Dwarf lands were a wonderful, terrible place to be. Pharrael peered curiously over the ranges of Thunder Mountain, braced against the thick stench of the air. Humans and dwarves alike moseyed around the warcamp, catching shuteye where they could. Pharrael couldn’t sleep. Something had driven him from his bed. It had been driving him all along, he realised. The same familiar, coaxing fingers that kept him moving, prodding him deeper into the war. Faulki padded up to him and leaned heavily against his legs in companionable silence. He looked down at the lion, and for an instant he missed that soothing, dominating presence in his mind. Abruptly he pushed it away.

So we've talked about it a fair bit on the Alliance forums, and Zarukhad reckons we should give this weekend a shot! This will be destruction characters only!

Server: Gorfang

Time/day: 8:30pm EST this Saturday.

Names we've chosen so far would be myself as Rapskahl and Zarukhad as Zarkhad.

The room smelt funny. Pharrael sniffed around for the source of it, and discovered a bowl of fruit going off. Well, that didn’t surprise him. The inn he had taken residence in was cheap and tucked away within the bowls of Altdorf. Faulki had his own, dirty mattress pushed up into a corner. The lion sprawled there, watching him. Lately Pharrael had had trouble understanding him, as if a thick fog obscured the greater picture. Faulki seemed oddly vague to him, cryptic. And yet he could feel clearly the process of thought, only the end result was blurred.

She poured fresh water from a pitcher into the small bronze basin in the middle of the low wooden table, then set several blossoms afloat.  They were small white ones that she had found in a field, and for a quick moment she frowned at the fact that were not the fragrant desert blooms that she was accustomed to.  The incense next to the basin she then lit with a thought and a touch of her index finger, along with several candles that were placed in a star-shaped formation beside, and backed away to seat herself cross-legged upon a large violet pillow opposite.

Cassara then bent forward from the waist and dropped her head in prayer, speaking in the ancient language of her people.

“Geheb give me courage and protection to withstand

After writing a few pieces for Black Gate magazine that were rejected due to being "too similar to other sword and sorcery" pieces, I began City of Darkness to try to overcome that. Here is the opening from that as-yet unfinished tale. MOCK AS YE WILL.

The arrow had punctured his lungs. Cormot da Velle felt water–water? no, blood–gushing from the wound, choking his breath. He fell to one knee. What luck he had! Most men who were hit with arrows died from gangrene or the ravages of some other disease. He would die gasping for air, drowning in his own fluids. What madness had led him to follow that thrice-cursed hero? It was all for naught now, he considered grimly.

The artist dragged a sooty fingertip veiled with a dirty chamois cloth coated in charcoal dust along the pristine paper, beginning the first marks of a drawing.

I am determined to master the glaring skull before me.

The greedy ship’s captain had given her a hard look when she had announced her change of plans, and had let loose a bark of indignant laughter at her request for reimbursement of the fee for the unused leg of the trip.  In the end, Giacinta had bargained and received a bit of her gold in return, and she had sighed, thinking of all the gold she had wasted in her life due to her habit of acting on impulse.  Still, she did eventually come round to the thought that money was only a means to an end in one’s life, and not something that should ever have complete control over it.

Briseadh walked quietly along the halls of the tower in a simple, light gown and bare feet.  She hardly noticed anyone as she made her way to Moruchtuil's chambers.  Some how she had managed to find some time alone, but not enough.  Far too much had occurred in only days and she still needed to digest it all.

She stopped outside a door and arched a brow at the sounds of growling.  Quietly opening the door, she remained in the hall as it slowly swung open.  There was Moruchtuil in the middle of the bed attacking his pillow like some lion finishing off his prey.  Yet another fit had hit him.