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The Flower Picker

@rasende-augurweaver-blog-blog / rasende-augurweaver-blog-blog.tumblr.com

A character blog for my blood elf Rasende (Wyrmrest Accord). Just for fleshing her out and bouncing around new ideas. Feel free to RP with me!
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One of my personal bests at drawing Rasende. There will come a day when I will be good at coloring, but that day is not today. (Ras definitely doesn’t stroll through the streets of Silvermoon like this, I just wanted to draw her body while being SFW. I like to think she’s admiring her sweet abs in an off-panel mirror at home or something)

Rasende is a trained warrior used to wielding heavy weapons in battle and traveling for hours on end in plate armor, and her body shows the fruits of her labor. It’s easy to mistake her for one of the male Sin’dorei, especially since she’s so prone to wearing simple linen blouses and trousers. 

She’s also tall for a Blood Elf of the fairer sex—measuring at 6’2, a good size for any Sin’dorei man, let alone woman. Rarely does she ever stand less than eye-to-eye with the people she meets (not counting Orcs and Trolls). 

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These days, Rasende mainly deals with her family by tuning them out. Typically, she likes to recite the 206 bones of the body, or the basic medicinal components her most-used herbs. That’s probably her sister, Meritas, in the background harassing her about something or other. Rasende used to live with her mother, brother, and sister before getting her own place and as far as she's concerned, the less she sees of her folks, the better. 

I wanted to draw something to emphasize Rasende’s body type. She spent about ten years as a soldier in the Horde army before returning to the civilian life, and her figure reflects years dedicated to fighting and hard, physical labor. She's tall, broad, muscular, and lacking in feminine curves. 

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"Forward, Manus!" Rasende commanded with a shout.
She wasn’t sure if Manus had heard her over her comrades’ shouts and clanging of steel against steel until he was charging into the field, a grey blur amongst the lush greens and purples of Ashenvale. 
The dire wolf’s name had not been Manus when he had first been issued to Rasende, of course. No—it had been some guttural, orcish sound that she quickly dismissed as ill fitting his rider. 
It did not take long for Manus to respond to his new name. Rasende figured the wolf cared little about what it was called so long as it had fresh meat every day and the chance to sate its bloodlust in the heat of battle (the ferocity of the Horde’s war beasts was rivaled only by the orcs that bred them). 
And run. Manus could run and run and run.
He carried her as if she was nothing. And, she supposed, compared to the orcs he had been trained with, she probably did feel like nothing. 
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