#kaelenar

[leatherlaceandblades]

https://6dollarshirts.com/pet-and-animal-tees/protect-your-nuts

@kaelenar

[petalinawellsley]

@kaelenar

“Before You Embark On A Journey Of Revenge, Dig Two Graves”. what a stupid fucking quote. I’m killing way more than two people idiot

[phyghyver]

06: Something that makes your character angry

Killing or hurts a deer puts Iseult in a cold and terrifying rage... Tristan has already paid the price, and this is the only time Iseult has been angry. Over ten thousand years of existence. I hope Ghost doesn't make Iseult angry. X)

@kaelenar

[synric-silversong]

Connections

Part 1- Time

alluded to : @kaelenar​

mentions: @rangarinorli​          

 Norli waved good-bye, and so with it Synric watched her steadily disappear into the forest from their camp. 

The soft green hues were beginning to turn a steady orange and red among some of the trees. The wind whistle by, no longer warm with the mountain peak at his back and Duskwood before them. Synric was beginning to wish to be closer to Stormwind, with its ocean current a steadier atmosphere.

           He tended to the campsite. Cleaning out the fire pit so it now sunk low into the ground again, picked up leftover food pieces and carried them half a mile out through the thicker part of the woods before dumping them. From there he headed to the lake, kept a steady eye for murlocs and wandering bandits before coming out of the bushes and refilling the few skins of water; one for him, and a couple for the camp.

           When he returned, a soft coo came high from the branch. A glimmer of red and amber caught his eyes. “Thank you,” Synric said in elvish.

           He finished with checking the runes set in place around the camp, hidden among trees and on rocks. The campsite now organized and cleaned, he gave a sharp whistle.

           A wolf-hawk came sweeping in from the higher mountain top and landed beside him, rubbing against Synric as it did. A scratch behind the ears and along the neck was welcomed by a soft pant and a large smile from the canine face.

           “Are you coming with me?” He called out.

           A snort came in a response, then slowly, a dragon hatchling came crawling down the trunk of a tree- cautiously and uncertainty. Synric eyed the dragon as it carefully limped its way over. A soft whine echoed from the wolf-hawk as it lowered its head. Kal’sin chirped, nuzzled the creature, before hoping up on its head and sliding down its back where Synric scooped him up and let him slide into the knapsack like a coiled snake.

           The day grew to become uneventful.

           Stormwind was loud and filled with a range of different smoke smells. The festival was strongest outside but celebrated even with the stone walls, especially at the taverns. Many people didn’t seem to give much mind or memory of the lingering war and the devastation it had caused to the many different families. 

So many new races. He thought quietly as he exited from one tavern, making his way to another.

           As he did with each tavern in the city, taking a good portion of his day, he brought out the wanted poster, asked if anyone had seen or knew any information. An argument rose up from a half-drunken man asking why he was searching. When Synric refused to give the answer, the man’s fist came flying. Synric caught the fist, which only prompted a leg to come striking out.

           Synric pushed the man away, along with himself, and was quick to slide out of the tavern as fingers pointed and shouted. A chase was given, that much Synric remembered, but by who, he wasn’t too certain. He had whistled coming out to the canals, and the wolf-hawk meet him, landing with a run, as Synric hopped on and flew back into the air. Little figures was all that was left from down below, leaving Synric feeling oddly distant. He stroked the fur of the wolf-hawk as he let it fly about in circles before deciding he needed to think for a little while. He urged the animal back down, on the opposite side of the city.

           The sun was settling on the horizon. The hues of red and orange warm and welcoming. The ocean breeze carried its salty tang with a hint of coolness as the city warmed him from behind. Sailors shouted from below, bells rang, as little figure upon the docks moved with new found energy and efficiency. 

           Nothing. Then how does this man get his jobs? Someone must hire him. He idly fidgeted with a stone in his hand, letting his fingers slide along it, flipping it between fingers as he thoughts searched for the answer.

           For certain, he’s not being hired by common folk. No. I cannot rule that out either. He snarled in a bit of frustration, lifting his fingers and rubbing at his eyes. He could be threatening them to keep silent. Or who would lie out an assassin. If I failed, they would die most certainly. How these assassins get their info is beyond me.

           Synric sighed, bringing his gaze forward, catching the last ray of sunlight beginning to fade beyond the horizon.

           Maybe seeing what kind of targets he goes after might be more of a clue. He thought, rising to his feet. That’s the best option I have. I’ll have to check tomorrow. See what I can get.

[alastar-wyatt]

Training Yard

written with @kaelenar

 Staring at his sore and red knuckles, Alastar absently stroked one hand, cautiously and carefully. His whole body ached, as it did with any after fight, but this time it was mixed with lingering transformation itches, as he called them. Little pinpricks of fire jolting randomly somewhere along his body, as if wondering if he was still a giant wolf-man. He was not, of course, but it was frustrating to say the least.Ontop of that, his nose was swollen, bruised, and incredible itchy and yet too sensitive to touch. He was uncomfortable. The other parts of him that ached were familiar pains that bothered him little, especially as he down the mug before him.

           He ordered another refill.

As he waited, his mind wandered back to the fight. Wandered back to the beginning of it when a man had approached him with a smile and grin and asked if he was interested in earning a bit more money.

He was. His job as a mercenary was reaching dead ends, especially since his last job showed how unpredictable he could be. It wasn’t my fault, he told himself, I did my job. They just couldn’t listen.

His eyes closed, swung the newly filled mug and felt the alcohol sting along his throat and burn in his belly.

When he reopened his eyes, finding that he was absently stroking his red knuckles again, he could help but reflect on the man he had fought earlier in the day.

With the training yard so close to the Stormwind Stables, the smell of dung permeated the air, which was arguably better than the canal districts. Training dummies lined the perimeter of the largest portion of the yard for individual combatants, while smaller rings were roped off for two or more. Restriction or reserved areas seemed absent, though most of the melee fighters seemed to be practicing as far away from the ranged area as much as possible to avoid, with good reason.

Alastar gave a rough glance back towards the entryway. ‘what exactly am I doing?' He sighed to himself as he caught a whiff of a long black trench coat behind one of the outside pillars. He spun his gaze around taking in a single roped off ring with a crowd gathered around.  

Alastar made his way closer. Not finding it too easy to slide through the many bodies that were bunched up, he proceeded to head towards the stable hands whos hill was just high enough he could see over the heads of people.

A shirtless half elf and a small, dark haired woman were pacing around each other within the ring. The stable hands beside Alastar, who were young and looking pretty dirty and unkempt, much like Alastar himself but in different ways, were awing at the specula.

As the fist began flying, parries, dodges, and strikes following, Alastar caught wind of a few of the stable hands speaking; some were a mixture of awe, “Did you see what happened?” one would ask, while whispers passed on betting silvers and coppers. Eventually, he heard the name of the half-elf. Ghost. Apparently the woman hadn’t worked much of an following yet.

In the arena, the woman lunged forward with a jab, forcing the half elf's guard up before following through with a swift kick to his stomach. The half elf threw his hips back, trying to get out of range, but it wasn't enough to avoid the kick. The half elf doubled over, seeming hurt.

Alastar’s eyes narrowed at the display by the half-elf. He was bruised and bloody, clearly not his first fight of the day. A suscipion blossomed just as the woman took advantage of the fallen half-elf.

Lightning fast, the half elf's palm struck out, his feet in line with his arm as he connected with her sternum. This time, it was the woman's turn to reel back, but she didn't go quietly. With another jab, she landed squarely on the half elf's jaw. Blood and spit flew as his head got whipped to the side.

He staggered back. Heaving out each breath, the half elf straightened and had only time to wipe at his bloody mouth before the woman was on top of him aiming for another strike. Except, the half elf's fist darted in, splattering the woman's nose.

She crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

Several of the spectators hopped over the ropes and went to her aid while the half elf retreated to the opposite corner.

Nothing had passed Alastar observation, and with a second of admiration of how quick and deadly this half-elf was, he was frowning; the stable hands beside him were grinning and cheering. Passing remarks of how the elf's ended the fight seemed to be a common move used by the fighter. 'It’s dirty' Alastar thought, despite that a day or so ago he had punched a man in the nose. 'but he clearly was doing more than just ending the fight on good terms'.

As the woman in the arena was being healed and then later helped out of the ring, the half-elf was crouched on the balls of his feet near one of the posts connecting the ropes and drinks. He watched the others around the outside of the ring as he brought the waterskin to his lips, swished the water around and then spit it back out. Eventually, his searching, emerald gaze traveled up to the hill were Alastar and the stable-hands stood.

Ghost, as his name was, brought the water skin up again, still staring in Alastar direction - swished some water and spit it out again. After wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, the half-elf said, "Who's next?"

 Though many seemed to whisper and tag the others around them, no one necessarily stood up or stepped forward straight away. 'Fear?' Alastar wondered dryly before stroking back his neck long hair; only a few fine edges returned to where they had been as he walked down the little hill.

He stepped into the arena, though with barely a smile or grin, he eyed the half-elf. "First time," Alastar said, "I'll match you." And with that began to discard his sword, his jacket, the leather enforced bracers upon his wrist, before finally taking off his shirt.

He patted the back edge of belt, and tossed a dagger case over with his stuff just outside the ring. His eyes laid heavily on those around them, daring them to take anything while the fight progressed.

Alastar wasn't built like most humans of Stormwind. He was leaner, held a more agile tone to his body, yet, his shoulders were thicker as if to contradict the first glance. Muscles were refined, but not bulking. Scars littered his body, focused primarily on his right arm where it seemed more tribal in appearance with straight, cut lines ranging from patterns of ones, too fours, depending, all from his shoulder down to his elbow. The rest of the scars were small and silver, short cuts perhaps from recent fights that had healed. Only two prominent scars stood out, one above his left hip, a clear sword cut that was thick and aged with years; second were the numerous lash scars that covered his back leaving very little soft skin to be shown. The tattoos on the other hand covered his entire palm, and back of his hand, depicting a scene, leaving only white skin on his fingers.

With a short flex and stretch of his arms and shoulders, Alastar took in this Ghost character. Ghost's build was that of a swordsman, his shoulders broad and strong but not overly muscular, drawing his strength from his core. The half elf himself bore a host of scars on his skin, the more recent - an 'x' across his chest and his back reaching as far as each shoulder and hip - were still pink, and a yellowish bruise discolored his forehead. The other scars were pale and difficult to see on his fair skin and the worst of them were covered by the sleeve tattoo across his right pectoral down his right arm and over the upper half his back. The ink was made to look like his skin had been ripped away to reveal mechanical parts instead of flesh.

In return, Ghost eyed him with a condescending smirk on his lips. He made no taunting or belittling remarks though; it was spelled clearly on the half-elf’s face that he thought the lad a fool.

Gracefully, the half elf rose to his feet and gave a little stretch as he looked over the many scars and Alastar's general build, trying to pick out any weak points. Motioning to Alastar's sword and having noted the way the lad disarmed himself, Ghost asked, "Are you sure about hand to hand?"

Alastar let himself have a small smile, -so you can disarm me and use my weapon against me- he mused to himself, saying out loud, "I don't want anyone accidentally getting hurt.”

Ghost arched an eyebrow - an expression he made frequently if the fine wrinkle on his forehead above that ebony eyebrow were any indication. "You mean you don't want to 'accidentally' get hurt." Ghost corrected, but didn't bother pointing out that if Alaster took too many hits, he would end up hurt anyway.

“So, who’s striking first?" Alastar returned, relaxing his position a tad, leaving most of his body open for attack. -I'll have to play smart. He'll use cunning and boasting. He doesn't fight fair. He's a street brawler, probably worse,- he thought as he looked Ghost over. Then with a small grin once more finished the thought, -but so am I, I suppose.-

The half elf rolled his eyes at the question and fell into a ready stance. "Who strikes first is whoever is fastest - even if you strike first that does not guarantee you'll actually hit me." Ghost explained as he started his slow, predatory circling of the lad.

 Alastar held himself in check at the taunt and the insults. He heard a few of the men outside of the ring laugh at Ghost’s probing. Alastar snorted watching the traditional predatory circling; a thing Alastar wasn't keen on following. So instead, he kept his back at the edge of the arena, his guard appearing loose, his feet shifted apart. Only his eyes moved.

Ghost paused when the lad just....stood there. Not moving, not attacking. Nothing. "If you're not going to fight, then go home kid." The half elf growled, using the demeaning term even though he wasn't much older - if at all - than Alastar. Shadow magic collected in Ghost's palm, thinking he'd have to get vicious if this one was going to move his feet.

It would seem Alaster's initial speculation that this one did not fight fair was accurate, for in a matter of seconds, the half elf held a small shadowy dagger in his hand that he promptly flipped, caught, and then threw.

The shadow magic sent a shimmering warning within Alastar, a warning as most people would say it, but there was a lust, a need, an excitement at the feeling. For a brief second as the magic was flipped and caught, Alastar eyes glowed a faint amber hue. Then his arm began to emanate a soft blue, and as the dagger came hurling towards him, his arm reached up to meet it only to watch the dagger 'disappear' and sparkle into black dust just an inch from his palm. Alastar gave into his grin. "I thought this was a brawl," He said as he rushed towards the half-elf, a faint buzz of blue energy filling him faster than he should and went for a quick jab towards the man's wounded jaw

Ghost didn't miss the change in eye color, despite his mild frustration with the lad. He absolutely hated it when someone came to spar and then just stood there instead of engaging. The frustration faded, replaced by something else and again that eyebrow came up when Alastar dismissed the magic of the shadowblade - now this was interesting.

Unfortunately, that also meant his guard was down and despite how fast he was, the half elf couldn't get his guard up in time to properly defend against the incoming jab. The already compromised jaw creaked - and possibly cracked - the burst of pain sending spots of bright white and deep black before his vision.

Ghost shook his head and blinked rapidly a few times then swung right back at the lad, stepping in as he angled his fist from down below in an attempt to land a solid blow in Alastar's belly.

Alastar held little back in that blow and he felt the give of the man's jaw, saw the waver in his stance. Eyes grew narrow with uncertainty, a little thought making its way through the adrenaline rushing through him and the taste of magic. Instinct was what propelled him backwards from the moving arm. In response, Alastar gripped the half-elf's wrist stopping the monument of the attack going through air, drew the man in with much more strength than should have been for this young man, and brought the half elf into his own fist that was heading toward the half-elves belly in a swift counter

Ghost let out a grunt and flashed a bloody grimace as he was punched in the gut. Clearly, there was more to the lad than what appeared on the surface, if his sheer strength was any indication. This close though left Ghost with few options as he wrenched his wrist free of Alastar's grip. The force of any punches would be diminished and so he grabbed Alastar by the shoulders and head butted the lad - right in the nose.

An image flickered in Alastar head as the world grew dizzy before him. An image of a long time ago, dark shadows casting everywhere, a female worgen standing before him, hackling him with the same grin and coy remarks as the half-elf he had just meet.  

As the images flickered away, Alastar felt the air escape from him entirely. Blood oozing from his nose, and the air squeezed out of him, he fell limply to the ground unaware that Ghost had kneed him in the stomach.

Except, he didn’t hit the ground. His arm stayed steady; his knee strong against his weight. Then he felt the prickle of strength begging. Alastar closed his eyes, and let that strength blossom into white, hot heat.

In a second, his transformation took place replacing skin with black, grey-tipped fur, fingers for claws, and a long snout with teeth barred. His blue eyes flickered upwards, and he lept back hoping that the half-elf was surprised enough to give him the space.

Ghost was.

The transformation made Ghost pause briefly, but he quickly picked up where he left off. The half-elf’s expression was one of disgust. As Alastar pressed an paw against his own torso, the half elf went into motion, weight placed on an anchoring leg while he spun a circle kick, aiming his foot for the side of Alaster's muzzle.

Alastar caught the blow with his arm, a low grumbling coming from his throat as he then struck out towards the elf’s hip joint with a quick strike

Ghost grunted again as he felt the sudden jolt of impact as Alasatar struck out at his hip. The half elf went stumbling forward in the direction that Alastar pushed him, but recovered his footing more quickly than the lad anticipated for when Alastar came charging head first, Ghost pivoted to the side positioning himself in a way to put himself slightly behind and to the side. The half elf came back in then, slamming his elbow down into Alastar's back.

The shock rumbled through his body, but the pain was no longer an obstacle. Alastar swiveled with a snarl and though he attempted to snap at the elf’s head with his jaws, he went for another jab towards the upper torso.

At least one, if not more of his ribs cracked, giving way under Alastar's knuckles - an injury that, unlike his jaw, he couldn't keep fighting with unless he wanted to risk having a lung punctured by a broken rib. With a broken jaw, his stomach muscles spasming from taking too many hits in his gut, knuckles bleeding and his head swimming from that headbutt he'd delivered, Ghost knew he had to yield.

The half elf made the symbol of 'yield' rather than call it out - he could hardly breathe, - and, keeping an eye on Alastar to make sure he didn't continue to attack - grumpily made his way back over to his corner.

Several disappointed groans came from around the ring from those who'd lost their bets.

Alastar didn’t move for a short time, until, the half-elf rose and began walking away.

The message had been delivered. Dirty tactics had no place if one fought honorable. Alastar backed a few steps before letting the fever of the magic burn away.

Back as a human, he clicked his tongue, rolled his shoulders, as he massaged his neck. “Good fight,” he called out of habit, dull and toneless, as he turned his back.

In return he heard, “Beginnger’s luck”, from the broken half-elf.

Happily seeing his stuff still were he tossed them, Alastar redress himself. Those that had clearly bet against him were far more than those that had, he viewed. With a glance back to the beaten combat, he frowned. -perhaps I made an enemy today, I’ll see him again most likely- he thought and pushed his way through the crowd.

While in Alastar's mind he'd made a point, it was lost on Ghost. To the half elf, it'd just been a spar and whether his opponent fought honorably or not made no difference to him. It wasn't the first time he'd been defeated and wouldn't be the last - it meant nothing.

[agilneanrose]

[theborderlandcoalition]

Written oaths, final wishes.

It was done.

The House had just received one of its greatest future allies in the form of an eight year old boy. 

[doctor-hartford]

“I love him.” (Iolrath)

There was a pang in her chest; as introspective as she was, she could not parse out whether it was disappointment, sadness, or jealousy. What she did know was that it was not up to her what Finnigan did. She was not his keeper, nor did she hold a leash.But, she was trying very hard not to look at it like a betrayal.

“I love him, too.” She said in a hard tone, tilting her head back slightly in regarding him. “I respect you, Iolrath. I sincerely hope it is mutual.” Her voice drops to a murmur. “If need be, I will fight to have him. But ultimately, he makes his own choices, and I will not stand in the way of what his own desires dictate. I wish you good fortune, from one opponent to another.”

[livironheart]

“Don’t ever change.”

“You’ve got to be one of the first people that’s told me that before,” Olivier snickered, raising her mug of cider in a mock toast. “Usually it’s ‘Liv, do this’ or ‘Liv, do that’ or ‘Liv, why are you always like this’.”

She leaned back in her chair, breathing out a sigh. “Neither of us will ever be good enough for these people, Iolrath. At least not in their eyes. But you just keep on being you.. and I won’t change, either. How about that?” She grinned, taking another drink.

[sanssarlock]

“Now I will always have a ‘Ghost’ with me~... or on me.”

@kaelenar

[good-for-what-aels-you]

Finally a song to put to Aelinus’ character. A huge thanks to @kaelenar for helping me find this gem I never would have known existed! Listening to this song, it put words and emotion to a supreme father/son struggle that he strives to be free from some day.

So crawl on my belly 'til the sun goes down

 I'll never wear your broken crown

 I can take the road and I can fuck it all away

 But in this twilight, our choices seal our fate

[renardsnoir]

Quiz HERE

Iseult

At Ease

Love feels like home to you. It’s the comfort and balance that you’ve been seeking your whole life, it’s your reward, it’s the happy ending to your story. Love both empowers and relaxes you, but that doesn’t mean it comes easy. You’re likely to spend your time getting to know many people before finding someone you truly love. Being in love is effortless and brings you peace. You’re best off and most likely to find a lover who also feels at ease, but your steadiness can also take on the other feelings.

Maxwell

Drunk

attention, affection, gifts. you love to reap the rewards of love, you feel as if you’re on a high. love feels like a fantasy to you, something that’s clearly too good to be true, but you don’t mind falling head first into it. this may be because you don’t take love too seriously, you jump from one love to another, taking what you can from each giddy experience. love is sweet to you because you don’t stick around long enough to see the bitterness. you take and take and forget to give, but you’re honest about these feelings. sometimes the wrong people will fall for you, but you never sought to deceive them in the first place. some may call you immature, but perhaps your feelings are far more realistic and clear-headed: you never expect too much from one person, nor do you give others any unrealistic expectations. aim for those who feel drunk, detached or analytical, as opposed to those who are at ease, all-consumed or desperate.

Tagged By: @safrona-shadowsun

Tagging: @ghawainearcane @fel-over @saidelia-draconis @blackenedhelm @pastelcho @ravenquote @ravensteel @j-egr @wildname @draenei-tales @eldridgecandell @duraxxor @darkestfable @jinx4karma @belillinafireseeker @zeehva @unabashedrebel @hazriels @kaelenar @thalsianiii @verdaniaman @lightsong-legacy @videtur-existentia @starforger @starmoon-legacy @foxglovethings @dylan-grimmkell @ranekvilmas

, anyone who is involved.

[thefracturedmosaic]

Voices

mentions: @kaelenar​ @neiablackwood​ @divergent-lines​ @synric-silversong​​

The room was quiet. Black stone walls surrounded Jacorek, black stone floors below him, black stone walls above him. Dark metal bars behind him.  A wooden door with metal bars for its window before him. Only torchlight flickered beyond the door, giving enough comfort to be able to guide ones way. Other than that, Jacorek was sitting in his chair. He was certain his butt had grown attached to the chair by now; his legs and arms and back felt sore from sitting.

Jacorek shifted, looking behind him, beyond the metal bars and down a sleeping form of a young man with silver hair laid sprawled on the stone; he was scrawny now. Again. The shirt that fit the man comfortable once before was looking like a oversized shirt. 

But it wasn’t the kid’s fault; he’d been in a coma since his magic exploded. Awake only long enough to make sounds, but each time he would try to move he would collapse, eyes rolling back, and then passed out.

He’s dying. 

Jacorek glanced back to the doorway, his body following shortly, his hands lacing back together again. 

You knew this was a bad idea. You know who these people are. 

You don’t really want him to die do you? 

This wasn’t part of the plan. 

Jacorek rubbed at his eyes, shaking away sudden images of a house, of a baby, of Mey and of Madivh. 

“Stop.” His voice echoed in the room, the only sound it had heard in a long time; his ears greedily took the sound in. 

He felt the warmth of the swords beside him. Sucking away the sudden emotion, draining him. 

Stop. 

You need to do something. He needs a doctor. He’s too weak. If they try again... 

Jacorek shook that voice from his head. 

The silence returned, and with eyes closed, he felt peaceful. A drink would be nice. Thoughts of getting up and asking for another wine skin pushed his urge more so. His legs were ready to push him up and walk straight out, but the rest of him..

The rest of him knew if he left, the guards would report, and the kid would be left to defend himself. In a coma.

Jacorek sat silently once again. His thoughts dimming, his mind quiet, at rest, and at peace. That silence lasted a while, but it did not last as long as he wished.

How are you going to get him out? 

I haven’t even decided that yet. I still need them for my goal. I still need to find someone. They are my best bet. 

Lazy. The voice whispered back. You really want to kill you’re grand--

Jacorek slammed his fist into the bar, a snarl sharp on his lips. “Silence,” he hissed, the only sound that felt real now to him. 

The silence listened; no voices came to his head, no sounds echoed except for the soft breathing of the child behind him. Child. He was still thinking of young man behind him as a child. 

He shook his head, smiling at his own quirks, when a sharp pain struck his arm.

His eyes shot open, a trickling feeling rushing through him as focused on the door ahead; the rune on his arm went cold. 

Jacorek looked over to Synric, stood up, and headed out the door. 

He was greeted by a standing guard on the far end of the following tunnel watching the door in a flicker of torchlight.

The guard snapped to attention. “I come back,” Jacorek said stopping beside the man, eyes shifting to take the mercenary in, “And the kid is dead or worse, you’ll be buried with your boss.” His voice drifted low into a growl.

The man nodded vigorously. 

Jacorek stepped beyond the door and was welcomed by a slight change of cooler air; the shadows were deeper beyond the door but voices and torchlight carried towards him. He reached into his bag and pulled out a piece of paper; that paper burned in a quick flash of light and the scene before him changed into forest and fresh air, and further ahead, he could see the house.

His eyes narrowed at the sight, at the doorless front door. He stopped at the edge of the treeline, pressing against the bark and watched as a young girl with dark hair walk out from the parallel treeline, stop, before nervously shifting around as if she was double guessing her decision.

Too late for whatever your reasoning was.

He watched her for a moment, and then was rewarded to see the intruders of his home. He was glad he was on the far side of the house, he was glad he made his teleportation not in the house or near it. It was not who he thought it might be; He recognized the man that was leading this small group, and he had no desire to fight him especially with several new variables, and their conversation was equally disturbing.

Mey is missing? He felt a part of him want to turn and begin his own manhunt; another part of him reminded him that Mey wanted to see him dead, saving her life now or no, she would kill him first, and sit in that jail cell she got herself into satsified of her success.

 Or it is a trap, he laughed that thought away. Mey didn’t know his turmoils. The voices in his head arguing between themselves.

The scream from the girl drew his attention back to seeing her holding a turtle now, and the red hair mage standing half a foot taller, right on top of her. The red hair mage now was an keen interest. 

He gave a faint smirk before he turned and headed back into the forest. 

[phyghyver]

🤩 Are there people in the RP community that you admire?

Of course and here is a list of people (I'm sorry if I forget people! ) :

@helryder666 @ghawainearcane @arcanist-starweaver @theparkhurstalchemists @thalsianiii @safrona-shadowsun @snowfallen-nymph @sanasunbringer @easternkingdomer @eldridgecandell @ravenquote @ravensteel @darkestfable @videtur-existentia @crimsonparamour @musingzero @olivia-lovecraft @lordebonsteele @fel-over @foxglovethings @monster-of-master @blackenedhelm @belillinafireseeker @zeehva @zeronexfenris @malegarius-alvezir @jinx4karma @igniting-the-dawn @inkedwolf-compendium @wildname @draenei-tales @hazriels @kaelenar @waroftwowolves @laceandhalos @duraxxor @saidelia-draconis

And I guess you want to know why I admire these people? I don't know... but frankly! They're so good! They're talented! I love reading the stories they post, the universe they present to bring their characters to life. Is so inspiring, I admire the imagination they have to write or draw! Frankly I do not regret for a moment to see their posts paraded on my dashboard.

Thank you for sharing your stories and drawings!

[neiablackwood]

Maybe’s

mentions: @divergent-lines​ @kaelenar​

The walk home was a long one for Neia. Most of her mind was closed off, hiding emotions that wanted to boil over and demand her attention for whatever good they promised would happen. Neia didn’t believe them for one second. Breaking down over emotions in the middle of the street was primed for some guard to come investigate and take her to the prisons for the night to make sure she wasn’t going to hurt herself or anyone else.

Instead, Neia focused on the logic of what the earlier conversation had brought. The words that had been shared, how they were shared, the tone, the lack of tone, the body language and how the eyes searched. 

Min’da was not happy. Neia knew she wouldn’t be, but she also just didn’t understand. The offer Ghost had given was hard to ignore. Neia had checked and made sure that what was offered would be a good deal. The only big risk with said offer was the infamy of contributing herself to a gang. 

Murderer’s and drug dealers. Neia closed her eyes at the emotions that welled from the inner voice that had taken Min’da’s tone. 

I know, she responded in kind. 

That had been the conversation, a back and forth of disappointment and pride. Min’da just doesn’t understand. 

Neia was surprised to find her hand was on the door knob of her home in Ironforge. Normally more aware, she felt the prickle of unease make its way down her back. A look around showed nothing out of the ordinary, and so she stepped inside, locked the door, and checked the window just in case.

Nothing, naturally.

There home was comfortable. Lived in and felt used and familiar and a place to relax. She felt protected, knowing, Savian was around or would be soon. Knowing that he wouldn’t abandon her if she made stupid decisions. He wouldn’t understand either. He would have rather worked himself to death and join gangs and sell drugs if it meant that she didn’t need too. 

She hated that part of her brother, but felt a sense of comfort knowing he would do that if came down to it; she wouldn’t let it though. She needed to give some sense of stability on her end so Savian wasn’t fixated on her as much as he was. 

It might have been better if he just didn’t think too much on her. Then it would be easy to slip away unnoticed and he wouldn’t think if she was dead in some hole. 

Neia made her way into the kitchen and pulled out a glass and a wine bottle, poured the red liquid, and gave a long drink. 

Home was also the place her emotions laughed at her attempts to ignore them. And so, tears began to slip down her cheeks in easy long strokes. She didn’t even try to wipe them away. More would come and eventually the alcohol would kick in and she would be too tired to think let alone feel.

 Tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow she would act like the conversation never happened. She needed the resources the company had to offer. For herself. For Savian. 

Morning came and went. Neia followed her routine of leaving, but she only went to the nearest tavern to waste the time away so Savian wasn’t overly concerned of her being home. Yet, sitting there among the dwarves, feeling the tallest, feeling like she stood out, she wanted to go home and hide under her blankets, and just deal with Savian’s prodding of what was wrong. 

Maybe, she wondered, Maybe Min’da is right. Maybe I don’t see something that such benefits don’t outweigh the risk. Maybe I should go back to normal, maybe they’ll forget about me. She smiled a little at the thought, then frowned as emotions welled inside her at the hurt and sadness. She shifted those emotions away with a drink of her coffee. Silence was blissful as conversation around rose like white noise. 

Then her thoughts wondered some more, ever so faintly, that maybe there was something more to why she had agreed to Ghost offer. If that was the case, then what was it? 

For now, I should go home and work on some more designs. Maybe I will renew my permit here in Ironforge and sell for a few months. Stay at home for a little while. 

[alastar-wyatt]

worked done by @kaelenar (the finished version)