Midnightsteel's Roleplaying Archive

Archive: Shadow and Steel I
Shadow and Steel

Main & Alt

The heavy beat of a warhorse's hooves alerted Isolde to the arrival of the priestess, so she had plenty of time to draw a chair close to the fire and settle herself casually upon it, flask in hand. The usual rattle of her breath in her lungs irritated her some, but she was confident that Miriah would not notice her. The woman was used to enemies that either oozed terror or malice; she'd not pay a casual drinker much attention.

She took a long sip from her whiskey, watered down to last her until she could locate some more, and listened attentively to the clink of metal buckles and the creak of leather cinched tight as the Hand of Sylvanas tied up her horse outside. There was a heavy thud, a grunt and then the sound of something being dragged before she finally staggered through the doorway, struggling with a canvas sack. From the angles pressing against the material and the way the slight woman struggled with the weight, Isolde suspected it was full of books: unnecessary baggage.

Read more...Collapse )

Archive: DtBtD
El'Ubris in Overdrive

One long, mournful toll sent a waking tremor through the small, scaled body of the whelpling, its pitifully tiny wings stretching their orange membranes as it raised its delicate head and peered about through green eyes dopey with sleep. Its batlike ears quivering as it took in the surrounding sounds of Redridge at night, the miniature dragonkin raised itself on its stubby legs and crawled to the edge of its niche in an outcropping of dun rock, gazing down at the waterline where black wavelets lapped lazily up the sloping beach.

Read more...Collapse )

That Carrot on a Stick

Three years old, but eternally relevant.

(Early 2007)


The last tormented wails echoed against the dank, dark walls of the Apothecarion of Undercity, replaced by a plaintive, pained hissing and the occasional clink of metal upon metal as pallid flesh strained against inhumane restraints. Deep within the stone bastion of the Banshee Queen, a lone golden eye rolled in the sunken hollow of its socket, and the husk of Miriah El’Ubris slumped against the harsh grey wall of her prison, her breath rattling in her thin chest. The black robes that had identified her for months, once swamping her slight form but recently replaced with a tailored duplicate, hung in ragged, torn disarray around her, the pale blue embroidery plucked at by bony fingers until, filthy, it barely stood out at all from the sullied skirts. Thick, semi-coagulated blood seeped from a deep wound in her back; already her black and gold tabard was sodden with it, and the slimy granite bore streaks of the rusty red as far as the manacles clamping her thin wrists would allow.

Pain wracked her sickly body, pain and hunger that ravaged her innards. Her last meal, semi-digested, congealed on the cold floor nearby, leaving her empty and ravenous. Desperately, mindlessly, she tugged again at her chains, blood oozing over the crude manacles and trickling down the links. She could hear them as they stirred beyond the charmed door that contained her. Apothecaries, tinkering with their oils, plagues and potions, the slosh and bubble of liquid occasionally pausing from one of the four – as she was certain there were four now: their shapes shifted and squabbled in her mind’s eye as precious sources of nutrition – as he stopped to listen to her own anguished struggles. The fact that they were Forsaken, the same race as she, was lost on the priestess. Names, races and identities trickled together and blended into muddy colours and indefinite forms within her mind, each and every one observed through the eyes of blind instinct alone.

Right now, the prevailing instinct was hunger, and she wrestled with her bonds until the fire of torn flesh and bared bone reduced her to tossing on the ground, splattering herself with dirt and blood. Lying on her back, she shifted in a futile attempt at reducing the weight on her raw wrists, and scowled in blank, bestial irritation at being denied the taste of her prey. Spread out and vulnerable, colour and loud, wordless sound flowed over her in the form of memory. She winced at its presence, curling up and releasing a guttural growl from the back of her throat as the nagging feeling of missing something began to unfurl around her once again.

She cried, briefly. While she was too stunted and dumb to understand what she had lost, the sheer magnitude of having it wrenched from her submerged all else, drowning her in ailing sobs that shook her fragile ribcage until, lacking words to record the feeling, she felt it slowly drain away.

tFoS: Chapter Two
My Pack

It's tidy. Everything is ordered and held in place, either by pressure from the other items crammed in around it or the narrow leather straps I sewed in place. It's a common misconception that field medics are extraordinary because we can function whilst everything around us descends into chaos. In fact, a good field medic will just bring sense and orderliness with them.

Mess makes you kill even more people than you usually would.

Using the Senses in RP

tFoS: Chapter One

Obsidian Blade


“If you're a medic, how the fuck did you kill it?”

Long after the vice like jaw had released its grip on his leg and I'd bound the wound and turned my attention to an older injury on his upper arm, the trainee couldn't keep his eyes off the wolf's corpse. One side of its head was crumpled in. Otherwise it was free of external blemish.

“Because medic doesn't necessarily equate to helpless pussy,” I said evenly, tugging on his bandages.

He was in his late teens, skin tanned and smooth over the rounded muscles his training had built up. His hair was cropped short in the usual military style. Obviously aiming to look tough. Even more apparent that he'd never killed before, even though he'd never admit it. It was the way he couldn't keep his eyes off that wolf. Morbid fascination. Probably embarrassment that a woman in a dress had done the deed when he couldn't.

Didn't help that simple linen still made him scream.

“Fuck! Fuck me, that hurts!”

I'd purposefully chosen to stand behind him before I'd even started my work, well clear of kicking legs, and I watched him flail as I removed the bandage altogether and poured searing ethanol onto the wound. A better person would have questioned the satisfaction I gained listening to that high-pitched wail but I was a medic. I fixed people, I wasn't some outstanding example of moral perfection. War fucked morality over as much for those in charge of saving lives at those in charge of taking them. Killing a savage wolf with a staff, clubbing the life out of its sinewy limbs, hadn't been hard or anything like it, regardless of the injured kid's ignorant presumptions. I killed people all the time, just by focusing my attention on the guy next to them. Just by prioritising. Murder was not hard.

“Fucking hurts!” he yelled again, maybe in case I hadn't realised.

“You don't say,” I replied nonchalantly.

I bound the wound again, then checked the dressing that covered the wolf's handiwork. Both clean. Simple procedure. I told him he was fine and merely walked away. He made a lot of noise – I could hear him even after the turn in the road that hid his hobbling form from sight – but he should have been grateful. I’d taken the time. I hadn’t murdered him.

Place holder


Log in

No account? Create an account