Conversations with Mezzy

A Silliness!

2011-06-29T16:36:00.000-07:00

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Pink Pigtail Memories

2011-06-22T17:07:00.000-07:00

She just stood there. And hugged herself. It was that emptiness again and it always bewildered her and by now she thought she should have been used to it.

The shadows that cast across the twilight shore were all in deep dark tones; crisscrossing the soft gray sands beneath a sky of forgotten dreams. Had it been so long, since they had walked these dark shores, since their passing had been witnessed by the stars? If she became really, really quiet she could almost, just almost, hear again the soft native Kaldorei, the sound of a crackling fire, the raising of a gentle voice offering a toast to the night.

Still and seductive eyes closed.

Had it been that long?

Had it truly been so long?

Is that why the beach was now empty,even the scuttling crabs and the slow moving snails gone? Only the silent roll of the surf in and out, the barest hint of rippling around stone and the ancient gray memories of piers that were.

Behind her, like a dream slipping in and out of the waking world, the forest of this dark shore were painted in sepia, drifting in and out like an evening mist. The shadows held its rememberances like a precious secret, such that once pink pig tails looked out across the sea as she did now, just ... just to watch the moonlight shimmer across the forever sea.

Beside her, the great felhunter stirred. So sensitive the crimson demon was to even the littlest hints of what barest mana remained, and even more so to disturbances, to something out of balance.

"Shhhhhhhhhh Zhaatom ..."

She reached out her hand, to rest it on the great beasts head, calming, quiet. Sometimes she was jealous, her curse to be the smartest, the sharpest of her small family. Sometimes, sometimes she had to admit, she wished she could live life as her little sister. But now, now was a time for quiet. Even Pizyap knew that, all it took was a purple eyed glance to cease his complaining. It was Mezzy ... Mezznuz ... that she worried for. They had been together so long, served together, and even now, even now she could not fathom what he thought, what he felt. But she knew, she knew, that all it would take is a hand upon his bracers, to remind him of who they were.

And more importantly, who they once belonged to.

"For a brief while, do you remember?

"Kind words."

Even the wind had vanished, upon this forsaken place.

"Why we are here ...

"On this shore ...

"On this empty shore ...

"It's not important.

"It never was."

Her curse.

For a long while she was quiet. All relative. But even for her, it was a long time.

"It is not the place you are. It is not even the getting there that is important.

"It is who you share that journey with."

A second moment of stillness.

"Mistress always believed that."

She just stood there. And hugged herself. It was that emptiness again and it always bewildered her and by now she thought she should have been used to it.

But then Disneri the succubus hugged herself tighter. Eyes still closed. She had to keep them closed. Closed tight.

Because demons don't cry.

"For a short while we shared our journey with Larisa too.

"And we are so much the better for it."

Nefarian's Victory

2011-06-22T16:45:00.000-07:00

"All that glisters is not gold ..."

"How often have we heard that, Mezzy, heard it and smiled, as if we were once again hearing an old wive's tale, ato smile as if we knew what was once an insight had fallen into disuse?

"And yet, even now, have we sold ourself, bartered our soul, but for what is only outside to behold?

"In the tombs of glory, is it accolades or the whispering of gilded worms we hear,

"Have we been more bold than wise?

"Have our limbs reached, like those young, for empty achievements at too dear a cost, having forgotten to temper our greed with the wisdom we should be old enough to know?

"And certainly old enough to remember."

Quietly the little warlock hugged herself, deep in the bottom rooms of the tavern. And once again, having been brutally shown, the only companion she could depend on, one of blue cobalt, of magic, of dreams.

"The true answer is not in the scrolls recorded ...

"It lies haunting in the depths of Blackrock mountain.

"He fairs us well, because he, in the end, still holds the truth in broken talons cold."

A deep breath was taken in, let out, taken in again.

Green eyes narrowed, threatening to become cold, calculating, to chose the path where the end justifies the means, and there is no looking back, as if that finish could some how wash away the hurt that it was built on, that the glitter could somehow wash away the inequity that was triumphs foundation, that somehow a head upon a spike could balance values that forgotten in the blind drive for a taste of blood.

And she just could not. Her heart would not let her.

"Have we forgotten who we are. What made us strong?

"Or have we changed, somehow, somewhen, became hard and accepted that being this hard, this cold ... and aye, to use a so apt term, so draconic as the only way things can be. Hard, so that it is the victory that matters and not its cost?

"Hard, that we would abandon what we have held true since the first turtle was sewn on a tabard."

Green eyes close then, quiet.

"I used to be so proud. So proud to wear this tabard. Because I could say, true, we might take longer, take longer, to reach the same triumphs as those whose way is by the sword and the cold equations of steel and spell. but we do so on our own terms, learning how to use who we are, play to our strength, and reach the same end without compromise - as a team, as a group, as a guild working together?

"How did that get forgotten, lost, discarded, between the halls of Northrend and the lands lost in Cataclysm."

"I can't say that any more.

"Because it isn't true."

Quietly, she looks up to Mezzy.

"Why do I keep answering the clarion call, when I know that the only reason I will get called up is when one of the chosen has business elsewhere or when they themselves have chosen to take an eve at rest? Chose to take an evening at rest; do they even realize the difference, the hurt, the callous cruelness in that - when it is everyone else who gets told they must step away?

"Oh, sometimes its called asking, but what sort of question is it, truly, when it is a question that has only one answer, only one choice.

"Do they realize how hard it is to put a happy face on it, knowing that it is a harsh truth that they never have to face? Do they realize how lucky they are, to never have to worry for their place among those who stand for the Guild? That what they take for granted others cannot even wish for? Do they know what it feels like to be made to realize, that your only value is, to the Guild, that your only value is as a replacement?

Letting out a long long breath, the warlock shook her head.

"Do they even realize how predictable it is, that anyone, everyone, else can watch their chance to step into the depths, to fight with our compatriots, to share our time together, fade away as the hall fills, one by one, by those who have that golden ticket, whose place is a given? How demoralizing it is, to know that it is not a place within the ten who shall venture forth that is being considered, but that the truth is that the competition is only for the one or two places within the ranks of those who position is assured?"

Eyes closed again, red pigtails slipped back and forth.

"It is the way things are, the way they are seen, the way they are perceived.

"And even if it is not actuality, it is a brutal reality.

"Is it a coincidence, that as this ... appearance ... became more and more solidified, those who used to answer the call have vanished to the shadows? They are not as stupid as gnomes, I guess.

"Is it a coincidence, that when things were seen as more fair, as if there were true opportuities to work together, when the make up of an evening's adventures were not set in stone, we found ourselves with enough stalwart warriors than one could shake a pointed stick at, where we could enter the fortress of our enemies in full force.

"I don't know Mezzy."

She leaned against the cold stone, looking then into the fire.

"I like these folks. They are my friends. I want to share these victories, I want to be a part ...

"We used to know how to do that ...

"And I cannot see myself stopping, answering the call to arms, knowing that I am just a replacement, living through the hurt of being told to step down, knowing that is my fate, seeing it come like the fall of dominos, my lack of value to our Guild, time and time again.

"Wishing it could be my choice ... just like it is for them."

Her head ducks, and a foot scuffs across the floor.

"He knows, you know.

"He knows, even though his bones lie scattered in his carven arena.

"Last night, a select few slew Nefarian.

"Yet against Veritas ...

"Nefarian was the victor."

A Call For Heroes

2010-08-30T15:12:00.001-07:00

"Can you hear that? Can you taste it in the air?"

It was dark and the snow swirled in silver drifts. Behind them the jagged spires of His Citadel rose, bitter spines silouetted against the Northrend night. The small warlock looked to her dark companion, the silent Voidwalker her oldest friend.

"It is a call for Heroes ..."

A gentle hand reached up, touching bracers crafted of magic.

"And I am sure Heroes will answer that call. The famous, the infamous, those whose fair hair is so perfectly tossled by the wind, the slice of their blades the cue for a minstrel's song.

"But I can't help but think of sweet Wynilla, of bold Takumi, of fiery Inflagrante, kind Uinen and valiant Gia, and of Chelydra who took a chance on us so long ago when he asked us to join his Veritas family. They may call us common, and we may be, but commoners like ourselves, we are the world's heart, we are its soul. While our names may not be sung in the halls of Stormwind, those who are only do so because upon our shoulders they stand.

"As for us? Its been too many years. We have seen the temples of princes. We have stood beneath the Liche King's throne. But no matter how cold the snow is here, how white it may be ... its never quite right and I can't ignore my heart any longer.

"Mezzy,

"It's time to go home."

Nellisynthia Nellastatia of Kharanos

Somebody's Father

2010-05-24T21:36:00.000-07:00

"No."

Her words were quiet, quiet and soft and final.

The woods were cast in a forever twilight, the warmth of the afternoon sun somehow kept at bay, painting the shadows of cold leaves in far too many shades of gray. They had paused, come to a stop, here in the woods of dusk. A few steps away the great dreadsteed whuffed and paced, the glow from his hooves, the fire of his mane, the only dance of color, reds and saffron, as evening threatened in deep dark pastels through the silk shrouded trees.

"Have we ..."

She spoke in whispers, as one might in that last kind of respect. And as she did she looked down to her closed hand, feeling the bite of metal within. It should have been a cold feeling, the metal against her palm, but she couldn't comprehend it as anything but heart's blood warm.

"Have we forgotten so much Mezzy, in our striving against the Dark, in our holding against the Lich King and his Scourge, against the broken undead? Before the hearths of Valgarde, in the taverns of Valiance Keep, in the great halls Dalaran, they raise their goblets in triumph upon the heralding of our victories in Icecrown Citadel. The toasts ring out bold and strong when frozen bones, accursed sinews and the steel of the walking dead have been sent to their final rest. Have we forgotten, however, exactly what it is we are doing?"

At her shoulder the great Voidwalker kept still. Silent, a swirl of magic and dreams bound by carven metal bracers, it was always hard to determine if he truly heard, if he truly understood. She hoped, and sometimes, sometimes that just had to be enough.

"In Darkshire, in the warmth of their commons, Miss Trelayne is probably lining up the tall pewter steins, the crystal goblets of wine, to speak so well of us, to celebrate the lifting of their curse, for we have just slain the spectre of the undead Mor'Ladim."

Slowly she unfolded her hand, to look down upon the small ring she held.

"Mor'Ladim. A dull echo, a contraction of who he used to be. But someone needs to remember, Mezzy, someone does, that his name was Morgan. That he had a daughter. That her name was Sarah."

"And this is her ring."

The warlock bit her lower lip, as if, as if the slight pain was important, necessary. To remind herself that she was still alive, that she could still feel.

"Have we forgotten, in our lust for victory, in the brutal reality of this snow bound conflict, that the armies of the Scourge were not raised from whole cloth? That they did not spring like sparks from fel fires or fall from the sky like dying stars.

"Have we forgotten that each and every one of them were once one of us?

"That they were once our brothers, they were once our sisters. Daughters and mothers, sons and fathers, our husbands, our wives, our soulmates.

"That the shattered bones that lay at our feet we once called friend."

Slight fingers closed over the slim hoop of metal. Protective.

"I cannot find any reason to celebrate tonight, Mezzy.

"For is this something to be done for glory, for pride and accolades ...

"Or is it last thing we can do for those we have once cared for, because we have no other choice?"

Slowly she turned, to mount her patient dreadsteed.

"Like now.

"To place a simple golden ring upon an ill treated gave.

"To place the token of a daughter's love."

"No."

Her words were quiet, quiet and soft and final.

Gently she lay the paladin's sword upon the paladin's grave, his gift, her reward. Gentle fingers slipped over its silvered carvings, evoking a shimmer of sparkles from the magic held within. Leaving it behind, leaving it at rest.

"There's been enough death for one day."

Atychiphobia

2010-05-24T20:44:00.000-07:00

The sound of surf and ice, the gentle rustle of nets being retied, of hooks and fat blowed up fish buoys being set for the next morrow, these are the sounds of the village as night descends. The glowfish glow, and the hearth in the sunken tavern dances orange and yellow, the occassional pop and snap accenting the white-bound solitude.

Against that, against the welcome of refugees, if two could be alone in that, they were. Small hands rubbed and warmed at the fire. Cobalt and blue shadows swirled at her shoulder, frustrated, talons of dark magic snapping at the air, not understanding and not knowing what to do when there's no Scourge to protect her from, where there's no dragon to be saved.

"What was I supposed to say, Mezzy?"

Teeth pressed her lower lip until it paled as the little warlock hugged herself tight.

"I didn't lie. It's the truth, this is where we rest, and we can easily busy ourselves with the intricacies of walrus mail and the shuffling of our supplies twixt here and Ironforge.

"But how could I tell Mister Chelydra, whose looked out for us all these years ...

"That I just can't figure out what happened, how it could happen ...

"And how broken it feels."

Green eyes closed, tight, a long silence following.

"Do you remember ...

"Do you remember the first time we stepped into Nefarian's castle, into Blackwing Lair, to face the chaos that was Razorgore? When we learned the spirit healer's first name? How long it took, how hard we worked, how absolutely impossible it felt.

"And yet we never gave up.

"Do you remember ...

"Do you remember the blood of Karazhan, that cut us so deep we were torn asunder? And yes, it made things harder, it stumbled us greater than any Naga or Demon Prince ever could.

"And yet we never gave up.

"We did see the Naga fall, her fel schemes broken, we did look down upon a fallen prince in his temple."

Wiping her arm across her eyes the small gnome nodded her head, sure and even.

"Turtles, I've said, always know where they are going. And they might be slow and sure but they never ever stop. No matter what. Sometimes, sometimes I think Master Inflagrante calls forth his words of power not because the hour is late, not because we are tired and worn, but because he knows some of us just won't stop, we'll shake off the blood and the dirt, mend our broken bones and wrap bandages about our arms, and keep on going, knowing that we can triumph and that you can't get there without trying as hard as you can. That's not the question, the only question is when."

A moment, and the warlock steeled herself, as if her own words might cut her like the undead claws or the frost called down by a Liche King's mage.

"And last night, with Her life held by us, with Her calling for our aid ... we left her for bones and sinew, left her for Arthas Menethil to claim her brave soul and raise her shorn of all she cared for into his service. "Not because we lost or were beaten ...

"Because we gave up."

Eyes close tight then, her words colder and as torn as her spell woven armor.

"I could live with losing, having tried and tried and tried. That's how you learn, that's how you temper a blade; and you know, the more difficult it is, the better it feels when you can look to your friends and say not that evil has been slain, but that we ... we ... triumphed. Together.

"I have heard our valiant cohorts speak of Putricide's falling and how bitter a conflict it was. How many times they stood and fell and stood and fell. It has been said that the valiant is proven by hanging on but one minute longer, by trying that one last time.

"They are true heroes."

Eyes close, quiet.

"So what does that make us. Roo and I, You and me, Mezzy?

"Hearing Her cries and turning our backs?

"Are we simply not good enough? Are we the other folk, the not as strong, the not as skilled? That if we cannot fell a foe in a single over powerful blow that the gauntlet is not worth taking up, that it is simply too hard for us?

"I know ... in my head, that can't be true. And I would hope our friends believe in us as much as we believe in them.

"But in my heart, as I listen to the fire snap and try to figure out what happened, that's exactly how it feels."

The warlock looked into the fire for a long, long time.

"Being beaten is bad enough, but being beaten before we even start?

"That's not the Liche King, Mezzy.

"That's us."

Castles in the Sand

2009-08-04T14:21:00.000-07:00

The notice said "The Traitor Jaina Proudmoore" and it was plastered upon the walls of Stormwind, looking to the more traveled markets and commons. It's script was simple, to the point, calling for a meeting but a few days hence, to censure the lady of Theramore Keep. It was proclaimed by one Corporal Breeor, and attracted the attention of a certain gnome warlock and her best blue friend.

“I know … it’s not much.

“A child’s play craft, from happier times, when the hardest decisions were how formal a place to set for the afternoon tea or if Miss Disneri might wish one acorn or two … and for you, remembering not honey or sugar but jam.”

The gnome lass sat upon the cobbles of Stormwind, her dark robes pooled about her, cloaking her in the deepest shades of gray and black. Long ago this fel garb stopped being pristine, no longer fine. Instead they now bore the harsh battering and disturbing stains betraying passage deep into titan halls. What color splashed her this late afternoon came from the wildflowers in her lap. Argent peaceblooms, the deep crimsons of Talandra’s Rose, the sparkle of mana wrought thistles found in the forgotten ramparts above Shattrath.

Beneath the silent gaze of her eldest companion, slender fingers slowly wove the bright flowers together, taking quiet care, teeth catching upon her lower lip as she concentrated. Cobalt and sable with sharp talons forged of ancient magic, the big Voidwalker shifted, his bracers shimmering as they caught the light sifting down past the half timbered buildings, sneaking into her quiet corner.. Protectively he shadowed the gentle warlock, skittish, as if he could feel the unacknowledged darkness hidden within this keep town.

“It’s the path of least effort, Mezzy …

“And that makes it a powerful seduction, powerful enough to send one’s heart racing, to heat blood and temper far past any manner of reason …

“Be it within the halls of Lordaeron or within a city tavern.

“It’s like a castle in the sand …”

There was a moment of silence, as red blossoms were set in their broad circle, accenting the boughs of green which loop in a simple interlaced ring.

“Small buckets and a little shovel, the pat of hands upon damp sand at the surf’s very edge, and if one works, sets their heart into it, come the end of the day a tall and wondrous castle can be set against the beach, with ramparts as proud as those which guard Ironforge, as pretty as the temples in Darnassus, as tall and elegant as the spires of Dalaran.

“And yet …

“All it takes is a handful of heartbeats for a bully’s kick, for strong arm tactics without care or compassion, to shatter those beautifully sculpted towers until there is naught left but memories to be washed away by the roll of the tide.”

Slowly the young gnome turned her work over in her hands.

“It must be intoxicating, to stand over the fallen, to look down and say, I broke that. As if somehow might can determine what is right by the simple course of destruction.

“And yet, even as the sand is washed out to sea, the truth that something good stood, even for a little while, can’t ever be taken away.

“One can’t help but think that makes that manner of victory … empty.

“It doesn’t matter if it’s a castle of sand or one of stone, if it is a kingdom, or a single person.

“It doesn’t matter if it is by sword or words.”

“In the end Mezzy, it’ll never make it right.

Standing, she dusted off her robes, shaking out her deep russet pigtails

“Build a home upon a far away shore … forge a peace with one’s enemies.

“It’s so easy to tear somethin’ down …

“It’s so much harder to put somethin’ together.”

Carefully she hung her playful wreath upon the Stormwind signpost, the bright dance of color covering the notice of one Corporal Breeor.

Accidentally.

Perhaps.

Heroine

2009-01-02T11:22:00.000-08:00

The warlock sat at the edge of the pier, looking out across the frozen sea. It glittered dark, the first hints of the coming dawn casting long shadows through the ice flows, dusting the frozen islands in growing saffron. Behind her, the tusker village was starting to wake, a slow and easy bustle. Kamagua was no great port or merchanter focus. It was small, and she liked that, very much. A place where the most dire threat was a shift in the fish schools, where the skills of a net maker far out weighed those of a swordsmith.

Beside her the great blue Voidwalker too looked out to the dawn. Still, and quiet, his expression inscrutable.

A demon upon a pastoral morning.

"I know ..."

The little warlock tugged a deep red pigtail, her thoughts reaching beyond this quiet place.

"I know everyone says we should move to the city, to be at the center of one's important tasks, to have all the resources of the world at one's fingertips. Eternium thread, smiths to mend armor and blade, where those who stand to fight the Lich King can find us, to send us upon our missives against the cold, frozen dark.

"But I'm not sure."

Green eyes closed, and she hugged herself. Teeth set upon her lower lips they pressed, hard enough to pale them.

"Is it swords and ensorclements, is all it takes to be a hero but strength and skill? Two swords and a crown and a will unstoppable. Is that a hero, Mezzy? Is it some manner of ranking ... as if by some number of scourge-tormented skulls one stacks, if that grim pile gets high enough, one is bestowed such an honor? Is that what forges those upon whom the minstrel sings.

"A dragon's head, a harpy's corpse, ogres and giants slain

"To rise from the dark, unbent and unbroken. To claim what was lost, to stand against the coming night no matter what may be the cost."

Slowly she let out her breath, a puff of frost left in the air. Her eyes opened, looking to the lightening horizon. But perhaps, perhaps they looked farther.

"But I'm not sure."

Tilting her head, she looked back up to her oldest friend.

"It must have been very hard."

Breath caught, held for a long heartbeat before let out.

"For Her."

About the young woman the Kalu'ak were setting their boats to the sea, stacked with their nets, fishing poles rising this way and that in a happy chaos. The coiling of rope was accompanied by deep and low harmonies, a shanty for working to, to greet the coming day. But as she looked to the cold northsea her thoughts couldn't be farther away. Lost in a broken kingdom, where the only water was fel green within dusty stone canals, where there was no sky save vaulted ceilings of grey stone, where the blood of a betrayer seeped into the bitter dust along with shattered bones.

Where death was but a transitory hurt.

"It would have been far easier, Mezzy, to have focused Her magics, to draw down that arcane power in a deadly bolt and strike down that which her companion named as villian and cur. There would have been no one to gainsay such a righteous killing, and I know when returned to Stormwind, She would have been met with cheers and accolades, been proclaimed great among Her kith and kin.

"Named a hero of the Battle of the Undercity, set with the legendary of Stormwind."

"But she didn't chose that path."

There was an imperfect silence. One beat, two, then three.

"There is something out of balance, Mezzy, something I can't quite name, that lurks within this masquerade in which we are trapped. As if one were to pull off those masks of the roles we play one may find the visage exposed lacking.

"And that the true strong ones are the ones who do not wear such masks."

"Be that mask a tabard, a sword ...

"... or a crown."

Small fingers rested upon her new stff, slowly moving up and down its length.

"It must have been hard, Mezzy. To bring down those frozen prisons, to halt that bitter fight. To return a Warchief to his halls. To return a King to his fanciful throne room. Knowing full well the wrath that would follow and the dark words that must now be sneaking like a rogue through Stormwind's halls.

"To find one's self in a place built not of stone or steel or blood but conscience.

"Her decision struck not because it is what everyone knew what should be done ... what one's liegelord proclaimed ... what would bring one the most glory and acclaim ... what should have been the next dance in our masquerade.

"Done simply ...

"... because it was the right thing to do."

Slowly the warlock stood, palms dusting off her robes. A small glance was cast over her shoulder, to the southwest. As if she were looking all the way to Theramore.

"Every morning, we watch the fishing boats go off to sea.

"It's important, Mezzy.

"So that in my heart, each and every day ...

"I know that it is not swords and enscorclements, that it is not two swords and a crown nor how tall a pile of skulls ..."

She couldn't help but smile, as the fish vendor passed her. And what was most important upon his greeting her - not the coin for trade, no matter how beneficial for both - a simple blessing for staying warm against the forever winter.

"... but seal-skin boats. A morning welcome. To make sure the Kala'uk's only worry is which direction the reef salmon are running.

"I know, in the grand scheme of things, it's not very much and we'll never be heroes, Mezzy.

"Not like Miss Jaina.

"But this ...

"This ...

"This is enough for us."

Hero

2009-01-02T11:17:00.000-08:00

Oh Mezzy.

The woods of Elwynn are supposed to be so beautiful.

The sun sifting through the canopy in a golden and green moire, the singsong of the birds carefree upon the warm branches. Even the domestic bustle, the clang of a cowbell, the bark of a dog, the creak of a wagon wheel laden with vegtables market bound, there's a quiet peace in all that. The peace of clothes drying on the line, the softness of a bobber drifting at the end of a fishing line, the whuffle of an old destrier pulling a plow; his days of spurs and barding now but a faded memory.

I can't hear it Mezzy.

Not any more.

I can't taste the hint of apples in the gentle air, the sweet smell of hops and barley. I can't feel the caress of the autumn breeze, that measure of warmth of summers past and the promise of summers to come, the crystal measure of cold, reminding us that winter awaits before us.

Oh Mezzy.

For winter has come early. It is here.

The only thing I can hear are the broken cries of hurt and terror. The only thing I can feel is the cut of steel, the dull ache of that bitter fel miasma, the final heat of cleansing dragon fire. The scent of ash, brimstone and rot choke; there is no deep breath that can be taken, no sweet water that can wash away that taste, no wine potent enough to grant the blurred gift of absolute forgetfulness. I can't close my eyes, afraid of what I might see; black dreams and nightmares pale against the cruel truth that now haunts the borders of Dragonblight.

For I know if I close my eyes I would still see them.

Not just the knights of Stormwind, not just the stone strong of Ironforge, not just the light filled Dranei or the still Kaldorei.

But the children of Gnomergan too.

I never knew her name. But as I looked down the line of rank and file, I saw her. I know she had hair lighter than mine, but tied in the very same pigtails. Her goggles told me she was an engineer, that and how proud she looked standing next to her siege machine. I never knew her name. I should have asked. I should have taken that moment to offer a smile and a greeting.

So that my herald's ride could have come to a close, perhaps at some stone door in Tinkertown, where I could have looked to her mother and her father, unable to offer them anything that could counter such a loss except to tell to them they should be proud; proud of a daughter who had stood in His company.

Somewhere, sometime, behind me, like ripples of a stone in a mirror smooth pond, the other fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters will hear. And that is some manner of solace; knowing that in days upon days, from grandparent to grandchild, they will speak of those who fought with Him; a fragile immortality of lore, that at least some manner of consolation. But the ache is there, the darkest pit, knowing that there must be those who had no family, no kin to remember them, no one to raise a rough wooden goblet in the Thunderbrew in their memory, and yet, they too, stood for a fight for which there was no winning. They may have been alone among Stormwind's many, but that should not, it can not, cast a shadow upon any that fell today.

The shield I carry upon my back is heavy, as if its very weight could press my Dreadsteed's hooves deep into the ground.

I wish ... part of me wishes ... part of me would trade my very breath to have not started that path that lead to Wintergarde and its Scourge bound secrets. Or to have found some way to break that chain that lead to His holdfast. And yet I know in my heart that he understood full well the weight of the words we brought to Him. That they were his to bear, for how could He have given them to another, to ask someone else to take his place, to meet the fate he must have known awaited behind those black steel gates.

I think, I can't help but believe, his bravado, his boldness, there was more to it than simple pride. To call out the Liche King, before his very door, was as much for us as to tempt Arthas Menethil's cold temper. For it stilled the fear in our hearts and bones, which told anyone with even the littlest sense to run. I looked to each side, as those steel jaws opened, as I caught my first sight of frozen armor and the icicle sheen of Frostmourne. You could see that they they knew too, but more ... it wasn't power, it wasn't respect, because both of those qualities can be paid for in the coin of fear, and fear is a very poor leash.

It was trust.

You could trust, that when the world ended, He would be standing there with them, with us.

How could we not offer the same in return?

I can hope, I can wish.

I can wish, that as the final green mist closed in upon him, choking in the betrayal by Varimathras, that he saw a glimpse of the Dragonflight. And just as he stood and did not abandon us, with his fading sight, the stopping of his heart, he knew he had not been abandoned.

And that is why I carried his shield.

Not by griffin, not by some portal carved out of the arcane, by some mage, by some trickery of Dalaran.

But on my back, from the burning wastes and through his country, passing one last time through the forests of Elwynn.

Not abandoned upon that carrion field but homeward bound, one last time.

One last time across that stone bridge, to call witness of the city's elders, their still and carven gaze carrying time's weight, knowing another has come to join their ranks. To hear my Dreadsteed's hoofbeats upon fine paving, to proclaim His arrival louder than any trumpet call and hearing that sound thunder between the buildings and over the familiar canals.

They must have felt it, the importance of my missive, for even the guards at the keep gates stepped aside, as we galloped into the heart of the city. To skitter-skid to a halt before the throne of Stormwind itself; for even a Dreadsteed's hooves are not made for floors of polished marble. You could, however, hear the stone strain and crack beneath their heat, as if marking proof of the fall of Fordragon Hold.

To offer King Varian Wrynn the shield of his sword brother.

How could I have known, Mezzy, of what was to happen next? Am I that naive, am I that silly hopeful, to have sought both wisdom and strength in such a dark hour? Oh I am sure the dark hearted will look upon me as a simpleton. One has but to look at the history of humankind's kings to see how easily pride comes before truth, and how vengence seems to fill their veins.

I expected a call to arms, I am not that silly.

To fell the betrayer that took so many lives at the gates of Icecrown.

Gates beneath which I had heard the challenging growl of orcish war wargs, and it didn't matter that their skin was a different shade then ours. Against the Lich King, upon that field, all were brothers and sisters. Their blood was as red as ours, and the Scourge took them as easily as they swept over our Alliance ranks.

But, of course, I followed His King. A gift of loyalty to honor of those who fell. From Stormwind ...

... into the depths of the Undercity.

There we saw that traitor fall.

And yet, yet, how can I not feel that in the end the only one who held victory in those bloody catacombs is he who rules from a throne of ice?

King Varian Wrynn, how could you have turned against those who came, unbidden, to our aid, upon that Scourge razed stairs?

Or is that why you hate them so?

To strike with accusations of blackened trust, to call for a justice more empty than the scraps of armor smithed in Thunder Bluff; that which now lay beneath Angrathar. Blinded, only seeing the sword as the one true answer, and that scared me, because the last king who followed that broken truth is the very same one He gave his life to stand against.

Is that why you hate them so?

That it was an Orc who stood at His side, against the Lord of Snow and Ice? That when the betrayal came and burned down all, it was Saurfang who stood shoulder to shoulder, Ogrimmar steel beside Stormwind's shield?

Could it be you can not face the question which still echoes from each clip-clop of a Dreadsteed's hooves upon harsh cobbles?

When Stormwind's Hero, when Lord Bolvar Fordragon stood before the Wrathgate ...

Where were you?

Bookends 2

2009-01-02T11:12:00.000-08:00

Dear Belm,

This is all your fault.

She came on your recommendation. A quiet gentle demeanor. Earnest, honest and never has a bad word to say about anyone. Her companions, always well behaved, no chewing on the bedposts or harassing the other patrons. And most importantly, she always, always pays her rent on time.

So yesterday evening I had business down in the Lower City. New tapestries for the private rooms, a few new pillows from the tailors and making sure Rokk had enough Kahliri Stew for our evening meal. I come home, my arms full of my purchases ... already late because the Constructs were tossing some fool Aldor off the upper platform ... only but to find this huge crowd ringing the entrance to my inn - grumbling, pointing, annoyed, growling and more than a few of them trying, trying, trying so hard not to laugh.

And of course, of course, in the eye of this storm, the center of this tempest, who do you think was there?

Her.

You knew this all along, didn't you?

Of course she was all apologetic, head down cast, scuffing her feet across the stone and red carpets. Stupid gnomes, how can you even get angry at something so cute?

This is all your fault, Belm.

You tell me.

What in all the blinding bright days am I going to do about ...

... the pit lord's head ...

... that's now stuck in my front door?

Haelthol

Scyer's Tier

Shattrath City, Terrokar Forest, Outlands

Back in the Thunderbrew Tavern, Belm just couldn't stop laughing.

*********************

Dear Mother,

It is evening now.

Somehow, somehow I always think of you as the sun fades away and the veil of night is cast across the skies. As if it were a time we held together as special. Perhaps we watched the sun set, watched the sky become rich in the colors of the harvest ... watched it slip into the most royal purples and then counted the stars, one by one by one as they braved the dying light to dance for us.

I wish I remembered more.

I am standing on Scyer's Tier. It's in a place called Shattrath, and from here you can look across lands many folks only hear in the songs traded by a minstrel, in the over-blown tales of dragons and fish explained in backwater dramatics in front of a bright tavern and over a bowl of day's travel stew.

The skys are beautiful, in their own way. There are stars too, in constellations unfamiliar and the telling of their stories, their sky scattered history, bright and new.

And the bustle, you would not believe it. And not just the dwarves and humankind that traffic in and out of Ironforge. The proud Tauren folk, the easy-speaking Trolls, the tragic Forsaken and the aloof Sindorei. It is hard to understand why there is such a deep break between us and the Horde when you see them arguing with an innkeeper over the price of a wineskin ... just like you or i might have, but a few hours before.

I miss the snow.

I can't remember what it looks like. I can't remember the image of mountains cloaked in white, of what moonlight looks like when it casts across the drifts and makes them sparkle like fallen diamonds. I can't remember how a wolf howl sounds as it echoes through the tall mountain tops and down into the sheltered vales.

I can't remember the song the pine trees whisper as a midnight breeze sifts through their boughs and needles.

But I can remember how it feels.

How the warmth of a tavern fire against the night's storm and how the sturdy stone walls makes you feel safe. The truth of the slicing wind, through tunic and cloak, so very, very real, reminding you that this is not some dream from which you might one day wake. The quiet of the evening, of hills sheltered in their blanket of white, not something to be heard or seen but felt in one's heart.

I can ... I can remember the feelings.

That I can cherish.

The image, the picture, that is like grey mist on a gray day, lost and gone, leaving only a quiet echo where it had once been.

I wish I could remember what you looked like.

But I can remember what it felt like holding your hand.

And while I can't remember what your smile looked like, I have kept something, something so important to me, to help me remember the care I felt when you smiled.

I know where home is.

I keep your name.

No one can ever take that away from me.

Your daughter,

Nellisynthia Nellastatia of Kharanos

The warlock stood at the edge of the carven rock, looking out across the city. She watched, quiet, as a scrap of parchment drifted away, rising into the star shrouded night.

Caught in the winds, tumbled like a leaf, forever.

Turning, she reached up to touch a cobalt and cold bracer, nodding to her silent companion.

"I'm fine, Mezzy ..."

She smiled, tilting her head.

"Walk with me?"

Bookends 1

2009-01-02T11:05:00.000-08:00

Unto the Lady Maniae Lahrohnshah Alah'dorei

Court of the Sun, Silvermoon City, Eversong Woods

My dear Lady,

Parting, as the minstrels sing, is a bittersweet gem. One that sparkles in one's memory, of what is past and held cherished, of hopeful possibilities of paths crossing again and the unavoidable emptiness of the time between that so definite then and some indefinable future when.

To walk beneath jewel stitched tapestries, through veils as fine as azure moonlight. To smile and nod, eyes bright as the sun, at the pleasantries of wine flavored conversation. A tidbit here, a tidbit there and it of course it really didn't matter what you were saying as much as who you were saying it to.

How can there be shadows in such splendor? When a paladin's polished armor sends rainbows skittering across the grand concourse? How can there be but promise, when whispered conversations over the ritual draining of a mana eel grant alliances and set betrayals far deeper reaching than any garrison chess game?

Oh remember it so well, how can one not? The ballroom floor, the light from untold crystals arcane. The three beat rhythm matching the pace of one's heart as in a grand orchestrated pavane across the polished stone one twirled. Skirts flaring dramatically, hands held formal, chaste, yet still, bound together with chains unspoken as biting as the coldest dark iron.

And knowing that, upon that brilliant waltz, the brightest gem, that, that was how they saw you.

The minstrels, my dear lady, are wrong.

I am no one’s gem.

We shall not meet again.

I am through with glitter and whimsy, my patience for affections finally as empty and dry as the dust which blows through the Thousand Needles.

The world I want to know is real. I want to live in a place where steel cuts and there is blood, and it hurts. It hurts because it is actual, and it can be felt not just in the mind and heart but right to the bone.

I want to be a real person and not an actor in somebody else's play.

I don't want to be you anymore.

Signed,

Maniae Lahrohnshah Alah'dorei

Setting down her pen, she looked at her missive. She held the finely illuminated parchment in her fingers.

And slowly, and studiously, and carefully she watched it shimmer, heard the oh so faint crackling as it became engulfed in a dance of orange, yellow and ash when she held it to the candle.

"Good bye Lady Alah'dorei."

The slender woman turned, arms clasp at the small of her back as she slowly sashayed towards the door. It was a bright rectangle of light saffron, the plains sunlight blurring its jamb, a portrait of possibilities that only needed stepping through. Outside, outside she looked to the side, a smile crossing her contenance as she reached down to pat her patient felhunter between its long and deadly horns. She crouched, skritching the scales of the crimson demon, down across the line of his sharp fanged jaw. The fel beast's tail swished back and forth, scattering through the dandelions to send sparkles of all gray all about in gay abandon.

"... and hello Kree ..

"... who's my pretty girl?"

***********

Melor,

We know the Earthmother holds patience as a virtue, something we should learn and cultivate within ourselves, to maintain both inner and outer peace, to truly understand the harmony of earth, wind, storm and fire.

We also know that the Earthmother does put trials before us, to test out heart and hooves of her teachings. These trials allow us to seek the answers to resolve the strife and discourse found not only in the plains as they reach across the worlds but within our own very hearths.

And then there are times when you just try my patience!

Now, as I consider crossing the camps to beat some sense into that tiny brain of yours with multiple pummelings of my skillet, can I ask you just what in all the rivers and stream just what were you thinking?

No, don't answer that.

You weren't thinking.

Again.

Reach out to our brothers and sisters in the Horde. Just because they don't have horns doesn't mean they can't learn the serenity of our teachings.

That blood elf girl was back.

Dragging the carcass of a big bear behind her.

Now, we all know that's fine. Circle of life and all that, and the bear did need to be put down. That's not the problem.

Of course she rested in my shelter. Bright sparkling drinking water, cool nectar to revive her from her travels. She was quiet, contemplative and even serene. Until she reached into her pack and brought out her midday meal. You would not believe the stampede, the ground slamming, the horn posturing and the earsplitting bellows that exploded when she carefully unwrapped and took a big, healthy bite out of her roasted beast sandwich.

"What?"

She said.

She then looked down to her meal and you could see the dominoes of logic fall into place.

So what was her reply?

"... oh don't be silly ...

" ... it's nobody you know ... "

Melor.

This is all your fault.

In the Earthmother's path,

Paha

Later that afternoon a different sort of bellows was heard in Thunder Bluff.

That of someone running away from an angry innkeeper and her blackened frying pan.

Very fast.

The Coming of Winter

2009-01-02T10:54:00.000-08:00

"Can you feel it, Mezzy?"

The little gnome warlock stood on the stalwart pier. Around her there was bustle and noise. Carpenters still at their craft, teamsters pushing cargo here and there, working as the sun painted the water in fire, scattering sparkles of crimson diamonds against the long shadows of Stormwind Keep. As twilight slipped in on the tide, the clatter of mugs and lighthearted voices could be heard, celebrating the first ship in the new port. True, it was only a sleek caraval from Auberdine, however, it came not as a mundane merchanter but as a herald.

"Oh ... close your eyes. Can't you feel it?"

For the first time in months there was that certain small smile, as she hugged herself. Deep red pigtails were tossled by the offshore breeze, where they peeked out from her tall pointed hat. Playful and light, and without a sound her locks shifted this way and that. Despite the cacaphony about her, this one spot was the calm of the storm, the quiet before a change in the weather.

"It's in the air, Mezzy. That hint of crispness, the echo of a winter's dagger bite in the breeze. You can almost taste it, that freshness, that sharpness, sweeping across the water like a siren. Hear it sing of muffled vales and crystal shards, the warmth of a hearthfire against a fierce night, one's history plainly marked in one's path, clear in a look over one's shoulder ... and ahead, a soft white, like a canvas waiting for it's first brush stroke.

"Oh Mezzy ... there ....

"There is snow ahead.

"... waiting for us."

She was silent then, for a long, long while. Snow. She missed it dearly. Oh, the aeries were beautiful, scuplted stone reaching for the sky, looking down upon a city where Tauren and Kaladorei walked side by side. The dark beauty of Netherstorm, patterened in the frail magenta of mana or the broken spires of Blades Edge Mountains, a jambles that looked as dangerous as it was. In all it's harsh beauty, however, it could not replace the white sloped mountains where she grew up, the hush of snow clad pines, or glitter of icicles in moonlight.

And yet ...

"Remember when we first came here, Mezzy?"

She looked up to the big Voidwalker, tugging on a pigtail, a habit when untangling conflicting thoughts.

"To step through a portal dark into a new world. To see ... that which we had never before. When each step was new and what was around the next bend was not yet familiar. I still remember the first time I set foot in the mansion of Karazhan, to touch a story that shook our world. To discern the fell schemings of Lady Vashj and her minions in the swamps of Zangarmarsh ... or our work to win the favor of the Netherwing, and thus gain a new ally in our travels.

"And when we board our ship, it will be with a blade crafted in the shadow of Magister's Terrace."

A gentle chuckle, a gentle smile slipped across her features.

"But in the end, Mezzy, they are just trinkets. Bits of metal that I am sure will be boxed in a closet many leagues away , as we take our path from this pier.

"What can't be replaced, however ...

"The meeting of a young mage named Chardonnay, as she walked in her paladin's shadow. The proud grin the day she drew on our Veritas tabard for the first time. Her bright voice against the darkness, a compatriot in times good and bad.

"Old friends, like Miss Vamira and Ellundus, standing with us, and it didn't matter that Nightbane was dead and the mansion's halls were now empty of all that was foul, but that it was all of us who did it, together.

"Seeing Cathela step out and dust her armor off, where but a moment before there had been nothing but a cloud of turmoil; more orcs than I could count and that big draconid too.

"A single vial of wizard's oil in the bank. Not because it's needed or not because it's forgotten ... but because it was crafted by Crestfall before the storms took him away from us.

"Crossing our fingers as valiant Cloudstryder vanishes under a mountain of abominations ... because we know exactly where they will turn if he falls."

Rubbing a tear on her robes, she couldn't help but chuckle at that.

"Wynilla's infinite patience for a gnome who needs a zillion flasks made."

Green eyes closed again. Silent for a heartbeat, until she opened them again.

"From the caverns of the Naga, to the the halls of Illidan, to the council chamber of Kael'Thras; when we stood beside Jaina Proudmoore against the Scourge.

"It's not the getting there that matters, Mezzy. That's not worth a single copper coin. It's the journey itself, Mezzy, the journey we make and more importantly, those we share it with."

"Eventually, when we stand upon the foreign shores, look over our shoulders to follow our path back through the snows of Northrend, those foot prints will lead us here, to this pier. Waiting for our ship, tasting the hint of snow in the air. In a few handful days, we will say good bye to Haelthol upon the Aerie, he will wish us well, and we will thank him.

"How could we not? How could we not cherish what we leave behind? To not ... would hold ourselves, our actions, with no more worth than a chipped goblet abandoned."

The warlock looked up, to her oldest friend. The Voidwalker was quiet, as befitted his nature; the only constant in her ever changing world.

"We do not hold ourselves so cheaply."

Portions of a Soul

2009-01-02T10:45:00.000-08:00

All that glitters ...

She held the glittering crystal in her hand, gently turning it over and over again in her fingers. The soft purple light shimmered in its depths, sending sparkles dancing across the room like amethyst fireflies.

"It's a soul shard, Mezzy."

The little warlock nodded once, casting a glance to her silent companion. Her head tilted, as if listening to some unspoken response.

"That's right ... it's a shard ... a piece, a fragment, a sliver ... a portion of a person's soul."

She handled the gem with care, a dark gem, a tool of her trade, but never something to be taken for granted.

"I don't know Mezzy. I leave that for the clergy in Stormwind, the monks in Exodar. But this ... this I know. Pieces of a life.

"I think, I think maybe there's a reason why a soul can only be shattered. There must be, else somewhere some warlock would have figured how to rip a soul out whole by now.

"But maybe, just maybe, it is why the priests can draw us back from the spirit plane, how Lady Prestor can claw her way back from beneath her bog bound mountain.

"Perhaps the strongest of magics, the shaprest talon, the brightest sword, they can only shear away a shard of a soul. Just a piece, the thinnest of slices. And that as long as that last sliver is not taken from you the priests have something to bring you back with, you have a beacon to guide your way back from the spirit realm, an anchor to your life.

"It is when that last fragment is finally torn from you ... that is when you pass from here never to return."

The little warlock was quiet for a long while at that.

"No Mezzy. I'm not planning on that for a long while, and I would hope I would trade that last part of me for something dear.

"But it would explain a lot. Why some people get meaner when they get older ... why some are more easily tempted by the dark, are more apt to be tempted by the path of madness as they rise in power.

"For to stay true against the slow loss of one's soul, bit by bit, piece by piece ... shard by shard ...

"It must take a tremendous heart."

The Tailor's Daughter

2009-01-02T10:43:00.001-08:00

"Ouch ..."

The little gnome looked down at her needle pricked thumb, raising it to her lips to help banish the pain with a so domestic kiss. A brow raised, as she retrieved her traitorous needle and once again set to the task at hand. Carefully she embroidered, weaving threads laced with the deep mana highlights of a spell wrought pattern.

"They say my father was a tailor, Mezzy ..."

Fingers smoothed the cloth, the touch gentle, slow and even. In and out, through the material the fine thread was weaved.

"I ... I don't remember much of Father. I can't ...can't even remember the color of his eyes, the shape of his face, the sound of his laughter."

The young woman paused in her work, raising it before her, turning it this way and that before returning it to her lap.

"It's mostly just impressions, if I close my eyes and try real hard I can remember how it felt, of belonging, of his warmth, of being cared for ... of knowing no matter how cruel the winter wind bit that I could never be cold beneath his cloak."

She smiled quietly, eyes closing, for a heartbeat or two.

"I'd hope ... I hope he'd be proud of me ...

"I'd hope ... I hope he'd smile, seeing us walk through the soft white snow drifts of home."

Next to her the little lamp flickered, casting its crystal light in a gentle sphere, keeping the night at bay.

"I wish ... I wish I could remember. It's like an emptiness, Mezzy, like a leaf falling in Azshara, caught on the breeze, tossed wherever the fates choose, adrift ... alone."

"Mezzy ..."

The little warlock looked up, her smile to the great blue voidwalker small, so small, but honest, true.

"But when I sit here, deep in the night, with needle and thread, as he must have, beneath the stars of Kharanos on a quiet night, I know one thing, I know one thing in my heart, one little truth against the darkness."

A breath, gentle.

"I am his daughter."

Do You Remember?

2009-01-02T10:32:00.000-08:00

"Do I remember?"

The short warlock stood at the very edge of the aerie, looking out across the hustle and bustle of Shattrath. She rubbed one arm with her hand, still a touch sore from their latest dark venturings, rescuing Akama from his bindings, deep in Illidan's Temple.

"Of course I do."

She could help but smile, eyes closing for a moment. And for that moment, that heartbeat, it could have been then again. Upon those green hills, the air crisp, the sound of the water cascading over the Stonewrought Dam a low and constant grumble, like a dragon snoring in its sleep.

"I was always one who went places before I should. But how could one not? Everything was new, and even the smallest of dangers was something to be reckoned with. Oh I know, folks look back now and laugh, they shake their head with a knowing smile ... forgetting that, even for them, there was a time when even the smallest of critters was a potential trip to the spirit healers.

"You no take candle ..."

Small shoulders shrugged, rustling her warlocky robes.

"You know, to this day, I have no idea why he thought I'd even want his candle! It was just a candle ... they sell them by the ramload down in Thelsamar. Maybe it had some particular importance to him ... a symbol of rank, some rite of koboldish passage, or maybe he had had that candle ever since he was a ... uhm ... ah .. very small Kobold?

"You no take candle ..."

She shook her head, deep red pigtails swaying back and forth.

"We had just met, you and I, finally. And we were where we really didn't belong. And still learning about each other ...

"They ALL had candles they didn't want me to take. And all at once ... one got annoyed and then another and onother and it was like I had jostled a den of badgers and the whole herd of them wanted to bite at me. It looked like another visit to that really pretty lady down at the cemetary ...

"And then you were there.

"Between me and them.

"Protecting me."

"Do I remember?"

Smiling, the warlock reached up, to touch bracers of gold and bluesteel, wrought with magic and dreams. She nodded to her companion, the big blue voidwalker.

"Of course I remember.

"That's when I knew we'd be best friends for life."

A Quiet Night in Kharanos

2009-01-02T09:59:00.000-08:00

A puff of breath frosted in the air.

The soft colored lights of the Thunderbrew Tavern sent swaths of red and blue across the white show banks, adding a shimmer of ruby and sapphire to the silver sparkle of the winter's moonlight.

Inside, the happy voices, they echoed with the clink of ceramic mugs and polished drinking horns, the clatter of trays upon the wooden tables, the crackle of the fire in the hearth.

The little warlock was most comfortable, here, on the porch. Both hands wrapped her own cup, stealing the warmth of the camoline tea, smiling as the subtle scent drifted in the evening's breeze. Mister Inflagrante suggested she try the tea, and it was a kind suggestion.

And inside, the voice of her Guildmaster, Chelydra, could be heard weaving its way through the revelers. Of course Miss Vamira was there, probably dancing with her husband Ellundus ... well either that or hooting ... yes,that was most certainly a hoot ... followed of course by the children's giggles and laughter too, her moonkin dance could bring a smile to even the hardest of hearts. How could you count them all ... Miss Wynilla and Miss Addiena ... so many times she would have been spirit plain bound without them ... Miss Uinen and young Gwyne, the best healers between here and the heavens. And there, teasing always, poor Master Chelydra ... that was the fiery Miss Sethlenara ...

The little warlock couldn't help but giggle.

They already sound like a married couple.

But truth ... when it came to lockery ... Miss Seth ... mistress of curses, Kurby - who knew more about the craft than even she, and Zyvier, so fast and sure ... Miss Abmerlenia and Miss Menew and of course that fel named Darkterror, who followed in her schooling ... well one couldn't ask for a better coven of alliance warlocks ...

She took a sip of her tea and shook her head.

And it wasn't a dragon hunt or to once again cripple Nefarian in his lair, until Bromoran came a'looking for his healthstone. Vernatir strong, and one can never, never ever overlook Miss Xastra. Especially when that awful Skeram took her over and she bopped you with that big sword of hers.

And few mages fought ever like Mystere or were as soft spoken as Starlinus ... and poor poor Ra ... it must be very hard being Mister Anubas' kitten ... though Nilos could have found a smarter snake ....

Mcaplan ... stalwart Cloudstryder ... and the pretty Miss Leah with her bright holy armor and sure Logangrimnar, always lookin' out for her ... and mister Alexlight, he always knew just where to find her when things went wrong and from the spirit realm she needed to be returned.

Leaning a shoulder on the stone, she slowly closed her eyes.

It is strange, having a family. So many names, and in a nights revelry, of course someone's forgotten ... not named, but held in ones heart, for sure.

And somewhere out there, as alone as her, Fubuki walked beneath the trees. At least, if he looked to the night skies, they were both looking at the same stars. That they still shared, no matter how much time or how many leagues kept apart.

Those to whom she could never speak, too much blood, to sharp an edge, too much a misguided politic ... how could she even think of a troll minstrel ... an orc tailor ... as her enemy?

Slowly raising her eyes, she swallowed. A sip of her tea then, a moment of quiet silence, a heartbeat of stillness.

For those lost.

Miss Freyara and Jellypeppy ... paths never to be crossed again.

Vanished like snowflake caught for a moment in the palm of your hand.

The tea was finished, and carefully the lil' warlock set it down upon the granite carven railing.

"You will never leave me, will you?"

A simple question. It didn't need an answer.

She looked to the side, a gentle glance upwards.

Her protector matched the midnight sky, a swirl of cobalt, magic and dreams ...

"Walk with me?"

Side by side.

As the sounds of the winter's revelry faded in the night, the stars alone bore witness.

To Nellisynthia leaving small footprints in the gentle powder.

Her best friend didn't.

Nellisynthia's Choice

2009-01-02T07:20:00.000-08:00

Choice.

A path lain straight and true. Dominoes set, a chain of events as sure as shadow and light, from the simple snow banks of Kharanos to these cyclopedian Outland halls. Gifts offered, each task a facade against strategies set forth from the shattering of wells to opening of portals dark.

A siren's call, seductive.

Such that even the most innocent would end here, as those last dominoes fell, in these rooms, to witness the final truth.

Fire and demons.

Theirs, and that way it had been always.

How could there be any other choice?

Darkness led that way, that and oblivion. Forgotten, forever, as if never upon the world had walked, the last discounting of a young life shown but empty.

And a breath away ... destiny.

Power.

Life.

Held out.

Offered.

Choice.

How could she have chosen different? How could she have trusted? How could she give so much away?

How could she have known?

How could she have known upon the slice of cruel steel, the splash of crimson, the shearing of flesh and breath, would come the final madness of bindings shattered, chains snapped like falling ice, bands of power loosed with the crashing of a failing heart, knees in a pool of blood, in the ending of a song.

How could three little words change so much?

The Fel Lord of the Legion never had a heartbeat to consider such a philisophical discource.

As the chains held no more.

As cobalt talons of magic and dreams tore him apart.

"We are free, Mezzy."

Twilight, beneath the stars, where the wind whipped across the top of the white hills, frost of white tossed up like fog, where the pines seemed to cry against the growing night. Disneri hugged herself, the succubus' wings folding over her. She felt ... cold.

That was new.

She looked to the side, where the tall voidwalker waited. She tilted her head, sultry eyes watching her brother, silouetted against the night. She wasn't sure he understood. You could never tell with Mezznuz, always silent, and when he did speak, words so few.

"It means we don't have to go back. Ever.

"We don't have to answer anybody's call or summons.

"No one, Mezzy. No one."

She wasn't sure she understood either. Oh, the physics were sound, the mechanics of a machine broken known, cogs now loose beneath the stars.

How could anyone have given them such a gift?

But their Mistress did.

Her arms tightened about her, suddenly cold again.

"Oh Mezzy ..."

Disneri turned, hearing the voidwalker's call across the valley, hearing it echo between the mountain peaks. Caught then, and in her pretty tummy there was a twisting she had never felt before, as if she had not eaten for a handful of lifetimes.

"Oh Mezzy ..."

Fine fingers reached out. To lay upon bracers carved of metal. It always seemed to bring a touch of quiet to her darker sibling, when Mistress did that. She wasn't sure why, but she knew it was important.

"Oh Mezzy ...

"She's gone."

She had to look away then. She couldn't meet his gaze, couldn't look into the demon's eyes.

"I know ..."

Her words were quiet, whispered, as she caught her breath, her sharp fangs pressing into her lower lip, whitening them.

"I know ... she never ... she never gave up on us."

The succubus looked across the snows for a long while, as the fall of silver moonlight sparkled them as if strewn by diamonds. The strange thing was, she contemplated, Mezznuz was right. Never. And if that was true, how could they? She cast a low sidelongs glance, looking back into the dark beside her. It couldn't be done. It was a fight that had no winning.

But Mistress said, sometimes, sometimes, those were the only fights worth taking up.

She took a second long look at her brother, trying, trying to see.

A fight that had no winning.

Just like teaching a voidwalker the meaning of love.

Shivering, she managed a small smile.

"Come on Mezzy ..."

" ... we got work to do."

That's what Mistress always said.

Footpints in the snow, cloven, lead through the white fields. No longer running from, but a running to. They were demons. Immortal. Clever.

Disneri figured they had all the time in the world to conjure this one out.

Mezzy at her side. Pizyap already ahead, the imp complaining in a stream of demonic asking why they were taking so long.

Left in their wake, the crimson felhunter nosed in the snow for a bit, the simple demon temporarily distracted, unable to truly comprehend what was wrong, what was missing. Zhaatom looked up, and was about to push through the snow to follow when a splash of yellow caught her attention. So carefully she reached out, and with fangs designed for slashing and tearing delicately snared up the little flower. Holding it carefully between her teeth, the felhunter bounded happily through the drifting snow to catch up to her family.

A peacebloom.

They had always made Mistress smile.

A Song For Vamira

2009-01-02T07:17:00.000-08:00

"I don't know, Mezzy ..."

Quiet and still, she stood in the shadow of the stone entry. As always it was a bustle, patrons running in and out, the traffic in and out of aerie never ending, beneath the Outland sun, beneath the unfamiliar stars. And it was worse than the teeth of a dragon, worse than the cut of steel, the not knowing what was the right thing to do, where to find what to say that would make the hurt go away.

"Sometimes ... sometimes there are no wise words, no swordstroke that can cut true."

Shattrath sprawled beneath her - even the aerie was bigger than her far off home, circles alongside circles, terraces rising from the forest floor all the way to the sky. But tonight her world was small, just the shadow of the tavern porch. She stood in her protector's shadow. She was lucky, she always had Mezzy. He was honest, true, dependable.

She had to close her eyes.

How could she explain this? Were there even Eredar words to form even half a sentence, a hint of a thought?

Or would it be as impossible as trying to explain that true value is not measured in coin to one who refuses to acknowledge anything that is not the color of gold?

She had to try though.

This was important.

Because, for once, they were not alone.

She had to look away, eyes closing, teeth caught upon her lip. But she couldn't stay away, let it drift in the wind like an Azsharan leaf. But even more, she had to turn back, take a few steps forward, her words quiet, gentle and true. She spoke because she had to, against that which would gladly use silence as a shield of false legitimacy.

"I cannot forget the second time we met.

"A call from nowhere, unexpected.

"It was home, but a stone's throw away. I had helped there, when I first crossed the Kharanos vale, because the ranchers were nice. But it was my skills that were needed, to bring forth a dwarven warrior from afar. To watch the expression on his face when you gifted him his fine and strong ram. Seeing that it was not simply a token, but something shared. I saw your face, the smile ... and there was no gold that could be traded for that. Somehow, even me then, I ... I was suddenly part of something special, worth more than just the summons, more than just a livery hack.

"That ...

"That was when I knew ... this place, this was where I wanted to be.

"That I had not found a guild. I had found a home."

A touch, so light, of small fingers.

"They say I'm stupid, and they might be right.

"But you know, it doesn't matter. Because I know I am not alone. There are things more important depth of the blood upon the stones or who gets to carry home a head that we haven't even shorn yet."

"It may just be a simple choice."

She looked up to the stars, trying to read their pattern, divine their meaning. But then she just shook her head. That was foolish, as if some coin could be grabbed from them. They were pretty. They didn't have to be anything else.

"In this life you can be oh so smart, you can have that shiny sword, have that list of kills taller than you ...

"Or you can understand compassion ... and your treasures will be those who you share this path with.

"In a short, very short time, that sword will be chipped, it will rust, it will be forgotten and the person who carried it even more so, no more than a footnote in a Shattrath census.

"The latter ... they will never lose their value.

"Those you will hold dear forever.

The Burning Crusade

2009-01-02T07:08:00.000-08:00

"It's beautiful ..."

Quiet words, spoken beneath a forever night. The blue gray stone, the whisps of fuschia drifting upwards and then shimmering in fragile filaments of light. Stars, so unfamiliar, broken and scattered, a touch of chaas still new enough in memory that constellations had not yet been drawn forth, no stories and heroes written in the arc of the netherstorm zenith.

Quiet, the little gnome rubbed the cuffs of her dark over-tunic. It's edges were frayed, worn, a comfortable friend having seen so much together. Not at all like the fanciness that she had seen, watching others pass through the crowded by ways of Shattrath's lowest circles.

Once, when she was resting, sitting back against the cast stone, as she tying up her tossled hair with a pair of light leather bands a passing warlock in his fancy robes and glittering sword dropped a handful of coins in her hat and then was gone before she could even blink in protest.

And too poor to turn the coin aside.

"I know, Mezzy ... "

She swallowed, quiet, hugging herself.

They were alone, just the two of them. Their only company the shadows cast by otherworld stars.

"It's beautiful ..."

"And it's broken."

Crouching down, for a moment, for two, she gathered up a handful of pebbles, stones and crystal shivers, a microcosm of the shattering of the Outlands; each realm but a jagged splinter of a world, a fragment of what once was.

"It's like a pretty vase that's been smashed, maybe not even any one's fault, I guess. Holdin' somethin' treasured. Now, now you can take horse-glue and string and put the vase back together again, find all the missing pieces and put them in place in a careful jigsaw.

"But ... but can it ever be the same?"

A tremor rippled through her small frame, her expression hidden beneath the wide band of her warlock's hat.

"I don't know Mezzy, I don't know.

"I mean ..."

She turned her head to face her oldest friend, shivering as if it were midnight of a Kharanos winter.

"Among all the other broken shards and splintered dreams, I now have someone, once a dear and respected friend, who now won't even speak to me any more, who sees me and walks on by, walks on by and out, to be anywhere except where I am.

"What sort of glue can mend that manner of fracture, Mezzy?"

Looking down again, she considers the bits and pieces of broken world held in her hands.

"It's hard to say, it's hard to explain, the right words never come easy, and it's as if to even speak them is to simply be accused of being the fault of it, and thus discounted and set apart."

"Especially to someone who can't see it because they are on the other side of the shop window"

She spread her fingers, watching the dusty remmnants sift through, blown away upon a mana heavy breeze.

"I know what he said, and his words are real, the way things are, so much very much so ...

"I doubt even he realizes how right they are deep they cut, how cold they slice, that sword of truth."

Soft eyes closed, teeth pressed upon her lower lip, hard enough to turn rose lips white.

"Remember how it was, when we first strove and explore the world about us ...

"That's what he said, to look back to those times."

On the empty plains of of broken stone and shattered crystals, the quiet haunted.

"But ...

"But I do ... I do remember ..."

Shoulders rose, they fell, a slow philosophic gesture.

"Wonderin' what it was like to belong. Wonderin' what it was like to sit at the table with other folks and not hoping for a chance leftover, what it would be like to have a setting of one's own and not simply offered when the chair's proper occupant was off upon some unspoken endeavor.

"Hating the asking and asking and asking ... feeling each twist of the stomach when having no choice but to beg ... how heavy the emptiness tolls when even those requests return but silence.

"Trying so hard not to seem ungrateful or dependent on those whose paths ours did cross, and did help when things became hard.

"Being told by those who did travel in those lucky circles that all was well and we should be happy."

The empty stone plains echoed, as the dark voidwalker bared his talons, firce, protective, his feral roar fierce.

"No, Mezzy, it's not a thing you can protect me from with talons and magics."

"Maybe they are right, Mezzy, and maybe I am wrong. I don't know ... I don't know anything anymore, it seems."

She hugged herself even tighter, stepping into the voidwalkers shelter. One she knew she could always find.

"Except, Mezzy, that it is so true.

"That it is the same as it used to be ...

"It is so true it hurts."

The Cost of Karazhan

2009-01-02T07:05:00.000-08:00

"Fourteen ninety-seven ... fourteen ninety-eight ... fourteen ninety-nine ...

"Fifteen hundred ..."

Teeth set upon her lower lip, the small gnome nodded. Once. She looked down at the perfect stacks of gold coins, carefully set out on the floor. She sat, feet tucked beneath her, letting out a small sigh.

"Well Mezzy, at least we are back where we were a few weeks ago ...

"That's not bad I guess. Still about five hundred or so from where we were."

Carefully setting the bulk of it aside, she counted a handful more coin.

"That's for the smith, and that's for makin' sure our canteen is filled ... a little bit more here and there I guess. Black smith's doing good, ever since we started climbing the stairs into the highest parts of Karazhan.

"It's been awful expensive ..."

"Awful expensive."

She turned her head, looking sideways up to her companion. the big blue voidwalker just looked down upon the small tableu, and did not speak a word.

But the silence was heavy, louder than any shaouted accusation.

"I know, Mezzy ..."

Her head ducked, deep crimson bangs veiling her eyes.

"I don't think there can ever be enough coin ... "

The warlock's gaze returned to the pretty piles of saffron, sparkling in the soft Shattrah moonlight, high up in the Scryer's aerie. One heartbeat and then two, and all it took was the sweep of a small hand to dash the treasury to the four winds - coins skipping and clattering, until the last one rattled and spun, the empty sound of a metal disc slowly spinning to rest upon the cold stone.

"I don't understand, Mezzy ...

"When did we forget?"

Her arms wrapped tight about herself, as if to ward off the cold.

"I can remember, that first evening. I ... I still wore the Chiarascuro tabard then. Asked, from out of nowhere, to help bring a young dwarf to the Amberstill ranch. And then, then the look on his face when Mister Ellundus and Miss Vamira - they weren't married yet - told him to chose one of the big fluffy riding rams."

"That was very special. That was Veritas."

Reaching out, she picked up one of the scattered coins. She lifted it, turning it over in her fingers contemplatively.

"And now ...

"A few nights ago someone did all but cut Miss Sethlenara open. Called her misguilded and treated her like she was some selfish child who didn't know any better.

"Miss Sethlenara.

"That if she did not change her ways to fit some sort of stereotypical view of how someone else thought things should be, then it would be all her fault for all that went wrong when facing one of Karazhan's lords."

The little demonologist's fingers curled into a small fist.

"Is that what we have become? Just a cartoonish facade with numbers and rankings and calculations attached, that the drive to Karazhan, to Gruul, to Lady Vasj and to the Black Temple, the taking of heads somehow so seductive, so powerful, that it is acceptable to look down and mistreat one of our own to undertake that path?"

Teeth pressed upon her lower lip, turning pink to white.

"Not to mention the fact that the condescending one wasn't experienced enough to realize they didn't know what they were talking about at all - and that the stereotype they were professing was simply the fashion of the hour, somethin' that changes faster than hat styles in Darnassus. I don't think they even realized that the first of us warlocks to battle all the way through Karazhan, that he was schooled just like Miss Seth.

"But that's not the point, Mezzy.

"Mister Chelydra has made it plainly clear ... Veritas has never been about rigid rankings at all. And he's been proven right, time and time again - the fact that we know how we are schooled, enjoy that schoolin' ... well we do tend to do better than those who whom simply strive for some abstract calculations of talents. Of those who focus upon gear above teamwork.

"But that's not the point, Mezzy.

"It ain't.

"The thing I don't understand ...

"Why did that person have to make Miss Sethlenara feel bad? What need was that? What purpose? It served nothing but to drive a sword between her and all of us. I can't imagine few victories more empty."

Finally lifting her head, the warlock looked across into the dark.

"I know ...

"I too have climbed the broken stairs to stand before the shade of Aran, have seen him returned to the spirit plane where he belongs.

"And yet ... I don't know how to feel about that. I am very honored to be able to fight next to my guildmates, and I am giving my all to stand true to them. And yet ... and yet ... when I look over my shoulder I can't help but to feel a twisting in my tummy, knowing that this opportunity is is a treasure - and there are those who have been left behind.

"And I know what that feels like.

"I know what it is like to hear the harsh words spoken, that it must be this way, and if it doesn't work for you, well ... okay, thanks, bye.

"To hear that those left behind are valued only as replacements for those who do strive within Karazhan. Are they then children who should be happy with the hopes of table scraps?

"I don't think they understand.

"It's not something as simple as not being able to find folks to explore the wings of Tempest Keep, it's not the selfish desire to walk away with the treasures of the Shattered Halls, or to be able to hang Vorpil's head upon one's mantle piece.

"There is a very important difference ...

"It's not walking those shadowed halls, its who you are walking those halls with.

"To be able to participate, to be able to truly feel that they too are part of Veritas."

She looked at the image of the gold disc.

"He was wrong you know. We aren't losing those whose only goals are to visit those dark places. Folks like that, well, to tell the truth, are not the type who would be bothered at all by this, who can't see beyond this scrap of stamped metal.

"The ones we are losing are the nice folks, the ones who walked with us for the camraderie."

"In the end Mezzy, this is just a piece of metal."

Once again she turned it over, looking upon it as if it were some odd object, a bit of broken gear whose siren's call she just didn't understand.

"Coins and bits of pieces of armor ...

"Coins and the last breath of a ghostly knight ...

"Or does the shade of Medivh truly have the last laugh and while we may take down his chess piece warlord, we have given ourselves less value than pawns in a game of our own making?"

The silence is heavy, for a moment all is still.

When she turned to her oldest friend, barely above a whisper were her words.

"When but one of those we said we cared for become but memories more haunting than any ghost ...

"When but one of those we said we cared for and then caught in our path been hurt ...

"Then, Mezzy ...

"Then ...

"Has not the cost of Karazhan become too dear?"

Truly

2009-01-02T06:59:00.000-08:00

Confusion.

That she could end.

It'd be so simple.

Disneri knew Their Law and the Way Things Were To Be. The Legion's child, from pointed horns to shreddings of leathery wings to polished cloven hooves.

Sorrow she knew well.

Beauty and trust.

Why had Mistress shown her them?

She didn't like not understanding. But she could deal with that, answer Their calling and with a coil of black leather so effortlessly strangle the last breath from her Mistress.

Then why did what Mistress say scare her so?

"Dissy, what if things aren’t the way They say they are?"

Nelli's Odyssey

2009-01-02T06:55:00.001-08:00

Tell me, O muse, of that ingenious hero who travelled far and wide ...

" ... we know how the story will end, don't we Mezzy."

It was quiet, there in the shadows.

So late it was that the room hearth was banked, the only illumination the hint of orange coals, the frail light ending at the edge of the fire's warmth. The dull glow cast the rest of the room in the darkest shade of shifting grays. The two conversed so quietly, each word precious and guarded. True, it was the little warlock who did most of the talking, all wrapped up in her blankets. She sat, however, propped up against the headboard, arms lain upon her lap, atop a package of wood and silk so carefully set there.

The tall voidwaker melted into the shifting shadows, the flash of his talons, the glitter of his heavy bracers like glimpses of starlight. Beside her, he stood, for now silent, a cobalt swirling of magic and dreams.

"I know.

"Why ... why go on, when the end is known, that we shall one day reach it, like a dreamer waking, to find the truth lain out, the trap sprung ... the chain of dominoes having finally reached their predestined end?"

Soft eyes looked up, trying to find the words, to explain such a subtle concept to a demon.

To her best friend.

"We know we are not stronger than the Legion, and that one day we will fall beneath them.

"There are some who would romaticize that. Dying for the Light or something like that ... the songs minstrels sing of fallen heros ... of Malfurion and Tyrande ..."

Her glance fell low, to where her hands rested.

" .. of Medivh."

Silent for a long moment, a forever set of heartbeats, it took a long while for her to be able to raise her head.

"Come the end Mezzy ... I am not sure that is important. It is not that finality that matters, not that last call.

"It's ... it's the path we take to get there.

"Who we are, what we ... how we meet that final nightfall, what will make all the difference in all the worlds, form our own truth between shadow and fire, is the path we take to get there.

"The journey is where our choices are made; our history is sculpted in the people we meet, in the lives we effect, in how we meet the challenges and temptations the Legion places before us. It is not the end that is the sum of our lives here upon Azeroth ... but each day, traveled one at a time, like a sailor making his way home, that is the whole of our lives.

"A sword, Mezzy ... a sword is but a piece of lifeles metal. A staff but a length of wood, bits of cloth."

Her gaze fell again, fingers slowly tracing the outline of the gift.

"Until it is taken up ... to travel upon a road from somewhen to somewhere and it is what happens along that path, the person whom it chooses to accompany - by chance or fate or machination - that is where it becomes more than just a piece of smithcraft and metalurgy."

Shoulders shrugged, a gentle contemplative motion.

"In some ways, Mezzy, folks are very much like that.

"We may be forged with potential, pawns upon a great gaming board. But it is what we do each day that tempers us, the people we meet, the people we care for ... that forms the play of this dangerous game.

"You and me, Mezzy?"

"I think our journey ....

"I think it might be just begining.

"I wonder where it will take us?"

Carefully wrapping the shattered haft of wood in deep blue silk, each motion of her small hands were soft and precise. As if it is more than just broken wood she covered, as if she could not help but understand the weight of time and lives that lay heavy upon the quiet night.

The young warlock resettled the package carefully in her lap, folding her hands upon it. Her eyes slowly closed, beneath her voidwalker's protective watch. To sleep, and maybe, also to dream.

The first step of her own odyssey.

A Splinter of Atiesh.

... dreams surely are difficult, confusing, and not everything in them is brought to pass for mankind. For fleeting dreams have two gates: one is fashioned of horn and one of ivory. Those which pass through the one of sawn ivory are deceptive, bringing tidings which come to nought, but those which issue from the one of polished horn bring true results when a mortal sees them ...

Homer

Partings

2009-01-02T06:50:00.000-08:00

Above, like the whispers of a dream, the bright sounds of the tavern slipped down the stair like a quiet kitten. The crackle of the hearthfire, the murmurs of conversations, no words intelligible, just the hint of personal traffic, the banter of back and forth over a warm bowl of stew, the occassional clink of pottery mugs touched in toast.

" ... it's ... it's hard to explain Mezzy."

The little warlock sat on the edge of her bed. In her lap was a pretty green stone and it sparkled with magic. Healing magic, something ... something constructive in a world crafted of conflict and blood.

" ... Mezzy ... there are some hurts that can't be fixed by any sort magic.

"No matter how many emerald stones we can craft.

"They cut deep ... deeper than any sword, into that abyss beyond the spirit plane from which there is no return."

Silence crept in like a thief.

"He ain't comin back, Mezzy."

For a long moment the little gnome lass looked into the room's small corner fire, watching the orange flames flicker and dance, the glow of the coals. Listening to the wood pop and snap, and wondering why she just could not feel its warmth tonight.

"It doesn't mean ..."

She looked back to her cobalt companion, her protector, wondering how much of anything the big voidwalker really understood.

But she had to try.

"It doesn't mean there ain't nothing we can do."

She managed a small smile, looking back through ragged bangs.

"We'll always remember him.

"And when Mister Ellundus and Miss Vamira tell their daughter of the grand adventures deep into the fires of Blackrock Mountain, right to Ragnoros himself ... or striving against Lady Prestor as she wakes from her deadly slumber ... or when we finally stood over Razorgore's still form, the halls of Blackwing Lair ...

"She will speak of him, and how he stood with us in the best of times ... and more important, the darkest of them too.

"And it will be just like ..."

Small arms wrapped about her blood stained robes, against the cold of a Kharanos night.

" ... he's right there with us. And we'll know again, how his crossing our path touched us, how it changed us, and know that that part of him will be with us all our days."

Slowly she stood, to cross to the simple mantle piece. Upon it she placed the healthstone, balanced carefully, caught for a moment as it reflected the firelight all about her small room in a gentle cascade of soft color.

"There ...

"That's for you ....

"It'll be there ...

"For whenever you need it.

Dominoes

2009-01-02T06:45:00.000-08:00

... dominoes ...

She stood in the shadow. Cool, quiet, between two half timbered buildings in Stormwind town. A narrow space, tall, the combination of ancient stone and weathered woodwork a well ordered architecture beneath skys of blue. For a moment, as she looked out from her alleyway, across the paved boulevard, where a nearby bridge arched over the crystal waters of a canal, it was like looking into a different world.

A few children played there, laughing, pushing, teasing. Gathered about a collection of small painted wood tablets, corners worn like battered armor ... their painted symbols scuffed and faded, so much like heraldry upon a warriors shield that had seen one too many bloodied melees.

She couldn't help but smile, just a little one, she allowed herself as she watched something she never had ... as she watched them play.

It was just past noon, the sun high in the sky. It glittered across the canal water, diamond sparkles chasing each other like playful puppies, the light stained with green as it sipped through the canopy of a pierside elm. Bright and safe, as if Shadowforge, as if the Wrymbog, as if Nethergarde and the dark gate that keep watched over were no more than a dream, a somewhere else.

Tween shadow and light the small gnome lass stood.

Her place.

She raised her hand to her forehead, pushing up the brim of her pointed hat, to shade away the glare of the sunlight, quiet eyes blinking once, then twice. Her shelter, her shadow, was of her own company. One the afternoon could not banish. Taking a half step back she was swept up into the voidwalker's swirl of deep cobalt and midnight black. Her arms wrapped about her waist, and she hugged herself.

Her attention, it shared the same earnest intensity of the little ones she watched. Studious, as the children laughed, as the painted tablets rattled-clap-clapped when with a push they fell upon each other, one after another after another after another.

Until, like children wont, something else caught their attention. And with a scramble, a tug back and forth and a catch me if you can they danced off along the narrow waterway.

Only then did the young warlock step from her narrow hiding place. A hand tugged one pigtail, just above a polished bolt earring, as she was wont to do, when considering. Crouching, half kneeling, she let her fingers slip over the abandoned tablets, slowly drawing them to order upon the cobbles before her.

"Oh Mezzy ..."

She whispered to her only companion, words quiet as she picked a tablet up, turning it over in her hand. A small rectangle of wood, painted white. Divided into two squares, each with a symbol old painted upon it. One for each dragon flight, one for each of the peoples - humankind, dwarvenkind, the night elves, the orcs and tauren and trolls - a token for the lovers true, Tyrande and Malfurion ... even an icon for the betrayer, Illidan.

"Is it all just a child's game?"

The little gnome drew another tile up. Turning the two around until they lay next to each other, matching symbols from one tablet to the other now adjacent.

"We have walked with the Marshall out from beneath the mountain black. Stood against the Blightcaller upon the hills of Marris Stead. And today, today my robes are stained with the blood of Lady Prestor.

"And still ...

"And still we are the ones who have no choice but to haunt the alleyways, and you, Mezzy ..."

Turning, the Alliance warlock looked up into her fiercely protective voidwalker's eyes.

" ... I need you to watch over me here just as if we were walking through Nefarian's halls."

Carefully, very carefully, the little gnome began to set up the small tablets, standing on edge, all in a row, perhaps half a thumb apart. One by one by one, one after another after another after another.

"Sometimes I can't help but think. Is that what they want? Is that where they will us, and by their shunning and their curses, teaching their children to hate us, to give us no choice for belonging but within the Burning Legion's arms?

"Every day, every night, when I steal you from the Legion's grasp, Mezzy. It's my choice, Mezzy.

"And with it, all the consequences that fall from it ..."

Slim fingers hold, for a heartbeat, as she looks at the long chain she has created. A line into a swirl, a simple mirror of something more complicated. Perhaps a life.

"Sometimes I can't help but think. Do they understand that? The consequences that fall in an unending chain from but a single action.

"A child's game, Mezzy.

"What if ... what if there was one of our kind. Who walked the streets of Stormwind, as you and I do.

"Until cursed upon one too many times ... until there was one too many stains of spit upon their cheek ... until one too many barkeeps refused to set up a drink - after being shorn by sword and talon to protect that very same innkeeper.

"And they did then turn their back upon the people of Stormwind.

"By the Great Gear, Mezzy ... it would be so much easier. It would hurt so much less."

The young warlock closed her eyes.

"And in the end, it would come full circle.

"Somewhere, somewhen, in the field of battle. Be it the deserts of Desolace or the halls of Shadow Hold. A felhunter's teeth would rend the nether and flesh, and fire summoned from the Legion's hells would burn out a brave Stormwind soul."

Quiet eyes slowly opened. And a single finger tapped the very first tablet set up.

Clitter-clap clip, the dominoes fell, one after another after another after another.

"How could you explain to a heartbroken mother that her child was dead, for the want of a cold beer?"

She rose and slowly walked away, hugging herself so tight ... not able to bear to see the last tile fall.

A few heartbeats later, her silent voidwalker followed.

A Measure of Honor

2009-01-02T06:31:00.000-08:00

It was late, the stars traced their silent arc above the jagged slopes of Kharanos. Belm paused, at the edge of the porch, where behind him the smithy's fires provided warmth against the cold wintery eve. He stretched, a good strong dwarven stretch, the motion betraying the hint of a yawn. The smile was for the bag of silver hanging from his belt - the smiths across the street were always good for the toss of dice, and tonight the winds of luck had blown his way. All was well in the valleys of Kharanos.

Until he took a step forward, crossing the trail back to his home, his work - the Thunderbrew Tavern.

It was the splash of red that caught his attention first. A definite trail of crimson leading from beyond the bridge, down the empty road, round the walk and right up the stone stairs and straight into his inn. And not just a little trail of blood. The rutting of the snow, the bits of sinew and grease telling of a story of a far larger occurance.

The innkeeper closed his eyes, lowering his face into his palms. When he could finally bear to look up again, there was only one thing that could be said to explain this mysterious carnage.

" ... NELLISYNTHIA!"

Eventually, the little warlock settled down in her room, a small space of stone carved out the Kharanos hills, snuggled within the basement of the Thunderbrew Tavern. It was sparsely furnished, no more than she needed. A table for doing her sewing on, a chair for sitting, and the neatly made bed for when sleep finally claimed her. Nooked near the big brewery ovens it was always warm and the air scented of hops and barley, while from above lurked hints of fresh baked bread and a bubbling stew in the hearthfire.

With a deep sigh she stretched out in the chair, closing her eyes, hugging herself and not able to hide a small smile. Behind her a cobalt shadow hovered, protective, the voidwalker's bracers still showing the stains and marring of their night within the high halls of Blackrock Mountain.

" ... still can't be believing it, Mezzy."

Rolling her head back she looked up to her constant companion, the gnome lass was quiet for a long set of heartbeats, letting its cadence mark the passage of time and thought.

"Oh of course he did. Swords and magics fel and frost, of course its all logical that he fell, finally. Another pawn removed from the game, at least for a little while. But of all of us there, they chose me.

"Me ... the littlest one amongst them.

"I don't know how I came to be deserving such honor."

Closing her eyes again, the warlock took in a deeper breath. And when they opened again she half turned in her chair, her mouth opening as if to speak. Then closing again without a word spoken. Then opened again, and once again her thoughts coming to a sudden halt with words unsaid. Until she turned enough to cross her arms on the back of the wooden chair and rest her chin upon them.

"... what is honor?

"Oh Mezzy ... I'm not sure there's a right good answer to that."

Bright eyes narrowed, as the gnome lass slowly chewed upon her lower lip in contemplation.

"Folks talk about it a lot, and they toss about the word about as if it were one of those leather balls the night elfs make. As if it were a tunic to be worn at festival, as if it were a dark iron breastplate to protect them from the slings and spells of those whom would tear them down.

"Some folks speak of a person of honor, as if it were a code of actions to be adhered to, some sort of moral path that sets one above those they meet, friend or enemy. But I have never understood that. Does that mean there is one road that can be walked to be such a better person? I know the Scarlet Crusade would claim such, but I am uncomfortable with the strictness of their way and the cruelty that their chivalric code leaves in its wake.

"Some folks name a person of honor ... but does that make it true? There are those who folks claim to be of high honor, but we have all to well seen the values they claim left on the wayside when they become inconvenient ... controversial ... as if it were something to be shared with some folks and not others.

"Some folks speak of honor on the battlefield. But is that the only place where it can be found? Can not a strong hearted farmer live a life as full of honor as any knight?

"What is honor, Mezzy?"

Eyes closing again, the little warlock considered this quandary. Then she finally took a breath and raised her head.

"Maybe it's like this ..."

Rummaging through her pack the small warlock searched out a yellow crystal, a shard of magic. She set the large brilliant gemstone in her lap. Delicate fingers rested on its smooth surface for a slow heartbeat.

"See this gemstone? It has an innate value, a measure of its worth. Simply within it's inherent nature.

"Now if this gem could talk, it might scream to the stars of that value, proclaim it's own accolades and moral tenacity. But when all the stars finally set and the snows of Kharanos melt in springtime, those claims vanish like fog beneath the hot sun. They mean nothing if they are not reflected in the inherent qualities of the gem. I am sure the one who left me for dead beneath the rotting stones of Ahn'Quiraj would proclaim themselves of much value and honor even though there is a grand crevasse between their words and their actions.

"Just as so folks could speak well of this gem, it's strength and fortitude, its high standing. But if, in truth, no matter how fancy and bright it might shine, if beneath that shine was only fancy crafted paste such claims would be as false as a mocking bird's call.

"Now this value, this worth, is it accepted by all?

"Well an enchanter might say one thing - knowing how important it is to their craft. Others might see it as unnecessary, something anachronistic to be left on the wayside and thus of no value to them. And others, such as a merchant, might claim that value as when convenient, a fanciful value when being sold ... and something of no note when being bought.

"All this talk and all this chatter, however, does not change at all the nature of the gem itself, what it is ...

"Or ...

"In the case of a person, like you and me, who they are."

In one hand she raises the gem, to look into its polished surfaces, seeing herself reflected in each perfect facet.

"That's what honor is, Mezzy.

"The measure of a person."

There was a small smile. Sad and wistful.

"It's nice when it's recognized but it's not something that can not be set by one's self. It is something we can only recognize within each other, to learn to see someone else and to honor them for what they are.

"And the important difference between us and this gem is that we are in control of that measure. It is each person's choice ... mine ... and yours ... to decide whether one can live with being made of jeweler's paste or do we strive for something more, something more true.

"You can't make that choice for any one else, Mezzy.

"We can only make that choice for ourselves"

" ... NELLISYNTHIA!"

Belm stormed into the commons hall, hands on his hips. Though he could only take one step in, the way barred by the fiercesome visage of a huge draconic head settled across a couple wooden tables and rising to the rafters. The head was berift of body, shorn by swords and magics, still dripping of dragonish blood, which was only slowly turning from copper scented red to a tarnished brown. The disembodied head stared across the hall, a look of shock and horror and a touch of surprise still caught beneath scaly brows, the yellowed teeth sharp and strong and about as big as the tavern master himself.

"By all the bastard children of Magni Bronzebeard and the Princess of Blackrock Depths, what is this!?!"

At the base of the funereal bust, the lil' gnome warlock turned to face her landlord, still wiping away the bits and pieces of grime and ash from her face. Her eyes went as wide as saucers, and she looked between the dwarf and the head and back to the dwarf ... and then once more between each for good measure.

"Oh ..."

She spoke, as if surprised by the question.

"It's Broodlord Lashlayer's head, Mister Belm."

The moment's silence weighed in this tavern as heavy as Ironforge Mountain.

"I KNOW THAT!" bellowed Belm as he curled his hands into big fists and crossed his arms.

"What I want to know is just what the blazes is it doing IN MY DINING ROOM!"

Little Raft Big Raft

2009-01-02T06:17:00.000-08:00

Just beyond the docks, where the water lapped against rocks smoothed by storm and sea, a small shadow sat, a larger one protected. The light was failing, as the sun stained the western sky in all the shades of fire, sending ripples dancing across the bay. Eastwards the horizon was a deep azure, and the bravest stars, low to that line dare peek out, heralded the oncoming night.

Beside her, a crystal flask.

And upon a parchment she scratched, blocky letters of black ink upon faded yellow. Her brow was furrowed, each one painstakingly and slowly scribbled.

Echoes of schooling never gotten.

Trying not to let soft droplets stain and smear the drying ink.

Dear ...

I never knew your name. And I suspect I never shall, for the bindings of What-Must-Be and How-Things-Are seem to be chains of steel, a new link added with the closing of each day. And yet I cannot help but to think back to that evening, upon the stones deep beneath Blackrock Spire, when I found you within those dangerous halls.

A raft of stone upon a sea of fire.

Are we all adrift upon such rafts, be they of our own making or defined by others for us?

Are we all alone upon these rafts, our path to the true akin to those cloistered within a monastery and that one's grace a solitary study? That it is a personal matter, an inward turned gaze, and one's integrity to ones self, one's cloister ... and against fire and shadow, against that sea of darkness, it is alone there that one can stand against the storms?

Or are we all upon one sea, do we all share one larger raft, in which our path to the true and kind is not just a matter of monastic retreat, but only possible ... only meaningful ... as we share that path with those about us - and that we cannot be rightly weathering the storms fate sends against us unless we bring with us those who share this common experience.

Be they dwarf or human ... paladin or mage ...

... Alliance or Horde ...

Or maybe, even a warlock.

How can I teach my best friend about compassion,

When I can't remember what it feels like anymore myself?

The young warlock looked down upon her writing, considering her words, and it is dark before she swallowed once, swallowed once and carefully rolled it up, tight. Into the flask it was carefully slipped.

And then corked so tight.

Standing she tried, and with all her little strength, she tossed the flask into the dark sea's currents.

A message in a bottle.

What they Don't Teach You

2009-01-02T06:13:00.000-08:00

... what they don't teach you in warlock school ...

"They coulda said somethin' ..."

The little warlock frowned, looking down at the broken red rock, scuffing her feet across the heat blasted marring of the cavern floor.

"Somethin' so basic and simple ..."

She crossed her arms then, fingers tapping upon the sleeves to her robe. With small steps, cause she was small even for a gnome, the lass paced a wide circle about the center of her consternation, once one way and then the other, and then back again, pausing here and there upon her circumference to look up ... foot tapping in a steady beat as she tried to reconcile this particular conumdrum.

"I mean, Mezzy ..."

She looked up to the big voidwalker, her best friend keeping her company as the others began their preparations to depart. The sound of portals being opened echoed in the background, that low cadence of magic hurrying her careful thoughts.

" ... I mean, they's supposed to be the Masters at this right? Our teachers, from the shadow of the Thunderbrew Tavern to deep within the Mage's Quarter of Stormwind to the amber hills of Ratchet. Learnin' me and you and all our spells, how to take care of Zhhatom, how to keep Dissy from dating anything with a pair of legs ..."

She then paused, flushing a bit, a touch of pink highlighting her cheeks.

" ... and some things that don't."

Standing still, she looked up through her tossled bangs, tugging one of her pony tails in as she mulled.

"And all the rules and laws of warlock'ing ... like when not to try and summon a dreadlord, the proper care of a soul torn from the mortal coil and kept all nice and warm and safe in a pretty pink stone. The best way to send a felguard back into the Twisting Nether or rend a mage into their component parts for easy recycling ...

"You woulda figured they have said somethin' about this."

Once again the gnomish warlock returned to her circular path.

"I know. Pizyap, he deserves his rest. We were both shakin' up pretty hard at that. She was just being real persnickity she was. Guess it was just in her nature. She always was a mite disagreeable, that Lady Prestor. And I know Gia was doin' as best as possible, trying to hold her down all in one place, bopping her in the nose with a sword and all. If'n I was a dragon, I'd pay all my attention to that, for sure. But she just had to wriggle this way and that, just to be all all contrairwise.

"Getting Pizyap right up next to Gia, to stand up there and help ... between the fires and the fearin' and her really big tail, I'm still a shakin."

"What's that Mezzy?"

The little warlock couldn't help but offer a small smile, honestly amused.

"Oh, Pizyap, he hasn't stopped complaining yet, has he?"

She hugged herself, bouncing on her heels, rocking back and forth. A silly imp, Pizyap was. But brave and valiant.

"And it is true, Mezzy. I made sure to be thanking Master Chelydra, and Ellundus and Miss Vamira. I mean, this, this rarely comes once in anyone's life, let alone a lil' gnomish warlock.

"It is an honor true.

"It is a real big honor ..."

And with that she rubbed her chin, facing her problem dead on.

"A big honor.

"I guess that sums it right up.

"It's really, really big ... "

She held up her panther hide pack, measuring its small size against the massive bulk of Onyxia's head.

"But by all the gears that turn and spin ...

"... how am I supposed to get that into this?"

Coins, Soulstones and Gears

2009-01-02T00:10:00.000-08:00

Dark.

Late night, a quiet night, deep into the cold and snow of Kharanos. Aways, past the little bridge, rose the dark shadowed silhouette of Ironforge Mountain, an Alliance capital. The mountain keep watched over the small village and its hand full of homes, the small caravan of folks camped next to the brewery, the little workshop where the apprentices made repairs on armor needed for the conflicts that were assured to come upon the dawn.

And Ironforge watched over a little warlock, sitting on the steps of the tavern. So far into the night, she sat alone; even the most late of travelers were already tucked in and asleep in the inn's rooms or resting, warmed by the glow of the hearthfire.

Almost alone.

She had cleaned the snow from the carven steps, careful, precise. And next to her, as she sat half turned, was a small wooden crate within which was placed five coins in a precise row. Coins collected from Darnassus, from Moonglade, from Ironforge, from deep inside Blackrock Mountain ...

And even from Auberdine, far, far across the oceans.

From the box she carefully took out the small automaton. A gift from long ago. She couldn't help but smile as the mechanical squireel rattled itself into life, its metal tail swishing, its head tilting, eyes blinking, as if in search for a mithril acorn. The young lass carefully set the squirrel up on the box, gazing at it intently, as if trying to divine some arcane truth from its whrrrring nature.

She spoke, to the blue shadow at her shoulder. To the voidwalker, at her side, where he fit so naturally.

"Mezzy ...

"I don't understand ..."

I was born in the winter in'na blizzard o'white,

The stars up above were dancin' and bright.

One bad dream later I was an orphan too.

Woken up all alone, passed from home to home was the life I knew.

Warlock, cursed and damned ...

I hear it from the men of every town,

They tell me, Warlock, cursed and damned.

But come the night an' a dragon goin' down,

To me they're comin' 'round.

" ... I don't understand, Mezzy. There's got to be something I'm missing, some piece of the puzzle that no one told me about.

"Maybe, maybe its because I'm just not smart enough.

"Not like her ...

"You remember, when we came home late and found the tavern full of gnomes, like they had come and taken over our home. Well, taken over in a very nice way. She was the one with the little squirrel. That's right ... just like this one. Well, maybe not just like this one. In fact I'm sure not like this little one at all. Her squirrel was kinda like you in its own way.

"I ... I wonder if she dreams of her little squirrel, like I dream of you?"

The warlock smiled at that, hugging herself, just a bit.

"But I bet she knows all about gears and chains and cogs and pulleys and mechanic-o-bobbles and gizmatics and heat tensioned auto-rotating eccentric flywheels.

"But you figure, Mezzy ...

"The little squirrel here, listen to his mechanisms spin. That's regular as clockwork, everything fitting just the way its supposed to be ... every gear spinning true. Nothing contrary or contradictory about it.

"Now imagine, Mezzy ..."

The warlock's brow furrowed, as she then pointed to two of the coins.

"Imagine if these are gears Mezzy. And when one spins, the other spins, and there's a consistent manner in that. This gear turns this way, and that means this gear gots to turn that way, which makes this one go like that and on and on and on. It's ordered, Mezzy, it makes sense, and one leads to another and another and the little metal squirrel sits up and comes alive.

"But Mezzy ... what happens if this gear decides to turn in the other direction. To hold a rotation that's contrary to the logical chain of mechanics?"

The voidwalker simply threw back his arms and roared.

"That's right. Everything goes all wrong and the little mechanical squirrel would choke up and explode in a flurry of broken parts.

"It would be wrong.

"And that would be sad."

Fingers touched the top of the automaton's head, between its artificial ears, contemplative.

"I don't understand Mezzy.

"Cause that's exactly where we are right now."

The oldest friend I have is a demon blue,

Never met a boy who was ever so true.

In the plaguelands, left for dead.

Mezzy'd never do that,

A harsh lesson learned upon Maris Stead.

Warlock, cursed and damned ...

I hear it from the men of every town.

They tell me, Warlock, cursed and damned.

But come the night an a dragon goin' down,

To me they're comin' 'round.

"Five coins."

Looking down at the metal discs, the young woman let out a long breath.

"Everybody's out seeking the Elders, slipping from Moonglade to the Silverpine Forest. There's rockets making brilliant sparkles against the dark night sky, the kind that makes folks smile.

"I wonder ...

"How many of folks actually take the time to realize that the hands that share these gifts ... are those fine and soft of a fair born Night Elven lady ...

" ... and are also those of a strong and proud Tauren, who stood in the same circle of light as our Elders, his touch gentle, his words kind?

"Mezzy ...

"I wonder ...

"How many of those folks take that coin, set it in their pack ...

"... and then forget that circle of light at the call of the muster, to draw their swords and not sheath them until they are stained with the blood of those ...

"... who had, but a hundred hundred heartbeats before, shared these coins with them."

She closed her eyes, quiet.

"Like gears spinning contrary.

"Just tearing things apart."

It's a broken heart path tween Fire and Light ...

But tell that to a Knight.

It'd be so easy, to break and fall ,

But then I'd be what they say - hey,

I'd be just what they say - hey ...

I was born in the winter in'na blizzard o'white.

The stars up above were dancin' and bright.

Now there's a new sigil on my gear,

Could I've finally found a home, a place where I shall never hear ...

"I don't understand.

"Are we the only ones that see this, Mezzy?

"This dark contradiction?"

Soft eyes opened. To look at squirrel and coins.

"Maybe its just because of who we are.

"Me and you."

White teeth set upon her lower lip, gnawing just a bit.

"They curse us. Call us dark and evil and the tools of the shadow."

Her eyes closed again.

"And yet they smile and call us forth ... as if expected, as brother to brother, as sister to sister.

"When they wish our soft green magics to keep them well ... when they want us to hold their soul in our protective care against the slaying of a dragon fierce."

"Coins ...

"Soulstones ...

"Gears ..."

Warlock, cursed and damned,

I heard it from the men of every town.

They told me, Warlock, cursed and damned.

But come the night an a dragon goin' down,

To me they'd come around.

The little gnome lass reached out, taking up the second coin from the right. She turned it this way and that, watching earnestly as the starlight reflected off its surface, casting subtle shadows across the bas relief of its crafting.

"This is the coin I got from that nice Tauren, Mezzy ...

"This is the one I'm gonna keep for me."