Writing Prompt: Death becomes you.

Wyrmrest Accord
Traleda- RIght off the bat, the first person POV was a nice touch. So was the struggle she endures to control her powers, how it is more of a fight for her to keep it inside than to actually let it loose and destroy her enemies. A battle of will, so to speak. It reminded me of the Hulk, and not in a lame way- how she would rather use the Light but how sometimes when she is overwhelmed by her emotions, the Shadow takes control despite her best efforts, and when it does, good luck to those unfortunate to be around. I am not too familiar with MoP and thus the Sha, but from what I understand that was a nice touch to throw in as well.

That was the first prompt I ever answered on these forums, and I'm glad you like my writing.

Part of me wishes I hadn't canceled (waiting for the first of June for it to run out), but I just don't see prompts like this one often enough.
The sound of combat raged all around, clashing steel and bloodthirsty screams of valiant combatants creating a brilliant crescendo of spectacularly violent noise. In the heat of combat men died, crushed against a brilliant orcish offensive which left Alliance forces struggling to regain control. In the flush of bloodlust orcs fell, as kaldorei arrows spit from the sky like deadly hail against Horde raiders; a culling wave to hold the last line of defense in the wilds of krasarang. All around death was dealt equally sparing none it could grasp. All around, except for a single tent.

Megan was used to the sounds of violence. On Draenor, in Outland, fleeing the Legion and now in lending her healing skills to the Alliance, it was difficult to recall what parts of her long life were not stepped in battle. Outside of her humble tent men and women died. In here, they were saved.

“Meghan! Got another!” a surly dwarf in heavy armor announced his arrival before pushing his way through the cool blue tent flap, fully supporting the weight of a man cut deep and oozing blood.

No time wasted she rolled up a sleeve to relieve the dwarf of the dying human, a combination of her height and strong frame making the task a relatively easy one. Several cots were already filled with the few wounded that could be pulled from the combat that crept ever closer, lining the cloth walls of her medical tent. A single operating table dominated the center of the makeshift medical facility, filling space neatly. If reinforcements didn’t arrive soon she would be forced to abandon her position, a task that would require her to choose which one to save.

“How wound? Is stab? Knife?” Megan spoke with flat haste to the dwarf, her accent adding a rough edge to her common tongue. Without waiting for a reply she had already begun work, letting a soothing flow of rainwater pour from her palm to wash the soldiers wound as she eased the mans flesh together.

“Dunnah, picked em up aftah holdin off greenskins from the flank. We doin good so far lass, a few more minutes an-”

Looking up in surprise Megan scowled as the dwarf lurched forward, a short sword biting deep into the back of his thick neck. Triumphantly the soldier’s killer stood behind him, tall with powerfully built cords of muscle strained tight against green skin. Loosely armored and favoring his right with a viciously serrated blade the orc warrior tossed aside the still gurgling dwarf, lurching forward toward Megan with a toothy grin.
Furiously she put her hand down on the human that lay beside her, drawing a pained moan from the man while she glared down at the dwarf now bleeding freely into the ground. Disgusting. How dare this stupid orc come into her tent? How dare he kill that moronic dwarf, spill his blood in her outpost? Threaten her patients? Sully her reputation?

“Idiot!” she challenged the orc, grabbing a scalpel from the adjacent table and tossing it at the warrior’s face.

With expert reflexes the orc raised a meaty hand to deflect the projectile, knocking aside the surgical tool with ease. Sword raised to strike he watched in surprise as the draenei healer leapt over the operating table away from him, stumbling as the metal frame flipped from her weight. Barreling forward over the fallen table hastily the orc swiped at the woman as she stumbled deeper into the tent.

Quickly grabbing a steel tray she turned just in time to catch an ill-balanced swing of the deadly blade, the sheer force of the blow tossing her backwards into the cool earth and against the cot of a sleeping patient. Her defensive tray tossed uselessly aside Megan quickly spun round, kicking herself away from her attacker with focused desperation.

Snarling with hate Megan pounded a fist into the ground, watching as the orcish warrior was just clearing the table and regaining his balance. Swinging down to deliver a death blow the orc was caught off guard for a second time as knotted roots smashed through the earth at Megan’s summons, wrapping around the warriors legs and yanking backwards to throw him wildly to the ground. Still holding onto his blade firmly the warrior wasted no time spinning round on his back to slash at the summoned wood, attempting to free himself just as Megan’s hoof stomped down hard on his forehead. Slightly dazed, his focus on freeing from the summoned plants was disrupted as Megan ground her hard hoof into his face with spite.

“Stupid! Stupid, ugly!” she spat down at the proud orc, raising her hand to the sky to call a bolt of lightning down through her body.

Jolted as the current pumped from the sky through her hand into the orc she frowned with disappointment as the majority of her spell was grounded through the remaining roots still wrapped around his legs. Looking at her medical tent in dismay Megan couldn’t help but feel another surge of anger; the cloth ceiling torn, her operating table bent and tossed aside, a gnome patient somehow knocked from its cot in all the madness.

“Everything alright in-” a human soldier had just burst into the tent, looking about in surprise with shield and sword ready. Focusing on the orc the man looked to Megan in shock, taking a glance behind him as he added, “What happened to him?”

“Is brain trauma.” Megan spat, bringing her hoof down hard on the orc’s skull one final time.
I ended up writing a journal entry for Philomene and realizing it fit the theme of this writing prompt, so here you go! Not how she'd like to be remembered, I'm sure. :3

<undated scribble, the lines meandering and uneven>

I have had a dream. My assailant's face becomes Cartheg's, it becomes Il'amare's, it becomes mine. I have been trying not to write of dreams, nor of the most terrible moments of battles. But I cannot sleep now and I must purge this from my head.

It was the sound of flint on steel. I looked down the tidy rows of cots in the infirmary, less than half full. No one stirred and no one was due for attention. The moons were beautiful when I stepped outside the great canvas tent that serves as overflow infirmary, where the non-critical cases are sent. I heard the sound again and moved toward it, planning on begging a cigarette from whoever was out back. Instead of the familiar spot of brightness, instead of a glowing cherry I saw a lick of flame.

The canvas was being lit. I hurried forward, out of the torchlight and further behind the tent, yanking my cloak from my shoulders. It was then that I was tripped. I did not trip; I was tripped. I landed so close to my objective that my fingers were scorched. I think I yelped something stupid and shoved my cloak into it to smother it, and as I did I began to process what my shins had already realized: it was flesh that stopped me from stepping forward. It was flesh I fell over, live flesh and not dead flesh. The source of the flint and steel sounds.

Someone was on me. I rolled. I shoved him into the guttering mess of the canvas and part of it started to cave in. I scrambled, wasting a moment cursing and reaching for my shortblade only to realized I didn't have my f---ing swordbelt on. I spat Words at him only to have them slide off like rain on stone. Magical protections? No time to wonder. There was a cart loaded with bodies ready for cremation; I levitated it at him, spilling them all over him, the canvas, the smoldering that might have already become a blaze were the humidity not so high. I heard other voices, yelling in Orcish.

I screamed, "Raid!" and the sin'dorei rolled into one of the supports for the canvas. It all came down as I leapt for him; I was floundering blindly through yards of canvas, over corpses, struggling to find a place to fight in it even though I was crawling. I found an ankle and the foot attached kicked me in the gut. I remember thinking,
I crawled out of a prison not once, but twice, for this? To die under a tent? My hand found something hard and then we found air, space. I dragged the whatever it was with me and I struck not even certain it was a foe at that point.

It was. He went down and I spit another spell only to find the same result as afore, so I reared up to strike again with the smooth hard metal in my hands, the curved rim biting against the undersides of my fingers as I brought it down. His boiled leather helm did not serve him well. I hit him over and over.
No, I thought. No. I thought it and brought the metal down and thought it and brought the metal down. It was like chopping wood. I will not die here. No. I will not die under a tent. NO.

And that, clever book, is how I found myself beating an elf to death with a bedpan in the magical land of Pandaria. Now that I have written it, perhaps I can get some sleep.
With a sickening thud, Veiss fell to the ground.

"No!" Gage cried out. He raised his axe to parry an incoming strike, then swept it wide, easily slicing a bastard ghoul's arm from his shoulder. The young paladin fell to his knees and turned the senior elf's head to the side. There was no light in his old friend's eyes.

Gage roared and rose to his feet, wading through the thick of the fight. His cruel weapon flashed and swung, knocking cultists and their disgusting undead companions away as he pursued his quarry. Those who were not flung wide were swiftly relieved of their meager spirit as Gage's wicked axe arced. Behind him, he heard his cousin wail in anguish as she found her husband's corpse amidst the tumult.

He was relentless. He tore across the battlefield as if it were paper, and he were sharpened shears. In his rage and grief, he judged every unliving soul on this field and found them wanting. Those who were not dead yet, he pitied. Did they truly believe there was a special place for them within the scourge when they fell?

When at last he spotted the flash of that ragged, crimson cloak, he paused, gathering all of his strength. Gage hurled his axe, the glinting blade slicing though the air with a low hum.

The Death Knight's head was separated from his shoulders cleanly, and with very little gore.

It was not satisfying.

Gage made to retrieve his weapon, and as he hefted it by its familiar shaft, he found himself overcome by his actions. Behind him, a swathe of destruction he, himself, had wrought. Around him, the battle raged on. He was enveloped by death screams, the feral moans and growls of the undead and the squelching of steel biting into flesh, bashing against shields.

A young woman with the flush of life in her cheeks charged him, dark energy crackling around her hooked fingers.

Gage wept as he split her from stem to stern, and paused to close her eyes.

This poor, foolish girl.


Little late, sorry. I meant to post this a while ago, but I got busy.
Night, long fallen over the thick, dense jungle that was Krasarang, painted the landscape with dark, thick colors, the colors suited to glorious beasts, the perfect predators, and those who strove until their last weak breath to become as close as they possibly could to them.

Kaz had long before dropped his axes to the soft earth below, standard issue for a loyal horde solider. He wouldn't be needing those anymore, his patience had worn thin, and then into nothing, with this horde under Garrosh. This place suited him though, suited his needs, his wants, his desire, this place, the untamed wilds, he felt was shaped around his very core, his very being. Quietly he stalked through the high growth and under the large, jutting roots of trees so ancient to him, following prey that would substance him for another day.

As he followed his prey, a great crane, he would neither hear nor see the one that stalked him, as it moved lithely silently through the brush as he did, its slight frame and wiry body melding to the colors of the jungle a short bow held always in its hand, the quiver of arrows in reach.

The crane had stopped, it needed water. Kaz sensing his opening, silent as he could manage slipped up behind the majestic beast, preparing to give into the inner beast as his first friend had taught him, when the orcs had first met the Darkspear. Gripping the broken tusk around his neck he silently offered pray to the troll, before, in a blur Kaz jumped upon the beast as it went back down to drink. His inner beast came to the surface, all animal instinct, savagery, and cunning as he wrapped his large hands around the neck of the crane, clawed nails digging into the soft flesh as it gave its last screech, its death rattle. He thanked the wilds for providing him the means to live another day.

As the unknown stalker flitted through the growth, watching the savage display as the sinewy orc claimed the life of the great bird. Carefully it knocked an arrow stepping a few inches to the side, lining up a shot. The arrow aimed for the heart, it was better to avoid a confrontation with a primal.

Kaz's eyes darted up, a stick had broken a few yards behind him, he turns up his head, sniffing at the air, a scent, though heavily disguised, came to him one he knew well, one he had snuffed times before. The bow twanged, the primal moved, not much but enough to prevent the kill shot. Another arrow knocked as Kaz crys out a raw challenge fleeing into the tall foliage of the jungle. The stalker pursued, though quickly lost the orc. Taking but a moment to scan the area sniff around, though it did little good.

A few feet ahead the stalking walked into a moonlight opening, a trivial mistake for a night elven hunter. Birds, disturbed from their tree was all the elf knew in his last moments, he never felt the claws rip across his throat, never saw the orc dressed in pelts again, his first shot was his last, as he was shamed. Kaz smirked as he faded again into the under brush. Nothing would drag him down, he was one with the beasts, with the jungle, as the jungle was home to him.

Best I could do off the top of my head >.>
The orc flailed in the water, unable to reach the bottom and worse - unable to swim. The heavy plate armor was dragging him down as he went under - then felt the bottom - a foot further, perhaps two. Oh, what he wouldn't've given to be a Tauren then, they could've stood and walked out. But not him, oh no.

The human stood at the edge of the small lake, far out of reach, staring at him. Waiting. He could see the stitching in the robes, smeared with blood and muck from the battle. Yesterdays' battle, but still--

"You will leave him alone, sergeant." ....the stern voice of the commander came to him as if the blood elf were standing next to him. Who was the moron that made a blood elf the commander of this force anyway?

"But he's defiling our dead!"

"No, you fool....he's giving respect" The elf turned to the orc "Which, I suspect, is far more than you would do, Kor'kron."

Then the elf turned with a flutter of long cloak, striding away to bark orders and sending people scurrying in all directions. The sergeant looked back down the hill to the battlefield, and the solitary soul picking it's way through it.

Rage welled up in him. Blood elves were traitors, he knew, this was just another example of their ways. Garrosh would deal with them soon enough. All of them. The seargeant didn't realize he'd tapped heels to the flanks of his wolf until it was well on it's way down the hill. Drawing his pitted sword the orc gave a great warcry, fully expecting the sword to slice the otherwise unsuspecting priest in half.

...The man glanced up, the look of surprise was satisfying--until he felt something clench his heart, making his limbs turn to water. Losing his grip on the wolf he tumbled from the saddle and fell into the muck, rolling to a stop.

Carefully the orc stood as the human carefully backed up until a boot splashed into the edge of the lake. The orc sneered, pulling his sword from the earth and walked toward the man. A vague gesture to stop caused a deep chuckle to erupt. Cowardly human, cowardly blood elf, he would show them that the orcs were superior and fit to rule all of Az----

The thought was interrupted, with a few paces left between the pair - the orc suddenly standing rigid, muscles bulging with strain. Damned priests! Damn them all!!!

A look of deep concentration was on the mans face now as he made a slow smooth gesture toward the lake - and the orc mechaically started walking. Step by slow step the orc strode right past the priest, and into the water. First one splash, then another, then a swish up to his knees, then waist...on and on until the water was up to his chin.

Then the orc disappeared for a second, erupting from the water in a great leap past where he could stand. And then his body was returned to him.

Julian stood on the edge of the lake, shoulders slumped watching the orc flail in the deeper water for a painfully long time. He waited many seconds after the final ripples stopped before he turned away - to see a blood elf sitting atop a hawkstrider with the reins of the riding wolf in his hands. The blood elf gave him a nod, then rode back up the hill to the horde encampment. With a tired sigh, Juilan sought his horse to return to his own.
The older smuggler looked at the young female goblin in front of him with an amused cast to his features. Young of course being a relative term for goblins. He didn’t become one of Gazlowe’s highest ranking smugglers by being a fool, and he didn’t like this upstart. Neither did his companions. You didn’t just break into the smuggling business, you had to work under somebody, you had to move up, and this Bilgewater Cartel floozy was a newcomer.

“So yeah, that’s what I want.” The female goblin said brightly, twisting her loose and curly black hair around a finger. “A seventy percent cut and shipping rights to Gadgetzan, Sen’jin Village, and maybe Bilgewater Harbor. Whaddaya think?” She grinned disarmingly at the three older goblins at the table. Gazlowe had declined to show up, he usually didn’t, being of the position that he didn’t -care- who smuggled or how, so long as it was happening and he was getting an exorbitant cut of the profits.

“And why...” responded the smuggler with a grin of his own, this one containing far more malice. “Should we allow this when we can just demand your stock and cut you out of the shipping entirely? Whaddaya gonna do without our services? Ship overland?”

“Well nah! Of course not! Duh.” She responded with a convivial smile. “But you also aren’t going to -get- any other group sending in a steady influx of stock. This is a golden opportunity to break into this market.” She gestured at the stack of papers held down by the paperweight in front of her on the table. “All the projections are right there!” The goblins around the table looked flatly back at her.

Another of the smugglers spoke up, also a female, and gazed impassively at the young goblin across the way. “What did you say your name was?”

“Sally, Sally Whipslice.”

“And what was it you did again?”

“I’s brew potions and stuff.”

The third goblin chimed in. This one with slicked back hair and vicious red eyes that appraised her with calculating efficiency. When he met her eyes, he allowed himself a small smile. “And what makes you think you can -run- your end of the smuggling operations if we were to allow you a place here?”

“Assuming I’m even entertaining the idea Leth. We got a good thing goin’ here and I ain’t gonna blow it on some broad with no experience. Besides we’re already splittin’ heavy with Gazlowe with the three of us.” The oldest goblin glared at his slick-haired associate.

“That’s up to a vote according to our by-laws... isn’t it Rezlock?” The female goblin looked over her spectacles and quirked a brow at the oldest goblin.

“Yeah... and I’m weighted for two votes on account of seniority, Mizill. What do we gain from moving hot merchandise stolen from the Horde out of Ratchet? Even if it’s on the hush?”

“No risk, no reward.” Lethe sipped on his drink casually and gave Rezlock a quiet look.

“Yeah yeah!” Responded Sally. “For sure!”

Rezlock gave her a baleful glance. “You’ll fahgive me if I remain unconvinced by yah’s plaintive request.” He stood up and placed his hands on the short table. “Yah’s can excuse yahself from -my- conference room anytime.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. Rezlock stared across the table at Sally, meeting her genial eyes. Leth simply leaned back in his chair and sipped his drink. Mizill adjusted her spectacles. There wasn’t any sound except for the faint crashing of waves outside the fan-cooled apartment and the complaining of seagulls in the air.

“Well...” Sally said with a disappointed tone. “I mean I guess that’s it then. Just a little itty bitty thing though before I go.”

“Oh?” The smuggler responded with a raised eyebrow, his patience was becoming tested, with a gesture to the door he motioned the Hobgoblin muscle to take a step forward.

“Yeah.” Sally stood up, twisting the cascading curls of her hair once more, grinning a naive grin.... “See the thing is...” And with a sudden fluid movement almost too fast to see she whipped the hand away from her hair and threw a small concealed knife. The hobgoblin tried to react but was far too slow. The knife buried itself in the creature’s thick skull, but only gave it slight pause before it raised its club. In an instant, Sally kicked off the table and grabbed the heavy iron grenade casing that had been functioning as a paper weight, and leapt at the Hobgoblin just as the club crushed the silk-upholstered chair she had been sitting on. With a thrust of her palm she slammed the paperweight into the hilt of the throwing dagger, plunging it the rest of the way into the hobgoblin’s skull and puncturing its tiny brain. She then turned to Rezlock who was only now reacting. "That wasn't a request."
Too slowly. He stood up and put a hand to his mouth, ready to yell out, but only the first syllable escaped. “Sec--! GHHK!” From across the table the heavy iron bomb casing was flung like a shot put directly into his throat, momentarily silencing him. He desperately tried to scrabble to the window... tried to open it...

But it was too late, as he undid the latch and opened the window he tried to catch his breath, only to have it slammed shut and latched once more. He looked up to see the young goblin in front of him. Her eyes no longer naive and hopeful, her smile no longer genial and disarming, and the air of youthful exhuberance gone. All of it replaced by a gleeful malice. Somehow while crossing the conference room she had gotten a letter opener in her hand. She turned to the other two goblins who were quickly composing themselves after the shock. “So you two and me are good right? Because I’d really hate to burn this bridge.”

Leth simply nodded. “This was in fact what we were after. So yeah, we’re good.”

“Giving him majority profits was always a little annoying. Especially when our margins started shrinking.” Mizill calmly adjusted her spectacles and busied herself reorganizing papers.

Sally grabbed the oldest smuggler by his combover and forced his head up. “Chairman of the Board, did you want to add your weighted vote?”

Rezlock opened his mouth to speak. “Fuh-- HARKH!” His statement was cut short by a brutal kick to his chest, knocking the wind out of him.

“The Chairman has decided not to voice his opinion. Motion carries!” And with several vicious stabs, and a twist of his neck, Sally ended the life of Rezlock.

There was a moment of silence in the room, Mizill finished organizing the papers, Leth simply chuckled.

Mizill broke the silence. “Well, now that that’s been taken care of...” She turned the page on the meeting schedule and crossed out a line, then stood and walked over to Rezlock’s former seat. “Second order of business...”

Sally grinned and dropped the letter opener before walking calmly over to where Mizill had been sitting. She was going to enjoy the coming weeks.
I know this is a bit necromantic, but I really did want to reply to those of you who took the effort to post. It is just hard for me to find the time to do anything more than random quick comments, and these deserved more thought than that. Also, I don't think there is an expiration date on creativity; all of these stories are just as relevant as when they were written. I won't be replying to any more after these, but I do hope that if anyone still feels inspired by the set-up that they go ahead and share.

Enekie- I am sure you are aware that I am a fan of your writing from your other posts, so I will try to be specific to the one you put in this thread. One of the things I love about your stories are your dialogues. It is hard to write realistic conversations between characters; having each one speak with not only a unique voice but to say things that don't sound forced or shoehorned in is fairly difficult. You always nail it, and this one was no exception. The scenario was also very unique in not only his death, but how you presented it as already having been set in motion, and her sticking around to talk to him as he died to make sure. It was easy to picture, this quiet moment between killers of different kinds. I know you like to present Enekie as this ruthless scoundrel type, but you always manage to throw in just enough to show that while she may sometimes be dishonorABLE, she is not entirely honorLESS. While I may not always agree with your position on my people- trust me, I have written a TON of hastily banged out replies before deleting them, mostly along the lines of "NO! NO! NO! NO! ARGHHH ORC SMASH!!!"- but you are a pretty driving force of creativity and debate for our server, and for that you should be commended.

Even if you are wrong about orcs. :)

Kurshaw- No more excuses about not being able to write well. Immediately you could get a sense of the intensity of the situation- having her count off the feet to the cliff was a nice touch. You could instantly see her sprinting towards the ledge, the bullets screaming by- and into her, the angry pursuit... it all added up to give a clear image of how much danger she was in. You also did a good job incorporating druidic powers into her escape. Then having her jump to her supposed doom (the laughter was another nice little detail; it demonstrated her fearlessness in a very simple way) only to be swept up by her mount and immediately turn the tables on her attackers gave the reader a reason to pump their fists a little. The last paragraph describing the way she left her enemy was written in a very elegant manner, almost haiku-ish in spirit if not structure. Really cool.
Selynth- Very descriptive! The first thing that struck me was how her singing voice had changed when she became Forsaken. The idea that it was the same, yet tainted by something sinister, was worded very well. It tied into how her demeanor and words might be considered fairly pleasant, except because of what she was and the circumstances, there was an undertone of something... just... wrong. Very creepy. It was unsettling, and you could tell how it was effectively needling the orcs. As the story progressed and the tension built up, you did a great job of finally unleashing her. When she did attack, it was really cool to see the juxtaposition of how you had described her up to then compared to the sheer savagery of her attack. The extremity of the violence vs her "positive" attitude was very sociopathic. I could see her pinning this orc down and just stabbing, and stabbing, and stabbing... and then you went even further by having her just bite the everloving... um... well, her biting him was intense as well, haha. Overall, you did a really good job of showing off just who your character was, why they were so dangerous, and I feel you really captured the essence of what a Forsaken is in how you depict Selynth. Shivery stuff.

Aloreia- Was not expecting that First off, your writing style is very eloquent, and I feel it was perfect for how you are trying to make your toon come across. It fit her sophistication and her ruthlessness; the scenario was very unique. It showed that just because she wasn't swinging axes into someone's face definitely does not mean that she wasn't just as powerful or dangerous, and in many ways, she is more so. A behind-the-scenes manipulator can be even more deadly than someone who is more in your face about it. The details put into the describing the atmosphere and setting really went a long way, and I liked how it was almost more of the focus than on the danger in play- as though your toon herself was more concerned with what was for brunch than this insect she had lured there to be killed. He was a side-note, a mere distraction from her daily routine, a fly to be brushed aside in between bites. Aloreia seems like a very powerful shadow-figure while maintaining this public persona of grace and elegance, but when it came time to get down to business, she does not screw around. Cold-hearted. Anyway, really well-done, and again, very unique, which is always good.

I will get back to the rest later, but my lunch date just arrived!

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