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Happy Mother's Day
((Feel free to post your own short, sweet IC posts for your mothers! I left out Diwaata, Jami, and Asul'na, however, because I do not play any of their children.))

For Xanthe


              "Happy Mudda's Day, Minn'da...~"

              The hallways of the rented inn room were quiet, save the little delicate hooves of the tiny draenei girl. Her wavy hair is a mess, the deep azure strands covering her horns and face and her nightgown crumpled from her sleep. In her hands was a cereal box, the bottom cracked open and slowly dropping grains of wheat--she must have dropped the box in an attempt to reach a great height while standing on a chair. Despite this, the girl continued on her merry way, leaving a trail of grains along the hall and singing her little song.

              "Happy Mudda's Day, Minn'da...~"

              She found her way to the bedroom, the door wide open. The little draenei girl toddles in, holding the box of cereal as her own special way of making breakfast for Minn'da. Singing still, she approaches the side of the bed, singing louder to wake up her mother, hoping it'd bring the sunshine to her day. "Happy Mudda's Day, deaw' Minn'da....!"

              The blanket stirs. Kapre sits up, awakened by the little girl. Realizing her error, the draenei girl looks to the other side of the bed and begins heading there as Xanthe's head pokes out of the blanket. Aria resumes her song without blinking.

              "Happy Mudda's Day, Minn'da!"

For Sadil


Quote:              Dear Min'da,

              It's been years, has it? How is An'da? Tikar? The other sentinels? It's been so long since we've seen each other... though I think prior to our last meeting last year, it was, what... a century or two? Either way, a lot of the family has been on my mind, especially you. Though almost everyone has been distant, I am considering, perhaps, we can all come together and... catch up, I suppose. Maybe try to lessen the distance between us. However, I understand if you cannot, especially with the orcs in Ashenvale.

              I am happy to say that I have been taking my studies in the druidic creed a lot more seriously. I am following the totem of the Claw, and I am communing with the spirits of Ursoc and Ursol in hopes I can become strong enough to defend our homes. I may not ever be anywhere the level of power as An'da or the strength and courage of Tikar, but I feel I must follow my own path. I hope you will be proud of me, Min'da. Even though I hardly know her, I can surely say I am happy and proud to have you for a mother.

              Please write me back. I am uncertain if the Shattering has taken your life or not. If it has, then I wish for this letter to be buried with you so my love can transcend to the afterlife with you. Please say hello to Isolia for me, and I'm sorry.

              Elune watch over you and many blessings and love. Happy Mother's Day.

              Your son,


For Reigen


              Would kisses be inappropriate to give to an undead mother? Jyovani doesn't want to find out, lest he'll face a probably horrible punishment. He is uncertain how an act of warmth can be provided for one so cold to the touch. He paces about, masks set on a shelf and facing the young noble. All ten. The Orc, the Human, the Troll, the Dwarf, all of them. Even the Sin'dorei, Aenjelo. The masks stare at the young actor, gazing upon him as he faces them like an audience.

              "I am short on ideas. What can I get her?" Jyovani asks. He listens closely to what the masks have to say as he murmurs to himself. "Cake? No, she bakes cake, but she can't eat.... that may anger her. A flower? Will it offend her? Oh, I pray not.... A dress! Perhaps so? No, no, may be too much.... or maybe a song. But what if I disappoint her with something so mediocre? Oh...." Jyovani sighs sadly. A perfectionist, he is. He runs his shaky fingers through his sweat-soaked hair, avoiding a gaze to the pearl-skinned mask with red wings. Aenjelo, the Spellbreaker. Jyovani always feared for his opinion... but he is the oldest mask. A mask of the Sin'dorei. Perhaps he has an idea... but Jyovani feared it. Maybe Aenjelo will berate him for not being a good enough son to his dear undead mother. Or he'll berate him for not having a spine to actually approach her without shrinking like a violet.

              But he has to trust Aenjelo. Aenjelo, Champion of the Sin'dorei. "Aenjelo?" the young elf asks as he lifts the Sunbreaker mask and held it to his ear. "What should I give Mother?... All of the above? Wouldn't that be a bit mu- oh... that sounds like an idea! It's certainly different. Yes... yes, I'll see a magus right away!"

              Should Lady Sunfire return to the estate, the hallway would be decorated with white flowers with a cool, gentle fragrance. Servants stood at the halls playing a joyful tune on their lutes, with Jyovani accompanying with his lyre. Rather than a feast as usual for a living mother, some books are set up to stand like a smorgasbord for the mind. Jyovani had to arrange for some texts that speculate the ruins that have emerged from the shattered earth, among them a millenia-old book on music. The servants may not be able to read these texts, but Jyovani could. Hopefully this could surprise his mother with the most pleasant give he can think of.

              "All right! That's enough!" he says to the servants before turning to the Spellbreaker mask that was set against a vase that held a large bouquet. "Thank you, Aenjelo," the boy says. "I pray Mother will appreciate the gesture."

For Elsamina


              The agent stared over to a small pond as she stood before a tiny gravesite. The original tombstone was disturbed, as was the earth beneath it. The tiny coffin was long gone; Elsa couldn't find any remains when Deathwing razed the estate. Though she ordered a new tombstone, Elsamina couldn't help but feel her love and respite was broken by the arrival of the Black Dragon. Not that the years that followed the little death helped her heal some.

              She lowers herself to plant a lily. Her fingers press against her lips before they trail along the engraved letters.

Quote:Benjamin-Niklaus Colemann
25/12/612 - 25/12/612

"A moment in our arms... forever in our hearts." -Mama and Papa

              Mother's Day was always a lonely day for Elsamina, and she expected to be so once more. Letting the tombstone be, she turns around to head back to the repairing estate. Servants are still fixing up the damages left behind by the raging Dragon; though much of the estate is repaired, the feeling of dread and despair still linger.

              And then, she steps into the dining hall, simply making her way to the kitchen to get a drink of water. The whole table and hallway was decorated with many flowers and ribbons, a feast prepared on the table. Elsa didn't remember this... she didn't even order lunch from the servants yet! Yet there they are, twin boys, Kogan and Kitson, standing by the head chair while accompanying their stepfather. In their hands were bouquets and wrapped gifts, smiles beaming on their faces.

              "Happy Mother's Day, Mother!"

              Elsa wasn't expecting this. Twenty-three long years without her sons. Twenty-three birthdays with cakes but no celebrants. Twenty-three Mother's Days without her sons to receive flowers from. The lost baby in the grave couldn't give her greetings... but the spirit of love and appreciation, despite the separation, lives on from these now-grown boys.

              The agent broke down and cried. And this time, they were tears of joy.

For Andra


              Draenei gathered in Telaar as Kapre and Diwaata briefly visited. In their arms were many flowers and gifts, intended for two different mothers. As the survivors of the razed town gathered, two particular draenei stepped out, both priestesses. The curly-haired white one, Melodi, and the tall brunette, Patisha, both approached the young draenei, smiles beaming on their faces. Though the holiday isn't native to them, they are aware of the visit as prompted in the letters sent to them in advance. Though they would rather be visited more often, they are grateful of the gesture in thanking their mother and grandmother through a mandated holiday.

              "Happy Mother's Day!" the twins greeted, first embracing their adoptive mother and then her own mother. They presented the gifts up front, but not all--one set of gifts was not handed out just yet.

              "Oh, who is this for?" Melodi asks as she plants a kiss on Diwaata and Kapre's faces.

              Kapre, who held the gift in his hand, smiled simply. "It's for a friend, whom I also consider to be a mother."

              "Is that so?" Melodi chuckles lightly. "Am I being replaced?"

              "Of course not!"

              "I jest, I jest," she says as she kisses his forehead. "I find it sweet, however, that you are thinking of someone else to greet. Who is this, my son?"

              Kapre looks out to the horizon before he turns to Melodi. He glances a bit to the ground as he answers. "Her name is Andra. She was there for me while Xanthe and I were together... she even encouraged we court. Now we are married... I feel I owe her everything. She was supportive of us when it felt like no one else would be. I have so much to be thankful for."

              "I am happy you are thankful of her. Is she here?"

              "I am uncertain. I may just send the gifts by mail if I do not find her."

              The woman smiles gently. "Your gifts may lift her spirits muchly. What is in the box?"

              "Ah... simple jewelry."

              Melodi grins. "Is it one of your special flawed gems?"

              "Um... it is, actually. This one was saved in my vault, thankfully."

              "Tell me what it is."

              "It's an amethyst bracelet with a pearl chain."

              "And the flaw?"

              Kapre draws an "M" shape in the air. "It's a bird. It flies high in a shimmering sky. Perhaps whatever troubles ail her, she can look upon this gem so that her spirits would lift."

              Melodi glances to Patisha, the eldest draenei smiling. The grandmother nods her head to her grandson. "May the flight of the flaw lift her spirits indeed. Many blessings to this Sister Andra. I pray the gift reaches her, one way or another."
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Balverine and Jaece

"So Minn'da is how you say Momma in Thal-ass-ian?" Jaece said breaking up the word into separate chunks. "That's right," His father responded. He kept his arms around his son, who was sitting in his lap.

The pair sat in front of the small headstone, the graveyard on the other side of the lake in Lakeshire was lively today, people passing in and out the whole time. Though, that pair had been there a long time.

Around noon, Balverine had packed the picnic basket and a blanket to sit on. They marched through the small graveyard until they found the familiar visiting place. The Paladin spread out the blanket and took his seat on it.

"How old was Mama when she went to heaven?" "You ask me this every time," Balverine said smiling. "She was twenty." "What was her favorite color?""Purple," He said with a nod. "It hasn't changed since the last time you asked me." "Favorite food?" "Chocolate cup-cakes with peanut butter frosting. It's about all she ate when you were in her tummy." He said ruffling his hair.

"What did she look like?"

Balverine winced at the question, he bit his lower lip, feeling a lump in his throat. "You don't remember what your mother looks like?" "I know she had green eyes, just like mine." The four year old replied softly.

Bal closed his eyes for a moment, his tone was very hushed and gentle. "She did have green eyes, never seen anything like them. And you have the same ones. Her hair was a firey red, and she had sharp features.. you look like her more then me. She had the same face as you. You just got my hair color. But you have her sweet tooth. She was a bit on the short side, but not too much. And she was just the perfect weight.She was beautiful. Absolutely stunning.. and she took my breath away from the moment I saw her." He said nodding.

Jaece looked to the headstone and smiled, and then back to Balverine.

Quote:Calantha Ameila Drakewing. 5/29/600 - 8/13/622 Loving wife and mother, may the Light warm and guide her soul.

"Dad," Jaece said looking up at his father. "Hmm?" Bal said quirking an eyebrow, he was sure another round of questions was coming. "You know how.. mommies take.. a different name when they get married." "Mm, I think I recall something about that, yes." "What was Mommy's name before Drakewing?" Balverine blinked, that was a new question!"Frosthand, her name was Frosthand before we got married."

Bal leaned back, supporting his weight with his arms, Jaece still sat in his lap. The Paladin gave a long yawn, staring at the headstone for a bit. "You know Jaece," the four year old turned to look back at his father. "Your mother was scared of having a baby. She worried through the whole pregnancy, and even yelled at me while you were being born. But the second you were placed in her arms, she fell in love with you. It was at that moment, that I realized I wasn't the most important thing in her life anymore, you were." He said with a smile. "You were everything to her, and she died protecting you."

Jaece understood pretty well for a four year old, "No matter what, she'll always be my Momma." He said with a nod. Bal placed his hand on top of his son's head, "Yup, she will never stop being your Momma. It's getting late, kiddo." He said looking at the now setting sun, they'd been there for hours.

"I got something special for Momma," Bal said reaching into the basket. He took out a small container, it was filled with ice. But inside of it was a frozen rose, it's form contained in solid ice. "When I used to put flowers on your Grandmother's grave, your Momma would always freeze them for me. To make them last longer," He said smirking. "Go put this on top of her headstone."

Jaece nodded, moving over to take the rose from his father's grasp. He winced a bit at the cold but kept it in his hands and didn't drop it as he placed it on top. He smiled, and Bal began to gather up their picnic "Ready?" Jaece nodded, but turned back to the headstone. "Bye, Momma." He said softly, frowning. His lip quivered and he wiped a small tears from his eyes. Bal held out his arms for the boy as he rushed over, trying not to cry. Balverine held him to his chest and carried him off, they didn't say anything the rest of the way home. Jaece buried his face in his shoulder and closed his eyes. After a while, he propped his chin up on Bal's shoulder to watch the graveyard as they walked across the bridge that led back to town. He then closed his eyes.

A fiery redheaded woman followed behind them as they walked, though neither of them was able to see. Jaece's tears were wiped away with the flick of her fingers. She lingered behind them, her presence invisible and masked. She remained until they had crossed the bridge. The woman with bright green eyes, and fiery red hair turned on her heels and vanished.
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For 'Gert'


              Heavy hoof steps wear down the path to Sentinel Hill. It was a short ride, but an important one. The lone rider snapped back to attention at the sound of distant Gnoll cries amid an expansive battle. Valda circled around the half-build walls and avoided the fight completely. She looked down at the homeless taking refugee propped up against the stone slabs. With another nudge of encouragement, Belle reluctantly picked up into a slow trot. Valda looked around frantically before coming to a familiar set of trees. At the bottom of that hill, was nothing. Just a plain expanse leading up to the next unfinished portion of wall. With a frown Valda slipped off the bareback Mountain Horse and walked towards the wall. The battle seemed to fade in the background as her gaze narrowed to where the wall met the soil. She kneels down, and places a Darkmoon Flower against the stone. She rises but spends a moment with a stern expression across her features. Just as quick she mounts back up spins in place to look over the battlefield. With a healthy kick she opens Belle up to gallop out of the budding settlement.

The true test of his choice lies forward.
— The story of the Silithian.

See life through shades of silver.
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For Dresden
(because yes, he gets all of the holidays :|| )

Calloway, in pink paint, Wrote:To His Most High and Exalted Dresdeness,

She will be waiting in the old throne room (she will not be sitting on the throne because she's not the Tree Queen today) for you at three o'clock. Please do not be late!

(But she will wait if you are late)

-- Cally

It had been months since she'd seen him at the Lake House. His work with the Cult kept him away for long periods of time, but usually she was able to accompany him. No -- Alistair had imparted a great responsibility upon Calloway that she took very seriously. Someone had to maintain the Lake House and its many residents and transient guests. Who better than Calloway? (Quite a few better, actually, and naturally 'his Dresdeness' had left Calloway a few assistants)

A holiday was coming. She had spent a week wandering the Undercity with the assistance of her new friends -- Flavius, the kind Strongman, and Edgar the whimsical warmage. Her friend was very difficult to find. She sent five bats on Mother's Day throughout the city to seek out Alistair Dresden. One may have sufficed, but five would certainly do the trick.

It took her twenty minutes to decide upon the precise place to wait. She tried the top stair near the throne, the lower stair, each of the alcoves, the main doorway, and the two tunnel entrances before she settled upon the middle stair right before the throne. A painting of his desk and the book on bees that she'd purchased on her trip rested atop a worse-for-wear picnic basket. The basket had two tea cups, an empty ceramic thermos, and dried roses -- all waiting for their annual Mother's Day tea party.

Three o'clock came. Then three thirty. Four o'clock. Six. She entertained herself by naming the dust motes in the empty throne room. Should she have sent six bats? Just when she considered sending another bat, soft footsteps echoed throughout the room.

"A pleasure to see you, my dear. I'm sorry I'm late."

Calloway's face twisted into a happy, exagerated approximation of a smile. Though she had practiced a Mother's Day speech and had intended to stick to typical decorum, that all flew out the window as the woman went to hug her dear friend.

"A pleasure to see you, your Dresdenness!"


For Caravan

Hrodebert must have put him up to this.

"Mama." Rocky tugged gently on her ponytail to get her attention. She speculated that he couldn't have been older than three or four, but he was half a foot shy of 4'. Guess that's what she gets for adopting left-for-dead peon children. "Mama." He insisted again. The gnome looked up from cleaning her trusty and beat-up old rifle.

"Whatchu wan', Rocky? S'not dinner time. Where's yer toys what I got you t' play with-..." Caravan trailed off and rubbed the stump where her left hand used to be.

With a big, stupid grin, the child held up an oversized parchment card. There wasn't any writing on it, or anything that could even be considered writing, but it looked like Rocky had gone to town on the surface with fingerpaint. Abstract art at its finest. On the inside was a collection of squiggles -- one green, one brown -- 'standing' side by side. Above the squiggles, someone (like Hrodebert) had written 'To Caravan -- Happy Mother's Day.'

She didn't deserve it. The gnome rubbed at her eye with her stump, "Hol' on, Rocky, I done go' somethin' in my eye err whatever." Rocky closed his arms around the tiny gnome and she patted his back, "Yeah, yeah, yer a good boy, ya big lug."

Caravan hadn't done much in her life worth being proud of, that much was certain, but of all the things she'd ever done 'right', saving and caring for this orc was at the top of the list.


For Cerice

It may have been unadvisable, sending anything to her mother. They had not parted on the best of terms in February, and by all accounts she was banished and disowned by her family. However...it was mother's day. She didn't send a card, per se, but she did gather a bouquet of red tulips, campanula, and plumeria blossoms to mail. All feelings that she wished she could convey. Her heart was full of the memories she wished she could share with her mother, but that was not their path.

Tucked among the flowers was one of Aria's drawings of Tyr and Ruka. Xanthe'd considered sending one of the drawings of the three of them....but knew better.

"Happy Mother's Day, Minn'da..."
[Image: 0f084241-4e8f-4ebc-9f46-e942e4c544a8_zps7e42bd8f.jpg]
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The tribe has settled somewhere in the Barrens for the night. Eta, her son Pashu, and a few other tribesmen gather around a freshly lit fire that they all built together. The sun has just set but light still clings to the horizon. Eta stares off into the auburn twilight, her mind spirited away by its dull glow. Pashu lifts a branch of firewood out of the pile and prods the fire, shifting some of the logs and arousing the flames. The fire grows taller and the flicker of light snaps Eta out of her muse. She looks down at her son with a warm smile and glowing eyes.

One of the tribesman nudges the young Pashu with is elbow and asks him, "Pashu, what kind of character do you think this fire has?"

Pashu blinks at his elder and responds with amusement in his tone, "Character?! But fires aren't living things."

The tribesman looks to Eta and asks, "I think Pashu should be given the task of keeping this fire lit tonight, to understand the importance of being alive."

Eta nods at the tribesman and looks down at her son, "You won't be able to answer the question our brother has asked you until you undertake the responsibility of a fire keeper. You've given birth to it, now you must raise it, rekindle it, and keep it from burning out."

Pashu tosses the branch into the fire and crosses his arms, "Consider it done! Easier than washing clothes with you..."

Eta laughs, and pats her son on the shoulder, "We shall see."

The night grows darker and only a few tribesmen remain around the fire. Even Eta herself has gone to bed. His elders tell him tales until they have no more to tell. Eventually, Pashu finds himself to be the only person awake. Just as he feels confident enough to doze off, the crackling of a dimming fire prevents him from having his forty winks. The night lives on, and so does the fire.

Hours later...

Dawn cracks, and is as dim as the fire, the sun merely stretching its arms into the sky. Only a few flames coat the surface of the crumbled logs. Malar is one of the first to wake, and joins his tired son by the dying fire. Pashu yawns and looks up at his father, asking, "How do you keep a fire going?"

Malar chuckles quietly and says to Pashu, "You should ask your mother."

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Flora glanced absently at the fading sun through the broken window of her little farmhouse. It was getting dark- she had spent the past several hours digging around to make the icehouse on the edge of the property again useable. Without mortal fatigue, she lost track of time so easily. She didn't even know what day it was.
Scrambling through some discarded parchment on a small wooden desk, she found a date scrawled on a stray scrap. To keep a relative sense of time, Flora would often take note of the date whenever she went into town. She could never seem to keep the odd ends of the months straight. 28, 31... Whichever it was, it didn't matter; she could count the days since then, and it wasn't near the start of a new month.

"Eight, nine, ten, eleven..."

Flora counted out loud, as talking to herself was a way to ease the loneliness of her solitary life, but something about that next number caught in her throat, in her mind. She couldn't even utter it through the ghostly echo of the undead when the body would not facilitate speech. It was something really important. Something that made her so happy, and so anxious, and then so sad...
A clawed finger scratched idly into the scrap of parchment, the undead woman now lost in thought.

What is it?

She stood and moved to her chest, one of the few other pieces of furniture that she had rehabilitated into a useable state. Flora opened it, and examined its contents. Some seeds, a ring, a few books, both printed informational pieces and some scribbled in by her own hand. Nice rocks, ribbons, a carved wooden mouse, an embroidered kerchief and more. Each of these things, while insignificant on their own, were reminders. Little things that had helped her to remember things from before her first death, one way or another.
This time, they did nothing to jar her memory.

Flora spent a lot of time looking into the box, the meaning of today's date eluding her, much to her chagrin. It was important, something she needed to remember. Whatever it was, it made her want to be held and feel loved. Or was it to feel love for someone else? Flora retrieved one of the books. It was a disorganized journal of her own, and went through each page, slowly and methodically, for any numbers she might have written in-


This date, of a previous year, was written at the top of one of the pages with great care. The writing underneath was nearly illegible, however, though most of her writing was pretty clumsy anyway and this didn't surprise her. What was clear enough was "Mom's Birthday," written at the head of the scrawl. Her thoughts shifted and clicked, and everything was clear: Today was her mother's birthday.
Her wonderful mother's special day.

After death, Flora had been just a pawn to the Scourge, then taken in by the Forsaken's open arms. All she could remember was her death, and the pain and distrust it entailed. She felt lost, and filled the void in her heart with learning to fight, feeling like the living had betrayed her, as her only knowledge of life had been so cruel. Looking back, that part of her second life made her cringe; she was so angry, like a vengeful ghost who should have been put to rest. It had been this same nagging feeling, all those years ago, as she heard the date, that made her realize who she really was. The date had nagged at her so incessantly that she didn't stop searching her mind for its meaning, and when that knowledge came to her, the floodgate opened.

The realization that she had again forgotten that important date struck her hard. Flora had been told more and more often by her friends in the Forsaken that she was acting strange, that she worried them, but she shrugged it off as their disagreeing with her friendship with the Argents and the paladin Cristovao. But this... Something so important to her... How could she forget?

Flora felt overwhelmed with emotion, both in nostalgia for days past and in fear of her own mental constitution. She began to curl inwards, clutching the book to her chest, but stopped herself. She took a breath as deep as the stitches in her side would allow, and sat with her palms facing down on the open book in front of her. Flora would swear that she felt a warmth in her heart. Faint memories came back to her of her mother began to trickle back into her consciousness, though more in a series of emotions than words or concrete events. That feeling of safety she got from her mother, everything that is muscle memory, even in undeath, having been experienced for the first time, Mom's love for life.
And her sorrow.

Though her memories were vague- Flora couldn't even place her mother's name at the moment -for the first time, she saw her mother for what she was: A mother of three, in a town too small for her incredible capacity for love and contemplation, having to face her own mortality far too early in her life. She was probably around Flora's current age when she died. And for that matter, she had a pretty miserable husband. She must have been so afraid.

But she did a great job as a mother anyway...

Now sitting in the pitch dark of night, Flora closed her journal, placed it back in her chest, and exchanged one book for another, settling on a zoological almanac she had received as a gift from a particularly generous elf in Hearthglen. Lighting a lantern, she curled into a corner and read out loud the descriptions of the animals and studied the intricate woodblock prints as she had when she was a little girl, nestled in her mother's lap. Her body trembled as she sobbed quietly, but she wasn't terribly distracted by it; by now, she had accepted that her emotions would show whether she wanted them to or not. Flora was alone though; it didn't really matter.
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For Beliria


“What does one give a commander for Mother’s day?”


“Flowers? Too pristine. The skulls of their enemies? Too uncouth.”


“Chocolate? Hugs and kisses? It’s all too simple.”


“I need something more... respectable, more...”




Carved from the side of a mountain the odd residence stands an odd abode, a statue of undeniable will, of the want to make one’s own way in the world. The Warden Ironraven crafted the stone out of the side of a tall ridge, forming what would become his home and sanctuary for decades to come. A joke of questionable reality says that he managed to preserve it from the cataclysm by will alone. No matter the jokes, the rumors or representations there was only one purpose to the house at this time: To forge. Filling a large corner of the room is a furnace cared from the same stone that made the rest of his home. Shelves, nooks, crannies, cooling basins were all carved from stone. Arguably the only part that wasn’t stone was the anvil crafted from dense iron.

Hard at work was the Warden Ironraven, a man who was accustomed to the intricacies of military and politics, was brought to his knees wrestling with the questions that almost every child has to at one point or another in their life: What does one get their mother for mother’s day?

“Why not flowers? Simple, easy and effective.” Quipped the voice of his mate, the woman sitting idle along the edge of their bed, watching as her Warden paced back and forth.

“That’s the problem, it’s -too- easy. She’s going to think I’m lazy.”

“And if you make something too intricate she’ll know you’re worried with this and not... say...” She draws off, soon nodding to the wooden table coated in maps and battle reports.

“A risk worth taking.” He mumbled as he continued to and fro.

Nuadon’s expression soured just a hint, her narrowing eyes settled on the man. “-Well-, Anthrion Ironraven, what idea do you have because you’re certainly shooting down all I have.”

At that the man perked up, soon rushing over to give his mate a heavy kiss on the brow for some inexplicable reason. “Nuadon, you’re brilliant!”

Without an explanation the woman looked onto him with the blankness of confusion, though it was quickly covered as she saw her opportunity. “Well of course I am.” She purred out playfully. “...But care to go into detail? I do so love being flattered.”

By the time she managed to ask the bumbling man had already gathered a few arm-fulls of supplies, gathering them around the forge. “An Iron Raven. I’ll take a bit off of your idea and gather her some flowers, however instead of a simple tie to hold them all together...” He holds out a scrap of paper, upon it a hasty sketch of what would become a raven. It’s crest is pressed out and in front, giving the creature a proud demeanor. All the while it’s feathered wings would curl back, both providing a hold for the flowers as well as glorifying the magnificence of the avian construct.

With raised brows his mate appraised the image, soon giving a rather impressed nod. “It’ll certainly do... But you realize you only have a few hours before the end of the day and this all becomes a moot point.”

With the rather obvious pointed out to him Anthrion turned on a heel, marching over to set the force aflame. “Better not waste any more time then, shall we?”


Twilight danced across the encroaching night skies, the shimmer of stars visible only when free from the Vale’s massive trees. This scene was all too familiar as it was nearing the perfect time for a Warden to hunt, however this time around his intention is far more innocent.

The walk to the Ironraven home was rather brief, the ancient structure only a few miles from the Warden’s own. For a brief time he was trapped in reverie, recalling the days where he and his siblings would play and train all in the same with their makeshift weapons, how each moment seemed to be filled with the soot of his father’s forge. If there was anything to break the dream, it was the lacking that it was almost too quiet. The Ancient forge’s fires did not roar out as it had, but was instead as silent as the glade itself. While suspicion churned within the Warden’s mind for a brief moment he still thought it best not to jump to conclusions.

Instead the youngest son of the Ironraven family left his token upon the doorway: A bouquet of violet flowers all bound together by the Iron Raven. Along with it sat a simple card, the words within written by hand.

While the days where I was your son have long passed, replaced now by the work of warriors, I still cherish the days of my youth. The active days playing about, the sleepless night soothed by your songs. You have done much for me, mother, but I never had the thought to thank you for it until now.

I pray you enjoy your night with father and that I see you well off of the battlefield when it comes to it.

Your son, Anthrion.

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Rensin to his mother:

Mum. We didn't die this year so that's a plus. Happy mother's day.

[Image: desc_head_freemasons.jpg]

△Move along.△


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(( Well... Mother's Day has already been celebrated here in England, but what the hell! I hope the posts aren't too long. Or... too numerous. ))

For Nirla

Draknir tapped a quill against his lip thoughtfully, sitting at a worn out desk. It was an unusual sight to see the Orc with not only no armour, but with a writing utensil in his fingers and not the handle of a battleaxe.

He clicked his tongue, sighing. Suddenly his eyes brightened up and he began to scribble furiously on the parchment, bringing it up to the light to inspect it! At first he was grinning, but then his look turned sour. With a groan, he scrunched up the parchment and threw it aimlessly behind him, letting out a grumble of frustration.

She's not going to appreciate a doodle, you idiot.

Unexpectedly, he felt something hit the back of his head. It was incredibly light, just like... the paper ball he tossed? He blinked, turning about in his seat.

Much to his surprise, his old friend Mokaku stood at his doorway, smirking. "If it's any comfort, I enjoy this one the most." With a growing smile, he presented a previously thrown away drawing of Draknir and his mother side by side. The drawing was crude at best, and had the artistic skill of a 6 year old. "It's endearing!"

Draknir promptly stood up, snatching the sheet from his hands with a growl. "It was a prototype!" He retorted defensively, but soon his shoulders sagged. "I'm terrible at getting gifts for mother. What're you doing here anyway?"

Mokaku laughed, giving a nonchalant shrug. "Helping Lirshar get a gift for Mochla." His one functioning eye scanned the floor. It was completely littered with discarded sheets of parchment. "Why not just visit her in person instead of writing a letter? I'm sure she'd appreciate it more than well wishes on a sheet of paper. Plus, I think I speak for the trees as well as your coin purse when I say you've gone through enough parchment."

The Orc too gazed down at the floor. He could've loaded a demolisher with all these things. "... Point taken. But I can't. The trip is too long, and I'm being summoned to a war meeting tomorrow."

Mokaku pursed his lip in thought. "Hm. Appears you're on the hunt for more time."

Draknir's eyes widened. "Wait, hunting? THAT'S IT! You're a genius!"

3 days, an incredibly old Orc woman was sitting peacefully in a chair before a large, grey wolf hide was delivered to her as well as a note. Puzzled, she took the note and read it as best as her weakening eyesight could. The note was written in blood, which worried her at first.

Dear mother,

I'm sorry the present is late. I've been very busy. I don't know if you remember the first time you took me hunting, but we killed a wolf whose hide was as white as snow. Unfortunately, there are no white wolves in Durotar, but I hope you take this hide to keep you warm at night and to remind you of me when I'm away. I promise I'll come see you when I can.

Your loving son, Draknir.

P.S. Mokaku sends his regards.

With a warm sigh, the old Orcess bundled up in the soft wolf hide and slumped in her chair.

For Kaleesa

Eirtahl stood at a distance, a hand stroking his beard as he inspected his craft. Not many people knew that a hobby of his was creating wooden statuettes and figurines. Out of a simple stray log, he had created created a very large carving of a saber's paw. It's claws were stretched out, and if you positioned yourself at the right angle for long enough, it almost looked as if it were about to come to life and maul you.

With a firm nod, Eirtahl pocketed the worn carving knife.

"You should be spending your time carving Orcs, not logs."

The voice startled him, causing him to quickly turn around with his palms stretched, ready to cast a spell. Before him was a tall figure shrouded in brown cloth, with the slightest hint of a blindfold hiding his eyes. The stranger was sitting on a gnarled tree root, clutching onto a signature glaive.

Eirtahl sighed. "Brother... you may be what you are, but I still accept you. So quit sneaking up on me like that before I start to get angry."

The figure let out a croaky laugh. "You couldn't get angry if you tried. You're the calm and passive one, remember?" He stood up swiftly, embracing Eirtahl. "I see you remembered to get a gift for mother, little brother."

Eirtahl returned the tight embrace. "I did. You know... it would mean a lot to her if you were to just sent a letter. You might not believe it, but she was devastated when you left. Just a hint that you still live would make her smile."

Beneath the hood, the Kaldorei's lips twisted into a grim frown. "I have a hard time believing that... but very well. What would you have me to? I can't write anymore. Not unless you have demon blood on hand, which I can already tell you don't."

"You don't need cursed sight to know that I wouldn't carry something like that with me. How about you just carve your name into the claw? I'll write the rest."

The tall Elf peered down at the knife for a moment before taking it out of Eirtahl's grasp, walking over to what he assumed was the wooden claw he spoke of. He can barely see, and in the forest of eternal night, the lack of light wasn't helping. Scarred hands felt at the intricately carved wood before he took the knife and etched his name, eventually standing when it was done.

Eirtahl grinned. Knowing his brother couldn't see, he predicted that the writing would terrible uneven, but still legible. "Wonderful job. She'll love it." He mused, patting his much taller sibling's shoulder.

We hope you have a wonderful day, mother. Love Eirtahl and Faridus.

For Maria

Romaren didn't often enjoy thinking of his parents. It lead to too many repressed memories, but at the same time, he couldn't escape the fact that it was still mother's day. She wasn't a terrible mother either. In fact, had he been born in a different time in place, she might have been the best mother ever. The past couldn't be changed, and he knew he couldn't waltz up to a gathering of Scarlet Crusaders and be given passage.

As he sat by the fireplace with his chin resting in clasped hands, he felt a pair of loving arms wrap around his neck. He felt a pair of lips gently peck his cheek before they parted, whispering in his ear.

"Baby, it's at least three in the morning, and this is the second time I've caught you like this. Tell me what's wrong?" Her eyes gazed at his face with a frown on her lips. She knew that there was always something troubling him, but it was rare that he'd show it.

Romaren sighed, softly kissing her hand. "It's nothing. I'm just... thinking if I should send my mother anything. She might be Scarlet Crusade, but she's still my mother, and I'd like to think she did a good job raising me."

"Well..." she begun. "Flowers are always nice. It's enough to show you care, but unoriginal enough and universally given away that she won't suspect it's you!"

A playful smile appeared on her face, but the attempted joke did little to perk Romaren's spirits. "Perhaps..." He mumbled mirthlessly. "I don't know. I'll just... get it arranged to be dropped by air. Couriers do that, right?"

"I... think so! I'm sure a bit of extra coin in his pocket might make him consider it more carefully." She placed a hand on his face and turned his head away from the fire, gazing into his eyes. "But this is something to think about later in the day. Please, come to bed."

He eventually surrendered, exhaling deeply and nodding. He rose out of his seat and returned to the comfort of his bad, wrapping his arms around Niamh's torso.

* * *

"INCOMING AIR PACKAGE!" A Scarlet Crusader yelled at the top of his lungs, stirring the other men and woman clad in crimson armour to action. The package itself was tiny, but it just gave them even more reason to suspect it was some unholy gadget.

After daring to open the crate, they were surprised to see it was just a simple bouquet of flowers. A man lifted his visor to peer at a note tucked inside, reading it aloud. "For Maria Dunlain..." He repeated the name to himself, furrowing his brow. There was no mention of who the sender was. "Isn't she on the other side of the Plaguelands?"

"I think so, sir! She's the elderly cleric that healed you, if you recall sir."

"Oh! Yes, of course. Let's get these to her right away. Must be someone in the western garrison wishing her happy mother's day or some such. ... But wait. Since when has she had a child?"

For Faelara

Today had been... eventful, to say the least. It would appear that even on mother's day, his beloved friends would still come to Mokaku for advice on what a good idea for a gift would be. Yet, in all the help he had been giving out, he had forgotten to write a letter of his own. To his dismay, his own mother was killed before she even got to Kalimdor. He would pay his respects, but there was still a mother in mind that he would be writing to.

His long fingers carefully held onto a quill, which he dipped into an ink pot and began to carefully and slowly write on a sheet of parchment.

Dear Faelara,

I had hoped to visit you in person, but... well. I'm sure you already know why my time is occupied. This is all nothing short of chaos. But despite the destruction, there are still mothers and children in the world, like yourself. I hope your family is in good health and far away from the... well. I don't want to frighten you, but this is the Second Sundering. Please stay safe. I'll be coming to visit whenever time permits.

To hopefully brighten your spirits, I've sent you a gift. He's a troublesome one, but with your skill with beasts I'm sure you will enjoy the company of this one. I found him abandoned in Ashenvale and he's in need of a good home.

Regards, Mokaku.

P.S. I'm sorry if this comes late.

The shaman then looked towards a bear cub that was poking its head at the desk, sniffing at Mokaku's hand.

"I'm sorry, little cub. As much as I'd love to keep you..." His hands went to pluck up the bear and place the squirming bundle of playful fur on his lap. "I think you'll be better off in Faelara's hands until the world is less... on fire. I don't even think Quel'thalas has battered an eyelid."

"... And things have a habit of dying in my hands." He sighed softly, rubbing the cub's belly.
"I am more afraid of one hundred sheep led by a lion than one hundred lions led by a sheep."
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For Bellatrix

Okay. Maybe because I used "(spoiler)" you thought I was going to write a nice text instead of doing it like Rensin.


Well, basically Bella isn't Drake's mother.
But she's going to be the mother of his children.
He bought her a gryphon, took her for a gryphon ride to a mountain in Elwynn, conjured food for their picnic. Bellatrix was overjoyed because she found out he can conjure cookies for her. He also got really happy later that night.
Cool story, huh? No. I know it isn't.

And yes, he also gave his mother a hug.

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