[RP Log Snippet] Jayir and Tal Brightmane

Jay sighs, "It's in a really inconvenient location."

"Build a transport pad, Mister Engineer," Tal Brightmane replies, coy. "I know you Pyreanor boys, always tinkering and making things. Make a transportation pad."

Jay lets out an even more exaggerated and dramatic sigh.

"Where am I supposed to get the parts from? Am I just s supposed to pull them out of my ass?" Jay asks, clearly sarcastic.

"Well yeah," Knight-Lord Brightmane grinned, "That's also a Pyreanor thing, right?"

Jay yells, "An ass of holding is not a heritable trait!"

[Story] Early Morning Messenger

It was a Wednesday morning at about three when a courier arrived at the Pyreanor shop. The courier found the shop closed and rang the vestibule bell. For twenty minutes, she rang the bell. Finally, Iviaen Brightblaze lowered the wards and opened the door.

He was a night owl (in many ways). A chubby mage with long white hair clad in crimson, gold, green, and black robes answered the door. Over his robes, he wore an off-white apron and matching chef hat. His long white ponytail rested on his back and the shop smelled of baking bread. The man opened the door with caution, "W-who are you and why are you calling so late?"

Before him stood a petite woman with long black hair bound in a bun. She had darker skin, a tabard of the Blood Knight order on her chest, and a forlorn look on her face. Her gold-flecked feel green eyes expressed a profound sort of sadness. A messenger calling so late meant two things. Something important happened and someone died.

The Thirteenth Ranger

It's midday on the roof of The Pyreanor building in Silvermoon's Bazaar, Quel'thalas. A lone figure, a woman, stands on the roof, her body clad in black leather, darkened mail, and crimson and black cloth. A hood obscures much of her face, her red eyes subtly burning in the shadows of the hood, and her round freckled face smiling subtly out at the world for a brief moment before it wilted to a deep frown, her old laugh lines plainly visible on her wrinkling face. Oh to be home, and to be accepted, welcomed, and defected from the Lich Queen. Oh the woe of knowing of the massacre she avoided participating in.

She sat down on the roof, crossed her legs, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. She didn't need to breathe, but she was a breather at heart and it felt right to emulate living as much as possible.

One of the double doors leading to the roof popped open. Alexandra Pyreanor's right ear swiveled to hear only silence.

A great weight pressed down on her and her back burned, her instincts flared. She was promised this place was safe. Now it was the only place safe for her. If the one staring at her was hostile and intended to kill her, she'd accept that fate willingly.

The staring intensified as eight sets of green eyes peered out the door. Hushed whispering and low volume arguing emanated from the stairwell.

Alexandra's ear flicked again, trying to identify the source of the sound. A smile came across her face realizing that familiar sound and she relaxed; it was the sound of young elves investigating and arguing, getting into mischief. She remembered how her own children would do that very thing, now the children her children and their friends care for were doing the same. Life goes on for everyone else even after you die.

CW Prompt: Introduction

Tell us about your character! What are their favorite things, their least favorite things? How old are they? Have they been in any battle.

Let's say we were meeting for the first time at Kit's Tavern Night, How would you introduce yourself?

Zan: Massive Idiot who really isn’t.

[Story] Inquisitor Island

Lyral stood tall for his age, a young Quel'dorei boy with an olive complexion, glowing blue eyes, and shoulder length silken black hair with a sheen almost iridescent. He frequently wore his brows in a furrow, his shoulders tense, and carried his little fists balled at his sides. He tried to be happy like his peers but it was difficult with trouble at home.

His mother had a temper problem. She got angry with his father and at Lyral; she yelled at him, "You were a mistake!" He cried. Lyral was an accidental pregnancy and his mother planned to give him away, but his father would not have it. Lyral's father wanted him, not his mother, and his father was kind where his mother was cold and showed the boy a distinct lack of love.

[Story] Trapped Below

In the basement of Elramir’s stronghold

——

Two cells six feet wide, nine feet deep, that ran from floor to ceiling, and sat side by side in an indented part of a stone wall. Thick plates of metal protected the floor, ceiling, and floor from the occupants therein. The two cells shared a common barred wall, allowing the captives to reach into the others' cages, but invisible spell barriers that prevented hands from extending out their cell doors. Each cell had a bed with a sink-toilet combination at the foot of the bed by the back wall.

Long, heavy, thick chains bolted to the walls and to thick metal collars kept the prisoners from exiting their cells without their captors' approval. Unbound wrist and ankle cuffs reminded the prisoners how little control they had in their lives. Their wrists and ankles could be locked any which way on a whim.

In the left cell lie a Kaldorei man with pale purple skin and long, thick, deep violet hair. He had thick brown horns growing from his head, a blindfold that covered his eyes, and fel green tattoos. He slept a fitful sleep.

In the right cell lay a Sin'dorei man on his stomach with freckle-kissed crimson skin, bright ginger hair, large curling horns, and ginger wings. The black leathery keratin of his hands and lower arms was cracked and fel magic emanated from the crevices—a Felblood Elf. This man was younger, perhaps 20 falls old, too young to be part of Kael's original Felblood Elves. A metal device latched around his arm just below his elbow, and a plastic tube with a plugged connector hung from a hole in the device. It was IV port used to deliver medicine and nutrition, and the device kept the prisoner from tampering with it too badly.

It made sense to store the half-demon elves in the same space, except for the fact that the Kaldorei, after all his torture, had lost his self-control and diplomacy, and focused almost entirely on containing his inner demon while in this hell. His instincts to rip other demonic beings apart screamed in his head at the presence of the Felblood, while the Felblood didn't ask to be born nor turned into a monster, and spent his hours lamenting his existence and dreaming of freedom, of the world he read about in books.

Frequently the chained Illidari rose from his bed and hurled threats and insults at the Felblood, his own purple skin displayed a darkening but not blackened keratin on his hands, his fingernails sharp like knives, as he reached into the other cell and tried to rip the Felblood apart.

The Felblood elf's wings rustled at the screaming as he sat atop his bed. Many times he considered moving into the Illidari's grasp, but the books gave him a hope to one day have freedom, to keep living.

One time he did give up hope and subtle scars along his neck served as a reminder of that mistake. The Illidari verbally lashed out and the Feblood agreed, rose, knelt before the raging Illidari, and allowed the Kaldorei to grip his neck and move to end him.

He agreed that he was demon filth, that this was something their captors did to him, and that he never wanted to be like this. He yelled at the Kaldorei to hurry up and kill him. The half-unhinged Kaldorei screamed, "No!" The captors sentenced the Felblood to a punishment worse than death--they took his books away. Seven days without any way for his mind to escape this hell was torture.

They came to an understanding. The Felblood Elf learned that the Illidari suffered instincts that his own half-demonic prescience amplified, and that his constant hostility was unintentional. The Kaldorei learned that the Felblood Elf didn't willingly choose to be a half demon monster and didn't deserve the death his instincts urged him to deliver.

Sometimes the Felblood read his stories aloud to the Illidari so his mind could escape too, but usually their main form of entertainment is hurling insults at each other, yelling at the top of their lungs the most as colorful and ridiculous insults they could imagine. Sometimes, in spite of their suffering, the very torture they endured trapped in close quarters, they managed to steal a laugh or some peace.

Supplies!

The roar of a engines from a dwarven biplane echo off the water as a stolen plane painted red and then decorated with a flame motif approached and it's coming in low. Attached to the vehicle via a tow line is a large crate on a pallet. There is a big pretty white bow tied around the tow line, a sign of peace.

As it reaches overhead it makes a series of clanking noises and the vehicle drops its cargo. A parachute assures it lands gently on the ground.

In the crate is enough food for a few meals for the observed survivors stored in black boxes that seem to keep the food warm. There's also fresh sourdough bread, first aid kits, a surgical kit, antiseptic, containers of medications and salve, a few boxes of chocolates, and some boxes of medicinal chocolates, a large box of thistle and sheets for rolling, and bottles of whiskey. Things are padded with blankets.

The plane gains altitude after the drop then makes a hard right then returns in the direction from which it came and eventually vanishes over the horizon.

@intoxication-wra

Stumbling upon the SOS

Zan sat hunched over his workbench in the workshop of the Pyreanor Gift and Boarding House working by the light of an enchanted lamp. The 5'8" tall freckled ginger paladin and inventor wore silky red pajamas, large red lensed glasses, and had not one but two thistle joints in his mouth--this was a two joint problem. His long train rested on the floor and his wings rested against his back, folded up nicely.

He looked over schematics for a big fucking spell gun, well, a spell cannon because it might come in handy someday. He pondered it as he put one of his prototype phoenix drones, Sunsoul II, back together after maintenance and an upgrade.

He turned the device on and it whirred to life. He grabbed its controller box, flipped it on, and for whatever reason the box began to scan frequencies. The ginger raised a brow at the frequency scan and looked to see if he accidentally flipped a switch.

The scan found the tail end of something. One of the little spell beads on the control box began to flicker on and off, but the ginger paid it no mind he investigated the box. He flipped the search lever and the box remained on that frequency. He set the box aside and examined the drone until he noticed a series of flashes from the controller box. Familiar flashes.

...---... ...---...

Zan's ears perked, his crest feathers rose slightly, and his train bristled up off the ground and rested parallel to the floor for a moment before lowering. His attention was piqued.

Tyan Sunbrand, an old and grumpy priest, sat with a lap-table on his legs in a large tent, quill in one hand and inkwell in the other, one of his hands illuminated his paper as he composed a note. He wrote, “Tonight, the remnants of the Sunbrand Family gained a new member, the man formerly named Ceroluthrel Phoenixheart. My adoptive son, Danil Sunbrand came to me and asked me to travel to the other side of Azeroth and perform a wedding for my elder brother and his birth father, Rialius Sunbrand.”

“There was a time when my elder brother felt he lost everything. His wife died before the fall leaving him a widower, then he believed his family all died to the scourge. To save innocent people from the Legion he sacrificed his soul--his life, his future, everything he ever was, everything he ever could be, all because he had nothing left to lose. And it seems in this sacrifice and in his suffering, and in his duty, he found something. Kinship, another damned soul that understood, that harmonized, and the potential to heal some of their deepest wounds.”

“His other was a common man, a sailor, who returned to Quel’thalas after the Scourge attack with supplies for a noble house to find the port and city ablaze. They gave  the supplies to those in need and sheltered who they could on their ship. With nothing left to lose, his family annihilated, Ceroluthrel Phoenixheart also found himself among the Illidari, and found my brother.”

“Tonight I performed the ceremony, on a dock, by moonlight, overlooking a calm lake, with special vows; vows to help each other cope in the eternal wars with their inner demons, and a solemn vow to end the other with honor and dignity should one of them ever lose that war. It was a morbid promise, but a meaningful one. Perhaps it was romantic in some twisted way.” 

“My brother was more alive than he has been in years tonight and I pray that he has finally found what he has been looking for, so he can finally be whole.”