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Chamorus the Cat
Super-Earth
- Joined
- Nov 1, 2010
Duskwood was quiet tonight, save for the hissing hoof-beats of an undead steed, black-purple energy rising from the point where bone touched road. A cloaked rider wound through an area that had once been an outright affront to life; infested with the final hangers-on of a broken Scourge force, Darkshire was quite the busy place. Yet, the rider had picked a trail around Darkshire and the endless waves of rotting cavalry that was cursed to try and take that miserable town, heading ever deeper into the woods. West, the rider went, until a hidden path to the North caught their eye. The rider turned the plate-barded skeleton towards the hidden path, walking it slowly through a copse of dark-leafed shrubs which were overshadowed by towering indigowood elders, trees that had lived as long as the Eastern continent itself. They reverently bowed towards one another along the path, like a living tunnel of lush, violet foliage, while the oldest stood tall and proud in a circle around the Twilight Grove.
Many steps down that path, a pair of green-scaled dragonkin stopped the rider. Each held a wicked polearm, each end tipped with a wedge-shaped blade, forged of a red-tinted metal, emblazoned with golden filigree in the shape of twining vines. The rightmost grumbled low, leveling that tool of death in the rider's direction.
"Halt there, traveler," he said, his voice like one stone rubbing against another. His fang-filled mouth working awkwardly around the words. "All weapons must be checked," he growled out. There was a smorgasbord of weapons; maces, swords, and axes, both big and not-as-big, lined up on a half-dozen stands. The rider's hood moved, first to the weapon leveled against them, then again in a quizzical sort of cant to the side. There was a dare there, a moment when the rider's stance suggested a coiled spring or an asp waiting to strike. The dragonkin looked down the length of the polearm, at the traveler's weapons, and then into the void of the hood; there was fear in his eyes and that made the rider smirk hiddenly.
A gloved hand slowly reached up. The dragonkin both tensed as one, the rings of their polearms jingling; both let out a breath they had been holding when the rider tossed the large sword strapped over one shoulder to a third dragonkin, hooded with the trappings of a mage; the dragonkin blinked, looked at the item for a long time, then nodded. It was a long, unadorned flamberge, with a serpent-tongue point intended giving mounted opponents a rough dismount, if not an outright beheading. The dragonkin looked over the weapon, then reached into the air.
"Madame," the smaller mage-drake said, his voice like an oiled blade, "We require you to remove your cloak, so that I might assign your personal aura to your weapon." Matter-of-fact and somehow able to know who or what might lay beneath the cloak. The other gloved hand, the tips torn by the claws beneath, reached up to grab the peak of the hood; a pale visage was exposed when the hand pulled back the veil of shadow. Eyes, black where there should be white, bright silver where there should be color. Despite the lack of pupils, the slant of her eyes and the glint of metallic irises drew images of a predatory beast. She was smooth, especially for someone that was dead; full lips that were as blue-black as the nightsky, spread in a playful grin that showed sharp, white teeth. Her hair was wild, a boyish sort of cut that was swept back from her face, like she'd been hit in the face by a blast of wind; starkly black.
"Ah, Miss Syrixa Howler, yes?" he asked, waving his hand in arcane patterns. They alit with a strange, inky-black aura, which he placed on the sword. "Your weapon will be here when you are ready to leave." His draconic smile was only a little worrying. "Welcome to the Viridian Tavern."
The tavern was a new addition to the Twilight Grove. When Osaru broke through the Emerald Dream, she stepped through an unfamiliar portal, that had very little canonical explanation on why it opened in the Eastern Kingdoms. Due to the Emerald Dream's cleansing, Osaru came forth as Ysera did; whole of body and mind. This new world interested her; after seeing it for herself, she returned to the place where her journey had started and began to build. The four story inn that was made was a sight to behold. Here, however, King Wrynn and Warchief Garrosh were both expected to behave; boys being boys, however, they fought the first night they were there. Draconian guards teleported the two out onto the lawn, where Osaru herself placed them under a sleep spell; haunted by the dragon's nightmares, they made a vow then and there that's lasted (tenuously) for over a year:
1st Rule of Viridian Tavern: If it's your first night, you don't fight. Hell, you don't ever fight in a dragon's inn.
Dark blue armor covered, pretty much, only what was necessary to be decent. With a swagger, she moved to an empty table, sitting in the tall chair. Her legs crossed at the ankles. Despite the cloth that covered her lovely privates, however, she was unmistakably of another gender. Wasting no time, she began to drink, ordering a beer. The amount of gold that Syrixa had on hand was more than ample. It was soon more or less a competition to see which server could get the beer to her before anyone else.
Syrixa gave a happy sigh. Un-life was good.
Many steps down that path, a pair of green-scaled dragonkin stopped the rider. Each held a wicked polearm, each end tipped with a wedge-shaped blade, forged of a red-tinted metal, emblazoned with golden filigree in the shape of twining vines. The rightmost grumbled low, leveling that tool of death in the rider's direction.
"Halt there, traveler," he said, his voice like one stone rubbing against another. His fang-filled mouth working awkwardly around the words. "All weapons must be checked," he growled out. There was a smorgasbord of weapons; maces, swords, and axes, both big and not-as-big, lined up on a half-dozen stands. The rider's hood moved, first to the weapon leveled against them, then again in a quizzical sort of cant to the side. There was a dare there, a moment when the rider's stance suggested a coiled spring or an asp waiting to strike. The dragonkin looked down the length of the polearm, at the traveler's weapons, and then into the void of the hood; there was fear in his eyes and that made the rider smirk hiddenly.
A gloved hand slowly reached up. The dragonkin both tensed as one, the rings of their polearms jingling; both let out a breath they had been holding when the rider tossed the large sword strapped over one shoulder to a third dragonkin, hooded with the trappings of a mage; the dragonkin blinked, looked at the item for a long time, then nodded. It was a long, unadorned flamberge, with a serpent-tongue point intended giving mounted opponents a rough dismount, if not an outright beheading. The dragonkin looked over the weapon, then reached into the air.
"Madame," the smaller mage-drake said, his voice like an oiled blade, "We require you to remove your cloak, so that I might assign your personal aura to your weapon." Matter-of-fact and somehow able to know who or what might lay beneath the cloak. The other gloved hand, the tips torn by the claws beneath, reached up to grab the peak of the hood; a pale visage was exposed when the hand pulled back the veil of shadow. Eyes, black where there should be white, bright silver where there should be color. Despite the lack of pupils, the slant of her eyes and the glint of metallic irises drew images of a predatory beast. She was smooth, especially for someone that was dead; full lips that were as blue-black as the nightsky, spread in a playful grin that showed sharp, white teeth. Her hair was wild, a boyish sort of cut that was swept back from her face, like she'd been hit in the face by a blast of wind; starkly black.
"Ah, Miss Syrixa Howler, yes?" he asked, waving his hand in arcane patterns. They alit with a strange, inky-black aura, which he placed on the sword. "Your weapon will be here when you are ready to leave." His draconic smile was only a little worrying. "Welcome to the Viridian Tavern."
~
The tavern was a new addition to the Twilight Grove. When Osaru broke through the Emerald Dream, she stepped through an unfamiliar portal, that had very little canonical explanation on why it opened in the Eastern Kingdoms. Due to the Emerald Dream's cleansing, Osaru came forth as Ysera did; whole of body and mind. This new world interested her; after seeing it for herself, she returned to the place where her journey had started and began to build. The four story inn that was made was a sight to behold. Here, however, King Wrynn and Warchief Garrosh were both expected to behave; boys being boys, however, they fought the first night they were there. Draconian guards teleported the two out onto the lawn, where Osaru herself placed them under a sleep spell; haunted by the dragon's nightmares, they made a vow then and there that's lasted (tenuously) for over a year:
1st Rule of Viridian Tavern: If it's your first night, you don't fight. Hell, you don't ever fight in a dragon's inn.
~
Syrixa stood at the door to take everything in. Every race was accounted for, including a few Pandaren; at least the ones who didn't find the brew here offensive (Brewmasters, go figure). Two kinds of elves, two kinds with hooves, two short, some cannibalistic, some just plain human. Syrixa pressed a ring to the broach on her cloak. Some sort of force pulled the cloak from her body, like it had been caught in a vortex. What was left was... revealing.
Dark blue armor covered, pretty much, only what was necessary to be decent. With a swagger, she moved to an empty table, sitting in the tall chair. Her legs crossed at the ankles. Despite the cloth that covered her lovely privates, however, she was unmistakably of another gender. Wasting no time, she began to drink, ordering a beer. The amount of gold that Syrixa had on hand was more than ample. It was soon more or less a competition to see which server could get the beer to her before anyone else.
Syrixa gave a happy sigh. Un-life was good.