“Trinkets! Baubles! Get your loved one a special necklace of Light-Purified Saronite to ward away the living dead!”
“Cheap suits! Cheap dresses! Look like your favorite Lord or Lady for a fraction of the price!”
Out in full force, Hawkers hawked their wares at every corner of the Trade District. A literal hundreds of booths and tents lined the walls of larger shops; everyone who was able was taking advantage of the seasonal market that visited once… Well, once a season.
A sharp, cool breeze whisked about the streets, sending veils and hangings bobbing about gently, cooling and soothing the shopping masses. In the far back corner, near the entry to the canals, once such shop was unaffected by the breeze. Set in a thicker tent, with steam and smoke billowing out, bearing the mark of a hammer set above an arcane rune was the shop of Furen and Frockle, a gnome-dwarf pairing known for creating ceremonial and vanity-styled weaponry of various magical enhancements.
They weren’t the most popular in recent years, however, what with some rumor of exploding daggers and Lord Marion Honeywell’s genitalia; a mishap Frockle herself claims was solely the Lord’s fault, (Documentation in the package completely explained not to hold the dagger at waist level on the fourth full moon of an even-numbered year.) and nothing to do with his spurning the one-eyed gnome-wizard’s advances at a charity dinner event.
Standing at said booth, unmistakable in the tight leather pants, matching boots, and sleeveless vest, all of red and black - Chryste Kaleigh. Carefully, she balances a silver long sword on her hand, eyeing the rather amazing craftsmanship, a soft smile upon her lips.
“That very sword in your hands was once held by the great Terenas Menethil himself, missy!” Frockle stated matter-of-factly, peering up at the gorgeous hellion with her one good eye.
“Oi!” Furen interrupted from his work at the anvil. “He threw it an’ nearly cut yer damned head off cos it turned ‘is ‘and blue, yeh silly bint!”
“But he still held it!” She quickly retorted, frowning as Chryste, brow raised, slowly set it back to the table.
“It’s still very nicely crafted.” Chryste smiled timidly as she added, folding gloved hands behind her back to peer over more wares after adding a few bars of truesilver to the bag at her feet. “Do you have any emerald powder, miss?”
Frockle slung a small pouch up onto the counter, as if she were expecting it of the young woman, winking. “You know, you look like a lady in longing.”
“Oi, fek, not ‘is again…”
Chrystal blinked between the two, carefully attaching the pouch of powder to her belt. “Longing for what?”
Frockle gave Furen a victorious grin as Chryste spoke, and the dwarf waved his hand off absently, going back to his work. “He says “oi” again, and I’m gonna have to change his name.”
“Oi! ….!” Furen caught himself a second too late, and muttered back at his anvil. “Oi…”
A timid giggle passed Chryste’s lips. It was a fortunate thing that her mood of the day consisted of shyness; the incident at the Spring Market nearly got her thrown in the stockades for a year. Such is the price of her power though. “I’m interested, please, tell me more.”
“Well,” Frockle responded, pulling a small box from beneath the counter as she spoke. “You’re longing for something. You don’t know what it is you want, but you want it - and every day you go without it… You feel a little more empty inside.”
“I..” Chryste blinked, staring at the gnome. “I’m happy with my life.”
“Oh, I’m sure you are, Dollface. But it doesn’t mean you’re complete.”
“I suppose you could be right…”
“I’m always right, with the proper disclaimer, of course!”
Frockle cackled a stock creepy-gnome cackle, reaching into the box. “Put this on, missy. But keep it our little secret, I’ve only ever made one of these - and I’ll tell you now. It’s my most granderest creation of all time in the universe!” Granderest?
“Erm…” Chryste’s eyes widened as if whatever was to come might bite her, and she looked on, watching as the gnome tugged from the box a leather choker. A thin cord of glossed, jet-black leather, set with bejeweled beads at the front, each one etched painstakingly with various tiny runes, presumably arcane in origin.
Chryste took it from the tiny hands of the gnome, eyes widening on the simplistic creation - obviously borrowed from Tauren culture - and smiled, enthralled with it. She always was a sucker for chokers? “How much?”
“Oh, erm.. Hehe… Did I mention that this simple little trinket is capable of bringing your very wishes and dreams to life?”
Chryste’s brow arched, and she stared at the gnome, not budging and awaiting her answer.
“Ok, ok… Only a hundred and fifty gold!” Frockle waved her hands desperately. “A small price for dreams, no?!”
“Yeah, no thanks…” She smiled politely and set down the choker, along with pay for the dust and metals. “Thank you though.”
Frockle frowned, Furen cackled, and Chryste politely turned, taking up her bag and walking off into the throngs of the marketplace. A few twists, a turn, a quick snack at a fruit booth…
“Can I, dad? Please, can I have it?!”
Chryste blinked, a soft smile perking to the corners of her mouth. Timidly, she glanced around the corner of the tent at the pleas of a young boy. She herself couldn’t wait til the end of the week, and being able to bring Jacob to shop.
“I don’t know…” The tall, handsome father, with light brown hair and a farmer’s build responded, staring at the young, droopy-skinned puppy in a box at the tent. “Every time I get…”
The father paused suddenly, gaze catching on the dark-haired beauty peeking around the tent. Eyes widening, he glanced down between the droopy dog and pouty son, pulling an audible out of mid-air.
“Get so damned attached to them, it always pains me to see them go…” He sighs, tugging a few coins from his pouch - completely one-hundred percent not influenced by the growing smile of Chrystal Kaleigh, and hands it over to the merchant, letting his son sweep up the puppy.
“Yes! You’re the best, dad! I love you…” As if from some cheap made-for-TV script, the kid and puppy latch onto the father’s leg, both receiving a loving pat on the head. “Love you too, Ty. Hey, why don’t you take your new friend, and go show aunt Robin.”
“Okay!” Little Tyler, and his moppy brown locks, dragging wrinkle-doggy in tow, disappear off towards a clearing of tables where the apparent aunt Robin awaited.
Chryste’s eyes suddenly widened as she found the father’s attention on herself, and her smile grew half-nervous with stage fright, feet slowly carrying her out into the open. “T..that was really sweet of you.”
“Anything for my little fighter, you know?” He hammed it up, a handsome smile and a playful wink. Even his chest was a bit puffed out as he worked overtime to impress; a smart man, obviously. “I’d give my life for him without a second thought.”
“I would for my little Jacob too…” She quietly added, extending a hand, which he gladly shook, and even kissed the back of her glove, taking in a full view of the target as his head dipped.
“You have a son?” He blinked, and looked her over as she nodded, beaming proudly. “Wow… I’d have never guessed. You‘re too perfect to be a mother.”
“Thank you.” Is that a blush, from the mighty Chryste Kaleigh?! “He’s just turning seven this year. He‘s my pride and joy.”
“Mmm, I can imagine.” He gave her hand a squeeze, deciding himself not ready to let go of it just yet. “My little Ty just turned eight, I bet they’d be good friends… Um…”
A shy smile, ham it up some more. Chryste’s brow arched as she watched him, glancing briefly to her held hand and smirking.
“Maybe you’d like to come to the park later? They could play, and uh… Maybe we could get to know each other better? It’s been six years since his mother passed, and I’ve not really had the nerve to ask…”
“Sure, I.. I’d be glad to.” She quickly interrupted. In said brief second between his words and hers, something ticked. Many memories of conversations with Ilanna about their future after marriage and most importantly, the two of them raising a child of their own one day. Only a man of such passion would be worthy - so why not see a bit more? See if he’s genuine…
“Reid honey? Reid, did you tell Tyler he could have that dog?!” The inclusion of a third voice into the conversation was akin to a steam tank at full speed crashing into a wall of twenty-foot thick titanium. It showed on Reid’s face too; a cringe that is usually reserved to being kicked between the legs, or opening your door to find the local tax collector standing there.
Chryste’s own expression dropped as well, hand stuck in a now-clutching grip as she spied the short, blonde woman’s approach. The short, blonde, very, very pregnant woman who paused in her tracks before the two, leaving Reid fearful for his life, and Chryste like a deer in the headlights.
“A-GAIN?!” She shrieked up at her taller husband. “I can’t let you out of my sight for ten Light-damned seconds without you trying to latch yourself onto random women!”
“Wha.. What, no!” He cried out in response, quickly dropping Chryste’s hand. “I don’t even know this woman!” He looked to Chryste with an angry face. “No, I will not come back to your home and pay for you sex!”
Chryste’s eyes widened, and then narrowed as Reid glanced back to his wife, and began to speak. He was quickly silenced, however, by a monster of a slap that sent his head spinning… Right into a full-force uppercut from the young warrior!
A flop and two rolls on the ground later, the pregnant wife glanced back to Chryste with wide, possibly offended eyes… No, wait. “Thank you, honey. I’m so sorry you had to meet this jerk.”
“Y..yeah… Sorry.” She murmured in response, just staring at the sprawled out playboy on the ground. She swallowed a lump in her throat, and her eyes came to water. Without another word, she turned back and approached the tent she’d recently came from, sniffling and digging into her belt pouch.
“I..I can give you a hundred and twenty.” She stammered to the one-eyed gnome, who grinned wide and held out the choker knowingly.
The Truesilver Groom
Moderator: Guild Officer
-
Chrystenise
- Posts: 740
- Joined: Thu Nov 13, 2008 8:14 pm
Re: The Truesilver Groom
Wham!
The door to the tree-built home atop the cliffs of Nagrand slammed violently.
Wham!
Wham!
Chryste opened and slammed it for good measure again, nearly ripping the poor, innocent set of planks from the hinges! Rupert, the statuesque draenei student of fighting beneath Chryste stood there in the kitchen doorway, a massive sandwich crammed between teeth, stunned and eyeing the childish assault on the door. Not the first time he’d been witness to her wrath - but it never got any les intriguing to watch.
Wham!
Wham!
Wham!
Lanna’s head peaked between the massive arm and waist of the draenei-turned kitchen door, cringing as she eyed her lover’s fit of rage. Chryste finally turned and stared at the two, then stomped off in the direction of her bedroom.
“Oh Nether,” Ilanna sighed. “Something’s wrong.”
Rupert blinked, pulling the sandwich from his mouth, adjusting his glasses, and glancing down at Ilanna. “You think?”
Ilanna rolled her eyes and dug her claws into the draenei’s side, prompting him to yelp and hop out of her way.
WHAM!
The house rattled and a few ornaments and paintings flopped from their perch on the walls and crashed to the floor. So much for the cake Lanna had been baking. Tying the cooking apron tight around her waist, she marched through the hall towards the bedroom. Cringing as she eyes the crooked door to said room, she sighed and pushed it… over?
It thudded loudly on the floor; Ilanna cringed, and glanced sidelong to the bed, where Chryste laid, back to the blankets, eyes to the ceiling, and bloodied hands soaking into the silvery silk beneath her.
“Chryssy?” She cautiously approached the bed, licking her lips, eyeing the blood, and frowning. Chryste seems to make it an effort to not answer, and instead just continued to stare at the ceiling, eyes red and tears streaking her cheeks.
Ilanna sighed and slid onto the bed beside Chryste, not touching, despite wanting to, and staring down at her. “What’s wrong?”
“I hate people!” Chryste snapped viciously, practically foaming at the mouth. “I hate them all!”
Hoo boy, not this again. “So, you hate me?” Ilanna leaned over Chryste, and smiled sweetly down at her. It apparently didn’t have it’s intended effect, though, to be fair, it usually doesn’t on these days.
“Men are so stupid, fuck men!” She rolled onto her side, and ignored Lanna’s pretty smile. From the bedside stand, a bottle of ointment and bandages were procured - always kept there for this obvious reason.
“It’s quite fun to.” Lanna giggled and slide a bloody hand into hers, ignoring it as it tensed, and began to clean it. “Tell me what happened, lover?”
“They suck!”
“Right…”
A bandage encircles one splintered hand, snuggling it tightly before being kissed by Lanna’s lips. “Give me your other hand, and tell me what happened?”
“I..I’m not their slave! I’m not a piece of meat!” Chryste proclaimed, rolling over and burying her face in Lanna’s lap, who took the second injured hand in her own.
Always a touchy subject; Chryste fighting to escape the paths Mavalos created her for - that of a slave and a toy. However fortunate it is that she ended up with one who truly cares such as Ilanna had little impact on how the world treated her every time she left her lover’s pink-haired embrace.
Lanna just shushed her gently, working to clean the hand. Denying her slave nature would only lead to back and forth that would never see an end until one slapped the other - and while making up was always great, fighting with each other was never worth it.
“We’ll never have our own child.” Chryste whimpered, fist clenching.
Ilanna smacked her hand, prying the fingers open to wrap a bandage beneath them. “And why not?”
“What about Khaevar?” Lanna questioned, tilting her hand and continuing with the wrap. “You and he made a gorgeous Jacob.”
“He’s a bigger slut than you, I, Ilarra, and Genise combined.” Ouch.
Ilanna giggled and nodded, tying off the bandage. “Ok, point, but he’s not a bad person by any means.”
“He’s a dong. He has one, so he is one. Fuck him.”
Ila laughed softly, and kissed Chryste’s hand. “You sure didn’t say that when he…”
“Stop trying to cheer me up!” She interrupted, snagging her hand away and getting to her feet. “Do I look like I want to be happy right now?!”
“You always deserve to be happy, Chryssy…”
“Stop it!” Chryste whined in response and started around the bed, ignoring Lanna’s hand as it tried to grasp at her arm. “Chryssy…”
She stomped across the flattened door, mashing out any last bits of dignity the wooden barricade might have had, and disappeared from the room; off to the place that had always been her base of operations in releasing her frustrations… Her forge.
The bag of goods purchased from Furen and Frockle was opened upon the workbench, and it’s contents spilled out over the surface. Bars of metals, mostly true silver, a pouch of emerald dust, an ingot of this or that - she spent quite a few at that tent, not counting that beaded leather choker around her neck.
A bandaged hand wrapped itself around a bar of true silver and lifted the precious metal before her widening eyes.
So perfect. Not a flaw or marring anywhere in it’s reflective surface. Not like the beings who surrounded her in daily life. It would retain it’s beauty forever; flawless for eternity. Unlike men, who only wanted what they could take from her.
If only there was a way to combine the two…
Chryste grinned. “Rhas, I need you…”
The tall, shirtless man of seeming half-sin’dorei heritage stood before the door of the forge as Chryste slipped through it, an inhuman ripple of flawless muscles covering his slender form. Waist-length, silky-black hair whipped and fluttered about in the wind, his blue-glowing gaze settling on the young warrioress, who offered him a bar of truesilver.
“I want a hundred bars, Rhas. Gems, many gems of any type, and twenty gold bars.”
Rhas’ head bowed slightly as he took the bar in hand, studied it a moment, and nodded. “Give me a few hours.” His deep voice hummed as the bar was handed back. And with a wink, he lifted into the air, spun, and was humanoid no more; replaced by the massive, sleek embodiment of a pitch-black nether drake.
Light forbid Delion ever meet this one.
(<3 YOU LIAM! XD)
The door to the tree-built home atop the cliffs of Nagrand slammed violently.
Wham!
Wham!
Chryste opened and slammed it for good measure again, nearly ripping the poor, innocent set of planks from the hinges! Rupert, the statuesque draenei student of fighting beneath Chryste stood there in the kitchen doorway, a massive sandwich crammed between teeth, stunned and eyeing the childish assault on the door. Not the first time he’d been witness to her wrath - but it never got any les intriguing to watch.
Wham!
Wham!
Wham!
Lanna’s head peaked between the massive arm and waist of the draenei-turned kitchen door, cringing as she eyed her lover’s fit of rage. Chryste finally turned and stared at the two, then stomped off in the direction of her bedroom.
“Oh Nether,” Ilanna sighed. “Something’s wrong.”
Rupert blinked, pulling the sandwich from his mouth, adjusting his glasses, and glancing down at Ilanna. “You think?”
Ilanna rolled her eyes and dug her claws into the draenei’s side, prompting him to yelp and hop out of her way.
WHAM!
The house rattled and a few ornaments and paintings flopped from their perch on the walls and crashed to the floor. So much for the cake Lanna had been baking. Tying the cooking apron tight around her waist, she marched through the hall towards the bedroom. Cringing as she eyes the crooked door to said room, she sighed and pushed it… over?
It thudded loudly on the floor; Ilanna cringed, and glanced sidelong to the bed, where Chryste laid, back to the blankets, eyes to the ceiling, and bloodied hands soaking into the silvery silk beneath her.
“Chryssy?” She cautiously approached the bed, licking her lips, eyeing the blood, and frowning. Chryste seems to make it an effort to not answer, and instead just continued to stare at the ceiling, eyes red and tears streaking her cheeks.
Ilanna sighed and slid onto the bed beside Chryste, not touching, despite wanting to, and staring down at her. “What’s wrong?”
“I hate people!” Chryste snapped viciously, practically foaming at the mouth. “I hate them all!”
Hoo boy, not this again. “So, you hate me?” Ilanna leaned over Chryste, and smiled sweetly down at her. It apparently didn’t have it’s intended effect, though, to be fair, it usually doesn’t on these days.
“Men are so stupid, fuck men!” She rolled onto her side, and ignored Lanna’s pretty smile. From the bedside stand, a bottle of ointment and bandages were procured - always kept there for this obvious reason.
“It’s quite fun to.” Lanna giggled and slide a bloody hand into hers, ignoring it as it tensed, and began to clean it. “Tell me what happened, lover?”
“They suck!”
“Right…”
A bandage encircles one splintered hand, snuggling it tightly before being kissed by Lanna’s lips. “Give me your other hand, and tell me what happened?”
“I..I’m not their slave! I’m not a piece of meat!” Chryste proclaimed, rolling over and burying her face in Lanna’s lap, who took the second injured hand in her own.
Always a touchy subject; Chryste fighting to escape the paths Mavalos created her for - that of a slave and a toy. However fortunate it is that she ended up with one who truly cares such as Ilanna had little impact on how the world treated her every time she left her lover’s pink-haired embrace.
Lanna just shushed her gently, working to clean the hand. Denying her slave nature would only lead to back and forth that would never see an end until one slapped the other - and while making up was always great, fighting with each other was never worth it.
“We’ll never have our own child.” Chryste whimpered, fist clenching.
Ilanna smacked her hand, prying the fingers open to wrap a bandage beneath them. “And why not?”
“What about Khaevar?” Lanna questioned, tilting her hand and continuing with the wrap. “You and he made a gorgeous Jacob.”
“He’s a bigger slut than you, I, Ilarra, and Genise combined.” Ouch.
Ilanna giggled and nodded, tying off the bandage. “Ok, point, but he’s not a bad person by any means.”
“He’s a dong. He has one, so he is one. Fuck him.”
Ila laughed softly, and kissed Chryste’s hand. “You sure didn’t say that when he…”
“Stop trying to cheer me up!” She interrupted, snagging her hand away and getting to her feet. “Do I look like I want to be happy right now?!”
“You always deserve to be happy, Chryssy…”
“Stop it!” Chryste whined in response and started around the bed, ignoring Lanna’s hand as it tried to grasp at her arm. “Chryssy…”
She stomped across the flattened door, mashing out any last bits of dignity the wooden barricade might have had, and disappeared from the room; off to the place that had always been her base of operations in releasing her frustrations… Her forge.
The bag of goods purchased from Furen and Frockle was opened upon the workbench, and it’s contents spilled out over the surface. Bars of metals, mostly true silver, a pouch of emerald dust, an ingot of this or that - she spent quite a few at that tent, not counting that beaded leather choker around her neck.
A bandaged hand wrapped itself around a bar of true silver and lifted the precious metal before her widening eyes.
So perfect. Not a flaw or marring anywhere in it’s reflective surface. Not like the beings who surrounded her in daily life. It would retain it’s beauty forever; flawless for eternity. Unlike men, who only wanted what they could take from her.
If only there was a way to combine the two…
Chryste grinned. “Rhas, I need you…”
The tall, shirtless man of seeming half-sin’dorei heritage stood before the door of the forge as Chryste slipped through it, an inhuman ripple of flawless muscles covering his slender form. Waist-length, silky-black hair whipped and fluttered about in the wind, his blue-glowing gaze settling on the young warrioress, who offered him a bar of truesilver.
“I want a hundred bars, Rhas. Gems, many gems of any type, and twenty gold bars.”
Rhas’ head bowed slightly as he took the bar in hand, studied it a moment, and nodded. “Give me a few hours.” His deep voice hummed as the bar was handed back. And with a wink, he lifted into the air, spun, and was humanoid no more; replaced by the massive, sleek embodiment of a pitch-black nether drake.
Light forbid Delion ever meet this one.
(<3 YOU LIAM! XD)
-
Chrystenise
- Posts: 740
- Joined: Thu Nov 13, 2008 8:14 pm
Re: The Truesilver Groom
It had been three days since Rhas returned with the materials Chryste ordered of him. Nearly all of those days had been spent inside the forge. From the early morning until the middle of the night, stopping only for the necessities, she hammered away at her project.
Ilanna paid it little mind; this wasn’t the first time Chryste had went into a spell of the sorts. Probably not the twentieth time even. The young woman had her ways of negating depression, and they came as varied as the amount of different beings she was infused with. The forge, unhealthy dalliances, and warfare were apparent mainstays, however.
Soot was smeared-across her cheeks like some sort of war-paint, and a few burn marks lined up and down her arms. She wasn’t too cautious in her smithing this time around, forgoing personal harm for determination, and the results were showing. Before her on the anvil, a tarnished lot of truesilver, as soot-covered and marred as her own dirty perfection was being carefully hammered upon. Close-inspection would easily identify this piece as what would be a humanoid arm.
Muscles, not overly large, rippled along the shape of the metal, carefully chiseled by an array of hammers, forming in the steel a shape that even the most stout of bodily-perfect paladins would be in envy of.
Chryste paused in her hammering, stared at the piece a long moment, and gritted her teeth. “Fuck!” She screamed, before grabbing the burning hot silver, smoke rising from her gloves, and tossing it into the furnace.
The curses continued a long moment, gloves dropping to the floor, and filthy hands sliding into blue-black hair that somehow still held it’s healthy shine, despite being frazzled from the heat. Slowly, she paced back and forth along the forge, breathing deep and gaining her composure before being ready to start again.
“It’s just a fucking arm!” She whined, teeth gritting and eyes clenching shut. “Why can’t I do this?”
“Because I am your perfect lover, my dearest queen.”
Chryste’s eyes suddenly shot open, and her stomach upturned as the deep, raspy voice whispered in her mind. Mavalos?
Quickly, she spun, swooping up her hammer from the anvil and flinging it in the direction of the voice!
But it hit nothing but the back wall. There was nothing there - nor was there ever. Mavalos was dead, and all that remained of The Black Butcher was the voices in her head. “You’ll never replace me.”
Nor would she ever have him back. Ilanna, Tarquin, and Sonya made completely sure of this fact.
He wasn’t perfect anyways. He’d be here now if so.
She turned and sighed, making her way back over to a table opposite of the anvil. Upon it sat a large, thick book, open a few pages in. Leaning over the book, Chryste sighed, fingers running over the open page, which was inked with various, well-done drawings of human, mostly male, body parts. Upon this page, as expected, is an arm, detailed and well-drawn; an obvious reference utility.
She had it right on the anvil, the arm was constructed according to the book, and to a normal eye, there were probably little to no flaws whatsoever.
But it wasn’t good enough. She sighed and slammed the book shut, turning to the door of the forge.
The Laughing Lion roared with excitement as the monthly Partner Swap Meeting took place. Not as bad as it sounds, on the third weekend of every month, couples would meet and trade off partners to compete against other medleys of couples in dance and other fun competitions; a way to relieve the stress of wartime and bring families together as friends.
One such partner was there without her significant other, however. Chrystal Kaleigh drunk down the mug of cherry grog like a woman with bad intentions, gaze literally prowling over the husbands amongst the crowd.
Soft riding boots - and black tights that left little to the imagination. A frayed sash, - and tight, white shirt with a neck too low and cuffs too poofy. Soft white gloves, an open vest, hair in a tail and the perfect amount of make-up, the aforementioned bad intentions were a vast understatement.
Her cold, crystal gaze froze on the entrance, and she grinned like a jackal.
The Holbrooks were a strong family in Stormwind history. Not of the nobility, but always there when needed; they had bred a long line of field marshals across all three wars, and perhaps a little longer. Rumor speaks that Derek Holbrook, in the first war, single-handedly fought off an advance of a hundred and twenty some-odd orcs at a little known battle east of Westfall, giving his life to save a small encampment of twenty farmers too frightened to defend themselves.
Yes, he died after the battle, to complications. None of the orcs survived… Allegedly.
Eren Holbrook was no different. At just thirty years of age, he was of just a handful of men to reach field marshal before the age of thirty. “It must be something in the family’s well at home,” a general once joked, pinning the marshal badge to the chest of a Holbrook.
He was tall and dark in tan; muscles from head to toe, and a chisled face that could crack stone doubly, with both it’s handsomeness and it’s exigency.
The golden eagles of Stormwind stood proud on his chest, looming over all before him as icy-blue eyes roamed the crowd. Little did he know that eyes of an even colder blue had already sat upon him.
A hand wrapped firmly around his forearm as he began into the tavern, ready to seek out his wife. “Well, hello to you…”
“Ma’am…” He nodded curtly, turning his gaze down to the unusually striking Kaleigh, and then doing a double take, gaze fixating on her… Smile.
“Who are you?” She asked in a playful lilt, hand pawing at his arm as she slowly turned his back to the crowd, grinning.
The proud man bowed out his chest, stood firm, and cleared his throat. “Field Marshal Eren Holbrook, at your service, miss-es?”
“Misses Bored,” her grin grew a little wider, as did his eyes.
“So I see…” he cleared his throat again, attempting to take a step back. “I need to find my wife, do excuse me.”
“You see your wife every night,” she responded, tugging him closer with deceptive strength. “How often will you see someone like me?”
The dark tank turned red with blushing; wild thoughts, and even wilder notions of successfully getting away with this clouding his mind. “I..I am a happily married man, Misses Bored.”
“And I’m a happily married woman.” That smile should be registered as a lethal weapon. She tugged him closer again, and suddenly his eyes bulged as a clenching noise sounded below the belt. “Who ever got hurt by a little variation of diet though, hmm?”
“Oh dear Light, you’re strong…” He sucked in a deep breath, one hand raising, and holding up a finger in matter-of-fact intent. “Unhand me now, or else I’ll be force to…”
“To what?” she cut him off with her sultry whisper, and squeezed.
“T..to…”
Chryste cried out a giggle of delight as her head and shoulders slammed into the headboard, which in turn slammed into the wall behind it; again, and again. Buckling of wood, creaking of bedsprings, and the guilt-laden groans and shouts of a married man all danced and mingled with the young woman’s voice, creating a party of their own above the main floor of The Laughing Lion.
A hand pawed tightly at his arm, studying it’s every curve and movement as she took him in, intense gaze locked upon his, only spurring the poor, poor man to continue with no thoughts at all of letting up. The pitcher of grog on the table beside them rattled and fell to the floor amidst the vibrations, and Chryste’s free hand palmed at Eren’s face, studiously finding every groove and change of texture.
As annoyed as any man would be by a hand on their face, he trapped said arm to the bed by the elbow, and continued, giving little to no care to the odd studying of his arms by her opposite of hands. In fact, the heel of a foot that wasn’t his, somehow touching the mid of his back between the shoulders only sent him over the top, and somewhere deep down, he was possibly considering the thought of putting their bed completely through the wall.
It seemed like an eternity - for him at least. But he wasn’t minding, and who would? His eyes clenched, his cries grew louder, and in a matter of minutes, his muscles gave out and he collapsed on top of the young woman beneath him, groaning and panting for breath. “Light…” he groaned. “You’re not human…”
He was right, apparently; humans have hearts. An attempt for a kiss only led to a pair of feet suddenly kicking him clean off the bed and to the floor! To make matters worse, she giggled while doing so.
“Get out.” she panted, eyes closed and the fingers on her hand still moving as if inspecting some imaginary texture. She continued to giggle, even as tears streaked her cheeks, and the occasional giggle became a sob.
“B..but I…”
He was quickly cut off. “Don’t tell your wife, wouldn’t want her to know who you’ll be thinking of from now on…”
She giggled and sobbed more, and every moment spent looking up to the bed had Eren a bit more frightened for his safety as he watched the erratic changes of emotion in the young tigress. It was quite possibly the first time in the history of ever that a man felt violated.
Legs curled, and she rolled over onto her side, continuing to giggle as she tucked her hand close, cherishing it like gold. Not wanting to push this any further, Eren saw it best to keep his amazing memory, and forget the rest of it, gathering up his armor and quickly finding the exit (Which the plant beside it had tipped in front of, something for him to be proud of.).
Shortly after the door closed, she clutched her hand tight to her chest, and flatly began to bawl her eyes out.
The arm was perfect. The polishing rag slowly and meticulously cleaned away mars of grime and soot, waxing it to a shine. All in all, it had hardly changed from the night before during her rage, but apparently, the subtle changes made to it’s form and texture were just right. She smiled as she held up to limb of true silver, eyes baggy, and expression weary, as if she’d not slept at all.
“Perfect…”
Ilanna paid it little mind; this wasn’t the first time Chryste had went into a spell of the sorts. Probably not the twentieth time even. The young woman had her ways of negating depression, and they came as varied as the amount of different beings she was infused with. The forge, unhealthy dalliances, and warfare were apparent mainstays, however.
Soot was smeared-across her cheeks like some sort of war-paint, and a few burn marks lined up and down her arms. She wasn’t too cautious in her smithing this time around, forgoing personal harm for determination, and the results were showing. Before her on the anvil, a tarnished lot of truesilver, as soot-covered and marred as her own dirty perfection was being carefully hammered upon. Close-inspection would easily identify this piece as what would be a humanoid arm.
Muscles, not overly large, rippled along the shape of the metal, carefully chiseled by an array of hammers, forming in the steel a shape that even the most stout of bodily-perfect paladins would be in envy of.
Chryste paused in her hammering, stared at the piece a long moment, and gritted her teeth. “Fuck!” She screamed, before grabbing the burning hot silver, smoke rising from her gloves, and tossing it into the furnace.
The curses continued a long moment, gloves dropping to the floor, and filthy hands sliding into blue-black hair that somehow still held it’s healthy shine, despite being frazzled from the heat. Slowly, she paced back and forth along the forge, breathing deep and gaining her composure before being ready to start again.
“It’s just a fucking arm!” She whined, teeth gritting and eyes clenching shut. “Why can’t I do this?”
“Because I am your perfect lover, my dearest queen.”
Chryste’s eyes suddenly shot open, and her stomach upturned as the deep, raspy voice whispered in her mind. Mavalos?
Quickly, she spun, swooping up her hammer from the anvil and flinging it in the direction of the voice!
But it hit nothing but the back wall. There was nothing there - nor was there ever. Mavalos was dead, and all that remained of The Black Butcher was the voices in her head. “You’ll never replace me.”
Nor would she ever have him back. Ilanna, Tarquin, and Sonya made completely sure of this fact.
He wasn’t perfect anyways. He’d be here now if so.
She turned and sighed, making her way back over to a table opposite of the anvil. Upon it sat a large, thick book, open a few pages in. Leaning over the book, Chryste sighed, fingers running over the open page, which was inked with various, well-done drawings of human, mostly male, body parts. Upon this page, as expected, is an arm, detailed and well-drawn; an obvious reference utility.
She had it right on the anvil, the arm was constructed according to the book, and to a normal eye, there were probably little to no flaws whatsoever.
But it wasn’t good enough. She sighed and slammed the book shut, turning to the door of the forge.
The Laughing Lion roared with excitement as the monthly Partner Swap Meeting took place. Not as bad as it sounds, on the third weekend of every month, couples would meet and trade off partners to compete against other medleys of couples in dance and other fun competitions; a way to relieve the stress of wartime and bring families together as friends.
One such partner was there without her significant other, however. Chrystal Kaleigh drunk down the mug of cherry grog like a woman with bad intentions, gaze literally prowling over the husbands amongst the crowd.
Soft riding boots - and black tights that left little to the imagination. A frayed sash, - and tight, white shirt with a neck too low and cuffs too poofy. Soft white gloves, an open vest, hair in a tail and the perfect amount of make-up, the aforementioned bad intentions were a vast understatement.
Her cold, crystal gaze froze on the entrance, and she grinned like a jackal.
The Holbrooks were a strong family in Stormwind history. Not of the nobility, but always there when needed; they had bred a long line of field marshals across all three wars, and perhaps a little longer. Rumor speaks that Derek Holbrook, in the first war, single-handedly fought off an advance of a hundred and twenty some-odd orcs at a little known battle east of Westfall, giving his life to save a small encampment of twenty farmers too frightened to defend themselves.
Yes, he died after the battle, to complications. None of the orcs survived… Allegedly.
Eren Holbrook was no different. At just thirty years of age, he was of just a handful of men to reach field marshal before the age of thirty. “It must be something in the family’s well at home,” a general once joked, pinning the marshal badge to the chest of a Holbrook.
He was tall and dark in tan; muscles from head to toe, and a chisled face that could crack stone doubly, with both it’s handsomeness and it’s exigency.
The golden eagles of Stormwind stood proud on his chest, looming over all before him as icy-blue eyes roamed the crowd. Little did he know that eyes of an even colder blue had already sat upon him.
A hand wrapped firmly around his forearm as he began into the tavern, ready to seek out his wife. “Well, hello to you…”
“Ma’am…” He nodded curtly, turning his gaze down to the unusually striking Kaleigh, and then doing a double take, gaze fixating on her… Smile.
“Who are you?” She asked in a playful lilt, hand pawing at his arm as she slowly turned his back to the crowd, grinning.
The proud man bowed out his chest, stood firm, and cleared his throat. “Field Marshal Eren Holbrook, at your service, miss-es?”
“Misses Bored,” her grin grew a little wider, as did his eyes.
“So I see…” he cleared his throat again, attempting to take a step back. “I need to find my wife, do excuse me.”
“You see your wife every night,” she responded, tugging him closer with deceptive strength. “How often will you see someone like me?”
The dark tank turned red with blushing; wild thoughts, and even wilder notions of successfully getting away with this clouding his mind. “I..I am a happily married man, Misses Bored.”
“And I’m a happily married woman.” That smile should be registered as a lethal weapon. She tugged him closer again, and suddenly his eyes bulged as a clenching noise sounded below the belt. “Who ever got hurt by a little variation of diet though, hmm?”
“Oh dear Light, you’re strong…” He sucked in a deep breath, one hand raising, and holding up a finger in matter-of-fact intent. “Unhand me now, or else I’ll be force to…”
“To what?” she cut him off with her sultry whisper, and squeezed.
“T..to…”
Chryste cried out a giggle of delight as her head and shoulders slammed into the headboard, which in turn slammed into the wall behind it; again, and again. Buckling of wood, creaking of bedsprings, and the guilt-laden groans and shouts of a married man all danced and mingled with the young woman’s voice, creating a party of their own above the main floor of The Laughing Lion.
A hand pawed tightly at his arm, studying it’s every curve and movement as she took him in, intense gaze locked upon his, only spurring the poor, poor man to continue with no thoughts at all of letting up. The pitcher of grog on the table beside them rattled and fell to the floor amidst the vibrations, and Chryste’s free hand palmed at Eren’s face, studiously finding every groove and change of texture.
As annoyed as any man would be by a hand on their face, he trapped said arm to the bed by the elbow, and continued, giving little to no care to the odd studying of his arms by her opposite of hands. In fact, the heel of a foot that wasn’t his, somehow touching the mid of his back between the shoulders only sent him over the top, and somewhere deep down, he was possibly considering the thought of putting their bed completely through the wall.
It seemed like an eternity - for him at least. But he wasn’t minding, and who would? His eyes clenched, his cries grew louder, and in a matter of minutes, his muscles gave out and he collapsed on top of the young woman beneath him, groaning and panting for breath. “Light…” he groaned. “You’re not human…”
He was right, apparently; humans have hearts. An attempt for a kiss only led to a pair of feet suddenly kicking him clean off the bed and to the floor! To make matters worse, she giggled while doing so.
“Get out.” she panted, eyes closed and the fingers on her hand still moving as if inspecting some imaginary texture. She continued to giggle, even as tears streaked her cheeks, and the occasional giggle became a sob.
“B..but I…”
He was quickly cut off. “Don’t tell your wife, wouldn’t want her to know who you’ll be thinking of from now on…”
She giggled and sobbed more, and every moment spent looking up to the bed had Eren a bit more frightened for his safety as he watched the erratic changes of emotion in the young tigress. It was quite possibly the first time in the history of ever that a man felt violated.
Legs curled, and she rolled over onto her side, continuing to giggle as she tucked her hand close, cherishing it like gold. Not wanting to push this any further, Eren saw it best to keep his amazing memory, and forget the rest of it, gathering up his armor and quickly finding the exit (Which the plant beside it had tipped in front of, something for him to be proud of.).
Shortly after the door closed, she clutched her hand tight to her chest, and flatly began to bawl her eyes out.
The arm was perfect. The polishing rag slowly and meticulously cleaned away mars of grime and soot, waxing it to a shine. All in all, it had hardly changed from the night before during her rage, but apparently, the subtle changes made to it’s form and texture were just right. She smiled as she held up to limb of true silver, eyes baggy, and expression weary, as if she’d not slept at all.
“Perfect…”