The Lament of Farmhand Geist: Light Rider

And I looked, and behold a pale horse:
and her name that sat on it was Death,
and Hell followed with her …

This is the first entry of my diary from the wall:

“There’s nothing left in life, not for me. I have embraced death. I am dead, I thought I could live but what made me alive was taken away. Let me be a construct of bodyparts, animated by dark magics, long lost and never again a child of light as Isel once told me I was. There. Is. No. Hope.”

It was written several weeks ago. I wrote it as the turrets opened up and went acketi-acketi-acketi-ack-ack-ack, shredding the wailing dead down on the frozen fields. I watched Master stand there on the wall, staring at nothing … and at that moment, I knew I was dead. My Morissa had been taken away from me! My Master was embracing the cold, turning into the death knight she once were. Truth be told she scared me. I remembered our farm in Halfhill … and I wanted to yeank on her hand, I wanted to tell her “Let’s go and grow some harmony, eh?” but instead I covered under the furs … because I am broken. I am a lifing Scourge, cursed. I walk between life and death and I feel the life, but I am … Dead.

I also wrote this:

“I don’t want to die.”

I had barely put the words on paper before a yell caught my attention: “What in the blazing beards!”

We only caught a short glimpse of her. Something moved across the plain, brilliant with the luminescence of Holy Wrath. Then the Light faded and Darkness conquered everything beyond the wall. Grimm Stoneshield, the lookout, swore it was a woman!

“I tell ye lads!” he said. “’twas a bitch ’twas!” (Grimm has a colorful language). “’twas a bluey, ’twas, lads! I tell ye! She be blue she be!”

A few weeks back, early in the morning, she was back. It’s hard to tell if there is ever a morning in Icecrown. It’s beutiful in its own way, you know. I always liked the glaciers.

Then she came.

A speeding bullet of light, streaking across the fields of death, a mace held high, a shield aflame with light and enchants. The cold glacier mists parted for her as she blazed her way across the snowy expanse, and this time we heard a faint sound … an echo … a voice, far, far away. Kel’Thuzads frozen balls, she must have shrieked her battlecry at the top of her lungs because no one but a banshee or a zealot can scream like that. It must have been deafening way down there, up close to her. Up here on the wall, few people had the ears to hear the words … but I was created a spy. I see. I hear: “Pheta vi acahachi!”

Searchlights on the wall traced her as she sped across the silent fields until the mists swallowed her whole. She left a trail of death behind her. Smoldering corpses, burnt by the blaze of Holy Light.

It happened again and again. Like clockwork. The banshee scream from way beyond, then a lookout shouting out. The searchlight catching her, brilliant as she slammed her way through the dazed and confused companies of the Scourge. On that fateful day when I met her, I heard Rakka, the orc rogue who found the Light, yell:

“Behold now! Here she comes!”
“Such a pale horse … “_ Grimm said.
“I wouldn’t like to be Scourge this morn'” I said. They gave me a curious, slightly bewildered look. I turned to them, pulled off my leather mask with its single eye and looked them dead in the eyes with the eyes I once were given by the Creator. I have yellow eyes, with glowing red pupils. My eyes are not pretty, at least not for the living. I scared them. I said:

“Hell follows with her … “

One breath away

“Breathe!” Thump! “Breathe, dammit!” Thump! Thump! “Come on, girl … “

Thump! Thump!

Sheela felt his small fists pounding her chest. She couldn’t breathe. Seaweed and water clogged her throat. The Light was fading, fast. Her eyes were open but she saw almost nothing in the gathering dark. She could only feel the thump, thump, thump of the gnomes tiny fists. She could only hear the sobbing and the prayers and the muttered words of “Breathe, come on, breathe. Don’t go away, beutiful. Breathe!”

“She’s with Elune now, Bixx,” a voice said. Then a face, pale as the moon, appeared in front on Sheelas eyes. “There’s nothing you can do. She is gone.”

“NO!!!” Thump. “I WILL not!” Thump. “Let this one!” Thump. “GO!!!” Thump.

Sheela coughed. It started as a faint gasp, then racked her chest until she spewed water and weeds in a steady stream. She was flat on her back. For a few seconds she feared she would drown anyway, but then everyone started screaming and yelling and someone rolled her over on her side. She puked water and seaweed, half digested hardtack and beer. The smell of putrid vomit blanketed everything around her. She didn’t know if it was sweat or tears or salt water running down her face. It was so cold. There were screams from down by the shipwreck. Then a tremendous crash as the wooden hull caught a wave and lifted off the rocks. She tried to stand up, but couldn’t find the strength. Still on her knees, she watched the ship roll first to one side, then the other.

“Mother of all!” The gnome gasped. “Look at that!”
“It’s finished … “the night elf said. “No one could survive that.”

Elune of the Seas lurched to the side, the main mast broke in two. Then the hull burst open as the cargo of copper- and iron bars crashed through the wood. It only took a minute for the ship to go down. Dozens of people were still trapped – less than a hundred feet from Westfall. The water boiled with air bubbles. The ship went down with a thundering, slurping sound, echoing across the stormlashed sea. Some sailors tried to swim against the backdraft but the currents pulled them down.

Then everything turned still. No screams, no crashing timber. The waves kept sloshing against the shoreline. The wind kept howling. The rain, heavy as a waterfall, kep pelting the sand, the rocks, the flotsam and the sea. Bodies kept popping up like corks, flung across the angry waves.

“It’s … “the gnome shook his head in disbelief. “It’s just us, now … ”
“Look over there! Torches!” The night elf stood up, shielding her eyes from the rain and wind with her hands. “Over there!”
“Praise the Light!” The gnome started jumping up and down, screaming “HEY!!! OVER HERE!!!” He stopped jumping, turned to the night elf and grinned. “It’s the bloody militia!”
“Aren’t they rather short for militia troopers?”

The eerie sound of a snicker rolled down the sandbank. Then the gnolls stormed the beach.

****

Glass shattering on stone woke Shuanna up. The walls of Lunarfall was eight feet thick, but the town hall was nothing more than a shack. Stone piled upon stone with mortar in between, wooden boards on wooden beams. Her bedroom was one floor above the main hall. Even small sounds echoed up through the wooden floor, reverberating against stone and plaster.

Years in the field had tempered her. Even the slightest sound could wake her up. She would wake up with her heart racing, reach out and grab the mace that always rested against the wall close to her bed. Most of the times there was nothing to attack but shadows. Or an inquisitive mouse, pit-patting across the floor. Sometimes there was nothing at all, the room was dark but she still heard the screams in her head. Sometimes there were ghosts in the darkness. Sometimes she raged against them, swinging her mace – only to stop mid-motion and wonder if she was going crazy.

She was used to waking up, several times every night, from all the small sounds. Even peaceful sounds, like the tick-tock of the chronometer far up in the tower, could send her into near panic. Every time cold sweat trickled down her spine, her armpits felt ablaze. Then sometimes, other sounds woke her up, sounds no one would expect in a town hall.

Like the sound of sorrow … one early morning she woke up hearing lieutenant Thorn sobbing downstairs. When Shuanna came down, still half asleep and almost naked but armed with a glowing crystal mace, she found Thorn bent double over a ledger. The lieutenant clutched a rose with one hand and a gun with the other. They stared at each other, knowing that both of them had their own nightmares, their own pain. None of them ever spoke of it. Secrets amongst friends.

Once, she woke up to muffled moans. Mace ready in her hands, she stormed down the stair and into the main hall … only to find rangari Erdanii on all four with VaanDaam behind her. It took all three of them a few seconds to react to the embarassment. Then Shuanna simply backed out of the room, trying not to laugh. None of them ever spoke of it. Secrets amongst friends.

Once, she woke up to the rumble of books, falling from a bookshelf. Mace ready in her hands, she dashed into the hall but stopped dead in her tracks. Zaliss, the feral druid, was desperately clinging to a bookshelf full of ledgers, trying to catch a moth. Both stared at each other, then Zaliss made a giant leap and snuck out of the town hall keeping low to the ground, full of shame and embarassment. None of them ever spoke of it. Secrets amongst friends.

Now, the crash of glass against stone, followed by a shout that sounded muffled through the mortar and glass of walls and windows.
“Fuck ALL of you, dammit!”

There was another crash, followed by distant yells of “Oi!” and “Hey, stop that!”. Shuanna gripped her mace even before she was completely awake. She forced herself to focus as she ran down the stairs and out the main door to the Town Hall. Dressed in nothing but underwear, she stopped halfway down the slope, mace resting by her side.

“Commander!” A guard shouted. “She gone crazy she has!”
“You stay away from me!” Sashanna screamed, then flung another empty clay bottle at the walls. “Fuck off!”
“I will handle this, guardsmen,” Shuanna said. She sent an angry glare at her sister. “Sash! Stop that!”
“No!” Sashanna picked up another bottle, but then most of the strength left her. She sank down on her knees, sobbing and crying. Shards from a broken bottle of Caraway Burnwine twinkled in the starlight around her. There was a dagger in her right hand.

“Sash?” Shuanna said, her voice low and careful. After some thought, she lowered her mace. “You behave now, you hear?”
“I hate all of you!” Sashanna screamed. Then she thought it over, and added: “Well, not Blook … ”
“You calm down now, you hear?” Shuanna took a few steps towards her. “Come on, sis. Let’s get you inside. We’ll talk inside. Okay?”

Sashanna sighed. Then she hugged herself, trying not to shiver. Early mornings in Shadowmoon could be quite chilly. Burnwine and rage had kept her warm so far, but as the adrenaline faded away she felt cold and vulnerable. She mumbled an “okay then … ” and followed Shuanna inside the Town Hall. Slouching, resisting almost every step, she finally slumped down in front of the fireplace.

Shuanna walked her all the way back. With a sigh of relief she closed the door to the main hall and let the mace rest against a wall. She walked down the length of the room, pulling a coat from a rack near the door, covering herself up. It was better than nothing. Early morning and the main hall was damp and cold until she entered the halfcircle of warmth from the fireplace. More glass in front of the fireplace. Even as Sashanna was sitting down, she was leaning first to one side, then another.

“You alright?” Shuanna said as she hunched down. “Hey, Sash?” She carefully put a hand on her sisters head and gave the hair a little ruffle. “What got into you!? you’re drunk as a skunk, girl!”

“I’m fine,” Sashanna said. She swallowed a sob, wiping tears and snot from her face with the sleave of her dress. “I’m jush … I dunno.” She glanced at the broken bottle. “Shorry ’bout that … me a bit d’unk, I think.” She stared at the dagger in her hand. Then, with a frightened yelp, she tossed to the side and looked up at Shuanna. “I mish Kam … ”
“Ah.” Shuanna sat down, careful to avoid the glass shards. She pushed the dagger away with one of her hooves. When she spoke, she tried to keep her usual haggard, slightly angry tone, in check. “You didn’t think about doing something with that dagger, I hope.”
“Couldn’t get the she… sh… ” A deep breath. “Seal. Off da bottle. Shorry … It kinda shlipped my handsh.”
“Uh-huh.” Shuanna nodded. To her own suprised she smiled. It felt good, smiling. She suddenly realised she had almost never smiled from pure joy. Malice, yes. Threatening hate, oh sure. Love or joy? not so much. There were another bottle close by, already empty. “Party hard, eh?”

Sashanna giggled, slumped back on the bearskin and rested her head against the furs stuffed bearhead. After a while, she reached out with a hand and pulled Shuanna down beside her.
“I hash da shadsh … shads.” Deep breath. “Sad.”
“I know honey.” Shuanna sat up. There was a quilt next to her. She brought it up and draped it over Sashanna. “I know … ” She sighed, deeply.

“How can you?” Sashanna wiped tears from her face, trying to stiffle a sob. It failed. “How can you know?” I mean … Fuck. “She sighed, deeply, trying not to cry but failed. Almost wailing, she clung to Shuanna. “I love her sho mush! Why mush … mush deshe fucking politicsh … I mish her too!”
“We very nearly couldn’t get you out of Silvermoon, kid.” Shuanna shrugged. “I know what love is, but dammit, girl. A blood elf? I had to cash in on a shitload of favors just to keep you out of the gallows.”
“Pleashe don’t be mad … ”
“I’m not mad!” Shuanna sighed, closed her eyes and forced her voice into a low, almost monotone sound. “It’s just the way I sound. You know it … ”
“I don’t want you to be mad at me.”
“I’m no–” Deep breath. “I’m not mad. You had us all worried, that’s all. Running away like that, eh? The High King himself yelled at me, you know. I’ve killed men for doing that.”
“Shorry … ” Sashanna leaned back, wiping her face with a corner of the quilt. “WEll they do call you the Kingshlayer …”

Shuanna laughed. Very gently, she patted Sashannas head, stroking her hair. It somehow calmed both of them down.
“Eh, it doesn’t matter.” Shuanna smiled, she hoped it would be a warm smile but from Sashannas worried expression it probably came out as a sneer. “Laveria, the fucking bitch, she’s dealing with Kam. I’m stuck with you, silly girl.”
“You’re mad at me.”
“No.” Shuanna sighed. “Well, ok, a bit. Look … Blood elves, the Horde … It’s just not possible, Sash. Sorry. Not yet, anyway.”
“I love her!”
“I know. I know …”
“You do?”
“I was young too, once.”
“I find that hard to believe.”

Shuanna burst out laughing. It was not a very pleasant laugh. Everytime she laughed, there was that mean, haggard edge to it. She saw Sashanna cringe a little. Instead of saying anything, Shuanna leaned over and started to tickle her sister.

“You little vixen!”
“No! Pleashe! Shtop it!” Sashanna shrieked with laughter. “Pleashe!”
“Right.” Shuanna chuckled, leaned back on her elbows and bumbed her hip against Sashannas. “It’s true. I used to be in love.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Sheela.” Shuanna smiled, closed her eyes and nodded. “We used to chase moths down on the plains. We ran away once.”
“You did?”
“Yeah … ” Shuanna rolled over on her side, pulling Sashanna into a gentle hug. “Maraad found us all the way up in Nagrand. We were trying to build a raft, ’cause we were going to hide in Frostfire. It was so stupid … ”
“She an orc?”
“Oh no. She was a beutiful draenei. She … touched my soul.”
“Why didn’t you, you know, go together? Be a couple, kinda?”
“Mother didn’t like her. Sheela was the daughter of an elekk breeder.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah … Like you said. These fucking politics …”
“Did she come to Azeroth? With the rest of us?”

Shuanna hesitated for quite some time. Then she rolled over on her side, put an arm around Sashanna and whispered:

“She died in Shattrath, Sash.” Shuanna sighed, forcing herself to smile. She stood up, pulled Sashanna up and said: “Now, let’s get you too bed. You’ll have one hell of a headache tomorrow.”
“Shu?” Sashanna said, stopping Shuannas first step with a tight tug on her hand.
“Yes?”
“Do you miss her?”
“Every day.” Shuanna nodded, then she blinked, hard. The tears was kept back with sheer willpower. “Every single day, Sash. With every breath.” She nodded at the dagger on the floor. “You weren’t using that for the seal, did you?”

Sashanna shrugged, embarassed. She looked up at Shuanna, then pulled her into a hard, long comforting hug.

“I’m shorry, Shu … ”
“We’ll be allright, sis. We’re survivors.”
“I love Kam … ”
“I know.”
“Some people say, know what they say?” Sashanna yawned, stumbling. Shuanna steadied her with firm hand.
“What do people say, my drunken little kitten, mmm?”
Sashanna smiled. Then she giggled. She wrapped herself around Shuanna in a close hug, burbing caraway fumes and stale frostweed breath. Almost with no voice at all, she said, before almost falling asleep:
“Some people … say … that eternal love … is only one breath away.”

– – – – – –
Backstory for Sashanna here and here.)

The Selfie (Booty Bay Passion)

By now it’s probably all over the news. You know, how Kamelia and Sashanna, the youngest sisters of a celebrated Horde hero and an Alliance general went AWOL. I hear both Alliance and Horde are hunting them. I hear that the Argent Crusade is doing damage control. Rumor has it, even the Scarlet Crusade are hoping to cash in on a potential “hostage situation”.

Oh don’t worry. Uncle’s got it covered. Uncle Speedy always got it covered. That’s why I was sent to Silvermoon, to babysit the young lovers. I don’t mind. Comfy beds, good food and bowls of Bloodthistle I don’t even need to pay for. Oh, and you know – a lot of blood elves have a thing for goblin darlings. I just keep an eye out for any bounty hunters … and if someone shows up. Well.

People know me as “the Dispatcher”.

(It’s my uncle who thought of it. I haven’t actually killed that many. By the time I’ve been able to fumble out a dagger in each hand the bad guy is already venting his, or hers, brain through the skull. I don’t know how it happens. Or who puts the hole in them. I don’t care. Uncle is probably paying some elf assassin pretty decent money to keep the “darling duo” safe. Me? Well, I’m getting cred. That’s cool – ’cause a goblin needs cred.)

I knew they needed help the very second I saw them. What can I say? I’m a nice gal, alright? “Kam and Sash” is the thing that happens once in a lifetime that makes your lonely romantic heart skip a beat. Straight out of a novel but in real life! Sure, my third cousin Bixby would probably have sold them out. Not me, though. Uh-uh. Uncle knows I’m a softie. I’m not like other goblins, you know. Me, I’ve got a beating heart for Love, dollface.

You won’t believe what happened next.

you know, I’ve always said this, I have. I read a lot. Well ok, mostly it’s those romantic novels on cheap paper because they don’t contain too complic.. compu… hard. Words. But I read a lot. I know this, ok?

Even the dead know that Love is All (“Icecold Passion”, a story about a ghoul). There are stories of night elves, in long forgotten Auberdine, desperately trying to hold on to Love (I read that in a history book and cried for several seconds). There are stories of orcs, in Aszhara, desperately trying to rekindle what was lost in their own peculiar way. Yeah, well, that was told to me by a crying grunt who said he had been there. I don’t know if it’s true or not. It happened before the Cataclysm, up in Aszhara. Word of advice: Hiring mercenaries to kill the woman that scorned you don’t improve your chances for a future relationship.

Love. Aaah, if I only knew what it was … but I’m kinda the third wheel, you know. Sure I sold “love”, but that was not the love I saw in those eyes. So there I was, a rather experienced lovemaker if I say so myself, seated next to the darlings. So I watched their eyes – uncle always says “watch the eyes, kid. When one pulls, it’s always in the eyes before the bullets start flying.”

The blood elf was so infatuated she didn’t even see me. The draenei was so shiny I swear her forehead came to light – and she didn’t even notice! Then they touched, just fingertips, and I damned near gasped like they did. That breath. It was so … it was so beutiful. I kinda wanna know what it would be like, you know. Getting all “haa-aaah!” on that first touch. Yeah I saw it all. It’s because of me those dolls eloped. Sorry!

Just, you know. A gals gotta do what a gals gotta do.

Few people are as open to the prospect of love as goblins. No it’s true! We’re a very romantic race. It’s a simple matter of economics: If you feel the love, find someone that loves you back and you can kick up your feet and smoke cigars while others work. Like my uncle and his Trixxie. Once, when he kinda did a bad and poisoned a whole town – just a fiscal mistake, ok!? – there was that cake. Anyway.

Aww, don’t make that face! That’s how it is! You know it. I know it. Everyone with knees made of jelly and a stomach full of

(could it be beans?)

butterflies knows it. Gals know it, you know where. Gents know it where – yeah, you can probably figure it out. I never felt it as such, but I have “high standards”. Look, I like diamonds, ok?

Gonna cost you to make me wet, partner. I mean, uh … I mean – to love you. See, I’m a bit the black sheep. I kinda want to land on my feet before I put them up and smoke cigars. Afterwards. I’m not like my cousin.

My cousin Vinnie had to wear baggy pants for six weeks because he couldn’t find the courage to ask Arkok the Butcher out on a date. Sure, Vinnie was a slum guy and Arkok was a Kor’Kron (he switched sides when Vol’Jin offered better pay and six days vacation a month). They met in a bar, hiding from the Alliance Rampage. Truth be told Arkok was a butcher – he just kinda got drafted into the army. Anyway. Let’s just say that his polearm made Vinnie’s mouth water.

(Mum can’t get over it, but she’s “traditional”. It’s goblin or bust. Vin and Ark are pretty cool. They run a “antique weapons” store in Dalaran these days.)

“Uncle” Speedy knows everything about love. More importantly, he knows what young lovers need. Wanna know what young lovers need? Uh-huh, thought ya would.

They need selfie cameras.

Right. So here’s how it happened: A blood elf in inherited armor walks into my uncles place in Booty Bay to get out of the rain. A draenei, carrying an Ironforge Mk II .50 cal shotgun loaded with buckshot and a sixth solid cartridge, like the way you do if you know your way around automatics and walks into a bar filled with goblin and tauren pirates … oh wow. I lost myself.

Guns make me giddy with excitement. I once met a human who was packing almost twenty inche… anyway!

Yeah ok, so the horney girl was a real looker. I would have gone up to her myself if her raptor hadn’t been whispering “do you feel lucky, punk” as soon as a pirate came three feet from her booty. Lemme tell ya, a mighty fine booty it was too! no wonder the raptor was protective of it. I could have pinched that all night long. Yeah, I’m a draenei in spirit. It’s just my body that’s small, green and greedy.

So things got weird. The blood elf just ruffled the raptors feathers and called it “a good boy”. The raptor said “I like your hair”. Raptor are real charmers. Then the blood elf glanced at horney girl … and then time stopped.

Fucking Chromie.

She came out of my uncles office right that second – and time stopped. I have no idea how long it lasted. I couldn’t move, but I could see and breath. I remember everyone frozen in place except Kamelia, the blood elf, and Sashanna, the draenei. They could still move. And Chromie, of course.

“You two will do stuff for me,” Chromie said.
“Like what?” Kamelia said.
“Oh, you know … ” Then Chromie giggled.

Ugh. I really hate gnomes giggling! Especially when they’re not gnomes at all!

Like seriously? I reallt wish uncle could do business with anyone but the Chromes. Heck, I’d take Cult of the Damned over the Chromes any day! Like, you know, you ever fucked a Timewalker? Uh-huh, thought not. It feels like three minutes but it was monday when you got paid and sixtynine positions later it’s friday and the asshole still grunts “I’m so close, so close!”. It’s a good thing I keep a mechanical (gnome constructed) meter going. Otherwise I would be pretty poor.

(Uncle don’t like my sideshow but a girl has needs. It’s not my fault no one in Booty Bay can keep up with my … wassaword … libido!)

Next thing I know, everything comes back. I’m seated at a table with the darlings and Love is in the Air. Then they touch – and Chromie, warming her hands at the fireplace, says:
“I think you should ask your uncle for one of the cameras. And the file we agreed on.”

I hate dragons.

Diary of a warlock: Homo homini lupus

“A Man is a wolf to other men”
– Plautus

My first memory of father involves a wolf. I called her Skippy. When she came into my life, Skippy was no more than a pup. This was a very long time ago. I was still happy then. Father was still happy.

Mother Daisy was alive.

He was a young man back then, probably no more than fifteen, maybe seventeen. He once told me that my grandparents were farmers not far from Sunnyglade. They fled when the undead came and eventually he and his brother Valence ended up in Redridge. Camden, my father, who everyone called Cakewalk, grew up there, but then work made him move to Darkshire and that’s where he met Daisy. She was twelve but already a woman (young people mature fast in Duskwood, no one knows why).

Mother Daisy was alive.

Father was my hero and mother was my saint. On the morning that father took me to the woods, I was four years old. I had walked for three years and six months. I had spoken, written and read real words for a year. Back then, people came all the way from Goldshire on Market Day to hear me sing. I was unusual. Once, a mage showed up and tried to buy me! Father said: “This child is not for sale. I will protect her myself from all of the shadows. Even when the wolves … “ I oogled the mage with the curiousity of a child, perched on the shoulder of father. Then mother took me, gave me a sweet … and growled.

Mother Daisy was alive.

Back then, father was still earning almost fifty silver a week as a logger. I once saw him cleave the head of a man with a thick-bladed axe when the man tried to touch That. The thing I have. The thing all women have, be they young or old. (Oh, so many men, women and succubii have touched it ever since. I once tried to romance Metaril the Void Lord. He scoffed and told me “I don’t like your kind”. I guess it’s just my luck: I summoned a gay Void Lord.) He buried the man, with some help from mother.

Mother Daisy was alive.

Much later, when fathers soul started to rot, he became a monster. It’s one of the mysteries of Duskwood, you see. Everything rots. It takes time, but everything rots. Trees, men, women. Your soul. The wolves don’t rot. The wolves stay wolves. Some people say that the feral worgen are no better than wolves but those people think that wolves are monsters. Ask any of the old loggers, those who are still sane, if they ever found a monster wolf. They will say no. “It’s their nature,” they will say. “The wolf is a wolf. Man is a wolf to other men, but a wolf is always a wolf to man and wolf.”

Mother Daisy was alive.

We used to wake up early, back when father was a Real Man. Before dawn, as dawn can be in Duskwood. The dark of night changed color. Blue crept into the shadows, the black slowly retreated and then the glow of luminiscent fungii and moss turned the morning to a dull yellow with streaks of green. Sometimes the sun broke through the clouds and you could see the moss and lichen move. It crept, as fast as moss can creep, towards the light. Then it became still, drinking the sunshine. A few beams could sustain it for years. I dare say there was always a lot more moss and lichen around on those rare, clear days. Mother came out with a wicker basket filled with pumpkin pies and beer and apples and cheese and we ate and laughed, all three of us. Because back in those days, you see …

Mother Daisy was alive.

People in Duskwood were like the lichen. No matter what important tasks we had back then, we would always stop and then sit in the rays of light until they were gone. We were always a lot happier, for days afterwards Duskwood was a place of love. During those days, some people would always find a New Hope and move north, or south. They never came back. Like Mother …

Mother Daisy is alive.

Some went to Goldshire and Elwynn. Some went to Stranglethorn. Those who stayed would drink the Light and then, days later, the hangover would be so bad that they even went to the Old Temple. There, Preacher Morbent, even though everyone knew he was crazy, would speak. Preach. Sing. Gargle. He wouldn’t stop talking until we all sang to his tune – and such a wonderous tune it was! We all sang it, except mother. Because …

Mother Daisy is the Wolf.

“The Twilight …” Morbent would say. “We must embrace the Twilight, for ooh ia! OOOH IA!!! OOOH IA!!! IA!!! AND YOU KNOW IT IN YOUR SOUL!!! Hey poor! Hey poor! YOU DON’T HAVE TO BE POOR ANYMORE!!! I tell you know, I tell you know that, I TELL YOU that The Hammer of Twilight Is Our Salvation! SALVATION! The Hammer of Twilight Is Our Salvation! Ia! Ia! The Hammer of Twilight Is Our Salvation! Ooh Ia! YES FOR IT IS SO SPOKEN IN THE CRYPTS!!! Where is your precious light NOW!!? Do not be afraid to die! LIFE is a prison! Beyound the Black Wood where even Death may die, the Black Goat will protect her young!” Here he would pause, and then say: “Death … is a … release. Am I telling you to kill yourself?” Here he would wait for all of us to listen. Then he would say: “No. NO!!! I Say to you NOW!!! THE GODS will claim you, but before they do, you need to LIVE!!! SPREAD!!! FORNICATE!!! CURSE!!! Ia! IA! The children. The children!” Here he would pause, wipe his brow, and then whisper so low you had to listen! “The children. I want your children. Beware the wolf!”

Mother Daisy.

“IA IA IA!!!” the congregation would shout. Some would panic and flee. Some would scream and rave incoherent things and thoughts. Some would be so gripped by power that they would fornicate, right there, screaming and shaking as the oldest magic of all ripped through their bodies. Sex. The Curse of Flesh. I once saw a mother throw her newborn at Morbent, who threw it back and yelled  “Too young!”. Everybody laughed, except father. Then all fell silent, because there was a growl outside …

Mother Daisy.

Salandria Dement, a milliner married to a pumpkin farmer, later killed herself, her family and all of the cattle. She used a mallet for the newborn, a butcher knife for her husband and five sons and a rope for her oldest daugther. It’s said she tied the girl in such a fashion that she broke her hips. Imagine the strength to do that – and “Sally” was no taller than five feet. No on is quite sure what she used to rip the cattle to shreds … or why they found her body perfectly white, whithered, drained, deep in the woods not far from Lady Celestes old Raven Hill summer villa (now ruined). It’s said the people who found the dead later on talked in hushed whispers about the word that Sally had painted on the bedroom wall, right above the head of her dead husband: SANLAYN.

Mother Wolf knew.

During the Morbent sermons, most of us shouted “Ia!” because that was the way it had always been. Kids like me thought it was pretty fun. We could scream all kinds of words but no adult would slap us or spank us. It was total anarchy. When Morbent screamed and shouted, all of us could do what we wanted to. Adults never interfered, they were to busy being feared. Some screamed and then started to shake. I remember Erinne Durant, the village whore, once started yelling “Gul’kafh an’shel. Yoq’al shn ky ywaq nuul!” and then faint. Several young men found their way into her, both then and later (they had to pay for later, but that is the way of Duskwood). I was three years old then. The first word I ever uttered was not “papa”. The first word, on the eve of Morbents last sermon, was …

“Mother Wolf …”

(Here’s the first installment of “Diary of a warlock“, in which Sharenne Gawry reveals a terrible secret … )

World of Lovecraft

“I don’t wanna,” Kamelia said, her voice a low whine. “C’mon Lav, ple-ease!?”

Laveria didn’t answer. She took a deep breath, grabbed her sister by the nape of the neck and then gently pushed her through the door to World’s End Tavern. They marched straight through the main hall. Even though Haris made an attempt at saying “hi!”, Laveria simply shook her head, quickly. It was clear by the grim look on her face that some serious business was about to go down.

Kamelia trundled along, every step heavy as with impending doom. Even though she was carrying both a sword and shield, and an old but still functional armor, she was no where near as experienced or strong as her older sister. Things like this had happened before. Usually followed by some disciplinary actions (and her sister was very skilled in that area). Kamelia was not looking forward to a day of not being able to sit down without wincing.

“Of all the stupid, stupid things you ever done, Kam,” Laveria muttered, “This is really the pinnacle of it all!”
“I di–”
“You shut that piehole now or I’ll shut it for you.” She grunted. “We will have justice!”

They pushed the door open to the inner room and stepped inside. Laveria closed the door with one hand, reaching out for the handle behind her, without letting go of her sister or losing sight of the people in the room. Two draenei, one dressed in Cindercloth, the other wearing a heavy crystalline armor. The cindercloth said, with a thick draenei accent but perfectly understandable:

“Well, well, well, look what the ferals dragged in.” Sashanna raised an eyebrow, peering over the rim of her pewter mug. She chuckled, took a deep swig of ale and then slammed the empty mug on the oak table. “The Silvermoon slut is here!”
“Whatch your tone!” Kamelia was about to pull her sword. Then her sister grabbed her one by the hair and, not very gently, pulled her back. “Ouwie! Lavv, stop!”

Likewise happened at the table of World’s End Tavern. It was a private room, the din from the main hall was barely noticeable through the closed door. The innkeeper had tried to brighten the room up with some paper flowers and colored curtains but it still looked run down and tacky. At least it was warm. The fireplace was filled with thermal crystals mined somewhere in Blade’s Edge. Chromie huddled close to them, warming her palms, seemingly oblivious of what was happening behind her back. Of course – never take a dragon for granted, even if she is a gnome …

By the table, Shuanna grabbed her sister Sashanna by her ponytail, not exactly yanking it but giving the tail a short pull as she muttered:
“Don’t be stupid, Sasha.”
“Let me go!”
“Will you behave?”
“Yeah fine, whatever … ”
“Good.” Shuanna let go of her hair. “We don’t want to make a scene now, do we?”

Sashanna slumped down a bit, then she perked up, filled with a sudden flash of anger: “That two-timing .. Ugh!” She stood up, exasperated, and took a few angry twitching steps towards the blood elves, stopping half an inch short of the blonde one, Kamelia. “Slut.”
“Whore.” The blood elf didn’t flinch. She pursed her lips in anger and leaned on one foot, hanging her head to the side. “Betcha can’t find a comeback to that. Girl!”
“Bitch.”
“Oh, good one. I got a better one. Skank!”
“No, you are!”
“Nu-uuh!”
“Yeah you are! Fucking chav you are!”
“Nu-uuh!” Kamelias face twitched with anger. It felt like she was losing this ‘battle’. “You are!”
“Am not!”
“Am too!”

“Oh dear … ” Laveria sighed. “Kam, please. Stand down.” She tugged her sisters hair. “I’m not letting you go until you do.”
“Ain’t getting out of this blue hoes face I ain’t!”
“Phah!” Sashanna realised only a fraction of a second too late that pursing her lips made her look like an angry duck.

“You know, Laveria,” Shuanna chuckled as she made her way closer to the confrontation, lighting her pipe as she did. “Maybe we should let them fight. Blow off some steam, eh?”
“The only fighting this little spoiled brat will be doing is her ass against my belt if she don’t back off,” Laveria said, tugging at the hair and glaring at her sister. “Kamelia! Behave yourself!”
“But she called m–”
“Right! That does it! You’re going over my knees right now, missus!”
“But Lavva, she ca–”

Laveria let go of her sisters hair, grabbed her chin with one hand and then slapped her with the other. The slap took them all by suprise, most of all Kamelia. She blinked, raising a hand to her cheek.
“Told you,” Laveria said, letting her sister go and took a step back. “Quit sniveling. You’re supposed to be a damned warrior, Kam!”

The pain made Kamelias eyes well up. As she realised she was about to start crying, the sudden pang of shame made the tears flow, even if she didn’t want to cry. She backed away from her sister, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand.

“You want another one huh?” Laveria scoffed. “I got loads of ’em.”
“But that fu–”

The next slap was a quick backhand flip. It sent Kamelia tumbling halfway across a serving table. Pewter platters and a bowl of cherries bounced and jerked, almost falling to the floor. She stared wide-eyed and slightly bewildered at Laveria, who winced and blew her knuckles muttering a short “dammit that hurt!”.

“Ooh, good one!” Sashanna said, chuckling. “Should’a beat the living cra–”

The slap, this one from Shuanna, cut Sashannas words short. She stumbled backwards, straight into the arms of a slightly suprised Kamelia.

“E-nough!” Shuanna glared at both of them. Blood elf and draenei, separated by worlds and by ages – yet they couldn’t stand being far away from each other. Stranger things have happened in the world, of course it has, but the world of lovecraft is a world of two people.

“You two either need to sleep with each other or sort it out with wooden swords,” Shuanna said. “This lover’s quarrel ends, right here. Right. Now.”
“But she called me a –”
“Ah-ah!” Shuanna raised her hand. “There are plenty of these for the both of you, Kam!”
“You’re siding with … ” Sashanna realised she was still pushing against Kamelia, so she stepped away with an embarassed grimace. “Shu! Seriously!?”

Shuanna took two steps forward and then slapped Sashanna.

“This was something I should have done years ago,” Shuanna said. She blinked, hard, because the way she treated her younger sister cut deep into her soul. She wanted to say how sorry she was, but instead she said: “You had that one coming, Sash.”

It wasn’t that hard a slap but Sashanna started to cry anyway. It was just silent tears with a short hick-up and a half sob now and again. Then something unexpected happened: Kamelia sidled up close to her, putting a comforting arm around her shoulders, leaning her forehead against Sashannas neck.

“I’m sorry … ” Kamelia whispered. She sighed, straightened up and looked at Shuanna, who had stepped up side by side with Laveria. It was a very peculiar detente. “Can we work things out? I … ” She sighed, giving Sashanna a long look. “Never mind.” Then she stepped away, just a step, nothing more.
“Kam … ” Sashanna sighed. “Ok, fine then … ”

“Maybe when you kids are done bawling we could sit down, have some bread and cheese and port, and behave like adults?” Laveria looked at them all, raising her eyebrows as awaiting a confession or an answer. “Eh? It’s not like you haven’t been … adulting. Each other. You two nearly started another war! Goldshire – Kam, honestly! Of all the places and …” She sighed. “And fake Id’s? Illusions? Who sold you that illusion scroll!?”
“That … could have been me … ” Chromie said, without turning around. “Let’s talk about that later, or before. This is very confusing. Or will be. It might be that it never confused anyone until everyone was there, before, or here. Back then.”
“Yo–” Shuanna grunted, not sure if she should be angry or bewildered.
“Please don’t mind me,” Chromie said. “I’m not here.”
“I … ” Laveria shrugged. “Sashanna?”
“Yes?”
“Can we talk like adults now, perhaps?”

“Fine,” Sashanna said. She made it a point to pass closely by Kamelia, brushing up against her and giving a quick, threatening twitch. Right as she did so, she winked at the blood elf, half smiling.

Kamelia made an angry face at her … but then she winked as well and shot a quick half-glance at Chromie, raising an eyebrow. Truth be told she looked a bit mad, as if stricken by an uncontrollable twitch.

“Forgive my sister,” Laveria said in a calm, slightly hushed voice as she sat down on the opposite side of the table from Shuanna. As the others took their places, Horde on one side, Alliance on the other, she added: “She’s young. I shouldn’t have brought her.”

“Oh yes you should … ” Chromie whispered without turning. Then she shrugged, as if reminding herself she was not supposed to be there. “Oh, sorry. Don’t mind me.”
“I,” Shuanna hesitated, shooting a quick glance at Chromie, brow furrowed. Shen she shrugged again, and said: “We can’t allow this, you two. Isn’t that so, Laveria?”
“We’re at a phony war, true enough,” Laveria said and nodded. “The only reasonable solution would be for the both of you to join the Scryers.”
“Or the Aldor,” Shuanna said.
“Preferably the Scryers,” Laveria said, pinning Shuanna with an angry look.
“The Aldor accepts anyone and everyone,” Shuanna said, tapping her index finger against the table for each word: “We. Do. Not. Discriminate. Based. On. Race!”
“Oh yeah!?”
“Yes! We’re the Good Guys! A’dal always bless us first!”
“Go fuck yourself!”
“Ha!”
“Aldor, phah! The Scryers have excellent career opportunities! Our library is well stocked with anything from tailoring techniques to blacksmithing manuals! What’ve you got!? A fucking priest, that’s what!”
“You don’t TALK ABOUT THE ALDOR THAT WAY!!!”
“Fuck you, draenei!”
“You BLOOD ELF SCUM!”

Sashanna and Kamelia watched the fight unfurl for several minutes. Eventually, as both Shuanna and Laveria was struggling in chokeholds on the floor, Sashanna leaned close to Kamelia and whispered:
“Maybe we should pull their hair?”

Kamelia giggled.

“Leave ’em to it,” she whispered, very gently kissing the earlobe of Sashanna. “I have enough silver for a room, Sash.”
“And wine?”
“Well … “Kamelia giggled, grabbed one of the wine bottles from the table and hid it under her cape. “I do now!”

“Chromie?” Sashanna said, as Laveria managed to push Shuanna straight through the unlocked doors.From the screams and shouts it appeared that the fight pretty soon spread to the rest of the inn.
“Mmm?” Chromie looked up, ever so slightly, without turning her head. They didn’t see her smile.
“Is there any chance ..?” Kamelia said.
“Well,” Chromie stood up, without turning. Still warming her hands, she mumbled: “Times change …”

The Dream

(Image not related. It’s just what happen when you run a WoW screenie through Deep Dream.)

This is not World of Warcraft related, even though Velen does have a cameo. This is just how my brain works … all of it is written as is, without editing.

Just a short preface: I often don’t remember my dreams. About once or twice a month though, my brain makes a “memory dump” and those tend to be very graphic, with smells and sounds and even the feeling of skin and pain.

There were a number of Very Sexual Details involved as well but I decided to leave them out. For, uh, obvious reasons.

So, as I went to sleep earlier I found myself in a strange and slightly worrying land … Somehow I ended up in a relly posh restaurant. The reason was simple: I had been drinking with GRR Martin and a guy dressed in black leather, but Martin forgot his backpack and wallet. As I was skint – and Martin surely is not – I agreed with the Black Leather Man that if I returned the backpack and wallet I would surely get a reward. Off I trotted, once I managed to climb out of a window because the apartment, where the party had been going on for quite some time, was crammed with leather sofas covered in plastic. The crackle as you sat down was not very pleasant, tbh, so I know why Martin left.

I made my way through a city of shadowy buildings and somehow managed to get pass a burly bouncer. While I’m waiting for a Maitre D (however you spell it) to tend to me, This Guy With Stary Eyes walks up to another guest and, well Stares at him. It was a really scary guy … Tall dressed in bearskins, he had a knitted hat, too! He just – stares.

Then he started urinating on the poor guest, a rather posh young fellow, who needless to say got a bit upset. The Stary Scary Guy pulled a knife and started stabbing him in the chest! Once the posh guy was dead the Scary Stary Guy left the scene, trailing footsteps of blood behind. I had hid behind a vending machine filled with French Cuisine (it was a very posh restaurant) but since no one else bothered with it I thought that …

Maybe I should at least tell a waiter about the dead body. And the blood. As it turned out, I managed to find a security guard that looked like Velen, but in a uniform, but he simply brushed me off with a “we will deal with one problem at a time!”. Outside, meanwhile, a tourist and his young teenage son had fallen asleep in the middle of the street, both of them disappointed that the restaurant wouldn’t let them in even if they promised to shoot everyone.

A cleaner and a Bouncy Bot dragged the corpse out into the street because “the guests are complaining about the trash”. Also, they thought the green rain outside would somehow raise him from the dead. The rain did not.

I decided this place was weird. So I grabbed a cat and ran; I’m not sure where the cat came from. I was going to make it home, still with Martins backpack slung over my shoulder, but then he showed up and thanked me for returning his possessions. He called me a cab, but no traffic except police cars was allowed on the streets because of a “murderous maniac”. It turned out the Stary Scary Man was no where to be found, so the police reluctantly agreed on letting thousands of cross-country runners take a detour through the city. Meanwhile, I was still carrying the cat, who told me there were more cats in a house not far from where I was standing.

We made our way across football fields, dodging quarter backs carrying swords (!), and snaked our way through roadblocks – put up there, just so traffic wouldn’t run all the runners over. Somehow we found our way to the building complex where there were more cats, but SWAT teams had cordoned the site.

“Can’t go in there. This is cosplayer country!”

Half-naked young females with cat ears etc etc was hunched down behind the windows, carrying lasers and AR-15’s. Apparently the cops didn’t know how to blow up buildings – but they had a production team from Hollywood ready. Harrison Ford turned out to be an excellent demolition man … The building went BOOOOOOM and I scurried into cover behind armored trucks, trying to keep the cat calm! I ran into a field, across a highway and eventually reached a nice park where everyone came to bury their iPads. There was even gravestones. Blue one’s.

I managed to beat an old lady half to death with my iPhone and steal her can of tuna. The cat was pleased and said “Now you’re the Stary Man.”

Then I woke up.

The Lonely Orc, Part 1: Duskwood blues

(In which Taramek the Renegade meets a mysterious friend.)

“Grab’er straw!”
“She ain’t got none hair! Ain’t nuthin’ ta’old!”
“Ouw! She bit me!”
“Grab ‘er fucking ears, idiot!”
“Look what we have here … courtesy of the fucking Horde.”
“Gonna go wrathgate on you, gonna make you squeal.”
“Let’s just slit her fucking throat and get on with it.”
“You shut your mouth! Ain’t ne’er turn’ do’n some warm pussy … ”

Then. A voice:

“Oh. Hello, boys.”

There was a blinding light. Tara felt one of them almost rip her ears off, but his grip was far too late. There were screams – plenty of them. Most of all there was a singing noise. When they grabbed her they had put a sack over her head before a heavy kick in her lower back had sent her sprawling. All she could see through the burlap was the light.

Someone shrieked. A male voice, moments away from absolute terror. Then a crushing thud cut the noise short. The singing noise … like crystal, followed by a heavy thud. Every single time. The sound made her cringe.

Everything stopped.

The silence was almost as shocking as the screams. For a few minutes, Tara couldn’t hear anything but the silent crackle of the campfire. She still wasn’t sure how they had managed to catch her but caught she had been.

She heard footsteps, heavy boots against the sand and gravel. She should have run away, she knew she should have, but the campsite had appeared to be abanoned. Tufts of green grass surrounded by the worn down earth from many feet. An old army camp, perhaps. Or a loggers rest. She should have run … but she had been hungry. She still was, in fact.

She heard leather and metal jingle. A glove? Must be. Then someone put a hand on her neck, lifting her head up from the ground and pulling the sack off. Orange light from the campfire almost blinded her at first. She blinked, tried to break out of the ropes but couldn’t. Every time she twitched and moved, the noose around her neck pulled tighter.

Something twinkled in the glaring light of fire, far too bright against the black backdrop of a Duskwood night. She recognized the sound even before she saw the blade; metal scraping on wood and leather. An unsheathed dagger.

She felt the blade against her skin, then the ropes broke. She couldn’t help herself, rolling to her side she covered up in a “don’t hurt me!”-position, gasping for air. She felt tears on her cheeks.Peeking through her fingers she saw her club not far away… Then a golden boot, a jacket of metal around a black hoof, stopped her. It thumped down right in front of her eyes.

“Throm-Ka … ” a female voice, on guard but not quite threatening. The dialect was off, the words rolled sluggish and rough. The draenei accent made it almost unintelligible. “Move and you won’t move again. Orc!”

Tara slowly unfolded herself, looking up. At first, the strange woman was nothing but a shadow against the glaring light from the campfire. Then she took a few steps back, raising her mace in a guardian position. A faint veil of golden light surrounded her, pulsing as if in sync with her hearbeat. She lowered the heavy hammer, slowly, gold and steel shining in the light. Blood was still dripping from the hammerhead. Thick wads of brain matter was stuck to the metal.

“Mok-rah, stranger … ” Tara said as she coughed. She moved slowly, carefully, as she sat up, her eyes not leaving the bloodied hammer. She didn’t have to look around to know what had happened. The stench of urine and feces was enough. Six dead bodies. Four of them still in mail armor, two of them probably naked from the waist down.

“You move and I’ll crush your skull too.” The draenei didn’t move, it was all in her eyes.
“I won’t,” Tara said. She raised her hands, very slowly, and looked up at the woman. “Thank you for helping me.”
“You’re not going for that mallet over there, right? Because if you do … Please do try. I dare you.”
“I won’t.” Tara very carefully stood up. She wanted to cover herself up but she didn’t dare. Instead she pushed back her shame, and guilt, and spread her arms out wide. “I am your prisoner.”
“No you’re not.”
“Eh?” She flinched. “Wh–”
“I’m not about to take anyone prisoner today.”
“Oh … ”

The draenei relaxed enough to take the edge off any immediate threat and said: “I know you value honor above all, orc. I’m going to sit down now, have a smoke. Rest asssured, though. I am faster than you. You move in a way I don’t like and you’re dead. I don’t care about you. You’re meat, right now. We clear!?”
“Sorry … ”
“Yeah bet you are … “the draenei scoffed, lighting a clay pipe, dragging deep. “I’ve killed just about anything that walks, crawls or slithers. You’ll die if you try any funny business. Alright?”
“Deal.”
“Now … What are you doing here?”
“I’m looking for my father.”
“Your father?” The draenei raised her eyebrows, puffing her pipe. “Halfbreed, eh?”

Tara shrugged. The words angered her but she was in no position to act out on it.

“Your momma sure picked the wrong place to get banged up, girl. This is Duskwood … “the draenei shuddered. “Nothing but the dead and spiders here, orc. And the living, well. Let’s say most of them are short a few marbles.”
“I noticed … ”
“So what’s you name, then?”
“Taramek … uhm. And you are?”

The draenei smiled. Winking, she said:

“Orgrimmar knows me as the Crusader.”
“Y- … You … “Tara swallowed, hard. “Blood and thunder!” She didn’t dare to move, so she stood there with her arms out, almost naked, still covered in dirt and sweat. “I … I don’t want to die. Not here … ”

The draenei stood up.

“You’re a miserable piece of orc, aren’t you?” She pulled a blanket from the ground and took a few steps forward, her pipe in the corner of the mouth trailing smoke behind her. Then she put the blanket around Tarameks shoulders and stepped away. “Such a fucking waste, you are …”

Taramek clutched the blanket close to her. She couldn’t help herself, she sank to her knees, thinking she would be dead in an insant.

“Be quick,” she whispered as she lowered her head, exposing her neck. “No’ku kil zil’nok ha tar …”
“Oh fuck off!”
“What?” Tara looked up, confused.
“What!?” The Crusader sighed. “You’re a weird one, you know that?”
“Mother used to tell me that … ”
“Well at least we need to clean you up and feed you. Don’t mind me saying this either, but, honestly?”
“Honestly what?”
“You fight like shit, orc.” The Crusader looked around, quick glances at the dead around them. “A lone orc, bested by the scrapings of the Alliance. Oh dear.”
“Scrapings?”
“Look at the sorry fucks! You don’t know shit about fighting.”
“I do know how!” Tara scoffed. “I am an orc! Lokta–”
“Yeah fucking useless that’s what you are.”
“Hey!” Tara sighed. “Look … I used to be a baker, alright?”
“Uh-huh.” The Crusader smirked. “I bet you can bake but you don’t fight for shit. Fucking noob.”
“Right!” Tara stamped the ground and spit. “You and me! One on one! Right now! Mak’gora!”
“Oh please.”

Then came the light …

Several hours later, when Tara could see again, she was alone next to half a dozen freshly dug graves, a brazier of shining, cozy, warm light and a wicker basket full of skinned rabbits. There was a note attached to the basket:

‘There was this orc in the dark of Duskwood,
How to swing a mace the orc ne’er un’stood.
So I hit her inna face
and left without a trace,
Before the orc ever understood.
Come see me in Lunarfall. If you get that far. Lanny will teach how to fight like a Warsong. Ogar, motherfucker!

/Shu, the “Crusader”‘.

“Fucking draenei poets,” Tara said, but halfway through the motion of crumbling up the note she stopped. “And who the hell is ‘Shu’!?”

Tara folded the note carefully – and put it in her pocket …

The Lament of Farmhand Geist: Kingdom

“I see it all, taunting in the vastness behind my eyeline”

– Sarah Reeson, (Laughing Geek, Alt:ernative)

“Mot’ on’na range!”

Everytime one of the lookouts yell that thing, I cringe. It means one of my former “brothers” will be shredded. It’s ingrained within my dead fibres, this solidarity with the already dead unknowning. I could be out there, alone. In the cold … but Master saved me. I watch them from the wall that the Argent Crusade erected not far from the Shadow Vault. The ghouls, the zombies, the skeletons, the mindless undead of the Scourge.

This is Tim, Geist Alpha, reporting for duty from Dog One, the Argent Crusade Vigil Barrier. They call it “the Wall”.

The things down there, the things I once called my band of brothers, stray close to the burning lanterns dotting the Wall. People used to fear the Scourge. Now? They’re like moths. They are drawn to the light, perhaps with a faint memory of a sunset deep in their dead, rotten brains. Once in a while I see someone I know; Mucky was shredded a couple of days ago. Mucky was a ghoul. He used to be a murderer – drink pushed him to kill his wife and children and so he was sent to the penal companies of the Northrend expedition. That’s where we found him. Anh’khnat the Nerubian, nicknamed “the gnat”, our squad commander, sniffed him out where he was hiding behind a bush not far from Farshire. We played with him for a bit. We made him dance. Oh, how he danced …

He wasn’t spared.

I know, it sounds very cruel. Inhumane. Newsflash, buddy – the Scourge lack morals. What we don’t lack is memories. So you might ask – why was he was called Mucky? Well, he never stopped crying, not even as a ghoul. Joar, the vrykul commander who replaced the Gnat once we tired of the bugs fucking antics and killed him dead-dead, decided that the tears were “mucky”. Being scourge is hard, people (I hear there’s a “trend” among youngsters in Stormwind to experiment with Lichbloom; death is not the answer, young ones – and the ghouls have really bad breath).

Just remember that every single ghoul has a backstory. Some of them even remembers it. Everyone lived, once we all lived. We were lovers, farmers, masons, killers, men, women, children, old. We were happy or sad and some ghouls, the really old one’s, was not human at all but elves. Then all we became was shufflers. Walkers. Dead. Dead! Citizens of a new empire – the Kingdom of the Scourge (only the dead may enter!).

Kingdom. We used to call this place that.

Kingdom.

I could be out there, in the vastness of death and cold. An endless wanderer, lost in a darkness streaked with saronite green and necromantic purple. I am not. Instead I huddle under the weight of half a dozen wolf furs as Master stand statuesque on the Wall. She doesn’t move, she doesn’t blink. All she does is stare down on the Kingdom of Oblivion, now boxed in by the Argent Crusade. The black stone wall, dotted with shining braziers, are the line drawn in the sand. Here the kingdom ends.

Why am I here?

Down there the moths shuffle close, and then a watchman yells “Mot’ on’na range!”. Then the acketi-acketi-acketi-ack-ack-ack starts. Gnomish weaponry, arcane-infused caliber .50 semi-automatic turrets with targeting systems salvaged from Ulduar.

Those poor fucks, shuffling towards the light, down there on the plain, they don’t stand a chance. You know what the worst part is? It’s not the yell about moths. It’s the cheering, once the guns fall silent. While the living celebrate another victory, all I can feel is sorrow. I huddle down behind a turret and stare into the darkness below. I see it all, taunting in the vastness behind my eyeline.

I could be out there. I am not. I want to be out there. I am not allowed.

Tim the Geist is sad. Tim the Geist is dead inside. The one thing that made my rotten heart jump and skip has been taken away from me. Gul’Dans minions in the Citadel took my Morissa from me. She was my hope, my east and west, my north and south. I wish the clocks would stop, I would blot out the stars and cover the world in darkness – if I could. I can’t. I’m just a geist. A construct, a lifing thing with hope – and then the Legion took it away. Just like that. (I was later told my Morissa went down fighting, death knight to the last, biting and clawing when her swords broke. She took sixhundred and twenty five Iron Horde orcs with her. That, my friends, is the power of death!)

This latest state of almost dead but not quite, now that my brain is still, has brought some unforseen consequences. I get cold now, eventually. The cold never bothered me before – but that was in the past. Now? I’m … lifing.

I told you about the Panic, didn’t I? Yes I did. I told you about the Shakes, the Chittering. What followed was the Dead Calm. One after another of my bodyparts stopped longing for death and settled down. That’s “lifing”. When the dead tissue lose its morphic memories and the wheel turns … and then Life starts to come back. It’s a very rare condition among the Scourge. It used to be that anyone caught “lifing” was instantly destroyed – but Master saved me. She took me away from the Scourge. She …liberated me. Yet. Master is just my friend. She is not my lover. Morissa redeemed me. Morissa turned the light on inside me. She was the brazier on the Wall. I was drawn to it, memories of sunsets … Then the Legion snuffed it out. What kind of monster would take away life from those who are already dead?

The call came some time ago. That’s why we’re here. Something was and is in motion, deep within the Citadel, towering over this Kingdom of the Scourge. I don’t know what, I’m a good spy but I can’t breach the holy wards surrounding either Hearthglen or the Icecrown outposts. So Master, a “liason” between the Argent Crusade and the Ebon Blade, stands still and stares into the darkness over yonder. So I, Tim the Geist, who wants to cry but can not cry because tear ducts was never installed, huddle under furs. Geist has the sads, as Isel would put it. Ah, yes, Isel … Geist has the sads. Not just for my Morissa. Geist has the sads everytime the monstrous anger of the guns and the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle patter out their one and only truth:

“Mot’ on’na range!”

The pit-a-patter starts and there are no bells for those who die as cattle. Down there, in the Kingdom of the Scourge.

The Lament of Farmhand Geist: Let It Go

God knows ‘twere better to be deep
Pillowed in silk and scented down,
Where love throbs out in blissful sleep,
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,
Where hushed awakenings are dear…

But I’ve a rendezvous with Death

– Alan Seeger (1888-1916)

I’ve been having these headaches lately. It started shortly after we pushed back Gul’Dans Horde in Tanaan. Other brave soldiers and heroes went into the Citadel and eventually slayed all of the enemies …

I was left outside.

It was the headaches, you see. Master was very worried about me. In fact, she was so worried that she even put in the paperwork for a prolonged term of R&R. As the brave Alliance and Horde heroes alike stormed Hellfire Citadel, Master was back at the garrison with me. She held me down when I screamed. She gave me Fionas peculiar tea when I shook. She sang to me, an ancient eredar lullaby, as I whimpered and cried.

It’s hard to explain to the living, the maladies of the Scourge (redeemed as I am). Not long ago a wave of barfing and lose stomach went through the garrison. Several people, most of them young, died from it. Healers tracked it down to bad water, eventually, but before that happened … well. Let’s just say that the grain merchant from Embarii went back with a black eye and a few extra bruises. People were afraid, you see … so many of the living remembers the Plague. When the living are afraid they become violent.

I didn’t have the human malady of running stomach. My disease was far worse. Few things can kill the Scourge. The Forsaken Wrathgate Plague came close. That was not my thing. My sickness was even more dreadful. A disease all of the Scourge fear … My disease was Panic.

Ah yes, we call it that. Panic. There’s no cure for it. Back in the day, anyone caught with Panic was instantly killed, the remains burned. A panic-diseased Scourge can not be repurposed. Experiments showed it (My Creator did a thesis on it; “On the Topic of Panic, A Naxxramas Experimental Laboratory Study No. 2232”; the Argent Crusade currently keeps the monograph in their archives). I’m not sure of all the stuff, but I do know it comes down to muscle memory. Morphic memory, as it’s also called, is simply too strong. Sometimes, the construct will keep on trembling, shaking, lashing out, fighting back. It’s as if the muscles refuse to die, even though the spirit has died. That’s why the Scourge not only want to break your body – but first break your mind. With fear, with terror, with pain …

With Panic.

Sometimes it works, too. Sometimes it doesn’t. A construct that never gave up will start to shake. Eventually ut will simply fall apart. Sometimes it happens at the moment of resurrection. Sometimes it happens over time. Flesh Giants are particularly prone to Panic, or as it’s also called, the Shakes (among other things).

There is no cure.

Scourge folklore have a lot of cures, of course. None of them actually work. You can’t cure death, can you? The Shakes will kill you, eventually. Oh, we all do our best to ease the pain, right? It’s a nice gesture, no? I love my friends … all of them fear what I turned out to have. Even Master. I heard her cry at night, staring at her trembling hands. I heard her whisper “Menea … I miss you!”.

Master is dying. Then again – all of us are. Some just don’t know it yet or refuse to believe it.

My friends brought me all kinds of things. As I lay there, shivering and shaking, moaning and groaning, there was a parade of friends and gifts, living and dead. Gerry the Ghoul gave me maggots marinated in Lich Bloom. Isel brought me her elekk plushie. Boney gave me a tea, boiled on scrapings of his own bones. Ariok gave me rum. Huge (the Champion!) snuck down to the latrines, brought back his helmet full of piss, drowned a rat in it, spat in it and then boiled it down until there was nothing left but salt. Then he rubbed it on my head, hoping that it would ease my pain. It didn’t. I smelled funky, but my head still hurt (he later claimed it didn’t work because he couldn’t convince any of the females to wee in his helmet, but Huge is a bit, you know). Morissa … my girlfriend. Oh, it’s a strange word, that. It’s taken me quite some time to get used to it – almost as long as it took me to get used to Love. Anyway …
Morissa brought me nothing.

Fret not. There’s a reason, of course there’s a reason. You know why!

I think that’s what set my migraine off. I just wish they would have told me straight to the face. It happened on the day of the Battle of Tanaan Inlet, where more than sixhundred Alliance and Horde ships faced off against a fleet of nearly a thousand Iron Horde vessels. It was the biggest naval battle in the war, some say the biggest battle in all of Azeroths and Draenors history combined. Thousands of mariners! Glory!

The “List” was all that remained, a list of “complete casualties and missing in action excluding wounded or deserters”. We all started reading it in silence, but then Gorbin Boltcutter started reading aloud just so the people at the back could get the news then and not later. Gorbin is one of the porters, he would have made an excellent soldier but he took an arrow to the knee when he was young so he walks with a limp. We play Hearthstone together and he always lose, but I think it’s because he feels sorry for me. He likes me, even though, whenever he lose a game, he slams his fists on the table and calls me “ye stinking thieving cunt!” (He’s got a colorful language). He fashioned a pair of braids for me out of yak hair once (he bought the hair from Cousin Twohands, an intrepid traveler lured to Draenor by some ethereal fashion technologist).

Gorbin’s got a big, booming voice (no one can yell “cunt!” the way he does). You know what? When he started reading the list – it was one of the most horrible moments in my unlife. It went like this (I’ll never forget it):

“Ambershine, Sun, a passenger!” There was a low, wailing sound. From somewhere in the crowd. Then a pandaren tailor pushed his way out of the throng, hiding his face behind his hands … and sank to his knees in front of the Commander, yelling “She was nineteen, Commander! Nineteen! This is YOUR fault! YOUR FAULT!!! Sha take you! Sha take you all!”

I heard the Commander mumble “I’m sorry,” as Gorbins voice rang out across the Lunarfall Main Square:
“Blackpaw, Lin, she’s the bloody surgeon, mates! Light curse ’em all!” There was a ‘wooooo!’ from the crowd, though no one actually knew her that well. We’ve got a lot of pandaren in Lunarfall. “Blixby, Dixx, engineer!” There was mumbling, some gnomes yelled ‘No!’ but there was this eerie sense of acceptance among them … Then his voice broke, strong and factual as it were, as if he was reciting a Dun Morogh poem: “Boltc… ” He cleared his throat. “… Cutter, Dorbin. I, I … Oh brother!”

Then Master took a step in front of Gorbin. He was down on his knees already, screaming through his hands. It didn’t occur to me until then that the Living cherish life. I had brothers once, in Naxxramas (actually they were more like ‘collegues’ in death but I’m sure you get my drift). The Creator disassembled them all – and I felt nothing. To feel death – perhaps that is what it means to be alive?

Master screamed out the rest of the names. She wanted everyone to hear. Maybe she was angry. Maybe she wanted to be heard over the crying and wailing. Maybe she wanted to hurt her sister, the very much alive Commander. I don’t know. Things have been weird among the Exodar Sisters ever since Vassie tried to kill herself.

Gorbin had stopped screaming. He was just crying, gnawing his molars, pale as a sheet, right there in front of the callboard. He … shook. Perhaps the Living can get the Shakes as well. He was so proud of his brothers, Alliance heroes, he called them. Orbin, Dorbin and Corbin …

“Boltcutter, Corbin, a sailor!” Master screamed. She turned her blazing eyes at the Commander at the top of the stairs and continued: “Boltcutter, Orbin, second grade petty officer! Brown, Rufus, a sailor! Derek, Dirk, another sailor! Should I go on, Shu!? Or is this enough!? Don’t you know death, sister!? You want more of it to save this fucking world that won’t even let me save myself before I … we … Fuck Velen. Fuck you, Yrel! FUCK YOU ALL!!!”

Then Master started crying. She pushed her way through the crowd, mounted a dead horse and stormed out of the gates with sparks flying from the roadway. It was tense, I tell you. Some of the Karabor Honor Guards really didn’t know what to do (though I saw that some of them gave a short nod; there’s discord, barely tangible, but there’s discord allright).

The Commander didn’t reply. She turned around fast, though I saw her shoulders shake and I heard her sob. Ah, yes … Master can be very cruel to the Living. She can be cruel to the dead as well, though I don’t think she actually meant it.
Illona stepped up and in a low, mournful voice continued to read out the names, because people still had to know the price of glorious victory. That’s when I knew something dark was truly coming, because even I, and all of us undead, grew weary: “Lanthaire … I think that’s how it’s pronounced … The Citadel, fallen. Morag Bloodfury, Champion, fallen, the Citadel. Baron Almonaster, Lord of Second Farthing, Alterac, fallen, the Citadel. Count Ambrosi of Crook, fallen. Morissa, vin… Vindicator, Knight of the Ebon Blade. Fallen. The Citadel.”

Illona turned around, perhaps she was hoping to see the walking dead worried, but all she saw on our death knights faces was – nothing. “So many of you fell …”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “We’re already dead.”

I sat hunched down in front of the line of death knights, their blades still smeared with orc blood. The blood always stays on the blade (one day you will understand why). The draenei of Draenor fear them – and so they should! Then all of the knights, some two hundred of them, shouted in unison (and I dare say not only Illona but several other draenei peed themselves):

“LEAVE THIS PLACE AND NEVER RETURN!!!”

Ah, the old salute. It had been years since I had heard it with such force. It had been whispered, and mumbled, yes, but the last time I heard an entire cohort send the fallen off like that was after the Highlands Battle. Truth be told, righ then and there I was proud of the Ebon Blade. It’s our salute to the fallen. It’s complicated.

No really, it is! We all know what we are! We are the Dead! Whenever some hopeful prospect shows up at the Ebon Embassy in Stormwind the answer is always the same: No, we can not accept new knights or squires, because “this is the kingdom of the Scourge, only the dead may enter”. All of the living, usually young boys, go away with slumped backs and despair in their eyes. Sometimes the guards fish their bodies out of the canal. I don’t understand that … Because, you know, all we want to do, all of us Scourge … is to die. We don’t want to return. Our struggle is to die – yet we can’t. Yet we won’t. Yet we don’t want to … because some of us wants to live.

Live.

Because sometimes … death is a mere malady. Perhaps someone will find a cure, some day. We cling to hope like moths cling to the light, because even in darkness, not all who wander is lost.

We want to live!

“I would like an orgasm,” Morissa once told me. We were sitting on a hill not far from Embari. I had finally found the courage to ask her if she wanted to be my friend in undeath. She had accepted. We had pressed our lips against each other … because the habit of the living die hard. We had shed our clothes, and done the motions (if you know what I mean). Then, as we sat there, I carefully replaced her nipple (it had almost fallen off as I chewed it, because some habits die hard). I asked her: “What would you want if we were alive?”

Then she had to explain what an orgasm was. My brain tingled.

That was weeks ago. On the day of the List, well. It wasn’t until later that night, as I scampered across the flagstones towards the shed at the back of the Salvage Yard, it occured to me. Morissa would never confuse me again. Morissa would never make my rotting brain tingle again, creeping in a pleasant way with age old memories of things that was mostly forgotten (the living that I know say that sex is the thing they remember most clearly, when memories of love fade, sex is what remains). Morphic memories … They’re weird. Yet I felt it all. Lips against lips. Her fingers – and for some reason a Tel’Abim Banana (I’m not quite sure if that was a memory or soemthing else, I did wake up with sticky fingers that smelled … ok, let’s not go there, let’s just say I have hands that live their own life when I power down).

I felt the first pang of sorrow then. It was a feeling I had never cared much for before I felt it. So many bodyparts of mine kept sorrow in their fibers but I had never actually listened to it.

Yet I didn’t feel it enough, I think. It was more of a ‘oh well, this sucks’-feeling. I wish I could have felt more, but I didn’t. I just thought: ‘Morry is free now. She left this place, never to …’ 

I sighed then. And mumbled: “Return?” There was no answer but my own thoughts: ‘No. Because that’s … every muscle in my body want what Morry got. Death.’

Then I powered down (fell asleep, as some would call it). I thought that would be the end of it all.

It wasn’t. My head kept tingling. The feeling of spindly fingers inside my head was infuriating. I’ve had a spider in my head once, before I plucked it out through my ear (I’m a geist, we don’t bend to common anatomy!). It was just like that, a tickle, starting at the back of your neck, growing into a dull throb behind your eyes, caught between your brain and your skull … and then my head exploded in pain. It was like that time when a vindicator suprised me in the pantry of Lunarfall Inn (I was just picking cherries out of a pie because I like popping cherries and Maraad didn’t know that I was redeemed at the time and … you know). That hammer of light of his really hurt. It was that kind of migraine. A pain so tremendous it paralyzed me. Then my muscles and joints eased up and started to shake. It’s a terrible thing. Even such a simple task as digging out a piece of dried froth from the corner of your mouth can prove to be a challenge. I had to hold the cup of rum that Ariok offered me with both hands, and he still had to steady me by grabbing hold of my head and neck. Oh, I was a mess, for sure!

The Shakes. The scourge of the Scourge.

From there on, all I could do was whimper and moan – and shake. The living call it a migraine. We call it Panic, the Shakes, Death Rattle, Chittering (because of the sound your teeth make). It’s as if someone threw you in a cage and then closed it tight enought to almost break your ribs (been there). You struggle, and fight, like a fish on dry land, gasping … drowning … trying to break free, to run away. But there is nothing to run away from.

It’s not fear, because fear is something you can conquer if you set your mind to it. It’s Panic, and Panic is Chaos. Panic is Death. Panic sucks the energy out of everything, it’s the Sha, the Old Gods, the Dark. Panic is a hungering mouth that swallows all of your hope, all of your strength, all of your dreams and all of your life (or death – and believe me, most living wants to die when Panic sets in). It leaves you like a whimpering blob of Nothing.

I’ve seen Panic among the Scourge. I’ve seen things you would not believe … Aberations on fire, near Malykriss Hold. I watched Texals frost beams glitter in the dark near Angrathar Gate. All those moments, lost in time … Fragments of distant lands and people shattered against the invisible veil of pain inside my eyes … for days. Master held me and sang to me. Gerry mumbled curses over me. Ravennah brought me a flower and Isel gave me her elekk, and said “When I’m sad, Tim, Floof always keeps me company”. I couldn’t say anything, to any of them, not even Ahm. Why?

Because I was ashamed. I wanted to die but I could not die! Instead I moaned. I managed to don my old gloves on my shaking hands and dug my saronite claws into the scalp of my head. I felt no pain. I tore my skin off, I felt no pain. I nearly ripped my eyes out – I have two, it’s my leather mask that has one, mirrors inside – but my eyes were scared of the dark. Morphic memories. Tina (left eye) and Feye (right eye), both pleaded with me, in that way undead bodyparts scream inside me. They asked me to spare them. So I did. Once upon a time it took them weeks to die. They saw it all. The needles. The scalpels. The rapes and batons and handcuffs and … my body is a collection of terrible memories. No wonder I got the shakes.

I screamed and wailed like a banshee all through the everlastning night – and I was afraid. I’ve said it before. I’ll say it again: “I’ll tell you a secret about the Scourge. Listen well: We’re all afraid.”

I wanted to cry. you know what? The biggest regret of the Scourge – it is that we can not cry. I had no tears. I had only the sounds. Gulps of dead air. Trembling hands and legs. The invisible weight of hopelessness, crushing my ribs. PANIC. Despair. So delicious … but only if you enjoy torturing

(Night elves)

mourning geists.

Master cried and singed. Days and nights passed. Gerry and Boney and all the death knights and their ghouls and scourge fiends came and offered me what they thought would cure the Shakes. There was no cure. I shook, I trembled, I screamed and roared. I cried out for people long forgotten – mothers, mostly. Loved ones. I was tied to the bed. They feared I would kill myself (that’s funny, sort of).

One hour after midnight on the fourth day of the Shakes, I gasped a single name:
“Aliss … ”

(“We must flee, Tess! Run! Run, you fool!”
“But I have his helmet, he …”
“He does not care about you!”
“My duty … His helm … “
“Oh Mother of all Light … “
“What?”
“Tessa, run! RUN!!!”
“My liege! You hel–“)

If I told you it’s impossible to scream so loud that you break your voice, you would not believe it. It’s true. You will break.

(“HEEEELP ME!!!”
“Useless cunt, where’s my helme–“)

Then the migraine stopped. The shakes stopped. Then all was still and pleasant. Then all was Death. My mind, finally at rest. I saw fragmented images of the last moments of Thessalias life. They harvested my brain from the squire of a night elf noble who survived the Wrathgate. She did not. He fell down, stumbling on his own tailormade armor, and then decided to play dead. She did not. Maybe that’s how he had lived for ten thousand years – lived as a coward. She had not. It wasn’t his brain, nor any part of him, that was inside me. Instead I got the Wolverine.

Ah, yes.

That’s what they called me, you see. The Wolverine. Sixtyeight ghouls fell before the aberations finally took me down. By then I had neither nails nor teeth – I had, quite literally, fought tooth and nail. In its own twisted way, the Scourge that survived the Wrathgate later honored me as a centerpiece of their ghoulish banquet. My body, first stored in a coffin in Naxxramas, however refused the dark energies of Him, and I was never raised a death knight. I am told – it’s detailed in a writing currently held by the Argent Crusade – that the ghouls were told to save my brain (there was a lot of complaints about it and several dozen ghouls were later repurposed in the following riot).

I am the Wolverine. I am Thessalia.

Me. My friends used to call me Tim and Tim is what I am. I am Tim. Geist Alpha, destined to be a Leader of All Geists, second to none but Him! Redeployed in various army outfits after the fall of Naxxramas and eventually freed by Master Zavannah. I, Geist Alpha, died at the Wrathgate. I Thessalia!

I am the Wolverine. Always fighting to my last breath. Clawing, scratching, biting, screaming. I will not give up! I can not give up!

You can not defeat me!

I am no longer a construct. I am no longer a thing without a mind. The Maker knew he had found a Champion when he harvested my brain.

I am Tess. I am Tim. I am Legion. I am a person now. I have a mind. Because if you lose your mind, you are no longer a person. Which is why it’s imperative to keep your mind, no matter how bad the Chittering gets. Deep down in a hole you look up and there is light, because the Light never abandons its champion. Because you are never lost unless you want to be.

I am Thessalia, the Wolverine. I once loved a bard named Valiss. I once gave her an orgasm. We were going to move back to Dolanaar after The War. Her uncle grew hops there, he had a cottage we would live in. There were orphans we would care for; Damyan, a boy from Stormwind, Thyssie, a girl from Auberdine, Aurissa, a blood elf child found abandoned in a shipwreck not far from Azuremyst. This was my family.

Legion. Many parts. One body. Yet the mind controls it all. The mind is a terrible thing to taste, if you’re a geist. Isn’t that so, Tim?

(Oh yes, it is … I have a real name now.)

Tell me then, Tim … What is the secret of Life?

Let It Go.

The Portrait (Happy holidays)

(This will be a really hard read. I love fragmented dialogue, where there’s no ‘pointers’ to who says what. I know, it’s way to experimental for a ‘real’ book but this is my blog and here I let my brain go wild.

If anyone manage to figure out who says what you have earned 10.000 bonus points.)

From left to right: Kittyanna (enhancement shaman, mail main character), Vizannah (shadow priest), Shú (pandaren combat rogue), Ravennah (windwalker monk), Zaliss (feral druid), Cáthy (destruction warlock), Cahanna (arcane mage, cloth main character), Ashannah (enhancement shaman), Shuanna (retribution paladin, plate main character), Mehanna (retribution paladin), Zavannah (frost death knight, second main plate character), Vassannah (shadow priest, second cloth main character), Loomalt (bank mule), Savenna (fury warrior), Sharenne (destruction warlock, third cloth main character), Caliss (combat rogue), Laveria (blood elf combat rogue), Ishannah (protection paladin), Dorry (Forsaken arcane mage), Cassanna (survival hunter).

Now …

_On with the show!_

– – – – –
“We ready?”
“Guess so … Rave, stop looking at that panda!”
“Shi-iit sis … Always bugging me.”
“What’s that smell?”
“Dark Lady watch over y…”
“Dorry!? I thought I told you explicitly not to show up for christmas?”
“I am the Ghost of Christmas past … ”
“Uh, uh, hello? Anyone give me a footstool or something!?”
“WHO BROUGHT THE PANDA!!?”
“That’s racist!”
“It is?”
“I’m a panda-ren. My name is Shú.”
“Seriously?”
“Yep!”
“So this is what it’s like in the Alliance then … ”
“Who invited the blood elf!?”
“That … would be me. Come on, Shu. She’s adopted too. Sort of. The paperwork haven’t gone through yet but …”
“EVERYONE!!! SHUT!!! UP!!!”

*silence*

*Then … *

“I just want to say that … ”
“Now what!? You! Blood elf! Stop trying to snatch our wallets! Damned rogues …”
“Hey! That’s … Can we Please get this photo going? I’m expected in Darnassus. Zaliss! No! BAD CAT!!!”
“I … I can’t help it. If I see a sofa I need to scratch it … ”
“Stop being a cat, for just a few moments, ok?”
“Zaliss, keep your sister on a tight leash, please.”
“Miau!”
“Oh Light … Change form, pl-eease!”

*poof!*

“Ooh, I look good in leather!”
“Oh yes you do … I don’t think I’ve ever had a night elf dr…”
“Vassie, stop flirting with the adopted one. She family!”
“I can’t help it. It’s the cleavage …”
“GET ON WITH IT!!!”
“Thank you, Zavvie. It takes a death knight to bring order.”
“Awww, I knew you liked me Shu, even though you pretend not to.”
“Ha ha! The pally is softening up!”
“Shut the fuck up, warlock.”
“We’re such a nice family … ”
“Everyone!? Get it together! We’re supposed to be heroes!”
“I’m more like a project manager these days …”
“Shut it, Save.”
“You’re making me angry … ”
“You don’t need more rage. You’re already red.”
“I … oh.”
“Right, everyone? We’re all done? Thank you!”
“Let’s do this!”
“GOOD!!! Now. Say cheese!”

*blooompfh*

Happy holidays from the Exodar Sisters!