Look. I’m not on Medivh primarily. Sure, I have an alt in Waypoint because they are awesome, but my established characters are over on Elune. And I like raiding over there on Elune.
My problem is I also like to write. Or, at least I did. I haven’t in a while. I keep telling myself that I don’t have enough time, that when I move to a solo apartment I’ll have my creative space, that I’ll just finish this one thing and leave this note here and then I’ll get back into it (but I never do).
So I’m jealous of the Waypoint crew. They have fun RP stuff that goes on (even though they only joke about being an RP guild) that I would love to get in on.
But I’m not on their server, and cross-realm parties only go so far. (For one, we’d have to be online at the same time, and usually that time I’m raiding or otherwise working. Sadface.)
But then their Tumblr account posted this and Cynwise posted this in response. I said something on Twitter about wanting to write a little something, and Snack said “do iiiiiiit, it’s a lot of fun.” I don’t want to butt in unexpectedly or godmode or whatever, so here’s just a little fic for the Waypoint folks featuring Poneria the warlock (and also a little of Machairi the nelf rogue).
When the bells of Karazhan tolled three, Poneria finally looked up from the books spread across the table. Her felhound Bheezhem lay beside her chair. The arcane elementals were still there, and a shade kept disappearing and reappearing by the table. The ghosts didn’t bother her anymore, so long as she didn’t tread too far into their personal space. They were still pissed every week when she smacked Attumen across the face with a green conflagration, but Poneria didn’t care. The ghosts always came back. The library of Karazhan was expansive; she wasn’t going to let that old knowledge go to waste just because of a few hundred ghosts wandering around the place.
Besides, no one bothered her here. It was a good place to study. The ghosts didn’t bother her when she talked things through and out loud to herself.
Poneria had hit a rut with the journal she had open. Previous pages held details of the mutant Primordius and his various effects, or the bestiary of Iron Qon’s quilen mounts. Her journal of her guild’s efforts in the war against the Thunder King. The warlock was stuck on deciphering the runes of Lei Shen’s floor or why she could only summon a stone on certain floor tiles in Primordius’s room. Her curiosity kept distracting her from completing a full raid strategy.
She reached for a slice of parchment and her elbow knocked a book to the floor. It tumbled and landed spine up, bending a couple of pages. Poneria scooched out her chair and bent to pick up the book. The preferred diet of felhunters…
Paper crumbled noisily.
Her felhunter had climbed half into her chair and was snarfing down the slice of parchment.
“DOWN.” She snapped half a summoning spell to stun the hound further.
The felhunter immediately obeyed, dropping to the floor with its mouth agape, the parchment impaled many times on the hound’s sharp teeth. The felhound waited for instructions. Poneria lowered her hand out, and the felhunter dropped the parchment perfectly into it. His antennae, however, couldn’t stop touching the parchment. Tap, t-tap, tap, t-tap, t-tap, his antennae were frantic over that paper.
Poneria turned the sheet over. It was a map. It was, past tense, a map, because it was now more present a tense a beat up, half-eaten scrap of paper. Poneria couldn’t quite make out the description of the runes anymore. She glared at the felhound and sat back down in the chair.
Tap, t-tap, tap, t-t-tap, t-tap, t-tap. That sheet of parchment was like candy to the felhunter. The hound was linked to Poneria, as demons always are to their masters, and he looked up expectedly, panting and wagging his scaled tail.
“No. You’ll just eat it.”
The felhunter crouched in disappointment for a moment, but then his antennae scanned in lines over the parchment.
“Bullshit.” She tapped Jubeka’s journal with two fingers. “Felhunters can’t read, remember?”
T-tap, t-tap, t-tap tap tap.
Poneria turned her attention back to the parchment. She tilted the sheet in the light. As an illustrious and masterful enchantress herself, Poneria could tell quality magic in front of her. She might not know exactly of its origins or make, but that was fine. She was a warlock with no intention of studying magely arcana. The fel and demonic arts suited her just fine.
This one? The parchment wasn’t an enchantment itself, but certain spots glistened with a taint. She turned the map around and held the parchment outstretched and taut, like she was reading a map.
“Like that,” she thought loud. The tainted spots aligned with her hands. Someone magical held this map before.
“A warlock’s hands.” No way would that taint come from a wizardly prude pair of hands. She turned the parchment over and spread out the corners.
“Per…no, Property. Property…of the Way…the fel is that letter…” The felhound had torn the corner off. “There. Property of the Waypoint Union of …something. Cah something.” Poneria sat back in her chair and thought for a moment.
“What did Mach call me again?”
The warlock fumbled through her bags. She found the unlocked ghost iron lockbox in one of the elaborately embroidered satchels she’d made a month ago. She pulled the notes out of the lockbox and let the uncommon item fall back into her pack. That was the arrangement she had made: the rogue could keep any gold found inside the lockbox, but she’d return any items inside for further enchantment studies.
Ponier, the rogue had written. Sometimes the rogue added notes or other items she’d found from her own solitary pocket-pickings.
Oddly, the warlock was the only one she’d communicate with at all nowadays. The rogue got caught in a shot of firebreath when the Earth-Warder burned the world back in the Cataclysm. She was out for weeks, and it took all Xeny’s skill with natural healing to get her back.
Mach, as she liked to be called, sometimes somberly admitted she never got all the way back. She swigged a lot of alcohol now — nearly anything she found from someone else’s pockets. It made for “a great swingin’ an’ a swaggerin’ pirate combat play, tho’, ah ha ha,” the rogue often joked.
Her Darnassian was fantastic and eloquent, but Machairi’s Common was never spectacular to begin with. Whether it was the booze or the real reason she drank, Machairi gave up in trying to write Common clearly. Poneria had tried to learn Darnassian from Ama to help the rogue be more comfortable with communication, but the rogue insisted on writing in poor Common for “Ponier.” Ponier was a friend worth the trouble, the rogue had often insisted.
Foun somthin utter then those lakbaks boots for ya. Eh figyur yood lyk it. S mayde by sum fohk lyk yurself — map n makurs. Dun kid yurself Ponier. Yoos wun o dem on dat insyd.
Poneria shook her head and chuckled. Mach had known Poneria long enough to tell when the warlock would try to technically correct her out of habit.
Yoos a map n makur. Deys doo dat uh dat fissikal land. Yoos doo dat mind land. Wit dem books an paypurs an writin. For dohs new warlocks. Yood lyk dis paypur ohkay sos yoo half it.
An dun worrie hows eh got it. Jus deres now sum disgustin greenskin stinkin up dat lumber mill in Arathi ohkay.
“She called me a mapmaker” Poneria chuckled. “…cartographer. Property of the Waypoint Union of Cartographers. And I need terrain maps to make my ma–I mean, my raid strategies.”
Machairi had scrawled below her contrastingly beautiful Darnassian signature: P.S. Yoo lyk it? Eh new yoo wuld ohkay so yoo go heer an get sum mor maps ohkay. A map to find the mapmakers was drawn on the back of the note. It was in one of Machairi’s favorite Stormwind Haunts: Cut-throat Alley.
“Come on, Bheez,” Poneria said, standing up to collect her things. The felhound obediently snapped up and walked to her left, exactly two paces away, as always.
“I need to talk to someone about repairing this map. Back to Stormwind we go.”