And if it falls, unto my lot, that you should rise and I should not…

 

Odynae Dawnhammer, worn by battle and made brittle from loss, lives out her days restless and roaming. She searches for her purpose, she fights to rid the world of an evil that slips ever further from her reach… those who are lost live on in her prayers, their names and their deeds stubbornly honored.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Marlbane Brightmoore quietly fades away from those very few she was once close to, reclusive and obsessed by her own mortality- by the demons that await her death. She spends her days hunting for a way to regain the part of her soul that is lost- or to find a way to outwit death. Even demon-hunting becomes of little interest in her obsessive search. Eventually, she does die – of her own accord, but is saved from the endless torment that awaits her, by the plague of undeath… which itself is a new form of torment. She eventually goes mad.

 

Ashtivar Whiteoak is forced to leave her farm in Surwich after her theft of goblin gold is discovered. She spends some time in hiding, before Gilneas calls her home for the last time. She fights to reclaim her homeland, and, after years of fighting, dies there.

Gifting on a budget

Stormwind Bank was crowded and busy, the low hum of conversation overpowered by rattling arms and clanking armor; hunter pets sat vigilant guard at their masters’ heels, attendants groaned beneath the weight of heavy chests, and bankers skillfully counted out gold, silver, and copper. The cold bite of winter lingered in the air, drawn in by the perpetually open doors and tracked across the carpet as mud and snow.

Dyna felt uneasy in the crowd, but, being more or less homeless, this was her best chance to keep her possessions safe and well preserved- anything she needed on a daily basis was kept in several heavy travel packs, loaded carefully on her wayward protodrake. Still, Newt was not well known for his common sense or intelligence. That which was irreplaceable, was not trusted to such treatment.

Waiting patiently in the press of folk, she let her mind wander, considering the gifts she’d purchased; for Vyysce, an enchanted lantern to dash away the dark that frightened him. For Diane, an ornate Wizard’s staff tipped with fire that always burned, but never consumed. Tristen McAllister’s gift was wrapped in solemn blue, held clutched in her hand- she could feel the faint Light that empowered it, felt its comfort; she hoped he might, too, considering Theramore and the more personal loss he’d sustained.  At least Mykhael only chose to leave, she thought quietly, at least he’s still alive somewhere with Thoran- not dead of the Horde’s avarice. And the little ones, too… Light, what a world.

Mahlar, however, had been—less than she had hoped for. She’d seen what she wanted to give the man; it was beautiful, in the tailor’s window, somber black stitched with silver. Elegant. Sure, the color wasn’t nearly so vivid as a man like Mahlar might enjoy, but- it might serve for more formal occasions, and it was enough to catch even Odynae’s eye. Trouble was, all the coin she had wasn’t enough to make that purchase- last year, she could’ve done so without blinking. Not this year, though; she was no longer in anyone’s employ, now. She’d managed well enough to stretch her savings over the long months, but- life required upkeep. Her various armor sets required maintenance, her weapons sharpened, her protodrake fed and herself clothed beneath the plate; random expenses kept seeming to creep up, but even so, she’d have enough for a month- if she was careful.

It was disconcerting. Money hadn’t been a problem for her- even before the Sigil’s generous pay bolstered her slim savings, she’d received a small stipend from the Abbey, with which she was meant to continue her training. That had stopped, of course, when she’d renounced herself- but going from one paying position to the next hadn’t been much trouble.

She’d never thought much of coin before, it had always simply been there when her modest needs required it. But the downside to being an independent woman pursuing her own ends, was that no one was compensating her to do so. She’d never been terribly business-minded, had never put much thought into these things- and it was beginning to show.

Now it meant she couldn’t buy Mahlar the set of robes she wanted to, for Winter’s Veil. It was disappointing, but not devastating; not yet, anyway. Instead, she’d decided to share a canister of her well-made and specially imbued burn cream- she and Audran had made an entire barrel of the stuff, way back when. It only seemed to grow more potent with age, but she’d gone through quite a lot of it herself, and in the aid of her allies. What remained was precious, and she knew that Mahlar would have just as much use for it as she did…

Still. Winter’s Veil gifts were meant to be frivolous and fanciful. This was neither.

With a terse shake of her head, she greeted the banker with what passed for a smile, cheeks lifting slightly, lips pulled in their stiff grimace beneath the mask. The expression didn’t quite reach her eyes, which remained wary and troubled- but then, that was hardly unusual for the battered paladin. A plate glove proffered the plain iron key, and the banker raised an eyebrow to study it a moment- then bowed and gestured that she should follow.

She padded in silence down the hall and considered, briefly, whether she ought to downgrade to a smaller vault, to suit her reduced finances. The heavy iron door swinging open outward revealed a cramped mess of armor, weaponry, and knick-knacks she’d acquired in her various travels and campaigns; she grimaced. Unless she rid herself of most of what she owned, she doubted she’d fit it in a small iron chest- and she had entirely too many sets of armor to fathom such a thing.

A mumbled thank-you to the banker, and she was alone amidst her things.

Here, the cloak the infamous (mad) pirate admiral Drominativic had sent her, after Fortress disbanded- a threat that he’d never made gone on printed in the red palm on the faded blue cloth. And there, her lovingly patched but extremely rickety Lordaeron armor, gifted to her by Sir Ghodrey when she’d joined his Order- it still reeked faintly of fel magic and was almost beyond repair; she never wore it these days. Really, she ought to get rid of it- it was far beyond practical use.

Here, she kept the scarlet dress she’d worn with Mayru on their ill-fated visit to Silvermoon- and beside it, the little orb of disguise she’d used to look like she’d belonged there. The dress was a scandalous, two-pieced affair- wide impractical sleeves and intricate golden embroidery, cleavage and midriff baring- she’d felt naked in it, but Mayru had insisted. It had been hard to talk her down about such things. She’d only ever worn it the one time…

There were any number of dresses, none of which she’d worn in recent months. She felt a pang of sadness that she sternly set aside; a Knight was made to protect and serve the people, not to flutter about like a butterfly. She could put them on again, if she wanted- but they’d never really suited her, even before Wrin had ruined her face. She’d look ridiculous, now- like a big battered warhorse parading about as a noblewoman’s mount.

Still. They were nice to look at.

There were so many bits and pieces of her life in here- yet she couldn’t quite bring herself to pull them out again, into the sunlight.

Shaking her head wearily, the paladin carefully stripped off her plated gloves, then her pauldrons, and wriggled in amidst her mire of memories, searching for her herbal goods. She’d last worked a garden a year past, carefully drying and storing the herbs she’d lovingly tended that summer; this year she’d been far too busy working at her Knighthood, trying her best to quietly, covertly deal with other aspects of her life. Still, she found what she was looking for in a heavy barrel, more filled with insulation than the air-tight glass jars of various herbs and spices she kept. Rifling through them, she couldn’t quite help the wistful, ever-crooked smile that crept up on her; the earthy scent as she unfastened various jars was calming. It brought her back to times when she’d been – content, if not wholly joyful.

She carefully selected the herbs she’d use for the blend she was making for Faeir- tea was a bit of a cop-out, really, but perhaps the stricken huntress might find it a comfort. Pausing, she peered at her stock- then appropriated a bit more for Esme. The little gnome had been so kind, after all; it seemed appropriate, though they didn’t know one another well.

The burn cream was more toward the front of the mess, and she waded through bits and pieces of armor- a moldy pinecone toppled from somewhere, striking her on the head, and she grimaced. Not every memory was a happy one. Bloody lunatic…

The thought hit her a bit late- she ought to find something for Jahgan, though what she might have that a druid of his standing would appreciate, she hadn’t the faintest. A wicked smile curved the unscarred half of her face. Birdseed.

Yes, definitely birdseed.

Content in her gifts, she carefully sealed the canister of burn cream, and stepped outside her vault into the cool, quiet hallway, careful to swing the door shut behind her.

It wasn’t much, but she was doing her best.

 

Winter’s Veil

She moved with a heaviness of stride and spirit, head bowed and gaze held low- tracking cobblestones and kneecaps as she strode quickly through the poorly kempt streets of Old Town. Somewhere beneath the simple white mask, her lips were pulled in a thin frown, lost in her thoughts.

It had been a day, maybe two, since Tremaine had fled the Tram tunnels, his pocketwatch in a thousand pieces, irreparable. The city had engulfed him, leaving no trace behind- he was careful, methodical, obsessed; of course they couldn’t track him. It was all too easy for a man to disappear forever- this was a fact that Odynae Dawnhammer was intimately aware of.

But it wasn’t the prospect of never seeing him again that alarmed her. No- what hovered at the forefront of her mind was the prospect of having to face him in combat; or worse, that his compromised emotional state would result in him becoming a puppet of the enemy once more.

Ereleth Tremaine had started as an adversary, but that was before she’d understood- before she’d been inextricably mired in the situation. It had been easier, then; life had been simple. Help the Good, vanquish the Evil, defend the Innocent and admonish the Guilty. That had been before. It had been some time, now, since she’d seen the world in easy black and white; now, if Tremaine came after her with murderous intent, it wouldn’t be an easy thing. Detain and deliver to the authorities was the prudent answer. But there were layers to the situation.

Whatever the end, she’d do her best. She felt sympathy for his loss; the damn pocketwatch had been the only thing in the world that made him feel safe. It had been his eyes, his ears, his sword and shield- how naked he must feel.

How alone, how frightened.

Whether or not he would go mad was to be seen- his paranoia had always remained a hidden aspect, though she had cause to be aware of it. The fact that it had shown, if only briefly, was troubling.

She shook her head, as if it might dissuade her thoughts, and lifted her gaze. Her feet had brought her to the Pig and Whistle- as seedy a place as ever, though this particular evening saw no enthusiastic duels. Instead, her gaze was drawn by color and light- a Winter’s Veil tree stood in the corner, adorned with baubles. There was a sudden lump in her throat. Winter’s Veil…

She’d forgotten.

Last year she’d spent it with Myk and Thoran; it had only been month or two later, that Myk had vanished. They’d had a quiet holiday together…

No sense in dredging up the past, not now. She squinted hard, staring at the brightness of the tree and its adornments, head tilting. Her lips grew thin in concentration. Presents. She had to obtain presents; perhaps not for everyone she knew, but at the very least…

Vyysce- it would be Vyysce’s first Winter’s Veil, so far as she was aware. For all that he was enormous and lumbering, his mind made him a child- perhaps thick of skin, but with a gentle mind. And Diane, of course. She’d missed the mage’s birthday, the first since Ashthra had perished- or was it the second? At any rate, Diane Marviere had spent the day alone- a condition that made Dyna sick at her heart. She hadn’t known; birthdays seemed inconsequential to her, but of course it meant something to Diane.

Tia… didn’t seem to recognize her these days, whether it was an intentional ignorance or not was no longer a concern. Her work with Tremaine had strained things; how could she possibly explain that alliance? It was beyond explanation, beyond believability—simpler, then, to let Tia Lansing simply be, without her.

Edd had gone missing again, but then, his alcoholism and foul moods indicated had been constant since the Curse had come upon him. She never had found it in her to tell him about Mykhael- perhaps it was just as well, then, now that Myk was gone.

She should get something for Mahl, of course. Something pretty – and something for his daughter, too, though she’d never managed to meet the child. Maybe something for Faeir as well, though she was at a loss there, considering all that Faeir had lost in the past weeks.

With a jolt, the ragged paladin shook herself from her thoughts, still staring morosely at the tree. Her lips pulled in an unseen grimace, and, moving stiffly, she tromped out of the Pig and into the night’s cold rain.

Winter’s Veil was easier, with so many lost and dead.

Searching Silithus

It had been- more, than she had expected.

A moment that was indelibly etched into the fabric of her being, seared into her bones like white fire.

She’d never been to an ordination before. But even if she had, there would have been no way for her to know, to understand, as she did now.

Darkness and doubt had blunted the simple pleasures of being alive, casting perpetual twilight on her days; quiet, unspoken heartache had held as tightly as no lover could. Grief, despair, the inevitability of failure- these things had been facts in her life, and she’d born them as best she could. It was rare that she didn’t feel the weight on her shoulders, oppressive and smothering.

And all at once, it was lifted. How could she have known?

It was time to let go, and she felt that realization with the same tenacity that had defined her search before. He wasn’t coming back- no more so than Strahm had. No more so than Mayru, nor Gale, nor any of those that she’d lost to time and mortality. She’d never been good at letting go; not really. The memories were sacred, were held dear when nothing else seemed good in the world- and worse, they were glossed over with time, worn to a rosy glow that the reality had never truly matched.

She could scarcely recall what shade of grey the man’s eyes had been, beneath the wide brim of his hat- though the shape of his hands lingered curiously on.

Mykhael was still painfully clear. She’d marked Thoran’s birthday as it had passed- had visited the wee cabin that they’d called home, lit a candle and returned to camp; it was time to let go. The Light willed she should be ready for what was to come- and how could she, when she lived among ghosts?

…

Silithus smelled unpleasantly of hot, rancid cinnamon- all at once spicy and oppresive and wrong in ways she couldn’t put words to. She’d been fearful, the last time she’d stood here- afraid to hope, but even more afraid of the consequences, should they fail. Which they had, of course.

Now the Silithid were no longer controlled by the Apophan; the Cult had fallen, and she had done nothing to be a part of that effort, too burdened by troubles closer to home. It was queer, standing here, feeling the sand as though it was alive with the multitudinous vibrations of the hives hidden deep below the surface- subtle. Perhaps she only imagined it? The Light was living flame within her, a steady brightness that held her heart beating and her feet moving- careful steps, uneven shufflings to keep from revealing herself as humanoid life.

She reeked of that cloying cinnamon scent, had purchased it from a man who swore it would keep them from paying her much mind, but still she took care. The sun overhead was relentless, baking her inside the thick layers of plate armor that were a paladin’s accoutrements. It was difficult to breathe, difficult to see through the sweat that slid slickly down her skin, dampened her hair. Hours, she’d been searching.

Somehow, she’d know the bones when she found them- would feel… something.

Though the scent worked to keep her from being swarmed by Silithid, Odynae Dawnhammer would have been hard pressed to find the bones of her dead husband amongst the hundreds- no, thousands- of corpses picked clean and left to the sands and the carrion birds throughout the ages.

Not even the Light could have told her which bones were his.

Realization of a Dream

She could feel the steady rhythm of her heartbeat, the wind that was the breath in her lungs, the touch of sunlight on her freckled nose as she sat cross legged in the sand, bare toes wiggling.

It had been too long since she’d enjoyed the simple pleasure of existing in her own battered body.

Of course, she was supposed to be in meditation or prayer; her Ordination loomed ahead of her, and she felt a sudden trepidation, a shyness that wasn’t like her- not these days. Sir Ballamore had given his blessing, which meant more than she could have expressed- and Sir McAllister had often told her he wanted to see the deed done. Sir Dominus had no doubts of her readiness. She had proven her worth, her courage, and her valor time and again, though it felt like boasting to believe it; privately, she was well aware that she still had hurdles to overcome. She wasn’t perfect.

But she didn’t have to be perfect; only had to keep striving for it, had to uphold the three virtues, to swear the oaths and believe in them, mean them, and continue to mean them for all of her days.

It might have been daunting, had it not been what she’d dedicated herself to for as long as she could remember.

Out of her armor, in the shade-dappled sunlight beneath the bent willow tree that marked Tara and Soren’s headstones, Dyna shivered briefly with the enormity of what lay ahead. Grixxis had said that an Ordination changed a person, made them stronger in the Light- made them new, somehow.

Something about the simplicity of the moment- the sunlight, her bare shoulders and thin cloth pants, knobbly knees bent, grizzled hands bared to the world and left loose over her legs- she did feel new, somehow. Young, perhaps. Almost as young as I am, she mused before letting out an unexpected laugh. The sound startled her, the echo of it ringing over the river. Familiar tension lanced from the pit of her belly up her spine, tingling at the nape of her neck. She felt stripped bare, armorless- shadows closing all around, remembered enemies gathering as her muscles grew rigid. The breath was caught in her lungs. Her skin tingled.

There was nothing. Her breathing slowed to near silence as she strained to hear over the unsteady patter of her pulse, the steady babble of the river ebbing along the island’s banks. Still no shadow-warriors appeared, no fel stone golems, no walking corpses or animated memories- no faces from the past, come to bear arms against her. It was only her.

So perhaps she was not new, after all.

Shaking her head, the woman scooted  toward the river’s edge, the motion careful so as not to unduly jostle the old aching scars along her torso- how many times ought she to have died, now? She was lucky. I am durable. I have lived through many things that ought kill a woman, and yet I remain- a collection of scars, a persistent tally. Whatever comes, it may mark me, may brand me- but I will remain.

As she dipped a foot in the river, sucking in a sharp breath at the chill of the water against her skin, a grin tugged at the side of her face still capable of grinning. I have lived through injury, betrayal, heartbreak. I have tallied the deaths of those I held dear to me. An Ordination cannot possibly be so frightening as facing my own mortality, as opening my heart, or charging down a wave of enemies who might smite me with fel magics in an instant.

I have lived through many things, and I will live through this as well. Today, I will not fear the realization of a dream.

Her grin ebbed a bit, head bowing as she carefully washed her hands, her face. I will become more than I am now, and will remember what I learned before. There is work to be done.

Argentum Legion Report: Nerubians are Assholes

REPORT: Killed a Nerubian, recovered Tremaine and Antinua((OOC reference- ‘Scruffy Man’ is Martin Tantrill, ‘Prissy Pallerdin Lady’ is Kaide, and ‘Antiwotsit’ and all variations thereof is Antinua. ‘Vice’ is Vyysce.))

8/31

Organized by Caleigh North, led by NO FUCKING ONE, participants: Fair, Vice, Ashtivar Whiteoak, some scruffy man, some prissy pallerdin, Caleigh just sort o left us to do it ourselves since we’re so good at shit and shit.

Injuries sustained- Scruffy man broke his leg, Anti-whatsit got stabbed, everyone generally bruised and bumped but no one died this time so that’s nice.

Summoned to SI:7 again, this time by Miss North. She wanted us to go up north again, see what we could make of Anti-whatsit and some other woman who got taken so okay. Vice and I led the way to the pit, then erryone jumped down and I took on the cat’s shape to sniff about, caught wind of two humanoids wot weren’t us so we trekked into this dank ol cave thang an then there wos a corpse oerhead so the prissy pallerdin hit it with a shield an it was all webbed and shit.

Inside wos bones from a blood elf, thought fer a minute it was probably Tremaine but it wasn’t. Then suddenly a web dropped down and I took the Bear’s shape and wos too fat fer it to pull up proper-like, specially since Vice grabbed my legs and was hanging on and then someone fockin set the web on fire so the Nerubian let go and I fell and rolled us into the water and then Vice and I wos webbed together. So the Vice threw me at the focker and the web broke and I missed the Nerubian and hit the scruffy man instead, pretty sure that’s when his leg broke.

Prissy paladin lady hit him with Light-shit, Scruffy hit him with bullets, Fair tried to put holes in him with arrows, Vice threw things like the paladin lady, and I took the Cat’s shape again. We beat the fucker good, though we sustained some injuries ourselves, and then chucked him in the water and he drowned.

There were web stuffs along his body so we dragged it ashore and started opening em up and a horde of wee spiders came and tried to ett me. I drowned ‘em and Vice tried to help and it just ended up with an ass-ton o spiders in the lake and it was gross.

One of the pouches had a sack of dead seagulls, another had Tremaine who was poisoned. I did m’green magics to purge the toxins from him and there was another focker in there with a hat and he was a ghost or something, ran right through the wall and we ne’er seen him again. There were some more bones and then Scruffy got annoyed and stabbed into the last one and lo, it was Anti-wotsit.

So I did m’mendin’ shit on her an nearly lost her seeing as we wos underground in the middle of a starless night surrounded by undeath everywhere so kiss my arse. Anyway, she lived, errything went black. Was alive when I woke up so I figure everything’s good now.

Argentum Legion Report: Lorgus Jett vs. Legion

REPORT: Lorgus Jett takes down Quinny, probably some other people who don’t really matter; possibly dies

About two, three weeks ago; current date is 9/2

Led by Tremaine, participants Quinny ‘Chuckles’ Avenyve, Vice, Ashtivar Whiteoak

Injuries sustained- Whiteoak was bruised up and prematurely aged, though the effects seem to have been temporary. Tremaine was missing, presumed dead. Quinny fallen in battle; body recovered and mended, still dead. Anti-somethin’ missing, presumed dead.

Permanent damages occurred.

Was summoned to SI:7 by way of note, as I often am when I’m needed. Got there and it was people I didn’t know, excepting Chuckles. This Tremaine fellow showed up and was all, ‘hey your leaders are all gone and shit and the Legion’s going to be in deep shit if you don’t do something’. So we all went to this run down hobo camp out in Redridge and rummaged through a shit-ton of armor and weaponry and such until Tremaine found this stunted wee whelp in the back and then got his dumb arse chased all the way to the town hall by some big dumb protodrake.

Then we went to Northrend with a magic paper and Vice got balloons.

We made our way to this big pit underneath Ice Crown Citadel, where we found two figures- Lorgus Jett and Anti-whatsit, some draenei bint. Turns out Jett wasn’t really a person, he was somethin’ else all along just using some poor bastard named Lorgus Jett’s body to fuck with the twilight cultists for whatever end, make ‘em do shit for him, who fockin’ knows.

Anyway, Tremaine was all saying words and shit, and then Jett did some creepy invisible hand chokey shit to the draenei lady and chucked her down a hole. We all tried to kill Jett, which was more or less a dismal failure as Tremaine got chucked down the hole. He tried to chuck me down a hole too, but I’m a Witch so fuck him I have feathers.

We fought the focker till he turned into a big green rock piece of shit, and he was all ‘wooo lookit me I move real fast’ and really handed our arses to us on a gold plate pretty as you please. We were doin’ alright up until he crouched down with this big ol’ shield of whatever the fuck and started makin’ ‘em blue runes he does, the ones that turn shit to dust. Vice managed to huck a sword into the bubble and it pierced through, even had the focker stabbed a bit. I tried to go over the runes in my bird form and help wedge the sword in deeper but then I got old as fockin bones and I had to stop before I withered and died.

Then Quinny showed up with that stupid lookin’ bronze whelp and started waving it at the runes but that didn’t do shit- including turn to dust. The whelp waddled all derp-like at Vice and then Vice used it as a hat and charged into the runes and didn’t die and started punching Jett’s bubble and then the runes almost had us and we were gonna get old and die real fast-like and then suddenly they was gone and Jett was all impaled and punched and shit and he started glowin and rattlin fit to kersplode

Then he jumped on Quinny and exploded.

It tossed me and Vice back a bit, then Vice got all fretsome and told me to fix Chuckles but Chuckles was dead, really really dead and her body was all charred and black and shit. All that was left of Jett was a glowin green rock, which I still have.

I ain’t a witch that can call back souls, it’s not something I know how to do, but for a soul to be called back the body ought to be ready, so I did the best I could and told Vice he’d have to take us home. Mending in a pit of undeath with no sun, not even stars, no plants nearby- wasn’t easy. She’s still dead, though, for all her body looks like a body.

Vice took us home, I don’t remember at that point seeing as how I was out cold.