“I don’t believe I will ever grow accustomed to your silence, Morrisa,” Duncan murmured, lightly swirling a beaker of a thin, violet, faintly luminescent substance. “So many others… well. They all talked. Incessantly. And though I wished for silence, I never realized how… odd… it could be.” Another moment of methodical twirling of the glass distracted him. “Yes. Hm. Quite odd indeed.” He carefully poured the now-pulsating fluid into a thin glass dish and watched it closely.
“I don’t have much to say,” the girl said simply, cigarette bouncing between her lips with each word. “Talk is cheap, as they say, no?” She returned her attention to the thick volume before her, lovingly caressing the edges of the pages as she read.
He grunted in agreement, eyes transfixed by the throbbing mass in the Petri dish. “But I talk to you,” he said, sniffing. “I have told you much of my travels and… adventures, shall we say? I’ve taught you so much.” He prodded at the purple glob with a thin metal tool and the entire thing deflated, never to stir again. He sighed. “You’re an excellent student and quite the apprentice, Morrisa, but is it so much to ask for a little conversation?”
He rolled his eyes. “When I saw you in that inn, I knew you had so much… potential. So much promise. And you have exceeded every expectation!” He unceremoniously dumped the dish into a small bowl of equally-failed specimens. “You have progressed so quickly, beyond the level of students with years of training, not just your scarce few months. I give you everything and yet you spend your waking hours with your nose buried in every book in my library.”
He slid from his stool and turned to face her. Morrisa was completely enthralled with the book before her. Her cigarette burned, now quite ignored, in the ashtray next to her. Her wine glass, still nearly full, was frozen halfway from the table to her lips. She scarcely blinked. Sighing again, he crossed the room quickly. “What are you even read… oh, fel.”
She looked up at him with two deep pools of unending blackness. “Him,” she said simply, tapping a slender finger on the book.
He snatched the book from the table and closed it with a snap, the ancient spine creaking in protest. “No,” he said matter-of-factly. “No, Morrisa. You are a quick study, truly, but that is a bit… beyond you.” The subtle change in the arrangement of her features instantly told him that he had gone about this completely wrong.
“You took me on as your apprentice, yes?” she asked, snuffing her cigarette and lighting another. “For my talent, for my ambition. Not my lack of ambition, no?” He rolled his eyes, shelving the book as she continued. “If this is not ambition, than what is, Duncan? Shall I tell you I will summon a pit lord upon your laboratory? Of course not.” She inhaled deeply, her body tingling as the heady blend of her smoke rushed through her. “No, this is well within my grasp and you know it.” She sidestepped him and snatched the book from the shelf. Flipping it open, she spun the page around so he could see. “The steed will be mine.”
The girl perched on a chair at a table in the back of the inn, methodically separating the leaves from a pungent assortment of herbs and stacking them in neat little piles. Her thin fingers made quick work of the task, expertly stripping the plants of all usable parts before flicking the useless stems into the fireplace. She appeared extremely intent on her work and never lifted her concentration from the table.
An old man sat across the nearly-empty inn, watching the girl with the same intensity. His eyes roved over her tanned, slender body, not at all concealed in the form-fitting blood-red robes she wore. Her hair, cropped shorter than shoulder length and flipping out at the end of spiky layers shifted in subtle shades of blue and black in the shadows cast by the fire. He watched the gold bracelets around her nearly-skeletal wrists clink and sparkle in the lamplight as she deftly divided the plants into stacks on the worn wood tabletop. A blood-red gem dangled from her delicate throat on a dainty golden chain and he mused in passing that it must be cheap costume jewelry, being used to garner her somewhat lacking bust some attention.
He was still gazing upon the girl when she turned slightly to dig into her pack. She produced a tiny box and inside, she found small rectangles of whisper-thin paper which she promptly set on the table before setting about mixing surprisingly exact amounts of the herbs atop the little white scrap. The burly old man snorted to himself in realization: the waif was rolling smoke! His suspicion was confirmed when she rolled the paper into a thin tube and quickly twisted the ends.
He had had enough of watching the youth and strode purposefully across the room. “I doubt yer old enough to be smokin’ that, eh?” he chuckled thickly, setting his ale on her table. “A pretty lil’ thing like you shouldn’t be doin’ it anyway, yeah? A nasty habit, that.”
The girl peered up at him with disconcertingly coal-black eyes. “I don’t really think it’s any of your business,” she replied quietly, finishing the twists on the ends of the cigarette.
The man was slightly taken aback by the coolness of her voice and the smolder of her deep eyes. He furrowed his brow and lifted his mug to his lips. “I think it be my business, darlin’, seein’ as how,” he paused, his eyes darting about in what he assumed was an inconspicuous manner, “this be my inn.”
To his surprise, the girl snickered quietly. “We both know that’s not true, old man. Let’s just both go about our business, hmm?” She motioned to the tiny roll suspended between her thin fingers.
The old man, not one to be put in his place by what appeared to be a mere child, became incensed. “Why, I oughta throw you out, you little wench!” he hissed through gritted teeth, spittle flying from his overgrown beard. “Or maybe I oughta learn you some manners, yeah? A lil’ schoolin’ on how you oughta talk to your elders.” He thumped his mug on the table, ale sloshing over the rim and spilling dangerously near her heaps of plant matter. “Or,” he began with a sneer, “how’s about how to treat yer elders, eh?” He reached to snatch the cigarette the girl was bringing to her lips.
Quick as lightning, the girl lifted her free hand and snapped her fingers, a half-inch flame springing to life at the tip of her pointer finger. The distraction gave the old man pause because, though drunk, he was not drunk enough to stick his hand through fire. The girl rested her elbow on the table, her unsettlingly dark gaze never leaving his own shocked stare. “I’m not here for any trouble, old man,” she said, cigarette hovering between her lips. “Just a quiet girl in a quiet inn in a quiet little town. But if you have the nerve to get that close to me again, well.” She splayed her fingers and the tiny fire spread and grew, multiplying into five inch-high flares dancing across each finger tip. “Why don’t you just sit back down over there before the real owner of this place shows up, hmm?”
The man stood in shock, frozen in a strange sort of horrified fascination as the flame engulfed the girl’s slight hand. Still never releasing his stare, she brought the blaze to the tip of the cigarette. When he still made no move to leave, she inhaled deeply to catch the tip of the smoke, then flicked her hand in his direction. Miniscule sparks silently exploded from her fingertips and found a new home in his scraggly beard.
The man loosed a high-pitched shriek. He dropped his mug, ale bursting forth like a fountain while he turned and ran out the door.
The girl shook her hand to extinguish the inferno, her dark eyes already refocused on her herbs.
The inn was nearly empty. A quiet man sat in a quiet corner, a disquieting smile spread across his face.
This started as a semi-joke with a friend on Wyrmrest Accord: creating an alt on a server where I have nothing (gold, bags, mats, rides, guilds, clothes, or friends), leveling, and setting up an outfit and RP story every 10 levels. I don’t know how this actually happened but apparently I’m doing it.
I decided to create two alts for this. I think I am being a bit ambitious but it will be fun anyway.
I toyed around with a couple server ideas. While RP servers seem like a given, I considered some non-RP servers as well. But in the end, I settled for Moon Guard, the home of my original (but terrible) WoW RP experiences.
I deleted some old alts from old servers (darn that 50 max character limit!) and Morrisa Gray and Jael’andra Dawnveil were spawned.
WARNING: This is a post full of fifteen million different items. I did not provide a link to them because a.) there are fifteen million and b.) WoWHead can conveniently provide you with all the links you need!
Ah, playing another class.
I have tried. In fact, I was a mage for the first year and a half of my WoW career. Not a very good mage, mind you, but a mage. Then I dabbled as a hunter.
And then I rolled Tanwen.
After that, it was all over. Priest after priest after priest. Two Sin’dorei at 80, one human (then Sin’dorei, soon back to human) at 80, one draenei in mid-50s, and various other races scattered across servers.
I’ve tried leveling other characters. In fact, I have my hunter at 80 and my shaman at 80. My mage, my DK, and my druid are all wallowing in the mid-70’s, all but forgotten.
But Tanwen… Tanwen is my favorite, by far. But what if she were other classes?
She would be very stylish.
In several cases, things have been chosen strictly for color scheme or matching purposes. I’ve also included cloth interpretations that I could actually acquire for Tanwen should she need to dress up as some other class. Most of the cloth outfits are more “around town and casual” than battle armor, as finding cloth to mimic mail and plate eludes me.
Lady Allandrya Hildebrand Courcel is a Kul Tiran noblewoman rumored to be in her mid-thirties, but I wouldn’t suggest attempting to confirm her age with her. She adheres to a strict set of rules regarding interaction, conduct, speech, and of course attire. She is polite and cordial, her presence befitting a woman of her station. If you ask her profession, she will feign a yawn and preface the explanation with a quip about it being terribly boring to those not involved in the field, but that she specializes in the destruction and subsequent reassembly of magical components into useful items or compounds. She enjoys long rides through Duskwood, fine Dalaran wines, and ritual torture.
An alchemist and demonologist, Lady Courcel has used her free time and fortune-by-marriage to further her studies in both the arcane and the arts only whispered about in dark allies and musty dungeons. A connoisseur of imported wines, her flasks and bottles are rumored to contain somewhat more than the purported sparkling white wine. Those that imbibe her offered spirits have spoken of memory lapses, strange desires, and… well… some haven’t been able to speak at all.
But you’re not here to read about my devious warlock noble, are you?
Of course not.
So instead of continuing to wax Mary Sue about my current favorite RP character, I will instead present: The Closet of a Malevolent Noblewoman.
“Shut up and drink the wine, darling.”