Ievae had thought their trip to Lothern a blessing, taking her far from the stench of battle. She no longer had to watch the other women of the house attend the wounded shadow warriors brought to the mansion, where all she could do, all she was good for, was staying out of their way. Sometimes she made tea. Or cake. They seemed to like their cake, those fit enough to eat solids. Some of the men let their eyes linger on her as if they expected her to do something. As if at any moment she might awe them with some queer action or other. She had been glad to be rid of their staring.  

Meryt was vaguely aware of the air around her thrumming with an energetic vibration reminiscent of a time when a bee had entangled itself into her long pale hair.  She swished and swept at her hair conscientiously, but the buzzing only grew louder and seemingly more intense, a sound that absolutely unnerved her.  The longer the sound continued the colder she felt her blood run.  Not being able to see the creature but hearing it instead only made the experience that much worse.  Gritting her teeth helplessly, she groaned in unbecoming agony and attempted to sink to her knees as slowly as she could.  Across the field was a pair of Asur which she signaled to in desperation.  Obligingly, one of the Asur moved towards her while the other one remained in the distanc

((Yeah, left this hanging for too long))

Moruchtuil languidly stretched on the grass and stared at the blue sky above.  He had not left the walled gardens about the tower in weeks.  The last attempt had him dragged back by spites and pinned by the dryad in tree form.

He rubbed his face and groaned.  The raging fits that he could never remember had stopped, or so everyone else reported.  They struck without warning and he usually came to while restrained by the dryad in her warrior tree form.

 
Rapskahl Bitterbite lounged in his narrow, spitefully hard bed, eyeing his battle gear and halberd, nestled in a corner of his private chambers. He made steeple of his hands, folding his lips together. To an idle observer this might have seemed a quizzical contemplation. However, anyone who knew Rapskahl would tell you that the emptiness inside his head was such that you could hear the echo of a scream for days.

Like most familiar childhood places one revisits as an adult, Giacinta found the monastery near Luccini quite changed.  However, this was not simply due to her own perceptions.  Smoke hung upon the air like a tattered banner, and the terrazzo hallways were deserted.  She strode carefully down the traditional long outdoor promenade with its sweeping pointed arches, wincing a bit as each fall of her metal-clad feet clattered loudly upon the marble as if trumpeting her presence.

 
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.