HNGH this RP is so good. I nearly drove a character to suicide.
Log: Gonde’s Interrogation
Cunegonde belongs to Squink. NPCs are mine.
6/1 22:27:40.234 Valorien Summerwing turns as the guards escort Cunegonde into a small whitewashed room. Mage lights keep it blindingly bright. “Ah! You must be Madame Searspanner. Valorien Summerwing, at your service.” He bows with a courtly flourish.
6/1 22:29:34.688 Cunégonde shufflehops into the room, favouring her leg. Still not clear whether it’s broken or severely sprained or trample-bruised or what. At least her face is a little less blood-caked. Nevertheless, her eyebrows can still arch with the best of them, as one does this very moment.
6/1 22:29:44.652 Cunégonde says: Are you, indeed.
6/1 22:29:50.413 Cunégonde isn’t really asking.
6/1 22:30:50.927 Valorien Summerwing says: I am! Lady Gallowshade informs me that you’ve suffered a dreadful injury. If you’ll just climb up here, we can take care of that.
6/1 22:31:27.848 Valorien Summerwing pats the padded table behind him. Don’t mind the leather straps at various intervals.
Even in the chaos of battle, Prikka tried to keep count. How many bullets had Maasi fired? When would Knutcrank run out of rockets and Voidweaver out of nether and Rattleclank out of whatever made her shield spark? How many Orcs—
Her Light shield faded, flared, and shattered beneath a heavy cudgel. The gnome threw herself aside before her skull suffered the same. Too many. Too many Orcs and not one of the promised reinforcements. The Servitors were only supposed to be a distraction. Where the hell was Unlucky Company?
Someone called for a flare as Prikka drew her knife to sever a tendon. Dodge, dart, slice, just like Ink had taught her. The sky exploded, and she allowed a sigh of relief as hoof beats finally finally sounded behind her little squad—
—behind? No, they should have come around the caravan what—
Blacktyde wasted breath on the obvious. “How’d those orcs get horses? And where the fel are the Unluckies?!” No one bothered to answer.
“Make a hole! Retreat!” Prikka ignored the cry of, “Where?” Let the heavies handle that. She turned and focused her mind on keeping them safe from the rear, willing pain and fear and death, but
there would always be a part of her huddled in the darkness
Shadow rolled out in waves. The brave ones gritted their teeth and charged through.
and she could see it she knew exactly what would happen she didn’t have to read the blood on the stone it SCREAMED its words at her
The gnome yanked an Orc down to her level and cut her throat. It didn’t matter. There were more.
the Folk would be first, bubbly Davvi and clever Dexter and Cunegonde just remembering how to be a person. Theodean would die again defending them.
She whispered, “I can’t—”
Maasi would fall next, prophecy or no.
The waves ceased as her will faltered. “No, we can’t—”
They wouldn’t kill the Human women.
Prikka bit back a cry of despair. Her shrouds dissipated, leaving her pale and far too solid.
“Servitors, lay down arms! Lay—”
She swore, barely audible above the fray. Rising into the air, Prikka dug desperately through her pockets and came up with a fistful of white handkerchiefs. She slapped her comm to open a line. “Lay down arms!”
“We surrender! Osh’kazil ha, we surrender!”
Honestly? It could be a cultural thing. In a lot if settings elves don’t pop out kids constantly simply because that’s not how elves act societally. For one thing it’d cause crippling overpopulation. I think that’s the easiest explanation really.
That’s not how canon elves act. Roleplay needs a bit of an explanation because Silvermoon is so full of pregnant women, there’s not a jar of pickles or a chocolate cake for miles and miles.
Remember, though, that belves suddenly need to re-populate. There may have been cultural mores in place (say, only kid at a time) that were shattered by the quel’dorei genocide. Or maybe they don’t ovulate as often has humans, or have access to really good birth control. Baby mages.
((This appears to be a personal note that has been shoved into the disorganized heap. ))
I was having tea with the Ironforge Priestess today—lovely woman, I absolutely adore her—and mentioned that it seems like I don’t heal at all anymore. I spend all my time killing people for other people, not something I was very good at! She looked sad for a moment, then sighed and asked if I was at least taking measures to protect myself.
It turns out these folk have discovered the sort of methods the Forgotten Matriarch used! I was appalled at first, but as the Priestess explained, I came to understand. All the wars they’ve been having… more than one healer has found herself alone in the field, her coterie slaughtered. She has a choice, then, to die, and deny her skills to those who most need them; or to twist her power so that flesh is torn instead of mended, life drained rather than restored.
I make glib comments about killing people with my mind, but I really do want to live. Increasingly so. If that means becoming an abomination, so be it.
Oh, she also showed me a wonderful way to not break every bone in one’s body when one slips off the parapets in Stormwind. Or that broken dam. Or every mountain in Dun Murogh. Any precipice higher than a troll’s ear, now that I think on it. Maybe Adjutant Davvi has a point about being more careful.
To begin to understand Sub-Gnomeregan Cockroach society, one must first understand its class structure. Each citizen (that is to say, females; see chapter on Males for a more in-depth discussion of the weaker sex) is either a Matriarch, a Matron, or meat.
A more literal translation might be “peasant” or “commoner”, but those lack important connotations carried by the original word; to whit, that one of the lowest class may at any time be devoured by her superiors. The meat are the farmers, guards, and laborers of SGC society. One is considered to be meat—and thus easily replaced—until she has either successfully raised her first brood, or proven herself to be useful.
A Matron has raised at least one brood to adulthood, thus proving herself to be both fertile and competent. She may become an artisan or an overseer, or, if educated, take on more advanced duties. She is relatively safe from consumption. A Matron is expected to support one or two mates. Roughly a quarter of citizens become Matrons.
The ruling class. A Matriarch’s word is law (unless her Sisters disagree with her). She is invariably a Priestess, as she would not otherwise have survived long enough to become a Matriarch. Her activities should be solely educational, moral, or intellectual in nature. Although she no longer mates, she should support several males of unusual cleverness or usefulness. A Matriarch may consume whomever she pleases without cause. (Disappointing one’s Matriarch is a good way to ensure a brief, painful death. The more I write, the less I find I miss the old hive…)
A haphazard stack of notes, clearly a work in progress.
Although the Sub-Gnomeregan Cockroaches (for brevity’s sake, hereafter referred to as “SGC”) superficially resemble their “little cousins,” they are quite different below the carapace. Their respiratory, circulatory, and even skeletal systems more resemble those of avians than of smaller insects. Spiracles, for example, have been replaced with lungs and blood. Likewise, the body is supported by light-weight bones, chitin presumably being unable to support a creature of such size.
A typical SGC specimen is very close in size to a small adult Gnome. It is protected by a segmented, leathery hide. The six jointed legs are lined with fine hairs, used to sense vibrations in the medium around them. Those few individuals who are regularly exposed to light achieve an iridescent brown hue, growing darker with age. The author suspects that the common roach would be wholly unpigmented (see chapter on Social Organization).
The SGC demonstrates several adaptations to its subterranean environment. The two eyes are small but highly complex if allowed to develop fully (most larvae are never exposed to light; their eyes atrophy before adulthood). The antennae, by contrast, are formidable, often extending back along the length of a specimen’s body. The olfactory organs are also highly developed, facilitating chemical-based messages (see chapter on Communication). Interestingly, the completely terrestrial SGC retains its wings. Rather than flight, the serrated wings are drawn across each other to produce song.
The forelegs are more complex than those of lesser insects: they terminate in two “fingers” and an opposing “thumb”. These are used for communication and fine manipulation.
(I feel as if I should go into more detail about the anatomy, but frankly I’m impatient to get on to the important bits.)
Prikka’s SoL App
((I still can’t believe I got away with this shit.))
To whom it may concern:
My title is Prikka. I hope you will excuse my lack of surname; such things weren’t needed back home. I am writing this letter of introduction in hopes that you will kindly consider me for entrance into your Academe.
Though by birth a gnome, I was fortunate enough to be adopted at a young age by the most civilized people I have yet to encounter: cockroaches. Not yet in my travels have I met so lofty, so courteous, so finely educated a race, and I have benefited greatly from their tutelage. I am unsure how many wonderful years I spent in the darkness, studying our matriarch’s craft beneath her benevolent wings (her ovipositor being malformed, Mother has no larvae of her own). But, as Mother has often told me, “Kklk tp sssss rk. Hhsst tlk, Prk ka, hhsst tlk!”
And how right she was! I shall never forget the invasion of the nesting halls. One moment you’re having a nice chat about chemical trails, and the next some bloody great lunker is screaming and grabbing at you. I realize now that it probably thought it was rescuing me, but… well. Larvae need their dinner, do they not? In any case, the nest had been breached. The clan decided to relocate deeper into Gnomeregan, and Mother decided it was time that I, “embrace my ancestral heritage.” Apparently that involves being shoved into a radioactive pit of small, berserker lunatics.
In my conversations with a certain human gentleman, I have begun to suspect that my education was somewhat limited by my lack of contact with outsiders. For example, it seems most races favor verbal communication; one mustn’t go out without concealing one’s carapace; and polite society frowns upon the consumption of sentient beings. I believe that I would benefit from a more structured environment (as opposed to merely running around mocking useless lunkers, as has been my practice so far). Your organization was recommended to me for exactly that purpose.
I believe, also, that your organization would find considerable use for my healing skills. The methods of my mother’s people are truly superior, evidenced by the fact that they have allowed me to survive this long. I have even ensured the survival of every single lunker with whom I have traveled! Should my skills as a Priestess be unnecessary, I have also become quite good at fashioning trousers. Trousers are terribly important.
Thank you for your generous consideration. I look forward to your response.