This post will always be up top.

BAHAHAHAHAH, my favorite artist is starting to do a comic again. /is pleased.

Again, not proof-read and crappy. This didn't turn out the way I wanted . . . sigh. I'll try to write a better version later, maybe . . .

YES, I HAD TO PUT THE SHORT STAFF IN THERE. DEAL WITH IT, I'M OBSESSIVE.

---

Dead leaves scuttled across the cobblestones, blown by an equally dead wind, coming in chill gusts that felt anything but summer-like. They jumped into whirling patterns, curled, brown bodies pirouetting as if of their own accord, but their gaiety was lost in the gray murk of the day, unusually cold for Eversong's eternal spring.

Trell stood in front of the dark manor, a sprawling, stone complex in the northwestern part of Eversong. A place that had once held endless cheer and energy, but now held little save for the husks of a family -- people hit so many times by tragedy that little remained. She scowled darkly up at the third floor of the structure, at a window near one of Eversong's garishly-colored trees, and made her way into the courtyard, cane thunking hollowly against the stone.

She paused somewhere in the middle, and stood there, much like a spectre would stand, beholding a place of death; her dark robes rustled about her, and her hair, now more gray than black, attempted to escape the tight bun it was in. Dull, red eyes narrowed and teeth grit, she was far from happy . . .

The banshee growled at the silent house. "Idiot, fool girl." She wasn't sure who she was addressing -- venting, more than anything, really. She continued, "A fool in life, a fel of one in death. To choose the worst man she could find while she was on earth, and to condemn everything that had once mattered to her once she was gone . . . ! To condemn everyone who she once mattered to."

Visage harsh and cold, Trell paced through the courtyard, cane thumping regularly, ever glaring up at the window from which she knew Eleanea must have jumped. "Suicide after her very first love . . . Ignoramus! Imbecile! You could have had a rich life, Eleanea, if only you'd stopped a moment to think. You never THOUGHT! Always acted on impulse . . . the Kirin Tor gave you a chance. They gave you a chance to raise a daughter, to become a powerful mage, to experience the world in the best way possible; the world gave you a chance to find another man! But no . . ." She spit on the ground, and slammed her cane down, sending gravel bouncing off in all directions.

Trell sad down on the edge of a long planter, much like a pot but built into the courtyard and with ledges wide enough to sit on. She sat motionless for a long time, glaring at the cobblestones, before raising her voice and shouting, "Go to the nether, then! Self-centered, idiot bilge rat!"

And after all those dark words, she shuffled out of the courtyard, leaning on her short staff.

Had one seen her face then, it would have been obvious that she had meant little of it. She would miss her friend direly, her friend, who, without warning, had left the world for but one worthless, pathetic man.

As she left the gates, the banshee gave a broken sigh, and glanced over her shoulder, whispering a final, gentler farewell. "The Light carry you to peace and eternal happiness, my friend." She squeezed her eyes shut and walked on, giving up the facade of anger -- a facade that would fool no one, including herself -- and letting sorrow sweep over her. Sorrow that was all too real.

I haven't proofread this at all, so I imagine it's really, really bad. I'll get to it. Soon.

---

The air was thick with a tense, impatient silence, like the calm before the storm. The only thing that dared to interrupt the eerie quiet was the wind, a frigid, harsh breeze that bit at exposed skin, and rustled the heavy fur lining on the waiting soldiers' cloaks and hoods.

Trell stood atop a tall tower, waiting along with the others. Wrapped in a cloak of gray, but still feeling the northern chill, she took in the scene before her. Behemoth structures, built of purple-tinted stone and rimmed on all corners with dark gold, stood proudly out on the white, frozen plateau. Within the largest of them, Wintergrasp Keep, Trell knew hid a number of Alliance; Alliance, she thought sadly, that would very likely meet their death today.

She wondered if what she was doing, protecting the warriors of the Horde, could be considered a good, then berated herself for doing so; though ensuring the lives of these warriors would also ensure the death of many Alliance, but saving them would still be the greater good. After all, the Alliance had gone to corruption and worse, while the Horde had finally begun to redeem itself. Trell would not kill any upon the battlefield by her own hand, but protecting the Horde's forces was indeed priority.

Heavy footsteps, plate clanging against stone steps came from behind her, and Trell turned to see Regranaam, outfitted for battle, emerge from within the tower onto the round balcony. She offered a nod and followed him as he walked to the edge, resting gauntleted hands on the high metal border.

"The glory of battle," Regranaam muttered, breaking the tenuous silence. His gaze swept across the high plateau, observing the same things Trell had. "Not much glory in it when it takes your life, eh?" He showed his short tusks in a half-hearted grin, as white as his drained skin. Regranaam was a Death Knight, as far beyond the grave as Trell herself. Idly, her reddish gaze wandered to her gloved hands, the dense cloth covering up grayed skin. She nodded.

Snow blew by them in large flakes, it all creating a false sense of peace. Trell paused, opening her mouth to ask Regranaam something-- only to be interrupted as yet another Horde Grunt shuffled up the stairs, announcing, "All troups, get out to your positions." Trell let her shoulders sag as she thought again about the people that would die today. To commanders, just numbers on a page; but to the families of the soldiers out on the battlefield . . .

They left, marching down the stairs. Regranaam had hefted his gigantic titansteel mace over his shoulder, a soft blue glow clinging to it even as it moved.

The glow that would be the beacon death for many, Trell was sure.

* * *

Deep red blood splattered on snow, Trell reflected, was almost artistic.

She was lying face-down on the ground, head turned slightly sideways so that she was able to see the world around her at a slanted angle, the main thing in her focus the dark, dried blood covering the snow near her left hand. Most of it was her own, of this she was fairly certain; it was too dark and old to have come from the Kal'dorei that had felled her with a spell-tipped arrow and had gotten a crushing blow from an orc in return.

Nothing hurt, really, but everything seemed to pass in a haze; occasional feet tramping past her through the snow, incoherent cries from the distance . . . the dull ringing of metal on metal, steel blades meeting each other and shields. She wondered at the irony of her situation: a healer unable to heal herself because she was so badly hurt. Was this how she would meet her second end?

The snow seemed warm to Trell. Nothing had felt warm since her death, so Trell could but assume that this meant a second, final plunge was near . . . weren't there any other Hordish healers near by that could save her?

Someone stepped on her hand, spiked metal sole digging into flesh and making her cringe vaguely at the crunch of bones being snapped. So much for looking elegant in a coffin . . . more blackened blood seeped out of the half a dozen new lacerations, more an ooze than a flow. It didn't hurt, either . . . whoever had stepped on her hand had thought her already fully dead, and was not coming back. How unfortunate being Forsaken was in the battlefield . . .

Things blurred further before her eyes, flickering dark halos surrounding all the shapes in her vision. Someone was saying something to her, now, but she didn't reply: she was too absorbed by the shapes her blood had drawn in the snow, blob-shaped patterns that had their own beauty . . . couldn't they see that she was busy? But the noise wouldn't go away, and, finally roused from her stupor, Trell looked blearily up to see a bright white orc together with a darker shaman.

Orcs aren't white, she thought, then: Reg . . . ? A chill filled her, then, a better sign than warm snow: the shaman was healing her . . . ! She would stand to see the end of this battle! She grinned wearily at Regranaam, who offered her a hand and yanked her to her feet.

She frowned as they ran onward towards the keep, past the fighting pairs and more, thinking of the many that would not be saved in such a convenient manner.

Click.

I apologize sincerely for posting art this incredibly crappy, but I just couldn't resist. Almost everyone that knows me has heard me sing Japeth the Goat's "Be Prepared" from the movie Hoodwinked, often so many times that they hate me for it. But, well -- if there were a cartoon embodiment, epitome of me, I think Japeth would have to be it. And if I had to choose a life as a cartoon, he'd be the character I'd choose!

As a matter of fact, I've been told by every person asked that they could imagine me swingin' around on a chandelier with a banjo.

Thirty-se-e-e-even years ago, witch done put a spell on me-e-e-e;
A spell that where when I'm talkin', I'm singin' it with glee
But when you're always singin' you've got to live alone;
That's why I made this mountain shack my ho-o-o-ome

But up here on the mountain, there's lots to be a-feared
That's why this here 'ol mountain goat's prepa-a-a-ared

[yodeling]

Ah, I got horns that open bottles, I got horns that hang my keys;
I got horns that if you turn 'em right, help me watch TV
I got horns that open pickle jars, I got got horns that come with hair;
I got horns that hang my other horns, I always come PREPARED!

Be prepared, be prepared, this lesson must be shared
This lesson must be shared, be prepa-a-a-ared!
Be prepared, be prepared, and unless you've got a spare
You've got one life so handle it with ca-a-a-a-are!

[yodeling] Whoo-o-o-ooh!

O-o-o-oh, avalanche is comin' and I do not feel prepared;
It's rumblin' like a mountain lion
I must say that I'm scared
And if it weren't for that witch's spell, you'd hear just how I scream,
But since I'm only singin' I'll just YODEL 'TIL WE'RE CREAMED!

[very wicked goat yodeling]

Yes. I typed all that out myself. /facepalm.

I miss ya', K-T.

Click.

Losing, winning, and drunk, in respective order, left to right.

A number of influences on this sketch:
--This music. (This is the most important one, yeah.)
--The memories of playing poker with friends at lunch.
--Watching House, Wilson and Cuddy play poker. Ha.
--And one more that but stacysan can guess. Fnee.

In other news, I've finally figured out that the little icon next to usernames isn't a lightbulb . . .

Just bought and finished a Star Trek novel in the same day. Who knew Shatner could write, ha.

I have successfully ruined whatever mood of deep thought I may have gotten from The Wrath of Khan by watching four House M.D. episodes in a row. 2:11 A.M. now. Oh, boy, that was fun!

I finally got out to Blockbuster and rented Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan.

I've got three words to describe it.

Epic.

Spock-tastic.

And, most of all . . . deep.

In a sense that the latest movie wasn't. (No, I am NOT knocking the 2009 Star Trek, just explaining!) I love both for different reasons. The 2009 movie was inspirational, optimistic, and combative; this one was amazingly emotional, genuine, and full of concepts such as loyalty.

Whoo! Yay awesome movies!! (I'll admit, though, it's good to know Spock doesn't STAY DEAD as you watch the end of Wrath of Khan!)

One thing I'll say against the Wrath of Khan; their soundtrack just wasn't as astoundingly WOW as 2009's. And they didn't use the original intro/end music from The Original Series. Fail! Though they did have stylish uniforms to make up for it, despite the fact that they deviated from the proper color-coding.

This made me die a little on the inside.

The summons came earlier than Roa expected. No later than twenty minutes after he settled in his hut did a red-furred messenger came bursting through his door hangings, panting with urgency and delivering urgent tidings. "Shaman Roa! A visitor has arrived at the village, from the far lands! Chieftan Coldhoof requests your presence in her tent as shaman advisor as quickly as possible!"

Roa accepted this with a nod and a creaking of bones as he stood, leaning against Shiina. The messenger departed as abruptly as he had arrived, simply ducking back out of Roa's hut with a noise. The frail shaman stopped himself from emitting a sigh, deciding that his curiosity at this visitor's arrival overwhelmed his age and fatigue. Icemist Village had always been isolated from the few other camps spread out across the wide continent, though it had, at the same time, been a main stopping point for the area's few travelers. If such a traveler was visiting Tundra, he had to be bringing important news indeed . . .

Scratching Shiina's neck through her thick fur and giving her a pat so that the wolf would remain where she was, Roa made his way outside, shivering as soon as warm air was replaced by boreal chill. He pulled a hood over his head, thin horns finding the specially-made holes within, and shuffled down the rise's side-path, hurrying towards Tundra's tents.

As he walked, he thought of all the stress that had been recently pressed into Tundra's hands. This ominous, spreading blight of undeath was but one of her many camp-managing troubles, if the most dire. Roa and Tundra had known each other since they were children, him advanced among the shamans of their tribe and Tundra among the training fighters and warriors; they had become fast friends after a number of unplanned adventures were dropped upon them. Roa's lips twitched up at the edges: he had fond memories of performing heroic feats with Tundra before either of them were given the responsibilities of leadership . . .

A few heads turned towards him as he hurried between huts and through the village proper, taunka mothers doing their washing in the freezing water tubs outside and children running about, chasing each other in mock-battle games. Here, despite his rush, he could imagine the peace and prosperity that had been the Icemist's for generations going unhindered; but as he neared Tundra's large central building, dark thoughts descended upon him once more. They were not safe, and perhaps the fact that many thought themselves thus would prove to be their downfall. Roa was determined to make sure otherwise.

After a polite knock on the building's side and an acknowledgment from within, Roa stepped through the ancient hangings that served as the door, appreciating the tribal letters meticulously painted and drawn across them. The inside of the long structure, though not as warm as Roa's home hut, was warmer than the outside, and we almost wanted to thank Tundra for not keeping her home as algid as many other taunka did theirs.

He saw immediately that such idle conversation was out of the question. A harried Tundra motioned him over to the meeting area in the center, where a surprisingly small, hooded figure sat, gripping a mug of near-boiling icethorn tea. Its face lifted to peer at Roa, and he glimpsed thin, pink skin: that of a human. Few had ever tread this far from the shores of Northrend, Roa knew from the records, and from the tales he was told by the elder shaman when younger himself. One appearing now . . . Roa did not know what to think. He had expected, at the very most, a taunka messenger from the camp that had been established in the mountains of the fjord.

Roa sat on a sown-hide cushion, between both Tundra and the stranger in the circle they formed. He took up a mug of the same tea the human was drinking from where it sat, waiting, on the ground, and looked to Tundra, waiting for her guidance in this conversation. He was soon rewarded with, "This is our tribe's shamanic leader, Elder Roa," Tundra explained, gesturing with a two-fingered hand in Roa's direction. "Roa, this stranger calls himself Au'tuak, a name he says was given to him by the Tuskarr of the coasts. He brings us news from the south, regarding this . . . blight." For a moment, Roa held Tundra's eyes. He saw something akin to fear, there. Whatever the stranger had told her would only prove further that they were in peril . . .

Au'tuak cleared his throat, taking a sip of the honey-scented tea, and told Roa, "A terrible being has come to threaten your lands, and your people . . . for years, the presence of Ner'zhul has been here, in Northrend; and recently, he sent his terrible undead plague into the southlands . . . until now, this plague had missed your lands, but now, it had come, and with it, the new Lich King's undead legions." The human paused to take a breath, or to gather his thoughts, and finished, in a croaking voice, "Even as we speak, his armies gather on the edges of the Dragonblight." The message sounded rehearsed to Roa's ears, and he stared blankly at the man for several moments before his gaze came to join, once again, that of Tundra.

Now he understood Tundra's fear completely.

Roa stood on a high mountain rise overlooking Icemist Village, eyes narrowed. Thoughts swirled through his head, few of them pleasant, and it showed in his face.

He was thin and lanky for a taunka, slimmer, in fact, than even most of the females of his race. Roa had been given a rough childhood, leaving him looking bony and strange compared to the others, and also easily identifiable. Robes, warmer even than those worn by those around him, served as his clothes; he caught cold easily, having a weakened immune system from his physique and malnourishment early on in life. He clutched a staff, too, a blocky, wooden affair laden with feathers and baubles, which he used to channel elemental magic. Roa was one of the strongest shamans of the Icemist tribe, and their leader, despite his size and physical strength. The Icemist respected wisdom and expertise in the shamanic arts.

It almost surprised the aging taunka how quickly his powers had initially grown, and how effective they had become. Roa could both heal deadly injuries and utterly destroy his enemies better than any of his larger brethren could, even with the help of bandages and axes. In exchange for that, Roa was weaker than any other -- he could have been felled by a young one of his race in any match of wrestling . . . Thankfully, the Icemist taunka were essentially a peaceful race, living off the land and trusting in their ancestors and the elements, and did not force physical combat as a test of worthiness.

Currently, worry wracked the thin-furred black taunka, his shaggy ears flicking like those of a horse in distress. The blighted bear that the hunting party and he had found in the woods the day before had been distinctly unsettling, presenting to Roa something that he had never encountered in his entire long life span. A beast moving about without a life-force. The more he thought about it, the more impossible it seemed; the creature was obviously not dead, but neither was it alive. Feeling urged to explain the condition with a word, Roa thought, Undead? It seemed suitable enough for describing the bizarre middle-ground.

Undead. Had the scout he had sent reported to Tundra yet, he wondered? Most likely. He imagined the female chieftain was as baffled by these recent events as he was, or even disbelieving. I wouldn't have believed it either, had I not felt it myself. His thoughts drifted to what Tundra would say to him, and certainly she would say something. Roa was the witness. Roa would have been the madman, had there not been a number of hunters with him to support his report.

This bodes ill for our village. Tundra will surely call a tribal council together to discuss what to do. How to advise her to act? Leave our ancestral lands? Icemist has been here for generations, longer than any of us can remember, stranded away from almost all other civilization. Roa snorted slightly at the biting cold, and shuffled across the flattened peak over to his small hut, built apart from the village by the very first shaman leader. Sweeping aside the hides hanging across the doorway, he entered the warm room, almost hot by contrast to the glacial temperatures of the outside. His companion, a great black wolf, fit even for riding, lay curled up against the stone side of the hearth, on top of the furs that Roa had lain out over the frozen-solid earth.

He called, softly, "Shiina!" rousing the wolf from her slumber. Shiina pulled herself up and lumbered close as he sat down before the crackling fire, supportively curving her form around him. The wolf was certainly empathic. Long fur brushed against Roa's side, and he relaxed against it, electing to wait for a summons from Tundra. It will come. It will come, and all too soon . . .

He wasn't sure himself what he meant by "it" -- the chieftain's summons or destruction for the tribe. He dared hope that the latter was not imminent.

So, earlier today, I walked into the living room to find several family members watching Ice Age (the first one.) It was somewhere near the middle, and it soon got to that part where Sid, Manny, and Diego are walking through the ice caves, and see things frozen in the walls . . . among them, a flying saucer. And, this time around, I noticed something I'd never noticed before -- while they're looking at the saucer, the little cave man kid does the Vulcan salute at it!! Bah, I can't believe I didn't see that before, it totally cracked me up. Perfect reference right there. Worked on so many levels. "XD" does not begin to cover it/my reaction to it.

This is what re-watching movies is for! I am so going to put up a screen-shot of that moment.

Seated on a thick coverlet, the female chieftain of the lonely Icemist Tribe watched intently as the scout across from her spoke. His tone was urgent, as were his news; the aged, shaggy gray male's eyes held a deep sense of worry, if not outright fear. A brazier of smoldering pieces of wood stood between them, emitting a black smoke towards the opening in the hut's animal skin-and-thatch roof.

"Tundra," he was saying, "we have found another! A bear, this time, tips and tears in his flesh, as if he had been clawing at himself, and the blight spread across much of his body, fur matted and ill-kempt . . . and chieftain, what I will say next, you are unlikely to believe." The scout took a deep breath, coughing slightly as the fumes of the brazier entered his throat. Tundra made a note to bring better firewood in after the scout left. "The bear -- he was walking, but his bones were exposed."

Even the imposing, fierce-looking Icemist chieftain was taken aback at this. "It was . . . alive? Are you sure--?" The second question seemed futile; her hunters and scouts knew perfectly well what they had seen, and she did not question what they told her. The scout across from her looked uneasy, his watery, burnished-gold gaze looking down at his knees. After a moment, he looked back up at Tundra Coldhoof and spoke.

"Chieftain. This is what worried us most . . . the shaman we had with us, Roa, he said . . ." The scout paused again, almost making Tundra want to snap, What did he say? Out with it!, but then continued, "He said the bear had no life-force." The male taunka sat back on his knees, having leaned forward as he spoke to emphasize the sentence. Tundra just stared at him, shock keeping her from taking the news in properly.

Has Roa gone mad? A bear -- any animal -- moving around without a life force was impossible. All living creatures, even flora, had life-forces, distinguishable to the shamans of the tribes. When that life-force left, the creature was dead, and vise-versa. A bear moving around without his, as this one had been described, boggled the mind, even the wise one of Tundra. Unanswering for a minute, she tried to grasp the concept, tried to come up with semi-reasonable notions of how this could be. Other than Roa being insane.

With a wave of her two-fingered hand, she dismissed the scout, staring into the dying embers of the fire. What was this horrible new threat affecting the beasts, and, thus, the taunka?

Tundra had a feeling that if she did not find out soon, it would grow to be deadly.

Snow compressed crisply underfoot, creaking like old wood as taunka walked over it. She was dressed in heavy, nomadic dress of thick animal hides, made specially for these harshest northern winters; during the summer, marginally lighter dress could be donned, but dressing down now could very well be fatal to any traveler. The temperature was well below zero.

A halberd, well-made despite the absence of any sophisticated forge, was in her hand, used as much as as a walking stick as a weapon for hunting and protection. She clutched it in an iron grip, perhaps from anticipation, or perhaps simply because her strong muscles allowed: she could have easily overpowered any human, or crushed their skull with her fur-wrapped hoof. A hound, heavily furred, squat and low to the ground, trailed her, meaty nose sniffing at the snow and belly brushing the ground.

The two lonely hunters -- for that was what they were, having no more supplies than one required for a trek of a few hours -- trudged upward through a mountain pass, entering the barren highlands and leaving the thicker, darker forests. Leaving, the taunka reflected, the relative safety of camouflage. Should anything wish to attack them now, they would be easy-to-spot targets, dark spots against starkly bright snow.

Above them, the sky was darkening. The taunka lifted her broad nose to the sky, assessing the chances of blizzard. The shapes and tones of the gray, weighted clouds above told her that it was all too likely, and she would not soon get another chance to hunt. Unfortunate, for she had not managed a kill on this trip out. She frowned: the beasts of the woods were starting to disappear, prey becoming scarce. Never had anything of the sort ever happened, for as long as the elders could remember, or as far as the tribal records went back. Nothing so widespread. And there were rumors that a terrifyingly diseased beast had been found deep in the woods, by the long-distance hunters, dying in agony and rotting while still alive, in a worse maddened frenzy than even rabies could bring out in an animal.

The taunka shook her head, and continued on, her heavy footsteps driving her hooved feet deep into the snow. Her hound followed, servile and quiet save for the occasional snort, much like that of a wild boar. No tracks crossed across the snow, their own in the other direction having been swept under by violent, frigid winds, starting up again now. The taunka twitched her woolly ears, listening edgily for any noises other than the customary howling of the breezes. Somehow, today, with the dead forests behind her and no other soul around for miles, not even a snowshoe rabbit, coat white for the winter, the sound seemed eerie to the taunka's ears.

The acute silence held as she walked farther into the pass, not as reassuring as it had always been to the huntress' ears.

Scribbled this sometime last week. Pretty darn pathetic, reminds me of stuff I drew when I was little . . . oh, well. Non-Sonic-y Tibetan/Chinese Lung.

And there is no way I am inking that thing, hence the crap quality of paper that's been scanned on.


Click!

Click!

Though I know this sucks terribly, I want to give it to Paresh. Just 'cause.

The large symbol above the lotus is "HOPE"; the symbol on Huo's (the dragon's; yes, that's a dragon) lantern is "LUCK."

I've watched every Star Trek: The Original Series episode but five. Once I finish those off, at Furiel's suggestion, I'll move on to The Next Generation.

Whoo!

So. I figured I ought to make some lame-o icons. (After seeing some others, and later finding myself bored.) Only four now . . .

As a side note, I think I can feel my brain dying. I spent all day on art and Star Trek (at once.) ALL DAY. Ow.


This one is a joke on McCoy saying "He/She's dead, Jim" all too often.


Figured I could use a "bewildered" icon. What better shot to use than the one where Kirk is drowning in tribbles?


I don't know if this one is readable, but it features a quote that made me laugh real hard. The picture is a phaser.


. . . For Yaran and the several of you poor people that have been exposed to my Trekkieness on Warcraft. (Especially Bones.)