World of Warcraft®

Grommet adjusted her jaunty felt hat and prepared to leave her rented room to celebrate the eighth or ninth Brewfest day in a row, she'd lost count, really. A small square of paper, obviously slipped under her door caught her attention. The paper was obviously from a Gnomish Snapper. Curious she flipped the snap over...

The black and grey racing ram was airborne, wild hair streaming back from it's speed. The froth at its lips flying in sinuous curves that splattered against ram and rider with equal abandon. An obviously drunk, but deliriously happy Gnome, saucer eyed and mouth wide open in gleeful mid-shout stood in foreshortened stirrups, leaning forward precariously between the ram's horns. The small Gnome's Brewfest regalia was rumpled and beer stained like a pint-sized boozy vagrant.

It took a moment but suddenly Grommet realized the green shirted Gnome in the snap was herself! She looked down at her beer stained sleeves, the shirt hadn't been washed in days, neither had... she gave herself a delicate sniff, then spun around, levitating herself up and over to the untouched wash basin while shedding her reeking outfit in an embarrassed blur.

((Recently, Gnomes and Goblins have been seen about the world randomly snapping candid images of life in Azeroth (with unconfirmed reports of similar behavior on the remains of Draenor.)

What's that snap look like for you?))

Easing into consciousness slowly, first one eye open and then the other, Penelopae peers out from her snuggly Pandaren bed at the bungalow around her. Tina Mudclaw had really done a wonderful job of bringing the old farmhouse up to snuff. Comfy, adequate, and neatly arranged; this little home would serve well for an active adventurer that wouldn’t mind putting down roots, as it were.

Sitting up, she afforded herself a luxuriously long yawn. With arms outstretched to awaken the muscles in her lithesome body, she takes a moment to stretch, taking a deep breath of the fresh country air.

Up she hops, saying aloud to the room in general, “Time to start my day”.

Flashing a winning smile to the world, and a courteous bow to resident Yoon, she saunters off energetically to check the new postbox recently installed down by the lane of her country home, thanks to her best friend Gina Mudclaw.

Flipping through the normal correspondence and junk mail, she pauses at one particularly odd message there… a snap from some randomly anonymous sender of Gnome origin… as if from the twisting nether, this parcel bears no identifying marks or seals.

Flipping it over reveals an image of her little farm, filled with life, a bountiful crop still in the fields, ready for harvest… the automatic sprinkler systems are running, putting up a misty spray of beautiful mountain spring water which creates a circular rainbow pattern in the sky above the garden there.

And there among the greenery and blooming flowers, is captured in the snap, a prancing and nearly nude young lass with blonde hair flowing. Leaping as gracefully as a deer and caught mid-flight, is a puddle-hopping, twirling, dancing Penelopae. Splashing about and smiling brightly, with a flower tucked behind one ear, the sun shining and prismatic colors of the rainbow across the blue sky. There, in all her natural splendor, a young lady dancing among the plants and flowers of a neatly planted little farm homestead.

“What a delightful image”, she thinks to herself, and ponders the idea of framing this picture to hang on the wall of her Halfhill bungalow. With a wink and a smile, she skips off to the bungalow in search of a picture frame for her newfound treasure.

finis

The undead mage, a patchwork of flesh and fabric, his tall wine glass untouched, sits across the stone field of battle from what, from behind, could easily be mistaken for the contents of an agitated laundry basket.

Upon more careful inspection, the mismatched pile of clothing can be made out to be a Gnome with no obvious fashion sense. His body more on the table than in his chair. The white mustachioed Gnome lifts a chess piece triumphantly in the air. Or, perhaps, more likely, given the otherwise unreadable but long suffering look on the Forsaken's face, about the slam the piece to the board announcing the inevitable finality of their evening encounter.

A book, its glowing runes unreadable, but obvious through the forest of chessmen arrayed on their battlefield, still somehow manages to dominate the snap.

The sky was dark above the city of Dalaran. On top of the wall surrounding Krasus' Landing sat a ranger covered more in technology than warm clothes. The headband of goggles shone against the white of his hair and several devices could be made out at his waist. He sat sideways, his palms flat against the top of the wall, blackened exhaust pipes pressing into the stone at his crossed ankles.

In the grass safe behind the wall lie a wolf with fur as white as the ranger's hair. Their positions spoke volumes about their relationship. With the ranger's attention turned away from the Landing, the wolf instead watched the draenei landing her hippogryph on the platform and the orcs walking up from the main streets. The wolf was close enough to provide comfort for the ranger, yet far enough away to give him his solitude.

The ranger's lips formed a thin line and his hair was whipped as the northern winds blew against him. His face was one of longing as he looked toward the mountains.

Toward Ulduar.

The expression on the chubby elf in the center of the image could be interpreted as a murderous glare, her green eyes were narrowed, eyebrows arched in indignation. One hand, fingers splayed, was covering her stuffed and slightly agape mouth. Her red cheeks were puffed out, flakes of the golden crust clinging to the corners of her mouth and a small smear of blueberry filling ran along the base of her lower lip. The other hand hovered before her chest, holding a simple platter with a large chunk of half eaten pie sitting in the center awaiting its fate.

Behind the elf sat other denizens of Silvermoon City, all in their cups, laughing, and eating the sweet treats. Not a sour face could be spotted under the warm late autumn sunset except for the fat elf in the center, an unused fork sparkling brilliantly before her.

((How did this get started exactly? :P ))

((Just wanted to get the old creative juices flowing again. I thought it would be a fun way to get a glimpse of who's on these days, and what they might be up to.))

"Wait just a rust-plated minute! I don't look like a pile of ... "

The old corpulent Gnome turns around, unsuccessfully trying to see himself from behind. He silently passes the snap back to the macabre rag-doll of a forsaken mage who is all that is left of his dearest friend.

"I think I need to make an herb run, perhaps I'll walk, this time."

Axelpyre hops, well, more like, drops, down from the table, landing with a larger thud than one might expect. "Stay out of trouble, Seamstress."

"I suppose it would be pointless to tell you the same, Garden Gnome." Meteorus quietly packs the wooden chessmen into their felt cutouts as he watches the Gnome teleport away.

In Blade's Edge Mountains, not far from Ogri'la stands an old Troll. He stands sadly with a young goblin woman. The goblin is hooded, and her daggers are sheathed, and the Troll has his hat against his chest. They both seem to be telling stories to what seems to be a gravestone. Why is there a gravestone in the middle of these wastes? That's a question better asked directly. But stand they do over this gravestone.

The goblin turns away from the grave and mounts her wind rider before flying away. The Troll watches her go. Agmash places his hat upon his head and nods once. He places his hand atop the gravestone as the Snap is taken and looks to the skies.

On the grave, the name of an old friend:

Aurelius Burnes

The rest of the text seems to be illegible not only in the snap, but the grave as well, the elements having taken their toll. His business finished, the Troll hops atop his Nether Drake and the two fly away.

In the background, a pair of battered looking pets huddle together, their disparate natures forgotten momentarily. Each looks at the foreground figure, likewise battered and blood-stained, worn pickaxe in one hand, and a large spider, missing several Gnomish-bite-sized bits, still struggling in the other. The filthy Gnome is seated on a trap, it's ghostly inhabitant barely visible through the slats. She is looking at the spider, a matronly look of disappointment and affection on her face. Frost-rimed corpses of men and women in the livery of the Scarlet Crusade are strewn about the otherwise immaculately manicured grounds.

Interestingly, this snap was found quite far from any location remotely like that, in a place known for serving very strong drinks.