#anunendinggaze

[anunendinggaze]

DWC - August - Day 2 - Violence

The noose was tight about his neck, not that it was doing much in the way of ending him. That day had long since passed. A lynching was a far easier end compared to the many years of death Alfred Klaudin had experienced.

His body alone was a testament to the years of service that he had given to both King and dark mistress. He didn't regret serving either of them, he honestly didn't know what it felt like or even if it mattered. Few things gave him any sense of feeling or pleasure. Most of it involved the sly smile of his Dark Lady or the wet feeling on his hands as he snuffed out a life.

These ones might give him that today.

"Swing you rotter!" Came the hoarse call of the man holding the rope, he was much like all the others of his kind in the hills of old Lordaeron. Young, angry, and wearing Scarlet. Or perhaps what they thought was Scarlet. It wasn't like the old days when he fought the radical light maniacs of the north. They had been all the things he just thought of, just better organized and far more deadly. Beside the man were three others, cheering with their own old swords and gear looking almost gleeful in their torture of the Forsaken.

It was fine. He could wait.

"Come on, Thomas," called the hoarse voiced kid again, holding tight to the rope with one of his other companions to keep him aloft as he swung. "Give em a good couple wacks! Then we'll burn him good!"

There was a laugh as another young man strode forward, he held a sturdy axe handle in both hands. He proceeded to give as he was told, each strike true and strong from a good farmhand's back. It felt like nothing as it ever did to Alfred. He merely held still and let them have their fun.

Fun time was solid chunk of time, the minutes passing as they always had in this world he was left too. The Cult of the Damned had been quick to raise their ranks from the dead that littered their path as they stormed throughout the countries pillaging, burning, and reinforcing the Scourge army. It wasn't surprising they'd found his shallow grave a from a few months earlier, nor was it that he took to this life as expected. The living had been good and the times had been grave as he marched with the Prince's army into the elven lands before boarding for the far north. Hunger had been his fuel and the meat had been plentiful.

Slack led to a thump as Alfred crashed into the earth, his bony legs collapsing under the sudden return to his weight as he fell to his battered knees. The rope coiled behind him as the heavy breathing of the gang laughed and cajoled one another at such a good showing. There was nothing from him still as he sat in a pile of bone, dried meat, and rubbish that had been left to him after his capture. They began to circle him.

"Alright, lads, think it's time we get the final cleanse for this fucker," the hoarse one spoke again, his place as their leader well established as he wiped sweat from his brow. He hadn't gotten to use the axe handle as much as his friends, but there was a seedy glow in his eyes at watching the violence done to the Forsaken. "Elios, grab the lantern."

A grunt of acknowledgment was given as he felt one of the warm bodies leave the circle, three left about Klaudin as he sat still as his body should be. The rope was still around his throat but his hands were loose at his sides, they had perhaps hoped he would struggle with the knots to free his breath. Breathing was a forgotten pastime to Alfred.

"Got it, Beren," Elios supplied as he arrived back at his spot before Alfred, the yellow and orange light bask his ruined face for all to see clearly. It also lit up their faces for him to see. Hungry, angry, and vile faces.

Beren took the lantern from Elios and held it aloft, his face the dark mask of sadistic hatred. Perhaps it was bred into him, learned from watching others in this back-country of the north. Maybe it had always been in him since a little boy rounding the wheat fields as he killed vermin or rooted out a nesting pheasant. Or perhaps he was just evil in his core.

It didn't matter to Alfred.

The only thing that did matter is they had left his hands free and it would make this all the more easier as he turned his wrist with a soft crack and pop. Breathers talked to much, laughed too much, and focused too much on their own beating hearts to pay any kind of close attention. It was always his advantage when dealing with them and generally their doom.

Beren had been in monologue, his mates glued to his fervor as they always seemed to be. The man would raise the lantern high as he spoke his final sermon. "And with this fire I do cleanse you, return to hence you came vile creature! We sentence you to the hell you came from and rejoice in the fr-"

"No."

It was the only sound Klaudin had made this whole evening and it rang like a bell in his head as his true power came to be, arm lifting to the side to a strange scraping noise as the foot long piece of rebar slid from within his radius and ulna to his clawed hand. A familiar move and gesture he'd done countless times before in situations with foolhardy creatures, it worked then and worked now. With the iron bar in hand he would swing fast bringing it to strike the lantern with a crash, sending glass and oil splashing about the nearest member of this merry band of torturers.

Elios caught quickly with a scream as he fell back in flames, his makeshift flamed tabard finding it's real mate quickly.

Shocked face had no time to react as the warrior was upon them without another spoken word. In stories, there's banter or words of glory from heroes or villains as they escape terrible situations. Calling out to their captors of how they never stood a chance or they would pay for their crimes in the eyes of whatever god. Alfred Klaudin did not need to stay anything.

His brutality spoke clearly enough for him.

A backhand of the iron bar crashed into the side of Beren's head, an audible crack resounding as he flew a foot and landed in a heap. Crimson aplenty pour from his ear and eye from the blow. The others were starting to react now with two of their comrades down, but Alfred was already shifting his bar again to stab with unyielding strength through the third man's belly. Blunt as the bar may be, it was still a fine piece of metal and wielded by a creature who had no care of how it killed. Only that it did. The iron went easily through soft flesh and out the back as the human screamed in agony to fall on his knees holding the end of the bar.

The final one standing had drawn a knife, it was all he had at quick as he brought it down into the back of Alfred. The blade sunk easily through rotted flesh and into bone, sticking out with what should have been a killing blow. He took a few steps back expecting the Forsaken to fall down, watching with hopeful gulps of air that perhaps he would be the tragic hero in this story. To tell his fellow gang members of how they took down a Forsaken soldier in the name of the Light. As much as he was terrified of his friends' deaths, there was a secret place the looked forward to seeing the praise rain upon him.

All he saw next was the bony clawed fingers flash forward to slash through his eyes and tear his nose off with a sickening slurp of flesh and blood. He could barely scream as the blood flowed down his face, his hands flying up in hopes of staunching the ragged wounds. The wet screams only matched those of Elios and the impaled man, which were growing fainter as the smell of sweet meat would fill the wet night air. There was only a few more moments of screaming before the same knife that was used on Klaudin was rammed through the top of his head ending his pain.

Tim, the impaled man, leaned back on the wet grass hands tight about the iron bar through his stomach as he struggled to wrap his head around what he was witnessing. Beren had never moved again from the blow, Elios was silent now as the flames continued to flick on his body, and Jonas had been mutilated before him. His mouth tasted like copper coins as he moaned from the pain, not sure what to do or what to say to the creature that was hobbling toward him now. He felt cold, but he knew his hands were warm and slick. The undead stopped in front of him, slowly crouching down to stare at him with his empty black eyes.

"Please, I'm sorry," Tim gasped out as he shook in his spot, praying for some kind of mercy from the undead. But it just continued to stare at him, not moving or saying a word. Just watching. And waiting.

It took a long time for Tim to die.

And when he had finally grown cold the grey clouds of morning had begun to burn away. Alfred Klaudin would reach forward to yank his hidden baton from the belly of the cold dead, the sucking noise sending a shower to feed the earth below the corpse. He barely noticed as he began to slide it back inside of his forearm, easier now with the lubricant.

No word was spoken. No motion to hide the horrific events. Only the crude tabards were pulled, wrapped, folded, and tied away. The Deathstalkers would be pleased.

Alfred was not. He just was. Hefting the axe handle and slipping the knife away in his now makeshift rope belt, he began to limp his way to the road. South back to the Undercity. For the Dark Lady.

@daily-writing-challenge

[captzexx]

2024: The Back 9

In the immortal words of Obi-Wan Kenobi.

I did this earlier in the year around…February? Yeah I believe it was then giving a general update to how the whole mental/spiritual fall apart was going (I refuse to call it a breakdown).

In two words, not good.

But there's always time to change and it's definitely not me putting an expiration date of myself just identifying that I may in a lot of trouble like I was a few years ago. I believed that losing weight, moving, dream job, and things going 'Milhouse' were going to fix so many things about me. It did not. And it will not.

Gotta keep going though. To many people are counting on me to be here and if I'm gonna be here I need to focus to get myself doing something. Anything.

So here we go with some basics and major updates to me:

Hi, I'm Zach or Capt Zexx or Mogwai Kraken depending on where we might talk. I'm an old man (40) with the aspirations of being something of a pulp adventure writer a 100 years too late. Being a standard millennial man swords, sorcery, metal, and nostalgia are all things I crave and love to follow but need to remember to temper as I'm not young as I was and definitely have a lot more responsibilities than I did when I first started this hobby of roleplaying. Sometimes I feel like the '84 years' meme when I think about how much of my online life has been pretending to be what I always wanted to be.

I'm deep into 'the Game' again. I'm actually playing. I'm itching to try and get with a group for writing/roleplaying. I'm terrified I'm gonna drop the ball and ruin another group of collaborators as I constantly seem to do. I don't mean to, it's just my brain and heart can't seem to hold hands long enough for us to make anything happen despite the lofty goals my brain sets.

We're gonna try though. I say this every time, but I gotta get up and do it again.

I have too.

So I've tried to rebuild/consolidate as I drag out the oldies with some newbies to try my hand in a bunch of different pots and see what sticks. No more closing blogs though, that really messed my brain up with losing stories and such when I got mad a few years ago. They belong in a museum for me to visit and library to be checked out once in awhile.

THE BLOGS The majority of these are all based out of the World of Warcraft. It's been my home for over 25 years, I can't get away as much as I might try. We're too entwined and I'm tired of fighting it, so I'm gonna embrace it and be comfortable in it.

Embers of the Order ( @embersoftheorder ) This is my main focus for protagonists for my writing and roleplaying. Can you guess who it involves? I can never get away from that wonderful Witcher inspired group of monster hunters from Kul Tiras, the Order of Embers. I love Drustvar so much and the head canon group I built up are always in the back of my mind when I listen to music or try to come up with something to write. But with the old faces like Eld or Cheryl, gonna try to bring some side characters to the front like Rachel or Beld or non-Ember members who can help like Ganus or Ramses. We'll see what happens but it's kind of nice having a heroic blog that I can store and play with them all.

An Unending Gaze ( @anunendinggaze ) As there is a light side of my roleplaying/writing there has to be a dark side. I've wanted for years to stretch my legs and limits to play more sinister types with a dark agenda or plans, but I guess I'm always more inherit-ably the good guy than a villain. But it doesn't mean I don't dream of firing the death star, forging the ring, or body hopping realities with an obsession for the Old Ones within the vastness of the Void. And I am leaning hard into that last one with Oplisca, my old cultist antagonist to my oldest character who I'm trying to mold into some kind of overarching monster. But I can't just have her as other characters have had their run-ins with so many villains. Alfred Klaudin the murderous zealot, the Fredman a roaming Drust serial killer, Kinowin the misplaced power hungry cultist, or Daesyd the money hungry architect. I'm working on them all and very willing to build more even those that aren't cultists or maniacs, the idea of a Light blinded soldier or a corrupted figure all come to mind. I need to work on it and would love if someone could help me or guide me with this menagerie.

A Third Blog? I'm tinkering with the idea of starting up a third blog for some more Horde oriented heroes as I find they don't really mesh with the Order of Embers group I have as my protagonist group. I want to roleplay more with the Horde, but I just don't have the experience with it which kind of makes it's exciting. I have Fenrag a wounded former blademaster, Cahall the disgraced Desolace chieftan, Wincott the fresh risen twin, Bronkull a Mag'har pilgrim, and who knows what else will start my fancy. Do you have ideas? Concepts? Guidance? I will take it all as I'm trying to navigate the 'Red side' of Azeroth.

QUIET PLACES A Crow Among Sparrows ( @acrowamongsparrows ) My Witcher OC work, which would be fun to go back into if someone were to poke or want to play around in. Take a peak and let me know what you think.

Conduit Dreams ( @conduitdreams ) Cyberpunk is always been a passion of mine and this was a place to put those neon lit inspirations away until that itch takes me again. Mecha, synths, rain, and dystopia make my heart beat faster.

With An Emerald Eye ( @withanemeraldeye ) Adventures in the pulp fantasy of swords, sorcery, and adventure. I love old Conan stories or Fafhrd and Gray Mouser tales of swords against devilry, I try to put it into my more higher fantasy stuff in Azeroth when I can but I would love to do more with low/weird fantasy stuff. Give me underground cults, jewel thefts, and brave people facing impossible odds. Plus kick ass art.

Sails on a Sea of Fate ( @sailsonaseaoffate ) My quiet retirement home for Zexx Candell and his brood in the astral sea lanes of Spelljammer. I love that setting and it seemed fitting after Shadowlands and the anger I felt when I left Blizzard before to go here with Treasure Planet inspired galleons coasting through the starry cosmos. D&D with Star Wars scope of conflicts, a simple description but I love the idea of it all and would love to touch it again.

Eldridge Candell ( @eldridgecandell ) The original blog for my main Eld Candell, Witch Hunter and Inquisitor of the Order of Embers. He's been transferred mainly over to the Ember of Orders blog, but I'll keep this live as an archive of his old adventures before these days in the War Within. It's a reminder of where I was those years ago and what I want to strive to be again.

THE FUTURE That sums it all up for the back half of 2024, it's not exactly brighter but I'm trying to avoid going darker personally. I want to make this work and get back in the habit of being creative. I need too.

If you wanna play, send me a message here and then we can switch to an alternate platform to collaborate. I'm available on the Discord, In-game, and the shiny new Blue Sky, just let me know where you're comfortable and interested in working.

Anyways, here's Wonderwall.

[anunendinggaze]

DWC - August - Day 4 - Ego

There was gently music to the sound of the charcoal to paper, each stroke and strike of the black rock to the brilliant white paper bringing to life another idea from the ether. Many wondered where they all came from, like a wondrous song that filled the minds of creatives to build upon creation. It was very poetic. Daseyd did not have time for poetics.

Dark Iron life was filled with hard edges, strong blocks, and resiliency in the face of all opposition. This Dark Iron would have laughed at such trivial thoughts, but laughter was a sign of weakness and frivolity. He didn't have time for such things. Time was money. Money lead to projects. Projects lead to exposure. Exposure lead to money. It was a simple circle, and he excelled at it very well.

For years he had struggled within the confines of his race and the animosity that had been bred from his people and their former emperor. Slinking and struggling within depths of the Spire, hammers rising and falling to the heat and to of the will of Ragnaros. A miserable life of slavery. No creativity. No inspiration.

No money.

All work.

It made for a very dull life.

Eventually salvation arrived, granted it came in the shape of the murder of the Emperor it was still a good day. But just because one emperor died didn't mean it was the end of the monarchy as a Queen took the place. She wasn't too bad but she wasn't right either. But Daseyd knew when to keep his mouth shut. To keep his eyes down. To bow when you needed. And eventually do what you were going to do anyways.

It was a glorious day to be free of Blackrock, to leave the fiery heat and enter the cool air of the mountains to the north. To walk halls he'd only been told tales of and to smile in the face of all the ugly stares of his mountain 'kin'. He didn't think it was wise to relish in the grim glares of the 'beardlings' but it had felt good to 'sully' their fetid halls. He had especially enjoyed working at their own forges in the heart of the city.

But all good things come to a close as new jobs and new ideas arrive. His skills were impressive, his ideas possible, and his ability to make the money go far indispensable. It only made sense the Twilight Hammer would come knocking at his door.

He had had his doubts about them at first with their far off stares and reverent talks of Old Ones. He'd seen enough 'gods' and prophesy in his lifetime, they'd likely end up just the same. Refusing the offer made sense. Until they brought the gold.

It was a long journey across the sea to Kalimdor. A long journey by cart to the south and finally into the east, into the black sands Silithus. He hated the heat still. Especially the sand. But then they had given him a true gift to play with.

Elementium.

The charcoal pen broke in his hand as he frowned at it, his fingers black as the smoldering beard braided down his face.

He had been diving too deeply into his memories as he blinked a few times. Days of glory, days of power, days of profit. It was still there. He knew it despite the catastrophe of the sword. The Tower would always stand. He'd made sure of it.

Eyeing his broken drawing he saw what he had been sketching was very similar to the initial design of the trap of his former employer. A very slight smile came to his usually dour face, a thick finger coming to trace the edge of the upside down tower of black and sand. As long as it stood, the prisoner should be in there. Or as much as he assumed. When the money ran out, so did he. Business came first.

There was a soft clack as a new piece of chalk was placed before him, thin darkened hand holding it gently in it's spot. His black brows would rise as his burning sight would follow the thin hand, up wrist, passed the forearm, and eventually up to the drawn withered face. A face with pale purple eyes. Purple eyes filled with nothing.

"Oplisca," Daseyd would whisper as he saw her.

There was a soft tick of a turn to her head as the withered cultist looked at her former contractor. Her cracked and weathered lips would part as she spoke in a her soft croak of a whisper. "Good evening, master architect."

@daily-writing-challenge

[anunendinggaze]

DWC - August - Day 6 - Corruption

The sand slipped through his fingers as always, a constant reminder to his life. It should have no meaning here, nothing should have meaning here in the Void. But it did. Time was never on Kinowin Du'mere's side.

A hard line of his lips stayed still as he stood up straight, his body silent despite his age. There were no cracking joints or groans of displeasure at his own deterioration. He just was.

It seemed he always would be.

How long had he been in this state of fugue? A few years? Months? Eons? It felt just like that. His final memories before the emptiness always of the black temple he had raised with in the name of the Old Ones with his brothers and sisters of the Hammer. Kinowin had hated that name. He knew their origins began back beyond the Dark Portal from the Orcs, but honestly with the influx of competent members from Azeroth it made no sense to stick with such a simple name. Despite this he could think of nothing more grandiose to rename it, only the fact of it's greenskin heritage made his mouth twist.

"Damnable beasts," he muttered. Or he supposed he muttered as he tried to remember the sound of his own voice. He hardly used it. There was no need to. There was no one to talk to.

He was alone.

Always alone.

Taking a deep breath in out of habit, his hand would come to softly rub at his chest where the final memory always started from and ended here. He was on the third level of the pyramid. The gates were opening above as the battle raged all around them. The Hammer was winning despite whatever the Bronze were trying to do to stop them. Pathetic heroes and martyrs trying to save a dying world. It was all tragically laughable. Strangely enough he does remember laughter. Though he wished it had been his own.

Candell.

That one-eyed bastard Zexx Candell. Destiny was a silly concept but it seemed it had wanted to rear it's ugly head for him this time as they squared off once again. He should have finished the job all those years ago when he had been with his sister. She had needed proper push to break it off with the human, as it had interfered with everything they had worked for. Everything he had worked for. All the sacrifices, money, time, and effort to mold their reality into their reality. And she just had to throw it all away for some oafish warrior's dick.

It had begun with a duel in Westall and now it was to end in another duel in Silithus.

It had not ended well for him.

He'd like to say the idea of losing to the warrior was worse than the sword that was shoved through him, but he would lying. Anyone would. A wound that grievous would make even a god think twice about his choices. He'd only wished he'd finished the flames that had burned Candell the first time. It would have saved him some time.

As his vision faded into a cloud black and the final bit of 'hero monologue' about 'I got you, son of a bitch' had wrung in his ears. Shortly thereafter, a brief settling of emerald light flooded his vision before finally fading into dark.

A few precious moments of silence and nothing. Paradise? Perhaps. Kinowin had never been completely certain of his 'prize' at the end of his work with the Hammer nor what was really to be expected of the ancient force that lived beyond the cosmos. Only that he wanted it. Needed it.

But had he gotten it?

Kinowin wasn't sure. Or this was it, he didn't know if he wanted it.

But naked and lost had been how he had awoken, his skin pale and flesh marred by fel or void or whatever. There was only one scar he cared about and it forever hurt.

Even now has he reached to touch it and gently rub, the pain filled him with something. Burning, prickling, and never healing as he felt the stickiness on his fingertips. He felt the stickiness.

His fingers pulled back and tapped together a few times.

This was new.

Something had changed.

His head lifted into the emptiness as he saw something newer as well. A flash of violet with a splash of blue. Again and again they would appear. And then close.

Head tilted, he continued to observe the phenomenon here in this vast empty ether. Was there some kind of escape from his prison? Or was this a new level of madness to claim him?

The scar burned. The blood felt tacky. The smile was real. And the eyes that lit with that same emerald light looked up as another flash occurred and winked out.

"Fascinating."

@daily-writing-challenge

(Apologies for the late posting, went away for a wedding in the middle of the challenge but I wanted to finish the spread)