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A Sad Soul
#1
Warning: Graphic Scene. Don't read if sensitive.



A lonely human sat at a table in a dark house. If the flame above the candle was larger one would see the house was furnished for a family, even had pictures as evidence one indeed lived there. The man's beard had grown rugged, and his flannel shirt, and overalls were stained with dirt due to the work he did. He was an alchemist, and a fairly good one at that. He supported his family by making potions and other remedies. It was until they caught a disease he couldn't cure, everyone died besides him. He had never contracted the disease since he was at work. Now his nights were filled with drinking until he passed out so abruptly he woke up with confusion. He winced at every sip from the liquor but the burn soothed him, added to his inner fire of turmoil and regret. The rain was softly tapping on the wooden house, but the lightning was sporadic and radical. Rectangular stamps of light, with the shadow of the intersecting wooden frame were placed on the ground as light shone through the window for seconds before going dark again. After the silence returned, the thunder rumbled far in the distance. The human paid no mind looking to his glass before taking another sip.

He thought about his son, whom he wanted to teach to play stick ball, who he wanted to instruct on how to fight, how to pick up girls his age and how to be a man. His own upbringing was so focused on studies he never got to enjoy himself, until he had his family. He poured another glass half full, he was indeed an optimist. He picked the glass up, noticing the circle of condensation on the wood table where the drink was when he heard something in the back room fall over. The light flared through the house a silent warning. Drunk, curious and fearless he stood up, the thunder protested, advising against it. He pushed the chair back and walked into the dark hallway with his drink in hand. Two doors on his right, one on his left and another at the end of the hall. On his way to the end door he pushed the others open peeking his head into a veil of darkness. Thunder mumbling in the distance, yet coming closer.

In the dark eyes watched him, but he was unaware as he lumbered through the rooms searching for the noise. As he got to the last room he saw a window was open, lace curtains hauntingly waving like the arms of someone performing a Hawaiian dance. He grumpily closed the window, and finished the rest of his drink. He heard another noise, which caused him to quickly turn around. He was becoming paranoid, as he walked in the hallway he saw nothing but darkness; but as the lightning illuminated the house it carved into the shadow leaving a silhouette of a man standing before him. He was started and stepped back, as soon as the flash was over darkness filled the hall. He began to sweat as he knew the man was still there. Light flashed again, another appeared further behind him, in a cloak by the door. None of their features were distinguishable as they appeared to be literally made of shadow. The cloaked figure disappeared in green flames, but as the emerald embers slowly fell, its glow showed the features of the man before him. He was familiar, very familiar. The drunk human stood looking at himself, the man before him was identical to him. The only difference was their demeanor. The drunk man was slouched, and swaying for balance, his other was confident, standing strong with a furrowed brow. His eyes lacked pupils and were white as ivory. His lips began to spread across his face making a smile foreign to the drunken man, one of madness and hatred.

Like a mini-maelstrom color twisted in the whites of his eyes as the pupils formed, irises locking them into place. He blinked slowly. The lightning flooded the house again, as the other man raised a gnomish pistol to his drunk double and held it there. The drunken man stood in shock and bewilderment confused if he were dreaming or not, if he had finally died from too much alcohol or if the surreal had found him at the worst time. His attacker had the same clothes, same split ends, scars, and birthmarks, he stood silently holding the gun as the light disappeared leaving them in darkness. Thunder roared as if Titans were jumping in the clouds above them, it is when he pulled the trigger. The drunk man didn't hear it but he felt it enter and exit his body. He felt his intestines spilling out, and tried to catch them as he stumbled back sliding down into the corner. He bled quickly, he witnessed himself approaching, flickering in the lightning. He was there, then shadow, He was closer, then shadow. He finally stood before him, eyes white. The drunken man was convinced he was in a Nightmare. Thunder muffled the gunshot, the clouds mourned a sad soul.
The Family Tree

TheBook of ThePharaoh

Pharaoh's Colosseum

The Four Suns Inn

"What are we, as role-players, if not authors in real time?" - MrBubbles

"I've always treated Role-play as Collaborative Writing. Co-authoring the stories of your characters, alongside other people." - Flammos200
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#2

An orc sat by himself at a campfire in the jungle. A long scar from the top of his head, to his cheek under his left eye marked his face and blinded him. He was cooking, watching the flames lick the raptor flesh he had suspended above it. He was aware the camp fire brought attention, but he wasn't afraid of any wildlife in this jungle. He had been chased for a while, it was the reason he left his clan. He wanted to lure his pursuer out into the jungle and fight him one on one. If he lost it was his fate, but this would end tonight. A choir of insects keeping him company, he enjoyed the music; additions from other animals came from locations all around him.

He had first been attacked by this orc several weeks ago in Durotar. The orc was fully armored and a formidable fighter, yet he spoke no words. The two fought until they reached a stalemate, the two stopped their blades inches from each other's neck, everything still besides the stirring red dust of the lands. They silently agreed to a truce going their separate way. After that, the attacks became more frequent, and savage. Lungor was starting to lose his edge against the orc. He slept lightly and woke up to the cold air and the rustling of leaves. His campfire was down to warm coals, giving off no light. He slowly scrambled to his feet, surprised he had fallen asleep so quickly. He had traveled hours and didn't sleep much so it did make sense. He was aware he wasn't alone but was too disoriented to find out where the stranger was. The orc reached for his sword unnerved by his disadvantage.

As Lungor stood, he saw the armored orc in the middle of the path. His armor shined in the moonlight, his helmet blocking his face completely. "What is it you want from me?" The nightlife responded but the orc was silent. He readied his large axe and continued watching Lungor as he spoke, "Nothing? Why are you doing this? Who se-" he stopped, then grunted. "Doesn't matter." He readied his own sword and ran at the knight. The sword and axe clashed numerous times, as the two orcs quickly adjusted their feet and weight to counterattack and brace themselves for the force of their opponents swing. Lungor was on the offensive driving the knight back with wide arcs with his sword, it made contact on the armor but fleetingly. The knight stopped abruptly extending his back foot for leverage and swung the axe low in a wide arc.

Lungor jumped in the air quickly, with no heavy armor to hold him down he brought the sword into the knight's back denting the armor and sending him flat to the ground. He jumped back making distance as the knight pushed himself up. He marched quickly to the orc swinging his axe just as fast as before, unhindered. Lungor, surprised by this jumped backwards, his arm slashed quickly as he landed in the dirt. The blood ran down his large green arm. Lungor glared at the knight as his nostrils flared, his veins began to protrude as he was overtaken by fury, intoxicated by his lust to kill. He ran towards the knight quickly, holding the sword low; he gripped it with both hands preparing for an upward swing. His attack was stopped abruptly as the Knight raised his foot landing the bottom of his boot into Lungor's face. With a stomping motion he brought the orc's head down to the ground, and sized up his axe with his head as if routinely chopping logs.

Since the left side of his face was covered, Lungor could see out his right eye; so he grunted while he pushed the ground and rolled out of the way as the Knight sunk his axe into the soft dirt of the jungle. Lungor continued rolling, and pushed himself up, his face was bleeding and several bones were fractured, but his right side was good. He could still fight. His arm was covered in a sleeve of blood. The Knight ran towards him this time swinging the axe in a flurry, Lungor met his blade with all the attacks, the force sending red droplets spraying from his arm. He pulled his sword back and grunted sending the large blade straight through the knight's armor and his chest. He stepped back, leaking blood from the wound.

Lungor grabbed his hilt protruding from the knight, and placed his boot on his chest; he pulled with his arms and pushed with his foot tearing the blade out. The armor and flesh was mangled and twisted outward on both sides as if the knight ingested a small bomb. A hole clear through his large orcish body, the knight staggered back and forth before regaining balance. Mortified and fatigued Lungor watched stunned as the knight approached the orc swinging the axe at him, he deflected it and slashed at the knight's helmet removing it. His eyes open as he saw the helmet flying in the air, the knight's face was his own. The same long scar running down to his left cheek. His right eye open, without a pupil. Lungar felt the teeth of the knight's axe bite into him, before his helmet hit the ground, the first slash split his stomach and the second grazed his spine. He stared in confusion, to his attacker. Mangled by pain and horror, he fell. He couldn't speak, but he could hear well at the end. The marching of the knight as he walked away, and the choir of insects singing for a sad soul.
The Family Tree

TheBook of ThePharaoh

Pharaoh's Colosseum

The Four Suns Inn

"What are we, as role-players, if not authors in real time?" - MrBubbles

"I've always treated Role-play as Collaborative Writing. Co-authoring the stories of your characters, alongside other people." - Flammos200
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#3
In an dark abandoned barn a young woman clutches her knees rocking back and forth in the hay. Blood speckled goggles rest on her forehead separating strands of oil streaked hair. She looked at her hands confused; surprised. What had she done? What had she become? She bit her lip and buried her face into her knees once more. She was confused, and alone. She had so many questions that she couldn't answer, she left too fast but she had to. Who was this human she saw in Nagrand? Why did the thought of him ache her soul, who did she see in Duskwood? She prayed for him, and his rat? She peeled her hand away from her knee and extended it, she tried to conjure the golden fire from her dreams. He thin olive fingers stretched from her palm in front of her, but the fire that came was a red orange flame composed of rage one prepared to consume. The light wavered in the room, exposing spiderwebs hanging idly in the building. She clenched a fist snuffing the flame. Something didn't add up, she....She never trained in magic. So...How did she get here?

______________

As soon as she could she teleported from the evil place she had waken up from. Runes and ancient designs of unknown origin had riddled the wall and even where she laid. She saw an elf over her, but it wasn't -him-. Not -her- elf....but who was he? Who was either elf...She had ran quickly holding the excess fabric of the robe she was placed in, leaping over the blades of grass in the dreary forest of Duskwood. The owls called late into the night, she ran blinking forward as memories riddled her consciousness. She ran for quite some time, her bare feet slapping against the stone path as she traveled. When she stopped it was not because she was tired but because it was odd she wasn't. She thought of more humans, all dressed in suits, and fine clothing. They smiled in her memory, others didn't. Nobles? Was she a Noble?

She tried to figure the situation out logically but it was too surreal to grasp. From Duskwood she headed to Westfall, she needed clothing to conceal her face. She traveled for hours over the plains of Westfall under the starlight, the grass swaying in one direction over rolling hills. Upon reaching a farm she saw a light was on in the house. After several blinks she was beside it's door. She knew from her memories, she hadn't trained a day in arcane, but she knew from experience she was quite proficient with magic. She decided not to rely on her memories, and knelt slow as light poured out of the windows and the doorway to the house. She listened, only one pair of footsteps. She opened the door and entered, violet eyes burning as her brow furrowed.

A human with a red mask tied around his face turned around arching an eyebrow. Goggles resting on his forehead as his hand rested on a holstered gnomish gun. "Eh?" He looked to the intruder confused. Her identity wasn't so lost that she didn't know where she stood. She hated the defias and released a wicked explosion of arcane from her body. She bowed the walls and the ground as the human flew back coughing blood. He collapsed on the ground unconscious. A perfect time to kill him, yet she decided against it and wasn't sure why. Afterwards she searched the house and found a hooded raincloak to conceal herself. She grabbed it and the goggles of the unconscious man. Once she had everything she needed she put on the cloak, and the goggles feeling secure and walked out of the small house. Exhilarated and nervous she looked both ways and then vanished into thin air. The arcane drifted in the wind, the last trace of a sad soul.
The Family Tree

TheBook of ThePharaoh

Pharaoh's Colosseum

The Four Suns Inn

"What are we, as role-players, if not authors in real time?" - MrBubbles

"I've always treated Role-play as Collaborative Writing. Co-authoring the stories of your characters, alongside other people." - Flammos200
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