Faith Lewis

World of Warcraft Character - Defias Brotherhood- Moonguard - Alliance. Follows from @tillyashton

[westfall-faith]

Art: Above art is simply a reference of what the character may look like.

The Basics ––– –

Name: Kaylace Dorman

Alias: Faith Lewis

Age: 30

Birthday: December 26th, Year 10 (ADP)

Race: Human

Gender: Female

Marital Status: Single

Physical Appearance ––– –

Hair: Muted Copper

Eyes: Gunmetal Grey

Height: 5′4″

Build: Slim

Distinguishing Marks: Her most captivating feature danced across the bridge of her nose - a constellation of freckles, like a dusting of cinnamon scattered in a playful breeze. These tiny suns mirrored the warmth in her eyes, their color lost for a moment in the cascade of copper curls that framed her face. The hair, a riot of fiery tendrils, defied gravity in a way that both charmed and hinted at a wild spirit within. Even when her back was turned, the freckles and the unruly curls would give her away, a signature as unique and unforgettable as her smile.

Tattoos: Cogwheel brand on her right shoulder blade

Piercings: Ear lobes.

Common Accessories: A faded bandana that had once been crimson, a threadbare hat, and turquoise earrings that matched her studded belt.

Personal Information––– –

Profession: "Farmhand" / pick-pocket

Hobbies: Mending, Tailoring, Reading

Languages: Common

Residence: Westfall

Birthplace: Stormwind

Religion: None

Patron Deity: None

Fears: Being imprisoned

Relationships ––– -

Spouse: Single / None

Children: None

Parents: Lewis Dorman and Anetta Dorman (died from illness)

Siblings: None

Other Relatives: None

Pets: Asher, a grey mut she rescued. Penny, her reliable Chestnut mare.

Romance ––– -

Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual

Preferred Emotional Role: submissive | dominant | switch

Love Language: Acts of Service

Relationship Tendencies: Heavy flirtation

Traits ––– -

* Bold your character’s answer.

Extroverted / In Between / Introverted

Disorganized / In Between / Organized

Close Minded / In Between / Open Minded

Calm / In Between / Anxious

Disagreeable / In Between / Agreeable

Cautious / In Between / Reckless

Patient / In Between /  Impatient

Outspoken / In Between / Reserved

Leader / In Between / Follower

Empathetic / In Between / Apathetic

Optimistic / In Between / Pessimistic

Traditional / In Between / Modern

Hard-working / In Between / Lazy

Cultured / In Between / Uncultured

Loyal / In Between / Disloyal

Faithful / In Between / Unfaithful

Additional information ––– –

Smoking Habit: Frequently

Drugs: Never

Alcohol: Frequently

RP Hooks ––– –

Defias Brotherhood: She keeps a lookout for Defias brothers and sisters alike. Young or old, she's probably heard of you if you're in the Brotherhood.

[tillyashton]

OOC Update: I'll be back soon!

Hey y'all! Sorry for being so MIA, but my final semester of nursing school has been INTENSE!

The big news: I've started my preceptorship... and I'm heading to the Intensive Care Unit (ICU)! It's truly a light at the end of the tunnel now, and I can't wait to finish strong.

Keep me in your thoughts (or prayers!) as I jump into this challenging but amazing experience. I promise I'll be back online to chat and catch up very, very soon! ❤️

[vaethryn]

you can take the man out of westfall, but you can't take the westfall out of the man

[westfall-faith]

All I want to do is settle down into a nice, Defias themed RP guild and wreak RP havoc.

A gal can dream!

[westfall-faith]

[westfall-faith]

The Darkmoon Faire is in town. Does Faith go? What does she do if she goes?

Faith, with her face windburned from years of tending horses, took a deep breath of the strangely intoxicating air of the Darkmoon Faire. It was a carnival unlike any other, a whirlwind of fantastical sights and sounds that only arrived once a month. For Faith, a poor farmhand and pick-pocket, it was a rare indulgence. Every spare coin she'd scraped together over the past month went towards this one glorious day.

The cacophony washed over her – the barkers hawking their wares, the excited shrieks of children on rides that churned stomachs stronger than hers, the rhythmic clang of the Test Your Strength mallet. But Faith ignored them all, her sights set on the familiar red and white striped tent emblazoned with a picture of a grinning goblin holding a rifle. "Sharpshootin' Gallery!" the banner declared.

Faith grinned. This was her domain. Coin purses were her targets, not coyotes or hawks. She paid the gruff gnome at the entrance, the metallic clink echoing in her empty stomach. The smell of burnt gunpowder and warm leather greeted her as she entered the tent, a comforting familiarity. Here, her calloused hands weren't a liability, they were an asset, honed from years of wrangling stubborn steeds.

With practiced ease, she raised the heavy rifle, the weight a familiar friend in her grip. Unlike the spinning teacups or the plummeting freefall rides, here, skill mattered. Each shot found its mark, the satisfying ping of lead on metal a sweet melody. Faith emerged, a pouch of tickets heavy in her hand, a wide smile splitting her face.

The day was a blur of joyous chaos. She tossed hoops at goblins with questionable hygiene, narrowly missing a dunk tank that promised to soak a pompous-looking mage. The sweet, sticky scent of cotton candy mingled with the yeasty aroma of funnel cakes dusted with powdered sugar. Faith indulged in a fluffy pink cloud of cotton candy, the sugary treat melting on her tongue, a rare luxury.

As the day wore down, the sun sinking towards the horizon, casting long shadows across the Fairegrounds, Faith sighed contentedly. She wouldn't win any prizes for bravery – the Tilt-a-Whirl made her head spin – but the shooting gallery victories and the stolen treats filled her with a warmth that had nothing to do with the setting sun. Maybe next time, she thought, she'd skip the rides altogether and focus on the delectable delights of every vendor. After all, a gal could dream.

[soaveintermezzo]

[westfall-faith]

Longshore, Westfall

[nixalegos]

Dust, and Little Else

Continuation from here As she approached, with much less trepidation then he'd personally liked, he gestured with his gauntleted hand for her to keep her coinage. "You've silver to waste on a stranger, and you spend three days without eating." He said in obvious displeasure. "I'm beginning to understand why so many have ill views on the Brotherhood." He added enigmatically. "But, to clarify, Yes, it really does want caramel apples. Apple, dipped, covered in bone dust, dipped again." To which he shrugged. "You'd think they'd try to breed the horse OUT of the demon abomination. You can ask the Nathrezim why they took up horse husbandry as a hobby." He said with a shrug. As she went about scurrying around he called out. "Technically. It would be easier for me to burn this place to the ground. The blood gem won't be damaged by fel fire." He said matter of factly. Perhaps he said it as unspoken threat. A reminder that her, the lands she fought for, the very notion of homestead and sanctity meaningless. Obstacles, either to be utterly and totally erased, or forcibly bent to work for him. "But seeing as you volunteered," He continued. "It should be about the size of your head, blood red, and look otherwise like a giant ruby that's way too warm to the touch." He edified as he came to cross his gauntleted arms.

@westfall-faith

[westfall-faith]

Faith chuckled, her voice echoing through the barn. “Always keep a few pieces of silver on me,” she replied, her tone light despite the grim setting. “Never know when you're going to need it, and it ain't like I've ever seen no hot dog stands out here noway. Could have always gone to Moonbrook, I suppose, but anythin' there to eat is worth about three silver. Times is tough.”

Her ascent continued, punctuated by the rhythmic squeak of the ladder. "What is Naz--uh... Nathrezim? Ain't heard of that before, don't think," she called down, her voice curious.

Reaching the top rung, Faith paused, her silhouette outlined against the fading daylight. Nixalegos' voice carried upward, a sinister promise. For someone like him, it certainly would be easier to simply burn these lands to the ground.

Faith's eyes narrowed, her gaze filled with a stubborn determination. "I wouldn't care if you burned it down," she said, her voice steady as she gestured around with one hand. "Ain't much to burn down, no how. But there's fine folk here in Westfall, and I would care if harm came to even one hair on their heads. I reckon you should keep your felfire at bay, just for a while longer."

A tense silence filled the barn now.

@nixalegos

[nixalegos]

"The common tongue calls them Dreadlords. Nasty things, you might have heard about them invading and leading the demons here around the third invasion?" He explained, ignoring her suggestion about withholding his flames. "Horns, corpsepale skin, bat wings, claws? About as big as a building? Hooves?" He added, thinking THAT would jar her memory. How any Westfallen would miss news and tales of demonic spacecraft in their skies and infernals lead by the bastards was as unlikely as one being in the barn with them at that very moment. Unlikely. But not technically impossible. "I always suspected they were somehow behind the collapse of Westfall. Invading armies, and draconic machinations might be the listed cause of economical collapse in the high halls and historical scrolls, but...to go from a sustaining breadbasket of the entire continent to well." His back turned, his hand gesturing out the barn door into the yellow dust and sun baked dirt. "That. It always struck me as too unnatural. Too long lasting a disaster to not have their claws involved." He said with a nod. "But I could never prove it. Always just a suspicion. A 'gut feeling' if you will. Tainted grain after all, destroyed Lordaeron. And here, in a fiefdom of Stormwind, the lack of it caused riots and uprisings that risked toppling the capital of the Alliance. Both cases, grain, bread. A symbol of life all over Azeroth and even other worlds. What better means to wield as weapon to those so synonymous with death as a concept than civilization sustaining grain?" To which he paused, and turned his attention from the lands outside back up the ladder to her. "Apologies, I was starting to monologue. Did you need help or anything get up there?" He asked expectantly.

@westfall-faith

[westfall-faith]

Faith's boots thudded against the ladder rungs, a staccato rhythm echoing in the dusty barn. Her grip, roughened by years of toil, tightened around the weathered wood as she hoisted herself higher. "Naw," she said in answer. "Reckon I can climb a ladder just fine."

A shaft of moonlight sliced through a broken window overhead, and she half expected to see a Dreadlord swoop through it. His macabre description was all she could focus on until she caught herself breathing hard. She took breath, caught herself holding it, and tried again.

"Never clapped eyes on a dreadlord," she muttered, her Westfallian accent thick, "but I've heard them tales. If they ever came to these parts, I don't figure any of the locals would lift a finger. Wouldn't think it, but fightin' off evil, bein' a hero? That's a luxury."

It was her way of telling him he could be right.

Finally, she reached the top rung and pulled herself onto the dusty loft floor. Cobwebs brushed against her face, and the musty scent of old hay filled her nostrils. Disappointment washed over her as she scanned the empty space. No hidden compartments, no secret passageways, just piles of forgotten hay and the creeping tendrils of decay.

"Well," she said in defeat, "it ain't here."

@nixalegos

[nixalegos]

"Damn. That's too bad." The warlock said from below. "Can't simply be easy, can't be under a bale of hay, no, have to do the whole damn riddle and dance for a dead thief." He grumbled, withdrawing the note from his robes. "Where the pumpkins always tasted like ash, and the rain never feared falling uphill. Yours forever, Darthion." He said with a mocking air. "I should have raised his damn body and used it to dig out this whole farm by hand the ingrate." He said with obvious irritation. "...Suppose we'll have to throw an imp down the well to check that out. No gem, no loss, it can drown itself or starve." He said as he tucked the note back into his robes. "Still, you make an interesting point about heroism being a luxury, only hobbled by the fact if it was a matter of privilege, being a sellsword wouldn't be such a readily available, and looked down upon career option. Tending hearth and home is the luxury of when others put themselves against the horrors in your stead. I didn't see too many Westfallen defenders on Argus." He quipped with just a dash of acid in his voice, a verbal bait for them to respond.

@westfall-faith

[westfall-faith]

Faith's head emerged from the barn loft like a startled owl, her face framed by dusty rafters and the dim, ethereal glow filtering through the loft's broken windowpanes. Her eyes, wide with a mixture of determination and apprehension, scanned the barn floor below before settling on the Nethermancer's imposing figure. Even though his silhouette was elongated and menacing in the half-light, it was his eyes that pulled her attention. That glow, the unnatural sheen, even beneath the hood -- Faith let out a low rumble from the back of her throat. Dissapointment. They had, as of this very moment, been defeated by a dead man. No denying it.

A layer of chaff and hay clung to Faith's worn work clothes, and a strand of straw was caught in her hair. She'd combed through every nook and cranny of the hayloft, her hands raw from the rough texture of the dried grass.

Nixalegos' voice, a low, guttural rumble, echoed through the barn. "...Suppose we'll have to throw an imp down the well to check that out. No gem, no loss, it can drown itself or starve."

A wave of compassion washed over Faith as she heard the warlock's suggestion. Despite their demonic nature, she couldn't shake the feeling of pity for the imp. As a farmer, she had a deep-rooted empathy for all living creatures: her chickens, her loyal horse, her hound, and even the feral kittens that had claimed her porch as their kingdom and kept her up at night held a special place in her heart. Each creature, in its own way, brought a sense of warmth and purpose to her life.

Nixalegos' next words pierced through Faith's compassion like a sharp arrow: "Tending hearth and home is the luxury of when others put themselves against the horrors in your stead. I didn't see too many Westfallen defenders on Argus."

Faith's initial reaction was laughter, a nervous attempt to deflect the warlock's hostility. But beneath the forced mirth, a flicker of annoyance ignited within her. His words carried the sting of a betrayal, a familiar echo of an old wound.

With a determined effort, Faith lowered herself down from the loft, her muscles tense with suppressed anger. As her feet touched the ground, she took a deep breath, trying to quell the storm brewing within her.

"And what good do you reckon a bunch of starving people from Westfall would do against a legion of demons?" she retorted, her voice steady despite the rising tide of anger. "Oh, that's right, they'd just be fodder like your imp." Her gaze locked onto the warlock's, her defiance clear. "People of Westfall are doin' just fine dyin' all on their own. Ain't no need for them to sign up to go to Argus to die by a demon claw and hoof. And if by chance, them pieces of human fodder survived? Then what? They come home and --"

As she rounded him to stand in the middle of the barn, Faith's eyes blazed with a fury that seemed to consume her entire being and her face contorted into a mask of rage. She stood defiantly in the heart of the decaying barn, her arms outstretched in a wild gesture that seemed to encompass the crumbling structure around her.

"Ta-da," she whispered, "a hero's welcome home..."

Her words hung heavy in the air, a stark contrast to the playful tone she had attempted to maintain just moments ago. The forced laughter had vanished, replaced by a raw, unfiltered anger that seemed to emanate from the depths of her soul.

"TO STARVE TO DEATH AND ROT AWAY!" she bellowed, her voice rising to a crescendo as she pointed an accusing finger at the dilapidated walls.

@nixalegos

[westfall-faith]

Wild Flowers and Preservation Motes

Faith, a woman as plain as the Westfall plains she called home, found herself adrift in a sea of humanity. The Tournament of Ages, a spectacle of grandeur and noise, was a far cry from the quietude of her life. The biting winter air, instead of invigorating, felt suffocating amidst the press of bodies. Her simple, homespun dress seemed to mock her, a stark contrast to the elaborate cloaks and shining armor that surrounded her.

A memory flickered in her mind - the delicate wild daisy she'd given to Javier that very night. A simple gesture meant to ease performance anxiety from a woman who'd only ever performed at the school house talent show. There was a nagging thought in her mind: just like her own innocence had so long ago, the fleeting beauty of the flower, would fade. A desperate hope ignited within her. Perhaps, just perhaps, she could capture a moment of that fragile beauty.

Her eyes scanned the bustling crowd until they landed on a mage vendor, their wares shimmering with arcane allure. A preservation mote, she'd heard whispers of such a thing. With a deep breath, she approached the vendor, her voice as rough as the weathered skin on her hands. "How much you reckon you need for that shiny thing?" she gestured towards the mote.

The mage, accustomed to the polished tongues of the nobility, blinked in surprise. "That, my dear, is a preservation mote. It can preserve a living thing indefinitely. And the price..." he trailed off, expectantly.

Faith's brow furrowed. "Indefinitely? Like forever?"

The mage nodded, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Indeed."

"Well, I ain't got no gold or fancy jewels. But I can give you the finest wool from my sheep. And maybe a whole loaf of my bread."

The mage chuckled, clearly amused by her audacity. "Wool and bread are hardly suitable payment for such a powerful artifact."

Faith stood her ground, her eyes unwavering. "It's the best I got. And it's worth more than you think."

After a moment, the mage shrugged. "Very well. Your wool and bread it is, and throw in a few eggs for good measure."

Relief washed over Faith as she handed over her prized possessions. With the mote clutched in her hand, she sought out a tent -- a place of solitude with a writing desk.

Faith gripped the quill with a fierce determination that belied her trembling hand. The parchment was blank, a daunting expanse before her. She dipped the quill into the inkwell, and with a deep breath, began to form letters.

Her education, cut short at the age of eight, was certainly showcased on the page. Some of her lettering was backwards and all of it was a wild, spidery script, like a creature learning to walk. The words tumbled out in a rush, as if desperate to escape her mind before she forgot which letters matched with which sounds.

“Javier, sorry I missed your music. Thought about what you said about gettin' the daisy water and now there ain't no need. Found a feller at the Tournament who swears this mote will preserve a flower just like it were when it was picked. Just hold the mote in your hand and say the spell while you're lookin' at the flower. Hope you like it."

The letter ended abruptly, as if Faith had run out of breath. She stared at the page, her brow furrowed in concentration. Then, with a satisfied nod, she signed her name in large, looping letters and placed the parcel in the mailbox along with the mote's incantation.

Petal soft, a blush of pink, Captured now, a frozen blink. In icy depths, a world of white, Preserves the bloom, a fragile light.

Once dancing free in summer's breeze, Now stilled and hushed, in icy freeze. A moment caught, a timeless art, A frozen blossom, pure of heart.

No wilting here, no fading hue, Eternally preserved, forever new. A winter's gift, a summer's dream, In crystal prison, nature's gleam.

[nixalegos]

Dust, and Little Else

Continuation from here As she approached, with much less trepidation then he'd personally liked, he gestured with his gauntleted hand for her to keep her coinage. "You've silver to waste on a stranger, and you spend three days without eating." He said in obvious displeasure. "I'm beginning to understand why so many have ill views on the Brotherhood." He added enigmatically. "But, to clarify, Yes, it really does want caramel apples. Apple, dipped, covered in bone dust, dipped again." To which he shrugged. "You'd think they'd try to breed the horse OUT of the demon abomination. You can ask the Nathrezim why they took up horse husbandry as a hobby." He said with a shrug. As she went about scurrying around he called out. "Technically. It would be easier for me to burn this place to the ground. The blood gem won't be damaged by fel fire." He said matter of factly. Perhaps he said it as unspoken threat. A reminder that her, the lands she fought for, the very notion of homestead and sanctity meaningless. Obstacles, either to be utterly and totally erased, or forcibly bent to work for him. "But seeing as you volunteered," He continued. "It should be about the size of your head, blood red, and look otherwise like a giant ruby that's way too warm to the touch." He edified as he came to cross his gauntleted arms.

@westfall-faith

[westfall-faith]

Faith chuckled, her voice echoing through the barn. “Always keep a few pieces of silver on me,” she replied, her tone light despite the grim setting. “Never know when you're going to need it, and it ain't like I've ever seen no hot dog stands out here noway. Could have always gone to Moonbrook, I suppose, but anythin' there to eat is worth about three silver. Times is tough.”

Her ascent continued, punctuated by the rhythmic squeak of the ladder. "What is Naz--uh... Nathrezim? Ain't heard of that before, don't think," she called down, her voice curious.

Reaching the top rung, Faith paused, her silhouette outlined against the fading daylight. Nixalegos' voice carried upward, a sinister promise. For someone like him, it certainly would be easier to simply burn these lands to the ground.

Faith's eyes narrowed, her gaze filled with a stubborn determination. "I wouldn't care if you burned it down," she said, her voice steady as she gestured around with one hand. "Ain't much to burn down, no how. But there's fine folk here in Westfall, and I would care if harm came to even one hair on their heads. I reckon you should keep your felfire at bay, just for a while longer."

A tense silence filled the barn now.

@nixalegos

[nixalegos]

"The common tongue calls them Dreadlords. Nasty things, you might have heard about them invading and leading the demons here around the third invasion?" He explained, ignoring her suggestion about withholding his flames. "Horns, corpsepale skin, bat wings, claws? About as big as a building? Hooves?" He added, thinking THAT would jar her memory. How any Westfallen would miss news and tales of demonic spacecraft in their skies and infernals lead by the bastards was as unlikely as one being in the barn with them at that very moment. Unlikely. But not technically impossible. "I always suspected they were somehow behind the collapse of Westfall. Invading armies, and draconic machinations might be the listed cause of economical collapse in the high halls and historical scrolls, but...to go from a sustaining breadbasket of the entire continent to well." His back turned, his hand gesturing out the barn door into the yellow dust and sun baked dirt. "That. It always struck me as too unnatural. Too long lasting a disaster to not have their claws involved." He said with a nod. "But I could never prove it. Always just a suspicion. A 'gut feeling' if you will. Tainted grain after all, destroyed Lordaeron. And here, in a fiefdom of Stormwind, the lack of it caused riots and uprisings that risked toppling the capital of the Alliance. Both cases, grain, bread. A symbol of life all over Azeroth and even other worlds. What better means to wield as weapon to those so synonymous with death as a concept than civilization sustaining grain?" To which he paused, and turned his attention from the lands outside back up the ladder to her. "Apologies, I was starting to monologue. Did you need help or anything get up there?" He asked expectantly.

@westfall-faith

[westfall-faith]

Faith's boots thudded against the ladder rungs, a staccato rhythm echoing in the dusty barn. Her grip, roughened by years of toil, tightened around the weathered wood as she hoisted herself higher. "Naw," she said in answer. "Reckon I can climb a ladder just fine."

A shaft of moonlight sliced through a broken window overhead, and she half expected to see a Dreadlord swoop through it. His macabre description was all she could focus on until she caught herself breathing hard. She took breath, caught herself holding it, and tried again.

"Never clapped eyes on a dreadlord," she muttered, her Westfallian accent thick, "but I've heard them tales. If they ever came to these parts, I don't figure any of the locals would lift a finger. Wouldn't think it, but fightin' off evil, bein' a hero? That's a luxury."

It was her way of telling him he could be right.

Finally, she reached the top rung and pulled herself onto the dusty loft floor. Cobwebs brushed against her face, and the musty scent of old hay filled her nostrils. Disappointment washed over her as she scanned the empty space. No hidden compartments, no secret passageways, just piles of forgotten hay and the creeping tendrils of decay.

"Well," she said in defeat, "it ain't here."

@nixalegos

[westfall-faith]

The duality of woman

[nixalegos]

Dust, and Little Else

Continuation from here As she approached, with much less trepidation then he'd personally liked, he gestured with his gauntleted hand for her to keep her coinage. "You've silver to waste on a stranger, and you spend three days without eating." He said in obvious displeasure. "I'm beginning to understand why so many have ill views on the Brotherhood." He added enigmatically. "But, to clarify, Yes, it really does want caramel apples. Apple, dipped, covered in bone dust, dipped again." To which he shrugged. "You'd think they'd try to breed the horse OUT of the demon abomination. You can ask the Nathrezim why they took up horse husbandry as a hobby." He said with a shrug. As she went about scurrying around he called out. "Technically. It would be easier for me to burn this place to the ground. The blood gem won't be damaged by fel fire." He said matter of factly. Perhaps he said it as unspoken threat. A reminder that her, the lands she fought for, the very notion of homestead and sanctity meaningless. Obstacles, either to be utterly and totally erased, or forcibly bent to work for him. "But seeing as you volunteered," He continued. "It should be about the size of your head, blood red, and look otherwise like a giant ruby that's way too warm to the touch." He edified as he came to cross his gauntleted arms.

@westfall-faith

[westfall-faith]

Faith chuckled, her voice echoing through the barn. “Always keep a few pieces of silver on me,” she replied, her tone light despite the grim setting. “Never know when you're going to need it, and it ain't like I've ever seen no hot dog stands out here noway. Could have always gone to Moonbrook, I suppose, but anythin' there to eat is worth about three silver. Times is tough.”

Her ascent continued, punctuated by the rhythmic squeak of the ladder. "What is Naz--uh... Nathrezim? Ain't heard of that before, don't think," she called down, her voice curious.

Reaching the top rung, Faith paused, her silhouette outlined against the fading daylight. Nixalegos' voice carried upward, a sinister promise. For someone like him, it certainly would be easier to simply burn these lands to the ground.

Faith's eyes narrowed, her gaze filled with a stubborn determination. "I wouldn't care if you burned it down," she said, her voice steady as she gestured around with one hand. "Ain't much to burn down, no how. But there's fine folk here in Westfall, and I would care if harm came to even one hair on their heads. I reckon you should keep your felfire at bay, just for a while longer."

A tense silence filled the barn now.

@nixalegos

[nixalegos]

Blood and Dust

Continuation of this thread "Blood gem. Not diamond." He corrected her. "And, that was answered with much more rapidity than I expected." He said with a steely edge gaining in his voice along with disbelief. "Would you be kind enough to explain why you'd immediately seem to know where this dead man buried my stolen gem? Humor me." It sounded as if he'd suddenly suspected someone was trying to run a con on him. "I could understand if pumpkins were a rarity, but this -is- Westfall. It was the breadbasket of the Eastern Kingdoms within your own lifetime. There's no shortage of places that could and would have grown pumpkins." He said, annoyed as much as curious. "Maybe not anymore, what with the elemental disasters ripping through it. Might explain the rain falling up part." He suggested. "The way the letter was written, it suggested history. Which implied childhood homestead. You wouldn't write about Westfalls current weather failings in a hint to shared pasts." "What makes you so sure it is this 'Furlbrow's Patch'?" He asked.

@westfall-faith

[westfall-faith]

Faith didn't need fancy spells or intricate rituals to sense things. The world spoke to her in its own language – a flicker in someone's eyes, the way a hand tightened on a mug, the sudden stillness of the air before a storm, the way men folk asked questions and all the why's behind those questions. He didn't trust her.

Regardless, the woman stood tall before the Nethermancer. Her posture was firm despite the tension swirling in the air.

"Easy, easy," she said, her voice a low contralto, rich with a hint of amusement. "I did put some thought into figuring out your riddle." A wry smile touched her lips, barely visible beneath the mask.

Taking a step forward, she leaned a hip against a dusty tree stump, the movement highlighting the practical, weathered leather armor covering her torso. "The Furlbrow farm? Used to be right on the outskirts of a mine. Jangolode Mine. Nasty place - spewed so much soot, everythin' for miles around was perpetually black."

Straightening again, she gestured in front of herself as if she could see a map. "Here's the thing. Now the farm sits right on the beach...Longshore. Let me tell you, the drop down to that beach is mighty steep. A proper ravine s'what fancy people call it." Her gaze returned to the Nethermancer, a spark of challenge igniting within. "So, with the mine being tucked down low in a valley and that sheer drop to the sea, I reckon any rain water is forced down. Ain't never seen rain float up from the sky before. Just kind of flows with gravity after it's all collected on the ground."

A beat of silence followed, the tension crackling in the air. Then, with a boldness that belied any fear she might feel, she tilted her head, her crimson mask seeming to glimmer in the dimming light. "Now, riddle me this," she said, her voice dropping a touch lower. "What's the difference between a diamond and a blood diamond?"

@nixalegos

[nixalegos]

"One's made of blood." He retorted. "We're not after a blood diamond. Blood gem. Gem made of blood. No compression necessary to create. You're Brotherhood right? Your mages use them. Little crystals bout the size of a gold piece?" He asked. As he spoke to her he turned his right hand up, palm up, for her to see as the metal plating covering his palm retracted, withdrew into the vambrace and exposed the skin underneath. His left reached over, the claw tips of his gauntlet actively digging and tearing at his own flesh. His makeshift wound worsened by the way the metal tips spread, but the blood didn't flow correctly. It didn't spurt or seep down his palm. Rather, a solidified shape started to push out of his flesh. Like a rock protruding from the palm it increased in size until at last he pried an actual gem from the palm of his hand. He held his own crystalized blood up for her to see. It shined like nothing natural, far far too vibrant and alive. And the wound on his hand was already starting to close, seamlessly repairing itself. "One's made of blood." He retorted. "We're not after a blood diamond. Blood gem. Gem made of blood. No compression necessary to create. You're Brotherhood right? Your mages use them. Little crystals bout the size of a gold piece?" He asked. As he spoke to her he turned his right hand up, palm up, for her to see as the metal plating covering his palm retracted, withdrew into the vambrace and exposed the skin underneath. His left reached over, the claw tips of his gauntlet actively digging and tearing at his own flesh. His makeshift wound worsened by the way the metal tips spread, but the blood didn't flow correctly. It didn't spurt or seep down his palm. Rather, a solidified shape started to push out of his flesh. Like a rock protruding from the palm it increased in size until at last he pried an actual solid gem from the wound of his palm. He held his own crystalized blood up for her to see. It shined like nothing natural, far far too vibrant and alive. And the gash he'd torn open was already starting to close, seamlessly repairing itself. "My gem is one of these, but larger, and purportedly made of something with a lot more life essence backing it." He explained as the gauntlets palm plate slid back into place. "This, Furlbrow farm. I don't suppose it's within walking distance?" He asked as he brought the gem back down, down to a utility belt that bore canisters and pouches in the Forsaken military cut, and loaded for war. It even bore what looked like a gun in a holster. The gem deposited into one of the green canisters. It seemed his armor was as much about personal protection as it was for maximizing how much equipment he could carry.

@westfall-faith

[westfall-faith]

"I was wonderin' about compression and all that," she started, her voice roughened by her recent cigarette, "how it works exactly..."

Her words were cut short, not by the cloaked figure – not due to his presence that was humming with unnatural power – but because of the elf's actions. The elf had raised a hand, long fingers tipped with wickedly sharp claws, and slashed open his palm with one of them. Blood welled, then pulsed once or twice, solidifying into a crimson gem that he ripped free without even a grimace.

Faith recoiled, a mixture of disgust and horrified fascination contorting her features, even beyond the mask. Life in Westfall, on her farm, had instilled a deep respect for the natural order and the rhythm of birth, growth, and even death. This? This was a violation of everything she knew, a terrifying glimpse into a power that defied Azeroth's natural laws.

Yet, even as she recoiled, her gaze snagged on the intricate armor that encased the elf's form. Its practicality, the way it seemed designed for both protection and agility, sparked a begrudging admiration within her.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, a whicker broke the tension. Faith's chestnut mare, Penny, emerged from a nearby patch of briars, her coat gleaming in the dappled in the moonlight. Relief washed over Faith. Penny was a familiar comfort, a loyal companion who understood her unspoken cues.

A genuine smile crinkled the corners of her eyes which broke Faith's guarded expression. Reaching into her vest, she produced a sugar cube, the gesture as natural and warm as tending to a newborn calf. As Penny nudged her hand for the treat, their bond was laid bare for the Nethermancer to see – a connection forged in trust and mutual respect.

"Looks like we got a ride," Faith declared, her voice regaining its earlier confidence. "Hop on, I can take you there." Her gaze flicked back to the elf, a challenge glinting in her eyes. "Or don't you trust me and ole Penny?"

@nixalegos

[nixalegos]

"I'm an unnecessary burden on your horse." He said enigmatically. "My armor and equipment add more weight then you'd think." He added. "I'll call up my own." He brought those still blood covered finger tips to his slowly smiling lips. And then the warlock whistled. And something whined back.

The fiery snort of something more than horse heralded its form past the same patch of briars Penny had wandered in from as it didn't so much meandered as flowed into existence. Solidity and weight came on step by cloven step. Easily seventeen, maybe even eighteen hands tall, with a coat as black as pitch, bearing spikes that protruded from its coat and boasting bone plate like barding meant for war. Not the thinner, leaner wrathsteeds of the modern 'masters'. His nightmare bore weight, the quiet dignity of unearthly experience, and contempt for everything it could trample under its flaming hooves. The warlock pulled and swung himself with practiced ease and grinned. "I'm sure Shadowfury can keep up." He said as he sat up high in the dreadsteeds saddle, chains forming link by link, fel green slag cooling into metal to form makeshift reins he came to hold in his gauntleted hands. "Go on. Admit it." He said with a widening grin. "You didn't expect a Sin'dorei to know how to ride."

@westfall-faith

[westfall-faith]

Penny, Faith's copper mare, reared back with a snort, her usually gentle brown eyes wide with terror. A monstrous steed, a Fel Steed with fur the color of burning embers, had materialized from a swirling green vortex at the Nethermancer's command.

Faith, however, remained calm. Years of working with Penny had forged an unbreakable bond between them. It was a connection that transcended words, a silent language of trust built on countless shared sunrises and overcome challenges. Her voice, when she spoke, was firm but soothing, a gentle breeze amidst the brewing dust storm she felt coming in her bones.

"Easy now, girl," Faith murmured, her hands moving with practiced ease to stroke Penny's neck. The mare trembled, but beneath Faith's touch, her frantic breaths began to slow. It was a testament to their bond that even in the face of such terror, Penny responded to Faith's calming presence.

With a final calming stroke, Faith swung herself onto Penny's back. The mare, reassured by her rider's quiet confidence, whickered softly. Faith, in the saddle, was a picture of effortless grace. Her long legs, clad in worn but sturdy jeans, draped perfectly over Penny's flanks. Her strong hands held the reins with a light but steady grip, a communication far more nuanced than brute force.

As Faith turned towards Lord Felscythe, a glint of amusement flickered in her eyes. Her salute, a single, sharp rise of her hand, held a subtle mockery. Her voice, when she spoke, rang out with a deceptive lightness that belied the steely glint in her eyes.

"Don't matter what I thought, you just try and keep up," Faith said, her tone laced with a honeyed drawl that did little to hide the challenge. She trailed off, letting her gaze sweep over the Nethermancer and his Fel steed. A slow smile spread across her face.

Then, with a barely perceptible squeeze of her calves, Faith urged Penny forward. The mare, responding instantly to the silent cue, launched into a gallop that defied logic. Her hooves barely seemed to touch the ground as she flowed across the terrain, a blur of copper against the golden canvas of the landscape. Faith, her form one with the mare's powerful strides, seemed to anticipate each shift in Penny's weight, guiding her with the lightest of touches. It wasn't just horsemanship; it was an elegant ballet, a breathtaking display of trust and perfect unity between rider and horse. They were a whirlwind, leaving Lord Felscythe and his monstrous steed choked in their dust.

@nixalegos

[nixalegos]

He lost his arrogant smirk as her and her horse kicked up a plume of dust. Showing off in that humble, people of the dirt, homely sort of fashion as the pillowing cloud whipped around him and his felsteed as they took off. He didn't cough however, an unseen gesture of a cantrip denied his lungs the need for air. No reason to let her think she'd gotten one up over him. Better to keep his 'guide' nervous. The night after all was young. And a little dust and dirt wasn't going to bother HIS horse any. It was bred for worlds of fiery glass storms and singeing ash out of the stables of demons and cruel eugenic experiments that would have made the red hair on the womans head turn white in horror. It's exhalations were technically toxic. 'Dust' wasn't going to bother it. A sound like a canon erupted from under the felsteeds hooves, magical might propelling the beast with a war machines momentum. The bulk of it bullying past the dust cloud into a hellish spray not unlike smothering wings in its wake. Every burning hoof brought down ate into the world, smoldering prints left as proof they'd been there. 'Keeping up' was not the problem. Faith's nimble ballet, the union of rider and steed was artful; nimble, beautiful, and entirely too slow. Where as Penny was nimbler, and more agile, Westfall simply lacked any real terrain that wasn't flat dirt and low rolling hills. Every straight away had the demonic beast quickly regaining every inch of distance Penny could squeeze out past the foul parody of a horse. The nightmare had to be magically restrained by the warlocks will from simply trampling into and crushing the copper mare into a corpse and glue as its hateful nature desired. A cajoling of the beasts pride at being 'better' to its unaltered erstwhile cousin. Fear, not of pain, but of failure, lanced up the demons spine, compelling it to simply keep pace and a little to the left as she led on. Furlbrow's farm awaited.

@westfall-faith

[westfall-faith]

The thrill of victory still pulsed hot in Faith's veins. She urged Penny into a ground-eating lope, the wind whipping at her sun-baked face. Faith straightened and peeled away the red bandana plastered against her face. Despite the mare-made wind, the woman managed to cackle. "That ole wizard really thought he had us beat, didn't he ole' gal? Never underestimate the determination of Westfallians!"

A triumphant grin stretched across Faith's face. She leaned forward, urging Penny onwards with a light touch on the reins. The mare, sensing her rider's mood, responded with a surge of energy, her powerful legs pounding the dusty ground in a rhythmic tattoo. Her copper coat, usually a dull sheen, seemed to catch the last of the sun and glowed with a fiery intensity, mirroring Faith's own inner fire.

But as quickly as the grin appeared, it vanished. A prickling sensation, a shift in the air, sent a jolt of unease down her spine. It was subtle, a change barely perceptible to the human senses, but Penny whinnied sharply, her ears swiveling back, nostrils flaring. Animals, Faith knew, had an uncanny intuition for such things. She glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see nothing but the endless plains bathed in shimmering heat haze.

Instead, a plume of obsidian smoke materialized on the horizon, growing larger with alarming speed. It solidified into the unmistakable form of the Nethermancer, his tall, gaunt frame silhouetted against the smoke. And just below him, keeping pace effortlessly, was that nightmarish steed. Its eyes, burning embers in the smoky haze, locked onto Penny with a malevolent intelligence. The mare whinnied again, a sound tinged with fear and anger.

For a moment, a surge of hot pride flared in Faith's chest. To outrun him, to best him in a race across the plains – it would be a victory sweeter than any she'd ever known. But the pride quickly curdled into a cold knot of dread. Pushing Penny any harder here, in the open plains, would be foolish. The Felsteed, a creature forged in the Netherworld, wouldn't tire. Penny, brave as she was, wouldn't stand a chance in a prolonged chase.

With a heavy heart, Faith reined Penny in, slowing their pace to a steady trot. The fierce heat that had been a distant discomfort moments ago now pressed down on them with suffocating intensity.

Relief, heavy and acrid like the dust swirling around them, washed over Faith as they finally reached Furlbrow's Farm. The once-proud farmhouse, now a weathered monument to neglect, loomed before them. Peeling white paint hung from the walls in ragged strips, and the porch sagged at an even more alarming angle than it had from a distance. The silence here was different from the emptiness of the plains – it was heavy, laced with a sense of abandonment.

With a sigh that escaped her lips in a dry rasp, Faith dismounted and ran a hand down the mare's warm flank, a silent thank you for her courage and unwavering loyalty.

Leading Penny towards the rickety barn, Faith noticed the well by the side of the house, its weathered wooden bucket hanging limply from the rope. The silence stretched, broken only by the creaking of the barn door hinges as Faith wrestled it open. Inside, the air hung thick with the scent of dust and forgotten hay. Cobwebs, like ghostly streamers, draped from the rafters, undisturbed for what seemed like years.

Faith secured Penny to a stall with a practiced ease, her movements efficient despite the tremor in her hands. She hung a feedbag filled with a meager amount of oats scavenged from a forgotten sack and a bucket of murky water nearby. Penny, ever the pragmatist, nudged the bucket with her nose, sending a wave of rusty water sloshing over the rim.

Straightening up, Faith brushed the dust off her hands and turned towards the Nethermancer.

"Alright. We're here," Faith blurted out. She couldn't help but smirk at the obviousness of her statement. Stuffing her hands into her blue jean pockets, she began to rock back and forth along the toes and heels of her boots.

"You ride pretty good," she added.

@nixalegos

[nixalegos]

The dilapidated homesteed and farm, such as it was, had such a lonely air to it, had she'd not led him here he'd of simply passed it up. Remarkable how a land under neglect and strain for only two decades was somehow in a worse state then tombs and lairs left untouched for thousands of years. The dreadsteed under him growled at Penny, at Faith, and even at Nixalegos as he swung himself off and the warlock and abomination looked at each other, rider and horse in some sort of mental tug of war. "Oh don't get pissy. You'll get your payment later." The warlock announced and with a visible gesture for it to fuck off, the nightmare wandered away from them, and then vanished in a wave of heat dispersion and a loud bray as surely as if it'd been a ghost giving its last death cry. Turning his attention to Faith he nodded. "Thank you, the various circles I've ridden in, pardon the pun, have been some very competitive groups. Horsemanship and husbandry strangely valued practices on the Path of Sacrifice. You only need to lose a race to a Hexxer with a Redridge Mountain drawl one time to learn to ride." He said with a scoff. "Speaking of. Just keeping up with you and yours is going to cost me a double coated caramel sour apple to appease my horse." He grumbled with an air of mirth in his voice. "Least you don't have to bribe yours." To which he chuckled and looked to the lands around them as he entered the barn proper. "Though, I'll take a guess and say you do." He teased. "So. A stump, pumpkins taste like ash, and rain falling uphill. Darthion, Darthion, where did you take what's mine?" He said coming to turn so his attention was on the lands outside the barn opening. "I've a hard time believing anyone would want to hide here Miss Faith. Feels more haunted then the Ghostlands. And that has actual ghosts wandering around." He edified. @westfall-faith

[westfall-faith]

Just as Nixalegos had begun to sing Penny praises, the sturdy chestnut nudged Faith’s chest expectantly. Her soft muzzle was gentle against Faith's vest. This particular pocket looked more worn than the rest of the cloth material. Countless nudges, just as Nixalegos was now witnessing, had caused the thread work to escape from its confines in valiant whisps of thread. No doubt, the woman usually kept sweet treats for her companion there.

Faith chuckled, scratching behind the mare’s ear before offering the promised sugar cube from the theadbare pocket. With a delicate lip, Penny took the treat, her tongue darting out to savor the sweet morsel.

The trio stood in the heart of an abandoned barn where dust motes danced lazily in the shafts of twilight that pierced through the broken roof.

Faith, feeling a pang of guilt over their recent race, extended two silver pieces towards him. "For your... steed if it really does eat caramel coated apples. That's enough to get you two caramel apples," she said, her voice carrying a hint of uncertainty. Her words hung in the air, as heavy as the oppressive silence of the barn.

Still rocking back and forth on the heels of her worn boots, Faith surveyed the dilapidated structure. "This place ain't exactly a hideout," she agreed, her Westfallian accent lending a rugged charm to her speech. "Hell, the quiet in here would drive anyone stir crazy. But it's sure as hell a good place for somethin' to go missin'."

Her gaze drifted upwards towards the loft. Her eyebrows furrowed as she contemplated the possibility. "Reckon the best place to start is where we're at. I'd make you go up, but I ain't sure how sturdy this place is. If I were a bettin' woman, I'd say I'm a little lighter than you. Maybe it'll hold me. But it'll definitely hold me for longer than it'd hold you."

With a determined glint in her eye, she began to ascend the rickety ladder.

@nixalegos

[nixalegos]

Blood and Dust

Continuation of this thread "Blood gem. Not diamond." He corrected her. "And, that was answered with much more rapidity than I expected." He said with a steely edge gaining in his voice along with disbelief. "Would you be kind enough to explain why you'd immediately seem to know where this dead man buried my stolen gem? Humor me." It sounded as if he'd suddenly suspected someone was trying to run a con on him. "I could understand if pumpkins were a rarity, but this -is- Westfall. It was the breadbasket of the Eastern Kingdoms within your own lifetime. There's no shortage of places that could and would have grown pumpkins." He said, annoyed as much as curious. "Maybe not anymore, what with the elemental disasters ripping through it. Might explain the rain falling up part." He suggested. "The way the letter was written, it suggested history. Which implied childhood homestead. You wouldn't write about Westfalls current weather failings in a hint to shared pasts." "What makes you so sure it is this 'Furlbrow's Patch'?" He asked.

@westfall-faith

[westfall-faith]

Faith didn't need fancy spells or intricate rituals to sense things. The world spoke to her in its own language – a flicker in someone's eyes, the way a hand tightened on a mug, the sudden stillness of the air before a storm, the way men folk asked questions and all the why's behind those questions. He didn't trust her.

Regardless, the woman stood tall before the Nethermancer. Her posture was firm despite the tension swirling in the air.

"Easy, easy," she said, her voice a low contralto, rich with a hint of amusement. "I did put some thought into figuring out your riddle." A wry smile touched her lips, barely visible beneath the mask.

Taking a step forward, she leaned a hip against a dusty tree stump, the movement highlighting the practical, weathered leather armor covering her torso. "The Furlbrow farm? Used to be right on the outskirts of a mine. Jangolode Mine. Nasty place - spewed so much soot, everythin' for miles around was perpetually black."

Straightening again, she gestured in front of herself as if she could see a map. "Here's the thing. Now the farm sits right on the beach...Longshore. Let me tell you, the drop down to that beach is mighty steep. A proper ravine s'what fancy people call it." Her gaze returned to the Nethermancer, a spark of challenge igniting within. "So, with the mine being tucked down low in a valley and that sheer drop to the sea, I reckon any rain water is forced down. Ain't never seen rain float up from the sky before. Just kind of flows with gravity after it's all collected on the ground."

A beat of silence followed, the tension crackling in the air. Then, with a boldness that belied any fear she might feel, she tilted her head, her crimson mask seeming to glimmer in the dimming light. "Now, riddle me this," she said, her voice dropping a touch lower. "What's the difference between a diamond and a blood diamond?"

@nixalegos

[nixalegos]

"One's made of blood." He retorted. "We're not after a blood diamond. Blood gem. Gem made of blood. No compression necessary to create. You're Brotherhood right? Your mages use them. Little crystals bout the size of a gold piece?" He asked. As he spoke to her he turned his right hand up, palm up, for her to see as the metal plating covering his palm retracted, withdrew into the vambrace and exposed the skin underneath. His left reached over, the claw tips of his gauntlet actively digging and tearing at his own flesh. His makeshift wound worsened by the way the metal tips spread, but the blood didn't flow correctly. It didn't spurt or seep down his palm. Rather, a solidified shape started to push out of his flesh. Like a rock protruding from the palm it increased in size until at last he pried an actual gem from the palm of his hand. He held his own crystalized blood up for her to see. It shined like nothing natural, far far too vibrant and alive. And the wound on his hand was already starting to close, seamlessly repairing itself. "One's made of blood." He retorted. "We're not after a blood diamond. Blood gem. Gem made of blood. No compression necessary to create. You're Brotherhood right? Your mages use them. Little crystals bout the size of a gold piece?" He asked. As he spoke to her he turned his right hand up, palm up, for her to see as the metal plating covering his palm retracted, withdrew into the vambrace and exposed the skin underneath. His left reached over, the claw tips of his gauntlet actively digging and tearing at his own flesh. His makeshift wound worsened by the way the metal tips spread, but the blood didn't flow correctly. It didn't spurt or seep down his palm. Rather, a solidified shape started to push out of his flesh. Like a rock protruding from the palm it increased in size until at last he pried an actual solid gem from the wound of his palm. He held his own crystalized blood up for her to see. It shined like nothing natural, far far too vibrant and alive. And the gash he'd torn open was already starting to close, seamlessly repairing itself. "My gem is one of these, but larger, and purportedly made of something with a lot more life essence backing it." He explained as the gauntlets palm plate slid back into place. "This, Furlbrow farm. I don't suppose it's within walking distance?" He asked as he brought the gem back down, down to a utility belt that bore canisters and pouches in the Forsaken military cut, and loaded for war. It even bore what looked like a gun in a holster. The gem deposited into one of the green canisters. It seemed his armor was as much about personal protection as it was for maximizing how much equipment he could carry.

@westfall-faith

[westfall-faith]

"I was wonderin' about compression and all that," she started, her voice roughened by her recent cigarette, "how it works exactly..."

Her words were cut short, not by the cloaked figure – not due to his presence that was humming with unnatural power – but because of the elf's actions. The elf had raised a hand, long fingers tipped with wickedly sharp claws, and slashed open his palm with one of them. Blood welled, then pulsed once or twice, solidifying into a crimson gem that he ripped free without even a grimace.

Faith recoiled, a mixture of disgust and horrified fascination contorting her features, even beyond the mask. Life in Westfall, on her farm, had instilled a deep respect for the natural order and the rhythm of birth, growth, and even death. This? This was a violation of everything she knew, a terrifying glimpse into a power that defied Azeroth's natural laws.

Yet, even as she recoiled, her gaze snagged on the intricate armor that encased the elf's form. Its practicality, the way it seemed designed for both protection and agility, sparked a begrudging admiration within her.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, a whicker broke the tension. Faith's chestnut mare, Penny, emerged from a nearby patch of briars, her coat gleaming in the dappled in the moonlight. Relief washed over Faith. Penny was a familiar comfort, a loyal companion who understood her unspoken cues.

A genuine smile crinkled the corners of her eyes which broke Faith's guarded expression. Reaching into her vest, she produced a sugar cube, the gesture as natural and warm as tending to a newborn calf. As Penny nudged her hand for the treat, their bond was laid bare for the Nethermancer to see – a connection forged in trust and mutual respect.

"Looks like we got a ride," Faith declared, her voice regaining its earlier confidence. "Hop on, I can take you there." Her gaze flicked back to the elf, a challenge glinting in her eyes. "Or don't you trust me and ole Penny?"

@nixalegos

[nixalegos]

"I'm an unnecessary burden on your horse." He said enigmatically. "My armor and equipment add more weight then you'd think." He added. "I'll call up my own." He brought those still blood covered finger tips to his slowly smiling lips. And then the warlock whistled. And something whined back.

The fiery snort of something more than horse heralded its form past the same patch of briars Penny had wandered in from as it didn't so much meandered as flowed into existence. Solidity and weight came on step by cloven step. Easily seventeen, maybe even eighteen hands tall, with a coat as black as pitch, bearing spikes that protruded from its coat and boasting bone plate like barding meant for war. Not the thinner, leaner wrathsteeds of the modern 'masters'. His nightmare bore weight, the quiet dignity of unearthly experience, and contempt for everything it could trample under its flaming hooves. The warlock pulled and swung himself with practiced ease and grinned. "I'm sure Shadowfury can keep up." He said as he sat up high in the dreadsteeds saddle, chains forming link by link, fel green slag cooling into metal to form makeshift reins he came to hold in his gauntleted hands. "Go on. Admit it." He said with a widening grin. "You didn't expect a Sin'dorei to know how to ride."

@westfall-faith

[westfall-faith]

Penny, Faith's copper mare, reared back with a snort, her usually gentle brown eyes wide with terror. A monstrous steed, a Fel Steed with fur the color of burning embers, had materialized from a swirling green vortex at the Nethermancer's command.

Faith, however, remained calm. Years of working with Penny had forged an unbreakable bond between them. It was a connection that transcended words, a silent language of trust built on countless shared sunrises and overcome challenges. Her voice, when she spoke, was firm but soothing, a gentle breeze amidst the brewing dust storm she felt coming in her bones.

"Easy now, girl," Faith murmured, her hands moving with practiced ease to stroke Penny's neck. The mare trembled, but beneath Faith's touch, her frantic breaths began to slow. It was a testament to their bond that even in the face of such terror, Penny responded to Faith's calming presence.

With a final calming stroke, Faith swung herself onto Penny's back. The mare, reassured by her rider's quiet confidence, whickered softly. Faith, in the saddle, was a picture of effortless grace. Her long legs, clad in worn but sturdy jeans, draped perfectly over Penny's flanks. Her strong hands held the reins with a light but steady grip, a communication far more nuanced than brute force.

As Faith turned towards Lord Felscythe, a glint of amusement flickered in her eyes. Her salute, a single, sharp rise of her hand, held a subtle mockery. Her voice, when she spoke, rang out with a deceptive lightness that belied the steely glint in her eyes.

"Don't matter what I thought, you just try and keep up," Faith said, her tone laced with a honeyed drawl that did little to hide the challenge. She trailed off, letting her gaze sweep over the Nethermancer and his Fel steed. A slow smile spread across her face.

Then, with a barely perceptible squeeze of her calves, Faith urged Penny forward. The mare, responding instantly to the silent cue, launched into a gallop that defied logic. Her hooves barely seemed to touch the ground as she flowed across the terrain, a blur of copper against the golden canvas of the landscape. Faith, her form one with the mare's powerful strides, seemed to anticipate each shift in Penny's weight, guiding her with the lightest of touches. It wasn't just horsemanship; it was an elegant ballet, a breathtaking display of trust and perfect unity between rider and horse. They were a whirlwind, leaving Lord Felscythe and his monstrous steed choked in their dust.

@nixalegos

[nixalegos]

He lost his arrogant smirk as her and her horse kicked up a plume of dust. Showing off in that humble, people of the dirt, homely sort of fashion as the pillowing cloud whipped around him and his felsteed as they took off. He didn't cough however, an unseen gesture of a cantrip denied his lungs the need for air. No reason to let her think she'd gotten one up over him. Better to keep his 'guide' nervous. The night after all was young. And a little dust and dirt wasn't going to bother HIS horse any. It was bred for worlds of fiery glass storms and singeing ash out of the stables of demons and cruel eugenic experiments that would have made the red hair on the womans head turn white in horror. It's exhalations were technically toxic. 'Dust' wasn't going to bother it. A sound like a canon erupted from under the felsteeds hooves, magical might propelling the beast with a war machines momentum. The bulk of it bullying past the dust cloud into a hellish spray not unlike smothering wings in its wake. Every burning hoof brought down ate into the world, smoldering prints left as proof they'd been there. 'Keeping up' was not the problem. Faith's nimble ballet, the union of rider and steed was artful; nimble, beautiful, and entirely too slow. Where as Penny was nimbler, and more agile, Westfall simply lacked any real terrain that wasn't flat dirt and low rolling hills. Every straight away had the demonic beast quickly regaining every inch of distance Penny could squeeze out past the foul parody of a horse. The nightmare had to be magically restrained by the warlocks will from simply trampling into and crushing the copper mare into a corpse and glue as its hateful nature desired. A cajoling of the beasts pride at being 'better' to its unaltered erstwhile cousin. Fear, not of pain, but of failure, lanced up the demons spine, compelling it to simply keep pace and a little to the left as she led on. Furlbrow's farm awaited.

@westfall-faith

[westfall-faith]

The thrill of victory still pulsed hot in Faith's veins. She urged Penny into a ground-eating lope, the wind whipping at her sun-baked face. Faith straightened and peeled away the red bandana plastered against her face. Despite the mare-made wind, the woman managed to cackle. "That ole wizard really thought he had us beat, didn't he ole' gal? Never underestimate the determination of Westfallians!"

A triumphant grin stretched across Faith's face. She leaned forward, urging Penny onwards with a light touch on the reins. The mare, sensing her rider's mood, responded with a surge of energy, her powerful legs pounding the dusty ground in a rhythmic tattoo. Her copper coat, usually a dull sheen, seemed to catch the last of the sun and glowed with a fiery intensity, mirroring Faith's own inner fire.

But as quickly as the grin appeared, it vanished. A prickling sensation, a shift in the air, sent a jolt of unease down her spine. It was subtle, a change barely perceptible to the human senses, but Penny whinnied sharply, her ears swiveling back, nostrils flaring. Animals, Faith knew, had an uncanny intuition for such things. She glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see nothing but the endless plains bathed in shimmering heat haze.

Instead, a plume of obsidian smoke materialized on the horizon, growing larger with alarming speed. It solidified into the unmistakable form of the Nethermancer, his tall, gaunt frame silhouetted against the smoke. And just below him, keeping pace effortlessly, was that nightmarish steed. Its eyes, burning embers in the smoky haze, locked onto Penny with a malevolent intelligence. The mare whinnied again, a sound tinged with fear and anger.

For a moment, a surge of hot pride flared in Faith's chest. To outrun him, to best him in a race across the plains – it would be a victory sweeter than any she'd ever known. But the pride quickly curdled into a cold knot of dread. Pushing Penny any harder here, in the open plains, would be foolish. The Felsteed, a creature forged in the Netherworld, wouldn't tire. Penny, brave as she was, wouldn't stand a chance in a prolonged chase.

With a heavy heart, Faith reined Penny in, slowing their pace to a steady trot. The fierce heat that had been a distant discomfort moments ago now pressed down on them with suffocating intensity.

Relief, heavy and acrid like the dust swirling around them, washed over Faith as they finally reached Furlbrow's Farm. The once-proud farmhouse, now a weathered monument to neglect, loomed before them. Peeling white paint hung from the walls in ragged strips, and the porch sagged at an even more alarming angle than it had from a distance. The silence here was different from the emptiness of the plains – it was heavy, laced with a sense of abandonment.

With a sigh that escaped her lips in a dry rasp, Faith dismounted and ran a hand down the mare's warm flank, a silent thank you for her courage and unwavering loyalty.

Leading Penny towards the rickety barn, Faith noticed the well by the side of the house, its weathered wooden bucket hanging limply from the rope. The silence stretched, broken only by the creaking of the barn door hinges as Faith wrestled it open. Inside, the air hung thick with the scent of dust and forgotten hay. Cobwebs, like ghostly streamers, draped from the rafters, undisturbed for what seemed like years.

Faith secured Penny to a stall with a practiced ease, her movements efficient despite the tremor in her hands. She hung a feedbag filled with a meager amount of oats scavenged from a forgotten sack and a bucket of murky water nearby. Penny, ever the pragmatist, nudged the bucket with her nose, sending a wave of rusty water sloshing over the rim.

Straightening up, Faith brushed the dust off her hands and turned towards the Nethermancer.

"Alright. We're here," Faith blurted out. She couldn't help but smirk at the obviousness of her statement. Stuffing her hands into her blue jean pockets, she began to rock back and forth along the toes and heels of her boots.

"You ride pretty good," she added.

@nixalegos

[nixalegos]

Blood and Dust

Continuation of this thread "Blood gem. Not diamond." He corrected her. "And, that was answered with much more rapidity than I expected." He said with a steely edge gaining in his voice along with disbelief. "Would you be kind enough to explain why you'd immediately seem to know where this dead man buried my stolen gem? Humor me." It sounded as if he'd suddenly suspected someone was trying to run a con on him. "I could understand if pumpkins were a rarity, but this -is- Westfall. It was the breadbasket of the Eastern Kingdoms within your own lifetime. There's no shortage of places that could and would have grown pumpkins." He said, annoyed as much as curious. "Maybe not anymore, what with the elemental disasters ripping through it. Might explain the rain falling up part." He suggested. "The way the letter was written, it suggested history. Which implied childhood homestead. You wouldn't write about Westfalls current weather failings in a hint to shared pasts." "What makes you so sure it is this 'Furlbrow's Patch'?" He asked.

@westfall-faith

[westfall-faith]

Faith didn't need fancy spells or intricate rituals to sense things. The world spoke to her in its own language – a flicker in someone's eyes, the way a hand tightened on a mug, the sudden stillness of the air before a storm, the way men folk asked questions and all the why's behind those questions. He didn't trust her.

Regardless, the woman stood tall before the Nethermancer. Her posture was firm despite the tension swirling in the air.

"Easy, easy," she said, her voice a low contralto, rich with a hint of amusement. "I did put some thought into figuring out your riddle." A wry smile touched her lips, barely visible beneath the mask.

Taking a step forward, she leaned a hip against a dusty tree stump, the movement highlighting the practical, weathered leather armor covering her torso. "The Furlbrow farm? Used to be right on the outskirts of a mine. Jangolode Mine. Nasty place - spewed so much soot, everythin' for miles around was perpetually black."

Straightening again, she gestured in front of herself as if she could see a map. "Here's the thing. Now the farm sits right on the beach...Longshore. Let me tell you, the drop down to that beach is mighty steep. A proper ravine s'what fancy people call it." Her gaze returned to the Nethermancer, a spark of challenge igniting within. "So, with the mine being tucked down low in a valley and that sheer drop to the sea, I reckon any rain water is forced down. Ain't never seen rain float up from the sky before. Just kind of flows with gravity after it's all collected on the ground."

A beat of silence followed, the tension crackling in the air. Then, with a boldness that belied any fear she might feel, she tilted her head, her crimson mask seeming to glimmer in the dimming light. "Now, riddle me this," she said, her voice dropping a touch lower. "What's the difference between a diamond and a blood diamond?"

@nixalegos

[nixalegos]

"One's made of blood." He retorted. "We're not after a blood diamond. Blood gem. Gem made of blood. No compression necessary to create. You're Brotherhood right? Your mages use them. Little crystals bout the size of a gold piece?" He asked. As he spoke to her he turned his right hand up, palm up, for her to see as the metal plating covering his palm retracted, withdrew into the vambrace and exposed the skin underneath. His left reached over, the claw tips of his gauntlet actively digging and tearing at his own flesh. His makeshift wound worsened by the way the metal tips spread, but the blood didn't flow correctly. It didn't spurt or seep down his palm. Rather, a solidified shape started to push out of his flesh. Like a rock protruding from the palm it increased in size until at last he pried an actual gem from the palm of his hand. He held his own crystalized blood up for her to see. It shined like nothing natural, far far too vibrant and alive. And the wound on his hand was already starting to close, seamlessly repairing itself. "One's made of blood." He retorted. "We're not after a blood diamond. Blood gem. Gem made of blood. No compression necessary to create. You're Brotherhood right? Your mages use them. Little crystals bout the size of a gold piece?" He asked. As he spoke to her he turned his right hand up, palm up, for her to see as the metal plating covering his palm retracted, withdrew into the vambrace and exposed the skin underneath. His left reached over, the claw tips of his gauntlet actively digging and tearing at his own flesh. His makeshift wound worsened by the way the metal tips spread, but the blood didn't flow correctly. It didn't spurt or seep down his palm. Rather, a solidified shape started to push out of his flesh. Like a rock protruding from the palm it increased in size until at last he pried an actual solid gem from the wound of his palm. He held his own crystalized blood up for her to see. It shined like nothing natural, far far too vibrant and alive. And the gash he'd torn open was already starting to close, seamlessly repairing itself. "My gem is one of these, but larger, and purportedly made of something with a lot more life essence backing it." He explained as the gauntlets palm plate slid back into place. "This, Furlbrow farm. I don't suppose it's within walking distance?" He asked as he brought the gem back down, down to a utility belt that bore canisters and pouches in the Forsaken military cut, and loaded for war. It even bore what looked like a gun in a holster. The gem deposited into one of the green canisters. It seemed his armor was as much about personal protection as it was for maximizing how much equipment he could carry.

@westfall-faith

[westfall-faith]

"I was wonderin' about compression and all that," she started, her voice roughened by her recent cigarette, "how it works exactly..."

Her words were cut short, not by the cloaked figure – not due to his presence that was humming with unnatural power – but because of the elf's actions. The elf had raised a hand, long fingers tipped with wickedly sharp claws, and slashed open his palm with one of them. Blood welled, then pulsed once or twice, solidifying into a crimson gem that he ripped free without even a grimace.

Faith recoiled, a mixture of disgust and horrified fascination contorting her features, even beyond the mask. Life in Westfall, on her farm, had instilled a deep respect for the natural order and the rhythm of birth, growth, and even death. This? This was a violation of everything she knew, a terrifying glimpse into a power that defied Azeroth's natural laws.

Yet, even as she recoiled, her gaze snagged on the intricate armor that encased the elf's form. Its practicality, the way it seemed designed for both protection and agility, sparked a begrudging admiration within her.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, a whicker broke the tension. Faith's chestnut mare, Penny, emerged from a nearby patch of briars, her coat gleaming in the dappled in the moonlight. Relief washed over Faith. Penny was a familiar comfort, a loyal companion who understood her unspoken cues.

A genuine smile crinkled the corners of her eyes which broke Faith's guarded expression. Reaching into her vest, she produced a sugar cube, the gesture as natural and warm as tending to a newborn calf. As Penny nudged her hand for the treat, their bond was laid bare for the Nethermancer to see – a connection forged in trust and mutual respect.

"Looks like we got a ride," Faith declared, her voice regaining its earlier confidence. "Hop on, I can take you there." Her gaze flicked back to the elf, a challenge glinting in her eyes. "Or don't you trust me and ole Penny?"

@nixalegos

[nixalegos]

"I'm an unnecessary burden on your horse." He said enigmatically. "My armor and equipment add more weight then you'd think." He added. "I'll call up my own." He brought those still blood covered finger tips to his slowly smiling lips. And then the warlock whistled. And something whined back.

The fiery snort of something more than horse heralded its form past the same patch of briars Penny had wandered in from as it didn't so much meandered as flowed into existence. Solidity and weight came on step by cloven step. Easily seventeen, maybe even eighteen hands tall, with a coat as black as pitch, bearing spikes that protruded from its coat and boasting bone plate like barding meant for war. Not the thinner, leaner wrathsteeds of the modern 'masters'. His nightmare bore weight, the quiet dignity of unearthly experience, and contempt for everything it could trample under its flaming hooves. The warlock pulled and swung himself with practiced ease and grinned. "I'm sure Shadowfury can keep up." He said as he sat up high in the dreadsteeds saddle, chains forming link by link, fel green slag cooling into metal to form makeshift reins he came to hold in his gauntleted hands. "Go on. Admit it." He said with a widening grin. "You didn't expect a Sin'dorei to know how to ride."

@westfall-faith

[westfall-faith]

Penny, Faith's copper mare, reared back with a snort, her usually gentle brown eyes wide with terror. A monstrous steed, a Fel Steed with fur the color of burning embers, had materialized from a swirling green vortex at the Nethermancer's command.

Faith, however, remained calm. Years of working with Penny had forged an unbreakable bond between them. It was a connection that transcended words, a silent language of trust built on countless shared sunrises and overcome challenges. Her voice, when she spoke, was firm but soothing, a gentle breeze amidst the brewing dust storm she felt coming in her bones.

"Easy now, girl," Faith murmured, her hands moving with practiced ease to stroke Penny's neck. The mare trembled, but beneath Faith's touch, her frantic breaths began to slow. It was a testament to their bond that even in the face of such terror, Penny responded to Faith's calming presence.

With a final calming stroke, Faith swung herself onto Penny's back. The mare, reassured by her rider's quiet confidence, whickered softly. Faith, in the saddle, was a picture of effortless grace. Her long legs, clad in worn but sturdy jeans, draped perfectly over Penny's flanks. Her strong hands held the reins with a light but steady grip, a communication far more nuanced than brute force.

As Faith turned towards Lord Felscythe, a glint of amusement flickered in her eyes. Her salute, a single, sharp rise of her hand, held a subtle mockery. Her voice, when she spoke, rang out with a deceptive lightness that belied the steely glint in her eyes.

"Don't matter what I thought, you just try and keep up," Faith said, her tone laced with a honeyed drawl that did little to hide the challenge. She trailed off, letting her gaze sweep over the Nethermancer and his Fel steed. A slow smile spread across her face.

Then, with a barely perceptible squeeze of her calves, Faith urged Penny forward. The mare, responding instantly to the silent cue, launched into a gallop that defied logic. Her hooves barely seemed to touch the ground as she flowed across the terrain, a blur of copper against the golden canvas of the landscape. Faith, her form one with the mare's powerful strides, seemed to anticipate each shift in Penny's weight, guiding her with the lightest of touches. It wasn't just horsemanship; it was an elegant ballet, a breathtaking display of trust and perfect unity between rider and horse. They were a whirlwind, leaving Lord Felscythe and his monstrous steed choked in their dust.

@nixalegos

[nixalegos]

Blood and Dust

Continuation of this thread "Blood gem. Not diamond." He corrected her. "And, that was answered with much more rapidity than I expected." He said with a steely edge gaining in his voice along with disbelief. "Would you be kind enough to explain why you'd immediately seem to know where this dead man buried my stolen gem? Humor me." It sounded as if he'd suddenly suspected someone was trying to run a con on him. "I could understand if pumpkins were a rarity, but this -is- Westfall. It was the breadbasket of the Eastern Kingdoms within your own lifetime. There's no shortage of places that could and would have grown pumpkins." He said, annoyed as much as curious. "Maybe not anymore, what with the elemental disasters ripping through it. Might explain the rain falling up part." He suggested. "The way the letter was written, it suggested history. Which implied childhood homestead. You wouldn't write about Westfalls current weather failings in a hint to shared pasts." "What makes you so sure it is this 'Furlbrow's Patch'?" He asked.

@westfall-faith

[westfall-faith]

Faith didn't need fancy spells or intricate rituals to sense things. The world spoke to her in its own language – a flicker in someone's eyes, the way a hand tightened on a mug, the sudden stillness of the air before a storm, the way men folk asked questions and all the why's behind those questions. He didn't trust her.

Regardless, the woman stood tall before the Nethermancer. Her posture was firm despite the tension swirling in the air.

"Easy, easy," she said, her voice a low contralto, rich with a hint of amusement. "I did put some thought into figuring out your riddle." A wry smile touched her lips, barely visible beneath the mask.

Taking a step forward, she leaned a hip against a dusty tree stump, the movement highlighting the practical, weathered leather armor covering her torso. "The Furlbrow farm? Used to be right on the outskirts of a mine. Jangolode Mine. Nasty place - spewed so much soot, everythin' for miles around was perpetually black."

Straightening again, she gestured in front of herself as if she could see a map. "Here's the thing. Now the farm sits right on the beach...Longshore. Let me tell you, the drop down to that beach is mighty steep. A proper ravine s'what fancy people call it." Her gaze returned to the Nethermancer, a spark of challenge igniting within. "So, with the mine being tucked down low in a valley and that sheer drop to the sea, I reckon any rain water is forced down. Ain't never seen rain float up from the sky before. Just kind of flows with gravity after it's all collected on the ground."

A beat of silence followed, the tension crackling in the air. Then, with a boldness that belied any fear she might feel, she tilted her head, her crimson mask seeming to glimmer in the dimming light. "Now, riddle me this," she said, her voice dropping a touch lower. "What's the difference between a diamond and a blood diamond?"

@nixalegos

[nixalegos]

"One's made of blood." He retorted. "We're not after a blood diamond. Blood gem. Gem made of blood. No compression necessary to create. You're Brotherhood right? Your mages use them. Little crystals bout the size of a gold piece?" He asked. As he spoke to her he turned his right hand up, palm up, for her to see as the metal plating covering his palm retracted, withdrew into the vambrace and exposed the skin underneath. His left reached over, the claw tips of his gauntlet actively digging and tearing at his own flesh. His makeshift wound worsened by the way the metal tips spread, but the blood didn't flow correctly. It didn't spurt or seep down his palm. Rather, a solidified shape started to push out of his flesh. Like a rock protruding from the palm it increased in size until at last he pried an actual gem from the palm of his hand. He held his own crystalized blood up for her to see. It shined like nothing natural, far far too vibrant and alive. And the wound on his hand was already starting to close, seamlessly repairing itself. "One's made of blood." He retorted. "We're not after a blood diamond. Blood gem. Gem made of blood. No compression necessary to create. You're Brotherhood right? Your mages use them. Little crystals bout the size of a gold piece?" He asked. As he spoke to her he turned his right hand up, palm up, for her to see as the metal plating covering his palm retracted, withdrew into the vambrace and exposed the skin underneath. His left reached over, the claw tips of his gauntlet actively digging and tearing at his own flesh. His makeshift wound worsened by the way the metal tips spread, but the blood didn't flow correctly. It didn't spurt or seep down his palm. Rather, a solidified shape started to push out of his flesh. Like a rock protruding from the palm it increased in size until at last he pried an actual solid gem from the wound of his palm. He held his own crystalized blood up for her to see. It shined like nothing natural, far far too vibrant and alive. And the gash he'd torn open was already starting to close, seamlessly repairing itself. "My gem is one of these, but larger, and purportedly made of something with a lot more life essence backing it." He explained as the gauntlets palm plate slid back into place. "This, Furlbrow farm. I don't suppose it's within walking distance?" He asked as he brought the gem back down, down to a utility belt that bore canisters and pouches in the Forsaken military cut, and loaded for war. It even bore what looked like a gun in a holster. The gem deposited into one of the green canisters. It seemed his armor was as much about personal protection as it was for maximizing how much equipment he could carry.

@westfall-faith

[westfall-faith]

"I was wonderin' about compression and all that," she started, her voice roughened by her recent cigarette, "how it works exactly..."

Her words were cut short, not by the cloaked figure – not due to his presence that was humming with unnatural power – but because of the elf's actions. The elf had raised a hand, long fingers tipped with wickedly sharp claws, and slashed open his palm with one of them. Blood welled, then pulsed once or twice, solidifying into a crimson gem that he ripped free without even a grimace.

Faith recoiled, a mixture of disgust and horrified fascination contorting her features, even beyond the mask. Life in Westfall, on her farm, had instilled a deep respect for the natural order and the rhythm of birth, growth, and even death. This? This was a violation of everything she knew, a terrifying glimpse into a power that defied Azeroth's natural laws.

Yet, even as she recoiled, her gaze snagged on the intricate armor that encased the elf's form. Its practicality, the way it seemed designed for both protection and agility, sparked a begrudging admiration within her.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, a whicker broke the tension. Faith's chestnut mare, Penny, emerged from a nearby patch of briars, her coat gleaming in the dappled in the moonlight. Relief washed over Faith. Penny was a familiar comfort, a loyal companion who understood her unspoken cues.

A genuine smile crinkled the corners of her eyes which broke Faith's guarded expression. Reaching into her vest, she produced a sugar cube, the gesture as natural and warm as tending to a newborn calf. As Penny nudged her hand for the treat, their bond was laid bare for the Nethermancer to see – a connection forged in trust and mutual respect.

"Looks like we got a ride," Faith declared, her voice regaining its earlier confidence. "Hop on, I can take you there." Her gaze flicked back to the elf, a challenge glinting in her eyes. "Or don't you trust me and ole Penny?"

@nixalegos

[westfall-faith]

Oh, my Lord, take this soul Lay me at the bottom of the river The devil has come to carry me home Lay me at the bottom, the bottom of the river

Oh, my Lord, take this hand Save me from the gallows Hear this news, bear my gold Lay me in the shallows Evil'll come if you call my name The wicked day shall rise The river's sin's gonna wash me clean The river don't run dry

Oh, my Lord, take this soul Lay me at the bottom of the river The devil has come to carry me home Lay me at the bottom, the bottom of the river

Oh, my Lord, here my woe There's blood upon the valley Take this sword to kill, I've done Deliver me from worry The devil's hands' gonna strike me down Cut me to my grave The river's songs' gonna pull me through The river she can save

Oh, my Lord, take this soul Lay me at the bottom of the river The devil has come to carry me home Lay me at the bottom, the bottom of the-

Oh, my Lord, take this soul Lay me at the bottom of the river Oh, my Lord, take this soul Lay me at the bottom of the river

Oh, my Lord, take this soul Lay me at the bottom of the river The devil has come to carry me home Lay me at the bottom

Oh, my Lord, take this soul Lay me at the bottom of the river The devil has come to carry me home Lay me at the bottom, the bottom of the river Oh, my Lord, take this soul Lay me at the bottom of the river (bottom of the river) The devil has come to carry me home Lay me at the bottom, the bottom of the river