Archive for July, 2010

Two weeks absence!

I am going on holiday tonight, on a tour of Sicily; then a cruise around the Mediterrenean (old person holiday HA!) At least it will be a prime opportunity for me to get up to ideal weight (seeing as cruise ship is full board, and serves breakfast, brunch, lunch, afternoon tea, dinner, and midnight snack!!). So poor Leaf is going to be struck down with a bout of Azerothian measles until the beginning of August. Ahahahahahahahha

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You’re awful brave,”

Leafsong remarked this archly, glancing around the dimly lit clearing with some trepidation. The last rays of evening sun flickered through the tightly-packed trunks, the sounds of distant Goldshire just barely audible. Giving the shadowed glade one last cursory inspection, she turned back to her husband as he divested the last of his clothing. At her comment he focused his impassive amber stare on her, one greying eyebrow rising.

I didn’t realise that the standards of bravery had lowered themselves to the point where merely taking a bath is heroic.”

No, I mean, for bathing out in the wild so near to the ‘uman city. People have been arrested for this.”

She shot him a scowl, trailing her tattered jumper along the grass behind as she came to sit on the riverbank, bringing her knees up to her chin. Keeping one eye on the trees surrounding them, she watched her mate as he waded waist-deep into the river with a grimace.

It’s f-cking freezing.”

Leafsong snickered at him, picking at a scab on her ankle. “Don’t swear in front of the bab- oh.” She interrupted herself with surprise, glancing around at the grassy slopes. “Ooh, it’s weird being without any of my children.” She frowned for a moment, her head reflexively swivelling in the direction of the city to where all four infants were soundly sleeping under the care of Shyla; an odd pang throbbing in her gut.

Pass me the soap, please.”

Reeling herself in from that distant crib, she tugged her satchel into her lap and began to rummage inside it. Pulling a face as her hand came into contact with something slimy, she emerged with two different waxy bars.

Peacebloom Bloomer and Golden Glow. The choice is yours!”

He shot her a look while wringing his hair, lined hands incongruous with muscular arms tautened through years of manipulating the bow.

“The peacebloom one.”

She nodded, hooking it through the air towards him. He caught it with a hand (at which she applauded, and he smiled reluctantly), and began to rub it briskly. For a moment her face twisted, caught in an internal struggle of epic proportion. Resist….resist. Be mature. You are a mother. Finally, helplessly, she gave in.

Husband. Husband. Don’t…drop the soap.”

He shot her a look of pure hatred as she honked with laughter, her shoulders quivering. “Every time,” he said, his voice tight. “Every time.”

She shrugged, widening her eyes and gesturing vaguely over her shoulder.

Well, Goldshire is just five minutes that way. You can’t be too careful!”

As she collapsed into immature cackles once more, there was a flicker of movement in the shadows, a momentary change in the light of the clearing. Even as her head swivelled towards the disturbance, her mate launched herself from the water and landed with a grunt on the bank, while simultaneously grabbing for his gun. He positioned himself, narrowing his eyes as he surveyed the trees, his breathing halted. Every muscle was prepared for action at a moment’s notice, the corner of his lip curled slightly. A jungle cat would not have had held itself with more icy readiness.

This impressive figure was slightly undermined by his wife attempting to secure one of the powder blue baby blankets around his waist. He swatted her hands away furiously, nostrils flaring.

Wench! What are you doing?!” came the outraged hiss from between the teeth.

She looked at him indignantly, the blanket dangling from her hands.

I’m protectin’ your modesty. You are a military commander, after all!”

His hands slackened around the gun, almost as if they were preparing to relocate themselves to around her neck. Luckily for Leafsong, at that moment a doe darted out from between the trees, frightened eyes rolling this way and that, before it crashed back into the bracken and out of sight. Leafsong pursed her lips, folding the blanket back over her arm.

Well, luckily for you, your dignity remains intac-”

She was cut off with a squeal as her husband took advantage of her rare non-pregnant state to physically tackle her.

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“One saber, two saber, three saber, four.”

Mirae stared gormlessly up at her mother. Leafsong stared back, her face sporting the original bovine expression as she wiggled the saber doll in front of the little girl’s face. Analith let out a cackle as the saber doll bounced over his chubby leg, then plummeted to the floorboards as Leafsong grew bored.

“Perhaps she would be more interested if there were actually four sabers, rather than just one,” Aphel observed from his position slouched in the old velvet armchair, the twins curled up against his chest. A candle burned on the crate beside him, as he craned his neck in a vain attempt to see the latest military report from Darnassus. Loredar’s small fist kept thrashing back and forth as he wriggled around, trying to find a comfortable spot on his old father’s lap. Leafsong looked up from her position on the floor, indignation transforming her features.

“I ain’t buyin’ three more saber dolls! They cost about fifty silver each. When I am rollin’ in gold – so much gold I can fill a SWIMMING POOL with coins and then take a SWIM in it – I will think about purchasin’ more than one toy per baby.”

Aphel snorted, waving a hand at her before stroking the top of Flora’s downy head.

“I thought you wanted to give your own children more of a childhood than you had. I can afford to buy them a nursery of toys.”

Leafsong gasped up at him, only partially provoked by Analith poking her in the eye with Mini-Vindicator Maraan’s tiny wooden mace.

“Aah! The babies have more toys than I did. I ‘ad a spoon with a face painted on it.”

Aphel dropped the report on the crate, standing with a twin cradled in each arm. Passing his prostrated wife, he carried Flora and Loredar upstairs, edging through the cramped master bedroom (which doubled as the second stockroom- their bedside table was one crate stacked upon another). Running one lined hand over their bedding to ensure it was smooth, he settled the twins down in their ‘crib’ and pulled the thin sheet over their twitching bodies. A minute later, he returned with the two older ones, placing them side by side in the larger cot. He smiled for a moment as he observed Analith’s small moon-face, relaxed only in sleep.

Returning downstairs, he placed a hand on his wife’s shoulder. She was holding the saber doll, gazing down at it with an unreadable expression.

“Mr. Spoon,” he said after his gentle squeeze failed to get her attention. “I remember you telling me about, ah, him. What happened to him?”

She smiled, dropping the saber alongside Mini-Vindicator Maraan and twisting her face up towards him.

“I threw ‘im away when I got pregnant and had to put aside childish things.”

He rubbed her ear like paper between his fingers idly, glancing at his reflection in the dusty mirror beside the door. He noticed grimly that the grey in his neatly trimmed beard was beginning to overtake the blue, and quickly averted his gaze.

“You’re not sentimental about objects, are you?”

“Mrmm. When I look at a fing, I only see how much it might be worth.”

(( Blame iPhone for the weird formatting!! ))

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Leafsong’s Diary 9.7

I have a plan to escape the domestic prison! It’s actually something which I concieved a few weeks ago, but I’ve only just had the time to begin actively planning now. I, Leafsong Gla Shalah’aman, want to learn how to use a weapon.

Hear me out!

I know that I have never wielded anything more dangerous than my two-inch long herb-cutter. The only experience I have with weapons is when I’ve been fiddling with my husband’s weapon rack (and even then, he usually yowls at me to put whatever it is back before I break it, or myself). But I can’t escape the fact that everyone in Stormwind seems to be carrying a weapon now. Even the milkman, when he was dropping the milk round earlier, had a very suspicious bulge.

(No, not that kind of suspicious bulge. Believe me, the sighting of an early morning Leafsong in baby-vomit stained nightgown is enough to kill any amorous thoughts)

You know, come to think of it, I’ve even seen priestesses wielding at least a spiked or sparking mace! Human priestesses, who I had formerly believed to be the most passive creatures in Stormwind, are more well equipped to deal with a mugger or sexual deviant than I am. I think that I always neglected my own self-defence, believing that when I excelled at my druidic study (ha!) ,I wouldn’t need to wield a weapon. I would be a weapon. And look how that turned out! Even Analith has a more vicious bite than me, with all of his seven baby teeth. I don’t have claw-like nails, due to my tendency to gnaw on them. Bearing in mind that being robbed – being deprived of precious gold – is the worst possible scenario I could imagine involving myself in this city; I should immediately begin to formulate some defences.

I was initially attracted to the idea of wielding a staff, but have slightly gone off that idea after my husband pointed out that a staff was basically just a wooden stick, and was pretty rubbish at defending against anything more substantial than- well, another staff. If I was to come up against anyone wielding any kind of metallic or bladed weapon, or Elune forbid, magic, I would be pretty much screwed. So it’s back to the sketching board. I may visit some weapon purveyors tonight, after the children have been settled. I look forward to embarking on this new adventure!

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Leafsong’s Diary 7.7

It has been an extraordinarily busy few days, but I still feel guilty for not paying any attention to my poor neglected diary and quill!

Ha! Who am I trying to fool? My diary and I are well aware of the circumstances of our relationship. I do not write in him for pleasure (yes, my diary is a he), I write in him in an attempt to improve my writing and reading comprehension. And I am on the whole less slow than I used to be, when perusing paragraphs, so I suppose that it must be somewhat effective.

Anyway! I have been away for the past few days, at the Steamwheedle Trade Convention in Booty Bay. Usually one of my elder brothers or my father would attend as the representative of the GHE (I am sadly lacking in the gravitas which a business ambassador should possess in abundance); but their schedules would not allow a four day hiatus in the Eastern Kingdoms. I, on the other hand, jumped at the chance to escape the GHE: SW for a few days. (Is that awful? You know I love my family more than anything, but being a mother is so tiring sometimes. My husband is so busy with his military concerns, that sometimes I would pay actual cash-gold to have a conversation with someone that did not go stop hammering your sister with the rattle, Annie. Mummy will smack! Mummy will smack! I remarked in an earlier post that I was feeling slightly stifled and unfulfilled in my new role as full-time carer and “housewife”.

Actually, when I mentioned this to my mate, he suggested that I get myself out of the house by taking a cookery course. I refrained from savagely beating him around the head when he said this, and explained calmly that it was exactly that sort of mundane domesticity which I was trying to escape. Anyway. I think he understood (maybe).

So the Trade Convention was a welcome break! I picked up some good tips from our goblin friends. I sometimes think that I was born in the wrong body – I was made to be a goblin. If they weren’t so devious and prone to embezzlement, I would hire a goblin financial advisor in a heartbeat. I didn’t buy my husband a present, but I did bring him some fascinating leaflets (with titles such as Maximising Your Margins, and Marketing Strategies for a New Azeroth). I fully expect that he will enjoy and appreciate this lovely, thoughtful gift.

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Went on a road trip round the south of England with my gal pal Beth! Post soon =)

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Protected: Mature story – pt. 2

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Mature Story – pt 1.

(( So it’s been over a year since I started writing this blog, and I thought that it was about time to try my hand at a…..!! MATURE!! story! I didn’t even know if I was a good enough writer yet to pull it off without sounding either laughable or desperately corny. I also thought that the lack of sex-related material in the Treehaus was a tad odd, seeing as how Leafsong and Aphel have four children, and we are also probably some of the most notorious ERPers on Moon Guard xD. So I decided to see whether my extensive  “experience” could translate into a half-decent sounding story. Or at least, one that didn’t sound like a cheap, sub-standard Mills & Boon. Since I want to avoid people accidentally reading it at work, and also any random kiddies who might stumble across it (I know that one Google search is more than enough to ruin your innocence on the internet, but I want to protect my own little corner of it!); I’m going to stick a password on the second part of the story (the bit with the ‘mature’ tag, or the part that most will probably skip to =P). To get the password, just message Aphel or myself in game, or send me a letter. I am on UK time, so I’m on at weird hours. Part one is below, part two is in the post above!))


Leafsong, wedged beneath her husband’s arm as they leant back against the headboard, obediently reached out to turn the page of the heavy tome propped upon her stomach. Aphel bowed his head and resumed his furious annotation, oblivious to the spots of ink splattering over the blanket. She rested her head against his shoulder, twisting a strand of hair around her finger and watching the tip turn red, then purple. Releasing the curl, she shifted sideways and spread her fingers over the bare chest of her husband, thoughtfully. He shot her a fleeting glance, then returned to the text. Leaning up on her elbow, she ran her finger over a pale, curving scar tracing from his collarbone to above his heart.

“What’s this from?”

He paused, underlining a sentence and adding a derisive comment in the margin, before following her finger.

“A gash from a Silithid talon, sustained during the second assault of the southern hive complex. It was a commander, third officer of General Vejax.”

His reply was abrupt; clearly he did not wish to recall the incident in more detail. Returning his eyes to the print, he nevertheless reached his hand up to cup the back of his wife’s head, pressing his thumb against the fragility of her skull. She retracted her fingers for a moment, then pushed them gently into the faint dent below his cheekbone; the remnant of an old injury healed through magic , rather than by physical means. He lowered the book, predicting her question.

“The same war. I was impaled through the side of my face; penetrating to the mouth cavity.”

She grimaced in sympathy, settling back down against his shoulder.

“Ergh. Like, right through t-to the teeth?”

He turned to her, smiling fully for the first time that evening.

“Right through. It was unpleasant.”

She pulled a face at him, as the hand cradling the back of her skull crept down to caress her neck, the stroking of his fingers light but persistent. The book lay on the blanket between them, half-resting against her hip, and he lifted it with a grunted protest at the weight.

“Seven hundred pages of mundane banality. What a waste of parchment, not to say my time.”

Before the arrival of the children he would have hurled the book to the floor, gleaning more satisfaction from the thud than he had from the text itself. Newly considerate of the four sleeping infants in the next room, he merely dangled it between his fingers contemptuously before lowering it to the threadbare rug. Turning his back on it, he felt an unwelcome twinge from his left knee as his body shifted. As usual, the pain was swiftly accompanied by the usual gloomy portents; the fact that his knee was unlikely to ever be the same, that he should expect more aches and pains as the years went by, and that he would now be classed even by his peers as a man past his prime. An old man, even.

These thoughts were familiar territory to him, and he exorcised them in the usual manner: by taking his young mate into his arms and embracing her, as if youth could be transferred through proximity. One of his arms encircled her back, quickly moving past the knobs of her spine and resting instead on the soft, fleshy mound of her hip. Although she complained bitterly that each pregnancy had added an extra inch to her waist; he enjoyed the new plumpness of her hips and rear, finding it a pleasant contrast to the gauntness of her arms and legs, remnants of a childhood dogged by malnutrition.

In addition, he felt an absurd sense of pride as his fingers slipped deftly beneath her (his, actually) cotton shirt, feeling the yielding curve of her back. It was a plumpness that had resulted from her carrying his children, not once, but three separate times in a space of two and a half years. It was the same selfish pride he felt when she had been swollen and irritable with pregnancy; and he had seen every stretchmark on her youthful flesh as a badge of his own virility. See, Ashamal Shalah’aman is not fading in his twilight years. He has fathered four healthy children in quick succession.

Shaking his head to banish these distracting thoughts, he smiled down at his mate with the tenderness he displayed only within the privacy of the home. Stroking a strand of stray hair away from her solemn face, the pale oval standing out against the navy blue pillows, he pressed his lips against her cheek. It had taken a long time for them to get to the point where they could embrace each other with affection, he noted wryly, and even longer for the residual suspicion to fade from her eyes. It was the Gladefall inheritance, this persistent mistrust; which served them well in business, but was not so conducive to developing a successful relationship.

Trying to force the thoughts from his head (difficult, for one who spent many of his free hours in contemplation); he lowered his face into the cloudy mass of green hair which lay in tangles against the pillow, and inhaled her distinctive scent of pungent chemical, herb, and cheap fragrance. It was the same nasty stuff as the Goldshire whores sprayed themselves liberally with, but for some reason she was perversely attracted to it; rejecting any other perfume. He felt her fingers combing through his hair, and momentarily thanked Elune that he had not begun to shed it, as many older men did. Raising his head, he kissed her softly on the mouth once more, and began to unbutton her shirt.

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