#Maraxxes

[storykeeper-wra]

“Can’t sleep?”

The sudden question rattled her from the stupor she had been in, eyes taking a moment to refocus before nodding, “Troubling dreams... Or I imagine they’d be called nightmares, hm?”

@maraxxes

[maraxxes-blog]

What A Gentleman Warlock Must Do

It had been a while, but Maraxes Cervantes D’Mort still remembered the dance.

Of leylines, that is. And which to probe just at the right coordinates to make them sing the right locale. It was his last inheritance as a Bookeeper for a long broken Circle, and he wasn’t just ready to close what gathered history was there away. Not that he’d ever really be. Not really. The Scion’s histories were a part of him just as the Shadowblade was. A part of him that his daughter would never likely get to see herself, Lightbringer that she’d become. A good many things would end when he’d pass on his deathbed, he knew, and he would be glad for most of them to be over with as long as Sara was secure. But a part of the aging Histor yearned to pass on this part of his life to one who would make good use of it.

Tapping on the magic of the rune, he was the key that unlocked the teleportation into that hidden alcove of the forbidden. It was feeling right more than it had that morning. Likely because the head was screaming when he’d left it after reintroducing it to a sliver of its originating soul. Now a certain quiet had taken over, and watching the Gravekeeper’s head float peacefully in its containment jar made the Warlock feel more confident about having taken it, hidden it away like some grotesque treasure.

It had been a lucky fetch, even, still finding the head present at the gravesite where it’d been relieved of its shoulders in Brill, still intact. Easy enough to convince ‘conquering’ Alliance he had found himself a trophy of some Forsaken scum. The animated hand that he’d guessed to be the body’s familiar was actually quite helpful, even giving it its own notebook and writing utencil to communicate effectively. It now excitedly scribbled a greeting out on the notebook for Maraxes as he came in approach. Strangely charming.

“Heh, hey there. Everything in order?”

YES!! Mr. Clancy scribbled with large text, bold exclamation points, shown off proudly. SHE IS AWAKE. NEW BODY FOUND? The head itself was watching the hand write with a quiet, somber gaze that did not move from the paper.

“Hey, hey now,” the Warlock urged with a semi halting show of hands. “We’re doing this one step at a time. Does she know?” He attempted to speak directly to the now reanimated head, of who’s sliver of soul he’d had in safekeeping for the past five years. “Do you remember who I am, Lady Annaliese?” The title of Gravekeep her mistmatched excuse of a corpse had been going by was the role she had conformed to, but he had known her as so much more.

The small pinpoints of light that had manifested in her eye sockets were regarding him now, giving only a nod.

MARAXUS DELAURAC, SON OF BASTION DELAURAC. The hand wrote with confirmation.

The Warlock winced. “‘D’Mort’, I don’t hold the name of my father, but...yes. He was the bastard that made your life a hell, Lady Anna. And I swore I would make up for all he has done. And protect you.” He started a knowing smile in the numb look she was fixing on him. “Not that you’ve been making that easy. Do you know you’ve managed to split your soul into three halves?” Chuckling, he moved over to change the writing paper for Mr. Clancy, to assure the draining plugs on the head’s holding tank were not leaking, keeping her from suffering the nature of decomposition. “We’re going to try to put you back together, best we can.” He spoke with the all the friendly musing of a physician, but what remained of Annaliese Handhour in that moment seemed to care less either way. “You’ll feel better once you’re more...yourself.” He assured the head warmly as he could.

MR. CLANCY CAN GO FIND BODY PARTS!! Wrote the hand again with its excited punctuation. He had to appreciate the familiar’s eagerness, agrin.

“I’m sure you could, but no we need to do this smartly. Not just slap some pieces back together and fit Lady Anna on them. We’re a little more considerate than the Forsaken here. She’ll just be falling apart all over the place again, which you know. Kind of defeats the purpose of doing any of this.” Flipping through his rolodex of names of both the profane and esteemed he’d collected, he took a note of some possible contacts that might help assist in such an endeavor. 

“We’ll need some specialized help, I’m thinking.”

{ Referencing @gravekeeper-anna... For those that might be interested to know... @nixalegos, @sanguinesorceress, @duraxxor @storykeeper-wra @autumnblade-sorrows }

[gravekeeper-anna]

9. If they were to make a timeline with their life events, which ones would they list? Which would they leave out?

“You wish to know what made a Gravekeep?” A haunting chuckle preluded the resting of her spade. The figure stoops, sits, her ‘skirt’ of Lost of Lordaeron regathering about her. She removes her gauntlets, spreading out her thin, spindly fingers. There is no piano where she sits in the ruin she’s found herself at tonight, but Lady Handhour remembers familiar melody, and her chorus of spectral hosts hum it as she ‘plays’. Their ghostly symphony turns her pale lips in a smile. “Thank you, my darlings. Let me see…”

-  Her first recital on piano at the age of 7, 8, received by applause. “It was the first time I felt recognized. Real. Not some doll made to be quiet and looked at.”

- Being ushered out of Gilneas by her mother on the announcement of the construction of the Greymane Wall. “Is it strange I still remember my life before death? I couldn’t tell you their names now, but mother made us leave my father and sister behind. I remember it seemed the saddest point in my young life.”

- The discovery of Dalaran, and her beginnings to training in the magical arts, once her mother gave permissions. “Mmm. Magic. That, city. It was a thrill, and quite the little distraction to the sadnesses in life.”

- First selling one of her paintings in Dalaran. “Ah now. My overbearing mother let me have some sense of power with my own bank. I remember feeling my own person for the very first time. And I’d always wanted to be an artist. Piano was what Mother groomed me to learn, but it was never the fantasy. I believe I was…oh I don’t know. 16-17? The timeline honestly eludes me, just a bit. Undeath does things do you, you know.”

- Marriage. “It was arranged of course, to a rich boy that owned land in Hillsbrad. Aiden Blackwell was his name. We grew to love each other rather quickly. A good man.” A chuckle. “He let me keep my own name.”

- Dalaran’s Fall. “And that was a little disaster, wasn’t it? The Legion, if I’m correct? Playing with magic that shouldn’t be? It was a mess. And the mess mother managed to expire in. No, I didn’t die yet. And oh, I was terribly sad of course. But I think I was also rather…excitable in the days afterward. I was truly free.”

- Aiden’s death. Her imagined piano playing began to slow here with the recollection, and the phantoms quieted with some respect. “After Dalaran’s fall, it was just a year or so that I came home to the stead, and our manor was on fire. With…them in it. My husband. My daughter. I think I died of heartbreak that day.”

More playing, the chorus of ghostlings rise to imitate melody once more. She refuses to speak of the event here, to acknowledge it, the meeting and temptation of Bastion Delaurac, the sacrifice of her unborn child that was the step to the Path of power, and vengeance. The mistake. The grievance. It does not need to go spoken. Acknowledging the mistake gives it power.

- Stormwind.  “I managed to survive Arthas’ siege of Lordaeron, and find my sanctum in another city. Studied, prepared myself, defended myself. It was all I had. I made friends in the right places, of course.”

The playing continues in silence, the ghostly symphony more percussion, a rush of whispered chants. Friends, had become cult in those days, and she does not speak again of the Scions of Darkness, though the cult had propelled her in all she had known of magic. Too many mistakes she desired to erase. It had been the wrong path, and deserved no mentioning. But some names, faces of those days still knew the name of Anna Handhour, and she could not dissuade them so easily, were she confronted. ( @telonial, @s-p-giffy }

- Undeath. “I originally was raised by…a love at the time. Inadvertantly. But it was certainly life-changing the first time. Still, I adapted easily, and I was content. Love can be damning, but people can muster a lot when they are in love, and loved in return.” {@niklosadamant }

- The Sha: “I fell again when the Sha consumed me. I admit, I was weak. I was separated from the body that was infested, and left to haunt the heart of the one who loved me. I was his humanity, I believe. Until I wasn’t needed anymore.”

- Abandoned and Stolen: “And so I was abandoned to…move on. But I did not. Fate decided I would be made to haunt the Ghostlands. What transpired with what remained of my body did not so much connect with me until I agreed to be remade.”

- Constructed: “I can’t even begin to tell you how many were involved with bringing me back to the fold, but I am here. And…for the most part in their debt.” { @sanguinesorceress, @nixalegos, @duraxxor, @silvertonguedaggermaw @maraxxes }

“In any event, I do believe our story time is at an end. Until next time….”

{ @videtur-existentia and @ms-winford - thank you :) }

[safrona-shadowsun]

🐇- For a secret item they keep (stuffed animal, comfort object, etc)

{Force my muse to spill their secrets.}

A single page from an old Grimoire given to her by its Keeper very recently, Lord Maraxxes D’Mort. It is printed in Demonic, and seems to outline a certain procession of words spoken through a ritualistic gathering. The page has no other use than to remind Safrona of past ties and the lesson of blinding oneself too much in devotion to another’s words.

D’Mort had never been as subtle a Warlock, leaving it so casually on the counter of her office. She pauses as she turns to face her visitor, meeting the eye of the one that eyes its dog-eared corner beneath a package of bottled wine. A subtle move of adjustment covers the page entirely, bringing little attention to what is beneath. 

“Are you here for an acquisition?” The professional’s smile blooms assertively.

{ Thank you, @nocturnedreaming! }

[nixalegos]

Schemes and Skeletons

He sat next to a display of hologram projections, scattered papers, and an ashtray that should have been emptied hours ago. Dissatisfied as ever, he brooded on the ‘project’ the enigmatic human D’Mort had pulled him into. But it had been nothing but set backs, delays. Totally unlike the top down style of management he so preferred. Despite his insistence to others he was a consultant as a profession he ruminated upon the fact...he wasn’t very good at not being in charge. So he had to settle for the worst sort of collaboration. Occultism by committee.

Still, it had introduced him to the necromancer, Savieran Ledrassi, so at least it wasn’t a total waste of time. He plucked up the discreetly taken photos of the...materials that had been brought as supplies by unseen hands.  D’Mort refused to name names, or allow Nix to complain directly to whomever what bringing in the flesh (Totally drained of blood in most cases) and bones (some of truly damaged quality). If the supplicant had made their demands to be merely returned, he doubt he’d of been sought out at all. The ‘improvement’ portion was what he was asked to deliver on, and in that area at least, he’d delivered twice over. He looked at the magical hologram of the Gravekeeper, well, not Anna herself anyway, but the proxy model. Studying the shimmering view of ritually scrimshawed saronite bones, that increase their durability on par with a Knight of Acherus itself. He tapped the display, and moved to the ribbons of muscle and flesh that has been infused with the mineral oil once used by Dark Iron warlords that predated Ragnaros’s forced arrival in Blackrock Mountain. in this, the first trap was laid. Not that any of them would ever know it was sabotaged, because it would work perfectly. She would be as durable as iron, with skin like silk that would stave off rot like water over a river rock. He looked away from the display to the old tattered papers, the story of how those original Dark Irons had died. He smiled at the irony of how to stop the unstoppable, and remarked upon the oldest adage in the books. Never raise up, what you alone cannot put down. The whole project stank really, so his traps were necessary. D’Mort couldn’t be trusted, the hired help was clearly enjoying the grim task of supplying far too much, and Ledrassi... Well he was positive Ledrassi had their own schemes afoot. He was seemingly just as keen on details as himself, given the near artistry the necromancer displayed in handling dead flesh. So he couldn’t rule it out. No one took up necromancy and didn’t develop a taste for scheming. So he’d built his second trap into her form. His insurance that she wasn’t being made as a tool of war, nor thanklessly posted in Blighted Lordaeron til even the dead went quiet alongside their Grim Warden. His gift to the being known as Anna was a curse. From a certain point of view.  A touch of fel. Written into her very bones. An extra rune at the end of each durability chain. Symbols were words, and words, even softly spoken, had power. The gift of fel wasn’t cruelty, and while many described it as chaos, or disorder, it was exactly what she’d need. Something to break up the machine like duty the Gravekeeper was being built for. Nor would it be a compulsion, given the smothering nature of necromana. Just a spark of a suggestion, a wisp of longing for more. A dwarven rune of protection for hearth and home, made sense for a being who others assumed would come back with shovel in hand to safeguard the dead. But seen with a twist, and that word was transformed.  Wanderlust.

Sure, maybe months or even years would go by, but that little spark would settle alongside her soul, and compel them, if only for a little while each time it ignited, to see more then dead skies and poisoned earth. To experience. To walk. Maybe duty would pull them back after a time, sure. But everytime she’d walk, she’d be a little freer of those heavy bonds. This was the weakest set of teeth upon his trap, as Ledrassi or D’Mort might notice the unnecessary addition, and recognize the corruption, but unless they had ANOTHER full body to move the project over, they’d have to settle with starting over, and risk Anna to fade utterly. 

It was a calculated gambit, that might even compete with schemes the others had set to work into the poor woman, but he nodded, assuring himself it would work so long as the others did as he expected. If they sought to keep her shackled, then she’d be free. If any of them had also subtly designed means for her to be her own person... He frowned at the thought. No, he had to assume ill intent, or at least status quo. He was pretty sure none of them wanted to let loose an unstoppable protector (Avenger) of the dead. Right?

@gravekeeper-anna​  @duraxxor  @sanguinesorceress @silvertonguedaggermaw, and @maraxxes

[en123]

Ah, what a surprise when you ship a rare ship and lo and behold, it’s canon. Well, Shaxx is smitten with Mara and is so adorable. Here I was shipping em cause it was adorable and they had no connection but ah, what a nice Dawning gift! Ah I love you Bungie! Thanks for Maraxx~ I am a very happy Warlock.

[roselyn-ravenblade]

Umber - Who do you call your friend? How many Friends do you have?

For a long moment, Roselyn didn’t have an answer to the question. All she could remember were the faces she lost in Gilneas, and how she had tried to move on from what had been so hard to form in the first place, at times. It didn’t hurt so much anymore, but it was hard to find reason to connect anew again. 

“I dunno…” she trailed off very softly, her brush leaving the canvas as she legitimately tried to bring up new faces that had tried to be kind to her. Names toppled from her lips in slow, unraveling murmurs, “Miss Miriam maybe…? But haven’t seen ‘er in a time…? Lord D’Mort, though same’s quite true ‘bout him. And.. Knight Mares …m’fraid the war’s taken him.” Roselyn peered down at her hands as she exhaled a little shakily.

“Sister Mary Clarents when I can… stand t’be in the Cathedral anymore. Mmf…” The young Gilnean changed out paints and returned her attention to the easel to try to work through more words, names. “Mister….Ash really saved my life. I…s’ppose that could be a friend? Though I…eheh….don’t even know if I ‘ave his name quite right. And I’ve tried to write Mister Reising…think we’d get along all right but…”

Her lips pursed together guiltily. “Just….sort’ve thinking I’m a bad friend t’have.”

{ Thanks for the ask, @dardillien-ward! With mentions of @miriam-surick, @maraxxes, @thehumbleknight, @asharinhun and @natereising }

[kindlelovers]

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Phoenix Assistant DA Clara Alvera calls #Detective Lori Sanchez in the middle of the night to report the gruesome murder of her friend—a reporter named Josie Vale. The reporter was onto a #story about counterfeit prescription #drugs and the powerful Maraxx Pharma Corporation. Sanchez vows to protect the only witness named Lolita, a young gymnast.

As Sanchez builds her case, she learns that members of a local gang are perpetrating murder and trafficking fake pharmaceuticals. The Sinaloa Cartel—Sanchez’s old nemesis—is deeply involved. But how? And why do dead bodies keep turning up to block her investigation?

Available on #Amazon Kindle

Grab your copy now!

[demais-po-teu-bico]

Had to share this @WeHeartIt http://weheartit.com/entry/185978444/via/maraxx

[gravekeeper-anna]

Constructed

The incessant drip of fluid. The clang of metal. The drilling, the pull of flesh here, the stapling there. Words became jumbled masses of mumbling and argument, sinking below the tide of wakefulness.

The foundation of her skeleton had been reworked thrice with the bonding of saronite, lukewarm skin grafted to smoothness upon freshly dead flesh by expert hands. Every certainty was taken in assuring the body would be in working order, a project all could be proud of.

And yet, for all the hard work of the contributing hands, schematics, reworking and planning, the Gravekeep's head stared off into vacant space as it moved to suggested movement, no more than an empty mannequin acting under a cheap cantrip spell of animation.

Sentience had disappeared in the unlit sockets of her eyes. Maraxes tried his best to look impressed by the work done, but his smile was curdled milk. "Heh, well...looks good, yeah?"

Over the weeks, the singular spirit that had been the head's connection to the outside world, had dissipated. The spark that had animated the Gravekeep had withered, wherever it was that it had come from.

Her spade begun to fade in its necromantic glow, until the runes died one eve. A shovel soon, was nothing but a shovel. Despite this, the sad mrowl of a fel-scarred tom sounded, curling up close to the metal and wood of what once was familiar sanctum.

"Anna...?" Lord D'Mort asked the doll that had been reconstructed, and she turned to hear the voice, silent and empty, awaiting basic instruction. Uncharacteristically somber, he wondered if there had been anything left of Lady Handhour in the first place. Frustrated, all the time and effort suddenly seemed a waste.

"...yeah. I dunno. Maybe. Maybe it's time to bury her, guys. I’m out of resources and ideas."

The yowl of the black, fel-tainted cat was deep and angry as the Warlock reached for the Gravekeeper’s spade. The familiar, at the very least, was not ready to give up.

{ @duraxxor @sanguinesorceress @maraxxes @nixalegos @silvertonguedaggermaw }

[gravekeeper-anna]

October Writing Challenge 2019

Day 14/15:  Resurrection / Paranoia / Woods / Near Death

Character: Gravekeeper, aka Lady Handhour

"You should have let me die..." Eerie light filled her own eye sockets again, the ghost of her voice now tied to the vibration of reconstructed vocal chords, giving it gravity. The banshee had been the remnant that was the final component of the Gravekeeper, giving the husk its autonomy. Resurrected into flesh and bone, no matter how carefully planned and constructed, it felt like a cage of impending death containing her. Another inevitable way to be cut down. The runed spade awaited her grasp, but Lady Handhour only stared frigidly on it, hesitant in her rise of paranoia. The Lost of Lordaeron had flooded her with the imagery of what she was torn apart for, and the state of disarray among abandoned Forsaken. The creaking wood of the Ghostlands seemed to mock it all. "To what end, do I do this?"

A dead kingdom? An abandoned people? 

“For you,” was the eventual, simple answer.

A delicate looking teacup was offered, and her fingers came up to clutch around it with at first, tenderness. Smooth and sculpted like the shell of her skin, she was surprised to see that it could not be so easily crushed, no matter how she tried to break it in her powerful hands. She could not begin to decipher all the technique that went into the construction of the form now molded to her originating head, but it was clear the same technique had remade the beautifully designed teacup.

A breath rattled from wet lips, blinking under the pelting rain. She reached at last for the spade, the final part of herself.

“For me,” she agreed, beginning to feel the power in those words, and in the shell of the flesh.

{ @turning-through-the-never​ - thank you again for starting this challenge! Tagging @duraxxor​, @sanguinesorceress​ @nixalegos​ @maraxxes​ and @silvertonguedaggermaw​ for canon association to the Gravekeeper’s resurrection. >:) }

[gravekeeper-anna]

Left Foot, Right Foot

Part 1

Hands. Arms. Legs. Feet. Bones. The tactile sensation of moving felt unwieldy, but as the reconstructed Gravekeeper traversed the crypts below Karazhan, she became more accustomed. Lord D'Mort was her constant guide as ever, ready with a hand at her back should she have stumbled.

Saronite-boned and fully armored, she worried she would crush the Warlock by weight alone if she teetered too far; Maraxes looked delicate by comparison to the vrykul body painstakingly pieced together for her.

Lord D'Mort of course only replied with amusement. "Doing better, Anna. Motor functions are a doozy, huh? It'll all click though as long as you keep those bones moving. Bet it actually feels good though, yeah? Everything moving in tandem instead of just dragging yourself along like you used too?"

"It..is different," she simply stated, staring into the watery pools that lead into the chamber known as the tomb of the Upside Down Sinners. "Strong. Heavy. But together." A hint of sadness skittered across her face for the dead here that still screamed just below, replaying their tortuous, watery deaths over and over. "Here. I cannot reach them. Bring them home. They don't...they don't even remember their names. It is only death they know. They cannot rest." Lantern- like eyes turned to the Warlock, pleading for explanation, or solution.

Maraxes only clicked his tongue against his teeth. "Yeeeah. They're cursed, hun. Some powerful magic keeps em here. And it'll keep, keeping them here until someone brings this whole place down. Heh. That's not gonna happen."

"Sad." A simple word, but the understanding of a legion of Lost spoke with the Gravekeep, knowing well what it meant to feel trapped, maligned, forgotten and unresolved. She stared there, unmoving, still somewhere hoping to communicate, but no spirit here could hear anything but the hollow sound of submerged chains clanking.

"Okaaaay. Anna." Maraxes snapped his fingers to get the Keeper's attentions. "Hey. Heeey. C'mon. Let's get you back to the others. Put today in the report, see if we're ready to venture out of this spook castle today, yeah?"

Nope. Maraxes recommended already on his notes for the others as he proceeded to find the correct teleportation rune to access the lair where they had toiled to put the Gravekeep together. Will need more days.

{With reference to @maraxxes @nixalegos @silvertonguedaggermaw @duraxxor @sanguinesorceress }

[gravekeeper-anna]

So, I'm curious, how exactly did Anna come back?

{Through the assistance of several personages that felt she was struck from the realm unfairly, or acting under their own personal reasoning. The Gravekeeper’s reconstruction was a long process of collaboration, and perhaps even scheming...but ultimately, it was Anna herself that desired to return, no longer a simple, rather oblivious construct. It simply took her sliver of captured soul to find her way, and want it enough. They guaranteed she will never be torn apart as easily as she was once before.}

Some of the story and planning was detailed in IC fashion in the following excerpts and rp, but there was so much more writing involved. She was a true passion project for me. ;)

The Plan

The Project

Biding

Setbacks

Reconstructed 

Awesome Rp partners that collaborated with me to bring Anna back to life: @duraxxor @nixalegos @sanguinesorceress @silvertonguedaggermaw, and @maraxxes, who is my rl husband’s character that pushed the whole idea in the first place, and translated his character for me to write. I actually had been ready to retire her, but the combination of these wonderful people helped me change my mind. And I’m looking forward to writing her again. ^_^ Thanks for the ask, @khadorek! }

[safrona-shadowsun]

What are you thankful for?

From the Mun:

< I am thankful for my husband, that despite our hardest times, persists to stay by my side. For 18 years, through thick and thin, through my ugliest moments and my best with the utmost love and patience. He is my rock, and my motivating force when I need it, and a laugh when I do too, never treating me less than the queen in his life when I was never looking for a crown in the first place. I am a lucky woman to call him mine, and look forward to the years we'll continue to build together. @maraxxes

< I'm thankful for my kids, who never cease to try and make me laugh, who love and care for me and have persisted and been strong through our hardest times as well. Resilient, talented and more amazing than most would give them credit for, they are mine, and I'm so proud to be their mother.

< I'm so thankful to have a job I am comfortable with, which is a hard thing to have in these days. To have people that I work with be so kind and understanding, and cooperative, to be able to work at home and have so much opportunity while staying flexible for my family life.

< I'm thankful to have the little things I do, even in the uncertainty in my life and the coming time ahead, I have much more than some can manage. I have my health and talent, and I can and will do more to nurture both.

< Lastly, I'm thankful to have you, dear reader, spend the time to read this. I'm thankful for every like, every reblog, every bit of love and attention I get for what I create with this outlet. Thankful for the people that prompt me, and the people that show their interest, people that tag me, thinking of one of my characters of all things in a post. I'm humbled by all the talented writers that choose to write with me, some of which I feel I am so not worthy lol. Tumblr has always treated me so well, and I appreciate it so much.

Happy thanksgiving :3

[nixalegos]

Maraxes waited. He had the patience of the father he needed to become for the past seven years, and he had just the right amount of contacts to bring himself to the Dreadscar Rift. It was an odd balance, trying to explain to a 5 year old that a Felhound was not actually a -dog-, but he'd done well for himself. A little rusty as a demonologist, but he was there. He hoped the Sin'dorei 'Nethermancer' he'd been looking for by name would be too. Preferably without issue.

Somewhere in Dreadscar RiftBeing asked for by name was never something to take lightly, no matter who you were. Especially not -there- of all places, home of the Black Harvest, the meeting grounds of only the most accomplished of occultists. You couldn’t simply get in by wearing felweave and summoning imps. You had to -be- somebody to get there, properly, anyway.And so when word reached him that someone was looking for him by name the quick, but dangerous teleportation spell to that dead world was one filled with questions. Why would one warlock seek out another? They were not, by nature, co-operative creatures, many, if not most bearing more then their fair share of egomania and delusions of grandeur. A possible trade? A ritual that couldn’t be accomplished alone? That wasn’t too uncommon, but then why by name? What would they possibly offer in exchange?So when he was pointed towards the unfamiliar stranger, the hooded one approached with an air of curiosity.“Bala’dash, I’m hearing you’re looking for me. What bit of business might require my attention?” He said while holding out his gauntleted hand.It always paid dividends to being polite among other warlocks. Kept you alive longer, for one.

@maraxxes

[safrona-shadowsun]

IF Safrona Was...

If Safrona was a month: February If Safrona was a day: Sunday If Safrona was a planet: Saturn If Safrona was an animal: Bat If Safrona was god/goddess: Persephone If Safrona was a piece of furniture: Accent Chaise Lounge Chair If Safrona was a gemstone: Shadowruby If Safrona was a flower: Red Orchid If Safrona was a kind of weather: Unpredictable If Safrona was a color: Burgundy If Safrona was an emotion: Composed If Safrona was a fruit: Bloodberry If Safrona was a sound: An Exhale of Breath If Safrona was an element: Shadow If Safrona was a place: Crystalsong Forest If Safrona was a mythological creature: Vampire If Safrona was a taste: A Savory Red Wine If Safrona was a scent: The Scent Of Burning Leaves If Safrona was an object: An Empty Wine Glass If Safrona was a body part: Legs If Safrona was a pair of shoes: Ankle Boots

Tagged By: @renwyck - thank you!

Tagging: @lilthessa @thefirstperished @maraxxes @aranyaphoenix @halenvar @nixnixya @nixalegos @nym-wildseeker @the-felmistress @mremaknu @hmratking @fel-temptation @kat-hawke @elizebella @loveherdekay @erolymun @caladhel-iarian / @calaglin-iarian and anyone else who might like to do this!