[ Shame, it won't be a party without Kez! To plan ahead, I'm looking for characters who would like to read/perform at an upcoming salon with the illustrious Greatmother Arjah, 4th or 11th of August. Give me a nudge. ]
The Royal Library Presents [Horde RP Guild]
Gezelda carefully made her way down the creaky and really big steps of the Royal Libraries cellar. She knew she could do this on her own and really hated to ask anyone for help. She finally got to the bottom of the stairs and looked around the wine racks to select a few good vintages. As she browsed around she tripped over a loose piece of rope and fell into some empty boxes marked 'Sgt. Fizzlebunks Private booze stash'. Gezelda let out a yelp as she tumbled into the dusty boxes, getting far dirtier then normal. She coughed at the dust clouds "eh, I should fine" She said non-nonchalantly, grabbing a few choice bottles and heading back up the stairs.
((I'll get in touch with you in-character at some point, but for planning purposes, I am definitely not available the 11th. I will try to keep the 4th open!))
The fever came, sudden and consuming. She penned hasty apologies from her bed, her elegant script a touch unfurled, noticeable only to the most discerning of eyes.
She could hardly keep her eyes open as Daisy shuffled around her, collecting the notes to post. Without being asked, the Snipe dutifully marked each envelope with the Archivist’s seal, using the silver-flecked cerulean wax Benoite favored.
“Don’t tell the...” she whispered to Daisy as she drifted off, perchance to sleep.
She could hardly keep her eyes open as Daisy shuffled around her, collecting the notes to post. Without being asked, the Snipe dutifully marked each envelope with the Archivist’s seal, using the silver-flecked cerulean wax Benoite favored.
Dear esteemed colleagues and honored guests,
Due to unforeseen circumstances, tonight’s fundraiser will be hosted by Arcanist Laladelrei Heartblade in my stead. Please accept my sincerest apologies for my absence.
Warmest regards,
Benoite Dawnsong
Archivist
Director of Community Outreach
The Royal Library
“Don’t tell the...” she whispered to Daisy as she drifted off, perchance to sleep.
Edited by Benoite on 7/28/2013 1:52 PM PDT
Well into the evening hours, as the vast halls of the Library fell silent, Archivist Benoite Dawnsong sat at her desk. Her fountain pen was poised to write, but its nib hovered just a hair's width above the parchment. The subject for the next salon needed to be finalized, but she was distracted by her new paperweight.
It was one of a handful on her desk and many more she didn't have on display. In her line of work, paperweights were common and frequent gifts.
But she liked this one very much: a crystalline snowflake that fit the length of her hand, it seemed to absorb the light around it and hold it in, as if it craved it. As she watched the dancing light within the snowflake, she mused quietly, “Maybe forgetfulness, like a kind snow, should numb and cover them. But they were a part of me. They were my landscape.”
Ah.
It was one of a handful on her desk and many more she didn't have on display. In her line of work, paperweights were common and frequent gifts.
But she liked this one very much: a crystalline snowflake that fit the length of her hand, it seemed to absorb the light around it and hold it in, as if it craved it. As she watched the dancing light within the snowflake, she mused quietly, “Maybe forgetfulness, like a kind snow, should numb and cover them. But they were a part of me. They were my landscape.”
Ah.
The Royal Library presents an evening on the life and poetry of Lady Sylvia Pathos. The poet's original folios will be on display. A discussion will be followed by an open reading of poetry and fiction. All guests are invited to participate.
Conversation Among the Ruins: On Sylvia Pathos
5pm, Sunday, August 4th
Throne Room, Ruins of Lordaeron
Admission is free and refreshments will be provided. Dress code is business casual. For more information, please contact Archivist Benoite Dawnsong.
He would come to allow himself, now and then, the flighty comfort of his hard chair and the crackle of the fireplace. In the pre-dawn hours, while the world slumbered and dreamed, he was awake and burning. The small white cat lined his lap, her paw curved snoozily over her little pink nose. When he remembered to, he would stroke her.
The old pages crackled as he turned them with his thumb. Dog-eared, the print smudged and nearly worn. With a bleak satisfaction he scoured the lines he had committed to memory, rediscovering in them the pangs of memory. Something deep in his core broke, and leaked warmth.
"~I lean to you, numb as a fossil. Tell me I'm here."
The old pages crackled as he turned them with his thumb. Dog-eared, the print smudged and nearly worn. With a bleak satisfaction he scoured the lines he had committed to memory, rediscovering in them the pangs of memory. Something deep in his core broke, and leaked warmth.
"~I lean to you, numb as a fossil. Tell me I'm here."
Fastice sits in the middle of his empty Base of Operations, located deep in the Ghostlands, away from prying eyes. He sighs, as he goes to check the mailbox once more.
Nothing.
Frustrated, he calls his staff back to the base.
When they arrive, he gathers them together in the reception area, and begins to speak.
"Alright, ladies and Gentlemen. It's time to step up our game a bit. We've got but one recurring job, and that's security for The Royal Library's events. Our current recruitment methods have been getting us nowhere, so I believe it's time to try something new. This Sunday, at the Ruins of Lordaeron, The Library is hosting a discussion and poetry reading. I will discuss with Lady Dawnsong, the possibility of us having a booth of sorts set up, that I will be staffing, in which we can answer questions the populace may have about our order.
"Anybody who would like to attend is welcome to, if you are busy or otherwise engaged, don't worry. But keep up the efforts, my friends. Find us recruits, contracts, even souls needing a place to stay. Let's do everything we can to really get the name Blackblade out into the populace's ears, and minds, to show them what we can do. May we never falter!"
With that, the group dispersed, and Ice was once again left alone to his thoughts, as he played with the icicles that seemed to form in the air around him from time to time.
Nothing.
Frustrated, he calls his staff back to the base.
When they arrive, he gathers them together in the reception area, and begins to speak.
"Alright, ladies and Gentlemen. It's time to step up our game a bit. We've got but one recurring job, and that's security for The Royal Library's events. Our current recruitment methods have been getting us nowhere, so I believe it's time to try something new. This Sunday, at the Ruins of Lordaeron, The Library is hosting a discussion and poetry reading. I will discuss with Lady Dawnsong, the possibility of us having a booth of sorts set up, that I will be staffing, in which we can answer questions the populace may have about our order.
"Anybody who would like to attend is welcome to, if you are busy or otherwise engaged, don't worry. But keep up the efforts, my friends. Find us recruits, contracts, even souls needing a place to stay. Let's do everything we can to really get the name Blackblade out into the populace's ears, and minds, to show them what we can do. May we never falter!"
With that, the group dispersed, and Ice was once again left alone to his thoughts, as he played with the icicles that seemed to form in the air around him from time to time.
Slamming the door to her quarters Gezelda flopped onto her bunk. She couldn't believe that she was barred from events! Just because the lobsters she bought were a LITTLE mutated! I mean, how was she to know that they would awaken and attack!? That their fury was matched only by their strength! So much hatred in those beady little eyes!
Arjah eyed the notice with obvious pleasure. "Sylvia Pathos," she murmured, "Really? How rare ta see a female poet get de academic attention she deserves. Ah like dis Library more an' more."
She tapped a finger against her lips in thought, ransacking her memory. "Now where did ah put my annotated copy of The Titan and Other Poems...?"
She tapped a finger against her lips in thought, ransacking her memory. "Now where did ah put my annotated copy of The Titan and Other Poems...?"
"Didn't she, like, stick her head in the oven?" Laladelrei Heartblade drawled. "Bored now." She stuck her neon pink chewing gum onto the notice, right over that Ben Dawnsong's stupid name. Sprawling on her favorite chaise longue in the staffroom, the Arcanist returned to flipping through a gossip rag. Rumor had it that It Girl Aellison Sunsorrow was consorting with the Mad Dog, that terrible savage of a kinslayer. How positively scandalous.
(LOL! Love it!)
She didn't like sitting on this side of the desk.
The side with all the notes. And pens. And orders needing to be signed. And the decisions.
Sure, a lot of them were stupid, easy decisions. Why in the world did someone need to ask her what to do with a shipment of cloth meant for Tanaris that got held up in Azshara? She irritably wrote Send it to Tanaris! on the paper, signed it, and moved on to the next stack.
The next one was about a shipment that was meant to be routed through Orgrimmar, but was still sitting at their facilities in Booty Bay after coming from Stormwind; getting anything shipped from Dalaran and into Horde territory had become a convoluted process. Some sort of food shipment, cheese. It was now overdue.
Her pen paused when she saw the name of the recipient.
Kezrin needed a break from the office, didn't she? Even Arrayah hadn't spent every moment at her desk doing paperwork. No, indeed. She was often seen at social events doing paperwork.
Changed to high priority shipment. Immediate delivery required.
Kezrin grabbed several stacks of paperwork to take with her and went to find the cheese shipment. At least she used to be fond of poetry.
The side with all the notes. And pens. And orders needing to be signed. And the decisions.
Sure, a lot of them were stupid, easy decisions. Why in the world did someone need to ask her what to do with a shipment of cloth meant for Tanaris that got held up in Azshara? She irritably wrote Send it to Tanaris! on the paper, signed it, and moved on to the next stack.
The next one was about a shipment that was meant to be routed through Orgrimmar, but was still sitting at their facilities in Booty Bay after coming from Stormwind; getting anything shipped from Dalaran and into Horde territory had become a convoluted process. Some sort of food shipment, cheese. It was now overdue.
Her pen paused when she saw the name of the recipient.
Kezrin needed a break from the office, didn't she? Even Arrayah hadn't spent every moment at her desk doing paperwork. No, indeed. She was often seen at social events doing paperwork.
Changed to high priority shipment. Immediate delivery required.
Kezrin grabbed several stacks of paperwork to take with her and went to find the cheese shipment. At least she used to be fond of poetry.
Moragana scribbled furiously in her notepad, trying her hardest to finish one of her poems "Hrmm, how am I going to do this? Who am I kidding!?" She mumbled to herself.
To Miss Benoite Dawnsong,
Archivist, Royal Library,
Silvermoon
From Arjah,
Razor Hill Encampment,
Durotar
Dear Miss Dawnsong,
How tardy I am in my correspondence -- already I am late in writing to thank you for the lovely gown, and now I must give you my thanks for a lovely evening as well!
(I did not, as I am sure your watchful eye marked, attend in the dress you so thoughtfully provided, as even my untutored tastes could recognize it as a Silvermoon fashion, and I thought it better to save for an evening in that fair city.)
You hardly need me to tell you that your Library's salons are the delight of the Horde, yet I shall do it anyway. I only wish I had thought to write a verse or two in honor of the Royal Library before last evening's gathering, rather than inflicting an unedited improvisation on your guests!
Since you asked for it, here is a copy of the text, but I beg you not to add it to any formal collections, as it really was little more than a flight of variations on a lazy rhyme:
There it is, and the less said of it the better. But of your darling apprentice poet, I hope we can say more, and over a pot of tea in some pleasant place not too many days from now! Her enthusiasm is utterly charming, as is her modesty.
I hope that both of you will suffer to be friends with me, and that we shall soon meet outside your lovely salons. In the meantime, I will be as regular in attendance at them as my schedule permits, knowing that they are always the delight of my week's calendar!
Yours in fondness,
Arjah
Archivist, Royal Library,
Silvermoon
From Arjah,
Razor Hill Encampment,
Durotar
Dear Miss Dawnsong,
How tardy I am in my correspondence -- already I am late in writing to thank you for the lovely gown, and now I must give you my thanks for a lovely evening as well!
(I did not, as I am sure your watchful eye marked, attend in the dress you so thoughtfully provided, as even my untutored tastes could recognize it as a Silvermoon fashion, and I thought it better to save for an evening in that fair city.)
You hardly need me to tell you that your Library's salons are the delight of the Horde, yet I shall do it anyway. I only wish I had thought to write a verse or two in honor of the Royal Library before last evening's gathering, rather than inflicting an unedited improvisation on your guests!
Since you asked for it, here is a copy of the text, but I beg you not to add it to any formal collections, as it really was little more than a flight of variations on a lazy rhyme:
Librarian, librarian,
against the mode contrarian
of our fanatical, barbarian
rude selves,
I hope you find in tarrying
'mongst stacks of antiquarian
volumes a proper clarion
to delve
beyond the rough sectarian
veneers of modern harryings
and 'mind us of the wit still buried in
your shelves.
There it is, and the less said of it the better. But of your darling apprentice poet, I hope we can say more, and over a pot of tea in some pleasant place not too many days from now! Her enthusiasm is utterly charming, as is her modesty.
I hope that both of you will suffer to be friends with me, and that we shall soon meet outside your lovely salons. In the meantime, I will be as regular in attendance at them as my schedule permits, knowing that they are always the delight of my week's calendar!
Yours in fondness,
Arjah
The latest of salons was a success, following in the vein of those before it. They had gathered like mallards to the pond, to showcase their bold colors and trill lines of succinct, scything poetry.
The Sylvia Pathos, delivered with perfection, rested still on the back of his tongue. Oily with vintage, trickling warmth down into his core. The piece was familiar but given particular, personal context by its reader. Liore had watched her intently (as per usual) while she stared at her old folio during the recital. She had the whole thing committed to memory, her eyes burning a hole into the page instead of drifting side to side.
What followed was equally striking. A short verse on the subject of fear, from the forsaken his stately aide had called Moragana and Guardian. Fear was not a fresh subject to the Inquisitor. He was a warrior, with nothing to him but metal and hate- and fear. As he closed with his bitter enemies on the fields of war, he could smell their fear, as surely as they could taste his. But she would fear no more, and that placed her a step ahead of him.
The Greatmother had delivered impeccably, but that was to be expected of a master at her craft. Her prose was sharp, delivered with whiplash pace. So few words, such tiny needles to be thumbed into the heart. Liore would have to beg back his first editions from Benoite, though knowing the girl, he doubted he would see them again.
A quiet girl, attended by her large cat, had summoned the courage to speak- a recital on a subject that had struck home, one he worked quickly to rush from his thoughts before it could get comfortable and make a mess. Vitaki likewise lent her voice to the gathering, but her coupling of the Void and Light escaped him entirely in its complexity. And a man's pride being what it is, he had simply nodded along.
All in all, a harrowing performance. It made him ache, long for their capacity for expression. It would not have been well to even attempt, he realized dourly, to try the art of poetry for himself. The well of his soul, once daubed into, turned the quill black and corroded. He would have squonked the nasally squonk of a goose, and driven the mallards to a certain lynching.
~~
At dinner, Gezelda had outdone herself. The long table was laden with lamb and porks, with vegetables steamed and raw, with sauces and with breads that would have required an artisan's touch to raise properly. The goblin herself crafted her masterpiece in the refurbished cathedral kitchen, while the Inquisitor and the Archivist and half a dozen Guttersnipes enjoyed the fruit of her toils.
Liore and Benoite sat at opposite ends, engaged in conversation with other members of their abnormal little coterie. Family, she had called them last night, probably by delirious accident.
Graves entertained the Archivist with a folk tale of his youth. Jacques-Markal Cutter was telling a devastatingly crude joke to Buck, Choir, and Nibs, while Daisy and Liore discussed the continuing additions being built into their home. The mood was an easy one, the food perfection, and the company superb.
Bloodwing brought his wine to his lips, glimpsing across the table. She paid rapt attention to Alacade Grave's rendition of some time-lost fable. Ordinarily he would have taken his meal alone in his study, but Benoite had come in a few hours earlier than usual, and he would not miss the opportunity. Just to watch would suffice.
She smiled, and it twisted him inside. A coil of raven-black hair sprung from one of her pins, to cascade down the soft nape of her neck.
He cleared his throat, and gestured her a toast with his glass.
“To your ongoing success with the Library, Archivist.”
A round of 'hear hear's and 'OOHRAH's clattered around the table.
He continued, before taking a long sip of the red. “I confess, its killing me. I must know what we will be treated to the next gathering.”
The Sylvia Pathos, delivered with perfection, rested still on the back of his tongue. Oily with vintage, trickling warmth down into his core. The piece was familiar but given particular, personal context by its reader. Liore had watched her intently (as per usual) while she stared at her old folio during the recital. She had the whole thing committed to memory, her eyes burning a hole into the page instead of drifting side to side.
What followed was equally striking. A short verse on the subject of fear, from the forsaken his stately aide had called Moragana and Guardian. Fear was not a fresh subject to the Inquisitor. He was a warrior, with nothing to him but metal and hate- and fear. As he closed with his bitter enemies on the fields of war, he could smell their fear, as surely as they could taste his. But she would fear no more, and that placed her a step ahead of him.
The Greatmother had delivered impeccably, but that was to be expected of a master at her craft. Her prose was sharp, delivered with whiplash pace. So few words, such tiny needles to be thumbed into the heart. Liore would have to beg back his first editions from Benoite, though knowing the girl, he doubted he would see them again.
A quiet girl, attended by her large cat, had summoned the courage to speak- a recital on a subject that had struck home, one he worked quickly to rush from his thoughts before it could get comfortable and make a mess. Vitaki likewise lent her voice to the gathering, but her coupling of the Void and Light escaped him entirely in its complexity. And a man's pride being what it is, he had simply nodded along.
All in all, a harrowing performance. It made him ache, long for their capacity for expression. It would not have been well to even attempt, he realized dourly, to try the art of poetry for himself. The well of his soul, once daubed into, turned the quill black and corroded. He would have squonked the nasally squonk of a goose, and driven the mallards to a certain lynching.
~~
At dinner, Gezelda had outdone herself. The long table was laden with lamb and porks, with vegetables steamed and raw, with sauces and with breads that would have required an artisan's touch to raise properly. The goblin herself crafted her masterpiece in the refurbished cathedral kitchen, while the Inquisitor and the Archivist and half a dozen Guttersnipes enjoyed the fruit of her toils.
Liore and Benoite sat at opposite ends, engaged in conversation with other members of their abnormal little coterie. Family, she had called them last night, probably by delirious accident.
Graves entertained the Archivist with a folk tale of his youth. Jacques-Markal Cutter was telling a devastatingly crude joke to Buck, Choir, and Nibs, while Daisy and Liore discussed the continuing additions being built into their home. The mood was an easy one, the food perfection, and the company superb.
Bloodwing brought his wine to his lips, glimpsing across the table. She paid rapt attention to Alacade Grave's rendition of some time-lost fable. Ordinarily he would have taken his meal alone in his study, but Benoite had come in a few hours earlier than usual, and he would not miss the opportunity. Just to watch would suffice.
She smiled, and it twisted him inside. A coil of raven-black hair sprung from one of her pins, to cascade down the soft nape of her neck.
He cleared his throat, and gestured her a toast with his glass.
“To your ongoing success with the Library, Archivist.”
A round of 'hear hear's and 'OOHRAH's clattered around the table.
He continued, before taking a long sip of the red. “I confess, its killing me. I must know what we will be treated to the next gathering.”
The Royal Library presents breakfast for dinner in Thunder Bluff with special guest Chef Gezelda Fizzlesprocket. Come learn about and feast upon a proud Tauren tradition, kodo-milk pancakes.
Pride and Pancakes: A Tauren Tradition
5pm, Sunday, August 11th
High Chieftan’s Square, Thunder Bluff
Admission is free and refreshments will be provided. Dress code is casual. For more information, please contact Archivist Benoite Dawnsong.
[ Dedicated to Is Bee, with love from Noola and Khromie ]
Pride and Pancakes: A Tauren Tradition
5pm, Sunday, August 11th
High Chieftan’s Square, Thunder Bluff
Admission is free and refreshments will be provided. Dress code is casual. For more information, please contact Archivist Benoite Dawnsong.
[ Dedicated to Is Bee, with love from Noola and Khromie ]
Upon receiving his invitation for the newest salon, Fastice was positively giddy with excitement. He hadn't had pancakes since he was alive! He just hoped he would be able to taste them. As he twirled his pencil between his fingers, he began to think what to write about, eventually conceding and simply doodling on the parchment before him.
It was the strangest thing. In the dark pockets of Stormwind--corners of the Blue, under the benches of the auction houses, in the broken stall of the Cathedral's toilets--shadow creatures sprouted sporadically, swirling with such stormy spite.
To vanquish such creatures, Khromie Overspark had taken to carrying around her new butter knife, a gift from her fairy godmother Eating-Candy. The spawns of dark magic varied in size. Some needed little stabs. Others big stabs.
Big big stabs.
Such was the case with the latest, a nasty winged and clawed thing nearly as big as her snake badger. Khromie thrust her blade deeper into the belly of the beast and strained to hear the creature hiss its last words before it burst into a cloud of black ash.
"... P-pan--pancakesssss ...."
What the troll balls.
To vanquish such creatures, Khromie Overspark had taken to carrying around her new butter knife, a gift from her fairy godmother Eating-Candy. The spawns of dark magic varied in size. Some needed little stabs. Others big stabs.
Big big stabs.
Such was the case with the latest, a nasty winged and clawed thing nearly as big as her snake badger. Khromie thrust her blade deeper into the belly of the beast and strained to hear the creature hiss its last words before it burst into a cloud of black ash.
"... P-pan--pancakesssss ...."
What the troll balls.
Edited by Khromie on 8/10/2013 7:06 AM PDT
Gezelda hummed as she whipped some batter in a big wooden bowl. The kitchen was cluttered with various scrolls of Tauren recipes and various ingredients. "I hope I can make fun pancakes! The last batch nearly made me ralf!" She mused aloud to no one in particular.
Please report any Code of Conduct violations, including:
Threats of violence. We take these seriously and will alert the proper authorities.
Posts containing personal information about other players. This includes physical addresses, e-mail addresses, phone numbers, and inappropriate photos and/or videos.
Harassing or discriminatory language. This will not be tolerated.
