[Prompt] Family

Lore World's End Tavern: Role-play and Fan Fiction
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For some reason, you find yourself pining for your family. Is it your siblings? Your parents? Children or spouse? Perhaps others of your clan? You venture back home and step through familiar grounds. You are met with tones of greeting. Are they happy? Angry? Sad? Do you find yourself bombarded with a million questions, or quietly accepted and cared for? Is there a feast welcoming you home or a small dinner? Or nothing at all? Are you rejected? Turned away and warned to never return again? Have you only left for a short while? Or have you been gone for years, decades, thousands of passings of seasons? How much have you grown? Or have you not changed at all?

This is meant to be a fun exercise, so there aren’t many rules. I ask that posts be limited to two or three, as much longer is more like a short tale probably befitting its own thread.

Prompts are fun little things meant to inspire. You don’t have to perfectly match the prompt. Just let it inspire a thought.

I’m going to try and post these weekly, sometime between Saturday and Monday probably. Feedback and prompt ideas are welcome, so feel free to post them in here as well. Some prompts will be more thought provoking, some more whimsical. Respect your fellow writers.

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(I wrote something like this before I hope you don’t mind if I post it)

I felt myself go back to the black place again, where I would see my Death Knight alter ego, Imperfecta, but she wasn’t there. I was wearing an old-style paladin armor that I got from the ruins of Blackwing Lair, it was a beautiful yellow, white, and gold set, with the balance scales that showed on the shoulder armor, and a golden plated long skirt. I wasn’t wearing the helmet though and I was sitting down. I saw Lirath Windrunner show up in a purple banshee form, his body was long and snake like as mist trailed around his body, his upper body was the only thing that was recognized. “I can’t believe you forsaken your vows.” Lirath stated, “Do you know what’s going to happened now? They will come after me and exploit me or kill me. Why couldn’t you just forget what you saw in the Plaguelands?” he demanded putting his face near my ear.

I felt the sink of guilt go into my heart, “I’m sorry.” I said and held my hands over my eyes.

A blue and white glow came from the opposite direction and appeared on the other side of Lirath. It was Alexandros Mograine, “Don’t listen to him! You don’t have to be sorry for anything Perfectia,” He said, “he was only trying to protect himself! He should have never made a little girl make a blood pack like that! GO, before it’s too late.”

Lirath snake form came closer to my ear, “He wanted you to take revenge for him remember? He may have given you the Ashbringer, but I gave you every other power you have in your disposal.” I felt his head creek back, “You betrayed me, you don’t deserve to live!” I felt a sting go into my neck as Lirath bit into my neck like a snake.

I saw the image of my mother during the last moments I saw her, “You have to go with Lachance, he’ll protect you.” She said to me." She’s our daughter Lachance, keep her hidden and keep her safe." She said to him and I saw Frostmorne go right into her and she screamed out in pain. It wasn’t something I actually remembered happening, but it was happening right in front of me. Arthas wasn’t there, my father wasn’t there it was just me and my mother’s blank staring corpse looking downward, “Why did you let me die Perfectia, wasn’t I a good mother to you?” She said in my head.

I came closer to her, “Mom, I wanted to save you, but I was just a little girl back then.”

“You grew up and you couldn’t even kill Arthas. You killed Illidan and you couldn’t even kill the Lich King for your loving mother?” She asked, her voice filled with disappointment.

“I wanted to mother, I wanted to,” I pleaded, “I did so well in the Argent Tournament and they just said no.”

I saw her eyes move at me, “You weren’t strong enough, and now you’ve traded it all away.”

“Mother,” I reached for her and as her voice spoke into my mind, “I wanted to, so badly. I wanted to kill Arthas so I could see you one last time.”

“You could have taken the ASHBRINGER YOURSELF!” The corpse of my mother grabbed hold of my throat.

I shook my head, “I’m sorry.”

“You have failed me.”

“I’m sorry, mother.”

I felt a nudge on my shoulder, and a cold rag on my head, “You’re crying. Perfectia wake up.” I opened my eyes and saw a face.

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Revenwyn hurried down the streets of Dalaran for the first time in two weeks. While she usually had to take a break from duties in order to spend a day at home, she hadn’t even had a chance as of late, and stress was really starting to get to her. Finally, she begged for a weekend off, stating that she was no good in this state.

Home. Well, her home for now, as it was one of the few places in this world that cared not for the faction war. How many Horde soldiers had she killed in the last month while her own waited at home for her? She’d tried not to think about it. Indeed, she had gone as long as she possibly could in this war without killing a Horde soldier except in self defense or if they were too wounded to be helped.

The first time she had come home had been bittersweet. Her husband Raede had chosen to sit this war out. He believed in the Horde and it’s principles, but not Sylvanas, and that was why he agreed that Revenwyn should go and fight. He wished Sylvanas could be deposed without the shedding of Horde blood, and Revenwyn had promised him that she would do all she could to avoid it.

Now at the steps of her apartment, Revenwyn dragged herself up them, exhausted and soul-weary. Slowly, she opened the door.

Raede came across to her and took her bag, placing it by the door. Scooping her into his embrace, he just stood there, his chin resting on the top of her head. Her ear was pressed into his chest and she just silently listened to his heartbeat.

“You weren’t followed?” Raede asked carefully. Revenwyn shook her head. “Good,” Raede continued, “Because people know that I live here now, and to see a human and a blood elf together is still… a novelty.” he added.

Revenwyn brushed a lock of blue-black hair away from his face and tucked it behind his pointed ears. “And I’m afraid that my superiors will find out about us eventually.” She added. “It’s just as well that you’re not fighting in this war. At least I have that to defend us.”

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The cavern was quiet and calm, the hustle and bustle of the Mulgore markets above seeming a world away. The only sounds were whispering, echoing trickles of water, seeming to flow from the living rock. Water steadily dripped from the stalactites into pools of crystal blue water. A soft, luminous glow emanated from the waters.

At the edge of the central pool stood an aged Tauren, wearing the garb of a spirit walker. Chey’nala Waterspeaker. She turned at Illanaria’s entry into the cave, and gave the shal’dorei a warm smile in greeting.

“You are sure you wish to do this?”

“Yes,” she responded. “I must know.”

“Very well,” Chey’nala replied. “This is a fairly simple ritual, and I have all we need here. Let us begin.”

The spirit walker kneeled before the central pool and began to chant. In reverent tones she called on each of the elements, imploring the spirits to open the barrier between the world of the living and the dead. First, she withdrew a pinch of dark earth from her pouch and sprinkled it into the waters. This she followed with a gentle splash of water from her waterskin. She struck a spark of flame using a flint and some tinder, and then offered a breath of her own air as a final gift. She spoke a prayer in Taurahe and stood, regarding Illanaria with a steady gaze.

She dipped a flask into the waters of the pool. Withdrawing a vial of dark liquid from her pouch, she emptied it into the flask. “Drink, my friend, and listen.”

She swallowed the elixir. She tasted tinges of silverleaf and earthroot, cool and refreshing, a faint metallic tinge of earth. There was another taste she could not quite identify, but it was not unpleasant. The world grew hazy, softer and less distinct. Dimly, she thought she heard Chey’nala beckoning the life spirit. The spirit walker stomped a powerful hoof, the sound resonating like a crack of thunder in the cavern.

A gentle breeze blew across her face. When she opened her eyes, Chey’nala had disappeared. A soft nimbus floated above the still waters of pool, tendrils of mist and light. A wisp. The nebulous light gradually formed the shape of a man, tall, white haired, powerful, eyes glowing bright. The spectral form smiled. No doubt he could see the changes wrought by the energies of the nightwell in her face, but he knew her still. “Ishnu’alah, sister.”

Illanaria smiled even as her eyes welled. “Thamir.” The face was older than she remembered, worn, wiser, too, but unmistakably that of her elder brother.

“Not who you were expecting, I wager?”

“No, brother. I hoped that none would answer the call. That you would all be safe.”

The twinkle faded from Thamir’s eyes. “You have returned to the world in dark times. Many have fallen recently.” He paused. “I know why you have summoned me. I cannot tell you where he is - that knowledge is… dark, to me - but Vanir lives.”

Illanaria smiled, tears now coursing down her cheeks. She closed her eyes in relief. “Thank you.”

“You wish to find him.” It was not a question.

“I will,” she replied. “I grieved for my son - for all of you - long ago. When I learned that the world had not fallen to the Legion, I started to hope. That hope was dashed when Teldrassil -“ she paused, the name of the kal’dorei capital still strange to her - “was destroyed. But now…” A thousand questions raced through her mind.

“You would be proud of the man he grew to be. I cared for him as though he was my own. I am more sorry than I can say that we did not search for you… for Faryn.”

“Don’t be sorry. Even when the city could be entered, Elisande’s forces would have killed you had you tried. We…” she corrected herself, “I - survived.”

“And Faryn? I can sense he no longer walks with the living.”

“He was killed.” It felt so strange to be speaking of him, with someone who’d known him. In Suramar, he’d been just another soul lost to the fel, forgotten by most, one amongst thousands. “His soul dwells in the Twisting Nether, now. He sacrificed so much to protect us. And now, he is lost.”

“I am truly sorry.”

“As am I. For thousands of years we protected each other in that accursed place. And now, because I failed, my husband is cursed by a fate worse than death.”

“The blame doesn’t lie with you, falore.”

There was a moment of silence in the cavern. Illanaria wanted to say so many things. But as Chey’nala had warned her, their time would be short.

“…Vanir. Was he hale when you saw him last?”

“Yes. He is a powerful druid in his own right, and was well when we parted, though I cannot say when. Time passes strangely in this realm.”

An odd, echoing whisper edged into the still air of the cavern.

“I can’t stay for much longer, but there is more,” he added. “He has two children of his own. Their names are Lyra and Aria.”

Her eyes widened in shock. She knew Vanir would be a man grown - almost as venerable as she. Nevertheless, it was a shock to think of the bright, young son she lost, barely on the cusp of manhood, grown and now a father himself. “What of his children?”

“Lyra fell at Darkshore. She has not crossed over yet. She and her sisters roam this realm, full of fury and fire. I call out to her spirit, but she is not ready to pass over.”

Gone. So many gone. I hope you find peace, child, she thought. “And Aria?”

“Aria was in Northrend at the time of the first attacks. I cannot say more. There are…” the whispering in the cavern intensified, “…strange gaps in my thoughts, crossing back into this realm.” His form grew fainter.

“Thamir?”

“We shall see each other once more, Aria. Not for many years, I pray.”

“No! You can’t leave! Please, stay?”

Thamir’s form faded slowly into nebulous mist. “I am sorry. Ande’thoras-ethil, falore.”

Illanaria cried out. “Thamir, don’t go! Don’t leave me!”

She sank to her knees and sobbed.

When she opened her eyes, Chey’nala was standing over her, holding her water skin. Illanaria took a grateful sip.

Chey’nala regarded her steadily. “The dead often leave us with more questions than answers. Did you find yours?”

“I did,” she replied. With a weary smile, she added, “though, you were right. Now, I am left with a thousand more questions. But I now know that my son lives, and I am more thankful than I can ever express.”

The bright, hot light of An’she seemed particularly blinding after leaving the cavern’s cool dark. It felt good, though. Like benediction. Hope sprang anew.

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Great tales :smiley: I’ve enjoyed reading them. Always an interesting perspective.

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I was just a kid when Andorhal burned. Much like the fabled fallen Archmage of the Kirin Tor, Rhonin, I lost my family when the cursed Prince marched his army of the damned through the streets. I return frequently to aid in the efforts to reclaim and ease the ruined land, but the only that greet me are those that I am there to aid and those that are there to lend aid with me. Perhaps I will see a familiar face from my childhood but time and tribulation has run it’s course and the relationships are just not there. One of the many realities of life after war.

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“… You’ve gotten stronger sister. I knew you would. You’ve kept getting stronger ever since you came home that day, swaggering from prestigious Falthrien…” The Dark Ranger standing on Velleineda’s sternum remarked nostalgically. There was an arrow pointed at the warlock’s throat, but Velleineda knew that her sister didn’t have it in her to loose the arrow. It was intimidation, a means to try and get the youngest Silversong to play along.

“Do you remember, sister, when our eldest would weave flowers into our hair, when she would comfort us and–” “She is dead, Nereia. And out of everyone, I thought you would know best: a corpse should be left well enough alone.” Five sisters they had been. Velleineda remembered it well. Nereia had been second-youngest. Saria the eldest, a mage-priest. When the Scourge came to Quel’thalas, Saria had gone south, feeling it her solemn duty to purge the infection upon the land.

Saria had come back home not long after, not long at all… but she had been twisted, distorted. Sorrow and regret colored every blow from the banshee’s blade. She wailed and screamed in the body she possessed, begging to be set free, to be slain. Velleineda, then a mage, and Nereia, then a Farstrider, both granted her request. An arrow purged the banshee from her possessed body, then a vortex of arcane fire granted the ghost rest. They both heard Saria’s thanks. The two elder sisters back in Silvermoon would remain forever blissfully unaware of the fate of the most beloved Silversong.

“Velleineda, you know she can bring her back! You know we can have Saria at our side again!” Contrary to popular belief, Velleineda did value things other than power. Pretty women, wealth, knowledge (for its own sake). What she’d never admit is that she valued family over all of these things.

“Nereia. The voices wail at me to destroy you, the Void whispers that yours is an existence that cannot be suffered to continue. After what you have just said, after the intent that you have just professed, I am inclined to agree. Clearly undeath has stripped your memory. Saria begged us to kill her. And I for one do not intend to deliver her unto that torment again.” Velleineda spoke in dangerous calm. “And you will not live to tell any of what you have heard this day.”

Nereia had just enough time to regret her decision to share her plans with Velleineda, before a flame that consumed even light washed over her. The same fiery blast that had sent Saria into the afterlife, touched by the Void.

Velleineda lowered her hand, watching as patches of perfect black continued to burn soil and grass.

“Until the Banshee Queen lie dead, until the last of the tainted Val’kyr is purged, no grave is sacred…” Came a soft, feminine, otherworldly whisper within Velleineda’s mind. “You preach to the choir, monster.” Velleineda spat back.

It was a sad, sad day when the world-devouring entropy was more empathetic than one’s own family.

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This takes place a long time ago.

The cold wind blew over the darkened lands that had come to be known as ‘Plaguelands.’ A pair of forms moved through the dim light - a massive wolf woman in plated armor and a small, trembling gnomish male in leather - near the ruined city of Stratholme. The female seemed disinterested in anything about their surroundings as her companion complained once again, “Tell me: why are we in this Light-forsaken place, Captain?”

Kalipsia Darkfang did not respond at first, choosing instead to exhale in an exaggerated sigh. “You have been bugging me about my family and my past for weeks now. So now I’m going to show you.” Without her helmet on one could see grey hairs breaking through her normally jet-black coat of fur, and the scar over her grey left eye that led down to a broken canine fang on the same side.

“But in this place?” he asked while glancing around, not for the last time. “I knew you weren’t Gilnean but…”

“This was my home,” the worgen interrupted.

The gnome stopped for a moment in surprise, but quickly dashed to catch back up to his companion. Silence fell over the pair as they pushed through some brush and walked straight towards a tree upon a small hill. Under the cover of the tree were several weathered stones jutting up from the ground - gravesites. Kalipsia stopped several steps away from the graves with a blank expression on her face. The gnome cautiously stepped forward and examined the writing on the stones. “You… wrote this,” he said aloud.

Slowly Kalipsia stepped forward, pain of remembrance evident in her eyes, though her face remained impassive. The gnome stepped aside as she set a clawed hand upon the grave. “This is the resting place of my family,” she spoke quietly. “This city… it was my home, before the plague. Because I lived here, I was one of the commanders during the Purge. I knew where things could hide…”

“I… I can’t even imagine…” the gnome stuttered, uncertain of what to say.

The armored wolf knelt before one of the graves, tears streaming down her face. “My granddaughter was seven years old… and I had to… I… I couldn’t save her… Couldn’t save any of them.” She leaned her head upon the stone, eyes shut tight as she silently began to weep.

The gnome was silent for what felt like an eternity, entirely at a loss for words. After some time his captain lifted her head, staring off into space after wiping the tears from her eyes. “There. You’ve seen them. Satisfied?!” she growled.

“I… I’m sorry, Captain,” he blurted out. “I won’t be botherin’ you again about it.”

Kalipsia rose to her feet, sighing. “I know you didn’t know. I only caved because you’re the only one on my ship that I trust with something like this. Perhaps one day we’ll speak more, but for now… Let’s just get back to the ship. I need a drink or twenty.”

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This a continuation of another prompt you posted a while ago:

(And in light of the entries already posted here, i decided to make this one a tad more humorous, hope you dont mind :stuck_out_tongue: )

Death Knight Gharion was not a man you crossed. In fact, he wasn’t the sort of man you wanted under the impression that you were even thinking about entertaining of the thought of maybe doing something even mildly villainous.

This was for two reasons.

Three, actually, if you wanted to count the sword and powers as different reasons.

The other was a nickname he had worked very hard for and was very sure he deserved.

The Horde Slayer.

“Amaranthine, you know I go where the work leads.” He told the clingy opportunist he nevertheless felt obligated to protect and nurture. Said shameless opportunist just so happened to be a dark whelping already the size of an adult eagle.

“If this is about all the ‘you must repent for your wrongness, sparkle sparkle sacred paladin noises’ uncle Geralt does then you could at least brought me with you so I wouldn’t need to sneak inside your backpack!”

The fact that a two year old critter was able to snark at someone with the moniker of ‘Horde Slayer’ spoke volumes of her trust that he would not harm her, her bravery and her insanity.

And also how low the mighty had fallen. But, hey, he was once a paladin and now existed as a glorified pain vampire- he wasn’t exactly in a position to cast any judgements.

“This has nothing to do with my brother and his annoying morals, I simply felt the obligation to finish what had been started in Pandaria, I could not refuse the call to Dreanor.” Gharion shook his head.

She rolled her small eyes. “Oh, sure, reasonable innit? Frigging garba-” The tips of her jaws where firmly but gently seized by a purple force, just as Gharion’s hand also glowed with the same power. His eyes narrowed towards the dark whelping, cold and stern.

“If you wish to continue this conversation, you shall do so without swearing,” He explained to her, calmly. “It is unbecoming.” His hand glowed no more and fell to his side, Amaranthine breathed a sigh of relief.

Gharion sighed. “Listen, I too am terrible at apologies, so I won’t endeavor to get one out of you. I know what I promised when you requested a name and I gave you yours - but I would have been a terrible guardian if had brought you here with me, to an open battlefield.”

He raised a finger when she was about to interrupt. “An open battlefield in another planet .”

He sighed. “When I found your egg during the Pandaria Campaign, I had nowhere safe to leave you. Since I do now, I left you at Amal’thazad’s care until I returned- I even had Darion’s reluctant blessing to this agreement.”

He stroked his beard in thought. “And if I were a gambling man, I would wager that you somehow angered our Highlord and fled, mmmh?”

She fumed in a bad attempt of mock outrage. “Hey! it’s not my fault Darion is one salty cun-”

“Amaranthine…” Gharion interrupted her, not wanting to let her finish her curse.

The dark whelping gulped and smiled sheepishly at him. “Right, right, sorry. So you really think Dad-rion Mom-graine has all his screws on? Do you REALLY think so? I mean, he stabbed himself in the chest once. At this point I’m convinced he’s either completely hollow inside or trying to get there. Won’t be long before we see him wandering around trying to take souls from any passersby.”

Gharion pinched the bridge of nose as he screamed internally, then he leaned close. Good Light, either preserve me or just smite me already. “Young lady, either you get yourself to The Acherus right now or I will drag you there by your wings.”

The dark whelping looked at him right in the eye in defiance. “I will count to ten.” Gharion folded his arms and then raised a single, armored digit.

Then another.

Amaranthine continued her posturing as bravely as her diminutive size allowed her, but by the fifth finger her eyes had grown wide and watery as they darted around, avoiding his gaze- all while she sweated nervously (as well as a whelping could, anyway). After a moment of consideration, she admitted defeat and flew over to Gharion’s shoulder, perching herself on his armor.

At this point in their relationship, Gharion considered Amaranthine as some luck of surrogate daughter or niece he only occasionally felt the urge to kill. She considered him as a super strong being that kept random adventurers from turning her into an ugly out-of-fashion scaled purse, gave her food and occasional headpats and scratches behind the ears.

Creatures of carnage and deceit that they were, both of them knew that this was not healthy nor normal. And, were the circumstances more ideal, both of the could have probally done better for themselves.

But, honestly, why ruin a good thing?

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