Drabble: monster

better left for dead

scrurch-scorch where did he leave his name where cockroach feasted fecal name left trace to a cockroach’s ass his name no name no face gone not right in life the Lady never should have allowed this one back his name maiden’s face buttery soft rusted bloody blade sliced feasted on the worms worms feasted on him cut cut cut humping death the smell sweet gassed corpse flowers blooming shovel blades cut cut cut into the buttery soft rusted earth unearthed the blades in the back of a shop served his ale she wished he would go away stay dead scrurch-scorch

*inspired by something Ironyca shared....woke up writing this and could not go back to sleep...

In plain sight...

Rökkr made it to Level 50. Quietly, the achievements rang to no one's ears. She went into Strathholme, and only due to the great skills of a tank and healer, did she blithely stab a ghoul or two. She had had a few glasses of red wine, and then felt the urge to go stab things. She is going to hang out with the sandy goblins in Tanaris and see what else she can do.

Drabble for a lost girl

She pulled the Golden Sansam from its rubbery tethers in earth.  The arid, wispy topsoil belied the plants’ tenacity to find water. When she found a patch, no matter the near danger or threat, she harvested it. It reminded her of her mother, who had used the tender shoots in fresh greens, cool and crisp. The story of lost parents was too common now. She was not alone in her experience, but alone by choice in path. But the rogue girl, soft as soot, kept rooted to her comrades: her loyalty to the guild was true: abandonment, not an option.

Drabble: Poisoned

Under the stairwell, half wanting to be noticed, half willing to slice the throat of any voice that spoke, the rogue sat. Triumvirates of marrow, skin, and leather: tanned, shellacked protection covered him from his white, matted hair to his thorny boots. Gritty dirt and dried blood danced on his poisonous blades. No question of his lethal nature. Sickened by years of marrying edges with poison. Rogues don’t live long lives. No quiet death in his sleep, no telling of boring stories of the kidneys kicked or the backs stabbed to restless grandchildren. But he didn’t want to die alone.

Stealthy...

There was once was a rogue in Stormwind

Whose hearts and minds he could easily bend

Behind her he snuck

And in her heart he struck

A permanent place as a friend

Admittedly, not the best limerick, but Mat stayed up very late, into the wee shadowy hours of morning, where reason is squeezed and judgment is blurry. She must share this very happy news: A good friend is back! And she waited patiently, sleeping off Dwarven beer and the effects of Savory Deviate Delight, waiting for him to return from his run in Grim. 

They didn't have long to catch up before this little sneaky gnome had to slip off once again into the shadows (the mage is still up to his tricks, and heaven knows what the priest is up to: perhaps only the druid is being reasonable and is using his time wisely for reflection before returning to Azeroth?).

But if she could get a message to him, it would be this: she understands your time in the realm is limited, and will do her utmost to let you be; however, while you were away she has done every dungeon, and knows every mean boss, so if you do want some assistance, please do not hesitiate to ask. And have your mage check for a "Mat-hush!" spell. You have her word. Or less of them, anyway.