A Silliness!

How to tell if your Warlock is Alliance or Horde:

http://www.morrigu.com/wow/Fierce Demon.jpg

Pink Pigtail Memories

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

"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

"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

"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

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

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.