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Post by Raga on Dec 31, 2010 14:04:57 GMT -5
6. Bedtime Story
Before the world changed, John Rastarin used to tell himself that order could be imposed upon one's life, turning it into something of worth and influence by study and deep thought and careful application of both upon one's surroundings. Knowledge was power. A pair of spectacles and a library were the greatest weapons by far.
Then all of Gilneas went to hell. They shoved a mace into Rastarin's hand, and you didn't need spectacles to see that fighting was the only choice. You didn't need a book to inform you that you were running out of safe places to retreat. By the time he stumbled into the grove and heard the Kaldorei's explanations, he understood--the only real rules in the world were nature's rules, and nature ruled with chaos and instinct.
The idea of order and intelligence lifting men above nature had been no more than a lovely little bedtime story.
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Post by Raga on Jan 1, 2011 14:13:32 GMT -5
7. Teeth
The past had teeth. Not the recent past, necessarily, but his youth certainly. John Rastarin had run with the rowdy friends, drunk the bourbon, kissed the girls--good times in Gilneas City. And then he'd concluded that such pursuits were a waste of precious time. No wife for him, no family. Hazy nights on the town had been traded for quiet days with his nose in books. Howling at the moon had given way to studying star charts and lunar tables, the vast night sky translated onto paper, life as read about as opposed to lived.
Gone now. All those things he'd given up--had voluntarily sacrificed--for the sake of a life he no longer had. A life he would never have. Two potential lives, amounted to nothing.
He sat with his back against a rotting wall in Stormglen Village, a ghost of the man he'd once been trapped inside the body of a beast. He'd always thought he'd have more.
He'd always thought he'd be more.
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Post by Raga on Jan 1, 2011 14:13:51 GMT -5
10. Chain
Tal'doren, The Wild Home, in the heart of the Blackwald's twisted trees and gnarled shadows. No place had ever held so much darkness; no place had ever given John Rastarin so much hope.
Despair had chained him to the past--regrets and grief tied him to the desire for things he could never have. He would never return to what he had been, but he could not quite let go of that man, either.
Until emerald light streamed into Tal'doren's darkness, illuminating a new vision--what he could become. All he had to do was reach for it.
Tranquility. Balance. Fury. One last time, Rastarin mourned what he'd left behind.
Then the chains broke.
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Post by Raga on Jan 2, 2011 13:41:15 GMT -5
12. Sink
Fur and blood, tooth and claw. Nights of running with the moon, days spent skulking in black shadows of caves. Sometimes, in restless dreams far from the touch of sunlight, he glimpsed a different way of life--an apartment, proper roof and walls, a floor of simple but polished floors. Books in careful order upon tidy shelves, scrolls tucked into cubbies just so, furniture squared at right angle to the walls. An unadorned wooden bed with a thick feather mattress and deep, warm quilts to comfort a furless man from the chill of night.
He was no longer such a man. Tooth and claw, fur and blood, nights running with the moon until dawn broke and sent him back to his den, to sink into piles of soft, rotting leaves and dreams of a life long lost.
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Post by Raga on Jan 2, 2011 13:41:39 GMT -5
9. Discontent
"Anohe. Good to see you." To see you safe, Syd wanted to say. To see you alive. She glanced past the wisp of a gnome seated across the table and out the open front of the Ratchet inn. A black-maned Tauren woman, mail-armored and wearing a hammer larger than Anohe, stood outside, arms crossed and glaring at Syd. If ill wishes were lightning bolts, Syd would be dead.
But she had allowed Anohe to come.
"You… too," the undersized gnome piped, with a Taurahe accent.
"What is it like?" Syd lowered her voice, even though she knew Raga Blackmane couldn't understand Common. Anohe barely understood.
"Not content," came Anohe's reply, after she paused to search for appropriate words. Syd thought she read fear in the gnome's face.
"It might be safer if you came back to--"
"No." Afraid or not, Anohe's response was immediate and firm.
Well cared for or not, Anohe was little more than a pet to Raga--a treasured pet, but pet nonetheless. Syd had long struggled to understand how the Anohe could choose to remain practically enslaved. She struggled even harder now.
"Your life could be in danger."
Anohe glanced back at the waiting shaman. Raga's gaze shifted to meet the gnome's, and her expression softened. Syd thought glimpsed fear in that face, too. Raga had tried to return Anohe to Alliance lands once, and Anohe had refused to stay. Raga knew the risks, too.
"Home," Anohe said.
How could you argue with that?
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Post by Raga on Jan 3, 2011 13:30:31 GMT -5
8. Defeat
Syd stood at the Gates of Ironforge, her hood pulled forward to hide most of her face. She was winded from tracking Uchel's movements through Ironforge as he in turn searched for a pair of errant Horde--their bodies now graced the ice-caked stones. The chill breeze blowing in from Dun Morogh was almost welcome. When she had a moment to glance around, she realized Jazari was standing beside her.
Polite, she reminded herself. Calm. She nodded respectfully to him.
Some of the frost in her attitude must have shown through. The wild-haired gnome blinked. "Erm… hello?"
"Hello, Jazari," Syd murmured in reply.
His face fell. "I've done somethin' stupid, yeh?"
Syd sighed, tasting impending defeat even before she'd had the chance to work up a good temper. Jazari would be cheerful, self-deprecating, and winningly honest, and Syd's anger was going to go down in flames.
She supposed there were worse battles to lose.
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Post by Raga on Jan 3, 2011 13:31:10 GMT -5
15. Tall or Short
For a human, the paladin was perhaps not all that short, but appeared so to Syd. He hauled himself up the corroded steps of the Slagworks and stopped a few feet away, grinning in what she supposed was intended to be a disarming way. Maybe threatening. Gloating? She was tired of trying to guess. She made no attempt to either smile or scowl, instead taking the moment of calm to check for Uchel's unassuming yet reassuring presence nearby.
"No throat slittin." Bittertongue's tone sounded joking--just as if they were old friends. Syd caught herself before she could roll her eyes and merely glanced briefly over at him.
"I never made any threats," Syd replied. "I merely agreed that you are indeed a bastard."
The Horde arrived before he could respond. He charged into the fray and became another faceless fighter--an Alliance fighter. One of her responsibilities, however short he fell of her idea of a decent human being.
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Post by Raga on Jan 3, 2011 13:31:50 GMT -5
5. Mercy
The ship docked at the base of the most incredibly large tree John Rastarin had ever seen. A smooth green slope led to the ruby glow of a magic portal. A graceful blue sky arched overhead. Leaves in a thousand delicate hues ranging from golden to green and pink to lavender rustled musically.
The colors hurt his eyes. The light made him dizzy.
Lithe elves smiled graciously. Welcomed him warmly. Bade him to enter and make himself at home.
He was not home.
The dark corner of a quiet inn provided refuge for a few days. Weeks, even. Hibernation in the form of alcoholic beverages and a brooding refusal to speak to anyone.
It didn't help. Whenever he dared to poke his head out of the inn or look up from his glass, they were waiting. Smiles. Welcome. Concern. No matter what form he wore in Kaldorei lands, they saw his curse first. That wouldn't change anytime soon.
Ignoring a conscience that nagged him to recall he owed the elves his help in return for theirs, he removed himself from the tender mercies of the Kaldorei and boarded the ship for Stormwind.
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Post by Raga on Jan 4, 2011 7:21:48 GMT -5
23. New
"Time ya had de truth," Mandanda said.
Manda regarded the troll girl across the table from her--a mirror image of indigo hair and golden eyes and identical features. But Manda's hair was wild and woven with bone charms. Fandanda's was tucked neatly into a stylish hat. Manda wore blouse and kilt and necklaces of claws and beads; Fanda's gold and red dress was tailored to fit her perfectly. Fanda's aura flamed, bright as her renowned temper. The shadows, far more complex than a mere lack of light, were Manda's strength.
"Made me wait long 'nough." Fandanda scowled and leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms and looking down her nose at Manda. "Ya finally goin' ta tell me who killed de daddy?"
Scrawny and cruel-featured and strong, his life had ended in his own bed. A dagger never found had spilled his blood. Fanda had long suspected Manda knew more than she'd admit. Fear, Fanda thought, of the murderer. Or an unwillingness to share. Manda had been his favorite daughter, after all.
Not for too much longer, though. He'd had plans for Fanda. Those plans were what had brought his doom.
Manda realized, belatedly, that any vague hope for a new start with Fanda were fantasies. She hoped them anyhow, and even if she shouldn't hope, she still owed her sister the truth. Too many years had passed.
"Aye," Manda said.
Shadows flickered reassuringly in her vision. She'd done the right thing, for the right reasons.
"I did."
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Post by Raga on Jan 4, 2011 7:35:22 GMT -5
22. Demand
Agdara had lived most of the last several years in the Undercity, an orc dwelling with the Forsaken. And why not? A warlock appreciated a powerful source of destruction as much as anyone. Thrall had been too meek for her tastes, overly concerned with appearances and uniting the people and healing the land.
Trivial matters. Racial superiority demanded a much heavier-handed approach.
Garrosh Hellscream obviously knew a thing or two about heavy-handedness. Agdara remained in Forsaken lands for a time following The Cataclysm, learning the new lay of the land, soaking in the new atmosphere of rising power, familiarizing herself with the new politics. When she had learned as much as she deemed necessary, the time would come.
Time to go home. Time to add her voice to that of Hellscream's and of her people--their time had come.
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Post by Raga on Jan 4, 2011 19:03:29 GMT -5
24. Tangent
Moholith spouted idiocy. If he hadn't been on the opposite side of the bonfire, if Davien hadn't been sitting close by, if the rules of the fire didn't disallow attempts on the lives of other attendees--Raga would have lunged for the stupid bull's throat and slammed his dense skull against the hard-packed Barrens ground. The alcohol buzz burned red hot in her veins tonight; could anyone be a bigger fool? Raga's tail twitched furiously. She drank faster. She glared through the flames.
Just as her anger reached a pitch that possibly even Davien would be unable to control, something rustled beside Raga. She glanced to her left and saw that Bull was…
Reading a newspaper? With all the nonsense going on, he leafed through the Gadgetzan Gazette with an expression of perfect calm.
"Whatcha doin?" the goblin on Bull's far side asked.
"Checking the real estate section," Bull rumbled. "Been watching for houses in Winterspring."
Moholith kept talking. Raga stopped listening. Bull didn't seem to have glanced at her--his gaze remained on the paper. But a small, knowing smile tugged the corners of his mouth anyhow.
Raga had to wait until Bull stood to leave and she hurried to join him. She barely heard what else was discussed. The tangent had become her main focus. They roared into the Crossroads on his mechano-hog. Raga had to wait another few moments for him to kill the engine.
"Houses in Winterspring?" she asked. "Really?"
His answering grin was enough.
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Post by Raga on Jan 5, 2011 10:01:00 GMT -5
20. Nonsense
Before the Cataclysm, before the rediscovery of Northrend or the opening of the Dark Portal, but after the gloom of waking in the crypt outside Deathknell and learning how to fend for herself, a Forsaken girl sat at the edge of Thunder Bluff's main rise and stared out at the vast green. Had she ever seen so much sky? So much sunlight? For one split second, its great openness panicked her.
A Forsaken man sat beside her, a mage like she was. His robes were disheveled, but his face wore a radiant expression that outshone any clothing he wore anyhow. He waved his arms as he spoke.
Max had been talking for quite some time now--since the moment Navi had met him, actually, but she didn't mind. He prattled about scary spiders and not-a-kodos and Camp Tomato, about moos and rain deer and dozens of other topics that any passersby would take as utter nonsense.
He distracted Navi from her moment of panic. He distracted Navi from many moments of panic, even if their friendship had begun with him instigating a moment of sheer terror for her paranoid self. She'd grown used to his oddness, now; it was comforting, in a way, to know that Max was Max was always Max.
His nonsense made perfect sense to her.
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Post by Raga on Jan 6, 2011 10:05:47 GMT -5
Bonus 4. Zeitgeist
When the Riders' representatives strutted into the war room and turned a strategic discussion into, as someone stated, "schoolyard antics," Syd's intentions of letting bygones be bygones evaporated in a puff of steam--rolling from her ears. When Mixler and Jazari barely listened to her and Cyn before dismissing them with an attitude equivalent to a pat on the head and an "Oh girls, I think you're overreacting," Syd's boiling blood cooled to furious ice.
Politics. "We're wasting our breath here," Syd had said to Cyn.
And didn't that statement capture perfectly the zeitgeist of current times? Instead of striking at the Forsaken in Hillsbrad or Hellscream's troops in Ashenvale, Stormwind military had barged into the Barrens, further alienating the Tauren and forcing them back into Hellscream's protection. No one had asked for help in making such a decision, but they were not shy about demanding aid in holding their ill-advised gains. Syd had clearly expressed such to General Hawthorne. He had dismissed her concerns about what really happened in the Barrens more charismatically but just as summarily as Mixler had dismissed her concerns about the Riders.
No one was listening anymore. Everyone was busy demanding blood, drawing lines in the dirt, following their own mandates.
In the quiet of her room at the Keg, as Syd dressed for a day on the battlefields--careful to remember every enchanted ring, every trinket, every blessing she had learned--she knew that she was well on the way to being no different.
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Post by Raga on Jan 6, 2011 15:47:14 GMT -5
Bonus 5. Nadir
Syd went to the Hinterlands in search of artifacts and quiet. Archaeology was the popular rage, and she felt mildly silly pursuing it--not to mention guilty time not spent on the front lines of some fight somewhere. But even if she couldn't call herself a scholar, she'd found the methodical searching and patient digging to be surprisingly soothing. The excuse she gave herself for going off alone was that no one could throw herself into the fray with no respite, without risk of losing the mental quickness and spiritual awareness necessary to perform well.
She told herself that. Some days, she barely knew what she believed at all anymore.
What she found in the Hinterlands was rain--drops thick enough to turn the sky over Aerie Peak into a solid mass of steel gray clouds.
"Rough mornin,' aye!" one of the guards thundered in greeting as Syd huddled in the doorway of the low stone building that served as inn. Rain trickled across his craggy face and clung to his beard. He didn't sound particularly put off by the weather.
She could have gone back inside to wait out the rain. Instead, drawn by a compulsion she was too tired to fight, she wrapped a cloak around the simple tunic and pants she wore and pulled the hood close around her face. In the lowest point of the valley, she turned her face toward the sky and let the rain wet her cheeks.
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