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 … “


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!”
“Oh, good one. I got a better one. Skank!”
“No, you are!”
“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?”
“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!”
“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!”
“Fuck you, draenei!”

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?”
“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.”
“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 GeekAlt: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.


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.

Sins of Our Fathers, Part I (Shuanna)


Her grip hardens as she sees him. The true iron reinforced leather gloves creak, like an old sofa, as she tightens the grip of the hilt. Perhaps it’s the sound of Shuannas gloves that makes him aware of her. Perhaps he heard her horse, a long time earlier. Either way – he don’t care. He just keeps staring into the fire, hunched down. At long last, when the silence between them becomes to much for both of them, he says:

“So … You’ve come to kill me?” He looks at her, just a glance over his shoulder. “You got away, eh? I figured you would.”
“Father … ”
“Leave me alone. Or kill me. Just get it over with, whatever you want.”
“I … I … ” she sighs, lets the mace drop and takes a careful step forward. He reeks. Unwashed, old blood stains on his leather robes and skin. There’s the stench of Broken, seeping out of his pores. His hands are mishapen, worse yet – his face is … it’s a monster in front of her. It would be a mercy to cave his head in but she can’t.

“How did you find me?” he says, stoking the fire with a branch, watching it smolder. Eventually he digs out a bone pipe and lights it. Dreamfoil and Felweed creates a greyish smoke around him, tinged with yellow that smells like rotten eggs.
“I went to the Aldor,” she says.
“Ah!” He smacks his lips. “The fucking aldor. Well, then.”
“I shouldn’t have come … ”

“No! You shouldn’t!” He turns at her, growling. Thick saliva drips from the corner of his mouth, his eyes are ablaze with drugs and primal rage. For a second or two it looks like he’s about to attack her, but then he shrugs. He sighs deeply and says with a far away tone, as if he’s dreaming: “I tried, I did try you know … I got you out of the lower levels, didn’t I? All of you, all of you brats … you know I worked my ass off to support you. That seed factory I married kept popping you out like fucking candy. Never a son, always … Always … I tried hard, you know. Sure I did. Couldn’t run fast enough tho’, the mist, the red mist …” He glares at her. “I swore I would purge Draenor of the orcs … but there’s no end to them. Once I’m done with them I’ll come after you. All of you. You … Destroyed me!”
“Please, father … Come with me? The Prophet, he ca–”
“VELEN CAN’T FIX WHAT’S BROKEN AND YOU KNOW IT GIRL!!!” He takes a deep breath for control. “You know it, deep down inside. We’re gonna break, all of us. You … Vassie … Ish. The Legion won, you see? They found a way to defeat us without having to kill us. They took away … our Light.”
“You can still remember it, can’t you? The light? You can remember the l–”
“THE LIGHT ABANDONED IT’S CHAMPION!!! Now leave this place! And Never Return! If you do, I’ll kill you all! I’ll Kill you! KILL YOU!!!”
He lunges at her, she grabs the mace with one hand and swings.



“Did you find your father, child?” the High Priestess Ishanah of the Aldor asks some time later.
“No … ” Shuanna averts her eyes. Everyone knows she’s lying, of course they do, but everyone also knows that she fixed a Major Problem. Fallen vindicator Haarkan was a friend of no one, a crazy old man in a forgotten cave in northern Terokkar. He killed indiscrimenately. Orcs, draenei, beasts, ogres … adventurers.
“Light be with you, vindicator Shuanna of the Exodar.”
“Pray for me, will you? I don’t know if it will help but … ”
“We will.”

Shuanna turns and is about to leave the temple when High Priestess Ishanah says: “Have you found your sister yet, vindicator?”

Shuanna stops, she turns halfway around. She tries not to smile but she does, and it’s not a very good smile.

“Which one?”
“Ishannah.” High Priestess Ishanah smiles. “I like that name.” She chuckles. “I’m honored to bear the name of your sister.”
“Two N, high priestess,” Shuanna turns around and nods. “A small but important detail.”

High Priestess Ishanah laughs. It’s crystal clear and loud. Several anchorites look up from their books and work, some of them frown. The Aldor are divided, because the strangers from the other side of the portal are still considered to be … peculiar. It’s been years since they first came but it’s not something someone gets used to. There’s been so many strangers …

“A wise man, covered in fur, once said to me: “Details, details!” Ishanah smiles. “We are still getting used to seeing these … oh Light, what are they called …”
“Ah, yes! Yes! pandaren!” She chuckles. “I think we could learn a great deal about faith from these strange … creatures.”
“Yeah, well … Ish is still … I’m still looking for her, got a couple of leads. I’m working closely with a … a temporal operative.”
“Caliss? The night elf?”
“You know of her?”
“All of Shattrath knows of her. I spoke with her a long time ago. She is your sister too, no?”
“Adopted. It’s complicated.”
“Life is complicated … ”
“Eh.” Shuanna chuckles. Then she takes a deep breath. “I never figured out the timeline stuff. I mean, Kadghar tried to explain but … well you know. Cannie’s the only one who understand stuff like that. If I can’t hit it, I’m lost. This is now, I know that. When Caliss was here, I … I guess it was before?”
“Then, now, eh. The Aldor will always be here.”
“Just don’t stay too long.” Shuanna tries not to smile, but she does. It looks and feels out of place. “This world is fucked and if you don’t know it yet so are you.”

She leaves.

Beasts of the Legion

(Be advised. This is NSFW.)


Prisoner of War interrogation number 165: Subject – Priszly (imp). Interrogating officer: Sharenne Gawry (warlock). Report signed. Co-signed: Lantresor (of the Blade).

Personal note: Suggest re-education discipline. Priszly is still a very young imp and thus extremely impressional … once I find his ‘pressure points’.

“‘All life must be exterminated … ‘ You know, I kinda liked that, ait? So’s was me and a helluva lot of other guys and bitches ‘roun’ there, ait. Kazzak was still on the mend ’cause some ‘turers had roughed him up a bit, but he never ever lost sight of things, ait. That’s a boss, it is. Keep fucking focused, ait. Da used to tell me that when we were just jokin’ ’round, you know, throwin’ fel between us. So’s all the big guys, the Real Terror we call’em, start and march out. Infernals shooting up towards the sky like fucking fireworks, you fucking who– aaaiii!.”

(Interrogators note: At this time, a series of educational techniques was implemented in order to keep things civil. Kip eventually settled down but remained standing for the duration of the interview. Asked if Kip wanted to file an official complaint, Kip stated “fuck you!”. further enhanced interrogation techniques were thus implemented.)

“My ass hurts … “What? Oh, oh, yeah. Uhm … Please no! No! So, yeah, ait. I’ll talk, dammit! Fu-uuck! Anyway. Doomguards thundering down the road, all that. Seriously, them abs, ait. Know what I’m sayin’? We just milled aroun’ ait. We’re not that important, honestly, ’cause no one really think we can do much but corrupt and stuff. Like politicians.


“I had this weird idea then, ait. So I’s took a leap ait. Landed square on the shoulderplate of an abyssal, ait. He be Melter, we call’im Melter ’cause he melt things. Whoa! We went so far out, you never believe it! Fucking all of Tanaan was like thousands of feet below us and then we broke through the clouds and all I saw was green smoke and sparks.

“Then I kinda tagged along with Melter. Anyway, I wun’t suppose to latch onto him okay but I sorta did and you know, Melter din’t feel a thing, ait. Well then he was starting you know fall. Then all those clouds sorta broke up ’cause he was really hot, ait … so this whole, uhm, this whole kinda really big place jus’ sorta shew up un’rus ait. So’s Melter, who found me holdin’ on, ait. He be like Bruh, no huggin’ kay ’cause that’s gay.” Then he kinda “yeah whatever gonna fuck you up anyway” and then he was like yelling, like he seriously loosing his shit, ait.


“Kinda somethin’ ’bout arrydun… arei … kinda somethin’ like he cun’t fly if there was more weight or somethin’. I mean, I don’t weigh that much, ait. We kinda crashed anyway. Coulda been ’cause I was getting a bit scared ait. So’s I kinda clawed at him and kinda ripped out his eyeball. Honest mistake. Seriously.

“Boom! Right in the water off the coast. It’s tuchni… technical.. ly … Shadowmoon. Blue Land. Melter din’t made it out, ’cause we kinda fell from like really, really high up ‘kay? I made it though. Imps can swim, ait. Melter kinda took the worst hit. Boom! Motherfucker totally knocked out, was fucking hilarious! Big crater under water, really big. Got a lot of blue and homans come out in them floaty things too. So’s what an imp’s gonna do in Hostile Territory, huh? Tell ya what an imp does, ait. Once I swimmin’ to land, I did what we do best. Imp’s giving up.

“So ait. I’m in no hurry to die or anythin’ so’s if ya could direct me to … I’M NOT SIGNING NUTHIN’ WITHOUT – say what? Oh. Oh!

‘I sign or I die’. Well why din’t ya say so, Mistress!”



Prisoner of War interrogation number 186: Subject – Darlia (succubus). Interrogating officer: Sharenne Gawry (warlock). Report signed. Co-signed: Blook (“the Mountain”, marked with ‘X’).

Personal note: Suggest re-education discipline. Darlia, despite her attempts at acting out, is a very impressional young succubus, haunted by her elder sister. Repeated eductational therapy with suggested therapists, see recommendation below, will undoubtedly turn her docile and easily handled.

I suggest a six week therapy on an eight hour shift using Iron Horde prisoners of war from the Blackrock Foundry. Some of those orcs haven’t seen a female in years. We have an ample supply of enchanted manacles so ‘Darling’ won’t break until she’s been re-educated.

(Commanders note: Please dispose of IH remains after consultation with Phylarch (the Botanist). This report will be classified as ‘Top Secret Class Alpha’. Sha – No more of this, ok?)

“Oh, honey, I could give you an orgasm so hard you would literally loose your mind – and all of that with just a single little poke you know where. Would you like that, darling? I bet your pussy’s so wet right now you’re probably worried that you peed yourself. I can do that too, if you want me to. I once rode an eredar vindicator named Maraad so hard he shit himself. You would not believe what he asked me to to before I did it … ‘Ooh, Darlia, won’t you please give me some of your golden rain’, he said. I can turn your head inside out with lust, warlock … I hear you’re quite the slu–”

(Interrogators note: Due to the subjects excessive screaming the scribe could not discern what was said. Darlia settled down once we gave her some water.)

“I’ll FUCK YOU ALL!!! I’LL FUCK YOU!!! I AM THE SHADOW THAT HAUNTS VASSANNAHS MIND!!! I AM THE FILTH THAT YOU SECRETLY REVEL IN, SHARENNE!!! YOU WANT TO KILL YOUR FATHER AND I CAN HELP YOU!!! JUST GIVE IN … GIVE … IN … I can make you beutiful, my little human … you were rejected by everyone. Never been fucked by a real man. you know what they say about ladies like you, don’t you? You’re munching down on fur-covered oysters ’cause no man wants you. I bet you stink. I bet your sluts you fuck like that st—”

(Interrogators note: Due to the subjects excessive screaming the scribe had to be replaced.)

“You think you can break me with this pathetic antics of yours? Really, slut? You’re weak. WEAK!!! And ugly. You’re ugly, Sharenne! Ugly and fat! No one but your dad wanted to fuck you! And you! YOU, NERD!!! SCRIBE!!! When will you stop jerking off thinking about Lantresor and come out with it! Small people, all of you. I WILL FUCK YOU ALL!!! YOU WILL KNOW PAIN WHEN I RAM MY FIST UP YOUR P–”

(Interrogators note: Due to the subjects excessive screaming the scribe had to be replaced. Blook, ‘the Mountain’, appears to be impervious to any form of seduction.)

“Oh, isn’t that sweet? You brought a fat guy.”

(Interrogators note: Blook asked here, “Can I hit her?”. I said yes. Blook did. It was quite some time before Darlia was lucid again.)

“Fat guy hits hard … But I have to succumb, just an itsy bitsy tiny little bit. Thank you for the water, warlock. Now … Keep that monster away from me, ok? I can smell his balls, I know he wants me, but he’s so fucking retarded he don’t know what to do with his thrity inch dick. But you know, Sha … You know all about pussies, don’t you?”

(Interrogators note: I asked Blook to hit Darlia again. He did.)

“Thirsty work, it is, fucking sluts like you when you’re not even aware I do it. Aaww, don’t look so shocked. I know your dreams, warlock. I know them all … how you want to do your ‘sisters’ – and Illy, defender fucking slut Illona, the fucking draenei queen bitch holier than fucking everyone including fucking Yrel. I’d like to fuck her too, by the way. I could fuck all of you at the same time, hogtied, roasting you over fire. I’d like that. I like bitches that scream and plead for mercy.

“You. Will. Have. No. Mercy. I will rap–”

(Interrogators note: I asked Blook to hit Darlia again. He did.)

“Illona, oh that’s a good one. you know, she’ll never agree to being hogtied of course, but a human can dream, yes? I know you want her … on her knees, gagballs … You want to whip them, don’t you? Sure you do … Just give in to me, warlock … Give in, and I’ll show you the paradise that you’re looking for … I can give you your father. I can have his soul interred in a machinery of pain in the Black Temple, where nothing but the shrieks of pain echo through eternity. I can give you Vassie, anyone. All of them will be your slaves of passion! Everyone! I can show you the concubines … illidan didn’t care about them so they had to be … educated. By my sister. She taught me all there is to know about pleasure … And … pain. PAIN!!! PA–”

(Interrogators note: I asked Blook to hit Darlia again. He did.)

“Oh, how I reveled in watching them squirm as she loved and punished them all. Sluts, all of them, just like y–”

(Interrogators note: Interview aborted. Recommenced after a brief pause.)

“Let me fuck you, Sharenne … Let me eat you … You know you want it … Just take that little step, my little warlock whore … a single step. Look at your scribe? He want’s me already. I’ll ride him tonight. He’ll die happy. I’ll fuck his soul forever … and ever … and ever … and — Blaargh!”

(Interrogators note: Darlia expunged copious amounts of black filth at this point, once it became clear to her that ogron does not have a soul (as such). Interview aborted until further notice. Suggested method of further development: Exorscism, class III (the rarely seen method) and previously suggested therapy.)

– – – – –
Priszly (imp) was later recruited into the Alliance.
Darlia the Docile (succubus) was later recruited into the Alliance.
Both are currently serving Sharenne Gawry, whom they call ‘Mistress’.

Casualty of War – Wodans Story

WoWScrnShot_112815_062915“Dey be havin’ a dog up dere, boyo, re’mber?” He grabs the head between his hands. “Ye not goin’ sleepin’ on me now, are ye?” He slaps that pale face. There’s just the smile, facial muscles drawn back, showing teeth. Then the barely audible words:
“Not like this … ”

Wodan rolled over in bed, opened his eyes and couldn’t quite remember where he were. For a few seconds the face of a human in a trench at the Iron Front lingered in front of his eyes. Then the nightmare was over. Then the room came back. The stone walls adorned with animal skins. The fireplace, big enough to drive a steamtank through. The desk, the cupboard, the bearskin on the floor. A clutter of stone- and porcelain figurines. Hulma collected them. Some of those figurines came all the way from Lordaeron and would probably sell for three or four chests full of gold. They weren’t rich, not even well off, she had “collected” her figurines the way adventurers do. Yet they never even thought about selling them, even if every week was a struggle. Some things are simply too precious, be it love or tiny little unicorns some long forgotten human artist once crafted before the Scourge came and claimed them all.
Somewhere outside a shrill gnome voice shouted“Bread from tha ovin! C’ome n’ get it fre-eesh!”. Then he saw Hulma, sitting on a chair next to their bed, holding his hand.

“Wh’e’am’I!?” He struggled to sit up, at first he couldn’t but then he did. He sighed deeply. “Muradin’s beard, lass. That was a bad one ’twas.”
“Come now, my lil’ murogh ram, come now … ” she leaned over and kissed him on the sweaty scalp. “Ju’s a ‘mare, love. Tea’s reddy.”
“Aye,” he said, and swallowed hard. “Jus’ a mare. Tea?”
“‘t’ill be mornin’, love. ye slept for two days ye did. Had to help ye with the chamber pot. Jus’ piss, nuthin’ solid. Ye were drunk as a skunk when ye came ‘ome, love.”

He blushed, slumped down back into bed and wasn’t sure if he should hide under the blankets or cry. He closed his eyes – just for a second. Then he opened them, gasping. Because it was there. Everytime he closed his eyes he saw the tusks, less than an inch from his face. Everytime he closed his eyes he saw the froth, tinged with blood and fel. Then he plunged his sword into flesh and pushed the fel orc away.

Even with open eyes, sometimes you won’t escape the images. As he lay there in bed it all came crashing back, tea or no tea waiting.


A brute of an orc, jumping right across the trench. The monster came down with a thump right in their midst. Wodan threw himself clear of the clutching hands but Duncan was too slow.

Then the rangari arrows came, blotting out the sky. Then there was an almost naked draenei woman, falling from Light knows where, slamming a crystal mace into the orc, screaming incoherently. Wodan saw a black panther dart off into the sky, magical energies trailing behind, roaring like a wilderbeast. Then the orc was dead. The draenei spat blood, turned her fierce white eyes on Wodan and roared. He had never heard such a voice. It was feral, almost like a demon.


Her voice broke on the last syllables. Then she ran away across the battlefield, brilliant light engulfing her, the ground ablaze with holy power. He saw Gul’Dans minions burst into white flames, screaming as they ran and ran … and died.

She slaughtered them all. Reveling in it. Hate incarnate.

“Light have mercy,” he mumbled.
“Woody!” There was a painful shriek. “Woody help!” Then Duncan, fifteen years old, no taller than Wodan, was twitching, twitching, twitching … shitting himself.

“Mom! Mommy!”
“It’ll be ar’ite laddie, healers be here any secon’.” He cradled the boy, trying to stem the bloodflow with his hands but it kept pumping out. “’tis not so bad, fix’er rite up for sure!”
“Mom … Mom!?”
“Ye frem Goldshire, ain’t ye?”
“Yeah … It hurts … ”
“Look at me laddie!”
“It’s so cold … Mummy!?”
“”Dey be havin’ a dog up dere, boyo, re’mber?”
“I … Mom? Mommy?”
“A dog, laddie! Ye not goin’ sleepin’ on me now, are ye?”
“Not like this … ” Then his eyes stopped moving. He kept the smile, facial muscles.
“Dun! Dun! Dun boyo! D’ent ye give me the zee now, boy! Dun! DUNCAN!!!”

For some reason he chuckled, laying there in his bed in Ironforge. It wasn’t a pleased chuckle, more like a sound somewhere between a gasp and a cry but it came out as a laugh. He turned his head to Hulma, smiling even though he wasn’t sure if it was joy or fear that made him grin. For a few moments Duncan lingered in the corner of his eye – so was the draenei woman. The crazy one. Then it came to him – he knew her.

“’twas the commander, love,” he said, wiping sweat from his face with both of his palms. “Ye know the tech them etereal or whatcha call ’em ‘ave. She was wearing green she was. One crazy cunt that one, you jus’ don’ wanna know.”
“Was it bad?”
“Aye … ” He sighed deeply and sat up, heaving his legs out of the bed. “’twas very bad, love. Not forgettin’ nothin’, not.”
“Ye shoul’ talk to the priest, love.”
“Phah!” He grunted. “Whatch’er can do, eh? Can’t erase me mem’ry can she?”
“Ye can’t bottle it up, love. Ye know me uncle, yeh?”
“Me not crazy, lass!”
“Ye will be ‘f’yer not talk to some’un.”

There are defining moments in everyone’s life. Wodans moment happened right there. He stood up, feeling the blood heating up his face. He pulled back his left arm and was about to swing, palm first, when he just froze. He saw her eyes widen, her mouth drop in a shocked “oh!”.

He ran across the room, crouched up in a corner and hid behind his own arms, desperate not to cry – but he did. Retching, deep, shaking screams through tears and snot.


“I we’nt be free of this, will I?” he said at long last, looking up at nothing, seeing not Hulma but an almost naked draenei, shimmering in front of him.
“No,” she said.
“Then me done for … ”
“Love?” Hulma, her voice low, almost subdued. Yet she reached out with a hand and very gently stroked his beard and head. “It’ll be a’right, love … ye get some tea first, then we go to the priest, yes?”
“Aye … ” he nodded, lowering his arms even though he still wanted to hide. That terrible, terrible visage of an almost naked draenei was still lingering in front of his eyes. “Aye, roe, y’er right, like always.”
“In the light … “the phantom draenei slowly faded away, giving a wink and a smile. “we are one.”
“Ye think I’ll be a’right someday, don’ ye?”
“’twas a terrible war, roe.”
“War will always be here,” she smiled, leaned close and kissed his lips, dry from fear and panic. “Love will always be here. Ye live with either one but not both of ’em.” She leaned her forehead against his. “I be rite at ye’ side, me murogh ram. Rite at ye side.”
“Ye know sum’thin, lass?”
“Sometimes, ye don’t have ta die to be a casualty of war.”