Bellesta

Omen's Dreamer

Art by Bellesta

The battlefield had become such chaos, that a single animal barreling through the undead into the thick wasn’t catching as much eye as it should.

Bellesta pounded into the ground with her paws, muscles burning and jaw hanging lazily open. She forced her way past ghoul and solder alike, hesitating only when the former had to die for her to continue. A mixture of snow, bile, and blood stuck to her fur where her armor did not cover. She swung her massive head around, trinkets hanging from her mane swaying. The snow was too thick, she could no longer see the company in which she had arrived with.

Perfect.

Bellesta suddenly caught movement out of the corner of her eye, twisting away just in time for an axe of a Vykrul to clang off of the bark she wore on her shoulder. She dropped open her jaw and bellowed a roar. It was drowned out by the battle that raged around her. This enemy, one of many who were closing in to the stationary druid, would be the first.

Twisting and rolling about, she looked like a mass for fur, bark, and muscle. The axe of the Vykrul came down to hit snow again, spraying white powder. Forcing herself back onto her feet, Bellesta swung the waterskin around her neck up, catching it in her jaws and popping it like a plump berry. Green liquid sprayed over her teeth and face, two massive gulps of it sliding down her throat.

The fight was silent. Suddenly all she could see was a mass of moving shapes, and one creature clearer than ever before. The Vykrul’s movements came so slow, so clumsy. Bellesta easily sidestepped as the axe came down again, one paw lifting to catch an arm. Flesh was so delicate… so smooth. The spray of blood and resulting howl of pain were like music as the massive humanoid toppled before her. Teeth moved to carefully behind the throat, as if she were about to lift a cub.

The resulting yank was not so gentle. With a surge of physical power granted only by the drug she so cherished, the lifted the Vykrul and slammed him sideways, bludgeoning something else moving until it stopped.

–
Aleros

The Wildfire Riders – Aleros by *JRinaldi on deviantART

The battle raged to new heights. Instead of a slow trickle of undead and an overwhelming force of Alliance, Aleros now looked across a battlefield of mingled armies. Horde, alliance, and Arthas’s army now fought together. If one thing heartened the druid it was that the horde and alliance worked together. Too long had the petty squabbles of the two forces hindered real progress towards eliminating true threats. It was surely a good sign that they were working together.

For most of the battle so far very few injuries had come in to his care. Some of the ones that did come were severe, but he never found himself overwhelmed healing the wounded. He treated both horde and alliance, although at his current position he received very few that donned the horde’s red tabard.

One of the younger men of the alliance army had received a nasty wound from one of the vicious blades of the undead, and it had festered terribly. The man must have been no older than 19.

“They sent me up here from my station down in Booty Bay. Nice place it is. A bit rough.” He groaned as Aleros worked on bringing the infection under control. He wouldn’t be sealing the wound before then. He used alchemical potions as well as magic to control and remove it.

“I had a shack down there.” Aleros gave the man a quick smile before returning his gaze and attention to the wound, it smelled like rotting fruit. “My daughter also frequents it, but she doesn’t go into the Bay all that often.”

“That-” he winced, “That so? What I’d give to be down there right now, not up in this frozen hell hole. She… she pretty?”

That’s an odd question. He stopped for a moment, then considered that the man might need some comforting conversation right now. “Yes. Yes she is. Long blue hair, a big smile. Very smart, although she doesn’t act it. She’s with someone. She’s with someone but I could … I could get you a drink with her. When you get back to the Bay.” He looked up at the man’s face again. It did seem to give him some relief to think about somewhere warmer again.

“I’m Maynard Wilson.”

“Aleros, Aleros Crescentwing.”

“If you don’t mind me asking… what’s… what’s her name?”

“Skyborne, most just call her Sky.”

“Skyborne Crescentwing…” His gaze wandered off.

“Oh, no. She’s just what you’d call my daughter in law.”

“Oh.” Maynard became silent after that. His silence made Aleros feel almost uneasy.

“You will – you can still meet her.”

Maynard smiled at that, but still said nothing. That was enough for Aleros. He successfully removed all traces of the infection and began to close the wound as he noticed five men coming down one of the slopes towards him. Two of them were carrying one man, and one of the others was carrying…

“We seek aid, we’re a scouting party from the pass over,” he indicated over the hill they’d just come from “There. We were ambushed.” All of the men were somewhat torn up and bleeding in various places, but the worst was the one they carried. “Our commander, he needs your healing the most.” One of the men held out a detached foot. The man they had now set down on a stretcher was indeed without one of his feet.

Aleros applied an elixir to Maynard’s wound, which had almost finished healing, and went over to begin trying to piece their commander back together.

The man who carried nothing down the hill and had yet to speak, spoke. “We need this done in less than half an hour, and everyone back in fighting condition.”

Aleros felt a twinge at the tone in the man’s voice. “This can’t be done in half an hour, let alone getting him into fighting condition.”

“We need it done in that amount of time. The pass cannot go unguarded.”

“I am telling you that no magic will have him back in fighting condition in any less time than a day.” He tried to keep his voice calm, despite the impatient and annoyed tones that the man was rapidly developing.

“Then we shall have to take him to someone more suited to his injuries, a brother of the light, not some hippie healer.”

Aleros’s face muscles twitched. “I told you, no magic can reattach this man’s foot and heal all the wounds he has in that amount of time.” He continued to not look at the man, but rather desperately concentrated on keeping that Commander’s life in him.

“This is an order. Druid.”

“I don’t work for your Stormwind army, and I don’t take orders from the likes of you.” He was now genuinely annoyed with him, and still trying to keep his focus.

One of the other men interjected, “Kessler, maybe you should just let him do his job.”

“Liutenant Commander Kessler to you! I know what his job is, and our job is to make sure no undead get over that pass, do you hear me? I’m second in command with Jex here incapacitated! Don’t back talk me again Corporal or I’ll have you–”

“Kessler,” the commander, who up til now appeared to be unconscious, interrupted. “Shut the fuck up.”

Maynard had a hard time stifling a laugh.

–

Italics

They came down from the hills by the thousands, heralded by the baying of wolves and the brassy shriek of warhorns. Hooves and claws flung gobbets of snow that iron-shod tramped into muck. The golden knights of Quel’thalas raised their lances and charged beside the bright-plumed mounts of savage Darkspear raiders; the grim-faced Deathguard of New Lordaeron lowered their iron masks and trampled the hillside in the wake of totem-bearing Bloodhoof braves. Raising his father’s axe, their Mag’har commander bellowed an ancient orcish war cry, and when his troops roared it back, the very mountains trembled. The Kor’kron punched into the flank of the great Scourge army, fangs and blades rending, staining Dragonblight anew. In the space of minutes, the Legion was relieved, and Saurfang the Younger and Bolvar Fodragon clapsed hands before turning back to the day’s bloody work.

The Scourge fared no better on the flanks, the irregulars responding to the rhythmic unison of the Bloody Prince’s assault with their own reserves, taking a brutal toll on the swarms of undead. And nowhere was the devastation greater than the broken hill, where three women raised their voices in words that pitched into the weave beneath the world and brought back shining death. Ice and fire and wind swirling about them, they walked into the face of the enemy – and where their eyes turned, they left sacks of charred meat, fragments of glass-frail bone, empty and ruined husks. They made a charnel pit of the valley, and the heroes on the hill raised a ragged cheer, exhorting them on.

When the hellish storm died, corpses were heaped to the hundred, barely recognizable as things that could have aspired to humanity. The great hulk of the behemoth was reduced to bone and char, the cultists that had been cowering behind it nearly obliterated. The field was clear, the three women alone in the ashes, drained and tottering. They looked at their handiwork with unseeing eyes, otherworldly power still coloring the paper of their flesh. They smiled as one.

“ARTHAS!” they called. “ARTHAS!”

To be blunt, I’m horribly torn about the buff. On one hand I don’t wish the Naxxramas 40 disease on anyone. That dungeon was a piece of art back in vanilla WoW, but it was so tough that only a teeny tiny portion of the player base got to experience all of it. They brought it back for Northrend and scaled the difficulty way down, of course, but there was something to be said for the glory of Naxx 40’s initial difficulty. You needed precise execution in there – it wasn’t the “40 man zerg fest” of any of the previous vanilla content. In short, that dungeon is where people L2P’d.

I guess my problem is . . . I didn’t think ICC was/is THAT hard. Certain encounters were aggravating, to be sure – Rotface was a healer check and the debuff was ridiculous, Festergut was a DPS check – but otherwise there’s a lot of the same old mechanics. ICC’s rule of thumb is Don’t Stand In Shit, and if the standard WoW player hasn’t figured that out yet, they probably haven’t been paying attention for five years (or they’re dim).

I know, I know, in the long run five percent dps increase isn’t such a huge thing, but I was the type of kid that wasn’t keen on scaling papers either, so I think this feels a little bit like cheating. Honestly, it’s the knowledge that ICC will be given a ten percent buff at some point that’s sticking in my craw, with the possibility of it scaling even MORE later on if Bliz feels like it. Too much! Way too much! Oh, and please don’t bother pointing out that you can shut the dps bonus off to keep the content hard. I realize that, and if I had my way I’d probably not take the buff, but I’m odd and I know others will want to saunter in and cakewalk to their epics.

I’m just not one of ‘em.

Did they have a mentor?

Now, mentors don’t all have to be like Dumbledore or Gandalf the Grey.  Can your character have been taught by a grizzled old man of indeterminate age, wielding a staff and dispensing cryptic wisdom?  Sure!  But mentors come in all shapes and sizes, and can lend an interesting aspect to your character’s development.

Some things to consider, if you’re giving your character a mentor:

What kind of influence did the mentor have over your character?

The mentor can be a helpful presence, offering wisdom and teaching your character to be stronger, braver, smarter.  Or perhaps the mentor is more of a hindrance, keeping him from going after his goals until he’s been deemed worthy, whether his reasoning is correct or not.  Perhaps the mentor was actively working against your character’s ambitions.

What was the mentor’s standing in his or her society?  Amongst other practitioners of his art?

Is the mentor a well-respected mage of the Kirin Tor, or did he spend the last ten years living in the forest, shunned by his peers?  Do other hopeful students seek her out, or do her heretical beliefs make her someone most others avoid?  Could he pull strings for your character if the need arose?  (And if he could, would he?)

Did your character want a mentor?  Did the mentor want a student?

Are they together by mutual decision?  By necessity?  Because other parties are forcing them to spend time together, and they don’t have the power or leverage to refuse?

Is the mentor older or younger than the character?

How does any age difference affect their relationship?  Does your much-younger character laugh at the curmudgeonly old crone?  Does your middle-aged character scoff at her teenaged mentor?  Does the mentor think the character’s too immature to learn any of his lessons, or too old to change his ways?  How do they surprise one another and challenge assumptions?

Is the mentor still alive?

If so, how involved is he in the character’s day to day life?  Are they still on speaking terms, or did they have a falling-out?  If they’re not getting along, is one bent on making the other’s life hell?

If the mentor’s dead, how did he or she die?  Does your character need or want vengeance/closure/forgiveness?

Did an enemy send an assassin?  Did your character bring about his mentor’s demise by accident?  On purpose?  Did they die so your character could escape to live another day?  Did her mentor leave her with a task that needs completing?  If so, does she plan to complete it?

There are so very many different scenarios you could play with if you choose to give your character a mentor, and I’m sure there are hundreds of other questions we could ask to help you flesh him or her out even more.  If you have a few hours years to get lost in the clicky labyrinth of TV Tropes, here’s where their page on mentors starts.

When you find your way back to us, tell us — does your character have someone they’d consider a mentor?  Fill us in!

What do criminals do when they go on vacation?  It was suggested to Tarquin that he needed to take some time off and regain his balance — though his interpretation is probably very different from what Alishe had in mind when she meted out the advice.  Tarq and Annalea headed down to Booty Bay with the intention of drinking, gambling, and doing nothing that resembled work.  But old habits die hard, and in the Bay, opportunities for heinous fuckery abound…))

There were four guards, bulky and heavily armed, spaced around the chamber. There was a brace of breech-loading hand cannons under the desk. There was a sniper somewhere, so well concealed that even the Admiral couldn’t find him off the dot. His guests had been disarmed at the door. And still, Raza Breakwater was sweating. It hadn’t been much more than a year since the last time he’d been in this same situation, and he’d come very close to dying that day. Every day that entire week, in fact – so maybe it was just the association, and not any actual fear for his life when the odds were completely in his favor.

But a goblin in his position really had to be honest with himself. It was the latter.

“Let’s play straight,” he said, shaking off the nerves with an irritable twitch of his neck. “You want use of my properties for a week, my backing of your stake at the tables, and my name as assurance against harm. And in return, you offer me…nothing.” He leveled a gaze at the taller of the two pale yellow-haired things standing across from him. “Straight?”

“Half again your normal cut, wasn’t it?” The woman, Elcare or some such, was a gorgeous specimen, just delicate-looking enough to assure the Admiral that she most certainly wasn’t.

“That’s nothing.” He raised a thick-fingered hand. “First off, a cut of your winnings is nothing, because you won’t keep winning, because nobody ever fucking does unless they’re conning the house. In which case, it’s my fat green ass on the line for you, and I don’t see Prince Kezan coming out of the clouds with sacks of cash for all, so that’s not happening. Second off, even if you did keep winning, money is fucking nothing. I could buy and sell you both ten times before sunset.” He paused. “Seven, at least.”

“Playin’ this yin hard, are yeh no’, mate?” Every time Tarquin ap Danwyrith smiled, Raza had to keep himself from going for one, or maybe both, of his guns – partially on survival instinct, partially on principle. “A share fir yir backin’, a payment fir a room at t’inn – s’a fair standard deal.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not a standard fucking guest.” Breakwater matched the smile with a steely glare, a weight of beetle-browed scowl over the top of his braided collar and epaulets. “My boys say you walk through walls and cheat kings at dice, and that when you snap your fingers, an arrow drills itself through a warlord’s brainpan. The Horde calls you Oathbreaker, the Alliance calls you traitor, and a bunch of fire-flinging lunatics and bloodthirsty elf cannibals call you boss. You’re a pain in the ass with a hat on.” He switched his gaze to the woman. “And you, lady, I don’t even know who the fuck you are, but any woman passing time with this skinny white ghost is nobody I want anything to do with.”

She smiled at him. He did not feel the urge to reach for his guns. “Are you always this smooth with the girls, Admiral? Think if you don’t know who I am, that’d be a fine reason to play it careful.” Her eyes flicked around the room. “Don’t know how goblins say it, but in Stormwind, there’s all sorts of warnings about getting familiar with mystery women.”

Raza snorted. “Not bad. And that’s an even better reason for me to tell you to fuck off and get off my ship.”

“Wis gonna say, mate,” piped up Tarquin, “I’m enjoyin’ the new boat. Stays even a fair deal better’n the last.”

“It’s a ship, and you’re leaving it. Lucky for you, I’m not going to tell that carroty prick in the City you were down here. Not today, anyway. Boys?” Before the guards could move in, the woman stepped forward.

“Come on, Admiral. Aren’t you the least bit curious what brings us down here? What sort of business we have planned that requires the cooperation of such an infamous…businessman…” She didn’t say pirate, and he could hear her not saying it. “…with a personal grudge against us? It’s a bit of a risk, even for the Black and Red. It’s got to make you curious.”

The guards were hesitating. Raza cursed his race’s inherent weakness for good dramatic timing. “No. Not even a little. It’s some insane fucking scheme and I want nothing to do with it.” He didn’t raise his hand to the boys again, and both man and woman just looked at him in smiled. “Galzik’s loose change, alright, fine, what the fuck are you doing here?”

“Yeh tell ‘im, Annie,” Tarquin said, sticking his thumbs into his belt and leaning back.

The woman began to walk closer, her voice taking on a tone that somehow passed for both businesslike and intimate. “Admiral Breakwater, my name’s Annalea Al’Cair, and this reprehensible fellow’s offered to take me on a vacation. We have no grand plans.” She paused elaborately, thinking to herself. It wasn’t a seduction – it was something significantly more subtle, and appealing. “Well, alright. We plan to ruin Booty Bay. We’re going to win your games of chance, defile your prettiest men and women, and be so blind stumbling drunk you can’t believe we got away with it.” She finished leaning against his desk, eyebrow arched, looking around the cabin with the air of a woman looking to redecorate. “And if you turn us down, you’ll never see what happens when you turn Stormwind’s finest criminals loose on the richest port in the south.”

More subtle, more appealing, and infinitely more dangerous. Raza closed his eyes momentarily, half-expecting to hear Tarquin crow Got yeh, yeh bastard! or something similar. But the human at least had more manners than that. “Twice my normal cut. And when you drop my name, you do it with respect.”

“S’if we could do elsewise, auld boy.” Tarquin grinned expansively, striding up to join Annalea Al’Cair in front of his desk. “Far as any punters asks is concerned, I’m here oan account ay air frequent business, an’ might be earnin’ some coin at the tables ta repay the favors I owe yeh.”

“Fine. Whatever.” Raza reached back for a bellpull. “I’ll have one of the girls show you to a suite. This had better be fucking entertaining, ap Danwyrith. Al’Cair. Now go away, I’ve got a motherfucker of a headache coming on just looking at you.”

They moved to the door, the guards folding in around them. Tarquin glanced back over his shoulder. “An’ by the by, Breakwater, Ceil sends her virra best regards.”

There it is. He kept his hands away from the guns by force of a certain effort. “Yeah, I’m sure. Shaw won’t try anything in Cartel territory, you half-vrykul freak. Keep your leashed devils away from me and don’t make me regret this.” He waved them away, ignoring the effusively barbed rejoinders, and waited until he was certain they were gone before smiling. You had to take your entertainments where you could.

—

The Bosun’s Quarters was a deceptively modest inn. Breakwater’s had girl led them along the plank streets of Booty Bay, seemingly unsure whether she should be chatting up the pair that had made her boss’ teeth grind audibly, or whether she should leave them the hell alone and hope they forgot her as soon as the doors to their rooms closed behind her. In the end, she opted for the latter, and that was fine by Tarquin and Annalea. They had sights to take in along the way — seeing which taverns looked lively, which alleys might lend well to skulking through, which others were better for pelting down at full-speed if need be. The Bay’s more opulent inns were built on the higher decks of the port city — above the stink of the docks and the rabble — but The Bosun’s Quarters was nestled snugly into the middle tier, the inn’s front looking no different than any of the others near it.

Once you got past the facade, however…

“So this is how you slum it without giving up your comfort.” Anna dropped her bags on the floor just inside and turned in a slow circle. The spacious common room was big enough to host a small dinner party in. Across the room, the balcony door stood open, the salt breeze stirring the curtains.

Tarquin sauntered over to it, peering out as though taking in the view, but his fingers traced the contours of the lock for a moment before he nodded. “This’ll do. Annie, thank our guide fir her services.”

She dropped a gold piece into the greenskin’s upraised hand and steered her to the door. “Give Breakwater our best,” she said, closed it in the goblin woman’s face. When she turned back to the room, Tarquin had disappeared. She heard a low whistle from one of the bedrooms and followed the sound.

Tarq stood, hands on hips, taking in the setup. The bed was heaped with pillows, their decorations stitched in shimmering silk. The furniture was finely crafted, gold gilding the mirrors, the arms of the chairs, even the washbasin. Not that anyone staying in Booty Bay ever needed extra blankets, but a heap of them sat on a lush divan by the window. Anna knew Darnassian lambswool when she saw it. The blankets would fetch enough back home to pay her rent for half a year. “Yeh think we could do somethin’ like this downstairs in the Pig?” He tossed a grin back over his shoulder.

“Sure. If you empty out the King’s coffers.”

“Put it on my list.”

“When we get back, I will. I’m on vacation.” The other bedroom was nearly the same, decorated in cool blues instead of the greens that graced the walls of Tarq’s room. From her window, Anna could see people strolling about, enjoying Booty Bay’s attractions while they waited for the sun to set and the true debauchery to begin. A woman walked by, hair piled high atop her head, wearing a dress that had to have her sweltering beneath it. The man at her side was also overdressed for the southern heat, but that wasn’t what made Anna curse under her breath. His black coat bore a crest she knew, had known since she was little and memorizing the Houses at her mother’s insistence. “Tarq?”

“Ayeh, Annie?” His voice came from the common room this time. When she poked her head out the door, she spied him by the window again, fiddling with the lock. He’d dragged an overstuffed armchair over to the door so he could sit while he worked on it. It was expensive seating for breaking-and-entering practice, but Tarq looked almost at home. “Have ta give it ta Breakwater. They didn’t skimp oan the security. This is a fuckin’ Wilmar an’ Young’s. If any punter in this town kin pick it, I’ll eat that virra fine hat I lent yeh.” The lock clicked under his ministrations. “Well. Any ither punter, ay course.” He looked up at her. “What were yeh callin’ for?”

“House Lambrick,” she said, tapping at her lip. “Didn’t they declare themselves penniless over the summer? Said that’s why they couldn’t donate any funds to the war efforts?”

“Ayeh, or so we heard.”

“Well. I just saw Lord and Lady Lambrick heading for The Golden Anchor. Unless they’re washing dishes, it’s not a place broke nobles ought to be able to eat at.”

For a moment, they were quiet, wheels turning in two separate golden-haired heads. But the silence between them was a sly one, of plans being mulled over, dismissed, or reworked. Anna’s grin broke first, but by the time Tarq had reset and picked his lock once more, his own sharklike smile matched hers. “Put oan yir prettiest dress, Annie,” he said, unfolding himself from the chair, “wir awey ta dine wi’ the bankrupt.”

Half an hour later, they emerged from their rooms, transformed. Anna’d buttoned herself into a crimson gown with altogether too many ruffles. It was completely impractical and the height of Stormwind fashion. Her hair was gathered up in a bun, with onyx beads tucked into the twists. She curtsied while Tarq sketched a bow, sweeping the hem of his white coat back in a manner that would impress the King himself. An intricate gold chain at his waist disappeared into the pocket of his pristine, snow-white pants.

“Didn’t the man waiting beside us at the gryphons have a pocket watch?”

“‘Did’ bein’ the operative word.” Tarq held out his arm. “Yeh ready ta go make Breakwater glad he saw things air wey?”

They headed out the door, making their way towards The Golden Anchor and its patrons. Behind them, the sun was sinking into the ocean, turning the water the color of blood.

I have a problem with endings. I think I can hook a players into a story. With enough time and participation, I can push the story forward. What I worry about, what I know I have problems with, is the ending.

I worry that the ending is too rushed, that it ties up too much or not enough. I worry that the ending took too damn long. I worry that the payout is not enough.

For fic, I’m lucky enough to have truly talented writers and authors who have helped me finished collaborative stories.  Events, however, are a different beast entirely.  I have a few tips and tricks, but I need help.  So you, dear reader, should totally help me out.  Think of it this way, by helping me, you’re helping hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of other nerd who have similar worries:

Be comfortable with the ending.

Game Masters/Storytellers/Organizers have to be provide choices for their players.  If we do not allow our players to play their characters, then why the hell should they participate?  RP is a collaborative process.  Railroading your friends into your desired outcome is not RP.  It’s just a crappy way to get people to participate.

That being said, we have to be comfortable with the outcomes of the story.  If the story depends on everything going perfectly for an ending  that you, and your circle, is comfortable with you have two choices.  ou can either detach from the characters or rethink the story.  Given that detaching from a character can be a difficult as ending a relationship, I’d suggest the latter.
This is a lesson I have struggled to learn over seven years.  It is one that I still struggle with.

Loose Ends and Final Endings

Way back in the day, while take a research methods and design class, my professor said the best way to end a paper was to, “explain the results and keep them wanting for more.”  To do this properly with an ending, one has to balance between a final ending and setting up for a new story.  Given the pull of our characters, it is entirely too tempting to plan towards the latter.  Sequential arcs can provide players with a method to explore the consequences of their actions.

At the same time, some stories arcs need to reach a “final ending.”   After months or years of planning, fighting and confrontations, he final villains, or heroes, die.  The objective is reached.  It is time to move on.  Think of this like moving on from an aspect of your own life.  If you leave, or lose, your job, that particular narrative is over.  What happens next, while related to losing your job, is something entirely new.  While you may go back and visit your work friends and coworkers, your story at that job is over.

Striking this balance is incredibly hard.  I have to admit, I am no where NEAR comfortable with my ability to work these endings well.

The Pace

When RPers Fic, our pace is mostly under our own control.  While we need to compete with other activities (work, play, hiking, whatever) we only have our own schedule to worry about.  When we involve other people, say in collaborative fic or forum posting, we have to worry about their schedules.  Trying to run an event , or  tell a complicated, multi-part story, in game means coordinating with even more schedules, server lag and griefers.  Scheduling events is only part of the pacing.  We have to determine how many events to run, what happens at said events, learn to roll with the unexpected AND make sure that every one who participates feels like they have a role to play.

Ficcing, in this regard, is so much easier.  Personally, I am comfortable with this particular aspect of how to end a story.  I know my difficulties lie in forum and in game events.  One trick I do have for pacing is working with people, parcing out parts of the story to individuals.  There is, of course, a drawback to this as well.  If the people can’t, or don’t, follow through with what they volunteered their character for, then it becomes my responsibility to ensure that the parts, and the pacing, proceed on time.

Endings are difficult.  It does not matter if its for fic, an event, forums, a comic or the end of the character:  Getting to the end game at the right time, and tying up the proper loose ends is hard enough.  Being comfortable–not liking or disliking but being comfortable–with an ending is struggle in and of itself.  I’ve shared my thoughts on the topic, and I have a few more in reserve.  Now its your turn.  Tell us how you end stories!

Tarquin ap Danwyrth and his merry band of miscreants signed up to fight the Lich King (known by Northerners as The Bloody Prince) and agreed to man a ballistae post over looking the battlefield. Tarq even agreed to send one of his own, Aely, down to the field as a combat healer. The brilliant plan is ruined by a tunneling Crypt Fiend, who has ruined the ballistae post. Thus far, it is supposed to be an orderly retreat back to the rendezvous point. During this retreat, Yva, Genise and Davien unleash a torrent of magical energy (Ice, Fire and Arcane) as Aely attends the wounded on the field of battle. Back at the post, Ulthanon returns his attention to the line, trying to clear a path for the orderly retreat.

–
Yva, Genise, Davien
The Red.

Sandaled feet smoothly paced across the unforgiving earth. With each touch of a long, wooden heel to stone, the snow within a foot-wide radius melted at instant, small wisps of steam rising around shapely legs. The lacey robes of many bright hues whipped around her as the wind atop the valley screamed amidst the sounds of battle. Long, painted nails sparked with fire as fists clenched, soon becoming engulfed by the elemental flames…

And the bright blue gaze of Genise Crownsilver narrowed upon her enemy as the last retreating Rider passed them by. A sudden smack on her backside made her yelp – but she didn’t dare turn to scold the criminal; she had other things on her mind.

Her teeth gritted, and her arms raised – and with a shout of foreign words, she let loose a volley of channeled flames, empowered by the ley lines, and harnessing pure destruction. The first of the three vrykul coming over the ledge simply melted, their gooey remains flopping to the snow and pouring back down into the valley. The first behind them? Sent sprawling through the air to a broken death as a ball of magical flame slammed into its chest!

Genise cackled with glee, the surge of power dominating her; such a high to any caster, no matter their knowledge or power.

Line by line, the scourge followed, coming over the ledge and closing in on the camp. Genise kept calm, composed, and didn’t move. Patience would reward her in the moments to come, and as the unbearable stench of her foes grew stronger with their closing steps, she calmly reached for the sword on her back, and whispered a soft cantation.

As the first of the scourge lunge, she draws her sword and shouts. A shield of fire explodes in an instant before her, knocking the beast back and setting it aflame! She turns quickly and brings the sword down across the chest of a rushing vrykul – causing a second, minor explosion, but every bit powerful enough to send it into the air, over her head, and crashing into its comrades.

She giggles brightly and turns, eyeing the mindless horde of ghouls around her, growing larger in numbers and slowly surrounding. Ravenous screams and gibbering as they practically tear each other apart to get to the lovely meal. Closer and closer, but she still does nothing to defend. Her smile creeps wider and higher, and her eyes narrow devilishly.

“Come on now, be mindless like you were made to be and pounce…”

And so they do. hundreds of pounds of death, decay, and disease all leap, closing in around the young woman, ripping and tearing in an attempt to have that first bite, the second, or even the last.

Shame to see, then, that they only manage to land upon the block of ice she encased herself in. A vrykul howls, bringing his axe around, taking out three of his comrades and barely chipping the block in his effort. The lessers continue to claw and gibber, knowing that eventually, they’ll make it to her. They have all the time in the world.

Her eyes close within the icy prison, and she whispers softly. A wave of heat suddenly washes over the area, and the block shatters, exploding in all directions! Flames wave out all about her form, crackling and exploding; sending all scourge in the area up and back, set aflame and mangled beyond uselessness.

A bubble of flame encases her, crackling and licking at the earth and remains at her feet. She floats roughly two feet above the ground, and she cackles wildly as she eyes the carnedge about her.

This feeling of power was beyond anything she’d ever felt – and she had thousands upon thousands of scourge to test it upon.

*****

The White.

She knew somewhere in the back of her mind that she’d left the tent with two other women, but she couldn’t seem to remember their faces or their names. She knew the man she loved was around, but she hadn’t the faintest idea where, because all she could concentrate on was the thrum of magic searing her from the inside. Never before had this kind of power branded her soul. Never before had she felt this absolutely gorged on her craft.

There was the shriek of geists coming from her left, and she swiveled her head, the motion feeling slow and languid. They ran at her, their spindly arms raised, mouths gaping open to reveal the glint of fangs. Yva tilted her head back and laughed, her arms spreading wide.

The first ice stalagmite erupted from the ground. One geist was impaled outright, its middle tearing open as the pinnacle split it from chest to guts. The others found themselves trapped, tethered to the ground as ice worked itself over their feet to climb in cords up to their knees, and then their thighs. Yva’s giggles faded as the song bubbled forth.

My love is ice and fire and wind.

The ice was around their waists now, and it began to tremble. Smaller tendrils snaked around too, creating a network of spider webs. It climbed, and climbed, until the things were swathed to their necks in her quaking magics.

The rush of the river.

Another stalagmite and then another erupted in front of her, each one acting as both a spear and an anchor, holding the writhing masses in icy grips. She walked forward, feet leaving tiny prints in the snow. She never felt the cold, she never registered the screams of the geists behind her as the last of her spell made spikes erupt from the cords, impaling each of them on a thousand shards.

The lark that sings.

She worked her way onto the field of battle, the ground opening up at her command, the terrain glittering thanks to the enormous jags protruding from it. An abomination screeched before her, its legs held strong by her power. She watched it try to chop the spell away with its axes, and she laughed and danced, swaying as the shadows erupted from her fingertips to tear through its tattered skin.

It fell back in a steaming heap, the light fading from its eyes.

Her lips moved, but no words came. In her mind, though, her song gave way to the skipping rhymes of her youth, and she smiled, rolling her head around on her shoulders with a gleeful shriek.

They wear the face of friend not foe,
Smile of light, but eye of crow
A brand of death upon the skin
Wearing their sin, Wearing their sin
The demon’s soul, and lo beware
Turned to stone with but a stare
A witch to live, a witch to die
Oh wicked brand, the end is nigh.

She opened her palms and let her magic fly.

*****

The Blue.

Crone.

They’d said, so very long ago in Ambermill, that magic was addictive. That every spell you cast made it harder and harder to resist casting the next. That it would change you, corrupt you (and there was no “perhaps” or “might” about it; only the inevitable “will”), make you crave it the way the drunk craves his flask. That there were dark, dangerous things out there, waiting for the foolhardy to slip up and let them in to wreak havoc upon the world.

She’d been cautious once, watching for the signs of those things because her teachers had told her she should be afraid. The evidence of their predecessors’ arrogance was written in history’s pages and in the scars of the world itself.

She’d been cautious, but then the priestess Mirandella had been shattered by the woman who now walked at her side, destroyed by a power whose opposite Davien knew it was within her to wield.

She’d been cautious, but then Yva had come and begged a promise from her, had asked her to be a boon, a bane, a balm.

She’d been cautious, but then the shadows had come and shown her what was, what might be, and what must never be again.

And for those things, for all those things and so very many more, she’d left caution behind at last, stealing into Eldre’thalas and pulling musty tomes from where they’d lain forgotten so that she might glean the knowledge of the Highborne. She’d collected stories all these years, not merely for entertainment, but because, when you dug down into the meat of a story — when you opened up its bones and sucked out the marrow, when you stuck your fingers in its chest and touched its very heart — there, beneath all the layers, you found truth.

Find enough truths, and find power beyond imagining.

When Sylvanas made her pact with Sin’dorei, Davien cajoled her way into the restricted areas of Silvermoon’s libraries. The clearing behind her cottage in Moonglade became her practice ground, the earth scorched with runes, sigils carved into tree trunks.

All a rehearsal, it seemed — not for the murder of Yva Darrows, not anymore (not yet; let’s not be foolish. Not YET) — but instead for the taking of a life that had done even greater damage.

Regicide, that’s what this was.

They were here to destroy a Prince, and the power to do it sang within her.

The witches emerged from the tent into the biting cold of Northrend, and everything seemed tinged in white as the arcane pulsed through her. She could pull down the mountains if she knew their Names. Perhaps she did; there were stories older than this place. She could pull down the very stars with this much power, or at least one or two. There were several of those whose Names she’d known since she was a girl in Westfall.

Shadows tinged the edges of her vision, clamoring to blind her. She forced them back, until the world was keenly edged with white once more. Y’ve no need t’protect me, she thought at them, certain they could feel what she felt. I’m doin’ as ‘ee bid me, long ago. “Never again,” y’said, remember?

Never again. Just as the Riders had roared this morning, their voices carrying into the tent and making the runes shiver against her skin.

Never again. The shadows subsided, and the witches strode through the snow.

The Riders returning to the top of the hill gave the women a wide berth. Among them were other forms she recognized, not of the Black and Red, but of the Eye. Stubborn, she thought, as she passed her own. Though they probably think the same o’me. Linedan looked as though he might pluck her up off the path, and set her down so Rashona could make good on her threat to sit on her. Pill looked as though she’d gladly help. Her heart swelled with love for them, but there was no time for more than a nod and a smile.

There was work to be done.

As the last men and women passed them by, the magi stepped out into the gap between the camp and the scourge. The abominations had followed ap Danwyrith’s force partway up the slope, ghouls and geists gibbering and capering at the thought of easy prey. Their cacophany lapsed for a heartbeat as they took in the three coming down to meet them.

One of them laughed, an empty, raspy sound from a jawless mouth, and its commander found his voice once more. “KILL THEM!” he thundered, a skeletal hand flinging forth to point, in case any of his squad’s brains were too rotted to be sure.

They keened as they surged forward, a battle-cry filled with madness. The hunters on the hill weren’t taking any chances; gunshots boomed behind them. Arrows whistled past, punching into decaying flesh. Davien grinned wildly as the wind from one stirred her hair. She tied the arcane to its tip as it flew by; the ghoul’s heart exploded in a ball of white as the arrow slammed home.

Then came the tug from the runes that tied her to her sisters. Fire and ice flared as Genise and Yva drew on the ley lines that ran deep beneath the snows. Davien pulled on it, too, and the world slowed to a crawl.

She whispered a word in a forgotten tongue, one that meant corpse and revenant and another that meant puppet and tied them together with a rune at her wrist, made them a new word.

Then she sent those words forth in a streak of purple and white, a barrage veined with thin ribbons of ebony, and let death tear them a path through the scourge.

–

Aely

Hearing her name, the paladin turned, saw nothing, and looked back towards Angrathar.

“Aely, please.”

Fordragon’s shouting stopped, and a chill whisper like the sound of death responded.

She hopped down, trying to find the voice among the swirls of snow, ghoul parts, and wounded men. “Ayeh, I hear ye – who are ye, an’ where?”

“I’m here. Under the wagon, please Aely.”

Running back and pulling loose another set of linen bandages, she found him. His side had been split open from ribcage to hip, and he was breathing blood as much as air.

A horrified gasp and shudder went through the armies gathered around the Wrathgate.

“Sweet Ligh’, Bert… I… ” and she set to bandaging his wounds. “I’ve nowt left bu’ bandages, I cannae fin’ anneh Ligh’ here now…” She bustled. He stopped her.

“Don’t. Please. I’ve died once, and dying now to know that you live and are well… is better than the first time. This life is not one that I want, nor care to keep – I want peace. Please. Peace, and rest…”

From somewhere high above, a booming voice, and the creaking squeak of siege engines.

A crash, and screaming. More crashes.

She looked out from behind the splintered wood, and fear sunk back into her stomach with all the delicacy of lead and rotten fish. Green gas, everywhere – and men screaming until their lungs filled with the choking fumes and their lives ended, drowning in open air.

A wafting wall of death floated towards them.

“Run.”

His voice rasped, with the rattle she knew the meaning of but didn’t want to believe. He reached for his pocket and handed her something. “You made this once, have it again. Now /run/.” Half a dozen steps and she looked back to see the wagon disappear under the oncoming wave – and there was no sound from underneath.

She ran.

She ran as the screaming behind her died to a choking whisper, and as dragon and felfire blazed from the sky. She ran as breath caught in her throat and the wound in her arm grew numb. She ran, without looking back, until she collapsed in the snow, chest heaving with exhaustion and pain and cold.

In her hand, blue-purple against the pale, twilight lit snow, was a knotted cord of prayer beads.

–

Ulthanon
Ulthanon had settled into his groove, wordlessly working his way through boxes and boxes of ammunition. His task was not so exciting as the front line’s; where they would engage each enemy in a unique and individual circumstance, someone relegated to providing covering fire simply took down the targets that the front line didn’t have an opportunity to. He’d come to find, over the years, that it meant he was doing his job best when his compatriots took his services as a given. That meant that they had absolute trust in his continued accuracy and judgement.
Most of the displays of his better marksmanship didn’t even register in his mind as noteworthy anymore- he didn’t have time to brag. Any more time wasted than the second it took to pull the bolt of his gun back again, and he risked someone’s life down on the front. For at least three-quarters of the shots he was taking he had less than half a second to aim, but thus far he had not missed a single target. Some of the bigger creatures took a little more attention, but it was an attention he was more than happy to give.

Even from up on his hill, with the din of his own gun and Beltar’s beside him, he heard the call for a general retreat sound from the melee below. This meant little for him; he still had to rain death with the same level of accuracy, and its not like he had to move anywhere. It just meant that the people who would be returning to the camp might be a little more distracted than they should be.

From the corner of his eye, a distinct movement registered in the back of his mind. It was only from the periphery that the figure caught his attention, but it was moving quickly and towards one of the Paladins from the left- probably Jolstraer, from the way the armored figure moved. Still, there were five other targets lined up in his mind, most of whom were around Tarquin and Tirith, so this new creature would have to wait its turn.
Blam!ka-chick.Blam!ka-chick. Two down, both headshots. He realigned his aim a few degrees to the left, allowing better view of the creature- a Vykrul. So a body-shot wouldn’t be enough to bring it down… that’s fine.
Blam!ka-chick. He realigned to the left again after catching a leaping Giest mid-air, wholly halting its trajectory and sending it whirling into the snow. It was a Vykrul after all, but its weapon was smaller than normal. Looked like a throwing axe. The creature started to wind up its good arm.

Blam!ka-chick.Blam!ka-chick. Another two bullets found home in a pair of Necromancers that had started eyeing up a Tauren, and they crumpled as their heads were reduced to a fine red mist. He doubted whether or not the two could have really harmed the enormous bull, but he’d noticed the Hordesman helping a few Riders now and again, so he had figured he’d repay the favor. Still, that left the axe-thrower…
…and from the right, now, another one of the northern giant-men loomed out of the crowd, and began to heft its hammer. Left alone, it might catch Tirith unawares.

Oh, fuck me.

What happened next took place over the span of maybe three seconds.
Ulthanon’s eyes snapped left to the Vykrul to see that the axe was already leaving it’s hand. Shooting the monster now wouldn’t save anyone from that whirling blade, which was probably four feet long and a hundred pounds of honed Northern death. From the right, the second of the pair had now fully lifted his weapon, and still stood a few feet diagonally behind where Tirith was casting his spells. From the speed he was moving at, he’d be on the Rogue-turned-Mage in about a second and a half… the axe would hit Jolstraer in less than that.
Ulthanon’s aim snapped back to the right, halfway between the Vykrul and Jolstraer’s position, to a point where there was a gap in the fighting. Without a hesitation, he squeezed the trigger.

The bullet shrieked down the length of the hill, fully ready to bore into a snowbank. As it approached it’s intended spot in the plane, however, the axe whirled into view, and the marksman’s shell found home on the flat of the blade. The axe, whose flight had now been acted upon, deflected a mere degree or two to it’s left- but it was enough. It sailed past Jolstraer (Ulthanon wasn’t even sure if the Northman even knew the axe ever existed) and found a new home in the forehead of the Vykrul advancing on Tirith. The hammer-wielding madman stopped in his charge and fell backwards, massive gavel falling to its final rest on his chest with a light squelch.
Blam!ka-chick. A seventh bullet, this time fired for a direct effect, dispatched the axe-thrower without further incident.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ulthanon caught sight of something about seventy degrees to his right…

Now, we know that the world of Azeroth that, for some of us, we could probably traverse in our sleep or while alt-tabbed without running off of cliffs or into walls, is going to be going through some major changes.  One of the ones that was mentioned in the devchat last week caught Lansiron’s eye:

Q. With the Lich King defeated, in Cataclysm, will the Plaguelands be green and beautiful again?
A. Western Plaguelands will finally be free of the plague in Cataclysm. It’s hard for the Scourge to survive without their beloved Lich King. I guess this means we need to rename the zone?

Yep, that’s right, all you Northerners!  If your character was born west of the Thondoril River, the ancestral homes you once might have thought lost forever could possibly be restored!

Now, we don’t have a lot of information here, like, if the Western Plaguelands are restored, why not the Eastern Plaguelands as well?  Will Andorhal be rebuilt?  What happens to the Scourge in Scholomance?

However, I think even the start of a cleansing becomes a pretty major theme for RP.

Have you started thinking about what the healing of the Plaguelands will mean for your characters?  Where are they now, in terms of those blighted lands — do they still hope for a cleansing, and maybe even work towards one?  Have they given up on those dreams completely?  If they’ve given up, what happens when the lands are green again?

What about Forsaken characters?  If the lands can be revived, will the news make your deaders take heart, or will it fill them with a new kind of dread?  I’ve seen Forsaken who revel in their undead states and others who only want it to end.  Those who search for a way to live again, and those who have accepted what they are.  Might the cleansing and healing of the Plaugelands hold answers for any of those?

I’m not sure what this will mean to Davien.  She’s long since been resigned to her Forsaken state.  She doesn’t want to become human again.  But she won’t pass up an opportunity to learn how it happened, if she can study it.

Threnn’s story here will, I think, depend largely on Bricu’s.  He’s said before that reclaiming Lordaeron and the North is off his agenda, and has been for a while.  While Lordaeron will probably still be under Forsaken control, and Stratholme’s still off to the east, I’ll be curious to see whether this will make Bricu rethink his position at all.

Most likely, I’ll be ficcing out something for one of Threnn’s good friends, whose family lived on the western banks of the river, and who hasn’t been back to the North for many years.

What RP opportunities do you see for your characters?

Fun seems to be an obvious point factor in creating successful RP, and yet, how many of us can point to an RP event where we experience anything BUT fun. For instance, the earliest RP event I remember attending on Feathermoon was a “psychic battle of wills.” Bricu was an audience member. I stood there, on the bridge over the lava pit in Blackrock mountain, wondering why the hell he surrounded himself with wonky gits. After a snide comment or two, Bricu walked out and got hammered somewhere. The event itself was NOT FUN.

Fun means 1) giving everyone a role to play or 2) giving guidelines on what you want a character to do. Audience member is not a role anyone wants to play. WoW has some beautiful cut-scenes; however, these are devices to inform our characters of what is going on. We are not, typically, involved in them. Do not treat your RP as witnesses to your characters ABV. Give everyone a chance to shine in some way, shape or form.

Keep in mind that even an epic failure is a method to shine.

Balance means mixing the proper proportions of events, styles and methods of RP. For instance, not everyone likes forum or fic based RP. Likewise, not every event can be told in the game client. Epic mounted calvary battles are not going to happen in Wow. During an event, the organizers have to strike the proper balance of methods to keep the story going. Balance means more than getting the right amount of fics posted and in game events together. Balance also means getting the right amount of humor, drama and action together.

Bricu, for example, tends less towards “zany, crazy hijinks!” and more towards, “I will punch you in the face and laugh.” while I know that he is skewed, I have tried to strike more of a balance with him by including his pet collection, his adoration of his daughter, and the willingness to play the role of a straight-man in some RP situations. Striking this balance is not easy, especially when we consider the differences in RP styles, but it is something we should strive for.

Balanced characters (properly defined as well-rounded characters, I believe) do not make an inherently balanced story line. This takes work. When writing up plot outlines, or figuring out what roles people will take in the story, keep in mind that you should look to build, and release, tension at dramatically appropriate points. Too much melancholy and people will NEED a “Wacky Hijinks Story” to stay motivated. Too much fighting in a story and you lose the political and social elements that attract a fair amount of RPers. Too much “Zany” and you lose to people who want to work on a more serious story.

Communication, Fun and Balance. These are the factors that, in my opinion, make RP great. My opinion should not be the end all, be all, of RP. What are the factors that you like to consider when designing RP? Do you have other, better, examples of Communication, fun and balance? Do you think I’m full of it? Let us know?

This post went up too quick. Expect edits throughout the day.

—
Tarquin

The Wildfire Riders – Tarquin by *JRinaldi on deviantART

Tarquin pitched down the slope like a falling ash, tottering from step to step, kept aloft by sheer momentum and exhilaration. Snow puffed with every impact of his feet, occasionally digging tracks in the drifts as he skidded for a few yards. It was all very simple – if he tried to slow down, he’d be more likely to stumble, and so increase the odds of ending the Battle of Angrathar as a broken-necked, limp bag of bones at the bottom of a hill. Posterity recalls Tarquin ap Danwyrith, mercenary captain and career criminal, dead at the Bloody Prince’s doorstep on account of tripping and falling. Sodding embarassing, really. So, he just couldn’t afford to stop.

A few lines of potential news-scrip flashed through his head, and he snorted laughter and bit his tongue doing so. The Tribune would have a fucking field day, and those poor sods at the Clarion would have no place to show their heads. Lucky for the lot of them he wasn’t willing to sacrifice his life to the tender mercies of that all-consuming bitch, Irony. He still had work to do, after all. Here and now. He leapt a shattered tangle of limbs that had probably been some sort of deader, waved his arms for balance on the landing, and managed to save himself with a mad sidewards lean. The sounds of battle were growing closer now, an indecipherable mass of voices and material contact, the many-throated growl of a single hungry animal.

It was, he was not much ashamed to say, fucking terrifying.

He skidded another few lengths of hillside, the rear ranks of the Scourge looming in view. The corpse of the behemoth was still there, of course, great gobbets of flesh torn from it by the ripping passage of its fellows. And just like most carrion, it had attracted crows – necromancers, their black cultic robes flapping about them as they launched salvos of entropy and padded the ranks of their minions. Clever bastards, really, and efficient to boot. With cover like that, and a bit of height if they needed, it’d be easy to take their time with their shots. Like, say, if you were one particular cultist, with a keen enough eye to spot one skinny sod scarpering down the hillside wide out in the open. You’d have all the time in the world to drill him with some soul-wrenching evocation.

“Ah, fuck.”

Tarquin picked up speed and hurled himself flat, diving into the snow as death crackled past him. The initial shock of the cold hit like a hammer, with that soothing promise of warmth and rest lurking behind it. He scrambled for purchase, feet slipping out from under him, and then the inconvenient laws of reality kicked in and he was skidding down the last yards of the hill. At least this made him a very difficult target. Got many a reason to be cheerful, don’t I? Could be a corpse in the muck, easy. He was aware he was smiling, and there was snow in his teeth, and it hurt like a bastard. And a few seconds later, he was aware of something that loomed above him though it was down the slope, blotted out the gray half-light, and felt like a stone wall when he slammed into it.

Most stone walls, though, didn’t have the courtesy to yank you out of the snow after you’d made their acquaintance. Tarquin found himself looking up at eight feet and change of Tauren, with blood and pus splashed across his pitted iron armor like he’d taken a bath in dead ghouls. Under his helm, the Horde soldier’s face was slack with what Tarquin took for bemusement. It wasn’t every day, Tarquin supposed, that the Oathbreaker careened down a hillside and ran into your chest. “Cheers, mate,” he huffed breathlessly, bracing a hand against one of the giant’s pauldrons while he got his legs under him. “Linedan, innit?”

Linedan made a sort of volcanic rumbling noise that the rogue eventually realized was Orcish for “Yes,” followed by a string of glottal consonants that he couldn’t properly follow, but smacked of a certain dry humor. Tarquin nodded enthusiastically and tried to remember his Orcish. “Back,” he attempted. “Going back.” Linedan just stared. “Up, back. Ha’the orcs even go’ a word fir ‘retreat’? Shite. Uh…” Inspiration struck. He pointed up the hill, and then described a long arc in the air with his hand, ending with a reasonable somatic expression of an apocalyptic explosion. “Davien,” he finished.

The Tauren’s eyes widened in comprehension. Tarquin clapped his hands together and nodded again. “Universal fuckin’ language, mate. Thanks again. Loktar Ogar an’ all thit.” He jogged in the direction of the fracas, Linedan turning about to follow in his wake, bellowing out to his comrades. And he had comrades, the northman saw as he got closer; a handful of forms in the chaos wearing Noxilite colors. He wondered if Bricu had arranged that one.

The Riders were hammered back into their makeshift line of stakes, the line collapsed to a tight knot in a wave of corpses, some of which had finally had the decency to lie down and be dead. “Toe tae th’ line!” Jolstraer was bellowing, bare-headed in the tumult. “Refoahm, an’ toe tae th’line!” He saw Feliche and Bellesta, out ahead of the stakes; bear-mounted, Feliche was big enough to look a Vrykul champion in the eyes as he planted his axe between them. They were holding, as far as that went.

“Tarq!” Ceil was there, blessedly, stepping back from the swirl of combat about the stakes. They looked at each other for a silent moment, confirming the other’s presence, pulse, and wholeness in all their particulars, and he saw his own gratitude reflected in her eye. After that, she was all business. “We can’t do this much longer, even with the Horde here.”

“We’re pullin’ back. Get thim out, up the hill. Genise an’ the dead lasses are bringin’ it down.” He jerked his head towards the front line. “Anyin out oan the flanks, get ‘em. I’m fir tellin’ Jolly!” Ceil spun wordlessly and darted out to the right, where Chryste was making herself a mound of corpses. Tarquin headed into the madness, quietly cursing himself as he scrabbled for his sword. Fourteen fucking years, and you’re still getting into the type of trouble requires an otherwise reasonable man to use a fucking sword. There were a pair of geists skulking around the stake line, maybe heading for the back. That was more like it; he had his knives to hand in no more time than it took him to think about it. One collapsed instantly, a cobalt point punching through leather and the thin skein of flesh under its ear into the spoiled meat of its brain. The other spun and shrieked as he opened its stomach; he stepped aside from its ineffectual flailing and buried a dagger in its vapid eye.

So alright, then, maybe he could manage something useful here.

Knives disappearing again, Tarquin ap Danwyrith waded manfully into the madness of battle. From the rear. Tirith was kneeling in the back, exhausted, gulping from a water skin and wiping soot from his strained face; Tarquin clapped him on the shoulder as he passed, yelling for Jolstraer. The de facto captain of the front line was amid the broken stakes, finishing off a Vrykul with three human skulls braided into her rust-orange hair. Tarquin slipped up beside the old paladin as his sword ripped through the giantess’s neck. “Get ‘em back,” he shouted over the noise of battle, waving his sword in the direction of the Scourge. “Wir callin’ the fire, get ‘em all back.”

Jolstraer looked over at him; beneath its mask of someone’s blood, the old paladin looked haggard and wolfish, his weariness second to his hunger. A smile split his face. “Yeh gonnah use tha’thing, Boss, oah jus’ flop it like a limp cod?” Before Tarquin could answer, the knight was turning away, bulling into another Vrykul. “RETREAT!” he roared as his shield smashed into the giant’s leering face. “TAIGHT OAHDAH NOW, GIT TAE THE STONE-LINE!”

Tarquin leaned forward and jabbed experimentally at the Vrykul’s side as it rained blows down on Taborwynn’s shield. His sword sank in, and the Scourge soldier grunted, teetered, and swiped at him with an axe that looked about the size of a small pony. He hurled himself backwards, a nasty breeze whistling by his face. Jolstraer took the opportunity to shift his bulk to the side and bring his sword backhand into the back of the Vrykul’s head, pitching it lifeless to the snow. “RETREAT TAE TH’STONES!” he repeated, and down the line, Ceil keened out the same call.

Before them, the snow whipped from the ground, swirling in the air, coalescing into hard and deadly shards that lacerated the flesh of the Scourge army. Tirith was back on his feet, beside the scarred mage Nykkolaia, calling down the blizzard that was one of the trademarks of their profession. It always gave Tarquin a little twinge of regret to see Tirith practicing the arcane – a thought of what might have been – but at the moment, in the boss’s estimation, the boy was right where he needed to be – covering their bloody retreat.

A phlegmatic cackle brought his attention forward, where a Vrykul with streamers of rotted meat hanging from its skeletal face was lurking forward, a primitive sword held over its head. Tarquin scrambled to his feet, added his voice to the chorus calling for retreat, and started doing so. But the thing came on, and not far behind him were the mages who really couldn’t afford a little distraction like a rampaging Vargul with a chipped-together falchion.

So he planted his feet, slipped a knife into his offhand, and forced a grin onto his face as the general retreat crept far too slowly towards his position. Next time this happens, I’m sending Laz to the front.

—

Aely

The Wildfire Riders – Aelflaed by *JRinaldi on deviantART

Aely lost track of time – between fighting off the stragglers that made it over to Fordragon’s flanks, rushing water and bandages to those on the field, and keeping her own feet in the din, she didn’t know if it had been moments or hours or days.

A pair of ghouls broke through the line to her right, yelling gibberish and flailing towards the makeshift area that the better equipped healers were using. “OI! FECKIN’ TOSSERS!” She screamed, slamming one of them in the face with a shock of Holy Energy, and crashing full force into the second. A whirling mass of greatsword, holy light, and angry, red-headed vengeance completed the job, leaving two sets of shredded body parts back underfoot. She went to get an elven archer back on his feet, catching her breath.

The snow fell thick over the battlefield, the newly dead falling alongside the reanimated, but still they pressed forward. She flung Holy Light at everything she could reach, friend and foe, knowing it would warm and heal the men but burn and kill the undead. Her voice was harsh, raw with yelling and ragged breath. Her arms ached from supporting the wounded off the fields only to turn and have to fight her way back. Still, she went on, slashing her way through the straggling ghouls and skeletons to find another wounded soldier. A drop of water against the tide.

“Death Knights – hold your ground!”

A coarse shout rang out from an Alliance commander – and a resounding yell surged from the soldiers on that flank. Aely paused, waiting to hear the expected horror usually wrought by Arthas’ chosen, only to have shouts of surprise instead.

“The Ebon Blade – Give room!” “Give room, and assist!” “Fall in behind and keep moving!”

She whispered a prayer, knowing that Bertrand was likely among them – fearing for the hollow look in his face. But his fate was his own, between him and whatever afterlife awaited those who were neither living nor dead. She didn’t have time for more than a passing hope as she knelt to close the eyes of a young woman, grimacing at the head wound that had taken her life.

Without warning, pain seared through her consciousness.

She fell.

Bandages, greatsword, and concentration toppled with her as she sprawled forward into the snow, blood rushing in her ears. She rolled, praying it was away from the attacker and watching as the axe sunk into the ground beside her head. A gruff yell, and the skeleton’s chest cavity crumpled from behind, followed quickly by a sickening crunch as its arm was wrenched out of socket, useless.

A scruffy, russet beard, followed quickly by a grinning Dwarven face came into view. “Watch nae, lass, or ye’ll be joinin’ em – cannae focus on healin’ an’ lose sight th’ battle!”

She sat up. Blood was welled up through the soft space between her gorget and shoulder armor, warm against her skin. She pulled off the armor, binding her shoulder with bandages and a prayer, her left arm tingling as she closed the wound and flexed her fingers.

“Yeh’ll be alright?” The Dwarf offered her a hand.

“Ayeh, jus’ need a moment.” She strapped the damaged spaulders back on, and then took his hand and leveraged herself back to standing.

Wrapping her fingers around her necklace, she closed her eyes – By the Grace of the Light, may your brethren be healed; By the Strength of the Light, may your enemies be undone. And may the Light bring you Peace. – took a deep breath and opened them again, heard the cries of someone wounded, and went back out onto the field, cradling her arm.

So the battle raged up to the doors of Angrathar, and the undead were pushed back. Even the great legions of Ymirjar warriors fell before the onslaught of Alliance and Horde.

And then there was silence again. Somewhere a man was shouting, and Aely recognized Highlord Fordragon. She was far to one side, and his words were indistinct, but the challenge in his voice rang clear. She stood on a broken wagon to get a better look. Someone called for a medic, but her eye caught another red and white baldric heading that way. Then nearer…

“Aely?”

—
Nykkolia

Despite the throwing of frost against snow, Nykkolaia burned inside. Time was irrelevant, except the breaths and heart beats between the casting of each spell. The only inner sign of the length of time passing was the glint of frost coating her hands and the dull ache in her mind. Down the slope, blade and shield and blunted weapon was being swung and throne. The clangs and thuds echoed up, and Nykk was dimly aware of it as it reached her ears, cutting through the wind that alternately whispered and shrieked.

Nykkolaia’s pale eyes infrequently broke from the sight of ‘us’ and ‘them’ to see recognizable forms. Hear their voices. The accents of the North were the loudest for her – comfort and music in the midst of chaos.

“MOVE MOVE MOVE!” Jol Taborwynn bellowed over the sound of his damage, swinging blade and shield like a living weapon. Vrykul, ghoul, geist, cultist, it didn’t matter to him. He would damn well bathe in their blood for the memory of what was lost and what remained that the mindless dead would try to tear away from them. He was surrounded by hard fighters, Horde and Alliance, Orc and Night Elf, Troll and Dwarf, Human and Forsaken. Jol was mindful of them, but swung all of his strength into the undead as they fell back up the slope. His arms felt like bars of lead, but he kept swinging out of sure stubborn will. They were falling back, but they were nowhere near done. The battle was not done yet. Not done.

The Riders and those of Noxilite who fought beside them fell back.

As the retreat was sounded, the lines began their slow move backward. Taborwynn’s roar rose above the sounds of battle and Nykkolaia was, briefly, aware of ap’Danwyrith coming to the line. Another mage was beside her now, but only part of her was aware of these things. The other part was focused. Her eyes and her hands rose to the sky and the grey clouds swirled together. Called from the air came the blades of ice that left razor paths through enemy flesh.

She could smell the blood, though none was on her hands. Being a mage was clean business, when done right.

The tumult of sound only drew nearer, but she didn’t stop. The ice falling from the sky slowed the encroaching ‘them’ to allow the ‘us’ to make their way back to the lines. No peace in our time, came an unbidden thought that was pulled away amidst the noise of slamming shields and shearing of bodies.

“Git goan!” Jolly roared to those remaining behind him, standing and facing against the onslaught and holding them off to buy the others time to get set. Swing, turn, block, slash, cut, slam. He flew into a fury of Righteousness, giving up one grudging step at a time, but buying the others time to move. They had to move, regroup, and then bring the hammer down on the Scourge.

The wind roar and the burning inside her grew worse. The fire ate away at her awareness and it abandoned her. She suffered no injury, but there was pain building inside. Her magic continued, but it began to falter. The tide moving towards her was unknown and would catch her in its wake if she didn’t over-come the distraction within, and yet her heart beat moments too late and the forces surrounding the solitary figures trailing the line were suddenly far closer than they had been before.

Nykkolaia was aware of being alone. The line had moved without her, the chaos enveloping all.

Her survival instinct took over where it had previously forsaken her and her left hand swung out before her, ice rising with greedy hands to capture the feet of those who would harm her. She hurried back to rejoin the rest of the forces, but the ice – that of Northrend’s making – took her down before she got far. A careless mistake, perhaps, or simply a cruel twist of fate… either way, it was very likely to cost her life, before she had the chance to make much of her ruined soul.

The fire that had been burning her from inside grew. Panic fed it. Fear fed it. Helplessness fed it. All within moments, breaths that she wasn’t taking. She was aware of the enemy around her, like the tide about to pull her under… and she closed her eyes. The fire erupted all around her.

Mangled bodies flew outwards in flames, and it damn well caught Jol’s eye as he was about to turn and rejoin his fellows. Someone was down there. He damn well couldn’t leave them behind.

A wordless roar came out from him, and he physically threw himself into the throng, leaping over a falling Vrykul and blasting into the Scourge with Holy Light. He clambered over and through undead, swinging and slamming through until he reached the still smoldering circle of cleared undead. The mage was curled up there, covering herself in fear. Jol had no time and no patience for the still-clambering Scourge. With another gutteral roar, he turned and unleashed a furious rain of holy power, clearing a path back through the undead that had surged past. Burying his sword into the chest of a charging Vrykul, Jol sidestepped and let it past, taking the moment to grab the mage by the scruff of her robes and physically lifting her up fully. With another roar, he turned and pushed her through the cleared path.

“MOVE!” he bellowed after her, turning and picking up a discarded hammer from the ground in a hurry. With gritted teeth, he turned back around to the fray, swinging his hammer with all his might.

Death was forestalled. It was denied. Perhaps for the second time in her life when it shouldn’t have been, it was. Nykkolaia was not so foolish as to lose herself in shock when her senses recovered and she was hauled to her feet. Only for an instant, her eyes met Taborwynn’s and breath returned to her body. She moved back on the path and sought ice to throw, cover Jol… but it would not come. Panic lingered at the edges of her mind, but she couldn’t let that happen twice.

Fire came with barely a thought now. As she quickly made her steps back, her eyes took in everything and she watched the Paladin swinging the great hammer. Fire bloomed from the chest of the Vrykul as its head caved in and another, coming in swiftly, lit up explosively and fell thrashing to the ground.

The Vrykul he was about to lay into bloomed into fire, and Jol didn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. He damn well knew he couldn’t keep up at this pace, and there was still a fight left to be had. Burying the hammer in a gibbering geist’s head, Jol turned and ran back up the slope towards the mage. He barely had time to register the surprise on her face when he lowered his shoulder and wrapped an arm around her, lifting her up over his shoulder in one smooth motion without breaking stride. “Keep slingin’ an’ ah’ll keep runnin’!” he bellowed at her as his legs churned them both up the slope.