*Large posters are hung around Silvermoon and some goblin cities depicting a large ink drawing of a beautiful blood elf male holding a pretty blood elf female in a caress and looking onwards into some distant, unseen setting with a stern gaze. The picture takes up most of the poster, with writing above it and the large caption, "ELVES FOR AN ELVEN FUTURE". To the side of the picture is a neat box with rows intended for signatures*
Citizens of Silvermoon, at home or abroad! Our race is at extinction, and you know it. So few of us remain, that it would only seem logical that we get together with each other, and why not? We were made for each other, after all. AND YET...
Dwarves mingling with elves. Elves with humans. Even disgusting sights such as orc and elven males holding hands as they discuss marriage! Is this what our proud, noble race has come to?! Make a stand against such impure desecrations of our race! If things continue at this rate, we may very well be extinct simply from lack of viable offspring in the near future...
Do you support this?! Sign below!
*A blond-haired woman of average height in dark black and purple robes could be seen running around sticking these posters to every suitable surface*
A human woman peers at such a poster in Gadgetzan, on her way to an island off Tanaris' coast. Her sturdy white coat and cloak idly sway in the night's breeze. The moon reflects off her goggles, the rest of her identity unintentionally hidden by the cloak's wrapping about her head and lower half of her face. Protection against the night's cold in the desert.
"Dwarves and elves...Hrodebert and Jami. So happy, those two..." A smile flickers, then fades as she returns to reading.
"Mmh. Wonder what the actual percentage is of elves and other races outside Silvermoon..." Her strong fingers twitch at her sides as she counts imaginary statistics in her head for a couple moments. "Ah, well." Suddenly a hand jerks to pluck a gnomish pen from her coat pocket. A tiny spring is housed inside, allowing one to write after a quick press of a button at its top.
Click. The inked tip appears. The human woman gets to writing on the poster, the tip of her tongue pressing against the inside of her cheek. The name she writes is Thalassian, translating phonetically to an elven version of 'Imma Dummy'.
Click. The inked tip disappears, and the pen is pocketed. The violet eyes behind her goggles peer at the art on the poster, head tilting. "Which is...no. Joke is a century too old." Mischief managed, she grins to herself behind her wrapped cloak and strides off.
Melina sets her (blue) eyes on a poster in an alley of Silvermoon. Sternly, calmly, she proceeds to rip it to pieces meticulously, shredding them on the street. She snarls, and walks away silently.
"Untolerant livers..did they not learn the mistakes of the past..shallow beings."
The Death Knight timbers away, to the shaking head of another Sin'dorei, Alanya, clad in flamboyant red dresses, who walks away in a crowd of other well-alive elves.
Reigen peers at the poster hanging around Silvermoon during one of her many shopping trips. A grown daughter is nagging at her to hurry up. She peers down at her growing stomach with a bit of a shrug, muttering, "Geesh, I'm doing it as fast as I can." Granted, the small elf knows the posters have a point. Shooing her daughter off for a moment with the promise of a cat, she signs below on one of the posters, neat and clean.
'- Reigen Dawnsend agrees that more breeding is needed. Even if you have you tastes, at least TRY to make a kid with another elf at least once.'
Aesyn rubbed his eyes and yawned, waking from a quick nap. Muttering quietly he peers at the poster. He nods slowly, "I'd rather we thrive than become half-breeds..." Shrugging, he pats himself down, looking for a quill. Sighing, he pockets his hands and, surprise, here's a pen! Smirking with pride, he signs his name.
Leron strolls along through Silvermoon, a freshly purchased robe draped over his arm. He paused momentarily to peer at the poster. "Hmm... Interesting..." he taped a finger to his lips idly "I see where it comes from, saying we should stick to our own race... But I feel it pressures me into feeling I am supposed to be with a woman. And I know damn well Salor isn't a woman...." He furrowed his brow, a faint frown coming across his face. Shifting his weight from foot to foot, he continued to eye the poster "I mean... I'm for the message plainly written, but the subtext of this image does not help its case."
"And I did have a son... Not my fault the one I fell in love with is not a woman. I did my part in contributing to the advancement of our race," he gives a quick not to no one but himself, "And it would be foolish to think otherwise." The staring contest with the poster continues. Seconds turn to minutes as he resumes contemplation. He produces a pen from his jacket, his hand shaking with more thoughts as of what to do. Then, it came to him. Mighty inspiration that could only be held to the most creative of individuals. He grins wide and moves to put ink to the poster.
Leron draws a classy mustache on both the male and the female Sin'dorei that adorned the poster. He's so crafty. Give him a medal. He nods quickly, finding a small piece of scrap paper and posted it next to the poster, writing a quick note.
"Though I agree our kind may be dying, but there was a time when we were told to marry the ones we love. Remember that.
- Leron Silverfang"
A Blood Knight marched through the streets of Silvermoon, however he was dressed in casual wear. A truesilver sword was sheathed in his belt, a small ring was fitted onto his left middle finger that bore the Blood Knight's symbol. A faint sigh escapes his mouth as he spies one of the posters. "Fucking cross-breeders." he muttered under his breath, patting down his pants for a pen. He whipped it out, quickly signing ‘Krian Duskbinder’, taking a moment to brush his blonde hair backward before adding, ‘Those who breed with the inferiors are traitors to their own people. Glory to the Sin’dorei.’
A quick nod in approval causes him to back away from the poster, slipping the pen back into its place. “… It sounds like it’s time for another mission to promote… Loyalty, and patriotism.” With his mind made up, he adds a final note.
‘To those who disagree with such monstrous unions, contact me. It’s up to us to make a difference.’
The Blood Knight turns about to march away, shoving his hands into his pockets as he strolls off, preparing for one more mission.
Kyran approaches the sign, thinking for a moment after reading it over. He looks at the mustache, then his father's note and snicker. "Well, I guess something can be said for creativity." He goes up to the sign with a pencil and draws in a pirate hat on the male's head, "Like father like son." He laughs, what a childish guy.
Yancy Boltwing's Gnomish frame waddles over to the wall in Ratchet. Pulling over a chair, he climbs it to read the poster, frowning at the perceived insult to him and his bride. He takes ten paces back, and with a bang, shoots a hole through the paper...and the wall. He walks away, sighing and muttering to himself.
Krest walks throughout Silvermoon, carelessly and aimlessly in his modified plate armor. His sword was sheathed at his side as it usually was. He blinks a bit as he looks over to see a Blood Knight walk away from a poster. He walks over after he was sure the Blood Knight was far enough away and read this note. He shakes his head as he does, mumbling something incoherent to himself before he stops, gazing at the last note. "So there's going to be a new cult huh.." He shakes his head, walking away without another word, him already thinking what he was going to have to tell Leron.
Scrawled in elegant, flowing Thalassian script beneath one of the posters in Silvermoon.
"To place miscegenous, xenophilic lust before the very survival of our noble people is the height of immaturity and irresponsibility. There is no greater calling than that of the High Kingdom, and the High Kingdom calls for us all to see its woodlands and streets repopulated. Nearly ten years ago, we each solemnly proclaimed ourselves Children of the Blood in memoriam of the fallen. Why is it then that we cannot keep our very Blood pure? "
Ciaphas Seregon
You damn hypocrite, he thought to himself, you haven't even shared a bed with your wife since her return from the Outland.
And scribbled near one hanging in the middle of Ratchet.
"I, for one, welcome our new half-orc, half-dwarf, half-elf overlords."
-Askari Ambershine
I know I should care more about this sort of thing, but I just can't. Kari, you're bad and you should feel bad.
"I for one, would be happy to help document and photograph any Blood Elven repopulation project in the interests of science!" Evelyn Briarthorn gleefully scribbled onto a poster in Hearthglen before walking off.
Ralerian, strolling though Silvermoon, allows his gaze to travel along the walls of his hallowed city, spying one of these posters, he immediately pulls a -female- (Yes, female, complete with ovaries) courtesan behind a mana-bleached bush. A small eternity passes, and he shortly pops up from behind said bush and straightens his robes. "I support this cause."
"FuuuuuuUUUUCK YES!" Bastos cried out with gladness upon seeing the poster as he stepped off his chopper. In his gloved hand, a pen is clutched tightly with excitement. "About time someone has some fucking SENSE! f**k, f**k yes!" he says as he starts scribbling his name with very long, large strokes across multiple posters as he actually bothers to sign more than one. All thirty of them in one wall. The signatures read "Jan'bastos Pyreblade" in large, bold letters. Anyone walking down the street may be able to see it clearly.
Upon stepping back, Bastos places his arms akimbo, proud of his work... then glances to his left. Thirty more posters to sign. Most other people would bother to stop right there... but Bastos only grinned. "Well, if it means supporting a cause... then I guess I'll grace this whole city with my beautiful name."
"Did you have to sign so largely?" a stern voice spoke up. Bastos turned to his side. A small elven woman with a plain face and strawberry blonde hair tied to a bun approached the biker elf as she is dressed in priestly robes and a staff in her hand. She glared at Bastos with narrowed eyes as her thin lips pursed. "Others would like to sign too. There are more than one who would like to support the cause."
"Jeez, lady! No need to get your panties up in a bunch! There's plenty room right here!" Bastos says as he point to three spare lines at the bottom of the poster. "See? Room for three more! Sign up, you'll leave room for two!"
"Your name takes up eight lines."
"Well, I am gracing the city with my beautiful name," Bastos says as he licks a finger before using the saliva to slick an eyebrow.
The woman rolled her eyes. "And I suppose you are quite the defender of our race," she says as she glances at the chopper. "How strange you ride such a horrid contraption. I recognize these parts. Goblin and gnomish. I'll bet you mingle with them quite often, hm?"
"Maybe. But I don't f**k them."
"Good for you."
"Especially goblins. They probably got crabs or something. This one goblin chick won't stop hitting on me everytime I see her!"
"Cute."
"It was gross! Almost as gross as thinking about an elf banging a dwarf!"
The woman jerks with disgust. "That is a horrible thought!"
"Yet it happens," Bastos says with irritation. He points to the bit on the poster concerning minglings with dwarves. "See that there? I'll bet I know who this poster is talking about."
"Oh, really? Who, then?"
"Have you ever heard of Jami Al'Salma?"
"Not very well. I know she is an acquaintance of my brother-in-law."
"Really! Well. She's married to a dwarf."
The woman's eyes' widen with horror. "You're joking!"
"Peh. I wish I was. She was supposed to be mine. Mine, I say!"
"..... you're still pining for her, Bastos?" a deep, monotonous and smarmy tone speaks up. Bastos turned around as the woman turns to peer over to the male's side. Urameil, fully adorned in deep reds, blacks, and golds, steps up to the two as they conversed. "I thought you're done chasing her now."
"Urameil!?"
"Hello again, Bastos."
"I thought you were dead!"
"Surprised?"
"You were stabbed in the trunk and then thrown from, like, thirty feet in the air! Well, that's what my ex-boss told me."
"More like fifty, give or take. But I'm back."
"And you died a second time," the woman says. Bastos steps aside as he glances at both his acquaintances.
Urameil smirks underneath his mask as he glares at the woman. "I did. I came back from that one too."
"Let me guess. You didn't learn your lesson?"
"Oh, I learned. When fighting a Templar on a bridge, work on pushing him off it than shooting your spells in hoping that would kill him first."
The woman slaps her face with her palm.
"Friend of yours?" Bastos asks as he points his thumb as the woman while he faces Urameil.
Urameil quirks a brow at the other male. "More than that. Bastos, this is my wife, Aereal."
"Pleased to meet you," Aereal says with a tone dripping with snark.
The biker elf's mouth gapes in surprise as he stumbles backwards, his back pressed against the poster-covered wall. "f**k no! You're married?!"
"Much to our chagrin," Urameil says as his wife rolled her eyes, though the expression on her face implies agreement nonetheless.
"How the fel did that happen?!"
"The usual way. Bells, rice, flowers, an arch, some cake was involved..."
"I mean how did an ugly f**k like you snag a wife?!" Bastos stops to take a closer look at Aereal. Plain faced. Flat-chested. Her figure was a straight line, almost no curves. Her expression was harsh. The rogue smirked as a brow raised with realization. "Oh, now I know. I'll bet it's out of pity, right? Or maybe an ugly competition? Ugly f**k plus plain and boring. I'll bet your kids turned out pretty bad too, right?"
"Kid. Only one," Aereal starts. "In our seven-hundred-some years, we only produced one child. And it was an accident."
"So to speak," Urameil agrees.
Bastos blinks. "Only one? Out of seven hundred? Damn! What, you hardly had any sex or something?"
Urameil and Aereal discreetly stepped further away from each other. They both said in unison, "Yes."
"Well, it's not too late to start having more!" Bastos says with a grin as he points to the posters behind him. "We're trying to repopulate more! We need more bitches to bang! Sons to bro with! We're dying out, and Jami sure as f**k ain't helping!" He grins as he takes Urameil's wrist and Aereal's hand before locking husband and wife's fingers together. "You two can, though. So how about helping us out, huh? Maybe if you two started fucking more, you'd be less grumpy!"
".................."
Before anyone knew it, Bastos was crumpled onto the street with posters tacked all over him and some more stuffed in his mouth. He has a black eye over his remaining one and the lens of his prosthetic one was cracked. Bumps on his head and bruises. It didn't take long for an arcane-enchanted broom to start sweeping him off the street before an Arcane Guardian would pick him up to take out the trash.
Meanwhile, Urameil and Aereal went their separate ways. Neither of them signed a poster.
*A tall elf rises onto his bare feet from one of the bunks in the back of Broken Keel Tavern in Ratchet. He wears a loose linen tunic not even tied at the arms, leather britches that just about covers his knees and his long hair is ruffled and resembles a bird's nest. Despite leaving, the bed is obviously occupied by a pair of broad shoulders that snores deeply.*
Why do bulls have to shed so much at spring?
*The sin'dorei picks tufts of short, dark fur from his white shirt as he passes the goblin innkeeper that gives him an annoyed frown. Riael occupied by thoughts of the one left in the bed and the sweaty encounter they shared does not notice the proprietor's dissapproval.* Another night of this? At this rate I'll surely have a rib or two gored to splinters.
*Documents littered around Ratchet rarely catches the rangers attention, but this one written in thalassian catches his eye and interest. With a frown Riael pulls the poster down and proceeds to crumple it around a rock and throws it off the docks.*
- Why don't the nobles and the magisters just draft a law that makes it mandatory to concieve and birth a child every three years...