Nailfish Terrors of the Deep!

[joylogic]

Utoh had dragonflies in his stomach he was so excited to go on his first ever boat ride!

But then kindly Lord Emizael warned Utoh of the Terrors of the Deep...the strange and terrifyingly deadly NailFish!!

Mighty Emizael explained to poor unsailorly Utoh that these evil sea beasties had flippers with NAILS in them, and they'd shoot them out at you and kill you to death with them! So Utoh, thanked wise and benificient Emizael and promptly sought a different way to go from the sea village outside of Darnunu to the mysterious and far away sounding...Darkshore.

Utoh's tummy wriggled with hopeful excitement that the Hippo..cow-deer-thingy would know the way to fly there, because Utoh was pretty sure he didn't.

[Celera]

So, Emizael was being *kind* again.

I shall have to speak with him about that.

[Emizael]

Now, now, the poor Utoh has had enough excitement over this, hasn't he?

* skulkers off all Rogue-like *

[arvaitha]

Yeah...he did the same to me, except it was razortail fish.....They would slice a person in half if they got too close to the water....Thanks Em!!

[Emizael]

" Fish..can be deadly."

Sitting crouched down on the bank of Crystal Lake, I can hear those words coming back to me. Out of the depths of the nearly forgotten past they come, bringing with them the memories of a happier time, a laughing young boy, and the oh so serious face of his father.

A rare moment of alone time, father and son, alone save for a few stout poles, and some simple line, stretching out into the waters.

He says, " Fish, can be dangerous. Depends on the kind, though. There are fish as large as an Elf, in some parts of the world, fish that can swallow an entire boat."

I remember looking up into the face of my father, a being that I have known for my entire life (( at that point)) to be nothing but the Word of Elune for Truth...and I remember trying to fit into my young head how a fish could be that big!

He reached out his immense hand, and tousled my hair, and then, he smiled that smile of his that just made the world so bright...

" But there's no fish like that here! Here, there's only tasty trouts! "

I try desperately to grasp the rest of the memory..to remember his face, his name, the safety of being with him, being a kid again..but, all that is gone. Quick as it comes, the sounds of my father are mist and smoke, and I sit looking at the clear surface of Crystal Lake and wondering why such a memory would come on me now, of all times.

So, I go back to the drink. The soothing balm of Ale, and the precious cask of Darkmoon Special Reserve! I sit, and I drink.

And try not to remember anymore.

[Celera]

((couldn't you write something mediocre just once. I'm tired from being amazed all the time ))

[The Way of the Rabbit]

The Way of the Rabbit

The dark tendrils of the Scourge had found its opening long ago. The necromantic might of Kel'Thuzad is easy to perceive and defend against, compared to Evil's artful seduction. In darkness its machinations are nearly irresistible. That's why Utoh's teacher taught him the Way of the Rabbit.

"No Rabbit is ever caught in places he does not go, Little Utoh." was what he had said to him, sitting in his cave home, his burrow, far above Aldrasil. Softheaded Utoh didn't know it at the time, but many of his teacher's lessons were practical not only in combat with nightstalkers and Naga, or in moral decisions when nobody would notice you taking that tasty morsel laying there on the vendor's table. Their greatest practicality was revealed in their defense against the Scourge.

Utoh was taught explicitly to "Stay in the Light." That staying there, inside the domain of truth and love, would teach him the virtues of honesty and devoted passion almost without trying. But what his teacher didn't try to explain to poor Utoh was that staying in the domain of truth and love, and practicing their corresponding virtues, would tacitly unearth the bitter roots left in his soul from the hurts of his childhood. Exposed in the clean air and bright light they would rot away quite naturally, starved as they would be by Utoh's not defending his old self, but living creatively in his new self.

But Emizael had no such teacher protecting him from the darksome infiltration of the Scourge's shadow death. But even now Emizeal had opened the door to his soul in his mind. He had gone back to the bitter root of a childhood betrayal that traumatized him well beyond his conscious awareness. How could the very person who, in all Emizael's entire world most represented truth and love undermine all that for the sake of a casual little jest?

But shatter the world it had for little Emizael. His mind did not follow down these dark heart-paths just then, but latter in the still of the night he lay in bed fearing. Were all adults untrustworthy at heart? Even those who say they loved you? Didn't the man know what it might mean to say such things, and blend the seismic fault line that just slammed through the foundation of Emizeal's tender little world with feelings of love as he tousled his hair?

Parents rarely do. And so another bitter root is planted in the fertile soul of a babe in the world. And to shield the necessary image of a Loving Father from all reproach, from all possibility of imperfection, little Emizael did the only thing a child without better teaching can do...he buried it. And there it lay...waiting for the insidious tendrils of the Scourge to find and nurture in the darkness.

Somehow the contagion was air born and infected one through the pores, eyes, lungs, or through ingesting infected crops or animals. But once inside it's pathology was obscured. Somehow it made inroads in the mind, and managed to detect the bitter roots in memories and open them. In our minds the Scourge devolved such normally merely dysfunctional traumas into portals by which it gained access to our very souls.

Now it was at work deep inside Emizael. In psychological realms he had, by long years of subconscious yet willful neglect, left vulnerable and unprotected from Evil. Slowly the Scourge was working it's will inside Emizael's soul by corrupting his mind in small nearly imperceptible steps. Not entire memories, nothing so gross, at first just small facets of the man's real memories fell prey to the Scourge's instrumentality. Then, in slow accumulation the Evil momentum grew, the memories were devolved. Like vapors, disappearing like wisps of smoke, Realities of his memory were degenerating. And mere possibilities were whispered to his mind as potential replacements...after all the man had lied to you, it murmured. The idea that the man couldn't really love you, then, the Scourge did not have to offer. In the mental vacuum created by asphyxiating the truth of the boyhood memory, the lie just naturally rushed in. The phantasmal was replacing, memory by memory, the real inside Emizael's mind...his heart...his soul.

But how was this a war against the likes of Utoh, who through years of taking every thought captive to the Light had uprooted most of his bitter roots, or so neglected them by his practice of sheer innocent credulity that they were well withered? It was through Love. Utoh's love was his most open avenue of approach. In this context it was his love for Emizael, a great and mighty Defender who Utoh admired deeply and wished to emulate in every way. Just like young Emizael had wanted to emulate a man he loved.

So now the drama of Eternal Recurrence had begun to unfold with Emizael sonambulating into the older man's role of betrayer, and Utoh blithely strolling into his role of hapless victim. The script had been inspired by reality, but authored by Kel'Thuzad.

Would either of them survive the play?

[Emizael]

The elf leaned back against the wall, tipping his stool just so for the perfect perch, and quietly observed the comings and goings of the patron in the Golden Lion. As was usual for the busy tavern in Goldshire, all manner of individuals raced about, busying themselves with merriment, drinking, dancing, and talking, most of all talking.

Emi liked coming to this particular tavern. It was his favorite place in the whole world, really. So many people, so many different faces. Young and old, weak and powerful, it seemed that everyone came to this particular tavern.

Emi broke his reverie when the topic of conversation nearest him turned to the Scourge. A particuarly loud and drunk human priest was rattling on about the "insidious nature" of the Scourge, and how thier very exsistance caused abberant behaviors and all sorts of maladies and mischiefs in people. The man ranted and raved between beers about how the Scourge were responsible for everything from poverty to bad poetry.

Finally, Emi had had enough. He slammed his chair down with some force, and dropped his mug to the table next to him, catching the attentions of his companions. Fixing the talkative prostelytizer with a beady, narrow gaze, he said...

" So, there is no accountability then?"

The priest stammered out a few syllables of protest, as Emi launched into his own bit of rant.

" No, you say that man and elf, dwarf and gnome, are no longer responsible for the evils that they do, that all of this can be laid at the feet of the minions of evil? I call you misinformed, sir, and I will tell you this!"

He jabbed his finger in the air towards the priest to emphasize his point.

" No monstrosity nor mythic demon causes our greatest agonies and sufferings. The sad truth about all Mortal races, and the Kaldorei amongst them...is ...we are all responsible. We do as we do, for whatever selfish reason we do it. We are not guided by unseen hand to be greedy, or amoral! We are not forced by demonic influence to destroy and kill and war, and we are hardly forced by magickal nether-ness to be mean and stupid and foolhardy! All these are things we learned long before the Scourge showed up in our world. They will remain...long after they leave it. The next time you wish to blame an enemy for the wrongs of all Mortality, make sure its something they can actually take credit for."

He fixed his eyes on all his companions, and seeing the shock plain on thier faces, smiled wide and called for the Barkeep.

"Here now, lets leave this topic be, and talk about something else, shall we? Oh, and a round of ales, on me!"

Outwardly, he smiled as the ales were poured, and the normal business of chatting ensued. Inwardly, however, Emi continued to curse the vexed nature of those who were too cowardly to admit that true evil, the worst of all imaginable evils, came from all peoples of the world...and not from the Nether.

[jasmyne]

=D

((Laughing quietly, but manicaly, to hmself...and rubbing his hands together like a hungry man just sat before a savory meal....or a toon animation crafting by a forge come to think of it.))

[joylogic]

Utoh would, from time to time, sort of crab into the common room of an inn and do his uttermost not to get noticed. Poor Utoh wanted to be a man after all, and this coarse talking and drinking alcohol went hand in hand with pointless brawling and woman bothering. So Utoh made an earnest effort to emulate his betters. Except he had a woman of his own, disliked the taste of alcohol, could never quite speak foul words and keep a straight face, and his idea of winning a brawl was running away. These were natural enough seeming even before his Rabbity mentor had taught Utoh their real value, but the more time Utoh spent in the company of men, the more valuable they seemed.

But hidden in the chaff of the common rooms colorful conversations were gleams here and there worthy of further consideration. Interesting datum about far away places and grand goings-on caught Utoh's attention true. But what interested him most were the deep and meaningful things people would sometimes talk about. And with the "War between Good and Evil" (as Utoh simplistically thought of the struggle against the Scourge) looming over every life on Azeroth, it was frequently deployed as the framework for illiminating...or was it moralizing...on the deep and meaningful.

One word in all the talking had, this season at least, stuck in Utoh's unkempt ears, and unkempt mind. He had heard it first under the eaves of the guild hall. There he'd pause, distracted from his chores by the sterling tones and profound declaratives of the Mighty Lords inside. It was far too polysyllabic for Utoh to get. Until he broke it down for himself in typically softheaded fashion. He broke it into two parts. "Response" and "able." To be "responsible", Utoh could then discern, one had to be response able. It fit the discussions he monitored. People couldn't get upset at somebody who was not able to respond to a thing. And they could and did get hurted feelings when somebody was able to respond and didn't.

Utoh sort of hung that idea over the mantle of his mind and doted on it like a cherish heirloom. He wanted to be this thing, response able. He could tell how highly prized a virtue it was by the manner the Guild Lords spoke about it. To become response able Utoh determined to become a powerful Druid someday. Being response able would mean that he, softheaded Utoh, would have the power to right wrongs and ease sufferings.

But if this great good was hung with loving care over the mantle of Utoh's mind, focus on it let the door being ajar go unnoticed. It was there, slavering in the dark just outside Utoh's view, this thing that dogged his cherished virtue Response Ability. It slouched there lusting for Utoh's heart now.

There are two paths to walk in life, and each bears certain fruit as it is walked out, fruit peculiar each to its own unique destination. One fruit is the great boon of Knowledge. Knowledge is a beauty to behold, to win, to own. And with it comes certain inevitabilities. For how do we employ Knowledge? Specifically how do we, in the context furnished by groggery dialectic of the day, the Scourge and the War of Good and Evil, employ our Knowledge?

It is in our application, or use of our Knowledge of Good and Evil, that we will find the fruits of the path we have selected. It is in the hows where we will find the fruit, and the final destination of our path. And when we judge, when we apply our Knowledge of Good and Evil, there are but two results. Superiority and inferiority. Either we judge something or somebody to be less than us, or Less Than some standard we Know. Or we judge that thing or that person to be Greater Than us or our much vaunted standard.

And this is the foul beast that lurked just out of the bright hearthlight of Utoh's mind. Judgment, holding things or people to account. Or was there another response Utoh was able to make? Was accountability, holding yourself to account--to judgment-- or holding others to account the only way?

Would softheaded Utoh discover the other path and its wholly different kind of fruit?

Maybe Utoh's mentor, the Druid of the Rabbit Way foretold Utoh's end best when he said, "Let those make use of feeling, who cannot make use of reason."

[joylogic]

[with my apologies for presuming to write a piece for Emi without asking permission first][but I hope you'll enjoy it nevertheless =D]

Inside the elf's mind the well worn furrows only deepened as his vexatious cursing circled round and round. Lately this was how he fell asleep, circling round and round, his thoughts chasing round like a rabid dog after its own tail. What slumber he could find these days came only when the snarling cur had run itself to ground...or with increasing numbers of ales. Even now he could feel the blank shame coming waxing, that vague feeling of guilt that would lay over him like a pall in the morning because he would not then remember if his rudeness with the priest was the worst thing he'd have done later this night.

What did he like about tavern[/b] anyways? It was such a new fabrication anyways, no style of its own, no history, no theme. Everybody knew it was a new tavern trying to fool people into feeling it was an old tradition laureled establishment. But Emi knew better. These artifacts adorning the walls had been purchased, or counterfeited. The "famous old standards" touted by the superficially amiable barman were in reality merely brewed in new distilleries with formulae resurrected from myth more than memory, and run by disreputable dwarves willing to sell respectable ancient titles pasted on unworthy replica drams. Yes, he was a funereal drunk. But what of that in this dead or dying world? Emi was lashed to the past.

In a few more rounds all that would be rumsey rum under the bridge...wouldn't it? He tilted back, and effortlessly balanced on the back legs of his chair wondering just how much he'd have to drink tonight, not to remember. But drink as he might the ghosts of yesteryear would percolate up.

That's when he saw her.

Her form went before her, her silhouette thrown ahead through the tavern atmosphere by the amber rays of firelight. Her grace was what riveted his male elf attentions first. She always moved with the thoughtless, effortless, inborn liquid grace only elven women possessed. And only elven men's hearts were so utterly captivated when their eyes were filled, not with the cruder charms of human or other race's females, but with the lyric of elven woman's wistful willow memory.

As she turned, the warm fire's light embosomed her, and she glowed in hues of gold, and red. Her hair, as his hands recalled nearly as well as his eyes, was the gentlest waterfall of light. In her locks he would hide. Its paleness mingling sunlight and rose ransomed him. But he'd lost his light.

Once he ran to her. She was his reason for reason. The curve... the dazzling depths of violet and teal... the bright silver bell ringing... the delicate spice... all her fine and majestic qualities bowled him down. He'd given all a boy could give.

But then she didn't want it from him anymore.

Tainted love! Now I know I've got to run away. I've got to, get away.

Once I ran to you. Now I'll run from you. This tainted love you've given...I give you all a boy could give you.

Take my tears and that's not nearly all!


Song written by Ed Cobb, sun originally by Gloria Jones.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=1i7ijUDkQuM

[joylogic]

gee I just assumed that 80's music would be acceptable...heh Utoh!

[Emizael]

Images and brokeness. The old whiskey dreams, half buried underneath a supposedly gruff exterior. The twisted hammer of regrets and sadness.

Bullshit.

There is no sadness, nor regret in the mind of this Kaldorei as he drinks.

He drinks not for the solace of black forgetfulness, but rather,to simply remain social with the number of fools that do not have the strength to be his equals. A bit of Ale, here, a cup of cider there, and the quiet conversation that normally follows.

There are those he talks with frequently. Friends, mostly. Those he has fought with, shared blood with, the grind of the hunt making equals of those not considered a threat.

A passing woman. Love? Once, he thought he loved. But, no bitterness or sadness came of a time now past. He was Kaldorei, and though, no longer immortal, his kind was still long-lived, and did not make illusions about the passage of time.

The greatest honor of his life was that he had once been bonded. That time had past. But so too, now, was passing the time of simplicity. Old battles were over. Old enemies were dead. The houses of the Defenders grew quiet, and still, thier battles and stories and goings and comings mixed with the ebb and flow of all mortality.

These are not the things the Hunter dwells on. No, not Causality, or Accountability, because each of these depened entirely on the individual involved. What mattered now, was Focus.

Clarity of purpose. For some time, he had thought he lacked such things. This is not entirely true, however. Now , he realized, as his family grew and changed, prepared to become part of another larger family, he realized that his purpose was all too entirely clear.

Weed the Weak, that the Strong might prevail. Cull the herd, so that the herd might continue. Seek out those worth saving, and give them the tools to become strong. Create challenge, that life not become stale.

Animistic, and atavistic, the Hunter drinks his drink, not in silence, but in contemplation. He chooses a target. A younger Kaldorei, a follower of the Earth and Sky. The younger plays the fool, but the Hunter sees only weakness. Test then, and see if the 'fool' has the merit to survive the coming storms.

History? What care has he for history? Future? There is no future. Smile at the waitress, as she asks for your order. Get something for the entire table this time. Look at the painting on the wall, and smile, inwards and out. Remember, that Art is the basis of all creation.

Confuse the youngling, and see if he nibbles the trap. Draw him in, draw him in. Inspire him to speak, and show his spirit. Inspire him to become involved, and watch. Watch how deftly and superbly he strides, unawares and unconcerned. This trap doesn't freeze, nor burn. This trap doesn't hold him like it holds the fox, but this trap is Eternal all the same.

The Devil...is in the details.