#brian-wellson

I am touched that question helped inspire you to write. I don’t know all that is going on with you but I did take the time to read one of your papers that you posted awhile back and it made my heart go out to you. I didn’t read all of them but the ones I did were a credit to you as a wordsmith and a human being who has made it through some serious trauma. 

“It’s the tea...don’t worry, you’re not going to die.” Lakryss looked the poor soul over as she knelt down, the doors to her shoppe were closed, the soft click of her heels upon the wooden floor had be evidence enough that they were also now locked. “Why are you here?”

Finished commission for my patron @brian-wellson!

Thank you for the birthday wishes.

This current arc I’m embarking on started with a simple idea to give Dragaur a reason to engage in murder without breaking the relative IC “good” streak he’s been on. The brainstorm led to Broken Shards and because of people asking and people that I wanted to be involved the rest kind of blossomed into the story its becoming.  It’s slow on tumblr and I’m doing a lot of timey whimey RP on discord that I will attempt to put in its proper order and on tumblr as I can. 

The ultimate bad guy will be revealed in a post soon as I have started putting down some thoughts on writing something from their point of view. 

The idea of someone hating Risri for her elfness well its easy enough to believe that the influx of elves to Stormwind might elevate hostilities between the common humans and elves. Most of it has probably been directed toward Ren’dorei as they joined. But as time passes and Kaldorei are still spread in camps around the city? I could see it being an issue. Its only been 15 years since the Kaldorei joined the Alliance. Tyrande’s actions in the cutscene we see with her asking for Anduin’s help could even have lead to more distrust on the Kaldorei’s side. Imagine the long lived, xenophobic - ish, and for lack of a better word haughty elves being forced to live in the human city, their demeanor and patience tested on every turn. Even those who may have found a place in the city before all this happened (like Risri) could be subjected to the prejudices permeating the common folk who’s lives are also disrupted by this influx of people.

Its a backdrop to set the story in, a ploy for the villain to capitalize upon to distract the authorities, and a hiding place for the true crime captured by the camera’s lens. But I hope does not do disservice to the real issues it mimics.

As for big changes? I have a thought about where I want this to take Risri ICly for OOC reasons. But Risri sometimes surprises me when I sit down to write something. And sometimes the idea in my head just doesn’t come about during the RP because of something someone else wrote or because a different option presents itself and feels more Risri than the original idea. 

Fundamentally? Risri won’t be changing. Her photo business will still be a thing. I have no plans to take that from her. But I do have some interesting opportunities that this story line might make possible to do as well.

Bulshwynn had been resting on a bench in the inn, when the message came over the comm.

“It appears we are under attack.” The way Sam said it, the lack of emotion, or even lack of interest? It bothered him, but it was something he could ignore for now. Now it was time to act.

Bulshwynn jumped to his feet and winced as he the pain in his knee returned, but he kept going. He would be damned if he missed another fight because of that blasted bug. He rushed to the entrance of the inn where he could see fire raining from the sky hitting all around the outer courtyard.

The Chancellor called for him to find a good spot to pick off anything he could, so he rushed back upstairs. After what seemed like forever, due to his knee slowing him down, he climbed up from the upstairs balcony to the roof. 

Bulshwynn ran out to the edge of the roof’s peak and scanned all around the hold, he chewed on his cigar tensely as he attempted to count the enemy. To one side, elementals and what seemed to be crazed cultist shamans. To the other side, wave upon wave of cultists. He opted for the cultists.

He could see groups forming at each entrance, and a secondary force moving in to flank the shaman and elementals. He took aim at some cultists and began firing off shots at those who got too eager and came within range.

Over the comm he heard Calard say to him “I have a plan to stop them! We will use oil! Fire upon the barrels when I give you the signal dwarf!” The use of the term “dwarf” instead of his name, made him almost fire a shot at Calard, but he refrained. He told Calard he would do just that, albeit probably not as kindly as he could have.

The first wave hit, there were dead cultists in moments, he completely ignored the other battle, the casters had that under control, or so he hoped. He fired several shots felling some cultists and waited for the signal.

He saw Calard readying a barrel, he loaded some black powder into the barrel of his rifle and dropped in a small red stone that seemed to almost have a flame on the inside of it flickering, a gift from a Warlock friend of his. How he enjoyed lighting things on fire with Firestones.

The first barrel was loosed, he fired, everything burned. The ground, the cultists, everything. But it didn’t seem to stop them. Some died where they stood, too burned to be able to do anything but scream and die. Others ignored it and continued forward.

The second wave, easily twice as many as the first rushed through the flames as though they were nothing. He swore an oath, crazy bastards. He fired off several more shots, taking out the cultists that the fires didn’t. The Conclave fought valiantly, this time the defenders of the hold decided to get off their arses and help the battle.

He shot several more cultists and waited for another barrel. The third wave came, he lost count of the enemy. He loaded his rifle with another Firestone. Calard signaled and kicked the barrel down the hill towards the cultists. He shot the barrel, more fire, more death, more insane cultists.

He spit off the ledge and ticked a latch on his rifle, opening up a small compartment on the bottom of it, he reached to his belt a grabbed a large canister. He snapped the canister into the slot and took aim.

Below he could see Ediell, Grace, and Calard working in a flurry of steel and fang and metal, killing cultist after cultist. He aimed ahead of them and held down the trigger, the canister fueling his rifle, he fired shot after shot in a literal “Barrage” of bullets, What he didn’t kill, they did. In a matter of seconds, every cultist was dead. Body parts and guts lie everywhere, the sand was slick with blood.

His allies rushed from the battle to see if they could help the others, he jumped from the roof and, using is glider, landed on the sand by the gate. He walked through the carnage, and taking his pistol out, he fired bullet after bullet into whatever remnants of heads existed on the battlefield. One couldn’t be too safe with crazed cultists.

After his deed was done, he hurried to the other gate, where it seemed that his comrades had won, however, a different group of people had apparently showed up and stolen something in the aftermath. He frowned, if he had just come straight here, maybe he could have shot some more folks.

Bulshwynn rolled over in the bed to the commotion. He winced as he rolled onto, what was still to his dismay, his injured knee.

The sound coming from downstairs was one of frustration and anger. There was too much chaos to figure out exactly what happened. But one thing was clear, something very bad happened. He listened for a few moments and gathered that an expedition had been lead by Wellson, and it had gone horribly wrong.