I sit at my computer for at least 10 minutes if not more.
I stand up, slowly.
I take the sweatshirt that has since only half dried with my tears off, slowly.
I turn off my computer, slowly.
I move the pile of unorganized clothes off of my bed and onto my computer chair, slowly.
I take my hair out of its slightly messy bun, slowly.
I turn off my lamp, slowly.
I sit in bed and think about what to write, slowly.
Time has stopped moving for me at this point. It always moves to fast, speeding away from me, and just as I think I have any sort of chance at catching it, it stops. It hits me like a truck. And only while writing this do I realize how much it impacts me.
Never have I EVER felt like I was going to throw up because I was crying so hard over a characters death. But tonight, I was proven wrong by Matthew Mercer once again.
Now, Tiberius was never my favorite, but he definetly was not my least favorite. How could you ever have a least favorite in that rag-tag bunch of good upstarts? But at times he could be, a little less easy to tolerate, one could say. But that’s all in his character; how he is, why we loved him, what made him Tiberius Stormwind of Draconia. Easily, he was one of the reasons I began making characters for d&d. He was part of the reason of why I am a part of this wonderful fandom/family of critters.
So, to Tiberius Stormwind of Draconia, of low wisdom, but many friends, I say one of the hardest goodbyes in my life.
(I’m really sorry if this sounds totally cheesy, but this is my coping mechanism, and I’m really not over the shock of what happened tonight. I probably won’t be over it for a while.)
(I’m gonna sleep now and hope for a better day tomorrow)
The sounds of battle thundered in the air. The clattering of axes and denting of armor sounded off loudly in the field. Horde and Alliance fought side by side, dimly lit by the fel green glow in the sky as infernos and doomguards fell upon their land. The Legion had begun to unleash their wrath upon this world, and the warriors and fighters of Azeroth, both young and old, were not going to go down without a fight.
There is a more noticeable figure closer to the epicenter of the battle, one who wielded a broadsword steadily and swung it with the power of a true warrior. A flash of Light sparked from the blade, cleansing and smiting through the demons he slew. The Golden Prince of Stormwind had taken arms against the demons, moving with the swiftness and prowess of a lion, leaving a bloody mess of demon corpses with every swing. Fel blood dripped from his coat, his mane a mess and sliding out of his ponytail as he moved and swayed with the rhythm of the battle, light on his feet and infused with the golden powers of a priest.
“Forward!” He commanded, and an army of human footmen followed behind him as they advanced through the thicket of battle, moving quickly through the Legion’s forces. They were somewhere in Deadwind Pass, on their way to the Ruins of Karazhan when they were halted by demons. To the Prince, he remained unfazed, confident that his forces would push through the obstacles.
“Your highness!” A panicked voice cries out. Anduin turns, barely in time to block what would have been a fatal blow to the chest by a doomguard. Several felhounds began to surround the forces, snarling and growling and gnawing at the legs of the unlucky. Anduin moved quickly, using his energy to dodge attacks made by a massive axe. Blood trickled down his skin and through the fabric of his attire, and he began to hear his men fall. Panic began to set in when the sky glowed brighter, the fel energies intensifying as the sky boomed and thundered with the entry of unwanted guests.
Within a matter of minutes, the prince finds himself alone.
he going to be alright?” came a frantic voice from the medic’s
side. The Night Elf looked over. The Prince of Stormwind, who hardly
came up to her waist, was looking at her with wide, scared eyes. It
was hard for her, so long-lived, to guess a human’s age, but she
supposed him to be eight or so. “He will be fine,” she said,
then nodded to the cot before her. “It -”
hurts,” Varian interrupted. He was propped up on the cot by a small
throne of pillows. Despite the large arrow shaft sticking out of his
left shoulder, he was smiling. “I might actually keep it in. It’d
be good to hang notes to myself on it.”
that’s not funny,” Anduin said, but despite the nervous edge in his
voice, he smiled warily as he spoke.
laughed. “I thought it was.”
I shot you with a bow and arrow!”
a good shot, too. Maybe you can do the other shoulder next time so
wrathion & anduin; rated G; takes place indeterminately during war crimes
“Are you all right?” Wrathion asked. He stood a few feet away from Anduin, hands clasped behind his back. The temple steps were brushed with snow, patchy and disturbed from the constant foot traffic of the past few days. The dark stones gleamed beneath the high noon light, but gathered no warmth; the sun here was symbolic.
Anduin sat on top of the steps, near a burning brazier, bundled in a fur-lined coat that made him look like some kind of fluffy prey animal. His eyes were fixed on the ground; his breath a series of quick, pale wisps. He had a steaming lotus seed bun in one hand and he squeezed it like a stress ball, smearing his leather glove with gooey paste.
“I’m fine,” Anduin said, not looking up.
“I’m no expert,” Wrathion said, taking a few steps closer, “but I don’t think you’re meant to eat your food that way.”
Wrathion cultivated what he, at first, had been told were bad habits.
He took out his mood on his body, was the simplest way to put it. He would tap his fingers anxiously, flap his hands happily, jump on the spot frustratedly, throw things angrily, rock himself soothingly. He’d been told all of them were childish, a sign of a lack of self-restraint. But after Fahrad’s oft overly-critical presence had passed, he’d decided that since nobody dare tell him they made him look bad, that he would be quite content to continue with them.
Right now, he was pacing. The movement was representative of both his agitation and his lack of decision on his current predicament.
The Prince of Stormwind had just kissed him.
Not very much, he argued as he paced one way, and hardly for very long. It was barely a peck, really. Perhaps Wrathion had merely misinterpreted a Stormwind symbol of friendship or fraternity.
He turned on his heel and stalked back the other way, his hands moving from their reserved position in the small of his back to touch at his lips for the tenth time in as many minutes. The touch was soothing in and of itself, but what it reminded him of was… confusing. It made his chest feel light and the back of his jaw glow as if he were about to breathe fire. And he wanted to know if that was why Anduin had done it in the first place - to try and make him feel this way. And, if so, why he wanted to make him feel so.
He swiveled around again and put his hands back in the small of his back. Surely this must be some kind of ruse, some trick to humiliate him. Either way, he needed to confront Wrynn about it.
Continuing in a straight line along the upstairs corridor, he went to knock on the door to Anduin Wrynn’s room.