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 Writing

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Virenna
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Join date : 2010-07-11

PostSubject: Writing   Thu Nov 18, 2010 11:35 pm

(Everytime I write something vaguely creative I'll post it in here, mostly because I can't be arsed to go searching for old posts. This is the reason only the second half of this piece is up here. The first half has vanished. Bummer. Anyway, some of my stuff might even be about WoW. This half bit came from me thinking about what utter soulless bastards every WoW character is and what happens when you 'gloriously' kill an NPC.

You murdering fuck.)

She slumps, ever so slightly. The hope in her eyes dims, but does not die completely. Such is the nature of hope. It finds a way to cling on despite overwhelming evidence. He could just be wounded, she’s telling herself. Missing, perhaps. Strange how something as good as hope could be so cruel. 'You had better come in,' she says stiffly, turning away without another word to disappear into the gloomy interior of her home.

The inside of the house is almost as run down as the outside. The door opens into a narrow corridor that ends in two blackened oaken doors. There’s a thick rug underfoot, one that had once been richly embroided and now lies under a layer of dust that is broken only by series of foot prints, tracing their way through the cloying layer of grey. Cracked portraits line the walls, their inhabitants staring out from flaking canvas and stained frames. A dusty chandelier hangs from the ceiling, its mounting hidden in the murky upper reaches of the house.

One of the doors at the end of the corridor bursts open, disgorging two children. A boy and a girl, the former's face set into lines of childish fury. The girl skips absent mindedly after him, holding a broken toy horse in her left hand. 'Ma!' Shrieked the boy, 'Ma! She-'

'Get out of it, George,' the woman snaps, raising a hand as if to hit the boy across the back of the head. He twists away and flees back in the direction he came from, wailing, while his sister smirks and follows, not caring about what’s going on when she could be gloating over a petty victory. Gods, I think. They always have children, every single damned one. Every time I’ve collected some ‘hero’s’ tags there’s always been some touching hand-drawn portrait of the... glorious dead’s grinning son or a lover’s locket declaring, oh irony, that nothing would ever come between the two sweethearts. Even the fresh faced overgrown children have their adorable letters from home asking how life is in the cold North and anxiously wanting to know if those woollen socks arrived safely and securely. I suppose all the desperately lonesome soldiers are kept far away from the killing so they don’t cut their own throats to end it all while the sickeningly loved soldiers get sliced open by grinning trolls and Orcs in the name of ‘honour.’

Fucking Orcs.

We’ve arrived in a dilapidated dining room were the dearly beloved guides me gently to a threadbare chair. She’s trembling, I can feel her skinny body shaking as she gingerly pushes me down into the chair’s musty embrace where I can be made uncomfortable by the painted thousand yard stare of some long dead relative staring right through my skull. They mustn’t have had a cleaner for the whole two years the man of the house was in Northrend, I find myself thinking as I give the room’s faded furniture a cursory look. Dust covers almost every surface here and even the air is stagnant. I’m betting they don’t use this room, living instead around and inside their bedrooms and kitchen while the rest of their once grand house rots around them.

She clears her throat, snapping me out of my reverie. ‘You said you,’ she pauses nervously as she seems to properly examines me for the first time. I doubt she likes what she sees. I’m a thug, still stinking and salty from the sea voyage from Valgarde. Not the best messenger to break into your tiny life to tell you how your husband died a ‘hero’. ‘You said,’ she repeats, ‘you had news about Michael.’

Michael! Gods, I’m glad she spoke first. I thought he was called Michel. Bloody queer name, I remember thinking when the orderly first mumbled it at me. Michel, Michael... I give a glum nod, playing for time while I wonder what the hell I should say to her. The pre-written condolences just seem... cold. I hate the part that says we should make sure to go inside the ‘next of kins’ housing to avoid creating a spectacle’ enough without running off a mental checklist reading ‘I regret to inform you that INSERT NAME was killed in CENSORED CONTENT by CENSORED CONTENT CHECKED BY ARMY CENSORSHIP BOARD beer stain beer stain.’ War’s bad enough without soldiers forcing their way inside your home and dumbly reciting official documents.

‘Yes,’ I manage to croak. ‘I regret to inform you th-,’ Fuck. The documents creep back in, every single time. Every single damn time. It’s too late. She can see what’s coming. She starts to frantically pick at her lip, her nails tearing at dry strands of flesh. ‘I regret to inform you that Lieutenant Michael Sanders was killed as of three days ago,’ I finish lamely. There’s no downpour of rain, no thunderclap. She just stands up sharply and strides out of the room, clenching and unclenching her hands, mewling quietly to herself. Fuck. Fucking fuck. I should... gods, what the hell should I do? Leave? Bollocks. There’s nothing you can do, I suppose. Nothing.

Hell.

Alone, I sit back in the ruins of a rotting armchair among the ruins of a family’s life. Someone screams, a dull sound I can barely hear through the thick plaster of the ceiling. A woman. I shudder and, leaning forwards in my chair, press my hands over my ears.

Hell.
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