#Dyna Dawnhammer

[paladerp]

Fixed it.

[loampriest]

Disturbing the Dead

The change came upon her painfully, as it always had, with an unnatural creaking of her bones, a stretching of tendons and flesh that left her gasping for breath. Her hands fluttered about herself, trying to gather ‘round her ribs. She bit down on a scream as a sharp agony wrenched her hips, spasming down legs which had grown unnaturally long. Her skin felt as though she’d rolled in nettles, prickling and itching as fur pushed through it in thousands of places. She crouched against the ground, groaning through tightly closed lips, waiting for the change to end. Her shifting gripped her in bits, in pieces - jagged and uneven as a broken mug, dashed against the kitchen floor.

Lisbet couldn’t help but to remember a passage she’d once read; a caterpillar dissolves as it becomes a butterfly, its body liquid within the casing of its cocoon.

She wondered what she looked like, inside the casing of her dislocated bones, when she shifted. Her body felt liquid, like hot glass in the hands of an unskilled glass blower.

It only took thirty seconds, maybe a minute, at the most. And when at last she rose from the ground, her body tingled and itched, but the pain had passed. She knew that others found the shifting effortless, as natural as drawing breath, but it wasn’t that way for her. There was always a price to be paid, where power was involved; Lisbet paid control with agony, and found it a worthy deal.

She breathed in deeply, scenting the air with a long muzzle, and couldn’t help but be delighted by the sensory bouquet which came to her now. More than the cold and the smell of dirt, she could discern the warm muskiness a rabbit in its lair, could determine each distinct variety of tree and plant nearby. She stretched her limbs, rolling her shoulders against the binding feel of her robes, but felt a sharp internal reprimand at the thought of shedding them. No. She had to continue wearing them, even if she didn’t actually need what scant protection they offered, even if they were uncomfortable and confining.

The worgen huffed softly and set herself down on all four limbs, letting the tips of her claws flex into the dirt a moment. A perverse bit of mischief stole over her, and she drew in a lungful of loamy air, throwing up her nose to the sky and letting loose a long, bone-rattling howl -- meant for nothing more than the sheer pleasure of it.

Some part of her hated this, hated the way her whole body reverberated with the sound, resented the way it echoed in the stillness of the forest. It was boastful and wild and unrestrained, and did she not take quiet satisfaction in her restraint, in her gentleness and humility-?

But in that same self indulgence, there lay the unbridled joy of pure freedom. Lisbet Wheeler, Acolyte of the Church, outreach worker for the poor and the sick and the addled and addicted, exploded through the brush like a shot from a pistol, her claws barely touching the earth as she ran.

…

She cut across mountain passes and rough terrain like a hot knife through butter. The worgen moved with an economy of motion, purposeful and alive with the sharpness of her senses.

Lisbet moved more like a wolf than a woman, giving herself over to the wilderness which had called her, unanswered, for a little over fourteen months. She bounded through the forest with unchecked delight, rubbing herself up against trees, scrabbling at rocks with clawed hands and feet - she stalked rabbits just to see them bound away, filled with a preternatural energy.

It didn’t take much guidance from the more restrained aspect of her mind; she knew the deal, was aware of what her goals were, even if she could no longer discern what it was that had made them so vitally important. And if she took more time than was strictly necessary in finding prey for the day’s meal - in selecting a young doe with liquid eyes and soft, tawny fur - … if she spent an hour stalking it, reveling in the silence of her feet against the ground, in the tension of the hunt …

Well. It was a price paid for that she’d ignored it as long as she had, when it was so gloriously clear that this was how things ought to be, needed to be all the time, not just some of the time --

The thought was curbed, and she lunged, an inky shadow between the trees, striking the young doe at the neck and felling her with a crunch and a snap. The unfortunate creature’s legs kicked and spasmed as the light left her eyes.

There was a moment’s hesitation, an objection which was overruled as soon as it arose, and she sank her jaws into the deer, tearing it open and beginning to feed.

…

It was mid day the next day when she arrived at the border between Alterac and the Plaguelands, and she was glad she didn’t need to go any further; the fetid stench of death and decay were enough to make her hackles rise, the fur prickling at the base of her spine. She should shift back; the Woman would be better for this part than the Wolf. Still, there was a reticence, a resentment that made her unwilling to give way.

She wasted several hours, instead, to prove her point. She chased squirrels and spent some time playing in a nearby pond, washing the blood from her fur, cupping her clawed hands in the coolness of the water, delighting in it.

And when she finished, she settled to a crouch and allowed her bones to shrink, her fur to recede, her hands growing smaller, more delicate -- her legs thinner, more fragile.

Lisbet lay on the river’s edge, robes sodden, hair slicked to her skull from the wet, and let out a shaky breath as she stretched experimentally, shivering with the cold. Her lips pursed in irritation, and yet, she couldn’t be that annoyed. She supposed she’d earned that pique, having disregarded her own wild heart for so very long.

She’d forgotten, after a little over a year’s suppressing the urge to shift, what it was to feel so free - a fact which that aspect of herself had taken pains to demonstrate.

But it wasn’t always like that, she frowned silently, padding through the still graveyard with her shovel in hand. How am I supposed to feel free, when that very freedom was the tool of my oppression? I didn’t ask for it. I never wanted this in the first place.

The graveyard was an old one, many of the headstones lacking names for weather wear; she worried that she might not be able to locate the one she looked for. At least, until she came upon it.

She knew as soon as she saw the bouquet of flowers; she couldn’t say for certain how it was she knew, but she knew it was him.

The bouquet was quite large, and it struck her as unusual - the combination of flowers didn’t seem to fit. Two kinds of small white flowers, what looked to be purple honeysuckle, and dwarf sunflowers, all bound together in black ribbon. There were a great many flowers in the bundle - there had to be, given all but the sunflowers were quite small in size. It was an ugly bouquet, and it didn’t make sense.

She frowned as she looked at the headstone, reading the name. The grave looked about the right age, grown over with grass, but not obscured by any brush. It appeared as if it had been kept quite clean, and paused her as much as the flowers had. If someone was going to the trouble of cleaning it, then surely they hadn’t raised him…?

But she hadn’t come all this way to not dig up a grave, now had she?

It was dusk, so she waited, kneeling her sodden robes beside the headstone. She prayed, her hands pressed together, her face downturned, and her prayers were genuine; peace, forgiveness, gentleness. Let the dead rest undisturbed. May the Light forgive the transgression I make here, for I do it not in vain.

She prayed, too, for the many wards she’d left behind, a prickle of worry disturbing the thoughts. She prayed for her parents, for the family she’d left in Northrend, in spite of what had happened between them. She prayed for Taladreth, in prison, that he might learn and grow.

She prayed for Ludovick, too; for the woman and child he’d been forced to put down, for the faces in the pictures they’d shared, indelibly scarred into her memory, now. It was unlikely she’d ever forget them.

She prayed for herself, too - that she might have the patience, the force of will, the gentleness of spirit, to help the many, many people she cared about.

And when she’d felt she’d addressed all the people and worries she had in her life, her prayers drifted to a contemplation, considering the lessons she’d learned her recent failures and successes in befriending the strange Confessor. All the while she listened, waiting for the unknown gravekeeper to, perhaps, make a visit.

The priest didn’t have any particular plan for what she might do, should such a thing occur; talk, perhaps. Whoever it was had no way of knowing who she was, or what she was capable of. Unless they’ve been watching her, a nagging voice in the back of her head whispered. Unless I’m right, and she’s intended as bait.

In which case, she was sitting in the trap at present, praying.

The Light guide me and protect me, she prayed, listening all the more intently.

But nobody came. She was quite alone, by the time the moon rose. Drawing to her feet stiffly, Lisbet pulled the shovel from her pack, and began the onerous process of digging.

It took hours. The night was cold, her hair was still wet, and the robes, though dry, were stiff and uncomfortable. Her back ached from the effort, for though Lisbet was not one to avoid a hard day’s work, the sort of labor that she did as a member of the clergy was very different from shoveling six feet of dirt.

It didn’t help that she was aware of the possibility that someone might catch her in the act, and then what-? Rather unexpectedly, she began to wish that it had been possible to invite Ludovick along; dour as he was, it was his business, too… and though his body seemed made up more of scar than skin, there was strength in those shoulders, in the lines of his back.

Not that she’d noticed such a thing, of course. But if she had, it was only because he’d given her ample opportunity. Really, for a man so filled with shame in himself, he has shockingly little when it comes to eating breakfast in a towel.

By the time dawn was rising, she’d reached the coffin, though she was nowhere near close to being able to withdraw it. Her stomach turned as she realized what she’d have to do, but there was no point in hesitation, in delaying the inevitable; she would have little enough time to hastily replace the dirt.

She took a deep breath, uttering a prayer for the dead, and drove the blade of her shovel through the coffin with a shudder.

Several more blows, and she was able to stick her hands inside, feeling around blindly before --

Yes, that is definitely a skull.

It rolled loosely beneath her grasp, and she realized with a jolt that she might have beheaded it with her shovel. Swallowing hard, she took a measured breath and closed her eyes, still crouched in the hole, slowly turning the skull around in her hands.

There. A bullet wound, a hole through which a pistol had shot, fracture lines radiating outward - just as the reports had indicated Jannis Hubaan had met his end. This was him. It had to be. Unless they’d taken someone, shot him in the head, and buried in him in Hubaan’s grave long enough ago that he’d decomposed the approximately correct amount….

She sagged in relief, covered in sweat and gravedirt, her arms leaden, her back aching.

… then she groaned aloud as she realized she’d need to replace all the dirt she’d painstakingly removed, as quickly as possible, before she was caught.

Something within her seemed to snicker at the predicament, and she pursed her lips, eyes rolling as she set to work.

…

By the time she’d finished, it was noon and she was dead on her feet. The little plot of land had been tamped down as best she could manage, though it would be obvious to the grave’s visitor that it had been tampered with. Lisbet heaved an exhausted sigh, plucking up the bouquet of flowers as an afterthought.

It would be at last another day or two before she arrived in Dun Morogh, but she rather doubted that Ludovick would be pleased to see her, when she told him what she’d done. A problem for future Lisbet, the wolfish aspect of her was quick to assure, and for once she was too tired to disagree.

[ludovickvondiehl]

Confessions of a Confessor

This entry is written in the usual thin, neat handwriting, though it is rather rushed at first, as though the writer was quite excited to confide within the journal’s pages.

____________________________________________

Dyna called upon the Light, and it answered.

I saw it form in the palm of her hand, feeble, yet brilliant.  I have never been more proud of another - never.  To know a woman so broken as this paladin, to see the realization spread across her ruined face, that all is not lost?  How could I ever repay her for making me feel so?

Light, I know that we have much work ahead of us, though I cannot help but celebrate.  I knew that the Light was still within her, but I feared whatever magic - it has to be magic, there is no other explanation - that has addled her mind had blocked such blessings from her.  She knows now.  I hope that this knowledge will keep her from giving into despair.  I know that it has lifted mine own heart.

I am still writing my letters.  I plan to make a visit to the Argent Tournament grounds in Icecrown if necessary, though I am loathe to leave Dyna to her own devices for too long.  I wonder if I can feel the cold in Northrend?  I have not felt an icy chill since     I am fearful that if we do not continue near daily exercises that she may forget what little she remembers, and we will have to begin from the ashes that remain of her mind.  Sister Lisbet, a young priestess, is taking special care in watching over her.  She has heard the rumors.  They all have.  I should tell her that they are true, and that the Church is too stupid to understand a          I trust the young woman, as much as I can trust another.  Perhaps I can provide her a lesson plan of sorts to go through with Dyna, should a trip be necessary for solving this terrible mystery.  I am reluctant to drop such a delicate matter and burden upon the woman, but I feel as though time is of the essence.  Dyna’s mind is fragile, and I have done a fine job of disturbing it.  I am fearful that such meddling may become too much, should I not puzzle out the cause of her malady soon.

I have begun to go through Stormwind’s criminal records - anyone with significant magical powers who has been imprisoned, killed, or simply documented in the last few years.  There are so many of them, and each seems as probable to be my monster as the last.  I could ask Dyna if she recognizes any of the names, but I do not wish to turn her into a quivering mess again.  She does not deserve that.

The Light does not abandon its champions.  I have proven that to her now.  She cannot falter.  I will not allow it.

@paladerp

[theresolute]

Walk Away Now

Ludovick --

Will be absent for a time. Uncertain when I will be back. Leaving word in case you return before I do. Walk in the Light’s blessings, Brother. I pray for your safety.

The note was left pinned to the alchemy table, held in place by a phial too heavy to be overturned by Pam’s nonsense. The home was locked; Kargain was bribed with a heavy bottle of whiskey and an armclasp. There was nothing left to be done but to leave.

If you walk away now, you’ll be safe.

That was what Lilim had said, or something to that effect; in one damned moment, she had made her choice. Ludovick would understand, she felt -- if she’d been able to tell him, anyway. In one damned moment, she’d turned away from a life uncomplicated by Ereleth Tremaine and the pocketwatch and the Light-damned demon. One choice, and she’d cast aside any hope she might have had for normalcy, a life where she might have kept watch over the chickens in Ludovick’s absence, might have searched for some sort of… peace.

She could have had simplicity.

Knowing that Ereleth was still alive, that things were still in motion, she could have walked away and contended only with those dangers she chose for herself, could have dealt with only what any paladin might have felt was their duty. To serve the Light, to act as the Light’s vessel, to join the war or retired to train up new knights for the front, to search for the dead, to light candles for them every night as she prayed.

And yet, she’d followed Lilim, only hesitating for a moment before tossing it all aside. For what?

Like a damned fool, like an idiot, she had bowed her head and stepped forward, because if she didn’t, who would? Lilim was familiar in a way that was entirely too uncomfortable. She recognized the woman’s wariness as a twin of her own, and it struck a discordant note within her, to see that damage done to someone else. Whatever might happen, Lilim would no longer be left to contend with it alone, she decided.

She’d given up, once. She’d failed them all, too many times to count, and she’d given up after a time, unable to move forward.

Years. She’d spent years regretting her failures.

Now, at long last, she had a chance to make it right.

Ludovick would have understood if she’d been able to tell him. But she couldn’t. And he didn’t need to know. It didn’t matter, what anyone else would have thought of it; they were dead or gone, and she was alone, now. It was to her to make the choice, and she’d made it.

… it would be a long ride to Light’s Hope.

[ludovickvondiehl]

           @paladerp

          Please fill out the following request forms in triplicate to access their details, Ludovick read for the third time, his head resting in hand, elbow propped up against an uncomfortable stone chair.  A quiet scuffling sound came from the kitchen, though when he turned his head all he saw was his cat pushing about an old tea box, her tail twitching.  He had expected to see someone else there, an occurrence that had not ceased to bring down his spirits since his return each and every time it happened.  His eyes drifted back to the missive, and he read the sentence a fourth time:  Please fill out the following request forms in triplicate to access their details. He lit his sixth cigarette of the night.

           The forms took two hours to complete. Ludovick was careful, but even so, several areas had been hastily crossed over, with arrows pointing to the final, intended answer.  He sealed them with wax, no signet to adorn it.  The forms were left to rest on a half-empty bookshelf by the fire where most of the tomes that remained were toppled over, unable to support themselves.  He stood there for a time, staring at the clutter, trying to envision what it had once looked like.

            His shirt was tacky with dried blood, and when he pulled it over his head it ripped away from his flesh with a dry, sharp tearing sound.  Ludovick did not cry out in pain, but the corner of his lip twitched as he shuddered, and he found the reminder appropriate.  He must not lose his temper again, not with one so fragile as Dyna.  He had hoped that yelling at her would have jarred her back into some semblance of dignity, but it had the opposite effect.  The priest had apologized, but apologies meant nothing, Ludovick knew.  That was why he had torn at his scab-ridden back.  It was the only way correct himself.  No, he would not raise his voice again, not to her.

           The Light glowed softly on his fingertips as he blindly felt along the raised flesh of his lower back.  Each time they encountered wetness, Ludovick let them linger there, allowing them to protect him from infection.  He would never let the Light to heal these wounds, but he could not serve it if he died of festering flesh.

           She would have done this for me.  She would have been here to help.  The unbidden thoughts echoed miserably in the back of his mind.  His neck tensed, and his flesh prickled.  She would have made me tea.  She would have shushed me, taken me to bed, taken me in her arms.  I could have forgotten all of this.  The Light faded from his fingertips.  I had everything.  She loved me.  She didn’t want this life for me.

           “She would have forced me to betray myself,” he spoke aloud into the empty, windowless room.  The hearth’s light cast long shadows, blackness at the edge of his vision, and in that darkness he felt a presence.  He realized that his jaw had been trembling.  Selfish.  You were selfish.  She only wanted to help, and you cast her aside, along with all of your promises.

           He pressed his nails against his back and sharply raked upwards.  Ribbons of scabbed-over flesh and blood welled up beneath his nails.  He swore and his free hand shot out and gripped the arm of a nearby chair.  “She is dead to me,” he spat, arching his back as the blood trickled down.  Panic overtook him, and he spoke again, desperately so.  “The Light is the only comfort I need.  The Light is the only thing that keeps me from being a hideous beast.  The Light is my savior, and without it I am nothing. I should die if I abandon my charge.”

           No one challenged him, but the house seemed to taunt him even still.  The pale rectangles of stone on the wall from where picture frames had once hung, the barren pantry, the bloodstained sheets on the bed, the layer of dust that seemed to coat every surface, the empty weapon racks on the bedroom wall, the lingering presence that only brought about loneliness, which lurked just out of sight, all of it bared down on him.  Trapped; the word came up through his spine, a trembling shudder.  She was with him here still.  All the wrong choices, the bitterness, the blood, the sweat, it all intermingled here and held his head underwater, waiting on him to drown.

His throat had gone dry, tight.  I did what I had to, he wanted to scream, to banish the specter of the home, but all he could manage was a pitiful rasp. Blood streaked stone as he came to curl in against the floor, tremors wracking his limbs.  It was all too much.  The city, this house, words, touch, even the light of day.  Those things had not been present in dead Lordaeron.  There he could shut down, pull away, and bury himself in duty and purpose.  Now there was nowhere to hide.  Even burying himself in his work was no comfort, because at the end of the day he would come to this place, and there would be no rest.  This house was his penance as much as the lash.

“I must serve.  I must serve.  I must serve,” he repeated over and over, though it was a quarter ‘till two in the morning before he could obey, rising on shaking legs. His hand went for a leather-bound notebook, and he opened it, tired eyes forcefully focusing in on the words he had jotted down during his meeting with Dyna that day.

Northrend, or at the very least north of Stormwind. Write to as many contacts as possible. Graveyard – something there, something she must do.  Patrolling the crypts, as she did in her time with the Sigil.  Bring paladin armaments, perhaps she will remember.

           After two more cigarettes Ludovick had calmed his nerves, and could begin the first letter.  As he signed his name to the missive, one that would be sent to whatever skeleton crew remained at Valiance Keep in Northrend, Ludovick remembered the words Dyna had shakily transcribed into her journal.  As he felt his heart slip, it hardened all in the same breath.

          Duty is a stone.  It shall anchor me.

[ludovickvondiehl]

Confessions of a Confessor

@paladerp

The following entry is written in neat, thin handwriting, though splotches of ink and smudged words hint at a hasty effort.

Was it selfish to leave?  Some part of me feels that it was, even knowing that no one else would desire to do what I had done, what needed to be done.  I do not think that makes it any less selfish.  I could not stay and pick up the pieces.  I was too weak, too frightened.  To stay in that house, alone and empty, how could I?  No, other memories are safer.  Productive, even.  I served the Light.  I should not be ashamed.  I should not.

But then I find Dyna sweeping the Cathedral floor, a shell of what she once was, no longer even recognizable as a champion of the Light.  I do not even recall the last time I saw her or spoke to her, what was said.  I was forbidden to for a time.  I am now questioning whether or not that was the right decision, one I was once furious about.  Did I help do this to her?  Was it something I said that forced her hand into some terrible choice?  My corrective measures are mine alone, I have learned that now.  Evora’s stupidity made me see that.  Light, I was helping.  

Her body is a wreck, but what does that matter?  We are but vessels for the Light’s bidding, and her shell is able to serve as well as any other.  I mention this because I cannot blame her current state on her physical appearance, as at odds as it is with the strong, healthy woman I knew.  Something maimed her, burned her, Light knows what else.  I have seen soldiers in a state of shock that can last for a lifetime, but she is going through something else entirely.  It has to have been magically induced.  I have never seen a mind so utterly destroyed, so fragmented.

She had moments of clarity that faded as quickly as they came.  She would say that she knew me, only to mention something from years ago about the Sigil wanting my blood.  Light, if only I could find Marius.  Damn the stubborn elf for many things, but he could fix her.

She believes that the Light has abandoned her, that she has done something to cause this.  I do not believe that such a thing has occurred.  No, Dyna was not the sort to be such a fool, no matter what I thought of the choices she made.  I do not believe it.  Someone stole it from her.  Someone ripped her to pieces.

I cannot find anyone who knew her well.  No one remains, scattered to the winds.  I need to piece this together, but all evidence is nonexistent.  All I have is her, a shell.  Light knows which of her thoughts are true, and which are magically induced.

I gave her one of the notebooks I carry, and strapped it to her side with cord from my bag.  I instructed her to write down every thought, no matter how inconsequential.  It is my hope that she will eventually write down enough for me to discover something, and for her to put herself back together.  Light willing, she will not lose it, but I am prepared for that reality.  I must copy her notes after each visit, preserving a record.

I am already entertaining the idea of using Shadow magic to infiltrate her mind, but I am too fearful of the consequences.  Such a thing could go catastrophically wrong.  I could attempt to cleanse her with the Light, but the same risks apply.  She is too fragile now.  I have never seen a person so broken, not even in the dungeons of the monastery.  I was not even so            

I must reflect on my transgressions against Dyna, no matter how long ago they were.  I will see to it that she is restored as a champion of the Light.  I will not abandon her, for I am its servant.

[theresolute]

[ My three Dyna commissions, and some of the art I have attempted of her over the years. ]

[paladerp]

Sir Odynae Dawnhammer; the Resolute

[theresolute]

The Ugly Knight’s Aesthetics

NAMES: Dyna; Odynae Dawnhammer; Odynae Vindalis

EMOTIONS/FEELINGS: Determination, anger, mourning, bitterness, gratitude, ferocity, devotion, humility; stubbornness COLORS: Red, gold, white, silver SCENTS: Soap, herbs, burn salve, cigarettes CLOTHING: Borrowed things - oversized shirts, worn trousers, a grey robe OBJECTS: Spear, candles, pocketwatch, wide-brimmed hat, armor VICES/BAD HABITS: Martyrdom, paranoia, cigarettes (thanks Ludo,) self-destructive tendencies, fighting, brawling, acting without thinking, recklessness BODY LANGUAGE: Wary, guarded, ready to be attacked at any moment; stiff, uncomfortable, formal; military habits AESTHETICS:

SONGS:  Numb - Marina and the Diamonds // This Lullabye - Queens of the Stone Age

Tagged by: @birras0

Tagging: @miss-marv @wardennerd @patrickballamore ; anyone else who wants to do it!

[theresolute]

Name: Odynae Dawnhammer

Nickname: Dyna

Gender: Female

Romantic Orientation: Bisexual, Biromantic

Preferred Pet Names: Chroi was one she was fond of, some years back.

Relationship Status: Single

Favorite Canon Ship: Definitely Dyna and Mykhael; though Dyna and Mayru was pretty good too

Favorite Non-Canon Ship: I don’t really have any? I’d maybe like to see her with another paladin or front-line fighter; preferably a lady. Let Dyna be Bi-na! Hrrm. I could have seen her engage in some form of confusing romantic interest with Ereleth Tremaine, but the appeal in that is that it would be a fucking disaster; there’s so many things wrong with it. It would be an interesting one, though.

Opinion on True Love: Dyna believes very strongly in love, romantic and otherwise; for Dyna, love of friends, of family, of the people around her is what guides her most. Love is truth, though the idea that love can only be had once is antithetical to how she views the world.

Opinion on Love at First Sight: This is not something Dyna places much faith in; infatuation at first sight, sure -- but love? No. To mistake the two is all but heresy, and dangerously immature.

Ideal Physical Traits: Honestly... there’s a lot that appeals to her; strength is one thing, though. She prefers a partner who can keep up with her, physically, even if that strength is more a mental trait than a physical one. She’s partial to a Gilnean accent.

Ideal Personality Traits: Kindness. Empathy. A desire to make the world a better place. A want to nurture the best in those around them.

Unattractive Traits: Hauteur. Cockyness. Overly flirtatious. A suck-up. Dishonesty. Wearing (proverbial) masks. Too many secrets.

Ideal Date: Shoulder-to-shoulder, fighting on the front lines!

Do they have a type?: A person who can be a partner.

Average Relationship Length: Two years-ish?

Preferred Non-Sexual Intimacy: Combat training

Commitment Level: ALL IN

Opinion of Public Affection: Embarrassing

Past Relationships?: Galeen - a month-long disaster which ended in his disappearance, but not before she left the Church for its judgment of his character as a ne’er-do-well. Galeen was exceptionally jealous of everyone she befriended, considering her too naive and believing everyone had ulterior motives with her. After he went missing, she ended up involved with Strahm Vindalis about a month later, at which point Galeen returned from his disappearance and promptly gathered his comrades to publicly shame her. Dyna ended up marrying Strahm, and the exact day of their wedding he was taken by the Apophan, and then killed a month later. She worked alongside others to bring him back from the grave, after which they mutually became involved with Mayru. When Strahm and Mayru both disappeared... Dyna came to believe that something had gone wrong with the resurrection, and by the time Strahm had resurfaced again a year later, she had annulled their marriage, believing the man she resurrected to have been an interloper wearing Strahm’s skin. (Spoiler alert: she was right.) Mykhael O’Donnelly was her last relationship, a single father with a half-orc son; initially, she hated him, thinking him a bit of a cad and a player, but she adored his son, and eventually came to love the father as well once his facade was lowered. Mykhael, too, went mysteriously missing, and in the time since, she’s lost a finger and gotten significantly uglier.

She’s pretty sure she’s cursed.

Also, for the moment, her brain is scrambled eggs so it doesn’t really bother her anymore. : )

Tagged by @wardennerd

[theresolute]

The steady scrape of the broom’s bristles was so soft as to be almost unheard against the cool grey flagstone of the Cathedral’s Crypts. She was tucked away, all but hidden in the gloom of a poorly lit corridor, the nearest torch having burned to little more than a guttering wick, a dull, hunched figure in the darkness -- recognizable in an instant for the silhouette of the battered black hat, the purposeful, steady slowness of her repetitive motion.

The Crypts were still, almost oppressive in their silence; the air felt thicker, cold enough to raise steam from the torches. The Light was present there, etched into the stones, the memory of a thousand prayers left alongside decades-old wardings maintained in much older traditions. Bones of hallowed champions interred for final rest lay all but forgotten behind stones, their names faded to only the greyest of memories, kept in archives but seldom spoken -- their stories blurred together like so much ink left to run down the page, now offering only an impression of tarnished heroism where once their deeds had stood in silver and gold.

And there was Sir Dawnhammer, once knighted ‘the Resolute’, a relic at twenty seven, dusty and moldering as any of the bones whose company she kept.

She didn’t look up at the sound of his approach, though she had to have been aware of it, at least peripherally; the smell of cigarette smoke was a sharpness could scarcely have gone unnoticed. Dyna looked much as she had before, unchanged by the time he’d been away -- she was still raggedly dressed, head tilted downward, the worst of her scars hidden by the long shadow of her wide-brimmed hat. Her mop of hair was matted, colorless in the darkness. The broom slowly scraped at the stone under the guidance of her hands, but it seemed as though she’d been sweeping that particular spot for some time.

At her waist dangled a book, tied by a length of leather to her belt. She didn’t look up; didn’t seem to hold any particular awareness of her surroundings in that moment.

[paladerp]

For those who may not be aware:

I accidentally deleted my ENTIRE tumblr account on 10/18, losing metric assloads of writing, collected YEARS of aesthetic posts and inspiration, all of my followed blogs, all of my favorite tags, the entire community I was so happy to be part of on this platform.

So I’ve started over because I literally do not have any other choice besides abandon tumblr entirely. :) :) :) :)

(Yes those smileys are passive aggressive; I am shocked that CS couldn’t do ... anything. At all. BUT I DIGRESS.)

With that being said, I’m looking to re-follow as many of the blogs I used to follow as possible, and I’ve done my best to go ahead and get my characters back up and running again.

I don’t tend to like asking for boosts, but for those who don’t mind, I would be grateful so I can begin to get back into the community.

I’ll put my blogroll below a ‘read more’ so this isn’t as obnoxiously huge a wall of text as it could be!

‘Felicie Moreau’

Art by Imon/Pigeons

Botanist, aspiring alchemist; mistrustful sadsack and co-librarian with Val, Felicity, and William of the Blacklight’s archives. Apprentice to Marlis Starling and interim nurse at the Collective’s infirmary. Once known by a different name, now lost to dust. [ grainsofash.tumblr.com , available for in-game RP and Tumblr/Discord/gDocs on request!]

Status: ROLEPLAY MAIN

Sir Odynae ‘Dyna’ Dawnhammer

Art by Raviollies/Six/Imon

The Resolute; a knight in the traditions of the Silver Hand, though that legacy is forgotten by most, if not all. Current ward of the Cathedral, lost and ugly woman with a wide-brimmed hat. She sweeps and sweeps but the recollections never come clean, the floor is always dirtied again… [ theresolute.tumblr.com ; former main, currently not very able to be roleplayed, but it is BEING WORKED ON]

Status: AVAILABLE ON REQUEST

Dolores ‘Dolly’ Keates

Art by Replica-004/Six/1221

Not-a-priest and former ship’s surgeon; mercenary of The Sable Sun Company, buggerer of Dreadlords, lover of rum, Too God Damn Responsible. Keates, the Frequently Bullied; Keates, the Iron Priest. [ theironpriestess.tumblr.com; on hold for the moment, ICly missing in action from the Company, on a mysterious quest to keep a promise to her girlfriend, and to contend with the repercussions of buggering two (2) dreadlords to death (while crying)]

Status: ON THE SHELF

Sister Lisbet Wheeler

Art by Kat

Acolyte of the Church; caseworker and caretaker, nursemaid and counselor, a woman of the Light and of unshakable calm. Always watching, seldom watched. [ loampriest.tumblr.com currently level hecking 20 in-game, available for RP on request both in-game and out but actively involved in storylines with Ludovick and Gauldoth ] 

Status: UNINTENDED ACTIVE ALT FUCK MY LIFE

[paladerp]

Okay

I got themes and pictures and shit for all my blergs except the new one for deadstalker inspiration

I’ll do up a pretty blogroll post tomorrow and try to retrieve some Keates and Dyna writings from Wayback Machine and Google Archive; wish me luck with that. *sigh*

For now -

paladerp.tumblr.com - OOC

grainsofash.tumblr.com - Felicie Moreau

loampriest.tumblr.com - Lisbet Wheeler

theresolute.tumblr.com - Odynae Dawnhammer

theironpriestess.tumblr.com - Dolores Keates (I don’t like that theme, need to find a new one)

pretendlives.tumblr.com - Miscellaneous Characters

[loampriest]

Return to the Fold

Her eyes were calm, her chin held at its usual angle of quiet confidence, expression solemn; she moved as she always did, soft-footed, unobtrusive - as if she yearned to be invisible, though there was no chance of it now. Closing the door behind her with a muted click, the Acolyte’s gaze settled on the man behind the desk, her back drawing a bit straighter as she made her way toward him.

Abbott Foster blinked owlishly at the woman, rising stiffly from his chair, relief visible on his weathered features; in his late fourties, Foster wasn’t precisely an old man, but neither was he terribly young. His blonde hair was rimed with silver, features kind, with the posture of a man who bore his burdens responsibly, if not easily. His eyes searched her, taking in a great many details all at once -- that she was safe, that she seemed unharmed; the way her robes had been repaired with red cloth; the new seams at their center, carefully repaired but still visible. He saw, too, that her left arm was held stiffly, slightly away from her body, a subtle thing. He didn’t miss the scarf at her throat, nor did he fail to see the almost completely faded bruising at her eye - his fault, his responsibility, a thing which weighed uneasily on him. The man’s calloused hands reached to grip her shoulders as he peered into her face, and he offered her a troubled smile as he greeted her. “Sister Wheeler,” he intoned with great formality, squeezing her before letting his hands fall away and inclining his head.

“Abbott,” she murmured in reply, flashing him a faint smile -- one which didn’t quite meet her eyes, which were distant and just a little bit apprehensive. Foster watched her intently for another moment before looking askance to the chair, gesturing for her to sit as he returned to his own seat.

“I’m relieved to see you in one piece; we’ve been worried, after that letter you sent. Of course, it was reported that you seemed well enough, but…” His eyes, grey and marked by crow’s feet at their edges, studied her as he allowed the sentence to trail away.

Lisbet, having settled in the offered chair, looked even more serious, glancing down for a moment as her right hand drifted to grip her stiff left arm. “-- We were attacked, sir; the Confessor and I, we - were attacked by a small squadron of Forsaken, in his home in Dun Morogh. They were lead by a necromancer, whose intent it was to turn von Diehl into one of them, near as I can tell.”

Abbott Foster fell very quiet, an eyebrow raising. “... but you’re - alright?”

The woman nodded slowly, her eyes meeting his with obvious reluctance. “Yes -- we both survived it. Ludovick was stabbed in the chest; center of the ribcage, he should have died but… the Light did not allow it.” She paused, seeming to collect her thoughts for a second before continuing steadily. “He took a poisoned crossbow bolt to the shoulder, his windpipe was all but crushed from being choked, deep gauges down his whole… torso, chest, arms…”

Lisbet found herself unable to meet his eyes then, and she looked down as she continued speaking. Her voice remained as it had been, cool and seemingly unaffected. “I shifted; I was shot in the arm, a few ribs fractured, a few scratches and a blade from shoulder to thigh. He took the brunt of it. They were there for him, not me.”

Foster’s shoulders slumped just a little, and though his brow remained etched with worry, he nodded, thoughtful, tongue running along the inside of his teeth. “... I see. And does this -- have to do with the cultist activity you mentioned? I understand you might have been wary of committing details to paper, but now that you’ve returned…”

Lisbet nodded her understanding, her own forehead just a bit furrowed as she took a deep breath and composed herself as best she could. “No; this seems to have been unrelated, a … consequence of Ludovick’s time spent in Tirisfal, hunting.”

The Abbott nodded, his expression neutral, but Lisbet didn’t miss the way his lips twitched in what she knew had to be disapproval. She met his gaze steadily, her expression growing just a tiny bit harder in that moment. “It was the Light’s will, that I was there then; had I not been, he would have been killed -- or worse. It may have delayed my return to the Cathedral, but it was necessary, to preserve a devoted man’s life.”

Her voice held more conviction than it usually did, the force of her certainty impossible to overlook. Abbott Foster could hear the hint of a reprimand there, as if daring him to contradict her on the notion of Ludovick’s devotedness -- as if she had reason to be certain of his devotion. He didn’t rise to that challenge, instead lifting his hands to lace his square-tipped fingers together, resting them, palms up, atop his desk. “I see. Then … why don’t we begin at the beginning; explain to me where this … this cult, fits in? I trust your judgment, Lisbet; if you say it was necessary, then it was necessary. I only seek to understand what’s happened, and what we’re facing, going forward.”

Lisbet stilled as he spoke, the intensity in her eye fading somewhat at the Abbott’s assurances. She nodded slowly, her hand moving to toy with the repaired sleeve of her robe, seeming to gather her thoughts. Foster waited, patient, watching her with a steady gaze. When she spoke, her voice was a bit quieter than it had been before, and the Abbott leaned forward just a little, the better to hear her.

“The woman with the hat -- her name is Sir Dyna Dawnhammer, and she was … is a knight, in the traditions of the Silver Hand,” Lisbet began, brow furrowing, eyes slightly distant as she recounted what she knew.

“Confessor von Diehl knew her -- before, whatever it was that happened that made her as she is now. He says she was -- that she still is -- a champion of the Light, but that something must have been done to her, to make her this way. She made many enemies, from years ago, and it is the Confessor’s belief that one of them must have finally caught up to her.”

Lisbet frowned. “He’s done the research, has a case file more complete than mine ever could have been. He showed me what he found, and Abbott -- I think he’s right. It checks out, and we believe we’ve narrowed it down to one specific enemy who she’d crossed; that’s why I requested the time off. There was a lead I wanted to follow up on.”

The Abbott raised an eyebrow at that, his hands lifting from where they’d rested on the desk, forming a cradle beneath his chin instead. “... why didn’t you tell me this? Perhaps I could have been of assistance; Light knows that if you were seeking out danger, I should have at least liked to have been aware of it. Was it something that Confessor von Diehl wanted to keep between you two?” The man’s voice was quiet, but there was a sense of palpable disappointment there, his gaze a bit cooler as he watched her intently.

Lisbet found herself suddenly discomfited, her hand lifting to rub the back of her neck. “No, certainly not. He … didn’t know either. I know his reputation is a bit tarnished, Abbott, but Ludovick would never discourage my involvement with the Church.”

The Abbott frowned. “I see. So you opted to do … whatever it was you were doing … without anyone's knowledge? Sister Wheeler, that’s-... not really an improvement.”

Lisbet’s lips twitched in a small frown. It took every ounce of willpower she possessed, not to let her shoulders rise defensively; she allowed herself the relief of looking away from his face, though, her eyes settling on an old book which rested on the edge of the man’s desk. She cleared her throat. “I know. It was … foolish, of me, I realize this now, but… I -- I needed the time to myself. It had been over a year, since my last… opportunity, to be alone.” Her gaze fixed on the book, Lisbet fell very still, reluctant to elaborate.

She didn’t need to. Both of his eyebrows lifted, and the man’s frown became a bit deeper, his eyes crinkling with worry. “Far be it for me to tell you how to manage your affairs, Sister, but that seems … an excessively long time, doesn’t it?”

The woman offered a slight jerk of her chin, as close to a nod as he was likely to get. “It -- had been a while, yes.” Her voice was quiet, and she finally lifted her gaze to meet his, if reluctantly.

Encouraged by the gesture, Foster nodded. “I realize this is a sensitive subject for you, but... if this is how you choose to manage it... you only need to say so, and I’ll grant you leave to do what you must. Only tell me, and I will see that you have what is required. You don’t have to justify it behind other tasks.”

Lisbet’s expression was withdrawn in that moment, though her chin jerked in understanding, her hands tight about her arms, shoulders near her ears. The Abbott shook his head, letting the subject fall away as he sat a little straighter in his chair. “May I ask what, exactly, was the nature of this … lead?”

Lisbet grew still beneath his gaze forehead furrowing. With reluctance, she met his eyes firmly, clearing her throat. “The man who we suspect is behind Sir Dawnhammer’s malady … was recorded as being dead. But it is my experience that such sorts of people don’t tend to stay dead, so I thought it was prudent … to investigate the matter.”

“To... investigate.” He repeated, an eyebrow raised. “And how, precisely, did you do that-?”

“I… traveled north, to his grave, in Alterac. And… I made certain that he lay within it.”

Abbott Foster stared blandly at her. “How… did you do that…?”

“I… I dug him up, sir.”

There was a long, drawn out silence between them. Abbott Foster stared, nonplussed, as if unwilling or unable to believe what he’d just been told. Her let his hands slip from beneath his chin to rest, palm down, on the desk. “You… you robbed a grave, Sister Wheeler-? Am I … understanding this correctly?”

Lisbet’s eyebrows lofted; her chin jerked in a denial. “Oh, no, I didn’t take anythi-...” She froze, features distant for a second. Her eyes widened a little as she looked back to the Abbott, a bit cowed. “...I didn’t take anything from within the grave, Abbott, I would never --”

“Oh, not from within the grave, that’s -- that’s much better, I suppose. What did you take, Sister?” His voice had grown quite cold and the Acolyte visibly withered beneath the force of his displeasure, biting her lip, hand tugging at the end of her hair rather harder than it had only moments before.

“Flowers, Abbott; there was… there was a strange bouquet at the grave. I -- I dug him up, I made sure he was there, I made sure it was him, and then I re-buried him and … and I took the flowers, because they were odd, I thought they might mean something --”

“I see.” Foster’s voice held an edge to it, but his expression was flat -- whatever displeasure he felt, he’d bitten it back again, making a faint gesture for her to continue.

She closed her eyes for several long seconds, gathering her composure, letting her features clear. “... having -- having determined that the man still had adherents, but remained in his grave, I returned to visit Confessor von Diehl on my way back to Stormwind, knowing… that he might know the meaning of such a strange bouquet - and that he would allow me to use his facilities, before I returned to the Cathedral. It seemed … prudent. When I was clean again, he confronted me about the flowers -- wanted to know if my suitor was a corpse or simply stupid. That’s…” Lisbet paused, reluctant, her hand rubbing the back of her neck. The Abbott watched her intently, but waited, gaze impossible to read.

“... that’s when I told him what I’d done.” She finished the thought, looking down at the desk. “He didn’t like it, either. He told me that if he hadn’t considered Hubaan’s adherents a threat before, he surely did now that I’d disturbed the grave -- it was stupid, I know, I was impulsive and foolish and I’ve put us all in danger, and Abbott, I fear that the timing at which my case files went missing is the very same day I disturbed that grave, the two may be related --”

She let out a sudden huff of breath, eyes squeezing closed. “I - I’m sorry. It was a bad choice. I didn’t know… what the consequences might be. And then when we were attacked in his home, I thought … I thought it must have been whoever left the flowers -- they meant things, Abbott, they meant … admiration, mourning, ‘my regret follows you to the grave’ -- they were absolutely left by his followers, I was right, even if I was wrong in how I went about it; there’s something here, something hidden in plain sight -- … why did they leave her here, for so long? If they still wanted her, they could take her easily; they’d only have had to whisk her away, she comes and goes as she pleases, I was the only one watching her. Is she not interesting, anymore?”

Her hands twitched over one another, nervous, unsettled, and she drew her eyes toward Abbott Foster, who continued to regard her with inscrutable intent. Lisbet continued, determined to finish the thought.

“Why wouldn’t they simply have killed her, rather than leaving a loose end? Something isn’t right, isn’t adding up.”

Foster was silent for a long moment, then. When he spoke, however, his voice was patient, almost gentle, as if speaking to a child.

“... Sister Wheeler, you are out of your depth.” The Abbott paused, watching her not unkindly as he seemed to gather his thoughts. His head bowed when he continued, regret lacing the words. “You should never have become involved with this in the first place, because you lack the expertise to recognize when you’re about to make a mistake; how could you have known? And as it stands, now that you’ve involved yourself you have placed yourself, your ward, the Confessor -- even this very Church -- in grave danger, and at unnecessary risk.”

However gently they might have been spoken, the words struck her as if he’d slapped her across the face -- made all the worse because he was right, and she knew he was right. Lisbet went rigid where she sat, feeling as though she’d been kicked in the ribs; a deep sense of unworthiness wriggled in the pit of her stomach. She would not cry, would not show her pain, because he was right, and she deserved to hear it.

Abbott Foster’s expression was compassionate as he continued to watch her. “Sister … I know that you did what you did because you believed it was necessary; I know your intentions have never been anything but correct. But you are too sheltered, too ignorant, to pursue this.” His expression firmed somewhat, lips tugging into a deep frown. “You have consistently refused any opportunity to become less so; we both know that you’ve held yourself back. I have wanted more for you, Lisbet -- but it must be your choice.”

The man straightened in his chair, his fingers lacing together as he considered her, lips thin. “I can’t have an Acolyte who places the Church in danger, Sister. I can’t have an Acolyte who robs graves, who breaks laws because they are inconvenient, who desecrates holy ground without respect for the dead. Lisbet, do you understand the position you’ve put me in-?”

He searched her features, and the priest found herself holding preternaturally still, barely breathing, fear cold as ice lancing through her middle. They were going to cast her out. She would be excommunicated, made to leave the Church, to give up the only life she’d known that wasn’t terror and blood and violence … her face was frozen; she couldn’t move, expression rigid, skin beginning to tingle, a faint buzzing in her ears.

No -- please no, something inside of her begged, but she held perfectly still, as if by doing so she might forestall the inevitable. Like a hare in the grass, motionless, as the hawk descended…

“... which is why I ask you, now, to make a choice, Lisbet. An Acolyte would be dismissed -- but a Lay-Priest would be corrected, I think. Four months doing funerary duties, to re-discover veneration for the deceased, to know compassion for those who mourn them; on a probationary basis, and excluded from your casework. It was an overabundance of dedication to one task which lead you to err, Sister; you will broaden your horizons, because you must, to become better than your mistakes. Or … you will leave the Church -- that, too, is an option. There are many who would gladly make use of your skills as they are; your compassion and connection to the Light are notable, and will serve you well, no matter your choice.

“But I cannot allow you to remain as you are: an Acolyte, stunted. You know enough to be dangerous, but not enough to be wise. I didn’t want to force this on you, but you’ve left me no alternative. I am sorry.”

The silence which followed was deafening.

Lisbet sat in absolute stillness, as though by not breathing, she could undo the words he’d said, make the choice he’d offered disappear into the nether. Her hands rested loosely atop her legs, lacking even the conviction to grip one another; the acolyte could hear her pulse, heavy, through the thin hum which whined in her eardrums. In that moment, the knowledge of her heartbeat was unwelcome, unwanted -- a confirmation that she was alive, and that the thing which was happening was quite real.

Abbott Foster met her gaze steadily, his eyes sympathetic on her. He had known, even as he’d said the words, that she would not take them well; but sometimes Compassion meant being kind enough to choose unkindness, Respect was gently nudging the bird from its nest. Tenacity -- withstanding the look on her face, as she felt the world fall away beneath her feet. The man waited patiently, watching her; it was an echo of a moment which had taken place before she’d left for her ill-fated journey. They’d watched each other then, until he had relented, leaving aside his misgivings about Ludovick von Diehl and allowing her to make what choices she would.

Whatever he might have felt about the Scarlet Confessor, they did not play into his thoughts now; it bore watching, of course. The last thing Abbott Foster wanted or needed was a repeat of the Taladreth incident -- Light only knew that that had been an unmitigated disaster, one which had culminated in the druid’s attempt to abduct the acolyte. Even so, she had been younger, then, barely more than a frightened teenager; she didn’t need looking after as she had in those days. Her choices were her own, in a way they could not have been then.

Finally, Lisbet breathed, sinking into the chair with the expression of one condemned. The naked fear in her eyes was difficult to contend with, yet he knew he was doing right by her, despite it.

“I … I would remain as a member of the Church, Abbott.” Her voice was hushed, almost strangled. Her face had gone pale, her eyes glassy. “But please -- please, don’t take my casework from me; Abbott, they need me. Please don’t do this.”

Foster bowed his head, eyes closing a moment. “It is only temporary, Sister; I am sorry, but it is a necessary measure. You need this, and if I allow you to continue your work, then I am doing you a disservice -- and by extension, those who you would help as well. You are not the only one capable of caring for the poor, Lisbet. Have faith in your Brothers and Sisters, and do your penance in grace and gratitude for the Light’s justice -- and the Light’s mercy. Once the time is up, we will discuss your further assignations, though I don’t doubt you will return to casework as you’ve an undeniable competence for it.

“Now. As far as your promotion goes, there are some caveats -- you are free to change your mind about this, if you feel the need to do so after I explain. As a Lay-Priest of the Cathedral, you are no longer bound to live in the Dormitories like an Acolyte would be; you will receive a small stipend from the Church, and your services administering last rites to those who have passed will be compensated as well, though I must warn you, you will not find yourself overly comfortable with the salary provided.

“With this, it is my expectation that you will find quarters elsewhere, Sister Wheeler. In the interest of allowing you more freedom than you’ve typically sought, and as a necessary part of your growth and development. You will always be welcome within these walls, Sister, but … it is time for you leave the nest, now. You are no longer an Acolyte, once we draw up the paperwork here, and it is not appropriate for you to live as one; it would be disruptive, I feel.”

Lisbet stared at him dumbly, her eyes wide and unseeing; Foster paused, and she allowed a brief nod to signify she’d heard him, though her thoughts were careening at a thousand steps a second, scarcely able to comprehend what was being said. Leave the dormitories…? Stipend…?

“As well, because of the danger you’ve found yourself in, I will require that you engage in combat training; you will do so alongside Sir Donovan and Squire Margrethe. I am aware that there was an incident between you three, and I find that this course of should resolve that trouble nicely; there will be no further sucker punches. You will all get along like the adults you are, and work together to train and practice.”

Lisbet continued to nod, though the words weren’t penetrating her thoughts at all, her hand beginning to shake where she clutched at the fabric of her skirts. Still, after a moment, she looked down rather stupidly to her left arm. “... I … I will need to get this -- properly fixed, before I can use it in any … any real capacity,” she managed to whisper in a hoarse voice.

Foster nodded, expression thoughtful. “True enough. I’ll have Sister Yrethe take a look at it today, and see what her recommendations are, though I’m sure you’ve assessed the situation accurately; if it needs to be opened up, we’ll allow two weeks for it to heal fully, and then see about having you take up combat training with the addendum that your left arm is to be used only sparingly until it is recovered to full strength.”

Her stomach lurched a little and she nodded again. Abbott Foster rose, moving past her to rummage about in a drawer, a small smile on his kindly features as he hummed beneath his breath; Lisbet sat where she was, rooted the spot. She wasn’t certainly she could have moved even if he’d asked it of her, the shock rippling down her spine, choking the air from her lungs. He returned all too quickly, and in his hands there was a folder -- she recognized her own name written in tidy lettering at the top of it. He placed it on his desk, thumbing through it before making a satisfied sound as he pulled out a rather fine, if not entirely fresh, piece of parchment.

Lisbet gazed at it, uncomprehending, as Abbott Foster marked the date in small, tidy letters at the bottom of the page. At its top were the words ‘Ordained’ and ‘Lay Priest’; how long had he had it?

Foster signed with a flourish, and pushed the page across the desk to her, offering an encouraging smile.

She stared at him, motionless. The man waited patiently, seeming unperturbed by her staring, until at last Lisbet could do nothing else but to pick up the pen … and slowly, falteringly, mark her name; it was an eternity of penmanship, her lettering unsteady, like a child’s writing. She felt like she was going to be sick, but at last she finished, dotting the ‘i’ and crossing the ‘t’ in her name.

“... I suppose you’ll want to forgo the ceremony-?”

Lisbet nodded vehemently, unable to meet his eye.

“Alright. This time, then -- but the next, you will need to face it. I know I am pushing you beyond what you’re comfortable with; I’m sorry, that it has to be so. I hope you will come to agree with me, that it was necessary, but I don’t expect to be forgiven any time soon.”

There was a wry edge to his voice that she found, in that moment, to be grating. She felt a flash of anger, and it jerked through her like lightning over ice. Abruptly, Lisbet rose to her feet, pushing the chair back with a scrap wood against stone. “Are we finished here, Abbott-? I suppose I’ve got to go pack my things, since I am not to stay in the Dormitories any longer.” Her tone was cold, just a little bit flat, and when she met his eyes her expression was stony.

Maddeningly, Foster was unaffected, only offering a slightly sad smile as he inclined his head. “As you will, Lay-Priest; well… one moment, please.” He rifled through a drawer at his desk, beginning to scrawl a short note, which he promptly folded and handed to her. “Bring this to the Bursar’s office; you will receive a bonus for your promotion, which should… help, to allow you to obtain new residence. Light bless you, Sister. You’ll begin your new duties tomorrow.”

Lisbet accepted the page stiffly, offering a curt nod before turning to flee the office.

[ @pretendlives  for Abbott Foster, @ludovickvondiehl , @theresolute for Sir Dawnhammer ]

[paladerp]

Dyna’s Blogroll

It’s that time again, folks! Who the hell am I, and what the hell characters do I play? Today you’ll find out!

Felicie Moreau; scientist, accountant, a woman with no face Follow me if you want: creepy aesthetic, plants, vaguely ominous non-specific quotes, character introspection pieces - grainsofash.tumblr.com Expect to Find: Antagonistic interactions, judgmental staring, haughty quips; odds of friendships developing? Low. Odds of romance much lower. Possible RP Hooks: Do you want a tabloid article written about you? Are you looking for a rare plant or botanical reagent? Do you offer specialized goods or services? Can you obtain useful items or books?

Lisbet Wheeler; priest of the Cathedral, caseworker, clandestine werewolf Follow me if you want: Holy inspiration, bullshitted prayers, nature, worgen aesthetic, occasional stories or snippets of RP, occasional schmoopy shippy shit, positive affirmations galore - loampriest.tumblr.com Expect to Find: A friendly, patient, gentle priest who will listen to anyone and offer her assistance unflinchingly; a practical, slightly folksy bumpkin with a positive attitude; odds of friendship are high, romance? Attached already. Possible RP Hooks: Do you read @breakfast-inquiry ? There was an awful salacious article you might have read -- Light only knows Lisbet’s reputation deserves to suffer for it! Are or were you a down-on-your-luck citizen who received aid from the Cathedral? Perhaps Lisbet worked with you. Do you just need someone to talk to? Lisbet’s a champion listener!

Dolores ‘Dolly’ Keates, or ‘Keates’; not-a-priest turned paladin, sailor and ship’s medic, mercenary, soldier, Knight Follow me if you want: Sailor and soldier aesthetics, occasional writing - her blog is pretty sparse right now, not an active character; theironpriestess.tumblr.com Expect to Find: A pragmatic, responsible, cheerful woman with flexible morality and a penchant for buggering Dreadlords to death with the Light. She may or may not cry during battle. Easily befriends others, romantically unavailable; she loves that one-eyed panda lady to pieces. Possible RP Hooks: Not currently an active character, but for the future - Kul’tiran acolyte gone privateer, frequent social drinker, MIA member of the Sable Sun Company, currently on Argus; any of these could be a reason to have been familiar with Keates!

Sir Odynae ‘Dyna’ Dawnhammer, The Resolute; an ugly woman with more scars than skin, a champion of the Light, a Knight of Stormwind; a broken ward of the Church, a skeletal, pathetic creature who sweeps the Cathedral; an unsettling figure with eyes that don’t blink as often as they should, that don’t see what’s before them, one foot in what’s real, the other a thousand miles away. Follow me if you want: Snippets of writing, scar aesthetics, roleplay nostalgia, knight lady inspiration, mourning inspiration; not an active character. theresolute.tumblr.com Expect to Find: A physically powerful, emotionally intense woman with an intensely haunted past; an untrusting, stand-offish knight with little regard for what lies beyond what she sees as her Duty. A woman who sweeps the Cathedral and won’t let anyone touch her hat; she’s ugly and poorly groomed and seems touched in the head. Possible RP Hooks: Not currently an active character, but for the future - she’s been around in roleplay from Wrath to mid-MOP, she was involved in a whole lot of shit in Ye Olden Days. If you frequented Icecrown from MOP to partway through WOD, you might have encountered her in a self-imposed exile, purging Undead. If you’ve frequented the Cathedral Square from the end of WOD to present, you might have seen her sweeping - she spends a lot of time in the Crypts for some reason.