In Which I Create via the Written Word
Okay, here's the thing: I play World of Warcraft. Some people don't take notice when I say this in passing conversation, others look at me strangely, others accept the fact that I play, others laugh really, really loudly at the notion. I'm okay with it. I play it because I love the world, what it is, how it came to be, the political tensions (much more exciting than up here in Canada), and I play because I want to escape. I mean, who hasn't wanted to wake up with a pet lynx by their side on a soft bed, a bow on the floor of a nice tavern, filled with the smell of mead and warm bread flowing from the kitchen downstairs while laughter of the patrons make a smile creep over your lips?
No, no one?
Must be me, then.
But, I've recently started to get myself more and more into my character's heads. I'm not an RP'er by any means, and when I do it's fairly light, I don't go into detail and become my character. I can't, I'm having enough of a time figuring out myself, let alone my characters! But, I digress, and return to the work at hand: To help me define my character, I find myself writing out drabbles that turn into short stories. I've had a bit of a writing bug recently, and I've got a ton of ideas in my head, but for now, I'll slowly share them with you, whoever may stumble across this blog, and I hope you enjoy.
On to the story!
The tavern was bleak and dim, shafts of the last light of the sun streaming though the dirty, dust encrusted windows. The candles on the tables flickered and the fire roared, keeping the place warm for those who come and go. The door opened with a creak, and the guests shifted their weight to eye the figure striding in. She was tall, with pointed ears, a sleek face and large, fel emerald eyes. Her body was lithe and fit, her bow in hand, a horn in the other. She could feel their eyes boring into her, scrutinizing every move. As far as she knew, she had no bounty on her head, no vindictive enemies to slay her. Not for a long time, anyway. She glanced at a young Troll, no more than ten or eleven, and cowered behind her parents’ legs. Maybe they had enough of her kind; she was a Blood Elf after all. Since the resurgence of their forces after the Sunwell was corrupted, the people of the Horde had seen the Sin’Dorei come out in droves, devouring everything they saw in cold vengeance against their former leader, Kael’Thas Sunstrider.
She walked to the bar, where she pushed her auburn red hair out of her face, revealing a new gash on her cheek from the battle with Yetimus, the Yeti Lord who patrolled on the border between Alterac and Hillsbrad. Wiping the blood from her cheek onto an equally soaked gloved hand, she slumped into the stool and let her items clatter to the floor as the bartender approached her. A Forsaken, she never got used to their…unique scent.
“What would you like, miss,” he asked in a husky voice.
She smiled, weary and exhausted, “A pint of your best beer, and a bowl of water for Psyche.” The bartender looked around, puzzled that she would ask such an odd request. So, Killasandra snapped her fingers, and out of the air a haze started to form beside her legs, a striking feline form. The Leopard snarled, bearing its fangs. The bar keep looked startled. “Don’t see too many of these anymore, do you?”
“No, we don’t find ourselves graced by the presence of such a fine creature. You’ve kept it well.” He looked at the feline, which relaxed noticeably to its master’s touch.
“You could say that. But, then again you could say a lot of things about a former Dark Ranger.”
The bar keep shifted uncomfortably at the term. They stared at each other in a tense eye lock for a few seconds, and finally replied, “A pint of our best and a bowl of water coming up.” The murmur of voices cresendoed again, and the Tavern was back to normal once more.
She leaned back as he hobbled away, and inhaled the warm scent of the Tavern. She let her eyes flutter closed. It was a mix of meat, bread, and fear. It smelled just like home. Home. It was so far from here, ravaged by the Scourge to never recover. Her home in Windrunner Village, now overtaken by Gargoyles and Phantoms, causing havoc where ever they trailed. It was heartbreaking to see her proud land fall to the hands of a monster drunk on the power of the Lich King. Arthas.
Killasandra had vowed to her mother, Aritria, years ago that she would take down Arthas. She vowed that she would take down Kael’Thas, and Kil’Jaden, and Deathwing. But, her mother being older, wiser, and so much more everything Killasandra wasn’t, had beat her to it. She was such a coward. She wanted so much to follow in her mother’s footsteps, to be part of the Elite of the Farstriders, to protect their land and others of the Horde in peaceful negotiations. She worked so hard to no avail. It wasn’t Lord Theron who noticed her, oh, no, it was Sylvanas. She saw potential where Theron didn’t. And it was glorious to finally be the Head Archer of the Dark Ranger Battalion. But, the world beckoned her to explore, and with a heavy heart, Killasandra resigned her position in the ranks of the Banshee Queen’s Army, but not before she was branded as one of them.
Her rebellion against her true calling, to be a Farstrider, not a Dark Ranger, cost her dearly. Though, with intense retraining, and a tentative pardon, she returned to Quel’Thalas as an initiate in the group, tattooed with their own icon. She had just finished training when she heard about Yetimus, and with that, she rode off to Tarren Mill to slay the beast. And here she was, characterized by the good and the evil of the same job.
The bar keep returned with the beer and water, and Killasandra handed him the coin to cover the cost of the beverages. Leaning over, she laid the bowl down for Psyche, who lapped at the water hungrily. Taking a sip of the amber substance, she cringed, it was awfully bitter. And, she knew, the more bitter a beer is, the drunker she got. She should take it easy.
“It’s a Dwarven recipe, pick pocketed of course by some rogue. Damn midgets keep everything in their pockets,” said the person beside her, shrouded by a hood.
The voice was dark, soulful, and sounded strangely familiar. Killasandra cocked her head to the side, the trickle of blood still from the gash flowing down the contours of her neck. Narrowing her eyes, her lips found a name that hadn’t been uttered in what seemed ages, “Rivers? Is that you?”
The man’s breath caught, and Killasandra instinctively reached for her dagger, poised to strike and kill if necessary. He raised his hands, bare and in a surrendering manner, and pulled the hood down. Her breath caught in her throat. Human Lieutenant Richard Rivers, the man who taught her the ways of a Dark Ranger. He was still handsome, even in his Undeath. He still had a square jaw, broad shoulders, and a kind smile. The brown eyes she remembered had faded into a pale light, the only light left in his body. He still carried the posture of an archer, a skilled man of the bow and quiver. They finally met eyes and a surge of electricity vibrated through them, obvious of a history that consisted of a passion that neither regretted. Not much, anyways.
“Hi, ‘Sandra,” he said, meekly, lowering her eyes. As if he was below her in any way.
“Richard, you look…” she trailed off, her eyes darting around looking for the right word as to not hurt his feelings. Though, how could you compliment a Forsaken? In all her training, she was never taught the niceties of Forsaken society. “Well. You look well. And thin. You look well and thin,” she sputtered out. Well and thin? Well and thin? What the hell was that?
He chuckled, “Thank you, ‘Sandra. You always were a smooth talker.”
Flustered, she sputtered some more, finally deciding that being silent was the best course of action. He smiled again. God, that smile of his. She found herself squirming in her seat. They sat in a kind of odd silence for a while and sipped on their beer. It wasn’t hitting Killasandra yet, but man, when she finally gets up on her feet…
“So I hear you’re part of the Farstriders…again,” he finally asked, and Killasandra breathed an internal sigh of relief. “How’s that going for you?”
“It’s going well, my first assignment outside of training was to take care of Yetimus, and…well…” She held up the severed horn from the table, still carrying sinew from the beast. “You could say it was a success.”
“Ah, well…”
Another uncomfortable pause. Why was she so bad at this?
“And you?”
He looked at her, his pupiless eyes glowing dimly, “After you left, I continued my work for the Dark Lady. However, about a year later, I came down with an illness. I started to feel pains in my chest and started to have fevers and coughing up blood. I died in Brill, and carried to Deathknell to be resurrected.” He shuddered, his skin, or what was left of his skin, vibrated as he did so. “It was absolute agony. My bones recauterizing themselves, my muscles coming out of atrophy. My skin pale and dull, and the horror my eyes saw when I opened them and remembered what had happened to me…” He trailed off, sobbing silently. “Killasandra, I’d rather be dead.”
Killasandra’s heart sank at his words, she never wanted him to end up like this. She wanted him to have a family, settle down, but they had found out that she was not the one to give such desires to him. His talents were of good use, and too rare to be let go. Sylvanas, why? Then she did something that surprised the both of them. She raised her hand, ever so gently, and touched his rotting cheek. He was cold, so cold. Never again will he have the warmth of a living creature in him again, to be forever callus to the world, for they will not be welcome, the Forsaken, no matter where they go. It was bad enough with the political unrest in their kingdom, even their own kind where taking hate measures against themselves.
She smiled, a kind, forgiving smile and whispered to Richard, “I got word of your death in Quel’Thalas. I went home that day and cried. I mourned you for months.” He looked ashamed, she continued. “I had no one to turn to, no one to cradle me as I wept for you. Then I thought that you’re always with me, even after life. You touched my heart in such a way that has never been felt, and you know I adore you.” She leaned in closer to rest her forehead on his. “I loved you. I still do. Nothing will ever take that away from me. I fought with you-for you-ever since. Don’t ever think that my love for you has ended just because you’re...” She searched for the words. “Physically deceased.” He giggled uncontrollably, taking her hand in his as he leaned back into an unabashed roar of laughter. She started to laugh too, and they both laughed until they couldn’t laugh anymore.
Psyche, now peacefully resting at her master’s feet, jolted out of her nap and scowled at Killasandra. How dare they interrupt her rest? She grumbled and resettled herself in the hoots of laughter coming from above.
They wiped their tears from their faces once their hilarity settled and both breathed heavily. Once more, their eyes met, and the longing of something that could never be flowed between them into a mutual understanding. They were never supposed to be lovers, but they could find a comfortable medium as friends and colleagues. For the rest of the night they talked and drank until the bar keep had to throw them out. Once outside, Psyche shifted forms into a stealthed shimmer beside Killasandra as they found themselves outside in the cool summer air.
“So,” she said, thoroughly tipsy from the alcohol, “I guess this is good bye.”
“I guess it is.”
A silence. Not uncomfortable, but not totally mutual either.
“I really have to go.”
“I know. You were never a woman to settle down easily.”
Killasandra smiled. No, she thought, I never was.
“Look…I’ll be continuing my training in the Undercity, you can contact me there. Please?”
A kind smile was a reply.
“Great, I look forward to corresponding with you soon.”
“Oh, please, Richie, you don’t have to be so formal all the time. Loosen up!”
“I have no muscles in my right arm, ‘Sandra. I don’t know how I’m keeping myself together at the seams. I think I’m loose enough.”
She laughed, the tinkle of a bell in his ears. She was stunning, and vivacious, and so much betrothed to the world. She was a gypsy.
“Take care Richard,” she said as she mounted her Hawkstrider, the striking blue bird cooed at her weight.
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
One last look.
She turned, and he watched until he couldn’t see her anymore.
No, no one?
Must be me, then.
But, I've recently started to get myself more and more into my character's heads. I'm not an RP'er by any means, and when I do it's fairly light, I don't go into detail and become my character. I can't, I'm having enough of a time figuring out myself, let alone my characters! But, I digress, and return to the work at hand: To help me define my character, I find myself writing out drabbles that turn into short stories. I've had a bit of a writing bug recently, and I've got a ton of ideas in my head, but for now, I'll slowly share them with you, whoever may stumble across this blog, and I hope you enjoy.
On to the story!
The tavern was bleak and dim, shafts of the last light of the sun streaming though the dirty, dust encrusted windows. The candles on the tables flickered and the fire roared, keeping the place warm for those who come and go. The door opened with a creak, and the guests shifted their weight to eye the figure striding in. She was tall, with pointed ears, a sleek face and large, fel emerald eyes. Her body was lithe and fit, her bow in hand, a horn in the other. She could feel their eyes boring into her, scrutinizing every move. As far as she knew, she had no bounty on her head, no vindictive enemies to slay her. Not for a long time, anyway. She glanced at a young Troll, no more than ten or eleven, and cowered behind her parents’ legs. Maybe they had enough of her kind; she was a Blood Elf after all. Since the resurgence of their forces after the Sunwell was corrupted, the people of the Horde had seen the Sin’Dorei come out in droves, devouring everything they saw in cold vengeance against their former leader, Kael’Thas Sunstrider.
She walked to the bar, where she pushed her auburn red hair out of her face, revealing a new gash on her cheek from the battle with Yetimus, the Yeti Lord who patrolled on the border between Alterac and Hillsbrad. Wiping the blood from her cheek onto an equally soaked gloved hand, she slumped into the stool and let her items clatter to the floor as the bartender approached her. A Forsaken, she never got used to their…unique scent.
“What would you like, miss,” he asked in a husky voice.
She smiled, weary and exhausted, “A pint of your best beer, and a bowl of water for Psyche.” The bartender looked around, puzzled that she would ask such an odd request. So, Killasandra snapped her fingers, and out of the air a haze started to form beside her legs, a striking feline form. The Leopard snarled, bearing its fangs. The bar keep looked startled. “Don’t see too many of these anymore, do you?”
“No, we don’t find ourselves graced by the presence of such a fine creature. You’ve kept it well.” He looked at the feline, which relaxed noticeably to its master’s touch.
“You could say that. But, then again you could say a lot of things about a former Dark Ranger.”
The bar keep shifted uncomfortably at the term. They stared at each other in a tense eye lock for a few seconds, and finally replied, “A pint of our best and a bowl of water coming up.” The murmur of voices cresendoed again, and the Tavern was back to normal once more.
She leaned back as he hobbled away, and inhaled the warm scent of the Tavern. She let her eyes flutter closed. It was a mix of meat, bread, and fear. It smelled just like home. Home. It was so far from here, ravaged by the Scourge to never recover. Her home in Windrunner Village, now overtaken by Gargoyles and Phantoms, causing havoc where ever they trailed. It was heartbreaking to see her proud land fall to the hands of a monster drunk on the power of the Lich King. Arthas.
Killasandra had vowed to her mother, Aritria, years ago that she would take down Arthas. She vowed that she would take down Kael’Thas, and Kil’Jaden, and Deathwing. But, her mother being older, wiser, and so much more everything Killasandra wasn’t, had beat her to it. She was such a coward. She wanted so much to follow in her mother’s footsteps, to be part of the Elite of the Farstriders, to protect their land and others of the Horde in peaceful negotiations. She worked so hard to no avail. It wasn’t Lord Theron who noticed her, oh, no, it was Sylvanas. She saw potential where Theron didn’t. And it was glorious to finally be the Head Archer of the Dark Ranger Battalion. But, the world beckoned her to explore, and with a heavy heart, Killasandra resigned her position in the ranks of the Banshee Queen’s Army, but not before she was branded as one of them.
Her rebellion against her true calling, to be a Farstrider, not a Dark Ranger, cost her dearly. Though, with intense retraining, and a tentative pardon, she returned to Quel’Thalas as an initiate in the group, tattooed with their own icon. She had just finished training when she heard about Yetimus, and with that, she rode off to Tarren Mill to slay the beast. And here she was, characterized by the good and the evil of the same job.
The bar keep returned with the beer and water, and Killasandra handed him the coin to cover the cost of the beverages. Leaning over, she laid the bowl down for Psyche, who lapped at the water hungrily. Taking a sip of the amber substance, she cringed, it was awfully bitter. And, she knew, the more bitter a beer is, the drunker she got. She should take it easy.
“It’s a Dwarven recipe, pick pocketed of course by some rogue. Damn midgets keep everything in their pockets,” said the person beside her, shrouded by a hood.
The voice was dark, soulful, and sounded strangely familiar. Killasandra cocked her head to the side, the trickle of blood still from the gash flowing down the contours of her neck. Narrowing her eyes, her lips found a name that hadn’t been uttered in what seemed ages, “Rivers? Is that you?”
The man’s breath caught, and Killasandra instinctively reached for her dagger, poised to strike and kill if necessary. He raised his hands, bare and in a surrendering manner, and pulled the hood down. Her breath caught in her throat. Human Lieutenant Richard Rivers, the man who taught her the ways of a Dark Ranger. He was still handsome, even in his Undeath. He still had a square jaw, broad shoulders, and a kind smile. The brown eyes she remembered had faded into a pale light, the only light left in his body. He still carried the posture of an archer, a skilled man of the bow and quiver. They finally met eyes and a surge of electricity vibrated through them, obvious of a history that consisted of a passion that neither regretted. Not much, anyways.
“Hi, ‘Sandra,” he said, meekly, lowering her eyes. As if he was below her in any way.
“Richard, you look…” she trailed off, her eyes darting around looking for the right word as to not hurt his feelings. Though, how could you compliment a Forsaken? In all her training, she was never taught the niceties of Forsaken society. “Well. You look well. And thin. You look well and thin,” she sputtered out. Well and thin? Well and thin? What the hell was that?
He chuckled, “Thank you, ‘Sandra. You always were a smooth talker.”
Flustered, she sputtered some more, finally deciding that being silent was the best course of action. He smiled again. God, that smile of his. She found herself squirming in her seat. They sat in a kind of odd silence for a while and sipped on their beer. It wasn’t hitting Killasandra yet, but man, when she finally gets up on her feet…
“So I hear you’re part of the Farstriders…again,” he finally asked, and Killasandra breathed an internal sigh of relief. “How’s that going for you?”
“It’s going well, my first assignment outside of training was to take care of Yetimus, and…well…” She held up the severed horn from the table, still carrying sinew from the beast. “You could say it was a success.”
“Ah, well…”
Another uncomfortable pause. Why was she so bad at this?
“And you?”
He looked at her, his pupiless eyes glowing dimly, “After you left, I continued my work for the Dark Lady. However, about a year later, I came down with an illness. I started to feel pains in my chest and started to have fevers and coughing up blood. I died in Brill, and carried to Deathknell to be resurrected.” He shuddered, his skin, or what was left of his skin, vibrated as he did so. “It was absolute agony. My bones recauterizing themselves, my muscles coming out of atrophy. My skin pale and dull, and the horror my eyes saw when I opened them and remembered what had happened to me…” He trailed off, sobbing silently. “Killasandra, I’d rather be dead.”
Killasandra’s heart sank at his words, she never wanted him to end up like this. She wanted him to have a family, settle down, but they had found out that she was not the one to give such desires to him. His talents were of good use, and too rare to be let go. Sylvanas, why? Then she did something that surprised the both of them. She raised her hand, ever so gently, and touched his rotting cheek. He was cold, so cold. Never again will he have the warmth of a living creature in him again, to be forever callus to the world, for they will not be welcome, the Forsaken, no matter where they go. It was bad enough with the political unrest in their kingdom, even their own kind where taking hate measures against themselves.
She smiled, a kind, forgiving smile and whispered to Richard, “I got word of your death in Quel’Thalas. I went home that day and cried. I mourned you for months.” He looked ashamed, she continued. “I had no one to turn to, no one to cradle me as I wept for you. Then I thought that you’re always with me, even after life. You touched my heart in such a way that has never been felt, and you know I adore you.” She leaned in closer to rest her forehead on his. “I loved you. I still do. Nothing will ever take that away from me. I fought with you-for you-ever since. Don’t ever think that my love for you has ended just because you’re...” She searched for the words. “Physically deceased.” He giggled uncontrollably, taking her hand in his as he leaned back into an unabashed roar of laughter. She started to laugh too, and they both laughed until they couldn’t laugh anymore.
Psyche, now peacefully resting at her master’s feet, jolted out of her nap and scowled at Killasandra. How dare they interrupt her rest? She grumbled and resettled herself in the hoots of laughter coming from above.
They wiped their tears from their faces once their hilarity settled and both breathed heavily. Once more, their eyes met, and the longing of something that could never be flowed between them into a mutual understanding. They were never supposed to be lovers, but they could find a comfortable medium as friends and colleagues. For the rest of the night they talked and drank until the bar keep had to throw them out. Once outside, Psyche shifted forms into a stealthed shimmer beside Killasandra as they found themselves outside in the cool summer air.
“So,” she said, thoroughly tipsy from the alcohol, “I guess this is good bye.”
“I guess it is.”
A silence. Not uncomfortable, but not totally mutual either.
“I really have to go.”
“I know. You were never a woman to settle down easily.”
Killasandra smiled. No, she thought, I never was.
“Look…I’ll be continuing my training in the Undercity, you can contact me there. Please?”
A kind smile was a reply.
“Great, I look forward to corresponding with you soon.”
“Oh, please, Richie, you don’t have to be so formal all the time. Loosen up!”
“I have no muscles in my right arm, ‘Sandra. I don’t know how I’m keeping myself together at the seams. I think I’m loose enough.”
She laughed, the tinkle of a bell in his ears. She was stunning, and vivacious, and so much betrothed to the world. She was a gypsy.
“Take care Richard,” she said as she mounted her Hawkstrider, the striking blue bird cooed at her weight.
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
One last look.
She turned, and he watched until he couldn’t see her anymore.