Posts Tagged ‘roleplaying’

The atrium held a serene atmosphere that was lost on the rest of Goldenshade Estate. Since the conclusion of the priestess’ transaction with the Lord Netherstar, the ancestral home of House Thelryn had been bustling with life, though this requisite space held only the presence of the Lady Azriah herself. She was seated on a mattress by the side of the small, green-stone pool, with a silver tray bearing water and fruits at hand. Her hair was arranged into loose obsidian coils at the top of her head, held in place with sticks of emerald set in silver, and she was clothed in a morning robe of midnight-hued silk. Where the sleeves ended at her elbows, bruises could be seen marring her pale flesh. Though her fair skin spoke of her nobility, her arms were toned with sinewy muscle – something that was a far cry from the soft, jiggly flesh of the ladies at court.

Her tapering ears were held at a relaxed position, and her fel-tainted eyes were fastened on the stationary that laid atop her thighs. She reached toward the bowl to pop a strawberry in her mouth, and let out a long sigh as she picked up the quill and dipped it in the inkpot. She touched it to the parchment, where it made a deep blot – something that could be found on everything she wrote. It seemed that blot was necessary for her to gather her thoughts, before she could begin writing in that lovely, elegant script of hers.

Reader, there are those who believe nobility and soldiery are mutually exclusive to one another. They forget that in the beginning, it was battle prowess that marked superiority in social standing. ‘Nobility is a forgotten institution’, they mutter. Have they forgotten that it is we who provide homes and direct the flow of local economies? I said this to Dawnward Cere’thien: I am Matriarch of my House – mother to my serfs, they give me coin, and I give them life. The concept was lost on the woman, as it is upon many. The lords and ladies whom they love to hate are those who are not meant for the title. Indeed, I do privately share their ire – little is more aggravating to myself than one who parades about with a title they have not earned. Lord Netherstar saw the truth of this, in my decision to aid his personal affair. 

Last ‘eve, I attended the Harbinger’s training. I daresay I was a better soldier than the rest – not a single complaint passed through my lips, however much I desired to harm the Emberwards who continued to speak out their distaste. They have not learned yet, that to voice their disdain is to bring about hardship to the rest of us. I believe the Harbinger finds it amusing, and I might as well if I were not suffering for their ignorance. I hate every moment of the exercises, but I do recognize that they are necessary for success in the field of battle. The Alliance do not stop to question whether or not we enjoy sloshing through the mud. Stealing the lives of the damned humans gives me a great sense of vindication. I place upon them all the wretched, sneering faces of ones called Garithos and their Gods-forsaken scourge prince. No mercy will be had for those who did not afford our blood the same luxury. Ninety percent of our blood was murdered, and it pains me, runs a dagger through my heart, and kindles the worst of rages to say the same ratio held true to my own house. What RIGHT have they to question my will to be within this order? My oath was taken with blood, and will be held for the entirety of my life. 

The priestess paused at this point in her writing to take a few moments to quell her anger with deep breathing. Her vivid eyes blazed, and tendrils of shadow danced about her form like snakes to a charmer. Her pretty mouth was curled with contempt, and once again she touched the quill to the parchment and scratched furiously away.

I spit in the face of all who doubt my devotion. Their weakness will be revealed on the field of battle, while I am cutting down the mongrels of the Alliance with my shadows. Those who would endanger my people are my enemies, and it is becoming evident that there are more enemies to be found in Azeroth than allies.


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Q: What is your fondest childhood memory?
A: It is little more than a vision from the earliest days of my existence, but it has stuck with me through out the many centuries of my life. This particular memory exists only as the sensation of mother’s burnished copper tresses tickling, as she bent to press a feathery kiss to my forehead.

Q: In one word, describe yourself.
A: Ethereal.

Q: What word would others use?
A: Witch.

Q: Quickly! You’re dying and only have time for one last activity! What do you do?
A: Question my very existence, reflect upon what could have been, and await the moment of ascendance.

Q: Favorite food? This question is mandatory.
A: Heaven Peach.

Q: Least favorite thing in the world?
A: Worgen.

Q: You’re the Emperor/Empress of Azeroth! What is your first decree?
A: My sovereignty would be handled in an ultimate dictatorial fashion. Two social castes – Nobility and Knaves, with a religion that centers my authority as the figurehead.

Q: Describe your dream man/woman/entity.
A: One who can embrace me as I am, who will not seek to change me.

Q: You’ve discovered a lost Gnomish technology that allows you to switch lives with whomever you please for a day. Who do you turn into?
A: If it permitted the use of time travel, I would say the Sun King himself.

Q: You can ask whomever you wish whatever question you choose. Who do you ask and what do you ask them?
A: Implying that I do not act according to my whims to begin with?

Q: You’ve done something extraordinary and you’ve gained a title for it! How are you known throughout the world?
A: I have several titles already, but my favored one among the rest of the Horde is The Astral Walker, for my role as an Inquisitor.

Q: You can go back in time and change one thing you’ve done/said. What do you change?
A: No comment.

Q: What is one thing you can’t live without?
A: The Void.

Q: Best advice you’ve ever been given?
A: An aunt said this to me once, “To find the solution, you must remove yourself from the equation.”

Q: Best advice you could ever give?
A: Precisely the same thing.

Q: You find a thousand gold lying on the ground in a marked pouch. There is a return address on it, but no one is around. What do you do?
A: Deposit it in my vault.

Q: You wake up one day to find yourself in prison! What did you do?
A: A proper lady never admits to dark deeds.

Q: Oh no! You’re naked in the hold of a ship bound for Booty Bay! How did you end up there?!
A: Likely a certain Captain.

Q: What would you say is your spirit animal or totem?
A: Some sort of feline, or so I have been told.

Q: Biggest fear?
A: Exorcism from the shadows.

Q: Scariest moment of your life?
A: The latter decades of my marriage.

Q: Do you have a secret talent/ability that people would be surprised to know about?
A: I have an aptitude for tailoring.

Q: You can say one thing to one person from your past. Whom do you speak to, and what do you say?
A: Father, I have failed you.

Q: What is the dumbest thing you’ve ever done?
A: Love.

Q: If you could live anywhere in Azeroth or Outland, where would it be?
A: The Silvermoon City of old– before the Third War.

Q: If you could give any one gift to any one person, what would it be, and to whom?
A: Cardre is the only person worthy of my gifts, and it would likely be all the fabrics and ingots in the world so she might craft the costume of her dreams.

Q: If that person could give any gift to you, what do you think it would be?
A: I expect something of a similar, grand nature.

Q: What would you do if you suddenly lost everything?
A: Gain it back.

Q: What would you say your top priority is?
A: Myself.

Q: A box is lying on the ground before you. What do you think is inside?
A: Its hold on my attention would not last longer than a glance.

Q: You can only save one thing from a fire. What is it?
A: My acolyte’s tome.

Q: You and a loved one are in a situation where only one can come out alive. Do you sacrifice yourself?
A: No.

Q: How do you view the idea of a lifelong commitment to one person?
A: Useful, and evasive. I shan’t have it myself, though I have known its touch once.

Q: Define “true happiness”.
A: A lie.

Q: Do you believe in the saying “things always get worse before they get better”?
A: No. Situations turn on a downward spiral, and continue drifting into darkness.

Q: Is the glass half empty? Or half full?
A: Half-empty.

Q: What is one of your biggest insecurities?
A: Nothing. I have no insecurities.

Q: Pet peeve?
A: Those who speak out of turn.

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Some ladies are inclined to have a maternal nature, and some, conversely, seem like they should not be found within a ten-foot radius of children, yet in nearly all of them did the bone-deep instinct burn. It sparks into an inferno in the ladies who, by some cruel twist of nature, are physically incapable of satisfying this rooted need. It is a trying process leading up to the ultimate discovery of barrenness. Countless herbs had been ingested, spells cast, rituals done, emotional fits had, and none of them would change what was inherently wrong in my body.

Three centuries had taught me how to accept this on the most superficial of levels, but nothing could erase the almost disconcerting sense of jealousy that thrummed in my veins when I caught sight of a particular dark-haired child, whose demeanor reminded me of the one I will never bear. There the fantasy would build as if it were struck by a match, and there in my mind’s eye I would see my non-existent child: sovereign of my innermost realm, aristocratic, brilliant, beautiful… but impossible.

It was impossible.

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All eyes are on the midnight sky, admiring the vibrant heraldry of new beginnings. With each high-octave scream and subsequent explosion, the chorus of awed sighs and confessions of captivation fill the air. It is the port known colloquially as “Booty Bay,” with hundreds of spectators gathered on the unstable platforms, each person welcoming another year in their own manner. The lips of lovers meet briefly, tankards are raised, and all around resolutions for the new year are spontaneously decided. Here I stand, in the midst of it all. I am made keenly aware of my superiority in the grace and elegance of my composure by the comparison of my rowdy surroundings. A smirk comes unbidden to my lips as I envision the loss of such fervently-declared resolutions within the week.

Can I truly blame them, though? Sin’dorei as I am, I can hardly fit myself under the generalization that “We’re only human,” but the aphorism’s truth still stands. Truly, there is no barrier of species that we sentient beings view ourselves in such a critical light, always seeking excuses to improve, yet never quite reaching that goal. Naturally, it is the lack of utter devotion to the cause that spurs this deflation. Determination is unstoppable when it is cemented, and it is this tenacious belief that is upheld in the Cult of the Forgotten Shadow.

The fireworks were growing grander in procession until now, this temporary limbo that heeds the impending finale, reflected especially in the awed silence of the crowd. This moment is almost tranquil; breaths all around are drawn in and held in a moment of anticipation, and an odd feeling of collective intimacy emerges. Here were people that were still raw from the wounds the Destroyer reaped, and full of celebratory shock at the news of his defeat. Yet, the feeling ends with the explosion marking the beginning of the finale. A shiver racks my spine, and I know it is not from a chill – it is the result of that sense of belonging. Long have I been independent that such a sensation is almost foreign to me.

My eyes linger on the soft black waves of the bay, and I realize that there is much to change about myself, if such an insignificant thing could seem so significant. That such an infinitesimally short moment could startle me into such a shock! I can feel the faint glimmer of Light within me, struggling vainly for a hold on my soul, and I almost want to nourish it. In a heartbeat, however, that changes. I know that I am subject to this aforementioned “human condition,” and that this faint spark has not the will to transform into the inferno needed for repentance. It is with that knowledge that I feel my blood turn to ice and the din of the crowd grow faint, as I am consumed by the void – a swirling violet veil.

Why, there simply is no room for repentance…

The silent voice resonates in my very bones as the last of the fireworks brightens the night sky.

…When you are mistress to the Forgotten Shadow.

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It was half a century before the birth of the great wizard, Medivh – hardly on the cusp of what marked two hundred years of living for our priestess. The spires and walls of Silvermoon City were still painted that azure hue, with no hint of the fel crystals that would later taint it. It was through a large window in the spire of the priests that the moon shone her fluid light, and just beyond that silver serenity, the shadow priestess laid in a bed that was not her own, cerulean eyes open against the tranquil dark of night.

A rivulet of blood emerged from a gaping, red abyss, torn through the lovely white throat of a nobleman. The dark, flakey trail rounded the man’s neck like a cravat, with the fresh droplet falling from his skin to land beneath the chair in the puddle of forsaken life. The long, formerly burnished gold hair trailed down the back of the chair, burgundy now with the stain of dried blood. 

It was an artful display that hovered beyond her mind’s eye through wakefulness and sleep, chasing away other thoughts in its wrath. Here it had risen again, keeping her awake in the dead of night when she should have been sleeping. In such a state, she rolled to her side and it was there that her inattentive gaze alighted on the empty bed-space. With that grueling scene fresh in her thoughts, it was not far fetched that for a moment, she unwillingly – and very clearly – saw his lovely features, wreathed by those burnished gold locks. A thunderous pounding arose in her bosom as adrenaline swam in her veins, bringing a cold sweat to her pallid features and filling her throat with cotton. Completely opposite from the languid manner with which she had rolled over, she turned on her back now rapidly, causing the bed to creak in protest. With eyelids squeezed shut and ears flattened against her head, a firm whisper passed through her lips, directed at none but herself.

“It’s done, it’s done, it’s done. He is gone. There is no more. It is all over. All over and done.”

It was this chant that kept the terrible thoughts and memories at bay, revered almost religiously by the priestess. It was a difficult process, to let go of a century and a half of life. In what might have taken a moment, everything had swirled down the drain, and from that was taken a secret sense of peace.

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“Who is that man… why is he standing there?”

“They call him ‘J’ – he is mute…”

These were dimly heard phrases and questions that floated around me, though I was not altogether absorbed in the conversation about the nameless hunter. My priorities were with confessing my latest crimes of the flesh, and I was heavily amused by the reactions of those who were paying attention. My tale eventually drew to a close, however, and I afforded a glance over my shoulder at the subject of the adjacent conversation, as it was much too close quarters to turn Phaeton.

My immaculate sight alighted on the mysterious hunter in the mismatched armor, and I found my interest piqued by the enigma; I was curious about who this man was and why he cared to keep such an eye on the loveable baker – a habit that was perceived immediately. Reader, I have a penchant for odd details, with an attention that could be raptly captivated by something that did not look like more than junk to the average passerby. Perhaps he was an injured veteran, or perhaps there was a method to his madness.


The following Friday evening had me standing in the dreadful Murder Row, surrounded by friends and familiar faces, though I was not very involved with their conversation. Friends departed and others alike, until I was left to explain the priorities of The Sunguard to an ignorant magister. How I came to assume that role, I do not know, but before I knew it I was on some tirade about the glory of Quel’thalas. Reader, habit compelled me to do it.

This aforementioned magister was swiftly losing the grace of my attention, and my gaze wandered down the rest of the alley, where, like a sentinel, the mute man stood. Desperate to find a means of escaping the drudgery, I improvised and offered the mute hunter an alternate means of interaction.

Was it generous? No – none of my actions have such pure intentions. Those who would mistake me for being generous are reading into an illusion; an ideal of Lady Thelryn that they want to believe exists.

But, I digress. I offered the silent man a choice; should he follow this proposition, he might find me in the Court of the Sun. If not, I could have cared less what he occupied himself with. It was not without trials and tribulations that he finally permitted my presence in his mind, and it was there that I discovered, with much surprise, his true identity. However, such a discovery ended in the former enigma threatening my life, though that was a detail that was negotiated at the price of unmentionables and my silence. In any other situation, I might not have felt so threatened, but here was a bloody pirate who certainly would not hesitate to use his blade…

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