Drawings (and possibly in the future, screencaps) of my World of Warcraft character Hepzibah. She’s a Blood Elf Paladin on Earthen Ring. I don’t care what anyone says, the Blood Elves have/had a freaking angel chained in their basement! If any of the Horde races are actually evil, it’s them! :p

Inspired by Kelly’s prompt, “horses in a field.”

“Have you ever seen anything like it before?” Chardra swung the beam of light at the grass, and it fell away in a sheet that smoked momentarily. An old woman sat next to her atop the hill. Graying blonde eyebrows rose in surprise, but her features remained otherwise impassive as she stared across the strange landscape. Snow drifted across sandy desert plains, and a rainbow-hued herd of horses appeared on the horizon.

She shook her head. “You say you took this from a man made of moonsilver?”

“Yes, and after he was dead, his body melted away into a sort of…sludge. And then it disappeared altogether. It was the strangest thing I think I’ve ever seen, Tressa.”

Inspired by MCA Hogarth’s prompt, “fever-real.”

She had been ill, Tressa remembered, recalling in that distant, fuzzy sort of way you do halfway between dreaming and waking. The winds that blew in from the wylds had brought the Icewalker village ghostly voices and an ague that mysteriously affected only those with the Sight. She’d lain shaking from fever and chills for a week, but now found herself walking alone outside in the moonlight, expectation hanging in the air like the world holding its breath.

The Naaru loomed overhead, flexing angrily against its magical bonds. The Magisters at the other end of those tethers were oblivious to the scene before them, entrenched deep in their concentration.

A dark-haired woman, still young by Blood Elf standards, knelt before M’uru of the Naaru, held captive beneath the city of Silvermoon. She had fled her home in anger to find him, under the naive assumption that he would be the one to help her. The final straw had broken between her and her father that night.

I’ve never been accused of being a great man, so I might as well recount the adventures of one who was. Good thing, I suppose; he’d never do it himself. He was never that kind of person. He called himself Bowman Vance, and he was probably the only real friend I’ve ever had. My name is Noah. I was just a boy when I knew him, barely fourteen, but the night he ran, I followed him.

By no means a stunning beauty, Callas was yet pretty in a that quaint way one might expect to find in the countryside. Her skin was smooth and tanned from a youth spent working and playing under the sun, and her hair, long and wavy, was sun-bleached to the color of harvest-ready wheat. Eyes that had been a muddy brown in her childhood had deepened with the years to a chocolate hue, and were rimmed by thick, dark lashes. Her father would have said she had inherited her mother’s soulful gaze. And if she had also got her father’s aquiline nose and strong square jaw, and his tendancy to purse her slighly-thin lips, who would notice? When she had occasion to smile, it lit up her battle-wearied face, and she glowed with it.

She surged forward from the mob of her fellow soldiers, their hands shrinking back at the cry of feral rage tearing from her throat. And she ran alone toward the moving wall of abysmal black.