#ibormeith

Oh, this is an ancient ask I forgot about. I literally can't conceptualize 'main stream' Ibormeith, like running around Ashenvale attending Elunite services. So it would probably be a Feyless Bogland situation. Given the types of things that dwell, it would probably be dangerous all the same. I like to imagine there would still be marsh walkers, that led groups to and from the main village. HOWEVER! Singing would be far less magical and any sort of magical properties to the tribe would be nonexistent. I can imagine they'd be fearful or untrusting of magic, even the more "acceptable" form of it. I still doubt they'd be super welcoming to things like large temples or Malfurion followers, so even druids wouldn't be a thing. Imagine they'd still have rites, but they'd be more centered around proving oneself a capable fighter and hunter. So, lmao, it'd be like the Shal'thera with 80% less sneaking about. Rite of Drowning would be replaced with sending an age group deep into the marsh and having them navigate back. I still think that without the fey, their culture would be deeply deeply DEEPLY interconnected with each other. The Thala clan would likely be replaced in some manner too-- maybe by some manner of creature that the dwellers tame as teenagers. Like the Thala, the 'line' of these beasts would work alongside the elf that tamed the ancestor. EG: Ibor tames a saber at like 18/19, and has that saber until it dies, but that saber's kittens are considered bonded to him. Less master/pet too, and more companionship. Which I realize that'd semi what already happens with Kaldorei but it'd of course have its bog-flavor on it.

"Then love me madly, Ibormeith. All I would bid of you." But he does. He has for some time. He loves Cichol in a way he cannot just stop. So this little terrible, horrible, awful joke was simply premonition. The final parting would freeze him just as the practice had. Frozen over, dead, and awaiting spring. My murderer, I die each time we part.

It's a robe-- black and plain and made of cotton. No filigree, no special stitch. But it looks like writhing, One into the other, Looks like wind-red wings, Spread out over his back. Smells of sweat-stained sheets, Smells like No One. Smells like God, And God smells like mangos. He'd wear it in to rags simply because of the hands that touched it.

💛 With him she sleeps among the stars pressed up against her cheek. And when dawn breaks, all it touches is gold. She has never been loved so kindly. Never been wanted so completely. She needs those hands tangled up in her hair, those arms to shelter her. He's the home that's with her wherever she goes. "Of course it's him," Eilithe says with a chuckle. "Dense sometimes, grouchy others. Stubb--- oh, sorry Resolute always." Her eyes lull shut and her face finds serenity that has not been afforded to her in years. "Whatever time I have left, I want to spend it with him and our family. Bathed in gold." ❤️ He does not need her. It's difficult to bring himself to need anything. But she reminds him so much of still-nights spent in Winterspring, he doesn't tell her those were the hardest days of his life. There, he loved the snow, and watched it settle outside of the window of his confinement. Each flake shivered down off great limbs, and there was peace. There was quiet. "Well, it's like this, buddy," he begins with a chuckle. "I don't think about anyone else. I rarely come to Stormwind for my blood family, it's for her." He sighs and it is almost dreamy. "Think it just amounts to that: it's her." "Sir, this is a Wendy's," the cashier said. 💜 It's lust, it's got to be lust. Twisted-up in knots, lightning rod synapses, a dead butterfly taking flight. It's automatic, written in the code of everything that calls itself people. But they are a hunter. They are only their want and their hunger. But why, but why, but why does she insist that she loves them? "It's weird. I'm not saying it isn't," she confesses. "But they aren't like anyone I've ever known. Sometimes it is sad because they don't know anything about people. And so it scares the hell out of them whenever they find a new emotion. And those times I feel bad, because they wouldn't even be thinking about it if not.." "It's just that even the sad things have made them. The way they stare dully at their work. The way they mock my voice when I say something stupid... the way they take care of me after I'm hurt," she mumbles the last. 🖤 The ground shakes with every stroke of a pen. Never enough words, he'll never have enough words. 'I love you, I love you, I love you.' He writes it in every language he knows. He writes it over pages and onto walls and onto his skin, it's carved there and he hopes that it scars. He does not want to forget it, he wants to burn up in that fire. My god, let him be that last matchstick.

I have never trusted you. You look too much like Him. In truth, they'd only had one real conversation. All else was little moments where Ibormeith could smell deceit in her perfume. "Ibormeith~" A coy call of his name, she was smart to stop calling him Ibor. And perhaps she knows he is too outwardly polite to shove her away. "Tell me another story?" Her voice is pleasing. Her face is pleasing. Her scent is pleasing. The eyes the eyes the eyes. She looks too much like Him and it spoils his stomach. And he cannot shake the feeling that she is after something. He politely disengages from her grasp and sits across, rather than beside her. "Certainly, Miss Plumtaste. Shall I tell you more about the dawn lotuses? Perhaps I'll tell you of the [Droch Kin Lua En] this evening."

We are too thin and fragile, These woods too barren, And, oh, how I fear the silence of Winter.

But Ibormeith's last punishment had awoken something in Renaar. Something terrible. "I'm a Thwirty Wittle Flwowerrrr~" He'd sing to Ibormeith as he passed by. This time, there was no surviving. This time, Renaar would finally become useful: a home for dozens of new mushrooms. But even Tam Thala would not feast on this elf thing's corpse.