If Ingemar Bergman was in charge of Draenei lore

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“Daddy, when will the Legion fall?”

“Soon … “

“You said that five planets ago.”

“You eat your brocoli now or the legion will get you!”

“Mom?”

“Yes, hon?”

“Does the Legion eat brocoli?”

“No, dear … The Legion eats little children who don’t eat their veggies.”

“Mom?”

“Yes dear?”

“My friend Laurie, she’s human, she says adults are not supposed to scare kids … “

“Oh look! THERE’S A PITLORD BEHIND YOU!”

“Nah, it’s just gramps with an orc mask.”

“Husband dear, we should never have aquired this Haloween thing …”

“There will be no more treats on Draenor. Only tricks.”

“Big Sis used to talk about the tricks she turned in Dalaran when she was down on gold, pa.”

“We. Do. not. Talk. About. Her.”

*silence*

“Pass the salt, please?”

Life on the Streets, part I.

Editors note: Cahanna of the Exodar did her very best at transcribing the “street talk” of young men and women in Stormwind, Ironforge, Darnassus, the Exodar and Dalaran. These are the verbatim notes of her research, part of a thesis “Streets of the Alliance”.

This is presented as is. The Stormwind – and indeed the Alliance – streets has a language of their own. It’s hard to follow, but one who knows where to look can see further. Let the wise men and women decipher the truth.

Please note that High King Varian Wrynn declined to comment on the section below.

- – – – – -

Subject 1: Steve (Stephan, last name unknown, nickname Sloopy, Sloppy Steve, Uther ada Street, aged 14, male human orphan, place of birth – likely Goldshire, place of residence – Stormwind):

Ya gotta yella? No yella? Guckya then goatii! Kay ya noda arcane so kay I talk jusdonna urt me kay! Plese, some yella? Shinie go too, kay? No’opper, kay. Aint no Mcnab amma not amma Breaker Boie! We rula da cueee’ere ya’ere!? Yella, oneofem cool magics, ya ma frin’no. So I speek kay? We cool yeh? Yeh!

So yeh. Anway. Life on da streets, dey call it. Tha high-upp’rs yanow we call ‘em. Yanow ryones goin on and on bout ‘Heroes of THE Alliance!’. No carebout us, kay. Ya feel it, doncha? Sure ya do bluiiee. Gotta blu inna gang we do, she call’d Rave she is. Cool gal yana. Shiving lefnaight fuckin monk she’s so dey sey. Sexxy! No wettin ma cock yano, sheurt yano iffa tryit ya? So annay, we younguns, we da can’t speak to da highuns. Dere solliers beat us dey do. Dey call us “trolls” cause dey don’t unstan ya gotta talk fast on da street or ya ded. nah jussice nah pice, yano?

Aintna fuckin horde we aint. No trolls we aint. Pop got killa dem horde orc. ainna horde Int. Feel? Yeh!

Yeh I gotta cation. See? Pefict! Ya kno what mon? Dat not da point. Amma on da street dusk to daan anna got time ta speek it, yano. Buchers gonan git me f I don speek fast or a gaard will. Bucher gotta otha kwarta, baduns dey be too dey jus kill not even sorry yano. Gonna stand up toem butta get solliers on da side’n gonna be stockade time innit’f we try innit? Yeh. Ainno hero’ere man. Amma gonna suvive – is all.

So pops gonnoff’n got kill in Norend, yano. Me amma jus like sis o’seven dat happen. Moms tried, moms really did yano, butta gaard came an den dey took me away. Da offie, yano. Or.Pha.Nage. Sos amma like sisteen noo yano, no more room inna offie. Gils get horin boy get fitin. Cause dats like it is, yano. Amma hangin by da trade cue, the aaigh, da place where da hero get’is amo’n’armo. Crap life yano butta gotta do what I gotta do. Gonna live, yeh. Amma jus da grunt, see? See init innit yeh yeh innit!?

Amma gonna die soon. Gaad gonna git me’n’amma off to da front. Like Monsta – his a sarge’e is – sed tame: “You gonna be a man once the Iron Horde breaks your fucking spine, so man up and shut it, trashboy!”.

Kinda not like’im I donna.

Fadda’liance!

Yeh I shoutta dat when da’roes wen off ta die. Denna signed up, yano. Cause yano …

Guess dyin aint to bad’caus I wonbe’ungry namore, yeh.

Clueless in Stormwind (Backbone of the Army)

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“This is an image of a slightly quirky draenei monk.”

 

“We need a mage.”
“Ye-eep.” Sergeant Rawlins took a few steps back, placed his hands on his hips and looked up at the towering pile of wooden boxes. “We need a mage, kid. Now where’s our port-a-mage?”
“Blinky?” Ravennah snickered. “Over there, under the furs. Poor girl’s overworked.”
“Ye-eep.” Sergeant Rawlins nodded. “Better get that mage functional. Be a doll and wake the gnome, will ya?”

Heroes depend on functioning logistics. This is a truth some people don’t like to think about. It’s easier – and more fun – to think of the bundle of rage storming the ramparts than the sad truth of so many failed heroics. Someone might have forgotten to check the straps to the armor on some unknown warrior who never got further than the enemy vanguard because his leplates fell off. Perhaps someone died in a field hospital because someone forgot to pack the priest on call a handful of sandwiches. A hungry priest don’t heal. So, while a frantic army did its best to stem the iron storm not far from the Dark Portal, Ravennah looked up at the tower of boxes and said:

“How the … I mean, seriously? Sarge? Two thousand boxes? Who the fu… I mean, who be like, y’kno’, su-uure, no problem, aight?”
“Ye-eep.” Sergeant Rawlins nodded, stroked his square chin and blew hard through his walruss moustache. “That’s magework allright. Snap a finger and viola! The front got’s it … ” He flipped through some papers. “Huh. Lucky charms.”
“Ain’t gettin’ paid to carry two thou boxes I’m not,” Ravennah said and hickuped. “‘sides, I should prolly not carry nothin’. Dem’s rum rassions we got fo’ lunsh … lucn… early dinner, dey really hit the spot.”

“Ye-eep.” Sergeant Rawlins nodded, slowly lighting a corn pipe, puffing it with a slow, somber look at the tower of boxes. “Wonder why they need a million lucky charms, though. You know, kid, I never understood why we imported those. Sure, the pandaren probably wanted to get rid of ‘em but y’know. I hear they paid forty gold per ten charms too or somethin’. Bad business, that is. My ol’ man should’a paid twenty, tops.”
“Guess we need all the luck we can find,” Ravennah said. She sighed and shuddered. Bad news had been streaming in through the gates of Stormwind as fast as mercenary regiments and regular grunts had been streaming out. People were boarding up their shops and houses. Again.

“Ye-eep.” Sergeant Rawlins puffed his pipe, squinting at her through the smoke and nodded. “Bad one, this one. Seen a few, you know. This is a bad one, for sure.” He nodded, digging out a tiny lump of earwax from his left ear and wiping it off on his shirt. “Still, not as bad as the Scourge War. Slightly worse than the Dragon War and only barely better than the latest war.”
“You sure seen somethin’ ‘aven’t ya?”
“Ye-eep.” He chuckled. “But I’m just a kid compared to you, kid. You’re decades older than me, ain’tcha?”
“Draenei don’t think ’bout age,” Ravennah said. She sighed, walked over to the sleeping mage but didn’t wake the gnome. A few more minutes wouldn’t hurt.

There’s two kinds of people. Those who won’t rest until they fall flat on their face from fatigue – and those who conserve their strength, who takes their time. Those, who abide. Blinky was one of the former. Fear, fervor and a dash of panic had kept her going almost two days straight until she just toppled over and fell asleep before she even hit the ground. She didn’t wake up, not even when sergeant Rawlins dropped a bunch of wolf furs on her. They were supposed to go to the front, of course, but sergeant Rawlins figured that the grunts at the front wouldn’t have time to sleep. They would get their furs, soon enough, but sometimes a well rested mage is more important than furs for the front.

Sergeant Rawlins was one of the latter, one of those who conserved his energy and worked slow but relentless. That as one of the reasons he had ‘misplaced’ the requisition order for one million charms and instead sent 2 million blunderbuss shells to the front (his habit of ‘misplacing’ useless items was the reason he was still a sergeant; anyone else would have had his own office by now but sergeant Rawlins only had an assistant – of sorts). No doubt shells were more effective than charms.

As for Ravennah, she was lucky enough to stay behind the frontlines as sergeant Rawlins assistant (of sorts). How she ended up in Stormwind – and how she ended up as an assistant logistics sort of assistant – was a bit sketchy. She clearly remembered having passed out on a pile of sacks from too many Nethergard Bitter but she couldn’t quite remember when. Undoubtedly someone must have either ported her to Stormwind or – wich in a sense was even worse – gotten her there in some other way. She had a vague memory of cold hands and someone grumbling angry eredar curses.

“Oh light!” She dropped a box of lucky charms. The box split, a stream of tinplated wooden coins stamped with pandaren symbols spilled out on the ground. “Zavvie!”
“Huh?” Sergeant Rawlins looked up from his paperwork. “Wassthat?”
“My sister!” Ravennah sat down on a box filled with bodybags. For some reason it seemed fitting. “My dead sister. Well, she’s unlivin’, death knight ya kno’kay? She like got me outta Nethergard! Before! Y’kno’, before all the shit hit the fan. Or portal. Eh, whateva’, ya’kno like?”

“Huh.” Sergeant Rawlins nodded. Then he smiled. “Oh, one of them.” He put his clipboard away and lit his pipe. “Huh.” Sergent Rawlins sucked his pipe and sat back against a pile of sack of beans. “Well I know how that goes.”
“Uh-huh. So’she kinda got me out yeh an’ I kinda, uh … I dunno. Y’kno?”
“Ye-eep.” Sergeant Rawlins nodded. “Been there, done that. Me, a dwarf got out. But not ffrom Nethergarde, some other stinkhole. Bad one, that one. but not as bad as … well, never mind.”
“Dunno where she at now tho’.”
“Guess that’s the one over there, glaring at you then.” Sergeant Rawlins pointed at a death knight hidden in the shade of an oak some feet away. “Go get your break, kid. Take some time off. You’ve been working like a gnoll to get his candle back.”

“Oh … ” Ravennah took a deep breath and, very slowly, stood up, turning around. Then she raised her hand and managed a weak, embarassed wave and said: “Hi, sis.”
“Don’t you hi me, you little … ” Zavannah scoffed. “Have you any idea what I’ve been through just to keep you out of the Stockade!? Again, I might add!”
“Oh. Uh. Sorry?”
“You’re damned lucky you barely know how to hold a sword. Or else you’d be on the frontline like any other poor sucker. Come on, let’s go. We’re late allready.”
“Fo’ wut?”
“For. What.”
“Yeh I kno’. Sorry.”
“Light … ” Zavannah sighed. “Why do you insist talking like … like that? You’re a smart girl, a bit daft perhaps but that’s something different.”
“Eh.” Ravennah just waved her hand a bit. It usually worked. People rarely had the patience for more than that.
“Get on with it,” Zavannah said. She turned around and started walking. She didn’t want Ravennah to see her smile.
“Where we goin’?” Ravennah said as she hurried after her sister.
“The palace,” Zavannah said and turned an angry frown upon her sister. “The king wants to see you.”
“I’m in trouble again, ain’t I?”
“I’m quite sure you are more aware of what you might have done than anyone else,” Zavannah said.

That was the problem, of course. Ravennah was perfectly clueless.

The lamp – a Legendary writing quest

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This pic has nothing to do with the words below. But I thought a scantily clad draenei and a prince … uh … anyway!

Introduction: The other day in WoW Insiders The Queue I made a comment that to some people was a bit confusing. All of it is too meta to actually explain, so just accept the following: One of the replies to the comment I made suggested that I should create something surreal based on a single sentence. For some reason the idea of starting with a horrible sentence – horrible in every sense – took hold of me.

There are things worse than ”It was a dark and stormy night” … for some reason I am constantly intrigued by the thought that maybe one could do something good with all this horror.

You see, I am a writer. I’m not a very succesful writer (so far) but it’s the only thing I know. Sometimes, in my darkest hours, I think that the way things are going right now I will probably end up like my mothers uncle. He left behind hundreds of notebooks with poems and unfinished novels (a handful of them survived; most of them was tossed on an april bonfire because his family thought that the Written Word was junk; I’m a descendant of hardcore intolerant working class – you either sweat or you’re nothing).

I published a Real Book – the paper kind – in 2006,wich was the end of a very long struggle in many ways. It wasn’t much of a success, mostly because of extremely poor marketing from the very small independent publisher I hooked up with, but its actually a pretty good tale about the afterlife. Anyway, I’m not giving up. Fuck sake, if a guy with a beard in Maine can do it, so can I (and I’m a lot more interesting! Well ok, not really).

So I’m simply going to put this one out for you. This is as much as you will ever read without paying for it, in some fashion. Sorry ’bout that, but writers need to eat as well, you know. I have no idea if this will ever be a completed project, but I have high hopes that it will. You want to know a secret? Sure you do. I have no idea what will happen.

This is the beginning of the surreal and legendary quest of … you know, I have no idea where it will end. That’s the beuty of imagination gone wild. No wonder there’s things as “project managers”.

(It’s not even WoW-related.)

- – – – – -

”The lamp was hanged from the ceiling.”
Sandra Eriksson bought a lamp. It wasn’t a fancy one, just a lighbulb in a socket on an oldfashioned cord. The lamp was the kind of lamp you could find in any basement and … Wait a second. Did Sandra just hang a lamp?

Sandra did.

The lamp was hanged from the ceiling. This horrible sentence set things in motion that later would be, well, horrible.

”The lamp was hanged from the ceiling.” Those were the first words that Jaynee on the other side of a 911 call … but let’s not get ahead. Sandra will soon get one, you better trust that.
This. Is. What. Happened:

The internet is a fantastic thing. In its infancy there were movies about hackers and crime and terrible terror. Sandra Bullock starred in one of them and that’s how Frida Sandra Amara Alia Eriksson got her name. It just happened – one of those things that just happen. Boy meets girl (don’t worry, they were well beyond their twenties). Then girl asks boy to watch a video (this was back in VHS times). So boy and girl watch a movie. Girl hopes that boy will kiss girl. Now … It goes like this:

This is very frantic. You have been warned. Parental advisory. It’s pretty much SFW of course because this is a book (even if you probably read it on Kindle or something).

Boy is too embarassed and to aware of his hard dick and only puts an arm around her shoulders and tries to eat popcorn in a way that’s not too embarassing because honestly have you ever tried to eat poppies when all you want is to push yourself against her body to feel her breath and breasts and press your lips against her lips and and and oh my God and then somewhere you think ”what the fuck did that one I can’t remember the name what did he do in that movie I need to fucking get my shit together and be just like him and oh fucking hell I’m gonna come in my pants and” yeah well you know what happens right everything just gets messed up and you can’t do a fucking thing because you’re so fucking in LOVE and HORNY and all of a sudden you think you’re a looser because. This. Is. Not. What. Happens! In movies.

In movies.

So girl thinks ”fuck sake just kiss me motherfucker!” and boy just sits there staring at a movie he don’t even like and truth be told girl don’t like Sandra Bullock that much either and so she leans over and kiss the boy because the girl not Sandra Bullock who’s famous byt the girl is just you nobody she’s not even sexy except she is so fucking sexy RIGHT N OW and it’s terribly confusing.

It’s LOVE. Dude, godammit! Bitch, please. You know it! Love is confusing. Love in the early stage is just a messed up bowl of chemicals and invisible naked babies in a linen diaper armed with a bow and arrow – the baby, not the diaper. See? Confusing.Can’t think now. Horny and in love! Oh m_y God why my knees shake!? Much emotion, very love. Wow.

Some people claim God is involved. It’s all very … it’s not something you have time to analyze when Shit Just Got Real.

Dear God she’s so warm and wet and dear God he’s so hard and it feels so good I have to say it but I can’t because you probably seen the porno and I don’t want to be a slut so I shut the fuck up and what if he worries that I will go to the popo and say he raped me and I just want him to be fucking HARD on ME right NOW but srsly what the fuck oh my God I’m coming no not yet sluts come amma just go EEEEE like inna fucking Seinfeld show or FUCK ME!!!

(Did I just say that out loud? Sorry.)

It’s over now. Have a smoke. Or vape (it’s healthier, they say).

See, this is how babies are made. It’s … Vibes. That thing. The thing that just FEELS. RIGHT. Besides, boy was a very polite swedish boy. Sure, things are gonna get fucking real for Sandra but it honestly started with love, her parents loved and still love each other. It was tenderness and no one made a movie that 4Chan later hacked. It was happiness and cool and everyone involved Wanted To Do It. Repeatedly, because that’s what people do.

As things happened that wonderful night, neither of them dared to say it. It’s embarassing, going ”you got a condom?” when it’s all about to go down, ok? You KNOW you have to ask but … So yeah, you’ve been there. Everyone has. Wich is how Sandra came to be. Yes, mom and pop is still a couple. They’re married, too! Just one thing – one thing that annoyed Amara.

Stefan lacked a lamp. At least one she liked.

Sandra came to be. Stefan fucked Amara and oh boy was it good. You know in the early 1990’s everyone knew you had to protect yourself but, yeah. No one fucking cared. No one fucking still care. Besides that, Amara (born in Lebanon) had cool parents (even though they are muslims). They didn’t care because as her father Ali said – ”We’re free now, we need to be free”. One night someone kicked him in the head because he wasn’t white. Ali took it in stride; ”They’ll get used to us, you just wait.”

They never did. Sandra found out that white people didn’t care even though she was, more or less, white. So yeah, you know, all this backstory is pretty fucking boring so let’s get on with it, shall we?

Sandra went to the USA when she was twentyeight. It was a big deal for her. She went to a place where her dad had tried to go to for years. He never got there. He got stuck as a teacher in the Stockholm burbs and then he died. Just like that. Once morning he stood in front of class and pointed at a picture of Victoria Woodhull with his pen. He wasn’t there, not really. He just went through the thing he always did. Curriculum currahee!. So he stood there, pretending to teach young people to think for themselves allthough everyone knew no one fucking cared. He got paid to do it. He thought about last night as his pen mowed and he said stuff a teacher says. He thought about the Land of the Free. He thought of how he drove through New Orleans. He drove, using Google Maps last night. Point and click. Zoom in on a sign. Oh man, I need some po’boys!

Fantasy travel.

Then he twitched, blinked, looked at nothing in parrticular and then he died. Poof! Gone! Just like that. Like a DC from the server. Like God had pushed a button, a circle broken by a straight line. The off button of life.

His iPhone rang, it was the principal, but it was a crying student who answered it.

Bruh, that’s so fucked up.

So Allah moves in mysterious ways. In the end Amara ended up in the sack with Stefan and later on they had two marriages – one christian, one muslim. It was just them, some close friends and that kind of thing. Because neither family wanted to ”mix races”. Stuff like that is important to a lot of people. Especially when you buy a lamp.

Geffrey ”Tone Def” Jayson discovered the lamp shortly after midnight, august 21.

By then it was too late.

The lament of farmhand Geist: Geist on a Trek

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*from the last pages of a diary, found

somewhere in Jade Forrest, Pandaria, Azeroth*

This is the last record of farmhand Geist, signing off: Master has been funny these last couple of days. Funny in a no-fun funny way. Funny in a confused kind of way. Funny in a should I stay or should I go … kind of way. Tima, my brain (what’s left of it) is struggling to find words that once came easy but now are hard. My muscles are trembling. I’m keeping close to the floor. My pinkies twitch and this time not even velvet can calm them.

We are afraid.

Oh, it has been such a long time since we were this afraid. We’re not scared. To be scared is to give up a yelp and hide, then creep out with a nervous smile and laugh the scaredy stuff away. We’re not terrified. To be terrified is to huddle down in a lump of dirty cloth pretending nothing hurts but everything HURTS SO MUCH because Master just hit you twenty times with a bullwhip, yelling you were a useless piece of dead meat (and much worse). We’re not fearful. To fear is to hope that The Boogeyman, He Whow Smells Like Death, won’t find you.

We are afraid.

It’s a slow and creeping feeling. A chill running over your skin. A cold, slowly sinking into your muscles. A sudden spasm of an elbow, a knee, making it hard to stand. An invisible chain of iron slung around your chest, tightening, making it hard to breathe until you panic because you can’t draw air … if we could breathe. We just move our chest out and back a bit. We are the dead (because this is the kingdom of the Scourge!). We don’t need the breath of life. But that is a lie. We do need the breath of life. Only our life is not your life. Soon it will come to an end. You see, friends … that is why we are afraid.

Our freedom is about to end.

Little Virmen is twitching his nose. Alan the Ghoul gave Virmen a piece of carrot the other day but Virmen had no appetite. Poor little Virr glanced at Master, sitting by a table sharping her swords, and just … whispered.
“Who will comfort Toffle now?”
“I … Will …” Alan the Ghoul said. Well, garbled. “Toffle.”
“Not even Death can comfort Toffle.” Virmen said (only Alan calls Virmen Toffle and only Toffle calls Alan Death).

Master sharpened her swords. Master polished her armor. Master did all those things a death knight does before going to war. Preparing, buffing up (as Master calls it). Master stood up and whispered Terrible Words, coagulated blood trickling out of her pores where I saw her naked skin, blood that hardened, became an armor – blood becoming a presence.

It was not right.

She went out to the pond, scrubbing it off. I snuck up to a window and looked out, Alan the Ghoul hanging by my shoulder and Little Virmen Toffle climbing on top of Alans head. We saw her speak the unholy chant and we smelled the stench of death … a green, faint cloud, a miasma of unholiness.

It was not right.

Master srubbed again. Scrubbed so hard her skin got cut. then she turned, a single word and the waters of the pond was frozen solid. We heard her whisper “hard as iron” – that’s when we knew why Master buffed up.

“Master is going home … ” My words could hardly be heard, it wasn’t even a whisper. It was the faintest of sounds. Yet Master turned and her deadeye light shone upon me and then she said:
“I’m setting you free, Tim.”

“I am free.” I said. I don’t know where I found the courage. I walked out of the house, I straightened up. My pink dress was slightly dirty and my hair was all a mess, but sometimes you just need to say things even if you look like a piece of waste: “I am free, Master. You are not my master because I fear you. You are my master because I … Love. You.”

Then I ran and hid, scurrying across the ground as low as a rat. I felt ashamed, but fear is the curse of the Scourge. We often whispered “I’m sorry”, our final testament, when some argy pal used to kill us. Sometimes, some of us raised our hands, as if that would save us from the white knights. It never did. Not even had my lasts words left my lips before I remembered the time in Zul’Drak and the bullwhip. Long time ago now, a time when Master was a monster.

I am afraid.

Master sat hunched down close to the chicken coop in wich I hid for hours, hand stretched out. She didn’t say a single word. She just sat there, looking at me, sometimes smiling. cold air rising from her body like a mist. Frost presence, she calls it. She don’t function in any other way but the way of ice. Like Master often says when she’s in a good mood: “I might be a bitch but I’m a cool bitch”.

The sun rose. Haohan – he’s an early riser and wants “biz” to be taken care of right after breakfast – came by. He waved, he stopped, he lowered his hand. Wich is why I spent most of the morning shivering in a chicken coop while Master sat there with her hand outstretched and Haohan leaning forward with his hands on his knees. Then, hours later, her straightened up and and said:
“Leave it be. Sooner or later it’ll be hungry.” (Haohan is the ony one who still calls me an “it”, I don’t mind. He’s old and it’s hard to change when you’re old. Li-Li says so, then she usually point at her uncle.)

You know what? That pandaren really piss me off! You don’t want to make Scourge angry, you know. Even redeemed scurgies, like me. So I got a bit heated. I scrambled out of the coop and stood up to him. I poked one of my saronite claws – gently! – into his chest and said:
“MHAAAA HAAA HAAAA!!!”

I’m telling you, that pandaren ran so fast he left a trail of dust behind! Needless to say, Master decided that Halfhill was a bit too hot. Them Halhill milita are prone to poke you with their pitchforks even if you have surrendered, yelling “Hands up! Don’t Shoot!”. If the pitchforks don’t get you, their bags of pandaren spice will. They call them pepper bullets.

In the end, Master decided that maybe it was time to go. I even remember her, we were on our way down to Jade Forrest then all tucked into a yak-wagon, me and Alan and Toffle and the Boney Twins (M and K) and Champs and Stinker … the whole undead family … we were on our way. When Zavvie pointed at the sky and said, in a cheerful tone:
“That’s where we’re going, guys.”

I remember her finger. Her long index finger, skin allready worn down so hard her bone and nail looked like a talon. I looked at the sky. I looked at her finger. I looked at her face – it was the happiest death knight I have ever seen. Then I raised my saronite talon, stretching the joints, pointing at the sky, and said …

“Home?”

Little Virmen Toffle twitched. Then Little Virmen Toffle smiled. There was a sound, from far behind us, echoing across the silken fields and the rolling hills and the misty forrests of Pandaria. Dog was barking. Dog was catching up. Dog was coming along. We’re on the road now. Off to another world. Or, as i like to think of it:

To boldly go where no Scourge has gone before!

Zed, the talking raptor

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“Greetingssss … “

Ssssss …. *coughing throaty sound*

I will try to keep my hiss..sss… ing to a bare minimum. Ah, there we are! Hello, humans. My name is Zederecatorix the Bloodthirsty. Zed, for short. Now, it may come as a suprise to some of you that I am a talking raptor. There’s a perfectly simple reason for it. I’m sure you will understand. My partner – some would call it love interest – was a bit suprised one night many moons ago when I said “thank you, kind lady” ass she dropped a fresh carcass in front of me and, so to speak, ruffled my feathers. No doubt you will be as suprised as she. The reason I can speak to you is simple:

A wizard did it.

I have often wondered why the kingdoms and realms of Azeroth don’t keep their wizards in a tight leash. There’s “mysterious mages” roaming here, “rogue wizards” roaming there – and there’s a notorious ghost of a wizard hiding in Karazhan. Yet no one bats an eyelid at this obvious threat to the very fabric of nature and reality. There’s mages and wizards of all kinds, too! Why, my partner has a sister who is a wizard, I mean a mage. Yes, some people can get very upset if you call them the wrong thing.

My partners sister turned me into a cat!

I got better.

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“Sure been to some crazy places, right … Ass?”

It happened not long after my partner had found me. Honestly, I was feeling rather peckish at the time. There’s not much to eat but scorpions and rats and the occasional orc in Durotar, you know. So when this young lady with horns turned up I decided it was time for some “exotic snacks”. Then I stared into those brilliant eyes and … well, you know. Raptors do have certain needs. I figured it would be a lot easier i I let het catch my dinner. I’m smart like that, see.

So a couple of nights later I was dozing a bit away rom her campfire. She had gone of into the dark – this was in Ashenvale. I suppose I should have accompanied her but, well … To be perfectly honest: I’m a bit lazy. I had just picked my teeth clean. There had been a particulary stubborn splinter of an orc femur stuck between my teeth. It was all part of the job, you see: Us raptors have a simple creed, once we have found someone who will fetch us dinner:

To protect and be served.

Yep, that’s me. So she dumped this deer in front of me, skinned a bit of it and cut out a good chunk of meat she grilled for herself. I can’t ever get used to people not eating raw foods. It can’t be healthy, rubbing salt and herbs on meat and then destroying it with fire. I took a bite out of the deer, chewed carefully, and said:
“Thank you, kind lady.”

I swear, she jumped three feet into the air! But she took it in stride, I have to hand it to her. Once the initial pleasantries was done away with we talked about this and that for a long time. If I were less raptor than I am I suppose I would have ended up kissing her. But, yeah you know, I let her ruffle my feathers instead.

It’s a very intimate thing among raptors. She should be honored I don’t bite her hand off. Allthough … it would be a rather stupid thing to do, no? Biting the hand that feeds you? That’s something the primitives of Un’Goro do. I don’t like that kind of raptors.

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“May I call you Ass? I’m going to call you Ass.”

Oh, we have had some wonderful adventures, me and my partner. She told me her name is Cassanna. I call her Ass (she doesn’t like it but I mean, come on! Check out that … Yeah, anyway!) I told her my complete name. She insists on calling me Zed. We are a team, Ass and me. I’m honestly grateful she crossed my path. If not I would either have ended up with a stone arrow inside me or worse – getting tamed by an orc.

I have seen the world thanks to Ass. Kalimdor and Eastern Kingdoms, Outland – arrakoa taste like chicken – and Northrend – and Pandaria. Of all the places we have been to I enjoy Pandaria the most. The cuisine is excellent. I never cared much for goat before. The goats of Dun Morogh are rather tough and tasteless (I guess that’s why the dearves boil their meat in beer). Other goats are just as bad. but Pandaria goats …

Excuse me if I salivate.

Fatty goatsteak. That sure put some meat on my bones! I dare say, I was twice the size when we eventually returned to a long stint of frugal living back on mainland Kalimdor. Memories of mushan ribs, goat, of saurok flesh and an occasional pandaren – that sustained me though all those dusty nights in Silithus, culling the bugs. All those night elves had to offer was cured ham. I’m not that picky with food, mind you, so I ate it, but if I have to eat another ham I’ll disembowel the next person I see. I guess Ass knew what would happen. So we relocated to Witnerspring eventually. Yeah, like that was a vacation … I mean, come on! I’m a cold blooded raptor!

I don’t like snow.

Still, someone has to pay for my upkeep I guess. If Ass needs to hunt bears in Freezerville, I’m right beside her … well, okay, five steps behind her.

The view is excellent from there.

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“Assssss… oh, ssssorry!”

Diary of a warlock

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From the diary of Sharenne the Warlock (born Gawry):

I wrote a letter to you the other day, father, a letter I never mailed. Besides, where would it be delivered to? There’s no “place of residence” for you anymore, is there – “dad”? Instead I burned it. I watched the flames eat my words – eat, as it were, my hate. It’s not that I am evil, wich I am not. It’s not that I want to hurt you (wich I want but won’t). It’s not that I wish revenge for all those time you hurt me – and more than that. It’s simpler than that. You see, father:

I want you to cry.

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Pain won’t matter. Words like, oh I don’t know, like “Do you see me now!? I AM somebody!” – that won’t matter either. You don’t care about that, do you? Sure you don’t. You cared more about yourself and your own needs than you ever cared about me. Pain is not revenge. I could kill you, I could snap my fingers and watch as Metaril, “my” Void Lord (we have an understanding), tore you limb from limb. Or I could afflict you with terrible curses, excrutiating pain, boils and venom, haunts of impending doom. I could set you on fire with the twitch of an eyelash. I could watch you burn. I could hear you scream. I could exterminate you. But no, father.

I want you to cry.

You see, the whelp grew up. Yes, the “bitch” you never fed. The “brat” one you never told a bedtime story to. The “slut” you hurt in ways I couldn’t imagine, back then. You showed me the meaning of True Power – and what I had to do to get it … It won’t matter to you. You wouldn’t understand, you wouldn’t care. While you were busy drinking with your buddies I destroyed such unspeakable evil that it would even have your silly little ghouls of Duskwood run crying back to mommy. That doesn’t matter either, I know that. Of course I know. You taught me a good deal about evil. I could call forth that ancient evil, if I wanted to. I could watch as it turned your flesh into green goo. I could listen as your soul was slow roasted over fel fire. I could destroy the very essence of your being, have it raised anew and then destroyed again. It’s within my power … something you so often told me I would never have. You called me worthless one time to many, old man. Wich is why, father …

I want you to cry.

You did one thing right in your wretched life. You sent me to cousin Gawens family in Lakeshire. Of course, you made damned sure I wouldn’t forget you first. I know that. I still bear the scars, both inside and out. If nothing else you taught me what men expect – ah, yes. I have the greatest power of all: To deny them what they want. I guess I was the only woman who didn’t have the courage to tell you to go fuck yourself. It’s hard to be ten, you know. But i grew. In years, in power, in knowledge. “Uncle” Valence taught me a great deal – things a kid shouldn’t know, of course, but that doesn’t matter now. I summoned imps while kids were busy splashing around in the lake. I read books of ancient power while kids were busy chasing each other, trying to get laid. “Uncle” did what you were supposed to do. He protected me from evil, he fed me, he read me bedtime stories, he loved me. He … forged me. That is why, father …

I want you to cry.

But I won’t. It’s too late or revenge. It’s not even worth it. You’re a miserable waste of life, you can’t even remember me. You didn’t recognize me the other day, did you? Sure you didn’t. I look upon you now and I see nothing but a pathetic collection of bones, covered by skin. You’re nothing. No pity, no remorse. You are not even worthy of my hate. So you know, father:

I want you to cry.

But I won’t make you cry. That would be to give you to much. I will deny you the satisfaction of knowing that your daughter is alive, and well, and more powerful than you could possibly imagine. Instead … I will go back to Darkshire. Instead … I will burn down your house. I will watch the flames engulf that grey cottage I once called “home”. I will set Metaril on them; I will watch as his strong blue arms of shadow rips asunder the very thing you took great pride in: The house you built, once when you were young and good and in love. I will watch as it turns to soot, the place where you drove my mother into an early grave. The house where you hurt me. The house where you taught me a valuable lesson about life: Sometimes the greatets evil isn’t a monster. Then I will spread salt upon the earth. Let nothing ever grow there, again. So you know now, father. I will get my revenge. One of these days, as the news of the fate of your rotten house slowly sinks in, as I stand on the other side of the canal, watching you beg for scraps of food, for a few coppers. One of these days I will get what I want:

I want you to cry.

I earned my wings (as people I roll with these days like to call it). I prevailed. You didn’t break me, you never will and I won’t let you. I have seen things you couldn’t possibly imagine: Ulduar in moonlight, the wailing banshees of Straholme, the secrets of Scholomance, the wonders of Pandaria and beyond. I have slain bandits and monsters, demons and Old Gods. I have killed men for less than what you asked me the other day as I walked past you; you dind’t know who I was. I have seen the magnificence of the world and despaired. I have felt pity, guilt – but most of all: Love. The very thing you did your best to destroy within me lived – and burned stronger than any flame I could ever conjure up.

I want you to die.