Letters

Thallis leaned against a crate and pulled the crumpled letter from her shirt pocket, careful not to draw too much attention from the other dock workers. She unfurled the note and smoothed it out, its edges weathered from its trip in the clutched talons of a carrier bird. Cannonball stood at Thallis’ feet; his round, black eyes gazed intensely at his owner in expectancies of payment for a job well-done. Thallis raised an eyebrow at him.

“You expectin’ somethin’, then?”

She dug a nut from the leather satchel on her waist and flicked it at the macaw; he snatched it with his beak and began to bite and peck at his treat. Thallis turned her attention back to the letter.

Daughter—

Report received, request approved. Keep fourty.

Heading underground, contact T. in the main base.

Love, Da

She pulled a match from her pocket and struck it against her boot. It ignited instantly, and she held it to the corner of the letter. Soaked in kerosene and left to dry before applying ink, the note was gone in seconds.

The first half of the letter came as no surprise. Thallis knew her request to work on the Stormwind docks would be approved, so she hadn’t waited for the answer. After all, good coin and better information were too tempting to pass up. The second half, however… There was only one “T.” that was of any consequence, and Thallis grinned; she knew she had struck gold.

She toed Cannonball with her boot. “Go home,” she told him. “You’re makin’ me look suspicious.”

Topaz

He held the bronze stone in his fist and clenched it tight. A swirling mist inside the stone’s jagged cuts moved in agitation, and a voice inside growled.

What be de meaning of dis?

Nusuth opened one finger from his fist and looked petulantly at the rock.

“You be talkin’ too much.”

The mist churned tumultuously.

You think I be talkin’ too much? I show you talkin’ too much! I be talkin’ all night ‘n’ day, “talkin’ too much…”

Nusuth stuffed the topaz stone into his sachet and pulled the strings tight. His long, troll ears flattened.

“Crazy talkin’ spirit.”

The Room

Recently, Kestil and many of her friends and acquaintances have become haunted by malicious beings in an act of pure hatred and revenge. In addition to her nightmares, Kestil has been granted the presence of a jerk of a ghost, and goodness, has it been fun so far.

Thank you to Yva for giving me such a fun ghost to work with!

The start: http://bit.ly/kestilshaunting (Read first)

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It was happening again.

It started out mundane enough: A lack of a current assignment meant free reign around Stormwind, and Kestil was enjoying her time off, sitting on the dock near the Old Town with an enchanting textbook in lap, boots off and to her side to let her feet dip into the sun-warmed water. Myrra napped next to her, basking in the light and rolled over onto her back, tolerating the local fisherboys that played with her paws and ears and commenting on just how red she was. One scratched at her belly, and a roo-roo escaped her throat as she turned to give the boy a better angle.

The box on her waist crackled to life with activity and a voice came through. Kestil smiled upon recognition of its owner, and she greeted her mother with a smile. At first presentation of this small, mechanical box to her mother, she was met with uneasiness to use such a piece of “technology”—as they called it—but after the initial setup (“I think the operator is hitting on you, Mom,” Kestil remarked with a grin), both women had grown to enjoy the ease with which they could talk to one another at any time.

Her mother went on to ask if she “knew anything about cooking clams.” The fisherman down the way decided to shower his generosity on the Ravenoak household today and showed up with a basket full of his catch. “Being as old as he is, I couldn’t just refuse them,” her mother explained, almost helplessly, and Kestil laughed. She replied that no, she didn’t have any good recipes on hand, but she knew someone who would.

It carried on mundane enough.

Kestil headed into the Old Town, the Pig and Whistle her destination. Her visits there were much more frequent these days, and it had become a weekly haven in which she could relax and visit with friends. But today she hesitated. She stood outside of the entrance, and already she could feel her breath quickening, her lungs suddenly feeling tighter at remembering the night before last. Where the room had closed in. Where she realized she must be going mad. Where the headaches from lack of sleep became pounding like a titan’s hammer and her thoughts became rushed and panicked at the hint of going inside a building and she had to remember to force herself to breathe.

Breathe, Myrra seemed to command as she pushed on Kestil’s leg with her muzzle. I’m right here.

But she was right there that other night, sleeping under the tiny bed, crushed by The Room and leaving her master helpless and shivering in a ball in the middle of the floor when The Room granted mercy.

Kestil forced a sharp breath into her lungs, calling back to her primal senses and her Sentinel training to slow her breathing and relax her nerves. She closed her eyes and listened to the air whooshing inside her with every inhalation. Breathe in, exhale. One, two, three, hold; two, two, three, exhale. Calm. Normal. The Pig was not The Room.

She placed her foot on the steps to the Pig, and then on the second, and third, reaching the top and opening her eyes. Keep a sharp mind, keep alert. Quick in, quick out. She hastened her steps, now fully inside of the Pig, and she made straight for the kitchen, giving a brief nod to Elly before entering the back room.

Ye wanna learn how t’ bake clams, eh? Stephen had asked, and Kestil replied that she did. Kestil’s eyes darted around the kitchen, taking in its space, and she was pleased to find it adequate and open. The Pig’s kitchen was not The Room.

Oh, but it was.

Kestil turned her attention back to Stephen, but he was gone. She whipped her head around to the door and saw him in the main room talking to Elly, only vaguely remembering hearing something about “getting some cooking rum” from the front of the house. She sighed in relief, gave an embarrassed smile to Myrra who had flopped just outside the kitchen door, and turned back around.

The chopping table was directly in front of her now, pressing up against her legs. She muffled a yelp and here it was again, The Room, the hard-to-breathe thinning air, the constricting lungs, the table actively pushing against her and driving her into a back corner. She cried out for Myrra, but she was gone, Stephen was gone, the walls were filled in and the ceiling dropped to just above her head. The meat hook, which had been at the far end of the room near the firepit, was now swinging perilously in front of her, towards her, its hook still bloody with pieces of meat still wetly attached. The firepit consumed the south wall, and the flames licked at her legs as the room squeezed and the hook twirled on its chain and suddenly swung towards her like a hand had launched it.

The point neatly lodged itself into the mortar between the bricks near her face, and then everything was black.

Nightmares

Prompt from http://toomanyannas.com/feature/friday-ficlet-nightmares/

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Kestil Ravenoak screamed as the agony took hold of every movement, every breath, every thought. Her arms were pulled behind her, contorted and bound, and with a deft pull backwards, the hand that gripped her wrists together pulled her arms from their sockets with a sickening tear. Another cry was forced from her mouth accompanied with sobs as she fell to her knees. Her arms fell limp to her sides as the hand that bound her released its grip, and their weight pulled downwards and the pain continuously shot up to her head, each pulse like a knife in the base of her skull.

"Oh god ohgodohgodohgod please no--"

The figure stepped around her convulsing body, kicking her limp hand as it passed. It stared down at her, its black, shadowy form like ink, and it kneeled in front of her. It whispered something, but she heard nothing, saw nothing; the pain commanded everything. The figure seemed to frown, and reached out its hand to her forehead. Her eyes shot open and her vision cleared.

"That's better," she heard from the figure, but the voice was in her head now. It stretched out a claw now, and it traced down her the center of her chest, past her breasts, over the space between her ribs and over her stomach. A line of blood started to appear before the skin tore open. She wailed in agony as her organs pushed their way free and spilled out from her body, and before her she no longer saw the figure but Myrra, with a hunger in her eyes and spit dripping from her jowls. Myrra snarled and pounced, tearing her teeth into Kestil's insides and skin, her claws into her chest and back, digging them in to the hilt of her paw...

Kestil awoke with a scream, her voice sore and raw, her hair matted to her face and back, her entire body dripping with sweat and fear as it soaked the sheets beneath her. Myrra worriedly nuzzled into Kestil's arm, quietly mewling and panting from stress. Kestil looked down at her lynx companion, and, with the dream still fresh in her mind, she yelped and jolted out of bed, falling to the ground.

She took in her surroundings frantically, checking herself and finding bloody scratches over her arms and chest that she had made herself. She could no longer hold back, and tears spilled from her eyes.

"Oh... god, oh Elune," she managed to whisper as she started to sob hysterically into her hands.

Friendly Fire

A knock at the door.

I muttered a curse, arms and legs working to untangle themselves, and a giggling from below. I blindly reached to the bed and pulled off the sheet, wrapping it around my torso and nearly tripping as I made my way to the door.

Saeil’s face greeted me. “Well there you are. I’ve been looking for you – Kaz told me to check here first.” She trailed off and took in my appearance. “Oh, goodness, I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

“No, of cour—yes, yeah, you kind of are.”

Her grin only widened. “Well good for you. I’ve been telling you to go out and—”

“Saeil, why are you here?”

“I brought you a visitor.”

I sighed. “Sae, I’m not really prepared to receive visitors at the moment.”

A wark! at my feet caused me to look down and see a baby hawkstrider looking back at me with perfectly round eyes. His rump wagged in recognition and he waddled past my feet into the room.

“I thought you said you could take him for the week!”

Saeil shrugged her shoulders in apology. “I know, and I’m sorry. But Shif was called away to the battlefront and I’ve been requested to accompany her.”

My eyebrows furrowed at this. “That’s odd; they’ve never asked you to do that before.”

“That was before the night elves started torching the healing tents.” She put her hand on my shoulder and squeezed gently. “Look, I’ll make it up to you.” And with a smirk she added, “Just promise me that you’ll teach to whomever’s in there those moves I showed you a while back – you know the time.”

“Sae!”

She laughed and patted my arm. “Don’t worry, he’s not much of a starer,” she reassured, referring to the ball of feathers who was now gorging himself on uneaten bread and jam.

"He just likes to burrow under the sheets. Watch out for your toes."

Brand

I winced as the writing brush made its way over my hip, slowly and deliberately, the power-infused ink fusing itself with my skin. It felt like lightning.

“Sorry,” Närcyssa whispered as she made the final stroke. She set the brush down on a cloth next to the ink well and gingerly brushed two fingers over the rune she had drawn, whispering a healing word.

The pain subsided in an instant, and I whirled my head around to look at her, eyes wide, speechless. “How did–?”

She gave me a small smile. “The Light forgives more easily than you, sister.”

-----

Note: The rune that Närcyssa drew can be seen on the major glyphs for paladins.
Picture here: http://twitpic.com/14uohk (Half-nudity, semi-NSFW)

Curiouser and Curiouser

Joint RP with Quaunaut of http://www.quaunaut.com/

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My breath quickened in anticipation. She wasn’t like any of the other competitors I had seen today, this Draenei woman with a wild look about her. She eyed me once over from the top of her Wintersaber, and craned the large cat’s neck, turning him into position. The hawkstrider beneath me flapped his wings impatiently, adrenaline from the past three fights rushing through him as it did me, but hardly exhausted. He crowed -- a sharp, brittle sound piercing the silent air.

My opponent charged.

I instinctively raised my shield, its weight on my arm barely noticeable from years of training, and with my lance raised I kicked the sides of my mount and shouted, “Hyah!”

She thrust out her lance in a jab, a low grunt escaping her lips, an attack full of strength.

I don’t joust linearly. The birds of the Sin’dorei are bred for agility, a swiftness of speed. It would be a dishonor to their nature not to use it to one’s advantage. I quickly squeezed the sides of the bird beneath me with my thighs and leaned to the left, strafing out of the way of the frontal assault. Her lance grazed my shield, and I inwardly cursed. She was faster than I had anticipated. I rounded, the hawkstrider’s talon digging into the dirt, and faced her once more, sending my mount into a full gallop, wind catching my hair and throwing it behind me.

My opponent barely had time to turn around. The Wintersaber was fast, but it was lumbering trying to turn around, and I knew I had the advantage. I grounded myself in the saddle, putting my weight behind my right arm, and I thrust out my lance, hitting her shield squarely. The adrenaline pumped through my veins, and as I felt my lips spread into a grin, I realized that I hadn’t had this much fun in weeks—

She forced back her shield and knocked my lance to the side. Taken off-guard, I knew I wouldn’t be able to counter her attack. I kicked my mount into a side run to gain distance, bringing my lance up to my shield to create a defensive wall, but she was catching up. Fast. In seconds she was parallel with me, and she swung out her shield. I blocked with my own, but her speed gave her strength, and I felt my right boot slip from its stirrup. A swear fell from my lips, in Common, a habit I had picked up from the goblin sailors.

I tried to throw myself back upright onto my panicking mount, when I felt the saddle slip sideways and underneath the bird’s abdomen and drug me down with it. I hit the ground, left foot still caught in its own stirrup.

“By the Light-damned Well!”

I pulled my boot free in time to see my opponent riding up to my side. “I... well, sorry then. I don't usually let the fight get to my head,” she apologized in Common, smirking as she said it and wiping the sweat from her forehead. Her light blue complexion was flushed with exertion, and her long, grey-blue hair was as tussled as mine.

I pushed myself off the ground and brushed off my pants. Embarrassed, but certainly not giving in completely, I looked to the mounted Draenei and smirked back. “One should be humbled now and then,” I replied. “Well done.” She may have won the joust, but I would be damned if I let her embarrass me further. I deliberately set my lance and shield on the ground and patted the beak of my unhappy hawkstrider who was fidgeting and picking at the slipped saddle with his beak. I unhooked the straps and started to fit it properly between the bird’s wings.

The Draenei started to turn her mount away, but hesitated. “You... you speak Common fairly well. You don't see many Blood Elves who still do.”

I glanced towards her. “I was raised a member of the Church of Light. We attended often.” I refocused on the saddle, setting it square on the bird’s feathered back. “At least, until the war in Lordaeron.”

I gave a small laugh, pushing my hair out of my face. “I am sorry, I did not mean to tell you my life history.”

“No, no. I ask about your history, you tell me about your history.” She dipped her head and took a deep breath before dismounting from her own saddle. “I’m Israia,” she offered softly.

For the second time today, this Draenei woman—Israia—had caught me off-guard. It was true, at the Tournament we were all fighting towards a common goal, but we certainly wouldn’t be considered allied…

Unsure of her intentions, of my intentions, of everything in this moment, I felt myself lower my eyes and make a slight bow. “Luisette,” I heard myself reply, “of the Dawnrise family.”

Israia offered her hand to me, the faintest of smiles upon her lips. I offered my own hand in return. “A pleasure,” I said in Thalassian, a customary greeting.

“I’ve never heard of the Dawnrise family,” Israia suddenly said, “though I’ll admit, most of the High Elven literature that was in the Keep has mostly been… burned.” Her eyes broke away from mine.

I shook my head reassuringly. “No,” I said with a soft laugh, “a small priest family from an even smaller town might not be referenced much.”

Israia nodded. “Ahh, right.” She hesitated, and I bit my lip, suddenly nervous and feeling hesitant myself. “Well, uh, good fight,” she said abruptly. But quietly, she added, “I hope to see you out here again,” and before I could say anything else, she swung herself onto her mount and started back towards the stables.

Suddenly remembering where I was, I took in my surroundings, and caught another combatant looking my way. My face flushed, feeling hot, and I pushed back my hair again and grabbed my provisions and setting them on top of the saddle. I was in no state to ride.

I was… curious.