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Richard last won the day on April 14 2018

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  1. Richard


    TWINWHISTLE AGE 162 RACE Gnome OCCUPATION Examiner of Arcanic Artifacts, Fourth Level Wizard RESIDENCY Transient; (Formerly) The Mystic Ward, Ironforge DISPOSITION Neutral Good FACTION Gnomeregon, Grand Alliance, Hall of Mysteries (Ironforge) APPEARANCE Strength. Courage. Menace. These are all words never once uttered in proximity to Twinwhistle's name. His is a meek and unimposing existence, though not without it's fair share of personal intrigue. What the gnome lacks in any exceptional physical attributes at all he makes up for with a vast intellect and quick wit fueled by the curiosity so well-owned by gnomefolk. This brilliance is reflected in Twinwhistle's sharp eyes, centered by a pair of brilliant blue irises. Perhaps the only sharp thing about him. An honest face framed a prominent nose bearing an upward curve, gray-blonde whiskers and a mop of hair atop his head to match. His robes were plentiful and weathered, a pleasant maroon sea offset by islands of brown accouterments. Dusted boots and a pouch-and-trinket laden belt served to keep him firmly weighted to the ground, his leather gloves stained with reagents for the alchemical and the arcane. A much-used messenger bag dangles at his side. At times, a pipe wrought of starwood tickles his pursed lips. HISTORY "Oh, for the love of--... !" Twinwhistle hissed unpleasant things between bared teeth. His eyes were assaulted by an array of blue and pink hues, unhindered magic sparking freely off the surface of a fist-sized orb made of intricately carved bronze. At it's forefront sat a deep red ruby, polished smooth and inset among the grooves and canals that textured the trinket's surface. Such odd arcana was less odd to Twinwhistle than others (it was, in fact, his very job to deal with them), but this one had proved incredibly troublesome. A restless night of dousing the orb in every divination and enchantment in his repertoire with no discernible results had culminated in him wearily tossing the thing against his work table in defeat. This elicited the aforementioned response, much to the gnome's surprise and confusion. The orb certainly was magic, but despite his best efforts he couldn't figure out the whats or the whys. He hadn't the faintest clue why, but that blood-tinged gemstone felt as though it glared at him from the mistreatment. Unease welled in the back of his brain. Unfortunate for Unease, because Frustration and Confusion had rented the whole sleep-deprived blob for themselves tonight, and swiftly gave Unease the boot. The gnome pondered his fruitless predicament for a moment. After taking the latest events shorthand into consideration, Frustration and Confusion answered the doorbell. Anger had showed up looking for a good time. He swiftly grabbed the orb up and began to give it a good, vigorous thrashing. Shaking it harshly in both hands, it protested in the form of exponential magical release. His study, once bathed a comfortable orange candlelit glow, now basked in a strobe of flashing blue. "Just what the devil are you, then?!" he squeaked, slamming the thing back down to the table and glaring at it as if it had just spat on his boots and called his mother a trogg. There was a faint shimmer of the orb's ruby centerpiece. Twinwhistle's panting drew short when the trinket gave retort; REPLY HAZY, TRY AGAIN. Twinwhistle perked up, his brows tossed skyward. "What?" he blurted. The orb was silent. A pause. He gave the thing another shake. "What?" SIGNS POINT TO YES. The gnome was at a complete loss. Yes? Yes to what? Literally, 'Yes' to 'What'? He sat the orb down and rubbed his temples. He had a feeling he wouldn't be getting any sleep anytime soon. More to come Soon™.
  2. Richard

    Harwin Mandom

    srry i never played the witcher i just thought the art was cool
  3. Richard

    Harwin Mandom

    A man stood abreast of time and space. Staring ahead, he saw through a thick haze that which would- or might- be. Such a sight, however vague behind the stained glass of precognition, welled within him with a myriad of emotions. Awe at its grandeur, hope at its implications, cheer at its forthcoming joy; but at the same time, terror in the face of hardship, hopelessness in the face of conflict, and above all else... insignificance. A nihilistic miasma filled him to the brim upon realizing just how little he would matter in the years to come, and how ultimately short his mirage fell along the threads of fate. Looking behind himself, the fog was much clearer. All that lay behind him was all that had come to pass. Regret, mistake, memory. But a warmth in familiarity, and a glow of pride in deeds come and gone. Turned aside, the man cast one final gaze to fate's horizon, and stepped back into the clarity of the past. Then, he awoke with a start. His heart was pounding, his palms drenched in sweat. His chest heaved as he struggled to find breath. Never before had he had such a dream so vividly poignant, so intense. Whence he began to recover, a realization came to him. His left arm felt as though it were both drenched in water and lit ablaze, and that stinging pain nearly drew the air out of his lungs again. Shakily, he gripped his forearm and brought it before his adjusting eyes. It was covered in shimmering crimson, eclectic patterns inlaid through scarification adorned his limb, and his racing mind finally caught up to the here-and-now. Wax candles were scattered around the cave interior, painting everything an dim and eerie amber. A pact had been sealed, and a pound of flesh given in return for an exceptional boon. Forcing himself to his feet, the warlock's eyes settled on the altar before which he had fainted. Communing with dark forces is always a taxing experience, but his hardships were proven worthwhile when the glint of a precious stone shone from the altar's center. A blackened pearl, in the center of which swirled a torrent of dull multicolored hues. Simple as it might look, it was captivating to watch; not to mention a true prize for anyone with knowledge of it's true nature. The wayward magician with a penchant for the emerald avenues of arcanism carefully scooped his prize into a small cloth pouch and strung it around his neck. His goal in hand, he could finally leave this place. Or so he thought. Crossing the mouth of the cave, the warlock's eyes widened. Where once were dense forests and green, now lay a rocky beach and an endless sea, the horizon mottled by rolling, stormy fog. The warlock's ritual site had found itself transported to the Doldrums. Of course, the warlock didn't know the name, nor where the islands even were. It seems his ritualistic slumber had bypassed the Worldbreaker's ascension, and had left him in a strange land with little to go one. But still, he had his prize; that was enough for him to press on. With his pearl, there was no longer a reason to turn his back on the future. It's time he moved forward.