#war:craft

to him: i cannot hate you. i cannot hate you, for i have seen through your eyes the corruption which plagues the decaying human kingdom. i have seen the blood and sweat you shed with each stone and brick you etched into the walls of stormwind, walls which were meant to shelter and protect us. but you have chosen the wrong steps for the right path. justice has blinded you, turning you into an evil you have struggled for years to defeat. to me, you were a misguided hero. i will follow the same path however, but i will plan my own steps and i will make sure i do not end up like you. under your wing, i’ve committed atrocities i will never gain forgiveness for, but maybe without them, i would have never been able to see what i’m destined to do. 

about names, possessions, and everything i have never admitted to anyone: the whispers get worse with each year, predicting a twilight i’m not sure i am ready to face. we can all hear them, i can tell. and we all pretend not to, trying to ignore them, trying to focus on the larger, closer threat we’re facing. but soon, we’ll all fall into ny’alotha. 

to angels: i trust the light, but material existence is flawed and so are you. the light is pure, or corrupting, depending on who you’re asking, and whether it is one or another, your own crusade is not perfect. i shall continue to forge my own destiny and no one, not even a naaru, can force me to do something against my own will. 

questions to death: i remember looking up in the sky, seeing nothing but black clouds cloaking the northern reaches. it was cold. my clothes were freezing against my skin and i was laying dead atop the citadel, wondering where we’ve gone wrong. wondering how we have allowed ourselves to get taunted in such way, only to be slaughtered and brought to the brink of enslavement. your shackles burden you heavily, but you told me... you told us that it wasn’t our time yet. you told me to look towards the ashbringer, for it will save me. its light started to blind me, warming my bones on the inside and the next thing i remember is that i was struggling to stand up, my blurry eyesight catching the last seconds of arthas’ existence before it was shattered under the blade. what had me shaking wasn’t his death, but the fact that, just like me, he’d pass on the other side and see absolutely nothing.

to her: it burned and i saw the light in your eyes slowly fade away. i’ve done my duty, bringing you to the slopes of hyjal, so that you can see the roots of your people. for the first time ever, i have seen sadness and emotion in those cold eyes. but just like nordrassil burned under the cruelty of our enemies, so did your heart and soul, aching to fight back. and fought back we did. i’m glad i got to see your true self. i could never ask for a better ally.

questions to the body: my legs --- thank you for carrying me through lush jungles, dark forests, hot sands, freezing snows. my hands --- thank you for holding my daggers, for fighting back when i need you most. my head --- thank you for staying clear, allowing me to focus, even if there were moments when you have failed me. my scars --- i’m sorry, but we will never part ways, for you are a grim reminder that even the best of people have fallen into darkness before. i’ll continue to fight, vessel of my strength, agility, spirit and intellect. i will continue to fight.

to the heart: as long as you stay strong, i will not lose sight of my goal. as long as you stay strong, i won’t be corrupted and influenced, i won’t lose myself. as long as you stay strong, i’ll continue to attune for my countless sins. as long as you stray strong, there’ll come a day when everything will be good in the world again and we’ll both be able to go to rest.

headcanon time:

7. religious beliefs

he finds strength, peace and solace in god. he’s an important aspect of his life, he’s a refugee for when things are getting out of hand, he’s someone jae is thanking to when life doesn’t seem to be able to get any better. the talent he was blessed with comes from god, the hard work he is putting into his music is fuelled by god himself as well, this entity jae is admiring is a protective and comforting figure guiding him through his life. god is part of his upbringing, part of his education, part of what family feels like. jae is disappointed in himself however; he doesn’t always have the time to talk to god as he used to when he was a trainee. prayer is scarce. church visits? even rarer. but he’s believing and continuing spreading god’s word and wonders as best as he can. through his music, through his guitar, through giving hope to his fans, through making their day a bit better when they listen to a day6 song.

11. thoughts on robots

they’re cool? he thinks they’ll surely become super useful in the future. sadly a future when he’s gonna be a bit too old and he won’t get to enjoy the robotic era too much. but at least he’ll be 90 and he’ll have tireless assistants as his robots? how great would that be. sure, he entertains himself with doomsday ideas too, like robots becoming far more intelligent than humans and taking over planet earth. only if he could witness this from afar.

15. thoughts on unicorns

he hasn’t given them much thoughts actually. sure, there;s something intriguing and fascinating about considering the idea that such creatures existed, but he’s pretty indifferent. just horses with something glued on their foreheads.

16. thoughts on dragons

main verse: on one hand he’s disappointed they don’t exist. they’d make for a cool, yet dangerous sight. on the other hand he’s relieved? they’d burn cities and melt people with their fire, so it’s all breathtaking and such when he’s just reading about them in fantasy books, or witnessing them in video games and so on. let them exist in virtual worlds and fictitious literary works, that’s enough for him.

a small fire crackled and popped, licking the cold air with its flames. in a forested country such as duskwood, twigs and branches were actually hard to come by. the trees were massive, with thick trunks and monstrous crowns blocking the entire sky. you could never tell whether it was day or night, but for the people it didn’t matter. the terrors crawling the woods did not care to plan their attacks according to the position of the sun up in the sky; naive prey was easy to come by regardless. the bushes, with their withered and crunchy leaves, were good enough to hold a fire for a few hours however --- crucial time between life and death. circling the snapping flames, the four boys either held onto their ragged leather pelts or kept their frozen hands close for a little warmth, dreading their misfortune. it had happened so quickly.

“how’s your leg, dusty?” the lack of concern in J’s voice may have been received as appalling on another occasion, but now nobody cared. they all hoped for the safety of darkshire. “i mean, that’s what you get for thinking with your fucking stomach,” his impassive intonation did not falter, not even for a fleeting second. dusty had strayed from the road and wandered into the woods to catch a wild rabbit, when a dire wolf had cut his path. white fangs alike freshly sharpened blades butchered the boy’s leg, ripping a chunk of flesh and even piercing his bone. the screech reeked of death and danger and it had taken all of them to push the beast away, J shooting it right between its eyes with his pistol and the limp-footed watchman cutting its head off with his axe. death was never the last step in these woods. dragging the animal’s corpse north to the river bank would have stirred greater dangers lurking about, and they couldn’t burn it in the middle of the forest either. they could only hope that the wolf would stay dead.

“you’re one to talk,” dusty moaned in pain, trying to bring his injured leg closer to the fire. the watchman did his best to clean the wound and wrap it in a piece of coarse linen cloth, but he was no doctor and if they lingered for too long, the bite would become infected. truthfully, the wild beasts of duskwood carried unknown diseases even to the most skilled of healers, but the old man held a little mercy in his heart not to tell the boy. by sunrise, dusty would be dead. somehow the other boys caught on that as well, but remained silent as a grave. “that was one fat rabbit. i could have made a nice stew out of it. a little lean meat, a few wild berries to have something else to crunch on, some roots for flavour... you would have liked it. you would have eaten it too. i’m no cook, but my mom taught me a few things. when we get to darkshire, i’ll get better. i’m not made for fighting, you see. but i could help the night’s watch in other ways.” another groan filled the silence and nobody said a word anymore.

dozens of feet away from the main road and sheltered by the hem of the foothills, the camp shudders, the chill of the night creeping into every bone. slithering north up a gravelled slope, the pathway winds under the trees unseen, towards the great trunk towering above everything else. a grisly sight J used to catch on the eastern horizon, freakish and grotesque and basked in mystery, yet no one in the brotherhood bothered to ever enlighten him. it had always looked out of place to the young boy and now he was closer to it than ever. the watchman softly snored in the distance, a sharpened sword carefully rested atop his lap, fingers clenched around the rusted hilt, as if he’d stand up to fight in any second. he probably knew about the strange tree and J felt greatly curious, but he knew that even their guide, as seasoned as he was, needed his rest. the survival of the injured runt and the other boys depended on him. “i know what you’re thinking. i saw you glaring,” roel taunted him, a dumb grin spreading on his face. “i know what that tree is.” too proud for his own good, he almost stumbled on his own words, the lies seeping out of his mouth alike poison. “they say it’s cursed.”

“everything forbidden is cursed for a small mind.” the watchman coughed and trudged closely, awoken from his light sleep by the constant bickering of the boys. as if he hadn’t even noticed them, he plopped on the ground, dragging himself towards the fire with a long, tired expression. “it’s the elvish tree,” he spoke at last, not even sparing a glance to look up from the crackling flames. “it happened a long time ago. long before the line of arathor founded the kingdom of strom. the black blood of the old gods still taints the deepest pits of the earth, corruption spreading like the deadliest diseases. to stem the tide of this poisoned blood, a night elf ripped a branch from the world tree itself and planted smaller trees around azeroth. it’s said that this is one o’ them. massive for us, but still tiny saplings compared to nordrassil. it’s even said they’re direct entrances into what druid call the emerald dream. the purest realm this planet holds, where you can see azeroth the way it should look like. just grass, trees, wild beasts. no man to twist the lands to his selfish needs.”

nordrassil. the name ignites a void in his stomach he thought he had forgotten how to feel, but it is there, that endless pit he could never find a meaning for. “all i know about my parents is that they died at the hem of nordrassil. they went to war and never came back. crown of the heavens. i’ve heard is the most majestic thing you could ever put your eyes on. that tree stops the skies from crushing us and holds the ground under our feet with its strong roots so that it won’t slip away. one day i’ll get there. i’ll see what my parents died for.” he crushed a fistful of leaves and threw it into the fire, suddenly wishing he hadn’t opened his mouth. his family --- he had forbidden himself at a very young age not to ever bring them up, but right now, under a vulnerable night, his thoughts had given themselves voice without his consent. “where you from, boy?” the watchman inquired, hardly impressed. “i heard here and there that you was nothing but a beggar in old town, but before that? smuggled by pirates inland, they say.”

“the war ended not too long ago, but they left me years before that. in the care of a sickly grandmother i could not stand. they said it was their duty. for lady proudmoore. or whatever her she’s called. but i’m sure she survived the battle, unlike my parents without a name.” he stood up, paced away from the fire and remained silent, the gawking eyes of his companions following him intently. “you said it’s not safe for us in the woods at night,” the watchman expected the change in subject, yet he sketched no change in his features as he peered up at the boy. nobody dared say it out loud. one man who knew his way through these dangerous lands could have easily guided a few young boys safely to darkshire --- young boys with intact limbs. dusty, still ignorant of his faith, huffed tiredly from the effort he had to put into crawling next to the fire. “night or not, everything wants our blood. we wouldn’t be moving if it were day either.” his accusing eyes pierced the black veil of the forest, distant sounds ghostly swishing between trees.

“they say the dead walk these woods freely. ridin’ on beasts taller and wider than any man anyone has ever seen. wolves so ferocious, that our own in elwynn are nothing but gentle an’ tame dogs next to them. spiders so black and cruel, that the ones crawlin’ my home forest are small, little bugs kids play with. and the dead mount them and raid these cursed roads, killin’, hackin’, slashin’ every living being they see. doesn’t matter... old or young. woman or child. none escape the wrath of the dead.” the boy smacked his lips, giving his best to hide the devilish grin tickling his plump, worm-like lips. short of stature and scrawny, the boy smelled of summer and of sunlight, of fresh bread and pork belly pie, of flowers, of laughter and of green grass. what did he know about duskwood? in defiance, J. paid him no attention, although the subtle gasps and ragged breaths of his companions were more than enough to fill the big-mouthed boy’s chest with pride.

their guide, a massive yet limp of foot man, spared no glance behind his shoulder, nor he heeded to confirm or deny the frightening rumours. slow yet steady, stubbornly refusing to burden himself with a walking cane, he lead the pack of green boys through tangled twigs and foul, earthly smells. “a bloody bear mauled me leg, almos’ ripped it apart,” he had found little courtesy to cure the boys’ curiosity after they’d been rudely staring at the way the man walked, taking them for young fools who were yet to know what the night watch was made of. he smelled of sweat and rotten flesh, his bristly beard festered by fleas, teeth yellowed by time, a deep, old scar adorning the left side of his face from the edge of his brow to the hollow of his cheek. “twas a ghoul, a nasty one,” he claimed, ignoring the muffled guffaws of the boys. they whispered of walking dead, but none of them truly believed in them.

and young fools they were for that. the scrawny boy had lived all his life in goldshire, sickly and frail, still clinging to his mother’s breast at the shameful age of 13. dusty was his name, sent off by his surly father to serve the watchmen and, hopefully for him, die and never return. the taller one was as silent as he was sturdy, his gaunt cheeks strangely contrasting with the small dots meant to be his eyes, enlarged pupils shivering from left to right, scouting the darkness of the trees for any dangers which may arise. he spoke little, so J. didn’t know his name, however he was certain he had one. and it’s the same parents that had given him his name that sent him off, stripping him of land rights and passing them to his much younger, stronger and smarter brother.

the third one was a real fool, the smug grin never leaving his lips, thinking of himself above of serving under the night watch, but he had to pay for his thievery in stormwind --- off with a hand, or off to duskwood to protect the people of darkshire. J. hardly held back a smile thinking of how the idiot pissed himself when he was given these choices with no way out towards freedom, but now he strutted like a little lord, shoving his wooden club through spiky bushes, claiming to be taunting the dead. roel he called himself, and he was as ugly as the veteran guiding them towards the town of darkshire, yet his heart and soul weren’t twisted yet by the wickedness of this forsaken land. J. liked none of them, cautiously keeping himself away at least a few feet from all of them, his tall, lean figure concluding the small array of cloaked shadows striding the main road. the crown spared no good men for keeping the southern forests safe, so they sent off the lowest of scum, forcing them into servitude, and no one was worse than J.

countless of sins have dried blood on his hands, countless of scars held dreadful, sinful stories under their hideous appearance and countless of nightmares would haunt his sleep, the rogue knowing better than anyone that whatever duskwood had prepared for him, it didn’t compare with the atrocities he had committed under the heavy hand of edwin vancleef. the iron-branded mark itched under his leather vest, a grim reminder of what he had chosen to flee to, of the false justice he thought he had been serving on the innocent souls of westfall. his sins to carry for the rest of the days, but his fighting skills, his cunning mind and his agile feet were what darkshire needed, a criminal as he was, yet the brave men of the night watch would not spare him with a quick death. he remembered admitting that he’d rather have his head cut off, than given a second chance, and 16 as he was, no one listened to him. 

his tongue was burdened by words he dare not spoke, words he had little interest in sharing in the first place, but the silence was brooding and his companions were skittering around him like children. “there’s no dead ridin’ these woods,” he hissed. “death? oh yes. we passed raven hill. the whole sad lot of them ravaged til none was left. heard they threw babes in a hole and covered them in dirt. terrible things happened here, but there’s no corpse rolling in his grave. you’re bringing shame to all these people sufferin’ here.” the silence seemed to fall deeper after he spoke, not even worm-lips daring to raise his eyes at the former defias brother and quarrel with him. limping and puffing tired breaths of air ahead, the veteran watcher continued to ignore them. maybe someone would have gained some courage to argue with J., had they not halted their steps all at once, eyes creeping up on the white silks of the black widows arching from tree to tree. “look at it...,” the fool roel mused, the fear in his eyes trying to measure the sizes of the beasts which have left the tangled webs above their heads.

“aye.” with a limp turn of his heels, the veteran roared, annoyance radiating in his black, intimidating eyes. “you bunch of girls done wetting your pants? still a long road til darkshire, an’ i say we waste no time. they hunt and feast at night, and gods be merciful, the sun’s yet to set. but it won’t be long until the real darkness catches up on us, and then you’ll regret bein’ born boys. you’ve knowledge of no fear til you lived a whole night in these woods. aye, but that time will come later, none of you are prepared.” J. could feel the twitch on his lips, a defiant glint piercing towards the watchman. 

“not even you, defias pup.” spit came with each poisonous word he spoke, the sight of rotten teeth and cracked lips turning J.’s stomach upside down. what a terrible man. “this ain’t killing women with children hanging at their tits, or old men with blunt spikes protecting their rat-infested farms. all you killed was those weaker than you. and only now, defias pup, you face real danger. the wolves won’t cry for mercy, the bears won’t bow their heads in shame, the ghouls won’t scream runnin’ when they see you comin’. oh no, defias pup, and all of you useless maggots, oh no. you’d be the ones needin’ a pair o’ eyes to watch your backs.”

a missing nail. a bloodied blister rots on the tip of his thumb, flayed under the sheer strength of the poacher’s boots. dirt claws through his slim fingers, skin having turned blotched in purple and red, as veins are dangerously awaiting to crack through the pale sheath of his hand. one, two, three... indistinguishable voices splinter the staggering silence of the mine. which one belongs to the defias kingpin? has he left old town for absolutely nothing?

“bring the boy.”

the reckless poacher is still keeping him pinned on the muddy ground, stubbornly smashing the sole of his boot onto the boy’s hand, digging it deeper the soil. alleys paved by dozens of thieves slithering through abandoned mine carts. an earth worm slinks under his fingers. ah, the pain. he has stopped feeling it a while ago. alike sound waves crashing against your ears, after a certain point, you cannot distinguish which one is higher. if it keeps going, you don’t hear anything anymore. he can still sense the raw touch of the shoes against his skin, the disgusting feeling of cluttered westfall hay and garbage picked up by endless strides through this god-forsaken land. but the pain is absent. he can even close his eyes, rest his cheek on the cold terrain and smile. if he knew how, he’d imagine himself clean and resting in a warm bed with snow-white sheets.

“i said bring that fucking boy.”

the kingpin’s raspy voice strangely booms through the dimly-lit tunnels of the mine. with softened knees, he attempts to stand up, failing the moment the poacher lands a fist into the back of his neck, submitting him into a crouched position.

“i spit on you. crawl like a worm, if you’re even worthy of that.” nobody seeks the defias so arrogantly. nobody leaves behind the comfort of stormwind, and nobody ventures into the scorched plains of the west, ravished by famine, terror and corruption. you get no kind treatment. it’s nothing like old town. for a split second, he even misses the dirty slums of stormwind, misses the days when he’d round up all the homeless boys, teaching them how to trick nobles into giving them money and food.

with a hand wrapped around his stomach, he slowly scrapes his way towards the group of dark silhouettes towering a couple of yards ahead. the kingpin stands in the middle, unctuous black hair framing a pair of harsh, green eyes, the rest of his face covered by a grimy red linen bandana. an imposing man, eerily and graciously sliding closer to the boy, but the faux gentle image dissipates in a matter of moments. a kick in the ribs taunts him back into reality, eyes popping out of his skull while an involuntary cough splits his lungs in pieces. he’s coughing blood. the salty taste lingers on his tongue, dripping at the corners of his lips.

“let me join you... !” weakened and pushed to his limits, he pathetically begs. “he doesn’t care! he’s not even on the throne! he’s left his son in the hands of a swindler. the city is dying before the keep’s eyes and no one cares. there’s nothing left for me back there.”

guffaws fill the tunnels with unsettling glee, the kingpin remaining passive to the ruffian reactions of his subordinates. how many times has he heard this? how many times have children crawled into his hideout, seeking salvation from a corrupt and merciless kingdom? he can see the golden hair and the soulful eyes of his little girl in the beaten image of this boy, squinting up at him, as if trying to decipher van cleef’s next move. is it a hand of help? or is it another kick, as if he’d banish a stray dog loved by no one?

“i’ll mark him.”

alike cattle waiting to be cut and fed to hungry wolves, his tattered shirt is ripped off and the skinny body of a 15-year old is restrained against the wall. the branding iron is pressed into the back of his shoulder, carving through skin and flesh, outlining his mark: the letter J. the numbness in his hand doesn’t extend to the rest of his body, pained screeches of a boy rousing even the smallest creature in the mine, as the kingpin retracts the rusted metallic pole, shoving it away. “you can bark like a mad dog as much as you want, but the only way you’re getting out of here is dead. we’re men of no names. men who will get no coffins after their death. you got your wish granted, kid. but i doubt you’d survive.”