#vrykul

[aerococonut-art]

Finished commission of their cool vrykul mermaid! Her tail is based off a sturgeon, and she’s floating in the waters of Northrend, as is right and good.

[demorta]

Koronos and Hvelga

The villainous duo always up to no good~ The bad guys from my Drust campaign in Duskwood on WoW.

[tsar-batushka]

Raise your horns raise them up to the sky

Commission

[warcraft-positivity]

Day #259 of things I love about WoW:

The vrykul. If I could pick a new playable race, they'd easily be my top contender. I've been obsessed with them, their lore, and their whole vibe since Wrath came out (Howling Fjord is probably in my top 3 favorite zones to this day).

[wowlorecraft]

World of Warcraft: Turtle Islands

{ This is pure headcanon fiction }

World of Warcraft announces its next saga: The Seas of Azeroth. WoW: South Seas, WoW: Western Isles, and WoW: Turtle Islands

As the Exodar enters low Azerothi orbit and as distant seafaring travel sees increasingly heavy traffic, the remaining landmasses of the planet come into light, including Khaz Algar and Avaloren

These wandering isles atop massive turtles' shells provide refuse and safe haven for myriad species. Some turtles are teeming with life, and some have only a single, ruling species

Here, on these islands, we find the relatives of the Hozen who look remarkably like humans. Vanaras, as they call themselves, stand upright and are about as tall as the average Stormodan human but with simian features including fur and a tail.

They live extremely spiritual lives alongside the Gaja, a short race of Elekk-like beings, similar to the Tuskarr. The Gaja make pilgrimages lead by the Mahagaja to pay homage to the Dikkarin, the celestial elekks that hold up the astral plane

As there are numerous wandering isles, elves also made their way to an island ages ago that had Harpies. Yet, unlike on the other continents, the worship of Aviana was strong and pure, leading the Harpies to nonviolence and cultural practices. The blending of Night Elven and Harpy culture lead to harpies taking on more humanoid features such as hands and feet, and the night elves gained wings. The avian culture of this island resembles the Galapagos and the diversity of bodyshapes amongst the sparrows.

Trolls, too, have ended upon on a couple of islands, but these island trolls are quite different from the trolls that we know. Due to the island effect, they have shrunk consistently and, like the elves, ended up mutating to fit into numerous niches. In short: ..well, short trolls!

Interestingly, a group of Sand Gnomes has even got to an island and is growing larger and larger with each generation. At present, they are about the average size of a Dwarf now

There are so many islands meaning so many opportunities:

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (aka children of Tortolla who spec into being Subtlety Rogues and worship their island turtle)

A cousin of the Vulpera (Kitsunai) whose parent Ancient Guardian lives on the island and with another branch of Night Elves

An island where the K'thir were welcomed and accepted with open arms because they look like Octopus-like Pasifika-inspired people, but this mistake cost them dearly, and we can help!

A branch of sea-faring Viking-like Vrykul called Sjagul

Goblins

(plus the above in readable format:)

Giant Sand Gnomes

Smol multi-flavoured Trolls

Tol Nelf-like Vulpera

Winged Night Elves

Friendlier and more sane Harpies

Vanaras, the Hozen relatives

Gaja, the Tuskarr of Elekks

[findmeinshattrath]

I'm genuinely surprised Blizzard hasn't done more with vampires outside of the San'layn and the Red Blade pirates. Feels like something they would go crazier with

[thetantiger]

Meet Captain Sjorkan Sorrowsea, my new Kvaldir DK!

[darkspear-dancers]

Was tired of waiting for Blizzard to introduce playable Vrykul; decided to make my own! Thank you so much, @muiri-noir, for this beautiful artwork!!

This is Fyjora Jorunsdottir, the Jarl of Jorundall! A huntmaster of the Bloodwake clan, Fyjora commands the Helshark longship and a wild host of warbears.

Commish for @darkspear-dancers

[kal-thas]

anyone else going a little insane over the weaver ?

no ? just me ? ok.

also ignore my bio notes i just didnt feel like cropping anything

[aehliosart]

Really felt the urge to scibble my vrykul oc as a nightelf...gods why those this looks so good!??!?!?!?!

[jerek]

Do you think Nelth's early visage was actually a vrykul or was he fr like "Yeah I wanna look like those scrawny little freaks that got abandoned by their parents"

[esperanta-dragon]

This experiment was on my backlog for more than a year and was at the bottom of the list because yeah when I finally had time to draw something, this was not it.

It's funny how hair can completely change the vibe of a character. I will keep drawing Darion according to Ashbringer design with fluffy hair, but I always thought that if he would have long hair, he would braid them into some viking - alright, let's say vrykul - style.

This is my last picture I am posting this year.

Let's hope next year will be better.

Suffer well!

[cellody]

Tournament of Ages 2023

The performance area was taken up by one lone soul with an equally as lonely stage; no assistance with background entertainment nor effects, no enchantments prepared for illusions nor audio enhancing, no props nor... anything at all. Just a chair, the microphone, and the natural, wintery lighting of Northrend though it seemed apparent why he made such choices when nerves were evident from the start.

The mic was readjusted with subtly-trembling fingers (after having failed to offer any sort of introduction or explanation about what this may entail) to aim lower towards the cello he’d brought with him, a small, white hand towel peculiarly draped over the instrument’s upper bout. Seemed that was it. He took one gut-wrenching look out across the gathered crowds and slumped into his seat with a visible swallow.

Following that was a rather loud sigh. His bow raised, hovered in place, and... hesitation lagged through his limbs. There was no backing out now, though; he needed to do this for himself. What then finally boomed forth was a piece likely (and hopefully, by choice,) unexpected of someone so wracked by stage fright.

...It was not a bore nor a classical ballad at all; this was just a flex to prove that the lamb had a monstrous wolf of a talent, wasn’t it? The textures of the notes dribbled, the craft of the cello bore through the tone’s volume, and his brows knit in an immediate show of focus. Lance may have been petrified and had to force himself into position where he now was but the moment he began, he was lost in perfectionism.

His speed fluctuating through all those notes was worthy of awe on its own but as the seconds passed, it became clearer and clearer that this was no mere proof of his prodigious exhibit. There was not one pause. One technique after another—rapid fingerboard ups and downs and fortississimo measures—seemed all the more profound, too, when his focused breathing periodically came through the mic.

Then came the plucking. It was, after all, a stringed instrument not unlike a guitar; it didn’t need a bow (kept out of the way in his cupped palm) to be played in all the ways possible. But of course he would display that when wanting the world to know he not only had this mastered; he crafted this very cello himself through a luthier-ancestral background. No embellishments, no magic.

He ought to have played for the tournament duels considering how tension-focused and vrykul-esque the melody was—or perhaps that was part of the reason he chose such a song for his first true performance. There seemed to be no end in sight, though; just how long was this? And with not a single sheet of music nor a stand in front of him, this must have been practiced like an exercise, the towel of which now made sense. Lance’s forehead was beginning to mist with the sweat that it was meant to soak up and keep off the wood should any eventually drip. This was not easy.

The expressions upon his fair face were ones very rarely ever made unless in the zone of acute, musical concert; he almost looked irate. It was, however, pure, unadulterated concentration. He was as one with the cello as he was with the piece never once allowing him a second of reprieve. For there to be this much contained in the music and for it to stretch across his entire allotted time slot was frankly absurd. He could have gone with two simpler tear-jerkers expected of an orchestral man, but... there he still sat, shredding away so fervently that even the hair of his bow was beginning to fray.

A third of the way through yet still unsatisfied. Lance would not look up properly towards the audience nor break from his trance. It really was no wonder at all why he chose to present on such an isolated stage; had he any other support or pizzazz added, it would have distracted from the raw mood and kept others from being able to soak in what musicians and their apparatuses were truly capable of at their peak—unleashed, exposed, and intense. Hard to believe he was a crybaby in his everyday life when he had all of this grandeur thrumming through his veins.

Adding to the wear of his craft was the accumulating dust of overworked resin and hair fibers settling upon the cello’s waist. At the very least, this came at a time where there finally seemed to be some relief in the tune though it came only in the form of a more hushed, memorized page; he was still swiftly fluctuating from low to high notes no matter what the volume. Then, finally, a true respite! His bow gracefully drifted away from the strings for a handful of seconds though he did not appear to have finished. When the cello’s neck was leaned back into his form as proof of there being more to come in the same piece, his spaced-out gaze resumed closing and his head bowed forth like a metronome in time with the fragile sawing of work that made up this entire composition.

The essence that grew from the silence was less like a peaceful breath and more like one being held to keep from having an intruder overhear. That is to say... the stress came right back in full swing, hushed notes lifting in volume over a series of buzzing measures meant to keep listeners on the edge of their seat. Had he any room to think about things beyond playing, Lance would have wondered what stories others were envisioning to the aura all of this depicted. Surely, everyone’s would be unique; his arrangement was bare-bones mainly to act as a canvas for the audience’s imagination, after all.

It was not feasible for him to waver the notes out any quicker. What began as the whirr of a bee’s wings taking flight turned into the nearly-impossible consonance of a hummingbird’s. Speed, speed, and more speed—easing during one span then picking right back up in the next like a chase across the very strings of his cello. The fact that they could even hold up throughout all of this was outright astonishing.

Pizzicato rejoined the song—this round alongside the usual, bowed notes that now left one feeling as though the race either came to a standstill or a long, grueling fall. Lance was definably (albeit metaphorically) intoxicated by how deeply he himself had fallen into making sure this was seen all the way through, heart and soul. If he ever held back, the entire piece would fall apart. This needed passion and this needed drama unlike anything others would have thought him capable of.

B minor chords began to take on the likenesses of sea shanties whence the music swelled forth like waves across a sea. Travel, shadowed adventures, clothing drenched against flesh; there were so many things he tried to paint through the medium of his instrument and it depended entirely on one’s perspective which hues rang truest.

White-knuckled serenity. This sonata could not at all be deemed soothing, no, but he’d be damned if that wasn’t pulled off to some degree during the next moment—at least as far as the usual rigidity was concerned. The notes remained steadfast in their flair for toil though the hush had even the musician bowing forward to curl towards the dwindled volume like a child drawn into a ghost story. There then came a refrain to an earlier tune strummed out as though teasing at others’ hope for a brighter outlook.

As fate would have it, however, that very hope would then begin lilting back towards the weight of the song’s ever-brewing temper. Strange buildups merging sunlight with a distant storm acted out through the soundwaves he played—the fluctuation of which formed a very stand-out, brief glissando that sounded entirely like one that belonged to the slide of an electric guitar.

Back to the reminder of his skill over that fingerboard. His thumb lingered over a note as the other four digits trekked to and fro across the chords’ joining, vibrato-brimming pairs, the hairs of which cascade them forth from down below by this point thinned seemingly to repair. It was in this stanza his accruing sweat would have been visible even to those seated furthest away, no amount of wintery air able to balance out the exertion this song wracked his form through. This... this was the thrill and lineage of music.

Rubbery connotations bounced through the playfulness that pushed onward when stern, bow-less portrayals once more found their place within the song. Strumming a cello made for such a bizarrely familiar yet eerily mesmerizing sound no matter how often it was shown off; what, then, would the method sound like on other stringed instruments? Could those usually plucked be instead bowed? This was exactly the sort of creativity he would have died to bring back into Azeroth’s population.

Lance’s entire left arm got into position when posing through some of those thumbed notes. His right, naturally, only stopped rowing just that once for the song’s earlier rest, but it otherwise kept on due course with very few changes in angle. It was surely the handiwork higher up on the fingerboard that would catch the eyes of most. Even that seemed to be an art form of its own; hells, to go so far as to say it looked a bit sensual wasn’t unfathomable. Perhaps the passion of intimacy wasn’t a stranger to the passion of playing music.

How much of this was even a struggle for the young man? Clearly, physically, he was working himself out to the point of perspiring, but there were uncountable moments where it seemed more like a game to him than a gift. What more could he accomplish? What more could he prove? How many more notes, how fast, how whispered? Just as the piece was peaking towards the finale, the unanswered wonder over whether this was a cello solo or philosophical performance art must have weighed heavy on the mind. It’d gone on for what seemed to be forever... and some parts were so raw it felt almost like studying the naked form of an exhibitionist rather than that of a perfect-pitch, instrumentalist prodigy.

By the final, heavy, long note, Lance appeared forlorn. It took a while for the reality to dawn but when it did, he hastily used that little towel to dab at his face and then to hide his unoccupied fist in—the other being clutched about the cello’s neck in preparation to dart from his seat with it. However... at the very least (and thankfully), he’d managed to muster up enough sense in himself to pause halfway off the stage, lean over in a bow, and wait five rapid yet formal seconds before actually fleeing.

[polluxhale]

May DWC Day 1 - Forgiveness, Shadowflame

Pollux stood at attention, unnaturally blue eyes following the General as the older man paced back and forth in front of him. He wasn’t sure he had ever seen the man this torn; there was a mix of annoyance, pride, and confusion all rolled into one facial expression. If he didn’t know any better, he probably would have laughed. 

“At ease, Hale.” 

Pollux’s posture loosened just a little bit as he scratched at the burnt sleeves of his uniform, causing another chunk of the blackened material to flake off and float to the ground. He looked, for lack of a better phrase, a hot mess. Literally. Skin and hair coated with soot and ash, and uniform completely tattered and crisped up by what appeared to be fire. It was a wonder how this man had escaped any sort of bodily harm with…whatever had happened to him.

“You were ordered to evacuate from Loamm after we got the call that Fyrakk was on his way.”

“Yes, I was.”

“But you were seen repeatedly running back in. Is that true?”

“Yes, that’s true.”

The General stared at him, clearly awaiting some sort of explanation.

“Sir, I knew I could help more of the inhabitants of the city make it to safety, so I made the choice to do so.” Better to ask for forgiveness than to get permission.

“-While- Fyrakk was blasting the entire place with shadowflame. Do you have a death wish, Hale?”

Pollux hesitated a moment. Did he? He was often the one that did all the ‘brave’ heroics, landing him with a half-prosthetic body in the process and a multitude of stories where he should have died - and some where he did die. “Sir, I had a hunch that I would be immune to the shadowflame.”

“A hunch. So you ran into the flaming building on a hunch.”

“Yes, Sir.” He balled up his non-prosthetic hand, feeling a familiar burn from the sigil branded onto his palm about a decade ago after an unexpected trip to Helheim.

“Are you going to elaborate on that?”

“Magic, Sir.” It was easier than saying that he had been blessed by the Vrykul after surviving Helheim and unknowingly made into one of their Berserkers. At least that was his running theory. 

Magic was always the simplest explanation; a lot could be done with magic, including shielding oneself from fire for a short period of time. Although this hadn’t been a short period of time, and the shadowflame had most definitely touched his bare skin. Yet here he was, with not even one hair atop his head harmed. How strange it was to now be immune to the one thing that had taken so much from him in the past. And maybe that’s why he had become so willing to jump head first into these dangers; he had a vendetta to settle.

The General’s expression softened, the two always had a good rapport so Pollux knew he wouldn’t be in trouble for too long. Especially since his actions had ended up saving many innocent lives. “Alright Hale. Go get cleaned up and for fuck sake put on a new uniform, you look like shit. You’re going into Aberrus with us.”

@daily-writing-challenge​

[wyrmguardsecrets]

"Would you STOP WHITEWASHING your POC characters??" There are no human races differentiated by skin tone in the game, only region. Canonically as cursed Vrykul descendents you get a random skin tone and appearance every time a kid is born. Fictional races like Trolls or Tauren don't have to conform to the stereotypical race they're loosely based on either. Would you rather that people were playing inapplicable and often offensive racial stereotypes?

-

[longveil]

Questions of Order

[ Photo by Pierre Bamin on Unsplash ]

“It may be a topic which one ought not to discuss openly upon the Dragon Isles, let alone within the newly opened spires of Valdrakken. Yet it is one’s due, truly, to consider the message at the heart of the words spoken by the Primalists. By the Incarnates.

That in their insatiable quest for Order, the Titans do not carry in their hearts the best interests of the mortal denizens of Azeroth.

It is thought that Order, manifested of the Arcane, arose to contain the chaotic nature of Fel, itself a byproduct of the destruction engendered when Shadow and Light first impinged upon each other in the emptiness of the Twisting Nether.

Light. Embodying the arrogant assertion that it alone is the sole Truth of the cosmos, jealous and unbending. Inviolable and suffering no question, curiosity, or crisis of faith lest its followers be bereft of its embrace. Of course chaos would come of when Light met the Void, the Shadow that seeks every possible path and embraces all as Truth.

The Titans, then, exist to enforce Order. And Order is an ally of the Light, for how might Order be enforced save of exclusions? Of Shalts and Shall nots. Of rules. Of singular Truth.

And therein lies the question we must ask.

You would not exist, I would not exist, had the Titan’s grand design come to pass.

It was the Old Gods’ Curse of Flesh that rendered humans, dwarves, and gnomes from iron vrykul, earthen, and mechagnomes. The Well of Eternity, born of the Titan’s bungled attempts to dislodge the Old Gods from Azeroth, gave rise to the elven races. The madness which fell upon the Titan anointed as guardian, Sargeras, birthed the Burning Legion. Without which, the draenei and orc would never have come to our world.

Illidan Stormrage denied the Truth of the Light, sneered at the constrictions of Order, yet the Titans’ supposed victory at the Legion’s downfall would not have come without him.

The Titans have failed in more ways than they have succeeded. And we myriad races of Azeroth, embodying truths of many forms, exist in spite of their planned design, despite their efforts.

We are not the Titan’s success.

And so, no matter the flaws of the messengers, the many millennia of grievance that twist the hearts and minds of the Incarnates, the message is worthy of consideration.

Do the Titans lie? Do they allow untruths of exclusion, permitting us to assume that their care for our world, for Azeroth, is care for the mortals that exist of their failures? Or is it that, other than how we might aid their design, we are of no import to them?

A message, a question worthy of consideration only in venues carefully chosen. In quiet places, where the adherents of Order and a single Truth might not bring their outrage

Yet a question, nonetheless.”

Seraanna carefully set down her pen, capped the jar of midnight ink, and lightly scattered a fine sand across the page. She rose from her desk as the words dried, refilling her glass from a bottle that was still cold to the touch. Voidblend had long replaced port in her musing of the evening. A few steps took her to the window that looked out over Stormwind Harbor and the ren’dorei took a lingering sip of the dark between the stars.

The essay would never leave her carefully disordered table.

No matter what recognition she had found, no matter how nobles and diplomats offered artfully crafted smiles when she entered a room, Seraanna knew their truths all too well. Some questions were not tolerated within the city of Storm’s Wind. Not this close to the adherents of Light, not the place so closely aligned with Order’s arcane children.

Some things were best left where all paths were embraced as Truth.

In Shadow.