#windrunnerrs

Anduin wasn’t a problem for me tho bc I feel what’s going on makes sense with what he’s been through, the suggestion of external influence but also just the pressure he’s under with everything (and that things still weigh heavily on him even when he complies, like the Turalyon Alleria stuff). For Turalyon and Alleria, I didn’t feel like it was reverting their characters to BtDP at all tho

at the same time, I took a lot of issue with Nathanos and Sylv because even in BFA material they had been portrayed differently. I liked Talanji’s part a lot, but Zekhan Idc at all. I think my main problem was the plot not progressing and a lot being kinda abandoned halfway through the book.

As for Fairshaw, I could see it coming from that one mission they’re both in, but at the same time, I think the book does a poor job of developing it from there. I didn’t like lorthaly either, and I hate lor’themar’s character as written by roux, but specially in relation to Thaly I hate it.

ANYWAYS SORRY FOR THE RANT I JUST LIKE DISCUSSING THIS STUFF AKSJDNFKASNDF

NO WORRIES LMAO your insight is always appreciated and i love your opinions on that. (mostly bc we agree :’) but also bc it’s rooted in facts and you know your stuff!)

yeah like??? i have a similar impression reading the critiques, while first reaction was glowing and positive, in comparison to the other books people are ... a lot more negative? it’s like the second kingsman film for me, when i watched it at the cinema i LOVED it, but as time passed i came to realise that i don’t really like it. it’s a bit like your weird uncle: you love him, but you don’t like him. 

it’s super hard to say but i just don’t care about the undead night elves bc they’re all so... bland. although i really had to laugh at her comparison of sira diving in a 1v4 teamfight bc it felt exactly like that in general. the few passages i’ve read with maiev made me ??????? bc that’s not the maiev we know. 

I really don’t know what her problem with Anduin was, tho. Jaina’s arc has been disappointing since after the battle of dazar’alor with no real development - not saying she has to stay the mad warrior queen, but switching from “BEWARE, BEWARE OF ME” to “you know it’s just sylvanas, the horde isn’t that bad uwu we must let them mourn uwu~” in an instant (nobody @ me, because that’s the hill i’m willing to die on and i’m tired of discussing it) - but that’s the thing, just like you said - you can’t fault roux for that, because they’ve did that before her and already in the game 

zekhan slowly feels like rhonin, at least that’s what quite a few people say. he started as a meme and now he’s this prominent character who’s just too good and perfect and- urgh. never got the obsession with him either.

6. Kaladin

5. Speaking 

4.The

3.Third

2.Ideal

// @windrunnerrs // mom

There really was something bothering him. If Arator had ever seen the value in deception, he might have learned how to hide his more tumultuous emotions better; but he hadn’t and so he didn’t.

The time he had spent getting to know his mother was wonderful. Just as his father and he had bonded, so had he learned more about Alleria. He was grateful for that and grateful for her. The two most important people in her life and they both trusted her.

And he still trusted her but...what was bothering him was: could Alleria trust herself?

Even a year ago when she had returned, people had been unintentionally undermining their relationship. Paladins were no friend to the void, but they were friends to Arator. They had been happy for him that his parents were back; mostly happy about Turalyon, for the words they reserved for Alleria spoke only of concern. Fear with how she dabbled in the void and could she truly be in control of such a malevolent force?

They were rarely shy about discussing these things in front of Arator and seemed eager to get him to participate in the conversation and to agree with them. He didn’t believe it was done maliciously but just in an attempt to voice concern for the young man. Many of the paladins among the order had watched Arator grow up and felt as though they, too, were his parents.

But nothing bad had happened. Their concerns slowly started to vanish, at least they didn’t talk about them so loudly, and it seemed as though all would be well.

Then came the nightmares. The visions of what Alleria Windrunner was capable of doing to her own son and husband. Paladins did not fear death but her actions had been worse than outright killing Arator...no, she had murdered Turalyon before giving her son to N’zoth as though he was a feast to be savored. She had given up his soul to an Old God.

Even without knowing their opinions on the visions, Arator struggled to accept that what he was seeing was false. Lies. Something that would never come to pass. Everyone else was less quiet now. More insistent that Arator avoids his mother to keep himself, and his soul, safe. The idea that, after missing her for so long, he could just avoid her was laughable...and he only considered it because of the nightmares. Because, even when awake, he could still feel those teeth nipping at his soul. Was knowing her truly worth risking such a horrible fate?

And now...with what Jaina had talked to him about...it was getting more and more difficult to tell if Alleria's actions were her own or being motivated by the voices in her head.

Arator was desperate to talk about this, and to find the best option going forward, but there was no way he could tell his mother. She didn’t need to know what people were saying for, he feared, it would only cause her undue worry.

“It’s nothing I just...” Don’t want you to feed me to N’zoth. Nope. Can’t say that. “How goes your hunt?” Yes, deflect to a subject that he worried about but he could discuss with her. Perfect! “Do you have any leads on where Sylvanas might be?” Leads that she had discovered through the means of torture...

@windrunnerrs​ asked: “Do you truly believe N’Zoth dead?” Honest question, stemmed from doubt one who had seen Old Gods plague world for ages could not avoid. Yet victory was no small feat, regardless of its brevity. He (all of them) more than deserved savoring it while it lasted. “But there will be time for such questions later. Azeroth is safe for the time being, in no small part due to your efforts. There is always something, of course -- but you more than earned some respite, for however long it lasts.”

She asked something he was loath to admit, loath to consider for he thought he already knew the answer to that and it was not one he cared for much as something else clawed at the back of his skull hoping he might listen. Hoping his fall, if they could bring it, would be far, far more terrible, more beautiful, than his father’s before him.

Wrathion was really quite good at not listening though if he were to say so himself.

“He’s gone.” For now. It lingers like bile on his tongue, sickly and unhappy where there should have been an elated satisfaction instead, one not tinged by an unhappy reality. The day had been saved though, time had been bought, and sometimes that was enough. That was all one could do to salvage a dire thing and hope, hope desperately, that the next time something better might be achieved.

For now he was content enough though, shoulders lifting. “A smart dragon would think it was terribly convenient He left a weapon like that dagger there, and a smart dragon would wonder where that dagger is now.” A hum, low and throaty, something more akin to thoughtful growl as talons caught into hair that framed his jaw and scratched. “Those are the things a smart dragon would consider, o’ Life Binder.” And smart enough was she to ask at all, she too perhaps having her suspicions that it had been altogether too easy.

Because it had really, it had been easy enough and that more than anything was a blaring alarm. One he would consider, plan for, act on when needed, but for now Azeroth was turning herself in another direction because mortals were funny creatures who liked to cause nothing but trouble.

Perhaps that was why he liked them so.

SOLICITED ASKS ↳ @windrunnerrs

          Valeera has not been in Stormwind overlong. Not long enough to have done much in the way of decorating the bedchamber she has been given, though long enough to have memorised the route from said bedchamber to the kitchens, and to where she might find Varian. Not long enough that her existence in the castle has been accepted as something on which the king’s mind will not change, but long enough to have heard too many bitter conversations on the topic muttered over by nobles and guards alike. Decidedly not long enough to have become accustomed to the stillness of living in a city, of the near certainty of her survival until the next day, of having nowhere to go and little to do to ensure it, of having nothing to fill the hours between eating and sleeping. Long enough to experience, for the first time since her childhood, the privilege ( if the suffering she endures can be termed a privilege ) of boredom, of aggravating inertia and suffocating restlessness.

          Not long enough to have gotten to know the queen Varian had been so eager to return to, either, but long enough to judge Tiffin as potentially less intolerant of her than the rest ------ hopefully more amenable to her presence than Varian, too. He claims himself too busy to even fight with her in the yard for an afternoon, a stinging rejection she struggles not to take personally.

          Strides bespeaking confidence in her welcome on whatever quest Tiffin embarks that Valeera does not quite feel are matched to the queen’s as she departs the claustrophobic walls of the keep, the only explanation for the abruptness of her company the undisguised fascination in the blood elf’s rounded green eyes and perked ears as she takes in the formidable stone and bustling streets of the cityscape opening before them. Previous jaunts through the city had compelled her attention elsewhere ------ on their imminent arrest, on the black dragon they were going to confront, on the possible arrest again when she had risk to return a few weeks back ------ but now she can feast upon the sights, on the sunlight glinting off the water rippling in the canals, on the needle-like points of the cathedral rising up in the distance, on the humans clustering here and there and everywhere, their number infrequently interrupted by a stout dwarf.

          “I want to.” The assertion comes quickly, Valeera eagerly seizing upon the acceptance promised by the queen in exchange for that assurance. It is the truth, anyway ------ no one has asked her to accompany the queen ( though she would have, if asked, if only to have something useful to do ), the choice instead propelled by her festering need to move, to adventure, if only inside Stormwind.

@windrunnerrs​​​​​ :   ❝  i trust you.  ❞   ( from lor'themar ) (     *    PROMPT :   THINGS  THAT  YOU  WANT  TO  HEAR   /   NOT  ACCEPTING  !

❝    GOOD ,  BECAUSE  I  NEED  YOU  TO  HEAR  ME  WHEN  I  SAY  THAT  WHOEVER  PICKED  THIS  OUT  FOR  YOU  IS  A  FOOL ,    ❞       nimble  fingers  are  already  undoing  the  buttons  of  his  tunic  with  a  practiced  ease ,  auburn  brows  knit  together  in  the  same  kind  of  concentration  a  mother  might  offer  her  child ,       ❝    and  i  won’t  have  you leaving  this  spire  dressed  in  such  a  monstrosity .    ❞       she  practically  rips  it  from his shoulders ,  material  held  between  her  thumb  and  forefinger  and  an  entire  arms  length  from  her  body  as  though  it  reeks .   she  lets  it  fall  to  the  floor  without  a  single  care  for  the  thought  that  might  have  gone  into  it  or  the  potential  sentiment  held  by  the  hideous  thing  and  steers  her  dearest  friend  to  the  closest  mirror .

❝    I  WILL  NEVER  SPEAK  TO  YOU  AGAIN  IF  YOU  TAKE  ANY  MORE  FASHION  ADVICE  FROM  SUCH  A  TASTELESS  IMBECILE .    ❞       by  the  light ,  she  could  very  well  faint !   how  had  he  been  bamboozled  into  such . . .   eugh !   she  visibly  shudders  and  shakes  her  head  to  rid  herself  of  anymore  thoughts  about  that  terrible  tunic  and  inhales  deeply  through  her  nose  to  compose  herself   ---   she  will  fix  this !   a  slight  swirl  of  her  hand ,  aglow  with  arcane  energies ,  brings  two  new  options  into  view ,  one  floating  on  each  side  of  the  regent - lord :  one  red ,  one  black ,  both  trimmed  with  gold .   as  it  should  be !       ❝    pick  one .   i  would  recommend  the  black  but  you  wear  red  quite  well ,  so  it’s  your  choice .    ❞

Oh, they are pesky little things, the mortals.

Nalice finds she doesn’t mind wearing the form of one of them as much as she initially expected; it seems like a fragile thing, this skin of hers, white and soft and so very different of obsidian scales, but she does not reject it, does not feel as if it is a body she doesn’t belong in. Stands out, even as the representatives of other flights wear mortal guises also; Alexstrasza does not disguise draconic features even as a high elf, and most of others have a variation of elven too, even if in half.

Her guise is purely human — so had been that her mother wore to infiltrate Wrynn’s court, so had been that Deathwing himself used to trick foolish mortals. Fitting, then, that it would be her choice when she weaves her own deceit, like those who came before, if setting her sights higher than deceiving mere mortals, culmination that this is of a long plan to infiltrate the other flight’s midst. Keep your enemies closer, as it were; Nalice sought to keep them close as it could be, abhorrent as it was to stand so close to the Lifebinder and not try to shed her blood.

“You presume I owe you an explanation, mortal.” She has little interest on mortals beyond their usefulness. This one seems more annoying than useful, and thus Nalice is inclined to pretend not to have heard her at all until she is left alone; but there are eyes on her, she knows, and more importantly, there are ears, and if she is to redeem her flight (the mere idea of it makes her want to laugh, absurd; her heart is as black as any of her kin, and that they cannot see it is a wonder).

Well, only in part. For the most of it she knows it is guilt that keeps them at bay, even as Nalice does not quite bother concealing her taste for blood.

“They are not my kin.” Blatant reply that it is may seem odd, but she knows to have played her tale well enough even this will only drive the blade further in their hearts, make the hideous Crimson Queen drown in regret thinking this to be consequence of her own actions. “My kin was slaughtered by them, innocent and guilty alike. Now we are too few to defend our own den from the undead.”

“It is no surprise the reds call upon their allies to look after their interests alone, their good graces extend only to the crimson-scaled. But my dragonshrine is infested with undead vermin also, and we need aid in cleansing it. The Dragon Queen is not noble enough to offer us help, but it seems neither is she vile enough to keep me from finding those nobler than herself who might be willing to aid us.” Nalice crosses her arms and shrugs lightly, unaffected by whichever tempers she may have provoked in speaking ill of belovedAlexstrasza. “Amounts to very little when we would not need help at all if not for them.”

Ears perk slightly at the beginning of a response.

Raern had not fully expected an answer, truthfully. Her anxiety awaiting word from her brother had sent her wandering the temple, whereabouts she took about throwing remarks and seeing where they would stick. Most, if not all, of the dragons looked on her as something between a stumbling child and a troublesome guest. Typically pity colored their replies, if they deigned to reply at all.

It had surprised her, however, when she could not seem to get even the slightest gleam on the Black representative’s opinion. Of course, Raern had heard rumor of the Black Dragonflight’s talents in verbal deception, but it was unnerving, now to be confronted by the fact plainly. That same discomfort likely spurned her into speaking to the dragon in the first place.

It is with a plain look of surprise (plain at least to such ancient beings as those surrounding her) that Raern listens to the full response, watching hawkishly for any sign of the inner machinations behind the words. 

Never before had Raern felt so blind. The contempt toward Alexstrasza is clear enough that she can deduce the Black wanted it heard, but she can’t determine much more in the dragon’s unaffected manner. She blinked, ears twitching.

Icy blue that shines colder than her eyes had ever shone in life do not lack usual resent, the gleam of hatred that is so faithful mirror of her heart (heart; as if she still possessed one at all, as if it hadn’t long rotted and turned to dust, nothing left of her but the ancient bones of one long dead).

He enjoys playing with his food, is thought that occurs to her; a cat pawing at a mouse as if it were a toy, only to leave it battered and bruised and dying and decide not to eat it at all. Too much of a flair for drama, heralding end he shall bring as inevitable as words echo towards those that brave Northrend in attempt to breach his domain — if the Lich King won’t succeed, he is nevertheless not wrong in fate he sentences mortals to, for they are bound to find the dark of death and its chilly embrace sooner or later regardless.

There is no hope.

There was none for her, and she finds some grim delight in that there shall be none for them as well, even if she resents invisible chains that bind her to her master. The queen of the Frostbrood shifts behind him, an antithesis of anticipation and loathing all at once; it gets dull, hearing speeches (it is infuriating to be used as mere mount, as if she were but a common beast, but in the least there is death and destruction to relish on, and she is less displeased when sharp wind hits what is left of her winds). “Words are wind. They will not fear until true cold has a grasp on their hearts.”

|| what is this that I  C A N ’ T  S E E            with  ICE COLD HANDS  taking hold of me? ||

     GIVE HIM A MOMENT, if you will, to relish the chorus he’s stirred to life — listen to the woodwind trill of human throats screaming their last, the way they shred themselves hoarse from fear and fury, or fall into a wet bloody gargle when the blood bubbles high. The percussive beat of metal against metal as weapons clash, bodies collide, doesn’t it just get your BLOOD PUMPING through veins gone stagnant and cold?

     Ah --- of course.           A difficult sentiment to share, when your blood is but stains on the bones.

     “ Impatient. ” Her hatred is so lovely. All that churning wrath raging against the great chains that bind them together. Nothing but fondness affects his voice, amusement curling like a cat in sunlight. “ You may join now, if you so desire. As for myself... ”

     What man doesn’t pause in the face of all this vital violence? How worthwhile would divinity be if he could not breathe deep the reek of their muddy copper deaths? He can tear his heart string by string from his chest, but even that darkest hollow must be moved by the frenetic, fever pitch of mortals killing each other in the name of prolonging their scrap-yarn existences. There is little so beautiful ( yes, he remembers that word ) as a battlefield frothing crimson, so dark as to be nearly black.

    “ A moment more. ”