Drabbles: Vorrick,
From here on out, I'm going to start posting these weekly, since I usually do a bunch of informal ones for tumblr. Right now I'm doing the same 30 day one as Felix and Norr and a few other people, so a few of those are in here, as well as the tumblr backlog. :) Putting them up for my other characters later.
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Drabble 01. Beginnings.
The space outside the birthing room was clean and pale, full of that benign sterility one tended to find with healers.
“The first birth I ever saw was your grandfather’s, you know. First funeral, too.” Quintel puffed at the unlit cigar, passing the box to the wizened little man beside him. “Richard Bartholomew White. Your namesake. I suppose that should seem stranger than it does.”
“Seems plenty strange to me. You two already got the names picked out, then?”
“Lyrial if she’s a girl, after Maevra’s grand-aunt.”
“And if he’s a boy
The elf crooked a grin.
“I was considering Rick.”
-
Drabble 02. Accusation.
everything i Hate by Vorrick Longshadow age 7 1/4:
-asparagus.
-maths.
-being sad.
-being grownded.
-lyes.
-lyars.
-vilwyck sunbow.
-runes.
-being bad at runes.
-vilwyck sunbow saying only ideeots are bad at runes but he wasnt suprized i was an ideeot because i was problee a halfie because my ma hoors herself to humans wich is problee how i got born.
-tattlers.
-babees.
-babees who tattle on being hit when they rillee deserve it.
-lyars who say they got kicked in the balls when they didnt.
-i didnt kick him in the balls he dont got any.
-he is a lyar.
-he lyed.
-i punched him in the wee that is diffrent.
-
Drabble 03. Restless.
Late one?
A smirk. His fingers curl.
A little, He admits. Been having trouble sleeping.
Trouble isn’t the word for it.
I hear you banging around at night. Nightmares? Just restless?
There’s no concern in that dead voice, winding up to deliver its familiar bit of gospel.
Restless.
He manages. It’s muddled. The wet bloom of fel is still sticky on his tongue.
Get used to it.
As if it’s just that easy. As if he can just flip a switch and feel no pain. There are easier roads to that. He has a whole library of atlases, tiny and blue and tucked back behind the cushions, out of reach.
I’m trying.
-
Inkblots:
01. “A crab, but not th’kind what you get off someone’s bits.”
-
02. "Arrakkoa."
-
03. “A vagina with like. No. Okay. Wait. Forget that. It’s. It’s a thing. Bug thing. Silithid. With bigass teeth, and an eagle in the middle, see the wings there, on that white bit? Thas’ an eagle. Only ‘s also a vagina. On th’bug. Thing. With th’teeth. Yeah. That. Th’fuck’re you writin’ down?”
-
04. “A crown. A real shit one, though, I mean. Look at that fucker. Don’t even got no proper upright crown shape, ‘s. ‘S more like you’re gonna go stick some fuckin’…crab or somethin’ on your head. Crab crown. All hail th’king of th’fucking crabs.”
His eyes flicker to the jar on the desk and then back again, fingers tapping too quickly on the arm of the chair.
“Kinna an odd place t’have candy, ain’t this?”
-
05. “Is it weird if I say ‘vagina’? ‘Cause, I mean. It don’t really look like vaginas at all. What it looks kinda like is the. Inner bits, yeah? Like with the. Th’parts with the bits that make the babies out of the. Stuff. Look, I dunno the technical term for it all. It don’t even look a whole lot like that though, really. Think ‘s just the center bit what’s making me think on that.”
He tilts his head to the side, considering.
“But yeah, I mean. If you jus’ want a word, thas’ what I’d say. Vagina. Really though, I think thas’ only ‘cause I like saying that. Vagina. Vagina vagina vagina. You say it long enough, it don’t really even sound like a word no more. Be kinda a pretty name though, if it didn’t. You know. Also mean ladybits.”
-
06. “An inkblot.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“Well it fuckin’ is, don’t look at me like that.”
-
07. “A Legion gate. Hills and rocks behind.”
His eyebrows pinch in and he looks away.
“How many more of these’re we gonna be doin’?”
-
08. “Sax.”
“Who’s Sax?”
“An inkblot.”
-
09. “Bones.”
“Which ones?”
“You expect me t’know th’names? I mean, shit. Kin’ jus’ show y’if -“
“Please don’t take your shirt off.”
-
10. "A hat with bunny ears, or two dicks on it. Or. A ship. Guess the whole thing could be a ship. With real shitty sails. Or a kite. Fuck. I dunno. You pick something. Why do I always gotta choose what it is. This is a lopsided fuckin’ relationship, here.”
-
11. “A thistle. Really. That one’s too easy.”
He chews on the bottom of his lip.
“Not that I’d know what those look like.”
-
12. “A Winter Veil tree. I remember once Richard - Quintel’s old business partner, Light he was ancient by then an’ only still maybe seventy - brought a real little one up with him one winter. Tried t’give it t’Maevra. Thought her eye was gonna twitch right outta her skull. But she stuck it up front anyway, jus’ t’be polite. Right there by th’counter.”
A blink.
“‘Course, ‘s an inkblot, not a tree, so ‘s fuckin’ stupid anyway. Seriously, when’re we gettin’ done with these?”
-
13. “Peacebloom. Gave some of that t’someone once. Supposed t’bring peace with it, yeah? Works out okay for some folks, I guess.”
His eyes duck up.
“‘Course, I guess that’s what th’thistle’s for. If y’can’t find peace with th’easy shit.”
A snort.
“Whas’ that tell you when ‘m allergic t’that too?”
-
14. His eyes flick up from the card, stare across the table, deadpan.
“Oh, come on.”
15. “Two swords held up, the hands’re in gauntlets. They’re long blades, thin. Kind what moves easy. Quick in the hand.”
-
His own sink to his side, curl in protectively over his guts.
“Bloody.”
The moment passes in long silence. Chewing at his lip, he glances back over, raises his voice again.
“That, or. A real fat lynx with big puffy cheeks. Yeah, y’know what, write that one down instead. Lynx.”
A heavy breath.
“‘M gonna step out for a bit.”
He tugs at the chain binding cuff to chair.
"Don't figure I could get a little help with that?"
-
16. "A tiger. Killed a tiger once, y’know. But it were sick, first. Real sick. Kinna sick y’don’t get better from.”
-
17. “Two snakes entwined. Together they form a skull. Really, that one’s jus’ easy. Th’fuck d’you think it is? C’mon, ‘m tired on it always bein’ me whas’ gotta do this shit. Ain’t a trained…inkblot…monkey. Be fuckin’ cool if I were, I guess. But.”
-
Drabbles and bits with pictures:
*
He’d been six years old before he’d ever seen rain.
-
*
“Well. Don’t let it outpace your runnin’, at least.”
He considers a moment.
“‘S probably a good time t’mention do as I say ain’t do what I do, here.”
-
*
“D’you believe in ghosts?”
“Not sure how y’believe or don’t. Jus’ a fact of life. That’s why y’burn a body. One of th’whys.”
“No, but. Beyond that. Y’get it all burned up proper, rites read, soul should rightfully be at peace, gone back to the Light. Anythin’ what could still haunt y’then?”
“Thas’ called a memory.”
-
*
Never trust a coyote for a shepherd.
-Westfall proverb.
-
*
If he lay still enough, it was almost as if no time had passed.
-
*
“Like snakes. An’ spiders.”
“What.”
-
*
“Everybody’s mournable.”
His lip curls back up over beaten teeth, moving to form the familiar crook of a grin. It stops short there, frozen in a half-snarl.
“An’ I think we got different definitions of darkness.”
-
*
"I don't get it."
-
*
He couldn’t breathe.
His chin was barely above the wreckage, arms clinging, legs pumping, lungs seizing as the water flooded into his nose - his ears - his eyes -
As he felt himself begin to sink.
He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t kick, but he had to. His head broke water gasping, tearing the night’s new smoke into his lungs. He rasped and coughed, shivering in the dark. Clutching, treading. Waiting.
Across the short strand of sea, the city burned.
-
*
“Y’know, the grey ones are actually tiny eels, right.”
-
*
“D’you ever have one of those moments where y’meet someone, an’ y’just don’t like ‘em, not all th’way full like y’feel y’should. An’ y’can’t put your finger quite on why, but it’s there - that somethin’ what makes y’half wanna bite their fuckin’ face off, an’ not for no good reason at it. An’ so you’re talkin’ an’ talkin’ all polite until you realize after a while why that is. You realize how you’re both so incredibly, horribly fuckin’ alike. An’ thas’ when y’know what y’hate in them, ‘cause ‘s exactly what y’hate in you. An’ there they got th’nerve t’sit there talkin’ at y’like y’don’t both fuckin’ see it. Those moments. Y’ever get those?”
He taps his finger on the glass, an unnecessary gesture of emphasis.
“‘Cause I sure as shit know ‘m havin’ one right now.”
-
*
“Th’fuck’re you talkin’ on anyway, thas’ profound as shit.”
-
*
“What the fuck is this.”
“You told us they were your friends.”
-
*
It’s like sinking, isn't it?
Or no, drowning, drowning’s what he’s always said. You can’t breathe, there’s no air there. Only the cold, only the dark.
A bit like dying, without the hurt.
-
*
“Dear Lisane, I kinna busted my fuckin’ hands so you’re shit outta luck if y’wanna -”
“I’m writing ‘Due to health complications, the next shipment will be delayed’.”
“Sounds about right.”
-
*
“Coulda been worse.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, place always smelled like ass anyway.”
“Fuck you.”
“Well it did.”
-
*
“No. Go ‘way.”
“You can’t just sleep all day.”
“Try me.”
-
*
Some mouths ran off, under pressure.
His did marathons.
-
*
“So fuck you, Calida. It tastes delicious.”
-
*
“Once you swallow them, they never really leave.”
-
*
It wasn’t that he’d never touched the shadow, never slipped back and simply felt himself fade.
But he didn’t know precisely what it was, either, that kept him from it. From that ease the others grasped.
It’s not a a place the living are meant to go.
-
*
“The fuck does he even do with the ears.”
-
*
“But let’s be honest. What else were y’expecting?”
-
*
“When has that ever been a good solution?!”
-
*
“Why d’you got so many locks?”
“To keep people from breaking in.”
A pointed look.
-
*
It's sort of like a plan.
-
*
He’s not afraid of the water.
Something in the back of his mind tells him that he should be. All of the little things, the way they add up - the flutter of wings out of the corner of his eye, the sudden snatch of a hand, the smell of flesh charring on the wind - but never the sea.
Sometimes he dreams about it.
About swimming out, arms burning, chest heaving in terror and exertion, lungs filled with fire. The water is chill and deep and there are other things in it. Sharp teeth and strangling weeds, and always the wet wet dark below.
But it’s better than what’s on land, it’s better than the besieged city behind him, better than the smoke on the breeze that fills his nostrils thick with the cloying smell of death.
And he clings to the flotsam praying to the waves, eyes pressed tight against the haze until he wakes and forgetfulness swallows the sea whole once more.
-
*
“Peacebloom, for forgettin’.”
“That’s not what peacebloom stands for.”
“‘S jus’ a fuckin’ flower, stands for whatever y’want it to, other than ‘peacebloom’. Brought y’flowers, for forgettin’ an’ movin’ on. Maybe forgivin’, if you’re feelin’ real generous.”
“And what if I don’t want to do any of those things?”
“Then I toss th’fuckin’ boquet an’ bring you some thistle an’ then forgettin’ll happen anyway, alright? Now c’mon, let me come back inside. Please.”
-
*
“I want somethin’ nice like that, some day.”
“You’d just ruin it.”
“But it’d be real nice t’get th’chance to ruin it.”
-
*
“I kin’t decide whether ‘s tacky or beautiful. So. When in doubt.”
“Go with tacky?”
“Hush, ‘s brilliant.”
-
*
And one of these days, there simply won’t be anything left.
-
*
“Oww.”
“Then stop doing that.”
-
*
“Careful on th’fuckin’ grass, Light!”
-
*
“You’re scared of heights.”
“Nope.”
“Okay, you’re scared of falling from them.”
“T’be honest, ‘s mostly more th’landing that worries me.”
“Still.”
“Look, you jus’ don’t look down an’ there’s no fuckin’ problem. Didn’t see me wussing out on getting up here none, did you?”
-
*
"At least I had a job."
-
*
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“What’re y’writin’?”
“Nothing, fuck off.”
“C’mon, let me see.”
“Don’t you have shit to be doing?”
“Not really.”
-
*
“Should be enough for what, to hide it? ‘Fraid you’ve got bad luck. More obvious. Way you act, and you got that…eye thing happening.”
“What ‘eye thing’.”
-
* [TW: BLOOD.]
“The worst part is trying to wash your face after, when it's still all a pile of hurt.”
“That’s the worst part of getting the shit beaten out of you?”
“Okay, maybe not the worst. But it still sucks.”
-
*
It was always beautiful, there.
-
*
Once upon a time, all of the animals were gathered together, discussing what to give to Man.
Crow gave Man his intelligence, Bison his strength, Wolf his loyalty, Cougar his speed.
And so on, and so forth.
Finally it came time that there were only two animals left to give their gifts: Lizard and Coyote.
Lizard said to them all - ‘I will give Man my five strong fingers, so that he might be as dexterous and do great things with them’ - for Lizard was very proud of his five fine fingers, and rightly so.
Coyote was jealous of this.
Man has too many advantages already, He cried, Why should he be granted any more?
Coyote yelled, and he stamped, and he made his points as well as he was able, but Lizard still would not relent. Envious and feeling spited, Coyote finally gave man his gift, as it was his (and the last) turn.
‘If you will give Man five fingers,' He announced, 'I will give him death.’
And so death came into being, not only for Man, but for all of the animals. The other beasts were shocked, and Coyote felt that his point had been sufficiently made. The gathering dispersed, and so he went about his business and soon forgot about the entire matter.
One day not long after, Coyote’s son went to the river to fetch water. As he was there, the stream rose up into the heads of a thousand lightning serpents, who set about biting and stinging him to death. The waters washed up and carried his body away. There could be no rites.
And Coyote wept, for he knew it was by his doing that the river had taken his son.
This is why Coyote always walks with Death, to watch and guard against it.
-
*
“I don’t do no interesting shit no more, it’s depressing. Can’t remember the last time I was seeing eyes on shit what weren’t there.”
-
*
“Fuck did it get so cold out. They got actual seasons here or somethin’?”
“Crazy shit, isn’t it?”
“Dunno why everyone don’t enchant their fuckin’ forests. Be a whole lot nicer.”
-
*
He wakes in a shaky haze, sweat cold on his skin and his own hand clamped to his throat.
The infirmary is dim: lit greyly in the ever-present glow of conjured light. Another man lies drowsing just across from the little bed, his stick-thin form draped over the chair like a strange marionette. The puppet show that no one wants to see.
the boot crushes down on his chest
he can’t shift it
too heavy
pinned just like a
bug
just like a
Slowly he realizes that he is shaking.
-
*
“Probably couldn’t pull of the Cenarion look anyway.”
“Fuck that. I like green.”
“Doesn’t look Cenarion on you.”
“What. Just ‘cause I ain’t. A cow. Or a dog. Or a…or. Purple. No. I like it.”
“Too bad. Looks more fel.”
“Well. It’s fucking red now anyway, so.”
-
*
"What's in the hold, sir?"
-
*
“Th’fuck’s wrong with your hands?”
“They hurt.”
“You stick them under a cartwheel, what?”
“Somethin’ like that.”
-
*
It flutters outside the edge of his vision and it’s a struggle not to
- snap.
-
*
“'Stop and smell the roses' they say. Well you finally do an' 's all. Just. Bullshit. Fuckin' bullshit from fuckin' liars. Don’t smell like nothin’.”
“That’s ‘cause they’re fake.”
“…Oh.”
-
*
Undershirt, overshirt (collar tucked up high), sweater, coat, gloves, scarf, cloak, hood.
It couldn’t cover everything. But it was close.
-
* [TW: GORE.]
“I thought you didn’t remember your dreams.”
“Generally try t’avoid it.”
-
* [NSFW, naked guy.]
“What the fuck are you doing.”
“Uh.”
-
*
“That’s why y’burn them.”
-
*
“Fuck that.”
-
*
“What the fuck."
"What."
"There’s a spider. Living in your eyes.”
“Fuckin’ told you, didn’t I?”
-
* [NSFW, naked guy.]
“D'you feel transcendent?”
“I feel like death.”
“Death’s pretty fuckin' transcendent, you gotta admit.”
-
*
hello feral
He whispers, fingers spidering up in front of his eyes. They dig, claw new furrows in face, wide troughs to spill the hunger into.
and how are we doing today?
-
*
everything was moving
he could taste the lights behind his teeth sunk deep into the space behind her eyes
the delicate skin folded in the crease where bone met cartilage met just plain empty fucking space
and
it tasted good.
-
*
...quick to pick fights with the older children...
-
*
He drew the delicate tip of the quill along the page, pressing in the neat lines where stalk met stem met stamen met stammer met -
“Excuse me? I’m looking for a Maevra Longshadow?”
An upright man in upright robes, peering down over the counter with a questioning lift of his brow. Vorrick stared back up, uncertainty crowding his own features. Snapped out of his reverie like the twig the liner had left behind.
“She ain’t here right now.”
He didn’t hear the man's reply, eyes already torn back to the page.
-
*
“Anyone wants in my head, fuckin’ let 'em. There’s a reason I don’t care t’spend much time in my own right mind.”
-
*
“No, nngh. No. You. You’re pretty.” He slurred, shoving a hand forward to snag in the other man’s hair. “Got. Got…fancy hair an’ shit. What do I got?”
He paused, though whether from dramatic effect or inability to remember his point - it would have been difficult to guess.
“…Hair. Always comes back down to hair.”
He shook his head unhappily.
-
Text-only drabbles/bits:
01. There was freedom on the rooftops.
You could get up there easily enough, if you knew where to climb. The smooth-sided buildings of the better parts of town gave way to cracks and crumbles farther out west.
Stacked crates served as ladders up to the better handholds, the places where determination turned stonework over to open air, free space to climb and leap.
If you were careful and clever, you'd never have to touch ground.
He’d been halfway across the first dome before he heard Maevra calling. It only sped his pace along. Behind him there were only more tasks to be done. Bottles to clean. Ingredients to sort. Floors to sweep. Words to learn. Boredom.
Ahead there was only possibility. Adventure.
Hand over hand, he snaked his way up along another wall. Higher now - he dashed to leap off the edge, clinging tight to the next. The impact smashed the air from his lungs and a satisfied grin onto his face.
Up again, once more, then down. Reckless, he ran along the sky of the city, rounded rooftops slipping beneath his bare feet. He paused at the edge of an elley, ears pricking, caught by the noise and blur of shapes below.
They had Joslin Firetree cornered. His runtish form was squared off defensively against the group, skinny back to the wall. Vorrick peered curiously from the rooftop as they closed in, stalking like wary kittens. He could see Joslin’s hands fight not to move up from his sides, ears pressed back in a grim determination thoroughly out of place upon his round little face.
Vorrick hated Joslin. Everyone did. He was talented, all the adults said. He had a true gift, a knack for the arcane, excelling far beyond what any boy his age should have been able to do. How many times had he heard it? From the tutors, from his parents, from the customers in the shop.
That Joslin Firetree, he'll go far. You should take a page from his book.
He’d been there as Vorrick had left the academy for the last time, Maevra’s hands clamped too tight to his shoulders. He’d watched the instructor escort them out, he’d been careful to catch Vorrick’s eye.
Vorrick remembered that smug smile. He remembered how he’d laughed.
His fingers curled more tightly around the tiles. Below, Fivreth Skyfeather was advancing forward from the others. Ten years old, but big enough to be pushing twelve. He didn’t have any knack with magic either - not that it stopped him from all but owning the ground between Plume and the Wend. Charismatic, aggressive and strong, he trod the narrow line between bully and fearless leader like a tightrope walker.
Vorrick hated him too.
“C’mon, we just want to see what you can do. Just show us what you can do.” Fivreth grinned to Joslin, arms out, palms open at a mocking ease.
Joslin wasn’t dumb enough to fall for it, he’d been on the receiving end of Fivreth’s fists too often not to realize now how quickly they could spring into action. Uncertain of his options, he cast a nervous glance about, sizing up the chances to run. A small throng of children choked the mouth of the alley, spectators preventing escape.
“I-I’m, I’m not supposed to.” He stammered quietly. “I don’t want to hurt you. Don’t make me hurt you.”
“You won’t hurt me, come on, there’s no reason for that. You don’t want them mad at you, do you? You know they’d be mad.” Fivreth mock-chided, lunging closer. Joslin let out a small nervous squeak, almost tripping as he pressed himself further back against the alley stone.
“I’ll - I’ll do it, don’t make me, you know they’d be angry, I could hurt you, you know. I won’t - I won’t do it, just don’t -“
Joslin was an asshole. But Fivreth was a bigger one.
Vorrick darted an arm out, swinging himself around and down from the rooftop, eyes scrunched tightly shut until he felt the shock of impact traveling up through his feet. Rolling out and up, he crouched - head twisting around to dispense a brief glare to the group at the alley’s mouth. They hung back, not sure what to make of the new arrival.
“Fuck off, Longshadow.” Came Fivreth’s bored drawl. He didn’t bother to look over, eyes still fixed on Joslin with predatory focus. ”We’re just having a talk, here. A private talk.”
“Looks pretty public t’me.”
“Maybe your eyes got addled with the rest of your head then. You know, when your ma dropped you on it comin' back from fuckin' half Lordareon.”
“Go away, retard.” Joslin called out in a relieved rush of diverted hostility. “Go back to your own street.”
Vorrick tipped his head to the side, tiny hands curling into fists.
“Shut the fuck up, Firetree.”
Fivreth spared Joslin one last, appraising glance before turning to face Vorrick. Taking a heavy step forward, his brow furrowed in amusement.
“Last warning, Longshadow.”
“That what they told your da ‘fore they kicked his soggy ass outta th’Rangers?”
He dodged the first fist. The second caught his nose, crushing the soft cartilage and sending him reeling, Dizzied, he lunged back in, knuckles lashing out. The pain was distant in the rush of the moment, little more than a dim promise of bad things to come.
He felt his teeth sink in, tasted blood. Elation soared through his veins even as his legs kicked out beneath him, even as the ground rushed up to meet the back of his skull and the thick pummel of feet crashed in on his ribs.
To the side, Joslin Firetree slipped quietly away, forgotten.
-
02. “…So I’m just gonna write ‘regards’, is that okay with you?”
“I said write what I fuckin’ said, didn’t I?”
“So you want me to call your supplier a ‘shithead fuckerlord’?”
“What? No! Why th’fuck’d you do that?”
-
Undead ponderings:
Vorrick used to be accepting of - if wary around - the undead.
When he found his mother’s body, she showed clear signs of having been risen before being re-killed. This, along with having a large number of family in Lordareon prior to the third war (one or two of whom ended up forsaken, although he doesn’t know it and they’re very distantly related at best) always left him with the unhappy, uncertain knowledge that someone he cared about could have ended up that way.
As a result, while he was a bit vehemently against people toting ghouls around Silvermoon and in public (seriously how fucking tasteless can you get) he kept a polite distance from members of the intelligent undead.
Well, Vorrick’s definition of polite. Which includes asking questions like whether they eat people, and what that tastes like, and what’s the rot situation like down there, and can you still get trashed because that would suck to not be able to, and so can you still bone shit or what’s up with that.
Then he met TLF.
They actually did a fair bit to improve his impression of undead, for a while there. Or rather, Rain’s association with them did, and his feelings about ghouls even sweetened a bit. But when things fell apart, they fell apart quickly and in a big way.
Any trust that Vorrick had in the undead died when Tisephone did, and for the next half year or so, things only went further downhill.
These days, the only death knight he really trusts is Calida. Even then, he’s a horrible verbally abusive asshole and a giant bag of dicks to her, because he just can’t get past her unliving status.
Also because she’s Regina George.
Various twitter writers have done a little to soften his attitudes - at least those that he presents publically. He’s not quite as verbally frothing as he was for a little bit after his resurrection there. But he still wouldn’t ever turn his back to former Scourge, particularly anyone involved in That Group.
He doesn’t believe Traejan or anyone else unliving involved in all of that have actually redeemed themselves. His view of Thistle as Okay is just as much linked to Thistle’s pulse as anything else.
Arguments in the book like the ‘emotional maintenance’ one with Alanada only serve to reinforce in his mind that the undead aren’t, can’t and shouldn’t be a part of living society - that they’re fundamentally different from people now.
That death knights essentially feed on destruction and suffering is what unnerves him the most about it all.
There’s always the question at the back of his mind when a Knight talks about fighting for the Horde or the Argents or anything else:
That’s great, but what about when there’s no enemies left to fight?
He doesn’t trust the forsaken either, but he’s had less contact with them. And Death Knights definitely top out his shit list.
-
-
Drabble 01. Beginnings.
The space outside the birthing room was clean and pale, full of that benign sterility one tended to find with healers.
“The first birth I ever saw was your grandfather’s, you know. First funeral, too.” Quintel puffed at the unlit cigar, passing the box to the wizened little man beside him. “Richard Bartholomew White. Your namesake. I suppose that should seem stranger than it does.”
“Seems plenty strange to me. You two already got the names picked out, then?”
“Lyrial if she’s a girl, after Maevra’s grand-aunt.”
“And if he’s a boy
The elf crooked a grin.
“I was considering Rick.”
-
Drabble 02. Accusation.
everything i Hate by Vorrick Longshadow age 7 1/4:
-asparagus.
-maths.
-being sad.
-being grownded.
-lyes.
-lyars.
-vilwyck sunbow.
-runes.
-being bad at runes.
-vilwyck sunbow saying only ideeots are bad at runes but he wasnt suprized i was an ideeot because i was problee a halfie because my ma hoors herself to humans wich is problee how i got born.
-tattlers.
-babees.
-babees who tattle on being hit when they rillee deserve it.
-lyars who say they got kicked in the balls when they didnt.
-i didnt kick him in the balls he dont got any.
-he is a lyar.
-he lyed.
-i punched him in the wee that is diffrent.
-
Drabble 03. Restless.
Late one?
A smirk. His fingers curl.
A little, He admits. Been having trouble sleeping.
Trouble isn’t the word for it.
I hear you banging around at night. Nightmares? Just restless?
There’s no concern in that dead voice, winding up to deliver its familiar bit of gospel.
Restless.
He manages. It’s muddled. The wet bloom of fel is still sticky on his tongue.
Get used to it.
As if it’s just that easy. As if he can just flip a switch and feel no pain. There are easier roads to that. He has a whole library of atlases, tiny and blue and tucked back behind the cushions, out of reach.
I’m trying.
-
Inkblots:
01. “A crab, but not th’kind what you get off someone’s bits.”
-
02. "Arrakkoa."
-
03. “A vagina with like. No. Okay. Wait. Forget that. It’s. It’s a thing. Bug thing. Silithid. With bigass teeth, and an eagle in the middle, see the wings there, on that white bit? Thas’ an eagle. Only ‘s also a vagina. On th’bug. Thing. With th’teeth. Yeah. That. Th’fuck’re you writin’ down?”
-
04. “A crown. A real shit one, though, I mean. Look at that fucker. Don’t even got no proper upright crown shape, ‘s. ‘S more like you’re gonna go stick some fuckin’…crab or somethin’ on your head. Crab crown. All hail th’king of th’fucking crabs.”
His eyes flicker to the jar on the desk and then back again, fingers tapping too quickly on the arm of the chair.
“Kinna an odd place t’have candy, ain’t this?”
-
05. “Is it weird if I say ‘vagina’? ‘Cause, I mean. It don’t really look like vaginas at all. What it looks kinda like is the. Inner bits, yeah? Like with the. Th’parts with the bits that make the babies out of the. Stuff. Look, I dunno the technical term for it all. It don’t even look a whole lot like that though, really. Think ‘s just the center bit what’s making me think on that.”
He tilts his head to the side, considering.
“But yeah, I mean. If you jus’ want a word, thas’ what I’d say. Vagina. Really though, I think thas’ only ‘cause I like saying that. Vagina. Vagina vagina vagina. You say it long enough, it don’t really even sound like a word no more. Be kinda a pretty name though, if it didn’t. You know. Also mean ladybits.”
-
06. “An inkblot.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“Well it fuckin’ is, don’t look at me like that.”
-
07. “A Legion gate. Hills and rocks behind.”
His eyebrows pinch in and he looks away.
“How many more of these’re we gonna be doin’?”
-
08. “Sax.”
“Who’s Sax?”
“An inkblot.”
-
09. “Bones.”
“Which ones?”
“You expect me t’know th’names? I mean, shit. Kin’ jus’ show y’if -“
“Please don’t take your shirt off.”
-
10. "A hat with bunny ears, or two dicks on it. Or. A ship. Guess the whole thing could be a ship. With real shitty sails. Or a kite. Fuck. I dunno. You pick something. Why do I always gotta choose what it is. This is a lopsided fuckin’ relationship, here.”
-
11. “A thistle. Really. That one’s too easy.”
He chews on the bottom of his lip.
“Not that I’d know what those look like.”
-
12. “A Winter Veil tree. I remember once Richard - Quintel’s old business partner, Light he was ancient by then an’ only still maybe seventy - brought a real little one up with him one winter. Tried t’give it t’Maevra. Thought her eye was gonna twitch right outta her skull. But she stuck it up front anyway, jus’ t’be polite. Right there by th’counter.”
A blink.
“‘Course, ‘s an inkblot, not a tree, so ‘s fuckin’ stupid anyway. Seriously, when’re we gettin’ done with these?”
-
13. “Peacebloom. Gave some of that t’someone once. Supposed t’bring peace with it, yeah? Works out okay for some folks, I guess.”
His eyes duck up.
“‘Course, I guess that’s what th’thistle’s for. If y’can’t find peace with th’easy shit.”
A snort.
“Whas’ that tell you when ‘m allergic t’that too?”
-
14. His eyes flick up from the card, stare across the table, deadpan.
“Oh, come on.”
15. “Two swords held up, the hands’re in gauntlets. They’re long blades, thin. Kind what moves easy. Quick in the hand.”
-
His own sink to his side, curl in protectively over his guts.
“Bloody.”
The moment passes in long silence. Chewing at his lip, he glances back over, raises his voice again.
“That, or. A real fat lynx with big puffy cheeks. Yeah, y’know what, write that one down instead. Lynx.”
A heavy breath.
“‘M gonna step out for a bit.”
He tugs at the chain binding cuff to chair.
"Don't figure I could get a little help with that?"
-
16. "A tiger. Killed a tiger once, y’know. But it were sick, first. Real sick. Kinna sick y’don’t get better from.”
-
17. “Two snakes entwined. Together they form a skull. Really, that one’s jus’ easy. Th’fuck d’you think it is? C’mon, ‘m tired on it always bein’ me whas’ gotta do this shit. Ain’t a trained…inkblot…monkey. Be fuckin’ cool if I were, I guess. But.”
-
Drabbles and bits with pictures:
*
He’d been six years old before he’d ever seen rain.
-
*
“Well. Don’t let it outpace your runnin’, at least.”
He considers a moment.
“‘S probably a good time t’mention do as I say ain’t do what I do, here.”
-
*
“D’you believe in ghosts?”
“Not sure how y’believe or don’t. Jus’ a fact of life. That’s why y’burn a body. One of th’whys.”
“No, but. Beyond that. Y’get it all burned up proper, rites read, soul should rightfully be at peace, gone back to the Light. Anythin’ what could still haunt y’then?”
“Thas’ called a memory.”
-
*
Never trust a coyote for a shepherd.
-Westfall proverb.
-
*
If he lay still enough, it was almost as if no time had passed.
-
*
“Like snakes. An’ spiders.”
“What.”
-
*
“Everybody’s mournable.”
His lip curls back up over beaten teeth, moving to form the familiar crook of a grin. It stops short there, frozen in a half-snarl.
“An’ I think we got different definitions of darkness.”
-
*
"I don't get it."
-
*
He couldn’t breathe.
His chin was barely above the wreckage, arms clinging, legs pumping, lungs seizing as the water flooded into his nose - his ears - his eyes -
As he felt himself begin to sink.
He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t kick, but he had to. His head broke water gasping, tearing the night’s new smoke into his lungs. He rasped and coughed, shivering in the dark. Clutching, treading. Waiting.
Across the short strand of sea, the city burned.
-
*
“Y’know, the grey ones are actually tiny eels, right.”
-
*
“D’you ever have one of those moments where y’meet someone, an’ y’just don’t like ‘em, not all th’way full like y’feel y’should. An’ y’can’t put your finger quite on why, but it’s there - that somethin’ what makes y’half wanna bite their fuckin’ face off, an’ not for no good reason at it. An’ so you’re talkin’ an’ talkin’ all polite until you realize after a while why that is. You realize how you’re both so incredibly, horribly fuckin’ alike. An’ thas’ when y’know what y’hate in them, ‘cause ‘s exactly what y’hate in you. An’ there they got th’nerve t’sit there talkin’ at y’like y’don’t both fuckin’ see it. Those moments. Y’ever get those?”
He taps his finger on the glass, an unnecessary gesture of emphasis.
“‘Cause I sure as shit know ‘m havin’ one right now.”
-
*
“Th’fuck’re you talkin’ on anyway, thas’ profound as shit.”
-
*
“What the fuck is this.”
“You told us they were your friends.”
-
*
It’s like sinking, isn't it?
Or no, drowning, drowning’s what he’s always said. You can’t breathe, there’s no air there. Only the cold, only the dark.
A bit like dying, without the hurt.
-
*
“Dear Lisane, I kinna busted my fuckin’ hands so you’re shit outta luck if y’wanna -”
“I’m writing ‘Due to health complications, the next shipment will be delayed’.”
“Sounds about right.”
-
*
“Coulda been worse.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, place always smelled like ass anyway.”
“Fuck you.”
“Well it did.”
-
*
“No. Go ‘way.”
“You can’t just sleep all day.”
“Try me.”
-
*
Some mouths ran off, under pressure.
His did marathons.
-
*
“So fuck you, Calida. It tastes delicious.”
-
*
“Once you swallow them, they never really leave.”
-
*
It wasn’t that he’d never touched the shadow, never slipped back and simply felt himself fade.
But he didn’t know precisely what it was, either, that kept him from it. From that ease the others grasped.
It’s not a a place the living are meant to go.
-
*
“The fuck does he even do with the ears.”
-
*
“But let’s be honest. What else were y’expecting?”
-
*
“When has that ever been a good solution?!”
-
*
“Why d’you got so many locks?”
“To keep people from breaking in.”
A pointed look.
-
*
It's sort of like a plan.
-
*
He’s not afraid of the water.
Something in the back of his mind tells him that he should be. All of the little things, the way they add up - the flutter of wings out of the corner of his eye, the sudden snatch of a hand, the smell of flesh charring on the wind - but never the sea.
Sometimes he dreams about it.
About swimming out, arms burning, chest heaving in terror and exertion, lungs filled with fire. The water is chill and deep and there are other things in it. Sharp teeth and strangling weeds, and always the wet wet dark below.
But it’s better than what’s on land, it’s better than the besieged city behind him, better than the smoke on the breeze that fills his nostrils thick with the cloying smell of death.
And he clings to the flotsam praying to the waves, eyes pressed tight against the haze until he wakes and forgetfulness swallows the sea whole once more.
-
*
“Peacebloom, for forgettin’.”
“That’s not what peacebloom stands for.”
“‘S jus’ a fuckin’ flower, stands for whatever y’want it to, other than ‘peacebloom’. Brought y’flowers, for forgettin’ an’ movin’ on. Maybe forgivin’, if you’re feelin’ real generous.”
“And what if I don’t want to do any of those things?”
“Then I toss th’fuckin’ boquet an’ bring you some thistle an’ then forgettin’ll happen anyway, alright? Now c’mon, let me come back inside. Please.”
-
*
“I want somethin’ nice like that, some day.”
“You’d just ruin it.”
“But it’d be real nice t’get th’chance to ruin it.”
-
*
“I kin’t decide whether ‘s tacky or beautiful. So. When in doubt.”
“Go with tacky?”
“Hush, ‘s brilliant.”
-
*
And one of these days, there simply won’t be anything left.
-
*
“Oww.”
“Then stop doing that.”
-
*
“Careful on th’fuckin’ grass, Light!”
-
*
“You’re scared of heights.”
“Nope.”
“Okay, you’re scared of falling from them.”
“T’be honest, ‘s mostly more th’landing that worries me.”
“Still.”
“Look, you jus’ don’t look down an’ there’s no fuckin’ problem. Didn’t see me wussing out on getting up here none, did you?”
-
*
"At least I had a job."
-
*
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“What’re y’writin’?”
“Nothing, fuck off.”
“C’mon, let me see.”
“Don’t you have shit to be doing?”
“Not really.”
-
*
“Should be enough for what, to hide it? ‘Fraid you’ve got bad luck. More obvious. Way you act, and you got that…eye thing happening.”
“What ‘eye thing’.”
-
* [TW: BLOOD.]
“The worst part is trying to wash your face after, when it's still all a pile of hurt.”
“That’s the worst part of getting the shit beaten out of you?”
“Okay, maybe not the worst. But it still sucks.”
-
*
It was always beautiful, there.
-
*
Once upon a time, all of the animals were gathered together, discussing what to give to Man.
Crow gave Man his intelligence, Bison his strength, Wolf his loyalty, Cougar his speed.
And so on, and so forth.
Finally it came time that there were only two animals left to give their gifts: Lizard and Coyote.
Lizard said to them all - ‘I will give Man my five strong fingers, so that he might be as dexterous and do great things with them’ - for Lizard was very proud of his five fine fingers, and rightly so.
Coyote was jealous of this.
Man has too many advantages already, He cried, Why should he be granted any more?
Coyote yelled, and he stamped, and he made his points as well as he was able, but Lizard still would not relent. Envious and feeling spited, Coyote finally gave man his gift, as it was his (and the last) turn.
‘If you will give Man five fingers,' He announced, 'I will give him death.’
And so death came into being, not only for Man, but for all of the animals. The other beasts were shocked, and Coyote felt that his point had been sufficiently made. The gathering dispersed, and so he went about his business and soon forgot about the entire matter.
One day not long after, Coyote’s son went to the river to fetch water. As he was there, the stream rose up into the heads of a thousand lightning serpents, who set about biting and stinging him to death. The waters washed up and carried his body away. There could be no rites.
And Coyote wept, for he knew it was by his doing that the river had taken his son.
This is why Coyote always walks with Death, to watch and guard against it.
-
*
“I don’t do no interesting shit no more, it’s depressing. Can’t remember the last time I was seeing eyes on shit what weren’t there.”
-
*
“Fuck did it get so cold out. They got actual seasons here or somethin’?”
“Crazy shit, isn’t it?”
“Dunno why everyone don’t enchant their fuckin’ forests. Be a whole lot nicer.”
-
*
He wakes in a shaky haze, sweat cold on his skin and his own hand clamped to his throat.
The infirmary is dim: lit greyly in the ever-present glow of conjured light. Another man lies drowsing just across from the little bed, his stick-thin form draped over the chair like a strange marionette. The puppet show that no one wants to see.
the boot crushes down on his chest
he can’t shift it
too heavy
pinned just like a
bug
just like a
Slowly he realizes that he is shaking.
-
*
“Probably couldn’t pull of the Cenarion look anyway.”
“Fuck that. I like green.”
“Doesn’t look Cenarion on you.”
“What. Just ‘cause I ain’t. A cow. Or a dog. Or a…or. Purple. No. I like it.”
“Too bad. Looks more fel.”
“Well. It’s fucking red now anyway, so.”
-
*
"What's in the hold, sir?"
-
*
“Th’fuck’s wrong with your hands?”
“They hurt.”
“You stick them under a cartwheel, what?”
“Somethin’ like that.”
-
*
It flutters outside the edge of his vision and it’s a struggle not to
- snap.
-
*
“'Stop and smell the roses' they say. Well you finally do an' 's all. Just. Bullshit. Fuckin' bullshit from fuckin' liars. Don’t smell like nothin’.”
“That’s ‘cause they’re fake.”
“…Oh.”
-
*
Undershirt, overshirt (collar tucked up high), sweater, coat, gloves, scarf, cloak, hood.
It couldn’t cover everything. But it was close.
-
* [TW: GORE.]
“I thought you didn’t remember your dreams.”
“Generally try t’avoid it.”
-
* [NSFW, naked guy.]
“What the fuck are you doing.”
“Uh.”
-
*
“That’s why y’burn them.”
-
*
“Fuck that.”
-
*
“What the fuck."
"What."
"There’s a spider. Living in your eyes.”
“Fuckin’ told you, didn’t I?”
-
* [NSFW, naked guy.]
“D'you feel transcendent?”
“I feel like death.”
“Death’s pretty fuckin' transcendent, you gotta admit.”
-
*
hello feral
He whispers, fingers spidering up in front of his eyes. They dig, claw new furrows in face, wide troughs to spill the hunger into.
and how are we doing today?
-
*
everything was moving
he could taste the lights behind his teeth sunk deep into the space behind her eyes
the delicate skin folded in the crease where bone met cartilage met just plain empty fucking space
and
it tasted good.
-
*
...quick to pick fights with the older children...
-
*
He drew the delicate tip of the quill along the page, pressing in the neat lines where stalk met stem met stamen met stammer met -
“Excuse me? I’m looking for a Maevra Longshadow?”
An upright man in upright robes, peering down over the counter with a questioning lift of his brow. Vorrick stared back up, uncertainty crowding his own features. Snapped out of his reverie like the twig the liner had left behind.
“She ain’t here right now.”
He didn’t hear the man's reply, eyes already torn back to the page.
-
*
“Anyone wants in my head, fuckin’ let 'em. There’s a reason I don’t care t’spend much time in my own right mind.”
-
*
“No, nngh. No. You. You’re pretty.” He slurred, shoving a hand forward to snag in the other man’s hair. “Got. Got…fancy hair an’ shit. What do I got?”
He paused, though whether from dramatic effect or inability to remember his point - it would have been difficult to guess.
“…Hair. Always comes back down to hair.”
He shook his head unhappily.
-
Text-only drabbles/bits:
01. There was freedom on the rooftops.
You could get up there easily enough, if you knew where to climb. The smooth-sided buildings of the better parts of town gave way to cracks and crumbles farther out west.
Stacked crates served as ladders up to the better handholds, the places where determination turned stonework over to open air, free space to climb and leap.
If you were careful and clever, you'd never have to touch ground.
He’d been halfway across the first dome before he heard Maevra calling. It only sped his pace along. Behind him there were only more tasks to be done. Bottles to clean. Ingredients to sort. Floors to sweep. Words to learn. Boredom.
Ahead there was only possibility. Adventure.
Hand over hand, he snaked his way up along another wall. Higher now - he dashed to leap off the edge, clinging tight to the next. The impact smashed the air from his lungs and a satisfied grin onto his face.
Up again, once more, then down. Reckless, he ran along the sky of the city, rounded rooftops slipping beneath his bare feet. He paused at the edge of an elley, ears pricking, caught by the noise and blur of shapes below.
They had Joslin Firetree cornered. His runtish form was squared off defensively against the group, skinny back to the wall. Vorrick peered curiously from the rooftop as they closed in, stalking like wary kittens. He could see Joslin’s hands fight not to move up from his sides, ears pressed back in a grim determination thoroughly out of place upon his round little face.
Vorrick hated Joslin. Everyone did. He was talented, all the adults said. He had a true gift, a knack for the arcane, excelling far beyond what any boy his age should have been able to do. How many times had he heard it? From the tutors, from his parents, from the customers in the shop.
That Joslin Firetree, he'll go far. You should take a page from his book.
He’d been there as Vorrick had left the academy for the last time, Maevra’s hands clamped too tight to his shoulders. He’d watched the instructor escort them out, he’d been careful to catch Vorrick’s eye.
Vorrick remembered that smug smile. He remembered how he’d laughed.
His fingers curled more tightly around the tiles. Below, Fivreth Skyfeather was advancing forward from the others. Ten years old, but big enough to be pushing twelve. He didn’t have any knack with magic either - not that it stopped him from all but owning the ground between Plume and the Wend. Charismatic, aggressive and strong, he trod the narrow line between bully and fearless leader like a tightrope walker.
Vorrick hated him too.
“C’mon, we just want to see what you can do. Just show us what you can do.” Fivreth grinned to Joslin, arms out, palms open at a mocking ease.
Joslin wasn’t dumb enough to fall for it, he’d been on the receiving end of Fivreth’s fists too often not to realize now how quickly they could spring into action. Uncertain of his options, he cast a nervous glance about, sizing up the chances to run. A small throng of children choked the mouth of the alley, spectators preventing escape.
“I-I’m, I’m not supposed to.” He stammered quietly. “I don’t want to hurt you. Don’t make me hurt you.”
“You won’t hurt me, come on, there’s no reason for that. You don’t want them mad at you, do you? You know they’d be mad.” Fivreth mock-chided, lunging closer. Joslin let out a small nervous squeak, almost tripping as he pressed himself further back against the alley stone.
“I’ll - I’ll do it, don’t make me, you know they’d be angry, I could hurt you, you know. I won’t - I won’t do it, just don’t -“
Joslin was an asshole. But Fivreth was a bigger one.
Vorrick darted an arm out, swinging himself around and down from the rooftop, eyes scrunched tightly shut until he felt the shock of impact traveling up through his feet. Rolling out and up, he crouched - head twisting around to dispense a brief glare to the group at the alley’s mouth. They hung back, not sure what to make of the new arrival.
“Fuck off, Longshadow.” Came Fivreth’s bored drawl. He didn’t bother to look over, eyes still fixed on Joslin with predatory focus. ”We’re just having a talk, here. A private talk.”
“Looks pretty public t’me.”
“Maybe your eyes got addled with the rest of your head then. You know, when your ma dropped you on it comin' back from fuckin' half Lordareon.”
“Go away, retard.” Joslin called out in a relieved rush of diverted hostility. “Go back to your own street.”
Vorrick tipped his head to the side, tiny hands curling into fists.
“Shut the fuck up, Firetree.”
Fivreth spared Joslin one last, appraising glance before turning to face Vorrick. Taking a heavy step forward, his brow furrowed in amusement.
“Last warning, Longshadow.”
“That what they told your da ‘fore they kicked his soggy ass outta th’Rangers?”
He dodged the first fist. The second caught his nose, crushing the soft cartilage and sending him reeling, Dizzied, he lunged back in, knuckles lashing out. The pain was distant in the rush of the moment, little more than a dim promise of bad things to come.
He felt his teeth sink in, tasted blood. Elation soared through his veins even as his legs kicked out beneath him, even as the ground rushed up to meet the back of his skull and the thick pummel of feet crashed in on his ribs.
To the side, Joslin Firetree slipped quietly away, forgotten.
-
02. “…So I’m just gonna write ‘regards’, is that okay with you?”
“I said write what I fuckin’ said, didn’t I?”
“So you want me to call your supplier a ‘shithead fuckerlord’?”
“What? No! Why th’fuck’d you do that?”
-
Undead ponderings:
Vorrick used to be accepting of - if wary around - the undead.
When he found his mother’s body, she showed clear signs of having been risen before being re-killed. This, along with having a large number of family in Lordareon prior to the third war (one or two of whom ended up forsaken, although he doesn’t know it and they’re very distantly related at best) always left him with the unhappy, uncertain knowledge that someone he cared about could have ended up that way.
As a result, while he was a bit vehemently against people toting ghouls around Silvermoon and in public (seriously how fucking tasteless can you get) he kept a polite distance from members of the intelligent undead.
Well, Vorrick’s definition of polite. Which includes asking questions like whether they eat people, and what that tastes like, and what’s the rot situation like down there, and can you still get trashed because that would suck to not be able to, and so can you still bone shit or what’s up with that.
Then he met TLF.
They actually did a fair bit to improve his impression of undead, for a while there. Or rather, Rain’s association with them did, and his feelings about ghouls even sweetened a bit. But when things fell apart, they fell apart quickly and in a big way.
Any trust that Vorrick had in the undead died when Tisephone did, and for the next half year or so, things only went further downhill.
These days, the only death knight he really trusts is Calida. Even then, he’s a horrible verbally abusive asshole and a giant bag of dicks to her, because he just can’t get past her unliving status.
Also because she’s Regina George.
Various twitter writers have done a little to soften his attitudes - at least those that he presents publically. He’s not quite as verbally frothing as he was for a little bit after his resurrection there. But he still wouldn’t ever turn his back to former Scourge, particularly anyone involved in That Group.
He doesn’t believe Traejan or anyone else unliving involved in all of that have actually redeemed themselves. His view of Thistle as Okay is just as much linked to Thistle’s pulse as anything else.
Arguments in the book like the ‘emotional maintenance’ one with Alanada only serve to reinforce in his mind that the undead aren’t, can’t and shouldn’t be a part of living society - that they’re fundamentally different from people now.
That death knights essentially feed on destruction and suffering is what unnerves him the most about it all.
There’s always the question at the back of his mind when a Knight talks about fighting for the Horde or the Argents or anything else:
That’s great, but what about when there’s no enemies left to fight?
He doesn’t trust the forsaken either, but he’s had less contact with them. And Death Knights definitely top out his shit list.
-