This site makes extensive use of JavaScript.
Please enable JavaScript in your browser.
Live
PTR
10.2.7
PTR
10.2.6
Beta
The Lore and Roleplaying Weekly Writing Challenge
Post Reply
Return to board index
Post by
470415
This post was from a user who has deleted their account.
Post by
470415
This post was from a user who has deleted their account.
Post by
oneforthemoney
Light: Weird. Not bad, but weird. I wasn't sure if I should laugh or not but I did find it kind of funny. I could have used a bit more description if we're being picky of either horse or harpy, but overall it was okay.
Skree: Really enjoyed the subterfuge using magic. It was very creative and offered a good number of new ideas and opportunities, and that it was a test was very well done. Very wise to place it during Snowmane's younger days, considering her later self would maybe not be quite so...able.
Challenge #6
When Malice woke she was on the table. She checked her wrists and ankles and found them unbound. She found this intensely curious, for surely no one would actually be stupid enough to let her free under any circumstances.
“Get up.”
The order chafed against her but refusing would be merely petulant. Malice slowly sat up, blinking against the white of the room. A deep, penetrating thing that seemed bright without actually being so, coming from all around the white space. That was the best way to describe the room, merely space. She couldn’t see hint of doors or walls, leading her to assume it was a room because nothing consisted of, literally, nothing.
The void made her skin crawl so she turned to the blackness in the room. A solitary figure wrapped in a long black coat with collar upturned, a bowler hat upon his head leaving only a small gap through which a pair of eyes gazed at her in a curious manner, as though they watched her, but never saw her. As though the owner of those eyes merely waited for her to suddenly cease to exist.
She knew this man. His name was Damocles Rex. And she was his prisoner.
She threw her legs over the side of the table and rose to her full height. She flexed her hands experimentally. She glanced back to him. It was an odd form of confinement she had to admit, not at all like her previous experiences of it.
He nodded towards her. “Good.” She watched him turn about and begin rummaging about a table, the only other piece of furniture in the void. His back was broad and undefended. Her skin crackled and blackened as fel fire bled into her palm.
It was not that he hated the man. Malice had what many might call hate, but it couldn’t be, because that was all she had. Hate. Hate at the world. Hate at everything in it. She hated everyone. She hated herself. So she hated Damocles simply because she hated all things. Nothing else. She didn't make him a particular exception, or point of her hatred. But he turned his back on her. If he didn’t respect her or thought his hold on her was strong enough to avoid being punished for it didn’t matter. Malice could only lash out because here was an opportunity. No other action made sense to her. Mary would not attack a man when his back was turned. But Mary was married, had a husband, had children, had a life before the warlock came. Before that life was stolen.
Malice had only her hate.
Damocles turned around. His eyes didn’t change seeing the fel fire she held, they remained flat and reflective as glass, glittering in the flickering green light.
His hand was in his pocket. Malice hesitated, a feeling of deep unease stirring long forgotten feelings in the stone which housed her soul.
“Tell me,” Damocles said as he retrieved his hand. “Do you want me to open this box?”
Malice stared, the fel fire in her hand forgotten. It was a plain box, a latch at the front holding it shut. Something gripped her and she took an involuntary step back. “No.” And she meant it. She didn’t know what was in it, but somehow, she knew she didn’t want it opened. She didn’t fear anything. She didn’t have anything left to fear for. But she didn’t want that box opened.
Damocles took a step forward. “Why don’t you want this opened?”
Malice shook her head without quite knowing why. She couldn’t hear anything with her ears, but she felt something laughing from inside that box. Two voices tittering and whispering words she couldn’t define, but they seemed familiar. Familiar and cruel beyond anything she knew.
Her back hit the table. “No,” she whispered.
Damocles nodded. His thumb flicked the latch off.
There were no shadows in the room, but what else could Malice call the things growing behind Damocles. Couldn’t he see them? They were right there! Vague, indistinct, but leering, unmistakably leering. She shivered as they laughed behind the implacable man with the box in his hands. She fell back onto the table as he came forward another step.
“Why don’t you want me to open the box?”
“Don’t open it.”
“Do you know what’s inside?”
“Don’t…”
“Tell me why?”
“Leave me alone.”
“Why?”
Malice jerked upright, back arched, eyes wide like a frightened cat. Her skin fissured like rock as her body exploded with fel fire. “Leave me alone!” she screamed with mouth and eyes of spitting fire.
He opened the box.
Malice shrieked and fell against the table as the voices washed over her. She screamed and writhed, curling against them like a child frightened by a loud noise, sobbing and covering her ears. Tears glowing green hissed against the table. The voices laughed at her cowardice, their mocking hooks in her soul ripping and tearing and lashing against her.
“No. No!” Malice sobbed. “I’m not. I’m not. Leave me alone! Leave me alone. You’re not mine. You’re not…”
Then the voices grew silent. A latch clicked shut followed by the rustle of cloth. Malice shuddered against the table, clutching her chest as though to shield the stone of her soul with her fake flesh. She felt rather than saw Damocles draw closer.
“Good. Good. Open your eyes.” Malice couldn’t do otherwise, for her eyelids had burned away. She watched as a pocket watch was leveled before her eyes. “This time, let’s see if you can find out before I open it.”
The watch flashed, and Malice knew nothing.
When Malice woke she was on the table. She checked her wrists and ankles and found them unbound. She found this intensely curious, for surely no one would actually be stupid enough to let her free under any circumstances.
Post by
470415
This post was from a user who has deleted their account.
Post by
Skreeran
Money: Very nice. I love revisiting chunks of missing time that have been glossed over or skipped for thematic purposes, and this one was quite impressive. I'd hate to seem overly praising of my own character concept, but I do think you hit all the marks for this one. Malice is supposed to be a normal, everyday-type person that is trapped in a wholly alien situation, and I felt both sides were emphasized pretty well here.
I think the one weak point that comes to mind is just in the exposition of the setting. You and I both know where she is and why she's there, but it would certainly seem pretty confusing to anyone else who wasn't present for that RP.
I still plan to submit a few entries of my own, but with my family moving and Dark Souls 2 out on PC, I'm pretty short on time.
Post by
Skreeran
Haven't forgotten about this! Still gonna do it!
Most of my time is going towards moving away from this godawful place though.
Post by
oneforthemoney
By permission of Hyper I now bring you the
Weekly Challenge #8
.
Most characters have a particular moment. An event or action that defined them for much of their life, be it for good or ill. In this week's challenge. you are asked to write a short piece concerning that moment, either a recollection or re-imagination of the event itself. Feel free to rewrite moments from past RP's.
This prompt is meant to help people imagine the particulars of character's back story and perhaps make it more vivid for them.
Themes:
Characterization, Character development, Story
Post by
470415
This post was from a user who has deleted their account.
Post by
oneforthemoney
Lion’s Landing was always busy thanks to being the Alliance foothold upon Pandaria. There was less, true, with the ceasefire between Alliance and Horde signed, but always there were things to do. Now, instead of armies and soldiers, explorers, adventurers, and scientists, men of peace and fortune flocked to the docks to delve deep into the mysterious new continent known as Pandaria and plumb her mysteries for fame and glory.
One of these men leaned against a wooden rail, watching the ships come in. His brown coat flapped in the sea breeze, his short black hair doing likewise to reveal the faint points of his ears. Half elf, one would know at once, but any remarks to his heritage were kept behind lips closed hastily as the flapping coat revealed revolvers on his belt, the worn sandalwood grips denoting a familiarity which brokered caution. Loki was aware of the looks he received and ignored them. What had they seen that he was still considered odd? And what had he, who counted dragons as family, the endless skies of Outland sewn with mana streams once home, he who had seen temples old when the world was young, and beasts which guarded them who, too, fell victim to his guns.
He sighed longingly for those days, and already he felt the stirrings of adventure in him. So soon he thought with a chuckle as one might after eating a large meal and discovering they hungered still. He shook his head and leaned back. He exhaled slowly, then sucked it back in so suddenly he nearly choked. He had seen many things, but the woman his eye had caught still stunned him. Tall and stately, a worgen with pale fur, white as if bleached, her eyes red like two pools of blood, and her mane let loose in a silver halo about her head. Her muzzle looked almost wolfish, and her figure curving in a dress that fit her like a second skin, formed of deep red rolling with black outlines, as though the fabric were alive and mixing with each step its owner took. There were others on the street, but he saw only her, her lithe, almost cat-like grace as she walked, walked towards him. He was staring, and she was looking right at him.
Loki recovered himself, face flushing as red as her fathomless eyes as she came to stand before him.
“Yes?” she asked, her accent vague but undefinable even by him who had seen whole other worlds, let alone peoples.
“I ah…What?” he stuttered out.
The worgen tilted her head back slightly. “You were staring at me,” she said. “Is there something you wanted?”
Loki’s face grew hotter. He laughed and waved a hand before himself. “Oh, no. No. No. Sorry. I just…you reminded me of…of someone, is all. A friend.”
The worgen tilted her head down and her crimson eyes looked at him in evident disbelief. “
I
remind you of someone?”
Loki grinned sheepishly. “Well, only vaguely. I know a lot of worgen.”
“Hm.” She looked up over his shoulder. “Do you now?” She sniffed the air faintly. Her eyes returned to him, suddenly fixed in greater interest. She smiled, and there was something distinctly predatory in it. “Do you have somewhere to be?”
“No-o-o-o,” Loki said slowly, uncertainly.
The worgen smiled. “Then, would you mind? Neither have I, and I’ve been looking for someone to talk to.”
Loki laughed. “Oh! Well, I shouldn’t. I mean…Well, there’s an inn over there. They have great ale. And moonberry juice. Really hard to find around these parts. I’ve been staying there since getting back from the jungle.”
“I know.”
“What?”
“The jungle,” she clarified. “Let’s.” She swept by him without an explanation, with that strange gait that reminded him of a wolf beneath the trees stalking its prey. He quickly followed.
They chose seats at the patio outside, where the sun shone down and the port could be seen down the hill they occupied. She faced him, looking over to the glittering blue and silver sea. Gulls cawed behind Loki and jungle bird’s songs resounded from over the wall. The waitress came and went quickly with their orders.
“Do you like coffee?” Loki asked, trying to gain some handle on the conversation.
“I’ve never had it,” the worgen said, her red eyes warm, yet hard with that self-assurance some women possess that is so integral to their nature, and only comes with a deep knowledge of themselves.
“Really?”
“I haven’t done a lot of things,” she said vaguely, once more looking past him, but Loki found this doubtful, much as he was too worldly not to know she still watched him, but for what precisely he couldn’t tell. “You’re an engineer, aren’t you?”
Loki now grinned, once more on familiar ground. “You can tell?” he asked, leaning back in his chair, thumbs thrust in his many pouched belt.
“I smell the oil,” she said, and smiled a different smile than before.
“That obvious?”
“You know many worgen. Shouldn’t it be?”
“Well, worgen might be a bit of a stretch,” Loki admitted.
“Oh.” She leaned against the table, her eyes returning to him with attentiveness unlike he had seen before. “Sounds interesting. You must have seen many things.”
Loki brightened. “Well, I don’t like to brag, but…!” And so he did precisely that, launching into tales of wonder and valour, and with each tale he found himself topping himself, as storytellers are want to do when before an interested audience and the desire to impress comes to them. Never one to disappoint, Loki expanded on his adventures and journeys, the suffering, the friends made and known, the enemies fought and beaten, freely speaking of the many things he had seen and done. And always his audience listened, her pale ears pricked forward, her questions brief, drawing him further into his speech, elaborating on certain things at her promptings, turning him down the roads of narration, and that she was beautiful Loki could not deny, and the desire to impress her filled him with boasting and even greater tales than before.
“You mentioned worgs a few times,” the women said, cutting into his history smoothly. “What do you mean by that? I know worgs, being the canines frequent in the northern climes, but…”
“Oh no, no no. Not at all like those. Worgs,” he exclaimed brightly. “They’re a…well, they’re a kind of creatures, born from primordial forces. Sort of. I don’t much get the way about how they came to be, but I know a lot of them.”
“As you know dragons?”
“Maybe not so intimately,” he admitted. “But I’m good friends with them all. There’s Ember, Dusk, Illia, Starlight, Star-pelt, Brutus, Moonlight-“
“Sounds exotic,” she said, her voice husky.
“Aren’t they?” he cried, breast puffing out at these acquaintances he had and the privilege to know. “They’re all amazing, really. Ember is so rambunctious and Dusk was…well, Dusk now is a lot like Ember. They’re a little immature but they’re growing up, and we all were a little once.”
“Not all of us,” the woman replied with a smile.
“Yeah. You know, I sometimes wonder if Starpelt ever acts young. He’s always busy though. Like Brutus. But Leaf pelt seems very mature, though that might be due to having been in the Emerald Dream for so long. Who knows what happened to her in there. She’s not too talkative about it.”
“And Moonlight?”
“Moon?” Loki sighed. He swivelled the cup on the table before him thoughtfully. “Well, we’re a little worried about Moon. She used to hang around Dusk a lot. Idolize her, almost, but lately, since Dusk left, well, we’ve been a bit worried about her. She seems a little lost and…Well, I guess we don’t really know how to answer the big question she has. Illia is always worried. Well, what parent wouldn’t be worried about their kids?”
“I suppose that is normal,” the worgen said, a single red claw out and beating a slow tattoo into the table. “One must look after their species.”
“I guess…that’s a way of putting it,” Loki said, rallying quickly. “But she’s getting better, I think. We only recently got out of quite the scrape actually. There was this ghost of a mogu warlord and-“
“Thank you,” the worgen broke in abruptly, rising smoothly from her chair, dress flowing about her movements. “I think I have heard what I needed to.” She rested a paw on the table, her lips curled back showing sharp canines. “It was really a pleasure talking to you.”
“Oh,” Loki said, sinking into his chair. “So soon?”
“Mmm. I’m afraid so. I still have a great deal to do. Perhaps I will hear of you.”
“Oh!” Loki stood so suddenly his chair clattered, unnoticed, behind him. “And maybe I’ll hear about you too.”
And the worgen smiled again, one of those strange smiles that said she knew more than would tell. “I think, one day, you will.” She turned and raised her hand in parting. “Goodbye, Loki. I’m very glad to have met you.”
Loki watched as she vanished into the crowd, slipping among them so naturally it was almost eerie, vanishing as though she had never been. When she was at last gone the gunman straightened his chair and sat down heavily in it. He looked into the endless blue of the sky, watching as clouds chased across with their shadows. He felt like smiling, but instead found a troubled expression, and crossed his arms over his chest thoughtfully, and there remained until his ship came and he left for the Eastern Kingdoms and what adventures the future would hold.
Post by
470415
This post was from a user who has deleted their account.
Post by
Atik
Challenge #9
The fabric of the bow-tie was soft, silken as he rubbed it between his fingers. His hands tugged at it, the fabric tight around his neck, holding the white undershirt up. Carefully, his hands reached back, pulling the black jacket over his torso and buttoning the front shut. The druid watched himself in the mirror, pulling a strand of hair from his face. For once, his long brown ponytail fell behind him, rather than over his shoulder.
Reaching down, Xander sighed, fingers sliding gently over the neck of the champagne glass. He lifted it, sipping at the alcohol. It was going to be a long night.
He reached the door, pushing it open slowly. Soft music filled his ears, echoing through the large home. A decidedly Night Elven woman waited across the hall, staring at him intently. “The serpent may shed his skin, hoping to fool his prey.”
“Thanks.” The Human replied plainly. “I’m surprised the damn thing still fits me.”
She watched as he turned, starting down the hall. Slowly, the woman followed. Her steps were light, gliding along behind him quietly. He stopped at the edge of the hall, the lobby beyond filled with people. They were dressed in similar formal wear, conversing and enjoying themselves. “Argona.” He spoke softly, hand outstretched. The Night Elf turned, her voice echoing in the small area for a moment, as if the walls spoke it themselves. “Would you be my date?”
She watched for a moment, face betraying no emotion. Her own hand reached up, gripping his gently. “In a buffet of prey, the serpent seeks the mongoose. The day smiles on her, or perhaps on him. It is yet to be seen.”
“I’m taking that as a yes.” Xander deadpanned in response, pulling the goddess along. He still wasn’t sure why she had dragged him here, but he assumed there was some purpose. Slowly, they approached a group near the buffet table. The druid glanced through the crowd, spotting a number of couple through the crowd, dancing slowly to the music.
It was in these glances that he slowly realized the eyes falling onto him. His baggy eyes, long hair, and generally unkempt appearance did him no favors. He felt them burning into him as he came to a stop near the table.
More champagne offered the boost he was looking for, as he lifted two glasses, offering one to Argona. She took it absently, her eyes never seeming to leave him. It took him a moment, and then it slowly came to him.
She was waiting for him to mess up. For whatever reason, she thought it entertaining to watch him fail. A tapping upon his shoulder pulled his thoughts away, the man turning to look at another.
The figure was tall, clean shaven with short-cut blonde hair. “Excuse me, sir.” He spoke calmly, looking at Xander through half-lidded eyes. “I couldn’t help but notice that you seem a little… out of place. Are you perhaps lost?”
The druid was quiet, slowly sipping his drink before responded. “Well, my good fellow.” He began, smiling softly. “To offer you the truth, it wasn’t my first choice. But my date insisted it would be fun.”
The other man glanced to Argona, who spoke without looking at him. “The den of rabbits proves more active than a hundred angry lions.”
An eyebrow raised, the blonde returned his gaze to Xander. “She’s an actress.” He insisted. “And likes to get a little too into her characters sometimes. Like that play later this month, ‘The fall of Neltharion’? She’s playing Ysera.”
“Oh? I didn’t know there was a showing.” His opponent blinked.
“It’s quite an exclusive. There are some controversial changes to the usual script.” Xander informed him, stringing his bluff along. “Thrall’s part is being extended, supposedly to make it more true to the real events.” He explained. “You might call us a test audience.”
“Must be quite exciting.” The man watched. Seemingly defeated, he took a glass, slowly stepping away from the strange couple.
The druid held his breath a moment, waiting for them to again be alone before letting out a sigh. Argona’s voice left his victory short lives, however. “Even in the flesh of his prey, the snake is still a serpent.”
“Are you trying to call me sneaky?” Xander finally asked, looking to her. He was left unanswered, however; being pulled through the crowed. The sea of suits and fancy dressed opened suddenly, leading the two of them to the dance floor. Her eyes still never left him.
Finally, sweat began to prick at his neck. Eyes fell upon them anew, the disguised goddess close to him. His arm wrapped around her, and he though for a moment. His feet moved of their own accord, the druid trying desperately to remember their pattern.
Amazingly, he found himself leading. He pulled Argona along, spinning along the dancefloor. If the other guests still glared, he knew not. His eyes locked with hers, their gazed intertwining. Her gestures were slight, almost imperceptible. But he used them to avoid other dancers she saw, his own slight tugs of movements avoiding those he caught sight of.
“The serpent has limbs, but the mongoose must ask how he learned to use them. His response?” She asked suddenly.
A grin suddenly formed over his face. “Oh, is that why you brought me here?” He asked. “You know, I did date a noblewoman. We didn’t just run around Kalimdor like a couple idiots for three years…”
His smile faded suddenly as the memories struck him. A sigh escaped his lips. She suddenly halted, pulling him to a similar stop. He blinked, looking to her.
Argona stared, voice suddenly firm. “In the darkness of uncertainty, there are many things. If you never seek the question, you will never enjoy the answer.”
Xander watched for a moment. “I guess you have a point.” He shook his head. “Okay. Can we go now?”
“The snake would leave hungry?” She asked, allowing the druid to lead her from the dancefloor.
“I don’t know.”He shrugged. “I hear mongoose is a delicacy in some circles.”
Criticism is welcome, as always.
Post by
oneforthemoney
Well done Atik. Xander and Argona's interactions wind around one another in transparent allusions and general disfavour at being at the party and the past he reflects on. We got a very good feel for both characters, with vague glimpses of pasts as they spoke and meandered about the story. It was very casually done, more of a relaxed moment in both their lives.
If I had to critisize anything, it might be mentioning how Argona is a goddess. It's done so off handedly that I think it might have worked better had so essential a detail been omitted along with much of the backdrop between them. It adds interest, but as it is not to be explored further in this piece in any respect it might not be necessary.
Post by
355559
This post was from a user who has deleted their account.
Post by
470415
This post was from a user who has deleted their account.
Post by
Atik
Challenge #10
The shadows were overwhelming. Darkness consumed her sight; her blue-skinned hand little more than a faint outline to her eyes. She could feel her hair falling over one side of her face; her single remaining horn holding it back on the other. Her breathing began to grow heavy, feeling her way along using the cave wall. Finally, a light shimmered in to greet her. She looked ahead, spotting the exit at last.
Excitement filled her, and the woman rushed forward. Her hooves clopped with each step, hitting the rock with newfound energy. Silvia Lightbringer, priestess of The Pale Lady, exploded from the cave, rushing through the field and spreading her arms wide. The moonlight seemed to shimmer off her form, her loose, translucent clothes flowing in the wind.
She stopped suddenly. Something wasn’t right, the air grew stiff, and a chill ran down her back. Bright white eyes scanned the field, eventually landing on another Draenei. A dress covered the other woman, revealing a rather large portion of her chest and stomach, and split along the legs as to leave little to the imagination. A chain slid along her arms, links clicking as they brushed against themselves.
But what filled Silvia with freight was the woman’s face. She wore her own face. Perhaps not exactly; the doppelganger had both her horns, her hair shorter, and she carried herself more lazily, leaning to one side slightly.
And where Lightbringer’s expression was one of terror, her opposite grinned. A grin filled with foreign knowledge, a grin that only drove her fear further. She drew her violin, pressing it to the shoulder and raising the bow to its strings, gulping suddenly.
Her actions proved an intelligent choice. Without warning, the chain suddenly surged forward; thick black metal rushing through open air, defying physics as it stabbed at her. A single note erupted from the violin, a blast of lunar magics bursting outwards, shielding the Priestess.
Silvia Lightdoom giggled, watching Lightbringer begin to play, moving rapidly to circle her opponent. The Dominatrix pulled back, raising high into the air and stabbing downwards with a strange zig-zag.
Music halted, another blast of magic denying the attack. The second Silvia spinning and pulling her chain back to herself. She rapidly began to move forward, hoping to close the distance as her weapon rushed forward again, running along the ground and slicing through the grass below their hooved.
Lightbringer set to plating again, hooves clopping to add to the notes that filled the air. A rapid song echoed out, painting the battle as if it were a play. Or perhaps a dance, as the priestess jumped over the chain; coming down with a hard stomp onto its black metal.
And then her playing suddenly screeched to a halt as her feet were pulled up from under her. She hit the ground hard, staring up as her adversary’s weapon rose high, stabbing downwards. Lightbringer rolled, the Dominatrix stabbing into the dirt hard. Catching herself, she rose to her hooves, bringing her bow around to her instrument anew.
A soft, blue hand grabbed her arm, Lightdoom having closed the distance between them with a giggle. He chain coiled in the air, rising up over their heads. Panicked music began anew, pausing only to be replaced by the bursts of magic it channeled through its sound; colliding with the strange chain as the two women rushed through the field: priestess always on the retreat while the dominator gave chase.
Hooves pounded off the dirt, adding to the music. Both women spun and leapt and launched their attacks are one another. Their battle like a choreographed dance to the death.
And then Silvia Lightbringer spotted it, an opening in her doppelganger. The other woman raised her arms high, directing each of her attacks as if their were an opera to their play. She smiled, letting Lightdoom see the expression. The other woman’s grin finally faltered, and the priestess took bride in her victory of wits.
She hopped back, running the bow along her violin and creating a note which carried through the air. The long wooden instrument glowed bright, and the one-horned Draenei rushed to close the distance between the two of them. Her note grew louder, reaching a beach as she stabbed forward; the purple glow threatening to blind them both.
And then Lightdoom simply grabbed the makeshift weapon. The air fell silent, the note failing. Another giggle echoed in Lightbringer’s ears, and she realized she had been tricked. The other woman tore the bow from her hand; tossing it as she spun. The chain came round, smashing into her form and knocking her back; smacking hard into the ground.
The priestess rose slowly. And then she heard it; the clicking of the links of the chain. Realization dawned on her, her own music had drowned out the noise of her opposite’s weapon. She gazed around her, the chain spread all through the field, lines of its massive form rising up.
Lightdoom grinned, the air filled with the Dominatrix, the chain running through the arena, criss-crossing itself in an erratic pattern which surrounded Lightbringer. She rose her hand, pulling suddenly.
Metal screamed as it clunked against itself, the priestess rushing forward as her only option; straight to the dominator. It was all planned, she could realize that now. A hand reached out, and she replied with her violin. Spinning, she brought it round; over the rapidly moving chain and down onto the other Silvia’s elbow. A gasp of pain renewed her resolve, and she dove past.
Rolling through the grass, she came up; bow in her opposite hand and raising to meet her instrument. She let loose the fastest song she could, glowing brightly.
The dominator turned, holding her arm for the moment as she blinked. The sight was mesmerizing, music filling her ears as light filled her vision. The music peaked suddenly, Lightbringer dropping to the ground. From her, a shockwave rushed out; lunar magics roaring through the air.
The Dominatrix came round, engulfing its wielder like a cacoon and letting the blast wash over itself. In the aftermath, it opened slowly, Silvia stepping free and approaching her fallen dance partner. She leaned down, her hand grabbing the other woman by her loose clothing and lifting her up.
Bow and violin clattered to the ground, Lightbringer gasping as she was pulled close. There was no pain, however; the finishing blow never came. Instead, her lips were forced apart, the other Silvia engulfing her mouth in her own.
The priestess raised her arms, trying to summon the energy to drive the other woman away from her. She faltered, however; limbs raising and wrapping around Lightdoom. There was a pause, both women gasping for breath. And then, with a sudden loss of footing, both fell to the soft grass.
-
Silvia Lightbringer shot upright, panting as sweat rolled down her form. She looked around, panicking as she looked for any sign over her doppelganger.
She was alone. The field shimmering faintly in the light of the Pale Lady. The priestess sighed, leaning forward. She brought a hand up, rubbing her neck. It felt sore, but the sensation was brief, fleeting.
Looking skywards, she eyed the moon high above, thankful the night had only been a nightmare.
This one was pretty fun. I got to get all purple prose. :P
Post by
Skreeran
Challege #9
Dag’rema pressed her fingers against her sinuses, the pain of the pressure on her skull only a brief distraction from the banality of the setting. It took only a few moments for her body to get used to the sensation and her awareness of the party to naturally resume.
She’d ducked into the building to ditch a suspicious looking guard who’d wanted to ask her some questions, but she hadn’t realized just which event she was walking into. It made sense, in retrospect: The Winter Solstice wasn’t far off, decorations were all over the city. Why wouldn’t there be a Winter’s Veil party going on? Nevertheless, she was stuck here for the time being.
The cheeriness of the situation was unbearable. Adorable paper snoworcs were pinned up on the walls, holly branches were woven all over the place, glittery imitation snow dusted everything. She didn’t understand why everyone felt it was so dreadfully important to hang up some cheap decorations and get sloshed just because winter decided to happen again. Winter was her least favorite season anyway. So cold and bitter, it was the season to stay indoors by a fire while the rest of the world was banished beneath a blanket of snow. It always made her restless and uncomfortable. Hardly a season to be celebrated.
Nevertheless, to everyone else, it was clear that this was the most blessed, wonderful, stupidly sweet time of the year, and they wanted everyone else to know it. An enchanted time in which to sing repetitive earworm carols, exchange sappy gifts, and to get so super drunk that you’d embarrass yourself enough to never drink again until next Winter’s Veil. Repulsive.
“Excuse me?”
Dag’rema looked down to see a young orc child standing before her. His eyes were huge, his head was comically oversized for his small body, and it looked like he was still waiting for the rest of his teeth to come in. She simply looked back up, staring at nothing and hoping the guard was as bored as she was.
“Um, excuse me?” the boy asked again.
“What is it?” Dag’rema asked, emphasizing her annoyance so that he couldn’t possibly miss it.
“You don’t look very happy. Did you not get a present from Greatfather Winter yet?”
“He gave me nothing but coal,” Dag’rema answered sarcastically.
“That’s okay. Did you know you can give your coal to a goblin and he’ll give you some silver instead!” the boy explained enthusiastically, showing a gap in his teeth as he smiled broadly. “But don’t tell Greatfather Winter or he might tell them to stop.”
Dag’rema couldn’t help but give a small chuckle. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied.
“Maybe you’ll get your Winter’s Veil wish next year?” the boy suggested helpfully. “What did you wish for?”
The end of all things.
Dag’rema almost replied. It was her go-to answer, but inside, she realized that wasn’t true. She wasn’t sure what she really did wish for, but more and more she couldn’t deny that her enthusiasm for omnicide had faded. She’d gone soft, she guessed. Gotten too content with life and lost sight of any real goal she’d ever had. The whole situation was quite irritating, but she couldn’t quite stir up the motivation to do anything about it.
“I wished for a purpose in life,” she mused out loud. “Something worth struggling for.”
“That’s dumb,” the boy answered, giving a small laugh. “I wished for a steam tank!”
“A toy steam tank?” Dag’rema asked.
“No, a real one! With real guns on it and everything.”
“I should have guessed,” she chuckled. “Did you get it?”
“No, just a dumb sweater and some socks. Oh, and this!” he exclaimed, drawing a wooden sword and flailing it through the air, dangerously close to Dag’rema’s legs. “Do you like it?”
“It’s quite fearsome,” Dag’rema replied. “Is that what you like most about Winter’s Veil? The presents?”
“Well, yeah!” the boy replied, sheathing his mock weapon. “Well, that and my pop always comes home for Winter’s Veil, and he always takes me to the Ring of Valor. Did you know they have pork chops at the Ring of Valor? I always get real full.”
“I didn’t know that,” Dag’rema responded, holding in a small chuckle.
“Maybe you should ask your pop to take you too?” the boy suggested.
“I never knew my father,” Dag’rema stated in reply. “And my mother is dead.”
“That’s sad,” the boy murmured, looking down at the ground. “Um, I could ask my pop if he could take you too, but I don’t know if he’ll say yes…” he paused, thinking about something. “Oh! Or if you get any silver from the goblins, you could use that to go!”
“Maybe I will,” Dag’rema laughed, nodding.
The boy was about to say something else when his father walked up, giving Dag’rema a suspicious glance. “Come on Rog, we must get there early if we want the best seats,” he stated simply, taking the boy’s hand.
Dag’rema gave a nod, silently bidding the boy farewell.
Maybe that was the secret. The boy didn’t need a purpose worth struggling for, he was able to take pleasure in simply living each day. Instead of worrying about what she was fighting for, maybe it would be good to relax for a change, eat some tasty food, and watch two huge orcs beat the hell out of the each other.
Realizing that the guard must surely be gone by now, she rose to her feet. She hadn’t meant it when she said she might go to the arena, but why not? She hardly had anything better to do. It might even be fun.You know who's terrible at finding natural endings to a scene? Me!
I guess this ended up being more of a corny dialogue piece instead of a descriptive party scene, but I couldn't figure out many other ways to get Dag'rema to interact with anyone at a party... :P
Post by
oneforthemoney
Challenge #10
Zalexdrad watched as the two women lined up on the practice field. Felicity drew her sword and readied her shield, her face and hair hidden by a winged helm, only the eyes visible through the front slit. Her armour was practical, scorning deeper ornamentation though it conformed to her female figure well enough, something the watching incubus could well appreciate, though he had seen far more of her than this. Coloured gold, her plated steel flashed in the dappled sunlight breaking through the trees, glowing off her sword as if it were wreathed in light, though as she was a paladin, that may well have been the case.
The one opposite her was starkly different to his eyes, and his bat-like wings fluttered slightly in annoyance and tail thrashed subtly. Her armour was of a duller shine, more like bronze than the gold of her opponent. She was shorter too, and her armour sparser, hugging her female curves lovingly, a body meant to be held, to be squeezed, her attire as sparse as it could be without forsaking protection while revealing sheer silks underneath, the metal decorated with a fine gilt and styles of wings and flowers. She wore no helm, providing her dark curls free rein to bounce about her head, held back by a circlet like a crown, gemmed with precious blood rubies and lesser stones, though they did little to detract from her achingly beautiful face, locked within that golden change between girlish prettiness and womanly beauty. Her lips were painted a dark black, her eyes yellow like gold and shining with excitement. Her skin held a faintly blue tint, denoting possible troll blood in her lineage.
Zalexdrad knew better. The incubus curled back a lip revealing fang, his tail whisking behind him. He shifted in his tight fitting dark clothes and leaned against the fence post. He knew he was handsome. He was born to be handsome, to be the corruption of women across worlds and dimensions. But here he was, seething silently, ignored as the two women prepared to spar.
"Draw your blade, Jay," Felicity commanded, the paladin holding hers before her in salute.
Her opponent dipped in a curtsied bow and drew her weapons, strange ones for a knight. From one rounded hip she drew a short sword with a curving guard inset with another bloody stone, from her other, a long dark whip with a crystal tip. She raised her own blade in salute. "I am ready, my lady."
"Good." Felicity raised her shield. "Attack me."
Jay did so. She moved forward, every motion smooth as water's flow. She danced with barely stirring the dust about her feet, leaning back then forward, leading with her whip which snapped out with a crack to strike the shield moved into its path. Felicity followed the whip as it coiled back, shield up, sword ready.
Jay moved aside as the paladin charged. She handled her sword with far less skill than her whip, but managed to parry the paladin's blade all the same. But Felicity was not done and pressed her, the two exchanging blow in close quarters, the taller knight's strength showing against her slender foe's increasingly frantic defense.
Zalexdrad shifted uncomfortably at the duel. He growled low and deep seeing how Jay's eyes glowed as she dueled her mistress. Then, somehow, Felicity stumbled. The whip, forgotten, somehow tangled in her leg. Jay smirked and gave a yank, pulling out the paladin's foot from under her. With a crash Felicity fell. At once Jay was on her, slamming a boot upon her opponent's armoured stomach, whip held taught in her free hand as she raised her blade.
Zalexdrad was almost over the fence then. But Jay did not expect the shield, then, to rise and cut her own leg from beneath her. She fell with a yelp, losing her blade in the act. She rolled aside and to her feet in what seemed a single movement. She still held the whip, and grabbed it with both hands, pulling to keep Felicity down. Her golden eyes frantically sought her weapon. Then, the paladin dropped her own blade, leaned up and grabbed the whip. In a contest of strength, Jay was the clear loser. Felicity yanked and Jay was pulled to her. The paladin caught her, rolled her over and straddled the smaller girl. She snatched a dagger from her waist and held it to the girl's throat.
Both were breathing heavily at the sudden burst of exertion. Jay stared up, her cheeks rosy and breath short. She raised her hands, dropping her whip. "I yield," she murmured. "Mistress."
Zalexdrad scowled deeper as the paladin stood and helped her former foe off the ground. He turned aside and stalked into the woods, the paladin's admonishments and praise ringing in his ears now matter how far he went.
Light: Very nice companion to Atik's. Argona's alien nature came through well in the way she manipulates fates to find him and join in that moment. It was a little pompous at times, but that fit well with who she is.
Atik: Lovely to see the two Silvia's duel and their different styles of doing so. Both have very subtle and alternating methods of battle, lacking the more forthright duel of weapons, but it seems like the longer they go on the deeper they weave a web of manipulation and weaponry against one another until, in the end, it was the one who was simply better at such battle who came out the victor and could spring the better trap. Their so contrasting personalities added an interesting extra dimension to the battle as well and was delightful to see.
Skree: Funny seeing at how much the omnicidal maniac has mellowed. Her conversation with the child was cute and it was nice to see her a little reflective, moving beyond her accustomed behaviours, themselves almost more meaningless ritual, which fits in with her feelings for the ceremony she's attending quite well.
Post by
Atik
Light:
I already commented on yours!
Skree:
Certainly an interesting view of Dag'Rema. She comes from an older era of the forums, and so tended to get less quiet moments like this. It's very amusing to see her trying to relate to the young boy.
My only gripe would be the fact that the young boy was all you threw at her. I'm not saying the piece was too short, it just seemed to easy on Dag'Rema, She had a sort of one-sided conversation. Still a nice view of her, however, so it's mostly just me wanting more. :P
Money:
I was wondering where this idea went. Interesting to see you retool it for the newer challenge, but it certainly works. Felicity and Jay's fight is interesting, although it's definitely a little sparse. But it is just a sparring match, so it definitely fits the setting. But, the shift of focus makes Zalexdrad feel a little... out of place? His presence is justified, but the focus seems to drift between him and the fight a little suddenly. The opening and closing on him is nice, but he seems sort of irrelevant throughout the rest of the piece.
I was also very disappointed Jay and Felicity didn't make out. But I might have misunderstood the challenge. :P
Post by
morginar
Challenge #10
Ithalwen walked on the ancient ruins of the ogre empire on Ashran. It's crumbling stone walls and dark chambers that possessed unknown knowledge, arcane secrets that even eluded her. But there where more than her that had interest for the artifacts and knowledge of Ashran. The high elf found her way into a ancient tower, or at least what was left of it. In it's center laid a dusty old tome in the hands of a skeleton ogre.
Falionna rode on the dark purple void touched netherwolf in the cobble roads made long ago from ogres. Ogres! First it seemed a bad joke that ogres would ever posses any form of civilization, but now it's reality, at least this reality. This ever so strange reality. The train of though ended as the dark ranger In the corner of her eye saw a high elf enter a ruined chamber. Falionna slides down from the furry mount and dismissed it back to the void. Silently the undead elf made her way to the high elf who had picked up a book. Falionna drew her scimitars pointed one on the Quel'doreis neck.
"You should be more aware of your surroundings." Said a voice that left chills up her spine behind her and she felt the cold steel just at the nape of her neck. By refex Ithalwen dropped the book and pulled out her blade, The Quel'Kalar. And in a wide slash as she pulled it out against the unknown that made her turn around.
Falionna made a dash backwards as the high elf pulled out a blade from her belt. It shimmered with moonlight runes on it and looked like the Quel'Delar. But that slash had been fast and wide, too wide. The dark ranger moved in close on the high elf and tried with a cut from her right scimitar on the neck whilst her left was aimed for the midriff.
The high elf tried to make a quick sidestep. But was not fast enough as one of the blades made a small cut at her neck. Thankfully it missed the more important blood veins in her neck and cut nothing vital. The spellblade began to charge up arcane in her free left hand but then she noticed the blood on her arm. It distracted her and the magic as discharged in a blurry blue light. Though it was not the blood alone that did it, more of the amount of it. It was simply too much.
The dark ranger smirked to herself as she saw the high elf fail with her spell and move backwards to the wall with a hand on the wound. The blood thinning poison worked. Granted it was not the leach poison she had in mind when she acquired it, but it works good enough. Confident that she would win the dark ranger moved in to finish it.
Ithalwen felt the despair crawling over her, the fear of death, the shame of defeat and the wrath aimed at herself for the current situation. In a act of pure desperation the high elf grabbed hold of Quel'Kalar in both her hands and charged. Aiming the ancient dragonforged prismatic blade to the exposed midriff of the ranger.
Falionna droped her blades, mostly in suprice of the sudden act the swords-woman managed to do. But it was pointless. she could feel the high elf grip of the blade loosen up and the dark ranger grabbed hold of the blade and pulled it out from her undead body.
"Get your filthy hands of me. They stink so bad they make me want to go puke." A voice entered Falionna's mind. "What?" The dark ranger said out loud with a raised eyebrow. Then she was knocked backwards from some unknown force. She found herself flung into the wall that fell onto this great force. Only once she hit the thick stones and made a dent onto them did she notice that she no longer holds that blade.
Ithalwen moved to her blade. Unmoved by the force that knocked back the undead elf. For it was it that unleashed it, as it does to the wrong users. The high elf picked up her blade, sheathed it and glanced at her foe who lay in the floor by the wall. A moment later after adrenaline dulled away she felt the pain in her neck, remembering the bleeding she placed a hand on it and hurried to Stormshield.
The dark ranger arose and made her way to her scimitars and took a look at the book. Clearly no magic was on it as it's moldy pages only had the palest remains of the ink left. Unreadable. Falionna kicked the book and withdrew to Warspear.
Post by
morginar
Necromancy!
A writing challenge for you all. To write not about a person, but on a weapon. A artifact.
It should follow the pattern of the ingame artifact knowlage. You can build on your own or use the ingame as example/inspiration.
http://www.wowhead.com/forums&topic=275596&p=4117296
And that is my work.
Post Reply
You are not logged in. Please
log in
to post a reply or
register
if you don't already have an account.