The Fireborne

A Sin'Dorei Legacy We believe that the preservation and survival of Quel'Thalas and her people are among the greatest of callings. We will fight,, we will die, we will do whatever it takes to have a future for our children and a legacy that will stand the test of time.

[lookingforroleplay]

Hello folks!

Our next episode, which airs Friday, August 22, 2014, will be about the basics of role play!

Specifically, we will talk about the common mechanics of role play and useful tools that you can utilize in creating the most in-depth role play experience for you and your partners!

We...

[thefireborne]

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[thefireborne]

2014 Story Contest Prompts

Word prompts

1: Tatterdemalion Noun. Raggedly-dressed person; looking disreputable or decayed.[/list]

2: Sanctimonious Adjective. Making a show of being morally superior to other people.[/list]

3: Festoon Noun. A chain or garland of flowers, leaves, or ribbons, hung in a curve as a decoration. Verb. Adorn (a place) with ribbons, garlands, or other decorations.

Picture prompts 4: 

5: 

Song prompts

6:In the Pines – Folk Song performed by Janel Drewis Excerpt: "Little girl, little girl, don't lie to me. Tell me where did you sleep last night? In the pines, in the pines, where the sun never shines; we shiver the whole night through."

7: Carried Away – Passion Pit Excerpt: "Listen. I'm your friend (don't quote me), but not a friend worth noting. Yes, please, don't ever count me as your friend. Who says we have cold hearts? Acting out our old parts, let's perform our favorite little scene."

8: Black Blade – Two Steps from Hell

Quote prompts

9: “Where there is shouting, there is no true knowledge.” – Leonardo da Vinci

10: “If you can’t convince them, confuse them.” – Harry S. Truman

[thefireborne]

2014 June Story Contest: Vykien Dorel'a

Response to

3: Acumen • keen insight; shrewdness; quickness of perception or discernment

Dusk's last breath had just began to sweep through the city's narrow paves - littered with leaves that fell and succumbed to the breeze's sensual advances – as Vykien emerged from the comfort of her residence inside the walls of Silvermoon City. It was on nights like these she gathered solace in taking strolls on the almost-bodiless ways and avenues, dressed in her usual dark, silk robes and cloak. The sky seemed to reflect her mood – tinges of wisteria juxtaposing bands of deep orange, weaved just on the night's creeping navy blues. She was always goal-oriented – even on strolls – but maintained a tranquil clear mind. Her feet took her next to the wide space of the bazaar. Most shopkeepers had already put up shop, but there was one she knew would be open. The life of a military woman most often meant that such appointments had to be scheduled at times when the merchants and artisans had to make “special cases.” Vykien hadn't known denial though, as a woman with notable affiliation, and a tightly-packed coin purse to show it. One shop in particular caught her eye: a tailor's, dimly lit with the faint flames of aged candles, shining just enough through the filthy pane. She could almost make out a woman, but her actions weren't discernible. There just wasn't enough light, and the shop's door was closed, but oddly unlatched. Night befell the red city, transforming the day's vivacious hues into dull corpses of color for the moon to reveal. Vykien gathered her black robes at the hip, traipsing briskly up the steps to the tailor's shop. With a pale hand, she reached to the knocker – a bronzed dragonhawk's head – then wrapped her fingers around it, and gave a swift, hard knock. “Miriane? It's...” she hesitated, doing a once over of the scene behind her. “It's Dorel'a. Open up,” she demanded, in a tone the grew impatient as the words spilled onto the door. There was a stir, and by the shadow that crept just between the candles and the wall, Vykien confirmed that she indeed had seen a woman. Though, she was still unsure if it was indeed her tailor, or someone else. Wooden floorboards groaned, more with each step that neared the hulking, rotting door. Then the steps paused; the door swung open, and stood before Vykien was the tailor, Miriane. The two women smiled, perhaps both relieved that they had not stumbled upon a criminal of any sort. “Ah, I thought it might be you,” Miriane said through a faint smile. She was a middle-aged sin'dorei woman, showing wrinkles that seemed to increase in number with each passing day. She led Vykien back to her desk, just between the window and a shoddy, sparse bookcase, then retrieved a glass case to put around one of the larger candles. “Gloves and the robe, correct?” she inquired, dusting away bits of dried wax off of a wrinkled piece of parchment.  “Yes, of course.” Vykien was oddly speechless. Sometimes the nighttime stole words right from her mind. Miriane nodded without a word, and entered a door just behind the desk that led downstairs – Vykien could tell that there were stairs, anyway. Stairs had a different cry than the floorboards; it was more a throaty, guttural ode of distress. The warlock stared at the door frame blankly a moment, eyes expecting Miriane to return swiftly, but she knew that the woman had a certain kind of peculiar slowness in all her movements.  The flame still faltered under the protection of the glass cover, cut off from the open air. Vykien bent down over the desk, lifting the glass up and away, setting it just off to the side. The flame swelled, all so knowing of the change, but still withered away upon the wick. Miriane still hadn't returned; the darkness still lingered in the door frame where the vacillating flame could not shed light upon. Vykien focused her eyes intently on its malleable shape swaying from side to side, losing richness as it waved. She held her fingers close, and with a snap reignited the flame to its former glory – except that the flame no longer emitted the warmth of red flame; this reincarnation was far too green. It was in that moment Miriane appeared in the doorway, look about to speak, but deprived of her words in a sudden locked gaze on the fel flame. Immediately, she dropped the robe and gloves, landing just on her feet. The gloves still laid folded on the top. “You...” Miriane spoke with incredulity. She seemed unerringly surprised, and in the haste, she attempted to suffocate the flame beneath the glass cover. Instead, it grew, roaring up to three times its size. Vykien acted by reaching to lift it up as it roared, so that the whole desk would not be engulfed. Miriane reared back, then stepped firmly forward to knock the cover out of Vykien's hand. It fell hard on the wooden floor, pieces scattering into pockets of darkness at around their feet. She shot a hard stare at Miriane. “You misunderstand, Miriane,” Vykien asserted through a locked jaw.  “No. No, I knew it all along! You deal with demons, don't you?” Vykien looked at her uncomfortably, then moved fast around the desk to grab her robe and gloves, which were hopefully much more fitting for her thinning body and attenuated hands. She bent down, then back up without a word, cloak wrapping lovingly around her lower body. “I must be away, now.” “Answer me!” Vykien moved hastily to the door and drew her hood over her head, glass crunching into smaller pieces beneath her boots with every step. She threw the door open and was greeted by a cool rush of the night air. “A necessary evil,” were the only words she offered, before tossing a velvet pouch of gold coins up onto the desk. The distance unfurled the pouch, sending gold coins amiss to glisten under the glow of the verdant flame. She fled the tailor's without closing the door, fleet footed and determined to return to her home.  All the night's strength seemed to swell now: shadows grew fonder of the objects they mirrored; nightcrawlers slithered uninhibited amongst the foliage; crows crossed the watchful eye of the moon, full on the sky. And no shadow grew fonder, than that Vykien's, urging her away – cloak ever-flowing on the air.

[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: Lydianah

9: Florence and the Machine - Breaking Down

There was something about Silvermoon by lamplight that had always captivated her. Maybe it was in the way that the shadows played against the elegant stonework, or the day’s familiar din faded to a soothing murmur, the arcane sentries patrolling their endless routes while lovers met under the stars and friends found their way to each other. As she walked away from the Silverstorm Arcanery, Lydianah watched shop lights wink out one by one. Homes went dark and shadows grew between the stones at her feet, darkness seeping along the cracks like grasping fingers. That was where her attention focused now, ears attuned to the sound of her own scuffling footsteps. That was what it always came down to, it seemed: She, alone, wandering these tenebrous streets with her own unpleasant thoughts. What had driven her away this time? Was it the familiarity of her surroundings, or the sense that she didn’t quite belong there anymore? Perhaps. Or maybe it was the all-too-familiar longing that surfaced within her on nights like this. It gnawed and gnawed, pulling at her until she found herself leaving the safety of the city’s walls. She walked without knowing exactly where it was that she was going, or why she felt a need to go there now. It wasn’t until the sound of rubble skittering across uneven pavers caught at the edges of her awareness that she realized what this was.  Green eyes rose to the star-littered sky, and as they acclimated themselves to this new moonlit landscape dark shapes began to take form in front of her--husks of a section of the city they had not yet touched. The scorched remains of buildings rose on either side of this deserted street on which she walked, ugly and misshapen and sad. She hooked her thumbs on her belt as she continued on, watching the ruins converge into larger, darker shadows. Anything could have hidden there, and yet she knew that she was utterly and completely alone. Nothing else hid here; at least, not tonight. Letting her eyes dance around a curve of stone wall, she studied the shapes of the buildings until she halted at the charred remains of a sign post. Though it held no banner, she could remember a time when its colors drew all sorts of people to this place. She was at the site of the old Arcanery; her parents’ enchanting shop. Her father had taught her her first enchantment there; her mother, her first real spell. It was here that she had grown, here that she had discovered a love for magic and building and puzzles. The countless days she’d spent helping them work or studying outside still tugged at her memory; even now she could map the route from this place to the spire where she’d taken her first formal lessons. Stepping over the ruined threshold, she sighed and let her sight travel over every nook and cranny of this lost place. She wondered if her parents had indeed made it out alive; and if so, where it was that they had gone. Oh, she’d asked around, of course--everyone was curious about some loved one or another nowadays--but to her knowledge her parents’ names had not been counted among the dead. Why had she come here? There was nothing here but uncertainty. Uncertainty, and… … She felt something pulling at her like an invisible string. It was something familiar; something that almost felt like one of her father’s enchantments. Turning, she followed it to a spot on the floor that very nearly looked like a divot in the stone, and had it not been such a clean square cut she might have dismissed it completely. She hadn’t remembered this being here; but then, she wouldn’t have put it past her parents to keep secrets. Crouching, she pawed at the blackened remains that littered the small cubby in the floor. At first they seemed locked in place, but after finding one loose piece and then another she managed to pull most of the debris free. There, at the bottom of the cubby and covered in dirt and ash, was a dark metal box. She wriggled her fingers into the cracks between the box and the stone and lifted it out of the ground. Brushing the ash off of its surface and dusting her dirty hands on her trousers, she took her thumbs and felt around it for a latch, disappointment etching her features when she found a keyhole instead. Her curse was lost to the wind—or perhaps not, if the sound of shuffling that reached her ears was as close as it sounded. Grabbing up the box, she sprang to her feet and trotted back toward the safety of the city before she could find out what lurked in the shadows of the crumbled ruins. ~*~*~*~*~*~ “Lady Silverstorm.” Bright light pierced the veil of her eyelids as the sound of the curtains being pulled aside roused her from her sleep. Groaning, she closed her eyes tighter and turned aside, curling into her blankets. “Lady Silverstorm—“ “Was my mother,” Lydianah replied with a twinge of annoyance, her eyes opening slowly as they acclimated to her surroundings. Sighing, she raised herself onto her hands, her back to the bedroom door. Her head felt heavy, protesting as she straightened to sit up and twisted to look at her apprentice. The man was handsome, with a crop of fine silver hair that he’d pulled back into a neat braid. His eyes were bright and intelligent, set pleasantly symmetrical in his angular face and framing a straight, narrow nose. Thos eyes were on her, but not in a way that showed any kind of affection; no, he looked almost sulky, as if her correction had quelled any desire for pleasantries he might have had this morning. “Caelendras,” she said quietly, “what time is it?” “Just past six bells, Ma’am,” he replied. Sighing, she brought her legs over the side of the bed, her silken sheets sliding from her form as she slipped her feet into a pair of light slippers. “Excellent. Be a dear and wait for me downstairs. Prepare the back table for a scrying spell.” He gave her a curt half-nod, sweeping his robes around with a pale hand as he turned and wordlessly retreated from the room. She waited a few moments before she stood, and soon enough her dressing gown was slithering down to pool at her feet, and she went about her daily routine—washing her face, staring at the ugly scars that circled each wrist before she finally sighed and cast an illusion spell on them. Robes of deep blue and scarlet were summoned from her wardrobe, and as if by some invisible assistant’s hand, wrapped around her and cinched in the front. She watched herself in the mirror as a hairbrush went to work on her long chestnut hair—more red than brown in the early morning sunlight—before she waved it away and traversed down the stairs to the small enchanting shop.  Caelendras was waiting for her as requested, fel green gaze glued to her as she approached. The table was lit with a trio of tall, fat candles which illuminated the map of Azeroth that they pinned to the table’s surface. Resting on top of it were two objects: An ornate truesilver rod and a fist-sized runestone--objects that she had extracted from that dark metal box some months ago. As she turned to face the map she pulled a ruby amulet from around her neck and looped the chain once around her hand. Then, taking a deep breath, she began. First her hand moved to the rod, and she gripped it as she watched the pendant circle around and around over the map, her thoughts focused and persistent. The last few times she had tried this spell had not yielded the desired result. Perhaps this time she might find something. Concentrating harder, she focused all of her energies into the rod in her hand. She could feel the magic pulsing through her as she waited for the amulet to stop. ”You return. They always return,” crooned a sickly sweet voice in her head. She ignored the voice, her mind focused solely on the necklace and the map. ”You cannot hide from it. You need it.”As usual, the voice was seductive, pulling at her attention away from the task at hand and toward it instead. Still she attempted to shut the voice out, even as she felt the magic around her grow and change. She wasn’t weaving anymore; she was drawing it into herself. She was darkness. She was power. It felt wonderful, and she inhaled deeply as the sensation filled her. ”Yes… yes... call me forth. I can show you what you seek. I can show you everything.” It was as if the voice were right there, whispering into her ear, beckoning her to tap into its power. She wanted to reach into the Nether and grab it, bend it to her will… force it to show her its promises. The pendant circled around and around. Proof. You would lie to come out of your prison, Ji’hanna. She had tapped into it fully now, and she could feel the succubus pushing from the other side. Show me proof and I may yet release you. Sweet laughter echoed through her head, and as she reached further she grit her teeth at the sound, finally grasping the demon’s essence and forcibly pushing it back into its confines. Proof, ji’hanna! The demon’s mood shifted from seductive to fearful in an instant, and in the moment that it let its guard down she was inside its twisted mind. There was a bright expanse of sun and sand, and half-buried in the wind-seared landscape was an ornate cuff of deep blue and gold, crystals winking in the light. She did not know exactly where she was, but she got the distinct feeling that it was somewhere in southern Kalimdor. Emotions flooded her in a nauseating torrent; confusion, anger, desperation, hope. Not since Aendir had left her had she felt so depressed and angry at the same time. Not since him had she felt such a need to go out looking for anyone else. The world crashed in on her like a tidal wave and she swayed on her feet, gasping. It was a surreal feeling, as it always was, visiting her demons--but not half so surreal as the realization that Caelendras had looped one of his strong arms around her shoulders to keep her steady and she hadn’t even felt it. Even now his voice was insistent in her ear. “Lady Silverstorm. Careful.” She opened eyes that she hadn’t realized she’d closed, her heart threatening to thump out of her chest. That had been her mother’s bracelet. She was alive. She had to be. And if she was, maybe Father was with her. Something else was tugging at her now; an insistent feeling that she had to leave this place. Letting go of the spell, she looked up at her assistant and then followed his gaze to her hand, still outstretched over the map.  The pendant circled around and around.

[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.

[thefireborne]

June 2014 Writing Contest

Word prompts 1: Frory • frozen stiff with cold 2: Heresiarch • an originator or chief advocate of a heresy 3: Acumen • keen insight; shrewdness; quickness of perception or discernment Picture prompts 4: 

  5:

6:

Song prompts 7: Coheed and Cambria - Key Entity Extraction IV: Evagria the Faithful  8: Leona Naess - Ballerina 9: Florence and the Machine - Breaking Down  Quote prompts 10: "Bitterness is like cancer. It eats upon the host. But anger is like fire. It burns it all clean." - Maya Angelou 11: "Do not trust people like me. I will take you to museums, and parks, and monuments, and kiss you in every beautiful place, so that you can never go back to them without tasting me like blood in your mouth."  [1]: Prompts four, five, and seven suggested by Xerevies. [2]: Prompt eleven suggested by Syrinthia; she found this quote on Tumblr, and said to attribute it to "some random Tumblr bitch."

[thefireborne]

Our Mission

The Fireborne is a Thalassian regiment dedicated to the pursuit of power through conquest, acquisitions, and innovation. Although based in Quel'Thalas, the organization engages in several enterprises across Azeroth, often relying on lethal force to further their agenda. To strengthen their influence, the Fireborne raid vaults and repositories across the globe in search of artifacts, relics, and other vestiges of antiquity. Additionally, the organization uses its resources to manufacture state-of-the-art weapons, technologies, and other crafts of war. Collectively, all branches of the Fireborne remain unified under a domineering philosophy venerated by its impassioned leadership.

Our Agenda

Joining the Fireborne opens many doors to you as a role-player. With so many opportunities to immerse yourself in our unique storylines, you'll never have an excuse to be bored. It's our goal to make you feel a part of our family and keep you entertained no matter what your schedule is. Are you interested in more than just role-playing? Do you enjoy PVP, PVE, and other game content? You'll be in good company. A large portion of our members consistently run BGs, heroics, casual raids, and arenas. These members are always more than willing to help others through teamwork, coordination, and encouragement. This is our promise to you: We will make every effort to give you the best experience you can receive on a role-playing server. From our newest members to our oldest veterans, the Fireborne is committed to maintaining a standard of excellence.

RP-PVP

The Fireborne is an RP-PVP guild, which means we often participate in organized PVP functions that are incorporated into our story as part of the immersion. Joining an RP-PVP guild does not mean you are required to be good at PVP. In fact, participating in these events is completely optional. However, we will strongly encourage you to improve your game and promise to make every effort to help equip your character for battle. You have the power to make history!