corpseknight: (tits)

I realized yesterday that I may actually have passed the point where I can keep track of everyone who's got a moth in my head. SO NOW I WRITE THEM DOWN. If in the unforgivable offchance I have forgotten you have a moth, punch me and I'll note you down.

Format is name - number (colors) - notes if applicable.

Benden Amateria - two (white, yellow)
Kael'ash Amberwind - one (red) - named Moff.
Krenyn Bloodflame - four (blue, red, white, yellow)
Adrasteius Bloodspeaker - one (red) - named Lord Flitterwing the something-or-other Lark can't remember these things.
Avali Dawnblade - one (blue) - Lady Glitter...something... DAMMIT Bloodspeaker!
Tryice Dawnherald - one (white) - named Jasparl.
Sylera Dawnherald - one (blue)
Greyspell - one (grey) - this moth keeps getting released around Rommath Sunfury, much to his bemusement.
Oriseus Lastdawn - one (bruise-purple) - named Sieluharwe.
Penumbral Moonwinged - two (red, teal)
Jiel Mornherald - one (white) - now referred to as "Sir Larkspur Plagueheart (the Younger)".
Merosiel Riversung/Meridas Dawnspring - one (yellow) - named Imaure.
Khaavren Sunthorn - one (blue) - named Dusty.
Tisho - one (red)
Albain Weismann - one (white) - this moth is STOLEN.

corpseknight: (follow)

He spends the day hunting along the branch of the Elrendar that describes the border between the still-living woods and the Ghostlands.

Most of the beasts there are wary of the stench of undeath, though they've grown to associate it with the clatter of exposed bone or the gibbering of uncautious ghouls; a careful hunter, patient and silent, has little reason to be concerned about spooking his prey untimely. The little sun-dappled deer that browse the living banks of the river are flighty and swift as a bowshot arrow and even that makes them no match for a disciple of the unholy. He is mindful of who he intends to feed, as he catches one and then another of the tiny beasts and snaps their necks with his bare hands; tantalizing as their small deaths are he can't simply rip them open with tooth and nail in a fit of bloodthirst, and bring back the scraps for later.

No; once he's made his own paltry meal of the blood and offal, he does a rough job of peeling the hides off his catch and severing them apart joint by joint. The best of it he picks to bring home for Meridas, the choice rooted in instinct older even than the pregnant quel'dorei it's made for: 'pick me, love me, keep me; I can feed you'.

The less-desirable cuts--still good enough to serve a noble at table, he thinks; the woods out here are still wild enough that the venison's got a certain taste to it--he rolls up in one of the hides, noisome and dripping with blood, and carries to Suncrown Village.

Nerubians have as much a taste for raw meat as any predator, and he's careful to leave his gift of meat and bone right on Mephest's doorstep to avoid it being poached. With it are the other fruits of a day's gathering, some of them literal: fresh herbs, cress and wood sorrel, button mushrooms, wild apples and pears still a little green. He'd even thought to include a bag of salt, though not with any consideration for the fact the young paladin might not be able to cook.

Not that a little raw food ever hurt anyone.


To: J. Mornherald
From: L. Plagueheart

[Several field anemones compliment pressed bloodspore and cinquefoil, as well as a sheaf of quillvine. A scrap of fresh rabbit fur, a dragonhawk feather, a polished pebble, and a handful of worn skeletal fingerbones accompany the flowers.]


am v. sorry haven't written

things have been di bad fucking terrible


wish I had tm time to visit but i am not sure how safe so

i shldnt

but i am with Bloodflame so write back as much as you like & i will mk make ask him to read it


corpseknight: (Default)


He's had the fleeting, mad thought before that if he could scream loud enough--if he could kill enough people, if he could make a large enough disturbance--he could call the dead and the lost back to him by force of will alone.


It's the madness of a diseased mind; the insanity of a rotting brain. There's no bringing them back when they're really gone. No amount of spilled blood, no number of shattered limbs, split skulls, silenced voices will absolve him of failing them when they needed him most, of not being there just as Meros is not here. Driven from house to house in a crush of armored bodies, wailing like a mourner, he finds neither hide nor hair of what he's looking for; no indication the faithless jailors have kept their promise, no sign his friend still lives.

"Where are you?!"

The mêlée spills out onto the streets, guards falling to the cobbles as he weaves among them with all the lewd grace of one of the Scourge. Here one trips over his own guts and falls in a groaning, dying heap; there another froths and shakes and collapses like an unstrung puppet as plague eats her from within, and he should take joy in the carnage but he can't. (Another guard drops from a heavy backhand blow; finishing her with a headsman's stroke from Terminus Est, he kicks the body into the canal.)

He can't, because something has happened to Meros, something has happened to Merosiel, because--he mounts up the steps of a bridge, not caring he's being chased to the heart of the city--his friend isn't answering him, and something has happened there are blood and terror in the air tonight that are not because of his rampage.

"Meros! Answer me! What have they done to you?!"

They can hear him calling, screaming himself hoarse, and each respite he gets is shorter than the last. This time they bring a paladin--a fucking, Light-sucking paladin; why aren't they looking for MEROS?--and he calls the lately dead back to their feet to aid him against their once-allies. All is fair in love and war and where is he they promised they promised they wouldn't kill him--


Our Lady Peace -- "Denied", Taproot -- "Lost In the Woods"

corpseknight: (...)
He's getting sick of words.

More letters have shown up for him at the Shadow Vault in the last two months than he'd received in life, or so he likes to think when he's being unkind about his correspondents. He's begun to stuff his bank with the things, making awkward nests for the moths out of letters after he's had someone read them. There is this advantage to letters at least; they're memories that can't be eaten or rot away or be lost--at least, not quite so easily as the rest of his memories, not with how easy it is to preserve them in the face of the kinds of rot that threaten mere parchment.

But then everyone wants him to write back, and he TRIES, but the exercise is getting increasingly frustrating and shameful as time goes on. (And unlike other frustrating, shameful exercises in self-abuse he can think of, this one isn't in the least relieving because once one letter's sent off, there's bound to be another in return and he has to start all over again. Jacking off at least cuts the other person out of the equation.)

If he still had the energy for annoyance he'd think it fucking uncivil of them, expecting him to find a way to communicate with the written word when they know very well he's blind. But he doesn't, and time he could spend simmering in his own despite is time better spent killing Scourge and picking icethorn and mending armor.

It's only when the difficult letters start showing up does he finally hit on the realization (late as ever, Dawnherald) that he doesn't have to use words, even if he hasn't got the spare moments in the day to hunt them all down individually and sit for an hour or two in companionable silence.

That's when the packages start showing up.


Letters follow. )


corpseknight: (Default)
Larkspur Plagueheart

March 2017



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