[ 'You will never be free.''You will never be forgiven.'
Koltira's long ears twitch as his reflections hiss at him, their expressions cruel, their laughter harsh and mocking. He had despised this place as soon as he set foot in it--by accident, and out of ignorance--and he's desperate to escape. The still images were intolerable as it stood, but now they've begun to move and speak. It's more than he can bear.
He tries to shut them out as he searches for the exit. He struggles for focus as he clenches his jaw, as his hands ball into fists. He cannot endure this for much longer, but as he rounds a corner, he finds only another long stretch of gleaming mirrors. Koltira takes a step forward, and every warped image turns to stare at him, animated and hateful. They whisper about his brother, about the people he's killed, the destruction of his homeland. They whisper about Sylvanas, and his imprisonment.
Some of those details are not quite right. He strides forward, angry and purposeful, frowning as a few of the taunts ring discordant. Even if they're wrong, they grate on him, they pull at his nerves.
He draws the sword from his back. He's had enough. ]
Silence!
[ And then he smashes the mirrors nearest to him, slamming Byfrost's tremendous blade against the delicate glass. The mirrors crack and shatter, bursting into a spray of jagged shards. Koltira scowls, heaving just from the intensity of his temper.
That's gonna be a 50 dkp minus. ]
trying to leaf;
[ Time to get the hell out of here, if that's even possible. After an hour's worth of walking, Koltira's thinking not. The path keeps twisting around on itself, leading him back to the same clearing, the same copse of trees. The carnival gates are constantly visible through the treeline, and Koltira--impatient by nature and design--only grows more frustrated as time passes.
It's dark now, and growing darker. Koltira's eyes glow with blue lichfire, and his sword gleams darkly, too, its runes all stationary and bright as fresh ice. The burning flowers in the branches hanging low above him offer the only other source of light, and he finds the effect irritating rather than romantic. Koltira reaches to rip a handful of the candle flowers from their tree; in his open palm, they quickly freeze, turning solid and pale.
If he hears someone approach, he'll crush one of the flowers, staring up and straight at whoever's there as the glittering powder falls through his fingers. ]
koltira deathweaver | warcraft | new
[ 'You will never be free.' 'You will never be forgiven.'
Koltira's long ears twitch as his reflections hiss at him, their expressions cruel, their laughter harsh and mocking. He had despised this place as soon as he set foot in it--by accident, and out of ignorance--and he's desperate to escape. The still images were intolerable as it stood, but now they've begun to move and speak. It's more than he can bear.
He tries to shut them out as he searches for the exit. He struggles for focus as he clenches his jaw, as his hands ball into fists. He cannot endure this for much longer, but as he rounds a corner, he finds only another long stretch of gleaming mirrors. Koltira takes a step forward, and every warped image turns to stare at him, animated and hateful. They whisper about his brother, about the people he's killed, the destruction of his homeland. They whisper about Sylvanas, and his imprisonment.
Some of those details are not quite right. He strides forward, angry and purposeful, frowning as a few of the taunts ring discordant. Even if they're wrong, they grate on him, they pull at his nerves.
He draws the sword from his back. He's had enough. ]
Silence!
[ And then he smashes the mirrors nearest to him, slamming Byfrost's tremendous blade against the delicate glass. The mirrors crack and shatter, bursting into a spray of jagged shards. Koltira scowls, heaving just from the intensity of his temper.
That's gonna be a 50 dkp minus. ]
trying to leaf;
[ Time to get the hell out of here, if that's even possible. After an hour's worth of walking, Koltira's thinking not. The path keeps twisting around on itself, leading him back to the same clearing, the same copse of trees. The carnival gates are constantly visible through the treeline, and Koltira--impatient by nature and design--only grows more frustrated as time passes.
It's dark now, and growing darker. Koltira's eyes glow with blue lichfire, and his sword gleams darkly, too, its runes all stationary and bright as fresh ice. The burning flowers in the branches hanging low above him offer the only other source of light, and he finds the effect irritating rather than romantic. Koltira reaches to rip a handful of the candle flowers from their tree; in his open palm, they quickly freeze, turning solid and pale.
If he hears someone approach, he'll crush one of the flowers, staring up and straight at whoever's there as the glittering powder falls through his fingers. ]
Bal'a dash. Show me the way, or move on.