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**c0rzilla** · (This post was last modified: 04-23-2013, 06:02 PM by c0rzilla.)

Annabelle
Flying
Journal 1
Journal 2
Journal 3
Journal 4
Journal 5
Journal 6
Journal 7
Journal 8
Journal 9
Balance
Annabelle Plays Chess With Sangreala
Journal 10

Nuadon
Knife Edge

Orvisha
Sisters
Apologies
Apologies 2
Do Not Waste a Moment
Clear as Ice
A History Lesson
To Serve the Horde
Clear as Water

**c0rzilla** · (This post was last modified: 02-03-2013, 07:08 PM by c0rzilla.)

The violet domes of the floating city glimmered so far down beneath this tower, catching the cold dawn of Northrend like so much amethyst. Eyes of a similar color peered over the railing of the Purple Parlor’s balcony. Watching. Analyzing.

I wonder if Zariel or Singe thought I’d use their office as a launching pad.

Dark leather covered fingers drummed on the lavender hued railing of the balcony outside the office. A black ponytail wagged in the strong breeze brought on by such height. The establishment had been rented out by the Novalight family to be used at their whim. Thankfully, its other patrons didn’t arrive so early in the morning.

A shaky breath and eyes were cast down to a pair of pauldrons at her booted feet. Far too ornate to wear casually, but too sturdy for formal wear. These were the techno-priest’s latest toy. Latest completed one, anyway. They already bore a few scuffs from testing. Teal blue, curved, and lined with polished brass. Round crystals adorned each, softly glowing so that it appeared translucent wings fluttered forth, gently pulsing.

Now or never, yeah?

A soft grunt and she lifted each, buckling and strapping them to her shoulders. Those secure, she tugs and jerks on the rest of her flight suit, the outfit light enough for a priest to wear but still meshed well with protective engineering tricks. Azure in color, with dark brown accents in the gloves and boots. Lastly, the simple flight goggles hanging about her neck were pulled up and tightened.

Suppose it’s still “illegal” to do this. Glad I’m not a paladin, then.

A couple dials were turned on the pauldrons, two long handles pulled out. They are tugged, and with some wobbling from the priestess two large bat-like wings suddenly expand to her left and right, the pauldrons opening for their release. A hollow metal skeleton for the structure and soft leather membranes between the “fingers”. She tugs on the handles, used for turning perhaps. Testing strength.

She steps back.

She prays.

A challenging cry to silence her nerves and she runs forward, launching off the balcony.

The strong breeze quickly catches her, but she does something else as well. Another prayer, specifically for levitation. The crystals glow stronger, Light flickering through the skeleton of the wings. She stays aloft in general from the spell, using the breeze and tugging of the wings for direction and height manipulation.

She laughs in sheer joy, the metal and crystals flickering again, softer, as she shoots over the city. A sigh, and her laugher fades into a soft chuckle as she rolls idly once. A turn as she intends to stay “inside” the wall-less city.

Annabelle glides around the city for timeless minutes in the early dawn before alighting upon the purple cobbled streets. She casts a quick glance around, then collapses her wings, tanned cheeks flushed from the air and elation. A giggle and she dashes off to the Legerdemain.

Running, because inside she still flew.

**c0rzilla** · (This post was last modified: 02-03-2013, 07:09 PM by c0rzilla.)

The script is roughened from its usual feminine curve, spotted with tears.

“You’d die inside if you weren‘t of value to anyone.”

I don’t know what to do right now.

Edgar’s captured and tortured for a shadow user’s games. Just because he loved me, as a Forsaken.

Zariel’s captured under Sanguis’ thumb. His love for me was used as a tool against him.

Singe is (confused ink blots) I don’t know. I see him and I want to run to him and be wrapped up in his huge arms like before. No matter how much I drowned myself in work, he could always pull me back up.

Is he dead? I see his tall body walking around, but he is gone. Memories faded like so much smoke.

I put so much of my heart in other people. What is my faith based on? Something so fragile, and so numerous.

Am I selfish at my core? Am I a self-important snob that tries to tell people how to live their lives? I suppose everyone is. I try so hard to make everyone happy, but why? Because it makes me feel good? The Three Virtues make the world a better place, I know this. But, do I really know them?

I believe in a right path, but I respect the choices of others. I am tenacious in my will and drives. I perhaps have not mastered compassion, for I try to solve everything for everyone sometimes.

Do I cause more suffering than I prevent? That thinking is arrogant, my friends are not the entire world, though they are my world.

I must stop this. My Light is the bonds I form, there is no changing that. I do not worship it, but every little connection I form with another person strengthens it that much. It is as I told Detective Hart, about the fable of breaking many sticks at once. Nigh impossible.

Foolishness. It was not I that took the credit when the demon hunters slew the fel-sworn. I will never be the grand heroine some think me. My true place is beside and behind those who are. Even if, Light forbid, everyone vanished, I would still have my memories. Should my memories vanish, I know deep in my core, they all would still be there.

Maybe I would die inside. But, I would do it for all of them. And, I will find Zariel and Edgar.

Focus. Pray. A way will come.

**c0rzilla** · (This post was last modified: 04-23-2013, 05:43 PM by c0rzilla.)

This “journal” entry seems to be written at an odd angle on graph paper used for engineering formulas. Despite, it is neatly written, the script feminine.

Dear engineering graph paper,

Should I buy a proper journal? Would it be any different the ones I already have for my schematics?

Probably. Formulas expose very few moral quandaries and matrices of self-doubt. Unless you’re designing a fel gas bomb because you lack even the smallest bit of subtlety.

Anyway.

… . . . . . Random ponderous dots followed by a curly line.

Where to begin?

I lost my left arm! Not in any grand engineering accident like the scholars at the Contraption dream of. No, like usual, I stuck my stupid heroic nose where it doesn’t belong and kept fighting despite idiotic odds. Group of cliché, irritating Death Knights that want to purge the living showed up in Raven Hill to pick up a new member. Or something. I had a wonderful shot in the new one’s weak point. Grabbed his jaw in an attempt to fry him from the inside with Light.

That plan was cut short when he ripped my arm off. I wonder if he kept it like the rest of the butchered limbs in his hole.

I had to venture to the Contraption for my new limbs. I had two designed: one for day-to-day work and wear, and another for battle. My shoulder was fitted with a socket. The switching hurts, even with focused Light to suppress pain.

Why did I not have my arm grown back? My good friend Cassius—saved my life then—healed the wound shut. I was unsure if it could be healed back by then. Sometimes it works, sometimes not. I prayed, and thought. And remembered the basis of my work: my will through machines. Steel is flesh, oil blood, and on. Of course, I don’t consider machines the same as people, but I realized this was a chance to learn more, to expand. I have no desire, like some gnomes, to be entirely mechanical. That sounds absolutely horrid. And I don’t think everyone should strive for this. But, mechanics were always separate no matter what connection the Light gave me.

Zariel’s still a bit weirded out by the whole thing, which is understandable. I know he loves me, though. My friend Sterling was there during the procedure. Nearly a full tinkerer, that one. I owe him so much, saving Zariel and listening to my woes despite his own.

I managed to help him by venturing to a slaver’s home and saving his captured love. I hope the two recover. I suppose the slaver might be right. They won’t ever have their old lives back. But, perhaps that’s a good thing in the end. If they hold true despite this horror—and I pray with all my heart they will—then surely their relationship is as iron. It won’t be easy, though.

I pray for Killik as well, even if he was an irritating, snobbish prat. Poor elf had nothing but vengeance on his mind. I cannot say I know his pain, but I know that feeling. It eats at you. In the end it’s nothing but a way for an adversary to control you.

A friend, a while ago, said I was motivated by emotion, not driven by it. Is that the difference?

There was another techno-caster amongst us during the raid. Craer Naharev, a techno-mage. Amoral, humor as dry as Tanaris in summer. I like him, as odd as that sounds. But, Aroes is a friend of mine too.

He asked me something I didn’t get to answer. Something akin to “How can you be so good with all this crushing darkness around?”.

How can I not? I have a choice, simple as that. I know I cannot force other people to do what I think is right, but I can make myself do it. And, perhaps, this tiny grain of rice that is me, can tip the scales towards a better world. Perhaps I can put a kinder inkling in someone’s head in passing. Sure, I suppose some would call me something of a heroine. But, “beating the bad guy” won’t really change anything in the long run. Yes, unless it’s a huge fel-sworn or something, I know. It’s the day-to-day things that build up in between.

It hurts. A lot. Loved ones have died, and I wonder if I am to blame. I wonder if my thoughts are just shallow justifications to push the pain away. I could give it all up and stick to engineering for my own gain.

But, I can’t when I know I have the power to do something.

…I wonder if martyrdom by stubborn idiocy can be classified as a psychological disease…

I’ll ask Sterling.

**c0rzilla** · (This post was last modified: 04-23-2013, 05:45 PM by c0rzilla.)

Hello journal,

Long time no write. I will make no promises as to my patience with you, o leather bound pages of inner angst and fanciful turmoil.

Well, that was cheesy. Anyway.

Where to start—I joined the Argent Crusade! Again. Sort of. I helped out before, but never officially picked up a tabard. Not that I wear the one I picked up now. It would very much get in the way of the devices in my coat. I did have a stylish little pin for my cloak made, however.

It has been—hm. Enlightening? Stable? Financially lucrative? I have lead two missions myself so far, both quite successful, both involving the retrieval of engineering odds and ends. One of which was this:

An amphibious tank. I'm in love. Are you, journal?

Participated in others. In fact, today's was the defense of the bridge to the Eastern Plaguelands. Successful! Sir Clovis Briarthorn lead this one well enough. Got a tad grumpy when no one healed him, but hey. Not all of us can fire heals through a barricade and every other solider—enemy and not—surrounding folk. When you're on a turret. Being chewed on by gargoyles and geists.

“I'll remember that”. Do.

I haven't seen Baidin much. He seems to have retreated to his studies after I let his hopeful heart down at the end of the Love is in the Air festival. I still wish to send him a collection of the toy soldiers he had as a child. I'm sure I spotted a display in Dalaran. Perhaps in time.

My cousin Tress joined in a way as a teacher. I think he will be the best teacher of the arcane Hearthglen's college will have. I hope he is wise in his steps. I am sure he will be.

Zariel is still sailing for his family's secrets. No one on the ship is really sure what he's looking for. I don't think he quite knows. It's hard not to take the blame for Redis' attack on the ship. Castor may have been right. I could have 'nipped this in the bud', had I ended Redis when I first saw him back. I could have. But, would it have been right? I knew nothing of what Redis is now, I still know nothing of his grander plans. If there are any. Even if the thing opposing one is the purest evil, is ending it out of sheer rage and fear right? I think not.

Not my fault. This is all Redis'. And, when the time comes, I will end him again.

Speaking of Zariel, I admitted to us being together during a game of spin-the-bottle in the Hearthglen inn. The end pointed to me, and Clovis—irony--asked what was going on between me and the elf male at the festival. I grew defensive a moment, but...admitting it felt good. Very good. Even with the ensuing gossip between Reigen and Ma'am Aereal. Even with Clovis' stupid joke. I didn't quite get it, so I didn't react much. Though I wonder if he would take it as easy if the joke were turned on he and Endling. I think not.

I haven't really been able to get into the social flow of things here. I suppose that's what happens after years of living alone on an island. I'm more used to the company of elves and their machinations. I know Alterac blood flows in my veins, that fire burning there. The wires in my mind thusly sparking with plots, plans, ideas, machinations of my own. I wish I could turn it off sometimes. Add to that, my fighting against “evil” for...how long? Too long.

I wonder what my aunt is doing. Too quiet, she's been. I wonder what she'll do when I tell her the necromancer she used spoke to me.

I wonder what I can do with his crown she left me.

Bisen on one side, Greenburg on the other, from which came Tress, and Berenice, my other cousin. Ended up the worst kind of Forsaken. My uncle Oswald, who I think cares more about money than the Light. And here I am in the middle. I'm not sure if I should be proud of my heritage. I know Alterac's history, and appreciate it. But pride?

Blood is heavy. So heavy. As is history. Though, they're the same, aren't they?

**c0rzilla** · (This post was last modified: 04-23-2013, 05:47 PM by c0rzilla.)

How did I end up surrounded by elves? A stupid toss of fate's dice? Did my personality always fit with their general schema?

I swear I'm starting to forget how to converse with humans. Or, if not starting, starting to realize that I've forgotten.

I haven't had a thorough conversation about the Alliance or human culture that didn't involve the words "humans don't understand" and "traitor" in I don't know how long. I'm not sure I'm part of the Alliance anymore, anyway. Being born in Ironforge and raised in Stormwind, I wish to see both cities flourish. But, I don't think I could ever fit in in Stormwind again.

So small. So crowded.

So, elves.

Two recent experiences of note:

A) Aenin Silverfang--adoptive brother of Leron Silverfang--is an angst ridden child. I had to beat some sense into his thick, felblood addled skull.

B) Zariel Novalight--my mate, love, whathaveyou--is an angst ridden child. I am unsure I can tolerate his constant insecurities much longer. Tolerate being second fiddle to his family.

Conclusion: Elves are angst ridden children, their adolescence extending far longer than previously thought.

Or maybe it's just the crowd of elves around me. That concerns me.

Aenin Silverfang
As stated, since his resurrection, that fel-whore Ensuena seems to be feeding him felblood. To what end, I am unsure. She certainly means to bind him to her. But, for what? False affection? A demon she can bind later? The snake passed it off as "medicine" of some kind.

Idiots.

His memory is foggy, which proved troublesome for both myself and Aendron Darkwhisper when we tried to convince him of the error of his gorging. Upon the conclusion of my effort in convincing, he said he'd kill me if I tried to halt him. Used to that, not much of a deal breaker.

I quickly let Leron know of his condition, and he ended up convincing Aenin to stay at the Silverfang estate outside of Dawnstar. The condition was that Ensuena could stay as well. A way to keep an eye on her, surely.

So, I dropped by for a visit!

Aenin seemed in much better spirits, having the company of a lady elf I don't quite know. She seemed heavily pregnant, though I don't think the child is his.

Or, he was in better spirits until I called bull on his felblood addiction. He made the mistake of telling me he had no intention of stopping. Childish visions of grandiosity and false power drove him.

I mouthed off a bit more. He grabbed my throat and threw me off the upper floor. I let him, testing his anger, quickly averting injury with a levitate-and-twist. My feet hit the floor, he stomped down.

We fought. I won.

Rage is a poor backer for power. He was predictable, clumsy. I eventually had him sitting in a corner, me looming over. He insisted he still had to help Ensuena. I asked with what. Some issue with men making comments at a bar. She wished Aenin to kill them. He ended one already.

That was when I had him sit like the child he is in time-out. As I said to him, I don't care if it's Kil'jaeden at the bar himself. That was a waste of blood, what he did. Red, living blood.

Abhorrent.

He remembered he wished to become a paladin. I said I'd help as I could, though I'm certainly not qualified to train one to that status.

Zariel Novalight
This one hurts to think about.

My cousin, Tressian VanRavenholdt (fun name to write), approached him asking where I might be. For some reason, Zariel got defensive. He is always assuming people mean to attack or belittle him. Elf can't take a joke at all.

Anyway.

Tress let Zariel interrogate him to an extent about our family. As stated before, I am Alterac on both sides, though I do not claim the pride Tress does. I suppose I have minor noble blood in my veins, on both sides, though I don't understand how anyone can claim Alterac nobility anymore. The nation is destroyed, the only thing left of the ruling class being the Syndicate. Or, so I've heard.

My mother and father both left their houses to seek a simpler life. They met in Ironforge, and some time later I happened along.

Zariel is treating this like my mother is a traitor to the family. I don't know how to get him to understand Alterac wasn't some bad phase. He called me a liar for not mentioning more about my family's history. What is there to say? I know little! So little.

He went from that to insulting my mother, to human nobles, to the entirety of humanity. According to Tress.

To him, nobility is...I'm not sure. An inseparable part of the soul, or something. It's sad. I suppose Aryeon was right in how he described Silvermoon nobility. It sounds horrid.

Zariel forbade me again from making any sort of comment on how his family uses its status. Any comment on "family business".

"You won't ever be a part of my family."

Fine. I get it. Shush the upstart human that might--and has--turned your family on its head. Shush the upstart human who spent years of her short life helping and paving the way for your Nova status. Shush the upstart human that figured out your name meant something.

That wouldn't look good on record, would it?

I won't be quieted. Zariel can either learn to listen for once, or--I don't know.

Maybe his uncle Riael was right. I am a pawn. I like him, Riael. Honest. Too honest for the Novalight line. I think he ran away at some point too.

I asked Aryeon to speak with Zariel. Since my inferior human brain can't understand the finer points of nobility, perhaps an elder elf can get sense into his brain where I cannot.

-----

I'm staying with my cousin--Tress--for a while. Figure I need to finally get to spend some quality time with my noble line, right? He lives in some family "summer home" in Alterac. It is beautiful here, still snowing.

He does care for me, I know. Even if I don't agree with a branch of his studies, I know he isn't showing affection just to use me like Marianna. I hope he and Aenyris end up happy.

What else--

I have my first Hearthglen Council meeting soon. Tomorrow, I believe. My heart beats like a hammer every time I think about it. I've been going over the docket so many times, I about have it memorized.

What should I wear?

Ugh.

I wonder if Clovis will look down his nose at me the whole time.

I hope that Stephen fellow made it in. He was nice, good humored. A priest of some kind.

I'm not sure who else is on it. Reigen didn't make it, which I'm not too displeased by. Far too volatile, takes things as personally as Zariel.

Time to end this entry and get to bed, I think.

**c0rzilla** · (This post was last modified: 04-23-2013, 05:48 PM by c0rzilla.)

Quote:Anna,

I didn't mean to make you feel less than equal. But I do feel iritated by some of your actions. I will not lie to you, some things happened that we need to talk about. I'm being upfront because I care about you, if this is as far as we make it then I don't regret it. But we need to talk. If you do wish to be together. Have this, I love you.

Zariel mailed that letter I pasted in here. I don't know if he did so on his own, or because Aryeon happened to speak with him.

Irritated by my actions? The part where I stand up for myself? I suppose I'll see what he means when I next see him.

The ring is pretty, and I do appreciate it all. I do not yet know if I will wear it.

We will see. Onto other things.

Another successful mission for the Argent Crusade. Today, we assaulted a Scorge compound. They took over the Scarlet lumbermill just outside of Hearthglen, and turned into a camp for constructs.

Abominations, wights, plague doctors. The big worry? Something called a flesh golem. Huge, half-engineered thing. Less frightening in appearance than any of the other monstrosities, I suppose. In terms of shape. Size? Horrible, towering thing.

It also fired electricity.

One shot hit me, and I was down right then. My left arm was destroyed. It had to be near surgically removed off me. Is that process surgery? Either way, it involved a buzzsaw, and a welding torch.

Still hurts, the removal. Like my arm being torn off again.

I'll have to venture to the Arcane Contraption for true repairs. Light dammit.

A fellow council member attempted to offer me comfort during the procedure. Huge orc, all in fiery armor. I believe he possesses something of a prosthetic hand. I hope to speak to him again. Odd as it seems, he appears shy.

The auction in the inn was fun. I got a new robe! It makes me look like a trussed up warlock. It'd probably fit more in Ensuena, or Sangreala's closet, than mine. Perhaps I'll keep it for Hallow's End this year.

After the auction, Clovis and Cristovao somehow got their hands on foam swords. They then proceeded to beat the fel out of each other with them. Men, right? Tress even darted back in to fetch one. The rack of the things kept appearing and disappearing.

It was entertaining. I needed the laugh--well, giggle fit.

Then, lo and behold I learn the Light has the most sardonic of humor.

Haydee Herzog that Light damned whorecuntslutbitch--Apologies, Light users shouldn't use that language.

That "woman", the same that mothered Aimee, the same that hurt Dino, and Light knows what else, is trying to wheedle her way into Hearthglen. Trying to assume some financial role.

I won't let her.

Scourge, the Legion be in my way, Light damn me if I let the Red Glove get its claws in Hearthglen.

Dino's going to send an anonymous tip against her. I'm to keep her from holding any position here. If she succeeds, then records are to be checked for theft. Dino also said to keep her away from the armory.

I played shy for her when she tried to approach me. Shy, little church flower Annabelle Greene, wouldn't hurt a fly on the Cathedral's white marble wall. She fell for it. I suppose I should lay off the snark with her around. And the cold death stares.

Dino said she's a master at information gathering. Not many here know much about me. Reigen knows the most, I think. But even then, only what I've done with the Novalights.

We will see.

**c0rzilla** · (This post was last modified: 04-23-2013, 05:50 PM by c0rzilla.)

Today was amazing.

That isn't to say I was jumping for joy throughout it. No, in the beginning I was quite upset.

Why?

Zariel and I are no more as a couple. We parted on peaceful terms, which I am grateful for. I believe, and hope, we shall remain friends. I, of course, returned the ring he sent. I hope it was not expensive for him. It looked like a fortune, but I think his family has been swimming in gold for centuries.

I was sad, of course. I held back tears when it occurred, but it had to happen. I was a tad formal I suppose. He pulled me in for a hug, and our goodbyes were our usual snark about elves and humans.

Despite his immaturity, he is a good elf. A good man. I hope he finds a bride to love for his long lifetime.

Afterwards, I felt like a burden had been lifted, despite my sadness. Even though I loved him, I grew so tired of apologizing to people for his actions. Explaining it away with "he'll learn" or "that's just him", with an awkward smile and chuckle.

I should stop rambling in here about it. It is done, over, and passed. And, I believe we are both the better for it and for what we experienced until this point.

I do not regret any part of it.

His uncle Riael comforted me with his odd, animalistic wisdom in Hearthglen. Then he proceeded to hit on me and seduce me. I don't think he meant any manipulation or harm by it, honest in his wish for my comfort by touch. But--Light. He's Zariel's uncle. How old can he be? And so soon after the ending of our relationship.

Ugh. I fled that pile of weirdness.

Soon after was the celebration for Hearthglen's new council members! The banquet was well made and presented, though the crowd seemed a tad awkward. I was not there long

Soon, we were called up and presented. Clovis gave a fine speech, he seems to be taking charge of this political troupe in Hearthglen's circus. Then, off we trekked to the Town Hall while the citizens feasted.

I shan't write too much in my journal. The discussions weren't too politically sensitive, but one never knows what might happen. I will say the Steamwheedle representative was amusing, if only in how he was tripped over his words by Warlord Kil'shi Rendtear.

I like him, this Warlord. He has been surprisingly comforting to me. I hope I get to speak with him more, I have yet to speak much with orcs in general. He has a surprising focus (is that the word) on the arcane. He is missing his left hand, in its place a socket for various prosthetic tools. One of which, is a claw for battle. However, this claw is set alight with arcane flame. As well, during the meeting he wished for the Dalaran representative to put together a class on defending against arcane and fighting mages. A spellbreaker orc? Intriguing.

The meeting ended. I made sure to speak a bit about a financial office to Clovis at least. And how we should not allow any wanderer off the road into that office's employment. I pray Haydee is kept out. Clovis seemed to agree, though he did not know of any financial office Hearthglen might have.

Clovis seemed friendly enough through the whole process. We exchanged a bit of banter in whispers. I still don't think he is much interested in becoming friends. Oh, well.

I still cannot believe I hold political office. Officially! That disbelief will pass in time, but I wish to hold onto it in a way. I do not wish to become jaded and heartless in this. Well, in anything really.

I spoke with me sort-of mentor Aryeon after on my way back to Mardenholde Keep. I'd hoped to swipe some of the feast's leftovers. I didn't get to eat much. Too nervous. We chatted some, interrupted for a time by that odd fellow Giovanni. I don't trust him at all, not believing for a moment he's from the church in Stormwind.

Anyway.

Aryeon and I chatted. Turns out, he didn't nudge Zariel to send the letter. Hadn't spoken with him since he met Zariel in his drunken stupor. Zariel's, not Aryeon's. Now I'm wondering what Aryeon is like drunk. Probably lectures young elves on how the church was back in his day and whatnot.

--Anyway

We chatted about love and soulmates. He firmly believes in such, that love isn't something you try until you get it right with a person. He seemed sad that it didn't work out between Zariel and me, that he couldn't do more to help. I assured him that our time had ended, and it was fine.

The talk reminded me of Don. Don Bronco. My late fiance. Now that I think of it, separated from Zariel, I think I can admit I never felt as free with him as I did with Don, though I loved him.

Memories of him always bring to mind wide blue skies and green fields. Laughter. Family. Flying. Freedom.

I still miss him.

I wonder, if what Aryeon believes is true, if Don was my soul mate. I wonder if he was my only soul mate.

I still pray that his soul is free and not in that horrid stone. I did not find it on Mordus when--

He is free. Free and with the Light and his family before him.

He has to be. Please let him be.

The ink seems scratched and jerked suddenly, as if the writer suddenly retracted her hand in pain.

I need to rest. I have a long road ahead of me to the Arcane Contraption. I have put in a notice with Hearthglen's town hall.

Light guide my soul.

**c0rzilla** · (This post was last modified: 04-23-2013, 05:51 PM by c0rzilla.)

Scribbled lines occupy the first four lines of this page. Nothing crossed out, just scribbles. An arrow points from the actual text to the mess.

That's my mind right now. Yup.

Everything in the past week or two seems to be progressing in some pattern. I'm just along for the ride.

All of it seems to be getting brighter and brighter.

Quote:The Steps
I attain a position on the council.

I break up with Zariel.

I am finally able to bring back my fiancee Don Bronco.

I am asked to be sworn to the Red Dragonflight.

From this, my left arm is renewed.

I don't know how to properly express my feelings in writing about me finding what has to be my true soul mate again. I know I realized I haven't been truly happy all this time. I was not wallowing in sorrow, but there was always that void in my heart. It is filled now, and overflowing.

Then dragons.

Really?!

How long have I been watched? Why me? I should have known that injured tauren woman was more than she seemed. But, no. My "messiah retard" self had to go save the day.

An orc was trapped in a mob of ghouls. I fought them off. A sin'dorei female that had been watching suddenly TURNED INTO A DRAGON.

More scribbled lines like the first part of the page.

I agreed, though, to her offer. She offered me a choice, said I could say no. But, inevitability washed over me like so much of her fiery breath.

If it's true about the Bronze flight, how they oversee time, I wonder if it is true that I was always going to be offered this choice. If everything ever was always going to happen to me.

She presented me with a ruby pendant--beautiful thing--to call on her. And, she had the grace to restore my arm in a torrent of her fire. Fully functional, just as it was before. I stood there, holding onto my staff, broken mechanical limb out. She breathed on me with that flame, and one by one, the mechanics fell apart, replaced by nerve, flesh, blood, and bone. I can feel again.

I don't think I've ever been in the presence of so much love.

I hope to use what I learned with that arm for others.

She said I'm to just gather information while I help the Argents as I can, and she'll contact me sometime.

Brighter and brighter. I can't help but almost dance through Hearthglen lately.

What else--oh, Light. Haydee, how could I forget. I had to fend her off from the engineering. There's something more to that brooch she wears. Possibly a tiny camera, from the way she kept adjusting it while walking around the machines. Subtle. I managed to swipe that cannon out from under her. The repairs for that are being done on my island, with the aid of Hrodebert and a strikingly orange fellow named Sergius Troy. I'm sure she suspects me as I suspect her. Something's going to happen soon. I just hope I get Dino out of Hearthglen before then.

I need to find a way to secure this journal. Really secure. Note: I don't care how in love you are, going through your significant other's personal notes is creepy. That means you, Reigen. Not that you can read this.

Off to bed with me.

**c0rzilla** · (This post was last modified: 04-23-2013, 05:52 PM by c0rzilla.)

There is a series of dots at first, as if a pen was tapping while its owner thought.

The meeting. Let's see--

Delegates, Issues, and my Opinions

1) Stormwind. They wanted to build a camp/base/I-don't-know-military-establishments on the West side of the Thondroril river.

This went easy enough, though a stipulation was added by Kilshi. They have to turn their base over to the Argents if anything like war breaks out. Not sure what that constitutes. I am sure the Argents will be keeping an eye on them.

The delegate's armor was tacky. I really hope that's just extremely polished bronze and not actual gold.

2) Undercity, R.A.S. They wanted a base on the other side of the river, in the ridge. Nicely hidden.

This one was tricky and requires a deal of background elaboration.

The day before the meeting Sir Jared Richter, Executor of the Black Harvest sought a word with Krilari and a council member. I was present, so I was dragged along.

Two issues: he wished to safely deliver a number of Scarlet refugees. Women, the elderly, children. All very (conveniently) sympathetic folk. And, he wished to elaborate how horribly racist Clovis acted towards his folk.

Is racist even the right word? I think "statist" would be better.

Far as I know, the refugees were delivered safely. Though, I have to wonder at the timing of this. How long did the Harvest keep them? I mean, really. Right before the meeting.

The issue about racism was silly. As I gathered, they sought Endling for healing. Clovis blew a gasket when she overexerted herself, and punted the Forsaken out.

Krilari revealed Clovis' affection for Endling, explaining his behavior as worry, and that he cannot be racist with that fact presented. I wish he hadn't said such. I cannot say I am against Clovis' feelings, but I fear what the Harvest will do with the information.

I sort of understand how he feels, though in reverse. Edgar Barlton, a Forsaken mage, and old friend of Jared's fell in love with me. I did not return his feelings. It is true, what he and Endling have.

On topic.

I cannot believe the Harvest's actions were good will. The timing is too good. Fel, Jared even brought the meeting up, and made sure to remind us that whoever it was that made the Plague at Wrathgate had been executed.

This issue also passed, though Clovis and Ralnoc were both against it. I voted for it, only because we let Stormwind's camp through, and Kil'shi made sure the Kor'kron guard was posted with them.

I don't trust them. I hope this doesn't displease Terastraza.

3) The third issue was quite easy. Our engineering department sought expansion, and was granted it. The cost is an issue, but we all believe it will be made up for in results, trade, and growth of the city.

I cannot wait to see what becomes of it. I ended up donated the dwarven tank I had to them. It was driven to the Stormwind camp.

Haydee may have a harder time snooping with all the gnomes stationed there. Hah.

4) The fourth petition was brought forth by the mysterious Brotherhood of Lordaeron. A simple group of monks seeking to reside here as healers. Stephen was gung-ho about letting them through, and I was too right until I re-read the petition during Eldin Shol's (the delegate) speech.

His signature was written as:

Quote:Tenacity, respect and power. Let the Light guide your decision.

-Eldin Shol, Brotherhood of Lordaeron

Tenacity, respect and power.

I whispered my concerns to Clovis while he spoke, and he agreed. He asked for the order's history, though I was the one that brought the bit about the tenets up.

Father Shol blamed the mistake on a prank by the scribe he spoke to.

I don't trust him. I don't think he's hiding a Forgotten Shadow cult, but I don't think he's the kindly old Light father he presented himself as. I saw him meet Bilial after the meeting. I will write more on this fellow later.

5) Singe (he's mostly fixed now) brought forth a number of issues. The only one that passed was a request for more housing. He won't quit complaining about the hunter companions or the couple savagekin druids about Hearthglen.

6) Benches. I cannot believe how long the men argued about benches. Clovis and Kil'shi got heated about which were better: Dalaran's benches, or Orgrimmar's logs. I cast my passing vote, then rolled my eyes as they argued.

7) Kil'shi requested a pyre for fallen shamanistic Horde. Easily passed, though Clovis stuck his foot in his mouth again, when he commented about the potential location. Something about not wanting orc ashes in his morning coffee. Smooth.

-----

Onto other things.

We had a mission today. Had to fetch a sample of this plague enhancement the Scourge is using on their forces. I don't think it raises undead, but it certainly makes them huge. It's a gas.

A success, I suppose. I and Clovis both think the Harvest got away with a vial or two of their own. Not much we can do about it without accusations of racism. Singe put on a bit of a show of defiance, sauntering up and offering himself for search as well.

Reigen was present as an illusion or something, since Krilari forbade her due to her expectancy. I don't know how an illusion was able to fetch a sample. I didn't see the point in the effort, other samples were gathered. Actually, no. I do. Attention. I've heard her whining about feeling useless. She clings to him like a tick, I swear.

Please. Some of us wish to be useless sometimes.

Onto Bilial.

Mysterious fellow, a monk with the Brotherhood of Lordaeron. He presents himself as the plainest, most studious man you'd ever meet. Tall (though everyone is taller than me), same brown robes Eldin wore.

I like him. But, I know there's more to him. He's so jittery, and he seems ill. Something was wrong with his back today, and he would not let me heal it.

He must be a lower ranking member of the order, the way he speaks of the others and acts. He seemed to attend to Eldin after the meeting. He--

I wonder. I do so wonder. I will find out more, I will.

I have not seen Ma'am Herzog about the past day or so. I am unsure if this is good or bad. I want to get Dino out of her so badly, but he won't leave until he's satisfied he's healed. I'm sure he's staying to protect me as well.

I won't let her hurt Dino anymore. I don't care if the Red Glove comes after me. I can handle it.

Now that all that's written down, I'm off to Nagrand. Don's been reuniting with his family. It's been an effort parting form him to get to work in Hearthglen. I love him so.

I pray that it's like Singe said. That it's my time.

**c0rzilla** · (This post was last modified: 04-23-2013, 05:54 PM by c0rzilla.)

The handwriting here is rushed and sharp. Quickly written after her last entry, perhaps hours.

Cancel the trip to Nagrand.

Right after I finished my last entry, fate struck. Shutting my journal, I stepped out of the inn for a walk around Hearthglen* before I would leave for Nagrand. A nice dry night, quiet. I sat on a bench and peered up, hoping to see stars.

The most shrill, ear-drum penetrating screech of a giggle assaulted my ears. My instinct is to make crude jokes about that sound violating my auditory senses, but I find myself classier than that.

I looked over to the sound. The source of the sound was appropriate. Some little blonde stick that thought herself voluptuous. Apparantly, she still thought herself in the bay, dressed in thigh-high leather boots and a red tunic that barely covered her hind quarters. As well, insert cliche statement about her having the face of an angel here. Feh.

She was harassing a poor death knight while he labored with a few boxes. "Teehee, look how forcefully cute I am! What do you mean I can't fondle your soul eating rune blade in such a manner that hints what I might do in your pants if you're a gullible idiot? I'm cute, I can do whatever I want!"

Eugh.

The death knight fled for peace by sitting by me on the bench. The blonde stick followed. I was unable to hold my tongue, and had the grace to depart once he expressed irritation with our bickering.

She called me a "stupid head". What happened to my gender? Light, answer me. I am quickly losing faith with the likes of Reigen and her about.

Anyway.

It was when I was walking away that I heard her name. Aimee Herzog, daughter of Haydee Herzog. Called here to, no doubt, steal something from the engineering department and bother Dino.

I quickly foiled the second part of that, spiriting Dino and his horse Serenissima away via a scroll of recall.

I hope he will not be upset with me for preventing him seeing his only child. I will understand if he is, poor man. But, I promised to keep him as safe as I can, and I will. Even if it hurts in the short term. I still don't know if Aimee knows he is her father. I can certainly see Haydee's influence. They're both just tools. Pitiful tools.

Got to my island easy enough.

When we arrived, Dino pointed out the fact that a few of my turrets were up and dead. I investigated. I found EMP charges in them all. The first sign of an assault of some kind. Further investigation lead me to the marks of a grapple hook. This was how the intruder avoided my bomblings. There was no theft, so I must assume it was a spy.

The most logical conclusion is that the Red Glove has found my home. I know Haydee knows I'm onto her. I know I'm a gold mine for them. Poke around Gadgetzan for five minutes, and they'll tell you about the Lighty human off the coast. No other current enemy of mine matches this. If it were Redis, there would be dolls everywhere.

After I put Dino to bed (poor man feels so guilty about it all), I checked the video feed from the turrets. Indeed, a darkly dressed gnome ziplined across from a hill to the workshop tower. I believe he was taking photographs. He was, naturally, unable to enter either my home or my workshop.

I will keep Dino here tonight, healing him, then send him somewhere far from Hearthglen.

Will I have to move? Where can I set up a new place? Nagrand? I need to tell Ranzel about this, him having a Titan Databank on my island and all.

*Been seeing odd, dark figures about the streets at night. Usually in the shadows of tree stumps.

**c0rzilla** · (This post was last modified: 04-23-2013, 05:55 PM by c0rzilla.)

((So, yeah. IC post here detailing some mental work between Ralerian and Annabelle. It'll probably be a few posts in total. Expect trippy, pretentious symbolism, so I forgive you if eyes are rolled. Transcribed from Skype RP, so the flow probably sucks. Feel free to post feedback/opinions/lamentations!))

Balance

Spoiler:

We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light.
--Plato

In the Catacombs, safe within the elven room...

The odd little human priestess, called a heroine by many, remains in her coma, though she seems to be somewhat improving. Little flickers of consciousness across her neuronal pathways cause a twitch now and then. Her head turns to the side in response to a flash of an image. Violet eyes flutter under her closed eyelids.

And that's just the outside.

Inside, her mind is--well. A certain Guardian plans to discover the deeper patterns whose ghosts flicker across her waiting nerves.

The Guardian floats over from his perch, cupping a hand over the newly-robed woman's forehead. He would, from an outsider's perspective, simply seem to be checking her temperature. Within Annabelle's mind, however...

A shock of shadow slices a clean cut through her already ravaged mental fortress, and through that newly-created postern, an eight-legged beast skitters in, fangs twitching.

Chaos. Utter chaos, rendered loose by the damage of her death. The sheer power and complexity of the little human's mind is laid bare, the finely tuned walls that usually keep it in check destroyed by her death.

A vortex of experiences, their pieces tossed about, some slowly coming together, knitting.

The feelings associated with them all a miasma on the ground, if there is such things as ground and solid here. Electric arcs of betrayed rage spark in the misty darkness. However, the baseline seems to be a grand love. So deep, so open, something only born through experience and pain. So much pain, no naive fairy tale infatuation with the world is this.

Somewhere in this mess is the Little Lantern, the wick of her essence still flickering. However, the unleashed shadow it casts towers. As if to match the hope she brings, the love, this shapeless towering thing with its shouldered guilt, betrayal, sorrow and rage towers.

The arachnid that is Ralerian skitters into the fray, looking with four, bright green eyes at all that surrounds him. He tests the waters about the area with each of his eight feet, as if seeking some tactile response to her mix of emotions. He taps each foot before placing it down, seeking and avoiding any weak spots born of indecision.

He would make his way up to the shapeless mass, inspecting it thoroughly while keeping his distance.

Ralerian's support seems to come from that love again. Always present, despite the chaos, its pieces in this mess are constant enough to provide solid footing and guidance. The remnants of a web upon which everything else is built.

Up closer, the shapeless mass isn't so shapeless. A towering figure with vague limbs reaching into the infinite, its body a swirl of dark.

Somewhere at its base is an androgynous little figure. Its flat body dressed in a simple white sack-cloth robe to its knees. Only the shape of its cheekbones and large violet eyes hint at femininity. It seems Annabelle has little use for symbolic shapes.

She reaches up to the towering thing, as if trying to comfort it, battered and knocked aside by the chaos periodically. The ground at Annabelle's feet seems to be quite verdant, strange flowers hiding her feet.

The spider soul of Ralerian spins a thin web, the steel-strong thread reaching to latch on to the monstrosity and prevent it from harming the woman. The web of supression would reach each appendage, to still the giant beast.

In silence and the shadows of her own mind, he makes sure to avoid the woman's cognition in her broken state. In this battle of inner conflict, he implores the Shadow to hear the Light's plea. For balance.

As the behemoth figure is stilled and bound, the 'sky' above it starts to clear one star at a time. Annabelle's younger looking self still reaches to the abomination, arms wide and up for an embrace.

The behemoth starts to curl in on itself. Its infectious despair seeps down Ralerian's web threads right toward him.

Ralerian holds strong against the influx of emotion, doing nothing to defend himself from the onslaught of melancholy. If he were at all affected, he kept that from the girl, his spidery visage offering no signs of weakness.

He pulls harder and harder still, attempting to bring the beast down, to calm the storm to a manageable form, with which she might find some resolution to this inner-conflict.

It seems this thing doesn't really want to fight, it's 'attacks' of infectious despair just a side effect of contact with it.

As it lowers and falls in on itself, Annabelle's more recognizable form jumps a bit to wrap her arms around it in her comforting embrace. Slowly, the thing changes form as its pulled down. Gnarled, twisting, branching. Indeed, it seems to be taking the shape of an ancient Elwynn oak tree. Obviously a more stable containment for the source of this chaos. The gnarled twists on its bark have patterns, but they are indeciphrable. A swing drifts back and forth from one branch.

The younger Annabelle seems to have vanished. The damaged miasma from her death is still present, pieces of memory renogiating with each other. A few more stars in the (usually) constant night sky wink into existance.

Ralerian cuts his webbing, leaving it to fade away. He skitters about the Glen, chittering out a call to Annabelle. He seems to seek to communicate with her.

Eventually, from behind the tree peeks the boyish girl. Violet eyes blink twice at the frightening creature, though she doesn't seem all too afraid of it. She doesn't seem sure why either. She watches it--him--skitter through the slowly appearing flowers. Golden pollen puffs up from a few flowers, the innate love in this human's mind dusting other visitors as well. A hidden defense perhaps, as well.

Ralerian drops to a laying, unthreatening position. His voice comes in the smooth baritone she probably doesn't recognize. "Annabelle." He sounds relieved.

Whether she recognizes it or not, she likes the sound. She watches the spider-thing lower itself. The leaves on the tree rustle in an unseen wind, though it doesn't seem threatening.

She vanishes behind the tree again, then comes around from the other side, bare feet padding over to the arachnid. As she walks, more night-blossoming flowers twirl up from the ground and open. Before the mind-spider now, she crouches and hugs her knees. She peers at it with utmost curiosity.

"Annabelle... Do you remember what happened?" He sounds urgently insistant, and perhaps a touch exhausted. Legs sprawled out, visibly huffing through his spiracles.

Annabelle blinks at the thing and its exhausted demeanor, spindly legs sprawled. She stands and goes about adjusting two or three into a more comfortable position. She thinks. She looks to the tree. She thinks again. "...Do you mean why I was like that?"

"I mean," Air whistles in and out of his spidery airholes. "Do you remember what.... those men did? The ones in the armor? Do you remember who they were?" He seems to grow more and more exhausted by the moment.

She watches him, pausing, looking down in thought. "I..." She folds her arms tightly. A sudden shiver from the tree, corresponding in her as well. "N-...Betrayed me. I was going to help my friend, and--...he betrayed me." Another shiver and she suddenly yells out, "I hate paladins!" at no one in particular.

Ralerian nods, "Paladins, I thought so....". He looks up at her with all four of his frontal eyes. "Be well soon, Annabelle. We have much left to do."

Annabelle peers down at those four eyes, blinking, calming. She reaches out, perhaps at last a building spark of recognition forming in her core. Somewhere, pieces of memory realign in the night sky, a constellation taking form--

He soon shatters into hundreds, if not thousands of teeny tiny little spiders that flee the glen.

--But, then he shatters and she withdraws her hand, quickly turning to peer at the fleeing army of arachnids. She tries to follow, but can only go so far away from her center. Saddened, she steps back to the tree and sits on the swing.

Ralerian draws back from Annabelle's would-be corpse, taking a deep breath and rolling down his sleeves. Wiping sweat from his brow, he heads to the table to pour himself a tall glass of milk. He takes a few deep swigs from it and turns to look her over, something between intrigue and spiteful hatred washes over his face for the shortest moment.

**c0rzilla** · (This post was last modified: 04-23-2013, 05:57 PM by c0rzilla.)

In the Catacombs...

Tylith slowly made her way. Her legs thumping dully against the ground. Her face, seems to be shaded by an unnatural shadow as she speaks from beneath it, a second voice accomodating maddeningly to her own voice. A soft, though hissing whisper. "Good day, Priest."

Annabelle knocks on the door with the back of her knuckles, peering up at it. Seems this might have been done more than once, for she mutters to herself, "Guess no one's home--" She then suddenly pauses and flits her violet gaze over to the not-elf, loosened

Tylith kept speaking, idly brushing at her robes rather tenatically. "My pardons for interrupting. I'm looking for my dearest Ralerian. I assume he's not here?"

Annabelle | black hair shifting. A flitting moment of analysis, then she returns the formality. "Good day." She tugs at the brim of her hat, then blinks as she questions. "Seems not."

Tylith smacks her lips, disappointed. From the veil of shadows, two sickly yellow hollow rings peer at Annabelle with a distilling gaze. "How disappointing." She keeps walking ahead though. "You know, it's funny. I never got your name."

Annabelle lowers her hand slowly, the rest of her quite still save for the small flutterings of her clothing in whatever draft is down here. Violet lands on yellow, lids just barely twitching to narrow in thought. "Refresh my memory on when we met, ma'am?"

Tylith chuckled coldly, slowly removing her hat, along it the veil of shadows. Her face, covered in violent cracks, and thick golden stripes burnt unto her flesh in a matter most unappealing. Her eyes, a pitch black, and in them a golden ring of glowing soft and tainted light. "Last we met, you tried to ambush me. I do so apologize for this body, but I'm afraid that the cursed low door-spans of this place are oh-so unaccomodating for my wings."

Annabelle tilts her head slightly, chin lifting up as the not-elf reveals herself. "...I thought as much." She turns a bit to more fully face her. "Oddly enough, I didn't intend to kill you then."

Tylith merely shrugged, her expression a distilling calm. "Now then." She idly flicked at her hand, a goblet appearing in a flash of searing flames in her gloved palm, the woman sipping from it. "I will believe you, if you so wish." She says, her gaze unnaturally wide. "Tell me, how is the world of the living treating you thus far?"

Annabelle interlocks her fingers, arms hanging loose before her. "It matters not to me if you do. And, quite well."

Tylith chuckles softly, her expression unchanging. "I love fencing. Don't you?" She merely asks. "Such a game of physical finesse and elegance... Every move must be plotted out and executed perfectly. A beautiful sport."

"I enjoy its art, but I am no fencer myself."

"One must not be a painter to appreciate art."

Annabelle nods slightly, tranquil in demeanor, though her eyes are attentive and focused.

Tylith doesn't seem to show any sign of hostility, though her eyes spark with the demeanor of a mad-woman. "I wonder. Does one have to be a priest to appreciatea a chant of holy ceramony?"

"I'd wager not. There is history in many a chant, the music itself..."

"An interesting thesis. Then perhaps more study is needed."

"Study, ma'am?"

Tylith smiles in her eerie fashion, her teeth sharp and ghastly. "I study on Azerothian culture, you see. You're facsinating. Such a spectrum, so wide and varied... A true gem."

Annabelle tugs her hat back to hang behind her, taking a moment to fix her hat-messed hair. "You speak as if you are foreign to it, but I suppose that is understandable in your state."

"Oh, but I am. I'm afraid we were never taught about you. Only to kill, I suppose. But there's more to you, as creatures, than just target practice. Wouldn't you agree?"

"I assume we means Legion. And, yes. The magic and knowledge Azeroth possesses would be fine tools in the long run. Perhaps not the most elaborate in the cosmos."

"And yet, it survives."

"I suppose it is that variation. Granted, there must have been countless planets just as--if not more--varied, in your wake."

Tylith merely chuckles and shrugged. "Now then. I suppose it's time we exchange witty banter, I toss a few spells, you a few grenades, and we depart? Or would you rather exchange that with a pleasant cup of tea, and a game of chess? I know I would."

Annabelle shrugs again. "And then you go on and on about the cosmos and its myriad forces being pieces on said board? A trite metaphor, but tea sounds lovely."

"Oh nonesense, I just haven't had a good game of chess in -months-."

"I'll see what opponent I am, then. To the bar?"

Tylith chuckles, suddenly flicking her wrist. In between, a table springs from flames and atop it, a fully set chessboard, along a lovely teaset and some pink spongecake. The woman approaches. "There is limit to what is accepted here."

Annabelle blinks at the sudden display. "Chess and teasets are banned? Light, they do like to keep their doom-and-gloom air." She steps forth, heels of her long boots dull upon the packed earth.

Tylith nods. "White go first." She motions to Annabelle, idly pouring herself some tea and sipping from it. "You know, it's fascinating who killed you."

"Cassius? It is."

Annabelle drapes an arm across her middle, cheek resting upon the clasped fist of the other. She prods the first piece to move, fingertip sliding it across the board.

"I was rather offended, really. I mean, I go all this distance to make myself announced, and they go for you in the end. Honestly, tsk tsk tsk. How disappointing. Tylith doesn't even seem to look at the board. Her eyes gaze aloofly at nothing as she takes a random pawn, pushing it ahead.

"Yes, well. I help run a city, and I was easier to get. Ah, my name? Annabelle Greene."

"Ah, what a lovely name! The lady Sangreala, but I'm certain I've said that before."

Annabelle watches the move, taking note of the aloofness and disinterest. "Sangreala Saumerian, right?" She moves another piece, then glances to the tea. "May I?"

Tylith nods, not even glancing at Annabelle as she pushes another chesspiece ahead, her own pawn getting eaten. "Sangreala Saumerian Skysearer, actually. But yes, please do help yourself. You see, the mimck of life in a game of chess is incorrect and false. In life, we are not limited to these rules. In truth, life is anything but a chessgame.

Annabelle does so! Quite proper and practiced, this one seems to be something of a home maker. "Marbles, perhaps? Flick a marbe at a bunch, watch them scatter. Looks like chaos, but then you take into account all the myriad cracks and crevices and grooves they run in on the walkway." Chess! She does it.

Tylith blinks lightly, chuckling as she seems to utterly at random, devour one of Annabelle's pawns with her own. "Why, Annabelle!" She smiles in a sickly sweet fashion, sipping from her tea. "That's a marvelous metaphor. I do hope you don't mind me stealing it for a bit of use in the future?" She chuckled coldly.

"As you wish, ma'am." Annabelle chesses up that board, then sips her tea.

Tylith chuckles gently, yet another pawn devoured by her in a seemingly unglancing move. "Why, how lovely. You know, if we weren't mortal enemies and all that, I would be delighted to have you a guest over at lazy days."

"I see nothing wrong with civil conversation when possible. Mmh, not doing so well am I?" Annabelle sighs a bit, then moves again. Sip. Then smirks. Speaking too soon.

Tylith chuckles, one of her pawns then devoured. "You never know." She says, sipping from her tea once more. "But I'm afraid our meetings will be few, if any. Ralerian doesn't like me meeting you. Or anyone, for that matter."

"His relationship with you confuses me. I heard you had his son, I think. I do know he despised my aunt. I'm sure we'll speak again, things have a way of going in circles."

"Tsk, a sad story with his son... And your aunt? How odd."

"Marianna Bisen. You two were colleagues, of sorts. Yes?" Annabelle sips her tea as she waits for the not-elf to move.

Tylith laughs lightly. "Oh my, a related one to Bisen? How interesting. Yes, I can see the similarity between you, the cute plump fat cheeks..." She idly moves a pawn ahead, sipping.

Annabelle counters it. Somehow. With something. "I haven't seen her in months, however." She taps her cheek in thought. "Did my aunt ever hand over a fel-reaver power core to you, ma'am?"

Tylith licks her dry lips, pursing them in thought. She idly devours yet another piece of the othe woman, the board growing more and more scarce. "Not that I recall. Your aunt and I were colleagues, though we seperated paths after a certain incident..."

"Mmh, nevermind then. Incident?"

Tylith speaks in a matter most aloof, even struggling to remember in her voice. "Ah yes, it was so long ago... I can barely even remember."

Annabelle chesses. The tip of her tongue idly protruding from 'tween her lips in thought.

Tylith herself doesn't even seem to be thinking. She just pushes another piece, knocking down another piece of Annabelle's forces. "It involved a man. A chair. And three glasses of strange wine."

Annabelle sips her tea. "I am unsure if that entails the corruption of some poor soul, or one of my aunt's orgies. Might be one in the same." She sighs and moves another piece, lifting her brow a tad.

Tylith chuckles coldly. "Orgies were never for me... Let's just say, I and a Terrorlord share a few traits..." She says with a dark sadistic remark to her voice. Her piece devours another, slowly drawing around Annabelle's king, awaiting the killing blow.

"I know little of Terrorlords, unsurprisingly." Annabelle smirks softly at the board, not too bothered by her potential losing. She shrugs and moves.

Tylith once more, draws another piece to place. "Check." She just says, sipping from her tea.

Annabelle chuckles softly and moves again. "Perhaps I will stick with marbles."

Tylith laughs gently, suddenly knocking down Annabelle's king. "Mate." She suddenly bites at her tea cup, beginning to chew on the porcealing loudly, eating it. "I'm afraid," She idly bleeds from her lips. "I must depart. I do hope for a future game?"

Annabelle sighs and taps her chest with a fist. "I am defeated." She then folds her arms, the limbs sliding into place. A brow furrows slightly at the chewing. "You may hope, though I shan't promise what lies in store."

Tylith shrugs gently. "Then perhaps not." She smiles in her eerie fashion. "Until our next match, milady Greene." She gives a polite curtsy before she, and all she brought with her, faded into ashes.

Annabelle inclines her head, two fingers flitting off as she straightens. At the sudden ashing, she blinks and steps back. She exhales a held breath, dusting herself off. "...Dino's going to kill me for that..."

**c0rzilla** · (This post was last modified: 04-23-2013, 05:58 PM by c0rzilla.)

Journal,

Been a while, has it not?

I won't go into the details of my "hiatus". I have spoken enough about that.

I have recently returned to Hearthglen from something of a pre-honeymoon with Don. Light, did I need it too. The man decided to "abduct" me, holding me captive from my work until I recouperated. I did make sure to let the commander's office know. We traveled as we would; Hearthglen, to Theramore, to Dalaran, to Sholazar, to Stormwind (found Rensin, he insists I'm a ghost until he fights Don, glad to see him "content" with his bar. I still have his dice. I wonder if he remembers he gave them to me.), to the Exodar.

When we arrived at the Exodar, Don and I happened upon the paladin Cristovao. I am not a fan of paladins, but Cristovao seems to present himself as everything the other paladins I have met are not. Humble, honest, patient, open to different views. He stated that he feels himself to be a priest in armor. Perhaps that is why.

Perhaps a bit of fate stuck him there, for it ended up that he agreed to teach Don to become a paladin! I think Don is perfect as he is, but I am still overcome with pride at the thought. Even with my general antipathy to paladins, I know he'll be wonderful. Especially with Cristovao teaching him.

And we're marrying soon. So soon.

And, with that, I am reminded of the darker events recently. Things must be balanced, yes?

Baidin is missing still. There hasn't been any sign. I can't help but think that fel-sworn Sangreala had something to do with it. I can't imagine Baidin wandering off into the Plaguelands alone, at all. I ended up playing chess and having tea with the fiend in the Catacombs. I very much believe my aunt made for the better villain. She was subtle. I haven't been yet able to really go out and search for my brother--he's not really my brother, but I consider he, Castor, and the young elf priest Zalyen my younger siblings--but I've done what I can to keep track of information via patrol routes. I will find him soon.

There have been advertisements about Hearthglen asking for participants in an experiment on the mind and morality.

Here, it seems Annabelle has pasted one such advertisement to a page.

Spoiler:

With Noria Duskbinder's treatment on my mind, I decided to give this a shot as well. Fate, it seems, had other things in its own mind.

I remember little of the meeting with the doctor. I assume it was he. I only remember him grinning, and a sense of impeccable neatness. If it's one thing necromancers (besides Redis currently) tend to appreciate, it's order. I was knocked out via drugging I believe, and woke up in a crypt with only my staff, glasses, and clothing left with me.

Here, Annabelle has drawn a diagram of a room she elaborates upon below.

Dark, and misty with the acrid smoke of burning plaguewood. The only light came from an adjoining room where said wood burned in small bonfires beyond a jagged, cruel gate. This burning wood at first lead me to assume I was still in the Plaguelands. Another gate to its right if one were facing them. This one lead out to darkness. In the back of the room, opposite the gates was a large tank. Enclosed, windowless, but not soundproof for I soon heard the splashing of the entry of my companion through this trial. Some poor soul taken from Westfall, not a clue about the nature of his circumstances. He thought I had captured him. I do not believe he had family, for he did not beg me for their safety. Headstones near the other walls seemed as jagged teeth in the mouth we both occupied.

My task was to rescue us both before the poor man either died (drowning, the cold of the water), or some arbitrary time limit expired. The voice of our captor assured us we both could escape upon my waking through a sound system I could not locate. It was staticy.

I quickly got to know the victim, though I regret I did not ask his name. After my attempts at comfort--though, I did not assure him his survival, I am not so naive--I got to work.

Two options for exit: pull the lever on the right gate, thus drowning the poor soul, and allowing my easy escape. I could not do such. The thought only occured to me in analysis of the situation, and I quickly decided against it. The second option for exiting involved a trial of wits.

Near the jagged left gate was a hole. Equally jagged with some virulent mist. I slipped my arm in and pulled the lever inside easy enough. The gate opened, spilling that acrid smoke inside the room. With little choice, I ventured inside.

A necromantic altar, piles of skulls, fire, skeletons on the ground with sacrifical krises where their hearts used to be. On the altar, another kris, and a bowl, both bloodied. I quickly ascertained what had to be done. I sliced my palm with the kris, offering my blood. I wondered why the others had to give more.

A riddle was revealed. By now, its words are etched into my memory. They are as follows:

Beneath the ground do I lie sleeping
Hearing o'er me grief and weeping
An aged bell and a feeble priest
My children come to speak their peace
And though their words do warm my heart
I say not a word as they depart.

Beneath the riddle was the picture of a key. Solve the riddle, and we'd be free, yes?

By now, the victim was giving into the chill. Despite all my engineering, all my work routing out evil, riddles are not my forte.

I did not solve it in time. As I broke the headstone of the grave of a father, the victim's breathing silenced. The machinery of the tank whirred into life, and I could hear the water draining to parts unknown, his body with it.

A tranquil fury settled over me.

Shortly, the sound system announced my failure, the spealer hoped the victim did not hold grudges, and that he would be up in no time. Necromancy. I made sure the speaker heard that while he may not, I do.

The gate into darkness opened. I left.

I could see nothing, but I could feel and smell. Huge mounds of earth, the smell was of wet earth and mold. Definately not the Plaguelands. Murmuring was heard off in the distance. Despite potential danger, I had little lead as to where to go. I crept forth, keeping low.

Ghost lights, the "eyes" of undeath. And they quickly settled upon me, despite my attempt at a distraction by throwing a rock.

The thing's voices begged for help as it shuffled forth. Voices. This thing had been cobbled together from multiple beings. I do not know if my companion was part of it.

I watched the glowing eyes in the dark. I drew my staff, called forth the Light's flame in my palm and slowly backed off. It kept on, pleading. I acquiesced by blasting the thing while I retreated. This angered the body, which started to charge.

I ran. Into the dark passages, the only light the glow from my assault. Soon enough, the glow of a portal could be seen. My exit. I halted, turning to face the poor creature. Spending the last of my energy, the length of my arms burned in purging fury. I sent this fury at the creature, falling back into the portal from the effort. I do not know if it withstood my farewell.

I landed on dead pineneedles. The Western Plaguelands. My belongings neatly piled under a nearby plagued tree.

When my legs allowed, I stood. I found a knife. I carved my regards to the doctor in the tree, daring him to research me. I would find him.

I received a letter shortly after my return to Hearthglen:

Here is pasted the aforementioned letter.

Spoiler:

After I spent a while processing things, I wrote a reply. I received this in turn:

Spoiler:

He covers his tracks. I am tempted to venture to Duskwood--I believe that's where this all occured--but I fear he purged the testing grounds I was in. I am sure both names he provided are false.

I made sure to rid Hearthglen of any more of these advertisements myself. I plan to let Doctor Noria Duskbinder know of this "competition".

And I will find this doctor.

This entry ends thusly.

**c0rzilla** · (This post was last modified: 04-23-2013, 05:59 PM by c0rzilla.)

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