It's that time of year again for another Silvermoon Trading Post!
It's been too long but now that Silvermoon's area has a more stabilized location where angry mobs aren't trying to kill us all the time, it's time we bring this back as we'll be having our next market on September 19th (please see times on the flyer) at the Magisters Terrace!
We'll be hosting nearly 1 Dozen Merchants (who we're currently looking for!), a Transmog Contest (w/ Gold Winnings!), Vendor Voting Prizes, A Food Court (Food Vendor's pending and if possible!) as well as randomized participation giveaways for people who show up in fantastic mogs and just simple shop!
Please get the word out as this will be Alliance and Horde side both as opposed to our last efforts that were Horde-Only!
We look forward to seeing all of you there this year!
Discord: https://discord.gg/42N2vg69E
( Please be aware, this link is only active for 30 days in an effort to keep bots from circling back in at a later date to spam. I'll be making additional posts in the future w/ new links as needed. )
( Story point aimed to be before the current raid events, as this is during The Voidspire's assault and ending. )
Dinthoqaf stood upon one of the floating Silvermoon Terrace's, looking out over the vast city towards the Voidstorm. The look upon his features was one of heavy concentration and turmoil. What was going on up there? Only so many knew that were on this side of the storm. Many could guess, many had ideas, but how do you articulate the viewpoints of hundreds of people all at once?
You could sit with a hundred scribes, each writing everything out all at once, and not come close to what The Defiler was currently screening out from the rest of his flock. The Nameless were up there along with some of his Anointed, fighting back the Storm and Devouring Host in some effort to try to escape, to pull back before the Voidstorm potentially snapped shut, or worse, erupted with an outpouring of such energy that the Devouring Host would live up to its name.
The interference from The Void and Sunwell was playing havoc with The Sanguine. His connection was going lax and then snapping tight as it'd reconnect across the differences. People would disappear and then reconnect, some of them during something only veterans of horrific wars could recount in some fueled drinking session at the bar, recounting violent episodes of PTSD driven carnage.
Monsters, Animals, Void-Amulgamations and Aberrations, Cultists, Ethereals. So many different creatures and enemies in this place coming from under the ground, from the 'Sky' (if one could call it that), and every other direction on foot. His Nameless were being slaughtered just trying to fight back the Voidstorm's mind-destroying influence and all these images rushed into The Defiler as some of them pleaded with their 'God' to save them, to make their death have meaning amongst the order to retreat.
All he could do was cradle their consciousness in their last moments, sever their abilities to feel pain, to give them some moment of bliss as he led their last thoughts to their children, their spouses, to whatever memory made their minds slow and hearts calm. A horrific trick of illusion and mental tamperance, some would say, but what can a God do for a follower beyond making their final moments as peaceful as possible?
They all knew that their children in the Academy would be tended for, and The Weaver ( @zalilirah ) was already on the path of making preparations to move those children elsewhere if it somehow became breached or under threat. The generations beyond would be protected as best they could, as was his promise made to each Nameless who swore their loyalty and faith.
The Prophet was already scouting secondary fallback positions in case Silvermoon was overrun and the elves were pushed out due to the Devouring Host or fallout if the Sunwell went supernova. The White Rose ( @vyvienne ), The Vile Shadow, Lewin, and so many others were on the other side of that portal into the Storm. People, Pieces, that could not nor would be replaceable, no matter who or what came after.
Nezzok was preparing Zul'Mashar in the event of a complete and total loss of the Region and Caer Darrow was being prepared too as a final fallback. He could not nor would not depend on the success of a group of elves who historically couldn't work together without in-fighting and he wouldn't be caught unprepared. How many people from Silvermoon would be displaced? How many would lose mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, or even children, because of everything currently going on?
Even now, amongst the calamity, opportunity was being prov-..
Dinthoqaf hisses as his hands come to press against his temples. Another wave of connections reestablished as his Nameless were torn apart. Willpower came to push it back, to release the pressure to give him his train of thought. He needed his people out of there, but could not run the risk of The Sanguine being overloaded by walking into the Storm himself.
An exhausted sigh slips free. The weight of leadership had its gravitas, and this was one of the moments where the chains hung heavy. A chuckle comes free.
Don't you remember when things like responsibility for others wasn't a concern?
"Yes, yes. I remember my days as The Seether. You ask this as if I'm as old as that scrote, Velen."
A deep chuckle rumbles up from within but never leaves.
"Responsibility comes when we earn the position and have people looking to us for answers. Guidance. I am not Deathwing, Ragnaros, or any other of the hundreds of others who led their flocks and followers to their deaths without a care on what remains if they fail, let alone what remains on if they succeed. I need the Nameless and all of my Sanctum to remain as intact as possible if we manage to accomplish what I desire and to keep our grasp upon it. We cannot afford short sighted sprints; you should know this more than most after what? How long has it been now? Two hundred years? How many host bodies have we jumped between now too? Four? Five?"
Including your son's body that you took for yourself?
"Now you try to bring ethics into this?"
Quiet came back to his mind. A stalemate made or perhaps points by each side as the two refused to budge. Dinthoqaf was not alone anymore, or rather, he was never alone, but a voice that had once been lost now returned.
You realizes you can speak to me without opening your mouth, right, or have you forgotten?
"No, I didn't forget but it makes me feel less insane to converse verbally."
It certainly doesn't help in the appearance however...
It wasn't wrong there.
"We have other things to concentrate on; such as preparing teams for healing our Nameless once they come back, while minimizing our presence or being caught by the Army Remnants. We have to acknowledge that this may be what shows The Sanctum off to The World."
Dinthoqaf took to sitting in the seat at his desk, bare digits running up the grain of the wood as dust pulled and piled at the edge of his fingertips with each inch he made towards the curved arm front. Familiar yet not, it was a sensation he had to grow use to and how many times had this been now? Three? Four? Maybe five even but he was certain four was the sweet spot as he thought back on each revival. But that was a thought for another day as he stood just enough, hunching towards his desk just to pull the chair forward on his own before sitting back once more with an exhale in relief.
His body ached as much as an unexercised one tended to do. This body had been made as needed, tended to, yes, but put through the rigors of being properly built up? Not so much. Forty-some days had passed since he was here last, and forty-some days had it been since he bothered to check for any letters sent or received, but this one small letter sat tidily upon the desk as if it had just been placed and waited for his return, specifically.
A hand moved to take up the letter opener, dragging its golden blade across the parchment, saving the seal, only to pull its contents from its innards. A simple question, but never a simple answer, depending on one's own philosophy.
His hand gestures over to a raven quill, and a small spark of energy comes from his fingertips, willing Reality into action. Bobbing and swaying as it came to a few slivers of parchment, an envelope, and even an inkwell filled in golden ink that, upon its edges once dried, would offer a black hue. He did not write, no, he would speak, and Reality would commit each sound to the visual.
"So many answers come to mind on this question. Some will respond that a monster is as a monster does, but I would offer that animals do as an animal does, and we know not all animals are monsters. Others gauge to offer that a Monster is one who commits terrible atrocities, and a simple mistake in a singular spell can devastate an entire population innert but that does not make the Mistaken a monster either."
He pauses for a moment.
"A monster is that which is named after it has lost and failed to achieve its goal, while the opposing side, getting to write the history of their endeavor, moves to make an example so others shirk away from potentially turning into such a threat that may hinge on the possibility of learning from a mistake and succeeding where the previous failed."
"Monsters die in pursuit of their goals or, at the very least, are beaten back into submission."
( Thank you for that simple but amazing ask @haela-balcyan ! Hope it was to your liking! :D )
Arising 15,000 years ago, the various elven tribes, nations, and communities descend from the Dark Trolls who lived around the translucent waters of the Well of Eternity. Transformed into highly intelligent and virtually immortal beings, the nascent race of Night Elves abandoned their ancient heritage worshipping the Loa of their troll ancestors. Turning to the moon goddess Elune, these elves discovered the name "Kalimdor" from communing with their deity. Soon, they would adopt the name Kaldorei, which meant "children of the stars" in their native tongue, later called Darnassian for their home in the boughs of the corrupted World Tree Teldrassil.
Following a number of events in our world's history, these Kaldorei would see their descendantsâor evolve themselves toâbecome a wide variety of other elven races. Below, I summarize years of research into the various names these communities have, both their vulgar varieties (e.g., "Night Elf") and their endonyms (e.g., "Kaldorei"). In some cases, liberties have been made in order to complete this list; I will endeavour to maintain the accuracy of this list in the future.
Illidari Night Elf Demon Hunter: Feldorei "Children of fel"
Scythborne Worgen (Wild Elf): Taldorei "Children of Taldoren"
Fireborne: Felodorei "Children of fire"
Nightborne: Shal'dorei "Children of the night"
Nightfallen: Vor'dorei "Broken children
Withered: Ethe'dorei "Withered children"
Felborne: Thal'dorei "Children of Thal'dranath, the Broken Shore"
Aranasian Elf: Fal'dorei "Children of Falanaar"
High Elf: Quel'dorei "Children of noble birth"
â alternatively: Belore'dorei "Children of the sun"
Blood Elf: Sin'dorei "Children of the blood"
Highvale Elf: Thas'dorei "Children of the forest"
Void Elf: Ren'dorei "Children of the void"
Illidari Blood Elf Demon Hunter: Illi'dorei "Children of Illidan"
Felbood: Kael'dorei "Children of Kael'thas"
Wretched: Shin'dorei "Failing children"
Darkfallen: San'dorei "Children of death"
Half Elf: Shan'dorei "Honoured children"
Arathi: Arath'dorei "Children of Arathor"
Commentary:
: The -dorei suffix is poetically rendered "children of the..," but it can also simply mean "people of..."
: Half Elves of myriad other races are known as Shan'dorei, "honoured children," a term employed with a sort of irony as most Half Elves are looked down upon in their respective elven, or otherwise, societies.
The Winter Veil Season is fast approaching and the Silvermoon Trading Post is gearing up to bring you all your holiday gifting needs! If you are a vendor you still have time to snag a booth and peddle your wares! https://discord.gg/9JU2SCE4
Just a reminder, with all the love that SMC is suddenly receiving! The SMC-TP is still looking for Vendors, and we'd love to have a Charismatic sort be our Transmog Contest Gaming Host for this!
Please be sure to join the Discord to sign up!
Check out the Silvermoon Trading Post community on Discord - hang out with 30 other members and enjoy free voice and text chat.
Continuation of @wraheathcliffâs beautiful post here
Tw: very mild smut
Lillandyr had been lying when sheâd told Heathcliff she hated the way he read Asmiraâs poetry. Every lie was a little cut and now sheâd told a thousand and for some reason, having to pretend she wasnât Asmira hurt the most and cut the deepest.
She fought his kiss for only a moment, hands coming up to push against his chest only to curl her fingers into his shirt and pull closer.
Heâd been restrained before, in every forgotten kiss theyâd shared. But not this time. What should have been sounds of protest became needy whimpers and desperate want. Lillandyr knew it was over. Feigned resistance and self denial washed away. This kiss, hungry and angry, made her forget why sheâd ever resisted at all.
Lillandyr liked to pretend she never thought of how it would be if she gave in, but there were secret, gauzy fantasies where she would confess sheâd never done this before and he would be gentle. None of these fantasies included being pinned, trembling, to a bookcase.
She found it didnât matter. This was exactly what she wanted. It felt very honest with her leg hooked around his hip and her skirt bunched around her waist. Lillandyr sunk her hands into his hair, and though their faces were already pressed together, she tried to draw him even closer.
His kisses were mean and biting but these were the sweet punishments she felt she deserved for all the cruelties and denials. And oh, the lies. All the lies. It ached between her thighs and in her chest, all this wanting. Her lips burned to confess he was the subject of every poem, but he barely let her come up for air.
Fantasies of gentle touch and slow surrender fled, and her teeth sunk into his bottom lip until he sharply inhaled at the sting to goad him into being rougher still. Lillandyr wanted to be conquered. She wanted to be made a fool of for ever pushing him away.
In some cruel twist of fate, when Heathcliffâs fingers were hooked into her panties to yank them down, the librarian had recovered from the mind control and sharply cleared his throat.
They laughed when they broke apart this time with rueful smiles and a little embarrassment. His ire kissed away, Heathcliff straightened her dress and swept his thumb over her mouth where her lipstick had smeared just as she wiped the traces of the crimson rouge from his lips. Lillandyr didnât recoil or snap at him when he grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the library.
She stared at their joined hands, feeling strange and foolish. It shouldnât make her feel this way because it was too easy then to be tricked. He was making it too easy to hurt him. Sheâd already told a thousand lies before she felt the way she did now. Lillandyr consigned herself to lying forever just so she wouldnât have to forget the kiss in the library.
âI donât want to go home,â she blurted because she knew he was going to ask to take her home again. âNot yet,â she added, a touch less defensively. âIâm hungry and I want pancakes.â And this she said far more petulantly than sheâd intended. She was feeling a little sorry for herself and flustered and it was entirely his fault.
He laughed at how wounded she looked and told her heâd get her pancakes.
So, they sat in the little cafe, Lillandyr in her cheap, rumpled party dress and dark glasses to hide her red rimmed eyes, smoking and eating too many pancakes made soggy with syrup. Heathcliff didnât eat of course, he just smoked looking charming with his mussed hair and lipstick on his collar.
Immediately, it agitated her and she glowered at him but it was hard to look pissed off or intimidating with sticky fingers and a mouthful of pancakes.
Once done, she couldnât bear the question that was coming. âI still donât want to go home,â she said in a huff, âletâs do something.â
They had cocktails with fruit juice at a nicer lounge. They didnât talk about the kiss. She felt stung even though she was just as guilty of not bringing up. They should, she thought, talk about it. But she didnât know what to say and any moment she thought the conversation was sliding in that direction, she suggested they do something else.
The closest she came to talking about it was at the dress shop sheâd pulled him into. âYou rumpled this dress and I look ridiculous now,â she accused sharply, âI think you owe me a new one.â
He agreed as long as he got to pick it out. Though he said he liked her best in red, he chose something very simple in emerald green. It was the finest silk, like butter on her skin, long and slit high on one side. It plunged low in the back and she let him stare without making a snide remark.
As they left the dress shop, she knew the question would come and this wasnât tolerable. So, they went and had more cocktails even though she felt head achey and tired.
They sat at the bar this time and Lillandyr narrowed her eyes at the bartenderâs tattoo on his bicep. It was a heart with a dagger through it and under it was a womanâs name, Delia. Lillandyr scoffed and elbowed Heathcliff.
âWhatâs the saying about tattooing a loverâs name? It dooms the relationship,â she said in a harsh whisper.
Before he could answer, ignoring that she was a little drunk, Lillandyr sat back and pursed her lips. âWe should get tattoos,â she told him. Because they werenât together. Maybe the saying would then work in reverse.
She didnât explain that it was a wild, silly hope doing so would bring them together in a way they couldnât forget the next day. Besides, she already knew they werenât going to talk about it. Couldnât talk about it. Being together wasnât possible with the mountain of her lies between them.
Heathcliff agreed without hesitation. He suggested a line of Asmiraâs poetry and before she could come to her senses, swept away by how unknowingly romantic the gesture he was making was, Lillandyr found herself in a tattoo parlor.
She chose her back, her right shoulder blade. He chose his bicep where the bartender had his romantic, ill advised tattoo. His would be a pearl, his favorite poem by Asmira, and the lines âIn drink and spellâŚI sink them into deep watersâ. It told her that even if they never spoke about the kiss in the library, he would always remember it. That was the poem heâd kissed her to.
Lillandyr chose a line from The Pearl which had been inspired by a childhood story about a girl who lived by the sea and fell in love with a dark prince from other land. âYour far away whisperâŚsilenced sirensâ.
So, they didnât talk about the kiss. They sewed it in ink into their skin instead.
Lillandyr had to read the line four times before she could make sense of it. Not because it was in some obscure, dead language or eldritch scrawl. But because Heathcliff kept running his hands up and down her legs and she couldnât concentrate. Face hot, brow scrunched in what any onlooker might describe as misery, Lillandyr punished his liberal use of his greedy fingers by wriggling on his shoulders. She was no light, fainting maiden. Her figure was run on free pastries from the bakery that took pity on her and all the bar food she made Heathcliff pay for. And as enormously tall as he was, she knew all her weight was in her considerable backside and it just couldnât have been comfortable to support that on his shoulders.
She pressed the open book more firmly down on his head, perching her elbows on the huge tome. Her eyes scanned the words, though she had no interest in the spell written across the pages. This was one of her forgeries and she had changed some of the words of the spell so that it was a poem spread over many pages and lines instead.
In her adolescent years, Lillandyr had become enamored with poetry. She read as much as she could and thenâŚinevitablyâŚbegan to write her own. It was, for the most part, not great poetry. No matter the passions inside her, the words felt limp. Empty. She tried writing about emotions she had never felt simply because she thought she should feel them.
Deliberately, she tore a page from the book.
Heathcliff huffed and shifted his weight, clearly agitated by being used as a book rest and a seat. He demanded to know what she was doing and she didnât tell him as she tore free another page.
Lillandyrâs poetry wasnât just relegated to being hidden in forgeries. No, a few years ago, right after sheâd met Heathcliff (which was a total coincidenceâŚat least thatâs what she told herself), her poetry began to be published. Under a pseudonym of course. She tore the pages from this forgery so she might have the secret poem hidden in it to publish in a new collection sheâd been working on.
At first, she had no intention of reading this poetry to him. Not because she was ashamed of it or embarrassed, but that she couldnât take credit for writing it and would be hard pressed to explain what the poem was doing in the book in the first place.
Heathcliff knew her poetry. Heâd read it to her before, her very own work, not knowing sheâd written it. Lillandyr never told him the poet Asmira was her.
The first time heâd read one of her poems, it had nearly sent her reeling to the floor in bemused shock. Sudden horror had filled her, as though heâd read her diary, and sheâd mocked the poem reflexively.
Not that it stopped him from reading one of her poems to her every so often. And because sheâd had such a negative, visceral reaction the first time, she couldnât very well then tell him she was Asmira.
Annoyed in the present by the very, oddly flattering and simultaneously embarrassing memories, her hand snaked down and yanked his smoke from his mouth, nearly toppling herself and the book she had balanced on Heathcliffâs head.
Righting herself, wriggling too much on purpose, Lillandyr smoked and scowled at the torn out pages. Heathcliff called her cruel and it only made her want to be meaner.
So, she read the poem anyway.
âIf only you could fill the empty
And come inside to
trail your hands
in the waters of me
and drink your fill
Because my taste on your tongue
would teach you how to
speak my language
and unveil your eyes
to see me bare.â
Lillandyr knew he would likely recognize the style and voice. She had an excuse and a ready lie should he question why one of Asmiraâs poems was secretly scrawled into a book she had forged.
She didnât even read the entire poem. Lillandyr stared down at the verses before crumpling the page and tossing it over her shoulder. MaybeâŚshe no longer liked how the poem ended.
[ Trigger Warnings of Excessive Blood, Gore, Body Horror, and Corpse Manipulation. ]
An experiment is finally coming to fruition. One that Dinthoqaf had not even explained to his wife in having created it out of the concern of its absolute failure. Life, and in one instance, unlife, sired that had been given something akin to free will and an opportunity to grow, to thrive, and to expand in its own ways, had reached the ends of its courses and was set to return while those of The Sanctum were out collecting souls and corpses to put to better use for the enhancements of The Sanguine and their venture out to K'aresh.
Din was not going to risk the corruption or overturning of his control over the Sanguine, nor risk additional strings being pulled that would try to pluck and manipulate those within.
The Defiler was a jealous god-to-be, and no one dared to play with his things.
That concern, however, would melt and end today as he would augment himself yet once more, just as he had with the introduction of the Black Blood, just as he had done numerous times over in the search for relics, artifacts, monuments of power, and the corrosion of fonts to his opposition. Today's relics, though, were the living embodiment of evolution, adaptation that stood on the far end of blood pools' lip.
Wilhelm Horst von Dirksen, Stratholmite to the world, who died and turned part-time monster-breeder and bounty hunter for the Forsaken People.
Fikkle Goldshiv; Goblin Assassin and Black Market Trader. Believed to have been smuggling materials between the Alliance and Horde for years, never quite caught.
Murphy Blastenbolt. High-powered Marksman and Rifleman. He had played the part of a mercenary who'd fallen into Fel-lava only to miraculously survive the fall and end up on experimental technology that kept his blood from turning to stone in his veins.
The three of them had nothing in common, not particularly. No similar histories, no true parents that they could remember and despite the Goblins somehow finding one another in the world and starting some obscene story of them being 'twins' despite looking nothing alike and not even having the same last names or parents, it didn't stop their fool story and managing to actually make some people believe it.
Part of that though, wasn't necessarily true though, was it, Dinthoqaf had to think as he looked upon the three as his feet took the first step into the crimson pool. They did all have a parent, singular, a Father.
He. Him. The Defiler had birthed them all.
Fikkle's siring born from the desire to hide from the world, to learn how to do so.
Murphy's desire to stay far from the world, looking at it through glass.
Wilhelm's coming from the desire to fade and die while fighting with his anger to become something more.
All three men were sired, born, from something long ago as Dinthoqaf fought to learn who he was in his youth. These men were seeds created as a way to expand and grow, and now, that seed had grown into a bountiful crop that needed to be reaped.
All three of them once stood for something Dinthoqaf had been unable to reconcile, but now, all these decades later, these things had been gotten over, dealt with, and just like them, it was time to put them to rest.
Further into the pool, The Defiler waded, each step causing him to sink in inch by inch until finally, at its deepest point, the wading pool stood no higher than his waist. Wilhelm was the first, stepping down from the ledge into its depths, and as he came, gear was loosened and dropped softly into the contents of the pool itself. Magically infused chitin and keratin were steadily devoured by whatever inhabited the crimson ichor that they now waded through. Just a few short steps in, Wilhelm stumbled as it too began to gnaw and eat through his armor and clothing, devouring his legs to the point fell forward.
Like any Father, the Defiler's hands came up, grasping hold of the forsaken man. Fear in dead eyes to an end slowly began to fade, to convert into peace as Dinthoqaf turned to hold him in the water, treading it as if he were preparing a child for their baptism. A hand comes up and cups the forsaken's metal jaw and corroded cheek. A silent 'shh' graces the air between them. Soon, the devouring hunger of the ichor claims what is left, and the will that had kept him together now faded as the remains crumbled into the pool about them.
"A life given and a world of knowledge returned."
The following was Fikkle. An assassin and a general pain in the ass for many. The look of hesitancy on his face was tangible to say the least, and one could tell he considered bolting for the door. But what lay beyond it? Was there anything actually there? He'd been summarily swallowed by some *thing* only to be put into some sort of lazed trance until he found himself standing in this place; wherever it was. He gulps.
"Is it gonna hurt?"
"No."
A simple, direct answer said with the softness of a parent who sat on the bedside of a child they knew was soon to slip away.
"It will be like that time you fell asleep next to your first lover. A warming, tender embrace."
Fikkle's face slackened, even if another gulp was pushed down. Daggers in their belt holsters were dropped to the stonework and the goblin takes his shoes off, putting them to the side neatly as if he were going to return to putting them on again shortly...
He wouldn't.
His feet go in and the ichor begins to churn about them, causing a hum of a laugh as he remembered filter fish nibbling at his toes in the waters edge of Tanaris. Was that his memory or one made by their Creator? He supposed that didn't much matter now, not here, as he slipped into the water to his waist and then by the time he reached the Defiler, it was already to his armpits, arms out wide as he tried to tread.
The Defilers arms outstretched, reaching for him in encouragement like a father to their sons first steps. No words, a smile of waiting. What Fikkle did not know was that the Ichor had already claimed most of his lower half and the push that was helping close the distance was the very reaction that was taking the last of him. Flesh eroded, blood diluted and mixed into this concoction, and bone and metal were eaten away to create the broth they basked in.
Soon; Fikkle was no more.
Last, the most 'problematic' of the three. Not because of his attitude, not because of his race or career, but purely because of the massive amount of fel taint that resided within his body. Murphy took off his gear, one piece at a time till all that was left was the mechanical machine sitting on the ground, whirring as it pumped fel glowing blood and solutions through its casing and back up into his body while fel-infused air was moistened and pushed through tubes towards his nostrils to help keep his lungs moist and from converting to fel-stone.
"So, this is how it ends huh? Not by chokin' ta death in my bed surrounded by whores or by some assholes bullet... quietly, in some magical ceremony where nothing will be said or remember'd'a me?"
Murphy had already made his decision; this was going to happen one way or another, and he was already so, so tired of fighting his own body just to survive. "No. You will always be remembered and while this part of you comes to an end, another part of you will always live on, and all of you will have a place in the Halls of Remembrance. find solace in the fact that you have achieved everything you were fated to have achieved and so much more."
The voice was not one of impatience or condescension, not now, not here. Dinthoqaf's arms lift, blood dribbling lightly into itself in a gesture of invitation. Finally, Murphy steps forward just like the other two had done.
Murphy too was devoured, melted and combined into the broth of the melting pot Dinthoqaf stood within.
"Ingazyras yorch cho jafrix."
The magic spoken instantly made the Defiler take a hit in the gut, causing his body to curl and his face to snap into the water. His mouth pried open by the force of it all. What came next was the force of everything beginning to flood and force its way into him. The flesh of his cheeks stretched to the point of flesh-tearing. His throat cracks as the cartilage is torn and pushed beyond its limits. He falls down into the whirling pool knees slowly sinking into the morass to hit stone as everything fought its way into him. His mouth no longer the only entrace and no one particular spot was left unchristened and even when that was taken, it began to tear, clear, and rip into his flesh to find other ways inside, damaging the very vessel that was intended to keep hold of it all. A cracking dam, fit to burst.
Movement at the edge of the room, a singular figure hooded, watching, waiting only to step forward at the sight of The Defiler being torn apart by his own magics. His arm flies up, and words struggle free through vomitous crimson. "No~! Do naught inte--.." He screams out, hands going to his stomach as the person steps back once again, the flick of a nearby fire casting but a passing glance to The Weaver, Zalilirah.
She was told this might happen, and the look on her face at this telling was not an excited one. She may have been his wife, lover, and most likely more fervent believer, but it did not make room to enjoy seeing him in pain like this. But, she would do as she was bidden, taking up a black velvet cloth and unfolding it. What lay were various bone pieces, and for those who knew them well enough, they were all pieces belonging to a singular skull.
Moments churned in crimson horror as Dinthoqaf's body was torn, recovered, and shredded over and over again as multiple layers of magic and purpose fought with one another until eventually, what was left was a soaked file of gore that looked more like it had been thrown into a goblin shredder blade over anything 'magical'. Displeasure coursed through The Weaver as she now came down to step into the emptied pool. Skull in hand and placed atop the lot of it, she would step back. The words he had made her remember, the words that needed to be repeated now? Klaatu, Barada, Nikto? No, no.
"Sycuz Dinthoqaf. Fwofidayo donget n'logl haspu."
A rupture of magic exploded from the corpse remnants that the skull had been placed upon, forceful enough that the stone flooring below cracked, sending up shards of marble that refused to fall, and the ceiling above offered the same but in reverse. The very being of this place threatened to buckle as the corpse remains began to bubble, churn, and smoke. The bits of entrails begin to quiver and move as if they were blood maggots looking for their next meal. Bit by bit, they pull themselves together, rejuvenating themselves from the volatile waters that had torn them apart. Guts found their rightful kinks and twists and turns as sinew and lining came into being. Stomach, liver, lungs, heart. What hadn't been torn apart or devoured began to regrow and what was dead beat with life once more.
The miracle of life, a mother might call it.
A flimsy flesh casing came to wrap about muscles and expanding bones. Translucent in its quickened growth, as features matching not just the Defiler but also of Wilhelm, Fikkle, and Murphy tried to present themselves in the flesh as it was all assimilated. The Defilers features taking the majority as he dangled in the air naked and then was dropped as if the string on a heavy sack had been snipped with no hands below to catch it.
A wet, collapsing clap of flesh hitting stone can be heard only for Zalilirah now rushes down to him. The robes she wore, pulling free to offer up to her darkened silks and fine jewelry, even here when it was just the two of them, shielding his naked frame from any eyes that dared try to pry into this private place.
His body shook as he gasped for air, coughing up blood, bile, and mucus alike as fresh lungs felt the burn of fresh air for the first time once more. His hands shook, and his eyes had yet to open, and despite their translucent thinness, his head turned up to Zalilirah, a weak smile coming up that gave a mix of goblin, human, and elven teeth.
"It w-worked-d." His teeth clattered as his muscles spasmed either from the cold or the random firing of his brain and nerves as everything tried to reconnect itself. The Defiler passed out, exhaustion claiming him and the need to recover measuring beyond his ego's desire to state more of the obvious.
Introducing The Trading Post!
I'm finally dipping my toes into the Server Event arena and have opted to create a Market for September 20th @ 9pm WRA Server Time. (That's 6pm EST.)
The Trading Post is aiming to be a server event for both Moon Guardians and Wyrmrest Accordians within The Bazaar in Silvermoon Itself. While this may limit some people's abilities to participate, we're hoping that it will bring some attention to the city itself as a way to help foster RP outside of Orgrimmar itself.
The Trading Post is looking for:
Vendors! A Transmog Host (Details below)! And a Barkeep!
We're aiming to offer several hours for our Vendors to showcase their wares, and about an hour after opening, we'll be hosting a DJ for Live Music in the Wayfarer's Inn, while also hosting a Transmog Contest in the Bazaar.
Vendors have an opportunity for a Gold Prize based on community votes, and the transmog contestants have a chance to win between 10,000 and 30,000 gold, depending on the crowd's favor. They win!
Whether you're coming in to shop, to show off your fashionable skills, dance the night away, or if you're here purely to help support Community RP for the game, we'd love to see you come out!
DJ Services will be provided by the same gentleman who provided services to the recent Big Bombs Goblin Party in Undermine as well, if you were a fan of his work!
Please be aware that right now we're working on the server's details, but for those interested, you're welcome to join us and take up a booth location! Booths are first-come, first-served, and if we end up needing more, Silvermoon has plenty of room to offer!
Check out the Silvermoon Trading Post community on Discord - hang out with 10 other members and enjoy free voice and text chat.
(Talk of Self Harm, mention of drug and alcohol use)
Whenever I am here at the Damp, I tend to wander. Room to room, area to area and I never know where I may find myself. More so recently as things in my life continue to change and grow in unexpected ways. Ways that seem both harsh and beneficent. I have found my life is nothing if not eventual and full of surprises which I suppose is now expected, in the grand scheme of things.
I took the loss of Kelan harder than I expected. To go from disliking all Death Knights for a myriad of reasons, my body and mind scarred by them in the past, to finding one that I found tolerable and then was eventually even calling friend was one of those surprises and it was with surprise that I have met it. The idea he may be recoverable, along with Vivid, fills me with a bit of hope.
For my part, the hope of Vivid returning is for Varethuun. I worry for him and notice I worry over him as well. Without Vivid, he has become a drug addled, drunk Pandaren possibly intent on self harm because of his loss. In truth, I can only attempt to understand what it must feel like to go from nearly immortal power to a mortal Pandaren again. I have healed him as well as I am able but realize I cannot keep him from drowning his sorrows. I must attempt to bring him to the Vault, sober and thinking, so we may work on getting them back. They are in the same place, Kelan and Vivid, if they are alive at all so hopefully that makes them more easily helped. It is up to us to help them.
Also, I have received a gift from the Defiler, one that I am only learning how it may affect me. A gift of power, of the Light, that has brought me back to a place of care and concern, of healing and magic, that I was in years ago without actually wanting to be there. I can acknowledge now though that it was the method of bringing me to that place which made me dislike the outcome, not the outcome itself.
Of my own volition I seem to like being a support to others, not just a terror to enemies. To heal their hurts both physical and mental instead of simply inflicting madness and pain. In short, to care.
Caring is quite frightening to me and I must protect myself in some way against inevitable loss, though I am unsure how. How do you care and yet not get entangled with the ones you have concern for. Perhaps it is impossible and I simply have to accept this outcome, I am unsure. I still mourn for Emily, and in some ways even Drex, but that life was not for me. Is this one?
Another outcome I did not expect was to allow a spark of faith in the Defiler. Not something I certainly expected, but he has given of himself when there was no need, provided guidance when asked and acceptance when I least expected it. I have found him to be reliable and perhaps what some of the others feel about him is true. Only time will tell.
I have been walking the halls of the Damp for a few hours now after my interaction with him, wondering how this new magic will manifest. I have made my way up to the garden on the roof, a place I donât visit frequently enough, moving with purpose towards the yellow rose I planted here months ago. It was blooming, the golden color reminiscent of my daughterâs hair. I place both hands around the bush and let the Light flow from me.
Several orbs burst from my hands, swirling around the rose bush before sinking into the ground. The bush takes on a slight glow, growing taller before my eyes. I find myself smiling, thinking of Emily with joy instead of sadness. Is this another gift? One perhaps I have given myself, I think, to allow the good memories of her to flow through me again.
All of this to say that I feel renewed and reborn. I believe I have made it through my own dark night of the soul and emerged more focused and powerful than before. I have even made my way to Kâaresh to explore that broken world, sifting through the magics there to see what I find. But my main focus remains finding a way to help Vareth and through that we will find a way to help Vivid and Kelan.
I touch the golden rose again with a renewed sense of certainty and clarity, with a small smile on my face. Enough reflection, it is time to get to work.
