Writing Assignment: Riot in Stormwind

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uthas
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Writing Assignment: Riot in Stormwind

Postby uthas » Mon Jan 18, 2010 12:11 am

((

So, Uthas has been released and declared a free man with no consequences for his actions. The announcement was made publicly immediately after Uthas was escorted out of the courthouse door, in front of a giant mob of people. Not surprisingly, this touches of a riot in Stormwind.

The riot takes place on a fake day that can be considered as to have happened Wednesday the 19th, so as of Thursday, it's "yesterday".

Here is your writing assignment: What was your character doing during the riot? I've written up a brief outline of the way things fall out below, including some rumours that have flown around about it. Feel free to participate or not as you so choose.

Timeline -

5:00 pm - Uthas is released in Cathedral Square and the riot is kicked off.

5:15 pm - A few fires break out in Cathedral Square. Uthas and his guards disappear.

5:30 pm - The Cathedral of Light is set on fire.

6:30 pm - The rioting spreads across the bridge to the Trade District. Shops are smashed and looted.

6:45 pm - The Dwarven District portcullises are closed and the tram is shut down.

8:15 pm - The riots have spread to the other districts. In the Mage Quarter, the long standing rivalry between the mages and warlocks turns ugly, and magic is used openly between the two groups.

9:00 pm - The Stockades are nearly overrun by angry citizens trying to get in to the prisoners. The guards are forced to arm some of the prisoners, and the jail is put under siege.

9:15 pm - The Park is taken over by a racist faction of humans, who beat and violate many of the elves that fled there seeking a quiet place away from the rioters.

11:00 pm - Mathias Shaw is stabbed by a rioter and turns the full might of SI:7 and the Stormwind Guard loose on the crowds.

1:30 am - The fight between the mages and warlocks goes quiet after several huge purple flashes and explosions are seen in the sky.

1:45 am - Varian Wrynn and his personal guard leave the castle to assist in restoring the peace. Chants of "Van Cleefe Lives!" are heard.

2:15 am - The fires in Cathedral Square are put out.

2:45 am - When the Stormwind Guard reaches the Park, they find mounds of dead bodies, many of them half eaten by some type of animal. The Park is pacified.

5:00 am - Order is finally restored to the Trade District.

6 am - Smoke hovers over the city and bodies float in the canals.

For the next several weeks, the Stormwind Guard will be patrolling the streets and keeping order with their swords instead of clubs.

I've left Old Town mostly out of this, as I figure that's where a lot of the action for the Riders will take place. Old Town will get VERY bad during the riot, because the gangs are currently without a hand at the helm. Let me know if you have any questions or suggestions, and have fun!

Rumours -

Uthas planned the whole thing.
Uthas was a puppet of Varian Wrynn the whole time.
Uthas is really Edwin van Cleefe.
The night elves are leaving the Alliance over what happened in the Park.
When the Dwarven District was closed off, several clans used it as an excuse to do some "house cleaning".
Mathias Shaw is dead.
The mages released something terrible.
The fighting in the mage quarter was stopped by Rhonin.
The Cathedral of Light fire was started by the Scarlet Crusade.
Uthas murdered his guardsman and fled.
Uthas saved his guards and helped them hide from the rioters.
Elling Trias poisoned all of his cheese before fleeing his shop.
Tarquin ap Danwyrith was seen in the city.
Whatever killed those people in the Park is still in the city, and still hungry.
Renidus Funil is hunting for Uthas to murder him.
The Butcher killed and ate the people in the Park.

Feel free to add more rumours!

))
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Tirith Elohn
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Re: Writing Assignment: Riot in Stormwind

Postby Tirith Elohn » Mon Jan 18, 2010 4:09 am

Tirith Elohn is not entirely certain whether he is dead yet, but he's confident that a prognosis is forthcoming in good time.

And it remains unclear how exactly he has arrived wherever it is that he appears (as far as his limited sensory apparatus can perceive) to be. It's quite bright, with great arcs of energy searing his vision, and it's quite loud, or rather the reflexive shield protecting Tirith from being sundered utterly sizzles and cracks with a roar sufficient to eliminate any other sound. All this, he thinks, and yet a peculiar and overwhelming species of peace reigns over this place, if it can appropriately be called a place.

"Aim for Stormwind, land in the Twisting Nether. I should really be more careful."

Tirith's casual words vanish in the space between his mouth and the crackling barrier inches before it, not loud enough to carry even to his own ears as a thunderous rumbling accompanies a dangerous wavering in his frail protection. Somehow, he figures, he has bungled a teleportation spell (never his strong point, really) and it's an unfortunate catch-22, but the only way to escape this predicament is a much more difficult teleportation spell than the one he'd bungled in the first place. Ah, well. A fine chance to reaffirm his abilities, and no shortage of energy to work with here, in the space between worlds, the very source of magic itself.

That power corrupts is a generally undisputed principle. Less certain, Tirith believes, is the proposition that such corruption is a subtle, insidious process. It hasn't been his experience, at least.

These are the thoughts in the forefront of his mind as the last convulsions wrack his body, the world-sundering energy he channeled fading like the memory of an orgasm. His first inhalation of clear Azerothian air tastes of victory, which apparently tastes like ozone - and then, strangely, ash - but Tirith's eyes open to orange light from a column of smoke blocking the evening sun. Much more disquieting is the view as they follow the smoke to see the burning Cathedral far below him, by several thousand feet at least, and the Mages' district wreathed in a lurid purple light. The sensation of gravity comes next, then velocity, wind whistling in his ears before whipping at them. A minor miscalculation; perhaps he had a value in SI (Stormwind Imperial) units when Dalaran Standard were called for?

Tirith determines that it's not the time for the death-mocking game he'd been taught by emphatic example; he touches a glyph inscribed on a pocket of his robes (the one that once contained light feathers) to arrest the fall immediately, and paranoid speculation runs rampant in his thoughts as he vanishes and glides - as far away as possible - from the damage done in Stormwind.

Ovistine
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Re: Writing Assignment: Riot in Stormwind

Postby Ovistine » Tue Jan 19, 2010 12:09 pm

(( Two dwarves, one with partial amnesia, one who doesn't have as many friends in Stormwind as she'd like. Also, um, hi! This was a little too awesome to pass by with my usual lurkiness. ))

Ovistine sighed at the loud pounding on her front door. It was a little too easy to guess who the fist belonged to, but she supposed she'd put her mother off long enough. She swung the door open just as Nancie had raised her fist again; the two dwarves blinked at each other for a few seconds.

"Mum," Ovistine said, nodding.

"Lass." Nancie stood back, dropping her hand back to her side and clearing her throat. She didn't look much different, Ovistine thought--no new wrinkles, hair still up in its customary bun to hold it out of the way, still in the same fighting condition she'd been in last Ovistine had seen her. Her armor was a little different, and she wore a red tabard with two white mugs on it, the same sort of tabard Ovistine had seen on the other members of the Boomstick Gang. Ovistine had two such tabards--one red, one black--but hadn't been comfortable putting them on again just yet.

"Were you on your way somewhere?" Ovistine asked. She nodded at Nancie's armor. "Full gear, eh?"

"On me way back frae somewhere," Nancie admitted. "Jes' came frae th' tournament grounds. Still a lot o' folks what needs t' get shite off their backs before they can help Fordring an' company at th' Citadel. Still got a need fer folks t' keep th' peace."

Ovistine blinked at her mother. "An' that's you? Keeping the peace between us and the orcs?"

"Mostly," Nancie grumbled. "But--I didnae come t' talk about me. Wondered how ye were doin'."

"Well..." Ovistine sighed. "No closer to getting my memories back." Nancie winced and nodded. "But I have a little more incentive now, so I'm working on it."

"Aye--aye, that's good. We're all--me an' yer Da an' th' elf--we're all hopin' ye can find a way t' set things right."

"I wondered if I could talk to you about that."

"Which bit?"

"The--well." Ovistine glanced back at her door; nothing inside that wouldn't keep. "Have a walk with me?"

"Aye, o' course."

Some parts of Stormwind were much as Ovistine remembered them--the Dwarven District, for one, where her future self had apparently kept her flat, and the Library, and the Cathedral itself. Other parts were different; she didn't remember so many warships and steam tanks in the harbor, and the Park was full of elves--mostly druids, she'd learned. Agness had taken Ovistine to a knitting night at a bar in the Mage Quarter that Ovistine had no memory of at all, and for all there seemed to be a bit of a break between the shadow-users Agness was a part of and the arcane-types, it was easygoing enough.

As she and Nancie approached the bridge to Cathedral Square, things seemed anything but easy. A crowd was gathering near the courthouse; Nancie tensed and slid her shield off her back, leaving her axe at her side for now.

"What's all this?" Ovistine murmured.

"Dunno." Nancie was moving toward the courthouse, and Ovistine followed. Leave it to her mum to walk into danger every time, not away. Well, damn if Ovistine wasn't keeping up; maybe eight years ago she'd been too young, but Nancie wasn't trying to hold her back this time, and with all the things she'd learned about her powers in the last few weeks, no one could say she wasn't strong enough.

Four guards stood on the courthouse steps; Ovistine glanced at Nancie to see if her mum recognized any of them. "Babes," Nancie muttered. "An' not enough o' 'em, neither..."

There were whispers through the crowd, and Ovistine caught snatches of words that meant nothing to her. Plaguefather. Trial. Uthas...

"Feck," Nancie growled. She glanced at Ovistine. "Lass--this could be bad."

"Who's Uthas? Do I know him?"

Nancie's frown deepened. "Aye. Ye've traveled with 'im once or twice."

"Did he do what they're saying?"

"I used t' ask ye that. Ye never said." Nancie growled low under her breath. "Never understood why ye went workin' wi' th' so-called Ebon Blade, neither, but ye're me daughter. I stand by ye."

"I'm standing by you now," Ovistine said. She set her shoulders and lifted her chin. "If there's trouble, you'll have the Light backing your shield."

"Always do," Nancie said with a grin, but she grimaced at Ovistine's look of determination. "There's nowt I can say t' get ye t' go back home, is there?"

"Not a thing."

"A'right. Ye keep close, then."

"Aye, Mum."

Two men came out of the courthouse, and Nancie tensed all over again. "Feck." Her hand was on her axe now, and Ovistine heard her whispering out a prayer for strength, for the Light to shield her. Ovistine frowned. If it was just the two of them, then this Uthas was likely being released, and if he was innocent, why was her mother getting charged up for battle?

The crowd was sensing it too, now, and Ovistine forced herself to focus. The calm center of her was easier to find these days, as if years of discipline and training were as much a part of her as her braids, something that even eight years of memory loss couldn't steal from her. She was glad for that now.

The pardon was read, and as soon as Nancie heard In the name of King Varian Wrynn and Stormwind, so it is judged, she nodded. Ovistine had heard a lot of things about King Wrynn lately, but so far as her mother was concerned, it was clear that Wrynn had earned even deeper fealty in these last eight years--Wrynn's name was enough to seal a matter for Nancie, no matter what it might be.

The rest of the crowd was not so readily eased.

The first rocks flew and hit nothing, but by the time they'd landed, there were others. People were shouting, pushing, throwing anything they could get their hands on. Ovistine put up shields as quickly as she could, blocking people off from one another, protecting the innocent if she was able, but there were so many, so much anger, so many curses and shouts.

There was a crash of glass, and Ovistine whipped her head around to see what had happened. She could smell it before she saw it--smoke, and if there was smoke, then--

"Mum--Mum! There's fire--"

But looking around, she was beginning to see more than just that first plume of smoke. Her eyes went wide; riots, fire--Makers, what had Stormwind turned into while she'd been gone?

The grip on her braids jerked her out of her thoughts, and she sent a burst of holy magic into whoever it might have been--but it didn't shake the grip loose. She yelled as she got hauled off her feet, out of the crowd, and when she finally managed to get free and turn around, she glared at her mother. "I was helping--"

"Aye, an' we'll help a damn sight more if we get t' higher ground--"

Another crash of glass, but this time louder; Ovistine and Nancie both looked toward the Cathedral. One of the front windows had been smashed in, and Ovistine gasped out loud. Before Nancie could stop her, she was off and running, and Nancie could do nothing but keep up.

"Lass, no--"

"They're my friends--they'll be trapped--"

"Son of a fecking trogg--"

Up the stairs, then, past the crowd, Nancie's shield shoving through people and pushing them aside. The inside of the Cathedral blazed with light, mostly of the holy variety, but there were torches here, too, torches and furious people holding them. The paladins had already gathered into clusters, protecting the priests and--God help them all, the wee ones, the altar boys and girls were being guarded, too, the mob being too mindless by now to notice if children were getting caught in this. Ovistine rushed over to a group of paladins that were beginning to look overwhelmed, and Nancie joined her.

The lead paladin--someone Ovistine didn't recognize, damn it--swung her shield around, facing Nancie. "You," she snarled. "Come to help the rioters?"

"Ye want t' yell at me or ye want t' help people?" Nancie shot back.

"Still wearing red, Lighthammer? The more things change--"

"Shut yer feckin' trap and--"

The rock came in too high for Ovistine to see where it'd come from, and the lead paladin hadn't managed to get her helm on yet; the rock took her in the side of the head, and she went down. The torches were coming closer and closer, and Ovistine froze for just a moment as she realized just how many fecking banners and carpets and things you could bloody set on fire there were here--

She got a hand on Nancie's shoulder and squeezed, in spite of the fact that Nancie couldn't feel it through the plate. Her quick prayer for strength and fortitude was a little easier to notice, and Nancie drew herself up, shield at the ready.

"For me love an' me lass," Nancie muttered--Ovistine had never heard her mother's battle prayers before, but she knew what she was hearing all the same, "may th' Makers watch o'er me an' th' Light guide me."

For my parents, for my friends, the ones I know and the ones I don't, Ovistine thought, gathering all her power together and holding it close, holding it at the ready, and for the elf I'll go to when this is all over.

She pushed the first pulses of Light into her mother and prayed.

Bricu
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Re: Writing Assignment: Riot in Stormwind

Postby Bricu » Tue Jan 19, 2010 1:39 pm

((We should really ask our friends in the Sticks and the Rose to participate in this))
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Tarq
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Re: Writing Assignment: Riot in Stormwind

Postby Tarq » Tue Jan 19, 2010 9:26 pm

It wasn't much of a fortress, really; two stories high, oak and limestone, better described as "cozy" than "indestructible." The trimming around the windows needed a new coat of paint, and the drake on the roof (of which the less said, the better) had probably done some structural damage. But today, in these circumstances, the house on Comstock Street was Yva Darrows's bulwark against a city gone completely off its head, and she would be damned if any of the raving apes outside set one foot upon her pristine floor.

She felt more than saw the magic sizzling through the air. Of course. It just had to be here. The mages of Stormwind liked to hold themselves aloof, claiming a certain dignity, but when something like this happened they were no more immune to the clawing hunger of panic than carpenters or dockworkers. It would have been satisfying to see if it wasn't outside her home. She muttered a hasty phrase, making sure her wards were in place, and then raised her head to the window.

Comstock Street had become...not quite a battlefield. There was something almost ceremonial about the trio of mages arrayed on the eastern end, sheltered behind a makeshift barricade of wagons and their own protective spells - they floated up above the barricade, launched a hasty volley that ripped a glimmering scar in the air, and then descended to cower. It should have been a clockwork military drill, but their jerky movements and panicked expressions were visible even from her windowsill. Have they ever actually been in a fight before? As she watched, the biggest of the three drifted up and launched a salvo of firebolts down the street, then hurled himself back down without even bothering to see if they'd connected.

His apparent target had eschewed cover, for reasons that became obvious as soon as Yva turned her head to look. He wore the patched trousers and tunic of a day laborer, and couldn't have been much taller than her, but none of that really mattered compared to his shining green eyes and the felfire that snapped from his fingertips with every gesture. As the mage's volley hurtled towards him, he laughed contemptuously and brushed it out the air with a flick of his arm. The warlock's arm hung in the air for a moment, and then a hunting green tongue drifted lazily down the street and swirled into one of the wagons. Yva felt the shattering of invisible wards in her teeth, winced as the wagon split in a plume of green fire and the mages scrambled for another one. The scruffy warlock's laughter rang over the pyrotechnics.

"Oh, don't be so theatrical," she muttered, tapping her fingers on the windowsill. She watched the man advance down the street, his fiery whip - a whip? Why do you need a whip? - batting aside a pair of wavering, indistinct frostbolts flung out in a great hurry. The mages managed to reconstruct their network of wards, sheltering them from another slow flaming kiss. She turned her head back inside. "Jakob, it's amateur hour out here!" she called. "Honestly, you have to see this - he's like the villain in a bloody church play!"

Her eventual husband's voice echoed back through the house. "Are they trying to get into the house again?"

"No, I think the warlocks and mages are fighting!" She grimaced as the web of another ward splintered under the punch of a hundred tiny flaming stones. "Well, the warlocks are fighting - the mages are just hiding. Jakob, you should really come and see this!"

"Busy!" Jak's voice had that timbre that spoke to distraction with weighty matters. She sighed. He was probably going to ask her - "Is anyone going to die out there?" Yes, he was definitely going to ask her. A wrinkle creased the area between her thin black eyebrows. This isn't our fight, Jakob Balthasar. Just because Stormwind is going mad all of a sudden doesn't mean we have to join in.

She looked back out the window just as the warlock lifted his hand again, this time in a beckoning gesture, and called out in a musical, sing-song voice. "Come out and play, my darling!" It coalesced from a lamppost's thin shadow at the other end of the street, pitch and ink knitting itself into the slender limbs, generous...patches of localized non-slenderness, and hungry animal eyes of a succubus. Its whip coiled about the neck of the closest mage, and while the man choked, the demon looked between the other two seemingly paralyzed arcanists. Yva could smell her animal-in-heat reek even from here, and while she couldn't hear it whispering to the men, she could imagine it. Though she really did not care to, and felt vaguely soiled for even contemplating it.

"Yva? Is anyone going to die out there?"

Bloody fuck. Fine.

"No, dear!" She sighed, whispered her wards for the seventeenth or eighteenth time, and stepped out into the sky. Immediately she realized the gravity of her error. I should have worn trousers. Clutching her dress against the breeze, she hurriedly descended to the street, cursing furiously in the corner of her mind where she allowed herself to do so. The warlock really was a tiny man, shorter even than Shael O'Connaugh, but still just a bit taller than her. He looked, for lack of a better word, flabbergasted, but instinct kicked in and his absurd felfire whip hurtled through the air at the tiny red-faced woman in last spring's dress. Yva watched it descend, whispering barely pronounceable syllables to herself, and at the last second reached up and caught the fire in a hand mottled black with power. "I'm sorry. Is this yours?" She attempted to smile sweetly, then gave up and smirked as she gave the thing a gentle tug.

The warlock's shriek as he hurtled down the street was nothing short of unmanly. By the time he skidded to a bouncing, jostling stop at Yva's feet, he was a bleeding, ragged mess, a few teeth left behind him on his trail. Behind her, Yva heard the clack of hooves on cobblestones, and snapped her fingers. "Here, boy!" She didn't bother turning around - Flaadhun always came when called (at least when it was important), and she really had no interest in seeing what he was doing to the succubus. Well. Maybe a little. She glanced over her shoulder, winced, and turned back to the warlock. I always forget how very many teeth he has. "Are you quite done, then?"

He lifted his bloody face, and greeted her with a grotesque approximation of a smile. "Such power..." he muttered. "Who are you, my lady? I must know."

Oh, for the love of... She smiled sweetly and bent down, relishing being able to look down at someone for once. "I'm the woman who's going to be feeding you to her bloody dogs if you don't remove your miserable carcass from my street. Hold your tongue before I cut it off!" she snapped as his mouth opened again. "Just take what's left of your tramp and get out of here! You're lucky I'm cleaning house today!" She shook a finger still specked with residual shadow magic under his nose. I wish I had a ruler to slap him across the wrist with. The broken man scuttled backwards, weaved unsteadily to his feet, and started backing down the street. After a few steps, he simply turned and ran.

Yva had about half a second to enjoy herself before something slapped into her back like a particularly effusive back-pat from one of those enormous thugs ap Danwyrith kept around. Her wards buckled but held, and she spun, smarting, to see one of the mages diving back behind cover. "Get the warlock!" one of the others shouted. "I'll handle the hound!"

"Are you that stupid?" she shrieked, loud enough for half the city to hear her. She hoped they did. "DO YOU WANT TO DIE TODAY?! I CAN DO THAT!" Her fingers worked at the air, weaving together currents of nightmare, and her voice dropped into the guttural tones of daemons. Another paltry burst of flame came soaring over the barriers, and Flaadhun leaped and snatched it out of the air with blood-soaked jaws.

At the last second, she decided to let them live.

A deepening black stained raced across the cobbles, curled up the sides of the wagons, and crumpled inwards like paper. The entire barricade collapsed in an undramatic puff of sawdust, revealing three huddled, ragged, and altogether out of their depth mages, two of whom wore the robes of mere apprentices. With an icy calm she did not feel, and had probably borrowed from someone else, Yva stepped forward, lifted a small hand palm-down, and lazily waved them off. They looked at each other, and then in the first display of cohesive timing since she'd started watching, rose as one and bolted down the street, leaving the telltale spark of magical retreat in their wake. Flaadhun padded over, licking tainted blood off his chops. "Very good," she murmured, scratching behind a tentacle and taking several deep breaths. Maybe it wasn't too late to find that absurd warlock and kill him.

The door flew open then, nearly bursting off its hinges as Jakob loomed through the portal. He had his sword out, and she didn't think it was just to fit through the door. "Yva? Are you alright?" The question was directed at her, but as his helm turned from side to side, she decided he was checking to see if she'd killed anyone. I can't really blame him, she thought, in an unusually charitable mood.

"I'm fine, dear. Just a little neighborhood quarrel." She walked over, Flaadhun trailing after. "You can go back inside. Very sweet of you to get dressed up for me, though."

Jak pulled his helm off, and immediately her heart sank somewhere into the gooey mess of improper organs. He had that look on his face, the same one he wore when they stepped through the outer ring of Icecrown's walls. The look that announced impending stupidity, sometimes known as bravery. "I'm not going back inside, love," he said, still scanning the street. "I won't be long."

Yva took another deep breath. "Jak?" she asked quietly. "Why aren't you going back inside? They're quite gone."

"Because they're just going to start again another street down, and some poor bastard's going to be caught in the middle of it." He sounded resigned, like a man who'd had his decisions made for him. It was maddening. "So I'm going to go stop it."

"...stop it?" She gaped. This was absurd, even for a Balthasar. "Stop the riots?! Jak, the city is burning! Everyone's gone bloody mad, and we haven't the faintest idea why." She had a guess, given the date, but no need to mention that right now. "The mages and warlocks are at war, and gods only know what's happening in Old Town! It's even by the Cathedral!"

"Thank you, dear." Jakob smiled at her. Given his next words, it should have been that infuriating (and infuriatingly attractive) bored-lordling smirk, but he looked almost regretful. "You just explained very well why I'm going out there."

"No...no I fucking did not!" That got his attention. This is why I never curse, she thought desperately to herself, trying to hold on to her rapidly evaporating good humor. It gets some attention when I do. "Jakob Balthasar, people are being murdered out there. All kinds of people, not just unarmed peasants." She clutched her fingernails to her palms, leaving red crescents. "Soldiers and magicians and...and anyone."

"Hm." He was still, damn him, being patient. Or at least distracted. "All the more reason for me to find a horse and get out there."

"You're not listening!" Sometimes, it was alright to shriek like a harpy. "They dragged a death knight from his horse and hanged him, Jak, hanged him from the Mage Quarter gates. They said he was in league with the Wordweaver, and went off looking for more of Uthas's minions." Please, ask me what the hell I'm talking about. Please stand here long enough for me to explain and you to think better of being so...so bloody...

While she was still trying to come up with a proper adjective, Jak reached up with one clumsy gauntlet, carefully looped a finger under the thin chain around his neck, and gave it a tug. The black arcanite amulet around his neck was perhaps the only possession he had in common with the callow, self-righteous squire that she'd met in the Undercity, but it hadn't changed - the snarling dog, the interlocking thistles, and the words she did not remotely want to contemplate.

So bloody knightly. Jakob let it drop back into the recesses of his armor and moved his hand to hers, while the other set his helmet back in place. "I won't go too far. Someone needs to watch the wizards, and who better?" He shouldered his greatsword and stepped forward. "Ah. Coultener's stables. Of course. Be safe, love, and so will I." He started his clanking way down the street, leaving her standing on her doorstep, fuming.

"Jakob!" No response. "Sir Jakob Balthasar, this is your future wife!" He stopped - she didn't need to hear him sigh - and turned around, expressionless in his metal mask. Yva flung up her hands. "At least let me get some trousers! I'm not going into a riot in this dress!" She turned and stormed into the house, Flaadhun trailing after with a grotesque whine. She didn't need to look back and hope he lifted his visor - she just knew he was smirking.
Now hang me by this golden noose
'Cause I never been nothin' but your golden goose
Silver tongue don't fail me now
And I'll make my way back to you somehow

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Threnn
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Wards and Whiskey

Postby Threnn » Wed Jan 20, 2010 12:07 pm

Most days, the apartment in the Mage Quarter was a good place to live. It was next door to a decent bar, was a short walk if you came stumbling home by way of a portal (though, if you weren't careful, the drop could be a bitch), and now that the slut-demon no longer occupied the closet, was probably the nicest place the Mathers twins had lived since their parents took off for Gilneas and never come back.

Tonight, though, the whole city had lost its fucking mind, and the mages and warlocks had decided it was as good a time as any to sort out some of their own differences while the Guard was busy elsewhere putting down a pissed off populace. This meant the Mage Quarter was certainly not a good place to be, what with the spells and the demons flying about unchecked outside the doors.

Rosie and Lyr sat facing the living room window, watching the colors flash and fly outside. They'd dragged chairs in from the kitchen and set them up where they could get a good look out in case anyone decided they wanted to pay a visit. The ashtray between them would need to be dumped soon, but the bottle of whiskey was still half-full, so that was all right.

Rosie shifted the shotgun on her lap as she took a long drag. "This is fucking stupid, Sweetheart."

Lyr didn't have any weapons to hold, but her right hand hung down, fingers tracing patterns in the air. She smoked with her left. "Yep."

There was an air of waiting about them.

"You think they'll come knocking to recruit you?"

"Wouldn't rule it out. I'm the Ice Witch's student and I'm not dead yet. Might be useful to have on their side."

"Fuck. That."

"Yep."

Rosie looked around the living room. It was tastefully decorated, with furniture far richer than either of them would ever have bought for themselves. They'd grown used to what, to them, was excess, and once they stopped gawking at the scrollwork or feeling guilty about passing by the couch (let alone sitting on that fine upholstery), certain... accents started to stand out.

There were runes in the scrollwork. The names sewn into the tapestries didn't read like any lords or ladies from any kingdoms in the history books. A vase in the corner glowed faintly, the whorls and loops on its surface growing less and less random the longer you looked. Yva Darrows' protections blended right into the decor.

Rosie gestured around the room. "...what do the wards in this place do, anyway?"

Lyr grinned. "Wanna find out?"

"Oh, hell yes."

They didn't have too long to wait. An pair of shadows flashed by the window, two men locked in a magical duel. For a heartbeat, silence reigned.

Then the door crashed inward, as whoever was on the losing side got thrown through it. He tumbled to a stop dead-center, panting as he got his bearings. When he clambered to his feet, he paused, finally noticing the mirror-like women sitting before him, watching him eagerly, as though he'd announced his intention to do a trick.

"Don't just sit there," he said, though the command in his voice was undermined by uncertainty, "help m--"

That was as far as he got. His robes burst into flames -- not orange and red, but blue, the eerie blue of ghostfire, a shade deeper than the patterns in the rug by the door that Rosie and Lyr occasionally remembered to wipe their feet on. The mage screeched and darted out the door, arms flailing as he beat at the flames. He managed a glance over his shoulder at the twins as he fled, outrage and incredulity joining the panic in his eyes.

It was quiet for a moment after he left. Then one of them snorted and the other picked it up. The snorts turned into giggles turned into raucous laughter, though Rosie's hand never left the shotgun, and Lyr's fingers never stopped tracing.

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Re: Writing Assignment: Riot in Stormwind

Postby Aelflaed » Wed Jan 20, 2010 2:19 pm

The lockdown procedures for Stormwind University hadn't been used in years.

Loreli and Fleming seemed to have the place under control though, students hastily moved into rooms on the central courtyards, avoiding the exterior walls for fear of broken windows and spells gone awry. The magical warfare outside, as the Mages and Warlocks let loose on one another, made for quite a show in the sky, lighting up the dull, red-brown glow from fires elsewhere in the city. Restless students huddled in groups, hushed voices trying to make sense of the chaos while their teachers assured them that, regardless of how completely mad the rest of the city had gotten, it was only a matter of time before the guards settled things back down. Arrens' absence went unspoken, as though nobody wanted to think about why the Headmaster was gone, or how he would get back to them if the city burned.

Lockdown, however, did not sit particularly well with the University's newest inhabitant.

So Aelflaed paced, fully armed and armored, in Arrens' study. Back and forth between the windows, ignoring requests to go back in where it was safer.

After an hour or so, Loreli's voice startled her.

"You're gonna wear holes in that rug."

"Yeh? Well, wha' else 'm I t' do. 'f I leave, I canna get back in, an' I dinna ken where else t' find safety." She stopped walking long enough to shoot Loreli a Look. "Th' Cathedral's e'en on fire."

Loreli shrugged. "I know. I hear the guard reports too, even if I don't let the students hear that frequency. Do you know where they're taking the wounded?"

"Th... Fuck." The paladin stopped short. "We've... Ligh'. Wounded. Right. Th' bloody fuck am I doin' up here like a damned wind-up toy." Aely thought for a moment, ignoring the amused expression creeping across the rogue's face. "Healin' students, where air they?"

"Vyree's got them gathered, they're in the herbalism rooms."

Loreli watched as Aely took off up the stairs at a jog. "Good! Go get th' new janitor, quicklike, yeh? An' tell 'em t' get bedsheets, towels, anythin'. Clean. Take 'em down to th' new infirmary."

She tossed a half-mocking salute up the stairs and turned towards the basement, silently thankful that yesterday had been laundry day. "Yes'm."

+++++

Seventeen students of various ages and disciplines sat in small clusters on the floor and in the herbalism classroom. Vyree, ever unflustered, merely raised an eyebrow as the armored paladin crashed through the door.

"Vyree? C'n I talk ay ye a momen'? Quiet like?"

Vyree paused a moment to consider speaking, quiet like, with someone who had just come...well, crashing through the door. There may have been a slight, amused twist to her lips as she greeted Aely. "Of course, sister. What about?"

Aely waved a hand in a gesture that meant the students, the school, the city, or all three. She lowered her voice. "Th' Stockades air under siege, th' Parks a bloody mess, th' Cathedral's oan fire, an' they've noplace t' take wounded. Wir locked down safe, an'..." A huge crash rattled the building. "... An' th' bloody arcanists air tryin' t' take th' walls down. Th' basement's safe. Thinkin we migh' use tha' new infirmary, give these folk a bit ay hands oan practice. What'd ye say?"

Vyree gave her students a measuring look before replying. "I'd say that is a good idea." She raised her voice slightly. "If you thought you were getting out of lessons today, students, I'm afraid to tell you that instead you're going to have a hands on session." She waved the students to their feet and turned to Aely with a grim smile. "If nothing else, this is the best, if hardest, way to learn."

Aely grinned back. "'s truth!"

She turned to the students, noting seventeen pairs of eyes boring into the two women standing at the door. "Righ'! Ye wan' t' learn how t' be healers. Well, yir hired. Pack up any ay th' herbs wha' ye ken air good f'r healin' arts, an' meet me down in th' basement. Stay wi' Professor Vyree, an' be careful, yeh?"

+++++

Half an hour later both the basement infirmary and the below-grounds spell-rooms had been cleared out, and each of the students had been given a task that, Aely hoped, would suit their age and skill levels. The youngest were making bandages and gathering supplies into a separate room, while the older students helped organize beds and went over procedures for burns, broken bones, and other healing spells they figured they would need. Arliece had taken charge of a small corner of one room where she was steeping herbs into infusions, a tiny earth elemental wandering around, fetching various things for her.

Loreli had managed to get two huge rolling carts full of clean sheets and towels, as well as a couple of large barrels of water and one mostly-full keg of whiskey.

Aely didn't ask where the whiskey was from.

She turned to Vyree, who had set up a small desk to keep track of both her students and any incoming patients, and grinned. "Ye ready f'r some excitement?"

Vyree merely smiled. "Of course."

Aely's buzzbox crackled again, and she switched channels back and forth until she found a guardsman, who told her how to contact his commander.

A smooth baritone voice answered, with no hint of the panic she'd expected. "This is Commander Brackwell. To whom am I speaking?"

"Dame Aely Larsdottir, Commander. I'm here wi' th' professors ay th' Stormwin' University. We've an infirmary set up, down th' basement, an' room for a good number ay wounded folk."

"Is there a clear path to your doors?"

"Commander, we've th' school oan lockdown, but there's a few folk wha' will do best t' keep a path clear. Best entrance is th' one near th' Park side canals, if ye can get there."

"We'll do what we can, ma'am. I'll spread the word."

Clicking off her box, Aely nodded to Loreli and Lyestra. The women nodded back and trudged up the stairs to see about keeping an entrance clear, both armed to the teeth.

((At this point, Aely is going to stay at the Infirmary unless called into Old Town specifically. Since she isn't currently living there, she wouldn't have been in that part of town that early in the day. If anyone wants to borrow her for healing or general Paladinny things, feel free. As always, I'm happy to Aely-fy text/conversations as needed.))
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Re: Writing Assignment: Riot in Stormwind

Postby Bricu » Wed Jan 20, 2010 3:23 pm

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Re: Writing Assignment: Riot in Stormwind

Postby Yva » Wed Jan 20, 2010 3:47 pm

((Apologies that this went long on me. :X))

Vincenza Whitten was a creature of habit, and as such, had a routine. Every morning she woke up sprawled on top of her husband. After realizing that she'd once again stolen all of the blankets and pillows and left him with only her person for warmth, she'd roll over, pretend to be sorry and stretch. A bell was rung, Amanda would provide breakfast in bed and the Stormwind Dailies.

"Vincenza Whitten spied in a pale blue off the shoulder gown on Saturday evening. Are pastels back for the spring? Details on page fourteen, Ladies!"

The Whittens would eat, sometimes loll about in bed for a time, and then take a respective - or sometimes collective - bath, after which she'd pour over the papers trying to keep her fingers on the pulse of the city. A cup of tea and a few thorough rounds of goodbye kisses later, Bairix would go to work, either in his Stormwind real estate office or in Northrend to play with dead things. This left Lady Whitten - no, Mrs. Whitten now, she'd given the title up to her former husband's brother in an agreement about the estate . . .

"They say she gave the title up for that new husband of hers, and he took her name. Romantic isn't it?" - Jillian Hilltorn, apprentice Seamstress at Lucia's Lingerie.

. . . to her own devices. The appointments would starts thereafter. Mondays, Constance would show up to give her a pedicure. Vinnie'd sit in her study, feet propped up, reading some book or another while the girl meticulously shaped and painted her toes. Tuesdays, Emma arrived to showcase the newest fabrics and arrivals. Vinnie'd go through swatches and patterns and order herself a new dress, a new pair of slippers, new lingerie, new something to keep her ahead of the fashion curve. Wednesdays saw Victor or Sheela to give her a massage, Thursdays were Lois's day to deep condition and trim her hair if needed, and Fridays were her "Spa day", where she'd get an Un'Goro mud facial from the much sought after Letty Ironfingers, who came all the way from Ironforge just to work on Mrs. Whitten's face.

Weekends were her "days off", which really weren't days off at all, more "times to be seen in public and adored." In order to keep abreast of the newest gossip and, truth be told, arranging situations so she was gossiped about, she had to be seen and in turn photographed. This meant the newest rage restaurant: Noy's, particularly Noy's on Saturdays at dinner hours at the terrace table. It was "The Pretty Table" as the head waiter Dustin called it, titled as such because if you were waiting in line to get into the restaurant from the street, you could always see this one table from the curbside. Noy, being a crude business gnome if there ever was one, wanted someone pretty and popular situated there on his busiest nights. Vincenza Whitten had always fit that bill, especially now that she was married to someone as attractive as she was . . .

"If the rumors are true he's a mudblood. How Thaydia let THAT happen no one knows. He's gorgeous to be sure, but blooded? No, and her being an heiress? Well, when he gets his hands on the money he'll probably be long gone. Her looks won't last forever." - Lady Lydriessa Boleyn, overheard at the Didden girl's coming out ball.

. . . he could bank on the Whittens looking good, which was free advertising, which was more buzz about his business. It was the perfect symbiotic relationship.

Vincenza's Sundays were more chaotic. Parties, tea with Lyandrea and Bran, cards, another visit to Noy's, or perhaps a stroll through the city were all possibilities. Sometimes Bairix wanted to stay at home, sometimes he took her roof jumping or to the zoo. It was the least regimented portion of her week, left up in the air for anything, and this Sunday was really no different than . . .

"Oh that's not true. That Sunday was completely different. That was the day that Uthas Wordweaver walked free and the city went mad." - Vincenza Whitten.

Oh yes. That.

*****

The first problem was he'd gone to the office on a Sunday. Normally she wouldn't care, but she was bored, and clearly her husband existed only to entertain her.

"I have just a few things to check on, my dear. I'll be home soon." He kissed her and patted her on the bottom, pointedly ignoring pouty lip - which was a spectacular pouty lip and had melted the resolve of lesser men many times before - and slipped out the door. Never one to miss an opportunity to whine that her spouse was immune to her charms, Vincenza threw herself over the couch, perching her chin on the armrest and staring at the wall.

Amanda fidgeted in the doorway, wary of the great lady's temper. "Can I get you anything, my lady?"

"My book and my puppy. Both are upstairs."

Minutes later, Vinnie had The Art of Shadowcraft in on hand and a glass of wine in the other. Winston-the-resplendent-pug-in-a-diamond-collar snuggled in behind her knees for a good long nap. She stayed there for a while, occasionally adjusting her position when Winston did. Good smells wafted into the den, meaning Gladys had dinner well under way. A quick glance at the clock told her it was half past five.

"He'd better be home soon," she murmured aloud.

As if on queue her buzzbox came to life. Bairix was barking her name over what sounded like a . . . mob of angry people.

Well that can't be right. It was just real estate, wasn't it? Who gets that mad about an apart . . .

"Vincenza, dismiss the servants and tell them to get out back. Blockade yourself in the master bedroom until I get there. Lock the doors. Stormwind's gone mad. I'm going to get Lea and Bran there, too. The mage district looks like it's on fire."

"Wait, what? On FIRE?"

"No 'wait what'. Just do it."

"But if it's locked and blockaded, how will you get in?"

" . . . will you just . . . I can get around the locks. Do as I tell you."

Bairix rarely used sharp tones with her, which meant this one resonated. She picked up her box and her pug and swept through the house, pausing once by the front windows to peer outside. They were in the nobles section, right near Stormwind Keep really, and outside of extra guards on the streets, not much was . . .

She saw a flying bolt of fire sail by.

"Oh damn it. EVERYONE TO YOUR QUARTERS AND LOCK YOUR DOORS. THE CITY'S GONE MAD," she bellowed. The half dozen house maids peeked their heads out of the nooks they were dusting, and she waved at them, trying to convey her wishes with shooing motions.

"Home, all of you. Get home. Lock your doors, bar them, too. AMANDA! You're coming with me. Charlie, get everyone out back. Go, go, go!"

Gladys poked her gray head out of the kitchen. "I have a near full cooked turkey here, m'lady . . . "

"There will be other turkeys, Gladys. Don't argue with me. Just shut the oven down and go."

Charlie approached the front window, pulling the drapes back to peer outside, his mouth setting into a thin line.

"Where's Mister Whitten, Mum?"

"On his way."

"I ought to stay until he gets 'ere."

Vincenza shoved him towards the doors where his wife and infant daughter were already waiting, though her slender hand on his barrel chest didn't move him an inch. "No you will not. Lord Wh . . . Mister Whittens orders, get out back. Now."

"Yer sure?"

"Yes I'm bloody sure! Go!"

The staff, Gladys and Charlie included, made for the back doors, towards the housing the Whitten Estate provided their servant body on the far end of the property. As the enormous manor was positioned directly in front of them, they'd be in the safer of the two places.

"Lock the front door and get up here, Amanda," Vinnie shouted, taking the steps two at a time. Winston started barking and wriggling, thinking all of this a delightful game, and she gave him a swift spank on the flank.

"Bad dog. Be good for Mummy."

"RAFF!" was the indignant canine reply.

With pug deposited on the bed and Amanda in tow, Vinnie locked the bedroom door. They first tried to move Bairix's bureau over as a blockade, but it was too heavy. The late Lord Whitten's tastes ran to heavy woods with decadent decoration, so a bureau that ought to have weighed fifty or sixty pounds was thrice that thanks to ornate oak carvings.

"The hope chest, my lady! It ought to do."

"Good idea."

By the time the hope chest blocked the door off, the two of them were red faced and panting. The shouts on the streets were carrying inside now, and there was the smell of smoke on the air. The hairs on the back of Vinnie's arms stood on end as she felt magic growing around them. Someone - many someones - were casting, and the arcane resonance felt heavy.

"What is going on?" Amanda rasped, peering through the side window at the canals. Vinnie looked over her shoulder, frowning at a big blob of commoners scuffling with the guards, each other, anyone dumb enough to stumble into their path.

"I don't know."

There was a thud on the roof, and Vinnie looked up, her mouth pinching into a thin line. Footsteps followed as someone or something moved across the shingles.

"If that's not Bairix, we're likely in trouble."

Vinnie edged towards the middle of the room, holding her hand up and trying to remember everything Southshore had taught her about her unreliable shadow talents.

I'll either melt an intruder or blow the house up. Lovely.

There was another thud and then a slide. She leveled her fingers at the sound, wishing she wasn't shaking like a leaf. Amanda's hands went to her shoulders, whether to brace her or to hide behind her, she couldn't say. The series of roof skids continued until it was replaced by the squeal of a drainpipe holding weight.

"Steady," Vinnie whispered.

Thunk.

Bairix in a slightly battered three piece suit landed on the ledge outside of the window. A click, the gears of the window latch turned, and he was inside, pulling his suit coat off and beelining it for his closet.

"Oh good. It's you." She dropped her hand and let out the breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Her stomach was doing these odd flip flops, and she felt faint. It was a wonder that Bairix was so collected when she felt like she'd fall apart into a thousand tiny pieces with the slightest provocation.

"The streets are a madhouse. The roofs were safer."

"You tore your pants. We'll need to get them mended. I'll contact the Finest Thread on Mon . . . "

Her voice cut short when he looked at her like she'd lost her mind.

"I'll just get a new one." He checked his hair in the mirror before pulling his pants off and tossing them onto the bed, instead donning a pair of smooth black leathers. Amanda looked up at the ceiling, trying desperately not to watch the lord of the house as he pranced around half nude.

"Lea and Bran will be here shortly. We'll move downstairs to wait for them and to make sure no one tries to set the house on fire."

"All right."

She watched him put layer upon layer of leather on, and then the blades came, some disappearing in a second flat, others more visible - at his waist, his thigh. He pushed the hope chest aside like it weighed nothing at all and went out, eyes flitting around as he looked for intruders, or more specifically the points in the house intruders might venture in from. Vinnie followed, her hand clenching on the stair railing.

"Amanda, stay in the bedroom please. Keep an eye on the streets and call down with any news."

"Y-yes, my lord."

"And watch Winston?"

"Of course, Ma'am."

Bairix crept forward, more easing down the steps than anything, and she followed behind . She was trying to be quiet for some bizarre reason, like if she made a noise or a step squealed beneath her feet, everything would fall apart.

"What is going on out there? Why all of this?"

He walked towards the front door, watching the streets outside, searching for signs of Bran and Lea in the midst of all the chaos. "The Wordweaver was released."

"The Word . . wait, wasn't he that gentleman that plagued everyone?"

"Yes."

" . . . and he was released."

"Apparently."

" . . . to crimes he confessed to."

Bairix nodded and her mind started churning out names and faces of people in the upper echelon of Stormwind's legal system. Most of them were lords, or connected to a noble house in one way or another, usually marriage to ensure support and a steady income, which meant they were always in SOMEONE'S pockets. If Uthas Wordweaver was released, someone had to benefit from it. The questions were who and why. The how was rather evident with the rioting streets and chaos.

"Well that's just stupid," she said after a time. "What a pile of manure."

Bairix's lips quirked into a smile. "I'd tend to agree."

*****

A half hour later, the mobs were pushing at the estate gates in their struggle to get into Stormwind Keep. They seemed less concerned with looting the Whitten manor than confronting the king himself. Bairix watched the escalation, a dagger flitting through his fingers, as Vinnie paced through the foyer.

"Any sign of Bran and Lea?" she asked.

"No, not yet."

This exchange repeated itself every five minutes. An hour later, Bairix moved to the front door, his weapon disappearing up his sleeve.

"There they are. I'm going to let them in." Vinnie glanced out the window, trying to spot Bran's tall dark head, but there were so many people shouting, screaming, fighting, and panicking, it was the proverbial needle in the haystack. She frowned, watching her husband stalk towards the writhing throng.

"Be careful please?"

"Yes, Dear."

Bairix was nearly to the gate by the time Vinnie spotted her cousin. Lea's face was covered in smudges of soot like she'd been caught in an explosion. The shoulders of Bran's coat were covered in in dark splatters that, from this distance, could have been mud or blood.

"Please let it be mud. Please," she whispered, watching them shove their way through the crowd. She slid out onto the front step to wave at them, the noise of the mob making her ears ring.

The march upon the Keep had been at a stalemate for hours, with dozens upon dozens of guard showing up to protect the king. Righteous indignation and fear had turned to fury and frustration. As Bairix swung the gate wide, about a half dozen people tried to swarm inside, but he shoulder blocked each of them. One man got a wide enough berth around him to get through, but Lea stuck a booted leg out, tripping him as he tried to sprint towards the house. He fell onto his face with a dull thwack. She smirked and started dragging him back to the crowd with Bairix's help.

"Hoist him out. One, two, three."

The man went flying back into the mass, landing on three of his cohorts.

As soon as Lea and Bran were safely inside, Bairix swung the gate closed. He locked it back down, the crowd now shouting at him, reaching for him through the thick iron bars. He seemed unphased, slapping the grabbing hands away. One of the men who'd been denied entrance screeched a string of colorful obscenities in his face before picking up rocks from the curbside, throwing them at the house.

Had he simply broken a window, he'd have been allowed to go home. The Whittens would have repaired it, chalking the inconvenience up to the cost of a day of madness. The problem, though, was the third rock. The man brought his arm all the way back and hurled it as hard as he could. It sailed through the air and, instead of hitting the house or a window, it struck Vincenza Whitten.

Square in the face.

She shrieked and grabbed her left cheek, staggering back into the foyer. Because she was hit in the fleshy part instead of the bone, it bled fast and hard, spilling down over her neck and onto her gown. Bairix's head swiveled to stare at her, Lea began to run.

"Vincenza!"

Vinnie stomped her foot and spun around in a circle, making a series of unladylike grunts and groans as she clutched her cheek. It stung, but worse than the pain was the knowledge that she'd been hit in her face. Her entire life was based upon that face, who she was, what she did . . . if she was scarred or maimed, if something was damaged permanently . . .

"Bloody fuck and . . . fuck. Fuck. FUCK! OW!" she roared, swallowing down a sob.

"Vinnie, honey? Vinnie? Look at me," Lea crooned upon reaching her, trying to calm her down. "Look at me so I can see what happened."

Vinnie whimpered and looked up, taking her hand away to reveal a nasty gash that extended from ear to jaw. Another torrent of blood seeped out, and Lea tutted before pressing her palm to it.

"It looks worse than it is," she shouted. "Stitches, maybe, but that's it. She's okay!"

"She's okay," Bairix murmured, turning back towards the crowd. "She's okay." He undid the locks and pulled the gate wide, regarding the man with the rock.

"Why did you do that?" he asked simply.

There was a moment of quiet as the crowd paused to watch the two of them, sensing the imminent danger. Feeling the eyes of his mates on his back, the man's fingers closed around another rock. He hoisted it up as a weapon, showcasing a bravado he didn't really feel.

"Fek on ye, ye poncey son of a whore," he said, spitting at him. The wad of phlegm hit Bairix on the shoulder, dripping in a slow ooze over his leathers.

One second the man was turning back towards the crowd, intent on making a fast getaway after the spectacle, the next he was falling forward as two small blades wedged themselves into the backs of his knees. Bairix's glove twisted in the the man's collar and he dragged him towards the estate. Not only did this separate him from everyone else, but every inch drove the daggers deeper.

The screams were earsplitting.

Bairix dropped him in an unceremonious heap, his face calm as he returned to the gates to snap the padlocks closed. The spectators looked at him and then at the man twisting on the stones, some transfixed by the blood coursing through the grout of the masonry.

"F-Fek. M . . . m'sorry mate. M'sorry. FEK!" The man said through pained gasps.

Bairix turned around, regarding him for just a moment before stomping on his upper legs, driving the daggers all the way in and through, shattering the kneecaps in the process. Another series of shrieks and screams, the man tearing at the stone beneath him with fresh sobs and pleas.

"You could have killed my wife," Bairix whispered, leaning over the prone body.

The man's answer was a gurgled whimper.

Bairix's answer was to slice him from ear to ear.

*****

"You poor thing. If that scars it'll be such a shame," Bran said. "Terrible way to lose your looks."

"Oh gods." Vinnie broke out into another round of tears. "I'd be ruined."

"Don't help, Bran. And no you won't, Vinnie. Even if its scars you still have . . ."

Lea was cut off by her cousin's enraged shriek.

"NO SCARS. I'll . . . I'll g-get Alexander out here and he'll fix it. It'll be fine. It has to be fine."

"Of course it will be," Bran said, trying for conviction and failing miserably. He sighed and pulled his mud spattered coat off, throwing it over the banister and stretching. "Do you lot have anything to drink around here? I'd kill for a tequila sunrise."

"There's a bar in the receiving room to your right."

"Ah. Lovely."

Bran disappeared into the parlor as Bairix returned to the house, wiping his dagger clean on a handkerchief. He locked the door behind him and sighed, peering across the foyer at his wife. She was a mess. Her eyes were swollen from crying, her dress was covered in dried blood.

"Is it done?" Lea patted Vincenza one last time before moving to the windows to peek out front, a slow smirk spreading over her face. "Well then. I guess it is."

"What is?" Vinnie asked, following behind with short, stuttered breaths and pathetic sniffles.

"Your attacker, apparently."

Bairix sighed. "You really need to bathe, darling, and don't stand too close to the windows? I don't want another incident."

"All right." She peered over Lea's shoulders at the corpse cooling in her driveway. Her face went pink, and then red, and then a mottled shade of purple. She whirled around to glare at him, her palm still clamped over her injury. "Look what you've done!"

"What I've . . . what?"

She pointed at the window and then at him. "That's limestone. Limestone is porous and stains very, very easily. You've completely ruined it." Her bottom lip quivered. "You've ruined the driveway and now I'm going to be ugly forever and you'll hate me."

Bairix hesitated for only the briefest second before crossing over to her and gathering her to his chest. He kissed her temple and then nuzzled her head. "I'd never hate you, scars or not."

She broke into a fresh batch of wails.

"I w-won't be scarred. I won't!"

Bairix's eyes met Lea's, and he tried to suppress his smile as the tantrum grew louder. "I think for now we'll get you in the bath, hmm? Let me know if anything comes up, Lea?"

Lea wasn't as good at hiding her mirth. She flashed him a huge grin.

"Of course. Go take care of the princess."

"I always do."
Last edited by Yva on Thu Jan 21, 2010 12:40 pm, edited 1 time in total.
So if you meet me have some courtesy, have some sympathy and some taste. Use all your well-learned politesse or I'll lay your soul to waste.

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Re: Writing Assignment: Riot in Stormwind

Postby Loreli » Wed Jan 20, 2010 5:37 pm

((Good a point as any for my first post >.>))

Loreli gestured Lyestra to the canal side doors. That was the entrance Aely had indicated to the guards and the entrance she wanted to address first. After that she'd planned to circle back around and check the other door for anyone attempting legitimate access from that side. She had expected chaos and violence, what she hadn't expected was the small pack of guards completely surrounded by angry rioters. There didn't seem to be a Captain among them. Yet, while they had managed to stay organized, the rioters threatened to pick them off, one by one. She turned her head to shout at Lyestra over the noise but the other woman was gone.

Swearing under her breath, Loreli scanned the crowd, but saw no sign of the warrior. How do you loose a woman her size anyway? The rogue slipped both daggers from their sheaths, tucking the blades against her inner arm, preparing to use the hilts to subdue. As few casualties as possible on her end would suit just fine. She took one last look over the horde of people crowding the street, trying to spot any sign of Lyestra. When none presented itself she waded into the fray.

The rioters, not expecting to be fallen on from behind parted easily enough. Loreli reached the surrounded guards just as another contingent came in from the Trade District bridge. Suddenly faced with even odds, and armed even odds at that, the rioters scattered, leaving at least this street blissfully quiet. Though horrible sounds carried with the smell of smoke and death from other parts of the city.

"Can you hold the entrance until I get back?" Loreli asked, as the guards debriefed and regrouped.

The Captain turned to look at her, "Ma'am, the city is burning and the rioting is out of control. We need to head back out there."

"Look, we've got a safe place for wounded and healers to help them. But if this door gets overrun again, there'll be no way in. Give me ten minutes? If I'm not back you can go on your merry way. Yes?" Loreli folded her arms over her chest as she awaited a response.

The Captain shook his head and picked five guards from the group, "Stay here and keep this area clear. If she's not back in 10 minutes on the dot, come find us." His chosen men and women nodded and scattered themselves along the street and around the entrance.

Loreli swept a short bow, "My thanks." Then she turned and headed off in search of Lyestra.

The Trade District was in a shambles. Really though, that was putting it lightly. Loreli couldn't believe how extensive the destruction was. She ducked as a still flaming torch flew by her head and smelt singed hair. A hand grabbed her and dragged her into an alley between two the shops by the east canal exit.

She stared incredulously, "Jaylen?! What are you doing?!"

"Pulling you out of an angry mob of Sevens and crazies!" He snarled.

"Same thing." Loreli muttered, "Why's SI:7 out there?"

"Shaw was stabbed. We've been told to make our presence felt."

"Stabbed? Not dead?" Loreli asked.

Jaylen eyed her, it was all the confirmation she needed.

"Damn." She swore.

Jaylen scowled.

"Jaylen, please, pull Seven back. You have the authority." Loreli insisted. "Too many innocent people will die if some control isn't taken soon. Do you really want the city guard to upstage Seven?"

He was watching past her as the trade district burned. It cast an eerie orange glow on his face and turned his hair green.

"What do I get out of it?" He asked.

"Security in the knowledge that you're not a complete /prick/?"

Jaylen didn’t look amused.

“Look, internal Seven political bull shit aside…” She glanced over her shoulder, the mob was getting worse, “I have to find Lyestra and get back to the University in just under… five minutes.” She turned to leave.

Jaylen caught her arm again, “I’m not letting you out of my sight. We have unfinished business.”

“Then you'd better keep up!”
"A little extra DPS never killed anyon... Oh wait."
"Still alive, I see. Clearly you're not trying hard enough."


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