, I believe it has concluded.”

Or at least he hoped. Talking weapons were a force in of themselves, fickle and difficult to restrain. He had hoped Finnall had had enough of her magical training to know what to do. Now he would have to wait for her results. Should Finnall not run into any more trouble, he would consider the initial issue resolved and inquire her further after his meeting. As a senior member, he could not afford to behave unprofessionally--or become today’s target of Kel’Thuzad’s jokes.

[warwaged-archive]

@tragedycraft​ said: Wings stretched out as the chilling winds of the frozen north howled against the unliving flesh. For as long as she could remember, Thal’ena always loved and envied dragons as her gazed was transfixed upon the beauty that was the Queen of the Frostbrood. "Mighty Sindragosa, how it warms my heart to see you once more."

UNPROMPTED IC ASKS // always accepting!

She thinks it irony at best, any deference there is to be found in the san’layn’s words. Mighty she is, yet that is seldom acknowledged as it ought, more common that they look at her and see not strength and power but monstrosity (foolish, yes, for one is cannot be separated from the other, and she is all of it and more without doubt; what good is strength, regardless, if one does not wield it?).

Her presence does not warms people’s hearts, not here nor anywhere; she is bitterness taken physical form, forever frozen at the time magic and and trust and hope and love all failed her, reborn to finally exact vengeance she had once promised with her dying breath. Surely, then, the Thal’ena jests; and if her patience is remarkably short for one so ancient and long lived, it is all the more so for those who would address her with anything other than due respect.

But perhaps it is only attempt to do just so, exaggerated in hopes of --- of what? Charming demeanor and sweetened words are far from enough to receive the Frost Queen’s favor, and this one will have to make greater effort if such is her intent. It is what captures her attention most, wondering what interest does the san’layn have in her; she interacts with others sparsely, seldom only when she ought to, even those who serve her same master.

“Blood Princess,” None can say icy greeting is unexpected; if it is, surprise would be found more in the frostwyrm’s decision to offer greeting at all rather than tone with which she speaks. But she remembers her courtesies, still, from time long past when they yet meant something, and Sindragosa can offer that, if only for so long as patience lasts, however little that might be. “to what do I owe such visit?”

[diguerra-moved]

push (Valethra and Kelantir)

SOME  ONE  WORD  PROMPTS .  

PUSH :   my  muse  pushing  your  muse  out  of  the  way  of  danger.

“Look out—!” Near instinctive thing, to shove the other out of the way, even if it places her in the way of danger instead; it is but a second before she is standing where the mage formerly was, shield violently bashed against the skull of decaying undead that struck at Valethra’s back, apparently undetected. Sword quickly finishes the job, cleaving head from body as to neutralize threat completely, before she calls upon the Light to deal with a second attacker; third one of shambling corpses that surround them is dealt with by Valethra herself, the Magistrix’s fire magic leaving behind little more than charred remains. 

There are others, of course; few places in the Ghostlands were not littered with undead, even years after the Fall. Progress in reclaiming it is slow, even with Drathir dead (or temporarily defeated; he had been dead before, but it never lasted as long as it should); she can see it, specially in comparison to first missions Lady Liadrin had sent them to within these same woods, when first the Blood Knights had been established. A long way to go, still; but what truly matters is that for the time being they are allowed some respite before having to cleave their way through more of the lingering Scourge.

Only then the paladin turns to her companion again, sheathing sword after having surveyed surroundings. The Magistrix seems fine; unsurprising considering she had recovered from being pushed aside quick enough to take part in the fight once more. Still, seems only right to ask before they proceed; she is there to aid in the mage’s protection, after all. “Sorry about that — there wasn’t enough time to simply give you a warning. Are you okay?”

[corpulentus]

My commission surprise for @tragedycraft / @harbingercraft of Torvald and Valethra! <3 These dorks bring me pain, but this is hella cute ok

Thanks very much to the artist @fesheik

[cloakoflame]

*Thal’ena blows a kiss at the prince*

His eyes narrowed at the uncough gesture.

Between her bloodcurdling presence and his magical attempts at slowing the beating of his heart, the silence in the air felt constricting. Only in a moment did a blood troll draw its last breath as one of his soldiers ran a spear through its chest, and the blood elf joined the rest of his party cautiously. There was, indeed, blood in the air, an environment befitting the san’layn, of whom they thought were all but massacred during the war against the former Lich King.

And now it was only recently that Kael’thas heard unsettling rumors regarding these once forgotten forces. He was just as perplexed as Baine and Saurfang over Sylvanas Windrunner having recruited them into the ranks of the Horde. But unlike the two leaders, Kael’thas was just as silent as his regent lord and yet all the more observant.

He remembered one report that there was the exception of one who managed to escape from Violet Hold during the Legion’s invasion. Previously, he had only caught glimpses of these creatures, but now that the Blood-Princess was merely within inches of possibly cutting his throat, he caught a quick glimpse of her, trying to discern the validity of the report. Could this have been the one who escaped? Vampiric fangs brushed against her lips as she spoke. A black and red dress adorned ashen skin that was once as fair-colored as her former kin. Red eyes that once bespoke the color of fel peered at him, anticipating his reaction.

At any other time, Kael’thas might have harbored a little sympathy for his former followers, the very blood elves who had fallen by Arthas Menethil’s hand at Northrend all those years ago. But these undead were sworn enemies, clearly showing no signs of remembrance for their kin or any modicum of... modesty for that matter.

He brushed the gesture aside at once and stood his ground, careful to keep his countenance composed and passive. “It would seem that some of your own have been recruited into the Horde. I can only presume that you’ve joined them? Or are you here of your own accord, Blood-Princess?”

[cloakoflame]

Her features were hard as steel as she offered the golden blades of Scourgebane. The hilts were formed together by ancient magics and by the wielders will could they be separated into the deadly duel blades. "Reforge my blades, make them stronger so that they do not shatter. He cannot stand against the both of us." For reasons of her own she wanted revenge against the fallen prince. Even if she had to fight along side a demon and vile Naga. "We will make him pay." - Finnall

@scourgebane​

The deathly winds of Northrend howled just outside, battering the roof of the tent they inhabited. Not much could the engineers salvage in this barren wasteland, but what they did, they had the essence of magic to their advantage--and with Illidan Stormrage and Lady Vashj’s minions as support, what could that bastard prince ever raise in comparison?

He reached for the blade of Finnall Goldensword and examined it, just as he had done in a time long gone. He knew the half-elven warrior to be the daughter of Daelin Proudmoore and a respectable elven woman of the Kirin Tor. Finnall could use magic herself, but her prowess lie in swordsmanship, a feat of strength he knew all too well himself. He glanced over a moment at his own sword--his prized family’s heirloom, Felo’melorn--secured on the table behind the woman. The runes etched on the blade burned with scorching intensity, no longer broken and as lifeless as the body he found it on.

Felo’melorn traveled with the elven prince ever since, resting on a table in his own quarters. Idealistic dreams of long ago turned to haunting nightmares of what could have been had he been there. What was worse--actually being there or the images of elves dying to the Scourge and subsequently raised in undeath? The last word used to chill him to the bone. He’d gotten his own taste of fighting liches, abominations, and ghouls with the invasion of Lordaeron and the remnants of Dalaran.

No. He could care less about what the humans did now that his people were on the brink of extermination, but this woman was, in part, an indirect link to them. She’d proven to be a formidable soldier in his ranks, standing for the elven half of her heritage and for that, he respected, even shared, her desire for vengeance. He assumed she had made this very request after hearing of Felo’melorn’s successful reforging.

He recounted his dreams and events on parchment stashed away in his personal accounts. He wrote at the dead of night, long after the shouting orders of his lieutenants training troops had died down, after servants tended to his needs, after battle plans with Stormrage had concluded, after blowing out the fires of his camp before bed. He’d brought the blade to a descendant of the legendary Highborne magesmith, Luminarian, who originally forged the blade for Dath’Remar Sunstrider. His personal request, he wrote, was not one of selfish gain, but to reforge the blade as a beacon of hope for the Sin’dorei, to remind them they would never be broken.

Grief came to him in those times when he was finally by himself, but with it came an emotion more fulfilling than the gnawing pang of guilt and sorrow.

Anger.

It came so easily to him that sometimes it startled him and made him think of what he might become. The hunger that slowly coursed through his veins reminded Kael’thas with every breath that he would press on in the name of justice for the sin’dorei. He would use whatever power to crush Arthas’s army before it ever began.

“Yes, we will,” he said, turning his attention back to her. At last, he took the sword in his hands. As he examined with steady fire in his eyes, he felt the ancient, arcanic floes of the blade call to him, his fingertips shimmering with their glow. “It will be made stronger, friend,” he said with a firm sense of authority that overshadowed his usually soft-spoken manner that Finnall could almost wonder if he giving a leader’s speech or a friend’s comfort--though the genuity was there. “I promise you. We will have our salvation.”

[shadowsblades]

❝ it’s impossible to be prepared for every battle. keep your sword close, and keep moving. ❞ (Finnall)

THE WITCHER (SHOW) STARTERS ↳ @tragedycraft

          “I always do.” The assurance purrs from her throat, edged almost imperceptibly with the flicker of irritation the remark stirs. Some ( perhaps even the speaker herself ) in their company could use the tedious attempts at reassurance, inspiration, whatever it is the woman is going for, but Valeera is not among them. It is not like she intended to do other than keep her weapons close at a time like this ( or ever ), or as if she needs to be reminded of the danger encroaching on them by ------ her head swivels slowly to regard the voice’s owner ------ a half elf.

          A half elf with an impressive sword, at least.

          “I prefer daggers,” she goes on, “Efficient up close...” A quick upward snap of her wrist, deceitfully casual, propels the knife she had been fiddling with from between her fingers. The gleaming silver of the blade spins over itself once then twice before returning to her hand, the familiar weight of the gilded hilt not snatched from the air but received effortlessly by the rogue’s waiting palm. “...and from afar.” A cavalier smirk watches the knife disappear into the inside of her gauntlet, to be retrieved like the others secreted in the various nooks on her person ------ and in the forest anticipated to be the battleground ------ whenever it is needed.