Greetings, everyone! It's time again for another writing prompt! It's been a while.
This month, we've got the Midsummer Fire Festival holiday, so let's focus on that.
Write a drabble about your UCN character. This drabble (a few paragraphs or more) should be themed around fire. It can be literal or symbolic, but it just needs to fit the theme! Stories will be judged based on entertainment, creativity, and effort.
Feature on the UCNEXUS.COM site, and 1000 gold! Runners-up get 500 gold each!
Another year passed, and the Pyrocanists favorite time of the year had come upon the land yet again. Niraniz Cinderstrike surveyed his project for this midsummer, crossing his rotted and leathery arms over his pitted and burned tabard. The defiled and dying forest around him gave off the sickly feeling of the fel that poisoned her, such was the reality in Felwood Forest. Before him was a piece of that blight, held firmly in place with sturdy iron chains anchored deep into the foul earth with equally sturdy pinions. The lashed wood was withered and diseased, its sap changed to a sticky poison, its bark blackened and scorched by demonic fire and whatever this land of the fel had done to it. Some of the leaves and branches glowed a sickly and oily green.
Finally feeling the time was right to begin his labour, Nira turned around and picked up one of many solid tree branches he had carried all the way from Redwood Forest, far on the other side of Azeroth. Standing midway down the trunk placed the first solid red branch against the sickly black felwood. He was sure if he could breathe he would have taken a deep breath, but he no longer could do such a thing. With that he began to too rub the redwood rapidly forward and back along the felwood. He was at it for a only a short time and then the ooze like poison sap began to coat the rubbing redwood. Casting it aside Nira picked up another stick and continued rubbing and scraping away, and kept doing this for a time until no sap or bark remained between the sickly wood beneath and the brilliant red stick above. Now the real challenge would begin. For hours and days the fiery mage kept at it, over exertion and tiredness not being in the realm of the undead. Paitence and focus were not the unstable mages traits, but during this time of the year he strived to exercise it.
Watched the entire time, on the fourth day Niraniz seen what he had been looking for after all that time: a thin trail of smoke. His face mostly contorted into something of a smile with a hint of madness. Efforts were redoubled as he could finally see his end goal. Soon after he reached over and stuffed some yellowed felweed into the shallow groove made by his constant rubbing. Nira gibbered to himself as he watched the heat from the friction smolder the felweed, and picked up a nearby battered leather fan. Careful not to fan to hard to snuff out the small embers Nira looked on in victory as soon the felweed was lit. Nira began to add further tinder from the far off land of Draenor and larger sticks from Northrend. He watched the felwood burn as usual, beside the flames and smoke tinted with a faint green.
The chains sure rattling now, as the “log” beneath began to try and escape its torment. This had been the hardest part of it all. Subduing an Ancient was no easy task, especially one infected with the Fel, but Nira had managed and bound it here on the foul ground. The mad battlemage was startled when the giant sentient tree freed what approximated to a mouth from the crude nails that had kept it shut. Splintered lips brought the sounds of pain and misery, and as Nira imagined a bit of thanks. Good 'ol fire would burn out the taint in this creature, and perhaps it would remember how it had been before the taint wrought by the Burning Legion.
“My gift to you, your welcome,” Nira giggled to himself and the tormented creature as he sat back to watch the smoky end of his project.
Maliik stood at his window, watching the cold darkness. Some shadows were brighter than all others, which he now knew to be fire, after long years of blindness. Occasionally, he would spot flashes in his dark vision. A spell. Some flashes were red, A Fire Spell. A Blue Flash was Ice, Brown was Earth, Purple was Arcane and so forth. But there was one color he despised, yet was forced to work with. The color Green, for Fel.
No other color was as bright or brilliant, so dangerous that if one were to touch, they’d be burnt. Yet like moths, fools always came to touch. Maliik never wanted to touch that fire, but was rather thrust into the flames. Even now, the Apothecary couldn’t resist staring at the only fire that was brilliant to him, yet he could hold.
He was no supporter of the Legion, yet everyone pointed to his assistant. He wasn’t a monster, yet everyone pointed to his experimentation. Each insult was an coal that glowed in his soul. His undeath, his power, his work, his choice of a co-worker, each another ridicule that fueled the fire of his hatred. And eventually, even the smallest of candle flames can burn into a roaring inferno.
Why must he be mocked by his peers? Why must he endure their looks of horror? Even his so called friends added wood.At this point, his small flame had become a roaring ball. They insulted his work, he gave to them knowledge, and it’s discarded. One thing that is dangerous is a roaring fire, and everyone about him only fueled the flames! Why should a man, an inferno, have to deal with such… Imbeciles? When he could burn them all to a crisp!
And yet.. He couldn’t. Like the embers of a flame, memories of times of acceptance filled his no longer beating heart. Dalaran, his promotion, work on the field, work on special cases, Times when he felt needed, no. Times when he felt wanted. His acceptance into the Nexus had been one of the greatest moments of his undeath. Of course, he hadn’t realized it at the time, but now, he knew. Not even the Apothecary Society accepted him like that of the Nexus.
Slowly, the warlock by cursed fortune calmed his previous anger. His flame burned away to that small flame again. Grimacing, Maliik crushed the flame in his gloved hand, feeling the burn for but a moment. He shut the window, and went back to his lab, for there was work to be done. For even the mightiest of infernos can become the smallest of flames.
Clad in the silvered armor with purple accents, the small blood elf regarded the bonfire in front of her. The normally glowing eyes of her kind had been dulled with recent events, the eyes themselves seeming to be almost a milky consistency as she reached with her hand, the gauntlet that normally covered it shed beside her. Midsummer brought back many memories, mostly good. It was a time of festiveness, sometimes even decadently so, but it was a time that reminded her that fire was not meant just for cleansing or cauterizing, but also for warmth. Something that she no longer felt. With the recent acquisition of the small box around the chain on her neck, things had been changing. Slowly but surely, and at first? A protection spell, she had thought. An odd one to sure, but nothing permanent. Just a oddly themed transmutation or even an illusion, but then when she had taken off the necklace after her most recent expedition...it hadn't gone away.
So now she sat in front of the fire, the realization hitting her that this...object, whatever it was, had changed her. Drastically. Although she still needed to breathe, it was becoming more of an active action. Less was needed. Her skin was becoming paler, nearly translucent, and in the light of the fire, she could see her veins easily underneath the film of her skin. But up until recently, she thought she'd be able to reverse it. Halt it even, with other magics, but as she sat in front of the fire, nearly biting her lip in nervousness, she realized something.
She was dying. Or turning into something dead. Or not-dead. She wasn't sure, but whatever the object was, it had to stay on. It seemed to move faster when it was off, as if the lack of proximity made it need to change her faster. She had a few contacts that could help, whisper in the right ear, find the right sort of magic.
But first? A few more minutes in front of the fire. She leaned forward a bit, a morbid thought coming into her head.
Would I feel the warmth if I stuck my hand in the fire? Or would it just be pain and that same dull coldness? Either way, she couldn't help but wonder if she was now the ash or the ember. Would she be able to be rekindled? Or was she just the remnant of whatever had been burned, stuck in that same form till sufficient force drove it away.
Serata: I am desperately stalling and trying to find something to do with myself at work. Posted a bunch of stuff about Sherbourne so y'all know who she is and what she looks like...and I still have 4 1/2 hours left before I can go home and play again. T_T
Aug 31, 2016 6:28:52 GMT
Banshih: Yay for stalling? Yay for rp campaign starting soon!
Sept 12, 2016 23:04:21 GMT
Banshih: Thanks for another great Dance Of The Dead!
Oct 27, 2016 12:23:26 GMT