The first story blurb for my character, Azalyth, from the game World of Warcraft. From her point of view, as things in her head start spiralling toward chaos--this weekend promises great amounts of chaos and such for her. Langley (to be mentioned in story blurb two) has started up something. Something big.
"Feh. Accursed Aldor, holding a prayer while I visit. I don't need strangers makin' me remember things from back then." Azalyth wandered about the Undercity, restless and muttering under her breath.
"Need something, dear?"
"Hm...? Oh…evenin', Ophelia. Uh...could you give me a moment?" Azalyth stuttered, catching herself unawares of having wandered right to the front of the bank. After taking some time to not-quite-think, she had an idea why she had. "Do you still have that box I gave you, way back when? You know the one…"
"It's likely been shuffled into the back by now, but yes. One second." The ghostly apparition turned to the innards of the bank, phasing through piles of various trinkets and knickknacks, returning with a worn, wooden trunk. "Anything else for today?"
"No, that'll be all. Thanks, Ophelia." The undead nodded, gingerly grabbing the handles of her box. She trundled down the stairs, careful to not miss a step, down to the level of the canals. Nodding a greeting to the roach man, she proceeded to rap against the wall under the main bank area. The third or fourth knock resounded hollow, revealing what Azalyth was looking for: a "secret" door she had found some time ago, probably used by many, for various purposes. She tugged out a few loose stones and crawled into an area hardly larger than an average closet. Taking a hold of one of the handles again, she dragged her trunk in after her, and replaced the bricks.
"Bah. I can't believe I'm doing such a foolish thing…" The utterance of the sentence lacked any feeling of regret, or awe, or disgust…or any other feeling one would expect to hear from such a phrase. Upon opening the chest, Azalyth was greeted by some old, worn keepsakes: a few photos and sketches, a trinket or two, a ragged doll. Rummaging through them, at the very bottom of the trunk she found what she had not-quite-thought she wanted: an old, tattered, white pair of robes. She clutched them to her chest, staring at nothing breathing in the musty, long-unused scent of age and faith-filled magics.
"By the Light…feels like it's been an eternity, it does." She lifted the robes out, taking a good look at them, noting various rips and worn spots, and at the same time letting a few long-forgotten memories seep back into her head. Azalyth rummaged through her bag for needle and thread, letting her body fix up her robes while her mind soaked up the memories released.
Another eternity passed until she had finished, a mere handful of hours later. Still not-quite-thinking, Azalyth changed into her "new" old robes; she found that her hands had even gone so far as to refit them to her withered figure. And so they felt the way they had so many years ago, when she was still a priest—still human—stillalive. A floating green eye appeared in front of her, allowing for a better look at herself; she was more sickly looking than she remembered, but other than that looked just as she had in the war, at the side of that orc, her love, her Bael'deth. Her "Eternal Guardian." And he was still out there, still alive.
She could feel it.