#westfallian

[westfall-faith]

The halfling takes a step out of her carriage, glancing at the barren town that was Moonbrooke. The young woman was regal and of high status. She was the daughter of the Duke of Horvath. The man who made it a sport to hunt Defias Brotherhood back in the day of the Uprising. She also had ties to her Mother, the Duchess who had debt to pay off and ignored the arrangements to help the Brotherhood. Now, it was up to their daughter to make things right.

Westfall was far from the wasteland of Northrend. Anaris had traveled on her own accord to meet the Brotherhood and settle any disputes from the past. She was going to speak but movement had gotten her attention. A woman amongst a few others were looking at her. — @ladyofhorvath

The air in the Moonbrook Tavern hung thick with smoke, sweat, and the sour tang of ale gone bad. Faith nursed her drink, an unidentifiable concoction that numbed the taste buds more than quenched thirst. The usual crowd filled the room – a rough mix of Defias kin, their faces etched with a permanent scowl, and weary Moonbrook townsfolk, eyes perpetually scanning for escape routes. The two groups co-existed with a tense truce, segregation etched into the worn floorboards. The Defias huddled near the fire, muttering about jobs, while the townsfolk clung to the fringes, hoping for a night without incident.

Faith, known throughout Westfall as the "Bone Butcher," stood out even in this den of iniquity. Her crimson mask, a chilling reminder of the rumors that swirled around her, was pushed up on her forehead for the moment. Despite the reputation – a gruesome concoction of whispers and exaggerations – the truth was far less horrifying. Faith had spent years cultivating an aura of fear, a desperate attempt to keep the innocent away from the lawless county of Westfall. Rattling chains at night, howling at the moon, these were her tools to scare away the innocent, those who were only travelers and fortune seekers. The "evidence" of her supposed atrocities? Burned sheep bones – a far cry from the human remains whispered about in hushed tones.

A sudden clatter shattered the tavern's uneasy peace. A carriage, a sound rarely heard in Moonbrook, rumbled to a stop outside. Unlike the rickety wagons and lone horses that were the usual mode of transport, this carriage spoke of wealth and refinement. Curiosity, a rare guest in Faith's world, pricked at her. She pulled her mask back down, the crimson stain a stark contrast to her worn cloak, and strode towards the door.

Her Defias kin erupted in a cacophony of cheers and jeers. "Looks like the Bone Butcher's got herself a juicy bone!" they hollered, their bloodthirsty glee a stark contrast to the quiet terror creeping through the townsfolk. As Faith pushed through the swinging doors, the sight that greeted her was as incongruous as the carriage itself.

A half-elf woman emerged from the carriage, her clothes shimmering with an otherworldly sheen. Her posture was regal, her expression composed, the very picture of someone utterly out of place in this den of thieves and desperation. This woman, with her wealth and confidence, was like a plump goose waddling into a den of wolves. What in the world possessed her to come to Moonbrook? The crimson mask hid Faith's expression, but the tilt of her head held a predatory grace. Her voice, thick with a Westfallian drawl, stretched the question into a singsong mockery. "Wheeeere you goin', darlin'?" it came out, sweet as dripping honey yet laced with a hidden barb.

@ladyofhorvath

[westfall-faith]

Just as Nixalegos had begun to sing Penny praises, the sturdy chestnut nudged Faith’s chest expectantly. Her soft muzzle was gentle against Faith's vest. This particular pocket looked more worn than the rest of the cloth material. Countless nudges, just as Nixalegos was now witnessing, had caused the thread work to escape from its confines in valiant whisps of thread. No doubt, the woman usually kept sweet treats for her companion there.

Faith chuckled, scratching behind the mare’s ear before offering the promised sugar cube from the theadbare pocket. With a delicate lip, Penny took the treat, her tongue darting out to savor the sweet morsel.

The trio stood in the heart of an abandoned barn where dust motes danced lazily in the shafts of twilight that pierced through the broken roof.

Faith, feeling a pang of guilt over their recent race, extended two silver pieces towards him. "For your... steed if it really does eat caramel coated apples. That's enough to get you two caramel apples," she said, her voice carrying a hint of uncertainty. Her words hung in the air, as heavy as the oppressive silence of the barn.

Still rocking back and forth on the heels of her worn boots, Faith surveyed the dilapidated structure. "This place ain't exactly a hideout," she agreed, her Westfallian accent lending a rugged charm to her speech. "Hell, the quiet in here would drive anyone stir crazy. But it's sure as hell a good place for somethin' to go missin'."

Her gaze drifted upwards towards the loft. Her eyebrows furrowed as she contemplated the possibility. "Reckon the best place to start is where we're at. I'd make you go up, but I ain't sure how sturdy this place is. If I were a bettin' woman, I'd say I'm a little lighter than you. Maybe it'll hold me. But it'll definitely hold me for longer than it'd hold you."

With a determined glint in her eye, she began to ascend the rickety ladder.

@nixalegos

Blood and Dust

Continuation of this thread "Blood gem. Not diamond." He corrected her. "And, that was answered with much more rapidity than I expected." He said with a steely edge gaining in his voice along with disbelief. "Would you be kind enough to explain why you'd immediately seem to know where this dead man buried my stolen gem? Humor me." It sounded as if he'd suddenly suspected someone was trying to run a con on him. "I could understand if pumpkins were a rarity, but this -is- Westfall. It was the breadbasket of the Eastern Kingdoms within your own lifetime. There's no shortage of places that could and would have grown pumpkins." He said, annoyed as much as curious. "Maybe not anymore, what with the elemental disasters ripping through it. Might explain the rain falling up part." He suggested. "The way the letter was written, it suggested history. Which implied childhood homestead. You wouldn't write about Westfalls current weather failings in a hint to shared pasts." "What makes you so sure it is this 'Furlbrow's Patch'?" He asked.

@westfall-faith

[keladryhawklight]

Three Years

Three Years Later, 632

A breeze blew over the plains of Westfall, lightly stirring up crystals of snow to dance over the rolling hills. The day had brought light snowfall and the peace that comes with the onset of true winter. It was chilly, but not harshly so; the wind was what really drove the cold in. Harsh puff of breath escaped Leira's muzzle as they rode. A friesian, he was pure black, standing out starkly against the white and beige backdrop of the plains. A devil to the bone, his attitude was on full display as they worked; every so often the huffing of cattle bellowing was punctuated by a snort of pure derision from the destrier.

It was winter, but the cattle also needed to be driven back towards Hawklight, to their winter pasture. They were similar to a Highland breed, with fluffy walnut fur and longhorns and served many a purpose in Hawklight; their fur and hides clothed the refugees that continued to stream into the west and were exported to the markets in Stormwind for income. Their meat was the same. Each cow was valued at around 1500-2000 gold per head, and their herd was about one hundred per year, with around 10-15 calves being auctioned at local markets, or sent to Redridge for sale. It had been something they had invested in shortly after their return to Stormwind in 629 from their final operation of that year. With the help of a fantastic banker, and a fantastic pair of ranchers from northern Westfall, they had grown the herd over the last three years to the herd they had today; Hawlight was more self-sustaining and prosperous than it had been in previous years.

Their family was more prosperous than it was three years ago, she thought quietly as a dull ache of grief crossed her heart. Kos would have been so proud, she knew, to see the region coming back to life.

"Steady up old man," Kel laughed quietly as she leant over and gave Leira a firm pat on the neck. "We're almost home."

The three years had taken a toll on their family; following the cessation of Operation Hearth, she and Sandor had returned to Westfall for a long period of leave after returning from Grafenwohr for Toby and Dymphna's long-awaited nuptials. Their return meant that the hard work needed to begin. The first order of business had been to lay Narakos to rest at their family plot and to prepare the transfer of estate to her and Sandor. Acknowledging deciding powers had been a battle she had never wanted to wage, but it had been conducted nonetheless. Her mother and Adarina had been inconsolable. Solomon had been there in body only, no doubt his mind on his own loss of family. That Winters Veil had been a solemn one, for no one had been of sound mind to celebrate. The veil of grief had simply been a heavy pall over their household. Nonetheless, they had to go on. And so they had.

Over a meeting of the minds, she and Sandor and a handful of the longtime tenants of Hawklight planned out the future of Hawklight; what plans Narakos had died with him and the estate needed to move on. Sandor had taken the reins of running an estate with ill liking; in his eyes, he wasn't worthy, and hadn't proved himself to the people. In that first year, she had caught him many a time running himself ragged to prove his worth to their people. Not that he had any need to, for in the five years of their marriage, he had never once given those at Hawklight a reason to doubt his dedication to their family.

Their planning huddle had affirmed a few things that were already quite apparent; one, that immediate action was needed in order to ensure continued sustainability of Hawklight, and two, that while the agricultural practices established by her father and brothers had been sustainable thus far, they needed solutions to ensure the continued survivability along with the ability to sustain the refugee hub that was over two decades old. And so, investments in cattle were explored. Towards the end of that year, Kel had taken the savings from her work in the 47th, from doing surgeries in Stormwind, and her share of Hawklight's revenue, and invested heavily in a stocky breed of highland cattle perfect for the region. She had started with fifty head, including a handful of handpicked bulls from excellent stock to ensure the success of their operations going forward. Driving them from Stormwind to Hawklight had been a three day operation; it had been a hilariously hellish endeavor but an ultimately successful one. The first time they had brought meat, wool and leather to the market had been a gamble; an unsure one to be certain, but they had come out with a small win that year, and the year following.

Their cattle now roamed the hills between Hawklight and Sentinel Hill during the summer, and were  driven back to the southern grazing pasture between Hawklight and its southern mountains for the winter.

The second order of business had been to reconfirm, and establish new operations within Hawklight's trade mandate through early 630. A gTek workshop  had been established within the boundaries of Hawklight's reach, bringing with it upgrades and routine maintenance to farm equipment, and other technologies to the region. Trade contracts had been renewed between Hawklight and Cindervale, and established between Hawklight and Grafenwohr. Thank the Light that all three had worked out well in their favour, because the connections had immediately worked to continue the prosperous growth of their region. People were happier. Less went hungry. The winter seemed like something that wouldn't sap them of their strength.

Towards the end of 630, they had been blessed even further with another surprise. Liera pranced sideways, as she thought of Londyn. Now almost two, he was as much a replica of her as Tali was of Sandor. Her lips curved upwards in a gentle smile, thinking of how fast time had flown with his pregnancy. It had seemed like mere moments before he had arrived, a small bundle with a shock of flame red hair. Londyn Uther Brightmaul, their son. Thank the Light the circumstances of his birth were far better than his sisters. She wasn’t sure she could undergo that again in a lifetime. His green eyes were as filled with innocence as Tali's violet ones were filled with fiery will.

The familiar spire of Hawklight rose up in the distance as they crested the final hill. With a sharp whistle, the other handful of ranch hands began to push the cattle in their final drive to the winter pasture. With a nod, she tugged at Liera's reins, turning him away from the cattle drive, and back towards the main house. It was high time she checked in on her little family. "Mama!" came the loudest tiny-bellow from the front door of Hawklight manor. Blonde curls danced in the winter air as Talithe, now almost six, waved furiously from the steps. "Mama!" She waved back just as furiously as Liera cantered in towards the stables, a quiet laugh escaping her. Tali was a copy of Sandor, right down to her mannerisms. The flame of stubborn will in her face sent her almost to tears laughing the first time she had displayed it against Sandor. Put to the test, he was sure to be no match for their daughter. They were blessed, she and Sandor, with their family.

"Lady Brightmaul!" yelled a voice, coming from the house. A feeling of ill ease stole over her as the shout reached her. Pulling up, she twisted in the saddle, turning to the voice. "News from the City!" She dismounted, tugging off her gloves as she handed Liera's reins off to a stable hand. The messenger was at her side in an instant, pressing an official notice into her hand.

The official seal of the Kingdom of Stormwind

It seemed that their idyllic respite had come to an end.

[thegreatgrahamellingham]

Post-Performance Pleasures

Another week, another performance.

For having spent so many years under pseudonym, earning his breakfast and dinner by penning words beneath other people’s names -- not to mention the years before that as but a tool for other’s personal pleasures or political leanings -- Graham took a deserved pride in himself.

While perhaps his pet project, ‘The Mask of Thornbridge’, in truth years in the making and longer than was performed, did not achieve such attention as he may have desired -- he was honored to perform as he did. And by the, unironic, ‘grace’ of the Lady Maymont he was pleased to have penned another play. In earnest, he had considered it rather saccharine from the first draft, but it appeared to have been taken well. Not only by they who had commissioned it and, to be plain, bought and paid for it -- but to those gracious and sagacious men and women of the Grand Alliance who were kind enough to serve as audience.

He felt pride in that.

Perhaps that was his justification for spending so much gold on himself at the festivities that followed.

Now in his defense, he spent most of the profitable purse of the Entourage on its more outwardly prominent members. Sarah Hadley, she who was the star, of course. Her work and earned patronage from the Lord Cartwell of Redridge had allowed the Entourage to have ever begun to begin with. More and more of late, as he had taken a greater role in the stage productions, he had grant gift and coin to Ignacio as well. Despite the impish, saboteur nature of the illusionist -- he was beginning to be an earnest friend. Although his penchant for the limelight and wanton search for pleasures both after and before performances was challenging.

And, of course, sweet Merrick. Their combined foreman and in some ways, troupe Mom. Although that would imply that Graham himself was to be the communal Father and that was not a role he felt particularly inclined toward -- for a variety of reasons.

He shuddered.

But it was quite plain to say that coin and gift, payment and pleasure were not withheld from those hard-working members of their fair, little company. And while he held no sense of personal distaste or resentment, Graham didn’t often spend upon himself. His own portion, fairly divided, of their profits often went to the maintenance of his estate -- wherein they all lived, without charge -- and toward marketing, travel and other necessities of his own profession as manager.

So he found it not unkind or unfair to spend a healthy purse of gold on his own pleasantries in the festival following their performance.

After joining the audience himself to observe, enjoy and to an extent take notes, on the following performers of the Tournament, he absconded alone to visit the various merchant stalls. One of which gathered his attention easily, as the proprietor was not only ‘in costume’, so to speak, but also possessed a rather voluminous lung capacity. Graham had heard the masked and cloth be-decked ‘man’ from all the way across from the rather loud Tourney grounds.

Even over the din of an unseated Duke and cries for gambling compensation, Graham had heard the Merchant.

A strange creature, that much was to be true. The Merchant -- and such was the only name he offered for himself, ‘merchant’ in the pronoun -- looked a bit like something out of a child’s fable. Some enigmatic, scarcely visible riddle-speaker or fortune teller. An interesting character, perhaps one to adapt for a novel later.

But beyond his unending eccentricity of thought, Graham found the Merchant quite charming. Polite in that manner than men and women of his own kin were so often remiss to give in earnest. Usually the demeanour of genuine cordiality came only from assessment of wealth, status, or might above their own. But the Merchant was simply fair, spoken with a conspiratorial humor, and positively flush with interesting items of enchantment.

Now, Graham was not often one to spend quite so much on himself. But, after spying so glorious and perfectly tailored a cloak as to bedazzle the eye, he had to inquire. And, as it turned out, the cloak was enchanted almost as if bespoke for his needs. Pliable, luscious to the touch, and fashionable -- able to alter to any pattern or color or combination of both that the user desired. It would flatten the whole swath of his wardrobe at home dedicated to cloaks and capes for formal events.

-- And not only such, it was capable of hardening to match even the stoutest plate-mail at will.

Now while it was the effort of the aging director to avoid conflict, he did still carry his estoc for a reason. Sometimes things simply escalated and force was the only measurement to be understood. Certainly so in Stormwind City as of late. So plated armor on demand, in a fashionable manner? Oh yes, it was worth the fifty golden coins.

After a young, ragamuffin of a man complimented the Troupe’s performance -- to which Graham, of course, offered his showman’s smile and earnest thanks -- he meandered away from the Merchant. In truth he had meant to simply observe the melee for a minor portion of the hour, then retreat to the Entourage’s private pavillion to indulge in a hot bath. It was cold outside, after all.

But the scent of plumeria took his senses and drew him into a rather unique booth.

Now it was not terribly common for a scent -- let alone one floral! -- to surprise his senses. Whatever could be told of Graham Ellingham, he was a man of sensual acumen. Most took that kind of assumption to mean something untoward, but in truth it was really just an appreciation for the fineries of the world. He enjoyed minutiae, especially those which were so riddled down with sub-community as to be nearly inoperable in regular conversation.

And so he followed his nose, quite literally, to the uncommon booth nearby the Merchant.

A tremendous and really quite unique woman helmed the affair. Her baubles and trinkets were of an inalienable quality, that much was obvious from the immediate venture. But it was her more exact stock of goods that acquired his attention -- that and her genial demeanour.

Indeed, it was not often he could find a mercantile entity of any kind who could appreciate his desire for a dwarf succulent aloe polyphylla, let alone actually have one in stock, in terrarium, ready to be purchased. Favor, fortune, Lady Luck, he thanked the blessing of them all. The terrarium would look gorgeous on the balcony overlooking his rhododendron bushes.

But such was not all that the woman held -- a lady named Maisha he later learned after some communal inquiry. Her friendly stature and her rather precise wares seemed tailor made for the good director. Well, good being relative but he considered himself such. -- Two large, thick-bottomed candles of a perfect gardenia. Blossoms were even embedded in the bottoms! He could have swooned.

Although the sting of some financial guilt did stall him before politely departing the lovely woman’s stall. He really ought to get at least something for the rest of the Entourage. Indeed, he had almost purchased a pair of goggles from the Merchant that seemed quite suited to Ignacio’s unique talent for illusory magic. A little ‘tell-all’ set of spectacles that could, perhaps, pierce even the Illustrious Ignacio Mordrey’s shadow play.

But they were twenty-five gold, and he had already spent fifty. Ignacio could buy them himself.

However, there were a few pairs of the most gorgeous golden cartilage cuffs at the lady Maisha’s booth. And while he had already spent quite the settling of coin, what was a little more? Besides, he could tell from the moment he spotted them that they would work in divine consort with Sarah’s wardrobe -- on or off the stage.

So, into the bundle they went as well.

With a few parting words, he left the lady’s stall and carried onward -- with some difficulty -- back to the Entourage’s private pavilion. Outside the greater noise of the Tournament grounds, it was a homely and soft-seated affair. Great, thick canvas makings on the exterior and a plethora of rugs and carpets run along the snow-cleared earth to provide comfort. Merrick had even set up a proper, claw-footed bathtub in a separate ‘room’, as well as a cast-iron stove with a flute affixed safely through the canvas roof.

He really did need to give their foreman a raise of some kind. Although recalling recent events, perhaps he already assisted in the improvisation of one, after a fashion.

“If you’re here, don’t look!”

He called out into the -- as he came to realize quickly -- empty pavilion.

A little ‘hum’ left his lips, still balancing terrarium and candles in one arm as he used his cane to walk further into the rug-laden ‘living room’. Merrick had got quite good at keeping a consistent floor plan to their excursions of entertainment enclosure. Yet where was everyone?

Sarah and Ignacio both had left quite quickly after the performance had concluded to go change. That was no surprise, as Sarah was wearing little more than a Westfallian woman’s blouse and skirt with a shawl, and Iggy was bare-chested but for a wet, stage-blooded bandage. Doubtless the cold would influence both of their mammaries to a warm comfort and change of ‘costume’ for the rest of the festival.

Yet he did not see them, nor had he heard any call of their voices throughout the Tournament grounds. Perhaps they were off on their own excursion, or perusing another half of the booths. There was little requirement for concern, especially if Merrick was missing from the pavilion as well. Doubtless he’d had both eyes on them.

… He really was the Troupe’s Mom.

Maternal care did deserve a raise, did it not? Graham huffed once as he set down his purchases in his own ‘room’, consigning the thought to memory. Next time he balanced the Entourage’s books and performed finance, he would adjust the scales for a special savings fund for Merrick. The man was a master of all things physical, constructive or otherwise -- but he was not great with money. Thankfully Graham was savvy to the use of coin.

At least while sober.

A-front of the standing mirror in his own curtained off ‘room’ of the pavilion, Graham took the leisure, alone as he was in the greater tent, to pose. He wrapped his new cloak around himself, willing it to different colors and patterns one after another. At first, having handled the item in front of the Merchant, he hadn’t believed it to work. So, thinking of a random pattern as he touched it, the entire cloak had metaphorically ‘exploded’ into hot pink polka dots in front of everyone nearby.

He ran taut his lips to stifle his laugh, recalling it. Embarrassment had run its course already.

From within his jacket pocket, he plucked the setting of golden cuffs. Perfect adornments for Sarah’s ears. Hopefully she would enjoy them -- a small gesture, he could quietly admit, in comparison to the extravagance of his enchanted cloak. But he had made his sense toward the woman known already, and he already had plans in mind for a more appropriate gift for her.

And besides …

He looked to himself in the mirror, standing with cane in hand, statured to showmanship as if he were holding court upon the stage, his cloak laid over one shoulder gracefully -- all colored in a subtle, charcoal pattern to match his suit.

… He was the Great Graham Ellingham.

Mentioned!

@tirasiantrouper​

@card-slinger​

Does ‘the Merchant’ have a tumblr?

[thomasstalsworth]

Too Old ... Moray

[ Prior Chapter ]

Emett Moray was an attentive, stoic sailing man of middling age.

There was a broadness to his form, more proportioned in girth than in height. He had a halo of hair about his head that while not so fully bald, was certainly working his way there. Two arms, two legs, two eyes, and a heart -- he had a rich wealth of functions available to him. Indeed as well a mind, and one that was keen enough to understand the world and take it as it came.

Emett Moray was a loyal man and, in his mind, still first mate to one Abighail Atwater.

When she left, in the cool Spring evening that had cast itself over Stormwind, he had been too afforded to his stoic battlements to stop her. Certainly things were on his mind, many of which that involved her in great capacity. Indeed ever since he had met Abighail Atwater he had found that more and more of his thoughts, concerns, comedies and consternation involved the young Captain in one manner or another.

Captain. As that is what she was. To him, at least.

Emett Moray was a loyal man and he did not relinquish that loyalty nor the afforded and earned offerings of title that came with it, easily.

They had played some manner of dice game that he had not known before. ‘Death rolls’ or ‘rolling’ she had called it, and the name was not entirely inappropriate. While there was no cessation of vital organs involved, it was a bit of a metaphorical count-down timer by the nature of its game play. There were numerous dice games or other gambling bouts of chance that he had learned across his years in the tavern houses and side pubs of Azeroth, but never this one. Strange, he did recall in retrospection as it the game play was simple enough that he must have passed a game of it once or a dozen times.

He lost of course, all three bouts they played.

Emett Moray was not a man of chance or luck. Although he did play at the sail and rig and rope of sailor-ship, a navy-man by trade and by training -- he was never one for chance. Strict and ordered, liable to snap the humor off of any tree simply by work of his presence, Emett Moray was not one to put much stock in ‘fate’ or ‘fortune’. He worked for his keep, and expected no less than that which he gave.

But he played the dice game. And lost. Three times. -- In a row.

Now he would have been a liar to say in some arena of honest, internal truth that he was not at least a touch wounded in pride to have lost so completely. But he and Captain Atwater had not played for coin, and so he was not destitute. A kindness, surely. But they had played for query, and he had been given the undue force of task to answer each one of her drunken questions.

Drunken, yes. Abighail Atwater had insisted rather immediately upon their brief meeting to be fully, wholly, up-to-the-brim-of-the-liver drunk.

Of course he was prone to assumption. While Moray was no man to speak his mind quickly, clearly, and without great provocation or demand, he did think quite a lot. He thought much, and often in fact. It was a product of character that made him so entirely apt at his profession. Both as a sailor, and as an advisor -- as it was, in the capacity of First Mate.

First Mate -- such was the title he still considered of himself despite he and the Captain Atwater’s lacking in a vessel nor crew to validate such titles. But he had been across the pendulous waves of Azeroth enough times and under enough cause to know that periods of land-lock were not uncommon foe.

Now of course those periods did not usually involve maniacal, overwhelmingly powerful pirate Lords who helmed an entire Fleet of cacophonous and chaotic clergy-crew …

But Emett Moray took the world as it came. It was not his place to question things.

Assumption. Yes he had first many assumptions when he met with Captain Atwater. It took him a good plenty of time just to recognize her in the throngs of people in the Mage District of Stormwind City given her styling of dress. For a superior officer that he had only seen in articles of uniform or men’s clothing that were likely four times larger to size of tailor than her body could account for -- it was quite jarring to see her in a dress of all things. Or was it a robe? He could not speak to the parlance of women’s clothes.

Assumptions, yes.

She wore a dress in the middling of the Grand Alliance capital, she continued to speak of a location in Westfall wherein she was currently staying, and the moment he brought up any mention of their clandestine efforts to determine the ongoing efforts of the Red Fleet and the demonic creature, Abbidas Bonnet, who led them -- she promptly demanded alcohol.

Now Emett Moray was no man to make great assumption. He would make some, as was needed to continue to exist without decapitation, ex-sanguination, or general disembowelment as a traveling humanoid of Azeroth. The world was prone to violence, unarguably.

But great assumption he made effort to avoid. Not only because it was usually incorrect and the product of personal, deep-seated biases that most people did not want to engage with on any kind of intellectual or logical level -- but because it was not in his nature.

He took the world as it came.

It was not for belief or assumption that he heard the Mother below speak to him. She spoke, he heard her, and that was all the reason he needed. There was no cause to try to inform his own consideration of the Red Lord and his divine conjurations, as he had seen and felt them. That was more than enough to believe and understand. Fire was painful, and the scrubbing of the mind by righteous power was painful, and the laceration of flesh under incantation was -- as one could imagine -- painful.

He took the world as it came.

So when he met with his Captain, a woman of some mere doubling of decades plus perhaps a handful of extra winters to accompany, and she wore a dress and seemed ruffled for mind and was uncommonly distracted from their clandestine task regarding the efforts of the pirate lord Abbidas Bonnet and she demanded alcohol with rapidity --

Well, it was no great assumption to think she was in a romantic tiff.

Of course the first assumption would be an allocated evening date that was stood up. That would explain the dress and the oddity of attitude. Nothing to destroy the logical mind there.

Second, would be, seeing as she made mention of Westfallian land that she was staying at -- and decidedly not describing it any further or giving the actual locale -- she was in a bout of issue with whomever it was she lived with. Of course one could assume that the dress implied a more personal attachment, but then against logic was unbiased and could easily explain for a more formal requirement instead. She was, even if a bastard by common law, a child of a Duke.

All these and more thoughts circulated within Emett Moray’s mind as he watched his Captain leave and -- if her word was to be believed, and he did believe her word -- head back to Westfall. She spoke to effect that she would be back in Stormwind the next day and, presumably, they could engage with some deliberation on their next move. Until such a time as a direct order offered otherwise, Moray made a point to reiterate that he would be assessing and reporting, as she had instructed, regarding the Red Fleet and its disgusting Lord-Captain.

Those thoughts and more continued to circulate as he made his way back to his prior perch, before he had made communique with Captain Atwater that evening, at Lion’s Rest. A fair spot to contemplate strategy as well as a uniquely positioned and inconspicuous cliff-side perch with which to abuse the assistance of his spyglass to watch the Stormwind Harbour.

While his contacts, of which his Captain was now well-aware of insofar as he was, had yet to give anymore useful information beyond the presumed course of one half of the Red Fleet -- a piece of intelligence he had shared, or tried to share, with Captain Atwater that evening -- Moray still remained vigilant to his own work. Stormwind was, in many ways, the beating heart and final hub to much of the machinations of any association of the Grand Alliance. And while the Red Lord was a disgusting, foul and disparaged thing who was welcome to no Alliance land -- one could never assume what was going to happen in Stormwind City any given day.

Goodness knew that was more and more true every day.

And so Emett Moray, with his broadness of form and girth at loss of height, stood and telescoped his spyglass at Lion’s Rest, eschewing the thoughts that remained regarding his Captain and the scent of oranges that newly surrounded her.

With a casual flick of the wrist, he brought up his spyglass and began to scan over the Stormwind Harbour, mind finally settling down from the --

He flared his brows and brought his spyglass down.

“-- What the fuck?”

@abighail-atwater​

[lace-and-grayce-blog]

Lady Grayce Maymont

PLACE IN SOCIETY

✖ FINANCIAL – wealthy / moderate / poor / in poverty

“Well...I don’t have as much money as I did...But I still have a lot I suppose.”

✖ MEDICAL – fit / moderate / sickly / disabled / disadvantaged / deceased

“Medically? Oh I’m perfectly healthy!”

✖ CLASS OR CASTE – upper / lower / middle / working / unsure

“I am countess of Weldon...Even if my father tries to deny it.”

✖ EDUCATION – qualified / unqualified / studying

“I received a good education for certain.”

FAMILY

✖ MARITAL STATUS – married, happily / married, unhappily / engaged  / partnered / / divorced / widow or widower / separated / single / it’s complicated

“My father never did succeed in marrying me off like he planned...”

✖ CHILDREN – has children / no children / wants children / adopted children

“Oh some day I would certainly love children! A boy and a girl!”

✖ FAMILY – close with sibling / not close with siblings / has no siblings / siblings are deceased / it’s complicated

“As far as I am aware, I am an only child.”

TRAITS & TENDENCIES

✖ disorganised / organised / in between

“I get a bit upset if certain things are out of place...”

✖ close-minded / open-minded / in between

“I certainly consider myself open-minded!’

✖ cautious / reckless / in between

“Oh goodness...Would it be too weird to circle cautious? Maybe I should think about this some more...”

✖ patient / impatient / in between

“It is a virtue!”

✖ outspoken / reserved / in between

“I have my moment’s of each...”

✖ leader / follower / in between

“I have been a follower my whole life, So now I’m doing a bit of leading with the tournament.”

✖ sympathetic / unsympathetic / in between

“I like to help.”

✖ optimistic / pessimistic / in between

“I hope for the best!”

✖ hardworking / lazy / in between

“How can I sleep when there is so much to do!?”

✖ cultured / uncultured / in between

“For a westfallian I consider myself pretty cultured!”

✖ loyal / disloyal / in between

“Depends on to who I suppose.”

✖ faithful / unfaithful / in between

“In a relationship? Oh goodness I hope I would be faithful!”

SEXUALITY & ROMANTIC INCLINATION

✖ SEXUALITY – heterosexual / homosexual / bisexual / asexual / pansexual / omnisexual / demisexual

“I know I should marry for status, which means a man....But...Well, some women I just so pretty! Oh goodness did I just say that out loud?”

✖ ROMANCE – romance repulsed / romance neutral / romance favourable

“Oh goodness, sweep me off my feet just like in the novels!”

ABILITIES

✖ COMBAT SKILLS – excellent / good / moderate / poor / none

“I’ve tried to train a bit...”

✖ LITERACY SKILLS – excellent / good / moderate / poor / none

“I am well read.”

✖ ARTISTIC SKILLS – excellent / good / moderate / poor / none

“I’m not the most creative...”

[alexkestavin]

Character Sheet: Alexander Kestavin

BASICS

Full name: Alexander Thomas Kestavin Nickname(s): Alex Title(s): Lord and Lord Regent Sex: Male Gender: Cis Height: 6 Feet and 2 inches Age: 32 years old Zodiac: Capricorn Spoken languages: Common, minor Thalassian, Sign Language

PHYSICAL CHARACTERISTICS

Hair color: Black Eye color: Steel Blue Skin tone: Slightly tanned Body type: Built, slightly muscular Voice: Heavily controlled. He has trained himself to completely hide the Westfallian accent that he had gained from growing up in Westfall. Dominant hand: Ambidextrous (Favors his right) Posture: Alex’s posture can either be very proper or very loose. It depends on where he’s at. Scars:

A multitude of scars across his face.

Scars all over his back and chest

Everything from burn scars to slashing scars across his arms.

Tattoos: Heavy black and skin-colored tattoo that wraps back and forth across his arms and pecs. Magical runes seem to be hidden in between various lines of the tattoo.

Birthmarks:  N/A Most noticeable feature(s): Likely his scars.

CHILDHOOD

Place of birth: Ravenshallow Manor, Ravenshallow County, Alterac Birth weight/height: Unknown First words: Unknown Siblings: 

Tristan Kestavin (Deceased)

Thaylynn Kestavin (Alive)

Daisy Ann Maknus (Unknown)

Parents:

Roland Kestavin (Biological-Deceased)

Elizabeth Kestavin (Biological-Deceased)

Sarah Maknus (Adoptive-Deceased)

Andres Maknus (Adoptive-Deceased)

Parental involvement: Alex never met his biological parents. He misses his adoptive mother. And he wishes his adoptive father never existed.

Children:

Ophelia Maknus-Vellice (Biological daughter)

Elias Kestavin (Biological son)

Greyson Birch (Step-son)

ADULT LIFE

Occupation: Ship Captain of The Sudden Storm, and Co-owner of The Lace Lounge Current residence: The Lustrus Isle (Headcanon location) Close friends: Henroth Valdemar ( @blackenedhelm ), Venreena Holt ( @venreenaholt ), and Keldant Eversorrow ( @explosivesorrow ) Relationship status: Married to Eliceyn Kestavin ( @eliceynbirch ) Financial status: Well-off Criminal record: Convicted:

Assault

Drunk and Disorderly Conduct

Pickpocketing

Suspected:

Murder

Theft

Illegal possession of firearms and weaponry

Vices:

Sex

Alcohol

Various illicit substances

SEX & ROMANCE

Sexual orientation: Straight (Mostly) Preferred emotional role: submissive | dominant | switch Preferred sexual role: submissive | dominant | switch Libido: Decently high Turn-ons: A submissive woman, someone who can hold a conversation, tenderness, willing to try new things, confidence. Turnoffs: Arrogance, Controlling behavior, general asshole behavior, abusive/manipulative acts/behavior Love language: Alex’s love language tends to be touch of any kind and affection. Relationship tendencies: Alex doesn’t really have tendencies too much with his relationships. Each once is different.

Character’s theme song(s): I have absolutely -no idea-. Hobbies to pass time: Baking, cooking, blacksmithing, and spending time with his wife and family. Mental illnesses: PTSD Physical illnesses: A chronic pain from having his wounds healed too often. Left or right-brained: Left-brained Fears: Losing his family, being alone when he dies, losing another wife or child Self-confidence level: Extremely high. Vulnerabilities: Alex is -very- paranoid. And thinks of himself a bit too high sometimes. Tagged by: @blackenedhelm and @eliceynbirch Tagging: Anyone who’d like to do this.

[newsnerd-ooc]

🙌🙌

Jasper Randerling.

Most would see him as your typical Westfallian-turned Stormwind resident, a man who one could see as a sailor or a dockworker. In all reality, he is a privateer and a good friend of mine. We met in Darkshore when he was ‘smuggling’ resources to the small Kaldorei resistance that had existed there prior to Tyrande’s deployment. I had been looking into some odd anomalies and larger Goblinoid constructs when I found him.

There’s a lot of men who might try to make a pretty penny off of a crisis, but not him. He had stepped away from his Alliance contract (Which had deployed him to Kul Tiras) to work as a smuggler in Kalimdor.

Since then, we’ve ran a few ops. He’s not bad with a pistol and has taught me a few unique pistol tricks.

Now he mostly lingers in Menethil Harbor, running a few mercantile contracts with his skeleton crew. 

 Elizabeth Jefferson.

You know how some people tell you to make friends with your librarian? Wait. Is that not a thing? Oh. well.

Elizabeth is my favorite Librarian in Stormwind. She’s an older woman who’s been there since I got to Stormwind. Whether it was old private records or older texts, she has been there for me whenever I spent the time to dig into a topic.

Mind you, I’m pretty sure she wanted to backhand me every time I tracked blood into her library, but I always made up for it.

Based on our conversations, it’s fairly clear that she wasn’t always a librarian, but rather a mage from the First and Second Wars. She doesn’t like to speak on that, rather preferring to stick to her texts. 

But if you ever need a woman to recommend a text, she would be my go-to.

[vladimira-shakahn]

“You’re lucky I came along when I did. I can’t think of what would have happened had I not shown up in time.”

Vladimira decided to skip the humble breakfast that Hen offered to share with her since his tutelage when it came to becoming an honorary... Westfallian. Instead she figured if she made it out early enough, the woman could make it to the sheep to herd them in a warm surprise before Hen would get there with whatever animal he chose to bring as help. 

 The trip from his house to the grand field open for the sheep needing to be herd wasn’t long nor wide. It was straight and narrow. The type of road one imagines on their last moments in hope that peace does exist- in a sense, it did. Vladimira on this fine early morning was the perfect example that peace does exist. It was a matter of what context, where, and why. How people perceived it. 

 The Ren’dorei finally came to the sheep and instead of realizing that she should have brought a whistle or even a hound with her to help, she decided to simply one by one from the herd of at least fifty, take a rope and gently guide them back into the pens. Instead of them being scared and weary of her, it seemed as if some enjoyed her gentle touch and one by one they went in. 

 The sound of grass being pushed back into the earth by strong hooves rung her ears faintly, eyes lighting up with excitement to show Hen what she did. It wasn’t that she knew it was him, it was the sheer excitement and hope that it was- and oh, it was certainly him. 

 With one of the last sheep at her side, there was a muse in her footfall to glance skyward to Hen. “I thought that this would be a nice surprise for you! Did I do it?!” 

 Hours ago the sun shone with a mighty ray and bleeding warmth that spread through her normally neutral kin. Now, it blazed with fury and a hilltop of Westfall residents who had pitchforks in hand and anger in their eyes. They were yelling towards Hen- no, towards Vladimira. They were angry, disgusted, and some were already spewing names! 

 “Mira, you asked me to teach you. Which means you stay close to me.” There was a look of sadness on his features as he knew exactly why the riot was angry. Why the pitch-fork handling men and women were so upset. Westfall has been backburned for so long and the last thing they cared for was an outsider who--- looked exactly like the enemy, but purple. It didn’t matter if the factions were neutral now. People had their preferences, and this was one of them.  

 Before either of them knew it, the riot circled and closed the two in. Whoever was the leader of it was unclear, but one man did step forward and angrily jabbed his pitchfork within reach of Vlad, but didn’t quite touch her. He made sure of that. “What a’ ye’ doin’ on our land, Elf?! Git outta here! GIT!” 

 Vladimira swallowed hard and completely zoned out. It wasn’t that she purposefully blocked each individual out. It was the fact that she knew she’d eventually go, and if it was like this to help bring peace to those who have been disregarded, then it was what it was. What she didn’t understand was for what felt like seconds but were handful of minutes that passed due to her zoning out, Henroth managed to convince the riot to calm and scatter. His resonant, chivalrous, and knowing voice was all muffled to her previously. Up until he exclaimed: “She is NOT a foe, neighbors. All of you know me well. We have lived together for awhile now. Her name is Mira and all she wanted to do was spend some time with us to learn of our ways. To appreciate us. Not to steal from us, toss our ethics aside, or even burn our hay. None of that. She came here for peace and harmony much as you all did. Leave us.” 

 Just like that, the riot left. 

 “Why did-” 

 Hen cut her off with a simple wave of his hand. “ You’re lucky I came along when I did. I can’t think of what would have happened had I not shown up in time. As for the sheep, you did great. I will have to teach you the proper techniques though.” He slipped off of his horse and took it by the reigns to walk with Vlad back to his house. 

“You have not proven yourself distrustful. I would not see to it that someone who seems well off would be burned at the stake without proper reason. I called you Mira because my folk pick up on names like that easier. Besides, they do not need to know your full name. No use if they are so quick to grab their pitch forks. Times for us have been rough. We had many who were kicked from the city and thrown here. Many mouths left unfed and bodies buried on the hills. Children who became orphans and slowly grew up to become bandits, eh...” He flashed her a charming smile with a trusting gaze. “That is why.” 

(( @blackenedhelm )) 

[marquis-teren-kiden]

“Here, let me show you how.” -Rodanthe {Prompt: two characters who have been sparring or in combat training together. Feel free to make any changes.I can see him as a mentor to Rodanthe, someone she can trust when she needs advice, or help with certain areas. She has had to learn everything on her own.

For several hours, I have watched this young woman sparring in the Brawler’s Pub, defiant in the face of one defeat after another. Others in the room see only her failures, but I? I see her heart. She is an unmitigated Survivor. Win. Lose. Draw. It matters not, for she persists.

Even in the face of her own relentless doubts whispering each flawed technique applied under the most grueling of circumstances. She’s not here, however, to win.

Rodanthe Margrave is here to learn.

My former Paramour, Elias Hawthorne, spoke rarely but well of this young woman, and I see wherein his praise has been derived for she is silently majestic in the face of these obstacles. A proper polymath autodidact, like myself. Willing to endure whatever ignominies are required in order to molt and to grow.

Like my admiration. Though she’s adorned in an impressive collection of cuts, scrapes, and bruises to show for her efforts, there is nothing more impressive to me than the determined defiance in her eyes as she - for the forty-third time - drags herself up from the pit. 

There is no fanfare for those who do not win. At best, she hopes for silence. An end to the interminable mocking of the staff and patrons whose unrelenting tongues have wagged ceaselessly since the conclusion of her first match.

I, however, hope for more. Far more.

“Miss Margrave, might I be of some assistance?” It takes quite near to a full minute for her to overcome the flush of her cheeks as she peers up at me. Her thoughts are thick with complimentary thoughts of my magnetic presence and masculinity. Enough that even I feel an abashed appreciation for the eloquent timidity of her fleeting exploration of a romantic exchange between us. “I believe you are attempting something far too profound for these–” I mind my tongue. Many here are possessed of reasonable intellect. It’s the emotionally stunted and immature who spoil the lot. “–individuals are capable of teaching.”

“I uhm…I’m fine, thank you, m’Lord.” She assumes my nobility by the expense of my attire and cadence of my high born accent. I’m hardly at liberty to argue the veracity of the assumption. With an awkward bow followed by an admirable attempt at a curtsy the young woman hustles away to sign up for her next match; heedless of the line that has formed ahead of her and certainly not expecting me to persist in my offer. 

With a casual mien, I approach her with several feet to spare between us as I turn about to face her. “With respect, Miss Margrave, I am afraid I must insist. What you wish to learn, I can teach without the additional cost of a visit to the local infirmary. Please–” I hold my hand out - palm up - to indicate my intention to receive hers. “–I suspect Elias would prefer you learn the art of war from an accomplished strategist. I am such a person, and – if you will allow it – I would be honored to teach you how to wield well the most dangerous weapon of them all.”

It is, perhaps, a bit of cheating to invoke his name, and yet, I can hardly remain idle as she continues to suffer needlessly in search of a weapon she already possesses. Wary of my intentions, there’s a stark craving in her to see him and ask if he trusts me to accomplish this task. “Elias is here?” She’s testing the veracity of my words and intention. 

I shake my head. “No Darling. I’ve not seen him since he concluded our romantic affairs early this year. We were deeply in love, but unable to offer it in a manner the other required. He remains, however, deeply cherished, and I hope he will offer such kind words of me when next you speak.”

She takes her time – several minutes in fact – to weigh her options, during which I offer no interruption. Patience is rewarded, as I have taught my Husband and our Fiancèe. There’s no harm in allowing her time to decide for herself what my intentions may be. 

“Alright.” She whispers, nodding to herself as she affirms in her own mind to take this unanticipated leap of faith. With a tremble she struggles to control, her hand lands with a jarring impact to my palm, eliciting a wince and awkward attempt at apology. “I-I’m so sorry, M’–”

I’m not normally so rude as to interrupt, but we teach others how we wish for them to treat us, and I’d much prefer she see me as a potential friend and mentor rather than a noble. “Please,–” I wave it all away, clasping atop her hand briefly in an attempt to reassure her. “–Teren. My name is Teren. I’m here as a friend. Perhaps, in time, you may allow me to mentor you further. But, for now–” With a gentle pull I lead her out of the establishment and back into the light day where the smell of molten metal and clang of blacksmiths scattered about Stormwind’s Dwarven District greet our senses with thick smoke and unseasonal warmth.

“Where are we going, Mister Teren?” The quaint accent of a native Westfallian holds some minor appreciation to my ear. Our course takes us across the walled District to the seawall overlooking the sea beyond the Park.

“To close your wounds and open your mind, Darling.” Though she remains uncertain regarding my intentions, I’ve been mindful to keep us well within the public domain where any passerby or passing guard patrol might intercede if I were to attempt a liberty unamenable to her. An aspect of our travels which allows her curiosity to overwhelm her normally keen instinct for self-preservation.

“You said you were gonna teach me how to use the most powerful weapon of all, but you haven’t said what that weapon is, sir.”

“Teren.” I reiterate as I guide her to a stone bench nearby and take a knee before her. At last, I am at liberty to examine her for wounds. Where a Light-Wielder might pour forth a general suffusion of their sacred energies, we Shadow Weavers have the ability to examine every iota of dark matter strewn between the protons throughout our patient’s bodies. Detect weaknesses yet undiscovered; knit bone as if it were flesh, at a sub-atomic level. “Yes. What weaponry do you currently favor, if I might ask?” 

“My bow. I can do just about anything I need to with my bow, Sir.” She replies with the same confidence she’d engaged her opponents. Not fearless, but aware that she’d survive whatever they through at her. 

I offer her a smile while discreetly perusing her wounds. The exploration with the void is often noted by an inexplicable chill. She shivers as my hand remains gently clasped along hers; the point of origin for my effort to examine her injuries and efforts to gently restore her body to proper health. It’s tedious, time consuming, and - for now - a perfect opportunity to set her on a path to her greater potential. “Are there any other weapons you’ve an interest in studying?”

Her eyes loft to the skies, perhaps seeking after the avian companions she sees so often overhead. Or so she tells herself. A series of failed attempts at wielding polearms and pikes have left a frustratingly bitter taste on her tongue. “Polearms.” She whispers and the aggravation imparted to that single word is heartbreakingly thorough; laced as it is with an accent of shame. “They’re too heavy. I can’t swing ‘em.”

“What would you say if I told you that the most powerful weapon you will ever wield is already here, and utterly under your control?” I posit as I finish knitting her wounds. Once the Void has served its function I return it to its normal place within the fabric of creation, waiting nearly a full minute as we speak before moving over the mended tissue with a meticulous application of light energies I rarely advertise. I’m certainly not in mind to spend my life trapped in a hospital awaiting the next vainglorious beast to arrive from the tides of war. But, for her? Yes.

She shakes her head, smiling bashfully. “If you’re about to say it’s my brain, I’d say I’d hate to disappoint you but… I might just disappoint you, Mister–”

“Teren. Just. Teren.” I reiterate softly. “Now that you’re feeling a bit more spry, might I ask a favor of you in good faith?” Only at my words does it dawn on her that the aches and pain she’d been mindful not to utter a word of complaint toward had simply faded away, unnoticed in the casual discourse we’ve been sharing. “Here. Let me show you how.”

It’s an unnatural thing in her mind, this addressing of strangers in so personal a manner, yet it finally settles in her gut that I’ve shown no poor intention. Withdrawing her hand from mine, she rises to her feet, peering down at me with an awkward posture which speaks to her general lack of surety in my company. “Alright…Teren. What do I have to do?”

Rising to my feet, I tower over her, so I begin with a fundamental of combat - equalizing the playing field. “I’ve seen enough of you to know that you are quite capable of overcoming your own pain to achieve an objective. But, I propose you work smarter, not harder. To begin, you will attempt to bring me to ground by whatever means are at your disposal. I will attempt to prohibit you without resorting to any weapon or violence beyond the application of my knowledge. If you are defeated, you will agree to take up the mind as your next weapon. If you defeat me, I will teach you any physical weapon I have knowledge of. Do you agree to these terms?”

Her head shifts in the negative, even as her hands come up in rejection of the offer. “Oh, no, Sir. I don’t want to hurt you Mister Teren.”

Stepping forward - well inside of her personal space - I make myself openly vulnerable to any strike she cares to offer. “I’m afraid, as I’ve stated previously, I must insist.” I reply in a seductive tone laced with authority.

Side-stepping the bench, she moves back another step, and then another. “I thought you said you were going to teach me how to wield a weapon.”

Following her until she’s forced to act or submit, I bow low, brushing the scruff of my beard along her cheek as I offer my hushed rejoinder in a velvet baritone. “I am teaching. Are you learning?” I reply calmly, my gaze pinned to her owlish orbs as her head tilts up in an act of submission she likely doesn’t realize she’s offering.

She’s unaccustomed to feeling at war with her own body. It’s a tempestuous battlefield laced with a litany of urges and desires few men have held privilege to inspire within her. “I-I–uhm” The stammering is a product of the adrenaline spike she experiences. A fight, flight or freeze response where the latter is holding her in place like a caged rabbit.

I reach for her chin, stroking gently along the front of her neck and stirring a deepening crimson color along her lustrous cheeks. Her breath hitches, and corneas widen. Even her lips swell with added blood flow. Her tongue slips from plush pink lips to wet them in anticipation. All subtle autonomic indicators of an aroused Human in a state of expectation for more - far more - than the verbal intercourse we’ve exchanged. 

Not all battles must occur with violence. Indeed, far fewer should. With our lips less than an inch apart, I utter the most telling of phrases for this, our first engagement. “Do you yield, Miss Margrave?”

[Thank you for the lovely ask, @rodanthemargrave. I do hope I’ve met your expectations, Darling.]

[westfall-faith]

“I’m passing through,” The Madame’s Man eyes the woman and her fellow Defias folk. His gaze was ahead to look down the path. His face is stern through the jest of a coy smile. He wasn’t afraid of them and if they would come after him, they would have to answer to his Madame. — @ofravensandseas

The Elwynn bridge creaked gently as Faith leaned against its weathered railing, her worn boots nudging the cool water below. Asher, her loyal mutt, a farm dog whose fur had faded to a distinguished salt-and-pepper, sat patiently beside her. Unlike the others perched on the bridge – a motley crew, but in common clothes – Faith hadn't bothered casting a line. Asher's soulful brown eyes mirrored her own quiet amusement as their companions, a jovial man and a woman with hair the color of corn silk, engaged in a lively debate about the merits of bobbers versus flies. "Ain't gonna catch nothin' if you two keep hollerin'," Faith finally offered.

A lone figure emerged from the Elwynn side, his intent clear as he crossed the bridge. "I'm passing through," he mumbled, a greeting Faith reckoned was offered more for politeness than anything else.

Faith didn't budge, nor did any of her companions. They'd claimed their space, leaving a generous berth for the passerby, and weren't about to be flustered. In a slow, molasses-thick Westfallian drawl, Faith simply replied, "Alright," her voice as unhurried as the babbling stream below. It was a simple word, yet somehow managed to convey both a casual welcome and a subtle reminder that they weren't easily interrupted. Faith chuckled softly, the sound swallowed by the gentle murmur of the water, and turned back to Asher, scratching him behind the ears. The bridge, it seemed, was theirs.

@ofravensandseas

[westfall-faith]

Faith's boots thudded against the ladder rungs, a staccato rhythm echoing in the dusty barn. Her grip, roughened by years of toil, tightened around the weathered wood as she hoisted herself higher. "Naw," she said in answer. "Reckon I can climb a ladder just fine."

A shaft of moonlight sliced through a broken window overhead, and she half expected to see a Dreadlord swoop through it. His macabre description was all she could focus on until she caught herself breathing hard. She took breath, caught herself holding it, and tried again.

"Never clapped eyes on a dreadlord," she muttered, her Westfallian accent thick, "but I've heard them tales. If they ever came to these parts, I don't figure any of the locals would lift a finger. Wouldn't think it, but fightin' off evil, bein' a hero? That's a luxury."

It was her way of telling him he could be right.

Finally, she reached the top rung and pulled herself onto the dusty loft floor. Cobwebs brushed against her face, and the musty scent of old hay filled her nostrils. Disappointment washed over her as she scanned the empty space. No hidden compartments, no secret passageways, just piles of forgotten hay and the creeping tendrils of decay.

"Well," she said in defeat, "it ain't here."

@nixalegos

Dust, and Little Else

Continuation from here As she approached, with much less trepidation then he'd personally liked, he gestured with his gauntleted hand for her to keep her coinage. "You've silver to waste on a stranger, and you spend three days without eating." He said in obvious displeasure. "I'm beginning to understand why so many have ill views on the Brotherhood." He added enigmatically. "But, to clarify, Yes, it really does want caramel apples. Apple, dipped, covered in bone dust, dipped again." To which he shrugged. "You'd think they'd try to breed the horse OUT of the demon abomination. You can ask the Nathrezim why they took up horse husbandry as a hobby." He said with a shrug. As she went about scurrying around he called out. "Technically. It would be easier for me to burn this place to the ground. The blood gem won't be damaged by fel fire." He said matter of factly. Perhaps he said it as unspoken threat. A reminder that her, the lands she fought for, the very notion of homestead and sanctity meaningless. Obstacles, either to be utterly and totally erased, or forcibly bent to work for him. "But seeing as you volunteered," He continued. "It should be about the size of your head, blood red, and look otherwise like a giant ruby that's way too warm to the touch." He edified as he came to cross his gauntleted arms.

@westfall-faith

[keladryhawklight]

"Where do we go from here?" Kel asked quietly, turning her gaze up to Sandor's unsure expression. "Despite your trepidation, your rightful title, as my husband, is now Lord of Hawklight."

[collection-of-haunts]

Pick-Up & Departure Part 1

      --The Paradise Players--

  The Paradise did it's best to live up to the name, though it was easiest the nicest looking place in Boot Bay, in way of quality of décor and service. However Booty Bay had it's way of sinking into things, showing the cracks and imperfections giving everything the sense of veneer over quality. Still, it was Dechlan's pride and joy. A large gambling floor draped everywhere in red and gold. Carpets and tall curtains to give the illusion of windows that were in fact, not there, wrapped in gold foil wallpaper. 

  The Hotel part was the next two floors above the first. The rooms were in the same gaudy version of luxury, offering suites and standard doubles and singles. There were rumors that room service included more than just late night snacks. The pretty women dressed in fine gowns and jewels, who were so friendly to the patrons, encouraging them to buy drinks and spend more money were surely only patrons themselves, or at least, just very interested in gambling. 

  Exiting through the kitchen, Dechlan waited on the dock with an impatient tap of his toe. Typically used for scheduled deliveries of everything the resort needed, today was different. Behind him a woman of far more poise stood with her hands clasped behind herself. Dark skin wrapped in darker leather. The leather pants ripped fashionably up the thigh. Her top was no more than a leather corset tied tight. Her peasant boots were right out of the muck of Gilneas, though clean now of course. Her ringlet curls pulled back into a messy bun. She had an air of authority, of patience her male Holt counterpart didn't possess. 

  "They should have been here an hour ago. Venreena promised." He huffed, pacing the planks peering off into the horizon. 

  "It's a boat, Dechlan." She replied, a thick Gilnean accent holding an odd sense of melody. "I'm sure there's a lot of factors."

  As if in answer to his complain, the Riviera crested. He relaxed a bit then and sighed. "Fina-fucking-ly." His gaze shifted to the third and final person waiting that morning. A thin red-head with a bow slung over her back. "You." He barked, the man usually not this worked up but it was an important day. 

  "Her name is Charlotte." The other woman corrected. 

  "I don't need to know her name, Camille." He snapped back. 

  "Of course not... Lord Holt." Camille’s tone warning and implicative. 

  He sighed, rubbing at his temples with both hands. "Right... fine. Charlotte?" 

  The Huntress looked to him, wearing a soft smile, having been at attention since the 'you' was called. "Yeah boss." Her accent, though similar to Camille's was distinctly Westfallian in it's gracelessness. 

  "He's coming. Get everything ready." 

  "Sure thing boss." She intoned and disappeared into the Paradise. 

  “Everything will be fine D." The Gilnean offered softly. "Is it Lady Holt who has you in such a twist?" She sounded amused. "You know she's married to your cousin..." 

  Of course he knew. "Shut up Cammy. It's not about that." 

  She hummed softly. "Of course not."

[ @marxsus-emerick - @venreenaholt - @holtandthornetradingco - @scout-cece - @householt -- To the Attention of: @levvnightfall ]

[analliancesoldier]

Dear Ma,

It's almost my favorite season! I've been gathering up a list of treats to make everyone. Hopefully I can get everything baked and out before we go on furlough. I also helped start an idea for a potluck style Servitors holiday party. I think that'll be real nice.

Oh! And I helped name Nia's little gryphon -- that's the daughter of Commander Mindspanner and Advisor Silverwright. (The one I keep ma'aming.) I'm also making sugar cookies for her -- do you still have my old recipe there? The firm version?

Went to a memorial last week for the fallen. It was needed, I think. Been seeing a lot of war in the last few years. I spoke about everyone lost in Westfall, Krasarang, and Northrend. Well, really only Andren.

I had a dream with him recently. A good one this time, not just rehashing when he died, so don't you worry too much. We were back in that clearing where he'd first started teaching me about the Light, except I was my age now. I was even wearing my Servitors tabard and my fancy gold armor. He looked about the same, though. I don't remember much of the details - you know how dreams go - but I think he was glad to see me and it felt like we'd been reunited. It was a real comforting dream. Better than the ones about felfire and demons, haha.

Oh, before I forget! We might have a nice fellow Westfallian stopping in sometime in the future. I met her at the memorial and she was real nice. Used to be out around Moonbrook before she left and moved to Stormwind. Like I told her, I probably patrolled right by before. Small planet!

I might stop by in early December to grab some cookbooks. There's a mission to Argus in a few days or I'd go sooner. I don't want to put those details in a letter in case it falls in the wrong hands but it's looking like a real serious mission. I'll tell you more when I get home!

Let me know if you want added to the baking list, haha.

Love you,

Jenn

((mentions: @josilverwright, @kiddowizard, @mindspanner))

[alexkestavin]

Details of: The Regent

Art done by @theblackvoidcat

full name. Alexander Thomas Kestavin pronunciation. Al-x-an-der Toh-mas Kes-tah-vin nicknames. Alex zodiac. Capricorn languages. Common, Thalassian, and Dwarvish

PHYSICAL CHARACTERISTICS.

height. 6′2″ age. 33 years old hair color. Black eye color. Steel Blue skin tone. Tanned body type. Fit and cut accent. Formerly Westfallian has since toned it to normal nothing accent. dominant hand. Depends on the circumstance but usually right-handed. posture. Straight scars. Scars litter his body, shrapnal scars, burn scars, cuts and stabs, they’re everywhere. tattoos. Alex only has one tattoo right now. But it covers his chest and arms. And they’re embued with shadow runes to increase his magic output and sustainability when released.

most noticeable features.  His gaze tends to be rather intense. Even if he doesn’t mean to.

CHILDHOOD.

place of birth. Ravenshollow Manor, Ravenshollow County, Alterac Mountains hometown. Northwest of Sentinel Hill birth weight/height. Unknown manner of birth. Natural first words. Unknown siblings. Tristan Kestavin (Deceased) Thaylynn Kestavin (Alive) parents.  Roland Kestavin (Father; Deceased) and Elizabeth Kestavin (Mother; Deceased) Sarah Maknus (Adoptive Mother; Deceased) Andres Maknus (Adoptive Father; Deceased) parental involvement. Alex never met his biological parents. He would give anything to have his adoptive Mother back. And he wishes his adoptive Father never existed.

ADULT LIFE.

Occupation. Co-Owner of the Lace Lounge, Captain of the Sudden Storm, and Regent to Rosenfield Duchy Current residence. Stormsong Valley Close friends Henroth Valdemar ( @blackenedhelm ) relationship status. Married to Lady Eliceyn Kestavin ( @eliceynbirch ) financial status. Well off vices. Sex, Alcohol, Sweets, BAKED GOODS

SEX & ROMANCE.

sexual orientation. Mostly Straight (Not always) romantic orientation. Alex is entirely straight romantically. He doesn’t date or have romantic relationships with men. preferred emotional role. submissive | dominant | switch | unsure | detached preferred sexual role.  submissive | dominant | switch | sex repulsed libido. Can’t keep his hands off his wife. turn-ons. Someone who can push back against his stubbornness, oh and his wife. She does that too. turn-offs.  Brash, overly stubborn, and rude people love language. Touch is huge with Alex. And also words of affirmation. relationship tendencies: Alex has a tendency to be very closed off in a certain sense until they find a way to break that shell. Essentially there’s surface level Alex who’s a jokester and happy go lucky. And then there’s Alex at his core who is honestly a really sad person. Breaking to the inner core takes a bit unless he feels exceptionally comfortable with you.

MISCELLANEOUS.

hobbies to pass the time. Smithing, Baking, and spending time with his family and pets, mental illnesses. PTSD (Recovering), Depression & Anxiety (Treated) physical illnesses. Nothing yet left or right brained. Right-brained (Mostly) fears. Losing his family, losing everything in his life, being alone, self-confidence level: Alex is pretty confident with himself. Even if it’s played up a little more than most realize. vulnerabilities. Family, friends, pets and that’s about it.

Tagged By: @murkeyglglgl @dardillien-ward @scion-of-silversheen @shewolf-jacqueline @eliceynbirch

Tagging: @sneakybinch (either lady) @blackenedhelm (Any of your dudes my dude) @venreenaholt @seaandsails @somberset @smokingveil @waroftwowolves