For those who were following Tayt’s newest adventure, the end is available on my writing website.

Enjoy!

Barnacles and Pineapples Part 2

Even the approach to Utgarde Keep was treacherous.  While Hannelore caught her breath behind a tree, she heard the hunter of the group cry out from across a chasm that he’d found an easier route down.  She rolled her eyes and ducked out from cover to cast a rather violent spell at the warrior.  Though healing in nature, the force of the penance rocked the tauren three times, threatening to upset his balance as he faced off against three of the huge man-like vrykul.  He shot her a glower, but his wounds were sealing up over the oversize snout, so Hannelore blew him a kiss and faded into transparency.  The battle gradually fell quiet with the blood knight shoving a blade through the last twitching corpse.

“Where’s- ?” began the rogue, his rasping voice coming from the shadows.  Hannelore, the priestess, was getting the impression that the hunched Forsaken wasn’t even attempting to hide at the moment – it had become purely habit.  His question was interrupted by a scream and the sound of metal on armor deep in the chasm.  The troll had discovered his shortcut to the dungeon was also a direct route to the Alliance base camp.  “Nevermind.”

“We’ll find another,” growled the warrior and he shoved his axe back into position under the shield on his back.  “Let’s get a move on.  I don’t want to be in this place after sundown.”

“A connection lost with the earth mother or something?” asked the blood elf knight, sneering at the much larger bull-man.  The other two fell in line behind them.

The tauren rolled his shoulders under the heavy plate armor and stole a glance at the afternoon sun.  “I don’t like facing the undead in the dark.”

Hannelore looked out of the corner of her eyes at the rogue beside her.  Whether he noticed the look or not, she couldn’t tell.  He pulled absently at a loose buckle on the leather armor over his sunken torso.  Very quietly, as though he were talking to himself, the dead man murmured, “Neither do I.”

—

The furnace was incredible.  Even from this far away, the magnificent heat of the apocalyptic flames felt like they were cooking her slender arms.  The orc, a shaman that had joined them at the entrance of the dungeon, gave her a querying look as Hannelore put a cloak over her shoulders.  The extra heat of one more garment was nothing compared to the feel of that direct radiating blaze on bare skin.  She lifted her chin haughtily at the broad-shouldered greenskin and dared him to voice his curiosity.  He shrugged it off and turned back to the front where the warrior and paladin were muttering strategy.  The rogue was nowhere to be seen.

“If we pull them away from each other, they’ll have less support-” began the blood elf.

“And so will we,” replied the tauren.  “And your girlfriend will have two people to focus her finger-wiggling on instead of just one.”

“She’s not my-”

“I’m not his girlfriend,” Hannelore found herself saying.  Irritated at having been brought into the squabble, she pursed her lips and stood straighter.  Gleaming green eyes sparked with hate as she crossed her arms over her chest and looked to the side.  Suddenly the wall and the rack of weapons were very interesting.  Somewhere, Hannelore thought she heard someone saying something, but it was too quiet for her to make out the words.

“Right, well,” continued the bull.  “We gather them up, I’ll crack some heads, you poke them when they’re focused on me, and we’ll move on.  This place is evil and the sun hasn’t stopped moving just because we have.”

The paladin rolled his eyes, then shoved his helmet back onto his head and hefted his sword.  “I still say there’s too many, but it’s your head.  I can take care of myself.”

They glared at each other and then crouched into the ready position as a patrol of vrykul weaponsmiths came around the corner.  Their gutteral words suddenly became intelligible when they saw the trespassers. 

“Now you die!” shouted one and lunged at the tauren warrior.  The other came in close behind, and both realized they were in for quite the fight when a heavy hoof stomped the stone floor and rocked dust from the ceiling.  Even dazed from the blow, they charged on and found themselves facing not two, but four.  One managed a cry to their fellows back at the forges.

Hannelore, enveloping the paladin in a shield before one of the huge hammers came down at him, saw how badly things could turn in an instant.  One of the bearded men looked up from their forge and squinted into the dark hallway from where the shout had come.  He stood up, glanced at his fellows, and took a step forward.  He then sat down and set his chin to his chest.  The others nearby laughed, commented in their rough tongue, and returned to banging steel to anvil.  From the shadows, a slender figure glided across the wall and joined the melee against the vrykul.  The priestess smiled a tight-lipped smile and the rogue glowed briefly under a silent blessing.  The battle raged on without interruption until the five stood over the two corpses and quickly distributed the meager coins found on them.  It would be difficult, but the first step had been made into Utgarde Keep.  It didn’t help that she kept thinking that someone was saying something to her, just out of earshot.

—

Hannelore froze in place, there on the dais of Utgarde Keep.  Hundreds of feet below, there was the constant sound of rushing water crashing against the craggy cliffs of the Howling Fjord.  All around, the cries of the protodrakes and their riders filled the air, blending together to create the illusion of some even more fantastical creature of hate and violence.  The sounds of battle still rang in her sensitive ears, from the clash of weapons on armor to the haughty shouts of the now-dead vrykul, Ingvar.  Nevertheless, Hannelore could swear she had just heard someone whisper her name.  It had been the most malevolent, twisted sound she had ever heard.

“I could use a plaything like you, blood elf,” it continued, haunting her mind with its echoes before the sound ever came.  “You are far from ready, yet.  The potential is within you for great things.  Terrible things.  You have caught my attention with your constant interferances with my works.”  The priestess tried to control a shiver, unsure why she felt such pride at those words.  “Perhaps you will prove yourself worthy to me in time.  I will set you on the path to join me, and you will come to me of your own volition.”  There was frost forming on her upper lip; she could feel it, and could hear the crystals crackling as the moisture froze in the suddenly arctic air.  “Or you will fall, and become a mindless minion to swell my ranks.  I look forward to seeing you again, Hannelore…”

She spun in place, sending the skirts of her robes swirling about her ankles.  She licked her lips, found the frost gone, and prepared a spell.  The gleam of magical energies faded and fell from her fingers as the priestess realized she was alone on the dais with a quickly rotting corpse that still lay bleeding and broken against a column.  She glanced around, faintly glowing emerald eyes searching the lengthening shadows for a sign of the Lich King, Arthas.  It was he that destroyed her city, turned its population into a broken people, and tainted their very lives with his foulness.  He wasn’t there with her, though.  Hannelore’s legs buckled and she dropped to her knees, confused at the tears running down her cheeks.  That voice had been pure evil, but she found herself desperate to hear it declare her worthy…

The Adventures of Tayt continue in Barnacles and Pineapples, Part 1.

For Maurice.

Flattery aside,
For stirring my affections,
I seek a heartbeat.

Today’s post is a link to my personal/writing site. I did another short bit of warcraft fanfic, this time a gift for a friend.

Fire and Storm

I hope you enjoy. <3

Silvermoon was quiet. It always was, in the evening, since the airships had turned the coast of Northrend into the new gathering place for mercenaries and adventurers and all the merchants that catered to them. The grand, but broken, city of the high elves was slumbering, even as the sun was just starting to dip behind the sloping rooftops.

Some said the city was finally breathing its last breaths after a long, hard battle for life.

Hannelore did not walk alone down the golden streets, burned bloody with the reflected light of the setting sun. There were the constant footsteps of the patrolling guards, the lumbering movements of the arcane protectors, and even the occasional magister still appeared from behind diaphanous veils to perform their hermetic rituals. Often, though, they materialized only long enough to cast a baleful glower towards those who strolled by, and then vanished again. Visitors and blood elves alike had been known to disappear shortly after one of these glances. Silvermoon did not receive many visitors anymore. No one missed the ones that did not return.

As a priestess, one who had the ear of the magisters, Hannelore rarely feared these furtive meetings in the shadows of the arches and domes of the city. Even Murder Row, notorious for more obtrusive disappearances, held no awe for her. The drunks and cut purses, at least the ones worth their reputation, all owed her something or were beholden to someone who did. She was not powerful in the seedier parts of the city, only safe. Pure bullheadedness and that instinct to mold a person to her needs, if only temporarily, had served her well.

Now she was alone.

Nevermind the two guards, dressed alike and so in sync that they turned the corner with a single motion. They turned away intentionally to give her the street. Nevermind the drunkard laying over his bottle beneath the awning of the inn. One of his eyes was open and tracking her. Nevermind the dead troll back at the manor, walking when he should be worm food back in the plaguelands. He spent more time staring across the sea in that awkward crouch of his, his unholy mind wandering afar and committing malicious acts of horror that stunned even her jaded sensibilities.

The mistress walked with that paladin friend of hers, sisters it seemed, and scoured the Outlands for the treasures and glory that had been forgotten as the Horde turned its attention on the undead prince of Lordaeron.

Hannelore stopped before the fountains of Silvermoon. She looked down into the water; rusty and fading into purple to reflect the sky. Bending her knees beneath her robes, she dipped two fingertips into the water and let the ripples from the fountain cause trails from her contact to the marble wall. There were tasks waiting for her. Likely there were more than a few people awaiting word from the priestess who had so eagerly accepted their quaint trials and necessary chores. This or that needed to be gathered, so-and-so needed murdering, and there were far too many these-and-those out in the wilds. But there were others to do those things. No one was truly waiting for Hannelore, the priestess, to come and save the day.

She stood and flicked droplets from her fingertips. They struck the marble stones and spattered. Everything reminded her of blood, these days. Blood was everything. Blood had been everything.

Once, before Kael’thas, before the Naruu, and before the demons, the high elves had sought a power of their own. With the Sunwell lost to them, they reached inwards and found the power within. And they pulled it free in the most visceral ways.

The ritual knife whispered against its sheath as she drew it from within the voluminous sleeve of her robe. The sun was a mere glimmer in the sky, now, kissing the tops of the minarets and making them gleam. It was nearly time.

There was a reason they had become known as Blood Elves. It was not some high-minded tribute to their fallen brethren, or a mystical connection their people felt to each other across the great distances which they had been scattered. For a time, during the war, their magic was unique. The magic was pure, and it was dangerous, and the very thought of that wellspring of power made her bosom rise and fall behind the constricting corset of the priestly garb. She drew up the fabric on her left arm, curling it just above her pale, slender elbow, and finally lowered her eyes to the crisscrossing runes inscribed on her own forearm. Ragged lines of poorly healed flesh rose and fell in mottled purple and angry red, testament to past evenings like this when the power in her own veins screamed to be released and channeled and used. Wasted beneath the skin, it simmered and festered, eating her from inside.

As the last needle-like tower of Silvermoon relinquished its golden burnish, and the sun finally dropped below the unseen horizon, the blade kissed her wrist. The pain never dulled, and she never got used to the way it shivered up her arm and down her spine. The kriss was sharp, so the pain was delayed, as though her skin were in denial. She followed the runic lines, minor echoes of the ley lines across the world, and felt the connections being made. The pain sang inside of her, and the gleam of power lashed around her thin arm, sending shadows to dance around and behind her in the empty courtyard.

And to think how some would chuckle when they called her ‘masochist’.

Sarth25 with 9, everyone standing at the end.

Healers! *chest thump*

Respect!!

The fiery-red hair of the aristocratic blood elf was coifed perfectly to accentuate the frame of her delicate elfin features.  Those features, right now, were puckered uncomfortably.  That is not to say that the expression was uncomfortable, but rather that it portrayed the perfect amount of discomfort.  Avaryse had what is known as an exquisite pokerface.  Some would claim that such a thing is required of every warlock.  If any expression showed, it was by choice, or perhaps the occasional earth-shattering event.  This one was by choice.  Avaryse was long past being uncomfortable with the topic at hand, but felt it may be necessary to emote some sort of sympathetic feelings for her younger, more impressionable friend.  It was, after all, her troll they were discussing.

“What do you mean, asking me if I’d spoken with him recently?” Hannelore fought, visibly, the urge to put her hands on her hips.  To anyone else, it wouldn’t have been a question.  However, Avaryse was still the Mistress of the House to which Hanners served, even if the woman herself had all but disavowed the relation.  “I don’t even know what ‘recently’ would be for a sneak-thief like that.”  She allowed herself a wave of a hand, mostly just have something to do with her hands.  Wringing them at her navel, like some over protective school marm was right out.  “Last I heard, they were sending him on some under cover operations into the plague lands.  You know how it is.  They probably didn’t even tell him the whole story.  But this is a very strange thing to talk about.  You’ve never had any interest in my relations, before…”  The priestess paused, then her green eyes narrowed, becoming dangerously close to looking suspicious.  “What is this about, Mistress?”

Avaryse sighed deeply, then turned her head to the side to give Hannelore a proper view of the profile.  Maybe it would remind the girl of her place, in or out of the House.  It also meant she didn’t have to meet those searching eyes.  They taught them such strange things in Silvermoon, still, and she had to watch what she said so that the Magisters did not catch wind of something and come asking too many questions.  “I spoke with him, recently, Hannelore.”  She paused a beat, letting that sink in, then glanced out of the corner of her eye at the black-haired elf.  She still had that same look on her face.  Frustrated with the delicacies, Avaryse frowned and took a step closer.  Hannelore instinctively stiffened, but managed not to backpedal from the approach of a powerful warlock.  Avaryse couldn’t tell if that was a sign that the girl was becoming more accustomed to her, or that she was becoming more powerful and thus prepared to defend herself.  Either one made Avaryse smile a little.  “Hannelore, you should find your troll-friend.  He…isn’t himself, these days.”  The euphamism failed, and the warlock became frustrated with the niceties.  “That mission to the plaguelands did not go as predicted.  His sortie was ambushed as a necropolis descended over the chapel and-”

Abruptly, the conversation came to a close.  A servant elf, dressed in such plain cotton robes as to make even Hannelore’s white gown appear regal, came to the doorway and curtseyed.  Both women simply turned and regarded her with that impossible patience that no one believed for a moment.  After becoming certain that they were paying attention to her, the girl curtseyed again, nervously, and cleared her throat.  “Ma’am, priestess, there is a – there is someone here to see you.”  Her emerald eyes shot to Avaryse, then to Hannelore.  She was painfully aware of how inappropriate it was to announce guests for a guest, but there was no way around it.  And from the sounds of heavy boots on the marble floor behind her, she didn’t have a choice anyway.

“Well who-” Lady Avaryse began, and then her pale face blanched nearly to green as a shadow fell over the servant girl.  The girl herself squeaked her fear, spun, and whirled around the looming figure in black plate armor.  Her sandalled feet carried her swiftly down the hall and nearly out of earshot before she started reciting the superstitious incantations taht were meant to ward off the undead.

The hunched figure was already quite a bit taller than either elf girl, but suddenly stretched to its full height and pulled the horned helmet from its head.  As it sank back down and tucked the plate helm under one lanky arm, it became clear that some of the horns were not decorations on the armor.  Two long tusks jutted forward from around a narrow chin, and silver, windswept hair spiked up between two extended ears.  Its skin had the pallor of death, but the icey blue eyes held a vicious life within them.  Suddenly the troll knelt down on one boney knee and rested its wrist on the other.  At this height, it was just under Hannelore’s eye level.  And it was staring at her.

“T-Thomas?” She whispered.  It wasn’t supposed to be a whisper, but her vocal chords weren’t cooperating all of a sudden.  Emerald green eyes went from icey blues, to the plate helmet and associated armor he wore, back to that chilling gaze.

“Had a bit o’ an accident, Lady.  But I got betta, as trolls do.  Can’t be helpin ya no more wid da sneaky and lock pickin.  Dey took all dat away.”  He shrugged one shoulder, and it was oddly calming to see such a familiar, nonchalant gesture from her old friend. “But I figger a merc’s a merc.  …Ya still need a merc?”

The warlock’s presence was the only thing that kept Hannelore from lunging forward and hugging the death knight around the neck.  It was a very strange feeling.

Maurice,

Truly, I am flattered by the fervor and unrelenting constancy of your affection.

Thank you for the love note that you sent me. It was very…sweet.

The signed and scented photo of yourself was unnecessary, but a very nice gesture.

The necklace of troll ears, however…was slightly less so. They were messy. The postman was not amused. And they also appear to have been…gnawed upon. I do wish you would keep your ghoul under a bit more control.

I must, as firmly and politely as possible, request that you desist in your courtship. I am aware that you are the Death Knight of Love. I would, in fact, be sorely pressed to be unaware of this fact, as you have been quite ardent in your repetitions of the title.

Despite this, it is my desire and firm hope that you find some other subject for your…considerable affections.

Please do not take this the wrong way. I would not have you think that the decision was a difficult one.

I am a draenei. Moreover, I am a priestess of the Light, representative of the Naaru, diplomat and ambassador to distant lands. My every action reflects upon others, and I have a great deal of responsibility.

You are dead.

Any relationship between us is not to be.

Firmly,
~Vonyari

How does it go?

*Bweeeem* *Fwooosh*
Achievement Accomplished!

You have reached level 60!
Fast and Furious! (Epic mount)
Stalkers from the Blog!

I was accosted, this weekend. Not once, but TWICE, by people that recognized me from my writings. Adrexis, Nasmin, you crazy people. And no, if anyone else decides to harass me, you will not get a callout. These two just surprised me so much they have to get recognition for making me basically spaz out. It’s rare to throw me off my game that much, but this has never happened before, so I had no idea how to respond to the whispers.

Adrexis caught me in Undercity, trying to figure out what I was going to do with a bunch of quest items from – oh, about the time I started writing here. It’s pretty bad when you upgrade your gear and go “Oh, hi, I’m replacing this belt from Maraudon.” Palmface. So, yes, I was flustered. And then, out in Brill, Nasmin is poking at the mailbox when I run by, half asleep and being poked with people asking me to come heal for them in SM or something. I wasn’t even looking for a group! I was just checking the prices of the dead horses, and then it was crash – into the inn for sleeptimes. Nasmin was very polite, though, even if she DID think I was Vonya in disguise.

Hrmph. I would like to point out that there is no WAY that space goat could fit in these pants. …they look like they were sprayed on, anyway.

MOVING ON.

I did get the Big Girl Pony, finally. Purple Warhorse is MINE! I’m so happy. It’s … purple. And – yeah, I suppose describing it any further just lends itself to way too many innuendos. We’ll stick with ‘Epic Dead Horse’, then. Glee!! Put a serious dent in the guild coffer, though. I may have to do something about that, now that I’m actually in Outlands.

I was doing some quests for the orcs out there, who had me go and kill a bunch of orcs (confused much?), and I was very excited to see the upgrades for my pants and robe. I got the pants upgrade first, so I didn’t really see what they looked like. Doesn’t matter! I have a ROBE! And then I get a very nice, very svelte vest to wear. And then I realize what I was wearing under my robe will be quite visible to all the world.

I had heard legends of this effect, but I thought it was just alliance mages, or troll trollops that had this issue. No. One of the first pants upgrades you get, once you’re through the Dark Portal and are battling for your survival against the Burning Legion and the terrors they’ve created in Helfire Penninsula, are whore pants. Panties and thigh-high stockings.
REALLY!?

All I need is a blasted bikini and I could look like a paladin. I switched from shadow to deep discipline and I wear THIS!?

Unacceptable!

I did a quick check, found a decent upgrade could be found right next door in that castle with all the other nice orcs in it. I finally gathered up four compatriots from the lowest dregs, and off we went. Let’s just say that the shaman spent more time telling everyone else what to do than he did putting down totems. Since he was very adamant that the prot paladin was the tank, and the prot warrior should be helping him, and that the hunter should dps, and I needed to heal – I made sure that the two protection fellows got priority on heals. If he decided to pull agro most of the time, and then happened to die, well at least it wasn’t a wipe, because our tanks lived. Oddly, he kept popping back up after dying, so I can only assume he did that self-resurrection thing that shamans do right in the middle of a fight. Very odd tactics for someone who was meleeing. Without totems. Shamans are the ones that put down totems, right? It’s been a while since I’ve seen them used properly.

As it was, I got my pants, killed the Ramparts bosses and got another achievement (you can get those things from sneezing, apparently), and now have to keep an eye out for gems to make my pants super special.

In other news, I’m sure you’re all very excited to know that I’ve hired a troll rogue to do my dirty work back on Azeroth. He is an engineer, and has grand plans to someday build a motorcycle. I also use him to keep tabs on how the pugging situation is while I’m off on another planet. From what he says about his forays into Razorfen Krawl and Razorfen Downs, and even the SM Library, it’s not much different from a rogue perspective. Being able to hide while the rest of the group implodes, though, seems to have its perks. He giggles a lot when relating the stories to me. Maybe I’ll share some of his adventures, sometime. No, I have no idea what his real name is. He’s a rogue, they tend to not be very outgoing with stuff like that. But he goes by Thomas.

Yeah. Thomas the Troll.

I laughed, he didn’t. So I don’t know.

Yay dead horsey!

*cough* Sorry.

So you had questions. I guess I can answer a couple.  There weren’t any GREAT ones, but these will suffice.  It’s my first time requiring anything of you, so I suppose some hesitation should be expected.  The free ride is over, though.  I expect higher quality from people who have been absorbing my goodness for this long.

Weta asks: I need help killing a dwarf who is so inept that he wound up accidentally summoning an Elemental Lord that blew the snot out of his kingdom and has now enslaved his people.
–Rather than simply say something cynical like “Wait for him to try another brilliant plan, he’ll take himself out for you”, I suppose I could point you in some direction.  Wowwiki, really, may be your best bet.  It has all the details on what gear you can steal from the old munchkin’s battered body, and gives a few suggestions for tactics on how to get to him and how to make sure his body is sufficiently battered.  Wowhead and thottbot are there, too, but they’re more focused on making sure the old man is naked of all his loot, rather than how to get him to hold still long enough.  Weirdos.

Vendric wants to know: How come life is unfair and the fights are so easy/hard in the battlegrounds?
–Life is tough, you silly boomkin.  For one thing, you are a Prime Target.  Imagine being the guy out there that can transform into an Ogre.  YOU WILL BE SHOT AT.  I imagine if you remain ‘just another tauren’ (or something), then you can launch a few more volleys before anyone figures you out.  Starfire and Moonfire are good, too, because they don’t see where the pain’s coming from.  As for what’s being done to equalize the battlegroups?  Are you serious?  My people joined the Horde mostly because we were both desperate.  We allied with DEAD PEOPLE because we are so bad off.  There is no equalisation, we are Horde, we must overrun them with sheer numbers and stubborness and the elitist belief that only kids play Alliance.  Glory to the Sin’dorei!  …I may have lost track.  What was the question?

Weta says: Nevermind, I killed him without your help, now I want to know why I should be friendly with my own faction!
–Bah! *fistshake*

Axethrower asks: Hanners where aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrre yoooooooou?
–Uh, I think we’re done here.  BETTER QUESTIONS THIS TIME.  *hides from stalkers*