Thursday, June 2, 2011

Writing Prompt #17

17) Write 2 bits, one where your character is drinking something (anything) on a good day, and one where they’re drinking something on a bad day.

Here’s mine:

a) Razul sipped at his saín, the steam from the pungent red brew curling up in a wave. The heat felt good on his lips, his tongue, and he enjoyed the first taste of home in far too long. To find such a delicacy here in the tangled backwoods of Pencheira : bliss. He sipped again, peace seeping into him. The other Swords were out scouting, but they wouldn’t find anything. Helat was as quiet as their contacts had claimed. Razul indulged in the luxury of wincing in pain as he shifted his injured leg. Tae would insist on halting their search for days they couldn’t afford if she knew the extent of his injury. Instead he’d just take his ease tonight and hope the stiffness lessened in the morning.

Part b to follow, busy work morning so far, but wanted to get the prompt up. Get crackin'!

Okay, got a chance to bust out a quick second bit.

b) Razul eyed the inhabitants of the inn. His gaze shifted from the mercenary at the bar to the somber young soldier who’d clearly just been blooded. He took in details, mock-drinking from a mug of stale beer he’d nursed for an almost obvious amount of time. Across from him Derek signaled the barmaid for another round, clearly thinking the same thing.

“He’s not coming,” Derek muttered.

Razul scanned the room, never looking directly at the door he watched so carefully. “He had better.” He caught his fingers tightening dangerously around the clay mug and loosened them, lest his tension show in a shower of clay fragments. “Or so help me. . . .”

The barmaid knew enough not to react when they handed over their half-full mugs for new ones.

Tae sauntered over, fresh from an Outs victory. Her light step contrasted with the wariness in her silver eyes. “We either need to get real raucous real quick or make our way out. We’ve attracted enough notice as it is, just sitting here.”


  1. Somewhere in the deep caverns of Khaz Modan, Griffonclaw slept the sleep of the dead, and dreamed. He imagined his adopted nephew, a gnomish lad by the name of MacLhir, was playing the gnomish lute and singing the song they had produced from Griffonclaw's first exposure to the folk of Ironforge, the folk who had taken him in and made him one of their own.

    When Craft Ramsey had returned his lifeless body to his wife, Kestralil Shadowhawk, she had in turn given it over to Griffonclaw's adopted people, the Order of the Silver Hand of Ironforge. When the human Order had released Griffonclaw from his vows because the paladin had dared to kill Alliance soldiers who were raping Horde civilians, the dwarven Order had re-sworn him, and King Magni Bronzebeard himself had made Griffonclaw a "legal dwarf", granting him full citizenship, swearing Griffonclaw to his personal service as one of his "privy agents of the Iron Throne".

    They had taken Griffonclaw's body with reverence; he had died protecting his Commander from the rapacious minions of the Lich King in desperate defense of his final citadel, and had fallen, his Ironforge tabard and the armor underneath shredded. He was given the full funerary rites of a fallen Ironforge paladin, and as the Sworn of King Magni, was laid out in the Royal Crypt so that his spirit could guard his King in death as he had in life.

    Visitors to his sepulcher didn't realize that the stone effigy of Griffonclaw was the paladin's actual body, turned to stone.

    Griffonclaw's spirit listened from where he sat in his King's Hall, listening to the song. As the song played, he sipped at his never-empty tankard of dwarven stout and wept unashamedly, listening to the words spawn memories of that horrid, wonderful day.

    As a squire, Griffonclaw had made the choice to cleave to the path of Uther rather than follow his sworn master down the path of Arthas at Stratholme. When Arthas declared the Order dissolved, he had followed Lady Jaina Proudmore to Kalimbor, and eventually to the slopes of Mount Hyjal.

    As the Burning Legion had drawn near, the defenders of Hyjal had asked for volunteers to fight a desperate holding action in the mountain road which led up the slopes, to give them time to finish their hastily-erected defenses. The Hammer of Magni, an elite dwarven unit sent by Magni, had responded to the call, and as they were short-handed, Griffonclaw was assigned to them to supplement their own paladins.

    While Arthas had officially dissolved the Order of the Silver Hand, that action had resulted in no effect upon the strength of Griffonclaw's sword nor his ability to manifest the Light to heal his compatriots. Griffonclaw had spent the hours before battle at the forge, doing any task requested of the Master Smiths, putting edges on weapons, helping the dwarves arrange their defensive works that sat athwart the road.

  2. "They say Azeroth is bleeding
    When every warlock soul is born
    Beckoning to the infernal
    Brimstone eyes are full of scorn...

    We are forty against thousands
    Facing demons and deadly strife
    Our task - delay the Burning Legion
    Buying more time with our life

    They will charge us come the morning
    When the midnight becomes day's sky
    The felhounds will feast upon our bodies
    Our clanmates and our wives will cry.

    Ironforge, we're coming home
    To the deeply delved dark tunnels
    And the great halls carved from stone.
    Our souls are running fast
    leaping o'er the gorge
    We're coming home to Ironforge.

    Our Lady Captain, she lays bleeding
    And she then calls out to me
    "The defenders need at least twelve hours
    for even hope of victory"

    I look up all around me
    And see Rogue, Paladin and Priest
    Sharpening blade and making ready
    To buy them half a day, at least.

    Ironforge, we're coming home
    To the deeply delved dark tunnels
    And the great halls carved from stone.
    Our souls are running fast
    leaping o'er the gorge
    We're coming home to Ironforge.

    The sun rises over mountain
    We see the land below quite clear
    Distant sacrifices sscreaming
    As our enemy draws near.

    No more words need to be spoken
    Just a drink to say good-bye
    They descend upon our battle-line
    To the sound of dwarven battle cry!

    Ironforge, we're coming home
    To the deeply delved dark tunnels
    And the great halls carved from stone.
    Our souls are running fast
    leaping o'er the gorge
    We're coming home to Ironforge."

    The demons and other fel beasts had come shortly thereafter, and no quarter had been given, nor expected. The Hammer of Magni, already having taken many casualties in the various skirmishes up to this point, had proven that they had iron in their spirits.

    They had held for six hours. Three of the dwarves had survived the battle; the warriors Skallagrim and Orri, the battle-priest Tbelle.

    And Griffonclaw. He had been wounded, and his body had been buried under other casualties while the battle raged past him. He had awoken to the gentle touch of a kaldorei healer, who had pulled him back from the brink of death with her druidic magics.

    The four of them had recovered, and gone their separate ways, but friendships, bonds of mithril and steel had been forged that day between them, bonds that would be renewed in Thelsamar, years later.

  3. wow! What a great piece!

    I can't believe how much you wrote. And very poignant. Ah, Griffonclaw... /sigh

    Thank you so much for taking the time to write such an amazing prompt. gave me the chills while I was reading!

    Looking forward to reading more of your work :)